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The Fellowship Of The Four
The sunny last days of summer appeared to have vanished with the night, and grey
clouds hid the sun as it came up. The four travelers were on their way before
the cattle and sheep had been let out to graze, even before smoke started to
curl up from the large and busy homestead of Farmer Maggot. They picked their
way down the boulder-strewn hill, with more care than they had ascended it the
night before, but the creatures that had caused their mad, terrified flight were
not to be seen. Pippin, especially, kept a careful eye on the horizon, but by
the time they had begun to enter the hill country to the south, they all were
beginning to breathe a bit easier.
The larger farms and estates, including Brandybuck Hall, were to the north by
now, for they had made unusually good progress the day before. From here,
Buckland became progressively hillier until it reached the more turbulent
stretches of the Brandywine, and past that, Crickhollow. Although the paths
between the fields were more overgrown than those of the lush farmland to the
north, and interspersed with small woods, it was but one more days walk, and
they should be reaching Crickhollow by nightfall. Frodo had not really thought
past that, up until now, and as they journeyed in a single file, himself in the
lead and Sam once again in the rear, he reluctantly began to consider what lay
beyond.
His earlier determination that Merry and Pippin should not accompany he and Sam
was no longer quite as steadfast. Now the danger of their being left behind had
suddenly become nearly as great as their continuing along on the journey ahead.
Partially to distract himself from the circles that seemed to be running through
his mind, and partially from an instinctive need to seek out Sam, he stopped at
the edge of a hedgerow, and let the others catch up with him.
“Let’s have at those apples, Sam,” he rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder and
pointed to the basket from Farmer Maggot that Sam had picked up as they left.
“I’d rather not stop for a proper breakfast yet, but we could at least be eating
them as we walk.”
Sam produced the basket, and uncovered it, offering the contents to the others.
“Apples and mushrooms,” he mused, as Merry considered the selection with the
keen eye of a connoisseur. “ ‘Tis an odd combination, not that I’d be turnin’
down either one, mind you.”
Pippin left off poking Merry, as encouragement for him to hasten his selection,
at Sam’s innocent comment, and giving Frodo a sly look, gave a short, knowing
laugh. Merry, his attention also distracted from the fruit, began to snicker as
well, and also turned toward Frodo, who was beginning to unmistakably redden.
Bewildered, Sam looked at Frodo too, since he was obviously the center of all of
this. It was hard for Sam to understand why, but Frodo really was starting to
look a little flustered.
“Even after all these years, Sam,” Merry observed, with a wide grin, “it’s
obvious you have not heard of Frodo’s troubled youth. Not to be wondered at,
really. I’m sure Bilbo was hoping he had left his disreputable ways behind, and
felt it best not to mention his tawdry past.”
Sam, still mystified by these remarks, although Pippin had begun to quite
helplessly giggle, turned to Frodo for an explanation, and Frodo gave a sigh
that was not without hints of amusement.
“This is the problem with relatives,” he mentioned, turning to Sam with a wry
smile. “They will never let you live down the follies of your youth. You were
always such a dependable and honest lad growing up, Sam, I never wanted you to
know that I was anything but.”
“Ah, your dark past has at last come to light, cousin,” crowed Merry, snatching
up one apple, and giving it a hearty bite, but not before pocketing a second for
later.
Frodo raised an eyebrow at that comment, but merely observed, “I don’t think you
know all the story, Merry. After all, you were much too young to take notice of
what was going on about you, when it actually happened. Still in nappies, if I
remember correctly.”
Merry gave a huff. “Well, I’ve certainly heard the story often enough,” he
replied, a trifle tartly.
“You’ve heard the official version. Not what really happened,” Frodo looked off
toward the green hills stretching before them as they walked, his face suddenly
still, and his look faraway. “I grew up not too far from here,” he added softly.
“Farmer Maggot was a friend of my father’s.”
“What?” Merry stopped, astounded. “I never knew that.”
Frodo shrugged. “I don’t think your mother thought that it reflected well on the
Brandybucks,” he answered softly. “But we were just Baggins, and his name was
good enough for my father.”
Sam, walking at his side, reached out and lightly touched Frodo’s arm, for there
was a shadow that had come over Frodo’s face as he mentioned his childhood. With
a certain amount of almost guilt, he realized that, in all this time, he had
never asked Frodo about his early years. It was as if his life had only begun
once he arrived at Bag End. Certainly, Frodo had never offered any information,
but with a bit of self-remorse, he suddenly felt that he should have asked.
But Frodo, feeling his touch, caught up his hand and grasped it tightly, still
only looking ahead, but walking close by his side nevertheless. “We had a smial
near the river,” he continued. “Quite near Crickhollow, actually. That’s why I
thought of coming here. I didn’t think I’d be staying long enough for anyone to
recognize me, and after all, I was still so young when I left. I somehow thought
it might be appropriate for me to leave the Shire from here.”
