An Enemy Made

          They’d been struggling through the wild for fifteen days since Frodo was wounded at Weathertop, and this morning it was plain Frodo could not rise.  “I’m going to scout the road to Imladris,” Strider finally said.  “Frodo can’t go further without more aid than I can give him.”

          The rest nodded, white faced as they huddled about the stricken Hobbit.

          “Keep him as warm as you can,” the Man advised as he pulled his hood over his head and slipped out of the hollow where they’d taken cover.

          The Ranger had been gone for about an hour before Frodo’s eyes opened.  They were no longer a clear blue—were instead cloudy, as if something covered them.  Sam moved to lift him into a sitting position to give him a drink when Frodo shook his head.

          “No, Sam,” the Hobbit whispered in a voice that no longer sounded like the rest remembered.  “I can’t fight it longer, Sam.  It will take me—soon.  Please, Sam—your promise.  You must do it—do it now.”

          Sam was shaking his head, his face grey with shock and his body trembling.  “No, Mr. Frodo—you can’t ask me to!  Please!”

          “Sam, you heard what it—what it will do to me!  I can’t do it any more, Sam—I’m losing—losing the last of—my strength.  Please, Sam—don’t—don’t let it—don’t let it take me!”  Then as Sam just shook his head, Frodo said, “It’s in your pocket, right?”

          Sam finally whispered, “Yes, Master.”

          “You promised me, Sam.  It’s time.”

          Merry and Pippin could see the struggle it took for Sam to set down the mug he’d been holding, and to reach into the pocket of his trousers and bring out his folding skinning knife.  He held it out to Merry, his hand shaking.  “Please, Mr. Merry—open it for me,” he said between gritted teeth, grudging the words.

          Merry took it reluctantly, looked at it, and his own face white he asked, “Are you certain, Frodo?”

          “Do you—do you want to see me—see me following them, Merry?  Being forced to kill you at their command?  Being sent back to the Shire to destroy it—haunting Brandy Hall and bringing down the Great Smial?  That’s what they’ll do, once I’m—once I’m taken by the shard and they take the Ring from me!”  Frodo turned blindly back toward Sam.  “Now, Sam—and take It—take It far away from my body!  Now!”  Swallowing, Merry handed the knife to Sam.

          Suddenly understanding, Pippin cried out “No!” as Merry grabbed him and held him back, drawing Pippin’s face down into his shoulder, burying his own eyes against his younger cousin’s hair.

          “Don’t look, Pippin!” Merry whispered.  “Don’t look.”

          There was a gasp from Sam, who reached down to slip the Ring out of Frodo’s vest pocket and put it in his own; and whispering, “I love you, Mr. Frodo,” he placed the blade to his friend’s throat.

 *******

          The Man felt the world of Arda skip a beat, then turned back to look toward the hollow where he’d left the Hobbits.  “No!” he whispered in an agony of grief.  “Not that!”  But in the depths of his heart he knew it had been done, and fury such as he’d never felt before in his life rose in him.  “Sauron—what you bring people to!  You think that Elendil and Isildur and Gil-galad and Elrond hated you then?  It’s nothing to what you will know now!”

          He suddenly stopped, hearing the chime of bridle bells, and he cursed as they grew louder.  “Too late!” he whispered.  “Too late for Frodo!”

          Moments later he and Glorfindel were approaching that hollow and looking down at the two whitefaced Hobbits who clung to one another, looked at the empty form surrounded by blood that lay on the ground.  “Where’s Sam?” Aragorn asked quietly.

          Pippin, shaking uncontrollably, pointed into a thicket of bristling pines nearby.  “Frodo told him—told him to take—to take It away from his body.”

          “Stay by them—calm them if you can,” the Man directed the Elf.  “I must see to Samwise.”

          He found Sam behind the screening trees.  The skinning knife lay at his feet, its blade stained with Frodo’s blood; and the Hobbit stood, his own Light fled for the moment, his reddened hands at his sides, his eyes empty in shock.  “Pippin said Frodo told you to get It away from his body?”

          Sam looked at him blankly.  Aragorn waited patiently until at last the response came.  “He made me promise—made me promise, Strider.  Said as he couldn’t fight no more.”

          The foster son of Elrond of Imladris and son of Arathorn wanted to take the Hobbit in his arms; the healer in him recognized that Sam couldn’t accept that now.  “He was right, Sam.  You did the only thing you could to save him.  Come—we have aid now.  We must go on.”

 *******

          Elrond looked at the Hobbit who lay unmoving on the great bed before turning to Isildur’s heir.  “Sauron knows not what he and his Nazgul have wrought, Estel,” he murmured in Quenya.  “He has forged an enemy whose strength he will never appreciate.  Frodo Baggins may be dead, but in being forced to slay his Master this one has taken on a wrath and purpose the likes of which Arda has never seen.  He would storm Barad-dûr itself now, and never count the cost.  Sauron is doomed.”

          An exhausted Aragorn looked between where Pippin and Merry stood with a stricken Bilbo between them to the still form of Sam Gamgee lying on the bed.  “Oh, I know, Ada.”

Stolen

      Lotho Sackville-Baggins stalked up the lane toward Bag End, furious beyond telling.  He’d just finished going over the sales documents for the smial with his cousin Timono Bracegirdle, and realized that he’d been cheated.  His cousin Frodo had not conveyed to him the position of family head for the Bagginses; nor had he sold Lotho the smials fronting on Bagshot Row along the base of the Hill--the titles and deeds to those properties Frodo had retained to himself.  Apparently Frodo was not as desperate for money as he had let on.

      Well, Lotho intended to confront his loathsome cousin and let him know precisely what he thought of him.  He’d show Frodo Baggins that the foul orphan couldn’t make a fool out of Lotho Sackville-Baggins and get away with it.  So when he opened the picket gate in the hedge surrounding Bag End’s gardens he almost pulled it off its hinges, slamming it behind him so hard it failed to latch at all.  Up the stone steps he went until he reached the front door, and pounded on it, but got no response.

      Curse his cousin!  Where was he?  He tried the knob and realized the door was locked.  Yet the small window by the door was open to allow a breeze into the hole--when not at home Frodo never left that window unsecured.  He turned through the gardens along the length of the smial, and noted that the window to Frodo’s study was open--no good for him, with the high back of Frodo’s writing desk to it and nothing of value kept upon it save for whatever vase of flowers that gardener placed there.  The two windows for the dining room were also open, again with nothing close enough to them to take.  The kitchen window over the stone sink was also open--and when he tried the kitchen door he found it unlatched.

      For the first time he felt a moment of triumph--Frodo had secured the front door, but not the back one.  Well, Lotho wasn’t averse to taking advantage of whatever chance showed itself, and he had long ago decided that anyone foolish and trusting enough to leave anything of any value unsecured where Lotho might get his hands on it deserved to lose it.  He would go in and see if he could find anything of any worth, or perhaps some papers in that study of Frodo’s he could use to his own purposes.  He opened the door quietly and slipped inside, closing it behind him also as quietly as he could, crossed to the passageways to the front of the smial on one side and deeper toward the bedrooms and privy and bathing room the other, and listened. 

      Down the passage he could hear Frodo singing, and realized why his cousin hadn’t heard the pounding at the door--the fool was taking a bath!  Down the passage Lotho crept, and pressing his ear to the closed door of the bathing room he realized he was correct--Frodo was indeed inside, and he could smell steam and rose oil, and hear the sound of sloshing water and Frodo’s voice raised still in the song Lotho’d heard from the kitchen.  Lotho’s lip curled in a satisfied smile.  So, he could do some poking!  He turned toward the far end of the hall.

      Frodo had never moved his own things into the master bedroom--no, he’d continued to sleep in the room he’d always slept in--that next to what had been Bilbo’s room before he’d left Bag End and the Shire, and it was there Lotho went next.  The door was open, and peering in Lotho could see Frodo’s trousers lying across the bed along with fresh small clothes to go underneath and a shirt recently pulled from his wardrobe.  His vest, a neat one of textured green and gold with a soft brocade backcloth and edging, hung from the valet stand, and something drew the interloper there.  Baggins carried a pocket watch Lotho had ever coveted, and now Lotho meant to take it.  It would be in the watch pocket, he realized--except, when Lotho examined the vest he realized the watch wasn’t there.  There was no watch there, nor hanging from the watch hanger sitting on Frodo’s dresser.

      Lotho growled with frustration.  This was no good, and Baggins was likely to be finished soon--he needed to find something to make this illicit visit worthwhile.  But as he started to let the vest go he realized there was something of weight in the right pocket.  Something small, but surprisingly heavy for its size.  What in Middle Earth could it be.

      Who is there?  Lotho looked about, almost expecting to see that Samwise Gamgee or perhaps one of his sisters looking in through the bedroom door; but no one was to be seen.  In the distance he heard the scrape of the tub--Frodo was finishing his bath, and was likely to come out at any moment.  He thrust his hand into the pocket and found----

      ----Well, it was small, and round, and indeed weighty.  He started to pull it out, and found it was a--a ring.

      A small, rather plain gold ring.

      It had no stone, no figuring, no etching.

      Quite a plain thing, really--nothing special--except...

      ...Except it was somehow remarkably perfect in its golden brilliance and simplicity.

      What?  Oh--yes--oh, I see you.  I’ve felt you.  Yes, an orc in all but body.  Yes, you will do--you will do nicely.

      And Lotho realized that one of the things he’d always felt calling to him whenever he’d seen Frodo over these past almost seventeen years could be his now.  He pulled it completely out of the pocket--except----

      ----Except it was fastened to a loop sewn within the pocket by a strong chain.  It cost him precious seconds to locate and examine the clasp for the chain, and he undid it, slipped the Ring off of it.  Then, prompted by some impulse he didn’t understand, he fastened the clasp once more and slipped the chain back inside the pocket, turned, and hurried back up the hall as fast and quietly as he could go.  He’d just made the kitchen when he heard the door to the bathing room open, and a stronger scent of rose oil filled the smial.  Almost Lotho remained, suddenly urged by quite a different impulse to stay and talk to Frodo about what he’d found.

      It is dangerous, child--very dangerous.  He understands It--you do not.  Let him take back the burden before It takes you.  He won’t blame you--but once you take It away from his influence you will lose whatever personal will you have ever had.

      Nonsense.  There’s nothing ominous here--merely a simple ring, a plain one, but of lovely gold, something of value, something he owes you for not giving you all he was supposed to surrender.  Oh take me with you, clever one.  Don’t leave me to that one!

      There was no real contest in the end--Lotho slipped out of the door, closing it as quietly as he could, and ran to the side gate and through it, fled down the steps and toward Hobbiton, one hand jammed into his jacket pocket where he held in it the Ring he’d just stolen--not realizing he himself had just been commandeered.

      “Sam?  Is that you?” were the last words he heard before he was out of earshot of Bag End.

Betrayal Most Unexpected

            He awoke upon the mountainside, lying there for some time in confusion as his body, which he began to realize was quite naked, struggled to again begin sorting out perceptions and to reaccustom itself to breathing regularly.  He was, he realized, cold; and his left hand was clasped tightly about--about something--something fairly small and hard and unaccountably warm.  He was just beginning to think he should open his hand to see what it was he so clasped when a shadow came between himself and the light of Anor, and a great shape alighted beside him and settled mostly over his renewed body, offering the warmth of its plumage.  “Olórin--is all well with you?”

            His voice, when he could convince it to be heard, was raw and rough at first.  “I--I believe so.  Gwaihir?”

            “Yes, friend--I have come.  Elrond and the Lady have sent me.  I would have been here earlier, but a moment of emergency came, and it was required of me that I come from much further north than I ought to have been.  I am to bring you to the Lady Galadriel.”  For a moment the lovely warmth that had begun to once again revive his mind pulled away from him, and the cold wind reached his naked skin ere he felt the scaly roughness of the Eagle’s talon encircle him with great tenderness.

            “Can you turn your head, Olórin?”

            He’d barely tried to do so before, but now managed the task.  “Yes.”

            “Can you see the staff sent back with you?”

            He looked from side to side, then saw it--one apparently of finest, smoothest ivory, its top highly carved to resemble both a courtly torch and the finely wrought windows of Imladris, lying there against the outstretched fingers of his right hand.  “I see it.”  He reached carefully and somewhat clumsily; once his fingers closed around it he felt his muscles shudder slightly, then relax and grow more pliant.  “I have it,” he said, and even he could tell his voice was more sure and his old strength was returning to him.

            “Excellent.  And your Ring--do you have it?”

            Carefully he opened his left hand enough to realize that it was Narya that he held there, now becoming so warm that it was in danger of burning his hand.  “Yes--wait, and I will don it again.”

            “No!  That you must not do--not under any circumstances!  Know this--you must not don your Ring.  To do so would be very dangerous!”

            The memories of the confrontation on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm were flooding through him, and he felt his heart grow cold with fear.  “Then the others--they did not make it out of Moria?  The orcs near the east doors--they captured or killed them?  My fall so disheartened them?” he found himself demanding.  “He has It back again?”

            “Nay--rejoice that It has not made Its way so far eastward--not yet.  But a most untoward event has occurred, and new councils must be taken immediately.  Have you your staff?  Can you carry it?  If not, once we are aloft tell me and I will take it in my other talon to hold it safe until we can reach our goal.  Now I must fly, and as swiftly as may be.  Save your strength--conserve it, and under no circumstances give in to the urge to don your Ring.  The temptation to do so is likely to be great.”

