Welcome to Master of War! This is my convoluted idea revolving around a Frodo/Rosie ship, with a fem!Frodo/Sam ship elsewhere. I figured that, as a Frodomance writer, it simply had to be done. This serves as a companion to my story The Lord of the Rings by Bixbite Baggins if anyone is interested in checking that out. This story starts up pretty darn fast, and isn't very long, only about 50,000 words or so. Chapters should be uploaded once a week; I appreciate reviews, especially if there's something I ought to fix about the story. :) Thanks, and enjoy!
It is suitable to marry a lass with perfectly good hobbit-sense and the ability to cook so that your mouth waters upon opening the door to your hole, unless she knows how to wield a sword and lead an army: then your marriage is a disgrace and perhaps you were so dull you shouldn't have been courting in the first place. Besides, if she does know how to protect herself and be a leader, she hasn't hobbit-sense at all.
In spite of this—or because of it—I found myself searching for a lady who could wield a sword, for I knew it was impossible. Of course, good food at the hand of a wife is essential, but I suppose I didn't think seriously about that. Well . . . all right. In hindsight, I convinced myself to search for the unattainable because I didn't have any interest at all in any Shire lasses. I suppose I found them pretty, but they weren't my primary focus. And they surrounded me on all sides; I never had a concern about isolating a particular lass. They were all the same, and as tradition stated—thus I believed—that lasses were intellectually, physically, and in all other ways inferior, save appearances.
Suffice it to say I had no wish to meddle in courting.
Not that I would have been old enough: I consider this perspective from my twenties, a time that seems longer ago than it truly is. A few years into said decade, in spite of my lack of interest (and subsequent obliviousness to the interest of lasses in me) it came to my attention that the shy and particular Samwise had found himself a lass other than my cousin Bixbite to give his affections to: Rosie Cotton.
I thought nothing more of it than to tease him, I confess. But as he debated on whether he wished to risk himself for my cousin or for this fair lass, I marveled: Bixbite was the only true spirit of any lass I had ever met, in the words of Bilbo. Sam knew that. He had his eye on her since we were small, when she perhaps wasn't quite of age, but still an adult in the eyes of any that were younger than she.
He told me he would marry her someday. I goaded him about it, certainly, until he mentioned Rosie some years after he had come of age, and suddenly my boyish hopes to call Sam a brother were shattered. This drove me into a great stupor; not only did I wish for Sam to be family, but somewhere beyond my youthfulness a part of me knew I wanted my dear cousin—my cousin that I'd loved since I moved to Bag End—to be protected. I didn't trust her to guard herself, and I would be looking after my own hole; Sam would have to care for her. I forced myself, despite the bitter taste in my young and unsure tongue, to love Rosie so Sam could make his decision.
Again, in my young mind I had a mission, in spite of how repulsive it might seem to me. I told no one, for I knew they would tease me about it, and I grew warm, if not red, in the face upon thinking I must be attracted to Miss Cotton; I must.
Most of anyone, Sam caught me at my pondering and my argumentation with my gut instinct to save my cousin and my best friend. This questioning and pondering, however, only took place in the presence of Miss Cotton.
"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" he asked. While I suspected the question a decent amount of time before it actually came up in conversation, it never really bothered me. Speaking of my desires for any sort of courting is an inaccurate summation of my childhood: I cannot emphasize how little it meant to me until it happened to come up.
I did not look to Sam. I could not. Initially I found my gaze resting upon the fair Rosie, my chin set harder than was comfortable. I do not recall the entire situation, but we were out in Sam's garden, and Rosie stood across the way with a group of friends, half of them pointing towards me (I thought it was Sam at the time, but now I see more clearly) and giggling. I am glad of my ignorance at that time. I did not blush nor did I turn away for fear. "I am perfectly well, Sam," I said, undoubtedly too solid to be believable.
"Mr. Frodo, you're staring solid at Miss Cotton," Sam persisted. "Did she offend you or something?"
I was tempted to affirm that, but truly it was not her offense, save that she was evidently too fair and good a lass. No one competed with my cousin, not with Bix, especially not in the eyes of my best friend.
"No," I said at last, for I didn't know what else to say. "Suffice it to say I am studying your lass of choice, Sam."
Sam did not ask more questions, and I completely forgot about my obligation after that day. To now I don't understand if it was some psychological desire to hide my intentions from Sam or lack of interest in general, but it never returned to me.
Not until I was of age myself.
I never realized until then, either, how I didn't have a minute to myself at social gatherings: although I hadn't cared before, I wanted this party to be special: I wanted to be with Sam. But I was pulled onto the dance floor, quite almost protesting, by more lasses than I cared to count to myself. It made me a little queasy to realize how many there were. I found myself hoping, amidst all their talk of weather and needlepoint and prospects of a good marriage (hopefully not to a cracked Baggins lad), for a lass that wanted to talk about what I loved to talk about: books. The outside world. Swordfighting. Elves, dwarves, wizards. After some hours of this nonsense, I would have even settled for an analysis on the fireworks above or the contents of a stirring ale, or just peace and quiet.
Then I spotted Sam, alone, at a party table. I didn't know how to make it over to him; I certainly didn't want to throw Hazel Proudfoot out without any decency. Then I spotted Rosie Cotton dancing to the side.
I swallowed myself back when I spotted her. I knew she was a decent dancer . . . and very pretty, I thought to myself. Her skirts swirled around her legs, and I followed how her feet moved. She was more graceful than most, certainly than my own feet, and for a moment I pined to dance with her. I had built up a subconscious attraction to the lass over the years, but now I had to get away from Hazel.
Then my attention turned back to Sam, and I knew now would be a good time to do him a favor.
