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Apr. 18th, 2003 01:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Here is the f_h story that I promised...la la la I"m so productive even though I have tons of schoolwork to do over weekend...
Title: A Day at the Market
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo gets into a little trouble in a Bree market
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Story notes: Me and Bree. Never a good combo for Frodo.
A Day at the Market
On the first day of June, the sun came out fierce and hot as it had the last few days. Frodo peered out the round window of the inn, where he and Bilbo had spent the night.
“Today will be a splendid day for market!”
“Well, that is good,” Bilbo said, shuffling around the room, getting dressed. “For I hope to get all I need today. I would not want to spend another day here. I do not love the village of Bree.”
“Why not?” Frodo asked in surprise. “It’s so different from Hobbiton, so full of bustle! And the Big People! Why will you not let me into the Common Room to meet one?”
“You’ve met Butterbur, and he’s a fine fellow, a friend of Gandalf’s, if you can believe it. I get much information from him of what is going on in world Outside. But Bree’s gone downhill in his reckoning. There used to be a fair population of hobbits here in Bree, but they’ve mostly settled in the village of Staddle and keep to themselves. There’s been some mean folk who have settled in Bree as of late, and they’ve caused dear Butterbur a lot of grief. He’s the one as suggested we stay up in our room most of the time we’re here.”
Frodo’s face fell. “That is too bad. Is this the case with all villages of Men?”
Bilbo held up too vests, peering at each, trying to decide which to wear. “No dear lad. There are great cities of Men far to the south, full of Men noble and fair. Take the city of Minas Tirith, for example. Now which one—the blue or the gray?”
“Are there hobbits there?” Frodo pointed to the gray. “And the gray becomes you better.”
Bilbo laughed, and flung the blue vest on the bed. “No, my boy. I am quite certain that nobody in Minas Tirith has ever heard of a hobbit.”
“Never heard of a hobbit?” Frodo asked in disbelief. “Why, how can that be?”
Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s hair. “Get dressed, Frodo. We have much to gather at market. I am hoping there will be some dwarves selling their wares here.”
“What about elves?” Frodo asked eagerly.
“I doubt that. Elves rarely pass through Bree.”
Frodo sighed as he pulled on his breeches and clipped his braces to them. He was already sweating, and he wished he had brought a cooler shirt, but he had grabbed the thick linen in haste before they had left Hobbiton. They had not anticipated that it would get so hot. But despite the heat and despite what Bilbo had said about Bree, Frodo was in a fine mood this morning, eager to stare upon the bustling crowds.
Butterbur brought breakfast to their room. He smiled at them as he set the cutlery and steaming platters on the table. “How are you this morning, Masters Bagginses?”
“Just wonderful, thank you,” Frodo said, sniffing in the scent of bacon and hotcakes. “And this looks lovely. We’re going to market today, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” Butterbur said, fanning himself. “And a hotter day you couldn’t have chosen. I don’t think it’s been this hot for years this early in the summer. I hope they’ll have some fine things for you to take home. There haven’t been many hobbit vendors lately, I have to tell you.”
“If I want hobbit items, I will shop in the Shire,” Bilbo said with a chuckle. “I’m looking for the outlandish.”
“Well, good luck to both of you. It’s been mighty nice having hobbits out of the Shire here. A rare treat. It’s a pity I had to recommend you not come to the Common Room.” He shook his head in dismay. “It’s been rough in there lately. Just last week, I had a fight break out. It cost me my whole week’s earnings to fix the damage those fellows caused!”
“Good luck to you, too,” Bilbo said. “Come, Frodo, are you ready?”
Frodo and Bilbo ventured into the street, which was quite active by this early in the morning. Frodo was impatient with Bilbo’s languorous gait, and he found himself wishing that he could bolt forward on his own. He shouldn’t, though, since he didn’t know how he would ever find Bilbo if they separated. Three boys of about eleven or twelve tore past them, and Frodo marveled to see such young boys who were nearly a foot taller than he was.
But mostly he was drawn to the shoes that the Big Folk wore. All kinds of shapes and sizes. Some were so old and worn that the heavy threads were coming apart, allowing the soles to flap with every step. Some new and shiny. Some were boots, some were sandals. On a hot day like this, it had to be most unpleasant to have something covering their feet so thoroughly. Even the curls on Frodo’s feet felt too warm for this type of heat.
So immersed in staring at feet was he that he slammed into something unyielding, which knocked him on his backside into the dusty street.
“Watch where yer going, runt!” a gruff voice said before kicking him in the side and moving on. The kick had not been hard enough to hurt him, but Frodo found tears welling up in his eyes anyway. There was no need to be so rude. If this had happened in Hobbiton, there would have been many apologies from both ends, the one who had knocked the other down would have helped the other up.
He craned his head behind him, wondering why Bilbo hadn’t said or done anything, and then realized that Bilbo was nowhere in sight.
Frodo climbed to his feet, no thanks to anyone’s help, the excitement of the day partially gone. He wiped the dust from his breeches the best he could, and rubbed his side where the man had kicked him. Bilbo could not have gotten far, as there were only limited streets full of vendors. But for a hobbit to search through crowds of Big Folk for another hobbit was going to be a challenge.
“Bilbo!” he yelled, turning in a circle. He was jostled and nearly knocked down again. The crowds were thickening. He could scarcely breathe because of being hemmed into the crowd in the heat.
“Come now, dear, you’re apt to get hurt,” an older woman steered Frodo out of the middle of the narrow walkway so that he was pressed against a stone wall.
“Have you seen—“ Frodo started to ask her, but she had bustled on.
Frodo pressed on the best he could. He was beginning to feel hungry. He guessed that the best thing he could do if he couldn’t find Bilbo soon would be to return to the inn and wait there. But he was not even sure how to get back to the inn, and people were walking by too quickly for him to ask.
