Elanor awoke them in the afternoon with little whimpering cries, and Frodo smiled at the sound even before he opened his eyes. Rosie had redecorated the room after Frodo gave it to her and Sam, and he opened his eyes to bright yellows and greens: colours of hope and renewal that were echoed in the springtime garden outside the window. A large vase of daffodils, arranged with twigs carrying silver-grey pussy-willow buds, stood on the windowsill, and beyond he could see a blue sky with fluffs of white cloud.
Sam, at his side, was helping Rosie to sit, plumping the pillows behind her to support her as she fed Elanor. He turned to kiss Frodo, and his hair - more unruly than ever - fell forward over his face as he bent down over his love. Frodo smiled up at him in delight and reached with his right hand to tuck the hair out of the way as Sam gave him unspoken greeting.
As Sam straightened, Frodo tried to push himself up, but found he needed support as well. The strain of the two weeks leading up to Elanor’s birth, given his already poor state of health, had been too much for him. He felt weak and shaky. Sam clambered over him and out of the bed, then slipped an arm under Frodo’s shoulders to help him. The room swayed around Frodo, and he needed all Sam’s support to take the few steps to the chair. He sank gratefully down onto the seat, and his dizziness eased.
Sam kissed him again, smiled at Rosie, and then busied himself with clearing out the ash from the hearth and re-laying the fire. Clearly his first priority was to make sure the bedroom was warm, but Frodo suspected he would have preferred to watch Rosie nurturing the baby. Cradled in her mother’s arms, Elanor was making little snuffling noises, mouthing and questing for the warm milk as Rosie unbuttoned her nightgown.
‘Patience, little sweetheart. Patience,’ said Rosie, her eyes fixed on Elanor’s face, even as her fingers were busy lifting her breast to offer sustenance. ‘Your mama’s coming as fast as she can.’ Elanor took several attempts to latch to the nipple, but once there she suckled greedily, her little jaw working until the milk started to flow. As the pattern changed to rhythmical swallowing, Frodo saw her small frame relax. His child, his Elanor. He blinked back his tears.
About his own feelings, he was very clear: he loved Sam passionately, he loved Rosie with affectionate tenderness, but the only thing that filled his world at that moment was an overwhelming love for Elanor. He had not realised the strength of this bond between father and newborn daughter. He had no doubts that she was his child; it was not impossible that Sam could have fathered her, but this was Elanor. Elanor was his daughter.
He could not see the elven-fair beauty of the older girl in her tiny face, but Sam had accepted his suggestion for her name with delight. Frodo had hesitated to impose the name on the baby, but deep down had felt the rightness of it. Sam’s glad acceptance had left him feeling a little breathless, but that was nothing to how he felt now, watching Elanor: a gift given, not to Sam and Rosie, but to himself.
Rosie’s face was full of wonder and love as she gazed down at their daughter. Her free hand was exploring the soft cheek, the tiny hand that was laid on her breast, the soft downy covering of golden hair. As Frodo watched, enraptured, Rosie suddenly stiffened and her face tightened. She let out her breath in a sharp sigh.
‘Rosie?’ said Frodo, and Sam looked up quickly at the question and concern in his voice.
‘It’s just an after-pang,’ said Rosie, with a grimace. ‘Ma warned me, but I weren’t expecting it to be like that, like a birthing pain.’
Sam moved to her side and sat on the bed. His arm encompassed mother and daughter, and he gently kissed Elanor on the top of her head, and then kissed Rosie, cupping her face with his free hand.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ said Rosie, simply. He looked at her. ‘For being with me,’ she explained.
‘I didn’t think you hardly knew I was there,’ said Sam.
‘I knew. You was such a help. The next one will be your son, Sam. Your small Frodo.’ She looked at Frodo, and he nodded, but the thought that he would not see Sam with his son cut across his joy at his own fatherhood.
His mood of elation faltered, and the chill of loss, which had accompanied him during his lonely vigil in the early hours of that morning, returned in full measure. As he had sat alone, waiting for news, the Ring-sickness had held him in thrall, the imminence of his leaving had been stark in his mind, and his fears for Rosie and Elanor had been given free rein. Now that they were safe, he was suffering from a delayed reaction, compounded by the weakening effect of his illness, and by this day full of memories that he tried to keep locked deep within himself. The best and the worst now belonged to this day, and the room - which had seemed so bright and joyful - was fading and receding away from him. Suddenly he wanted only to escape.
He stood and saw, as though from a long way away, Sam scrabbling to get up. The room dipped and swayed around him. He was barely aware of Sam catching him as he fell, or of being carried to his bed.
It was not like his long sleep, when he knew nothing. More like his collapse that had invariably followed his visits to Crickhollow, when he lived at South Farm. Broken sleep and dreams were interspersed with half-waking memories and fleeting periods of lucidity. He was dimly aware of Sam’s constant attendance, but when he awoke, it was to Pippin’s deep voice singing a gentle lullaby.
Frodo opened his eyes. It was raining out, and droplets of water were streaming down the windowpanes in ever-changing patterns. The room felt warm and cosy, but unfamiliar. It was not his bedroom, nor Sam and Rosie’s.
Pippin was standing with his back to Frodo, silhouetted against the window, rocking slightly on his feet. His arms were hidden and his golden head bent. The lullaby went on, and Frodo watched the broad back sway. He was lulled indeed by the old tune: he felt at peace, and peaceful. Pippin had not realised he was awake, and Frodo had no wish to speak and break the spell. He knew where he was now. Bag End was once more a family home; this was the nursery.
