Unspoken
The well-worn though spotless apron; she folded it and laid it in the basket,
on top of her small wooden box of midwifery tools.
"Another rough one?" his voice poured over her, draping her with a warmth
that spelled out home even when she was standing in the unfamiliar clutter of
Bag End kitchen. She snuggled closer into his embrace, reveling in the feel of
his strong body holding her up, his arms making gentle, soothing motions along
her tense back and shoulders.
She nodded numbly. "They both died," she bleakly started. "I couldn't save
them."
"Oh, dearest," he sighed, rocking her slightly, as she began to sob. "I'm
sorry.
She had been calm and in control when she broke the devastating news to the
disbelieving father. She was all efficiency and common sense as she took over
the preparation for the burial of the mother and the stillborn baby. But now,
in his arms, the last remnant of her threadbare façade of composure was
scattered and lost. She clung to him as he helped her out of her cloak. She
still wore her apron underneath it. It was crisp and clean; she had only put it
on when she went to the kitchen to help throw together a simple meal for the
two older children who had woken up confused and motherless. Her other apron,
stiff from the speckles of dried blood, she had left bundled in Farmer
Thornbough's washroom, along with the sheets and blankets from the birthing
bed. She reeled from the memory of hours spent in the growing conviction that
death was imminent. His arms tightened around her as she swayed.
He guided her to the armchair near the window. There was a tray with some
buttered toast, a jar of preserves, a cup of tea and a pot of honey on the low
table next to the chair. He sat down and pulled her to his lap, wrapping a quilt
around her shoulder. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, closing her
eyes. Any other day she would laughingly withdraw. For one thing, she had no
wish for him to think of her as weak and helpless. For another, there was that
unresolved question about the future of their trysts. She was fond of him,
adored him even, and derived endless pleasure from the knowledge that he seemed
to enjoy their time together as much as she did. But she had also promised him
that she would not shackle him to her side. She would glory in his blazing
touch and basked in the glow of his eyes, but he would never claim her heart in
the way that would only leave her languishing like ember in a bed of ashes when
he decided that he had had enough. It would be wise, she thought, to be prudent
and cautious. A lovely afternoon of overbright light behind her eyes and a
spreading fire that ignited her flesh and blood was all very fine. But she had
vowed that her heart would remain untouched. When the end came—and it would; she
was under no illusion that what they had would last—she wanted to meet it with
a brave smile on her face.
But her vow turned out to be a most trying one to keep. It was all too tempting
to believe that there was a world beyond their brief escapes into a world all
their own. She wished she could have steeled her heart against the alarming
ease with which she trusted and relied on him. But some days she found that she
could not summon even the flimsiest will to resist.
She could have taken the left turn on the juncture from the main road and
arrived at her smial in very little time. Instead she had followed the path up
the hill, she had opened the gate to his garden and knocked on his door. And it
was the simplest thing to do to fall into his arms when he appeared at the
door, a frown of concern on his brows. It was the only thing to do.
Only for today, she promised herself as she inhaled deeply, drinking in his
scent of pipeweed, wood smoke, ink, tea and sleep. Only for this moment, she
repeated to herself.
"Here," she heard him whispering as the smooth curve of a cup rim was pressed
against her lips. "It's still warm. Have you eaten anything this
morning?"
She sipped the tea obediently. It was warm, and sweet, and with his quiet
presence shoring her up it was the very thing she needed to soothe the frayed
edges of her nerves. "No," she shook her head a little. "I couldn't. I still
can't."
She waited to hear his reproach but he only kissed her moist lips and cupped
her cheek in the warmth of his palm. "Will you try to eat a bit for me?" he
asked quietly, looking into her eyes.
She let him feed her small pieces of toast, liberally buttered and generously
slathered with preserves. Outside the day was getting lighter. She heard birds
chirping on the newly clothed branches of the trees in the garden. But in the
warm kitchen of Bag End, the only sound to be heard was the clink of cup on
saucer, the crackle of fire, punctuated by the occasional encouraging murmur
"Just a little more, love. That's it."
He was dipping a piece of bread into the pot of honey when she blurted out "She
was my childhood friend, Merle was. We used to make doll-clothes and hats
together. She made the loveliest laces and ruffles …" Her voice faded as she
looked down at her fingers, lying plaited on her lap. Small hands that brought
little help when her dear friend was fighting a losing battle with fate. Small
hands that reeked of the metallic smell of blood. Small hands that remembered
so much coldness on pale, lifeless skins. She shivered, feeling all of a sudden
vulnerable; haunted, and frightened.
He tipped her chin up, seeking her eyes. She held his gaze, a window to light
and life when despair closed in around her like shadows in the deepening dusk.
Her breath came out shaking and desperate. Then she leaned in and kissed
him.
There was a frantic urgency in the way her lips closed around his. Touch me,
she begged, warm me; remind me what life was, remind me that I was alive. Take
me where pain would not reach me, where sorrow had no place, and there was only
light and life-giving heat coursing, singing through my veins. Touch me, she
cried out with her frenzied kisses, free me. Save me.
She woke much later, after a long, dreamless sleep, on his bed. He was lying
beside her, his arms wrapped around her, and transient or otherwise, she knew
that whatever they had between them, it was truth.
