8. Burning Glade
24 Thrimidge, 1420 S.R.
" 'The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,' "
Largo groaned to himself. The Baggins was singing again. And not only was he singing; he was singing about roads and travelling. And at eight o'clock in the morning, too!
At least he appeared to have gotten over whatever was bothering him yesterday, Largo reflected. He wasn't moody or pensive; he was actually cheerful -which was good, but Largo wished that he would be a little more quiet in his good cheer.
The pair was riding down a small lane which wound its way through a copse, on their way to take a look at the Plumgrove farm, so named for the wild plum trees which grew all over the property. The Ruffians, rather surprisingly, hadn't touched many of the trees in these parts and Largo was hoping that this particular rent would be left as it currently stood. Generosity was all very well, but there was the Shire to think of, too. Fifty silvers a quarter would be a welcome addition to a coffer made up of twenties and thirties. And if the Baggins did make it less, then who was supposed to pick up the difference for the rebuilding? It already had to have cost a fortune taking care of Hobbiton, Bywater, and the Michel Delving area. Why, repairing damages for Bag End alone had probably cost a fortune.
"Largo? What is that place?"
Largo looked up from his musings to see that Frodo had ridden up beside him and was gesturing towards a small glade one could see through a bare opening in the trees just the right of the road. Largo looked away quickly.
"That?" he shrugged, trying to sound casual. "That's the Burning Glade."
"What happened there?"
"Some of the Ruffians had a bonfire last Blotmath."
Frodo, who had been gazing fixedly at the glade now turned to Largo. "A bonfire?" he frowned.
Largo nodded. "Yes. They had some sort of party and were carrying on late into the night." It had been sheer nightmare. The party had started around ten, after curfew, so he and Belle had been trapped inside the smial —and by this time they knew that being Lotho's kin was not going to help them. They had barricaded every door and shutter that they could and spent the night crammed into the secret pantry. Belle had 'slept' in the farthest corner possible while Largo kept watch with the fire poker in one hand and a pitchfork in the other until the roaring laughter of the monsters finally died away. He hadn't meant to doze off, but he'd been awakened some time later by Belle, only to discover that he'd slept until quarter-after ten.
He shuddered as he thought of what could have happened to Belle thanks to his carelessness. Recalling his companion though he added, "Everyone was terrified of what would happen the next day, but thankfully they were all called to a battle near Sackville and never returned."
Frodo threw a glance back at the glade. "There isn't much growth there yet," he observed.
"No," Largo agreed, "but the Gardener never saw this spot."
"No?" Frodo seemed surprised and gave the glade one last thoughtful backward glance. "I would like to examine it more closely on our way back."
Largo shrugged. He had no particular wish to see it again. He'd been there when it was first discovered and had offered to help with the clean-up, but everyone had decided that if the Ruffians wanted that glade then no one was going to risk their wrath. And then the Captains had come through announcing their liberation, and the food waggons had followed soon after, and everyone seemed to forget about the hideous sounds that they had heard that Blotmath night. But if Frodo Baggins wanted to have a look then who was he to say no?
"Whatever you wish," he returned.
-fjfjfjfjf-
Much to Largo's surprise both the morning and afternoon passed fairly smoothly. They had managed to visit two more pipe-weed fields in addition to the large and sprawling Plumgrove and both fields had been deemed worthy of the Baggins' sixteen silver/fifteen percent rent. As for Plumgrove itself? Well, as far as Largo was concerned that had not been a success—it had been a triumph!
Not only had the Baggins left the quarterly let at fifty silvers, but he'd also managed to coax Farmer Sheaves, who currently lived there, into increase his 'landlord's share' to a full twenty percent. It hadn't taken that much to convince him either, which was incredible because everyone said that old miser Sheaves would pinch a copper until it squeaked.
Not for the first time that day Largo found himself shaking his head in wonder at the hobbit riding beside him.
Frodo caught sight of the motion and frowned. "What?"
"You," Largo answered with some amazement. "How did you that? Most people wouldn't have gotten that much out of old Sheaves in a week! You had him in less than an hour."
Frodo shrugged and looked away. "I've found that folks are more than willing to help with the recovery in some small way, even if it means an increase in their rent. Someone just needs to sit down with them and explain what we are trying to do and why."
