Fear

“What was that?” Milo turned, surprised to hear the choked cry from above and watched in horror as he saw a child’s body fall heavily onto the ground behind him. Seredic also turned just as the limp form hit and his rosy cheeks instantly paled. The figure had fallen nerveless, like some discarded doll and now lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the tree. His heart filled with sick dread. The figure was far too small to be anything but a young child.

“Oh, no,” he whispered and rushed back. Dark curls and thin, knobby knees were his first impression, but as he got closer his dread became a sinking panic. This was not some farmer’s child who’d taken a misstep, but his own young cousin Frodo. The boy was barely old enough to be out of his mother’s arms and too young to be running about in the forest unsupervised. Seredic sank beside him, terrified. Frodo lay clumsily; a jumble of pale, scraped limbs, and did not move. Trembling, Seredic peered into the battered face, hoping beyond hope for some sign that the boy was still breathing. Milo, coming up behind him, shouted to the others and Darroc and Marmadas, each with a hand on Dody, rushed back also.

“Don’t move him!” Seredic hissed as Milo knelt on the other side of Frodo’s body. The boy was still breathing but his lips were rimmed with blood. His nose was bleeding and his right arm was draped across his chest at a slightly odd angle. Broken, the older boy thought. There was a cut on his forehead that oozed blood and several wicked looking scratches across his face. Seredic was sick with fear. The boy looked bad, very bad. “Milo,” he commanded, taking his friend’s coat urgently. “Get me two sticks, about his arm’s length, and as straight as you can find!” His friend jumped up to obey and Seredic whipped off his coat, waistcoat and shirt. He needed something to tie up the splint with and the loose cotton weave of his tunic could be ripped into bandages. Darroc and Marmadas, almost carrying the recalcitrant Dody, came up behind Seredic as he began tending Frodo.

“What happened?” asked Darroc in a frightened whisper.

Seredic grunted and shook his head but didn’t stop tearing his shirt into strips. Marmadas looked up into the oak’s canopy and whistled low and appreciatively.

“How far up was he?” he murmured. “Must have been pretty high, or we’d have seen him. We were right here.”

Dody also glanced into the treetops wondering where his little cousin had been sitting. He’d thrown the necklace from the very spot they now stood. How could he have missed seeing him? Dody peered into the heights. The bright sun glinted behind a lattice of dark green. Yes, if Frodo had been high up, even his white shirt would have been obscured. His stomach lurched with a sudden empathetic vertigo. The dim heights were at least 40 above the ground. The child must have suffered a terrible fall. Dody shuddered. He might not have been overly fond of his little cousin, but he certainly didn’t want to see him seriously hurt.

The others were working on the boy, trying to determine his condition. Frodo’s welfare was more important than Dody’s theft and though Marmadas retained a grip on his arm, Dody was temporarily forgotten. He stood, sullen and angry with himself but thinking. The older boys would not let this theft lay, regardless of the fact that they were preoccupied now. Dody would have to get the necklace back, there was no longer any way around it. He wondered if subconsciously he had known they would force him to do the right thing – and that had his admission had been a final cry from his conscience. If indeed he still even had one. Since the death of his mother, Dody had watched the last of what might have been good in him slip into shadow. Part of him hated what he was becoming, but there was another part that welcomed the darkness. It was this cruel part that had stolen the necklace, and that took his outrage and grief and turned it into bitterness and hate. It was definitely the stronger and while it controlled his actions he could see no way off the dark path his life had taken.

He was still pondering the problem of the necklace’s return when a thought began to grow in his mind. He had thrown it from this point. He had been unable to follow where his cast had led, considering he had been struck from behind by Maramdas soon after, but his young cousin had probably been watching them and his sight would not have been compromised by the bright sun. “ What if Frodo saw something?”

