Author's Notes: The final chapter of "Shadows in the Darkness" should go
up shortly (ie, this week) and a few chapters of the previously promised
stories will follow: the memory described in "Mithril," of Frodo two years
after moving to Bag End, and another Caradhras-set fic. Chapter 11 of
"Caradhras" may take a wee bit longer; however, I will be updating that one
soon as well. My sincerest apologies for the waiting periods: the Muse is
more than willing, but the RL boss is not; my work schedule hasn't been
conducive to writing lately, I'm afraid, delaying this a good deal.
I am STILL attempting to get FrodoHealers setup moved for the younger group: Yahoo help is being no help at present. sigh If this continues I'll have to figure something out, like e-mail forwards or something. . . .
To Snitter in Rivendell - my apologies for the length of this; I hope you'll still bear with me! Thanks for reading and for your lovely review. . . .
For those who don't know this. . .yup, Frodo's aching eyes and headache are the beginning signs of an oncoming illness, all right. . .a certain lad is teetering on the edge of becoming *very* ill indeed. And don't worry, much as he loves his Aunt Bryonia, as you'll see in this chapter, he is still very close to Bilbo, an affection that will only deepen as the years pass, with Bilbo's adoption of him at age twenty-one as per book canon.
This chapter's a bit longer than most will be, but since it all sort of fit together, I didn't want to divide it arbitrarily. Hope you'll enjoy. :) For anyone who hasn't read the books, yes, Frodo's parents drowned only a few years earlier, leaving him an orphan in the care of his relatives at Brandy Hall.
As always, thank you ALL so VERY much for reading and reviewing!
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Two: Currant Swirls and Lullaby Memories
"FRODO! I'm not calling you again!"
Awakening with a start, Frodo shuddered, his cousin Forsythia's voice jarring him from sleep. As usual, she was knocking loudly at his door, shouting, before moving on to her next task: with so many occupied adults, the tweenagers were occasionally given the responsibility of fetching truant younger children. Looking at the clock, he blinked unsteadily. How could it be noon already? No. . .no, wait, yes, he'd. . .gotten up when called that morning. . .but had felt so ill that he slipped back into his room afterward, climbing back into bed without even bothering to undress.
He did not want to get up. Not even for a meal. He wasn't hungry at all, and everything ached.
"FRODO BAGGINS, if I have to tell Uncle Saradoc when he gets back, he'll tan your hide!"
This hardly seemed much of a threat to Frodo: Saradoc had never laid a hand on him, and the youngster doubted somehow that his uncle would do more than forbid some privilege and scold him. At present, it seemed worth the risk. Perhaps if he were lucky, Forsythia might tell one of the aunts, and someone might come to see about him. . .might tuck him in and bring him juice. . . .
The door swung open, letting in light from the sunny hallway, causing Frodo to wince at the change in lighting; he'd put out all the lights save that from the hearth and a small reading-lamp. Forsythia stood in the doorway, hands on her ample hips, shaking her head.
"Honestly! I can't believe you're so lazy. . .really, Frodo! Get up and come ON - time for lunch!"
He started to explain, to tell her that he felt ill. . .but she was already gone, slamming the door behind her. Wincing, he curled up for a moment, his head throbbing. . .but dutifully rose at last, smoothing halfheartedly at his raiment as he forced himself into a steady, if rather slow, walk.
Luncheon was the main meal of the day at Brandy Hall, given the erratic spread of household dinner- and supper-times, and today it was a combination he ordinarily liked decently enough: roast pork, currant jelly, applesauce, mashed potatoes, mashed squash, boiled turnips, and assorted pickles. Not his favourite meal in the world, but tasty enough, and filling. . .but he still didn't feel very hungry, and the thought of most food made his stomach twist into fresh knots. Shaking his head at the offers of roast pork, turnips, and pickles, he arranged small amounts of the remainder on his plate. . .applesauce, mostly, with mashed squash on one side, mashed potatoes on the other, currant jelly just across. Carefully he spooned up a bit, stirring it into his mashed potatoes in small reddish swirls. Forsythia was, fortunately, at the other end of the table, occupied for the present in making doe-eyes at Darimas Goldworthy, who was visiting his friend Neradoc, one of Frodo's more distant cousins, a good bit older than he.
