The Choice of Healing

Waking

       He had been having trouble staying awake since the preceding spring.  When approached about it, Lord Elrond had examined him briefly, and then sat down to talk with him with mixed amusement and mild grief.

       “It is only to be expected, little Master,” the Elf had explained.  “That which kept you from aging normally is gone.  Yes, you have aged since you gave It up; but still you carried It long in the reckoning of mortals; and as long as It remained It would still have some effect, even at a distance.  Even Gollum knew continued life, vigor, strength, and endurance after It came to you, and he sensed he would die only with Its destruction.

       “Your body is having to adjust, for now it is your own native vitality alone that sustains it, not power from afar.  And, it is the nature of those in extreme old age among mortals to need more sleep ere the end.”

       He was alarmed.  “I don’t wish to leave before he can come back.  I must be here, my Lord.  I must.  It would destroy him to come to find he was too late.  And then there is my vow to outlive the Old Took.”

       The Lord of Imladris sighed.  “It is foolish to make a vow one cannot fulfill voluntarily.”  He gave Bilbo a sharper look, and one corner of his mouth quirked just slightly.  “Although there is the fact you are a mixture of Baggins, Took, and Brandybuck beyond reason, with the stubbornness and endurance of your kind.  Perhaps your will may indeed bring you to it.”  His face suddenly became solemn as he added, “After all, look at what he managed to accomplish, and under greater duress than almost any mortal has ever suffered.  I can think of few even among Elfkind who could have endured it.”

       “That’s why I must remain for him, Lord Elrond.  I would not have him feel I gave up under so much less than he did.  And I will not have him believe I either lost faith or abandoned him--not now.  He still will have recovery to go through.”

       The Elflord turned from him, leaned on the windowsill.  “Yes, he will have recovery to go through--”  and his voice dropped  “--if he ever truly recovers.”

       Bilbo had barely heard the last, for it was spoken in such low tones, and again the Hobbit was beginning to drift away.  He startled awake, annoyed that it had caught him again.  Yes, he realized, he had managed to drift away completely, for although the Elf Lord was still with him, he’d moved from his former position at the window, was kneeling before him, looking on him with that detached expression of examination he gave to his mortal guests.  Seeing him awake again, Elrond rose.  “I will do my best to aid you, Bilbo, but I can guarantee nothing.  You are ancient even in the ways of your own kind.  If you, a Hobbit, wish to live to the age of an elderly Dwarf, then you must accept that your body will need frequent sleep, or you will find the deeper sleep to come will take you.”

*******

       Arwen had begun to help him pack for the trip to Minas Tirith, but at last, when he’d awakened for the tenth time in little more than twice that many minutes, he shook his head.  “Leave off,” he said with resignation.  “Face it, my Lady, I am simply too old to go so far.  If I even try, I will most likely fall off my pony before we get twenty leagues down the road to the Southlands and break this fool neck of mine.

       “If you are to arrive in time for Midsummer, then you must leave me behind.  Otherwise I will slow all down horribly, and then very probably won’t come there after all.  No, I hate to miss your bliss and that of the Dúnedan’s, but if I am to see him again, it will be best if I remain here.  I do not wish for him to see me arrive only to be placed in one of those stone tombs of theirs.”

       He’d managed not to weep at the disappointment, but only just.  She knelt to embrace him in comfort, and then he’d once again slipped into slumber.  Not, of course, that slumbering in the arms of one of the two most beautiful of womankind in all of Middle Earth did not have its compensations.  He again startled awake, looked up at her, his eyes twinkling at one of those strange, perverse thoughts that will cross an old being’s mind at the most untoward times.  “You had best let me go, my Lady Arwen, or I will be forced to confess to Aragorn that I slept with his wife before she came to his marriage bed.”

       Shocked into laughter, she had settled him back into his chair, leaving him chuckling in the warmth and comfort of his room as she went to see about those of her own goods she would take to her marriage in Minas Tirith.

*******

       He’d been waiting for the word that they were coming, intended to go out to the great door to welcome them--to welcome him.  He’d given strict orders for those who had lingered to care for the place to advise him of when they were within the Vale, and they’d followed through.  He had risen and put his shawl about his shoulders, then found his legs trembling, and sat to let them recover before he tried for the door even of his room, much less the main entrance to the Last Homely House.  He might as well have just admitted defeat then and laid himself decently in his bed to sleep, for slumber had claimed him after all.  He awoke to find them about him, concern and shock at his appearance and increased frailty in their eyes, most strongly in his eyes.  Oh, my dear, dear boy, he thought in grief, seeing the fear in Frodo’s expression, I am trying so hard to be here, to be strong for you.  Oh, my dear lad, my beloved son not born of my body--what have I done to you?

       For Frodo was not as he had been before.  He was thin, not dangerously thin now, but still far too thin for a Hobbit, making his slenderness as a tween appear robust by comparison.  His complexion, which had always been fair, was now that of porcelain, the pink of cheeks and lips from the exposure to the winds of autumn he’d known already paler than that of Merry, Pippin, or old Hamfast’s lad, and that color was fast receding as the old Hobbit watched.  His eyes were deeply shadowed, and lines of pain were visible on his face, lines, Bilbo realized, he’d successfully hide before the others if he felt they were looking for them.

       Bilbo had found himself, since leaving the Shire, still reaching into his pocket to fiddle with It.  Finally he had consulted the Lord Glorfindel as to what to do, and the Elven Lord had suggested he find something else, something that pleased him and reminded him of the Light, to carry there in Its place.  In his early days in the Vale he’d often gone down to walk along the River Bruinen, to marvel at the many waterfalls that fed the stream, and had picked up oddments that caught his eye.  One day a flash of light under the rushing waters of the Ford caught his attention, and he’d waded in to seek out its source, had drawn out a pebble of clear quartz crystal, polished by ages in the stream of the Bruinen, and had taken that for a worry piece in place of It.  He would find his fingers seeking It, and would find the pebble instead, and it would soothe him, relieve him of the hunger--the hunger for It.

       He’d been shocked after Frodo’s awakening last fall to see him doing the same, reaching for his pocket.  However, that did not continue.  The Ring had been placed on a strong silver chain and hung about the younger Hobbit’s neck while he was still ill.  They had tried to keep It from him, but realized this caused marked distress, even when he was so near death--or wraithdom, or whatever one called such a state as he’d been entering.  At first, even when unconscious, he’d kept reaching for It, looking for the pocket that was not there.  When he was too weak to move he would still keen for It.  Lord Elrond had been highly concerned as to what It was doing to him, how It might be augmenting the effects of the splinter still deep in his shoulder, but at last he’d given in to Gandalf’s advice, had had the chain forged, surrounded by as strong of Elvish protections as was possible to try to isolate the Ring’s evil. 

       Oh, at first on his awakening Frodo had reached for his pocket; but within a few days he had stopped that, had begun fiddling with the buttons of his shirt’s placket instead.  The spells placed on the chain appeared to allow him some relief--at least at first--from the Ring’s draw, sufficient that buttons replaced It between his fingers.  But Elrond had admitted to Gandalf, Aragorn, and Bilbo himself that in time, as Its fell master called more strongly and as Its will continued to waken and respond to that call, he would again seek It out, need to touch It with his hand, need that awareness of Its physical presence. 

       Now the Ring was gone, yet Frodo still reached to his chest, where It had lain for so long, wakened and seeking to ravish his very soul.  But just as Bilbo still found his pebble, Frodo now found the Evenstar gem, a healing gem gifted to the Lady Arwen at her birth by the Lords of Gondolin, and now given to Frodo for his easing.

       Few others save Gandalf and Elrond appeared to note how often that jewel was between Frodo’s fingers, but Bilbo could see it.  He was not always dozing as he sat with his eyes nearly shut, after all.  Merry, Pippin, and Samwise might think his wits were beginning to wander in his extreme old age, but this was not true.  Bilbo remained as intelligent as ever, although it took far longer for a decent thought to make it through the still sharp mind than it used to do, particularly as the constant slumbering continually interrupted the flow of his thoughts.  But he could see what Merry, Pippin, and Sam could not see--Frodo was still in deep distress.  Nor would he willingly let them know this.  Bilbo found himself watching Frodo with understanding.  Frodo had been like that when he came from Brandy Hall, refusing to allow anyone else to see his frustrations or anger or grief or pain.  Call it pride or the display of an extraordinarily private nature or unwillingness to burden others with his problems--it all came to the same thing--Frodo Baggins for the most part refused to allow others to see him as anything other than capable, cheerful, self-contained.

       Self-contained my eye, the old Hobbit thought.  The fact was that for all the Tookish interest in the outer world and the Brandybuck competence he carried, Frodo had the full measure of his Baggins heritage of stubborn clinging to appearances; and never willingly would Frodo Baggins appear less than what he believed was expected of him.  And, although he no longer cared for the opinions of such as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, he did care for those of his friends.  They so deeply desired for him to be well, to be recovered, to be himself again, and Frodo was bound and determined to give them that appearance. 

       Of the four Hobbits around Frodo now, only Bilbo consciously realized that Frodo was still far from recovery, physical, mental, or spiritual.  Oh, Sam knew it was true deep down in his heart, but he was consciously pushing down that knowledge, clinging to the belief that Frodo was fine, that he was healing nicely thank you very much, perhaps in hopes that the strength of his desire for Frodo to be well would make it so.

       During the days they lingered in Rivendell, the rest had begun to relax, hoping the nature of the place would soothe Frodo as it had before.  Frodo and Bilbo, however, recognized this was a false hope.  With the power of Elrond’s own ring cut by the destruction of It, there was little left in the air of Imladris which could get through the hollowness in Frodo’s heart caused by the scouring of the Ring.  

       There was a core of strength which had begun to return, particularly there in Minas Tirith where the power of Aragorn augmented by the Elessar Stone he bore assisted such recovery, helped to screen out the pressures of daily life.  Frodo had begun to know a return of his humor and his quick wit.  He’d begun to write again, to draw again, to rejoice in learning again.  But this could not be sustained indefinitely.  He tired more quickly than before, and had constant difficulties with his stomach.  Often he’d eat a simple meal of far less than normal Hobbit proportions, and yet a few hours later he’d lose it again, looking almost exactly as it had looked when he’d eaten it first.  He would become cold easily, and often wore his cloak from Lorien when the others had shed their own more for the warmth it provided than for the more pleasant and restful memories it sparked.  And the nightmares had continued, and had grown worse as they traveled.  In the company of Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel he’d realized that he could surreptitiously draw on their presence to allow him to face those dreams as the illusions they were.  However, what would happen when he was back in the Shire once more and they were in their own lands, the Powers alone knew where that would lead.

       All of this was becoming obvious to Bilbo as he sat and watched under his almost closed lids.  Frodo himself often drowsed in the warmth of Bilbo’s fire, and as he slept he would often whisper in his sleep.  Bilbo was shocked at what he learned in these sessions, of the nature of the dreams, of the depth of Frodo’s hatred for what he’d done in allowing himself to be taken by It at the end, for his claiming of It, for his continuing hunger for It.  Bilbo learned also of his mourning for the loss of innocence he’d known, and the realization he was not only changed from what he’d been before, but that he was continuing to change in ways he did not understand and that left him terrified he would cease to know himself in the end.

       Bilbo wished he could discuss this with Gandalf and Elrond, but recognized the chances were small unless they came to seek him out, which they’d barely done as yet.  But if there was anything he could do to help Frodo....

*******

       He started awake, roused from his doze by a sound.  Drat old age, he thought.  It was as uncomfortable a situation as he could imagine, never being able to count on his body to do what he wanted it to do, having all these conversations interrupted by the intermittent dozes.  The younger Hobbits were still convinced he was in his dotage now.  He thought Frodo recognized this wasn’t quite true, not as yet; but he also realized that Frodo was on the verge of despair that he was losing his beloved oldest cousin along with everything else.  This was the real reason Bilbo didn’t want to give over now.  He’d realized that seeking to pass up the Old Took was as vain an ambition as had ever been devised by the minds of mortals of any kind; but he knew Frodo needed some sign of permanency, something to hang onto while his own person was still in turmoil.  Bilbo straightened somewhat, tried to shake himself more awake, trying to figure out what had wakened him.  Then the sound came again, from the chair opposite him, which had been turned somewhat away from Bilbo, more directly toward the fire now.  Frodo sat in the chair, and he was clutching at his chest, what little Bilbo could see of his expression indicating pain--physical pain.  He saw Frodo raise his chin, his eyes squeezed shut, biting on his lower lip. 

       Bilbo was shocked into actual physical activity by this, managed to stand, lean over Frodo, take his right hand, which had been digging into the padded arms of the chair in which Frodo sat.  He let Frodo squeeze his own hand, felt the pain as his brittle fingers were wrung, finally saw the relief begin to show in the sweating face, felt it finally reach the hand which had been clutching so at his.  Frodo had grasped the gem with his left hand, and it was soothing him as Imladris itself could no longer do.

       As soon as he was eased sufficiently to speak, Frodo began to automatically apologize.  Finally Bilbo cut him off. 

       “Do not insult me by thinking your pain inconveniences me, best beloved.  You are the one who is hurting, not I.”

       Frodo gave a grim bark of a laugh.  “And you mean to say it doesn’t bother you, Bilbo, doesn’t make your heart ache for me, make you want to find some way of helping?  You can’t, you know.  No one can, and believe me, they have tried.  Aragorn has left business that ought not to have waited to come to my easing.  Gandalf has insulted great lords of the realm by breaking off and hurrying to my side.  Sam has bought out three years’ harvests worth of mint and ginger and other herbs to try to ease my stomach.  Merry and Pippin have gone through their full store of comic songs and stories trying to get me to laugh.  Healers have poked and prodded and offered draughts and potions until I find myself sweating with disgust at the sight of one of their tumblers.  Lord Elrond and the Lady have both sung over me repeatedly on our journey, usually when they thought me asleep.  It helps--it helps some; but the help never stays with me.

       “Oh, Bilbo, I am so very tired of the pain!”

       “Hiding it will not help it be eased, Frodo.”

       “Showing it certainly hasn’t helped.”

       Bilbo could see the frustration Frodo was experiencing, and the real fury that this insult to his body and self was still going on and that he was helpless against it. 

       Finally Frodo whispered something Bilbo grew cold to hear:  “I so wish I had died out there at times; I wish I were dead rather than go through this day after day.”

       How he managed it he could not say, but Bilbo managed to drag Frodo erect, and got him into Bilbo’s own bed.  Shakily Bilbo disrobed, leaving his clothes in an uncharacteristically untidy heap on the floor and got into it with him, wrapped his arms about the younger Hobbit, and began to rock him gently from side to side until Frodo finally began to relax and finally slipped into an exhausted sleep.  Bilbo lay trembling with fear and grief for some time before he himself was overtaken by still another doze of his own.

       Bilbo awoke frequently in the night, but the fit of pain appeared to be gone.  Frodo looked so very quiet, almost as he’d done as a small child when Bilbo would visit him in Buckland.  He had managed to turn half on his stomach, and had his fist to his mouth, a position he’d often taken when he was younger, but in which Bilbo had not seen him since he came to live at Bag End. 

       Near dawn Bilbo slipped into a deep sleep of his own, then woke to realize somehow Frodo had managed to crawl out of the bed without waking him.  He noted, as he sat up and looked about the room, that Frodo had picked up his discarded clothing and had folded it neatly, laying it on the bench where Bilbo usually laid it at night.  The chair was also again at its usual angle to the fireplace.  Bilbo sighed with frustration--another sign of Frodo’s intent to apologize and make things all right again, he realized.  What was he going to do with the boy?

       Frodo came in with the other three as Sam carried in breakfast for the five of them, and in contrast to last night appeared cheerful and carefree, almost as if last night had not happened after all.  But Bilbo could not fight the slumber, though he certainly tried to do so, and when he came awake again he was alone.

       Pippin finally looked in to see if he wanted some elevenses, and Bilbo used him to send a message to Gandalf to please come talk.  He then dozed off again.

       “Well, what can I do for you, dear Bilbo?” asked Gandalf when he came awake again. 

       “Well, if you have a spell to keep me awake long enough to carry on a decent conversation, it would be appreciated,” Bilbo answered.

       “You were awake long enough last night,” the Wizard said dryly.

       “What do you know of that?” Bilbo demanded.

       Gandalf gave a deep sigh.  “All too much, Bilbo.  All too much.  Do you truly think Elrond and I are unaware of how he is feeling?”

       “Isn’t there something you can do?”

       “We have done, Bilbo, we have done.  But it is as he told you--nothing can be done to make it as it was before.  He’s been too badly hurt, and for too long.  Even if the Elven rings were still at the height of their power anything we could do would be only temporary.

       “He was feeling much better when we left Minas Tirith, but even though we have gone as slowly and gently as we can, he has still felt the strain of the journey.  We have sung the songs of healing over him repeatedly along the way, but their effects do not endure.  Elrond has not been able to get him to accept his draughts, which in truth could not afford him healing--only temporary easing.

       “We cannot afford to delay here long, however.  Evil is happening in the Shire, and if these don’t get back there soon all may end in worse tragedy than there is now.  And Frodo must be a part of it, part of the halting of it, if the Shire is to heal properly.  However, we dread sending him into it, for it will tear his heart open again with the grief of it, and we know it well.”

       “Isn’t there anything which could be done for him, Gandalf?”

       “One thing only, but it must be of his own choosing to accept it, if we can manage to gain the grace to begin with.  Arwen originated the plea, and both Galadriel and Elrond have supported it, as have Glorfindel, Celeborn, Gildor, Thranduil, Legolas, and I cannot begin to name all the rest.”

       “And what is that?”

       “To be granted the grace to enter the Undying Lands.”

       Bilbo looked at him in amazement.  “Would the Valar even consider such a thing?”

       Gandalf smiled.  “I am glad to say that it is being considered, has been being considered for some time, even.”  The smile faded.  “But he must choose to accept it, Bilbo.  He must choose, and no one may compel him even to consider it.  It must be his free choice, or all will be for nought.”

       “He deserves healing, Gandalf,” the old Hobbit whispered.  “He deserves to feel joy unbridled again.  He deserves to be free of the pain.”

       “I know, Bilbo, I know.”  The Wizard gently stroked Bilbo’s hair, and finally set his hands on the Hobbit’s shoulders.  “We need you to be strong as well, for as you told Elrond before all rode for Minas Tirith, just the realization you are yet alive helps strengthen his resolve to continue to live day by day.  Unfortunately, that means you must continue to endure the frequent dozes, which will become even more bothersome before the end, I’m sorry to say.”

       “I know,” Bilbo said, yawning.  “It is all I can do to stay awake long enough to speak with you now.”  He dozed, but was grateful to realize it was but for a very short time.  He looked up to see Gandalf patiently waiting.  “He is much better this morning.”

       “Yes.  Elrond brought a special cup of tea to him this morning brewed from herbs that ease the heart and mind; and I was able to put the memory of your conversation into the back of his mind, as if it were but part of a dream.  He knows it did happen, but it is distant to him, and the rage has been eased.  It helps that all else is much better for him this morning as well.”

       Bilbo nodded sleepily.  “Just let me know what I need to do, Gandalf, and for how long at a time.”  He again drifted off.

       “We will, dear Bilbo, oh, we will,” Gandalf murmured as he blessed the old Hobbit, kissed his hair, and drew a blanket over him as he drowsed.

*******

       He awoke with his plan in hand.  The only way that they had come upon in Frodo’s youth that had managed to allow him to express his discomforts--his angers, his frustrations, his confusions--had been to coax him to write it out.  Master Tumnus, lessons master at Brandy Hall when Frodo was a youngster, had been the first to realize this.  He had presented Frodo with a journal one day about a year after his parents had died, and had told him that a part of his educational requirements from that day forward was that he was to write in his journal for at least fifteen minutes a day.  The first entries had made Tumnus share them, laughing, with Bilbo at his next visit.
      
       Master Tumnus says I must write in this for fifteen minutes.  How boring.

       I am writing in this journal.  I am writing in this journal.  I am writing in this journal.  I am writing in this....

       And the sentence had been copied repeatedly seventy-six times, although after the fiftieth repetition apparently Frodo had become bored, and had begun experimenting with how he presented the letters; embellishing some with serifs and flourishes, others with capitals and lower case letters reversed, several of them written right to left instead of left to right, some in increasingly smaller lettering, and the last two with letters so large that it took an entire page per sentence.

       The second entry had included the words to three very crude drinking songs he’d learned from Merimas Brandybuck.  The third started with a description of Master Tumnus from the mole on his cheek which sported two long hairs to the fact his foot tapped incessantly when he was reading, as if he were tapping out the rhythm of the words had they been spoken.  This led into a discussion of how unfair he was to bore his students with meaningless drivel such as this.

       The fourth was an imagined dialogue between Master Tumnus and his wife about whether or not they would prepare a flaming pudding for the Yule feast, a dialogue which had been quite witty.  It was in the eighth entry that Frodo began to write out his anger at an older lad who’d called him an orphan in such a tone of voice that it was plainly meant as an insult and accusation of sorts, and after that his entries became more expressions of how he was feeling on any particular day.  He had also written some character sketches of particular individuals within the Hall, several of them distinctly unflattering, others quite sensitive and thoughtful.

       Tumnus Brandybuck had managed to find where the lad hid this journal and read it from time to time, stopping only when Bilbo threatened to take the matter up with Master Rorimac.  But he insisted that Frodo was less troubled when he wrote in the journals, as they gave him an outlet for his feelings, and he kept up his insistence the lad continue to do his writings as long as Tumnus remained lessons master.  Frodo had been presented a new journal about once every eight months or so during Tumnus’s tenure; after that Frodo had begun buying replacements at the Bridge Market when they were needed.  But when he left the Hall he’d been found by his cousin Saradoc Brandybuck burning his last journal, declaring he never wished to cause ill feelings through what he wrote; and he’d brought none away with him to Hobbiton and Bag End.

       Bilbo had realized this might be a useful ploy to use on Frodo again, and so about a year after Frodo came to live in Bag End he’d purchased the stationery box and its attendant pieces that had sat on a desk in Frodo’s room, and had insisted he use them, allowing him a means to ensure privacy.  It had proven difficult on more than one occasion to resist the temptation to tamper with the relatively simple lock, but Bilbo had managed to school himself, realizing that if he was to trust his ward, Frodo would need to first accept he could trust his guardian.  It had paid off handsomely, giving Frodo a needed outlet for his feelings in keeping with his nature, and the tween had managed to get through the rest of his transition to mature Hobbit with a measure of grace which had delighted his nominal uncle.

       Would a similar ploy work now? Bilbo found himself wondering.  He rather thought it might, and certainly the reasons for presenting the idea to Frodo were more than sufficiently valid, not to mention obvious.  He’d hoped to be able to write down the story of his younger cousin’s adventures himself, not fully admitting to himself till he saw Frodo again that so much of it had been sheer torture.  If he could convince Frodo to write it out himself--might that not assist Frodo to get it out of his system somewhat?  It had helped him in dealing with Lobelia and her gossip mongering and lies well enough--not that her nastiness was more than the palest of shadows of what Frodo had just survived.

       He’d snapped back to wakefulness to hear Sam commenting that it looked as if Bilbo was unlikely to finish writing the story of their experiences, had at first felt insulted, then upset to realize this was true, but finally realized this was the perfect moment to suggest Frodo do it instead.  He realized he was laying in on a bit thick, playing on the drops into sleep to make it look as if his wits were also somewhat affected as well, but it had worked.  Now, if only the dear lad would actually follow through and write it out....  He found himself praying to the Valar they would find ways to bring this about.

Trip Home

       “They’ve done it, and done it well, with a measure of grace I’d not have expected--but then, he was with them to keep reins on the fury of all.”

       Bilbo felt relief wash through him as he looked at both Gandalf and Elrond where they sat across from him before the fire.  “Praise Eru,” he whispered.

       “Indeed,” replied Elrond.  Both looked to the Wizard, waiting for him to continue the tale.

       Gandalf’s face held a mixture of gladness and grief, pride and concern.  “He almost didn’t make it past the Fords, though.  The memories hit him there with full force, so badly his heart seized.  He barely made it through the water, Elrond.  He couldn’t sort it all out--which was memory and which was happening as he rode.”  He drank from the mug he held, then sighed.  “Aragorn had warned Sam this could happen, once something managed to trigger them.  Somehow the movement of his pony as it paused just this side of the water did just that--brought him back to the moment he was sitting on Asfaloth looking across at the Nazgul as they willed him to stop, as they sought to will the splinter into his heart itself.  And that sparked the further memory of when he was stabbed at Weathertop.”

       “You are certain his heart seized?” asked Elrond.

       With a great sigh, the Wizard replied, “Positive.  But he sought to master it, and rode on.  He would not allow us to help him, not till I got him out of sight of it.  He did drink from his waterskin, though.”

       Elrond sighed and closed his eyes in relief.  “Good,” he murmured.

       Bilbo eyed the Lord of Imladris.  “What was in it?”

       “A weak infusion of athelas and willowbark mixed with other herbs to aid his heart and mask the taste some.  I told him it was a tea.”

       “Well, he got ongoing doses of it as we rode.  Did you tell Sam the making of it?”

       Elrond shook his head.  “Of course not.  Why?”

       “He found some athelas growing along the way, and added a leaf to the tea he brewed for him that night.”

       “He what?”

       “He’s a gardener, Elrond--he has an affinity for plants.  He saw the plants Aragorn started in the herb garden by the Houses of Healing--helped tend them.  He already knew the kingsfoil plant before he came away on the quest, even.  I had chosen to camp near the ruins of Boros, and he found some growing in the remains of one of the garden plots.  He culled the leaves and dug up some plants to add to the various starts he was carrying from Minas Tirith and here.  He remembered Aragorn using it on the road from Amon Sul, and you using it here in cleansing the wound.  He decided if it was good enough for the two  of you....”

       “But he bears no blood of our lineage to spark its full effects.”

       Gandalf shook his head.  “He has an affinity for plants.  He may not carry the gift of Lúthien and Eärendil, but plants will give him what he needs of them.  Plus he was using the Invocation.”

       “He knew to use that?”

       Gandalf gave a small laugh.  “No, he didn’t know to use it--it turns out he read a translation of it as a child in an herbal Frodo was copying for Bilbo to send to Menegilda Brandybuck, liked it and learned it by heart.  He told me he just felt it fit somehow.”  He drank from his mug again and added, “He didn’t sing it, but whispered it in Westron.”

       Bilbo was fighting the drowsiness hard, and recognized he couldn’t fight it much longer.  “I swear the Creator was preparing him, Gandalf.”

       The Wizard smiled, the care fading from his face.   “I believe you are right, Bilbo.  There was a reason Sam reasoned out Frodo’s mind at Amon Hen.  I suspect he’s been intended as the staff to Frodo’s feet from the beginning.”

       As his eyes closed, Bilbo muttered, “They’re brothers of the heart, you know--the three of them.”  He slept.

       Elrond considered the dozing Hobbit, then looked at Gandalf.  “The three of them?”

       “Frodo, Sam--and Aragorn.”

       The expression on the Elf’s face softened.  “The Light of Sam’s Being is quite different from that of Estel and Frodo--but it is very bright.”

       “Just as bright, as is this one’s.”  The two of them looked at the sleeping form in the third chair. 

       Suddenly Gandalf went quite still, and the cloak fell away from his own Light.  Elrond watched in wonder and growing reverence.  For some moments the Maia, barely clothed in the flesh of what appeared to be aged mortality, communed with that within himself that came from the Blessed Realm.  When again he assumed a merely terrestrial identity, his face was filled with a solemn surprise that caused alarm in the Elven Lord.

       “The decision has been made?  Frodo can enter Aman?”

       Temporarily unable to speak, Gandalf shook his head.

       “Then what is it, Mithrandir?  They have denied him?”

       Again the Wizard shook his head, and looked at the Lord of Imladris with a slowly revealed joy the depth of which moved Elrond to even greater awe.  “No, he is not denied.  He will be admitted, if he so chooses.  But he is not the only one, Elrond.  All three of the Ringbearers are granted this.”  He sat still for another minute, then added, “And your sons--they may linger past your going, to the comfort of their sister when that time comes.  They may linger till they themselves make the decision to take ship.”

       For some moments Elrond sat, stunned to speechlessness by the news.  Finally he asked quietly, “The Valar have granted this--that the three of them, Frodo, Bilbo, and Samwise, each has the right to enter the Undying Lands?”

       “No further than Tol Eressëa--but, yes.  Yet the decision came from beyond the Valar.  He filled them with the Lights they bear, and He would have them back in His Presence, but not with that Light wavering or weakened.  He has no worry for Aragorn, for he has been tested through many years already, and will not waver now.  But these three--He would have each soothed and strengthened.  Much evil sought to take them, and each resisted it strongly; yet they were sorely hurt.  They are precious to Him.

       “Mostly, of course, it is Frodo who raises the concern.  But he will not willingly agree to anything that draws him from at least the promise of the companionship of these other two and, in the end, Aragorn.”

       “Yet it must be his own free will which brings him to accept the choice.  We cannot even compel the contemplation of the choice.”

       “That is true, Elrond.”

       “How will he be brought to that choice, then?  You have seen him--outwardly, most of the time he denies he is anything but nearly whole again.”

       “Where we cannot compel through authority, I fear we must beckon with love.”  Gandalf sighed, looked at the sleeping Hobbit, and then turned to his host.  “How long can this one linger?”

       Elrond looked at Bilbo with concern.  “I am not certain--no more, I think, than a year or so at most.”

       The Hobbit lifted one eyelid and looked at the Elf seriously.  “I will live as long as I have to.  How long can he linger ought to be the question.”

       “How often do you do this, sit in feigned sleep and eavesdrop?”

       Bilbo snorted.  “Eavesdrop?  Now, I ask you!  I find I have a choice--appear to be asleep and at least hear half the conversation, or take part and miss most of it because I fully doze off.”  He straightened.  “Now, will you answer my question?  How long can he linger?”

       “We don’t know, but I doubt it will be more than two years."

       “That would give me the chance to pass up the Old Took.  It would give me that as an excuse, at least.  And given the right to go to Aman--”  He thought for a moment, then smiled.  “It would be quite the adventure.  If it would help draw him to the healing he needs, I’d go, I think, to Mordor itself.”

       Gandalf shook his head.  “Do not say any such thing to him--it would drive him mad with anxiety for you, and reawaken even more of the evil memories.”  He turned again to Elrond.  “Arwen spoke to him of the possibility as he prepared to leave Minas Tirith.”

       “As I did as you were departing.  And I warned him that it might not be much longer that Bilbo would be able to linger, that we would seek to bring Bilbo home in the fall of the year--”  He looked to Bilbo and found he’d once more drifted off, and sighed.  “He will accept the dozing for Frodo’s sake.”

       Gandalf looked off toward the west.  “The coming fall I doubt he will be ready.  It may take a time for him to make the decision.  He will need to fully accept that his body is failing him as well as his spirit before he will choose.”

       Elrond sighed as he nodded agreement.  “You have the right of it.  But then he will need support on the way himself, or he will most likely not survive to reach the Havens.”  He thought for some minutes, then sighed.  “I will delay my own going two years--I will not be able to support it myself past that, I fear, Gandalf.  I will go with him to help him, as best I can, to survive the journey.  For, I fear, otherwise he will not live to reach his destination, if he even makes it onto the Grey Ship.”

       The Istari nodded solemnly.  “I will go on that Ship with you then.”

       Elrond looked up to search his eyes.  “It will cause Estel grief to not have you at hand.”

       Very quietly the other answered, “I cannot do more, or I will merely take my brother’s place, Elrond.  I ought to go to Círdan now, even.  But, I, too, will delay, for Frodo’s sake.”

       “You may stay here as long as you need.”

       He felt the awareness from south and east across the Misty Mountains, felt the additional offer:  Here, too, you are welcome, Olórin.  And I, too, will go with you--with him, will stand by him with the two of you.

       The Maia smiled gently.  So be it, Lady, he replied.  That will ease him as well.

       Both felt her smile.

       Bilbo startled awake, looked up at them in inquiry for what else had been decided as he’d slept.  His host looked down to him and indicated the cup which had sat during the interview on the arm of his chair.  “Well, little Master, if you insist on passing up the Old Took, then I suggest you drink that.”

       Bilbo eyed it with suspicion, took it up and sipped at it, then gave a surprised and pleased smile as he looked down into it once again.  “This is even pleasant,” he commented.

       Elrond gave a soft laugh.  “At last, one draught we won’t need to fight to get you to drink.  Yes, it is pleasant.  And if Samwise has indeed come to the awareness of the athelas draught to aid his master, Frodo will find it pleasant as well--hopefully even more pleasant than you do, for it is even more palatable when it is prepared with love.”

       As Bilbo finished the contents of his cup, the three of them looked to the west toward the Shire, straining their awareness to seek intelligence of how Frodo was faring.

Degradation

       I will stay strong, he commanded himself.  I will stay strong.

       He’d said that repeatedly as they rode through the Shire, as they’d seen the signs of rapine and destruction and the humiliation of their people all along the road to Hobbiton and Bywater.  The worst had been when they had walked up the Hill to Bag End, saw the loss of the trees and all vestiges of beauty, the destruction of the garden, the loss of the orchard, the proliferation of the ugly sheds like some enormous species of toadstool, ghastly and malignant, where once Sam’s flowers, shrubs, and bushes had bloomed and given forth sweet perfume through all seasons.  The Row had been dug out, the Chubbses, Daddy Twofoot, the Gaffer and Marigold, Widow Rumble, and the Proudfoots displaced to brick hovels on the edges of what had been fertile garden places on the outskirts of Hobbiton.  Then they’d gone in, and Frodo had had to stay in the remains of the parlor, leaning for support against the entranceway, clutching at the Queen’s jewel, while the rest searched through the ruins for any sign of Lotho.

       Merry and Pippin both had their swords out when they came back, their faces white with the shock they, too, were experiencing, sick with the realization all was now reduced to ruin, that filth had been left in corners, that the beautiful old paneling and cornices had been purposefully destroyed, the flooring and carpets slashed and scarred.  Sam had not unsheathed his sword, but was holding his handkerchief over his nose to screen out the noisome smell--as well as to use on the tears that fell heavily at the sight of the wanton destruction.

       Pippin looked at him with pity.  “We can find no sign of him, Frodo.”  He looked about and shuddered.  “You don’t want to see more, believe me.”

       Merry shook his head.  “Where is that miserable Lotho hiding?  Should we turn the others to searching the sheds?”

       “This is worse than Mordor!” Sam declared, looking around, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Much worse in a way.  It comes home to you, because it is home, and you remember it afore it was ruined.”

       Frodo agreed.  Somehow, he knew Saruman was to blame, but couldn’t yet say how.  He started to straighten, then leaned back against the wall.  Fortunately, they weren’t looking at him, hadn’t seen the momentary weakness.  They needed him to stay strong, he knew.  Quickly he uncorked the waterskin he wore on a cord across his chest and took a swallow.  He never was without a drink to hand any more, not since the time in Mordor.  Aragorn had recognized from the first time he saw Frodo watching with horror as one of those serving him in the healers’ tents at the Fields of Cormallen tried to remove a goblet of water, intending to bring a fresh one back in a few moments, that the lack of drink as they went through Mordor had come to represent almost all he remembered of that horrible time.  He’d given definite orders to those serving in that tent, and Merry and Pippin and the other members of the Fellowship as well, that they were to bring fresh water to Frodo and Sam before removing older glasses; and one of the small gifts he’d quietly presented to Frodo was a small hip flask in which he could discretely carry water with him at all times.  

       The waterskin he carried was full of not water but Sam’s tea, but Frodo had been quick to recognize that he was refreshed by it even better than by plain water when he felt weak or sick, and he was grateful for this now.  His chest hurt, and he had been having lapped-over visions again.  He seemed to see around them the darkness of the tunnel of Cirith Ungol and smell the stench of Shelob; and as he looked at the damaged row of hooks where once hung thirteen of the best detachable party hoods of an unexpected group of Dwarves come to call on Burglar Baggins, he seemed to see also the horrors of the room in the orc tower where he’d awakened in agony and despair, thinking the Ring was now on its way to Its master.  As he corked the skin again, he closed his eyes, heard the laughter of the Ring echoing in his mind, enjoying his pain and fury and terror.  He reached up to grasp it, wishing it had a neck he could wring ... found instead the Queen’s jewel again, and the illusions began to fade, and finally the pain as well.

       Merry was watching what he thought of as his cousin’s grief with compassion.  “I’m sorry, Frodo,” he said quietly.  “Once we find Lotho, I will personally wring his neck!”

       Horrified to hear his own murderous desires echoed by Merry, Frodo gasped out, “Don’t even think such thoughts, Merry!  No, don’t become like----”  He couldn’t finish the statement.

       And then they were facing Saruman, and things were happening too fast for the visions to seek to reclaim him.

       He pitied Saruman, pitied him and the other creature, the one everyone called Wormtongue.  The others could not begin to understand--they saw in them only foul creatures who deserved to die.  Frodo knew better, had divined Saruman’s true origins from the songs of the Elves in Lothlorien and the view he’d had of Gandalf uncloaked when the one they thought of as a Wizard had come to reprove the evil dreams which had plagued him.  He watched the death of the physical form given to what had once been a Maia with horror, watched with dread as the rising grey cloud which stood over the desiccated body was dispersed by a breeze from the West, knowing he deserved no better for what he’d done in the Sammath Naur.  Once Saruman and Wormtongue were dead all he wanted was to get into a bed somewhere and not rise from it again.  Again he took a pull at his water bottle, shook his head, and asked to return to the Cottons’ farm.

       Alone finally in the room given to his use, Frodo lay, held the jewel, and focused on the one who had given it to him.  He saw her eyes in which bright stars seemed reflected, as was true of also her grandmother.  He saw her dark hair.  He saw her fair skin, her gentle smile.  And by her he saw, finally, the grey eyes with the hint of blue and green like the sea of Aragorn, and the Light that filled him.  He felt the presence of each of them comfort him, the reassurance he was beloved, that he was needed.  He sighed and drifted into sleep, felt the others, whoever they were, that he felt surrounding the King, those who also sought to reassure, to comfort.  He relaxed further, and the tension left him.

       Sam and Rosie peeked in, looked down on him, on the gentle smile on his pale face.  Sam smiled.  “Good,” he murmured, “it’s one of the good dreams this time.  He’ll be well enough with one of them.”  He drew her out into the passageway.  “He has too many of the other sort, he does,” he explained.  He’d checked to see the filled glass lay where his Master could reach it, and that his breathing was even.

       “He’s so pale,” Rosie whispered, her concern filling her face.

       Sam nodded.  “Yes, I know he is.  But after what we went through, it’s a miracle he’s with us at all.  It almost--it almost killed him, Rosie.”

       “He’s holding that jewel of his again.”

       “Yes, I saw.  But if it helps him lie easier, I’m not going to worry about it.”

*******

       He felt stronger when he woke and dressed again, came out to the kitchen and joined the others at table.  Robin Smallburrow was there, describing the situation in Michel Delving.  “The folks there, they can hardly believe it’s over at last.  They are still jumping at every little noise, and ask we come tomorrow and help them get into the Lockholes to rescue those as is within.  The Big Men have the smith locked up there, too, and took all his tools from the forge away.  They even took away all the axes and hatchets and even shovels and spades from folk in the village so as no one could try to break in and get those as is imprisoned out."
 
       “I’ll ride over first thing in the morning,” Frodo said.  “We will get them out--I swear we will.  Is Smith Longsmial still in Bywater?  Does he still have his tools?”

       “He managed to remain free and has many of his tools, although them gatherers and sharers seem to of convinced themselves poor folk as they was supposed to be sharing with was in desperate need of a lot of his stuff.  But I think he’s got enough left to help us get in there.”

       Evam Longsmial proved to have hidden away some of his strongest cutters and prybars and biggest mallets.  Carrying these and a number of axes, a large party headed off to Michel Delving at first light, where they were greeted with cheering by the locals--those that remained free, at least.  Frodo ordered all healers to get their tools and herbs in readiness, asked folk to prepare simple foods and clean water and whatever bedding they could spare.  “They will probably be half starved, and you dare not give them much at a time,” he warned them, knowing how he and Sam had needed to be dealt with on their awakening.  “Simple things they can digest easily will be best.”  With the assurance of the healers that this was so, many scattered to their homes to fix meals with whatever food they could get together.

       In the end all the tools the smith had provided were needed.  The locks and bars were not of local manufacture, were much heavier than Shire Hobbits would ever use.  It took the better part of an hour to get the main doors open so they could begin to get into the place.

       Those lamps which had lit the Lockholes for the Big Men’s use had burned out, and while others were brought, Frodo led the way into the noisome darkness, a strange light in his hands.  Sam noted that while Frodo held the Phial of Galadriel he stood tall and straight, fearless in the darkness which fled at his approach.

       What had been open storage rooms were now sealed shut with hastily contrived doors; some had had heavy boards set across the openings and nailed to the oaken beams which framed them and offered support to the paneling which had kept them somewhat dry, only small slits allowing food and water in to those imprisoned within.  Frodo turned to allow those who had entered with him to see the situation.  Several now went out to fetch axes and hatchets, the prybars and cutters.

       Soon eager hands were at work on several sides, working to bring down the boards, to remove hinges from doors, to even remove bricks and stonework which had sealed some of the contrived cells.

       The first cell opened had held Freddy Bolger, and Frodo was shocked to see the former Fatty was now almost as thin as he was himself.  He called for a litter, for it was obvious Fredegar could not stand.  Frodo held his hand as they brought him out into the light, looking up amazed at the changes in Merry and Pippin, joking about them being giants now.  Then back down he went again, leading folk deeper and deeper into the galleries in search of other prisoners. 

       The hole in which Will Whitfoot had been held was cleaner and drier than most, and he at least had a large vessel now half full of clean water in it; but he also was half-starved, pale, and sickly looking.  Again a litter was called for.

       Lobelia’s cell had been sealed with boards and beams, but she had been provided with a fair amount of food and water compared to most others.  They appeared to have simply dragged her into the tunnels as she was and thrown her in, sealing her into the room as best they could.  She insisted on walking out on her own, blinking furiously at the unaccustomed light, clutching at her umbrella; and when she was applauded she was shaken by the experience.  The healers said she was actually in fairly good health compared to most, and a carriage was provided to take her to Hardbottle where she still had relatives who would be able to take her in.

       “You can’t return to Bag End,” Frodo told her.  “They admitted that Lotho has been murdered, and after you were brought here they appear to have done their best to destroy the smial.  No one will be able to live there for some time.”

       She looked at him with shock on her face over the cup of broth she sipped from.  “They killed my boy?”  She closed her eyes, handed Frodo the mug.  “He was a fool--we were both fools, him and me.  But he didn’t deserve being murdered.”

       Frodo handed off the mug to Sam, who stood nearby, reached out to hold the old hobbitess while she fought her grief.  When she at last pulled away and looked up into Frodo’s face, she seemed shocked to see he, too, was weeping.  She could not believe it--first she was applauded and even honored by the folk of the Shire about, who included folk from Bywater, Hobbiton and Overhill she’d known as neighbors who’d despised her for most of her married life; then Frodo Baggins was sharing her grief at Lotho’s death.  When Otho died he’d sent a letter of condolence that was desperately kind, particularly as nastily as she and Otho and Lotho had dealt with him and his over the years.  She realized now that this letter had been heartfelt.  She found herself wanting to comfort him, to apologize.  But how could she do that?  She didn’t know where to begin--was too bereft, too totally out of her depth by what had happened to her.  And she saw, all too easily, that things had not been well with Frodo Baggins.  Wherever he’d gone, it had not been easy for him.  She easily saw the signs of pain and grief in his face, the signs he’d had to overcome even worse than she’d known to seek to comfort her now.  Once carefully aided into the loaned coach and the door had shut, she peered out at him, wondering why she had always denied he was the most decent Hobbit in the entire Shire.

       The most heartbreaking find for Frodo, however, had been the release of Ferdibrand Took.  Ferdi had been found sitting on the dirt floor of a particularly small and damp cell, his face heavily bruised.  As a Took he’d been given far harsher treatment than many of the others, including repeated kicks and blows to the head.  He looked up at the opening of his cell, his face alight with pleasure.  “Frodo?” he whispered, “Frodo, is that you?  Have you really come back?”  And then they’d found that he’d been blinded by the blows he’d taken.  Supported by Frodo he’d managed to come to his feet, took his first steps toward freedom since late last spring.  Pippin greeted his cousin and his sister Pimpernel's husband with tears, had given him over to the care of those Tooks who’d been aiding in the release to see him home to the Great Smial.

       It took most of the day to get all cared for, and Sam and Frodo both were there working side by side with the healers and those who sought to feed the former prisoners while Merry and Pippin saw to finding ways to get as many as possible home to families scattered throughout the four farthings and Buckland.  Near sunset a carriage returned, and they loaded Freddy Bolger into it.  His folks had lost their home and were living in a smial that had been a storage cellar at one time.  The Cottons had agreed to accept Fredegar as one more guest, and now Sam, seeing that Frodo was on the verge of exhaustion, convinced him to accompany his cousin back to Bywater and continue to give him small amounts of broth along the road at intervals.  Frodo had to be assisted into the coach, and with Rosie on one side and Frodo on the other, Fredegar Bolger headed for the first bed he’d have seen in months.

       In the search for more unfortunates they’d also found a fair amount of hidden food and goods.  Frodo had chosen a few of the most responsible and honest Hobbits he’d known in the village to take charge of these, to see that food was distributed to families throughout the area and that owners of confiscated goods were identified and items returned.

       Sam left Michel Delving a few hours after sunset, leading Strider, bags of hams and smoked poultry and beef over the pony’s back, for meat was the biggest need for those on the Cotton’s farm.

       The next morning Frodo came back to Michel Delving to see how things were going.  Better food was being provided for those who had not yet been able to return to their homes as well as for the folk of the village and those round about.  The locals identified a farm which had been purchased by Lotho a few months prior to the acquisition of Bag End, and a goodly party went there to check things out.  Men had apparently stayed here in the house, and the barn and several sheds on the property were stuffed with booty.  Fredegar had told Frodo and Sam of the great storage bores where most of the malt and grain and foodstuffs taken from the farms of the Shire had been hidden near Brockenbores, stores he and his band of “regatherers” had raided repeatedly until they were finally taken by Lotho’s Big Men.  Pippin and Merry arranged for armed parties to go about the Shire to scour out any remaining huddles of brigands, and the Thain and Master arranged for parties to begin identifying Lotho’s properties and go about searching for more stores of goods and food. 

       At mid-afternoon, Frodo, accompanied by Sam, finally went to visit Will Whitfoot in his home to report on what had been learned.  Will lay propped up in his bed, still pale, but looking to be in considerably better condition than the previous day.  His wife was feeding him a custard, and smiled up at the two Travelers as they were let into the bedroom by her sister.  Will looked up at Frodo in amazement.  He’d always liked Bilbo’s heir, always admired his intelligence and caring nature.  He saw that Frodo was thinner than he’d been before his disappearance, but that he was self-possessed and full of a level of competence that was difficult to define but had to be recognized.  Frodo sank into the chair vacated by Missus Whitfoot and began, as succinctly as possible, to list the prisoners released, the amounts of various kinds of food found and so far distributed, the types of goods found and steps taken so far to inventory it and identify rightful owners, the steps being taken to secure the Shire from further insult, the people who had agreed to aid in restoration....

       Will smiled.  He was, he knew, too ill to resume his duties as Mayor and would be so for some more months.  He’d not really wanted to run for Mayor the last time, even, had hoped desperately that he’d be able to convince Frodo to stand for election.  Here was his chance to see the best candidate for the position put into the role of Mayor, ready to be properly elected at the Free Fair at Midsummer.

       Once Frodo had finished explaining what had been done and learned, and how the Master and Thain were searching out more information on Lotho’s and the Big Men’s activities throughout the Shire, Will nodded.  “Thank you, Frodo.  I can’t think of anyone who could have done better than you and Sam and Merry and Pippin have done.  You’ve been home in the Shire how long?”