Sam lowered his head at Frodo’s words, and blinked back the tears that had
suddenly filled his eyes. The thought that Frodo could have left alone still
caught him unawares from time to time, and was hard for him to forget. But Frodo
gave him a quick glance, and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Not alone,” his
eyes warmly promised him. “Not alone, my Sam.”
But Pippin had been trying to puzzle the matter out. “But I always thought,” he
began with a frown, “that it was at Brandy Hall that your parents…” and his
voice trailed off a bit sheepishly, and he unconsciously bit his lip.
“Were drowned,” Frodo stoically finished his sentence for him. “Not really.”
“But my mother told me…” began Merry, walking next to Pippin and knitting his
brow.
“I know she did,” calmly replied Frodo, “and I really didn’t care what she told
you at the time. Later,” he shrugged, “it was just too confusing to set you
straight, and I saw no reason to. It didn’t really matter, somehow. But that’s
not where they drowned.”
“They were both excellent swimmers, and they made sure I was as well,” he
continued, after they had been traveling in silence for some several minutes.
“They would never have come to harm near Brandy Hall, the Brandywine there is as
smooth as glass,” he added, with the slightest touch of scorn in his voice. “No,
it was near our home. The river to the south, here, as you will see, is far more
turbulent, and can deceive even the best of boaters.”
Again he fell into silence, but his companions held their tongues. “I was
fifteen,” Frodo suddenly said, unconsciously squaring his shoulders as he
continued to walk, as if finally coming to a determination that the tale would
be told. He still stared straight ahead, but his fingers tightened once again
around Sam’s. “I was home, I hadn’t wanted to go. There was a new book, and I
told them no. The weather was fair, no one could have known…” He paused only
slightly, swallowing nearly imperceptibly, and continued on. “It was the
neighbors who came to find me. They had found the bodies downstream. And it was
Maggot who told Brandy Hall what had happened. Uncle Sara came for me the next
day. Of all my relatives, he was the one I knew best at the time. It was decided
that I should stay at Brandy Hall. You were just beginning to walk, Merry,” he
gave a slight smile to Merry, who was still trying to fathom this different
version. “I expect Aunt Esme thought I might come in useful, for you already
clearly had a will of your own.”
“I didn’t settle in too well,” he continued softly, as they continued to walk
on. Pippin had linked arms with Merry by now, and they stayed close to Frodo and
Sam’s side. “I wasn’t used to children, and Brandy Hall seemed so large and
crowded. I tried to escape back to our smial once. But months had gone by, and
when I finally got to our home, it stood empty. I’m not sure what happened to
our things, I expect they had been sold. I never asked. Uncle Sara found me
there, and took me back to Brandy Hall. This time I stayed. I had nowhere else
to go.”
“You know, Merry,” he added then, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.
“Your mother is really quite right about me. I wasn’t at all a good influence on
you. But you had rather taken to me, and to my surprise, I to you. And she was
having a difficult time raising you the way she thought she should, with me
around.”
Merry shook his head slightly, but Frodo cast a level glance at him. “You heard
about my stealing the mushrooms from Farmer Maggot, I know, but what you
probably didn’t know was that he was not the only one. I was rather a terror to
all the farmers in the area, raiding their orchards, and causing whatever
mischief I could. Later, I realized that by letting his dogs on me, Maggot was
trying to scare me out of my destructive ways, trying to do my father a favor,
most likely.”
He shook his head, lowering his gaze now to the path ahead. A brisk breeze had
come up, and Merry shivered slightly, but his attention was all on Frodo. “I
never knew any of this,” he murmured, in a tone of disbelief. “Certainly, my
mother never mentioned it, and I would have thought she would.”
Frodo smiled ruefully, and gave him a quick glance. “You were still so young,
Merry, and I could do no wrong in your eyes, back then. She was worried, and
quite rightly so, that you would soon be joining me, no matter how she would try
to dissuade you. I’ve always had a feeling that Bilbo was as much sent for, as
just offered to take me in. I think Aunt Esme had had about enough of me, and
decided it was time to let a Baggins have the pleasure.”
“There was naught of mischief about you at Bag End,” Sam murmured softly as
Frodo fell silent again. “I’d have remembered that.”
Frodo gave a short laugh. “No, there wasn’t, was there. But first of all, I had
always been fond of Bilbo. He didn’t visit my parents often, but he always
brought books when he did, and he and my father would stay up until all hours
smoking and talking and arguing over the most obscure matters. And he always had
kind words for my mother, and myself, which made her happy. So when he agreed to
take me in, I tried my best not to let him regret it. Otherwise, he would have
packed me back to Brandy Hall.”
“I wish that they had sent you to the Great Smials, instead,” Pippin commented,
a little mournfully.
“I believe it was mentioned, once or twice,” Frodo gave him a warm look, as he
walked beside Merry. “But you had just been born, so your mother had her hands
full. And besides, there was some talk that it was my Tookish blood that was the
cause of all the mischief, in the first place.”
Pippin gave an indignant snort at that remark. “We’re all Took, to some extent
or other. Except for you, of course, Sam,” he added, giving him a nod. “I don’t
see why anything should be blamed on that.”
