finally...
...BEB continues, and as I've said elsewhere, the long delay of this chapter is entirely my fault. Apologies to everyone who's been following this series!
Bag End's Bane
Chapter 6
Authors: Adrienne & Cara
Pairing: Frodo/Sam, other characters
Rating: R
Notes: Installment 6 of 7. Thank you for your patience, everyone ;)
Summary: Wherein Bag End's furnishings are uppity, Rosie is somewhat obsessed, and the mystery is solved.
When morning sent its first stealthy glints through the bedroom window, the Old Wardrobe creaked softly and indignantly to itself. No such stately piece of furniture -- especially after having served sturdily and faithfully for many years -- should suffer the humiliation that the Wardrobe had had to endure the evening before. Yet even at the depths of disgrace it found reason for gratitude, since those most ignoble activities took place on (not to say against) its shadowed side rather than its waxed beechwood front, thus making only a limited spectacle of its desecration. The Wardrobe peered suspiciously from Clothes-Chest to Bed. The others might not have seen, but lewd sounds aplenty had ensued, eventually surpassing even the loudest groans that the Wardrobe's large (and long-unoiled) doors could emit in an emergency.
From the graceful white Curtains, themselves valiant guardians of privacy, the Wardrobe received a gentle, commiserating flutter. So many years, the fine folds signalled sadly, we have hoped and guarded, guarded and hoped, and now all our efforts are thwarted.
In the broad Oaken Bed, the young Master of Bag End (such a promising sprout off the fruitful Brandybuck tree!) now slept twined into the embrace of his gardener, whose belly might be suitably rounded but would under no circumstances bring forth the well-deserved and long-awaited offspring. A sad state of affairs indeed, and more so to all the dignified and fair-minded inhabitants of the bedroom.
We were made for a higher purpose, thought the Wardrobe, encompassing Curtains, Bed, and Clothes-Chest (which had grown senile of late and appeared to be drowsing) in its mournful gaze. Defenders of the natural order on the Hill, servants to the merry multiplication of hobbits for the Good of All... The Wardrobe sighed into the dust that covered its top. Was that not the meaning of life?
From the Oaken Bed (a torpid creature without much of an opinion on anything) the rustling of sheets and some husky murmurs could now be heard. Apparently, the intruding daylight had wakened the Bed's two occupants and roused them to renewed indulgence, if the wobbling of the mattress was a reliable indication.
On the other side of the window, the Petunias stuck their little heads together and whispered about the wicked frenzy that had seized their gardener (they thought of him in a rather proprietary fashion). Altogether silly things that they were, the Petunias had long been in love with the gardener, and now their petals drooped with heartache. Look at him! they lisped, huddling wistfully against the window-glass, his broad shoulders and strong arms were made to carry little ones, and his lap -- ah, what better place to cradle a gurgling babe? One so familiar with the careful planting of seed should have a passle of tow-headed children!
A passle! they repeated with increasing agitation.
Although it didn't usually pay much attention to the flighty Petunias and preferred to remain a passionless observer, the Wardrobe now glowered dark approval. But the pair indulging their unnatural proclivities with mounting ardour remained oblivious. All that the Wardrobe could see from its post was a veritable ruckus under sheet and blanket, and a twitching foot sticking out at a rather bewildering angle.
"Mmmm--Mr. Frodo," mumbled the gardener, causing the Petunias to emit a collective gasp.
While the Curtains fluttered anxiously, the Window-Sill maintained a philosophical disinterest. In the Wardrobe's opinion, it had stared too long into the sun to recognise proper order (or lack thereof) any more, but the delicate Curtains stood to lose their long-preserved purity after all. Confronted with a bare knee that rose from the shifting blanket, the Wardrobe rather wished for a firm show of support from the Bed.
Yet the sad truth was that the Oaken Bed often flaunted an attitude of negligent tolerance. That might be part of its nature, the Wardrobe supposed, but it still seemed utterly perverse. Was not the Bed the most noble fixture in the room, created solely to cradle generations of young hobbits and their dutiful begetting? Why it then had to accommodate such abuse without even a sigh of disgust was beyond the Wardrobe's comprehension. Though even if the Bed had voiced protest, it might well have been drowned out by a rising clamour of moans.
Briefly, the gardener's curly head perked up from the tangle as he gasped something that contained no particle of lucid speech. The blanket slipped aside to expose the Master's thigh, and when the gardener's bare bottom came into view, the Petunias promptly swooned. But I, the Wardrobe thought with grim dignity, I must watch while our propermost hopes are defiled, and the Master himself submits to ignominy.
