Author Notes: Thanks again for all the reviews! I love you people, really truly! Okay, more angst. Lots more angst. Tell me if you like it! They meet in the next chapter!
The next morning all thoughts of the elf/hobbit/gardener's son were struck from Frodo's mind. All night, he had dreamed of his parents, and the last dream had been particularly dreadful. He dreamed he was much younger, 4 or 5, and that the three of them had gone on a hike through the forest. But then his mother was gone, and suddenly his father was gone as well, and he was all alone. He called for them, in his little child's voice, until it got dark, and cold. And then he knew, with the odd logic of dreams, that they had left him, and would never come back, no matter how long or how loudly he called. Abandoned me. They *abandoned* me. He was wakened by the sound of his own voice, calling « Dad ? Dad ! »
Frodo threw on some clothes and ran out into the sunrise, leaving the front door standing wide open behind him. He fell several times, and this only served to darken his mood. He was 16 and orphaned. Orphaned. The word stung him like a slap across his face. He saw other children – laughing, singing, playing in the roads – and jealousy rose in his throat like gall, choking him. He ran harder.
Without knowledge or intention, he had come to his meadow. His thoughts seethed and smoldered in his mind, taking voice. « It's not fair ! Why me ? ! Why my parents and not somebody else's ? why did they have to die why did they leave me why did they do this to me it's not fair! » he cried passionately to the empty meadow. His anger and confusion came surging up and expressed themselves in three short words, screamed with the all rage and pain of a broken heart – « I hate them ! » He realized now what had been troubling him, and grief slammed against him like a wall of stone. No, I don't hate them. But, Eru save me, I miss them. He buried his head in his arms and wept himself senseless.
He dreamed that gentle hands were on his hair, and soft cool lips pressed to his brow. « Mother… » he murmured. Sam did not leave, this time, but stroked Frodo's dark curls and whispered a lullaby his own mother still sang to him when he had nightmares and needed soothing. The tension went out of Frodo, and he slept even more deeply. Sam stayed with him for a while, until he sensed Frodo was waking. He kissed him one more time and walked away. He didn't know why he was so brave when Frodo was asleep, but as Frodo did not sense him, Sam felt as though he were still invisible to him, in a way. Invisible is safer, he thought.
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When Frodo woke again, it was noonday. The sun was warm on his back, and the grasses and flowers smelled sweet. He might have fallen asleep again, but he was cramped from lying on the ground so long. Slowly, he got up and brushed himself off. His tears had washed his pain away, for the time being, and he felt lighter, easier, better for knowing that he didn't hate his parents. They didn't abandon me. They didn't leave me on purpose. What happened wasn't their fault it wasn't *my* fault. They didn't abandon me. And I don't hate them for dying, he realized. A great load came off his heart , and the ache that had been tearing at him was gone. Like a wound that's been cleansed, his hurt now began to truly heal.
Blinking in the sunlight, he turned, and on the ground to his left, saw a little bird's nest, with the eggshells still in it. They were tiny little shells, bright blue. Frodo marveled at how small they were. *He* must have left him. The Elf. Or gardener's boy. Whichever. Like he left all the other things… Frodo sat back on his heels, confused. But how did he put it there without my hearing him ? Or any of the other presents ?
Sam watched him find his present, and smiled. It was so easy to watch people without their knowing it, especially when you could move silently, as hobbits can. He had not intended for Frodo to see him that first time, and he was very careful now not to be seen or heard or sensed in any way. As he was small (being only four years old), this was easy for him. He had not even heard Frodo approaching, and didn't know he was there until he had called « Hey ! » for whatever Frodo's thoughts on the matter, the meadow was not undiscovered. It had been a favorite place of Sam's for a long time, and it was while he was there one morning that Frodo had first come upon it. He had been at first delighted, then uncertain, and had hidden in the trees until Frodo left.
Sam, though a sweet child, was a very shy, solitary one, who generally prefered playing by himself to being with others. Bilbo's stories were his heart's delight, and he lived with a faraway look in his eyes, thinking of heroes and Elves and dragon's gold. He had no friends save young Rosie Cotton, an' family don't really count, he thought. I just want a friend. I want *him* for my friend, 'cause I love him. Aye, I love him. Wish I knew how to tell him, though. Every time he thought he'd worked up the courage to approach Frodo, Frodo would come to the meadow weeping, or with a confused, angry expression, and Sam would lose his nerve. Besides, it was more fun when things were secret, and gave Frodo something to think about other than his grief. But yesterday, when Frodo had run after him, he had almost let himself get caught on purpose. He was overpowered by a desire to run to Frodo when he called, to forget his shyness and uncertainty and just run to him and jump into his arms. An' then we'll be friends, and he'll love me, yes he will, he will…
This morning, he had been waiting at the far side of the meadow for Frodo to come, for Samwise, through his watching, discovered that even if Frodo went other places during the day, he always came to the meadow. He had seen Frodo, with bloodied knees and a tear-stained face, come running into the meadow and throw himself on the ground. His sobs rent the air, and tears came to Sam's eyes. Father, he hurts so much ! he thought, and an idea came to him.
