Yet again, this chapter took me longer than I'd anticipated to post. My apologies, Esamen! I won't even try to guess when the next update will be, so I won't disappoint. ;) Not too long, I can promise that. Only seven more chapters and we're up-to-date!

19. Worry

Halfred and Sam stood on the back doorstep of the Gamgee smial, frowning in concern as they watched the sun begin to set behind the rolling hills and forests.

"They’ve been gone too long," muttered Sam to himself. He glanced at Halfred and raised his voice. "We’ve waited plenty long enough, Hal. We should go look for ’em. What if they’re hurt? Or lost? Or—"

"Calm down, Sam-lad," said Halfred gently, placing a comforting arm around his brother’s shoulders. "I agree, they’ve been gone far too long, an’ we certainly shall go look for ’em. Come on, then, we’d best start before it gets too dark 'ta see anything."

His arm still draped around Sam’s shoulders, Halfred turned and led him back into the house. A very concerned Jessimine came hurrying towards them from down the hall, where she had just put Fennel and baby Tansy to bed.

"Are they not back yet?" she asked anxiously. "Where could they be?"

Halfred used his free arm to pull Jessimine close and give her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. "Don’t worry, love," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. "Most likely Hazel-lad just got carried away in showin’ off stone-skippin’ and frog-catchin’ for his ‘Uncle’ Frodo, an’ we all know that Frodo’s much too indulgent to tell him to stop." Jessimine sighed, not entirely believing him. "We’re off to look for the two knaves now," he added. "They’ve got the cart, so no reason to bring our wagon; we’ll ride old Gil. We shouldn’t be gone long—"

Jessimine looked up incredulously. "What!" she exclaimed. "Me, stay ’ere while you two go searchin’ for my lad? No! I won’t ’ave it, an’ that’s flat."

Both Halfred and Sam had to smile at the determination in the hobbit-lady’s flashing hazel eyes. "Of course ye’d want to come, me dear," her husband said gently. "I know that. But what of the little ones? They can’t be out at night. An’ you need to be here, just in case… summat has happened." As Jessimine looked up in near panic at his last words, Halfred quickly added, "Of course there’s naught to worry about, but it’s better to be prepared fer the worst."

Jessimine eyed him shrewdly for a moment, trying to judge the honesty of his words. Then she sighed again. "Very well, Hal," she said resignedly. "I’ll stay ’ere an’ brew some tea for the rogues—I’m sure they’ll be right famished by the time they get back." Feeling hopeful again now that she had something to do, she smiled at them and pushed them back to the door. "Off with you two, then, an’ hurry! Be careful, both o’ you."

"Let us fetch our cloaks, an’ we’ll be off," said Halfred with a smile. "Frodo an’ Hazel have a knapsack with food and a bit o' gear in it, so we shouldn’t need much else."

Once they had raced back down the hall, pulled their cloaks from the pegs along the wall and returned, Jessimine quickly kissed them both on the cheek and shooed them out of the door. "Bring them back safe," she whispered worriedly, her hands clasped tightly. Then, closing her eyes a moment, she turned and hurried into the kitchen to prepare the tea.

***

"We’ll search the Bindbale first," Halfred called over his shoulder to his younger brother, who sat behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist for balance, as they rode double astride Gil the pony. "There’s a pond up towards the nor’-east side that Hazel likes to play at wi’ some o’ his friends. He’d be sure to take Frodo there."

Sam just nodded miserably, and rested his head against the back of his brother’s shoulder. Not only was he deeply worried for his nephew and master, he was also trying to hide a growing fear; he was quite fond of ponies, but he was not particularly comfortable riding them, and the fact that night was falling added to his unhappiness. To be sure, he would ride bareback through a raging storm without a second thought if he knew that anyone he loved so dearly as Hazel and Frodo were in danger, but not knowing where they were now or what had happened to them just added to his fear.

"How far ’way is it?" he asked, raising his head.

"Not far, Sam-lad, never fear," Halfred returned, still maintaining his cheerful manner. "’bout twenty minutes, I’d say, to get to the wood itself—then another ten or so to get to the Pond."