       “Less than three days, sir,” Frodo said.

       “And in less than three days you’ve managed to do more than the entire rest of the Shire in over a year’s time.”  Frodo, uncertain where this was going, nodded warily.  “I’m not going to be able to do anything official for some time,” Will continued.  He indicated the room.  “I need a someone to take over for me, Frodo.”

       “Sam here---” Frodo began, but Will shook his head.

       “No, Frodo, I want you to be my deputy.  I know Sam is capable, more than capable, but I can also see the way his face paled when I mentioned the need for a deputy.  No, maybe one day, but not yet.  Nor is the Shire ready for someone who isn’t a land holder to stand as Mayor, not yet, and you know it.”

       Frodo began to protest, his own face gone white.  However, Will was having none of it.  “You already know more about most of the folks in the Shire than any other Hobbit living, and you know it.  Remember, I’m the one who has signed a lot of your partnership papers.”  Frodo looked sideways at Sam, who simply looked back at him.  “We need someone like you, someone who really cares about folks, taking over right now.  Yes, I know Sam cares, too, but you are the one that will do the best job now.”

       Had Frodo been in better health himself, most likely they would never have gotten through his Baggins stubborness; as it was it took three hours of argument before he finally gave in and accepted the job.  He clutched at his jewel as Will swore him in.

       He was pale and shaking as he and Sam rode back to Bywater in the cold twilight.  “How could you let this happen to me, Sam?” he demanded.

       “He’s right, and you know it, Mr. Frodo,” Sam returned complacently.  “There’s nobody in the Shire who cares as much as you do, and we all know it.  And you need something to do to keep you busy, keep your mind from the memories.  I swear, it will do you good.”

       “And when I get sick again....”

       “Who’s to say as that will happen?”

       “It will.”  That was said low and softly.  Sam peered at him in the gloom, concerned, saw the grimness of his expression.

       Finally Sam said, equally quietly, “Don’t go diggin’ your grave afore you’re even dead.”

       Frodo sighed, and after a few moments Sam heard him uncork the waterskin he carried, take another drink.  Finally he said, “I’ll do it on one condition, Sam--you need to help me.”

       “I’ll do that, you know as I will.”

       “Yes, I know you will.”  After a few minutes of silence he asked, “Will you help get the quick post back in place?  I know you’ve already been working on it.”

       “Yes, Mr. Frodo.”

       “Thanks.”

       “I got a message from Hal yesterday--through one of the real Shiriffs.  They didn’t do nothin’ to his nursery--didn’t see as how it could be used to undo the damage they did.  We have trees there we can replant.”

       “That is something you can do better than I--help to see to the replanting of the trees and gardens.”  Frodo sighed.  “I have no endurance now, Sam.  I can’t do the physical things.  Yesterday and today were almost more than I could handle.”

       “Why do you think you was sent home in the coach, then?”

       Frodo laughed, then sobered.  “I can see to the lists, things like that.  But I’ll need you to do the legwork.”  Sam nodded.  “I suppose, between us, we can do it all.”

       “You know we can, Frodo.”

       Frodo reached out his hand, and Sam took it, felt the place of the missing finger, gave the rest a gentle squeeze.

Deputy Mayor

       Two days later Frodo went back to Michel Delving to go through papers which had never been filed.  He was met by Will Whitfoot’s nephew Gordolac, who brought his uncle’s keys. 

       “Did any of the Big Men enter here?” Frodo asked.

       “The one called Sharkey did, but after looking at the room he turned and left again,” Gordo answered.  “He laughed to see it all.”

       Once the door was opened, Frodo saw quickly what there was to laugh at.  Hobbits were very formal with their documents and records.  Formal documents usually required a minimum of seven witnesses affixing their signatures in red ink, and the wording was often complex and verbose.  A simple sales document requiring one to two pages in Gondor would easily run to seven to nine pages in the Shire; a certificate of birth or death which again in Gondor would run a single page at best would run a minimum of five pages in the Shire as all progenitors through five generations needed to be listed on the former; while certificates of death required that all living relatives within six generations and five degrees of cousins, their ages, addresses, and occupations needed to be listed as well.  Wills were often bound in volumes; property sales needed to have each boundary marker individually verified by at least five witnesses, each on its own sheet.  The room was stacked full of documents of all sorts, none of which could be filed without the signature of the Mayor. 

       Frodo looked at the room and took a deep breath.  “Could you find me a representative of the Took family, please?” he asked.  Pippin was already at the Great Smial, presenting his dispatches from the King to his father, after which he was to travel east again to Buckland to do the same to the Master, at which time he would join the patrols going through the Shire and keeping watch on the borders.

       Gordo shrugged.  “Should be fairly easy to do now,” he said.  “I’ll go and see if I can find one.  Is there anything else I can do first?”

       Frodo nodded as he removed his cloak and hung it on an elaborate hall tree just outside the office door.  “First, please bring me a large mug of water.”

       An hour later Isumbard Took entered the office.  He was filled with a strange excitement--he’d always admired his cousin Frodo, although the two had seldom done much together, particularly since Pearl and he had married.  The news that Frodo had come to the end of his money had raised his suspicions.  He and his uncle Paladin had probably more awareness of the extent of Frodo’s business dealings than most, as Frodo had interests in many of the farms in Tookland.  When Frodo disappeared with Meriadoc Brandybuck and the Thain’s heir in tow the resulting explosion in the Great Smial must have been heard throughout the Shire, and probably at least halfway to Bree besides.  The arrival of Pippin demanding a group of Tookland’s best archers to clear the Shire of the Big Men had certainly not gone unnoticed, to say the least.  So serious was Pippin’s attitude that his father had simply given the required order and watched his son’s almost immediate departure with amazement.  However, when Pippin went home again, Isumbard suspected things would not be either as abrupt or without incident.  Paladin Took was still upset at the lad going off without permission to unknown foreign parts, and would undoubtedly have a good deal to say and to demand of his son.  As for Frodo’s part in the situation--well, the letter the Thain had received from Pippin had indicated that Frodo was the instigator of the disappearance.  There would be no matter of simple forgiveness of Frodo’s behavior by Paladin Took.

       Isumbard searched the room--the desk was stacked with documents as were the various tables, but no one sat in the chair.  Where was Frodo in this confusion? he wondered.  He heard a noise on the far side of the room beyond the table there, made his way through even more stacks of documents on the floor, and finally found his cousin on the other side of the table there sitting on a hard wooden chair, leaning sideways on the tabletop going through the pages of a marriage contract, running his left hand through his hair, his expression intent and absorbed.  Isumbard stood quietly, allowing Frodo to finish his study before interrupting him.  Looking on Frodo, he was shocked.  Always slender compared to the average Hobbit, Frodo was only a few steps, Isumbard felt, from emaciation.  His eyes were deeply shadowed as if he had been desperately ill, his jaw set in a manner which had not been common to him before.  And, then there was the hand----

       Frodo’s right hand lay on the tabletop, the fingers as slender, long and shapely as ever--except for the ring finger, which was missing.  The skin over the stump of it had been carefully drawn over the knuckle apparently by a skilled surgeon, and Frodo did not appear to be in any pain as he leaned on the hand.  But there was no question that the ring finger was gone, and that the slightly exposed wrist was scarred, as if Frodo had been tightly bound. 

       Suddenly Frodo was aware of him, of the focus of his attention.  He did not color, but paled, a rather ghastly effect on a visage already pale by nature.  He straightened abruptly and dropped the right hand beneath the table, pulled the sleeve down.  The expression he gave Isumbard was at one and the same time studiously neutral and defiant.

       “Are you well, Frodo?” Isumbard asked quietly.

       “As well as can be expected,” was the reply, and the Took had the idea this was the only reply he was going to get on that subject.

       “We have missed you.”

       “And I’ve missed the Shire.”

       “It is good to have you back.”

       Frodo looked about distractedly, then up at his cousin, his expression somewhat bereft.  “I wish I felt it was good to be back, Bard.  All during the time I was gone, I held onto the idea that home was waiting, safe----”  He briefly looked as if he were about to weep.  Then he said in a low tone, “I couldn’t even manage to draw the evil away properly.”  A brief, very brief spasm of pain crossed his face, was schooled and gone before Isumbard had the chance to be quite certain he’d seen it.  Again Frodo’s face was studiously neutral as he looked up.  “Are you the Took Gordo summoned for me?”

       Isumbard smiled.  “Yes, although if you want me for what I think you want me for, I doubt I’ll thank you for it.”

       Frodo sighed.  “I don’t ask you to thank me for it, only to find a few more to help in setting all this in order.  I don’t think that Will filed anything from the moment I left Bag End.”

       “Well, as he was seized and imprisoned not long after you left, I doubt he had the chance to do much.  Where did the four of you go?”

       Frodo shook his head, then suddenly looked up, his face again paler, almost grey.  “You don’t wish to know, Bard, believe me.  We ended up in Minas Tirith, the capitol of Gondor, and I will tell you only this--there is a King again, one to renew all else.  Uncle Paladin will have received the dispatches already, I think.”

       “What?”  The expression When the King returns had come to be synonymous with In a pig’s eye and Never.  To hear that there was a King again....  Isumbard examined his cousin’s face, saw the lift of pride and even a bit of relief to it.  “You’ve seen him?”

       Frodo’s face softened markedly, became more that to which Isumbard was accustomed.  “Yes.  He’s a fine Man, Isumbard.  The finest.”  His smile lit up his features.  “His name is Aragorn.  He’s the last of the line of Kings, North or South.  He reunites Gondor and Arnor.  His throne name is Elessar.  He is--he is marvelous, Bard.  Marvelous.”  Unconsciously he reached for his throat, touched a jewel Isumbard suddenly realized he wore there, as if assuring himself it had not gone missing.  The smile remained as he reached out to take up a mug that stood there and drank a sip from it.  He then straightened, looked around, became businesslike.  He took a deep breath and sighed.  “Will has made me Deputy Mayor, and this, apparently, is the first thing to be done, getting all of this in order.  If Buckland were closer I’d have sent for my own lawyer for aid, but since it’s not....”  He gave another sigh.  “Can you get me about six sufficiently versed in the law to help me sort this mess out and review it all before we file it?”  He looked again.  “We will need to find all the documents Lotho has submitted in especial, for they will have to be examined most closely.  We’ll even have to check the archives for what had been filed as long as three years back at least.  I’ve set Sam to setting the quick post back in order and organizing the reconstruction; Pippin, as King’s Messenger, will be notifying all family heads of the new order as well as delivering the dispatches sent by the King to Master, Thain, and Mayor--oh, sweet Valar, that’s me for the moment, isn’t it?  Oh, well, at least I don’t have to read it.”

       “Why not?”

       Frodo smiled.  “I helped Aragorn draft it, after all.”  He laughed, and it was nice to know that he was still able to do so.  “One advantage to having spent a couple months at his side before returning home.”  Then the bleak look returned, briefly.  “I will need to go over it with Will.  Anyway, Pippin, after he’s done with the King’s business, will then assist Merry in the hunts to sweep the Shire and secure our borders from more brigands, although since Saruman’s death I doubt many will remain or seek to enter in again.”

       “Saruman?”

       “Saruman--Curunír--Sharkey--all the same person in the end.”

       “He is definitely dead, then?”

       “No question, Bard.”  There was a look of deep sadness on Frodo’s face.  “He fell so far, so far.  Even the Valar wouldn’t have him back.”

       Isumbard had no idea what was meant by that, but knew the solemnity was back in Frodo, and he felt grief for it.  “I’ll see to having Tolly finding you a good half dozen, then.”

       “Thank you, Bard, thank you.”  Frodo was already turning his attention back to the document he was reading, and Isumbard Took realized he’d been dismissed.

       An hour later he came back to tell Frodo that there were two more who would be joining them at any time, but as he approached the partially open door he heard voices within and didn’t wish to interrupt.  One was definitely Frodo, and he suspected the other was Samwise Gamgee, although he and Sam had barely ever spoken with one another.  What, after all, would one of the scions of the Tooks have in common with the gardener of Bag End?  Except, of course, Pippin had always liked Sam and referred to him as his friend.  Isumbard stopped just outside the door, but didn’t open it further or turn away, listened.

       “You need to drink it, Frodo.”

       “I told you, Sam--I am sick of draughts.”

       “Then don’t think of it as draughts--it’s tea and I made it special for you.”  After a moment, he continued, “It’s the only thing so far as has eased your stomach.  You didn’t eat much more than a bite this morning afore you left.”

       “I couldn’t have kept it down.”

       “Then drink this, and maybe you will be able to.”

       “I was drinking of it yesterday....”

       “Yes, you was drinking of it yesterday--but only a sip at a time.  You need to drink more than that for it to do much good.”  Then, exasperated, “Oh, for pity’s sake, Mr. Frodo--you don’t have to ration yourself no more.  It’s not like we was still in the Emyn Muil or in Mordor!”

       Isumbard straightened in shock.  He’d never heard of that first place; but--Mordor?  What was this about?  What in Middle Earth had happened to his cousin?

       Frodo’s voice was soft, and the Took at the door couldn’t hear what he said.  Sam sighed, and answered, “I know, Master--it’s hard to realize it’s over, and maybe you don’t feel as it’s over, neither.  But it is.  We’re here in the Shire and you don’t need to stint yourself no more.  Now, drink it.  Drink it slow if you have to, but drink it all.  Strider’ll have my head if he looks on us with that stone of his and sees you looking like this again.”

       Frodo laughed, again, an unexpected sound.  “I doubt it, not the head of the Lord Samwise, he won’t.”

       “Now, don’t you go teasing me.”

       “I’m not teasing you, and you know it.”

       There was another moment’s silence.  “That’s better,” Sam said.  “Just get it down you.  That herb as the King showed us seems to do you the best good.”

       “Then why didn’t he use it on me in Minas Tirith?”

       “He used it on you, but you was more than a bit distracted at the time.  You wouldn’t even member it.”

       “Then how do you know of it?”

       “You think Strider’n me didn’t talk?”

       Isumbard could hear Frodo’s sigh.  “I know you did, Sam.  As if there weren’t more profitable subjects of conversation.”

       “He loves you, Frodo, he loves you dear.  And so do I.  He called you back, and you need to know some peace and happiness afore you go that way again.  We’re agreed on that.”

       Then before Frodo had a chance to argue about that, Sam changed the subject.  “Now, what are we to do with all this?”

       “We, nothing.  You will have your hands more than full helping with the quick post and the rebuilding of the Shire, the replanting of the trees and gardens and all.  Isumbard is summoning some help to get it all sorted.”

       “What are you trying to do?”

       “Well, I suppose the first order of business is just to sort the documents into kinds--wills, certificates of death, certificates of birth, marriage contracts, property
sales, business sales, partnership documents, apprenticeship indentures.  But anything that Lotho did we need to set aside so we can do a thorough examination of just how he became so powerful so fast.  I want to see if this is a conspiracy within the Shire, for if so there are likely to be others infected with the Dragon sickness as well, and they’ll need special help or it will all happen all over again.”

       Isumbard had never heard of Dragon sickness before, and wasn’t certain what it meant.

       Sam was saying, “I suspect there was a few like Ted Sandyman who saw Mr. Lotho’s actions as just fine; but most like he used a number of different lawyers so as no one of them realized just how many properties and shares as he was buying up.”

       “I suspect you are correct, but we need to be certain.”

       “Well, I brought you a hamper there.  And don’t go thinkin’ as you need to eat it all in one sitting--it’s all things as can be eaten cold, so you can just eat a bit now and then so as not to overload the stomach again.”

       Frodo’s voice was very gentle.  “Thank you, Sam.  You have always cared for me better than I deserve.”

       There was a sound of pain in Sam’s voice as he said, “Oh, Master....”

       Isumbard realized that if Sam were to come out now he’d realize that the Took had been listening, so he reached for the door and opened it as if he’d only just come.  “Oh, Frodo--I’ve sent Hildibrand off to the Great Smial, and he ought to return within a few hours with the four more.  But Tolly and Eldred ought to be along any moment now.  Now, just how are we to organize these?”

       Samwise Gamgee was pouring a liquid from a waterskin he carried into the mug that sat by Frodo, and a fair-sized hamper sat on a cleared space on the table.  He didn’t interrupt his actions to do more than nod a greeting and say, “Good day to you, Mr. Isumbard.”

       “Oh, hello, Samwise.  It’s been quite a time since I saw you last.”

       “Yes, not since the Free Fair last year, I think.  Good to see you, sir.”  Having poured the last of the contents of the skin into the mug, he corked it.  “There’s the last of your tea, then, Mr. Frodo.  You be certain to drink it all.”

       “Yes, Sam, I promise.”

       Sam’s expression was concerned.  “I’ll be membering that you made the promise, mind.  Don’t disappoint me.  Now, I’m off to the Northfarthing to see Hal.  I just wish as our children would see the Shire as we knew it, stead of only seeing new trees all just coming up.”

       “We can only do the best we can, Sam.  Give my regards to your brother and his family.”

       “I will.  We won’t be planting much now--best to do that in February, you know.  But we can see where the most of the cutting was done and plan for then, at least.”

       “Good idea, Sam.”

       “And I have a number of them as has lost the most pulling down the brick buildings those horrors put up, and saving the bricks of them.  We can use them in rebuilding houses as was torn down and fixing up the new holes as we dig them.”

       “Good idea.  Are you going to do much the same as you go through the Shire?”

       “Yes.  But my guess is that the most as was dug out will be those close to Hobbiton.  It was most, I think, to punish us, to hurt you.  He always was jealous of you, after all.  All three of them was.”

       Frodo sighed, “I know, Sam.”

       Sam gave Frodo a searching look.  “You stand steady till I get back, Mr. Frodo.  I won’t be gone long.”  He placed a strong hand on Frodo’s shoulder, then with a nod turned away, touching his forehead and giving a brief nod of farewell to Isumbard as he left.

       Isumbard looked after him, then turned to Frodo, who was sipping at the mug Sam had filled for him.  “He has become more confident, I think.”

       “Sam?  Yes, he has.  And with reason.  Now, about these documents....”

       Tolly and Eldred arrived soon after, and soon the three Tooks were sorting the various documents into new stacks.  Once Hildibrand and the four he’d brought arrived, the business went much faster, and it was not long before midnight that they had the materials pretty much organized.  Frodo had been eating food from the hamper off and on all afternoon, and local goodwives had been bringing in meals as well for all.  His color was now definitely improved, although he was now looking very weary, as all of them felt by this time.  “This is all we can do right now, I think.  Shall we meet in the morning, then, to start examining the documents and make certain all are in order so I can sign them and we can actually get them filed?”

       With nods all round, the group began to disperse.

       As they walked out and Frodo locked the door behind them, Isumbard asked, “You aren’t going to ride back to Hobbiton now, are you?”

       “I’ve been staying at the Cotton’s farm in Bywater, actually.  But, no, Will and Mina have let me know I’m to sleep in their extra room tonight.”

       Frodo reached for his cloak--not the one he’d worn out of the Shire, Isumbard noticed, but one of a beautiful weave, silver-green in the low lantern light of the passageway, secured with an enameled brooch of a green leaf done in silver filigree.  Nearby hung another waterskin, and Frodo carefully settled it over his shoulder. 

      “You need a water bottle to walk from here to Will Whitfoot’s house, Frodo?”

       Frodo’s smile faded.  Finally he said, quietly, “I like to keep something to drink by me, Bard.  I had to go without for a time--makes one more appreciative of it after, I’ve found.”  He looked at his cousin, his face again neutral.  “I wish you a good night, Bard.  And take my greetings to Ferdibrand and all else there.”  He turned away and walked alone to the Whitfoot place.  Isumbard looked after, feeling frustrated.

Questions that Need Answering

       Once back at the Great Smial, Isumbard checked out Paladin’s study and found the Thain still there, awake, and, as had been Frodo, going over documents.  He looked up as his son-in-law entered and nodded him to a chair.  Drawing it close to the desk, Isumbard sat down.  Finally he asked, “The dispatches from the King, then?”

       “Did Frodo tell you of them?”

       “Yes, said that Pippin would be serving as King’s Messenger and delivering them.”

       “Did Frodo tell you anything about this King Elessar?”

       “Not a great deal.  Said he is a Man, and the last remnant of the line of Kings North and South, that he’s marvelous, and that he himself had been at the King’s side for a couple of months.  What did Pippin say?”

       “Not a great deal more than that.  Was standing at attention in that ridiculous getup he’s taken to wearing, ‘Yessirring’ and ‘Nosirring’ me as if he weren’t even my son.”

       “Did he tell you where they’d gone?”

       “Said they went through the Old Forest to the Road, then to Bree, then to Rivendell, then south.  Have you ever heard of Rohan or Gondor?”

       “Gondor, yes, in some of the books Bilbo sent us.  But where’s Rohan?”

       Paladin Took shrugged.  “I have no idea.  But apparently he’s been both places.”  He sighed and looked back at the documents.  “This first one is an official declaration that the King has come again, that the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar was crowned King of Gondor on the first of May, and that the Sceptre of Annúminas, conferring his rule over Arnor as well, was delivered into his hands on the day before Midsummer by Lord Elrond of Imladris, who has kept it in trust since the death of King Arvedui.  He confirms me in the office of Thain of the Shire, and sends his greetings via his official messenger, Captain Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel, whose office is to guard the King’s person.”

       “Imladris?”

       “Pippin tells me that is the Elvish name for Rivendell.”

       Isumbard stretched.  “Then there truly is an Elven Lord in Rivendell?”

       “Apparently.”  He sighed.  “The second describes the current government of Arnor.  Did you realize this King Elessar can summon me to his court at Lake Evendim to consult on dangers to the realm whenever it pleases him?”

       “He can?”

       “Yes, he can.  I’ll be going into the archives tomorrow to check out our own charters, but I suspect that he has the right of it.”  He shook his head.  “It goes further to explain that I answer to a Lord Halladan of Arnor, current Steward of the North Kingdom, until the King returns to his northern lands, and concerns regarding the integrity of our borders are to be referred to him.”

       “Where was this Lord Halladan when Sharkey’s Big Men came into the Shire, then?” asked Isumbard grimly.

       “Apparently, according to Pippin, those who guarded this part of Eriador were summoned south to their Lord’s side, to assist him in the war against Sauron.”

       Isumbard paled at the name.  “They fought against Sauron?”

       Paladin nodded.  “And, apparently, they won.”

       “How does anyone win against the likes of Sauron?”

       “I don’t know.  Pippin was saying something about Bilbo, Frodo, a ring, and going to Mordor, but I can’t make heads nor tails of it all.”

       “Have you seen Frodo yet, sir?”

       “No.  But when I do, he will get an earful.”

       Isumbard considered.  “I wonder if you will feel the same once you see him.”

       “Why?”

       “Pippin has changed--and more than just that he is now taller and all.  But so has Frodo, and you will find it hard to believe he is the same Hobbit who left here just over a year ago.”  He shook his head.  “He has been badly, badly hurt.”

       Paladin looked alarmed.  “Hurt?  Who would dare hurt Frodo Baggins?”

       “I don’t know, but you will know it when you see him.”  He wondered if he ought to go on, but finally said softly, “His friend Samwise indicated he went to Mordor.”

       The Thain rose to his feet.  “What?”

       “Yes, he definitely said that Frodo had been in Mordor--that he didn’t need to stint himself with water as he did in Mordor.”

       Paladin sat back down, gripping his desk, looking with disbelief into Isumbard’s eyes.  “What on earth would take a sweet lad like Frodo to Mordor?”

       “Uncle Paladin, Frodo has not been a lad for many years.  He is fifty-one now, I’ll remind you.”  Isumbard considered.  “So, you say that Pippin also spoke of going to Mordor?”

       “Yes.  Do you think it could possibly be true?”

       “Something has changed Frodo Baggins.”  He found himself looking at the black seal on the document before his wife’s father.  Finally he said, “He’s lost a finger also, Frodo has.  The ring finger on his right hand.”

       “How?”

       “I don’t know.  When he saw I was looking at it and the scars on his wrists, he pulled his hand off the table, pulled down his cuffs.”

       “Scars on his wrists?”

       “Yes, as if he’d been tied tightly.”

       “Peregrin has such on his ankles.”  Looking at the Thain’s eyes, Isumbard realized that the older Hobbit had not intended to say he’d noticed such a thing.  Finally Paladin turned away, looked at the picture of his father that hung over the fireplace to his left.  “What on earth happened to them out there?”

       “I don’t know, Uncle.”  They both stayed quiet for some time.  Finally the younger Hobbit asked, “Are there other documents there, too?”

       Paladin sighed, turned back to his desk.  He lifted the upper document and set it aside, then the second one.  “The third is the most ridiculous of the group.  It declares the titles conferred on Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took.  Frodo and Samwise are declared Lords of the Free Peoples of the West, and Frodo has a number of titles including ‘The King’s Friend’ and ‘The Ringbearer’ and some title in Elvish I can’t pronounce, much less understand.  Samwise Gamgee is named ‘The Faithful’ and another Elvish title.  Peregrin Took is a Captain of the Guard of the Citadel for both Gondor and Arnor, is a knight of Gondor, has been appointed King’s Messenger to the people of the Shire, and again it says something about him guarding the King’s person.  Meriadoc Brandybuck is declared a Holdwine of the Mark, Esquire to the King of Rohan, and a Knight of the Riddermark.”

       “What?”

       Paladin shrugged.  “I told you it is ridiculous.  It goes on to say that their faithfulness and courage helped to defeat the might of Mordor through endurance and hope, and that the West would not have continued to stand without the contributions of all of them.”

       Isumbard was impressed.  “That is a great deal to say.”

       “Yes.”  The Thain lifted this document.  “The next is a proclamation of marriage, calling all to rejoice that the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar married the Lady Arwen Undomiel, daughter of the Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, on the day of Midsummer.”  He lifted it and laid it aside.  “The next is a private letter to me outlining my duties as Thain now that there is again a King to whom I am responsible.  Mostly it appears to say that as long as the folk of the Shire continue to prosper and be happy, he won’t do anything to upset our own pattern of government.  However, if there is any threat to Arnor he can and will call upon the Shire to provide archers as before, although he also says he would consider accepting our service in terms of cooks for his armies.”

       Isumbard found himself wanting to laugh.  “Cooks for his armies?”

       “You heard me.  We are free to have whatever form of government and laws as we please as long as they do not conflict with the laws governing the rest of Arnor and Eriador.  We will send representatives to a conference to be held at some unspecified time in the future regarding our willingness to trade with the rest of Arnor, and possibly Gondor and Rohan as well.  We can send messages to the Lord Steward Halladan via Barliman Butterbur of the Prancing Pony in Bree, and the same for messages sent south to the King himself in Minas Tirith in Gondor.  We are to continue our quick post message service within the Shire, and the King will provide a messenger service to our borders at least three days a week within a year of his accession to the Throne.”

       “Frodo has set Sam Gamgee on restoring the quick post service already.”

       “I see.”  He sighed.  “And finally he wants me to know how much he has come to care for and esteem the four Periannath who came to the aid of the Free Peoples of the West in the War of the Ring.”

       “What?”

       “Periannath--Elvish for Halflings or Hobbits.”

       “Oh.”  Isumbard reached out to take the proclamation of marriage.  He smiled.  “So, he had Frodo copy this, did he?”

       “Recognizes a fair hand for a copyist, apparently,” Paladin agreed.

       Paladin shifted the letter from the King.  “The last document is a request for a written list of concerns to be forwarded jointly to the King and the Lord Steward, things we believe the Crown ought to be providing for us.”  He looked at this document.  “There is again an indication that representatives from the Shire, including the Thain or his representative if he is incapacitated, will eventually be summoned to a conference regarding such in the future.”

       “Fair enough, I suppose,” his son-in-law commented.  After a few more moments of contemplation, he asked, “Are you going to come to Michel Delving in the next few days, sir?”

       “Probably.  Is Frodo going to be there, then?”

       “As deputy Mayor, apparently.  I don’t know how long it is going to take us to review all the documents there are to go through.  And he’s insisting that we need to carefully go through all the contracts involving Lotho individually.  He’s concerned about the possibility of there having been a conspiracy.”

       “I salute his concern, I must say.”

       Isumbard looked seriously into the Thain’s eyes.  “Just be warned, he has been hurt, and hurt badly.  He’s changed a great deal.”

*******

       Two days later Paladin Took and a group of his folk from the Great Smial rode into Michel Delving.  He approached the Council Hole and was greeted with a good deal of cheer from the folk of the village.  When he asked about Frodo, he was advised he’d gone to the house of the Mayor for elevenses.

       The Thain sent his folk off to consult with those who were inventorying the finds from the storage tunnels, bringing the lists he’d garnered of pilfered goods on one hand and stored crops and goods which might be of need in other parts of the Shire on the other he’d had drawn up.  He headed for the Whitfoot’s comfortable house and knocked at the door, was welcomed by Mina herself, who took his cloak with many words of welcome and directed him down the passage to the kitchen where she, Will, and their guest had been eating.  He could not help but notice, however, a level of concern in her eyes as she looked that way.

       Will Whitfoot sat in a chair cushioned with pillows, and there was no question he was in no position to serve as Mayor.  Paladin Took had seen signs of abuse on many folk who had fled to the Great Smial during the Time of Troubles, as it was already coming to be known, but Will’s condition was shocking.  Never had he seen any Hobbit so emaciated in his life.  One knee was heavily splinted.  His eyes were still haunted.  Even Ferdibrand, who was being nursed now in the Great Smial by his grateful wife, didn’t look as haunted as Will did.  But the smile Will produced at seeing the Thain was genuine and heartfelt.  “Hello and welcome, Paladin,” he said.  “Mina, bring the Thain an ale.  Would you join us for elevenses, then?”

       “Certainly,” Paladin said.  “If you have enough, of course.”

       “We do now,” Mina said proudly.  “Much of what was found in the storage tunnels here has already been distributed throughout the area, and Frodo has sent a group over to the Brockenbores to bring back as much as they can from there.”

       “What is the condition of the leg?”

       “The healers are concerned about the knee.  Say the kneecap was cracked when they threw me into the Lockholes.  They say it should heal properly now that I can get proper food and bed and rest and all.  But I have to eat small meals almost constantly, as I can’t feed properly as yet.  Frodo has assured me it isn’t as hard as I’d like to think it is, eating lots of small meals instead of larger ones.”

       Paladin raised his eyes to smile at his and his wife’s younger cousin, and stopped, shocked.  Maybe, he thought, he ought to have paid more heed to Isumbard’s warnings.  Frodo sat in the corner, his face pale, his eyes shadowed.  He was smiling at Will, but the smile didn’t reach all that deeply.  The shirt and vest he wore were not ones Paladin recognized, and although they were of typical Shire patterns, they were not of Hobbit weaving or stitching or materials.  They hung on Frodo as if he’d lost weight since they were made for him.  Before him sat an almost full plate of food, while the plates before the other two were almost empty.  He watched Frodo take a small bite of food, then set down the fork as he swallowed, as if each bite must be deliberate.  When he reached for his glass, then Paladin could see that, indeed, the ring finger was missing.  When he realized his cousin was looking at the place where the finger was now gone, Frodo’s face became wooden, and he pulled his hand away, dropping it into his lap.

       Two things Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire, realized at that moment.  First of all, if he were to ask Frodo what had happened, his younger cousin would not answer.  Second, he had no intention of asking--not now, at least.  He sought out a safe subject for conversation, and finally commented, “So, I see the King had you copy out his marriage proclamation.”

       The result was astounding, as Frodo’s face lit up with pleasure and the former wooden expression was totally gone.  “Yes, he did.  Although actually it was the Lady Arwen who asked it of me, although he was there at the time to confirm the request.”

       “How did you come to meet him?”

       “He was our guide from Bree to Rivendell, and accompanied us south toward--toward our goals.”  The expression became private again, but after a few moments he added, “The kingship had not yet been restored--not till after.”

       “After what?” asked Will Whitfoot, to which Frodo made no answer.

       “What are they like, then, this new King and Queen of ours?”

       Again Frodo’s face lit with pleasure and pride.  “I cannot begin to describe them.  Aragorn--Aragorn is one of the wisest mortals alive.  He is quite tall, the greatest swordsman among Men, an excellent bowman as well.  Yet he is also a healer, and full of great compassion.  He is a scholar, speaks more languages than I’d known existed, can capture the allegiance of others with a glance and a word.  The Lady Arwen carries the High Elven blood of her people, her hair dark, her eyes grey as the sea, lit with stars.  You can’t remain afraid in her company.  She has made the choice of Lúthien in choosing to marry our Lord King, and her father and her people grieve to lose her company, to know that when her father passes over the sea to Elvenhome she will not go with him, that she has chosen mortality.”

       As he’d spoken, his face had become increasingly solemn, but it was the solemnity of pride and love, the Thain realized.  “You say that you traveled together east and southward.  Did you go directly to Gondor?”

       Again the private look.  “No, Sam and I had--an errand we had to accomplish.  Aragorn and the rest headed west from the Great River first to Rohan and then to Gondor by various paths.”  His face was solemn.  “They fought in the War against the Enemy’s forces.”

       “Who did?”

       “All of them--Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Gandalf.  Uncle Paladin, you cannot believe what Pippin managed to do.  He did so well--he and Merry both.”

       “I see.”  He wanted to know, and hoped he would not cause another withdrawal.  “Why did you leave, Frodo?”

       Frodo looked away.  “I had to,” he finally said.  “I had to.  Thought if I went the Shire at least would remain safe--but I was wrong.  The Enemy’s will came here anyway.”  He looked down into his lap--was he looking at the gap between little finger and middle one? his cousin wondered.  “I was going to go alone, but they wouldn’t allow me to do so.  And certainly had I done so, I’d have failed in the end.”  He took up his glass, with his left hand, Paladin noted, and drank from it.  He set it down.  “I need to get back to the Council Hole.  We are still evaluating all the documents.  Will, I don’t know why you don’t develop writer’s cramp, having to sign so very many of them.”

       “That’s your burden now, Frodo,” the Mayor said, smiling, although his smile was decidedly strained.  Mina stood to allow Frodo to come out from behind the table, and he gave a courtly bow and headed out toward the front of the house.  Will looked after, his smile fading.  After they heard the front door close, at last he said, “I don’t know what to think of him.  He’s not as I remember--oh, he’s more responsible than ever; but he has so obviously been hurt.  Has Pippin given you the slightest idea as to what happened?”

       “Won’t Frodo tell you?”

       “Not a word. What he said just now is the most I’ve heard about what happened yet.  No real indication as to why he felt he had to leave, why the others went with him, what happened to him.”

       “Isumbard said when Frodo caught him looking at his hand he hid it under the table, and he just did the same to me.”

       “What about his hand?” the Mayor asked.

       “Where he lost his finger.”  He looked at Will’s blank face.  “You mean you didn’t notice?”

       “No!  How did that happen?”

       “We have no idea.”

       Will shook his head.  “He’s even more responsible than he ever was, Paladin.  But it’s as though he feels somehow he is to blame for everything that happened to us.”

       The Thain looked at Frodo’s plate.  “It looks as though he ate barely anything,” he commented. 

       The Mayor and his wife contemplated it as well.  “He’s far too thin,” Mina said.  “Far too thin, and far too pale.”

       An hour later Paladin Took entered the Mayor’s office in the Council Hole.  Frodo sat, alert and involved, speaking with three of the lawyers who had come to work on the project, examining a particular document.  He was still too thin, too pale, but at least he didn’t look as if he were looking into a world unseen by others as he’d done through much of the meal, as Will and Mina had described it.  Paladin looked on him with a feeling of relief.

       Paladin Took then began a progress through the Shire, feeling that as there was a King again now, it would behoove him to make a report to the King on just what this Sharkey had done to the land of the Shire.  He was not ready for what he found--trees cut down throughout the length and breadth of the land, fields and vineyards fired, people impoverished, families still in shock at having been torn apart and now starting to realize the nightmare at last was over.  All of the inns had been closed, and many of them had been either torn down or set afire.  Ugly, two storied “Shiriff houses” still stood in many communities, although many of them had already been torn down and their bricks stacked for other uses. 

       In many places the mills put up by Lotho had been torn down as well--better travel far to a proper mill, he was told, than to put up with an ugly monstrosity that not only did no more work than the older mills but did so only at the cost of pouring out filth into the land, water, and air.

       In the Southfarthing he found himself meeting with Samwise Gamgee, who was also doing a survey.  Sam had gathered about himself a party of farmers, gardeners, and landholders from throughout the Shire, all of whom were intent on much the same purpose as their Thain, but with one difference--they were looking at what it would take to restore things where Paladin had only thought to look at what was lost.  Paladin liked Samwise Gamgee, although he’d also not thought a lot about the young Hobbit.  Sam was capable, thoughtful, considerate, and devoted to Frodo’s welfare; and there was no question of any sort that this was a Hobbit fully attuned to his plants and his garden.  That Frodo would treat Sam as not just a servant but as a friend had never bothered Paladin, although he knew Eglantine saw the relationship between the two of them as puzzling and not quite proper.

       At first there seemed to be no difference in Sam since his return--except when he thought of it, Paladin realized that the Samwise Gamgee he knew would never have spoken to a member of the gentry that he didn’t know as freely as the one riding his pied pony with this party, and would certainly not have thought to take charge of the group or give the sensible orders he heard from him now.  The odd thing was that no one questioned the gardener’s authority to make such decisions--not even Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire.

       The Sweet Leaf in Pipestown had been closed but not torn down, and its owners under less observation than many closer to Hobbiton.  Once the Big Men were gone, the inn opened immediately.  Not all the ale here in the Southfarthing had been found and confiscated, nor all the wealth of the folk gathered, for the locals had long cared for bolt holes in which to hide bodies and goods if the Shire were to be overrun again as it had been almost a thousand years previously when Arvedui, King of Eriador and Arnor, had died at the hands of the Witch King of Angmar and the forces of Angmar had swept through the Shire following the path of his fleeing armies and his widow and heirs until they were overcome by reinforcements from Gondor.  Hobbit memories were surprisingly long, Paladin realized, when it came to providing against further insults of such a sort.  Suddenly there was life again in the Sweet Leaf, and here Paladin Took found himself sitting with Samwise Gamgee and his party, comparing notes.

       “I’ve been to see my brother Hal in the Northfarthing,” Sam was saying, “and he and many others of the nursery owners throughout the Shire have been realizing as this day would come and preparing for it, gathering seeds of plants and trees, doing cuttings of downed trees so as to get rootings started, doing grafts and such so as there would be something to start with for the replanting.”  He took a pull at his ale and set his mug down.  “It may take time, but at least our grandchildren will have an idea as to what the Shire looked like in our day.”  He shook his head.  “To think as the works of Mordor should of come here to our land, but I suppose there was no hope for otherwise, once the Enemy realized as who had It and as where It had been hidden for so long.  No, he’d of planned some kind of revenge, and those fools Sharkey and Lotho was just the right ones to have carried it out.”

       “Enemy?” asked Paladin Took.  Sam had just looked down into his mug and nodded his head.  “You sound as if you knew what led to all of this.”

       “I can’t be certain,” Sam said, carefully, “but I’ve certainly seen too much of the Enemy’s work in the past year not to recognize it here.”  He resumed sipping slowly at his ale, his attitude thoughtful, his memory apparently dwelling on evil he’d seen elsewhere.

       Paladin wanted to ask Sam more, but didn’t know where to start or even the proper questions to start with.  But finally he decided to ask about Frodo.  “Sam, Frodo looks--he looks haunted.”

       Sam gave a bark of a laugh completely devoid of humor.  “Haunted?  Oh, Mr. Paladin, I should say so.  You saw as what he’s seen in the year past, you’d look haunted, too.  It saw to it he saw the worst as well.”

       “What happened to him, Sam?”

       “He hasn’t told you?”  At the Thain’s shake of his head, Sam took a deep breath and shook his own head.  “Well, if he isn’t ready to tell, I’m not going to shout it all over the Shire, neither.  Just know that he left just in the nick o’ time.  If’n he’d left but a few hours later, it would of been too late, too late for all.  You think things was bad in the Time of Troubles?  You ain’t seen nothin’--nothin’ at all of terror, not real terror.”  He took another deep breath.  “We saw it, Mr. Frodo and me.”

       “Where did you go?”

       “South, south and east.”

       “Why did you leave?”

       “Had to, for they was coming for It, going to take It from him.  They got here just as we was leaving.  Like I said, if’n we’d waited any longer it’d of been too late.  If they’d of found us, they’d of taken It, taken It to him, and that would of been the end of all.  Had to get It out of here, afore they destroyed the whole of Middle Earth, not just the Shire.

       “He wanted to protect the Shire, get out of here with It, draw them away, draw the evil away.  But then we found out what we had to do to finish It at last, and we had to go south and east.  Take It back where it was made so It could be unmade.

       “They followed us, all the way to Rivendell.  Caught up with us at Weathertop, stabbed him there.  Almost lost him, we did.  If it hadn’t of been for Strider,  we’d of all been dead.  Strider knew what they was, how to fight them.  He chased them away, did his best to help Frodo, got us out of there, got us to Rivendell, to the Lord Elrond.  Strider and Elrond got it out of him, saved him.  Then we had to take It away.

       “We left the others at Amon Hen, Mr. Frodo and me.  He didn’t want to take any of us with him, knew he’d have to die to finish it, he did.  But he couldn’t leave me behind.  I followed him the whole way.  He’d of died if’n I hadn’t--almost did anyways.  But we did it, got It there, got away after.  Gandalf found us, carried us to safety.

       “We thought getting It out of here, the Shire would be safe.  Tore him up coming back, seeing the Shire was touched anyway.  He’s bound and determined to make it as it was, and I’m going to help as I can.  He’ll do his best for our folk; Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin will make certain we’re safe from others comin’ in, trying to do it again.  I’m going to do what I must to rebuild, replant, make it so at least our grandchildren will know the Shire we left.

       “I got to do this, got to give him back his Hope.  He deserves to know healing, some happiness after what he did for all of Middle Earth.  If the King can renew Gondor and Arnor, we can do the same for the Shire.”

       Paladin Took didn’t understand more than a portion of what Sam had said, but it was obvious that Frodo had been at the point of death at least twice.  Finally he asked, “How did he lose his finger, Sam?”

       Sam shook his head.  “That’s his to tell, not mine.”  He looked down into his drink, and would say no more.

       A few days later he and Eglantine were received at Brandy Hall by his sister and her husband, to find that Merry and Pippin had arrived only an hour earlier.  Paladin Took looked up into his son’s face, and as always since the four of them came back he felt decidedly odd.  How had Pippin become so tall in a year’s time?  How had he come to look so responsible, his little lad who had always been so foolishly endearing?  Why had he gone away without a word?  Where had come this air of watchfulness?  Where had his son gone?  He wanted to know this, but couldn’t even frame the questions, couldn’t get up the courage to ask.

       They sat at dinner mostly in uncomfortable silence.  No one seemed to know how to breech the unspoken questions.  To break the tension, Merry described the search through the Shire, of finding three groups of brigands hiding in wild sections of the Northfarthing, one near the Longbottom plantation in the Southfarthing, one near the Woody End in the Eastfarthing.  After another period of silence, Pippin spoke of seeing Sam near Tighfield, of the plans to replant trees, of the continued destruction of Shiriff houses, the inventory of smials and houses that needed to be reconstructed. Then again all went silent once more.

       Merry and Pippin had started their meal by standing briefly and turning to the West in silence before sitting down and beginning to eat their own dinners.  Paladin wanted to ask what that meant, but didn’t have the courage to ask.  Finally Pippin asked after Ferdibrand.  “How is he handling being home in the Great Smial?” he asked.  “Pimpernel must be greatly relieved.”

       His mother appeared grateful to have a subject she could discuss safely.  “We were all glad to see he was still alive, Pippin.  We had no idea whether he’d been thrown into the Lockholes or had been killed.  But to find out they blinded him?  How could they do that, kicking someone in the head that way?”

       Pippin looked very grim.  “The bunch in charge of the Lockholes themselves appeared to be half-orcs from Isengard.  You can expect almost anything from such as those.”

       “Where is Isengard?” Eglantine asked.

       “South of here, near the Gap of Rohan.  Saruman lived there for a long time, was somehow breeding Men and orcs to produce his Uruk-hai.”

       “Who is Saruman?”

       “That was one of Sharkey’s names.”

       “You heard of this Sharkey before?”

       The answer, when it came, was very terse.  “Yes.”

       “How?  When?”

       Pippin looked up into his mother’s eyes, his expression stony.  “Mum, believe me, you don’t want to know.”  After a brief moment he looked down at his plate.  

       Finally Eglantine looked to Merry in question.  His expression was distant, and he appeared to be trying to avoid her gaze.  Finally he sighed.  “Saruman used to be a Wizard, like Gandalf, only he fell.  He became corrupted by the desire for power, and tried to take possession of the land of Rohan, allied himself with Sauron.  He appears to have been buying pipeweed from Lotho for some time--we don’t know how long.  He’s the one who sent the Big Men up here to help Lotho take over control of the Shire; then after Treebeard let him go when the war was over and Sauron was defeated, he came here and had Lotho killed and took over.”

       “Why?”

       Merry shook his head.  “We don’t know.”

       Paladin looked at him thoughtfully.  “Sam Gamgee said the Enemy would want revenge on the Shire, but I don’t understand who the Enemy was or why he’d care about us.”

       “He knew the Ring was here for a long time--that’s why he sent the Black Riders here.”

       Saradoc Brandybuck sat up, now very interested.  “Black Riders?  You mean the ones old Maggot spoke of?”

       “He told you?”  At his father’s nod, Merry took a deep breath.  “They chased Frodo from Bag End to the Buckleberry Ferry.  That’s why we left through the Old Forest, hoping they couldn’t find us there.  They are the ones who attacked Crickhollow, from what Fatty has told us.”

       “Did this Sharkey send them, too?”

       Merry shuddered.  “Oh, no.  Sharkey didn’t have any control over them.”

       Pippin looked at his cousin with pity, then finally looked at Saradoc.  “They came from Mordor, Uncle.”

       “They what?!  Why?”

       “Merry told you--they were after the Ring.”

       “What ring?”

       “The one Bilbo brought home from his adventure, the one he used to make himself invisible.  When he left the Shire he left It for Frodo.”

       “But that was just a story....” 

       But both of the younger Hobbits were shaking their heads.  Merry’s face was solemn.  “It wasn’t just a story Bilbo made up.  Believe me, it wasn’t.  We saw It.  We saw how Frodo became invisible the three times we saw him put It on.  Sauron made It, and he wanted It back.  And Saruman wanted It, too.  We’re not certain if he wanted It so he could give It to Sauron, or if he intended to use It himself.

       “Sauron might have wanted the whole Shire punished for Bilbo and Frodo keeping It here for so long.  Saruman--who knows for certain why he’d hate the Shire.  Partly, probably, for the same reason; partly because he was jealous of Gandalf and he knew Gandalf cared about the Shire and us Hobbits; partly because Pippin and I saw the destruction of Isengard, and witnessed when his staff was broken; partly angry because Frodo took It away and he couldn’t get his hands on It.  We can’t be sure.  For all we know Sauron may have told him he was to take care of the Shire for him.  I only wish I’d choked him on my pouch when we met on the road north.”

       “You met him on the road?”

       “Yes, when we were coming home.  But he beat us here.”

       Paladin Took looked with a level of anger at his nephew and his son.  “You certainly weren’t hurrying home, then.”

       “We went the pace set by our company,” Pippin said defensively.

       “What company?”

       “When we left Minas Tirith there were a large number we traveled with, and as we came north different groups would ride away when we came to where our roads parted.  Finally it was just us and Gandalf, and then just us.”

       “Couldn’t you have come faster?”

       “Maybe, but that would have meant the four of us alone, and that we’d not have seen Bilbo on the way back.”

       “Bilbo?  You saw Bilbo?”

       “Yes.  He’s in Rivendell--has been there for almost but not quite the whole time.”

