It was a very strange affair in which the hobbits that had set out from Hobbiton and, it seemed not so long ago now, returned from their unscrupulous travels amongst the many paths of the outside world. Their arrival had been the pinnacle of chatter, amongst glimmers of conversation and peacock gossip, especially doused with ale in the Green Dragon amid the raucous chorus of singers and rhythmic cadence of proud, hair-spattered feet which danced upon the table tops. Very curious it was, to see those four disappeared hobbits, all of which queer, except for old trusty Samwise, turned up again so unexpectedly, like old Bilbo again gone off on that most disdainful escapade of his. And dressed as they were, like proud folk of the outsiders! It was all very strange indeed, and some of hobbits suffered their ruffled feathers over the topic for many a month after their unconventional…reappearance.
They all seemed callused now, most noticed. Even Samwise, once a round, cheerful looking hobbit, now seemed more gaunt about the edges, paler than before, even wiser in his choice of conversation amongst the old millers. Some said it was the passing of the old Gaffer that did him in, that turned the twinkle of his eye to that dreary darkness. But there were rumors that Samwise had endured much more than surface-deep scratches along the way, during his treks across the outside lands of the Shire. Some cuts just ran too deep, they said, to be healed all in one day.
Merry and Pippin, now…their story seemed not much altered. Their favor for good drink and pipe weed never lessened, and it was not a surprise to most folk when they'd mosey on in from a long day's toil in the fields or at the mill to find the two flamboyant, unruly hobbits wheeling about the pub, sloshing ale every which way as they danced to a familiar jig. Their part in the incidental advent of the adventurous quad of hobbits had dwindled quickly out of small talk, for they settled back into the grain of hobbit society quite nicely, like trying on a pair of old gloves that still fit. The fit was smug, but they could wrap their fingers about the fabric of Hobbiton's goings on well enough.
It was the account of Frodo Baggins that remained the enigma of the little town, and mystery soon morphed into haughty rumors. It was an oddity indeed that the once free-spirited heir of Bilbo Baggins should take to his hole so adamantly, never drifting out for even the smallest of discussions with his neighbors, nor making his once routine appearances at the pub for a bit of catching up on weather and gardening. The day he had come in on that stout little pony was the day Frodo Baggins threw himself quite stubbornly out of all hobbit society. Stricken with pallor, he had been, and weary, almost thin, like worn parchment. Some would see him out and about walking, though he took to the familiarity of his long-lost habitual comforts very rarely, and was hardly seen again after his returning debut as most handsomely rich hobbit of Hobbiton altogether, at least they surmised. Ted Sandyman held fast to the rumor that Bilbo Baggins had been an impish conjurer indeed, and had feigned the entire story of his treasures, so that his legacy would not seem so unusual with a lot of treasure snuck under the floorboards of his rather extravagant hole.
But most could not agree with arrogant old Sandyman, and bobbed their heads with certainty whenever the name of Baggins would reach their lips, when parched throats and slobbering mouths were absolutely deprived of good scandal. Frodo Baggins was as cracked as old Bilbo! Dear as Bilbo was, his mind was as scrambled as a couple of shaken eggs, and poor Frodo, wraithlike and aloof, was slowly descending into the same fate as his uncle.
"Poor, poor Frodo," cried Berylla Chubb, wailing into her hands. "The poor chap is as white and thin as an old ghost! He needs hasty fattening!"
"Oh, pish," Ted Sandyman snorted abruptly, crossing his arms defiantly over his stout chest. "And what are you to do of it, Berylla? Send off a nice mincemeat pie to the fella? If you haven't listenin' to the daily chatter, lassie, the Baggins hardly answers to anyone 'round here anymore. We ain't good enough for his regal presence." Ted sniffed, very much put out by the whole affair of the notorious Frodo Baggins.
Berylla passed toward him a terrible glower. "Oh hush, you goat! It's not as if you've done anything more than push around the dirt by your old mill. And anyway, if you had any so much as a whiff of the hall of a king's, you'd have an air of formality about you too!"
"Hah!" Sandyman exclaimed, throwing back his head and engaging in quite a hearty chortle. Samwise said nothing, even as Ted hurried along his line of dangerous conversation, but Samwise's knuckles were beginning to turn a fiendish white with his hands clutched tight about his mug of ale.
"If you was to ask me 'bout this whole ordeal, I'd say Frodo was up to somethin'! All day, all night even, he locks himself in his hole, but what's he doin' up there that stays so secret with him, aye? I say he's plannin' something big, but you dinnit hear this from ol' Ted Sandyman. That Baggins is a dangerous fella, mark my words!"
