by Sally Gardens
Chapter Two: A Dear, Familiar Street
A great yearning for home arose within Frodo the moment he took his first step away from the Sea. Whatever had transpired in the West was already fading from mind and memory. He knew and cared only that, against all hope, he was going home.
Once inside the Shire, Frodo avoided the roads, traveling instead over wide fields and through little woods that were still familiar to him from his youthful rambles. When he chanced to pass other people, Frodo kept the hood of his cloak close over his face, hastening his steps and giving no opportunity for conversation. He was determined that of all the Shire, there was one Hobbit, and no other, who must and would be the first to know of Frodo's return.
At long last, after many days of walking, Frodo made his way up the road that wound up the Hill and met the path that curved in front of the dearest place in all the world. He paused by the front door, trying to summon the courage to ring the bell, wondering what he would say; but scarcely had he begun to lift his hand when he let it fall back to his side: Wisps of wordless song wafted upon the warm afternoon air, the music of a low, rough voice that had been far too long out of Frodo's hearing.
Frodo crept along the path, drawing nearer to the voice. Peering from behind a neatly trimmed shrub, he saw a short, plump figure, trowel in hand, kneeling in the midst of a fading garden.
Frodo began to tremble. Tears sprang into his eyes, but he blinked them back. Letting his hood fall away, he drew a deep breath to steady himself.
"Hullo, Sam."
The trowel dropped to the ground. Slowly, as if in a dream, Samwise Gamgee turned, his round dark brown eyes wide and staring. Several times his mouth worked soundlessly before he managed to croak out, "Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo felt a hint of a smile lighten his face. "Mayor Samwise?" he answered, stepping forward.
"You—but—but—no." Sam squeezed his eyes shut and vigorously shook his head. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes again. "Yes. It is. It's really you. Isn't it? Or am I dreaming, from wishing so hard all these years?"
"No, Sam." Frodo blinked, swallowed hard, struggled to find his voice. "It's no dream. I'm—I'm home."
Sam stared for another moment, then:
"Glory and trumpets!"
All at once Sam burst into laughter and tears, leaping up and throwing his arms around Frodo. "It is you!" he exclaimed, clutching Frodo in a crushing embrace. "Rosie! Rosie! Children! Come here! Quick!"
The front door burst open. "Heavens above, Sam! What in the Shire is—" Sam's wife halted in the middle of the path, her eyes bulging. "Is—it cannot—is it—?"
"Yes, Rosie!" laughed Sam. "It's Mr. Frodo! He's come back! To stay!"
"But I thought—"
"So did I! So did he! But look, Rosie!" Sam stepped back and held out his hands toward Frodo. "Here he is, plain as the nose on my face—but thankfully looking a sight better."
"You mean the Mr. Frodo?" asked a slender girl with strawberry-blond hair. "Frodo of the Ring?"
"Yes, Elanor," answered Sam, turning to his daughter.
"Elanor." Frodo gazed in wonder upon Sam's eldest child. "Little Elanor. Why, last time I saw you..."
"Grown tall, she is," Sam quietly agreed, laying a hand on Frodo's arm. "But, here! Let me introduce you to the lot! This here," Sam gestured toward a boy who was the very image of his father, "he's the next in line, our Frodo-lad."
"They call me Fro, for short," the boy explained. Grinning, he added, "They named me after you."
"Yes, I know," answered Frodo, winking.
"And then there's our Rosie-lass, a-clinging to her Mum, there; and our little Merry."
"And—?"
Sam looked at Frodo sharply. "That's all for now," he lightly replied, but in his eyes Frodo could see the unspoken question: How could you see my future so clearly, but not your own?