Ilmare - Bilbo has indeed taken matters into his own hands, and about time!
There's a lot going on in this chapter, so I hope you're seated
comfortably!
Krista - Bilbo and Merry are finally on the trail as you said, and they are much better prepared for their journey than poor Frodo was. In this chapter, we'll finally get Frodo to Bree and see what fate has in store for him there.
Endymion - Bargo doesn't have a lot of brains, does he? As for Frodo, we got us a hobbit for sale right here. Whether he's purchased by someone who's naughty or nice, he's not out of this yet. That's all I'm gonna say.
Iorhael - I've been posting speedily lately. Are you caught up and all ready for this one? I just caught up on "Nasty Hobbitses", and for the first time I'm wishing Merry would show up!
Where have the rest of you gone this weekend? I miss you! I know you'll be back, but I'm posting a little early to keep things moving. Besides, I'm excited about this chapter, and I just can't wait! ~Author grins~
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Chapter 10 - Hobbit For Sale
~*~Brandy Hall, Buckland, evening~*~
Saradoc stood glowering down at the two lads seated before him in his study. "I want some answers, and I have reason to believe you can supply them," he ground out as Bargo and Reginard shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. "I think you know what happened to Frodo."
"Us, Sir?" Reginard began to dissemble. "If I may ask, Sir, what makes you think we know anything?"
Saradoc's eyes narrowed. "I'd advise you not to try out your attitude with me, lad." His tone was stern, his gaze unwavering. "Rumor has it you are responsible for Frodo's absence, by way of a deal you made with some of the Big Folk."
Bargo maintained his silence, but Reginard laughed as if that were the greatest joke he had ever heard. "You heard what? That Bargo and I - " he laughed again, as if he simply couldn't contain himself. "Oh, that's rich. That's a good one, eh Bargo?"
"'Tis indeed," Bargo said with a snicker. Reginard was so much better at this sort of thing, he decided. He would just let Reg do the talking and follow his lead.
"That is all it had better be, boys." Saradoc regarded them suspiciously. "You have been responsible for harming Frodo in the past, and therefore I wouldn't put anything past you two, even something that sounds as ridiculous as this."
"It is ridiculous, Sir," Reginard countered calmly. "We might have had a little fun with Frodo in the past, but we wouldn't do anything - "
"Your brand of fun is not acceptable at Brandy Hall." Saradoc interrupted Reginard's defense handily. "If I find that you had anything to do with this, you will be packed off home to your families in the blink of an eye, do you understand me?"
"Yes Sir," Bargo and Reginard said in unison. Nobody could prove anything. If judgment were to be passed against them on the strength of a mere rumor, everyone in the Hall had to be guilty of something, for rumor was rife among the large population.
"I'll be watching you two, rest assured," Saradoc said by way of dismissal. "Now get back to your chores, and stay out of trouble. You're not such big lads that I cannot haul you off by your ears to the shed for a sound hiding."
Bargo and Reginard filed out under the baleful glare of the Master of the Hall. Once safely in the corridor and beyond earshot of the study, Bargo allowed a sigh of relief to escape him. "Well, that was nice," he muttered.
"Don't worry, Bargo. They can't prove we did anything. There are no witnesses, with Baggins gone."
"What about Brandybrat?" Bargo asked. Merry was always looking at them with suspicion these days.
"He doesn't know anything. He can suspect all he wants, but he didn't see anything happen."
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then Bargo asked, "You think those fellas will let Baggins go?"
Reginard considered. "I don't know all that much about the Big Folk personally, Bargo, but I tend to doubt it. They paid for him, and they're not likely to just release him." A smirk crossed his face as another thought occurred to him. "They might find out how useless he his and ask for their money back, though."
Unrepentant laugher echoed in the corridor as the two made their way back out of the hall to finish their chores for the day.
~*~Near Bree, after nightfall~*~
Their brief rest came to an end as Dolan approached Frodo and knelt down beside him. "Time to go, halfling," he said. "We'll arrive at the Bree gate in a short while." He paused, motioned to Fergus, then spoke to Frodo again. "When we get there, you will be asleep."
Fergus poured the last of the clear liquid from the vial onto the cloth and handed it to Dolan. As the man reached out for him, Frodo pulled back. "Please, you don't have to use that!" he pleaded, looking up at Dolan. "I promise I will cooperate."
"And I don't believe you," Dolan answered simply. "I think you're likely to try to get the gatekeeper's attention if we allow you to be awake when we get there." He nodded to Fergus who knelt behind Frodo and held him down.
Frodo was speechless with terror. If he were carried through the Bree gate unconscious, he would have no chance to escape, and no idea where he would be when he woke up again.
"This is it, halfling," Fergus said, grinning. "Ye'll be leavin' us soon, but ye ain't goin' home."
Frodo tried to turn his head to avoid the hand that held the drug - soaked cloth, but his chin was caught in a firm grip and the hated scent overpowered him.
Dolan held the cloth to Frodo's face for a long while to make sure it did the job. As the scent forced its way into his body, Frodo feared he would be rendered unconscious for a week as a result of such a dose. Very quickly, however, fear melted away along with light, sound and sensation. He slumped, leaden, into Fergus' arms.
"That oughtta keep 'im outta trouble," Fergus muttered. Dolan mounted his horse and extended his arms to accept Frodo's limp form.
~*~Brandy Hall, Buckland, evening~*~
Merry paced the floor of his room restlessly. How could he go about getting Bilbo to allow him to accompany him to Bree? It was out of the question to beg his father's permission, for the answer would surely be negative. He must think of a way to get Bilbo to believe that he had obtained permission to go along.
He was just going to have to lie, and that was all there was to it. He sat down at his desk and began penning a note to his parents to explain his departure.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ Dear Father and Mother,
As Cousin Frodo's closest friend, I feel I should do something more to help him than just sit here and wait for Uncle Bilbo to return with news. Frodo and I have always looked out for each other, and this is no time for me to stop doing my duty by him. He would do as much for me without a moment's hesitation.