The entire plank, which hobbits unrightfully deemed a table, trembled as the wrath of a patient Samwise was unleashed from its secrecy. Berylla, Ted Sandyman, and even poor Peregrin Took cowered from the flashing, turbulent eyes of their once gentle, soft-spoken friend.
"Now listen here you, you ol' squabbling cock! Mister Frodo's done no one wrong 'round here, and all you vultures seem to do is pluck him to pieces! Well I don't want to hear another word out of that throat of yours, you ingrate ol' Sandyman, because if it wasn't for Mister Frodo, you'd have found yourself in a quite different place than you'd ever imagine!"
Pippin stood up first out of the trembling bunch, still not acclimated to Samwise's growth spurt along the journey's way. He gave Samwise a sideways, crooked smile and patted him softly on the shoulder, reaching his arm about him and leading him out into the watery balm of the late summer's night.
As soon as they left, Ted Sandyman had regained his former composure, dusting off his tunic with a discomfited sniff. "Mark my words, Berylla, that ol' Samwise is a dangerous fella!"
September rolled lazily in with the closing of the late summer. And although autumn was chomping at the bit, just around the bend of old, withered summer, the warm, genteel weather had not relented to the chill of the changing seasons, and Hobbiton still looked vibrant with blossomed flowers and seas of long grasses that stretched their lush hands across the entirety, or so it seemed, of the Shire. Trees still held their emerald hued leaves close to them, not allowing them to venture off just yet into the world. Tepid breezes blustered through the boughs of the ancient, wise trees and rattled their leaves, coursing their gossamer, wistful fingers through the limbs and their whistling laugh playing across the green country like strange, bittersweet music. Mother Nature was quite content.
As for the hobbits, they were so busily working to harvest their wheat crop that they hardly noticed the delay in the season. All day, beneath the mild sun, they worked their fingers with those hoes and rakes nearly to the bone, and were much too busy to see or hear much of anything at the rate they were working. And thus, the rumors which still circulated around Frodo like bothersome flies had receded, but were merely left in a dusty corner, and Frodo knew they'd be picked right back up again with the closing of the harvest season.
But with the advent of September, there came another expectation besides the harvest. It had been deemed tradition, after seventeen years of practice, that the Bagginses would throw their annual birthday party. And though the last four years they had missed it due to Frodo's bewildering disappearance, they were very much expecting the extravaganza, and if not a public announcement of the party, at least the dispatch of invitations.
And so, the hobbits merely reacted to their usual impatient ways of expectancy, and resorted to their old ways of gossip, whilst they gathered around a good mug of ale and pipe after a long day of work. Some hoped it would reach Frodo, in order to spark a bit of life to his faded memory of what was expected of him in his widely renowned traditions.
And much to Frodo's dismay, it just so happened to reach his reluctant ears.
"No, most certainly not!" Frodo exclaimed, a little crossly. "No more petty celebrations for me. I've quite done away with such frivolities for good."
Pippin, however, who longed for a good birthday party for his shrunken old friend, tried to persuade him otherwise. Along with Meriadoc, of course, as the two were hardly found out of one another's presence.
"Poor old Frodo," Pippin began. "You are much too solemn, you know, and with excellent reason. Why not try to lift your troubles with a bit of socialization? You don't have to talk to them, old friend. Hosts rarely linger about for conversation, after all."
Merry piped in. "And, don't forget all that scandal going about! Perhaps, if you give them reason not to chatter incessantly, they'll leave you in peace."
Frodo looked at them with a quiet eye, but did not answer, merely drifted off into the kitchen to fetch the shrieking tea kettle. Merry and Pippin exchanged purposeful glances, determination like a sparkle in each mischievous eye.
At that moment, while Frodo was still away in the kitchen, busy with the tea, Samwise arrived quite late at the door, allowing himself in, but only to find himself presented with two whispering hobbits in the drawing room, looking very much involved in their conversation.
"And just what are you two jesters plotting?"
Pippin craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Frodo, who seemed quite ignorant to the planning which was engaged in behind his back. Merry then waved Samwise in, in his clandestine manner, and Samwise was yanked down between the two rascally hobbits.
"Tell us, Sam, have you heard the rumors of the expected party?" Pippin whispered.
"Party?" Sam said aloud, and was immediately hushed, simultaneously, by the duo.
"Yes, Sam, the party!" Merry replied quietly.
"I've heard a good deal about nothing, Merry, and that's no mistake. But all I've heard about a party by Mister Frodo is one imagined up by those blasted peacocks again, I assure you."
