You're My Light in the Dark

Chapter 18 : Moments of Passing Years — July

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Lauren groused, breathing heavy.

Pointedly ignoring her, I dropped my pack next to a giant oak, near one of my favorite camping spots on the way out to the North Farthing.

Two weeks have passed since the Lithe holiday. Two weeks since Frodo and I started our engagement. I don't really know what else to call it. It's not exactly dating, is it? Hell, we live together. See each other? Have a relationship? I dunno. All I do know is that most of the time since Lithe I've spent traveling for work and haven't seen much of Frodo at all.

At any rate, whatever our relationship now is… it's given me more incentive to see us through the war safely, preferably in one piece. Which means more training for Lauren and me. And Lauren has never been camping before. Not proper camping, anyway, like the sort we're going to need to be used to. So when Angelica asked me to do a particularly long run for a delivery, I pounced on the opportunity it presented and brought Lauren along.

For her part, with all of her whining, it seemed she wanted to make this trip as miserable as possible. Not even the serene, picturesque countryside of the Shire back roads could be enjoyed.

"It's too damn hot to be running cross country," Lauren commented, for what seemed like the umpteenth time. After spending hours listening to it, I just about had enough.

"Oh, for the love of God, stop your bitching," I finally snapped. "Or need I remind you why we're doing this?"

"No, you don't have to remind me," she replied in a petulant manner, all but grinding her teeth, "But God-forbid you ease me into it, you slave-driver." Ever the child, she then threw her own pack to the ground to drive home her point. "But, no: no nice, brisk jogs for us! We've got to full out sprint up and over hills!"

Eying the thrown pack with distaste, I questioned, "I thought you were used to runs? You guys steal from Farmer Maggot's crops all the time."

"Shows how much you know, sister-dearest," she said lightly, using that spiteful, trademark title she so enjoys using when she's angry with me. "It's been a long time since we've stolen from Farmer Maggot."

"Right, like I believe that," I bit out, rolling my eyes. Merry had, after all, just bragged to me the week before about the impressive haul they'd gotten on their last run.

Lauren gave a bitter, incredulous laugh at that. "Is that all you think we do? Steal and pillage… like we're some band of juvenile delinquents?"

She was baiting me and I very well knew it, but after listening to her whine for hours – something that she hasn't done since her figure skating days after fights with our mother – I couldn't take it. Not when there's so much on the line. Our lives. Our friends' lives. The Ring. The world. Everything in between.

She knows what's at stake. That's what gets me. You'd think that knowing her life, and the lives of others, may very well depend on this training she would buck up and deal with it. But no, apparently that's asking too much. And so, feeling a bit vindictive about it all, with her not taking this seriously enough, I commented, "I should have known this would never work."

Her eye twitched. It's an old sore spot between us, after all. The only thing we ever really fought about back home: the differences in our sports. Between the two of us, I had always been in better shape – the amount of conditioning I used to do for elite-level gymnastics was outrageous, something you'd see out of a military boot camp. Lauren always disagreed and thought she could handle as much as I could. But when it came down to it, this was much the same attitude she had shown back then as well, whenever she conditioned with me. The whining, the slacking.

While her attitude doesn't surprise me, it's very disconcerting considering the circumstances.

"Fuck you," she ground out, "Fuck this." And in the next heartbeat, she was snatching up her pack and forcefully throwing it over a shoulder as she began stomping her way back down the road in the direction leading to Hobbiton.

"You know what we're up against! You know what we're in for!" I shouted at her back. My tone was harsh, full of anger, but I was hoping it would stop her childish behavior – hoping that she would turn around and come back. Oh, she stopped all right. But there was fight still within her. Spinning on her heel, even with the distance between us, I could see the fury swirl in her eyes.

"I never asked for this!" she yelled, waving her hands about, gesturing to the expansive fields around us. "I never asked for any of it!"