The song came to an end, and Pippin turned and met his quiet gaze. Elanor was asleep in his arms, her tiny body cupped and supported by one large hand, her arms dangling at her sides. Pippin’s other hand cradled her head against his shoulder.
‘Frodo!’ Pippin cried joyfully, and Elanor stirred in his arms. She made a small noise of protest, but did not waken. ‘Oh, Frodo, welcome back! How are you feeling?’ He made as though to lay Elanor in her cradle by the bed, changed his mind, and laid her in Frodo’s arms, instead. He bent down and kissed Frodo’s forehead as he did so.
‘Pippin,’ whispered Frodo; his voice wouldn’t go any louder.
Pippin knelt down by the bed and put his arm around Frodo. ‘Sam’s been here nearly all the time,’ he said. ‘It’s like Rivendell. He pops out for a bit, and you wake up. The Gaffer needed some help.’
‘How long, Pippin?’
‘I don’t think he’ll be long, my dear.’
‘I mean, how long have I been... away?’
‘Oh. It’s the first day of Astron today, so six days.’ Pippin smiled at him. ‘So, how are you feeling?’
Frodo thought about this. ‘I feel as though... I can feel.’ He looked at Elanor and smiled. ‘Isn’t she beautiful,’ he murmured, and kissed the top of her head. There was a faint smell, slightly sweet, not like anything he could name. He breathed it in. It was comforting: the smell of the newly born.
‘Ah, well, you should hear Sam on the subject,’ grinned Pippin. ‘Yes, she is beautiful. Looks like she’s going to have a head of Took hair as well, but there’s some Took blood in the Cotton family, by all accounts, so I’m hoping Sam won’t take it into his head to beat me up one dark night.’
Frodo looked at him quickly; it had not occurred to him that Elanor’s parentage might be laid at his philandering cousin’s door.
‘It’s all right, Frodo, I’m only joking,’ said Pippin, seeing the look. ‘Now, what can I get for you? Something to eat? Something to drink? Sam’s done well, keeping you fed and watered, but I expect you’re hungry for all that. Do you want to try and get up? Or would you like to lie there with Elanor for a while?’
Frodo was aware of snatches of memory: Sam turning him, massaging him, raising his shoulders to hold drink to his lips, lifting him, bathing him, coaxing him to eat.
‘How has Sam managed?’ he asked, and Pippin had to lean close to hear. ‘He’s had Rosie and Elanor to think of.’
‘Lily Cotton is still here, of course. She’s staying at least another fortnight anyway, to help Rosie. The Gaffer’s been doing his bit, and Merry and I have been around most of that time. Rosie brings Elanor in here to feed her so she can sit with you. It was she who discovered how the lullabies soothed you.’
More fragments of memory came together. ‘You’ve all sung,’ said Frodo. He had to repeat himself before Pippin understood.
‘Oh, you noticed? Yes, we all sang.’
‘Sam sang “In Western Lands.”’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. He sang that in the Tower; I tried to answer him.’
‘Hush, dear one, you’re safe with us.’
‘I’m thirsty, Pippin.’
‘I’ll get you a drink, but I think Elanor had better go in her crib first.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He cleared his throat, and his voice came a little stronger. ‘That would be safer for her. Has she slept here? I’ve not heard her cry.’
‘At night she’s slept with Sam and Rosie, and they’ve kept this door open to hear you. But when she’s been laid down in the day, it’s been in this cradle next to you. There’s always someone with you both - Sam mostly of course. Lily Cotton says it’s like having twins all over again, and she should know. Rosie’s in the next room, getting some sleep. Now, what can I get you to drink?’ He lifted Elanor and carried her to the small crib, supporting her head with an easy familiarity with babies that distracted Frodo from the question.
‘How are your children?’ He tried to sit up, and Pippin hurriedly turned to help him. Frodo was grateful for Pippin’s strong arm and his quiet air of capability. It was strange to think he had once held this giant as a baby. He had given him his nickname: Peregrin had seemed far too grand a name for the little red-faced babe that had stared back from Frodo’s arms. Frodo had been reminded of a pippin apple, and Pippin he had become. He’d had no inkling of the path laid out before the tiny babe, of course not, any more than he now knew the future for Elanor. He had been granted a glimpse, that was all. He suddenly realised that Pippin was speaking, and he wasn’t listening.
‘...and of course there are the three in Hobbiton. I’ve been able to see them quite often,’ Pippin finished. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what you would like to drink?’
‘Drink?’ He stared at Pippin, confused.
‘Oh, Frodo, don’t worry. Let’s just start with some water, shall we?’ Pippin poured water from a jug standing on the bedside table, and sat on the bed next to him. He slipped one arm around Frodo’s shoulders and held the glass to let him take a small mouthful. Frodo leant against Pippin, feeling the steady rise and fall of his cousin’s chest, and closed his eyes. The glass touched his lips again and he obediently swallowed, but his mind was having trouble staying in the moment.
His head jerked, and the arm around him tightened. There was a faint smell of wet hair, and other familiar scents, of ponies and...
‘Sam?’
‘I’m here, love.’
‘You were Pippin, just now.’
‘That was a little while ago, love. Will you open your eyes for me?’
He was comfortable just sitting like this in Sam’s arms, with his head resting against Sam’s, but if Sam wanted him to open his eyes, then he would do so. He was looking at one of Sam’s broad, brown hands covering his own on the bright quilted bedspread. He eased his hand out and laid it on top of Sam’s, struck by how pale and thin his looked in comparison. It would probably be better to avoid mirrors when he got up. He lifted his face to Sam, and was met with the sweet smile that he loved.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Sam.
