Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me. I get no money for my tales; nobody in their right mind would pay me for them.

For Marigold's latest tale challenge 43,  (Summer's End) my Muse led me to do some research about a typical part of the year that entails ghosts and spirits of the dead. I came across a Feast called, “Oidhche Shamhna”, otherwise known as Samhain. In short, it tells of the simple customs of this feast and how they came about. I found it very interesting, but also found it daunting to create a story utilising *everything* I learnt about it because I wanted to write about it *all*. In the end I decided to keep it simple -- like me, lol. 

Also, while musing this tale, I came upon the thought (probably not an original idea, but oh well) that Frodo *had* to have known for quite some time that he wouldn’t grow old in the Shire. Thus, the title, “The Year of Departure” was born, feeling Frodo probably behaved much like he did before the Quest. In spite of weathering illnesses, he spent his last year in the Shire trying to gather as many memories of his loved ones to take him into the West.

Enjoy...

Beta by: Marigold and Llinos

Summer's End

Crickhollow, Buckland, 30 Winterfilth 1420, S.R.

“Pip!” Merry called to his cousin once more. Pippin sat on the sofa beside a lovely young lass engaged in light conversation with her. In his hands, Merry balanced a tray of tankards overflowing with beer for the party guests. “We need the apples! There’s a sack of them in the cellar -- and don’t forget to wash them first.”

Merry loathed interrupting the lad’s cosy conversation, but there were guests to attend to. Together they were hosting a Summer’s End party and were kept busy with various requests for more beer, more party fare, or more fruitcake. The fruitcake, a Summer’s End tradition, was rather popular because of the brandy Estella had added to her recipe.

“All right, all right,” Pippin grumbled good-naturedly, then rose to perform his task. “I’ll be right back,” he smiled to the comely maiden still sitting on the sofa. “Can’t have a Summer’s End Party without dunking for apples.”

Just before he turned to walk away, Pippin observed Frodo sitting all alone on the other side of the room. Pippin looked over the party room; Fredegar sat in the opposite corner listening to a group of lads talking, Merry and he were busy being hosts, but where was Sam? Would he not keep his master company with simple conversation? He went over to Frodo and then carefully leant over the back of the chair, asking him of Sam’s whereabouts.

“He took Rosie to their bedroom,” Frodo answered casually, then returned to his people-gazing.

To Pippin, there was something in his cousin’s eyes that made him wonder what sort of temperament Frodo was in; whether he was lonely for company, or genuinely wanted to be left alone. Not being able to read Frodo unnerved Pippin to no end.

Pippin felt he knew Frodo almost as well as he knew Merry, however, he had noticed of late that their eldest cousin did seem to have a melancholy about him, or perhaps he was just pensive, but mostly he seemed sad. Pippin thought perhaps a bit of humour might help; before the Quest one of his witty remarks would often set Frodo to laughing...well, that was before the Quest.

Pippin bent closer to Frodo and whispered into to his ear, “We know they’re married and all, but you really must to speak to Sam about his and Rosie’s party habits. Running off so quickly to the bedroom sets a bad example for us tweenagers.”

Frodo looked away from Pippin, but the tween caught the hint of a smile. When Frodo turned his face back to his younger cousin, his countenance was more composed, though a sparkle still gleamed in his eyes. Frodo took Pippin’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He wanted to remember the warm touch of the lad’s slender hands. “I hope you plan to behave yourself this evening. Merry and I can’t be child-minders with all of these guests around.”

“That’s all right,” laughed Pippin. “I’ll just mind myself!”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Truly, Frodo,” Pippin implored sincerely, “are you feeling well?”

Frodo mustered an amiable smile to comfort his friend. “I am feeling well, thank you. But Rosie is another matter.” Frodo raised a finger to his lips to convey secrecy. “They want to give you, Merry, and Fredegar a surprise later.”

Pippin raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief and smiled. “A surprise? I doubt that would be a surprise to anyone who knows them. When is the bairn due?”

“Hush, Pippin! We shall let them be the ones to make any announcements,” said Frodo.

