CHAPTER 10: SYMPATHY and UNDERSTANDING

Rosie left the sick room, and headed for the kitchen and breakfast. She was annoyed with herself, and it showed in the way she strode down the long corridor, scowling. She hated the Baggins. It was very simple. But somehow it wasn’t simple anymore. She mulled over what she had seen, and what she had heard. Pity! He didn’t deserve her pity! But a small voice was whispering of sufferings and sorrows unguessed at.

The waste water in the bowl she carried slopped dangerously close to the rim, and she forced herself to calm and slow her step. She reviewed her grievances. He had taken Sam away from her on some wild goose chase, he had taken Sam’s heart away form her, he did not deserve Sam, and he was not making him happy. She was walking away from the sickroom, but she could not walk away from the small voice that said: What if Sam was right about The Baggins’ deeds? What if Sam’s generous heart had been given and not somehow tricked into the keeping of his master? What if he was truly loved in return? What if Sam’s unhappiness was because Mister... no! The Baggins... was unwell?

Her scowl deepened, her eyebrows pulling together, and she chewed her lip as she considered these unwelcome alternatives.

‘Rosie!’

Her father’s voice cut across her tired thoughts. Water splashed up over her dress as she jumped at the sound, and she turned to see him leaning out of the study. One hand rested on the door jamb, while the other held the door part open; not much more than his head showed in the gap.

‘Da, what are you doing in the study so early, and all?’ she asked in surprise. Her surprise was not that he was up - he and the lads would be out working as soon as light allowed this time of year - but that he was in the study. It was Rosie who kept the farm tallies, and her father had been happy to give up this chore. It was an extra cause of resentment towards the Baggins, that he had taken over the study for his ridiculous scribblings. She either had to take the farm ledger elsewhere to work, or find time from other chores when he went out and left the study free.

‘How is Mr. Baggins this morning?’ he asked, ignoring her question, and Rosie shrugged.

‘Slightly better, I’d say,’ she answered and found she was glad to be able to say it. It’s all right, the small voice said, you can go back to hating him when he’s himself again.

‘Well, that’s good. I really need all hands in the fields today, there’s ploughing up in the High Field, and we’re ready to sow in the Home Field, but I was thinking I’d have to send someone to fetch Sam from wherever he’s gone to - if his master was no better, that is. Captain Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin, too, and that’s a step and a half over to Buckland.’

‘He was sleeping almost normally, and the fever’s gone.’ She stifled the little voice, before it could think: and you enjoyed the way he clung to you, didn’t you? Like a child he was.

‘I’m just going to make myself some tea, father,’ she said hurriedly. Would you like a cup before I make breakfast?’

‘I would, lass. But I’ve had my breakfast. Your mother’s left it all out in the warming oven. Bring some for yourself, when you bring my tea, there’s some help you can be giving me here.’

He disappeared back into the study before Rosie could ask him what help was needed. She sighed inwardly. What she wanted was something to eat, something to drink, and then a good long sleep. She did not want to read or write letters for her father. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t do it himself, but his reading was painfully slow, as he traced a finger under each word, and his writing looked like a tipsy spider had been let loose with the ink pot. Still, it must be something important if it could drag him into the study on a day that looked set fair for harrowing the ready-ploughed fields, and drilling seed.

What was it Sam once said? The difference between a good gardener and a poor gardener is naught but two weeks. As a farmer’s daughter she had understood immediately what he meant. Her father was a good farmer and was not one to waste fair weather in Spring. In another few weeks the sheep would be lambing, and there would be no time then to be worrying about sowing crops. Grab a chance, her father always said. Grab a chance, and you’ll not be sorry for a might’ve-been.

Rosie returned to the study carrying two mugs of strong tea, and some fresh toast and honey for herself. Her tired body had turned queasy at the sight of sausages and bacon, but a bite of toast she could manage. The door was almost closed, but not latched, and she pushed it open with her hip, and shut it again behind her with her foot. Her father looked up, smiling.

‘Ah! There’s my girl,’ he said. He cleared a space on the table for her to put down the mugs and plate, and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

Rosie looked around, and her eyes widened.

‘You’ve been reading the Baggins’ papers,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t think -’

‘Now, Rosie. First off, I don’t like to hear you call him that. I’m not sure as why you’ve took against him so hard, unless it’s because Sam followed him out the Shire and came back large as life and twice as natural. He’s our guest here, and you can call him Mr. Baggins or Mr. Frodo, if you please.’

Rosie put her arm around her father’s leather jerkin and gave him a hug. ‘That’s twaddle, Da,’ she said, kissing him on the nose. ‘I don’t go calling him that to his face, nor in his hearing, so it don’t do no harm. And riffling through his private papers don’t seem any more polite to me. What on earth are you looking for? ’

‘They ain’t private, my Posie. Sam says he’s awriting down everythin’ that happened for anyone to read. And it’s not like he were taken ill while writing, and didn’t have a chance to lock ‘em away. He went to bed quite normal. I saw him go.’