‘I feel... awake.’
‘That’s good.’
Frodo sighed and laid his head back against Sam’s and closed his eyes again. He felt, as much as heard, the low rumble of Sam’s laughter. ‘No, truly. I do feel awake,’ he said.
‘No matter, love,’ said Sam, quietly. ‘I’d like to see you awake, but if you need a bit longer asleep, then I’ll not be worriting about you. I reckon when you do get up, you’ll likely be better than you’ve been for a long while.’
‘I’m glad you’re not worried, Sam. I am all right.’
‘I know, but you weren’t, back before Elanor was born. I ain’t very happy with myself for not noticing.’
Frodo opened his eyes again, and turned his head to kiss Sam. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t know. You had enough to worry about. It was my choice, Sam.’ They leaned their heads together again and sat in silence. Frodo rubbed his thumb back and forth over Sam’s hand on the cover.
‘Pippin said you only drank a few sips of water, my dear. Will you drink some more now? There’s a little rose-hip syrup I can mix with it, if you’d like.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ It meant losing Sam from his side for the moment, but Sam was happy because he wanted to drink. Sam’s being happy made Frodo happy. He took the glass of pale red liquid and slowly sipped the sweet fragrant drink. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at him. Frodo finished drinking and handed the glass back. ‘Where’s Elanor?’ he asked.
‘Being bathed and changed,’ said Sam. ‘Rosie’ll bring her back here for a feed once she’s done.’
‘How is Rosie?’
‘Well. Very well. She was born to be a mother, that’s my opinion.’ He stroked Frodo’s face and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘There’s plenty of hot water if you’d like me to help you take a bath in a bit. It’s been heating since Pippin said you’d woken. He said you were a bit confused, but he thought you were almost ready to come back to us. Seems he was right.’
Sam brushed his lips lightly over Frodo’s again, and Frodo was ready for him this time. He parted his lips, and Sam gently teased at his lower one. Frodo closed his eyes and sighed at that moist warmth. He opened wider to the loving mouth and met Sam’s tongue with his. Slowly and gently they said their good morning after a long night. Sadness threaded through their delight in each other, and the sweetness of the rose-hip drink mingled with salt. They wiped the tears from each other’s eyes, but didn’t voice their knowledge of parting.
‘What time is it?’ asked Frodo. The rain appeared to have stopped, but the uniform greyness of the sky gave him no clue.
‘Mid-afternoon,’ said Sam. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘Then I’ll bring you something here, and afterwards you can have a bath. Yes?’
Frodo nodded. ‘Mmmm.’
The pillows behind him had slipped, and Sam pulled them back up to give him more support. ‘Don’t go trying to get up without me here to help. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He kissed Frodo on the forehead, and was gone.
Frodo heard voices and exclamations in the next room, and then Rosie was in the doorway with Elanor restless in her arms. ‘Frodo!’ she cried and hurried to his side. Elanor screwed up her face and opened her mouth to make noisy protest at the sudden movement and the delay in her feed. Rosie rocked and jiggled Elanor, but their daughter was not to be mollified. Frodo smiled at her as she kissed him, and watched her as she retreated to the low chair by the window to quieten Elanor with her breast. Soon the wailing was replaced by little rhythmical gulping noises as the milk flowed.
The nursing of babies was something that could be seen every day in the Shire: at market, at feasts, and even amongst groups of lasses standing chatting outside their homes. It was such a familiar sight that normally Frodo would not have given a second glance. Now he was overcome by a rush of joy.
‘Thank you, Rosie,’ he said quietly.
Rosie had been looking down at Elanor, letting her grasp her fingers, but her head came up at his words and she smiled at him. ‘No, thank you, Frodo,’ she said, equally quietly. ‘Ain’t she just the beautifullest babe? I can’t hardly believe she’s mine.’
For a while there was only the sound of Elanor’s swallowing as she was watched by her loving parents. Suddenly Rosie looked up again; she appeared to be listening for any sound of approach. Apparently satisfied, she held Frodo’s gaze. ‘Will you allow me to decide when to tell Sam?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Frodo. He felt she had every right to ask that. The sound of soft footfalls put paid to any other discussion on the subject, and Sam reappeared carrying a tray. Rosie loosened Elanor’s hold by slipping a finger into her mouth, and with a little rearranging of her clothes, offered her the other breast.
Sam gave Frodo what help he needed, and Frodo found his sense of taste was back and that he was hungry. Sam seemed torn between admiring Frodo’s and Elanor’s appetites. His smile got wider and wider, as he looked between them, until he laughed out loud.
When Frodo had eaten enough, he tried to get up, but found he was very weak. Sam went to fill the bath, returning when all was ready to carry Frodo to the bathroom. Once there, Frodo stood on shaky legs, while Sam stripped him of his night-shirt. He looked down at the stark thinness of his body. Sam followed his gaze.
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Sam. ‘I’m thinking, if you keep eating like you did just now, we’ll soon see you back to normal.’
Frodo did, indeed, keep eating well, and quickly gained in strength. He was relieved that he was able to savour the taste of food again. It was surprising how much of his desire to eat was driven by the taste of the food, rather than his body’s needs. Eating had been a trial, and now it was once again a pleasure, and he was thankful. Mother Cotton fussed around him, consulted Sam, Merry, Pippin and Rosie about his favourite foods, and cooked with only him in mind. The weakness in his left arm was still present, but the pain was less, and it no longer bothered him that his food had to be cut up for him. At least, not while he was eating within his small circle of close friends. He wasn’t so relaxed about it as Sam’s birthday feast approached, but Mrs. Cotton promised him she would cook food that he could eat one-handed.