“Very well,” said Pippin, resigned to the fact that he now had a “secret” to keep for the rest of the night. He imagined the difficulty he would have this evening while trying to contain his joy for Sam and Rosie before the big “shocker”.

Pippin fetched the apples from the cellar, washed them as instructed, and then joined his cousins and friends with alternately dunking their heads into the barrel for the prize apple. It was customary for one apple to have coins pressed into it as an additional reward for the catch. In the end, it was Menthe who won the treasured fruit.

Next, there was the entertainment.  Tradition held that performing something artful would appease the shadows, the spirits of the dead. Pippin chose to sing a song, as did most of the other guests, but there was also poetry, musical instruments, and dancing. Merry did something different this year in that he offered to sketch anyone who would be a willing subject. He was a skilled artist and quick with a piece of charcoal in his hand.

Before all was said and done Merry had unconsciously sketched the face of Frodo, Pippin, Sam, Fredegar, and himself all on one parchment. Merry had no notion of what moved him to draw this picture of the five of them, but he did it anyway.

Frodo was impressed, as always, and praised his cousin's art. “What a wonderful talent you have, my dear cousin,” he said to Merry. “I think that is one of the best examples of your work.”

“You can have it, Frodo,” offered Merry without any forethought.

“Really?” asked an astonished Frodo.

“Really! I’d be delighted if you took it, Cousin,” Merry replied, quite pleased with his own handiwork and basking in Frodo’s appreciation of his craft.

Frodo possessed other samples of Merry’s drawings that he had been given over the years, but none matched this particular picture in detail or beauty. This was indeed Merry’s best effort, and Frodo immediately knew what he would do with this gift. He gratefully took the portrait from his cousin, his eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you, Merry. I shall treasure this forever.” Fortunately, no one caught the undercurrent of the last word.

Much later in the evening, when the exuberance of the party began to die down, the attention of the guests turned to other activities. By this time many guests had already left for the night. Mostly it was Merry’s closer related cousins who stayed for the pleasure of company. At length, it was Cousin Celandine who suggested ghost stories.

“Oh, please tell us one, Merry!” she said eagerly. “You Travellers were in the Outlands for over a year -- you must have seen something to make a ghost story out of.”

“Are you sure you want a ghost story?” Pippin asked uneasily. “I can think of other fun things to celebrate Summer’s End.”

“No!” came the general consensus from the younger set. Celandine spoke up again. “Summer’s End is the beginning of darkness, shadows and spirits, Pippin. We don’t want to hear about kings and princes this time.”

Pippin looked at his fellow Travellers for support. He saw no concern or anxiety in their eyes, though he himself never really enjoyed ghost stories. Pippin thought to steer the party guests back towards parlour games, music, or dancing. He started to rise from his chair to fetch his violin, but then heard Frodo speak up.

“This night isn’t only about shadows and spirits, Cellie,” said Frodo, obviously encouraging the lass. Everyone’s eyes turned towards him.

“What else is Summer’s End about?” she asked, baiting her cousin with a wry grin. “Please don’t tell us that it’s all about the fruitcake!” Light laughter emitted around the room at hearing her witty remark.

“Actually,” said Frodo, his face a portrait of utter seriousness. “It’s about dunking for apples.” The guests erupted in more laughter.

“And all this time I thought it was the beer!” Merry quipped. In addition to his own curiosity being piqued, Frodo seemed to be enjoying himself, which was something Merry had dearly hoped to see tonight. Frodo had learnt from the best in how to tell a great story -- Bilbo.

While the laughter resounded in the room, Sam and Rosie came out of their bedroom to thank their hosts and to bid everyone a good night. Apparently, the ride to Buckland had worn out Rosie more than they thought it would. Finally, they made their big announcement to the delight of all present.

Frodo looked over to Pippin, giving him a wink. Pippin responded with an impish grin; he had kept Sam and Rosie’s secret safe.

After the couple returned to their bedroom and the laughter and chatter of the guests died down, the former subject did not change as Pippin had hoped. Frodo continued his point.

