Here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it! Please do forgive any typos, as usual.
Chapter Eleven: Ere Break of Day
Frodo woke alone on the musty wooden floor of a rented room. For a moment, he did not register where he was or what was going on. But then, he heard the slop clop of horse hooves outside, and he gasped, flying upright and reaching out to the side, where Fíli had been when he fell asleep.
Fíli was gone.
He was alone.
They were leaving without saying goodbye.
"You are not coming, and that is final. I mean it, Frodo." Bilbo's voice was low and dangerous, a tone the young hobbit had rarely heard before.
"I will not be the only Baggins left behind," he protested, trying to keep his voice even. "I can ride hard and fast as you can, I'm sharp with a sword, I can hold my own-"
"But you should not have to." Bilbo took Frodo's shoulders in his hands, and shook him gently. "You will not have to. You will go with Aragorn."
"Uncle, please," Frodo put his hand on Bilbo's forearm. He had to make him understand, had to make him see… "You and Auntie Dís, Fíli and Kíli, you are my family, my immediate family and if you go. If you go and something happens to you I cannot be the final Baggins. I cannot be the only one left."
"Oh, Frodo…" Bilbo's frown carved deeper into his forehead, drawing attention to the dark smudges beneath his eyes. "We will be fine, and you will never be alone. This house is filled with your family-"
"And I love every one of them deeply," Frodo agreed, tightening his grip on his uncle's arms. "But it is not the same. You know it is not. The same way that I will never be quite as dear to Merry as Pippin is, or the way that Bofin and the others will never love Bofur the same way they love their father. The love we share is deeper than the roots of the mountains, but it's not the same as this. You were the one who taught me that there are many kinds of love, and you were the one that taught me to do what my heart and head agree upon."
"Frodo." Bilbo pursed his lips and shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. He moved his hands from Frodo's shoulders to his face. "You do not understand. I cannot lose you, my boy. I knew, when I took you from Brandy Hall, I knew that I would be taking you into danger. More danger than you would be in if you stayed in the Shire, no, listen. I lessened my guilt by saying it was your choice, but you were far too young to make such a choice- no, Frodo listen to me!" Frodo stopped trying to interrupt. "I will not take you into this danger. I will not, I cannot. You are as a son to me, Frodo, and I am so proud of you, but I cannot take you into further peril."
Silence fell between them, and Frodo squeezed Bilbo's wrists. "I am of age now, Uncle. It is my choice to make."
Bilbo shook his head, a tear trailing down his cheek. "No, Frodo. Not this time. I will see you, my dear, dear boy, in Rivendell. And that is the end of it."
It had not been the end of it. Frodo had argued and pleaded with Fíli, Kíli, Dís and even Gandalf, but all had refused him.
And left before he could say goodbye.
Scrambling to his feet, Frodo burst out of the door, barely hearing it slam against the wall. Heart in his throat, he ran down the hall, down the stairs, tripping over steps made for bigger folk and bursting out of the front door into the street –
He saw them, at the end of the road. Bilbo. Dís. Fíli. Kíli. Gandalf. Already riding fast. Frodo gave a quiet cry, darting after them. A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder and he twisted, ready to fight, but it was only Aragorn.
"You cannot follow them, Frodo. Not like this."
Frodo wrenched himself free and ran a few steps down the road. Kíli glanced over his shoulder and met his eyes, and for a moment, Frodo could not breathe. Then Kíli turned away, and bowed his head, and urged Luno to go faster. Frodo's chest heaved, and he moved as if to run after them, before shuddering to a halt. Aragorn was right. He could not follow like this.
The last he saw of them was Fíli's hair, glinting in the light from the inn. Then they rounded the corner, and were gone.
He hung his head.
After a pause, Aragorn stepped forward hesitantly.
"They did not say goodbye," Frodo said quietly, before the man could talk. He swallowed, unable to call back his tears, and met Aragorn's eyes. "I just wanted to say goodbye."
Aragorn looked out over the road, and placed his hand back on Frodo's shoulder. "I am sorry that you were unable to. But we will see them again. It is safer this way."
"I know that," said Frodo, perhaps more sharply than he needed to. "I understand that a larger group is harder to hide, easier to hinder. But I – never mind."
Aragorn did not reply. Instead, he just stared at the end of the road, and squeezed Frodo's shoulder. "I am going to wake the others. Do not linger here long – you never know who may be watching." With that, the man ducked inside, leaving Frodo utterly alone on the street.
The wind whispered around him, blowing leaves into his ankles and sending down the very first drops of a light rain. Only the inn showed any sign of life. Its sign swayed softly, and shadows bustled across the glowing window. Frodo presumed it was the kitchen, but he did not really care.
He felt dazed. Dazed and hollow – a shocked shell with nothing inside.
They were all gone. Like – no. Not like his parents. They could not go like his parents.
He shivered, his hand rising to clutch the silver disc that hung from his neck. He wished that Thorin was here. Thorin would have been able to talk some sense into them, Thorin would have…
But no. Thorin would have been another voice demanding Frodo stay with Aragorn. And having the king so vulnerable, with such evil around – it would be a disaster. All the same, a tiny part of Frodo wished fiercely that Uncle Thorin was here anyway. Maybe then he would not feel so alone.
He squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, shaking his head slightly to try and stop the tears. He could not stand here weeping, like the heroine in a poorly written love story. It would help no one, and least of all himself. It did not matter how he felt. Frodo had to keep a brave face.
He was the only Baggins left.
Alone in a strange land, a young man writhed out from beneath the corpse of his horse, and ran. The darkness was bearing down upon him, rolling closer and closer in a mass of black mist and fire. The man looked frantically over his shoulder, terror in his grey eyes, and an arrow flew from the heart of the dark cloud.
Pierced the man's cheek. He screamed in pain, his voice louder than the very clap of doom. It shot through his soul, ripped open his heart with the sound alone.
The man stumbled forwards and kept running, but now more and more arrows were flying from the mist, and he could not dodge them all. One, two, three arrows embedded into his back, and Faramir fell.
Hand on his sword, Boromir, son of Denethor, woke up. A dream. It was just another dream. He let out a slow breath, watching it cloud in the cold air. His fire was going out, but he could see the horizon lightening slightly. Morning was near.
He sat up, and ran a hand over his hair. Faramir was not dead. He was not hurt. He was in Gondor – home, safe. Even so, the nightmares plagued Boromir. When he took the trip to Rivendell upon himself, when he left instead, Boromir had hoped that he would stop dreaming about his little brother dying.
It still made his head spin, to think that dreams were what had driven him so far from home. When he had woken with the remnants of a verse in his head, he thought that he had simply had too much to drink the night before, but at breakfast Faramir had recited the exact same words to him.
"Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand."
It was not the first time, either, that Faramir had spoken of Imladris, and Denethor said that he was ready to let the younger go.
That very night, Boromir had dreamt of his baby brother's death for the first time, and even before he woke he knew that he would never let Faramir take that trip. Not while he had breath left. It was harder to convince their father to let Boromir leave – a fact that churned his stomach. He hoped that Denethor was being fair to Faramir. That, in Boromir's absence, he would see how skilled his younger son truly was.
Shaking his head, Boromir rose, and began to pack up his camp. The time for contemplation was over. It was time for what he did best – it was time to act.
Rivendell was his destination, and it was not that far away.
I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I know – it's an itty-bitty-tiny-baby-filler-chapter, but the other part felt unfinished, and rushed, and that's the last thing I want to do with this rewrite. So, in order to stick to my advent calendar, you've got a short, sharp one here. Please let me know what you think, and if these daily updates are working for you :D Until next time, take care :)