claudia603 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
claudia603) wrote2004-01-28 10:15 pm
claudia603) wrote2004-01-28 10:15 pm
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And here's the other b-day fic, much of which Lily has already seen. Strider to the rescue when Frodo gets arrested for mushroom thieving in the village of three-guesses-and-the-first-two-don't-count :-)
Title: Thief
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn implied
Rating: PG13 to R
Summary: AU. Strider to the rescue when Frodo gets arrested for mushroom thieving in the village of three-guesses-and-the-first-two-don't-count :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Frodo’s stomach growled. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to run away from the chaos at Brandy Hall, to have an adventure of his own, like in Uncle Bilbo’s tales. Not that anyone would probably notice. A new Tookish cousin had just been born, a son by the name of Peregrin. The celebration was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away. Unfortunately, Frodo had not been thinking clearly, and he had only taken a few coins with him. He had used them already, buying wares from a farmer. The apple and baked bread had been tasty, but they had cost more than he had anticipated.
Just outside of the village of Bree, the sun was beginning to set. Frodo could hear the distant sound of laughter at an inn. He was not sure where he was going to sleep this night, for he had no coins for a room. Last night he had slept under the stars, but this night he was too close to the village, and he could not tell whether he was on someone’s property or not.
Frodo stepped through a field, enjoying the squish of mud between his toes. He gasped in pleasure when he looked down and saw button mushrooms -- clumps and clumps of them! Why, he must have stepped into a mushroom farm! He knew that hobbits lived near Bree, but he was in an area mostly inhabited by Big People. He had no idea that the Big People had any interest in farming mushrooms. Then again, they probably saw it as a grand opportunity to sell to the hobbits of Bree, who, if they were at all like Shire hobbits, could never get enough of them.
The light was dim, and the farmer’s house was far away. Frodo could see the faint glow of perhaps a lantern on a porch. Surely it was not wrong to snag a few mushrooms. Frodo could not help a smile. It had been a long time since he had stolen mushrooms from Farmer Maggot’s fields. There was no reason to, really, as he always had plenty to eat at Brandy Hall. His stomach grumbled as he wondered what sorts of foods were being served at Brandy Hall in celebration of the birth of his new cousin.
There might be roasted chicken, served with potatoes served with cream and herbs. There would be strawberries, honey and freshly baked bread. And pound cakes. The mushrooms would have melted butter on them, and they would be so hot, they would burn the tongue.
Well, it was no use wondering about the feasting at Brandy Hall. Frodo had made his choice, and he was not there. He plucked a mushroom from the ground, and held it in his palm. He glanced at the farmer’s house again. The sun had gone down considerably, and it was shadowy and still. He popped it in his mouth, and savored how it seemed to nearly melt in his mouth.
Frodo picked several more. He longed for a well or a creek nearby, because he would rather wash the dirt from the mushrooms before eating them. He was hungry enough now that he did not care as much as he should. He popped one after the other into his mouth. Once he began, he found he could not stop, and at last he gave into it and sat down, crossing his legs. He had lost track of how many he had picked, how many he had eaten, when a rough voice startled him.
“Having yourself a feast, are you?”
Frodo jumped, and his skin turned cold with fear. The mushrooms he had just eaten turned in his stomach. He could not answer – he only stared up into the angry eyes of the large, rough-looking man. He carried a large stick, wielding it as if he had intended to beat the intruder in his field.
“You been thieving my mushrooms, halfling?”
“No,” Frodo blurted, climbing to his feet. He was prepared to run, but he was not sure he would get far. His legs trembled so badly that he did not think he could get anywhere. He certainly couldn’t outrun a man.
The man stepped forward just slightly. “Looks to me like you’re having a real feast here.”
Frodo began to tremble, and he had that sickening feeling in his stomach that he was in deep, deep trouble and there was nobody around to help. He knew nothing about how the Big Folk handled such matters. Farmer Maggot had been stern with him, had even given him a sound beating, but deep inside, Frodo had known that he would not truly hurt him.
“You got coins to pay for it?” The farmer’s face was so harsh, so unyielding. Frodo’s face burned. He felt low and dirty, the worst kind of thief. This man did not know him. He saw only a hobbit stealing mushrooms.
“I’m sorry. I shall return anything I’ve taken.” As soon as Frodo said that, he flushed at the foolishness of the statement.
“I don’t think that’s possible, now, do you?” The farmer laughed, though his laughter was nasty and humorless. “I think you’re coming with me to speak to the lawmen.”
Frodo gasped in dismay as the farmer grabbed his upper arm and started marching through the ever darkening field. The idea of facing the lawmen of Bree sent terrors through him, and his heart battered against his chest.
“No,” Frodo said, barely able to get enough breath. “Please, I’ll do anything. If you want me to work…do not take me to them. Please!”
“You really should have thought about that before, shouldn’t you have?”
Frodo struggled, but the grip on his arm was strong, and soon his arm began to numb. They reached the main street of Bree. Some of the villagers stopped and stared as the farmer dragged Frodo along behind him. So far Frodo had seen no hobbits, and this was distressing indeed. Maybe it was just a rumor that hobbits lived in Bree.
Finally, the farmer shouted to a man who wore several weapons around his waist.
“Hoy, Appledore!” The farmer called out. “I’ve got something for you.”
“A hobbit?” The lawman said in surprise.
“Caught him thieving in my field. Do something with him.”
Frodo was too terrified to speak. He could only look into the beady eyes of the lawman.
“I’ll lock him up.”
Frodo’s chest constricted until he was certain he would faint. Black dots smattered in front of his eyes. “Please,” he managed. “I am sorry. I was hungry, and—“
“Stop your yapping,” the farmer said, shoving him at the lawman. “This’ll teach you a good lesson. That is, if you survive the night.” He laughed sharply.
“Eh, no need to go frightening the lad that badly. The jail’s not too bad. Haven’t put a hobbit in there in a long time, so you’ll get your own cell.”
The lawman took Frodo’s arm. He marched him down the street. Frodo’s eyes blurred. He would not weep, but his cheeks burned from the humiliation of it all. He could not believe that he, Frodo Baggins, who came from a good and respectable family, was being thrown in jail for thieving mushrooms in Bree.
“How…how…long will I be there?” Frodo managed.
“That will depend on when the mayor can hear your case.”
“How long is that? My family will worry.” Frodo was not sure when they would notice he was gone. And if they did, they might assume he had gone to Hobbiton to visit Bilbo. Oh, Bilbo would know what to do in this case. He would have some trick to get out of it. Had he not freed his dwarf companions from the wood elves’ prison so long ago?
“You from the Shire?” the Man asked with sudden interest. Frodo nodded, having no confidence that it would help his case.
“Then your family’ll have to come the day of the trial and speak on your behalf. You can write them a letter from jail, telling of your predicament.”
“Will it be that long?” Frodo’s throat clenched.
“It could be up to a month before they hear your trial.”
Frodo tried to keep the desperate cry from his lips, and it came out sounding like the mewl of a wounded animal.
Once inside the cottage built just above the underground jail cells, the lawman pushed Frodo into a chair.
“You’re a sorry sight, aren’t you, hobbit?”
Frodo trembled, but he did not answer. He was terrified that if he started to speak, that he would begin weeping. And he could not, would not do so.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Frodo shook his head and looked down. He would not make conversation with this man.
“I said, what’s your name?” Frodo looked up, frightened by the harsh tone in the lawman’s voice. He had a pen poised over some paper, and Frodo’s cheeks burned as he realized that the man was asking him his name for an official reason.