            He felt himself lifted up, close under the down with which Gwaihir usually brooded over his mate’s eggs and their resulting eaglets when it was his turn to guard their nest.  Again his body warmed, and as it did so he felt more strength wafting through him.  Then there was a surge, a great rush of air as Gwaihir spread his wings and gave a leap outward from the face of the mountainside of Zirak-zigal, then after a terrifying plunge downward they soared upward once more, and the Eagle circled before setting out on his course.

            “So, the Lady has seen that I was sent back?” he called out against the rushing of the wind.

            “Not only Artanis, but others as well, my friend.  The small one who bore the burden saw it also.”

            He felt a distinct stab of concern.  “Frodo?  Is all well with Frodo?”

            “Conserve your strength, and curb your curiosity.  It is needful I bring you as swiftly as can be done to Artanis and Elrond.  You hold still your Ring?”

            “Yes, but it becomes as hot at a glede.”

            “We feared that might happen.  Use the power in your staff to isolate it if you can that it not sear your hand.  But again, do not seek to don it or allow yourself to drop it.”

            His curiosity and fears raised, he did his best to follow Gwaihir’s instructions, sensing the rightness to them.  At last he was able to construct a cushion of air about the ring he held in his left hand that allowed him to at least hold it in some degree of comfort, and he drew that hand closer to his more exposed breast, allowing the warmth to dissipate across his skin.

            He heard from his bearer, “You are a much lighter burden than you were before, my friend.”

            Grateful for the deliberate distraction offered, he shouted out, “Am I indeed?”

            “Yea, so it is.  I believe that if I were to release my hold upon you you would merely drift upon the wind as does a feather of down.”

            He laughed, although he felt his stomach clench at the thought.  “Don’t do so, I beg of you!” he called back.  “I feel life within me again, and this flesh shudders at the thought of losing that life betimes.”

            “Oh, believe me, mellon, I will not.  We have full need of you now.”  Powerful beats of those great wings drove them northwards.

            Northwards?  Why were they going northwards--north and somewhat west?  “I thought we were going to Lorien?” he shouted.

            “We go to the Lady, yes, but she is not in her land--not now.  We drew her out of there two days past--Artanis and such of those as we could bring with her.  Fortunately the means of controlling It are not learned all at once.”

            He felt his very skin creep.  “It has not taken him--Frodo--or one of the others?”

            “The Fellowship itself has remained true to its purpose--do not fear for that, mellon nín.  Be quiet now and rest and draw to yourself such strength as you can.  It will be hours yet ere I will bring you where you must be now.”

            He was a bit surprised when he felt his weariness overtake him.  “Can you take my staff?” he asked.  “I fear I might drop it if I sleep yet again.”

            He saw Gwaihir’s other talon move slightly, and he held out the white staff, seeing two toes carefully take it securely.  “Lodge the hand holding your Ring between your body and mine that you not lose it,” the Eagle commanded.

            “So I shall do,” he responded.  He found himself yawning, and he pulled his right hand to his chest, cradled Narya between left and right, and at last gave over to sleep.

            It was fully dark but with the sky lightening somewhat over the mountains to the east when he awoke to realize Gwaihir was plummeting downward some.  “Are you awake, Olórin?” he heard the Eagle call to him.

            “Yes.”

            “Take back your staff if you can--I shall need my other talon free shortly.”

            He managed to grasp it, then gave a tug to assure the Eagle he held it firmly again.  At once Gwaihir freed his claws of it, stretching his other foot briefly before drawing it more comfortably against his chest.  Then he stretched out his wings and the plummeting slowed.  Now they were drifting downward in spirals, until he saw they came beneath the tops of the trees and toward the ground.  Suddenly a flurry of controlled beats of great wings, and gently Gwaihir settled to the ground, and there was a further flurry of other movement about him as Elves and Men rushed toward the Eagle and his burden, and as Elrond and Galadriel came to his side. 

            Elrond placed his hands under the Istar’s shoulders, and he felt others place theirs under his thighs.  “We have him,” the Peredhel lord told the Eagle, and at last Gandalf felt the talon about him open as he was lifted clear and set upon unsteady feet.  Galadriel held a great white robe in her hands, and at a nod Glorfindel reached to take the ivory staff long enough for the robe to be slipped over the Wizard’s naked form.

            “It would appear the body beneath your robes is not as wizened as your countenance would lead one to expect,” the Lady commented laconically.

            “Is it not?” he responded.  “What is this?  Why have I been brought back here to Imladris?  Why are you here, Artanis?”

            Her eyebrows raised at the use of her old name.  “The play of the game has changed, for one of the counters has sought to crown itself that none thought possible to happen,” she responded.

            He searched her eyes, saw there, not quite hidden, a deep, tearing pain, feelings of betrayal.  He saw something else--there was a dampening of the power she’d always held about her.  He turned to look at Elrond, saw the same with him.  He felt himself go white with shock.  “You have both removed your rings!” he murmured, shaking.  “What has happened?  Has It taken Frodo, then?”

            Elrond’s face was grey with its own shock as he shook his head.  “Nay, although he is frantic with the loss of It.  My sons restrain him with greatest difficulty.”

            “Not--not Aragorn?  It can’t be Aragorn!  He has passed test after test!”

            “Nay--not Aragorn either.”

            “Is he here?”

            “No,” Galadriel sighed.  “He is held hostage by he who took the Ring.”

            At last it hit him.  He took a step backwards, felt the solid, downy warmth of Gwaihir support him.  “Celeborn--Celeborn has taken It?”

            “Even so--he came by night to their pavilion, even as we prepared all for their leaving upon the morrow; and he slipped Its chain from about the Ringbearer’s neck, and took It for his own.  I felt when he put It upon his hand, as did Elrond.  We immediately removed our own rings before he could perceive and command us.  But our protections failed when that happened, and orcs from the Misty Mountains assaulted Lothlorien, and he had to focus on that threat.  Such allowed the force of the Eagles to arrive and carry many of us away, including the four Hobbits, Boromir of Gondor, and many of my own folk who would be true to our purpose.  Others have fled elsewhere, and so it is that Celeborn has few about him who will willingly follow his bidding.”

            Lindir held out a chain, one similar to the one that had been used to secure the One Ring that Frodo might carry It.  Quickly it was threaded through Narya, and Gandalf settled it over his shoulders, saw that similar chains sparkled in the filtered dawn light about the necks of Elrond and Galadriel.  Glorfindel now held out a packet of lembas and his mithril flask of miruvor, and Gandalf accepted them, ate and sipped and felt a more wholesome warmth flow through him, felt his mind once more begin to work.  As he returned the flask he gave a sigh.  “You say that Frodo has become frantic with the loss of It?”

            “Yes--he is not quite fully mad, but there is no question It had already far too great a hold on his mind.”

            “Lembas--he must be fortified with lembas.”

            “You think that wise, Mithrandir?” Elrond asked, “possibly waking the Sea Longing in a mortal?”

            “We intended for all the remaining eight to have them--with that great evil in their midst, they had need of what strength lembas could lend them to fight it.”  Galadriel’s voice was most matter of fact.

            Gandalf nodded.  “So be it, then.  He still needs that strengthening if he is to fight both the madness of losing It and Its call until It is recovered.  Now--let us think what is to be done next.”

            And so the last Council was held there in an open glade before the doors of Imladris.

But, You Can’t!

            “Frodo....”

            Frodo turned to look at his older cousin, concerned by the sound of Bilbo’s voice.  “What is it?” he asked reluctantly.  He feared he knew what it was the old Hobbit would say.

            “You’ll be of age this year.”

            Frodo nodded, feeling the squeezing in his chest and his stomach clenching in on itself.  “Yes,” he managed to say.

            “And you’ll be ready to stand on your own.”

            Frodo decided to set aside one fear, the one he didn’t believe was true, first.  “Are you ailing secretly, Uncle?” he asked.  “When Drolan Chubbs saw you last week, did he find a growth or something?”

            Bilbo looked startled at the thought of it.  “A growth?” he asked, obviously surprised the idea had even been considered by his young heir.  “A growth?” he repeated, now looking amused at the thought.  “Oh, my stars, no!  Certainly not!”  Then, more concerned, he continued, “Drolan didn’t say anything about such a thing to you, did he?”

            “Oh, no--of course not.”  No, definitely not illness.  Then--then it was--the other thing.  The dread was spreading, but he did his best to keep it hidden, raising his chin and doing his best to look merely curious.  “Of course I know I’ll be of age, Bilbo dearest.  But if you think I’ll be eager to be my own Hobbit, to set up my own home----”  He knew that Bilbo meant no such thing, but this would be what most Hobbits his age would expect--even look forward to, after all.

            Bilbo straightened, looking taken aback.  “Me?  Ask you to leave Bag End and found your own household?  Why in Middle Earth would I even consider such a thing, Frodo Baggins?  Why else did I adopt you as my heir except to keep the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses out of it--and because I love you dearly and rejoice to see you here, here in Bag End where you belong?  No!  Even if you were to marry I’d wish you here, my dear boy, you and whatever deucedly lucky lass managed at last to win your heart!  I’d rejoice to know that it was the little feet of your children--yours and Sam’s--tracking dirt in and out of the parlor and kitchen rather than the elegantly groomed ones of Otho, Lotho, and Lobelia under the kitchen table, you know.”

            Frodo found himself searching his uncle’s eyes, seeing the earnestness of his expression, the entreaty in them.  And he saw the thing he dreaded more than all else there as well.  Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for Bilbo--not now.  He held his tongue as he held the old Hobbit’s eyes.

            At last Bilbo spoke.  “I’m old, Frodo.  I know I don’t look old, but I am, and you know it, too.  Most Hobbits don’t even make it to a hundred and ten, much less eleventy-one.  But, here I still am, an old Hobbit still looking--mostly, at least--like one in my sixties at most.  But I can’t make it that much longer and still--still be able to do anything. 

            “You’ve always known I’ll want to leave the Shire once more when I can.  And you’re aware, I’m certain, I swore to Rory and Gilda, Esme and Saradoc that I wouldn’t leave until you were of age.  Well, you’ll be that in September.  You’ll be of age, and--and I’ll be free to go back--go back and visit Erebor--pay back all the visits the Dwarves have made to me all these years.  I’ll be able to visit Rivendell again, and maybe even visit Mirkwood once more.  Oh, I know about the dangers and the giant spiders and all; but that one memory of the glory of sunlight on leaves and flowering vines at the top of the forest where the butterflies rejoice in the sunlight!  Ah, Frodo, you can’t begin to appreciate what that memory does to my heart!”

            Frodo remained quiet some moments longer before he finally spoke.  He was astounded he could sound so calm, and even that the voice emanated from him--it sounded so even and controlled.  “So, you’ll leave the Shire, and leave me Master of Bag End?”  He searched the older Hobbit’s face, and saw the relief and growing hope reflected there.  “You’ll be free to head off into a new adventure, and I’ll--I’ll remain here to fend off the Sackville-Bagginses, eh?”

            That look of hope was quelled, and he saw with a secret satisfaction the growing alarm that replaced it in Bilbo’s eyes.  “Is this,” Frodo continued, “why you educated me as you did in business and bookkeeping and investments, so that in the end I’ll be left to keep Otho and Lotho and Lobelia properly quashed?  So I’ll be left alone--again?  The ones I love most scattered all over the Shire or out wandering the wide world, and me left alone here in the midst of it?”  At last he felt his own terror filling him, causing his eyes to fill and his lip to tremble.  “Oh, Bilbo, but you can’t!  You can’t do that to me--to leave me alone again!  To take away the one pillar that keeps my heart upright in my body!  You can’t!”

            The tears were pouring from his eyes, he realized, and now he could barely see his stricken older cousin for them.  He could no longer speak at all.  He was shuddering with the grief he felt, the grief he could no longer hide or control.  He clapped his hands to his eyes.

            “But I’ve already planned it--I’ve discussed it with Gandalf--written to Rivendell and to Erebor!  Oh, Frodo!”  The words seemed to be fighting their way from miles away, through the roaring that had filled Frodo’s ears and the excruciating sound of his own sobs of fear and grief.

            At last there was a hand pulling one of his own hands from his eyes, pressing into it a clean handkerchief, one that a rather separate portion of Frodo’s mind recognized as one he’d given Bilbo last spring on the anniversary of the day his cousin had run out of Bag End without any such things in his pocket, running after the thirteen Dwarves he’d then followed to Erebor.  Frodo accepted it and straightened it, then bunched it up against his eyes as Bilbo reached forward to pull him against the older Hobbit’s chest and shoulder.

            “No, sweetling,” Bilbo murmured softly into his ear.  “I’m sorry--you aren’t ready for that as yet, I suppose.  No, my dear, beloved lad, no--I won’t leave you.  Oh, I promise--not until you are ready.  I won’t leave you alone again.  Please, Frodo--don’t cry any more.  I promise truly.”

            But instead of the reassurance he’d hoped to feel, Frodo now felt again a feeling of dread--but a far different dread than he’d known before, one he could put no name to.  And something, something from the back of his mind, told him perhaps this wouldn’t be for the best....

For Dwimordene's birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter. 

A Treasure Retrieved

            “What has it got in its pocketses?  Well, now we knows, doesn’t we, Preciouss?” Gollum muttered to himself as he sought the one he was certain held his treasure.  “Thief!  Where is Baggins?”

            Suddenly he heard a cry of surprise and pain; and although he could not see the one with whom he’d shared riddles in the dark, he had a good idea as to where he might be.  He ran toward where it sounded as if a creature might have tripped over a fallen stone, and found himself stumbling over an unseen body.

