Chapter Seven: Dwarven Tales And Dragons' Gold

The curtains had been closed and there was not much light in the small bedroom. The smell lingering in the air was not very inviting either. Trying to ignore the obstinate knocking on the front door Drogo pulled his blanket over his head and pretended not to hear anything. Another knock. Drogo did not heed it until a weak hand shook his shoulder and a hoarse voice mumbled. "The door," and after a short pause added in a muffled tone, "You go." Drogo moaned but after another knock he managed to open his eyes, reluctantly brought himself to leaving the warm comfort of his bed and dragged himself to the door. Impatient voices reached his ear even before his slightly trembling hand got hold of the knob. Was this his son's voice? Confused he opened the door and was dazzled by bright sunlight that made him feel even dizzier than he had felt before.

"We have wakened you," Frodo observed with a cheeky grin on his face as his father's crumpled and pale form appeared in the doorway. Drogo's hair was dishevelled, some strands sticking to his forehead and his eyelids struggled to stay open. "Are you feeling better?" Frodo went on, not yet sure if he could dare to hug his father though he very much liked to, "Because, you know, you look terrible." A harsh sound of Bilbo, standing behind him, silenced the child.

"What are you doing here?" Drogo asked hoarsely doing without any greetings this morning. He leaned heavily against the doorframe trying to focus on his son and his cousin, but he hardly succeeded because his head was spinning and he felt all but able to think clearly and discuss whatever problem had occurred with Bilbo. He felt an urgent need to send them both away, no matter how much he would have liked to give his son a hug and bid him and Bilbo inside for a cup of tea. Hopefully they would leave soon anyhow and he could return to his bed joining his wife in another good day's rest.

"Good morning, Drogo. Well," Bilbo began, placing his hands on Frodo's shoulders, "we were wondering if you would allow the two of us to go to Waymoot. We're going on a little adventure one might say and wanted your permission."

While Bilbo talked Drogo rolled his eyes. Going to Waymoot was, much as he'd like to, nothing Bilbo needed to ask permission for. If Frodo went with him they should go, but Drogo knew his son very well, even in his shaky condition. He was sure Frodo was probably full with enthusiasm now, but after four or five miles would turn into a whining, sulky lad who would drive Bilbo potty. He was about to answer his cousin just that when the old hobbit moved aside and revealed what Drogo, to his own surprise, had not noticed before. A tall, broad person with a long white beard and heavy boots was standing some way behind Bilbo and his son. Drawing in a sharp breath Drogo clutched the doorknob tighter and would have reached out to protect his son had he had the strength to do so.

"Please, dad, can I accompany Balin?" his son asked, looking up at him with huge, pleading puppy-eyes before Drogo could even think of an answer. "He is the one who was with Bilbo on his adventure, you know, and though he looks scary he is not. He even allowed me to touch his beard and…"

Frodo would probably not have stopped his explanation before lunchtime if not for Bilbo who just like that placed his hand on the child's mouth to hinder him from speaking. "May I introduce my friend Balin. He has taken upon him the long way from the Lonely Mountain and has honoured me with his visit before he heads for the Tower Hills."

Even as Bilbo spoke his last words the dwarf behind him bowed low. "Balin, at your service."

Drogo was too baffled to answer having even difficulties to breathe. His tired and slightly swollen eyes rested on the dwarf in amazement and perhaps even a whiff of fear until he finally was able to at least nod - he felt it impossible to bow - and stammer the correct answer.

"May I, dad? May I accompany him?" Frodo asked after freeing himself from Bilbo's hand - not without casting an insulted glance at his uncle, of course - and looked at his father again. His eyes were speaking volumes promising his father the moon and everything that was beyond if only he allowed him his wish.

Drogo find himself unable to reject his son's and Bilbo's plea, not after he saw that both Bilbo and Balin were wearing a similar expression as his dear son. The dwarf especially looked rather amusing with his dark eyes and usually stern face looking pleadingly at the hobbit before him and that was all the conviction Drogo needed.

After he had given his blessing to the journey to Waymoot his son broke into effusive cheers and was about to hug him but was held back by Bilbo for which Drogo was thankful. Their goodbyes were quickly said, but as Bilbo turned to leave Drogo reached out a trembling hand. "You will look well after him, won't you?"

