Frodo sat quietly in the garden, letting the bustle of departure wash around him, soothing his anxiety with a pipe. He really did not want to go to the Free Fair, but in all conscience he couldn’t refuse Will Whitfoot’s request. He had always got on well with the Mayor, and he was grateful to him, for telling him what others withheld. It didn’t make the going any easier, though. Had it been his own reputation that was being mired, he would have rolled over and pulled the covers over his head, and let the Shire go its own way. However, spite against Sam and Rosie was another thing altogether.
He had no doubt that Ted Sandyman was an instigator of this gossip. It had been easy to wither it in Hobbiton - he had only to appear with Sam at the Ivy Bush - but Will assured him that it was current across the Shire. Being seen at the Fair was the simplest way to quash it in all four Farthings.
He listened to the loud laughter and voices calling back and forth. Rosie had arrived a short while before with her father, along with Tom and Mari, travelling in the South Farm cart. Jolly had taken the Bag End gig to collect his mother, happily released from nursing care by the recovery of her sister, and would meet them at the Fair. Nick and Nibs were already on the road, droving sheep with the help of Mag, the sheepdog. They had left two days ago, so that the yearling lambs were not hurried and arrived in good condition for the sale.
It was still very early in the morning, and the sun was bright in his eyes. He yawned, and was glad he was not expected to rush around making sure everything was remembered. He had retired early the night before, making excuse to Merry and Pippin that he needed to sleep. They had seen through this transparent lie and shooed Sam off to join him. Sleeping had not played a major part in the night’s activities.
He looked up as the sun was cut off by a shadow falling across his face. Rosie was standing in front of him. She had done so much for Sam, and for himself, for that matter, that it never crossed his mind to begrudge her return. He smiled at her and patted the bench beside him.
‘Rose!’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you back. Have you time to sit for a moment?’ He had kissed her in greeting when the cart had first arrived from South Farm, after she had been released from Sam’s enthusiastic welcome, looking dishevelled and breathless. There had been no opportunity to talk with her.
She nodded, smiling back, and sat next to him. ‘We’re almost ready to be gone,’ she said. ‘Merry and Pippin are saddling your ponies, and Sam has gone to fetch the Gaffer.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘You’re looking well. Weller than when I went away.’
‘I’m feeling well, Rose. “Weller” than I’ve felt for a weary long time. Thank you.’
Rosie looked at him in surprise. ‘What for?’
‘Taking the trouble to help me,’ said Frodo, holding her gaze.
‘I notice Sam’s looking mighty happy,’ said Rosie, rather dryly.
‘He’s happy you’re back.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t think that’s what’s put such a glow about him.’
He took her hand. ‘There’s no “maybe” about it, Rose. He is happy you’re back. I am, as well.’
‘But I don’t think he’s been exactly unhappy while I’ve been away. You’re both looking like you’ve lost a farthing and found sixpence.’
‘Rose -’ Frodo started to protest, but she interrupted him.
‘No! Don’t go thinking I mind, no more’n a little, anyway. That were a very enthusiastic welcome he gave me.’ She looked thoughtful, and then added: ‘I din’t look to see you so much better.’
Frodo wasn’t sure he understood her meaning.
‘And that worries you?’ He lowered his voice. ‘You think I might not leave if I’m well?’ The thought had not come to him before, and he felt a sudden warm glow. Sitting in the sun, relaxed and sated from a night of loving Sam, it was easy to believe that he had been wrong. He had told Rosie he would be leaving, that the sharing was a temporary thing. He could not blame her if she now worried that she would always be in his shadow.
‘Frodo! No!’ Rosie cried, distressed. ‘If you was wrong, then I’ll beg you to stay! Promise me you’ll not leave, just because you said you was going to.’
Frodo looked at her in surprise. She had tears in her eyes. ‘You want me to stay?’ he asked.
Rosie nodded, biting her lip. ‘I’d rather have my Sam whole, and you here with us, than have Sam broken, and you lost to us,’ she said with sincerity. ‘Is there any chance you was wrong?’
Frodo considered this. Was there any chance? He stared at the flagstones at his feet and let his mind float, seeking guidance. Suddenly he was overcome by a wave of disorientation. He was both sitting in the garden, warmed by the sun, and yet at the same time a chill was spreading through him. He was falling... falling.
There was no pain as he met the ground in a limp heap, only the cold that clamped him into immobility. The roughness under his cheek was woollen carpet pile, and his field of vision was limited to the study fireplace. A fire was burning in the hearth, but no warmth reached him.
He heard Sam’s voice, speaking his name in a whisper of horror, and then a shout for Rosie to come. He was gently lifted and turned, a hand supporting his head as it lolled back. Sam! Sam was holding him. All would be well. Sam was calling to him. He wanted to answer, wanted to lift his hand to touch Sam’s face in reassurance, but he could do neither.
Outside the window, the sky was overcast. Leaves whirled by in a jumble of reds and browns. He remembered now. It was a storm-tossed autumn day, not long after the equinox. The only thing to do had been stay indoors and write.
Now he lay in Sam’s arms. Fear coiled around the cold, as he found even his breath was denied. He could not bear to look at Sam’s face, shattered and broken with sorrow, but he could not close his eyes, or look away.
‘Frodo! Frodo!’ Rosie called to him. She was holding his hand, caressing his face. ‘Frodo, please, come back.’
The sun warmed him, but he was shaking from the memory of his vision. He put his free hand over hers, and with a great effort concentrated on the present moment. He breathed deeply, reassuring himself that he could. There might not be many flowers on the rambling rose yet, but Sam had evidently chosen it for its sweet smell. The scent comforted him, confirming the place and season. He was sitting in the garden, and it was midsummer.
