by Sally Gardens
PART FOUR: SUMMER
Chapter Twenty-six: Shadows Shall Abate
Frodo dropped quietly back into the doings of the Shire. He still walked at times in solitude, but no longer did he feel alone.
Like a relentless ground bass beneath a cacophony of merry melodies ran an unacknowledged, uneasy murmur throughout the Shire: What if it happens again? When will it happen again? How long will the king's edict be protection to us?
It's all of us, Merry had said.
And Frodo, at last, knew why he had been sent back to the Shire.
New murmurings had begun to arise, starting in Hobbiton and Bywater and spreading throughout the Four Farthings. Mr. Frodo of Bag End, it was said, had the touch to ease a troubled heart. Not that much trouble was to be found in the hearts of Shirefolk, of course, but for such as might be feeling a bit down, he had a gift, it was said, a true gift for finding just the right words to drive away sorrows and stir up bright hope and make a body feel a little less alone.
Though I come back to the Shire, it shall not be the same, for I am not the same.
"No." Frodo smiled to himself. "I am not the same. And that is precisely why I am back."
Spring had come. And a more promising spring had not been seen, save the already-famous spring of 1420: By mid-April the countryside was as lush and green as midsummer, and winter was but a memory. The breeze through fragrant grasses whispered, And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be well, and gardens and fields flourished, and all was heavy with expectancy.
And in the midst of the waiting, on the eve of May, a new tale was told in the common room of the Green Dragon.
"Eh, lads. Heard the news?
"News?"
"Ol' Looney Baggins is getting married."
"Married!"
"Well, I'll be."
"Who to?"
"Spinster Piper, out Hobbiton way."
"A fine match. She's as mad as he."
"Ha! Master and Mistress Crackpot, if you please."
"Speaking of pots, where's that pitcher of ale, then?"
Laughter broke out amidst much sloshing of ale being poured into glasses.
If Frodo had heard of the talk at the Green Dragon, he paid it no heed, for he had other things to think about. When he had proposed to Molly, Molly had got right to the point: "Well, we're not getting any younger, neither of us. Let's make it a Midsummer's wedding."
And so the days of May had become a flurry of invitations and preparations and endless sessions with Hobbiton's tailor.
"I wish we'd eloped," muttered Frodo, feeling quite like a pincushion as the tailor poked and prodded to fit the pieces of his wedding suit.
"Nonsense," said Sam, puffing on his pipe. "You'll want a day worthy of remembering."
"All I really want," rejoined Frodo, "is to be settled with Molly in our own home, in peace and quiet."
"You're sure about that? You know we've plenty of room here for both our families."
"Sam—"
"I know, I know. It just don't seem right, somehow, sending you away out of your own home."
"It's not my home," began Frodo, exasperated.
"If you please, Mr. Baggins."
Frodo glanced down at the tailor. "Oh. I am sorry. I'll be still."
"You're saying I haven't made you feel at home?" Sam sounded hurt.
Without moving, Frodo shifted his gaze back toward Sam. "Of course I am saying no such thing, Sam. You have made me feel most welcome—but it is your home, now. And Molly has a home of her own, and it seems more sensible for me to move into her home rather than for both of us to move into yours."
Sam frowned, shaking his head. "It still don't seem right," he stubbornly persisted. "A little hole like that, for a Hobbit of your station—"
"My station!" Frodo burst out laughing.
"Mr. Baggins!"
"What station?" exclaimed Frodo. "Husband of the town button maker?"
"Mr. Baggins," repeated the tailor through gritted teeth.
Frodo stilled himself again.
Sam looked at him soberly. "You're still a Baggins of Bag End," he said.
"I was," Frodo countered. "But honestly, Sam, now I am quite content to relinquish that role to the Gardners of the Hill, and to spend the rest of my days as the husband of the Hobbiton button maker." Softly he smiled. "I am happy, Sam. Isn't that what you wanted, all along?"
Sam blinked, several times. "Folks will talk, you know."
Frodo snorted. "It's good to know that some things about the Shire will never change."
It seemed as if all he and Sam did of late was argue. Frodo was sitting at the desk in the study, writing out wedding invitations, when he heard Sam grunt dismissively.
"Waste of paper," remarked Sam from over Frodo's shoulder.
"Nonsense," said Frodo.
"He won't come."
"He won't, if I don't invite him."
"He won't, anyway."
"He might. There was that night at the inn."
"And you haven't heard from him since."
"But he's heard from me. He's no longer returning my letters, so he must be reading them, at least."
"Or throwing them away without bothering to send them back."
"Well, Sam." Frodo let a few drops of wax fall on the envelope and pressed the Baggins seal into the wax. "All I can do is send it, and hope for the best."
"I hope your hope turns out to have good reason."
Frodo held his chin high. "Reasonable or not," he said, dropping the envelope onto a large stack of invitations, "I have hope."