Author Notes : I have returned ! Yay ! So sorry I was so long about getting back to this I've been out of town. -_- So, to my reviewers : tiggivon – here, have another cookie. And a box of Kleenex. Sorry I didn't get them to you sooner ! Have another cookie for good measure. ^_^ The thing with the infusion of bluebells – I read in a book of herblore that bluebells are an expectorant, so I thought they'd be good for Frodo. I haven't used 'em yet, though. shirebound – the stubborness and tenacity that make for good Ringbearers, plural ! ^_^ I'm glad you like to see updates and mad at myself that I didn't get this done sooner. IloveSam – I swear to God, I will email you today. And poor little Sam ! I sort of forgot myself that he's only four, so I've been trying to remind myself of it. He's so calm and self-controlled (a) because he's very mature, and (b) – have you ever been so sick you just didn't care what happened to you anymore ? He's too tired to fight it, to make a fuss. That takes effort, and he just doesn't have the energy for it. Besides, Frodo's steadying him (just like you thought ! You totally understand !) Butterfly – I'll mail you, too ! Yeesh, but life's been so busy recently. *buries head in hands* Sorry about that. Have a cookie, dear boof. Trills – Yay ! I love to hear from you ! And yes, I'll mail you, too ! *calls to Frodo* Stop that ! She's trying to be nice ! You're right, some people are so protective… and no evil evil evil AU's, I promise. Mistress Samwise – I already know the answer, but I don't know I know it ? -_^ You're a jerk ! A jerk ! The biggest jerk I ever saw ! Aaaagggh ! Tell me ! Timber – lol ! Corn nuts, eh ? Be assured, I'll keep writing lots ^_^ Elvish – hey, there ! Nice to hear from you again ! Two whole weeks without your computer ? *dies a virtual death* Have a cookie ^_^ And I'm glad you like the soulmate/mind-reading thing ! I intend to have it in all my stories ^_^ Tigrin - *grins* Yeah, I'll make them all better, but I think I'm shooting for 25 chapters, total. So there's still two more chapters to go. Hey, no poking ! ^_^ I won't kill Sam with blood-loss, no worries. Prince Tyler Briefs - *looks at you anxiously* I really hope I haven't taken too long. You're still alive, right ? I said 'right' ? Speak to me ! and have a medicinal cookie. ^_^ Mish – more angst, my dear ! Yay ! *loves angst, but not too much angst* Amanda – I was giggling as I wrote that line. Haven't you ever just wanted to scream at everyone to go away ? Poor Frodo… *kisses her Frodo picture*. S'alright, Bilbo loves him. So, for story notes : I haven't updated in like, forever, so this is a long chapter ! And the thing at the end (you'll know it when you read it) is a bit strange, but I thought it would tie in nicely with the whole soul-bonding thing. Tell whatcha think ! And I will make them better, so put those rocks down !
« Bell, could you just stay the rest of night ? » Bilbo asked as they walked down the hallways. « They're so sick, both of them, and I really have no idea what to do – » Bell was already nodding.
« It's nearly four in the morning, sir there's no point in me goin' home now. And I'd stay anyway, » she said. Bilbo breathed out, relieved.
« Right, then. We can get you set up in one of the guest bedrooms… Close to the boys would probably be a good idea. » He looked to her for confirmation, and she nodded again.
« Yes, sir. Come to think of it, I could just stay in th' young master's room. If I changed the sheets, that is. »
« Are you sure you want to ? » asked Bilbo. « Whatever he's got, it might be catching. Do you want to take the risk ? » Bell smiled.
« I've had six children, sir I've taken more risks of this sort than I can remember. I'll be alright once I change the sheets. Besides, it's the room adjoining to the one they're in, so it's closest, » she reasoned. Bilbo conceded this point, and walked with her to the linen closet to fetch clean sheets.
Returning to Frodo's bedroom, where all this had begun almost two hours earlier, they set the sheets on the fireside chair and threw back the blankets on the bed. Bell gasped aloud to see the blood on them, and stood there a moment, horrified. She turned to Bilbo suddenly, almost angrily.
« Why didn't you tell me it was so bad ? » she asked.
