author's note: thank you for reading! still in the editing process with the rest of the story, but slowly making headway.
disclaimer - all lord of the rings characters that appear in this work of fanfiction are property of JRR Tolkien. My OC is my creation.
"Daisy…"
His eyes turned black, the whites of them disappearing into inky darkness. An evil grin split across his face, ever widening, until the edges of it reached the corner of his jaws and delivered up the red tunnel of his throat to the open air. A guttural, bloodcurdling laugh descended upon me, the merciless sound wrapping itself around my throat like fingers as it grew louder, until I could hear nothing else, could feel nothing else...I couldn't breathe...I couldn't move.
"Why do you flee?"
The shadow of his outline overpowered me, swallowing my tremulous frame whole. Hands hardened from years of layered callus curled around my wrists, sinking like teeth into the flesh that cried out in pain as he gripped tighter and tighter still, until I felt the bones would shatter in his grasp.
"It is useless to try..."
I tried to scream-
"You cannot escape me."
I surfaced from the terrible nightmare, the scream that begged for release in my dream following me into waking. Trembling violently, I raised my hands to my face, felt the sweat that beaded in tracks heavy with salt down my temples. My breath came in heavy, uneven gasps as I fought to catch it. I gulped in deep draughts of air that never seemed to satisfy my thirst for it. The world's spinning came to a slow and I found myself lying in bed in the guest quarters at Bag End. Frodo Baggins was my master. This was my home now. Safe, unharmed, far from the monster lurking in my dreams.
My vice grip on the coverlets slackened, the material wrinkled from being bunched and knotted for so long between clenched fingers. The knuckles were bone white and visibly shaking and they felt stiff and painful as I tried to move them. Sparks of pain shot up and down my leg as I threw back the covers, letting the air wash over me as I perched on the edge of the bed, still reeling from the dream. Sunlight wormed its way through the threads of the drawn curtains, found chinks in the borders of the cloth and leeched onto the wall where it could find purchase. The sound of jovial birdsong filtered in, muted by the windowpanes.
I closed my eyes, grounding myself in what was real and firm and solid under my feet and in my hands. It was just a dream…
The cool downy softness of the sheets rasped under my palms as I stroked them, feeling each fiber rake against the calluses there. I wiggled my toes in the rough fibers of the carpet as I stood to my feet.
I crossed the room and drew back the curtains, the light of early morning streaming in through a window that overlooked the gently rolling hills of the vale below. Winding threads of climbing ivy and tall grasses brushed up against the house outside, and a mighty oak tree danced lightly in the breeze. I opened the window and let the wind rush inside, breathing in the smell of dew and rainsoaked grass, feeling refreshed by the air that seemed lighter and clearer after the storm. Everything seemed promising and new again.
After dressing in Master Baggins' old clothes for what I hoped would be the last time, I stepped quietly out into the main house, seeing now in the light of day that the tunnel which had been buried in darkness the night before curved away toward the epicenter of the hill in which it was burrowed. It disappeared behind the frame of the main atrium which served as an access point for the parlor, another small room off to the right which looked to be a study upon first glance, and my own quarters. Another larger atrium lay another hallway's length behind it.
I took in my surroundings with renewed interest, feeling slightly out of place and nosy despite the fact that he had magnanimously invited me to think of Bag End as my own home. I was sure that there were still rooms he regarded as private and off limits for viewing, but I had yet to find out which those were, and wanted to steer clear of any closed or even cracked open doors in case I happened upon them accidentally.
The padding of my feet was the only noise that disturbed the dozing calm of the burrow, besides the creaking of floorboards which groaned under my shifting weight. Master Baggins was either still asleep or had absconded entirely during the earlier hours of dawn.
I passed through the parlor, glancing at the hearth which looked rather forlorn without its crackling fire. It was even more magnificent in the light of day. The great, curving shape of a half circle was hewn from the paneled wall, calling to mind the shape of a rising sun, and propped above it was a small but trustworthy mantel which displayed trinkets and baubles and precariously stacked books of various titles.
