~*~ denotes a dream

21. Wolf Bite

Faramond bit back a self-directed curse as he examined Frodo, mindful of Jessimine’s presence beside him. He undid the buttons of the small nightshirt (a borrowed one of Halfred’s), which went nearly all the way from wide collar to the hem, and pulled the fabric aside to look at the gravest wound. He had to bite his tongue to keep back another curse when he saw that several of the stitches had come loose and blood was just beginning to slowly well up from the bite again. He snatched a clean cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to the wound, eliciting a slight yelp of pain from Frodo.

The Ranger mumbled an apology and bent lower, looking more closely at the stitches. He carefully ran his fingertips along them, exploring the area around Frodo’s wound, which felt much hotter than the rest of him. Faramond’s frown of concern deepened as he got down on his knees by the bedside and bent so close to Frodo’s abdomen that his eyelashes brushed against it, causing the injured hobbit to flinch slightly. The Ranger absently placed his left hand on Frodo’s damp forehead, stroking back the thick curls in a soothing gesture, as he continued to search around the wound with his right.

Suddenly Faramond sprang to his feet, a look of alarm suddenly in his face. He glanced back down at Frodo, who, completely spent by his earlier "fit," had not moved scarcely at all throughout the Ranger’s examination. "Wolf bite," muttered Faramond under his breath, his grey eyes darkening as he laid his right hand lightly over the wound, causing Frodo’s whole body to quiver. The exhausted, tormented hobbit, his eyes wide open but unfocussed, stared up at the ceiling with fear showing clearly in their cerulean blue depths. His lips, white and cracked, trembled with the effort to bear his pain in silence.

"Mr. Faramond, sir?" said Jessimine softly, hesitantly laying a hand on the Man’s large arm.

Faramond jumped slightly; he’d forgotten that she was there, along with Halfred and faithful, frightened Samwise. "I… must speak to you, dear lady, and your husband," he said tentatively, "privately, I beg." He met Jessimine’s hazel eyes and flicked his own briefly to Sam. She understood.

"O’ course, sir," she said worriedly, looking at Halfred. "O’ course we can talk alone."

"This way, sir," said Halfred quickly, leading the way out the door. "Half a moment, please, Sam-lad," he added with a look at Sam, who nodded, his eyes locked suspiciously on Faramond as he resumed his place by Frodo’s bedside.

Halfred led them into the sitting room, far enough down the hall to be heard by no one. He and Jessimine sat together in the small sofa while Faramond, obviously distressed, paced in front of them. There was silence for a long while, broken only by the ticking of a wall-clock and Faramond’s boots padding softly back and forth.

"Won’t you sit down?" offered Halfred at last, unable to bear the silence any longer. "You're making me dizzy, pacin' like that."

Faramond stopped, smiled weakly and instead knelt in front of them, eye-level. He hesitated a moment, unsure of how to begin, but then closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep, calming breath. "Very well," he said, his voice quiet. "There are two things I must tell you, and I fear they are both grim tidings, but I shall begin with the lesser of them. I have found that a few of the stitches in Frodo’s side came loose in his earlier… bad spell, and I shall have to re-stitch them. I am quite sure, however, that once they are again securely in place, they shall give us no further trouble."

Faramond stopped, scanning Halfred and Jessimine’s faces to see their reactions. They looked worried, but not overly panicked or frightened. Obviously they trusted him entirely, and his heart ached with the fervent hope that their trust was not misplaced.

The Ranger drew another breath and continued. "The stitches do not concern me greatly," he said, still speaking quietly. "But now I come to the worst of my news. For I must tell you that Frodo has taken a grievous turn for the worst."

At this, Halfred and Jessimine held one another’s hands tightly and their faces blanched. Jessimine pulled her blue woolen shawl closer about her shoulders and pressed closer to her husband.

"It seems that an infection, from the bite," continued Faramond grimly, "has found its way inside his body, despite my thorough cleaning of the wound."

