Chapter 50. Postlude

Sandy's head appears in the doorway, and I break off my remembering. He looks first to the Thain, and then to me. 'Mistress Diamond sent you a plate from the feast,' he whispers. 'Do you want me to put it on a warmer, here?'

My stomach surprises me by rumbling, though I had several helpings of that marvellous array of tea treats laid out in the little sitting room earlier. 'I'll take it now,' I whisper in return, rising, but he waves me back into my chair and disappears.

Within a moment he returns, laying a serviette in my lap with a flourish, and then setting a well-laden plate upon it. 'Wine?' he breathes, and I shake my head, though such a meal would go finer with wine: juicy roast, puffed pudding, fluffy potatoes roasted in their jackets, two kinds of bread, already buttered, vegetables and a dollop of fruit compote; why, large as the plate is, it can hardly hold the bounty!

'Is there aught else you'll be needing, Woodruff?' he says.

'Naught, Sandy,' I say with a smile. 'You go on to the feast, now.'

He shakes his head, but I press on.

'You must, you know, to honour Mayor Sam and Mistress Rose. After all that the Gamgees did for your poor mother, after the Battle of Bywater...' Sandy's father fell there, leaving a large and hungry family, and Sandy, the oldest, but a tween. Samwise, perhaps with Mr. Frodo's help (for how would he have known of a situation at the Great Smials without Mr. Frodo, or perhaps even Pippin's suggestion?) found the lad a place as an underservant, where he worked hard, and learned enough to rise in station until he became the finest hobbitservant to be found in the Shire. And only right! Nothing but the best for our Thain...

In any event, I can see my words strike home in the wry twist of Sandy's mouth. 'I s'pose I ought,' he says.

'Of course you ought,' I say through a mouth full of melting roast.

His smile becomes more genuine, and he bows, more a nod of his head than anything else, and withdraws.

I am halfway through the plateful when the Thain stirs, turns over, and sits up, swinging his legs out of the bed.

'Sir...!' I say, but I choke, and in the next moment he is out of the bed, takes the plate from my lap and lays it aside, and is whacking me sharply on the back. At last the food dislodges, and I lie back in the chair, gasping, as he steadies me.

'Better?' he says.

'Yes,' I gasp, and try to take myself in hand. 'But you...'

'Half a moment,' he says, and steps to the washstand, where he wets a flannel and returns to offer it to me. I take it and while I am wiping my brow, revived by the cool damp, he goes to the washstand, throwing off his nightshirt and wrapping a large towel around his middle, and proceeds to splash and lather and splash again, coming up dripping but clean. He seizes another towel and rubs himself vigorously, gives a cursory wipe to washstand and floor, and tossing the drying towel onto the bedpost he grabs up the clothing Sandy laid out earlier after preparing the fresh wash-water--a touching testimony to the hobbit's hope and faith in his master's healing--and before I know it he's already assumed clean smallclothes, jumped into the fine fawn-coloured trousers and is doing up the buttons of his snowy linen shirt, shrugging into the waistcoat of pale green silk, and then the fine tweed jacket with its deeper greens and browns.

'You...' I manage as he runs his fingers through his damp curls.

'Do I look presentable?' he says, and raises his voice. 'Diamond!'

'She's gone to the feast,' I say faintly. It is a dream, that's what it is. I've fallen asleep while watching, and yet I have no desire to pinch myself awake.

'The feast has started already!' he says. 'I'm late!'

'But Sir--your leg!' I say, rising to catch at his sleeve.

'And why aren't you at the feast, Woodruff? After all Sam's done for the Shire, and now he's returned from a year-long journey, and here you sit...'

'Sit!' I echo, and follow with, 'that's right, you sit yourself down there... your leg...' I want to examine him head-to-toe, not just the glimpse I had while he was washing, of wasted flesh now firm and muscled, of twisted lumps of ribs somehow straighter, like stones washed smooth in a moving stream, and all only emphasised by the quiet, steady breaths, not a wheeze to be heard. A hobbit made new... But this is a dream, I remind myself.

'Yes, my leg,' he says vaguely, looking down for a brief moment as if it is a topic of little interest. He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. 'Everything seems to be in working order,' he says, and grins. 'Or I'd be flat on my nose on the floor at the moment, wouldn't you think?'

I open my mouth to protest, but he takes my arm to urge me from the room. 'We're late,' he says urgently, 'late for the Mayor's welcoming feast! How unconscionably rude...'

