Tuesday, March 24, 2009

My Dream

Written By: sirkatesalot
You Can read the original here

I live in a small town huddled in the Northern Appalachians. The town this time of year, in the summer, is very sultry. The fog hangs over like an invisible cloak. Nobody ever ventures here, nor trespasses. It doesn’t run through a highway or any major routes.

My name is Jo. I go to Hogwarts Wizard Academy. Wizards Academy was founded by L. Trent. I was sitting at the bus stop daydreaming as usual. I did not know why our special private school was founded by someone as random as L. Trent. What did the “L” stand for?

“Why can’t it be founded by someone interesting like the Rolling Stones?” I pondered. L. Trent was really the guy who founded Trenton, New Jersey. Trenton, New Jersey used to be a safe haven for Salem refugees. But how would I know? I don’t pay attention like a cow doesn’t drink its own milk. I pay as much attention as a bat does in morning history class.

But this was just juicy enough to snap me out of my pondering:

Harry Potter and Ronald Weasly were having a friendship fight.

“Ron, you’re not by B.F. F. F. F. anymore.”

“Fine, I’ll just join Slytherin.” The conversation was brisk, without any compromise. Ron was talking with a blond-haired Slytherin with French braids now.

I heard the blonde Slytherin gossip, “I heard witchcraft is going on in this town.”

“Yeah right, Harry said that’s rubbish, but good point; what does he bloody know?” I was still waiting at the bus station for school to start. I usually didn’t like to get in the middle of everybody’s drama. Who knows what damage I could cause? I’m usually the peacemaker when it comes to my own friends’ problems, but witchcraft, oaths, and allegiances especially involving Slytherin was tricky business. Let me tell you just one more thing about myself-I’m separated from the norm. Even in a school as isolated as ours, everybody was alike in supernatural ability. I wanted to stand out from all the rest.

Everyone had pets like owls, toads, and rats, but I was the only pig owner. Squiggles, my pig, had a problem with running off without permission. Farm animals should be easier to train, I thought. Nobody stopped me from spacing out. The neighbors were too caught up in there own dialogue and dilemmas.

Then Squiggles ran across the street! My attention swiveled to Squiggles, as I saw him sniff a spooky, abandoned, and cadet blue home. It was much too plain and the windows and doors were boarded up. I agreed with Squiggles. Something suspicious grew there like the vines trickling out the windows. Could that be where the witch lived? That close to school? Hmm…maybe she/he moved. Maybe a pedophile lived there? I daydreamed again.

Oh yeah, my pig! “Squiggles, come back here!” The hog sniffed under the foundation of the old, Victorian home. I surmised that Squiggles smelled the witch, but a sneaky wolf lurked around the curb. I bolted after my pig, and I flew us safely over the chain-linked fence of our only fancy institution many acres and furlongs (yes, I flew!). So, I didn’t know why we needed buses. That part of the dream I couldn’t comprehend.

This was getting scarier by the minute. Wolves and witchcraft? Did I want to get out of this dream? No; I wanted to put this black magic or rumor of it to an end! I felt like Dorothy. Especially since nobody needed a car and people grew their own food. In the safety of school, I had time to daydream about whether I wanted to intervene or not. If I wanted to help people, and the witchery, does exist, it was my only path.

Afterschool, I was walking with my friend Darla on a dirt road when we heard a reporter was visiting this town of and unknown name. I name it Hogwash!

Great, a reporter in town…exciting, but I wonder if this puts us on the dark side of the map. Will people find out about Hogwash? Will that be a good thing?

“Darla, let’s head east. I betcha that reporter found some clues for us!”

“No, let’s head the opposite direction. That house gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Darla was a bit eager. Not only did the house give me the creeps, but so did my friend.

“I suppose we’ll get more done. I revel you’re thinking!” Darla loves being a leader, sometimes a bit too much.

Darla and I passed this young lady’s house. She lived by a clear pond and she was watering her garden. The vegetables looked wilty.

I remember my parents said there was a curse coming over the crops. Supposedly, the witch wants her crops to be the only ones in town growing! Who could be that selfish, especially in cozy Hogwash? Was this the witchcraft which we speaketh, and that spread to other towns by some sly snoop?

Once inside, the ceiling was huge, except it possessed a dark, Middle Ages quality. There were many paintings of people, maybe saints. Darla and I proceeded into another room where the first thing I saw was a Jesus painting. I stopped dead as if my feet were cement.

Was this witchcraft upon my feet? No, I just woke up. Darn, who is the witch? How did the townspeople find out about her? These questions I am left to make-up as I daydream on this foggy day. Most people think it’s icky, but I think fog is magic. The next night I had the same dream. It left off exactly where I wanted it to.

So, what happens next?

I heard footsteps coming.

“Darla, do you think”-

“No!”

“You don’t know what I just said. I just wanna talk to her before”-

“Come!” Apparently, we had different ideas of finding clues. Either that, or she sensed what I did when I froze—impending danger.

We flitted out the back door, across the backyard, and into the field. I tripped after I heard a gunshot.

“Darla, don’t be a coward. Wait up!” Darla was heading toward the Ever Hidden Woods.

“Coward? I don’t wanna be the talk of the town, come!”

“What do you mean…?”

The quiet, soft, and mild mountain forest was our haven for now. Maybe we didn’t come back with as much clues as I planned, but some things were revealed. We rested on a moss covered log decaying on the spongy pine needle floor. The air was dewy and sweet for now. People were shouting in the distance. But, the rest was the sound of cicadas humming.

“From my Nancy Drew readings, I learned it’s always best to clear one’s mind by communing with nature,” I advised.

“I sorta feel like my life is a story right now,” said Darla.

“Me too…I’m not sure I want my parents to find me sneaking around for criminals, so don’t tell anyone, Darla, swear?”

“Swear on my life and the lives of the other villagers.” After we caught a few violent breaths, we started out again.

Standing on the edge of civilization, I started to get worried, like we were treading circles.

“Hey! I thought you knew the way to the road.” I yelled.

“Okay! I’ve been around these woods time and time,” she explained tersely, “it should be a cinch. I always sneak out. Just turn your pretty head around.”

“Gracious!”

“Told ya it was the road.”

“No, no, not the road—it’s another old creepy home!”

“Jo,” her voice was shaky, “that wasn’t there before.”

My eyes were bewildered and globular.

“Okay, Jo!” Her voice was intense. “Let’s dodge this big, old cabin.”

I nodded, made a dash, kicked up the most dust I have ever inhaled, and headed the direction we came.

The next morning, Local 5 News had the story everybody set their alarms to see ever since the reporter came.

“Is the drought season over, or is Father Summer holding on? Locals from the town of Hogwash don’t think this is hogwash. Witchcraft runs rampant in this small Pennsylvania village.”

“Great!” Father yells, “Just the last thing we need is more humans finding out about this place!”

“Dad, I think humans can help us. Besides, who wants to live here anyway?” I asked meekly.

“Jo Lisa, if everyone found out what this town really is the accusers, could be the accused, just like in old days. We pay for your education, and this was always a fine village. Now watch this program.”

“…a wicked woman was seen wandering the streets sprinkling powder on the soil. Nobody knows where she lives, but she went mad, rumor albeit, a long time ago when her family was hanged. No real proof is out there yet. Some say the lady was sprinkling fertilizer; others speculate it was potion.

The court may not be able to precede hearings in time for the crisis. Prices of food are said to go up. The forests are predicted to be hunted dry.”

“I don’t like hunting,” I commented.

“We will teach you,” said Mother.

“Uh…uh, great.”

When I returned to school, everyone was talking, some even crying. Teachers were worried for the home-schoolers who could not afford the only fine, town institution. Darla and I were thinking about skipping class to go on another witch hunt, but in our uniforms?

In the breakfast room, Darla came up to me with Sam and Frodo (?!). Clearly, the twins have the hairiest feet on campus, so they never wear sandals even if Father Summer himself caught hay fever. The twins are also short and sadly, not very popular. One thing they were known for though, was invisible shields.

“So who are your new love puppies?”

“Love…puppies? Sam and Frodo are going to help us bust outta school and search for more clues.”

“I thought I told you not to blab! And I thought these two characters were from Lord of the Rings.”

“Oh my gosh, you don’t really expect us to go on this mission alone? We need experience.”

I tried desperately to outweigh her decision, but Sam broke in, “Is this the witch?”

“Quiet, it’s my turn to me the master.” Darla hushed. Then, the plan was fully mapped. The first thing we had to do was ask for a nurse’s pass to fake absence. To conceal the cameras, Frodo sprayed black resin. We wore masks, but sometimes we took them off just so we don’t look suspicious. Magic between class hours was restricted you know.

Once we broke free, we agreed to visit Farmer Paul. He was one of the first people the reporter, Mary Sharper interviewed. Everyone knows him very well, and we are especially close to him because he’s my grandpa. He had a farmer’s tan and wore a long, wavy mustache. His eyes were kind.

“Kids, if the prices of food go up, I don’t know if we’ll be strong enough to survive the winter. Only if we can fool Mother Nature.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” I comforted. “There’s still time for fall harvest.”

“I have never been the wet blanket, but jeez, it’s awful for me because this is my job. If nobody buys my food I won’t be able to afford my tractor.”

“Then you can help us with rain--rain spells and… potions,” Sam stammered.

Sam and Frodo are always quick to trust anybody. I do not understand why we didn’t choose Harry Potter now that he’s away from that weasel, Ron. If this does work, and we make it to the top of the list of heroes, I guess it would make them manlier. Happy hobbit as Frodo was, he grew more intense with the sun’s rays.

“Ok,” Paul granted, “If the rain dances don’t work though, we’d’ve need of a charm that nobody has ‘eard of in these parts. One that restores soil.”

Squiggles squealed with excitement. I decided to put a collar on him. He’ll be my hound dog. We left the farm, returning to the Ever Hidden Woods, but the cabin we saw yesterday vanished.

“I saw it. Are we lost?” I panicked.

“No, this ain’t lost.”

“Frodo, we may need to start using our defense mechanism.” Sam was fervent to use his invisible armor.

“But Darla, we’ve been searching these woods for hours, “I butt in.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand why the house would vanish yet. Only master magicians can do mass disappearances.” I was peeved that Darla was talking to me like I was clueless. I’ve heard the magic tales in history class. I just dose off. I find the ones from Middle Earth, where Frodo and Samwise are from the most compelling.

Then Squiggles squealed.

