author's note: i dedicate this story to my dear and supportive husband, who never laughed at me for wanting to realize my dream of writing the frodo baggins centric fanfic I had wanted to write as a little girl, when I was in love with Elijah Wood and wrote his name after mine at every opportunity. thank you for taking the kids sometimes so I could write at the library, letting me hole myself up in our room at night editing chapters and wringing my hands and pulling my hair out, and asking how writing was going even though I felt silly even telling you. You are my greatest love, and this story wouldn't have happened without you. 3
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 once emerald green country had turned gray like stone in the shadow of the storm.
Overhead, a steely sky churned with encroaching clouds, bursting at their seams with the promise of rain. A biting wind began to whip across the rolling grassy hills, now stripped bare of the wildflowers that they'd worn like sparkling vibrant jewels under the heat of a beaming sun in the spring. The grass bent to its will, rippling and twisting in its ever changing current. The first storm of autumn sounded upon the village of Hobbiton like a death knell. Mists swirled and pooled in silver tufts across freshly tilled garden beds that lay bare against the sky like an open wound. It curled along the edges of lazy brown riverbeds.
Chimneys rising like citadels of brick and ash out of the hillsides began to produce their first vestiges of smoke rings, the only proof of dwellings across the breadth of this lovely patch of wilderness. The smell of roaring fires in hearths mingled with the scent of wet earth. At last the clouds opened and raindrops began to trickle over the cobblestones below. Beneath the dripping eaves of an empty storefront, I bore witness to the tempest rolling slowly in with growing anxiety.
I fixed my eyes on the puddles that had begun to form between cracks in the cobblestones. They gathered like the shores of little rivers, filling potholes to their brim before spilling over and creating new pools that glistened silver-brown in the watery light. The rain fell in sheets now, pelting the countryside with the cruel sharpness of a knife-tip. I watched a patch of mud bubble and froth under the growing intensity of the deluge, and the smell of it filled me with a sense of longing to dig and till and create life in the soil once more. It had been a long time since I'd felt the comfort of sun-warmed dirt in my hands.
My leg ached down to the bone. The same dull throbbing tenderness that had plagued my every movement since the accident shot up now through my calf and sank its teeth into the cramping muscles of my thigh. I'd known the cold would make it worse and found for myself a suitable walking stick as I'd made my way through the woodlands which encircled Buckland. I leaned heavily on it now, thankful for the sturdy crutch, finding that the pressure alone of standing was almost too much to bear.
I shivered and pulled the waterlogged cloak closer around my neck with my free hand, wishing for the warmth of a good fire and a cup of steaming nettle tea to coax some life back into my frozen hands. I looked down at them now, tinged with blue and trembling in the cold which invaded every pore of my being. The chill had begun to bore its way down, finding its way into my blood, my marrow.
A strip of old parchment lay in my palm, creased from long days stuck in the depths of my pocket, but I'd made certain to fold it in such a way so the creases remain neat and tidy. Here it was. A stroke of luck that might lead to good fortune at last...
It was an advertisement I had taken off a rather bare message signboard on the first night I'd arrived in Hobbiton. I had been drawn in by the loveliness of the penmanship, admiring each letter like a work of art that did not seem to match the mundane tone of the subject matter. But now the handwritten words had begun to bleed and lose their shape as water seeped into the edges of the parchment. It didn't matter now. I had committed every loop and dot and tittle to memory.
Wanted: housekeeper for bachelor residing in Bag End, at the end of Bagshot Row in Hobbiton. Duties will include but not be limited to cooking, cleaning, light mending and washing. Inquiries should call upon the master of the house for salary and further discussion of living situation.
This was it. The fragile foundation of hope upon which I'd built all my plans. If I could not secure the position, I would be forced into exile...
The thought sent ricochets of panic and sorrow bounding throughout my entire being. Determined not to give in to despair, I squared my shoulders against the looming dread that threatened to overtake me, pocketing the parchment bleeding with ink in the depths of my skirts. The short but tedious journey up the winding windswept path was the next task that must be undertaken. I knew it well from the information I'd gathered from inquiries made at the Green Dragon, given generously by the locals. They had visibly revived from their dream-like stupors over pints of ale and lager at the mere mention of Bag End.