"So quickly?" Jessimine interrupted in frightened surprise. "How can an infection develop so quickly?"

Faramond looked at her, grief in his eyes. "This is a rare type," he said. "One not even the Elves have a name for. It is simply called ‘Wolf Bite,’ and aptly so." He ran a hand through his dark hair, finding that he was trembling. He spoke his next words with dread, hating to bring the two hobbits before him such bleak information. "At present, there is no cure, and no way to slow the infection from spreading—it can only be allowed to run its course."

Jessimine made a choked sound, one hand over her mouth as Halfred pulled her closer. Faramond leaned forward and touched their small shoulders hesitatingly. "I do not mean that there is no hope for Frodo. It is true, the infection is malevolent, and he will experience pain with it. But Wolf Bite is swift; it will be gone by tomorrow evening. If Frodo can battle it, he will begin a normal and unhindered recovery."

"If he can battle it, you say," Jessimine pointed out perceptively, her face white.

Faramond almost grimaced at her shrewdness. He licked his lips as he considered his reply, and it was a few moments before he spoke again, slowly, choosing his words with care. "Yes, I do say if. I trust that you both wish me to be straightforward with you, so I will not give you any false hopes. Wolf Bite is indeed sometimes a fatal infection—it is quite powerful, as I said." He paused for a moment to gage their reactions; both were still very pale, their eyes wide, but they were accepting his grim confession stoically. "However," he continued, "I do believe Frodo will pull through this—I have learned over the years that hobbits are never to be judged too hastily in matters of resilience. And once he has successfully resisted it, Wolf Bite will give him no further trouble."

He fell silent, waiting for the other two to speak. Jessimine and Halfred were staring at the floor, digesting this information quietly. Suddenly Faramond spoke again, his voice soft.

"Of course we must keep the knowledge of Wolf Bite’s potency from the children"—both hobbits looked up and nodded quickly—"but shall we conceal this from Samwise?"

Again, there was silence. Halfred chewed his lower lip as he thought about the question, then glanced at Jessimine and an unspoken agreement passed between them. "I think, sir," he said slowly, "that we should tell Sam at least about the infection itself. But I’m not sure that it would be best if he knew how… dangerous it can be, if you follow me. If I know Sam-lad, he’d worry himself sick if he knew—either that, or he’d just refuse to believe it. Either way," he sighed, "he wouldn’t be much help to Frodo."

Jessimine nodded her agreement, as did Faramond after a moment. "I agree," he said, rising. "I think that would be best."

It seemed to Sam, dutifully in his chair by Frodo’s bedside, that Faramond, Jessimine and Halfred were gone a long time. He wondered what they were talking so privately about, and felt a small spark of irritation that Faramond had not spoken to him, first, as it obviously concerned his master.

"But no," he muttered, speaking aloud in an effort to break the eerie stillness of the room, "even if he’d asked me, I wouldn’t be leavin’ Mr. Frodo."

Sam looked down with a sigh at his master; Frodo had not stirred at all, and seemed scarcely to even breathe. The shallow rising and falling of his chest was the only evidence of respiration at all.

Removing the cool, damp cloth he’d folded on his master’s hot forehead, Sam placed it back in the basin of water and left it there. There seemed little point to continuing to bathe Frodo’s face with it, as it did not make much difference save to cause him to shiver. Sam tucked the thick quilts closely around his master, making sure he was as warm as possible but at the same time wondering if he should do so, considering Frodo’s fever.

After thinking it over for a moment, Sam decided to keep Frodo warm until Jessimine returned, and see if she said otherwise. In the meantime, seeing that after a few minutes Frodo was still trembling, Sam, on impulse, carefully climbed up into the bed, sliding in beside his master so that he lay between him and the wall. He gently pulled Frodo’s injured body closer to him, trying to warm him as best he could by wrapping his arms around him and tucking the blankets closely about them both. Frodo moaned softly at the movement, but after a moment he settled and relaxed in Sam’s arms, closing his eyes.