Sam groaned in dismay. "Half an hour!" he exclaimed frustratedly.

Halfred turned to grin at him over his shoulder. "Aye, half an hour—if ye’re goin’ along at a leisurely trot, that is." He leaned forward and patted the pony’s neck. "But ol’ Gil can go faster ’an that, can’t you, lad? Hold on, Sam!" Giving his younger brother hardly a second to obey, he kicked his heels into Gil’s sides and set the pony off at a swift canter.

Sam was glad that his arms were wrapped tightly around Halfred’s sturdy waist—else he’d surely have lost his balance as Gil raced down the dirt road. Once he was reasonably certain he was not, in fact, going to fall off, he sat up a bit straighter and looked around. The scenery was all a green and brown blur, and the whipping wind stung his eyes; but he could just make out ahead, over the rolling hills, the thin road that they followed, to where it disappeared into the Bindbale.

Feeling somehow relieved by the ability to see their path, Sam relaxed again, and lowered his head to bury his face contentedly in Halfred’s shirt. His older brother’s strong, indomitable presence had always comforted him in the past, and it did so now. It reminded him of his father—when the Gaffer was with him, Sam had always felt that somehow, nothing could truly go wrong. And now, with Halfred leading him, he felt at ease, confident that they would find Frodo and Hazel, safe and sound.

***

"How are you enjoying your meal, Master Hazel?"

"Well, I can’t say as I’ve ever had deer meat before, Mr. Faramond." Hazel swallowed a rather large mouthful. "And I 'ave to admit that I don’t think I’d want to try it again," he said honestly. "But it tastes very good, sir, and it’s a far sight better than nothing."

Faramond smiled, replacing the hot stones from the campfire he had used to keep the meat warm around the remaining hunks. His plan for raising Hazel’s spirits was working well. "That is certainly true," he agreed, finishing his own portion of deer meat. "And venison does take a bit of getting used to—but I must say that I would greatly prefer to watch a deer than to eat one. They are beautiful creatures."

Hazel nodded, his chewing faltering a bit as he imagined the graceful, gentle deer that were such a favorite among Shire-folk. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling a bit sick. "Erm, I-I think I’m all finished now," he said weakly. "I’m full."

Faramond smiled understandingly and took the wooden bowl and nearly-finished piece of venison, placing them beside the warm stones. They lapsed into silence, broken only by the sounds of the fire crackling and Gavin snoring softly on the other side of the campsite. From the woods an owl hooted, and crickets began to chirp somewhere nearby. It was now almost completely dark, and stars were appearing above them; only a faint reddish glow still lingered in the west.

Hazel shivered a little, wrapping his brown woolen cloak closer about him. "I wonder if my da will come lookin’ for us here," he wondered. He had not meant to say it aloud, but seeing Faramond looking at him, he decided he might as well continue. "He knows I like to play ’ere a lot with me friends, but I don’t know if this is where he’d look first."

"How far away is your home?" asked Faramond.

"I don’t know all my numbers yet, so I couldn’t tell you in miles," said Hazel with a small grin, producing a chuckle from Faramond. "But I would guess it’s about a half-hour from ’ere." A sudden thought occurred to him and his smile disappeared, replaced by worry. "That wolf family won’t go huntin’ that far, will they?" he asked anxiously, shuddering at the thought. "They wouldn’t stray that far from the woods, would they?"

Faramond frowned. "I shall not let them," he said, patting Hazel’s small shoulder. "Do not fear. As soon I see that you and Frodo are safe, I shall call together all the men of my company who are nearby, and we will drive the wolf and her young back to the North where they belong. This I promise: that wolf will do no further harm while I may help it."

His last words brought both their minds back to Frodo, and Hazel worriedly glanced back over his shoulder, where he could see the pale, unconscious form of his ‘uncle.’ He had not stirred for nearly twenty minutes now, Hazel guessed with concern; though at least he did not seem to be in pain.

Faramond had followed the child’s gaze and sighed deeply, then turned to look down at Hazel. "Do not fear," he assured the lad, smiling slightly. "Frodo is deeply asleep, and in very little or no pain. He should awaken on the morrow, strengthened by this rest." He did not add that if Frodo developed a fever or some other complication, he would likely be awake much sooner; and in a fair amount of pain, as well. He widened his smile, trying his best to keep Hazel hopeful.

