Author's note: Sorry about the delay! The next chapter will be up soon, I promise. The song in this chapter is from The Lord of the Rings, ch IV, pg 88, film tie-in edition 2001.
2. Sunday: Letter
Frodo clicked the quill against his teeth. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by an untidy jumble of ink bottles and books. Since first light he'd been awake, attempting to set his thoughts to paper. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to put his feelings into words. Writing elvish poetry and tales of high adventure were much easier than telling Sam how much he cared for him.
How much he desired him.
Sam was singing somewhere off in the smial as he tended to his duties inside Bag End -- a tune heard each Highday at The Ivy Bush with a clank of mugs to finish.
Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe.
Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go,
But under a tall tree I will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by.
Sam finished his song with a low Ho! Ho! Ho!, then Frodo heard the door snap close. A hum started outside Frodo's window, along with the click of shears. Such distraction would do him no favours; Frodo tried to brush aside the feelings swelling within him at the sound of the gardener's deep voice by massaging his brow, trying to force words from his head down to his fingertips.
I love you, he wrote, then balled the expensive paper up in his fist in frustration. Frodo was sure of his feelings of love for Sam, as sure as he held dear affection for Bilbo and warm regard for Merry and Pippin and Freddy and Folco, but there was a wanting to do things with Sam that flew a warm blush to his cheeks and a tender flurry to his stomach .
He imagined kissing Sam in slow, hungry movements while the stars swung overhead, running fingers through Sam's honey-coloured hair scented of earth and rainwater. Drawing meandering lines with his fingers through a forest of golden curls that grew thick on a broad chest, eventually sliding lower and lower, till the coarse material of a waistband hid something that...
A shudder ran under Frodo's skin. Oh, what would happen if Sam just touched him, considering that just thinking about it could send aching pangs down to his nether parts.
Ignoring the want that raked over his skin with considerable fortitude, Frodo dipped the quill into the inkwell and began to write again.
His letter explained his feelings, made no room for mistakes. If he was a bit poetic and high flying with metaphors of stars and clouds in the beginning, the gentlehobbit of Bag End became more prosaic at the letter's end. Frodo made sure to say that if Sam didn't share his feelings, no harm would come to him. Frodo would simply never mention it again, even if it stung his heart like a prick of a rose thorn.
An hour later, Frodo read over the letter one more time, before stuffing it in an envelope, writing "Sam" in graceful Tengwar and sealing it with wax.
"You're up early, Frodo."
Frodo jumped as his uncle ambled into the room. "Hullo, Bilbo," he said, deftly tucking the envelope under his arm.
"Still translating?" asked Bilbo, peering at the sea of crumpled parchments.
"Yes," said Frodo, quickly sweeping the crumpled papers into the wastebasket. "Thought I would get a start on it. How are you this morning?"
"Well enough, dear boy. But I wondered if I could ask a favour of you?"
Frodo looked up expectantly, if not a little warily. Bilbo's requests had became more than a little odd during the past year.
"Could you go to the market and collect some things for me? I didn't have enough time to do it yesterday."
Bilbo handed over his list.
Frodo took it, reading oddments as followed the meanderings of Bilbo's mind: mint sauce, a ball of twine, an incongruous row boat paddle -- along with more mundane quills and parchment.
"Certainly, Bilbo," he said.
"Good lad," Bilbo continued. "I spoke with Master Hamfast at last on the subject of his retirement."
"Retirement?" Frodo replied, slowly.
"The Gaffer is ready to step down from gardening here, and young Sam is quite able to take over his duties. Although," Bilbo chuckled, "Master Gamgee will still advise on the planting of the taters."
"Well..." Frodo sighed, eyebrows rising.
"You'll have to get used to just Sam being underfoot," Bilbo added, his eyes the hue of twilight for nigh on a moment.
Frodo rubbed at a drop of ink on the table. "Yes, I mean...that's fine with me."
"You look at bit flushed," said Bilbo, touching Frodo's brow briefly.
"I just need a walk," said Frodo, standing up. "I'll go now."
Bilbo's eyebrows quirked. "Don't be long in the stationers," he said, by which he meant that Frodo should not spend all his allowance there.
"Yes, Uncle," murmured Frodo as Bilbo left the room.
*
Frodo let the air rush from his lungs as he leant against his bedroom door. He was acting like a young lovesick tweener. Sam would be Bag End's full-time gardener, would be at Bag End most days from dusk till dawn. It was a fine thing, Frodo knew, to be able to gaze at Sam at his pleasure, yet it would be a most exquisite torture as well.