He approached a booth that sold fresh slices of bread and fruit. He took a slice of bread and nibbled on it, trying to get the attention of the vendor.
“Yes?” the man finally asked in irritation. He was short for one of the Big People, but he had broad shoulders and a bushy beard.
“Could you direct me toward Butterbur’s inn?” Frodo asked.
“Who?”
“The Prancing Pony.”
“Most of the hobbit stuff is down about that way.” The man pointed in a vague direction.
“No,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I want to get to the Prancing Pony.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, halfling. And that will be 5 small coins for the bread you took.” The man held out a stubby hand toward Frodo.
Frodo’s heart nearly stopped, and he blinked, unable to speak. He had no coins with him. He was so accustomed to markets in Hobbiton, where everyone knew him. If he nibbled the food, the vendors either let it go or charged Bilbo for it later. He hadn’t thought anything of doing the same thing here in Bree, where nobody knew him.
“I’ll have to find my uncle,” Frodo said in a muffled voice, backing into the crowd. The bread had formed a hard ball in his throat. He could not bear to be yelled at by this strange man who towered over him.
The vendor’s voice was thundering. “THIEF!” He pointed to Frodo. “Hobbit thief!”
Strong hands gripped his upper arms, practically lifting him off the ground. Frodo could do nothing but gasp. Struggling would be in vain.
The vendor turned to a second man in his booth, who was watching the scene with a grin. “Watch the stand. I’m gonna take care of this.”
“Please,” Frodo said, breathing so fast that he could barely get the words out. “My uncle…he has coins…will pay for the bread.”
“Give him to me,” The vendor snatched Frodo’s arm and dragged him through the crowd. Frodo was slammed into people, sometimes lifted off his feet, and always there was the relentless grip on his arm. He could barely see anything as tears filled his eyes. What would happen to him here? Bilbo had said Bree had filled with mean folk.
“I hope that bread tasted good,” the vendor said to him with a sneer. “’Cause that’s all you’ll get the rest of the day.”
In the center of the main street, a rickety platform was set up. Already a miserable group of people sat on chairs on the platform. Their feet were bound to the legs of the chairs, which were bolted into the platform, and their hands were bound behind them. Three young men, a boy child of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, an old man, and a teenage girl. Some looked defiant and some kept their faces down in misery. Sweat poured down their faces. There was no shade.
A man patrolled the rickety platform holding a whip. He turned in interest as the vendor yanked Frodo up the stairs and threw him on the floor of the platform.
“This is where we put thieves. You get to sit here all day until sundown.”
“Whaddaya got now?” the man with the whip asked. “A halfling? That’s new.”
“This little runt nabbed some bread from me.”
Rough arms thrust Frodo into the empty chair next to a young man with long blond hair and an unkempt beard. Frodo’s arms were yanked behind him none too gently, and he bit back a cry as rope was bound tightly around his wrists, cutting into them.
“Didn’t think you halflings ever did nothing wrong,” the man with the whip said, bending to tie Frodo’s ankles.
Frodo was unprepared for the utter humiliation of sitting on this platform in front of the crowds of shoppers. Everyone on the streets pointed and laughed. Some threw rotten fruit. If only Bilbo would come and demand he be released. There was no sign of the older hobbit in all the crowd. The idea of his dear uncle seeing him in such a humiliating position made him even more miserable. Bilbo was right. Bree was a horrible village. He wanted more than anything just to go home to Hobbiton.
The sun grew hotter and more intense, and Frodo felt very thirsty.
“Excuse me,” Frodo said softly to the man next to him. The man did not look at him, but Frodo knew he was listening. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I only wonder if they would give us water.”
“This is my third time up here, halfling, and they don’t give you nothing. So you jes might as well sit tight and enjoy the view.”
“Is it really all day?” Frodo asked, a lump filling his throat. It was only late morning. The idea of sitting in this hard chair in the hot sun until sundown…he didn’t think he could bear it.
“You’re lucky if they don’t keep you later,” the man answered. “Now you jes be quiet, hear? I’m not here to chat, and if yer smart, you won’t, neither. Like I said, they don’t give you nothing to ease your thirst, even on a hot day like today.”
Frodo swallowed painfully. He had been thirsty even before he had taken the bread. The sun beat on his fair skin with such ferocity that he knew he would be as red as a tomato the next day. He could only hope that Bilbo would find him up here and somehow be able to get him released. But there was no sign of Bilbo. Nothing but derision came from the crowds. A young boy, egged on by his mother, threw an apple at Frodo, and it barely missed Frodo’s head.
Frodo could not bear to watch the crowds any longer. Tears leaked from his eyes and he hung his head so that his chin rested on his chest. His wrists had gone numb from the rope, and his shoulders ached dreadfully.
“I wouldn’t waste your liquids on that, neither,” the man next to him said. “How old are ya? I can’t never tell with halflings.”
Frodo didn’t answer. He did not want to waste conversation on one who would be hostile toward him.
“Please…water,” Frodo heard the old man say in a croaked voice. Frodo felt sorry for him. Old people were especially sensitive to the heat. Frodo’s stomach turned with nausea.
“Will they not have mercy on that old man at least?” Frodo asked quietly. The man next to him laughed but did not answer.
After what could have been an hour or maybe two, the young boy and young girl were released.
“They only keep kids half a day,” the man said. “That’s their style of mercy. My name’s Jul, by the way.”
“Frodo Baggins at your service,” Frodo whispered, though he had to keep swallowing because he had that funny bile taste that always filled his throat just before he threw up. A weird dizziness made him disconnected, and the roar of the crowd seemed far away. His cheeks felt hot and burned, though surprisingly he was not sweating hardly at all.
The man craned to look at him. “You don’t look so hot.”
Frodo managed a smile, though his lips felt cracked and painful. “Actually, I’m very hot.”
