Dance notes:

The ländler was a forerunner of the Viennese waltz, the dance that swept across Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, transforming social dance forever after. I used the term ländler in this story because it sounds less recognizably modern than waltz, and was in any case the older form of the dance. Here is a first-hand account of a village dance in the latter part of the eighteenth century:

The men dancers held up the dresses of their partners very high so that they should not trail and be stepped on, wrapped themselves both tightly in the covering, bringing their bodies as closely together as possible, and thus whirling about went on in the most indecent positions....
As they waltzed around on the darker side of the room, the kissing and the hugging became still bolder. It is the custom of the country, I know, and not as bad as it looks, but I can quite understand why the waltz has been banned in parts of Swabia and Switzerland.

The reaction of the hobbits is the reaction the waltz first met with wherever it appeared, particularly among the very straitlaced British. The close contact with one’s partner contrasted sharply with the more stately minuets and quadrilles popular among the aristocracy, or even with the livelier English country dancing such as the Sir Roger de Coverly (known in America as the Virginia Reel)—in which one kept at arm’s length distance from one’s partner.

In 1816, this scathing editorial appeared in The Times of London:

We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last ... it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressure on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion.

One last thing, then I’ll shut up (on this subject, at least)…the Viennese waltz should not be confused with the sedate, Arthur Miller-type imitation one sees at weddings. The real thing is a difficult and exhilarating dance in which you must spin 360 degrees on every three-count measure, while at the same time circling the room with all the other dancers. That’s why waltz music is fairly slow…the dance would be impossible otherwise. Just stand in the middle of the room and try this once or twice, and you’ll see what I mean!

Music notes:

Except for a small alteration in the last line (changing Richmond to Buckland), the Buckland Ball’s opening song is from "A Song made by Mr. Tho. D’Urfey upon a new Country Dance at Richmond, called, Mr. Lane’s Magot" in John Playford’s The English Dancing Master, London, 1651.

The Merry Maiden lyrics adapted from Dick Deadeye’s duet with Captain Corcoran in H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert & Sullivan.

"The Merry Widow Waltz" is from the 1905 operetta The Merry Widow by Hungarian composer Franz Lehàr. Some waltzes are stately, some sprightly, some triumphal or "happily ever after." Many are more famous but to me, there is no waltz lovelier than this one. You can listen to "The Merry Widow Waltz" at this link:

http://stage.vitaminic.com/main/popular_classical_quartet/all_tracks/,2

Chapter 7: Awakening

That night Frodo tossed in restive dreams, once again at the ball. But now it was he who danced the ländler with Hyacinth while everyone else looked on. Coronel was the caller, and his voice rose above the music:

I love thee, as I love the calm
Of sweet, star-lighted hours!
I love thee, as I love the balm
Of early jasmine flow'rs.

Around the floor they whirled in breathless exhilaration, the ball fading away in a blur of lights and colors until there was nothing left but the two of them. Hyacinth’s eyes were shining and her hair floated out behind her as they spun ever faster, Frodo’s arm clasped tightly about her waist. The stars danced above them to a music of their own, and the moonlight glimmered on Hyacinth’s white shoulders.

And now Coronel was calling, Kiss your partner! with a wink and a leer. They slowed their steps as the music stilled, and Frodo drew her yet closer, until he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Her smile as she gazed at him was tender and inviting.

Frodo brushed soft curls back from her nape, thrilling to the feel of warm, silky skin beneath his touch. Slowly, caressingly his fingers traced the graceful curve of her neck, then rested a moment at the hollow of her throat to savor the quickening pulse there before reaching up to cradle her face and gently tilt it toward his own. The light in her eyes now kindled to dark fire, until at last her lashes drifted down and her lips parted slightly as he lowered his mouth to hers…and awoke.

He shot upright in bed, taut and trembling with sharp, aching need, his breath coming in gasps and his nightshirt damp and clinging. The light of a full moon streamed in and pooled on his pillow, its radiance bright enough to read—or write—by.

Knowing he would find no more sleep that night, Frodo slipped out of bed and knelt down to pull out his wooden box. He spread out his writing materials and dipped his pen, but then hesitated. It wasn’t enough, not to assuage the intense desire for Hyacinth’s physical presence that now consumed him.

Frodo’s gaze went again to the window. Somewhere on the other side of the smial Hyacinth slept, and he imagined her nestled against soft linen, her dark tresses fanned out around her face, one arm flung restlessly across the bed…

Abruptly he rose and, swiftly repacking the box, tucked it under his arm and scrambled out of the window. He dropped lightly to the ground and crept along the darkened rows of windows lining the Buck Hill. That large one marked Rory’s bedchamber, he knew, then came the rooms of Sara and Esmeralda, then Merimac and his family…

Finally he came to the windows of the primary guest quarters—the finest rooms reserved for Brandy Hall’s most important visitors. The first, and largest, would undoubtedly be occupied by Hamilcar and his wife. He looked at the next two, considering, and decided that the Hornblowers would put Hyacinth in the chamber next to theirs.

Settling down beneath the chosen window with a happy sigh, oblivious to the dew-drenched grass, Frodo once again took up his pen:

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

He paused to gaze up at the dark window, recalling now the fragrant scent of roses as he bent over Hyacinth’s hand, her skin soft as petals against his lips, and felt overcome by longing and self-reproach. Why, oh why had he been such a fool—no, a coward—not to kiss her properly when he had the chance? He slammed his fist against the ground in frustration, then resumed writing with renewed passion:

Oh, lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast—
Oh! press it close to thine own, my love,
Where it will break at last!

The pen falling now from his hand, Frodo closed his eyes, giving himself over at last to his fevered emotions. He rose, trembling, and took a step toward the window, not quite sure what he was doing but unable to stop himself.

Now he stood directly below it and looked up in helpless desperation. "Hyacinth?" he whispered softly. There was no sound from within. "Hyacinth?" he called again, a little more loudly.

This time he was answered by a shrill, angry yapping.

"Fluffy?" came a drowsy female voice…and it was not the voice of his beloved. "What is it, girl?"

Frodo sprang back in a panic, even as a second, deeper voice complained, "Hortensia! Make that daft beast shut up!"

From the kennel came a mournful howl as Garm took up the cry.

"Now Ham, you know Fluffy is a superb watchdog and never sounds an alarm without good cause! There must be something out there, so you’d best investigate!"

A light flared in the window but by the time a nightcapped head emerged, blinking blearily, Frodo had gathered up his belongings and fled into the night.

* * *

On the following afternoon Frodo and Coronel were in the apple orchard, the elder tween sprawled lazily in the grass while the younger sat hunched tensely beside him.

"That one was…the best yet," said Coronel with a dreamy expression on his face, as if reliving a pleasant memory.

"Really? What did she say?" Frodo asked, trembling with excitement.

"Say? It’s not so much what she said—although she did murmur something about dear Prince Udo—no no, it’s what she did…" he trailed off, then noticed Frodo looking at him expectantly. "Sorry lad! Well, upon reading your passionate verse she…was quite overcome with emotion, and she—she nearly swooned. If I hadn’t caught her she would have, I think."

"Oh!" cried Frodo in dismay. "I should have realized how such bold language would affect her delicate sensibilities…I hope she was all right?"

"Yes, quite, she came round again in no time." Abruptly Coronel’s mood seemed to change and, propping himself up on his elbows, he frowned at his cousin. "But now that you mention it, Frodo, I’m starting to think that perhaps this is all a bit too much for her."

Completely blindsided by this turn in the conversation, Frodo stared at him in surprise and alarm. "What—what do you mean?" he faltered.

"I mean all these poems, of course! After all, they are rather strong stuff for an impressionable lass like Hyacinth. I don’t know if her nerves can take many more like the one you sent today!"

"But Coronel," began Frodo.

His cousin cut him off. "And there’s another thing as well…it’s getting rather tiresome, this role of delivery boy! I was glad to help out a friend in need and all that, but this has gone on for too long, I’m starting to think. I’ve my own affairs to attend to, you know!"

For all his annoyance with Coronel at the ball, the sudden prospect of losing his assistance threw Frodo into a panic. "Coronel, you know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me! Please, there must be some way I can make it worth your while to continue, if you’d only tell me how," he pleaded.

For a long minute Coronel was silent. Then he glanced up, his eyes sharp with cunning. "Worth my while? All right then, I’ll tell you what you can do if you really want to show your appreciation."

"Anything!" said Frodo eagerly.

"Well, I’ve heard that you have something of a talent for mushroom harvesting," Coronel remarked with a conspiratorial wink.

Frodo’s face quickly fell. "I…don’t do that anymore," he muttered.

Coronel continued relentlessly, "Yes indeed, your exploits in the fields of Farmer Maggot, cultivator of the finest mushrooms in the Eastfarthing, are spoken of with great admiration by the other lads of the Hall." He watched Frodo closely, marking well his discomfort. "I must say that I have rather a fancy to sample these famous mushrooms myself, just to see what all the fuss is about! So why don’t you nip over to Bamfurlong Farm tomorrow and pinch me a few, eh?"

"Didn’t you hear me Coronel, I said I don’t do that now!" snapped Frodo. Then he quickly added, in a more placating tone, "I’m sorry, Cousin, but I just can’t get you any of Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms. Ask anything else of me, and I’ll do it gladly, but…not that."

"No Frodo, I’ve named my terms and I’ll not back down now," Coronel insisted firmly. "It’s Maggot’s mushrooms or nothing!"

Frodo made no reply.

"Very well," said Coronel after a pause, "in that case, I’ve delivered my last poem!"

At this Frodo met Coronel’s eyes with a look of pure anguish. He seemed about to speak, but suddenly jumped up and stalked away.

Coronel lay back in the grass and breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Well, that should finish it," he murmured.

* * *

A bedraggled figure dashed toward the Bucklebury Ferry, glancing fearfully over his shoulder as he ran. His breeches were torn in several places and his shirt was partially pulled loose from the waistband, one brace slipping off his shoulder. A frenzied cacophony of barking could be heard growing rapidly nearer as he stumbled onto the dock and almost fell, choking back a sob. Just as he cast off, four large and ferocious-looking wolfhounds raced up to the dock, barking and growling.

"Yah!" he shouted at them defiantly. "Guess you’ll have to go home hungry!"

But his bravado was short-lived, and by the time he reached the farther shore and started slowly up the path toward Brandy Hall, he seemed exhausted and in pain.

* * *

When Frodo reached the Hall, he knew that Maggot had arrived before him by the look on his Aunt Asphodel’s face when she met him at the door. "You’re wanted in the kitchen," she said curtly. "And don’t be hoping to get off easy, either…they found weevils in the pipeweed fields today and your uncle is in a foul temper!"

The farmer was standing by the hearth flanked by Rory and Sara: a stony-faced tribunal called to pass judgment on his crimes. Frodo paused in the doorway, wondering bleakly how many times such a sight had confronted him.

"Here he is at last, the varmint!" growled Rory. "Frodo, Farmer Maggot and I would like a word with you, if you can spare us a minute!"

Frodo leaned against the doorframe, feeling slightly sick.

"Stop stalling and get yourself over here," his uncle ordered, glowering at him.

Straightening up with an effort, Frodo limped toward the hearth.

Rory looked at him sharply. "What ails you, boy? And what’s happened to your clothes? Biddy’ll have a fit when she finds you’ve torn up another pair of breeches!"

Frodo just stood there, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Come lad, speak up now," encouraged Sara.

But Frodo remained stubbornly silent, only shooting a sidelong glance at Farmer Maggot.

Now thoroughly exasperated, Rory strode forward and grasped Frodo’s shoulder, giving it a shake. "Now see here Frodo, when I ask you a quest—" but he broke off suddenly as Frodo winced at his touch. "Turn around, lad," he said more gently. Carefully he lifted Frodo’s shirt to briefly expose some angry red welts running up his back. Similar marks could be seen on the backs of his legs.

Rory stood quite still for a moment, then turned slowly toward the farmer. "Might you be knowing something about this, Harlan?" he said with an air of exaggerated calm that fooled no one.

"’Course I know something about it," blustered Maggot, not one to be intimidated. "I gave the scamp a good hiding before I had my dogs run him off my land!"

Rory’s simmering anger exploded in an instant. "This time you’ve gone too far, Maggot!"

The farmer stared at him in surprise. "What are you on about, Rory? Haven’t you always said what that boy needs is a cane to his backside?"

"That’s as may be…but if and when Frodo needs a thrashing ‘twill be me that sees to it, not some muddy-footed mushroom farmer from the wrong side o’ the River!"

Sara, with a skill born of long experience, quickly stepped between them.

Maggot eyed Rory balefully. "Well well Rory, so your true colors come out now, do they? Aye, and in truth it’s no more’n I’d expect from you. The apple don’t fall far from the tree they say, and I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d take this young miscreant’s side…"

"Just what are you getting at, eh?" said Rory. But there was now a hint of unease in his voice.

"Well now…" Maggot was taking his time, savoring the words in his slow Eastfarthing drawl. "I do seem to recall my old gaffer telling me stories when I was a lad, about troubles he used to have with the local lads stealing his crops. And by his account the biggest thief—the worst young rascal of Buckland, were his very words—was a certain Rorimac Brandybuck."

Utter silence greeted this news. Frodo stared at his uncle with amazement—and a new-found respect—as Rory flushed deeply.

"Yes indeed," Maggot continued with obvious relish, seeing that he’d hit his mark, "Gran’dad said as how he almost had to give up growing mushrooms, he lost so many to you!"

"That was a long time ago," muttered Rory. "We’re all of us young once after all, Maggot!"

"Yes, we are that, Master," replied the farmer coolly. "But if this particular youngster sets foot on my land ever again, then I can’t answer for what any dogs of mine do to him, for I won’t be calling them off!"

Rory’s face had now turned an alarming shade of purple; he looked angrier than Frodo had ever seen him. "And should it come to that, Maggot, then I can’t answer for any arrows of mine that end up in your dogs’ throats!" he roared.

Saradoc was now physically separating the two hobbits, and for one wild moment Frodo wanted to laugh, as an image flashed through his mind of Sara doing exactly the same thing with Merry and Berry at dinner. But this was quickly replaced by a more sobering thought. They won’t back down, either of them. And then it dawned on him: he and he alone could resolve the standoff. "Stop it, please!" he cried.

They both stared at him.

"It won’t come to that, for I won’t be visiting your fields again, Farmer Maggot."

As suddenly calm as moments before he was livid, Maggot regarded him thoughtfully. "Well Frodo Baggins, a thief you may be but I’ve never known you to lie," he mused, "and in all the useless apologies you’ve given me these many years, you never once promised not to do it again. So if you’re promising now, I reckon I can take you at your word."

"You can," said Frodo, meeting the farmer’s gaze steadily.

"All right then, so be it." Maggot now looked a little sheepish and glanced sideways at Rory. "If I, ah, got a mite carried away just now, Rory, I…"

"Forget it, Harley, and get on back to your precious mushrooms," said Rory gruffly, "before anyone else makes off with them."

Maggot laughed. "I’m not so worrited about them now as I was," he said.

After he had left, Rory sighed wearily, then turned to Frodo. "And as for you, you young scoundrel," he began, with something less than his usual vehemence.

But before he could say anything more Frodo hurled himself at his uncle and gave him a quick, fierce hug before rushing out of the room.

Rory stood staring after him, for once at a loss for words. "Well, I’ll be hog-tied!" he murmured at last.

* * *

Frodo’s dinner was sent to his room that night for the first time in years. But he didn’t mind the banishment as he knew what whispers and stares would have greeted him at the table, and couldn’t bear the thought of Hyacinth seeing him in the depths of his humiliation.

There was a rap at his door, and he opened it to find Coronel standing there, looking uncharacteristically ill at ease. "Hullo Frodo," he said.

Feeling equally uncomfortable, Frodo looked away and mumbled, "I’m sorry Coronel, I tried but I…couldn’t get you any mushrooms."

"I know what happened, lad," said his cousin contritely, "and I’m sorry for putting you up to it. Hope you’re not too banged up?"

