18. Courage

Hazel ran with hobbit silence, not daring to call for Frodo lest the wolf hear and return. The forest was now completely dark, and he could only dimly make out the path before him. But he kept his eyes fixed on the golden light of a campfire that could faintly be seen, outside the wood. There he placed his hopes—he told himself stubbornly that Faramond must have lit it. 

Despite the reassurance of the campfire, Hazel felt dread weighing heavily on his heart. He had only been running for perhaps five minutes, but it felt like an eternity, as dark thoughts began to rush through his mind in spite of his desperate efforts to hold them back.

‘That mama wolf came back with a rabbit,’ he reminded himself firmly. ‘That must mean that Uncle Frodo is all right.’ A debate began in his mind, as his indomitable and hopeful heart argued frantically against the dark and frightening thoughts and images that found their way into his mind.

Hazel had gradually been slowing from a run to a trot, and then to a brisk walk as this interior debate began. After a few more minutes of hurrying down the path, he at last stopped and leaned against a tree—a birch tree, judging by the feel of its bark—to catch his breath and sort his thoughts. The pack on his back was also getting heavy, and digging into his shoulders.

Hazel leaned his head back against the smooth bark, unconsciously running his fingers over it as if to find some comfort in the peaceful, gentle tree. Gradually, his breaths lengthened, his heart slowed to a pace only slightly quicker than normal, and his confusion of thoughts slowed so that he could think clearly.

“All right. I can’t be jumping to conclusions with naught to prove my fears as true,” he told himself aloud, keeping his voice low for fear of the wolf. “Let me see. If that Mr. Faramond did hear Uncle Frodo, then he’d come and save him, wouldn’t he? Uncle Frodo said he was a nice Man—surely he wouldn’t just leave Uncle Frodo alone to get hurt? No. He wouldn’t—that’d be plain cruel, and surely naught but a warg or a goblin could be that mean! So if he did hear and if he did save Uncle Frodo, then wouldn’t he send someone lookin’ for me?” Hazel paused and cocked his head, thinking it over. “Yes, ’course he would. Uncle Frodo wouldn’t forget about me—unless he’s hurt! Oh, dear. Then what would he do? I wouldn’t want Mr. Faramond leavin’ ’im if he were hurt to look for me—”

Hazel abruptly ended that thought with a sudden, sharp gasp. As his fingers had been involuntarily digging into the smooth bark of the birch tree with the increasing dread of his predicament, they had come across something warm and sticky.

Swallowing hard, Hazel raised his suddenly trembling hand up in front of his eyes. Even in the dim light, he could make out the dark substance smeared across his fingers, and rubbing them hesitantly together, there could be no doubt of what it was: blood, partially dry.

Hazel took a deep breath and forced his unwilling limbs to move as he turned and knelt down at the base of the tree, facing its trunk. With one shaking hand, he felt along the bark, and found, below the smeared blood, deep scratches in the smooth trunk, obviously made by claws. At the base of the trunk, his searching fingers found something else, soft and ragged. Hazel held it up: it was a scrap of material. In the dark, he could not tell what color it was, but he did not need to see; he already knew, beyond question, who it belonged to.

Two emotions welled up in Hazel’s heart. One was a mix of sorrow, loneliness, and sheer terror, and the other was a strange sensation of courage. Everything suddenly seemed clear to him, and his silently asked question was answered both as he’d feared, and as he’d hoped: Frodo was injured, and Faramond, hopefully, surely, had rescued him and taken him, most likely, back to the cart outside the wood. Therefore, all he could do was return to the cart, and pray that Frodo and Faramond were there.

Hesitating for only a moment, Hazel closed his eyes and ran the scrap of his dear uncle’s cloak down the side of his face, taking comfort in the soft, homespun material and letting a tear fall upon it. Then he stuffed the cloth into the pocket of his breeches, stood up, and with renewed speed, began to run down the path again, towards that golden glow outside the wood that was still the object of his hopes.