Three portraits were proudly displayed in a line over the crowded little shelf, all set in round frames of gleaming burnished bronze. One of them, a raven-haired lady with rosy cheeks, seemed to be smirking down at me, her intelligent eyes ablaze with impish zeal. Facing her was a round gentleman with a kind face and deep creases which curled around and softened the hard set of his mouth. He stared back at me, as if he understood more about me than I even knew myself, and I could see that in life he had been a more reserved and mellow soul than the fiery lady in the painting next to his.
The third study was not like the others, being a rough charcoal sketch on parchment yellowed with age Its subject was a young hobbit in the prime of his life, the benevolent eyes set under mismatched brows, one of them being raised with the same air of mischief that I had perceived in the raven-haired lady's portrait. His button nose lent a playful sweetness to the rest of his rather expressionless features, betraying his age to be that of a fellow I guessed to be no older than his mid thirties. The subject had thin lips which seemed to disappear almost entirely as they tightened against the urge to smile, but I could see traces of it turning up in the wide-set corners despite how determined he had been to hide it.
I wondered who they were, knowing at least that they must be dearly departed family, given the loving care with which they were mounted and their place of honor above the fireplace. With great effort I forced myself to move on to the kitchen, my gaze lingering on the three faces which loomed above me like sentinels, silent guardians over the burrow they perhaps had once filled with children and traditions and much laughter.
Ducking under the porthole, I found the kitchen to be as vacant as the rest of the house, one shutter pulled back from the half circle window while the other had been left closed to block out some of the light. The great stone hearth, adorned with its blackened brick and grate caked in old layers of soot, had been lit at some point during the morning, but now only sizzled with dying embers. The cramped dining table was clear, no evidence of having been used since our discussion the night before, except for a piece of parchment, a fountain pen with an ink-stained tip, and a coin purse slumped over on its side.
I reached for the letter and was met with the sight of Master Baggins' ornamental scrawl.
Miss Daisy,
I have departed for the day to take advantage of the fair weather while it lasts and go a-wandering in the Eastfarthing woods. Expect my return by dinner, no later than supper. I have enclosed an advance on your salary in order that you might procure some comfortable garments for yourself. It won't do to have you walking about the Shire in my things for very long, for some of the pieces which I wore often are quite recognizable from my tweens. It might do more harm than good in terms of drumming up a needlessly avoidable scandal.
P.S. the Gamgees live in Number 3 Bagshot Row, if by some unlucky coincidence you find yourself in need of rescuing.
Respecfully yours,
Frodo
I sat back in the chair, being met suddenly again with loneliness in light of his confirmed absence. The feeling surprised me, having thought I'd long since become accustomed to solitude in the weeks following my flight from Bree. In fact, since as long as I could remember…
Perhaps it had been his presence that alerted me to the fact that though I had been content in being alone, perhaps loneliness I was not so intimately acquainted with. Having left Bree on the brink of starvation to begin with, I had long since learned the balance needed to tiptoe the knife edge separating survival and death. It forced me to stave off such luxuries as yearning and wishing for things beyond more a more substantial meal or water that did not taste slimy with pond scum. But now that I had been given the opportunity to think on it, I realized that his companionship the night before had already spoiled me to my core. Even silence in the presence of another was more consoling, more pleasant, than enduring it alone.
It was nearing midday when I walked out into the garden with a new piece of parchment in my hand once again. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of the verdant dale, still adorning its faded patchwork of the last of the summer wildflowers. It spread out in all directions below the gently sloping knolls which found their end in the valley of the Bywater, the crown of which I stood upon now, flecked with quaint little patches of farmland and lovingly tended garden beds here and there.
The village of Hobbiton lay tucked away at the foot of a tall hill on my right, just over the arching rise and fall of a little bridge providing passage over the Water, its tide now swollen and wild after the refreshing downpour of the afternoon prior. Everywhere I looked my eyes were met with lush and blazing green so that I would not soon forget the color of them, their mounting banks peppered with withering blooms and the glinting surface of water, the wildness of it all unspoiled by the settlements that had been gently carved out of the natural shape of the land. The hobbits loved the natural world in which they lived, not taking from it, erasing it with their presence, but instead becoming one with it and magnifying its beauty. They made themselves fit into the landscape, dissolving into the background of it, until it was hard to distinguish smial from hillock, gardens tended by hands from the knots of wildflowers which were cultivated from the heart of the soil itself.