He pauses at the door, thoughtfully fingers the heavy walking stick that leans against the wall there, and leaves his former prop in its stand.

And so, not quite knowing how I have come to be on my feet and walking in my befuddled state, I find myself rapidly propelled through the empty corridors of the Great Smials, having to scamper along to keep up with the Thain's long strides. It is difficult to argue when one is out of breath, but I try.

'Really... Sir... you ought... let me... examine...'

'Really, Woodruff,' he says cheerily, as blithe and bonny as ever I remembered him. 'Examine me? I feel... wonderfully well, at the moment, better than I have in... years! Yes, that's it exactly--I haven't felt this well since...' His pauses are not gasps for breath, but rather thoughtful in nature. I wonder if I will be gasping when I waken. It has happened in the past; I've found myself panting for air in a dream and when wakening I am still breathing hard, as if I've been running in truth and not just in dreaming. 'You'll think it foolishness, of course,' he continues with a nod and a smile, 'but I haven't felt this well since the day we left Crickhollow, in the early mist of the morning...'

There were many times they left Crickhollow, I think to myself, and then catch my breath at his meaning. Of course, he is thinking of the day they left the Shire behind, never to return as they were on that day, but coming home to the Shire as hobbits made over by fire, refined into something rather more than they'd left behind.

Approaching the great room, we don't hear the usual noises associated with a feast: There ought to be a babble of voices, a clattering of plates and cups and silver, calls for more wine, a bustle as the servers hurry to replenish platters and such. It is remarkably quiet.

We pause in the entrance as Pippin surveys the room. Most of the hobbits are staring at their plates, pushing the food about, eating without appetite, or not eating, as it were.

Master Merry is the first to look up, as if he has a certain instinct that his cousin is near. His face bleaches with shock, as if he's seen a ghost of the past. Which he has, certainly, if my eyes don't deceive me. The hobbit standing beside me is as strong and healthy and vigorous as the tween who left the Shire, all those years ago, returning with mark of whip and rope, and crushing injury, his spirit undaunted but his body somewhat "dented", as he liked to joke. Rather like the iron bar under the blacksmith's hammer, pulled longer and thinner under the battering force. The mark of whip and rope remain, faded somewhat by time, but evidences of crushing injury are gone away.

Merry reaches past Estella to catch at Mayor Sam's elbow. The Mayor, sunk in his misery, jumps at the sharp pinch, looking first to Merry, and then to us. His face, too, loses all colour, and he stares.

Pippin disengages my arm from his and gives me a gentle nudge towards my empty place, in the midst of my family. I pinch myself discreetly, but all remains as it is, and I am more and more convinced that I am not dreaming, but fully awake. In the meantime, Pippin strides forward, a bounce in his step, and Diamond turns, catching her breath, her eyes shining with tears of joy and wonder; young Faramir stares, not yet able to take it in, and the twins stand up in their chairs and clap their hands with the joy they always express at their father's coming, and then Farry and his mother are too busy settling them safely to run to Pippin in this instant. No matter, for Pippin's long strides are taking him to his place amidst his family at the head table.

'Hullo, everyone, sorry I'm late,' Pippin says cheerfully. 'I seem to have overslept myself.'

All the Tooks sit frozen, save one of the diners: My beloved jumps to his feet as I approach, and pulls out my chair. I seat myself with a smile, and as he sits down I take his hand and give a reassuring squeeze. All is well. It truly is. Ah, Ted, the story I have for you, when the feast is done!

Pulling out his chair, Pippin seats himself next to Diamond. 'What's for dinner? I'm starved!' He takes in the juicy roast, puffed pudding, fluffy potatoes roasted in their jackets, accompanying breads and salads and vegetables and fruit compote, and his eyes sparkle. 'A veritable feast!' he says, rubbing his hands together as a servant replaces the empty plate at his place with a loaded one.

He looks up. 'What's everybody staring at?' he asks, mischief dancing in his eyes. 'Eat! Before all this marvellous food gets cold!' He suits word to action, cutting off a piece of succulent flesh and stuffing it into his mouth, closing his eyes in rapture. 'Mmmmm,' he says. 'Seems as if the cooks have finally got things right.'

'Pippin...' Merry begins, but the younger cousin pays him no mind, except to ask him to pass the butter, which he does with a most peculiar expression on his face, as if he wishes to pinch himself to ascertain if he is dreaming. I know the feeling.

Pippin butters his bread and dives into his meal with as much gusto as a tween, seeming oblivious to the staring silence.