“I’ve sat at the feet of some very notable lore masters,” he said, “who gave me an account of what they believe began as what hobbits now know as Summer’s End, which includes many of our traditions along with...well, evil spirits and shadows.”

“Who, may I ask, are these lore masters you speak of?” asked Celandine’s brother, Ilberic.

Frodo was glad that someone requested names, names always proved useful in validating a story. “Gandalf the wizard, for one. Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood. Are these names suitable to you, Ric?”

The folks of Buckland were well aware of the wizard and his talents as a maker of firecrackers and old stories. Elrond and Thranduil, some knew from Bilbo’s tales. Ilberic sagely nodded his approval.

“Tell us everything, Cousin Frodo!” said Celandine. Enthusiastically, she left her chair then grabbed a floor pillow to sit at Frodo’s feet. “Don’t leave one bit out!”

“Very well,” said Frodo, and then asked for more tea. Storytellers need much to drink in order to keep the tongue lubricated. Tea, beer, other fermented drinks, and water, have all been useful for this task. Frodo went on, “On our homeward journey we stopped in Rivendell. While there I had the opportunity to listen as Lord Elrond related to me some history that he and King Thranduil observed of hobbits that most are not aware of.”

With all attention on him, Frodo spoke in a low, calming voice, as is tradition when telling tales with an eerie feel to them.

“It all happened hundreds of years ago, before Fallohides became a wandering people and settled in Bree, and then the Shire. As our own annals tell us, the Fallohides were the ones to cross the mountains north of Rivendell. King Thranduil had observed their growth as a people, and then Lord Elrond watched as they took the long journey across the mountains. With hobbits coming to the forefront in recent years, Lord Elrond and King Thranduil put pieces of our puzzle together. It was Lord Elrond who related to me the events that I am about to tell you.

“He mentioned to me that The Greenwood, now known as Mirkwood, was probably where the Fallohides were first known to live. During that time the hobbits dealt much with the Wood Elves; in fact, it was the Wood Elves who taught the hobbits to play music, hunt, and many other skills that have great worth in our society.

“After a time, however, shadows and dark things had taken hold over Mirkwood and began to intensify over the years. The hobbits started to hear evil whispers in the night, the trees moaning and creaking without so much as a wisp of a breeze. Children were frightened of the trees, adults moved about in groups; no one dared to venture deep into the woodland alone. Folks became uneasy, moving away further and further north and out of the Greenwood. It wasn’t long before they had removed themselves altogether from the immediate area. One family, going by the name of Shavun, unwisely lingered behind.”

Frodo paused in his tale to take a sip of freshly brewed tea. This served to increase the his listeners’ interest, and also to hide the grin that so badly wanted to form on his lips. He looked over the faces of the guests all around the room, each one appeared engrossed in his story. Not one word was spoken among them during the brief respite; it was as if the spell would be broken. The expression on young Celandine’s face, a combination of wonder and dismay, almost set Frodo to laughing.

Setting down his teacup, Frodo continued. “One day, the eldest son wandered into the woods all alone. Why he did so no one knows to this day, but he apparently ventured too far and got lost. He never returned home. For a very long time his family looked for him. They even enlisted the aid of hobbits that had moved a great distance from the Wood. Weeks later they found his body under a tall tree, nearly degraded to a skeleton by that time.”

At this part, the faces of Frodo’s audience winced.

“The hobbits believed the lad had been lured into the woods by some evil creature and then was murdered.”

“Probably by a wicked Troll!” Doderic interjected. 

“Hush, Dody!” Celandine admonished her brother. “I want to hear this.”

Frodo waited until he had their undivided attention before resuming his story. He let his gaze shift to his favourite cousins, Pippin and Merry; each had a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Frodo ignored them, moving on with his tale.

“Meanwhile, the evil whispers heard within Mirkwood increased and drew nearer to the northern borders of the Wood. Oftentimes the hobbits sensed the presence of evil trying to lure other young or unwary hobbits into its snare. Now very frightened, the Fallohide hobbits held a Moot to see about avenging the lad’s death. It was decided that the following evening they’d go into the woodland and seek out the vile creature who’d carry out such a malicious deed on a young hobbit.