"Of course, of course," Pippin's brow furrowed irritably. "I've heard them too. Quite a bunch of folly, don't you think?"
"Well, yes." Sam replied warily.
"But not if we convince him to play along with all those peacocks," Merry interceded. "Wouldn't you agree Sam, that if Frodo held that infuriatingly bothersome party of his that the whole of Hobbiton has been chattering about for weeks, he'd earn that peace he's been in very much need of?"
Of course, Samwise was not so easily persuaded by Merry and Pippin, but after thinking over the matter himself, he found that he was very much inclined toward the idea of seeing his companion wear a smile again, even if the event was not held by his own accord.
So, when it happened that Frodo came back into the fold of conversation once again, he was bombarded, lightly of course due to his fragility, by Merry and Pippin with reasons why he should surrender to the impatient hobbits and throw the annual party, like tradition. But it was Samwise, whom Frodo trusted the most, that did him in.
"It's Mr. Bilbo's birthday too, Mister Frodo," Sam offered. "If you're not going to celebrate it for yourself, then do it for him."
And Frodo, though reluctant as he was, obliged the trio his acceptance of the idea. Merry and Pippin, thoroughly ecstatic over the finalization of Frodo's decision, promised to help with food orders and decorations. But Sam, not at all certain that Merry and Pippin could handle such an enormous occupation as party planning, especially one of this magnitude, allowed them only the task of ordering the ale and cheeses. All the other necessities, and indulgences for that matter, Sam would take into his own hands, and he hoped with Rosie's assistance, as he wasn't all that sure he could handle the undertaking himself.
Frodo was assigned with most of the work, which was quite a burden when the poor hobbit had no intention of throwing any insufferable parties in the first place, and now had to deal with a great deal of hobbits on the bell all throughout the day, coming by to finalize party business. Frodo hadn't realized how ardently he wished for untarnished tranquility until he'd actually been faced with a quite social situation and, no matter how unsettled his quietude was before, he now wished to have it back.
The party had long been discussed even before the invitations were sent off, and had been the sole of discussion since old nosey Ted Sandyman had given the news that he had seen sacks of invitations sent to Bag End from the post. Tongues wagged and eyes sparkled with excitement. Oh how they longed for another party! That way, they could see for themselves if Frodo Baggins was as cracked or dangerous as some deemed him to be.
The day of the celebration had arrived at last.
It was not as extravagant as Bilbo's last party had been; in fact, it was considerably smaller, and less were invited, but it was highly commended nonetheless upon the moment the guests began to show their flushed, exuberant faces. Frodo was pinioned, against his will, by steadfast Samwise at the gate, where the guests treated Frodo with at least feigned civility, lest they should find themselves dismissed from the anticipated event. And for all that ale to gone not tasted by their treacherously gossiping tongues!
"I feel as if I should see Bilbo turn up at any moment, Sam," Frodo murmured, and Sam averted his eyes away from the softened face of an old Chubb to find his companion quite overwhelmed by the heedless swarm of memories. "It's just as I recollect, all flooded with people we barely deem familiar to us, but are expected to treat as gentlehobbits would."
Samwise, the mild and quiet hobbit that he was, feared to see such unrest and turbulence in the countenance of his dear friend. His eyes were still just as blue as fresh forget-me-nots blossomed within the balmy warmth of spring, but paler, and rimmed with red-rimmed thoughts and distant toils. His greetings began to grow limp and cold, unaware of his current situation, as Frodo sometimes drifted along with the slow rise and tide of impetuous contemplation.
"If it is at all a comfort, Mister Frodo, this may be your last long-expected party."
Frodo bequeathed an odd, sort of weary smile upon him then. "I think you may be quite in the right, Sam."
Even as the party edged on and the last guest had arrived, Sam realized how much he truly disliked the tone he had recognized in Frodo's voice. The way he had concurred with him made Sam's heart turn cold, like stone under the spell of winter's chill.
It seemed as if it had not been long before the ale was brought out and Frodo was dragged unwillingly right into the heart of the clamor. It was a strange sort of feeling to Frodo, being immersed in such social settings, and yet feeling as if he weren't even there. They never touched him, not once, at least not purposefully; and if they had even so much as grazed his elbow or collided with him unintentionally, they'd stutter an apology, or draw back their hand as if they'd been scorched by fire.
But Frodo could expect no less from them; they were intimidated by things which they could not rightfully understand. He was a familiarity stretched like skin over the alien. Feared by his hobbit peers.
