This Life
Written by Northelle
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea, by accident...
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames.
Author's Notes:
Bronwe Athan Harthad is the name that Frodo was given in ROTK in the History of the Lord of the Rings (the fourth part). As long as Tolkien wrote it, I'm going to imply it! I'm using Bronwe as Frodo's name in this fiction. He may get 'Frodo' back eventually. I'm not going to tell you what happens.
As for those of you who asked if Merry, Pippin, or Sam are in this fic: Sam will be eventually, but not for a while. I don't know wether or not Merry or Pippin will be in here, I hope they can, I hope I can fit them in somewhere! Thanks for reviewing, it really jolts me forward!
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Chapter Two
"Here, Elanor. Have some second breakfast. It's warm. Come on," said Fastred encouragingly, offering his wife the warm soup and bread. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, deep in thought.
"He finally fell asleep," Elanor sighed, staring at the tabletop.
"At least he didn't wake Elfstan up," Fastred marked gently, almost mockingly. He pushed the bowl of soup until it touched Elanor's arm. "Now eat," he said in a soft, commanding tone. "Don't be worried about him. He'll be right as rain, you'll see."
Elanor glanced at the bowl of soup and then absently began to stir it. "It's not that, Fastred."
"Then what is it?"
Elanor shook her head. "When I looked into his eyes, he looked so lost. So lost. He's a hobbit and he doesn't even know that he is one. He hardly knew his *name*, Fastred! He can't remember a thing. It's what frightens me. My father used to forget things, but not like this." She took a bite of the soup.
Fastred nodded softly. "Well, second breakfast is cooked, and elevensies and luncheon are on the windowsill, but I shouldn't be gone for that long. When Elfstan wakes up, make sure he eats it all."
Elanor was still looking at her soup. Fastred bent down and breathed softly in her ear. "Alright?" She sat bolt upright and nodded, smiling softly and sheepishly. Fastred smiled and patted her on the shoulder, "Good. I'll see you by three hours after-noon."
----------
Fastred tightened the saddle-strips on his two ponies. One of the beasts of burden was Strider II, an older but gentle gelding- the other was Eowyn, a mid-of-age mare who had thus born two colts. Eowyn was faster, but Strider had the patience to bear an injured rider.
Bronwe eyed the beasts nervously, obviously not keen about hopping upon one of their backs. Something about the dark, clopping hooves and Strider's dark mane set him on edge. Fastred smiled gently and helped Bronwe over to them. "It's quite alright. They won't hurt you," the hobbit knew enough not to force someone into immediately being comfortable around a pony. "Here," he said, demonstrating by stroking Eowyn's copper forelock and white muzzle, "they are only ponies, and well-trained ones at that."
He placed one of Bronwe's hands on Strider's neck. The old grey pony snorted somewhat at the touch, stamped one of his hooves on the ground, and then nuzzled Fastred's neck.
"What... are they going to do?" Bronwe asked quizzically, slowly reaching up to touch the pony's mane. Fastred smiled again at Bronwe. It was odd, because he looked as old as Elanor's father, yet had all of the knowledge of his son, Elfstan. At least he knew how to speak. "We," he answered, "are going to ride them to the Shire doctor."
----------
Bronwe gripped the saddle horn with both hands, trembling. The pony was going slow and easy, and Fastred was holding onto the halter rope himself. Bronwe was developing a fear for the pony, or at least riding the pony. He watched the ground nervously, as if his face were to be meeting it soon. Fastred was leading them on the most gently sloping road around, but it was also the longest way around as well.
"Are you alright back there, Bronwe?" asked Fastred, glancing behind him.
"Going to be sick," answered Bronwe slowly.
"That's normal," chuckled Fastred, "you'll get used to it, like Elanor had to. Now she can't wait to ride Eowyn to the market every week."
The pair went quietly along for a while in the morning light, each with their own thoughts. Luckily, the doctor's house wasn't too far away, and Fastred could already see it as he rounded a bend in the road.
Doctor Burrows was a kindly old hobbit with steady hands, perfect for doctoring. He lived with is wife in his large home-- a home with many rooms, for Westmarch was filling rapidly with hobbits, both young and old. When Fastred and Bronwe came to him, he was filling in a book with his spindly handwriting. The book was used to date who came in, when, and what for. He looked up with a questioning glance. The Warden did not come in often.
"Mr. Fastred! The last time I saw you, Elanor had sprained her wrist," he said, happy to see the Warden.
"I'm afraid it's much worse than a knock on the arm," he replied. He was motioning for someone that was outside to come inside.