For a moment I thought she was referring to the training. But no, it was more than that. It was everything. Our losses, our situation… Middle Earth and its fate. She'd finally hit her breaking point. The setting sun shone from the west behind her, glinting off her loose ponytail and making the curls shine a bright gold color. It contrasted sharply with her red face – red from exertion, red from the time out in the sun. She looked mussed, and goodness knows I probably look much the same. We're in the same boat, her and I.

Damn her for giving up so easily.

"I didn't ask for this, either!" I yelled right back. The yellow and green fields in my peripheral vision started to blur a little, caused by the heat, the stress, and my emotions, no doubt. But still, I took a step forward toward her, the force in my step jarring me just a bit, making my teeth rattle. "And what, after everything we went through, would you really go back to our life before? Or have you forgotten what we put up with?"

"We might as well be back there at this rate!" she ranted. "Just look at we've become – at what you've become, Kat! You're turning into her!"

I didn't have to ask who 'her' was. Our mother. The insult of it caught me by surprise, making my breath stop dead in my throat.

The balance beam was slick beneath my feet, sweat from the summer heat having saturated the leather. No amount of chalk helped at this rate. I'd been standing there too damn long – an hour after practice ended, at least – arms raised above my head, behind my ears, hands clasped, feeling like a statue. Sidney, my beam coach, wretched woman that she was, was standing on the mats at the end of the beam looking up at me with a sneer. "Just go flight series!"

As if it was so easy.

It wasn't the going backward that scared the hell out of me. It was the full twist I was adding to it.

But I went. Handspring, handspring – and there it was, going crooked again. Instinctively, I stopped short, just before the layout-full, my hips twisting sideways, my feet slipping against leather in such a frightening way.

"Get out!" Sidney screeched. "Out! Out of my gym!"

It was the longest car ride home of my life. Silence, except for my mother drumming her old, worn wedding band against the steering wheel, and Jill fidgeting uncomfortably in the back seat. We dropped off Jill at her grandparents' house, and that's when my trouble really began.

"Why didn't you go?" my mother asked, voice clipped. It had been this way for a week between us, ever since my block – my fear – on beam first began. It's all we ever talked about now.

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"Yeah, yeah it is. Because it's the truth."

"No, it's not, Katherine. The truth of it is, is that you're wasting your time. My time. Everyone's time. Because you can do it, you just refuse to."

'As if you would ever know,' I so desperately wanted to say. She had never done gymnastics in her life, after all… had never so much as touched a balance beam. But instead I bit my tongue.

It didn't matter how much I wanted to do it, or how much I had trained for it. There was always that nagging possibility in the back of my mind… of missed feet, of slipping, of splitting the beam, of cracking my head open…

Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much you want it, your body's fight or flight instinct kicks into place and freezes you up, prevents you from going. Not that she would understand it. Not that she ever has.

"Why don't you just do it?" she asked again.

"I. Don't. Know."

"Why won't you do it?"

I didn't deign that one with a response. I turned away from her, propping my elbow on the car door, my chin in my hands. A moment of glancing out the window, the 11:00 PM darkness and the rain as we pulled onto Route 93 North, heading back up home to New Hampshire. A moment was all it was. There was no warning (there never was), just the slap – a backhand from her place in the driver's seat. She caught me in my left eye, hard enough to bruise, and with a cry, my eyes instantly welled up.

It hadn't been the last time that night, nor that week, either.

All over a flight series.

All over a stupid recreational sport.

"You're turning into her!" Lauren accused.

Trying to get my breath back, I gave a slight cough. It didn't help. "Well fuck you too," I choked out. To her credit, she looked almost horrified at herself for saying it aloud. But it's too late to take it back now.

That's it for me – officially the end of my rope.

I turned; dug through my pack, quickly found one of the wrapped loaves of bread I'd been carrying for meals and threw it at her. It landed in her general vicinity and then rolled to a stop in the dirt at her feet. "Go home," I spat, in no mood to put up with her any longer.

