by Sally Gardens
Chapter Eight: A Hero's Welcome
"We can't be keeping you hid away in Bag End forever and aye."
About a week had passed since Frodo's illness. He had come to breakfast the next day, a little subdued but otherwise well, and in the days that followed Frodo had fallen back into the life of the household as if October sixth had never been. Now he and Sam were sitting in the study after supper, enjoying a half-pint and a quiet chat—or, rather, what had become a quiet argument.
"Sam, I know. I know." Frodo briefly closed his eyes, massaging his brow with the tips of his fingers. "But I cannot risk having Pippin hear of my return from gossips at an inn."
"And I say," Sam retorted, "that's the chance he takes when he spends all his time at the inns."
"No, Sam." Gentle as he was, when Frodo had made up his mind about something he could be as stern as steel. By the look in his eye, Sam knew this was one of those times.
"All right," he reluctantly conceded. "But if you don't hear from him before another week's out, I'm going out to find him and bring him back here myself. You ought to be able to get about and mix with Hobbiton folk, again, have a half-pint with me at the Green Dragon."
In spite of himself, Frodo smiled. "Fair enough, Sam." He winked as he sipped from his mug. "But I daresay the ale you keep is better than anything I ever had at the Dragon."
"Fool of a Took," muttered Sam, pacing about the study several days later.
"Come, now, Sam." Frodo tried, without much success, to blow a smoke ring. "This subject's wearing rather thin."
"So's my patience."
"Sam—"
The doorbell rang. Sam darted to the window and stuck his head out, craning his neck so he could just see around the curve of the Hill to the front porch.
"About time he dragged his arse home and up here," he grumbled as he pulled himself back into the study. "Pippin," he explained to Frodo, and was halfway down the hall before the word could properly sink into Frodo's understanding.
From down the hall came a loud, plainly for-Frodo's-benefit declamation: "Hullo, Pippin, got the letter I see, in a timely manner, I trust. Come along,then."
"You don't have to shout, Sam," came Pippin's strident rebuke; then, abruptly: "Letter? What le—"
Frodo looked up to see Pippin standing in the doorway of the study, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.
"Hullo, Pippin," greeted Frodo, rising to meet his cousin.
Pippin continued to gape, unmoving.
From behind Pippin, Sam loudly cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Master Peregrin, but a doorway you're not, if you take my mean—"
"So." The word fell, cold and dull, from Pippin's lips. "Not even the Elvenhome was to your liking?"
Frodo was dimly aware of Sam's sharp intake of breath. He drew a deep breath of his own, slowly, and with great effort managed to keep his voice steady. "That's quite a greeting for the cousin you haven't seen in seven years."
"Oh? Pardon me," sneered Pippin, stepping forward. "Did I offend you, Frodo? I suppose you were expecting a warmer welcome—a hero's welcome—"
"Pippin!" huffed Sam, slipping past the tall Hobbit and standing in front of him. "What in—"
"No, Sam." Frodo's voice was soft, and resigned. "Whatever he wishes to say, let him say it."
Pippin's face twisted with contempt. "How noble of you, Frodo."
"Now, see here—"
"Sam." Frodo held up a hand. "Please."
Sam frowned at him, bewildered.
"Please," Frodo gently repeated.
Sighing, Sam shrugged and plumped down into his chair. "Have a seat," he grunted to Pippin. Pippin ignored him.
"Tell me, noble cousin." Deliberately Pippin paced toward Frodo. "Did you really expect to simply show up out of the blue and be welcomed with open arms, as if nothing had ever happened?"
Teeth clenched around the stem of his pipe, Frodo mildly answered, "I expected to at least be shown a modicum of civility."
"Really?" Pippin arched his eyebrows, his eyes blazing into Frodo's. "Leaving forever, with nary a word to me or to poor Merry—is that what you call civility? Trying to slip away without so much as a fare-thee-well and thank-you-ever-so-much-for-your-loyalty-and-sacrifice-and-unfailing-friendship—was that civil? Leaving it to Gandalf to tell us at the very last minute, passing on his way to the Havens—leaving us to ride frantically across the Shire, hoping against hope that we might not be too late to bid you a last goodbye before you sailed off into the sunset and out of our lives—do you have the least comprehension of the toll your civility took upon us? Or did you think only of yourself and your own pains?"
"That will be enough of that!" exploded Sam, leaping to his feet.
