FIC: Chapter Three - As The Crow Flies

FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Three - As The Crow Flies AUTHOR: IgrainePAIRING: F/S F/OCRATING: NC-17 - This part is boringly PG-13DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Tolkien. I borrow them because I love them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories. I'm so glad I've finished this - the name thing has been driving me crazy this week! I've also had to make the difficult decision to shift to Frodo's pov from time to time in this and subsequent chapters.So here we go ... in this chapter, Frodo has plenty of time to himself to reflect on the previous night's revelations and is taken by surprise by some late night company he wasn't expecting.I really hope you enjoy! Chapter Three – As the Crow FliesFrodo was running, running so fast he could feel the power of the air striking his face, roaring in his ears, tearing at his throat, making him want to scream and yell and choke. It was wonderful…and in his hands, soft and slippery with wet earth were the pale white wonders themselves, so many that they tumbled to the ground like marbles. He hadn’t time to pick them up – no, he must leap the far hedge fast – the dogs were mad with the chase – larger than he remembered – always a surprise – how fast they caught the trail. He could hear the shouts of his friends, leaning over the hedge, holding out their hands, urging him on, calling … “Frodo! Frodo! Hurry!” He could outrun them all, by sheer force of will and the joy of the chase that sent him flying, fleeing, jumping the hedge. Oh, the thrill, the running, the danger! Always lurking on the borders of all that was civilised and safe.Frodo looked down at what he had drawn – a maze of concentric circles winding one into the other, claustrophobic on the cream paper, flat, square and formal with his address printed in the left hand corner. He took it in his hand and screwed it up - watching the crumpled folds trying to open once again. He sat up, stretched and yawned, looking up at the clock on the mantel piece absently, as if he hadn’t looked there a thousand times already during the past hour. The hand slid slowly across the number six, bringing in its wake, a shiver of disquiet. Frodo took several slow turns around the room, like a partner-less dancer in some kind of reel, moving in and out of the patterns of firelight, watching where his feet trod, avoiding the shadows, moving only in the light spaces on the patterned rug, side stepping the green. When he had driven himself to distraction – he threw another log onto the fire and left the room and its infernal ticking silence.Blast! But he was cold. He had been working through some dry documents concerning land rights and property, trying to stifle his mind into submission, like cramming down dry toast. But his pen had stilled and left an opening – letting in those thoughts he had been holding at bay. Once through they gleefully flooded his mind and drained him utterly. He hadn’t even moved to tend the fire or make his own dinner. Sam isn’t here. Sam hasn’t come.He wandered into the kitchen - the fire had burned low and the room was dark and cold. Frodo bent to open the stove and pushed in several more cherry logs. They sizzled and snapped into life as he sat, crouched, thawing his fingers and rubbing them back to life. It was in moments like these that he felt the weight of the old place. He sensed the darkness of the empty rooms stretching out one into the other, down the passage and under his feet, in cellars and larders, all unoccupied and empty – little dark places. And encompassing all was the silence. So intense, it burned his ears, heightening his senses until they were keen enough to hear the settling snow on the hilltop, weighting him further down into the smial. His home. The kettle wailed and he made a pot of tea. After a quick forage in the pantry, he found a tin of gingerbread that Sam had made two days previously, still moist with all the black treacle he had spooned in. Frodo had watched him slyly licking the spoon when he had thought Frodo wasn’t looking. Sam wasn’t very good at deviousness – unlike Frodo – he was an open book. When he was guilty, his eyes told the tale and when he was sad – it was in the droop of his mouth and when he was happy … well it shone from him and couldn’t be misunderstood. Frodo stirred honey into his tea. Too much, it would be cloying but it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t taste it, his thoughts were running too fast. He took some gingerbread and broke it in half between his fingers, crumbling it, rich and dark and spiced. What was I thinking? Had I been thinking at all? No, not really - just feeling, sensing, enjoying, playing games. But I wasn’t alone. I shared with Sam. I touched Sam! Sam was complicit in it – the danger, the thrill – the chase. And afterwards, he walked away innocent and I was left undone. My body aches to see him again – to see him in the light of this – of what we have awoken. Will he be the same? Will he speak of it – want to play again? And if we do, can I bear it? Can I face the emptiness and the long, silent hours? Wouldn’t it be better to forget? Keep Sam safe – keep him innocent.Fingers clasped each other around the belly of the mug, warm and trembling. A small heap of crumbs lay beside his elbow. He used to sit with Bilbo in the evenings – a book between them – their eyes straying from tea to text – unravelling sentences piece by piece until late into the night, when their concentration would slacken and both would begin to yawn.