Indeed, the Master now writhed unbefittingly beneath his gardener whose hand was busy somewhere at his nether regions -- his only half-intellegible utterance being, "Ohhh... Sam... hmmmph..." -- but what articulation of sense, the Wardrobe asked itself, could one expect from a being that so denied its own purpose?
Certainly, the Oaken Bed (which occasionally rambled about the enormous extent of its memory) had not witnessed such energetic activity in years untold. Yet now, the Wardrobe noted with distaste, it creaked along quite merrily as the romping reached a crescendo of fitful cries and stammers.
The Wardrobe shuddered quietly when all the huffing and puffing had (finally!) subsided into low murmurs and quiet laughter (inappropriate as that was). While the Curtains blushed with the strengthening dawn and sighed about the vanity of all existence (and the queerness of hobbits in particular), the Petunias had revived and rustled excitedly in the breeze. The Wardrobe rather suspected that they had secretly enjoyed the base exhibition and glared disgruntlement at the foolish flowers. Just then, the Master of Bag End managed to speak a complete sentence from his downy white pillow.
"Good morning to you too, Sam."
* * *
To Rosie's mind, these clear, crisp autumn days full of pale sunshine and lazily turning leaves were some of the year's worst. Especially on afternoons like this when the washing needed doing and the water pulled up from the well were cold enough to draw more than just a prickle to her skin. She dropped the pair of breeches that she'd been scrubbing and ran a damp hand across her forehead with a forlorn sigh. There was no job more dull than sloshing her brothers' things about in a barrel of soapy water, but Rosie was not the sort of lass to shirk her duties about the farm. That didn't mean she weren't entitled to a daydream or two, though.
Rosie fished through the sodden garments till she spotted a pale sleeve, drifting listlessly with the stir of the water. She plucked it up and ran the weave between her fingers, pleased with how the water made it softer, more transparent somehow. She dreamed of washing such shirts as seemed so fine even when dry, fine enough to allow careful eyes a glimpse of the creamy, fair skin underneath. Mr. Frodo's were like that, every time she'd seen him at the Green Dragon or on the rare occasions when he turned up at the market alongside Sam Gamgee to point out this and that for stocking Bag End's pantries. Rosie closed her fist and ran the sleeve through her fingers, letting it drift limp and easy in the water once more. Yes, a lass could dream.
Rosie longed for the day, too, when her brothers' clothes would be the concern of their own wives, if they could even find any, the silly lads. Too much for courting ale and gossip, Rosie thought with a sniff, sloshing about for the next pair of breeches that needed tending. No mind for what's really important. One day, she'd show them what a proper bride was about, dainty and respectable on the arm of a dutiful husband. A handsome, caring husband -- maybe with a title and a servant or two, if her luck ran aright. She could dream...
Of a ring on her finger, a ring as perfect and golden as the arc of sunlight reflected down through the water and upon her left knuckle. Rosie paused in her scrubbing, entranced, moving her hand just so, till the shaft of light curved to her finger as best it were able. She would have a ring of the finest gold, with naught else for adornment. Rosie traced the curve of light with her fingertips and hummed faintly, till a rhyme befitting a vision of such perfection took shape:
Golden trinket on my finger,
Shine so bright and sweet and clear,
Bind a laddie's heart forever,
For the time of spring is near--
"Rose! Ain't you finished yet?"
Rosie pulled her hands from the water and turned to see Tom peering out the front door and into the yard, half smirking. "What's it matter? I've got to rinse and let it all dry before you can go wearin' any of it again."
"It's just that you've been out there since after breakfast, and what's a hungry lad to do if the kitchen's bare?" Tom asked, putting on his best look of misery. "Supposin' you got your head out of the clouds for a bit and thought about supper?"
Rosie turned around and rinsed her hands off, drying them on her apron. "If there ain't nothin' in the kitchen, then whatever am I to cook with?" She hated the thought of leaving the fading sunlight and her daydreams, of leaving a job unfinished.
She could hear Tom's pout. "Then I guess me an' Jolly are up for a trip to the Dragon. You can deal with Dad when he gets into a bit of a fuss--"
"Take me with you?" Rosie said suddenly, turning around and fixing her brother with a hopeful look. "Dad's better at fendin' for himself than you lot. But I'm hungry, and I could do with a bit of a stroll." Or a glimpse at Sam Gamgee, she thought, or Master Baggins, if fortune's with me. Yes, she'd show them...