One hobbit's words in particular came to mind, a fellow who had introduced himself as Ted Sandyman. "A queer place, my good lass, where the once respectable Mr. Frodo Baggins now resides on his lonesome. I say once because he is not so widely regarded now to be much respectable at all, having returned from an unusual and unexpected disappearance much altered and not at all the lively and amiable young hobbit he once was. Keeps much to himself these days, holed up with his wealth and whatnot. Very queer, very unhobbitlike, I say. I would wager that you will find Bag End a queerer place than any decent hobbit would dare venture into, lass, even for the sake of employment under desperate circumstances. Strange sounds and shrieks in the night come from that haunted place. I wouldn't enter into there for all the goblin gold or rare mountain jewels in all the world."
I was not one to be spooked by fables designed to scare children. In fact, as I listened to the story, though I politely gave the ale-soaked hobbit all of my attention, I found his story dangerously close to bordering on the ridiculous. So I had thanked Sandyman for his wise counsel, but did not give pause to deliberate over the soundness of the decision in light of his warning. It was too late anyway. My decision had long since been made.
No going back now. I pulled the dripping hood lower over my face and stepped out from beneath the protection of the overhang, trying to shield myself from the onslaught of rain which came rushing at me in angry torrents. It was of no use. I was soaked through at once, the sting of the billowing wind raking like fingernails against my bare cheeks.
The cold gnawed at the bones in my bad leg. I took a step and blinked back the urge to wince as best as I could manage. I looked up beyond the leaking rooftops and squat storefronts of Hobbiton village and felt a spark of courage stir within me as I caught sight of the bridge. It was not so far, a mere stone's throw away from where I stood in the market square. Once across, the path would lead me up the now miry hill of Bagshot Row which found its end in the largest hobbit hole on the sequence of quaint, squat little smials. Bag End was its name, and it belonged to Frodo Baggins. This was the name of the author of the advertisement in my pocket, the esquire and bachelor who was much known in these parts. I could see it now. The culmination of my long voyage, so close that I could almost feel the inviting warmth of those windows which glowed through the wall of mist like melting gold.
I took one step, groaning aloud as my leg protested vehemently against the movement, but forced myself to take another and found the pain lessened somewhat. The third step I found much improved, the pain becoming more manageable as I continued to move. I ducked my head under the rising gusts of wind that railed against me, leaning into the walking stick which aided me in my trek across the square. My limp was difficult to mask at the best of times, but now in the freezing rain which had turned to a driving sleet, I felt more like a cripple than ever. Slowly, with a mulish refusal to be broken by something so trivial as the weather, I hobbled over to the bridge, the first stage of my journey, then turned and set my course for the uphill march which would take me to the picket fence which lined the perimeter of Bag End.
The hike was treacherous in such wet conditions, but it was not long before I found myself opening the picket fence gate which led into a handsome and well kept garden. All sorts of flowers greeted me as I stopped, panting and shivering, and looked around, the delicate heads of peonies and geraniums and hollyhock bobbing among the various greenery and carefully trimmed hedges. Long stalks of delphinium clustered together on either side of a little sitting bench that overlooked the valley, neighboring a flock of vibrant purple aster which seemed to glow in the fading light of late afternoon. I took a few weary steps up the stairs, eyes fixed on the green door which gleamed under a film of rainwater. A closely shorn carpet of grass tickled the leathery soles of my feet as I reached a small landing of turf.
At last I stood before the green door, raising my hand to rap my knuckles on the panels as was the customary for requesting entry. A knot formed in my throat and would not budge, no matter how many times I swallowed. This was the culmination of all my plans and I stood on the precipice, not knowing for certain if I would be turned away. Steeling myself, I took a deep, cleansing breath in through my nose and felt my hand extend as a sense of resolute calm flowed through my veins. There was no going back now, no escape route to shield me from the daunting plans I'd made. I would have to follow throw.
"Courage, Daisy," I urged myself aloud, and it seemed to guide my shaking limb to the door, where the bony knuckles rapped three times upon the wood.
The hollow sound echoed through the corridor inside. All I could hear was the sound of my own lungs pulling air in and pushing it back out, the frosty clouds of my own breath ascending into the gathering gloom of dusk. Like ghosts they stole away, shivering in the frozen wind, and at once I noticed it was still raining, but faintly now, the ferocity of the storm beginning to wane.
