In the midst of summer
by Cúthalion

June 1482

He steps out of the green door, the warm brightness an assault on his eyes. He blinks like an owl in daylight, and the neat row of flowerbeds and beanpoles is hardly more that a blurry riot of colors until he shakes his head in a laborious effort of will and can see clearly again.

To his right he beholds the rosebushes he planted after the restoration of Bag End, a lifetime ago… and sixty years later the kingly flowers still raise their heads with pride, spilling their heavy scent into the air. To his left the huge, straight candles of delphinium line the wall of the smial in a symphony of soft blue, a gentle reflection of the sky, and two weeks from now the garden heliotrope will start to bloom. With a sudden pang he remembers how the plants arrived only two years ago: sent through a royal messenger from Gondor and accompanied by an affectionate letter, written by Queen Arwen’s own hand. They have been Rosie’s pure delight, and she has spent many hours on the small wooden bench beside the heliotrope bed, inhaling the sweet fragrance of vanilla rising from the violet blossoms.

Until illness and age have robbed her even this last, innocent joy.

He hates himself for that thought; this is so unlike him, so foreign to his peaceful nature. He has always been able to discern when to fight and when to accept what life had in store for him. But now the solid ground beneath his feet has turned to cold water, a whirling vortex that sucks him in and makes him feel like drowning… like back on that day when he tried to follow Mr. Frodo’s boat on Parth Galen.

Strange that he thinks of Mr. Frodo right now. Watching him vanish behind the horizon on that elven ship... that was the last time he felt loss like a sharp knife turning in his heart... and now it is happening again. This year Midsummer has held no boisterous feast for the family… no dancing, no luscious meal under the party tree. This year the Gardener children have gathered around the bed of their mother like a nest of fledglings, cringing under the shadow of an upcoming loss. Rosie has always been the center of the smial, the warmth and the hearth fire, and on the evening of Midsummer the flame of her life has gone out like a candle stump.

"My dear Rose…“ he whispers, "My Rosie.“

He doesn’t weep. He hadn’t even wept when they lowered the simple coffin into the ground three days ago, and since then he has spent his days trying to comfort the children and grandchildren. They are so used to rely on his strength… he simply doesn’t have the heart to shake their unerring confidence by showing his grief and exhaustion.

But the nights are something entirely else. The nights find him lying in a bed that seems to have lost its purpose… to harbor them both, to give him the opportunity to reach out in the grey hours before dawn and touch her hand, her hair, her face. Now the other half of that bed is empty, and the gentle, reassuring rhythm of her regular breath beside him is gone forever.

He has fled the smial, the silence in the kitchen that was always filled with her singing voice, her infectious laughter, with the clatter of pots and pans and the delicious smell of the food she used to cook. Now it is Elanor who stokes the flames in the fireplace back to life. She knows all of her mother’s best recipes, and Rosie-lass manages the legendary apple pie with raisins and nuts nearly as perfect as her mother did… but the presence of his lasses means no real comfort, they only make the sudden, overwhelming chasm in his life even more palpable.

He has thought that the garden might help – his realm, the place where he has always found his personal peace of mind. The clean smell of soil has been nothing less than his ultimate remedy, that healing knowledge about growing things, about tender saplings, digging their way upward to the light. Now he stands in the warm summer haze, surrounded by a dulcet abundance of plants and flowers, amidst his very own kingdom, and he knows that he is bereft even of this last and most elemental solace.

The sound of two voices startles him out of his bitter numbness. At the far end of the resplendent garden he sees two figures, one big and one small. He makes his way down the path and finds his eldest son Frodo, kneeling with his own youngest beside a bed of carrots.

"… and you must cut the greenery away once you have got them out of the ground, lad,“ he hears Frodo say, "or they will dry out and get all wrinkly.“

"Wrinkly?“ Little Pip says, wrinkling his tiny nose in an unconscious response to the image. "Like Grandpa Sam’s face?“

"Like Grandpa Sam’s face, yes,“ his father replies, a shadow darkening his eyes momentarily.

Pip turns a carrot between his small fingers.