"Sam—"
"Thinking only of his own pains, was he?" stormed Sam, drowning out Frodo's objection. "You know as well as any—well, no; you don't. I know, better than anyone save for Mr. Frodo himself, here, how cruelly he suffered—"
"As if we didn't?" Pippin savagely retorted. "Dragged by Orcs across Rohan—how kindly do you think they treated us?" He turned again on Frodo. "I spared you the details, out of consideration, but perhaps now I ought to give you a clearer idea of what it is like to suffer at the hands of Orcs—"
"I know well enough, thank you," Frodo quietly cut in. He put out his pipe and set it down on the table.
"Oh, but of course! How presumptuous of me! Who has suffered, but that the Ring-bearer hasn't suffered still more?"
"Peregrin Took," growled Sam.
"Do you honestly think you, alone, live with the wounds of Mordor? I nearly died in battle with the Dark Lord's minions, I have seen his very gaze, felt it ripping through my soul—and let us not even speak of the horrors that Merry faced, and that nearly did him in—and hundreds of others, Frodo. Hundreds upon hundreds. Do you ever think of the scars we bear? The memories we endure that scarcely bear endurance? The nightmares that will only be silenced—sometimes—with bottomless pints of ale?" His voice had fallen, his breathing grown ragged, his face pale. "Dead, we live," whispered Pippin. "Yet live we must. If we can."
Frodo, stunned and likewise pale, looked back up at Pippin. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked in a hush.
"Why didn't you?" returned Pippin, softly.
Frodo thrust his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight. "I feared you'd talk me out of leaving."
"We'd have tried," admitted Pippin.
"And had you tried, you would have succeeded."
"And had we succeeded?"
Frodo's attention was fixed on the floor. Very quietly came the answer: "I knew I would die."
Silence settled upon the room. Then, softly pressing against the silence: "You knew?"
More silence. "I thought," Frodo wearily amended. "Or, rather, they thought—they thought a lot of things!" he suddenly raged, looking wildly about the room. "I wanted to stay! I wanted to live! But not for you, Ring-bearer, to go back to the Shire! Not for you the return to peace! Only the Sea...only the Sea..." His voice faded, and tears glittered in his eyes. "Not even the Sea."
Abruptly he crumpled, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"Don't be absurd. It's the most honest thing I've heard from you since the War."
"No. No. It was wrong." He stood frozen, forlorn, face still hidden in his hands. "It had to be done. I accepted that. Truly. I did. Somebody had to do it." Shuddering, Frodo choked out, "But, even now, I wish I had not been that somebody."
Pippin glanced uneasily at Sam, who stared mournfully, on the verge of tears, at Frodo.
Blinking rapidly, Pippin turned back to Frodo, clearing his throat. "It's—it's all right, cousin," he falteringly offered, "to be angry when fate drops a shit on you."
It was, Frodo knew, an effort at conciliation; and deep within he knew he should take it, but, drained and numb, he observed passively as the reflex of elder cousin to younger prevailed. "Have a care with your language, Pippin," he sighed.
Conciliation fled. "You sanctimonious, moralizing bastard," began Pippin, too late realizing his mistake.
Frodo's head snapped up. In a flash he went from pale to livid, the color rushing up into his face, hot and furious. His eyes were full of fire. But when he spoke, it was in a stony undertone far more terrible than the shouting had been.
"Go. Now."
Pippin locked eyes with Frodo, expressionless; then, finally, he shrugged. "As you wish."
"I'll get your things." Sam leaped from his chair, exiting the room.
Holding his chin high, Pippin started to follow Sam, but at the study door he hesitated and turned back.
For a moment his eyes flickered as they met Frodo's. "I looked up to you," he said. A breath longer the bond was held; then Pippin spun on his heel into the hallway, hastening toward the front door.
Sam returned to the study to find Frodo standing at the window, hands jammed in his pockets.
"It's not true."
Sam bowed his head, closing his eyes and sighing. "Of course not, Mr. Frodo."
Nothing was said for several minutes. Finally, Sam gave another small sigh and settled back into his chair, lighting his pipe.
"I'm going outside for a breath of air," declared Frodo, avoiding eye contact as he clipped across the room.
An hour passed, then two. The light faded into a chilly autumn night. Sam had had enough of pipeweed for one day. He went for a lantern, threw his cloak about his shoulders, and told Rose he was stepping out for a while.
Flinging open the front door, he nearly tripped over Frodo, who was sitting right there on the front porch, wrapped tightly in his cloak.
Sam let out a little sigh of relief. "Frodo."
"Hm?" Frodo continued to gaze into the night.
"The door's open," Sam told him. "When you come in, be sure to lock it."
Sam saw Frodo's head nod slightly. "Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. "I will."
Sam grunted. "See you in the morning."
Three days later, Frodo's letter to Pippin was returned to Bag End, unopened.