"Yes, but Sheaves?" Largo shook his head. "Let me tell you, he wouldn't have given me the time of day. Why, I could have 'explained' until I was blue in the face, and all he would have done was laugh." Frodo glanced at him warily and Largo frowned back thoughtfully. "You, on the other hand—"
"That may be the difference between what could be perceived as the greediness of a landlord and the privilege of helping with the restoration of the Shire," Frodo cut in smoothly.
Largo's frustration with the obtuseness of the Master of Bag End was mounting. "Did I say anything about greedy landlords?" he snapped. "I could have said the exact same words as you a hundred times over, and nobody would have listened." He gave his companion a sharp look. "Maybe you just have the gift of a silver tongue."
Frodo's cheeks grew rather pink and Largo chuckled to himself. "Is that how you became mayor? Talked your way into it?"
The flush deepened. "I am not the mayor; I am only his deputy," Frodo retorted, "and to answer your question; no. I did not 'talk my way into it.' Mayor Whitfoot asked me to look after things for him while he recovers."
The emphasis on the word mayor was not lost on Largo and he chuckled to himself. He was going to have to bait the Baggins a little more often; this was rather fun. "Well, with the way that things are going you'll put him out of a job at the Free Fair."
"I have no plans to run for mayor."
"You'll be a write-in then," Largo insisted. "Trust me. Once everyone hears of all your plans to help the Shire recover they won't be able to help but choose you."
Frodo's mouth set in a thin, tight line. Having made his point Largo fell silent and the pair rode on. Around the next corner they came to the crossroads. Frodo automatically slowed his pony and turned towards the right fork.
"Ho, wait up there," Largo said, feeling a trifle surprised. "Where are you going?"
Frodo reined in his lovely grey and looked back, looking rather surprised himself. "To the Burning Glade."
Oh, yes. Over the excitement of the day Largo had completely forgotten about that. He frowned. "I was hoping to visit one or two more fields today," he said. "After all, it's only about three o'clock; plenty of time to get them in and come back."
Frodo frowned as well. "And where would these fields be?" he queried.
"A few miles up the road. We'd make it there by four, you could look them over, and we'd be back home before six."
Frodo gazed up the road in the direction that Largo was pointing. "There by four; back by six," he mused. "And how much time would that leave to examine the glade?"
Largo gave him a blank look and Frodo eyed him coolly. "That's what I thought," he said. "How late did you say that you were willing to stay out without supper?"
Largo's look changed to one of alarm. "What do you mean?"
"I intend to visit the Burning Glade. Tonight. If you wish me to look at those fields then we shall have to resign ourselves to a late supper," the Baggins explained firmly. There was a stubbornness in his eye which Largo did not care for at all.
"And if I decide to go straight home?" he challenged.
"Then I shall go without you and we'll see if I can find my way back on my own," Frodo returned.
Largo scowled, wishing that he could blister the Baggins's ears right now. Unfortunately, swearing at your guest was not in the list of ways that one could express displeasure in the manners books.
"Come on then," he growled as he kicked his pony, Briar, into startled movement and turned the dun's head towards the Glade.
"Thank you," Frodo said as he turned his own pony to follow.
Largo just growled wordlessly under his breath.
They rode in silence to the glade and reined their ponies just outside the entrance. Largo watched in irritation as Frodo climbed off the grey and wrapped its reins loosely around a slim tree branch.
"That'll never hold," he muttered.
"It will hold him," Frodo said, rubbing the pony's nose gently. "Hey, Strider, hey," he murmured to the pony. "You'll stay for me, won't you, lad?" The pony whickered and nuzzled the hobbit's dark curls.
"I don't believe this," Largo mumbled under his breath. He gave Frodo a sceptical look. "You can just tell him to stay and he will?" he demanded.
Frodo smiled and shook his head. "He's Rohan bred," he answered. "They are the greatest horse-masters in Middle-Earth and they trained him well. If his reins are draped over something he is trained not to wander off. He's on alert nearly all of the time." Frodo's smile became sad. "Even little ponies are trained for war when you dwell under the Shadow. Ponies and children." He turned away and the pony began nudging and nuzzling him again.
Largo gave him an exasperated look as he climbed down from Briar. "Really?" he said. "Well, just out of curiosity, are you going to do whatever it is that you planned to do here?"
Frodo came out from behind his pony with a set look on his face. "Was this place anything before?" he asked.
Largo shook his head. "Just a nice place for a picnic," he answered. "We used to come here all the time when we were growing up." Just get on with it so that we can go home! he growled inwardly. He didn't want to remember.