       Esmeralda looked at them in shock.  “But how is it he’s still alive?”

       Merry shrugged.  “He had It for a very long time.  But he’s also the Old Took’s grandson.  Wants to pass him up, you know.  We were with him on his birthday.”

       Again there was silence.  Pippin was not eating, which was totally uncharacteristic.  Finally Paladin, not looking at either, asked, “What happened to Frodo’s hand?”

       Merry turned away.  Both he and Pippin showed grief in their eyes.  At last he said to the tabletop, in a very quiet voice, “He lost his finger.”

       “I know that!” Paladin snapped.  “I could see that!  How did it happen?”

       Both just shook their heads and would not say.  Saradoc and Paladin looked at one another while Esmeralda and Eglantine looked at each of the menfolk in turn.  Finally Merry whispered, “Be glad he lost it, Uncle.  Be glad.  We almost lost all of him--he almost lost himself.”  He put down his fork, then said, “Please forgive me--I can’t eat any more.”  He stood up, bowed formally, and left.  Pippin rose, his face pale, murmured something, and followed him.

       Their parents looked after them in shock.  “Be glad he lost his finger?” Paladin finally spluttered.  “What in Middle Earth did he mean by that?”

       “What finger?” Esmeralda was asking.

       “Pippin never leaves the table like that!” Eglantine Took protested.

       The Master of Brandy Hall looked after his son and nephew with concern.  “What happened to them out there?”

       Finally they began looking to one another.  Paladin Took took a deep breath.  “Let’s start with these Riders.  What were they about?”

       Saradoc Brandybuck sighed.  “Just after they disappeared, there was a disturbance at the house at Crickhollow, the one Frodo bought.  Fredegar Bolger apparently was staying alone there after they left, and was supposed to convince folks as long as possible that Frodo was indeed still there.  The house was attacked.  Freddy had locked and barred the door after becoming certain something evil was approaching the place.  He said he’d peeked out and saw at least three black shapes creeping through the front garden.  Once he got the door secured, he said a feeling of dread worse than anything he’d ever felt struck him.  He slipped out the back of the house and ran for his life.  He was gibbering with fear when he made it to the nearest place, Marvo’s orchard place about a mile toward the Hall.  Marvo blew the Horn Call, and we all gathered.  The door--the door had been blasted open, and the bar was reduced to splinters.  It was a stout oak beam, Pal, I’d just seen it installed new when I sold the house to Frodo.  It was shivered to nothing; and there was a smell of burning.  The door jamb was also damaged, the metal of the lock twisted.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Frodo’s old cloak lay on the threshold.  And the feel--They were already gone, but we could feel the evil after.  It was awful.  We found hoofprints all around--prints from horses, not ponies.  We lost the bounder on duty at the bridge--horsemen rode him down.  Had hoofprints on his body and all about him.

       “The next day Farmer Maggot came to see me.  A few days before he’d found a Big Folk riding across one of his fields and into his lane, a Black Rider.  His dogs were wild with terror, and he said he felt pretty much the same.  This cloaked stranger had a strange, hissing voice, and was asking for information about Baggins, demanding it, offering gold.  Maggot ordered the stranger away.  Shortly after, Frodo, Sam, and Pippin showed up, also having crossed his fields, but from a different angle.  They said they’d been pursued by at least two Black Riders all the way from Hobbiton.  They were calm enough, but were still obviously deeply disturbed.  Maggot loaded them into his wagon and drove them to the Buckleberry Ferry.  Said that after he left them, as he was driving home he felt a feeling of horror, looked back, and saw another Black Rider near the bank, heading for the Brandywine Bridge.  He said Frodo had said he thought these Riders came from Mordor.”

       “Mordor again,” the Thain commented.

       “What about Mordor?” demanded Eglantine.

       “They keep mentioning Mordor and Sauron.  From what Sam said, it sounds as if he and Frodo may have gone there.”

       “Nonsense,” his wife protested.  “No one could go to Mordor!”

       Esmeralda, on the other hand, wanted to know about the missing finger.  “You say you saw where it’s missing?”

       “Yes,” Paladin said.  “The ring finger of the right hand--it’s gone, and the skin has been neatly drawn over the knuckle.  He uses his right hand still, but hides it away under the table if he catches you looking at it.”

       “What happened to it?”

       “You saw them, Esme.  None of them will say anything about it.  Sam told me only Frodo should speak of it; but Frodo just glared and hid it away when I saw him.”

       Eglantine looked horrified.  “I don’t understand,” she said.

       “Face it, my love--none of us do,” the Thain said with a sigh.

Renewing

       By the beginning of November the quick post was fully functional again.  By the middle of November Frodo had called all Shiriffs into Michel Delving and questioned each individually, dismissing most of them and reducing the force back to its traditional numbers and purposes; bounders were questioned about what movements they’d seen of outdwellers around the borders of the Shire, before the sale of Bag End, during the time the Travelers were gone, and since their return; several lawyers who’d dealt with Lotho Sackville-Baggins were questioned closely as to why they had assisted in some highly questionable acquisitions and how they’d managed to convince others that their shares in the pipeweed plantations were worthless; all of the Shiriff houses had been totally dismantled, and work had begun on rebuilding homes and redigging smials. 

       In a few of the sheds built in Bag End’s gardens were found the bulk of the furnishings, doors, carefully preserved windows, and even paneling taken from the holes that had been in the Row, and Sam saw a chance to redig them into the face of the Hill as close to the original as possible.  The number of folks who turned out to assist in the work was heartwarming; and many of the bricks from the various constructions raised by the Big Men now went into providing pleasant facings for the new structures as well as serving in the flooring and even in some of the internal walls.  By February the reconstructed smials were finished, and all declared they were as comfortable as the originals.  In every other area where smials had been dug out and houses dismantled it was the same--throughout the Shire people were turning out to rebuild, redig, refurnish.

       It was found that the majority of those who had been dispossessed and displaced in this manner were closely tied or related to Frodo, the Master, or the Thain in one manner or another, or were the Heads of families.  Long envious of what he saw as power over others, Lotho had sought to demean those who had earned or inherited authority and responsibility while forcing his own power over all; that he had failed to appreciate the difference between power and responsibility was painfully obvious to the entire Shire, looking on the results of his machinations.

       Isumbard Took continued to assist Frodo the three days a week he spent in Michel Delving, and as the days passed he was seeing an improvement in his cousin’s appearance.  Frodo’s color began to improve, and although the haunted expression never completely disappeared, he was definitely beginning to look more present and aware, and his native sense of humor was showing signs of returning.  He finally began putting on weight again as well, although not a great deal of it.  He could now be heard humming softly, singing under his breath, or sometimes even whistling quietly as he finished up the reviews of the documents.  What he was singing Isumbard was not always certain, for he rarely seemed to sing familiar Shire ditties.  A few seemed to be songs Bilbo had written and taught to his younger kin; others mentioned Elbereth or Manwë or Ulmo a great deal, it appeared.

       Frodo had never appeared before to think much of the law, and now at first he seemed to mutter repeatedly that the presence of a body of law appeared to be mostly designed to keep the lawyers busy in drawing up sufficiently complicated paperwork; but after a couple weeks he began identifying errors in the documents he was reviewing, noting unusual clauses, spotting deliberate attempts to slip extra rights or responsibilities for one side or the other into the contracts.  Instead of relying on the lawyer’s evaluations he was now directing them.  He was also doing the same for those documents that were beginning to come across his desk day by day as the normal business of the Shire began to resume fully.

       The first time he found himself having to perform a wedding he was nervous, yet he handled it well enough, relaxing markedly as he went through the ceremony.  Sitting at banquets seemed more onerous to him, although he did well enough.  His words were short and to the point, although at times they could have quite a bite to them if one took the time to reflect on them.  He still did not eat anywhere near enough to meet Hobbit expectations, and he inadvertently insulted more than one cook who took the barely touched plates as reflections on their skill within the kitchen.  The fact was, Frodo Baggins could not stomach full meals, as Isumbard realized one day.  Mina had cooked a wonderful meal and a squash pie for dessert, and although he rarely touched desserts any more Frodo had not only accepted a large piece of this but had eaten it all.  However, as they were walking to the Council Hole suddenly his color vanished, he appeared to be trying to control his stomach through sheer will power for some moments, and then suddenly he was hurrying for the bushes, where he was quite ill.  Isumbard followed him, found himself kneeling by Frodo as he lost the entire lunch, was supporting him through it, wiping his forehead.  He realized Frodo was weeping in frustration.  

       “Oh,” Frodo whispered intently as he uncorked the water bottle he still carried and used a swig to rinse his mouth, “every time I try to enjoy something, truly enjoy it, this happens.”  He rinsed his mouth again, spat, sat back on the ground and pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.  Finally he took a small swallow of the liquid in the skin, which, Isumbard noted, was not plain water; then, after assuring himself he was able to keep it down he took another, longer one.  He continued to sit for some minutes until he felt completely calm, then accepted a hand up from Isumbard, who realized he was holding his cousin’s maimed right hand.  Frodo didn’t appear to notice.  His face was a study in frustration as he looked at his cousin’s eyes.  “Oh, Isumbard, I am so tired of this.  Either my stomach is so upset I can barely keep anything down, and I don’t want to eat at all; or I start feeling better, food tastes so very good at long last, and I eat too much and I lose it all again.  I knew I ought to eat only a few bites of that pie, but it was so good--so very good! And now it’s all gone to waste.”  He sighed, looked around.  “I need to sit down.”

 There was still a tree trunk left by the Big Men lying nearby, and Frodo and Isumbard made their way to it, and Frodo sat again.  He sat leaning forward, looking at the ground.  “I don’t know how much longer my body will be able to sustain this,” he said softly.  “I try to eat as Aragorn suggested--several small meals throughout the day; but it isn’t as easy to do as I’d thought.  I mean, we as Hobbits already eat more meals than Men do--I thought it would be easy to do it.  But it’s not enough.”

       “How long has your stomach been like this?”

       “Almost the whole time since I woke up in Ithilien.  They had a feast for us, for Sam and me--food all about us, and I’m there looking down at a cup of broth and soft bread with no butter, and curds and whey.  Aragorn was making certain we had the many small meals, and it appeared we were getting better.  Well, Sam did--but I didn’t--not completely.  I’ve not been able to eat properly since then.  Aragorn was realizing that regular meals were too much, so when he’d want me to attend one of the feasts he would take me first to the kitchens.  Oh, you can imagine the stir that caused--the King and his pet Hobbit in the kitchens as they were preparing these elaborate meals and elaborate dishes.  Here we’d be in the midst of sweating cooks and pot boys, and the King is giving me small tastes of this dish or that one--but only small tastes, for any more and I’d lose it again.

       “When he was younger he spent some time in Rhun, and there they eat a magnificent lamb dish prepared with a spice called curry.  It is very hot and spicy, and is served with a fine sauce.  He taught his cooks how to make it, and often it would be part of the feasts.  I’d get a bite of it--maybe two; and the other things as well--only a bite.  Then we’d go to the feast, and there I was, watching others get plates full of these exquisite dishes--and they’d place before me a plate with rice and lamb or chicken or mild fish.”

       “But you don’t even like rice!” Isumbard commented, remembering dinners when they were younger where Aunt Eglantine and Frodo would get into contests of wills over whether or not Frodo would clean his plate when she served rice--contests he remembered Frodo always won.

       “I still abhor it--makes me feel like I have a mouth full of laundry starch or wallpaper paste.  Aragorn and the Lady Arwen realized that I’d only eat the rice if they could break it up somehow and fill it with other things.  The Lady Arwen made the most delicious sauce, a very delicate one which I could tolerate, and she would stir it and the meat and small slices of freshly cooked vegetables into the rice, and I could get it down me.  Even came to like it some.  And I could seem to tolerate it and digest it properly.  But to sit there and watch others eat or not as they pleased while I sat toying with an invalid’s rations--it was more than I could bear at times.  I’m a Hobbit, not an Elf or a Dwarf or even a Man.  I was made to eat and to eat well, not pick at food like a petulant child of Men.”

       It was such a shock to hear this from Frodo, who barely mentioned his journey out of the Shire at all.  It certainly answered questions, though.  “What caused this state, Frodo?”

       He was afraid Frodo wouldn’t answer, but waited to see if he would.  Frodo sat, quietly shaking his head and rubbing at the empty place on his right hand where the knuckle ended before the finger which ought to have continued on.  Finally he did make an answer--of sorts.  “We’re not completely certain.  Perhaps the fact I barely ate for the last month of our journey.  I vaguely remember telling Sam I had no memory left of food or water--or the touch of grass, there at the end when I was still certain I would die to complete the task.  Maybe it’s the spider’s poison and its effects.  Maybe from breathing in the reek of the Mountain for so long, day and night, after he awakened it to make the darkness for his armies of trolls and orcs.  Maybe from the effects just of carrying It so very long.  Who can say?”

       “He awoke the Mountain?”

       Frodo, staring off into the distance, nodded.  “Yes, it was always the sign by which those of Gondor could tell when he was at home in Mordor, active--by the reawakening of his forge.  He tortured the very earth itself, as well as its creatures.  As we traveled by night the darkness would be lit by the Mountain’s torment, the sky itself bleeding fire.  During the day he had it pumping out clouds of ash and smoke.  That ash covered everything.  Sam and I were filthy with it at the end.  Doubt you’d have known us.  It would get into our clothing, between my skin and the chain, add to the sores there.

       “When we came to Gondor, the ash lay on everything, making all look dusty and somewhat grey.  There was a glass blower from the Fourth Circle, however, who collected it, as much as he could find.  He swept the walls behind the guest house where we lived, and the walls all over the upper reaches of the City.  I could not understand why, but he assured me he could bring beauty even out of this sign of the devastation of Sauron.  And he did.  He would mix it with his fine sand, and would heat it in his furnace, and would blow from it the most beautiful of bowls and beads and vases and ornaments, sparkling with subtle colors.  They were such as to seize your heart with their beauty and delicacy.  I bought a great bowl he blew of it, to gift to Aragorn and the Lady Arwen ere we left. 

       “He had a daughter, a fascinatingly beautiful girl named Linneth.  She reminded me of Pearl, of Pearl and Narcissa Boffin and Rosie Cotton and my mother as I remember her, all four.  She minded his stall in the market place, and sold his smaller items.  There was a youth who loved her, and he would buy a string of beads from her before every Highday, then hang it about her neck when he came to see her on the Highday.  I wonder if she ever accepted him?”

       Suddenly Frodo shook his head.  “This is not getting any work done.  Let’s go in.”

       Frodo hung his cloak in the hallway with the water skin, and went to the desk now his to see to the documents which had been set there since they left.  Isumbard went to get the mug of water for him and set it to hand.  Frodo, already studying an indenture of apprenticeship for an orchardman, nodded his thanks almost automatically.  Isumbard advised him he would be back shortly, went to the inn and purchased a light meal which they placed in a covered basket for him, then stopped by the Whitfoot house to beg one more slice of the pie for Frodo.  He stopped at the downed tree and cut it in half and set one part aside.  The rest he took into the office and set it by Frodo, who barely noticed at the time.  But during the rest of the afternoon he would eat a bit and then a bit more until all was gone, including the pie.  Before they left at the end of the day Isumbard gave him the second half of the slice, and he saw a look of surprise and gratefulness in Frodo’s eyes as he thanked him.  Warmed by his cousin’s pleasure and humble thanks, Isumbard was reminded why he had looked forward to the coming of Frodo Baggins to the Great Smial when he was younger, before he’d become a rival for the affections of Pearl.

*******

       A few days later Merry and Pippin swept into the office, both looking frustrated, Merry sad, Pippin furious.  “You wouldn’t believe it, Frodo--Mum is treating me as if I were still a young tween.”

       Frodo set aside the document he’d been reviewing and gave his younger cousin his attention.  “You must remember, Pippin, that you are a tween--not a young one, admittedly, but a tween.”

       “Well, she’s treating me again as if I’d only just passed twenty, which was quite a long time ago.  Do you know whom I’m to invite to my birthday party?  Levandoras Took!  He’s barely eighteen himself, and wouldn’t know the business end of Troll’s Bane if his life depended on it!”

       Frodo laughed.  “Two years ago you didn’t know the business end of Troll’s Bane--you yourself had to be taught by Boromir, Aragorn, and Legolas.  Teach him.”

       “But he picked it up by the blade!”

       Frodo now looked concerned.  “Knowing how sharp you keep the blade, that was flatly dangerous.  He’s lucky he didn’t lose a finger or two, then.”

       “That’s what I told him as I took him to the healer to have the gash checked.  Needed three stitches, and Olimbard is nowhere near as gentle as Aragorn when it comes to doing that.”  Pippin sighed.  “As for Father, he’s becoming the bane of my life.”

       Frodo was more concerned--never had Peregrin Took referred to Paladin as Father.  Obviously this was becoming serious.  “What is he doing?”

       “He wants me to wear my old clothes, for one thing--not that they’d fit no matter what I did to them.  He wants to know what it is I shout about at night.”

       “Shout?  Is he referring to the nightmares?”

       “Apparently.  And he wants me to look at finding a bride.”

       “Now, that sounds as if it could be pleasant.”

       “Pleasant?  Can you imagine what it would be like for any lass unlucky enough to marry me?  I have one of my nightmares, cry out and waken her in the night, and then she gently touches me to waken me from it, and I automatically take Troll’s Bane and run her through.  No, at this point I wouldn’t push myself on any lass in the Shire, even if I hated her through and through.”

       Frodo’s expression, Isumbard realized as he watched them from across the room, was very serious.  Frodo gave a small nod.  “Yes, I can see the difficulty.”

       “He’s asked me at least a hundred times why I left as I did, and won’t accept the explanation.  I’ve tried and tried to explain that if I hadn’t, we’d all be Mordor’s slaves now, those of us still left alive, that is, but he won’t listen.”

       “It does sound far-fetched from his point of view.”

       “From his point of view?  Sweet Valar, Frodo--you know all too well I’m putting it mildly!”

       “Yes, I know--I know, but he doesn’t.  He never saw the Black Riders, or what I looked like from Amon Sul onwards.  He never heard the cries of the fell beasts of the Nazgul overhead, and the worse ones of their masters.  He never saw the clouds over Mordor lit up by the fires of Orodruin.  We have to keep telling him until it sets in that we are not overstating the situation.”

       “Telling them?  When just to think of it makes our insides squirm?  You can’t even name It outright, and I can barely do so.”

       Frodo turned his face away from that of Pippin, his expression pale again.  Finally he said in a low voice, “Point taken.”

       Merry sighed.  “My mum and dad are better than the Thain and Aunt Eglantine, but are still so careful with me it is driving me to distraction.  I know now why you used to become so frustrated with them, Frodo--it’s as if they want to wrap me up in fresh-sheered wool and store me in my room.  I can’t talk of it yet, and even just now, when you two mentioned--them, my arm went numb and cold again.”

       Frodo sat back in his chair and gave a sad laugh.  “A right trio of walking wounded we are.”  He sighed.  “Let me think.”  He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the spindles of the back of Will’s tall office chair.  He was still for so long Isumbard wondered if he’d drifted off to sleep--that had happened a time or two.  But at last he opened his eyes, smiling.  “Crickhollow,” he said, as if that were all the explanation they needed.

       “What about Crickhollow?” asked Pippin.

       “I’m not staying there--couldn’t bear to do so at this point.  You two can have it for as long as you need.”

       “But it’s full of your things....”

       “Do you think I’m worried about that, Pippin?  You two need a place apart to put yourselves together, while I don’t dare go off on my own as yet.  I find I need the reassurance I’m not alone.  And, after learning they--they broke in the door as they did, I couldn’t bear to stay there at all.”

       “They are gone, Frodo.”

       “Tell that to Merry, Pippin.”

       After a moment of silence, Pippin gave a small nod and responded, “Point taken.”  He looked back at Merry.  “Do you think you could bear to go there, Merry?”

       Merry nodded slowly, commenting, “I even think my parents will understand.”

       Frodo said, “Yes, I think they will.  They’ve learned something from their experience with me, after all.  I’d give you the keys, but I understand they have nothing to work on at this point.”

       “I can change the lock myself.  I learned a lot of odd things in my own dissolute youth,” Merry said, suddenly laughing.  “And Dad said he had the jamb repaired already.”

       “Then it’s settled.  You will take care of the desk, won’t you, Pippin?  If I find one mar on it, I’ll have your ears on my belt.”

       Later that day as Isumbard and the three lawyers who’d remained on the project were discussing the need for a new means of filing property acquisitions and sales, there was a knock at the door as a member of the quick post came in.  He walked up to Frodo and gave him a salute which he’d thought up himself as appropriate for the new deputy Mayor, and fumbled in his bulging bag.  “There’s a bundle for you, Mr. Baggins, from foreign parts.  They brought it to the gate at the Brandywine Bridge.”

       “Who brought it?”

       “A rider in a grey cloak with a star holding it closed.”

       “Oh, a Ranger of Arnor.”

       The post man shrugged as he finally managed to lift the bundle free of his bag and held it out to Frodo.  “Here it is, then, sir.  I hope it’s not bad news.”

       “I rather doubt it.  Thank you.”

       Frodo took the bundle and nodded a dismissal, then set it on the table beside which he now stood.  “If you will pardon me for a second.”  He examined the black seal on the package and laughed.  “Oh, it’s from Strider!”  He seemed quite pleased as he slipped a finger inside the fold of the finely woven cloth wrapped around it and pulled the seal free.  In a moment he was lifting out a letter, a purse of black leather tied with a silver cord, and another bundle wrapped this time in paper.  He untied the cord about this bundle, and lifted out several garments.  “Oh,” he said, “he sent me more clothing.  He knows I don’t need that.”  He held up an exquisitely fashioned vest, then shook his head in awe.  “This is the Queen’s work.”  He looked up at Isumbard’s face.  “She is one of the best embroiderers there has ever been.”  He handed it over to his cousin, who took it carefully and examined it.  It was done in silver grey, and was embroidered with fine stitches with meticulously detailed eight-pointed stars in a silver only a shade different than the material of the vest itself.  The trousers were of a darker shade of silver grey, while the jacket which went with it was the same shade as the vest, with a border of the silver stars around the collar and down the front panels, under buttons and button holes.  With it was a soft shirt of a delicate blue color, also decorated with stars on the placket and about the neck.

       “I have never seen anything so beautiful for a gentlehobbit to wear in all my days,” Isumbard said, finally.  Frodo nodded as he carefully, tenderly folded them again and returned them to the wrappings, retied the silver cord.  “I’ll wear them for Sam’s wedding,” he said, smiling.

       “Oh, is he getting married?”

       “He doesn’t accept it as yet, but yes, he and Rosie will decide soon enough.”  He then turned to the letter, which consisted of several sheets of paper folded over one another, sealed again with black wax.  Frodo opened it slowly, as if savoring the moment.  At last he was reading it, his face alight with pleasure.  “They are well and happy, and Gimli will be heading our way in a month’s time to bring my clothes press and other items we left behind as we couldn’t carry them on our pack pony.  Queen Arwen has won the hearts of the people of Minas Tirith, and they hope in a year’s time to restore the old name of Minas Anor.”  His face became more solemn.  “Aragorn has already had to fight one more battle with some of the Southrons, and won easily but hated the need.  Their Farozi had not wanted them to fight, but they went against his desires.”  He read further, and beamed again.  “Healer Eldamir’s child is doing very well, as is his wife.”  Again he looked up into Isumbard’s eyes, smiling.  “They almost lost both when the bairn was born, for the labor was long and he was poorly turned in the womb.  Aragorn himself called them back, helped the child to breathe.”  He went on with his reading, and smiled and once laughed gently.  At last he appeared to finish with the letter from the King.

       Folded inside was another missive written on a different paper, fine and thin.  Frodo opened it, and read it, and his face became quite still and intent.  At last he carefully folded this letter and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket.  His expression was odd, excited, disturbed, grateful, saddened--all at the same time.  Finally Isumbard could bear it no longer.  “What was that one?”

       Frodo shook his head, but finally said, “It was from the Lady Arwen herself.  They will allow me to----”  But he would not say more, shook his head again.  “No, I don’t belong there.  This is my home.  I’m a Hobbit, not an Elf.”  He took up the bundle of clothing and slipped it back into the bag in which it had been shipped, slipped the King’s letter in with it. 

       Finally he looked at the black leather purse.  With a sigh he opened it, poured it out.  From it fell seven gold coins.  One had a small black seal on it.  Frodo looked on them solemnly, picked up the one with the seal and examined it.  He picked up another and handed it to Isumbard to examine.  “The King’s new coinage--he swore I would get the first three coins struck.  Two of the others are for Sam, and one each for Merry and Pippin.”

       Isumbard Took examined it with interest, looked at the bearded profile of a Man, one who appeared proud, capable, and regal at the same time, his stern expression softened by the hint of a smile on his bearded lips.  Frodo was looking with an expression of pride and the hint of his former expression at the same time.

       On the reverse side were a tree and a circle of seven stars.  Frodo was examining the stars with interest.  “The Stars in a circle are the symbol of Arnor, while the Tree and Stars are the symbols of Gondor.  He used the Stars of Arnor here, so is proclaiming this the coinage of both realms.”  He gently ran the index finger of his right hand over it, around the circle of stars.

       At that moment another person entered through the door the post man had left open as he went out on the remainder of his rounds.  Frodo looked up, and his face went carefully neutral, and when he spoke his voice was courteous but not welcoming.  “Hello, Bartolo,” he said.  “What brings you to Michel Delving?  May we help you?”

       “Help me?  Hmph.  I am here to help you, Baggins.  Do you have a coin?”

       Almost automatically Frodo held out the coin with the black seal he held in his hand.  Bartolo had pulled a thick folder out of the inside of his jacket, handed it to Frodo as he took the coin, turned to leave.  “There you have it, then.  May you rest well in it.”  He was gone before Frodo could say another word, and the deputy Mayor looked after him with a shocked expression on his face.  Isumbard and the other three immediately were reaching for the folder. 

       Frodo continued to look after with a look of shock.  “He took my coin,” he said stupidly.  “Bartolo Bracegirdle took my coin!”  He turned to Isumbard.  “Why did he do that?”

       Isumbard had taken possession of the folder first, had opened it with shaking fingers.  He knew what the need for the coin was--transfer of a title to anyone but an heir could not be legal if no coin were exchanged, after all.  He examined the document’s first sheet, then looked up in triumph at Frodo.  “She did it!” he whispered.  “She did something right, for the first time in her life.  She’s returning Bag End to you.”

       Frodo looked at him, shocked for the second time that day.  “Lobelia is giving me back Bag End?”

       “Yes, she’s giving it back to you.  She says she ought never to have agreed to accepting it to begin with, that it belongs to you in heart and soul, and she could never agree to living there again with the memory of Lotho’s murder always coming back to her.”

       Frodo took the document and sank onto a stool which sat nearby, read it through, running his fingers at intervals through his hair, making it stand up from his brow.  Finally he looked up at Isumbard again.  “She’s done it--she’s really done it.”  He shook his head.  His face was pale and his expression indefinable.  “She’s done it--Bag End is mine again.”  He suddenly was weeping.

       Isumbard helped him back to the desk and settled him into the chair.  He looked at his cousin Tolly and sighed.  “Will you go over to Hobbiton and fetch Master Samwise?  I think we may need him.”  Tolly looked at Frodo and nodded, set out with no other word.  Isumbard went back to the table and gathered up the other five coins and the purse and the bag, and brought them to set on the Mayor’s desk, then set down the coin he’d still been carrying beside the rest.  He then took the mug that sat before Frodo and took it out of the Council Hole to throw the contents out into the day’s rain, came back and collected the water skin on the way, poured some of its contents into the mug as he came, finally set the mug before Frodo Baggins with the suggestion, “I think perhaps you ought to drink that.”

Restoration

       Sam arrived three hours later with a pony cart.  Frodo was obviously much recovered, but appeared grateful for the change from his pony.  Sam looked at the mug and noted it smelled of his tea, and smiled at Isumbard.  “You gave it to him, then?”  At the Took’s nod, Sam said, “Thank you.  It will help.”  He looked at the bag and smiled more broadly.  “So, Strider sent him something as well, did he?”  He looked at the coins.  “What are--oh, I see.  The new King’s coinage, then.”

       Frodo managed a smile up at him.  “Two of them are yours.”  And at the expression threatening to cover his gardener’s face he added, “I have the letter he sent directing me to give you two and Merry and Pippin each one.  Am I to disobey my King?”

       Sam’s expression softened and he laughed, then he picked up two of the coins and carefully put them into an inner pocket.  He went to fetch the silver-grey cloak and wrapped it carefully around Frodo, who walked with him out the door, through the passage, and into the twilight.

       Isumbard and the others put out the lights and went out, locking the door behind them.  Down the road on the way toward Hobbiton and Bywater they could see through the continuing drizzle the pony cart in the distance, two figures seated side by side, Strider the pony walking placidly behind.  After stopping to tell the Whitfoots the news of the day, the four Tooks headed back to Tookland.

       That night Isumbard and Ferdibrand joined the Thain in his study, and the former described what had happened in Michel Delving.  The Thain had also received a letter from the King, thanking him for the list of concerns he had sent, advising him they would be considered seriously, and that when Lord Halladan came south in a few weeks’ time they would be thoroughly discussed.  Included with the letter was another of the new coins, also a gold one, with a note that this was the form all future coins of the realm would take, although local communities were to be allowed to use their own coinage as they saw fit within themselves.  Paladin watched moodily as Ferdibrand turned the coin over and over between his fingers, examining it thoroughly.

       “So,” the Thain said, “that is the new King, is it?”

       “Apparently,” Isumbard agreed.  “I must say I am getting confused, for they appear to use Strider and Aragorn interchangeably when speaking of him.”

       Ferdi smiled as he reached forward to lay the coin at last on the desk.  “Telcontar means far walker or strider.  That is part of his throne name, isn’t it?”

       “Yes, Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar.”

       Ferdi thought, remembering back to a book on Elvish sent by Bilbo Baggins years ago.  Finally he said slowly, “Elfstone Renewer Far-Strider.  An interesting name to take.  And if I remember correctly the prefix ar- indicated the individual was the King of Númenor.  That was why Arvedui was named as he was--many of the Kings of Arnor had the royal ar- as part of their names.”

       “History lessons!” muttered Paladin Took.

       “What does he look like?” Ferdi wanted to know.

       Isumbard described the profile of the King, the short beard, rounded ears, high brow, mixed expression, indication of a smile.  Ferdi smiled himself.  “He sounds as if he were a good person to know, then,” he commented.  “How is Frodo doing?”

       “He seems to be doing much better, but the loss of the coin with the seal on it and then finding he’d just purchased Bag End with it appeared to be a shock to his system.  And I must say that Bartolo was quite rude.”

       “Probably had thought he’d inherit Bag End himself,” Paladin said.

       “I suspect you’re right,” Isumbard replied, thoughtfully.  “Otho and Lotho and Lobelia aren’t the only ones with odd ambitions in that part of the family.”

       “A Bracegirdle in Hobbiton?  The Valar forbid!” Ferdi said, shaking his head.

       “Well, they did have Lobelia there much of her married life.”

       “True,” the blind Hobbit sighed, then reached for his mug.

       Automatically Isumbard directed, “More to your right.”

       “You say the King sent him a gift?” asked the Thain.

       “Yes, a very formal and beautifully embroidered suit of clothing--quite the most exquisite work I’ve ever seen.  He says it is the Queen’s workmanship.”

       “I see.  Have you seen Pippin today?”

       “Yes, he and Merry came to have a consultation with Frodo.”

       “About what?”

       “He’s giving them the Crickhollow house to live in together.”

       Somehow Paladin Took wasn’t particularly surprised.  “I’d wondered if it would come to that.”

       “Yes, it did.  But the reason appears to be to give them time to come to terms with what has happened to them.  Whatever they did, it has changed all four of them.”

       “Is Frodo moving in with them?”

       “No, doesn’t seem to want to leave the Cottons’ farm.”

       “It would be awkward, traveling to Michel Delving three days a week from Buckland, I suppose.”  Isumbard agreed. 

       Finally the Thain sighed.  “He sent me a note the other day that he’s coming to meet with me about the King’s dispatches next week.”

       “Good.  But if you have him for a meal, fix something light and easy to digest, and don’t be offended if he can’t eat it all.”

       “Why?”

       “His stomach has become delicate.”

       “Never was before.”

       “Well, it is now.  It is a matter of concern to the King, apparently.”

       “A matter of concern for the King?”

       “Yes.  The King even had him eating rice for its digestibility.”

       “Rice?”  Memories of wars with Eglantine many years previous over rice came to mind.

        “Yes, although he says he’d only eat it if the Queen made a special sauce for it and mixed it in with the meat and vegetables so it didn’t taste like rice any more.”

       “I see.  Well, as the Queen isn’t here, I’ll advise Eglantine to order something other than rice.”

       “Good idea.”

       After a time Paladin added, “I’m glad he didn’t grow to an unprecedented height.  He ought to be able to sleep in the room he used to use.”

       Ferdi added, “If you can convince him to stay.”

       “Yes, there’s that.”

       Ferdibrand asked, “Are you going to ask him again what happened out there?”

       “I’m going to try, not that I expect a great deal out of him.”

       Isumbard said softly, “From what little he’s said, he did indeed go to Mordor.  He spoke of the smoke and ash and fumes from the volcano, of nearly starving there.  He said he was certain he would die.”

       After another period of time, Paladin sighed again.  “It seems I’ve lost my son.  I’d hate to have lost Frodo as well.”
      
       The next day they heard the news that Samwise Gamgee had added the restoration of Bag End to the works he was directing.  He showed up in the late afternoon to talk to one of the Tooks who did much of the maintenance work at the Great Smial about whom to approach regarding having panelling replaced, and Paladin himself went through storerooms with him, putting aside sheets of panelling for Sam to fetch back to Hobbiton when he could obtain the use of a suitable wagon.  Sam then went on to Budgeford to speak with the Bolgers about obtaining stone and slate from the family quarries to replace flooring.

       In three days’ time the work had commenced.  Sam himself led the cleaning out of the filth and removal of the remains of Lotho’s furniture, assisted by Sancho and Angelica Proudfoot and their son Pando.  By the time Frodo arrived at the Great Smial to meet with his older Took cousins, most of the smial had reportedly been cleansed.  Some of the original Bag End furniture was salvageable, but most of it would need to be replaced.  All this was discussed with Frodo as they sat in the private parlor which was the private domain of the Thain and his immediate family.  Only Paladin and Eglantine were there, for they realized that Frodo wouldn’t be willing to talk before many folk, and if he refused to talk or said something about their treatment of Pippin they didn’t want the humiliation of it being said where it could be widely reported.

       Frodo wore the outfit he’d worn home from Gondor, which was quite appropriate, Eglantine had to admit.  “The workmanship on your clothing is particularly fine,” she commented.

       “Thank you, Aunt,” he replied.  “The King had it made for me, that I not appear odd when I returned home.”

       “What happend to the clothing you took with you?”

       “We lost part of it in the Barrow Downs, and had only a little with us from there.  In--in Cirith Ungol I lost the rest of my baggage and my clothes--had to wear--had to wear borrowed things from there on until I couldn’t bear it any longer.  Then Sam dumped them down a fissure.”

       “Where is Cirith Ungol?”

       Apparently Frodo had decided to answer their questions as best he could, to force himself to talk of it.  “It is a pass in the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow.  It was the way Sam and I entered Mordor.”

       “Why did you go to Mordor, Frodo?” asked the Thain.

       “We had to.”

       “But why did you have to?”

       Frodo looked away, his face sad.  Finally he said, “You’ve heard the stories Bilbo used to tell of finding a magic ring that made him invisible?”

       “Of course we’ve heard it!  He is my cousin, after all.”

       He looked back at his hands, then at Paladin Took.  “They were true.  He told me of it not long after I came to live with him.  Gandalf was worried, for he knew that such a ring was a great rarity, particularly as he became convinced that the power of this thing was assisting Bilbo to remain looking young.”  He remained quiet for some time.  “We had to get rid of the thing, and I agreed to take it back where it was made.  So, I went to Mordor.”

       “And Merry and Pippin went with you?”

       “We were with them until we got to the borders of Gondor on the River.  I was worried, for already there were signs that the company was being corrupted.  I finally decided to go on by myself.  Sam found me out, went with me in spite of what I wanted.  We both thought at the end we would die.  I didn’t want that for them, not for Merry and Pippin and the rest.  It was already taking Boromir when I left.  We left them behind, again hoping to draw the evil after us, keep them safe.”  His voice dropped.  “Worked about as well as leaving here to keep the Shire safe.”

       Eglantine fastened on the idea that the younger two Hobbits had been left behind to keep them safe.  “Oh, so nothing horrible happened to them, then.”  It was not a question.

       Frodo looked up at her.  “I never said such a thing, Aunt.  I hoped they would be safe, but there, so close to Mordor, there were no safe places.”  He swallowed.  “Orcs came....”

       “They were chasing after you and Sam?”

       “They were looking for me, but they didn’t find me.  They found....”

       “Why didn’t they find you?”

       “Somehow they missed me on the hill, and I was wearing--It--to make me invisible so I could get by the rest of the Fellowship and avoid being seen by enemies.  They never saw me and never found me.  They killed Boromir....”

       “Who was that?”

       “One of the Fellowship.  He was the heir to the Steward of Gondor.  He died there at Amon Hen, protecting Merry and Pippin....”

       “Oh,” Eglantine said.  “Merry and Pippin knew about it?”

       “Of course they knew about it, Aunt.  They saw it, saw him pierced by arrows.”

       “Then they got away.”

       “They didn’t get away until later, Aunt, after they’d been brought to the eaves of Fangorn Forest.  Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli....”

       “Who are they?”

       Frodo gave a sigh of desperation.  His cousin was not going to allow him to tell the story, was going to hear only what she wished to hear.  He closed his eyes.  “Aragorn son of Arathorn is now our King.  He was chieftain of the Rangers of Eriador, chieftain of the descendants of Númenor in the remnants of the Northern Kingdom, heir of the line of Kings.  He was our guide from Bree to Rivendell, and became one of the members of the Fellowship.  You’ve met the Dwarf Gloin, Uncle Bilbo’s friend?” 

       Eglantine nodded.  “Yes, we’ve been introduced.  He was one of those who was there when Bilbo left, wasn’t he?”

       “Yes, he was.  Gimli is his son.  Legolas is the son of King Thranduil, the King of  the Elves of Mirkwood.  The last member of the Fellowship was Gandalf, but we lost him at Moria.  We all thought him dead, and I suppose he was.  But the Powers sent him back to see the end of the business.  He’s the White now.”

       This was too confusing for his nominal uncle and aunt to understand, so both chose to ignore it.  Paladin asked, “How did you lose your finger, Frodo?”

       “It’s not important, Uncle Paladin.  Be glad it’s gone now.” 

       Paladin Took looked shocked at his younger cousin.  “I don’t know what to think of this, Frodo!”

       “Of course you don’t.  You weren’t there--hopefully can’t begin to imagine it.  I don’t want you to imagine it.  I don’t have to imagine it--but I wish I were doing so.”  He took a deep breath.  “Please,” he finally said, “I don’t wish to speak of it further.  I’m supposed to discuss the King’s dispatches with you.”

       “Yes.  I suppose so.  So, how did this Aragorn son of Arathorn become our King?”

       Frodo gave a deep sigh.  It was going to be a long discussion, he realized, and they were not going to understand more than one word in ten he said.

*******

       By the time the interview was over, Frodo had a raging headache.  They wanted him to join them for tea, but he shook his head and begged off, explaining he was fatigued and only wished to lie down.  Eglantine led him to his usual room and saw him into it, and he gently kissed her cheek before he closed the door and fell into the bed. 

       He woke to realize the room was dark--he’d left the rush light burning, but apparently it had burned out.  He realized he was not alone, and suddenly was frightened until he heard Ferdibrand speak.  “Oh, so you are awake now?”

       “How do you know?”

       “First, the whispering stopped, and then your breathing changed.  I might have said I saw your eyes open, also, I suppose, although I didn’t.”

       “You couldn’t.  The rush light is out, so there’s no way you could see anything.  What whispering?”

       “Pippin cries out with his dreams--you whisper.”

       “I don’t!”

       “Oh, I beg to correct that misconception.  Yes, you do.”

       Frodo lay for a time quietly, then asked, “What did I whisper?”

       “That there it was, the Chamber of Fire--there was the door, you could be free of It at last.  You were relieved that Sam was kept busy and that he wouldn’t see--and then you woke up.”

       “Yes, I often wake up at this point.”  He thought for a moment, then added, “I’ll warn you--I often will call out in my sleep as well--just in case you sit by me when I sleep again.”

       “I’ll remember the warning.  Where is this Chamber of Fire?”

       “Mount Doom in Mordor.”

       “Did you really go there, Frodo?”

       “Yes.”

       “What didn’t you wish Sam to see?”

       “I was planning to leap into the volcano, into the fire.”

       “Why?”

       “I couldn’t think of any other way to destroy It.  I knew by that time I couldn’t give It up voluntarily--It had taken me too deeply.  I thought that was what I’d have to do.”

       “I’m glad you didn’t.”

       Frodo didn’t answer. 

       Finally Ferdibrand asked another question.  “Why was Sam busy outside?”

       “Gollum caught up with us again, had attacked me, and Sam had attacked him with Sting.”

       “Uncle Bilbo’s sword, Sting?”

       “Yes.”

       “How did he get that?”

       “Bilbo gave it to me, that and the mithril shirt, before we left Rivendell the first time, on the way to Mordor.”

       “So, he took them, did he?  I’d wondered.”

       After a few moments of quiet, Frodo added, “As we were entering Mordor I’d given Sam both the starglass to hold and Sting to use--briefly, and I ran ahead.  I was caught by the spider, though, was bitten on the neck and poisoned.”

       “What spider?”

       “There is a great spider in one of the passes into Mordor.  Sauron used her as a watch beast, apparently.”

       “Like the spiders Bilbo told of in Mirkwood?”

       “Yes.  I think she may be their mother, in fact.”  He could feel Ferdi shudder.

       “What is the starglass?”

       “A gift I received along the way, from the Lady Galadriel.  It is a small glass phial full of water in which the light of Eärendil has been captured.  It will shine brightly when I hold it--everywhere except the Sammath Naur itself, or so Sam has told me.”   Why he felt comfortable telling all this to Ferdibrand Took, Frodo could not say; but somehow, sitting there in the dark together, it just seemed the right thing to do.  Finally he went on.  “Sam thought I was dead, so he kept Sting and the Phial and took the Ring, thinking it was now his duty to take It on to Its destruction.  By the time he learned I wasn’t dead and came and found me, helped me escape, I’d been completely stripped.  He had to give me back the Ring, but I gave him the rest.  I wore only his Elven cloak at the end--and Its chain.”

       “What is It?”

       “The Enemy’s Ring.”

       Frodo could feel Ferdi straighten.  “The Enemy’s Ring?  You mean the one Isildur lost when he was killed?”

       “You know about that?”

       “I’d always loved the stories about Númenor, better than the stories about the Great Elves, if you remember.  And I remember reading the story of Isildur in one of Bilbo’s books repeatedly.  He’d sent it here to the Smial when I was a lad, and I almost made it mine.”

       “I didn’t know.”

       “I don’t think I ever discussed it with you.  He sent a book on Elvish, also, and I used to read that one, too.”

       “Too bad he wasn’t welcome here under Ferumbras, for he might have adopted you.”

       Ferdi was going back to the original subject.  “How did you come by the Enemy’s Ring?”

       “It’s the one Bilbo found in Gollum’s cavern, the one he put in his pocket.”

       “How did It come there?”

       Briefly Frodo outlined the history of the Ring as learned by Gandalf, and Ferdi sat considering it in silence for some time.  “So, that’s how he made himself disappear at his party?”

       “Yes.”

       “Did he know what It was?”

       “Not till shortly before we got to Rivendell, apparently.”

       “When did you learn It was the Enemy’s Ring?”

       “The spring before we left.  There was one test Gandalf learned could tell us, and he tried it, and the Ring was found out at last.”

       “So, you had to carry It to Mordor?”

       “Yes.”

       “I am sorry, Frodo.”

       “No more than I am.”

       “You put It on at the last?”

       “Yes.  It took me completely, there in the Sammath Naur.  I put It on and claimed It for my own--not that I could have used It.”

       “Is that how you lost your finger.”

       When he finally answered, Frodo’s voice was almost lost completely.  “Yes.  Gollum leapt on me and bit the finger off of me.  He fell with It into the volcano himself.”

       “Oh, sweet Creator.”

       “Yes.”

       “Sam got you out of there?”

       “Yes.”

       “Do you remember all of this?”

       “Bits and pieces of it.  Sam told Gandalf and Aragorn and me.  That’s how I know most of it.”

       “No wonder you have nightmares.”

       “Yes.”

       “I remember one year when I was small, Bilbo telling a group of us children at the Free Fair about the Riddle Game and the ring in his pocket he’d found.  I’d always wondered how it got into Gollum’s cave.”  Ferdi thought again for a time.  “Did you tell this to Eglantine and the Thain?”

       “They never gave me the chance, not that I could have told them, I think.”

       “Kept interrupting you, did they?”

       “You know them well enough, then.”

       Ferdi laughed, reached out and touched Frodo’s left shoulder, reached down and found his hand, held it.  Frodo squeezed his back.  Finally Ferdi asked, “Do you feel like going to dinner?  It will be soon.”

       “I suppose so.”

       “Isumbard has warned them you can’t eat much, so they are doing their best to follow his advice.”

       “I’m glad.  Today’s one of the days when my stomach is pretty upset.”

       “I can imagine.  You said the rushlight is out?”

       “Yes, it is.”

       “Shall I open the door for you so you can see a bit, then?”

       “Yes, thank you.”

       A few moments later Frodo was going to the Thain’s dining room with Ferdibrand, and took his place at the long table with the rest of the family.  He stood for a moment facing West before he sat down.  Conversation was deliberately light.  Finally Ferdi asked him about the King, and Frodo was grateful to him as he began describing Aragorn’s coronation before the broken gates of the city of Minas Tirith.  This time they did not interrupt, and listened intently as he spoke.  Finally Eglantine asked, “Was Pippin there for this?”

       “Yes--we were all present.”

       “What happened to the gates?” asked Pervinca, fascinated.

       “The Enemy had had wrought a great battering ram in the shape of a wolf, and they used it to destroy the old gates.  The chief of the Nazgul started to ride into the city to take possession of it, but Gandalf sat on Shadowfax within it, and defied him.  Then they heard the horns of the Riders of Rohan as they arrived to break the siege, and the Nazgul turned away, went back to fetch his fell beast and direct the fight against the Rohirrim.”

       “Were you there then?  During the fight, I mean.”

       “No, for Sam and I had gone east by then.  Pippin told us of seeing this, for he was there in the city when it happened, saw Gandalf’s defiance.”

       “Where was Merry?”

       Frodo smiled.  “He was among the Rohirrim, and helped to break the siege.  They are both heroes, you know, Merry and Pippin.”

       Pimpernel sat by Ferdibrand and watched the progress of her son Piper’s dinner.  “Hard to imagine Pippin as a hero.”

       “Well, you can believe it.  He saved the life of the Lord Faramir that morning.  And Merry saved the life of the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, alongside whom he fought on the Fields of the Pelennor.”

       Eglantine was horrified.  “They were fighting?”

       “Aunt Eglantine, they were caught amidst a war.  Yes, they fought.  We were each fighting Sauron as we were able.”

       “But it wasn’t our fight....”

       “It was our fight, too.  Don’t you understand?  Had he won, Sauron would have destroyed the Shire as well as Gondor and Rohan and Arnor and the lands of the Elves and Dwarves.  That was what he had come to from his three ages’ dedication to acquiring power.  That was why they suborned Lotho, he and Saruman--to take power over our land, to prepare us for anihilation.”

       “But why would they care about Hobbits?”