“Frodo,” he whispered.
“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
“Frodo,” he said. “Frodo Baggins.”
“I don’t know any Baggins in Bree. You from the Shire?”
Frodo nodded. He had a clear picture of what his family in Brandy Hall would be doing right now. They would be settling around the large table, eating until their stomachs were full. Fatty Bolger would steal extra tarts from the kitchen, and the women would shuttle him out, swatting his behind, yet nodding approvingly at the healthy hobbit’s appetite. Frodo’s eyes blurred, and he bit his lip so hard that he tasted salt.
“How old are you? I can’t never tell with your kind.”
“Twenty…twenty-two,” Frodo whispered.
The lawman studied Frodo carefully for a few moments, and for a second Frodo thought that he might take mercy on him, so contemplative was his look.
But then he looked down and jotted more notes down, muttering to himself, “Dark hair, blue eyes, cleft in chin. Slender.”
Frodo took a breath. “Please, sir. Would you let my family know?”
“I don’t have time for that, Mr. Baggins. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Frodo’s chest ached. The man might surely forget.
“Now come along,” the lawman said, pulling Frodo to his feet again.
***
The key turned with an ominous click, and Frodo felt the eyes of the men in the next cell.
“Lookee here, Burtly. What a pretty little thing! Think they’ll change their minds and put him in with us?”
Frodo sat on his cot, keeping his eyes downcast.
“Hey!” Burtly said. “I’m talking to you, rat!”
Frodo looked up. Three men leaned against the bars that divided his cell with the cell next to him. The one who had shouted, stuck his tongue out and rolled it between the bars in the most obscene of gestures. “That’s what I’d do to you, halfling, if I had you here.” He went on to describe every foul act he would like to experience with the hobbit.
Frodo shivered. His stomach constricted. He had not heard such loathsome language in his life.
“Leave me be,” he managed.
“Come here a minute,” Burtly said. “Come on over.”
“No,” Frodo said. He lay down on the cot and turned over, curling up with his back to the men next door. Several minutes passed in which he continued to hear filthy language and the men pounding on the bars.
Frodo didn’t think he could take it. He closed his eyes, still determined not to shed a tear. He was still hungry, and his stomach growled insistently. He wondered when his family would notice him missing. Perhaps tomorrow morning, perhaps not for another few days.
***
The next day, Frodo woke to more whistling and catcalling.
“Hoy, halfling, are you ready to work?” Bartly finally called out.
Frodo ignored the goading. He kept himself curled up into a tight ball, his back to the other cell. He heard the cell open and the sound of tin being dropped on the dirt floor. Frodo’s stomach growled, but he refused to move. He could not face the leering men.
“They’re gonna work you hard, just to watch you, you know. The guards are gonna find you tasty, guarantee it.”
“Ain’t you gonna eat your grub, halfling? I thought all your kind did is eat.”
Frodo’s head throbbed dully. He swallowed against the emptiness in his stomach. He was so chilled and cold, but yet he could not bear to move. If he did, he would have to face the crude men in the next cell. And he would be here an entire month. The thought clenched his throat.
The jail cell opened again, and Frodo flinched.
“Get up, hobbit,” a rough voice said.
Frodo peered nervously over his shoulder. One of the guards holding a whip stood over him. Frodo’s heart banged terribly at the knowledge that the guard had come into his cell with the intention of possibly having to use the whip on him.
“I said, get up,” the man repeated. His eyes were hard and unfriendly.
Frodo heaved himself up on trembling arms and turned to face him. Men in the next cell started to whistle. Frodo’s cheeks heated, but the guard yelled, “Shut your mouths all of you, unless you want to taste the whip!”
“Why don’t you disrobe that halfling there and whip him for us!” A mocking voice called.
The guard ignored him, and glared down at Frodo. “What kind of work are you fit for?”
“Work?” Frodo looked up at him, puzzled.
“Yeah, work.” The guard spit on the floor of the cell. “You’re here for abouts a month, I hear, and if you think you just get to sit here, then you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Why…why, I do not know.”
“What did you do for a living?”
Frodo looked up at this man, not comprehending. He had not yet come of age and had not been expected to do anything other than help with chores in Brandy Hall as needed.
The guard slapped Frodo across the face. “Don’t stare at me like you’re simple, halfling. Answer the question!”
Frodo held his stinging cheek, stunned into silence, unable to comprehend that anyone had hit him with such casual violence.
“Nothing…I was not old enough yet.”
“Well aren’t you a soft little thing. Well, around here, that ain’t gonna work. You’ll be sent to do chores for the farmer that you stole from no doubt.” He suddenly noticed the tin plate full of the untouched food.
“What’s the matter? The jail food ain’t good enough for the likes of you?”
“I’m not hungry,” Frodo said quietly, and it was the truth now.
The guard sneered. “That’s a change, a hobbit who doesn’t stuff his fat face at every given opportunity. Now get up and follow me.”
***
Frodo was taken to the farmer’s house. First he had to endure the most humiliating experience of being led with his hands bound behind him through the village. Everyone stared, and this time there were hobbits around and they stared with great interest at the unfamiliar hobbit prisoner. Frodo kept his eyes downcast.
The guard left Frodo with the farmer with the parting words of, “I think you can handle this little runt. If he gives you any trouble, you have my full permission to beat him.”
The farmer nodded. Frodo was led into the living area, where the farmer’s wife and two children ate fresh strawberries and cream.
“Why hello!” The farmer’s wife said to Frodo in a friendly voice.
“Don’t be too friendly to him. He stole off our crop and now he’s in jail, working for us.”
Frodo kept his eyes down. He could not believe how deep his shame went. He had never been made to feel like such filth.
“But look at the little thing,” the woman said. A soft hand was suddenly on Frodo’s chin. “It looks like he’s been beaten. That ain’t right and you know it!”
“A few whacks to the face won’t hurt this thief,” the farmer said coldly.
The children, a boy and girl, both under the age of five, both played with the curls on Frodo’s feet. Frodo’s heart ached as he thought about his young cousins, particularly of Merry, whom he loved best. He managed a shy smile at the children, and they giggled.
“You look funny,” the little girl said and giggled.
“Thank you,” Frodo said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “So do you!” he added teasingly. The children giggled delightfully.
“Do not speak to my children,” the farmer said shortly, yanking Frodo by the arm toward the back door. Frodo was out in the field where he had been captured just the night before.
“Your job will be to pick as many of the mushrooms from now until sunset. If I catch you eating any or if you try to run away, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life. Is that clear?”
Frodo nodded, knowing that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that even if the farmer wanted to do it on a whim.
At first it wasn’t too bad. The morning air was cool, and Frodo far preferred the lonely job to sitting in a jail cell being sneered at by harsh men. After a time, his hobbit nature came into play and he nearly forgot his troubles as he sang a bit of a song that Bilbo had taught him. After all, this wasn’t too bad – fresh earth beneath his feet, the sun on his back, and nobody around. He could nearly forget he was imprisoned.
Hours later, the farmer’s wife waved to him from the porch, and Frodo dragged the sack of mushrooms that he had so far picked with him.
“I’ve made some lunch,” she said. “My husband said to only give you a slice of bread, but he’s not here and that didn’t seem right to me.”
Frodo smiled gratefully at her. He was indeed hungry.
“You wash yourself outside with that there pump.”
Frodo was embarrassed by how filthy his nice clothes were from sleeping outdoors one night, sleeping in a jail cell another night, and working in the field all day. He probably did not smell too good, either, but there was nothing he could do about that. He washed himself the best he could and came inside with the kind woman and her two children.