"You'll pardon me," I said, cutting Hazel off from a lengthy description on her perfect idea of a wedding dress, "but I have a friend to attend to." I politely kissed her hand—she would not leave me be the remainder of the night if I didn't, I realized upon reflection—and was careful to erase the taste from my lips as I walked away. I heard her giggling hopelessly behind me and wondered with agitation how I had not noticed until now. Hazel was not one to conceal, and I had perhaps, and would for a long time, miss everything until she put it out to me straight.
I threw myself to Sam's side, only too relieved to get away from Hazel. "Go on, Sam!" I cried. I stared out at Rosie, and a hesitation broke my thoughts. Her curls swayed with her movement, and for a fleeting moment I wanted her eyes to catch mine. I suppose every lad has a moment of that nature, where his inner desire to be dominant puffs itself up and determines to court a lass of his choosing, regardless of whether or not she is a good match or altogether pleasant company: she is simply an attractive girl, and to win her by looks or capability alone is triumph.
"Ask Rosie for a dance!" I persisted, tearing my gaze from the lovely girl.
Sam gave me a perplexed, almost embarrassed, look. I gave him a flabbergasted one in response. He vehemently explained that he had fallen away from his love of Rosie years ago, and now his gaze flickered periodically to my cousin Bix, seated on his other side. I surveyed her hopefully: ah, I hadn't even had to attract Miss Cotton and my plans (albeit I perhaps hadn't been the first to conceive them) were working beautifully.
"Actually, Frodo," Bix said coyly, "I think you should ask Miss Cotton for a dance."
That certainly took me by surprise, in fact horrified me, and I didn't have the internal process to protest before Bix turned to Rosie and beckoned her over. I couldn't decide if I wanted her to ignore Bix or come here. She chose the latter, and I immediately wished she was blind, or that Bix hadn't done anything.
But I refused to allow myself room to blush.
"What can I do for you, Miss Baggins?" Rosie asked. Her voice sounded so kind and sweet; my nose crinkled. She was probably just like every other young lady in attendance, and I'd had enough of those. But heavens, she looked beautiful. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, so long as my ears numbed to the conversation and took in her sweet tone.
"Why, Rosie,"—Bix's voice dripped with triumph—"I'm afraid my cousin is left without a partner for this dance. Would you be so kind as to take him for one? I hear he's a wonderful dancer."
Rosie wore an impeccable smile, but I saw the flash of irritation under her skin. I vowed deep within myself to ask her what she detested so much about me, assuming that look meant what I thought it did. Her voice even sounded perfectly cheerful: "Why, of course."
The moment she turned to me, I knew I couldn't do it. Whether Sam sensed my obstinacy or thought I couldn't speak for myself, he nudged me towards her. I nearly shoved her over, and I grabbed her elbow to keep her on her feet. For my clumsiness, I surmised, I ought to do the right thing and dance with her anyway.
I took her hand and bowed over it. To be honest I'd had enough of kissing hands that evening. "I would be . . ." I searched for the right word, but the moment it came out of my mouth I knew it wasn't true. ". . . honored if you would dance with me, Miss Cotton."
She took my arm, but did not squeeze it as most girls did. I led her quickly to the dance floor.
"You don't have to be so unpleasant about it."
I nearly halted, but for fear of startling Bix I kept walking. "Unpleasant?"
"You are obviously distressed," Rosie snorted. I nearly laughed outright; I didn't think her pleasant, soft voice could give such a spiteful tone to any word. "Every dance I see you roll your eyes before you get up, and there must have been some sort of story behind that back there, for you did not ask me."
I struck up a dancing position, and she followed as though she'd been dancing before she could eat. "My dear, one's birthday is not about one's self, but about the guests invited. And the only purpose for my eyerolls—if that is truly what happened—is solely to give off my energies gathering during the lasses' long, dull talks of weddings, flowers, weather, and so forth."
Rosie laughed. The music started up immediately; she was rather good, far better than I was. I stumbled over once or twice, but she didn't seem to notice. "Indeed. Then what do you wish to talk of, Mr. Baggins?"
It was certainly worth a try. "What do I wish to speak of that is proper . . . or fantastical?"
"You mean to say fantastical isn't proper?" Her jaw dropped. "Why, Mr. Baggins!"
"How should I know if a lass wishes to speak of fantastical things? The adults of the Shire—of which I am now a part, I'm afraid—even refuse to approve of my conversation, for it involves wild tales." My feet stopped, and Rosie followed. "Forests. Beasts. Gold and swords."
"Indeed?" she prompted.
I started on a novel I had been reading, and then followed through into a thorough analysis of the novel. It shocked every fiber of my being when she expressed she had read the same novel . . . and didn't receive any of the same philosophies from its dissection in her mind. That turned into witty banter, and a new view for me on the entire story. I vowed as the night wore on and we danced minute after minute that I would go home and read the story again.
"And then next time you will be correct," Rosie said, jutting out her jaw. "A good night to you, Mr. Baggins; I'm afraid I must go to take care of my siblings."
I shook my head. "Not Mr. Baggins." I took her hand back and kissed it; I attempted to keep it polite, but she interested me, and so I added a little to it. "I am Frodo to you, Rosie."
She stared at me. I feared her refusal, but a sly smile—the smile of a lass who knows how tantalizingly beautiful and infuriating she could be—stretched across her perfect, pink lips. I swallowed. "I never told you to call me Rosie, but I suppose it would not be so bad." She curtsied to me, then turned away. "Frodo."
"Wait!"
She glanced back at me briefly, but left the rest of her body facing away, as though to torment me into believing she didn't truly want to hear what I had to say.
"We could read it together," I managed. She turned towards me and crossed her arms, suddenly interested. "Analyze its attributes in company with one another. There is a tree where I like to read, by the South Gate; would you join me there?"
She nodded. "Of course, Frodo." With that, she turned and walked out of sight.