« Sorry, » Bilbo apologized. « It – it slipped my mind. » It was very late – or rather, early – and the boys were just so sick, and what with all this worry about an infection, Bilbo had clean forgotten about the mess. Bell frowned at him and seemed to be arguing with herself. Then her brow cleared, and she gave him a conciliatory – if very worried – smile.
« Alright, » she said. « No point in fussing about things as is already done. Let's do the job, » she said, and throwing the pillows to the floor, they stripped the bed. The bloody sheets went into a separate pile, for washing later. « Can't promise those stains'll come out, sir, » Bell said. « They're pretty deep. » At this, she frowned again.
« Bell ? » Bilbo asked, looking at her questioningly. She frowned deeper and shook her head.
« It just don't make no sense, » she said, sighing in frustration. « His foot shouldn't be bleedin' that badly it shouldn't. »
« Is there anything you can give him ? » asked Bilbo hesitantly. Bell chewed her lip and thought hard.
« Adder's tongue is good, but it's s'posed to help wounds that's already healing. An' his isn't. » She ran her fingers through her hair and stared into the embers of the fire. Her face darkened suddenly, and so sharply Bilbo didn't care to guess what she was thinking. He waited a moment before saying, « Well, perhaps it'll be better by tomorrow. »
« It'll have to be, » Bell muttered. « Otherwise – » Now she looked positively grim, and Bilbo did not ask her to finish her sentence. She shook her head and seemed to break away from whatever it was that was troubling her. « Would you help me with the sheets, sir ? » she asked.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dawn came, still grey and raining. The Brandywine rose dangerously, and many of the inhabitants of Brandy Hall had left for higher ground. It was to be remembered in later years as the Flood Summer – not that it ever actually flooded, but it came very close to doing so. The rains were heavier that year than they had been in fifty, but the farmers weren't particularly grateful for them. The sudden, devastating downpour that had started three days before had already ruined – or nearly ruined – many fields. Fortunately, it had tapered off to a more normal rate of rainfall, and the farmers could breathe easier for their remaining fields.
Back in Bag End, Sam and Frodo were sleeping the deep, heavy sleep of exhaustion. Frodo had his arms securely around Sam, and hadn't let go all night. Some part of his consciousness registered the presence of the child in his arms, and he slept without any more nightmares. Towards eight o'clock, the thick, viscous fluid that clouded Frodo's lungs began to rumble in his chest again. His breath quickened, sounding thick and forced, and the insistent rumble of fluid caught his throat. He began to cough in his sleep quietly, at first, and still unconscious. He was so tired, the cough did not disturb him until it started to seriously interfere with his breathing. His eyes opened and he found himself on his side, coughing hard into the nape of Sam's neck and panting for air. Letting go of the child and sitting up as quickly as he could seemed to help a little, but not much, and a tight, hot, knifelike pain shot through his chest.
In his bedroom, Bell heard him and came in quickly. « S'alright, lad, it's alright I've got you. » She helped him sit up further and pounded on his back, but to no avail. His thin body was wracked with coughing and his fingertips started to turn blue. Bell pulled him so he lay facedown across her knees, and hit his shaking shoulders repeatedly with the heels of her hands until he made a queer, choking noise. For a moment, he didn't breathe at all as he lay rigid across her lap. Oh, dear Father, I've killed him, Bell thought, and almost died herself of relief when he suddenly scrambled off her lap and spat up onto the floor.
Frodo knelt back, feeling wretchedly sick and clutching at his chest, where his breath still came short and reluctantly. I've broken something, I'm sure of it, he thought miserably. He'd heard of people breaking ribs in coughing fits, and was extremely put out at the prospect. It's already too hard to breathe. I made a mess, he noticed. Bell had knocked loose quite a bit of – something. It was shiny and sticky and yellowish-brown, but what caught Frodo's attention – and frightened him badly – were the bright red streaks in it. Blood ? I'm coughing blood ? He began to back away on his hands and knees, as though it might rise up and attack him.
