West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Before I go to sleep
This is a lovestory between the Ringbearer and a girl from Hobbiton. It's obviously AU and a tale about what might have been if Frodo had ever found a love of his own. What would happen when the danger of the ring is revealed and Frodo has to leave? Would she wait for his return? And how would she handle the fact to be left behind again - and this time forever?
Author: Cuthalion
Rating: NC-17
Category: AU-Angst/Drama
Chapter Eight
A Night in November
"...and like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark and deep
Inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me"
(Billy Joel, ?Good night my Angel")
October 1417
"Do you want some more milk?"
Lily sat at Mrs. Cotton's kitchen table. The room was filled with the rich smell of beef, leek and potatoes; a stew simmered on the hearth, and Rosie's mother was cutting thick slices of bread for lunch. Tom and his sons would soon return from the field with the hearty appetite of hard working hobbits, and Lily had been invited to share the meal. She had stopped by on her way to look after a baby in Bywater. It had been born a week ago and wasn't nursing properly, but Mrs Cotton had held her back and commanded she sit down with a glass of milk and a piece of butter cake, as a "substitute for the missed elevenses after your missed breakfast" as she said.
"For you have been my foster-daughter - at least a year - and there must be someone who takes care that you eat enough, love." she continued. "No use having all the babies in Hobbiton and Bywater prosper and grow fat if the midwife gets thinner and thinner. And you don't sleep enough, lassie. There are too many dark shadows under your eyes. Hobbiton folk did just fine while Amaranth was still alive, despite the fact that she took a nap from time to time."
Lily hid her yawn behind one hand and her tired face in the mug of cool milk Mrs. Cotton handed to her. The butter cake tasted of cinnamon and almonds, and in the sunlit peace of the Cotton kitchen, she noticed her exhaustion much more clearly than she might have in the busy turbulence of her daily life.
Tomorrow Odogar, husband of her mother's aunt Esmeralda from Buckland, would arrive and take Violet and the boys with him to a kind of holiday. This time her father would accompany the family, but Lily had chosen to stay. Six babies had been born during the last two weeks and three more were expected.
One of them was her friend Merle's third child and the main reason Lily had decided to stay in Hobbiton.
Merle already had two daughters. The last - Primula - had been born the day Lily found Amaranth sitting on the border stone, and Merle had been one of the last mothers the old midwife had cared for alone. Only days before she died Amaranth had spoken to Lily about Merle, and in quite a serious tone.
"Her last two babies were rather small," It was strange how easily Lily was able to recall her old teacher's hoarse voice. "I think that's the reason why she was able to give birth at all... the bones the baby has to pass through are somehow crooked - though I can't tell you why. If she were ever to bear a larger baby than her daughters have been, the birth could be very dangerous."
Lily sighed and wiped her face. Yes, she was tired. And she was afraid.
******
Lily had tried to warn Merle - in February, shortly after the secret elvish lessons in Bag End had turned into the passionate meetings of two lovers. She sat in the parlor of Tom Thornbough's smial. Merle served peppermint tea and raisin tarts, and while Lily sipped at her cup she bustled around in the room, adjusting a doily made of lace or a piece of porcelain here and there and spreading an atmosphere of restlessness until Lily grabbed her arm and stopped her from moving.
"Merle, what's the matter? The last time you behaved this way you had stolen half a baking sheet of apple pies from your mother's oven and distributed them to all your schoolmates before she noticed it." She smiled at her friend. "And your left eyebrow always twitches when you lie to me."
"My eyebrow doesn't twitch!" Merle protested. But she sat down obediently in her rocking chair beside the window. "Lily, why are you here?"
"I wanted to talk to you." Lily said. She leaned forward on her stool and tried to catch Merle's gaze. "One of the last things Amaranth did was to tell me that you shouldn't have another baby."
Merle was silent, but Lily saw that the knuckles of her hands lying folded in her lap went white.
"You have been extremely lucky with Daisy and Primula. They were small enough for you to deliver, but if you risk a third pregnancy, you might be in danger."
"Tom wants a son." It was as if Merle hadn't even noticed her words. Lily shook her head. She felt angry impatience welling up inside her; Merle's stubbornness was unnerving.
