Part 10/?
Angie
The summer that year fulfilled all its early promise, and more. Busy lizzies and petunias gave way to marigolds and geraniums. The crops grew tall and ripened under the sun and more than one farmer in the neighbourhood of Bag End found his fruit stock less depleted than usual by unauthorised hobbit fingers. The Gaffer's prize strawberries went unharvested by any other than himself and the raspberries were filling out, beautifully unmolested. Bilbo found himself missing the usual bout of stomach upsets that Frodo was wont to suffer from after stuffing himself too early in the season with pilfered fruit.
Weeks passed and slowly Frodo had stopped asking if he might try to go out that day. Bilbo would often lie awake at nights and hear the muffled sobs all too evidenced by red rimmed eyes the next morning. The pain had faded somewhat, leaving Frodo weak and listless. But the summer drew on and Frodo's legs remained useless.
*****
Samwise Gamgee was miserable. He had not been allowed to see Master Frodo for over a week now. He missed the older boy dreadfully. None of Sam's older siblings had much time for a seven year old boy and the closest to his age were the girls who played terrible games involving dolls and hair ribbons. After one harrowing experience, which had resulted in him being dressed up in a bonnet and apron, he avoided them the same way he avoided a wasp's nest. Sam craved the adventures Master Frodo had used to think up for them. Last year the older boy had taught him how to make potato missiles by sharpening one end of a stick onto which the potato could them be stuck and launched with a deft flick of the wrist. That had been great fun, until the farmer had caught them at it. Or the time they had practised sword fighting with stinging nettles, perhaps not one of Frodo's best ideas. It hadn't lasted more than the few moments it took for them to yelp loudly and dropped the stems, but the two boys had gone home covered in painful red spots as battle scars and had been slapped all over with camomile lotion to stop the nettle's irritation.
Sam had persisted in breaking away from his parents and scampering up the hill whenever the opportunity presented itself. Orcs and dragons would not keep Samwise from his Master Frodo. But then, one dreadful morning, Sam had snuck in to Bag End to find Frodo red eyed from weeping.
Frodo was lying as usual flat on his back in bed. A discarded array of books and toys lay around the room on various surfaces, and not a few on the floor, where they had been launched with what little strength Frodo's frustration had given him. Bilbo had retreated to the kitchen where Sam could hear him crashing pots in a most uncharacteristic manner.
"Master Frodo?" Sam asked timidly, coming to the bed and taking Frodo's hand from where it lay on the top of the covers. "How are you today?"
Frodo turned his head, taking in the wind-tousled hair, freckled face, and brown cheeks of the little boy. Something awful sparked in the blue depths of his eyes.
"Go away!" he said distinctly. "Go away, and don't come back. I don't want to see you again!"
And Sam had fled, with tears streaming down his face.
Frodo ran through the long grass that grew so lushly by the banks of the Brandywine River. The sun was strong on his shoulders and his flying feet disturbed little clouds of yellow butterflies that fluttered in the golden air. A dragonfly was zipping up and down in impressive loops over the rushes to impress its partner, its wings flashing like a dragon horde in the sun.
Frodo's feet seemed to be flying of their own accord, driven on by the joy of being able to run purely for the sake of running.
"Mamma!" Frodo yelled as he came in sight of the pretty figure of his mother and his feet took him to her in a moment and her arms caught him safely up as they always did. "I made it!" he gasped. "I found you again!"
He breathed in the smell of cinnamon from her apron and was so glad that he thought he might burst. He wrapped his arms around her so tightly. This time he would not let go. Her arms still held him but when he tilted his head up to look into her face he saw disappointment in her eyes instead of welcome.
"Why are you here, Frodo?" she asked.
"Why? I missed you so. Don't you want me here?" he stuttered out the words.
"It is not your time," she told him. "You have a lot of living to do still."
"But, but I wasn't alive. I can't walk!" he cried, "I wanted to be with you again."
"That is not for you to decide," Primula said. "It is not for you to say when your song has been sung."
"But I want to be with you!" Frodo yelled. "I want to be with you and Dad!"
Her blue eyes softened, and wistfully she spoke. "Not yet, my dearest boy, not yet."