Rosie had seen him go as well, but she wasn’t sure about the normal. He had looked pale, with dark smudges under eyes which didn’t quite focus on her. He had wished her goodnight as they passed, but she had barely nodded to him. She had wondered again why in all of creation Sam was so besotted with him, such a waif-and-stray he looked.

‘Why do you want to read them anyway?’ she asked, not voicing her doubts.

‘Well, your mother wouldn’t let me get no sleep until she’d told me all about those scars you found, and how he seemed to think he was being attacked, an’ all. And I got to thinking about what Sam kept trying to tell us, how Mr. Frodo had done something that had saved us all, somehow. I couldn’t follow what he said at the time; too caught up in our own troubles to think beyond my front door, you might say. But he’s a wise hobbit, Samwise - no! don’t harrumph at me like that, Rosie Posie, it’s true, even if he ain’t wise enough to see you’d make the best of wives - and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin think a lot of their cousin, too. They might be making the orders around here, and I’ve see’d them disagree with Mr. Frodo over what’s to be done, but they, well, honour him, I think. Mr. Pippin called him the King’s friend, did you know that? I heard it from Fil at The Green Dragon. The King’s friend and most famous in all the West, or some such thing. And when they had their swords out all ready to do Sharkey a mischief, Mr. Frodo just said, “I will not have him slain,” quiet like, and they just sheathed their swords without a murmur. I saw that myself, I did.

‘Well, I’m thinking I’d like to know what he did, because it don’t seem fair somehow. If he did all that Sam seems to think, then it don’t seem fair that he should be such a shadow of his old self. He’s suffered a lot seemingly. He used to be such a merry lad, and now I find I don’t want to look in his eyes, not no how. Makes me shiver.’ He looked at Rosie, quickly. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

Rosie wasn’t going to admit it, but after watching through the night, she knew exactly what her father meant. She took a swallow of her tea and leant over the papers in his hand. They were covered in a fine flowing handwriting, very different from anything she had seen before.

‘So what have you found?’ she asked, interested despite herself.

‘Well it’s very neat an’ all, but I’m having trouble reading it, and I was hoping you’d fare better. This seems to be a list of dates and what happened when.’

Rosie took the pieces of paper and scanned over them. It did indeed seem to be a list of dates, with crossings out and question marks. There were comments in the margin: Ask Sam about this... Pippin will know... get Merry to show me map. She skimmed through it. There were a lot of foreign names and words she didn’t know. The flowing script, so different from a hobbit’s usual rounded, carefully formed letters, was a little hard to read.

‘Can you make it out, lass?’ asked her father, peering over her shoulder as though, with Rosie looking at it, he would be able to see it with her eyes and make sense of it.

‘Yes, I can, Da. But it’s going to be slow work. I’ll sit and read a bit while I have my breakfast, but you’d better get on. Jolly were just off to harness Speedwell to the harrow, last I saw, and the others was nearly finished breakfast.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re right as usual, lass. They rags me if I’m late. They makes jokes about my advancing years, and keeps ‘em going all day, if I give ‘em half a chance. Such bad lads I have.’ He laughed at the thought. ‘Now don’t go sitting too long, wearing out your pretty eyes. Make sure you go and get some rest soon.’

Rosie yawned after her father had gone, and sat eating her toast and puzzling over the papers she held. The more she read, the easier it became, and after a while her half-eaten toast was forgotten and the morning wore on unnoticed. Small comments made her realise she had been right, and her father wrong. These papers were private, and she was glad it was not him reading them. She was far too curious to stop reading though, secure in the knowledge that the Baggins was not likely to be leaving his bed any time soon.

They seemed to have travelled from danger to danger: black riders hunting them out of the Shire, trees attacking them, barrow wrights capturing them. It was the stuff of old legends. The thought crossed her mind that it must all be made up, that the Baggins was totally cracked as many seemed to believe, and she nearly threw the papers down in disgust. Then her thoughts turned to the scars over the body she had helped bathe, and she read on. If there was anything to explain them, she might start to think there was some truth here. Somehow the little comments in the margin, pointing to the need for clarification in the writers mind, gave a hint of veracity to the whole fantastical account.

Win’filth 6th. Camp at Weathertop and are attacked by Black Riders. We now know these are the Nazgûl from Mordor, terrible servants of Sauron, led by the Witch-king of Angmar. They command me to put on the Ring, and I am unable to resist, so have only myself to blame for what follows. I enter their world and can see them clearly for the first time. Towering over me, they are terrible to look at, their faces cold and merciless. I try to defend myself, striking at the Witch-king with my sword, and calling upon Elbereth, the star-queen, in my terror. Strider drives them off with flaming brands, but not before the Witch-king has plunged his blade deep into my shoulder. With my last shreds of conscious thought, and in the grip of icy pain that locks my throat so that I cannot even scream, I slip the Ring from my finger and know no more.

