by Sally Gardens
Chapter Eighteen: What Hope
Frodo sighed, closing Bag End's front door against the endless winter rain. "Post," he said to Sam, handing him all but one letter.
Sam looked pointedly at the envelope Frodo held, its familiar seal unbroken. "Pippin, again?"
Frodo nodded. "At least he's troubling to return them," he wryly jested, "even if he can't be bothered to read them."
Sam said nothing, but a gruff clap of his hand on Frodo's arm was reply enough.
Molly was up at Bag End nearly every day in December to help Rose with the Yuletide baking. Sam was often away, presiding over as many of the season's banquets as one Hobbit could possibly attend; with careful planning, that proved to be very many, indeed. Frodo stayed at home, preferring the quiet retirement of Bag End's study and the contented domestic pleasure of inventing stories for three very attentive youngsters who, in a scant few months, had already grown firmly attached to their Uncle Frodo.
When she wasn't in the kitchen crafting puddings and cakes with Rose, Molly was in the study with Frodo, talking if he was in a mood to talk, content to sit and think in silence while doing her beadwork if he was busy reading or writing. Frodo had begun to write down the stories he made up for the children, working over his notes and rewriting bits here and there, sometimes ending up with several variations on the same tale. He kept all of them neatly ordered in a plain folio, tucked away on a shelf next to the Mayor's great Red Book.
Seeing that book, and remembering her long sessions of reading it, at times to the neglect of her work, Molly reflected how sharply her vision had shifted in so short a time. It seemed another lifetime ago, yet it had not even been a year since despair had very nearly claimed her and denied her the days she now enjoyed in all of their simple rhythms of sunlight and—
A gentle throat-clearing brought Molly back to the moment. She stopped staring at the Red Book on its shelf and returned her attention to the draughts board lying on the floor between herself and Frodo. Sam was out, as usual, on Mayoral business, and Rose had taken the children to her parents' farm for a visit, so Molly and Frodo had ended up sitting in front of the little hearth in the study, taking advantage of the rare solitude to play a few uninterrupted rounds of draughts.
"Pardon me," murmured Molly to Frodo. "I did not mean to be distracted." Studying the board, she touched her finger to a cherrywood disk and slid it, corner to corner, onto a new square.
Frodo let his face reveal nothing as he pondered the array of cherrywood and pine disks. He studied the board so long that Molly began to wonder if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open; but then, abruptly, he spoke. "Sam tells me you've read our book," he said, sliding a piece into place.
Molly lifted her eyes to look at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the game. "I have," she said. "Several times."
"Several times." He did look up, then, and even his well-mannered instincts could not hide the astonishment in his eyes. "Quite a long read, even once."
Molly shrugged. "'Twas needful of more than one pass to properly think about it."
"I see." Frodo looked to the board, just for a moment, before looking back up at her with a studied indifference that would not have fooled a faunt. "So what did you think?"
She had not known she'd clenched her teeth until she felt herself sharply sucking air through them.
Molly sat up, squaring her shoulders, looking into those brown eyes flickering with just a hint of amber light. "I think," she said, "that you were meant to live."
His jaw dropped.
Quavering within, outwardly Molly held her ground, waiting.
Frodo clamped his mouth shut and lowered his eyes, nudging the first draught that caught his eye. "I thought I was meant to die."
It had been her turn—not that it mattered just now. "But you didn't die," she said.
"No," he grudgingly admitted.
Words were burning into her heart, seeking flight, seeking release, and she chose not to deny them.
"Did you think your life was spared so you could cast it away?"
His head snapped up, the amber light in his eyes turned into fire.
She would not look away. She would not.
With a jerk Frodo scrambled to his feet, scattering the draughts. He stalked over to the doorway of the study. He halted, gripping the curved frame with his left hand, his right hand jammed solidly into the pocket of his breeches. Even through the layers of shirt and waistcoat it was plain that his entire body was taut and angry.
Molly gulped, her gaze riveted upon Frodo. "I'm—I am sorry, Frodo," she stammered. "I spoke out of place."
He stood there still, unmoving. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to move.
A new fear crept into Molly's mind, then, a dreadful possibility that in all her sureness of thinking she had missed considering. With trepidation, she gave that fear trembling voice.
"Were you dying?"
There was not the least hesitation in his answer. "No. I was not." His body slackened as he softly added, "That was the trouble."
Molly could do nothing but stare at his back, watching him as his head sagged and began to pivot slowly, side to side. It was too much to bear. She compelled herself to look to the game pieces, picking them up and putting them in their box. Closing the lid, she set the box on top of the board and looked back up at Frodo.
Abruptly he turned around, brandishing his right hand with its terrible empty space where a ring finger should have been. Worse than empty: a stump, a scarred, tattered remnant, just enough finger to be an eternal reminder that it was not all it should be. But it was Frodo's eyes, wholly unveiled, to which Molly's gaze was drawn, their agonized, desperate plea echoed by his faltering voice:
"How do I live a maimed life?"
Molly kept her eyes on his, never breaking contact as she pushed up to her feet, paced over to where he stood, and slowly raised her left hand to his right, palm meeting palm, and with gentle deliberation curled her fingers between his to clasp his hand, closing the gap.
"Rose and Sam have invited me to their Yule party," she said. "I expect I shall see you there." With a brief press of his hand, she let go and slipped past him into the hall.
Frodo stared after her, speechless, watching her round the bend and disappear into the front entry. Then, shaking himself, he hastened after her, calling, "Molly! Molly!"
She was standing by the front door, pinning her cloak. Looking up at Frodo, she waited.
Frodo gulped and shoved both of his hands into his pockets. "Good afternoon," he said, nodding.
Molly smiled. "Good afternoon," she softly answered, and turned and opened the door and left.