6.  The Big People

Still half-laying on the cold, damp ground, Frodo finally looked past the huge sword pointing straight at him to see a shadowy figure towering over him.  Frodo froze in place, holding his position as though he had grown roots.  This was it, then.   This wild and dangerous Man would kill him and his kin would never know what had happened to him.  Uncle Bilbo would be heartbroken.  Frodo didn’t think his Brandybuck relations would notice his absence very much, but at least he could hope that Bolo would be punished for leaving his cousin behind to die.

His wide blue eyes still fixed unblinkingly on the sword in front of him, Frodo started when he heard the wielder of the sword speak.

“Elrohir!”  The Big Person hissed.  “Let’s have your lantern up here!”

Frodo frowned as another Big Person came forward with a lantern.  ‘Elrohir’ wasn’t a Mannish name, was it?  It sounded almost . . . Elvish.  A soft light was suddenly cast on Frodo’s face, and he blinked at the sudden brightness.

“Periannath!” breathed a new voice, and this voice was very different; less harsh, more musical than the first.  Frodo had always imagined an Elf would have such a voice.  Was he going to meet Elves, then, he wondered with a thrill that made him feel dizzy.

And then, miraculously, the sword was being lowered, then sheathed, and its wielder was crouching down slowly to look at Frodo face to face.

“I apologize, little one,” the Big Person said, much more gently than the first time he’d spoken.  “My companions and I intend you no harm.  Can you tell me your name?”

“Frodo Baggins, at your service.”  Frodo made the correct response automatically, somehow managing to speak past the wad of cotton that was his tongue.  Now that the threat of imminent death was apparently over, the numbness was beginning to clear from his mind; Frodo was becoming aware of the injuries he’d sustained falling out of the tree.  The tingling in his right arm had faded away, leaving his wrist and forearm throbbing most alarmingly.  His many scratches and bruises were stinging and aching, as well. 

Frodo tried to focus on the Big Folk.  A third figure had glided up noiselessly, a second lantern in hand.  In the brighter light, Frodo could now make out more details.  Of the two with lanterns, one was dark and the other fair, but somehow Frodo knew they were both Elves; an unearthly glow that had naught to do with the lanterns seemed to emanate from them.  He wasn’t sure about the Big Person that crouched in front of him, watching with grey eyes that suddenly seemed kind. 

“He appears to be hurt,” murmured the fair Elf, holding his lantern over the small hobbit.

“I was lost, and I fell out of the tree,” Frodo volunteered hesitantly.  He didn’t think these three meant to harm him, but would they be willing to assist him?

“Can you stand?” asked the Big Person with the sword.

“Yes, sir,” Frodo said hesitantly.  He scrambled to get his feet under him, then started to push himself up with both hands.  The skin on his back screamed in protest at the motion.  He thought he felt something shift in his right wrist, and then he felt a blinding pain.  Frodo somehow made it to a standing position before the pain overwhelmed him, and he found himself pitching forward into darkness.

*          *          *

Estel gave a short cry of surprise as the tiny Halfling crumpled into his arms.  Estel’s companions quickly set down their lanterns and moved to assist him.  The fair one removed his heavy cloak and placed it hastily around the little Halfling.  It had been, to say the least, surprising to find a Halfling child on the outskirts of the Shire, alone so late at night. 

“Thank you, Legolas,” Estel said, recovering his composure quickly.  “Let’s lay him down, carefully now.”

Legolas gently took the Halfling from Estel’s arms and settled him on the ground, still wrapped in Legolas’s cloak.  Estel motioned to Elrohir, and the dark-haired elf came closer, holding his lantern aloft.

Frodo awakened at that point, looking around in confusion.

“What happened?” he asked groggily.

“You fainted, little one,” Legolas replied.  “My companion is a healer; he will examine you, if you do not object.”  Frodo nodded his agreement, and Estel began his examination of the child.

“Are you an Elf, sir?” Frodo asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Legolas inclined his head in elegant affirmation.  “I am,” he said.  “As is Elrohir.”

“And are you a Man, sir?” Frodo inquired of Estel.

“I am indeed, Frodo Baggins,” Estel replied.  He was amused by the question.  This Halfling child clearly had little experience of the world outside the Shire.  “How did you guess my race?”

“You aren’t as fair as the others,” Frodo answered innocently, not realizing the implied insult to his benefactor.  The two Elves laughed musically, and Frodo thought he had never heard a more beautiful sound.  The Man merely glared briefly at his companions and turned back to his work.