On the morning of Sam’s birthday, Frodo felt recovered enough to accompany Sam down to the Party Field when Sam went to tend the ponies. The mallorn tree was a little behind on the previous year: there were buds present, but no flowers had opened. The tree spread its canopy above them, and Frodo laid his hand on the silver bark as he looked up at the slender leaves. It was beautiful.
He looked down again and could imagine Elanor, sitting against the bole, making daisy chains from the flowers that were already sprinkled through the grass at his feet. He pictured her as she placed the crown of white and gold on her head, and jumped up, laughing, to run through the meadow. The image was so clear in his mind, that he could almost believe it was a vision, but he was aware of Sam still standing at his side. In his visions, the world had always faded away, leaving him unconscious of all else.
Now as he turned to watch the laughing child, he saw another Sam, shimmering like a mirage at the edge of the field. Elanor ran to his arms and was lifted up. Sam kissed her and swung her up to sit on his shoulders. He kept hold of her hands, clapping them together above his head, and she shrieked with laughter. Frodo smiled, and then laughed himself at the sight, as the image flickered and faded.
‘Frodo?’
Frodo realised he was standing looking foolishly across the field. He turned to his Sam, whose hand was solid and real on his shoulder. ‘I was just thinking of you with Elanor,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad she has you to look after her, my love.’
Sam looked at him, slightly puzzled. ‘You looked like you were seeing something I couldn’t,’ he said. ‘Like you were watching something cross the field. You looked so sad, and then your face lit up as you laughed. What could you see?’
‘I saw Elanor,’ Frodo admitted. ‘She was, I don’t know, eight years old, maybe. I saw what I’ve always known, Sam: you make a loving father.’
Sam did no more than touch his elbow and look towards the stables, and they turned together and walked across to the privacy the low, thatched building offered. Once inside, Sam drew Frodo to him. Frodo loved to be held close like this: Sam’s answer when he sensed Frodo needed his comfort. He slid his right hand beneath Sam’s jacket and splayed his fingers against Sam’s back as he pressed against him. Faint and fleeting came a stirring of desire as Sam nipped gently at his ear and murmured loving words.
‘I have a present for you, my love,’ said Sam as they parted. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small carving of a bird. It was rough and simple, but beautiful for all that, and obviously a robin.
‘Sam!’ cried Frodo in delight, ‘did you make this?’
Sam nodded and blushed. ‘It ain’t very expert, I’m afraid, but I thought you might like it.’
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ whispered Frodo. That it was also both portable and a reminder of Sam’s garden at Bag End was not lost on him. He cleared his throat; the tightness threatened to stop his words. ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘there is something I want to ask of you.’
‘Then ask away, dearest.’
‘I want you to say no, if it doesn’t seem right, or makes you uncomfortable.’ Frodo tucked the bird into the inside pocket of his waistcoat and took Sam’s hand in his. He hesitated.
‘Now I’m curious,’ said Sam, and he searched Frodo’s eyes, as though he might find the answer there.
‘It’s just that I have a present to give, and I should by rights give it to you and allow you to give it to Rosie, but I’m wondering if you would mind if I were the one to give it to her, instead.’
‘And what might this present be?’ asked Sam, when Frodo came to a halt again. Frodo leaned in against him and murmured his request in Sam’s ear.
Sam pulled Frodo in close. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said, and Frodo could hear the tears in his voice as they pressed together again, ‘and I don’t think Rosie will, neither.’ They quietly discussed the subject, and it was sometime before they returned to the smial.
When they did return, they found the Cotton family and the Gaffer had all arrived for Sam’s birthday lunch. Their guests had come to both give their good wishes to Sam and to formally welcome Elanor. Lily Cotton served a rich stew with dumplings, mashed potatoes, sliced carrots, and the ubiquitous winter green vegetable: cabbage. The latter she had steamed and finely chopped with butter, just as Rosie always cooked it for Frodo, for ease of eating. He smiled his thanks to her.
Both Holman and Elanor, in the way of babies the Shire over, woke up and wanted feeding just as the meal was served. Frodo was in good company: both mothers ate one-handed as they nursed their babes. It was obvious to Frodo that Mari was more experienced at this than her sister-in-law; Rosie kept having to stop eating to concentrate on keeping Elanor latched to the breast. The pair of them were the centre of admiring stares, and Frodo happily felt that none of the visitors were taking any notice of him. He did not count Merry and Pippin, sitting either side of him, as visitors, and he was aware of their constant vigilance on his behalf. Sam, sitting next to Rosie, kept glancing his way, but appeared satisfied that his cousins were taking good care of him.
For pudding, there were two large treacle tarts with custard. They all had second helpings and then pushed back their chairs, feeling replete. Jolly turned to Sam as they stood. ‘Come on up the Ivy Bush with us, Sam. You’re looking far too worn and anxious lately,’ he said.
Sam started making excuses, but Rosie made shooing motions. When Sam still hesitated, Frodo coughed. ‘A word with you, Sam, my friend, if you don’t mind,’ he said. He led Sam out into the hallway, and they spoke in low voices.
‘Frodo, there’s no need for me to go,’ said Sam, getting in first.
‘No? Well, I think you should think about why you don’t want to go,’ said Frodo. ‘Is it because you don’t like the company? You’ve always been good friends with Tom and Jolly, and I’ve not noticed an aversion to Nick or Nibs.’
‘It’s not that, you know it’s not that,’ said Sam.
