by Sally Gardens
Chapter Six: Planting and Tending
"I need a proper bath," was Frodo's first thought upon awakening. As with the first night back, he had tumbled into bed fully clothed, exhausted but content, and had sunk promptly into a deep and dreamless sleep. It would take more than a change of clothes to keep him presentable, he thought, so without troubling Sam or Rose he set about heating water and filling a tub. Clothes were soon flung over the back of a chair, and Frodo immersed himself neck-deep in a steaming bath.
He closed his eyes. For countless glorious minutes, his whole world was water caressing travel-weary skin, heat seeping into constricted muscles, soap sliding away the grime of past wanderings.
"Hullo? Mr. Frodo?"
His eyelids flew open. "Bathing, Sam," he called. "Half a minute."
"Take your time," Sam called back through the door. "Just letting you know that breakfast's about ready."
"Thank you, Sam. I shan't be long." Gripping the sides of the tub, he slowly pulled himself up, groaning under his breath. Not a lad anymore, are you, Frodo? "Ah, well," he said to himself, briskly rubbing down with a thick towel. "Gray hair becomes you." Grabbing a comb from the stand, he grinned, then halted as he looked into the mirror.
It's gone.
How had he missed it? He could only guess it had been the combination of excitement and exhaustion and the sheer overwhelming burden of trying to catch up seven years into the past two days; whatever the reason, he noticed now: His neck was bare of any jewelry. The jewel Arwen had given him was gone.
Odd, that, he mused, working the comb slowly, carefully, through the tangled damp mass of curls. Then, teasing at the edges of his mind, a memory slipped to the fore:
Take it. Keep it. Remember me by it.
Are you certain, Frodo? You may yet have need of it. You have said yourself that you are not free of pain, even here.
I am certain.
He studied his reflection. Older, yes; but the lines of care, though etched forever into his face, had softened, and there was, he thought, a peace about his countenance that had not been there before.
"Perhaps..." he whispered. The eyes in the mirror gazed hopefully, desperately, at him. He gave his hair a last flick of the comb and went to breakfast.
Several days later, on his way from the front door to the study, Sam handed a letter to Frodo. Frodo glanced at it, then felt his heart stop.
"Merry."
With trembling hands he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Dearest Cousin Frodo,
To say that your letter was a pleasant surprise should be the understatement of the age. When I saw your writing—and I knew right off it was yours; you have a most distinctive hand—
Frodo winced, but read on.
—I dared not hope it might truly be what it seemed to be. I thought, perhaps, Sam had run across an old letter never sent, and passed it along that I might have one last bit of you for memory's sake. Yet it proved that my fondest hope has, indeed, come to pass, and you are home, returned from where it is said there is no return. How such a blessing came to be, I cannot fathom; but I hope that you shall be able to tell me, and that we shall be able to talk at length, when we have opportunity to meet again.
My father, as Sam told you, is not as strong as once he was; he still has some vigor, and all of his wits, but nevertheless needs me to help him manage the affairs of Buckland. I understand, now, what Sam means when he says that he has responsibilities! Ah, it seems that everything must change—and yet, in some ways, nothing truly changes. You have always been in my heart, as, I hope, I have been in yours; and at my first opportunity I shall hasten to Bag End that we may visit over full mugs and full pipes, as in old days.
With all my love,
Your cousin,
Merry
Frodo looked up from the letter, allowing the glow within to slowly suffuse his face. "Sam!" he called out, darting down the hall toward the study. "Sam! Merry's coming! Merry's coming, Sam!"
September turned to October. There still had been no word from Pippin, so Frodo kept to the grounds of Bag End. It was not an unpleasant restriction, especially with the fall planting to be done and the season so fair. And, too, Frodo had the company of Sam and Rose and the children, and of Molly, for whom it apparently was a habit of long standing to visit Bag End most every day. She seemed to be more fond of thinking than talking, and when she did talk, it was mostly with Rose about matters of preserving and putting by the fruits of the fall harvest—she promised to bring some of her cider and apple butter to add to the table for the Festival of Last Harvest at month's end—but she was agreeable company, all the same, and Frodo welcomed it. Every new day brought Frodo closer to the sixth, but he would not allow his enjoyment of the day to be marred by dread of the morrow. Perhaps it shan't be as bad as before, he assured himself, and put the coming anniversary firmly out of mind.
The fifth of October was as pleasant an autumn day as anyone could wish. Frodo and Sam whiled it away in the flower garden, clearing away weeds and old growth and turning the soil to plant bulbs that, with care and luck, would bloom in the spring. Every now and then Frodo would catch himself beginning to sing a bit of a remembered song, and he would stop short, laughing self-consciously, only to have Sam urge him to keep singing. "I like to hear your voice," explained Sam, busily working the soil with a cultivator. So Frodo sang while he and Sam worked, and both hearts were filled with contentment.
As the morning sun rose to the noon mark, Frodo sat back on his heels and let the trowel fall to the ground. "How long have I wished for this," he sighed happily. "To sit in peace in my own garden—your garden," he quickly corrected himself, glancing at Sam.
Sam shrugged, intent on patting dirt over a bulb. "Our garden," he said.
Frodo smiled. "Our garden." He lifted his face to the brilliant blue sky and breathed deeply. "To peacefully potter about in the garden, and be able to enjoy it—truly enjoy it, Sam. Do you know what a gift that is?"
Patting the last bit of dirt into place, Sam turned and caught Frodo's eye. "I do, indeed." He turned back to plant another bulb.
"Uncle Frodo! Uncle Frodo! Dad! Dad!" Struggling to run with a basket that was just a bit more than a five-year-old could handle, Fro called out breathlessly as he lumbered along the garden path. Behind him, a more sedate Elanor carried a water jug.
"Lunch time already, is it?" Sam peeked into basket. "Well, we won't starve, and that's a fact."
"Oh, no, Dad," gasped Fro, striving to catch his breath. "It's for us, too."
"What he means, Sam-dad," explained Elanor, rolling her eyes as her brother flopped dramatically upon the lawn, "is that Mum said we might take our lunch with you and Uncle Frodo, if we may."
Sam smiled warmly at her. "You may, providing Fro there can rise up from his death-bed long enough for a last meal." Like a shot, Fro was sitting up, looking as proper as can be. "Wash," ordered Sam, wetting a towel and handing it to his son.
"I already did," protested the boy.
"And then went rolling about on the ground," countered Sam, holding firm.
"Yes, Dad." Reluctantly Fro took the towel from Sam's outstretched hand and gave face and hands a cursory swipe. Elanor laughed, and Sam shook his head and sighed.
This is how the old place was meant to be, thought Frodo, washing with a clean towel. Full of the laughter and bustle of children, not haunted by a lone bachelor rattling about the rooms. He sighed contentedly, growing deep in reflection as he put aside the towel and began to eat.
"Are you happy, now, Uncle Frodo?" asked Elanor, her bright eyes fixed upon him.
Frodo pondered a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Yes, Elanor," he replied. "I think from now on I shall be very happy."