“Bed beckons!” Bilbo would say, standing up and patting his waistcoat with a smile. Frodo would rub his eyes and close the book, bidding his uncle good night. He would go to his bed, but his mind would not still. He would lie, restlessly shifting through the vivid images that paraded through his mind, tossing and turning until he had to press his face into his pillow to make it all stop. There was always too much to quieten and nowhere for it all to go. Often he would resort to the comfort of his own hand, a quick release and a slow breath – drawn out, shaking the darkness. Sweet, yet forbidden - the love that would find no other release. It could not – would not be expressed - except as play; a tumble in the grass, a mud fight, a rough game of chase in the roaring woods of his youth – running against the legs of another lad – pulling him to the ground – his heart pounding. Guilt raked his fingernails along his teeth, biting and pulling, until he could feel the nip of pain that sent tremors along his spine. Sam is like a flower, so easy and willing to open under my hand. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s rolling in the grass, he’s grinning like a lad who’s smudged his nose in the ball field or risen from the river soaked to the skin. He has no idea. And afterwards, I couldn’t even look him in the eye because I didn’t want him to notice how I was trembling. I didn’t want him to see what his touch had stirred in me. Frodo’s skin shivered with sensation at the remembrance of what had been the finest hour of his life. He stood up and drained his mug in the sink, honey still clinging to the bottom in a glistening pool. The moment has passed. Now it might as well be encased in glass – for it could never be retrieved. ~~~~~The walk up the hill seemed the longest of Sam’s life and as he lead the four hobbits through the swinging gate – he felt a shadow passing over his soul and had to stop for a moment to catch his breath and settle the agitated beating of his heart. The hour was growing late and from the smial there were no visible signs of life – only a thin trail of smoke drifted from the chimney and no lamps were lit in the hall. Sam berated himself silently, resentfully - he should have been there to clear away the snow, light the fires and cook his master’s meal, but instead he was bringing strangers to Frodo’s door. He turned and watched them walking up to the bend in the road, like a flock of ravens, bearing their burden between them as it were a sheaf of harvest wheat brought home as an offering. Their faces were grave and unreadable and they spoke only in whispers and only to each other.Sam hadn’t even managed to discover their names. He walked on ahead, shovelling where the snow was deepest, hoping that he might have a moment alone to explain to Frodo why he had sent them here. He cleared the drift away from the doorstep, noting how it was untouched since the previous night, and steeled himself to knock. But as he stood at the front door, the knocker raised in his hand, he felt uncertain. Sam had trusted Mari. Mari always seemed to know the right way to go about things and a combination of her practical mind and no nonsense pig headedness had sent Sam straight back to his guests with the news that Mr Baggins of Bag End would be the best person to approach - as he had room to spare and water on tap. As the knocker fell heavily against the wood, the words seemed to echo ominously in his mind as though they were in some way a betrayal. The knocker fell for the second time and Sam could sense the sound falling dead in the quiet air of the hallway. Sam’s mind wandered empty rooms and passages – seeking his master – calling to him – panicking for a moment, wondering if Frodo had frozen in his study and could not call for him, only wait for one who had not come – senseless to all things.But there came a soft muffled sound behind the door and the little round window was suddenly illuminated with light. Sam took a step back and drew in a breath. This is the first time I have looked at those lips and known the taste of them. How will I be able to look and not think of that? There was a soft click as the door was unlatched and Sam’s breath drifted out of him in a soft “o”. Frodo stood in the open doorway with an oil lamp raised in one hand. He was dressed casually in dark blue breeches and a cream shirt that seemed to have been hastily donned, for its tails flapped free of his waistband and some of the buttons were done up awry. His curls looked tangled and mussed and his eyes bleary and blinking into the darkness. “Sam?” Frodo stepped back into the hall to let Sam pass through. He looked startled as Sam strode purposefully into the smial, shaking the snow from his feet hurriedly before stepping onto the rug. “It’s late…” Frodo stammered, looking down at his hands.