The doctor's tone softened. "What is it? Has something happened?" He watched as Fastred gently led in a stumbling older hobbit. He had bandages around his head, sloppily arranged compared to a doctor's precise wrapping. Dr. Burrows hurried around from his desk. He hadn't met this hobbit before. "What happened to him?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm here. Elanor found him."
The Doctor motioned for Fastred to sit him on a cushioned bench. Bronwe complied easily-- it was better than sitting on the back of the pony. "Here, lad," the doctor snapped his fingers to get Bronwe's attention. It took a moment for the sad eyes to alight on him. "What's your name?"
Fastred answered for him. "He calls himself Bronwe." He began to unwrap the bandages carefully. "He has a wound on his head, here."
The doctor checked it, and his face seemed to pale. "It is a deep cut. What did he get it from?" Bronwe winced, biting his lip.
"That's what I don't know. And he doesn't remember how he got it, either."
The doctor bundled the bandages in his hand. "Well, here's how I would do it. I'll close the wound, but I don't know if it will help. A cut that open is prone to get dirty, infected. He also has a lump formed underneath it, like he was... well... attacked. But it doesn't look like a hoof's work to me. Only a blade would do something that deep, but it would have to be dull to rise a bump."
"He was speaking in a different language when I found him. He acts like he's not from here. Elanor noted that he didn't know what a hobbit was."
"An effect of the wound," answered the doctor, "when someone's hit that hard, it can mix up the memory." He stood. "Wait here for a moment."
Dr. Burrows came back mixing something into a clay cup. "Have him drink this. It'll put him to sleep so we don't have to worry about him hurting."
"What do I do then?"
"You can go home. There's nothing you can really do, and my wife will be back in an hour or so."
"When do I come back?"
"Tomorrow morning should do it; you should give me time to work on him-- and for him to rest, as well."
----------
Elanor stumbled out of the smial as Fastred came riding up on Eowyn's back. She stopped as she noticed that Strider's back was empty. Fastred dismounted and began to lead the ponies back to the stable-- which was located behind the smial.
"Where is he? Is he alright?"
Fastred smiled and opened the stable door. "He will be," he lied, "the doctor's taking care of him right now."
Elanor sighed in relief. "That's good. What was wrong with him, then?" she asked, lending a hand in unsaddling the ponies.
"Exactly what we thought was wrong. He has a wound on his head and he jumbled up his memory."
"Will he get it back-- his memory?" Elanor grunted as she hung one of the saddles on the nail-hook.
Fastred openly lied again. "The doctor's going to help him. He should get it back soon, he said." He was quiet for a moment, until he decided to change the subject. "And Elfstan, is he awake yet?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I don't know what's worse-- having a stranger turn up on your doorstep or having to deal with a lad in his third autumn. He's curious about Bronwe, though. He'd like to meet him, he said.'"
They went back into the smial after putting the ponies away, where Elfstan was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing with a hunk of charcoal on a rumpled piece of used paper. The cheery little lad looked up as Fastred and Elanor came in, squealing.
"Dad, Dad!" he cried, "I learnt a new word today!"
Fastred picked his little son up. "Yes, what word?"
"h'Eagle! Mom says that there's giant h'eagles somewhere. I'm gonna meet them!"
"Oh, really?" Fastred smiled and put Elfstan down. He was the usual hyperactive three year old, who had brown hair like his father, but his mother's green eyes. He ran into the kitchen, squealing with a mock eagle's cry. Elanor and Fastred sat at the kitchen table, watching him.
"So," Elanor slid casually back into the earlier conversation, "is Bronwe going to come back?"
"I don't see why not-- Elfstan, no, don't climb on the chair like that," Fastred lifted his son up and placed him on the slightly higher chair. "There. Now draw all you want."
"When will he be coming back?" asked Elanor, making sure that Elfstan didn't eat the charcoal stick. It was the usual routine of an afternoon, except now Fastred wasn't locked in his study.
"Noontime tomorrow-- at least that's what the doctor said. Unless he knows where he's supposed to go and be, then Bronwe will have to come back here."
Elfstan triumphantly held up his paper. A messy scribble was on it, and some more were scrawled on the bottom. "See, see? It's my h'eagle. He's flying over the mountains!" The lad pointed to the scribbles on the bottom of the page. All in all, the 'drawing' resembled what happened when someone got very angry at a piece of paper.
After all, things are much easier to see with a little imagination.
~TBC~
Written by Northelle
Summary: Elanor Gamgee stumbles upon a very special hobbit, without a memory, who has come from across the Sea, by accident...