He looked at Rosie, and tightened his hold on her hand as he saw the distress in her face again. He let go and wiped her tears away with his thumb.
‘I don’t think there is a chance, Rose,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing has changed.’
A shout pulled them apart, Pippin’s voice calling for Frodo. Rosie jumped up and ran in the direction of the smial; Frodo guessed she did not want to explain her red eyes. ‘I’m here, Pippin,’ he called back.
Pippin appeared from the lower garden. ‘We’re ready,’ he said, and then looked at Frodo more closely. ‘Are you all right? You’re very pale.’
‘I’m fine, Pip,’ Frodo answered.
‘I don’t think that’s true, Frodo. Your hands are shaking, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Pippin sat down next to him and took his hand, as Rosie had done. ‘Will you tell me?’ he asked.
‘Not now, Pippin,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not if I’m to look normal for Sam. Just sit with me a minute, and then I’ll be ready to join you all.’
‘Tonight, then,’ said Pippin gently. ‘Tell me and Merry tonight.’ The three of them were sharing a room at the White Horse, since space was at a premium. Frodo nodded; it was a relief to know he had Merry and Pippin to confide in. This was something he couldn’t bring himself to discuss with Sam, tied as it was to his reason for leaving.
Gradually, the panic he had felt at not being able to breathe eased. He shut his eyes and enjoyed the sun on his face. The sound of running feet coming closer made him open them again. Sam appeared, a worried frown on his face. He looked at Pippin still holding Frodo’s hand, then at Frodo.
‘Frodo? I was uneasy about you. What’s the matter? You can change your mind; I’ll stop with you. Just say the word.’
Frodo stood up to hug Sam. ‘I’m fine now, Sam. Just an anxiety attack, but it’s over.’ The warmth of Sam in his arms was the best antidote to the horror of Sam’s face crumpling into grief at his... at his death? Surely, he had seen his own death.
‘You’re trembling, my love,’ said Sam, holding Frodo close and cradling his head. He kissed Frodo on the temple.
Frodo took a deep breath, and let it out with a long sigh. ‘I’ll be all right, Sam. I should have helped you get ready. Then I wouldn’t haven’t been sitting idly, a prey to my imagination.’ He turned his head to kiss Sam, the final warming he needed to dispel the chill. They took their time, knowing Pippin would warn them of any other approach, and also knowing there would be little opportunity until their return. For Sam to share a room with Frodo, in preference to his wife, would be to invite more rumour and speculation.
As for Sam, he would have very little privacy with either of his loves. The White Horse had very few guest rooms, but Merry and Pippin had booked one at great expense, early in the year. Frodo could share this with them. Most guests resorted to the shared accommodation provided in the long, low thatched barn attached to the inn. Sam, Rosie and the Gaffer would be joining the Cotton family there.
Their actual arrival at the inn created a lot of interest. Mostly because of the Captains, but Frodo came in for more staring than he was comfortable with. The interest in Merry, Pippin, and even Sam, was of the enthusiastic variety, whereas Frodo felt that he was the object of whispered speculation. He stood back, hiding his right hand amongst the folds of his cloak; he hated the way eyes slid from his face to his missing finger, seemingly fascinated by the ugly scar. He fingered the star-gem with his left hand and wished he could be out of the public gaze.
Merry touched his arm. ‘Pippin will look after the ponies until an ostler is free, Frodo. Let’s go and see if we can have food brought to our room; you need a rest.’
Frodo did indeed feel better after a rest and some food, but he was happy to stay quietly in their room for the evening. Merry fetched a jug of beer, most of which was drunk by himself and Pippin. Sam came to join them for a while.
After he had gone, Merry and Pippin looked thoughtfully at the three single beds. They hauled the mattresses off and laid them together on the floor. The bed frames were pushed out of the way.
Frodo smiled at them. He had not been looking forward to lying alone with his thoughts. This was much better. He settled onto the middle mattress, with a cousin on either side.
‘Will you tell us, now, Frodo?’ asked Pippin, putting his arm around him. Merry took his hand. The telling didn’t come easily; haltingly, Frodo described his brief vision, the cold and terror of it, and Sam’s grief. He sighed when he had finished.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ he said, his voice rather flat. ‘I knew I had to go. It’s just...’ He tailed off. It was just that for a brief moment, he had really believed he might be able to stay, and the cruelty of that hope was still with him.
‘You thought maybe the future had changed,’ said Merry quietly. ‘We did, as well, this past week: you’ve been so well, so happy. Can you be sure it isn’t some trick? That the Ring isn’t tormenting you, even after its destruction?’
Frodo looked into Merry’s reddened eyes and brought the hand holding his up to his lips to be kissed. ‘It would be comforting to think so, wouldn’t it?’ he said, as they huddled closer together. ‘But I think I have been saved from letting my hopes be raised. If...if I should die, promise me you’ll look after Sam.’
Merry and Pippin nodded, and kissed him one after the other, saying of course without words. He suspected they didn’t trust themselves to speak.
‘I was going to ask you to witness my will tomorrow, anyway, Merry. I wish you could be a witness, Pip, but you’re not of age. Both your fathers have promised me they will be at the Fair, and I asked Will Whitfoot to arrange another three witnesses. He’ll be the seventh, of course. This has nothing to do with this morning. I need to make sure that not only Sam, but also Rose, is provided for. In case,’ he swallowed, ‘in case anything should happen to Sam before he legally inherits Bag End.’
‘Frodo,’ said Pippin, sadly, ‘I never thought I would say I hope you leave, but I would rather you were gone away from us and alive, than dead in the Shire.’ He buried his head against Frodo, and his body shook.