"There now, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam soothingly, "that feels better, doesn’t it? Your Sam’ll keep you warm ’til Jessi comes. That’s it, Mr. Frodo, nothin’ to worry about. I’m here… try to rest a bit, now… There you are, my dear." Thoughts of ‘overstepping his bounds’ far from his mind at the moment, Sam kissed his master on the forehead and smiled, resting his chin on Frodo’s soft curls, as he felt the shivers begin to lessen, and finally disappear altogether. Frodo’s breaths evened out, and he gave a small sigh of relief.

Silence again fell over the room, though it did not seem so eerie now. "That’s right, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered. "’Tis best that you’re asleep now. I reckon Mr. Faramond will be back soon enough and be pokin’ and proddin’ you awake again, but whatever rest you can get is a blessing."

Sam fell silent again, absently stroking Frodo’s dark curls. He was startled when suddenly his master’s voice broke the stillness, barely above a whisper. "Sam?"

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed softly, surprised that Frodo was still awake. "I’m here, master. What is it?"

Frodo’s voice dropped to barely coherent mumblings. "Sam, where is Hazel? He…isn’t safe…the wolf…it came back…" He trailed off, and Sam felt his heart sink. So the fever had gotten worse.

"Don’t you fret, Mr. Frodo," he said comfortingly. "Little Hazel’s fine, he’s sound asleep in his own room. That wolf won’t bother neither of you any more. It’s the fever, Mr. Frodo, troublin’ you. Rest now, my dear."

But Frodo was growing restless again, and struggled to untangle himself from Sam’s arms. Sam held him as gently as he could, trying to keep him from hurting himself. Frodo’s fever-bright eyes were wide open again, though they were unseeing, and it looked to Sam like their Elven-blue color was threaded with silver in the dim glow of the candle.

"Sam!" Frodo tried to cry, though his voice was still soft and weak. "Sam? Where is Hazel?"

Sam was growing more alarmed by the second as Frodo began to struggle in earnest, his whole body quivering again. "Hush, now, Mr. Frodo," he tried to console him. "There’s naught to worry about. Your Sam’s here, an’ I don’t plan on leavin’ any time soon. An’ Hazel’s safe as can be. It’s all right, Mr. Frodo…"

Tears now coursed down Frodo’s face and he resisted Sam’s strong arms as long as he could before what was left of his strength failed him and he went limp again. Sam gently pulled him close, hugging him to his chest.

Frodo was silent for a while, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded clearer. "Sam?"

"I’m here, Mr. Frodo."

"Sam…where is Bilbo?"

Sam’s heart clenched painfully at the words, and he swallowed hard. He could not think of a reply, and his silence made Frodo uneasy again. "Bilbo?" he called softly, his voice beginning to fill with panic. "Bilbo! Sam, where is he?"

"Shhh, Frodo," Sam whispered, finding his tongue once again and forgetting to use the ‘Mister’ in his worry. "Bilbo’s not here right now. But your Sam is takin’ care of you. I’m right here."

Frodo collapsed again in Sam’s arms, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "Bilbo…" he whispered raggedly, burying his face in Sam’s shirt and soaking it with his tears.

Sam, tears flowing freely down his own face at Frodo’s anguish, held him close and murmured senseless words of comfort until his master fell asleep at last, worn out by his struggle and tears.

A few minutes later, Sam heard footsteps coming up the hall, and he quickly dried his tears on his sleeve. Kissing Frodo on the forehead again, he gently uncurled himself from around his master and settled Frodo back beneath the covers again. Then he slid carefully off the bed and returned to his chair, just as the door opened and Faramond, Jessimine and Halfred returned.

"Shhh," Sam warned as they entered, a finger to his lips. "He’s sleepin’."

The other three nodded, and were silent as they shut the door behind them. Jessimine pulled her soft blue shawl closer about her shoulders, shivering as if she were cold. Halfred gave her a brief, one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek before coming to stand beside Sam. The younger hobbit looked at his brother and sister-in-law shrewdly, noting that they looked pale and shaken.