‘So, it’s because you think Rosie and I can’t manage without you for an hour or so. Is that it?’ Sam made no reply, and Frodo touched his arm. ‘Is it, Sam? Or is it because you can’t bear to spend a minute away from me?’
Sam sighed and ran his hand through his hair. That was exactly why; every minute was precious to him. He glanced over his shoulder, but the door to the dining room was ajar, and he could not risk putting his arms around Frodo.
‘Sam,’ said Frodo gently, ‘I’m going to lie down. You know I’ll sleep for at least two hours. Mari and Rosie will be talking babies, or I’m no judge, but Lily will be here. Jolly’s right; it would do you good to get out. It’s your birthday: go and enjoy yourself, and come back and tell me all the gossip.’
Sam sighed. He knew Frodo was right; he was being overprotective. Frodo still looked so fragile, although there was no doubt he was getting stronger every day. While Sam was studying the carpet and shuffling his feet, Merry came strolling out and added his ha’pennyworth.
‘Come on, Sam,’ he said, in a loud voice. ‘You’re just trying to get out of buying that drink you owe me.’ He dropped his voice and spoke close to Sam. ‘You’ve had too much worry this last month, Sam. Come with us, and see if you can’t have some fun. You know Pippin and I would be the first ones to tie you to Frodo’s bedstead, if you were going when Frodo wanted you to stay.’
Sam felt himself blush, and Frodo laughed out loud. ‘Go on, Sam,’ he said. ‘If nothing else will persuade you, go because you’ll be pleasing me.’
Sam threw up his hands in defeat. ‘All right, all right,’ he said, and Merry clapped him on the back, making him stagger. Pippin appeared from nowhere, grinning as he held out Sam’s jacket and cloak. ‘The conspirator, conspired against,’ he said, and Sam couldn’t help laughing.
‘That’s better,’ said Merry. ‘I’ve missed seeing you laugh, my friend.’
Frodo touched his hand in parting and disappeared towards his room. Sam watched him go and sighed.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, shrugging on his jacket. ‘Sooner there, sooner back, as the saying goes.’
In the end, there were eight of them to pack into one of the booths at the Ivy Bush, the Gaffer having stayed to talk to Mari and Rosie, and to admire his latest grandchildren. They only managed to squeeze in by having Merry and Pippin sit on opposite sides of the table, rather than on the same bench. The high backed settles shielded them from the view of most of the regulars sitting round the fire. It was, in any case, quiet: after the rush at lunchtime and before the evening drinkers arrived. They were two pints down, and listening to Merry’s and Pippin’s tales of places far away, when Sandyman strolled in.
They could only see his back as he swaggered across to the fire and called impatiently for a pint. Nibs mimed gagging, and Jolly conveyed, with great economy of movement, that he would like to throttle the miller. Farmer Cotton leaned forward to Sam and spoke low. ‘It’s my opinion as how you saved that there Sandyman from a beating as might have rendered him unfit to pay rent to Mr. Frodo,’ he said and tapped the side of his nose.
‘Sam!’ said Merry, laughing into his pint pot. ‘Now why’d you go and do a thing like that?’
Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t rightly know as what I’m supposed to have done,’ he said.
‘Why, married our Rosie,’ said Jolly, with a grin. ‘If that braggart thought he could come and ask her to wed him, he’d not have been fit to walk for a week.’
For all his unpopularity, Sandyman was being welcomed by the fireside drinkers. News came into the mill from the four corners of the Shire, and he was a good fund of gossip - even if much of it was later found to be exaggerated or untrue. The listeners were not above egging him on to see how far he was prepared to embellish a tale in the telling. All was quiet for a while, and Jolly had just asked Sam for a song, when one of the miller’s audience raised his voice.
Eight pint pots were set carefully down. Sam was tucked into the corner, but he could see the speaker was looking in their direction and grinning from ear to ear at his devilment.
Sandyman was oblivious to their presence, and it seemed no one was about to nudge him, to draw his attention to his wider audience. ‘The baker told me,’ he said, nodding and drawing on his beer. ‘Said he saw the babe when he were delivering bread there yesterday. As golden-haired as any of that Took’s brats, he said.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘I reckon that half-wit of a Gamgee’s been cuckolded, and our valiant captain’s been keeping the sheets warm for him.’
The high-backed settles were fixed to the floor, so there was no scraping of chairs as the Cottons eased out, followed by Merry. Pippin, sitting opposite Sam, looked at him earnestly. ‘I’d never...’ he started to say, but Sam laid his hand over Pippin’s.
‘I know that well enough, Pip,’ he said, quietly, ‘and I also know what Frodo would want. Hard as it is to oblige him, I’m going to do so. Will you help?’ Pippin smiled at him and mouthed ’You’re no fun, Sam.’ Sam laughed out loud, and at the sound, Sandyman finally looked over his shoulder.
Farmer Cotton, Tom, Jolly, Nick, Nibs and Merry had spread out in a line, both cutting off the way to the exit, and partly obscuring the miller from Sam’s view. He saw the look of horror, however, as Sandyman sprang to his feet, knocking over both his stool and his beer: it was a sight that he long treasured. He and Pippin both stood, and Sandyman saw them for the first time. His face, which had been bright red, drained of all colour; he looked at the angry hobbits arrayed against him and nervously licked his lips. The barmaid, whisking away all breakables, was probably not helping him regain his customary swagger.
Sam and Pippin eased to the front, and Sam put his arm around Pippin.
‘You know, Pip,’ he said, in conversational tones. ‘You never see that Ted wearing aught but brown breeches. Now why’d you think that is, my friend?’