            “So, we has you at last, has we?” Gollum said, wrapping his hands about the neck he might not see but could certainly feel.  “Thief!  False!”

*******

            Some hours later, his stomach full, he murmured, “Ah--much sweeter meat than orcses!  Must try this again, perhapsss.  Yes, we likes Hobbitses very much.” 

            He sat back, then pulled the leather pouch he wore fastened to his rope belt loose, untying the coarse gut that usually held it closed.  “Here,” he said as he picked up a now-visible object and examined it.  “You’re a tricksy one, aren’t you, my Precious?  But look--you have a finger now, all your own for when I can’t wear you.”

            He smiled as he dropped Ring and finger into the bag....

With thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.  Warning--a very dark AU!

Angainor

            “Here, Mr. Frodo,” the Hobbit’s namesake crooned, “I’ve brought you some nice gruel, sweetened with honey, just the way you like it.”

            Frodo heard the young Hobbit sit down in the chair by his bed and set the tray on the bedside table, just as it had been placed there for every meal he’d had for the past how many years?  He was aware of Frodo-lad as a shadow against the light of the window, which was almost all he could see any more.  He blinked his eyes, hoping that this once they might clear some, allow some more detail to be seen as happened on rare occasions any more.  He was able to turn his head slightly, although it seemed to take the last of his strength to do so.  He did not wish to eat, but knew all too well what would happen if he refused the spoon--his nose would be held until his mouth opened automatically to take a breath, at which time the spoon would be popped in and his throat rubbed until he swallowed.  Too often had this been done to him in the years since the day he’d purposed to leave Middle Earth.

            They’d ridden that second day until after sunset, and the stars were shining brightly when the glow of the Elves surrounded them, and they’d found themselves in the midst of that great company heading for the Grey Havens.  Then at last Frodo had felt relief to see Bilbo drowsing on the back of his stout little pony that trotted gamely at the side of Elrond’s shining horse.  Bilbo might be drowsing, but he was here!  At least Frodo would not be the only mortal upon the ship or, if he lived to make it, on the shores of Tol Eressëa.  For he realized that he’d left the decision perhaps too long....

            The realization had finally struck Sam that Frodo was not going to Rivendell to retire--that he was intent now on leaving Middle Earth altogether.

            “And I can’t go with you?” he was saying plaintively.

            “No, Sam, not now.  Although your turn may come some day.  After all, you have been a Ringbearer, too, if only for a brief time.  But now, come and ride with me.”

            But Sam’s expression had become suddenly suffused with a deep and overwhelming anger.  “No!” he yelled.  “No!  We did not go through all that pain and misery for you to abandon me now!  I gave up a year of my life for you!  I left the Shire for you!  I walked through Mordor for you, and carried you up the Mountain when you couldn’t walk yourself!  No!  You will not leave me now!”

            Sam was wearing Sting, and he now pulled the sword out of its sheath and grabbed Strider’s reins from Frodo’s hands.  He put the point of Sting to Frodo’s side.  “Anyone makes a move,” he warned, “and I’ll kill him.  Got that?  You ain’t takin’ him from the Shire and from me!  You want to leave Middle Earth--well and good.  But you’re not a-takin’ my Master with you!”  So saying, he began the task of winding their way through the company of Elves, refusing to meet the eyes of either Elrond or the Lady--they were not friends now, but enemies who’d been intent on stealing his Treasure from him.

            An Elf afoot stepped toward him, and Sting’s point pressed into Frodo’s flesh.  The Ringbearer knew it had cut through the fabric of his cloak and shirt, and he felt the warmth slowly spreading--and he knew that the others saw as Sam withdrew it and held up the point to display his blood there.  “I’ll do worse,” Sam threatened, and the Elves moved back.  None followed now, as Sam led Strider out of the clearing and headed toward Hobbiton as fast as he could.

            “Sam!  You cannot do this!” Frodo had tried to explain.  “I can’t stay longer.  I shall die if I do.  It robbed me of too much, you see.  Please understand, Sam--I cannot find healing here in the Mortal Lands.  I cannot find happiness.  I cannot find love now--It saw to that.  I cannot do useful work--my body is too weakened and my mind too distracted.  Please, Sam, please let me go that you not see me weaken day by day by day, that you not find me after the memories take me, fled with that horror on my face....”

            But Sam was shaking his head, and at last he interrupted.  “I’ll fight them memories myself, Master.  I’ll fight them and hold them off from you.  And you are goin’ t’see our children born, Rosie’s and mine, and be there t’hold them, hear?”  And he led the way on, as rapidly as possible, although he’d finally sheathed Sting properly now they were clear of the Elves.

            Once they were back to the Road Sam had urged both ponies into a gallop, and they’d reached Hobbiton before daylight.  Sam had lifted Frodo bodily off of Strider and carried him up the steps into Bag End, where a confused Rosie had brought strips to use as bandaging and had helped strip Frodo and sew the flesh together where Sam had cut him.

            “But I thought as he was a-leavin’ the Shire altogether!” she’d protested once.

            “They’d thought to take him away too far,” Sam had growled.  “They’d thought to take him where I couldn’t come to him, not for years and years, if ever!  No--they ain’t goin’ t’do that.”

            He’d then carried Frodo from the parlor where the treatment had been given to one of the inner bedrooms that Mr. Bilbo had used to use to store some of his most expensive outfits, one that was fitted with an actual lock.  He’d put his Master to bed there, and had locked Frodo in while he’d gone to make a meal for him.  Then he’d come back and fed the older Hobbit his breakfast bite by bite, and given him a draught to drink, sip by sip.  “No--no one loves you more’n me, Master,” he’d said.  “And no one’s to try to take you away from me, hear?”

            “Please, Sam,” Frodo had whispered; but there was apparently poppy or other such herbs in the drink he’d been given, and he’d fallen into a deep if disturbed sleep.  He awoke to the realization he no longer wore the Queen’s jewel.

            He suspected that Gandalf had come to try to reason with Sam, but had been driven off.  And he’d heard Merry and Pippin outside the locked door after one of the times he’d gotten up and beaten upon the wood until he’d finally fallen in exhaustion.  “No,” he’d heard Sam say.  “Do the two of you want never t’see him again?  I won’t allow it!”

            “But if they offered him healing there....”  That had been Pippin’s voice.

            “You think as he couldn’t know healin’ here?” Sam had demanded.

            He’d not heard his cousins outside the door again, and he wasn’t certain how long it was before Sam had finally unlocked the door and come in, scooping him from the floor and returning him to the bed.  Again he was fed before Sam left and returned with a basin and towels and one of the silk nightshirts Aragorn had ordered made for Frodo in Minas Tirith.  “You ought to feel fine in this, Master,” Sam said as he slipped Frodo’s clothing off of him and began bathing him.  “Tomorrow we’ll see about washin’ your hair,” he added once he had Frodo cleaned and dressed in the nightshirt.  He set the chamberpot within easy reach, and helped Frodo under the covers.  “Now you rest easy, now.  You’re only disappointed you couldn’t go with your friends, but then it’s not good for lads to get everything as they want all the time, you know.”  With a kiss to Frodo’s forehead he checked to see that the rushlight would last for a time, gave Frodo a drink, then went out and locked the door behind him.  And as he heard that lock click, Frodo could hear the echo of the Ring laughing.

            Within a few days Frodo was ill in earnest, feeling nauseous and feverish.  A healer was fetched, but one Frodo had never seen before.  “This is Healer Thornwhistle from Tighfield,” Sam explained.  “I had my brother Hamson send him, as Master Thornwhistle is particular experienced with brain fevers.”

            “I don’t have a brain fever,” Frodo whispered, “but the--the memories--they’ll come back--in a few days.  Please, Sam; they’d hoped to have me well away from Middle Earth before they could come back.  They’ll--they’ll be like to kill me, Sam Gamgee!  Why didn’t you let me go?”

            Sam turned to Master Thornwhistle.  “You see as how it is, sir, since we returned, and how it’s been gettin’ worse?  He has terrible nightmares, and is certain as they’re of things as happened while we was gone.  Speaks of rings and great spiders--such things as never happened ’cept in old Mr. Bilbo’s most cracked tales.”

            Frodo looked on his friend with shock, for he’d never heard Sam being deliberately dishonest before.  And that look in his eye....

            Three days later Frodo felt distressed and restless all day; he was all but bound to his bed, however, with the blankets tight across his chest and tucked well under the mattress.  Master Thornwhistle, whose first name he never learned, came in and began to build a fire in the long-disused fireplace, explaining automatically, “Mr. Gamgee was concerned you might feel chilled tonight, Mr. Baggins, sir.”  Once the flames began to rise freely over the logs, however, the memories hit, and the Ringbearer began to struggle....

            When he became coherent again, it was to realize that he was being bathed by Rosie.  “No!” he whispered, for he did not wish her to see the extent of the scars he’d kept so hidden under his clothing.

            But Rosie had become aware of his return to consciousness, and began calling for Sam.  “He’s awake--he’s come back!”

            But he never truly came back, not from that one.  “You had both seizures of the heart and a major brainstorm, Master.  I’m so sorry, but Master Thornwhistle don’t think as ye’ll ever be able to rise again.  That Budgie Smallfoot was here--said as you’d asked him special to come and be here for the sixth, and he wouldn’t leave.  Had me move you back here t’your own room--said as it was too dark in the other room for you, that you needed air and to see proper light, much like when we was in Cormallen, what Strider said we both needed.”

            Frodo managed to say, “You lied--Thornwhistle.”

            “I had to, Master.  It’s best you forget then, you understand.  Like it never happened.  It hurt you--changed you.  So, we’re not goin’ to talk of it no more--not ever.  You’re home, here in Bag End where you belong, and here you’ll stay.”

            “The Queen’s jewel....”

            “I put it back on you--only thing as helped the pain, we found.  Thornwhistle--him thinks it’s only your mind as makes it work.  Calls it superstition.  And who knows?  Maybe he’s right!  But you’re home and safe with us, and you’ll get to see all the children as Rosie and me’ll have--you watch and see!”

            And so it had been for the past however many years it might have been.  Now as the anniversaries of October sixth and March thirteenth approached Sam just began feeding Frodo with poppy juice, so that for two days previous and the same after he was mostly sleeping and lethargic.  How much it stopped him suffering from the memories was questionable, though.  Afterwards he was fuzzy-headed and ill until the twenty-third of October and the twenty-fifth of March, usually, after which time he would slowly recover as much as he could.  And each time Rosie had given birth the infants were brought, as soon as they were washed and swaddled tightly, to Frodo first.

            But how could he rejoice for them, when he was held a prisoner to Sam’s consuming love for him?  And certainly the older ones did not appear to rejoice much to be around him.  Sam or Rosie or the deaf Hobbitess Sam had found somewhere to serve as housekeeper saw to his daily baths and gave him his draughts, but the children were the ones who usually brought him his meals and had to feed him; they often had to see the great nappies Sam had made for him changed during the daytime; they were made to read to him two to three hours a day that he not remain bored; they took turns helping to change his position once an hour; they were made to kiss his cheek each night, a ritual that both they and he had come to loath.

            His vision had become increasingly cloudy; he could barely talk and was often confused as to who it was that was with him.  The confusion might have been the result of the brainstorm, but might also be due to whatever herbs it was Sam mixed into the draughts brought him, or so it seemed to the stricken Hobbit.  Yet it seemed to Frodo Baggins that his hearing had merely grown more keen over the years.

            Pippin and Merry were allowed three visits with him a year; Folco Boffin never seemed to come around; Fredegar Bolger was allowed to visit with his healer attending him once each fall, on his birthday, an event Frodo was almost totally unaware of at the time, being sedated with poppy at the time as Freddy’s birthday was on October fifth.  Only on the Birthday was anyone else allowed to visit Frodo Baggins, but only if Sam felt Frodo was “up to it” or, he’d admitted, he felt the individual had “earned” such a visit in one way or another.  But Sam made certain Frodo was reminded frequently of his “generous nature” in allowing such visits.

            When the weather was fine a cot was set up in the portion of the garden with the highest hedge where Frodo had often worked on writing the story of the quest into the Red Book, and there he would be allowed to lie under the shade of the cherry trees Sam had planted there, usually with one of the children reading to him.

            Other than that he was rarely moved from his room.

            However, in the last few years Sam had lessened the more confusing herbs in the draughts he brought.  And Frodo had begun working to improve what little control he had over his body, first working on his left arm and hand, and then his leg, always when he was alone in his bedroom, oftentimes when he woke in the night.  He had to do so quietly that he not waken Sam or Rosie, who seemed to rouse at almost any change they heard within the great smial.  But in time he’d become able to do use his left hand almost normally, although he could not appear to use his right hand much at all.  And he had regained much of a Hobbit’s natural mastery of throwing things accurately.

            Merry-lad had taken to bringing Uncle Frodo what he considered pretty pebbles, usually bringing two or three a day.  At the end of a week Rosie would usually take most of what had been gathered and lined up along the edge of the bedside table and return them to scuffed places along the garden walks.  Frodo had begun slipping a few into his drawer, then practicing with them at night.  At first he’d made a point of scattering those stones off the table and across the floor with purposely awkward sweeps of his hand while Sam was entering or leaving the room, pretending to reach for the glass of water left there at all times.  He now did this about once a week randomly, but knew that most of the pebbles he tossed were going out the window that Sam usually left open that Frodo might smell the flowers outside, once they began to open.  He might see but blurs and greyness; but the light of the stars and moon were enough usually to allow him to tell where the window lay.  And he was grateful that although Sam was somewhat suspicious of Budgie Smallfoot’s advice, yet the gardener did listen to the healer about Frodo’s need for fresh air and natural light.  Perhaps it would be enough one day to allow him to obtain help of some sort.