Rosie swallowed. She could see the puckered, jagged scar clear in her mind. She shivered and read on, hardly hearing the clatter as the men came in from the fields for a second breakfast. No doubt they thought her asleep in her room.

It takes us two weeks to reach Rivendell, and I remember little about the journey except that it is a nightmare of pain and cold. (Note: ask Sam what he remembers. I do know he hardly left my side, and when he did the world receded so that I seemed to be slipping into the shadowy realm of the Wraiths. Gandalf says this is indeed what was happening to me; he thinks that it was my resilience that held out so long against them, but I know it was my dear Sam who kept me in this world. Every time I lost myself in the fog, and thought how easy it would be to just give in and go, his quiet voice or tender touch would call me back to myself. His poem about the Troll was a little chink of sunlight in a cold, barren wasteland. Little did I think that my jest about him becoming a warrior, or a wizard, would come true. Eru is kind and does not show us what perils lie in wait, or we would have given up before we left Rivendell. A warrior he certainly became, and I think a wizard too. How else could he have achieved such feats of heroism and endurance?)

Win’filth 24th. I awake in Rivendell and am blessedly unaware of the last 4 days. I know I resisted the Nine at the Ford, and I am thankful for that. To my joy, both Bilbo and Gandalf are here. Sam tells me what the removal of the sword shard from my shoulder entailed; he is white and shaking at the memory. I do not think it is necessary to write about this, suffice it be known that the shard was removed by the Lord Elrond himself. Dear Sam, still unaware of how much I love him, weeps over me.

Rosie rubbed her eyes; they felt heavy and gritty from lack of sleep. If she went now, she might not get another chance to read more. She started to skim, missing passages which did not refer directly to Sam or the writer. The dangers continued: wolves, the Watcher, orcs and trolls. She read with satisfaction that Sam felled an orc, and, with only mild surprise, that his master had attacked a troll. She was unprepared for Gandalf’s fall. Surely they all talked about him as though he were alive and might come visiting any time?

She skimmed forward, and found the story seemed to split and follow different threads. She followed only the strand she was interested in, but noticed Gandalf’s name started appearing again elsewhere in the story. She lay the papers down and stretched her head back. It was no good, she was going to have to give in and go to bed. She would just try and find any reference to the other wounds: the scar like a whip lash around his torso, the missing finger, the strange marks on his neck.

After a little searching she found much of what she wanted under the date Rethe 13th. There was no doubt the paired marks on his neck must have been made by the hideous creature Shelob. A giant spider? How big would a spider have to be to leaves marks as large as those when it bit? Rosie, not the bravest when spiders were concerned, felt sick.

I draw my sword and raise the star glass and walk to meet her. We cannot escape by fleeing. The monstrous form retreats, and we are fooled by her cunning.

What a bland sentence, Rosie thought, unable to prevent the admiration she felt that he could walk to meet the horror.

As I run from the foul passage, heedless of Sam’s warning, she comes behind me. I feel the bite, but do not even remember falling to the ground, let alone being bound in her foul cords.

I must rely on what Sam tells me; I have to question him closely to find that he did much damage to the monstrous beast, dimming her clustered eyes and slashing a claw from her foot. Finally, she tries to crush him beneath her swollen belly; the stench is nearly overpowering, but he holds Sting firm and she impales herself upon the blade.

Sam believes I am dead, and in his grief comes to full knowledge of his love for me. I try to imagine my feelings had our positions been reversed, and it is I that rush to cut him from the cords. I do not doubt that, like him, I would have thought of ending it all there. Would I have found his courage to carry on alone? I think the shock would have broken me, and I would have lost what strength I had to resist the Ring. Poor Sam, he still uprates himself for taking up my burden and leaving me where the orcs find me. I won’t deny the waking is terrible, but what other course could he have taken?

And what of the waking? I am a prisoner of the gloating orcs, stripped naked and defenceless. I will not tell that tale, it is dark upon me. It seems forever until that nightmare is ended, but it is less than a day, although in truth I cannot say it has ended now. It is still with me, and as the anniversary approaches, it troubles me more and more. My last memory, before it is over, is of an orc lashing me with a whip, the thong cutting deep into my naked flesh. Suddenly the orc is gone, and Sam is there. He cradles me in his arms and cries my name, as though his heart would break if I didn’t answer.

Rosie put the papers down and stared unseeing out of the window. Yesterday was Rethe 13th.

