AN: Now that I've posted the last chapter that I wrote a while back, this will be going on an indefinite hiatus - indefinite, in this case meaning, only until I start writing again. I'm hoping to finish this story someday!
Thanks for reading.
Frodo was quiet as he watched the steam that emanated like smoke from his tea cup unfurl in its long, sinuous lengths, drawing him tight into a circle of comfort. In fact, the hobbit had barely spoken a word since the mayor, respectively followed by Fatty Bolger and Pippin, had arrived on his doorstep. There were too many questions wrangling the solace of his usually peaceful mind, but now the inquiries pestered and heckled him until he felt like resorting to screaming, which was quite an unmannerly thing to do, especially when there were guests around the table. Instead, he sighed, and decided to handle this misfortunate happenstance in a calm, polite manner.
"Ah, Frodo Baggins…" said the mayor, his bright eyes crinkling as the breadth of his smile expanded across his entire face, touching even his brow as it quirked with apparent glee.
Frodo couldn't muster a reasoning as to why Whitfoot should be so tickled, especially when Frodo felt like brawling right there on the spot. Whitfoot seemed to recollect his far-off thoughts, and the glaze that had fallen over his eyes lifted, like mists over a frosty meadow.
"Frodo, my boy, Bilbo was quite fond of you. It is apparent here, in this very letter, that the old chap had quite an extravagant place in his heart for his nephew! Now just a minute there, Mr. Baggins! You look as if you've the mind for interruption; give a tired old dog a moment to muster up an explanation for this here letter, for it has a mighty good one, I can reckon that!"
Whitfoot set down the saucer in his hand, which, balanced over it, had been a lovely tea cup made of fine porcelain. It had been one of Bilbo's favorite sets that he had used often for afternoon tea, when ruminating on long passed adventures and good old days, and wondering where all the promising days beneath the leathery soles of his proud hobbit feet had gone. Frodo felt a painful stab of remorse for letting such an impersonal guest as the mayor of Hobbiton use the beloved porcelain set, and had to suppress the urge to rip the cup right out of Whitfoot's old, undeserving hand. It would be quite a spectacle, Frodo knew this, and he could not afford his bruised reputation another beating if he could help it.
"Ah! Here we are. It seems as if those rattled marbles in this old mind of mine have settled again," he chuckled, almost to himself, as the entire table had not indulged in the personal jest. "Before Bilbo disappeared, or was it a few days after…ah, yes, quite right…after Bilbo disappeared, I received a visit from the post! Imagine that, the postmaster coming directly to me on errand for the likes of Bilbo Baggins! Yes, at first I was quite addled, and I daresay I quite thought Bilbo as cracked as they had all deemed him to be with the way he penned this little note here…."
Whitfoot then reached into the breast pocket of his pale blue overcoat and unsheathed Bilbo's letter from its concealment. He unfolded the parchment, muttering to himself all the while, and knitted his brow with concentration as he poured his eyes over the words, as if to regain some lost fragment of memory. Frodo, however, was not at all pleased with the manner in which Whitfoot spoke about his dear uncle, and felt very much driven by the urge to ask Mayor Whitfoot, in the most delicate fashion, of course, to leave his home. He had not realized that his hand had been so violently constricted into the shape of a fist, knuckles turning a rather sickly, ashen white with splatters of irritably pink about the edges of his fingers, until Sam had reached out and smothered the vicious display before Whitfoot, or anyone else for that matter, happened to notice it. Frodo, in turn, cast Sam an apologetic glance.
"'Frodo my lad', it begins, 'upon your fiftieth birthday, I have allowed old Will Whitfoot, most likely the former mayor by the time you recieve this old tattered thing, to announce your eligibility if you have not married by then – with a bit of a reward for the lass who woos you first!'. There now! I have said it. And Bilbo should have been very pleased to have you enlightened. Now Frodo," Whitfoot leaned in a little bit, and a skeptical look began to darken his naturally effervescent eye. "This is an expectation, I presume, by the way Bilbo has penned in this last bit. I should think so, as it is written in such bold lettering!"