Please don't be angry with Uncle Bilbo. I told him I had your permission to go, and he's not to blame for my decision. I will be safe with him, and will provide for myself along the way with the money I've saved from my chores. We will return with Frodo as quickly as we are able.
I shall bear the consequences for my actions, and I take full responsibility for them.
With love, Meriadoc.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Merry pulled a wooden box out from underneath the bed. There was not a great deal of money stowed there, but he had been diligent about saving his earnings. His father had taught him the value of money and how to manage it frugally. He would need such wisdom if he were to become Master of Buckland someday.
He tucked away the entire contents of the box in a leather pouch and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his coat. He checked his pack to make sure he'd forgotten nothing of importance. He had extra clothing, some food items he had managed to liberate from the pantry, his cloak and bedroll. He was ready to go.
There was still the problem of lending credibility to his statement that he had permission to make the journey. Bilbo was no fool, Merry knew. He could pry the truth out of Frodo without even exerting himself, but then again, Frodo was no good at lying. Merry smirked to himself. He had to think of something that would make Bilbo believe him.
He thought about writing a brief message for Bilbo in his best imitation of his father's hand, but abandoned the idea. He wasn't very good at faking his father's handwriting, and Bilbo knew Saradoc's strong, slanted script almost as well as his own. What other evidence of approval could he come up with?
That was it! His father's walking stick! He would catch it mightily for taking it, he was certain, but it was perfect. The finely carved staff with its brass - tipped ends was always with Saradoc whenever he went forth for anything longer than a brief stroll. What father would have his son embark on a journey of several days without a proper walking stick?
Bilbo was to leave in the morning at first light, and Merry planned to be a step ahead of him. He would be waiting at the ferry when his uncle arrived and they would cross the Brandywine together. It would be a fine adventure!
Merry sobered as he thought about the reason for the excursion. Those Big Folk had better not have hurt Frodo, he thought darkly. He would hate to be them when Bilbo showed up to face them. Bilbo had stolen treasure from dragons and slain Mirkwood spiders! He wasn't going to back down to any stupid ruffians, especially if they were holding Frodo captive.
He lay down to sleep, but found himself wide awake and filled with anticipation. Sleep was slow in coming and fragile as a moth's wing. Merry dozed, not daring to fall into a deep slumber, lest he miss his opportunity to join Bilbo at the ferry.
~*~Bree~*~
Dolan and Fergus reined the horses to a stop before the large wooden gate, and dismounted. They stepped forward and Fergus thumped on the wood with his fist until a grizzled face appeared and glared at him through a square opening at roughly eye level.
"State yer business," the gatekeeper ground out at him.
"We must get to the Inn of the Prancing Pony," Dolan replied. He noted the gatekeeper's gaze as it lingered upon the still form of Frodo, still wrapped in his cloak. "My son is ill and I must get him inside and out of this foul night air," he dissembled, his confident voice quelling any suspicions on the part of the man behind the gate.
Indeed, with his small form wrapped in the cloak and his feet concealed, Frodo looked much like a lad of nine or ten years. The gatekeeper was looking at Dolan with a hint of compassion now, as he opened the gate to admit the travelers.
Once safely clear of the gate, Dolan and Fergus made for the inn. The streets were rather empty, as the hour was growing late and the last remnants of the storm were still lingering damply. The sign bearing the words "Inn of the Prancing Pony" swung fitfully in the wind, and a glow of lamplight spilled out of the windows into the street as the men made for the stables with their horses.
Fergus paid for the stable space, telling the stableboy there would be no need for him to carry their gear up to their room, as they would see to it themselves. They didn't need anyone sniffing around their quarters and reporting the presence of a captive halfling.
The door to the inn creaked open and they stepped inside, into the warmth, light and noise of the common room. The innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, greeted them with solicitous cheer.
"Good evenin', Masters. How might I be of service to ye?" He eyed them curiously, his gaze traveling from their muddied boots to their weary faces, then came to rest on the unconscious hobbit Dolan held cradled in his arms.
"We need a room, please. It's just the two of us and the boy." Dolan continued his ploy of passing Frodo off as a human child. "We ask that we not be disturbed, as the lad has been ill and needs rest," he said quietly.
"Of course, of course," Butterbur shuffled about busily behind the desk and produced a key. "Upper floor, at the end of the hall. It's a little quieter there." He peered at Frodo again. "Poor lad, I hope he's feeling better soon," he said, shaking his head.
"He should be quite all right with a little rest," Dolan replied, as Fergus hefted their packs, one over each arm. They climbed the stairs and found the room at the end of a short, narrow corridor.
Their quarters were sparsely furnished with a wooden table and two chairs, and two beds. Dolan busied himself lighting a fire on the hearth as Fergus bound Frodo to one of the chairs. The chair was sized for a man rather than a hobbit, and Frodo's legs stuck out stiffly over the edge rather than bending at the knees. "Gag him while you're at it, Fergus," Dolan instructed. "We don't need him letting everyone in the place know he's here when that stuff wears off."
Fergus tied the cloth over Frodo's mouth, and stood looking at the sleeping captive. It was a shame to sell him off. He was a sweet - looking little imp though, and Fergus didn't doubt they could get someone to pay handsomely for him. They would start asking around in the morning, and by evening they expected to be a good deal wealthier than they were at the moment.
~*~Bucklebury Ferry, Buckland, pre - dawn~*~
Merry shifted anxiously from one foot to the other as he waited in the near darkness just before daybreak. He had slipped out of the Hall unnoticed, after leaving his note in his father's study and liberating the walking stick. He leaned on it impatiently now, wondering how long it would be before Bilbo came up the path.
As it was, he didn't have long to wait. Bilbo rounded a curve in the path and stopped short when he beheld Merry, walking stick in one hand and pack in the other, standing ready to board the ferry.
"Meriadoc, just where do you think you're going?" Bilbo said suspiciously.