My eyes widened as the knob in the middle began to turn. I gathered the tattered remains of strength and nerve, standing as straight as I could and leaning the walking stick against a portion of the picket fence where it would be hidden from sight. I did not want my future master to yet become acquainted with the weakness that I myself had not yet grown accustomed to.
An inviting light spilled out into the cool of the evening. A hobbit appeared in the doorway, youthful in appearance, with eyes as soft and blue as the first summer bloom of forget me not petals. I had certainly imagined someone older, the picture that had formed in my head that of an elderly gentlehobbit who just as much relied on the sturdiness of a good walking stick as I did. But this fellow was young and handsome, and I immediately felt betrayed by the fragments of meager information I'd gathered during my time at the Green Dragon.
"Hullo there," he said slowly, his brows knitting together in question as he took in the sight of the half drowned hobbit girl before him. "How might I be of service?"
"I was hoping I might actually be of service to you, Mr. Baggins," I replied, and hoping it might help to jog his memory, pulled the tattered old piece of parchment from the pocket of my skirts and pushed it into his hand. "I'm here to answer your advertisement."
So clear and open were his eyes that I could at once see what he was thinking. Clarity broke through through the clouds of confusion in them like a burst of lightning. "That old advertisement!" A laugh streaked through his voice as he looked at the scrap in his hand. "I was beginning to think no one would ever answer it. Come in, please, it's dreadful cold out here. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself."
He moved aside, and I entered into the wide foyer, where a coat rack stood to receive my dripping cloak and jacket. Two other jackets, made of much finer and newer wool than my own, were hanging from the rungs there in shades of deep burgundy and brown. A long tunnel of walls dressed in fine wooden paneling stretched out before me. On one side, I was offered a series of closed doors that continued on as the corridor led away into the back of the home. A wide archway framing the entrance to an inviting sitting room was situated on the other, and as I looked down I could feel the pleasant glow of firelight spilling out onto my feet. I could hardly imagine what else lay beyond the boundaries of the dim lantern light, but knew the rest of the smial dug deep into the hill.
I turned to my host, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the grand home, and the master of Bag End met my apprehension with a slightly amused if not obliging smile. "Why don't you hang up your wet things by the hearth instead?"
He gestured toward the sitting room on their left and led me inside. I struggled to hide my limp after standing still for so long, the frenetic pace of the walk up the hill having taken its toll on my leg. Part of me was glad to be behind him as I followed in the safety of his shadow, the shame of my infirmity hidden within it.
Mr. Baggins turned without warning and offered his hands expectantly when we had reached another passage, which I noticed led into a cheerful looking kitchen and breakfast nook that seemed comfortable and homey in spite of its immense size.
"Here," he said. "Let me take your cloak and jacket."
Almost reluctantly, I released the clasp at my neck and shrugged out of the overcoat, bundling the wet fabric together in a heap and handing them over to him. At once I realized that I had been soaked through completely, down to the chemise that stuck to me like a second skin. Mr. Baggins had noticed as well, and even in the flickering light of the fire, I saw that pity had cast its grim pall over his countenance.
The hot surge of shame flowed through me under his gaze. It boiled under my cheeks, turning them a raw and painful scarlet that I hoped he couldn't see in the firelight. I hated pity. It was an aimless emotion, one that did little to ease the suffering of its subject, but found itself content to acknowledge and recognize the existence of it. My hands contracted into fists at my sides as the humiliation subsided and my cheeks cooled, but a seething ire was left in its wake.
"There is a wash basin in the guest room, the second door on your right as you walk in," he said, busying himself with hanging the wet clothes I'd entrusted to his care – the only two things I owned in the world besides the walking stick I'd left in his garden. "You may refresh yourself in there while I fetch you something warm and dry to wear."
"You are too kind sir," I balked, hiding white-knuckled fists in the folds of my skirt. "I don't believe I'll be in need of them, my skirts and stays are are suitable enough."
Without a word, it became apparent by the change in his countenance that he realized that he had somehow insulted me with his suggestion, but was having trouble coming to a proper conclusion as to why. Finally, he set his jaw, settling on insistence, the same one would use in dealing with a stubborn child.
"There's no use in being too proud to accept a helping hand," he said, and though his words were adamant, his tone was gentle and pleading. "I think you'll find my own clothes quite suitable for a lounge by the fire as we talk things over. Go on now, I'll brook no refusal. I'll get tea and a little dinner ready while you change and wash your face."