‘Whatever Mr. Faramond told ’em, it wasn’t good news, that’s certain,’ he thought anxiously.

"He woke up a bit ago," Sam told Faramond softly, as the Man checked Frodo’s pulse and breathing. "But he was out o’ his head with the fever. He kept askin’ for Hazel an’ Mr. Bilbo."

Jessimine made a soft sound of pity and sorrow, and came over to stand beside Halfred and Sam as they watched Faramond’s silent examination. "The poor dear," murmured the hobbit-lady sadly. "Poor, sweet Mr. Frodo."

Faramond turned to look at them, meeting Halfred and Jessimine’s eyes for a moment before turning to Sam and kneeling before him so that he was eye-level. "Samwise," he said quietly, "I have unpleasant news about your master, so I will say it swiftly. He has an infection that is called ‘Wolf Bite.’ There is nothing I can do to stop it or slow it down; we must let it run its course. It will be gone by tomorrow evening, but I must tell you honestly that it is very painful—Frodo experienced the first bout of it earlier, and I fear that it has not yet reached its peak."

Sam blanched; the news was even worse than he’d expected. He drew a breath to reply, but Faramond interrupted. "I guess that we will have a few more hours before the infection begins to pain him again," he said, "and I must use that time to replace several of the stitches in his side, which came out earlier."

Sam swallowed and nodded his assent, and Faramond smiled slightly, patting his shoulder before turning back to the bed and checking on Frodo once more. His equipment had been laid out earlier on the bedside table, and Sam saw the thin needle’s sharp point glinting in the candlelight.

"I need your help, Samwise," Faramond whispered, motioning for Sam to come closer. When he had done so, his face white, the Ranger touched his small shoulder gently. "Please sit behind Frodo and support him, if you will."

Sam nodded, swallowing again and carefully climbing onto the bed. He slid behind his master, gently cradling Frodo’s head in his lap. Frodo did not stir, and Sam let out a soft breath of relief.

Faramond chewed his lower lip in thought, watching Frodo for a moment. Then he looked at Sam. "I cannot give Frodo anything to dull the pain," he said slowly, "for his body still needs to recover from the last large dose I gave him. Though I will be quick, the stitching will be painful… would you permit me to tie something around his mouth to muffle his cries?"

Sam’s eyes widened, but he set his jaw resolutely. "No sir," he said quietly. "I’ll just use my hand."

Faramond smiled, and nodded. "Very well, Master Samwise," he agreed. "I have no doubt that your presence will help to ease his pain."

Sam could not watch as Faramond threaded the needle, and he instead fixed his eyes on Frodo’s pale face. It was more Elf-like than ever in the soft, flickering glow of the candle, almost as if part of the light was coming from inside Frodo himself. Sam knew better than to dismiss such a notion, as he thought about the old tale of a Took taking a fairy for a wife. He wondered what a fairy was truly like—for not many of the stories told by Mr. Frodo and once not too long ago, by Mr. Bilbo, mentioned them. He felt sure that he knew what one looked like, gazing down at his master’s fair face. He decided that, when all was well again, he would ask Mr. Frodo about fairies—for surely there was nothing about old lore that he did not know, or could not find in one of Bilbo’s many books.

His attempt at distracting himself was interrupted when Faramond touched his arm and whispered, "I am going to begin now."

Sam looked up, bit his lip, and nodded. He turned his eyes back to his master’s face, and reluctantly he brought one hand up and pressed it gently but firmly over Frodo’s mouth. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, himself, when the needle went in and Frodo stiffened beneath his fingers.

Fennel awoke with a start and a small shriek of fear. She had been dreaming, something about a wolf and a dark, endless forest. Her hazel eyes wide, she tried to calm herself as she realized that she was safe in her own bed, and the wolf and forest had been nothing more than a nightmare. She reminded herself that she was a big girl, and old and sensible enough not to be afraid of nightmares.

