The title for this fic is taken from the song, by Keane:
This could be the end of everything
So why don’t we go somewhere only we know?
 
 
 

Somewhere Only We Know

Primula is 59 and Frodo 11 (about 38 and 7 in Man years)

5 Astron, 1380 SR

Primula had seen her husband off to his work early that morning. He was to be working with the carpenters and crafters today, as he did sometimes when he was building things, to ask their advice or chat away the long, tedious hours. Today, he was finishing the headboard of their new bed. He had a talent for carving and woodworking, and he wanted to gift his wife with the finished product on his birthday. It was to be a prelude to the real gift he was making for her: a new smial, small and cozy for their little family. However, his birthday was still two weeks away, and Primula wasn’t terribly good at waiting. He had been working on that headboard for close to a month, and she felt she had been patient long enough.

So after elevenses, she packed a picnic luncheon, being sure to pack all of Frodo’s favorite foods. She made a mental note to stop by the market later to get more mushrooms, as they were once again out. Frodo loved mushrooms and could eat a whole bag of them in one sitting, if his father didn’t beat him to it. Between the two of them, it was a wonder that Farmer Maggot’s fields were not reaped dry. She took up the basket and the thick wool blanket and went outside to fetch her rambunctious son.

They lived in a large house just east of Bucklebury, secluded from view of the road by many hedges and trees, but easily accessible to the bustling town. Frodo often went into town with nary a word to her of where he was going, so she was not the least bit concerned to step out of the house to find not a sight or sound of him. She knew he had gone off to meet his friends there, to play about or discuss in depth such important things as toads and earthworms, or how best to knock apples out of trees without bruising them. When those topics were exhausted, he would talk his friends into some new game he had invented the night before when he should have been sleeping.

Frodo was a wily thing, as active as any child, quick to laugh and quicker still to get into mischief, which he always managed to come away from appearing completely innocent. He was an unusually perceptive child; everyone noted how quickly he grasped and understood things, especially when it came to someone’s feelings.

They also noted his wild imagination. That would be Drogo’s influence, what with him always telling the lad those silly stories of Bilbo’s, about dragons and elves and dwarves, giant spiders and talking trolls, riding down rivers on barrels and dining with men who turn into bears. It was no surprise Frodo adored Bilbo so and would pounce on the old hobbit for more stories of adventures the moment he walked through the door.

Bilbo was coming to visit in the coming weeks for Drogo’s birthday and Frodo could speak of nothing else. With each day, he grew more excited and impatient, and Primula hoped that the picnic would help distract him a little. That, and give her a good peek at the headboard. Not that she would be able to see anything distinct from the distance they would be looking, but it would at least assuage her curiosity for the time being.

She locked the door, rounded the house to the lane and headed up to the road. Within five minutes, she was winding her way through the streets of Bucklebury, calling ‘hullo’ and ‘good day’ to everyone she passed. There was no question in her mind of where she would find Frodo. The lad had a one-tracked mind and it was always the first place he went, the meeting ground for his group of friends.

She turned the corner to the back of the sweet shop and found Frodo standing atop some precariously stacked crates, trying to look through the window at the various treats being baked inside. Several other children were impatiently waiting their turn, tugging at the cuffs of his breeches in vain attempts to get him to come down. Frodo absent-mindedly batted their hands away and stretched himself up on his tiptoes to get a better look. None of them noticed the shadow that fell over them.

“Frodo Baggins, you best get down from there before you fall and break something,” Primula warned sternly.

Frodo turned his head and smiled up at her. “I won’t break anything, Mama,” he said as he shifted his weight to turn around, the crates tipping as he did so. Primula’s heart gave a slight drop, but Frodo quickly steadied himself and jumped down from the crates easy as you please. He grinned up impishly at his mother, his smile widening as he spied the picnic basket and he realized where they were going. He reached up eagerly and took the blanket that was handed down to him.

“You children get on,” Primula told the other children and waited for them to walk away with heads hung. She knew as soon as she left and they were certain no other adults were around, they would be back, but for now at least she had done her part to ensure their safety.

They made their way out of town and walked south down the road for about a half-mile. Then they looked around to make sure no one else was about. As far as they knew, they were the only ones who ever came to their little hideaway and they wanted to keep it that way. When they were certain they would not be spied, they turned off the road and down a scantily traveled path that led into a field of tall weeds and wildflowers of yellow, purple and white, and tall stems of foxtails. In the distance, they could see their home, grand and impressive, surrounded by fig and beech trees, before they were lost completely to the flowers. Soon, they could no longer even look back to see the road that lay behind them, and no one traveling upon it would be able to see them if they should glance out over the field of waving flowers. They were completely alone and had only the trail to show them the way.

After a mile or so, the flowers gave way to bare grassland, which immediately began to climb into slopes on one side, and continued on in flat plains on the other. On the distant horizon to the south were a couple of scattered vineyards, designated only by a mere hint of long rows of grapes. When they reached the third slope, they turned and began to climb. The slant was gradual at first and required no greater skill than merely walking up a hill. Near the top however, the slant grew steep and the footing was made more difficult as grass gave way to sleek moss and moist dirt.

