by Sally Gardens
Chapter Twelve: Dreams
...wandering...wandering...in mist-shrouded marshland...wandering...
...faces...faces...staring, accusing...
Hobbit faces.
Faces of the dead...their names forever graven upon stone...their silent accusations forever graven upon his heart...
...faces...silent, dark, empty...
...one face rising, surfacing, floating, staring, damning...
...hand rising, reaching, clawing, grasping, pulling him down, down, drown, drown, drown...
"Lotho."
The word ripped out of him, a harsh, wheezing gasp. Frodo clutched his pounding chest, panting, trembling. The night air was cold against his sweat-damp skin. He shivered.
With a sudden jerk he swiped his arm over his brow and slung his legs over the side of his bed. Pushing himself up, he yanked his robe from a hook on the wall and wrapped himself in it, tugging the sash securely closed. He turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door quietly, slipping into the hall.
Chamomile tea.
Frodo started toward the kitchen, then stopped. No, he decided. Something stronger. Grimacing, he turned about and headed in the other direction, toward the wine cellar.
What—?
Frodo halted. Listened.
Soft whimpering, plaintive cries, growing stronger: "Mummy...Mummy..."
His heart wrenched. In two steps he was at the nursery door, opening it gently and peering into the dim.
"Mummy..."
"Rose," Frodo softly called. "Rose-lass."
The whimpering continued, softly, into the child's pillow.
"Rose-lass," murmured Frodo, kneeling by her bed. "Hush. Hush. Uncle Frodo's here."
She lifted her head, then, giving him a brief, appraising look before crawling into his arms and nestling against his shoulder, thumb in her mouth.
"What is it, lass?" Frodo inquired, stroking the child's back. "What's got my little lass so sad?"
Breathing in raggedly, Rose-lass gulped, "Scary."
"Mmm." Frodo nodded. "What's scary?"
Rose sniffed. "Hedgehog."
Frodo stifled a chuckle. "Ahhh. Hedgehog," he repeated sagely.
"Scary hedgehog teeth bite and eat up Mummy and Daddy and baby Merry and—" The words disintegrated into a wail, and Rose began sobbing anew.
"Hush, love, hush. It was only a dream."
"Hedgehog—"
"All right. Hedgehog," conceded Frodo. "But it's gone, now. Scary hedgehog is gone. It can't hurt you now."
"Mummy?"
"Nor Mummy. Nor Daddy. Nor Baby Merry. Nor anyone." Swaying gently, Frodo patted the child's back in soft rhythm to his words. "Mummy's all right. Daddy's all right. Baby Merry's all right. We're all of us all right. Safe at home. Safe at home. Safe at home." Rose grew still in his arms. Frodo continued to sway, back and forth, back and forth, humming a bit of a long-forgotten lullaby.
"Rock."
Smiling to himself, Frodo pushed up to his feet and made his way to the rocking chair. He sat, rocking gently, back and forth, humming the sweet lullaby, pat, pat. He could feel the child's weight settling against him, the movement of her hand back to her mouth. Pat, pat.
It was only a dream.
He remembered. What terrible dream had driven him from childish sleep was long forgotten, but he remembered the feeling of his father's arms wrapped snugly around him, the warmth of his father's breath upon his ear, the smooth round tenor of his father's song, the same lullaby. Oh, how old had he been? He couldn't have been more than four, perhaps only three, nearly as young as little Rose. It must have been his earliest memory; Frodo couldn't bring to mind an earlier.
He wondered if Rose would remember the hedgehog; if she would remember Uncle Frodo, rocking and singing.
He was suddenly very glad that she would have Uncle Frodo to remember.
Bad dreams or no.
What dreams had Mum and Dad dreamed? Good dreams, surely; hopeful dreams, loving dreams, dreams of promise and anticipation. Dreams of what their son might become. Dreams of watching him grow; dreams of growing old together.
It was only a dream.
Frodo sighed, letting his hand rest upon Rose's back. He'd dreamed, too, once. More than dreamed: He knew, had it all planned out, how his life should be. Not for him an early courtship. Not yet, he'd said to the winks and smiles and hints dropped like lace handkerchiefs in his path. Always it had been, Not yet.
Later, yes; he was sure of it. But not yet. Not until he'd had his fill of being his own master, coming and going without bond or care. Not until he'd done some traveling, had an adventure or two, journeyed afar, seen the world, perhaps even found Bilbo...
And then?
Then, someday, then, satisfied with wandering, he would come home at last, someday, to settle into a comfortable home to tell all of the grand tales he had to tell of his travels to a large circle of wide-eyed, adoring—
He blinked, fiercely, driving back sudden tears. No use pining for what might have been and now could never be. It couldn't be. Not now. Not ever. He was sure of it.
Besides, the tales he had to tell were only fit to inflict a lifetime of nightmares.
Softly, steadily, came the hush of Rose's breathing, peaceful in sleep.
"They can't hurt you, now," Frodo murmured, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on the child's curly head.