Dody didn’t realize he’d voiced his question out loud until Marmadas’s hand tightened cruelly on his arm. The younger lad cried out. “Is THAT all you care about?!?!” Marmadas hissed. “Your own worthless hide? ‘What if he saw anything?’!? Why I ought to…”

“Not now!” Seredic growled. “We have to get this child back to the Hall and quick! A fall like this could kill him.”

Milo returned with the two sticks Seredic requested. With a shaking hand, Seredic felt at Frodo’s neck. There was a weak but steady pulse. That, at least, was heartening. He carefully laid the makeshift splint against Frodo’s small arm. The break was low, just above the elbow, but had not driven the bone much out of line. Seredic was careful as he tied the splint tightly in place, but the process should still have been extremely painful. That the child didn’t even flinch as the bone was set was a very bad sign.

“I’m going to carry him. Marmadas, can you get back to the hall quick and see if you can find Drogo? And we’ll need a healer. Darroc, you go with him and see if you can’t locate Daisy Burrows. Or even old Doc Clearwater, but Daisy’d be better. She’s best with the little ones.” Seredic quickly felt along the child’s other limbs. There were scratches and red welts that he knew would be bruises soon, but none of his other bones seemed broken. They would have to chance it. Little Frodo still hadn’t so much as twitched.

Darroc nodded and looked to Marmadas. His friend’s face became grim as he nodded in answer but before he took off, he spared Dody a blistering look. “We aren’t through with you yet,” he promised. “We are going to find that necklace and you are going to return it, or so help me, you are going to end in far worse condition than this child.” He gave Dody’s arm a final, brutal squeeze and then ran after Darroc down the path. Dody was left standing sullenly and rubbing his arm as Seredic lifted Frodo. Milo stabilized the child’s splinted limb so that it was supported and did not swing about.

“Dody, I’d really suggest you consider your situation carefully,” said Seredic. “And look for that necklace while we take care of this.” He settled Frodo’s small head over his shoulder. “Things would go a sight better for you if you were the one who returned it, mark my words.”

Dody still looked defiant and sullen, but nodded as if agreeing. “But you misunderstand me.” He protested in a low voice. “I just thought if Frodo saw anything he might tell…”

Milo Burrows was a mild mannered hobbit lad, but he was at the end of his tolerance. He had just finished securing the child’s splinted arm and when he peered into the bright blue eyes for any signs of consciousness, he had found none. Dody’s seemingly self-centered concerns in the face of this tiny child’s dire injury were too much for him to bear. He whipped around and landed a hard punch in Dody’s shocked face, knocking the lad back and right off his feet. Dody writhed, cowering on the ground and holding his hand to his nose. It was bleeding.

“You…disgust…me…” gasped Milo through gritted teeth. “This baby’s life is a heck of a lot more important than your worthless hide.” Even Seredic was looking down at Dody with sad contempt. Milo shook his head and dismissed the younger boy with a wave of his hand. “Ah…you’re not even worth bothering with…,” and without another word, Milo and Seredic started off down the path leaving Dody lying in the dust.

Dody watched the boys’ retreating backs and felt a cold anger rise in him. He pulled out his kerchief and dabbed at his nose. Though he might have felt he had erred in stealing his mother’s necklace, the bruised arm and now the punch felt like adequate recompense for whatever his judgment might have lacked. They misunderstood him – and thought he was only worried that Frodo might wake and say something to incriminate him. In truth, that thought had crossed his mind, but his intent had been to ask Seredic to ask if the child had seen where the necklace landed. At least he had tried to make a gesture, had tried to make the first step of taking the stones back, but such leanings were now beaten out of him thanks to Milo. He felt anger at being misunderstood, indignation that he was perceived as so selfish that he would not even feel pity for an injured child, and frustration that there seemed to be no way for him to change that perception. The unfairness of his life burned inside him and he felt no inclination to do anything right – whether it was for his own benefit or not. They already thought him useless and cruel – why not live up to their expectations? Damn them, damn them all… He drew his knees up to his chest and sat under the old oak nursing his bleeding nose and feeling very, very sorry for himself.

TBC