“Then I suppose we are all trouble-makers to a certain degree, and it’s up to
Sam to set us right,” Frodo declared firmly, throwing an arm around Sam’s
shoulders, with the air of one closing off the conversation. “And perhaps it
would be safe enough to stop for second breakfast at this point.”
“Excellent thinking,” Pippin agreed, suddenly realizing that first breakfast had
been anything but substantial. “I think some food is definitely called for.”
Merry nodded, but stayed silent as Pippin looked about for a likely location.
They had been crossing the hillier farmsteads south of Farmer Maggot’s, and the
woods were becoming more frequent. But there was a small open field, that had
been let go wild, just beside the path they had been following, and it appeared
suitable enough for a quick cold meal to Pippin. The others agreed, and in no
time, spread out their packs, and shared the food that they still had on hand.
There was not much conversation though, and each seemed lost in his own thoughts
and memories. But as the others were finishing, Sam stood up, and picked up his
water skin. “I saw a stream a bit back,” he mentioned shortly. “I’ll be but a
minute.”
Merry and Pippin both nodded absent-mindedly, but Frodo watched him carefully as
he left, and after only a few minutes, slipped quietly away, following him
through the grass and past the oak.
There was a stream, but Sam was on his knees at the side of it, the water skin
forgotten at his side. Coming up on him without a word, Frodo laid a gentle hand
upon his shoulder, and was saddened but not surprised to see tears on Sam’s face
as Sam turned his head toward him. “It was the past, Sam, it’s so long ago now.”
“But that still don’t make it right, no ways,” Sam whispered, wiping his face
hastily.
“No, it doesn’t,” Frodo gently answered him, falling to his knees next to Sam
and tenderly wrapping his arms around him. “And maybe that’s why I learned long
ago to appreciate happiness when I find it, but not to expect it.”
Lovingly, he moved his hands up to cradle Sam’s face, running his thumbs
tenderly across Sam’s wet cheeks. “And I have been happy. With my parents, when
I was a child. With Bilbo, once I had settled in. And these last wonderful years
with you, Sam, happier than I can possibly tell you, happier than I ever dreamed
I could be.” And it was only a matter of slightly leaning forward to meet Sam’s
lips with his own, and Sam’s arms swept suddenly about him with a fierce, almost
crushing embrace, and his mouth passionately answered his own.
*****
Merry and Pippin had been left eating in silence. When it became clear that Sam
and Frodo would not immediately be returning, Merry got up, and began to clear
up the food and straighten the packs up again, still without a word. Pippin was
watching him, and suddenly standing as well, reached out and grasped his arm.
“You didn’t know any of all that,” he said softly, and it was not a question.
“No,” Merry answered, shortly, “and I should have.”
“Not really,” Pippin shook his head, watching Merry with a rueful smile. “You
were too young to remember, and if Frodo wasn’t given to talking about it, why
would you ask?”
Merry gave a sigh then, his face clearing somewhat at Pippin’s words. “I expect
you’re right, but I wish I could have helped him more. Then he wouldn’t have had
to leave and go to Bag End.”
“But then he would never have met Sam,” Pippin continued with relentless logic,
tempered with a small smile. “So it seems to have worked out in the end.”
“You know, you may be right about that,” and Merry began to smile back at Pippin
in return. “And I never would have ended up with you. So I suppose I should be
grateful then.”
“Of course, Merry,” Pippin laughed. “My point exactly.”
Giving Pippin a quick hug, Merry happened to glance back to the north and
stopped suddenly still. “That doesn’t look good,” he said quietly.
And indeed, it did not. The skies had been grey all morning, but there were
clouds building on the horizon that were ominous indeed. Towering and dark, they
promised a storm that it would be well to stay out of, if at all possible. “We
need to find the others,” Merry stated with a certain amount of trepidation.
“I’m not sure how much farther we have to go, and there’s still the river to
cross before we reach Crickhollow.”
But there was no need to search, as Frodo and Sam were returning even as Merry
spoke, the filled water skin in Sam’s hand. Merry pointed to the sky upon seeing
them, without a word, and Sam, turning around, gave a low whistle.
“That’s a right nasty one, and no mistake,” he mentioned with sudden
apprehension. “I‘d not be surprised if there won’t be thunder and lightning,
likewise.”
“How much longer to Crickhollow, Frodo?” Pippin asked nervously, leaning
unconsciously closer to Merry.
“Still about four hours until we reach the Brandywine,” Frodo answered flatly,
concern in his eyes as well. “And I’d really rather cross it before that hits.”
“How?” Pippin asked. “Is there a bridge there?”
“No,” Frodo allowed, slightly reluctantly. “Buckleberry Ferry. It will have to
do, I’m afraid. There’s no other crossing for miles in either direction.”
Merry gave an indecipherable grunt at that, and flung his pack abruptly over his
shoulder. “Then we’d best be off.” He gave the storm one more quick glance over
his shoulder. “And any short cuts you might know, Frodo, would come in very
handy, I should think.”
