CHAPTER 20: A SHADOW OF OLD TROUBLES

Bag End had few visitors now. Folco and Fatty came twice, but Frodo felt their awkwardness. They really didn’t know what to say to him. They seemed embarrassed by his ease and familiarity with Sam and Rosie, and couldn’t understand why he closeted himself away with his writing. He was pleased they had come, but felt relieved when they went.

Merry and Pippin, of course, were frequent visitors, riding into Hobbiton with a clatter of hooves and voices raised in song. Folk called them lordly, meaning nothing but good, although Frodo and Sam teased them about their habit of still wearing mail-shirts and carrying their shields with the devices of Rohan and Gondor.

‘You dazzle my eyes, my friends,’ said Frodo, shading his eyes when they arrived one sunny midday and found him with Sam in the garden.

‘It’s their size as does it,’ agreed Sam, laughing as he put down his watering can. ‘The effect wouldn’t be so powerful bright if they weren’t so unnaturally large.’

‘But you have to agree they need the shields, Sam,’ said Frodo, looking his cousins up and down. ‘Ever since Pippin gave those small rascals at the gate a penny and showed them his war wounds, they’ve been lying in wait for our great Captains to come back, in order to vanquish them in battle. They’re playing havoc with the gate posts, whacking at them with their wooden swords.’

‘They’re getting quite good, as well,’ said Pippin, laughing and rubbing his shins. ‘I need more than a mail-shirt to come visiting you, cousin Frodo, so I hope you appreciate the great danger we have braved to reach your door.’

‘I’m just working on the premise that if a uniform has the lasses falling for such an ugly specimen as our Pip, it’s bound to work for me,’ said Merry.

‘Well, Estella was looking as though she’d like to fondle your cuisses,’ said Pippin with a grin. Merry smirked.

Frodo laughed and hugged them. ‘It’s good to see you both,’ he said. Their visits always delighted him, and he never felt he had to make any effort to be a host. They simply arrived at Bag End, dumped their packs in their rooms, and behaved as though they’d never been away.


They were back again for Frodo’s birthday, and Rosie cooked a meal with all Frodo’s favourite foods that could be had at that season. The five of them toasted Bilbo’s 130th birthday: he was only the second hobbit to have ever reached such a great age. Frodo stretched his legs out, feeling full and happy, and smiled at Sam sitting next to him. Sam kissed him and raised his glass again.

‘Good health and happiness to you, Frodo,’ he said, and the others chorused their agreement.


Later, Frodo and Merry sat together on the garden bench, smoking their pipes. It had been another lovely day, but was cooling rapidly as the sun set. Frodo pulled his cloak around him and let his thoughts wander as he watched the smoke curl from the bowl of his pipe. He had health and happiness at this moment, but for how long?

‘I wonder how dear old Bilbo is,’ said Merry suddenly.

‘He’s getting rather confused,’ replied Frodo, absent-mindedly.

Merry stared at him in surprise. ‘You’ve heard from Rivendell?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

Frodo was silent, deciding how much to tell Merry. He had spoken without thinking. He looked up at the glow in the sky, spreading out in reds and golds above the turfed roof of the smial. It boded well for another good day on the morrow. Leaves were beginning to turn, the evenings were noticeably drawing in, but the warm days still felt like summer. There was good reason for him to fear the coming of autumn, but it had seemed a long way away. Now he realised it was almost upon him.

‘Gandalf tells me,’ he said at last.

‘Gandalf!’ exclaimed Merry. ‘That’s wonderful.’ Frodo watched Merry’s face as his words sunk in. Merry was no fool, and now he raised an eyebrow. ‘Tells?’ he said.

Frodo looked away again. A flock of small birds was flying across the sky, silhouetted against the sunset. He knew it to be another sign of the turning of the season, as birds of all sorts joined together in large, disorganised groups. The dark shapes shifted and swirled against the brilliant sky, and he watched as patterns formed and broke within the flight.

‘There’s a feast for Bilbo tonight, as we speak,’ he said, coming to a decision. He turned back to Merry, to see his reaction. ‘He’s fallen asleep.’

Merry laid a hand on his shoulder and looked back at him doubtfully. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.

‘Do you remember seeing Gandalf with the Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, on our journey home?’ said Frodo, coming to the answer obliquely. ‘When we camped for a while near the gates of Moria? They often sat up together after we had gone to our beds.’

Merry nodded. ‘They sat around the fire like statues, with only their eyes moving,’ he said. ‘Whenever I woke in the night, I saw them. I always assumed they were talking mind to... Frodo!’ Merry’s whole body swung round on the bench as he looked full at him. ‘You mean that you can do that?’

Merry’s stare made Frodo feel uncomfortable. He had never mentioned it before; he felt dislocated enough, without further proof of his difference from other hobbits. Maybe he was wrong to mention it now.

‘I can’t read your thoughts, Merry,’ he said quietly, ‘if that’s what worries you.’

‘No! Oh, no, Frodo. I wasn’t worrying about that. It’s just... Rivendell is so far away, and yet you’re able to...’ He trailed off, and they sat in silence. Merry sat back and looked out over the garden, as if aware of how disconcerting his stare was.