Bending down, turning the package over in her hands, she perhaps made it all of two steps before saying, "I won't make it home before morning – I won't even get that far after all the running we did today."

"No, no you won't."

I turned away, starting to make my way off the road, further into the fields, toward my favorite campsite. Only a moment or two passed, and then I could hear Lauren's tired, shuffling footsteps behind me.

"I'm sorry."

Not bothering to respond, I merely hitched my pack higher up my shoulder and pushed myself onward, as I always did. Eventually my sister will learn how to push herself on too. I just hope it will come sooner rather than later.

I don't know what compelled me to draw her. Perhaps it was my argument with Lauren on our camping trip – it brought back memories I had been trying to bury with our new lives… with our training, with worries about Frodo's upcoming journey and the Ring.

I guess I didn't bury it deep enough, because just one mention of our mother was enough to send me reeling.

In the comfortable, homey atmosphere of the new local Starbucks, I could almost forget the misery of the last few weeks. Almost.

The Sunday crowd at the mall outside the coffee shop was not so much 'a crowd' as it was 'a fleeting few.' The weather was particularly nice outside so not many people wanted to be cooped up indoors. As for us, we were too damn tired to do much else but sit in comfortable armchairs and enjoy the blissful air conditioning, a luxury we hardly got with the numerous hours spent in our sweatbox of a gym.

Jill slid an iced coffee in front of me, our third one of the day – and knowing her, it was something loaded with caramel and sugar, I'm sure. I smiled my thanks as she hopped into the armchair across from mine, and held up a sugar-filled concoction of her own. "To days off and not having to deal with crazy Romanian bastards."

"Here, here," I replied and leaned over to clunk our plastic cups together. My first sip was mostly whipped cream, which was more than fitting as it was one of the things our coaches never wanted us to eat.

Jill managed to get more on her face than in her mouth. She had taken the lid off to sip directly from the cup, the straw be damned. The end result was whipped cream dolloped from lips to nose and a little on her cheeks. Not that she minded. She giggled through it all, trying her best to clean her face with her tongue instead of a napkin. It was quite the show if the reaction of a nearby group of boys was anything to go by.

"So," she started, wiping at the last remnants of cream with her fingers, "How's your mom now that you have your flight series?"

I gave a slight grimace. "Oh, you know, the usual: That she was right, and I was wrong and being ridiculous."

Jill rolled her eyes. "As if a full twist on beam isn't a big deal," she bit out, sarcasm dripping from her words.

"No kidding," I replied.

It was quiet between us for a moment, each of us sipping at our coffees. Jill was biting her lip, a finger tracing the edge of her cup. "My mom wanted to call child services, you know."

My heart stopped.

"But she didn't. She knew you and Lauren could be separated, and she didn't want to do that to you."

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "It's a good thing she didn't. Someone reported her… maybe four years ago? Never found out who did it. But we lied through our teeth for that very reason. All we have is each other. We can't risk losing that too."

The devil you know is better than the devil you don't, after all.

Her brown eyes were sad, full of pity. I was all too aware of her gaze fixated on the bruise on my face. Thinking about it only served to make the bruise itch like crazy. "You have me," Jill said softly.

My hands found hers across the table, and I gripped them tight. A smile pulled at my lips. "And you've got me," was on the tip of my tongue. But I never got it out. The words died in my throat when I saw Jill's wide, startled stare.

She wasn't looking at me. Rather, she was looking over my shoulder. Before I could even ask what was wrong, I heard it too: the distant shouts.

"Katherine Tamsin!"

Yelling. Frantic. Pissed.

Yep, that was definitely my mother.

We didn't need to think twice. Practically in unison, we grabbed our cups and ran to throw our almost full coffees away in the trash barrel. Thank God we had heard her, because just as we got back to our table to pick up our bags, she was at the entrance to the coffee shop.

"Katherine Tamsin!" my mother yelled again, storming in angry enough to spit nails. "Did I say you could fuck around at the mall today?"

