After that day, Sam spent even more time at Bag End, and would give Frodo daily rub-downs. The two of them had shared their agreement with Marigold: that if Frodo felt poorly, he would try not to disappear, and instead had things to do to try and keep the ill-feelings at bay. Marigold had been delighted – not the least because Frodo's disappearances were less shrouded in mystery now – and began to make tinctures for their massages: she experimented with lavender, rock rose, and even skullcap. They also discovered that Frodo liked to lie under heavy blankets – it calmed him – and they orchestrated this for him whenever they could, and whenever it was not too hot.

August ripened into September, and the fields were gilded with rye and corn, while the garden of Bag-End yielded bright parti-colored carrots, fat parsnips, proud leeks, ballooning cauliflower, and rich, wine-colored eggplants. The larder began to fill with Marigold's round, matter-of-fact jars, preserving summer's boons: a half-dozen types of pickles, a crop of Bilbo's prize-winning tomatoes (the strain preserved by Sam and Gaffer over the years), along with peppers, cabbage, and beets.

Undeterred by his first, rather too eventful foray, Frodo still ventured outside every afternoon in his wide brimmed hat, and sat either reading or watching Sam work until the sun got too strong for him. Sam had apologized profusely for bringing up the lembas, and swore he would never bring his attempts at replicating it to Bag End again, to which Frodo had said that there was nothing to forgive, but Sam nonetheless resolved not to bring up the past for a time, unless Frodo should speak about it first.

The sun of September was more gentle than the billows of summer – most days it was a closer sun, more intimate and more golden. There was no chill in the air just yet, and the leaves on the trees would not be turning for some time, but it would soon be Frodo's birthday. Frodo did not like to think of his birthday, not anymore, and he only hoped the other hobbits would not make a fuss – though a visit from Merry and Pippin and, correspondingly, libations, were to be expected.

Sam and Marigold didn't make a fuss, but in time Frodo realized that a certain fuss ought to have been made by him, for as a hobbit and, whatever people may have whispered about him, a prominent member of society, it was indeed incumbent upon him to give gifts, even perfunctory ones, to all of his friends, neighbors, relations, and even tenants.

And Frodo did not suppose that most of his friends, relations, neighbors and even tenants would much enjoy the eclectic riches (eclectic to the tastes of hobbits, at any rate), an embarrassing amount of which he had been forced to accept as thanks and rewards in Gondor. Of course, for Sam he had his eye on a wrought silver pipe stand, and for Marigold a jade inkwell, both souvenirs from Minas Tirith, where swordsmiths, armorers and catapultists were now returning to more civilian crafts. But all in all, he was forced to breathe a disaffected sigh and start making a list of more acceptable gifts – the likes of cufflinks, next year's almanacs, hats, umbrellas, picture frames, and kitchenware – all perfectly boring, pedestrian, respectable items, and to go with them, a series of perfectly boring, pedestrian, respectable notes with all manner of well-wishes.

The gifts, of course, would need to be bought – Frodo thought dejectedly as he stood looking down the path one early afternoon, leaning over the gate. Sam was off for the day. The Proudfoots' garden was a riot of late-blooming azaleas, and the greenery was busting, almost indecently, over and through their lattice fence. Marigold came out of Bag End, her bag slung mostly empty over her shoulder.

"Well, I'm off to the market," she said, pausing at the gate, her apple-cheeks and her almond-eyes smiling. "Maybe I can get us a nice chicken today. To roast and to make broth."

"Roast chicken and broth?" Frodo closed his eyes, momentarily. Roast chicken held salt very well, and he rather liked salt, these days. It made him feel less faint. "That sounds quite good, Marigold," he said. "I'd like that very much."

He looked down the path again. It felt excruciatingly hard, the prospect of going to the market and the shops. And not just to walk, but to see others and to hear them, to risk being bumped into, the chaos that inexplicably made his chest feel tight. He had been particularly glad when Marigold had shown up and taken over the shopping.

But if he asked her to do the boring gift shopping soon, she would have even more to carry – and she already came back every time with her bag stuffed full and two more in each hand.

Marigold looked at him watching the road, and leaned against the gate as well.

"You know, Mr. Frodo," she said, "Do you think you might try a bit of walking, now that you like bein' outside more?"

Frodo looked away from the road, and at her.

And Marigold looked back.