Hazel had hardly gone three steps when a tall being, holding a flaming torch, appeared out of the trees to his left (the hobbit-lad, being so focused as he was with reaching the campfire ahead, had not noticed the second golden light approaching). With two huge strides, it stepped directly in front of him, giving a small laugh when Hazel ran into it and staggered back with great force.

“You are Hazel, I presume?” The being’s voice was surprisingly pleasant sounding; though it had a slight edge to it, as though the speaker was annoyed.

“Y-yes, sir,” stammered Hazel, overcome at the sight of something so tall. He had to step back to look at the face of what he now identified as a Big Person; the torch threw flickering shadows over it, but he could see enough to tell that the Man was handsome, in a rather unkempt, roguish sort of way, and fairly young. Hazel caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were a strange brown-grey, unlike any he had seen before. But they were shadowed again as he shifted the torch in his hand, and all that could then be seen of them was a bright gleam in the dark.

Frightened at the Man’s rough appearance, Hazel almost involuntarily reached into his pocket and felt the scrap of Frodo’s cloak. Somehow, it gave him confidence, and he managed to keep his voice from shaking as he spoke again. “And who are you, sir? Are you Mr. Faramond?”

The Man gave another chuckle. “Mr. Faramond? Never heard him called that before,” he said with something that might have been a sneer. “No, I’m not Faramond. I’m his companion, Gavin, and he sent me to look for you.”

Hazel breathed a sigh of relief that ended in a small gasp of worry. “But he wouldn’t know who I am,” he said to the Man, “unless my Uncle Frodo told him. Is he there?”

Gavin nodded, looking a bit uncomfortable at being the one to answer what seemed to be a difficult question for him. “Yes, he is, and I might as well tell you now that he is injured—”

Hazel cut him off in a rush. “Is he hurt bad?” he asked quickly, both dreading and needing the answer before anything else was said.

Gavin hesitated for a moment. “I cannot say,” he answered slowly. “I am no healer, but there is certainly a great amount of blood and at least one of his wounds appears grave.”

Hazel felt the blood leave his face and he swayed a little. Seeing this, the Man’s face softened and filled with regret, and he knelt down. “But do not fear, Hazel,” he said reassuringly, putting one enormous hand on the hobbit-lad’s small shoulder. “Faramond is a good healer—I have experienced his skill myself, and he is taking care of Frodo as we speak.” He paused and smiled, a little awkwardly. “Come. You can ride pig-a-back on me and we’ll get back to camp quicker.”

Hazel quickly drew his sleeve over his eyes to hide his tears, and smiled slightly back at the Man. “Thank you,” he murmured, feeling suddenly very tired. Gavin turned, still crouched on the ground, and helped Hazel clamber onto his back. Then, once the boy’s tiny arms were firmly clasped around his neck, and one of his own arms supported him while the other held aloft the flaming torch, he strode off quickly down the path.

It was rather odd, Gavin thought to himself, shifting Hazel into a more comfortable position on his back, that he should soften so quickly at the sight of a distressed hobbit boy. Some of his friends in Bree might have mocked him for melting like butter before someone he’d known less than a full minute, child though he be. But he knew that Faramond would be pleased, and somehow, almost unconsciously, he decided that Faramond’s opinion of his actions meant more than did his friends’ in Bree.

And besides that, Gavin knew why he had softened the way he did.

“Do you know something, Hazel,” he spoke up in an attempt to avert the boy’s thoughts from his injured companion, “I have a brother who looked just like you when he was a little lad.”

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard Hazel’s voice, small and timid, beside his ear: “What was his name?”

Gavin smiled, pleased that his attempt at cheering Hazel seemed to be working. “His name was Kestrel, but I liked to call him Kess. He was rather strange looking for a Bree-boy, with his hair all chestnut curls like yours; but then our mum looked just like that, too. And little Kess was different in more than just looks—he always was rather timid and quiet, and his favorite thing in all the world to do was to go a-walking in the Chetwood on a rainy day.” Gavin felt Hazel begin to grow more heavy on his back as the boy, obviously exhausted from his fear and worry, fell into a light drowse.

