fic: Letting Go 1/18
As promised, here is the first chapter of the long!fic. There will be 18 chapters (unless I decide it needs an epilogue -I'm still debating that), all are already written, so updates will occur regularly -a rarity for my stories, I know. ;)
Title: Letting Go, 1/18 "Story-telling"
Rating: PG-13 overall for dark themes, G for this part
Wordcount: 2,535 for this part
Warnings: this fic will eventually involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
Chapter Summary: Frodo tells a story.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
"Tell us a story, Uncle Frodo!" a small voice begged from beside his armchair near the fire.
Frodo looked up from putting leaf in his pipe for an after-supper smoke to see the hopeful face of young Tom. He set the pipe aside and smiled at the lad. "You'd like a story? Go find out if any of your brothers and sisters would like to hear one, too, and I'll think of one to tell you."
While the lad excitedly ran off to fetch his siblings, Frodo settled back in his chair and tucked his lap blanket more securely around his body. It may be the middle of July, but he became chilled very easily. Sam teased him that he just needed a bit more weight on him and he wouldn't have that problem. It was true he was still ghastly thin for a hobbit -and probably by Men's standards, as well- but he couldn't seem to do much about that, despite Rosie's excellent cooking and his own much improved appetite.
"I hear you're going to tell a story," Sam remarked with a grin as he entered the sitting room and checked on the fire.
Frodo smiled up at him. "Tom is quite persuasive," he said with a chuckle. "But I do enjoy it."
"That little mite is going to have the entire Shire wrapped around his little finger one of these days," Sam said fondly. "Will you need something to drink? Water? Ale?"
"A little ale would be appreciated," Frodo replied. "I learned my lesson at the Free Fair." Tom had, as usual, begged a story out of him, and young hobbits from other families joined the little group and listened so raptly that Frodo didn't have the heart to stop, even when he grew quite thirsty. When he lost his voice and nearly fainted from the heat, Frodo blamed both on not having anything to drink, so he always made sure to have something on hand before any storytelling. Not that he was likely to faint in Bag End, especially after such a hearty supper, but it was a good habit to have, regardless.
By the time Sam returned with a mug of ale, Tom had dragged all of his siblings into the sitting room for the story. Elanor was the only one missing, as she and Fastred and little Elfstan had moved to Westmarch the month before. Tom claimed Frodo's lap and the rest spread out on the floor, with Robin sitting in Rose-lass' lap. Frodo-lad even came, curious about the story but still unwilling to fully accept Frodo as anything but the mad hobbit in the back room, so he slouched against the doorway. Rosie followed Sam in, and they settled on the couch, Sam's arm around Rosie, after Sam made sure Frodo had everything he needed.
Frodo surveyed the expectant young faces, touched that they so happily accepted him. "Well, now, where shall I begin? Has your da told you the story of my uncle Bilbo and the three trolls?" He looked down at Tom, who shook his head energetically, and even Rose-lass and Merry and Frodo-lad seemed unfamiliar with the tale. "No? Then let me begin. It started when Bilbo -no, not you, Bilbo, though you're named for this daring adventurer!- went on a journey with thirteen dwarves . . ."
Sam listened with interest, and noted that some of the details Frodo told were different than how he remembered Bilbo telling it, but he wasn't sure if that was Frodo embellishing or if he'd plain forgotten some parts. In any case, it didn't matter much, for his children held on to Frodo’s every word with rapt attention, and it was a joy to watch Frodo storytelling, his face and limited gestures saying as much as his words.
"He would have been wonderful with his own bairns," Rosie whispered in his ear after a while.
Sam nodded and tightened his arm around her. "Aye. At least he has ours to dote on."
"And you weren't sure we should've had so many," she teased.
"You ain't heard me say that since before Tom was born, and I changed my mind, any road," Sam replied, kissing the top of her head.
She laughed softly but said nothing more.
When Frodo finished his tale, over an hour had passed. Tom was half-asleep in Frodo's lap, but still begged, "More?"