Perhaps if he told one of the adults he wasn't feeling well. . .but whom? Everyone was busy, and the few attempts he had made had been brushed aside; he'd have to really set to the task to explain.
Aunt Amarantha, maybe. What would she do if he told her he wasn't feeling well?
Dose him with tonic.
Shuddering at the thought of the foul-tasting liquid, Frodo promptly abandoned the thought, tasting a spoonful of currant-swirled mashed potatoes, following it with a cautious sip of tea.
Uncle Peridoc?
Scold him for slipping out by himself, not always in the warmest clothing.
Frodo did not relish the thought of a lecture or a scolding: at times he simply had to be alone, and sometimes thinking was easier outside Brandy Hall than in.
Aunt Linnet?
No, she wouldn't do something as awful as that. . .she'd take his face in her hands and tilt it up, looking at him carefully in the light. She would run her hand lightly over his forehead, perhaps take him back to his room and put him to bed, which was sounding more appealing by the minute. He could hardly hope for her undivided attention: everyone was busy with so many children still recuperating, but maybe he could at least have someone tuck him into bed and have him left in peace, to sleep through it if possible. Yes, that was a good idea. . .Aunt Linnet would help, would ensure that he could rest until his Auntie Bryonia returned to care for him, to get him better. . . .
"Frodo, mind what you're doing - you know better than to play with your food, at your age!"
The blissful peace passed as Goldworthy and company left the table, leaving by now only Frodo and Forsythia. Shaking her head, her braid flopping a bit, his cousin sighed.
"Eat up, now. Uncle Saradoc will have fits if you don't."
"I'm not hungry, thank you." The words came out in a rather cross tone, however small the voice that delivered them. Almost at once Frodo winced: he hadn't intended to sound half so sharp as he had, but it was too late.
Forsythia glared at him with a look that would have melted the Brandywine during the famed Fell Winter. "Don't think that you're going to get your own way by pulling this. Everyone has enough to do without your whims; even I have to give up my afternoon to help watch Melilot and Mentha. The least you can do is eat something good for you, not just tea-cakes - "
"I don't want anything else. . .not trying to get my own way."
She blinked at him, then squinted, peering a little. "What's wrong? You ALWAYS like tea-cakes."
Frodo shrugged a little. "My head hurts. . .and my eyes."
"That's what happens when you fall asleep reading."
Indignantly Frodo scowled, pushing his plate away and rising. "Have you seen Aunt Linnet? I need to talk to her. . . ."
"Aunt Linnet's busy. She doesn't need you whining to her about some silly little headache you got from reading too much." Smirking, Forsythia shook her head. "Now, Bryonia and Marlidoc won't be back for at least another half the month, so the last thing we need is you complaining about everything. You really need to learn to be more grown-up if you want to play the little book-worm all the time. It's irritating enough, your always being off sulking on your own, without you complaining."
Frodo felt as if someone had struck him in the stomach. "But - they were supposed to be back within a fortnight - Auntie didn't send me a letter about it - "
"No doubt they're busy. I saw the letter to Uncle Saradoc myself. . .go into his study and look on his desk if you don't believe me." Forsythia shrugged, still grinning like a cat with a saucer full of cream. "But first, sit back down and finish your lunch. *I* have someone to find. . . ."
And with that, she rose as well, sashaying out of the kitchen as if she were the Mistress of Buckland herself.
Sighing, Frodo sat back down. Perhaps she was right, after all. . .Aunt Linnet was probably terribly busy with her own children, or other nieces and nephews, and the least he could do was try and stay out of the way until Aunt Bryonia returned. Reluctantly he prodded the mashed potatoes, now cold and thick, heavy lumpiness against the spoon. Wiping the utensil on his napkin, he tried a half-spoonful of applesauce, but it just didn't taste right. At last he settled for sipping his tea, pondering what to do. After half a cupful, he decided to return to his room and go back to bed. He longed for someone to talk to, preferably someone who could tell him stories. . .his eyes hurt too much for reading, but he was bored and frustrated, and wanted. . .well, not company exactly, but. . .someone to talk to him, a reassuring voice to listen to. . . .