"I’ll live," said Frodo briefly. After an awkward silence he forced himself to add, "So that’s it then…"

"That’s what?"

"You won’t take any more poems to Hyacinth."

Coronel looked at Frodo’s bruises and forlorn expression, and sighed. "Oh, very well Cousin, I suppose I can still manage it…if you write them, I’ll deliver them."

Next week
Chapter Eight: Udo Unmasked

Poetry notes:

Coronel’s call in Frodo’s dream is, again, an excerpt from "I Love Thee" by Eliza Acton.

Frodo’s "night poem" is an excerpt from "The Indian Serenade" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Chapter Eight: Udo Unmasked

And so as summer waned Frodo and Coronel carried on with their old arrangement, and all seemed as it had been before. Yet somehow it was not the same…Frodo’s giddy euphoria of spring and early summer had given way to a growing disquiet that he could not account for rationally, making it all the more troubling. His relations with Coronel had cooled considerably since the mushroom incident, and while Frodo knew he should be grateful to his cousin for continuing to serve as messenger, he somehow found himself instead developing an unreasoning resentment of him.

Coronel himself seemed not nearly so agreeable about the whole thing as he had been in the beginning, and even went so far as to offer occasional suggestions or criticisms of the poems—all of which Frodo ignored. He had also grown far less forthcoming about Hyacinth’s reactions, usually saying little more than, "She liked it well enough, I suppose. She really didn’t say much about it." This only served to dampen Frodo’s spirits all the more, and he began to fret over the possibility that Hyacinth was growing weary of his verses. His anxiety began to manifest itself in the poems themselves, much to Coronel’s displeasure.

Relations between Rory and Hamilcar Hornblower had begun to sour as well, as problems continued to plague the pipeweed fields with relentless regularity. Recent attacks of suckfly, spotted wilt, and black shank had seriously thinned the crop to the point that the harvest yield was now projected at less than half the original estimates.

* * *

Rory stood amidst a field of maturing pipeweed, a scowl on his face and an enormous green caterpillar with jaunty white stripes caught between his thumb and forefinger. Cursing profusely, he whipped a knife from his belt, sliced the writhing creature in two, and hurled the pieces to the ground. Then he grimly surveyed the nearby plants, their broad leaves ragged with holes.

At his side, Hamilcar tsked and shook his head. "Pipeweed hornworm…such a pity! And just when the plants had bounced back so nicely from the black shank…"

Rory glared at him. "Pity? It’s a disaster! At the rate these blasted creatures eat, the crop’ll be wiped out in a fortnight! What’s to be done?"

"I’m afraid there’s not much one can do against the insatiable appetite of the hornworm," said Hamilcar with a resigned sigh.

Rory fixed him with a hard stare. "You seem mighty calm about all this, Hornblower," he said suspiciously.

"Why Rory, my friend! I feel as strongly for your misfortune as if it were my own."

"That’s mighty big of you, Ham, to have such compassion for a future competitor!" His tone sharpened suddenly on these last words.

Hamilcar looked deeply wounded. "Surely you’re not suggesting that I would hope for the failure of a fellow pipeweed grower!" he said in an aggrieved tone. "That’s hard sir, very hard, if you should think so ill of me! I have never been more sincere in my life than when I say it’s a terrible shame…"

"Indeed it is," said Rory slowly, a shrewd gleam in his eye. "’Specially as I was fixing to make you a junior partner in this little venture."

Hamilcar’s expression of mournful piety instantly gave way to one of calculating avarice. "A—a partner…?"

"That’s right…a partial ownership share in the pipeweed crop—and the profits. I was just having the papers drawn up, and was going to surprise you this very day."

Hamilcar gazed out over the fields for several long minutes, appearing pensive. Finally he turned back to Rory. "Old chap, there’s something not commonly known among pipeweed growers, in fact you might say it’s a Hornblower family secret, and I wouldn’t confide it to just anyone. But your plight moves me, it truly does. And, ah, seeing as how we’re to be partners… Well sir, the fact of the matter is this: the only way to defeat the pipeweed hornworm is to release a swarm of paper wasps in the fields. Back home we raise hives of ’em for just that purpose! If we send a message to Longbottom by quick post today, I reckon we could have several hives brought up by week’s end. You see, the wasps prey on the worms and feed them to their young, and…"

Rory smiled.

* * *

Back at the Hall, the younger hobbits were playing bumblepuppy on a stretch of lawn in front of the smial. Glumly Frodo watched Hyacinth being chatted up, as usual, by his older cousins.

Just now, Cederic was gallantly helping her take a shot. "There’s a secret to bowling technique, Hy, it’s all in when you release the ball…you have to time it just right. And you have to lean into it, like this." He stood just behind her, and closed his hand over hers to take a practice swing.

Frodo seethed at his audacity. How dare he paw her so?

"Do you mean like this?" asked Hyacinth, pulling away from him to step forward, sink gracefully to one knee, and send her ball speeding down the green. With a satisfying thwack it knocked Cederic’s own ball away from the edge of a hole, and dropped neatly in. She looked back at him innocently.

Cederic flushed. "Yes, just like that," he muttered.

Several of the other tweens laughed. "Can I have a lesson too, Ced?" one asked.

"I’d rather have one from Hyacinth," smirked another.

Even Frodo couldn’t help smiling, but his mood quickly soured again when he spotted Coronel, who was entertaining the faunts with sleight-of-hand tricks while awaiting his turn to bowl. Merry sat on his knee and watched in fascination as he took a coin from his pocket and held it up for all to see before making it vanish with a snap of his fingers. Amid the astonished gasps of his audience, he reached down and seemed to pull it out of Merry’s ear, then presented it to him. The youngster giggled with delight, and Coronel tousled his hair affectionately.

"Do it again, Cory!" Merry begged.

Frodo felt a stab of jealousy. Then he reminded himself that he had no right to feel thus, and if Merry was smitten with Coronel’s charm he could scarcely blame him. Full of remorse as he recalled how he had neglected his little cousin all summer, he wondered how he could make it up to him—if it were not already too late. Finally he found he had no more heart for the game, and slipping away unnoticed, retreated to his room to seek the solace of poetry.

* * *

"But this won’t do at all!" Coronel eyed the sheet of parchment he held with distaste as he and Frodo stood once again in the orchard.

"What’s wrong with it?" asked Frodo defensively.

By way of answer, Coronel began to read aloud:

Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy servant e’er to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see;
And, having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair and I'll despair,
Under that willow-tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death, to die for thee.

When he had finished Coronel looked up with a petulant frown and complained, "I can’t give this to Hyacinth! All that rot about death and despair—it’s much too gloomy and depressing!"

At these words Frodo grew very still. "But you’re not giving it to her, Coronel," he said quietly, but a note of defiance had crept into his voice. "I am. You’re just delivering it, remember?" Never before had he spoken so to his cousin.

Coronel appeared momentarily taken aback, but recovered swiftly. "Yes yes," he snapped, "you know what I meant! My point is, after all this time I think I’m rather a good judge of what Hyacinth will or won’t like, and I tell you she won’t fancy this at all!"

"Why don’t we let her decide for herself?" Frodo persisted.

"No! I won’t give it to her, I tell you, and I don’t have time to stand here jawing about it any longer—I’m due to meet Hyacinth in the rose garden shortly."

"But—if you don’t give her the poem, what will you tell her?" asked Frodo, his new-found resolve starting to waver.

Coronel shot him an infuriating smile. "That’s easy…I’ll tell her Prince Udo was not inclined to write a poem for her today!"

"What?" gasped Frodo. "You can’t do that! I’ve said no such thing!"

"Ah, but I can," replied Coronel smugly. "That’s the beauty of being the messenger, you know."

"Not anymore, you’re not!" cried Frodo, snatching the parchment from his hands. "Thank you for all you’ve done, Coronel, but as of this moment your messenger services are no longer required!"

Coronel just shrugged. "As you wish, little master," he said derisively, and sauntered away.

Frodo stared after him with mingled relief and dismay. The weeks of simmering tension between them had made this falling-out not entirely unlooked for, but in the event, the swiftness and finality of the break had left him feeling suddenly bereft of purpose—and companionship. For so long his days had been devoted to writing poems for Hyacinth, then listening to Coronel’s pleasantly engrossing accounts of her reaction to them. And now it was over…

He looked down at the poem in his hands and imagined Coronel blithely telling Hyacinth of Udo’s disinterest. A sense of looming disaster swept over him, and the thought that he had, perhaps, brought it on himself only made it worse.

Slowly he began walking back to the Hall, consumed with frustration and desperately wondering what to do next. As he approached the front steps a friendly voice hailed him from behind, and he turned to find Horatio coming up the path.

"Hullo Frodo!" he said cheerfully when he’d caught up to him. Seeing his distraught expression he added with concern, "What’s the matter?"

"It’s too difficult to explain," sighed Frodo.

"All right then…but let me know if there’s anything I can do to help."

Frodo stopped, struck by his words. "Maybe you can help, Horatio…have you seen your sister lately?"

"I believe she’s in her room getting ready to go out," he replied. "At least, that’s what she was doing when I left the smial a short while ago, and knowing how long she primps and fusses, I daresay she’s still at it."

Frodo was silent a moment, deliberating, then drew a deep breath and said, "Can you give her this and tell her that Prince Udo urgently wishes to speak with her before she leaves?" He handed him the poem.

Horatio looked down at the sheet and then back up at Frodo, puzzled. "But I just saw Coronel heading toward the garden!"

"What’s that to do with it? I wish to speak with her before she meets Coronel!"

After thinking about this a moment Horatio ventured cautiously, "D’you mean to say that you are Udo?"

Frodo stared at him, startled by the question. "Yes, of course!"

"Oh," said Horatio, looking more confused than ever.

"What is it?" said Frodo sharply, his suspicions ignited to a leaping blaze.

"Well, er, nothing, except…that is, I—I don’t know quite how to say this," dithered Horatio.

"Just say it!" Frodo was now almost shouting at him.

But poor Horatio seemed unable to continue until Frodo seized him by his shirtfront, then said rapidly, "I saw Coronel and Hyacinth in the garden the other day, but they didn’t see me. Cory gave Hy something written on a piece of parchment and after she read it, she—she put her arms around his neck and said, ‘That was lovely! Thank you, my dearest Udo!’"

For a moment Frodo was unable to speak or move, as the magnitude of his folly became suddenly, sickeningly clear. Then he was seized by a paroxysm of fury. "I’ll kill him!" he roared, and releasing Horatio he rushed off in the direction of the garden.

* * *

Coronel was leaning against a rose trellis, humming softly. On hearing someone approach, he glanced up with an expectant smile that quickly changed to an almost comical look of surprise when he saw it was Frodo. The expression on his cousin’s face told him instantly that the game was up. "Frodo, I’m sorry—" he began.

"Not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be!" Frodo snarled. He charged up to Coronel and shoved him in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards a step or two. "Get your fists up, you lying, cheating snake!"

"I don’t want to fight you," Coronel protested.

"I don’t see that you have much choice!" said Frodo grimly, and shoved him again, harder. This time Coronel stumbled and nearly fell. "You’d better defend yourself, or I swear I’ll strike you as you stand!"

Coronel tried one last time. "Frodo—can’t we talk this over, cousin to cousin? I can explain…"

"Talk? I have no more use for words!" Frodo was screaming at him now. "They’ve caused me nothing but grief!" He was beside himself with misery and rage, and drew a shaking arm across his eyes to clear away the mist that clouded them.

Coronel, always one to seize an opportunity when it presented itself, did so now. Without warning he punched Frodo sharply in the stomach then, as the younger hobbit doubled over, gasping for breath, delivered a vicious upper cut to his chin, snapping his head back with such force that he was thrown off his feet.

As he lay writhing on the ground Coronel looked down at him and sighed. "I didn’t want to have to do that," he said. Then he turned to walk away…but before he had gone more than a few paces he was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder and a rasping voice in his ear.

"Coronel!"

He spun around in disbelief, just in time to meet Frodo’s fist as it smashed into his nose.

While Frodo was a veteran of countless fights with hobbits his own age or close to it, he had never faced an adversary like Coronel Took. Not only was he an adult in all but name, with close to twenty pounds and a slight height advantage over Frodo, but he was also a seasoned—and ruthless—combatant. His rules of engagement were simple—win at any cost, and honor be hanged.

Thus Frodo was more overmatched than he knew, but he had the force of righteous anger on his side, and that was no small thing. He fought with a savage ferocity that his opponent was clearly unprepared for, and after enduring a hail of punishing blows to his head and torso Coronel decided new tactics were called for. Moving in close to his attacker, he hooked a leg around one of Frodo’s and brought him down. Frodo hit the ground hard, getting the wind knocked out of him once again.

When Hyacinth arrived moments later, Horatio trailing several paces behind, the rivals were rolling on the ground locked together. She rushed forward. "Coronel! Frodo! Stop it! Stop it at once, do you hear?" They froze, then slowly turned their heads to stare up at her. "How dare you!" Hyacinth shouted, her eyes blazing. "I’m not a bone for you to fight over like two curs!"

Shamefaced, the two hobbits climbed slowly to their feet. Hyacinth looked accusingly from one to the other. "I have nothing to say to either of you deceitful creatures!" she snapped, then proceeded to say quite a few things for the next several minutes.

While she talked Frodo stared at the ground, devastated. Hyacinth clearly believed he was a party to Coronel’s treachery! This thought pained him more than any of his injuries.

Finally, the tortuous ordeal ended with Hyacinth storming off in tears. Horatio gave them a helpless, bewildered look before following slowly her in wake. Frodo and Coronel were left standing on the path, staring speechlessly at each other. Blood was still streaming from Coronel’s nose, staining the front of his shirt scarlet, and a large bruise was already forming below one eye. Frodo could feel blood trickling down his own face from a cut on his brow, and his swollen jaw throbbed with pain. It was Coronel who lowered his eyes first. Without a word Frodo turned his back on him and walked away.

Next week
Chapter Nine: Useless Words

Author’s notes:

Frodo’s "dark poem" is adapted from "To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything" by Robert Herrick.

Bumblepuppy is an old game in which nine holes were made in the ground, into which a ball was bowled. It sounds so hobbity, I just had to put it in the story! I couldn’t find any details on the rules, but figure it might have featured elements of croquet, lawn bowling, and pool.

Chapter Nine: Useless Words

Frodo slipped in a back door of Brandy Hall as quietly as possible. He felt physically and emotionally drained, and his only thought was to reach the solitude of his room undetected. But a horrified voice dashed his hopes immediately.

"Frodo!" cried Esmeralda, rushing up to him. "Good gracious—what’s happened to you?"

"Nothing, Aunt Ezzie, I’m fine," Frodo muttered, not meeting her eye.

"Don’t ‘nothing’ me, lad, I’m not blind! You’re hurt…you’ve been fighting again, haven’t you?" Taking him by the chin, she turned his face toward her to get a better look. "Oh, your poor jaw! Let me—"

"Leave me alone, can’t you?" said Frodo harshly, shaking her off and turning abruptly away.

Esmeralda stood there, stricken.

After a moment Frodo stopped too, and slowly came back to her side. "I’m sorry, Auntie," he said gently, reaching down to stroke her cheek—he was now much taller than she. "I just need to be by myself right now."

Esmeralda took a deep breath and brushed impatiently at an errant tear. "That’s all right, dear. I will keep treating you like a faunt, when you’re all but grown up now." She smiled a bit wistfully. "At least Merry still lets me baby him, though for how much longer I daren’t guess…that one’s got an independent streak as wide as the Brandywine!" She sighed. "Well, be off with you then. Just promise me you’ll see to that cut…or better yet, have Feralia look at it."

* * *

Frodo stood in the center of his room, swaying a little, and struggled to collect his thoughts. He swiped his arm across his forehead, then stared down at the bloodstained sleeve as if at something foreign and unconnected to him. He was dimly aware of an envelope lying on his bed, addressed to him in Bilbo’s thin, straggling hand, but for once this discovery brought him no delight. Picking up the letter and tossing it aside, he sank down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. The bleeding seemed to be slowing, at least.