“What Squiggles? I don’t see anything!” All I could see was the Appalachian Mountains and their smoky hue.

“Hello, Sweetpeas.”

I suddenly worked my gaze up. There she was in a tree--- the witch. She had purple skin and long, white hair. The hair moved on its own, not like the glamorous snowy hair that wisped in the wind, but almost like snakes upon the head of Medusa.

I almost jumped out of my pants.

“Looking for me?”

“Why don’t you leave the people and their crops alone you—“Darla failed to search for the right words.

“Darla!” I yelled then I turned my attention to the witch. “Please, I don’t know your name, but these hardworking folks deserve to live for God sakes?”

In her most wicked of voices she spat, “And what if they do?”

“Even if they do, we will fight you with our seemingly small muscles,” said Frodo. Then, when the witch wouldn’t respond, he prepared his shield. I brought my taser if all else fails. Darla savaged potion from the school’s lab. Luckily, Darla brought sleeping potion.

Carefully, Darla entered Sam and Frodo’s shield save her hands. The soft, powdery aroma was released into the air. Once the witch fell out of the gnarly branches, I caught her heavy body outside our safety zone.

“Now all’s we have to do is find her cabin,” said Sam. We had to work fast incase she aroused. We tied her to the tree, but one problem was running out of rope.

“My gosh,” I asked. “How are we ever going to find her cabin for evidence?” That was our next plan. If the witch was hiding out nearby her dwelling must be in the Ever Hidden Woods.

“We will,” Darla informed, “but we mustn’t let her find us rummaging through her house. I have more rope we can tie her to a tree with.”

I drank a strength potion with Darla, Sam, and Frodo in unison and flew to the top of the moss covered mountain. Squiggles drank a flying potion so he could keep up with us. Then I very vigilantly used the rope to tie her against the trunk. Next, it was time to search for clues in the cabin for the court hearing in two weeks. We were searched and searched, staying close to the streams, but the signs of the cabin did not prove worthy.

Chapter 3

“It could be anywhere!” I shouted.

“Shh…who knows what lurks ‘round us?” Darla shivered. “In my bag theirs a sonar potion used for echolocation. We must use it wisely, though. I don’t want anyone to notice it’s missing because it’s rare and expensive. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Potion? What is that good for? Yeah, hope that echolocation doesn’t bounce off the mountains and you-know-who wakes up and gets us all killed! That witch will eat our crops and us to top it off!”

Darla immediately drank the potion, but the squeal was so high-pitched who could possibly detect it? It reminded me of Squiggles. I grew increasingly reluctant with the decision of bringing my pet as we stumbled along the steep understory of the forest. This echolocation potion could help us find the cabin, and maybe even our way back.

“Echoing is precisely why it works over such a vast land.”

Sam’s compass led us in the northwest direction.

One major challenge was getting past the gulley. All the rocks were slippery and there was hardly any bank on the other side. Even the twins’ calloused feet couldn’t stand a chance! Nobody could hold on to the rocks without scraping our knees.

We decided to chance the waterfall. Besides, it was about ninety five degrees outside. After swimming to the opposite shore downstream, we discovered the greenest valley one can wish for with more than enough rain dances. Birds were even singing as if it were spring. Then there was our prize: the dark cabin!

Chapter 4

I still wasn’t sure I was going to finish my story. I stared startlingly at my ceiling feeling like a new person. My breathing became heavier. What are these recurring dreams? I must have been reading too much and watching too much Wizard of Oz. This reminded me of the Crucible we read in English class too. I felt a dark and foreboding connection to that sudden burst of memory.

The next night I was expecting to cut off my story after a warm cup o’ herbal tea, but later that night…

Ron Weasly and Harry still could not make peace at school. Ron would not even sit by him at lunch. Harry has been spending too much time with his frivolous girlfriend Cho, and Ron is sick of this megastar. I was still busy with my own drama.

“I think the Slytherins are conjuring this witchcraft, and they invited a Gryfindor to their group so they could cover up as good guys!”

“You’re quite straightforward. Don’t jump to conclusions just yet. Only one week to the court hearing,” Cho said. She sighed and drank her juice exasperated with tumultuous newfound love.

Sam: “I can’t find anything that would be much use for proof.”

“Sam, you are hairier than a flim-fluff! (sheep/butterfly/cat crossbreed of the forest), “Keep looking! Darla shouted frantic.

Sam’s small figure came in handy. He uncovered a dusty object. Ah! The spell book will prove it all! Squiggles sniffed out the potion and found it, while Darla and I ravaged the drawers for photos. Hopefully, the purple lady won’t notice too much is missing. Wink, wink. The gang and I finally made it over the gulley again and back into the woods with a bulky bag (spell book, potion that looks like fertilizer, and family photos!?).

I recorded some of the creatures for you in this dream journal while on my journey back through the Ever Hidden Woods. A squinkle, for example, is a combination of a squirrel, skunk, and weasel, except its better at climbing. It smiled at me, knowingly.

Chapter 5: The Robber Barons

There seemed to be less flim-fluffs as we reached the village, but a pig squeal, even higher than Squiggle’s, rang out. It was not mating season but Squiggles ran faster than a Pinto pony. He sniffed behind a very familiar tree, and let out a frightened squeal higher than the one I just heard. I realized--that wasn’t the sound of love.

“Release Squiggles!” I demanded with aggressiveness. It did not help to retrace our steps, for we ran into the gnarly tree.

“Not unless you do one teensy thing for me pretties, oh, actually, two: 1. untie me 2. defend me in court!” Needless to say, it was the witch.

You would not expect all five of us including Squiggles to give in, but we just had to. What lawyer would take such a horrifying request?

Soon, the prices of food reached so high the witch got rich. Farmer Paul couldn’t pay off his tractor, but that wasn’t the worst of our ordeal. The villagers almost completely starved. We had to live off any scraps we could find. No one was prepared and the demand eventually turned in rioting. That flashed across Channel 5 faster than the famine. All hope was lost and the town was in danger of abandonment if it was for the court hearing.

The purple witch’s real name was Esmerelda, revealed during court. Harry Potter and his wit discovered she wasn’t the only culprit behind the weather changes and the bad soil.

“Poor soul,” Harry alleged, “Voldemort bribed to bring her family back from the dead and gave her partial profit if she would help her. I dare say I don’t feel entirely sorry for her but she was used. Her wisdom and healing were once celebrated through the wizard world, as my client informed me, L. Trent.”

As I dreamed, this was the conclusion that caused the stir in the courtroom. After our evidence was presented it was official: not only was the witch guilty, but she had a boss.

Voldemort was banished from earth for a hundred and fifty years. The witch went to prison in Salem and paid back a large portion of her riches. Paul organized a rain dance for the entire town. Gushes and torrents fed the soil with happiness as was never witnessed since the founding of a mysterious man.

September 22nd, the autumn solstice was celebrated with carnival, parades, fireworks, barbershop quartets (ha), tribal bonfires, and ancient hymns and rhythms. Frodo came with me on a date, and Sam took Darla. It became an official holiday.

I woke between sleep and consciousness. My head was sweaty. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t.

“Pop, Papa! Where are you?”

“I’m here! Hope you hadn’t had too much too drink.” He let out a hardy laugh and gazed into my drooping eyes. That comment really confused me.

“I had the most interesting, but terrifying dream!”

“That was no dream. After the festival, Voldemort put one last charm on you. You were almost dead. Froto, Sam, and the mayor, saved your life.”

“Thank you all. I don’t remember what you are talking about Dad, but I think I’m getting back memories. My head really does hurt.” A man that looked an awful lot like the mayor handed me an ice pack.

“Relapses.” The man examined briskly. “You know, your gramp’s business kept the town from going belly up. Good thing we came in time before Voldemort took you to the dark side.”

“I hope this adventure gets me into Wiz College.” Voldemort’s spell didn’t keep me from looking at the future. I leave you the rest to ponder.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Epidemic

Written By:Ancalime8301
You can Read the Original Here:
All credit goes to the author
The cold, swirling fog hung thickly, the lantern's meagre light only reaching a pace or two ahead of them, and Bilbo tried not to show how anxious he was. He'd taken this route from the ferry to Brandy Hall many times, as he shunned roads whenever possible while wandering, but this kind of fog could get a hobbit seriously lost. If he'd had any idea it was this bad, they would have used the road, but there was only the smallest touch of fog at the river, so he couldn't have known. There was a jerk on his coat-tail as Frodo stumbled -he had the lad grab hold so they wouldn't be separated- and he paused a moment. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, uncle," Frodo said a bit breathlessly. "I found a root, is all."

"We should be there soon," Bilbo reassured him (and himself), lowering the lantern so he could search for any sign of light ahead. He thought he saw a faint glimmer, and quickened his steps.

There was, indeed, a light, but only one, and Bilbo wondered if they'd inadvertently stumbled upon one of the smaller homesteads scattered in these parts. But no, the shadowy shape of Buck Hill rose up behind the lamp, and the fog cleared just enough to see Brandy Hall's familiar yard. A few chickens pecked at the cobbles, clucking, but the yard was otherwise uninhabited. Unless it was far later in the night than Bilbo thought, there should still be hobbits finishing care of the animals and conversing over a pipe and a mug of ale. There should be far more lamps lit, with light spilling out of the windows as well.

A deserted yard. A dark hall. What did it mean? All was well a fortnight ago when he and Frodo had departed for Bag End following the conclusion of Yule festivities -Frodo's post-Yule visit to Bag End had become a bit of a tradition in the seven years since his parents died- so what could have happened in two weeks?

Only one way to find out. Bilbo strode up to the door with the lamp and, finding it locked, knocked firmly. Frodo hung back, uneasy though neither of them had voiced their fears that something was terribly wrong, and watched silently, eyes wide.

A voice came from within. "Leave the supplies on the step, and go out by the south gate. I'm not opening this door until I see you leave."

Bilbo eyed the door askance. "Beg pardon?" he said, flabbergasted.

"Put what you've got on the step and go out the south gate," the female voice repeated, slightly emphasizing every word as if explaining it to a faunt.

"This is Bilbo Baggins, returning with Frodo. What is this nonsense about leaving things on the step?"

A face appeared in the small window next to the door -well, most of a face, as everything below the eyes was obscured by a handkerchief- and Frodo thought he recognized Nora, one of the housekeepers.

"Bless me, it is you! But Mr. Baggins, what are you doing here, and with Master Frodo? The roads should be blocked!"

"We didn't come by the road -we went cross-country from the ferry. Why are the roads blocked?" Bilbo asked, even more puzzled than before.

