"Frodo lad!" Bilbo Baggins called. "Come to the kitchen please!" Bilbo frowned as he did not hear his younger cousin's footsteps falling on their way to the kitchen. Was that lad still moping over his parents' deaths? Bilbo sighed. It had been a few years already. What had those Brandybucks done? Forced Frodo to hide his grief? He should have come over more often and helped him, but he had been so busy with the dwarves and Gandalf coming in quite often that he did not know if it was possible for him to leave Bag End often enough to be of help, so he had not come. He regretted his decision now. "Frodo! I have something to show you!" Still, no sound. Bilbo sat down in the chair before the gift he was going to give to his cousin. He hoped it would help the lad come out of whatever sort of depression he had managed to get himself into. It was a gift from the dwarves that he had never had much time to play around with. The ebony wood with the silver on it shined beautifully in the lighting as the shadows danced on the wall.
Where was that lad? "Frodo!" Bilbo stood. Frodo was refusing – yet again – to come out of his room. Bilbo warranted the door was locked too by this point in time. He grabbed the key he had hidden in the secret compartment behind the portrait of his mother and father that hung above the fireplace. He would need it. Sighing to keep his voice from sounding edgy, Bilbo walked up to Frodo's door and knocked on it. "Frodo my lad?"
"Don't call me that," came the muffled reply.
"Frodo, open up, please," Bilbo said, his face showing his deep, genuine concern.
"Go away. I need to be alone."
"You've already spent too much time alone these past few years – that is quite evident. Open the door. I have something I've been meaning to give you, but I am beginning to think I should not now." Bilbo sighed and began to take the key out of his pocket, but much to his surprise he heard the door click, but it was closed still. He opened the door and found Frodo on the bed, lying with his face facing the wall. Bilbo approached the bed and sat on the edge of it near Frodo's face. "Frodo, look at me," he said softly.
Frodo turned his head for a moment. Bilbo's heart was saddened as he saw the redness of the lad's nose and cheeks and the wetness of his eyes. "Are you unhappy here?"
"No," mumbled Frodo.
"Then, why are you crying?"
"Because –" he began, but he cut himself off. He did not need to burden others with his problems, or so the people of Brandy Hall had taught him inadvertently through their avid pushing him aside when he tried to talk.
"Go on, lad. You can tell me anything, just like you would if I were your father."
"But you're not him," Frodo said, his voice wavering.
"Is that still bothering you? That both your parents are – are dead?"
Frodo looked back, a scowl on his face. Why did he have to remind him? "Yes," he answered coldly. "Why wouldn't it?" Discreetly, he wiped his eyes, but Bilbo's keen eyes did not miss this.
"I – oh, Frodo." Bilbo sighed. He had not ever had to put in words before what had made him realize that he needed to get over his own parents' deaths. The older hobbit had made Bilbo so mad when he had said the words to him. But, they needed to be said here. "Frodo, you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. That's what all this is, my lad. You're not grieving over them – their accident – any longer but over your emptiness from their absence. You're being selfish. You are making everything miserable for yourself and others around you, not them. We all care about you, Frodo; we want to help you. We want you to feel safe coming to us and talking about anything with us."
"Who's 'us'?" Frodo asked. Bilbo looked a bit taken aback. "You and what other person?"
"Frodo…" Bilbo groaned. "Frodo, dear cousin, please talk to me. Everyone cares. You are not alone in feeling grief. Your parents were wonderful people, and everyone loved them who knew them well – even the Sackville-Bagginses probably felt some type of grief."
"Bilbo, there is nothing to talk about. I'll be fine. It's just, it's been nine years today. Nine long years…" Frodo sat up and supported himself against the wall behind him.
"Has it been that long already?"
"Yes," Frodo's eyes seemed to see far away as they gazed out the window.
"Come along, my lad," Bilbo began before Frodo cut in with:
"Don't call me that." His teeth were gritted.
"Alright. Come along, Frodo, let's go to the kitchen."