The man laughed. “A sense of humor. I like that. Ha. You and I should work together when we’re done. I’m so heavy footed—that’s how I get caught every time. I could use a halfling to get into small places real quiet like.”
“We’ll see,” Frodo said. He did not want to anger the man who was finally becoming friendly toward him. Now his stomach was truly sick. He bent forward and to the side as far as he could as to avoid messing his clothes and threw up.
“Easy there,” Jul said. “Don’t wanna waste your liquids on that, neither.”
Frodo wanted to rest his head back on something, but the chair’s back only came to his neck. He had never felt so sick before. He let out a loud groan.
“You sick, halfling?” the man holding the whip said. He looked like the idea amused him. Frodo did not want to give him the satisfaction of laughing at him.
“No,” he said as his stomach cramped again.
The man’s face became serious. “Then you’d better not mess up my platform again or you’ll taste my whip. Understand?”
Frodo could already feel that he was going to throw up again.
“Yes, I’m sick. Could I please have some water?”
The man with the whip laughed. He held up a canteen to his own lips. “You mean like this?”
Frodo licked his lips. He could not believe anyone could be so cruel. His stomach turned, first slowly then more rapidly, and he now only wished the man would move on so that he could be sick in private.
“Umm…tasty,” the man said, gulping water from his canteen.
Jul muttered something under his breath.
“Whatdya say?” the man with the whip turned away from Frodo and grabbed Jul’s chin. Frodo threw up again, and a ringing filled his ears. Something was badly wrong with him. Jul was sweating profusely. The old man was trembling, but he was also sweating. The man with the whip was sweating. Frodo felt hot and completely dry. Why was he not sweating? He was surely just as hot.
Everything dimmed and became dark. Frodo was sitting on the bench outside Bag End. His back hurt something fierce and he was hot, so hot. Because Uncle Bilbo had set a fire under the bench.
“To keep it warm, lad. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”
“But it’s summer, how can that be?” Frodo asked in surprise. The sun was a hot ball in the sky. It was impossible that it could snow. “I don’t think this is necessary. And it’s so hot. My skin feels so hot.”
“Then come on in and have some soup. I’ve made it fresh.”
The flowers in the garden came into sharp focus, and they were no longer flowers but crowds of swarming people in a market place in Bree. He groaned. “Bilbo, what time is it?”
“Still afternoon,” Jul said. “We’ve got a ways to go. You’re real sick, ain’t ya?”
“Where’s Bilbo?”
“Hey!” Jul suddenly shouted to the man with the whip, making Frodo jump. The man with the whip strode over to them and stood threateningly in front of Jul.
“What do ya want?”
“This halfling’s really sick. I’d take him down.”
“Oh, is he?” the man with the whip sneered. He grabbed a section of Frodo’s curly hair, yanking the hobbit’s head up to face him. He touched Frodo’s brow. “He’s not even sweating.” He released Frodo’s hair.
“It’s yer call, but remember the rangers’ll be down yer throat if you kill a halfling.”
“Piss on the rangers,” The man with the whip said. “And if you don’t keep your trap shut, both of you’ll stay out here all night, too.”
“Thank you,” Frodo whispered weakly after the man with the whip walked away. His tongue felt furry, like it did not belong in his mouth. His stomach cramped again. “Oh no, oh no.” He was too weak to lean over this time, and what little that was left in his stomach came out on his shirt. Bilbo would be so upset with him. Not only had he been too stupid to realize that a Bree market was not like one in Hobbiton, but he was being punished for all to see. Bilbo would never be able to show his face in Bree again.
Frodo was falling into a black hole. That is where Bilbo would throw him. Down the well behind the Gamgees’ place. There would be no relief. Only fiery heat and darkness.
***
Strider the ranger had not entered Bree in many weeks, but he wanted to gather supplies on market day before heading out into the wild on an extended mission. The villagers did not like rangers. They called him names behind his back, though if they knew his hearing was sharp enough to hear them, they would not dare. Most stayed clear of him.
He strode past the platform where they put thieves, shaking his head. It was uncivilized the way they handled such crime. Most people in Bree were not hardened criminals, only people who were desperate to eat. Occasionally, he knew that the brute man with the whip lashed them, though it appeared that today the intense heat was enough of a punishment. Strider’s eyes were drawn to a small figure slumped over in the chair, seemingly unconscious. The hairy feet gave him away as a hobbit, not a human child. Strider was stunned. Hobbits almost never stole. They were the most law-abiding of the folk of the North.
But thief or not, the hobbit didn’t look good. Strider disliked drawing so much attention to himself, but in this case, he deemed it necessary. He leaped on the platform, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“What is this?” The man with the whip curled his lip and held his whip up.
“Do you mean to use that on me?” Strider asked in a deadly tone. He looked down at the hobbit at the corner of his eye, and saw that he was indeed unconscious. “Why are you holding a sick hobbit?”
“Because he’s a thief and that’s our rule in these parts. He’s gotta sit out here till sundown.”
Strider lifted the hobbit’s chin. The hobbit’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his head was a limp weight in Strider’s hand. His skin was flushed and dry, impossibly hot to the touch. His shirt reeked of vomit, making Strider’s stomach turn. He felt for a pulse on the hobbit’s burning neck. The pulse was strong, but it was far too rapid. The hobbit had the heat sickness and judging by how high his temperature felt, he was near death.
“You will release him immediately,” Strider said to the man with the whip.
“That I will not do.”
“If you do not, I will.” Strider drew his sword.
“I tried to tell him,” the man next to the hobbit whispered.
“And release these other men,” Strider said. “The heat is too much today.” He asked the man next to the hobbit, “Do you know this halfling’s name?”
The man whispered, “Frodo. His name is Frodo.”
