CHAPTER 15: FATE

Whatever Rosie wanted to discuss, she was probably right about the “not here”. Merry’s voice was heard calling out and, fainter, Sam replying. There was the sound of running feet, and his cousins were filling the kitchen with loud shouts and quieter tears. Frodo started to stand to greet them, but thought better of it and sat down to be engulfed in their arms.

After the first excitement, Merry crouched down and took Frodo’s hand, but Pippin dropped to his knees and laid his head on Frodo’s lap. Frodo stroked his hair, and instead of the young giant his cousin had become, he saw the small hobbit who adored him and clung to him like a twining plant. He and Merry exchanged smiles, and he squeezed Merry’s hand.

‘Oh, my dears,’ he said. ‘I’ve been giving you more worries.’ Pippin said something that was too muffled to make out clearly, but Frodo was fairly sure he heard “foolish old hobbit.” He laughed. ‘I think you should add sleepy to that, Pip,’ he said.

Pippin raised his head. ‘Are you sleepy now?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to go back to bed?’

‘No, Pippin. I’m fine. A week of sleeping should last me for a while. I’d welcome a pipe in the garden, though, if you’ll both join me.’ They were delighted with this suggestion, and Merry helped Frodo up. Rosie handed Pippin a blanket. ‘Here, take this,’ she said. ‘The wind is chill, for all the sun is shining.’ She fussed around them as Merry gave Frodo his support. ‘What he ain’t told you is what a good lunch he ate,’ she added. ‘Better’n I’ve seen him eat afore. Will you stop on for supper and move back here? There ain’t no need for you to stay at the Green Dragon.’

‘If it’s no trouble, Rosie, we’d be glad to,’ said Merry.


The rest of the day and evening was spent in easy companionship. Pippin sent the motley collection of hobbit lads who were playing at orc slaying in the lane to fetch their packs from the Green Dragon. In return he gave them a shiny penny, and promised that he’d show them one of his scars. They went off with whoops and shrieks, but by the time they returned, the distance and the weight of the packs had rather curbed their enthusiasm. They brightened up considerably when Pippin opened his shirt and showed them the scar on his chest, letting them feel the depression in his ribs where the troll had broken them. They dashed off again full of youthful exuberance to play troll slaying.

Frodo ate well again at supper, but felt he had four pairs of eyes surreptitiously watching his every mouthful. He didn’t mind; he was glad to be able to oblige them by actually feeling hungry. After supper he flagged, feeling tiredness seep through him, but he managed to fight it for a while, since he wanted to stay close to Sam. He had come between Sam and Rosie quite enough due to his illness without expecting Sam to spend the night in his bed. He still needed some support walking to the sitting room, but managed better than when he first got up. This was a great relief; it suggested the weakness was just a passing thing. The thought of being a complete invalid was not a happy one.

The large sofa in the sitting room might have been made on purpose for the new and unorthodox relationship between the inhabitants of Bag End. Sam took Frodo’s weight while Frodo slowly lowered himself to sit at one end, and Sam settled next to him, one arm loosely around his shoulders. Rosie followed, bringing tobacco. As she set the jar down on a small table, Sam held out his free arm, inviting her to cuddle up on the other side of him.

Rosie threw more logs on the fire before accepting Sam’s invitation, and Frodo felt Sam relax as they settled together. Merry and Pippin lit their pipes and passed on all the gossip they had heard at the Green Dragon - with lively impersonations where appropriate - but Frodo guessed they were leaving out as much again that pertained to himself. He listened and laughed at their clever mimicry, but gradually the effort became too great. He let his head sink sideways on Sam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Sam’s arm tightened around him, and he felt a kiss pressed on the top of his head.

‘Bedtime, Frodo,’ said Sam. Sleep-befuddled, Frodo raised his head, and Sam stood to help him to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.

Sam turned to Rosie. ‘I’ll come back when I’m sure he’s asleep,’ he said. Rosie, however, was having none of it.