"Yes, sir." Frodo dragged himself out of the bed and put on his house slippers. He had yet to get dressed and it was nearly afternoon tea. He lingered slowly behind. He did not want to leave his room except to go to Buckland and sit and think at the very bank of the river on which his parents had died as he usually did. What was so important to Bilbo anyhow?
Bilbo clapped his hands upon reaching the kitchen, causing Frodo to jump, and pulled out a wooden box with a lock on it. "This…Frodo m – is what I want to give you. The dwarves gave it to me upon their last visit when I took you in. They said I could do with it whatever I please, and I choose to give it to you. May it bring joy of some sort to your life." Bilbo smiled and handed the box to Frodo.
Upon receiving it, Frodo looked it over carefully. "What is it?" he asked at length.
"Open it, m –" Bilbo sighed. "Open it, Frodo."
Frodo struggled to open the lock, but it would not let him in. "Where is the key?"
"Oh-ho!" laughed Bilbo, and he pulled out the key. "Here it is."
Frodo accepted the key and began to turn it in the lock. Click! And it was opened. What appeared before his eyes was a wonder to Frodo son of Drogo. The grenada wood before him with silver-plated keys all over it. "What is it?" he repeated. He knew it was an instrument of some sort, and it began to revive a memory of his father, but he suppressed it quickly. Not now… he told himself with a wistful smile.
"A clarinet!" Bilbo said. "Drogo, your father, was quite fond of the instrument. He even played it at one time, but I'm afraid one of your relatives from Buckland has it or it was taken by the raid of the 'delightful trio.'" Bilbo's face was stern as he waited for Frodo to show any sign of emotion. He added nervously, "It makes the quaintest sound, but it can also be quite melancholy depending on the tune.
"Why don't you take the reed and wet it, my – Frodo? Here, I'll show you how to put it together. First, you take this out of its case and put it in your mouth. Leaving that there, you take this grease and put it around this part of the lower joint and take the bell. You connect the two pieces. Third, you take the grease again and put it on both ends of the upper joint, and – umph! – put it in the lower like that. Fourth, you take the barrel and put it on the other end of the upper joint. Fifthly, you put the cork grease on this part of the mouthpiece and join it in the barrel, lining the back of it up with this key on the upper joint. Last, but certainly not least, you take that reed out of your mouth, and…" Bilbo waited for Frodo to take the reed out, and the lad did, "you wipe off the excess 'juice' before placing it on the mouthpiece, like this, and securing it with the ligature." He handed the instrument to Frodo and waited for his cousin to show any interest in trying it out. A few minutes passed. "Frodo, why don't you try something? Just a sound? I can get you someone to teach you."
Frodo sighed and breathed in deeply. Sque-ek! Bilbo plugged his ears. "I think you might be biting down a bit hard. Your lower lip – from what I remember seeing – goes over your teeth like this." Bilbo demonstrated and Frodo nearly laughed as he looked rather silly without the instrument in his mouth. Sque-ee-ek! Frodo positioned his embouchure properly and began to play without any fingers down. The sound was pretty good for a beginner, but it began to go flat as he ran out of air. "Pretty good, Frodo. Now what would you say to lessons?"
"I'd be very grateful. Thank you, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said, and he embraced his cousin. "Now, may I go down to Buckland for the day and return tomorrow?"
"Not like that, my lad. First, you must dress." Frodo nodded his thanks as he hustled to his room.
"Frodo!" seven-year-old Meriadoc Brandybuck yelled, racing to his cousin and hugging him. "How are you?"
Frodo forced a smile. He could not let Merry know that he was sad. "Hullo, Merry! I'm fine, and you?" Frodo lifted him up. He had grown since the last time.
"The same. Come inside!" Merry laughed as Frodo tickled him, but the young lad wised up and began to tickle his older cousin back.
Laughter rang infectuously through the crisp mid-afternoon air, and Seradoc went out to see who his son was playing with. "Oh, hullo, Frodo!"
"Hullo, Uncle." Frodo set Merry on the ground and straightened his face.
"Nine years today?"
"Yes…"
Merry could not understand his cousin's sudden change in demeanor. "Nine years today for what?"
"Never you mind, son," snapped Seradoc.
"No, no, he can know."