All traces of the storm had passed away into the east, where I could still see tattered remains of the mighty cumulonimbus giants which had grumbled and shook with thunder during the starless hours of the morning. Clouds like bushels of cotton embedded into the wide expanse of shimmering blue above my head. A balmy, lenient sun lspread a gold-washed light over a world just beginning to bear the first murmurs of autumn's return.
The turf gave way beneath my feet, squashy and pliant like carpet, and it squeezed pockets of mud between my toes as I reached for my walking stick and made for the gate. The coins hidden in the pocket of my breeches thudded against my thigh in unison with the pace of my uneven stride, a musical clinking sounding with each step. My heart purred at the simple pleasure of a walk alongside unkempt nature, lifting my spirits despite the twinging pangs beginning to stir in my bad leg.
By the time I reached Hobbiton, much more crowded than it had been on the day of my unheeded appearance in town, my leg was throbbing and in need of a brief respite before I could move on. I leaned against a sturdy looking fence post, which I hoped would not fail me as I entrusted all of my weight to the wooden pole. My grip around the walking stick did not lessen, eager to return to my duties no sooner did my leg allow.
As I waited, I observed the crowds which mulled about the square. It swarmed with activity and conversation, passersby waving at one another with a nod which suggested relationships founded and nurtured through many generations. Farmers dragged indolent pigs with much difficulty as they fought against their leads, their endeavors to hasten through the bustle of the midday throng impeded by beasts with a different plan for the day entirely. I dug my teeth into my bottom lip as I attempted to hide amusement, watching a particularly obstinate animal who had decided, in the middle of his unhurried stroll, that he would prefer to lie down in the dirt and bask in what little remained of the summer heat, much to the dismay of his keeper.
A cluster of children darted across the scene in a playful wink of daffodil yellows and jewel-toned greens and reds, tracking carelessly through mud and splashing through puddles which had begun to recede under the noonday glare. My leg felt much improved and so I righted myself, took up my stick and began to weave in and out of the flow of bodies which moved in unison to and fro across the courtyard. I dodged a pair of two hobbit ladies on my way into the seamstresses, the eyes of whom I could feel boring into my back with burning fascination as I passed. Already my presence in Hobbiton was becoming hard to ignore, as strangers could not hide long in village which prided itself upon close-knit friendships and old family histories.
Much to my relief, I found the shop to be empty, sharing the space with only a shriveled little creature behind the counter who looked up as I walked inside. I approached her with some reluctance and drew the coin purse from my pocket, determined to make quick work of my errands. Apprehension grew with each passing moment under that probing hawkish glare.
"Opal Smallburrow at your service," she said in greeting.
"Thank you kindly," I replied, forcing myself to ignore the hobbit lady's squinting and unabashed stare. I emptied the coinpurse on the counter. "I need at least two stays, petticoats, a cotton chemise, and two overskirts, all cotton if you please. I don't have much preference for color or patterns; whatever you find to be most affordable will do nicely. My concern is more for practicality and comfort. Here are my measurements."
I pushed the neatly folded piece of parchment to the woman's side of the counter.
"I do not know your face," the seamstress ventured haltingly. "I know everyone, and everyone knows everyone round here."
I offered a tight smile that I could feel did not reach into my hardened eyes. "You would not know me, ma'am, as I am not from around these parts."
The spark of intrigue fanned into an inferno.
"Not from these parts!" She exclaimed, unable to hide the quivering excitement in her voice. "Why I should say so, miss! Who are you? Where are you from? What's your business here?"
"Daisy, ma'am, I'm come from Buckland," I replied. "I am the new housekeeper for Master Baggins."
Disapproval sprang up quickly in the effervescence of her manner like weeds in a tulip garden. "Indeed," Mrs. Smallburrow gave a haughty sniff of disapproval, and began to focus on collecting her payment for the skirts and stays. "A strange fellow you've taken up with, my dear girl."
"So I've heard," I replied, hardly surprised at the turn the conversation was taking. In fact, I'd predicted it.