‘You’ll do no such thing, Samwise,’ she said, standing up in turn and kissing him. ‘You’ll stop with Mr. Frodo and make sure he wants for nothing in the night. This is his first proper night back home, so to speak.’

Frodo blinked at her, fighting sleep. He wanted Sam with him so badly, but had not dreamt that it would happen. Sam kissed his wife. ‘Well, in that case, Rosie dear, I’ll wish you good night and thank you. Merry. Pippin.’ He nodded goodnight to them in turn and guided Frodo’s stumbling feet towards bed. Frodo was only dimly aware of Sam undressing him and lifting the star-gem over his head, and then he was in bed in Sam’s loving arms, warmth seeping into him as he had wished for that morning.

He woke early and sighed to feel Sam still pressed against him. When he opened his eyes, he found Sam was also awake, and his eyes were already crinkling up at the edges as Frodo smiled at him.

‘I didn’t thank Rose,’ Frodo said. ‘Last night.’

‘Hush, love. You can thank her later.’ Sam ran his hand down Frodo’s body and over the slight curve of his hip, and Frodo felt an unfamiliar flutter of desire.

‘Touch me, Sam. Oh, please touch me,’ he whispered.

Sam didn’t waste breath saying ‘but I am touching you.’ He slid his hand over Frodo’s hip again and followed the hollow of his groin down. Frodo shifted against him and moaned as Sam’s fingers closed around him. Without thought, he thrust into the sure touch.

‘Oh, Sam.’

He closed his eyes and let the welcome pleasure sweep through him. How he had missed this!

Sam nipped and teased at his lower lip, and the next moment their mouths were moving against each other. Frodo could hardly breath as the need built within him... and then it was gone, and there was only the wanting left. He sighed and laid his head against Sam’s shoulder, disappointment manifesting itself in tears. Sam cupped his chin and lifted his head; he wiped the tears with his thumb and kissed each eyelid in turn when Frodo kept them closed.

‘Nîn melethron,’ he said, ‘that was better than before, wasn’t it?’

Frodo opened his eyes and looked into the warm, brown depths of Sam’s. He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, it was, but that just makes me more discontented,’ he admitted.

Sam stroked the hair back from Frodo’s eyes and ran his other hand down Frodo’s body again. ‘Would you like a massage?’ he asked

‘Mmm. Please. Have you been massaging me this past week? As you did in Rivendell when I was sick?’

‘Every day, my love. Elrond was very strict about that. He said you mustn’t lie in one place for any length of time and that you should be massaged regularly, so that’s what I’ve been doing.’

‘I’m lucky to have you, Sam.’

Sam made a snorting noise. ‘Luck ain’t in it,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me because you’re the best hobbit there is, and just you try losing me. Roll over now. I’ll start on your back.’

By the time Sam finished, Frodo was nearly asleep again. Sam bent over him and kissed him. ‘You lay quiet now, and I’ll take Rosie a cup of tea in bed - if she’s not up already, that is. I’ll bring you some second breakfast later, unless you’d like something to eat sooner’n that?’

‘That will be fine, Sam,’ mumbled Frodo, and let go into sleep.



Over the next few days, Frodo waited for Rosie to come to him with what was on her mind. He felt stronger each day, and by the second day could walk steadily and unaided, much to his relief. He found an afternoon nap was still desirable, that he still had days when the world around him seemed unreal and distant, and that his shoulder ached continuously, as before. But overall, none of it was as bad as it had been. He hadn’t had any bad dreams since his return, either, and that was a great blessing.

When Merry and Pippin left, they suggested Frodo and Sam ride as far as the Green Dragon with them and drink a farewell cup there. Frodo discovered, by the cold sweat that broke out on his brow and the tremble, quickly hidden, in his hands, that he did not wish to go out of Bag End. He pleaded tiredness, but insisted Sam see them on their way, if he would like to.