Frodo huddled forward. He held his pipe bowl cupped in his hands, and gazed down uneasily at the flagstones at his feet. At least Merry’s reaction was stunned that he could do this, rather than disbelieving. He had been worried Merry might think he was suffering from some delusion. His own uncle Dodinas, Merry’s great uncle, had been prevented from attending the Party, despite Bilbo’s invitation, because of his tendency to stand up and claim he was hearing voices. Bilbo had liked his mad cousin - after all, he said, most of his relations thought him mad as well - and had been disappointed that Rory had forbidden his attendance. Having grown up with Uncle Dodinas around, Frodo had been able to see his Uncle Rory’s point. The voices usually prompted Dodinas to take all his clothes off, and Frodo secretly suspected Bilbo had been hoping he would do this in front of Lobelia.

Merry shifted next to him, and when Frodo looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes were alight with interest. ’Is it like talking?’ he asked. ‘I mean, can you decide what you want to say, and what you want to keep to yourself?’

Frodo leaned back again and drew on his pipe. ‘Up to a point,’ he said, beginning to relax. ‘You know Gandalf; he always seems to know what we are all thinking anyway, but he doesn’t pry.’

Merry cleared his throat. ‘So when you’re with Sam... I mean... erm... you know, he doesn’t ...?’

Frodo laughed out loud, and his amusement released the last trace of tension in his body. ‘No, Merry,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that. He doesn’t know what I’m doing unless I tell him, and it’s not like he might come barging in at any moment. You and Pippin are the ones who tried to do that, as I recall.’

‘What do you talk about?’ Merry asked.

‘Gandalf wants me to leave this autumn - the Elves prefer to leave when all around is fading - but I can’t go, not yet.’

‘Frodo! Your last vision! You said that was happening in autumn!’ Merry was horrified. ‘Does Gandalf believe you will die if you stay? Does he believe it’s this autumn?’

‘He doesn’t know,’ said Frodo quietly, ‘but I have to take that chance, Merry.’

‘Why, Frodo? Why? I don’t want you gone, but neither do I want you to stay and die. Why must you take that risk?’

‘Two reasons, Merry. One is that I wish Rosie’s child born first, so Sam has her to hold in his arms.’

‘Her?’

Frodo looked up at the sky again. The brilliance of the sunset was fading now, as the day settled towards the inevitable night. He felt again the loss that was to come. ‘Elanor,’ he whispered, blinking back his tears.

Merry put his arm around Frodo. ‘That’s a beautiful name,’ he said, and Frodo was grateful that his cousin made no comment on the foretelling. His visions were more proof of his difference. He laid his head on Merry’s shoulder and sighed.

‘Please don’t tell Sam, or Rosie,’ he said. ‘There is no way to be certain. Even if the child is a girl, I have no wish to make them think they must name her after the flower.’

Merry nodded his understanding and agreement. ‘And the second reason?’ he asked.

Frodo managed to keep control, but he trembled with the effort. ‘So I have her to hold in my arms,’ he said quietly, ‘before I leave.’ He couldn’t bear the thought of going without seeing her, without holding her.

Merry’s arm tightened around him. ‘Frodo, dear Frodo, why is that so important to you?’ he asked gently.

‘I... I can’t explain, please don’t ask me to,’ Frodo answered. He pulled away from Merry’s embrace, welcome as it was. ‘It’s getting chilly out here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and see if Sam and Pippin have finished clearing up.’


Merry and Pippin stayed on at Bag End as Halimath turned to Win'filth. Frodo suspected they were unwilling to leave, fearing his vision might become reality as the weather changed. The blue skies, almost monotonous in their regularity, had finally been replaced by grey clouds, and across them straggled the ragged skeins of pink-footed geese. The Bag End apple harvest was in, larger than hoped for from the new orchard, and the hedgerows had yielded blackberries and rose-hips, sloes and bullace. The blackberries in particular were the best they could remember, large and sweet, and their hands were stained purple in the picking.

Rosie was swelling a little, for eyes that knew to look, and all the tiredness had vanished. She seemed full of energy. Frodo secretly thought this was just as well, since keeping Merry and Pippin supplied with enough blackberry and apple pie to satisfy them was a feat in itself.

The days passed by in a pleasant haze. Frodo enjoyed having Merry and Pippin around, and as for his nights with Sam, they were among the happiest times he had ever known. Rosie’s desire appeared to have returned with her renewed energy, and Sam was looking a little tired. Merry and Pippin did not fail to tease him about this. Sam smiled good-naturedly, and told them they were jealous.

A fortnight after Frodo’s birthday, the weather finally deteriorated to a blustery gale. There was no rain yet, but the wind howled in every crack it could find, and the leaves that had been clinging to the trees were torn away to race across the garden. No one was keen to go out, and Sam lit all the fires to warm the smial. Frodo felt the fog of his melancholy thicken, as though the bright summer sun had dissipated it, and now it was returning in the gathering cold. His instinct was to shut himself away. After lunch he made the excuse of writing, and retired to his study.

The normally cosy room failed to warm him, and with the cold, the pain in his shoulder increased. Outside the window the sky was overcast as the day came to a gloomy end, and leaves whirled by in a jumble of reds and browns. A chill was spreading through his body, and he caught his breath, panic rising.

‘No. Oh, please, no,’ he whispered. ‘Not without saying farewell to Sam.’

He stood and tried to call Sam’s name, but no sound came. There was no pain as he met the ground in a limp heap - only the deadly cold, that clamped him into immobility.


