Title: Curving Paths

            Rating: PG-13 (Just to be on the safe side...Probably mostly PG)

            Disclaimer: I am not, and do not claim to be, at all associated with J.R.R. Tolkien, the brilliant author of Lord of the Rings, whose characters I am borrowing temporarily.

            Time Period: Mid to late 1420 of the Third Age, by Shire Reckoning.


            Note: Some parts of this chapter may be a little confusing (or perhaps they won't be.) If you do get a little lost, just keep reading, and some things should be explained.

            Additional Note: This is a revised version of the previous draft of the story.  The plot has remained intact, for the most part; I have simply made a few adjustments so that everything fits into canon a bit more smoothly.

                                                            ****************

            When Jasmine returned to the inn, her nerves astir and her fingers trembling, she leant against the door to take in a deep breath.  With weary feet, she stepped quietly across her room to turn the adjoining knob.  Peeking in as silently as she could, she smiled at Pippin's sleepy form, still stretched out across his bed. 

            'Silly thing didn't even lock up when he returned last night,' she thought to herself with a warm shake of the head. 'I might have taken advantage of him during the night.' She would have laughed at the un-likeliness of that event, if the idea that certain hobbits would easily suspect such an act of her had not prickled at the back of her mind.

            Lowering herself into the chair of a nearby table, Jasmine dropped her head into her hands.  Things were getting entirely out of control.  Her temple ached terribly, a sensation that was all too familiar to her these days.  With slow-moving limbs she released her hair from the few clips she had bothered to put in that morning.  All she had wanted was a peaceful outing on her own…

            Too much to ask, seemingly. 

            Why are you marrying Pippin?

            The question clutched at her already-throbbing head.  She instinctively repeated the same well-worn excuses to herself, begging the nagging voice currently gnawing at her logic to accept them once and for all. 

            'You musn't let him down, you musn't… You're his only hope…This is the opportunity you've been waiting for.'

            But the voice persisted.  'Would he really want this of you? Would he really wish unhappiness upon you for the sake of his own gain?'

            'What unhappiness?' her sensible side countered, 'To be married to the Thain? He is kind and handsome and, and…cheerful and-'

            An image sprang to her mind, unexpected and frankly quite startling.  Her thoughts wandered back to that cottage, with the crimson-red door and matching curtains; small, but with all the potential for perfection.  In her mind's eye she traversed the familiar hall to the left and into the room whose very remembrance brought tears to her eyes. 

            And there it was. That portrait in its ancient chipped wooden frame, the only object on the stool that hadn't been buried in dust, though it had occupied the same position for the greatest number of years. 

            She knew he picked it up and stared at it almost daily.  When her tiny self had gazed in askance at his tears, he had told her that the love he had shared with the object of the sketch had made the pain worthwhile, that a short time together was well-worth a lifetime of loneliness.

            The impact of this struck at Jasmine's heart.  Had she been wrong all this time? Had their efforts been in vain?  Would he even accept the comfort and joy that she would buy for him at such a cost? 

            Perhaps she hadn't been so self-sacrificial after all.  Maybe she had craved this lifestyle for an entirely different reason altogether, one that she had kept carefully in check with constant affirmations to the contrary.  Whenever a doubt had arisen in her mind, she had extinguished it, always mindful of her 'cause.'  Just what had her 'cause' turned into?

            A whimper escaped her mouth then, and to Jasmine it seemed as if the entire room echoed with the noise.  Determined to escape the cloud of uncertainty and regret that threatened to overwhelm her, she stood quickly and began to prepare Pippin's first breakfast.  'That Frodo has put me in a sour mood,' she told herself, 'As soon as Pippin awakens, I'll perk right up.'

****************

            Frodo returned to a kitchen steaming with the scent of fried potatoes, spiced sausages, and thick hotcakes.  He smiled his appreciation to Rose, whose forehead glistened with her efforts.  She gestured for him to take a seat at the table, and moments later Sam joined them as well. 

            The two hobbits exchanged a glance as they watched Rose move back and forth from the oven to the table, setting the plates and silverware meticulously.  They'd each begged her to allow them to ask a lass from town to come help with the cooking, but she would have none of it.  She was only feeding three, she told them, what was the harm?  She'd fed more than that back home.

