Chapter 8: Lost and Found
Bag End - 1389 SR
Frodo spent his first morning at Bag End quite happily, occupied with setting his new room to rights. To the handsome bedstead, wardrobe and armchair he'd brought with him from Brandy Hall (all of which had once belonged to his mother before her marriage) Bilbo had added a night-table and a small desk of cunning design, with numerous drawers of various sizes, perfect for holding both a scholar's supplies (for Bilbo intended his new ward to continue his studies--indeed, Frodo was set to begin learning Elvish on the morrow) and a young Hobbit's treasures. Frodo amused himself for some time with glancing into these drawers, and he was pleased to find many of the larger ones well supplied with paper and parchment, while the smaller held quills, inks of various useful colors, a little pen knife and an assortment of blotters, penwipers and sealing wax.
On either side of the desk shelves were set into the walls, already half-filled with a number of interesting-looking volumes. To these, Frodo added his own favorite books, aligning each neatly and according to his own system until he small shelves were quite satisfactorily stuffed. Frodo put his clothes away in the wardrobe, various other small items in the drawers, desktop and night table and then stood looking about the chamber with pleasure.
It was a lovely room, one of the finest in Bag End, as it possessed a large round window that overlooked the garden, and a thickly cushioned windowseat perfectly suited for reading or dreaming in.
Frodo knelt on the cushions with his elbows on the sill. Outside, a stout Hobbit in a sturdy smock and canvas trousers raked up a blaze of fallen leaves, while a small lad, similarly clothed, bustled about collecting the piles into a little barrow. Frodo recognized the older Hobbit as Hamfast Gamgee, Bilbo's gardener, a kindly, plain-spoken Hobbit utterly devoted to his master. The young lad, he decided must be one of Gamgee's several children.
"Mark my words, Frodo my boy," Bilbo said suddenly from behind him, causing Frodo to startle. "That little lad will grow to be the finest gardener the Shire has ever seen, for I've never met a young Hobbit with such a feeling for green and growing things."
"He seems a sturdy, helpful lad," Frodo answered, trying to keep his own voice steady. In truth, even though the young Hobbit was a bit older than Merry, something in his childish energy reminded Frodo of his cousin, and he couldn't help but worry.
"Well then, Frodo," Bilbo asked, "do you approve of your new home, or no?"
"Very much indeed...er...Uncle Bilbo. It's a lovely room. And I think anyone would find it hard to name a finer hole in all the Shire than Bag End."
"Even after the magnificence of Brandy Hall?" Bilbo asked, laughing.
"Even so," Frodo answered with a smile. "Certainly, it's far quieter." In truth, he was beginning to find the silence somewhat unnerving--he couldn't quite escape the feeling that Merry ought to have been there, bouncing on his bed, poking into the corners, sliding up and down from the windowseat, all the while exclaiming over everything he saw with limitless enthusiasm.
"It's difficult, don't you think," Bilbo said, "To accustom oneself to quiet, when one has grown up in the midst of hubbub and to-do? For myself, I enjoy the silence, perhaps more than I should. It will be good for me to have a young voice about the place--and you must remember Frodo, Bag End is your home as much as mine. Your friends and pursuits are welcome here always."
Frodo felt tears prickle in his eyes. "You have been so very kind to me, Uncle Bilbo. So very kind."
"Ah, well--" Bilbo patted his young cousin's shoulder absently. "You're a good lad, Frodo. The best young Hobbit in the Shire, to my mind. And I believe you will be happy here." As he spoke, Bilbo fingered some small thing in his waistcoat pocket, turning it over and over with his fingers. "Those Brandybucks don't know what they've lost. Don't know what they've lost at all."
Frodo thought of Saradoc's set face and wet eyes as the older Hobbit embraced him and bade him farewell. He remembered dear Esme, so worried about her little one, but still weeping for him, holding Frodo tightly to her heart.
"I would have kept you for my own, dear lad," she'd murmured, her cheek pressed to his, her tears warm on his skin. "I'd have been proud to be your mum."
Frodo held her quite tightly in return, and felt as if his heart might well tear in two, for while he looked forward to his life with Bilbo, he ached for this family of cousins who'd cared for him and loved him so well, when he'd thought he should never feel love again. Merely remembering made his eyes well with tears and he wished desperately that he had Merry here to hold, the warm, solid little body encircled in his arms, his face pressed into his small cousin's springy, fragrant curls.