“Deeper and deeper they walked into the thick forest armed with torches and bows and arrows. Dark, it was, full of strange noises and scents. Each one stepped carefully and as silent as any hobbit could. No sooner had they reached a clearing than they spied a tall goblin, grotesque in appearance, half hidden behind a large tree trunk.

‘Come out and show yourself, coward,’ said the hobbit leader.

‘I’ll come out all right!’ the goblin replied to the hobbit, walking towards them...and then --

"LEAPT!, grabbing one of the hobbits by the leg!” Frodo shouted the last part, then with snake-like reflexes grabbed Doderic’s leg and began pulling hard with it. “Just as I’m pulling yours now!”

Quite surprised when Frodo yelled, Doderic jumped out of his skin and yelped, while Celandine shrieked, backing away from the commotion.

Pippin and Merry roared with laughter as did some of the other guests, although a few laughed more out of stunned confusion.

“Oh, you!” Celandine shouted. “Did any of that really happen?”

“Only the part where the Fallohide hobbits probably lived among the Elves of the Woodland Realm for a time before crossing the mountains. The rest I sort of made up, although there truly was evil lurking in the southern region of Mirkwood.”

“I’ll never believe another tale of lore told by you ever again,” Ilberic laughed.

Once again, Frodo scanned the room, taking in all of the jollity, the laughs, and the smiles of his dearest friends. He gave a playful wink to Merry and Pippin, committing their happy faces to memory.

One of his last tales had been told.

Until next time....

Yuletide’s Legacy

Bag End, the Shire, 5 Afteryule, 1421, S.R.

“Thank you,” Frodo said to Sam, who had brought a tea tray to his friend. Then Frodo sniffed and smiled. “I’ve been smelling Rosie’s ginger biscuits all morning long!” he added when he uncovered the dainties lightly coated with icing set upon a small platter.

Sam smiled in kind, “Rosie knows they’re your favourite, Mr. Frodo. She also happens to know that you favour her butter biscuits, too.”

“I do,” Frodo laughed, “And her sugar biscuits, her apple pie, mince pie, and the way she makes her delicious stuffed mushrooms! Shall I keep going, Sam?”

Frodo’s jest made Sam laugh, then he spied the open journal that Frodo had been writing in and suddenly felt as if he were intruding. Blushing, he responded quietly, “Well, perhaps you can say as much to Rosie later today. She likes it when folks pay compliments t’ her cooking and baking. I...I’m going t’ walk down t’ the Green Dragon t meet with the Postmaster and First Shirrif for lunch. Rosie will be here all afternoon, though. If you need anything...”

“I’ll be just fine, Sam,” Frodo answered reassuringly, perceiving his friend’s demeanour. “Later I will go out to the kitchen to see if Rosie needs help with tidying up and such.”

“I’d be grateful if you did that,” said Sam. “The midwife doesn’t want her doing anything too laborious. Not until it’s time, of course.”

“I understand perfectly, Sam,” said Frodo. “The weather seems fair for an Afterlithe morn; do try to enjoy your walk.”

“I will, Mr. Frodo, and thank you,” Sam replied as he made to leave the room. “Well...have a good day.” He turned, quietly closing the door behind him.

Once Sam had left, Frodo turned back to his journal, taking a ginger biscuit to nibble on while he re-read that day’s entry. As he thoughtfully chewed, he brooded upon his recent visit to Brandy Hall for Yule, which is what his entry included. Throughout his visit, with so many kith and kin around to ensure that he did not spend much time alone, Frodo’s Yule entries were a mere few lines of scattered musings and memorable accounts of the time he spent there. It seemed every hobbit in Buckland was knocking at the door of his guestroom, though Frodo did not begrudge it; in a way, it was precisely why he was spending his last Yule at Brandy Hall and not Bag End.

Nevertheless, Frodo had always enjoyed solitude -- maybe a little more than he should these days, however, being alone gave him greater opportunity to write down his thoughts and feelings in his journal; recording memories that he knew he would want to read over and over again in the future. The latter being exactly what Frodo was doing before Sam brought him his tea.