            Sam and Rosie had been gone for a few days, and so it was the deaf housekeeper who’d been bathing him and seeing to most of his needs.  Considering he had no access to pen and ink and could neither talk nor sign effectively with her, he had little means of communicating with her.  Of the children Elanor appeared to interpret Frodo’s own attempts to speak best, but she rarely spoke to him directly or responded to much beyond requests for drinks or an indication he realized he needed changing.  She had apparently forgotten how much he and she had adored one another before Frodo had “had his bad spell,” as Sam had characterized it, and when he could think clearly enough to analyze her reaction to him, Frodo realized the pity she expressed was well mixed with revulsion for what he’d become.

            Once Frodo-lad was done feeding him, the young Hobbit left the room, where he could be heard speaking with Rosie-lass.  “I don’t understand why we couldn’t of gone, too,” she was saying.  “We were all invited, after all, and all by name!  You saw the letter the King sent us, Frodo, you and Elanor.  Why were we left home and only Elanor got to go?”

            “Someone has to care for Mr. Frodo.  Our Sam-dad wouldn’t of wanted for him to feel alone.”

            “But Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Pippin took their whole families to see the King when he come to the Brandywine Bridge.  We ought to of gone, too, same as them.  It’s not fair we can’t go see the King, too.”

            “I know.  But that’s the way it goes, Rosie.  Mum and Da and Ellie should be back today.”

            “I wonder if they’ll bring us anything?” Pippin-lad was asking.

            “We’ll see when they get back.”

            “I hate that we had to stay home and take care of him,” Rosie said rebelliously.  “He can’t do nothing--he can’t even talk right!”

            Frodo felt his face burn.  It’s not my fault I am like this, he wanted to tell them.  I wasn’t supposed to stay here!  I was supposed to have gone away, maybe to die, maybe to find proper healing for my body and my spirit.  Instead, here I lie--a burden to everyone, and especially to myself!  He turned his face weakly toward the grey light of the window, tears rolling from his eyes.

            It was late in the day when Rosie and Sam returned to the Hill with their eldest.  “Well, that’s over, and naught more to worry about till next fall when they’re to head back off to Gondor again,” Sam could be heard saying as he came back from the kitchen.  “Old Strider was upset not to see our Frodo, but I explained as he just ain’t able to make the trip to the Bridge.  He did seem disappointed not to see you lot, that I must admit--but then it wouldn’t of been fair, to take one or two and not the others, you see.  Best none of you go now--when you’re older perhaps we’ll travel up to Annúminas and see the northern capital.”

            “But I’ve always wanted to go to Gondor,” Frodo-lad objected.

            “And what’s to see in Gondor?  Only a lot of places where too many folks died as didn’t need t’do so,” Sam sighed.  “Men--they’re a right troublesome lot--always fightin’ one another over some silly slight or another.  Not a lot of plain Hobbit sense in most of them.  Now, Strider’s different--in most things, at least.  But this idea of him comin’ t’see our Mr. Frodo--that’s plain foolish.”

            “Well, if’n he has the healin’ hands----” Rosie began.

            “So what if’n he does?  We saw him with folks as’d had brainstorms in Gondor, and he said it clear--if’n the one doesn’t recover almost right away, chances are he’s not goin’ t’get much better no matter how much healin’ as Strider’s got in him.  And Mr. Frodo just has been took too long.  Won’t make no difference, him comin’ here.”

            Frodo felt frustration well up in him.  Aragorn wanted to come here and see him?  But he could perhaps get him away!  To find that Bag End had become a prison for him....

            But if he went with Strider, would it be any different for him than here?  That was the question.

            “How’s he been?” Sam asked.

            “He turns his head toward the door when he hears it open, and smiles if he hears music,” Rosie-lass said.  “He does like music, you know.”

            “Always did.  Used to love dancing--was the best dancer as anyone in the Shire’d ever seen,” Sam declared.

            “You’d never know it now,” Frodo-lad muttered in low tones.

            “You been as sick as him, you’d not be able to dance, neither,” his father snapped.  “Well, I’ll go in and see him now.”

            Frodo could not help turning his face toward the door as he heard it pushed open.

            “Well, and there you are, and if’n you don’t look fine!” Sam said as he entered.  “Well, we’re back, our Ellie, my Rosie and me.”

            Frodo was able to ask, “Saw--Strider?”

            “You realize that?  You know who Strider is?”

            The Baggins had to struggle to say, “Ar-a-gorn.”

            “Yes, we saw the King.  But he couldn’t stay--went on north to the new capital there.  Says as it’s all rebuilt and all.”

            He tried to ask why they hadn’t told him before they left where they were going, but he could not form the words clearly.  Not even he could understand the purpose of the jumbled sounds that came out, and he felt his frustration rise.  He uttered a curse in Khuzdûl Bilbo had taught him, and realized it was a mistake once Sam spoke again.

            “That’s not a nice thing t’say, and you knows that, Mr. Frodo, sir.  How about if’n I was t’say as you shouldn’t get a meal, sayin’ things like that?”

            Frodo knew this was not an idle threat, for he’d been ‘punished’ before for saying things that Sam disapproved of.  Not that he was too concerned, as he often found himself wishing he’d just die and get it over with--he was tired of not living to any purpose that anyone could perceive.  But it appeared that dying was the one thing he’d not be permitted--not on the watch of Sam Gamgee.

            “You--could--been--Mayor,” Frodo said sadly.

            “Me?  A simple gardener, Mayor of the Shire?  And who’d of voted for me, d’you think?  Not many ’sides the Cottons and my brothers.”

            “Merry--Pippin,” Frodo managed.

            Sam gave a snort of derision.  “Them?  Not likely.  No, them two don’t quite approve of Samwise Gamgee, not any more at least.  No, seem to find me unreasonable or somethin’ like.”

            Frodo was almost glad talking was so difficult for him to do, as he certainly agreed with his two cousins who’d followed him out of the Shire.

            “Well, I’ll be in soon t’give you your dinner.  Rosie’s cookin’ up a meal right now--all your favorites--fresh trout, beans cooked with bacon, a bowl of mushrooms from the Marish, herb bread....”

            Frodo turned his face away, suddenly very tired.  Save for the mushrooms, those were Sam’s favorite foods any more, not those Frodo Baggins had ever liked best.  It appeared that there would be no changes to his imprisonment.  If he could only somehow get away!  He fumbled his left hand to his face and wiped futilely at his eyes.  He appeared to be weeping again.

            Late that night he lay awake, filled with misery.  How could things ever change for him?  Sam had not been intended to live this way.  He was to have been the guardian of the stories, and the Mayor of the Shire many times running--not this tyrant who served as gaoler to what remained of what had been his former master and best friend.  Frodo wished he could hear crackling in his lungs, and know that this time it would go into the lung sickness again and take him.  His own misery was merely the sign of the general distress within Bag End.  He closed his eyes, feeling the tears slipping down the left side of his face.  Then he felt a change in the room, suddenly realizing he was no longer alone.  He stiffened, uncertain as to what it meant.

            There was a glow within the room, one he’d once been aware of but that he’d not seen for far, far too long, almost as if a glimmer of starlight had entered through the window and taken the form of a person by his bed.  For the first time in some months he felt the fog before his vision clearing somewhat, and he recognized that an Elf stood by him.

            No word was spoken, but in his heart he heard, Ringbearer?

            Elladan? his own thought answered, knowing he’d recognized this one correctly.

            Estel sent me to see you.  I do not understand this change in Samwise Gamgee.  He should have allowed you to go when it was time, and not held you here as a prisoner.  Our brother himself had wished to come see you, but Master Samwise would not allow it.  He may not be the Mayor of the Shire, yet he commands a large following of Hobbits who speak of the perfidy of Men and the untrustworthy nature of Elves and Dwarves, and your borders are all but sealed to all outsiders.

            He thinks Elves wish to steal me away from him.

            You should not lie here ill and all but a declared prisoner, the Elf noted.

            It is what I have become, though, Frodo’s thought answered him.

            He was aware of the Elf laying his hand upon him, and felt a warmth and strength from its touch.  You are little more than flesh and bone, and with little strength to your sinews, save for your left hand.

            A brainstorm, years ago, just after I should have left.  I can move only my left hand and arm some, and my leg somewhat less.  I barely feel on my right, and have no command of those muscles.

            Your head--can you move it?

            Barely--the wound--my neck--it weakens my neck.

            Elladan slipped his hand under Frodo’s neck, and paled.  There is something alive in there!  He rose.  I shall return with Aragorn.  It will take three days for me to go and come again.  Can you continue to fight it over those three days, Ringbearer?

            Frodo sighed.  What choice do I have, do you think?

            The Elf rose.  Indeed, you have no other at this time.  I would take you with me, but they would only seek after us.  I could hide myself, but not the both of us,

            I know. Then after a pause he added, Go, and may the stars shine upon your path.

            He sensed rather than saw the Elf’s smile, and Elladan slipped out the window and away.

            Three nights later Frodo awoke from a restless dream to realize he was not alone.  He sensed three others, and realized again his vision was almost clear.  “Aragorn,” he breathed.

            Hush, said a thought he realized was that of the second son of Elrond, and a moment of thought supplied the name--Elrohir.  Perhael--and that he has become indeed--has ears to hear the breathing of a mouse!

            Yes....  Frodo felt as if his own thought was oozing from him slowly, as if he were thinking through honey.

            Elladan crouched down on one side of him, and Aragorn on the other.  Aragorn was gently feeling the place where Shelob had bitten him, and looked up, alarmed.  Frodo could not perceive his thought as he’d been able to do with the two Peredhil.  He looked to Elladan.  What?

            He feels something alive within the wound as well.  He is worried.  How have you felt over the last three days?

            Frodo moved his head restlessly.  It itches and burns, and crawls upon my neck at times.  I have been weaker.  I am often nauseous again.  My bowels appear loose and watery.  I feel anxious, and what dreams I have known have been horrible.

            Elrohir asked, Has Sam tried draining the wound?

            He used to do so, but has not for some months, as if he’d forgotten about it.  I cannot say how long since it last opened, but it must have been before Yule.  I do not remember much from early March--it must have been early March, for he leaves the window open for me to smell the flowers.  But it has been no smaller, the few times I have felt it.

            There were shared glances between his three visitors.  Elladan was looking uncertainly at Aragorn, shook his head, shrugged at one point, and at last turned his attention back to Frodo.  He would take you away with us in spite of everything.  You need the wound probed and whatever is in there removed.

            You can’t--you can’t get me away cleanly--you told me before.

            He could feel Aragorn growing stiffer, and at last he pulled the blanket back--then stopped.  “Bound!” he whispered.

            Elrohir reached to Frodo’s right leg.  Mithril.  A mithril shackle.

            Frodo thought, finally finding the memory.  Gimli--we asked for chains to use on the conspirators if needed.  He gave us ones of mithril.

            Elladan gave a long sigh.  And he has used a set on you.  The fool!

            From Elrohir,  We cannot cut this--not with what we have with us!

            A drop of water fell on Frodo’s face, as the blankets were smoothed back over him, and the Hobbit realized Aragorn was weeping.  He fumbled to take the Man’s hand, felt it close about his.

            Elladan stiffened, gave a sign, and with a quick, He wakens! the three slipped soundlessly from the room.

            The next door opened, as Sam made a trip to the privy.  He would look in each bedroom, Frodo knew, as he went back to his own room.  Frodo found himself weeping, even as Aragorn had done.  He felt weak, but his mind was clearer, much as it had been after Elladan’s previous visit.  Sure enough, Sam opened Frodo’s door, and apparently realizing something was wrong came in, then raised his head as if noticing a change in scent.  A breeze through the window brought with it the scent of the crocuses and early hyacinths, as well as the green, healing scent of the kingsfoil Sam had planted.  Frodo felt relief flow through him--hopefully Sam would respond well to the scent of the athelas as he sometimes did.  Sam came closer, and his voice when he spoke was almost that of the Sam he’d known before the trip out of the Shire, the trip to Mordor.  “You been weepin’, Master?”

            “My--neck--it hurts!”  Frodo’s voice was but a whisper.

            Sam looked at him with pity.  “There’s naught as can be done for it--you heard Strider and Lord Elrond.”

            “Hurts,” Frodo repeated, turning his head weakly away.  “Hurts.”  He felt Sam sit down on the side of the bed and reach out to stroke his hair.  He trembled at the touch of the gardener’s hand.  “Stars,” he whispered.  “I miss the--stars.”

            “It’s my birthday day after tomorrow, Mr. Frodo.  Is there anythin’ as you  want me to give you?”

            How he wanted to say, My freedom.  But it was too late for that, he suspected.  He shook his head.

            “If’n there’s anythin’ as I could do as would make you feel better....”  There was an earnestness in Sam’s voice he’d not heard there for a long time, and it emboldened him.

            “Sleep out--atop the Hill.”  There--he’d said it!

            “All right, if’n it will ease you.”

            “It would,” Frodo breathed.

            “Night after next, as long as it don’t rain--we’ll do just that.  Your old rug--it’s still in the wardrobe, with the blanket roll and all.”  Sam brushed the hair off Frodo’s brow.

            “Thank you.”  And Frodo realized he meant it.