But all the same, she preferred to be brave with her mother there.

Fennel slipped out of bed, her too-big nightgown falling over her feet. She picked it up with one hand so that she didn’t trip, and softly padded toward the door, wincing at the cold wood on her bare feet. She opened the round door and headed down the hall toward her parents’ room, but then stopped as she saw a light glowing from under the door of the guestroom.

Curious, Fennel forgot her want of comfort and made for the guestroom. She heard soft voices inside, and wondered what her Uncle Sam and Frodo could be doing so late. Pressing her ear to the door for a moment, she heard a muffled scream, and her eyes widened. She opened the door soundlessly, and stepped inside the room, unnoticed.

Fennel froze as her round eyes took in the scene before her. Her mother and father were huddled close by the bedside, and an enormous Big Person was bending over her Uncle Frodo, who lay in the bed. Uncle Sam was behind him, tears running down his face as he kept one hand over Frodo’s mouth to muffle his cries of pain, and the other over Frodo’s eyes. Looking at the Man, Fennel’s mouth dropped open as she saw that he was sewing up Uncle Frodo’s side!

Terrified, Fennel burst into tears. Faramond, Jessimine, Halfred and Sam turned horrified eyes on her, and Jessimine gasped. Halfred quickly ran over to his nearly hysterical daughter and gathered her into his arms. The others watched in frozen disbelief as he shut the door behind him and Fennel’s wails faded as he carried her into his own room.

Her hand over her heart, Jessimine looked at Faramond, who had paused in his work when the child had begun to cry. The Man’s eyes were as wide as her own as he looked at the hobbit-lady for a moment before swallowing and returning to his work.

Frodo, now wide awake, had tried to stifle the screams of pain rising in his throat when Fennel had made herself known, and he did his best to continue bearing his pain in silence while Faramond finished up the stitching. Sam’s free hand had been placed over his eyes as soon as he’d awoken, and though he wished to see what Faramond was doing, he did not have the energy to fight against Sam. He took as deep a breath as he could, trying to calm himself and keep his mind off the pain. But he could not help but give a small cry when he felt a particularly sharp tug on the stitches. Then to his relief, the next moment, Sam’s hands over his eyes and mouth were removed, and Faramond was smiling kindly at him.

"I am finished, Frodo," he said softly, placing one large hand on Frodo’s cheek and stroking it gently with his fingertips. "You bore it well."

Frodo managed a weak smile and raised his eyes to meet Sam’s. Sam still looked ghastly white, and his face was streaked with tears, but he returned his master’s smile, shakily. "You should try to sleep again, Frodo," advised Faramond. "You need to keep up your strength."

"But Fennel?" whispered Frodo worriedly. "I’m sorry I woke her."

"Nonsense, Mr. Frodo," put in Jessimine, stepping closer and taking his hand. "You couldn’t help it—Heaven knows the noise I’d be making under such pain." She smiled at him. "She’ll likely go back to sleep soon enough, anyhow, and in the mornin’ she’ll think it was all just a nightmare."

Frodo did not look convinced, but he did not protest further. He sighed slightly, wincing at the pain in his side, and gave a small nod. Jessimine laughed softly and kissed his hand. "For savin’ our Hazel, you can be sure we’ll do our very best to help you get well," she said sincerely. "’Tis the least we can do." Without giving him a chance to reply, she looked at Faramond. "I’ll go check on Fennel-lass now."

Faramond nodded, smiling, and with a last squeeze of Frodo’s hand, Jessimine left the room quietly. "Now, Frodo," said Faramond, still smiling, "I fear I must order you to get what rest you can while I go prepare a compress. Samwise, will you see that he obeys?"

"Yes sir," responded Sam automatically, still shaken.

Frodo was too tired to argue, although he did succeed in giving Faramond what was almost an exasperated look, and then obediently he closed his eyes. Faramond placed one hand on his small forehead, closing his own eyes and bowing his head for a moment. Then he smiled, looked up at Sam, and left.

