Chapter 5: A visit from the Mayor

Frodo woke to the crack of a whip. Or so it seemed as he lay in the dark, tangled in linen sheets, his heart pounding as his mind raced with visions of orc claws and goblin teeth. It wasn't until the sky flashed white, illuminating the room in a ghostly pale light that blinded and vanished, that he realized it was only thunder.

With a heavy sigh, he sat upright and drew back the covers that lay twisted about his waist. The rain pelted the window in soft patters. It let off a thick grey mist that quenched all but the brightest lightning strikes. Staring at the glass, Frodo got to his feet and slipped quietly across the room. Though it was some hours until dawn, he didn't return to sleep. He knew it would be useless. His mind was awake with fears and dreadful memories; even if he could quiet them enough to rest, he would reawaken to night terrors too terrible to consider. This he knew from experience.

Not every night was a torment, not every dream a dark sentence of agony; but once certain memories emerged, relieving them wasn't easy. With trembling fingers, Frodo lit a candle and slipped from his room. He walked down the empty halls, cupping the flame with his hand to keep the light from spilling under doors and waking his hosts. When he reached the foyer, he set the candle in a small brass stand on an end table and sank into an armchair beside it.

He shut his eyes and fingered the jewel at his neck. It was cool and smooth as if polished by years in a gentle river and, though his eyes were shut, it seemed to give off a dim white light that warmed his heart and soothed his spirits. When he opened his eyes again, the light was gone, and the stone was nearly invisible in the darkness.

Morning found him in the same chair, with a book in his lap and a distant expression on his face. The candle had burnt out, the wax spilling over the holder in pale spidery lines. His hair was matted, his nightshirt wrinkled, and his eyes lined in dark rims. Rosie Cotton stood in the doorway, shaking her head in disapproval. "Well now, Mister Frodo," she said. "Meaning no offense, I hope you don't plan on meeting Mr. Whitfoot in your night clothes."

Frodo started as she spoke. He turned to her and blinked as if she had suddenly appeared from somewhere far away. In fact, it was he who had been far away, lost in reverie. It took him some time to recall where he was and who was talking to him, and even more to make sense of it. "Mr. Whitfoot," he repeated slowly, as one speaking in a dream. Then it dawned on him. Will Whitfoot, the mayor of the Shire, who had delegated his duties to Frodo until he was fit to take over, was scheduled to meet with him. "Good Heavens, I quite forgot he was coming! What's the time?"

"Nearly 9 o'clock. Pa's just left for Bag End. He doesn't much like the thought of Ted Sandyman working there, but he respects your decision. Just wants to give the lad some supervision, that's all. You know, make sure he doesn't tear the place down or build in any secret tunnels or any other mischief." Rosie offered an encouraging smile. She cared for Frodo dearly and hated seeing him in such a state. He spoke little of his troubles or his year away from the Shire, but she'd learnt from Sam's tales that he had suffered greatly and she could see it had taken its toll on him. She wished she knew what troubled him so she could help. She had half a mind to ask, but didn't want to invade his privacy, so instead she said the most encouraging thing she could think of, "The repairs are going well, you know. They should have it fixed up in a month or two, just you wait and see. You'll be back home before you know it."

"Ready to be rid of me, are you?"

"Oh, no Sir! Of course not!

Frodo stood with a tired smile. "Oh Rosie, I was only teasing. I'm all out of sorts this morning. Would you mind terribly keeping Mr. Whitfoot occupied a moment or two until I'm fully awake?"

"Of course not. I've got the kettle on already. If you'd rather me tell him to come back later, I could say you're ill—"

"No, that will do. Thank you." Frodo slipped from the room, calling over his shoulder, "I won't keep you long."

"Take your time! I'm in no hurry. And Mr. Whitfoot, it would do him good to wait a moment or two to catch his breath before he starts talking anyway!"

So it was that Rosie greeted the old hobbit when he arrived, stomping his knobby feet on the doormat. "Morning, Miss Cotton." His smile might have been handsome were it not hidden under layers of wrinkles and sags. It was soon broken by a series of coughs.

Rosie took his arm and guided him courteously to the seating room. The round table had been topped with a plain tea set and several trays of scones, biscuits, and cheeses. Mr. Whitfoot took a biscuit as he plopped onto the nearest chair. There was a time when it might have broken beneath the hobbit's weight, but now it merely creaked and stiffened under his gawky frame. He had lost over half his size in the Lockholes and, though he was gaining it quickly back, Rosie doubted he would ever fully regain his former shape. She offered him a cushion for his back, which he stuck behind him as they exchanged pleasantries. No sooner than Rosie finished pouring the tea, Frodo emerged to greet them. Rosie noticed his hair was still slightly ruffled and the skin beneath his eyes was dark, but these were shrouded by a warm smile. "Will! It's wonderful to see you! Oh, don't get up on my account." He offered the old hobbit his hand. "How have you been? Recovering, I hope."

Will Whitfoot broke off the handshake to cover his mouth as he coughed. "Not much, I'm afraid. Better than last time, but I've still far to go. But it's you I've come to check on, lad, not the other way around. How are things holding up for you?"

"Oh, well enough," Frodo replied. "At least, as well as can be expected. We've got the Sheriff's down to a manageable number, though I hope to reduce them even more soon enough. The post took a great deal of sorting out—it was behind by weeks, and many letters were opened or destroyed by Sharkey's men—but we've managed to get it running again. There are still complaints coming in, mostly of lost packages or misdelivered letters from last autumn."