Tom grinned and shook his head. "Runnin' out on the old man, for shame! No harm in it, I guess. Get presentable, and we'll be off."
Rosie untied her apron, drying her hands thoroughly before tossing it over the clothesline. "I am presentable."
Tom laughed again. "If you like. Jolly!" he called over his shoulder. "We're off, and we've got company!"
As they walked along, Rosie found the tune that she'd been humming and elaborated upon it, sighing at the brush of grass and sweet, cool air on her arms and ankles. If there was anything a lad that wasn't one of her ridiculous brothers liked, surely it were a lass with a carefree step and music on her lips. She thought up another verse and saved it for when they reached the road, singing gaily as she spotted the familiar bustle of Bywater in the near distance:
Sparkle, sparkle, golden treasure,
On the day that I'll be wed,
Grace my bower with your pleasure,
Lead me to a fresh-made bed!
"Goin' courting, Rose?" Jolly called from far behind.
Rosie slowed her quick pace and turned to face her brothers as she walked, hands on her hips. Tom was laughing heartily in accompaniment, and before Jolly could open his mouth again to say something equally as contrary, Rosie shouted, "And what if I might be? That's more'n can be said for the likes of you!"
"No hurry, lass," Tom called. "You've got plenty o' years yet! Take it from me an' Jolly, enjoy 'em while they last!"
Hmph, Rosie thought, paying her brothers no mind as she turned toward Bywater once more. They were quite close, now; Rosie could see the Dragon clearly enough to distinguish the colours on its sign, the smoke pouring gaily from its chimney. The day had spent itself wondrous fair indeed, the breeze warm and tame. There weren't a cloud in the sky, not even one to cover the full, golden beauty of the sun just beginning to lower towards the horizon. Her heartbeat quickened as she came within a stone's throw of the Dragon's front door, for she could hear many voices inside. That and the rich, sharp scent of ale boded well for her determination, very well indeed. And if neither Sam nor the Master of Bag End were about today, what right had she to complain if some fine young Bolgers or Boffins were all that she had for setting eyes on?
"Rose! Rose, wait up!"
"Slower'n pokeweed," Rosie mumbled, but she paused in front of the building, trying her best for a peek inside as a young gentlehobbit with a pipe in hand emerged squinting into the shimmer of evening. She turned around and shaded her eyes, gazing into the distance; Tom and Jolly were still a handful of steps behind, ambling along at their leisure, exchanging some joke or another. Rosie sighed and wound her fingers impatiently in her skirts, and found herself humming once more, which called for another attempt at being poetical, and besides, perhaps someone might take notice of her voice, so well suited for cradle-singing...
Wedding ring, o precious fetter,
Brings a light to every home,
How long must I wait until you
Will belong to me alone?
"Rose," interrupted Tom's voice, somewhere behind her, more in the direction of the inn itself. "We haven't got all day -- Rose, look out!"
Sure enough, she'd turned around and smack into another hapless arrival, though the minute her head cleared and she managed to sort herself out on the gravel, she realised that both resulting cries of alarm sounded vaguely familiar. She blinked and found herself staring into a pair of dazzling, disoriented eyes just a few feet away.
"Master Baggins -- forgive her, she ain't been in her right mind all day--"
Rosie would have scowled at Tom if he hadn't already been there at her elbow, tugging her to her feet just as Sam Gamgee was bent beside his master, asking in a soft voice if everything was all right.
Frodo laughed quietly, dusting at his breeches. "I'm fine, Sam."
Rosie disentangled herself from Tom and curtsied contritely. "I'm very sorry, sir."
Frodo was still dusting at his clothes, eyes fixed reassuringly on Sam's, which were still quite wide and alarmed. "It's all right, Miss Cotton. I'm fine. Sam, see here, I haven't even a scratch--" Frodo stopped, both hands over his pockets. "Though I do believe I might have lost..."
It was in that very instant that Rosie's eye fell on something gleaming on the stones between them, a perfectly-formed band of rich, unmarred gold. Frodo spotted it at the nearly the same time, just as Rosie bent to retrieve it with a gasp of delight --
"That's it! You have no idea how much this heirloom--Miss Cotton--!"