Frodo chuckled. "Only a bit more. Your father and I came upon the stone trolls during our own adventure. He'll have to tell you more about them; I'm afraid I don't remember much of that part of the journey."
"Why?" Robin asked shyly.
"Why don't I remember?"
Robin nodded.
"I was wounded about a week before that and the injury was making me ill," Frodo said diplomatically.
"Ill like you have been for most of my life?" Frodo-lad asked cynically.
The popping of the fire was the only sound as Frodo tried to think of a reasonable answer and Sam's expression grew thunderous. He was about to scold his oldest son, but Frodo caught his eye and shook his head slightly, mouthing the words, 'Not now.'
"No, not like that at all," Frodo replied, directing his words at all of the children. "My arm and shoulder got cold and I couldn't see well. I could hardly bear to move, because everything hurt. It was much like a bad flu, I suppose. I nearly died."
Frodo-lad snorted and muttered something under his breath that Sam couldn't make out, but Frodo knew to be a comment to the effect that they would've been better off if he had. Frodo shakily took a large gulp of the warm ale, shuddering a little as he swallowed.
"Everyone to bed," Sam announced, to the whined complaints of his brood. "Frodo-lad, stay here. I need to have a word with you."
Rosie gently tugged Tom's hand until he got up from Frodo's lap and patted Frodo on the shoulder before she left, tailing the huddle of children now chattering excitedly about trolls. Merry and Pippin had produced sticks from somewhere and were beating each other with them, proclaiming that the other was a troll that needed to be subdued and trapped outside so the sun would turn him to stone. Rosie grabbed the makeshift weapons and swatted them both, sending them scurrying to get washed and dressed for bed.
Frodo-lad sulkily crossed his arms and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stood in front of his furious father. Frodo, still in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, watched as Sam scolded his son for being disrespectful of Mr. Frodo and for saying such things in front of his siblings. "If you're going to say such things, you're not welcome here," Sam finished.
"Sam," Frodo said chidingly. He didn't want to be the cause of Frodo-lad being kicked out!
"I don't stand for other hobbits saying such things about you, so I'm certainly not going to let one of my children say it!" he told Frodo, then turned his attention back to his son Frodo. "As it is, you're grounded and get to muck out the stable every day for a fortnight. Apologize to Mr. Frodo and mean it, or it'll be a month."
Frodo-lad turned to Frodo reluctantly, but Frodo was still looking at Sam. "Sam, has he read the story?"
"What, the Red Book? No, only Elanor has. I put it away after you took a bad turn; I didn't think it wise that they read it. I thought it would be too frightening to see you and then read that."
"My bad turns are all the more reason they should have read it," Frodo responded wearily. "Perhaps then they would understand why I became like that."
Sam considered this a moment. "You're right. I'm sorry. All right, lad, you also have to read the Red Book in the next fortnight. Now apologize."
Frodo-lad scowled at this addition to his punishment, but managed a sufficiently contrite "I'm sorry" to Frodo that Sam was appeased. "Your tasks begin tomorrow. You may go to bed."
After the lad left, Frodo sighed and let himself droop against the chair. "You are hard on him."
"He is cruel to you and I won't allow it," Sam said defensively.
"He doesn't see why he should respect a hobbit that has been locked away in madness for as long as he can remember," Frodo countered. "I understand his difficulty, and frankly, I'm surprised some of the others don't feel the same way." He pushed his blanket aside and inched forward in the chair so he could stand.
"If any of them say it, they'll be joining Frodo-lad in the stable," Sam said fiercely.
"My dear Sam, you are far too protective of me sometimes," Frodo replied fondly. "Would you give me a hand out of this chair? I've been sitting too long."
Sam offered both of his hands to Frodo, who used them to stiffly pull himself upright. "Oh, some days I feel so very old," he said breathlessly, not quite able to straighten his back entirely. "And then I remember I really am old, so I suppose that's part of the territory."
"You're not a spring chicken, that's for sure, but I'm not sure I'd call you old just yet," Sam said lightly. "When you hit a hundred, perhaps then you'll be old."