It was not long before he had met them, the singular family that night who seemed undaunted by the disapproval of the other hobbits. Rudigar Noakes was his name, and fairly reckoned a queer sort of fellow. He despised Hobbiton, in all reality, but had relented to the wishes of his vibrant, ostentatious wife, Mirabella, to migrate from their old home in Bucklebury, where Rudigar had lived in tranquil comfort.
Mirabella , however, depended upon the immigration, desperate to socialize herself and her estranged daughter with the best of the Shire's inhabitants. Some Hobbiton folk, as was the normality of such superficial, guarded creatures, resented her vivacious urgency, and her quite outlandish connections.
But it soon came to pass that they welcomed her into the tight knit of their gossip circle when she proved herself quite the conversationalist. Their daughter, however, had yet to prove herself as vivacious and acceptable as her mother.
So was the story Frodo heard from Rudigar himself, who seemed entirely eager to speak with the notoriously unsociable hobbit of Bag End.
Night was beginning to grow old, and the moon, weary and insipid, like a watery marble engraved in a dark wave of sky, gave little light to the revelers as they filled themselves with food and good ale. Frodo hardly touched the ale, much less any food, as he was already quite overly indulged by his fellow hobbit folk – on remarks of the weather and petty gossip, which Frodo found himself listening to throughout the night, wishing ruefully that he could find Sam, though it seemed impossible to find much of anyone in such a thick, riotous crowd.
But at last, Sam seemed to break through the surging crowd to find his overwrought friend, though remorseful as to have to deliver Frodo a bit of perturbing news. Frodo was at first overwhelmed with happiness to see his old friend again, but once Sam had delivered his message, Frodo's flame of relief was snuffed out, like a candle caught in a gust of wind.
"Of what important news could Mayor Whitfoot possibly have that concerns me, Sam?" Frodo snarled, pale eyes flashing haphazardly. "Now I am quite ready to go home, if you will not join me, then I will take my leave of my own accord."
But Sam, though disheartened by his companion's sudden change of mood, grabbed a vice hold upon Frodo's departing forearm and gripped it tight. Frodo turned on him, piqued, and looked as if he were to vanquish Sam's iron will with a good verbal walloping.
"I think it would be in your best interest to stay, Mister Frodo, as this most certainly concerns you," Sam promised. "Merry, Pippin, Fatty and I will be with you the whole way through it, if need be."
Frodo, puzzled at Sam's vague declaration of loyalty, knitted his brow and parted his lips, fleeting rosebuds, to inquire after Sam's strange disposition. But his chance was smothered before he could even so much as think of asking, as the Mayor Will Whitfoot had flounced upon the stage.
Whitfoot was a stout, charming hobbit, with pink stained cheeks and a keen, bright eye, as was normal for such a cheerful, content race as hobbits. Silver hair, a sign of his impending age, gleamed in the firelight, and all around him the revelers raised up their mugs, not at all surprised by Whitfoot's appearance, and on the contrary, welcomed him arbitrarily. He hushed the capricious swell of hobbits that stood, and sat rather, before him in great multitudes. More had shown up than was to be expected, as Frodo was not quite so popular, even more so than before his bizarre adventure.
"Gentle hobbits! We have all assembled here for the purpose of a very special hobbit of this established community, as you are all well aware," Whitfoot beamed, searching the crowd for Sam's sand-speckled head. "Ah! Samwise, ol' chap, bring that Frodo Baggins up here for all to see! Poor Baggins, the dear is much too shy for what is good for him!"
Sam lead a disgruntled Frodo Baggins through the troupe of hobbits, and all the while feigned a materialized smile which seemed to appear out of nowhere, and was out of place, dabbed so carelessly across his ruffled countenance. Frodo had not the mind for such foolish pretenses, and his expression was quite ferociously indignant.
"Sam, what is it that is happening?" Frodo asked quietly.
"You shall see, Mister Frodo. I have not the authority to be telling such secrets." Sam murmured contritely, and helped Frodo onto the platform, where Mayor Whitfoot stood, beaming with the intensity of a buttery, vivacious sun.
"You see, hobbits, it is not everyday that a gentlehobbit turns fifty! Such a special occasion this is, that even our dear Bilbo Baggins has deemed it so rightfully imperative! And here, good friends of the Shire, is why Bilbo names this day fundamental –" Whitfoot, now bespectacled, reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and revealed to the entirety of the party's company a singular white parchment and, though insignificant in size and measure, vastly important in content. Frodo gazed upon the parchment, eyes focused on the simple signature at the bottom which read Bilbo Baggins in his familiar calligraphy; he had to suppress the urge to rip the parchment from Mayor Whitfoot's hand.