Bilbo! Yes, that was it. . .he could write a letter to Uncle Bilbo. . .even if Bilbo couldn't come, maybe he would write back, and that, at least, would be something to look forward to. . . . Rubbing his temples, Frodo went to his desk, taking out a small handful of note-paper and his pen and ink before seating himself, wincing a little at the ache in his back as he eased into the straight-backed chair, beginning to write.
*Dear Uncle Bilbo -
How are you? I hope this letter finds you well. It seems so much longer than a month since I last saw you; I'm very glad you came for Yule.*
For a moment Frodo worried that this sounded silly. . .he'd already said that in his thank-you letter to Bilbo some three weeks earlier. Still, he didn't feel up to starting over, and it was already done. . .and Mamma always said one could hardly express gladness or gratitude overmuch. Biting his lip a little, he continued.
*I still miss you, though. Aunt Bryonia is away for a fortnight, visiting her youngest son in Michel Delving. She and Uncle Marlidoc should be back soon, I think, as it's been nearly that long, but I'm not certain: Forsythia said she'd heard they were staying longer than planned and wouldn't be back for another fortnight at the very least. I can't imagine Auntie wouldn't have written to tell me that if it were true, but maybe she's been too busy. I do hope they return soon, though.
I wish I could say that I were doing well, but actually I have not been feeling at all well lately. My head hurts all the time, and my eyes ache, and I'm too tired to do anything. Everyone's busy here, though, so I'm trying not to be any trouble. Everyone is getting ready for Candlemas, and most of my cousins have had measles and everyone's still busy with them too. I didn't get them, and Aunt Bryonia only went on to Michel Delving because everyone thought I probably wouldn't since I hadn't already and everyone's getting better, but I do miss her, because I haven't many playmates, and since I'm always being told not to upset them, we never get to do anything really fun, only quiet things for very short time periods, and much as I do like quiet activities sometimes, it's no fun having to mostly give people their way. So it's terribly boring here except for reading, which is always nice, but my eyes hurt too much for that lately. It's lonely and I wish you were here to tell me stories, or that I were there for it.
I know you are not often up as far as Buckland, but if you do come this way, I hope you might have time to stop and see me. Of course, I know you are very busy with your book and all your important matters, but I promise not to take up much time, and would like so much to see you again, even if only for a little while. I don't know how much fun I would be for company, as I really do not feel very well, but I am very lonely and would like it if you stopped by. In any case, thank you again for coming at Yule, and for everything else that you've done for me. I know I am very lucky.
Your nephew,
Frodo*
There. Blotting the ink, he let it dry for a moment, then folded and sealed it in an envelope, addressing it to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esq., Bag End, The Hill, Hobbiton, The Shire, then slipped downstairs to set it in the basket where the messenger always took their mail. On the way back up, however, he suddenly felt dizzy, and had to sit down abruptly in the stairwell, feeling chilled and a bit sick.
He missed his mother. She would have noticed he didn't feel well, would come and kiss him lightly, putting her lips to his forehead and frowning a little if she suspected he had a fever. . .would push his curls back from his face and take him in her arms, carrying him up to his room beside theirs, in their apartment, where she would put him to bed beneath his favourite quilt, between cool, clean sheets, flannel or cotton. She would help him out of his play-clothing and bathe him with a damp cloth wrung out in warm water before patting him dry and dressing him in a light night- shirt, tucking him in with a cool cloth for his aching head. And she would give him sips of juice or chamomile tea sweetened with honey. . .or warm milk with honey and spices. . .and mushroom broth, or applesauce with sprinkled cinnamon, not the regular plateful of stuff that made his stomach turn.
Come to that, perhaps it was best not to think of food or drink: his stomach was in knots, and he felt as if he might throw up if he tried to move at all.
She would sing to him, though. . .lullabies, to help him sleep. . .and his father would bring in a book and read to him, nothing so exciting as Bilbo's stories, but pleasant and comforting. . .and if he was too uncomfortable and restless to sleep, his mother would take him in her arms, take him to the rocking-chair and cuddle him close, rocking gently until he fell asleep at last, her voice lulling him to sleep.
He wanted his parents.
Taking a deep breath, he rose, steadying himself, and continued up the stairs to his room, falling promptly into bed. He felt strangely hot and cold all at once. . .wanted someone there. . .but the room was empty, of course. Feeling sick, the small one curled into a bundle, pulling all the covers over himself that he could and hoping desperately that he wouldn't throw up.