Merry let go of Frodo’s hand and stroked his face. ‘You know we’ll do whatever you want,’ he said, his voice choked with tears. ‘You only have to ask.’
‘I know,’ said Frodo. ‘Thank you.’ He kissed them in turn. They curled together, pulling blankets over themselves, but the gaps between the mattresses were unforgiving. In the end they settled for Merry cradling Frodo in his arms on one, while Pippin lay on a second, his fingers intertwined with those of Frodo’s left hand. They slept fitfully as Frodo twitched and whimpered in his dreams, clutching his star-gem. Sleep was finally banished in the early lithe-day dawn when a cock started crowing.
Sam appeared when it was time to rise, carrying hot water for washing. Merry and Pippin made cursory ablutions and left Frodo to Sam’s care. Sam settled into the warm depression left by Merry, and Frodo turned to face him and dozed in his arms.
‘I’m thinking Merry and Pippin must have been worried about you, to rearrange the room like this,’ murmured Sam.
‘They’re like you, Sam,’ mumbled Frodo, feeling as though he could sleep, now that Sam was close. ‘They always worry about me. I wish I didn’t make you all feel like that.’
‘Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve been a lot less anxious about you this past week or more. But you were never at your best in a crowd, so to speak, and that’s just got worse since you’ve been ill. Merry and Pip have noticed your reluctance to go out, as well. You’ll have to forgive us for worrying over you.’ He kissed Frodo on the forehead, and pushed himself up. ‘It’s time to be up, my love. No point giving that Ted more grist for his mill, by closeting ourselves away together longer than is decent.’
Frodo looked up quickly, wondering if Sam had heard the latest nastiness to come from that quarter. He took Sam’s proffered hand to aid him to his feet, and didn’t protest when Sam took over his washing and dressing. He enjoyed it, and Sam enjoyed it, so there was no point thinking it servitude.
Sam carefully combed the tangles from Frodo’s hair, and knelt to do the same for the thick fur curling over his feet. Frodo felt much better for these ministrations; he loved the way Sam made him feel nurtured. He only wished he could reciprocate, but Sam was already as neat as it was possible to be. When they first returned from their travels, Sam had refused Frodo’s offer of carefully tailored clothes, saying he would be uncomfortable in such finery. Frodo had got round this by making him presents of new clothes on an occasional basis, nothing too fine that Sam could object to. As he had anticipated, they were worn because Frodo had given them to him; gradually Sam had come to take pleasure in looking the part of Steward to the Master of Bag-End. Frodo smiled at him now with satisfaction; he knew Sam’s worth, whatever he was wearing, but there was no doubt he looked very fine. Together they went to break fast with the rest of their party, before following the crowds on to the White Downs.
Once on the Downs, the Fair spread before them in a profusion of colour. There were fair-booths, and stalls selling every conceivable produce and food for every budget. Craftsmen were there to show off their wares: potters, weavers, hurdlers, ropers, leather workers and many more. The sounds of livestock, penned at the periphery behind hazel-switch hurdles, mingled with the chattering of the crowd. Above it all came the raucous cries of vendors, wishing to attract custom.
Each of the normal three days of the fair had its own flavour. The agricultural show was held on Lithe1, and was the main historical reason for the Fair’s existence. Growing in popularity, there was now also a horticultural show on the same day. The evening of this first day was given over to a festival of beer and wine, when the breweries and vineyards set out their wares for tasting. Many a hobbit went to bed weaving a longer path than was necessary, after overindulging on all the free “tastes”.
Midyear’s Day was when the auctions of livestock and produce, judged or sampled the previous day, took place. That left Lithe 2 as the day when everyone was free to enjoy themselves. This was the day set aside for games and competitions of skill, endurance or chance. There were ploughing competitions, sheep dog trials, tug-of-war and the infamous greasy pole. It was also the day loyalties ran high, as teams from the different inns around the Shire held their Bat and Trap tournament.
This year, the extra leap-year day of Overlithe would come first, and any contestants who could avoid eating too much and drinking too much on this day of feasting, would have the advantage over their less restrained competitors, come the following day.
For Frodo, the first day was the worst. Most of the day he was stared at and whispered about, but by the evening the crowd had largely lost interest in him. Perhaps they had decided that he was too quiet to be of interest. This was also the day he officially handed back office to Will Whitfoot. Will wanted it to be a public event, and this was the reason he had asked Frodo to come. It meant Frodo would have to make a speech.
As well as falling in a leap year, the Fair of 1420 came at the end of the Mayor’s seven-year term of office, and the election of the new Mayor was to be held on the last day of the Fair. This custom allowed the new incumbent to have some experience before he presided over the events of the following year’s Free Fair. In practice, old Will had been Mayor for so long that this had been of little importance for a generation or more. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Old Flourdumpling would be elected again.
Frodo was aware that he was not the only hobbit who was relieved that it would be Will, and not himself, who would be presiding over the Free Fair. He picked up on an undercurrent of murmurings: the Shire inhabitants felt all was right with the world if their old Mayor was back in office, and they were not slow to express their thoughts that he would do a better job “than that mad Baggins. Did you hear...”
Frodo tried desperately not to hear.
When it came to it, handing back to Will was not too trying. For one thing, Will asked that all four travellers should accompany him onto the platform. Frodo found it was very reassuring to have Sam, Merry and Pippin so close. He made a short speech congratulating Will on his recovery and reminding the crowd of some of the highlights of Will’s long service, all the while dreading Will’s response. He was fairly sure Will meant to praise him in turn, and he was aware that he had not brought much enthusiasm to the job. He finished talking, and Will stepped forward to great applause.