Finally, more from force of habit than anything else, he reached down to pull his wooden box out from under the bed. As he fumbled with the clasp he noticed for the first time that his hands were shaking. Lifting the lid he stared down at the sheet of parchment lying on top: an unfinished poem for Hyacinth.

The wondrous moment of our meeting . . .
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,

His anger came rushing back as quickly as if it had never gone…I have no more use for words! He tore up the sheet and threw it into the fire grate. At this time of year there was no fire, of course, and as he stared at the scraps lying amid the dust and cobwebs, he knew with a bleak certainty that never again would he write poetry for Hyacinth—Coronel had robbed him of all joy in that pursuit. Yet he felt the loss as of something precious to him, and his soul cried out still in its need for expression.

Briefly he considered his journal, but what would he write—that he had been an utter fool, a naive dupe, an unwitting pawn in Coronel’s scheming game? True though it might be, he could not bear the thought of admitting it in writing.

He looked back down at the box, still sitting open before him as if waiting expectantly. And then he remembered—with the guilty start of one who has suddenly recalled an old, dear, but neglected friend—that it yet held something that belonged to him alone, unbeknownst to and unspoiled by Coronel.

Long before he had composed poems, or kept a journal, he had found comfort in a form of expression that needed no words…was even, perhaps, better than words. He rummaged among the contents of the box until he found what he sought: a heavy sheet of drawing paper, some fine-tipped pen nibs made especially for sketching, and a fresh pot of ink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw once more the face of his beloved. Then, fitting nib to holder, he dipped his pen and began to draw.

As he worked he became completely absorbed, the day’s painful memories receding—for a time, at least. Afternoon drew on to evening and shadows crept across the room but still Frodo drew, stopping only long enough to light his bedside lamp then returning eagerly to his task.

Finally it was finished. Frodo set down his pen and regarded the portrait approvingly: it was a good likeness, very good. Hyacinth gazed back at him from the page, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes bright and laughing, lips curved up in a saucy smile, hair pinned back with a spray of roses as at the ball. The sight was strangely comforting, as if the mood of the pen-and-ink Hyacinth could somehow influence the real one, and for the first time since the fight he began to feel a small stirring of hope. Perhaps he still had something to offer Hyacinth after all, something that would make amends for the disastrous events of the afternoon, or at least soften her wrath enough to give him a chance to explain…

His reverie was broken by the sound of a high-pitched, eager voice in the hall, fast approaching his room. "Frodo? Frodo!"

Frodo groaned. Not now, Merry…

Merry burst in, shouting happily, "There you are, Frodo! Why didn’t you come to dinner?"

"I wasn’t hungry," muttered Frodo, not looking at him.

"Gran’dad wanted to fetch you, but Mummy wouldn’t let him," continued Merry. He examined his cousin’s face with interest. "You’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?"

"Never mind that! Isn’t it your bedtime, Merry?"

"Yes, but I missed you." Now he noticed the drawing. "Oh, who’s that? Is that Hyacinth? I saw you dance with her at the ball…you like her, don’t you?" He jumped onto the bed for a closer look—and in the process knocked over the inkbottle. A pool of dark liquid instantly flooded over the portrait.

What little self-control remaining to Frodo suddenly snapped, and he turned on Merry in wild fury. "Look what you’ve done! That was for Hyacinth, and now you’ve ruined it—you’ve ruined everything!" he shouted. "Well now you can just clear out! Go on, get out of my room!"

Merry flinched as if Frodo had struck him. He stared up at him, unmoving, until Frodo screamed again, "Get out!" Then he turned and fled.

Frodo seized the inkpot and hurled it at the wall with an oath. It shattered and left an ugly stain like a large, misshapen spider. Then he threw himself on the bed, his body wracked by violent, heaving sobs.

Next week
Chapter Ten: Change Partners

Poetry note:

Frodo’s unfinished poem is an excerpt from "Wondrous Moment"by Alexander Pushkin.

Chapter Ten: Change Partners

At breakfast the next morning tension charged the air like an approaching storm. Hyacinth, her face very pale save for two small spots of color on her cheeks, sat toying with her food and ignoring all solicitous inquiries from her admirers.

Frodo did not even make a pretence of eating, but only stared down at his plate.

Esmeralda started to chide him, then thought better of it.

Merry sat kicking the leg of his chair and very pointedly not looking at Frodo. After spilling his second cup of milk and pulling his cousin Berry’s hair, he was unceremoniously hauled out of the room by Saradoc, struggling and squalling.

Only Coronel seemed reasonably cheerful, or at least put up a good front despite his black eye. But his banter with the lasses seemed a bit distracted, and he ate quickly and left while the others were still at table.

"What’s wrong with everyone this morning?" grumbled Rory. "The weather must be changing!" Shrugging, he turned back to Hamilcar to resume their discussion of pipeweed prices in Bree when suddenly, struck by the significance of his own words, he broke off and hurried outside for a sniff of the air and a tour of the pipeweed fields.

Hyacinth rose to leave.

Hortensia looked at her with concern. "Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"Yes mother," she replied tersely.

As she passed Frodo’s chair something fluttered into his lap. He waited until she had gone out, then surreptitiously looked down and saw it was a note. Hyacinth, writing to him! He hurried back to his room, and unfolded it with trembling hands. As he did so a faint scent of lavender wafted up from the sheet. Her writing was just what he’d imagined, elegant and feminine, though her words were strictly no-nonsense.

Frodo,
I must speak with you. Meet me in the rose garden, by the sundial, in half an hour.
Hyacinth
p.s. – Wait outside the gate until you see Coronel leave.
H.

This brief message was enough to unnerve Frodo completely. Half an hour! Should he change his clothes? No, he didn’t want to risk being late. He glanced anxiously in the mirror; his hair looked as disheveled as usual. He ran his fingers through it, which only made it worse. With a frustrated groan, he gave it up and ran out the door.

The next twenty minutes seemed endless. The garden was in riotous bloom—not only roses but nasturtians, delphiniums, and sunflowers as well—but Frodo took no pleasure in them this morning. He paced just outside the gate, agonizing over what he imagined Hyacinth would say to him. What a boorish lout she must think him, unable to resolve his problems in any other way than with his fists…

However to convince her that he, too, had been tricked by Coronel…unaware that his cousin was brazenly passing the poems off as his own? How could he plead innocence when he had assumed a false identity and enlisted another to carry out what he had not the courage to do himself? He had to allow that the evidence was against him.

Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path and dove behind a bush. Here came Coronel, hands jammed in his pockets and a look of utter dejection on his face. If he were a dog he’d have his tail between his legs, thought Frodo with grim satisfaction. Then with a sudden sinking feeling he wondered what he himself would look like a short while hence. For a moment his courage deserted him and he considered fleeing. Then he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst, and opened the garden gate.

* * *

Sitting on a mossy stone bench by the sundial, Hyacinth was growing impatient. Had Frodo lost his nerve?

At the slight creak of a hinge, she looked up. Frodo was standing just inside the gate, looking for all the world like an awkward, skittish colt, ready to bolt at any moment. Hyacinth decided a matter-of-fact tone was called for.

"Ah, there you are, Frodo, won’t you sit down."

Obediently Frodo slid onto the nearest bench.

"No, you silly, over here by me!"

Blushing furiously, Frodo rose again and started toward her, only to veer off suddenly into some shrubbery.

"The little goose! Where is he off to now?"

Frodo reemerged from the flowerbeds and finally arrived at her side, offering a sprig of white flowers and a shy smile. The flowers were hyacinths.

"Oh Frodo—how sweet of you! They’re lovely."

For the first time Frodo met her eyes. She smiled at him and he felt as if his heart would burst.

"Here, be a dear and fasten it in my hair for me, won’t you? Just tuck it behind that ribbon."

Hardly daring to breathe, Frodo leaned in to carry out Hyacinth’s request, his face only inches from hers. It was the closest he’d ever been to her, closer than when they had danced, closer even than on that first day when he’d caught her by the arm. So close that the delicate scent of the flowers enveloped him as he carefully secured them just above her ear. So close that his hand brushed against her hair, and it was even softer than in his dream… His head began to swim with intoxicating, unfamiliar sensations.

"Well? How does it look?" she asked, cocking her head charmingly—at just the angle he had sketched—and bestowing another smile upon him.

It was the first thing she’d said so far that actually required an answer, and Frodo realized with a jolt of panic that he was going to have to find his voice and somehow manage to speak. "Beautiful," he whispered at last. "More beautiful than words could ever tell!"

Hyacinth looked a bit startled, as if unprepared for the raw intensity of his reply. "Frodo," she began, but now that his tongue was loosed, the torrent of words was not so quickly stopped.

"Hyacinth, about yesterday—I’m so sorry! You always seem to catch me fighting, please forgive—"

One gentle finger pressed to his lips was enough to strike him dumb again. "Hush, Frodo! Now that I’ve dragged the story out of Coronel I don’t blame you; in fact I’d say your actions were more than justified. I just…" she paused, choosing her words carefully. "I just wanted to stop it before you hurt him too badly." She was pleased to see the hoped-for response: a slight but unmistakable look of pride that crept over his face. He drew himself up a little straighter. "But Frodo"—she touched his hand, and he trembled at the touch—"What I wish to do now is thank you properly for your lovely poems. The one you gave to Horrie yesterday quite took my breath away."

On hearing this Frodo couldn’t help but feel a certain measure of vindication, but it quickly vanished at her next words.

"And yet, it troubled me as well. To write of death so, of a willingness to die for my sake… I don’t know how I could possibly have earned such devotion. In fact I feel quite unworthy!"

"Unworthy—never!" exclaimed Frodo, gazing at her with heart-wrenching faith.

"Ah, my dear," she said, smiling a little sadly. "Please don’t make of me something that I’m not. I’m afraid I shall disappoint you."

"You can do no wrong in my eyes, Princess, and never shall!" Frodo protested.

"What I shall do remains to be seen, but right now there is still the matter of thanking you."

"But you don’t—that is, just to sit by your side and hear your voice is all the thanks I need," stammered Frodo.

"I daresay, but I had something more…direct in mind."

After fastening the flowers, Frodo had retreated a safe distance along the bench.

She now eyed him seductively from under her long lashes. "Come Frodo, you needn’t look so frightened, I’m not going to bite! At least," she added with a wicked smile, "not yet."

Already nervous, Frodo now broke out in a cold sweat. What did she mean, not yet?

Hyacinth had sidled down the bench toward him as she spoke and was once again so close that the heady fragrance of the flowers made Frodo’s senses reel. "You have such nice hair," she murmured, running her fingers through his wayward curls. "And such lovely eyes," she continued, holding his gaze with her own. "And oh, those lips!" She lightly traced them with a fingertip.

Even as Frodo felt himself slipping over the edge of blissful oblivion, a last vestige of rational thought surfaced: Shouldn’t I be saying such things to her? He opened his mouth to try but before he could get a word out, soft lips had captured his in a tender yet determined kiss…

For a moment out of time Frodo sat transfixed by her touch, unable to move or even breathe. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers tangling themselves in her silky hair, and pulled her closer. He was returning her kiss now—gently at first, but growing ever more insistent with the stirrings of desire. Hyacinth gave an eager little moan against his mouth.

As if in answer, a strident female voice rang out, accompanied by frenetic yipping, which made Frodo jump as suddenly as if Hyacinth had bitten him after all. "Hyacinth? Where are you, Coronel said you wanted to…Oh!"

Fluffy dashed up, then ran excitedly back and forth between her rapidly approaching mistress and the startled tweens. Too late, they pulled away from each other.

"Hyacinth Hornblower!" shrieked Hortensia. "WHAT in the Four Farthings is going on here, young lady? And who is that rascal with you…not Dodo?!"

"His name is Frodo, mother," said Hyacinth with as much dignity as she could muster, trying to smooth her disarrayed hair.

"Don’t change the subject, missy!" retorted Hortensia. "Frodo, Dodo, what does it matter…the real question is, just what do the two of you think you’re playing at?"

"We’re not playing! We were just having a serious—"

"Sneaking out without a chaperone again!" railed Hortensia, without heeding her daughter’s attempted reply. "And in this queer, uncivilized land, where any sort of unscrupulous rogues could be lurking about waiting to prey on weak, defenseless young lasses like you! Whatever will your father say? Surely you’ve not forgotten his threat to lock you in your room until you come of age, if you continue to show such flagrant disregard for your family’s good name and your own reputation?"

"And as for you!" she continued, turning her wrath now on Frodo. "I thought you showed a sense of propriety at the ball, but now I see you’re no better than the rest…" She broke off abruptly as she marked his somewhat glazed expression. "Oh, why am I wasting my breath—you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you!" she snapped. It was as well that she did not seem to expect Frodo to reply, as he could not have spoken at that moment if his life depended on it. "Come along, Hyacinth."

She whirled about and marched off, dragging her daughter behind her. "But just wait until the Master hears about this!" she called over her shoulder as a parting shot. Hyacinth turned and managed to give Frodo a wink and a sultry smile.

After they had gone Frodo sat there still, suffused with a delicious, tingling warmth and a sense of astonished rapture. He could not even find it within himself to be angry with Coronel, who had clearly intended for Hortensia to discover him alone with her daughter.

Slowly he arose from the bench and, half in a daze, began to wander through garden and orchard…for how long or how far he could not have said. He had no thought or care for his surroundings nor for what would happen next, knowing only that he must preserve this precious moment, must keep it jealously to himself, for as long as possible. But finally his reproachful stomach—he had eaten nothing since midday prior—demanded that he turn back.

* * *

Try as he might, Frodo could not afterwards recall in any detail what he had felt when kissing Hyacinth. All he knew was that, for a little while, he had been happy.

Next week:
Chapter Eleven: The Letter

Author’s note:

Re: "nasturtians," that’s how Tolkien spelled it, and he was quite insistent on it.

Chapter Eleven: The Letter

The possibility of keeping one’s actions private and unremarked-upon at Brandy Hall was so remote that any attempt to do so would have been deemed a fool’s effort by its residents. By the time Frodo returned to the Hall, his indiscretion with Hyacinth had already been discussed at length thrice over. Despite the scandalized clucking of his aunts, the prevailing opinion was that the tweens’ behavior need not be taken too seriously, due to Frodo’s tender age—as he was thoroughly offended to learn.

He was in the kitchen wolfing down a bowl of mutton stew that Elsie had dispensed along with a laconic "So, worked up an appetite, have we?" when a maidservant came in to announce smirkingly, "The Master wants to see you in his chambers right away!"

Frodo sighed. His uncle never tarried in calling him to account.

* * *

Frodo entered the Master’s small private study to find both Rory and Sara awaiting him, looking very serious but not, he noted with relief, angry. He went to stand before them, as was usual for his dressing-downs, but surprisingly Rory said, "Have a seat, lad," motioning him to an empty chair.

He decided the best approach was a confident one. "If this is to be the talk about where baby birds come from…I already know," he said with studied nonchalance.

"I daresay you do," Rory snorted, "from the way I hear you were carrying on this morning. Let’s just hope you know as much about how to keep those baby birds in their shells!"

Frodo’s worldly air vanished in a flash as his face went crimson to the roots of his hair.

Saradoc cleared his throat loudly and nudged his father in the ribs.

"All right, all right," grunted Rory. "I’m getting to it!" He turned back to Frodo. "As it happens, that’s not why we called you in here…since there’s plainly nothing we could tell you on that subject anyway," he added, unable to resist one last dig.

"Yesterday," he continued, "I received a letter from Cousin Bilbo…Sara?" On cue, his son produced a folded-up document from his waistcoat pocket. "Tell Frodo what it says."