The writing said so little, but next to what she had seen and heard in the sickroom, it made chilling reading. She could not read on; she was too tired, and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. She still did not really understand what they were doing going into Mordor, apart from the knowledge that it was to do with the Ring. She noticed it was always written with a capital R, and odd comments here and there seemed to hint that it directed events around it, and was trying to take control of its bearer.

She was at a loss as to what to do with the papers. She did not wish to leave them to be read by others, nor did she want to take them with her in case their disappearance was noticed. In the end she left them, trusting to the difficulty her father had in reading them. She was not sure why she was so reluctant for the rest of her family to find out the true state of affairs between Sam and his master; was it really likely that it would escape the notice of the gossips for long?

She went to the kitchen. Jena had thankfully cleared up after the men and their second breakfast. Rosie helped herself to some bread, cheese and pickle. Deep in thought, she picked up a glass and carried it into the cool room. Her head was aching from tiredness and too much reading, and she leant against the cold tiled wall as she filled her glass. ‘I still do hate, him. I do,’ she whispered to the dim room, but somehow her voice lacked conviction. She had lost the foot-stamping, spit-in-his face vehemence that had been such a comfort to he; her hate of the Baggins had been a a way to vent her feelings of anger and rejection, and now she just felt empty.

She finished eating and drinking, piled the plates in the sink for Jena to find, and trailed slowly to her room. The sun was shining through the window, lighting up the yellow walls with a golden glow. Absent-mindedly, she straightened the rag rug on the floor with her foot, and went to stare in the mirror. She turned her head this way and that, so the shadows shifted over her face. She had never been able to decide if she was good looking or not. The only ones who had ever called her beautiful were her father and Sam. And Sam had chosen elsewhere, had perversely chosen to love his master, when she thought he loved her.

Slipping off her dress, she lay down in just her shift again, and flung her arm up over her eyes. She had pictured Sam’s relationship with his master as one sided. She had thought Sam naive in thinking his master had any real regard for him, he was just being used.

Gandalf says this is indeed what was happening to me, he thinks that it is my resilience that held out so long against them, but I know it was my dear Sam who kept me in this world.

Sam believes I am dead, and in his grief comes to full knowledge of his love for me. I try to imagine my feelings had our positions been reversed, and it is I that rush to cut him from the cords. I do not doubt that, like him, I would have thought of ending it all there.

She could no longer pretend that Sam was unloved, that the master didn’t love Sam, as she did. Maybe more than she did. A tear trickled down her face. She no longer hated him, she pitied him and pitied herself. Her father was right. Whatever he had done, it had involved sacrificing himself. Her anger had gone, and all that was left was the hurting. Rolling on her side, she drew her legs and arms tight into her body, and wept.



It was late in the afternoon when she woke. She blinked sleepily, and then leapt from her bed as she saw the shadows were gathering, and the sun was low in the sky. It was much later than she had asked Jena to rouse her, and her mother would be wondering where she was. She hurriedly pulled on her dress and apron, and splashed cold water over her face. She ran to tell her mother she was just going to get a drink, but would be back directly.

The door to the room was ajar, which surprised her, but she wasn’t prepared for the sight that met her eyes when she pushed it open. The room was unoccupied, the bed was stripped bare, and the clutter of the sick room had been removed.

She stood still, her hand to her mouth. Her thoughts were in turmoil, trying to make sense of what she saw, trying to make sense of the feelings of grief and sorrow that welled up within her. He had been better, hadn’t he? Sleeping almost normally when she left, but surely not so much better that he was up and about already. Was he dead then? Had he succumbed to another of those fits where he seemed not to be breathing, until his breathing faded away, and his weak pulse after it? A tear spilled over and trickled to the corner of her mouth at the possibility.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ she thought. ‘How can I mind if he’s dead?’ But she found she did mind, very much. Her common sense was clamouring to be heard; she took a deep breath and listened. ‘If he was dead,’ she told herself severely, ’he’d be laid out here, wouldn’t he?’ She felt a little better then, and leaned weakly against the door frame while her heart rate slowed from the shock.

As soon as she felt more in control, she wiped her face on her apron and went to find her mother, or anyone else who could give her news. The kitchen seemed the best place to start.

As in the morning, she was destined to be stopped at the study, before she even reached the kitchen. No one called out to her this time, but she was brought up short by the candle light spilling round the part opened door. She didn’t hesitate, but pushed the door open to look.

Her patient was sitting at the desk, papers strewn around him. He turned as she entered, arrested in the act of dipping his quill in the ink pot. He was pale, with dark smudges under his eyes, but those eyes were clear and lucid.

‘Oh! Mr. Baggins, sir!’ she cried. ‘Whatever are you doing up and writing, and you so ill and all.’