The children squealed with delight when Frodo came in, and Frodo found a wide grin spreading over his face.
“What are your names?” he asked eagerly.
“I’m Colin,” the boy piped up. “And this is my sister Lena!”
Frodo kept his face very sober as he shook Colin’s hand and said, “Good day to you, Lena.”
The children giggled again. “That’s not Lena!” the girl said. “That’s me!”
“Oh,” Frodo said with mock interest. “Then you must be Colin.”
“No!” They both shouted, collapsing into giggles. The farmer’s wife smiled.
“Come along to the table then, all of you.”
Once settled around the table, Frodo’s stomach growled in anticipation of eating the delicious stew the woman had fixed.
“You’re not much older than a child yourself, are you?” the woman asked.
“I am twenty-two,” Frodo said proudly, pushing a spoonful of the savory stew into his mouth. It was a delicious blend of herbs and potatoes and vegetables.
“But that’s still a child among your kind, isn’t it?”
“Well, not exactly. More like a tween, which is not precisely the same thing,” Frodo said. “But I’m not likely to grow any more.”
“You’re tall for a hobbit,” the woman said. “And fair. Then again, we don’t know much about Shire hobbits here in Bree.”
Frodo nodded to his spoon. “The stew is very tasty. Thank you. And we don’t know much about the Outside.”
The farmer’s wife smiled sadly. “I apologize for my husband’s treatment of you. He’s been so bitter since our oldest son died.”
“Oh,” Frodo said, his heart sinking. “I am sorry.”
“No matter to you,” the woman said. “He drowned not too far from here.”
Frodo swallowed, suddenly unable to eat more. He could still picture all too clearly the night ten years ago when he had seen his parents after they had been dragged in from the Brandywine.
Just after lunch, the farmer’s wife bid Frodo watch the children while she did some washing, and Frodo had a wonderful time playing a game that Colin had invented that involved sticks and dirt.
Frodo leaned back on his heels, and a feeling of contentment washed over him. Then his stomach sank, as he knew he had to return to the jail that night and face the filthy men next door.
“You best get on out there in the field,” the woman finally said. “He’ll be home at any time and it wouldn’t do you any good to be in the house playing with the children.”
Frodo nodded and bowed. “Thank you, dear lady.”
The children giggled at this, and the woman patted his shoulder. “Poor dear,” she muttered.
Frodo continued to pick more mushrooms. His back now ached and he was uncomfortably hot. He wished he had some water more than anything, but he did not dare go back to the house to ask for some. It seemed that the sun would never set. At last the farmer came out to him.
“You been eating any of my crop?” he demanded. Frodo shook his head, but he looked into the man’s eyes and felt sorry for him. He had bent all his grief for his son into such a nasty demeanor.
“Good thing for your sake. The lawman is waiting for you.”
Outside the cottage, the lawman bound Frodo’s hands again and shoved him forward. “Heard a good report of you,” he said. “Good thing.” Frodo did not answer. He kept his eyes downcast, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Nobody had mentioned sending a message to his family yet, and this disturbed him greatly.
Once inside his cell, the harassment started up again immediately.
“Hey, halfling, if you don’t come over here immediately, it’s gonna go ill for you if I ever see you around town later. Best come now.”
“Why don’t you strip down for us?”
This time the guards got in on it because they laughed along with the teasing and calling. Then one of them came into Frodo’s cell and turned to the others. “You wanna see a show?”
There was cheering and whistling. Frodo looked at the guard in alarm.
The guard looked down at him. “Take off your clothes, hobbit.”
Frodo looked at him with a half smile, hoping beyond hope that he was joking. Surely he did not seriously mean it.
The guard drew his sword and placed the tip under Frodo’s throat. “Do as I say.”
Frodo felt numb with terror and humiliation. With trembling hands he unbuttoned his vest. He squeezed back the tears from his eyes. This had to end. Just had to end.
He looked up into the guard’s eyes to search for any amount of compassion that might be there – and saw nothing. Just a cruel hardness that delighted in watching one weaker and powerless suffer under his torture. Frodo let out a miserable sigh and peeled off his vest, painfully aware of the sword still under his chin.
The men were making noises, banging on the cells with delight.
“Go on, then,” the guard said. “Keep going.”
Frodo slipped his braces off his shoulder and tucked out his shirt. His numb fingers fumbled with his buttons, wondering in all seriousness what would happen if he refused. Would the guard really slay him? Perhaps not, but he could probably find a way to make his life miserable. The rich lunch that he had enjoyed at the farmer’s house churned ominously in his belly.
“I never seen such soft skin,” the guard said. “Do all hobbits have such skin, like a lass? I guess all the hair that belongs on your chest grows on your feet.” At this, all the men laughed. Frodo’s cheeks burned as he slipped his shirt off and let it fall behind him in a wad. Perhaps they would let it go at this. The guard would surely not let it go forward.
Suddenly he realized that there was truly nothing he could do about it. He was utterly powerless. The least he could do is face it with dignity. He stood tall and lifted his chin. He could not show these men just how upset he was.
The guard’s sword moved away from Frodo’s chin. The guard swiped Frodo’s button, slicing the threads so that the button went skittering across the dirt ground. Frodo clutched at his breeches.
“Let them go, hobbit,” the guard said mockingly. “We must see if it’s true what they say about large hobbit feet and the proportions of other body parts.”
The men snickered at that last.
Frodo clenched his jaw and held his chin up. He clenched his breeches, holding them up at his waist, certain that there could be no worse humiliation.
***
Frodo tried to hide his limp as he walked bound before the guard. This was the same guard as the morning earlier, though not the same that had made him undress and then had beaten him when he refused to drop his breeches.
Every breath hurt so badly, and he wondered how he could possibly labor in the field all day. He let out a shuddering sigh.
“What ails you, halfling? Sore from actually working yesterday?”
“I suppose so,” Frodo whispered. He had no way of knowing if the guards were close friends.
“Well you best get used to it.” The guard let out a sudden groan. “And here comes the last of em that I want to deal with.”
Frodo looked up, and felt an immediate chill. A large man dressed mostly in greens and browns and filthy boots walked in their direction. Unlike most of the shorter, squat men of Bree, this man was lean and tall. He looked like one of the warriors of the Big Folk that Bilbo had described in his adventures. He carried several weapons around his waist. Frodo’s throat clenched as he felt the phantom point of sword up against his throat from the night before.
“Who is he?” Frodo heard himself whisper. He immediately regretted it, as the guard was not going to take kindly to hobbity chatter in any form.
“One of them rangers,” the guard said. “Always causing trouble and asking suspicious questions.”
“Hoy,” the ranger said. Keen eyes fixed on Frodo. “What have you got here this time?” His voice became dry, yet maintained a low, dangerous quality. “Better tie him up even tighter. He looks dangerous.”
“You know I have to,” the guard said. “He’s nothing but a thief.”
“Why do not the little folk deal with him?”
“He ain’t from around here. He’s from the Shire.”
“The Shire?” The Ranger’s eyes sharpened.
Frodo’s cheeks burned. He could not understand why this Ranger would take so much of an interest in him.
“Farmer Dolen caught him thieving mushrooms from his field and shoved him at me. Now let me be. I’ve got to get him up to the good farmer’s house so he can put in a good day’s work.”
“Wait.” The Ranger knelt in front of Frodo. Frodo’s heart thudded so fast that the outside world seemed far away. His hand brushed over Frodo’s cheek. “He is bruised. How did this happen?”