*****
It was several hours of fast-paced hiking after that for the four hobbits, but
the trails were not well marked and the way was not easy. Indeed, they would
quickly have been lost, if Frodo had not been traveling almost by instinct,
remembering the paths of his youth. But they were not moving faster than the
storm, and the winds that preceded it were heavy with bitingly cold rain.
Once, Frodo had known this path well, as he had become older and was allowed to
accompany his father on visits to Farmer Maggot. But the way had not been used
much, as of late, and was overgrown, and especially hard to see in the gloomy
light. More than once, Frodo had to stop, uncertain, as the other three waited
patiently behind him, tightly wrapping their traveling cloaks about them in the
vain hope of keeping out some of the piercing wind. Frodo well knew that if he
guessed wrongly as to their route, they could end up miles from the Ferry, and
lose all hope of reaching Crickhollow by nightfall.
Fortunately, though, even as a youth, he had had an eye for the countryside, and
was still able to spot some of the landmark trees that seemed to look familiar.
He plunged through the overgrown hedgerows, and fields that had been let go
fallow, hoping all the while that instinct would prove more reliable than
memory.
The other three had no doubt in Frodo’s leadership, however, and were content to
follow, their thoughts on their destination. “This smial, you know,” Pippin
remarked to Merry, just a trifle anxiously, as they walked through the muddy
fields, wet with the oncoming rain. “It’s not just empty, now, is it? It does
have some chairs, and beds, and the like in it, doesn’t it?”
Merry nodded, drawing his cloak closer. “It was let furnished, that’s what the
agent told my father. Of course, it won’t be locked, nothing in this part of
Buckland ever is, but I would expect that it would all be there.”
“It should have a bathtub, too, then, shouldn’t it?” Pippin’s face was suddenly
hopeful at the thought. “Just think, Merry, a great steaming tub! Wouldn’t that
be lovely?”
Sam, walking behind them, couldn’t help chuckling at that thought. Wrapping his
arms tightly around himself as he trudged through the icy muck that was their
path, he commented, “Aye, the thought o’that is almost better than dry clothes
and a full belly right now.”
Pippin cast an impish grin back at him. “Well, it does sound a little more
entertaining, if you know what I mean, Sam.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at that comment, knowing when it was best to keep silent.
But Merry gave a laugh and shook his head. “Don’t expect anything like the baths
at the Great Smials, Pip,” he teased. “We’ll be doing well if there’s a tub just
big enough for your arse and maybe a foot.”
“We can be inventive,” Pippin retorted, serenely.
Sam felt it prudent at this point to leave the other two behind him, and move up
to Frodo’s side. Frodo greeted him with a smile and an arm slipped though Sam’s,
but quickly returned to his concerned study of the countryside. Sam was content
to walk with him in silence for a while but then asked the question that had
been bothering him for the last couple of days. “Frodo, do you think we’ll be
findin’ Gandalf at Crickhollow?”
Frodo sighed unhappily. “I’m afraid I’m starting to doubt it, Sam,” he admitted.
“Perhaps there’ll be a note there, maybe some sort of message, but I’m beginning
to think we may be on our own as far as getting to Rivendell.”
That was what Sam had been thinking as well, and he was just opening his mouth
to say so, when there was a loud crack and a thundering boom, almost
simultaneously. All four hobbits turned around, startled, and saw to their
dismay that the storm had indeed come upon them.
Lightning streaked down from the clouds in jagged bolts of blinding light, and
the thunderclaps were deafening. The darkness was suddenly nearly total, even
though it was still only late afternoon, and the rain fell in wind-whipped
sheets. This time, though, it was Frodo who saw them first, the now-familiar
tall, dark, mounted figures, high atop the hills that they had just descended.
Grabbing Sam’s arm, he gave a cry of fear, and the others then saw the same
terrifying sight. This time, however, the Riders were not in pursuit, but stood
as if they were sentinels, waiting for some unknown event, and Frodo felt a
horrifying chill run through his veins.
Shaking it off, he yelled to the three hobbits standing petrified next to him,
“The Ferry! It’s not far off; they won’t be able to cross the river,” and
desperately hoped that that statement was true. Galvanized into action by
Frodo’s cry, they ran, nearly slipping on the muddy ground underfoot, wildly
grasping at bushes to stay upright, and flinging themselves through the
undergrowth, in the direction in which Frodo led them.
It was with a wild hope springing in his heart that Frodo caught the sound of
the river above the wailing of the wind, and knew they were near. Bursting
through the brush out onto the rocky banks of the Brandywine, they stopped
short, a fearful sight in front of them.
They had indeed come out at the Buckleberry Ferry’s landing, and the wide wooden
raft was tied to a pole before them, but Frodo had never seen the Brandywine
like this. The water, turbulent and tricky through this stretch in even the best
of weather, was fiercely roiled and ferociously pounded against the rocks, the
wild winds whipping the dark waters into frothy caps of white. The raft tossed
and turned in the water before them, and there was no assistance in sight.