In truth, she had been plotting how and when to have this exact conversation for some time now. Ever since Frodo had been drawn firmly out of his hobbit hole – by the beauty of summer, she presumed, and by the warmth of the sun and the smell of the good, tilled earth – things no hobbit could be immune to – and ever since he took to disappearing into his room less, she had been thinking of what heights they could climb next. But she could not simply ask Frodo to go for a walk, because one single hobbit asking another single hobbit of the opposite sex to go for a walk could mean only one thing. Nor could she tell him that for the good of his health he ought to be taking regular exercise – because that would make her no different from the matrons who sat discussing everyone's business across their fences all day. And besides, this was Mr. Frodo, who had once explained to her and Sam the difference between simply walking and "tramping" for a good five minutes – so if "taking some exercise for the good of his health" had been so easy, he would have done it a long time ago.

Frodo blinked a few times, and pushed back the brim of his hat.

The healer-speak again – of course.

But she was right, and he did not particularly hate healer-speak. It was diplomatic, and diplomacy was in short supply in the Shire. And tired though he was, he knew there was no use in sitting still all the time – it would only make his bones turn to dust. And Sam's massages were good, but each time he went outside, he had visions of encountering more – the feeling of new grass and gravel under his toes, the wind coming down fragrantly over the lush hills near Tookland, and the sight of new growth in Northfarthing Woods, dappling the road with its brocade of leaves.

He sighed, and the Proudfoots' azaleas seemed to sigh back. Whether she knew if or not, Marigold knew how to entertain an idle imagination.

"I suppose I might try that, Mari." He nodded. "I do feel tired often, but walking might do me some good."

And Marigold beamed, clasping her hands to her chest.

"Alright, then, I have an idea."

Frodo half-smiled, indulgently.

Whatever her other virtues, holding her cards close to her chest when she was both enthused and unafraid was not one of them. He might even have asked her what's your idea, Mari, but was quite certain that she would tell him whether or no – and unlike Sam with the mallorn (which he still had not been to see), she was far too proactive to accept "maybe" for an answer.

Marigold dropped her voice, conspiratorially.

"Well you see, your birthday's coming up soon – so you'll need to get gifts, no?"

"Indeed."

"Well then, I'll have more to carry when I walk back from town, won't I?"

"Oh – well…" Frodo bit his lip and looked down. "In that case maybe you shouldn't – I certainly wouldn't want you to –"

"Oh, no, no, no, I'm happy to do it! But may I ask for just one thing?"

She put a foot on the bottom rail of the gate, and launched herself up, the other foot out and pointy-toed, leaning slightly toward him, a winsome smile on her lips. With the boost from the rail, they were nearly eye to eye.

"Maybe you could meet me halfway and help me carry things back? Part of the way, part of the load. And every day a little farther. Won't that be nice? It'll be helpful for you, and it'll be helpful for me."

Frodo cocked his head.

"It certainly sounds nice. That is a fine idea."

He unlatched the gate, and walked it open – and Marigold rode with it, leg still slightly extended, like a dancing figurine under glass he had seen in a dwarvish curiosity shop in Minas Tirith.

It was a wonder she wasn't married – hadn't married as soon as law and propriety allowed. She was known for being shy, but had a number of admirers (Sam often muttered how they were all lousy good-for-nothings), and apparently could play a man's heartstrings with the best of them. Smart, pretty, and certainly a woman – almost enough to wake the part of him that might have said, Oh, you want to play fun little games? Alright, then let's play fun little games, you pretty, you sweet, you adorable little darling. (1)

But he could not say this, of course – no one in their right mind would, unless it was a particularly rowdy night at the Green Dragon.

So he extended a hand – his right, which he realized entirely too late – and she took it, hopping down from the railing.

Did he linger?

He could not be sure – and he opened and closed his hand, nervously, at his side – but the feeling of the light calluses on her fingers certainly did. And as she looked up at him, smoothing her skirt and readjusting her bag, he could see in her bearing the traces of a lass trying to look pretty – a hand on the hair, the shoulders thrown back, a softness in her movements.

His muscles ached, but in a way that made him want to stretch them, to run helter-skelter down the hill, the greenery blurring past, the cool breeze catching him in its embrace.

"Let's start today," he said, suddenly resolute. "How far do you think we should go?"

Their first time, they only walked about five hundred paces to a fork in the road, and parted ways agreeing to meet at the same place in two hours' time. But Frodo still stood at the crossroads for a long while, watching her back disappear down the path toward the center of Hobbiton. He couldn't think why he was doing so at first – for all the world like a fretful mother seeing her child off on their first errand – but then he turned around and realized exactly why. It was because he now had to go back. Alone.