She had, actually. She'd been lounging about the living room watching medical dramas when I'd asked. She specifically said I needed to be home by 4:00. A quick glance at the wall clock said it was only 2:30. This wasn't the first time she'd done something like this. But it was definitely the loudest.

Her face was bright red with exertion, huffing as if she'd run the entire length of the mall to our favorite hang out spot. I stood stock-still, painfully aware that every person in the small Starbucks was watching… and that some of the people in the middle of the mall were peering in. The boys that were checking us out earlier were now openly laughing.

Cheeks burning, aware of all those eyes, all I wanted was for the floor to swell up and swallow me whole.

Without me being able to help it, tears slipped down my cheeks, then dripped down and marred the portrait.

Is that really what I've become? Unpredictable and controlling? Our mother had been nothing short of a psychological terrorist… to be compared to that, to actually be accused of becoming that… it was a stab to the heart.

"Kat, what's wrong?" Frodo asked softly. I hadn't heard him come into the room, so his sudden presence was a little surprising.

I shook my head, sniffling just a bit. "Nothing."

He came to kneel on the floor beside me then, gentle fingers on my chin forcing me to look him in the eye. "Don't you lie to me," he reprimanded, words hard but somehow his voice was still full of tenderness. He's one of the only people I know that can manage to do that.

Smiling slightly through my tears, a sad attempt at masking my upset, I said, "I was just… thinking about the way things used to be."

He was silent for a moment, blinking slowly, and as he noticed the drawing on the coffee table I could see the understanding light up behind his eyes. "Your mother," he commented.

All I could do was nod.

Pursing his lips, he turned his full attention to the drawing of my mother. It was not one of my best: certainly nothing to rave about. There was something about it I couldn't get quite right. I had gotten all the details: the heavy make-up around her eyes, her hair pulled back in that severe bun she so preferred, and the frown lines at the corners of her mouth and between her eyes. But still, there was something that felt incredibly off to me. Maybe it was just the simple fact that almost a year has passed since I last saw her.

"She looks… unhappy," Frodo observed. I couldn't help the small laugh at that. Leave it to Frodo to state the obvious in just about the nicest way possible. 'Unpleasant' or 'frigid bitch' were probably more apt descriptions. The only thing missing were her devil horns. Or maybe I'm just biased…

"I know just the thing," Frodo said with vigor. Putting the portrait of my mother back on the coffee table, he got to his feet and dashed out of the room. "Stay right there!" he called over his shoulder.

His footsteps sounded down the hallway, a door opened, then silence. Curious. I had half a mind to follow him and found it difficult to just stay put as he asked. But I didn't have to wait long. As I swiped at the tears on my cheeks, he was back in the doorway, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. He had this wide smile on his face, clearly proud of himself.

"This will do nicely, I think," he said.

I couldn't help but goggle at him. "Frodo, it's 10:30 in the morning."

A shrug. "I have no errands to run today."

I don't either, as it's my day off from Angelica's shop. But of course, that doesn't mean I'm completely off the hook. There is always something to do around Bag End...

But he wasn't taking no for an answer. He sat on the couch, essentially above me because I was still seated on the floor propped up against it. He poured the first glass, a generous amount, and handed it off to me. I raised an eyebrow at him. "Drinking is hardly the way to solve problems."

"Too right. But it will certainly make you feel better," was his matter-of-fact response.

I swirled the dark burgundy liquid around the glass, taking care to not spill it. I may not enjoy the taste of wine, but I can certainly appreciate its value. And seeing as Bilbo is a connoisseur, it's likely to be quite expensive. Frodo, taking a rather large swig, was flashing me a grin. Times like these, with this sort of cheekiness, remind me that he truly is related to Merry and Pippin.

"Do you have drinking songs where you come from?"

Frodo, ever the reciter while tipsy at the Green Dragon, is sure in want of new material. "I'm sure there are," I replied, "But I don't know any, I'm afraid. Didn't really drink much – I was too young. You had to be 21 to drink legally."