He smiled at her then, a warm smile that left her a little weak at the knees and made her think of Jena. Had he never tried his charm on her? Or had she just not seen it before? She felt angry again. Just because she didn’t hate him any more, and had an interest in his welfare after nursing him, didn’t mean she liked him! Just because she had more sympathy with him, didn’t mean she liked him, neither!

‘Rose! Come in. I’d like to thank you. Have you got a moment to spare me? I would be delighted if you have time to sit and talk with me for a while.’

She looked back to the hall, contemplating making an excuse and leaving, but she decided she was interested in hearing what he had to say. She shut the door.

‘I’ve got a moment, sir,’ she said, ‘but I expect Ma is behind with the chores and needs my help.’

‘I can understand that. I’m sorry to have caused you so much bother.’

‘You couldn’t help being ill, sir,’ she said, quickly.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ She noted how his hand strayed to the white gem and handled it briefly. ‘Sit down, Rose. Please.’

She sat down and suddenly smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Baggins. You gave us all a fright.’

‘Thank you, Rose. All things considered that’s very generous of you. For the same reason I particularly want to thank you for your kindness. In my dreams I thought it was Sam who was holding me, but it was you, wasn’t it?’

‘It was the only way to quieten you, sir. It was a liberty, but you did settle best if I held you.’

‘You helped lighten the darkness a little, Rose. And you can help lighten my care a little, as well, by giving me a promise.’

‘What, sir?’

‘Promise me you won’t tell Sam.’

‘But Mr. Baggins...’

‘I don’t wish him to know, Rose. I give him too much worry as it is. I am better now, so there is no need to tell him. Will you promise? Your mother has already agreed to speak to the rest of your family.’

‘Yes, all right. If you’re sure.’

‘I am sure, Rose.’

A knock on the door interrupted them, and Jena entered when invited, carrying tea and scones on a tray. She stopped, surprised, when she saw Rosie.

‘I din’t know you was up, Miss Rose,’ she said, putting the tray down. She blushed when Mr. Baggins thanked her.

‘Jena, would you get a second cup, and some more scones?’ he asked, and he looked at Rosie. ‘If you would join me, that is.’

Rosie nodded, unable to say anything. She could almost hear Jena rushing into the kitchen, talking nineteen to the dozen.

’You’ll never guess what! Miss Rose is sitting in the study with Mr. Baggins, and he wants tea and scones for her, too . ‘Twas my belief she disliked him most heartily, but there they was, friendly as anything... ‘

Running on and on, until her mother would say: ’Well Jena, are you going to do as Mr. Baggins asked, or stand chattering like a starling all day?’

She smiled at the thought, and Mr. Baggins caught her eye and smiled as well.

When Jena had whirled out, Rosie looked at Mr. Baggins seriously. ‘It was yesterday you was captive in that tower, wasn’t it? The thirteenth day of Rethe, a year ago.’

She regretted her words immediately as Mr. Baggins’ face became an unreadable mask. It was as though all expression had gone. He looked at her with a steady gaze, and she couldn’t tell if he was angry or pained. They stared at each other for what seemed like an age to Rosie, and then finally she saw him relax. It seemed to take a great effort. She had never thought of relaxing as requiring so much work.

‘Ah,’ he said at last. ‘I wondered who had been looking through my papers.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. Father wanted to know what happened to you, and he asked me to read them. He thought they wasn’t private at all, but I found they was.’ She hung her head, ashamed now of her intrusion.

‘But you read them anyway.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Parts of them, begging your pardon. I was trying to understand what you was talking about in your ravings. And... and... I was trying to find out how you felt about Sam.’ There. She’d said it.

‘Is that important to you, Rose?’

‘Yes, sir. I thought you was just using him, so to speak, and had no regard for him.’

‘And now?’ He was watching her intently. She was rather disconcerted by the steady gaze.

‘I think he means a lot to you,’ she said, unable to hide her misery.

‘That makes you miserable, but less miserable than if I was just using him, even though you lose either way,’ said Frodo. Again it was a statement. She had the uncomfortable feeling he was reading her mind.

There was a knock at the door, and Rosie hurriedly looked away from the intent stare and called, ‘Come in!’

Jena came in with more scones and tea, and looked round the room, and then at each of them.

‘That will do, Jena. Thank you,’ said Rosie, firmly. Jena looked disappointed and left, she didn’t quite close the door behind her. Rosie sighed and went to shut it.

‘She’s a good girl, but she’ll gossip about anything. We kept her away while you was ill.’

‘I’d like to thank you for not speaking out about Sam and myself,’ said Mr. Baggins, obviously thinking about gossip.

Rosie shrugged. ‘It ain’t very complimentary to me, is it?’ she said.

‘I think you were considering Sam, as well,’ he replied. Rosie shivered. This was giving her goose bumps. He seemed to know more about her than she did herself.