‘I cannot take up my position of Mayor once more,’ said Will, to the crowd waiting to cheer him again, ‘without thanking Mr. Baggins. I am very grateful to him for taking on the role of my deputy, when his own health has been poor.’ Frodo sighed inwardly and tried not to mind this invitation for everyone to stare at him again. ‘I have spoken to our gallant Captains,’ continued the Mayor, ‘and I think there has been a tendency in the Shire to underestimate what Mr. Baggins has done to bring about our present happy state of peace and prosperity. Closer to home, as you might say, Mr. Baggins has also been very active in helping the poorer inhabitants of the West Farthing and beyond recover from the damage inflicted by Sharkey’s men. Not only has he used the legacy entrusted to him by the late, lamented Mrs. Sackville-Baggins, but he has also been very generous on his own account.’
Most of the cheering was half-hearted, but there were pockets of enthusiasm, no doubt representing the beneficiaries of his aid. Frodo tried to relax and wished he were standing behind the bulk of his cousins. However, Will Whitfoot’s next words brought him a glow of pleasure.
‘I cannot thank Mr. Baggins without also thanking his companions in adventure. The Captains Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took have shown great leadership and courage, and without them we might still be no more than slaves in our own land.’
The cheering now was deafening, and by inviting Merry and Pippin to come forward, Will unwittingly gave Frodo the opportunity to retire into the background.
‘And last, but by no means least, I would like to thank Master Samwise for his tireless efforts in restoring the Shire to its former glory. Perhaps I should say: even better than its former glory. He has worked us a miracle, right here on our doorsteps. A Master Gardener indeed.’
The crowd cheered wildly again, and Frodo smiled at Sam, who was hanging his head and blushing. He could have hugged Will at that moment.
Later, as the four companions were pushing their way through the crowd, heading for the beer tent, they were met by a deputation from the fair organisers. They greeted Frodo politely, but it was Sam they had come to see.
‘Excuse us, Master Gard’ner,’ their spokes-hobbit said, respectfully. ‘We were wondering if you would do us the honour of being Head Judge at the Horticultural Show this year.’
Frodo felt like dancing with delight, but refrained, knowing he would only send the delegation away shaking their heads and whispering: ‘Mad, quite mad. Such a shame. I knew his father, you know, a decent and respectable hobbit...’
In previous years, Sam had come away from the show with a clutch of first prizes, but he had made no entry this year, being too busy with restoration to worry about the careful nurturing of single plants. Had he entered, he would have had to decide whether he was prepared to withdraw his specimens, since he couldn’t be both exhibitor and judge. As it was, there was no such decision needed, and he gladly accepted.
The next interruption in their progress towards the beer tent was Hamson Gamgee, pushing through the crowd to greet his famous little brother. ‘Sam!’ he cried, as he got closer. Sam turned, and they hugged each other affectionately. They hadn’t seen each other since Sam’s wedding.
Hamson was a few years Frodo’s senior, and in looks very like an older version of Sam. However, the similarity ended there. They were as chalk and cheese in all other respects. Amongst their many differences, Hamson lacked tact - a trait he proceeded to demonstrate. He finished hugging his brother, and turned to shake Frodo by the hand.
‘Mr. Baggins,’ he said, squeezing too hard, ‘I’m delighted that I sees you ain’t dead, as some would have us believe. It ain’t nice hearing such rumours about my own brother. I’m no hand at writing, and I can’t go leaving my family and work, to gad about and find the rights or otherwise of all the gossip as comes flying into our workshop. Them as are saying such things can’t deny the sight of you, walking round the Fair, as alive as me. And if you’re alive, why then, all can see the whole story is naught but a sorry pack o’lies from beginning to end.’
Frodo groaned inwardly, and not just from the pain as his fingers were crushed together over the tender scar tissue. Sam was looking at his brother as though he’d like to shake him into making more sense. The silence behind him was eloquent: talk of Frodo's being dead was not going down well with Merry and Pippin after their conversation last night. He had been fairly certain that his cousins had not been made privy to the gossip; they would have tactfully told him had they been aware of it.
‘So, Hamson,’ said Sam, carefully, ‘tell us what this is all about.’ Hamson looked from Frodo to Sam, and back again. ‘You mean you ain’t heard?’ he said. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr. Baggins. I thought it were such common currency, that you’d be bound to know.’
Frodo took pity on the roper. ‘I know the gossip, Hamson,’ he said quietly, ‘but I do not believe my companions were aware of it. If you will excuse us, I think we will go and discuss it in private.’ Hamson blustered some more, in apology and by way of farewell, and took his leave. Frodo sighed. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘For Eru’s sake, let’s get ourselves some beer.’
There was nowhere very private in the beer tent, so they took their mugs and sat on the hay bales that edged the dance floor. Frodo stared into his drink.
‘So,’ said Sam. ‘Are you going to tell us?’
Frodo sighed. ‘It’s a nasty bit of dirt dreamt up about you and Rose,’ he said. ‘But it’s my fault it’s been allowed to spread through the Shire as it has. I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have shut myself away.’
‘Frodo!’ said Sam. ‘Stop blaming yourself for poisonous minds, and tell us what’s to do. I’m thinking you heard this “bit of dirt” from old Will.’
Frodo had been trying to think of a way to lead into the tale, but in the end he just told them the bare facts. ‘The story is that I am dead, and that you and Rose have been hiding the fact, in order to stay in Bag End. There is a variant in which you’ve murdered me, rather than just concealed my death from natural causes.’ He shrugged. ‘Not so different from the rumours when Bilbo left. Then it was myself and Gandalf who were supposed to have plotted to spirit Bilbo away, and get his wealth.’