Frodo wiped his eyes with a shaking hand, hoping that Bilbo would not see.
"Now, lad. Now, lad," the old Hobbit said quietly. "I know it is great change for you, and a strangeness, but it will not seem so very strange by-and-by. And just as soon as you are nicely settled and your little cousin well again, we will have him to stay. Does that plan agree with you, lad?"
"Very much, Uncle," Frodo replied. "You are too kind to me."
Bilbo waved that away. "Not at all, dear boy, not at all! Now, let us just see to luncheon, then have a grand stroll round the neighborhood." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "Yes, that will be capital. Capital! And I've some very fine mushrooms. What do you say to mushroom and partridge pie for supper tonight?"
Frodo answered that it sounded very nice indeed. At Brandy Hall, one never got quite as many mushrooms as one wanted.
Frodo's next five days passed in much the same manner: excellent meals which he himself was learning to help prepare, quite interesting lessons in Elvish (both Sindarin and Quenya), runes, the histories of Elves and Men, and the naming of the stars. Frodo enjoyed his Uncle Bilbo's company immensely, and if he sometimes felt a little low, thinking of the family he'd parted from, the many diversions of Bag End, Hobbiton and the surrounding countryside soon chased the clouds away.
An the sixth day, just as he and Bilbo finished elevenses, the Post brought to him a letter from Brandy Hall. Frodo took the plump missive from the carrier, recognizing Cousin Esme's pretty, curly writing on the direction. Still standing on the doorstep, he broke the seal with trembling hands.
"My Dearest Frodo," Esme wrote.
I hope that you continue well and happy at Bag End, as Cousin Bilbo writes you do. Have you everything you require there, dearest? You know you need only scribble me a line if there's anything at all you desire and we can supply. I've begun to knit you a new muffler and gloves for this winter, as I recall your old ones will simply not do. I thought blue to match your eyes, love, and there's a new pattern I'm anxious to try, so you must tell me what you think. How I miss your steady hands to help me wind up my yarns!
Ah, my dear cousin, I must confess I miss *all* of you most awfully. I constantly expect to see you coming round the corners, or your sweet face smiling suddenly up at me. Sari is quite despondent as well, though you know it embarrasses him to reveal too much of what's inside. Even Rory asked after you the other day.
I expect you have been waiting patiently through my ramblings for news of our Merry. Most of the younger ones here at Brandy Hall have been ill, though none so seriously as my little lad. Rest assured, however, that Merry is much improved. He was able to manage a short visit with his grandfather today, and also come to supper with the family, though he is still rather weak and quieter than his usual self, with not much of his normal appetite. I am certain, however, that with a little time, he will soon be back to himself and become the terror of Brandy Hall once more.
I look forward to hearing from you very soon, my heart. All our best to dear Bilbo.
Your loving cousin,
Esme Brandybuck
Frodo sat himself down on the doorstep, the letter clutched tightly in his hands. Fiercely, he blinked tears back from his eyes, knowing Esme would not wish him to weep.
After a time, Bilbo came to look for him, and finding Frodo still hunched on he threshold, drew him to his feet and so inside once more.
"You know, my lad," Bilbo said, after sitting Frodo down by the kitchen table and pouring him out a cup of tea, warm and sweet with milk and honey. "There's no shame in being homesick. I can only tell you that, in time, it will not hurt so terribly."
Silently, Frodo passed his guardian the letter. He wrapped both hands round his mug, allowing himself to feel nothing but the warmth, breathing in the honey-scented steam.
"She loves you very much, your cousin," Bilbo commented.
Frodo said nothing.
"It's fine news, that the little one seems to be well on the road to recovery."
*Merry,* Frodo thought. *Merry.* How easily he could picture his young cousin's desolate small face, as it always looked when Merry was trying his hardest to be brave: the strong jaw thrust out, and Merry's lower lip also, just a little, his snub nose wrinkled with concentration, but most of all his eyes, like the sky just after it's washed fresh by rain, Merry's thoughts and feelings clearly to be read in those grey-blue mirrors.
"The best thing, my boy," Bilbo told him, "Is to keep your mind otherwise occupied. We talked yesterday of you learning Elvish script. Are you ready to have a go at that today?"
Frodo nodded gratefully. Yes, that would be just the thing, a difficult task, a challenge to his hand and mind.