"Are you sure you want to be meddling with such a place as Bag End? I've heard talk of queer sounds coming from over Hill...very queer Mr. Frodo himself became, after returning out of the wild blue last autumn. He used to be such a charming young lad. Frightful handsome, if I do say so myself. All the lady folk were quite taken with him. My own daughter went through a season of being sweet on him, and hoped she might catch his eye, but Mr. Smallburrow and I are indeed grateful no such thing happened. I wouldn't want any of my children mixed up with the likes of such an unsavory character…"
I grew weary of the steady stream of gossip as soon as it had begun. I was able to tune out most of the chatter, even as it continued on after the conclusion of our business, and busied myself with collecting the spare coins that Mrs. Smallburrow returned to me. Somehow the old seamstress found a way to proceed with her monotonous prattle, all the while writing a handwritten invoice for the items ordered, a feat I both admired for the adroit show of balancing two tasks at once and yet undeniably vexing for it slowed her progress down considerably.
I could hardly wait to excuse myself from the woman's odious company and return to Bag End. At least there it was quiet and undisturbed by gossip, the origins of which could be traced back to the imaginations of aimless old women running unchecked by rational thought. It was an irony which would be lost on Mrs. Smallburrow, who even then, as I began my desperate retreat toward the front of her shop, had begun to regale me with the infamous disappearance of Frodo's equally peculiar uncle, Bilbo Baggins. The old hobbit woman's warning fell on deaf and unappreciative ears.
"A queer family, the lot of them," Mrs. Smallburrow shook the hoary curls gathered in a knot at the back of her head. Her displeasure for the situation could not be mistaken, as she would not allow I. "Mark my words, young miss, you'll be running out of there with your tail tucked between your legs before the moon's finished waxing."
"I appreciate your concerns, Mrs. Smallburrow, and they've been duly noted, I assure you," I insisted. "But I think I'll be quite all right, and I beg you not to worry about me, seeing as you have your own children to mind."
I bid the nosy seamstress good day, waited until the farewell was returned, and escaped the shop with much relief.
. . .
That night, as evening quickly approached, I prepared a meager supper from the scraps I was able to scrounge from barren larders. I made note of the chore which needed immediate tending, and made a brave attempt to set aside my own misgivings about having to return to the market so soon.
During the course of the afternoon, I had dutifully begun to pore over the unkempt conditions of the sprawling home, taking note of what needed my attentions first and foremost, until a plan of attack began to take shape. It was not a dirty place, perhaps a bit more dusty than it should have been after a few years of apathetic upkeep, and disorganized, with piles of belongings shoved into corners and forgotten, often assembled in groups of objects that did not belong together. I found an earthenware pot with a lid that did not belong lumped in with a leaning tower of books in one corner (his collection of which, I had noticed during my meandering through the halls, proved to be the most prolific in number). And piled upon the hutch in his kitchen were more books, rolls of parchment I discovered to be maps of alien lands I'd never even heard of, and a cup of tea that had been left there and forgotten. The task of putting Bag End back into a state of cleanliness and order would be a monumental one, but one that I found myself itching to achieve.
Dusk encroached on the borders of Hobbiton, bringing with it an otherworldly chill which belonged in part to the thick undulating layers of mist materializing from the surrounding woods. I studied my surroundings, unable to accustom myself to the beauty of this corner of the Shire, all but tuning out the mounting scream of the kettle far behind me. Supper awaited the arrival of the master of the house, the table set with cutlery and plates and tankards of light beer. I, too, felt suspended in time, waiting for him to walk through the bright green porthole. I folded my arms and propped up my chin on the shelf it provided, drinking in the sight of the vale as the gloaming of evening deepened to an indigo dusk, the flicker of candlelight appearing in the windowpanes far below. Perhaps its people were not yet so captivating, but no sooner had I arrived in this beautiful corner of country did I love the tall grasses covering its escarpments, its little brooks that laughed and gurgled as it tumbled over pebbles and rocks. I wondered what secret loveliness the woods guarded behind its perimeters, an excursion that would have to wait until time permitted.
At last, I could hear the protesting squeak of the doorjamb as the Master Baggins stepped into the foyer.
"Hullo!" he called out. "I'm come home, Miss Daisy! Is supper ready? I'm positively ravenous..."
I met him at the entrance to the kitchen, where I'd set up meager offerings of supper. "That's what happens when you try to sustain yourself for an entire day on a single apple."