Frodo noted that many things had changed at Brandy Hall...and he also had changed. In spite of the transformations Frodo enjoyed himself immensely throughout the Yuletide, seeing old friends and family, meeting new ones. He even danced to his heart’s content at the Yule Party -- after his dear cousin got him out of his seat.

Oh, yes, he danced -- quite happily, in fact, and more than a few times with Miss Sorrel Goold, a niece of Uncle Dinodas on his wife’s side. Sorrel had pretty hazel eyes and a pile of sandy curls pinned up behind her head with decorative jewelled hair combs. She wore a lovely frock with a purple velvet bodice and silver silk skirt that complimented her creamy complexion. The bachelor smiled contentedly, remembering Sorrel’s sweet smile that lit up any room she entered.

Then Frodo grimaced; he couldn’t allow himself to ponder the lovely lass no mater how much pleasure it brought. “For goodness sake,” he thought to himself, “I’m fifty-three years old -- not thirty-three!” With his non-biscuit hand Frodo rubbed the tension out of his forehead, trying to pin what exactly had transpired during that visit to leave such an empty void in his heart. His thoughts went back to the night of the Feast of 1 Yule...

“Enjoying yourself, Cousin?” Merry asked Frodo, sitting down beside his friend. Both hobbits sat upon chairs that were situated along the side wall; chairs that were normally filled with other wallflowers watching the dancers on the dance floor.

“I am,” Frodo replied, taking a sip of his mulled wine. His gaze travelled from couple to couple tenderly embraced as they danced to a slow waltz.

To Merry, Frodo’s countenance said otherwise; more pained than enjoyment, which only served to renew his efforts to ensure his dear cousin had a lovely time. “You look in need of a dance.”

"Don't be absurd!"  Frodo wasn‘t annoyed with his cousin’s comment, but certainly wasn’t in the mood for a dance.

Without warning, Merry took the wine goblet out of Frodo’s hand, placing it on the floor beside the chair. He grabbed Frodo’s hand, pulling his stunned cousin to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Frodo demanded.

Merry said not a word, merely dragging his cousin behind him until they stopped in front of two handsome lasses far down the row of chairs. One appeared to be just out of her tweens and the other a little older, probably in her early forties.

“Hello, Sorrel!” said Merry, addressing the elder maiden. “My cousin Frodo would like to dance with you, if you please.” Then Merry addressed the younger lass, “And he should love a dance with you, too, Daisy, when he’s finished with Sorrel.”

Frodo would have vehemently protested, however, shock took him by surprise. Instead he gulped down his nerves. “Sorrel Goold?” he asked. Merry, satisfied that his ploy had worked, walked off in the direction of his betrothed. Sorrel stood, blushed and nodded.

“I remember you,” said Frodo, reaching far back into his childhood memories. He held out his arm for her to take, and was relieved when she took it. So far, so good.

Again, Sorrell blushed. “From where?”

Escorting her to the dance floor, Frodo instantly heard the music of a songbird when Sorrel spoke. It seemed like an age had passed since this peculiar sensation last occurred. His legs felt like jelly and his palms began to sweat. His stomach felt like it was doing summersaults.

When they reached the dance floor Frodo put his one arm around Sorrel’s waist and took her hand in his other, then felt her hand rest upon his upper arm. “If you are indeed the Sorrel that I once met, the last time I saw you was at Cousin Finodas’ birthday party. You were one of the youngest cousins present, at, I believe, around nine years of age. You wore a pretty frock with an apron and a large bow on the back of your head.”

Sorrel smiled. “You remember all of that? I barely remember Finney’s birthday at all.”

“I remember it because you were not only the youngest, but also the only lass present at an all-lads affair. I don’t recall what circumstances brought you, but you accompanied your older brothers to Finodas’ party. I must say, however, that you’ve grown up quite...beautifully.”

“Well, I am flattered, to say the least,” she replied shyly.