“Oh, the little ra— one probably fell on his face. Not my concern.”
Strider’s eyes fixed on the guard, and the hardness in them gave Frodo the chills. “It will be your concern if it turns out this hobbit is being mistreated in your jail. I do not like this arrangement at all. He should be sent back to his own people for judgment.” Strider looked back at Frodo. “What is your name?”
“Frodo. Frodo Baggins. I’m from Buckland, in the Shire. Please…nobody knows where I am.”
“Is this true?” Strider asked the guard, now climbing to his feet. “Was this lad not allowed to contact with his family?”
“I have no idea,” the guard said. “It wasn’t my job.”
“How old are you?” Strider asked Frodo.
“Twenty-two,” Frodo said softly. If this Ranger had no power to free him, he wished he would kindly go away because it was only making the guard angrier.
The Ranger stared at the guard. “You will be hearing from me again soon.”
As soon as the Ranger was out of sight, the guard yanked Frodo by the shoulder into a dark alley and shoved him against the wall. He punched Frodo hard in the stomach several times until Frodo keeled over, gasping for breath.
“That’s for squeaking to that Ranger.” He grabbed a handful of Frodo’s curls and yanked the hobbit’s face up so that their eyes met. “If you cause me to lose my livelihood, I will hunt you down and rip you apart. Do you understand, rat?”
Frodo could not take in enough breath to answer.
“I said,” the guard said, shaking Frodo. “Do you understand?”
Frodo nodded, eyes filling with tears. Confound the Ranger! He had caused nothing but trouble. Frodo finally managed to get in a few breaths.
The guard shoved him forward again, into the main street.
***
The sun beat down on the back of Frodo’s neck. He had retched several times, clutching his sore stomach. His stomach hurt so much, and he was nauseated, so terribly nauseated. He couldn’t stand anymore, and he certainly could not pick more mushrooms. If ever he had lost his taste for mushrooms, this would be the time.
“Frodo.” The woman’s soothing voice brought him back. Oh, dear. The farmer’s wife who was so kind would surely change her mind if she saw him shirking his work now. “Frodo, please wake up!”
She patted Frodo’s cheeks. “Oh, darling, you’re so sick.”
Frodo groaned, but he felt more pain build in his stomach. He did not want to throw up again, so he kept his eyes squeezed shut. The woman easily lifted Frodo like he was a cherished child and carried him into the cottage.
“What’s wrong with him?” Colin cried in dismay. “Is he hurt?”
“He’s very sick,” the woman said. “Now Colin, I want you to run next door and tell Alma that I have a very sick hobbit here and that I need for someone at her house to send for a healer.”
“No…” Frodo looked fearfully at the door. “No, they’ll hurt me.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“You don’t know…” Frodo gasped. “They’re very powerful.”
“My husband is going to stop this nonsense at once.” The farmer’s wife unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt, trying to cool him down. She gasped in dismay when she saw all the bruising. “Oh…oh…this isn’t to be borne. Did they do this to you in the jail?”
Frodo turned away in shame. His cheeks were so hot that he could not possibly ever meet the eyes of this woman who had been so kind.
***
“Where’s the sick halfling?” the healer came in, followed by – Frodo let out a quick gasp as he recognized the Ranger who had stopped them in the street.
“He collapsed out in the field, and it looks to me like he’s been badly beaten.” The farmer’s wife sounded furious. “Don’t they have any kind of rules they follow down at the jail? Why would they take it on themselves to be so brutal to this little fellow?”
The Ranger prodded at Frodo’s bruised belly, and Frodo tried to stop it, but he could not help but cry out. “And he is badly hurt. Broken ribs, some inside damage. We cannot move him, good lady.”
“He can stay here as long as he needs.”
“No,” Frodo said, looking toward the door fearfully. “He’ll come back.”
“You need not fear,” the Ranger said. “What was your crime again, Frodo?”
Frodo glanced shamefully at the farmer’s wife.
“I was foolish. I ran away from home—in the Shire – just so I could have an adventure – and I used up all my coins right away see. I didn’t know how expensive things were Outside. I was hungry and I am so sorry.” Tears filled his eyes. “I did not mean to steal from your crop.”
While Frodo was talking, Strider again prodded at Frodo’s injuries. One such touch caused Frodo to cry out in terrible pain.
“I fear there has been some inside damage.”
“There’s no harm done,” the farmer’s wife said, putting her hand on Frodo’s brow. “I can only imagine if it was one of my young ‘uns, lost in another land.”
“Frodo,” Strider asked. “I am going to ask you a difficult question.” Strider’s voice was gentle, but Frodo trembled under his stern eyes.
“Those guards,” Strider continued. “Did they hurt you in other ways, besides with their fists?”
“What do you mean?” Frodo asked, but he thought about all the filthy language the men in the cell next door had used against him, and he thought he might know what Strider was talking about. He bit his lip, the humiliation of being forced to undress so fresh in his mind.
“No,” he whispered. “They did not take me for sport.” Frodo closed his eyes, unable to meet the gaze of anyone in the room.
Strider released a breath of relief. He turned to the healer. “Put his feet up, under the pillows. I fear he’s in shock.”
***
When the farmer returned home, he seemed very put out by so many people in his place. Frodo’s heart hammered as the farmer turned a furious glance at him. “What’s the meaning of this?”
His wife grabbed his arm. “You will drop charges against this halfling at once! He’s suffered unbearable torture in that jail and I’ll not have him go back there. He’s just a lad!”
The farmer paled slightly at the sight of the terrible bruising on Frodo’s stomach. “They said.” The farmer swallowed, suddenly more humble. “They said they wouldn’t put him in with the men.”
“Oh,” the wife said, now roused with fury. “This was the guards themselves as did this. And he will not go back tonight.”
“No, he will not,” Strider said in a quiet voice, touching the hilt of his sword.
The farmer seemed mesmerized by Frodo’s injuries. “No…he shall not. I did not mean for it to go this far.” He swallowed again.
Strider nodded bluntly and turned back to Frodo. He put a cool cloth over Frodo’s head. “When you are well, I shall accompany you back home.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said, marveling that a Man that acted so stern and harsh, who had knives and swords hanging from his belt, speak in such a tender manner.
Strider bound soft cloth around Frodo’s stomach. “Yes,” he said softly to the healer. “This hobbit will recover nicely. He only needed to hear a kind word, it seemed. I have business I shall take care of at the jail tonight. This shall never happen again in Bree.”
They were interrupted by the farmer’s children rushing into the room, having just awakened from a nap. It took the healer, Strider, the farmer, and his wife to keep the children from eagerly pouncing on Frodo.
***
Frodo sat in Esmeralda’s favorite rocking chair. In his arms was the sweet bundle of hobbit babe that had been born just a month earlier. Frodo grinned down at his new cousin. He had completely recovered from his injuries, and even his ribs had stopped aching at night. He kissed the top of Pippin’s head, never so glad to be home as that moment.
“And I hope you never feel the itch for adventure like your foolish cousin!”
“Frodo!” Fatty Bolger ran in, out of breath. “There’re fresh buttered mushrooms in the kitchen. Put the babe down and come feast before anyone else gets wind of it!”
Frodo grimaced slightly, hoping Fatty didn’t notice. “Mushrooms? No thank you.”
Fatty of course did notice, and he looked at Frodo as if he had grown an extra eye. “No mushrooms? Do you feel well, Frodo?”
Frodo smiled. “I feel wonderful.”
