Chestnut and Honeysuckle
(by Cúthalion, as a gift for Aratlithiel)
Rain had been falling for nearly a week, a soft curtain of cool water filling the dry holes in the road between Hobbiton and Bywater. This was the first warm and sunny day. Lily Proudfoot went home from the market; a wicker basket hanging over her arm, and the tasty smell of an apple pie fresh from the oven drifted out of it like a sweet cloud, tickling her nose.
Lily was what the old gossips in the neighborhood called good natured and sensible , and many handsome young hobbits had risked more than one eye when she passed by or took part in a summer dance during the last two years. But strangely enough, she hadn't chosen a husband yet, and her mother was often puzzled when she thought of Lily's future. Lily was a beautiful hobbit lass, with a clear, fresh face, red and golden like a summer apple and long soft ringlets of auburn hair falling down nearly to her waist. She had strong little hands that joyfully picked early strawberries, rinsed petticoats down in the brook and ironed blouses and shirts. They dried the tears of her younger siblings, made lost kittens purr and stitched flowers into the aprons of her girlfriends skillful hands, but they had never burrowed into the hair of a mature hobbit or wandered tenderly across his skin. She sat under the shadow of the honeysuckle arbor in the back garden of the Proudfoot smial, listened to the whispers and breathless giggles of Marigold Gamgee and Pansy Boffin ( "...and then he kissed me, and he smelled like the big beer cask in the Green Dragon, and guess what he did with his tongue!" ), and she smiled and said nothing. Sometimes Mother Proudfoot asked herself if anything might be wrong with her lovely, friendly daughter. She simply seemed not to be interested in setting up a family.
She had no idea that Lily Proudfoot had lost her heart two years ago, and that no hobbit lad, handsome or not, stood even a small chance since that magical day the day when Lily sat beneath the party tree near Bag End, in the middle of a noisy midsummer feast and saw Frodo Baggins dancing alone. His spirit was lightened by wine and music, his eyes sparkled and his laughter was big and merry enough to draw her breathless with sheer joy and anticipation.
She never forgot her feelings in that moment, and from that night on she loved Mad Bilbo Baggins cousin.
*****
Lily reached the Proudfoot smial and placed her basket on the small wooden table in the honeysuckle arbor. She thought that a glass of her mother's apple wine would be a fine drink with the fresh pie, but she had promised her mother to take the shirts from the line in the front garden. They fluttered like a bloomy white welcome when she came up the path a few minutes ago. She took her mother's big laundry basket, removed one shirt, then the next and the third, folding them properly.
"Good morning, Lily. "
The fourth shirt slipped out of her hands and landed in the damp grass. She didn't have to look up; she knew who had come. She would have been able to recognize that voice even in the darkest night.
"Good morning, Mr. Frodo. "
She was surprised to hear herself speaking calmly and soft; finally she managed to look up and meet his eyes. He smiled at her, not absent and vaguely polite as he did so often, but rather amused.
"Does that happen always when there's an unexpected visit?" he asked and she laughed nervously and had to keep her hand from touching his lightly sun tanned cheek. He smells like summer.
"No, Sir," she answered shyly and then, with new courage: "Would you like to have a cool drink? My mother has made new apple wine. "
"I'd like that, Lily," he said to her surprise." That's a splendid idea – it's very warm this morning. "
He sat down in the shadow of the arbor; the honeysuckle leaves drew a vivid pattern on his face. She took two mugs and a freshly filled jar from the kitchen and hastened back into the garden; a suspicious part of her was sure he would be gone when she returned (or that he had never really been there at all and the whole miracle had only happened in her enamored imagination).
But he was still there, half stretched on the bench with closed eyes, relaxed and patiently waiting for her. She hesitated in front of the arbor, bewitched by the soft abundance of his hair, only a little darker than her own curls, by the creamy colour of his skin – oh, how she wished to lay her fingertips on the little hollow under his chin! – and the elegant shape of his hands. Beautiful clever hands, with soft palms and ink blotches on both thumbs. Those hands, cupped around her face, those lips, capable with poem and song, following a trail down from her chin to her
Suddenly she realized that his eyes were open again; he watched her with a small, enquiring smile. She winced and blushed violently. The rumours came back to her, and she was sure he knew them all, and that he also knew her thoughts. She turned her face away, deeply ashamed.
A hand – and yes, it was soft indeed – touched her cheek and then she met his eyes again, and they were blue like the sky in the dawn, blue like a river at the first day of spring, blue like forget-me-not and glorious lilac. Blue
"What is it, Lily?"
There was a smile in his voice, and a soft, tender teasing.
She swallowed. Then, with a courageous effort, she took her heart in both hands.
"I saw you two years ago, at the big midsummer feast under the party tree, she said. You were the most vivid and beautiful creature I had ever seen. I couldn't keep my eyes away from you. Since that day I have always wished to tell you... to tell you..."
"Tell me what?"
She raised her eyes, jumping over the edge.
"That I love you. I love you, Mr. Frodo."
He gave a small, surprised laugh.