"It's terrible, just terrible!" she said. "Most of the Hall is down ill, and it's something terribly catching. The Master ordered the roads blocked to put us under k... kwa..."

"Quarantine?" Bilbo supplied.

"That's it! Quarantine. He didn't want the whole Shire to suffer. At any rate, you might as well come in. The lads minding the roads won't let you back out, now that you're in. It's a shame, really, to bring poor young Frodo into it. The young ones and the older ones are getting it the worst, you know. But Mr. Baggins, they'll be glad to see you. Mayhap you've heard of something in your books or on your travels that can help us. Healer Goodbody is at his wits' end," Nora babbled as she unlocked the door and waved them in. "You'll want to tie a handkerchief over your face afore you go any further. Healer Goodbody said it might help keep a body from getting ill."

Bilbo and Frodo dutifully did as they were told, with Frodo using one of Bilbo's spare handkerchiefs as he had none of his own. Bilbo made a mental note to remedy that oversight.

As she escorted them down the darkened hallway, Nora explained, "If you'd arrived two days ago, I would have said as Master Frodo ought to go to the other wing, with the well folk. But there are few of us completely well anymore, and all are needed to care for the ill. When we saw the number of the ailing was only going to grow, we moved them all to the dining hall and the parlors closest to it, to make it easier to tend them all, like."

They had reached a dimly lit part of the Hall, which Frodo recognized as the main family areas, with the first formal parlor right there on the left. It was into this room that Nora encouraged them to peek, seeing a good dozen hobbits laid out, a random assortment of pillows, cushions, and blankets near each to make them comfortable. It seemed too quiet to have that many hobbits in one room, but the only sound was labored breathing and the occasional cough or moan. One of the distantly-related aunts was crouched in the far corner of the room, gently helping the lass there drink some water, but the girl choked and her coughing was the most horrible thing Frodo had ever heard. It sent shivers down the spine. He backed away quickly to see Nora watching him with sympathy. "It ain't a pretty sight, to be sure," she said gently, and guided them further down the corridor.

She stopped just outside the doorway to the dining hall. "Wait here a moment while I find out where Healer Goodbody is. He'll want to speak with you before anything else."

Bilbo peered curiously around the doorframe, but Frodo was perfectly content not to see anything more. At least, not yet. He had the feeling he'd be seeing a lot more before this ordeal was over.

Nora returned, and beckoned for them to follow her further along the hallway, to one of the smaller parlors on the right. "Master Frodo will want to wait outside. This is where we put the dead until we can spare some lads to bury them."


It started innocently enough. A Bounder encountered a peddler stopped along the road toward Buckland, not far from the Great East Road. The hobbit seemed in bad shape, having taken ill suddenly, so he took the peddler and his wares to the nearest healer, which happened to be at Brandy Hall. It appeared a mere common flu, so Healer Goodbody prescribed the usual rest and liquids, and the peddler was put up in one of the guest rooms.

When the peddler was dead and the Bounder had returned to the Hall, almost as ill as the peddler he'd found a mere day before, the good healer had a suspicion there might be more at work. But with only two ill, it was difficult to say if it was chance or a serious problem.

The next two days revealed it was a very serious problem. The Bounder's case triggered an avalanche of sick hobbits, the healer among them. He sent a message to the Master of the Hall, not daring to go before him and infect him as well, advising that the sick and the well be separated immediately, save for a few to care for those ill. Handkerchiefs should be worn to fend off the bad air, and messages should go out to the neighboring farms and to any who had been in the Hall in the last three days that they should stay close to Buckland and not associate with anyone until the danger was past.

Master Rorimac dismissed the message as an overreaction by an overcautious healer until he went to dinner that evening and noted the number of empty places. In a hall housing well over a hundred hobbits, at least a quarter were absent from the table, and for a hobbit to miss a meal is a serious thing indeed. He immediately ordered that the healer's suggestions be performed, with the addition of guarded barricades on the roads leading into and out of Buckland to prevent those currently in the area from leaving.

By the time Bilbo and Frodo stumbled onto the outbreak, it had been six days since the peddler was brought to Brandy Hall. The ill outnumbered the well by at least two to one, and there were seven dead -including the peddler- with a few more expected to expire before the night was out. The effort to keep the sick and well separated to slow the spread had come too late to be effective, but thus far the news from the surrounding countryside was encouraging, with very few additional sick hobbits and all of them limited to one farm between Brandy Hall and Crickhollow.

All this Tosco Goodbody told Bilbo, looking weak and haggard, being barely a day out of his own sickbed. Bilbo nodded, and inquired about what symptoms he and Frodo should be wary of. "It starts sudden-like, with a terrible headache and fever. Then comes the aches and the absolute exhaustion, such that you don't feel you can lift a single finger or even an eyelid. You don't want to eat or drink anything because your throat is so painfully sore. The lucky ones spend several days like this, then the fever begins to go away and they gradually start to recover. The others get the cough. I'd swear on all my years of healing it was pneumonia, but it comes on too quickly. Everything else about the cough mimics pneumonia perfectly. It comes on within three or four days of the first symptoms, if it's going to come. It's those with the cough that die."

He took a deep breath, running a shaking hand through his matted grey curls. "Fortunately, only ten have gotten the cough to this point. But of those ten hobbits, seven have succumbed so far, with the other three still very ill; their outcomes are not yet certain. Worse, there is still time for even more to come down with that infernal cough. I estimate about two thirds of those ill right now are still within the first four days of the illness."

"Has everyone in the Hall come down with some form of the illness by now, then?" Bilbo asked.

"Not quite. There are perhaps fifty or so -not counting you and young Frodo- who have not become ill at all, but those are hobbits who hadn't been in much contact with the others until they were needed to help out in the past few days, and will probably become ill as well in the next day or two. A handful, like Nora, seem to have gotten a very mild form of the illness, which exhibits as a bad cold and nothing more. Everyone else is either currently ill or starting to recover. We don't know how long it takes to fully recover, as I am one of the first to be up and about."

"You look like you should still be abed," Bilbo said candidly.

"Yes, well, it can't be helped. While it's probably too late to help anyone here, I don't suppose you've heard of anything like this on your travels? I would dearly appreciate some insight about what this is, exactly, and if anything can be done to prevent it."

"Nothing comes to mind, I'm afraid," Bilbo said ruefully.

Frodo sat against the wall next to the parlor door, trying not to fall asleep. He half-listened to the conversation in the room, but his mind often wandered. He didn't see what the events of the past week really had to do with him, anyway. He had begun to doze when a bloodcurdling thought occured to him: Merry. Frodo was on his feet and scrambling into the room before his thoughts went any further. "Is Merry all right?" he demanded, his heart in his throat, interrupting whatever Healer Goodbody had been saying.

"Merry?" the healer repeated. "You mean little Meriadoc? He and his parents went to Tuckborough a few days after you left. They tried to come back after the quarantine was set up, and have been sending in food and supplies since they cannot be here in person to help. So far as I know, they are all well."

"Thank you," Frodo said faintly, dizzy with relief and slightly nauseated by the three forms on the other side of the room. They were covered with blankets and quilts, yes, but the shapes were still distinctly recognizable as bodies. And one of them looked shorter and smaller than the others . . . Frodo retreated from the room as quickly as he entered it.

Bilbo watched Frodo dash out, and asked, "Is there anything we should do right now?"

"Get some rest," Tosco replied immediately. "A few doors down there should be beds made up on the floor. Sleep while you can; someone will wake you when you are needed."


Bilbo and Frodo were woken by Nora before sunrise; Bilbo figured it to be around six o'clock. Standing in the kitchen, they hastily ate a porridge of sorts before being given instructions along with the other dozen hobbits who had been woken with them. Bilbo was to join those who visited each bedside, giving water and a medicinal tea to the ailing, as well as assisting them with anything else that was needed. Frodo was to be one of the runners between the kitchen and those helping the ill, carrying water, tea, blankets, and whatever else was called for.

Frodo was grateful that he wasn't required to be near the sick hobbits for any length of time... he felt sorry for them being ill, of course, but the sight of so many of his relatives lying helpless on the floor made him uneasy. He periodically saw Bilbo, who seemed to step easily into his assigned role, and part of Frodo wondered who else Bilbo might have cared for, that he knew so well what to do.

Time passed almost without Frodo being aware of it, for his was kept busy fetching this and returning that. Then it was noon and time for lunch. Another group of hobbits took their places in the sickrooms as the morning group shuffled into the kitchen for sandwiches and ale. When they were finished eating, Frodo and Bilbo were directed to go get some rest, and they would be roused for the next go, which would begin after eating supper at six.

Everyone else, it seemed, had no trouble going back to sleep, but Frodo found himself wakeful, unaccustomed to this strange six-hour schedule he was supposed to be following. When he was certain he would not wake any of the other hobbits, he rose from his bed with the intention of taking his pack to his room, since he had not been allowed to do so the night before. He slipped quietly from the dark, silent room, and tiptoed down the hallway away from the kitchen and sickrooms.

When he turned down another hallway, he started walking normally; there was no reason to be cautious with the rest of the Hall deserted. It was uncanny how silent the halls were when there was but one soul in them. The rooms seemed desolate, abandoned by their occupants, though they did not yet show signs of the neglect aside from the absolute stillness.

Once he reached his bedroom, he quickly disposed of his pack, then contemplated trying to sleep in his own bed. But Bilbo would worry terribly if Frodo wasn't there when all were roused for supper, and Frodo didn't think anyone would appreciate having to send a party in search of him when every available body was needed for the tending of the ill. So he reluctantly turned his feet back toward the side parlor turned group sleeping quarters, allowing himself to dawdle along the way.

He was almost to that final hallway when he heard what sounded like a young child crying. Frodo peered curiously into each room as he passed, but saw nothing. Moving forward brought the sound closer, until he found a young lass curled up, hugging her knees to her chest, on the window seat where one hall dead-ended in another. She was sobbing piteously, though Frodo couldn't see any cause for her distress.

"What is the matter?" he asked, cautiously approaching her.

She only wept more.

"Come now, tell me what's wrong," he coaxed, coming close enough to put a hand on her shoulder. She felt very warm, and Frodo found himself wishing he'd been paying closer attention to the conversation about the early stages of the illness that was afflicting the Hall.

"My head aches terribly," she finally whimpered, keeping her face buried in her knees.

"Where are your parents?"