Frodo pulled out the envelope and studied it. Where should he put the letter so Sam would find it? A place the gardener would see it as soon as possible.
Frodo strode over to his bedroom window and looked out. A wonderfully sweet, aromatic smell lifted to his nose, as wholesome as freshly baked bread. In plain sight was a wheelbarrow, its wooden belly empty. As good as any place to hide the letter! Bilbo would not look inside, nor anyone but Sam.
Frodo crept to the hall door and pressed his ear against it. He could hear Sam's and Bilbo's voices faintly in the kitchen. It seemed Sam was speaking to Bilbo about when he should plant the potato seedlings sprouting in the greenhouse.
Quietly Frodo opened the door, snagging a shopping basket on the way. Quick as a wink he dashed out the door and into the garden.
He found himself in front of the wheelbarrow in two minds about his letter. The letter might blow away. Frodo smiled wryly as he imagined Lotho, or the Gaffer finding it tumbling down Bagshot Row. But there were only three hobbits in the Westfarthing who could read elvish: just he, Sam, and Bilbo, of course.
Frodo searched the ground, fingers eventually enclosing around a smooth egg-shaped stone. He stood up and looked around the garden. No one was about.
Pressing the envelope spontaneously to his lips, he put it carefully into the wheelbarrow and placed the stone on top. Then, without a backwards glance, he walked out the gate and down the lane, blushing brightly.
No going back now: Sam would come out to the garden again soon, and would discover the letter.
What would he think?
The gentlehobbit sighed, placing his hand on his cheek.
As Frodo walked along the path, he smiled at the children playing tig on the field just below Bag End. Being lithe and quick, he had often been chosen to be 'it', the one who must give chase, 'tigging' each hobbit, who then must lie still, collapsed onto the ground till everyone was caught.
"Hoy, Mr. Frodo!" A young boy, perhaps twelve seasons old, jogged up to Frodo, his plump face freckled, his nose snub.
"Good Morning, Master Smallburrow!" said Frodo.
"Where you going, Mr. Frodo?" Brown-green eyes watched Frodo thoughtfully.
"Just the market I'm afraid." Frodo waved the basket on his arm.
"Ah." The boy shook his cinnamon-coloured head. He hitched up his breeks, wiped at his sweaty brow. "Is Sam up at the Hill gardening? He promised me he'd show me a bird's nest he found in a tree somewhere 'round here."
Now Frodo found this conversation to his liking. "That's very nice of Sam, to take an interest. He often does, you know."
"Yessir. He talks a lot about what interests you."
"Really?" Frodo felt his cheeks warm.
The boy nodded. "Aye. Says that you tell him stories 'bout elves and dragons and things like that." Robin Smallburrow paused, chewing on the insides of his cheeks. "Would you tell me elf stories, sir? If you're willing."
"One day," said Frodo, grinning broadly. "But now I need to go to the market."
Robin cocked his head
and smiled, fingering a curl. "Good day to you, Mr. Frodo."
"Good day to you, Little Master."
The hobbitlad turned on his heel, running back across the field to his friends.
*
The market was bustling by the time Frodo arrived. Stalls lined each side of Hobbiton Square, sandwiching the crowd of hobbits between them. The carcasses of chickens, pigs and cows hung proudly on hooks; apples and pears, potatoes and carrots, mushrooms and tomatoes were stacked and piled neatly to present an appetising appearance. Thick brown loaves of bread, cream buns and gleaming apple tarts were the pride of the baker's stall, while farmers displayed fat white eggs and bottles of creamy-white milk.
Matrons dragged crying children by the hand -- or by the ear if need be -- whilst they scoured the stalls for provisions. A hobbitlad was tugging at the bridle of a sow of large girth, cursing loudly as it dug its trotters into the dirt, refusing to be moved. Hobbits cradled mugs of ale to test its sharpness despite the early hour. Merchants shouted out prices, competing against each other and adding to the din.
The market, with its loudness and commotion reminded Frodo of Brandy Hall, where he'd spent a greater part of his childhood. Oh, how Aunt Esme's mouth trembled between a frown and a smile, and Uncle Sara's bark-brown eyes glittered with amusement after he'd been hauled before them once more for another escapade.