Rating: PG-13 (some violence, battle-wounds and their aftermath)
Disclaimer: Of course; I don't own anything (like the characters) in this fic, but the text and plot is mine. I don't make any money off of this. It is purely for 'fun' and for the enjoyment of others, if they wish.
Feedback: Feedback is awesome, but please, no flames.
Author's Notes:
Bronwe Athan Harthad is the name that Frodo was given in ROTK in the History of the Lord of the Rings (the fourth part). As long as Tolkien wrote it, I'm going to imply it! I'm using Bronwe as Frodo's name in this fiction. He may get 'Frodo' back eventually. I'm not going to tell you what happens.
As for those of you who asked if Merry, Pippin, or Sam are in this fic: Sam will be eventually, but not for a while. I don't know wether or not Merry or Pippin will be in here, I hope they can, I hope I can fit them in somewhere! Thanks for reviewing, it really jolts me forward!
----------
Chapter Two
"Here, Elanor. Have some second breakfast. It's warm. Come on," said Fastred encouragingly, offering his wife the warm soup and bread. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, deep in thought.
"He finally fell asleep," Elanor sighed, staring at the tabletop.
"At least he didn't wake Elfstan up," Fastred marked gently, almost mockingly. He pushed the bowl of soup until it touched Elanor's arm. "Now eat," he said in a soft, commanding tone. "Don't be worried about him. He'll be right as rain, you'll see."
Elanor glanced at the bowl of soup and then absently began to stir it. "It's not that, Fastred."
"Then what is it?"
Elanor shook her head. "When I looked into his eyes, he looked so lost. So lost. He's a hobbit and he doesn't even know that he is one. He hardly knew his *name*, Fastred! He can't remember a thing. It's what frightens me. My father used to forget things, but not like this." She took a bite of the soup.
Fastred nodded softly. "Well, second breakfast is cooked, and elevensies and luncheon are on the windowsill, but I shouldn't be gone for that long. When Elfstan wakes up, make sure he eats it all."
Elanor was still looking at her soup. Fastred bent down and breathed softly in her ear. "Alright?" She sat bolt upright and nodded, smiling softly and sheepishly. Fastred smiled and patted her on the shoulder, "Good. I'll see you by three hours after-noon."
----------
Fastred tightened the saddle-strips on his two ponies. One of the beasts of burden was Strider II, an older but gentle gelding- the other was Eowyn, a mid-of-age mare who had thus born two colts. Eowyn was faster, but Strider had the patience to bear an injured rider.
Bronwe eyed the beasts nervously, obviously not keen about hopping upon one of their backs. Something about the dark, clopping hooves and Strider's dark mane set him on edge. Fastred smiled gently and helped Bronwe over to them. "It's quite alright. They won't hurt you," the hobbit knew enough not to force someone into immediately being comfortable around a pony. "Here," he said, demonstrating by stroking Eowyn's copper forelock and white muzzle, "they are only ponies, and well-trained ones at that."
He placed one of Bronwe's hands on Strider's neck. The old grey pony snorted somewhat at the touch, stamped one of his hooves on the ground, and then nuzzled Fastred's neck.
"What... are they going to do?" Bronwe asked quizzically, slowly reaching up to touch the pony's mane. Fastred smiled again at Bronwe. It was odd, because he looked as old as Elanor's father, yet had all of the knowledge of his son, Elfstan. At least he knew how to speak. "We," he answered, "are going to ride them to the Shire doctor."
----------
Bronwe gripped the saddle horn with both hands, trembling. The pony was going slow and easy, and Fastred was holding onto the halter rope himself. Bronwe was developing a fear for the pony, or at least riding the pony. He watched the ground nervously, as if his face were to be meeting it soon. Fastred was leading them on the most gently sloping road around, but it was also the longest way around as well.
"Are you alright back there, Bronwe?" asked Fastred, glancing behind him.
"Going to be sick," answered Bronwe slowly.
"That's normal," chuckled Fastred, "you'll get used to it, like Elanor had to. Now she can't wait to ride Eowyn to the market every week."
The pair went quietly along for a while in the morning light, each with their own thoughts. Luckily, the doctor's house wasn't too far away, and Fastred could already see it as he rounded a bend in the road.
Doctor Burrows was a kindly old hobbit with steady hands, perfect for doctoring. He lived with is wife in his large home-- a home with many rooms, for Westmarch was filling rapidly with hobbits, both young and old. When Fastred and Bronwe came to him, he was filling in a book with his spindly handwriting. The book was used to date who came in, when, and what for. He looked up with a questioning glance. The Warden did not come in often.
"Mr. Fastred! The last time I saw you, Elanor had sprained her wrist," he said, happy to see the Warden.
