by Sally Gardens
Chapter Twenty-seven: To Start Anew
On an evening late in June, Frodo and Sam walked the lawn in front of Bag End, reviewing the plans for the wedding. The weather, Frodo thought, had taken an unseasonably cool turn. He wrapped his cloak about himself, trying not to shiver in the twilight.
Sam paced about the lawn. "So you and Molly come out the front door, and you walk along the line of guests, and so on, and so forth; and I'll be waiting here—" He stopped in front of the mallorn tree and looked up into the thick canopy of golden leaves.
Aren't you cold? thought Frodo, watching Sam stand at ease in his rolled-up shirt sleeves.
Sam looked back at Frodo and smiled. "And then I'll be wedding you. You and Molly. Here beneath the new Party Tree."
Frodo smiled back, faintly, but he felt the smile fade as he looked away from Sam to the mallorn. "It hardly seems real," he softly said. "To think not that long ago, or it seems not that long ago..." He shivered, then, unable to hold it back.
Twilight deepened.
"Seems you've hardly just got back," mused Sam. "And now you're going away."
"I'm only moving down the hill," said Frodo, looking back to Sam. "Not even out of Hobbiton."
"True." Sam nodded. His gaze shifted to the west, where the last hint of light gave way to night. "Still, it hits harder than I expected, you leaving me again."
Frodo felt his hands clench. "You left me long before I ever left you."
Sam shook his head, looking sadly at Frodo. "I don't think I ever really had you." His glance fell upon the old, worn cloak in which Frodo had enfolded himself.
Frodo stared at Sam. The chill had become cold, ice cold, and he wondered how anything would ever grow in such a summer as this.
"Ah, well." Sam shrugged and met Frodo's eyes again. "There's no going back."
"No," agreed Frodo, shaken. "No, there's not."
"Getting on, then." Sam returned to pacing the lawn. "After you two speak your vows, and I declare you wed all proper, as witnessed by the Mayor of the Shire and the assembled guests, we proceed ourselves to the head table, here..."
The morning before Midsummer's Day, Frodo set out alone from Bag End, taking with him a small bundle. He walked down the Hill and along the Water until he reached an area of thick, soft grass beneath a willow that had somehow endured through all the trials of the years.
Bilbo had called it his favorite thinking spot.
Lowering himself to the grass, Frodo unrolled the bundle he had been carrying.
Bilbo's old cloak.
Holding it in his lap, Frodo caressed the worn wool, thinking.
Remembering.
Remembering Bilbo's talk of roads and adventures and things Elvish. Remembering Bilbo's affection and attention toward a lonely young orphan. Remembering the love, the trust, the gradual unfolding, the sudden loss that tore him in two, leaving a wound that would never really heal. Remembering the years of never really letting go.
Remembering how it had been to find Bilbo again, only to have to leave him again.
Remembering his choice, his refusal to let Bilbo go.
Bilbo was gone.
A thousand knives, a thousand stings, ten thousand Rings ripped through him. The Sea rose up in a great gray wave and engulfed him.
He would never be free. He would never really heal.
When, in time, all tears had given place to stillness, Frodo lifted himself from the ground. He gently gathered the cloak into his hands, folded it, and lay it to rest upon the grass. Frodo knelt a moment, letting his hand linger upon the faded cloth; then, slowly, yet with decision, he drew his hand away and stood. He gazed a heartbeat longer at the old cloak, then turned to go home.
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began...
He stood at the door, the dear, familiar green door, waiting for the music that would tell him it was time to emerge.
You never know where it will lead you, Frodo, when you take that first step out your front door.
You never know.
But what is to be my Road? I go to lose a treasure, and not come back, as far as I can see.
But even the very Wise cannot see all ends.
There is no real going back.
The wedding music began.
But there is going forward.
Frodo looked to Molly, smiled, and held out his arm. She entwined her arm about his, and together they opened the door and stepped over the threshold into the sunlight.
And they all lived happily ever after...