"I don't know!" she wailed. "Mama took me to Auntie's rooms, she said I'd be safe there. Then she and Papa left, and I haven't seen them for days!"

Frodo stood there a moment, debating what he should do. He thought he recognized her as a distant cousin, Amaryllis, who was around five or six and certainly shouldn't be wandering around alone. She evidently needed some willow bark tea for her head, at least, so he supposed he should take her to the kitchen to be cared for, and after that... well, the adults would have to decide what to do with her.

"Let's go get something for your headache, all right? Then maybe someone can tell you where your parents are."

She finally looked up at him with tear-swollen eyes. "All right," she said softly, carefully climbing down from her perch, almost as if moving pained her. She took Frodo's offered hand, and stumbled along beside him toward the kitchen.

They were about halfway there when she started sobbing again and complaining of her feet being tired. Frodo obligingly picked her up -though she was almost too big to carry- and took her the rest of the way to the kitchen with her nearly asleep against his shoulder.

When they arrived, one of the hobbit matrons who'd been pressed into cooking duty took one look at the lass and asked him sharply, "What's in your head, boy? She ought needs be with the other sick folk!"

Frodo looked at her quizzically. "I found her further up the hall. She just has a bad headache."

"Just a bad headache? Did no one tell you that's how the illness starts?" the matron demanded, coming towards him, waving a wooden spoon.

"N-no..." Frodo said meekly, backing away little by little.

"Now you know. Get on with you and take her where she should be!"

Frodo had backed into the hallway by this point, and he hurried as quickly as he could toward the sickrooms. After poking his head in to two of the parlours and seeing no place she could be put, he encountered the healer. With relief, he asked, "Where should she go? She said she has a bad headache, and I'm told that means she has the sickness."

Healer Goodbody nodded. "Most likely," he said looking her over, feeling her forehead, and manipulating some of her joints. "Where did you find her? She's at least a day into the illness, and is likely feeling very miserable."

"She was crying something awful on the window seat up the hall, there," Frodo told him. "Where can I put her down? She's getting heavy."

"Oh, right. Come this way." The healer led him to a corner of the dining hall where a few bedrolls lay empty. "Those that were here were sick first, and have either passed on or healed up enough to help with the others," Healer Goodbody explained.

Frodo gratefully put her down onto a blanket, then shook out his arms. Amaryllis whimpered, and latched on to his trouser leg.

"I think she's gotten attached to you," the healer chuckled. "I will go have the medicine and some water brought. Once I return, you should get back to your own bed."

Frodo nodded, and watched the lass doze uneasily. Healer Goodbody returned with the familiar set of mugs, and started to administer them to her. Frodo tugged his trousers from her grasp, and went to leave, but his disappearance set Amaryllis to screaming. The healer motioned to him to leave, but Frodo lingered in the doorway, watching as the older hobbit tried unsuccessfully to quiet the lass. Some of the others in the room began to flinch and moan as well, pained by the racket; Frodo knew then that he had to do something, lest those hobbits suffer even more.

He returned to the bedside, held Amaryllis' hand as he sat on the floor beside her, and immediately she was quiet. Frodo could only shrug at the healer's questioning look; he had no idea why the girl had latched on to him so strongly. All he'd done was retrieve her from the window seat! Perhaps that was more than enough for a lass who was missing her parents and feeling poorly.

Healer Goodbody managed to convince Amaryllis to swallow everything he gave her, despite her whines about her throat hurting awfully. Frodo watched carefully -he had a feeling that if she wasn't going to let him leave her side, he was going to be recruited to do some of the caring for her. The healer met his eyes once Amaryllis was settled down. "Are you willing to sit with her for a bit? Just until she's good and asleep and all."

Frodo nodded, little expecting that it would take the better part of a day for the poor lass to be ill enough not to care if he left. Until then, he had to stay close, always holding her hand or somehow touching her in reassurance, lest she begin to wail and shriek. He slept on one of the other blanket piles, pulled next to hers, and ate and drank what he was brought by one of the other caretakers.

At first it was an annoyance, being tied there to the one lass. But as the hours passed, she remained restless, crying out for her parents, and whimpering forlornly when they did not come. The healer promised to find out what he could of her parents, and it seemed they were among the early victims of the illness. Frodo knew all too well how it felt to be so alone, and found himself feeling sorry for her, which led naturally to not wanting to leave her absolutely alone.

So he remained by her side, watching and trying to reassure her whenever she seemed to need it. Bilbo checked on him periodically, patting him on the back and encouraging him to stay put as long as he thought he should. The lad's dedication to the girl was touching.

Frodo was the first to notice when Amaryllis showed signs of the cough, just over a day after he first found her on the window seat. Healer Goodbody's expression was grave when Frodo told him, and he urged Frodo to consider going back to his previous duties. There wasn't much anyone could do for those with the cough other than wait to see the outcome, and she couldn't tell anymore that Frodo was even there, he argued.

But Frodo stubbornly insisted on staying put, as long as he could. He would compromise and go eat with the others when possible, but otherwise he would be with Amaryllis. She needed someone to be there. So he would be. The healer relented and cautioned him to make sure his handkerchief was firmly over his face, especially when she was coughing, so he wouldn't breathe her bad air. Frodo readily agreed.

Bilbo checked on Frodo more often now, worried that Frodo too would become ill, but the lad seemed as healthy as ever. Amaryllis, however, seemed destined to join her parents. Healer Goodbody was distressed by her rapid deterioration, though he did not breathe a word of his concern to young Frodo. Barely twelve hours after first showing signs of the cough, the poor child already struggled mightily for every breath. She didn't call for her parents anymore; she never seemed to recognize what was going on around her. Even Frodo's touch didn't soothe the feverish tossing of her head, the whimpering after a bad round of coughing. The healer almost wanted to send Frodo away to spare him being there when she passed on, but he knew Frodo would resist, so he didn't mention it.

Though the adults didn't say anything, Frodo could tell his poor little relation probably wouldn't survive. On the one hand, she would be reunited with her parents before she was even told they were dead, which would save her a lot of grief, but on the other hand, Frodo somehow felt he should have been able to save her. He reminded himself that he did everything he could, given the situation, but sitting and watching a little girl slowly die makes one try to find some reason for what is happening.

She stopped breathing just before dawn. Frodo had managed to wave Healer Goodbody over just in time to witness it, and the healer assured him there was nothing more that could have been done. Frodo nodded dazedly. "I should probably go back to helping the others, now," he said, starting to struggle to his feet.

Healer Goodbody kept him seated with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Get some sleep first. You're useless if you're tripping over your own feet in exhaustion."

Frodo recognized he was rather tired, so he nodded again. "Is it all right if I sleep in that other room?"

"Yes, of course. It will be quieter there, so it will be better for you to rest." He took the hand off the lad's shoulder.

Frodo stood, wobbling a bit on feet that were half-asleep from sitting in one position so long. He slowly trudged to the sleeping parlor, and collapsed on the first unoccupied blanket he saw. He was so tired . . . and for what? Poor Amaryllis had died. He hadn't been all that attached to her before -he wasn't even certain exactly what relation she was to him in the first place- but after reassuring her and caring for her, watching her die before his eyes was heartbreaking.

He cried himself to sleep.


Frodo woke once, disoriented. He peered through swollen eyes at the dark room, trying to figure out why he woke up. Seeing and hearing nothing, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

He woke again with the usual call to wake -a terse "Time to get up!" accompanied by a wooden spoon banging on a stock pot- and felt distinctly unwell. His head was pounding and he felt bone-chillingly cold. His first thought was horror that he'd caught the illness. His second, closely following on the first, was that Amaryllis had been right to sob so -the headache was simply excruciating.

It took some effort to get to his feet and stumble towards the door; Bilbo was waiting for him in the hall. "Coming, lad?" he asked jovially when he finally caught a glimpse of his nephew at the door.

When Frodo stepped into the light, Bilbo was immediately concerned. The boy was pale and moving stiffly; he hesitated in the doorway, clutching the doorframe and blinking owlishly. "Frodo, what's the matter?" he asked, catching Frodo's available elbow to keep him on his feet, for he looked in danger of collapsing at any moment. As soon as Bilbo touched him, he knew. He could feel the heat of the fever through his shirt; Bilbo's heart clenched in fear.

Frodo could tell by the look on Bilbo's face that his uncle had come to the same conclusion as he had, and he felt himself start to cry. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I-I didn't mean . . ."

"You have nothing to apologize for. Becoming ill here is merely a matter of time. Now come, let's get you to a bed where you can be cared for." Bilbo slid an arm around Frodo's waist for support, which was sorely needed by the time they made it to the sickrooms, as Frodo was more than ready to simply curl up on the floor, he felt so weak. And his head still pounded something terrible.

But when Bilbo tried to help Frodo down onto a bed, Frodo resisted. Now that he was here, he was terrified that if he laid down, he wouldn't get up again. Like Amaryllis. "I can still help until I get worse," he suggested frantically.

"Frodo, my lad, you can barely walk on your own," Bilbo reminded him gently, managing to get Frodo to sit on the waiting blankets.

Frodo clung to Bilbo's arm. "I'm afraid," he whispered. "Amaryllis-"

"You are older and stronger than her, and she was much sicker before she received care. If you will let us care for you and make you more comfortable, you have nothing to fear."

"All right."

Bilbo was relieved when Frodo laid down, and sincerely hoped he would be right that his nephew had nothing to fear. He hurried to get some cool, damp cloths and a mug of the medicinal tea for Frodo, ignoring all others until Frodo was settled. The tea was easily given, as Frodo hadn't yet developed the sore throat common to the malady, and he seemed more comfortable with the cloths on his brow, eyes, and neck. Then Bilbo reluctantly returned to his assigned duties, realizing that none of them could now be spared to tend only one individual.

By the end of Bilbo's time of duty, Frodo was delirious with fever, thrashing wildly and calling out for his parents. Healer Goodbody feared he would injure himself or others with his thrashing, so he allowed Bilbo to sit with him and hold him down as necessary. Some part of Frodo recognized Bilbo's voice and touch, but it was not enough to completely calm him, and he struggled when Bilbo had to restrain him.

Bilbo did everything he could, but Frodo's fever remained high to the point of concern. Healer Goodbody was not pleased, particularly since there was nothing else he could do in this instance; under normal circumstances he might have suggested a cool bath, but they did not have enough hands to spare several hobbits to haul that much extra water. As much as he did not like leaving the poor lad thus, the Hall as a whole had reached the crisis point of having almost everyone ill and very few were recovered enough to take over the duties left by their newly-ill kin. He considered it almost fortunate when Frodo was too unwell to thrash around any longer, as it freed Bilbo to be more useful.

