Retrieval

          Aragorn found Frodo sitting on a low log, his face to the stream that ran down to the Anduin along one side of the camp on the Field of Cormallen.  

          “Welcome back, Aragorn.  How went your patrol?”

          The former Ranger was not surprised that Frodo had noted his arrival in spite of the quiet tread the Man had learned from the teachers he’d had in Rivendell while growing up.  Ever since Frodo was wounded at Weathertop he had repeatedly demonstrated particularly sensitive hearing, even compared to Legolas.  He gave a smile as he answered, “We found no signs that any enemies have come within many leagues of this place.  We went as far as the Crossroads, and five Rangers, both North and South, are headed up the Stair to check whether any orcs remain in the tunnel or what remains of the tower.  The tower of Cirith Ungol appears to be partially fallen, or so Gandalf reported after he and the Eagles returned from the Mountain with you and Sam.”

          Frodo had turned to look at him as he’d spoken, and the Man could see how the Hobbit’s skin paled at the mention of Cirith Ungol.  “You would send Men into that place?” Frodo asked.

          “We cannot go without knowledge of what threat may lie there,” Aragorn answered with a shrug.

          Frodo looked away, his eyes distant.  In a low voice he murmured, “It was a place of death, of horror, when we were there, Sam and I.”

          “I know.”

          There were a few minutes of silence before the Man continued, “We saw where you, Sam, and Gollum were let go by Faramir’s Rangers, and were able to follow your path past the Crossroads.  I found the patch of brambles where the three of you hid near the broken statue, and I discovered something you apparently lost while you lay resting there.”

          Frodo rose and approached while the Man searched his scrip.  “What did I lose there?” he asked.

          Aragorn produced a pocket knife, one about five inches long with a grip of cherry wood worn dark with years of use.  “This.  I’ve seen you gut fish with it often enough along the way.”

          Frodo accepted it and turned it in his hands, his eyes solemn.  “So—the orcs of the tower didn’t get that, too, along with all my clothing and the rest.  I never noticed that it was gone from my pocket.”

          “Was it Bilbo’s before you received it, small brother?”

          Frodo’s expression lightened as he glanced up to meet the Man’s eyes.  “Bilbo’s?  Oh, no.  He took his pocket knife with him when he left Shire.  I’ve been told by both him and by Gandalf that that particular knife he carried in his own pocket back when he left with Thorin’s company in search for the lost gold of Erebor.  No, this was not Bilbo’s—it belonged to the Gaffer, who used it in the gardens for tying up plants or for cutting stems.  He had Sam give it to me for my birthday, there just before—before we left Bag End that last time.  At least it didn’t go down the crack.”

          “Down the crack?”

          “Yes.  When Sam stated we needed to rid ourselves of everything we were unlikely to need from then on as we weren’t—weren’t likely to come back.  It tore his heart out to send his beloved pans down the crack.  But he said he would not leave them where orcs or Gollum might find and—sully—them.  He must have dropped his own knives down it, too—he would not have wished for Gollum to have such a weapon to possibly use on us.  Even though we’d not seen Gollum since the tunnel, he was certain that he would somehow follow us.”  Then in lower tones, “And he proved right, didn’t he?”

          Aragorn noted that Frodo was clutching his right hand with the left, unconsciously protecting the stump that was all left of his ring finger; the knife, almost forgotten, held between them.

          “I would wish to return the knife to Sam to use,” Frodo said softly, “but he would not accept it.  He will be very glad to learn that it has been found and returned to me.  But in his mind, it is mine, not his, for his knife is now gone, most likely buried under tons of stone blown off of the mountain as it tore itself apart after the Ring fell into the Fire.”  Again he glanced up to meet the Man’s eyes.  “He told me that his mum bought that knife from a Mannish trader who came to the Free Fair at Michel Delving when Sam was but a lad of about eight.  She gave it to Sam not that long after I came to live with Bilbo in Bag End, back when he was sent to Tighfield to work for a time with his Uncle Andy.”

          “The roper he spoke of in Lórien?” Aragorn asked.  “Yes, such a knife as he had would have been most useful in such employment.  You say it was purchased from a Mannish trader?”

          Frodo nodded.

          “I wonder if it might have been Faradir’s cousin who brought it to the Shire.  He crafted hafts for knives during the winters, and went far and wide to sell them during the summer and fall.  It gave him good reason to visit all parts of Eriador and so learn how it was with the various peoples who live there.  He preferred crafting useful knives rather than ones intended for killing or defense.  He was ever a man of peace, was Ripon.”

          “So, he did not become a Ranger as you did?”

          Aragorn gave a definite shake.  “No, not Ripon, although he did bring us information about the movement of possible enemies and changes in temper noted in Bree or near Tharbad and the like.  And on occasion he bore messages for me as far afield as the Grey Havens.  Faradir might well have a knife similar to the one Sam bore that would serve him as did the one his mother gave him.  I shall speak with him.”

 *******

          It was Aragorn’s kinsman Hardorn who approached Sam aboard the ship that bore them south from Cormallen to the Pelennor to offer him a pocket knife.  “One of our other kinsmen has ever crafted handles for such knives as this,” he told the gardener.  “The blades and the metal guards are of Dwarven make, but his hafts are usually things of beauty as well as comfort.  My Lord cousin suggested that you would find such a knife as this useful in your work.”

          This knife had a haft crafted of elm, inset with a plaque of bone onto which had been engraved a white stag beneath a great tree.  It was much the same size as that given Frodo, and Sam’s pleasure with it was obvious.

          “What wonderful work!” he said in obvious admiration.  “And it feels much the same as my old one.  Wonder if it was finished by the same person?”

          “Possibly,” the Ranger agreed.  “May it bring you years of good service.”

          Frodo was glad to see the satisfaction in Sam’s eyes as he stowed the knife away in his pocket, satisfaction that was mirrored there each time he used it from that day forth.

 *******

          A few weeks after his return to Bag End from the Grey Havens, Sam finally agreed to empty his saddlebags so that Rosie might launder what clothing items he’d had stowed in them.  At the bottom of one he found, wrapped in a cream-colored handkerchief embroidered with FB, a pocket knife with two blades, its haft made of well-worn cherry wood.  He examined it thoughtfully, his eyes bright with unshed tears before holding it out to show his beloved wife.  “It’s come back,” he whispered.  “The Gaffer’s old pocket knife—it’s returned home, here to the Hill.”

          From that day it lay upon the mantel in the study, a memorial to the two Hobbits Sam had loved so who’d carried and used it for so long—until the day Frodo-lad declared he’d be apprenticed to his father as a gardener.

          “Your dad and the Master—they’d both be so proud,” Rosie whispered into her husband’s ear, then kissed him.