‘And this is the reason you decided to come to the Fair,’ said Sam. He looked angry, but the anger was not directed at Frodo, nor, Frodo suspected, even at the slander to Sam’s name. The anger was because the rumour had dragged Frodo away from Bag End, when he would rather have stayed quietly hidden away from prying eyes, avoiding the risk of some repetition of the Green Dragon incident.
‘The one that decided me, yes,’ said Frodo. ‘Rather than have to keep showing myself, it seems preferable to me to been seen by as many hobbits as possible, in the one place.’
‘You didn’t have to...’ said Sam, looking miserable now.
Frodo touched Sam’s hand, all he could do in such a public place: there was no point scotching one rumour, and fuelling another. ‘Yes, Sam. I did have to,’ he said. ‘For Rose’s sake, as well as yours.’
‘And is it known who started this rumour?’ asked Pippin. There was a dangerous light in his eye.
‘I can guess,’ said Frodo quietly, ‘and I’m sure you can, as well. But there will be no repercussions. Do you understand me, Pip?’
Pippin sighed and then grinned. ‘Oh, you’re no fun, Frodo!’ he said, and they all laughed. They were just about to finish their beers when Rosie found them. Pippin proposed a toast. ‘To Rosie,’ he said. ‘The prettiest lass in the Shire.’
‘To Rosie,’ they chorused, and drained their mugs.
‘And what may you be wanting Master Peregrin?’ she answered, dipping a curtsey and laughing.
‘Lunch would be favourite,’ he replied.
‘Then you’re in luck. I’ve come to tell you we’ve a picnic lunch all ready in the shade of the trees.’
From then on, Frodo found he actually enjoyed the Fair. It was tiring, and he took to catnapping whenever he sat down for a moment, but he had cause to thank Ted Sandyman.
Traditionally, the hobbit lasses and matrons were interested in different aspects of the Fair than their menfolk, coming back together for feasting and dancing as appropriate; it was therefore no cause for comment that the Travellers spent much of their time together. Frodo was happy with this. On his own, he believed he would have struggled to cope, but with Sam, Merry and Pippin by his side, his fear stayed manageable. He spent some time with Saradoc and Paladin, and concluded his official business, with the requisite red ink and seven witnesses, while Sam was absent judging the best entry in the horticultural show.
The next day, the auction day, was the day of least interest to the casual Fair-goer, and this was the day when the booths and stalls were busiest. There was every way imaginable to part the unwary hobbits from their money, from fortune teller to treasure hunt with riddling clues. Frodo suspected the fortune teller was in collusion with the treasure hunt: a number of hobbits seemed to have been told by the former that they would find unexpected wealth.
The Travellers came across Rosie outside the portrait painter’s tent, and she begged Sam to sit for his picture to be sketched. The painter would use his sketch to paint a portrait at a later date, and then deliver the finished product on approval. He was a regular at the Fair and had a good reputation for capturing likenesses.
Frodo went with Sam, for the chance to sit down, but Merry and Pippin headed off to the beer tent. Rosie spoke quietly to the painter before she went, causing the artist to look startled. He cleared his throat, and stood Sam in the best light.
‘Hm. Your good wife has asked for me to make you look, hm, enticing,’
he said.
Frodo, sitting behind the painter, and out of his field of view, doubled up with silent laughter.
‘Now, hm, what do you think she had in mind?’
Frodo sat up and caught Sam’s eye. Entice me, he thought. It was another hot day, and neither of them was wearing a waistcoat. He reached up and undid the top button of his shirt, laid the neck open, and then toyed with the next fastening down. It always enticed him when Sam did that.
Sam’s mouth twitched. He adjusted his stance so he stood comfortably, and his eyes and facial expression altered subtly, becoming softer and less focused. He imitated Frodo, and his fingers toyed provocatively with his own shirt fastenings.
The portrait painter cleared his throat. ‘Hm. Yes. I think, hm, that will do nicely. Just hold the pose like that, if you would be so kind.’
Frodo ran his hands down over his chest and onto his breeches. Sam exhaled softly through part open lips. Frodo hoped the portrait painter was concentrating on Sam’s head and upper body, and wasn’t about to include bulging breeches in the finished article.
A few sketches were made very quickly, and then the painter made some notes and dabs of colour to guide him in the finished portrait. He turned to Frodo.
‘Mistress Gamgee asked that I sketch you, as well, sir, if you would be so good as to stand over here.’
‘Oh, but...’ Frodo started to protest.
‘It’ll only take a few minutes, sir, but if you would rather, you may sit down.’
Frodo looked at Sam, but there was no help to be had from that quarter: it was obvious that Sam was very pleased with the idea. He gave in gracefully, but opted to sit down. The warmth, and another poor night’s sleep, were taking their toll. He smiled lazily at Sam, and nearly dozed off.
The next day was Overlithe. Frodo skipped the minor feasting through the day. Instead, he caught up on his sleep, in preparation for the greater celebration in the evening. It was worth going to. The merrymaking, that Overlithe, was the greatest in memory or record, as the hobbits celebrated the restoration of their traditional way of life, and the golden summer that had come to bless them. Fiddles and bodhran played late into the night, and it snowed food and rained drink, as hobbits are fond of saying.
The final day was spent watching the different competitions. Nibs and Nick did well in the ploughing, their first year of entering, each getting a Very Highly Commended. The Cotton’s tug-of-war team won, against stiff opposition, and despite the fact it followed the yard of ale contest - a humorous touch on the part of the organisers, Frodo thought. It certainly added to the entertainment. The team included Sam, Merry and Pippin, the latter two adding considerable weight, which counted for a lot. Frodo, Rosie, Mari, Mrs. Cotton and the Gaffer shouted encouragement.