Maybe Auntie would return shortly after all. . .or maybe Uncle Bilbo would come. . . .
It was too much to hope for, of course.
With that thought, he drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with visions of hair-ribbons floating in the river. . .gently bobbing in the water.
~To Be Continued~
I am STILL attempting to get FrodoHealers setup moved for the younger group: Yahoo help is being no help at present. sigh If this continues I'll have to figure something out, like e-mail forwards or something. . . .
To Snitter in Rivendell - my apologies for the length of this; I hope you'll still bear with me! Thanks for reading and for your lovely review. . . .
For those who don't know this. . .yup, Frodo's aching eyes and headache are the beginning signs of an oncoming illness, all right. . .a certain lad is teetering on the edge of becoming *very* ill indeed. And don't worry, much as he loves his Aunt Bryonia, as you'll see in this chapter, he is still very close to Bilbo, an affection that will only deepen as the years pass, with Bilbo's adoption of him at age twenty-one as per book canon.
This chapter's a bit longer than most will be, but since it all sort of fit together, I didn't want to divide it arbitrarily. Hope you'll enjoy. :) For anyone who hasn't read the books, yes, Frodo's parents drowned only a few years earlier, leaving him an orphan in the care of his relatives at Brandy Hall.
As always, thank you ALL so VERY much for reading and reviewing!
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Two: Currant Swirls and Lullaby Memories
"FRODO! I'm not calling you again!"
Awakening with a start, Frodo shuddered, his cousin Forsythia's voice jarring him from sleep. As usual, she was knocking loudly at his door, shouting, before moving on to her next task: with so many occupied adults, the tweenagers were occasionally given the responsibility of fetching truant younger children. Looking at the clock, he blinked unsteadily. How could it be noon already? No. . .no, wait, yes, he'd. . .gotten up when called that morning. . .but had felt so ill that he slipped back into his room afterward, climbing back into bed without even bothering to undress.
He did not want to get up. Not even for a meal. He wasn't hungry at all, and everything ached.
"FRODO BAGGINS, if I have to tell Uncle Saradoc when he gets back, he'll tan your hide!"
This hardly seemed much of a threat to Frodo: Saradoc had never laid a hand on him, and the youngster doubted somehow that his uncle would do more than forbid some privilege and scold him. At present, it seemed worth the risk. Perhaps if he were lucky, Forsythia might tell one of the aunts, and someone might come to see about him. . .might tuck him in and bring him juice. . . .
The door swung open, letting in light from the sunny hallway, causing Frodo to wince at the change in lighting; he'd put out all the lights save that from the hearth and a small reading-lamp. Forsythia stood in the doorway, hands on her ample hips, shaking her head.
"Honestly! I can't believe you're so lazy. . .really, Frodo! Get up and come ON - time for lunch!"
He started to explain, to tell her that he felt ill. . .but she was already gone, slamming the door behind her. Wincing, he curled up for a moment, his head throbbing. . .but dutifully rose at last, smoothing halfheartedly at his raiment as he forced himself into a steady, if rather slow, walk.
Luncheon was the main meal of the day at Brandy Hall, given the erratic spread of household dinner- and supper-times, and today it was a combination he ordinarily liked decently enough: roast pork, currant jelly, applesauce, mashed potatoes, mashed squash, boiled turnips, and assorted pickles. Not his favourite meal in the world, but tasty enough, and filling. . .but he still didn't feel very hungry, and the thought of most food made his stomach twist into fresh knots. Shaking his head at the offers of roast pork, turnips, and pickles, he arranged small amounts of the remainder on his plate. . .applesauce, mostly, with mashed squash on one side, mashed potatoes on the other, currant jelly just across. Carefully he spooned up a bit, stirring it into his mashed potatoes in small reddish swirls. Forsythia was, fortunately, at the other end of the table, occupied for the present in making doe-eyes at Darimas Goldworthy, who was visiting his friend Neradoc, one of Frodo's more distant cousins, a good bit older than he.
Perhaps if he told one of the adults he wasn't feeling well. . .but whom? Everyone was busy, and the few attempts he had made had been brushed aside; he'd have to really set to the task to explain.
Aunt Amarantha, maybe. What would she do if he told her he wasn't feeling well?
Dose him with tonic.