‘I think it’s for times such as these, Sam,’ said Pippin, looking the miller up and down and grinning. ‘I think we should allow him to go use the privy. I reckon if I kneed him in the bollocks right now, I might have to take a bath to get rid of the smell.’
There was a roar of appreciative laughter from their audience, who had all drawn away from Sandyman. As for their hapless victim, he had gone red again, and was opening and shutting his mouth like a landed fish.
‘I think what we want is an apology, eh Pip?’
‘Oh, I think a round of beer and an apology,’ said Pippin. ‘Least he can do for spreading such lies.’
‘Now just a minute!’ It was Tom the elder who broke in. He strode up to Sandyman and with no warning, punched him hard on the chin. Sandyman reeled back and was caught by two hobbits, who pushed him back to take what was coming to him.
‘No!’ Sam took Tom’s arm, and pulled him round to face him. ‘We’ll not brawl over this. Not if he’s prepared to apologise...’
‘...and buy us all a pint,’ Pippin reminded him.
‘...and buy us all a pint,’ said Sam. ‘It’s up to him after that, as it were. If he wants to go repeating such tales, then seems to me, it makes a nonsense of his apology, and he’ll no doubt meet with one or more of us when he least expects it.’
There was a growl of disapproval from behind him, and the Cotton lads all took a step toward Sandyman. The miller took a step back and gingerly touched his jaw.
‘See here,’ said Sam, and now he was talking to the Cottons. ‘I have a master and dear friend who has seen too much violence, and he don’t ever want to see no more. I saw what I saw, and I can understand the thought of violence pains him. Now, today’s my birthday, I believe, and that means I get to hand out presents. I have a present for Sandyman, if he’s prepared to take it. He apologises...’
‘...and buys us a pint.’
‘Thank you, Pip ...and buys us a pint, and he gets to walk out that door with no other hand laid on him.’
There was some grumbling amongst the Cottons, and they looked hopefully at Sandyman, no doubt thinking he might not do his part.
‘I’m waiting, Sandyman,’ said Sam. The miller looked at him with hostility, but under Sam’s steady gaze he grew restless and stared at his feet. He mumbled something.
‘Louder, Sandyman,’ said Sam. ‘We all have to hear.’
‘I’m sorry, my mistake. I apologise,’ said the hapless miller, and hurriedly pushed past them. Jolly put out his foot to trip him up, and Merry obligingly held the door open: Sandyman sprawled onto the ground outside, and the door banged shut behind him. Merry brushed his hands together and looked around the room. ‘I think that’s a round of beer by default,’ he said. There was a general laugh, which was repeated as Jolly grinned and held his hands, palms up, towards Sam. The message was clear: he hadn’t broken Sam’s bargain.
The landlord himself came round with two jugs of beer and filled all their glasses as they re-seated themselves. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,’ he said amidst their muttering and grumbling. ‘This one’s on Sandyman’s tab. I don’t like a brawl in my pub, and I thank you for your restraint. Don’t you worrit yourself, Master Gard’ner, neither. There’s not one as believes that Sandyman, and we all know as how Tolman-here’s grandfather were a Took by birth. And may I say congratulations on your little lass; we was that worrited by the news aforehand. I seen the baker myself this morning, and he said as how she had a wee bit of hair and it were a lovely golden colour. It’s Sandyman as made the rest up, in that nasty twisted way o’ his.’ He poured himself a glass as well, winked at them, and raised it to Sam. ‘Give your lovely missus my good wishes,’ he said, ‘and a happy birthday to you, sir!’
There were more happy birthday wishes for Sam when they returned to Bag End. Lily had made him a birthday cake: a rich fruit cake steeped in apple brandy. For Sam, the best part was watching Frodo eat two helpings and lick the sugar-sweet icing from his fingers. Frodo looked up, and smiled when he saw Sam watching him.
‘So, what was the gossip at the Ivy Bush?’ he asked. ‘Who was slandering whom?’
‘Very quiet, it were,’ said Jolly, quickly.
‘No news to speak of,’ said Merry.
Much later, after a generous supper, Sam sat between Frodo and Rosie in the candlelit sitting room. The visitors had left, Lily Cotton had retired to bed, and Merry and Pippin lounged in easy chairs on either side of the hearth. The Captains were the picture of replete and satisfied hobbitry: their waistcoats unbuttoned, and their legs stretched out before them. They each held their pipes in one hand and a measure of apple brandy in the other.
Rosie had laid Elanor in her carrying basket, and the babe was sleeping in a corner of the room. Sam placed a screen to further protect her from the draft coming under the door to feed the fire, and also to shade her from the candlelight. Rosie herself was looking tired; Sam suspected that she and Mari had been talking when she should have been resting. He looked at Frodo. If Frodo wished to give Rosie the gift he had suggested, then he’d best do so before she fell asleep.
Frodo caught Sam’s look and nodded, making Sam smile inwardly at the ease of understanding between them. He helped Frodo to his feet, although that wasn’t strictly necessary: Frodo’s daily improvement was a source of quiet pride to Sam, pride in Frodo’s resilience and determination. He made sure Frodo was steady on his feet, before letting him go, and sat himself next to Rosie again. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and waited. He was glad that Frodo was making this gift privately, with just the Travellers to witness it. After the scene at the Ivy Bush, it might have raised all sorts of wild speculations amongst the Cotton family; they would not have understood.
Frodo took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the tall corner press. Within were several drawers, many of which contained important papers relating to Bag End; however, it was not papers, but a set of keys that Frodo took out. Merry and Pippin had twisted their heads to see what Frodo was doing, and now they sat up in surprise.