Sorrel’s movements were smooth and graceful as they glided across the floor. Frodo nearly lost his composure when he accidentally stepped on Sorrel’s foot. “I haven’t danced in a long while,” he said, feeling his mortification run hot from his ears to his toes. “I’m a bit rusty, I fear.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said, smiling.

* * *

Back in his room at Bag End, Frodo ate another ginger biscuit, washing it down with his tea. Was it that Sorrel conversed so easily? No, he thought; while that played a large part, Frodo searched his heart for something less obvious. Perhaps it was how she didn’t change the subject when the matter of travelling beyond the borders came up.

Frodo sighed; he couldn’t allow himself to muse on Miss Goold for long or else she’d fill every crevice of his mind. He shook the dreamy thoughts from his head, fingering the new quill set he received as a gift from Cousin Saradoc and Esmeralda. The set contained five different quill sizes, each quill a different colour for however large or small one wanted his letters to be. Frodo knew he’d use the yellow quill the least, as it had the smallest point. He liked the blue one the best, for the point was medium and easiest on his eyes. Eyes...

“I’m glad you like your gift, Frodo,” said Saradoc, his arm around the waist of his beloved wife. “We both know you’ve inherited a penchant for reading and writing from Bilbo.”

“I do like it very much,” Frodo responded, smiling, but found a lovely distraction just beyond Saradoc’s left shoulder. He tried desperately to divide his attention between the two.

Esmeralda noticed Frodo’s diversion, smiled, then kissed her husband, whispering something in his ear. Saradoc winked, “I’ll join you at the table in a minute.” He looked at his younger cousin then followed his gaze.

Saradoc grinned kindly. “Her name is Sorrel Goold, although I’m quite certain that you’ve met her before,” he said to Frodo, “as she is cousin to Gorbidas, Harimas, and Finodas. “She is in her early forties, I believe, was once betrothed to a fellow in Whitfurrows, but never married. Her family lives in Newbury where her father is a trader, whose business takes him on occasion to Bree.”

“I like it very much,” Frodo repeated absently. “I plan to use it... What did you just say? She lives in Whitfurrows?”

Saradoc bit his lip to keep from laughing...and embarrassing his cousin. “No, she lives in Newbury.”

Frodo shrugged. “Oh...well, I--I was...well, I really wasn’t interested, you know. He sighed, feeling awkward. “Besides, weren’t we just talking about my Yule gift?”

“Frodo,” said Saradoc, tenderly putting his hand on the younger hobbit’s shoulder. “It’s perfectly normal to appreciate a beautiful lady. Actually, at your age and marital status, it’s quite healthy. Now that the burden you were carrying all these years is gone, you should feel free now to choose a wife who will help you leave an heir...a legacy, if you will. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”

* * *

Frodo had left his desk and now sat upon his bed toying with the game set his beloved cousins, Merry and Pippin, had given him at Yule. It was a combination Chess and Draughts game encased in a polished wooden box. Inside, the box contained slots for both sets of game pieces sheathed in blue velvet. Unfolded and placed face down, the box would become the chequered board used for either game. Folded back up, the box had a latch on each side to keep the game pieces inside. It was a gift made for travel and Frodo knew that the lads obviously meant for it to be a source of entertainment whenever they went on a ramble with him. Unwittingly, the pair had gifted their elder cousin with something he and Bilbo would enjoy on their last adventure together.

Frodo pondered with delight about his younger cousins, but them without any real reason, envy crept into his heart. Unlike himself, even Merry and Pippin had prospects of heirs. On 1 Yule, Merry announced his and Estella’s betrothal. Not too distant in the future, Merry would be raising a family, leaving his own legacy to Buckland. Eventually, Pippin would follow his own dreams of marriage and children. Sam and Rosie were expecting their first child in the spring.

Frodo wondered where all of this would leave him in the scheme of things. He stared long and hard at the half-empty page of the journal on his desk as if it would give him his answer. Frodo’s thoughts, however, were far off in a distant day dream.

Frodo dream was suddenly interrupted. He turned at the sound of a knock upon his door. “Come in,” he said, though he knew exactly who was behind the door.

Rosie stepped inside the doorway. “I was wond’rin if you’d be needing anythin’, Mr. Frodo?”