Pippin had been looking as if he were burning with a question as imperative as life itself, and he suddenly found it the exact opportune moment to unleash it on his spectators. "And of this reward…" Pippin began tentatively.
"What of it, dear lad?" Whitfoot inquired.
"Exactly what is it? Did Bilbo enlighten us of that? Oh, I do hope it is a big one! That way, when we announce it to the public, everyone will be simply beside themselves with excitement of wooing our dear Frodo here."
"Pippin!" Frodo exclaimed. "That is not a desirable thing! Whatever this blasted dowry may be, I shall not want to know of it!"
"But Frodo-"
At the exact moment that Pippin was about to voice his opposition to Frodo's imprudent tenacity, he was inexorably silenced by the rather disquieting film of ferocity that Pippin had unearthed in his cousin's eye. It was quite a shock to him, and one would have thought that Frodo had chopped Pippin's quick, and unwitting, tongue clean off in the way that Pippin clamped his mouth completely shut and did not allow another singular sound escape it.
The mayor chortled heartily as he leaned forward to retrieve his walking stick, and then rose from his sitting position at Frodo's table. "You are a comical bunch! But I daresay, I should think all of you will know of this dowry of Frodo's before the close of this dreadful year. Why, Frodo is quite handsome, and many a daughter will have swooned over him before the night is over! Mark my words, Frodo Baggins, you shall be made a husband before long!"
"I beg of you, Master Whitfoot, to not impeach me of such folly. I shall be patient with my choosing, I think, more than you should assume of me," Frodo said, his voice wavering in its patient placidity. "I thank you for your explanation of this manner, but I should like for you not to meddle in this affair any longer. Good night to you sir!"
Mayor Whitfoot huffed a little, his mouth opening as if to protest Frodo's resolution, but deciding against it, closed it once more, looking very much like a fish gasping for breath out of water. Frodo seemed quite bent on his decision, and Whitfoot found in his face a stubbornness that could not be swayed, and therefore took his leave of the ungrateful hobbit, tramping down the flagstone steps of Bag End with his walking stick tapping irritably against the pathway.
"Well, I suppose we won't be seeing much more of him, Mister Frodo," Sam mused quietly as he appeared in the open doorway.
Frodo couldn't have more happily agreed.
If there ever was a time that Frodo had resented escaping death and returning home from his journey, it was most certainly now. He'd had more peace and quiet with that dreaded ring about his neck, whispering little tendrils of depravity and iniquity into his ears all through the light of day and under the shrouds of nightfall. His mind had been so twisted and malformed beneath the influence of the ring that he had become a monster within the shell of a once beloved friend. But even then, there had been more quietude than there was now!
All week, day, and sometimes a little into the night, hobbits would brazenly waltz right up to his doorstep, a place they had before deemed the haven of a self-righteous and madcap Baggins, and ring on his doorbell until he felt as if his ears would shatter from all the noise. At first, he had been foolish enough as to answer the door, and would be instantly bombarded with pleas and reasons as to why their daughter should be Mistress of Bag End. Frodo tried to be decent with them, but when civility failed him, he resorted to bad manners and shut the door right in their faces. After that, he vowed not answer the door and, if he could manage it, would ignore the existence of a door altogether.
But upon this notion, Frodo began to imagine himself living in a box to which there were no doors, no windows, and absolutely no means to escape. This made him feel claustrophobic, and he ushered the idea out of his mind before he went absolutely mad with terror.
Sometimes, Sam or Pippin and Merry would be at the door, and Frodo would be extra careful as to not attract any other unwanted visitors when he'd allow them in. The three of them had begun to notice the advancing stages of Frodo's paranoia, always starting at the sound of a knock, even if it was merely a woodpecker drilling through a tree outside. And if there was even the shuffle of feet outside his window, especially when the companions would sit down for afternoon tea or elevensies, Frodo would sort of conceal his face from the sunlight, like a creature of darkness shunning the sun. Sam almost had the mind to put up a scarecrow, as he entertained the idea that Frodo was being pecked mercilessly by the entirety of Hobbiton's nasty crows.