Sam did not move from his position with his master’s head in his lap, and Frodo had no objections; he was as comfortable as the circumstances allowed, and it was not long before he was able to sleep again.

~*~

Frodo woke with a start and a small cry to the loud crack of thunder. It seemed to shake the ground; he could hear the shutters rattling against the round windowpanes above his bed. Lightning flickered, illuminating his small room with a sudden, vivid flash. Of all the rooms in Bag End, he’d chosen this one for his own that morning when he’d come here to live, for good, with his dear Uncle Bilbo. It had always been his favorite room, for it faced the gardens outside and offered a perfect view of the sunset in the evenings.

Now, Frodo could see the shadow of flowers in the box on the outside windowsill, shaking and bending in the wind. It howled outside like a wolf, sending shivers up Frodo’s spine. Though he was a tweenager, and really too old for it, he thought, he was still frightened of thunderstorms. Ever since he was a child, the rolling thunder and bright lightning had always frightened him, and his mother would have come into his room and carried him back into his parents’ room, letting him sleep in their large, comfortable bed. There, curled warmly between them, comforted by their presence and their loving arms around him, he would forget the storm raging outside, and sleep without fear.

Tears sprang to Frodo’s eyes and slid down his cheeks. His parents were gone, now, and not here to comfort him. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt and bit his lip. He had Bilbo now, of course, but what would his uncle think of him if he woke him up in the middle of the night, like a child, frightened by a simple storm? He could not do that. He would have to take care of himself.

Another sharp crack of thunder brought a small, involuntary yelp from Frodo, and despite his resolution to take care of himself he wished Bilbo would come and comfort him. He pulled the blankets up to his chin, trying to stop his trembling. He shut his eyes tightly, covering his ears with his hands to try to drown out the sound of the storm outside.

Another lightning flash lit up his room, and all Frodo could see was bright yellow for a moment behind his closed eyelids. Thunder rolled overhead, almost deafening him. He set his teeth and forced himself to remain where he was, and not go running into Bilbo’s room like a child.

‘It’s only a storm…’ he repeated to himself. ‘It’s only a storm…it will pass…’

Frodo’s eyes flew open and he barely kept back a cry of alarm as he felt a gentle hand on his cheek and heard a kind voice say, "Frodo, my lad, are you awake?"

Bilbo! Frodo could hardly believe that his uncle was there, kneeling by his bedside, stroking his cheek with the backs of his fingers. Seeing him staring, wide-eyed, Bilbo smiled. "I see that you are. Bothered by the storm?"

The question was not asked condescendingly, and Frodo decided to answer honestly. "Yes, uncle," he whispered, sure that Bilbo would think him childish.

Bilbo smiled again, a bit nervously. "I am, too," he confessed, giving a small chuckle at Frodo’s look of astonishment. "To tell you the truth, Frodo-lad, storms have always frightened me. One of the drawbacks of being a bachelor, I suppose, is that I have always felt rather lonesome when the storms come." He paused, looking at Frodo thoughtfully for a moment. "I don’t suppose you would mind a bit of company, Frodo?"

Blinking, Frodo smiled and shook his head. Bilbo grinned at him gratefully. "Then what do you say we head back into my room? I daresay my bed is more comfortable for two."

Frodo’s smile widened. "I’d like that very much, uncle," he said, a bit shyly. He hesitated a moment, then added, "I wouldn’t have thought you would be afraid of storms, uncle, after your adventure with Gandalf and the dwarves."

Bilbo laughed. "If you want to know, the storms were the most frightening part of the whole journey for me," he admitted. Frodo giggled, thinking of all the terrifying creatures Bilbo had met—trolls, giant spiders, goblins and Wargs!—which made a thunderstorm seem trivial in comparison. Bilbo pinched Frodo’s cheek teasingly. "But that little secret is to go no further, do you hear?" he said, feigning severity.

