Chapter 7: Unwelcome Visitors

Frodo followed Rosie along a make-shift path between barren trees and a bed of decaying leaves. They had slowed to a walk sometime ago and now wandered downhill. He was surprised to realize how quiet it was. The soft wind drowned all but the occasional scrape of branches.

They came to a small valley covered in ferns. A creek slunk through the middle, silent and slow as if it had lost the motivation to flow. As they stepped over it, Frodo recalled walking there some time ago. It was spring then, and the trees had been in bloom, the earth bursting with wild flowers of pale yellow and white. He had climbed a tree, a wide fat oak with pale bark and thick branches that shot up towards the sky like a candelabra. The tree was missing now. In its place lay a wide stump turned sideways with its roots torn from the earth and exposed overhead. He felt a strange longing in his heart: a longing to go back to the Shire as it once was, green and blossoming without the stain of destruction upon it.

Rosie cast him an encouraging glance as she hitched up her skirt and stepped carefully up a muddy hill. Several pines were scattered about the slope, their needles cluttering the ground. About half way up the hill, Rosie stopped and turned to him with a smile. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Trust me, it's worth it."

Frodo did as he was told. He felt Rosie take his hands and let her guide him forward, slowly. Twice he stumbled, but both times her strong arms reached out and caught him as easily as a mother catches a small child. "Now," she said, when he felt the damp leaves give way to dry grass. "Open them."

Frodo did so without expectation. They stood at the edge of a small grassy clearing that gleamed in sunlight. Around them stood several pines with tall thin branches. But it was what was before him that caught his breath. The ground slopped into a vast blanket of rolling hills darkened and browned with late autumn, but unmarked by the claws of Saruman. "I'd almost forgotten," he muttered.

"Forgotten what?"

"What it looked like before Saruman."

"We all do, sometimes. He made a right mess of things. But luckily he never made it this far North. Oddly enough, he stopped just after Bag End." Rosie glanced at Frodo with a strange look as if she were searching his expression for a sign: for what, he knew not. After a moment, she shrugged and took a seat on the soft grass.

Frodo continued to gaze out at the land, lost in thought. Or rather, bereft of thought. For as he gazed upon the tall grasses and yellowed fields, his thoughts seemed to fade and he stood staring as one stares at a dream unfolding before him. He watched a bird rise from the grass and settle in the low branches of an oak tree. Butterflies fluttered through the air, nestling in tiny wildflowers or holly bushes. Frodo stared entranced. It was some time before he seemed to wake. When he did, he turned to find Rosie lying on her back, staring up at the sky. "Thank you," he said, sitting beside her. "For showing me this."

"Don't thank me, thank Sam. It was his idea. I brought him here just before he last left and he said, 'you know who'd love this? Mister Frodo. Promise me you'll take him here if he ever seems-' these were his words, not mine- 'lonely or distant.'"

Frodo smiled despite himself. "Well, thank you both then." He leaned back into the grass and listened to the whispers of the trees. For a brief moment, as wisps of clouds rolled past and the breeze stilled to a gentle nuzzle, he forgot all about his travels and the state of the Shire and was a simple hobbit once more.

When the clouds began to gather in thick grey lumps and the wind took on a bitter chill, Rosie and Frodo agreed they best return home. A storm was coming and it was rolling in fast. Indeed, by the time they reached the front door, thin splatters of rain were already thrashing down around them.

Frodo felt a large cold drop land on his shoulder as he shoved open the front door. He realized with a mixture of guilt and relief that he'd forgotten to lock it, and it opened easily inward. The wind charged in with such a force, papers scattered and portraits shook in their frames. The two ran in just as the skies parted and the rain beat down upon the front lawn.

Frodo let go of the door. It slammed shut with finality. "Well, I'd say we made it just in time." He reached for the lantern on the entrance table. Before he reached it, he felt a sharp pain behind his knees. Someone stepped up behind him and shoved him to the floor.

Rosie screamed. A bony hand covered her mouth, cutting the scream short. Fern dragged Rosie forward, her hair gleaming red as she stepped into the dim slits of light that fell through the curtained windows. She watched her brother grab a fistful of Frodo's hair and yank the hobbit's head back. He let go in disgust. "It ain't him! It ain't Mr. Cotton. That idiot gave us the wrong house!"

"Shh!" Fern kept her hand over Rosie's mouth as she shoved her towards the couch. Her eyes then darted wildly from Rosie to Frodo and back to Rosie again. "Who are you? Where's Farmer Cotton?"