Even so, Bilbo tried to stay within sight of his nephew, concerned that he was not yet beyond the possibility of exhibiting that terrible cough. The healer said it can come anytime in the first three to four days; Frodo had now been ill for two. He feared the outcome if Frodo developed that fearful symptom, for it had meant death in twenty-three of the twenty-four hobbits that had it thus far.

Mercifully, more of the surviving hobbits became well enough to get up and help some, though all were still terribly weak. This allowed Bilbo to take a moment to write some letters, one to Hamfast Gamgee to explain his delayed return and request that some specific books be sent to him, and a second to Saradoc, asking him to take the other letter to Hobbiton and read it to his gardener and return with the requested books. Bilbo hoped one of the tomes he wanted would have some information about this ailment. When he had left the letters for one of the messengers, he went to look in on Frodo before he slept a while.

Bilbo was pleased to see Frodo was a touch cooler, and he actually opened his eyes. "Bilbo," Frodo murmured hoarsely. "I . . ." and he began to cough.

Bilbo held him up a bit and gave him some water, hoping the coughing was only from Frodo trying to speak. It didn't sound the same as that dreaded cough, at any rate. Frodo choked when he tried to swallow, his throat pained him so badly, and Bilbo said, "Don't swallow, just let it trickle down your throat."

Frodo nodded, and had a little water this way. He had stopped coughing, so he tried to finish what he'd been saying. "I can hardly . . . take a good breath . . ."

This time when Frodo coughed, it had the deep, wet sound of what Bilbo had most feared. He held Frodo tightly while the lad coughed, and pressed a kiss into the lank curls when the bout stopped. He laid Frodo back down, for he was no longer aware, and tried to prop him up a little bit before going to fetch the healer to confirm what he knew must be the case.

Once Healer Goodbody agreed with his assessment, Bilbo stayed at Frodo's side constantly. If he was likely going to die, it was the least Bilbo could do to bestow on him the same courtesy he'd given that little lass. Not that he wanted to believe Frodo would die, but it was hard to see how he would be able to survive what had killed older, stronger hobbits.


Frodo's awareness came and went at will, but when he could perceive anything outside the dreams that plagued him, it was Bilbo's presence and his own misery. Sometimes he was confused, having no memory past his life with his parents, and wondered why they did not come when this other hobbit was always there. At other times he remembered everything and was grateful that Bilbo was faithfully at his side, even if he didn't fully understand why. He didn't think Bilbo was that attached to him, though they did enjoy each others' company.

Those thoughts were welcome distractions from the rest of his thoughts, the ones dwelling on how weary and achy he felt, how difficult it was to simply breathe. A few times he wondered why he put so much effort into breathing when it would be far easier to stop, but if he tried to stop, he would involuntarily gasp and cough, which hurt even more than breathing. Apparently it wasn't all that easy to stop breathing, after all.


It was miserable to listen to Frodo struggling to breathe, but the couple of times there was a hitch in the steady rhythm, Bilbo's heart threatened to stop as well. Invariably he would start breathing again, a little more deeply than before thanks to the coughing that got him breathing again in the first place. Then the breaths would gradually grow slower and shallower before the hitch and the coughs. It was a terrible cycle, but at least he was still alive.

Healer Goodbody was impressed at the lad's endurance; only the one who had survived the cough had withstood it longer, for Frodo was in his third day with the cough and the other had the cough five days before it lessened and she began to recover. Still, Frodo was easily the most seriously ill in the Hall at that point, as most of those who had fallen ill after him had relatively mild cases or had already succumbed.

Bilbo wasn't sure if he dared to hope Frodo would recover. Yet . . . he lasted this long, so why wouldn't he be able to cling to life just a bit longer? It had been a week since he first became sick; what was a day or two more?

The next morning the books appeared outside the Hall door with a note from Saradoc that the Gamgees had been glad to hear from him, as the news about what was happening in Buckland had reached Hobbiton and they feared the worst. Bilbo tucked the note down the side of the small crate and eagerly pulled out several volumes. Stacking them next to him where he sat beside Frodo, he began to search for information.

Naturally, it was the last book at the bottom of the very last pile that had a hint. In a treatise on the history of pipeweed trade in the North, there was a passing mention of a sudden illness east of Fornost with similar symptoms that swept rapidly through several towns of Men. It was called the Flux for its drastic variations in how ill it made its victims, from killing a strong, healthy Man in three days to giving a person a bad cold. After briefly checking on Frodo to make sure he was still breathing, Bilbo left, book in hand, to find Healer Goodbody.

Bilbo found the healer in the kitchen, and was persuaded to have a cup of tea and some scones while they discussed the account in his book and whether that might be related to their situation. Healer Goodbody concluded it sounded like the same illness, but without any more detail it was impossible to be sure. At least, if it was the same, then it had somehow made its way to the Shire from those remote Northern settlements of Men.

The conversation wandered from the book to the cleaning efforts now underway to pick up and wash all the bedlinens used by the ailing. As the remaining hobbits started to recover, they would be moved to the dining hall to have the lot of them in one place so the other rooms could be cleaned. Healer Goodbody expected that the quarantine could be lifted once every hobbit was at least two days into recovery; there hadn't been a new case in a day and a half, so it was possible Brandy Hall would be restored to its normal interactions within a week. It would take longer than that, of course, for everyone to be up and about and back to their usual selves, but at least those currently shut out could be let in, and those stuck here could return to their rightful homes.

It had been a good half hour, perhaps longer, that Bilbo was away from Frodo, he guiltily realized as he hurried back to his nephew. When he heard the coughing from the hall, he sped up until he entered the room at a near run.

Frodo had somehow managed to roll halfway off his bed and was on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, coughing so forcefully that Bilbo wondered if he was getting enough air between. Some of those well enough to be curious had sat up in their own beds to see what the noise was about, but Laurel, an older cousin of Frodo's (second cousin, once removed, to be precise), had come to his aid, crouching next to him and making sure he didn't hit his head on the floor or collapse and hurt himself. She met Bilbo's eyes. "I didn't know where you were, or I would have had you sent for."

"How long has he been like this?"

"Long enough to clear his lungs some, and long enough that I expect him to either pass out or choke at any moment," she said matter-of-factly.

"What makes you think . . ." Bilbo started asking, but trailed off when Frodo suddenly went quiet and limp.

"What made me think those were the two possibilities? I was in his place not very long ago. Would you get him back in his bed? I'm not capable of slinging lads around just yet."

"Yes, of course," Bilbo said, gently shifting Frodo back into his blankets and covering him once more. "You are the one who survived the cough?"

Laurel nodded rather than speaking, for she had to turn her head and cough into the elbow of her nightgown. "Surviving, anyway. I've yet to get rid of the thing entirely. If you'll excuse me, I should return to my own bed before I am scolded by the healer."

"Do you need help getting back?" Bilbo asked solicitously.

"No, thank you. It's not far," she replied, carefully climbing to her feet.

"Thank you for helping Frodo," he said as she began walking to her bed several rows away.

She half-turned and bowed slightly. "It was the least I could do."

Bilbo watched Frodo, but his mind was still with Laurel. He thought he remembered hearing that her wedding would be this summer, and wondered if her intended was here when everything began. At the very least, seeing her gave him hope of Frodo's eventual recovery. If only Frodo would show some sort of improvement, Bilbo would be greatly reassured.


When Bilbo returned to the dining hall after having breakfast in the kitchen, Laurel was in the bed next to Frodo and staring at him, her lips moving as if she were speaking, though Bilbo couldn't hear a word she said. "Is something the matter?" he asked when she didn't acknowledge his presence.

She finally looked up at him. "No. I was just telling Frodo here that I'm sure he'll be right as rain soon."

Startled, Bilbo looked down at Frodo, who seemed no different than earlier, or even than yesterday. "Oh?"

"He's breathing better than he was yesterday. Didn't you notice?" When Bilbo shook his head, she said, "Count how long he breathes in. I count four. Yesterday after he passed out it was only two."

Bilbo watched Frodo carefully, mentally counting, and came to the same result as Laurel. "What made you count each breath?" he asked, bewildered.

"When I was coming out of being that ill, I kept myself occupied by seeing if I could make each breath a little longer than the last. Sometimes it made me cough instead, but I knew I was truly getting better when the counts kept increasing."

"I see. And you moved over here to watch over Frodo as well?"

She shrugged. "I wanted to make sure he'd end up all right."

"Well, he is still very ill yet, and you should probably be resting. I'll wake you if there are any new developments."

Laurel seemed to hesitate for a moment, but nodded and laid back down.

Bilbo maintained his vigil throughout the day, and was overjoyed when Frodo's fever receded enough to be noticeable. Healer Goodbody warned him it could be a while before Frodo was entirely fever-free, and at least as long until he was rid of the lingering remnants of the cough, but he, too, was pleased with this small bit of progress.

It was another day and a half before Frodo was awake and coherent for any length of time. Bilbo remained by his side as much as possible, and reassured the fretting Frodo that feeling so weak and miserable was normal when one had been so ill. The continued coughing, while steadily decreasing in frequency and intensity, thoroughly wearied Frodo, much to his discontent. Laurel was an able comforter in this regard, having only recently experienced the same thing, and Bilbo was grateful that she was willing to soothe Frodo in a way he could not.

The dining room where Frodo lay, of late so full of the ailing and dying, gradually emptied of its inhabitants until Frodo, Laurel, and three others were the last remnants. At that point, it was decided that they could be moved to various bedrooms to finish their recovery so the cleaning of the hall could commence. Once the cleaning was complete, Healer Goodbody would be willing to declare the quarantine over.

Bilbo volunteered to carry Frodo to his room and insisted upon it, despite some protests from Frodo and a few of the relatives concerned about him injuring himself -Bilbo was no longer young, after all! He was more than happy to prove them wrong, and bore Frodo to his bed without incident. Laurel tagged along, and often spent the days curled up in an armchair in Frodo's room, going back to her room halfway across the smial only at night. Bilbo kept watch over the pair, scolding them both if he felt they ought to be resting.

One afternoon a few days after Frodo had been moved to his room, Frodo had fallen asleep so Bilbo took the opportunity to ask Laurel something that had been nagging him. "Where are your parents? I haven't seen either of them since we arrived."