Bell, too, had noticed the blood, and the dark color of the infection worried her greatly. Watch this one, Bell, she instructed herself. He's turning into a pneumonia. Having known several people who had died of pneumonia, she was extremely wary of the disease. If you see it's pneumonia, give the patient all you've got, her cousin had told her. It all depends on whether they get treatment fast enough. If they're even a few *hours* into the worsening stages, it's too late. They'll be lucky if they survive.
« Here's hoping you're lucky, » she murmured, helping Frodo to his feet. The room tilted dizzily and his knees failed him. He fell against her, clutching her shoulders for balance.
« Mistress, I – » he said hoarsely. Father, but it hurts to talk ! I know why I'm coughing blood because I've torn my throat to pieces ! The room tilted again and the colors ran together. Bell's arms were safe about him, anchoring him, but it felt like the floor was heaving under his feet – a sensation he found he disliked intensely.
« Let's get you into bed again, » Bell said, lifting him gently and setting him back in his place. Frodo closed his eyes wearily and prayed for the dizziness to go away. After a few more stomach-churning moments, it did, much to his relief. Bell touched his hair and pulled the covers back over him, but he threw them off immediately. Too hot, he thought. The room was too hot, it felt like a furnace – to him, at least. The atmosphere was close and stifling, and sweat beaded on his brow, making his black curls damp against his forehead.
Bell started to put the covers back over him again, but he frowned and kicked at them.
« It's too hot, » he mumbled. Too hot, too hot…
« That's just your fever, lad. You need to keep warm, » Bell said. Frodo scowled half-heartedly, and kicked weakly at the blankets again.
« Don't want them, » he said childishly. Behave yourself, some more alert part of his mind commanded. Shut up, he answered sullenly. I'll do what I want.~ Oh-ho, that's what *you* think. ~ What d'you mean, what I think ? ~ Well, Frodo Baggins, you're not exactly in a position to fight, are you ? High fever, early morning, gasping for air - ~ Shut up ! ~ - and with all this commotion, you're going to wake Sam. So behave yourself. Frodo behaved himself. When Bell laid the blankets over him for the third time, he let them lie.
« There, now, » Bell said softly. « I'll make you some chamomile tea, for your throat. Just let me check on Sam, first. » Frodo turned over so he could watch her as she walked to the other side of the bed. Laying her cool hand against her son's flushed cheek, she looked relieved. « Well, it hasn't gone up, anyway, » she said under her breath. But it hasn't gone down, either. Get some fluid into him, that'll help.
She stroked Sam's hair, still sweat-damp, until his eyelids fluttered and opened. Sleep had temporarily put thoughts of the wee small hours of that morning far from his mind. As he lay there, looking up at her, he thought he was at home and she was waking him to go help his father and brothers with their work. Then Frodo's violet-tinged worry touched his consciousness, and he remembered where he was. Sam ? Frodo thought to him, taking his small hand with one hand and pulling the boy into his lap with the other. Sam squeezed his hand a little, and Frodo's worry eased. How do you feel ? he asked, even as Bell asked aloud.
« Hot, » the child said tiredly. Too hot. Frodo nodded his agreement. « An' thirsty. »
« I'll get you some water, then, » said Bell, and taking the pitcher from the bedside table, poured him a glass. He gulped it down so fast, his mother could barely blink before the glass was empty. « I guess you were thirsty, at that, » she said, surprised. « D'you want more ? » Sam nodded, and she refilled his glass. This water, too, disappeared in record time. « Careful, baby, you'll choke if you don't slow, » she warned, taking the glass from him and setting it on the bedside table again. « Let me take a look at your foot. »
Please, Father, don't let it be bleeding, please… she thought as she pulled back the covers. It had bled, alright, but not half as badly as before. Indeed, the bleeding looked to have slowed considerably in the past three hours. We can always hope for a miracle, she thought, and crossed her fingers quickly for luck. O' course, it may finally 'ave just taken the *normal* course of events an' slowed on its own. That's just as good. She smiled up at the boys.
« You're doing better, » she said, almost congratulatory in her tone. Frodo smiled back at her, but Sam didn't, and Frodo felt the hesitant protest in his mind. What's wrong ? he asked. I don't know, Sam said. But something… Bell spoke again.