"Maybe. But I'm sure Tom also wants to keep his wife. And if you want that, too, you should by all means avoid conception. I'll show you how to follow the calendar. I can also give you some herbs that might be useful."
"Following the calendar!" Merle gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'm not nearly as regular as you've always been, and you know that!" She rose from the rocking chair and started to pace through the room again. "I would end up staying out of my own marriage bed for the rest of my life, and what kind of wife would I be if I did that, hm?"
Lily knew she was moving onto thin ice now. She chose her words carefully.
"I am sure there are many ways to please someone." she said slowly. "You don't necessarily have to make love, Merle. You can use your mouth, your hands..."
Hands, painting the elegant lines of elvish letters on her bare skin... clever lips, trailing a fiery path over her breasts and belly to the curve of her hips... a mouth, kissing and caressing... a tongue, making her stifle her scream of surprised bliss in the pillow...
"What do you know of all that!" Merle's angry voice cut through her sudden reverie and Lily felt her cheeks grow burning hot. ?You've never offered more than a dance to any of your pitiable admirers, let alone a harmless kiss, and I'm sure you're the only lass in Hobbiton who never even thought about tumbling in the hay, aren't you?" Again that bitter laugh. "A virgin midwife!"
"Unlike you?" Lily raised her head and gazed into Merle's eyes. "Is it that what you want to say?"
The silence between them was deafening. Finally Merle sighed and reached for Lily's hand.
"I'm sorry, Lilysweet..." she murmured, using one of the old nicknames they'd come up with first when they both were eight years old. "I shouldn't have said that."
"And I shouldn't have either." Lily drew Merle into a short embrace. Merle's hair smelled of honey and soap, the cheek against her own was soft and smooth. She laid her hands around the familiar, beloved face of her oldest friend. "What's the matter, Merlepretty?"
Merle sighed deeply.
"I'm pregnant."
"You are...oh." Lily stepped back, carefully sitting down on her stool before her knees could grow weak. "You have a fateful tendency to come right to the point, haven't you?"
"The story of my life." Suddenly Merle grinned, and it was the grin of long years full of fairytales, children's adventures and endless games. The grin faded quickly, and again she took Lily's hand.
"Don't be angry at me, Lilysweet. I will need your help. I must have this baby. I want a son for my Tom. You know there have been lads before he came along, but all that has changed. Now it's only Tom, and I would do anything to make him happy. Anything."
The pressure of her fingers was hard enough to make Lily flinch.
"Help me, Lily. Please."
"Of course." Lily embraced Merle again. She could feel the deep fear humming through the young woman's body, poorly hidden behind her courage and determination. ?Of course. How could I not?"
******
"Where are you, lass?" A hand on her shoulder pulled her back into presence. "You looked as though you were asleep with your eyes open!"
Lily blinked.
"I'm sorry. Mrs. Cotton." She rose with some effort from her chair. "Thank you for the milk and cake, but I fear I must leave now. The baby in Bywater is waiting and I've promised my mother to help her pack the bags for the journey to Buckland."
"Then I will send Nick along with a big pot of my stew and fresh bread." Mrs. Cotton said. "It will be there when you return from Bywater and you must promise me to eat something. I doubt your mother will have the time to cook properly today."
"Thank you. Mrs. Cotton." Lily replied, honestly thankful. The generous gesture would spare her from having to cook herself that evening.
Five minutes later Lily Cotton watched her walking over the farmyard and up the way to Bywater. She shook her head.
Good girl, she thought. And she is a fine midwife. But she cares too much. What will happen if she looses her first mother in childbirth?
She sighed, turned away from the window and started to lay the table.
******
November 1417
"I've told her she doesn't have to have more children."
The voice of Tom Thornbough was lifeless and monotone. He sat beside the table in the parlour, dark shadows under his eyes, both hands lying slack in his lap.
"I've told her we already have Daisy and Primula, and that's perfectly fine by me. But she wanted more children by all means, and most of all she wanted a boy."
"I'm so sorry, Tom."
Lily stood in the door to the next room. She had been soothing the two little girls; they had been woken by the hectic bustle in the smial, the panicking, shrill voice of their grandmother and the crying of their father. Now they were asleep again; Lily had told them one of the stories she normally read to her brothers and she had sung them a lullaby until their eyes closed. Good, Lily thought, this way they will be spared a few hours more.