‘I don’t doubt your silence was not for my benefit,’ Mr. Baggins continued. ‘If reading my papers and nursing me through my delirium has made you look on me with a little more understanding, then some good has come of my illness.’

‘What did happen, in that tower, sir? What did the orcs do? Orcs is goblins, is that right?

‘Yes Rose. Orcs are goblins. I would rather not say what they did. I am feeling better, but the memory is dark, and I would rather not talk about it.’

‘It must have been bad, sir.’

‘Yes, Rose. It was bad.’

They were both silent. Rosie was remembering the whip scar, the terror he had shown, and the elegantly flowing words: And what of the waking? I am a prisoner of the gloating orcs, stripped naked and defenceless.

Mr. Baggins stirred. Leaning forward, he poured her a cup of tea and passed it to her with a plate of scones. He sat sipping his own tea, but did not touch his plate.

‘I have something to ask you, Rose,’ he said at last.

‘Mr. Baggins?’

‘Rose, you have seen me as few others have. I think “Frodo” will do.’

‘Is that what you wanted to ask me? ‘ She hesitated, and then added, ‘Mr. Frodo.’

He smiled at her. ‘Thank you for the compromise,’ he said.

She didn’t feel as though he were mocking her, rather that he was genuinely pleased that she was making an effort to be friendly.

‘In answer to your question,’ he said, ‘no, that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you. But the less you hate me, the easier it becomes. In fact it is impossible if you hate, or even just dislike me. I am aware you have hated me, but I do not think you do now.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Rosie found it was true. ‘But I still worry about Sam.’

‘And that more than anything makes me think you love him very much, Rose. I would sacrifice anything for Sam’s happiness. What about you?’

‘Is that what you wanted to ask me?’ She couldn’t see where this conversation was going.

He smiled again. ‘No. I’m working round to what I want to ask you.’

‘I... oh, how can I know what I would do, but I do know I nursed you because I couldn’t bear to think of Sam losing you.’

‘That is a good answer,’ he said gravely, and she felt as though she’d passed some sort of test. However, she didn’t see why he should have it all his own way.

‘What about you, Mr. Frodo?’ she asked.

‘That is only fair, Rose. I tried to go into Mordor without Sam, because I couldn’t bear taking him into such danger. It was foolish of me, because without him the quest would have failed, but I love him more dearly than myself, and I wanted to keep him safe.’

Rosie nodded her understanding. In a strange way it was rather comforting talking to someone who loved Sam as much as she did, and didn’t just assume this was something to get over, like an illness.

‘And now I want to save him again, Rose. It’s maybe equally foolish of me, and no doubt Sam will foil my efforts once more, but I have to try.’

‘Save him?’ Rosie leant forward, her heart racing. She was seriously alarmed. What could possibly threaten Sam, here, in the Shire? She put her tea down, the trembling of her hand was making the cup rattle on the saucer.

‘What do the gossips say about me?’ asked Mr. Frodo. ‘When you go to the market, or to a dance?’

‘What?’ Rosie was confused by the change in subject.

‘What do they say about me?’

Rosie decided the only way back to what was threatening Sam was to humour Mr. Frodo. She debated with herself how much to tell him, and decided that only the truth would do.

‘They say you are fading away, and will be dead soon. They say Sharkey said you would not have health, nor a long life, and that he spoke truly.’

‘Thank you, Rose. That was very blunt.’ His mouth twitched, surely not in amusement?

‘Oh! I’m sorry, sir. But you did ask!’

‘I did indeed, Rose. But not to find out what was said. I know that already. I wanted to find out if you did.’ He smiled at her, ‘If you knew me a little better, you would know that I was joking, when I said you were being blunt.’

‘You knew already? Surely no one’s been so cruel as to say it to your face?’ She looked at him in horror, and blushed as she realised she had indeed done just that. He actually laughed then. He looked quite different when he laughed. Younger somehow, more relaxed, good looking. She could see again some of the beauty she had seen in the night, but she couldn’t understand how he could joke about this.

‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he said. ‘It was your expression when you realised what you were saying.’

‘Well, I’m still surprised you know,’ she said rather curtly, not liking to be laughed at. He sighed.

‘I have very acute hearing, and I can see or sense things others do not. I am still not sure if it is the effect of the wound I received from a morgul-blade, or due to carrying the Ring. I do know it can be a curse.’

‘Morgul-blade? Was that the Witch-king’s knife?’

‘Hmm. You have remembered well. Yes, that is correct.’ He bowed slightly. It seemed as though he was making tribute to her memory and understanding. She thought of the black jagged shadow on his shoulder, sucking in the light that flowed from him, and shivered.

‘I couldn’t help noticing you give off a light,’ she said. ‘It’s like something coming through your skin,’ she added, not sure if she was making any sense.

