Hello! How are you!
Summer is finally here! With my classes over and time to myself, I can focus more on my wordsmithing - something that still needs work and polish. I LOVE feedback, tips, reviews, etc, so please feel free to help me out!
This fic is just a little one-shot that I may make a sequel for or not. I'll have to see. I still need to update other fics and publish a few more ideas I have. But, whatever the case, I hope you enjoy this!
-E-
Within a few short hours, the plot of land was clean. The old bushes and weeds no longer crowded it. Instead new soil beds and stones laced the backyard. The garden outline was too underwhelming to be a real backyard, the gaffer thought, but that was how the Lilywoods told him they had wanted it; they were too busy to complete it themselves, especially with Hobbiton's semi-annual baking competition that evening, so they pushed it off for later. But, for now, he helped by dropping small flower bulbs in the beds.
A few paces away, the gaffer's son and Frodo Baggins finished up their work. It took a fair amount of time to remove all of the weeds, fingering their hard roots and twisting, but they both had it done. Now, they were left with cool sweat running down their foreheads, with the sun painting warmth on their necks. Black smudges on their cheeks like kisses.
"Looks like you boys just 'bout got it all done," the gaffer said heartily. "Beau'ful job on the beds, my boy. Your talent's shinnin' brigh'er every day."
"Thanks, da'," Sam said without looking up from smoothing the soil clumps.
Frodo got up and dusted off his front. "Are you and Sam going to the prelims too? I heard that the Proudfeet are trying out again for cobblers. Blackberry, so I've heard."
"Blackberry, huh? Well, glad to hear 'em throwing their hats in the ring." The gaffer wiped his forehead. "Yeah, I'm sure we'll check 'em out - although, I'd hate to see them lose to my lovely Bell's peach cobbler. Hasn't lost to anythin' yet."
"No, it hasn't, has it? That's why I'm not qualifying for cobblers this year - I certainly know my place! - but I'm bringing an apple cake instead."
"Oh, yes," the gaffer smiled. "I remember when Sam brought some back home the other day. It was good cake, as I remember."
"Yes, that was the practice batch. And you can thank Bilbo for that recipe. I would have done his seed cake recipe, but, since he's not here, it wouldn't feel right." Frodo took back an ounce of his jovial air, slightly sobering when he mentioned, "Since coming to Bad End, this is the first year where Bilbo won't be going with me."
"You can just come with us," Sam offered, wiping his hands on his oversized work pants.
"Very thoughtful of you, but I'm afraid Merry beat you to it"- he took out his pocket watch and flipped the lid -"In fact, I'm supposed to meet him and Pippin in an hour and take them to the show myself. My aunts really wanted me to - they've been needing a break from them apparently." He almost chuckled at Sam's betrayed face, looking as though he declared plans about moving back to the Brandy Halls, but he knew better. "I would have loved to be with you and your father, Sam. It's always nice to go with you Gamgees. Yet, my cousins will be leaving Hobbiton by tomorrow and neither of us will see them again for a while."
The lip on Sam's face teetered between frowning and relaxing, undecided whether this was a valid reason or an excuse. But, with Frodo's indulgent smile, he nodded reluctantly. "We'll see you at the competition, though?"
"Of course, but I bet I'll see you standing up on the winner's podium."
The gaffer wiped his forehead again. "Don't you gotta meet your cousins in an hour? You best be cleanin' up before that."
"Oh, nearly forgot. If the Sackville-Bagginses will be there, I better get into some fine battle armor." He smirked before shaking the older hobbit's calloused hand. "Thanks for suffering my amateur gardening skills, sir."
"Always welcomed, Master of Bag End!"
Before he playfully rolled his eyes, Sam encircled him from behind. Small, fleshy arms squeezed his waist.
"Bye, Mr. Frodo!" he squeaked, releasing him and bouncing away as quickly as he came. It made the elders laugh.
After waving them off and moving onto the dirt road, Frodo realized the fullness of his state when passing hobbits kept giving him strange glances; his shirt was completely soil-stained and his trousers' filthy knees stuck out like smoking charcoals. Dark, hard, thickly caked, and in no condition for the public eye. He had made the wrong choice in wearing decent clothes, thinking garden work would not be as messy as yard work. And, with sweat and sunlight bring out the natural odors in his skin, he decided a quick bath was in order.
-E-
The plates in the sink needed attention; maple syrup from that morning's meal still puddled over the table, the silverware dunked in the milk pitcher. And, with the apple cores wetting the kitchen floor in a sticky pile - which Pippin crafted before leaving with Merry for the market plaza - Frodo was tempted to postpone his bath. Having his cousins over for a week was overwhelming, especially now Bilbo had left. He also had to clean up the mess of his apple cake, which cooled by the window. But, he argued with himself, he needed to prepare himself. It would be rude to present himself this way, and - he remembered Pippin babbling about his family coming to the competition too - it would be improper if Pearl Took would be there.
With the thought of the young lady, only slightly younger than him, he decided a bath was essential. She was one of the few hobbits who enjoyed life and small adventures, not caring what others think: a rare gem with a sunset's beauty. Her liveliness was the first thing that caught his attention. That, and the way her dress hugged around her figure. He winced when he suddenly remembered what Bilbo used to say: "I see you marrying a Took, my boy! You always had a taste for some fun and some trouble!"
He turned into the bathroom, closed the door, and said to himself, "Now, for a quick clean up."
After boiling the water and filling the tub, trying to compromise the cool water with the steaming water, he stripped himself and piled the clothes in the laundry basket. He chuckled when he looked in the mirror and saw his back covered in dirt, black specks dusting porcelain skin. He suspected it was Sam, but he did not remember the little hobbit ever doing such a thing. It seemed more likely that he shoveled some dirt behind him and it fell down his collar.