Whitfoot cleared his throat. "That's all well and good, but I asked about you, lad, not the Shire."

"Oh." Frodo shifted his weight uncomfortably. He lowered his eyes to the steaming teacup in front of him. "The response is more or less the same then. Well as can be expected, given the circumstance."

"Good!" Whitfoot reached for a scone and plopped it in his mouth, devouring it in a single bite. "You're a smart lad, you know. Smarter than many I know. And kind, too. Folk like you, and that's a good thing. As far as I can see, you'll do just fine as long as you don't up and run off again as soon as the going gets tough. I can't have you off chatting with elves or jesting with wizards while there's work to be done."

That was simply too much for Rosie to handle. She jumped to her feet, clenching her hands behind her back. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but that's just plain out of line! Frodo's done more for the Shire than you can possibly imagine. He didn't just "up and leave as the going got tough" as you say, he left to go towards the trouble, so as to keep it from, here, if you understand."

Whitfoot stared at her a long while. At last, he leaned back in his seat with a hearty laugh and slapped a palm against his leg. "Well, Miss Cotton, I've never met a lass like you before. Talking to the Mayor in such a way! But you're right. I've been quite the fool. Sorry, Frodo, I've been listening to too many rumors as of late—I quite forgot you and your cousins went to war, and not just to frolick about the countryside. I trust you'll see this through."

"It's alright," Frodo smiled assuredly. "I've taken no offense. Now, if you'd like me to fetch the records, I can show you the progress we've made…"

Will Whitfoot wasn't listening. He was leaned back with his head hunched forward, snoring softly into his tea.

It was late afternoon before the old Mayor woke. When he did, he finished a brief conversation with Frodo about the management of the Shire. He was most impressed by the re-establishment of several inns, which had been shut down or boarded up and severely restricted by Saruman. He made a suggestion here or there, but left all the decisions to Frodo, insisting the Baggins had a brighter mind than him and was more informed on the subject. All in all, it was a dull and tedious day for Frodo, with little benefit on his part. Still, he saw Will Whitfoot out the door with mixed feelings. His company, however inessential, was a relief from his thoughts.

The moment the door shut, the house became hollow with silence. He became aware of the coarse fabric covering his arms and rolled up his sleeves, realizing as he did so that they were almost too small for him. He sighed at the prospect of having to get a new shirt tailored. Well, Sam would be pleased, at least; here was proof that he wasn't wasting away as his friends fretted.

He was still tugging the fabric over his elbows when Rosie peaked in from the kitchen. "Well, that was completely unhelpful. I hope he recovers his sense along with his health. Who does he think he's doing a favor, coming here and wasting all our time with his "check up" while there's work to be done." She stepped into the hall, shaking her head and wiping her hands across her skirt.

Frodo suspected she hadn't forgiven the Mayor for his untactful comment. "He's just doing his job. He has an obligation to see his Deputy preforms up to standard. I'd have done the same if I was in his position, as would you, I presume."

"I wouldn't have insulted you. And I know the difference between gossip and fact."

"Then you're wiser than most." A tired smile spread across his face as he turned to clear the table. He found Rosie had already done so. It was empty and spotless, not a single crumb remained.

"That I am." Rosie stepped up beside him. "Wise enough to see there's something troubling you and it's nothing to do with Will Whitfoot. Now, do you want to talk about it, or do I have to pry it out of you?"

Frodo turned to her in surprise. Was he really that bad? All this time, he thought he had been doing quite well keeping his troubles from interfering with his tasks. "Is this because of this morning? I just woke from the storm is all, and I couldn't fall back asleep."

"That may be so, but you've been on edge this whole week, if not longer. It comes and goes, these moments but lately its been coming more than going, if you get what I mean."

"What comes and goes?" asked Frodo with a mix of annoyance and affection.

"This mood, or whatever you want to call it. It's like a raincloud's settled over you and you won't move out from under it. Sam told me to look out for it. Make sure he eats and sleeps, he said. And look out for one of his moods."

"And did he tell you what to do if I was in such a mood?"

She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly. He raised an eyebrow. With a sigh of surrender, he placed his hand over hers. She gave him a tug. "Take you outdoors. The fresh air will do you good."

"I'm not a dog," Frodo insisted, but he smiled as he got to his feet and followed her to the door. It never ceased to amaze him how worthy his friends were: not only the three who had set out with him, but several more who surrounded him upon his return to the Shire. His feeling of isolation lessened as if a cold layer of ice was beginning to melt inside him.

When they stepped onto the sunlit porch, Rosie let go of his hand and ran uphill, towards a barren stretch that had once been woods. "Come on. I'll race you."

"That isn't fair. I don't know where we're going." Frodo shook his head in amusement as he watched her run across the grass. He glanced down at the slumbering houses. Though it was mid-afternoon, there was a chill in the air that kept most hobbits indoors. Hardly anyone was out in their gardens, and no one was in the streets. A respectable Deputy Mayor wouldn't go running off into the hills when there was work to be done. Then again, Frodo have never been a 'respectable' hobbit. With a quick wave at an old hobbit who sat smoking a pipe on a neighboring doorstep, he turned and ran towards the golden hilltop where Rosie was disappearing amongst the weeds. Neither of them noticed the two hooded figures that watched from the shadows.