Glancing down at the missive to refresh his memory, Sara recounted, "Well, after extending his fond greetings to the family and his sincere wishes that all is well at Brandy Hall, he writes of the high regard he has for Father and Mother, and for Ezzie and me, and for you, and of what a fine job he thinks we’ve done of raising you over the years, and what a fine upstanding young hobbit you’re becoming, and how impressed he was with you on your last visit to Hobbiton, and—"

"Yes yes," cut in Rory impatiently, as Frodo listened in bewilderment. "He goes on like that for quite a while, but the long and short of it is, lad, that Bilbo has made a formal proposal to adopt you. Do you know what that means, Frodo? Not just to make you his legal ward…but to make you his heir!"

Frodo stared at them, dumbfounded. "Why would he want to do that?" he managed at last.

"I can think of plenty of reasons, lad, and most of ‘em are named Sackville-Baggins. A hobbit gets to a certain point in his life, he starts thinking about his legacy and such. And despite all appearances to the contrary, there’s no denying old Bilbo’s passed that point and then some!"

Frodo had not the slightest idea of what Rory was talking about. He appealed to Saradoc. "But Uncle Sara, I thought you adopted me when…" He swallowed hard, then tried again. "When my…" Why was it still so hard to say it?

"Not exactly, Frodo," said Saradoc gently. "I became your guardian, responsible for your care and well being." He paused, looking rather embarrassed—Sara never found it easy to speak of his feelings—then continued with an effort, "My dear boy, I truly do care for you like a son. But I could never offer you what Bilbo can. All of my properties and possessions will pass to Merry—as they must, since he is successor to the title of Master."

Frodo was still trying to take it all in. "Do—do you mean that Uncle Bilbo wants me to live with him?"

"Confound it Frodo," burst out Rory. "What do you think we’ve been talking about all this time? And why do you look so flabbergasted, anyhow? Bilbo said he explained everything in his letter to you!"

"His letter…" repeated Frodo blankly.

"Yes," Sara said with some surprise. "Bilbo said he was writing to you separately, surely you must have received his letter by now? This one came yesterday afternoon."

Suddenly Frodo remembered the letter lying on his bed when he’d come in after the fight…the letter he’d tossed aside and promptly forgotten.

When he did not reply, Rory pushed on relentlessly. "Well, letter or no letter, the fact of the matter is that aye, Bilbo Baggins is asking you to go and live with him in Hobbiton. And now what do you say to that, eh?"

"But…Brandy Hall is my home!" A note of panic was creeping into Frodo’s voice.

"Of course it is, lad," Sara reassured him, "and we hope you’ll always think of it that way. But now Bilbo’s invited you to make Bag End your new home! Isn’t that wonderful?"

Was it? Frodo was silent as a jumble of brief but vivid images flashed through his mind.

His home…The Buck Hill shrouded in drifting fog on an early spring morning, mysterious and majestic. The warm glow of Brandy Hall at dusk, the light from its many windows dancing in the rippling water below. Fishing with his father on the banks of the Brandywine, and the proud thrill of his first catch. Lazy summer afternoons swimming with his mother in the placid River—and the raging, deadly fury of that same River as it taunted him one dark November day. The peace and solitude of his parent’s graveside. Serious, kindly Saradoc, always trying to shield him from Rory’s wrath and, less successfully, to discipline him. Dear Ezzie, knowing she could never replace his mother but gamely trying nonetheless. Merry’s small, frightened face at his bedside, then the creak of the mattress and the rustle of the bedclothes as he crept in to snuggle up to his cousin. And, further back, furthest of all, the sound of a beloved voice and the touch of a gentle hand that put his own night terrors to rest. For most of his life and memory, this had been home.

And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…a talk that left him feeling there was no place he belonged, and no one in his life that he could rely upon except himself. All the doubts and fears of a lost, angry fifteen-year-old came rushing back. "No!" he blurted out. "It isn’t wonderful, and I won’t go, I tell you!"

Rory’s patience, never his strong suit, suddenly gave way. "Can’t you see you’d be better off there, you stubborn whelp!" he snapped.

Dead silence followed these words. A look of pain flickered across Frodo’s face, then was as quickly gone again. Rising from his chair he looked down at his uncle, eyes smoldering. "Yes, I can see all right," he said bitterly. "I can see that you’ve wanted to be rid of me ever since my parents died. And now at last you have your chance!"

Rory climbed slowly to his feet and Sara instinctively started to move between them, but there was no need. After staring at his nephew with a peculiar expression Frodo did not recognize, Rory abruptly turned and left, banging the door behind him.

"Frodo," said Sara quietly after he’d gone. "You’re wrong about Father…you know that, don’t you?"

"I don’t know anything!" retorted Frodo, but he felt secretly ashamed of himself.

Sara sighed. "Let me try to explain this one more time. We were as surprised as you by Bilbo’s offer, and at first I was inclined to regard it as a mere whim, the passing fancy of an eccentric old hobbit, if you’ll forgive my saying so. But adoption is not something one proposes lightly, or without long and careful deliberation. It is a very complex legal proceeding requiring lengthy documents, multiple witnesses…and as Bilbo is head of his family, this will have implications for the entire Baggins clan. Rory’s right, the Sackville-Bagginses will be furious!"

The thought of causing such a stir made Frodo cringe. "Uncle Sara, you know that Bilbo’s very dear to me, but…I’m happy with things as they are—living here, and visiting there. Why should any of that have to change?"

Saradoc smiled a little at his plaintive question. "It’s the way of things to change, lad, whether we wish it or not. But this change would be much to your benefit. As I said before, Bilbo can give you advantages we never could…wealth, property, a position in society. Don’t you see? As his heir—with all the titles, rights and privileges of such—you would be very rich someday…and you would be Master of Bag End!"

"What do I care for that?" shrugged Frodo.

"You may not now lad, but one day you’ll be thinking of marrying and starting a family. Your parents didn’t have much to leave you, and as an orphan with no prospects, what could you could offer a lass?" Sara said gently.

Frodo made no reply; his cousin’s words had hit an unexpected mark.

After a pause Sara went on, "Well, I can see you have much to think about, so take all the time you need. No one is going to force this on you, Frodo. You’re old enough to make your own decisions now."

"Yes sir," Frodo said in a subdued voice, suddenly feeling very young indeed.

* * *

Frodo walked slowly back to his room, Sara’s words still echoing in his mind. An orphan with no prospects… He had never thought of it that way, but now he saw himself through the eyes of Hyacinth’s parents: a hobbit of so little consequence that Mrs. Hornblower could not be troubled to get his name right. Someone who would never be considered worthy of their daughter…at best a nobody and at worst a fortune hunter. But as Master of Bag End, they would have to take him seriously: a suitor to be reckoned with….a desirable match.

All this he quickly perceived—and just as quickly rejected. That he should choose to accept Bilbo’s generous offer for personal gain…that he should seek the Hornblowers’ approval on the strength of his title and possessions, not his character…the very idea repulsed him. And that Hyacinth herself could be swayed by such vulgar enticements—it was impossible, unthinkable!

If Hyacinth loved him as he did her—and surely she must, for she had kissed him!—then his wealth or the lack thereof would matter not a whit. She would stand up to her parents when the time came. But that time, when he was of age to propose marriage, was still so unbearably far off…

He found the letter lying on the chair by his bed, where he had tossed it the day before. Bilbo’s letters were never brief, but this one was even longer than usual: several pages filled with his cramped, spidery script. With some trepidation he began to read.

30 Wedmath

My dear Frodo,

I hope this letter finds you as well as when I saw you last …it seems but a short while ago that we sat at breakfast together, discussing plans for our birthday…and yet now that occasion is nearly upon us!

I know you thought me in jest at the time but, my dear boy, I assure you I have never been more serious in my life than when I asked you to come and live with me. Perhaps I sprang it on you too suddenly, but the idea had been forming in my mind for many months.

I have written to Rory and Sara as well, and undoubtedly they will recount to you—if they have not already done so—all the sound, practical reasons behind this proposal: that, seeing as I have no family of my own, it seemed desirable to name my own heir rather than see my beloved Bag End, and all the rest of my estate, pass into the hands of relations for whom I bear little love or respect. That, seeing as you were left by tragic circumstances without independent means, the arrangement would confer considerable benefit upon you as well. That, given my highly favorable opinion of your intellect and strength of character, you would make an excellent Master of Bag End and head of the Baggins family when the time comes.

I have every confidence that these arguments will persuade the goodhearted, sensible Brandybucks that letting you go is in your best interests, and so they will not oppose me in this—or hinder you, should you accept my offer.

However, dear lad, knowing you as well as I do, I am equally certain that these same arguments will make scant impression on you, for you are neither grasping nor greedy and care little for material wealth, being, like me, more interested in riches of the mind and imagination. But there are other reasons for this invitation, Frodo…reasons that do not appear in my letter to your kin. I hesitate to burden you with them; indeed I find it difficult to write of them at all, yet I would be remiss if I did not endeavor to do so—for it is only fair that you should know all before you make your decision.

As you know, I have lived alone here at Bag End for many years, ever since the death of my mother when I was just in my forties. Fate did not bring me to marriage or a family of my own, and I have had no great regret for this, for my path led elsewhere. Although it is unusual among hobbits, and has prompted much gossip and ridicule among the worthy locals, I have quite enjoyed my solitary life…being able to do just as I please, enjoying the company of guests when I choose, but always being just as glad when their visits end and I can get back to my comfortable bachelor life.

But of late I have begun to think that perhaps I’ve been alone too long. A feeling of dread and foreboding often troubles me by day, and my sleep is haunted by strange visions and dark dreams.

And here is the strangest part of all: figuring large in all of this is my magic ring. Sometimes I feel that it is like an eye, always watching me—even when hidden in my pocket. I find myself thinking on it overmuch, and sometimes these thoughts have frightened me. The last time Otho and Lobelia paid me an unwelcome visit I longed, as always, to put on the ring and elude them. But this time it didn’t stop there. I found myself wanting to play cruel tricks on them while invisible…to remove the spoons that I’d seen Lobelia slip into her bag and enjoy the look on her face as they rose mysteriously into the air! But I imagined doing more terrible things too…I wanted to strike that miserable Otho, to push him down the front steps of Bag End and watch him grovel in terror as I laughed unseen. And there were other, worse fantasies, but I can’t bring myself to write of them. I don’t know what possessed me to think such evil things, and it so frightened me that I became quite extraordinarily pleasant to the S-Bs for the remainder of their visit. But after they left I went to bed early and huddled shivering under my blankets, hiding from I know not what…myself, I suppose.

That night I had the dream for the first time. In it, I held out my ring to you, as I did on your visit last spring. And this time I let you take it, and you set it on your finger. But I could still see you, and it seemed rather that I was the invisible one, yet you looked at me and laughed… Since then I have dreamt this often.

I have pondered all of these things and what they might mean, but so far they remain a riddle I cannot solve. I have tried locking the ring away, but find that only makes me think about it all the more, and in the end, I always relent and return it to my pocket. I have puzzled endlessly over the dreams, but have yet to make any sense of them.

In the end, though no wiser, I am always left with the same longing: that you should come here to live with me. Perhaps I am afraid to be alone with my dreams and imaginings, with the dark and nameless terror that steals over me in the watches of the night. No doubt I sound quite mad to you, and I hope I haven’t frightened you off. But please know that, should you decide not to accept my offer, I will understand completely, and will not think any less of you for it.

As I look back over this letter—and you must forgive a long-winded old hobbit for going on at such length—I see that in all my ramblings I have not yet managed to say the most important thing of all: It is not fear only, nor the whispers of dreams, that prompt me to ask this of you. For you see, Frodo, of all those who have stayed at Bag End over the years, you are the only one whom I have ever felt sorry to see go…the smial seemed very empty after your last visit! You have a quick wit and an intelligent, curious mind rarely seen among hobbits—who else has ever shown an interest in, much less an aptitude for, learning Elvish? While some of your younger cousins enjoy my tales—I believe young Meriadoc is ready to set off on an adventure of his own tomorrow!—none but you is able to grasp their true significance.

The fact of the matter is, I have become very fond of you, dear boy. You’re growing up to be a fine young hobbit, and a credit to your parents…they would have been proud of you indeed. I see in you qualities that may not yet be apparent to most of those around you, or even to yourself. But I think you are destined for great things, Frodo Baggins, whatever path you should choose.

Your devoted uncle,

Bilbo

Frodo lowered the letter, feeling both deeply moved and greatly disturbed by what he had read. He did not understand most of it…the only thing about which he had no doubt was that his cousin was in some sort of trouble. The fact that Bilbo had not even tried to hide his desperation was especially alarming, coming from a hobbit who usually made light of problems. With a guilty start he recalled his concern over Bilbo’s strange words and behavior on his last visit. But poetry and passion had quite driven it from his mind—until now.

He sighed and closed his eyes, letting another wave of memories wash over him.

Bilbo’s twinkling eyes and kindly face, as familiar and unchanging as Bag End itself, lit by the fire’s dim, ruddy glow as he spun tales of magic and adventure deep into the night. The study filled with marvelous, exotic books, so unlike the dry tomes in Brandy Hall’s library, and the luxury of all the time he wished to read them without being accused of "loafing about." Long, pleasant rambles through the Water-valley and the Green Hill Country, where he would sometimes sketch the idyllic landscape and Bilbo would recite poetry, either his own whimsical rhymes or enchanting Elvish verse. Quiet, thoughtful conversation with just one other, a rare experience at the boisterous Hall.

The last image he saw was that of Bilbo’s face when he’d tried to touch the ring.

It’s the way of things to change…

Frodo felt torn in two. But Bilbo, it seemed, needed him. Could he honestly say the same of anyone at Brandy Hall? Only Merry, perhaps. But Merry had a large and doting family, whereas Bilbo had no one…

He suddenly realized that his decision was made.

* * *

Frodo found Saradoc sitting alone in his chambers, wreathed in a cloud of pipeweed smoke and sunk deep in thought. At Frodo’s approach he lifted his head and looked searchingly into his cousin’s face. "Well Frodo, what have you decided?"

Returning his gaze soberly, Frodo replied, "I will go to Hobbiton, and make my home with Uncle Bilbo." It seemed to him that his words hung heavily in the air between them, like the pipeweed smoke.

He knew with a sudden, piercing clarity that he was setting in motion a course of events from which there was no turning back, was leaving behind his familiar and predictable—if imperfect—world for a fate that he could not foresee. For a moment he shrank inwardly from this realization, but then his resolve stiffened. Whatever path you should choose… He had set his feet on this path now, and would follow where it led.

Saradoc did not answer, but only took another draw on his pipe and sent a smoke ring drifting overhead.

Frodo, having expected the reassurance of his quick approval, looked at him anxiously. "Uncle Sara…?"

"I believe that you have chosen wisely, Frodo," said Saradoc at last, his eyes on the smoke ring as it slowly dissipated. "And yet…" He turned back to Frodo and smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. "It will be hard to see you go, lad. Hard for all of us, but for Merry in particular. I hate to think how he will take it…"

Merry! Frodo had not seen his little cousin since breakfast, and the day’s swiftly unfolding events had left no opportunity to seek him out and apologize for his harsh words of the night before. But with a sinking feeling, Frodo realized that what he must tell him now would hurt him far more… He was suddenly desperate to find Merry before he heard the news from someone else. "Where is Merry, Uncle?"

"He was sent to his room for his deplorable behavior at breakfast this morning," replied Sara. "But you may go in to see him now if you wish."

Before Saradoc had finished speaking Frodo was hurrying down the short passage to the family’s sleeping quarters. On reaching the nursery he rapped softly on the door, then cautiously opened it. "Merry dear," he began, but the words died on his lips. The room was empty.

* * *

Even with numerous relations and servants joining in the search, several hours later Merry still had not been found. Brandy Hall had countless hiding places for a small hobbit intent on evasion, and it was not known whether the faunt was still in the smial at all. Esmeralda was trying to hide her concern, saying it was just another of his pranks, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes…

Frodo was just leaving the Hall to search outside when he heard a voice that, even in the midst of his anxiety, made his heart sing with joy.

"Frodo!"