Frodo stood apart from the crowd, a half-sipped mug of ale in his hand. Already the wedding itself was fading into memory. Where Molly'd gone off to, he didn't know. He did know that she was happy. Last he'd seen, she was laughing and chattering with several relations of his from the Brandybuck side, and if she minded that she had no relations of her own to join the guests, it could not be read in her radiant, rosy face.
Merry. He was there, of course, a mug of ale in one hand and Estella Bolger on his other arm, the jagged brown scar upon his brow the only hint of shadows past. Merry spoke with Freddy, who fidgeted with a little pastry till Merry finally plucked it away and popped it into Freddy's mouth. Freddy blinked, gulped, then started laughing, clapping Merry on the shoulder.
There would be talking to do. Yes, there would.
And Sam, too. Proud and jolly, cutting a fine dash in his best suit of green, the one with genuine gold buttons straining at the front of the waistcoat. Wedded bliss had served Sam, perhaps, a little too well, all his mayoral gadding about notwithstanding. But a knowing eye could see, even here, the mark of shadows, some old, some not so old, that marred the bliss.
They would talk. All of them. Soon. The Four Travellers—no, the Five Conspirators.
He looked again to Freddy, who had another pastry in hand, this one nibbled, at least, between fidgets. Yes, they must include Freddy. He may not have been one of the Fellowship, yet in a way he'd shared in its work, doing his part, unnoticed and unlauded by the great of Gondor and Rohan and Rivendell, but nevertheless bearing his share of risk and ruin for the sake of the Quest. He alone of the original Conspirators had lived the War when it had come to their very home, and the Travellers needed to hear him as much as he and the Shire needed to hear them.
They would talk. And they would live.
...happily ever after, to the end of their days.
"You look far too serious, cousin, for a fellow who's just been wed."
Frodo looked up. "Hullo, Pippin," he said, smiling. "Is this better?"
"Much."
"I am glad you came."
"I am glad to be here."
They looked at one another for a moment.
"We'll talk," promised Frodo.
"Yes," said Pippin, looking soberly into Frodo's eyes. "We shall. But not today."
Then, suddenly, Frodo's head was drenched and Pippin was laughing.
Frodo sputtered, wiping the ale out of his eyes well enough to fix as menacing a look as an elder cousin can fix upon a younger, but Pippin, still laughing, was already a safe distance away, running and leaping over obstacles as quickly as his long legs could carry him.
Frodo scanned the crowd and caught Merry's eye. "Help me!" he shouted, waving toward Pippin. Merry nodded and Freddy, after a moment to take it all in, followed suit. They all took off running, weaving between clusters of bemused and amused guests to chase Pippin all over the lawn. Merry was fastest, but Frodo meant to be right behind him just as soon as he caught up with the young Took. From the looks of it, that wouldn't be much longer.
"Ha!" Frodo grabbed a newly-filled pitcher and swung it with all his might toward the newly-felled Pippin.
"Mercy!" cried Pippin, laughing hysterically. "At least get some of it in my mouth!"
"As you wish, Master Peregrin." Sam sauntered up, mug in hand, and tipped it over Pippin's face so that some of its contents splashed into his open mouth.
Frodo wasn't quite sure how it all happened after that, but the end of the matter was that they all ended up together, collapsed in laughter, in a great tangled ale-soaked heap upon the lawn.
"Frodo Baggins!"
He had to disentangle his arm in order to peel away the sodden curls that clung to his brow and blocked his vision. There stood Molly, hands on her hips, looking more than a little put out.
"Well, Frodo Baggins," she sternly chided. "It seems I will just have to get you into a bath and give you a good scrubbing from top to toe."
Frodo exchanged a stunned glance with his friends, then looked back at Molly. Did she have any idea just how that had—
Oh, yes, she did.
Frodo felt his face grow very hot, indeed.
He was surrounded yet again with laughter. And Pippin, shouting over the laughter, proclaimed, "And he lived most happily ever after, to the end of his days!"
And Frodo knew that he would.