"Da died last summer. Fell off a barn roof. Mum was away visiting her family when all this started. I'm sure she'll be the picture of parental concern once they let people back in to Buckland," she replied offhandedly.

"I'm sorry about your father, I didn't realize," Bilbo said apologetically.

Laurel shrugged. "No one wanted to talk about it during Yule, so there's no way you could have known."

They remained silent for several minutes. "Forgive me if this is a personal question, but are you the one getting married this summer?"

"Not anymore," she said softly. "My Dory was one of the early deaths from this . . . thing. He was a stablehand and helped tend the ponies of both the peddler and the Bounder that started all this."

Bilbo stared at her bowed head in shock. "I am so sorry," he breathed. There was nothing else he really could say.

"Well, it can't be helped," she said with a sigh. "Many folk lost kin from this."

"Has a list been gathered, or the number tallied?" Bilbo asked her. Bilbo had been staying with Frodo practically every moment of every day, so he had not heard much news about the efforts to return Brandy Hall to normal.

"The healer has started a list of names. He says thirty hobbits died, most of them from the cough, but a few were too old or young to last long enough to develop the cough."

"Mercy," Bilbo said in shock. "Thirty hobbits . . . that's nearly one death for every four hobbits in the Hall. I haven't heard of such a thing since the Great Plague of 1636. Do you know who else died?"

"Old Uncle Gorbulas and Uncle Dodinas, and my Dorinas, but I became ill soon after Dory died and did not notice who else they may have carried off."

"Of course," Bilbo said sympathetically. He changed the subject to lighter fare, and they chatted freely until Laurel decided she needed a nap in her own bed. Frodo woke shortly after she left, but didn't mind her absence. "She needs to take care of herself and not look after me so much," he said. "She seems so sad."

"Her betrothed died from the illness," Bilbo told him.

"Oh," he replied, and looked thoughtful. "That would make me sad, too."

"It would make any hobbit sad," Bilbo agreed.


The next day the gates were thrown open, the blockades removed from the road, and Buckland was once again a noisy hub of activity. It did not take long for news of the lifting of the quarantine to cross the countryside and reach those who had been anxiously waiting to learn what became of their family and friends. Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck and their son Meriadoc were among the first to enter Buckland and were greeted by the Master of Buckland himself. "It is good to see you, son," Old Rory said simply, embracing him. "Those supplies you sent were invaluable."

"I knew they would be needed," Saradoc said modestly. "How fare Bilbo and Frodo?"

Young Merry recognized the names and repeated, "Frodo? Where's Frodo? I want Frodo!"

Esmeralda hushed him. "Quiet, dear, let your father and his da talk a moment."

"Bilbo is as well as can be. I'm told it was a close shave for Frodo, but he made it and is recovering in his old room."

Saradoc and Esmeralda both breathed a sigh of relief; they had been worried they would have to explain to six-year-old Merry why he wouldn't see his cousin Frodo again. "Good," Saradoc said, and meant it. As they made their way into the Hall, he asked his father about the casualties and what exactly had happened while they were gone.

Esmeralda took Merry down to Frodo's room, hoping they wouldn't be disturbing the lad. Frodo was awake and very pleased to see Merry, who squealed in delight when he saw Frodo. Merry insisted that he must snuggle on the bed next to Frodo, and clung to his arm all the while. Esmeralda sat by Laurel and talked to her quietly while Bilbo and Frodo entertained Merry.

Eventually Saradoc came to find his wife and son and was not surprised to find them in Frodo's room. He was surprised, however, to see Laurel there. "Ah, Laurel! Your mother has arrived and is looking for you," he told her.

"Oh! I shall go find her, then. It was good to talk to you, Aunt Esme," she said, then left the room.

"She and Frodo bonded -they are the only ones to survive the worst manifestation of the illness," Bilbo explained without Saradoc needing to ask.

"I see," Saradoc replied. He turned to Frodo. "I am very happy to see you pulled through, Frodo."

"Thank you," Frodo said shyly.

"Bilbo, how long were you intending to stay on? You're more than welcome to stay as long as you like, of course."

"I hadn't given it much thought. I had intended to stay until Frodo recovers, but I never thought about how recovered he ought to be." Bilbo smiled at Frodo and patted his hand. "I'll be here another fortnight, at least, I should think."

"Sounds good," Saradoc said. "Has a bedroom been given to you, or have you been staying here with Frodo?"

"I wasn't given a bedroom, but I'll gladly accept the use of a bed now and again. The floor is a little hard for my aging bones," he said, and winked at Frodo, who grinned.

"I'll see that you are given a room nearby. For now, though, I believe it is time for lunch and we ought to go eat. Bilbo, did you want to come, or should I have something sent for you and Frodo?"

"I'll stay here, thank you," Bilbo replied.

Esmeralda collected Merry, who resisted, saying, "I wanna stay, too!"

"You need to say hello to all of your other cousins, my dear," Esmeralda told him.

"Oh. Bye, Frodo!" he said, waving enthusiastically.

Frodo grinned. "Bye, Merry!" he said, waving back. When his small cousin was out of sight, he sighed and sank back into his pillows. "It was good to see him, but he's exhausting."

Bilbo chuckled. "I remember another small lad who could have that effect on me," he said with a wink. "You should rest after you eat something."

"Yes, uncle," Frodo said obediently.

Bilbo sat back in his chair and looked at Frodo thoughtfully. He'd had an idea concerning the lad, but wasn't sure if or how to broach it with Frodo. Well, he had at least two weeks to meditate on it, anyway.


It was more than three weeks before Bilbo began to seriously consider leaving. It had taken nearly a fortnight for the Hall to resume activities at the normal pace, and most of the other hobbits who had been ill had returned to full health or near enough that it didn't matter much. Frodo was up and about, but still tired easily and often needed an afternoon nap. He chafed at not being able to keep up with his younger cousins like normal and sometimes tried too hard to keep up, which made him short of breath, then he would feel ill and slightly feverish for the next day or two afterward.

One such afternoon, when Goodbody had restricted Frodo to bed after overexerting himself, Bilbo approached Frodo with his idea. "Frodo, my lad, I was thinking about something."

"What?" Frodo asked with trepidation. He had been fearing the day that Bilbo would announce he would soon be leaving to go back home. Perhaps it had finally come.

"Would you like to come to Bag End for a while to recuperate? The peace and quiet may be just what you need."

"Really, Bilbo? Do you mean it?" This was better than he'd ever dreamed.

"Of course I mean it! I wouldn't suggest such a thing if I didn't mean it. Would you like to come to Bag End for a while, then?"

"Yes, I would like that very much," Frodo enthused.

Bilbo was pleased with Frodo's enthusiasm. It made the next suggestion seem almost possible. "What if I asked you to come stay at Bag End with me for good?"

Frodo stared at Bilbo for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly several times. "I-I would like that very much," he said faintly. "I would miss Merry and the other cousins, of course, but . . . I really like being at Bag End with you, Bilbo."

"Then you'd be willing to live with me?" Bilbo asked again, just to be sure.

"Oh, yes!" Frodo said eagerly. Both of them sat grinning at each other until Frodo started laughing at how ridiculous they both must look.

When the merriment subsided, Frodo asked, "When can we leave?"

"I'm not certain. It depends on how you are feeling. We will have to borrow a wagon to drive back to Bag End, since Healer Goodbody isn't likely to let you walk that far yet. I don't think you could manage it, either, and I'm too old to carry you," Bilbo said with a wink.

"I wouldn't expect you to, Bilbo," Frodo said, smiling. "But we can go when I am feeling well enough?"

"We can go when the healer says you are feeling well enough. I know full well that you'd say you're feeling well enough right this instant if it meant we could leave, even though you look like you'd fall over if you had to stand up for too long."

Frodo could see that Bilbo meant it, and realized that living with Bilbo wouldn't mean he would always get his way like he could usually do here. But that was a small price to pay to live where he would be carefully looked after. "Maybe we can ask Healer Goodbody about leaving in a few days, then. I'll be good and rest a lot between now and then."

"Good lad," Bilbo said fondly, patting Frodo's hand. "We'll get you home and get you well as quick as we can. I'll go fetch some tea for us; you just sit back and relax, my lad."

After Bilbo left the room, Frodo sat back against his pillow as contentment filled him. He never would have imagined this, but it felt so right. He was going home to Bag End. Bag End as _home_ would take some getting used to, but it was a wonderful thing to adjust to!


Before Frodo left Brandy Hall, there was a gathering of the survivors in the dining room to honor those who passed on. A total of thirty-two hobbits had succumbed, many of them the elderly, like old Uncle Gorbulas, or the young, like Amaryllis. The somber mood lasted only as long as the moments of silence as the names were read; when the farewell meal began, so did the chatter, for hobbits were not well-suited to melancholy.

In the midst of his own personal happiness, Frodo felt sorry for Laurel, who still looked so sad as she sat with her mother at the table. When the meal ended, Frodo made his way over to her to say farewell, since he and Bilbo would leave the next morning. He hugged her and told her he was leaving, and asked what she would do now. She glanced toward her mother and said, "Mum thinks it would be best to go back to Stock and take it easy for a while."

Frodo nodded. "If you ever want to visit us at Bag End, I'm sure Bilbo would be happy to have you," he offered.

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," she said with a small smile. Frodo impulsively hugged her again, then went to find Bilbo.

The morning of the departure arrived, bright and unseasonably warm. Young Merry fussed about wanting Frodo after Frodo had hugged him and given him back to his mother, so Esmeralda took him inside. Saradoc helped Frodo climb onto the wagon while Bilbo assisted from above, then watched as Bilbo settled Frodo on the seat next to him. "You're quite a pair," he said. "Take good care of him, Bilbo; I wish we could have done more. And Frodo, be good for Bilbo; you've caused your share of mischief and I don't think you want to be causing trouble for him."

"Yes, Uncle Saradoc," Frodo said obediently as Bilbo spurred the ponies into motion.

"We'll see you again soon," Saradoc said cheerfully, waving at the wagon as it moved down the lane. Frodo turned and waved back happily, then rested his head on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo put an arm around Frodo, driving with only one hand on the reins, the picture of happiness sitting there with his lad.

Marks of Time

Written By:Imlosiel
You can Read the Original Here:
All credit goes to the author

Chapter One:

Darkness—consuming, surrounding, infinite. Fear gnaws at her spine, then spreads until she can feel nothing else. She moves to take a step, but jerks back at the sensation of nothing beneath her foot.