And he did. He would someday get his taste back for mushrooms; Strider the Ranger had promised to visit soon; and most importantly, Bilbo, who had worried sick about him while he had been missing, had written to him, promising a wonderful surprise.
Frodo just hoped it was not another adventure.
END
Title: Thief
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn implied
Rating: PG13 to R
Summary: AU. Strider to the rescue when Frodo gets arrested for mushroom thieving in the village of three-guesses-and-the-first-two-don't-count :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Frodo’s stomach growled. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to run away from the chaos at Brandy Hall, to have an adventure of his own, like in Uncle Bilbo’s tales. Not that anyone would probably notice. A new Tookish cousin had just been born, a son by the name of Peregrin. The celebration was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away. Unfortunately, Frodo had not been thinking clearly, and he had only taken a few coins with him. He had used them already, buying wares from a farmer. The apple and baked bread had been tasty, but they had cost more than he had anticipated.
Just outside of the village of Bree, the sun was beginning to set. Frodo could hear the distant sound of laughter at an inn. He was not sure where he was going to sleep this night, for he had no coins for a room. Last night he had slept under the stars, but this night he was too close to the village, and he could not tell whether he was on someone’s property or not.
Frodo stepped through a field, enjoying the squish of mud between his toes. He gasped in pleasure when he looked down and saw button mushrooms -- clumps and clumps of them! Why, he must have stepped into a mushroom farm! He knew that hobbits lived near Bree, but he was in an area mostly inhabited by Big People. He had no idea that the Big People had any interest in farming mushrooms. Then again, they probably saw it as a grand opportunity to sell to the hobbits of Bree, who, if they were at all like Shire hobbits, could never get enough of them.
The light was dim, and the farmer’s house was far away. Frodo could see the faint glow of perhaps a lantern on a porch. Surely it was not wrong to snag a few mushrooms. Frodo could not help a smile. It had been a long time since he had stolen mushrooms from Farmer Maggot’s fields. There was no reason to, really, as he always had plenty to eat at Brandy Hall. His stomach grumbled as he wondered what sorts of foods were being served at Brandy Hall in celebration of the birth of his new cousin.
There might be roasted chicken, served with potatoes served with cream and herbs. There would be strawberries, honey and freshly baked bread. And pound cakes. The mushrooms would have melted butter on them, and they would be so hot, they would burn the tongue.
Well, it was no use wondering about the feasting at Brandy Hall. Frodo had made his choice, and he was not there. He plucked a mushroom from the ground, and held it in his palm. He glanced at the farmer’s house again. The sun had gone down considerably, and it was shadowy and still. He popped it in his mouth, and savored how it seemed to nearly melt in his mouth.
Frodo picked several more. He longed for a well or a creek nearby, because he would rather wash the dirt from the mushrooms before eating them. He was hungry enough now that he did not care as much as he should. He popped one after the other into his mouth. Once he began, he found he could not stop, and at last he gave into it and sat down, crossing his legs. He had lost track of how many he had picked, how many he had eaten, when a rough voice startled him.
“Having yourself a feast, are you?”
Frodo jumped, and his skin turned cold with fear. The mushrooms he had just eaten turned in his stomach. He could not answer – he only stared up into the angry eyes of the large, rough-looking man. He carried a large stick, wielding it as if he had intended to beat the intruder in his field.
“You been thieving my mushrooms, halfling?”
“No,” Frodo blurted, climbing to his feet. He was prepared to run, but he was not sure he would get far. His legs trembled so badly that he did not think he could get anywhere. He certainly couldn’t outrun a man.
The man stepped forward just slightly. “Looks to me like you’re having a real feast here.”
Frodo began to tremble, and he had that sickening feeling in his stomach that he was in deep, deep trouble and there was nobody around to help. He knew nothing about how the Big Folk handled such matters. Farmer Maggot had been stern with him, had even given him a sound beating, but deep inside, Frodo had known that he would not truly hurt him.
“You got coins to pay for it?” The farmer’s face was so harsh, so unyielding. Frodo’s face burned. He felt low and dirty, the worst kind of thief. This man did not know him. He saw only a hobbit stealing mushrooms.
“I’m sorry. I shall return anything I’ve taken.” As soon as Frodo said that, he flushed at the foolishness of the statement.
“I don’t think that’s possible, now, do you?” The farmer laughed, though his laughter was nasty and humorless. “I think you’re coming with me to speak to the lawmen.”
Frodo gasped in dismay as the farmer grabbed his upper arm and started marching through the ever darkening field. The idea of facing the lawmen of Bree sent terrors through him, and his heart battered against his chest.
“No,” Frodo said, barely able to get enough breath. “Please, I’ll do anything. If you want me to work…do not take me to them. Please!”
“You really should have thought about that before, shouldn’t you have?”
Frodo struggled, but the grip on his arm was strong, and soon his arm began to numb. They reached the main street of Bree. Some of the villagers stopped and stared as the farmer dragged Frodo along behind him. So far Frodo had seen no hobbits, and this was distressing indeed. Maybe it was just a rumor that hobbits lived in Bree.
Finally, the farmer shouted to a man who wore several weapons around his waist.
“Hoy, Appledore!” The farmer called out. “I’ve got something for you.”
“A hobbit?” The lawman said in surprise.
“Caught him thieving in my field. Do something with him.”
Frodo was too terrified to speak. He could only look into the beady eyes of the lawman.
“I’ll lock him up.”
Frodo’s chest constricted until he was certain he would faint. Black dots smattered in front of his eyes. “Please,” he managed. “I am sorry. I was hungry, and—“
“Stop your yapping,” the farmer said, shoving him at the lawman. “This’ll teach you a good lesson. That is, if you survive the night.” He laughed sharply.
“Eh, no need to go frightening the lad that badly. The jail’s not too bad. Haven’t put a hobbit in there in a long time, so you’ll get your own cell.”
The lawman took Frodo’s arm. He marched him down the street. Frodo’s eyes blurred. He would not weep, but his cheeks burned from the humiliation of it all. He could not believe that he, Frodo Baggins, who came from a good and respectable family, was being thrown in jail for thieving mushrooms in Bree.
“How…how…long will I be there?” Frodo managed.
“That will depend on when the mayor can hear your case.”
“How long is that? My family will worry.” Frodo was not sure when they would notice he was gone. And if they did, they might assume he had gone to Hobbiton to visit Bilbo. Oh, Bilbo would know what to do in this case. He would have some trick to get out of it. Had he not freed his dwarf companions from the wood elves’ prison so long ago?
“You from the Shire?” the Man asked with sudden interest. Frodo nodded, having no confidence that it would help his case.
“Then your family’ll have to come the day of the trial and speak on your behalf. You can write them a letter from jail, telling of your predicament.”
“Will it be that long?” Frodo’s throat clenched.
“It could be up to a month before they hear your trial.”
Frodo tried to keep the desperate cry from his lips, and it came out sounding like the mewl of a wounded animal.
Once inside the cottage built just above the underground jail cells, the lawman pushed Frodo into a chair.
“You’re a sorry sight, aren’t you, hobbit?”
Frodo trembled, but he did not answer. He was terrified that if he started to speak, that he would begin weeping. And he could not, would not do so.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Frodo shook his head and looked down. He would not make conversation with this man.
“I said, what’s your name?” Frodo looked up, frightened by the harsh tone in the lawman’s voice. He had a pen poised over some paper, and Frodo’s cheeks burned as he realized that the man was asking him his name for an official reason.
“Frodo,” he whispered.
“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
“Frodo,” he said. “Frodo Baggins.”
“I don’t know any Baggins in Bree. You from the Shire?”