       “Aunt Eglantine, when Arvedui died, we helped his wife and heir escape from the Witch King of Angmar--and he was the chief of the Nazgul.  It was his troops who raged over the Shire then, until the forces of Gondor came to the North Kingdom’s aid and defeated his army and he fled back to Minas Morgul on the border of Mordor.  This time we committed a worse offense in the eyes of Mordor--we were alive and well and thriving--and Bilbo and I had some--something Sauron and Saruman both wanted very much.  I might have left the Shire with It, but they would destroy the rest of the Shire to avenge themselves against me.”

       Paladin looked at Frodo reprovingly.  “You appear to be pumping yourself up very large in all this.”

       Frodo raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.  “Oh, I did that, too.” Pimpernel saw there were unshed tears in Frodo’s eyes.  Frodo set down his knife and fork, and looked down on his plate.  “Please forgive me--I cannot eat any more.  I must go lie down again.”   He rose, bowed to the company, and left.  He stopped by the room where such were kept and obtained a new rush light and had it lit, and went back to his room.

       An hour later Paladin Took looked into Frodo’s room, found him lying asleep, clutching at the jewel he wore on a chain about his neck, still in his clothing for the day, his face pale and reflecting pain.  Paladin entered, carefully pulled the sheets and coverlets over Frodo, stroked the hair away from the pale face.

       Frodo rose early in the morning and went to bathe before any others were likely to be abroad, changed his clothing.  He came to the dining room for breakfast, but barely spoke.  When asked how he’d slept, he simply said quietly “Well enough, thank you for asking.”  All ate in relative silence.  He finally thanked them for their hospitality, went and fetched his things, and was gone again shortly after.

       Ferdibrand knocked at his father-in-law’s study door later in the morning and was bidden to enter.  He found a chair and brought it near the desk, set down the tankard of ale from which he was drinking. 

       “He was not pumping up his own importance, Paladin,” he finally said.

       “You would think he was the sole reason Sharkey came here.”

       “From what he told me yesterday, he was probably right.”

       Paladin Took examined his youngest daughter’s husband for several minutes.  “What do you know of it?” he finally asked quietly.

       “Too much for comfort,” Ferdi answered.  “He’s not really well, Frodo isn’t.”

       “I know,” the Thain sighed.

       “He went through a great deal to try to save and protect us.  It must have torn him apart, realizing it was mostly in vain.”

       “Lotho had already sold us out before he left--we just didn’t know it yet,” Paladin noted.

       “Yes, I realize that.”

       “He went to Mordor--he really went to Mordor.”

       “Yes, he did.  It almost killed him.”

       “I still don’t understand why.”

       “As he said, he was fighting Sauron the best way he could, seeking to destroy the one weapon that would have granted Sauron total victory.”

       “What weapon was that?”

       “His Ring.”

       At last Paladin said, “I don’t understand.”

       Ferdibrand sighed, drained his mug, rose and started to leave.  “I suggest you do some reading of history, Uncle Paladin,” he said gently before he closed the door behind him.

       After a time Paladin Took left his office and went to the library.  After looking over the books for some time, he finally took out a volume Bilbo had sent many years before, one which told the history of Gondor and Arnor.  He started reading it, but found himself upset as he read on, finally put it back on the shelves.  But he was to take it out and read snippets of it for months, finally to read it all the way through two years later, at last understanding the entire story.  But by then it was too late to make it up with Frodo.

*******

       The healers were concerned for Fredegar Bolger.  “He was badly deprived,” explained Drolan Chubbs, the healer from Hobbiton whose grandmother and parents had served as healers to Bilbo and Frodo for many years before he took over the service for much of the village.  “His heart has been damaged as a result.  He needs quiet exercise, good food, and a good deal of love to heal properly.  But he will tire easily probably for the rest of his life, and a serious stress may lead to another seizure of his heart.”

       Frodo and Fredegar began to spend much of their time when Frodo was on the farm together, talking quietly about their experiences, discussing their nightmares, discussing hopes and dreams.  Mostly, Frodo let Freddy speak.  When Estella Bolger came to the farm to tend to her brother, Fredegar hoped that Frodo would be drawn to his sister, but it did not happen.  He was polite to her, would talk with her and even, as time went on, tease her; but never more than that.  It seemed Frodo’s interest in lasses was as lacking as ever, Fredegar decided as he watched Frodo at Yule, sitting quietly in the corner, watching Estella dancing with Young Tom and then Jollie.  As for Frodo, who used to be the best dancer in the whole of the Shire, he would not stand to dance at all.  When pressed to do so with Rosie, his face paled, in fact.  Fredegar began then to wonder if perhaps Frodo might not be at least equally ill as he was, but if so Frodo refused to admit it.

       On second Yule Merry and Pippin arrived with gifts--from Pippin’s birthday and for Yule--for all and extra clothing for Frodo from his wardrobe in Crickhollow.

       “You ought to have come to my party, Frodo,” Pippin admonished his cousin.

       “I couldn’t stay away from Michel Delving that long,” Frodo had returned.  “But I heard that it was a highly enjoyable time.  Ferdibrand and Pimmie were both glowing in their reports.”

       “You saw them?”

       “Yes, they stopped by the Mayor’s office on their way back to Tuckborough.  It was good to see that Ferdi has decided not to allow his blindness to keep him confined.”

       “You will come to see us in Crickhollow in the spring, will you not?”

       “I’ve already promised,” Frodo said, smiling.  “I will take a real holiday and do a walking trip--the first I’ve done since my return.  But, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay in the Hall.  I----”

       “We understand, Frodo,” Merry said.  Then he looked at the lass who came offering a mug of mulled wine, and said, “Oh, hullo, Estella.”

       “Hello yourself, Meriadoc Brandybuck,” she replied.  “Would you like a drink?”

       During the dancing this day, it was to be noted that Estella Bolger was escorted to the floor several times by Merry, and it was quite obvious that he was quite smitten with her.  Again, however, Frodo did not dance, but sat in his corner, usually nursing his drink, his face glowing to see his cousin’s happiness.  He retired early, but when Sam checked on him he was quietly reading the book that was Merry’s Yule gift to him, and did not appear to be in any distress at all.  Sam smiled and wished him a good night, and Frodo replied with a smile.

       Before the Travelers left the next morning, Merry gave Frodo the letter he had intercepted for him from the Gate--a letter written and addressed in a familiar spidery hand, and Frodo’s face lit with delight.  He opened it gladly, and was soon reading bits and pieces to them all.  “He says he still has difficulty staying awake, but that he’s doing well enough.  Lord Elrond has given him a cane, which helps him actually get to the dining room on occasion.  Oh, he’s asking about progress with the book.”

       “What book?” Freddy asked.

       “He was going to write out our experiences during the quest, but wasn’t able to do so.  He can barely stay awake enough to do much of anything any more.  So he made me promise to do so.”

       “Well, I must say that sounds interesting.  Have you done any work on it as yet?”

       “Oh, I have a good number of notes and all, but I’ve done no real writing.  Hasn’t really been time.”

       “Well, I’d certainly love to read it--will serve as your editor, in fact.  In fact, I insist on it.  With all the hints I’ve had of what you did, I’m eager to hear more.”

       Frodo’s face was thoughtful.  Pippin looked at him critically.  “I know that you don’t wish to relive it, but you did promise Bilbo, you know; and if you don’t start it soon, he is likely to be gone before you get it done.”

       Frodo went a bit pale at the idea, but nodded his understanding.  He then turned back to his letter, and read a bit more aloud about a story told the old Hobbit by Lord Glorfindel.  Then as he read a bit more to himself, his face went quite still.  Sam looked at the expression with surprise.  Frodo was suddenly more alert as he reread the passage, surprised, hopeful, a bit shocked, eager, reluctant....

       “What is it, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

       “Oh----”  Frodo looked up almost guiltily, then shook his head.  “It’s nothing really, I suppose.  It’s just that Bilbo has received--received an invitation of sorts he’s entertaining thoughts of accepting.  He wanted to tell me of it.”

       “Is he finally going to go down and see Strider and the Lady Arwen then?”

       “No, I don’t think so.”

       Merry sighed.  “I know you were quite unhappy not to see him at the wedding, and Aragorn was equally disappointed.”

       “Yes, that’s true,” Frodo answered, hastily folding the letter and putting it in the inside pocket of his jacket.  But of the nature of the invitation he would not speak further, changing the subject.

*******

       Restoration of Bag End was going fairly swiftly, although not as swiftly as the reconstruction of the Row.  Sam was often there throughout December and January, seeing to the removal of damaged woodwork and flooring, then finally seeing the carpenters, as they left the smials of the Row, coming here to begin replacing panelling and a few support beams, rub rails and cupboards.  The tile floors which had been cracked and broken were to be replaced by slate; and when at last Gimli arrived driving a small covered wagon, he brought with him carpeting sent from Lothlorien along with the clothes presses and other items that had been sent from Minas Tirith.  He stood within Bag End with a mixed expression on his face, fury at the signs still evident of the savagery with which the hole had been treated, and approval of the workmanship he saw being used in the reconstruction.  He himself did some of the stonework needed in Frodo’s bedroom and the parlor and kitchen, and if the Hobbit workman were surprised to find themselves working alongside a Dwarf they didn’t feel so for very long.  He remained in the Shire for a week, staying with Marigold and the Gaffer, spending evenings with Frodo, and recognizing that Frodo was working to hide that his health was not good.  He saw the pain reflected in the Hobbit’s eyes when he thought he was unobserved, the number of times his hand reached for the jewel he wore.  When he went back to Minas Tirith, it was with a sad report to make to Aragorn, who bowed his head to receive it and who then went up to the hallows on the mountain where he offered up his grief for his friend.

       It was in February that the serious planting began of new trees, and now Sam was much out and about the Shire, planting most of the trees himself.  It had been Frodo who had remarked that each grain of dust in the small wooden casket given him by Galadriel must have a special virtue, and each time Sam placed a grain of it into the roots of a tree as he placed it in the ground, he could feel the vitality of the tree begin to reach, already sensing the nutrients contained in the soil being carefully laid around it, already seeking what it needed to grow and prosper.

       During his brief visits to Hobbiton he would stop in the garden and turn over a few spadesful of dirt, and realized that many of the plants were still there, that they’d not been dug up but instead only trampled down.  Now, with the realization of his presence they were beginning to awaken and tremulously reach up tentative shoots which grew stronger and more vibrant as they were assured the old order had been restored.  He again dug a single grain of the dust from Galadriel’s garden into each bed, at the roots of the lilacs, where the roses had bloomed.  Each time he returned he saw more and more plants returning, more life, more vitality, more renewal.  Tears of relief filled his eyes at this sign of restoration, prayers of thanks were quietly offered.

       When it was done, he knew, Mr. Frodo would feel he’d indeed come home.

Spring Ills and Joys

       The growth of the new trees was beyond belief.  Sam went throughout the Shire and saw the small saplings he’d planted already springing up far taller than they ought to be, their trunks already thickening, their leaves burgeoning about the boles.  Avenues were renewed; orchards were in full blossom; the young fruit trees he’d planted on the back of the Hill already promising a full harvest; the young oak planted atop it rising up as if singing; and a silver shoot had already risen up in the Party Field near where the Party Tree had stood.

       He was off planting more trees in the Northfarthing when March 13th came, and Farmer Cotton found his remaining guest huddled in his bed, white and shaking, muttering about all being bleak and forsaken as he clutched openly at his jewel, at first not recognizing anyone was with him.

       Fredegar Bolger had left at last the end of February, returning to the restored home of his parents for a time, accompanied by his sister.  Now it was only Mr. Frodo who remained, quiet and thoughtful, so very grateful for every kindness shown him.  He’d taken to preparing breakfast on the Highdays, and did a competent job at it.  But this day, although he appeared to recover fairly rapidly, he did not want to eat, and barely sipped at the tea brought to him.  Rosie, having been warned by Sam what to do if his Master seemed off color, drew Mister Frodo a bath with an athelas leaf in it and insisted he relax himself, brought to his side some of the tea she’d brewed according to Sam’s specifications, and watched.  Certainly he seemed better when he was finished and dressed again; but he did not feel up to going into Michel Delving for almost two weeks, saying only he felt exceptionally tired.  She saw to it each day that he got his tea, and made certain he drank it.  On the twenty-fifth he was late rising and appeared markedly listless in the early hours of the day, recovering his spirits only after noon had passed.

       He went to Michel Delving the next day, and Will Whitfoot, who was now able to get up and about some, was shocked to see that again Frodo Baggins had apparently lost weight.  When asked how he felt he would say only that he had felt a bit off for a few days, but he appeared to be recovered; but Will had his doubts, while Mina was flatly concerned.

       “No Hobbit should look so pale!” she insisted.

       Isumbard had been taking care of things during Frodo’s absence, and now looked at his cousin in consternation, although he did not dare say anything aloud to him.  He saw Frodo to his desk, made a report of work done while he was ill, then once Frodo was busy reading a new deed he excused himself and headed quickly to the Whitfoot residence.  Quietly he made his suggestions regarding how meals ought to be handled, and Mina, once she realized his explanations were valid, agreed.  She appeared at the office a half hour later with a custard and some milk for the deputy Mayor; an hour later with a cup of soup and juice; and hour after that with a few stored apples and some tea; later with a small portion of ham and cheese between slices of bread and a mug of light ale.  Throughout the day it went on, something small each hour, something which Frodo accepted with surprise and thanks, something he could accept and not overload his stomach.  By evening he was beginning to look better, and when he arrived for supper he was able to eat a serving of potatoes and lamb, then with thanks for their hospitality he repaired to the room they’d given for his use and went to bed.  He strengthened day by day, and by the time Sam returned he almost looked himself again.  Sam examined him, quietly questioned Rosie, and saw to it that a fresh supply of his tea was at his side daily.  But it was some time before he realized the meaning of the date on which Frodo sickened, much less the date on which he appeared finally to be recovering.

*******

       “Now don’t you peek, Mr. Frodo,” came the warning as Frodo Baggins, his eyes blindfolded, was led in through a doorway.  He knew where he was, of course, knew that this was his homecoming; but Sam and Rosie and Marigold and the Gaffer had wanted him to get the full effect, and had insisted on this.  He’d given in easily enough, smiled as they blindfolded him and led and gently guided him into the cart for the return to Hobbiton, as the cart had trundled the familiar lanes, as they helped him out, led him up the stairs and into the smial.  The smell was different--he smelled new wood, plasterwork which had not yet been seasoned by years of living, an odor of stone where before there had been ceramic tiles underfoot.  But he also smelled the odor of the chair which had been Bilbo’s during the first eleven and a half years of his habitation here, and then was his the next seventeen.  He smelled the fire on the hearth, sweet with applewood and holly.  He could smell the familiar odor of the garden outside the hole.  He smelled the odor of the oil Sam had always used on the furniture and woodwork, the faint memory of pipeweed, the odor indicating a mug of ale was near at hand.  He felt Sam behind him, felt the blindfold released, and blinked as he looked--blinked, and smiled.  

       “Oh, Sam,” he said in a voice that trembled only the smallest bit.  “Oh, Sam--I’m home!  I’m home at last!”  It was almost overwhelming, the feeling of homecoming--and yet, he realized, something was missing as well.  He was home, and yet, at the same time it was as if this had nothing to do with him at all.

       Not all was as he remembered it.  Most of the furniture he’d sold to Lobelia and Lotho was now gone, had needed to be discarded completely.  Some of the furniture now had memories of far longer ago, of his childhood in Buckland and Whitfurrow, and a couple items of his years in Brandy Hall.  The pegs in the entranceway had mostly been replaced, and the long bench had been totally refinished, yet still showed some signs of the misuse left by Lotho’s Big Men.  So it was throughout the smial.

       Only in his own room was all the furniture that to which he was accustomed; but the fireplace was almost totally new.  It seemed so odd to see walls that looked new and without the patina of years of living by Bungo and Belladonna, Bilbo and Dora and her siblings, Frodo himself.  The curtains were new, many of the windowpanes also.  But it was his home.

       He looked into the study, realized that the desk was there, set up just as he’d left it last, the study sofa neat and clean.  Shelves had needed to be replaced, but the books stood on them as they’d always been ordered, even the small ornaments back in their places.

       On the low table that stood beside the desk stood a large box that Frodo had not seen for years.  His father had carved it with the figure of a Hobbit leading a pony, one reminiscent of but still not Bilbo.  It had always been in his mother’s private parlor when he was a child, and had remained in one of the storage holes in Buckland since he and Bilbo had sold the place in Whitfurrow.  He’d not wanted that memory in Bag End before; but now it was somehow reassuring.  Gently he caressed it, smiling, then looked up at Sam and gave his small nod of acknowledgment that this was right--now.

       Over the next few weeks Merry and Pippin came with more wagons of furnishings, and finally all was as it ought to be--not exactly as it once was, but as it ought to be.

       But the greatest pleasure was finding the garden was there, growing much as he remembered.  The lilacs were in full leaf, although smaller than he remembered, and beneath them the Elven lilies were beginning to show their faces.  About the study window, around the new trellis, the honeysuckle vine was beginning to grow.  Nasturtiums were already beginning to bloom by the doorway, and he saw that sunflower seedlings were starting to grow nearby.  Below the window of his own room and near the back door, however, there were new plants he didn’t quite recognize, although the leaves seemed familiar.  Most of the rose bushes had been replaced, he realized; but he realized that was to be expected.  He looked again into Sam’s face and smiled.  “I am home, Sam--you’ve given it back to me.”  So he spoke aloud, although in his heart he found himself adding, for a time, at least.  He had begun to admit to himself, after his last illness, that he would most likely not remain long.  It was taking longer this time to recover, and his body felt fragile even to him.  Well, he thought, he would not let this stop him--he would continue to do as much as he could for the time given him.

       He wrote a letter to Bilbo, gave it to the quick post messenger in Hobbiton; a week later sent letters to Minas Tirith.  But in none of them did he indicate he would accept the offer given him.

       Then came the letter from Hardbottle, accompanied by a copy of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s will, both forwarded to Michel Delving.  Frodo looked up at Isumbard after he’d read both through, and held up the special bequest to himself alone--a small package which contained a single gold coin with a black seal upon it, marking the first coin struck of the new coinage for the outer realm.  It had come back to him, along with the letter containing Lobelia’s apology for all she’d done and said and and wished ill for him over the years.

       Sam’s dilemma when he wished to marry was almost funny, and Frodo found himself suppressing the desire to laugh.  His delight when he wed Sam and Rosie knew no bounds, but after a time he found himself suddenly feeling weak, slipped inside with his glass of wine, felt the uncertain beating of his heart with consternation.  When Fredegar Bolger came to seek him out, he tried his best to pretend nothing was wrong, but he knew that Freddy knew better.  He found himself wishing he had some of Sam’s tea with him.  Instead he sat quietly for a time.

       He’d planned to leave on his walking trip to Buckland after the ceremony, allowing Sam and Rosie some privacy for their wedding night and the week following.  Isumbard and Tolly, he knew, had matters in Michel Delving well in hand, and would see to it everything was ready for his return.  His pack was already prepared.  It was a new one, of course, as the old one had been destroyed by the orcs of Cirith Ungol.  This one had been a gift from Sam at Yule, again a physical embodiment of Sam’s wish that he would recover and know life as he’d known it before.

       When the last guests had left, he went into his room and removed the Queen’s gift and carefully hung the outfit back in the dressing room; then, dressed in clothes he’d always worn on such jaunts, with the cloak from Lothlorien carefully wrapped around his bedroll, he took his leave of bride and groom, smiling sincerely into their eyes and wishing them the joy of the next few days as they grew accustomed to being husband and wife.  Rosie kissed him, and Sam carefully settled two freshly filled waterskins over his shoulders, pressing a packet of leaves into his hands.  “You have any bad dreams, Frodo, prepare a hot bath and put one of these into the water; or put it in a basin of hot water beside your head as you rest.”  As he hugged Frodo, he whispered into his master’s ear, “If only you could of known such joy, too.”

       Frodo realized how deeply Sam wished this for him, and was deeply moved.  “I guess I’m just an old bachelor now, Sam.  I’ll be all right.”  He leaned forward to kiss Sam’s forehead, then turned and set off, hiding his own tears as best he could.  He didn’t think Sam had seen them.

       He didn’t get far that night, found himself unrolling his bedroll only an hour after he left Hobbiton behind him.  He drank a quarter of one of the waterskins, and sought to rest--except he found that it was hard to sleep out here in the open.  He lay long looking up at the stars and at last felt relieved and heartened, finally sleeping near midnight.  He woke stiff and cold, rose and got a fire going, fixed himself bacon and tomatoes, finally started again on his way.

       Two hours after he started walking he lost his breakfast.  He had to sit and rest after that for a time, finally was able to stomach some dried apple, and went on.  He was beginning to realize perhaps he ought not to have chosen to walk after all, and was alarmed to find himself feeling cold long after the sun had dried the dew.  When a farmer in a passing wagon offered him a ride, he accepted gladly.  He accepted the roast beef wrapped in bread the farmer shared with him, spoke of the doings in Hobbiton and close about, and drank slowly from his waterskin, praying he could retain the food he’d just eaten.  He ended up well into the Eastfarthing by nightfall, and decided to sleep this night in an inn rather than along the way.  He asked for a bath to be brought to him, and once he was alone with it set one of the leaves in the water, stripped and climbed in with it, feeling the relief in his body as the effects of the leaves made themselves known.  He slept deeply, rose and bought a small breakfast, paid his bill, and went on. 

       Most of the day he did well enough, but in late afternoon as he recognized he was near Farmer Maggot’s place, he became ill again.  The pain started in his chest, went into his arm.  He felt the coldness where he’d been stabbed by the Nazgul, and felt nauseous once more as he realized he could barely feel his left hand.  He’d stopped and was leaning against a tree when the farmer himself came by with one of his sons and found him, recognized a much slenderer Mr. Baggins than he remembered, and sent his son to get the cart to carry Mr. Baggins to the farmhouse.

       “You look mighty ill, Mr. Baggins sir,” Maggot said as they waited.

       “I’m all right--it’s only I was ill not that long ago, and haven’t walked so far for some time.  I suppose I ought to have ridden my pony instead of walking.”

       “Perhaps so,” Maggot said, privately certain that Mr. Baggins ought not to have left his home at all the way he was right now. 

       Once in the farmhouse, Frodo was settled on a sofa in the seldom-used parlor with a knit shawl over him, and he slept for a short time, waking to find himself ravenously hungry.  He drank from his waterskin, and after a time went in search of the privy, then walked slowly into the familiar kitchen, where he was greeted warmly by the family and settled into a corner seat with cushions about him.  He ate some of the mushrooms pressed on him by Missus Maggot as her husband and sons scattered to finish afternoon chores, listened to her talk of the troubles of being the only lady among all her menfolk, of the coming wedding of their eldest in a month’s time and the relief it would be to have another Hobbitess to speak to....

       The family came in for tea, and he accepted small portions of each item offered, tried to feel out his body to see if he would be able to go on.

       “But you are far too thin, Mr. Baggins!” his hostess complained as he turned down a second helping of taters.

       “I know--but I simply cannot eat as much as I once could.  Believe me, this is so good if I could eat more I would.  But if I did, it would make me ill.  I have had too much experience to think otherwise.”  He was not certain why he was being so honest with the Maggots--perhaps because he realized he was unlikely to see them again soon. 

       The farmer looked into his face, realized Mr. Baggins was only telling the truth, and signed to his wife to desist.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, that things are not as well with you as we’d like to see them.”

       Frodo sighed.  “No more so than I.  However, this is what it appears I have come to.”

       At that moment there came a halloo from the yard, and Maggot went out to see to it, came back a moment later to tell Frodo that Master Saradoc had come searching for him and had brought an extra pony.  “You get yourself ready, and I’ll tell your kin that you’ll be with him in a moment.”

       As he went back out the door, Saradoc asked, “You say you found him leaning against a tree?”

       “Yes, pale as a sheet and clutching at his shoulder.  I don’t think he was up to making this trip after all.  He’s tried to tell me that he’s all right, but in the end has admitted he can’t eat much at a time or will lose it all.  He’s had a short sleep and looks much better now--I think he’ll be able to make it to the Ferry all right as long as he don’t try to walk the whole way.  But you’d best make certain he don’t overdo things, you want him to be able to visit again.”

       “I was concerned when Merry and Pippin told me he planned to walk alone, but hoped he’d walk slowly and not press himself.”

       “I don’t know how much walking he did--mentioned that yesterday he accepted a ride with Londo Twofoot to near by the Woody End, and said he stayed in the inn at Woodhall.”

       “That’s not a particularly long way from here.”

       “I know.”

       “I’ll make certain he rests, then.”

       “You do that, sir.”

       At that moment Frodo came out wrapped in his grey cloak, accepting the basket being pressed on him by Missus Maggot.  One of the younger sons carried Frodo’s pack.  “You rest well, and when your stomach will accept them, have some more of those mushrooms, you hear?”

       “Yes, my lady.  I promise.  And thank you once again for your hospitality and your generosity to a wandering soul.”

       Frodo looked to be fairly well as he swung up into the saddle of the pony, and held the basket of mushrooms protectively enough.  If he hadn’t heard what Maggot had to tell and known he was one of the most honest Hobbits alive, Saradoc Brandybuck would not have believed Frodo was less than in decent health.

*******

       Esmeralda Brandybuck felt all wrong at what she was doing, but the letter she’d received from Isumbard had been pretty straightforward--he’d described what he’d witnessed and the conversation he’d finally had with his cousin, and what they’d begun to do in Michel Delving since Frodo’s illness in March to assist him in being able to retain what he ate.  She wanted to fill up his plate and insist he eat it all, but instead she was giving him small portions of food, slipping up to him between meals with an extra apple from last fall’s stores, offering him cups of soup, a half a sandwich, an odd serving of mushrooms sauteed in butter and wine with a little beefsteak, a single potato with a little cheese and crumbled bacon....

       Certainly he seemed to not notice he wasn’t being fed strictly in the dining room, and he seemed to be doing well with the diet he was getting.  

       Then came the night after he rode over to the house at Crickhollow where Merry and Pippin were throwing a party.  He ate more, drank a few mugs of ale, laughed a good deal, finally rode back to the Hall, and became ill about an hour after his return.  Saradoc found him at it, realized what must have sparked the bout, supported him as he lost the last of his meal, helped him rinse his mouth, got him to his room where he’d insisted on undressing himself, and after a half hour brought him some broth and dry toast.  Frodo eyed it unhappily, but accepted it, accepted the applesauce brought him a half hour later, the curds and whey after that, and finally was asleep when Esmeralda thought to bring him a bit more after another half hour.  She sat by his bed, watched him sleep, and remembered how much they’d worried about him when he was a child.  Then it had been his heart; now his stomach.  Would he ever be truly well? she wondered.  At last she left him and returned to her own room, and she and Saradoc gently held each other as they worried for the young cousin both cared for so deeply.

       Merry and Pippin showed up the following morning, and Esme took them into her own sitting room to speak with them, explained about the letter from Isumbard.

       “Well, if he isn’t being a busybody....” began Pippin, until his aunt described how Frodo had been found by old Maggot on the edge of his farm, and what Frodo had admitted to the family regarding his stomach.  

       “Sounds as if it’s happening again, then, Pip,” Merry said with a sigh.  “You know how Aragorn insisted he eat in Minas Tirith.”

       “But he didn’t eat that way on the way home.”

       “I know, but you know that even then he was eating a good deal less than we were at meals, and that Lord Elrond was constantly slipping him fruit or small bits of dried meat as we rode.”

       Pippin sighed.  “I suppose you are right.”

       Esmeralda continued, “Last night about an hour after he got home he became violently ill, and Saradoc said it looked as if the food hadn’t been digested at all.  We got a few small items into him as he rested last night, and to our knowledge he kept them down.  But it appears he has to be very careful what and how he eats.”

       Merry nodded.

       They found him in the day room, sipping at a mug of soup.  He looked at them, and saw they’d been advised of his bout the night before.  “It’s not your fault,” he sighed.

       “We know, we know.  But we didn’t even think it might be happening again.”

       “It isn’t this way all the time.  Just now and then--except now appears to be one of those now and then times.”
             
       He rode home with Merry and Pippin, and they rested several times along the way.  He swung his way off the pony lent to him at the door to Bag End, hugged them both, and quietly made his way up the steps into the smial.  He set the pack on the bench in the entranceway and went back into his bedroom and lay down.  Sam, coming in from the market in Hobbiton with Rosie, saw the pack and went looking for him, found him sleeping.  He saw the paleness of his skin, the transparency of his hands, and sighed. 

       A week later Isumbard Took came to Brandy Hall and asked the Master if he had a coin.  He produced a Shire penny from his pocket, which Isumbard took from his hand while handing him the deed to the house at Crickhollow.  A few days later similar transactions were taking place in the smials along the New Row as their former landlord gave full title of their homes to the Chubbses, Daddy Twofoot, the Gaffer, and the Widow Rumble.  Title to Number 5 would wait a bit longer, until Sancho and Angelica Proudfoot came officially of age.

       Midsummer came, and Frodo resigned as deputy Mayor.  He’d refused to stand for election for Mayor, and all were surprised, for he’d certainly done an excellent job in the several months he’d served the Shire.  He went to the Free Fair, made a speech for reelecting Will Whitfoot, and sat down.  Well, if Frodo Baggins was sufficiently ungrateful to not stand for election, the Shire wouldn’t push him.  Will won almost unanimously.

       At sunset all gathered to hear the acceptance speech by old Flour Dumpling, which was followed by the recap of the happenings in the Shire and elsewhere over the past two years, last year’s Free Fair having been canceled by the self-proclaimed Chief.

       “As you know, the Time of Troubles came to a close in October with the return of the Travelers,” Will began.  All cheered.  “They have been to far places, and have brought us the news that there is again a King over Arnor, one who has reunited the two kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor under one rule.  He is a Man, and apparently a good Man at that.  He is the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar--I certainly hope I pronounced all that correctly.  He was born here in Eriador, and is the last in the line of Kings for both realms, descended from Arvedui who was the last King we acknowledged, and from the Kings of Gondor as well.

       “He became King after the final defeat of Mordor, which was witnessed by our Travelers--and somehow or other we are assured the four of them all had a part in it all.”  All cheered.  “They also witnessed our King’s marriage to one we are assured is among the most beautiful of women in all of Middle Earth, the Lady Arwen Undomiel, a year ago today.”  Another cheer. 

       “The outer world has changed a great deal in the past two years, for Mordor is no more.  The land of the Shire also has changed--we have seen one of our own seek to emulate Sauron and turn our own land into a miniature version of Mordor.  We have known his death at the hands of another, and that one’s death at the hands of one of his own.  We have realized that we must stand together against those who would destroy our way of life, and that we are more than strong enough when we do so to stand up to brigands, thieves, and bully-boys.”  Now all sat upright and proudly.

       “We have stood together, and have begun rebuilding our land.  Outside our borders there is rebuilding as well, as the King’s peace is beginning to make itself felt.  There will continue to be troubles from time to time both within and without our borders, but we now know that we Hobbits can withstand them, and that we have allies and friends.

       “I’ve seen the letters sent by the King Elessar, and he lets us know how deeply he honors the Shire and its inhabitants.  He wishes all to know that we are always welcome in Gondor or Arnor, that we may freely travel to Minas Tirith or Annúminas to visit his court at any time.  We are invited to take part in the growing trade with the other parts of the realm, and are asked to offer our advice on how best to insure the peace.

       “Now, the Travelers have asked to share with us some of the songs and lore they have learned as part of their journey, that we may appreciate the outer world to which we are now more closely allied.”

       The songs sung that night were certainly different from the comic and drinking and walking songs most commonly sung in the Shire, as well as being the usual ones heard from Meriadoc Brandybuck and his cousin Peregrin Took.  These songs were beautiful and haunting, with names and references that spoke to the ancient tales which most had heard in their childhoods.  Elven lays, the lament for Théoden of Rohan sung at his burial, a hymn to Elbereth, the Lay of Gil-galad--all spoke to them of an older world, a different world, deeper griefs and higher joys.

       Then the sons of Elrond appeared and greeted all, spoke of the honor afforded the four Travelers by the outer world, and then spoke of Frodo Baggins, of his titles, of his friendship with Dwarves, Elves, Men, and particularly the King, of the great sacrifice he had offered for all of Middle Earth; and they sang in Sindarin the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers as the one most honored by that song sat weeping quiet tears in the midst of the communications they had brought to him from Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, Erebor, Eryn Lasgolen, Rivendell, Lothlorien, and Ithilien.  Nearby sat the other three Travelers, also weeping.

       But most of the rest, though they’d been moved by the music and the singing, although they appeared to see images brought about by the singing of the Lay of great armies, horrible creatures soaring overhead, small figures escaping fantastic beasts, willingness to sacrifice self for others on all sides, and the triumph of the moment when something great and terrible and wonderful happened and the Black Land was swallowed up by the earth itself, and great Eagles bore small burdens to safety beyond all hope--yet they looked at Frodo in confusion, uncertain what this all had to do with him.

A Tale of the King

       Frodo had not given anyone his reasons for not standing for election as Mayor, and no one asked them of him.  Will had simply looked at him sadly and accepted that he was doomed to retain his old office for another seven years, Isumbard and Tolly had shaken his hand and wished him well, Sam had bowed his head and said, “I see,” his cousins had shaken their heads with disappointment.

       He now felt oddly free, and yet also oddly adrift, as if he’d cut loose an anchor without having an oar in his fishing boat with which to propel or steer it.  He knew he’d done the right thing, that he most likely would not live long enough to finish such a term; but he had to accept he missed the responsibilities and the challenges.  He looked again at writing the story of the quest, looked over the material he’d written already, tried to think how he’d word it properly, made a stab at starting it anew or continuing on, then set it aside.

       He walked out every day--into the village of Hobbiton, to Bywater, occasionally as far as Overhill, although he preferred to ride when he went that far.  But he was determined not to become a prisoner in his own home.

       He walked into the Green Dragon one day at lunch time and found it full.  He went to the bar and ordered a lamb pastie--he’d have loved a steak and kidney pie, but knew from grim experience what his stomach would do with that--and after receiving old Rubo’s assurance he’d bring it and a large mug of tea to his table, he looked to find somewhere to settle.  Every table was taken and most of them full.  Then he noticed a smaller table in the corner where there was only one person.  He walked over with his mug of light ale to ask if he might share the table, and realized the one sitting there was Narcissa Boffin.  Her eyes lit up as she saw him approach, and he felt a sinking of his heart; but there was nothing for it now--he could not turn aside now without looking desperately rude. 

       “Hello, Narcissa--it appears the place is full.”

       “You are welcome to sit here, Frodo.”

       “Thank you.”

       After he sat with his mug and took a couple of sips, she looked at him.  “You are looking very fine, Frodo.”

       He gave a humorless laugh.  “Fine if one likes scarecrows, I suppose.”

       She gave him an appraising examination.  “Well, I must say you are quite thin.”

       He nodded.  “Can’t seem to get my weight back.”

       “Does it bother you to be so thin?”

       “Actually, it does.  I miss being able to eat a good meal.”

       “But you live with Sam and Rosie, and they--”

       “And they are among the best cooks in the Shire?  Oh, I certainly do know that, Narcissa.  I’m not talking about missing good food--I get that, and I’m not a bad cook in my own right--when I pay attention to what I’m doing, of course.  I’m talking about a good meal, where I can get down more than a single dish at a time.  I feel as if I were still in Minas Tirith, watching with envy others at the feasts eating of everything being served while I must eat rice and lamb or chicken.”

       “But you always said you hated rice.”

       “I do.  But Aragorn and the Lady Arwen did know how to make even that palatable, and it is easy to digest.”

       “Oh, I see.”  After a moment of silence, she asked, “How long has your stomach been delicate?”

       “It feels as if it’s been forever.”

       “Who is Aragorn?”

       He looked at her for a moment before answering, “The King.”

       “Then you do know him personally.”

       He nodded.  Finally he looked down at his mug and added, “We met in Bree.”

       “What was the King doing in Bree?”

       “He wasn’t the King yet.  Were you at the Free Fair?  Did you hear Will’s speech?”

       “Yes, I did.”

       “After the King Arvedui died, there were no kings left anywhere in the Sea Kings’ lands, north or south.  Arvedui’s son survived, but there weren’t enough people left to call it a kingdom, so he just called himself the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain instead, and was the high captain of their Rangers as well.”

       “Oh, are the Rangers of the Sea Kings’ people, then?”

       “You have heard of them?”

       “My dad used to go frequently to Bree, and would see them there.  He said they were tall Men, and rather grim and sad.  He said the folk of Bree, Big or Little, were suspicious of them, but they were very polite.  He realized his second trip that they guarded the borders of the Breelands and the Shire.  If one of them saw him on the road he’d usually accompany him to Bree, see him through the gate; and usually there’d be one waiting to accompany him back as well.”

       “He never told me that.”

       “He didn’t tell anyone but Mum and me, I think.  He said most folk who rode to Bree went in parties--he was one of the few who would ride there alone.  His favorite to ride with was called Strider.”

       Frodo laughed.  “I see.  Mine, too.”

       “You know Strider?”

       “Why was Strider his favorite?”

       “You are avoiding the question.”

       “I know.  Why was Strider his favorite?”

       “Because sometimes he’d sing as they rode, and he loved his voice.  Never said much of anything, but was always polite.”

       “Yes, that is Strider.”

       “Would you know the same Strider?”

       “I think so.  He is of almost pure blood, so he is almost ninety now, but looks much younger.  And he admitted he’d often guarded the borders of the Shire and the Breelands.”

       “Sounds as if he talked more to you than he did to my dad.”

       “Well, I was with him a much longer time.  You see, he’s the King now.”

       She looked at him, amazed.  “Strider is the King Aragorn Elessar all those other things?”

       He nodded.  “Yes, the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar.  Telcontar mean strider, by the way.  He incorporated it into his throne name.”

       Her mouth was open with astonishment.  Finally she commented, “Imagine--my dad knew the King before he was the King.”  After a moment, she asked him, “How did you meet him?”

       He looked away.  Just then Rubo’s son arrived with the pastie and tea, and Frodo thanked him.  After the young Hobbit had gone off to another table to take an order for another round, Frodo finally said, “Gandalf told him I would be leaving the Shire, and asked him to keep an eye out for me if he wasn’t able to be there.  He knew when I was due to leave, and at the right time was watching the Road from the Bridge, followed us into Bree, and finally introduced himself there.”  His expression, which had been open a moment before, was now closed.  She wondered why.

       Finally she asked, “What is he like, this King Aragorn Elessar?”

       The closed look fell away.  “He is one of the gentlest and most capable beings ever born of any race.”

       “He’s gentle?”

       “Oh, yes, in spite of the fact he’s the greatest warrior living among Men.”  He lifted his fork and took a bite.  After he’d finally swallowed, he went on.  “He was raised in Rivendell by the Lord Elrond, as if the Lord Elrond were his father.  His own father Arathorn died when he was only two years of age.  I think he said it was due to an orc arrow.”

       “Why in Rivendell?  Isn’t the Lord Elrond an Elf lord?”

       “Yes.  But his brother was the father of the line of the Sea Kings.  He’s always cared for his brother’s descendants in Arnor since they returned to Middle Earth.  Elrond and Elros were the first of the Half-Elven, and were granted the choice to live as Men or Elves.  Elrond chose the Elven way.  Elros chose mortality.”

       “Oh, I see.”  For a few minutes she watched in silence as he ate.  He ate slowly and somewhat deliberately, and she remembered he’d said his stomach was now delicate, and wondered why. 

       He put down his fork again and continued.  “While growing up he was schooled in warfare, in healing, in languages, in ruling, in history.  On occasion he would sing for us when we traveled, and his voice was beautiful, as your father told you.  He sang us part of the Lay of Lúthien once, and it eased our hearts.  But it was after he became King he began to sing more regularly, particularly after the Lady Arwen arrived for their marriage.”   Again he lifted his fork, ate some more.

       “He realized your stomach had become delicate?”

       “Yes.”

       “Why healing?”

       “He’s of the line of the Kings, and is descended from the Half-Elven.  He inherited the healing gift of that lineage.  Elrond has it as well.  Elrond saw his gift was trained.”

       “He couldn’t heal your stomach?”

       “He helped a good deal, but could not make it as it was before.”  He set down the fork again and sat silent for some moments.  Finally he looked up into her eyes, his own full of sadness.  “When there is too much scarring, body or soul, even the King cannot strip it away--not completely.”

       “What caused the scarring, Frodo?”  But he would not answer.

       He was able to eat half the pastie, and looked at the remainder with regret.  He drank the tea, wished her a good day, thanked her for allowing him to sit with her, and left.  She saw him later sitting on a bench in the common, looking sad.  A group of children had seen him and were coming to demand a story.  She lingered nearby to listen.

       He told them of the new King, who had been born nearby, actually, north and east of them in Eriador.  “He lived as a boy in Rivendell among the Elves, raised as the Lord Elrond’s own child.  He grew to be wise, and gentle, and caring.  He fought the Enemy’s own people in many lands, here in Eriador, near Dale and Mirkwood and Erebor, in Rohan and Gondor and places in between.  He has borne many names and titles.

       “When he was twenty he learned of his birth and lineage, and was returned to the Dúnedain to learn their needs, to take up his place as the chieftain of their people, to prepare himself for the day he would become King, if that should come to be.  He learned to be a Ranger, and then led the Rangers of the North.  He went south to Rohan, where the Horse Lords dwell.  Tall and golden they are, the Rohirrim.  He begged to ride among them and was granted that right, an even taller Man with hair dark as ebony and eyes grey as the sea, not blue as are the eyes of the Rohirrim.  He rode with their eoreds, fought in their wars, led troops after a time.

       “Then he went to Gondor, which is the southern of the Sea Kings’ lands, where he was also the heir as he was here in Arnor.  He swore allegiance to the Lord Steward Ecthelion and learned the way of Gondor’s armies, fought among Gondor’s Rangers as well, learned the ordering of the land and people, learned the greatest threats against them.

       “He told none his name when he went south.  Among the Rohirrim he was known as Ælric by some, but was better known as Thorongil, which means the Eagle of the Star.  That name he bore to Gondor.  For many years he served there, until word came his uncle, who was Steward of his people here in the North, had been slain, and he came back to Arnor to serve the needs of his own people once more.

       “Long he waited....”

       Narcissa listened, fascinated as were the children, saw the pride of Frodo as he described to the children the King they would live under, whose rule would touch the lives of those within the Shire in spite of its isolation, heard the love in the words.

       Finally he spoke of the Enemy.  “He we know as Sauron was created as a servant to the Valar, the Powers of the West.  One of the Valar rebelled against Eru and his brethren, and finally fled here to Middle Earth, where he thought to become ruler of all who dwell here.  Some among the servants of the Valar he drew after him, and he taught them fell shapes.  But greatest among them was Sauron.  After the Valar themselves came to Middle Earth to fight Morgoth alongside Elves, Men, and Dwarves for the freedom of Middle Earth and cast him down, Sauron went and hid in the waste places until he learned that the Valar had decreed they would not do such again; then he sought to take Morgoth’s place.

       “He took Mordor, a bare land surrounded by mountains, and made it his own.  He raised the mountains of its fences higher, steeper.  As had Morgoth, he captured Elves and Men and other creatures, corrupted them, twisted them, tortured them.  They became orcs and goblins.  He bred them by the thousands to become his slaves and his armies.  He took the mountain Orodruin and made it his forge.  But although he spread his darkness to many lands, he could not fully conquer all of Middle Earth as long as the descendants of the Edain and the Elves and the Dwarves recognized him for what he was.  So he sought to win them by trickery and spells.”

       He then described the making of the Rings of Power, and finally, the One Ring, Sauron’s own Ring, which had the power to rule the rest.

       “But he lost that Ring.  Elves and Men united against him, besieged him in Mordor, finally after ten years broke into that land and faced him down.  He fought against the greatest of the Elven Lords and the greatest of the Kings of Men, against Gil-galad and Elendil the Tall.  He managed to slay both, but at the cost of being cast down himself, and before he could arise again the son of Elendil, the Lord Isildur, took up the hilt of his father’s sword, which had broken when Elendil used it against Sauron and he fell, and with its broken blade cut from the hand of Sauron the finger bearing the Ring.”

       Frodo stopped then, as if the rest he must say was painful.  Narcissa saw him swallow.  “But Isildur could not bring himself to destroy the Ring, which could only happen there in Orodruin where It was made.  Instead, he took It for his own, and grieved later when he realized that in fact he had not taken It, but that instead It had taken him as Its bearer.  He wore It but once that we know of, when he sought to flee orcs which assaulted his troops as he headed north to Rivendell where his wife and youngest son waited his return.  His other three sons were slain, and finally he himself as It slipped from his finger as he sought to swim the River Anduin, and he was revealed, and the orcs shot him with arrows.

       “Only if the Ring could be unmade could Sauron be totally defeated, for the bulk of his power he had poured into It at Its making.  Only when It was found and returned to the volcano where It was forged could he be brought down again.

       “After long years Sauron regained much power and might, but at terrible cost to those whom he captured, tortured, slew.  Sauron grew in might as Gondor and Arnor failed.  His servants sought to slay those of the Lines of Kings, until Gondor had no King any more but was ruled by Stewards.  Finally only one line remained, the descendants of King Arvedui.  And Aragorn son of Arathorn was the heir.

       “Mordor grew again, and Sauron sent out its troops to assault the capitol of Gondor, Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard.  Many came to the defense of the city, but not enough.  Théoden King of Rohan led his eoreds to the aid of Gondor, and almost he broke the siege.  Only when the Lord Aragorn came from the Mouths of the Sea on ships he’d captured from the Corsairs of Umbar, ships Aragorn filled with defenders from the south of Gondor and those of the Rangers of the North who could reach his side beforehand, and with Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf--only when they arrived did they finally turn the tide of the battle and defeat Sauron’s army.

       “But that was not enough.  Only if the Ring was destroyed could the final defeat of Sauron himself come.  The Ring had been finally found, had been identified, and was sent to Mordor for Its destruction.  Our Lord Aragorn knew that time must be given to allow the Ring to come to Orodruin, to Mount Doom, so he gathered about him an army only large enough to engage the interest of the Enemy, and took it before the Black Gates of Mordor to draw the attention of Sauron himself so that he should not see those who crept into his lands, closer and closer to the Mountain each day.  He led it, and with him went the Lord King Éomer of Rohan, who became King when his uncle died before Minas Tirith; Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth; Gimli the Dwarf; Legolas the Elf; Peregrin son of Paladin of the Periannath; the remainder of the Lord Aragorn’s own kin from the north; and soldiers and knights from Rohan and Gondor.  All were willing to die for the freedom of the Peoples of the West, to allow the Ringbearer time to conclude his quest.”

       Then he stopped, bowed his head, and grew quiet and still.

       Finally Pando Proudfoot, one of Frodo’s cousins who lived on the Row beneath Bag End, asked, “What happened?  Did they live?”

       Frodo lifted his face, which was quite pale.  “He’s King now, isn’t he?  Yes, most lived.  The Ring went into the fire, Sauron fell utterly, and they lived.”

       “How?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “Don’t ask me that.  Just know it happened.”

       It was some time more before he finally finished the story.  “After the fall of Sauron they returned to the Fields of Cormallen in Ithilien.  It is a beautiful place, green and fair.  We stayed there some time while those who were hurt recovered, then slowly went back to the capitol.

       “On the first of May Aragorn came before the walls of Minas Tirith, and was crowned King, and entered through the broken gates.  The day before Midsummer the Lord Elrond of Rivendell came with a party of Elves from his land and from Lothlorien and elsewhere, and brought to the King’s side his daughter, the Lady Arwen Undomiel, and gave into his hands the Sceptre of Annúminas as he is King of Arnor as well as Gondor.  On the day of Midsummer the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar took the Lady Arwen Undomiel to wife, uniting the world of Men and the world of Elves one last time.