"Of course I will, don't you worry," Bilbo answered smiling. "Get well soon, Drogo," he said with a nod and then, after he realised that Primula was not around and had probably fallen ill as well, added, "both of you."

Drogo nodded and after looking one last time at Frodo who was dancing around Balin in his joy he closed the door to head back to his bed. One thing was clear to him: no word of the dwarf to Primula - not in her current condition, or his. Primula could get furious on matters that concerned her only child, even when she was ill. He would wait until she was better - and he himself felt well enough to defend himself. Having a last look at his beloved wife, who was fast asleep, he thankfully lay down again and was soon sleeping as well.

~*~*~

Frodo's joy vanished, when Bilbo turned to him and he realised that his father had gone inside again - with neither a hug nor a kiss for him. Sighing he came to his uncle's side. "Will dad be well again?

"Of course," Bilbo answered, placing his hand on the child's shoulder. "Your mom and dad just need a lot of rest."

Frodo nodded and the joyful smile he wore earlier reappeared on his face. He glanced up at the blue sky closing his eyes as a soft breeze caressed his rosy cheeks. A sparrow was flying not far above the heads of the travellers and Frodo opened his eyes just in time to watch it - and the worm it had captured with its beak -disappear behind the hobbit-hole that was his home. "Look!" he called joyfully, pointing at the animal but then he stopped short even before Bilbo and Balin had lifted their heads. "We can't leave," the child suddenly told them and grabbed Bilbo's hand. "You haven't seen our tadpoles yet!"

Without any further warning Frodo took hold of Balin's hand as well and pulled his uncle and the dwarf with him, hurrying up the path they had been walking down. "You know, we have a pond in our garden," the lad explained Balin, who hadn't heard the story yet. "Just before I left to see Uncle Bilbo I saw tadpoles swimming in there. I thought about taking some with me to Uncle Bilbo, after all he has a big garden, but he is unwilling to make a pond." Frodo glanced at his uncle sadly, not without a glimmer of hope in his eyes that the old hobbit may change his opinion, but seeing no signs of it he went on. "I have tried to convince him for hours but he is so very stubborn. He said he liked his flowers more than a pond and Master Gamgee said…"

While the lad went on in his report Balin looked in baffled desperation at Bilbo. Was this the same lad he had met the day before - the one he had considered shy? This Frodo, who was holding his hand now and leading him into the garden of his home, was all but that. This lad was gregarious and more talkative than any dwarf-child he had known before. Amazed about that change Balin allowed himself to be led behind the hole by a child who reached just inches higher than his knees.

Bilbo chuckled as he saw Balin's puzzled expression. He had, after all, warned him that once he had left his reserve behind, Frodo could be a friendly chatterbox. Secretly however, Bilbo rolled his eyes. Not again that discussion about a pond! He had thought Frodo would have forgotten about it after two days but obviously he was mistaken.

The pond sparkled golden in the light of the slowly rising sun and the smell of lilac met the noses of the lad and his companions. The angry twitter of three young sparrows in a nest on the lilac tree disturbed the morning silence. The sparrow they had seen before hopped on one of the branches hurrying to feed the young birds. Frodo grinned from one ear to the other and his eyes sparkled even brighter than the water in the pond while he was watching the happening, still holding Bilbo and Balin by the hand.

When the bird left in search for more food Frodo turned to the pond and kneeled down on its edge looking closely into the water. There they were - slightly longer and bigger than they had been when he had left two days ago - all his pride and joy, his tadpoles. The child cheered when he saw the small animals swimming and snaking on the bottom of the pond and made sure Bilbo and Balin would observe every little happening that occurred in the small pond. With shining eyes Frodo kneeled in the grass ready to catch the first tadpole daring close enough to the edge, but before he could put his intentions into action Bilbo grabbed him by the shoulder and told him that they had to move on.

Frodo sighed getting up reluctantly. He would very much have liked to stay a bit longer observing his animals and maybe catching one or two of them, but when Bilbo and Balin left the garden he cast a last woeful glance at the pond and hurried after them. He was, after all, on his way to his very own adventure - something wherefore leaving a pond full of tadpoles behind was a small sacrifice.