            Sam helped him to a drink of water, shifted him on the bed, and kissed his hair before leaving the room.  Had the virtue of the Elves and the King lingered enough to ease his surety he would be robbed of his prize? Frodo wondered as he tried to relax back into sleep.

            The next night Frodo woke at the touch of Aragorn’s hand on his shoulder.  He turned his face upward, and was glad to realize he could actually see his friend’s face.  He felt himself smiling.  He heard the gentle whisper, “How are you, Frodo?”

            “Better,” he murmured.  “But--in my neck--it’s restless.”  He turned his head slightly to ease it.

            He could hear the concern.  “I do not know what I can do to aid you,” the Man breathed into his ear.  “I’ve examined the bed.  I cannot take it apart to free the shackle without making too much noise.  It would waken them.”

            “Too late,” Frodo sighed.  “Too late.  Cannot heal--not now.”

            They were quiet for a time, and Aragorn held his left hand possessively, although it did not disturb him as Sam’s would have doing the same thing.  At last Frodo turned his head to look up into the Man’s face.  He’d made up his mind--too long he’d lived this way.  It was past time to end it.  “Free me,” he whispered.  “Remember--Morgul knife.”

            He felt Aragorn stiffen.  “You know not what you ask.”

            “I do!” he whispered fiercely.  “I--am not--alive!  Nearly a wraith now!  Please!”

            Frodo’s hand was being squeezed so hard it hurt, but he knew that the Man would do what was necessary.  At last Aragorn leaned down and whispered, his voice broken, “Let me think on it, small brother.”

            In broken whispers Frodo explained about the plan to sleep out under the stars the next evening.  “Want to leave--under the stars,” he sighed at last.

            There was a shifting in the bed in the next room, and both froze, their attention fixed on Sam and Rosie’s room.  Then, with sudden decision Aragorn bowed his head and kissed Frodo’s brow, and went to slip out the window.

            Not long before dawn another form slipped in, and Elrohir placed into his hand a tiny lozenge.  Hide it between your teeth and your cheek.  When you are ready to--leave--crush it between your teeth.  Then swallow it.  It will work slowly.  You will feel yourself grow very sleepy, and perhaps cold.  You will eventually sleep deeply.  You will not awaken again.

            Frodo gave a small nod, carefully slipping the lozenge into his mouth.  Clumsily he worked it with his tongue between his teeth and his left cheek.  He would leave it there until tonight.  Thank you, and thank Aragorn for me.  Let him know I am grateful.

            He saw the nod, and as quietly as he’d come, Elrohir left.

            Frodo was allowed to sit that night in the parlor in his own chair, wrapped in the oversized grey shawl he’d used so often so long ago.  The children looked at him as if they didn’t know what to make of this stranger who somehow had escaped his bed to intrude on the living part of the Smial. 

            Good old Bag End!  And now it would be Baggins’s End, he realized.  It was right.  It was past time.

            The faces of the children were different here, in the parlor.  The expressions of resentment were gone, and now most of them seemed almost shy.  He did his best to memorize their faces now, faces that seemed so young and vulnerable.  Now that he was sitting up in the parlor, Elanor and Frodo-lad particularly seemed drawn to him, and spoke of the things they’d always loved best.  The younger one brought him their favorite toys to show him, and he fumbled to smooth the hair of Goldilocks and Rosie-lass, gave his half smile to the younger lads.

            But then the place on his neck began to burn, and all could see the smile give way to pain.  Sam was there right away.  “You hurtin’, Master?” he asked.

            “The neck!” he whispered.  At last the pain relented--some at least, and he gave a sigh of relief.  “I’m tired,” he said.  “I’m sorry, Sam.  I’m so--tired.”  He took a breath.  “The stars, please.”

            Sam looked undecided, but at last straightened.  “Well I did promise--that I did.  All right.  Frodo-lad--you go and get the roll from Mr. Frodo’s wardrobe, and bring it after.  We’re goin’ up atop the Hill.”

            He brought Frodo’s Elven cloak, and Frodo could see the cut in the fabric that Rosie had never been able to mend, for no mortal thread seemed to hold in it.  Sam carefully wrapped it around Frodo, then lifted the older Hobbit in his arms.  “Would be better, probably, to see you to your own bed,” he said.

            Frodo gave a small shake.  “You promised,” he said.

            The children wished him a good night, and Rosie opened the door to let them out of the house, the deaf housekeeper standing behind her, an expression of disapproval on her face.  Sam carried him outside, followed by Frodo-lad and Elanor.  One last time the delicate Hobbit lass gave him her kiss, and this time Frodo felt the same joy he’d known when she was tiny and he’d held her and sung to her in Sindarin and Quenya.  “Night, Elanorellë,” he whispered.  “Joy to you.”

            “Good night, Uncle Frodo,” she said softly in return.  She smiled at him, and for once he could truly see and feel that there was a place in the depths of her heart where that old love still held.  Sam shifted his grip, and turned to carry him down the garden path, to the steps at the back of the smial, and up to the top, followed by Frodo-lad and the roll.  The lad soon had the rug laid out, and helped his father settle Frodo on it.  Only after he’d wished Mr. Frodo a nice night did he leave, and it seemed reluctantly.  “Joy to you, child,” Frodo murmured after him

            Sam made certain the rest of the blankets were ready, and sat himself down next to his former Master.  “Only one last thing t’do, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, and for a moment he felt Sam’s leg next to his, then heard the snick of the shackle being fastened about the gardener’s leg.

            Frodo felt suddenly cold.  You think even now to keep me from fleeing you, do you? he thought, and turned his face away.  You lost me years past, Samwise Gamgee, he continued in his mind, and he felt the tears gathering along with the grey mist.  This time when it closed in on him, he realized, it would not lift.

            So what?  It’s not as if he holds power over me any more.  Not after tonight he doesn’t!  Allow him his conceit that he can hold me to this prison forever!

            The past Master of Bag End looked up, intending to fill himself with the stars for as long as he could.  Only when the fog had fully stolen his last sight of them would he bite upon the lozenge, he decided.  He felt the thing in his neck stir, more restless than ever.  Suddenly he was afraid, then even more determined.  Sam was spreading the blankets over the two of them and lying back, and taking Frodo’s wizened body in his arms.

            “You know, Master, as how I used to do this for you in Mordor.  I’ve not forgot the ways of it, I think.  You weigh no more’n you did then, I’m thinkin’.  Although you don’t seem t’shine like you did then.  You always used to shine, you know.  Loved it, I did, when you’d glow, like a star come down from Over-heaven to Middle Earth isself, hidin’ inside a Hobbit’s form.”

            Frodo peered westward.  Something seemed to be missing.  It wasn’t that long after sunset.  It ought to be there, there near the western horizon.  But he could not see it anywhere.  At last he murmured, “Eärendil’s star--I don’t see it!”

            “No, you won’t.  Not been seen for ever so long, it hasn’t--not since Lord Elrond went sailin’ away.  I suppose as now his son’s come back to him he don’t need t’sail Vingilot no more.”

            The greyness was closing in quickly as Frodo worked the lozenge into place.  He already felt a sharp coldness in him.  The Gil-estel no longer shone in the sky, and that since he had failed to sail?  It was wrong!

            And as at last his vision was all filled with greyness, Frodo bit down, breaking the lozenge, chewed it a bit, swallowed it.

            He felt the cold slowly begin to creep through his body and all began to slow.  The bindings that tied his fëa to his hröa began to unravel, and he could see the mithril cords fraying.  At last! he exulted.

            And then he heard the laughter of the Ring, mocking him.

            Shining forms surrounded him, but they came not to welcome him, but to guard him--No!  To guard Arda from him!  And they were escorting him with drawn weapons and cold, wary expressions beyond the mithril Gates of Death toward another set of gates, gates of black adamant, one leaf of which was being opened enough to allow him passage.  He cast a terrified look backward at the great edifice of the Halls of Mandos which was denied him, and then looked beseechingly at those who now thrust him out--out into the Void beyond the Gates of Night--out with----

            He heard the laughter, but now it was close, surrounding him, engulfing him, consuming him!

            You fool!  You thought you could destroy my servant--stop evil in your time?  Destroy the Ring--destroy Its Master as well?  Into the volcano, the elemental fire of the world, and it would be all over!  No more Lord of Darkness!  No more Great Enemy!  Arda would be free of the Threat!

            He could see the ruined beauty of One Who had been intended once to be the Chief of the Powers, or at least co-Elder King along with Manwë.  In Atar’s original intent it was I who was meant to espouse Varda.  Far more likely for the Lord of the Restful Dark, don’t you agree, than the Lord of Winds?  But when I sought to show my brother his proper place they all said I brought not Harmony but Discord.  They said I wrought my own ambitions into Arda--that I marred it beyond all repair--not until Eä is renewed.

            Twice they captured Me, and bound Me.  But my servant whom you know as Sauron--he found a way to bring Me in part back.  Oh, he brought Me back into Arda in spite of all they could do; and none saw it!  None saw that in creating the Ring he was recreating Angainor within Middle Earth, and where Angainor dwelt, there I must be also!

            And you wore the Ring, taking Angainor upon yourself, allowing me to move again in the Living Lands.

            He who had been Frodo Baggins saw the great cruelty of this One, the delight in the trick played upon all the hosts of the Living Lands of Arda.  And he realized now how it was all had been played for fools by Melkor--by Morgoth, the true Black Enemy of all!

            Your friend wore the Ring also, and in doing so, he, too, took upon himself Angainor!  He made of his love for you chains far more powerful and encompassing than the simple mithril shackle with which he fixed you to your bed or cot.  Oh, the one who was intended to save Middle Earth at your side instead was infused with me, and I have had your Lights, have done my best to extinguish them as your friend Strider used to pinch out the flames of candles.  The second Savior of Middle Earth--of him I have made a gaoler; and the great King of the World Renewed--he has become a simple, common murderer!  And you--you have committed one of the gravest trespasses of all for you have destroyed yourself!  Are you proud of what love of you has wrought, you who has never deserved the name of Iorhael?

            He had no way of stopping the laughter, for here in the void he had no body any more; yet somehow he had ears to hear--and what he heard could not be shut out!

            And they have forgotten that once I had two greatest of servants.  One is now no more within Middle Earth; but the second lingers yet.  And can you guess where it is she has sheltered all these years since her daughter was given a terrible wound by your foolish friend?  It appears that perhaps half a store of wisdom is nowhere as good as a full store, not that yours has served you!  And even now, now that your body cools, Ungoliant stirs--yes, she stirs!  And where Sauron no longer can serve me, either willingly or unwittingly, yet she can now move, for all believe her dead, slain long ago by Eärendil!  More fools they!

            Again he was surrounded by the mocking, consuming laughter of Morgoth, and now his screams of torment joined that laughter.

            My darkness will cover all, with the help of my second servant!  And all has come to be for the love of a simple Hobbit!  Isn’t that the greatest irony of all?

            But in Hobbiton a golden Hobbit lass had crept into the study of Bag End and was even then opening a forbidden chest, bringing out a scarred black sheath, warned by some whispering in her heart.  Some danger stalked Uncle Frodo and her Sam-dad.  As she closed the chest after her and set herself to slip out of the smial, her dad’s Elven cloak he’d not worn for years wrapped about her, Elanor realized for the first time that only she of her father’s children ever called him Uncle.

            They slept there together, her father holding Uncle Frodo’s body close to him.  Uncle Frodo lay twitching feebly, his face turned westward, his expression full of grief.  This oughtn’t to be, she knew.  He never was meant to stay.  He ought to have gone his way long since, found the healing promised him, not lain, weak and barely living, here in the Shire.  Dad wasn’t meant to be estranged from Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry.  Uncle Frodo told him as he’d be the Mayor, as many times as he wanted--but who’d choose him?  Many think as he’s as cracked as Uncle Frodo’s supposed to be.  Only the King doesn’t think as Uncle Frodo’s cracked, nor do Mr. Merry nor Mr. Pippin.

            Only she, of all Sam and Rosie Gamgee’s children so far, had read the Red Book, although she’d had to sneak it out of its hiding place to read it.  But the Sam Gamgee described there wasn’t the one she’d known; and the ending had been all wrong!  Her dad had forced Uncle Frodo to come back against his will.  And in her few moments alone with the Queen the Lady Arwen had explained why it was that the King was looking west toward the sunset--he was hoping against hope that the Gil-estel, Eärendil’s star, would rise again, a sign once more of hope for those who dwelt in the Mortal Lands.  And she’d seen the grief in their faces that all had not gone as had been intended.

            Well, whatever else might occur, she’d sit guarding these two.

            She heard the crunch, and saw the swallow.  Did Uncle Frodo have some sweets, maybe a horehound drop?  Her Sam-dad had told her he used to carry them in his pocket to share with the children of Hobbiton, and that he’d always meant to do so for her and her brothers and sisters--only he’d gotten ill instead.

            Frodo was going slowly still, and his eyes were closing, but not all the way.  As the night progressed he’d have a twitch here or there, and then his head lolled----

            Suddenly she knew he’d died--was gone.  But the feeling of danger was growing!  She rose, not knowing what it was she feared.

            Her father suddenly woke.  “Mr. Frodo!  Master!  Master!  Wake up!”  He was shaking the flaccid body he held.  He sat up, and the sky was greying toward dawn as he looked about helplessly, finally seeing that his daughter stood by him, Sting now bare in her hands, its sheath lying by her on the ground.

            The light was growing stronger as he clutched his Master’s body close.  “Ellie!  What are you doing here?  How come you got Sting?”