Clearly, no one had been expected to be crossing the river this day. Frodo stood
stricken at the sight. It seemed quite impossible, complete madness to try to
cross the Brandywine now, but he also knew absolutely, without even needing to
see them, that the Riders were behind them, waiting. They had been cornered most
efficiently.
Frodo took a quick glance at his companions. Merry and Pippin were standing
close together, staring at the river, their arms around each other and their
faces, even in the dim light, obviously pale with fear. But Sam, though every
bit as fearful, had turned back to look at him, and there was a certain centered
calm in his eyes, as he gazed levelly back at Frodo, a clear promise to be with
him, come what may, that caught at Frodo’s heart. And, quite suddenly, he felt
fury unexpectedly flow through him, a rage that he and those whom he loved so
should be hounded like this, in the midst of the Shire itself. There was only
one means of escape, but he would seize it as best he could, and not give in to
the deadening fear.
“Merry!” he cried out into the storm, roughly grabbing his cousin by the arm.
“Untie the rope when I tell you to, and grab that pole. Sam, Pippin, get ready.
We’re going across!” Merry mutely nodded, and quickly jumped onto the rough
wooden logs that comprised the raft that was Buckleberry Ferry. Tensed, awaiting
Frodo’s orders, he snatched up the steering pole, and leaned into the wind, his
hand on the rope that was barely keeping the raft moored to the bank. Pippin
quickly followed Merry onto the raft, and then, more clumsily, Sam, his hands so
tightly gripping the logs of the raft that his knuckles shone white through his
browned skin.
With a curt nod to Merry, Frodo leaped upon the raft, the last, and Merry yanked
the cord, setting the ferry out into the wild waters. Instantly, it swirled out
into the river, and into a wild circle, nearly flinging the hobbits off into the
dark violent waters. But Merry clung steadfastly to the pole, and with the
greatest of efforts, lifted it up, and plunged it back into the river, trying to
guide them to the far shore. Frodo quickly joined him at the back of the raft,
and, adding to Merry’s frantic effort, helped draw the pole up again along with
him, and thrust it back into the wild waves again and again. Pippin and Sam,
useless in this endeavor, clung to the raft as best they could, and watched,
with fearful hearts, for the other shore, in the dark and driving rain.
It was as Frodo threw himself against the pole, that he felt the small box fall
out of his pocket. He had been carrying it there for several days now, and had
given no thought to conveying it in a safer manner, for it seemed quite secure,
buried quite deep in his jacket pocket. But inexplicitly, in the midst of the
storm and the wild passage, it rolled out of his pocket, dropped down onto the
raft, and began to slide towards the edge.
It was Sam, who gave a wild cry that could even be heard above the storm, and
lunged for it. Frodo stopped, his hands dropping from the pole in disbelief, and
watched in horror as Sam, one hand snatching up the box, began to slide as well
across the worn, wet logs towards the edge of the raft. “Sam!” he shrieked
desperately into the gale, and threw himself after Sam, as Sam slipped, with a
horrible inevitability, slowly off of the raft and into the water. One of his
hands grasped Sam’s empty hand, and with his other, Frodo frantically tried to
hold onto the rough hewn logs, but the rain continued to pound down on them, and
the waves lashed at them, and the logs were slick. Try as he might, he could
feel his grip loosening, and Sam’s hand, clutching his other hand, and all there
was to keep Sam connected to him, starting to slip out of his own as well. There
was nothing that he could cling to, and he was beginning to slide off of the
wave-swept raft as well, when he felt Sam’s hand abruptly tighten around his
once again. Looking across the raft, his eyes met Sam’s, and Sam’s face, that
had been tight with fear, suddenly softened. Sam’s eyes burned into his, and he
could see Sam’s mouth form his name, and then Sam suddenly let go.
“No, Sam!” Frodo wailed into the gale, and without thought or reason, let go of
the raft himself and lunged after Sam’s hand. And then, miraculously, Sam’s
wrist was in his grip, and there was another strong hand, clinging frantically
to his jacket.
“Push, Merry, push!” Pippin shrieked, and Merry did. Then suddenly, the raft
ground against the rocks on the far shore, and they were across.
*****
Crickhollow was not far from the Brandywine. The smial was hard to find in the
storm, but Frodo recognized it immediately when he saw it, set in against a low
hill. There was a small garden wall that bordered the path that ran past it, and
a wooden gate, paint peeling off in strips, which had been left ajar. Between
the wall, and the front door of the smial, there once had been a garden of
sorts, but even in the dim light, it was clear that it had grown into a
disarrayed and abandoned ruined tangle of foliage. None of the travelers had
said much, after their passage of the Brandywine, but this sight caused Sam to
make an inescapable small moan of sorrow. Frodo, who had been walking with a
fierce grip on Sam’s hand, tightened it just a bit more, and led him through the
forsaken garden to the front door of the dark smial.