"I'm not sure I want to think about what one hundred will feel like. I still can't believe it's me in the mirror sometimes," Frodo said, beginning the slow and painful walk to his bedroom.
Sam followed a step behind, watching Frodo's progress. "Did you want the cane?" he asked, seeing how unsteady Frodo seemed to be.
"No, thank you. It's not far, and I'll use the wall when we reach the hall."
Frodo's current bedroom had been a small guest room when he was Master of Bag End -he had surrendered the title and control of the estate finances to Sam many years ago, when he realized that his fits threatened to overcome him. It was the closest to the living areas and to the main bedroom so Sam and Rosie could come to his aid if needed, but thankfully he had not yet needed to call for them.
Once he reached his doorway, he said good-night to Sam and closed the door behind him; as soon as he was able to dress and care for himself, he had insisted that they allow him to do things for himself, even though it might take him a long time. It was the only way he was going to get any better, and he had some satisfaction each day that he really was getting better at last. Those long years of being shut away and needing care like an infant had been humiliating whenever he came to himself long enough to realize his situation.
Frodo undressed in front of his mirror, slowly pulling his shirt off over his head rather than trying to do the buttons, and examined himself critically. The first thing he always made himself remember is that he was much better than he used to be; for the first two months that he was in his right mind and starting to spend time with the family, he had refused to look at himself in a mirror. When Rosie finally forced him to look at a hand mirror so he could tell her when his hair was the right length, he'd been horrified. Rosie saying he looked a sight better than he had certainly hadn’t helped.
When he finally had the courage to face a full-length mirror, he resolved that he would repeat the experience every week or two, so he could see for himself the improvement that Rosie and Sam were continually remarking upon. Today he could see he was, in fact, gaining a little weight, the gullies between his ribs looking more like grooves and his stomach was almost filled in as he patted it. It would shrink down once his meal was fully digested, as he'd learned in the past, but for the moment it almost seemed like he had some weight on his bones. He still had skin hanging loosely, like a stretched-out woolen sock sagging around one's ankles, but he knew some of that could be attributed to growing old rather than his weight or lack of it.
The scars in various places were the same as always, and he passed over those. His arms and legs were distressingly stick-like, even the left arm with its many raised scars from when he'd scratch and dig at his own flesh, but he had slowly been developing a little more muscle definition as he did more things under his own power. He turned slightly to check for any irritation from sitting so much -his skin was so thin that it seemed to react to every irritant, including remaining in one position too long- but saw nothing. Perhaps the flannel-lined breeches were helping, then. Early in his recovery he had been plagued with recurring, painful sores on his hips and buttocks, which the healer said were from sitting too much; Goldi had suggested putting flannel in his breeches so he would be sitting on a more forgiving fabric when he did need to sit (which was often).
His inspection completed, Frodo pulled on his nightshirt and pulled the fasteners through their loops. When he had confided to Rosie the difficulty he was having with buttons, she had the tailor give her some wooden toggles that she sewed on instead. These were much easier to grasp and could be manipulated with one hand.
Frodo sat on the bed and carefully hefted one leg, then the other, onto the mattress, and reflected that he had been wise to finish the Red Book when he did, even though his obsession with it near the end may have helped bring on the madness. He could barely write now, the stiffness of his fingers and the swollen joints making it painful to grasp a quill. Young Rose served as his secretary when he needed to write a letter, which wasn't often, since most hobbits chose to pretend he didn't exist. It was easier than try to understand how he could be mad for years, then suddenly be back in his right mind for months on end.
But he didn't mind being ignored. It was easier than hearing the inevitable comments about his appearance and speculation about when he'd have another fit and if he'd finally kill himself off. He could shrug off such statements in public, but they hovered in his mind for days after, taunting him like the voices often did during his madness. He didn't tell Sam any of it, though. He didn't want to worry him that the madness sometimes half-heartedly returned, though Frodo lived with the fear that it would return with a vengeance and he would have to admit it had all been an act.
