by Sally Gardens
Chapter Seventeen: At the Sign of the Green Dragon
On the afternoon that Merry left, he made good on the promise he had extracted from Frodo a few nights before: to stop by the Green Dragon. Frodo set his jaw, reminding himself that he had encountered far worse things in the world than Ted Sandyman. Still, it did not help Frodo's spirits when he walked into the common room only to be greeted by a sneer from the young miller. Frodo expected a rude remark to be forthcoming, but it seemed that Sandyman was more brave behind Frodo's back than to his face; that Frodo had a giant of a cousin at his side might also have tipped the balance toward Sandyman's self-restraint. Frodo simply cast a brief look of disgust and then paid the miller no further heed. Merry wisely led Frodo to sit at at the far end of the boards.
Over a lunch of stew and bread and ale, Frodo lightly asked, "Would you think ill of me, Merry, if I were to confess that I am having a very difficult time harboring no unkind thoughts toward Ted Sandyman?"
"On the contrary." Merry sopped a chunk of bread in the thick broth and stuffed it into his mouth. He grinned up at Frodo. "I should take it as a sign that you are healing."
"Merry." Frodo shook his head, but couldn't wholly suppress a smile.
"Good stew," said Merry through a mouthful of the same. He followed suit with several more spoons. "Very good."
"It is," agreed Frodo. "Though Sam was right. It's been entirely too long since I last had the Dragon's good ale."
"Well, cousin." Another large chunk of bread interrupted Merry for a few moments. "You shall have to make up for lost time."
"At lunch time?" Frodo laughed, breaking a piece of bread off the small loaf between them. "Tongues are wagging enough, as it is." He dipped the bread into the stew and took a bite.
"Sam tries to help," said Merry. "He does his best to set your fame to rights."
Frodo finished chewing before answering. "That, I am afraid, is a losing battle. But bless him for trying," he added, lofting his mug and taking a sip.
"Indeed," said Merry. He grinnned. "Though I can't blame folk for not being quick to believe him, the way he tells it. Have you read the Book? Sam's part of it, I mean?"
Frodo shook his head. "No, but I can guess well enough. Whatever he wrote, I am sure that I cannot possibly begin to live up to the hallowed memory of 'Dear Mr. Frodo.'" He and Merry shared a chuckle. "Of course," added Frodo more thoughtfully, "he didn't expect to have the real Mr. Frodo about for anyone to compare to."
"That's no matter, Frodo," Merry quickly dismissed. "It's how he sees you, whether in memory or in front of his nose, and he'd have written you that way all the same. Why, he even wrote that he saw a light shining in you, if you can believe that."
"What!" Frodo nearly spilled his drink. Bracing his arms on the boards, he steadied himself, leaning forward toward Merry. "I mean no slight to Sam, the dear fellow, but I really do think he's getting a bit out of hand in this business of likening me to an Elf."
Merry shrugged, smiling. "It's what he said he saw—and I'm sure he truly thought he did."
"He also thought a length of Elven rope came to him when he called for it." Frodo settled back on the bench. He allowed himself a few minutes, then, to eat, while the savory stew was still warm. "Light shining in me," he muttered, wiping his mouth with a spare handkerchief and folding it carefully before tucking it back inside his pocket. "I should have liked to have seen that myself; it'd have been a welcome respite from endless shadow."
Merry watched as Frodo fell silent, tapping a finger on the side of his empty bowl, frowning in dark reverie. "Shadows do pass," Merry wanly offered.
Frodo glanced up. "They do," he concurred, letting his hand grow still. "But they seem awfully fixed when one is in the thick of them."
From a back room came the clatter and slosh of dishes being washed. Sunlight filtered in through two small windows on the south end of the common room, though it didn't quite reach where Frodo and Merry sat finishing the last of their lunches. Sandyman had long since gone, as had most of the lunchtime crowd. A server began to wipe down the boards and gather empty plates and bowls and mugs.
"Perhaps it is a blessing, after all, that I was allowed to come home," mused Frodo. He raised his left hand to signal for another fill of ale. "I am, in the end, simply a Hobbit of the Shire. Sam's children need to see that, I think. They need to see the Ringbearer, not as a grand Elvish legend who was lifted off over the Sea, but as plain old Uncle Frodo, a simple Hobbit who simply happened to have a terrible duty cross his Road and did what needed to be done because it needed to be done. They need to learn what it really means to be a hero: that perhaps the bravest thing any of us can do is to get up and get on with each day as it dawns, and not give up and not give in to the shadows of dangers past."
Merry contemplated his mug of ale. "I have need of that lesson, myself, many's the day," he said, looking up into Frodo's eyes.
Soberly Frodo nodded. "And I." He lofted his mug, and he and Merry drank to one another's health.
"Now, remember." Merry sat on the back of his pony, on the road outside the Green Dragon. "You promised me a visit to Brandy Hall, and I shall hold you to your word."
"Yes, yes, of course," agreed Frodo, nodding vigorously. "Right after Yule. I shall be stopping by Freddy's on the way—you do have the letter?"
"I do." Merry patted his jacket pocket.
"Well." Frodo smiled and raised his left hand in farewell. "Until we meet again, have a safe journey and a good Yule."
Merry waved as he began to ride eastward. "Good Yule to you, too, cousin. May the new year bring a good turn for all of us."
Frodo watched until Merry and the pony disappeared over the horizon; then he turned back, west, toward Hobbiton, and from there up the Hill to home.