When he had caught up with Bilbo Frodo looked questioningly at the old hobbit, a knowing grin playing on the corner of his lips. Bilbo noticed it and shook his head. "No reason to grin, my lad. I haven't changed my opinion."

"Are you sure?" Frodo did a bit of probing. "I mean, now that you have seen them, haven't you grown to love them?" He smiled from one ear to the other winking as if he knew very well that Bilbo would like to have some tadpoles of his own.

Bilbo tousled the boy's head and laughed. "Oh, you silly lad! There won't be any tadpoles in immediate vicinity of Bag End, I can tell you. And no ponds either."

Frodo pushed forward his lower lip looking disappointed, but then he giggled. "But you almost like them, don't you? There's no way concealing it, I know you do." With that he ran ahead, waving at them and telling them that he would meet them at the next crossing which was only so far away that Bilbo could see it and thus keep an eye on his high-spirited nephew.

~*~*~

They were travelling at a slow pace, enjoying the fine weather and each other's company. There was no sign of the rain clouds of the other day and it was warm though a welcomed breeze was caressing the hills and roads of the Shire. Frodo was full of energy, running ahead singing and giggling to himself, hunting butterflies and examining worms and other critters on the wayside. Twice he caught a caterpillar to show it to Bilbo and Balin and once he got hold of a ladybug landing accidentally on the young hobbit's shirt. Their journey to Waymoot was full of fun and breaks. Every three miles they rested, eating some of their provisions - of which Frodo ate the most - or just waited until the child was fit enough to walk on. So far Drogo's fear of Frodo losing his enthusiasm about the journey - fears he hadn't been able to tell Bilbo about after his shock of seeing Balin - were totally unsubstantiated. Yet, after they had taken their lunch at an inn Frodo's spirit lowered, he didn't run as far ahead as he had done earlier and his discoveries grew less.

It was almost tea time when Frodo fell back entirely, holding on to his uncle's hand and walking more or less in silence beside him. They had travelled almost seventeen miles by now and would soon arrive at their destination. Frodo was visibly exhausted and they decided to rest again and have their tea. To the child's utter glee Bilbo brought forth the cake of Mrs. Gamgee - a gift he had kept secret so far - and offered every one of them a generous piece.

"That's not very nice," Frodo declared his face and fingers smeared with cream, as the last bite disappeared in his mouth, "keeping such an important thing secret. What would you have done had the cream melted? We would have had to eat everything out of your package - and that would have been a nasty and sticky affair, I can tell you!"

Bilbo chuckled. "So, you do have experiences in this?"

Flushing furiously to the tip of his ears Frodo squirmed. "No - not of late," he finally replied remembering very well the piece of cake he had gotten from Peony Proudfoot, his next door neighbour, last summer. He had wanted to save the last remains in his pocket but unfortunately the cream had melted and his breeches had gotten all sticky. His mommy hadn't been all too content about that.

Balin chuckled. "You certainly have the right touch for trouble, just like Bilbo said. But then, I fear, it's all your family who is blessed with an extra sense for it."

Frodo, smelling a great story, looked delightedly at the dwarf casting a sideways glance to Bilbo. What kind of trouble might he have gotten himself into? He moved over to Balin, while Bilbo prepared himself a pipe and handed some of his pipe-weed to the dwarf. This would certainly be one of their longer rests and Bilbo leaned back against a tree trunk to listen - and correct his friend if need be.

Balin lit his pipe and puffed two times gazing thoughtfully into the distance, before starting his tale. "Your uncle has told you about the dragon, I guess." Frodo nodded vigorously, pulling his knees close and flinging his arms about them while his shining eyes rested on the dwarf. He loved to hear about his uncle's adventures. "Well," Balin went on after another puff of his pipe, "he was in the dragon's liar three times. The first time he stole a two handled cup but that wasn't the most dangerous thing he did. His second walk down the tunnel was far more perilous, because he talked to the dragon. It is difficult not to slip into talking to a dragon, or so I have always heard, and your uncle was no exception. Yet Bilbo did a good job in talking in riddles because that's how you have to handle conversations with dragons."