            Lately, though, her movements had seemed slower somehow, and Sam had told his friend that she would frequently sit and rest in the middle of the wash or the meal preparation.  It had, in fact, been one of the reasons the trip had been most welcome.  But though Rose did seem more energized than she had been, it was clear to both of the men in her life that she tired easily, more easily than a normal lass.

             "Well," she exclaimed with satisfaction as she plopped down beside them with the final platter of food.  "Here we are!"

             "Now Frodo," she continued, her cheeks still flushed, "Where were you off to so early this morn?"

            He chewed slowly. "Ah, just took a walk by the brook and rested by its banks.  It's rather peaceful out there. Seems like miles from the village."

            Sam looked troubled.  "Is your own room so lacking, Frodo? Is there any comfort we can add that would help?"

            Wary of the fact that Sam was still in the dark as to his true state of his illness, as he had finally admitted to himself it was, Frodo answered vaguely, "No, no, my room is fine.  It is more pleasant to be outdoors, that's all."

            Sam just nodded, evidently not entirely satisfied, but willing to let it be for the time being. 

            Soon Frodo excused himself to his study, where his friends knew he would continue the work his cousin had begun.  He had made quite a bit of progress with his writing, pages and pages had been filled with tales that were often too difficult to dwell on for long.  Frequently Frodo would set his quill down and meander around the garden for a time, enjoying the fresh air and presumably reminding himself that the War had ended, before returning to the book.

            And so the afternoon was passed quietly, but enjoyably.  Sam was making his near-daily assessment of his garden's progress, a task he had undergone almost immediately after they had re-acquired the property.  The fertile tract of land had been badly torn up during its hostile occupation, but with the help of the Lady's soil, it was coming along quite nicely.  Rose had drifted off in the midst of her needlework, covered comfortably with a blanket her thoughtful husband had draped about her. 

****************

            And still Pippin slept.  Jasmine felt as if he had been abed for hours longer than necessary, but the torment of her thoughts may well of exaggerated the length of time.

            After fiddling with the porridge she had fixed countless times and rearranging the cushions on the furniture, she halted in the middle of the floor.  If she were alone for any longer, the agony she felt may well overwhelm her.  To wake Pippin up intentionally would involve entering his room, which she was loathe to do at the moment, for fear of its implications.  They were already involved in the questionable situation of occupying two adjoining rooms with no chaperone present, a fact Pippin had mentioned he hoped never reached the ears of his relatives. 

            With strange desperation, she fled the room, just in time to collide with a sandy-haired hobbit passing by at the same moment.  Gazing about at the neatly folded pile of linens and towels now scattered across the floor, Jasmine's hand flew to her mouth.

             "Oh, I am so sorry! Forgive me, I was not paying the least bit of attention to where my feet were taking me."

            The lad flushed as he watched the good-looking lass bend to help collect the sheets. "Please, don't-don't worry yourself, Miss.  I shouldn't have been walking so fast either."

            Soon they both rose, the pile successfully restored to his arms.  There was a moment of awkward silence before Jasmine spoke.

             "Your father works downstairs, doesn't he?" At his nod, she continued, "Finnlock, is it?"

            She fought to contain a smile as his freckles reddened.  "Aye, Miss, but most folks just call me Finn.  That is, if you'd like.  Not that you must. It's only-"

             "Finn is fine," she interjected kindly.  "My name is Jasmine, Jasmine Greenbarrow.  Pleased to meet you."

            He hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the correct response.  In the end, he simply repeated, "Please to meet you" with a self-conscious nod of his head. 

            Jasmine deliberated returning to her room, at a loss for what to do now that she had left it.  But, remembering the restlessness that plagued her earlier, she remained in the hall.

             "Do you work here often?" she asked of the lad, who, she noted, was a mite on the thin side. 

             "Oh, aye," he answered, clearly nervous with the conversation, but relieved to be speaking of something familiar.  "Most days I come in, to help out Da."

             "I see." She paused. "Do you live here in the village?"

             "Oh, Da and I live with my mum a little ways from here, past the mill, if you follow, by the grand hill with the fishing pond."

             "Ah, yes, I believe I caught sight of the lake when I arrived.  Lovely spot."

             "Aye."  A beat passed. "Do you live nearby, Miss Greenbarrow?"

            Her face darkened for a moment, and she nearly responded with her usual, "Oh no, quite a ways from here, actually.  I'm just visiting for a time."