"How do I deserve this?" he asked." I've never had a single idea that you were interested, Lily. I only wondered why you well, why you never picked up one of your countless admirers. You have left many broken hearts on your path, Miss Proudfoot."
She shook her head, and suddenly a happy laughter bubbled up and escaped between her lips, laughter full of joy and relief.
"I never encouraged anyone, sir," she replied. "They could have spared all their flowers and poems – rather bad poems, most of them."
"And now – what do you want me to do now?"
His hands had suddenly moved around her waist, and she could feel him incredibly near, and she could smell him – an intense aroma of old books, moss and leather. She took a deep breath and then, without hesitating, buried her hot face in his clean linen shirt, searching for the scent of his skin underneath.
His chest trembled with breathless laughter, and Lily laughed together with him, not ashamed anymore. She felt as if she was flying, as if she had spread newly-grown wings and lost the ground under her feet. She raised her head again and gasped for air. Then his hands closed around her face – the dream had come true at last - and his lips lay on her mouth, sweet and soft, honey and wine and pipeweed, and she moaned gently and invited his tongue for a first, deep kiss that made her head swirl and her knees weak.
She moved back and discovered that his fingers had sneaked down to her breasts.
"I fear, I'm not very useful for a proper courtship, my beautiful chestnut," Frodo said between fast and deep breaths. "It is not my destiny to set up a family and raise a rabble of children – although I love them. So, if you are searching for a husband, you'd better send me away before it's too late."
She shook her head again and looked in his eyes. She saw desire there, a deep and hungry longing, and a small glimpse of regret.
"There is nothing to be sorry for, Frodo." She spoke with pride, and for the first time ever she used his name without the respectful "sir" . "I will thankfully accept everything you are willing to give, and I promise never to complain for anything."
She took him by the hand and led him to the open door of the Proudfood Smial.
"My parents have gone to Buckland for a visit with my aunt Esmeralda, and they have taken my small brothers with them," she said. "Nobody will know that you are here with me."
*****
Her room was sunny and quiet; dust danced in the slim golden sunbeams coming through the window. Outside the day grew older; the sun journeyed across the sky and filled the world with shining light. Inside she stood completely still, her arms hanging down on both sides. She watched him as he loosened the lashes of her old white bodice; suddenly she was very thankful that she had taken a bath the last evening, and that she had used her best violet soap.
Then she stopped thinking. The bodice slipped down with a soft whisper and she felt cool air on her breasts. He cupped them with both hands and his thumbs caressed her chocolate brown nipples; her head fell back and she laughed again breathlessly, her skin glowing with life and a sudden, deep desire.
She watched him as he undressed. He placed his shirt, his braces and his trousers carefully on the chair beside her bed. Then he stood in front of her, naked at last, and she looked at him with admiring eyes. Finally she dared to touch him she let her hands wander across the smooth skin of his shoulders, caressed his neck with tender, loving fingertips and kissed the hollow under his chin with a thankful smile. His hands glided down her sides and touched her thighs with clever and unerring strokes. They kissed again, hungry and impatient, and then he lifted her up and placed her between the soft pillows.
He was the first one she invited in to her virgin bed, and he knew it at once. He smoothened her hair and kissed away the short pain, and then he started to move, carefully first and very slow. But she had waited for him too long, taming her desire, and she opened her body and mind and encouraged him with breathless voice and fiery words, and he no longer curbed his passion and gave her what she longed for. And when she reached her first climax he held her as close as he could and felt her screaming into his mouth, and then he moved forth with a last exhilarating thrust into her warm, irresistible depths and kissed the tears from her smiling face.
*****
She's an old woman now. The years have come and passed, and her brothers have grown and married, and there is a good dozen of sweet curly heads calling her Auntie Lily.
Her auburn hair is now white. But deep in her heart she is still the young beautiful maiden from that summer of 1417 his chestnut, his darling, his patient and selfless sweetheart. When she lies in her bed at midnight she recalls their meetings, recalls his tender hands, his strong body and the music in his voice.
She saw him leave with Sam Gamgee, to Crickhollow as people said. He told her nothing, but two days before he left they met for the last time in a stormy cold night, and he took her with desperate hunger; sometimes she awakens, her heart hammering in the fragile body of an old hobbit woman, and the sound of his stifled voice rings again in her ears, crying her name in lust and pain.
They never slept in one bed again; he returned home more than one year later, and everything was changed. She never tried to press on for contact or the renewing of love, but she and Rosie Cotton – now Rosie Gamgee – became friends. And Rosie spoke of Frodo and his desperate fight against his demons, and Lily listened and understood.
She was waiting beside the road when he left for the last time, never to come back. And for the first time since that last night of love more than two years ago she called his name: Frodo ! And he turned his head and raised his hand, and he gave her a painfully sweet smile. And she smiled back at him and stayed at the same spot until she couldn't see him anymore and the tears finally blinded her.
And now the path of her life is soon to end, and she is not afraid of dying. Perhaps he will be there again, beyond that final, unknown border, and he will take her hands and they will embrace, surrounded by the scent of honeysuckle, and she will finally hold him, complete and full of peace.
She lies fast asleep, a soft smile on her wrinkled face.
Soon.
FIN