Rosie, whose mouth was still covered by Fern's bony hand, made a muffled attempt at speech. Fern lowered her hand, but by the time she had done so, Frodo was already talking in the polite yet curt tone he usually saved for settling disputes. "Mr. Cotton is not here. This is his burrow, but he's out at the moment. He left early this morning."

"Where?" Tommy asked. "Where did he go?"

"To Bag End," Frodo said earnestly, knowing full well how busy it would be at this time of day. The siblings would have no chance against the strong hobbits that labored hard with their hammers and shovels. He wanted to see that they saw this as well. "They're making some modifications."

"And you?" Fern asked. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I am Frodo Baggins, Deputy Mayor. I live here at the moment. Mr. Cotton was kind enough to let me stay with him while my house undergoes repairs."

"Baggins, eh?" Tommy snorted. "Try again. I know there aren't any Baggins's left around here, except for Lotho's mother. He used to brag about that. Now I'll give you one more chance, who are you?"

"What I said was the truth, as were Lotho's words. I wasn't around when Sharkey was in charge."

"Where were you?"

"I was away on business."

"Where?"

"In the East."

"What business does a hobbit have in the East?"

"The same as any man, elf, or dwarf who wishes to protect their homeland."

"He's telling the truth!" Rosie cried. "He and his friends fought in the war, they did! His cousins are even Knights of Gondor and Rohan."

Here the boy laughed a shrill nauseating sound. "You expect us to believe the war was won with Halflings?" He snatched Frodo's hands and pulled them together behind the hobbit's back, twisting them painfully. "Last chance, boy, who are you really?"

"Ain't it obvious, Tommy?" Fern said. "He's Farmer Cotton's son, but he don't want us to know about it. Afraid we'll kill him, ain't he?"

"Is that so?" Tommy asked. "You scared, boy?"

Frodo remained silent until Tommy further twisted his wrist, increasing the pain from mere discomfort to a searing sting. "Yes," he said at last, admitting his fright.

"Good." Tommy seemed to take Frodo's response as confirmation to both questions and remained silent as he pulled a thick cord of rope from his pocket and bound Frodo's hands.

"And you?" Fern jabbed a finger into Rosie's shoulder. "Are you his sister?"

Rosie shook her head, glaring fiercely at the woman. She refused to answer any questions they asked. Let them fret. The less they know, the better. She kept her lips pressed together as she met her captor's gaze with firm determination that masked her growing fright. Fern saw the hardening in her face and raised her hand to slap Rosie's cheek.

"She's Rose Gamgee," Frodo answered, attracting Fern's attention before the blow could fall. "She's my servant. She has nothing to do with the Cottons and I plead you let her go." The words were delivered so smoothly Rosie half believed them herself.

"So she can run and warn Mr. Cotton?" Tommy snorted. "Come on Fern, tie her arms. Help me get the boy off the floor. Hurry up!"

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying!"

Fern, who didn't have any rope, secured an old leather belt around Rosie's wrists. Despite the frayed edges and stains, it held fast even against Rosie's fierce attempts to break free the second Fern turned her back.

The siblings lifted Frodo up by his shoulders and sat him in the same wooden chair Will Whitfoot had sat in that very morning. It was hard to believe the cozy room had darkened so suddenly. It took on an air of gloom in the stormy light filled with the beating of heavy rain.

"Now you just sit tight and do what Fern says." Tommy turned towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Fern shouted in annoyance.

"To Bag End."

"If you do, you will be killed." Frodo spoke with a tone of melancholy Rosie didn't understand or approve of. "There are over a dozen hobbits there and they love Tom Cotton dearly. They will do anything to protect him."

Rosie frowned. She'd have liked nothing better than to see the boy walk into an ambush, leaving them with one less captor to deal with, but she trusted Frodo enough to add, "You won't find them there anyway. They won't be working in this weather. You're more likely to find them at an inn or tavern—and those will be crawling with hobbits just looking for a good Ruffian to blame all their troubles on."

Tommy turned from the door and went instead to the window. He pulled the curtain aside an inch or two and glanced out at the drenched countryside.

Frodo took this time to address Fern. "I take it you have some grief with Farmer Cotton?"

She stiffened and her eyes locked on her brother. Her lips remained sealed in a tight frown. "If you feel he owes you something," Frodo continued. "I'm sure an arrangement can be made."