Sam had almost reached the study, carrying more wood for the fire, when he felt a wave of panic engulf him. He cast the log basket aside and ran, no doubt in his mind that Frodo needed him. The worst he thought, as much as he thought anything in the seconds it took to reach his love, was that some quest-memory was causing him distress. As he threw open the door he almost lost his balance, halting the rush of his entry at the sight of the lifeless bundle in the middle of the carpet.

‘Frodo,’ he whispered in horror. He dropped to his knees beside him, his heart pounding, and shouted at the top of his voice for Rosie. Fighting his own panic, he tried to stay calm. Frodo looked like a puppet with its strings cut, his limbs crumpled in unnatural positions.

Sam lifted Frodo in shaking arms, supporting his head as it lolled back. He felt Frodo’s face with the back of his hand: it was icy cold. His fingers fumbled with the top button of Frodo’s shirt, hampered by how much he was shaking. He cursed silently at his slowness and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

‘Frodo,’ he cried, ‘Frodo, answer me!’ But there was no response, only a fixed gaze that filled him with cold dread.

Desperate now, he gave up on the rest of the buttons and wrenched the shirt open to feel the cold chest. Nothing. Frodo wasn’t breathing. His heart was stilled. Pain clamped Sam’s own heart, searing across his chest, as his breath caught in his throat. There were voices behind him, but he barely noticed them. He wanted to cry his grief aloud, but nothing came, and in the silence he listened to a small voice within. ‘Sam! You numbskull, you’ve been here before! He wasn’t dead then. Are you sure? Are you sure, now?

He looked into Frodo’s eyes, even as he felt again for his pulse. Surely there was an intensity there that did not belong with death. Surely the pupils would be wide open if his spirit had flown. Then, in hope, he saw it. The tiniest movement of constriction. His hand at Frodo’s neck was shaking. He willed it calm, willed himself calm, willed the pulse to exist below his questing fingers. There! A long gap... and again!

He was only dimly aware of Merry and Pippin kneeling at his side. ‘He’s not breathing,’ whispered Pippin.

He’s not breathing, thought Sam. He felt the panic again, but it wasn’t his panic. It wasn’t his panic. ‘Frodo,’ he said, gazing into his eyes, reassuring him. ‘I know you’re still with me. It’s all right, my love, I know you’re here.’ But for how long? With no breath in his body, Frodo’s spirit would take the long journey, and Sam’s dearest love would be lost. He had always said he would give his last breath to keep his master safe. He bent down and closed his mouth over the cold lips. There was a light puff of air across his cheek: his own breath. He pinched Frodo’s nose closed and tried again. That was better.

‘His chest moved, Sam,’ cried Merry. ‘Do it again!’ Sam didn’t need telling: he took a deep breath and did it again. Silently he called Frodo’s name. This time, as Frodo’s chest collapsed, there was a tiny hitch.

Pippin took a limp hand and rubbed it. ‘Frodo,’ he cried, ‘come back to us.’ Hardly daring to hope, Sam gave another breath, and again there was the little hitch in Frodo’s chest as the air Sam lent him was expelled. Sam was about to repeat the process, when Merry grabbed his arm.

‘His pulse,’ he whispered, as though saying it louder would make it not true, ’it’s speeding up.’ They looked at each other, and Sam’s hand flew to the still chest. Merry was right, and the rate was still increasing. Suddenly the ribs beneath his palm were lifting up and out, and Frodo was gasping air into his body. The relief that flooded through Sam found release in tears. He gathered Frodo to him and sobbed.

‘Sam.’ The voice was indistinct, but there was no doubt what Frodo was saying. Sam eased his hold to see Frodo’s face better. He was very pale and his eyes were unfocused, as though he was seeing things far away from the Shire.

‘Frodo,’ said Sam, trying to get Frodo to look at him. ‘What’s the matter? Can you move?’

‘I am wounded,’ Frodo whispered, and now his eyes were full of pain. ‘Wounded; it will never really heal.’

‘I’m here, Frodo,’ murmured Sam. ‘Don’t you be afeared that your Sam’s going to leave you. I’m here.’

‘He’d be better in bed, Sam,’ said Rosie, and he looked up at the sound of her shaking voice. Her face was streaked with tears, and more were falling unheeded. She was holding a measure of apple-brandy, and the pale amber liquid was quivering in the glass, betraying an unsteady hand. She saw him look at it. ‘It worked when we thought he were dead, last spring,’ she said. ‘But he were rigid then, not like this.’

‘This has happened before?’ asked Merry, horrified, as Sam stood with Frodo in his arms. Frodo was still limp, but his eyes were on Sam. Sam ignored Merry for the moment. There was Frodo, and there was not-Frodo, and only the former held his attention. He carried his lover to his room and laid him gently down on the bed, talking to him and stroking his face to reassure him. The coldness was worse on the left side. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he bent down to kiss Frodo and then looked up.

‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘I need some hot water and athelas.’

‘Of course,’ she replied, and was gone in a swirl of skirts.

‘Merry?’

‘Yes, Sam.’

‘Can you bring a good supply of logs? I want to keep the room warm. Pippin, if you look in the drawer over there, you’ll find some massage oil. Would you stand it on the hearth to warm?’