Sitting at home and doing next to nothing had done him little kindness. Not only did his bones feel heavy and his muscles weak, but the world was even less comforting than he remembered it. The late-summer sun was lacking in benevolence: though less strong that it had been even a month ago, it still peered from the heavens like a great, watchful eye, and it was preposterous to think, but even the Chubbs' pear tree, its plumes verdant and heavy with fruit, was now seemingly hiding something, its branches sending long, dark shadows down the lane.

He felt chilled and uneasy, and anxious to get home. He began to walk, hoping that in the sun hat no one would recognize him. It covered his face fairly well, and narrowed his world, much like a pair of blinders did for a horse – but unlike a horse, he was not so sure if it was a comfort. A part of him might have liked to see more around him: not because he had any notion that a Nazgul might actually come swooping down, no, that much was absurd – but then again, if it was so absurd, why exactly had he just imagined it, in his mind's eye, and why had it felt so…

"Hoy! Hullo, there, Mr. Baggins!"

Frodo froze in his tracks.

So close. He could nearly see the gate of Bag End. He did not see who had hailed him, but he did not need to. It was old Mr. Proudfoot, who, at a hundred-and-some, had been parked by his family on the bench outside their home, and, for a good decade now, had little else to occupy his time besides smoking his pipe, petting his cat (a flat-faced, orange beast of vesuvian proportions and phlegmatic temper), and shouting at his grandchildren.

But no grandchildren were present, just then. Only Frodo.

Frodo tipped his hat, but did not take it off.

"Lovely weather we're having, young Mr. Baggins. Unseasonably warm. Perfect for pears," the old hobbit remarked.

"Indeed."

"Come to think of it, we've not seen you in some time. I was just saying to my boy, Olo, that if I didn't know any better, I'd have thought you had gone off to meet your forebears, if you get my meaning." Mr. Proudfoot chuckled, and patted his ample stomach. The cat jumped from the bench, apparently having despaired in plying his own master for food, and padded toward Frodo.

"It doesn't do to be so reclusive," the old hobbit went on, emptying his pipe on the ground before him. "It's good for a body to be out in society. Keeps one young." He looked significantly up and down the road. "I can't think why you resigned as mayor. You weren't a bad one, by any stretch."

"Well, Mayor Whitfoot did recover," Frodo replied matter-of-factly. "And I only became mayor as his deputy, as you recall. Besides, I haven't been feeling quite myself."

"Not feeling yourself! That won't do either!" Mr. Proudfoot rocked himself onto his feet, packing a pinch of leaf into his pipe. "What's ailing you? Have you seen Dr. Boffin?"

"With respect, Mr. Proudfoot – and I do appreciate your concern," Frodo replied. "But my health is my own affair – and it's, er, rather complicated" – he added quickly, catching sight of the other's furrowed brow.

Despite his heft, the cat leaped onto the barrel-shaped mailbox and Frodo petted his head.

"And in any case, I'm on the mend," he went on. "I've been walking more, as you can see, for my health… I'm sorry, Red, I've no food to give you. Maybe next time."

The cat gave a purr-row, but did not cease to rub his head on Frodo's hand.

Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed and poured himself onto his bench again, fumbling through his pockets for a match. The birds creaked like the wheels of a slow-moving cart, and Frodo felt just at the edge of faint, so he took to examining the Proudfoots' over-upholestered flower beds.

"Walking's a fine thing, yes." Mr. Proudfoot found his match and lit it. He regarded Frodo appraisingly, from the brim of his hat that hung nearly to his shoulders to the bottoms of his overalls, which fit a might looser than the last time Mr. Proudfoot had seen them. "So long as it's done in one's own back yard, I say. Adventuring far from home has never done anyone a lick of good. I'll wager it's what made you ill. Dreadful things, adventures. Bad for the constitution."

Frodo remained silent.

The old hobbit took a long, unhurried draw from his pipe, and closed his eyes.

"Dreadful things," he repeated, the ease from the pipe melting over his face. "And all for what? You get a few riches, and a few folks singing your praises. But if more people valued home and a good meal over gold and undue excitement, the world would be a much happier place."

Frodo blinked.

The door of the Proudfoots' looked very far away. His legs were growing weak and his skin was prickling. And it was hot – but he felt increasingly cold.

Mr. Proudfoot droned on, as best Frodo could tell about a third cousin of his who had gone on an adventure, but soon his ears began to feel like he was underwater, and the sound rippled in and out.