Sam did like to, so Frodo hugged his cousins goodbye and went to his study, ostensibly to continue writing. The wind had veered round to a cold northerly, and Frodo was glad of a fire burning in the grate. His study had a cosiness that he loved, and it was a room that reminded him strongly of Bilbo. The shelves around the walls were once more stacked with all Bilbo’s old books, and the room was filled with mementoes of Bilbo’s writing. The knife for sharpening quills, the silver-topped ink bottles with blue, green and red ink, and the leather-bound blotting pad were all once used by Bilbo. He closed his eyes. He could imagine Bilbo’s hand falling on his shoulder, and his old cousin’s gentle chiding that youth should sit immersed in writing when the sun was shining, and the call to walk the paths of the Shire was strong.

How are you, Bilbo? he wondered and let his mind roam freely. The answer, it seemed, was that Bilbo was concerned about Frodo, but otherwise as well as could be expected for his age. He opened his eyes, and the sight of the red ink reminded him that he needed to make a new will, now that Sam was married. He yawned and shuffled his papers around aimlessly. He was finding it difficult to get back into his writing.

As he sat, trying to recapture the flow of his thoughts and the ideas he had been trying to express, there was a knock on the door. It could only be Rosie. Instead of calling out, he stood, stretched, and went to open the door for her. Her hand was raised to knock again, and she held two mugs of tea in her other hand.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ she said, taken by surprise, ‘and do say if you’re busy, but I was wondering if I could speak with you.’

Frodo’s interest quickened. This was likely to be the ‘something’ she wanted to ask him. ‘Come in, Rose,’ he said, ‘or would you rather we went somewhere else?’ He didn’t want to intimidate her. There was nothing feminine about this room; it was very much his environment.

‘Here’s fine, Mr. Frodo. I’ve brought you some tea.’

‘Thank you, Rose.’

He cleared a pile of books off the armchair by the fire. ‘I’m sitting at the desk, so why don’t you sit here?’ he said. He took the tea she offered him, shifting papers on his desktop to make a space to set the mug down, and swung his chair around to face her. Smiling encouragingly at her, he sat down.

Rosie perched nervously on the edge of the seat instead of sitting back at ease, and kept both feet firmly on the ground. He watched her closely, judging her mood, noting how she looked everywhere except at himself. She seemed worried, and something else. Embarrassed. What in the Shire was she wanting to ask him that drove her to avoid his gaze like this? Instead, she was looking round at the apparent disorder of the room. He had asked her politely but firmly to leave this muddle alone; he could lay his hand on any book or paper in seconds as long as his own personal filing system was not disturbed. However, she came in daily to clean out the hearth and lay a new fire ready for when it was needed, so it was not as though she was seeing his preferred working environment for the first time. It was not curiosity that made her look around, but evasion.

‘What is it, Rose?’ he asked gently, when she remained silent. She looked at him quickly, then dropped her gaze to the mug clasped tightly in her hand.

‘I’m worried about Sam, sir. I mean...’ She glanced up quickly. ‘I’m sorry...I ...’

‘I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear the “sir”, my dear. How will that be?’

She smiled at him, but the smile barely masked the underlying tenseness of her features. Her knuckles were white, she was gripping the handle of her mug so hard.

‘You’re worried about Sam,’ he prompted, and when she remained silent he added, ‘tell me what happened while I was away.’

Rosie drank from her mug, but it seemed to Frodo as though she wasn’t really aware of swallowing the tea, wasn’t aware of its flavour or its warmth.

‘I saw you go,’ she said at last, ‘and when Sam didn’t come back, I went to look for him. He were just standing in the kitchen; it were like he was staring at me as I came in the door, but he weren’t, ‘cause he didn’t even see me. He were staring through me. And I went to take his arm and ask him if he were all right, and he just folded up crying. There were no way he could be seen in company like that, and I wanted to comfort him anyways, so I took him to our bedroom, and he just curled up and wept.’

‘Rose, I’m so sorry,’ whispered Frodo.

