Reckoning

"... nine ... ten ..." counted Pippin. "... eleven ... twelve ..."

Twelve. As in twelve years, thought Frodo suddenly as he stole noiselessly behind a chestnut tree. Twelve years of being called son in a deep, warm voice that he learned very early was his father's. Twelve years of listening to his mother singing in the kitchen as she cooked or in the garden when she replanted her bulbs. Twelve years of a lullaby and a tale before sleep. Twelve years of gentle hands making funny shapes with the wash cloth on his back while the steam of his warm bath curled around him. Twelve years of knowing where to turn to for help and comfort. Twelve years of knowing that he was loved. Twelve years of joy unmarred.

Then nine, Frodo winced. Nine years of Cousin, have you got my shirt mended, yet? and of I'm sorry, Frodo but I've been really busy today. Tomorrow, love, I promise and of slinking away knowing that tomorrow could mean anything from the week after, to Go to Cousin Rosemary, dear, I've my hands full at the moment to never seeing that shirt again.

Nine years of I've grown too big for this waistcoat, Auntie. Might I have another one? and of Oh, dear me Frodo, I've plumb forgotten. But I think you can wear my husband's old things until I have some time to sew you something new. Here. See how you look in this. They're a bit too big for you now, but you lads grow so fast anyway.

Nine years of So you don't like soft-boiled egg. Fine. Don't eat it then. Why do you have to be so picky? And of That's enough, Frodo, leave some for your cousin.

Nine years of I'm sure it's nothing, Frodo; you've just played too long under the sun. Go sleep it off; you'll feel better in the morning and of lying weak and feverish, wondering when his aunt would notice that he had failed to come down at four meal times.

Nine years of Cousin, I found a snake skin in the bush! and Auntie, I won the race! and Come, come Uncle! There is the biggest butterfly in the Shire in our garden! Come and look! and I'm scared, Uncle, of the darkness in my room; I'm lonely, Auntie, when the night comes and I have to go to sleep on my own; I miss Mother and Father; does anyone love me; help me, help me, help me and the only kind of answer he got was either an unyielding indifference or a gentle but absentminded Yes, dear, of course.

But, no, Frodo thought with a smile. They were not always bad, those nine years. There was Fodo up and the stars in Merry's eyes when he was whirled, laughing and shrieking, in the air. There was Night night, Fodo and the remnant of a contented smile on Merry's lips as his eyes drifted shut and sleep embraced him. There was the glowing moment when Merry rose from the floor and staggered toward Frodo on chubby, unsteady legs, happily screaming Fodo! And there was the infinite happiness and peace when Merry was nestled in Frodo's arms, his cheeks still wet from weeping after an unfortunate tumble down a tree, his hands wrapped around Frodo's neck, and somewhere between sleep and awake he managed to mutter Love you Frodo. There were some priceless moments in all those dreary nine years; harbor and anchorage in a sea of uncertainty and confusion, moments when he knew that he was truly loved and needed and belonged.

Then another twelve years. Twelve years of Let's pack a basket and have a picnic by the Water! The water birds are returning! Twelve years of A feast to celebrate the day your Mother and Father got married, Frodo... Why, lad, whatever are you crying for? Twelve years of What for? Do I have to offer a solid, sensible reason for every present I give you? Why can't I give you something simply because I love to? Twelve years of That is the Remmirath, Frodo, that one, where the stars look like a net of jewels. Twelve years of Trill your "r," Frodo. The Elves detest hidden "r"-s. And that sound between the "l" and the "g" should sound between "o" and "u." It's like trying to say "u" while your mouth is trying to say "o." Try now. Twelve years of Good night, my lad, sleep well with a warm pat on the back before he went to bed. Twelve years of Bilbo. Dear Bilbo ...

"I caught you, Frodo!" squealed Pippin triumphantly. "Now I go hide, and you count."

"All right, all right," said Frodo smiling. Paladin and Eglantine were coming to pick up their lad tomorrow on their way home to Tuckborough after a brief visit to the Banks's family estate in the North Downs. Though he knew that he was too old to play hide-and-seek—after all, he would be thirty-four come September—Frodo found that he had not the willpower to resist Pippin's charm, especially after he thought about how quiet Bag End would be after Pippin left. So there he was that summer afternoon, counting with his eyes closed and his face full of smile.

Twelve and twelve made twenty four. That alone more than made up for the nine miserable years he had between. And though now Bilbo had left, there would be many, many years of sunshine and laughter and songs stretching out before him. Countless years of Good morning, Sam. An early start today, I see. A spot of breakfast before you work? Endless years of Of course you can spend the night here, Merry. Why should you stay at the inn when you know I have enough room to accommodate thirteen dwarves and a wizard? Limitless years of I would love to have Pippin spend the summer in Hobbiton, Paladin. He can stay as long as he likes. Years of long walks under trees, along streams, up hills and across green, flower-carpeted vales.

It was not too bad, Frodo thought with a smile. "I'm a very lucky hobbit," he said to himself before continuing to count aloud. "... thirteen ... fourteen ... fifteen ... sixteen ... seventeen ..."

fin