He worked very hard under Bilbo's tutelage, and at the end had a few lines of quite fair script, of which he was justly proud--and very inky fingers.
"Ah, me, that's enough for one day!" Bilbo announced, stretching until his back popped. "What do you say to a stroll down to Bywater, since it's such a fine night, and a visit to *The Green Dragon*?"
Frodo was instantly interested. He'd never been allowed ale before, or a visit to the public room of an inn, and he rather suspected that Bilbo's standards, when it came to such matters, might be of a looser sort than Cousin Saradoc's.
"I'd like that, Uncle Bilbo," he replied.
"Very well, then, wash your hands and put on your coat, and I'll see you by-and-by."
It was a fine night for a stroll, the air crisp but not yet frigid, full of the scents of woodsmoke, fresh-pressed cider and the spiciness of fallen leaves. Bilbo kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked--he'd embarked on a long anecdote regarding his parents, Bungo and Belladonna Baggins (born Took) whose portraits hung above the parlor mantlepiece. This reminiscence led him to discuss geneology in general and the offspring of the Old Took, of whom Bilbo's mum was the ninth of twelve, in particular, and from there to the myriad connections between the Baggins family and the Took and Brandybuck clans throughout the years. All in all, it was quite enough to make Frodo's head spin before he'd enjoyed so much as his first sip of ale.
When they reached Bywater they found the Green Dragon ablaze with welcoming light, and inside its sturdy round door the air was fragrant with pipeweed, with the sharp sweetness of strong cider and the rich yeastiness of ale. A great many Hobbits (both gentlefolk in embroidered waistcoats and skirted coats, and those dressed in the plainer, sturdier clothing of Hobbits who worked with their hands) called out greetings to Bilbo. Many inquiries were made as well regarding Frodo's identity, who his parents were, and whether the Bucklanders were truly as peculiar as was generally said--the general consensus being that any Hobbits who swam and messed about in boats could not be called right in the head.
Frodo did not like to think of boats, and though he'd learned to swim as a little lad, he had not come willingly into the water for many years. A time or two, on very hot days, he'd given in to Merry's entreaties and tried (fearless Merry loved to swim, would in fact spend every waking moment he was allowed either in or on the water and, as he was not allowed to do either without a responsible elder present, he found Frodo's distrust of the river and pont a sore trial to bear indeed). The moment the water rose higher than his waist, though, the most horrible sensation of choking would over come him. Once he'd even gone so far as to swoon, so great was his fear, and had come back to himself, half on the riverbank and half out, Merry's cold little fingers stroking his brow as his cousin assured Frodo he mustn't be afraid, his Merry was there.
Frodo smiled at the things the Bywater Hobbits said, assured them that Bucklanders were not quite so strange as all that, and sat down at one of the smaller tables across from Bilbo, looking round himself with interest and delight.
The pretty pot-girl brought Bilbo a half-pint and Frodo a smaller cup, which Bilbo said was called a gilly. He sipped experimentally, not precisely sure what to expect--from the yeast smell, something like bread, he supposed. And there was in the drink something of that, along with an almost nut-like flavor, and with it a sourness too, and a smoothness, and bubbles that danced wonderfully on the tongue. His first large swallow slipped down his throat delightfully, its coolness transmuting to warmth in his stomach.
"It's very good!" he exclaimed, rather surprised really, for ale was nothing at all like anything he'd drunk in the past. Before long, a mild pleasant hum set up in his head, leaving him relaxed and quite happy, a feeling that lingered after they'd said goodnight to the company and begun the journey homeward.
Bilbo sang cheerfully as they walked:
*On the fourteenth of Rethe, at the dawn of the day
With my bow on my shoulder to the woods I did stray
In search of some game, should the weather prove fair,
To see could I get a shot at the bonny...*
Bilbo stopped himself, giggling and shaking his head (he'd enjoyed quite a bit more of the Dragon's good brew than Frodo, but still seemed, except for the merriment, very little worse for wear). "No, not quite the thing for young ears. Not quite the thing a'tall. You sing me a song, Frodo. You've a fair voice."
Frodo thought a bit, and blushed a bit more, for though he liked to sing, his audience had been, for the most part only Merry, and the songs Merry liked, about the little white duck swimming on the water, or the five little speckled frogs, or the gift of pretty ponies for young Hobbits who went to sleep nicely didn't seem to fit the moment.