Hazel echoed the Man’s earlier sigh and tore his eyes from Frodo. He could think of nothing to say, so he merely nodded glumly and stared into the flames of the campfire.

Faramond studied the lad for a moment, chewing his lower lip, and then brightened suddenly. "Hazel-lad," he said, putting a hand on the hobbit child’s tiny shoulder. Hazel looked up, brown eyes curious at the change in his manner. "I am going to prepare a compress for the cuts on Frodo’s face, and I think I may need your help."

The Man watched in satisfaction as Hazel’s eyes lit up and he jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes, sir!" he cried, remembering just in time to lower his voice somewhat. "I’d dearly love to ’elp care for Uncle Frodo. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it just as fast as I can!"

Faramond nearly laughed aloud at the boy’s enthusiasm, but he kept it to a chuckle as he ruffled Hazel’s russet-brown curls. "Your help is very much appreciated," he said. "Now, come with me to my pack and I shall show you what to do."

It was scarcely ten minutes later, once they had found the right items in one of the packs and Faramond had carefully given directions, when Hazel proudly held up the compress for the Man’s inspection. Faramond could not help but smile as he did so, and then handed it back to the hobbit-lad. "Well done," he praised, "you followed my directions well." Hazel blushed with pleasure. "Now, here, let me help you arrange it. It will cool his face and stop any irritation that the cuts may develop—not to mention feeling quite pleasant, even if he is asleep."

Hazel nodded, smiling at the thought of being able to give Frodo whatever comfort he could. It never occurred to him to doubt Faramond when the Man had said that his uncle was in very little pain, but he was sure that even deeply asleep, Frodo would be able to feel the soft, cool compress and appreciate what further comfort it brought.

Faramond watched, smiling but inwardly grave, as Hazel gently dabbed at the scratches on Frodo’s cheek with the compress, and then moved up to stroke his forehead, down to his uninjured cheek and then his neck; and then starting the process over again. He was glad that Hazel was occupied, keeping his mind off worries for a little while, at least, but he knew that Frodo was not half through yet, and wondered how he would keep Hazel calm if his "uncle" took a turn for the worst. Gavin would be a great help, as he had obviously grown fond of Hazel already and seemed willing to help the hobbit-child in any way he could.

Faramond touched Frodo’s right hand that lay atop the layered blankets, and finding it somewhat cold, he picked it up between his much larger ones and began chafing it gently. "Don’t let his face get too chilled, Hazel," he cautioned. "Just use the compress every so often."

Once he was satisfied that some warmth had been rubbed back into one of Frodo’s hands, at least, he watched Hazel a moment more, and then moved away and added a few more sticks to the fire.

Faramond sat beside the fire for what seemed a long while, staring into the flickering flames and going over what would need to be done if Frodo worsened, or the wolf returned, or it stormed. He ran each situation through his mind, thinking through his responses carefully, as he had been taught. He knew that planning ahead was sometimes essential to survival in the Wilds, and though the Shire would seem like the last place to meet with unexpected trouble, he had seen for himself that one must always be prepared.

Suddenly he felt a small hand on his arm and started, looking down to find Hazel beside him. "I reckon I’ve finished with the compress," the hobbitlad said softly. "I’ve left it over 'is forehead, just like I’ve seen me mum do when I’m sick." He was proud of his medical knowledge and hoped Faramond would be pleased.

The Man smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Well done," he praised, nodding. "I could not have done better myself. Now why don’t you go over to Gavin’s pack and get out his waterskin so we can both have a drink."

Hazel nodded obediently and with a smile, hurried over to the pack. Meanwhile, Faramond quietly went back over to Frodo and settled down at the hobbit’s side, watching him with a physician’s careful eye. With one grave wound to his left side, and another to his right leg, Frodo would have been hard put to find a comfortable position, had he been aware. But as the herbs Faramond had given him had been a fairly large dosage compared to what the Ranger would normally give a hobbit (which he guessed was about half that of a Man’s dose), he was completely unconscious, and had not moved from the position on his back as Faramond had laid him.