“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, sir. I know it must be getting late and you ready for bed, an’ all…” he tried not to stare at the creamy skin exposed between the folds of Frodo’s shirt and blushed as he stammered for the words he so eagerly sought. “It’s just that there’s been an accident on the Water. A lad’s injured – he fell through the ice and he’s hurt – taken a chill and scared hi’self half to death. I took him home but my da’s not well and Mari she said ‘why not ask Mr Frodo if he would take him in?’ just for the night, you understand, no longer than that and I thought…”But time had run out. Frodo’s eyes drifted from Sam’s anxious face to the doorway, where four dark figures were waiting, their forms blocking out the brightness of the moon. “Oh…” Frodo’s eyes widened and he looked from Sam to the door in astonishment. Then suddenly, out of the concealing dark, one of the hobbits moved forwards onto the doorstep, where his face was illuminated. He wore a black hat and he took it from his head respectfully as he nodded before Frodo and lowered his eyes. “Sorry to disturb you on such a night as this,” he said, his voice low and lilting. Frodo stared. “Will you come in?” Frodo replied, his voice sounding thin and uncertain. “I’m afraid it’s not much warmer in here, but I’m sure Sam will soon remedy that.” Frodo turned to Sam and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder, for re-assurance it seemed to Sam, as much as affirmation. Sam nodded and gave Frodo a warm smile, delighting in the brief, sweet touch that made Sam’s head swim with a flood of beautiful memory. “Please – do come in,” Frodo urged, stepping back to allow room for the strangers to enter. They looked uncomfortable as they stood upon the hall rug and unclasped their cloaks, exchanging furtive glances. “Where shall we lay him down?” the hobbit replied as they carried the patient into the passage, now cosily lit with lamps burning brightly from their sconces. He looked older than the other three - his body broader and his face showing signs of age in the creases around his eyes and mouth but still he retained a fierce beauty, which was echoed in the faces of his companions. “I think the parlour would be best,” Frodo said, guiding them along the passage, “and I’ll ask Sam to make up a bed in one of the guest rooms. The couch is comfortable and there’s a small fire – it only needs a little kindling. I’ll fetch blankets and pillows – bring him through.” They followed Frodo into the parlour and Sam watched for a moment from the doorway as they laid the lad down on the couch and covered him with a cloak. Then he turned and hurried away down the passage to fetch the wood, anxious to be as quick as he possibly could – he didn’t want to leave Frodo alone for longer than was needful. “Sam?” Sam straightened up, a load of firewood slipping in his arms. “Yes, Mr Frodo?” he said, alarmed and all at once alert at the sight of Frodo’s eyes wide with concern.“Will you run for the healer? I know it’s late, but the lad seems to be delirious and he has no warmth in his skin.”Sam dropped the wood back into the basket and began to fasten his cloak. “Perhaps I should ‘a let him be, the cold can’t have helped, I’m sure…”“Don’t Sam – you’ve done a fine job bringing him here. Just hurry … please.” Frodo looked pale and drawn and Sam felt such a rush of love that he had to restrain himself from taking Frodo into his arms then and there and gentling him with kisses. He turned back at the entrance to the hall. “You’ll be all right, Mr Frodo?” he said, reluctant to leave.“Of course, Sam. Be as quick as you can.”Sam nodded and smiled briefly, despite his fears. “I will, Sir. I shan’t be long!” Frodo returned the smile and then bent to the retrieve the firewood from the basket, stacking it into his arms so high he had to rest his chin on the top of it to keep it steady. Sam watched for a moment in admiration before dashing off down the passage and out of the front door, bracing his body against the icy blast as the night enveloped him and shut out the warmth of the smial. ~~~~~~ Frodo entered the parlour feeling uneasy. The strangers seemed to fill the small parlour, looking about themselves at the fine paintings on the walls and the little collection of mathoms that sat upon the mantel piece and along the numerous bookshelves, keeping company with finely bound volumes of poetry. They were talking together, two hobbits who looked close as twins and an older one – their voices quick and soft and difficult to discern despite the quietness of the smial. Frodo carried the wood over to the fire and piled it on top, noting how the voices had hushed and settled to soft noises of agreement as he rose and dusted off his hands on the seat of his breeches.“May I introduce myself?” Frodo said, offering his hand as a way of breaking the ice. “Frodo Baggins, ain’t it?” The older man took the proffered hand and clasped it within his own great palms, Frodo’s fine bones cracking a little in the fierce grip. “That’s right,” Frodo said, wincing slightly. The hobbit didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let him go. “And you?” Frodo probed. The hobbit looked back at his companions who were still lingering beside the bookshelves, trailing curious fingers along the gilt bindings. They smiled crookedly, baring uneven teeth. “Our name is Yarrow. I’m Kern – that there’s Sol and Carr and him over there,” he nodded towards the huddled figure on the couch, “that there is Asher.” Frodo turned and looked down at the lad, whose face he had not yet managed to discern, entangled as it was with blankets and straggling locks of ink black hair. He lay so still – surely it couldn’t be right that he should be so still? Frodo crouched down beside the couch and searched for the face yet veiled from view. He raised a hand to stroke away the web of dark hair. “Don’t touch ‘im.” Frodo looked up in surprise, his hand still slightly raised. The older hobbit shook his head slowly, his dark eyes twinkling. Sol and Carr laughed under their breath and moved closer to the fireside, drawn in by the warmth. Frodo moved away, shivering a little despite the blazing fire. Individually these hobbits would be dangerous enough, but as a group they were formidable. Kern turned to the corner table and eyed the decanter set upon it – filled with a dark plum brandy. “Would you like a drink?” Frodo asked, nervous and yet deeply intrigued, watching every move they made, wondering if he might come a little closer, find out a little more.