Mr. Frodo's voice was lost in the scuffle. Rosie had felt the beautiful thing beneath her fingers, only to lose it again as the gentlehobbit's lunge forward set her off her balance. Blindly, Rosie reached for the nearest thing to steady herself, which happened to be Frodo, or his waist, rather, and she hadn't quite expected -- well, she hadn't ever dared to hope -- that she'd end up in such a compromising tangle with such an attractive and promising bachelor, much less in a tangle with him and his servant, all things considered. The wedding band was nowhere to be found, alas, probably turned somewhere under the stones, but when all was said and done, Sam had managed to pull his master away from the tangle of Rosie's arms and skirts and -- bother, so it really was what had fallen out of Frodo's pocket, wasn't it? Rosie struggled to her feet and brushed herself off, staring at the thing nestled in Frodo's palm before he tucked it safely back in his pocket.
"Begging your pardon, Rose, but I think Tom had it about right," Sam said somewhat brusquely, helping Frodo to his feet for the second time, lingering over smoothing his master's weskit and sleeves. So familiar. Rosie bit her tongue, tempted to ask Sam what on earth had gotten into him, forgetting his place with so much ease.
"Well, I..." Frodo was still somewhat out of breath, and he didn't seem to mind Sam's tending one bit. "I... should like to thank you for finding it, at any rate."
"Pleasure's all mine, sir," Rosie said absently, her cheeks finally heating under Sam's glare. Wherever Tom and Jolly had gotten off to inside, they'd probably hear about it before supper was through. She hung back till Sam had managed to steer Frodo safely inside (still touching his master till they'd nigh crossed the threshold, such nerve!). Rosie took a deep breath and gave her skirts a last brush over, hoping that her hair hadn't fallen that desperately into disarray. If anything, the exertion would have given her cheeks a fine flush, she reasoned, and that certainly couldn't hurt...
"Lookin' fine today, miss," said a voice in passing, neither too distant nor too encouraging. Polite, even.
Rosie turned and recognized the figure of Ted Sandyman sauntering purposefully up to the Dragon's front door. Realising that Tom and Jolly had probably begun to wonder, she steeled her breath and followed him inside. If even the likes of Sandyman knew a comely face when he saw it, well then. She'd have her chance, wedding ring or no.
* * *
"It's hard to believe," Frodo began with a rueful chuckle, idly studying the ring by the inn's low light, "that Bilbo's possessions are in the habit of causing such a ruckus. He'd be terribly disappointed in them, I'm sure." He tucked it back in his pocket and looked up at Sam, whose smile had nothing to do with the thought of Bilbo scolding his pipes, bowls, and saucers. Frodo returned the look warmly, quite tempted to reach across the table and take his hand.
"Some folks' things are just like that, I reckon," Sam said thoughtfully, picking through his taters in search of another plump mushroom. "So fine for lookin' at that it's hard to ignore 'em. Mr. Bilbo's old dad decked Bag End out as fine as ever a hole's been, and no mistake."
"And added such wondrous things in his own right," Frodo agreed, "but I still don't understand how such a plain thing--"
"We'll have another over here," Tom Cotton shouted from across the room.
"They're drinkin' up a storm," Sam remarked.
"Yes," Frodo murmured, still half lost in thoughts of how he'd very much like to continue showing Sam his devoted appreciation once they returned to Bag End.
"Hoy, make that two while you're at it!"
"Too much, mayhap," Sam said into his taters.
"Sam, are you all right?"
"It's just Rosie," he said suddenly. "She had no right, knockin' you over with no regard whatever. It's not like her, neither, sir. I've been about with those brothers of hers since she was no bigger'n a basket, and she ain't ever once acted so strange."
"She seemed taken with the ring, that's all," Frodo suggested. "Perhaps she's hoping to wed?"
"Come to think on it, I heard as much from Jolly a fortnight back, but I weren't sure I believed it."
"She's certainly... enthusiastic," Frodo observed. "She'll make someone a fine wife."
"Aye, and the sooner Farmer Cotton ties her town, the better," Sam muttered.
Frodo chuckled and took a sip of his ale. "Sam, surely you don't think--"
"I think she has as fine an eye as any, if she's done set it on you."
"And if she has, then she'd do well to notice that mine is set elsewhere," Frodo said softly, finding Sam's ankle under the table with the tip of his toe.
Sam shivered a little, and Frodo thought he might melt with the brightness of that smile. "She would, at that."
