Written for the birthdays of the Master and Lindelea.  With love and thanks to both.

A Reluctant Admission 

            Isumbard Took was forced to wait while two members of the Took Hobbitry-at-arms marched a burly Hobbit out of the Banquet Hall in the Council Hole.  Was that Otis Tunnely, he wondered?  Well, Otis had been identified as one of the earliest members of the Gatherers and Sharers, or so he understood.  Considering the expression on the Tunnely’s face, he was not happy with the sentence handed down by the deputy Mayor.  Had Frodo pronounced him banished outside the Shire?  It was what Paladin had said was appropriate for the greedy Hobbit.

            Once the doorway was cleared Bard entered to see Frodo handing what appeared to be a framed picture to Tod Delver.  Tod accepted the item diffidently, and it was apparent that the young farmer had tears in his eyes.  His son—was the lad called Dodi or something like?—stood at his father’s side, his eyes alight with excitement, reaching up to touch the object his father now held.

            Frodo reached up to lay his hand on Tod’s shoulder and said something in a low voice, then pulled away, turning toward the table where he was officiating at the judgment of those who’d worked with Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Timono Bracegirdle in robbing their fellow citizens of their goods, homes, and property.

            “Should of been sent down to one o’ the cells in that new gaol, you ask me!” pronounced Tom Oatbarrow to his neighbor, finishing off with a swig from the tankard he held.  Tom’s family’s home had been hit heavily as Bard understood it.

            Frodo had almost reached the table where Paladin Took stood by what must be Frodo’s chair, but before he reached the Thain’s side Frodo suddenly blanched and turned hurriedly toward the privy.  Bard recognized the signs—once again Frodo was about to lose whatever he’d managed to put into his stomach so far that day.  Bard sighed, hurried forward to set the papers he’d brought with him before Pal, and set himself to seeing if he could help Frodo.

                He’d been correct in anticipating that the Baggins would not have had time to latch the door.  He found Frodo kneeling in one of the stalls, retching terribly.  Bard knelt beside his distant cousin and held back his hair to keep it from getting fouled.

            Fortunately the bout did not last long.  “Are you all right now, Frodo?” the Took asked.

            Frodo raised his head, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.  “I believe so,” he managed.

            Bard nodded, and rose to fetch a dipper of water.  “I hope this helps,” he said.

            “At least I don’t appear to have gotten it on my clothes,” Frodo noted, once he was certain there would be no more spasms. 

            “Did you banish him from the Shire?”

            “No, not this time.  Internal banishment to Threadneedle.  He has property there.  I did confiscate the farm he’s been living on and gave it to his sister and her family, so Sweetpea and Tod now have two properties.  The one he’s been at was originally left to her, but he’d made a fuss so she had agreed to trade it for the one he’d been left.  He was so certain his parents had left her the better farm to begin with, and insisted on the swap.  The problem is that he’s a poor farmer to begin with, and doesn’t treat the land, buildings, or animals as they deserve.  And his jealousy toward his sister and her family is terrible, Bard!  I can barely believe a Hobbit of the Shire could be that jealous of his own sister!”

            “And you became so upset that you had to run so as not to vomit on Pal’s feet?”

            Frodo gave a weak laugh.  “That would have been quite the spectacle, don’t you agree?”

            After a pause, Bard asked, “Were you reaching for that Ring?  I’d wager you were wishing to blast a hole right through him.”

            Frodo paled.  “Do you think I would willingly curse him?”   His voice was being held steady by sheer force of will, or so Bard thought.

            Isumbard Took was sorry he’d asked the question.  “I remember when your aunt’s cousin and her husband were insisting you were drunk.  I am certain you would have cursed them had you had It on you at the time.  And yes, I know that it was indeed the Ring you carried when you left the Shire.  Between them Ferdi and Pippin have made that plain to me.”

            It was almost a minute before Frodo answered in a whisper, “Oh, but I indeed wished to do so.  I am so glad It is gone now.  I do not wish to curse anyone else, not ever.”

            Bard’s interest was piqued.  “Then you did curse someone with It, back while you were gone?”

            “Yes.”  The word was almost dead.

            “Who?”

            “Gollum.  I cursed him, telling him that if he tried to touch me or—or It again, he himself would fall into the fire.  And he did—just as I’d said.  He took the Ring from me, and in his glee at having It once more in his possession he leapt into the air—and he fell, with It—with It in his hand.”

            “Sweet stars!” Bard whispered.  “And that’s how you lost your finger?  He cut it off of you?”

            But Frodo was shaking his head.  “No—he bit off my finger.  He was much too given to biting, I fear.”

            He shuddered, and glanced over his shoulder.  “I need to go back out there.  My work for the day is not finished as yet.”  He combed his fingers through his hair, turned decidedly, and led the way back to the Banquet Hall.

            It was a moment before Isumbard could bring himself to follow the deputy Mayor.