Frodo shivered and forcefully turned his mind to the contentment he'd felt that evening, telling Bilbo's story to Sam's children. It was a much better thought to sleep on.
chapter two
Title: Letting Go, 1/18 "Story-telling"
Rating: PG-13 overall for dark themes, G for this part
Wordcount: 2,535 for this part
Warnings: this fic will eventually involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
Chapter Summary: Frodo tells a story.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
"Tell us a story, Uncle Frodo!" a small voice begged from beside his armchair near the fire.
Frodo looked up from putting leaf in his pipe for an after-supper smoke to see the hopeful face of young Tom. He set the pipe aside and smiled at the lad. "You'd like a story? Go find out if any of your brothers and sisters would like to hear one, too, and I'll think of one to tell you."
While the lad excitedly ran off to fetch his siblings, Frodo settled back in his chair and tucked his lap blanket more securely around his body. It may be the middle of July, but he became chilled very easily. Sam teased him that he just needed a bit more weight on him and he wouldn't have that problem. It was true he was still ghastly thin for a hobbit -and probably by Men's standards, as well- but he couldn't seem to do much about that, despite Rosie's excellent cooking and his own much improved appetite.
"I hear you're going to tell a story," Sam remarked with a grin as he entered the sitting room and checked on the fire.
Frodo smiled up at him. "Tom is quite persuasive," he said with a chuckle. "But I do enjoy it."
"That little mite is going to have the entire Shire wrapped around his little finger one of these days," Sam said fondly. "Will you need something to drink? Water? Ale?"
"A little ale would be appreciated," Frodo replied. "I learned my lesson at the Free Fair." Tom had, as usual, begged a story out of him, and young hobbits from other families joined the little group and listened so raptly that Frodo didn't have the heart to stop, even when he grew quite thirsty. When he lost his voice and nearly fainted from the heat, Frodo blamed both on not having anything to drink, so he always made sure to have something on hand before any storytelling. Not that he was likely to faint in Bag End, especially after such a hearty supper, but it was a good habit to have, regardless.
By the time Sam returned with a mug of ale, Tom had dragged all of his siblings into the sitting room for the story. Elanor was the only one missing, as she and Fastred and little Elfstan had moved to Westmarch the month before. Tom claimed Frodo's lap and the rest spread out on the floor, with Robin sitting in Rose-lass' lap. Frodo-lad even came, curious about the story but still unwilling to fully accept Frodo as anything but the mad hobbit in the back room, so he slouched against the doorway. Rosie followed Sam in, and they settled on the couch, Sam's arm around Rosie, after Sam made sure Frodo had everything he needed.
Frodo surveyed the expectant young faces, touched that they so happily accepted him. "Well, now, where shall I begin? Has your da told you the story of my uncle Bilbo and the three trolls?" He looked down at Tom, who shook his head energetically, and even Rose-lass and Merry and Frodo-lad seemed unfamiliar with the tale. "No? Then let me begin. It started when Bilbo -no, not you, Bilbo, though you're named for this daring adventurer!- went on a journey with thirteen dwarves . . ."
Sam listened with interest, and noted that some of the details Frodo told were different than how he remembered Bilbo telling it, but he wasn't sure if that was Frodo embellishing or if he'd plain forgotten some parts. In any case, it didn't matter much, for his children held on to Frodo’s every word with rapt attention, and it was a joy to watch Frodo storytelling, his face and limited gestures saying as much as his words.
"He would have been wonderful with his own bairns," Rosie whispered in his ear after a while.
Sam nodded and tightened his arm around her. "Aye. At least he has ours to dote on."
"And you weren't sure we should've had so many," she teased.
"You ain't heard me say that since before Tom was born, and I changed my mind, any road," Sam replied, kissing the top of her head.
She laughed softly but said nothing more.
When Frodo finished his tale, over an hour had passed. Tom was half-asleep in Frodo's lap, but still begged, "More?"
Frodo chuckled. "Only a bit more. Your father and I came upon the stone trolls during our own adventure. He'll have to tell you more about them; I'm afraid I don't remember much of that part of the journey."