After lunch, they relaxed watching a game of Bat and Trap. It was admirably suited to hobbits, needing quickness of eye and hand. As a spectator sport, it could be a little slow, however, and they had to poke Pippin when he started snoring loudly. His yard of ale was taking its toll.
As for the greasy pole competition, which took place late in the afternoon, Mrs. Cotton forbade her family to have anything to do with it. Serious injuries had been known to occur. They all went to watch, though, since it made for unrivalled entertainment.
The round pole, smothered with grease, was supported off the ground, and the winner was the first contestant who could get to the end of the pole without falling off. It was interesting to see the different styles employed, some shuffling on the pole, some trying to run and some sliding. Mostly, they came to grief early on, falling off the pole to one side or the other, limbs flailing, to land on deep straw. The height was not great, but there would still be some very bruised hobbits the next day.
Frodo remembered the Buckland variation of this, with the pole stuck out over the Brandywine, and all contestants ending up in the water. This was not something that was to the taste of the Westfarthing hobbits, but Frodo would have appreciated the great sprays of water that often drenched the watching crowd. It was a hot day, and a good dousing would have been welcome.
The final winner took a run at the pole and slide sideways along it in one great whoosh, yelling in victory as he toppled off the far end and onto the thickest pile of straw. He was cheered as he stood up, spitting chaff from his mouth.
In the course of the competition, fate took a hand. Hamson was a former winner, and still a favourite. Today, however, his slide was awkward. He fell onto the pole with a crash, before sliding off. When he was helped up, it was evident that he had hurt himself and was unable to stand on one leg. Sam sucked in his breath and went to check on his brother.
‘It’s not as bad as it could be,’ he reported when he got back. ‘But bad enough. He’s ricked his ankle; very swollen and colourful, it is, but not broken.’ He looked apologetically at Frodo and Rosie. ‘I’m going to have to see him home to Tighfield, maybe stay a few days to help out.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Frodo. ‘Take the gig.’
‘Turn and turn about, isn’t it?’ agreed Rosie. Frodo could see she was disappointed, though. She had evidently been looking forward to being back at Bag End with Sam, having been away so long herself. Hamson’s ankle was wrapped in a cold compress, and Mrs. Cotton produced some willow-bark infusion from who knows where.
Sam and Jolly supported Hamson as he hopped to the White Horse with them. Once at the inn, Frodo managed to get a few moments alone with Sam, and they hugged and kissed.
‘Don’t worry, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He watched with a certain amount of envy as Sam and Rosie made their farewells. He wasn’t jealous of the affection displayed, but because they could take their time in public, to kiss and cuddle. The only result would be a few bawdy jokes from the ostlers about new brides. He thought back to Minas Tirith, and wished he could show his love for Sam so openly in the Shire.
After a final night in the White Horse, they headed home. Frodo was glad to be back, but also glad he had gone. It had been an entertaining, if exhausting, few days, and he had come through it without any disasters to draw attention to himself. Sam’s absence was like a hollow inside him, but he slept well. Merry and Pippin were unable stay beyond the first night, but Frodo convinced them this was not a problem. Telling them his unpleasant vision had had the unfortunate result of making them extra protective towards him, and he had to work hard to persuade them not to change their original plans.
He had supper with Rosie, and afterwards she worked on her embroidery, while he smoked and read. It was lovely to have the long light evenings, and not strain eyes by candlelight. Even so, it was not long before his eyes were closing. A light touch on his shoulder, and Rosie’s voice, made him jump.
‘You need to go to bed, Frodo,’ she said.
He opened his eyes. Rosie was bending over him, her eyes soft and concerned.
He blinked drowsily and let her pull him to his feet.
‘I’d like to talk to you,’ she said, not letting go of his hands. ‘About the morning we left for the Fair and...’ she swallowed, ‘what I asked you ‘bout before. But you needs to get some sleep. May I talk to you tomorrow? Or... would you rather not? I don’t want to cause you upset, Frodo.’
Frodo leant in and kissed her on the cheek. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Rose.’
She let go of his hands and gave him a quick hug. ‘Goodnight, Frodo,’ she said. As he was leaving, she added, ‘You will leave your door open and call me if you need anything, won’t you? Sam would want me listen out for you.’
Frodo smiled. ‘Thank you, Rose,’ he said. Somehow he doubted he would be plagued by dreams, but it was kind of her to think of him.
Alone in his room, however, his thoughts followed the path opened by Rosie’s words. He threw open his window, trying to find some cooler evening breeze to ease his body, if not his mind, but the air was hot and oppressive, and brought no relief.
His ambiguity about going behind Sam’s back, to father a child on his wife, resurfaced as he paced his room. He had cast the decision to fate, but that was really a way to avoid the issues. Fate was playing its part, taking Sam away from them, and he would have to say yea or nay to Rosie. To fall back on his physical incapability to father a child was no longer a convenient way to halt the debate in his mind, since that obstacle had thankfully been removed.
Yet to make a cold, calculating choice to further deceive Sam was somehow unthinkable. Overlaying his tired thoughts was the image in his mind of Sam’s face as he held Frodo’s limp body. In his imagination, he could hear the keening that would follow such a look of loss and devastation, and the sound brought back some of the chill from the vision. He rubbed his left shoulder as the ache flared into icy cold. For a moment, he had thought there might be a chance of him staying in the Shire, in which case the whole question of fathering a child became like wispy tendrils of mist, evaporating in the morning sun. Almost immediately, he had been jolted back to the cruel reality. If he stayed, he died; might even die before he could tear himself away from the Shire.
He threw his clothes down on the chair. There was no doubt it was the hottest night yet, and he didn’t bother with his night-shirt. He pushed all the covers away, apart from the sheet, and climbed, naked, onto the bed. His head was beginning to ache, but his thoughts would not let him seek relief in sleep.