Frodo awoke from the dream with a soft cry of despair. He lay in the perpetual twilight of his bedroom and stared at the ceiling. He felt ancient. Summer had passed him by - no more than a glint hinted at around his drawn curtains and the sound of bird song. He had settled into a sort of twilight himself, his body a useless dead weight, and his mind running in ever turning circles. He knew he was a pathetic burden, but he was too lost in misery to stir himself from his apathy. A long useless existence stretched out before him and, if he knew how, he longed to join his parents.
The thought of his parents reminded him of the dream and he seemed to see again the message of disappointment in his mother's eyes. She had not been disappointed to see him again, only disappointed that he had turned his back on his life and run away.
"Fool of a Baggins," he told himself. "Coward and worse."
He felt as if he were following his parents - drowning, but, before he went under, he wished that someone would throw him a lifeline.
*****
Bilbo sat in the arch of his front door, puffing away at a pipe-full of Old Toby and watching the sun set, signalling the end of another long and empty day, or at least that was how it felt to him. He sat there with a heart as heavy as if the dwarves had poured it full of gold - and had then sunk it to the bottom of the Long Lake, so filled with concern was he over the dear young hobbit who lay so still in his bed. His young cousin was taking no more joy in the world, so Bilbo sat, sometimes for hours, hoping that some promising course of action might present itself to him.
Something had gone out of the lad, something sorely missed by his older cousin. Frodo was turning his back on the world, refusing to see anyone except Bilbo and the doctor. With the worst of the pains past, Mrs Willowbank had gone on to her next client and an unpleasant gloom had settled over Bag End as though some one had died. No longer did even Sam's piping voice from time to time fill the burrow. He was too scared to return now that Mr Frodo had told him so harshly to stay away.
As Halimath approached, Bilbo pondered incessantly about what he could do to help. What could he do that he had not already tried? Who could he speak to that he had not already spoken to? There had to be a solution, there just HAD to be. And after his musings and ponderings, casting aside an infinite number of plans and ideas, all he knew was that SOMEHOW he was going to need Sam.
The summer that year fulfilled all its early promise, and more. Busy lizzies and petunias gave way to marigolds and geraniums. The crops grew tall and ripened under the sun and more than one farmer in the neighbourhood of Bag End found his fruit stock less depleted than usual by unauthorised hobbit fingers. The Gaffer's prize strawberries went unharvested by any other than himself and the raspberries were filling out, beautifully unmolested. Bilbo found himself missing the usual bout of stomach upsets that Frodo was wont to suffer from after stuffing himself too early in the season with pilfered fruit.
Weeks passed and slowly Frodo had stopped asking if he might try to go out that day. Bilbo would often lie awake at nights and hear the muffled sobs all too evidenced by red rimmed eyes the next morning. The pain had faded somewhat, leaving Frodo weak and listless. But the summer drew on and Frodo's legs remained useless.
*****
Samwise Gamgee was miserable. He had not been allowed to see Master Frodo for over a week now. He missed the older boy dreadfully. None of Sam's older siblings had much time for a seven year old boy and the closest to his age were the girls who played terrible games involving dolls and hair ribbons. After one harrowing experience, which had resulted in him being dressed up in a bonnet and apron, he avoided them the same way he avoided a wasp's nest. Sam craved the adventures Master Frodo had used to think up for them. Last year the older boy had taught him how to make potato missiles by sharpening one end of a stick onto which the potato could them be stuck and launched with a deft flick of the wrist. That had been great fun, until the farmer had caught them at it. Or the time they had practised sword fighting with stinging nettles, perhaps not one of Frodo's best ideas. It hadn't lasted more than the few moments it took for them to yelp loudly and dropped the stems, but the two boys had gone home covered in painful red spots as battle scars and had been slapped all over with camomile lotion to stop the nettle's irritation.
Sam had persisted in breaking away from his parents and scampering up the hill whenever the opportunity presented itself. Orcs and dragons would not keep Samwise from his Master Frodo. But then, one dreadful morning, Sam had snuck in to Bag End to find Frodo red eyed from weeping.