Deciding that his voice would probably lull the child into a deeper sleep, Gavin continued with his story. “When he was small, I would go with Kestrel on his walking trips, and we would camp in the Chetwood for a day or so. And Kess would always wander around the campsite, finding interesting leaves or pebbles or the like, and sometimes he’d even stray outside the campsite without me realizing it, and a few minutes later he’d return with some little coney or even a baby fox that he’d saved from a trap. There’s a man in Bree, called Bill Ferny—ugh, is he a cruel one!—who used to love hunting in the Chetwood, though he doesn’t do it anymore. But he used to set traps out there all the time, which was why Kess always made sure to visit the forest as often as he could. You see, even though I hunt now, I do it for food, but Ferny hunted for the sheer fun of it, and that was why little Kestrel couldn’t stand him.”

Gavin sighed. Hazel was now deeply asleep, his tousled curls resting against the Man’s black hair, and his small hands still tightly holding onto Gavin’s tunic.

Thinking of the younger brother who had gone to Dale some years before to study medicine brought to Gavin a mixture of sadness, for he missed Kestrel terribly, and also happiness at being in the company of another who seemed very much like his brother. He would have to tell Kestrel of this meeting in his next letter.

Gavin’s thoughts of his brother were forced aside as he at last came out of the forest and into the open. The campfire glowed brightly not far ahead, and he could see Faramond’s form, bending over his injured ward, silhouetted in black against the golden fire behind him.

Faramond looked up at Gavin’s arrival and smiled somewhat wanly at the sleeping hobbit-child on his back. “You found him.” It was not a question, and Faramond sounded immensely relieved.

“Yes.” Gavin nodded, pulling out his sleeping roll with one hand and stretching it out on the other side of the campfire. He gently slid Hazel off his back and pulling the heavy pack from the boy’s shoulders, he laid him down on it, covering him up warmly with a spare blanket. Hazel did not stir, but some of the worry in his face faded away.

Gavin smiled down at him, fondly stroking back a brown ringlet from Hazel’s face, and then came over to kneel by Faramond’s side. “How is Frodo? The child worried himself to sleep over him,” he said in a low voice, looking down at the object of his question. Frodo did not look much different, save that his face had a bit more color to it, though it was still pale, and his hands did not clench with pain at every breath.

“I have not yet done anything more,” Faramond whispered, arranging several instruments and a roll of bandages by Frodo’s side, “for I had to first give him the pain-dulling herbs. I would not cause him any further suffering. It took several minutes for them to fully take effect, and I have only now finished cleaning my things. You were not gone long.”

He did not give Gavin a chance to respond to that statement. “Look in the pack that little Hazel carried and see if you can find a spare shirt for Frodo, please,” he ordered without looking up. “This one is ruined, and I will need to tear it to make more bandages—I fear my supply may not be enough.”

As Gavin wordlessly went to rummage through the small pack, Faramond unclasped Frodo’s braces and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped midway where the makeshift bandages were wrapped over the shirt, and slowly, gently he unwound them, and then placed the blood-soaked cloths to the side. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and carefully removed it, placing it beside the bloodied bandages. Now he had clear access to the wound and could see it better. Blood still welled from it, albeit very slowly now, and looking at it closely, he could see that it was not quite so deep as he’d feared—but certainly deep enough to be grave.

After folding two spare blankets and sliding them carefully under Frodo’s midsection, raising the wound slightly, Faramond took a cloth that he had put in a small bowl of water and gently bathed the area around the wound, taking care not to touch it directly. Both cloth and water were soon stained red. He finished cleaning the surrounding area and put the cloth back in the bowl. He was then left to move on to the more difficult part: cleaning the wound itself, and worse, stitching the sides of it together. That was a process rarely practiced among Men, for it was dangerous and could be worse than the wound itself if not done properly; but the Elves had taught Estel how to perform the procedure safely, and he in turn had instructed several of the Rangers. Would that Estel were here, thought Faramond with a sigh, forcing aside feelings of inadequacy for the delicate task. He could not perform the task if he was filled with the fear of failing. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his waterskin and after dumping the bloody water on the grass outside the campsite, he refilled it.

