Frodo walked through one of the many gardens in the upper circles of Minas Tirith. This was one of his favorites, for the flowers were brightly colored yet not gaudy, the trees dainty yet strong, and the delicate scent of the surrounding life saturated the gentle breeze that ruffled Frodo's hair. He lay down and put his chin in his hands in a patch of particularly lush grass and noted, rather distantly, what a lovely spot it was. But his thoughts were elsewhere, and they would not be redirected no matter how he tried to focus them on more pleasant matters.
He knew the time was nearing when he must leave Minas Tirith and begin the journey back to the Shire. Aragorn would wed soon; he had seen it in Gandalf's eyes. And he could feel it in his heart that if he wished to see Bilbo again, he would be wise to set out sooner rather than later. Besides, he knew Sam was longing to go and claim his Rosie, though he'd never knowingly let on. There would be joy in that home-coming, he knew, but each time he tried to stir the home-longing he'd fought for so long, it seemed rather sluggish and hazy. Clear and almost painfully detailed in his mind's eye were the faces of those he would be leaving behind. Beregond and Bergil, who had become dear to him since Pippin had introduced them; the Healers who'd kept their eyes on him and aided him as they could; King Eomer, the Lady Eowyn, and Lord Faramir; the list went on...but one face always drowned out the others. As dear as a brother, and closer, even; for brothers by blood do not choose to be kin.
Frodo shut his eyes against the grief, chiding himself for his stupidity. After all, he hadn't left yet; if he wished to see Aragorn all he had to do was walk up to the Citadel. How childish and self-centered and irrational he was! He despised this weakness of will, this illogic that permitted this welling up of emotions prematurely felt. He shook himself, and ran his hand over his head. "Okay, Frodo, get a grip. They'll be along soon." It had been perhaps half an hour since he'd left his comrades in their courtyard, and judging by the pattern of the past few weeks one or all of them would appear, quite by accident, of course, ambling along in his general vicinity.
Taking a drink from the flask on his belt, Frodo rolled on his back and gazed up at the clouds. He knew that Sam would never leave his side, and that Merry and Pippin would be with him during the journey and would be nearby once they had returned to the Shire. But as much as he loved each one, there would be a deep wound in his heart nonetheless, inflicted by the absence of the one he still thought of at times as Strider.
Yes, there they were – as yet quiet voices, slowly but steadily ascending the path to the garden in which Frodo still lay wrestling with his thoughts. He was silently grateful that they had the consideration to make sure he heard them coming; as Hobbits, it was all too easy to sneak up on someone; particularly someone lost in thought, as Frodo was often enough.
Frodo let out his breath in a half-melancholy, half-resolute sigh. Allowing himself a mournful mental groan of agitation, he took a deep breath and stood up. He tried to focus on the loveliness of the surrounding flowers, the sweetness of the air.
The voices were drawing near now, and Frodo could discern that they were discussing the finer points of the ale they'd sampled the night before, and how it compared to that of the Green Dragon or the Prancing Pony. Frodo had drunk his share of the ale, but although he'd laughed and joked along with the rest, his heart hadn't been in it. He was torn between the Shire and Minas Tirith, between Bilbo and Aragorn, and between the relative happiness he'd found in the rough routine he'd established over the last weeks. There was beauty in the Shire, and deep in his heart it was his home; his home, with all the unwordable meaning that the word entails. However, beauty was returning to Minas Tirith, and the comfort in that was twofold. Firstly, that a place so devastated by war and neglect and far too much death to consider, could be redeemed and restored, watered the little seed of hope that had been planted in Frodo's heart in the moment he awoke and realized his quest had been fulfilled. And secondly, the restoration of Minas Tirith did not strive to return the city to its former glory, but to acknowledge all that had occurred; to take that which had been damaged or destroyed by evil and to gently mold it into something even more beautiful than what it had originally been.
Frodo stretched his arms above his head and twisted, relaxing the knots in his neck and shoulders. He pivoted in place, and found himself able to really look around him. The first hint of dusk was creeping over the sky, and a bird was singing. He felt the coolness of the breeze through his tousled hair, and sighed as he felt himself relax for the first time all that day.
In that moment, hearing his friends nearing the garden's gate, drenched in the peacefulness emanating from each element of the garden, Frodo put aside his anticipatory grief for the moment and drank in the serenity. Standing absolutely still, he took it all in, letting the moment wash over him and purge his weariness and sorrow. Turning, he took a breath and strode toward his friends. "All right lads, shall we be off? Aragorn will be expecting us, you know, and we oughtn't to keep the King waiting, now ought we?"