Shuddering at the thought of the foul-tasting liquid, Frodo promptly abandoned the thought, tasting a spoonful of currant-swirled mashed potatoes, following it with a cautious sip of tea.
Uncle Peridoc?
Scold him for slipping out by himself, not always in the warmest clothing.
Frodo did not relish the thought of a lecture or a scolding: at times he simply had to be alone, and sometimes thinking was easier outside Brandy Hall than in.
Aunt Linnet?
No, she wouldn't do something as awful as that. . .she'd take his face in her hands and tilt it up, looking at him carefully in the light. She would run her hand lightly over his forehead, perhaps take him back to his room and put him to bed, which was sounding more appealing by the minute. He could hardly hope for her undivided attention: everyone was busy with so many children still recuperating, but maybe he could at least have someone tuck him into bed and have him left in peace, to sleep through it if possible. Yes, that was a good idea. . .Aunt Linnet would help, would ensure that he could rest until his Auntie Bryonia returned to care for him, to get him better. . . .
"Frodo, mind what you're doing - you know better than to play with your food, at your age!"
The blissful peace passed as Goldworthy and company left the table, leaving by now only Frodo and Forsythia. Shaking her head, her braid flopping a bit, his cousin sighed.
"Eat up, now. Uncle Saradoc will have fits if you don't."
"I'm not hungry, thank you." The words came out in a rather cross tone, however small the voice that delivered them. Almost at once Frodo winced: he hadn't intended to sound half so sharp as he had, but it was too late.
Forsythia glared at him with a look that would have melted the Brandywine during the famed Fell Winter. "Don't think that you're going to get your own way by pulling this. Everyone has enough to do without your whims; even I have to give up my afternoon to help watch Melilot and Mentha. The least you can do is eat something good for you, not just tea-cakes - "
"I don't want anything else. . .not trying to get my own way."
She blinked at him, then squinted, peering a little. "What's wrong? You ALWAYS like tea-cakes."
Frodo shrugged a little. "My head hurts. . .and my eyes."
"That's what happens when you fall asleep reading."
Indignantly Frodo scowled, pushing his plate away and rising. "Have you seen Aunt Linnet? I need to talk to her. . . ."
"Aunt Linnet's busy. She doesn't need you whining to her about some silly little headache you got from reading too much." Smirking, Forsythia shook her head. "Now, Bryonia and Marlidoc won't be back for at least another half the month, so the last thing we need is you complaining about everything. You really need to learn to be more grown-up if you want to play the little book-worm all the time. It's irritating enough, your always being off sulking on your own, without you complaining."
Frodo felt as if someone had struck him in the stomach. "But - they were supposed to be back within a fortnight - Auntie didn't send me a letter about it - "
"No doubt they're busy. I saw the letter to Uncle Saradoc myself. . .go into his study and look on his desk if you don't believe me." Forsythia shrugged, still grinning like a cat with a saucer full of cream. "But first, sit back down and finish your lunch. *I* have someone to find. . . ."
And with that, she rose as well, sashaying out of the kitchen as if she were the Mistress of Buckland herself.
Sighing, Frodo sat back down. Perhaps she was right, after all. . .Aunt Linnet was probably terribly busy with her own children, or other nieces and nephews, and the least he could do was try and stay out of the way until Aunt Bryonia returned. Reluctantly he prodded the mashed potatoes, now cold and thick, heavy lumpiness against the spoon. Wiping the utensil on his napkin, he tried a half-spoonful of applesauce, but it just didn't taste right. At last he settled for sipping his tea, pondering what to do. After half a cupful, he decided to return to his room and go back to bed. He longed for someone to talk to, preferably someone who could tell him stories. . .his eyes hurt too much for reading, but he was bored and frustrated, and wanted. . .well, not company exactly, but. . .someone to talk to him, a reassuring voice to listen to. . . .
Bilbo! Yes, that was it. . .he could write a letter to Uncle Bilbo. . .even if Bilbo couldn't come, maybe he would write back, and that, at least, would be something to look forward to. . . . Rubbing his temples, Frodo went to his desk, taking out a small handful of note-paper and his pen and ink before seating himself, wincing a little at the ache in his back as he eased into the straight-backed chair, beginning to write.