As Merry had predicted, the door was not locked, and with a creak of disuse,
opened readily enough in Frodo’s hand. There was a small table, near the door,
all that could be seen in the lightless entryway, and a couple of candles left
on it. Dropping his wet pack on the walkway, Pippin began to search through it
for his tinder box, as the others waited in the rain patiently, and without
comment. Finally, the candles were lit, and with one in Pippin’s hand and the
other in Frodo’s, the four hobbits entered Crickhollow.
It had once been a welcoming home, and still remained snug and well built, that
was clear. But now it was cold, and mostly empty, temporary shelter at the most.
Frodo felt a jolt of unexpected sorrow creep into his heart as he gazed around
the vacant rooms. It had been a kindly couple who had once lived here, and the
smial had been well kept and cozy, and with the welcoming scent of baking
wafting through it, when he had paid visits here with his mother. But there was
no longer any trace of those good-hearted hobbits, any more than there had been
any trace of his own family, the last time he had seen his old home.
Merry and Pippin had begun to walk through the smial, however, Merry taking
stock of what had been furnished by the agent. “There’s dry wood in the
fireplace,” he announced from the next room. “At least we’ll be able to have a
fire, and dry off.”
Willfully shaking off his memories, Frodo, with Sam, followed the other two down
the hall into the kitchen. “More wood here,” Sam quietly observed. “And enough
in the way of pots and dishes. Even a kettle.”
“Tea,” sighed Pippin, with obvious yearning in his voice. Taking his candle over
to the kitchen fireplace, he quickly set about starting up a fire.
“Let’s let that get started,” Merry said, as Pippin finished lighting the wood,
and caught hold of his hand. “I want to see what else is here.”
It did not take long to examine the rest of the smial. There was a bedroom,
with, fortuitously, two beds in it. They were plain, but sturdy, and there was a
neatly folded stack of bedclothes and blankets on each. The best discovery,
however was the existence of a bath tub of a surprisingly adequate size, in the
bath room, and a small cistern, which seemed to promise to hold a satisfactory
store of water for bathing. Even after all the fear and turmoil of their day,
Pippin’s eyes still lit up at this sight, and Merry couldn’t help a small grunt
of amusement.
“We’d best be bringin’ in the water first, as long as we’re still a’that wet,”
Sam commented matter-of-factly, as he watched the other two. “I saw a pair
o’buckets in the kitchen, and a pump in the yard. Would y’mind givin’ me a hand,
Merry? And maybe, Pippin, you could be gettin’ the other fireplace goin’. This
smial is right cold, and the sooner we can get the chill out, the better.”
Merry and Pippin both gave Sam a rather startled look, but realizing quickly
that his plan was a sound one, set to work willingly enough. Frodo, still silent
and obviously preoccupied, had sat at the kitchen table, and had not accompanied
the others about the smial, and the other three let him be.
Before long, the cistern had been filled, as well as the kettle, and there was a
fire going in the parlor, and in the kitchen too. Pippin was busy in the
kitchen, steeping the tea, and checking through the supplies of food that had
been provided. Sam, entering the bedroom to prepare the beds, eyed the room
critically, and called to Merry, who was toting another bucket of water into the
bath room. “The chill won’t be out of this room tonight, no ways,” he stated
critically to Merry as he set the bucket down. “But if you’d be givin’ me a
hand, we could get these beds into the other room, the one with the fire. At
least we’d be warm tonight.”
Merry willingly grabbed one end of the bed, but before moving it, asked Sam in a
low voice, “How’s Frodo, Sam? Can you tell?”
“Not happy that there’d be no sign of Gandalf, for starters,” Sam responded in
kind, giving Merry a level look. “Everything’s up to him, now, ain’t it.”
“Do you think he still means to leave us here?” Merry stood with the end of the
bed still in his hands, frowning anxiously.
“Looks to be just as dangerous as comin’ along, don’t it?” Sam sighed, worry
clear on his face. “Well, I suppose that we’d best talk it out, but not yet,
Merry. Wait ‘til he’s ready, mayhap tomorrow. We’d all be needin’ the rest right
now.”
Merry nodded, and lifted up his end of the bed.
*****
Pippin was single-minded indeed, and Merry couldn’t help but wonder, especially
after the day’s events, until he realized that it was comfort, plain and simple,
that Pippin was after, and really nothing else. So he held him, in the warm
water, and let him drive himself in desperate need, holding him all the while,
and murmuring his name. And when Pippin finally cried out, and clutched him
tightly enough to leave marks the next day, Merry grabbed his face up in his
hands, and kissed him again and again, and let Pippin’s clever hands drive him
to the point where he, too, threw back his head, and closed his eyes, and felt
himself lose the control he guarded so, and give himself completely up to love.
It was afterwards, in the tub, twined completely together in the warm water,
that they finally began to talk. “Pippin,” Merry whispered, his eyes closed, and
a wet and compliant Pippin firmly in his arms. “What happened on the ferry? I
was trying to steer, and didn’t really see.”
Pippin did not reply for several moments, burying his face against Merry, and
holding him tightly. “The Ring fell out of Frodo’s pocket. Sam grabbed for it,
and started to slide off. Frodo reached for him, and nearly slid off as well,”
he finally explained, in flat tones.