“Aye – that would be most pleasant, thank you Mr Baggins,” Kern replied, with a mirthless smile upon his face, watching Frodo’s back as he bent to retrieve the glasses from the cupboard beneath. “I’m sorry, I should have offered. I’m afraid I’ve not been the proper host this evening, you’ve caught me rather off guard, you see and of course, I’ve been concerned about your friend – ”“Brother.”“I’m sorry?” Frodo stammered, feeling foolish as the glasses clinked together in his trembling hands.“He’s our brother,” Kern replied. Frodo poured the dark sweet liquid into four glasses. “Are you all brothers?” he inquired, balancing the glasses in his hands and carrying them across to the hearthside.“You’re a very curious fellow, Mr Baggins.” Kern took a glass and downed the contents in one gulp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…” Sol and Carr took theirs silently, smirking and looking him up and down in such a way that Frodo began to feel uncomfortable. “You may pry – you may pry. It’s our good fortune we found you and your …who is that fellow?”“Sam?”“Aye – Samwise – is he your?…”“Gardener,” Frodo said, whilst sipping at the burning brandy.“Gardener.” Kern agreed, holding out his glass. Frodo took it and refilled it once more. “Many thanks.” Kern swigged it back and sighed heavily. “Ahhh! That’s better,” he said. “More than ready to face what may meet us on the road – there are strange things on the byways these days, Mr Baggins. You have to be prepared – prepared for the worst.”“You’re leaving?” Frodo said, in surprise and alarm. “But you can’t move him – not with him like this! I’ve sent for the healer, she’ll be here any minute, surely you can wait a little longer?”“Time and tide waits for no-one,” he said, clapping his great hands together and fixing Frodo with a sharp black eye. “He’s in your charge. I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Remember that? Aye – I’m trusting you.”Frodo shook his head. “He can’t stay here.”Kern raised a heavy dark brow. “We’ll be back in two weeks time with the wagons.”“Where are you going?” Frodo asked, anxiety creasing his brow and bringing his nails up to his mouth. Kern walked up to him, shadowing him with his great height and pulled Frodo’s hand slowly down within his own, which was warm and steady and strong, where Frodo’s felt cold and weak. “A nasty habit,” Kern said quietly, shaking his head. Frodo took a step backwards and waited for them to leave, his heart thudding in his ears. “We will be passing through, Mr Baggins, straight as the crow flies. We’ll take ‘im then.”“I will take care of him.” Frodo resolved, trying to hold onto his dignity, even as his knees weakened with fear. “You will.” Kern agreed, winking at his brothers to follow. “We’ll be seeing you ‘fore Yule – ‘til then - good health to you, sir!”Frodo nodded his head, his feet rooted to the spot as he watched the three brothers walking out of the room, noting as they went everything that shone or glistened gold or silver in the firelight. When he heard the soft click of the latch, Frodo collapsed onto the rug beside the couch, trembling and holding his head in his hands. Eventually he gathered himself enough to recall the other who remained, breathing so softly he hardly seemed present. Frodo regarded him with exhausted half- shuttered eyes, laying his head upon the couch and raising his hand, watching it move lazily as if of its own volition. Touching the hot skin he flinched a little but allowed his fingers to gently pull the blanket away from the lad’s face and peel back the thick curtain of curling hair. Frodo’s fingers froze and the breath stopped dead in his throat, closing it in a soft choke. The hobbit that lay before him was as beautiful as an elf. The firelight playing over the strong jaw, the high curving cheekbones and delicate almond shaped eyes - embroidered with gold, skin that would shine brown beneath the sun. Frodo’s hand trembled and he tried to draw away but found himself entranced and unable to move. Fascinated and appalled with himself, he passed light fingers over the soft cheek and felt his heart lurching with excitement. He looked young, just out of his tweens, it appeared, and yet there was a mysteriousness that enveloped him – a presence such as pervades a place of great antiquity. This is some kind of sign, Frodo thought to himself, his hand straying to stroke back the wild curls. This is the way I must go – my destiny has fallen at my feet. Even as the words fell into his mind, his heart protested, yearning for the warmth and security of his beloved Sam. “I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Aye – remember that. I’m trusting you.” But could he trust himself? TBC...