"Why?" Robin asked shyly.
"Why don't I remember?"
Robin nodded.
"I was wounded about a week before that and the injury was making me ill," Frodo said diplomatically.
"Ill like you have been for most of my life?" Frodo-lad asked cynically.
The popping of the fire was the only sound as Frodo tried to think of a reasonable answer and Sam's expression grew thunderous. He was about to scold his oldest son, but Frodo caught his eye and shook his head slightly, mouthing the words, 'Not now.'
"No, not like that at all," Frodo replied, directing his words at all of the children. "My arm and shoulder got cold and I couldn't see well. I could hardly bear to move, because everything hurt. It was much like a bad flu, I suppose. I nearly died."
Frodo-lad snorted and muttered something under his breath that Sam couldn't make out, but Frodo knew to be a comment to the effect that they would've been better off if he had. Frodo shakily took a large gulp of the warm ale, shuddering a little as he swallowed.
"Everyone to bed," Sam announced, to the whined complaints of his brood. "Frodo-lad, stay here. I need to have a word with you."
Rosie gently tugged Tom's hand until he got up from Frodo's lap and patted Frodo on the shoulder before she left, tailing the huddle of children now chattering excitedly about trolls. Merry and Pippin had produced sticks from somewhere and were beating each other with them, proclaiming that the other was a troll that needed to be subdued and trapped outside so the sun would turn him to stone. Rosie grabbed the makeshift weapons and swatted them both, sending them scurrying to get washed and dressed for bed.
Frodo-lad sulkily crossed his arms and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stood in front of his furious father. Frodo, still in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, watched as Sam scolded his son for being disrespectful of Mr. Frodo and for saying such things in front of his siblings. "If you're going to say such things, you're not welcome here," Sam finished.
"Sam," Frodo said chidingly. He didn't want to be the cause of Frodo-lad being kicked out!
"I don't stand for other hobbits saying such things about you, so I'm certainly not going to let one of my children say it!" he told Frodo, then turned his attention back to his son Frodo. "As it is, you're grounded and get to muck out the stable every day for a fortnight. Apologize to Mr. Frodo and mean it, or it'll be a month."
Frodo-lad turned to Frodo reluctantly, but Frodo was still looking at Sam. "Sam, has he read the story?"
"What, the Red Book? No, only Elanor has. I put it away after you took a bad turn; I didn't think it wise that they read it. I thought it would be too frightening to see you and then read that."
"My bad turns are all the more reason they should have read it," Frodo responded wearily. "Perhaps then they would understand why I became like that."
Sam considered this a moment. "You're right. I'm sorry. All right, lad, you also have to read the Red Book in the next fortnight. Now apologize."
Frodo-lad scowled at this addition to his punishment, but managed a sufficiently contrite "I'm sorry" to Frodo that Sam was appeased. "Your tasks begin tomorrow. You may go to bed."
After the lad left, Frodo sighed and let himself droop against the chair. "You are hard on him."
"He is cruel to you and I won't allow it," Sam said defensively.
"He doesn't see why he should respect a hobbit that has been locked away in madness for as long as he can remember," Frodo countered. "I understand his difficulty, and frankly, I'm surprised some of the others don't feel the same way." He pushed his blanket aside and inched forward in the chair so he could stand.
"If any of them say it, they'll be joining Frodo-lad in the stable," Sam said fiercely.
"My dear Sam, you are far too protective of me sometimes," Frodo replied fondly. "Would you give me a hand out of this chair? I've been sitting too long."
Sam offered both of his hands to Frodo, who used them to stiffly pull himself upright. "Oh, some days I feel so very old," he said breathlessly, not quite able to straighten his back entirely. "And then I remember I really am old, so I suppose that's part of the territory."
"You're not a spring chicken, that's for sure, but I'm not sure I'd call you old just yet," Sam said lightly. "When you hit a hundred, perhaps then you'll be old."
"I'm not sure I want to think about what one hundred will feel like. I still can't believe it's me in the mirror sometimes," Frodo said, beginning the slow and painful walk to his bedroom.