Frodo nodded. He had a clear picture of what his family in Brandy Hall would be doing right now. They would be settling around the large table, eating until their stomachs were full. Fatty Bolger would steal extra tarts from the kitchen, and the women would shuttle him out, swatting his behind, yet nodding approvingly at the healthy hobbit’s appetite. Frodo’s eyes blurred, and he bit his lip so hard that he tasted salt.
“How old are you? I can’t never tell with your kind.”
“Twenty…twenty-two,” Frodo whispered.
The lawman studied Frodo carefully for a few moments, and for a second Frodo thought that he might take mercy on him, so contemplative was his look.
But then he looked down and jotted more notes down, muttering to himself, “Dark hair, blue eyes, cleft in chin. Slender.”
Frodo took a breath. “Please, sir. Would you let my family know?”
“I don’t have time for that, Mr. Baggins. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Frodo’s chest ached. The man might surely forget.
“Now come along,” the lawman said, pulling Frodo to his feet again.
***
The key turned with an ominous click, and Frodo felt the eyes of the men in the next cell.
“Lookee here, Burtly. What a pretty little thing! Think they’ll change their minds and put him in with us?”
Frodo sat on his cot, keeping his eyes downcast.
“Hey!” Burtly said. “I’m talking to you, rat!”
Frodo looked up. Three men leaned against the bars that divided his cell with the cell next to him. The one who had shouted, stuck his tongue out and rolled it between the bars in the most obscene of gestures. “That’s what I’d do to you, halfling, if I had you here.” He went on to describe every foul act he would like to experience with the hobbit.
Frodo shivered. His stomach constricted. He had not heard such loathsome language in his life.
“Leave me be,” he managed.
“Come here a minute,” Burtly said. “Come on over.”
“No,” Frodo said. He lay down on the cot and turned over, curling up with his back to the men next door. Several minutes passed in which he continued to hear filthy language and the men pounding on the bars.
Frodo didn’t think he could take it. He closed his eyes, still determined not to shed a tear. He was still hungry, and his stomach growled insistently. He wondered when his family would notice him missing. Perhaps tomorrow morning, perhaps not for another few days.
***
The next day, Frodo woke to more whistling and catcalling.
“Hoy, halfling, are you ready to work?” Bartly finally called out.
Frodo ignored the goading. He kept himself curled up into a tight ball, his back to the other cell. He heard the cell open and the sound of tin being dropped on the dirt floor. Frodo’s stomach growled, but he refused to move. He could not face the leering men.
“They’re gonna work you hard, just to watch you, you know. The guards are gonna find you tasty, guarantee it.”
“Ain’t you gonna eat your grub, halfling? I thought all your kind did is eat.”
Frodo’s head throbbed dully. He swallowed against the emptiness in his stomach. He was so chilled and cold, but yet he could not bear to move. If he did, he would have to face the crude men in the next cell. And he would be here an entire month. The thought clenched his throat.
The jail cell opened again, and Frodo flinched.
“Get up, hobbit,” a rough voice said.
Frodo peered nervously over his shoulder. One of the guards holding a whip stood over him. Frodo’s heart banged terribly at the knowledge that the guard had come into his cell with the intention of possibly having to use the whip on him.
“I said, get up,” the man repeated. His eyes were hard and unfriendly.
Frodo heaved himself up on trembling arms and turned to face him. Men in the next cell started to whistle. Frodo’s cheeks heated, but the guard yelled, “Shut your mouths all of you, unless you want to taste the whip!”
“Why don’t you disrobe that halfling there and whip him for us!” A mocking voice called.
The guard ignored him, and glared down at Frodo. “What kind of work are you fit for?”
“Work?” Frodo looked up at him, puzzled.
“Yeah, work.” The guard spit on the floor of the cell. “You’re here for abouts a month, I hear, and if you think you just get to sit here, then you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Why…why, I do not know.”
“What did you do for a living?”
Frodo looked up at this man, not comprehending. He had not yet come of age and had not been expected to do anything other than help with chores in Brandy Hall as needed.
The guard slapped Frodo across the face. “Don’t stare at me like you’re simple, halfling. Answer the question!”
Frodo held his stinging cheek, stunned into silence, unable to comprehend that anyone had hit him with such casual violence.
“Nothing…I was not old enough yet.”
“Well aren’t you a soft little thing. Well, around here, that ain’t gonna work. You’ll be sent to do chores for the farmer that you stole from no doubt.” He suddenly noticed the tin plate full of the untouched food.
“What’s the matter? The jail food ain’t good enough for the likes of you?”
“I’m not hungry,” Frodo said quietly, and it was the truth now.
The guard sneered. “That’s a change, a hobbit who doesn’t stuff his fat face at every given opportunity. Now get up and follow me.”
***
Frodo was taken to the farmer’s house. First he had to endure the most humiliating experience of being led with his hands bound behind him through the village. Everyone stared, and this time there were hobbits around and they stared with great interest at the unfamiliar hobbit prisoner. Frodo kept his eyes downcast.
The guard left Frodo with the farmer with the parting words of, “I think you can handle this little runt. If he gives you any trouble, you have my full permission to beat him.”
The farmer nodded. Frodo was led into the living area, where the farmer’s wife and two children ate fresh strawberries and cream.
“Why hello!” The farmer’s wife said to Frodo in a friendly voice.
“Don’t be too friendly to him. He stole off our crop and now he’s in jail, working for us.”
Frodo kept his eyes down. He could not believe how deep his shame went. He had never been made to feel like such filth.
“But look at the little thing,” the woman said. A soft hand was suddenly on Frodo’s chin. “It looks like he’s been beaten. That ain’t right and you know it!”
“A few whacks to the face won’t hurt this thief,” the farmer said coldly.
The children, a boy and girl, both under the age of five, both played with the curls on Frodo’s feet. Frodo’s heart ached as he thought about his young cousins, particularly of Merry, whom he loved best. He managed a shy smile at the children, and they giggled.
“You look funny,” the little girl said and giggled.
“Thank you,” Frodo said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “So do you!” he added teasingly. The children giggled delightfully.
“Do not speak to my children,” the farmer said shortly, yanking Frodo by the arm toward the back door. Frodo was out in the field where he had been captured just the night before.
“Your job will be to pick as many of the mushrooms from now until sunset. If I catch you eating any or if you try to run away, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life. Is that clear?”
Frodo nodded, knowing that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that even if the farmer wanted to do it on a whim.
At first it wasn’t too bad. The morning air was cool, and Frodo far preferred the lonely job to sitting in a jail cell being sneered at by harsh men. After a time, his hobbit nature came into play and he nearly forgot his troubles as he sang a bit of a song that Bilbo had taught him. After all, this wasn’t too bad – fresh earth beneath his feet, the sun on his back, and nobody around. He could nearly forget he was imprisoned.
Hours later, the farmer’s wife waved to him from the porch, and Frodo dragged the sack of mushrooms that he had so far picked with him.
“I’ve made some lunch,” she said. “My husband said to only give you a slice of bread, but he’s not here and that didn’t seem right to me.”
Frodo smiled gratefully at her. He was indeed hungry.
“You wash yourself outside with that there pump.”
Frodo was embarrassed by how filthy his nice clothes were from sleeping outdoors one night, sleeping in a jail cell another night, and working in the field all day. He probably did not smell too good, either, but there was nothing he could do about that. He washed himself the best he could and came inside with the kind woman and her two children.
The children squealed with delight when Frodo came in, and Frodo found a wide grin spreading over his face.
