Particularly for Febobe, Shirebound, and Sue.

A Dream of Reassurance

               Frodo pushed through the renewed gate to Bag End and went slowly up the steps to the front door, his legs weary and his heart in turmoil.  He stopped in front of the door, his hand not quite touching the handle before he allowed it to fall to his side.  Instead of going inside, he turned to the left, allowing his saddlebags to fall to the pavement as he dropped heavily onto the bench that sat there, from which the Bagginses had watched sunsets for three generations now, barking the knuckles of his right hand against the solid seat.  He stifled a cry of pain and clutched the injured hand against his chest.  When the worst of the pain finally began to subside, he leaned his head back against the wall below the window box, his eyes squeezed shut, the throbbing stump of his missing finger still cradled against his waistcoat. “Oak and ash!” he muttered to himself.  “It feels as if I’d broken it—but there is not enough finger left to break!”

          The healers in Gondor had explained that this happened, and certainly he’d heard those who’d lost full arms or legs complain that they felt a missing hand itch or as if they’d just stubbed an absent toe.  His loss was so small compared to so many others he’d known as to seem negligible, yet that somehow multiplied the frustration of the phantom pain he experienced.

          “Oh, Mummy—Daddy, please make it stop!” he heard himself whisper.  More rationally, he said, a bit louder, “Oh, Aragorn, where are you when I need you?”

          “He’s in Lossarnach, or so I understand.  Perhaps I can help you?”  But the familiar voice was not accompanied by the requisite shadow of a body looming over him, even though he felt the tall, Man’s body settle next to him on the bench and smelled the familiar scents of waters crossed, wind through tall grasses and green trees, pipe weed, ghosts of fireworks, and the tang of horseflesh.

          “Gandalf?  Am I sleeping, then?”

          “You are not fully asleep—your hand is throbbing enough to stop that.  But you are definitely not fully awake, either.  Here—give me your hand and I shall see if I can ease the pain somewhat.  There—that’s all right, then.  So—why are you so tired today, Frodo Baggins?”

          Frodo’s left hand laid itself against the Queen’s jewel for a moment before reaching inside his cloak to search his trousers’ pocket.  “I simply did not sleep that well last night,” he answered.  “Lobelia is dead.”

          He felt the Wizard pause, apparently examining him.  “She’s dead, eh?  And how does that make you feel?”

          “Sad, mostly.”  What he sought was not in the left pocket, so he reached to find the right one.  “Her time in the Lockholes mellowed her—made her understand how other people feel.  Did you know that everyone applauded for her when she came out of the tunnels?”

          “So you said in your last letter to Bilbo.”  Then, more sharply, “And just what is it that you are searching for, my lad?”

          Frodo gave a weak laugh.  “Not that, Gandalf.  No, this, if I can get it with my fingers.  Here—at last!”  So saying, he withdrew a golden disk and held it out.  “No, not the Ring.  That can’t even tempt me today.”

          The Wizard gave a small twist and sharp pull on Frodo’s right hand, and the worst of the pain was over.  Frodo allowed his left hand to fall to the bench’s seat.  The right hand was laid with great gentleness in the Hobbit’s lap, and Gandalf reached to take the disk.  “What is it?  A coin?  Ah!  Now I understand.”

          Without opening his eyes, Frodo nodded.  “Yes.  He told me he would give me the first coin struck with his image, and he was as good as his word.  Aragorn even put his own seal upon it with that dense black wax he uses now that he is King.”

          “And you carry it with you to show to everyone, do you?”