The name sounded familiar. Strider was familiar with some hobbit lore and had no doubt heard the name in Gandalf’s tales.
“All right,” the man with the whip said, spitting on the platform. “Take him, for all that I care. And the pesky old man, too. The others must stay.”
Strider was not going to push the issue farther, not with Frodo in such rough shape, and he cut the ropes that bound Frodo’s wrists and feet. He cradled the hobbit in his arms, alarmed by the heat that radiated from his skin through the fabric of his shirt. He walked swiftly away from the platform, through back alleys, far from the market crowds, until he reached a cottage at the edge of the village.
The healer was a dear friend of Strider’s, and he looked in surprise at the bundle in Strider’s arm.
“A hobbit?”
“He’s got the heat illness.”
“I’ve treated many in such a state today,” the healer nodded gravely. “Is he unconscious?”
“He has not stirred since I picked him up. He’s not in good shape.”
Strider set Frodo on the bed, feeling his hot brow again. “Very high temperature.”
The healer looked at the dry, flushed skin in dismay. “Take off his clothes, Strider, and I will fill a basin with cool water.”
“Not too cold,” Strider warned. “His heart may not be able to stand it. And he needs water inside him, too.”
“That we cannot do until he regains consciousness.”
Strider unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt, his large, dirty fingers stumbling on the tiny hobbit sized buttons. He peeled off the braces and took off the shirt. Frodo’s cheeks were bright red from sunburn.
The healer brought the basin into the room and set it on the floor beside the bed.
Strider nodded and lifted Frodo, dipping the hobbit into the cool water. Frodo immediately groaned, and his eyes fluttered. Strider gripped Frodo’s upper arms in case he should flail in panic. “It’s all right,” he whispered in Frodo’s ears. “You’re all right.”
“Bilbo,” Frodo croaked. “Where is he?”
He opened his eyes then, and Strider was amazed by their stunning blue. Strider knew the name Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, the dear hobbit friend of Gandalf, who had journeyed to the Lonely Mountain with him. Gandalf had once mentioned that Bilbo had adopted a perky, young fellow as his heir.
“Were you here with Bilbo?” Strider asked, as he sponged cool water over Frodo’s skin.
Frodo shivered, his teeth chattering. Finally, he nodded. “In…he’s waiting…he was at market…at the Prancing Pony.”
Strider nodded. “I will fetch him. He must be worried to death about you.”
After sponging Frodo several more times, Strider lifted a shaking Frodo out of the basin, setting him on the bed. The healer was ready with wet towels, which he immediately set on Frodo. He put a smaller washcloth on the hobbit’s brow. Frodo groaned and his eyes closed again. He trembled under the towels as if taken by a terrible chill.
“Is his temperature going down?” the healer asked.
“It appears to be so. While he is conscious, we must get some water into him. I think he must be severely dehydrated.”
***
Frodo dreamed he was in the well. It was no longer damp warmth, but night had come and he was cold. So cold. His clothes were wet, and he could not stop shaking.
“Bilbo!” he called. “Bilbo, please let me out! I’ll never embarrass you again. Please!”
But there was no answer. His wet clothes would start to warm against his hot skin, and then they would be ripped from him and new cold wet clothes would be given him to wear. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Frodo called out. “Please, can I have some water.”
And surprisingly, Bilbo let him have water. A stream of water was poured over the edge of the well and Frodo opened his mouth, grateful for the feel of water over his furry tongue.
“Easy there, easy does it Frodo, I don’t want you to choke.”
Frodo opened his eyes in surprise. The voice had not been Bilbo’s. He was not in the Gamgees’ well at all, but in a large bed. He was dizzy, but at least he was neither in well nor on that horrible chair on the platform in the blazing sun. His heart leaped in joy when he saw Bilbo sitting beside the bed, his face creased in…was it anger?
“Bilbo, I’m sorry,” Frodo said in a croak.
“No, Frodo, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “I couldn’t find you, but I didn’t try to look for you. I thought you’d probably wander around a little and then go back to the inn to wait for me. I never dreamed you’d be treated like a common criminal, left to die in the sun, if not for Strider the ranger.”
Frodo shook under the towels again. He felt much better, more connected to what was real. “It’s all my fault,” he said, his jaw trembling. “I acted like I was in Hobbiton. I took a slice of bread, forgetting that I had no coins with me, and he called me a thief. I want to go home, Bilbo. I do not like Bree at all.”
The rich sound of laughter from across the room startled Frodo, and he turned to find a scruffy man in a green cloak sitting in the corner. He flushed, embarrassed by what he might have said in front of this strange Man.
“It is all right, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “He is Strider, a friend of Gandalf’s. It’s he who saved your life.”
“Don’t mind me, Frodo,” Strider said. “But I laughed because this makes two of us who are not fond of Bree.”
Frodo laughed a little. Then he grew serious. “Strider, do you know about the others from the platform, whether they are all right? The man next to me was kind.”
“I don’t know,” Strider said, shaking his head. “You were the one in danger so you were the only one I fought to take. Though they were going to release the old man as well.”
“That is good,” Frodo said, still shivering.
“The others will be all right,” Strider said wryly. “They are used to it, unfortunately.”
He got up from his seat in the corner and put his hand on Frodo’s brow. “Much better.” He smiled at the relief on Bilbo’s face. “You’ll be able to go home before you know it.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said, looking at the ranger.
“Yes,” Bilbo said, his throat catching, and he grasped Frodo’s hand. “This day could have ended on a much worse note. We owe you everything, Strider.”
“Pay no mind,” Strider said. “Someday you will pay me back, though I do not have the foresight to know exactly how. For now, go back to your Shire and live in peace, and that is all I need to make my heart content.”
Frodo settled back into his pillows, letting out a sigh of contentment. At last he neither felt too cold nor too hot. He was ready to go home, though now that he had met Strider, he knew the world Outside was not all bad.