"Not now, Frodo. You need to come inside and join us for a while first."
"Actually, Uncle, could I do that later? I need to be close to them."
"Who's them?" Merry inquired.
"Merry, go fetch some water from the well, please, so your cousin can have some tea when he comes back."
"Yes, sir," Merry said and he trudged away.
"Really, Uncle, it is quite alright if you tell him. I'm just here to visit."
"And on such a day? Only to visit?" Seradoc could tell Frodo was not happy as he was trying to act. The lad had never gotten over his parents' deaths completely in all his time with his other uncle; how could Bilbo Baggins have cured him so suddenly?
"Yes, only to visit," replied Frodo with a faint smile as his cousin trudged down the hill toward them.
"Then, why are you –"
"Here's the water, father," Merry interrupted.
"Bring it inside to your mother, and tell her that Frodo's here, please." Seradoc knew quite well that his wife could see Frodo and himself from the window she was at, and he knew she would know just what to do with their son. He was always so inquisitive, and at a time like this, they could not have him around. "Anyway, Frodo, if you are here only to visit, then why are you going somewhere before joining us?"
"I need to say 'hullo' to some old friends."
"Alright, Frodo. Take all the time you need."
"Thank you, Uncle." Frodo embraced him and then jogged off. He had to clear his head. He had not expected to see anyone outside. Brandy Hall was merely something he had to pass to get to his destination. He had hoped to pass by unseen and remain at the Brandywine until early morn and return to Bag End. Neither Bilbo nor anyone else would have to have known that he had not stayed with them though he had been near them, but Merry had spotted him, and now he had to stay the night.
Frodo dropped to the ground in front of the bank. It had been nine years, yet he still felt a void – one he could not fill no matter how hard he tried. He took out the box that contained his cousin's gift to him and opened it to look at the instrument. His father had played clarinet many years ago. He could still remember the nights when he would fall asleep after dancing merrily to the fun tunes his father had played, his heart warm and content. He had felt safe then, like the world around him could not harm him as long as he had his father nearby. Now, he felt as though he was vulnerable to everything around him. Before he had known death, he felt powerful and happy and safe, but now, he knew at least one thing could come between him and happiness, one thing he could not overcome.
Frodo stroked the keys on the instrument, wishing in his heart, no matter how foolish it seemed, that his father would magically reappear and things would be like they were nine years ago. Nothing happened, however, and Frodo began to put together the instrument, hoping that holding it would bring the suppressed memories of his father and mother back to him.
Why did they have to die? Why did no one want him afterwards? All the Brandybucks had turned him down, but his eldest uncle had taken him in and let him stay in Brandy Hall to avoid scandal. The only ones who rejected him that did not make him feel sad were the Sackville-Baggins. He had met them when he was younger, and it was hard enough to eat one meal with them - he could not imagine living his life with them and their spoiled son, Lotho.
The wind tousled through his hair, and it waved about like the sea. How long had he sat there, drowning in sorrow, sitting sadly like a lone boat long at the bottom of the sea after many a treacherous storm? The leaves rustled in the trees about him; the sky commenced its metamorphosis to black velvet as storm clouds loomed threateningly above. However, the storm was slowly passing overhead, away from the grieving lad.
Frodo slowly put the mouthpiece in his mouth and blew. The note pierced through the air clear as a bell. It soothed Frodo to hear it, and memories flooded back into his mind as though a self-built dam had been broken in his mind. Memories of nightly celbrating... memories of joyful gatherings... memories of soothed fears... So much was triggered by a single note. How Frodo wished he knew how to play! If those were triggered, how many more could be? He sank back on the grass and carefully laid the instrument atop the soft interior of the case and curled into a ball. It was so cold and so dreary outside, and he had forgotten his coat.
Why had he left on such a bad note with his cousin? Death had been so close and so real to Frodo the past nine years that he had taken to making sure the sun did not go downbefore he apologized, for he had learned that one never knew if he would ever see that person again. But he could not go back to Hobbiton at this time. Why had he been so cross about being called "my lad"? He knew inside that it was because it had reminded him of his father when he had not wished to have them. It now all seemed so foolish.