            But something stopped her this time, weary as she was of the secrets she carried. "My father and I live out east a ways, by the border of the Farthing.  It's about a two or three day ride from Hobbiton, I believe."

            He simply nodded at this, and Jasmine found it rather amusing that the admission, which had seemed so momentous to her, meant so little to him.  Of course, he had no way of knowing how few people this information was shared with, Jasmine herself often labeled a 'butterfly', not so much for her social flair, but rather for her travel.  In the past several months, she realized with an ever-sinking heart, she had spent much less time at home than she had spent visiting all the different lads and lasses she had grown to call friends, day trips often stretching to weeks at one hall or another.

            She thought back to the conversation that had loomed over her all morning.  Frodo's last cry echoed in her mind, taunting her with its potentially numerous meanings.  Try as she might to convince herself that it had been a bluff, she couldn't help but nervously consider the alternative.

            Jasmine comforted herself with the fact that he hadn't seemed cruel; there had been no malicious pleasure in his verbal jabs.  He was simply a loyal friend, worried for Pippin's safety, afraid of what she might to do him.  Though her mouth had twisted ironically at this, her face soon softened with a gentle determination. 

             "Finn, would you do me a favor and arrange our carriage to be pulled up front?  Mr. Took and I will be down in a moment."

****************

            Though thoroughly absorbed in his writing, Frodo was the only one inside and alert when a lad knocked on his door with the letter.  It wasn't unusual for the post to come every few days, and he accepted the paper with a distracted thanks, barely glancing at the writing on the envelope, eager to return to a particularly crucial chapter.

            Returning to his study, Frodo drew his dull-edged, brass knife from his drawer and sliced open the post without much care to whom it was addressed.  None of the three inhabitants of Bag End were averse to such familiarity, and it was in fact quite common to open the other's mail, though it was far more usual for such a letter to be addressed to the entire household.

            Which is why the words his eyes skimmed lazily were such a surprise.

            Dearest Jasmine,

            I pray you don't mind me writing you here at this hole.  Being anxious to contact you, I rode to Lacey Tillburough's home to speak with your friend Bella who graciously informed me of where you were at the moment. (Don't fret, I did not tell her who I was.) 

            The twenty-first of August is fast approaching.  I do not mean to pull you away if you are having an enjoyable time, but, if you are able, you know I would love for you to be home for me on that day.  I thought we could walk to the cemetery, and perhaps lay out some of the daffodils from your garden, which are blooming beautifully. 

            Please write if you can, or simply visit, which would perhaps be even better.  The cottage has been dreadfully quiet in your absence. 

                                                         Da

            Knowing he should have torn his eyes away at the first phrase had little effect on Frodo.  His dedication to his cause, noble as it was, had somewhat overridden his honor for a moment, and that moment was all it took for Jasmine's secrets to unravel themselves a little further.

            He noted with interest the sender's location, a small village outside of Bywater, just inside the West Farthing.  Banksfield, it was called, and Frodo was well-aware that the town was looked upon as a less affluent area than its neighbor to the east.  The fact that the hobbit lived in a cottage, rather than a hole or perhaps a Hall, said much in itself.

            'Slowly,' he thought carefully, 'Slowly, the pieces begin to fit together.'

            Frodo's attention was distracted with a knock at the door, the second in the space of a mere half hour.  He rose to his feet in slight annoyance before he realized that Rosie had awakened and already welcomed the visitors inside.

            He swept a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame the dark curls, donned his dress-coat, and stepped out of the room, though not before tucking the short correspondence into the safety of his inner vest pocket.

            He approached the entryway in surprise at the sight of Pippin greeting first Rosie, than a flustered Sam who had been called inside from his garden.  'He must have learned of their return somehow,' Frodo supposed. 'He certainly did not come for a further audience with me.'

            As his eyes were trained on the hobbit in the doorway, the soft voice from his side startled him noticeably.

            "Hello, Frodo," Jasmine spoke in a low tone that nearly reached a whisper, "I feel I must speak with you at once."

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            I know I'm leaving it hanging a little, but the next part will be rather meaty and important so I thought I'd let it have its own chapter.  That chapter should be out soon, though now that school has started, things are rather unpredictable.  Of course, reviews are ample motivation, so we'll see what happens…