But with the dawning of this morning, Frodo was nearly overwhelmed by his jubilance as he looked outside to find the sky tremendously full of formidable black clouds; this meant a sign of impending rain, and therefore, no visitors!
Even so, if anyone had been desperate enough to venture out into the rain to pester him, he unpacked his weatherworn traveling cloak from its repose, and draped it over him, so that he could have just a whiff of fresh air after a week of being locked indoors.
The air was heavy with an autumn chill, and an austere wind whipped the flourished green meadows and flowers so that they bowed low in submission to the ferocious gale. Frodo's cheeks turned a pearly hue of blustered pink, but it was a refreshing sight, as he had been so pale for a long while. Dark locks of hair tickled his skin as it frantically twirled before his vision within the grasp of the wintry gusts, and his faded green cloak billowed and snapped uneasily about his feet. The last of summer had withered away at last.
The paths were blessedly vacant as Frodo descended the softly sloping hill of Bag End, heading towards the close thicket of trees which edged the borders of farmland of Hobbiton. Frodo was most definite in his heading for the thicket, but he was stopped dead in his tracks, paralyzed throughout the entirety of his body as he heard a voice call out behind him.
"Hoy there! What business have you to be prancing about here when it looks like rain?" exclaimed an irate, defensive hobbit. Frodo pulled the cloak a bit tighter about him out of instinct. "Aye stranger! If you are not wily, I should like to think you would show your face to me without fear!"
Frodo bit his tongue out of regret, but turned to face the encroaching voice, only to find himself face to face with his dear old friend, Sam. Sam seemed equally surprised, but the surprise which was etched across his face was also tarnished by discomfiture and shame. He, too, was wearing a travel-weary cloak, but it was newer, probably an old thing that Rosie had sewn for him a while back.
"Mister Frodo, is that you there? Pardon my hollerin'. I was just being wary!" Sam mumbled shamefacedly, wringing his hands, reddened from the biting cold, as he kicked a bit of loose soil with his feet.
"It is quite alright, Sam. I am not angry with you, and have no reason for annoyance!" Frodo assured him, and Sam's long, burdened face brightened a little by Frodo's kind words.
"So, if you don't mind my asking, where was it exactly that you were headed?" Sam asked, looking about the empty meadow, as if searching for an inkling as to Frodo's designated direction.
"For an escape, actually," Frodo confessed. "It has been quite a bother, this entire week, with these poachers at my door without relent! I am in desperate need for a good holiday, Sam." Frodo ran a troubled hand over his overwrought features, and Sam, watching his friend with soft-eyed sympathy, felt quite useless in all this madness. But then he had a small idea, something that might lift Frodo's doused spirits.
"Come hither, Mister Frodo. I know of a place that might liven you up a bit," Sam said, and took Frodo's arm gently, leading him back toward the direction of the homes, and Frodo's head panicked with rampaging thought. It had been the sole place he had hoped to escape, but now Sam was directing him back toward the ghastly place.
"Sam, what in heavens are you doing?! I had hoped to escape Hobbiton, not carouse in it!" Frodo exclaimed.
Sam seemed not to notice Frodo's panicked tone, as far as Frodo knew. But Sam had taken it into only quiet consideration, not acknowledging his companion's unnecessary frenzy in the speaking world, as Frodo was acting quite ridiculous in his eyes. Ringbearer or not, it wasn't right for him to lock the outside world away, like some lecherous fiend, and hide in the folds of his own discontentment. All things that grow need sunlight, and Frodo was not exempted from this natural rule.
"Off to the Green Dragon we are, Mister Frodo. And I'll not let you flounder off, so I think it best you submit while you still have strength in you!"