He remembered a very sad song he'd heard Esme sing once, and somehow its sweet melancholy suited his mood:
"*There's an herb grows in your garden*," he sang.
*And some do call it rue.
When swallows dive and fishes fly
Then young lads will prove true...*
When Frodo glanced over to see how Bilbo liked his, he saw tears standing int he old Hobbit's eyes.
"Bilbo?" he asked softly. "What is it? I didn't mean..."
"I loved your Auntie Amaranth," Bilbo told him, gazing up that the bright stars above. "What a sweet lass she was, with a light step and laughter in her eyes. But I was not true to her, and I los her, bringing sorrow upon us both. I wonder now what my life would have been, had I been as faithful to her as she was to me?"
Frodo thought of Auntie Amaranth, his mother's unmarried elder sister, she of the faded eyes and heavily lined face, who had been his first schoolmistress at the Hall. Her looks when one shirked one's lessons or blotted one's papers could have frozen the Brandywine on Litheday.
"Oh, but it's a funny old world," Bilbo laughed suddenly, "and I am too old to waste many minutes in melancholy or regret. You have fine and fair voice, my lad, and I thank you for singing to me."
They started up The Hill, but when they passed by Bagshot Row young Samwise, who'd obviously been set to watch for their return, pelted out from the front door of Number 3.
"Mr. Bilbo! Mr. Bilbo, sir!" he cried. "There's a messenger come for you from Brandy Hall! We've given him a bite and a sup, but he says he must see you at once."
Frodo went cold inside, and the ale he'd drunk seemed to rise up and push at the back of his throat, to be forced down again only with difficulty. *Merry,* he thought. *Oh, my Merry.*
Bilbo considered this briefly. "Thank you, Samwise. Give us a moment to reach our front door, then bring him up, if you will."
The lad nodded, obviously proud to be entrusted with such a charge. Nodding again, he sped back inside.
Numbly, Frodo followed Bilbo to Bag End, hardly daring to allow himself to think or feel. Soon the messenger arrived, a young Hobbit in his late tweens whom Frodo knew slightly--he was one of the Brandy Hall grooms, and had a fine touch with the ponies. Obviously, he'd ridden hard to reach Hobbiton, for mud splotched his clothing and his face bore deep lines of weariness.
"Sit down, my lad, sit down," Bilbo urged, "Give us your news."
The lad looked uncomfortable accepting a seat in a Gentlehobbit's parlor, but at length he did sit, most likely too weary to do otherwise.
"Is it..." Frodo found he could scarcely speak. "Is it Master Merry, Rob?" For that, he recalled, was the young groom's name.
Rob nodded, reaching inside the breast of his fustian jacket for a letter that bore the Master of Buckland's ornate seal. Bilbo accepted the missive, but went so slowly in his breaking of the seal and unfolding of the page that it was all Frodo could do not to tear the epistle from the old Hobbit's hands, devouring the words with his own eyes. He found himself swaying, but it wasn't until a small hand caught hold of his and drew him to a chair that Frodo realized he'd come close to fainting in his fright. The little hand continued to pat Frodo's as it lay upon the arm of his chair, and grey eyes with only the faintest touch of blue peered into his face with great concern.
Bilbo read the letter once, and then again with concentration before exclaiming, "Oh, the foolish lad!"
*Not dead, then,* Frodo thought, *My Merry's not dead. Of course he is not,* he tried to reassure himself, *That's not what Gandalf told you would be--that you would have him for but seven short years, then nevermore.*
Bilbo's face remained grave, however. "Merry's run off, Frodo," he said, with no trace of his customary heartiness. "They can only believe he meant to come here, but a coracle was found on the near bank of the Brandywine, quite a long way down from the Hall, and you know how swift the river is now, with the Autumn rains."
Frodo struggled some moments before he found his voice again.
"My Merry's not drowned," he said. "He's not. Gandalf said he would be my friend when both he and I were grown. Gandalf said."
"I know, Frodo-lad," Bilbo answered gently. "But not even wizards are given the power to see all futures. And..." Bilbo folded the letter carefully. "Even were young Merry to have crossed the river, the Hall healers are deeply concerned. The illness Merry suffered was no light ailment, it was a fever of the brain, and would have required many days of quiet rest, good food and tender care to see him altogether right again. So far as they can tell, Merry took with him very little to eat and few warm clothes to wear. He would be quiet weak, they say, and the fever will likely make him muddled in his thoughts. He must be found as soon as ever may be."