Faramond frowned in thought, pressing two fingers to Frodo’s throat and feeling his pulse, finding with relief that it was slow and steady. He listened to the hobbit’s breathing, which was also deep and normal, except for the slightest occasional hitch to it, as though taking too deep a breath caused a bit of pain. The Ranger sat back on his heels; with the wound to his side, breathing would indeed be painful, and evidently even the herbs could not relieve all of the discomfort.

Just then, Hazel returned, and after sitting down, cross-legged across from Faramond, he respectfully handed the waterskin to the Man first. Faramond smiled, and handed it back. "You drink first, Hazel," he said. "You are no doubt thirstier than I."

Hazel bobbed his head with a grateful smile, and took a rather large gulp—though it was a bit difficult to fit his small mouth around the comparatively large rim of the waterskin’s opening, and some of it ended up spilling down his chin instead. Faramond reduced what would have been a hearty laugh to a small one, and Hazel, after a moment of embarrassment, could not help but join him.

"Sorry," he said as he handed the waterskin to the Man. "I’ve never drunk from anythin’ that big before!"

Faramond swallowed a mouthful of water and grinned reassuringly at the lad. "Do not fret over manners when you are in company such as Gavin and I," he said, mostly teasing. "I’m afraid we are not the best of examples in etiquette—one tends to grow rather rough after living in the Wilds for a few years."

Hazel took another, more careful gulp of water from the offered waterskin, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "My mum says to be polite to everyone I meet," he protested, "whether they’re nice to me or not. But I think you an’ Mister Gavin have very good manners—better than some hobbits I know!" He made a face, and Faramond laughed.

"I see you follow your mother’s teachings well," he said with a smile. "And I thank you for your courtesy—we Rangers are not often met with kindness on our travels."

Hazel looked at him thoughtfully, but did not say anything, and a silence fell over them. After a few minutes, Hazel broke it with a sigh, as he sat back on his heels and looked at Frodo’s white face. Faramond glanced at him, and then reached over and touched Frodo’s uninjured cheek. It was warm, almost too much so, and Faramond moved down to touch the hobbit’s hand, which felt cold.

"Hazel," he said, causing the boy to jump as he was pulled from his reverie, "help me rub some warmth back into Frodo’s hands."

Hazel, pleased to again be doing something, hastily but carefully took his uncle’s pale right hand between his two small brown ones and began rubbing it vigorously. He tried his best to imitate his mother when he had seen her doing the same to his father one day after Halfred had returned from being outside in a snowstorm.

Faramond, on the other side of Frodo, did the same, careful that his comparatively enormous fingers were not too rough on the small, slender hand as he chafed warmth back into it. They did this in silence for several minutes before Faramond, satisfied, gently laid Frodo’s hand back down, covering it beneath the blankets.

Hazel kept his uncle’s now warm hand in both his own, drawing comfort from keeping contact. He stared down at Frodo’s still face, bathed in a flickering orange glow from the campfire and shadowed all around with the thick, dark curls; and he noticed something that had not occurred to him before.

"Mr. Faramond, sir," he said softly, looking up. "Uncle Frodo’s got blood in his hair." He paused and winced at the thought. "Shouldn’t we wash it out? I shouldn’t think he’d like to wake up and find it there, sir, if you follow me."

Faramond smiled. "I do, Hazel," he said, nodding, "and you are quite right. But we’ve nothing large enough for a full bath, and the stitches should not get wet yet besides, so it might be a bit of a challenge. I shall need a basin and a small bowl, if you would be so helpful as to get them—they are in Gavin’s pack, over there."

Hazel, pressing Frodo’s hand with both of his before tucking it beneath the blankets, jumped up and scurried to obey.

***

The Bindbale Wood seemed endless to Sam. All the trees looked alike in the dim light of the small lantern that Halfred had wisely thought to grab from the barn before they left. Neither of them had spoken in a long while; the thick, murky forest seemed to have a disheartening effect on their mood.