Was it for Sam’s sake or his own that he was tempted to take Sam’s wife and make her with child? He tossed and turned. When he did finally sleep, it was with nothing resolved.
The black dream that took him curled him into a tight ball, and froze his mind. He wept in his sleep, clutching at his pillow and rocking it against him. The keening from his imagination found outlet in his voice, but he was not awake to hear it outside of his dream. His dream-self did not want to accept what was happening. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No!’
In his dream, he fought against arms that were holding him. They were not Sam’s arms. Someone was calling his name, but he took no notice. It was not Sam’s voice.
‘Sam!’ he cried, and then whispered the beloved name. ‘Sam.’
Sam would not hold him again; Sam would never speak his name again. Sam was dead.
He wanted to hug the loved body to him, never to let go, but he was denied and held back. He struggled, screaming and crying his grief.
‘Frodo! Can you hear me? Listen to me. You’re dreaming! Open your eyes. Please, Frodo, just open your eyes.’
‘Let me go,’ he cried in anguish. ‘Leave me alone! Sam is dead!’
Suddenly he was being roughly shaken. ‘Wake up, Frodo!’ There was panic in the voice now. ‘Open your eyes!’
He responded to the panic, rather than the shaking, and opened his eyes. He was disorientated, choked by his grief. Rosie was in his bed, holding him, leaning over him in her night-gown, wild-eyed and pale. She shook him again. ‘Frodo, wake up and tell me you’re dreaming. Wake up and tell me Sam ain’t really dead.’
He was confused. What did she mean? Sam not really dead? He stared at her.
‘Frodo,’ said Rosie, more gently. ‘Frodo, I know you can feel what Sam’s feeling. What is he feeling now? Tell me what Sam is feeling now. Tell me, Frodo.’
Sam? What was he feeling? ‘Anxious,’ he said without really thinking. ‘He’s anxious.’ That was all he needed to orientate the reality of the dreaming and the waking. Sam was alive, and Sam was anxious.
Rosie closed her eyes, slumped down beside him, and burst into tears. She was shaking. ‘Oh, Frodo,’ she sobbed. ‘You frighted me. I thought you maybe wasn’t dreaming. I thought you maybe knew he were really dead from some accident.’
Frodo started shaking as well, in reaction to the depths of emotion in his dream state. ‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he croaked. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you.’
‘Hush now,’ whispered Rosie. ‘You took the worst fright, I’m thinking.’
They clung together for comfort, both wishing it was Sam who held them, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
When Frodo awoke, he was confused all over again. He was naked, Rosie was in his arms, and at first he couldn’t remember how or why. When he did finally pin down the memory of his dream, he wished he hadn’t. It had seemed so real. He tensed, and Rosie stirred in his arms, murmuring Sam’s name. She pressed a kiss against his chest.
‘Rosie,’ he said gently. Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him for a moment, before relaxing.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought you was Sam.’ She lowered her eyes and blushed. He started to disentangle himself, but she caught his arm. ‘What did you say, just now?’ she asked, looking into his eyes again.
‘Just your name,’ he said, puzzled.
‘Say it again,’ she pleaded.
‘Rosie?’
She sighed and smiled at him. ‘You’ve always called me Rose.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, and I like “Rosie” so much better, it’s friendlier.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I hoped you’d come round to calling me Rosie, without me asking.’
‘And now I have.’
‘Yes, now you have.’
‘I suppose it’s hard to be formal when I’m lying here naked in your arms,’ Frodo said. Rosie snorted with laughter, and laid her head against his chest. ‘I never meant to sound unfriendly,’ he added, stroking her hair. ‘Rose is such a lovely name.’
‘Frodo?’
‘Yes?’
‘What did you see, the other morning?’
‘That I can’t stay in the Shire.’
‘Have you thought about what I asked you? The medicine has helped, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it has, Rosie. Did you get it just because you wanted me to father your child?’
‘No, I didn’t. I wanted to help you, I wanted to help you and Sam. The weller you is, the happier Sam is.’
Frodo believed her. It was all one with Rosie nursing him, for Sam’s sake. And, he reminded himself, she wanted the child for Sam’s sake. To help keep Sam alive. His dream came back to haunt him.
‘I dreamt Sam was dead,’ he whispered into Rosie’s hair.
‘I know. Can you tell me ‘bout it? Were it a vision?’
‘I don’t think so, but it didn’t jump about like dreams usually do. It was more like a story unravelling. Sam looked as he does now, not like in my vision of your children.’
Rosie looked at him with a worried frown. ‘How do he look in that?’
‘Much older, my age or more. The eldest children are teenagers, I would judge.’
‘So they can’t both be true,’ said Rosie, sensibly. ‘And you believe that the vision is real. So your dream must be false.’
‘They could be different possibilities,’ said Frodo, sadly.
‘If you do as I ask, then which of those futures do you think Sam’ll follow?’ she asked gently, laying her head back against his chest again, so her voice was partly muffled by his skin. ‘Is there any way of knowing?’
She laid her palm flat against his chest, and Frodo covered it with his hand. He sighed. ‘In my vision, the eldest child is ours.’
Rosie sat up, her curls falling around her face. Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh, Frodo. Truly? And you said afore that Sam were happy with his family. Did he know he weren’t the father?’
‘Yes, he knew. But Rosie, how can we go behind his back?’
‘Wait until he comes back, and ask him, then. I knows what he’ll say.’