Estel had been well trained in the healing arts by his foster father, Elrond Halfelven.  Even without the conversation as an indicator, Estel could see that the dark, curly head was uninjured.  What he could see of the legs was scratched and still bleeding, and the knees were badly bruised.  The small brown cloak and the white shirt beneath were torn and stained red in places, so Estel removed them, fumbling with the tiny buttons on the shirt. 

Examining the small back, he discovered extensive bruising and several cuts.  He felt carefully all along the chest and back, eliciting a whimper when he pressed on a bruise.  No ribs broken.  Judging by the crash they had heard, and the broken lantern lying nearby, the cuts had been made by shards of glass.  The cuts were bleeding profusely but did not appear to be deep enough to scar.  Estel cleaned them carefully, applied a salve, and bandaged them using supplies from his pack.  Frodo clenched his small hands until the knuckles turned white while his cuts were being cleaned, but he sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool, odd-smelling salve being applied to his wounds.

There were some scratches on both arms, but the right wrist was swollen and discoloured.  Feeling carefully along the tiny forearm while Frodo gritted his teeth in determination not to cry out, Estel discovered a break just above the wrist.  He set it as well as he could, then splinted and bandaged it.  Frodo could not help crying a little as the arm was splinted, but Elrohir’s hand on his shoulder proved oddly soothing.  Estel quickly finished his examination of the Halfling and determined it was safe to move him. 

“Let us set up camp in that clearing a few minutes back,” Estel said to his companions.  “We will get no further tonight.”

Legolas and Elrohir nodded in agreement and set off through the underbrush to make the preparations.  Frodo watched with round eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his arm.  It had hurt dreadfully when the Man set the broken bone.  Frodo wondered if they were going to leave him now, and how he would find his way back to Brandy Hall in the middle of the night, for it surely must be near midnight by this time.

“Frodo,” said Estel.  “We are too far from any Halfling settlements to take you to one tonight.  We will keep you with us and return you in the morning.  But I must know, what you were doing out here by yourself?”

Frodo told him about the herb-hunting expedition with his older cousin, and their search for the elusive white horehound plant.

“And where is this Bolo now?” asked the Man.

“I don’t know, sir,” Frodo said.  “He ran away when we saw you coming.”

Estel frowned at this news.  “We will have to search for him then.  If he did not find his way home, he could be in danger.”

“Truly?” asked Frodo, a little bewildered.  “There aren’t any dangerous animals in these woods.”

“Not normally, anyway,” sighed Estel.  “My companions and I have been hunting a Warg for the last ten days.  We followed its tracks to this point, and it may still be in the area.  Most likely it has moved on already, North and far from the Shire by now, but I cannot take the risk.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frodo, somewhat awed by the concern this Man showed for a few small Hobbit lads he didn’t even know.  Frodo wasn’t sure what a Warg was, but it sounded dreadful.

“And where do you live, Frodo?” inquired the Man.

“We come from Buckland, sir,” Frodo answered.  “And we would be grateful for any help you could give us in finding our way back.”

Estel smiled at him.  “You look exhausted, little one,” he said, lifting the child carefully into his arms.  “I will take you to our campsite so that you can sleep, and we will take you home on the morrow.”

*           *          *

Ten minutes later, the Halfling child was sound asleep, wrapped snugly in Legolas’s robe to keep out the chill of the early March night.  Frodo had been given a warm cup of kingsfoil tea to dull his pain as soon as the camp-fire was hot enough to heat the water. 

Estel related the information about Bolo to his two companions, and they agreed that the other child must be found.  The Warg tracks they had been following were at least a day old, but that didn’t mean the animal wasn’t still about.  Legolas offered to go and search for the missing child, and Estel agreed readily.  They had traveled far today, and Estel was too weary for a long search.  Legolas, on the other hand, looked as fresh as when they’d first set out from Imladris.

Estel smiled at the thought.  He did not know Legolas very well, but the fair Elf had been visiting Imladris from his home in Mirkwood, and had gallantly offered to accompany Estel and Elrond’s son, Elrohir, when news of the stray Warg was received.

Elrohir was asleep on the other side of the camp-fire; Estel had insisted upon taking first watch.  Estel turned his attention to the small Halfling, noting that a few dark curls were all that could be seen of the lad, who had burrowed deeply into Legolas’s cloak for warmth.  Estel had little experience of the Halflings, but this one looked to be quite young.  Adult Halflings were generally three to four feet tall, and this tiny specimen stood barely two feet tall.  Estel estimated that Frodo would be perhaps eight or nine years old if he were a Man-child.

Soon enough, the watch was over and he moved to wake Elrohir with a shake of the Elf’s shoulder.

“Sleep well, my friend,” murmured Elrohir, sitting up to take his post.