The ordinary house keys of Bag End were rather dull: keys that were designed to do the job of locking and unlocking the doors of the smial without fuss or pretension. These keys, however, shone golden in the firelight. They had beautifully intricate handles and were tied together with a red ribbon. All present knew that although they could be used for the mundane purpose of a key - they would indeed fit and turn the locks of Bag End - their true purpose was symbolic.
Frodo weighed them in his right hand and smiled at Sam. ‘It’s Sam’s birthday today,’ he said, ‘and that means Sam should be the one to give out presents. In truth, I should give these to Sam, and let him bestow them in the customary manner. I have asked him to allow me to play his role in this. Call it a whim on my part, since I will never bring a wife home to Bag End.’
Sam had to blink back his tears at that. He saw Merry and Pippin close their mouths - which had been hanging open since they had grasped the import of what Frodo was saying - and saw them swallow. Rosie, beside him, had gone very still.
‘I have Sam’s blessing in this,’ Frodo continued, looking at them in turn. ‘I would not have presumed to take this honour on myself otherwise. Bag End is as much Sam’s as mine, and will be wholly his in... in the near future.’ Sam stared at the ceiling, and his breath wouldn’t come even. He did not want to even think about that future.
There were little snuffly noises from behind the screen, there was the hiss and crackle of the fire, but otherwise there was silence in the room as Frodo crossed it to seat himself next to Rosie. She turned to him, looking rather dazed. Frodo held out the bright keys on the palm of his hand. They should have been standing for the key-giving ceremony, but he had decided to play down the formality of the occasion.
‘Will you accept these keys as a sign that you are the Mistress of Bag End?’ he asked, as he would have asked his wife if he had ever married.
Rosie reached out and took them from him with a trembling hand. She swallowed and gave the response tradition demanded.
‘I will make this a home,’ she said. ‘May it be blessed with many children.’
Frodo kissed her on the cheek, and Rosie threw her arms around him and burst into tears. She was not alone. They were all in tears, and it was Elanor who halted the sniffing and nose blowing by waking up and deciding she wanted to be fed five minutes ago. Sam hastily wiped his eyes and lifted her from her basket. He handed her to Rosie and kissed his wife.
Frodo stood to wrap his arms around Sam. ‘Everything I have is yours, Sam,’ he murmured in his ear.
‘I have little to give you except my love,’ answered Sam, equally quietly. ‘But you know everything I do have is yours.’ He tightened his hold and they kissed, their mouths moving gently against each other. Sam couldn’t bring himself to ask the question that was foremost in his mind: When, Frodo? When will you go?
He felt Merry’s and Pippin’s arms around them, and knew the same question filled their thoughts. When, Frodo? When will you go?
Sam’s desire to spend every minute with Frodo included the nights, but Rosie needed his help and support as she coped with broken sleep and the demands of a small baby. He juggled his own wishes, and the needs of his loves, by trying to be with Frodo at his sleeping and his waking, and spending the rest of each night with Rosie and Elanor.
Frodo was rarely disturbed by the sound of Elanor’s crying, but woke often, nevertheless, to lie staring into the darkness. The question of “when?” occupied his mind as well, with an undercurrent of “if”. He took his dilemma to Gandalf, but the wizard was unhelpful on this subject.
‘It is your choice, Frodo. Only you can make it. I cannot tell you what will happen, this way or that. I think you will find the path is laid out before you, and all you have to do is follow it. Is that any comfort to you?’
‘Not really. No, I do not think it is. I cannot see my path. I wish to stay and I wish to go, and yet I am also afraid of both choices.’
‘Of what are you afraid, my friend? Of dying?’
‘Not as such, no. If I leave, then I must die without Sam. Sooner or later that will be true. I fear dying without Sam, and I also fear loneliness. If I stay, then I have my desire to die in Sam’s arms, and all my weariness will be over, but at what cost to Sam?’
He wondered if Gandalf knew that his face was wet with tears. All he could ever tell of the wizard’s emotions was in the tone of his voice, and now it was gentle.
’There is more, I think.’
‘Yes, Gandalf. There is more. There is Elanor.’
‘Ah!’
‘How can I leave her?’
‘Dear Frodo, you will leave her whether you go or stay.’
‘I know. But I also know what it is like to lose parents in death. How would I feel if they had chosen to go? Said goodbye and walked away?’
‘Yes, I can see that is a worrying thought. Maybe you should think of it from Elanor’s perspective, not your own, but not now. I think you should sleep now. You are not so far recovered that you can afford to spend the night in restless debate. Would you like me to aid you?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Frodo closed his eyes. His mind was filled with a warm drowsiness and the sounds of the ebb and flow of the sea. He felt as though he were being lifted and floated, lifted and floated, as each wave washed under him. He lost all touch with the world around him, and slept.
When he awoke, it was to sunshine. It was a bright day outside, and Sam’s welcoming smile filled him with a warm glow.
‘It’s late, isn’t it, Sam,’ he murmured sleepily.
‘Yes, it is, my love, but it don’t matter. Shall I bring you breakfast in bed?’
‘No. I’ll get up. I want to get writing.’ He sighed. ‘There’s still a lot to do, and I would like to see it finished.’
Sam’s smile faded, and he nodded. ‘I’ll be in the garden,’ he said. ‘If you need me.’
It became the pattern of their days. Lily went in the latter part of Astron, with much thanks from the three of them, although Frodo suspected Rosie was chafing to take over the full running of Bag End again and do things her way. He gave some help, and Sam gave more, and between them they settled into a new routine which centred around Elanor. When Elanor slept, Rosie brought her to the study in her carrying basket, and it always took Frodo some time to get back to his writing: his gaze kept drifting to Elanor’s sleeping face.