« Sam, if I made you some echinacea-tea for the infection, could you drink it ? » Sam paused, and nodded reluctantly. « Good boy, » she said, and – after cleaning up what Frodo had coughed up all over the floor – proceeded to boil the water and make tea. By the time she finished, Sam and Frodo were asleep again, and Frodo's arms were – of course – once more around Sam. She shook them awake as gently as she could and had them sit up. She handed Frodo a mug with chamomile tea, and held to Sam's lips a mug of the echinacea-tea he had always hated. The scent was soothing, but he despised the flavor and was very averse to drinking it.
Anythin' for an infection, though, he thought heavily and resentfully. Don't you like echinacea, Sam ? Frodo asked, surprised. No. I hate it, the child said irritably. Your mum seems to think it'll work, said Frodo, looking down at him. At the moment, all maturity aside, Sam was behaving very much like a four year-old, and Frodo wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. Come on, Sam, he coaxed. Drink it for me. He felt vaguely guilty at being so manipulative, but so long as Sam was going to have to drink the tea…
« Drink up, » Bell urged, and he began to drink, but stopped after the fourth swallow. The heat of the room had become freezingly cold, and he was bathed in sweat. « What's wrong ? » she asked him. « Drink, baby, it'll help, I promise. » Sam shook his head, and watched the colors of the room swirl together sickeningly. I don't feel good, he thought to Frodo suddenly and forcefully, and Frodo could feel the color drain from Sam's cheeks. He swallowed hurriedly and set down his mug before turning back to Sam. The boy had gone very pale, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked to Frodo, his eyes wide and desperate. I don't feel good, he whimpered again, and Frodo understood. He wasn't being childish, he was feeling sick, and having to swallow the hated tea was only complicating matters. Alright, hold on, I'll tell your mum, he said.
« Samwise, drink this ! » Bell said, no-nonsense. She thought he was just being stubborn (Sam could be that way, when the mood struck him, and especially when dealing with something he disliked as intensely as this tea), and was not inclined to put up with it.
« He can't, Mistress, » Frodo said. « He's going to be sick. »
« What ? » Bell asked, confused. How would he know – oh, dear. Sam shoved her arm away with surprising strength and tea slopped over the edge of the mug as he scrambled sideways and threw up off the side of the bed. Too late, Frodo thought and closed his eyes. Poor little boy. Can't even drink tea without retching. He shut his thoughts to the nausea that surged through Sam, lest he be sick himself. Two glasses of water, drunk far too quickly, and the tea that Sam had swallowed moments earlier splashed on the wooden floor. Bell made a face and put the mug on the bedside table before helping her son to sit back. The four year-old was panting and trembling, his eyes were dangerously bright, and his skin radiated heat. Maybe he's not doing so well after all, she thought.
« Here, you lay still, now, » she said, laying him back in Frodo's arms. Hey, there, he said softly. Sam turned and buried his face in Frodo's shoulder. I *am* going to die, he said miserably. An' I wish I would, already, 'cause I feel awful. ~ Oh, honey, Frodo thought. You're not going to die. And I can help with the 'awful', see ? He rubbed his hand gently in circles on Sam's stomach. Sam tensed at first, and then relaxed. That feels good, he said. Frodo smiled and kissed his hair. I thought it might.
« I'll get some towels an' clean this up, » Bell whispered to him, and he nodded. She left the room, and he continued rubbing Sam's stomach, till he felt the boy falling asleep again. Then he reached for his chamomile tea and began drinking it again. It did soothe his throat, somewhat, and the heat eased the pain in his chest. When he was finished, he set the mug back on his bedside table, turned over to face Sam, and fell asleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Having – with Bilbo's help – cleaned up the mess, Bell borrowed some of Frodo's clothes and woke Sam to change him out of his sweaty tunic and sash. Then she had laid him down again and she and Bilbo proceeded to press cold compresses to their foreheads for another half-hour, until their fevers were sufficiently lowered. Checking her son's foot a final time and satisfying herself that the bleeding had not started up again, Bell and Bilbo left the room.
