disclaimer - all lord of the rings characters that appear in this work of fanfiction are property of JRR Tolkien. My OC is my creation.
The days stretched into weeks, bringing with them the reassuring cadence of a new routine.
I attended to my duties with the poise and confidence that suggested a sure-footed comprehension of the practice that went well beyond my years. After the last insufferable trip to Hobbiton that left me quite ready to wash my hands of the village and have done with it, I restocked the larders with all sorts of delicacies that I hoped would please Master Baggins (and, the hope hiding behind hope, tempt him in the way of eating more, which I had seen was not much at all). The conversation during my business with the grocer had been much the same as the one I'd suffered through with Mrs. Smallburrow, but this time I at least carried an ease in my manner that I attributed to being able to wear my own clothes on the errand.
"Don't reckon I've seen the likes of you before," the grocer said, cataloging her entire person so as to find some trace of the ordinary around her, from the top of her chestnut curls to the bottom of her hairy feet.
"I expect you wouldn't," I replied. "I'm not from around these parts."
"Why! You don't say," he exclaimed. "What business brings you to Hobbiton miss-?"
He wrapped his question within a question, both asking for her name and where she was from at the same time. "Daisy," I replied."I've come from Buckland, into Master Baggins' employment."
I wished he'd hear the boredom in my voice and release me from the terrible prison of having the same conversation over and over until I perished from old age.
Like clockwork, the veil of contempt passed over Mr. Bracegirdle's visage.
"Master Baggins," he spat the name out like a bad taste on his tongue. "What desperate times drove you into that family's clutches, you poor lass."
"I daresay, you Hobbiton folk do worry yourselves unnecessarily over the private business of others," I replied."I have not found Master Baggins to be the terrible villain he has been made out to be."
"Worry we must," he said, with a touch of martyrdom. "Master Baggins is not to be trifled with. Though he was once a good lad, he is not so sociable as he once was, and I do not know if he would not do himself or another harm if he set his mind to it!"
"So you accuse him of madness, do you?" I asked.
"Not madness, I reckon…" the grocer paused, being careful now with his words. "At worst, haunted. But I reckon even the best of hobbits would be altered by the trials that befell Mr. Baggins."
I found myself bearing witness to an opportunity, and I grasped at it with ambitious fingers. "What do they say happened to him, do you know, Mr. Bracegirdle?"
"They say he came back from distant lands a hollow shell of the fine hobbit lad we once knew, much farther beyond the borders of the Shire than even Mr. Bilbo ventured," he replied. "Wounded, both in spirit and in body. They say he was overtaken by highwaymen on the road to Bree, a most unsavory place full of rogues and devils, and still bears a wound from their evil daggers, on his leg I've heard tell. No one knows the particulars of his journey, only that it was a great burden, perhaps going after his mad uncle Bilbo, and finding that he was dead on the side of the road as is widely considered to be the reality of the situation, driving him to madness as well. Bilbo was all he had left of family in the world, you know, after his parents died in that terrible accident on the Brandywine, drownded in the river when he was just a wee little lad. I imagine I'd go mad too if all I held dear was ripped from me in the blink of an eye. All hearsay, but it seems as good an explanation as any for why the agreeable gentlehobbit we all knew and loved has seemed to all but fade away before our very eyes like a ghost. Not even Peregrin Took or Meriadoc Brandybuck will reveal much even when pressed, and they have come back quite changed by their travels as well. Samwise Gamgee, too, his lips closed tight as a drum, faithful to his sworn secrecy. Seems conspiratorial in the worst way to me. Why not come out and explain yourself, I say! Clear the air and mend old ties in the spirit of friendship and good will."
A long forgotten spirit of old admiration wove in and out of the grocer's words, and I could see that it saddened the old hobbit to even recount Frodo Baggins' fall from grace. Sorting through the useless heap of gossip and sensationalism, I was at least able to identify a few helpful facts. Frodo had once been very much respected, even admired by the village. He had been on an arduous journey, one that left him beleaguered and distrusting of anyone outside of his close circle upon his return. Something terrible had happened to him amid the treacherous paths of the outside world, and in true hobbit fashion, I was tormented by the fact that no one but Master Baggins himself knew what really happened. And he was not exactly forthcoming about it.
