Unfortunately for me, my journey didn't begin that day. I turned Minas out in the fields, and since it was getting misty I stored his somewhat damp saddle, pad and bridle in the small shed beside the fence. Along with the tack I kept a gown, which I changed each day so that I could placate Rosie. I slipped it on—a soft dark red gown and corset—in the bushes and sprinted down the shortcut home to Bag End.
I climbed the flagstones that wound among the garden up to the big green door. Like every day, I stooped down to finger the faint rune-mark a that Gandalf had carved long ago when he asked Bilbo to accompany him on an adventure. Though Bilbo had angrily painted over the scratch, the indentation was still there, and my heart skipped as I missed Gandalf.
Inside, Rosie was holding the infant Rose in the kitchen, feeding her while she watched a pot boil. Frodo, who was not yet three, sat playing with a puzzle and Elanor, who was born in 3021 during the Third Age, was reading a book.
"Where have you been?" Rosie asked, staring at me suspiciously but not yet angry.
"Oh, you know, I just took a long ride with Minas down to Buckland," I said. "I stayed on the road. Don't worry."
"Well. Merry and Pippin were back ages ago. Sam saw them down at the Green Dragon and wondered why you had split off."
I blushed, unsure of how to answer. "They wanted to head back. I didn't."
"I don't like it when you wander off by yourself, Adamanta," Rosie said, as she had a million times before. "When I was young, I had a father and four brothers to keep watch on me, as well as the entire Gamgee family. You're lucky you don't have to be chaperoned as much as all that. If you are going to be out with Merry and Pippin, be sure that they don't just leave you by yourself."
"Rosie…" I said.
"That's my word," she said. "I could keep you here, in the house, if I wished, but I don't wish to. Now, cut up the green beans and turnips for dinner, please." As she fed baby Rose, her breasts white and engorged, she seemed to visibly relax, and hummed to Rose while she rubbed her not-yet-swollen belly, which she had already decided to name Merry if it was a boy and Primrose if it was a girl.
Without another word, I walked to the table and began to cut the vegetables like she said.
The days were similar after that. The months passed without incident. The chill springs warmed into the Shire summers I so loved—the heavy warm rains in the evening and long days of golden sun that lit the crops and grasses with sunlight. I instantly remembered Lothloríen, and the golden flower that Rosie's eldest was named for: Elanor, which in the Elvish tongue means 'star sun.'
"Adamanta, feed the baby please." I would hold Rose, who was growing sturdier and heavier the more milk we pumped into her, and hold a glass bottle with a rubber nipple to her tiny red lips. Her little hands, which reminded me of toads and felt like soft sponges, grasped mine or pulled my curls as I held her bottle. The feedings took a long time—almost 45 minutes, and I was aching all over once I was done. However, I was thankful that I didn't have to spend 45 minutes with the babe's suction mouth ripping at my breasts.
Frodo was very small and sickly. He was quick, though—he was fast at crawling and I always had to remember to keep the front door closed, because little Frodo did not know boundaries. Elanor, on the other hand, was tall and fair and serious, and Sam often called her his 'elf-maid,' as did many other hobbits in the Shire. The term was not misplaced. She was willowy and had rippling gold hair, and her features were softer and more graceful than most hobbits' or humans'. She often remarked that she wanted to visit distant lands, but was also remarkably ladylike.
Thanks to Rosie's need, I stayed close to home.
"Adamanta, prepare the stew please? There are some onions and potatoes in the pantry."
"Adamanta, tenderize and salt this beef for me. I have to put Frodo down to nap."
"Adamanta, please clear the tables and wash them."
"I need this basket of laundry hung outside while I feed Rose."
"There are some weeds that need pulling out in the garden, and the dead stalks need to be dug up before we can replant."
"Adamanta, the windows are grimy from the long winter. The neighbors will notice."
"Adamanta, the floors have mud streaking the tile."
"Can you pick some peas for supper, please?"
"I would like you to trim these flowers and arrange them in a basket for the Gaffer."
"Entertain Frodo for a time while I trim the chicken."
"The beds need to be freshened. Change the linens and shake out the quilts."