Pippin did as he was asked and lit candles as well; Sam had hardly noticed that twilight was growing in the room. He realised with a shock that Frodo’s skin was dark as well as cold; the normal faint glow was missing. He set the star-gem in Frodo’s right hand and wrapped his fingers around it.

Frodo’s eyes followed every move that Sam made, but he lay just as Sam had placed him.

‘Sam.’ As before, the voice was indistinct. Sam leant closer to hear better. ‘Sam, I love you.’

Sam swallowed, tears rising to his eyes again. He stroked Frodo’s hair back from his cold brow, gazing into his eyes, holding him in the present, just as he’d done on the bitter journey to Rivendell. ‘I love you, my Frodo,’ he murmured back. Frodo sighed, and his eyes closed.

Sam stood up, and then sat down again hurriedly. He was shaking all over. He let Merry support him to the armchair, and Rosie gave him strong, sweet tea. The smell of athelas filled the room, and they all felt the wholesomeness of it. If Sam could have conjured the King from Minas Tirith he would have done, but even without the hands of the healer, athelas was still a potent herb.

He spent an anxious night and hardly closed his eyes, for all that Frodo appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He pressed himself to Frodo’s back, one arm laid across his chest to feel the steady rise and fall of each precious breath. His hand covered Frodo’s right hand, and held it around the star-gem. In his mind, the moment of finding Frodo played itself out, over and over again. What if he had not been near? Small differences in the course of events, and he might have lost Frodo forever. Was Frodo safe now? Would it happen again? Why had it happened, anyway?

In the predawn chill, he drew the covers closer around Frodo and thought on Frodo’s words, and on his own answer, which had not been any sort of answer, but an instinctual response.

‘I am wounded. Wounded; it will never really heal.’

‘I’m here, Frodo. Don’t you be afeared that your Sam’s going to leave you.’

Why had he used those words? So often repeated between Weathertop and Rivendell that they had become a charm against the wraith world? Was that the wound Frodo was talking about? Why, that was... how long ago? And it had healed. There was just the white scar present, ugly and jagged. It must be two years ago, if it was a day...

The truth was suddenly there, so obvious that he wondered how he hadn’t realised from the beginning. Win'filth. Yesterday had been the 6th day of Win’filth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.

He shivered, and raised himself to try and see Frodo, although the first glimmer of day had barely started to dissipate the night. He was heartened by what he saw; Frodo’s face was suffused with a soft glow. That was encouraging. The loss of light had shocked him. It was nothing to the shock of finding Frodo lifeless in the study, but it had raised a fear in Sam’s mind: was Frodo going to recover, or would he fade away over the coming days? The light was so much a part of Frodo, that its lack was almost akin to no breath, or no pulse.

He lay down against Frodo again and sighed with relief as he felt the warmth of Frodo’s body and right hand beneath his own. Frodo had been so cold, and not just his left side. His whole body had been chilled; at the time Sam had thought as though dead, but now he thought as though from the deadly poison of a morgul blade.

His hold on Frodo tightened, and Frodo murmured his name but did not waken. Sam pressed a kiss against Frodo’s shoulder, torn between letting Frodo sleep, and finding out how he was. There was really no doubt as to the answer to that, though. Waking Frodo just to see how he was would be pure selfishness. Sam let him sleep on, and fought his own exhaustion.

As the day began to lighten for real, there was a soft tap on the door, and Pippin slipped in. ‘Forgive me, Sam,’ he whispered. ‘I just had to know how he is.’

‘Asleep,’ answered Sam, softly. ‘And warm.’

‘Have you slept at all, Sam?’

‘No.’

‘If you don’t mind my being here, I could sit and keep watch while you close your eyes.’

Sam sighed. ‘Thank you, Pip,’ he said. ‘I would be grateful for that. I’m not so feared for him as I was, but until he wakes, and I know how he really is, I don’t like to leave him unwatched. I won’t deny my eyes can hardly keep open.’

‘Sleep then,’ said Pippin, and he drew the chair close and settled into it. ‘You can trust me.’

Sam knew he could. He closed his eyes and slept.

When he awoke in the late morning, it was to warm breath against his cheek. Frodo had rolled over and was lying close in his arms. Sam felt like crying again, he was so overwhelmed by the love he felt as he looked on the sleeping face. Even as he watched, Frodo opened his eyes. They simply lay there, gazing at each other, not speaking or even smiling. It was Frodo who broke the silence, lifting his hand to brush hair back behind Sam’s ear.

‘I couldn’t breathe, Sam. I was afraid.’

‘I know, love. I could tell. I was frightened, as well. But you’re safe now.’

‘I wanted to tell you how much I love you.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, nîn meleth, I know.’

‘Don’t cry, Sam. Please don’t cry. I’m all right.’

‘I thought I’d lost you.’

‘I know, Sam. I thought I’d lost you.’

They leaned together and kissed. A gentle cough interrupted them.

‘You know how much I like seeing the both of you together,’ said Pippin, ‘today, more than ever, but I think the most useful thing I can do now is leave.’ He leaned over them, and Frodo turned his head to smile at him in delight.

‘Thank you, Pip,’ said Sam.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Pippin, and kissed them each on the brow. ‘There’s some food on the table if you want it. I’ll go and tell Merry and Rosie that you’re awake. We’ll see you when you’re ready.’