       “Rejoice, children, for the King has come again at the last, and he is a great Man and will be a great King.”

       “You saw all this?” a small lass asked.

       “I saw the coronation and the wedding and a good deal else.”

       “Who was the Periannath that has the same name as Pippin Took?” asked Pando Proudfoot.

       Frodo smiled gently.  “Periannath is the Elven name for Hobbits,” he explained.  “Now, I must return home.”  He rose, bowed, and left.

       Pando looked after his cousin amazed, then looked around and caught the eye of Narcissa.  “Does that mean Pippin fought before the gates of Mordor?” he asked, astounded.

       She shrugged.  “It sounds as though he did.”

Seeking Answers

       A few days later Narcissa saw Pippin in Hobbiton, and finally caught up with him, a far more difficult feat than it had once been, as he was now half a head taller than all other Hobbits in the Shire save for Merry.  “Pippin, I wanted to ask you something.”

       He looked at her warily.  “About Frodo?”

       “Well, in part.  He was telling the children about the King--” she noted he straightened to attention automatically “--and said that Peregrin son of Paladin of the Periannath fought before the Black Gates.”

       “Yes, I did.”

       “He said it was a feint, that the assault was only to draw the attention of Sauron out of Mordor.”

       “Yes.”

       “That’s all you are going to say--‘Yes’?”

       “What more is needed?”

       She had no answer for that question.  Finally she asked, “Where was Merry?”

       “In Minas Tirith, in the Houses of Healing.  He was--hurt--as the Riders of Rohan tried to break the siege.”

       “Where were Frodo and Sam?”

       “Doing what they had to do.”  His face was closed.

       “Did you realize Frodo has a hard time eating?”

       “Yes.”

       He was maddening.  Finally she asked, “What happened to him, Pippin?”

       He shook his head, his face full of sadness.  “He was hurt, very, very badly hurt, Narcissa.”

       “Why won’t any of you tell what happened?”

       “We’ve tried to, but those we’ve tried to tell either don't want to know or don’t know how to listen.  You have to understand, Narcissa--some things it hurts to speak of--hurts more terribly than we can express.”

       Narcissa had known Pippin since he was a tiny thing, and never in his entire life had she seen him so terribly--stern, so serious, his face filled with a quiet but obviously deep pain.  Finally she asked, “Can you tell me of the King?”

       Now he smiled freely, as Frodo had done.  “Oh, of course--Aragorn is a great Man--would be great if he were only a Hobbit like us, I think.”

       “Is he the kind of king you would follow anywhere?”

       His face grew solemn again, and he gave a soft, gentle yet sad smile.  “I’ve already done that once, and, yes, I’d do it again.”

       “Why did you go, Pippin?  You aren’t a soldier.”

       “I wasn’t a soldier before, Narcissa.  I am now.”  His hand touched his sword.  He looked at her closely.  “Understand this, Narcissa--I’ve fought now.  I had to learn to fight just to survive.  I’ve fought orcs, trolls, and Men.  And I’ve had to kill.  It’s not a comfortable thing to do, but sometimes it has to be done.  I am a soldier, a soldier of Gondor--and Arnor.”  He looked down, then back into her face.  “Aragorn and Boromir and Legolas taught us how to fight, Merry and me.  Mostly Boromir.  Frodo was no good at it, and Sam didn’t try, although he did kill an orc once.  Maybe it was by accident.”  He smiled briefly, then it faded.  “They’ve all had to fight to survive, all of them, and too many of them have died.  Boromir died defending Merry and me.  The Enemy took a long time to become aware of the Shire and to touch it with his evil, Narcissa.  Elsewhere throughout Middle Earth they’ve had to fight his evil, just to remain alive, for thousands of years, for he’s threatened the rest all along.  Now we’ve fought it here, too.”

       “But you said Frodo didn’t fight....”

       “You don’t just fight evil with a sword, Narcissa.  Frodo fought, too, but a different way.  And he won, but he still feels like he lost.”

       “Frodo said they had to destroy Sauron’s Ring to destroy Sauron himself.”

       “Yes.”

       “He said it went into the fire, but not how.”

       “No, he wouldn’t be able to say.”

       “How?”

       “How what?”

       She gritted her teeth.  “How did the Ring go into the fire?”

       He looked at her for a long time, and remained silent.  Well, if he was going to play that game, she could play it, too.  She would not look away.  Finally he said softly, looking away from her, “The exact thing that happened is that the creature holding it at the edge of the volcano’s chasm fell while he held the Ring, and both were destroyed.”

       “What kind of creature was it?”

       He shook his head, but answered anyway: “One that used to be a Hobbit--or at least a relative of us Hobbits.”

       Both were quiet for quite some time.  Finally she looked away and asked the question that had been plaguing her for years.  “At Bilbo’s party it was obvious that Frodo was finally--finally getting over Pearl Took.  He danced almost the whole time, and danced with me several times.  Why didn’t he--why couldn’t he----”

       “See that you loved him?”  She nodded but still wouldn’t look at him.  He sighed.  “He received something that night, something from Bilbo.  After he got it, he couldn’t love--not that way, no more than Bilbo had been able to love that way since he got it.”

       “You make it sound like a disease.”

       “It wasn’t a disease, but it changed him and all who came close to him.”

       “Does he still have it?”

       “No, but it left him terribly scarred.  I don’t know if he can ever love again, that way.  I rather doubt it.”  Then, after a pause he said, very quietly, “He wouldn’t wish to inflict the legacy of It on anyone else, even though It’s gone now.  Nor would he wish to marry, thinking he’s not likely to live that long.”

       She looked up, alarmed.  “Is he dying?”

       “I don’t know, not for certain.  But he’s not well.  He’s not been well since he woke in Ithilien--not really well.”

       “I see.”  Finally she asked the last question.  “How did he lose his finger?”

       He looked at her steadily.  “Much the same way Sauron lost his.”

       Neither said anything more for quite a time.  Then Narcissa’s cousin Folco Boffin came out of the Ivy Bush and called out, “Pippin!  Just the Hobbit I need to see!” 

       Pippin excused himself and left her, and she looked after.  She knew the entire story was there, somewhere, between what Frodo had said and what Pippin had said--somewhere in what they didn’t say--didn’t quite say.  And she found herself not wishing to put it together, realizing it was devastating.

*******

       Pippin was dining with his parents in the Great Smial.  He’d stopped at Michel Delving and then at the Great Smial, and was hoping no one would question him further that day.  The conversation with Narcissa Boffin had been emotionally exhausting.  But, it was not to be.

       “When are you coming home, Pippin?” his father asked.

       He decided to be as straightforward as possible.  “When you realize I’m not a child.”

       “We don’t treat you like a child!” protested his mother.

       “You don’t treat me as an adult, either.  You have to realize, I had to grow up out there, or I’d never have survived.  I’ve learned how to take responsibility.  I’ve followed my King to battle and back.  I’ve watched my comrades die and thought I might have to die to save others.”

       Paladin paled.  “There is to be no talk of killing and dying at this table.”

       Pippin stood up, towering over his father, his hand on his sword hilt.  “I am a soldier, Father.”

       “Did you have to wear that to the table?”

       “I learned to wear it--I had to.  Don’t you understand?  It’s a part of me now!”

       “Pippin--sit down!”

       “Why?  So you can tell me who is to come to my birthday party, what clothes I am to wear that don’t even fit any more, not to carry my sword?”  He was so glad his sisters and their families were all gone from the Smial--he’d have hated to say all this in front of them.

       “Peregrin,” his mother begged, “Please sit down.”

       Finally he did, throwing his napkin on his plate.  He couldn’t eat any more.  He shoved the plate away, laid his forearms on the table and his head over them, looking down at the table top.

       Finally his father sighed.  “We are trying to understand, Pippin.”

       Without looking up, he replied, “Then ask, but I can’t answer everything.”

       “Why not?  Have you been sworn to secrecy or something?”

       Pippin snorted.

       “Please answer that question.”

       Finally Pippin straightened with a deep sigh, his face resigned.  “No, I’ve not been sworn to secrecy.  But you have to understand----”

       “Understand what?”

       “How can I tell you anything when you both keep interrupting?”  Pippin’s face was full of frustration.  “You have to learn to listen!”

       “What an accusation to hurl at your father!” Eglantine sputtered.

       “It’s true!”

       After several minutes silence, Paladan asked through clenched teeth, “Why did you leave without permission?”

       Pippin shook his head and answered in a dead tone, “I had to.  Frodo was going to go alone, and he’d have died if he had.”

       “Why did he have to leave?”

       “He had to get It out of the Shire--thought the Shire would remain safe if he left and took It with him.”

       “What is It?”  This was the question they couldn’t get him to answer other than the rubbish about rings, and it was no different this time.  He shook his head.  “Did that old grey conjurer give him this thing?”

       Pippin looked furious.  “Don’t you dare call Gandalf an old grey conjurer.  You have no idea what and who he is, or why he is here.”

       “And you do?”

       “I have a good idea.”

       “Then what is he?”

       “It’s not mine to tell.  We know him as a wizard, and that’s all I can say about it.”

       “I thought you weren’t sworn to secrecy.”

       “I’m not.  But this is not something mortals should discuss, not before he’s revealed himself.”

       “Who was Sharkey?”

       “Merry told you this--he, too, was a wizard.  He was the head of their order, but fell to temptation.  And I know Frodo tried to tell you, too.”

       “How do you know Frodo told us this?”

       “He and I have discussed it.”

       “Discussed how hard your mother and I are to talk to?”

       “Among other things.”

       Paladin Took felt deeply hurt.  Finally he asked, “How did Frodo lose his finger?”

       “Why does everybody want to know that?”

       “We love him, Pippin.  We love you, too.”

       “We know that, Da.”

       “We want to understand.”

       “As I told you, to understand you need to be able to--” he sighed “--to fill in the empty spaces.  It hurts to talk of it, Da.”

       This was the first time the realization of this had truly hit Paladin Took.  He looked at his son as he turned his face to look in that of his father.  Pippin continued, “We left, we thought, to protect the Shire.  Frodo received something from Bilbo when Bilbo left that was very dangerous.”

       “The Ring?”

       “Yes.”  Pippin’s face was quite pale.

       “Ferdi said it was the Ring.”  He was quiet for some time while Pippin simply stared down at him.  “The Enemy’s Ring.”

       “Yes, Da, It was the Enemy’s Ring.  We’ve tried to tell you It was the Enemy’s Ring.”  Color was very slowly returning to the younger Hobbit’s face.

       “How did Bilbo get it?”

       “He found It on his own journey.”

       Paladin found himself getting angry to hide from the fear.  “That’s ridiculous.  One doesn’t find fell Rings on journeys.”

       Pippin’s own anger flared.  “Well, one is more likely to find such things in orc tunnels or dragon’s lairs than in mole holes in the Shire.”  He pounded his fist on the table.  “When are you going to understand, Da--the stories Bilbo told about his journey--they were real.  They really happened.  I’ve met one of the Dwarves Bilbo traveled with, and I traveled with that Dwarf’s son.  Gimli found me on the battlefield, even--saved my life, not that I particularly thanked him for it at first--I was in a lot of pain at the time.  I’ve seen It.  I’ve seen Frodo put It on and become invisible.  I’ve seen what It did to him--and now you are seeing what It did to him.”

       Pippin sighed, his anger fleeing as swiftly as it had flared.  “Bilbo used to use It to hide from the Sackville-Bagginses.  Merry saw him disappear one day as they were approaching, then reappear right in front of him as they left again.  He finally sneaked peeks into Bilbo’s book to find out what allowed him to do that.”

       “How do you know what was in Bilbo’s book?”

       “I read it while we were in Rivendell, waiting for word the Black Riders were gone.  That’s where he is, you know--in Rivendell.”

       “Why did he go there?”

       “He felt things weren’t right--inside himself.  He didn’t know why.  Got restless, felt things were wrong somehow.  And he did want to see the Lonely Mountain again, see the Dwarves in their home.  On the way back he stopped in Rivendell and stayed.  Not that they would let him back anywhere near the Ring, as long as he’d carried It.  He was tempted so by It when we were there, when he wanted Frodo to show It to him again.”

       Paladin looked at his son for a long time, then made up his mind.  “I can’t believe a word of all this, you know.”  He said this quietly and with finality.

       “I know, sir, which is part of why we haven’t been able to tell you.  I need to leave now.”

       “But Peregrin----” his mother began.  Pippin stood, bowed, and left, his face sad, his head lifted proudly.  Long after the door closed behind him, she finally turned on her husband.  “Why did you have to say that, Paladin Took?”

       “How can we believe such things, Lanti?  How can we believe them?”

       “But if they are true....”

*******

       Saradoc Brandybuck helped place the final pieces of furniture in the house at Crickhollow.  “I knew these would come in handy one day, Son,” he said.

       “Thanks again, Dad.”

       “When is Pippin coming back?”

       “He’s supposed to stay at the Great Smial for a few days, but I rather expect him tomorrow sometime.”

       “Why so soon?”

       Merry sighed.  “You know Uncle Paladin--he will start questioning him again and won’t be able to understand why Pippin can’t answer, and they’ll fight again, and Pippin will leave.”

       “You have a hard time answering, too, Merry.”

       “Yes, but at least you realize we don’t think it’s all your fault, and that it’s just too hard to talk about.”

       “I hope you will be able to talk about it more one day.”

       “I will, I’m certain, but not yet.”

       “I know.”  He sighed.  “Have you seen Frodo lately?”

       “A week ago.  He’d walked into Overhill when I went to talk to Folco about trading our extra grapes for potatoes.”

       “Is he looking any better?”

       “Yes, he is.”

       “That’s good.”  Finally he asked, “Why did he refuse to run for Mayor?  Will was counting on it.”

       “I’m not certain--he wouldn’t tell us, either.”

       “Does he have nightmares, too?”

       “Yes, and far worse than ours, Dad.”

       “That King of yours couldn’t help him?”

       “There are limits to what can be done in Middle Earth, Dad.  He could help, but not clear it all out.  Frodo has some horrible memories.”  He sighed and stretched, then sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair.  “There was one night when his dreams were so bad, and his shoulder and his hand were both aching so--Sam finally went in to sit with him, sat up on his bed and pillowed Frodo’s head in his lap, comforting him and all.  Frodo wouldn’t let us send for Aragorn--as King he’d been up for two days straight, dealing with embassies and petitions and then someone who was brought to the Houses of Healing out of his mind from his own memories, then more work the following day--Frodo had slept when he came back from the Houses, then that night had this spell.  Gandalf had been out dealing with Elves or something--don’t remember exactly what.  He came in and found Pippin and me still sitting in the dining room nursing cold cups of tea, went in and checked on Frodo, then sent for Aragorn anyway.  He eased it and was able to get Frodo into healing sleep for a time.  He was much better for a week or so, then it started creeping back again.  It always does.”

       “How about the eating?”

       “That’s been going on since he was in Mordor.  He and Sam finally ran out of food, even the lembas.  His stomach hasn’t been able to handle a full meal since then.  It drove him crazy at feasts.”

       “I can imagine.”

       “Mistress Loren, who helped keep our house, would sometimes cook the mornings after she’d slept over, the nights Lasgon stayed with his parents.”

       “Who was Lasgon?”

       “A page.  Aragorn assigned him to us to run errands or to call him if he was needed, not that Frodo would allow that as often as should have happened.”

       “I think I understand.”  Father and son shared a sad smile.

       “Anyway, Mistress Loren would make a type of battercake that you would die for, Dad.  It was so good, and so rich.  She filled it with rich cream and rich cheeses and fruit, and then she’d pour a thick syrup over it.  Frodo loved it, and every time he ate it--up it would come again an hour or two later.  Before the feasts Aragorn would take Frodo into the kitchens to have tastes of what the rest of us would be having, and then he’d be served a plate of rice and meat and thinly sliced vegetables while the rest of us ate all these marvelous foods.  He used to look daggers at Pippin.”

       “Rice?!”

       “The Lady Arwen made a sauce for it that allowed him to handle it.  Otherwise he’d just pick out the meat and vegetables and leave the rice on the plate.  He’d come back from a feast in a foul mood and ravenously hungry.”

       Remembering Frodo’s childhood and his distaste for rice, Saradoc began to laugh.  “I can well imagine.”  He thought for a time, and asked, “What kinds of nightmares do you have, Merry?”

       His son shook his head.  “Just nightmares--orcs, and----”  He shook his head again.  “I saw King Théoden die, Dad.  He reminded me of you a lot.”

       “Do you dream of that?”

       “Of what happened before that, I do.”

       “What was it that happened?”

       Merry stayed silent, shook his head again.  “Remember, Dad, it was part of a battle, a terrible battle being fought against--against the Enemy’s creatures.”

       “I understand.”

       “Thank you, Dad.”

       “How about Frodo’s dreams?  What are they about?”

       “Lots of things--thinking Sam’s been killed by the spider--”

       “What spider?”

       “There was a great spider they met,  going into Mordor.  Seems to be the same sort as lived in Mirkwood that Bilbo and the Dwarves faced.”  He thought for a few minutes.  “He dreams of orcs, too--I think we all do.  Saw too many of them.  And they are all different kinds, too--big ones, little ones we saw in Moria, the Uruk-hai, who are enormously strong--bald ones and hairy ones.  I’m not certain all the other ones he has, but they are pretty bad.”

       “Does Sam have them?”

       Merry nodded.  “Searching for Frodo, fighting the spider, going through rooms and up endless stairs hearing folk, usually Frodo, screaming with pain.”

       “And Pippin’s?”

       “Orcs again, and--and looking into the Palantir.”

       “What’s a palantir?”

       “They are from Númenor.  They were special stones given to Elendil’s people to communicate across distances.  Pippin found one.”

       “That doesn’t sound frightening.”

       “Depends on who has the one you are communicating with, Dad.”

       “Oh.”

       “His most common one is searching for people who are in danger, usually me or Faramir.  Sometimes Frodo or Sam--or both--or all four of us if the nightmare is being generous.”

       “Sounds as if you are well versed.”

       “Dad, I’ve taken care of Pippin since he was born, and he lives here with me.  Believe me, I have heard his nightmares, and he’s heard mine.”

       “I see.  I’m glad the two of you aren’t alone then.”

       “I am, too.”

       “When you feel you can tell more, please--your mother and I want to know--we need to know, really.”

       “Thanks Dad.  When we are ready.”

Writing in Earnest

       “Well, when are you going to finish the next chapter so I can read it?”

       “I’m not sure, Freddy.”

       “You’d best get a move on, or Bilbo will never be in a condition to read it.”

       “I don’t know if he’s in any such condition now.  His letters are rather rambling.”

       “The other question is, when are you coming to see my new house?”

       “I’m not certain.”

       “You’ve been saying that for months, Frodo Baggins.  I’ll tell you what--you are coming for our birthday party, October sixth.  Mine is the fifth, and Budgie’s is the seventh, so we are combining them.”

       “And if I don’t?”

       “I’ll come over here and drag you over.  You and Strider can get that far--it’s not that far from Michel Delving.  Viola is dying to see you again--is so glad you married her to Budgie, you know.  You have made quite a conquest.”

       “Oh, just what I need--another person desiring what I cannot give.”

       “Who is doing that now, at this late date?”

       Frodo was quiet, then said, “Narcissa Boffin.”

       “You mean she has never gotten over her infatuation with you?”

       “It’s more than infatuation, Fredegar Bolger.  She’s loved me for so many years.”

       “You never led her on, Frodo.”

       “Before I got--It, I could have loved her, Freddy.  I still dream of her, but not as a lover or wife--just as someone else I have to leave.”

       “What a curious thing to say.”

       Frodo shrugged.

*******

       Early on October sixth Sam carried a mug of his tea into the study where Frodo had been writing a letter to Bilbo to find his master sitting back, his face a bit pale, clutching at his shoulder.

       “What is it, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.

       Frodo sighed as he rubbed his shoulder and looked up apologetically at him.  “It’s nothing, Sam.  It’s only--only that I’ve been wounded by knife, sting, and tooth, and it will never really heal, you know.”

       “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo.”

       Frodo smiled, that sweet smile Sam so treasured, and said, “I’ll be all right, Sam.” 

       “Yes, I know you will.”

       An hour later Sam brought Strider from the stable at the Ivy Bush already saddled, helped to fasten on the saddlebags that Aragorn had had made for him, then slipped the packet of leaves into one of the bags and refastened it.  After seeing Frodo mounted, he went into the smial and brought out the two water skins he had ready, handing one up to Frodo and fastening the other to the pommel.

       “Now, you use those if you need them, hear?”

       “Yes, Sam, I promise.”

       “I’ve written a letter to Budgie Smallfoot as well.  Make certain as he gets it.”

       “Samwise Gamgee--”

       “Don’t Samwise Gamgee me, Frodo Baggins.  You go stay with a healer, he ought to know that some things have helped you soothe.”

       “All right, Sam, I promise I will give the letter to Budgie.”

       “As soon as you get there?”

       Frodo sighed and said, “I promise.

       “Good.  Take care, Mr. Frodo.”

       “I will, Sam.”

       The trip to Fredegar’s house was uneventful, and he was singing much of the way.  He’d been able to eat a full breakfast--albeit slowly; the day was a wonderful fall day, the air crisp, the leaves a delight in golds and reds; nothing hurt for the moment; he’d not had a nightmare in a week.  He was going to see Freddy’s new house and be away, and enjoy himself.

       The birthday party was wonderful, and he was even able to eat a proper portion of cake and drink an ale.  Freddy had given him a new steel pen and a pen wipe, and was joking about how he looked forward to copying out the Red Book one day.  Frodo laughed.  He went to his bedroom happy, automatically pouring out some of Sam’s tea into the mug he’d brought with him.

       He was just stepping out of his trousers when the visions hit him.  Budgie and Freddy heard the resulting crash and looked at one another, and raced to the bedroom.  Frodo had fallen over, knocked over the wooden chair that stood near the bed, lay in a tangle of wood, legs, and trousers.

       Budgie and Fredegar got him into bed.  Frodo was digging for the Ring, found the jewel, clutched at it for dear life.  He began to calm, asked for his mug.  Budgie smelled it and said, “This isn’t water.  I’ll go get you some of that.”

       “No--give it to me--please!”

       Against his better judgment Budgie did, and watched with concern as Frodo drank it, spilling much of it on his shirt.  Budgie then got him to lie back, opened the shirt, listened to the chest.  What he heard frightened him, although he didn’t dare say anything to the two of them.

       “I know my heart is racing,” Frodo whispered.

       “I’ll get you a draught that should help.”

       “The leaves in a bath--they seem to ease me.”

       “No time for superstition now, Frodo.  Now you rest.  Freddy, get his shirt off of him--it is wet, and we don’t want him chilled.”

       “No--please----”

       When Budgie got back with the draught Frodo’s shirt was off, but Fredegar Bolger was quite white.  Frodo lay back, his face pale and drawn as he held onto the jewel.

       “Freddy--what’s the matter?”

       “His back, Budgie, and the back of his neck!”  Fredegar Bolger was whispering.

       “Help me sit him up.”

       Between them they got Frodo sitting up, and Budgie saw scars on the thin Hobbit’s body he’d never seen before.  “What in Middle Earth...?” he said.  He looked at the inflamed scar just below Frodo’s left shoulder and the collarbone with shock.  Freddy indicated the back.  Budgie saw the whip weals and blanched, realized his hand, supporting the back of Frodo’s neck, was touching something, moved it down to the shoulders and looked.  About the neck was a single scar as if something had been dragged deep into the skin on the back of his neck and the top of his shoulders.  On the right side of the back of the neck were twin marks, as if Frodo had been bitten by something with two teeth.  There were black holes there that were weeping a foreign fluid of some sort.  “We need to get this cleaned,” he said.  “Fresh water, warm, and clean rags that we can throw away after.”

       “Sam cleans it for me,” Frodo whispered.

       “Sam’s not here, so Freddy and I will have to do it this time.  What caused this?”

       “Shelob--the spider.”  This was said so softly he could barely hear it.

       “No spider did this, unless you found one thrice the size of a Hobbit.”

       “Oh, we did--on the borders of Mordor--only she’s thrice the size of a tall Man, I think.”  He gasped in pain.  Freddy hurried off to the kitchen.

       “While he’s getting the water and rags, drink this, Frodo.”  He held the draught to Frodo’s lips, made him sip it slowly.  He didn’t dare let him lean back, not while the neck was draining so.  Finally Frodo had it all down. 

       Viola came in with warm water and the cloths, and looked at Budgie with consternation.  “What is happening?  It has Mr. Freddy in quite a state.  I made him sit down and gave him his draught.”

       “Thanks, love.  I will need several pillows, for I have to have him lie face down so I can clean this.”

       She looked at the weeping wound and looked grey.  She hurried off and soon was back with five pillows.  Budgie got them placed and helped Frodo turn over, chest and forehead supported by pillows so he could breathe while Budgie cleaned away the effluent.  At last they appeared to have it emptied, and he bound it with gauze against it.  Frodo looked better, but was still clutching the jewel with his right hand as they helped him out of the bed and into the straightened chair so Viola could change the linens.  Suddenly Budgie realized one of the fingers was missing.  He looked at Frodo critically.  “What happened to you, Frodo Baggins?”

       Frodo, his face still pale, said, “You don’t want to know.  You can’t help all that much, even.  I was too badly wounded--knife, sting, tooth, whip....”

       “Does this drain often?”

       “Once every couple months.  Hadn’t thought--of this being the--time Sam usually cleans it.” 

       “What caused it?”

       “Shelob--spider--I told you....”  He was feeling dizzy.

       “A spider as big as a horse bit you?”

       “I think--bigger than that.”

       “What happened?”

       “I was poisoned.  Couldn’t move, see, hear, think.  She wrapped me in cords.  The orcs called her Shelob.  Sam thought I was dead.”  He had to work to stay coherent.  “They found me--the orcs.  Took me away.  Sam found me--don’t know how long--day, maybe two.  Woke up--orcs.  They beat me.  But--it’s my shoulder that’s cold.  Hand is numb.  Hurts so--like he just stabbed me.”

       “Who stabbed you?”

       “Pale king--wraith--Morgul blade.”  He shuddered.  “It hurts.  Aragorn!”  He squeezed his eyes shut.

       “What did he call out?” asked Viola.

       “The King’s name, I think.”

       Viola got the bed changed quickly, and then together they got Frodo back into it, warmly covered.  The left shoulder and arm were deadly cold, and Budgie could barely find the pulse in the left wrist.  He ordered warm packs, and she brought them.  Carefully he wrapped them around the arm and shoulder, although they seemed to cool down unnaturally quickly.  Freddy returned, helped change the packs.  Finally Frodo seemed to ease.  “I think I’ll be all right now,” he whispered.  “Sam’s tea, please--water skin.”

       With a sour look Budgie poured some into the mug, gave it to him.  This time Frodo drank it more slowly, finally gave the mug back to him.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Between the bite and--the date--it’s a bad day.”

       “What has the date to do with it?”

       “Two years--Weathertop,” he said.  His head dropped back.  “I’m very tired.”

       “We’ll let you sleep then.”

       Frodo awoke an hour later to find Freddy sitting by him.  “Hello,” he said.

       “Want to tell me what that was about?”

       “I don’t want to tell anyone, Freddy.”

       “Tell me anyway, or I’ll send for Sam.”

       “Some threat.”  He sighed.  “Two years ago, the Black Riders caught up with us at Amon Sul--a hill between here and Rivendell.  Also called Weathertop.  Used to be a watchtower there and--and one of the Seeing Stones, I think.  Ruins now.  There were five Nazgul there, one the pale king.  I thought to hide from them by wearing the Ring--but it didn’t hide me--not from them.  I could see them as--as distortions of what they were just after the Nine came to them--kings given to evil, taken by their rings.  The pale king--he was Witch King of Angmar, Aragorn and Gandalf told me.  Their leader.  Had a Morgul blade--bewitched to force me into the wraith world with them.  Blade broke off in the wound--tried to work its way to my heart.  Almost made it.  Elrond got it out of me, said it was almost to my heart.  They melted it, Elrond, Aragorn, Glorfindel.”

       “I think you are going to need to write this down to make it truly coherent.”

       Frodo nodded.  “My arm was numb--my left arm and shoulder--hurt horribly.  The athelas helped some, and I think he’d sing over it.  Elrond sang, too.  After they got the splinter of blade out, they sang to close the wound.”  He sighed.  “I hope I’m not sick the entire seventeen days.”

       “What seventeen days?”

       “I carried the splinter seventeen days--before they could get it out.  Both Aragorn and Lord Elrond said most would have succumbed sooner.”

       “This is the second year?”

       “Yes--two years ago today.  Last year--we--we were just leaving Rivendell--got to the Fords, where they almost caught me--it hit me then.”

       “What is it like when it hits you?”

       Frodo sighed, then described the overlapping visions of reality, the stabbing at Weathertop, and the turning at the Fords with all Nine trying to will him to stop, to will the splinter into the heart.  “Combined with the return of the cold and the pain, it was awful.  And I felt another pain, too, in my chest, down the arm and back.  I was nauseous, also.”

       “Was it like that this time?”

       “Saw the Witch King over me, the Morgul blade in his hands, felt it pierce my shoulder.  My heart was beating so fast.  Like I was back there at Weathertop again.”

       Fredegar asked, “Does the neck hurt, too?”

       “Only like an open sore, when it drains.  On March thirteenth and the twenty-fifth, though, it was different.  It ached horribly, and I felt--totally--totally empty.”

       “What happened on those dates?”

       “The first--Shelob bit me--poisoned me--there.  The second----”  He swallowed.  He whispered. “That’s when It--took me--and I lost It.”

       “You mean the Ring?”

       Frodo nodded weakly.  He closed his eyes.  “Please, I don’t want to talk about it any more.  My arm is going numb again, like Merry’s does when we mention the Nazgul.”  He gave a weak laugh.  “The--the Witch King stabbed me, and Merry stabbed the Witch King--and we both feel cold and numb at times--the arm, hand, shoulder.”  He turned his head away.  “Is there any more of Sam’s tea?”

*******

       He barely ate the following day, but awoke and dressed himself and went into breakfast the next morning.  Viola looked at him with concern from the stove, Budgie from where he was reading at the table.  Frodo gave it a glance.  “Herbal?” he asked.

       “You know about herbals?”

       “I’m Bilbo’s adopted heir, remember.  He had me copying things like that from the time I came to Bag End.”

       “I didn’t know.”

       Frodo shrugged.  He sighed.  “I probably won’t be able to eat much this morning.  Very small portions and close intervals.”

       “Who told you that?”

       “Aragorn, after I woke in Ithilien.  Sam and I had almost starved to death, and had had no water for almost a day before we got to the Mountain, and only swallows then.”  He sighed.  “I’ve been that way on and off ever since.  I think it’s another on and off day.”

       “This King of yours sounds like a healer.”

       “He is a healer, Budgie.”

       “I thought he was a King.”

       “He’s the Dúnedan, the heir of Isildur and Elendil.  He is almost ninety years old, looks to be a mature Man but no more, is a healer as well as a great warrior.  He’s a scholar--and an herbalist.”

       “I see.”

       Fredegar came from his bedroom, and smiled to see Frodo there in the kitchen.  “You look better this morning.”

       “I still feel a bit shaken, but decidedly better.”

       “I would hope so.”

       “What happened the other night,” Budgie said slowly as Viola set plates before them, “could be very serious--for your health.”

       “I am aware of that.”

       “I’ve been reading the herbals about this leaf of yours, and they don’t say much about it.  Commonly used for headaches and the sadness, and to refresh after a long illness.  Oh, there are some other stories about it, but--but they are just that--stories.  Nothing definite.”

       “I see.  I know it helps me when Sam gives me it as tea, and it has soothed me in my bath.”

       “There’s no harm in it.  I’m going to fix you up with a draught I wish you to take for the next two weeks.  It ought to help with the weakness you’ve experienced.  How are your arm and shoulder today?”

       “Tingling a bit, but no longer cold and numb or in agony.”

       “How many people have you told about what you experienced when you were hurt?”

       “Other than Freddy yesterday morning, I think probably only Gandalf and the Lord Elrond truly understand it, although Aragorn probably has a good idea--and Sam, of course.”

       “You have discussed this with them?”

       “No, not really, except in general terms.  But I know the Lord Elrond can--can touch my thoughts; and I think Gandalf can, too.  As for Aragorn--I think he just knows.”

       “And Sam?”

       “He knows more of what has happened to me than I do--he was there even when I was unconscious.  He hears me crying out with my nightmares, and the--the times I whisper, too, I suppose.”

       “You whisper when you have nightmares?”

       “Sometimes--my cousin told me so.”

       “You need to get these memories out of you--somehow.  For some people it helps to talk about it.”

       “I can’t do that--not really--or not often.”

       “You could try writing it out.”

       Frodo sat quietly for a moment.  “So it doesn’t eat my heart away?” he asked finally.

       “What?”

       “Bilbo used to say that--that I needed to--get it out of me so it didn’t eat my heart away.  He made me write.  My lessons master at Brandy Hall did, too.”

       “Wise folk, Bilbo and this lessons master of yours.  Well, if you can do that, write it out, it will probably help, at least some.”

       “So, it is healer’s orders I write?”

       “Healer’s orders.  Yes.” 

       “I see.”  He looked up at Fredegar.  “Maybe you’ll get your chapters faster than you thought.”

*******

       When he got home, Frodo announced he would be writing the book for Bilbo, and working on it daily.  “He’s still with us--I’d best get it written before he’s not, I suppose,” he said softly.

       Sam nodded.  “You drink your tea there?”

       “Yes, Sam.”

       Sam was already emptying the saddlebags, found the bottle of the draught.  “What is this?”

       “Budgie wants me to try this--help me deal with--deal with the nightmares.  Only for a couple weeks.”

       He didn’t think Sam quite believed him, although the gardener’s only reply was, “I see, sir.”

       That evening Frodo began seriously writing his drafts for the Red Book.

Interval with Stars

       Sam could see the signs--the sixth had not been kind to Mr. Frodo--no, not at all.  He’d left lighthearted and carefree, singing, even, riding at a pleasant trot.  He’d come home five days later thinner than when he’d left, his eyes shadowed, his expression closed.  He’d been first up each morning, and Sam had the idea it was more to hide the fact he’d not been sleeping rather than any desire to fix an early first breakfast.  By the twentieth he was tense as one of the springs Pippin as a child had once released from the mantel clock in the parlor; on the twenty-first he was nervous as a cat, pacing around and around and around the smial.  Sam didn’t think he slept at all that night.  Late in the afternoon on the twenty-second he finally collapsed.  He’d gone into the study and shut the door, sat down on the sofa, and slipped to the floor, and hadn’t the strength to get himself up.  Sam heard a call, tried to open the door and felt something against it, gently pushed it open against the weight, and had found him there, half crying, half laughing.  Sam had felt angry and had had to force himself not to yell at him as one would a stubborn child.  With a deep sigh he lifted his master and carried him to his room, undressed him, checked the spider bite and saw it had recently drained (“Budgie cleaned it for me, since you weren’t there”), got a clean nightshirt on him, and put him into bed.  He then filled the kettle, set it on the bedroom hob, and once it boiled slipped a leaf of kingsfoil into it, whispering the invocation as he did so.  He’d not drunk his tea this week past, and had eaten hardly anything.  No wonder he was so weak!

       About an hour before midnight Sam went to check on him.  As he opened the door, he heard a whisper, “Please, Sam....”

       “Please what, Mr. Frodo?”

       “Please take me to the top of the Hill.  I want to have the stars over me.”

       “You digging your grave afore you’re even dead again, Mr. Frodo?”

       “No.  Yes.  I don’t even know any more.  I only know I need to be under the stars, Sam.  I’ve been so----”

       “You’ve been worried sick the day coming will be your last is what,” Sam finally finished for him.

       After a time Frodo whispered, “Yes, I suppose so.  Or, maybe I’m worried that it won’t.”

       “There’s that.”  Sam stood contemplating his master for some minutes before saying, “I’ll do it on one condition--you sup some broth and then some of your tea first.”

       He heard the sigh, then saw the weak nod.  Sam went to fetch them--he’d had them simmering for some time.

       He didn’t bring much--not more than he’d expect to feed a bairn of five, but he needed something in him, something warm.  Frodo gave no trouble in drinking it down.  There was a bit more of the tea, for he’d found through experimentation that Frodo did best on about a mug and a half’s worth, although this time he didn’t dare force him to drink more than a mug.  Frodo drank it, then sighed.  Sam then went to the dressing room and brought out Frodo’s cloak from Lorien and laid it on one of the chairs, then opened the wardrobe where the rug and blankets were kept for nights on the Hill and brought them out, slipping one of the blankets off the bed to add to the two already there, and set that on the other chair.  Only then did he help his master stand, helping him over by the chair so he could support himself against its back while Sam wrapped the cloak around him and fastened the brooch.  Taking the bundled rug and blankets under one arm and draping Frodo’s arm about his shoulder, supporting his master about the waist, he helped him to the back door, around to the path to the top of the Hill, then leaned Frodo against the young tree while Sam spread the rug, set the blankets ready.  Gently he helped Frodo lie down, then settled down by him and drew the blankets over both. 

       Frodo had, as he had done when younger, come up here often during the summer to lie under the stars, watching them and sleeping under them.  There was now about the tree a circle of athelas, elanor, and niphredil, whose seeds and starts Sam had begged from Elrond and the Lady for Frodo’s comfort, and which had been gladly given.  Deep in October on a clear night, it was too cold for the flowers to be blooming, but the small, cool breeze that blew over the athelas leaves brought a clean scent of healing to the two lying now, looking up at the heavens. 

       The previous anxiety was now gone, the shoulders relaxing.  Whatever the new day brought, whether release, continued weakness, or healing, Frodo no longer feared it or desired it--just awaited it.  His eyes devoured the brightness above as if the light of the stars were sustenance, and a smile, for the first time since his return, showed on his face.  At last he murmured, “I’m sorry Sam.  I don’t know what I want any more.”

       “I’d think it would be a puzzle for about anyone, Master, not knowing whether your body’s well or ill or just weak, whether you’re able to eat normal or must nibble through the day.”

       Frodo nodded, and finally, after a time, his eyes closed, he turned his head, nuzzled into Sam’s shoulder.  With a sigh, Sam allowed himself to sleep as well.

       When he awoke he was almost afraid to turn to his master, not certain if he might be looking at an empty shell at last, but he finally drew his courage about him and rolled slightly.  Frodo’s breathing was very shallow, but steady, his face at peace.  Sam sighed and gave a slight prayer of thanks, and slept again.  When he woke again, feeling somewhat stiff, Frodo awoke as he tried to stretch, smiled and indicated he was hungry.  His legs shook slightly as he was helped to his feet, but Frodo was able to descend the Hill on his own.

A Winter of Discontent

       “Ow!  Please, leave off, Sam!  It hurts so!”

       “You have to stay still, Frodo, so I can look at it.”

       “But you are pressing on it!  Ow!”  Frodo pulled his head away from Sam’s probing fingers.

       “I swear, Mr. Frodo, I never touched it!”  The gardener looked into his master’s face with frustration.

       “Well, wherever you touched, it’s as sore as a boil!”

       “That’s because it is a boil--two of them, one for each of the holes.  It’s swollen all around them.”

       Frodo was as frustrated as Sam, started to lean back in his chair and pulled forward again with pain.  “I don’t understand it.  Every other time it’s just opened and drained.”

       “Well, the skin seems thicker over it somehow, so it’s not draining this time.”

       “One good thing,” Frodo said as he unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way so Sam could pull it further down, “at least it’s not ruining another shirt this time.”

       “About the only good thing this time,” Sam muttered.  “I don’t understand as why it keeps opening up and draining anyways.”

       “Budgie said it might be because whatever clamped into me had dirt or something on it, and it’s lodged down in there and the infection keeps coming back around it.  I can’t seem to convince him that it was a spider, though--doesn’t seem willing to believe in things he’s not seen.”

       “Well, considering where that spider lived and as what she was eating afore she thought to try Hobbit, any kind of filth could be in there, I suppose.  Now, let me look, and I swear I’m doing my best not to hurt it more.  If you can just sit still now....”

       “All I can do is try, Sam.”  He leaned forward obediently.

       Trying valiantly not to touch the skin, Sam lifted the dark curls from the nape of the neck out of the way so he could see.  It looked not a whit better this time.  “It needs to be drained, Mr. Frodo.”

       “How will we manage that then?”

       “I could send for Drolan----”

       “No.”

       “Well, for Budgie Smallfoot, then.  You already know as he’s seen it.”

       “I couldn’t bear it, Sam.  It was bad enough last time, opening when it did.”

       “Well, we have to do something!”

       “Let’s try compresses to see if we can get it to open on its own.”

       Sam went off to the kitchen to get some water boiling and clean rags to soak in it.  Rosie sat on the settle in the corner stirring batter for the cake she was making.  She looked up in question. 

       “It’s where the spider bit him--gone to boils, it has.  He won’t have no healer.”

       She sighed.  “He’s a stubborn one at times.”

       “Yes, I know.  Followed that stubbornness across Middle Earth once, and now it’s settled firm into the hole here.”

       “It explains why he couldn’t sit still at the banquet, though.”

       There had been a banquet the previous evening at Michel Delving honoring Frodo and Sam for stepping in as they had when the Mayor was ill.  Frodo had not wanted to go, of course, thought Sam, and had needed to be coaxed and then bullied by Merry and Pippin, who had come to stay at Bag End the last couple nights and who had been gone but an hour when Frodo called to Sam to come look at his neck.  Frodo had been somewhat fretful for most of a week, and now Sam felt he knew why.  With something that big building up, he must be most uncomfortable.  He’d checked the bite several times since early December, but it had shown no signs of its bimonthly drainage--until now.  But this last week, what with the cousins coming and the banquet to look forward to and Yule coming up and Rosie’s pregnancy, there’d been no time to think of it, much less check it.  The banquet had gone well enough, although Frodo’s discomfort was visible to all.  Sam had thought all of a sudden maybe his master was coming up all dissembling again; but it appeared the problem this time was physical. 

       As he searched for appropriate rags to use as compresses, he found himself wishing Merry and Pippin had stayed a bit longer.  They could do to help hold their cousin down while he cleaned the thing, he knew.  Ah, well, no use wishin’ for what one can’t have, he thought.

       Once the water was boiling he poured it into a basin, pulled a leaf of athelas out of the special packet he’d devised to keep them somewhat fresh during the winter, and whispering the invocation he rolled it between his fingers and dropped it into the water.  “Can you get me some extra pillows, dearling?” he asked.  “He’ll need to lie on his chest, and he’ll need supporting so as he can breathe.” 

       Rosie had risen to pour the batter into its pans.  “It will take a few moments, love, but I’ll bring them.”  He paused to kiss the back of her neck, smiled at her, then with a sigh settled the cloths over his arm and took up the basin to bear it back to Mr. Frodo’s room. 

       “We’ll do as we can, Mr. Frodo,” he said. 

       Frodo had removed his shirt and the padded silk garment he’d begun wearing under it, the one Gandalf had brought him to wear under the Dwarf mail in place of the leather shirt which had gone missing in Mordor.  He sat on the edge of his chair, as close to the warmth of the fire as possible, yet he was shivering. 

       “It would be best to do this with you lying face down on the bed.  Rosie’s coming to bring pillows.”

       Alarmed, Frodo shook his head.  “I don’t want her to see this!” he protested.  Sam knew Frodo meant the scars on his back from the orc whips as much as the boils on his neck, which looked even larger than they had before.

       “I’ll take them from her at the door,” sighed Sam, wishing Frodo’s unwillingness to share his physical condition weren’t quite so advanced as it was.  Once more he found himself wondering how Budgie Smallfoot had managed to be able to clean it the last time.  He set the basin on the other chair and brought it near Frodo’s face, and as the athelas worked its soothing he could see Frodo begin to lose some of the agitation which had been growing over the last few weeks.  Feeling a bit of relief himself, he walked out to take the pillows from Rosie, who was coming down the passage with them.

       “Can I help?” she asked, knowing the answer already.

       “No, he’s having nothin’ doing with it,” Sam replied.  “Doesn’t want you to see.”

       “I see yours, you know.  I have an idea what they looks like.”

       Sam shook his head.  “I know, and you know, and he knows; but he still don’t want no one to see if he can manage it.  You go on back to the kitchen or the parlor, sit down and put your feet up.”  She nodded, gave him a peck on the cheek, and headed for the kitchen.  Sam watched after with love, then took the pillows back into the room. 

       Frodo was leaning over the steam of the basin, his eyes closed, his face calmer.  The scar high on his shoulder was red and irritated tonight, and he was holding the Queen’s jewel.  Sam arranged the pillows on the bed, then came forward to gently lay his hand on the left shoulder, which felt cold.  Frodo looked up at him and sighed, but rose obediently and went to lie on the bed.  He spoke into the pillows, “This is one time I am truly glad not to be of the race of Men.  To have to always fuss with shoes or boots before lying down....”

       Sam brought the basin to set on the bedside table, and gently laid the first of the compresses into it.  When he settled it on the raised lumps, however, Frodo gave a hiss of pain.  After a few minutes Sam had to accept this was not going to work--it was too sensitive.  “We could try a hot bath,” he suggested.

       “You’ll have to lance it,” Frodo said.

       Sam was alarmed.  “I’ve never done such a thing!” he protested.  “I’ll send for Drolan!”

       “No.”  Frodo’s response was said with finality.  “It’s easy enough--Bilbo lanced the one I had on my side when I was twenty-eight.”

       “But this one is in the neck, Mr. Frodo.  I’ve already hurt you just trying to look at it.”

       “I’ll have to bear it.  I’ll sit backwards on my desk chair and hold on.  You might be able to use one of Rosie’s sewing needles, although the thinnest paring knife might be better--get a better line to let more out of it at a time.”

       Upset, but admitting this would probably be best, Sam went again to the kitchen, where he got the thinnest knife out of the drawer and the sharpening stone, and carefully prepared it for use.  Rosie looked up with interest.  “Going to lance it, then?” she asked.

       “That’s what he wants, but I’ve never done such afore.”

       “I have--Jollie’s always having them on his sit-down, and I’m the one as gets the honor of opening them.”

       He looked at her.  “He won’t want you doing it.  He don’t want you to see the scars on his back or his shoulder.”

       “Then we won’t tell him, will we?  Not until it’s done.”

       She fetched a sewing needle, and had Sam hold both knife and needle into the flames till they glowed.  “You go in and turn the chair so as he can’t see me in the mirror, and I’ll come in quiet and actually lance it,” she said.  He nodded. 

       Frodo was wrapped in a blanket when he went in, and Sam felt better about the plan.  If he could cover the other scars with the blanket, he knew, once Frodo realized the ruse he’d at least feel better about it.  “I don’t want you catching your death, Mr. Frodo, so I’ll just wrap that blanket around you some afore you sit down.  Now, let me fix it so we can have lights on it....”

       Once he had Frodo settled with his face to the far window and the curtains drawn so he wouldn’t see Rosie’s reflection in it, he pulled the bedside table behind Frodo and put several candles on it to provide better light.  Then he said, “I’ll need to get another cloth--I’ll be gone but a moment.”  He went to the door and opened it, and softly Rosie slipped in.

       Good--he had his head pillowed on his forearms--so much the better.  Sam gave Rosie the nod, and she approached.  She managed to stifle the gasp of alarm as she saw the size of the lumps needing draining, lifted the needle, gently pierced the skin.  Barely anything came out.  She looked to her husband and shook her head.  He handed her the knife and took the needle, and she took a deep breath and finally brought it to the reddened flesh.  Frodo cried out, did his best not to flail, clutched hard at the chair.  Sam immediately knelt before him, put his own hands over Frodo’s to steady him, and Rosie gave a shallow cut, then the second.  She nodded, turning a bit white, and Sam rose to take over. 

       Frodo looked over his shoulder with consternation.  “Rosie--no!  Please--no!”

       “She knows how to do this, Frodo, and I didn’t.  Now, lass, off you go, for I can do it from here.”