"If you please, good sirs!--I'd like--"
"What on earth," Frodo murmured, turning his head. There was Rosie Cotton, standing on the bench of the table that she shared with her brothers and a few of their companions. She had a full mug of ale in her hand, though judging by the steadiness of her grip, there was perhaps far more already in her belly.
"I ought to have a word or two with Tom," Sam said, sounding a bit concerned. "If she ain't right in the head--"
"A song! Yes, I have been quite hard at work on a song, and since our dear Mr. Baggins is busy at enjoying his meal, I should like to take the chance to apologise by way of a verse or two."
Frodo instinctively leaned into his hand, eyes fixed firmly on the table. "Sam, I think perhaps you're right."
Sam looked as if he might have more than just a word or two with Tom, once this was over.
With that, Rosie took a long drink of her ale and handed it down to an unsuspecting Jolly, who ended up with half of it down his shirt. To the accompaniment of much raucous laughter and encouraging applause, Rosie launched into her song, which was more than a little off-key:
Golden trinket on my finger,
Shine so bright and sweet and clear,
Bind a laddie's heart forever,
For the time of spring is near!
"She is, er, rather fixated, isn't she?" Frodo sighed, finishing his chicken off in a few hasty bites.
Sam nodded, and seemed to have lost his appetite. "Her Mam will have a fit when this gets about, and rightly so, too."
Frodo wiped his mouth on his napkin and reached across the table, brushing Sam's arm. "Then perhaps we should leave it at that and just get going."
"Aye, as good an idea as any," Sam muttered in firm agreement, catching Frodo's hand with little regard for who might be watching and squeezing it as he finished his ale. Frodo's stomach fluttered wondrously, and it was much easier to ignore Rosie's warbling continuation as they extracted themselves from the corner table and wove their way toward the front of the inn, exchanging both salutations and parting wishes with friends along the way. Except one such character couldn't exactly be called a friend, and his message was far more enigmatic than Folco Boffin's have a fine day! or Mr. Proudfoot's nice seein' you about, young Samwise.
"You'd best watch your step," Ted Sandyman remarked as they pushed past his table. "There's more'n tipsy lasses about as can block your path."
"I'll keep that in mind, Ted, thanks," Sam said dryly, urging Frodo ahead of him to the door. "You'd best remember it, too, lest you take a stumble of your own."
"Sam, what's gotten into everyone this week?" Frodo asked in complete puzzlement once they'd gotten outside in the fresh air again.
"I can't say as I know, Mr. Frodo," Sam said softly, but his closeness was enough to ease away the unsettling nonsense of it all, and surely, the sooner they got home, the better.
* * *
"Well, then..." Frodo closed the front door and rubbed his hands together, to drive away sudden nervousness rather than any outward chill. "I suppose we will finally solve the mystery now, won't we, Sam?"
"Yes, sir..." Sam looked a little apprehensive himself. "I left that queer clump o' knitting in the guest bedroom, but seeing as how the smell's so dreadful, perhaps you'd rather take it out into the garden?"
Only a smattering of afternoon light slipped into Bag End's hall, yet it sufficed to kindle a bronze gleam in Sam's eyes and play havoc with Frodo's focus all over again. Later, he told himself firmly. But later would come sooner if -- "Let's look at it where you left it," he managed, "and then decide what to do about it."
The reek wafted towards them in a dense cloud as soon as they opened the door and held undisputed sway inside. Sam darted over to the window at once, throwing it wide open before he dropped to his knees and retrieved the bundle from beneath the bed.
"And here's the bit of writing I told you about..." He tugged a rolled parchment free as he wriggled backwards.
Frodo blinked, momentarily distracted by that most alluring view, but Sam was back on his feet quickly and placed both writ and knitting on the clothes-chest under the window.
"Thank you, Sam." Frodo cleared his throat and refocused on the daring mismatch of woolly colours. The hearty breeze that came in through the window might not disperse the pungency, but at least it let him breathe. With outstretched fingers, Frodo unrolled the bundle, and it fell apart into two equally sized pieces.
"Now what on earth might that be?" Sam muttered. "Scarves of some sort?"
"No, I don't think so..." Frodo studied the unfamiliar shape a moment longer. As he rummaged through the considerable (and, to a large extent, useless) stores of learning that Bilbo had bestowed on him, a suspicion crept over him and took hold. "I believe they're called... stockings. Dwarves wear them, and so do Men, but these must be of dwarven origin."
"Stockings?" Sam mouthed the word with clear discomfort. "But where'd they wear 'em, if you don't mind my asking?"