He spun about to see Hyacinth hastening toward him, and abruptly his delight was tempered with yet another worry. What would she think of his move to Hobbiton? As she reached his side he took a deep breath. "Hyacinth, there’s something I must tell you…"

"All right, but first there’s something I must show you!" She held out a small scrap of drawing paper, a strange look on her face.

Frodo stared down at it and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was a heavily smeared charcoal drawing, showing crude stick figures of two hobbits—a male and a female—facing each other and smiling. The male figure held out a bunch of flowers to the female, whose curly hair was long and dark. In an odd way it actually looked like Hyacinth. Scrawled across the bottom in ill-formed characters were the words:

To my Deer Hiysinth with Love frum yer Frodo.

Next week:
Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning

Author’s notes:

"And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…" refers to an incident in Chapter Two of my previous story, "The Terror of Buckland."

Regarding Frodo’s choice, I’ve always wondered about his motivation for moving to Bag End. At his age I don’t think the decision would have been forced on him, so in a sense it is the most important—and fateful—one he will make, as it sets in motion everything that happens to him afterwards. And yet I have not seen many fics exploring his feelings about this. Yes, there are some that depict him as very unhappy at Brandy Hall, in which case his motivation for leaving becomes pretty simple. But in this story, Frodo has a close, loving relationship with his guardians; moreover, the typical teen aversion to change is probably even more deeply ingrained in him due to the trauma of his parents’ deaths. So I wanted to show Bilbo’s offer as presenting him with a real decision…one in which he is truly "torn in two."

Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning

The Brandy Hall Boys were loitering near the River-path, smoking pipeweed and shooting dice. At Frodo’s approach all laughter and bickering instantly stilled, and the faces turned toward him were tense and wary. Yet there was also something approaching admiration in the expression of more than one youth; word of Frodo’s exploits in the garden had reached their ears as well. Otis Sandheaver, sucking on a blade of grass, leered at him. "So, how was she, Baggins?"

"Shut up, Otis!" Frodo turned to the others. "Have any of you lot seen Merry?"

His query met with silence as the hobbits all looked to their leader to speak first. Otis spat out the grass. "Does we look like nursemaids?" he scoffed. "My lads are not so daft as you that way—we’ve no interest in faunts!"

"We only keeps track of the Brat if he’s with you," added Clive Underhill, tossing a die from one hand to the other and wondering if a fight was in the offing.

"Maybe he fell in the River and drownded!" moaned another boy in mock distress. Several of his friends guffawed.

While in the past this would have been enough for Frodo to start swinging, now he merely glared at them and turned away. He had no time for these fools while Merry was missing. But as he started down the River-path he was stayed by a furtive tug on his sleeve.

It was little Bert Diggins. "He’s down by the swimming hole," he muttered, glancing nervously back at Otis. "Leastways, I saw him there not an hour ago, and he ain’t come back up the path since."

"Hey Bert, what are you whisperin’ about there?" shouted Otis, and cuffed him as he scurried back to his comrades. "No chattin’ with the Baggins!"

Frodo tried not to worry as he hurried on toward the River, telling himself that Merry was a good swimmer. Just as his mother had been…

* * *

Frodo found Merry lying on the bank by their favorite swimming spot, dropping sticks in the River to watch them float away on the sluggish current. His curls were bright as dragon’s gold in the late afternoon sun.

"Merry!"

The boy looked up, startled, and saw the drawing in Frodo’s hand. In a flash he was up and running.

Merry was fast, but Frodo was faster. He brought him down with a flying tackle, and though Merry struggled wildly, kept a firm grip on his ankle.

"Let go of my leg!"

"Not unless you promise not to run away!"

Merry gave him a cautious sidelong glance. "Are you angry about the picture?"

Frodo sighed. "No Merry, I’m not angry."

"All right then, I promise."

Frodo let go. They sat there for a moment in an uneasy truce. Finally Frodo broke the silence. "Just tell me one thing, Merry—why did you do it? Why would you give Hyacinth a drawing and pretend it was from me?"

Merry looked down and swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Come now, Merry-lad, don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Finally Merry spoke, though he still wouldn’t look at Frodo. "I was hiding under the sofa while you were talking to Dad, and I heard you say you were going to—to leave and go live with Uncle Bilbo. So I just thought…since I spoiled your drawing, that if I made a new one for you and gave it to Hyacinth, then everything would be all right…and then maybe you’d like me again, and you—you wouldn’t go away." His voice quavered dangerously on the last words.

Frodo stared at him, stunned. Merry’s face was now twisted up with his effort not to cry, but it was Frodo’s eyes that filled with tears first. "O Merry," he whispered. He pulled the faunt into his arms and murmured, "Did you think that I was leaving to get away from you, because I was angry about the drawing?"

Merry nodded, and now he began to weep in earnest, his face pressed against Frodo’s shirt and his small body shuddering with sobs. Frodo just held him until the worst had passed, then pulled back slightly and tipped Merry’s chin up so that he could look into his eyes.

"Dearest Merry," he said gently, brushing away his cousin’s tears, "there’s nothing you could ever do, there’s nothing in this world that would ever make me want to leave you. When you upset the ink I was…well, not at my best just then, and I was wrong to get so angry over something you didn’t mean to do. Can you forgive me?"

Merry nodded, his chest still heaving, and tightened his grip around his cousin’s neck. "But Frodo," he finally managed to get out between hiccups.

"Yes love?"

"Why are you leaving then?"

Frodo sighed again, wondering how he could explain in a way Merry would understand.

"Well, Uncle Bilbo wants to adopt me, you see, and—"

"What’s that mean?"

"It means…it means he wants to be like a father to me."

Frowning slightly, Merry tried to take this in. "But he can’t be your father—not your real father!" he objected.

"No," said Frodo softly. "Not my real father…no one could ever take his place. But my father in all but name, Merry—just as you are my brother in all but name."

Merry looked at him, wide-eyed. "Did you adopt me?" he asked.

Frodo smiled. "Yes, I suppose you could say that." But he quickly turned serious again. "I claimed you as my brother long ago, Merry-lad, and nothing will ever break that bond. And even if we can’t always be together now, I’ll still be with you, right here," he said, putting his hand over Merry’s heart, "just as you’ll always be with me."

Merry looked down at his chest in confusion, then back up at his cousin. He appeared unconvinced. "But you won’t," he said woefully. "You’ll be at Bag End, and I’ll never see you anymore!" His lower lip started to tremble again.

Frodo thought quickly. "Of course you’ll see me—I promise I’ll be back for Blotmath’s Eve, and Yule, and in between if you like. And just think of the jolly times we’ll have when you come to visit me!"

Merry considered this carefully. "Do you think Mum and Dad will let me visit by myself?"

"Since I’ll be there to keep an eye on you, I fancy they will."

"And will Uncle Bilbo let us stay up past bed-time?" Merry pursued, eagerness creeping into his voice now.

"He always does, Merry-lad…we’ll get to sit up late by the fire while he tells exciting tales of Elves and goblins!"

Merry smiled then and laid his head back against Frodo’s chest. "Frodo?"

"Yes, Merry?"

"Did Hyacinth like the picture?"

Frodo tightened his arms around his cousin. "She loved it."

* * *

Since learning of his imminent change in fortune, Hortensia was now much more cordial toward Frodo, magnanimously excusing the incident in the garden as "youthful high spirits" and even calling him by his correct name. He spent an excruciating afternoon at tea in the Hornblowers’ chambers, grilled by Hamilcar about his knowledge of pipeweed cultivation as Hyacinth smiled at him sympathetically from across the table.

Nevertheless, their families took great care to ensure that the tweens had no further opportunities to be alone together, and as Frodo was still far too young for chaperoned courting, he and Hyacinth saw little of each other except at meals. "But I daresay there will be time enough for that later," said Hortensia with a wink. Amid Frodo’s frustrated longing for later to be now, he took some consolation in the fact that Coronel seemed to be making an effort to keep out of his way.

The time for the pipeweed harvest was fast approaching, and for once Frodo welcomed the incessant discussions and preparations as a distraction from the torment of his enforced separation from Hyacinth. On the eve of the harvest, Rory’s agitation was near uncontainable. He could scarcely be persuaded to sit down to dinner, and even then he was continually springing up to pace the hearth.

Hamilcar sought to reassure him. "Calm yourself, Rory—’twill all be over soon enough! There’s naught to worry about now, old boy."

"Hold your tongue, Ham!" growled Rory. "Every time you say that, something bad happens!"

"But Rory, think on it! This crop has survived root rot, budworm, blue mold, weevils, brown spot, suckfly, and spotted wilt…what could possibly happen to it that hasn’t already happened?"

"You forgot black shank and hornworm," said Rory peevishly, but he appeared slightly mollified nonetheless.

"To the future of Buckland Broadleaf!" cried Hamilcar, and all present raised their glasses high.

* * *

Rory awoke at dawn to a hard drumming sound coming from outside the smial. He lay there a moment, struggling to break free from the lingering fog of sleep, then as comprehension dawned he shot from his bed, reaching the window in one bound. Hailstones the size of hen’s eggs were pelting down furiously, piling against trees and walls and battering the flower beds around the smial. Beneath the dark, high clouds the sky was strangely bright, and the rising sun sparkled in the drifts of fallen hail.

Stunned, Rory stared down at the mangled flowers below the window, but his mind’s eye was elsewhere. In the surrounding fields grapes hung heavy on the vines, ripe grain nodded on its stalks, food crops to see hobbit and beast through the winter stood ready for harvesting…

With an oath he whirled about and seized a great hunting horn that hung from a peg above the mantel, then rushing to the door blew a mighty blast that reverberated down the passages of the Hall.

Awake! Awake!

It was the Horn-call of Buckland, and all through the smial it was met with the sounds of slamming doors, startled shouts and running feet.

Fear! Fire! Foes!
Awake!

Minutes later the kitchen was packed with anxious, bleary-eyed hobbits. The male-folk were clustered around Rory by the fire, while their wives brewed pots of strong tea and readied the canning jars for any salvageable produce. The faunts giggled and whispered excitedly at all the commotion.

Still in his nightshirt, Rory strode up and down the hearth, barking orders around the unlit pipe clenched between his teeth and jabbing the air with the fire poker for emphasis. "Saradas, you ride to Bree to negotiate contracts with the grain merchants. Mind you go posthaste…once they get wind of our misfortune they’ll triple their prices."

"And if they do…?" said his brother dubiously.

"Then we’ll just have to pay it… ’twill be famine in Buckland if we don’t! But if anyone can squeeze an honest price from ’em it’s you, brother…I’m counting on you." The poker now pointed toward his eldest son. "Saradoc, as soon as this storm lets up, go find Barden and survey the crop damage."

"He’s already started. I told him it wasn’t safe with the hail still coming down, but he insisted…"

"Good old Barden! Well, you can join him when we’re finished here, and salvage what you can. Mac, head over to Bamfurlong, see how the Marish fared. Dodinas, Dinodas, ride out to the Great Smials…Lalia will help us, she won’t have forgotten our aid in the year of the drought. Take Coronel with you, mayhap he can be of some use."

While he talked, the hail gradually tapered off then ceased altogether, and in the eerie silence that followed a door banging open sounded loud as a firecracker, making everyone jump.

Barden burst into the kitchen, showering all who stood near with melting ice crystals. He pulled off the bucket that had served him as a makeshift helmet and breathlessly exclaimed, "The vineyards are untouched, praise to all powers and guardian spirits that be!"

"I’m delighted to hear it, Barden," said Rory cautiously, "but what of the food crops?"

"They’re most of ‘em safe, Master." When everyone stared at him in disbelief, he added, "Seems it was a summat…ah, local hailstorm!"

"Local?" Rory’s eyes narrowed. "Just how local?"

Barden began to hem a little. "Well sir, only the crops nearest the Hall were hit bad…the cornfields are buried in hail three fingers deep, so ’twas a lucky thing most of the ears were already picked. Then there was the pumpkins, but their rinds are that hard it didn’t hurt ’em none…" he trailed off, not meeting Rory’s eye.

The room had grown deathly still. "And the pipeweed?" said Rory very quietly.

Barden took a deep breath, then plunged bravely on. "It’s a queer thing, Master, but the pipeweed fields, they—they was hit hardest of all. Never seen anything like it," he continued in a rush, "though it brings to mind a like occurrence me gaffer used to speak of, that happened back in the spring of…"

But Rory wasn’t listening. Indeed he was already halfway to the back door, and minutes later was standing among the shredded, flattened remnants of the pipeweed plants, shaking his fist at the sky—now a limpid, mild blue—and shouting maniacally. "All right, whoever or whatever you are—I give up! You win! Are you satisfied now?"

"It’s a sign," muttered Barden to no one in particular. "’Twasn’t natural, and I’ve said all along no good would come of it…"

Merry came running in with a bucketful of hailstones, which Elsie crushed in a bowl and drizzled with blackberry syrup. Soon half a dozen faunts were happily spooning up fruit ice.

Next week
Chapter Thirteen: Childhood’s End

Author’s notes:

While the Red Book of Westmarch states that "the Horn-call of Buckland…had not been sounded for a hundred years" prior to that dark night at Crickhollow, Frodo was tactfully ignoring Rory’s erroneous blowing of the call during the freak hailstorm of 1389. As it was heard on that occasion only within Brandy Hall, few knew of the incident in any event.

"Lalia will help us…" According to Letter 214 in The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, Lalia the Great was head of the Tooks upon the death of her husband, Thain Fortinbras II, in 1380 until her own death in 1402. In 1389 her son Ferumbras was Thain, but since his mother "ruled the Tooks and the Great Smials for 22 years," she would have been the logical recipient of Rory’s appeal.

Yes, I know corn and pumpkins are New World crops…but since Tolkien didn’t worry about the presence of tobacco and potatoes in Middle Earth, I’m not going to worry either!

Chapter Thirteen: Childhood’s End

A kind of exhausted calm settled over the Hall, roiled only by the shocking discovery that Fluffy was pregnant.

"It’s that dreadful Garm, I’m positive!" wailed Hortensia, as her swelling pet waddled across the kitchen.

"Why, that’s impossible," protested Rory. "Think of the size difference!"

"I’m certain of it nonetheless! What ugly mongrels they’ll be…and now Fluffy will have to miss the Westfarthing Dog Show next month!"

Rory glared at his dog suspiciously.

Garm lay panting by the hearth, and managed to look smug.

* * *

It had been decided that Frodo would leave for Hobbiton on his birthday. The Hornblowers had chosen the same date for their journey home; with the unhappy conclusion of the pipeweed venture, there was no reason for them to linger in Buckland. Indeed, had Rory and Hamilcar not started last-minute discussions on importing some Southfarthing grape stock for Brandy Hall Vineyards, they would have been already gone.

In his final days at the Hall Frodo spent as much time as he could with Merry, visiting all of their old haunts and taking him swimming, fishing, boating, and hiking to his heart’s content. They went berry-picking and mushroom hunting—in the woods, not in Maggot’s fields—and spent long, lazy afternoons in the apple orchard, where Frodo would patiently answer every question his small companion could concoct about Hobbiton, Bag End, and Uncle Bilbo, and when might he come for his first visit?

The Brandy Hall Boys continued to track their movements, but it seemed that Otis’ heart wasn’t in it. Clive eyed him with concern one morning, as he sat despondently on the wall along the River-path, head in hands. "Why so blue, mate?"

"Haven’t you heard?" muttered Otis. "The Baggins is leavin’…"

Clive scratched his head. "I should ha’ thought you’d be right cheerful at that news!"

With mournful visage, Otis looked up at his friend and plaintively asked, "But Clive—what’ll we do for fun?"

* * *

On the eve of his departure, as Frodo lay wakeful and restless in the dark, quiet Hall, he was not surprised to hear his bedroom door creak open and then shut again. There were no telltale footsteps to give away his stealthy visitor, but a minute later there was warm breath by his pillow and then a rustling of the feather bed as a small body climbed in beside him and an arm stole around his neck.