Title: A Day at the Market
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo gets into a little trouble in a Bree market
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Story notes: Me and Bree. Never a good combo for Frodo.
A Day at the Market
On the first day of June, the sun came out fierce and hot as it had the last few days. Frodo peered out the round window of the inn, where he and Bilbo had spent the night.
“Today will be a splendid day for market!”
“Well, that is good,” Bilbo said, shuffling around the room, getting dressed. “For I hope to get all I need today. I would not want to spend another day here. I do not love the village of Bree.”
“Why not?” Frodo asked in surprise. “It’s so different from Hobbiton, so full of bustle! And the Big People! Why will you not let me into the Common Room to meet one?”
“You’ve met Butterbur, and he’s a fine fellow, a friend of Gandalf’s, if you can believe it. I get much information from him of what is going on in world Outside. But Bree’s gone downhill in his reckoning. There used to be a fair population of hobbits here in Bree, but they’ve mostly settled in the village of Staddle and keep to themselves. There’s been some mean folk who have settled in Bree as of late, and they’ve caused dear Butterbur a lot of grief. He’s the one as suggested we stay up in our room most of the time we’re here.”
Frodo’s face fell. “That is too bad. Is this the case with all villages of Men?”
Bilbo held up too vests, peering at each, trying to decide which to wear. “No dear lad. There are great cities of Men far to the south, full of Men noble and fair. Take the city of Minas Tirith, for example. Now which one—the blue or the gray?”
“Are there hobbits there?” Frodo pointed to the gray. “And the gray becomes you better.”
Bilbo laughed, and flung the blue vest on the bed. “No, my boy. I am quite certain that nobody in Minas Tirith has ever heard of a hobbit.”
“Never heard of a hobbit?” Frodo asked in disbelief. “Why, how can that be?”
Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s hair. “Get dressed, Frodo. We have much to gather at market. I am hoping there will be some dwarves selling their wares here.”
“What about elves?” Frodo asked eagerly.
“I doubt that. Elves rarely pass through Bree.”
Frodo sighed as he pulled on his breeches and clipped his braces to them. He was already sweating, and he wished he had brought a cooler shirt, but he had grabbed the thick linen in haste before they had left Hobbiton. They had not anticipated that it would get so hot. But despite the heat and despite what Bilbo had said about Bree, Frodo was in a fine mood this morning, eager to stare upon the bustling crowds.
Butterbur brought breakfast to their room. He smiled at them as he set the cutlery and steaming platters on the table. “How are you this morning, Masters Bagginses?”
“Just wonderful, thank you,” Frodo said, sniffing in the scent of bacon and hotcakes. “And this looks lovely. We’re going to market today, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” Butterbur said, fanning himself. “And a hotter day you couldn’t have chosen. I don’t think it’s been this hot for years this early in the summer. I hope they’ll have some fine things for you to take home. There haven’t been many hobbit vendors lately, I have to tell you.”
“If I want hobbit items, I will shop in the Shire,” Bilbo said with a chuckle. “I’m looking for the outlandish.”
“Well, good luck to both of you. It’s been mighty nice having hobbits out of the Shire here. A rare treat. It’s a pity I had to recommend you not come to the Common Room.” He shook his head in dismay. “It’s been rough in there lately. Just last week, I had a fight break out. It cost me my whole week’s earnings to fix the damage those fellows caused!”
“Good luck to you, too,” Bilbo said. “Come, Frodo, are you ready?”
Frodo and Bilbo ventured into the street, which was quite active by this early in the morning. Frodo was impatient with Bilbo’s languorous gait, and he found himself wishing that he could bolt forward on his own. He shouldn’t, though, since he didn’t know how he would ever find Bilbo if they separated. Three boys of about eleven or twelve tore past them, and Frodo marveled to see such young boys who were nearly a foot taller than he was.
But mostly he was drawn to the shoes that the Big Folk wore. All kinds of shapes and sizes. Some were so old and worn that the heavy threads were coming apart, allowing the soles to flap with every step. Some new and shiny. Some were boots, some were sandals. On a hot day like this, it had to be most unpleasant to have something covering their feet so thoroughly. Even the curls on Frodo’s feet felt too warm for this type of heat.
So immersed in staring at feet was he that he slammed into something unyielding, which knocked him on his backside into the dusty street.
“Watch where yer going, runt!” a gruff voice said before kicking him in the side and moving on. The kick had not been hard enough to hurt him, but Frodo found tears welling up in his eyes anyway. There was no need to be so rude. If this had happened in Hobbiton, there would have been many apologies from both ends, the one who had knocked the other down would have helped the other up.
He craned his head behind him, wondering why Bilbo hadn’t said or done anything, and then realized that Bilbo was nowhere in sight.
Frodo climbed to his feet, no thanks to anyone’s help, the excitement of the day partially gone. He wiped the dust from his breeches the best he could, and rubbed his side where the man had kicked him. Bilbo could not have gotten far, as there were only limited streets full of vendors. But for a hobbit to search through crowds of Big Folk for another hobbit was going to be a challenge.
“Bilbo!” he yelled, turning in a circle. He was jostled and nearly knocked down again. The crowds were thickening. He could scarcely breathe because of being hemmed into the crowd in the heat.
“Come now, dear, you’re apt to get hurt,” an older woman steered Frodo out of the middle of the narrow walkway so that he was pressed against a stone wall.
“Have you seen—“ Frodo started to ask her, but she had bustled on.
Frodo pressed on the best he could. He was beginning to feel hungry. He guessed that the best thing he could do if he couldn’t find Bilbo soon would be to return to the inn and wait there. But he was not even sure how to get back to the inn, and people were walking by too quickly for him to ask.
He approached a booth that sold fresh slices of bread and fruit. He took a slice of bread and nibbled on it, trying to get the attention of the vendor.