"Do you want to see Merle? I have washed her, and the child, too. They both look... peaceful."
The words felt like ashes in her mouth. This was not the way it should have ended. The smial should have been humming now with merry excitement. Tom Thornbough should have been holding his son in his arms, flouncing and bright red from indignant screaming. Instead, his youngest now rested in the arms of his mother, white and quiet. Lily had gently arranged the hobbit baby as if it was huddled against her breast.
Merle.
Merle had fought her last battle the whole night through, and she had lost... the same as Lily who had struggled for hours to save her friend and her third child. At last she had only wanted to save Merle, but she didn't manage that either. This was not the way it should have ended.
"Would you like to lie down a bit, Tom?" she asked softly. "I can stay here and later give notice to the coffin-maker. Do you want me to do that?"
He turned his head and looked at her, and at the sight of the abysmal agony in his eyes her heart seized. Suddenly she felt the urge to defend herself.
"I'm so sorry." she said again. "Perhaps I should have..." She paused. "Perhaps... if the baby had been as small as Daisy and Primula..."
He raised his hand.
"Nothing you could have done, Lily." he said, and in spite of his hopeless misery his voice had a very decided sound. "You warned her, didn't you? You told her she should leave it be." A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "She always tried to get her way."
He was right. Merle had always got what she wanted, and Lily had admired her for that. When she fell in love with the more or less impecunious Tom Thornbough and decided to be his wife, her parents had to give in; all attempts to retune her had been useless. When her father had threatened to deny her dowry, she had only laughed. And while she argued with them, Lily had already embroidered her bride bodice with tea roses and ivy leaves. Finally Father Hornblower had backed down. Merle had married and within one year Young-Daisy was born. None of the old Hornblowers could resist the dimples and the toothless cuteness of their first granddaughter, and soon they had reconciled with their unloved son-in-law, too.
"She says she doesn't feel like a ?real' woman if she can't lie with me the right way." Tom murmured. "It was not your fault. She told me about all the things you said to her, before you knew that she'd got pregnant again..." He slightly shook his head. "I've always wondered how you knew about all that, especially since you haven't taken a husband yet."
"I've not given birth to a child yet, either, but I know, nonetheless, how they are fathered and how they are born." Lily said gently, and she was glad that Tom couldn't see her face in the dim light of the parlour. She had been rather concerned that she had talked herself into trouble. But Merle never asked, and what kind of conclusions she might have ever drawn, Lily would never find out.
"Could you be with us the day after tomorrow when we... when we bury her?" Tom's voice cut through her thoughts. "I think it might be good for the girls."
"Sure, Tom." Lily watched how he finally got up; he turned away from her, shoulders bowed, and went over to the door behind which his wife and his youngest child were waiting for him, in a totally different state than he'd hoped and believed they would be only one day ago. He turned to her once more, the hand on the doorknob.
"Go home, Lily." he said softly. "Thank you for all your efforts."
*****
She stepped out of the smial, closed the door carefully behind her and sucked the damp night air deep into her lungs, thankful for the smell of rotten foliage and wet soil. Involuntarily she took a sniff at her hands; she had washed them thoroughly, but she still sensed a warm metallic hint of blood. Merle's blood.
"Help me, Lily. Don't let me die."
The panting, desperate voice of her friend, Merle's fingers, digging deeply into her arm with each labor pain.
"Help me, Lily."
The images washed over her with irresistible, disturbing power. She hurried down the way, the bag pressed against her chest, and she only slowed when the bend was ahead of her. Five minutes on the left side along the hedge and she would be home.
She stood still, her face blank, her body tense. Then she moved again, but she didn't take the curve leading to the Proudfoot smial. She walked up and around the Hill, straight through the garden with the beds Sam Gamgee had already covered carefully for the winter, straight to the green door.
This was crazy. The window was dark, the lamp was not burning. She shouldn't be in Bag End, not unarranged, not in the middle of the night. She had no right to wake him up.
Her body paid no heed to the crestfallen voice of reason. It was as if she watched herself banging against the door... once, twice, a third time.