Merry said nothing, still holding him tightly, until Pippin rose up against him,
and with his hands on Merry’s shoulders, braced himself against Merry, and
stared Merry fiercely in the eye, declaring in a low but fervent voice, “That
Ring is evil, Merry, through and through. It was on purpose, and we nearly lost
the both of them.”
Merry gazed into those intense green eyes, that somehow had woven their way into
his dreams every night, and had no doubt whatsoever, that Pippin was quite
right. “All the more reason that we need to go with them, Pip,” he replied
softly, stroking Pippin’s narrow back with a tender touch.
“Yes,” Pippin answered, with no hesitation. “But our families, Merry. How can we
let them know?”
Merry paused thoughtfully, his hand never ceasing its stroking. “Sam said his
gaffer knows as much as he could tell him. They’ll try Bag End, you know they
will. And if Frodo’s not there, someone will check with the Gamgees. It’s hardly
as if we can leave a message, Pip, when we have no idea ourselves.”
“You’re right, Merry, of course,” Pippin sighed, resting his head against
Merry’s chest.
“Always am, my dear,” Merry answered lightly, giving Pippin a kiss on his wet
curls. “And now let’s give this tub a rinse. I think Frodo and Sam might be
needing it as well.”
*****
They found Frodo and Sam sitting silently together at the kitchen table,
half-finished cups of tea before them, and Sam’s arm quite firmly around Frodo’s
shoulders. It remained unapologetically there as they both looked up at the
entrance of the other two. It was the weariness in both of their expressions
that struck Merry, and he couldn’t help himself.
“We are coming with the two of you, you know, Frodo,” he announced simply,
watching Frodo with calmness and surety, and ignoring the scowl that was
starting to appear on Sam’s face. “It’s just as dangerous for us to stay, now.
We’re all in this together, and we won’t be left behind.”
But Frodo gave him an unexpected, if reluctant smile, and motioned to the two of
them to sit down. “I’m afraid you’re right about the danger,” he said softly.
“You do know we may very likely never be coming back.”
“The four of us are more likely to come back than just the two of you,” Merry
remarked with inescapable logic, as he and Pippin seated themselves across the
table from Frodo and Sam.
Frodo nodded, while Sam’s expression became resigned and he leaned back in his
chair, his arm still around Frodo. “We need to get to Rivendell,” Frodo said
quietly, his gaze now blankly fixed on his hands on the table before him. “All I
know is that it is at the other end of the East Road, past Bree.”
“Why did you come all the way south to this part of Buckland, then, Frodo?”
Merry asked with curiosity, leaning forward. “The only way to get to the East
Road is to head back up north again. How did you think you could leave the Shire
from here?”
“There’s the Hedge all along this side of Buckland, isn’t there?” Pippin added,
with a frown. “I was always told that it kept the Shire safe from Big People and
other intruders.”
“I told you I grew up here, didn’t I?” Frodo responded, with a bit of amusement.
“It’s not particularly well-known about Buckland, let alone the rest of the
Shire, but the Hedge does have a few weak spots. There are some places, if one
knows where to look, where you can get through to the Old Forest. I’ve never
been myself, but I heard plenty of tales, growing up, and knew of folk who left
the Shire, and saw the Forest. None stayed for long, to be sure, but they said
that it just seemed like an ordinary woods, although certainly a very ancient
one. There was something about the place they did not like, somehow, and almost
no one ever went back a second time, but I’d rather take my chances with trees,
however ancient they may be, than those creatures that have been chasing us.”
Shaking off his weariness, he leaned forward, and spoke more intently. “We must
leave early tomorrow, once again. No one has seen us here, and I don’t think the
Riders will be able to get here until later in the morning. Other than
Buckleberry Ferry, there is no other way to cross the Brandywine unless you go
miles upstream to the nearest bridge. And if they think the only direction we
have to go in is north, they may wait for us there, and that will give us a bit
more time. In any event, the openings in the Hedge are far too small for them;
actually, hardly hobbit-size.”
“And once we are in the Forest?” Pippin asked, his eyes wide at the prospect.
“Where will we go from there?”
“To the north and the east, as best we can,” Frodo replied firmly. “At some
point, we will reach the Road, but it will be far from the Shire. And perhaps,
at Bree, we can get better directions. And remember,” he added emphatically, “my
name is Underhill. ‘Baggins’ needs to be left behind in the Shire.”
“Right,” Merry agreed, with a decisive nod. Turning to Pippin, he added, “Pip
and I will go through what supplies are here, and add them to our packs.”
“Good idea,” Frodo agreed, rising. “We won’t have time tomorrow.” He laid a hand
on Sam’s shoulder then, and Sam said nothing, but rose to follow him. But on
their way out of the kitchen, Frodo turned back, and sternly added, “Divide what
you find into our three packs, Merry, not Sam’s.”
“Not to worry, Frodo,” Merry replied, with a nod. “I noticed that too.”