       She nodded and fled from the room.  The pus roiled forth, dark and stinking, and Sam began to clean it away.  Frodo was weeping.  “I didn’t wish her to see!” he began whispering repeatedly. 

       “And what did she see?” Sam finally said with anger born of fear as he continued to clean the drainage away.  The infection was worse this time--it had never stank like this before.  “She’s done boils on her brother’s bare bottom, you know.  This is little enough, and I’d covered up the rest of the scars.”

       “But she ran away!”

       “Frodo--she’s pregnant and often sick of the morning.  She’s just opened the biggest boils as she’s ever seen, and they’re a ripe rotten pair at that, and it’s gone to her stomach.  You don’t horrify her.  Believe me, if my scars don’t horrify her, yours won’t neither.  This stuff is pouring out, Master, and I mean pouring out.  It’s as if it was building up for the whole time since the last drainage.  And I will tell you as it stinks.”

       It took well over a half an hour to clean away the pus, and then to clean the wounds and bandage them with a wet compress steeped in the athelas water over it.  “I’ll have to change this in an hour for a dry one, and then check it through the night,” Sam said.  “Now, I think as you ought to lie down and rest and I’ll get rid of this lot and check on my wife.”

       Rosie had obviously lost her last meal, and was sitting wrapped in a shawl before the kitchen fire.  “I’ve never seen such black pus in my life,” she said.  “Is he angry at us?”

       “Worried as he’s horrified you is all,” he sighed.

       “Horrified me?  Master Frodo?”

       “Yes.  He hates having his scars seen.”

       Sam changed the dressing twice more during the night and then first thing in the morning.  Frodo appeared at first breakfast with his eyes downcast as he fastened the cuffs of his shirt.  He turned to Rosie but didn’t look at her.  “I--I wanted to thank you for--for lancing the boils last night, Rosie.  I’m grateful.”

       “It was nothing, Master Frodo.  I’ve been doing the ones my family come up with for many years, you know--Mum said as I had the gentlest and surest hands.  Lot easier looking at the back of your neck than looking at Jollie’s sit-down.”

       He gave a small smile and sat down.  He didn’t eat much, and didn’t speak to either of them much for most of the day.  When Sam came to check the dressing at noon and was able to drain some more away and cleaned it, Frodo simply thanked him and went back to his writing. 

       The following morning was much the same, and finally Rosie decided she needed to have a talk with him.  While Sam was out taking out his concern on the woodpile, Rosie knocked at the study door.  The call to come in was delayed, but it came.  She entered and sat carefully on the sofa, looking at him earnestly.  He turned to her, his expression subdued, but he was apparently willing to listen.  Well, that was a beginning, at least.

       “Master Frodo,” she said, “you and me--we need to talk.  I know as you think as you were tricked night before last----”

       “It’s not that,” he interrupted.  “It’s just that--that I don’t want anyone to see them, is all.  They are horrifying.”

       “Your scars?  Well, that’s what I want to talk about.  Sam hates to show his, too.”  He nodded.  “But we married, and the night as we was married he come to me that first time, and I could tell as he was worried as to what I’d think of his.  But he stood proud, cuz he knew he had nothin’ to be shamed of.  I was--I was shocked, not cuz they was ugly, but cuz that beautiful Hobbit had been treated that way.  And I’ll tell you something--I’m proud of his scars, for I know as how they was got.

       “Now, you don’t like showing your scars, neither, and I don’t blame you.  But I’ll tell you this--I’m proud of them cuz of him who bears them.  I love you, Master Frodo--not as a lass loves a lad, but as a person loves another who’s worth the loving.”

       He looked away, embarrassed.  “I wonder,” he finally said, “if I’m that much worth the loving.”

       Her anger flared.  “Don’t you ever talk way that, Master Frodo--not to Sam, and not to me.  We know better.  You understand?”

       He looked at her, surprised.  She saw the depths of self-doubt in him, and tried to think of how to tell him how she felt.  “I’ll admit I’ve been terrible angered at you from time to time, particularly when you disappeared, taking my Sam with you.  But I know you is worth the loving, for Sam would never of gone off with you if you hadn’t been.  I love the shining of him, and when he’s with you his shining is always brighter, cuz he’s catching the glow of yours.”  She saw the surprise deepen.  “Everyone as comes around you catches your shining, you know.  You make things better, make folks better.  Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, when they come around--even they catch your glow, are lit by your Light.  You bring out----”  She sought to find the word, finally found it in the memory of stories she’d heard Frodo tell when she was young.  “You bring out the nobility in them, Master Frodo.  And I think as this new King of ours must have the same Light as you have, for when you or Sam or them speak of him, you all straighten, your faces shine, and your Lights shine the brighter.

       “Never question, Master Frodo, that you are worthy of love.  Never question.  And you never have to be afeared of showing me your scars, for I know as how they was got, and I honor them.”

       He was looking up at her, unable to think of what to say, and she smiled as she carefully got her body up and straight, then leaned over him to kiss his hair.  As she gave him a last look as she closed the door behind her, she saw a look of longing and perhaps dawning hope in his eyes.  She didn’t understand the longing, wasn’t certain what it was longing for; but she was glad to see the hope.

*******

       In ways Frodo was better as the winter continued, but in others he worsened.  He was looking forward to the birth of Sam and Rosie’s first child, spoke longingly of when it would be born, when its brothers and sisters would follow.  He spoke of how glad he would be to see all the bedrooms Bungo Baggins had dug for his hole filled with children, with life finally.  He spoke of how he’d spoil them, how he’d tell them stories.

       He walked into Hobbiton usually twice a week and did the lighter marketing.  He spent a part of each morning in the garden, even on the coldest days.  He wrote now almost obsessively.  He would tell the children his stories, look at his young cousin Pando spying on him from the hedge and laugh.

       But the nightmares were increasing in frequency.  He often felt pain in the scar near his shoulder.  His muscles were often sore when he awoke, as if he’d been climbing all through the night.  And sometimes he’d feel that other pain in his chest, which at times would spread to his shoulder and arm.  As much as possible he hid these from Sam and Rosie, but knew they were aware he wasn’t completely well.

       In mid-March he sent Sam and Rosie to her parents’ farm for a week, telling them that this would most likely be the last time they’d be able to spend with the Cottons for a while, as the child would be born soon.  Fredegar Bolger and Budgie Smallfoot stayed with Frodo while they were gone, and again Sam left Budgie with more of his leaves, took him aside, explained that this was a treatment the King himself had used, that Frodo appeared to respond well with it, asked him to give Frodo his tea, to use this in his bath if he was tense, to steep it for vapors if the nightmares got bad.  Budgie nodded, but, Sam realized later, promised nothing.  All he could do was hope Budgie followed through on his suggestions.

       On the thirteenth of March Frodo didn’t get up at all, was delirious when Freddy and Budgie came in to find out why he hadn’t even risen for elevenses.  He was obviously in pain, and the wound on the back of his neck was inflamed and drained incessantly.  He clutched at his jewel and would calm down, would let go of it and be overwhelmed.  He called to Sam to watch out, called for Gandalf, for Aragorn.  He called out in Elvish.  Finally, not knowing what else to do, Freddy went out and got Frodo some of Sam’s tea which had been left for him and fed it to him with Budgie watching beside him, frustrated that Freddy seemed to be buying into the superstition; then when Frodo began looking for something inside his nightshirt, Freddy saw the Phial of Galadriel lying on the table by the bed and gave him that to hold.  Both were amazed when the light began to glow in its heart, shone through Frodo’s hand.  With his left hand on the gem and the right one holding the Starglass, Frodo finally quieted, and after a time drifted into a true sleep.

       “What is that?” asked Budgie in a whisper as they finally slipped out into the passage, assured the crisis was past.

       “A gift from the Lady Galadriel, the queen of the land of Lothlorien,” Freddy told him.  “She told him it is water from her fountain in which the light of Eärendil is caught.  She said it was to be a light for him in dark places.”

       “What kind of being is this Lady Galadriel?” the healer asked.

       “The oldest of Elves in all of Middle Earth, I think,” he was told.  Fredegar looked over his shoulder, back into the room where Frodo lay in a glow of light.  “I think that must have been what he was carrying the day they rescued us from the Lockups.  He had something in his hand that glowed, lit up the entire place.  It was soothing, that light after all the darkness before.”  He sighed.  “Between the jewel he wears and the phial, he appears to be calmed considerably.”

       Frodo woke that evening and drank some broth, asked for some of Sam’s tea.  Budgie brought him some, still unwilling, but recognizing that if Frodo believed it did him good, denying it would be counterproductive.  When asked if he knew what sparked the problem, Frodo murmured, “It was two years ago today Shelob poisoned me.  It was worse this time than the last time.”  He stretched his shoulders.  “I seemed to be back there, there in her tunnel, running into the web she’d spun across the opening.  I used the phial, could see the walls of the tunnel, the opening ahead.  But you couldn’t really see her web--it was a web of shadows, but still you could touch it, feel it.  I had to use Sting to cut it--Sam’s sword was no good.”  He shook his head.  “I ran forward, Sam behind.  I was almost giddy with the happiness of getting out of the dark at last, ran toward the exit.  I was drunk with fresh--well, fresher air, after the reek of her lair.  But she came out of a side tunnel, right behind me, bit me.  I remember the shock, the sudden numbness, starting to fall.  Then, the next thing I remember was being in the orc tower, being tied too tightly to free my wrists.  They’d stripped me naked, tied me up, were going through my things.  Then--then they beat me.  Wanted to know who and what I was, how I got there, where I came from, why I’d come.  I couldn’t tell them--I was too sick.  Then I realized--I realized It was gone, thought they’d taken It, that It was already on Its way back to Its Master.  I wanted to die then, begged them to kill me and get it over with.”  He was trembling.

       Freddy sat and held his hand, and finally the trembling stopped.  “I’ll be all right now, I think,” Frodo said.  “Let me sleep again.”  They left him, dimmed the lamp.  But when Budgie checked on him again at midnight, he saw tears on Frodo’s lashes, although he still slept.

******

       Frodo forbade them telling Sam and Rosie of the episode when they returned.  “There’s nothing they can do,” he said, “and it will only tear Sam in two again, for he would do anything possible to assist me to feel better.  But there is nothing anyone can do now.  I was too badly hurt, too badly hurt for too long.”

       Budgie had the feeling Frodo had the right of it, and did not discuss even with Fredegar his own estimation of Frodo’s condition--he thought his employer and friend was not yet ready for that news.

       Frodo was at the door to greet them home, happy to see them.  In the last week Rosie appeared to have grown immensely, and she happily explained to Frodo that the bairn was moving down, preparing for its coming.  He glowed with happiness to see them, laughed at the stories Sam had to tell of Jollie’s and Nick’s doings, Young Tom and Marigold’s happiness, the new kittens who had finally made the way from their birthplace in the barn to examine the kitchen of the house, the ginger one that had attached itself to Rosie.  And when they revealed this had come with them back to Bag End he greeted it with reserve but also a level of pleasure.  Sam sighed to see he’d lost weight once again, in only a week.  Some of the tea was gone, but not much.

       The first two days Frodo tried to help, but there was a weakness in him that terrified Sam when he realized it was there.  He slipped and burned his hand on the stove, so Sam hired his sister and another to help in the care of the house until Rosie’s confinement was over.  He would make up a cup of his tea for Frodo and set it on Frodo’s desk as he wrote, only to realize the day that the labor started that they would find it cold, pour it out, and make him up a cup of regular tea instead, so he was getting little good out of it.

       The labor that first time was exceedingly swift and even easy.  By mid-afternoon the bairn was born, and it was a girl.  A girl?  They’d not even considered such an eventuality.  The name they’d picked out was Frodo-Lad, of course.  What on earth could they name this greatly beautiful gift they’d received first?  All the names Sam could think of were foreign and odd-sounding when applied to a Hobbit-child.  All the names Rosie could think of were mundane, and both agreed nowhere lovely enough for this golden-haired beauty.  At last Sam went to the study to discuss it with his master, who, of course, knew the perfect name--a name that Sam knew, too, one which he’d not thought of though it grew now both outside Frodo’s window and atop the hill--Elanor.  And when they brought tiny Elanor wrapped in the blanket sent by the King and Queen, one, Sam suspected, the Lady Arwen had woven herself using the techniques common to Lothlorien, Frodo shone to address her, gently stroked her cheek and head with one finger, crooned to her in Sindarin and Quenya, as if he could not fill his heart with enough of her.

       It was then that Sam was suddenly hit with the truth of it--Frodo was not just staying decently out of the way while women’s business went on throughout the rest of the smial--he was lying down on the study sofa because he was too weak to return to his own room.  He’d been so focused on Rosie and the coming bairn he’d not realized Frodo was ill.  He’d been eating, hadn’t he?  Sam wasn’t certain, for Marigold and the other help had not been warned to make certain he did.  And when Sam checked the mug lying by Frodo’s hand and realized it was fresh and not the tea Sam himself had brought him earlier, he grew fearful.  He exclaimed this was not fresh enough, which set Marigold, passing in the hall and who’d brought it to Frodo only a quarter hour before, angry.  Sam took it swiftly to the kitchen, berating himself as a ninny-hammer and a few of his Gaffer’s other pet names, for not keeping closer watch on his master. 

       “Why did you say that tea isn’t fresh enough, Sam Gamgee?” demanded his sister.  “I just brought it----”

       “It’s not that it’s not fresh, Goldy,” he explained.  “I’ve been brewing up special herbs as the King taught me about for him, to ease his heart.  It’s as good cold as it is hot.  There’s not a thing wrong with the tea as you brought him, save it’s not the herbs as he needs.”

       “Oh.  He is truly ill, then.”

       He’d not thought of it in those terms, but he had to admit it now.  “Yes, Marigold--he’s truly ill.  I fear--” he swallowed “--I fear as he’s fading.  Has been--has been since we got back.”

       Now that he’d said it, he had to accept it, in the front of his mind as in the back of it.  Marigold looked into her brother’s eyes, saw the depth of his grief, and reached out and held him as the water boiled, her own tears joining his.  Once he had the fresh tea made he washed his face, brought a mug to his master and stood over him till he drank it.  Frodo was humbly grateful for it, was obviously better for it, then finally rose and walked--slowly and too carefully--to his room and closed the door behind him.

Spring and Summer

Dear Frodo,

       I write this to let you know that I do not believe you will receive further letters from Bilbo.  He will start a letter and fall asleep before he can get three words written, then waken and not be able to remember what it was he was trying to write.  We had, you know, thought to bring him home to the Shire last fall; but as he has chosen he will remain here until the time comes.

       He has two determinations now--to outlive the Old Took, and to travel to Elvenhome when the ship now being built sails in the coming fall.  It is his hope not to be the only mortal there, for he would like one of his kind, who understands his end, with him when it comes, as it must--and, I fear, soon.  He is already aged beyond the usual span of the lives of the Periannath. 

       He loves you very much, speaks of you as the son he could not father.  He is grateful you have kept by you Samwise Gamgee and his family, whom he realizes love you very deeply.  However, he knows how guilty you feel for imposing, as you see it, on their love, how you fear the demands of your own health tear Sam’s heart in two.

       Sam has not written to me since the birth of his daughter Elanor, and then spoke only of that.  I fear he has accepted the truth and cannot yet bring himself to share it.  I can say only that the healing is offered, but cannot be given here in the mortal world of Middle Earth.

       Look for us in the woods of the Shire in the fall of the year--for it is now the autumn of our time within Middle Earth.  I find that I have no griefs for the leaving, save the one.

                                   Yours under the Valar,
                                   Elrond of Imladris

       Frodo reread the letter, then finally carefully refolded it and placed it with the others in the drawer of his desk.  He then reached for a sheet of paper, not of the white paper on which he wrote his drafts for the Red Book, but the golden paper which still filled the tray of his stationery box, and began to write.  He did not write to Elrond, but to everyone and no one.  Finally he finished, calmed somewhat, and took out his watch and the key, opened the small drawer, and set what he’d written in it, locked it again, replaced watch and chain in their place across his jacket.  He then rose and walked to the entranceway, sighed, put on the Hobbit cloak that hung there, took up his walking stick, and set out for Hobbiton to do the marketing.

       An hour later Sam found him, sitting on the bench at the turning of the lane, pale and shaking.  “I can’t do it, Sam!” he whispered.  “I can’t even make it out of the lane!”  Sam supported him back to Bag End, helped him back to his bed, finally left himself to do the marketing.  As he heard the front door close behind Sam, there in the distance of the smial, Frodo turned and wept bitterly but silently.

       He began to force himself to build back up his strength and endurance.  After three weeks he finally made it into Hobbiton, which was a victory, of sorts.  However, after he’d had a small meal at the Ivy Bush and had made his purchases, as he was walking home he lost what little he’d eaten alongside the road.  He crept behind bushes, and lay down for a time to recover, again weeping with rage and frustration.

       On his next visit to Hobbiton a week later, he went to see Violet Sandybank, who, like Drolan Chubbs, was a healer.  He explained he’d had difficulty sleeping and asked what she suggested, indicating warm milk and chamomile might assist him to sleep at first, but could not keep him asleep long.  He also spoke of recurring headaches which were severe--which were not feigned.  She spoke of several ideas, but what interested him most was the idea of poppy juice.  She gave him a small amount, explaining it was dangerous if used to excess or too frequently, but safe enough mixed with wine or water on occasion.  He thanked her.

       He began to study the herbal which he’d once copied for his Aunt Menegilda, looking to see if there were another herb that might serve, but finally decided that this was the best, would ease the way the most.  Sam grew poppies in the gardens and on the Hill, but Frodo had no idea as to which variety would produce the juice properly, nor the manner in which it was gathered.  No, if he wanted more, he would need to visit other healers.

       In early May Pippin was complaining so about the continued problems with his father that Frodo agreed to go to the Great Smial to see if he could sort things out.  The interview went a bit better than the last one, but was still ended with Paladin and Eglantine interrupting more than listening, and by the time he was through Frodo again had a raging headache, and sought out one of the healers for the place.  Giving him a look and seeing the brow furrowed with pain, he gave Frodo a small amount of poppy juice mixed in wine and saw him to his bed, and then went to the Thain to explain he could not tax Frodo as he did--that the stress was not good for him.  In the morning the Thain and his lady were both solicitous and gentle, far more as he remembered them from the days on the farm in his own youth, and when he left, Frodo thanked them kindly.  Instead of heading directly home, however, he went into Tuckborough where he sought out the local healer and obtained another dose of poppy juice--against the next headache, he explained--and this one he did not take but carried home with him.  He did the same in Michel Delving as he passed.  With three doses hidden away in the drawer of his desk, he planned his next move.

       After a night on which the nightmares had been particularly bad, when Sam, Rosie, and Elanor were going to the farm at Bywater for two days, Frodo prepared things as best he could.  The bath was very hot and relaxing, and laced with oil of roses and lavender.  It would appear normal, he knew.  He poured the three doses into a goblet, mixed in the wine, took it to the bathing room, undressed, slipped himself into the tub.  He began sipping at the wine.  His plan was simple enough--he would drink all the drugged wine, stand up, and let the doses do their work.  There would undoubtedly be a bruise on his head somewhere that would explain it.

       He sipped at the wine, which had a slightly bitter taste.  He’d not noticed the taste in the wine he’d been given in the Great Smial, but then it had been but a single dose, not three.  He had heard that drowning was a simple death, a gentle one.  He wondered how those who said this knew.  That had been told to him in an attempt to comfort him after his parents’ deaths, he remembered.  How could it be all that simple? he wondered as the poppy juice and wine freed his thoughts, suddenly not being able to breathe, to find the air?  He forced himself to take another sip, then another.  He was beginning to feel slightly dizzy.  He took another sip, looked around the room.  Better than three quarters gone.  An open book face down on the bench near the tub, towels lying there and on the floor where he set them always.  Yes, it would look natural enough, he thought as he took one more sip, leaned back and closed his eyes. 

       The image that came to him when he did this was horrible.  It had taken over a day to find his father’s body, far downstream in the Brandywine.  He’d come out when they carried it in, had seen it in spite of Menegilda’s shrill insistence they get the child back indoors.  It had been swollen and bloated, hardly recognizable as his father--a strange, grotesque Hobbit that resembled his father, wore his father’s ring on a bleached finger.

       Terror filled him.  It might be Rosie that found him!  Sam could bear it, he thought, was already looking to find his master had fled his body during the night.  But, Rosie?  Or for either to see him that way, as his father had been!  The water was hot, and would remain warm for some time.  He could look--like that--when they found him.  No!  He tried to set the wine glass on the edge of the tub, and it fell onto the towels lying folded on the floor.  He tried to stand up, but started to slip.  He held on to the side of the tub, pulled himself to a kneeling position.  He slid himself out of the tub, lay for some moments on the fallen glass and towels.  It hadn’t broken before, didn’t break now, either.  Somehow he made it to the privy where he vomited up part of the wine, then staggered into his room, fell onto his bed.  When he was able he got the covers over himself and slipped into a dark sleep.

*******

       “You get Elanorelle settled, love, and I’ll check on the master,” Rosie said as they entered Bag End the following afternoon.  Sam smiled as he settled his infant daughter on a blanket laid on the parlor floor, put the silver circle that delighted her so by her tiny hand.  He didn’t need it, after all, not here in the Shire where such things had no meaning.  He placed by her also the wooden stick on which metal rings had been threaded which gave, when shaken, a delightful sound, and the new doll that had been Lily’s gift to her granddaughter.  For several minutes he knelt over her, cooing and talking to her, the nonsense words doting dads had lavished on their infant daughters in the Shire for centuries.

       Rosie came back, almost laughing, but with concern also apparent in her voice.  “He’s in bed, snoring like a roomful of sots.  Sounds like Tom when he’s spent too much time in the Dragon, he does.  Odd, I’ve never seen him drink to get drunk afore, Sam.”

       “I’ve seen him drunk less than a handful of times since he come of age,” Sam commented.  “Although I must say he deserves it as much as the next Hobbit.”

       She shrugged and laughed, and went out to bring in some of their baggage.  He joined her, and they emptied the cart they’d hired. 

       Pando Proudfoot appeared, eager and pleased.  “Would you like me to return it to the Ivy Bush, Mr. Sam?” he asked.

       Ordinarily Sam would do no such thing, but he knew that Pando knew how to handle a team--his da was a carter, after all; and in spite of his spying through the hedges Pando was a good lad.

       “All right,” he allowed, “you can this time.  And here’s a penny of the King’s coin for your trouble.”

       Thrilled, the lad turned the team and took them on into Hobbiton, clutching at his prize.  “He’ll never spend it,” Rosie said, watching after.  “He’s been fascinated by the King since you Travelers got back.”

       “Don’t matter if he does or not,” Sam said.  “He has the delight of it either way.”  They smiled at each other.

       He looked himself into the bedroom, heard the snoring, went farther and found Frodo hadn’t even bothered to put on a nightshirt, was lying naked under the tumbled sheets and comforter.  That was not common for him at all.  His face was pale, almost grey, not the paleness of porcelain that usually marked his features.  His breath didn’t stink particularly of wine, although there was an odd odor there.  He straightened the covers over him, went on to the kitchen.  He could hear Rosie in the parlor, sorting through the clothing for the laundry before she put those things that had not been worn back into the chests.  He saw the bottle of wine on the sideboard, neatly corked, only about enough for a single glass missing from the last time his master had drunk from it, about a week earlier when both had enjoyed a glass after dinner. 

       He went on into the bathing room.  Things here were not as usual.  A spilled glass lay on stained towels on the floor; none of the towels appeared to have been used, even.  The tub smelled of rose oil and lavender, which was common enough in this house, but also was still full, which was uncommon with his master.  The book had fallen from the bench and lay, partially stained, on the wine-drenched towels.  He emptied the tub, picked up the book and wiped futilely at it, set it aside.  It was not one of those his master treasured, he noted, nor was it one which Sam particularly favored.

       Had he had another attack of some sort? the gardener wondered.

       When he went to take out the dust bin, however, he began to wonder about that.  Lying therein were three small vials of a sort Sam had never seen before, and the glass seals which had been broken off them.  He pocketed them. 

       Frodo woke late in the evening and appeared dull-eyed and even a bit confused.  He looked up at Sam as the heavier Hobbit stood over him, and a look of relief came to his eyes.  “Oh, Sam, I am so glad you didn’t have to----”  Then he looked alarmed and closed his mouth, and wouldn’t answer questions as to what had happened the preceding night in the bathing room.

       The next day Sam went into Hobbiton to do the marketing, and made a point of stopping at the home of Drolan Chubbs.  He showed the three vials to the healer, and asked, “What’s these?”

       Drolan took them, dampened the tip of a finger and touched it to the lip of one of the vials and then tasted it.  “Poppy juice,” he said.  “The master been having bad pain or something?”

       “Yes--has been having terrible headaches,” Sam allowed.  “Can you tell as where they come from?”

       “This one came from Tuckborough.  Herbalist there uses that kind of bottle and seal.  Both these was put up not far from here.  Old Missus Tunnely fixes it up for a number of us healers.  But she sells to several from Michel Delving to Overhill.  Could have come from most anybody.”

       “You sell it to him?”

       Drolan shook his head.  “No, won’t come to me, he won’t.  Not since you four got home, he hasn’t.”

       “I’ve been giving him herbs as the King give him, there in Gondor and Minas Tirith.  They seem to help him.”

       “What are you giving him?”

       “Mostly willowbark, chamomile, and athelas--kingsfoil.”

       “Those would be better for headaches than the poppy juice, I’d think.  Poppy juice is dangerous you use too much, and can make things worse, not better, if you use it often.  Not many use kingsfoil, but my gammer swore it would help many as wouldn’t respond to much else.”

       “It’s the King’s own herb, I learned.”

       “Is it?  I’d like to meet with him one day, you know.  Never heard of a King as was a healer, too, before.” 

       Sam thanked Drolan, finished the marketing, and went back to Bag End.

       He contemplated hiding the knives, but decided finally not to do so.  No, if Mr. Frodo was contemplating that, he’d not want to do it in a way that was--messy.  Wouldn’t want for others to be horrified.

       A week later Frodo had a series of bad nights, and after the fourth one he got up and announced he was going to take a walk.  A time later Sam found his pack he’d carried to Mordor and back on the table in the storage room where it was kept.  He looked in and noted only one item was missing.  He took a deep breath, settled his fear.  He didn’t think it would allow it if Frodo was thinking of what he thought he was thinking of.  He had to force himself to stay calm, to wait what came.

       Late in the day Frodo came back, gave a quiet greeting, went back through the smial.  He then came into the parlor and sat, lifted Elanor into his lap, kissed and spoke with her quietly, then announced he was going to bed early.  Sam found him asleep already when he went to check on him, got the kettle filled and heating, put a leaf of kingsfoil in it.  Then he checked the storage room, saw the pack was back on the shelf as it always was, all where it belonged.  He stroked the hithlain rope and gave it a word of thanks.

       Before he went to bed himself, Sam took another look into Frodo’s room.  He was whispering in his sleep.  Sam went forward to listen, heard a one-sided conversation, apparently with--with the Ring.  Sam’s heart was torn.  Gently he lifted Frodo’s hand, laid it on the gem he wore, and the whispering stopped, the face eased.  He renewed the water in the kettle, slipped in another leaf of kingsfoil, and the whole body relaxed more.  Sam found himself invoking the entire number of the Valar as he looked down on his Master’s sleeping form.

*******

       “Has he chosen, one way or the other?” Aragorn asked over breakfast. 

       His wife, her face solemn, shook her head.  “No, not yet.”

       The King bowed his head, grief apparent on his face.  “He should not face such pain as he bears.”

       “This all know, which is why the offer was made.  But we cannot compel the choice.”

       “I understand.”  Then, after a time of quiet, he asked softly, “What of Sam?”

       “He, too, will be given the choice, but will be given also the choice of when he sails.”

       “He gets a choice of when, but not Frodo or Bilbo?”

       Her eyes were deeply compassionate as she explained, “Beloved, for the two of them there is no more time.  If they do not take ship with Ada, neither will live to take any other.”

       Oh, my beloved Frodo, twin to my own Light, how deeply do I mourn for thee.  Thou shouldst know bliss, but instead knowest pain and the degradation of thy body, the memory of guilt unearned.  Oh, little brother, I would take on thy burden if I could.  Canst thou not see, though, that thou art worthy of the offer made thee?  Canst thou not see that after the separation comes the reunion, after the loss the finding again?  It is a gift freely given, given for thy delight, for thy restoration. 

       I cannot even speak of it, appear to compel even thy contemplation of the choice.  Yet I would have thee there, well and whole, to lead me into the Presence when my own time comes.

       Again Aragorn went up to the Hallows with his love, grief, and concern for his friend.  Whether Frodo accepted the offer or not, he now knew, either way Frodo would be lost to him for the remainder of Aragorn’s life.  He prayed that if he must lose him, it would be by the way of Tol Eressëa that Frodo might know the easing of the pain and burdens that he carried before he followed the other Way all mortals must take.

Dearest Frodo, my Friend and Brother,

       I send my greetings and best wishes this day from the Southlands.  I so wish I might come to you, spend some time with you.  If it were permitted I would give up all else to be by your side, but some burdens, once taken up, may not be relinquished until the time is right. as you well know.

       Always I think of you, small Brother, and wish only the best for you, for your cherishing and for the easing of your burdens.  May the Valar assist you toward fulfillment once more.

       Bilbo has sent me word by way of Adar that he must leave Middle Earth soon and that he is content.  I offer him gladly to the Valar for ease along the way.

                                   My love always,
                                   Aragorn son of Arathorn

       It was all he dared write.  Could Frodo, usually so discerning, read between the lines that Aragorn wished the same for him as he did for Bilbo?

*******

       “No, Mr. Frodo, I won’t be leaving you home all alone--not when we’re off to the Free Fair.  We have the wagon hired, and if you need as to lie down along the way you can; and we’ll be sleeping out under the stars as you love.  And I’ll be aside you as much or as little time as you need once we’re there.”

       The truth was, Sam was still afraid of what Frodo might do to himself if he were left alone.  He was, Sam knew, in considerable pain much of the time, and the burden of his heart was as great as that of his body.

       Frodo finally assented, but more because he hadn’t the strength to fight it further than due to acknowledgment of either Sam’s arguments or his concerns.  He was carefully assisted into the back of the wagon where he might look down at the resting place Sam had prepared between the bundles of clothing and blankets for the rest.

       He’d been experiencing feelings of lassitude for the past week, and had little interest, little motivation to do much of anything.  What changes in his body this might presage he had no idea, but at least it was not open pain for a change, and he almost found himself welcoming it.  As they drove off from Hobbiton he said, “I cannot sing this year.”

       “I understand, Mr. Frodo.  Don’t feel a lot like it, neither.”

       When he tired, Sam stopped the wagon so he could assist him to lie down, assisted him to drink some of his tea, and Frodo thanked him and swiftly fell asleep.  Sam had Rosie drive that he might watch over his master for a time as he slept; but as this time the sleep appeared restful and Frodo even smiled gently as he dreamed, at last he crawled over to sit on the bench, lifting a now awake Elanor out of her basket, finding himself cooing to her in Sindarin, singing a song he and Frodo had both learned in Gondor.  Finally, when she slept once again, he laid her down beside her uncle, saw Frodo protectively curl his arm around her, the smile deepen although he did not waken again.

       Frodo finally awoke as they approached Michel Delving, his eyes peaceful.  Sam drove now, and Rosie was nursing her daughter as the wagon rolled through the village and beyond to the fairgrounds.  Frodo sat up in the bed of the wagon with an arm on the raised side of the bed as he’d often done when a child, coming there with his parents and later in a wagon full of Brandybuck children. 

       Rosie and Sam conferred as they drove, then Rosie turned.  “How about we let you off there near the Glade, Master Frodo, where there’s a bench and shade, and you can wait there and watch Elanor while Sam cares for the ponies and I take the pies and jellies to the judging tent?”

       “That will be fine, Rosie.”

       “Where’d you like to sleep tonight, Frodo?” Sam asked.

       “How about the other side of the Glade?” Frodo suggested.  “It’s close by, and fairly private.”

       “Except for the young ones wanting to sneak in there for some cuddling,” Sam said, with a side look at Rosie. 

       Frodo laughed.  “I remember when it was you two.”  Sam and Rosie smiled at that--he so rarely laughed any more, they felt it was a small triumph of sorts. 

       Sam halted the wagon near the glade and helped Frodo out, brushed him off a bit, then placed Elanor in her basket.  When Frodo went to take the basket, however, his arms started to tremble, at which time he pulled back, gave a sad shake of his head.  Sam gave a small nod of understanding, and with him carrying the basket the two of them walked side by side to the bench.  Frodo sat on the bench and Sam set his daughter beside him, laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

       “Do you have the coin I gave you to pay old Pease to care for the ponies, Sam?”

       “You know I do, but I already had enough saved up, Frodo.”

       “Oh, I know; but--it’s little enough I can do for you any more.”

       “You done all you ever needed to do, long ago.  We owe you more than we can repay, and I’m speakin’ of afore we left the Shire.”

       With one last look at his friend, Sam went back to the wagon to drive it around the glade and to care for the ponies as Rosie, two large baskets in hand, set out for the center of the Fair Grounds.  Frodo looked down into the basket.  “See what you do to me, little one?  Now, you play with your rings there and let your Uncle Frodo read his letter.”  He looked at the stick with its rings.  “Nice rings, rings to make music.”

       He pulled the letter from the King out of his pocket.  Aragorn was speaking of the offer, he knew that.  Bilbo had chosen to go, and in the letter Aragorn was--was giving him permission to leave with his old cousin.  He was tempted....

       “Frodo?”

       He turned to see who had addressed him.  “Hello, Narcissa.”

       “I saw you sitting there....”  He was looking at her without the wariness he’d shown before.  She examined him for a moment.  “You are thinner than ever.  Still having difficulty with your stomach?”

       He shrugged.  “From time to time.  I just can’t seem to get my weight back.  I look a fright.”

       “No you don’t--you’ve always been exceptionally good looking, Frodo, and you grow more so over time.”  Why she said this she wasn’t certain.  “You look more tired than anything.”

       “I’ve been having difficulties sleeping nights.”

       “Bad dreams?”

       “Yes.”

       “Would it help if you spoke about them?”

       “Narcissa, you yourself are too beautiful a Hobbit to face such evil images.”

       She was startled.  Never had he said any such thing to her.  “This is Sam and Rosie’s baby?” she asked finally.

       “Yes, Elanor.”

       “A lovely name.”

       “It’s a small yellow star flower that grows in Lothlorien, an Elven flower.  The Lady sent starts of it to Sam--he’s planted it beneath my window and on the Hill.”

       “You truly have been among the Elves.”

       He nodded solemnly. 

       She saw the paper in his hand.  “You have a letter?”

       “Yes, from Aragorn.  From the King.”

       “I hope to see what he looks like one day.”

       “When the world is more at peace, he hopes to ride back into the Northern Kingdom again, to the court of Annúminas.  He was born here in Eriador, after all, and the Lady Arwen in Rivendell.  He will come to the Brandywine Bridge to greet us and show himself to us.  But if you wish to know what he looks like....”  He pulled out of his pocket the gold coin with the black seal on it, and a flat leather folder that he’d obtained in Rohan.  He handed them to her.  “This is a picture of him, and one of the new King’s coins.”

       She examined the coin with interest.  “What’s the black wax on it?”

       “It’s his seal--to mark that this is the very first coin struck.”  He looked at it and smiled.  “And so far it has been blessed.”  She finally finished with it, returned it, and he held it against the letter. 

       She opened the folder, looked at the portrait it contained.  “So, he has a beard, but not like Gandalf’s.”

       “Yes.”

       “He has kind eyes.”

       “Yes.”

       “What did he write to you?”

       He was not certain why he gave it to her.  She looked at him in surprise, read it, then looked at Frodo with pity.  “So, Bilbo is--dying.  I am so sorry.”

       “He is very old.  He’s now as old as the Old Took--wants to make it to his birthday to pass him up.” 

       “And I’m certain as he’ll do it,” Sam said as he returned.  “He’s a stubborn old Baggins, after all, and as perverse as the Old Took hisself.  And after all this time I count myself an expert on Bagginses and Tooks.”

       Frodo gave another laugh.  Narcissa handed the letter to Sam, who took it, surprised, then looking a question at Frodo, finally read it.  He looked up into Frodo’s eyes.  “I thought as the Valar had only to do with Arda.”

       Frodo said, slowly, “The Halls of Waiting are under the guardianship of Mandos.”

       “But do they have to do with Hobbits?”

       Frodo shrugged.  Sam gently folded the letter and respectfully handed it back to Frodo, then accepted the folder, smiled at the picture it contained, closed it, returned it to Frodo also.  “Good likeness.”

       “As he was the day beneath the White Tree when the--when I went to tell him we must return home.”  Sam nodded.

       “He obviously loves you very much, Frodo,” Narcissa said gently.

       “Yes, I know.”  He stood as he slipped letter and coin into the folder and put it back in his pocket.  “If you will excuse me....”  He turned away, walked slowly toward the fairgrounds.

       Narcissa looked after him, then at Sam.  “He is getting weaker,” she whispered.  He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from his master’s back.  “He--he said I was too beautiful a Hobbit to burden with his nightmares.”  Again he nodded.  “Sam,” she said at last.  He finally turned to look at her.  “Why did he never say anything like that before to me?”

       He looked down, considering how much to tell her.  Finally he met her eyes again.  “You need to understand, Miss Narcissa--what he carried for so very long, since Mr. Bilbo left at his party--It stole that from him--the ability to love as a lad loves a lass.  It wasn’t nothing you did wrong, nor nothing odd in him.  He couldn’t see any lass as a lass, once he got it--just as another Hobbit.  Now he can--and he feels there’s not enough left in him to do more than admire.  And I fear he’s right.” 

       He looked down into his daughter’s basket, picked her up in his arms, buried his face in her dress.  Finally he said, not lifting his face, his voice somewhat muffled, “When he was younger, the thing he wanted most of all was to have a family, be a father, raise his bairns, love his wife.  It stole that from him.  Now It’s gone, yet he still can’t have his dream, and it’s getting to the point it don’t even hurt him no more, for other things hurt worse.”  At last he raised his eyes to her, and she could see he was weeping.  “After Pearl Took threw him over, it took so long afore his heart finally healed; and just as he was beginning to look around--It came to him.  Strider hates It with his whole heart, even if It is gone now--hates It for what It stole from Frodo.  Frodo gave every bit of hisself getting through Mordor to destroy that--thing, and no one can help him fully heal.”  Finally he said, very softly, “I fear that when as old Mr. Bilbo leaves Middle Earth, he won’t go alone--or will be followed almost immediate after.”

       Narcissa Boffin nodded her agreement.

*******

       “Hullo, Frodo,” said Isumbard Took.  His arms were about his wife Pearl, for he’d just lifted her from the cart they’d driven from the Great Smial.

       “Hello, Bard, Pearl,” he said, giving a small smile.  “This is your daughter Pansy?  She’s quite the young lady now.”

       “Yes, and our son Isumbrand.”

       The young lad looked up in awe at Frodo as Frodo looked back at him.  “Hello, young Isumbrand,” Frodo said, with a bit of a bow.  “It is an honor to see you again.  I think the last time I saw you, you were in your high chair dropping peas all over the floor.”

       “No, I wouldn’t,” the lad protested, then looked up at his mother for assurance he’d never done anything so--common.

       “I do seem to remember that was true,” Isumbard said, causing his son’s face to redden with embarrassment. 

       Frodo leaned down carefully, said quietly into the young Hobbit’s ear, “He just doesn’t wish you to know he used to do the same, although--” he gave the lad a serious look “--don’t tell anyone, but I was worse.”  He nodded to the child, smiled solemnly at his cousins as he slowly straightened, then went on his way.

       “Sweet Valar,” Pearl said to her husband with grief evident in her voice as she watched Frodo Baggins proceed slowly through the activity of the Fair, “he’s so thin, so pale, Bard.”

       Isumbard, finding himself unable to speak through the lump in his own throat as he looked after his cousin, merely nodded in response.

*******

       Will Whitfoot looked at where Frodo sat alone at a table in the ale tent, and was shocked.  His former deputy Mayor was paler and thinner than ever--it looked as if a stiff breeze must knock Frodo to the ground--or possibly blow him away.  He watched as one of the Grubbs family joined him, spoke with him for quite some time.  After a time of questioning his companion--Will thought it was Grabo Grubbs, Frodo finally leaned his chin on his hands for a few moments, and at last made what was obviously a suggestion.  Grabo considered the suggestion for a few moments, then opened a further quiet discussion, and finally he got up, shook Frodo’s hand, and headed west.  Frodo looked after with a nod, sipped again at his mug of ale, finally dropped a coin on the table and left.  Will crossed to the table and looked at the mug--it was slightly more than half full.

*******

       Sam found Frodo in the Council Hole in the banquet chamber.  He had brought one of the chairs over in front of the great sideboard there, was sitting, holding a glass of wine, a look of reminiscence on his face.  He looked up and caught Sam’s eyes, smiled gently. 

       “I remember when my Dad was working on this.  It took him almost two years to complete all the carving.  As he’d carve he’d tell me stories about the people he carved into it.”  Frodo indicated a cluster of Hobbit farmers seated on benches, pipes and mugs in hand.  “These were the Underhill brothers that lived near Whitfurrow, worked a farm there.  They were wonderful farmers, but refused to plant beans anywhere on their land.  No one could understand why not.  Everyone knows that somehow beans can increase the health of the soil, so almost all farmers will plant beans once every few years, or even alongside other plants that seem to weaken soil.  They relied completely on manure.”

       He sighed.  Finally he said, “He carved me and my Mum here, too.”  He pointed to the carved representation of a river, a Hobbit lady holding hands with a wee lad as they waded into the water.  Then he pointed to a representation of Bag End, at the gentlehobbit standing at the open door:  “And there is Bilbo, and the Gaffer there in the garden.”  Sam smiled as he leaned forward to look at the small figure that represented his father.  Frodo pointed further down the Hill to a representation of the Row.  “And there, there are your mum and you.  You’d just been born when he carved that one, although of course I had no idea it was you.”

       Sam leaned forward to look at the Hobbitess in the door yard near the potting table, a bairn in her arms.

       After a few moments, Frodo commented, “Dad used to still come to Hobbiton from time to time, would stay at Bag End with Bilbo.  Mum wouldn’t come, of course, or let me anywhere near Lobelia--there she is, by the way.”  He pointed to a remarkably faithful depiction of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins standing near a window of a smial in Hobbiton proper, her head tilted as if listening.  “As I said, he saw you a few days after you were born.  He came home and told Mum that there was a golden flame in you, called you the Sun-Lad.  He used to call me his Star-Child.  That carving of your mum and you was one of the last ones he did before he put it all together for the Council Hole and they came to carry it away.  They didn’t even have time to pay him for it before he and Mum drowned.  The Mayor put the money away in trust for me, for when I got married.”  Frodo shook his head, then gave a crooked smile to Sam, rose to finish his wine, left the glass on the sideboard, and together they walked out of the hole.

Acceptance

       Fredegar Bolger looked down at the pale face lying on the pillow before him and noted not a hint of shock, surprise, or grief.  Instead he saw compassion for himself and even a level of amusement.  He felt alarmed--and at a certain level almost insulted.  Then he realized.

       “You already knew?”

       “How could I miss the signs, Freddy?  I only inhabit this body, after all.”

       “But--oh.”

       Frodo had been riding to the Great Smial with Merry and Pippin when he’d collapsed.  They’d thought it was due to the intense heat the Shire had been suffering for the past week, for after all he was not in particularly robust health to begin with, although his health had appeared to be improving since Midsummer.  When he begged them to take him to Freddy’s home instead of that of Paladin Took they realized that he really felt more comfortable with Budgie Smallfoot dealing with him than the healers at the Great Smial--or he didn’t want to deal with the questions bound to be aimed at him by Paladin and Eglantine Took when he was as sick as he was--or both.  Once there he’d insisted they go on, for he didn’t wish them to hear what he knew was coming.

       It wasn’t heat stroke, although the heat had definitely made things worse.  Budgie had finally admitted to his friend and employer that Frodo Baggins was dying of heart failure.  “I am sorry, Freddy, but there’s not a lot that can be done at this point.  Plenty of fluids to flush his body, some herbs to perhaps ease the burden on the heart and help deal with the pain....”

       Now, Freddy, who’d wished to break the news and comfort his cousin, was being comforted instead by that very cousin.  “I’ve known for ever so long.  I’ve been angry, upset, furious even.  Now--” he turned his face away “--I almost wish the end would come and be done.”

       Freddy was alarmed by that.  “You wouldn’t----”

       “Oh, believe me, Freddy, I’ve considered it--seriously.  But I couldn’t let him find me that way, and know I’d done it deliberately.  Not after--not after I realized how it would hit him.  Not that the last time I was thinking all that clearly.”

       “Then you did try?”

       “Yes.”

       “What stopped you?”
      
       A surprisingly amused laugh.  “Real Elvish rope.”  Freddy didn’t understand, but relished that Frodo was sufficiently recovered to laugh about it.  Then the laugh faded.  “I fear to die before the children, Freddy.  I walk down to the bench at the turn of the lane three or four nights a week--when I’m strong enough.  What if I fail before them?  I can almost bear the thought of Sam finding me--but what if it’s Rosie, or Elanor? Or Cyclamen Proudfoot?”  Together they were quiet for a time.

       Frodo lay still, thinking.  Finally he said, in a low tone, “Well, at least I know the longest it will be.”

       “What?”

       “I won’t survive another anniversary of Weathertop.”

       Freddy looked down at him, his face pale.  The door cracked open, and Budgie peered in.  Fredegar beckoned him in.  “He already knows, Budgie.”

       The healer looked down at Frodo Baggins and sighed.  “Yes, I suppose you would know.”

       Freddy continued, “He even has an excellent idea when it will come--October sixth.”

       “What makes you know----?  Oh, yes.  Are you certain you will have another return of the memories on that date?”

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes.”

       Freddy thought for some time.  “Does Sam know?”

       “They have to realize somehow that I am continuing to weaken more than strengthen, Freddy.  I’m certain he knows, but I hope he doesn’t realize that I won’t make it past then.”

       “Shall we talk to them?”

       “No!  No, I want to live as I can for what little time I have left to me without him thinking constantly that the end is coming.”

       “Is there anything else that can be done, Frodo?”

       “One thing only--one thing only, but I’m afraid the time for choosing is behind me.  I’m so weak now...I don’t know that I’d survive the journey.”

       “Rivendell?”

       Frodo shook his head impatiently.  “They could perhaps keep me alive for a time--but that is all.  My condition is beyond the powers of the great Elves even if the powers of their Rings had not been destroyed by--by what I did. 

       “No--not Rivendell; and not Aragorn.  Not that I’d make it to Gondor, either.  No, only--only if I accepted the ship to Tol Eressëa would I perhaps have a chance.  But I’m not certain I wish to go.  To live there through strange years as the only mortal, once Bilbo has gone on?  But--as quickly as I become weak--would I even make it to the Havens?  Much less survive the voyage?”

       “Can you perhaps finish the book before you leave?  I’d like to see how----”  Freddy suddenly felt very foolish and flushed.

       Frodo gave a croak of a laugh.  “See how it ends?  With me here before you?”  He took a deep breath.  “I will try--as far as I can take it.”

       There was a silence, and at last Freddy said, “I want to be with you, Frodo.  If you make it through to the sixth, that is.  I--I want to hold your hand and let you know that the love is there.  I could--perhaps soften things for Sam and Rosie.”

       He was afraid Frodo would say no, but saw that instead he was weeping with relief.  “Thank you, Freddy.  I really don’t wish for Sam to have to find me--fled with the echoes of that horror on my face.”