They looked in on the boys two and three times an hour, always keeping an ear open for them, should they call. Bell occupied herself with organizing Bilbo's pantries, and by late morning had finished nearly four. Though the boys' fevers had not risen since earlier, still she and Bilbo checked their temperatures constantly. Sure enough, by noon, their fevers had spiked again. Frodo was murmuring something in his sleep and frowning unhappily. Sam was sleeping heavily, his head on Frodo's shoulder, when Bell and Bilbo came in.
« … don't want to… » Frodo said, and sighed, turning over and pressing closer to the boy in his arms. « … me alone, I … no… » Bell shook his shoulder gently to wake him, but he only frowned more deeply. « … please, I … no, don't… leave, want to… » he mumbled incoherently. She shook harder, and his eyes snapped open. Whatever fevered dream he had been caught in, it was apparently slow to fade. He stared up at her without recognition before saying, « Tell them to go away. » Bell raised her brows and looked at Bilbo, confused.
« Who ? » she asked.
« Tell them to leave me alone, » he said. « Tell them. They're so mean to me. »
« Who ? » Bell asked again. Dear gods, he's delirious. Now what ?
« You know, » Frodo said wearily. « Make them leave, Mother, please I don't like them. »
Mother ? Oh, dear. « Lad, I'm not your mother, » she said. Frodo seemed not to hear her and merely fell asleep again, murmuring something about 'them'. Who's 'them' ? she wondered. « Who's 'them' ? » she whispered to Bilbo, who shrugged helplessly.
« I've no idea, » he said. « But what do we do for delirium ? »
« Lower his fever, s'all I can think of, » Bell whispered. « We'll make 'im some more of those cold compresses, an' see if that works. »
They went to the kitchen and pulled every spare washcloth they could find out of the drawers, and soaked them in cold water, and put them into two separate bowls – they had quite a lot of washcloths – and took the bowls back to the bedroom. Bilbo pulled up the fireside chair to Frodo's side of the bed and proceeded to give him the treatment, and Frodo, unlike last time, neither protested nor even awakened. His face twitched every few minutes, and he was still mumbling under his breath words thick with sleep and twisted with fever, completely incomprehensible. Bilbo again found himself wondering whether his slender, dreamy-eyed nephew could survive such a fever. He laid his hand gently on Frodo's dark hair and ran his fingers through it. Oh, Frodo, he thought heavily. Don't die on me. I just don't think I could bear it.
Bell looked at him a moment, and looked away. Come on, lad, she willed Frodo. You'll be alright. You have to be. Shaking her head, she went over to her son's side of the bed. His temperature had risen sharply, but unlike Frodo (who was sweating heavily), he burned with a dry heat. Not good, not good, Bell thought, and her brow creased in worry. He lay limp in Frodo's arms, breathing quietly, shallowly, and did not wake when his mother kissed his cheek.
« I need t' check his foot again, » Bell whispered to Bilbo, meaning that she would have to pull back the covers. Bilbo nodded and gestured that she could continue. She did, praying that the bleeding had stopped by now. No such luck if anything, it was back in full force. Blood oozed from his bandages in sticky, dark red streams that made a great stain across the sheets, streaked through with cream-yellow pus. She and Bilbo grimaced in disgust at the sight, and at the smell of the infection.
« That needs cleanin', » Bell muttered. « An' quick. Think I'll go get another bowl… »
The ointments and powders and unguents and tinctures and teas that she had collected the night previous were still on Frodo's desk, so there was no need to get them. Trotting quickly down the hallways to the kitchen, she opened the cupboards and pulled out a large, glazed, pottery bowl. It had a design on it of fruits and leaves, and she realized this probably meant it was one of Bilbo's good bowls. She half-considered putting it away and finding another one to wash her son's foot in, but the time it might take to find a not-so-good bowl was time she just didn't have. Oh, well, she thought. He'll understand.
Returning to the bedroom as fast as she could walk, she set the bowl on the chest at the foot of the bed and went over to Frodo's desk. Brandy, adder's tongue – oh, water. How stupid of me. With a frustrated sigh, she picked up the bowl again and went down the halls to the bathroom to fill it, taking the few remaining towels as well. She came back to the bedroom and set the bowl down on the chest again, when she paused suddenly. No, daft lass ! *Boiling* water ! Bell smacked her palm to her forehead and emptied the contents of the bowl into the teakettle, which she hung over the fire. *Now* have you got it right ? You'll be here all day, goin' on like this.