"Well now, my friends, this very much involves you in the life of our now estranged Frodo Baggins here! And I shall tell you why…"
The crowd was so exceptionally silent that it seemed the faces were that of the grave, and they stared wide-eyed at their mayor, their mouths gaping in surprise. Usually, soft utterances of dubious inquiries would pass from throat to throat, but tonight, they were all stunned into placid quietude.
"Dear Hobbiton, it seems, Frodo has been, by our dear Bilbo, asked to take a wife –" The crowd gasped, awakened from their awestruck immobility and beginning to mutter amongst themselves.
"But wait…" said the Mayor, peering at the parchment in his hand. "And whom so shall ever impart their fair daughter to the hand of the heir of Bag End shall meet with a rather fine reward for their acquiescence!"
If the crowd had not been consumed by a frenzy before the mention of a 'reward' for their daughters, there was most certainly afterward. Hobbits, both young and old, clamored for the handsome gentlehobbit with a ferocity that reminded Sam and Frodo of orcs – primitive, mindless creatures with a constant lust for carnage and iniquity. Frodo wanted to cry out in fear, with the faces of his town folk replaced by that of the face of the hideous creatures, and far into the past he reeled, feeling dizzy and out of sorts.
But the mirage passed, and Frodo found himself rushed off to safety by Sam and Merry, with Pippin and Fatty Bolger at the battlefront holding off the enemy. Frodo felt as if he were moving in a haze, a thick fog which choked his senses and drove him deeper into his despair. So badly he wanted the ring again, so that he could fade into the security of dark, cloaking concealment.
He knew it was folly, to wish for such a thing, but nonetheless, he did.
Sam was quick to fetch the kettle for tea, whilst Merry pressed a cold cloth to Frodo's head, hoping to revive him from his stupor, as it had calmed poor Rosie during her pregnancy with Elanor. Frodo's shock seemed to make Sam feel much more remorseful than should have been allowed, and he wished he could have warned Frodo, so that he would not have been so bombarded with the news of his encroaching marriage before Frodo himself knew it was coming.
The cool cloth resurrected him from the vaporous fog Frodo seemed entrapped within, and he emerged from the haze, in a flurry of misplaced anger. Sam expected it, the accusations and the resentful disbelief; but Sam also knew that it was not directed toward him, and had learned, especially over the course of the ringbearer's journey that Frodo meant no harm – his life had been scathed by the cruel malice of the ring.
Merry, however, knew not how to cope with Frodo's misplaced wrath.
"As if we were entrusted with such information!" Merry exclaimed. "I had not a sliver of warning beforehand, just as you, good cousin!"
However, Frodo's rage began to dwindle as swiftly as it had come, an erratic habit Sam had found recognizable after having been its sole companion those many months Frodo suffered the burden of the One Ring. He soon calmed however, especially with the comfort of tea close by.
"Please forgive me," Frodo sulked quietly, staring halfheartedly at his tea cup as the steam rolled lazily off the surface of it. "It seems that an ill-temper often has the better of me."
"There are no grudges held here, Mister Frodo," Sam smiled softly, and Merry nodded eagerly beside him.
Frodo seemed entirely calm by the time the old Mayor Whitman, followed by a flustered Pippin and Fatty Bolger, entered the exquisite Bagginses hole. Both Fatty and Pippin pestered Sam for a pint of water. Mayor Whitfoot came flouncing into the room, his usual beam that appeared ceaselessly present upon his plump, cheerful face.
"Good evening, Mayor Whitfoot," Frodo murmured, holding out a chair for the elder hobbit in an attempt to be a good host. "Sit, and might I offer you a bit of tea?"
The mayor huffed as he flopped down in a chair beside Frodo, relief washing over his wizened face like a wave breaking over the shoreline. He set his walking stick at rest beside the table leg.
"Why, thank you my lad! I shall be glad for a cup of tea." Mayor Whitfoot's eye twinkled merrily in the firelight.
As soon as Whitfoot was settled into the comforts that Bag End could offer, and the door made sure to be undisturbed by bothersome guests in search of that named bachelor for their pretty daughters, the company sat around the table in the cooking room, all six huddled about the last written wishes of Bilbo Baggins.
"This letter I might properly reckon as the last will of Bilbo Baggins of the Shire." Whitfoot said, and averted his eyes upon poor Frodo Baggins.
It was to be a long night, he supposed.