‘It was generous of you to go,’ she said with a sigh, looking at him properly for the first time, ‘but it didn’t do neither of you no good. There’s no need to apologise, and so I told Sam when he calmed down, as it were, and started saying the same thing. He were only sorry you’d gone, not sorry he’d married me. Leastwise, if he were he hid it well.’ She suddenly blushed and looked down. ‘I have no complaints of my wedding night. I told you I didn’t think I could love him more’n I did, and that I found I were wrong, but maybe you don’t remember, so tired you was.’

‘No, I remember. And I was glad. I am glad.’

She looked at him, studying his face. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes, Rose. I do mean that.’

For a moment he thought she was going to cry, but she swallowed. ‘Thank you, for letting me share his love,’ she whispered.

‘As to that, you know I have ulterior motives,’ he answered carefully. ‘And in any case, I’m not sharing in the sense of having any less for myself. Sam has a huge capacity to love.’

‘Yes, but it ain’t hobbit nature to look upon it that way. But then again, I think the love you and Sam have for each other is, well, different from usual.’ He was glad to notice the mug was clenched less tightly in her hands, and she was beginning to ease back into her seat. He was well aware this conversation was a prelude, but it was giving Rosie the opportunity to relax a little before they came to the point. He still had no idea what that could be.

‘Different?’ he asked. He picked up his own tea and drank, then wrapped his hands around the mug. Rosie frowned, getting her answer together.

‘I don’t deny I watch you and Sam,’ she said. He nodded. He’d been well aware of this. ‘And seems there’s no “me”,’ she added.

‘No you? Oh, my dear...’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. I know what I mean, but I ain’t no good at explaining. Neither of you ever thinks of your own selfs. That’s what I mean.’

‘Surely, Rose, that’s what love is?’

‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but no. That’s what love should be, perhaps, but I ain’t never seen it afore. The married women, they get together and they complain about what their husbands did that they didn’t of ought to, or what they didn’t do that they did ought to. Oh, they love ‘em, but not enough to put their own petty needs aside and just love ‘em for being themselves. Seems they’re always trying to change them into their ideal husband. And the men are as bad, rolling their eyes and saying ‘womin!’ and not thinking about what the women are needing.’

‘But maybe that’s the difference,’ said Frodo thoughtfully, and then smiled. ‘Neither of us can say “womin!”. Maybe it’s just that, both being male, we can understand each other more easily.’

‘That’s rubbish, begging your pardon again. You two act as though you’re one. You just seem to know each other’s needs, and it’s like it’s no hardship to fulfil ‘em, because you’re doing it for your own self. If one ‘o you is unhappy, you’re both unhappy, and other way about when you’re happy. I almost feel as though I’m married to the pair of you together, since you’re two halves of a whole.’

‘So when I was away, Sam was unhappy?’

‘Well, yes, and you knew that already, but it don’t come near the truth. And I spoke with Merry and Pippin, the other night,’ she hesitated over the names and the implied familiarity, ‘and heard the rights of just how unhappy you’d been over Buckland way. Sam was having bad dreams every night, and I don’t think I appreciated afore just how many times you was near death, Mr. Frodo, on your journeying to the Black Lands. Every dream was of losing you, and not just in that foul spider place, neither. He’d wake screaming in the night and trembling and crying, different dreams but always the same, you was dead and he hadn’t manage to save you. And so tired in the day he were, and not surprising, neither. You know Sam, you know how he works as though he’s two or more hobbits rolled into one, he’s never idle, and yet he couldn’t seem to do nothing, if you know what I mean.’ She looked at him again.

Frodo nodded, being familiar with Rosie’s double negatives and understanding the true intent of her words. ‘So what did he do?’ he asked, putting his mug down and toying with a quill.

‘Just wandered around, mostly. He weren’t able to settle to anything much; he did bits of things, but never for very long, and then he’d be pacing about again. I’ve never seen him so lost and lacking in purpose. If I couldn’t find him nowhere I’d know he were in your bedroom, and I’d let him be ‘til he felt like some company again.’

‘That can’t have been easy, Rose,’ said Frodo, gently.