Sam pushed himself up. ‘Would you mind bringing kindling and logs, Pippin? I’d like the fire... oh!’

‘Merry lit it earlier, when Rosie brought breakfast,’ said Pippin, pausing in the doorway. ‘They made so much noise, shushing each other, I’m surprised they didn’t wake you.’ He smiled at them and closed the door behind himself.

Pippin had left them plenty to eat, and there was a jug of apple juice. Sam found he was both very hungry and very thirsty. Frodo picked at the food, but drank the sweet dark liquid, and asked for more.

When they had finished, Sam gave Frodo another massage. It was lovely to feel the warmth of Frodo’s body under his hands, so different from the previous night. As Frodo relaxed back to somnolence, Sam felt as though he were taking possession of him, exploring every curve and hollow, seeing him with fresh eyes. His only disquiet was the residual coldness in Frodo’s left arm.

Frodo slept through until lunch time, and Sam dozed beside him, but they got up and joined the others for the noonday meal. Frodo struggled getting dressed, and Sam helped him pull on his shirt and fastened his buttons for him. Apart from that he seemed quite himself. Sam slipped the last button into its hole and drew Frodo close. He kissed him and nuzzled into his hair, breathing deeply. Frodo ran a hand up his back to the nape of his neck, holding him there.

‘I didn’t thank you, Sam,’ murmured Frodo, his breath warm against Sam’s ear.

‘Thank me?’

‘For knowing I was still there, for telling me you knew.’

‘I thought it would help you to know.’

‘It helped.’

They stood together, taking comfort from their closeness. What might-have-been hung over them like a pall, but neither of them spoke of it further. Sam tightened his hold, and Frodo gently nipped at his ear. They were interrupted by a soft knock, designed not to disturb them if they slept. They lifted their heads and kissed briefly, just a touch of their lips together.

‘Come in,’ called Frodo, and Merry’s head appeared around the door. His anxious face broke into a wide smile at the sight of Frodo up and dressed; he threw the door open and strode across the room to wrap his arms around the pair of them. Sam smiled at him, and Frodo tilted his head up to kiss his cousin. Merry gave a sob, and Sam let go of Frodo to allow unfettered access. It was hard to share, and letting Frodo go was the last thing he wanted to do, but he was not the only one to have been cast into the depths of despair by the sight of Frodo’s lifeless body.

Merry hugged Frodo to him and wept, while Frodo made soothing noises and rubbed his right hand over his cousin’s wide back. Sam could almost imagine the giant of a Brandybuck a small hobbitling again, being comforted for some hurt on a visit to Bag End. Now the hurts cut deeper, and the one most hurt was the one giving the comfort.

Frodo was wept over again in the kitchen. Rosie clung to him and burst into tears, while Pippin hovered in the background, waiting his turn to engulf Frodo with glad hugs. Sam saw the young Took wipe his eyes, and all the emotion brought his own tears back to the surface. He started to shake again, and Merry, standing behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Sam?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you need to sit down?’ As quiet as the question had been, Frodo’s head jerked up, and he turned from Rosie to look at Sam with concern.

Sam raised his hand to forestall any worry. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of reaction, as it were, but sitting down would be favourite. Merry said lunch’s all ready.’

Rosie nodded, maybe not trusting her voice, and they all found their way back to an easier world of small talk as they took their meal together. Sam had not realised, until he had travelled the wider world, what a hobbit trait it was to make light of their hurts and griefs. By the end of the meal, they were laughing at some foolish joke of Pippin’s.

Merry and Pippin stayed on for some time, and were back and forth as much as possible through the autumn, often together, but sometimes separately, as circumstances allowed. Frodo was quiet, seeming more withdrawn, but he was always glad to see them and hear their news and gossip. Pippin arrived alone in mid-Blotmath, wet and muddy from his journey, and found Sam making tea in the kitchen. He hugged his friend, then held him at arms’ length to look at him. He was grieved to see that Sam looked rather careworn, not only out of concern for Sam, but also because he had learnt that Sam’s well-being was a good indicator of Frodo’s.

He hung up his coat to dry, and washed his feet in the foot bath by the back door. Sam added some hot water from the kettle, and Pippin gratefully paddled his cold feet in the warmth. He took the towel Sam proffered, and they exchanged a few pleasantries as Pippin sat to dry off his feet. Mostly the talk was about his journey and Great Smials. Pippin hung the towel back in its place and asked what he really wanted to know.

‘How’s Frodo?’

Sam sighed. ‘Would you like tea, or a beer?’ he asked.

That didn’t bode well to Pippin. ‘Tea would be welcome, thank you,’ he said, and tried to be patient as Sam poured tea and brought it to the table.

‘I’m going to toast some crumpets in a minute,’ Sam said, ‘but there’s some cake in the pantry if you would like something now.’

‘I can wait, Sam. What’s wrong?’

Sam toyed with his mug, and then looked sadly at Pippin. ‘He’s back as he was last year, Pip. The melancholy and everything else.’

Pippin looked at Sam quickly. ‘Everything else?’ he asked, knowing the answer from Sam’s face, even before he asked.

Sam bit his lip and nodded.

‘Oh, Sam! I’m so sorry... for both of you. What does the herbalist say?’

‘Aye, well, he’s made some suggestions, but the effect has been disappointing. And there’s more,’ said Sam. ‘He hides it well, and I’ll be interested to see if you notice, so I’m not saying what.’