Esmeralda was right about Merry’s growing independence—the frequency of his late-night visits to Frodo’s room had dropped off in recent months. But tonight, for this one last time, it was like all the nights uncounted over the years, when Merry had sought refuge from the shadows in the arms of his beloved cousin.

"Frodo?" came the dear, familiar whisper.

"Yes love?"

"Will Uncle Bilbo take you with him on his next adventure?"

"I think Bilbo’s adventuring days are over now, Merry."

"Oh…well then, will you take me with you when you go on adventures?"

Frodo chuckled softly. "When I go? Moving to Hobbiton seems quite adventure enough, thank you!"

"Promise me you will!" Merry insisted. "Someone’s got to protect you from the goblins and dragons!"

"All right Merry-lad, I promise. Now go to sleep!"

Merry smiled, and snuggling closer to his cousin, shut his eyes.

* * *

The morning of his birthday Frodo was up with the sun, leaving Merry slumbering peacefully in his bed. He slipped out of the Hall before most of the household was stirring—only a few servants were quietly beginning the day’s tasks. Behind the Buck Hill he took a narrow path to a small, grassy meadow enclosed by a crumbling stone wall…a quiet, peaceful place where Frodo had often retreated from the smial’s hectic bustle.

The old gate creaked loudly in the stillness of the hour. Frodo passed between rows of weathered grey stones until he came to a secluded corner of the field, guarded by a towering yew tree. Below it two mossy slabs, tilting slightly toward each other, were twined about with creeping rose, only a few windblown blooms yet remaining among the bright orange hips and yellowing leaves. Sinking to his knees beside them he lightly traced the graven name on one stone, then the other. He sighed and leant his cheek against cool granite.

"I’m moving to Hobbiton, Papa, to live with Uncle Bilbo…I know how much you thought of him, so I’m sure you’d approve." His voice was low, scarcely more than a whisper. "And Mama, I’ve met someone! She’s kind, and clever, and so beautiful…she reminds me very much of you. I think you would have liked her, Mama…"

He fell silent, lost in his memories for a time. Finally, he carefully unwrapped the birthday present he had brought—a portrait of himself that he had spent most of the previous day working on—and laid it on the greensward. Then he rose, gently touched each stone one last time, and turned away…

* * *

On returning to the Hall Frodo felt too nervous to eat breakfast, and begged off to do his final packing. In truth he had been packed since the previous afternoon, but he returned to his room for one last look. Stripped of all his possessions, with no piled-up books and strewn clothing, it looked forlorn and unnaturally neat: a stranger’s room. One of the chambermaids had tried to scrub out the ink stain on the wall, but had not been entirely successful. Now it looked like the grey ghost of a spider.

Restlessly he wandered outside to watch his trunk being loaded on top of the carriage. He was immensely relieved that Sara, Ezzie, and Merry were accompanying him on the journey to Hobbiton; the most painful partings would thus be deferred a while longer. He had already taken leave of most of the family at a quiet birthday celebration the night before, and this morning had exchanged last, tearful hugs with Auntie Gilda; more reserved ones with Amaranth and Asphodel. That left only Rory.

Relations had been somewhat strained between Frodo and his uncle since their words over Bilbo’s letter. While Rory had expressed his gruff approval of Frodo’s decision when informed of it, and while outwardly their manner toward each other was stiffly cordial, Frodo found himself apprehensive about their final meeting. However, it could be avoided no longer. He had been instructed to report to the Master’s study at 8 o’ clock sharp, and that time had now arrived.

When Frodo reached the study Hamilcar Hornblower was just coming out, tucking a folded parchment into his waistcoat pocket with a look of profound satisfaction. He tousled Frodo’s hair and clapped him heartily on the back. "Best of luck to you lad!" he boomed, adding with a broad wink, "See you again in a few years, eh?"

"Yes sir," said Frodo politely, but his heart sank. A few years! He fervently hoped it would not be so long.

Rory was standing before the fire—the weather had finally started to cool—and on hearing Frodo enter, he looked up. "Ah! There you are, Frodo. Come in, come in." He gestured toward a chair and took one facing it. "So, lad, you’re leaving us today."

"Yes, Uncle Rory." As long as they stuck to good, obvious statements of fact, Frodo thought, perhaps the conversation would not prove too difficult…

"As I’ve said before, it’s for the best, and I’m glad you’ve come to see it that way."

He paused, as if waiting for a reply, but Frodo remained silent, fearing to tread too close to their earlier disagreement. Rory cleared his throat and continued, "Yes—well, before you go, there are some legal matters to be discussed…a question of your inheritance."

This was not expected. Frodo stared at his uncle. "But—I thought Uncle Bilbo was making all the arrangements!"

"Not that inheritance, boy, your Brandybuck inheritance! Mind, it’s not much…as the last of seven children, and a female at that, your mother was entitled to no more than a token share of the family estate. But her dowry included a small property upriver from the Hall—a mushroom farm—that brings in a tithe every year from the farmer who works it. That income has been held in trust ever since your parents died, and upon your coming-of-age it reverts to you, along with the deed to the farm."

Frodo listened in growing surprise as his uncle talked, and couldn’t help but smile at the irony. He, the owner of a mushroom farm! Had he but known, and made it the target of his raids all these years rather than Maggot’s fields, who could have objected?

"I know this may seem like small potatoes to you, now that you’re sole heir to the Baggins fortune and lands. But it’s only proper that you should know of it before you go…I’ll not have it said that Rory Brandybuck kept from you what was rightfully yours!"

"Thank you, Uncle." Frodo wondered if this concluded their conversation, but it seemed that Rory wasn’t through quite yet.

"Now then, Frodo, you may be leaving Buckland, but you must never forget you’re a Brandybuck as much as a Baggins…mind you behave in a manner that does credit to the family! And be careful—Hobbiton’s a strange place, and its folk are stranger. As for old Bilbo, he’s a good hobbit, and thinks the world of you, but he’s not overly endowed with common sense, to my way of thinking. If you have any problems with him, or with anyone else there for that matter, you let me know straightaway, do you hear? And keep a sharp eye on those Sackville-Bagginses…they’ll be looking for a way to make trouble between you and Bilbo if they find they can’t contest the will. And that’s just what they will find…I sent my solicitors off to Bag End last week to inspect the documents, and they assure me that Bilbo’s done it up right. Sara will sign as the seventh witness when you reach Bag End."

Rory finally seemed to have run out of advice. "Well, safe journey to you, lad, and good fortune at its end. Give Bilbo my regards!"

They stood up and shook hands awkwardly. Frodo waited for Rory to give him leave to go, but instead he merely moved to the window and stood gazing out.

Frodo waited a bit, then ventured carefully, "Will that be all, sir?"

"Eh? Yes, that’s all," Rory muttered, not turning round.

Frodo stood there a moment longer, uncertain, then started for the door. But just before he crossed the threshold, something made him pause and look back. Rory was still staring intently out the window, as if at some distant object. He ran his hand through his grizzled hair, and Frodo saw with surprise that it was trembling. Suddenly a light broke on him…and a slow smile spread across his face. "I love you too, Uncle," he said softly. Then he turned and was gone.

Rory looked after him, blinking hard. "So very like her…" He pulled out a large pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "I’ll be hog-tied and horsewhipped for a sentimental old fool," he muttered.

* * *

Although Frodo had secretly resolved to see Hyacinth alone before they departed, so far he had not managed to get past the vigilance of her mother. And now it had come to the point: he must meet her this morning or not, he feared, for a very long time. He had pored over maps in the library, charting the shortest routes between Hobbiton and Longbottom, but had no great confidence that he would be able to put the information to use anytime soon, if Hamilcar’s parting words to him were any indication.

Somehow, then, he must find a way to see Hyacinth this morning. But before he could seek her out, there remained one last errand…

Summer hyacinths bloomed yet in Gilda’s garden, slender white bells drooping daintily on their stems. But the forget-me-nots were long since spent, and Frodo stood dismayed amidst their fading foliage. He had set his heart on these two flowers, and no others would do.

His last hope lay with the River. For there, among the bulrushes and cattails, water forget-me-nots might still be found, bidding a lingering farewell to summer. There was one spot in particular where they flourished, if he dared venture there. As Frodo walked down to the River-path, carefully cradling the hyacinths, he contemplated with growing dread the one leave he had not yet taken…

The River lay shimmering before him in the morning light, smooth as amber glass and as tranquil as on that midsummer evening when his parents had gone boating… Since then Frodo had often fancied that the River spoke to him, mocking him in its summer calm and challenging him in its winter fury. He had answered the challenge once, and nearly paid for it with his life.

He wandered now along the path, heading downstream where the banks were lower, searching carefully but not finding what he sought. His steps gradually slowed, his hope fading that he would find the flowers before he reached the place he had avoided these many years.

And then Frodo rounded a bend in the path and saw it: the wide, marshy spot where forget-me-nots thronged in such glorious profusion that they seemed to float above the water like a trembling, ethereal mist, blue as the mirroring sky. It looked just as he remembered when, undetected, he had followed his grandfather and uncle down to the River after the summons had come in the quiet dawn. Then, too, the flowers had grown in such abundance as to stay his parents’ capsized, drifting boat in its slow, meandering course downriver. And his parents, in their turn, had been caught up in the flowers’ embrace…a vision of beauty and death entwined that had burned itself indelibly into his soul.

As he stood there remembering, the words of an old song came to him unbidden:

A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

"Dear Edwin, if your love be true,
I ask one favor now from you:
Go! Fetch me a flower from across the river,
To prove you love me more than ever."

Frodo stepped into the chill, murky water, and felt as he did so that he was stepping back to that other, long-ago morning. The flowers came up to his chest on their tall green stalks, swaying in the current with slow, dream-like grace. He reached out his hand to grasp one.

So he leap'd into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
Where he pluck'd a flower right merrily
Which gladdened his young bride to see.

But when he tried to swim across,
All strength of body soon was lost,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flower to his lovely bride.

Then, as now, he had gathered flowers here. After they had taken his parents away he had gathered them, to lay on the fresh graves…

And he cried, "Alas! Hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
Of my devotion let others tell,
My dearest Ellen! Fare thee well!"

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, "Edwin, dear, hard is our lot,
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not."

With an effort, Frodo pulled his thoughts back to the present. The sun was climbing higher…time was growing short. He scrambled back up to the path, but still he could not turn back, not yet. He looked out over the glittering expanse of water, winding in great, looping bends off into the hazy distance. Somewhere hidden on the far shore, a heron cried.

Never trust the River… So his mother had taught him; so he had taught Merry. But why then had his mother’s wisdom not saved her? He had heard all the whispered rumors and dismissed them as absurd: that his father’s weight had sunk the boat, that his mother had pushed him in, and been pulled in after…

But far worse than the taunts of others were his own tormented questions as he lay aching and alone in the blank, pitiless night. How could it happen with the River so calm? How, with his mother so strong a swimmer? True, his father swam not at all, but that fact alone could not explain the evening’s grim conclusion. More than once Frodo had arisen on such sleepless nights, and stolen from the smial to take a dory out on the glimmering water. He would let the craft drift with the current and wait, breathlessly, for the River to take him too, or at least to give him some sign, some clue to their fate. But it never did.

For years the River’s unyielding secrecy had gnawed at him, filling his heart with bitterness and anger. But then Merry had laid claim to his love—had awakened his desire to protect and care for another, until the loneliness and pain had eased, and he had slowly forgotten his obsession. Until now…

Yet now, as he faced his old nemesis with his still-unanswered questions, he felt a strange sense of acceptance. The River no longer called to him, either in mockery or challenge. It was neither friend nor foe but, in the end, nothing more than a river.

He plucked some flowers from the bunch he had gathered and tossed them out over the water, then watched them catch in an eddy and spin slowly away. "Fare thee well," he whispered.

* * *

"She said she was going for a last walk in the garden."

Frodo had cornered Horatio as he was coming out of the Hornblowers’ guest chambers, and his heart leaped at this reply. If he could meet Hyacinth anywhere, the garden would be his wish. And Hortensia, as Horatio further reported, was currently occupied with telling her servants how to pack…

As he hurried along, Frodo thought again of the words he had rehearsed over and over in his mind: Twelve years might seem long to some…yet they matter little for those whose love is true…

On reaching the garden Frodo went first to the sundial, but Hyacinth was not there. His pulse began racing nonetheless, as he thought of their last meeting. He sat for a moment on the stone bench, trying to recapture the sensations that had so overwhelmed him that he could recall them now only as an exquisite blur.

This time would be different. He would memorize every detail: the scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the beating of her heart as he clasped her to his breast…

With a guilty start he realized he was crushing the flowers. He jumped up and wandered deeper into the garden…past the rose trellises, past the lily pond, past the little fountain singing all to itself. He was now growing anxious; the farthest bounds of the garden approached yet he had seen no sign of Hyacinth.

Close by the outer garden wall, screened by a camellia hedge, was a small pavilion. Either he would find her there…or she had left the garden. He drew nearer, clutching his flowers with trembling hands and trying to master his excitement.

Then he stopped cold, the blood draining from his face as if he had suddenly taken ill. He desperately wanted to flee, but his limbs would not obey and he stood there, white and still as one of the statues that dotted the grounds. The world seemed to spin around him and his vision darkened; indeed all his senses seemed to have abandoned him, save hearing only. For he heard with perfect clarity the low murmur of voices issuing from the pavilion.

"…you know I do, my darling."

"Then say it!" came Coronel’s insistent demand.

Hyacinth’s next words were shy and tentative, but stung more cruelly than the keenest blade. "I—I love you, Cory!" After that the pavilion was quiet for a time…

* * *

Hyacinth started and drew back, a look of alarm on her face.

"What’s the matter, Hy?" said Coronel, trying to pull her close again. "I didn’t frighten you, did I?"

"No darling, it’s just—I thought I heard something."

"I heard nothing save the beating of our two hearts as one," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

"No Cory, really—I think there’s someone out there! Let me go and see, I’ll only be a minute."

Slipping out of the pavilion, Hyacinth ventured a few steps along the path, looking left and right but seeing no one. Puzzled, she glanced down—and a hand crept slowly to her mouth.

"Hyacinth? Is anyone out there?"

Raising her head she stood silent a moment, gazing out over the garden but seeming not to see it.

"Hy?" Coronel called again.

"No one, Cory dear!" she answered at last.

"Well come back then—I miss you!"

And Hyacinth turned and ran lightly up the steps of the pavilion to the arms of her lover, leaving behind her only some scattered flowers, white and blue, on the path.

Next week
Epilogue One: Cold Comfort

Poetry note:

The old song Frodo recalls is adapted from the poem "Forget Me Not" by William McGonagall, based on a romantic medieval legend.

Epilogue 1: Cold Comfort

"He needs more red!"

Frodo paused in his work and looked up quizzically at the elder hobbit hovering just behind him. "Are you certain? Remember, Uncle Bilbo, this is watercolor…once I put it in, it can’t be changed."

"I’m positive, lad…that eagle’s feathers had a decidedly reddish cast. I had an incomparable view of them as I was transported hundreds of feet above the earth, far too terrified to look anywhere but at the feathers I was clutching so desperately. Do you know, that bird had the audacity to suggest that I resembled a rabbit?! But I was in no position to take offense! I’m sorry I never learned his name, but then I had other things on my mind at the time." Bilbo wandered over to the hearth as he talked, and poured himself a cup of tea.

"All right, then." Frodo dipped his brush in a tiny pot of vermilion pigment, swirled it on his palette with umber and a touch of black, and carefully applied it to the page in front of him. "Still, it must have been splendid, flying with an eagle," he mused dreamily. "I wish I might do it someday!"

"Be careful what you wish for, lad! Some adventures are better in the telling than in the doing. And more pleasing on the page than in the flesh…" Bilbo now came back over to the drafting table to check on Frodo’s progress. "Ah, that’s more like it…you’ve captured him perfectly now!" He beamed at his cousin. "This is wonderful, my boy—I’d always dreamed of the day when you could turn your talent to the illustration of my book, even leaving blank pages as I wrote for just that purpose. But until you came here to live, there was never any practical way to manage it. I should have suggested this years ago!"

