Beware: Unbetaed strangeness lies ahead. Both stories rated PG/PG-13. The first being Frodo-centric and the second being Lily-centric. I have no excused for these two, except that they popped into my head about an hour ago and demanded that they be placed down on paper.
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As A Hatter
There are dangerous Men (and Hobbits and Elves and Dwarves and Orcs) in this world, and every child must learn very young to tell the difference between those who are friends and those who are foe. Some are very easy to tell, with their cold faces and hungry fingers and hands that snatch and grab at money and flesh and weapons like a drowning man does at salvation. And some are hard to tell apart, because their eyes are warm and kind, and their hands are soft and comforting until they are drowning, and then it is too late because you have become the stick they grasp at.
A drowning hobbit is the most dangerous thing in the world, for he will kill his rescuer and drown both of them in the attempt to save his own life. A drowning hobbit is dangerous to everyone around him.
Frodo was a drowning hobbit. Not all the time. Most of the time, he could swim quite well, like an otter or swan, floating gently on the surface of the water and paddling though it around the others. He'd play with the children, and write his stories, make love to Rosie and Sam, and make peal oranges for Sammie and Daisy to eat as they sat in the shade of the hobbit hole on a hot summer's day, waiting for friends to come and visit. During those days, he rocked babies, played with children and spoke at length on many numerous topics, including the story of the Ring and his journey (though some parts were always left unsaid) and did it all with a sense of sanity and levity.
The drowning times would always come suddenly and unexpectedly, like swift thunderstorms that struck without warning and disappeared again, leaving behind shattered trees and deep puddles. He would wake up, sing songs to Tolman, listen to Ruby talk about what she had found at the top of a tree, write half a story about a princess and two brothers who tried to save her from monsters, and then smash every peice of pottery in the kitchen with a pure rage that left him shocked and breathless afterwards. Though rare, when he did begin to feel himself pulled beneath the water, Frodo would grasp onto anything within grasp or reach. Roses on the bottoms of dresses, or golden hair, or soft skin and warm eyes were all just something to grab hold of. He would grab onto someone to pull himself up, just long enough to grab a breath of air, even if it would sink both of them to the bottom of the pond without a ripple left to mark their passage.
There was no answer, no easy way to keep Frodo from these times of madness when he'd lash out at whatever moved, or scream accusations that cut to the bone. All one could do was keep an eye out, and watch, and wait. Sam and Rose had their ways of dealing with Sam, and Elly had her own, and Del had yet another set that worked, and neither way was wrong, but sometimes one way was better than another. Sometimes it took a clean hard slap across Frodo's cheek to return him back to sanity and make the crazed look flee back into the dark places of his mind. And sometimes, it took a game of tossing hot coals that burnt palms and blistered skin to make the unhealthy sheen of madness depart. And when those didn't work, there was always a vase or two lying around the house that almost seemed to beg to be smashed against floors or walls or heads.
But these times were far enough between that they could be forgiven, if never forgotten. But like any drowning man, there was always one set of eyes upon him, watching to make sure that if the wind turned suddenly, someone would be prepared for disaster. And someone would find a stick or rope to save him Frodo drowning without letting themselves be pulled into the suffocating darkness as well.
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And A Candle
Lily Brambleburr (of Bindbale Wood, as she was oft to introduce herself as) was a whole practical hobbit. Her house was never bigger than she needed, just a small hobbit hole with a basement for storing food and bodies, a small kitchen, a bedroom and a parlour that both entertained guests and served as a guest room on the few occasions that someone would stay the night. Her larder kept only the small amount of food she needed, her dishes could be totalled using two hands and one foot, and her laundry rarely filled the small clothesline she hung between her front window and the small oak in her front yard. Her life was simple, meticulous and levelled out like a fine window ledge.
In matters of business, she chose to let the family set the price. From time to time, there were certain hobbits that would set the price far lower than it was customary too, but Lily would never argue or heckled the price, performing the same job for those who paid well and those who did not pay enough to cover the price of the wood to make the coffin. There was only one indulgence she made when it came to price.
The family would decide amongst themselves what to pay her with; fresh vegetables in the summer or an offer to repair a window or build her a new table, or some other barter or trade. Lily would listen to their offer and reply, in her measured and calm voice, "And a candle."
There was some discussion in the Green Dragon late at night, or after the children had all gone to sleep, as to why the candle was so important to Lily. She didn't seem to care much about what type of candle it was, or how big. All that mattered to her was that a candle was included in her payment. There was always some speculation about witchery (after all, wasn't red hair the sign of magic hidden in the blood) or dark rites (she did handle dead bodies all day) or perhaps some good luck ritual. But in the end, most chalked it up to simple insanity on the girl's part. Nothing to be worried about, not like that Mad Baggins, but something to always be alert of.
Lily heard this talk and paid it no mind. She took the candles she was given, large waxy white ones or skinny yellow candles, or those of strange and odd shapes, and each made their way to her front window where they burnt all night long and into the early morning, a beacon for a friend who had gone away a long time ago.
She was practical and left matters of fancy to those who were not yet adults. But the candles left to light Del's way home never disappeared from her window.
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