The room spun around Frodo then, as his heart cried out with utter despair. "We must do something! What can we do?"
"All of Buckland has risen to the search," Bilbo told him, "and the Marish as well, even down so far as Stock and Rushy. Rory writes that, in addition, they have roused the Tooks. Should poor Merry make his way so far as the Green Hill Country, he will undoubtedly be found there."
"But *we* must do something!" Frodo cried, beginning to tear off his fine town coat and waistcoat. "*I* must look for him, Uncle! Merry might hide from a stranger, but he will come out to me. Oh, Bilbo, what have I done?"
"Frodo, lad." Bilbo drew up a chair across from his, taking Frodo's hands firmly in his own. "You cannot take this on yourself. If anyone must be blamed, let it be older and more foolish heads, who belittled the great love between you two lads. When Merry is found..." Bilbo paused, and Frodo blessed him that he did not say "if." "When Merry is found, we shall have him to stay here, and Esme too, if she will, until he is ready to return willingly to his home."
Bilbo rose, setting a hand once more on Frodo's shoulder. "Tonight, dear lad, you must take your rest, and tomorrow we will join in the search." This being said, he took up a candle, lighting Frodo's way to bed.
Once Bilbo had left, to walk young Samwise home and make arrangements for a bed at the Gamgees' for young Rob the groom, Frodo crawled shivering into his bed, cold despite the crackling fire and warm quilt that covered him. After what seemed hours he at last feel into uneasy slumbers, his dreams filled with rushing water, treacherous bogs, deep gullies and wild beats, each and every one of them a dire threat to his little cousin.
Frodo woke at last with the first pink signs of dawn and dressed himself quickly in his warmest, sturdiest clothes. Listening hard for any sound of Bilbo stirring, he went then to the kitchen to poke up the fire and put the kettle on. When his guardian still did not appear, he began to pack up meals for the two of them to eat on their travels--though Frodo thought he had never in his life felt less like eating.
Day after day they sought for Merry, in the hills and thickets of the Green Hill Country and the fields around Bywater and Hobbiton. The Brandybucks reached the banks of the river, all the way down to the Overbourne Marshes, and from thence inland, but not a trace of the little Hobbit could be found. The general belief, spoken by none, was that either the Brandywine had swept Merry's body away, or else that the small lad had fallen prey to some fierce creature in the wild. Then the search began to be, Frodo suspected, less for a live, frightened Hobbit-child, and more for the random scraps of clothing or bits of bone that might give some clue as to Merry's fate.
On the evening of the fifth day, following Bilbo wearily home, Frodo at last admitted to himself that this must be: even his brave, resourceful Merry could not have lasted so long on his own, not without food or defense, with the nights beginning to grow chill as they were. By the time he reached Bag End, past nightfall, he could scarcely see for his weariness and tears, and when Hamfast the gardener met them in the kitchen with kind words and a kettle of Mistress Bell's nourishing stew, Frodo had not the heart to linger for either food or sympathy, but slouched down the corridor to fling himself, fully clothed, upon his bed, too spent even to weep anymore.
In the midst of this misery he heard only distantly young Samwise's piping tones. Something seemed to have greatly excited the lad, and then Bilbo's far deeper voice called out, "Frodo! Frodo-lad, came at once!"
*What can it be?* Frodo wondered. What was there in all the world now to cause such excitement--but then young Samwise burst into the room, uninvited, came at once to the bed and began to tug--quite forcefully for such a young Hobbit--at Frodo's hand, calling all the while, "Master Frodo, Master Frodo, you must get up, please! He's come here, to the garden!"
"Who has come here?" Frodo asked wearily, at last consenting to sit.
"The little one!" Samwise exclaimed. "Your cousin. I found him, all curled up on the bench betwixt the asters and the marigolds, like a wee hedge-pig under his cloak. I *found* him!" Sam repeated with bashful pride.
Frodo burst from the room, nearly bowling Samwise over in his haste, racing into the garden where Bilbo knelt beside the bench in its ring of sunset-colored flowers, where a bundle of mud and bloody rags lay terribly still.
Frodo threw himself to his own knees, and though he scarcely dared to hope that life remained in such a sadly injured little creature, reached out to brush the tangled curls from Merry's eyes. "Oh, Merry, Merry!" he cried, torn between grief and joy. "What have you *done,* you bad little Hobbit?"