*Dear Uncle Bilbo -
How are you? I hope this letter finds you well. It seems so much longer than a month since I last saw you; I'm very glad you came for Yule.*
For a moment Frodo worried that this sounded silly. . .he'd already said that in his thank-you letter to Bilbo some three weeks earlier. Still, he didn't feel up to starting over, and it was already done. . .and Mamma always said one could hardly express gladness or gratitude overmuch. Biting his lip a little, he continued.
*I still miss you, though. Aunt Bryonia is away for a fortnight, visiting her youngest son in Michel Delving. She and Uncle Marlidoc should be back soon, I think, as it's been nearly that long, but I'm not certain: Forsythia said she'd heard they were staying longer than planned and wouldn't be back for another fortnight at the very least. I can't imagine Auntie wouldn't have written to tell me that if it were true, but maybe she's been too busy. I do hope they return soon, though.
I wish I could say that I were doing well, but actually I have not been feeling at all well lately. My head hurts all the time, and my eyes ache, and I'm too tired to do anything. Everyone's busy here, though, so I'm trying not to be any trouble. Everyone is getting ready for Candlemas, and most of my cousins have had measles and everyone's still busy with them too. I didn't get them, and Aunt Bryonia only went on to Michel Delving because everyone thought I probably wouldn't since I hadn't already and everyone's getting better, but I do miss her, because I haven't many playmates, and since I'm always being told not to upset them, we never get to do anything really fun, only quiet things for very short time periods, and much as I do like quiet activities sometimes, it's no fun having to mostly give people their way. So it's terribly boring here except for reading, which is always nice, but my eyes hurt too much for that lately. It's lonely and I wish you were here to tell me stories, or that I were there for it.
I know you are not often up as far as Buckland, but if you do come this way, I hope you might have time to stop and see me. Of course, I know you are very busy with your book and all your important matters, but I promise not to take up much time, and would like so much to see you again, even if only for a little while. I don't know how much fun I would be for company, as I really do not feel very well, but I am very lonely and would like it if you stopped by. In any case, thank you again for coming at Yule, and for everything else that you've done for me. I know I am very lucky.
Your nephew,
Frodo*
There. Blotting the ink, he let it dry for a moment, then folded and sealed it in an envelope, addressing it to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Esq., Bag End, The Hill, Hobbiton, The Shire, then slipped downstairs to set it in the basket where the messenger always took their mail. On the way back up, however, he suddenly felt dizzy, and had to sit down abruptly in the stairwell, feeling chilled and a bit sick.
He missed his mother. She would have noticed he didn't feel well, would come and kiss him lightly, putting her lips to his forehead and frowning a little if she suspected he had a fever. . .would push his curls back from his face and take him in her arms, carrying him up to his room beside theirs, in their apartment, where she would put him to bed beneath his favourite quilt, between cool, clean sheets, flannel or cotton. She would help him out of his play-clothing and bathe him with a damp cloth wrung out in warm water before patting him dry and dressing him in a light night- shirt, tucking him in with a cool cloth for his aching head. And she would give him sips of juice or chamomile tea sweetened with honey. . .or warm milk with honey and spices. . .and mushroom broth, or applesauce with sprinkled cinnamon, not the regular plateful of stuff that made his stomach turn.
Come to that, perhaps it was best not to think of food or drink: his stomach was in knots, and he felt as if he might throw up if he tried to move at all.
She would sing to him, though. . .lullabies, to help him sleep. . .and his father would bring in a book and read to him, nothing so exciting as Bilbo's stories, but pleasant and comforting. . .and if he was too uncomfortable and restless to sleep, his mother would take him in her arms, take him to the rocking-chair and cuddle him close, rocking gently until he fell asleep at last, her voice lulling him to sleep.
He wanted his parents.
Taking a deep breath, he rose, steadying himself, and continued up the stairs to his room, falling promptly into bed. He felt strangely hot and cold all at once. . .wanted someone there. . .but the room was empty, of course. Feeling sick, the small one curled into a bundle, pulling all the covers over himself that he could and hoping desperately that he wouldn't throw up.
Maybe Auntie would return shortly after all. . .or maybe Uncle Bilbo would come. . . .
It was too much to hope for, of course.
With that thought, he drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with visions of hair-ribbons floating in the river. . .gently bobbing in the water.
~To Be Continued~