He laughed at the unerring truth of my accusation. "You're not wrong, I expect," he replied, dodging with ease the maternal disapproval I had not bothered to hide from my tone. "I shall have to be more careful about planning for sustenance on my meanderings."
Frodo took his usual seat, and I did the same opposite him. It did not escape my notice that already I had begun to think of the place across from him as belonging to me, laying claim to it in the private recesses of my mind without seeking his approval or wanting it.
He took a distracted sip of nettle tea and looked around at the kitchen, which I'd spent the better half of the afternoon scrubbing and sorting. "The place looks wonderful already," he said. "Is this nettle?"
"It is, I found a cluster of it in your garden and helped myself," I said. "And I have not done much, mostly taken account of all that needs to be done. It was quite dusty in here…among other things."
"So that explains why all this expensive wood looked so dull," he quipped lightly. "I thought it was perhaps just getting old. I suppose being in the care of two bachelors for so long would leave its mark on the place."
"It is good that I've come then," I replied. "I believe a good polish will do it a world of good. And perhaps a bookshelf."
"I do have own quite a few already," he said, quirking a brow at my comment, bracing himself for the blow of censure he seemed quite certain was coming his way.
"Do you?" I countered. "I believed perhaps you did not even know what a bookcase was, seeing that I found the entirety of your collection shoved about in corners where they don't belong."
"You are a feisty little sprite aren't you?" He replied, though not stung by the allegation, as my offering of evidence was incriminating and delivered with a note of good-natured teasing. "I concede, I should have taken more care to put my things away. I suppose you think I have shouldered you with a great burden, and perhaps will never find it within yourself to forgive me."
"Not at all," I replied. "Quite the opposite in fact. I find the challenge exhilarating."
"Never in all my days would I have considered that tending to the likes of me and my mess would be deemed an enjoyable undertaking," Frodo mused. "Indeed, how troublesome I've become in my old age. I really should repent of such careless stewardship of my dear old Uncle's beloved home."
"Bag End belonged to your Uncle?" I asked, the question heralding the appearance of an innocent and well-meaning curiosity. It reared its head unexpectedly at the nonchalant mention of a personal detail at last. "Then those are not your parents above the mantel in the parlor?"
"Indeed no," he responded, curling his pale hands around the teacup in front of him in search of relief from the cold which filtered in through open windows. I again briefly regarded the missing finger, a detail of his personhood I'd catalogued the night before. An invigorated blush began to surface in the cool marble of his cheeks. "Those are my uncle Bilbo's parents. Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. I know very little about them beyond their likeness in the portraits. I put Bilbo's next to theirs, to honor his memory since his departure."
"Oh," My heart wilted painfully within me, face to face with the immensity of such loss. "I am so sorry, Master Baggins…"
He choked a little on his mouthful of tea, and I was baffled by the sudden show of mirth.
"Oh, he is not dead," he replied, his voice hoarse as he attempted to recover from the light skirmish with death more quickly than his body would allow. "Merely taken to traveling, or as he called it "a long well-deserved holiday", and he does not mean to ever return. He has in fact settled in a place called Rivendell with the elves, too old to continue his journey. I miss him dearly and think of him often. Especially on our birthday..."
Frodo brought his sleeve up to his mouth to wipe away the moisture left behind, the fragrance of nettle tea nipping the air. The little nods to impertinent manners I observed in him here and there ever taunted my expectations, as I had always thought gentry to be slaves to polish and propriety. Or perhaps...I called into question my own rampant imagination, finding it only natural to ascribe to him the devil may care roguishness I was somehow convinced came naturally to him. Perhaps with wealth came freedom, and he did not need to comply with social constructs in order to be respected and well liked in the way that lesser hobbits did. Not that he was respected or well-liked much at all, it seemed, judging from the conversation I'd been subjected to with Mrs. Smallburrow that afternoon. Perhaps, then, he did not see the need to play by the rules of society any longer, and wealth and prestige had little to do with it after all.
I dredged myself up out of deep, wandering thoughts and straightened, pouring tea for myself and Master Baggins before he could forget that the task now fell to me to keep our cups full.
"Our birthday?" I pressed.