"Truly, a riveting story" I said. "I imagine it explains the screams in the night I've heard much about."
A shiver ran through the hobbit's entire body, rattling him to his core, and I could see the discomfort in the grocer's eyes. "I imagine you've heard them yourself by now," he said, though I had heard no such thing. "Terrible sounds, like a wounded animal. Seems he's tortured by his uncle's nasty end even in sleep, poor lad."
Gazing off into a distance I could not see myself, perhaps a past where all was right and good in the world again, he forgot all about his customer. I waited patiently until he had righted himself again, resumed our transaction, and I walked back up the hilly path to Bag End with a promise of good food and even more questions pacing in the back of my head, where the haunted gloom of her piqued curiosity had begun to fret and wring itself into a frenzy.
I found herself quite preoccupied with my growing fascination, one that bordered on obsession in my tireless quest to find answers, since the object of the intrigue was so unwilling to part with them on his own. All that I was able to detail about him, when I really sat down to compile a list of my findings, was that he was kind, affable, compassionate, and quite incapable of hiding his emotions, instead wearing them like works of art on his plain shirtsleeves.
But in the two weeks since I'd come to Bag End, I did not have much to show for my trouble, despite trying both methods I had implemented in my endeavors to excavate anything from the sepulcher of secrets that was Frodo Baggins. I had asked outright, which only caused him to change the subject immediately, and turn the questions back on me. A failed experiment. I had also attempted to manipulate him without his knowing, hiding my inquiries behind veils of polite conversation, hoping to niggle it out of him eventually. But he proved too wily for these bumbling attempts as well. All the while, I was left with even more questions by the want of information I found herself faced with than I'd ever felt in the whole of my short life, as he was so very good at answering them without actually answering anything at all.
Insufferable. I railed against the bitterness of failure as I washed dishes after breakfast one brisk morning in the beginning of September. It was without a doubt unbearable.
If I was being fair, which I liked to be on occasion, I was not exactly forthcoming with my own past when he pressed to share. But I had good reasons, and they mostly centered around protecting myself and my own interests since I was the only one in the world who would do so. My past was a now a treacherous road, one I did not wish to traverse down again, not so soon after it had paved its way so painfully through the ruin of all my hopes and dreams. It was hard to even ruminate on the wastelands of my young life in my own mind, but putting the disaster into words...I could not even imagine the agony I would have to endure in outlining it out loud for another to comprehend as intimately as I did.
No, I had my reasons for keeping myself and my past anonymous.
But I found herself incapable of extending the same courtesy to my mysterious employer.
I found the work of restoring Bag End to its former glory a welcome distraction from the quiet that threatened to usher in the specter of sorrow, its company intimately connected with my new existence, knotting together with my own like twines in a rope. There couldn't be one without the other now. Even when these fresh hurts lessened and turned into something more manageable, parceled into something neat and tidy I could handle carrying for the rest of my life, it would always be there. A lasting stain, a fate interrupted, and I would always be plagued by the permanence of it.
I caught myself before I was carried away. I could not change the crucible of suffering which had molded me anew with its heat. But what I could change was how I picked myself up, picked my way carefully through the cloud of dust, and made a new life for myself that did not consist of mere plodding existence.
His face appeared before my mind's eye like a vision, a leering squinting devil arising from the unguarded corners of my thoughts. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of his likeness, a face I would have to battle against hating forever. If I was ever to heal, I would have to forgive, no matter how destructive his hand upon my life had been.
I squared my shoulders as I rubbed a clean dish dry and set it on top of the others in a stack on the counter at my side. The action cleansed me, revived my courage, and I felt I could go on again, that face banished into the void of forgetfulness once more where it belonged.
His footsteps sounded behind me. "Have you perhaps seen the waistcoat I was wearing this morning?"
