In which Frodo makes Tea

By MysteriousWays

He pushed the handle down on the pump, one, two, three times. On the fourth time water came gushing out. Crystal clear, icy water flowed only to be captured in his kettle. The last time he would likely work this pump. The last time he would fill this kettle.

Frodo turned away from the sink then walked over to the hearth. Taking up a towel to protect his hand he grabbed hold of a hook that was hinged to the inside of the fire place. He swung the hook out, hung the kettle from it, then pushed it back in. He stood watching the flames dance beneath the suspended kettle and wondered, on this the eve of his journey to Rivendell, if he would ever do that again, in that room. Not likely.

How many times in twenty-nine years had he made tea at that hearth. How many times had he gone through the routine of pumping the water then hanging the kettle over the fire. A routine done so often that it was done without thought to the movements. A series of steps steeped in comfort and peace. Steps taken in times of joy as well as sorrow, sometimes with both feelings intertwined as they were the first time twenty-nine years before.

"Frodo, be a good lad and go to the kitchen to start our tea," said Bilbo upon their arrival at Bag End.

"Yes, Uncle Bilbo." That had been his only reply to what was actually a rather significant moment. Many times Frodo had visited there at Bag End. Each time Bilbo treated Frodo as a guest, tending to the preparation of tea as well as other meals personally. Today was different. Today Frodo was not returning to Bag End as a guest, but as a resident. By having Frodo make that evening’s tea Bilbo was making Frodo’s place in the hole official.

Frodo set about the task happy in the thought that Bag End was now his home. Bilbo was his guardian. It had been good to live with Saradoc, Esmeralda and little Merry. However Frodo had found life with them somewhat lacking. When his parents were alive he had much of their attention throughout the day everyday. It had just been the three of them living in a small Hobbit hole. Frodo loved Saradoc and Esmeralda, and he felt well loved by them. However they were the future Master and Mistress of Buckland. Their attention had to be shared with hundreds of other Hobbits. This was not a problem to Merry who had known no other way of life. But for Frodo it had been a lonely existence that acted as a painful reminder of what he had lost. Frodo had come to look forward to visits with Bilbo as a sort of return to that time he missed. Bilbo could never take the place of Primula and Drogo as far as Frodo was concerned, but he felt he could get along better with at least once again being with someone who could spend more time with just him.

Frodo’s thoughts were interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. He turned to pull it from the fire but stopped. He stood only able to stare as steam billowed out of the spout. Reluctant to complete the last turn of this comforting ritual in the dearest home he had ever known, Frodo turned and left the room.