That was met with a disbelieving scoff. "That's a bit old, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "Priorities were much different than they are here. We had problems with people operating machinery, like cars, while drunk. Lots of people died because of it. And besides, no matter where you go, young adults are never the image of maturity. My sister and your cousins are prime examples of this."

Pippin behind the wheel of a car… shudder the thought. Alcohol or no, it was enough to send shivers running down my spine.

Smiling faintly, he gave a slight nod. "Ah."

"Why? When did you have your first drink?"

He tilted his head back against the couch cushion as he bit his lip in thought. "I don't recall. Wait, no, I remember. The first drink I had… I snuck some wine at one of the Brandybuck Yule parties."

The little troublemaker he speaks of still doesn't quite compute for me. I shook my head.

"We don't have any laws about drinking, like New Hampshire, of course," he was quick to add. "But I was maybe five years old at the time, which is young, even for us. My mother certainly didn't approve."

"I can imagine not. Five! Did you even know what you were getting yourself into?"

He laughed loudly at that. In response he just wiggled his eyebrows in a wouldn't you like to know sort of way before taking another large swig. "What about drinking games, then? You and your sister seem to have games in abundance."

"There's Never Have I Ever," I offered, remembering how Lauren, Jill, and I once played. Jill's mother had supplied us with alcohol for our sleepover – had insisted that if we were going to try it, that we should experiment under her watch than on our own. It probably would have been the same for pot, had Jill shown an interest in trying it. Naturally, we hadn't known what to do with ourselves once we finally got our hands on some booze. So we Asked Jeeves, and Jeeves provided. The beauty of the internet.

"What's that one about? Sounds like it might be similar to True or False," Frodo said, referencing to the game we often play with our friends.

"It is," I replied. "Except, instead of people guessing whether your statement is true, it's all about what you have or haven't done. You say, 'never have I ever' then give a scenario… and the people who have done it take a drink."

He smiled around his glass. "Ah, it's another 'get to know you' game."

I gave a nod. "So, for example, I could start with: Never have I ever stolen wine at a party."

Smirking ruefully, he took a drink. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this."

I held up my hands. "Hey, you wanted to play…"

"Indeed I did," he said. "Never have I—"

But a sharp knock sounded at the front door, cutting him off. "You have a lot to answer for, Bilbo Baggins!" a high-pitched voice squawked. "First you insult us, now you mock us! Open this door! Right now, I say!"

Frodo has the patience of a saint. And I say this because despite all the antics we've put him through I've only seen him get angry on a handful of occasions. But the look of contempt on his face at this lady yelling at the front door was enough to give me chills. Gone was the happy-go-lucky hobbit that suggested day-drinking to distract me. Instead, his eyes were now hardened, eyebrows furrowed, and lips pressed into a thin line. I don't think I've ever seen him so serious. "Frodo?" I asked in uncertainty.

"Shhh," was all I got from him. Quickly, silently, he grabbed the bottle and our wine glasses from the coffee table and tip-toed past the couch and toward the coat closet in the front hall. He motioned me to follow with a tilt of his head. He beckoned me inside the closet, handed me the wine, and with a swift flick of the wrist, shut the door behind us.

"Why—"

"Shhh." In the darkness of the closet, I could just make out the pleading in his eyes for me to remain quiet. Like many of the closets in Bag End, this coat closet is fairly large. Large enough for the two of us to fit comfortably. I took a seat on the floor leaning against the back wall under the hung up jackets while Frodo remained standing next to the door, pressing an ear against the wood. I sipped at my glass of wine, wondering what in the world was going on. The woman at the front door had stopped her screeching, at least for the moment. But it all made sense when we heard the lock click, and the front door squeak as it swung open. Lauren was out working and Bilbo wasn't due home until supper. I felt my jaw drop at the woman's audacity – she actually broke into the house! – and for just a moment Frodo let his head drop to his chest in disappointment. It seemed as if he'd been expecting this.

