WHISPERS OF THE RING
In DreamsWeedsmoke drifted lazily towards a clear summer sky. No breeze disturbed it as it wound its way past disheveled curls, pitted bark and eventually found its way to disperse among the branches of the great tree Frodo reclined against.
He pulled on the pipe, air rushing over the weed and through the stem making the cherry glow fiery orange. It was a day he had passed like so many others, reading a book and smoking a pipe, unmindful of the world around him.
Only, he could not taste the smoke. He frowned and examined the bowl of his pipe. Perhaps he had packed the weed a bit tight, and he wasn't getting a good draw? Unlikely, but stranger things had happened. His frown faded and a wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. The bowl was cool, far too cool for the amount of cake lining it, and far too cool for a pipe in the midst of a good smoke. He pressed his thumb gingerly against the weed; there was no heat although he could see the glowing of its burn.
The bowl of the pipe was not his familiar clay, it was wooden; dozens of small bird's eyes decorated it and he found himself staring back at the small whorls of grain as he felt the blood drain from his face.
It was his father's pipe.
It had drowned with his parents too many years ago. But it was here in his hand; he was smoking a dead hobbit's pipe and it seemed to grow cooler the longer he held it.
He stood quickly and threw it to the ground with a shuddering gasp. He circled it as if it were a deadly snake then suddenly felt the weight of it in his hand again. It was damp against his skin, as if recently dipped in chilled lake water; and it was in need of a clean.
Frodo dropped to his knees. It felt like his head was floating somewhere else. He could make no sense of this strange thing; and it seemed odd he would be so concerned with cleaning this ghost pipe when he should be trying to rid himself of it. Distracted by these thoughts, his fingers slipped habitually to his waistcoat pocket for his pipe tool.
But it was not the familiar tool that he touched. Warm flesh, but not his own, met with his fingertips...
He shrieked with surprise but before he could wrench his fingers away they were grabbed and his hand was pulled into the small pocket!
"This is madness!" Frodo could not wrap his mind around how his hand fit into a pocket that was normally no larger than the width of his longest finger. He fought the grip with an animal fear; instinct ruling where wits had failed him.
He dropped the pipe to the ground and used his other hand to assist his efforts. Using the tree to brace his back he fought the grip in his pocket with the strength of a man believing himself to be near death. With a great lurch he freed his hand, and felt his world go askew when he also pulled out a long-fingered human hand with attached forearm; still holding his fingers in a death-grip.
He dropped to his knees again and made to bite the hand to free his own when suddenly he felt a movement at his side and a second arm shot forth from his pocket and then a third!
The second had gray-green skin and horribly jagged, blackened nails. It pawed at his chest as if searching for something.
The third was human as well, but looked stronger than the other two. It was white, as if it rarely saw the sun, but callused as if used to handling tools.
Frodo had but a moment to make his assessment but it seemed to take an hour as time was slowing to the consistency of corn syrup. Before he blinked a second time the third hand had him by the throat in a grip so powerful he knew it would choke the air from him before his body would touch the ground.
As he fell his eye caught sight of his father's pipe lying where he had first thrown it in the grass. Only now, to his eyes, it looked more like Bilbo's.
"Master Frodo! Frodo! Wake up! Breathe, Master!"
Frodo's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a great lungful of cool night air. Strong arms gathered him into a tearful embrace; but it was all Frodo could do to keep breathing. He could not return the gesture.
"Oh Frodo! You stopped breathing! We couldn't wake you!" Sam blubbered, soaking Frodo's shoulder with tears of fear and relief.
Merry and Pippin were wide eyed for a moment then joined Sam to comfort him and help support Frodo.
"Are you alright then, Frodo?" Merry asked cautiously. "I've an aunt that often stops breathing in her sleep. She liked a bit of tea when she wakes, would you like me to brew some?"
Frodo shook his head then suddenly hugged Sam back. "I'm sorry." He mumbled. "I was having a bad dream."
"That was quite the dream then, wasn't it?" Pippin said in a small voice. "You screamed loud enough to be heard even over Merry's snoring."
Merry looked as if he were going to refute Pippin's statement but instead turned to coax a small fire from the ashes of their dinner.
"I didn't, did I?" Frodo asked in a whisper. His throat was so sore, as if he had really been held in a death grip! "I didn't mean to wake you all."
"It's all right, Master Frodo. If you hadn't waken us, you might have died in your sleep!" Sam couldn't keep this voice from wavering when he spoke about Frodo's near death.
"Now Sam," Merry chided him, "You can't die from a dream! You're just being foolish. My aunt always woke herself up before any damage was done. Frodo would've woken as well." A small flame gave there shelter an amber glow.
"We don't know that for sure, Merry! He might have slipped away on us!" Sam was shaking so hard Frodo had to steady him. "We should make sure he don't sleep too far way, maybe keep watch, to make sure it don't happen again."
"Sam," Frodo began.
"No Master Frodo. I'm responsible for your keeping, and I won't be losing you to bad dreams." Sam looked over at Pippin then Merry. "What say you two?" Merry and Pippin shared a nod.
"Something should be arranged, that's for certain." Pippin said. "If he's got an inclination, he should be sleeping with someone. Would make it easier to catch if he stops breathing again."
"But," Frodo protested, "I don't think--"
"Well we do, Frodo. And you should be thankful for having thinking friends." Merry scolded. "It wouldn't do if you died before we found Bilbo! And just think of poor Pippin having to carry you there like a sack of potatoes should you die!"
Frodo giggled in spite of the morbidity of Merry's words. "Surely you would all take turns carrying me?" He teased.
Sam drew Frodo close to him again. "Surely we would, Master Frodo. Or else I would for certain. But you won't be dying anytime soon if Samwise Gamgee has anything to do about it!"
Pippin nodded and Merry offered Frodo a small cup of water. Frodo took it gratefully and swallowed the cool liquid. It eased the burning in his throat, but could not take the frost from his heart.
"Well, it was just a dream anyways," Frodo forced himself to sound unconcerned. "It wasn't as if it were real, or meant anything."
"Surely you're right, Frodo." Pippin chirped. "I once dreamt I was a butterfly, and look at me. Not a wing in sight!"
Merry grinned. "I think it meant more you have the mind of a wee bug, Pip!"
Sam and Frodo exchanged a look. They knew what came next. Yet, as amusing as Merry and Pippin's arguments were, Frodo could not shake the feeling his dreams meant something; that they had something to do with his Uncle Bilbo.
"C'mon, Mister Frodo. I'll sleep next to you tonight and make sure you're kept safe." Frodo smiled at Sam. His words, so full of sincerity and love kept Frodo's worst fears at bay -- at least until the morning came.