"I'm going to Bree with you, Uncle Bilbo," Merry answered in his most serious tone. "I'm not going to just sit here while Frodo is in danger."
Bilbo sighed. "Merry, I am sorry, but you cannot come with me. This could be a dangerous trip, and your father will use my old hide for book bindings if I allow it." He regarded the young hobbit with compassion as he spoke.
Merry was expecting the refusal, but held his ground with unrelenting Brandybuck stubbornness. "But Uncle, I have my father's permission," he said, suddenly glad of the darkness that hid the furious blush he felt flushing his cheeks. Perhaps he was no better at fabricating than Frodo after all. He held out the carved staff. "He even let me borrow his walking stick, and I've food, water, and money of my own for the journey."
Bilbo looked at Merry sharply, trying to assess the situation from every angle. The boy was fibbing, more than likely. Bilbo supposed he could refuse and send Merry back to the Hall, thereby treating him like an errant child, or he could relent and face Saradoc's wrath.
There was also the fact that Saradoc would surely follow his son, which might not be a bad thing. It was about time he set aside other matters for the time being and dealt with this particular situation hands - on. If Saradoc were to see for himself what Bargo and Reginard's mischief had wrought, perhaps something would indeed be done about it. Besides, Bilbo realized, Merry, while young, was no longer truly a child. Give the boy a year or two to grow, and he would likely be taller than Bilbo.
"You realize that this is not a pleasure trip, do you not?" Bilbo tried to make his voice sound stern and commanding. He stared at Merry with a sharp eye, testing the lad's resolve. "If you are to join me on this journey, you must be willing to accept all of the danger and discomfort of such a venture. You must also be willing to stand safely aside if I demand it of you." He moved to stand next to Merry and looked they youth squarely in the eye. "Once we get to Bree, there may well be trouble, and I will not allow you to be a part of it, as valiant as you are."
"I'm ready, Uncle." Merry met Bilbo's gaze steadily. "I'm not turning back. If you won't let me go with you, I'll follow regardless." Merry knew he was being what his mother called 'impertinent', but he didn't care. His tone softened as he said, "I won't abandon Frodo when he needs me."
At the mention of Frodo, Bilbo broke eye contact with Merry and looked at the ground for a moment. Merry would make a fine Master of Buckland one day, with his determination and his loyalty to all whom he loved. Merry loved his cousin enough to face both the wrath of his stern father and the unknown dangers that lay ahead.
Bilbo's eyes locked once again with Merry's, and he straightened, thumping the end of his walking stick sharply against the ground. "Then you had better get on that ferry, lad, and quickly. We're wasting time."
Merry's face lit up with a brilliant grin, and hugged Bilbo gratefully. "Thank you, Uncle!"
Bilbo returned the embrace, thinking all the while of what Saradoc was going to do to him if anything happened to Merry. Nothing was going to happen, of course, because Bilbo was not about to let the lad get anywhere near any actual danger. Merry might be disappointed by such news, but he would have to brook it just the same.
The young hobbit turned and began to load his pack onto the ferry. As Bilbo handed his pack to Merry, he shook his head and muttered, "Bilbo Baggins, what have you done?"
~*~Bree, afternoon~*~
Aiden took another swallow of his ale and regarded the ledger with satisfaction. The pipeweed trade had been lucrative for him of late, and he was pleased with the figures on the page before him. That last load he had brought back with him had sold at a premium, as he had expected.
The corners of his mouth quirked upward in a smile, and he raised his tankard again for another drink. He was a successful merchant at the relatively young age of thirty, respected among the good citizens of Bree and welcomed in the lands of the Shire where he purchased his wares. The highest quality pipeweed in Middle Earth was grown by the Shire Folk, and Aiden was known to the plantation owners as a fair and decent fellow.
He often visited the Inn of the Prancing Pony after a day's work, enjoying a cold ale and a good meal, and watching the people come and go through the bustling common room. He scanned the room idly, taking note of the variety of characters present. Travelers of all sorts made their way to the inn and always had news to tell, songs to sing, and stories with which to entertain any who would listen. He leaned back in a relaxed posture, letting his gaze rove around the room.
"Master Aiden, do you fancy another ale?" Butterbur asked him.
"That's a fine suggestion, Barliman," he answered good - naturedly. "The inn is busy today, it seems."
"We're near to full, 'tis true," the innkeeper said proudly. "They were comin' in at all hours last night, what with the storms and all." Butterbur continued to gossip as he took Aiden's empty tankard and replaced it with a fresh one. "Bad weather's good for business, as nobody wants to travel in the wet."
"Yes, I imagine that's so," the young merchant agreed, a twinkle appearing in his hazel eyes. "Far better to be enjoying your hospitality than to be catching one's death of exposure," he said, raising his tankard in salute to the innkeeper.
"Aye, and speakin' of such, a couple of gents came in last night with a little lad who was ailing. Poor thing was fast asleep. They must have been caught out in the weather." The innkeeper shook his head as he wiped the table with a damp cloth. "Haven't seen the poor little thing come out of their room as yet, and I hope he's not too bad off."
"They haven't asked you to summon a healer to see to the lad?" Aiden asked curiously.
"No, sir, not as yet," Butterbur said quietly. "They asked not to be disturbed as the lad needed his rest." The innkeeper glanced around the room and a look of recognition crossed his ruddy features. "Why there they are now, over yonder." He gestured toward a nearby table where three men were hunched over their tankards, deep in conversation.
"They've left the sickly lad alone?" Aiden frowned in consternation. There was no accounting for some people's actions, he mused. That poor child should have someone watching over him to make sure he was all right.
"Must have, young Master," Butterbur said rather sadly. "The one with the dark hair said the boy was his son."
Aiden regarded the men at the table thoughtfully. They didn't look much like the family type, in his opinion. Of course, one never could tell from just a glance what lay beneath the surface. They were probably traveling traders, he surmised. Their faces weren't familiar. Butterbur took his leave and continued his rounds, filling tankards and chatting amiably with the patrons.