Frodo shifted his basket to his other arm. He was sure his relations had been amazed when he agreed to settle into the peace and quiet of Hobbiton with his cousin Bilbo.
The inhabitants of Hobbiton knew Bilbo Baggins as adventurer, wizard-friend and jewel-taker (so it was said) but they also knew him as a good master, free with his money when it came to helping poor hobbits, and spoke to Bilbo's heir (for the most part) with good cheer.
As if to remind him of his youthful indiscretions, a sudden flurry parted the crowd, and out rushed a small lad, yelping in delight, eyes flashing as he dodged the flustered hobbits. Then a merchant pushed his way out of the milling hobbits -- the baker, Frodo recognized -- cursing loudly and jabbing a spoon into the air. Frodo felt his lips twitch, and sent a heartfelt good luck in the direction where the lad had scampered.
"Frodo Baggins!"
Inwardly Frodo groaned, feeling his gut twist at the shrill voice of his Aunt Lobelia. He turned slowly and gave her a friendly greeting.
"Humph." Lobelia looked him up and down with sharp grey eyes. "Nice to see you doing something useful. Where is that cousin of yours?"
"Bilbo and I are both well, thank you," said Frodo coolly, answering the unspoken, and most probably unthought question. "How are Lotho and Otho faring?"
"Very well." She gave a curt nod, knitting her brows. "I walked past Bag End today. Your smial is looking pleasant."
"I daresay Bag End has the finest garden in the Westfarthing," Frodo said with some pride.
"I suppose that's due to the Gamgees. I told Otho that he should have offered Hamfast more to leave Bilbo, but sadly my husband fails to see the merit that might be brought to our smial by having a well turned out garden."
Frodo ducked his head to hide his smile, recalling the choice words Hamfast Gamgee had spoken for Lobelia's offer of employment.
"If we can't have the Gaffer," Lobelia continued, "do you suppose that youngest, that Samwise would care to have a garden to tend of his own?"
Frodo was too amazed to speak, and then noticed Lobelia staring him down, tapping her foot impatiently. "I don't think he would have time: Master Hamfast has retired."
"Retired you say?" A thin eyebrow arched. "Well. I suppose the Bagginses of Bag End have the best of everything yet again." And she walked off, her skirts fluttering about her.
When she had disappeared into the crowd, Frodo consulted his list, feeling more than a little put-off, wondering for the one hundred-and-eleventy-first time when the feud between the Sackville-Bagginses and Bagginses had begun -- and if it could be mended.
Twine and mint sauce he could find easily enough in the marketplace, and it was a little walk further down the road to the bookshop for quills and parchment, but where to find the paddle? Frodo chuckled softly.
Frodo had secured the goods he needed from the marketplace, and began walking down Hobbiton Lane to the bookshop. Small clouds of dust rose as he strode past the shops -- a tailor, a salter, a vintner whose dark bottles of wine crowded the shopwindow. The noon sun felt good on the back of his neck, and Frodo felt a smile of anticipation curling his lips.
The stationer's bell clanged loudly as he pushed the door open. A grey-haired, moon-faced hobbit rested his elbows easily on the counter. The shop had a musty, vaguely sweet smell, its shelves of papers and books neat and tidy.
"Young Mr. Baggins! You haven't stopped reading, have you?"
"You know I couldn't, Mr. Willow," laughed Frodo, his eyes drifting over the shelves.
"Aye, that's good. Might go out of business if you did that. And what may I do for you today?"
"Two quills and a stack of parchments, please. And I might have a look around." Frodo had spotted what looked like a pile of new books. He had two silver pennies spare in his pocket.
"Very good, Master Frodo." Mr. Willow disappeared into the back of the shop, a moment later reappearing with a ream of parchments in his arms. "And are you and Mr. Bilbo well?"
"Both fine, thank you," said Frodo examining a book. Its cover was made of brown leather; sweeping gold letters ran over its surface. A thrill of something close to elation fled up the young hobbit's spine.
"Where did you find this, Mr. Willow?"
"Eh?" Mr. Willow looked over Frodo's shoulder. "Oh, a travelling hobbit sold it to me, a few days ago now."
Frodo considered the tome. "Can you read the letters?" he asked.
"Aye, I can read them easily enough, but what tongue it's in I wouldn't know."
Frodo chuckled, glad at Mr. Willow's lack of knowledge. For the title, as best as he could translate it, was "Musings on Pleasure". An interesting title by any standards. And from a cursory glance at the table of contents, interesting to translate.