            But she was watching Frodo’s neck with horrified fascination.  “I thought as it was his pulse,” she whispered, “only it ain’t!”

            “What?” he demanded, but then felt a stirring under his hands.  He suddenly let the corpse fall, and watched in horror as the skin over the swelling where once Shelob had bitten Frodo Baggins split, and from it began to creep a dark shape with far too many legs.  His eyes widened and he tried to scramble away; but the mithril shackles yet bound the dead weight of his former friend to him.  The spiderling came out, but not with any speed or coordination.  Whether it was because it was only for the first time in several ages of the world she breathed fresh air again, or because she was born anew under the growing light of day rather than in the darkness of night, or because the poison that had freed Frodo Baggins from his earthly prison affected her nascent form could not be guessed.  Slowly she pulled herself free and crawled across the body’s face, and paused there.  And Elanor’s father could not get away from it!

            She dealt two blows--the first to the mithril shackle, and its chain was sheered in two, and her father was able to spring away.

            The second was to the spider itself--a horrid creature almost as big as the hand of a Man.  She managed to cut down between head and thorax, while her father leapt to the circle of stones that marked the area where his Master had always loved to lie, looking up at the stars.  There he caught up one of the larger ones, and over and over he brought it down on the head, whose mandibles were opening and closing spasmodically, grinding it into the dust.

            Having decapitated the thing, she dropped the sword and grabbed up a second stone, and brought it down on the remainder of the thing where it had fallen free of Frodo’s body, smashing it again and again. 

            Suddenly they felt a coldness gathering around them, and Sam dropped his weapon and drew her away, and with awe and terror they watched as a dark shape began to gather about the smashed wreck of the spiderling.  Tall it loomed--only to fall apart as a westerly wind rose and swept it away!

            And there, there to the east, barely to be seen above the distant horizon they saw light rising, one that hadn’t been seen in Middle Earth for almost fifteen years, as Eärendil steered Vingilot before the sunrise.

            And it seemed to Elanor that somewhere cries of terror were stopped.

-o0o-

            Angainor (the Oppressor) was the set of chains and manacles forged by Aulë and intended to restrain Melkor/Morgoth.  They were originally used in the earliest times of the population of Middle Earth, when the Valar besieged Melkor in his first northern fortress, not exceptionally long after the Elves first awoke beneath the light of Varda’s stars.  In the end Utumno’s defenses were breached, and Melkor was captured and bound in Angainor, and dragged back to Aman where he was judged by the rest of the Valar and imprisoned for some ages of the world. 

            At last his appointed time of imprisonment was complete.  He became envious of the light of the Trees, and determined to see them destroyed.  He sought out Ungoliant, who had the shape of a great spider and had been hiding in the unsettled wilderness of Aman, and convinced her to come with him to destroy the Trees.  He used a great spear to wound the trees, and she fastened her mouthparts to them, sucking from them their light and poisoning them.

            He then set himself to stealing the Silmarils, the three holy jewels crafted by Fëanor, from the Noldor craftsman’s treasury, slaying Finwë and fleeing to the Mortal Lands where he set the jewels in the Iron Crown he crafted for himself and hid himself inside Angband.

            At the end of the War of Wrath once more the Valar came to face their brother down, and once more in his defeat he was captured and bound with Angainor.  This time his punishment was to be thrust outside the bounds of Arda, through the gates of Night, alone in the Void until the time comes for the remaking of the world.

Gil-estel (Star of Hope):  Another name given to the star of Eärendil, the morning and evening star.  By tradition this star first rose in the sky after the mariner Eärendil, son of Túor and Idril, reached Aman to beg the Valar to come to the aid of the inhabitants of Middle Earth in their long and fruitless war against Melkor/Morgoth, the fallen Vala who was the first immortal to seek to subjugate all of the mortal lands under himself.  Aulë reportedly crafted the crystal bark of Vingilot in which Eärendil sails nightly through the Seas of Night as the sign of hope that at last the war with Melkor would be ended.

Iorhael is the Sindarin translation of Frodo, and means Wise One.

Perhael is the Sindarin translation of Samwise, and means Half-wise.

            There were several different influences that led to the writing of this story.  The first was a story that appeared in December on the A_L_E_C challenge site on LiveJournal:  The Enemy of my Enemy Is my Love by Feather_Silver.  In this story Frodo seeks to explain to Sam why it is he leaves Middle Earth, and he tells Sam that it was because he had both carried and worn the Ring.  As he describes it, the forging of the Ring was inspired by Morgoth’s thought, and Morgoth intended that It serve as a conduit that would allow the fallen Vala to return within the Bounds of Arda.  Frodo has come to believe that his own nature has been so corrupted by the Ring that he, too, now holds sufficient of Morgoth’s nature within him to give the Vala a toehold within Middle Earth.  He must leave so as to take that danger away not only from the Shire, but from all of the Mortal Lands.

            Then I have been reading Fiondil’s The Wars of the Valar, which had come to the chapter in which Melkor was first bound with Angainor both to limit his freedom and to hold him in his physical shape that he not throw off his hröa and escape his due punishment.

            The third story whose rereading worked to inspire this story was my own Go Out in Joy, an AU story in which Frodo chooses to remain within the Shire even if it means he faces physical death soon when the memories return on October sixth, the anniversary of the night on which he was stabbed with the Morgul knife by the Witch-king of Angmar.

            In the Master’s original, Frodo leaves Middle Earth with the rest of the Ringbearers save for Sam, whom it is hoped will be allowed to sail also, but not until he has lived fully within Middle Earth.  In Go Out in Joy Frodo chooses to remain within the Shire, dying as he’d foreseen on October sixth, but not before the spider bite is probed and a spiderling is removed from it and is destroyed by it being flung into the fire.  In this one it is Sam who chooses to hold Frodo within the Shire, disrupting Eru’s intended plan.  If within Go Out in Joy Frodo yet knows blessedness in his remaining days and his death, here it is otherwise, for the reason for his remaining is no longer in harmony with the portion of the Song intended for him.  The choice is not his, but Sam’s, whose intentions are purely selfish--he did all he did for the love of Frodo, and now he feels Frodo owes him his physical presence.

            Therefore he imprisons Frodo.  And all that comes of this imprisonment is marred by that selfishness.  Frodo does not die on October sixth, but he does suffer from both a heart attack and a stroke, which leave him hemipligic and bedridden from that day on.  His close relationship with Elanor deteriorates, and the other children come to see the caring necessitated by his presence as a burden, as does Frodo himself.  Sam’s nature becomes defensive and suspicious as well as controlling:  access to Frodo becomes a reward, while those who anger him may be denied visits.  He avoids Frodo’s anniversary illnesses by drugging Frodo to insensibility for a period of about five days surrounding the anniversaries, although Frodo continues to be lethargic and mostly unresponsive until the anniversary of the resolution of the particular wound comes--in the fall the anniversary of the day on which the shard was removed; in the spring until the anniversary of the day on which the Ring was destroyed.

            Sam, as a result of his rebellion against the Creator’s Plan, becomes less than he had been, which is reflected even in his speech, which becomes more uncouth.  He commands the respect of the more xenophobic Hobbits of the Shire who look on all outsiders as potentially dangerous, encouraging their suspicions and using them to deter not only the entrance of Men into the Shire but also Elves and Dwarves, for he has convinced himself such folk would be likely to try to steal Frodo from him.  His fellowship with Merry and Pippin withers, and he never becomes Mayor.

            There is another element of inspiration at this point that comes into play.  As some know who follow my LiveJournal, I follow the ongoing unfolding of the West Memphis Three case, in which three teenage boys were convicted, I believe wrongly, of the murder of three little boys in West Memphis, Arkansas, on May 5, 1993.  There are some folk who are as certain the three men, now in their thirties, convicted of the crime are indeed guilty as I am of their innocence; and their stated reasons for their beliefs are often difficult to follow.  Lately there have been some spirited debates on why we “supporters” believe as we do, and one of the most obnoxious “nons” was banned once more from the main “supporter” discussion board as a result of his deriding behavior.  The twisted logic to which he is given is reflected in Sam’s behavior within this story.

            Once Aragorn as the King and the sons of Elrond come into the situation, things begin to change; Frodo is able to see clearly once more, Sam’s behavior mellows and reverts to that he was intended to be, and the children begin to see more clearly what led their father to love Mr. Frodo to begin with.

            On the Hill, however, as Frodo determines to kill himself using the poisoned lozenge, he fully realizes the lasting effects of his failure to leave at the right time when he learns the Star of Hope has not risen since the rest of the Ringbearers departed Middle Earth.  And only when Ungoliant is destroyed is the balance restored and Frodo released from the torment of knowing that somehow he has become a tool of Melkor’s own plots.

            I am not certain that those who find themselves in such a situation as Frodo does who choose suicide damn themselves; but Tolkien was raised a Roman Catholic, so I allowed that prejudice to slip into this tale.  Frodo is denied the healing of the Halls of Mandos and instead is escorted to the Void where he faces Melkor himself and learns he has inadvertently assisted the fallen Vala to gain a toehold within the Mortal Lands once more by remaining with the growing presence of Ungoliant within his neck within the Shire and Bag End.  Whether this encounter is intended as punishment for Frodo’s suicide or as a ruse to distract Melkor so that Elanor could destroy the newly emerged Maia in spider form is purposely ambiguous, as I leave it to the reader to decide which is the truth.

            And Melkor, like most sociopathic personalities, cannot resist crowing about his cleverness to this unwitting victim of his latest plot.

            Then and only then, when the threat of Ungoliant is destroyed and the balance is finally righted, does Eärendil sail again, emerging as the Morning Star this time.

            Elanor is revealed now as the true heir to Frodo’s legacy, for she also was the small one who listened to inspiration and was in the right place at the right time with the right tool in hand to see to it that Ungoliant does not destroy the peace her father and spiritual uncle sacrificed so much to confirm.  And as a result of her efforts Frodo is released from his torment, although again I leave it to the reader to determine his final disposition.

            I am only grateful that this time I was able to keep this dark plotbunny (I suspect it was actually a very immature nuzgul in the making) from growing past a single chapter.  To have been forced to write this interminably would have been a torture I don’t wish to contemplate further!

Dedicated ironically to TR, and more happily to Fiondil.

B.L.S.

January 29. 2009

Written for the LOTR Community's "Fix the Movies" challenge.  For the movies, Sam, Merry, and Pippin accompany Gandalf, Frodo, and Bilbo to the Grey Havens, believing they are merely seeing Bilbo leaving with the Elves.  They are surprised to learn Gandalf and Frodo are going as well.  The movies end with Sam returning to Rosie, Elanor, and Frodo-lad in Number 3, Bagshot Row.

So, how do we reconcile this with book-verse, and how does Sam come to realize he is now Frodo's heir, and that he inherits Bag End as well as everything else?  How does he know what Frodo wishes for him?

Beta by RiverOtter.

Last Will and Testament

            Sam watched the grey ship disappear into the sunset, clutching the volume his Master had given him to his chest.  At last as full dark took them and he could see no more he turned back to join Merry and Pippin, who waited for him near the archway that marked the borders of the Elven haven.

            Merry held Bill’s reins for him, while Pippin held those of Frodo’s Strider.  “Are you all right, Sam?” Merry asked as he surrendered the reins to the gardener.

            “I suppose as I am,” Sam replied, handing the book to Merry so he could bring out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes.  “I certainly wasn’t prepared for--for that; not for him to leave us that way.”

            “None of us were,” Pippin responded with a glance over his shoulder.  “I thought we were only coming to see Cousin Bilbo leave.  And now they’ve all gone--Bilbo, Elrond, Gandalf, the Lady, and--and Frodo!”  He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve.  In the growing starlight and the glimmer of torches from the quayside Sam could see the younger Hobbit’s chin tremble.

            Merry nodded stiffly.

            Once Sam was swung up into Bill’s saddle Merry handed up the leather-bound book, and having no better way to carry it, Sam tucked it under his arm as he led the way eastward once more, back toward the borders of the Shire and home.  They didn’t ride particularly far that evening, stopping to camp about an hour after they’d left Mithlond.

            “We should’ve stayed there by the Havens, perhaps,” Sam suggested as he dismounted stiffly.

            Merry cast a look back over his shoulder, the pain of loss easy to see in his eyes.  “I couldn’t have done so,” he said after a moment as he slid off his pony.  “Not with the sound of the Sea in my ears.”  He watched Pippin alight.  “Shall you find some wood or should I?” he asked his friend and cousin.

            “I will, if you and Sam will see to the ponies.”

            “That we can do,” Sam said as he laid the book on a fallen tree, and in moments the three of them were each busy preparing for the night.

            Pippin returned with a goodly load of wood and with a spike of larkspur behind his ear.  “There’s a lovely meadow over that way,” he said, indicating the way he’d come with a nod of his head.  “Lots of flowers.  Frodo would love it.  We could perhaps stake out the ponies so they could graze.”

            “If’n we keep them well away from the larkspur,” Sam grunted.

            At last they had all arranged for the night, and with tin mugs filled with freshly brewed tea warming their hands, they gathered about their campfire.  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Pippin murmured into his cup.

            Merry grunted wordlessly, obviously still heart-sore.

            Sam took a sip as he automatically glanced about their camp as if making certain all was in order, then paused as his attention was caught by the red book Frodo had entrusted to him.  He set the mug on the tree and took the book in both hands, rubbing his thumbs over the cover, exploring the texture of the leather.  “He showed me this, there just afore we left Bag End,” he said.