In early Thrimidge, Elanor went through a phase where she would not settle. She cried and cried until her mother was at her wits’ end to know what to do with her. Rosie’s sleep was disturbed, as well, and she looked tired and pale. When Elanor finally fell asleep in the afternoon, all Rosie wanted to do was sleep as well.
‘Leave her with me,’ said Frodo, ‘and go to bed. Don’t worry about supper. I’ll cook omelettes or something later.’
‘Thank you, Frodo,’ said Rosie, drooping before his eyes with tiredness. ‘She’s been fed, and I’ve changed her, so she should be fine for an hour or so.’
Elanor, however, thought differently. Rosie had not been gone long when she stirred and started making little mewling noises and fighting at the light blanket that covered her.
‘Shh, shhh, my sweetheart,’ said Frodo gently, ‘your poor mama needs some rest.’ Without thinking, he stooped down and slipped his hands beneath her body to lift her and cradle her against his shoulder. It wasn’t until he had done so that he realised he had used both hands. He sat down rather suddenly in the armchair and stared in amazement, but Elanor did not allow the luxury of wonder. Ignore her, and she would work herself up to loud wails, waking Rosie from her desperately needed sleep. He tilted Elanor to lie cradled in his arms, but that was a mistake. She immediately started questing and mouthing for milk and was only briefly distracted when he offered her the crook of his little finger. Hard little gums worked on it for a while, and then her mouth opened to cry again.
He reached for a square of muslin - draped ready to hand over the edge of the basket - and threw it over his shoulder. Standing, he lifted and supported Elanor again, and held her to his body once more. Not trusting his weak arm, he held her body with his right hand, while his left hand supported her head against his shoulder. His experience with Pippin as a baby stood him in good stead here: the protective muslin would catch any baby sick. Jigging her gently up and down, he walked back and forth, singing a lullaby. Gradually, the soothing sound had its effect. Elanor settled again, and he cautiously sat back down in the armchair. He was afraid she would wake with the cessation of movement, but she slept on. He leaned back, closed his eyes and slept with her.
When he woke again, it was to find Sam sitting on the chair at his desk, arms folded, smoking a pipe and smiling.
‘The pair of you make a sight to treasure, and no mistake,’ said Sam, his smile widening as he realised Frodo was awake. ‘I wish as how I could draw like that painter at the Fair, or I could walk in my memories like the Elves so I could always have this moment to come back to.’
Elanor stirred at the sound of his voice, and her head moved beneath Frodo’s hand, making little butting movements. Frodo protected her head from rolling back, and squinted down at her. His chest tightened at the thought of leaving her, of taking nothing but his memories of her. Hastily, he turned to other, happier thoughts.
‘Are you seeing everything, Sam?’ he asked. He lowered her to lay her on her back in his lap. Her head was still supported by his left hand, and she waved her arms around in an aimless fashion. He was beginning to feel, by the dampness seeping through his breeches, why Lily had made so many baby-gowns for her. It seemed she needed her baby-napkin changing.
Sam was looking at him. ‘Everything?’ he asked.
Frodo felt it was a compliment to how well he’d been coping with his disability. He slipped his right hand beneath Elanor’s head, freeing his left to hold one of the tiny hands still batting at the air. Gently, he rubbed her palm with his thumb, and her fingers curled around and held fast. He was torn between gazing into her eyes as she stared at him, or looking to see if Sam had realised what he meant. Suddenly, Sam was kneeling at his side, and Frodo’s left hand, holding Elanor’s, was enfolded in both of Sam’s.
‘Frodo!’ Sam exclaimed, but quietly, so as not to make Elanor jump. Loud noises made her throw out all her limbs as though she were falling, and her shock always found voice in wails. ‘When...? How...?’
‘I don’t know how,’ Frodo answered. ‘Elanor started to cry, and I just picked her up. I did it without thinking.’
Sam sighed, and laid his forehead on their joined hands. Frodo bent over to kiss the top of his head, but Elanor gave them no chance to enjoy the quiet intimacy of the moment. Deprived of the eye contact, she became restless, and her cries rapidly built in volume as she arched her back and screwed up her face. Sam stood and lifted her from Frodo’s lap.
‘Little one,’ he said, ‘I think now is a good time to remember you have a mama.’ He carried Elanor out, and Frodo heard Rosie meet them in the hallway. He hoped she was feeling rested. For himself, he felt very peaceful for his sleep with his daughter. He stood a little stiffly and went to change his breeches, before cooking the promised supper.
Over the following days he waited patiently until Elanor had settled again to a routine, and Rosie had lost her look of exhaustion, then he took his dilemma to her. She was sitting nursing Elanor in the kitchen when he came in from the garden. He had been out, watching Sam work in the bright warmth of the day, and was now ostensibly on his way to take a nap. Instead, he seated himself at the table and toyed with a spoon that was lying there. He was desperately tired - he did not like to keep asking Gandalf to soothe him into sleep - but he needed to talk while Sam was busy elsewhere.
Rosie lifted Elanor against her shoulder and rubbed her back, but her thoughts were apparently turned in the same direction as his. ‘Frodo,’ she asked gently, ‘do you know when you will leave?’
He got up and went to stand over her. He held out a hand, and Rosie took it. She lifted her eyes to his, and her gaze was troubled.
‘I do not think I can go, Rosie,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not see how I can forsake Elanor.’