Gavin returned to his side, empty-handed. “There were no extra shirts in the pack,” he said apologetically. “Naught but food and a few other things. Nothing to use for bandages.”

Faramond groaned inwardly but nodded his head. “Then we shall have to make do with what we have,” he said with a sigh. He looked down at Frodo and cringed as he readied himself for the process that would be very painful for the hobbit, even with the painkiller. But the wound must be cleaned, and it was too deep to let it knit back together on its own.

Another thought suddenly occurred to him: under such great pain, Frodo would certainly, understandably, cry out. Not only would that bring the danger of the wolf returning, but it would also wake Hazel, and he did not wish the boy to witness his friend’s suffering.

“Gavin,” he said, looking up at the Man beside him, “I must clean and stitch the wound in his side, and it will be very painful for him. I need you to help me.”

Gavin’s ruddy face paled and he swallowed hard. “What am I to do?” he asked hoarsely; the thought of the agony that Faramond’s actions would bring to Frodo made his stomach turn.

Faramond smiled at him, grateful for his willingness. “I fear that he will cry out, and I do not wish to bring back the wolves, nor wake young Hazel.” He nodded towards the sleeping hobbit child across the campfire. “I need you to cover his mouth—gag him if you must, for he will most likely struggle, as well, and you may need both hands to hold him down. Can you do that?”

Gavin’s face was still pale, but he nodded and taking a deep breath, went to fetch something to use for a gag. Faramond smiled again, understanding his young companion’s pallor—his own face was several shades whiter than normal, he was certain.

Gavin returned a moment later, holding a strip of cloth he’d found in Faramond’s pack. He did not look quite so ill now, though his hands shook a bit as he sat down behind Frodo’s head.

At a nod from Faramond, he took the strip of cloth and tied it, with unaccustomed gentleness, over the small mouth, making sure that though not too tight, the knot would hold. Frodo did not stir, except that his brow furrowed for a moment as though confused or worried.

His mouth now completely dry, Gavin bent over the young hobbit and placed his hands on the small shoulders. Then, at another nod from Faramond, he pressed down, holding Frodo in place while being careful not to apply too much pressure. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not being sick as Faramond began his ministrations.

It seemed like an eternity to Gavin before Faramond finished, and Frodo’s muffled cries of pain had faded into occasional soft moans. Sighing shakily with relief, he sat up, letting go of Frodo’s shoulders and discovering that his hands had made red marks on the pale skin. As he ruefully rubbed these, Faramond bent over and after removing the gag, he gently wiped away the tears that still spilled from Frodo’s tightly shut eyes.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Faramond sat back on his heels and ran his fingertips lightly over his handiwork. After cleaning and stitching the wound in Frodo’s side, he’d examined the gash in his leg and decided that it would not need the same treatment, so after cleaning it out, as well, he had simply bandaged it and left it alone to heal of its own accord.

He found that his work had been done well, despite his doubts of his own skill; and looking up, his face parted into a weary grin. “I believe that’s more than enough for tonight,” he said in a light jest, clapping a trembling hand to Gavin’s shoulder, which he also found was shaking. “Get some sleep, my friend—you look positively green!”

Gavin smiled wanly. “I hope never to relive a night like this!” he said fervently, shaking his head and running his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Healers have earned a new respect in my eyes.” He rubbed his tired eyes and stood up, stiffly. “Are you sure you will not need me?” he asked, though he felt exhaustion descending on him like a cloud.

“Of course,” said Faramond sympathetically. “You won’t be of much help to me if you fall asleep where you sit.”

Gavin nodded and staggered off to his bedroll, only to find that it was occupied by a sleeping hobbit-lad. He wanted to groan; he’d completely forgotten about Hazel. Sighing, he picked the boy up, careful not to wake him, and then sank onto the bedroll, settling Hazel comfortably against him. The hobbit child did not stir, save that he buried his face with a sigh of contentment in Gavin’s chest. A bit startled for a moment, the Man smiled and nestled under the blanket, closing his eyes and letting sleep take him.