Sam followed a step behind, watching Frodo's progress. "Did you want the cane?" he asked, seeing how unsteady Frodo seemed to be.
"No, thank you. It's not far, and I'll use the wall when we reach the hall."
Frodo's current bedroom had been a small guest room when he was Master of Bag End -he had surrendered the title and control of the estate finances to Sam many years ago, when he realized that his fits threatened to overcome him. It was the closest to the living areas and to the main bedroom so Sam and Rosie could come to his aid if needed, but thankfully he had not yet needed to call for them.
Once he reached his doorway, he said good-night to Sam and closed the door behind him; as soon as he was able to dress and care for himself, he had insisted that they allow him to do things for himself, even though it might take him a long time. It was the only way he was going to get any better, and he had some satisfaction each day that he really was getting better at last. Those long years of being shut away and needing care like an infant had been humiliating whenever he came to himself long enough to realize his situation.
Frodo undressed in front of his mirror, slowly pulling his shirt off over his head rather than trying to do the buttons, and examined himself critically. The first thing he always made himself remember is that he was much better than he used to be; for the first two months that he was in his right mind and starting to spend time with the family, he had refused to look at himself in a mirror. When Rosie finally forced him to look at a hand mirror so he could tell her when his hair was the right length, he'd been horrified. Rosie saying he looked a sight better than he had certainly hadn’t helped.
When he finally had the courage to face a full-length mirror, he resolved that he would repeat the experience every week or two, so he could see for himself the improvement that Rosie and Sam were continually remarking upon. Today he could see he was, in fact, gaining a little weight, the gullies between his ribs looking more like grooves and his stomach was almost filled in as he patted it. It would shrink down once his meal was fully digested, as he'd learned in the past, but for the moment it almost seemed like he had some weight on his bones. He still had skin hanging loosely, like a stretched-out woolen sock sagging around one's ankles, but he knew some of that could be attributed to growing old rather than his weight or lack of it.
The scars in various places were the same as always, and he passed over those. His arms and legs were distressingly stick-like, even the left arm with its many raised scars from when he'd scratch and dig at his own flesh, but he had slowly been developing a little more muscle definition as he did more things under his own power. He turned slightly to check for any irritation from sitting so much -his skin was so thin that it seemed to react to every irritant, including remaining in one position too long- but saw nothing. Perhaps the flannel-lined breeches were helping, then. Early in his recovery he had been plagued with recurring, painful sores on his hips and buttocks, which the healer said were from sitting too much; Goldi had suggested putting flannel in his breeches so he would be sitting on a more forgiving fabric when he did need to sit (which was often).
His inspection completed, Frodo pulled on his nightshirt and pulled the fasteners through their loops. When he had confided to Rosie the difficulty he was having with buttons, she had the tailor give her some wooden toggles that she sewed on instead. These were much easier to grasp and could be manipulated with one hand.
Frodo sat on the bed and carefully hefted one leg, then the other, onto the mattress, and reflected that he had been wise to finish the Red Book when he did, even though his obsession with it near the end may have helped bring on the madness. He could barely write now, the stiffness of his fingers and the swollen joints making it painful to grasp a quill. Young Rose served as his secretary when he needed to write a letter, which wasn't often, since most hobbits chose to pretend he didn't exist. It was easier than try to understand how he could be mad for years, then suddenly be back in his right mind for months on end.
But he didn't mind being ignored. It was easier than hearing the inevitable comments about his appearance and speculation about when he'd have another fit and if he'd finally kill himself off. He could shrug off such statements in public, but they hovered in his mind for days after, taunting him like the voices often did during his madness. He didn't tell Sam any of it, though. He didn't want to worry him that the madness sometimes half-heartedly returned, though Frodo lived with the fear that it would return with a vengeance and he would have to admit it had all been an act.
Frodo shivered and forcefully turned his mind to the contentment he'd felt that evening, telling Bilbo's story to Sam's children. It was a much better thought to sleep on.
chapter two