Just as Sam was trying for the third time to count the different types of trees they passed (anything to keep his mind off worrying), he suddenly felt Halfred stiffen and sit up straight on Gil’s back. "I see a campfire!" he said excitedly, hope rekindling in his heart. He held the lantern high and pointed in the direction of the flickering orange glow visible through the trees ahead. "It must be Frodo and Hazel-lad!"

Sam also felt renewed hope, although he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to make Frodo and Hazel decide to camp outside the entire night (a thought that he considerately kept to himself). He strained his eyes for any other movement near the distant campfire, but there was nothing besides a startled owl flying through the trees overhead.

It seemed abrupt to Sam when the trees ended in front of them, displaying a large open area with a small pond to the left, the rising half-moon reflected on its surface. It was from across the pond that the campfire was located, and looking in that direction, Sam noticed three things at once: one, a small, hobbit-sized pony was tied to a tree near the fire, apparently sleeping; two, the dim figure silhouetted in black against the flames was far too big to be a hobbit, though it was bending over something; and three, the smaller figure beside it was the size of a very young hobbit-lad, also bending over something.

Sam’s heart soared at the sight of the small shadow, and he realized just how much he loved his dear little nephew. And where Hazel was, Frodo was sure to be close by. Halfred felt the same thing, for his voice was quivering with joy as he said, "We found them, Sam-lad! We found them!" Neither of them, as Gil was urged into a quick trot, gave more than a fleeting thought to the larger shape, both solely focused on the recovery of their lost loved ones.

Hazel looked up in surprise as he heard the sounds of hooves, only one set it sounded like, coming toward him. He stood up to see the visitors better and his heart skipped a beat. Then, forgetting to be quiet, he gave an inarticulate shout and raced past Faramond, who had paused in drying Frodo’s newly washed hair.

"Hazel-lad!" Halfred cried ecstatically, barely pausing to halt Gil and hand the lantern to Sam before jumping off the pony’s back and running, open-armed, to his son. Hazel threw himself into his father’s arms, both of them half crying and half laughing in sheer joy and relief. "Oh, you rogue," whispered Halfred hoarsely, kissing his son’s thick curls, "you must stop worrying me so! You’re giving me grey hair!"

Hazel laughed, a little shakily, and raised his head, looking up at his father’s nutbrown hair, free of the slightest hint of grey. He sniffled, and tightened his arms around his father. "I didn’t mean to, Da," he said, his voice quivering. "I—"

"I know, Hazel-lad," Halfred smiled at him, fondly ruffling his hair. "I know. I was only teasing you."

While father and son reunited, ever-practical Sam had hastily led Gil to the tree where Galad was tied, and quickly knotted his leadrope around a thick branch. Then he hurried back to Hazel and Halfred, for the moment completely unaware of anything but joy at seeing his nephew again.

After quick hugs and teary laughter, Sam suddenly realized with a shock of cold fear that his Mr. Frodo was nowhere to be seen. He also realized, at the same moment, that there was a Man, a very tall Man at that, sitting silently beside the campfire, watching them all with a smile.

"Where’s Mr. Frodo?" he asked breathlessly, turning to Hazel. "Isn’t he here?"

Hazel’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by worry and fear. "He’s here, Uncle Sam," he said softly, glancing at the Man as he spoke. "But he got hurt, an’ Mr. Faramond here is takin’ care of him. There was a wolf—"

But Sam wasn’t listening any longer. He’d only heard the words he got hurt, and could think of nothing else. He jumped to his feet and looking at the Man, his brown eyes wide with panic, he silently asked the question. Where is he? The Man looked at him compassionately, and gestured to the blanket covered form lying on a bedroll beside him.

Feeling numb with terror, Sam rushed past the Man and knelt next to him, closing his eyes for a half-second before looking down at his friend and master. He nearly choked when he saw how pale Frodo was, and how still he lay beneath the blankets. His eyes, rapidly filling with tears, took in the scratches across one cheek, and the beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

Sam gently laid one trembling hand against Frodo’s cheek, swallowing a sob of relief at the warmth he found there. Broken out of his numbed daze, he became aware that the other three were suddenly beside him.