It took a long while before something started to move in the smial. Soft steps came near and candlelight flickered behind the round window of the entrance hall. The latch was pushed back from inside, and the door opened.
Frodo stood in front of her, wearing breeches and a half unbuttoned shirt, a candle holder in his hand.
"Lily!" He sounded surprised, but not angry.
"I'm sorry." Her voice was muffled and the words came stagnantly. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I... didn't even want to come."
"I wasn't asleep yet." he said quietly. He frowned as he noticed her pale, numb face. "Did something happen, Lily? Something with your father?"
She shook her head.
"Merle." she said laboriously. ?I was with Merle."
?Merle Thornbough?" He took a step forward, touching her hand; her fingers were cold as ice. "Tom was here two days ago with a basket full of eggs. Sam told me her time was very close."
"Merle is dead." She closed her eyes when the images washed over her again. Merle's contorted face, relaxing only in death... the heavy, lifeless body under her hands when she washed her friend... the tiny corpse of the child. "Merle is dead, and the baby, too."
"Oh no." The deep dismay in his voice was balm and accusation at the same time. "Oh no... that's horrible."
"I couldn't help her." she whispered. "I simply didn't manage to help her."
Frodo laid an arm around her, drawing her inside the smial. It was dry and warm, the remnants of a fire still glowing in the fireplace. He took her bag and put it on a chair; she stood with arms hanging by her sides, watching him as he closed the door. He turned around to her again, opened her cloak, pushed it down over her shoulders and threw it aside. Then he drew her close, holding her and stroking the hair out of her face; she gave a shuddering sigh and her head sank down against his shoulder.
"Quiet, Lily." He whispered against her cheek. "Quiet. I am here."
*****
He woke up about three hours later; the sky outside was still deep black. Lily lay beside him in his bed; he gazed at her pale face, glad that he'd been able to get her to sleep.
He had never seen her like this before; she was controlled and cheerful nearly all the time and her humor and her unshakeable confidence were among the things he cherished most when he thought of her. To see her broken and desperate like this actually shocked him; at the same time he was moved by the fact that she'd come to him, seeking comfort.
He was well aware of how things were at her home; that it was she who mostly cared for her crippled father, that Violet Proudfoot more or less burdened her daughter with the mother's duties for both little boys, and that Lily pulled an inappropriately large share of her family's weight - by selling her embroidery on the market and by taking over the better part of midwifery in Hobbiton. He had a good mind to give Lily's mother a proper earful for her astonishing egoism... but he knew only too well that he had no right to do that. A secret love was barely a good premise for moral haughtiness. Moreover, he had the gnawing suspicion that he put upon Lily like her mother did, only in a different way.
His gaze rested on her face again. She was beautiful - even now, with the lines of exhaustion and sorrow the short sleep hadn't been able to wipe away. And she was proud, for she had never asked for anything as long as this strange enthralled affair had gone on - only that he should teach her elvish writing and elvish language (as well as he could, and he was not half as versed in Sindarin as Bilbo had been). The warmth, the tenderness and the overwhelming passion had come from her, and finally he had answered it, with hesitation first, then with joy and awe, again and again he had been surprised by her generosity.
"Lily..." he murmured, softly stroking her cheek. She stirred with a sigh and opened her eyes.
"Is it already morning?" She raised her head. "Must I go?"
"No..." His thumb run tenderly along her lower lip. "I didn't want to wake you, my chestnut. Try to sleep again..."
But he could see that the memories come back to her; the pain made her face once more uneasy and pale. He drew her close and she returned the embrace. He could feel her mouth against his neck and heard her whispering something, but he didn't understand what it was. Her arms closed even harder around him and she shivered... like before, when he guided her into his kitchen and made her sit down on a chair. He had gently pressed a mug of mulled wine with cinnamon, cloves and honey upon her before he'd convinced her to lie down in his bedroom, at least for some hours.
"What did you say?"
She stretched, turning her head to speak into his ear.
"Help me..." she whispered. "Show me that I'm real. Show me that I'm still alive."
And then she kissed him. Her lips were on his mouth, hot and urging, and first, in his amazement, he didn't react; but her sudden assault was too irresisitible, too arousing was the warmth of her hands, sliding under his shirt and touching his skin. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, touching his... then it drew back and came forth again, as if in a hungry dance.