Frodo was lying as usual flat on his back in bed. A discarded array of books and toys lay around the room on various surfaces, and not a few on the floor, where they had been launched with what little strength Frodo's frustration had given him. Bilbo had retreated to the kitchen where Sam could hear him crashing pots in a most uncharacteristic manner.
"Master Frodo?" Sam asked timidly, coming to the bed and taking Frodo's hand from where it lay on the top of the covers. "How are you today?"
Frodo turned his head, taking in the wind-tousled hair, freckled face, and brown cheeks of the little boy. Something awful sparked in the blue depths of his eyes.
"Go away!" he said distinctly. "Go away, and don't come back. I don't want to see you again!"
And Sam had fled, with tears streaming down his face.
Frodo ran through the long grass that grew so lushly by the banks of the Brandywine River. The sun was strong on his shoulders and his flying feet disturbed little clouds of yellow butterflies that fluttered in the golden air. A dragonfly was zipping up and down in impressive loops over the rushes to impress its partner, its wings flashing like a dragon horde in the sun.
Frodo's feet seemed to be flying of their own accord, driven on by the joy of being able to run purely for the sake of running.
"Mamma!" Frodo yelled as he came in sight of the pretty figure of his mother and his feet took him to her in a moment and her arms caught him safely up as they always did. "I made it!" he gasped. "I found you again!"
He breathed in the smell of cinnamon from her apron and was so glad that he thought he might burst. He wrapped his arms around her so tightly. This time he would not let go. Her arms still held him but when he tilted his head up to look into her face he saw disappointment in her eyes instead of welcome.
"Why are you here, Frodo?" she asked.
"Why? I missed you so. Don't you want me here?" he stuttered out the words.
"It is not your time," she told him. "You have a lot of living to do still."
"But, but I wasn't alive. I can't walk!" he cried, "I wanted to be with you again."
"That is not for you to decide," Primula said. "It is not for you to say when your song has been sung."
"But I want to be with you!" Frodo yelled. "I want to be with you and Dad!"
Her blue eyes softened, and wistfully she spoke. "Not yet, my dearest boy, not yet."
Frodo awoke from the dream with a soft cry of despair. He lay in the perpetual twilight of his bedroom and stared at the ceiling. He felt ancient. Summer had passed him by - no more than a glint hinted at around his drawn curtains and the sound of bird song. He had settled into a sort of twilight himself, his body a useless dead weight, and his mind running in ever turning circles. He knew he was a pathetic burden, but he was too lost in misery to stir himself from his apathy. A long useless existence stretched out before him and, if he knew how, he longed to join his parents.
The thought of his parents reminded him of the dream and he seemed to see again the message of disappointment in his mother's eyes. She had not been disappointed to see him again, only disappointed that he had turned his back on his life and run away.
"Fool of a Baggins," he told himself. "Coward and worse."
He felt as if he were following his parents - drowning, but, before he went under, he wished that someone would throw him a lifeline.
*****
Bilbo sat in the arch of his front door, puffing away at a pipe-full of Old Toby and watching the sun set, signalling the end of another long and empty day, or at least that was how it felt to him. He sat there with a heart as heavy as if the dwarves had poured it full of gold - and had then sunk it to the bottom of the Long Lake, so filled with concern was he over the dear young hobbit who lay so still in his bed. His young cousin was taking no more joy in the world, so Bilbo sat, sometimes for hours, hoping that some promising course of action might present itself to him.
Something had gone out of the lad, something sorely missed by his older cousin. Frodo was turning his back on the world, refusing to see anyone except Bilbo and the doctor. With the worst of the pains past, Mrs Willowbank had gone on to her next client and an unpleasant gloom had settled over Bag End as though some one had died. No longer did even Sam's piping voice from time to time fill the burrow. He was too scared to return now that Mr Frodo had told him so harshly to stay away.
As Halimath approached, Bilbo pondered incessantly about what he could do to help. What could he do that he had not already tried? Who could he speak to that he had not already spoken to? There had to be a solution, there just HAD to be. And after his musings and ponderings, casting aside an infinite number of plans and ideas, all he knew was that SOMEHOW he was going to need Sam.