Is that why he had us hide in the closet? To catch this woman breaking and entering?

Frodo glanced back at me, the dark, intense look still pulling at his features. He held up a hand, motioning for me to stay where I was, before exiting the closet. I could hear rummaging in the kitchen, the clattering of silverware. Then Frodo started bellowing. "Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!" he said, the loudest I'd ever heard him get. The sudden shouting made me jump a little, the wine in my hand sloshing around the glass, threatening to spill over. The Sackville-Bagginses… of course! They're from Bilbo's side of the family; they hate that Bilbo made Frodo his heir – they felt Frodo was being given what was rightfully theirs, as they were Bilbo's next of kin before he adopted Frodo. I knew this from reading the Lord of the Rings, but since coming here they haven't had much presence in our lives; in fact, I had almost forgotten about them.

"What do you think you're dong, letting yourself into our house uninvited?" Frodo continued.

"Well, it should hardly be your house, should it?" she said loftily, loud enough for me to hear her clear as day despite being in the closet down the hall.

"That's something you don't have a say in," he returned. "I defended you, you know, when Bilbo first accused you of ransacking our china. I thought you better than that."

"And I thought you better than engaging yourself with a foreign girl," Lobelia sneered. "But I guess we were both wrong."

"Is that meant to be an insult?" Frodo said without missing a beat, as if he'd been expecting her to bring me up. "It's not any of your business anyhow."

"Of course it's my business!" she said, voice shriller than ever. "You, Frodo Baggins, and your so-called uncle are bringing ruin upon our family name! First we're deprived of our inheritance, and now we come to learn Bilbo has approved a match with a foreigner – an outsider. It's a mockery and a disgrace and I will not stand for it!"

Frodo's voice took on a dangerous edge as he said darkly, "Bilbo's not here, but he'll tell you the same: it's not your business. Furthermore, what's it say about you and your son, that my uncle would rather go out of his way to adopt me, would rather see me marry an outsider – as you say – than to ever see you inherit anything? Perhaps, Lobelia, you should be more concerned about your priorities than about someone else's money. Now put down those spoons and get out of my house before I call on the sheriff."

There was more clattering of silverware as, presumably, Lobelia dropped the spoons back where she'd found them. Two sets of footsteps sounded down the hall as Frodo escorted her out, high-pitched indignant squawks of protest sounding the entire way, before he slammed the front door shut behind her.

Figuring it safe, I clutched my glass of wine close and came out of the closet. Frodo slouched against the front door before sliding down to a crouch, holding his head in his hands. As I approached, he glanced up, face full of regret. "I'm sorry. I was hoping to spare you from that."

I know he means the judgment – of Lobelia calling me an outsider. It's the same sort of judgment Esme holds against Lauren. I don't really expect anything less. But it bothers him, the way some people think less of me for it. With Bilbo's approval, it doesn't matter, does it? Especially since in the end, I'm exactly that: a foreigner. It isn't anything new, a topic we've already talked about at length for months now, ever since Esme disavowed Lauren over tea at Brandy Hall. So I gave a small smile, crouching down with him. "Spare me from what? Your crazy family? I was bound to meet them eventually. Besides, Lobelia sounded lovely," I drawled. "She could give my mother a run for her money, by the sounds of it."

His expression softened a bit at that. I held out my glass of wine in his direction. "Here, you could use a drink. It helps when dealing with crazy family, or so I've heard."

"But, Kate, we haven't even had Elevenses yet," he said, jokingly pointing out the irony of our reversed roles by mimicking my earlier protests.

I gave a shrug, much like the one he gave me earlier when he first presented the bottle. "You don't have any errands to run today," I reminded him.

He took the glass with a small smile. "Drinking is hardly the way to solve problems."

"But it will certainly make you feel better."

Frodo's eyes glittered in mirth as the conversation came full circle. "Too right."