"Lily..." he murmured. Her breath swept across his cheek, then her teeth gripped, tenderly biting his earlobe. Her fingers stroked his chest, sliding deeper and resting upon his belly with soft pressure. Involuntarily his hands found their way into the loose neckline of her borrowed nightshirt, and then they closed around her full, round breasts and he felt the familiar buds he had caressed so often hardening against his palm.
"Lily..." He heard himself moaning softly, and her voice was an echo of his sudden lust. She drew back from his arms; rose until she knelt on the mattress and then leaned over him, unbuttoning his breeches, stripping them down over his thighs and throwing them on the floor. He lay on his back, his own breath loud in his ears. With a quick movement she pulled the nightshirt over her head. In the faint golden light of the only candle he could flightily see her pale skin and her soft curves, then she sank down beside him, pressing her whole length against him with. He kissed her again, stroking her naked back and her buttocks; his hand found it's way in between, touching smooth flesh and slick heat. He started to stroke her most sensitive point and felt her body tremble and her voice break in a long, low moan when he entered her with his fingertips, circling the small knot with his thumb. She arched against his hand, eyes closed and mouth open in a soundless scream, then to his surprise drew back impatiently. The next thing he felt was her body, sliding swiftly over his own.
Once more she rose; she opened her legs and he lay with bated breath when her hand touched his hardness, guiding it until she was able to take him in. For a moment she paused atop of him without moving, then her body sank to his until she surrounded him completely. She gave a small painful gasp, nearly a sob, then laid her hands flat on his chest, rose again and found a slow, regular rhythm. She held her eyes closed while she moved above and her strong muscles contracted around him more and more. All he heard was the creaking of the bedframe, their heavy breath and the intense, maddening sound of their colliding flesh. Then she slowly increased her tempo. He felt his hips rising against hers and he clung to her upper arms; the tension was building up inside him almost agonizingly and he clenched his teeth, holding his violent need to move at bay and keeping himself from uttering the smallest sound of passion... as if he could destroy everything by breaking her concentration.
Then, all of a sudden, she shivered fiercely and bucked up above him, and her release was followed by his own. He felt his climax shoot irresistibly and powerfully deep into her, and he breathlessly called her name. Then she collapsed over his chest and started to cry. Her tears trickled down his neck while he rocked her in his arms, stroking her back and whispering words of comfort in her ear.
******
Two days later Merle Thornbough was buried. Lily accompanied father and daughters as she had promised. She stood beside the afflicted figure of Tom Thornbough, holding the hands of the little girls while nearly all Hobbiton moved past the widower to offer their condolences. Merle had been very liked, and of course the Master of Bag End also showed up to express his regret.
Frodo tried to find words of comfort where none could be found, and while the coffin was lowered into the grave, he drew back a few yards from the crowd and watched the little mourning family. Daisy buried her face in Lily's skirt, and the young woman slowly stroked the trembling shoulders of Tom's eldest. When Primula saw that her sister was crying, she also started to weep, and Lily lifted the little girl on her arms and rocked her until the curly head finally relaxed onto her shoulder and Primula went to sleep. Frodo turned away, deeply saddened and shaken, and he left the graveyard and, in the grey light of the November afternoon, walked home to Bag End.
In the peace of his study he decided that this was one of the rare occasions for a brandy not to be drunk in company. He poured the amber golden liquid into a glass and sat down behind his desk. In his mind's eye he still saw the straight figure of the woman who had been crying desperately in his arms only two nights ago. He admired her control, her silent courage and her unflagging ability to give the most simple of comforts.
He sighed, took a long sip of the brandy and felt the strong alcohol running down his throat and kindling a fire in his stomach.
The husband she chooses some day will be a very lucky and blessed hobbit.
For the first time that day he felt his spirits rise; this time the warmth spreading throughout his body had nothing to do with the brandy in his glass.
He turned around and took a piece of folded cloth out of the shelf behind him. It was the chestnut-scarf... Lily had forgotten it when she left that night of sorrow. He smiled faintly, laid it against his cheek, and turned his head and inhaled the fresh, sweet scent rising from the fabric.
A lucky and blessed hobbit indeed.
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