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