Bilbo was finishing up with the compresses, and before the water boiled, he had removed the last one. They warmed now far too quickly for his comfort, and they seemed to be having less effect. Frodo's temperature was down a jot or two, but nowhere near as far down as Bilbo would have liked. He frowned at the compresses, as though he could blame them, and placing the heap of washcloths into the bowls, he stood and carried them back to the kitchen.
When he got back, the water was boiling, and Bell poured it into her bowl again. « Finally, » she muttered. « It's only been a half-hour. » Frodo had stopped murmuring a while ago, and lay curled on his side, holding Sam. When Bilbo finished with the compresses, he had turned his head and buried his face in Sam's soft curls. His breathing was rough and wet, and his tunic was drenched with sweat. Sorry, lad, Bell thought. But I'm goin' t' have to worry about thee later. It's my son as needs tendin' to now. She sat down on the bed beside him and began to unwind his bandages again.
The bandages pulled apart slowly, like melted caramels, and left long strings of blood between them. Bell's fingers were stained red, and she swallowed hard against the sickness that rose in her throat. Oh, baby, what's happening to you ? she asked silently. Sam didn't answer, of course, but when she pulled away another layer of linen, he made a little gasping sound and turned onto his side, facing Frodo. Their faces touched and their breathing mingled, and Sam quieted again. Bell paused, and continued her task.
As she unwound the bandages, she found each layer more sodden than the one before. Little pools of collected blood had formed between the layers, spilling over her fingers as she worked. Suddenly, a little rush of warm, dark blood spurted from Sam's foot onto her hand through the bandages. Bell jerked away involutarily, and Bilbo looked up at her.
« Something wrong ? » he whispered.
Bell shook her head. You're just being a ninny, she told herself sternly. Now, get on with it. But as she neared the end of the several feet of dripping fabric that was tightly wound round Sam's small foot, more and more small gushes of blood began to spit out on her hands. Taking one of her towels, she put it on her lap and Sam's foot on the towel, trying to minimize the mess. When she pulled free the last bit of cloth, clinging stubbornly to Sam's sole and gunked with infection, a great purge of blood and pus came spilling from the wound and soaked the towel in her lap. Again, Bell fought against the bile that rose in her, and rose more strongly at the sight of the wound.
It was almost undiscernible under the blackish-red blood and yellow infection that crusted it. Tentatively wiping some away with the edge of the towel, Bell saw that it was horribly inflamed. Blood welled from it in sticky clots and sudden spurts, incessantly. Bilbo's dark eyes widened.
« Dear Father, Bell ! What do we do ? » he asked. Bell sat a long moment, considering. There *must* be another way, she thought desperately, but could think of no other, and the sick reality of her son's blood spilling into her lap forced her to make her decision.
« We've got to stop the bleedin', » she said. « An' the best way I know is to sear the wound. » She lowered her voice when she said it, and all her dark looks were suddenly very clear to Bilbo.
« But supposing that seals the infection in his bloodstream ? » he asked, aware of the dangers of searing a wound to seal it.
« If we don' do it, an' soon, 'e won't 'ave no bloodstream t' seal th' infection in ! » Bell said sharply, her childhood accent thickening in her anxiety. « 'E's bleedin' t' death, sir, dinna ye see that ? My son is bleedin' t' death ! I've got no choice but t' sear the wound, or 'e'll die fer sure ! »
Bilbo hesitated. « Isn't there some other way ? » he asked. « If it does seal the infection – and burns can get infected, too, Bell. What then ? » Bell sighed heavily.
« I don' know, sir, but I ain't got any other choice, » she said. « We'll just have t' cross that bridge when we come to it. »
Bilbo again hesitated, trying to think of another course of action, but like Bell, he could see no other way. The boy's small face was no longer flushed, but a peculiar tinge of ivory, and he slept so heavily – no, they were right. It would have to be done.
« I'll need to clean it first, » Bell said, interrupting his thoughts.