Frodo smiled. Since his arrival at Bag End six months earlier, Bilbo had done everything in his power to make him feel at home, and he suspected that the book project was part of that scheme. In any event, he was grateful to be kept so busy; it left him little time to think about other things.

Best of all, Bilbo seemed to be in great good spirits, saying nothing about dark urges or troubled dreams. Perhaps all that was behind him now…

There was a rap at the open front door of the smial. "Come in!" called Bilbo, and moments later a sturdy young lad with soft brown eyes and sandy curls appeared in the study doorway.

"Master Samwise!" cried Bilbo jovially. "What a pleasant surprise to see you twice in one morning! What brings you back up the Hill—the smell of the blackberry scones I just took out of the oven?"

"No, Mr. Bilbo," said Sam, ducking his head shyly. "I’ve got a letter for you, sir!"

"Oho! What’s your game, lad?" teased Bilbo. "Holding back some of the morning mail in hopes of snagging another copper from me?"

Sam blushed, not realizing Bilbo was in jest. "N–No sir! This one only just came, by special post, it did!"

"Special post, eh? Well let’s have a look at it then…" He reached in his pocket and gave Sam two coppers, then examined the envelope with interest. "This is for both of us, my boy," he called over his shoulder to Frodo, then read aloud: "To Mister Bilbo Baggins and Master Frodo Baggins."

"Mmm." Concentrating on a difficult spot in the picture, Frodo was only half listening.

While Bilbo opened the letter, Sam edged up to Frodo and peered curiously over his shoulder.

Frodo didn’t look away from his delicate task of coloring in a small figure of Bilbo in the eagle’s eyrie, but smiled a greeting as he worked. "Hullo again, Sam."

"Hullo, Master Frodo." Sam’s eyes widened as he gazed at the image. "Mountains!" he breathed in awe. "The Misty Mountains as Mr. Bilbo is always telling of!"

"Very good, Sam! If you can guess that much, I must be doing—"

"It’s a wedding invitation!" announced Bilbo excitedly. "What fun—I haven’t been to a good party in ages! Let’s see, who’s the happy couple? Mr. and Mrs. Hamilcar Hornblower request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Hyacinth to Coronel T—"

"Bollocks!"

"Frodo!" said Bilbo, shocked. "Not in front of the faunt!"

"I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo, but I dripped some paint, and now the picture’s ruined!"

"There there, lad, surely it can’t be as bad as all that! Now, where was I? Ah yes: …to Coronel Took of the Great Smials on Highday, the twenty-first of Astron, thirteen-ninety, at four o’ clock in the afternoon, Hornblower Estates, Longbottom, Southfarthing, The Shire. Coronel Took, married! I never thought that young scoundrel would meet a hook he couldn’t wriggle off! And the one who finally landed him was Hyacinth Hornblower, as I live and breathe! Odd, that…I seem to recall Miss Hornblower won’t be of age for a few years yet." Bilbo chuckled. "Well, there must have been a need for haste, if you take my meaning!" He was about to say more, but noticed Sam’s puzzled expression and quickly broke off.

Frodo was gripping the edge of the table, staring down at the page with a stricken look.

Sam hesitated, then reached up and patted his arm with a small brown hand. "Don’t be sad, Master Frodo," he said gently. "It’s still a right fine picture, even with that spot."

"What’s that?" Bilbo glanced up from the invitation. "Frodo-lad, you’re not still fretting over that little mishap, are you?" He came over to take a closer look. "Hmm, right on my foot, I see. What a pity!"

"I can start over," said Frodo softly, eyes still fixed on the illustration, though he seemed to be looking through it, not at it.

"Nonsense, my boy! Why, it’s nearly finished. I should hate for all your fine work to go to waste." He too stared down at the image, thinking. "You know, it almost looks like a boot…"

Sam giggled.

"Don’t laugh, Sam," Bilbo chided, "there’s some in the Shire, down in the Eastfarthing, that do wear boots against the muddiness in winter and spring—as Frodo here can confirm, eh lad?"

Frodo nodded glumly.

Bilbo glanced at him with a perplexed frown, then continued, "So here’s my thought: if you just extend that blot a bit, and give it a little more shape, then add a like one to my other foot, why then it will simply look like I’m wearing a pair of boots!"

This sufficiently roused Frodo from his funk to protest, "But Uncle Bilbo! It wouldn’t be true…and no one would believe it, anyway!"

"Now then, Frodo, who’s to say that the good dwarves, concerned for my health and welfare as we struggled through the frigid mountain passes, didn’t press a spare set of boots on me, eh? In point of fact, Balin did try to do exactly that! And if they hadn’t been much too large, I just might have taken him up on it. So you see, it’s not as far-fetched as you might think. It could have happened that way…even if it didn’t."

Frodo thought for a moment, brow furrowed. "But—then I’d have to put you in boots in the other pictures, too."

"Ah! I hadn’t considered that, but you’re quite right. What tangled webs we weave indeed! Well, there’s nothing else for it…add the boots everywhere; it’s the best solution I can devise and a far sight better than having you start over. I ask just one thing: if you draw me in Bag End, leave me bootless here at least! Even the most hardened traveler must return to his old ways at last…"

"As you wish, Uncle," said Frodo, though he still sounded dubious.

"Capital! That’s settled, then. Now, about that wedding," said Bilbo, bustling over to his desk and starting to pull out maps. "I wonder which is the best route between here and Longbottom?"

Frodo winced. He could tell his cousin the way down to the last detail…and several alternate routes as well.

Bilbo had unrolled a large map and was now studying it carefully. "Let’s see…the post-road down to Gamwich might be prudent at this time of year," he mused. "It’s not the most direct route, but the smaller roads could still get washed out by rain next month. I’ll make arrangements for us to stay at the Pig & Whistle on the first night, then we can take our time and still arrive early in the afternoon on the twentieth…how does that sound, eh?

"I’m not going," said Frodo.

Startled, Bilbo looked up from his map. "What? Why ever not?"

Frodo was unable to meet his cousin’s eyes. "I don’t like weddings," he muttered.

"But that’s ridiculous! Why, there is no better time to be had than at a wedding, especially when it’s being given by one of the wealthiest families in the Shire. And just imagine, Frodo—every pretty lass for miles around will be there! I know that might not be of much interest to you—you’re young yet, but—"

"I said, I’m not going!" Frodo repeated. Though he spoke quietly, there was something in his voice that stilled Bilbo’s further protests, and he gazed silently at his cousin for a long moment. Sam still stood by Frodo’s side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Very well, Frodo," sighed Bilbo at last. "I’ll not force you. I shall attend the wedding alone, and send you to stay with Dora while I’m away. She doesn’t like weddings, either."

Aunt Dora! No Elvish…no second breakfasts…daily doses of fish oil…
"I’ll be fine on my own, Uncle Bilbo!" said Frodo quickly. "I’m old enough, now."

"Are you indeed? I wonder…" he fell silent again, but then looked up with determined cheer. "Well, we’ll say no more about it at present. If my stomach’s not mistaken—and it never is—it must be high time for elevenses. Leave off there, Frodo; I think you need a break. Samwise, before you cut along home, you must join us in the kitchen to help eat those blackberry scones…they won’t get any better with age! In fact, in the unlikely event any are left over, you must take them down to your mother."

"Yes sir!" said Sam happily.

* * *

The wedding was not mentioned again that day, and after supper Frodo excused himself early and retired to his room. It was a spacious, well-appointed chamber with west-facing windows, considerably more opulent than his snug little nook at Brandy Hall. Frodo had done his best to make it his own by scattering books, garments, and papers over every available surface.

Kneeling now by his bed, he pulled from under it an old, cherished possession: his wooden box. This, more than anything, made the room feel like home, though certainly there was no longer any need to hide it from little rummaging hands. And instead of piling its contents on the bed or balancing them precariously in his lap, he could now carry them over to his very own writing desk. There he spread out parchment, ink, and pens…and stared at them, feeling suddenly unsure.

With these simple tools he had always sought, and found, comfort when needed. But what comfort now remained to him? Journal, poetry, drawings…no longer did they share the secrets of his grieving soul. But there was another, as yet untried way by which his pain might be eased. Setting nib in holder, he dipped it in the inkpot and began to write.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Bilbo rapped on the door, then cracked it open. He was in his dressing gown and nightcap, candle in hand. "Frodo, it’s getting late, shouldn’t you—why, what have you got there, lad?"

Frodo still sat at his desk, his face cast in shadowed relief by the small oil lamp beside him. He finished blotting a sheet of parchment on which he had written:

ONCE ON A TIME

In Which Udo Is Shown to Be a Fool, and
Princess Hyacinth and Coronel Live Happily Ever After

"Nothing much," he said, adding the sheet to a stack of others and folding the document carefully into thirds. "Only a story I’ve just finished."

Bilbo’s face lit up. "A story?" he exclaimed eagerly, coming over and perching on the edge of the desk. "Why, that’s wonderful, Frodo…I didn’t know there were two authors in the family! And I hope it ends as all proper stories should?"

"How is that, Uncle?"

"And they all lived happily ever after to the end of their days."

Frodo didn’t answer at first, then looked up with a sad smile. "I don’t think it’s possible for every character in a story to have a happy ending."

Bilbo was taken aback. "Well, I suppose that’s true enough…for the evil characters, in any event. But surely the heroes should get the ending they deserve!"

"I don’t know that deserving has much to do with it," replied Frodo. "What brings happiness to one may mean sorrow for another."

Startled, Bilbo looked sharply at Frodo. The lad suddenly sounded far older than his years. "Well, I can’t say I think much of this story of yours from what I’ve heard so far! May I see it?"

"No," said Frodo, as he slipped the manuscript into an envelope and sealed it. He wrote a name on the front and handed it to Bilbo. "But you can deliver it for me when you go to the wedding."

Bilbo looked down at the envelope, his suspicion that they were discussing more than characters in a story now confirmed. "I see," he murmured. Everything was suddenly clear—from Frodo’s refusal to attend the wedding to his polite indifference to the giggling attentions of the local lasses. "I’m sorry, dear boy, for being such a blind old fool."

"The only fool here is me," Frodo whispered, looking down at the desk and seeming once more very much his age.

Bilbo moved to draw him into a hug but then stopped short, unsure. It was clear that the lad was trying hard to fight back tears, and he feared to loose the floodgates and rob him of his fragile dignity. Bilbo sighed. He was too old for this! What did he know about consoling a lovesick young hobbit? Finally deciding on a middle course, he reached out and awkwardly patted Frodo on the shoulder. "I know this will seem cold comfort to you just now, Frodo-lad, but one advantage of living as long as I have is that you start to see the pattern behind all that has happened to you."

"The pattern?" Frodo still sounded shaky, but nonetheless intrigued.

"Yes, my boy, I mean that you begin to understand that things happen as they’re meant to, though you might not realize it at the time. For example, when I was a young hobbit—not much older than you, in fact—I fell madly, hopelessly in love. But it all came to naught when the object of my affections made it clear that the feeling was not mutual, and it seemed then as if my world had ended in dark ruin. I cursed my unhappy fate and for a long time, life seemed a dreary burden.

"And yet, Frodo, if things had gone otherwise…if I had settled down in domestic bliss and filled Bag End with fauntlings, however could I have gone off adventuring with thirteen dwarves and a wizard that fine spring morning? Indeed, I doubt very much that Gandalf ever would have approached me under those circumstances—in which case my life would have turned out very differently! So in the end, you see, my disappointment in love turned out to be for the best…"

"Are you certain of that?" asked Frodo softly.

"Oh yes," Bilbo replied with swift conviction, a curious gleam in his eye. His hand strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fiddled with something inside it. "I have never doubted it for a minute…"

"Who was she?"

"Eh, who was who?" said Bilbo, his thoughts elsewhere.

"The one you fell in love with."

"It was—now see here, Frodo, never you mind who it was! No use dredging up ancient history, lad…I only mentioned it to make a point." Bilbo stood up suddenly. "Well as I said before, it’s getting late and—Ah!" he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Now see what you’ve done—I came in here just now with a purpose, but all this talk of stories and fate has nearly driven it from my mind. I wanted to tell you that after giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that it would be highly unwise to let you stay here by yourself while I’m away in Longbottom."

"But, Uncle—"

Bilbo held up his hand. "Let me finish, lad! As I was saying, I don’t want to go off and leave you on your own. But, having duly noted your lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of Dora’s company, I’ve written to Ezzie and asked her to come for a visit…and to bring Merry with her."

Frodo stared at him, momentarily speechless.

"I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me, lad," Bilbo continued hesitantly, "and it’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re right: you are old enough now to look after yourself. It’s just that I—I didn’t want you to be alone, you see, not when you were so clearly upset about something…even if I was too thick-headed to see what it was."

"O Bilbo!" Frodo threw himself at the old hobbit, and now the tears came fast and free.

"There now, dear boy, just let it all out," Bilbo murmured, stroking his cousin’s hair. He smiled in relief, and blinked back a tear of his own. Perhaps he was getting the hang of this after all…

Next week
"All’s Fair" concludes with Epilogue Two: Happily Ever After

Author’s note:

I’ve always wondered why, contrary to his own description of hobbits, Tolkien depicted Bilbo wearing boots in all but one of his illustrations for The Hobbit. This is my explanation!

Epilogue 2: Happily Ever After

toujours gai, toujours gai
- mehitabel

"Whoa! Hold up there, little one!" Frodo staggered backwards as a tiny hobbit ran full-tilt into his legs then, bouncing off, landed hard on his bottom. For a moment the faunt seemed ready to burst into tears, but in the end just put his thumb in his mouth and stared solemnly up at Frodo. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, eh?" Frodo asked as he picked him up, dusted him off, and set back him on his feet. "There you are, lad, good as new!" He knelt down so that he was eye-to-eye with the youngster and smiled reassuringly. "Now then, I don’t think you came to the party by yourself, so let’s go find your mama and papa, shall we?"

At that moment a voice called out, "Hammie! Come back this instant, you naughty boy!"

Frodo stiffened; he recognized the voice instantly though twelve years had passed since he heard it last.

It was Hyacinth. Threading her way through the crowds of revelers she hastened toward them, scolding all the while. "Shame on you for running away from Mummy and almost knocking over that poor gentlehobbit…I’m so sorry sir, I—" She broke off with a surprised exclamation as she caught up to them and got her first clear look at Frodo.

She paused, at a momentary loss, then quickly recovering she stooped to pick up her son and straightened again. "Hello Frodo…forgive me, I didn’t see at first that it was you. And please excuse Hammie…he’s at that age when he just starts running for the fun of it, and if someone doesn’t catch him there’s no telling when or where he’ll stop…"

Frodo stood up hastily, brushing the grass off his breeches. "Hello, Hyacinth. Please don’t give it another thought. I have scores of cousins who act the same way—and some of them are much older than your little one."

Her composure now fully restored, Hyacinth smiled at him. "I’m delighted to see you, Cousin! Please accept my congratulations on your coming of age."

Several more hobbit children had been trailing behind their mother, and were now peering shyly at Frodo from behind her skirts. "This is my eldest, Donnabella," said Hyacinth, indicating a pretty lass of eleven or twelve, "and the twins, Otto and Orlando. And, of course, little Hammie—Hamilton, that is—you’ve already met! Children, say hello to your Cousin Frodo…it’s his birthday, and Uncle Bilbo’s, that we’re here to celebrate tonight."

"Pleased to meet you, Cousin Frodo," they chorused. She frowned at them expectantly, until Donnabella quickly added, "And many happy returns!"

"Thank you, my dear!" smiled Frodo. "What lovely children you have!" he said to Hyacinth, even as he wondered where Coronel was.

"They are my most precious treasures." She gazed proudly at them, then said to her daughter, "Donna, why don’t you take your brothers over to the table where Granny and Gran’dad are sitting? I’ll be along directly, after I’ve finished speaking with Cousin Frodo."