          Frodo gave a slight shake of his head.  “No—I had it for only a few minutes before it was taken by Bartolo Bracegirdle, her personal lawyer as well as one of her Bracegirdle kin.  It seems that one cannot just give property such as a house or hole, barn, or field to someone else other than one’s heir at death—at least a coin must change hands or the transaction is not legal.  So, he took the coin that I had in my hand at the time and gave me the deed to Bag End in return.  And, when she died, Lobelia returned the coin she’d received from me as a personal bequest.  It was delivered, again by Bartolo, yesterday.  I suppose I am lucky she chose Bartolo Bracegirdle as her personal lawyer rather than Lothario or Timono, as at least Bartie is honest, which cannot be said of too many others of the name I know of.  Lothario would have exchanged the gold piece for a farthing or something similar and kept the gold for himself, as Lobelia was not likely to be any the wiser.”

          “And this Timono?”

          Frodo’s lips pursed.  “He would have found a pretext as to why the gold piece was not to be seen as legal tender, would have confiscated it, and insisted I come up with at least a sizable silver with which to replace it.  And it would be questionable as to whether I would ever see the silver again, no matter what Lobelia’s wishes might have been.”

          “I see.” 

          Frodo felt the gold piece pressed into his right hand, and his thumb lightly brushed the wax seal upon it.  He asked, “Are you really here, Gandalf?  Did you come upon Shadowfax?  Or—or, am I but dreaming?”

          He felt Gandalf’s capable hand gently brushing the hair back from his forehead.  “I fear you are indeed but dreaming, Frodo.  Shadowfax is running far up the vale in Rivendell followed by a few of Elrond’s mares.  I suspect that there will be new blood in the lineage of Rivendell’s steeds in the coming year.”

          Frodo whispered, “Well your name—your name from the West, it has to do with dreams, after all.  Olórin.  Olórin.”  That last was said slowly as he dropped more deeply into slumber.

          “Oh, yes, I was indeed trained by Irmo himself as to how to manage dreams, back in my old life.  Perhaps I shall return to such pursuits one day, but not until you have no more need of me, dearest child.  Rest, Frodo.  Sam will be here soon to see to you.”

          A moment later, Frodo dimly sensed he was alone.  He smiled as he slipped more deeply asleep, smiling more broadly as in a proper dream he joined his parents in a picnic at their favorite place along the Brandywine.  It did not matter to him that they were as he remembered them but that he was a Hobbit grown, much as he’d been before he’d left the Shire on his own adventure.

          “Now, what’s this?” asked a different familiar voice.  “Master, and just how is it as you’re a-sittin’ here asleep, here on the bench afore Bag End, when you have a proper bed inside?”

          Frodo gave a slight laugh as he stretched himself awake.  “I didn’t sleep much last night, and was so tired when I reached the door and realized that I’d dropped the key into my saddlebags that I decided that it wasn’t worthwhile digging for it at the moment.  So I sat down here, and here I’ve been since.”

          “Your knuckles are awful red.”

          “I struck them on the seat as I sat down, I fear.  It hurt terribly at first, but my hand is better now since Gandalf tended it.”

          Sam looked at his friend in surprise.  “Gandalf’s here, here at Bag End?”

          “Oh, no—he’s still in Lord Elrond’s house.  But you know Gandalf—he’s rather good at dreams.”

          Sam pulled out his own key and opened the front door, half turned to keep an eye on Frodo, who was rubbing at his eyes with his closed right hand as he rose to his feet.  “You certain as your knuckles ain’t hurtin’ you none, Frodo?  You haven’t opened your fist since I got here.”

          “I haven’t?  Oh—it’s the first gold coin Aragorn sent me, the one with the seal upon it.  It’s come back to me!”  So saying, he held it out for Sam to see—a large coin with the profile of their friend the King embossed on it, a black wax seal shot with silver pressed to its backside.  “A last bequest from dear Lobelia.”

          “That’s nothin’ as I’d ever thought to hear, that anyone would call Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dear,” Sam commented, reaching down to catch up Frodo’s saddlebags and leading the way into the smial.  He paused in the doorway for a moment, sniffing the air.  "Funny--smells of kingsfoil and roses, it does, not what either is bloomin' yet."

          Frodo merely smiled as he followed Sam inside.