Faramond watched as his companion fell asleep, the little hobbit pressed warmly against him. He chuckled softly to himself, not in the least surprised at the sudden change in Gavin’s attitude caused by that hobbit-child; he had experienced the same, years before, when he had gotten to know his first Shire-hobbit.

Feeling drained himself, he gave a small yawn and looked down at Frodo, now covered warmly with two layers of blankets. The hobbit seemed to be deeply and peacefully asleep now, and though he was still pale, he looked altogether more healthy than before, even if only a bit. Faramond bent over and brushed back the dark curls to feel the small forehead; there was no fever, but the Man feared that one might develop, and he would have to keep a close watch on his young charge through the night, for fear of complications.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Faramond murmured, his face filling with regret. He absently stroked the hobbit’s thick curls as remorse for his injuries invaded his mind. “I am here to protect the Shire… but I have not as yet done a very good job, have I?” He chuckled a little, grimly. “What would Estel say, I wonder.”

“I’m sure no one could be displeased with your efforts,” spoke up a faint voice.

Faramond started, and looked down at Frodo, his hand freezing in mid-motion. He found the hobbit watching him with half-open, slightly unfocussed blue eyes. “Frodo!” he breathed, regaining his composure. “How do you feel?”

Frodo smiled wanly. “Better than before,” he said, his voice hardly above a cracked whisper. “Whatever herbs you’ve given me, they seem to work well, although I feel weak as a kitten and a bit dizzy.” With apparent difficulty, he forced his eyes open wider and looked around as best he could without moving his head. Worry came into his voice and he looked back up at Faramond. “Where is Hazel?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you find him?”

Faramond smiled and gently raised Frodo into a sitting position, supporting his dark, curly head in the crook of his arm, and pointed to the sleeping hobbit child, nestled in the arms of Gavin. “Hazel is quite fine,” he assured Frodo. “My companion, Gavin, found him without trouble, and brought him back. He fell asleep worrying about you.”

That concern taken care of, Frodo sighed with relief and closed his eyes as vertigo suddenly assailed him. Feeling his small patient tense, Faramond carefully laid him back down on the bedroll. “I believe the dizziness is your fault, actually, Frodo,” the Man teased gently, grinning as the hobbit’s eyes opened in surprise. “You are not supposed to be awake at all yet, in fact. You must be giving those herbs quite a battle. I shall have to remember to give you a stronger dose next time—I had not counted on you fighting against them!”

Frodo managed to breathe a faint laugh. “I could not sleep without knowing what had happened to Hazel,” he said, his eyes falling shut again involuntarily. “Although now that I know, I see no reason to continue fighting your herbs.” He voice faded into a murmur as he began to surrender to sleep. “But don’t let Hazel worry about me too…much…”

Faramond watched as Frodo fell asleep again, and after a moment, he resumed stroking the hobbit’s dark ringlets, his heart now considerably lighter. He smiled to himself, wondering, as he often did, at the remarkable race of Hobbits. They seemed child-like, both in their size and their innocent simplicity, and yet they could be surprisingly observant and wise, too. Though he had known Frodo only since that afternoon, he could tell, already, that the charming young hobbit, while possessing the candor and sweet nature of his race, was slightly different than most. He didn’t know what it was that made him think this; perhaps it was that Frodo was uncharacteristically slender and fair-faced—but Faramond felt that it was something more than that.

But his musings were brought to a halt when Faramond’s heavy eyes closed of their own accord and he dropped into a light drowse.

Hazel awoke slowly, unwilling to leave the pleasant, but unremembered dream that he had been wandering in for—how long had it been? He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked around. It was dark, except for the bright, crackling fire across from him, which made him blink several times before his eyes grew adjusted to its golden light. Then he raised his head, and found with surprise and confusion that he was wrapped in someone’s warm but alarmingly large arms. He looked down and saw a Man, lying asleep beside him. Full memory came flooding back to him as he recognized Gavin, and with a gasp, he wriggled carefully out of the Man’s arms and got to his feet.