“Yes?” the man finally asked in irritation. He was short for one of the Big People, but he had broad shoulders and a bushy beard.
“Could you direct me toward Butterbur’s inn?” Frodo asked.
“Who?”
“The Prancing Pony.”
“Most of the hobbit stuff is down about that way.” The man pointed in a vague direction.
“No,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I want to get to the Prancing Pony.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, halfling. And that will be 5 small coins for the bread you took.” The man held out a stubby hand toward Frodo.
Frodo’s heart nearly stopped, and he blinked, unable to speak. He had no coins with him. He was so accustomed to markets in Hobbiton, where everyone knew him. If he nibbled the food, the vendors either let it go or charged Bilbo for it later. He hadn’t thought anything of doing the same thing here in Bree, where nobody knew him.
“I’ll have to find my uncle,” Frodo said in a muffled voice, backing into the crowd. The bread had formed a hard ball in his throat. He could not bear to be yelled at by this strange man who towered over him.
The vendor’s voice was thundering. “THIEF!” He pointed to Frodo. “Hobbit thief!”
Strong hands gripped his upper arms, practically lifting him off the ground. Frodo could do nothing but gasp. Struggling would be in vain.
The vendor turned to a second man in his booth, who was watching the scene with a grin. “Watch the stand. I’m gonna take care of this.”
“Please,” Frodo said, breathing so fast that he could barely get the words out. “My uncle…he has coins…will pay for the bread.”
“Give him to me,” The vendor snatched Frodo’s arm and dragged him through the crowd. Frodo was slammed into people, sometimes lifted off his feet, and always there was the relentless grip on his arm. He could barely see anything as tears filled his eyes. What would happen to him here? Bilbo had said Bree had filled with mean folk.
“I hope that bread tasted good,” the vendor said to him with a sneer. “’Cause that’s all you’ll get the rest of the day.”
In the center of the main street, a rickety platform was set up. Already a miserable group of people sat on chairs on the platform. Their feet were bound to the legs of the chairs, which were bolted into the platform, and their hands were bound behind them. Three young men, a boy child of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, an old man, and a teenage girl. Some looked defiant and some kept their faces down in misery. Sweat poured down their faces. There was no shade.
A man patrolled the rickety platform holding a whip. He turned in interest as the vendor yanked Frodo up the stairs and threw him on the floor of the platform.
“This is where we put thieves. You get to sit here all day until sundown.”
“Whaddaya got now?” the man with the whip asked. “A halfling? That’s new.”
“This little runt nabbed some bread from me.”
Rough arms thrust Frodo into the empty chair next to a young man with long blond hair and an unkempt beard. Frodo’s arms were yanked behind him none too gently, and he bit back a cry as rope was bound tightly around his wrists, cutting into them.
“Didn’t think you halflings ever did nothing wrong,” the man with the whip said, bending to tie Frodo’s ankles.
Frodo was unprepared for the utter humiliation of sitting on this platform in front of the crowds of shoppers. Everyone on the streets pointed and laughed. Some threw rotten fruit. If only Bilbo would come and demand he be released. There was no sign of the older hobbit in all the crowd. The idea of his dear uncle seeing him in such a humiliating position made him even more miserable. Bilbo was right. Bree was a horrible village. He wanted more than anything just to go home to Hobbiton.
The sun grew hotter and more intense, and Frodo felt very thirsty.
“Excuse me,” Frodo said softly to the man next to him. The man did not look at him, but Frodo knew he was listening. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I only wonder if they would give us water.”
“This is my third time up here, halfling, and they don’t give you nothing. So you jes might as well sit tight and enjoy the view.”
“Is it really all day?” Frodo asked, a lump filling his throat. It was only late morning. The idea of sitting in this hard chair in the hot sun until sundown…he didn’t think he could bear it.
“You’re lucky if they don’t keep you later,” the man answered. “Now you jes be quiet, hear? I’m not here to chat, and if yer smart, you won’t, neither. Like I said, they don’t give you nothing to ease your thirst, even on a hot day like today.”
Frodo swallowed painfully. He had been thirsty even before he had taken the bread. The sun beat on his fair skin with such ferocity that he knew he would be as red as a tomato the next day. He could only hope that Bilbo would find him up here and somehow be able to get him released. But there was no sign of Bilbo. Nothing but derision came from the crowds. A young boy, egged on by his mother, threw an apple at Frodo, and it barely missed Frodo’s head.
Frodo could not bear to watch the crowds any longer. Tears leaked from his eyes and he hung his head so that his chin rested on his chest. His wrists had gone numb from the rope, and his shoulders ached dreadfully.
“I wouldn’t waste your liquids on that, neither,” the man next to him said. “How old are ya? I can’t never tell with halflings.”
Frodo didn’t answer. He did not want to waste conversation on one who would be hostile toward him.
“Please…water,” Frodo heard the old man say in a croaked voice. Frodo felt sorry for him. Old people were especially sensitive to the heat. Frodo’s stomach turned with nausea.
“Will they not have mercy on that old man at least?” Frodo asked quietly. The man next to him laughed but did not answer.
After what could have been an hour or maybe two, the young boy and young girl were released.
“They only keep kids half a day,” the man said. “That’s their style of mercy. My name’s Jul, by the way.”
“Frodo Baggins at your service,” Frodo whispered, though he had to keep swallowing because he had that funny bile taste that always filled his throat just before he threw up. A weird dizziness made him disconnected, and the roar of the crowd seemed far away. His cheeks felt hot and burned, though surprisingly he was not sweating hardly at all.
The man craned to look at him. “You don’t look so hot.”
Frodo managed a smile, though his lips felt cracked and painful. “Actually, I’m very hot.”
The man laughed. “A sense of humor. I like that. Ha. You and I should work together when we’re done. I’m so heavy footed—that’s how I get caught every time. I could use a halfling to get into small places real quiet like.”