            “That’s the book he promised to write for Bilbo of our adventures?” Merry asked.  At Sam’s nod he held out his hand.  “May I see it?”

            After a moment’s pause Sam complied.  As Merry shifted it so as to better open it, however, a thick envelope slid out from just inside its cover and fell to the ground.  Immediately the Brandybuck closed the volume and bent down to retrieve the fallen envelope.  “What’s this?”

            Pippin straightened, curiosity winning out over his grief.  “There was a letter inside the book?  Who is it addressed to?”

            Merry angled it so he could read the inscription by the light of the campfire.  “It’s more than just a letter, and it’s intended for Sam,” he said.  “Well, that makes sense as he gave the book to you, Sam.”  He handed it to the gardener.  “It’s for you to open it, then.”

            Sam fetched his cup as he sank down on the ground by the fire.  He took another swallow before setting it on one of the stones set to mark out their firepit, and turned the envelope in his hand.  “To Samwise Gamgee,” he read before turning it to slip his thumbnail under the wax seal.  The others were sinking down to flank him, intent on seeing what it was that Frodo might have left to his faithful companion.

            There was a letter and a thicker bundle of papers that Sam shook out of the envelope.  He took the single page first, running his eyes over the familiar, graceful script.  “To my dear Sam,” he began, then paused.  When he resumed reading aloud his voice was filled with mixed grief and wonder. 

            I have been most unfair to you, not telling you I am leaving, also.  But some wounds have gone too deep, have taken hold.  I can no longer find rest within the Shire or Bag End.  It is time to go on.  Yes, the Shire has been saved, but not for me and certainly not by me.

            I would have you know that the offer made me is also being made to you.  Those who told me that the ship on which I will sail is the “Last Ship” were, apparently, exaggerating the situation.  Gandalf has assured me that Lord Círdan intends to remain within Middle Earth, making certain that all Elves who wish to return to Aman will find ships appropriate to the journey awaiting them when the time comes for each to sail; and you may sail on any of these.  You too were a Ringbearer.  I pray, however, that you remain in Middle Earth and know the fulfillment you are intended to know.

            Do not be sad, Sam.  You were meant to be well and whole, for many years.  There is so much for you enjoy, and to be, and to do.

            I’d hoped to save the Shire, and it was saved--but as I said, not for me.  It must often be so, that some must give up what they love that others might keep it.  But I have made you my heir, and all that I had or might have had, all that I was or might have been, all that I knew or might have known, I leave to you.  And also you have Rose and Elanor; and Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see.  And your hands and your wits....

            As Sam read, the others found themselves weeping once more, and as much in relief as in grief for Frodo’s going.

            It was Pippin who finally picked up the bundle of papers and began examining them, at last smiling through his tears.  “What he said about making you his heir, Sam--it’s true!  He did!  This is his will.  And this--” he separated out a second bundle carefully fastened together, “--this is the deed to Bag End.”  He looked up to meet Sam’s swimming eyes.  “He’s made it out to you and to Rosie.  You and Rosie are now Master and Mistress of Bag End and the Hill.”

            His hand shaking, Sam gave over the letter to Merry as he reached to take and wonder at the deed.

Written for the A_L_E_C "He Survived" challenge.  For J_Dav for her birthday.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

Saved, but with Worries Doubled

            “Fly, you fools!”

            But Aragorn did not fly--instead he threw himself down upon the crumbling bridge as it hung out over the abyss, grabbing onto the Grey Wizard’s hand, and hauling him by sheer, desperate strength up onto the remains of the span.

            Boromir grabbed the Ranger’s ankles, dragging both Gandalf and Aragorn more fully onto what remained of the bridge until all were well back from the end, back where the surface remained basically solid.  Once he was certain the span under them would hold, he let go of Aragorn and began crawling backwards, guided by Pippin’s hand on his ankle.  Aragorn also rose to his hands and knees and did the same.

            “Gandalf!” hissed the Ranger as the Wizard stayed still a time longer.  An arrow from behind them bounced from the edge of stone at Gandalf’s feet, and as if that were the stimulus he needed, at last he also rose to his hands and knees and crawled forward, keeping his eyes on Aragorn’s face as he went.  Once all were nearly to the solid ground at the end they rose to their feet, turned, and lunged off the bridge into the arms of their fellows.

            Gandalf alone lingered on the bridge, and peered now behind him, the expression on his ancient face mixed.  “I am not certain,” he murmured as he slowly rose to his feet and turned briefly to look back.  “I am not certain you did the best thing, my friend, in rescuing me.  That evil will still remain within Middle Earth, and will surely be drawn to its former fellow’s side now that Sauron has awakened and returned to his former strength.  I can but grieve for that, and rejoice it did not manage to take possession of the Ring.”

            Another arrow fell just short of him, and he shuddered, then hurried forward to set his hand on a white, shaking Frodo.  “Let go your fear, Frodo--I am well enough.  Nay, it is time for us to go forward and finish this as we can.  But to know we face two Balrogs at the end, and not just one!”

            Both he and Frodo took deep breaths, and then turned to hurry onwards, out the East Gate onto the mountainside, then down the hill, down towards Lothlórien gleaming gold in the distance below them.

Written for Armariel for the LOTR Community Yule Exchange.  Beta by Fiondil and RiverOtter.

The Turning of the Year Approaches…

            Melkor sat, tightly wrapped within the dubious embrace of Angainor, in the center of his cell, his dull eyes fixed upon the far wall, which had inexplicably begun to glow somewhat.  Suddenly a portal appeared in the midst of the formerly solid stone, and through it stepped one of Námo’s Maiar carrying a pair of ceramic pots.  One was a dull black shot through with hints of a flaming red, and the other a formerly pristine white that appeared to have been rolled through a spent firepit and was now sullied with dead ash.  Both were settled upon the cold floor before the cell’s inhabitant, the Maia studiously avoiding the fallen Vala’s dark eyes before he disappeared and the portal followed suit.

            Melkor examined the two pots thoughtfully, contemplating their intended purpose.  At last he looked upward, his thought almost growling, Well, brother—shall you reveal the purpose of bringing these to me?

            It appeared that Manwë had indeed been awaiting some reaction from the prisoner, for as the walls ceased to vibrate from the demanding question a tone of music could be heard, and a breeze blew about the room, tipping the two pots upon their sides, their lids falling free.

            After a moment, as if something were checking to make certain the Maia was gone, a drift of grey ash peeked out of the formerly white pot, followed slowly by more.  Soon a rough figure of what appeared to be an elderly Man took shape before Melkor, examining him with a supercilious air.  “And what have we here?” demanded the ghost of a voice.

            Curumo?  Melkor’s contempt and amusement could be discerned in his osanwë.  So, you have taken to slumming, have you?

            “Slumming?”

            Certainly a Maia as high and mighty as you were would never think to be found, here in my younger brother’s deepest dungeon?  Beneath you, what?

            Curumo’s vague lip curled with disdain.  “Certainly I have no place here.  And I thought you had been thrust out into the Void.”

            Mere propaganda.  Melkor sighed.  My brethren have no authority to open that portal.  I’d thought to hide out there, but to do so I would have had to discarnate, and I could not leave behind my Silmarilli.

            “Your love of such baubles was always your downfall.  Why you didn’t leave them to that fool Fëanor----”

            You never did appreciate things of beauty, interrupted the fallen Vala.

            “And if you could not possess such things, you destroyed them so no one else could do so,” sneered the ghost of a Maia.  “Wasteful, wouldn’t you say?”

            I wished to be the one who bestowed light upon the Children, so that they would come to me for such benefits.  And behold—when I brought away the Silmarilli into the Mortal Lands, did they not follow?

            “Did they not follow?” mocked his companion.  “Intent on destroying you!”

            Foolish things—as if they had the ability to do so.  Melkor considered the black pot.  I must assume that my former lieutenant resides there.  Mairon, you old reprobate—come out; show yourself!

            A black tentacle of ash emerged slightly from the pot, proclaimed, Don’t want to! and retreated once more.    

            Curumo sniffed, “That’s about the most anyone has seen of him for much of our last age.  Been hiding out since he lost his fair seeming along with that blasted Ring of his.  Wouldn’t stir himself out of his hidey-holes in Dol Guldur or Barad-dûr, much less show himself.  Most we ever saw of him was his shadow.”

            A shadow of himself—that is priceless! chortled Melkor.  How did he lose his fair seeming?  And what ring?

            “You didn’t hear?  Talked Celebrimbor into creating rings of power for Men, Dwarves, and Elves, and then went to that volcano of his and created a final Ring of his own to rule the rest, infusing it with much of himself.  He allowed himself to be taken hostage, corrupted a people, and lost his ability to take upon himself a fair appearance when the land foundered, then lost the ability to take a stable fána when a mere Man cut the Ring from his hand.

            Celebrimbor?  You mean Fëanor’s grandson?

            “That I do.”  The malicious tone was plain in the former Maia’s voice.

            I’m surprised that Celebrimbor would have anything to do with him.  Far too noble by half, Celebrimbor was.  Disowned his own atto, last I heard.

            “That he did.  Not that any of the sons of Fëanor was worth much after the deaths of so many in Alqualondë, Nargothrond, Menegroth, and Sirion, proving themselves kinslayers indeed.  Certainly Celegorm and Curufin received what they deserved after the fiasco at Nargothrond.”

            They’d both taken a good deal of my own nature to them by that time, Melkor noted thoughtfully.  I found them far more pliable than their older brothers.  The Vala examined his companion more closely.  Not, I suppose, that there is that much of your own nature left you.  How is it you are here in my cell?

            The ashes that appeared to define the former Maia curdled somewhat in distaste.  “How am I to say?” he asked.  He examined his own rather nebulous form critically.  “Certainly I never intended to be seen in such disarray.  One moment I was turning away from the Hobbit they called the Ringbearer, having pronounced his doom for him—just where is Lord Námo when he is needed to pronounce dooms?  I thought that was his duty, after all….”

            And just why, inquired a new thought, was I needed there?  You had taken on yourself the role of my surrogate, after all.

            Both turned their heads in surprise to find that the Doomsman of the Valar stood within the room, a carrier for an animal casually held in one hand as if it held but the slightest of cats, although it was in truth huge; a firepot dangling from his wrist; and a glass vessel held in the grasp of his other hand.

            Melkor’s visage darkened.  And what do you here, younger brother? he demanded with a good deal of rancor to his tone.  Have you come to mock me in my misery?

            Mock you, Melkor?  Nay—not that.  Indeed, I come at the behest of the Ringbearer, who begged a boon of me.

            Curumo’s attention was clearly piqued, and an ebon, shadowy figure rose from the red-shot black pot, apparently trembling with anxiety or fury—it was difficult to discern which--to hear the pronouncement of Námo.  “And what boon,” Sauron croaked in a voice that creaked with long disuse, “would that creature evoke from such as you?”

            In the outer world it is the turning of the year, the longest night of the Sun’s cycle, after which the days will again lengthen, and light and warmth again return to brighten the earth and to engender growth and beauty.  Frodo Baggins, the Lord Iorhael of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, has but recently come to brighten our halls for a time ere he steps beyond the Circles of Arda to return to the Presence, and he has sought to bring reason to rejoice even to you three.  He asked as to your disposition, and of all things expressed a desire to see you know the pleasures of the season as it is celebrated amongst his own folk.  He wished that you might know the company of those who were closest to you, that you might know the comfort of the brightness of the hearth and food and drink in keeping with your desires, to know your quarters decorated and to feel yourselves secure, perhaps even with a dog to lie at your feet and before the brightness of the fire. 

With that he poured out the contents of the jar, and a shadowy woman’s form could be seen briefly before it coalesced into the shape of a dark spider.  The jar disappeared, and the carrier was opened and the dark, hairy shape of Draugluin was spilled out of it.  The carrier evaporated, and the Vala opened the firepot on a raised structure reminiscent of a hearth against one wall of the room, and from it emerged a Balrog, apparently sullen and somewhat confused.

            The shining forms of three bright Maiar came from behind him, and set a table amidst the three prisoners, setting it with dishes and cups, and a bowl of red liquid as viscous as blood, and platters of what appeared to be fell meats.  These three released their physical forms and thought themselves away, and again the portal opened, allowing two shining Maiar warriors to lead in a group of about ten orcs, dressed incongruously in long white tabards over red robes.  These were formed into two lines, and one of the Maiar raised its sword as if it were a baton. 

            Melkor turned a befuddled visage to meet the amused eyes of the Lord of Mandos.  And why these? he asked.

            To sing carols for you, as requested by the Ringbearer, they were told.  As I said, the son of Drogo has asked that you be allowed to know the comforts his own people treasure, and song is very much a part of such celebrations.

            The Vala nodded, and the Maia smiled.  “All right, boys, let it be as we rehearsed.  We shall begin with The Turning of the Year Approaches.  On the count of three….”

            And as the spider spun garlands of silk to decorate the walls and ceiling, the sullen Balrog flamed on its hearth, the werewolf hid its head beneath its paws and whined, and the orcs began to discordantly sing, “Lo, the turning of the year approaches, let all give thanks and praise to the Creator of all!”

            Curumo and Sauron drew closer in revulsion to Melkor as Námo withdrew the large shape of a bat from his script and set it fluttering about the room.  And with Thuringwethil to dance for you, he whispered into the ears of his captives….

-0-

Melkor was the name first borne by Morgoth.  The Feanorians named him Morgoth, or the Black Enemy, in response to his evil counsels and actions against those who dwelt in the Blessed Lands.