"I'm afraid it's much worse than a knock on the arm," he replied. He was motioning for someone that was outside to come inside.
The doctor's tone softened. "What is it? Has something happened?" He watched as Fastred gently led in a stumbling older hobbit. He had bandages around his head, sloppily arranged compared to a doctor's precise wrapping. Dr. Burrows hurried around from his desk. He hadn't met this hobbit before. "What happened to him?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm here. Elanor found him."
The Doctor motioned for Fastred to sit him on a cushioned bench. Bronwe complied easily-- it was better than sitting on the back of the pony. "Here, lad," the doctor snapped his fingers to get Bronwe's attention. It took a moment for the sad eyes to alight on him. "What's your name?"
Fastred answered for him. "He calls himself Bronwe." He began to unwrap the bandages carefully. "He has a wound on his head, here."
The doctor checked it, and his face seemed to pale. "It is a deep cut. What did he get it from?" Bronwe winced, biting his lip.
"That's what I don't know. And he doesn't remember how he got it, either."
The doctor bundled the bandages in his hand. "Well, here's how I would do it. I'll close the wound, but I don't know if it will help. A cut that open is prone to get dirty, infected. He also has a lump formed underneath it, like he was... well... attacked. But it doesn't look like a hoof's work to me. Only a blade would do something that deep, but it would have to be dull to rise a bump."
"He was speaking in a different language when I found him. He acts like he's not from here. Elanor noted that he didn't know what a hobbit was."
"An effect of the wound," answered the doctor, "when someone's hit that hard, it can mix up the memory." He stood. "Wait here for a moment."
Dr. Burrows came back mixing something into a clay cup. "Have him drink this. It'll put him to sleep so we don't have to worry about him hurting."
"What do I do then?"
"You can go home. There's nothing you can really do, and my wife will be back in an hour or so."
"When do I come back?"
"Tomorrow morning should do it; you should give me time to work on him-- and for him to rest, as well."
----------
Elanor stumbled out of the smial as Fastred came riding up on Eowyn's back. She stopped as she noticed that Strider's back was empty. Fastred dismounted and began to lead the ponies back to the stable-- which was located behind the smial.
"Where is he? Is he alright?"
Fastred smiled and opened the stable door. "He will be," he lied, "the doctor's taking care of him right now."
Elanor sighed in relief. "That's good. What was wrong with him, then?" she asked, lending a hand in unsaddling the ponies.
"Exactly what we thought was wrong. He has a wound on his head and he jumbled up his memory."
"Will he get it back-- his memory?" Elanor grunted as she hung one of the saddles on the nail-hook.
Fastred openly lied again. "The doctor's going to help him. He should get it back soon, he said." He was quiet for a moment, until he decided to change the subject. "And Elfstan, is he awake yet?"
"Yes, unfortunately. I don't know what's worse-- having a stranger turn up on your doorstep or having to deal with a lad in his third autumn. He's curious about Bronwe, though. He'd like to meet him, he said.'"
They went back into the smial after putting the ponies away, where Elfstan was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing with a hunk of charcoal on a rumpled piece of used paper. The cheery little lad looked up as Fastred and Elanor came in, squealing.
"Dad, Dad!" he cried, "I learnt a new word today!"
Fastred picked his little son up. "Yes, what word?"
"h'Eagle! Mom says that there's giant h'eagles somewhere. I'm gonna meet them!"
"Oh, really?" Fastred smiled and put Elfstan down. He was the usual hyperactive three year old, who had brown hair like his father, but his mother's green eyes. He ran into the kitchen, squealing with a mock eagle's cry. Elanor and Fastred sat at the kitchen table, watching him.
"So," Elanor slid casually back into the earlier conversation, "is Bronwe going to come back?"
"I don't see why not-- Elfstan, no, don't climb on the chair like that," Fastred lifted his son up and placed him on the slightly higher chair. "There. Now draw all you want."
"When will he be coming back?" asked Elanor, making sure that Elfstan didn't eat the charcoal stick. It was the usual routine of an afternoon, except now Fastred wasn't locked in his study.
"Noontime tomorrow-- at least that's what the doctor said. Unless he knows where he's supposed to go and be, then Bronwe will have to come back here."
Elfstan triumphantly held up his paper. A messy scribble was on it, and some more were scrawled on the bottom. "See, see? It's my h'eagle. He's flying over the mountains!" The lad pointed to the scribbles on the bottom of the page. All in all, the 'drawing' resembled what happened when someone got very angry at a piece of paper.
After all, things are much easier to see with a little imagination.
~TBC~