Frodo suddenly burst into a fit of laughter as Sam's persistence seemed so awfully grave and serious, and he could not help feeling his spirits rise, despite the rain which had begun to fall in sheets across the lush grasses of the battered meadows. Just being with Sam made Frodo feel better, just like the days he had spent in bitter cold and resentment, when Sam would break through the wall of darkness and rescue Frodo from the malevolence of the ring. Even if it was just a smile or an encouraging word, the shadows in Frodo's eyes were chased away, and a new resilience reborn from the ashes of a once strangled hope.
Sam was always there to remind Frodo that while there was still breath left in him, there would always be hope.
It was a relief, to both Sam and Frodo, that as they walked through the doorway of the Green Dragon, a warm and comforting atmosphere rushed forth to greet them in an almost tangible entity. Smoke from the pipeweed dangled in the air, and the rush of small talk and sporadic outbursts of laughter emitted from various corners of the tavern. Sam noticed right away old Ted Sandyman, and the nasty look in his eye instilled an ill feeling in Sam's subconscious. Frodo was oblivious; he was still trying to acclimate himself to being in the presence of a place that held such good memories for him.
But Ted was quite aware of the infamous Baggins that had just strode in, and was peeved enough when all the attention was stolen from him with just a whiff of Frodo's name as he was getting to a good part of his rather climatic story. He disliked that Frodo Baggins; it wasn't right for a hobbit to get so much attention, especially for such a queer thing as going off on some wild adventure, just like his old cracked uncle. One of the girls looked as if they were going to swoon, as Frodo looked quite handsome, even with his hair sodden and all a mess. But his cheeks looked warm and lively, with that newfound flush ignited in them.
Ted, in a fit of self-righteous anger, stood up suddenly, abandoning his ale in an attempt to rid this ungrateful Baggins.
"Ho there, al' Frodo Baggins! It seems a mighty fine occasion indeed for the likes of you, being so kingly and rich and all, to grace us lowly peasants with your presence!" Ted announced, crossing his arms defiantly over his stout chest, and grating his teeth over his long, poorly honed mahogany pipe.
"Ted Sandyman, you stupid old goat, leave Mister Frodo alone and go back to your ale!" Sam warned, taking one long stride in front of Frodo, shielding him from the haughty gaze of unfriendly eyes. But Frodo placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and quelled his defensive stance, then took a step forward toward his contender.
"I hold myself on no higher ground than upon what you stand, Ted Sandyman," Frodo said quietly. "Your judgment is of me is poor, and yet you know me only by my name."
Ted stamped his feet irritably. "Why you, you impudent brute. I have a mind to bruise that pretty al' face of yours, and what then would become of your lady followers? They won't think you so lovely then!"
Sam lunged forward, his hands meshed together into the shape of balled fists, but before he could reach that toad Sandyman and give him a good whipping, Frodo outstretched an arm, holding him back.
"No Sam, this is not your battle." Frodo whispered to him, and Sam begrudgingly stood back, jaw clenched, fists still pulled taut as bowstrings. If only he could grasp a hold on that petty miller, he'd wring his neck until he turned blue in the face!
"I should like to think you too cowardly to even dare, Ted," Frodo mused. "Have you ever wielded a fist before?"
"You're crossing into dangerous country, lad. It's best you turn back, if you know what's good for you." Ted admonished forebodingly.
"Why?" Frodo inquired, his own countenance melting into that of a warrior. "Why should I allow you to berate me? It is no fairer than if I were to deem you an incompetent, illiterate, mutton-headed fool."
"Mutton-headed fool!" Ted exclaimed, and he charged forward, like a batting ram, and with brute force, catapulted himself and Frodo to the floor. Both hobbits wrestled for dominance, but Sam intervened, quick to assist his friend as he, quite literally, landed himself in a heap of trouble. But the brawl did not subsist for long, as a feminine voice rang out, a strangely musical cry, though sharp with notes of fury.
"Why you stubborn mule, Ted Sandyman! Get off the poor hobbit, and until you've set your mind right again, I don't want even a glimpse of your dusty old face here! Off you go!"