‘Sam tells me so. And Gandalf warned me I may become like a clear vessel of light for “eyes to see who can.” I do not think that will be a problem, because I do not think I will live long if I stay here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosie. There didn’t seem much else she could say. He wasn’t complaining or railing against the unfairness of it all. He was just stating a fact.

‘I do have a choice, Rose, but it is not easy. All the time I was struggling under foreign skies, I had a hope that I might come back to the Shire and live in quiet peace. Now it seems that was truly only a dream. I cannot find peace in the Shire. I have been wounded and possessed, and I have brought the horror home with me.’ He looked sad, and the shuttered expression returned to his face. He became old and weary, and his eyes were dull and unfocused. It was as if she weren’t there.

‘What choice do you have?’ she asked gently. He blinked and looked at her, and rubbed a hand over his face.

‘Choice? Oh, yes. The choice. I can stay here and die, or I can go with the Elves to the uttermost West, beyond the confines of this world. Queen Arwen has granted me this.’

‘That sounds like death to me,’ said Rosie, confused. She had no idea what he was talking about.

‘And yet it is not death, although neither would I be granted immortality. I would not wish for that.’

‘Do you mean, if you went with the Elves, you would get better?’ she asked.

‘I do not know. There is no promise of that.’

Rosie found her eyes filling with tears. ‘It don’t sound much of a choice,’ she said with a catch in her voice. He smiled at her ruefully.

‘No, it is not much of a choice. To die and leave the one I love most in all the world, or to go with the Elves and leave the one I love most in all the world. How shall I make my choice?’

‘I think you’re going to tell me,’ said Rosie, shifting in her chair as the candle light flickered over his face. His expression was unreadable, grave and unmoving.

‘Do you know what will happen if I die, Rose? Do you know what Sam will do?’

Rosie gripped the arms of her chair, and dismay washed over her.

“Everything, Rosie. Just everything.”

“...someone you can’t imagine the sun rising without.”

I do not doubt that, like him, I would have thought of ending it all there.

‘No!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no!’ Tears ran down her face. It was her worse fear from yesterday, made solid and real. And Sam had thought Mr. Frodo dead once before, and thought of ending his life. She couldn’t see through the blurring of her tears, but a hand was laid on her shoulder, and a handkerchief pressed into her hands. By the time she had wiped her eyes, Mr. Frodo was sitting in the chair opposite her, as though he’d never moved. Irritation flared within her. How could he be so calm about it!

‘But he didn’t die before, when he thought you was dead,’ she exclaimed.

‘He has made it quite clear to me that he only postponed that decision, Rose. Too much hung upon our quest to be abandoned for such self-indulgence. He made the hard choice: to carry on and try and fulfill the charge that was laid upon us. His only wish was to return to me, to lie down and die by my side, and never again leave me.’

They sat in silence. Rosie had nothing to say, her chest felt tight, and tears blurred her vision. She looked down at her lap and twisted her apron in her hands.

‘If I go, Rose, I will not have died.’

She looked at him quickly.

‘I see you understand me, about this at least,’ Frodo said. ‘If I haven’t died, will Sam be safe?’

‘Surely he will go with you, if you do go,’ said Rosie sadly.

‘I do not know if that is permitted. If it is, I do not think that Sam is ready to leave the Shire. If it is permitted, and I ask him, of course he will come. It is the best solution for me, but is it the best for Sam? I think not.

‘If I am not healed and die anyway, Sam will be left alone with the Elves. He loves the Elves in small doses, but soon finds he has had enough of them. The question is probably irrelevent. Most likely he would not be permitted to go. And in case you think my motives are entirely selfless, I also have a selfish reason to wish him here. A normal life in the Shire has been denied me. I wish that Sam might live it for me. I can bear anything if I know he is safe in the Shire.’

He had been so matter of fact that Rosie was not prepared for the shake in his voice as he spoke of Sam being safe. She looked at him with concern as he got up quickly and went to the window. It was quite dark outside, and he closed the curtains against the night. He stood still, with his back to her, and there was no sign of any depth of emotion - he did not shake or bow his head or hunch his shoulders. But Rosie saw his face reflected in the window, before the curtains shut him from her view, and she witnessed the impassive mask crumple into sorrow.

She got up and went to him, and pressed his handkerchief into his hand. He turned at her touch, and the grief and loss on his face made her catch her breath, and brought the tears to her own eyes again. He was going to chose exile in the hope that Sam would live. She suddenly couldn’t bear it, and put her arms around him and wept. They clung together, his body shuddering with great gulping sobs against hers, as the last of his careful guard was torn away.

Gradually, he quietened, and they drew apart, sharing the handkerchief in silence. It was already too damp to be much use. Rosie wiped her eyes on her apron, then untied it, and gently wiped the tears from his face.