'Pippin...' Merry tries again, and the Thain looks up politely, though his mouth is too full to speak. He raises his hand in an "in a moment" gesture, chewing vigorously. The flash of the green jewel in the seal of the Thain that he wears, all unawares for its familiarity, catches his eye, and he looks down the table to Ferdibrand as he swallows. 'I thought...' he says, and raising an eyebrow, adds, 'Was it but a dream, then?'

'No dream,' Ferdi says, stumbling over the words. 'I... I... The time wasn't right, that's all. I was waiting until the time was right... e'en though 'twould be all wrong...'

'Pippin,' Merry whispers yet once more, and then he rises from his chair, moving forward to embrace this dearest of cousins, restored from the edge of the grave. 'Pippin!' he says, laughing, though the tears sparkle on his cheeks. 'I cannot believe...'

'Silly Brandybuck,' Pippin says, rising to receive the embrace and patting his cousin on the back. 'Did you have so little faith? You sent Sam off for a cure, and he returned with one, just as you expected! And why should it surprise you, that the cure came from the tree-folk? Our esteemed Mayor is first and foremost a gardener, after all!'

'You're making no sense whatsoever, as usual,' Merry says, laughing through his tears.

'And you, Samwise!' Pippin says to the staring Mayor. He breaks from Merry's grasp to move to the Mayor, to pound that hobbit on the back. 'I have a bone to pick with you...'

Samwise gulps. 'I... I'm that sorry,' he whispers, and in the rising murmur of the Tooks' joy-beyond-hope I know what he says only because I read it on his lips. 'I... I never knew it would pain you so...'

'My only complaint,' Pippin interjects, 'was that you came so very belated, Sam! We expected you months earlier! Why, think of all the trouble we'd've been spared, all the needless worry for Ferdibrand--I do believe he's going grey, at his young age! Why, had your pony stumbled on that last stretch from Buckland you'd've arrived a breath too late!'

'But Samwise has always been one to count on,' Merry supplies helpfully, and Pippin throws back his head and laughs.

'Indeed!' he cries, and turning to address the roomful of Tooks and Tooklanders he adds, 'Three cheers for Samwise! Three cheers, I say!'

And he leads the throng in a rousing cheer, and suddenly the Tooks are on their feet, and the Mayor is being hoisted into the air upon the shoulders of sturdy hobbits, Thain and Master first and foremost, and carried round the room while the Tooks continue their thunderous ovation, celebration... and welcome.

At last the pandemonium dies down, everyone returns to their seats, and attack their cooling food with as much enthusiasm as if it were still sizzling from the fire. Wine is poured, songs are sung, stories told, and the room buzzes with conversation.

'Well, Samwise,' the Thain leans to say, and of course I hear it all, for I cannot take my eyes from him, glowing with health and life. 'It seems you ought to go away oftener, if your return engenders such a joyous welcome!'

'Here I've just returned and you're already trying to get rid of me?' Samwise says in a similar vein. It seems he is recovered from his guilt and grief, or perhaps he, like myself a few moments ago, is labouring under the delusion that this is all some sort of dream.

'O aye!' Pippin says with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I swear he looks no older than he did before he left to follow Frodo into the Wilds.

'Very well,' Sam says, and he rises from his chair and... marches from the room, leaving everyone dumbstruck. The Mayor has left his own Welcome feast? Master and Thain rise from their chairs as well, hesitating...

But not to worry, for the hobbit is gone only long enough for a brisk walk to the main door and back again. He strolls into the rising murmur in the great room and seats himself by the side of his grinning wife, places his serviette back in his lap, and takes a slice of cake simply dripping with icing from a passing tray as the Tooks fall silent once more, wondering what might happen next.

'Well,' he says with a wink. 'I'm back.'

Pippin slaps Merry on the back and laughs, and Merry throws his arms about his cousin, and the two begin a jig, a dance of joy and welcome, while the Mayor looks on, beaming.

Diamond stands nearby, smiling, and Estella on the other side, looking a little lost perhaps, but not for long as the husbands reach out to draw their beloved lasses into the dance.

Belatedly the fiddler strikes up a tune in the corner, joined by flute and pipes and drum, and I feel the hand of my own beloved on my shoulder. 'Would you care for this dance, my sweet?' he murmurs.

'I'd like nothing more,' I say, and we join the growing dance, weaving amongst the tables, as the joyful music swirls to fill the hall with celebration.

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Coming next: Epilogue