"Grandpa Sam is sad,“ he observes. "He misses Grandma Rosie.“

"As do I,“ Frodo whispers, leaning down and kissing the curly head of his son. He clears his throat and inconspicuously wipes his eyes with his sleeve. For heaven’s sake, this is his best shirt, Sam thinks, suddenly torn between misery and laughter, poor Primula will have a blue fit when she catches him wearing it while puttering around in the garden. His son’s wife is a pearl among hobbit women, and she has loved Rosie with a fervor close to reverent worship, but she lacks her mother-in law’s relaxed ease of handling the ordinary pitfalls of everyday life – at least thus far. She will get used to it, Sam thinks, gazing down with melancholy fondness on his son and grandchild.

The small boy might well be himself, he muses, making his first, awkward steps into the magical world of growing things, guided by the Gaffer’s hands. The Gaffer… he shouldered the burden of Bell’s loss by closing his heart like a thick door with heavy, wooden latches. And he tried his very best to be a reliable support for his children – a gruff, foul-tempered support sometimes, but a support nonetheless. And now he’s passed away… like Bell, like Lily Cotton… like Rosie.

For the first time he dares to let his thoughts wander into an unknown future. How will this future feel if he decides to go on without her? The former Mayor, the former gardener of Bag End, former friend of the legendary half-forgotten Ringbearer and a Ringbearer himself… alone now, left behind by loved ones who have taken unknown paths without turning back to him.

His children are most certainly going to gather around him, a shield against his sorrow, willing their lives to an unnatural halt because of the concern that their beloved father might be unable to be what he has always been for them. In the last few days he has worn a mask of serenity, but he knows that this mask will sooner or later show the first cracks, and the misery of his anxious offspring will turn to be only greater and more painful if he doesn’t find some way to ease their hearts… and his own.

"Frodo-lad?“

The young hobbit raises his gaze to him, and the look in his eyes only confirms what Sam was thinking only seconds before – a deep, naked fear of the change that has befallen all of them. He was right, and he can’t bear this any longer.

Sam takes a deep breath.

"Back into the smial, lads,“ he says, a tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The apple pie is most certainly out of the oven by now. And you are hungry, aren’t you?“

"Yes – apple pie!“ Little Pippin jumps to his feet, carrots and garden forgotten over the sweet promise of his favorite treat. "Come, Da…“, but Frodo hesitates.

"What about you?“ he asks. "Don’t you want some pie, too?“

"Not yet, my son,“ Sam takes in the sight of his eldest with loving wonder; Rosie’s eyes, her smile, combined with his own sturdy frame and barley blonde hair. This is not the golden grace of his firstborn daughter, not the faint echo of elvish beauty and magic from ancient times. In this hobbit he sees the whole Shire embodied, fruitful earth and triumphant harvests, adorned with ongoing thankfulness and earthbound joy. A worthy heir of everything they have fought for. "I would like to stay outside, only for a few moments. I’ll be right there with you, I promise.“

He follows Frodo and the wee one with his eyes, as they wander along the path; before long the tiny fingers of Little Pippin have sought for those of his father and they walk hand in hand. The green door closes behind them and he is alone once more.

He lowers himself carefully onto Rosie’s favorite bench beside the heliotrope… and for the very first time the face he beholds in his mind is not that of his wife, changed by pain, age and illness. He sees dark curls, tinged with silver, and an indigo gaze, filled with the familiar, hard-won peace he – finally! - begins to understand.

"Mr. Frodo.“ It is a half a sob, and at the same time a sigh of deep relief. He has been solid and whole for long, blessed years, exactly as his beloved master foresaw it. Frodo’s dreams for him have been fulfilled, and now it is time for a new path… a path that leads out through the garden gate and right into an adventure he’d never dared to dream of when he was young.

He chuckles under his breath.

"I told you I would follow you if only I could,“ he whispers, "even if it takes an elven boat to get me there. A boat, of all things!“

His eyes fall shut, and again he takes a deep breath. The fresh breeze of a sudden hope drives away the warm, sweet fragrance of his garden, and suddenly his nostrils are filled with the sharp tang of the sea.

It is time.

FIN