*****
Frodo headed silently down the hall toward the bath room, and Sam followed.
Merry and Pippin had thoughtfully re-supplied the tub with hot water before they
had left, and the small room was warm and steamy, in contrast to the rest of the
smial. Placing his candle in its holder on a small shelf, still without a word,
Frodo began to strip off his muddy and damp clothing. His jacket, however, was
not on him, but lay discarded in the hallway.
When they had staggered off of the ferry, after the crossing of the Brandywine,
Sam had held the box out to Frodo, his hand beginning to tremble with delayed
reaction to what had so nearly happened, and Frodo had taken it back, giving it
a look of blind fury and stuffing it angrily deep into his pocket again. Once
they had reached Crickhollow, he had not been able to wait until the smial had
warmed at all, but had cast off his cloak and jacket as soon as they had
entered, leaving them unheeded on the hallway floor. Sam had noticed, but said
nothing. Later, he had spread the cloak out to dry, but had carefully avoided
the jacket.
Now Sam put his candle beside Frodo’s and stared into the wooden tub, this water
so welcoming, so different from that in which he had nearly been forever lost.
He was startled out of his thoughts by Frodo’s hands suddenly roughly on him,
pulling and tugging at his clothing, Frodo’s mouth grimly set, and his eyes dark
in the candlelight. Still without words, Frodo brusquely completed his task,
pushing Sam, none too gently, into the tub.
And then he was upon him, in the water, straddling Sam, with his knees to either
side on Sam’s hips, his arms tightly around him, and wild kisses, fierce and
vehement, assaulting Sam’s throat and mouth. Sam gave a broken cry, and clung
tightly to Frodo, throwing his head back, and accepting Frodo’s passionate
attack. All the while, Frodo was saying something, but Sam couldn’t make sense
of it until he finally grabbed Frodo’s face between his hands, holding it until
Frodo, with tears now falling down into the bath water, whispered in a jagged
voice, “You let go.”
“Frodo-love,” he murmured in anguish, “I was dragging you in. I had to let go.”
“No,” Frodo spat the words out harshly, ferociously, glaring at him. “Don’t let
me go. Never.”
His eyes slid closed then, tears still slipping unheeded down his face, but his
fingers still tightly gripping Sam’s shoulders. “I lost my parents to the river.
I survived. I lived. But if I had lost you, too, Sam,” he stopped then for a
moment, desperately trying to form the words. His eyes opened again, and his
gaze into Sam’s was deep with pain. “I could not have lived. I would not want to
live. I don’t want any life without you.”
“Frodo,” Sam breathed, feeling his heart nearly break at Frodo’s grief.
Tenderly, he wrapped his arms around him, and held him close, feeling Frodo
collapse against him. “It didn’t happen, me dearest, it never happened. I’m
here, me darling, and you are too, and none of it, it never happened, no ways.”
“I love you, Sam, I love you.” Frodo’s words fell brokenly against Sam’s chest,
as Sam leaned down and kissed him over and over. Tenderly, he stroked down
Frodo’s sides, and Frodo moaned, seeking his mouth once more. This time Frodo’s
mouth was opened, his tongue seeking, and Sam ardently let him in. He pushed up
against Frodo, mutely pleading, and could feel Frodo’s body responding to his
need.
With a sudden gasp, Frodo broke away, those stormy eyes now hooded with desire,
and sat up, his hand reaching back to touch Sam. “Frodo,” Sam moaned, twisting
under him, “Frodo. Please, Frodo.”
Without a word, Frodo reached for the bar of soap that lay upon the stool next
to the tub, and rocked back against Sam’s legs. And now his hands were upon Sam,
lathering and caressing, firmly stoking and releasing, until Sam threw back his
head, and cried out for the feel of more than just Frodo’s hands upon him. Never
looking away from Sam’s face, now flushed with longing, Frodo moved forward
again, and slowly, so slowly, pushed back, allowing Sam to enter him.
“Oh, love, oh, my Frodo dearest,” Sam groaned, reaching one hand forward to
touch Frodo, and running the other slowly but avidly up Frodo’s chest. Frodo
leaned into his touch then, rocking himself up and then back against Sam, as Sam
cried out for more. Sam’s head fell back again, his hands full with Frodo, and
Frodo was gloriously warm and enclosing him, and loving him, and driving him out
of himself until he was lost and hardly knew or cared if there was anything in
all the world but Frodo.
It wasn’t until much later, with the water becoming chill around them, that Sam
whispered, into Frodo’s ear, as they lay in a tight embrace, “I’ll not let you
go, love. Not ever again. I promise you.”
Frodo twisted in his arms, turning to look up at him in the flickering light of
the guttering candle, and answered him. “Don’t ever leave me alone, Sam. Not if
you love me.”
“Oh, I do,” Sam’s face suddenly lit with a shy smile, glowing with happiness in
the candlelight. “I so do.”
*****
It was early the next day, on a grey damp foggy morning that the hobbits left
the Shire, without a look back.
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