And his vision, too… Mr. Proudfoot's face, as he pontificated, began to sink into shadow. Soon, all he could see was the jiggling of two jowls as the sentences rolled one into the next. Frodo felt like he might really go blind – like he would topple, but just as everything was about to go black, his eyes fell upon the azaleas.

Pink azaleas.

There was a whole riot of them covering the lawn.

And what do azaleas mean, Mr. Frodo? – he heard Sam in his mind's ear.

Azaleas mean temperance, Sam – he heard his own voice reply.

Though in the case of pink ones, they also meant kindness.

Kindness? Hah!

An unkindness of azaleas was more like it, considering who owned them. Much like an unkindness of ravens.

But the Sam in his mind ignored his wit.

And what else is there, Mr. Frodo? – he insisted. What else, in this here garden? I've always thought it rather too much, to tell you the truth – meanin' no disrespect to Mr. and Mrs. Proudfoot of course, but it'll have to do, for now…

What else?

Well.

There were the sprays of airy goldenrods – they meant caution – and zinnias, in vibrant coral – thoughts of an absent friend, and purple crocus, like a field of eyes gazing up at the one in the sky – they meant youth and gladness.

And marigolds. Large orange and red ones, their heads curly and joyful – their brilliant blooms outflaming even the azaleas.

And what do marigolds mean, Mr. Frodo?

The marigold, come to think of it, had a few disparate meanings.

It was the flower of the sun, and so symbolized all things bright, passionate and golden. But he had also seen them at funerals, and some people wore them when they were in mourning.

But more than that, they were a guileless smile, an inquisitive mind, blonde curls and dresses faded from too many washes. And they were a busy, lightly calloused hand that came to rest in his over a gate.

The cat's cottony forehead pushed, insistently, against Frodo's hand. Frodo drew his fingers across it. Red had some knots in his fur that needed working out. His fingers settled in the cat's thick coat – rather like that of a sheep, and he felt a rumble roll through the creature's body.

"And that's why I say, bah-humbug to adventures!" Mr. Proudfoot loudly concluded his sermon. "To come back and die at sixty a broken man. No, thank you!"

Frodo blinked his eyes.

"That's… a very interesting notion, in its own way, Mr. Proudfoot," (2) he said mechanically. "I will be sure to give it some thought."

"See that you do! No one else listens to me, the ingrates –"

"But I really ought to get going, Mr. Proudfoot" – Frodo groped for his customary, pleasantly detached tone. "I thank you for your advice, but I do have a few things to do before I pick up Marigold from the market."

He drew a sigh. Lying, albeit in a way resembling the truth, was a tried and true part of his arsenal in dealing with inquisitive neighbors. He figured, too, that if Mr. Proudfoot was going to see them coming and going in any case, it was best to get ahead of any rumors.

Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed a second time, and Red jumped from the mailbox and made for the bushes.

"Well, by all means, don't leave the girl waiting!" the centenarian exclaimed. "And if I were you, I'd get a move on, in any case. You can't expect a girl like her to be free forever."

Oh, sticklebacks. You try to make it better, and it turns out as always, as Bilbo had been fond of saying.

Frodo let his eyelids droop, and gave a roll of the eyes that the other would surely notice.

"It's not like that, Mr. Proudfoot," he replied flatly. "I am a confirmed bachelor and content to remain so. And at any rate, she's far too spirited for me."

Mr. Proudfoot raised his caterpillar eyebrows.

"Is that so? Well–well! That may be so, that may be so," he ho-hummed, pulling on his pipe. "More's the pity, though. She's a fine lass. I tell you, if I was 35 again..."

He wiggled his brows and shook his head with a lusty alacrity, as if he was recalling the taste of a particularly good pie.

Frodo's face assumed a stony expression, and the corners of his mouth curled downward. Red had emerged from the bushes looking disappointed, and a chorus of song birds started up again in a nearby tree. The air was heavy with languor like only the air of a Shire afternoon could be.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Proudfoot," he said, forcing a listless smile. "Give my best to Olo and Sancho and the rest. But I really do have to get on."

He turned his steps toward Bag End, and if the older hobbit called out after him, he did not stay long enough to hear it.

At home, Frodo passed the time by taking a long, lukewarm, unnecessary bath, and by trying to read, but he felt as though his world was the hull of some pitching boat. Balanced above the thin blanket of suds, the letters in the book refused to coalesce into words, and the words into sentences, and so, disconcerted in the extreme, he snapped the book shut and watched the clock until it was time to go. For a long time, it was all he could do to steady his breathing.