"All right, Mummy." Donnabella dipped a polite curtsey to Frodo, then took Hammie from her mother and barked at the others, "Come on then, you heard Mum!"

After the children had gone, Frodo and Hyacinth stood silent for a long moment, looking at one another.

Bearing four babes had cost Hyacinth the slender figure of her youth, but her movements were as graceful as ever and her voluptuous curves had a warm sensuality that Frodo found quite… striking. Her luxurious auburn tresses were now demurely pinned up, and the first strands of silver gleamed amid the burnished copper. While her face had lost none of its delicate beauty, time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth and care had creased her brow. But the passing years had failed to diminish the light in her eyes, and her gaze, as it met his own, still had the power to steal Frodo’s breath away.

If Hyacinth had once thought that Frodo possessed a certain waifish charm, she now saw that this early promise had reached its full flowering. His features, which had had an unfinished quality as he teetered on the cusp between childhood and tweens, had finally knit together into a harmonious and highly pleasing whole. His dark curls were still long and unruly, but now seemed to frame his face most attractively rather than hiding it. His gaze had a directness she had never observed in the past; the gentleness and sensitivity she had seen that day in the garden were still there, but strengthened by a quiet self-possession. His build had caught up to his height and though still slim, he no longer looked like a strong wind would snap him in half…in fact he had filled out rather nicely, she thought. His soft Bucklander lilt had all but disappeared, to be replaced by the cultured accent of the Westfarthing gentry.

"You’re looking well, Frodo."

"And you, Hyacinth…you’re even lovelier than when I saw you last."

She gave a skeptical laugh, but her cheeks colored slightly. "And you’re just as sweet-tongued! Surely you’re too young for your eyes to be failing, but I thank you just the same." Then her smile faded and a pensive look came over her face. "Can it really be twelve years…" She seemed to hesitate, then said in a rush, "Frodo, I’m sorry I never wrote to thank you for the story you sent me, but I…I wasn’t certain that I ought…or even if you’d want me to."

Frodo swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly gone dry. So we come to it… "No thanks were expected," he replied, careful to keep his voice steady, "but I do hope that it pleased you."

Her mouth twisted in something between a grimace and a smile. "Oh, yes…it was a charming fairy story."

"A fairy story?" faltered Frodo, his calm demeanor slipping. "I—I didn’t intend it as such…it’s what I imagined to be true. I was right, wasn’t I?"

Hyacinth looked away.

"But it did have a happy ending…?" Frodo pressed anxiously.

Before Hyacinth could answer, Frodo heard an equally familiar—though less welcome—voice hailing him, and turned to find himself face to face with Coronel Took.

While Coronel’s good looks had not deserted him, their effect was somewhat spoiled by a florid complexion and prominent paunch, both hinting at a penchant for excess. He was clearly in his cups. "Well well well, if it isn’t young Frodo! Or Mister Baggins I should say, now that you’re all grown up and come of age!"

If he tousles my hair, I’ll kill him, thought Frodo.

But Coronel only beamed at him with ale-soaked benevolence and said, "Many happy returns, lad! Still writing poetry?"

"No," said Frodo curtly.

"No? That’s a pity, you had a real talent for it."

"Cory!" exclaimed Hyacinth, aghast. If looks could kill, he would have been struck down as he stood.

"Don’t be silly my dear, we’re all adults here and I’m sure Frodo bears no hard feelings over that silly little prank…all’s fair in love, eh?"

Frodo said nothing. He wondered at himself that he did not feel angrier with Coronel, but what he mostly felt was sympathy for Hyacinth’s obvious chagrin.

There was an awkward silence, during which the band could be heard playing a sprightly ländler. At that moment a pretty young hobbit-maid with bouncing golden curls and rosy cheeks ran up to them. "Fro–do!" she trilled happily. "I’ve been looking all over for you."

"Hello, Buttercup," Frodo replied without enthusiasm. He turned to the others. "Hyacinth, Coronel, please allow me to present Miss Buttercup Boffin of the Overhill Boffins. Buttercup, this is Mr. Coronel Took of the Great Smials and his wife, Hyacinth."

The lass gave a perfunctory curtsey and said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, good sir and madam," before quickly turning back to Frodo. "Have you forgotten that you promised to dance the ländler with me, Frodo?"

"Ah…no, of course not…and I will be delighted to honor that commitment, just as soon as I have finished speaking with the Tooks," Frodo politely demurred.

"But you dance it better than anyone else here, most of the lads can’t keep from stepping on my toes," she pouted. When it became clear that Frodo would not relent, she sulkily moved off a few paces to watch the dancers.

Coronel followed her with his eyes, then turned to Frodo and winked suggestively. "You’re a lucky hobbit, Frodo…young, well situated, unattached…what more could a fellow ask?"

Frodo looked at him steadily, until Coronel’s smile faltered and his eyes dropped. "It’s you who are the lucky one, Coronel," he said quietly.

Coronel blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before looking guiltily at his wife. "Oh! Er—yes, of course," he mumbled.

Buttercup, still watching the twirling dancers, gave a histrionic sigh and glanced over at Frodo reproachfully.

"If there’s one thing I can’t bear to see, it’s a damsel in distress," declared Coronel firmly. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. "In my day I could dance a rather neat ländler myself, Miss Boffin…perhaps could I be of some service, if you’re willing to give it a go with an old codger like me?"

Buttercup giggled. "Oh Mr. Took, you’re not so old as all that! How sweet of you to offer," she added with a pointed look at Frodo.

"By your leave, my dear?" Coronel called over his shoulder to Hyacinth, then without waiting for a reply he gripped Buttercup tightly about the waist and danced away with her.

Once again Frodo and Hyacinth were left standing alone together. Their eyes met for a moment before Hyacinth bowed her head, as if ashamed.

"I’m sorry," Frodo murmured, thinking how inadequate his words sounded.

Hyacinth looked up quickly and smiled, though her eyes were over-bright. "Don’t be," she said briskly. "What was that you said the day we met? I can bear the gossip but not the pity…"

"Something like that," said Frodo, startled that she remembered.

"It’s not as if I walked into this with my eyes shut," continued Hyacinth. "But I thought that I could change him, or that faunts would…" she gave a short, bitter laugh. "Even before we were wed it was clear that a cow was more likely to jump over the Moon than he to mend his ways. During my confinement he shamelessly chased anything in a skirt at Longbottom Manor…and even a few not in skirts, if the rumors be true," she added.

Frodo stared at her, shocked. "Then why did you go through with it?"

"Well, there was the babe, of course. And…I did love him—still love him," she said softly, no longer trying to disguise the anguish in her voice. Seizing his hand, she looked up at him with a kind of pleading desperation. "Can you understand, Frodo? I had no say in the matter, really…my heart made its choice, and I could no other—no matter how much I might have wished it."

Frodo was silent for a long moment, struggling to control his own emotions. "Yes, I can understand," he said at last. Then he forced himself to ask the question that was tormenting him, both needing yet fearing to hear the answer. "Hyacinth, forgive me for asking, but I—I must know: was it the poems…?"

Hyacinth smiled sadly and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "No," she replied. "It wasn’t your poems that made me fall in love with him, though certainly I was pleased and flattered by them. In fact, after the truth of the matter came out, I rather thought I hated him! But just before we left Buckland, he came to say farewell. And I asked him once more why he’d deceived us both so wickedly. I’d asked him that day by the sundial, too, but he made no answer then, at least none that satisfied me. But on that last morning…he said it was his love for me that had made him do it. And I—I thought he must love me a great deal indeed to have been driven to such extreme measures!" She sighed. "I know it seems foolish now, but at the time I was more impressionable. And Coronel was good—very good—at making an impression."

"Don’t I know it," said Frodo bitterly.

"You were coming to see me that morning too, weren’t you?" said Hyacinth gently, releasing his hand at last.

Frodo simply nodded, not asking how she knew.

They both fell silent, thinking of scattered flowers on a path. And it seemed now that there was nothing more to say, so that when someone approached they stirred and moved away from each other, as if relieved to have the tension of the moment broken.

It was Merry, now a handsome and very self-assured young hobbit of nineteen. "There you are, Frodo, I—" He broke off when he saw his cousin’s face and asked worriedly, "I say, are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, I’m fine. Merry, you remember Cousin Hyacinth, don’t you?"

Merry started at the name. "Of course…pleased to meet you again, Madam." His manner was stiffly polite, but the look he flashed Hyacinth was less than friendly. He turned back to Frodo. "Bilbo’s looking for you…he says it’s almost time, whatever that means."

Before Frodo could reply, he was nearly bowled over for the second time that night as a small, hurtling hobbit careened into him at full speed. His assailant this time was a bright-eyed, impish lad of twelve with an extremely guilty expression. "Oh, sorry Frodo! Merry, you’ve got to hide me!"

"What have you done this time, Pip?" asked Merry with all the exasperated superiority of a teen.

"Nothing! Well, nothing much to speak of, that is…oh, I’ll tell you later Merry, but right now you’ve got to save me from your gaffer!"

Just then Rory’s voice came booming through the crowd. "Peregrin Took, you young scoundrel! Just wait till I get hold of you…!"

"All right, come on then," said Merry, trying to sound disapproving but unable to hide a grin. He looked back at Frodo, suddenly serious again. "You’re sure everything’s all right?"

"Quite sure, Mer."

Merry didn’t look convinced, but Pippin was tugging at him frantically. He turned to Hyacinth and bowed slightly, then hurried off with his cousin in tow.

Hyacinth watched them leave, smiling at a memory. "He’s still trying to protect you, I see," she said wryly.

"It was supposed to be the other way around, you know," recalled Frodo with a rueful laugh. "But Merry never really did need protecting—at least, not for very long. And now he can protect Pippin to his heart’s content…"

The music had stopped now and the crowd was calling for more, Coronel’s voice rising raucously above the rest. Hyacinth frowned. "I had better go and collect my husband before he makes a greater fool of himself than he already has!" She extended her hand rather formally and said with a tight smile, "Frodo, it was such a pleasure to see you again after all this time. Many happy returns to you!"

"Thank you, Hyacinth." He could find no more words than these, and releasing her hand, he started to turn away just as the musicians struck up another ländler. At the first notes he froze—the haunting melody trembled with yearning tenderness, piercing his soul. It was the Merry Widow.

His eyes met Hyacinth’s and then, without knowing quite how he came there, Frodo found himself back at her side. "May I have the honor of this dance, Mrs. Took?" he asked softly.

Hyacinth hesitated for a heartbeat, then replied, "I’d be delighted, Mr. Baggins."

He bowed, she curtseyed…then he took her in his arms and they whirled off across the floor. And it was just as in his dream: the world faded around them into a blur of lights and colors, the other dancers reduced to spinning shadows until there was no one else at all, just the two of them pressed close in the ländler’s sweet embrace…

The world, however, was still very much present and looking on with great interest; this was partly because the pair danced with such grace that they were a pleasure to watch. But some of the goodwives were scandalized. The young Master, making so bold as to dance with a married hobbit! Some of their outrage no doubt stemmed from the fact that Mr. Frodo had passed over their lovely and eligible daughters in favor of that shameless Hyacinth Took.

Their husbands laughed and nudged each other. "Let Cory get a bit of his own back, the old wife-poacher, and see how he likes it!" said one. Others just shrugged, being of the opinion that the future Master of Bag End was free to dance with whomever he jolly well pleased on his coming-of-age day.

The dancers had not escaped the notice of Coronel and Buttercup either, and they seemed none too pleased about it. Buttercup, in fact, looked quite put out that Frodo had turned her down only to dance with an old matron. For his part, Coronel was staring at Hyacinth as if he had not truly seen her for a long while.

Too soon, the dance ended in a flurry of applause. Frodo released Hyacinth and stepped back a reluctant pace or two. As she curtseyed she smiled at him, and this time it was genuine. "Thank you Frodo, that was lovely! You’ve made me feel like a lass again…" She paused, and looked at him questioningly.

Frodo wavered for a moment, suddenly shy and unsure as a young tween and painfully aware, now, of the crowd of curious onlookers. Then he smiled in return and, taking Hyacinth’s hand, he bowed over it and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips. He raised his eyes to hers. "Hyacinth, I—"

Suddenly Coronel was there, appearing markedly more sober than he had before. "Charming, very charming…I had forgotten what a lovely dancer you are, my dear! And you’ve learned a thing or two since I last saw you on a dance floor," he added with a sharp glance at Frodo. "Now if you’ll kindly excuse us, old boy, it’s time to round up the faunts…" He took Hyacinth by the elbow and began steering her away.

But Hyacinth suddenly stopped and pulled free of his grip. Ignoring Coronel’s look of displeasure, she ran back to Frodo, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. "Your story was wrong in this at least," she whispered. "Udo was never a fool." Then she was gone.

Frodo stood there still, the party swirling around him unheeded, and found himself thinking, unaccountably, of the first time he had laughed after his parents died. He had been horror-struck at the realization—having felt so sure he would never laugh again.

He tried to imagine them at the party tonight, celebrating his coming of age. Would they have been proud of me? he wondered, recalling Bilbo’s words in his letter—so long ago now, twelve years…

Twelve years might seem long to some…yet they matter little for those whose love is true…

His thoughts drifted then to that other birthday—was it really only twelve years ago?—when for the second time in his short life he had felt his world crumble around him…had seen his carefully reconstructed happiness vanish like the will o’ the wisp it was, leaving him alone once more. And it had seemed more than he could bear, more than anyone could bear, and he had stood as on the edge of an abyss, and gazed into the void, and felt its pull…

But somehow, just as with his parents’ deaths, he had borne it, had found it within himself to carry on with this business of living, and even to find pleasure again in doing so. Somewhere deep down, the darkness beckoned still, but as yet the pull of light and life was the stronger.

Over time he had even come to realize that there had been no betrayal, no abandonment on Hyacinth’s part, for indeed she had never claimed to love him, nor made him any promise. And he had taken some consolation—or "cold comfort" as Bilbo had put it—from his conviction that Hyacinth had found happiness in marrying her own true love, just as he had written in his story.

But her real story, it seemed, had had a different author. He felt a profound sense of disillusionment settling over him and sinking deep into his soul.

Does no one get their happy ending?

All his feelings of longing and grief, both past and present, were now flowing together until he could not have said whether it was for Hyacinth that he mourned, or for the older, deeper loss that would always be with him, or even for the loss that was yet to come but that drew nearer with each passing minute.

With a start, Frodo realized that the music had stopped. Everyone had gone quiet around him and he could hear Bilbo speaking:

My dear Bagginses and Boffins…

The words struck a sudden chill in his heart. Until now Bilbo’s talk of leaving had not seemed real; his planned disappearance no more than a lark, a whimsical prank. But now cold reality would not be denied: he was losing his family again, and would be left alone once more. For a moment he felt the darkness pressing in close...

But then he shook it off. He had come of age now, and must take his disappointments and sorrows as they came…just as Hyacinth surely had done for the sake of her children. He smiled faintly. This time there would be no fistfights or mushroom raids.

…and Grubbs, and Chubbs, and Burrowses…

Perhaps, after all, this was what it truly meant to grow up: you carry on, do what you must—happy ending or no.

…Goodbodies, Brockhouses, and Proudfoots.

"ProudFEET!" someone shouted.

Frodo lifted his head, drew a deep breath, and steadily walked up to take his place at Bilbo’s side.

~ The End ~

Author’s notes:

Opening quote from archy and mehitabel by Don Marquis.

Bilbo’s speech excerpts from The Fellowship of the Ring.

To Marcel Proust for the hawthorns and lilacs, A.A. Milne for Princess Hyacinth, Prince Udo, and Coronel, C.S. Forester for Horatio Hornblower, Franz Lehàr for the Merry Widow Waltz, and Edmond Rostand for Cyrano de Bergerac; to all the poets whose work I borrowed; and to J.R.R. Tolkien for everything else: thanks and sorry.

To my readers and reviewers: thank you for letting me share my story with you. It’s truly been a pleasure.

And last but not least, a heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta…the story would not be what it is without you.