Pippin thought of protesting, but Sam wasn’t one from whom he could pry things with a little wheedling. ‘Where is he now?’ he asked instead. ‘Asleep?’

Sam smiled for the first time. ‘I was raking up leaves earlier, before the rain started, and when I came in he was asleep in the sitting room. Rosie’s a bit stuck until he wakes, but she don’t mind. That’s why I’m getting tea. I’ll carry on, and you can go take a peep; it’s a sweet sight. Leastways, I think so. If you wouldn’t mind, take the log basket with you and mend the fire.’ He nodded his head towards a wicker log basket standing near the door, full of logs.

Pippin lifted the heavy weight easily, and did as he was asked. He pushed open the sitting room door quietly, and stopped short. Sam was right; it was a sweet sight. Rosie’s face lit up as she saw him. ‘Pippin!’ she whispered. ‘How nice to see you.’

Very quietly, so as not to wake Frodo, he set down the basket and placed fresh logs on the fire. The flames licked up around them, and a little wood-smoke drifted into the room carrying its distinctive aroma. Pippin settled into a chair near Rosie, and smiled at her. Frodo was leaning against her, supported by her arm around him. His head was on her shoulder, and his right hand was resting, palm down, on her belly. There was the hint of a smile on his face.

‘He were feeling the babe moving,’ explained Rosie, ‘and he fell asleep.’

Pippin’s smile widened. A few of the lasses he had favoured had not married, and three were currently living at Great Smials. It made him something of an expert about pregnancy, and those early flutters of movement had delighted him, even more than the later, more vigorous kicks.

‘How are you, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘I’m feeling well, except...’ She looked down at the head resting on her shoulder, and covered Frodo’s hand with her own.

‘Except for Frodo’s not being well,’ Pippin finished for her. ‘Sam told me.’

Rosie nodded and looked as though she might cry. Frodo stirred within her encircling arm, and she lifted her hand to stroke his face. ‘Frodo,’ she said gently. ‘Pippin’s here.’

He lifted his head and blinked, but it took a moment for him to register what Rosie had said. Pippin was already on his feet when Frodo rose from the sofa with a cry of welcome. This was just as well; Frodo was not fully awake and stumbled as he stepped forward. Pippin caught him before he fell and hugged him tight. He had spent a lot of time worrying about Frodo recently, and it was good to feel the warmth of him in his arms. Not so good was the realisation that Frodo had lost weight again.

He would not have known that Frodo was melancholic, had Sam not warned him. His beloved cousin was quiet, but followed all the conversations with interest, and laughed at Pippin’s anecdotes. He contributed little himself, but that was not unusual. Frodo was often silent during the first exuberance of a reunion; he was more likely to open up as they sat quietly together in the succeeding days, or as they walked in the garden. It was one of the reasons Merry and Pippin tried not to make flying visits.

Now Pippin watched Frodo carefully through tea and supper, trying to guess what other new sign of malaise Frodo was showing. Supper was shepherd’s pie, and Rosie had made it just how Pippin liked it best. The potato topping had been swirled into ridges with a fork, and melted butter had browned the surface to a crisp texture. She set out dishes with finely chopped cabbage and sliced carrots, and a jug of rich gravy. Sam dished food onto Frodo’s plate, before helping himself, and Pippin noticed that the portions he gave Frodo were small.

He wondered what on earth Sam could have been talking about. Frodo might not be saying much, but what he did say was pertinent, and there were no lapses of concentration or signs of memory loss. Certainly his appetite was not good, but that was as before. He watched as Frodo toyed with his food, not bothering with a knife. That was unusual for Frodo, but the food was such that a knife was not really necessary.

After supper, Pippin got Sam alone over the washing up. ‘I’ve not noticed anything, Sam,’ he said. ‘Should I have done?’

Sam sighed and handed Pippin a plate to dry. ‘He can’t use his left arm properly,’ he said.

‘What!’ cried Pippin. ‘No, that can’t be right, I’d have noticed.’ He thought back. Frodo had kept his left hand in his lap for part of supper, but Pippin could recall him placing his arm on the table as Rosie cleared the plates away. He pointed this out to Sam. Sam nodded.

‘Can you picture him doing that?’ he asked. ‘You tell me what he was doing, just before.’

Pippin frowned, puzzled, and tried to remember. ‘Well, I suppose he was rubbing his forearm with his other hand, as though it were bothering him,’ he said at last. He had come to a halt with the drying while he’d thought about this. He hurriedly wiped the plate and stacked it on the table, then took the gravy jug from Sam.

‘Aye, well, watch closer another time. He was using his right arm to lift his left onto the table.’

‘Sam! And the food was chosen to eat with a fork!’

‘Otherwise it needs cutting up,’ said Sam, in agreement. ‘Which he finds embarrassing. His arm ain’t completely lifeless, but it ain’t got much strength. He dropped a few things to start with, before he’d admit to what was happening.’ Pippin looked at the odd-matched gravy jug in his hand; he had wondered what had happened to the one that went with the plates and serving dishes.