“What are your names?” he asked eagerly.
“I’m Colin,” the boy piped up. “And this is my sister Lena!”
Frodo kept his face very sober as he shook Colin’s hand and said, “Good day to you, Lena.”
The children giggled again. “That’s not Lena!” the girl said. “That’s me!”
“Oh,” Frodo said with mock interest. “Then you must be Colin.”
“No!” They both shouted, collapsing into giggles. The farmer’s wife smiled.
“Come along to the table then, all of you.”
Once settled around the table, Frodo’s stomach growled in anticipation of eating the delicious stew the woman had fixed.
“You’re not much older than a child yourself, are you?” the woman asked.
“I am twenty-two,” Frodo said proudly, pushing a spoonful of the savory stew into his mouth. It was a delicious blend of herbs and potatoes and vegetables.
“But that’s still a child among your kind, isn’t it?”
“Well, not exactly. More like a tween, which is not precisely the same thing,” Frodo said. “But I’m not likely to grow any more.”
“You’re tall for a hobbit,” the woman said. “And fair. Then again, we don’t know much about Shire hobbits here in Bree.”
Frodo nodded to his spoon. “The stew is very tasty. Thank you. And we don’t know much about the Outside.”
The farmer’s wife smiled sadly. “I apologize for my husband’s treatment of you. He’s been so bitter since our oldest son died.”
“Oh,” Frodo said, his heart sinking. “I am sorry.”
“No matter to you,” the woman said. “He drowned not too far from here.”
Frodo swallowed, suddenly unable to eat more. He could still picture all too clearly the night ten years ago when he had seen his parents after they had been dragged in from the Brandywine.
Just after lunch, the farmer’s wife bid Frodo watch the children while she did some washing, and Frodo had a wonderful time playing a game that Colin had invented that involved sticks and dirt.
Frodo leaned back on his heels, and a feeling of contentment washed over him. Then his stomach sank, as he knew he had to return to the jail that night and face the filthy men next door.
“You best get on out there in the field,” the woman finally said. “He’ll be home at any time and it wouldn’t do you any good to be in the house playing with the children.”
Frodo nodded and bowed. “Thank you, dear lady.”
The children giggled at this, and the woman patted his shoulder. “Poor dear,” she muttered.
Frodo continued to pick more mushrooms. His back now ached and he was uncomfortably hot. He wished he had some water more than anything, but he did not dare go back to the house to ask for some. It seemed that the sun would never set. At last the farmer came out to him.
“You been eating any of my crop?” he demanded. Frodo shook his head, but he looked into the man’s eyes and felt sorry for him. He had bent all his grief for his son into such a nasty demeanor.
“Good thing for your sake. The lawman is waiting for you.”
Outside the cottage, the lawman bound Frodo’s hands again and shoved him forward. “Heard a good report of you,” he said. “Good thing.” Frodo did not answer. He kept his eyes downcast, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Nobody had mentioned sending a message to his family yet, and this disturbed him greatly.
Once inside his cell, the harassment started up again immediately.
“Hey, halfling, if you don’t come over here immediately, it’s gonna go ill for you if I ever see you around town later. Best come now.”
“Why don’t you strip down for us?”
This time the guards got in on it because they laughed along with the teasing and calling. Then one of them came into Frodo’s cell and turned to the others. “You wanna see a show?”
There was cheering and whistling. Frodo looked at the guard in alarm.
The guard looked down at him. “Take off your clothes, hobbit.”
Frodo looked at him with a half smile, hoping beyond hope that he was joking. Surely he did not seriously mean it.
The guard drew his sword and placed the tip under Frodo’s throat. “Do as I say.”
Frodo felt numb with terror and humiliation. With trembling hands he unbuttoned his vest. He squeezed back the tears from his eyes. This had to end. Just had to end.
He looked up into the guard’s eyes to search for any amount of compassion that might be there – and saw nothing. Just a cruel hardness that delighted in watching one weaker and powerless suffer under his torture. Frodo let out a miserable sigh and peeled off his vest, painfully aware of the sword still under his chin.
The men were making noises, banging on the cells with delight.
“Go on, then,” the guard said. “Keep going.”
Frodo slipped his braces off his shoulder and tucked out his shirt. His numb fingers fumbled with his buttons, wondering in all seriousness what would happen if he refused. Would the guard really slay him? Perhaps not, but he could probably find a way to make his life miserable. The rich lunch that he had enjoyed at the farmer’s house churned ominously in his belly.
“I never seen such soft skin,” the guard said. “Do all hobbits have such skin, like a lass? I guess all the hair that belongs on your chest grows on your feet.” At this, all the men laughed. Frodo’s cheeks burned as he slipped his shirt off and let it fall behind him in a wad. Perhaps they would let it go at this. The guard would surely not let it go forward.
Suddenly he realized that there was truly nothing he could do about it. He was utterly powerless. The least he could do is face it with dignity. He stood tall and lifted his chin. He could not show these men just how upset he was.
The guard’s sword moved away from Frodo’s chin. The guard swiped Frodo’s button, slicing the threads so that the button went skittering across the dirt ground. Frodo clutched at his breeches.
“Let them go, hobbit,” the guard said mockingly. “We must see if it’s true what they say about large hobbit feet and the proportions of other body parts.”
The men snickered at that last.
Frodo clenched his jaw and held his chin up. He clenched his breeches, holding them up at his waist, certain that there could be no worse humiliation.
***
Frodo tried to hide his limp as he walked bound before the guard. This was the same guard as the morning earlier, though not the same that had made him undress and then had beaten him when he refused to drop his breeches.
Every breath hurt so badly, and he wondered how he could possibly labor in the field all day. He let out a shuddering sigh.
“What ails you, halfling? Sore from actually working yesterday?”
“I suppose so,” Frodo whispered. He had no way of knowing if the guards were close friends.
“Well you best get used to it.” The guard let out a sudden groan. “And here comes the last of em that I want to deal with.”
Frodo looked up, and felt an immediate chill. A large man dressed mostly in greens and browns and filthy boots walked in their direction. Unlike most of the shorter, squat men of Bree, this man was lean and tall. He looked like one of the warriors of the Big Folk that Bilbo had described in his adventures. He carried several weapons around his waist. Frodo’s throat clenched as he felt the phantom point of sword up against his throat from the night before.
“Who is he?” Frodo heard himself whisper. He immediately regretted it, as the guard was not going to take kindly to hobbity chatter in any form.
“One of them rangers,” the guard said. “Always causing trouble and asking suspicious questions.”
“Hoy,” the ranger said. Keen eyes fixed on Frodo. “What have you got here this time?” His voice became dry, yet maintained a low, dangerous quality. “Better tie him up even tighter. He looks dangerous.”
“You know I have to,” the guard said. “He’s nothing but a thief.”
“Why do not the little folk deal with him?”
“He ain’t from around here. He’s from the Shire.”
“The Shire?” The Ranger’s eyes sharpened.
Frodo’s cheeks burned. He could not understand why this Ranger would take so much of an interest in him.
“Farmer Dolen caught him thieving mushrooms from his field and shoved him at me. Now let me be. I’ve got to get him up to the good farmer’s house so he can put in a good day’s work.”
“Wait.” The Ranger knelt in front of Frodo. Frodo’s heart thudded so fast that the outside world seemed far away. His hand brushed over Frodo’s cheek. “He is bruised. How did this happen?”
“Oh, the little ra— one probably fell on his face. Not my concern.”