Fear heightens into panic. Her heartbeat roars in her ears. She opens her mouth to scream for help, but hesitates, afraid of what lurks in the blackness.

An icy hand grabs her wrist. She cries out and tries to pull free. The fingers tighten until they become a crushing vice. Nails dig into her soft flesh. Warm rivulets of blood trail down her arm.

“Exchange,” a deep voice snarls.

The creature yanks her forward and dangles her over the edge. She flails about, desperately seeking a hand or foothold, but finds none.

“Please, don’t,” she begs.

A cold laugh is the only reply. His grip loosens.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Power,” he whispers, then releases her into the abyss.

***

Lyla bolted upright in bed, her breathing quick and shallow. She placed a hand on her chest and felt the rapid cadence of her heart. She glanced at the empty space beside her. Part of her wanted to cling to Glorfindel for comfort, but the other part was grateful for his absence. He wouldn’t return for hours, due to an early morning meeting with Elrond, giving her time to shake off yet another troubling dream.

The nightmares had been occurring for several weeks, growing more frightening as time passed. This one disturbed her more than most. Never before had the tormentor spoken.

Shivering, Lyla rose and pulled on a silk robe. She stood at the window and watched the sun creep into the sky. Glorfindel must have left only moments ago. She sighed. Even in Valinor, he had so many responsibilities.

Her head throbbed, and she pressed her fingers against her temples. Horrible migraines had plagued her for the past several weeks, ever since the nightmares began. Determined to work past the pain, she dressed in light clothing and hurried out the door. Perhaps a run in the cool morning air would ease the pounding in her head and calm her nerves.

As she ran, she passed by several Elves, each of whom eyed her critically. She frowned. She had never understood why they found her jogging habit to be so peculiar, and the constant scrutiny she received had really begun to annoy her. The Elves of Rivendell had quickly accepted her ritual as a human custom, but apparently her year spent in Valinor wasn’t enough time for these people to stop thinking her strange for it.

Lyla darted into the woods, grateful for the concealment of the trees. She was tired of being regarded as an odd human. She had lived among Elves for over five thousand years, and in Rivendell she felt like she belonged. Here she felt out of place and inferior, unable to live up to the perfection of the Elves.

When she reached a small stream, she stopped to catch her breath. Cupping her hands, she scooped up water and drank. She leaned against a large oak and closed her eyes. The silence of the forest soothed her troubled spirit. Perhaps she was making too much of this. After all, she had her husband, her daughter, and her friends. What did it matter what the rest thought?

“Lyla,” a deep, male voice whispered.

Her eyes flew open.

“Come to me,” he commanded.

Her pulse quickened. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

There was no reply. She moved from the oak and searched the surrounding trees. Nothing.

“You cannot escape me,” came the voice again.

Afraid, Lyla broke into a run and didn’t stop until well away from the woods. No one pursued her. She slowed. For her to have heard the whispered voice, the speaker would have to have been close to her, but she had seen no one. Had she imagined it? She shuddered unable to dismiss the dark fear crowding her thoughts.

She turned onto the path leading to Elhael and Caleniel’s house. She needed to talk to someone, and not wanting to worry Glorfindel or her daughter, Elhael was the most logical choice.

He stood in the garden and smiled at her approach. “Do you ever take a day’s reprieve from your running?”

“It clears my head, which I find I’m in need of lately.” She fiddled with her wedding ring. “Can I talk to you?”

His smile fell away. “What’s wrong?” He sat on a bench and patted the spot next to him, which she took.

“I don’t know anymore, Elhael. Sometimes I feel so lost here, so unaccepted.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Many reasons. Hardly anyone speaks to me, and I feel like everyone regards me as some sort of odd intruder. I think the only reason most of them tolerate me is because I’m married to Glorfindel.”

He squeezed her hand. “Many of the Elves who reside here have been in Valinor for thousands of years. I don’t think they quite know what to make of you yet.” His mouth curved into a wry smile. “You aren’t exactly a typical human from Middle-earth.”

“No. I’m a college language professor from America who entered their world by means of an ancient Elven spell book. But even so, others who aren’t Elves, like Frodo and Gandalf, seem to be welcomed without question.”

“I can’t explain the reason for this, only that perhaps it is their legendary reputations from their involvement with the Ring that draw people to them.”

“I’m not looking for popularity. I just want people to stop looking at me like I’m someone to be suspicious of.” She hung her head. “I doubt they’ll ever truly accept me.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake coming back here.”

His eyes widened. “Why would you say that?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Never mind. I haven’t been myself the past few weeks. Forget I said it.”

“Is there a problem between you and Glorfindel?”

Hot tears sprang in her eyes, but she forced them back. Elhael knew her so well. “I think I see him less here than I did in Rivendell. When we are together, he seems so distant.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”

“He loves you, Lyla. He always has. Nothing is going to change that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She clasped her hands together. “There’s something else. I’ve been having dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“They’re so dark. Frightening even.”

“Tell me about them.”

Lyla hesitated. Elves placed so much stock in dreams. She snorted. Elhael would probably tell her some evil being attacked her via her subconscious, but she was far more likely to believe the nightmares resulted from the problems in her life. At least, that’s what a psychologist would tell her.

She took a deep breath and related the events of her dream. “And to top it off, I think I’m hearing voices.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was running through the woods earlier, someone spoke to me, but I couldn’t find anyone. Maybe I’m going mad.”

“Nonsense.” He frowned. “That dream worries me though, Lyla, and the voice even more. Have you told Glorfindel about this?”

“No, and I don’t want you to either.”

“Lyla—”

“I told you this because I know I can trust you to keep a secret. Swear you won’t tell anyone about this, not even Caleniel. Please.”

He sighed. “You know I won’t. But I want you to promise you won’t go into those woods alone again. And tell me if your dreams continue. If anything else happens, I’m going to have to tell Glorfindel. I’d rather have you angry with me, than for something to happen to you.”

“Agreed.” She stood. “I should go.”

“Your shirt is torn,” he said, rising.

“What?” She turned her head and studied the fabric. A sizeable tear rent the cloth along her lower back. It must have happened when she leaned against the oak tree. “Well, this shirt is ruined. I haven’t the skills to sew a hemline, let alone fix something like this.”

“I’m certain Caleniel can repair it.” He frowned. “What’s that mark on your back?”

“My tattoo? You’ve never seen it?”

His mouth dropped open. “Tattoo?”

She grinned, trying to make light of her earlier concerns. “Another of my odd human customs. It’s a result of, shall we say, an adventurous night with some friends involving a large amount of liquor.”

He cleared his throat, obviously trying to mask his surprise. “What does that symbol mean? It looks Elven.”

She recalled the intertwining Celtic-like knots and curves of the mark. “I actually don’t know. All I remember is being fascinated by it, and I imagine that’s why I chose it. I can’t recall where I first saw it.” She shrugged. “I suppose it’s a reminder of where I come from.” She glanced at the sky. It was already midmorning. “I really should get back.”

He nodded. “Are you and Glorfindel still coming to dinner tomorrow night?”

“I believe so.”

“Good.” He wrinkled his nose. “And please bathe. You smell like a sweaty orc.”

She laughed and punched him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re one to talk.”

Lyla bid him farewell and jogged back to her house. She drew a hot bath, tossed her clothes in a heap near the door, and sank into the steaming water. Sighing, she leaned back and enjoyed the relaxing warmth. Perhaps this whole mess was merely a result of her imagination playing tricks on her.

She straightened at the sound of the front door opening and closing. A moment later Glorfindel poked his head around the bathroom doorjamb. “I’m home.”

She pushed a wet lock of hair out of her face. “You’re back early.”

“The meeting ended sooner than I anticipated.”

“Well, then,” she gave him an inviting smile, “care to join me?”

He shook his head. “I can’t. I have too much work to finish.”

Her heart sank. “I see.”

Glorfindel approached. Lyla lifted her chin, hoping for a kiss. When he brushed his lips against her forehead instead, she wanted to sob. “Perhaps later.”

She swallowed hard. “Yeah,” she said in English. “Sure.”

He frowned at her deviation from Sindarin, but he did not respond. Once he left the room, Lyla released a pent up breath. As a means of defense, she tended to switch to English when she was upset or angry, so he could have no doubt that his refusal hurt her. He just chose to do nothing about it.

A few weeks ago, she couldn’t have prevented him from getting in the bath with her. Now, he rarely kissed her. She couldn’t recall the last time they made love. A tear slipped down her cheek. What had happened to them? The change seemed to occur around the same time her dreams started, but she couldn’t fathom why that would have an affect on their relationship. Glorfindel didn’t even know about her nightmares.

Taking a shaky breath, Lyla stepped out of the bath and dried off. She studied her lower back tattoo in the mirror. Her memories of the night she had gotten it remained hazy. Shana and a few others had taken her out for her eighteenth birthday, and one of them—who was of legal age—bought enough alcohol to keep them drunk for a week.

She shook her head. A stupid mistake that got her nothing but the tattoo and an irate lecture from her parents. Her father, a police officer, threatened to lock her in jail for a few days if she ever repeated her foolish action. She had known he would never follow through, but the knowledge that she angered him enough to threaten it frightened her so much that she never did it again.

She traced the curves and knots of the tattoo. She had no memory of getting the mark, only of the pain afterwards. Her friends complained of nothing but a dull ache, but she felt like the tattoo had been branded into her skin. The violent burning sensation had lasted for weeks.

Lyla snatched a dark green dress from the wardrobe and pulled it on, leaving her long, brown hair to hang free. Sauntering into the great room, she picked up a book and sank onto the couch. She stared at the page, unable to concentrate. Glorfindel was undoubtedly in the study, probably trying to avoid her, for she knew he favored the desk in the great room over the one in the study.

The pain from his refusal stabbed at her heart. Had she really become so undesirable to him in the past few weeks that he couldn’t spare an hour to be with her?

A dark thought crept into her mind. Had he found another, an elleth who was accepted by everyone and would be a more suitable wife? Elves shared unbreakable marriage bindings with their own kind. She was a mere human, albeit an immortal one, but a human nonetheless. For all she knew, he could abandon her whenever he wished without repercussions.

She shook her head, dismissing the idea. Glorfindel would never do such a thing. Images of his distance and coldness over the past few weeks flashed across her brain. Would he?


Friday, March 6, 2009

Eomer Chronicles

Written By:Deandra
You can read the original here:
All credit goes to the original author

Beginnings

(Edoras, 3002 III)

The three boys chased along the backstreet of Edoras, snatching at one another and laughing. Turning a corner, the leader and largest of the boys nearly collided with another lad who was approaching from the opposite direction. All of them skidded to an abrupt halt and stared warily at each other.