Now that Pippin knew what to look for, he saw how neatly Frodo avoided showing his disability. He and Sam joined Frodo and Rosie in the sitting room for the evening, carrying beer for themselves and tea for the others. Without thinking, he handed Frodo his mug while Frodo was holding his pipe in his right hand. Frodo didn’t hesitate. He passed his pipe to his left hand, lying in his lap, and took the tea from Pippin, thanking him with a smile.

Pippin watched him as surreptitiously as possible. Frodo drank from the mug and then set it down on a side table. He retrieved his pipe with his good hand, placed it aside, then reached again for his mug. It was done so naturally that Pippin would not have guessed that it represented necessity.

He witnessed another sleight of hand at breakfast. Frodo sat with his left hand in his lap as he ate. When he finished his porridge, he pushed the bowl away and rubbed his left shoulder with his maimed hand. He ran his hand down over the point of his elbow and along the underside of his forearm. As he did so, he brought both arms onto the table and leaned forward. Pippin marvelled, and even fleetingly wondered if Sam were somehow pulling his leg. There was no clumsiness in the movement; it had actually been very graceful. Now the weak arm was tucked inside the right arm, forearms overlapping on the table, so that the right hand was curled around the left elbow. He looked as though he were leaning forward propped on both arms. When Rosie moved to clear the breakfast things, he simply sat back and drew his right arm towards himself, sweeping his left arm off the table.

Later, Pippin joined Frodo for a pipe in his study. The weather had cleared, and Sam was out in the garden, lifting and dividing perennials. Frodo started to pull the chair away from the desk one-handed, to turn it to face into the room, and Pippin jumped to help him. At Frodo’s insistence, Pippin sat in the armchair, but not before he had brought out his tinderbox and set a flame to Frodo’s pipe-weed. They smoked in silence, but there was no strain, just a simple enjoyment of each other’s company.

Finally, Frodo took his pipe from his mouth. ‘I know that you know,’ he said. ‘About my arm. You must forgive me if I prefer to keep up a pretence that there is no problem.’

‘I’m sorry, Frodo,’ said Pippin. ‘It must be very difficult for you. Does it hurt?’

‘Not really. It’s my shoulder that hurts still; my arm is mostly numb. Just occasionally I get a pain that winds down here.’ He indicated his upper arm and shrugged. ‘It’s not normally too bad.’

Pippin listened to what wasn’t said: sometimes it was bad. Poor Frodo. Pippin had listened to the self-serving ranting of a Tuckborough relation, on the day of his departure for Hobbiton. It had been all about how unfair life was to him, how he never got the recognition he deserved, and on and on. All that the wretched fellow had ever suffered were minor misfortunes, and yet here was Frodo, uncomplaining in the face of all the horrors he had faced, and all his present tribulations.

‘And how are you feeling in yourself? Now, for instance,’ he asked.

Frodo sighed. ‘It’s rather as though I’m in a picture, Pip. Everything is rather flat. But what I want to know is how you are. Tell me all the news from Great Smials. How are your parents?’

Pippin did most of the talking and eventually wound round to the reason for his visit.

‘I want to ask you something, Frodo, and I think your first reaction will be to refuse. I don’t want to press you to do something against your will, but I’d like you to listen to what I have to suggest. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important to me.’

‘My dear Pip, of course I’ll listen.’

‘I’d like you - and Sam and Rosie, of course - to come over to Great Smials for part of Yule. I’m not asking you to join in the Took celebrations - even I find them a bit overpowering at times.’ He watched Frodo’s expression gather into an anxious frown, and he hurried on. ‘Father has given me my own set of rooms, bigger than Bag End.’ He blushed as he realised he was bragging. ‘I’d like you to stay with me there, if you are willing. I know Father and Mother would welcome the opportunity to dine with us, but there’s no necessity for that. If you were happy to meet them, I’d make sure the food was... suitable. We could be as quiet as here, and I’d bring Father’s carriage over for you.’

Frodo looked at him, considering. Pippin couldn’t tell what he was thinking. When his cousin spoke, it was to take a tangential path. ‘So, little Pip has his own apartments,’ he said with a smile. Pippin nodded, and smiled back. They both knew that he should, by rights, have waited until he came of age for that honour.

‘Father had a letter from Faramir which helped. He sent it to me and asked me to pass it on. I don’t recall ever telling him my grandfather’s name, but it was very correctly addressed to Paladin, son of Adalgrim. Not to mention very impressive. It’s not every day Father gets a letter with so many seals and ribbons.’ His smile faded. ‘I think Faramir wanted to make sure my father appreciated me.’

‘What did he say, do you know?’ asked Frodo, his interest increasing at the mention of Faramir.

‘Father showed me the letter,’ Pippin replied. He had no intention of repeating the praise, conveyed to his father by the letter, of Peregrin son of Paladin, Guard of the Tower of Gondor. ‘He praised you, amongst other things. The upshot was that Father said I had done more than any adult he knew, that I’d been in battles and such.’ The exact words had been “you’ve dealt out death, and you’ve wenched enough,” but Pippin decided not to repeat that, either. Instead, he skipped over to his father’s final words. ‘He said I should be recognised as an adult.’

‘Good.’

‘So will you come, Frodo dear?’

Frodo laid his pipe aside in its rack and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. ‘You haven’t told me why you would like me to come,’ he said. ‘What is the importance you mentioned?’

‘I want you to meet my son,’ said Pippin, not able to keep the glow of pride out of his voice.