Strider’s eyes fixed on the guard, and the hardness in them gave Frodo the chills. “It will be your concern if it turns out this hobbit is being mistreated in your jail. I do not like this arrangement at all. He should be sent back to his own people for judgment.” Strider looked back at Frodo. “What is your name?”
“Frodo. Frodo Baggins. I’m from Buckland, in the Shire. Please…nobody knows where I am.”
“Is this true?” Strider asked the guard, now climbing to his feet. “Was this lad not allowed to contact with his family?”
“I have no idea,” the guard said. “It wasn’t my job.”
“How old are you?” Strider asked Frodo.
“Twenty-two,” Frodo said softly. If this Ranger had no power to free him, he wished he would kindly go away because it was only making the guard angrier.
The Ranger stared at the guard. “You will be hearing from me again soon.”
As soon as the Ranger was out of sight, the guard yanked Frodo by the shoulder into a dark alley and shoved him against the wall. He punched Frodo hard in the stomach several times until Frodo keeled over, gasping for breath.
“That’s for squeaking to that Ranger.” He grabbed a handful of Frodo’s curls and yanked the hobbit’s face up so that their eyes met. “If you cause me to lose my livelihood, I will hunt you down and rip you apart. Do you understand, rat?”
Frodo could not take in enough breath to answer.
“I said,” the guard said, shaking Frodo. “Do you understand?”
Frodo nodded, eyes filling with tears. Confound the Ranger! He had caused nothing but trouble. Frodo finally managed to get in a few breaths.
The guard shoved him forward again, into the main street.
***
The sun beat down on the back of Frodo’s neck. He had retched several times, clutching his sore stomach. His stomach hurt so much, and he was nauseated, so terribly nauseated. He couldn’t stand anymore, and he certainly could not pick more mushrooms. If ever he had lost his taste for mushrooms, this would be the time.
“Frodo.” The woman’s soothing voice brought him back. Oh, dear. The farmer’s wife who was so kind would surely change her mind if she saw him shirking his work now. “Frodo, please wake up!”
She patted Frodo’s cheeks. “Oh, darling, you’re so sick.”
Frodo groaned, but he felt more pain build in his stomach. He did not want to throw up again, so he kept his eyes squeezed shut. The woman easily lifted Frodo like he was a cherished child and carried him into the cottage.
“What’s wrong with him?” Colin cried in dismay. “Is he hurt?”
“He’s very sick,” the woman said. “Now Colin, I want you to run next door and tell Alma that I have a very sick hobbit here and that I need for someone at her house to send for a healer.”
“No…” Frodo looked fearfully at the door. “No, they’ll hurt me.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“You don’t know…” Frodo gasped. “They’re very powerful.”
“My husband is going to stop this nonsense at once.” The farmer’s wife unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt, trying to cool him down. She gasped in dismay when she saw all the bruising. “Oh…oh…this isn’t to be borne. Did they do this to you in the jail?”
Frodo turned away in shame. His cheeks were so hot that he could not possibly ever meet the eyes of this woman who had been so kind.
***
“Where’s the sick halfling?” the healer came in, followed by – Frodo let out a quick gasp as he recognized the Ranger who had stopped them in the street.
“He collapsed out in the field, and it looks to me like he’s been badly beaten.” The farmer’s wife sounded furious. “Don’t they have any kind of rules they follow down at the jail? Why would they take it on themselves to be so brutal to this little fellow?”
The Ranger prodded at Frodo’s bruised belly, and Frodo tried to stop it, but he could not help but cry out. “And he is badly hurt. Broken ribs, some inside damage. We cannot move him, good lady.”
“He can stay here as long as he needs.”
“No,” Frodo said, looking toward the door fearfully. “He’ll come back.”
“You need not fear,” the Ranger said. “What was your crime again, Frodo?”
Frodo glanced shamefully at the farmer’s wife.
“I was foolish. I ran away from home—in the Shire – just so I could have an adventure – and I used up all my coins right away see. I didn’t know how expensive things were Outside. I was hungry and I am so sorry.” Tears filled his eyes. “I did not mean to steal from your crop.”
While Frodo was talking, Strider again prodded at Frodo’s injuries. One such touch caused Frodo to cry out in terrible pain.
“I fear there has been some inside damage.”
“There’s no harm done,” the farmer’s wife said, putting her hand on Frodo’s brow. “I can only imagine if it was one of my young ‘uns, lost in another land.”
“Frodo,” Strider asked. “I am going to ask you a difficult question.” Strider’s voice was gentle, but Frodo trembled under his stern eyes.
“Those guards,” Strider continued. “Did they hurt you in other ways, besides with their fists?”
“What do you mean?” Frodo asked, but he thought about all the filthy language the men in the cell next door had used against him, and he thought he might know what Strider was talking about. He bit his lip, the humiliation of being forced to undress so fresh in his mind.
“No,” he whispered. “They did not take me for sport.” Frodo closed his eyes, unable to meet the gaze of anyone in the room.
Strider released a breath of relief. He turned to the healer. “Put his feet up, under the pillows. I fear he’s in shock.”
***
When the farmer returned home, he seemed very put out by so many people in his place. Frodo’s heart hammered as the farmer turned a furious glance at him. “What’s the meaning of this?”
His wife grabbed his arm. “You will drop charges against this halfling at once! He’s suffered unbearable torture in that jail and I’ll not have him go back there. He’s just a lad!”
The farmer paled slightly at the sight of the terrible bruising on Frodo’s stomach. “They said.” The farmer swallowed, suddenly more humble. “They said they wouldn’t put him in with the men.”
“Oh,” the wife said, now roused with fury. “This was the guards themselves as did this. And he will not go back tonight.”
“No, he will not,” Strider said in a quiet voice, touching the hilt of his sword.
The farmer seemed mesmerized by Frodo’s injuries. “No…he shall not. I did not mean for it to go this far.” He swallowed again.
Strider nodded bluntly and turned back to Frodo. He put a cool cloth over Frodo’s head. “When you are well, I shall accompany you back home.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said, marveling that a Man that acted so stern and harsh, who had knives and swords hanging from his belt, speak in such a tender manner.
Strider bound soft cloth around Frodo’s stomach. “Yes,” he said softly to the healer. “This hobbit will recover nicely. He only needed to hear a kind word, it seemed. I have business I shall take care of at the jail tonight. This shall never happen again in Bree.”
They were interrupted by the farmer’s children rushing into the room, having just awakened from a nap. It took the healer, Strider, the farmer, and his wife to keep the children from eagerly pouncing on Frodo.
***
Frodo sat in Esmeralda’s favorite rocking chair. In his arms was the sweet bundle of hobbit babe that had been born just a month earlier. Frodo grinned down at his new cousin. He had completely recovered from his injuries, and even his ribs had stopped aching at night. He kissed the top of Pippin’s head, never so glad to be home as that moment.
“And I hope you never feel the itch for adventure like your foolish cousin!”
“Frodo!” Fatty Bolger ran in, out of breath. “There’re fresh buttered mushrooms in the kitchen. Put the babe down and come feast before anyone else gets wind of it!”
Frodo grimaced slightly, hoping Fatty didn’t notice. “Mushrooms? No thank you.”
Fatty of course did notice, and he looked at Frodo as if he had grown an extra eye. “No mushrooms? Do you feel well, Frodo?”
Frodo smiled. “I feel wonderful.”
And he did. He would someday get his taste back for mushrooms; Strider the Ranger had promised to visit soon; and most importantly, Bilbo, who had worried sick about him while he had been missing, had written to him, promising a wonderful surprise.
Frodo just hoped it was not another adventure.
END