Merry whimpered softly, the most pitiable sound Frodo had ever heard, and then he could not stop himself from snatching Merry up in his arms, holding him close with no thought to the lad's injuries. Merry in turn--for of course it was Merry, how could he have ever doubted that his own most beloved small cousin would not make his way home to him, not dead after all but alive in his arms--snuggled in closer, rubbing his snub of a nose on Frodo's waistcoat, just as he always did.
A moment later Merry pushed away, his small face turned upward to Frodo's, blue eyes intent, as if learning Frodo's features by heart. Frodo knew he was weeping but made no attempt to hide the tears, which made Merry's chin begin to tremble and his own bitter tears to flow.
Merry tried to speak, in a tiny rasp of a voice utterly unlike his usual clear tones. It took Frodo some time to make out the words.
"Please love me, Frodo," he pleaded. "Please love me still. It's been so hard to reach you."
The Shire was a soft land, a gentle land, but not for a tiny lad, weak, defenseless and ill. Frodo held his small cousin tighter, too tightly he knew. He must surely be hurting Merry--but the question his cousin asked struck straight through his heart.
"Love you, Merry?" he replied. "How can you say that?"
What was it Cousin Esme always told her son? "You are my moonrise and my sunrise, you are all of that and more." He could not bear that Merry, even for an instant, should doubt his love.
Frodo loosened his hold, cradling Merry gently as the little lad's head drooped backward and his eyes closed.
Bilbo quickly took Merry from Frodo's arms. "Run ever so fast as you can, lad, to the healer's house--remember where I showed you? Tell Mr. Allrest he must come to Bag End at once, that the Master's heir has been found and lies in great need of his skill. Quickly, lad, go!"
Frodo skidded down The Hill, all weariness forgotten, racing to the other end of Hobbiton, where Healer Allrest had his comfortable hole. Gasping, he pounded on the yellow door until his fists ached and the healer's voice was heard from indoors. "One moment, one moment, don't beat down my door!"
A moment later Mr. Allrest stood looking down on Frodo from the circle of light beyond the threshold.
"What is it, lad?" The healer's voice changed instantly from annoyance to concern. He reached to touch the front of Frodo's shirt where, he realized, there was blood. Little Merry's blood.
Frodo found himself able to speak quite calmly; Merry needed him, after all. "It's my cousin, sir. The Master of Buckland's heir. He's been found."
"Found, is he? But in what condition?" The healer frowned, but his look was one of concern, not anger. He was a youngish Hobbit with gingery hair and a long nose, tall and thin for their kind. "Step inside, lad," he added. "Whilst I fetch my valise."
Frodo obeyed. Over by the fire, the healer's plump young wife and plump new baby regarded him with somber eyes.
"Ah, here we are!" Mr. Allrest reappeared from a back room with a capacious brown-leather case in hand. "Lead on then, lad, as quickly as you may," he called to Frodo.
Frodo's heart pounded wildly all the way up The Hill. What if they came too late? What if Merry was beyond aid? He burst into Bag End to find Bilbo in the snug small room beside his own, tucking Merry into the freshly-dressed bed.
Healer Allrest went to work at once, snipping off Merry's ruined clothing with a pair of sharp shears. Merry did not awaken or resist, indeed Frodo had to watch quite carefully even to see the rise and fall of his cousin's chest as he drew breath. The healer clucked his tongue over the deep bloody gashes in Merry's left shoulder, and the way the ends of his little collarbone poked out through the skin--a sight that was nearly Frodo's undoing. All in all, the little lad was sadly pale and thin, scratched and bruised over much of his body, even down to his badly torn feet.
"Clear the lads from the room," Mr. Allrest commanded. "They can make themselves useful putting the copper and the kettle on to boil. This little fellow must be thoroughly cleaned, lest his wounds suppurate."
"Frodo, Sam," Bilbo said, in his usual cheerful voice.
Frodo wanted to protest, to say he must not leave his Merry at any cost, but knew this was not the time to argue. "Yes, Uncle," he answered, and shepherded Samwise (who seemed to feel a proprietary interest in this little Hobbit he'd found) before him out of the room
They'd soon poked up the fire and set the water to boil. While they were waiting, Frodo sat down in haste to pen a note to Cousin Esme.
"Dearest Cousin," he wrote.