Frodo walked over to the entryway, where long ago someone had uprooted enough trees to leave an opening to the glade. He stopped short, surveying the mess, his face turning a horrid shade of white.
Largo tied Briar to a much sturdier limb and joined the masterful Master of Bag End. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight. It was far worse than he had remembered. Gone were the tall, stately trees of picnic days, the familiar logs that they had spread about the open area for seats, the gentle, unbroken pool of soft grass. In their place, standing not fifteen feet from the two hobbits was a vast heap of logs and branches, broken down by time and by burning, thick ash and unburned bits of wood spreading out from it like a slowly spreading disease, choking the life out of the grass struggling to grow around it. In some places where the grass had been burned away it grew back thicker and more lush than ever, but in other places it pushed up limp and sparse from the charred ground. A twisted heap of wood sat haphazardly across the far entrance, looking as if a woodpile had vomited, and great rents had been torn through the ground at the far end. Largo felt sick.
Next to him he heard Frodo's breathing grow a little more pronounced and he glanced at his companion. The Baggins was gazing around the glade with a look of horror and sorrow, but also, Largo was startled to notice, recognition.
Frodo turned toward him. "Would you mind staying here while I have a look around?" he asked.
Largo gave him an incredulous look. "I certainly don't intend to go in there," he snapped.
Frodo nodded slightly. "Right," he said, seeming to take the snapping in stride. He warily moved to the centre of the glade where he slowly turned in a circle as if looking at everything. Even from about forty feet away he looked ill.
"Are you all right?" Largo called, feeling a bit concerned.
"Stay there," came the firm answer. Frodo began making his way towards the bonfire area, but turned aside instead to examine some small, rather broken down trees near the outer edge of the glade. Largo watched first with interest and then incredulity as his companion stared at the trees, then dropped to the ground and began searching for something. There was a pause as he apparently found what he was looking for, and then he gazed up at the tree he was nearest. Struggling to his feet he stared a moment longer, and then, inexplicably, seized the stub of a torn-off branch and hoisted himself into the tree.
The poor tree had been so mutilated that one could scarcely call it a 'tree' any longer. The branches had been ruthlessly broken at queer angles, some of them removed altogether, and the top now sagged towards the ground, clinging to its former position by only a third of its trunk. It was here, about eight feet up, that Frodo stopped climbing. He was still for some time, looking at the jagged break, then he lowered himself a little and kicked off from the tree.
Largo felt his heart leap into his mouth at the sight of a hobbit, even the strange Frodo Baggins, dangling from a height like that with nothing beneath him to break his fall, however voluntarily. It simply wasn't natural. Frodo was clinging to the mangled limb with all of his strength, swinging back and forth silently. Almost against his will, Largo found himself racing to help the Baggins.
By the time he arrived Frodo had managed to catch hold of one of the stumpy branches with his toes and was breathlessly making his way down the tree. Largo caught him as he was fumbling for one last branch and tried to help him by wrapping his own arms around the Baggins and pulling him out of the tree.
The kick he received in return caused him to stumble and the two fell to the ground, Frodo still struggling in his grip. The weight of the Baggins landed heavily on his chest, knocking the breath out of him, and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware that a heavy weight rolled off of his chest and that the sound of ragged breathing (at first close by his ear) rapidly died away.
When he came fully back to himself he found that he was still lying on his back in full daylight. He squinted against the sun's brilliance and slowly sat up. Only a few feet away a strange figure was picking through a pile of burnt logs and ash and such. He was an odd-looking chap; skinny, dark-haired.
He rubbed his head for a moment and then groaned. Baggins, of course! What had he hit his head on?
The Baggins must have heard the groan for he came and knelt by Largo's side.
"You all right?" he asked.
"What happened? Largo muttered.
A look of embarrassment came into Frodo's eyes. "I'm afraid that I fell on top of you when you tried to help me out of the tree."
Largo winced. "Well, that explains the chest," he mumbled.
Frodo's cheeks grew rather pink. "Here," he said, "lean against this tree for a bit. It might help."
Together the two managed to wriggle Largo into position so that he rested his back against the broken tree. Then Frodo began feeling Largo's head all over.
"Ow!" Largo grunted. "What are you about?"
"Stay still, please," Frodo commanded in that detached voice that healers and doctors used when examining a patient.
Grumblingly, Largo obliged. After a time Frodo ceased. "Well, that's a relief," he said. "You don't appear to be injured, although I'd have a healer take a look at you, just to be safe. I'm certainly not one," he added with a Wry smile.