"On their feet, Sam," Frodo said faintly, for several other suspicions now wreathed themselves into a treacly garland, like poison ivy.
"But that's... unnatural!" Sam exclaimed, a fierce frown troubling his fair brow.
"Well, you have to take into consideration that their feet are unlike ours and require protection, especially..." Frodo glanced sideways at the thoughtfully pursed mouth, then had to scramble after the dangling trail of his thoughts. "...especially in winter. They are, for all intents and purposes, quite dainty feet."
Sam pulled up his shoulders and still looked rather doubtful. "But what would Mr. Bilbo want to keep them for, begging your pardon? There wasn't aught wrong with his feet, I'd hope."
"Not that I know. Perhaps the parchment will explain..." Frodo smoothed the tight roll against the clothes-chest. Upon first sight of the letters that filled the sheet in tight lines, his fretful abstraction mixed uneasily with a pang of curiosity. Decrypting strange characters had always presented the most engaging challenge to his restless mind, so much that it ranked among the few passions he could reasonably allow himself -- and here was a fine challenge indeed.
"Is it dwarvish?" Sam asked in a hushed tone.
"The runes are, but it's written in the Common Speech. Otherwise I would not be able to read it. Dwarves keep their own language an absolute secret." Even from themselves, Frodo sometimes thought. He raised the parchment to the light. "It's a letter sent to Bilbo... in 1342, it appears."
Well, this much was obvious, since the date had been clearly marked at the top, and the missive opened with, My dear Bilbo, renowned champion of burglars, paragon of noble hobbits, and honoured gem of the Shire overall.
"The handwriting is somewhat difficult to decipher," Frodo murmured as his eyes flew over the phalanx of rather effusive greetings. His curiosity had been well and truly piqued now, all the more since parts of the letter bore the stains and smudges of repeated handling.
"Ah, here!" he tapped a line beneath the rambling salutations. "It says: ...a pair of my stockings which have been carefully doused in... in a special perfume my kind considers irresistible, for it is known to rouse..." He peered closely at the word that followed, but it was entirely illegible.
"Why, that fits!" Sam remarked, then added hastily, "No offense to Mr. Bilbo's friends, or friends of theirs, sir, but that pipeweed as they were smoking had a foul smack to it, and no mistake."
Frodo nodded distractedly, now quite engrossed in the translation. "...May they always remind you of our most adventurous exploits," he read on, "and grant to you the warmth of recollection as you wander the expanse of your lonely (but utterly charming!) hobbit-hole."
"Them stockings are a remembrance then?" Sam asked incredulously. "Surely he weren't thinking that Mr. Bilbo would put them on his feet!"
"I wouldn't think so." Frodo skipped ahead to the next paragraph in the letter and tried to ignore the twitching disquiet that reawakened in the pit of his stomach. "No dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness, or feel less than humbled by the undeserved honour to tend -- nay, to worship! -- with a sweet blend of oils and lotions, the tender glades of--" There he ran into another smear of obstructing ink and sighed. "Of what, I wonder..."
"Sounds a bit like my great-aunt Lil's soap-making recipes." Sam scratched his head. "But I can't say as I take his meaning about tending glades and all, Mr. Frodo."
"And I'm afraid I can't explain it to you." Frodo shook his head and decided to give the next paragraph a try. "I would beg you, my friend, not to concern yourself about the negligible difference in our respective stature. 'Size matters not,' so my ancestors and kin have always believed, and I find this to be very true indeed." Frodo raised an eyebrow at that. "Never has a great-grandfather, or grandfather, or indeed any forbear of mine fondled such an exquisite column of crimson and dawn-rose ripeness, or the chiselled perfection of round globes, paired voluptuously above the marble strength--"
Frodo broke off to wipe a hand across his forehead and found it, not much to his surprise, dampened by anxious sweat.
"That don't make much sense, Mr. Frodo, meaning no harm," Sam muttered beside him, but Frodo's eyes remained glued to the conclusion of the sentence he'd just read.
-- paired voluptuously above the marble strength of your thighs.
Misgivings now squirmed vigorously in his stomach. How would Sam respond to the discovery that Frodo's cousin and guardian had apparently harboured unnatural and entirely un-hobbitlike cravings? The parchment began to tremble slightly in his fingers as he skimmed to the end.
I remain
Yours, in deep devotion,
Ever at your service,
And further in the fervent hope that you will require additional services of me in the coming years
Frequently, oh, if my most burning wishes be granted -
"Oh dear," escaped Frodo, but there the letter mercifully ended.
