by Sally Gardens
Chapter Five: And Whither Then?
"Well, Sam." Frodo looked up from his half-full lunch plate and set down his fork. "I've been thinking about what you said this morning, about sending word to Merry and Pippin."
Sam nodded. "You're not planning to waste that?" He jabbed his fork at Frodo's plate.
"No, Sam, of course not." Frodo picked up his fork and ate a few more mushrooms. "But I really do need to consider the matter. Should I send letters, and allow the initial shock to spend itself before we meet, or just ride out and visit them straight off and shock them out of their wits as I did to you?"
Sam grinned. "'Tweren't that bad, Mr. Frodo," he said. Putting down his fork, he thought a moment. "As for Merry and Pippin. Well. As I said already, Pippin's away more than he's home, so in his case I'd send a letter and let him come by to see you whenever he finally gets round to remembering he's got a home to come home to and reads his mail. But Merry...well, he's most always at Brandy Hall, these days, so you have a better than fair chance of meeting with him right off. Though I warn you, don't you be shocked if seeing you takes him some getting used to."
Frodo winked. "Have my looks failed that much, Sam?"
"No, no." Sam wished he'd stop putting his foot in it. "You're as handsome as ever, and it's a wonder the lasses aren't already storming the door—"
Frodo grimaced. "I had enough of that in my youth, thank you."
Sam grinned. "Be that as it may. But what I'm saying, Mr. Frodo," and he sobered again, "is that, well, you've changed. You're looking your rightful age—which is as should be—but thing is, you weren't. To be sure, you did look a mite travelworn—and didn't we all—but even when you left, you still looked more thirty-three than fifty-three."
Frodo looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "I see."
"Not that it's a bad thing, mind you—"
"Of course not." Frodo lifted his head, looking earnestly at Sam. "I'm glad, really, and grateful. If the power of the Ring has faded in this regard, perhaps it is not too much to hope that it shall fade in other ways. Perhaps..."
Sam watched him sympathetically, lunch forgotten. "And isn't that just what the Queen Arwen said, Mr. Frodo? All that the Ring had done would be passing away. All of it, Mr. Frodo. Think on that, and take hope."
But if not even the Elvenhome could heal Frodo, did any hope remain?
But no; he wouldn't give in like that, and Mr. Frodo barely home, and all. He couldn't believe they'd have sent Mr. Frodo back, had there been no hope.
"But now that I think about it." Frodo had taken up eating again, with a vengeance, and spoke through a generous mouthful of mushrooms. "It doesn't seem right, Sam, to grant Merry a personal visit and only send Pippin a letter. And since Pippin is not readily available, I shall have to settle for notifying both of them by letter, and hope that Merry understands."
Sam brought himself back to the present matter. "He will. And you're right, of course, now that you spell it out so plainly. Besides, once Merry gets that letter, he'll be out here as fast as he can pull away from his duties for a few days, so you'll have your visit, all the same."
"I'm looking forward to seeing them both," said Frodo. "It's been so long."
"Don't hold your breath waiting for Pippin."
"I shan't," Frodo assured him. "I think you've given me ample warning on that account. But even Pippin must go home, eventually."
Sam shrugged and took another stab at his lunch. "Eventually."
Following lunch, Frodo retired with Sam to the study. While Sam sat in his favorite chair, poring over tedious official documents—some of which actually served a useful purpose—Frodo sat at Sam's desk, scribbling notes and drafts and making not a few minor refinements until he was satisfied that he had found the right words for each cousin. He folded the letters, sealing them with wax; he refrained from using the Mayor's Seal, instead digging in the box until he found an old seal with his own monogram. Blessed Samwise of the Thousand Mathoms, thought Frodo. He grinned to himself as he pressed the seal onto the melted wax.
Using the old seal served a purpose beyond indulging Frodo's nostalgia: If Merry and Pippin had any memory at all, they would immediately recognize the twined "FB" encircled with ivy. More important, it was unlikely, after all these years, that anyone else who handled the letters would. Frodo had not included his name on the return address, so only those who recognized either the seal or his handwriting would recognize the sender. That, he thought with satisfaction, fairly well ensured that nobody in the Shire would know before Merry and Pippin that—
"Molly!"
Sam looked up at him. "What of Molly?"
"She knows I'm here, Sam," said Frodo. "Even if you send these off in today's last post, there's still a good chance Merry and Pippin will hear from gossips before they hear from me."
"Oh. That." Sam waved a hand. "I shouldn't worry, Mr. Frodo. Molly lives outside of the village proper, and keeps mostly to herself, when she's not here. I can't see her wanting to shout the news in the square. She thinks too highly of you, at least as she knows you from our book, and—"
"She's read our book?" exclaimed Frodo.
Sam nodded. "Aye, and I could wish more folks cared to hear our story."
"I see." Frodo bit the end of the pen, frowning, and looked away.
Sam watched him with concern. "Mr. Frodo?" he ventured after several minutes of silence.
Frodo snapped out of his reverie, blinking. "Yes, Sam?"
"Please don't be taking it so hard. I'm sure more folks will be reading it—"
"Oh, no, Sam. That wasn't it at all. Rather, you got me thinking of something Bilbo said to me." Frodo stared out the window, resting his chin on his hand. "He said, 'Go and live the rest of your story.' The rest of my story. He must have known, Sam; I don't know how."
"Gandalf, like as not."
Frodo looked over to Sam, his eyes alight. "I shouldn't doubt it. You're right, of course; it must have been. It was Gandalf who approached me...afterwards. About being allowed to return, if I wished it. But—the rest of my story," he repeated in a wondering voice. "I have as much as half a lifetime to fill, Sam, and not the least idea of how I shall fill it."
"I've still got a number of empty pages at the end of the book, if you wish to have a crack at them."
"No." Emphatically Frodo shook his head. "The tale of the Ring is at an end. This is my story, a new turn in the Road—" He cast about, flinging drops of ink as he waved the pen aimlessly.
"A new book to be written?" suggested Sam, suppressing a curse as several drops of ink splattered on his shirt, one of his best.
"Yes. In a manner of speaking; I think I'd rather simply live it than spend all my days writing it—and of course," he added thoughtfully, "that other story is a part of my story, and always will be; a part that I cannot ever wholly put behind me." His gaze fell to his right hand, and he sighed. "But it is not, after all, the whole story. My whole story." He looked up again. "I just want to have my life back, Sam."
Sam looked soberly into Frodo's eyes. "You will, Mr. Frodo. I'll do everything I can to see to that."