"No, you aren't," Largo agreed. His eyes narrowed in remembrance. "Just what were you doing in that tree, anyway?" he demanded. "You looked perfectly mad."
Frodo's face had almost regained its natural colour, but at Largo's words it turned a ghostly white again and an odd look came into his eyes as if he was remembering something unpleasant, but he shrugged and then the look was gone —although his complexion retained its unnatural pallor. "I was measuring the distance to the ground," he said in an off-handed kind of way.
"Why?" Largo wondered, not quite prepared to believe this statement.
Frodo shook his head carelessly. "Just wondering how high it was," he answered.
Largo did not believe him for a minute; at least, not considering that look. "Did you find anything interesting in that ash pit?"
"Some buttons."
Ah, this was interesting. "May I see them?"
The Baggins' voice became stern. "I left them there. We have no reason to disturb them at this time."
"Disturb buttons?" Largo was again incredulous. "Was there anything else in there?"
"It was a place of feasting and slaughter for the Ruffians," Frodo said sharply. "I'm sure there's more there. If you're well enough to question me then I shall assume that you're feeling better. Drink this." He handed Largo the water skin he always carried as they rode and gestured to the mash of splintered logs, broken boards, and what looked like wire directly across the glade from them. "I shall be over there if you need me."
"Why?" Largo queried again.
"I'm investigating," Frodo answered patiently. "Excuse me, please."
He rose to his feet and made his way cautiously towards the mess, sometimes pausing and examining the ground at his feet. Largo watched the entire procedure sceptically. Was the Baggins now a great tracker, too? He snorted derisively and devoted his attention to the water skin. Frodo had refilled it twice today —once as they were preparing to leave Plumgrove and once from the stream flowing across one corner of the last field that they had visited— but to Largo's surprise it was already more than half empty. He quietly drank about a quarter of what was left. By the time he finished that he felt well enough to stand again. The Baggins, on the other hand, was crawling around on his hands and knees in the dirt again.
How very odd. Largo watched him for another minute and then made his way over to the woodpile. When he arrived Frodo appeared to be tracing some kind of broken, weaving path, as if he were drunk. He would put his back to things, and look up —doubtless 'measuring' again—, and bend down, peering between a few oddly placed boards. His face was still that ghastly white, but another queer colour seemed to be gaining control —and not pink either. He was breathing hard and kept muttering things under his breath. The only word Largo could catch was, "No."
Largo approached as quietly as only a wary hobbit can. "Are you all right, Baggins?"
Frodo turned to face him, and Largo suddenly realised what colour his face was turning. Green. "Mr Bracegirdle," Frodo said rather breathlessly, "I believe that I'm ready to leave whenever you are."
"Just a moment," Largo nodded. "I want to have a look around here myself."
Frodo nodded, a queer look on his face. "Just - don't - touch anything," he managed.
Largo raised an eyebrow at him, but the Baggins only turned and slowly made his way towards where they had left the ponies. Largo shook his head slowly at the departing figure, head bowed, grey-green cloak wrapped tightly about him as if it were the dead of Winter, and then turned to the woodpile.
His own investigation proved rather fruitless. There was a lot of wire twisted around the wood, and most of them had collapsed inward, giving the appearance of a woodpile, but one or two still stood, looking a bit like rather small chicken pens. In one of these he found a green hair ribbon, crumpled and trampled into the dirt. Shrugging, he pocketed it and went to find the Baggins.
Frodo was discovered on his knees and leaning heavily against a large oak, shoulders heaving. A pile of vomit lay to one side of the tree.
"Why?" Largo heard him choking. "To be taken as-" He twisted himself around the tree, retching again.
Largo waited until the bout had passed and then moved to Frodo's side. "Seen enough?" he queried casually.
A string of sheer nonsense, quiet but fervent, poured off of the hobbit's tongue. Once he finished he leaned against the tree again, clutching desperately at his necklace, tears silently tracing lines down his dusty, pale cheeks.
Largo's brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Care to repeat that in plain words?"
"Not really."
"Would you like me to help you get on your pony?" Largo demanded.
Frodo was already trying to get to his feet, bracing himself against the trunk. "I-I wouldn't mind," he answered shakily.
-fjfjfjfjf-
Belle was more than a little surprised when the sound of the smial door being thrown open echoed down the passage and Largo's booming voice announced, "We're home!"