"Not only a good job, but also a difficult one," Bilbo interrupted, his face alight with the pleasures of old memories. "It didn't take me long to trip over my own tongue - a mistake that cost me more than just a few hairs." He absentmindedly touched the back of his head where the dragon's fire had burned his hair so many years ago.

Balin chuckled. "You gave us quite a turn, you did, and not only once!"

Frodo's eyes wandered form one to the other in wonder. All the tales Bilbo had told him so many times suddenly grew to life - more than they did usually and it had all begun with Balin's arrival the other day. A shiver of delight ran down his spine and he hoped his two companions would never stop their talking - even if he would not talk for the time their conversation lasted. For them it was a mere exchange of old memories but for Frodo it was legends coming to life.

All his weariness had passed as they walked on and Balin kept talking. The dwarf seemed to have an unquenchable resource of adventurous memories to entertain the child though he and Bilbo jumped to and fro in the passing of events - which did not matter much to Frodo, of course.

"I was on watch while the others were debating what might have happened to your uncle," Balin said chuckling. "So far not a mouse has crept along unnoticed - but your uncle, he just slipped in under my very nose! Of course he wouldn't have achieved that without that ring of his."

"The ring of that slimy Gollum?" Frodo asked puzzled but shuddered at the mere thought of Gollum. He always hoped his uncle would skip that part of the story because he feared the ghastly creature. Yet, he never asked for it, not only because he did not want to show that he was afraid but he also liked the riddles Bilbo told and always bid his uncle to tell every single one of them. Anyhow, concerning the ring, his uncle had never said more than the fact that he had found it in Gollum's cave and thus Balin's comment confused him.

Bilbo looked uncomfortable, fumbling around with something in his trouser pocket but no-one noticed it. "Yes, that ring," he replied shortly and would not say more though Frodo's expectant eyes rested on him a moment longer until Balin went on in his telling.

Thus the afternoon wore on and the sun was moving swiftly towards the western hills of the Shire sending a golden gleam on the road still ahead of the three travellers. Frodo had grown weary of both, walking and storytelling, and at last Drogo's fears came true. The child held Bilbo's hand scuffling listlessly, and deliberately slow beside his uncle and complained about every step he had to make. Bilbo could understand that he was tired, after all, he was exhausted himself, but the constant whining was tearing at his nerves.

"Are we there yet?" Frodo asked with a deep sigh for he knew the answer already. No - it was always no since he first asked that question about an hour ago. Would it ever change to yes? He doubted it and that was the reason why his mood sank even lower than it already had. For today he had enough of walking - in fact he had walked enough it would last for a whole month. "Can we stop?"

Bilbo's hair was blown into his face as he looked down at his young nephew. "It's not far now."

Sullen eyes met Bilbo's and Frodo let go of his hand to stop. "Carry me," he demanded, blinking as the wind grew stronger.

Bilbo stopped and sighed. "I have my pack to carry already, Frodo. You will make that last mile, won't you?"

Shaking his head vigorously Frodo repeated his demand and Bilbo hoped his answer did not sound as irritated as he felt. "I know you're tired, but you must understand that I can't carry the pack and you as well."

"Then put away your backpack," Frodo suggested, tone as sullen as his eyes. "I won't walk a single step further!" With that he folded his arms and sat down cross-legged in the midst of the road giving his uncle a wilful look.

Bilbo rolled his eyes, sighing deeply. "Frodo, get up!" His annoyance, which he unsuccessfully tried to conceal, was clearly heard in his voice. He was not in the mood for childish sulkiness. Frodo repeated his headshaking and avoided his uncle's gaze looking stubbornly at a cloud that was fortunately crossing the sky.

The wind was getting stronger and what once had been pleasing was now cool and urged the weary travellers on. Maybe this was the reason for Balin's offer to take Bilbo's package so that the old hobbit could carry his exhausted nephew. As Bilbo did so he soon came to regret his harsh tone towards Frodo for when they arrived at the inn in Waymoot Frodo was fast asleep, head resting on his uncle's shoulder and hands dangling on either side of Bilbo's neck - a picture certainly contributing its share in the time the innkeeper, a chubby woman in her mid-sixties, needed to prepare their rooms.

Frodo did not wake up when Bilbo laid him into the big bed, undressed him and tucked him securely into the coverlets only minutes later.