"Frodo!" called a voice. "Frodo Baggins?"
"Yes, Uncle?" Frodo replied as loudly as he could through the harshly blowing wind. He grabbed his clarinet and carefully took it apart and put it away before standing and searching for Saradoc Brandybuck, his uncle.
"Frodo, there you are!" he said as he saw his nephew, and he welcomed the shivering lad with open arms. Frodo's face was pink and red, and his nose was running. "Quick, let's get you inside!"
Frodo smiled and walked briskly along with his uncle. Perhaps the last part of the day would be alright.
"Frodo?" Merry said, announcing his presence in Frodo's room as the older cousin sat sipping tea in front of the warm fire. He had requested to stay in his old smial where he had lived with his parents. They had left the smial to him in their will, so it had been left untouched.
Frodo craned his neck to see which of his younger cousins it was. "Oh, hullo, Merry!" Frodo greeted with as much enthusiasm as his mood allowed. "Come in, come in!"
Merry scampered in after closing hte door and stood by the chair his cousin was sitting in and stared at him as he sipped his tea silently. "Is something terribly wrong, cousin?" he asked, eyes wide with concern. Frodo looked down at his cousin. "Is there?"
"Why do you ask?" Frodo queried.
"What Father said earlier, how he sent me away and was cross when I asked him a question, and now your face."
"Of course, I'm alright, Mer." Frodo scooped his cousin into his lap and began to tickle him fiercely. Merry's face turned bright red as he tried to squirm out of his cousin's firm and inescapable grasp while holding his breath to avoid laughter. He was concerned about his cousin. Frodo was not usually like this, not since he had moved away.
"Stop!" yelped Merry with a short burst of laughter.
Frodo relented, a wide smile remaining on his face as Merry sat himself in an upright position. "Now, what are you doing out and about this fine evening? Are you not supposed to be in bed?"
"Yes, cousin, I am, and I'm not supposed to bother you either today."
"You little sneak!" Frodo teased.
But Merry took him seriously and looked alittle wounded.
"I'm just teasing. I am most glad you are here to visit, though you should have done so before your bed time, lad."
"It's the only time I could get over without mummy and daddy seeing me."
"Oh, yes, I see."
"Is something - oh, Frodo! I heard mummy and daddy talking about a surprise party. They said it was for me, and they were talking about whether or not you would come. I think you would, wouldn't you, Frodo? Frodo?"
"Hm?" Frodo's eyes were teary and they seemed to see things far away.
"You weren't listening, were you?"
"No, I'm sorry. I was --"
"Something's bothering you? You can tell me. Besides, who were daddy and you talking about earlier?" Merry slid off Frodo's lap, walked to the fireplace, and began to pick at the loose brick. "Who was 'them,' and what was nine years ago? I don't understand."
"My mum and dad," Frodo replied, the smile slowly fading off his pallid face. Shadows flickered from the crackling fire, which waxed dimmer and dimmer. "Put a log on the fire," he answered to put off explaining a moment later. "Mum and dad..."
Merry eyed his older cousin as he went out to fetch a log from the hall and then returned a few moments later, his little arms filled with a variety of logs in different sizes. He fed a few to the fire and then placed the remaining logs beside it neatly. Then, he took off his scarf, coat, and mittens. "What about your mummy and daddy?"
"Haven't you wondered, lad, why you've never met them?"
"No, I just thought they didn't come out to visit much."
"They're dead," Frodo stated, a bitter tone filling his voice. He suddenly wished his cousin had never snuck away from his smial, that he had not brought up the topic, that Frodo himself had been more careful when sneaking past Brandy Hall. "They're dead," he repeated to himself softly.
"Merry looked confused for a moment, but then he said quizzically, "For nine years?"
"Yes, they've been dead nine years."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"I know that." Frodo gazed out the small window where a single star shone through a dark, cloudy sky. He stood, his arm dangling limply at his side, and walked to the clear window. "I know, Meriadoc."
TBC...
A/N: This was going to be a ficlet, but then it expanded to five and a quarter pages and was still nowhere near finished, so it is now being promoted to a story. :)