"You laid it on the back of a chair in the parlor," I replied."I thought it an improper place for used garments it so I picked it up for washing."
The prickle rising in my voice did not escape his notice.
"You are a most persnickety and rigid taskmaster," he laughed aloud, like he did often, too often, and I had long since detected the mirthless ruse. "I don't think I was quite done wearing it."
"I'm afraid its too late now, I've put it in the wash basin for soaking," I replied turning to face him. He was dressed in a dark blue collared shirt and black velvet breeches with braces. There was a book tucked in the crook of his arm, and I knew he was about to traipse off into the wild unknown again, as was his usual way. Disappearing.
"I suppose I could get another one," he said, and the look on his face made it clear he was mulling the idea over. "But what's the use? It's easier to move around in my shirtsleeves."
"And less laundry for me to scrub."
"And deprive you of work to keep you honestly earning your keep? Never could I be so cruel."
Master Baggins laughed at his own joke, his favorite kind.
"You find yourself terribly funny, don't you?" I replied, picking up another wet dish to polish.
"I find that if I don't laugh at my own jokes, no one will," he said. "I'm off again! Don't worry, I'll take proper sustenance this time."
I was hopeful, but those hopes were dashed as I watched him wrap a crust of bread and a rich red apple into a napkin, which he pocketed with the quickness that gave away his concern of discovery.
"What a sad excuse for a hobbit you are," I clicked my tongue. "There's a reason we eat six meals a day! You only seem to graze in passing, not sit down and enjoy your food properly."
"I appreciate your concern," he said, and he looked at me with a small measure of growing affection. One I had not seen before. "But I am quite capable of looking after myself, I assure you! I have not had a mother for a long time and I've survived just fine."
"Survived," I snorted to myself.
He did not hear me, but changed the subject entirely. "I cannot believe the state of the place!" He said, looking around the kitchen as if he were stranger standing awkwardly in the midst of it. "How have you made it so tidy so quickly? I hardly feel at home without my mess…"
"You'll find it quite comfortable I imagine, once you adjust," I said. The stack of dishes was beginning to grow too high to add another on top. I began a new one instead. "I myself feel more settled now that it's not full of piles of miscellany stacked in all the corners."
"I do admire your spirit," he said, and I could hear crunching as he'd undoubtedly plucked the apple from his pocket, too impatient to wait until he'd embarked on his daily amble through the woods. "And I am much obliged to you, even indebted, for making Bag End start to feel like a proper home again."
My heart, which was locked in a tussle of frustration with my new master and admiration, began to allow affection to find its purchase. "Thank you, sir," I replied in earnest. "It has been a pleasure to work for you thus far."
"I'm glad," he said buoyantly, his voice materializing beside me suddenly, almost spooking me in its suddenness. "I would not want to treat you ill. For one, it would surely only reflect badly upon the good Baggins name, a thought I cannot bear to even consider. And two, you deserve all the kindness in the world."
He took another bite of his apple and was gone as quickly as he had come.
.
.
.
"Mr. Frodo?"
I froze as a voice I did not know wafted up the hill toward the garden sheltered behind its picket fence. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the thought of having to subject myself to another meeting with one of Hobbiton's gossip-loving locals and returned to my work, hoping my lack of response to the call would cause the stranger to give up his chase. My hands busied themselves, vibrating with a new and nervous tension as I tried to stifle my discomfort, struggling to fasten a damp linen shirt to dry on the laundry line with a clothespin with such flighty fingers. The suspended laundry flapped lazily in the gentle breeze at first, then began to snap and billow as it was caught up in a gust that strong armed its way across the hilltop with such unexpected force that it nearly knocked me over.
I straightened and smoothed the errant hairs back from my face, having escaped from my headscarf in the sudden bluster. Just as I righted myself again, a strawberry blond head bobbed just beneath the edge of the hilltop, catching like fire in the sunlight. It held me in such rapt attention that my hands went still and dropped to my sides into anxious, clammy fists that disappeared in the folds of my apron.