"It's elvish, that's enough for Bilbo. I suppose I'll take it with me," Frodo said, effecting nonchalance.
Mr. Willow peered at the cover. "Usually I'd sell a book like this for two silver pennies, but for you, Master Frodo, I'll half it to one."
"Thank you, Mr. Willow," Frodo grinned, opening his pocketbook, knowing he overpaid, knowing that the book might be worth far more in other terms.
The sunshine was almost blinding as Frodo stepped out onto the road. By the position of the sun, he judged it to be past lunchtime -- maybe half past one. But he felt no hunger, in fact his stomach now squirmed like he had swallowed coils of grass snakes.
Frodo now realised he would need to go back to Bag End, back to Sam.
Sam might be reading his letter at this very moment.
He gripped the basket handle tightly. Could he be wrong? Had he somehow misconstrued Sam's one-way conversation yesterday; somehow twisted it into a wishful hobbit's fancy?
The walk back up the Hill took him up past a large field squeezed between Bagshot Row and Bag End, at its centre a large tree with glossy leaves that floated to the ground in orange and brown shades each autumn. A twinge of pain stabbed at his thigh as he rounded the final corner to Bag End. Frodo realised that he hadn't been for a long stroll for a while -- in fact it had been at least two weeks since he'd stumped to The Green Dragon with Bilbo to enjoy new drawn ale and a pipe.
Frodo drew a hand across his brow. The exertion of walking up the Hill had, along with the striking afternoon sun, plastered his dark curls flat and wet on his forehead, and hung beads of sweat about his throat.
Frodo pushed open the gate, loosening his damp shirt that stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He shut his eyes, part of him hoping he wouldn't bump into Sam, part of him hoping his torment would be over -- for better or worse.
A huff and clatter broke into Frodo's thoughts. Eyes downcast and cheeks high pink, Sam hastily picked up the bucket that had somehow slipped from his fingers. Water stained the path, as well as the hem of Frodo's trousers.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, hiding his eyes with sun-gold eyelashes.
"Sam?" Frodo asked, puzzled.
Sam lifted his chin, and Frodo could discern a slight tremble touching his lips. Brown eyes regarded him with something Frodo couldn't make out. Frodo's heart thumped against his ribs. Why was Sam looking at him like that?
"Nothing, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, blushing. "I'll go finish watering the garden." And he edged away from the gentlehobbit as if he daren't look at him again.
Frodo kept the slight frown on his face till Sam disappeared behind Bag End.
He must have read the letter!
Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, seeing dashes of red and orange in his panic.
Frodo immediately went to the wheelbarrow and saw, lying inside, still in place where he had left it this morning, his letter, edges fluttering, held fast by the stone.
Sam had probably read it and put it back, showing him what he thought of Frodo's unseemly advances. Frodo despaired. He really ought to take it right now, screw it up and toss it into the fire. Let it burn, let it smoke and fall to ashes, like his heart.
"Frodo!"
The green door opened, and out stepped Bilbo, pepper-and-salt hair untidy. "Come in, come in, lad."
Bilbo ushered Frodo inside. Frodo looked desperately toward the wheelbarrow, but Bilbo was closing the door, and it slid from his sight.
Bilbo took the basket, and peered inside. "Ah, good lad. Mint sauce, new quills -- did you forget something?"
"Couldn't find a boat paddle," Frodo mumbled.
"Whatever would you want that for?" Bilbo asked, lifting out the bottle of sauce.
Frodo handed him the shopping list without comment. While his older cousin pondered it, Frodo slipped the elvish book under his own weskit.
"I'll just be a moment," said Frodo. A great ache rived his belly, grating at his insides.
Bilbo waved a hand and strode towards the hallway. Frodo turned and walked with trembling steps toward his bedroom. He shut the door softly, stepping into the cool shadow of the corner of his room.
Perhaps he could squeeze out the hall door and fetch back the letter.
Is it better to know and not wait in vain? I know the truth at least. It is not me who Sam loves thought Frodo. Does it make it any easier to bear? Who could it be? And I cannot bear to think of Sam in such pain. If I cannot have my wish, I might make his come true.
Frodo pressed his hands to his eyes, staying the tears that threatened. Every shred of his fearlessness from the morning had gone, as insubstantial as mist.
But when he looked out the window the letter and wheelbarrow had disappeared.
~*~
To be continued on Monday…