Yours, sincerely and most passionately,
Balin.
"Mr. Frodo?"
For a moment, the writing swam before Frodo's eyes, and he lowered the parchment to the clothes-chest. When his sight cleared again, Sam was gazing at him with tender concern.
"Frodo... are you all right? You've grown all pale and shaky."
"It must be," Frodo croaked, "the smell."
"Oh, but then you'd better leave these nasty things be!" Sam touched his arm imploringly. "Surely the smell will fade out of the letter when it's been aired a bit."
Frodo looked into those sweetly trusting eyes, and his stomach now gave a distinct lurch. He could not be dishonest with Sam and keep this unnerving discovery a secret, but he desperately needed some moments to think...
"I -- I think I should like to get changed," he said, seizing on the first (and rather implausible) excuse that occurred to him. "The smell seems to have settled into my clothes."
"Then we'd better get you out of them right quick," Sam agreed and ushered him from the room at once, closing the door with a firm hand.
But when Frodo entered the sanctuary of his bedroom, he still felt faint, and his mind refused to untangle and yield up helpful suggestions while Sam stood in the doorway, observing his movements with worried eyes.
"See, Mr. Frodo, it's just as Mr. Gandalf feared when he told me not to let you find out about them stockings, and... those more private things, and all."
"Gandalf had no reason to cause you so much distress," Frodo answered a bit testily. "It seems to have become a habit with him, to meddle with the lives of hobbits who he believes are chosen for a greater purpose!" And perhaps somewhere within his scheming mind, Gandalf had already devised just such a purpose for him, too. Or was it that Gandalf had wanted to protect Sam, and preserve him for -
No, he would not think that. Hands locked into fists, Frodo approached the wardrobe. He was well aware that his oversensitized conscience would try to undermine his new-found happiness sooner or later, and determined to fight any onset of retrospective guilt and miserable scruples, even if they fell on him as darkly as the wardrobe's ominous shadow. He would not waste time meditating upon the fact that he had violated the most noble principles by corrupting his young, innocent gardener (repeatedly!); that his thoughtless selfishness had taken so many alternate routes and promising possibilities away from Sam, to enfetter him instead to the sterile companionship of -
Frodo yanked the wardrobe open with more force than needed and reached blindly for the stack of neatly folded garments. But instead of a good linen shirt, a very skimpy silken thing tumbled out and unfolded into a low-cut nightshirt tailored to underline feminine curves. Befuddled, Frodo caught it before it could slide to the floor.
"What..." Sam's voice wavered a little. "What's that, Mr. Frodo?"
"It's, um..." When Frodo held up the nightshirt, the afternoon sunlight shimmered seductively through the fine fabric. "It must be... one of Grandma Belladonna's. I had no idea that Bilbo kept it."
Or why he should have stowed it here, Frodo thought. Strangely, as he stared into the yawning depth of the wardrobe, he remembered how Aunt Esmeralda had often and eloquently praised Belladonna's beauty, the size and shape of her gracious bosom in particular -- and how, when put on display (aptly garnished and cupped by the enticing cut of her dresses), those luscious curves would whip the hormones of countless suitors into a raging storm. Yet Frodo himself had never felt a single hormone so much as wriggle in the presence of a generous bosom (in fact, he had often wondered if there was, within his dubious Fallohide constitution, a hormone to call his own), and perhaps that was the mark of an unnatural Baggins inheritance after all. He wrenched his glance away from the wardrobe with an effort.
"I see, sir," Sam murmured, but he wouldn't meet Frodo's eyes.
"Well, it's nothing I can possibly wear," Frodo said with feigned cheer, but fresh doubts launched a dark foray from the back of his mind, even as he tossed the nightshirt into the wardrobe and began fumbling through his shirts. Perhaps the sight of shimmering silk had woken similar notions in Sam's fancy, and perhaps his hormones would respond appropriately, if he were ever given a chance to --
Frodo tried to squash the thought, but it caught up on him as he tugged a proper shirt from the stack. I'm depriving Sam of such a chance. A chance to court an ample-bosomed maid, to get married and father many lovely children... There was an odd rustle from the window, as if a sharp wind had ruffled the petunias, and a queer pressure rose to Frodo's temple where an ancient, creaky voice now seemed to be crooning.