The table where the men were seated was near enough that Aiden could discern bits of the conversation as the voices rose and fell. Wondering where they were from and what news they might have brought from elsewhere, he cocked his head to the side and listened.
"He's small yet, but he'll grow," Dolan was saying to the man who had joined him and Fergus at the table. "He's right fair for one of his kind, too."
"Shire Folk is he?" The man asked gruffly, taking a generous swig from his tankard.
Aiden frowned to himself. The mention of the little people piqued his curiosity and he listened more closely. The man with the reddish hair was speaking now.
"Oy, that 'e is," Fergus said. "I'd like ta keep 'im fer meself, but me and Dolan 'ere are a wee bit short, so we're lookin' to deal."
The third man seemed to consider, then asked, "How much you asking for him?"
Aiden's eyes narrowed and his fingers clenched tighter around the handle of his tankard as he realized what they were discussing. That was no child of Men Butterbur had seen in their company. It was a hobbit, a young one from the sound of things, and the fiends were trying to sell him!
"Sixty gold pieces," Dolan answered the man's inquiry.
"Sixty?" The man who had inquired regarding the price raised his voice indignantly. "You're a greedy bastard. I want to see him before I lay out that kind of coin."
"All right then, follow me," Dolan instructed, and the three rose from the table.
Aiden knew he had to act, and quickly. He tucked the ledger into his pack and stood, abandoning the remainder of his ale. He schooled his features to a bland expression as he approached the three men.
"Your pardon, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing." He loathed himself for it, but he allowed a sly expression to cross his handsome face as he spoke. "You say you have with you a halfling for sale?"
"Overhearing, or eavesdropping, my friend?" Dolan growled. "Maybe we do and maybe we don't. What's it to you?"
"I should be asking you that question," Aiden said cagily. "I may be prepared to offer you a fair sum for him, depending on his merits, of course." He leered suggestively.
"Follow us," Dolan said shortly, and Aiden fell into step with them as they made for the stairway.
It crushed him to play the role of such a noisome villain, but it seemed the wisest course to follow. If they suspected how he really felt, they would likely kill him outright for interfering with their plans. He followed them up the stairs and down the dimly - lit hallway until they came to a door at the end of the corridor.
Aiden held his breath as the four of them entered the room, only to find it hitching in his throat as he beheld the heart - wrenching sight before him. In the corner of the room, gagged and bound to a hard wooden chair was a young hobbit! The lad was semi - conscious, obviously drugged. He was terribly pale, and his eyes fluttered open weakly, bleary and unfocused.
Aiden was horrified by the cruel treatment of the youngster by these ruffians. The Shire Folk he had dealings with were all kind, jovial and honest individuals, with an undeniable charm and appealing innocence. It tore at him to see this young one so clearly in harm's way, and he fought the impulse to throttle the ones who had done such a terrible thing.
The prospective buyer was speaking and Aiden struggled to keep his ale from coming up as he listened. "Hmmm. Skinny, isn't he?" As the poor little creature drifted in and out of consciousness, the scruffy - looking man reached down and brushed his grimy fingers across one pale cheek. "Fifty gold pieces, no more," he offered bluntly.
The other two men seemed to be considering. Aiden feared they might accept the rough man's offer. He must make an offer himself, then, and it must be more than the other man was willing or able to pay. Aiden cleared his throat and spoke, hoping his voice would not tremble and betray him. "A poor offer for one so fair. I shall pay you eighty."
The first bidder turned on the young merchant, hissing foul breath in his face. "You're a snake and a fool!" The man turned back to the sellers and spat, "I made you a good offer. If this pretentious twit wants to squander his earnings, that's his business, but I'm out." He shot Aiden a poisonous look. "Looks like he's all yours, fancy boy. Enjoy him." With that, the man spun on his heel and left the room. Aiden watched him go, thankful that there was one fewer to deal with.
Aiden turned back to the other two. "Do you agree to my offer?" He asked, trying to sound stern. Oh, but this was hard! These men were the worst kind of filthy vermin, and he was playing at being one of them, but only for the sake of the little one.
Fergus and Dolan looked at each other and nodded. "We do. Pay us, and you may take him." Dolan held out a hand expectantly.
Aiden reached for a pouch hidden in the folds of his cloak. He had planned to stash the coins away toward the purchase of more pipeweed to sell to the shopkeepers he supplied. It looked as if his supply would run a bit short for a while. The shopkeepers would just have to wait and make do.
He counted out eighty gold coins into Dolan's waiting hands, controlling his revulsion and rage with difficulty. What had that poor lad endured? Whatever it was, there would be no more of it, he vowed silently.
"He's yours, my good man. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." Dolan motioned to Fergus, who stepped behind the chair and severed the little hobbit's bonds. Eyes closed, the hobbit groaned into the gag and slumped over. He would have fallen to the floor, had Aiden not caught him.
The young hobbit opened his startlingly blue eyes and stared up at Aiden fearfully. He was coming around slowly, but was still plainly disoriented. Aiden removed the gag and lifted the small form in his arms, draping his cloak around him to hide him from view.
Without another word, the young man carried the hobbit down the stairs and toward the door, risking a glance behind him to see if he had been followed by either of the men. When they did not appear, he strode up to Butterbur who was regarding him with a curious expression.
"If any Shire Folk should come to look for one of their own, send them immediately to me," Aiden said, his eyes blazing. Butterbur nodded and started to speak, but Aiden had already walked out the door.
The drugged hobbit squirmed in his arms and mumbled something incoherent. Aiden made a soft shushing sound. "Sshhh, you're safe now, little one. You must trust me, for I'll not harm you." Wide, tear - filled eyes looked back at him, but with a little less terror than before.
The young man hurried down one of the less - traveled back streets toward his home, keeping his burden hidden beneath his cloak. He had to get the youngster to safety and find out what, if any harm had been done to him.