"So I hear, but why?" she demanded, leaving the ink pen where she dropped it on the kitchen table in her haste to reach the door. "It's only a little after four - ohhh." Her voice trailed away at the sight of Largo's strained face and Frodo's white one. Frodo offered her a small nod and made his way quietly down the passage to the room he slept in. Belle hurried to Largo's side.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
Largo shook his head and began hanging up his light cloak. "I have no idea," he returned. "I took him down to the Burning Glade and he was sick."
"Oh." Belle gave the retreating figure a motherly glance. "Poor dear."
"Poor dear my foot," Largo muttered under his breath. "He was acting like a mad thing out there."
"Mad?" Belle was sceptical.
"Climbing trees, digging through dirt, crying for no reason, vomiting," Largo ticked each ailment off with his fingers. "Yep, perfectly mad."
Belle gave him a cool look. "Quite the tale."
Largo gave her a bewildered one in return. "I'm blessed if I can figure him out, Belle. I looked the place over and didn't see anything that would make someone act like that. And he won't answer my questions, either. I did try, sis," he added a bit emphatically.
Belle sighed. Typical Baggins, or at least Frodo, it seemed. Would he stay this secretive if they married? For a moment the question briefly flashed across her mind (a worrisome thought, to be sure), and then it was gone. "Well, maybe I can get something out of him while I try to get him to eat."
"Huh," Largo snorted. "Bet he won't."
"Well, I can still try," Belle returned sharply. "You'll have to fend for yourself for tea. I thought that I would be the only one here, so I made bilberry scones."
"Ugh," Largo muttered, following his sister to the kitchen.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find something," she said consolingly. "I'm going to make him a light mushroom broth."
"Ten coppers says he doesn't take it," Largo muttered.
-fjfjfjfjf-
Largo may have been accurate in that assessment, Belle thought as she knocked at Frodo's door for the third time. After receiving no answer yet again she announced, "Frodo, I'm coming in," and pushed the door open.
The master of Bag End sat on his bed, frantically scrawling on a piece of paper. Another letter? Belle wondered. About him on the coverlet were scattered a plethora of other papers, some covered in a fine script and others in a semi-scrawl that barely seemed related to the finer hand. He glanced up at her, and Belle felt her stomach twist at the haggard look in his eyes. It was the one from Sterday afternoon and Sunday night, and it stood out more strongly than ever. Haunted, maybe; or perhaps—regretful? No, it's stronger than that. What's stronger than—
"I don't want it," he said quietly.
"You poor dear," Belle said, placing the tray on a small table by the head of the bed. "Largo told me all about it. Is there anything I can get you that might help?"
He shook his head. "No, thank you. I only wish to be left alone."
"What about a nice spot of tea?"
He shook his head. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't even seen what I brought you," she protested.
"I can smell it," he returned. "Please, take it away."
Reluctantly she picked up the tray. "If you don't eat something you'll wither into a shadow," she complained.
Frodo gave her an obstinate, yet almost desperate look. "That would be my own affair, wouldn't it? And far better than a wraith, I think."
The stubborn hobbit was leaving Belle with a desire to thump her head against the bedroom wall. "Is there anything you do want?"
"No, thank you."
Belle sighed. "Very well, have it your way." Reluctantly she exited the room, determined to speak with him at supper.
-fjfjfjfjf-
Frodo Baggins did not come out for supper. When Belle finally took matters into her own hands again and entered the tiny bedroom he lay sprawled across the bed, sound asleep. She quietly returned to the kitchen and prepared a meal tray for him, making sure that it was well covered, even going so far as to brew a cup of lavender tea as that Sam had suggested. This time she left it on the table and then paused, just watching the Baggins for a minute or two. He looked so delightful lying there, and so young, with his dark curls falling softly over his brow and his peaceful face unblemished by the creases which seemed to frequent it so much during the day. One arm was draped limply across his body and that maimed right hand was curled under his chin, likely clutching at his necklace again, as he did so often when he was awake. She smiled indulgently at the slumberer, and then with great daring fetched his grey cloak from where Frodo had draped it over the back of a chair and spread it over the supine form. Dropping a light kiss on the white forehead she murmured, "Sleep well, dear," and slipped back out of the room, unknowingly missing the nasty turning of Frodo's dreams by about ten minutes.
-o-o-o-
Credits:
Frodo's song at the beginning is straight from Master J. R. R. Tolkien.
A/N: I'm sure that most of you figured out what was happening in this chapter, but to those of you who didn't I will be explaining much of the last two chapters in in some upcoming ones.