‘No, it weren’t easy.’ She stared down at the mug in her hands. ‘He went from looking like a wet weekend to death warmed up, but he were loving and kind despite how miserable he were. I don’t know how he does it, but I just feel wrapped around with love.’ She looked at him again, seeming to ask if she were making sense.

‘I don’t know how he does it, either,’ he answered, ‘but I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Well, as I say, he were loving, but if I weren’t touching him or holding him, his eyes would sometimes just slide out o’ focus, and he would look lost.’

‘I am sorry, Rose, although you say I needn’t be,’ said Frodo. ‘It seems as though I misjudged for Sam, as well as for myself. I suppose I thought he’d been away from me several times...’ That he had suffered dreadfully, each time Sam had said good-bye, had no place in the present discussion.

‘Maybe there’s a difference. Maybe it’s because he was the one being left, maybe it’s because he guessed you wasn’t well, maybe it were the circumstances. I don’t rightly know, but there were no doubt about the result. He ate what I put in front of him, but not like he knew what he were eating. Then, on the third night, he were ill. Nothing to pin down, no fever nor nothing, just shivering and weak. I put him to bed, and he cried in my arms.’ She looked at Frodo suddenly. ‘Pippin says you was took bad about the same time.’

Frodo stopped in the act of reaching for his mug again. ‘You say that as though you think there’s some connection,’ he said.

‘Well, I don’t think it no coincidence, though I might have done if it weren’t for something as Hal said to me at the wedding.’

Frodo left his mug where it was and leant forward. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said as how he were glad Sam had someone to look after him, ‘cause he were taken ill when he were staying with ‘em. ‘Bout the middle of Rethe he said when I pressed him on it, and he thought a Trewsday.’

Frodo stared at her. ‘But that can’t be! I mean, I’ve often been ill, and he’s nursed me and not been ill himself.’

Rosie shrugged. ‘Well, you have to admit it do look like there’s something in it. I think as long as he’s got the nursing of you, he’s all right. As I told you, he’s been more or less himself since you got home, even though he’s been worriting over you.’ She chewed her lip and sat forward on the chair again, once more tense.

‘I’m worried about him, when you go,’ she said in a rush. ‘He were so lost and empty without you. The two of you are one, and he can’t lose part of himself wi’out he’s all lost.’ She was shaking.

‘I’m going to lose him when you go,’ she cried suddenly. ‘I’m going to lose him! His child won’t hold him, because he won’t be able to help himself. He don’t have to take his own life, but his own life will just fade and... and fade, and he’ll be gone out of grief at the parting. And I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it!’

Frodo swallowed at the sight of her grief-stricken face, and her desperation drew him from his seat to her side. He took the mug of tea from her shaking hand and set it on the floor. He squatted in front of her and gently but firmly lifted her chin until she was looking at him with tears streaking her cheeks.

‘But I’ve seen him happy, with your family, years from now,’ he said, trying to calm her with his own belief.

‘I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it!’ cried Rosie, her tears flowing freely now.

Frodo felt in his waistcoat pocket, then his breeches pocket and handed her a handkerchief. It had BB embroidered with twirls and flourishes in one corner. Rosie blew her nose noisily, but her sobs did not abate.

‘You wanted to ask me something,’ he said quietly. ‘Something you thought I might not like or would get angry with you about.’

‘I think Sam needs something of you, some link with you,’ she whispered, and letting the handkerchief fall, she buried her face in her hands. She was crying so hard her whole body jumped as she gulped for breath.

‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked, and with difficulty, she told him.

He stood very carefully, not really sure he had heard right, and went and sat back on his chair. She held his gaze at first, then lowered her eyes and picked up his handkerchief to twist it in her hands. Her sobs had stilled, and the silence hung between them until at last he found his voice.

‘That is a lot you are asking,’ he said hoarsely, and heard, as though an echo, her voice saying almost the same thing in another study. It seemed a very long time ago. In reality, it was little more than two months back.

He took a deep breath. ‘I do not at the moment say whether this is something I should agree to, but in case that should raise your hopes that I might say yes, I will say now that even if I agreed to the principle, in practice it is impossible.’