« What ? Oh, yes. Yes, clean it, by all means, » Bilbo said. « How can I help ? »
« Make sure I don't wake that nephew of yours with all my bothering, » she said with a wry look.
« How could you wake him by cleaning Sam's foot ? » Bilbo asked, confused. Bell shrugged.
« I don't know, sir. But I've got the feeling I could. Now, then… »
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Oh, how he hated those Sackville-Bagginses ! They were constantly nagging and whining and complaining about everything under the sun, and for reasons undefined, they hated Frodo. Long before Frodo would come into the position of heir of Bag End, they had hated him, and found every probable or even possible reason for fault in him. Too tall, too slender, too pale, his eyes are queer, hobbits don't have blue eyes – not *proper* hobbits – and always going around with his nose stuck in a book. Who does he think he is ? Better than us, because he can read ? There were several occasions when Lotho had beaten him for this most punishable of faults (it drove Frodo mad to hear literacy spoken of as a 'fault' by the illiterate), and once when he had destroyed three of Frodo's books and then beaten him.
Frodo didn't have his cousin's heavy bones, nor his hard fists, nor the weight behind them to make his hits effective. He was just too small to really fight back, though he tried, spitting like a wildcat, eyes blazing, limbs flailing as he tried to tackle Lotho and bring him to the ground. It had never worked, but Frodo was fierce, and he was not going to take it 'lying down', so to speak. More often than not, Lotho blacked his eye or split his lip or bloodied his nose, and gave him other bruises that would last for weeks. Once, when he was particularly enraged at his blue-eyed – and perfectly innocent – cousin, he had twisted his arm behind him and increased the pressure till Frodo almost felt the bones snap. His uncle Saradoc had come running, then, and pulling Lotho off of Frodo, had given him the whipping of his life. He then sent him and his family back to Sackville and told them they would be welcome in the Hall no longer. Saradoc was a good man, and rather fond of Frodo, and he'd be damned if any Sackville-Baggins was going to break his nephew's arm. He'd seen Esmeralda, his wife, tend to Frodo, and patted the boy on the shoulder before walking off, cursing the S-B.'s under his breath.
Now Frodo was fourteen, and back in Buckland, and Lotho had backed him into one of the innumerable rooms of Brandy Hall. Frodo was thinking fast, trying to decide whether to heave himself at Lotho and make a break for the door, or simply scream until someone came along. Heaving himself at Lotho seemed the braver of the two, and Frodo would rather be beaten and brave than saved and a coward. He leapt forward with a cry and knocked Lotho backwards over the threshold freedom seemed imminent and he was thrilled with the ease of his success when Lotho reared up and caught him by the ankle, yanking him down sharply.
Frodo fell to floor and Lotho grabbed him around the waist, lifting him up and throwing him onto the bed. Frodo heard a 'crack !' as he slammed against the headboard, and felt a sharp twinge in his back. He sat up quickly and tried to get off the bed, but Lotho, now further angered by Frodo's resistance, struck him hard across the face. Frodo flinched and tasted copper, but before he could react, Lotho struck him again. Frodo's large blue eyes filled with tears that he tried furiously to hold back, but to no avail. This made his cousin laugh, and now Frodo was angry. He jumped up with a speed and agility that startled Lotho, and setting his hands on Lotho's thick shoulders, kneed him in the groin. It was a girls' strategy, but Frodo didn't care, and while Lotho was on the floor, still temporarily incapacitated, he made good his escape and ran to his mother.
« Mother, tell them to go away, » he pleaded. « Or tell Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmy. Tell somebody. But make them go away they're so mean to me. » His mother looked at him strangely.
« Who ? » she asked. Frodo's head was pounding and his face hurt and he was sure to have bruises he was aching too much to consider his mother's question.
« You know, » he said, as she should have. It was hardly the first time Lotho had pounded on him. « Tell them to go away. I don't like them. » In truth, Frodo was very near to hating them. Being young, and very good-natured, he hadn't gotten that far yet. But he was close. His mother was saying something, but his head just hurt so much she wasn't making any sense. « I hope Uncle Saradoc sends them away, » he mumbled, going to his bedroom to nurse his hurts.