I have good news for you! Merry is with us now, though he is in a sad state, I fear. Healer Allrest, whom Bilbo trusts greatly, is seeing to his hurts, and I am helping as best I can, for you know I love our little Merry as well as any brother.
I hope that this note may bring you, Cousin Saradoc and all at Brandy Hall better cheer.
Your loving cousin,
Frodo Baggins.
The note completed, he folded and sealed it, writing the direction in a clear hand.
"I would be glad to carry it to the Post House, Master Frodo," Samwise told him, "For I don't mind the dark in the least."
"Would you, Sam? That is very kind. You're a good lad."
Sam smiled at this praise and blushed a little. Taking the letter firmly into his hand, he shot off through the kitchen door like an arrow from the bow, leaving Frodo alone with only his worries and fears for company--along with a kettle that seemingly refused to boil.
"Aaaaaiiieeeee! No! No! No!" A truly heart-piercing cry, in what could only be Merry's voice, rose from the depths of Bag End, followed by a harsh, ragged sobbing.
Frodo could bear no more. Taking the kettle down with the pot-hook and wrapping its hot handle with a cloth, he padded back to Merry's room, setting his burden on a little table just inside the door.
"Frodo-lad!" Bilbo glanced at him sharply. "This is not a sight for you."
Frodo shook his head. "No, Uncle. It's being away from him I can't bear."
Poor Merry huddled in a corner of the bed, blue eyes wide with shock, pain and fear. "He hurted me, Frodo. He hurted me!"
Frodo crawled up on the bed beside him, taking Merry's uninjured arm and drawing his small cousin into his lap. Merry hardly seemed to know where he was or what was happening, only that he was confused and in pain. "Hush, dearest. Hush. Do you know who's here?"
"My Frodo." Merry's face pushed frantically at Frodo's chest, as if somehow he could shelter there and not hurt anymore.
"Yes, dearest, that's right--it's your Frodo, here with you. And Cousin Bilbo, too. The Hobbit you don't know is Healer Allrest, and all he wants is to make you well. Wouldn't you like that, Merry dear?"
"No hurt." His small hand twisted tightly into Frodo's shirt.
"Merry, listen to me," Frodo said. "Mr. Allrest has to fix your poor shoulder, or it can't grow strong again, and I'm afraid that may hurt you very much, but I shall be here with you and hold you every moment, and I promise you that it will all be over soon. Do you trust me, my Mer?"
Merry stared up at him, eyes slowly glazing over.
"Bad Hobbit," he said finally, in a low, despondent voice.
"Who's a bad Hobbit?" Frodo asked, heartbroken.
Merry didn't answer, only bit at his lower lip.
Mr. Allrest passed Frodo a small blue bottle. "See if you can't get him to drink this, lad. It will make your cousin sleepy and deaden the pain when I try again to set the bone."
Frodo held the small flask to Merry's lips. "Will you drink, Merry? It will do you good. Drink it for me?"
Merry's eyes flashed up at him again, and for a moment Frodo thought all Merry's Brandybuck stubbornness would surge to the fore. But instead Merry sipped halfheartedly. Half the liquid dribbled out of the little lad's mouth, but he swallowed heavily, making a face at the flavor. In time, he grew heavy and limp in Frodo's arms, his eyes half open, mouth slack.
Healer Allrest stooped again to set the broken collarbone, and thought Merry stiffened, he did not cry out or pull away.
When it all was over, Merry wept silently in his embrace, and the pit of Frodo's stomach felt quite sick, but he only murmured gently, "That's my good lad, Merry. That's my brave lad." He laid his cousin gently back on the pillows. "You said he needed to be washed, Mr. Allrest?" Frodo's voice trembled, but he would be brave. For his Merry, he would be brave.
Tenderly, he helped the Healer to clean and bandage the small battered body, holding Merry carefully whilst the healer stitched shut the tears in Merry's shoulder with boiled horsehair. Merry moved not at all through any of this, but lay with his eyes half shut, even when they bound his left arm tightly to his body. Frodo was able to rouse him enough to drink a few sips of a tea Mr. Allrest said would help with his fever, but after that he pushed away the cup and would take no more. Frodo looked a the healer with concern. Usually, Merry was a mischievous but cooperative lad. He'd get into scrapes through his natural curiosity or recklessness, and had been known to hide unwanted foods--such as the much-despised sprouts--in his napkin or, once, memorably, in his cousin's cup of milk, but he was also eager to please, especially those he was fond of.