Sam pushed Sandyman off his weary friend, and while he stood guard, Frodo was extended a hand to help him to his feet. It was quite lovely, and the color of freshly drawn milk, or the softly radiant petals of a white rose. But Frodo was not given the chance to look at the face of his savior until she had hoisted up on his feet again. She was pretty enough, though not extraordinary in exquisite beauty. Her eyes were the most lovely intricacy of her features, a golden shade, almost like dripping honey caught in the light of the sun. He noticed she had a cleaning rag in the hand that was not occupied in pulling him up from the ground, and if that hadn't given her profession away, her apron most certainly did.
"I do apologize, Miss, for having chased away your most valued customer," Frodo mumbled humbly. "Sandyman and I seem incapable of seeing eye to eye."
"Don't worry yourself over such things," she retorted. "He's a naturally combative tyrant, and it will be a nice reprieve, not having to endure his incessant jabber."
She then left Frodo to his own devices, and returned to her post behind the long slab of carved wood, which served as a serving bar for the hostelry. There was already a hobbit there, eagerly awaiting her return in order to receive a much appreciated pint of ale, especially when under the gray spell of such dreary weather.
But Frodo did not dismiss her from his mind so easily, and even as Sam went off to fetch the ale, he still mulled over the girl within the secrecy of his own head. When Sam returned, sliding a mug of ale in his direction, he made himself a pact that he'd ask about her.
A few minutes of silence passed between the friends, Frodo's spent in silent deliberation and Sam's in morbid discontent. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the brass shape of his mug, and bit on his lip, searching for a few words he could say to explain himself.
"Mister Frodo, do accept my apology. I meant no harm to come to you; in fact, I'd hoped it do you some good to come here, to the old Green Dragon." Sam uttered mournfully.
Frodo laughed as he took a draught of his ale. "Sam, Sam…you waste too much time in foolish penance. How in heavens were you to suspect Sandyman having such a temper?"
"Exactly, and yet, I feel quite thoughtless for bringing you down here, especially against your own will."
"Throw out those pesky regrets, Sam. They are wasted on absurdity, and I wish you to drink with me without all that false accusation."
Sam seemed to smile to himself, and took a long drink from his ale. This seemed his acceptance of Frodo's advice, and was quite content with himself afterwards.
"Now," Frodo began. "Tell me Sam, who is that there in the barmaid's apron? I have not seen her face before."
Sam swallowed the ale swirling about his tongue and turned his head to acknowledge the girl that had enamored Frodo's attention. His brow creased in frustration at the alien sight which met his eyes; how could he have not noticed the unfamiliar barmaid before now? It had been Rosie's previous position, after all, before she'd had Elanor of course. But even as Sam had ventured over to the maid for the mugs of ale, he had not spared even a thought or recognition of the vacancy Rosie had left behind being filled. He'd been so consumed by his humiliation and subsiding anger that he'd simply not detected her.
But now that he did look, Sam could not say he recognized the soft, pretty face of the new barmaid, not even a flicker of familiarity that would spark with the declaration of familiarity in his mind. He couldn't recall seeing anyone that looked similar to her at Frodo's party, only a week now it was, and yet her image did nothing to impart even the smallest fraction of detection in his head. But, then again, Sam had seen so many different faces that night that it did not surprise him that he couldn't remember her.
"Sorry, Mister Frodo. But I can't say I could even reckon who she is. I've not seen her 'round here either."
Frodo furrowed his brow into a deep crease, studying her with a concerted eye, as if trying to unearth her name merely by studying her agile figure. But Frodo's whimsical gaze was broken when, out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Frodo saw an older hobbit, most likely a farmer as he could guess by his fashion, lean over and tap his shoulder.
"'Scuse me, Mister Baggins, but I seemed to have overheard you askin' 'bout the likes of that girl over hither," drawled the farmer.
"Indeed, sir. What of her do you know?" Frodo asked in a hushed whisper.