Then suddenly the dream changed, and he was walking through a wooded area. The trees were shady and dark and they smelled good, and he could hear a stream gurgling a short ways off. Least my face doesn't hurt anymore, he thought gratefully. He heard a small voice singing softly, and went towards the sound, confused. There, on the banks of the stream and playing with a handful of pebbles, was his Elf-child. Sam looked up just as Frodo appeared and they stared at eachother a moment.
« What're you doing here ? » they asked in unison. « This is my dream, » they answered. They shook their heads and stared at eachother again.
« No, it's not, » said Frodo.
« Yes, it is, » Sam replied. « S'my dream, an' I don't know how you got yourself into it, but I was here first. »
« No, it's my dream, because I was back at Brandy Hall and you can't possibly have been dreaming about Brandy Hall. You've never been there, » Frodo retorted. Their eyes met and held, mirrors to eachother's confusion.
« Well, you've never been here, » Sam said. « This is one of my places. Like th' glen. So it must be my dream. » He didn't look convinced, though.
« Maybe – » Frodo began, and hesitated. Sam raised his dark brows questioningly, and he went on. « Maybe we're sharing a dream ? » he said slowly, as though feeling the words out. « Maybe it's like how I can hear your thoughts and feel your feelings – I mean, why shouldn't we dream eachother's dreams ? » Sam sighed, a heavy sigh of four year-old confusion.
« It don't make no sense, is why, » he said. « It's too strange. » Frodo laughed shortly.
« Sam, from the moment I met you, everything's been strange, » he said smiling. « Come on – how many people d'you think there are in the Shire – or even the whole world – who can talk like we can ? How many, little one ? »
Sam thought about it for a few minutes, before slowing raising his small fist and uncurling two fingers. Frodo laughed again and crouched down beside him. « And you know something ? You're probably right, » he whispered conspiratorially. Sam smiled at him and threw his arms around his neck. Frodo hugged back for a moment before picking Sam up, and the child wrapped his legs about Frodo's waist. There was silence for a moment, before Sam said suddenly,
« Well, whatever it is, it's a far sight better than bein' awake. » Frodo grinned.
« I'll grant you that, Sam, » he said. « Most definitely better than being awake. Maybe we should just stay here until it's safe to wake up again ? » Sam nodded decisively.
« Maybe we should, » he agreed. « It don't hurt so much, this way. »
« No, it doesn't, » Frodo said thoughtfully. « And I wonder why. » He was wondering whether it was possible to keep separate their dreams and reality to the extent where no pain was felt, but then Sam cried out and grasped for his ankle, and a few moments later, cried out again. Frodo put him down and he cradled his small foot in his hands, biting down hard on his lower lip. Frodo saw his eyes fill with tears that threatened to spill, but then the fit passed, and the tears were blinked away as quickly as they'd appeared. Sam rubbed his foot and frowned.
« They're messin' with my foot out there, » he muttered. « I take it back it still hurts. Just not as often. »
« Sorry, little one, » Frodo said softly. « But it's still better than being awake, isn't it ? »
« Yeah, » said the child. « Anythin's better than bein' awake right now. Even this. »
« Even this, » Frodo affirmed, and stood, offering his hand. Sam took it and stood with him.
« Are we goin' somewhere ? » he asked. Frodo shrugged.
« I don't know. But as long as we're here, we might as well start walking. What else is there to do ? »
« Alright, » replied Sam, and they walked off through the trees.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
« What d'you suppose they're dreaming ? » Bell asked Bilbo, still cleaning Sam's foot. The boys were curled tightly together – as tightly as they could be, given that Bell was working on Sam's leg. Frodo had slipped his hand next to Sam's, and their fingers were laced together. Both were breathing quietly, steadily, even if roughly, and peace was in both their faces.
« I don't know, » Bilbo whispered to her. « But whatever it is, it seems nice. Let's hope they don't wake for a while, and this'll be easier. » Bell smiled wryly.
« A far sight easier, » she agreed. « Well, here's hoping, sir. » Bilbo smiled back.
« Here's hoping, » he repeated.
~*~*~*~*~*~*