"Yes, we share a birthday, something my Uncle Bilbo always explained was the reason for his fondness of me," Frodo said. "Of course that was not the extent of it. I suppose he loved me for many reasons that he did not divulge to me out loud, but it was a special attribute of our bond, having the same birthday of September 22nd."
"September 22nd," I repeated. "That is not far off."
"I suppose not," he sighed wearily. "Another year, already passed...I can hardly believe it."
"And how old are you, Master?" I asked.
"I thought it was considered impolite to inquire after a poor old hobbit's age?" He teased, and I could tell from the lightness of his tone that he was not offended in the least. "I will be turning fifty two this year."
I gasped aloud, clapping my hand over my mouth as the sound erupted at the provocation of what could only be described as pure and unadulterated shock.
"Oh, Master, I am sorry..."I stammered. "I did not mean to offend."
"I hope in time you will come to find that is hard to offend me," Frodo replied, assuaging my fears.
"It is just…" I began, stopping to collect my thoughts along the way. "You look so young. I had guessed you to be thirty five, thirty-six at very the most, and so it was a shock indeed to hear that you are much older than you look."
At once, the contours of Frodo's expression seemed to recoil in a visibly pained flinch, and his countenance pulled back like a late tide, until he appeared like a fortress carved from stone, as stoic and impenetrable and cold as the lofty columns of a flank of snowy mountain peaks.
"Yes...a trick of the light, I suppose. Or luck. Which I can attribute my good fortune to, I do not know."
"Luck?" I pressed him. "I cannot imagine how good luck would allow a fifty year old to look half his age."
He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, but I knew better now, attuned to the worried furrow of his brow and the grim setting of his mouth. I had discovered with a small measure of amusement that he was hardly ever successful in hiding his emotions behind those painfully large eyes of his.
"It is hard to accept, seeing as it is a very rare gift, but the only thing I can safely attribute it to is perhaps not being well acquainted with the typical stresses of working life. Gentry has its benefits, with never having to suffer want or lack being one of the greatest among them. My Uncle Bilbo looked well preserved until he was eleventy one, a fact which perplexed and annoyed the whole of Hobbiton I daresay. But enough about me. What about you? You seem quite young yourself."
"I am thirty six," I replied.
"Thirty six!" Frodo exclaimed. "Why, you've just barely left girlhood behind...I had guessed you were young, but not quite as young as that. What are you doing so far from your parents? What brought you to Hobbiton?"
"Forgive me, master, if I do not see the good in divulging too many personal details of my past," I replied, careful to guard my tone. "I am merely a servant, and an uninteresting one at that."
Frodo at last perceived that I had begun to grow nervous under his line of questions. "On the contrary, I find you very interesting. But, Daisy…" he said quietly, almost to himself. "I daresay I did not mean to pry. It is just, I wonder...and perhaps there is a little too much of the ordinary hobbit left in me that cannot pass up a good story. You seem to have quite a tale to tell, if I'm not mistaken."
He was not. But it was not a tale I wished to share with the world, being fraught with peril, cruelty, and loss beyond even my own grasp of understanding. Words had long since failed to make sense of grief, though I had tried many on for size in the early days of my plight, finding most too insipid to detail the profundity of feeling, and others much too maudlin, turning me into the frail likeness of a damsel in distress in one of those mindless fairy tales I used to turn my nose up at. But I had long since surrendered, knowing that perhaps I would never understand what happened to me, or why I had been the unwilling victim of misfortune. Certainly it was not a struggle I wanted to share with a person who was not acquainted with the terrible oppression of suffering, not when heartache still held fast to my very shadow, and weighed down my every footfall with its heavy load.
"I'm afraid it is a tale I am not ready to tell," I replied.
"I cannot say I blame you," he said. "You seem quite burdened with whatever load you are carrying."
There seemed to be a quality of empathy in his voice that I could not rationalize. But before I could even begin to make heads or tails of it, he stood up to leave. His supper was half-touched, which he tried to hide by pushing the leftovers around his plate, but it did not escape my notice.
"Thank you for supper, Daisy," he said with a slight bow of his head. "and the honor of your company."
It was the second time he'd left me to the hounding of many unanswered questions and dark thoughts, and though I could not deny I found my master of an amiable and likable sort, I was beginning to resent him for it.