The farmer seemed to catch the gesture of secrecy, and lowered his head to be closer to Frodo's ear. "That's 'al Rosemary Noakes, daughter of Rudigar and Mirabella. They juss' migrated into Hobbiton just last week, juss' in time fer your birthday party, Mister Baggins."
"Oh, and where from did they migrate?" Frodo asked.
"Bucklebury, so said Rudigar himself," he replied.
"I thank you, sir, for informing me of such details," Frodo said to the hobbit, and he merely nodded wearily in reply, returning happily to his mug.
"Rosemary…"Frodo muttered under his breath, looking over briefly at the girl one last time before turning to Sam, who was thoroughly engaged in his ale. "Sam," he said. "You know how I have been positively assaulted by hobbits all week?"
"Of course, Mister Frodo." Sam frowned curiously.
"Then if they will not relent now, they certainly won't later. I fear they will never yield until I take a wife, and only then will this whole noxious affair be over and done with."
Sam's frown deepened even more, so that his entire countenance seemed submerged beneath a weighty expression of dubiety. "What are you saying, Mister Frodo?"
"I am saying that, in order to regain my lost solitude, I shall have to resort to impetuous decision," he said to Sam, then, turning to the farmer, he asked a simple, yet all-revealing question.
"Excuse my hindrance, good sir, but would you kindly direct me to the home of Rudigar Noakes?"
Frodo himself could hardly believe his own rash judgment, even as he stood before the painted white door of the home of Rudigar and Mirabella Noakes. He hardly knew the girl, and was not an exceedingly brazen hobbit, and therefore not prone to making appalling mistakes, such as the one he was about to devote himself to in a mere few moments. But drastic times were in store for the poor hobbit, that is, if he did not first resort to drastic measures.
There was the pitter-patter of the leathery soles of hobbit feet, barely discernable from the outside of the pristine, neat little hobbit hole. But Frodo straightened up, gave his own hand a squeeze for encouragement, and drew a cleansing breath. It would all be over in a matter of moments, he assured himself.
But all hope for any amount of confidence fled from him the instant the door opened, and a rather thin, at least in hobbit standards, older-looking hobbit woman appeared at the entrance. At first, her eyes were hooded with deep concern, and she looked quite put out indeed. But then recognition reached her, and she gave a disquieting squeal of delight.
"Oh my, can it truly be?!" She exclaimed. "The famous Frodo Baggins of the Shire at my doorstep! Oh, and look at me, I am quite a mess. Come in, dear! The air seems to have found its chill again, and you might catch cold! Oh, you frail little thing. There are some biscuits in the drawing room, freshly made! You look a wraith, my dear. Don't you eat, silly lad? Oh, what am I doing, detaining you in this otherworldly cold! Come in!"
Frodo would admit he was slightly amused, if not entirely entertained, by the woman's fluster. She reminded him of those squawking peacocks with a taste for trading scandal, those gossip hounds Sam so ardently disliked. But she seemed kind enough on the surface, and that was enough for Frodo at the moment, as his nerves were at their wit's end.
He was ushered into a dainty drawing room, one that was so vastly miniscule compared to the one in Bag End. It was comfortable, however, and Frodo hardly noticed the difference in size, as it was tastefully decorated in quiet tones of green and brown and tawny. The table, upon which a plate of biscuits and a tea set were placed, looks as if it were glossed to its high, potent shine almost every day, and was a lovely cherry wood, from what Frodo could discern. Apparently the mistress of the home was quite a decorator; Frodo wondered if Rosemary, if she accepted him, would do the same to Bag End.
"Sit,sit, good lad! You look as if you haven't rested in days, you poor thing. Biscuit?" She asked, and a plate of freshly baked biscuits were shoved in Frodo's face.
"I have hardly come here for food, Madame, if you do not mistake my meaning." Frodo said meekly.
Mirabella Noakes was not an incompetent woman, and caught the gesture of Frodo's meaning almost immediately. She bit her lip in anticipation, and her face began to flush with the excitement she was evidently restraining, in respect for Frodo's silent demeanor.