Frodo’s reaction was everything Pippin could have wished for. ‘Your son! Pippin! When? Congratulations! Come here, you fool of a Took, I want to hug you. Oh, of course I’ll come. Tell me everything!’

Frodo wrapped his right arm around Pippin, and kissed him. Pippin mirrored the action with his left arm, and reached to hold Frodo’s left hand with his right.

‘He was born five days ago. He’s the first, my first. Oh, Frodo, I couldn’t believe how I felt when I held him. He’s so tiny, and so perfect. And his mother is living in Tuckborough now, though she comes from Greenholm, so I can see him as much as I wish. I can’t ask her to bring such a tiny baby here, but I want you to meet him. You’ll really come?’

‘I’ll really come, my dear Pippin.’


Frodo was as good as his word. The Cotton family were invited to Bag End for the main feast day, but Pippin collected his cousin, Sam and Rosie the following day. He showed them around his new home proudly and was delighted by their reaction. They were joined by Merry, who came riding in from Buckland, but apart from that, Pippin kept the first evening quiet to allow Frodo time to recover from the stresses of travelling. As he had expected, Frodo retired early and didn’t appear until late the following morning. He looked a little pale and drawn, but wouldn’t hear any apologies from Pippin.

‘I wanted to come, Pippin,’ he said firmly. ‘I want to meet your son.’

Pippin waited until lunch was out of the way. The meal was sent over from the main kitchens, although Pippin had the facilities to cook if he wanted to. He let Rosie take over making a pot of tea, and set out to escort the mother of his son, with her small charge. Her name was Hanna, and she was distantly related to himself, as well as to Merry and Frodo.

He had made it clear, and not just to Hanna, that he had no intention or wish to marry yet. He was flattered by all the attentions the lasses had given him, and had been only too happy to explore what they offered. He had not set out to seduce, but one thing had led to another, and it was very difficult to say no when the lass in question was unbuttoning his breeches. At the time his brain had not really had a say in the matter, but now he wondered if he had not been reacting to all the death and destruction he had seen, and even to his misery over Frodo’s melancholy and unease within the Shire. He had wanted to feel alive, and the advances of pretty lasses had offered him what he craved.

Whatever the reasons, he was initially shocked, and then thrilled, to find out there was no questioning his fertility. He was rich and could afford to support a large number of offspring, and he was not the first Took to populate the Shire with his illegitimate children. None of them would have any legal claim to the Thainship, but neither would they lack for anything, including his love and involvement in their upbringing.

He kissed Hanna on the cheek in greeting, and watched her gather up the sleeping form from his cradle. In sleep the babe was making little suckling motions, and his hand curled into Hanna’s hair as she nestled him close and wrapped a shawl around them both. She smiled nervously at Pippin. He realised now that he had probably gone rather over the top in emphasising how important Frodo was to him. Hanna was more nervous than when she had been introduced to his father and mother. He hoped that was the reason, anyway, rather than a fear of taking their son before a “Mad Baggins”.

‘He’s very kind,’ he said to her in reassurance. ‘And I know you’ll like Sam and Rosie. Merry’s there, and you’ve met him. He didn’t bite, did he?’

Hanna laughed. ‘No, he didn’t. I remember Frodo Baggins from the Party, although I was just a little lass. I’ve not seen him since. I don’t believe he ever came to Greenholm. He must be quite old now. That was an age ago.’

‘Old? No! Frodo’s not old. Frodo is... Frodo.’

They reached their destination, and he ushered her in. Rosie had sensibly come to greet Hanna first, and her now-obvious pregnancy probably did more to put the girl at ease than anything.

‘Oh,’ Rosie cried, after Pippin had introduced her, ‘ain’t he a darling! We’ve been looking forward to meeting you so much. Come through and have a sit down with him. Let me get you some tea to drink. It’s all ready to pour.’ She chattered on, and Pippin saw Hanna relax as she responded to Rosie’s cheerful greetings.

‘Thank you, Rosie,’ she said, as Rosie lifted the shawl for a better peep. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Rosie?’

‘Mind? Whatever next!’ exclaimed Rosie. ‘I should think not. No need to stand on ceremony here. Come through,’ she repeated.

‘Yes, come though,’ echoed Pippin. ‘May I carry him?’ Hanna placed the baby carefully in the crook of Pippin’s arm, and Pippin stroked a small hand. Tiny fingers curled around his thumb, and Pippin smiled in delight.

‘Don’t you go worriting yourself if he starts crying,’ said Rosie to Hanna, ‘and don’t be shy to feed him. My husband tells me how good Mr. Frodo were with Pippin here, when he were a babe - used to walk around wi’ him and sing to him, by all accounts. He ain’t that well now, more’s the pity, but he knows babies cry and sick and such, so don’t be worriting about your bonny bairn playing up. They always do in company, just when you wants them to be on their best behaviour, and ain’t nothing we can do will ever alter that.’

Hanna smiled gratefully. She and Rosie exchanged baby talk as Rosie took her arm to join Frodo, Merry and Sam. Pippin hardly noticed. He was so preoccupied with the bundle in his arms that Rosie did the honours of introducing Hanna. Pippin suddenly realised Rosie was looking at him, leaving it to him to introduce his small charge.

He carried the baby to Frodo and laid him in his lap. ‘This is my son, Frodo,’ he said. ‘This is Fastred.’