~*~To Be Continued~*~
Krista - Bilbo and Merry are finally on the trail as you said, and they are much better prepared for their journey than poor Frodo was. In this chapter, we'll finally get Frodo to Bree and see what fate has in store for him there.
Endymion - Bargo doesn't have a lot of brains, does he? As for Frodo, we got us a hobbit for sale right here. Whether he's purchased by someone who's naughty or nice, he's not out of this yet. That's all I'm gonna say.
Iorhael - I've been posting speedily lately. Are you caught up and all ready for this one? I just caught up on "Nasty Hobbitses", and for the first time I'm wishing Merry would show up!
Where have the rest of you gone this weekend? I miss you! I know you'll be back, but I'm posting a little early to keep things moving. Besides, I'm excited about this chapter, and I just can't wait! ~Author grins~
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Chapter 10 - Hobbit For Sale
~*~Brandy Hall, Buckland, evening~*~
Saradoc stood glowering down at the two lads seated before him in his study. "I want some answers, and I have reason to believe you can supply them," he ground out as Bargo and Reginard shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. "I think you know what happened to Frodo."
"Us, Sir?" Reginard began to dissemble. "If I may ask, Sir, what makes you think we know anything?"
Saradoc's eyes narrowed. "I'd advise you not to try out your attitude with me, lad." His tone was stern, his gaze unwavering. "Rumor has it you are responsible for Frodo's absence, by way of a deal you made with some of the Big Folk."
Bargo maintained his silence, but Reginard laughed as if that were the greatest joke he had ever heard. "You heard what? That Bargo and I - " he laughed again, as if he simply couldn't contain himself. "Oh, that's rich. That's a good one, eh Bargo?"
"'Tis indeed," Bargo said with a snicker. Reginard was so much better at this sort of thing, he decided. He would just let Reg do the talking and follow his lead.
"That is all it had better be, boys." Saradoc regarded them suspiciously. "You have been responsible for harming Frodo in the past, and therefore I wouldn't put anything past you two, even something that sounds as ridiculous as this."
"It is ridiculous, Sir," Reginard countered calmly. "We might have had a little fun with Frodo in the past, but we wouldn't do anything - "
"Your brand of fun is not acceptable at Brandy Hall." Saradoc interrupted Reginard's defense handily. "If I find that you had anything to do with this, you will be packed off home to your families in the blink of an eye, do you understand me?"
"Yes Sir," Bargo and Reginard said in unison. Nobody could prove anything. If judgment were to be passed against them on the strength of a mere rumor, everyone in the Hall had to be guilty of something, for rumor was rife among the large population.
"I'll be watching you two, rest assured," Saradoc said by way of dismissal. "Now get back to your chores, and stay out of trouble. You're not such big lads that I cannot haul you off by your ears to the shed for a sound hiding."
Bargo and Reginard filed out under the baleful glare of the Master of the Hall. Once safely in the corridor and beyond earshot of the study, Bargo allowed a sigh of relief to escape him. "Well, that was nice," he muttered.
"Don't worry, Bargo. They can't prove we did anything. There are no witnesses, with Baggins gone."
"What about Brandybrat?" Bargo asked. Merry was always looking at them with suspicion these days.
"He doesn't know anything. He can suspect all he wants, but he didn't see anything happen."
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, then Bargo asked, "You think those fellas will let Baggins go?"
Reginard considered. "I don't know all that much about the Big Folk personally, Bargo, but I tend to doubt it. They paid for him, and they're not likely to just release him." A smirk crossed his face as another thought occurred to him. "They might find out how useless he his and ask for their money back, though."
Unrepentant laugher echoed in the corridor as the two made their way back out of the hall to finish their chores for the day.
~*~Near Bree, after nightfall~*~
Their brief rest came to an end as Dolan approached Frodo and knelt down beside him. "Time to go, halfling," he said. "We'll arrive at the Bree gate in a short while." He paused, motioned to Fergus, then spoke to Frodo again. "When we get there, you will be asleep."
Fergus poured the last of the clear liquid from the vial onto the cloth and handed it to Dolan. As the man reached out for him, Frodo pulled back. "Please, you don't have to use that!" he pleaded, looking up at Dolan. "I promise I will cooperate."
"And I don't believe you," Dolan answered simply. "I think you're likely to try to get the gatekeeper's attention if we allow you to be awake when we get there." He nodded to Fergus who knelt behind Frodo and held him down.
Frodo was speechless with terror. If he were carried through the Bree gate unconscious, he would have no chance to escape, and no idea where he would be when he woke up again.
"This is it, halfling," Fergus said, grinning. "Ye'll be leavin' us soon, but ye ain't goin' home."
Frodo tried to turn his head to avoid the hand that held the drug - soaked cloth, but his chin was caught in a firm grip and the hated scent overpowered him.
Dolan held the cloth to Frodo's face for a long while to make sure it did the job. As the scent forced its way into his body, Frodo feared he would be rendered unconscious for a week as a result of such a dose. Very quickly, however, fear melted away along with light, sound and sensation. He slumped, leaden, into Fergus' arms.
"That oughtta keep 'im outta trouble," Fergus muttered. Dolan mounted his horse and extended his arms to accept Frodo's limp form.
~*~Brandy Hall, Buckland, evening~*~
Merry paced the floor of his room restlessly. How could he go about getting Bilbo to allow him to accompany him to Bree? It was out of the question to beg his father's permission, for the answer would surely be negative. He must think of a way to get Bilbo to believe that he had obtained permission to go along.
He was just going to have to lie, and that was all there was to it. He sat down at his desk and began penning a note to his parents to explain his departure.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ Dear Father and Mother,
As Cousin Frodo's closest friend, I feel I should do something more to help him than just sit here and wait for Uncle Bilbo to return with news. Frodo and I have always looked out for each other, and this is no time for me to stop doing my duty by him. He would do as much for me without a moment's hesitation.