       The heat broke within three days, and Frodo appeared much stronger.  Freddy and Budgie accompanied him home in the Bolger carriage, Strider tied to follow behind, and told Sam that Frodo had simply found the heat too much for him.  With new draughts to go along with Sam’s teas and the order to drink as much water as he could handle, they left him at Bag End with the news they would be visiting early in October, and expected to arrive late on the fourth or early on the fifth. 

       Frodo again worked hard at increasing his endurance, resumed his walks down to the turn in the lane to tell stories to the Proudfoot and Chubbs children, and those of their friends who frequented the Row.  He wrote and shared his chapters by quick post with Freddy and copied edited chapters into the Red Book.  Finally he announced he felt well enough to go to Buckland, that he needed to see Saradoc and Esmeralda.  He took the pony cart from the Ivy Bush instead of riding Strider, and Sam watched after with concern.

*******

       Esmeralda looked on her younger cousin she’d fostered in his childhood and didn’t know what to think.  He’d had to have new clothing made to fit him, for he’d lost so much weight; and instead of the golds, greens, and browns he’d always favored he was now wearing greys and silvers.  She had to admit that somehow they became him, as subdued as he’d become; but she missed the liveliness she’d known in him before--before he left the Shire.

       “Did you see Brendilac?”

       “Yes, I spent the day with him, going over my partnerships.”

       “Frodo--why did you--why did you pretend you had no money left?”

       He shrugged.  “There had to be a reason most people would believe that would allow them to accept why I was leaving Bag End.”

       “Why did you sell it to Lotho and Lobelia?”

       He sighed.  “Once I had let Ponto know I was looking to sell the hole, hoping that he and Iris would buy it, he made the mistake of telling his sister, who, of course, immediately told Lobelia.  Before Ponto and Iris could make an offer I had Lotho on the doorstep with cash in hand.  I couldn’t keep up the pretense if I were to turn him down; and, as long as Otho, Lobelia, and he had desired Bag End I’d truly thought they would care for the place.  I had--had no idea he was being influenced by Saruman, that he would start trampling the gardens and bringing in Saruman’s devices and people and agreeing to demean and diminish our folk as he did.  Not that I had more than the vaguest idea who Saruman was, much less Gandalf’s growing concerns regarding him.”

       “But why did you feel you had to sell it?”

       “I didn’t think I’d be returning.  Somehow, even before we left the Shire I seemed to realize I’d most likely die along the way--although I’d convinced myself that once I knew for certain where Bilbo was I’d remain with him.”  He looked away, and sighed.  “I almost wish I hadn’t come back, for in a way it feels as if I did die out there.  But at least I know Sam and Rosie are doing well, and Merry and Pippin are recovering, even finding love.”  Suddenly his sweet smile lit his face.  “And there is Elanor, and Cyclamen Proudfoot and young Pando.  They will all be wonderful Hobbits one day.  The Shire is recovering well, and our people have learned from the experience--learned they are strong enough to stand up to such oppression in the future, and that they are part of the outer world as well.  I am glad of that, that I had a part in it.”

       Esmeralda nodded.  She changed the subject.  “Sara is in Bree right now, talking with the--the Steward Halladan regarding the edict that while the situation regarding Sharkey is under investigation no Men can enter the Shire--I understand that the King is seriously considering making that permanent.”

       Frodo nodded.  She continued, “When he gets back--Frodo, will you allow us to meet with you to discuss what it was exactly that you four went through?  Merry still can’t talk about it, and he is becoming more reticent rather than better.”

       He sighed.  Finally he said, “I suppose I can make myself speak of it.”  He looked sadly into her eyes.  “It is hard for me as well.”

       Esmeralda suggested about a week before his birthday, a period of time she knew she and Saradoc could easily get away; and he agreed.

       For a time they said nothing after that.  Finally she commented, “I hope this Lord Steward Halladan is being polite to Sara.”

       He looked up at her surprised.  “I am certain he is, Aunt.  He’s a well-spoken Man, and was courteous to us.”

       “You met him?”

       “He came South to fight at Aragorn’s side--they are cousins.  He remained for the wedding, accepted the Stewardship in place of his brother, who had died before Minas Tirith, then returned North with us--until we turned aside toward Rivendell to see Bilbo one last time.”

       “The war there was--bad?”

       “Yes.”

       “You all fought there?”

       “Merry did.  Pippin was--inside the city.  He fought later.  Sam and I weren’t there--not then.”

       “Where were you?”

       He shook his head.  “Let me answer then.  Please.” 

       She looked very closely at him, brushed a lock of his hair with her hand.  “There is a touch of silver now at your temples.”  He nodded.  “You are so very thin, Frodo.”

       “It’s nothing, Aunt Esme.”

       Suddenly she was angry.  “Nothing, you say?”she exclaimed.  “We can see it’s more than nothing!  I swear, Frodo--you could be lying on your deathbed and would still swear there was not a single thing wrong with you!”

       His paleness suddenly became alarming.  He straightened, turned away.  “I’m sorry, Aunt....”  He rose, started for the door, suddenly stopped and held tightly to the back of the nearest chair, remained turned away from her.

       “Oh, Frodo--please forgive me--I’m so worried for you.”

       “I know; I understand.”  His voice was a whisper.  He didn’t turn to her again.  “I’m sorry--you are likely--likely right.  I’m so sorry, Aunt Esme.  So sorry.”

       She rose, approached a few steps.  “Why do you keep apologizing, Frodo?”

       “I don’t know....”  He said nothing more for a few moments, and finally whispered again, “I’m sorry.  But--but please know--know that I....”  His head straightened.  “I love you....  Please--have my cart brought.”  He almost stumbled out of the room.

       She could not understand why he was leaving so quickly.  She followed after, but found she had no idea where he’d gone, finally saw Merimac and told him that Frodo had asked to have his cart prepared, then wished she hadn’t.  She began searching for him--checked the room that was his in the smial, but he wasn’t there.  She checked the privy.  She couldn’t think where else to look.  When at last she went out she learned he’d come out as his cart arrived, accepted aid in getting onto the box, had thanked the groom, and driven away.  She found Merimac again, and asked him if he’d ride out after Frodo, check on him.  He nodded, and went to saddle his pony.

*******

       Frodo turned off the main road into a side lane that skirted an orchard on one side and a small woody copse on the other.  He was not certain how he’d made it this far, for his chest was aching, and the pain was shooting down his back and arm.  Suddenly he felt horribly nauseous, halted the cart, managed to get down without quite falling, leaned against a tree, and began to vomit.  Almost he fell, but was suddenly caught by large and strong hands, supported.  A Light, he realized, shone behind him, one he’d seen shining in glory as it faced the Nazgul caught in the rising of the Bruinen.

       “Gently now, small friend,” the Lord Glorfindel said in Sindarin.  “Take a deep Breath and let it fill you.”  The nausea eased, and then the pain eased as well as his hand moved to the Queen’s jewel.  “Yes,” the Elf continued, “that is right.  Let the Light ease you.  Good.  Now open to the Song.”

       Frodo sighed, closed his eyes, listened, almost caught the rhythm, lost it, began to grow frustrated.  “No, tithen nin, do not seek to capture it--you are not the singer, but the instrument.  Open yourself to the Song, and it will be made manifest in you.  The Light and the Breath will help reveal it.”

       He focused on the Light, knew it filled him, settled, was aware of its pulsing, felt his breathing even out, felt the heartbeat slow and calm, the movement of his blood ease.  Glorfindel was easing him onto the orchard grass, was feeling his pulse.  He opened his eyes and could still see the Light within himself and the Light which filled the Elven lord who knelt by him--and realized they were not the same. 

       Glorfindel was aware of his surprise, smiled.  “Of course they are not the same, Ringbearer.  Yours is not tied to the reality of Arda as mine is.”  He brushed the hair from Frodo’s brow.  “Do not seek to speak as yet.  Let the Song continue to fill you as it is now.  Very good.”

       Frodo still did not understand what Glorfindel was directing, but allowed himself to relax more deeply, sighed, closed his eyes again, focused on the Light, realized it was pulsing in counterpoint to his heartbeat, that his breathing was also settling into a complementary rhythm.  Almost he fell asleep.  Then his eyes were opening once more. 

       “Do you believe you can now sit unaided?”

       “I think so.”  Frodo straightened slowly, letting go the jewel.  “The Light helps.”

       The Elf laughed.  “The Light helps, you say?”  He touched the Queen’s jewel.  “Do you indeed think it originates here?  Ah, no, my friend.  The gem serves instead as a means for perceiving and ordering Light, Breath, and Song, not as source.”

       “Then what is the source?”

       Glorfindel again laughed.  “You know that well enough, Frodo Baggins.”

       “But mine fled--or rather, was diminished.  And it was never visible when I opened my eyes.”

       “Think you it has not been able to strengthen again?  It was shaken, but not extinguished or converted or consumed.”

       “But I am weakened.”

       “Your body is weakened.  That is the lot of mortals, after all.  And even we of the Firstborn can know that experience as well.” 

       Frodo looked away, feeling shamed.  This Elf would know that, of all his people left in Middle Earth.

       Glorfindel asked, softly, “And how is it I stand before you now?  And how is it that the Lady Celebrían stands ready to be reunited with her Lord Husband?”  As he thought of that, the Elf added, with a touch of humor, “And what is the significance of the Halls of Waiting being within the keeping of one of the Valar of Arda?  Do not think to answer for my benefit, but for your own.  Your careful answer to Sam when he read Estel’s letter was more true than you know.”

       Frodo found himself rephrasing Sam’s own question asked in response to that statement.  “But do the Halls of Waiting have anything to do with us Hobbits?  We are not Elves, nor those capable of being great Lords of Men.”

       “Were you not desirous of seeking out a corner within them in which to hide for a time, Iorhael?”  Frodo flushed, not realizing any save Aragorn and himself--and Sam--could know of that....  Then the Elf Lord added, “And are you and Sam not counted among the great Lords of Middle Earth?”

       “That’s but an honor....”

       “True honor is earned, never simply bestowed on a whim.  We of the Firstborn ratified the recognition of that honor, remember, and even the Ents have seen the right of it.”  Frodo started to stand up, but was restrained by Glorfindel’s hand on his shoulder.  “Your body is not sufficiently restored for that yet.  Sit yet for a time.”  Glorfindel rose and went to the carriage, found Sam’s waterskin, and brought it back.  He uncorked it and assisted Frodo to drink from it. 

       Finally Frodo asked, “How do you know about so many things?”

       “I was sent back to do what I could to assist in the continuing fight against the legacy of Morgoth.  Yet, as you were told, I stand astride both worlds.  What I need to know is revealed to me.”

       “What do you here, in the Shire?”

       Glorfindel laughed.  “Estel’s edict affects only Men, not other races, Frodo.  And the way to Mithlond and back runs to the West of this place.”

       “Then you are leaving?”

       The Elf straightened, stood tall and proud, looking down on the slender Hobbit sitting on the ground before him.  “I did not go to see Círdan on my own behalf.  I will linger for a time, see my own safely on their way ere I return there in body.”  He looked toward the road from which Frodo had turned.  “One of your own comes seeking you.  Shall you reassure him, or shall I conceal you?”

       “Esmeralda--she would have sent someone, wouldn’t she?”

       “You allowed her words of honesty to nearly become manifest at the moment.”

       “Yes.”  Frodo drew a shaky breath and slowly rose.  “Let him find me.”

       Merimac looked down the lane that opened to the right, not thinking to see anything, but realized there was a cart there.  He turned his own pony toward it, then saw, standing nearby it, the slender figure for which he’d been searching.  “Oh, Frodo, there you are.”

       Frodo nodded, gravely.  He was pale, but that was not unusual any more.  Suddenly Merimac was aware Frodo was not alone, realized that he was in the presence of an Elf.  He stopped his pony, then bowed his head deeply in respect.  “My Lord--I was unaware any of your people were in our land.”

       “The way through the Shire has always been favored by my people, you of the Brandybucks.  I saw the Elf Friend here along the road and chose to approach him.”

       Frodo said carefully, “Aunt Esmeralda said something that--that rang a warning bell in my conscience.  I--I felt overwhelmed, and I must confess I sought to run away from myself in the confusion of the moment.  Please assure her that I am--that I am as well as I can be at the moment--and that I meant what I said before I fled her presence.”

       “Let her know he is not alone, and that I will see him to his home.”  The Elf’s voice was full of authority.

       Merimac bowed his head again.  “She will be reassured.”  He felt a great deal of relief himself.  “My Lord, my cousin.  Go well, then.”  At the Elf’s bow and Frodo’s nod he turned, headed back toward Brandy Hall.  He was awed--he had never thought to have an Elf address him directly.

       The Elf watched after for a time, then turned to Frodo.  He brought out a familiar flask, removed the stopper, and proffered it.  “A small sip only, Frodo.”  Frodo accepted the sip of miruvor and thanked him as he returned the flask.  He turned to check the pony, reassured it, gave it a feed from its nosebag.  There was, he knew, a small stream the other side of the copse.  He carefully released the traces, but Glorfindel took the pony from him.  “I will give it to drink.  Rest yet a moment more.”

       Frodo sat on the step of the cart when Elf and pony returned, and the pony patiently permitted itself to be returned to its harness.  Glorfindel assisted the Hobbit onto the box, and walking alongside accompanied him on the ride home.

       They stopped at an inn and Frodo went in to purchase food for the both of them.  They went on till they found a glade where they paused to eat, and then the Elf suggested Frodo sleep for a time.  Whenever he awoke, wrapped in his bedroll, Frodo could see the form of the Elf lord seated gracefully nearby, singing to the glory of the stars, stars that filled Frodo.

*******

       The seventh night of September Sam slipped quietly out of his bed to get a drink.  He was startled when he entered the kitchen to hear Frodo from the settle in the corner.  “Please, Sam--I wanted to go up onto the Hill tonight to sleep under the stars, but find I’m not strong enough to make it.  Will you help me?”

       “Yes, Master, I will, and gladly.  Wait you there and I’ll fetch my cloak.  Don’t you have the blankets and rug?”

       “It’s a warm enough night.”

       It was indeed especially warm for early September.

       Sam just gave him his look and automatically placed a mug of his tea into Frodo’s hands before he went toward the bed chambers.  He heard Frodo’s soft chuckle and was reassured.  He soon was wrapped in a cloak and had the blanket roll in his hands, and returning to the kitchen lent his friend his shoulder to lean on, his arm to support him.  He realized Frodo wore only drawers and no night shirt beneath his Lorien cloak, and looked at him with some surprise.

       “I told you, Sam, the night is more than warm enough.  Why, after all, did you come seeking a cup of water?”

       “True enough, I suppose.”

       “Even with the window wide open, I’ve been so hot, Sam.”

       At the top of the Hill Frodo was able to stand unaided while Sam unwrapped the roll.  “I don’t need or want the rug, Sam.  The grass is soft as soft enough tonight.” 

       “Well, if you say so, Master.”

       “We’ve slept on far harder, you and I.”

       “Oh, agreed.”  After he saw Frodo comfortably seated on the ground with his blankets, he asked, “Would you like me to stay by you tonight, Frodo?”

       Frodo’s eyes gave him a searching look, then he shook his head with a sigh.  “No--I’d like that, but you have Rosie waiting for you, and your children to beget.  Go with my blessing, Sam.”

       Sam felt oddly hurt at the same time he felt oddly relieved, bent low over the seated form and kissed the dark hair, silvered in the moonlight, then went back in.  Rosie had awakened, had sat back up, the starlight from the window lighting her shape--and he forgot about Frodo temporarily as he delighted in looking on her, moved to her side, sat by her, took her in his arms.

       When he went to lie down, Frodo felt a hard shape wrapped in a fold of the blanket, found the Lady’s gift there.  He could not think how it had come to be in such a place, then remembered he’d carried it to Buckland with him, and had tucked it inside the blanket roll before he carried it back into Bag End and placed it back in the wardrobe.  It began to glow softly under his hand, and he smiled.  “I suppose I didn’t need to come out to find the starlight after all,” he murmured, then lay back, looked up, and smiled.  The Phial flared briefly as if laughing merrily.

       For a long time he simply lay back, filling his heart with stars; but finally his eyes closed on their own, and he slept.  The light of the Phial led him forward, until he came to a glade in Lothlorien where he saw the Lady standing, also looking up in delight at the stars.  She turned, the stars mirrored in her eyes as she greeted him.

       “Welcome, Ringbearer.”

       “My Lady Galadriel.”   He reached up to take her hand and they sat upon the grass, then lay back companionably to look up together.  She was caressing his hand much as Cyclamen Proudfoot did, the movement of her thumb oddly comforting as it gently rubbed the skin pulled over the maimed knuckle.  Finally he said quietly, “I am dying, it seems.”

       “So it seems indeed.  Do you truly wish to accept the Gift of Iluvatar now?”

       “Do I have a choice?”

       “I believe one yet stands before you.”

       “I am unworthy.”

       “One day perhaps you will find a way to describe to me how this is true, for I’ve not seen it yet, Ringbearer.”

       He was still for quite some time.  Finally he said quietly, “I am still so emptied.”

       It was her turn to remain quiet now.  When at last she spoke in his mind, the thought seemed to reflect nothing of the conversation they’d had so far.

       The gift you gave my granddaughter and Elessar ere you left them was magnificent.

       The bowl?

       Yes.

       It was one of the most wonderful works I’ve ever seen.  That such beauty could come out of the torment even of Orodruin....

       Always the Creator places the potential for beauty into all He makes.  No matter how they twisted and sought to corrupt, not even Morgoth nor Sauron could destroy that potential.

       We found life even within Mordor itself--twisted, but tenacious.

       With Sauron gone, it finally flowers as it was intended to do.

       He nodded.  He returned to the previous subject.

       Why have I been allowed to be emptied so, Lady?

       He felt a deep sigh build in her, but could not tell if its focus was his question or the answer she contemplated making him.  Finally her thought touched him again.  Imagine that bowl, a bowl fit for the King’s own table.  It is filled with the freshest of fruit intended to feed the household of the King, to strengthen and delight them.  Do you have the image?

       He nodded.

       Now, imagine that the Enemy has seen that bowl, has sought to steal it away, it and all it contains.  He cannot touch the fruit himself, for no longer can he abide it, much less consume it, for he left good things long ago.

       Again he nodded.

       He has had the bowl carried to the waste places he favors.  Dry winds blow over it, bleak snows, heavy rains, hailstones hard as adamant.  The fruit freezes, thaws, loses its moisture in the dryness of the desert, lies in the rain of the unseasonable storm, is blown abroad by the whirlwind.  Then, the Enemy is conquered and the bowl is found abandoned on the side of Orodruin itself.  Describe the fruit it contains.

       It would be fruit no more, my Lady.  There would be--the remains of mold, dry rinds, rings of juice gone hard in the dryness that would not easily come clean.

       Is it the fault of the bowl that what it contains is no longer capable of fulfilling its function?

       No.

       Is the bowl itself damaged by the fact the fruit is no longer palatable?

       No.

       Can it still fulfill its original function?

       Yes.

       How can it come to this?

       It must first be cleansed.

       How?

       Water, soap, very fine sand, much careful scrubbing.  Maybe it might need to be cleansed by fire.

       She spoke aloud.  “I see, Ringbearer.  And, once it is finally cleansed, then what?”

       “Then it must be filled again.”

       “And when it has been filled again?”

       “Then it is ready for the King’s table once more.”

       “Must it be filled with fruit the second time?”

       “I suppose not.  Perhaps mashed potatoes, or nuts--or mushrooms.”

       She laughed aloud.  “Ah, you still think as a Hobbit, Frodo.”

       “I am a Hobbit.”  But her laughter filled his heart, and he joined in it.

       Finally her thought, now warm, continued the questioning.  When cleansing the bowl, will the cleansing be quick?

       Probably not.  I’ve had to wash too many such myself.

       Might it not need to be cleansed several times?

       Yes.

       Does all the cleansing need to take place in dark places?

       No.  It’s better elsewhere, in fact.

       Will it come just as clean in a woods stream as in a byre?

       Yes, perhaps cleaner.

       Which would be the more pleasant place to be while being cleansed?

       The woods stream.  And the filth still clinging to it could be easily seen there for the scrubbing.

       Would it be better cleansed by the pot boy with the heavy hands and the iron scrubber, or by the house wife with the fine sand?

       Oh, the latter.  The pot boy would scratch it.

       I see.  Then after--which would be the better place for filling it anew--the byre or the forest hall?

       The forest hall.

       She let him lie with that thought in his mind for some time, then sat up and turned to look down on him.  “Now, have you answered your own question, Ringbearer?”  After a moment she added, “That bowl would be pleasing enough empty, even; but bowls are created to function practically as much as for their own beauty and the beauty they add to what they hold.”  Again she let him think, then whispered, “You are offered the forest hall.”  Her smile lit the night with glory as she rose and left him, her pace solemn yet still a graceful dance.  Amazed, he looked after her.

       His eyes opened, and he lay upon the Hill, the scent of the greenery and the flowers about him filling his nostrils as tears fell from his eyes--tears of relief at a decision long considered finally made.  “I choose!” he whispered.

*******

       Sam and Rosie rejoiced in one another several times that night, then bathed together, drew on fine nightshirt and gown, wrapped their robes about them, and crept to the top of the Hill together to check on the Master.  Frodo lay, his chest bare, deeply asleep, tears still sparkling in his lashes, the gem he wore lying on his left shoulder, negating the scar there;  he looked relieved and beautiful, and he was definitely glowing lightly in the starlight, as if his own Light sought to answer the glory of the heavens.

       Rosie could feel the slight trembling in Sam, heard him murmur gently, “Oh, the shining of him!  And it must go from us all too soon!”  She grasped his hand gently, letting her love flow into him, to keep him grounded, to sustain him.  Finally they turned away, went as softly back down the Hill.  By the back door, he laid his hand over her womb.  “I think, however, we’ll have his memory here for a time.”  He was weeping, but there was no question that he was there, this night at least, with her and for her.  She drew him into the smial.

Final Preparations

       He was weak but definitely eased when Sam came after sunrise to bring him down the Hill.  “Looks as if you slept well, Master, and as if the dreams were kind to you.” 

       Frodo nodded, “Very kind.  I have much to do.”

       He spent much of the day in his study, although he took his nap as had become his habit with little Elanor lying over his arm.  When he woke again he went back into the study and wrote again, finally came out at tea time with letters to Imladris and Minas Tirith, entrusting them to Sam to pass on to the quick post.  Pippin and Merry arrived with Folco the next day and found Frodo alert and relieved as they hadn’t seen him, it seemed, in months.  He smiled and laughed, had a cup of wine while they and Sam and Rosie enjoyed an ale together, accepted the last packet to be returned from Fredegar and took it into the study, ate some at dinner, and after they’d left, Pippin for the Great Smial and Merry and Folco for Freddy’s place, walked down to tell a short story to the children, returned slowly back to Bag End, went in and wrote some more until Sam came in with an evening cup of tea and then assisted him to bed. 

       The next day brought a note from Elrond--he wondered if the Lady had already told him of the decision and suspected she had.  They would meet him on the birthday--there was little enough time to prepare. 

       He strengthened over much of the next week, until the night before his dinner with the Tooks and Brandybucks.  The next morning Sam came in to find him holding onto his shoulder.  Sam gave him the draught from Budgie Smallfoot, then a cup of his own tea, and after a time Frodo got up on his own, apparently well enough.

       Frodo had completed the last writing he would do in the Red Book the night before, now went into the study and marked certain passages he wished to read to his aunts and uncles tonight.  For all they were cousins in actuality, he still thought of them as he had when young, and he was looking forward to their coming.  But at noon he had more pain in his chest and shoulder, and by the time it could be expected either should arrive he was quite grey.  Sam and Rosie, with the assistance of Marigold, had cleaned the hole completely, put out flowers, and had been working on the dinner much of the afternoon.  Sam, however, was concerned.  He got Frodo settled in the parlor, for he said he didn’t feel he ought to lie down right now, set a light meal by him and told him to eat as he could, and left him to mind Elanor for a time, until Rosie indicated she needed to feed her daughter and came to fetch her. 

       Frodo watched after with regret as mother and daughter disappeared toward the kitchens, sat back feeling rather empty.  Almost all was done--he’d finished his new will, only needed to get it signed and filed.  He’d had a list of the properties in which he held interests, the partnership agreements, the accountings of his funds via his banker of discretion all prepared and made a part of it.  It was quite a bulky document, and he knew that Sam would be most overwhelmed when he saw it being opened to be read.

       He’d also been able to get the document for adoption of an heir completed, and Merry, Pippin, and Folco had all happily signed it already, as had Daddy Twofoot, who had gone about since with a look of superiority toward his neighbor in Number Three that was quite annoying to Hamfast Gamgee, for he hated being left out of the know.  He’d been able one day to walk even into Hobbiton where he’d visited the shop Daisy and her husband kept, commissioned them to make two fine suits for Sam to be ready on the sixth of October to be picked up by Brendilac Brandybuck.  He chose the fabrics himself, the colors, and added in a box of the finest kerchiefs--even ordered suitable undergarments.  He’d also stopped at the Ivy Bush to arrange for a meal to be brought for twenty-five to Bag End on October eighth.  All were sworn to secrecy.  He’d begun preparing his last bequests of specific items....

       Now there was this other last business to complete.  A wave of pain hit his chest and he clutched it, and then he heard the bell pulled.  He would not allow the rift between Paladin and Peregrin Took to continue.  Oh, pray the Valar this evening’s work would bring the needed healing there!

       Then--then that was done.  He woke in the night, knowing he’d done his best, knowing both Merry’s and Pippin’s stories had been enough told that hopefully their parents could find the ways in which to ask the proper questions to learn what else needed to be said.  The pain was gone, but he felt quite weak.  He did not know if he’d make it to the Grey Havens if things continued as they were.  If not----

       Well, if not, then at least he’d be done.  But he still did not wish for Sam to find his body empty here.  If he went and died on the ship--at least Sam could live on in the hope that Frodo was finding the healing.  And, if he made it--maybe he would find the healing indeed.  As had happened the preceding autumn, he found himself simply awaiting what came next with no fear, no anticipation.  One way or the other, it would be done, and there was no question he was almost ready--if only he could find the strength to get the final papers filed, the final goodbyes--expressed, his saddle bags onto Strider’s back.  He thought if he could only get astride his pony he could make it the rest of the way well enough.

       He had been lying quietly for about an hour wishing he had strength enough to get to the privy when Sam knocked at his door, came in carrying the large bundle from Rivendell.  Frodo thanked him, accepted it, opened it with a strange feeling of incuriosity.  It was as if the letter had not been intended for him.

Dearest Frodo,

       We are in receipt of your letter indicating the physical condition you now know.  As your healer has indicated, your situation is very grave, for you have become quite weak.  Yet there is hope. 

       Suspend all other treatments save the water and the tea that Sam prepares for you.  Have him to continue to make it as before, but to add a handful of the herbs contained in the leather packet herein into the water as it steeps, then strain it carefully.  You will need to drink of it at least four times a day, the measure of one of your people’s smaller mugs for ale, until you meet with us along the Road.  Go north to the West Road, and we will be there when you arrive.  All will be in readiness.

       There will be little need for much, as I suspect you know already.  But do bring those small items that sustain your hope and reflect your loves, for they will assist you. 

       You may tell Sam what you will, for the offer is open to all of the Ringbearers, and he is one.  He, however, need not come now if he does not wish.  For you and for Bilbo--if you do not come now, I believe you know there will be no other chance--not through denial, but through the degradation of your bodies.

       My daughter delights that you have chosen to accept this gift offered at her behest, and asks that you open yourself as fully as you can for her sake to the healing as it comes.

       Bilbo awaits that day with anticipation.

                                   Your servant,
                                   Elrond of Aman

       He found the indicated packet and gave it to Sam, checked through the rest of the items against the inventory provided, and awaited the tea from Sam.  He was amazed at the effect, feeling the strength return to him, the soothing of his heartbeat.  It would not continue to be effective, he suspected, if he exceeded the dosage or if he  had to rely on it for more than the week needed, but he would take full advantage of it while he could.  He headed for the privy with a distinct feeling of relief.

*******

       Will Whitfoot looked up from the document before him to Frodo with surprise.  “You are adopting Sam as your heir?”

       “Yes.”

       “But he’s almost as old as you are!”

       “So?”

       “Don’t you think you should choose someone younger, someone you can raise to the estate as Bilbo raised you?”

       “He is ready now, Will.”

       “You aren’t expecting to up and die tomorrow, are you, Frodo Baggins?”

       Frodo looked at Will with a certain blankness in his expression.  “I don’t know what to expect any more, Will.  All I can do now is wait to see what is given me, from one day to the next.”

       Will realized that Frodo’s hand was trembling on the desktop, realized it was thin, the fine bones far too easily discerned.  He looked up at Frodo’s face again, realized the great weariness that lay behind his eyes.  He looked up into Frodo’s face, then looked down at the adoption papers, gestured to the clerks to come near to fill out the remaining witnesses’ signatures, and then with a feeling of finality signed it himself, then the revised will.  This will, he realized, was going to be executed all too soon.  Once he was done, he rose, came around the desk, reached out his hands to shake Frodo’s, but found himself taking the younger Hobbit into his embrace.

       “Whatever happens, Frodo--you are still one of the best the Shire ever produced.”

       “Thank you, Will,” the soft reply came.

*******

       “Hello, Frodo.”

       He looked back to realize that Narcissa was behind him.  “Hello, Narcissa,” he said gently.

       “You look quite well today.”

       “I fear the looks may be deceiving.  What are you doing here in Michel Delving?”

       “Came to have Mum’s will signed by Will Whitfoot.  You?”

       “Much the same--updating mine one l--once more, getting some other business done.”

       There was a certain distance in his eyes, she thought, as if part of him were somewhere else, somewhere he could see clearly but could not share with others.  She could not tell if that place were fair or desert.

       “Will you be giving your birthday party next week?”

       “No, I will see--a cousin I’ve not seen in a while.”

       “Oh, I’m sorry.  Do you wish to join me for dinner tonight at the inn?”

       There was, she realized with delight, true regret in his eyes.  “I would like to--but I cannot.  I must go home tonight.”

       “Perhaps next week, then, back in Hobbiton.”

       “Don’t count on it, Narcissa.  I collapsed at dinner the other night.”  He was searching her eyes.  “I doubt I have much time in any case.”

       She was shocked.  “But you----”

       Finally he said softly, “I regret you just arrived as I must leave.  I wish you joy, Narcissa.”

       He turned away then, toward the stables, his saddlebags over his shoulder.

*******

       Frodo had the last letter written--to Fredegar and Budgie.  He’d thought to stop by their house on the return from Michel Delving, but had realized the vigor he was experiencing was beginning to wane some.  It was difficult to focus to talk.  He’d been able to get the letter written, but was there time to get it sent?  At that moment there was a knock at the study door.  He called “Enter,” and Rosie came in, gently holding the small ginger cat who now shared the smial. 

       As she had before, she sat on the sofa and looked up at him.  “May I talk with you, Master Frodo?”

       He nodded.

       “I need to know, if you know to say, are you leaving so as you can live, or are you running away to die elsewhere?”

       He looked at her for some time, hoped he could answer.  “I don’t know.  I--I am offered life--healing.”

       “But you’re wondering if you’ll live to get there?”

       He nodded.

       “It’s not in Rivendell, though, is it?”

       “No.”

       “Cuz you said as even the great Elves weren’t strong enough to heal you--here.”

       “True.”

       She was giving him a thorough, evaluative stare.  Finally she asked, “Are they taking you to Elvenhome?”

       At last he nodded--with respect, she realized.

       “Then you can’t come back, not ever.”

       “No.”

       “Cuz of what you did you can go there?”

       “Yes.”

       “Does he know yet?”

       “No.”

       “Can he go with you?”

       “He’s--he’s given that choice--and for time.”

       “He can go, but doesn’t have to now?”

       He nodded.

       She looked relieved.  “They’ll give him the hope of finding you again, then.”

       He nodded, finally added, “I hate having torn him in two--all--all this time.”  He sighed, rubbed at his shoulder.  “But--I might not make it there.”

       “You’re right fragile,” she agreed.  She thought for quite some time.  “Then I won’t see you again.”  She was beginning to weep.

       “No, you won’t--not this life.”

       “Will--will you----”  She started over.  “Can mortals live there like Elves--as long as Arda?”

       “No.”

       “Then you’ll still die, even there.”

       “Yes.”

       “And if he goes later, to be with you--we’ll still be able----”

       His sudden, unexpected smile filled her.  “Yes, we will still be able--at the right time.”

       She saw the wave of pain.  “It’s starting again, is it?”  He nodded.  “Is it time for your tea again?”  He looked around, fumbled for his watch, which she realized he no longer wore, gave a wry smile.  She rose and hurried to the parlor, checked the time there and returned to tell him.  He calculated the hours past, then nodded.  She rose and fetched the dosage Sam had left ready.  He received it gladly, drank it.  “Is it harder to talk now, Master Frodo?”

       “Yes.”

       “I’ll miss you--very much--and Elanor--she’ll miss you most as much as her dad will.”

       He whispered, “I’ll miss you--all.  The four--lasses--who mean the Shire to me, have always been you, Pearl,--Narcissa, and my mum.”

       “Why haven’t you told him he has the choice, too?”

       “I want him--back here--with you, Elanorelle, Frodo-Lad, the others to come.  Want them born, this hole full of life.”  He sighed.  “When we leave--kiss him.  Make him want--to come back.  Please.  Don’t--don’t let him follow me before he’s lived.”

       “I promise.”

       He brought out the letter to Fredegar and Budgie.  “Please--let them know I’ve gone.  They were coming for the sixth.”

       “The sixth?”

       “Weathertop.”  He rubbed at his shoulder, and she nodded her understanding.  “Were going to see me off--hold my hands--when it started, hopefully help me keep hold of reality--till it was done.”

       She paled when she understood. 

       He rose.  “A couple things, before he gets back.”  He went back to the bedrooms.

Fearing to Say Goodbye

       Frodo Baggins had last actually said “goodbye” to another on a summer’s evening in Brandy Hall.  That goodbye had been addressed to his parents as they indicated they were going to go out on the river in one of the Hall’s rowboats.  They’d not come back that night.  The boat and his mother’s body had been found the following morning; his father’s a day later.  For him the word always brought back the horror of those two days, of finding that in the space of an evening’s pleasure on the Brandywine he’d been robbed of both parents.

       In writing his farewells he had found that he could not bring himself to write the word, either.  He didn’t want to commit it to paper, wished he could just disappear completely without anyone knowing until it was too late, with people just realizing he’d left and then leave it at that.  He knew, however, that after the last leaving that would simply be too unutterably cruel.  He did his best to try to explain, but in looking at these last efforts he was afraid he’d only managed to do a botch of it.  However, he knew he had no time to write better, and finally put each letter into a separate envelope and prepared it, then put the envelopes into the final packet to be entrusted to Brendilac Brandibuck with orders they were to be sent out on September twenty-fourth.

*******

       The Took coach rolled up to the main doors to Brandy Hall, and Paladin Took emerged from it with Eglantine, signing to the coachman and their escort of one to take the coach on to the stables and then find their way into the Hall to their own quarters.  Esmeralda was already at the doors waiting for them.  “Sara is out in the kitchens seeing to his duck,” she explained.  She drew them in and hugged both, saw to the disposal of their wraps and light luggage, and led them to the private Master’s and Mistress’s parlor where they could sit and talk for a time.  Merimac was already there with wine and ale, and they relaxed and spoke of the new gossip about the Grubbs family for a time. 

       “Grabo was simply inspired to consider setting up such an enterprise,” Paladin commented admiringly.  “It was a thought worthy of Frodo.  Wonder why he didn’t think of it first?”

       Merimac laughed.  “You think it was worthy of Frodo, do you?  Well, I remember seeing the two of them in conversation in the ale tent at the Free Fair for quite some time last summer.”

       Esmeralda joined his laughter, shaking her head admiringly.  “It would be just like him, wouldn’t it, to let Grabo have both the idea and the credit.”

       “I suppose I’ll have to ask him about it when we see him next,” Paladin smiled.

       They all looked up as Saradoc entered.  “Well,” he said as he accepted a mug of ale from his brother, “the duck will be superb if anything will.”

       “We were discussing Grabo’s new service removing much of the remaining downed trees in the Westfarthing and reducing them to firewood lengths, with a third going to the property owners, a third for sale, and the last third to the nearest head of family for the needs of those who can’t obtain their own, and thinking of how this was just the type of enterprise which Frodo would have thought of.”

       “I agree,” Saradoc said.  “Gives Grabo and his lads something to do, serves to finish up the last of the downed trees, gives them and the property owners both firewood to sell, and provides for the poorer and older folk at the same time.  Wonder if Frodo thought it up for him?”

       “Wouldn’t be the least surprised,” the rest agreed.

       “Well, Paladin,” Saradoc went on, “want to ride over to Crickhollow in the morning to invite the lads to go with us on the jaunt to Bree?  It will give us all a good chance to talk away from here, and Butterbur certainly made it plain he is looking forward to seeing them again.  Plus Lord Halladan indicated another of the King’s kin will be available to stand witness to what they did down there.  I was amazed at how well-spoken he is, by the way.  Butterbur was not too certain of providing a private parlor for discussions between Rangers and Shire Hobbits, but commented that the Rangers certainly tended to look much--cleaner--these days, unlike the looks of that Strider when they set off along the Road East with him.”

       “It certainly ought to be enlightening,” Paladin said.  “Yes, we’ll go over first thing in the morning and fetch them away.  Will give them the realization--the realization I’m not just going to dismiss what they say any more.  I’ve been fighting it so hard for these last two years.”

       When they got to the house at Crickhollow, however, it was to find it empty, with every sign it had been hastily abandoned.  The kettle had boiled dry in the kitchen, and the kitchen fire had obviously burned out.  Plates had been in the process of being set out on the table and then left hurriedly.  Newly sliced bread had gone dry, and a small block of cheese still stood on the counter, along with the tea caddy.  Drawers were open and clean clothes swiftly sorted through in the bedrooms, and their saddlebags were missing.  Each had apparently taken his grey-green cloak they’d worn by preference, as these no longer hung from the pegs by the front door.

       Paladin sank, white-faced, onto the bench in the entranceway.  “They can’t have done it again--just up and disappeared again like this.”

       Saradoc wanted to sink down by his brother-in-love when there was a knock at the door, which he automatically answered.  A messenger of the post stood there, tipped his hat, and presented letters.  “Hello, sirs--these were sent for your sons.”

       “We’ll take them,” the Master said, and with another touch to his cap the messenger handed them over and turned to complete his rounds.

       They’d both been addressed by Frodo, but the hand was not firm this time.  Saradoc handed the one addressed to Pippin to the Thain, and in a moment they had them open.  Saradoc read the one in his hand with growing grief and understanding.

Dearest Merry--When I went to see Aragorn and the Lady Arwen to tell them I felt we must leave for home, she had a quiet word for me, although I know she’d discussed it with him.  She told me that if all grew too difficult for me, she was working to obtain the right for me to sail in her place with her father when her father chose to abandon Middle Earth at the last--and that I deserved the right to know the peace and healing offered there after the tortures inflicted on my very spirit by the Ring.

       I have resisted the offer mightily, although none has urged it on me--I think they are forbidden to do so.  Yet they have managed to see to it I was reminded the offer was there.  In the end it was confirmed, and made open to the three of us that bore It.  Bilbo, from the moment he knew of it, accepted it.  I only accepted it a few days before I met with your parents last week.  Sam has not been told as of the time I write this--I will tell him along the way to the Havens.  Sam will not allow me to slip away, so will go with me that far, but I wish him to return to Rosie and life, since I cannot live here further.

       Please forgive me for not telling you already, but I have always preferred facing my own fears alone, not letting others see how terrified I am--for I am terrified to go on the Ship, that I will lose myself altogether, no longer be able to recognize myself. 

       At times I wish Strider hadn’t called me back--it would have been so much easier.

                                          Yours with love,
                                          Frodo

       “The thoughtless little fool!” he heard Paladin Took exclaiming.  “After all the four of them have been through together, he wouldn’t tell them he was leaving?  That stubborn--Baggins!  This will tear their hearts in two, not being allowed to say goodbye to him!”

       Saradoc raised his stricken eyes to those of his wife’s brother, and nodded his agreement.  However, after a moment’s thought he added, “He has been very close to dying, Paladin.  I suspect he has chosen this way so that none of us will have to deal with his funeral.”  He looked about the room, as if to seek confirmation of what he now suspected, then spotted it.  On the floor lay a green leaf wrapped around something.  Leaf and contents had been trodden on in the hurry and left lying.  He bent down and lifted it up, found it contained a type of bread he’d never seen before.  He broke off a corner and ate it, then smiled, did the same for Paladin and offered it to him.  Paladin straightened, surprised.  Together they examined the strange packet.

       “Elven?” suggested the Thain.

       “I think so.  I suspect someone came to tell them, to give them word so they could get there in time to say goodbye anyway.”

       “What is this, do you think?”

       “I suspect a travel bread of some kind.  Someone brought them supplies of food they can eat along the way that will keep and is light to pack.”

       Paladin was examining the leaf, then smiled.  “It is from the type of tree that Sam planted in place of the Party Oak, Sara, and it’s like their cloak brooches.  This is from the Elven Lands, then!”

       Both felt relief.  They went through the house again, trying to figure when they’d have left, then when they were likely to return. 

       They returned to the Hall, much concerned but much lighter of heart.  A letter, they learned, had come there, too.

Dearest Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara,

       When you receive this, I will be gone, on my way with Bilbo.  I could not tell before, and I hope you will forgive me.

       When I was there at the Hall last, Aunt Esme, you said something that shocked me, shocked me because it is true.  I would deny--on my deathbed--that I was anything but whole.  I am shamed to find this is within me, but cannot change it now.

       I am leaving Middle Earth--one way or another--soon.  I am on my way to the Havens, I suspect, as you read this.  It has been offered me as an alternative to living as I have done this past two years, and I have accepted it.  Perhaps I have accepted too late.

       Please stand by Merry and Pippin--they will need your love right now.  I feel I have betrayed them.  They do not know.  I will not draw them after me again.

       Know how deeply I love you, how much I appreciate your care for me over these past many years.  I only wish I’d been more worthy of that care.

                                   My love,
                                   Frodo
      
       “Where are they?” asked Esmeralda.

       Thain and Master described what they’d found, the suggestions someone had brought news of the departure to Merry and Pippin and that they’d gone to say their goodbyes.

       Eglantine was pale.  “They wouldn’t try to go with him, would they?”

       Saradoc shook his head.  “I don’t think so--the letter says only Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam have been offered this.  But they would not allow him to slip away, not our two lads.”

       All agreed to this.

*******

       Narcissa Boffin’s hand shook as she reread the letter she had received:

Dear Narcissa,

       I so grieve that I could not return your regard as you so deserved.  Now that I perhaps could do so, now that It no longer rules me, I still can do nothing.

       When I was young, there was nothing I wished for more than to marry and raise a family.  Now Sam’s children are the closest to children of my own I may know--and soon I will lose even that.

       I so wish you joy, Narcissa.  Please forgive me for any pain you have known as a result of having cared for me.

       I hope you will go to see the King when he comes North once more.  He is well worth the loving.
                                   Yours,
                                   Frodo Baggins

       Enclosed with the letter was the leather packet containing the small portrait of the King.  It was years later that Narcissa realized finally that Frodo himself had drawn it.

*******

       Isumbard Took was going through one of the day rooms of the Great Smial when he came across Ferdibrand, standing, white faced, facing the West as if he were straining his eyes that way.

       “Ferdi, what is it?  What’s wrong?”

       “It’s Frodo--he’s left the Shire again!”

       “How do you know?”

       “His Light--I’ve been following his Light.  The day before his birthday he left Bag End, heading North.  Then I thought he’d go East to Buckland, but instead he went West.”

       “How do you know this?”

       “I told you--I can see his Light--it’s almost the only thing I can see, his Light.”

       Isumbard was totally confused.  “I don’t understand....”

       Ferdibrand shook his head.  “How can I explain?  For years I’ve been aware of--some folk by the Light they seem to give off.  Old Bilbo had a warm white Light around him, and Gandalf the Wizard had a distinct blue one.  Ferumbras’s was a dull purple, rather unpleasant.  But Frodo’s is very bright, a bright and shining silver-white Light, very pure--always has been.  Since his return I’ve been aware of it, can see it.  When he led them down to rescue us, I could see him coming, and in his hand was another light, as I remember starlight being, but brighter--or perhaps just closer.  He must have been carrying his starglass when he came down into the tunnels.

       “At first I’d only look for his Light when he was nearby, but over time I’ve learned I could see wherever he was in the Shire.  Now he’s left the Shire, heading West.”

       “But there’s no place people go to the West of us.  The only ones who go West are Dwarves going to the Iron Hills.” 

       Ferdibrand stood still, thinking furiously, then obviously stopped to consider one possibility.  When he finally spoke again, his voice was very sad.  “Elves go that way, too.  That’s the way to the Sea, to the Havens.  He’s going to the Havens.”  He turned again west, as if focusing that way.  “Bilbo and Gandalf--their Lights are with his, and those of others--very different.  He’s traveling with Elves, Bard, going west.  There’s one other besides him and Bilbo who isn’t an Elf, someone who has a golden Light--it’s familiar, but I never paid it any attention before.  But that’s where he is going--to the Havens.”

       At that moment Pimpernel came into the room carrying the day’s mail.  She saw where they stood and smiled.  “A letter has come for the both of you, from Frodo--’To be opened by both together,’ it says.”

       Isumbard was pale, looked at Ferdi and said, “If what you assume is right, he’ll have written Paladin and Eglantine as well.”  He looked to his wife’s younger sister.  “Is there one there for them also?” 

       “Yes, there is.  Why?”

       Isumbard held out his hand for the envelope she had slipped out of the bundle, took it.  “It is heavy--has something in it as well as any letter.  The writing--it’s weak, Ferdi.”  He tore the envelope in spite of the care he was trying to take, finally slipped out the pages it held, dropping to the floor a carefully wrapped packet that landed with a distinct clink on the stone flags underfoot.  When he started reading it aloud, his voice began to shake.

Dearest Ferdibrand and Isumbard,

       There are few to whom I have been able to speak of much that happened to us during the time we were gone, and those very few include the two of you.  Mostly, I think, it was because you just listened during moments when I simply had to tell at least part of the tale.  I cannot begin to tell you how glad I was that the two of you were willing to listen.  Neither interrupted, neither judged, neither tried to twist the conversation elsewhere.  Nor did either of you turn away from what I said.  Aunt Eglantine kept wanting to make it a story in which her child was protected from the evils we faced; Uncle Paladin didn’t want to accept that the evils even existed; others, faced with almost the entire facts of the story, refused to put them together.  The two of you, on the other hand, simply listened and accepted.

       Thank you.

       Thank you for listening, for accepting, and letting it be.

       I have had to accept that I will not live much longer unless I accept an offer made me before I left the Queen’s presence.  Finally I have accepted, although it may be too late.  However, in accepting this offer, I must away, and I will not be able to return.

       I’ve not told Merry and Pippin that I am leaving.  They, too, are receiving letters, probably today.  Please, for my sake, stand by them, come to know them well, learn to respect them.  Forget they are so much younger than you are--remember only that they have been forced into circumstances that tried their souls, and they have triumphed.

       Aragorn sent me three of the King’s coins, and they will not be needed where I go.  I was told to bring with me only that which worked to express the love others hold for me, that will help me to accept the healing offered me.  I take with me the coin Lobelia returned to me, as this reminds me that even such as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins could change, and so there may be hope I can indeed find healing for my heart as for my body.  I ask that you each accept one of the others.  Aragorn is a most special person, whether he were King or just a vagabond from the wilderness as he appeared to be when we first met him in Bree.  When he comes North, greet him for me, bear him my respects.

       Ferdi, you have been my friend for so long; Bard, you and I might have been better friends had chance favored such.  Thank you both for all you have done, and may the Valar protect you.