‘I can’t tell him why, Rosie. I can’t.’ Her hand was still on his chest, pressing down on him. He let go of it, and gripped her shoulder. ‘I’ll... I... I’m...’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘Once I tell him, Rosie, I’ll have to go. I’ll never go otherwise, not when I’m seeing his pain day after day. I’ll stay and I’ll die and... my dream will be true. Maybe I shouldn’t mind; we’ll take the long journey together. But, Rosie, I want to know he is here in the Shire. I want to know he has a future with you and your family. I want to know he is safe.’ He took his hand from her shoulder and let his arm fall over his eyes. He was just repeating himself; he had said all this to her before.
‘Then take this chance, for Sam’s sake. I thought it were the right thing afore, and now I’m sure,’ urged Rosie.
‘I don’t know why I want this child,’ he whispered to the darkness he had created.
Rosie tugged his arm away to make him look at her. Her face was soft, framed by her curls, and her eyes shone. ‘You do want this child, then?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes, but whether for Sam’s sake or mine, I don’t know the answer.’
‘Does it matter? Is there a difference? Can’t a child be for both your sakes? All three of our sakes? You allowed Sam to love me as well as you. Do you really think he’d be any less generous?’ She touched his face, drawing her hand along the line of his jaw. ‘Does it help if I tell you I love you? Does it help if I tell you Sam loves that I love you?’ Tears welled in her eyes, she bent forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘We both love you. Losing you will hurt us both, but Sam the most. Will you let me carry your child? Will you leave us this gift?’
‘Oh, Rosie. My love for you isn’t like that. I don’t desire you.’
‘No reason you should, but love is there for all that. That’s all I ask. I couldn’t ask you t’otherwise. I ain’t a brood mare, to be served and led away, no feelings involved. I need to know you’ll not love me the less for me taking you to myself.’
‘No, Rosie, I won’t think any the less of you. I won’t love you any the less. Sam is very lucky to have you.’
‘Then the luck is called Frodo Baggins,’ said Rosie.
‘Rosie?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’re talking as though the outcome is certain, but I’ll not lie with you again. Is the time right?’
‘Couldn’t be righter.’
‘Rosie?’
‘What, love?’
‘Not desiring you is rather awkward in the circumstances.’
She smiled at him. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what lads do on their own; I’ve caught Jolly at it afore now. You can make your own desire. Just think of Sam.’
It was a sensible suggestion, if a little unfair to Rosie. He allowed her to nestle against his side, and wrapped one arm around her. She took his free hand and guided his fingers beneath her night-gown, to warmth and slick moisture. He wasn’t sure what she wanted of him, but she returned his hand to his awakening erection. He rubbed the moisture over the tip and sighed at the sensation, closing his eyes and calling up a memory of past loving as he stroked himself. It wasn’t hard; he didn’t have to think back very far.
Sam lay face down beneath him, flushed and moaning from the effects of Frodo’s massage, his fingers tightening into the sheet as he begged Frodo to have done. Frodo covered his body with his own and sank his teeth into Sam’s neck as Sam writhed beneath him. Frodo moved against him, desperate in his longing for this loving he had been denied so long.
He nuzzled into the honey-brown curls, biting and suckling at Sam’s ear lobe. ‘I want you, Sam,’ he whispered.
‘Please, Frodo,’ Sam begged. ‘It’s been too long. I need you. I want to feel you within me.’
Frodo rolled sideways, pulling Sam with him, and ran his hand slowly down Sam’s chest, over his belly and onto his inner thigh. Their breath came in unison, panting and urgent. His massage had prepared his love. Now he raised Sam’s leg, bending it and lifting it forward to ease his way. He thrust deep, and they both cried out as memories and reality merged, rushing together into the moment that was now.
‘Sam,’ he cried, as his hips snapped forward, thrusting against his encircling hand. His arm tightened around Rosie, and he turned towards her, seeking her help. He was lost in an unknown land.
He felt her hand over his, guiding him into her warm depths. The movement was so easy he was taken by surprise and thrust harder than necessary. She gave a cry, and he couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure. He went more carefully, but it must have been pleasure, because she urged him deeper again, tightening around him as he moved within her.
He raised himself on his elbow, still cradling Sam’s leg with his other hand, and ran his tongue up Sam’s neck, tasting salt. Sam turned his head and their mouths met, hungry for each other. As their lips parted, he shifted position and thrust again. There! He had found the angle he wanted to give Sam what he craved after his months of patient loving. Sam arched back against him and yelled aloud, a wailing cry that was music to Frodo’s ears. He nearly came as Sam tightened around him. He slid his oil-slick hand back up the thigh, to furl his fingers around Sam’s waiting erection.
He thrust again, and Sam was moving against him, moving to meet him. He could no longer think straight. His movements were instinctive; the rhythm of his body and hand worked in harmony, and Sam was noisy in his appreciation. They slammed together, and he came, crying Sam’s name.
It was all he needed. Here, in reality, his body had taken over as well. He thrust faster, holding the soft and yielding body to him.
‘Sam!’ he cried, ‘Oh, Sam,’ and his movement slowed, deeper and surer, as release took him, each pulsing thrust carrying his seed. He collapsed onto Rosie with a cry, and she held him pressed against herself.
‘Oh, Frodo, thank you,’ she whispered.
He lifted his head and kissed her with great tenderness. How could he not, when she had been so generous? He rolled away, and was surprised at the way his fluid was released from deep within her, to stain the sheet. He had always assumed loving a lass was somehow less messy. She pulled down her night-gown and curled into his arms, shaking slightly. A tear slid down her face. He held her tight and found his own eyes were brimming with tears, as conflicting emotions overwhelmed him. The next moment they were weeping together. He pressed his face against her curls and shushed her into sleep.
He lay next to her, staring up at the ceiling. The joy that had come to him when he first recognised Elanor was back again, and with the joy came hope. He turned his head to kiss Rosie’s forehead, and fell asleep again with his face softened by a gentle smile.