Disclaimer: I believe everyone knows the drill. I don't own Middle-earth, nor any of the characters created by Tolkien. I do, however, claim several yet to come in this story, for Tolkien never mentioned such nor wrote about them. I hope he forgives me this.
Being the Sixth Part of . . . .
With The Rising and Setting of Anar
Frodo watched his mother leave, his large eyes holding not save hurt confusion. His bottom lip puckered out as Primula disappeared into the shadowed depths of the Brandybucks' great smials and he looked to his father, knowing he could make everything all right.
"Ma?" Frodo whimpered, his gaze falling back to where his mother had disappeared. Drogo reached over and lifted the wee tot in his strong, yet gentle hands. He set Frodo in his lap and kissed the hobbit-child atop the head, his soft curls tickling the gentlehobbit's nose. He took a breath, deep and almost mournful in its own way, smelling the sweet scent of his child.
Drogo swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking his eyes rapidly against what he refused to believe were tears. He kept his gaze upon the river, more out of stubborn defiance against the wetness (for, surely, that is all it was) than to see the Brandywine's golden waters stretched out proudly before him. Because his sight was obscured, he did not at first note the small ferry's slow approach, or if he did he discarded it without a second thought, for the Bucklebury Ferry often transported hobbits over the Brandywine. Only when he saw the gray figure--bent but, otherwise, quite tall--did the fear grip his heart like a cold, fierce claw.
The wee hobbit-lad, who had leaned against his father in a quiet manner, unique for a child of his age, spied the Buckleberry Ferry in the same instant Drogo did. With a cry of delight, he wriggled from his father's grasp and waddled hurriedly down the embankment, crawling along the wooden dock even before the gentlehobbit had realized quite what his five-year-old was doing.
"Miwo!" Frodo cried gaily, crawling to the very end of the dock. "Mie, Mie!" he laughed.
Drogo scrambled to his feet. "Frodo!" he called, trying to keep the panic from his voice. "Frodo, no!" He ran after his over-excited son.
Upon the ferry, the hobbit tween gave a cry of alarm when he spied the child nearing the edge. He leapt forward upon the raft, the pole gripped fearfully in his fist, and watched helplessly, for the ferry was still several yards from the dock. Frodo crawled to the end, stopping at the last; his pudgy fingers gripped only the very edge. His sapphire eyes--those that looked so much like his mother's--laughed all their own for seeing a friend long missed.
"Mie," Frodo fairly chirped, giggling.
"Stay, Frodo," the youth called, his breath suddenly coming hard. "Stay," he said firmly.
Drogo was only a step away, perhaps not even that, when the hobbit-child spied the stooped wizard. Even Frodo, who had seen no more than five years, knew the oddity of this man and the sight that presented itself. His lips pursed in confusion and his brow furrowed. He lifted a hand--a hand that grasped the edge of the dock--and pointed at the wizard in a demanding gurgle that only the young may comprehend.
Gandalf's body tensed even before the child's left palm slipped from the dock's wet wood. Frodo gave a yelp and hurtled over and into the Baranduin's golden-brown depths.
Something happened then: Two beings--both of whom were of a race that above all else feared the dark, unknown depths of water, whether it be river, lake or sea--leapt, with a cry, into the Brandywine.
Drogo would ever after wonder at how he managed to grasp his son but, then, the body will perform amazing acts of heroism when put to the test. He grasped Frodo even as he, himself, felt the cool water open its great gaping maw to swallow him and his child whole. Drogo's free arm flailed out and he grabbed an old, sun-warped plank nailed precariously to the dock and clung to it with all his might. The chill water lapped at his chest.
Milo, son of Rufus, was known for being both witty and adaptable. As long as anyone had ever remembered, Asphodel's only son had been the most well-to-do hobbit-lad that was to be found in all of Buckland. He knew how to both please his elders and how to entertain those younger than him and he had used this always to his advantage. Nothing had ever gotten the better of him for nothing had ever gotten close. That is, save a certain blue-eyed cousin who now needed Milo more than ought else.
He didn't think--not with his head, leastwise, but with his heart--and he leapt from the ferry with only his cousin in mind. He reached out his arms but even that did him naught and where the Brandywine failed to swallow Drogo, instead, it took the tween.
"Milo!" Drogo barked, wanting to reach out to his nephew but restricted by his own two hands. Desperately, the hobbit looked to the wizard for aid and found Gandalf already reaching into the churning river, fishing about until he brought his arm out and lo! a young hobbit lad was attached to the end.
Milo choked and sputtered, clung desperately to Gandalf until he felt the solid wood of the ferry beneath his furry feet and even then he only loosened his hold a fraction of a degree. He stood shakily, looked around him, spotted Drogo and a sobbing Frodo, and managed a trembling smile. "Aye, well, perhaps Aunt Primmy's obsession with swimming isn't such an 'orrible thing after all. To bad young Frodo there isn't farther along, though."
Drogo chuckled and looked at his son. "Within the year, my lad, you'll be a swimming champ." He kissed Frodo on the brow and the child sniffled. "In no time at all, all those pretty lasses will soon have their eye on you!" and he laughed.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Frodo looked at the wizard in wide-eyed amazement. "I remember that, Gandalf!" he cried in delight.
The wizard regarded the hobbit. "Indeed?"
"Yes, yes," he nodded with a smile. "And . . . and," he tilted his head, as if recalling something. "Yes, and Milo forever after teased me of it. I do remember, Gandalf! He was quite convinced that I had deliberately tried to drown him." Suddenly, he frowned. "Although, as I remember, I believe Milo's tale was somewhat different. Are you certain that is the way of it?"
"Quite," Gandalf assured him.
"That twit!" Frodo laughed suddenly. "I cannot even recall how many times he got me to pinch an armload of mushrooms from Farmer Maggot. And it was all out of guilt, too! 'Come now, Cousin,' he would say to me, 'surely you would not begrudge me this.' And I never would either, for how could I after almost drowning him." The hobbit crossed his arms over his chest. "The beatings he caused me."
Gandalf laughed. "Come now, surely it was not only Milo who wanted a tasty mushroom snack."
Frodo's mouth twitched and a quiet grin came suddenly to his features. "Well, perhaps not always," he agreed grudgingly, "but they were the best mushrooms in all the Shire, some did say," he added, as a way of explaining. Several quiet moments passed as Frodo recalled fond memories and Gandalf stared off into the setting sun in bemused silence.
"I do miss him terribly," the hobbit said some time later, his voice wistful with longing.
Gandalf nodded, never taking his eyes from the horizon. "He keeps up a decent home, so I hear," the wizard commented.
Frodo chuckled. "Oh, aye, that he does. Married a Baggins," he grinned, "to Aunt Asphodel's horror. Peony Baggins, as a matter of fact. Very lovely, and as stubborn as the best of us." Several moments later:
"It took several years for all of Hobbiton to get over the wedding."
"That good, eh?" Gandalf wondered and Frodo smiled at the memory.
"You are fond of mischief and mayhem, my friend. Perhaps it would have been just your cup of tea."
Gandalf peered down at the hobbit. Frodo merely smiled at the wizard and it was not a moment later that Gandalf smiled also, for none could deny otherwise. "Indeed," he agreed.
In the distance, the fiery orb dibbed its flames into the water, quenching day to make way for soothing night. The time was near.
*~*~*~*~*~*