Please don't be angry with Uncle Bilbo. I told him I had your permission to go, and he's not to blame for my decision. I will be safe with him, and will provide for myself along the way with the money I've saved from my chores. We will return with Frodo as quickly as we are able.
I shall bear the consequences for my actions, and I take full responsibility for them.
With love, Meriadoc.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Merry pulled a wooden box out from underneath the bed. There was not a great deal of money stowed there, but he had been diligent about saving his earnings. His father had taught him the value of money and how to manage it frugally. He would need such wisdom if he were to become Master of Buckland someday.
He tucked away the entire contents of the box in a leather pouch and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his coat. He checked his pack to make sure he'd forgotten nothing of importance. He had extra clothing, some food items he had managed to liberate from the pantry, his cloak and bedroll. He was ready to go.
There was still the problem of lending credibility to his statement that he had permission to make the journey. Bilbo was no fool, Merry knew. He could pry the truth out of Frodo without even exerting himself, but then again, Frodo was no good at lying. Merry smirked to himself. He had to think of something that would make Bilbo believe him.
He thought about writing a brief message for Bilbo in his best imitation of his father's hand, but abandoned the idea. He wasn't very good at faking his father's handwriting, and Bilbo knew Saradoc's strong, slanted script almost as well as his own. What other evidence of approval could he come up with?
That was it! His father's walking stick! He would catch it mightily for taking it, he was certain, but it was perfect. The finely carved staff with its brass - tipped ends was always with Saradoc whenever he went forth for anything longer than a brief stroll. What father would have his son embark on a journey of several days without a proper walking stick?
Bilbo was to leave in the morning at first light, and Merry planned to be a step ahead of him. He would be waiting at the ferry when his uncle arrived and they would cross the Brandywine together. It would be a fine adventure!
Merry sobered as he thought about the reason for the excursion. Those Big Folk had better not have hurt Frodo, he thought darkly. He would hate to be them when Bilbo showed up to face them. Bilbo had stolen treasure from dragons and slain Mirkwood spiders! He wasn't going to back down to any stupid ruffians, especially if they were holding Frodo captive.
He lay down to sleep, but found himself wide awake and filled with anticipation. Sleep was slow in coming and fragile as a moth's wing. Merry dozed, not daring to fall into a deep slumber, lest he miss his opportunity to join Bilbo at the ferry.
~*~Bree~*~
Dolan and Fergus reined the horses to a stop before the large wooden gate, and dismounted. They stepped forward and Fergus thumped on the wood with his fist until a grizzled face appeared and glared at him through a square opening at roughly eye level.
"State yer business," the gatekeeper ground out at him.
"We must get to the Inn of the Prancing Pony," Dolan replied. He noted the gatekeeper's gaze as it lingered upon the still form of Frodo, still wrapped in his cloak. "My son is ill and I must get him inside and out of this foul night air," he dissembled, his confident voice quelling any suspicions on the part of the man behind the gate.
Indeed, with his small form wrapped in the cloak and his feet concealed, Frodo looked much like a lad of nine or ten years. The gatekeeper was looking at Dolan with a hint of compassion now, as he opened the gate to admit the travelers.
Once safely clear of the gate, Dolan and Fergus made for the inn. The streets were rather empty, as the hour was growing late and the last remnants of the storm were still lingering damply. The sign bearing the words "Inn of the Prancing Pony" swung fitfully in the wind, and a glow of lamplight spilled out of the windows into the street as the men made for the stables with their horses.
Fergus paid for the stable space, telling the stableboy there would be no need for him to carry their gear up to their room, as they would see to it themselves. They didn't need anyone sniffing around their quarters and reporting the presence of a captive halfling.
The door to the inn creaked open and they stepped inside, into the warmth, light and noise of the common room. The innkeeper, Barliman Butterbur, greeted them with solicitous cheer.
"Good evenin', Masters. How might I be of service to ye?" He eyed them curiously, his gaze traveling from their muddied boots to their weary faces, then came to rest on the unconscious hobbit Dolan held cradled in his arms.
"We need a room, please. It's just the two of us and the boy." Dolan continued his ploy of passing Frodo off as a human child. "We ask that we not be disturbed, as the lad has been ill and needs rest," he said quietly.
"Of course, of course," Butterbur shuffled about busily behind the desk and produced a key. "Upper floor, at the end of the hall. It's a little quieter there." He peered at Frodo again. "Poor lad, I hope he's feeling better soon," he said, shaking his head.
"He should be quite all right with a little rest," Dolan replied, as Fergus hefted their packs, one over each arm. They climbed the stairs and found the room at the end of a short, narrow corridor.
Their quarters were sparsely furnished with a wooden table and two chairs, and two beds. Dolan busied himself lighting a fire on the hearth as Fergus bound Frodo to one of the chairs. The chair was sized for a man rather than a hobbit, and Frodo's legs stuck out stiffly over the edge rather than bending at the knees. "Gag him while you're at it, Fergus," Dolan instructed. "We don't need him letting everyone in the place know he's here when that stuff wears off."
Fergus tied the cloth over Frodo's mouth, and stood looking at the sleeping captive. It was a shame to sell him off. He was a sweet - looking little imp though, and Fergus didn't doubt they could get someone to pay handsomely for him. They would start asking around in the morning, and by evening they expected to be a good deal wealthier than they were at the moment.
~*~Bucklebury Ferry, Buckland, pre - dawn~*~
Merry shifted anxiously from one foot to the other as he waited in the near darkness just before daybreak. He had slipped out of the Hall unnoticed, after leaving his note in his father's study and liberating the walking stick. He leaned on it impatiently now, wondering how long it would be before Bilbo came up the path.
As it was, he didn't have long to wait. Bilbo rounded a curve in the path and stopped short when he beheld Merry, walking stick in one hand and pack in the other, standing ready to board the ferry.
"Meriadoc, just where do you think you're going?" Bilbo said suspiciously.