"Try a little more, dearest," Frodo urged him. "Only a little. For your Frodo?"
Merry only shook his head, burying his face once more in the front of Frodo's waistcoat and falling into a fitful sleep.
At half-nine, Healer Allrest departed and Bilbo called Frodo to second breakfast. He devoured his toast, sausages and eggs ravenously, suddenly unable to remember when he'd eaten last. Not since tea the day before, he thought, though even that was a hazy memory. Hungry though he was, though, the thought of little Merry alone made him anxious.
Bilbo seemed to understand his need, for he didn't stop Frodo when he rose, unexcused, from the half-cleared plate of his third helping to rush down the corridor to his cousin's room.
All through the day and into the evening he held Merry gently in his arms, lying beside him on the bed, now and then stroking Merry's curls or the tips of his ears. All through the day, too, he tried to get Merry to take bits of nourishment, sips of broth or apple juice, even water, increasingly concerned about how little he could convince the young Hobbit to swallow. He felt, somehow, as if in his terrible journey Merry had come torn loose from his proper life and nothing Frodo could think of would attach him back into it again.
Some time in his vigil he feel asleep, and was not surprised, really, when he woke up alone in his own room, quite unable to force himself, at the moment, to go back to Merry again. Instead, he pulled the covers over his head and sobbed bitterly into his pillow. If his Merry did live, if he could not convince him to catch hold of life again, where would he himself be?
When morning came, Frodo lay a long time on his back, gazing up at the smooth, curved plaster of the ceiling. There, between the beams, was a crack that looked like the head of a duck, and his first thought was that he would have to point it out to Merry--but then he remembered the still, silent Merry in the room beside him and threw an arm across his eyes. He couldn't bear it. He could not.
Again, he wept, but this time his tears were sad and silent.
In time, however, Frodo became disgusted with himself. How would working himself into such a state help Merry, or anyone? Where was his own Brandybuck stubbornness? He rose, washed and dressed carefully and went in search of Bilbo.
Frodo found him in the kitchen, pouring out tea for Cousin Esme, who smiled at him through he shadows in her eyes. Wordlessly, Frodo flung his arms round his cousin's neck, squeezing her close as Esme's arms closed tightly around his waist in return. He felt, somehow, that he ought to tell her he was sorry, though he couldn't think precisely for what, or find the words to say.
After a moment, Esme pulled him down beside her, Frodo's head on her shoulder, her fingers stroking gently through his still-damp curls. "Bilbo has been telling me how brave you've been, Frodo," she told him kindly, her voice rough with tears.
Frodo didn't know what to say. "He's my Mer," he responded at last, a bit more gruffly than he intended.
"Yes," Esme answered, "Perhaps even more so than we'd thought." She released Frodo then to take the cup Bilbo offered her. "We've been trying to think what to do, Frodo, and you're old enough and wise enough, I believe, to share your thoughts with us."
"Don't send him away please, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said at last, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady. "Not with things as they are. I knew he's been naughty, and caused a great deal of trouble to everyone."
"Most of all to himself, poor lad," Bilbo said thoughtfully.
"And I know he's a dreadful bother for you, but I can look after him. I can." Frodo rubbed hard at his own eyes, determined that this time, at least, he would not weep. "I'm truly thankful for all you've given me, Uncle. I truly am, but how can I let my Merry have suffered all this for nothing?"
"Easy, lad," Bilbo responded, squeezing Frodo's shoulder comfortingly. "No one's thinking of sending your cousin away from you--unless that is what *you* wanted."
"What *I* wanted?" Frodo couldn't believe his ears. "When would I ever want my Merry sent away from me? Cousin Esme!"
"It was thought," Esme said thoughtfully, "That you might *like* some time away on your own, to make friends with lads your own age, to play the sorts of games grown lads play. You've always been lovely with our Merry, but I'm well aware of the sort of demands he makes on your time. What of your studies, and your own interests, Frodo?"
"But Merry is my friend, cousin. My dearest friend. And someday we will both be grown and our different ages will not matter so. How can I push him away now, when he needs me, and expect him to love me still in twenty years? Can't you see? Love isn't so easily found."
The two grown Hobbits sat looking at him quietly, until Bilbo said at last, in a soft voice quite unlike his usual one. "Frodo, lad, I think you underestimate your ability to make others love you."
Esme only squeezed his hand.