On a small table in a box were the vital ingredients: salts, soaps, and oils. He decided to go with the sandalwood sage soap. It was a zesty, masculine smell, he thought. Any lass would like it. But, then he noticed the cinnamon citrus soap - a pastel orange block. It had sweetness and spiciness woven together in one delicious smell. This one would make any lass's mouth water - he quickly scolded himself for thinking that. But, unable to choose, he postponed the soaps for later.
After a quick rinse of a washcloth to remove the dirt, he realized how good water felt against his skin, especially his pink neck. It was the perfect temperature, the perfect setting, the perfect mood. Now, the temptation to have a longer bath held his mind; his pocket watch on the table said it would not hurt. There was time.
A few minutes later, with some more boiled water and some salt, the marble tub was complete. Hot, milky water steamed. Salt and herbs embellished the misty air. Thankfully, however, for the sake of his dignity, Frodo closed the small window, remembering his neighbors and their walking patterns. He would not allow something like that to happen again. The last time, while having a cool bath on a summer's day, he had heard a sharp gasp and scrambling feet from the window; instantly, he had known it was his neighbor - with red cheeks and a temporary stutter controlling the poor soul's face. They did not treat the other quite the same since.
Now, with everything in order, he grinned, dipped his feet in the tub, and groaned.
A slow submersion. The water - its seductive heat and softness - crept up to his neck as he laid back. Silence and stillness. Sweat and grim floated off. The heat felt therapeutic and there was no need to hurry.
He took a washcloth, dipped it in the tub's brew, and soaked his face. He loved how the water almost made his skin dissolved in with the salts, melting and floating away with the steam.
The only thing that needed attention now were the soaps: cinnamon citrus or sandalwood sage? He still could not decide. A pleasant smell or an exciting one? Either would work, but one could be superior to the other, could be the lucky chance of getting Pearl's attention. Which one would she like?
Torn between the two, he soaked until he could absorb the answer. Steam curled around his nose and the salts exfoliated the dirt in the cracks of his joints. Indulgence was acceptable, he assured himself.
Even after the mirrors lost their fog, after his fingers began to wrinkle, he still tried to imagine what her preferences were. Did she like a rich, dark musk or an exotic tang? What types of smells did she like? What were her tastes? Wait, he thought, would she even smell him past the cakes? Would she smell his silent scent through the hot pastries? Perhaps he needed something stronger, something more inviting, something to get her attention, something to remind her that he was single, or something that was just as delicious as his apple cake-
He stopped himself from thinking further.
Yet, the questions remained: cinnamon citrus or sandalwood sage? He had to hurry since the water stilled into a clear, lukewarm broth; it was like the tub held liquid glass with two heads and four feet at either end. He had to choose now if he ever wanted to be clean.
Before he could decide - blindly selecting a soap and hoping for the best - the door to Bad End slammed open.
"Cousin Frodo!" a muffled voice cried. "Where are you? The competition's about to start!"
Panicked, he looked at his pocket watch and spluttered. It was twenty minutes past the hour.
"Ah-ah, just a second! I'm in the bath right now, Merry."
"A bath? Were you gardening again?"
He was about to drain the tub, jump out, dry off, find his fresh clothes, and usher his cousins to the competition, but footsteps directly outside the bathroom door made him freeze; he realized that his towel was at the other side of the room, folded over a stool.
"Don't come in right now! I'm not presentable!"
"Then why don't you throw something on? Pip needs a quick bath too, y'know."
Frodo looked at his watch again and winced. The time was the time and there was nothing to change it with. They could not make it if Pippin needed a bath either; it took much longer to clean the lad than it should. "He does, does he?"
"Yeah, he's a real dirty hobbit -" squeaky giggling crept under the door "- and that's why we were a little late in coming here. We found some frogs, y'see."
"Ah."
No matter how he read the clock, they were late. The competition was probably beginning with the sweet bread by now. And, he thought as he scolded himself, it was on him; it was his responsibility to bring his cousins for his aunts, but he allowed himself to get sidetracked, spending vital time indulging instead of what was needed. Acceptance settled in.
"I'm sorry - I knew you both wanted to go." He sighed. "We can still make it to the main events if we hurry. Hopefully, the cake competition is a later event."
"It's okay, Frodo," Merry said, his voice moving back and forth behind the door. "Just win for us and it'll be okay."
He half-smiled. "Thanks. Just give me a few seconds."
With an ounce of defeat, he quickly doused himself with soapy water - he could not smell it with the way he rushed the soap over him; it was probably a goat's milk bar. All the while, he hoped that Pearl would still be there, still be there and have enough room to try his cake. Hopefully. After rising up, the water racing down his body, he was about to steady himself out of the tub, but the doorknob jiggled.
"Pip, no, we don't do that - Just a sec, Frodo," Merry said over an excited babble. "He's almost - Pip, we need to wait before we do that - No, Pip, we can't-"
Before Frodo could blink, the door flew open; a peachy blur raced in, naked and giggling.
"Pippin! Don't you-"
Before he could flinch, he was knocked back down into the tub. The water broke and sprayed its shards in every direction. He spluttered, murky water penetrating his nose, and pulled himself up fast enough to find Pippin grinning ear to ear, straddling himself over his belly.
"You little-" Merry frowned. "I said to wait!"
Pippin, even though he was old enough to listen, began to lather himself in every soap bar within his reach. "But, cousin Frodo has the best bathtimes. There are always so many bubbles!"
"Oh, cous', I'm sorry for him! I told him to wait!"
Frodo would have assured him that nothing was hurt, but he could not stop laughing.
-E-
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Have a golly good day!