"I'm going to Bree with you, Uncle Bilbo," Merry answered in his most serious tone. "I'm not going to just sit here while Frodo is in danger."
Bilbo sighed. "Merry, I am sorry, but you cannot come with me. This could be a dangerous trip, and your father will use my old hide for book bindings if I allow it." He regarded the young hobbit with compassion as he spoke.
Merry was expecting the refusal, but held his ground with unrelenting Brandybuck stubbornness. "But Uncle, I have my father's permission," he said, suddenly glad of the darkness that hid the furious blush he felt flushing his cheeks. Perhaps he was no better at fabricating than Frodo after all. He held out the carved staff. "He even let me borrow his walking stick, and I've food, water, and money of my own for the journey."
Bilbo looked at Merry sharply, trying to assess the situation from every angle. The boy was fibbing, more than likely. Bilbo supposed he could refuse and send Merry back to the Hall, thereby treating him like an errant child, or he could relent and face Saradoc's wrath.
There was also the fact that Saradoc would surely follow his son, which might not be a bad thing. It was about time he set aside other matters for the time being and dealt with this particular situation hands - on. If Saradoc were to see for himself what Bargo and Reginard's mischief had wrought, perhaps something would indeed be done about it. Besides, Bilbo realized, Merry, while young, was no longer truly a child. Give the boy a year or two to grow, and he would likely be taller than Bilbo.
"You realize that this is not a pleasure trip, do you not?" Bilbo tried to make his voice sound stern and commanding. He stared at Merry with a sharp eye, testing the lad's resolve. "If you are to join me on this journey, you must be willing to accept all of the danger and discomfort of such a venture. You must also be willing to stand safely aside if I demand it of you." He moved to stand next to Merry and looked they youth squarely in the eye. "Once we get to Bree, there may well be trouble, and I will not allow you to be a part of it, as valiant as you are."
"I'm ready, Uncle." Merry met Bilbo's gaze steadily. "I'm not turning back. If you won't let me go with you, I'll follow regardless." Merry knew he was being what his mother called 'impertinent', but he didn't care. His tone softened as he said, "I won't abandon Frodo when he needs me."
At the mention of Frodo, Bilbo broke eye contact with Merry and looked at the ground for a moment. Merry would make a fine Master of Buckland one day, with his determination and his loyalty to all whom he loved. Merry loved his cousin enough to face both the wrath of his stern father and the unknown dangers that lay ahead.
Bilbo's eyes locked once again with Merry's, and he straightened, thumping the end of his walking stick sharply against the ground. "Then you had better get on that ferry, lad, and quickly. We're wasting time."
Merry's face lit up with a brilliant grin, and hugged Bilbo gratefully. "Thank you, Uncle!"
Bilbo returned the embrace, thinking all the while of what Saradoc was going to do to him if anything happened to Merry. Nothing was going to happen, of course, because Bilbo was not about to let the lad get anywhere near any actual danger. Merry might be disappointed by such news, but he would have to brook it just the same.
The young hobbit turned and began to load his pack onto the ferry. As Bilbo handed his pack to Merry, he shook his head and muttered, "Bilbo Baggins, what have you done?"
~*~Bree, afternoon~*~
Aiden took another swallow of his ale and regarded the ledger with satisfaction. The pipeweed trade had been lucrative for him of late, and he was pleased with the figures on the page before him. That last load he had brought back with him had sold at a premium, as he had expected.
The corners of his mouth quirked upward in a smile, and he raised his tankard again for another drink. He was a successful merchant at the relatively young age of thirty, respected among the good citizens of Bree and welcomed in the lands of the Shire where he purchased his wares. The highest quality pipeweed in Middle Earth was grown by the Shire Folk, and Aiden was known to the plantation owners as a fair and decent fellow.
He often visited the Inn of the Prancing Pony after a day's work, enjoying a cold ale and a good meal, and watching the people come and go through the bustling common room. He scanned the room idly, taking note of the variety of characters present. Travelers of all sorts made their way to the inn and always had news to tell, songs to sing, and stories with which to entertain any who would listen. He leaned back in a relaxed posture, letting his gaze rove around the room.
"Master Aiden, do you fancy another ale?" Butterbur asked him.
"That's a fine suggestion, Barliman," he answered good - naturedly. "The inn is busy today, it seems."
"We're near to full, 'tis true," the innkeeper said proudly. "They were comin' in at all hours last night, what with the storms and all." Butterbur continued to gossip as he took Aiden's empty tankard and replaced it with a fresh one. "Bad weather's good for business, as nobody wants to travel in the wet."
"Yes, I imagine that's so," the young merchant agreed, a twinkle appearing in his hazel eyes. "Far better to be enjoying your hospitality than to be catching one's death of exposure," he said, raising his tankard in salute to the innkeeper.
"Aye, and speakin' of such, a couple of gents came in last night with a little lad who was ailing. Poor thing was fast asleep. They must have been caught out in the weather." The innkeeper shook his head as he wiped the table with a damp cloth. "Haven't seen the poor little thing come out of their room as yet, and I hope he's not too bad off."
"They haven't asked you to summon a healer to see to the lad?" Aiden asked curiously.
"No, sir, not as yet," Butterbur said quietly. "They asked not to be disturbed as the lad needed his rest." The innkeeper glanced around the room and a look of recognition crossed his ruddy features. "Why there they are now, over yonder." He gestured toward a nearby table where three men were hunched over their tankards, deep in conversation.
"They've left the sickly lad alone?" Aiden frowned in consternation. There was no accounting for some people's actions, he mused. That poor child should have someone watching over him to make sure he was all right.
"Must have, young Master," Butterbur said rather sadly. "The one with the dark hair said the boy was his son."
Aiden regarded the men at the table thoughtfully. They didn't look much like the family type, in his opinion. Of course, one never could tell from just a glance what lay beneath the surface. They were probably traveling traders, he surmised. Their faces weren't familiar. Butterbur took his leave and continued his rounds, filling tankards and chatting amiably with the patrons.