I stood rooted to the spot for a long moment, suspended in deep consideration. Somehow, along the way, perhaps distracted by my own mulish refusal to accept the kindness of a stranger, I had failed to see the signs that he perhaps was just as obstinate as I was. I had been led astray by those misleading doe eyes, almost too large for the face they were set in, framed as they were in soft innocence and burnished summer-sky blue.
I watched his retreating figure move in the direction of the kitchen, looking slightly too thin and waifish in a loose linen shirt and velvet brown trousers held in place by braces. It was customary for hobbits to wear a waistcoat, embellished or plain, but surrounded by the comfort of his own home and with evening approaching, he had shed the outer layer without the anticipation of a guest to find it necessary any longer.
He disappeared from sight, and I found I could move again, turning my back with much reluctance on the sitting room and its crackling fireplace. I retraced my steps back into the foyer, passing the puddle of water that had collected under me as I'd gawked at my surroundings. At the archway, I paused, briefly eyeing the doors in front of me before choosing the second as was instructed, opening it to reveal a small but neatly decorated guest quarters. A four poster bed with a white floral coverlet took up most of the space, but on one side of the window I spotted the wash basin he had mentioned. It was a bowl fashioned out of white porcelain, little fissures of faint brown running through the gleaming surface, suggesting that it had been in the family for longer than they could remember, passed down through at least a few generations from the look of it. Delicate flourishes of vivid green ivy and violet blue morning glories decorated the outer rim and made it pleasing to look at as well as useful.
The washing station was situated on a sturdy little end table in the cramped corner, complete with a dusty water jug of the same shade of white porcelain that had been left there for guests to use. I found it full of water, pouring it into the empty bowl until it was halfway full. A round mirror set in a wooden frame had been hung on the wall in front of it, and I caught sight of my reflection as I dipped mud-stained hands into the cool water. The short glance turned longer as it became clear why Mr. Baggins had looked at me with such aching pity in those bright saucer-wide eyes.
I could hardly believe that the wretched creature staring back at me was my own reflection.
The face was a pale mask of smeared dirt and fading bruises which mingled with the dusting of freckles on my cheeks and nose. Each of them were in varying stages of healing, ranging from shades of black and blue to a ghastly pale green and yellow. They were even deeper under the hollows of my eyes, where the shadows reached their darkest shade of purple-tinged gray. I winced just looking at them, my dripping hands straying to my cheek in disbelief where an old gash was still attempting to stitch itself back together with an itchy new layer of skin that still felt too tight. The edges remained an angry shade of red and ragged. Pain returned at once when I lightly brushed my fingers over the forming scar, all at once remembering the day I'd earned it. Droplets of water sparkled on the sharp pinnacles of too thin cheekbones, spilling quickly over and down into the harsh lines of my jaw where hunger and need had carved away at the feminine roundness of my face.
I looked half wild and nearly dead. I could no longer find fault being the object of Mr. Baggins' charity, looking so akin to the beggars on the streets of Bree-land that hid themselves from the elements and the disgusted heckling of onlookers. It would be so easy to slip into despair, being faced with the undeniable truth of how much suffering had altered and degraded me, how low I had stooped in order to escape. Thoughts began to creep in, and I knew they would find the holes in my makeshift plans and make homes of them, there to stay and rot and niggle at me until I gave up and went back to the way things were. But honor and all that was right and just in the world would not allow it. I steeled myself against the temptation. My fortunes were changing, and the world was not so bleak as my heart would have believed in that moment.
There is no way he can find you now, I reminded herself. He has long since lost your trail...you're safe here.
A knock at the door made me spin on my heels and back into the end table behind me. I felt the cool water from the basin splash onto my bare skin as I upset the bowl and the water jug, nearly knocking them to the ground in alarm.
Mr. Baggins poked his head into the room, only half of him appearing in the door way. He gave me his most reassuring smile, an offering of peace. "I am sorry, I did not mean to disturb you," he said. "I just found some old things of mine that might fit well enough, though I admit they will still swallow you whole...are you finished washing up?"
I opened my mouth to speak but the words wouldn't dislodge from my throat, dying there in the back of my mouth. All I could manage in response was a curt shake of my head.
The frame creaked on its old hinges as he came inside, a bundle of fabric in his arms, all earthy shades of russet, deep greens and gold. I even saw soft burgundy peeking out from beneath a gaudy jade shimmer of silk.