“Be careful Fro,” Primula warned and tightened her grasp on the little hand that was held securely in hers.

“I am, Mama,” Frodo said and trotted sure-footed at her side to prove his point. He never slipped.

They slowly and carefully made their way up the steep slope to the summit, on which grew beech and maple trees and bushes of juniper. They walked nearly to the other side of the summit, which looked north over the slopes that ran down into another field. The shrubbery blocked off their view of most of their surroundings, but they knew exactly where they needed to sit to see the north field unhindered. Frodo laid the blanket on the ground and, always the gentlehobbit, took his mother’s hand to help her sit.

“Shall we eat now or later?” Primula asked and was answered by a rumble of Frodo’s empty stomach. “Now it is then,” she laughed and emptied the basket.

Frodo dived for the mushroom meatloaf first and Primula piled the rest of his plate with fruit and salad. She handed him a cup and poured him some cooled sweet tea before fixing her own plate. Frodo scooted over so he was leaning against her side and sat munching on his meatloaf as he stared out over the field.

They were at Crafter’s Field, where the craftsmen often came to get away from the noise and bustle of the town. They came here once a week to run their ideas by other craftsmen or to experiment with ways to improve their skills without being interrupted every few minutes by a customer or some commotion outside. The field was only a mile from town, but it was far enough to keep the townsfolk from wandering out here to bother the crafters.

From where they sat, Primula and Frodo could see everything that happened on the field. They could spot Drogo with ease; as always, he was the fattest hobbit there. They could follow the crafters’ movements back and forth across the field, and could usually make out their larger hand gestures as they spoke to each other. They could see the items that were being worked on, if the items were big enough, and could sometimes determine by the shape of them what those items were. Other than that, everything else was guesswork.

They watched the craftshobbits in comfortable silence as they ate their meal, Frodo’s free hand reaching up to lazily circle his fingers in his mother’s trailing curls. Primula draped an arm around Frodo’s back and she held him close, treasuring as always these quiet, simple moments with her only child.

They have always done this, come here to watch Drogo. She got into the habit when she and her husband were first courting and she couldn’t keep her head on straight if she went too long without seeing him somehow. This was the most practical solution, as she was able to indulge herself without embarrassing him or letting him know how fool-in-love she was with him. Even after they married, she would come here to watch him, marveling at her luck to be his wife. When Frodo was born, she had stopped coming for a while, but only until he could walk fine on his own; she did not trust herself to make it up the slope with him in her arms. Drogo never had a clue they were there and this became a secret ritual of Frodo’s and hers.

They came out less and less often as the years went by, but it was always a special treat, a chance to just be with Frodo, without having to be anywhere or do anything. She understood well why the craftshobbits came here to work on particularly difficult pieces. It wasn’t just the sunshine and fresh air, or the tranquil silence. It was the easing of the mind, the emptying of worries and responsibilities and obligations that one got so wrapped up in while in town. Here, the only thing that mattered was Frodo’s small body pressed against her side and his hands combing through her hair and his satisfied hums as he ate his food and watched his father.

Time passed slowly, stretching out languidly and imperceptibly. An hour could pass without them being aware of it, and the only thing to tell them when it was getting late was the sinking of the sun and the gradual darkening of their surroundings. For now the sun hung high in the sky and shined down merrily, bathing the field in a warm golden glow and lighting up patches of the ground around them as the rays filtered through the canopy of leaves above them.

When they finished their meal and were filling in the corners, Primula pointed to Drogo and said, “Do you know what he’s thinking right now?”

Frodo smiled, his eyes lighting up with joy. This was an old game of theirs, guessing what the crafters were thinking or talking about. Primula often permitted Frodo to lead the game and the child never ceased to amaze her with the things he would make up.

Frodo leaned forward, serious now as he considered the question. He nibbled on his lower lip thoughtfully. “He’s thinking… that he can’t believe he missed luncheon.”

Primula laughed sweetly. “You’re probably right about that lad, unless he ate before we got here.”

“No, that would have been too early,” Frodo said with confidence. “He hasn’t eaten yet, but see! Now he’s looking up and all around. He’s hungry, I know he is.”

Sure enough, just a few moments later, Drogo pulled himself to his feet, stretched his back and walked over to the meal cart. The other craftshobbits took this as their cue to pause in their own work and soon everyone was sitting around the meal cart, eating and chatting. A few hobbits sat next to Drogo and before long, Drogo was waving his hands about, every now and again pointing to the north.

“What are they saying?” Primula prompted.

Frodo looked down at his father and smiled. “He’s talking about our new home. See, he keeps pointing north, towards Crickhollow.”

“And what is he telling them?”

“He’s telling them that it’s finished at last. Tomorrow he’ll start moving in the furniture and things, and in two weeks we’ll be moving in, on his birthday. It’s his present to us.”

“Yes it is. And we’ll be so happy there, won’t we Fro?”

“Yes, we will. He’s telling them… that it’s just the right size for us and you won’t feel lonely anymore. You won’t cry anymore. … Will you Mama?”