Curumo is the name Saruman bore before he accepted his commission to sail from Aman to serve as one of the Istari or Wizards.

Mairon was the original name borne by Sauron before he turned to evil and became Morgoth’s greatest lieutenant.  He also bore at times the names and appellations of Gorthaur the Cruel; Annatar, which means Lord of Gifts; Zigur, which means Wizard; and Lord of Werewolves.  He had many shapes he could and would assume, from that of a noble lord when he was known as Annatar or Zigur, to a werewolf, the greatest of the vampire bats, and a Balrog.  It is apparent that his truest nature was that of a Balrog, for it is said that his hand was hotter than a fiery coal, and so it was that Gil-galad died.  Gandalf confirms this when he indicates that Isildur believed the inscription of the Ringspell faded once the Ring began to cool from the heat of Sauron’s hand.  Sauron was apparently one of the most powerful of the Maiar originally, and did not sink to a single form until after he lost his Ring, at which time he appeared to become a mere shadow who must surround himself with a nimbus of fire in order to be discerned visually at all, giving rise to the appearance of being a great Eye.

Draugluin was the name given the former Maia who became known as the father of the werewolves, and is said to be a progenitor of Carcharoth, the great wolf who bit off the hand of Beren.

Ungoliant was the apparent female Maia who took a spider’s shape and fed upon light, assisting Morgoth to destroy the Two Trees by fixing her mandibles upon the wounds caused by Morgoth’s spear and sucking the light out of them.  It is said she spun webs of darkness, stronger than spider’s silk.  She is said to have been Shelob’s mother and the progenitor of the great spiders of Mirkwood and elsewhere throughout Middle Earth.

Thuringwethil was another female Maia, believed to have been a lover of Sauron, who at Morgoth’s behest became the first of the Vampires, and is said to have begun that curse within Middle Earth.

And who better to sing Yuletide carols to Morgoth and Sauron and Saruman than the creatures they created and sought to perfect as the height of depravity, ugliness, and cruelty—orcs?

Written for the LOTR Community AU challenge.  For Aliana for her birthday.  Beta by RiverOtter.

The New Master of the Hill

           He lay back in the fresh new grass and took a deep breath of the clean Spring air.  Ah, but it was a beautiful night!  The stars shone brightly enough, not having to compete with the light of any other bodies, and other than the glow of candles and lamps from the Hobbit holes and houses below the height of the Hill all was dark and still.  He’d not even had to draw on the power of the Ring he wore to veil the sky tonight! 

            He didn’t mind the stars, for they were small, distant, and polite—and remarkably discreet.  They did not seek to make public what was done under their light, not like the White Face or the Yellow Face.  They didn’t peer too closely into doings that plainly weren’t any of their business.

            He was glad that he had managed to find the new Baggins east of the Great River, the new Baggins and his companion.  Master had been kind in his fashion, after all, and had managed to help Sméagol to recover much of his former self.  Too bad he’d had to kill him in the end.  But, then, how else was he to have recovered the Precious?  He couldn’t allow the Baggins to complete his quest to destroy the Precious, after all!  So, there on the slopes of the Mountain he’d lain in wait, and he’d managed to break Master’s neck instantly.  He’d not suffered, not sweet Master!  And he’d been sweet, Master had….

            The Fat One had tried to avenge Master, of course, and it had taken the power of the Precious to teach him his proper place.  Sméagol had had to force the Fat One to bring him back here, and now Sméagol was successfully taking the place of Master, back here in the Master’s Shire.  He lived now in Master’s hole and wore Master’s clothing and reveled in Master’s gardens and enjoyed eating Master’s former enemies….

 *

            Sam Gamgee peered upwards toward the roof tree for the Hill, making certain that Stinker and Slinker were busy with their joint contemplation of the Stars.  From the tool shed he fetched the small file he’d managed to keep hidden from Gollum, and worked once more at filing off the chains with which he’d been fitted while still in Mordor.  How exactly Gollum had made himself the Lord of the Ring rather than Sauron Sam wasn’t quite certain.  But the Nazgûl and orcs had groveled at Gollum’s feet and their smiths had seen Sam manacled, and Sam had returned not as Frodo’s friend but as Gollum’s slave.  But he didn’t intend to remain a slave to anybody, and particularly not to the ruined creature who’d murdered his beloved Master.  No, Sam Gamgee intended to free himself, and then hopefully all of Middle Earth, from the clutches of the one once known as Sméagol….

Written for the LOTR Community "Fanon Buster" challenge.  For Lily Baggins and Lily the Hobbit for their birthdays.

Devilling Lobelia

            As Otho Sackville-Baggins entered his home he could hear his wife sobbing in the first parlor.  Immediately alarmed for Lobelia’s well-being, he dropped his hat and parcels on the bench for the hall tree and hurried down the entrance hall to where she sat, her face in her apron, weeping.  “My sweet one!” he exclaimed.  “What in Middle Earth is the matter?”  Then, as a suspicion began to grow, his expression hardened.  “It’s that Primula Brandybuck Baggins again, isn’t it?  What did she do this time?”

            Lobelia wiped her face as she sought to control her tears.  “Oh, oh, oh, Otho!  Yes, it’s Primula!  Isn’t it always—always Primula?  Why doesn’t she like me?  What did I ever do to her?  She always treats me so badly, and does everything she can to wrong-foot me and to make me appear a terrible person, and—and especially in front of your Cousin Bilbo!”

            “She is a devious witch,” Otho agreed.  “But what was it this time?”

            Lobelia gave a delicate hiccup as she straightened in her chair and placed her hands in her lap, clutching tightly onto the apron.  She sniffed, and sought to describe her experience with Drogo Baggins’s wife.  “Well, first, she came into the silver smith’s shop while Lodo was showing me the most exquisite ladle you can imagine.  Oh, Otho, it is absolutely the most beautiful thing!  He says it is the finest of Dwarvish work, and I do believe that’s true.  So, so----”  She paused to blow her nose and wipe her eyes again.  “Well, she interrupted us, as if I weren’t there at all, asking him if he had any silver pins for her sewing.  She said that they must be two inches long, two inches exactly, as if to be any shorter or longer would make some significant difference.  He left the ladle on the counter and brought out a box of the wretched things, but she insisted they weren’t the right size, so he brought out a ruler to show her they were.  But if she didn’t insist that as they proved to be an eighth of an inch too long they simply wouldn’t do!  So he went into the back room to find a different box, one he said he’d purchased from Needlehole.  When he came back there was the measuring to do all over again, only this time they were just a smidgen too short.  And while we waited for him to find a third box she trod all over my foot and never acted as if she realized I was there at all!

            “Finally I gave up and tried to leave, but he came out right then with another box of pins, and asked if I wanted to purchase the ladle, and I told him I would return later when he wasn’t busy with another customer.  Only the ladle was gone, gone from the counter, I mean.  He immediately insisted on searching my umbrella, and if he didn’t find the missing ladle inside it!  She put it there, Primula did—I’m certain of it!  She did it while he was busy with the pins and I was trying to keep from being where she’d step on my feet as she waited impatiently!  She has most of Hobbiton convinced I’m the worst sort of sneak-thief!”

            Her lip trembled as she remembered the indignity of being found with the ladle inside her umbrella and the unspoken accusation that she must have placed it there herself. Finally she went on, as bravely as she could.  “I told him to take it, as I didn’t have enough money to pay, not until I’d spoken with you to see if we could afford it.  He put it back inside the carton in which it was kept, looking at me with a most suspicious eye the whole time, and told me that he’d misquoted the price, giving me an amount now a whole silver more than he’d said the first time, and he bade me good day as if I were some lout of a child who’d wandered into his shop instead of one who has always paid a fair price for what I purchase from him.  I left feeling as if the whole of the village were looking at me with equal suspicion, and while I was seeking to compose myself, she came out and acted totally surprised and pleased to see me there.  You’d never know that only moments before she’d been treading on my foot as if it were part of the tile from the floor to Lodo’s shop!  She took me by the arm and led me into the Ivy Leaf, gushing the whole time as if we were bosom companions.  You’d think that we’d been planning for a week at least to take our lunch together there!  And, of course, Bilbo was there, and she steered me right into him, jostling me into him on purpose!  We both fell down, Bilbo and I did, and she was bustling about as if she were trying to help us to rise, but all the while continuing to push me against Bilbo.  And when he was finally able to stand up, if his watch wasn’t missing!  And guess where it was found?  In my umbrella again, of course!”

            “I’ve told you before, my love, not to carry that umbrella out in public.”

            She lifted hurt eyes to his.  “But I love it so and am so proud of it, Otho.  It’s the one thing that Bilbo Baggins ever gave me that was of any value whatsoever, for he gave it to me before Primula began poisoning his mind against me.”

            “And every time she comes near you while you carry it something small and valuable belonging to someone else ends up inside it.  She uses it to make you look like a thief, my dear.”

            Her shame and frustration were palpable.  “She’s done this for years, ever since Drogo married her and brought her here from Buckland, and you know as well as I do that I never stole those spoons of Bilbo’s while he was gone!  It’s just not fair that she can always get away with this treatment of me, just because she’s so small and pretty and has everyone convinced that she’s the sweetest Hobbitess in the whole of the West-farthing!  And now every time someone misplaces something they always look at me as if I had something to do with its disappearance.  I tell you, Otho, that I cannot take much more of this!”

            He frowned.  “And it was her father who convinced mine to declare Bilbo dead and to move us into Bag End and sell off those things of his we didn’t wish to keep.  I’ve always suspected old Nat Boffin stole those spoons during the public viewing of the items for sale before the auction started, but it was Drogo who first convinced Bilbo that you were the one to take them.”

            She nodded miserably.  “I just do not know what to do.  She makes me ashamed to show my face anywhere in Hobbiton or the region of the Hill.  Perhaps we should leave Hobbiton and settle in the South-farthing.  At least she’s not had the chance to convince everyone there that I’m a thief or plotting against everyone else, and there I don’t always run into those who look at me with suspicion.”

            Otho sighed.  “I fear that you are correct, sweetling.  Perhaps we’d do well to settle near Hardbottle.  You have a good many kin there, at least, people who won’t always be throwing Primula’s nasty gossip about you in your face.”

            She looked up hopefully at him, and for the first time since he’d come in gave a watery smile.  “You do take such good care of me, Otho my dear one!”

 *******

            “Drogo?  Are you here?  I am home, and I had a most entertaining morning!”

            Drogo Baggins looked up from the thick slice of currant cake he’d just cut for himself.  “Entertaining?  Have you been devilling Lobelia again, then?”

            “Oh, yes, but she is so very easy to devil!”  She untied the strings to her bonnet and set it on the wall shelf.  “I managed to slip the most ostentatious ladle you have ever seen from the counter in Lodo’s shop into her umbrella, and now he is convinced that she’d planned to steal off with it.  Oh, and I managed to step on her foot at least six times, pretending she wasn’t there.  And I have Lodo all frustrated that none of his silver pins will suit me!  It was great fun.  Did you leave some of the currant cake for me, dearling?”

            He waved vaguely in the direction of the second larder.  “The second cake is still there, not to mention what’s left here on the tea table.”

            She inspected the slim wedge of cake remaining on the serving plate and sniffed.  “There’s little enough of this one left.  I’ll bring out the other one, then.  Anyway, as I was leaving Lodo’s shop, who do I almost run into but dear Lobelia, standing there like a lost soul.  So I had a wonderful thought—why not make her look bad again in front of Bilbo?  You remember he told us yesterday that he was to meet with Farmer Strawflower and Old Noakes at the Ivy Leaf for luncheon to discuss his farm shares with them?  Well, I took Lobelia by that meaty arm of hers and drug her there, sweet-talking her as if I couldn’t wait to share a meal with her.  And there was dear Bilbo with his back turned to us, just in the perfect position for me to run him over with Lobelia!  Oh, but it was delightful to see how surprised and upset both of them were!  I managed to slip Bilbo’s watch out of his pocket and into that umbrella of hers, and now he’s convinced she fell over him on purpose so as to try to take it!  I so love that umbrella, Drogo.  It’s so handy to slip things into!”

            He shook his head in admiration.  “You do such things so well, Primula.  I salute you for your skill as a pocket dipper!”

            She smiled.  “Odovacar Bolger taught me the way of it, and I’ll always be grateful he did.  But I am intent on driving a permanent wedge between Bilbo and the Sackville-Bagginses.  Otho may be his proper heir according to Shire law and custom, but I intend that you and I inherit Bag End once he’s gone.  I will be Mistress of the Hill after Bilbo’s dead, not that foolish Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins, and those silver spoons I stole right out from under her overlarge nose will return to Bag End with us!”

            And with a satisfied smirk, she picked up the remaining slice of currant cake and began neatly nibbling at it as she pondered her next step in making certain the very thought of Lobelia and Otho would cause Bilbo’s stomach to go sour.

For Lindelea and Garnet Took for their birthdays.

Not as Was Intended

            “What can I do for you, Mr. Baggins?”

            Frodo gave a sigh as he examined the form of his gardener from the top of his head to the sturdy feet planted firmly on the soil of Bag End’s garden.  “Well,” he said sadly, “at least you didn’t sir me this time.”

            Sam stood still, formally, his trowel caught between his hands, his knuckles nearly white as he held it, his mouth firmly closed.

            Frodo looked away from Sam to the bush beside which he stood.  “The roses are beautiful,” he said.  “Red as blood.”

            “Yes,” Sam said, and glanced at the circle of gold to be glimpsed on Frodo’s right ring finger.  “’Ceptin’, they was white when I planted them.”