“I don’t think so, Rosie,” he answered. Frodo could not ignore the lass’s rounded belly. He laid aside the game box and stood to his feet, ready to assist with any task if that was what she required. “Is anything the matter? Do you need help in the kitchen?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Frodo. I’m fine and so is the baby, but I’ve grown a bit tired,” she said. “I’ve written a note for my Sam when he comes back from his meeting, telling him I’m going t' lie down and take a nap -- that is if you don’t need anythin’.”

“Thank you, Rosie, but no. If I should have need of something, I know how to fetch it myself.” Frodo gave the mother-to-be a friendly smile to put her at ease. “Pleasant dreams.”

Rosie smiled and thanked Frodo before taking her leave.

Frodo stood staring at the “shadow” of Rosie, but in her place stood the figure of Sorrel, her hand caressing her swollen tummy. Frodo winced, putting his hands over his eyes to make the fantasy disappear. “Oi! I only danced with her!” he thought in frustration. “It isn’t as if I made her stand underneath every bit of mistletoe in Brandy Hall as Merry did with Estella.”

In desperation, Frodo decided a bit of a kip might do him good as well. He put another log onto the grate, grabbed the lap quilt that Cousin Eglantine had made for him as a Yule gift, then laid atop his bed. At once, he fell into a troubling dream...Frodo bolted upright in bed. “What!”

“How is she?” Frodo asked the midwife. Although this wasn’t their first child, throughout this lying-in period Sorrel had some difficulty which confined her to bed. This is what chiefly had Frodo concerned.

The midwife gave Frodo a comforting smile, “’Tis a lad -- both mother and child are doing fine. Now get you in there and see to your wife and child’s needs.”

Frodo let out a yelp of elation, swept up little Primula into his arms and then marched in the direction of his and Sorrel’s bedroom. The sight that Frodo beheld made him quiver with joy unspeakable. In their bed was his beautiful wife holding a swaddled infant. Frodo gingerly sat upon the mattress with little Primula in his lap.

“Here he is,” said Sorrel, tilted the baby in a way so that Frodo and their daughter could see him. She spoke softly so as not to wake the baby. “Your son and heir to the Shire. Now what do we do?”

Frodo smirked. “Well, we still have one month before we must come up with a name for him.”

Sorrel fought to keep from laughing. “But we’ve had the past seven months or so!” She looked at the slumbering bundle of joy in her arms. “Oh, you poor child; you’re now born and your parents had not the wits to make ready a proper name for you.”

Frodo was quiet for a moment, then broke the silence with an ominous announcement. “Once he is presented on his Name Day, I must leave at once.”

A quizzical expression appeared on Sorrel’s face. “Leave? Where must you go, dear?”

“I am sailing west on the last ship going to the Undying Lands. You and the children cannot come with me; you will live here at Bag End with Sam and Rosie. They will help you raise our children.”

Frodo would never forget the tears in Sorrel’s eyes upon the realization that he was serious; that they would never grow old together...

“Mr. Frodo!”

A startled Sam stood in the doorway. “I was just checking on you, Mr. Frodo. I saw Rosie’s note and thought t’ see how you were farin’.”

Frodo was still shaken by the disturbing dream. He gasped for air, his heart pounded in his chest. The air felt chill upon waking; Frodo had the sensation of dampness in his hair, under his shirt. He clasped the white gem that hung around his neck. “I’m all right.”

“You don’t look all right, Mr. Frodo. I can fetch you more tea.”

“No -- please, Sam. I’m fine. I just need to be alone.”

Sam stood there for a moment, contemplating what he should do. Mr. Frodo didn’t look too bad off; more likely another bad dream, and more often than not Mr. Frodo kept them to himself. “Very well,” he finally said, backing his way into the hall. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

When Sam had closed the door, Frodo wrapped the lap quilt around himself and went over to the hearth. He put two more logs onto the dying embers and then sat down to watch the fire renew itself with the added fuel.

“Yes, I’m all right,” he said to himself rather glumly. “I feel as if I’m being torn in two. What do I do?”

TBC