Small leather pouches, tied with strings, whispering of the dried herbs they
contained. She picked one and pressed it against her nose. Could she do it this
time, she wondered, seeing him again, hearing his voice again.
"Thank you for coming," Rose said, taking her cloak as she hesitated at the
doorway she had not crossed in many long months. "I should have come fetch you
myself, but I can't leave Sam alone with Mr. Frodo. Not now. He might need
something."
She smiled wryly as she followed Rose along candle-lit corridors. She knew she
did not need a guide to show her the way to his room. Had she not found her way
to that room quite a number of times before?
She found herself gazing at once familiar corners. The stack of books here, the
pile of little wooden boxes there. Memories sprung afresh from recesses she
thought she had securely sealed in her mind. Why did she agree to come? Why did
she jump at the chance to return? There was nothing here for her, there had
never been anything, she thought bitterly.
"Sam's in there with him," said Rose, pointing at the open door to the room she
knew so well. "I'm making tea. Shall I get you some?"
She murmured a vague affirmation, barely aware of Rose's firm footsteps going
in the direction of the kitchen.
She stood in the doorway, running her fingers on the curve of the doorjamb,
suddenly breathless as memories of liquid fire and lightning-bright light
assailed her. Remembrances, vivid and fresh: of carefree laughter, of whispered
words and the feel of a soft smile against her skin, pulsed within her and she
put a hand to her mouth to stop the sob that suddenly rose in her throat.
Logs sputtered in the roaring fire that bathed the room in a golden glow. A
small basin, a jug, some cups and bowls and little bottles crowded the top of a
table she did not remember was there by the bedside. On a chair sat Sam,
hunched, his face buried in his sturdy hands.
She lowered her bag to the floor and settled onto the bed opposite Sam.
"Miss Lily," she heard Sam gasped. "You've come. Thank you. I … we don't know
what else to do."
There was nothing beautiful in suffering; pain was ugly, bitter and merciless,
she thought, shocked at her own revulsion at what she saw. She was no stranger
to taking care of sick people and usually it took a lot to rattle her. But
this…
"He didn't want the healer to see him," she dimly heard Sam say.
Claw-like fingers that clutched like talons on tangled, sweat-dampened bed
sheets; skin pale as snow, pulled taut over cheekbones so prominent as to make
the face unlike any hobbit that she knew much less the one who had held her
heart captive since the night she saw him dancing.
"I've tried everything, but naught seems to work. He just keeps getting worse."
Sam's voice quivered with a hint of tears. She heard a faint scuffle, a sniff
and the sound of the fireplace being raked as shadows fluttered on the walls.
"Rosie said we'd better get you here. She reckoned, with you around, maybe
he'll remember a better time, not something out of the journey. They might help
bring him around; keep the bad dreams away at any rate. Not meaning to be rude,
miss. But…he was that fond of you. He still is, I think."
Bloodshot eyes fixed unseeingly at the sloping ceiling; a look of terror and
pain slashing deep lines in a face that showed nothing of its former dazzling
loveliness. What kind of horror was it that had so viciously marred him?
What was Sam saying? Something about a knife wound and shards that remained in
the flesh, poisoning it and robbing it of life?
His voice when he wailed was harsh and cold, filled with fear and hatred. "You
will have neither me nor the Ring!" he cried hoarsely as he fought to flee an
unseen enemy. Was that the same voice that could spark a smile on her voice
with a single greeting; the same voice that once lifted up in a beautiful song
that she alone had heard; the same voice that painted in her mind the images of
faraway cities and valiant deeds of long ago?
His arms trembled, stiff and icy cold. His right hand clutched and tugged
desperately at a white gem that hung from a long silver chain around his neck.
His limbs twitched restlessly as nightmare upon nightmare riddled his already
pain-troubled sleep. Nothing remained in his movement of the radiating warmth
of his body or his youthful grace. Nothing remained that was him.
She stared at the mask of agony and torment before him and wondered if her
heart would still stir for this pitiful ruin of the hobbit she once
loved.
If love meant a wild burst of joy upon seeing him again or a barely restrained
outpouring of need at a touch long yearned for, then no, she had none of that.
If love meant that her heart bled to see him suffer, that she wept in pain with
each of his helpless whimper of untold grief, then yes, she still loved him.
But who did she love? The hobbit of her past, the one that paled the Sun with
his smile and shamed the stars with his eyes? Or this wretched remnant of a
soul without a home? Could it be mere pity that she had for him now—the kind of
compassion she showed old dogs and hungry stray cats?
Hours, long and slow, passed as she stayed beside him. There was no comfort, no
respite in tending to such a grievous illness. There were some of the last of
autumn flowers in the clay jar on the table near the window, but the smell of
sickness, of untouched potions and untasted teas, fear and exhaustion lingered,
clinging to her skin, seeping into her clothes. She traced the ridges of his
spine with a wet cloth, numbed by the sight of deep, hideous scars that
crisscrossed his pallid skin. This was an illness beyond her knowledge and
skill, she thought. This was a wound beyond her aid; a wide and intractable
gulf that took him beyond her reach. She ran her fingers through his damp,
silver-speckled curls and she knew that what her heart felt mattered no longer.