Rosie raised her head again. ‘Why?’ she asked, tear stains drying on her face, and Frodo told her.

After a while, he stood stiffly and gave Rosie a hand to stand. He searched deep in his pocket and found another handkerchief to wipe her face, then held her close until she stopped trembling. He released her and looked away quickly from the expression of pity on her face. She touched him on his cheek.

‘Have you tried anything?’ she asked.

‘Have I tried ...?’

‘Anything. Any remedy?’

‘No.’ He looked at her, puzzled. He had never considered his loss as an illness.

She nodded as though to say “just as I thought” and moved to gather up the mugs of tea, cold beyond drinking.

‘Will you think about it, anyway, Mr. Frodo?’ she asked, tucking the handkerchiefs in her apron pocket to take to the wash basket. He nodded.

‘And, Rose?’

She paused at the doorway and looked back at him, her eyes overly bright from her recent tears.

‘I still wish you would call me Frodo.’

‘Thank you, Frodo.’ She smiled at him and was gone.


If he had been restless and unsettled trying to find the momentum to start writing again, it was far worse now. In the end he gave up, fetched his coat, and took his pipe into the garden. The wind had dropped, and the clouds were breaking. He sat in the sheltered seat Sam had made for him and thought about what Rose had said. She seemed genuinely to believe that any more serious separation would result in grief so insupportable for Sam that he would die of a broken heart despite ties to wife and child. Frodo found himself mentally clinging to his vision. Sam would live to be happy and proud in his family.

The visions had come at random in the early days, but he had learned how to let his mind slide into a state where he could summon them at will. He watched his favourite scene play before him. Some great occasion was in progress, the air of excitement and the fine garb of all present testified to that. He had not paid much attention to the individual children, apart from the striking likeness of the eldest boy to Samwise and the slender beauty of the eldest girl. He looked at them now, and was struck by how he could see something of Sam and Rosie in each face, sometimes more of one, sometimes the other. He didn’t need the incremental heights, as he studied them in turn from the smallest upwards, to tell him this was one family. Their faces declared the fact to all with eyes to see. Sam’s shining brown eyes, his smile and his stockiness were mingled with Rose’s determined chin, her soft curls or the shape of her nose. Little Rose was her mother’s daughter, plump and dimpled, and as for her eldest brother, it pleased Frodo greatly to see how his name had become associated with Sam’s looks in this stout, young frame. It was as though they had truly become one. He moved on to the tallest girl at the head of the line, and was brought up short.

He had always thought her beautiful, and distracted by that beauty, he had never looked at her features closely. Sam was beautiful, but it was the beauty of the earth and growing things, warm and solid. This lovely Elanor was as graceful as an Elf. Indeed, she had an elvish air about her; her slender beauty was of starlight and soft shadows in woodland. Her hair was a golden-red colour common among the Took family tree, but otherwise rare, and she was more fair of skin than most hobbit maids. Sam was introducing her to someone unseen.

My lord, this is my beautiful Elanor, my treasure who brings joy to my heart each day. I do not think I have to tell you why.

He opened his eyes, trembling as the garden dipped and swayed around him. His chest felt tight, and his breath came in short gasps. He stood quickly, and his legs nearly gave way. He steadied himself against the trellis framing the seat and sat down again in haste. It was not possible. And yet... it obviously was possible, and Sam was as proud of her as a father could be.

If he believed this was the future, then he had to believe what he was seeing, and seeing clearly now for only the first time. He had told Rosie it was not possible, but he had shown signs of improvement. What if he truly recovered what he had lost? If it were possible, did that automatically make it right? No! But if it were possible, and he refused Rosie’s request, what then of his vision? What then of Sam’s future? It would become unknown, and he might make his sacrifice for nothing. And if he made it for nothing, then how much better to stay and die in Sam’s arms, knowing Sam would not be long in following him.

His head started to ache at the tangle of emotions he was feeling. His long-time companion, guilt, was present in full measure, but suddenly, with startling clarity, he realised what his overwhelming feeling was.