"Mr. Frodo!" The owner of the reddish gold curls called again, stopping short when he realized he was not alone after all. His round green eyes widened, the shape and color of them calling to mind the soft smooth surface of early spring lily pads floating on on a sleepy brown lake. "Hullo! Who are you?"
Though the fellow seemed friendly enough, I found myself growing bored of the same question that had begun to feel like a curse set upon me by angry ancestors. What I had done to inherit such a mundane fate as the keeper of my blasted name was beyond me, but I had begun to resent my parents for giving me one at all, as I had repeated it far more times than I could number every time I went into town. At this point, I'd rather bleat or neigh in response to questions, envying the animals that were not expected to curtsy, speak, or mind their manners, but merely exist in their own natural way that seemed best to them. Perhaps I would start, if it meant I' have a break from introducing myself to hobbits that could not seem to learn to mind their own business. They had to stake their claim in a share of mine as well.
However, that did not seem the method that would prove useful in establishing a place for myself in my new home. The hobbit waited, perhaps wondering if I'd heard or seen him, and I could see his hands creeping toward the comfort of his pockets out of the corner of my eye.
"My name's Daisy," I replied, shaking the wrinkles out of another linen shirt. "I'm Master Baggins' housekeeper and cook. Can I be of service?"
"Mr. Frodo's housekeeper?" The hobbit said. "Didn't know he had one. At least he told me nothing of the sort."
"Hired me on a few weeks back," I replied.
"Someone finally answered his advertisement. Rose was getting mighty close to abandoning us for a short while to set Bag End right again. It's been in desperate need of a feminine touch."
"I daresay it has proved itself to be quite the challenge," I replied. "I don't believe its ever had a proper dusting. And when was the last time anyone seen to the Master's mending? Some of his clothes are in such a state that they are almost not fit to be seen in."
"It's belonged to two bachelors for two generations now, I can imagine the work you've got ahead of you," he said. "Have you seen Mr. Frodo?"
"He's off in the woods again, though I don't know what he does in there, he's there often enough," I replied. "Spends most his days out and about."
"Don't I know it," he said. "Rosie's always worrying about him going off on his own."
"How do you know Master Baggins?" I asked.
"I'm his...gardener," he replied. "Samwise Gamgee. Pardon my manners."
Much to my surprise, he offered his hand as a way of greeting instead of the customary bow of the gentry. It gave away the fact that perhaps he did not belong in that rung of the social ladder and was used to a simpler, more common way of life. I took it and felt the rasp of calluses scrape against my own, while all the lines came together and began to fall into place in my brain. "So you're Sam Gamgee…"
"You've heard tell of me, then?" He asked.
"Master Baggins tells me you're the best fellow he knows," I explained as I lay a particularly soggy and heavy pair of breaches over the line, hoping the glare of hazy sunlight overhead would last long enough to leech the moisture out of them.
Sam kept his composure but around the careful edges of his mask – just glimpses here and there - I could see joy beaming out of the clefts in it.
"I could say the same of Mr. Frodo," he said. "The bravest of hobbits. I've never met his equal."
"How refreshing to hear someone speak well of him," I said, meeting his gaze. "All I've heard about the Master is how strange and unlike his former self he is."
"They don't understand him, 's all," Sam explained. "They're good folk, just ignorant, but it pains me to hear all the gossip. Often riles me up, sets me on a war path if you follow me, but Rosie always talks me down from doing something foolish. I just got to remind myself they just don't know what happened, and its their way to make up stories to help them understand. They're simple-minded creatures."
"What did happen?" I asked. "No one seems to know much. I hear varying stories. And they all seem equally convinced of their own story's authenticity that it's hard to tell truth from lies at this point."
I was eager to have found a possible lead on more insight into shedding light on the enigma that was Frodo Baggins. Little by little, I had gleaned precious bits of it, but not enough to solve the riddle of him.