“Who are you?” the leader asked. “I have not seen you around before.” He ran a shirtsleeve across his runny nose.

The new boy facing him seemed about his age, and was fairly tall and gangly. He had the look of someone who had grown a few inches recently. Eothain noted the neatly combed hair and fine clothes that he wore, pegging him as one of the nobles’ sons. Probably prissy and conceited.

“I am Eomer,” the boy answered quietly, after a moment, but offering no further information. “Who are you?” he asked in return, a flick of his eyes encompassing all three of them.

“I am Eothain. And this is Cadda and Aldfrid.” His eyes shifted at a movement behind Eomer and a young girl peeked around at them. “They have got you playing nursemaid, I see!” He let out a laugh and the other boys did likewise.

“Be silent! Eowyn is my sister,” Eomer snapped authoritatively, startling Eothain.

Yep – prissy and conceited, just as he’d thought. “Ooh, isn’t she cute,” he sneered. “Are you going to play dolls together?” Due to being larger than most boys his age, and both strong and agile, Eothain rarely feared a confrontation with others, and it was clear this lad was no match for him.

Eothain never saw the fist coming that smashed into the side of his face. He stumbled back as a fire lit in his eyes. “So that’s how it is? Well, I’ll teach you a lesson in manners!” With a growl, he launched himself at Eomer, taking them both to the ground, and the other two boys eagerly closed in to watch the scrap. Eothain had never lost a fight, and they didn’t anticipate this being the first time he did – this lad was in for a thrashing! No one in their right mind got Eothain angry!

“Eomer, don’t! Uncle won’t like it! Eomer!” Eowyn wailed at the scuffling boys.

Her pleas went unnoticed as the two tussled, partly because Eothain was finding this fight more difficult than expected. No one else could hold their own against him, but this gangly boy was doing pretty well for himself. What he lacked in muscle and weight seemed to be made up for with determination and…something else.

There was a rage in Eomer that had bubbled below the surface until it was set off by the taunts. Now he didn’t really see or hear anything. There was just his fists flying as fast as he could throw them, and the satisfying sound of flesh meeting flesh. He wasn’t even much aware of the blows that were landing on him in return, just the release that came with…hitting something.

Startled by the ferociousness of the attack, Eothain was doing little more than defending himself against the onslaught. He could not see that his words should have caused such a strong reaction in the other boy, and he wondered at Eomer’s behavior.

All of a sudden, something heavy landed on Eomer’s back, breaking his rhythm of punching. As his vision cleared, he found he was sitting on the other boy and had been pummeling him for all he was worth. At least he was until Eowyn had interrupted. Recently she had discovered that she could jump on his back, wrap her arms around his throat and then let the weight of her body do the rest, choking him into submission.

He wrestled her arms away from his throat, coughing a little as air was able to return to his lungs. “Let go, Eowyn!” He was finally able to shrug her off, and rubbed at his neck.

“Uncle will be angry, Eomer! You should not fight!” his sister retorted, hands on hips.

Eomer glanced down at the other boy who was gazing at him with surprise and caution. Eothain tentatively swiped at his nose that was trickling blood, and a wave of remorse swept through Eomer. Quickly he stood up off the other lad, then suddenly reached his hand down to help him up. “Sorry. I…I do not know what got into me.”

Eothain raised up on his elbows to stare at this odd fellow. Give him a whipping like that and then apologize? When Eothain had been the one to start it? The hand still hovered in front of him and finally he reached to grab it, allowing Eomer to pull him to his feet.

“Your uncle really gonna be angry with you?” Eothain mumbled, not sure what else to say.

Eomer shrugged. “Maybe. I might be able to sneak in and change clothes before he finds out.”

“You new around here?” Eothain asked, brushing the dirt off his clothes.

A nod was the only answer, but then the boy explained, “We are from Aldburg.”

“Your parents move here, then?” Cadda inquired.

There was a long pause and Eothain noticed tears welling in the girl’s eyes – Eowyn, was it? Something wasn’t quite right here…

“No,” Eomer replied after a moment, then met the boy’s gaze squarely, “they died. We have come to live with our uncle now.”

All the air went out of Eothain’s lungs. The boy had lost both his parents? That was tough luck. This Eomer, he was alright.

“Yeah, well, then maybe we’ll see you around.” He pointed down the street they were on. “See that house at the end, on the right side? That is my house. Why don’t you come by tomorrow after breakfast and we can…you know.” He shrugged.

Eomer eyed him warily, then nodded. “If Uncle does not mind, I will come.”

“Yeah. Well, see you then,” Eothain answered awkwardly.

Catching Eowyn’s shoulder, Eomer steered her back toward the main road and Eothain watched them go. As they turned uphill off the side street, he curiously moved forward to trail behind them out of sight. Where did they live? Did he know their uncle? By the time he got to the main road, the two were no longer alone. A man was with them and obviously questioning Eomer about his bedraggled appearance.

“Isn’t that…Theodred? The King’s son?” Aldfrid asked after a moment, as the other two crowded up behind him.

Eothain’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he murmured. Uncle? Theodred’s father? The King?

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling for Cadda. “Have to go,” his friend said, waving as he dashed toward home.

“Guess I should get home, too,” Aldfrid said. “Mother will have supper ready soon. See you tomorrow?”

Eothain nodded absentmindedly, his thoughts still on the two newcomers. Slowly he turned and made for his own house, pondering the recent events. His father was just turning in the gate and waited for him, so that they entered the yard together. Glancing down, Garmund queried, “You been fighting again?”

Eothain shrugged. “Just a small argument. It did not last long.”

“And you won, I take it,” his father chuckled, all too aware of the boy’s reputation.

To his surprise, Eothain shook his head slightly. “Not exactly.”

Before he could ask further questions, they had entered the house and Beornwyn was telling them, “Get washed. Supper is ready.”

They moved to the wash stand and the conversation lapsed. Once they were seated around the table and dishing food onto their plates, Garmund told them, “News from up at Meduseld. Marshal Eomund’s wife has passed on also. The King has brought her children to live with him.”

Eothain’s ears pricked up as his mother remarked, “Our poor Lord. He lost his dear wife and now his beloved sister as well. Will his house ever know happiness?”

“Aye,” Garmund murmured, tucking into his meal. “It is fortunate for the children, though, to have someone to take them in. Not all are so blessed.”

“What are their names?” Eothain asked curiously, though suspecting he already knew.

“Eomer and Eowyn,” his father replied, glancing at him. “I think the boy is about your age, Eothain. It might be nice if you befriended him.”

Fighting back a guilty blush, Eothain took a hasty bite of potato. After swallowing it to give himself time to appear nonchalant, he shrugged, “Maybe I will.” It was noncommital but, all things considered, he had started on that path already – in a roundabout fashion, that is.

His thoughts went back to the fight and the sight of Eomer standing over him, apologizing and helping him up. Maybe the lad wasn’t so prissy and conceited after all…

THE END

2/22/09

2991 - Eomer born

2992 - Eothain born

2995 - Eowyn born

3002 - Eomund killed by orcs; Theodwyn dies shortly thereafter (Eomer-11, Eowyn-7)

Aldfrid – “old peace”

Cadda – unknown

Beornwyn – “warrior joy”

Garmund – “spear protector”

Loss of Innocence

(Aldburg, 3002 III)

“Eomer? Where are we going? Where is Mama?” Eowyn asked perplexedly.

Her older brother’s hand tightened its grip on hers, and his jaw tensed as he struggled to hide his emotions. “We are going with Uncle Theoden and Cousin Theodred,” the boy explained curtly.

“But why?” his sister persisted. It had been a confusing night, with much rushing about of people and hushed tones. She had not slept well as she listened to the bustle of activity in the hall, and then this morning, when she peered out her door, many of the servants were weeping. The housekeeper, Betersel, had come personally to get Eowyn dressed, but she had shushed her questions, and it all frightened the little girl. Only the reassuring presence of her beloved brother, when he came to fetch her after breakfast, eased her distress.

Coming to a stop, Eomer sighed, then tugged Eowyn after him into the empty guest chamber nearby. The pale morning sunshine dimly lit the room as Eomer turned to face his sister. He had grown a couple of inches the past six months, making him quite a bit taller than the little girl, so he knelt down to be more on eye level with her. Taking her hands, he said, “Mama has died Eowyn. She is gone to the Halls of Mandos like Papa.” There was a quaver to his voice, but he managed to keep the tears in check.

Eowyn, however, soon had brimming eyes and she flung her arms tightly around his neck. She sobbed for quite some time as he held her close, not entirely sure who was getting the most comfort from the embrace. At eleven years, he felt the need to behave like a man, and tears felt very weak and childish, but the strong surges of emotion he was feeling were hard to suppress.

After some time, a shaky voice asked from the vicinity of his dampened shoulder, “What will we do now?”

“We will go with Uncle Theoden to live at Edoras,” Eomer said firmly, pulling back to look her in the eye and brush her tousled hair out of her face. “Uncle and Theodred will take good care of us.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he added reassuringly, “Do not worry. I will be with you. I promised Mama that I would look after you and I will not fail.”

Eowyn’s lip quivered, but she nodded her understanding. Using his sleeve, Eomer wiped her wet cheeks to dry them, and then stood. “Come. They will be waiting for us and wondering where we are,” he told her, reaching for her hand again.

They made it as far as the head of the staircase before Eowyn dug in her heels and drew him to a halt. Looking earnestly up at him, she fervently avowed, “When I am grown, I will learn to use a sword and then I will fight! And I will kill all the orcs in the Mark!” Her eyes dared him to argue with her.

Girls did not fight – everyone knew that, Eomer thought, but he did not voice it. Still, it confirmed his suspicion that Eowyn understood more than anyone realized. No one had said that Theodwyn’s demise was due to her grief over the loss of her husband, but clearly Eowyn had made that connection. She had reasoned out that the orcs who killed their father had begun their sorrow. But, that future was a long way off and if it helped Eowyn to believe her words of valor, then he would let her do so. Certainly he intended to ride to battle just as soon as he was old enough. With any luck, by the time Eowyn was grown, there would be no need for her to even think of fighting orcs.

Reaching for her hand again, the siblings started down the stairs leading to their new life.

THE END

9/11/08 – 2/28/09

Betersel = “more happiness” (better = betera, happiness = sæl)