Hazel looked worriedly up into Sam’s face. "Mr. Faramond says he’ll be all right, Uncle," he said, trying to be comforting. "He gave Uncle Frodo some medicine so that he doesn’t feel any of his hurts, and he’s just sleepin’. He woke up for me earlier…" He trailed off, seeing that Sam was probably not listening.

As it happened, Sam was listening, and Hazel’s words did reassure him, if only a little. He reached under the blankets that covered Frodo and searched for his hand, but as he found it and clasped it, his fingers brushed against something else. Bandages, wrapped around Frodo’s middle.

Again, fear seized him, and in a panic Sam turned to look up at Faramond. "What’re the bandages for?" he asked hesitantly, having to clear his throat to get his voice to work. He absently brought Frodo’s hand out from beneath the blankets and began stroking it gently, more for his own reassurance than his master’s.

Faramond hesitated a moment before answering, unsure of how to tell Sam of Frodo’s injuries without panicking him. "He was bitten," he said at last, "by a wolf. It is not as severe as it could have been, and I have cleaned and stitched it. I have confidence that Frodo will be fine, though I must tell you," he placed one hand on the hobbit’s small shoulder as Sam paled several shades and looked sick, "that he was also bitten in the leg. That injury has also been bandaged, and I do not think it will cause any further problems, except that Frodo will most likely be limping for a few months."

Sam made a choked sound, nodding and then bowing his head, and Faramond sighed in remorse at the hobbit’s pain. "I have studied under one of the greatest healers in all of Middle-Earth," he said quietly, and Sam looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "And Frodo is strong; I have full confidence that he will come through this easily. Trust me."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, thinking over the Man’s words, and then nodded with a slight, weak smile. "Thank you, sir," he murmured, turning his attention back to his master. He gently stroked back the damp ringlets of dark hair that fell over Frodo’s forehead, deciding not to ask why his hair was wet just then. That could wait.

Suddenly Sam turned to look at Hazel hopefully. "Didn’t you say that Mr. Frodo woke up for you earlier?" he asked, wanting more than anything else to see his master’s brilliant, Elvish-blue eyes open and hear his beloved voice chiding him for worrying so. If only he would wake up!

"Yes, sir," Hazel replied with a nod, eager to help his Uncle feel better. "He wasn’t awake very long, but he did talk to me a bit."

That was enough for Sam. If only Frodo would wake up long enough to say even one word, he could be assured that his master was all right. He tightened his hold on Frodo’s hand and reached out with his own free one to stroke his pale cheek. "Mr. Frodo," he whispered urgently. "Mr. Frodo, wake up! It’s your Sam calling…Wake up!"

A long moment passed, and there was no response from the still face. Sam tried again, desperately, and Faramond again touched his shoulder. "I have given him herbs to send him into a deep sleep," he tried to explain. "He should not awaken ’til morning—"

He stopped midsentence as Frodo suddenly gave a soft groan, moving his head a little as he tried to get comfortable. Sam gripped Frodo’s hand a bit tighter in his eagerness and leaned close to his master’s face. "That’s it, Mr. Frodo, wake up!" he urged softly. "Wake up!"

Frodo moved his head again and his thick lashes fluttered, struggling to open. But he had used up much of his strength fighting the herbs the first two times, and he could not manage to come back to full awareness. But he dimly heard Sam’s voice above him, and felt the comforting, well-known hands stroking his cheek and grasping his own hand tightly. He tried his hardest to wake up, if only to assure Sam that he was all right, and at last succeeded in giving Sam’s hand a weak squeeze.

He could not have known the joy that small gesture brought. Sam returned it, more hopeful than ever of getting a response from his master. "Just a bit more, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Just a bit more, an’ then you can go back to sleep."

Sam watched with bated breath as Frodo’s colorless lips parted, and he spoke. "…all right, Sam. ’m all right…" That was all. His voice was scarcely above a whisper, weak and quivering with weariness, but to Sam it was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. Tears sliding down his cheeks, he brought Frodo’s hand to his lips and kissed it, watching as his master slipped back into deep unconsciousness and went still again.

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo," he murmured gratefully. "Thank you."

TBC...