He had found something that morning, beneath a bush – a little hummingbird's nest, with the eggshells still inside. He had hoped to keep it for himself – he had never had something so wonderful before – but Frodo wept and wept, and his pain shuddered through the child. He ran silently back to his hiding place, a tall laurel oak. He kept his treasures in the great hollow in the middle of the trunk. There, on the top, was his bird's nest. He picked it up, and ran quickly back to the field.
Frodo gently placed the little nest in his pack, careful not to dislodge any of the shells. Standing up, he looked around the whole meadow, his eyes straining for any sign of the boy. Samwise slipped behind a tree and stood motionless. Frodo sighed, and gave up. I should go home. Bilbo might be worried, he thought. So he walked on, unaware of the great green gaze fixed upon him.
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When Frodo got home that afternoon, it was to a very angry Bilbo. Bilbo, who had awoken to find his front door standing open and his young cousin long gone, had spent the better part of the morning searching for Frodo, until at last he asked Hamfast if he might know the boy's whereabouts. The gardener, knowing nothing of Bilbo's anxiety, had nodded.
« Yes, sir. He ran off this morning, 'round, oh – 6:30 ? A bit earlier than usual for him. He's probably wandering about somewhere over there, » he said, tilting his head in the general direction Frodo had gone.
« Oh ? Do you know where, exactly ? » asked Bilbo.
« No, sir, not exactly, » lied the gardener, who did have a pretty fair idea as to where Frodo disappeared to every morning. Samwise had taken him there several times, on his afternoons off. But the young master had looked very upset, and Hamfast was not going to let his privacy be disturbed – not even for Bilbo. « I shouldn't worry, sir. He'll be back by this afternoon, I guarantee it. Got a good head on his shoulders, does that lad. He'll be alright. »
Bilbo sighed, and nodded. « Yes, I suppose you're right. In which case, there's no point in me worrying. Though I intend to have a long talk with that young man when he gets home. Running off like that, and not a word to his poor old cousin about where he's going… » Bilbo walked back to the house, still muttering under his breath.
« Poor lad » said Hamfast. « Hope he doesn't catch it too hot. » He shook his head and went on with his gardening.
So when Frodo got home, it was not to a warm welcome. He placed his pack on his bed and went looking for his cousin. He found him in the living room, glowering at a map.
« So there you are » said Bilbo, looking decidedly displeased. « Finally decided to grace us with your presence, eh ? »
« I'm sorry, Bilbo » said Frodo guiltily.
« Yes, and you should be, cousin ! Running off like that without even leaving a note to tell me where you are and when you'll be back ! Like a thoughtless child ! » Bilbo flared.
« I'm sorry, Bilbo, really.. I should have thought … » he began, but Bilbo cut him off.
« Yes, but you didn't. Honestly, Frodo, what got into you ? What makes you think you can just up and disappear without a reason and expect everyone to understand ? » Bilbo's temper was rising, but Frodo's reply caught him off-balance.
« From what I've heard, cousin, you up and disappeared for the better part of a year. Who interrogated you ? » Frodo flashed.
« Now, Frodo, » Bilbo faltered. « This isn't about me… »
« Isn't it ? » Frodo asked. « Now you're going to tell me how long you looked, and how worried you were, and why did I do this to you and you're going to demand to know where I went and when I got there and why did I go in the first place » he chanted the litany of questions at Bilbo, and the hot blood rose in his pale cheeks. « Well I won't tell you ! You can't make me ! What got into me ? ! Can't I be allowed to grieve in private ? Or did I lose that right when I lost my parents ? » he cried. He was in a fine, high temper now, and Bilbo – who never meant for it to come to this – was sincerely regretting both his former tone and his choice of words.
He hadn't really been angry with Frodo, just worried for him. When he woke to an empty house and the front door standing wide open, he was convinced his fears had become reality. Ilbereth ! He's done it ! He's run away ! Oh, Father, he's so young, he'll get lost, he'll get hurt, where are you, Frodo ? Where did you go ? He searched and searched, but he didn't know where the meadow was, and so he didn't find him. His anxiety built till it was almost unbearable, and Hamfast's reassurances hadn't lessened it any. When Frodo came traipsing in, safe, sound, and in one piece, Bilbo's worry had changed to sick relief, and relief had changed to anger. How dare he, how *dare* he ? After all the trouble he's caused me, to come in like that ! I ought to ground the boy for the rest of his natural life ! But Frodo's response had shaken him, and he realized that his young cousin was not only angry with this treatment, but hurt and insulted as well. The fragile trust they had been building the past two months was in imminent danger of collapse, and Bilbo tried desperately to reclaim it.
« Frodo, I – I should not have said what I did. I'm sorry » he said, and he truly was. Frodo, in his defensive fury, did not care.
« Yes, and you should be, cousin ! » He spat the words back at Bilbo before storming out of the room.
Bilbo sighed heavily and slumped against the wall. « Well, that certainly went well. » he muttered sarcastically. Oh, Father, I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. There's nothing to do now but wait. Give him some time. He'll get over it. At least, I hope he will.
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A/N: Don't worry, the conflict will be resolved! Review, please!