Primula looked down at her son, who was watching her with questing and sympathetic eyes. She saw the concern in those bright blue eyes and could have wept simply for causing him to worry. Too often lately, he woke to the sound of her crying or came in from playing to find her sitting by a cold hearth, staring out at nothing. Yes, this move would be good for them. They could start over somewhere new, with no more rooms than what they needed, instead of a long hallway of empty bedroom after empty bedroom, a cruel reminder of the large family she couldn’t have.

Not that they haven’t tried. Primula did everything she could think of that would help her conceive again, and when she finally did last summer, they had celebrated the joyful triumph. But it was short lived. She woke in pain one Winterfilth night, the bed sheets soaked in blood. The loss nearly did her in, both physically and emotionally, and it was then that Drogo began working on their new home.

He hired drudgers to hollow out a small hill just off Crickhollow Lane before the frosts froze the ground completely. Through the long winter, there was a constant myriad of workers in and out of the house, working on plans for the smial, distracting Primula with their questions, asking her which paint colors, which tile, which door marking. Every small detail of the home on which they needed approval was passed by her first. As soon as the thaw would allow, they began the building of the smial. Drogo rushed the workers to get it completed as quickly as possible, not wanting Primula to be haunted by her loss anymore than she needed to be, distracting her again with the promise of this headboard.

Now that the smial was finished, Primula was feeling a strange mix of both anticipation and grief. This was the closing of a door, and she knew it. Once they moved, there would be no more hoping, no more dreaming, and it pained her more than she cared to admit, more than Drogo could ever understand. Yet it was a beginning also; they would be moving forward, with no looking back or lingering on what might have been. She was eager to start this new chapter of their life and bestow upon Frodo all the love and attention the child deserved.

She accepted at last that she would not have the large family she had dreamt of since childhood, but she did have Frodo. The lad had such a big heart and free spirit that he easily made up for her losses. There would be no regrets to see him grown into a strong, strapping lad and there was always the hope of grandchildren.

She bit back her tears and smiled warmly. She hugged Frodo tightly and kissed the top of his curly head, then went on to smother his face in wet, sloppy kisses until he groaned in protest. She laughed then and released him from her attentions, and he laughed too and wiped the kisses away with a shirtsleeve.

“No, I won’t cry anymore,” Primula promised. “And you’ll make lots of new friends there and we’ll go visit your aunts, uncles and cousins whenever you please. We’ll grow a garden, and take long walks, and never worry for nothing again.”

“I’m ever so glad Mama. Could I learn to play the tambour, like you did at my age?”

“You could learn whatever you wish to, dearest.”

“So what is he telling them about our smial?” Frodo asked, going back to the game.

“He’s saying that, of course, he built it all with his own two hands, with no help from anyone. He laid the tile and paneled the walls, he installed the plumbing and furbished the kitchen cabinets and pantry just to my liking, from blue prints he designed himself.”

“So that’s why they’re laughing so hard,” Frodo quipped, as the group around his father clapped their knees and threw their heads back.

“That would be why,” Primula said, laughing herself.

“Now they’re telling him that they know it was Avron who laid the tile, and it was Grimibold’s team that did all the woodwork and cupboards, and Benton was the one who did the plumbing, and the only thing Daddy had to do with the blue prints was stare at them and scratch his head,” Frodo put in.

“You know your father far too well,” Primula said. “He doesn’t have many talents, but what he does do, he does well. I just wish he would tell me what he’s carving into that headboard.”

Frodo only smiled and leaned into his mother, his arms wrapped snuggly around her waist. He knew, of course, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother that. If there was one thing she had taught him, it was how to keep a secret.

His father had showed him the sketch he had drawn a month before when he first started working on it and Frodo now brought it up in his mind’s eye. He could see it perfectly. Along the legs of the headboard would be etched primroses, Primula’s namesake flower. On the headboard itself would be the banks of the Brandywine, the dock of the Bucklebury Ferry and two figures sitting upon it, fishing under stars and moonlight, an eternal reminder of the night his parents first knew they loved each other. Frodo couldn’t wait to see his mother’s face when she saw it tomorrow morning.

They stayed there until late in the afternoon, playing their game until their stomachs warned them that it was nearly time for tea. They packed the basket and stood to stretch their legs before they began the long walk back home. The craftshobbits wouldn’t leave until the sun began to wan, but Primula and Frodo needed to be home and have a meal cooking before that happened. If Drogo came home to a cold and empty house, he would worry or, worse yet, begin to suspect something. Primula also needed to get into town and purchase more mushrooms and a few other items for the larders.

They walked back to their home, Frodo’s hand clasped in his mother’s, simply enjoying the blissful peace of their surroundings. As they emerged from the flower field and their home came into view, she looked down at the precious gift beside her. Her heart swelled with pride and love as she dusted the pollen from Frodo’s curls and he started chattering excitedly about what they would cook for his father.

A devoted husband and a darling son, she really could not ask for more. She truly was blessed.
 
 

The end.
 
 

GF 5/7/05