"I shall fetch Rudigar!" She cried, and instantly stood up from her seat beside Frodo. "Rudigar, Rudigar, you old bat, where have you gone to?!"
Frodo tucked his hands beneath him, feeling as if he should touch anything, he'd be struck for such impropriety. It felt quite awkward, sitting in the drawing room which belonged to a family he'd never met, and he was counting the moments before he'd be permitted to take his leave. Thankfully, for him, Mirabella was a hasty woman, especially when it came to marrying off her only daughter, and to the richest, most handsome gentlehobbit in Hobbiton no less!
She arrived back into the drawing room with Rudigar, and Frodo recognized the haggard features of the household master immediately, having had a lengthy conversation with the hobbit just a week before. Mirabella pushed him eagerly in, but, before she could take her seat to witness the glorious event, that which she was so certain with every fiber of her being would happen, Rudigar dismissed his wife sternly, and she pouted visibly as she ventured out into the garden. That way, with her being so close to the window, she'd hear every word that was spoken! And oh, how Begolia Bracegirdle would be so envious to hear of this, with her unmarried daughter, Jezebel, having been acclaimed has the prettiest girl in Hobbiton!
Mirabella smiled wickedly to herself and flounced happily out of the drawing room.
Rudigar now greeted Frodo with an air of informality, and was quite keen to have the opportunity to talk with him again.
"How very nice to see you again, Master Baggins. I take it you are well?" Rudigar offered Frodo a polite, yet ostensibly genuine smile.
"Quite, actually," Frodo assured him. "But I have come here for a very grave purpose."
"Oh?" Rudigar questioned, perhaps a little amused by Frodo's somber demeanor.
"Indeed," Frodo said. "Perhaps you ought to sit."
"Don't mind if I do." Said the old hobbit, and the both of them settled themselves into the comfortable sofas. Mirabella's pruning shears were frantically snipping at the withered roses outside the window.
"Now, dear hobbit, what service may I offer you?" Rudigar asked.
"I have come, Master Noakes, to inquire after your daughter Rosemary's hand." Frodo explained, and the instant the words 'inquire', 'Rosemary' and 'hand' escaped Frodo's lips, the clipping shears went oddly quiet for a moment, and a little ecstatic squeal, which could have easily been mistook for the outcry of a hog, could be heard outside the window. But the shears seemed to remember their purpose, and resumed their work.
"Is that so? Have you interest in our daughter?" Rudigar asked plaintively.
"Quite an interest, actually; hence the reason for my coming here and asking your permission," Frodo replied, an edge appearing in his short-tempered voice.
"I should have no reservations of giving her to you, Master Baggins. And since a fellow like you has asked for her hand, I shall be all the more secure in my decision of handing off my only, and precious, daughter for marriage. For, I am sure, you will provide well for her – better than our own endeavors, I should hope!"
"Have you endured hardships, good sir?" Frodo asked.
"Hardships I only consider natural to those of our social standing," Rudigar's shoulders lolled gently to the side, as if brushing off the topic lightly. "I daresay Rosemary shall be required a few months to grow accustomed to living in – what is it called again? Ah yes, Bag End. "
"Months I can afford easily." Frodo promised him.
"Good," Rudigar said. "Then it is settled. I shall inform Rosemary upon her return of your intentions to marry. Mirabella, my dear, you may come in now and show Master Baggins here to the door, as he is weary!"
Mirabella pounced upon the idea of speaking with the renowned Frodo Baggins once more and hurried in from her gardening to see him out. Rudigar bid Frodo a good evening and disappeared back into the corridors of the hole. Frodo allowed the Mistress Noakes to show him out the door.
"You take care now, Master Baggins, or you shall catch cold for your wedding day! Bad omen, it is, to fall sick before you are to be married!" She called after him as he made his way down the path, to the white picket fence, where he took his leave through the gate. "Goodbye now!"
With a heavy heart of the condemned, Frodo dragged his weary feet back to Bag End, where he would lock himself in his sleeping quarters, and draw over him a film of good, dreamless slumber.