He was dying. That much she understood. Her love could neither bring him back
nor heal him.
Morning of October 7, 1420 arrived pale and windy. She started from a brief
doze to find her patient sound asleep, looking finally at peace and rested. The
chair where Sam had kept his vigil was empty and there were sounds coming from
the kitchen. She stared at the sleeping hobbit before her, sliding her hand
through his hair.
Her lips remembered the curve of his brow, the slope of his closed eyes. His
skin was cool, his lips parched, his breath soft against her face.
"Farewell," she whispered, standing up and taking her bag from the floor.
She turned to leave, then paused. She thought she heard his voice murmuring her
name, but when she looked closely at him to make sure, all she saw was the
peaceful face, clearly deep in slumber, a soft smile lifting the corners of its
lips.
She made a hasty departure, turning down Sam and Rose's invitation for
breakfast, promising that she would come again to check up on their beloved Mr.
Frodo. But she knew that she would never again step inside Bag End.
Marigold opened the door for her, and greeted her cheerfully. "Oh, I'm glad
you're here, Lily! Sam's been fretting like a mother hen since he sent Nib to
fetch you. He nearly went tearing down the Hobbiton Road to look for you
himself."
Lily smiled as she hung her shawl on one of the many pegs on the rounded wall
of the foyer. "First time fathers," she chuckled. "If only they stayed that way
by the time the third baby was on the way." Is he around? she found
herself wondering.
Marigold laughed. "The way Rosie screams at Sam, I'll be surprised if she has a
second."
"How's Rosie?" Where is he? What am I going to do, to say, if we meet?
"Oh, she's doing great. She even says she still has time to cook something for
Mr. Frodo's dinner and then set the dough for tomorrow's bread…"
What a silly thing to do, worrying about meeting him again. Why, he probably
will stay as far away as possible from Rosie's room. There is no reason why he
should be near. Except for Sam, maybe. But even so… She glanced through the
open door to the study. The desk at the far end of the room held an untidy
stack of paper. The fire was lit and candles glowed in their brass holders
around the room, but there was no one there.
"Why doesn't Rosie go back to Bywater to have the baby?" Lily asked as they
rounded another corner.
"Well, you know her and Sam," said Marigold. "They'll never think of leaving
Mr. Frodo alone. They're really set on pampering the old hobbit. Besides,
Mother Cotton came with me the minute we got the news." A door was open to a
brightly lit room at the end of the corridor and a lively talk floated merrily
from it. Can I still pick out his voice?
She heard laughter, different voices blended in a warm chorus of mirth.
How is he?
He's dying. Leaving. He's…
"…then Merry said 'Mummy, if I can't have a pony for my birthday, can I have a
baby brother instead?'"
It's him. The sound of his voice, rising strong and steady, brought a
smile to her lips. It's Frodo.
She entered into a room full of chortling hobbits. There were Mrs. Cotton, of
course, and Daisy and May. Jolly stood near the fire with his arms crossed.
Rose was in bed, looking quite comfortably cushioned by Sam, who sat with his
back against the headboard. Frodo sat by the bed side, holding everyone's
attention with his tale. Then Daisy saw Marigold come in with Lily and with her
exclamation, the relaxed atmosphere changed.
Frodo stood and turned toward the door.
He's been ill again, Lily thought. He's still recovering from it.
She noted the sunken cheeks, the dark circles under the unreadable eyes…
"Hello, Miss Proudfoot," he greeted her softly with a slight nod. "Thank you
for coming so promptly."
"Mr. Baggins," she returned politely. Friendly acquaintances, that's who we
are now. Nothing more, she reminded herself. "How are you doing,
sir?"
"I'm well, thank you," replied Frodo with a smile. "Thanks to Sam and Rose
here."
There used to be a time when I could read his heart in the way his eyes
shone when he smiled.. Now, his smile is a cloak to hide his pain and his eyes
are veiled.
"Oh, well, fun's over lads," said Mrs. Cotton, sounding so business-like that
Rose groaned, eliciting a concerned question from Sam and a chuckle from the
others.
His laughter still sounds beautiful. How does he do it, feigning a joy he
doesn't feel?
"I have to examine Rosie," Lily announced, taking out her apron.
Jolly kissed his sister before leaving. May and Daisy went out to the kitchen,
leaving Marigold and Mrs. Cotton with Rose.
Frodo took Rose's hand and patted it gently. "You will do beautifully," he
assured her before looking at Sam. "I'll be in the study if you need me."
He turned and walked toward the door, a smile—still lovely, for all it did not
reach his eyes—still quirking on his lips. He brushed past Lily. Their hands
touched. His was cold, hers warm. They paused and gazed at each other. Then
Frodo smiled, nodded courteously and went on, leaving the door closed behind
him.
Epilogue
I can still remember the shape of her eyes, the curves of her lips when she
smiles, her voice. I remember the feel of her skin. I remember her
laughter.
I remember. 'It' failed to take those memories from me.
I remember.
I will never forget. She will, perhaps. She must. But I will not.
end