Mr. Proudfoot was, thankfully, no longer on his bench when Frodo went out – he was probably taking his tea – and Marigold met him at the crossroads-stone, all smiles and laden with packages, for on their walk earlier, Frodo had enumerated some of the necessary gifts from memory. He felt his heart smile for the first time since he had left her, and as they walked back he carried more than just his share. Predictably, he now thought less of swooping Nazgul and soldiers running reconnaissance in the bushes, but as they passed the Proudfoots' home, he did still usher her to the other side of the path, and made sure to question her loudly on which herbs she would use to make the chicken that day.

At home, he said he needed a rest and went to his room. He left the door open a crack as they had agreed, to signal that he was planning to be decent and did not mind her checking in on him.

An hour later, Marigold gave her perfunctory knock on the door, and when Frodo did not answer, she tiptoed in.

Frodo was lying on his side, turned away, under a small, piecework quilt that barely covered his frame. He looked to be hugging a pillow.

"Mr. Frodo? Are you asleep? I have some nice blackberries."

When he did not answer, she tiptoed closer. And then she realized why he was not speaking.

He was crying.

Softly, almost soundlessly, with the dignified restraint of everything he did, but crying all the same. His knees were pulled up to the pillow, and his frame was not wracked with sobs, but shook ever so slightly, like a sapling in the breeze.

For a few moments, she stood rooted to the spot.

Should she leave him be? Should she run and get Sam?

And yet, unlike the other time, it did not feel like something she should not have witnessed.

"Mr. Frodo… My dear Mr. Frodo…"

Her words were barely above a breath. Her voice caught in her throat.

And she might have imagined it, but as she uttered his name, the rise and fall of his chest grew slower, and suddenly, oxen and wain-ropes could not have dragged her from that room.

She seized the chair from the dressing-table and brought it to the side of the bed. Frodo was shivering now – and still weeping; his curly mop of brown hair was all she could see. So she put down the chair and rushed to the clothing-press, pulled out another quilt, and threw it on top of him.

She then sat down by his side, and thought what to do.

There was something she dearly wanted to do, and it made sense to do it.

There had been many accidental touches and near-touches over the weeks and months – when they reached into the same trunk, or when she handed him a plate or a cup, or when they sat together shoulder to shoulder over their books. She had even – the very thought! – flirted with him that same day and held his hand, however briefly. And even though it had been a perfectly orchestrated maneuver on her part to entice him to do a very specific thing "for his health," and even though they both had known it, it still had made her press her fist into her smiling lips all the way to the market.

But now?

What stopped her? She was no Sam, but surely she would do.

"Mr. Frodo, I'm going to rub your back." She drew back the two blankets. "Let me know if you don't want me to. Just shake your head no."

When no objection came, she began to rub – tentatively at first – her hands pressing slow, soft soothing circles through his shirt. He shifted into her touch, and his sobbing grew louder as his shoulders quaked more.

There, Mr. Frodo. There. Cry it out. Crying is good. (If only she could take her own advice, here!)

His frame was thin – thinner, even than it had seemed, for the billowy shirts he wore made him look stouter. His back had precious little flesh, and she could even feel a few ribs through the fabric. Her heart hurt – for all her efforts, he was still so frail that a gust of wind might have carried him away.

Frodo cried and cried.

He longed to disappear. To be gone, away from the broken failure that his life had become. To cease to see all that he might have done, all that he might have been, all that might have been his, slowly slipping away from him. If only he could have been pulled into the fiery abyss with Gollum and the Ring and had been done…

But her hands said no.

Her hands, at once so gentle and so steady. Gamgee hands. Hands that had held children taking their first breaths, and surely massaged them just the same way when they were reluctant to make their acquaintance with the world. Hands that had folded meat into pies, and stirred kindness and lavender into perfectly warmed, perfectly measured cups of milk.

The hands insisted. They urged. They pleaded. They might have gone to bargain with Sauron on his behalf. In another life, he might have resented them for it. But in this life they cried "live!" – and his tears, as powerful as the Anduin, rose up and swelled until he could no longer lay on his side, stiffly hugging the pillow, but was splayed with his arms akimbo over the bedspread and his quilts thrown to the side, the cloth beneath his face disgracefully soaked – yet still she rubbed, patient and thoughtful and quiet as a goddess, and the world around him turned steadily darker, until everything was a deep and noiseless, solemn black.

(1) This is a line adapted from the TV show Swingers, though again, Frodo would not know this.

(2) Frodo unknowingly quoted Kyouya Ootori from Ouran High School Host Club. He seems to unknowingly quote a lot of things.