Joy.

Joy bubbling up within him, when he had thought never to feel such a sensation again. Joy making him tip his head back in the strengthening sunshine and laugh. He drew his legs up onto the seat and hugged his knees. Somewhere high above the Party Field, a lark was singing, the fluid notes ebbing and flowing, pouring delight and exaltation down upon him.

Pippin seemed to take the begetting of a child lightly, although there was no doubt that he would take his responsibilities seriously. Frodo suspected that Pippin’s promiscuity was his reaction to his loss of childhood and innocence, and he would settle down, given time. Sam’s prediction that the lasses Pippin had favoured would find it hard to win husbands was turning out not to be true. Pippin, it seemed, was to be trusted with the upkeep of his bairns, and Frodo had received a rush of requests for his presence at Betrothal Feasts. The year 1420 was set fair to be famous for its weddings. He had managed to postpone most of the feasts until after the Free Fair, when he intended to surrender his position as Deputy Mayor. He had pleaded ill health, and referred the happy couples to Will Whitfoot.

And how did he view the fathering of a child? Not lightly, that was certain, but the thought that there might be some part of him left in the Shire, left moreover in Sam’s care, was like shining the star-glass into his own grey world and banishing the fog with the radiance of the Lady’s gift.

He had not thought about having children of his own, not at least since he was a tween and idly expecting to get married at some distant point. As he grew older, he never found a lass that interested him sufficiently, and gradually he realised that his own inclinations were quite different. Now Rosie had awoken something that he didn’t even know lurked within his breast; a regret for his loss of fatherhood.

Suddenly he saw clearly, for the first time, the true dilemma Sam had laboured under. Being offered the fulfilment of this strange, primal desire for parenthood, it was all too easy to construct a rational debate for taking the gift. It was easy to say “I am doing this for the one I love” and suppress the fact that the one he loved might be hurt by his actions. Having realised this, it became almost impossible to pick through the dilemma and truly understand his own motives; every valid reason put forward could be twisted to no more than a justification for his own selfish gratification.

Sam, in the end, had honestly admitted his own heartfelt desire, and put his trust in Frodo. In turn, Frodo had put his trust in his vision of the future. He sighed. He had avoided telling Sam what he saw, so that Sam was not put in the position of believing he had to marry Rosie, maybe against his better judgement. He did not have this luxury of ignorance; every way his thoughts turned, he came up against the image of Elanor.

He rested his forehead on his knees, and tears prickled in his eyes. His joy was tempered by a new sense of loss. By death or departure, he would lose Sam and the Shire; would he also lose a daughter? He suddenly wanted to hide, to shut himself away from the lark song and sunshine. He uncurled and got up unsteadily. Holding any support that offered itself, he made his way to his room, dropped his coat to the floor, and threw himself face down on the quilted cover to weep over new losses.

He ignored, indeed hardly heard, a soft knock on the door and the latch clicking open.

‘Frodo?’

‘Go away, Rose. Please leave me alone.’

‘Frodo, I’m sorry.’

‘Please, Rose. Leave me.’ He heard the door click shut again and let the tears flow.

After a while his hobbit sense of humour surfaced, and he laughed at himself through his tears. He had allowed himself to sink into abject self-pity over losing something - someone, he corrected himself, who did not exist. He rolled over and threw his arm over his eyes to shut the daylight out more effectively. His head was hurting, and his eyes were sore.

The question was whether he was going to turn his back on Elanor, deny her existence. He had been led by fate all the way to Mount Doom. Gandalf had insisted he was meant to have the Ring, and Elrond had also believed this. Cruel as that fate seemed, and as much as he had riled against it in bitterness, it was the knowledge that he was the one appointed to the task that had kept one foot moving in front of the other, dragging him over the long miles. He would let fate take a hand again now; there would be no plotting to bring it about. If this was meant to happen, it would happen, despite the fact that he could see no way he could sire a child at this time. He had trusted in his vision for Sam; he would continue to trust in it for himself.

He fell asleep with a great sense of peace.