"I'll leave these with you," he said, setting the mound on the bed, which toppled into ruins no sooner did it meet with the plush floral coverlet. "Dinner is ready and the tea is piping hot. Chamomile is my usual preference for this time of night, but I can most certainly find something more accommodating to your tastes if that is your wish?"
"Chamomile sounds very agreeable," I replied, trying my hand at the poise and civility he exuded in his very demeanor. It sounded strange and foreign passing through my chapped, wind-bitten lips. "I won't be much longer, sir. And thank you for your kindness."
He gave a small but polite bow as he left.
I waited until he had gone and returned to the basin, training my attention on the clean dry clothes waiting for me on the bed.
. . .
Dressed in a loose linen shirt and rich brown breeches with hems that hung almost to my ankles, I found myself in need of the braces which I'd discovered in his heap of hand me downs. I pulled them tight over too thin shoulders and fastened them into place. The waist of the breeches still sagged off my hips, made all the more apparent when I walked, but as there was little I could do to remedy the problem, I relied on the braces to keep them where they belonged.
On my way out of the room, I busied myself with rolling the shirtsleeves to my elbows and smoothing the slightly wrinkled collar at the base of my neck. Whether the clothes were borrowed or not, it would not do to make a bad impression.
I found Mr. Baggins hovering around the breakfast nook table, which was nestled into an alcove off to the side of the main kitchen. The smell of boiled chamomile wafted over me like a breath of fresh air, steaming out of the top of an open tea pot. Carefully placed around the pot and cups on a serving board was a simple arrangement of sundry meats and cheeses, bread and fresh butter, honey cakes and slices of cold ham. Hunger stirred within at the sight of so much decadent food, having not eaten much more than the mushrooms and berries I was able to forage along my path through the woods. I couldn't remember the last decent meal I'd taken, even since before I'd left Bree.
"Please, sit," he said. "Eat. There's plenty more in the larders."
I took my place at the table and slowly sank down into the padded red seat cover. The master of the house continued in his work, and I wondered why it was he was offering such rich fare to a guest he had never met before that very day. His hands moved nimbly, resorting to muscle memory it seemed, and as he at last poured our tea into two plain china tea cups I realized with a start that he was missing a digit on his left hand. All that remained of the ruined index finger was a heavily scarred knuckle that shone opaline pink under the candlelight. The dire need for particulars arose, filling her head until it teemed with questions, but she dared not ask how he'd lost it; she was certain that was considered impolite in good company.
Though invited to eat long before he sat down, I controlled myself and waited as a show of the growing respect that had developed for the master of Bag End. The first bite of cured ham awoke a feral sense of self-preservation deep within me, and I felt desperate to eat as fast and as much as I could. Survival instinct had become the primary mode of existence for as long as I could remember. Food was scarce, kindness even more so. But good manners and the desire for acceptance from my fellow creatures won out in the end, and as warm and comfortable as I was, the table laden with such ample provisions, a sense of safety had begun to weaken my defenses. I took small, carefully measured bites, in the same mode I imagined a fine lady might comport herself at a civilized dinner table, as something about the attitude of the host and the expanse of his great house told me I had entered into the presence of someone of importance.
Engrossed in my own keen awareness of how I presented myself to this enigmatic Mr. Baggins, I almost did not hear him when his voice crossed the distance between us and echoed vaguely in my ears.
"What is your name?" He asked, the cupid's bow shape of his upper lip peeking out from behind the rim of his teacup.
A war waged in me no sooner did the question reach my side of the table. Fear reared its ugly head once more and choked me into silence, its hold around her throat almost suffocating.. Though Mr. Baggins had been nothing but gracious and accommodating since the moment I'd crossed the threshold of his home, it did not give him the right to be trusted with such secrets as situations and identities. But a part of me, a small part that I held onto as proof that I had not been given fully over to pure animal instinct, wanted to tell him at least something in return for his benevolence. After all, he could not discover much based on my given name alone, and it was the decent thing to do, offer one simple word in return for such generosity.
"Daisy," I said shortly, and clamped my mouth shut before those otherworldly eyes could soften me, trick me into giving away more than I felt comfortable parting with.
"Daisy," he repeated softly, trying out the two little syllables to see how they sounded rolling off his own tongue. It sounded less plain, less ordinary dressed in the lilt of his highborn affectation. "It is wonderful to meet you. My name is Frodo...Frodo Baggins. You may call me by my given name, if it pleases you."