‘How can you be sure he won’t pine away when you go?’ she asked in a small voice, awed by his intended sacrifice as she watched him mastering his grief. He sighed.

‘I can’t be sure,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to bind him to the Shire so he has a reason to go on living without me.’

She looked at him puzzled. ‘I don’t see how you can,’ she said, and he looked at her with sadness in his eyes.

‘I cannot, but a wife and child might.’

Rosie stood in shock, speechless. She realised her mouth was open, and closed it hurriedly. His face was impassive again, the only sign of his recent emotion a deepening of the dark smudges below his eyes.

‘I want you to persuade him to marry you, Rose.’

With great difficulty, Rosie gathered her wits. ‘If you tell him to, he’ll do it,’ she said at last.

‘But then he would have no choice, I would only have to say I wished it, and I believe he’d speak for you.’

‘And just how am I supposed to get him to marry me, when the only thing he can see is you?’ Rosie asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘If you ain’t going to help persuade him, then I don’t see as I have the smallest chance.’

‘I will do anything that will help, short of asking him to do it for my sake,’ said Mr. Frodo. ‘But he must have a say in the matter. He is comfortable with you, Rose, and that seems as good a basis for marriage as any. I suggest you make him aware of that comfort, and,’ he suddenly smiled at her, ‘talk about me.’

Rosie laughed then, as stupefied as she was by his suggestion. ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I can see that might work.’ And as she said it she realised it would be no hardship; she was genuinely interested in finding out more about the hobbit before her. She thought for a moment. ‘But what about you? If I can persuade him that is, which seems very doubtful to me.’

‘I have some requests, but in all honesty I don’t think you have any chance with Sam if you aren’t prepared to grant them.’

‘What are they?’ she asked warily.

‘That you will live at Bag End, that you will allow me to... love him as well. I promise I will not be over demonstrative, but be under no illusion. I will hug him, kiss him, even ask him to lie with me, when I can bear it no longer.’

Rosie swallowed. ‘I’ll have to consider that. I can’t give you an answer now. I don’t believe I can do what you asks. How long... how long would I have to share Sam like that?’

‘With all respect, Rose, I do not think that sort of comfortable love will hold Sam safe. I think only his child can do that. Unless I die first, I will leave when you have your first child.’

They sat in silence, and when Rosie looked at him, he was regarding her with the same quiet gravity he had shown before his display of grief. ‘Why should I agree to this, Mr. Frodo?’ she asked.

‘You know the answer to that, Rose. A good hobbit as husband, the best there is, loyal and loving. A fine father for your children. Someone you can love and respect, and who will love you more and more as the years pass, and his grief for me lessens.’

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said again. Her thoughts were a whirl of emotions. ‘It’s a lot you’re asking.’ She realised, as she said it, that it was even more he was prepared to give. Then a horrid suspicion arose in her mind. She bit her lip, in doubt.

‘Tell me, Rose,’ said Frodo gently.

‘What if you don’t leave and don’t die?’ she asked. ‘Having me at Bag End would give you and Sam a mighty fine protection against gossip, begging your pardon.’

‘Yes, it would. But gossip doesn’t worry me so much that I would offer to share Sam. Assuming he is prepared to be shared, of course. As for my staying and not dying, that seems most unlikely. Saruman - Sharkey as you call him - was lying when he said he could curse the Shire, but his foretelling was accurate, I think.’

He took Rosie’s hand. ‘I see the future and I am not in it, Rose. I try to see Sam, and the only vision I am granted is of him surrounded by children. His children.’

‘Vision...?’ Rosie stammered, and she searched his face for some sign that he was jesting with her.

‘Vision, yes.’ He let go of her hand and paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth. He reminded her of a caged animal, seeking a way out. He sank wearily into his chair, looking drained and ill again.

‘You need to be in bed,’ she said, and wondered how much a certainty of your own death could become a self-fulfilling prophecy. ‘Last I looked your bed needed remaking. I’m going to make it up now, and then you’ll be straight back in it. Have you eaten anything today?’ She looked meaningfully at the untouched food on his plate.

‘I’ve drunk some soup,’ he answered. ‘It’s all I could manage.’

‘Well, at this rate you’ll be dead before I can even start to persuade Sam to marry me, and that’s a fact,’ she said with exasperation.

‘Does that mean you are going to try?’ he asked quietly.

‘Well, yes,’ said Rosie, surprised to find it was as easy as that. ‘I am going to, sir.’

‘Thank you, Rose.’

She paused, with her hand on the door handle. ‘You said surrounded, Mr. Frodo. Just how many children are we talking about?’

His widening smile gave her a warm feeling.

‘Oh, enough to rival my Great Grandfather Gerontius,’ he said.

Rosie laughed and went to make his bed. She was beginning to see that, in his own quiet way, Mr. Frodo Baggins liked his jokes.