And so it went. Throughout May, June, July and August I swept the deepest corners of Bag End and wiped down cobwebs, opened all the windows for a fresh start after the deep winter and dusted the curtains and woodwork. The door was repainted, the flagstones polished, the fence whitewashed, and the garden meticulously ordered. When things weren't being done for others' eyes, I was doing them for Rosie's: the food pantry had to be organized and restocked. I was out in the fields weeding and picking the best vegetables, or going to market "in my best gown" in order to get the freshest foods available "for the children." I was trimming the fat off of chicken, plucking still-warm eggs from under hens, and waiting for the pot to boil. I was fetching Rosie a cup of tea or milk. I was churning cream into butter and whipping up batter for cakes. I was changing the curtains, mending hems, cleaning up Frodo's toys and un-cluttering the parlor. Trunks were organized. New gowns were made. Old gowns were carefully dismantled and turned into gowns for Elanor and little Rose.
Rosie wanted me to stroll through Hobbiton and make my mark as a young lady: I was to wear a tight corset and ruffled sleeves over a wide-hipped gown, emphasize my smooth skin and fair complexion with a wide-brimmed straw hat, and exercise femininity with a thick basket perched over my elbow and resting at my hip.
The hat, complete with a pale maroon ribbon, showed off my sharp chin and nose and dark curls. I didn't mind it for awhile, but once I realized what she was up to, I stopped preening and started scowling again.
There were suppers, lunches, tea times, baby feedings, breakfasts and desserts to prepare. There were always callers on the babies, and Rosie would either usher me out to prepare some meal or keep the children quiet. Or, goodness forbid, she would have me dress up and mind my best hobbit behavior while she droned with a Mrs. Bracegirdle or some Boffin or Hayward or Bolger over tea about babies and the consistency of milk and naptimes.
Slowly, the routines of picking leeks and carrots for supper replaced my tendency to write, paint, and stay wholly Adamanta Bolo, protector of the Shire and Guard of the Citadel. I tried to find time to groom Minas to perfection as well as exercise him, but I simply started to abandon him. Sometimes I asked Merry and Pippin as a favor, but they often had their own chores in their own homes. Minas' penny-copper coat dulled and his furry hooves became matted and dirty. His fluffy white mane straggled and tangled. His white blaze was lost in dirt. His toned muscles slackened and he became more restless and less tame.
There was simply no time to be had. Besides, Rosie scoffed at the idea that exercise was necessary—long walks were the absolute stretch of the imagination. Children were free to run and swim, but hikes and long rides were unheard of in young ladies.
Merry and Pippin were cold toward me for awhile, but forgave me when I complained about being cooped up in the house. I noticed, however, that their pluckiness had begun to fade—they were both less rowdy and more formal than before. Pippin was preparing to grow into his own as the Thain of Tuckborough, and Merry was starting to attract ladies—they both dressed more crisply, stood straighter, and, worst of all, became more arrogant. While our argument had faded, the unspoken words still hung between us like a thick blanket, and neither of our parties wanted to push it aside.
I was utterly alone.
My sword, belt, and armor was carefully tucked away into the bottom of my trunk. I did not wish to do it. Rosie did not ask me to. But I simply had no use for it at the moment, and looking at it made me feel much guilt.
"What would you have me do?" I sometimes whispered, peeking into my trunk and holding my Gondorian helmet aloft. "I have duties here. Rosie needs me."
Just Run, my helmet often responded. Just go. Who's going to stop you?
The truth was, no one could really stop me. If I decided to saddle Minas early in the morning and ride hard, no one could follow. And who would, really? Who would care?
Rosie had her babies.
But it would break her heart.
I tucked my helmet away, thinking each time that it was for good, and each day of that summer my heart stooped lower, and my dreams of faraway journeys faded.
If this was to be my future, I had grown good at it: I could clean a house efficiently and had learned to take care of babies. I had even begun to enjoy the task, simply because I could work hard and be rewarded.
What would I do, if I left? Would I discover some long-forgotten piece of lore, like the One Ring, and take it upon myself to go on a long journey and fight in wars?
The truth was that there was no reward for traveling in faraway lands. There was nothing in that path but selfishness. There were no wars to fight. It was stupid to dream.
I tucked my dreams away in my chest, along with all that was left of me.
I was gone.