The table where the men were seated was near enough that Aiden could discern bits of the conversation as the voices rose and fell. Wondering where they were from and what news they might have brought from elsewhere, he cocked his head to the side and listened.
"He's small yet, but he'll grow," Dolan was saying to the man who had joined him and Fergus at the table. "He's right fair for one of his kind, too."
"Shire Folk is he?" The man asked gruffly, taking a generous swig from his tankard.
Aiden frowned to himself. The mention of the little people piqued his curiosity and he listened more closely. The man with the reddish hair was speaking now.
"Oy, that 'e is," Fergus said. "I'd like ta keep 'im fer meself, but me and Dolan 'ere are a wee bit short, so we're lookin' to deal."
The third man seemed to consider, then asked, "How much you asking for him?"
Aiden's eyes narrowed and his fingers clenched tighter around the handle of his tankard as he realized what they were discussing. That was no child of Men Butterbur had seen in their company. It was a hobbit, a young one from the sound of things, and the fiends were trying to sell him!
"Sixty gold pieces," Dolan answered the man's inquiry.
"Sixty?" The man who had inquired regarding the price raised his voice indignantly. "You're a greedy bastard. I want to see him before I lay out that kind of coin."
"All right then, follow me," Dolan instructed, and the three rose from the table.
Aiden knew he had to act, and quickly. He tucked the ledger into his pack and stood, abandoning the remainder of his ale. He schooled his features to a bland expression as he approached the three men.
"Your pardon, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing." He loathed himself for it, but he allowed a sly expression to cross his handsome face as he spoke. "You say you have with you a halfling for sale?"
"Overhearing, or eavesdropping, my friend?" Dolan growled. "Maybe we do and maybe we don't. What's it to you?"
"I should be asking you that question," Aiden said cagily. "I may be prepared to offer you a fair sum for him, depending on his merits, of course." He leered suggestively.
"Follow us," Dolan said shortly, and Aiden fell into step with them as they made for the stairway.
It crushed him to play the role of such a noisome villain, but it seemed the wisest course to follow. If they suspected how he really felt, they would likely kill him outright for interfering with their plans. He followed them up the stairs and down the dimly - lit hallway until they came to a door at the end of the corridor.
Aiden held his breath as the four of them entered the room, only to find it hitching in his throat as he beheld the heart - wrenching sight before him. In the corner of the room, gagged and bound to a hard wooden chair was a young hobbit! The lad was semi - conscious, obviously drugged. He was terribly pale, and his eyes fluttered open weakly, bleary and unfocused.
Aiden was horrified by the cruel treatment of the youngster by these ruffians. The Shire Folk he had dealings with were all kind, jovial and honest individuals, with an undeniable charm and appealing innocence. It tore at him to see this young one so clearly in harm's way, and he fought the impulse to throttle the ones who had done such a terrible thing.
The prospective buyer was speaking and Aiden struggled to keep his ale from coming up as he listened. "Hmmm. Skinny, isn't he?" As the poor little creature drifted in and out of consciousness, the scruffy - looking man reached down and brushed his grimy fingers across one pale cheek. "Fifty gold pieces, no more," he offered bluntly.
The other two men seemed to be considering. Aiden feared they might accept the rough man's offer. He must make an offer himself, then, and it must be more than the other man was willing or able to pay. Aiden cleared his throat and spoke, hoping his voice would not tremble and betray him. "A poor offer for one so fair. I shall pay you eighty."
The first bidder turned on the young merchant, hissing foul breath in his face. "You're a snake and a fool!" The man turned back to the sellers and spat, "I made you a good offer. If this pretentious twit wants to squander his earnings, that's his business, but I'm out." He shot Aiden a poisonous look. "Looks like he's all yours, fancy boy. Enjoy him." With that, the man spun on his heel and left the room. Aiden watched him go, thankful that there was one fewer to deal with.
Aiden turned back to the other two. "Do you agree to my offer?" He asked, trying to sound stern. Oh, but this was hard! These men were the worst kind of filthy vermin, and he was playing at being one of them, but only for the sake of the little one.
Fergus and Dolan looked at each other and nodded. "We do. Pay us, and you may take him." Dolan held out a hand expectantly.
Aiden reached for a pouch hidden in the folds of his cloak. He had planned to stash the coins away toward the purchase of more pipeweed to sell to the shopkeepers he supplied. It looked as if his supply would run a bit short for a while. The shopkeepers would just have to wait and make do.
He counted out eighty gold coins into Dolan's waiting hands, controlling his revulsion and rage with difficulty. What had that poor lad endured? Whatever it was, there would be no more of it, he vowed silently.
"He's yours, my good man. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." Dolan motioned to Fergus, who stepped behind the chair and severed the little hobbit's bonds. Eyes closed, the hobbit groaned into the gag and slumped over. He would have fallen to the floor, had Aiden not caught him.
The young hobbit opened his startlingly blue eyes and stared up at Aiden fearfully. He was coming around slowly, but was still plainly disoriented. Aiden removed the gag and lifted the small form in his arms, draping his cloak around him to hide him from view.
Without another word, the young man carried the hobbit down the stairs and toward the door, risking a glance behind him to see if he had been followed by either of the men. When they did not appear, he strode up to Butterbur who was regarding him with a curious expression.
"If any Shire Folk should come to look for one of their own, send them immediately to me," Aiden said, his eyes blazing. Butterbur nodded and started to speak, but Aiden had already walked out the door.
The drugged hobbit squirmed in his arms and mumbled something incoherent. Aiden made a soft shushing sound. "Sshhh, you're safe now, little one. You must trust me, for I'll not harm you." Wide, tear - filled eyes looked back at him, but with a little less terror than before.
The young man hurried down one of the less - traveled back streets toward his home, keeping his burden hidden beneath his cloak. He had to get the youngster to safety and find out what, if any harm had been done to him.
~*~To Be Continued~*~