“We’ll see,” Frodo said. He did not want to anger the man who was finally becoming friendly toward him. Now his stomach was truly sick. He bent forward and to the side as far as he could as to avoid messing his clothes and threw up.
“Easy there,” Jul said. “Don’t wanna waste your liquids on that, neither.”
Frodo wanted to rest his head back on something, but the chair’s back only came to his neck. He had never felt so sick before. He let out a loud groan.
“You sick, halfling?” the man holding the whip said. He looked like the idea amused him. Frodo did not want to give him the satisfaction of laughing at him.
“No,” he said as his stomach cramped again.
The man’s face became serious. “Then you’d better not mess up my platform again or you’ll taste my whip. Understand?”
Frodo could already feel that he was going to throw up again.
“Yes, I’m sick. Could I please have some water?”
The man with the whip laughed. He held up a canteen to his own lips. “You mean like this?”
Frodo licked his lips. He could not believe anyone could be so cruel. His stomach turned, first slowly then more rapidly, and he now only wished the man would move on so that he could be sick in private.
“Umm…tasty,” the man said, gulping water from his canteen.
Jul muttered something under his breath.
“Whatdya say?” the man with the whip turned away from Frodo and grabbed Jul’s chin. Frodo threw up again, and a ringing filled his ears. Something was badly wrong with him. Jul was sweating profusely. The old man was trembling, but he was also sweating. The man with the whip was sweating. Frodo felt hot and completely dry. Why was he not sweating? He was surely just as hot.
Everything dimmed and became dark. Frodo was sitting on the bench outside Bag End. His back hurt something fierce and he was hot, so hot. Because Uncle Bilbo had set a fire under the bench.
“To keep it warm, lad. It’s supposed to snow tonight.”
“But it’s summer, how can that be?” Frodo asked in surprise. The sun was a hot ball in the sky. It was impossible that it could snow. “I don’t think this is necessary. And it’s so hot. My skin feels so hot.”
“Then come on in and have some soup. I’ve made it fresh.”
The flowers in the garden came into sharp focus, and they were no longer flowers but crowds of swarming people in a market place in Bree. He groaned. “Bilbo, what time is it?”
“Still afternoon,” Jul said. “We’ve got a ways to go. You’re real sick, ain’t ya?”
“Where’s Bilbo?”
“Hey!” Jul suddenly shouted to the man with the whip, making Frodo jump. The man with the whip strode over to them and stood threateningly in front of Jul.
“What do ya want?”
“This halfling’s really sick. I’d take him down.”
“Oh, is he?” the man with the whip sneered. He grabbed a section of Frodo’s curly hair, yanking the hobbit’s head up to face him. He touched Frodo’s brow. “He’s not even sweating.” He released Frodo’s hair.
“It’s yer call, but remember the rangers’ll be down yer throat if you kill a halfling.”
“Piss on the rangers,” The man with the whip said. “And if you don’t keep your trap shut, both of you’ll stay out here all night, too.”
“Thank you,” Frodo whispered weakly after the man with the whip walked away. His tongue felt furry, like it did not belong in his mouth. His stomach cramped again. “Oh no, oh no.” He was too weak to lean over this time, and what little that was left in his stomach came out on his shirt. Bilbo would be so upset with him. Not only had he been too stupid to realize that a Bree market was not like one in Hobbiton, but he was being punished for all to see. Bilbo would never be able to show his face in Bree again.
Frodo was falling into a black hole. That is where Bilbo would throw him. Down the well behind the Gamgees’ place. There would be no relief. Only fiery heat and darkness.
***
Strider the ranger had not entered Bree in many weeks, but he wanted to gather supplies on market day before heading out into the wild on an extended mission. The villagers did not like rangers. They called him names behind his back, though if they knew his hearing was sharp enough to hear them, they would not dare. Most stayed clear of him.
He strode past the platform where they put thieves, shaking his head. It was uncivilized the way they handled such crime. Most people in Bree were not hardened criminals, only people who were desperate to eat. Occasionally, he knew that the brute man with the whip lashed them, though it appeared that today the intense heat was enough of a punishment. Strider’s eyes were drawn to a small figure slumped over in the chair, seemingly unconscious. The hairy feet gave him away as a hobbit, not a human child. Strider was stunned. Hobbits almost never stole. They were the most law-abiding of the folk of the North.
But thief or not, the hobbit didn’t look good. Strider disliked drawing so much attention to himself, but in this case, he deemed it necessary. He leaped on the platform, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“What is this?” The man with the whip curled his lip and held his whip up.
“Do you mean to use that on me?” Strider asked in a deadly tone. He looked down at the hobbit at the corner of his eye, and saw that he was indeed unconscious. “Why are you holding a sick hobbit?”
“Because he’s a thief and that’s our rule in these parts. He’s gotta sit out here till sundown.”
Strider lifted the hobbit’s chin. The hobbit’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his head was a limp weight in Strider’s hand. His skin was flushed and dry, impossibly hot to the touch. His shirt reeked of vomit, making Strider’s stomach turn. He felt for a pulse on the hobbit’s burning neck. The pulse was strong, but it was far too rapid. The hobbit had the heat sickness and judging by how high his temperature felt, he was near death.
“You will release him immediately,” Strider said to the man with the whip.
“That I will not do.”
“If you do not, I will.” Strider drew his sword.
“I tried to tell him,” the man next to the hobbit whispered.
“And release these other men,” Strider said. “The heat is too much today.” He asked the man next to the hobbit, “Do you know this halfling’s name?”
The man whispered, “Frodo. His name is Frodo.”
The name sounded familiar. Strider was familiar with some hobbit lore and had no doubt heard the name in Gandalf’s tales.