Frodo giggled again and nodded. He opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden crack of thunder silenced him, and both he and Bilbo involuntarily jumped, their eyes wide. Bilbo managed a small smile. "Well, let’s get into my bed now, Frodo-lad, before this storm gets any worse."

Bilbo stood up, and Frodo pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. He was grateful when Bilbo took his hand, and led the way down the hall. They had no need of a candle, for the flashes of lightning illuminated their way. Bilbo’s room was about halfway down the hall, its windows facing west like Frodo’s.

Keeping close, Bilbo and Frodo entered the large, comfortable room, and made their way to the bed. Bilbo let go of Frodo’s hand to pull back the thick blankets, and then he picked the lad up and settled him in the bed. He climbed up beside him and they nestled down warmly together, tucking the blankets snugly around themselves.

Frodo sighed, his shivers of fear and the fear itself all but gone. Bilbo wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and Frodo curled up tightly against his uncle, delighting in the feeling of being loved and taken care of again.

They were both silent for a long while, relaxed now and drawing comfort from being together. At last, Frodo shifted a bit to look up at Bilbo. "Uncle?" he said softly.

Bilbo stirred. "Hmm?"

Frodo hesitated a moment, wondering how to put his gratitude into words. "I…I’m very happy to come and live with you, uncle," he began timidly. "And I won’t ever do anything to make you sorry that you adopted me, I promise…" He trailed off as Bilbo shifted and moved backwards a bit to hold him at arm’s length.

"Frodo," said the old hobbit, his face illuminated by a flash of lightning, "nothing you could ever do will make me sorry that I adopted you. Ever. I love you, and I want you to be happy. That is why I adopted you, so that I could take care of you." He stopped, looking deeply into Frodo’s eyes, his own shining. "You are more important to me than anyone in Middle-Earth, Frodo, I want you to know that. And I will never stop loving you."

Frodo felt happier than he had ever felt before, even more than when Bilbo had announced his plan of adoption, and even more than their shared birthday party when it had become official. Smiling gratefully through his tears, he could do nothing more than gaze adoringly at his uncle, hoping that Bilbo understood. He did.

"Oh, Frodo," he whispered, pulling him close again and kissing his curls, "I am the one who is grateful to you, for coming to live with a grouchy old bachelor who spends all his time with his nose in a book."

Frodo raised his head, tears shining on his cheeks. "You’re not grouchy, uncle," he said with a smile.

Bilbo laughed and gave one of Frodo’s dark ringlets a teasing tug. "You haven’t lived with me long enough yet to have experienced my temper," he said, grinning. "I can be fierce enough to make an orc pause for thought, when I’ve a mind. Even Gandalf’s afraid of my temper."

Frodo giggled, imagining the powerful but friendly wizard being afraid of anything. He’d met Gandalf only a few times, but he remembered the wizard to be very kind—and very impressive, if one did not know him well.

Bilbo sighed, and Frodo looked up at him, curious at his sudden change of manner. His uncle was looking at him fondly. "Who knows, Frodo-lad," he said softly, "perhaps you can soften this old hobbit a bit."

Frodo smiled at him without saying anything, and just like that, they ended the conversation, and settled back under the blankets, Frodo again nestled closely against Bilbo with his uncle’s arms tightly around him.

The storm was far away now, and only distant rumbles could be heard. Crickets began to chirp outside the window, and somewhere nearby, a nightingale sang sweetly. Frodo, resting in his uncle’s loving arms, felt a peace and security he had not felt since he was twelve. He smiled, his face buried in Bilbo’s nightshirt, listening to the comforting rhythm of his uncle’s heartbeat. Just before he fell asleep, he felt fingers stroking back his thick curls from his forehead, and then the light pressure of another gentle kiss, and Bilbo whispering, "Good night, my dear Frodo."

TBC...

I know, I know, that dream was full of really gratuitous fluff—well, the whole chapter was, actually. But… but I’ve been missing my Frodo-Bilbo scenes, and I needed a break from all the angst! :-P