Hazel’s eyes quickly scanned the campsite and came to rest on a small, pale form, covered with blankets, on the other side of the fire. Sucking in his breath sharply, the boy ran across the campsite and fell to his knees by Frodo’s side, completely unaware of the Man sitting asleep beside his uncle; he had eyes only for Frodo. Tears blurred his vision as he saw the scratches across his uncle’s pale cheek, and observed how still he was. For a moment cold fear seized him that Frodo was dead, but then he saw the slow rising and falling of his uncle’s chest, and nearly fainted with relief.

“Uncle Frodo,” Hazel whispered, gently tapping his uninjured cheek. “Wake up, Uncle Frodo! Wake up! It’s me, Hazel. Wake up!”

There was no response. This brought a new wave of despair flooding over him, and suddenly unable to hold back his tears any longer, Hazel threw himself across his uncle, wrapping his arms tightly around him and burying his face in Frodo’s soft curls as sobs overcame him. He loosened his grip slightly as he felt Frodo flinch and give a low whimper of pain, but once he let the tears start to flow, he could not stop them, and the sobs were so deep that he was unaware of anything but his own heaving chest, and his uncle’s cold, limp form in his arms.

“I’m s-sorry, Uncle F-Frodo!” he cried. “It’s all my fault that you got hurt. I-I’m s-s-sorry!”

Gradually, as the sobs subsided somewhat, he became aware that a hand was weakly stroking his hair, and another, larger one was rubbing his back comfortingly. As he raised his head, gulping back his tears, the latter one was removed, though he didn’t notice; his tear-swollen eyes were fixed on Frodo’s pale, weary face and he was conscious of nothing else.

“Uncle Frodo!” he gasped, unable to say any more for the moment.

“Hazel,” Frodo whispered in a voice that was faint and hoarse, “are you all right? I was so worried about you—”

Hazel cut him off with a breathy laugh. “You were worried, Uncle Frodo!” he exclaimed. Anything else he might have said was smothered in a new onslaught of sobs and he buried his face again in Frodo’s now tear-soaked dark curls. These tears were now tears of relief, which increased when he felt weak arms wrapping around him, and the gentle hand still stroking his hair.

When his sobs had at long last diminished to occasional hiccoughs, Hazel felt completely drained, though he no longer had any inclination to go to sleep again. He raised his head, scrubbing his red, swollen eyes with one sleeve. Frodo smiled slightly at him. “Feeling better?”

Hazel, still a bit too overwhelmed to speak, instead seized the slender hand that stroked his hair and kissed it, and then held it against his cheek. “Oh, Uncle Frodo,” he breathed at last, “I’m much better now that you’re awake.”

“I’m not really supposed to be,” said Frodo softly, smiling up at someone Hazel could not see, nor did he bother to turn around and look. His mind was fixed on Frodo.

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked hesitantly, gently touching the scratches on his uncle’s cheek.

“Not badly,” Frodo answered, his voice lowering to a whisper as he began to slide back into sleep. “Don’t worry yourself, Hazel. I’ll be well in no time…” He trailed off as his eyes involuntarily fluttered closed and he fell asleep once more.

Hazel’s heart stopped for a moment when Frodo’s hand went still against his cheek. “Uncle Frodo?” he called, panic-stricken for a moment. “Uncle Frodo! Wake up!”

A large hand was laid on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Hazel,” said a kind voice softly. “He’s just asleep.” The boy looked up and found a Man, older than Gavin, smiling comfortingly at him. “When will he wake up?” Hazel sniffled a little, feeling tears well up in his eyes again.

Faramond sighed, not wishing to frighten the boy further; if Frodo would stop fighting the herbal sedative, he should sleep well into the morrow. “Tomorrow, Hazel,” he said gently. “But do not fear—the sleep will make him better. And you’ll see, Hazel,” he patted the small shoulder reassuringly, taking a deep breath, “he’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

TBC...

Sorry I didn't get this up yesterday like I promised - I hadn't realized that I'd be out most of the day. I don't foresee any such outings happening today, so hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter up by this evening. :)