“All right,” the man with the whip said, spitting on the platform. “Take him, for all that I care. And the pesky old man, too. The others must stay.”
Strider was not going to push the issue farther, not with Frodo in such rough shape, and he cut the ropes that bound Frodo’s wrists and feet. He cradled the hobbit in his arms, alarmed by the heat that radiated from his skin through the fabric of his shirt. He walked swiftly away from the platform, through back alleys, far from the market crowds, until he reached a cottage at the edge of the village.
The healer was a dear friend of Strider’s, and he looked in surprise at the bundle in Strider’s arm.
“A hobbit?”
“He’s got the heat illness.”
“I’ve treated many in such a state today,” the healer nodded gravely. “Is he unconscious?”
“He has not stirred since I picked him up. He’s not in good shape.”
Strider set Frodo on the bed, feeling his hot brow again. “Very high temperature.”
The healer looked at the dry, flushed skin in dismay. “Take off his clothes, Strider, and I will fill a basin with cool water.”
“Not too cold,” Strider warned. “His heart may not be able to stand it. And he needs water inside him, too.”
“That we cannot do until he regains consciousness.”
Strider unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt, his large, dirty fingers stumbling on the tiny hobbit sized buttons. He peeled off the braces and took off the shirt. Frodo’s cheeks were bright red from sunburn.
The healer brought the basin into the room and set it on the floor beside the bed.
Strider nodded and lifted Frodo, dipping the hobbit into the cool water. Frodo immediately groaned, and his eyes fluttered. Strider gripped Frodo’s upper arms in case he should flail in panic. “It’s all right,” he whispered in Frodo’s ears. “You’re all right.”
“Bilbo,” Frodo croaked. “Where is he?”
He opened his eyes then, and Strider was amazed by their stunning blue. Strider knew the name Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins, the dear hobbit friend of Gandalf, who had journeyed to the Lonely Mountain with him. Gandalf had once mentioned that Bilbo had adopted a perky, young fellow as his heir.
“Were you here with Bilbo?” Strider asked, as he sponged cool water over Frodo’s skin.
Frodo shivered, his teeth chattering. Finally, he nodded. “In…he’s waiting…he was at market…at the Prancing Pony.”
Strider nodded. “I will fetch him. He must be worried to death about you.”
After sponging Frodo several more times, Strider lifted a shaking Frodo out of the basin, setting him on the bed. The healer was ready with wet towels, which he immediately set on Frodo. He put a smaller washcloth on the hobbit’s brow. Frodo groaned and his eyes closed again. He trembled under the towels as if taken by a terrible chill.
“Is his temperature going down?” the healer asked.
“It appears to be so. While he is conscious, we must get some water into him. I think he must be severely dehydrated.”
***
Frodo dreamed he was in the well. It was no longer damp warmth, but night had come and he was cold. So cold. His clothes were wet, and he could not stop shaking.
“Bilbo!” he called. “Bilbo, please let me out! I’ll never embarrass you again. Please!”
But there was no answer. His wet clothes would start to warm against his hot skin, and then they would be ripped from him and new cold wet clothes would be given him to wear. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Frodo called out. “Please, can I have some water.”
And surprisingly, Bilbo let him have water. A stream of water was poured over the edge of the well and Frodo opened his mouth, grateful for the feel of water over his furry tongue.
“Easy there, easy does it Frodo, I don’t want you to choke.”
Frodo opened his eyes in surprise. The voice had not been Bilbo’s. He was not in the Gamgees’ well at all, but in a large bed. He was dizzy, but at least he was neither in well nor on that horrible chair on the platform in the blazing sun. His heart leaped in joy when he saw Bilbo sitting beside the bed, his face creased in…was it anger?
“Bilbo, I’m sorry,” Frodo said in a croak.
“No, Frodo, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking with fury. “I couldn’t find you, but I didn’t try to look for you. I thought you’d probably wander around a little and then go back to the inn to wait for me. I never dreamed you’d be treated like a common criminal, left to die in the sun, if not for Strider the ranger.”
Frodo shook under the towels again. He felt much better, more connected to what was real. “It’s all my fault,” he said, his jaw trembling. “I acted like I was in Hobbiton. I took a slice of bread, forgetting that I had no coins with me, and he called me a thief. I want to go home, Bilbo. I do not like Bree at all.”
The rich sound of laughter from across the room startled Frodo, and he turned to find a scruffy man in a green cloak sitting in the corner. He flushed, embarrassed by what he might have said in front of this strange Man.
“It is all right, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “He is Strider, a friend of Gandalf’s. It’s he who saved your life.”
“Don’t mind me, Frodo,” Strider said. “But I laughed because this makes two of us who are not fond of Bree.”
Frodo laughed a little. Then he grew serious. “Strider, do you know about the others from the platform, whether they are all right? The man next to me was kind.”
“I don’t know,” Strider said, shaking his head. “You were the one in danger so you were the only one I fought to take. Though they were going to release the old man as well.”
“That is good,” Frodo said, still shivering.
“The others will be all right,” Strider said wryly. “They are used to it, unfortunately.”
He got up from his seat in the corner and put his hand on Frodo’s brow. “Much better.” He smiled at the relief on Bilbo’s face. “You’ll be able to go home before you know it.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said, looking at the ranger.
“Yes,” Bilbo said, his throat catching, and he grasped Frodo’s hand. “This day could have ended on a much worse note. We owe you everything, Strider.”
“Pay no mind,” Strider said. “Someday you will pay me back, though I do not have the foresight to know exactly how. For now, go back to your Shire and live in peace, and that is all I need to make my heart content.”
Frodo settled back into his pillows, letting out a sigh of contentment. At last he neither felt too cold nor too hot. He was ready to go home, though now that he had met Strider, he knew the world Outside was not all bad.
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Date: 2003-04-18 02:45 pm (UTC)