A comfortable silence passed between us as we grazed the arrangement of delicacies and sipped our tea. I had fully expected to feel uncomfortable, even vulnerable, after baring even the smallest glimpse of my soul to this stranger. But the exchange had been mutual, as he had offered up his own name as a gesture of good will without provocation or demand on my part, as he must have sensed the unease with which I'd parted with the every layer I peeled back, each little revelation of his character that I unearthed, my fascination with the young hobbit master grew, but distrust and wariness still remained unmoved by the sway of his unassuming charm.
"Mr. Baggins..."I began, resolved not to be distracted from my mission any longer with so much at stake. My heart hammered against my chest so heavily that I could barely think above the racket of it."Sir...I must have the position. I would serve you well. I am not one to scoff at a day of honest, hard work, and I believe I would be a great help to you in making Bag End a homey, comfortable place to live. Please, sir, I am not one for begging, not usually, but I am willing if it will at all persuade you to offer me this one chance."
I was surprised to hear a laugh escape him, the second of the night, but this one was a mirthless and scoffing sound. "You are the only one that has answered, and I daresay it would be difficult to find a more willing soul," he said. "The position is yours for the taking, I pay three silver pennies a week."
I was taken aback by the ease with which I had secured employment, expecting at least more questions, more deliberation on his part before handing it to her without another word, without even the barest hint of ceremony. But he seemed almost flippant about the giving away of silver pennies and housekeeping positions as he reached over the tea kettle to take the last of the honey cake.
"I find that very hard to believe, Mr. Baggins, strange even," I replied haltingly. "Surely an opportunity to work for one of the wealthiest households in the Shire would be snatched up quickly. It is strange that no one else is vying for it."
In a moment, he had grown old before my eyes. The years quickened in him, sapping the rosy bloom from his fresh apple cheeks, until the last remnants of vim and vigor faded away. It was a change that happened so quickly, like the removing of a garment, that it became apparent that his outward appearance of youth was the true disguise, a trick of the eyes, and this ancient sorrow which etched itself into the very fabric of his being was the real Frodo Baggins. A fragile wraith that somehow found the strength to carry on, but deep down yearned for the end of his suffering to come.
"It is because I am strange," he said, wondering to himself aloud. "Or so, the whole of the Shire seems to think so. I am not quite sure what to think myself. Perhaps I am."
All semblance of shyness and sense retreated, enraptured as I was by the transformed being sitting across the table. "They say you disappeared for a long time, only to return out of the blue one day. What happened to you? Where did you go?"
He shook his head, and she noticed that the mop of brown curls which brushed over his forehead brought to mind the color of fresh tilled earth."Oh, so they told you all about me did they? I'm sure they did…" Frodo said, giving a brittle, halfhearted laugh. "Never you mind what they say. Gossip is cheap currency among these simple people. They know nothing about the world outside their borders, and for that I am grateful."
The revelation of his true form melted away, and it seemed to me that the room felt less oppressive, less fraught with danger than it had a moment before. He looked boyish and young again, the color returning to his countenance as he leaned over the table once more to pour one last cup of tea, then began to clear away the dishes and crockery. The shift was jarring, and I felt compelled to rub my eyes, to test them and make certain I was still awake, or perhaps tricked by the candlelight.
"Please, make the guest room your own, I should like this place to feel like home to you. You are always welcome to take meals and teas with me, though I seldom eat breakfast, as I prefer a good lie in more often than what is probably good for me. I have a tendency toward long aimless walks when the weather allows for it, so please don't give yourself over to worry unless you've not seen me wander in by nightfall. If you ever find yourself in trouble or in need of companionship, I imagine you'll find the Gamgees of Bagshot Row quite wonderful in that regard. Mrs. Gamgee is the finest lady I know. And Sam..."He trailed off wistfully, ruminating over a private memory that tinged his smile with sorrow and regret. "Why, Sam is without a doubt the finest creature in all of Middle Earth."
Frodo headed toward one of the tunnels that led away from the kitchen, then stopped, one hand resting on the wall and the other gripping his tea cup. With a good-natured wink, he said, "Goodnight, and welcome to Bag End, Daisy."
I was left alone to think and wonder and ponder, remembering at once the pain in my leg.