Something guarded and hard flitted over Sam's face that told me he did know, he knew all of it, and he was not telling a soul. He rolled his shoulders back, like a shrug that tried to appear indifferent, but his manner had altered so completely, shifting from easygoing and conversational to vague and withdrawn that I knew better. He was hiding something.
I returned to the wash basin and the gray water left behind. "Ironic that those who know the truth are unwilling to talk about it, while the townsfolk spread rumors without a care in the world about who hears them."
"It's not my story to tell, and I love Mr. Frodo too much to dishonor his wishes." Sam replied.
Despite my frustration at finding myself in yet another stalemate in the quest for truth, I could not help but admire his faithfulness and honor when it came to protecting his friend. I warmed to the idea of him, and his presence began to permeate the frost which had come to roost in my heart against any good and kind feeling toward any of the residents of Hobbiton. Indeed, I wished I had my own hero like Samwise Gamgee to come to my aid, even if I detested finding myself to be the damsel in distress of my own wretched tale.
"Admirable," I said. "Master Baggins is fortunate indeed to have a friend like you."
"I'm not his only, thankfully," Sam replied. "Merry and Pippin would follow Mr. Frodo to the ends of the earth, if only he'd ask it of them."
"Then he is more fortunate than most. Many can only boast one friend, some are so unfortunate as to have none at all. And yet Master Baggins can boast many…" I said. "Why did you come? Looking for him, you said, but you did not explain your reasons."
"Oh!" He said, as if startled back into focus. "Not pressing matters, but if you could pass along my message to Mr. Frodo to call on us as soon as he is able to discuss his birthday plans, I'd be mighty grateful to you for it."
"Oh yes," I said. "His birthday...end of September, wasn't it?"
"Indeed," he replied. "Just a small dinner this year with close friends. Number 3 Bagshot Row is homey enough but nowhere near as grand as Bag End, but I think it will please him still to have us host. He's not too sociable these days, and I daresay inviting too many people would make him skittish. There won't be many in the company thankfully."
"I will make sure he gets your message," I said.
Sam thanked me, bowed his head again, this time in farewell, and disappeared down into the alcove of Bagshot Row without another word. I felt abandoned in my most desperate moment, feeling vulnerable and raw after the short conversation. I love him too much...they would follow him to the ends of the earth.
I tipped over the basin, watching the gray water crash against the ground in a frothy crest that spread out in tributaries at my feet. They dissipated and thinned to slow rivulets, soaking into the pliant earth in their search for pathways to lower ground. Perhaps it was loneliness. Perhaps it was the reality of having no one I could turn to, a speck of dandelion dust in the great expanse of this wide world. But this time, I could seem not shake the need for the comfort of another soul. Moments like it had happened and would happen again, and most of the time, I was able to escape the foul grip of hopelessness before it found a place to rest on my shoulders. To despair was to dance with death.
But not today...not when the isolation crashed upon me like the rising tide on a deserted shore, growing stronger, the breakers beating down upon me with their thunderous show of strength, knocking me down, keeping me there. It crawled over every naked inch of my being, so light and soft like silk as it washed over and under me, tunneling into my mouth and nostrils until my lungs collapsed under the weight of so much water. Darkness and cloud crowded the horizon, affording no light to which I could cling for rest. I lay powerless and spent on my back with no one to help me to my feet again, too weary to keep fighting, not enough spirit left within to rally against another blow.
That day, I would accept defeat. I was held in the peace of the garden, the stillness of it encircling its arms around me, urging me to release all of the fear and the sorrow and the regrets that ate away at my bleeding insides, having kept them at bay for too long without accepting the presence of the pain.
I let myself be carried away in the rush of tears that came. Let myself cry for the first time since I left Bree behind. The floodgates opened, and I couldn't stop the sobs as they multiplied and increased in their intensity, wracking my body with such power that I was afraid my bones would crack and my skin would burst and my entire being would spill out in the open, under a benign and temperate sun that no more understood my pain than the red-haired fellow who had just taken his leave.
Melancholy circled above like a hungry bird of prey.
For the first time in a long time, I wondered how I would carry on.