"No. There will be no arrangements." Tommy stepped away from the window. "Your father's going to pay for what he did. With his life. Understand? Now you sit tight and you just might survive this, but a single attempt to escape or call for help and you die with him. Got it?"

Rosie was practically trembling with anger. The thought of her father walking home to an ambush by these two brutes was unbearable. Her gaze traveled to the fire iron beside the cold fireplace. If only she could get her hands untied, she could make a dash for it.

Frodo glanced at the door with a similar fear of the old hobbit walking in unaware. The siblings were too wild at the moment, too stirred up with anger and excitement. If Farmer Cotton returned now, they would certainly strike him down the second he entered. But if they would calm down, they might just realize how reckless their revenge is. "It truly saddens me to hear about your father."

Fern snorted. "If you think saying that will make us think twice about killing you, it won't."

Rosie continued to struggle against her binding. A dull point poked her finger. She felt along the point until she realized it was the belt buckle latch, which hung below the leather knot. Careful to move as slowly and quietly as possible, she brought the latch to the knot and began wriggling it between the folds, loosening the knot as best she could.

Both her captors' attention was on Frodo as he continued, "Many good hobbits were slain in recent months, and I have no doubt the same could be said about many of the Ruffians."

"I don't care how many people died," Fern cried. "I just care about one! I'd kill everyone who lived if it would bring him back."

"All that would do is make more orphans. More widows, more childless. More suffering."

"Then at least we wouldn't be alone!" Fern began to pace furiously back and forth. Her eyes darted from the door to the prisoners then back to the door.

"Most of the Ruffians were monsters and brutes," Tommy said. "But not Dad. He was just doing what he could to keep us from starving in the cold while you lot feasted in your comfy little holes, hoarding all the crops and ale."

"That wasn't us," said Frodo. "It's Sharkey you can blame for that. There's more than enough food and ale to go around."

"Sharkey—Saruman—whoever you want to call him, was a good man. He saved our Dad from a mob years before we were born. Gave us food and shelter all our lives. We'd have done just fine if you lot hadn't started rebelling."

"We rebelled because we were loosing our food and shelter at Sharkey's expense." Frodo straightened as best his bindings would allow. He believed the boy's story and had no doubt Saruman had offered aid, though he reckoned there was a price far worse than the benefits that remained unknown to the children. "I'm sorry your father died, I truly am. If there were a way to end wars without death, I'd gladly see it done. But it's up to you now, to kill or to spare us in your revenge. Don't think it will bring you peace. Revenge only wounds under the guise of mending."

"Enough of this." Fern stopped pacing and turned to Rosie.

Rosie let go of the latch and stiffened as the girl leaned over her. She felt a thin hand on her arm and fought back a sob as the buckle was pulled. She had been so close! If Fern had realized what she was doing, she'd never get a second chance. Not now. She might be killed on the spot. She felt the girl's fingers on the knot, felt the leather tighten. Then, to her surprise, the knot loosened and slipped from her skin. Rosie stared up in bewilderment.

Tommy ran to them at once. "What are you doing?"

"Letting her go."

"Why?"

"You heard the boy. She's not a Cotton. She's nothing to do with this."

"Stupid child! What's to keep her from running straight to Mr. Cotton?"

"Nothing." Fern helped Rosie to her feet and stared her in the eye. "That's exactly what she'll do. And with this message: Mr. Cotton is to return home within the hour or we'll kill his son. Got it?"

Rosie stood frozen in silence. Her heart pounded. She looked to Frodo for support but he seemed just as alarmed by the statement as she was.

Fern leaned over until her face was inches from Rosie's. "I said, got it?"

Rosie's eyes flickered over Fern's shoulders towards the iron that lay all but lost in the shadow of the fireplace. All it would take was a few quick steps and she'd have it in her grasp. But would it be enough to fend both Fern and Tommy off? They were, after all, twice her size and likely experienced fighters. Never the less, she would have to try. She tensed, leaning forward preparing to sprint. It was Frodo's voice that stopped her. "Do as she says, Rosie."

She met his eyes and saw there such pleading she had to look away. Swallowing, she gave a final wistful glance at the fire-iron, then looked back to Fern with determination. Frodo had better have a plan because she sure didn't. "Yes. I understand."

"Good." Fern pulled the door open and shoved Rosie into the pounding storm. "Remember, one hour."

The door slammed shut.