                                   Yours,
                                   Frodo Baggins

       Ferdibrand found the small packet that had fallen to the floor, stood up, opened it carefully.  He held out the two coins.  “I give you first choice, Bard,” he said quietly.  Pimpernel, who still stood by stunned by what she’d heard, saw that her husband was weeping silently as he stood there, waiting for Isumbard to choose one.

*******

       Similar letters had been delivered elsewhere, saying only that Frodo regretted to tell he was leaving the Shire for good, and he hoped they would understand.  There was no mention of where he went or why, although many who had seen him realized his health was far more fragile then he would admit.  He expressed admiration and thankfulness for their regards and past kindnesses, and offered best wishes for a happy future. 

       The handwriting told more than the letters did, for although it was still clear, it was not confident or as graceful as was usual with Frodo’s writing.  These letters were written by someone who was finding himself quite weak, weak and most likely quite ill.  The gossip throughout the Shire was that Frodo Baggins had gone away to die.

*******

       From early October fifth Saradoc Brandybuck and Paladin Took stayed in Crickhollow awaiting the return of their sons.  They had ridden hard and arrived very late in the night of the sixth.  Their fathers were there to greet them, understanding in their eyes.  Their beds were ready for them, the fires lit, a late supper ready, food for breakfast already set for the morning.  They slept for a few hours, woke to find their mothers about them with word that Frodo had arranged for his will to be read on the morrow.  They were loaded into the coach with sufficient clean clothing for a few days, and all were on the way to Bag End.  And as they rode, sons and parents talked as they’d not talked in the past two years.

Grace to Wake

       Bilbo looked at the high bed with its wide ladder rungs leading up to it with amusement.  “This is what was prepared for me?  And how is he to be getting into such, may I ask?”

       Elrond laughed.  “Both of you will be assisted.  We were not certain he would accept until the last moment, and Círdan sees this as accommodation.  I do not think he believed the reports of your nature--he was told you were smaller than Elven children, and so he apparently assumed you would have the agility of an Elven child as well.”

       “I see.  Has he come down as yet?”

       “No, stubborn Baggins as he is, he stands yet at the rail with the Phial held high so that Sam will be assured he is well.”

       “He’s not--even I can see that.”

       “Sam can see that, also.  He is no fool, Samwise Gamgee.”

       “But he will cling to hope.”

       “When that is all he has, then he can do no other.”

       “I’m surprised I’ve stayed awake this long.”

       “Don’t be.  The healing begins here, you know.”

       “Healing?”

       “You, too, were a Ringbearer.  You cannot receive a new lifetime, but you can know renewed vigor until you are ready to receive the Gift, or your body suddenly lets you know it can go no longer.  But it will take a bit of time for it to return, and will be perhaps a false comfort to you.”

       “I thank you for the warning.  All I ask is strength to be awake when he needs me, until he is ready to stand on his own once more.  I don’t need full vigor again.  After all, I am now approaching what you called the age of an elderly dwarf--although Gimli would take exception to that, I think.”

       Again the Elven Lord laughed, surprising even himself.  He’d almost forgotten the humor this one had brought to his home for so long before he began to fail.

       Then he straightened, listening.  “It has begun--he collapsed at the rail--Gandalf carries him to his quarters.”  Together they raced to the room prepared for Frodo, Bilbo struggling to follow after the tall Elf and keep him in sight.

       Gandalf carried Frodo, limp and pale, in his arms; the Lady came behind.  Together they laid him on the high bed, stripped him gently, got him between covers.  Elrond at last went forward and leaned over him.

       “Frodo, come back to us.  This is not your time yet.”

       “What is happening?” demanded Bilbo.

       Elrond touched the mind of the Hobbit before him, straightened amazed.  “I do not understand--never have I seen a mortal respond thus!  It ought simply to have allowed him to draw strength!”

       Gandalf sighed, “He is not as he was, Elrond.  The Becoming apparently has continued.”

       Bilbo protested, “He cannot go before me!  I won’t allow it!  He deserves the chance to know happiness again!”

       Elrond looked down on his long-time guest with compassion.  “Would you put off your own leaving, Small Master?”

       “For his sake, of course!”

       Elves looked to one another and to the Maia.  Finally Gandalf addressed him.  “Now, I think, has come another time when we must beckon with love.  Come, Bilbo.  Will you allow the indignity of me lifting you to look down on him?”

       “That is no indignity, Gandalf--if it is necessary, it is necessary.  We shall need to talk to Círdan before he crafts the ship Sam travels upon, though.”

       The idea of the Hobbit seeking to advise the Elven shipwright on his own business struck the Elves as humorous, and Gandalf smiled as he lifted the old Hobbit high enough to look into his cousin’s face.  Bilbo looked down into the pale face with shock.  He looked up into Gandalf’s eyes with grief.  “There is so little of him left, Gandalf!”

       “I know.”

       “What do I say to him?”

       “What argument of love would best induce him to stay with us?”

       Bilbo thought for a moment as he looked down into the still face.  “Frodo Baggins,” he called.  “Frodo, come back.  Your mother never raised you this way, you know.  What would your mother think, to know her son is considering spurning a gift before it is even properly opened?  Frodo!”

       At long last the breathing deepened, and the blue eyes opened.  There was regret in them.  Frodo whispered, “I am ready, Bilbo.”

       “No you are not, you silly lad.  You have happiness to be able to appreciate again before that.”  But Frodo had slipped off again.

       The calling went on for several days.  Frodo would awaken for a few moments, or would seem to, then drift away before any could catch him quite into consciousness.  But at least he did respond to Bilbo.  They forced fluids into him, different draughts and broths.  They cleansed him, changed his bedding, his pillows, his nightshirts.  For days the brazier was kept lit, basins of athelas steeped in water steaming over him.  He lingered, lingered most for Bilbo.  Finally, once again Bilbo, now standing on a stool provided from somewhere about the ship, looked down at Frodo again.  Bilbo had begun to be able to follow Frodo somewhat, now saw where Frodo stood, looking with longing on the Way before him.  Finally the old Hobbit had had enough.  He entered the field, approached Frodo, put his hand on his shoulder.  “Look at me, Frodo Baggins!”

       Frodo turned, looked down on him, his eyes distant.  “No, I said, look at me.  Look at the love I have for you, Frodo.”

       The expression began to focus.  Again Bilbo decided to invoke the memory of Primula Brandybuck Baggins.

       “Frodo Baggins, come back now.  What would your mother say to you spurning a gift before you’d properly received it?” 

       Frodo awoke in his chamber on the grey ship, looked up into Bilbo’s eyes.  I have done all I can, Bilbo.

       Now, how in the name of the Valar had he learned that Elvish trick?  Bilbo looked over his shoulder at the Lady Galadriel and gave her a suspicious evaluation, then realized Frodo was slipping away again. 

       “No, you haven’t.  There’s a great deal left to do.  Now, awaken.  Frodo!  Waken and be done.  The Shadow is gone.”

       The eyes opened again, seemed more present this time.  “You are awake,” he whispered.

       “Yes, I’m awake--for a time, Frodo.  For as long as you need me, dear one, I’ll be by you.  I’ve been granted that grace.  So you’d best seek to recover, lad, so I can take my last steps on my own journey.  I’ve delayed enough as it is, insisting as I did to be allowed to pass the Old Took, foolish as I was.”

       “I’d be there to welcome you....”

       “No!  No, don’t try that reasoning on me, Frodo Baggins.  I have lived a full life, while the last twenty years of yours have been dominated by That Awakened--That and Its legacy.  You deserve more, and deserve healing, deserve to be able to appreciate the love that all have tried to give you without the separation enforced by the Pain.  Now, I demand that you awaken and stay with me at least until we reach Tol Eressëa.  Do you hear me, Frodo?” 

       One last time Frodo tried to slip away, but Bilbo glared at him with the full force of the Old Took’s legacy.  “Do you hear me?” he demanded.  Reluctantly Frodo nodded.  “Good,” Bilbo said, “and I’m accepting your word as a Baggins.”  As he slipped off the stool to allow Elrond to take over, he muttered to Gandalf, “That will keep him here, you know--that appeal to the dratted Baggins honor.”

       Gandalf could be heard laughing softly.

*******

       It did take time, but the healing came.  The Morgul wound’s scar began to glow as Frodo’s Light shone through it.  The knuckle glowed, and one could see the whisper of light outlining where the finger ought to be.  About his neck where Its chain had lain was a white shining line.  The scars on his legs where he had been bound by the orcs and where he’d fallen in Mordor glowed, and the same for his wrists.  Even the sucker marks from the tentacles of the Watcher in the Water had a faint, clear glow to them, could be clearly seen.  The whip weals were fairly shining. 

       Frodo Baggins alone had no idea that his Light was becoming more and more noticeable as his abode became the small summer house on the edge of the Gardens of Tol Eressëa.  As his heart finally strengthened, a clear light could be seen there, pulsing with each beat.  As the tight muscles began to loosen, one could see the light increasing in arms and shoulder, legs, knees, hips.  As his digestion healed his abdomen began to glow.  Bilbo was amazed and amused and delighted.  As for his eyes--they were a marvel. 

       On the back of the neck, however, darkness and light were still in contention.  The bite of Shelob was stubbornly clinging to its supremacy.  Aboard the ship the Elves and Gandalf were able to control its effects, but no more than that.  And for the longest time a large patch of reddened flesh remained on his chest that the Light could not break through, although it was being worn away by the Queen’s gem he still wore.

       Soon, Bilbo told himself, soon he will be ready for me to go on.

*******

       “His light is subdued today, Gandalf.”

       “Indeed.”

       The old Hobbit looked up at the Maia who had once been a wizard and smiled.  It was always enjoyable whittling away at Olórin’s attempts to say as little as possible about Frodo’s business.  Of course, he realized also Olórin enjoyed drawing out the story as long as possible and driving an old Hobbit mad with evasions, so each was equally enjoying these exchanges, of course.

       Except--this time the Maia did not look particularly happy; nor was he looking at Bilbo in anticipation of what tactics his friend would try this time.  His eyes were distant.  Bilbo chose to remain silent this time, hoping in time some enlightenment would be given.  Finally Olórin said, quietly, “He appears to believe he is responsible for everything evil to have befallen anyone in Middle Earth since the Ring came to him.  All too often he cannot appear to tell where his choices leave off and another’s begin.  It does not help that he appears to have been born with an extraordinarily strong share of the King’s Gift.”

       “And what, may I ask, is the King’s Gift?”

       “The King’s Gift is an awareness of the health of the land and people around one.  In Men it tends to be seen primarily in those who are of the Line of Kings, the descendents of Elros.  It is an expression of the Elven awareness of the life in the living things around them.”

       “Like the ability to communicate with the trees and so on?”

       “Yes.  Faced with damaged land and the life on it, most Elves will seek to heal the wounds they perceive, for the pain that is suffered by the living plants and creatures that have been injured in the wounding can be communicated to them.  As the Gift was shared with the descendants of the Edain, it became more closely attuned to the people for whom the kings and high lords were responsible.  One tends to care far more for the welfare of ones people when one experiences the effects of want, privation, hunger and thirst, grief and horror known by their least subjects.”

       “I see.  Does the Dúnedan have the King’s Gift?”

       “Yes, to a greater degree than Gondor has seen since its earliest kings, although for the most part Arnor was more fortunate.  As Elrond’s fosterling Aragorn received training to increase his sensitivity to the King’s Gift on the one hand while learning to recognize when and how he should ignore or otherwise deal with that which he cannot affect.  He was also taught to balance his life as well as possible so as to keep his very Gift from dragging him down into despair--much as you did with Frodo by teaching him to write out his frustrations and anger at the same time you made certain he had outlets also for his joy, and plenty of opportunities for experiencing pleasure and fulfilment.

       “The land sense of the Hobbits is mightily akin to that of the Elves, save that it tends to be focused more on cultivated land rather than the wilderlands favored by Elves.  But in many it is expressed in the awareness of the people round about in one way or another.  And in Iorhael it is--now--as strongly expressed as in Aragorn.  Once the Ring became aware of the King’s Gift in Frodo, It began using it to seek to suborn him, showing him every least act of torture and degradation effected by Mordor and Isengard.  As Aragorn was trained to do, Frodo had learned over the years to recognize when a grief he felt was nothing he could affect; and as a Hobbit now in the heart of the Shire once you took him to Bag End, he was for the most part surrounded by the peace and content common to the lot of your people, which gave him plenty of chance to find balance.  As he weakened on his journey, however, the Ring presented him with the conceit that he was the cause of much of the grief he saw, for by refusing to surrender It to Sauron he was inciting the Dark Lord’s wrath and leading to these; and by refusing to surrender to It he was denying himself the chance to help those being tortured.”

       Bilbo shuddered, closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, then looked with compassion back toward the summer house.  “And you are seeking to set that conceit right now?” he asked.

       “We hadn’t intended to as yet, but find we must in order to heal the deeper hurts.”

       “No wonder the discussions go on so long!”

       “Indeed.”

*******

       A single flower was laid in Iorhael’s lap as he sat on the edge of his couch, his face to the wall.  “A blossom for your thoughts, Frodo,” Bilbo said softly.

       “I am feeling once more I don’t belong here, Bilbo.”

       “Of course neither of us belongs here, Frodo.  We are mortal, after all, and this land was not designed for such as we.  But we are welcome guests anyway.”

       Today the patch of skin on his chest where the light did not shine through seemed larger and more somber.  “That’s not what I mean.”

       “Frodo--what was the name of that fool that hurt the Appledore girl, who used to give the folk at Brandy Hall so much grief?”

       “Tolman Smallburrow.”

       “Ah, yes--that was the one.  We were spending a good deal of time there in Buckland that year, weren’t we?”

       “Yes--and I was there a lot on my own.  It was the year Merry broke his leg and was having to spend so much time in bed, so I was staying there so he wouldn’t have to be alone--or at Pippin’s untender mercies.”

       “Ah, yes--Peregrin Took as a small child--quite the bundle of energy he was.”

       “Yes, couldn’t sit still for a moment, and kept jarring the bed and the leg and causing it to hurt again.”

       “Did Smallburrow ever try hurting you?”

       “He tried, but I figured out how to evade him well enough.”

       “A big, rather muscular brute, if I remember.”

       “Yes.”

       “That was the summer Merimac taught you that punch of yours, wasn’t it?”

       “Yes.”

       “What led to that?”

       “I caught Tolman teasing a smaller boy, and beating him.  I was about to step in, which would have led to my being beaten black and blue, when Merimac caught him at it and sent him on his way.  I then asked him to teach me how to--do something effective.”

       “You learned it quite well.”

       “I had--motivation.  He made me promise, Mac did, not to use that blow without having ample reason.”

       “Ah--the same reason Elrond made Aragorn swear not to draw his sword lightly.”

       “It’s not the same thing, Bilbo.”

       The old Hobbit drew himself erect.  “You think not, do you?”

       “He had to learn to fight, to protect those weaker than he.”

       “And how is that the least different from learning to throw a single, well-placed blow to protect the smaller Hobbits of Brandy Hall from the likes of Tolman Smallburrow?”  The two looked deeply into one another’s eyes for quite some time. 

       “The need to offer protection as one can was the same for him as for you,” Bilbo finally continued.  “Now--in the battle before the Black Gate, Pippin found himself killing a troll in order to protect Beregond of the Guard.  Why wasn’t Aragorn there doing that?  It was his duty, was it not, to protect those he led?”

       “Don’t be ridiculous, Bilbo.”

       “Was it your fault that Smallburrow hurt the Appledore girl?”

       “No--of course not.”

       “But if you’d only been there you might have been able to stop him--you stopped him from pawing at Pippin, after all.”

       “How do you know about that?”

       Bilbo smiled mysteriously.  He’d seen Pippin looking delighted when Tolman Smallburrow showed up for breakfast sporting quite the bruise, and had himself been rubbing Frodo’s suddenly sore hand to ease it the preceding evening--it had taken little to get the small Took to tell him the story.  “Never mind how I know, you irascible young thing.  If you’d been there you could have stopped it, couldn’t you?”

       “Perhaps--but even if I’d been at Brandy Hall, he didn’t do it there--he caught her near her father’s work shed, and I had no reason ever to go there--not even curiosity.”

       “But you could have?” persisted Bilbo.

       “What in Middle Earth do you expect--that simply because I knew Tolman Smallburrow was a perverted, mean-hearted wretch, I ought to have spent every waking moment following him to protect the Shire from his doings?  There were sufficient in Hobbiton to keep me busy, you know, between Lotho and Ted Sandyman.”

       “Even there you allowed them to bully Sancho Proudfoot.”

       “Uncle--they did that about every waking moment, and not just to him, you know.  When I caught them at it, I did warn them, and even stopped them a time or two.  But I certainly wasn’t allowing them to bully Sancho--they did that in spite of the warnings of half the village, and you know it!”

       Bilbo smiled.  Frodo’s light was shining more clearly, and the patch where it didn’t shine through was growing smaller.  “You mean you couldn’t be responsible for every action someone else took in those days?”

       “Did you not spend hours reassuring me this was so?”

       “Then why, once that awful thing I wish I’d taken to Mordor myself to spare you Its burden awakened, did you convince yourself that you were responsible for every single ill Sauron did?  Were you responsible for the things he did before you got the Ring?”

       The eyes had grown distant.  “No.”

       “Are you responsible for those who do evil in the world now?”

       “No.”

       “Well, think on that before tomorrow’s session, then.  Now, go out with me to the White Tree.  I want to feel the Dúnedan’s presence tonight.”

       Dutifully Frodo rose to follow him.

*******

       “We’re done with him--for the moment, Bilbo, and I’m taking him to the sea for a bathe.  Wish to come?”

       “I don’t think I can, Gandalf--am feeling my years especially tonight.  I’d go now--except I know he still needs me.  There is one more crisis coming--I can feel it.”

       “What kind of crisis?”

       “I don’t know--something that we’ve forgotten for the time, I think.  But something is coming.  I hear the warnings in my heart.”

       “I’ll remember that, Bilbo.  When He speaks to the heart it is with reason.”

*******

       He awoke in the grey of pre-dawn, smiling up toward the dimly-seen rafters of the room.  In Rivendell he’d barely keep awake, while here he barely slept.  He lay breathing in the sweet scents of the wakening flowers without the windows, the cleansing fragrance of the athelas plant that grew on Frodo’s windowsill, and smiled.  It was a gentle ending for a full life.  He would speak about it with Frodo today----

       The sudden twisting of the room was shocking.  What is happening? he wondered as he sat up abruptly, stared with consternation at the other sleeping couch.  Frodo had gone rigid with shock and pain, his Light sparkling with drops of red almost like blood.  Bilbo fled across the room to look down on Frodo’s face, the wide eyes, the open mouth, the agony reflected there.  He grasped at Frodo’s hands, realized they held onto the blankets under which he slept so tightly they almost tore the fabric.  He was trying to speak, but the sounds that came out were meaningless. 

       Sam! his mind was crying out; Aragorn!  Stay away!  Watch for the spider!

       Did he hear Frodo’s thoughts correctly--spider?  Bilbo hurried out the door, through the summer house, out into the Gardens, scurried up to the nearest Elf he saw, who was staring at the house with shock of his own, pulled at his robes.  “Please,” he said, “summon Lord Elrond for me--it’s urgent!”  The Elf looked down at him with surprise, and Bilbo added, “If you honor my Frodo’s Light, please!” 

       Realizing the Perian was serious, the Elf gave a single nod, and gave that vacant look they often showed when communicating across distances.  In an instant his attention was back.  “He is already on his way--he felt the twist in the fabric of the Gardens.”

       Elves and Maiar were converging on the small house, lighting up its exterior walls with the Lights of their Being, and three of the Great Elves to whom he’d been introduced who had chosen to live on Tol Eressëa entered in with one of the Maiar.  Soon after Olórin and Elrond arrived as well.  Together they sang over the body of Frodo, who’d been stripped to the waist and laid face down with pillows under him so he could breathe.  There was a great deal of darkness within the wounds where the spider had bitten him, and Bilbo could see all were concerned and focused.  At last the Elves stepped back, left the room, and it filled with Maiar.  The tone of the song they sang changed, became one which sounded to Bilbo like a battle song. 

       Finally the darkness in the wound began to fade, and Bilbo noted Frodo felt some relief.  All but two of the Maiar and Olórin now slipped out of the room, and Elrond came back in with a steaming basin of water and set it near Frodo, then went to the plant on the windowsill where he whispered to it, and accepted the leaf it gave to him.  Bruising the leaf, he slipped it into the water, singing with a power even greater than Bilbo had heard him using on the Grey Ship.  His wife Celebrían entered after him, bringing clean cloths.  Bilbo came closer, saw that the area around the wounds had become swollen with infection.  Elrond carefully lanced it, and began cleaning it as pus flowed from it.  Olórin appeared to be in silent communication with someone, and at last turned to Bilbo and beckoned him outside.

       An Elf appeared from the kitchen with a mug of the draught which Bilbo drank daily, and he accepted it with a bow of thanks and turned to his friend.  “What is it, Gandalf?”

       “We will question him when he has rested and is able to answer.  We have to be certain this is not one last trick of his own mind, still clinging to illness as a means of keeping himself tied to his feelings of guilt and his identity as one who was giving himself for all.”

       “He did give himself for all, or at least meant to if necessary,” Bilbo pointed out.

       “Yes, but he is no longer the tragic hero and must not cling to that past.  However, I don’t believe that this is the effect of his own mind and imagination--I believe there is a darker evil here.  Shelob, after all, is own daughter to Ungoliant.”

       “The one--the one who with Morgoth poisoned the Trees?”

       “Yes.”  Bilbo shivered.  The Maia continued, “If what I fear has happened is true, then we must have the aid of the Valar themselves, and that is perilous for mortals.  I believe his Light is strong enough to withstand it, but--but there is always a chance this may be his release, Bilbo.”

       Bilbo forced himself to deliberately finish his mug and set it down carefully beside him.  “I see--in which case, he will be there before me to welcome me, most like.”

       “Would you like to accept the Gift before we take him to the Fanes?”

       “No, in case he does survive.  It will strengthen him to know I wait for his return.”

       “Yes, that is true.”

       Bilbo found himself weeping, then felt his friend reach out to hold him close in comfort.  “What did I do to the lad, Gandalf?” he whispered.

       Suddenly he was being held at arm’s length and was looking into the eyes of one he still only partly knew well, eyes that examined him with humor, compassion, love, and concern.  “Do not do as he has done, blaming yourself for all he has borne.  False guilt becomes you as ill as it does him.”

       Bilbo dropped his eyes in contrition, then felt the warmth of the Maia’s love surround him.  “I think he will do well,” he felt whispered in his ear and spoken into his heart at the same time.

*******

       Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían sat by him throughout the wait, and after two days they were joined by the Lady Galadriel.  He was visited daily by some of the greatest of the Elves he had ever heard tell; and at least one Maia was by the small summer house at all times.  There were many songs sung, many more silent prayers offered.  Finally they felt a sigh move across the island, and fill the house; then after a moment of balance, all realized the battle was won, and that Iorhael would indeed live.  Elrond lifted Bilbo up into a deep embrace of thanksgiving, and the Hobbit realized that the great Elven Lord was weeping with relief.

       That night Olórin came, briefly, to bring word.  “I do not know that any heard tell of what precisely became of Ungoliant after she fled Aman; what little we have learned was that she followed her chosen lord to Middle Earth and hid herself away there, frozen now in the shape of a great spider as she’d been when she poisoned the Trees.

       “Where she found her mate we do not know, but find him she did.  Shelob was her child, whom she treasured.  We have learned at last that when she was grown Shelob consumed her mother, took her spirit as well as her shape inside her, became one with her.  It was Ungoliant’s own spirit that was injected into those wounds, not just the paralyzing poison to keep the prey still for the wrapping.  She has sought to consume him from the inside out from time to time, at which times the wounds would open and drain.  She allowed the skin to heal stronger once before, but Sam and Rosie lanced them then, and again she lost.  Since he came here she has stayed quiescent, but thought to perhaps escape and wreak her mischief throughout Aman once more--but she could not do so without it being made manifest in him.  The Valar have vanquished her, and she is with her master now, outside the Gates of Night.

       “He will return, but needs further healing yet.  Can you bear to linger nine days more, do you think?”

       “For him, yes.  Will he be ready to let me go?”

       “I believe he will.  He has told Nienna he will remain for Sam’s arrival.”

       Bilbo gave a relieved smile.  “Good--for Sam has ever embodied his hope.”

       That night he sat out under the White Tree, watching the stars, and the Lady Galadriel sat behind him, her hand always on his shoulder.

*******

       Lord Elrond stood behind him, now his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, as they stood in the Gardens before the summer house, watching for Frodo’s return.  Then they saw the advancing Light--cool but illuminating the dusk, walking slowly but easily alongside the Light of the Maia who accompanied him, the distinctive blue of Olórin a counterpoint to the clear Light of the small figure by him.  The Light was now even throughout him, and the patch where the Queen’s jewel lay shone equal to the rest.  But now it did not outline the missing finger, stopping where now the physical body stopped, accepting the results of his choices, the chances of his life.

       Bilbo realized, “He’s still unaware of how much of his Light is visible to others, isn’t he?”

       Elrond answered quietly, “That is true.  He still is unaware that the Becoming is continuing.”

       “He becomes more extraordinary by the day.”

       “Yes, he does.”

       “I pray he is ready for me to go now.  I’ll go fulfilled myself because he is.”

       “I believe he is ready, Small Master.  Set your heart at rest on that account.”

       Bilbo Baggins filled his heart with the sight of his lad, so long and so well loved, and felt peace encompass him.

*******

       “I won’t ever be far from you, you know, Frodo.  I’ll always be there near your right shoulder, by your mum and dad and Rory and Gilda.”

       “And who will be at my left shoulder, then?”

       “Who else?  Your Aunt Dora, puffing like a dragon but with the heart of a mallow, as always.”

       Frodo laughed in spite of himself as he looked into the eyes of his beloved Uncle Bilbo.  Bilbo’s eyes shone with a special light this night, as they stood together and watched the stars for a time before they went into the small summer house one last time together.

Dancing among the Stars

       I can’t believe it--you really are floating!  Frodo’s thought was full of delight and approval, and Sam’s face shone in response.

       “Well, couldn’t let the bairns outshine their old dad, could I?  Can’t do much more than keep myself in place, mind, but I can at least keep afloat till someone comes out to save me, I can.”  He let his feet drop till he again touched the bottom in the stone bathing pool. 

       Frodo slipped beneath the water and swam to the section near the rock wall opposite and shot up into the air, then fell back beneath the surface gracefully, the silver of his passing leaving a shining trail through the pool and lighting up the rest of the room.  He came back and pulled himself up on the rim area where a bather could just lie comfortably, lapped gently by the waters.  After I arrived, this was as far as I could go for the longest time, he commented.  Well, I think I’m ready to get out.  He rose from the water and walked out of the room to the bedroom, Sam hastily following behind, wrapping a towel about him as he came. 

       “I don’t rightly know why you insisted on bathing--it’s not that you get dirty or sweaty any more.”

       It simply feels fitting, I suppose.  Plus, it is so good to rejoice in water once more.  Frodo already had his wardrobe open, was pulling on drawers, then a still-fine shirt of soft blue embroidered with stars.  He went to the chest, and brought out dark silver-grey trousers, then his braces and buttoned them into place, and finally from a drawer slipped out of silver paper a green figured waistcoat and donned it.

       “So, that’s what became of that,” Sam commented as he dressed more slowly.  “If it hadn’t been for old Gandalf’s arrival, I bet you and Mr. Bilbo would still be at it to this day, glaring at each other about whether you needed another one or not.”

       Best argument I ever lost, agreed Frodo, laughing.

       Silver and golden forms stood for a moment when done, looked at one another grinning.  Then Sam turned away toward his bed.

       What are you doing now?

       “Getting a blanket.”

       Frodo laughed with astonishment.  Whatever for?  It’s been a warm day and will be a warm night, and the grass is soft as soft enough to lie upon--you will see.

       “All right for you to say, you know--you’re nought much more than Light and Breath, after all.”

       So are you Light and Breath as well, Sam.  It’s all I can do to do more than just look at you, fill myself with the wonder of your golden Light.

       “Well, maybe that’s so, but this golden Light you see is still wrapped inside a substantial bit of Hobbit that likes its comforts.”

       Frodo laughed aloud, filling the room with his delight.  “You will see!” he said aloud.

       “Well, if you are sure...”

       I am certain.  No, Sam, surely you’re not making the bed?

       “Well, of course--can’t leave it untidy, can I?”

       Frodo was shaking with mirth, then moved to assist Sam, straightening sheets and the soft blankets.  Then, he grew solemn, looked into Sam’s eyes.  Are you certain?

       “Well, I asked him to tell me when it was Midsummers and he did, this morning.  Gandalf wouldn’t be wrong about that, or tease us about it, would he?”

       No, Sam, he wouldn’t.  And that’s not what I meant.  Are you certain you are ready?  You haven’t been here all that long, after all.

       “I know as I’m ready, Frodo.  My Rosie is waiting, and the Gaffer and my mum and Ham and Old Tom and Lily.  Are you certain?”

       Oh, yes, I’m ready--fully ready.  I, too, have ones to see.  You have fulfilled my waiting, have brought so much to share with me.  I am content.

       Their eyes met again, and together they nodded.  Sam neatly folded the towel and hung it over the basket provided, and followed Frodo to the porch, where two glasses of wine sat waiting for them.  Sam examined his friend’s figure.  “The clothes somehow don’t seem to fit with the shining of you--probably ought to have worn one of them robes they gave you.”

       No, not tonight, Sam.  Tonight I’m a Hobbit again, doing Hobbit things--bathing, having a drink with my best friend and almost brother, going for a walk to sit out and look at the stars, thinking of sleep.

       “You let me choose the time--what’s the place?”

       Is the White Tree all right with you?

       “Yes, feel close to them, and especially to Strider.” 

       They took their glasses and walked quietly through the Gardens.  “Frodo, did you tell her to kiss me like that?”

       Tell who to kiss you like what, and when?

       “Rosie, when we was starting for the Havens.”

       I told her to kiss you, but didn’t tell her to do it in any special way.  Then, after a pause, he added, What was the kiss like?

       Sam laughed.  “She kissed me with promise.  I was so took by that kiss, I almost took off my cloak and said for you to go ahead and I’d catch up as I could.”

       Frodo’s delighted laughter lit the trees and shrubs.  Tell me--was that promise fulfilled?

       “Fulfilled?  Why else would we go on to have eleven more after Frodo-Lad came?”  Both filled the night with their joy and humor as they continued on till they came to the White Tree.  Both sat down, Frodo with his back against the bole of the Tree, Sam beside him, and they looked out at the stars around them as they finished their wine.  Sam took Frodo’s glass when it was empty and set it with his own on a nearby rock, then turned to look at Frodo, already relaxing back against the shining bark behind him. 

       “You think as maybe we should of waited for them?”

       No, let them find us after.  His thoughts were quiet for a time as he sought to take his fill of the stars.  Oh, the wonder of them all, he finally shared.  They are so full of light and beauty.  You know, Sam, I’ve always wanted to dance among them.

       “You’ve always been a one for stars.  Used to be like they were more filling to you than food and drink.  But you’re right--they are perfect.”

       And who was it found hope in the star seen in Mordor, or sang to me of stars as jewels caught in the hair of beech trees?

       Sam lay back upon the grass, his hands behind his head.  “Much softer than many places as we’ve slept in, I must say.”

       Frodo’s thought was slow, stilling as his form relaxed toward release:  Yes, that’s true.  His eyes were open and bright, shining equally to the lights above him, his own Light pulsing with theirs, his face shining with contentment.

       “Well,” said another voice, “I should have known.  Slipping away again, Frodo Baggins?  You do make a habit of this practice, I must say.”

       The laughter filled the Garden of the Tree, but was quieter now, gentler as he who had been Frodo Baggins stilled even more.  You know, Gandalf, that I’ve always hated taking leave of those I love. 

       Olórin stood over him, a shining garment over his arm, his face gentle, filled with sadness, pride, and love.  “Yes, I certainly know that.  However, you will miss the entertainment planned for this evening if you slip away right now.  There are many who wish to honor the two of you this night, and they have left it to me to present it.”  He looked into the blue eyes of the shining soul resting against the Tree and added, I promise it will be worth while.  Can you linger just a bit?

       Somewhat reluctantly, Frodo nodded his agreement.  A few now joined them, while across the Island and throughout the whole of the Undying Lands the inhabitants of Aman came out beneath the stars to watch two points of Light beneath the White Tree on Tol Eressëa. 

       The Lady Galadriel knelt by the two of them, leaned down to kiss each on the brow.  Frodo looked up into her eyes and smiled gently.  Do you think the bowl is ready to return to the King’s table? his thought asked her.

       “Oh, yes, Ringbearer--it is now refilled.  Rejoice in your release.”  She then moved beyond them to sit by Celeborn.

       Elrond and Celebrían leaned over them in blessing.  “Bear my greetings to my brother,” the Elven lord murmured softly.  The blue eyes indicated his willingness.

       The young Lady Livwen paused by he who had been her friend, ran her fingers through his hair, smiled into his already distant gaze.  “Go with joy, Iorhael,” she murmured.

       You will find me with you, his thought said in a murmur, lingering near your right shoulder.  He turned his attention to the Maia.  So much for slipping away quietly.  Gandalf laughed, but there were shining tears in his eyes as he prepared. 

       Elrond said quietly, “What of after, Iorhael, Panthail?”

       Sam murmured, “Wrap me in my Lorien cloak and lay me in the garden there, near the summer house, the one he’s tended.  It’ll mean the most.”

       “Iorhael?”

       Whatever is left, give it to the Sea.  Lord Ulmo has ever been kind to me.

       Olórin held out the mantle he carried, a mantle seemingly made of Light, helped Frodo lean forward as he laid it over the shining shoulders.  It really is not of this place, is meant to go with you, he indicated.  Gently he helped the slight, glowing form lie back against the Tree again, and they shared one last look with one another.  Bear my greetings to my brethren there, and those we know.

       I promise.

       All went quiet, and Gandalf gestured to the sky above them.  “Behold,” he said, very softly.

       Frodo’s face shone with awe and growing delight as the stars began to turn and dance in swirls and circles and spirals, loops and fountains, the figures growing ever more complex and intricate.

       “Well, I never!” exclaimed Sam quietly.  “Oh, Mr. Frodo--it’s like the fireworks at the Party, only more splendid!”  His face was shining more and more golden in response to the shining above.

       Frodo’s own Light was shining ever brighter and brighter, until he could no longer contain himself.  Oh, Sam--it’s so right!  I must join the dance!  I must!

       “I’m right at your side, Frodo, I’m right at your side!”

       Laughing, they reached out shining hands to one another, rose up, and sped upwards to dance among the dancing stars, leaving behind one quiet body and a line of Anor’s fire as they quitted Arda at the last.  And as their Lights, golden and mithril silver, finally turned West, Olórin could see another Light waiting for theirs to join its own.

Tomorrow shall be my Dancing Day.
I would my True Love would so chance
To see the legend of my play,
To call my True Love to the Dance.
Sing O, my love, my love, my love--
This have I done for my True Love.
From a medieval carol

Promise

       A line of mounted Guardsmen behind the Lord Steward Elboron awaited the arrival of the King’s party at the opening to the Rammas Echor.  “Welcome back, my Lord, my Lady, my Lord Eldarion, my Lady Idril, my Lady Melian!” seemed to echo from all sides as the soldiers stationed on the outer wall, mounted Lords, and locals from the nearest portions of the Pelennor called out their greetings. 

       King and Steward gave their formal greetings.  “Your father?” asked Aragorn.

       “He is in the Citadel, awaiting your arrival.  He is much recovered from the brainstorm in May.”  He looked with interest at the small wagon that followed the horsemen in the King’s party.  “Pheriannath?”

       “Yes--Hamfast grandson of Samwise, come to serve the gardens of Minas Anor.  He begged for the honor.  He and his family desire to serve me here.”

       “There in the North--did you see, on Midsummer’s night----?”

       “The dancing stars?  Oh, yes, all saw it.”

       “Was it...?”

       “We believe so, although Lord Glorfindel will say neither yea nor nay.  But he sang the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers just before.”  Elboron nodded and smiled broadly, looking briefly to the West, then turned his steed to lead the way back to the city. 

       The arrival at the city gates went relatively swiftly as the report of the Captain of the Guard was formally placed in the King’s hands.  All dismounted here, and the journey on foot up to the seventh level begun.

       Wreaths of flowers were hung, the King noted, about the necks of the four figures in the memorial to the Ringbearer and his companions, with the most hung about the necks of Frodo and Samwise; flowers and greenery were also set in vases and laid upon the ground before them.  There were many, apparently, who had interpreted the wonder of Midsummer just as it had been interpreted in Annúminas.

       Aragorn indicated to the seneschal and housekeeper that he and Arwen would receive their reports in the morning, and sought out Faramir, who sat in a comfortable chair in the rooms given to the use of the Steward and his family within the Citadel.  Aged eyes were raised to the eyes of the King Elessar, and Faramir would have risen had not the King reached him first and pressed down on his shoulder, then set fingers on each temple, seeking to see how things went. 

       “Do not worry, Aragorn--I have recovered well enough.  Some weakening of the right leg and the grip of the right hand--I will not be able to wield a blade again, nor my bow.  But I am glad I had already passed the office to Elboron--I was incapacitated for well over a month in its wake.”  The former Steward of Gondor smiled, examined his liege.  “You look most well--little older than when first I opened eyes to greet you so long ago.”

       Aragorn smiled, but focused on his examination, closed his eyes and let his fingers feel deeply.  Finally he came back present, and looked into the eyes of his friend, and smiled more fully.  “You will be with us yet a time, my Prince.”

       Faramir smiled in return, but it was somewhat solemn.  “I will accept the Gift soon enough, and will not regret it.”  After a moment’s thought, he went on, “You know, my Lord, I find I do not envy you your purer blood--you have already seen so many you have loved gone before you, must miss their company.”

       Aragorn examined his face in return, then said quietly, “I will know the joy of that many more reunions on that day.”  He rose, turned to another chair in the room, brought it near to sit by his former Steward here in the South.  At last he asked, “Where were you on Midsummer’s night, Faramir?”

       “I was sitting out on the terrace of Emyn Arnen with my son and grandson.  I’d slept most of the day, felt restless, so they helped me outside.  We undoubtedly had a better view there than they had here in the city.  Frodo has at last gone on, then, and Samwise with him.”

       “Yes, apparently.”

       “Did Elboron tell you of the other special happening of that day?”

       “Other special happening?”

       “Yes, a long hoped-for gift was given us.”  He turned to the table beside him, picked up the small silver call bell that sat there and rang it. 

       A moment later Mistress Annen arrived.  “Yes, my Lord?”

       “Will you please ask my son and Lord Hirgion to bring the bowl here?” asked Faramir.

       She smiled.  “The bowl?  Oh certainly, my Lord.  They have waited with anticipation to present it to the King on his return.”

       She hurried out, and Aragorn looked after her, then looked back to Faramir with a look of question in his eyes.  Faramir, however, was intent on this remaining a surprise, and smiled while shaking his head.  “Hold yourself in patience, my King--this is worth the waiting.”

       Arwen and her children now entered, followed by Hamfast Gardner, his wife Iris, and their three children.  Faramir straightened in surprise, carefully rose to his feet, and gave a measured, respectful bow.  “Welcome to Minas Anor, friends.  It is an honor to greet you.”  He raised his eyes to those of Aragorn.  “This is most fortuitous.  These are the Lord Samwise’s kin?”

       “One of his grandsons and his family.  We have granted Master Hamfast here the title of Master Gardener for the Citadel.”

       “Ah, then he will find this most interesting, and I believe it is most, most fitting that this should be presented to you in his presence.  Master Hamfast, in honor of your grandfather I greet you most gladly indeed.  Please come to stand by us as my son fetches something that I believe you will find worthy of note.”

       The door opened, and a procession of sorts entered, first one of the Guards of the White Tree, then Hirgion of the Keys carrying his staff of office, then the Lord Steward Elboron carrying a familiar bowl covered with a cloth of silver, embroidered with the image of the White Tree in blossom, lying over it.

       The great bowl was a thing of beauty: blue in color basically, it nevertheless shimmered with all colors of the rainbow in a fascinating display as the light played over its surface.  It had been given to the King and Queen many years ago by Frodo Baggins, shortly before he left Minas Tirith and Gondor to return to his own land; and King and Queen treasured it.  Usually when they were in residence in the Citadel it was kept full of fruit and lay in the center of a table in their own quarters.  When they were gone it was usually kept in a locked glass cabinet to assure its safety.  Why it should be brought out now and what it might bear was a mystery.  Aragorn and Arwen looked to one another in question--and then suddenly the King realized what it must contain.  His face stilled, his mouth opened slightly in wonder, his eyes looked again at the Guard who led the procession and who stood proudly as Elboron knelt before his King, proffering the bowl. 

       Gently, reverently, the King raised the cloth, looked into the bowl at the great fruit that lay there, one which had not been seen in the city of Kings for over eleven hundred years--the fruit of the White Tree.  Gently he stroked it with one finger, awe in his eyes.  He took a deep breath, then signed Hamfast and his family to come near, to look.  He saw the interest in the eyes of the Perian, the gentleness with which he, too, reached forward to touch the fruit, as he sought to learn of it, to know its ways.  Then Eldarion came forward, and he, too, stroked it, bowed low in respect.

       Elboron explained.  “The day of Midsummer the Tree suddenly blossomed fully once more, and no one could say why.  That night the Guards say the blossoms shone bright in the starlight as the stars danced and turned in the West.  The light of the two great comets shone on them, most brightly at the top of the Tree.  As the petals began to fall away, it could be seen that a single fruit was growing there at the top where the light had shone.  It fell yesterday--I have stood watch below the Tree for days, waiting for that, and caught it.  All agreed--this was the vessel in which it should be placed.

       “Rejoice, my Lord, for the promise is renewed.”

       Gently the King lifted out of the bowl the fruit, held it in his hands, blessed it as he had been taught, gave thanks for it, then returned it to the bowl and covered it respectfully once more.  Eldarion took the bowl, and accompanied by the Guard he took it back to the King’s quarters where it would remain the night.

       Early on the next day the King and his son carried the bowl up the mountain to the Hallows where the current White Tree had been found as a sapling, and with great reverence planted the fruit and the seed it contained as directed in the ancient lore.  Eldarion finally left his father there to return to the Citadel to see to the business of the day; and Aragorn remained for a time, giving thanks for many things--for the wonder of the ripened fruit, for the wonder of the dancing stars, for the joy of knowing that Frodo and Sam had known blessed lives, relief, and release in a most blessed manner.  The Sun had fallen past her zenith ere he came down again, reluctantly but competently reentered the business of the realm.

*******

       The blossoms of the White Tree of Tol Eressëa fell over the place where the two mortal guests of the island had found their release--all save one, near the top of the Tree where the silver and golden Lights had reflected most brightly.  A fruit grew there, and many of the residents of the Island came daily to do honor to it, while many came from all throughout Aman in pilgrimage to gaze upon it.  When at last it ripened and fell, the Lady Livwen was granted the honor of planting it.  Elves and Maiar came to watch, and all felt the interest of the Valar as they waited to see where she would place it.

       Long she stood, her eyes closed, as she sang the honor all felt for this Gift, as she held it for all to see.  Finally she went still for a long time, and she waited for direction.  Then, when at last her eyes opened, she looked up and smiled, then gently carried the fruit back through the gardens to a place near the small summer house where Iorhael had dwelt so long alone until the coming of his friend.  She brought the fruit to the place where the body of Samwise Gamgee had been laid with great respect, stood silently there for a moment, addressed one more song of question, then bowed deeply as the choice was confirmed.  A spade was brought, a hole dug, the fruit planted with the same respect shown to the one who had been buried there.

       Now began the wait, the wait for the promise to be fulfilled, a wait kept jointly in Aman and in Middle Earth.

Author's Notes

       Several things in this story have been influenced by life experiences I've had.

       All have, I think, heard of the eruptions of Mount Saint Helens in Washington some years ago.  We could not see the clouds of ash where we lived, yet they found traces of the ash miles north of us, showing that the south wind that blew on one of the days had carried it high and far.  During one of the eruptions the wind was in the west, and the ash that time was scattered over eastern Washington state, even some into Idaho.  On another day the wind was from the northeast, and the bulk of the ash fell on Vancouver, Washington, and across the Columbia River in Portland, Oregon.  The ash fall was so heavy the carburators of many older cars were blocked, and the replacement of air filters was quite heavy in the days following.

       Glassblowers used this ash to create some of the most gorgeous carnival-glass style bowls, vases, and ornaments you can imagine; thus was born the thought of Frodo's gift to Arwen and Aragorn before leaving Gondor.

       Here in the Pacific Northwest we have a great number of brown recluse spiders.  These are usually non-offending creatures, but from time to time they will bite, and the bites have been found to cause a fascinating variety of effects, from necrosis of the tissue surrounding the bite which can lead to death of the skin all over the body as the infection moves out from the bite, to autoimmune system difficulties down the road, serious arthritic symptoms, intestinal disorders, and so on.  The effects of spider and tick bites are now being treated a great deal more seriously than they ever were before in light of the variety of ills with which they have been found to be associated.

       I also admit to having wondered many times just what did happen to Ungoliant.  Cirith Ungol, after all, was named after her.  I was influenced by a fantasy story I once read, I think by Orson Scott Card, which was written as a monologue by a great male spider about the love he held for his even more immense mate, who finally ate him and was grateful for the silence at last.

       The symptoms I've given Frodo are of angina, small and perhaps some more major heart attacks, and congestive heart disease as I've seen in friends and family, and some of the digestive problems I myself have experienced over the years--I do not recommend Irritable Bowel Syndrome, hiatal hernias, or acid reflux disease, or some of the other problems I've had--they aren't a lot of fun.  I've also slipped in some of the problems my husband experienced in his myriad maladies he entertained in his last couple years.  The swiftness with which he could grow weak, then seem to recover I've given to Frodo.  I also believe that Tolkien was describing in Frodo shell shock as he perhaps had known in himself and saw in friends, colleagues, and students and his his companions in the hospitals he stayed in before his release back to his wife after his own World War One experiences.  The condition certainly was rampant in both the United States and England after the Great War, and was described in many books written in the era, including Abraham Merrit's book The Ship of Ishtar.

       We had an antique store for some years, and a bottle collector came to our Victorian-era town to dig up for them.  He found the pit from the site of the out house that once stood on the property where our house stood.  Among the things he found were a number of opium ampules from China.  These small vials were hand blown, then after being filled were sealed with a blob of molten glass placed over the lip of the vial.  The bottle collector found opium vials and often the sealing blobs as well all throughout our town, while others were found by divers off the piers of downtown and in a dump area that was covered by the waters of Puget Sound in a nearby community, and many of them passed through our shop.  Several were found below the foundations of our church as well, which makes us wonder how many sailors found the door under its floor would open for them to find a night's shelter from our area's hallmark rains and drizzles.

       I admit once more that Budgie and Viola Smallfoot and their relationship with Fredegar Bolger were borrowed from Lindelea, and I bless her for her allowing me to use them in my own stories, although their relationship with Frodo and the gender and name of their child are different in my stories than in hers.

       I've visited England many times, and it's fascinating to visit some of the older cities and see the layers to their walls, and to see the soot clinging to walls and buildings decades and often centuries after great fires.  The descriptions of the soot on the walls of Minas Anor that I gave in The King's Commission were based in part on the memories particularly of Coventry, where the effects of the fire bombing by the Nazis can still be seen.

       Some of the dialogue in Grace to Wake came from my previous story Filled with Light as with Water, so if it seems familiar, that is why.  All of my stories so far are tied together in one way or another.

       I also borrowed a bit of dialogue from The Scouring of the Shire in ROTK for use in the chapter Degradation, so it, also ought to feel familiar.

       No, I don't own any of these characters, but I certainly have come to love them in the past almost forty-two years now.