Someone so given to kind and patient nurturing as Sam was destined to be a father -- why, in all his self-absorbed and confounded musings, had that never occurred to him before? Did not the tending of delicate shrubs and of toothless babes amount to a well-nigh identical task? Gandalf's foresight must have divined a marriage and multiple offspring in Sam's future -- and of course Sam's children would all be as handsome, strong and gifted as he was. Frodo's eyes filled with tears (to which he had no right, all things considered) as he clutched the shirt to him.
"Mr. Frodo... is something wrong?" Sam asked hesitantly, now from close behind.
"Yes, I--" Frodo wiped furtively at his eyes, but now that he'd begun, he had to honour his personal principle of absolute honesty (if not for his own sake, then for Sam's). "I am starting to think that perhaps Gandalf was right," he said woodenly. "His wisdom is far greater than ours, after all."
When he turned around, Sam stared at him, his face full of misery. Though there was no draft from the open door, the curtains billowed strangely.
"But you -- we--" Sam stammered. His head dropped as if he, too, was fighting tears.
"Yes, we--" Frodo's throat closed up tightly around the words that in all honesty he had no wish to speak. At that desperate moment, it was the indomitable spirit of his very straight and respectable Baggins ancestors that came to his aid. "I think, my dear Sam," he said in a voice that sounded decidedly unlike his own, "we should both take some time to consider our choices carefully. We must not allow barren and flighty passions to govern our lives, or distract us from... from our true purpose."
A distinct shudder ran through Sam's frame. "I understand, Mr. Frodo."
He lifted his face slowly, and the bronze embers of day sculpted his features, burning every line and curve into Frodo's mind. Had he ever seen anything as beautiful? Was there anything more precious than the vulnerable candour in Sam's dark eyes (a frankness which Frodo couldn't hope to match for a lifetime's trying)? But those eyes now shimmered with tears, and the gentle mouth trembled.
"And I--I'd better go, I expect, begging your pardon." Sam dashed from the room almost as quickly as he'd rushed out those half-choked words.
The sound of his hurried footsteps down the corridor tore with whetted claws at Frodo's resolve and very nearly sent him running after Sam -- but the dogged Baggins spirit kept him upright and unswerving until the front door had fallen into its lock with a smack of doom. Now nothing remained for him except to embrace the bleak company of depression. As he sank down on the bed, the wardrobe creaked forbiddingly. Frodo glared at it and seized on every ounce of willpower he could muster on so short a notice.
He would remain here, holding steadfast to the noble sacrifice required of him, Frodo told himself -- and bolted from the room.
* * * * *
[to be concluded]
Bag End's Bane
Chapter 6
Authors: Adrienne & Cara
Pairing: Frodo/Sam, other characters
Rating: R
Notes: Installment 6 of 7. Thank you for your patience, everyone ;)
Summary: Wherein Bag End's furnishings are uppity, Rosie is somewhat obsessed, and the mystery is solved.
When morning sent its first stealthy glints through the bedroom window, the Old Wardrobe creaked softly and indignantly to itself. No such stately piece of furniture -- especially after having served sturdily and faithfully for many years -- should suffer the humiliation that the Wardrobe had had to endure the evening before. Yet even at the depths of disgrace it found reason for gratitude, since those most ignoble activities took place on (not to say against) its shadowed side rather than its waxed beechwood front, thus making only a limited spectacle of its desecration. The Wardrobe peered suspiciously from Clothes-Chest to Bed. The others might not have seen, but lewd sounds aplenty had ensued, eventually surpassing even the loudest groans that the Wardrobe's large (and long-unoiled) doors could emit in an emergency.
From the graceful white Curtains, themselves valiant guardians of privacy, the Wardrobe received a gentle, commiserating flutter. So many years, the fine folds signalled sadly, we have hoped and guarded, guarded and hoped, and now all our efforts are thwarted.
In the broad Oaken Bed, the young Master of Bag End (such a promising sprout off the fruitful Brandybuck tree!) now slept twined into the embrace of his gardener, whose belly might be suitably rounded but would under no circumstances bring forth the well-deserved and long-awaited offspring. A sad state of affairs indeed, and more so to all the dignified and fair-minded inhabitants of the bedroom.
We were made for a higher purpose, thought the Wardrobe, encompassing Curtains, Bed, and Clothes-Chest (which had grown senile of late and appeared to be drowsing) in its mournful gaze. Defenders of the natural order on the Hill, servants to the merry multiplication of hobbits for the Good of All... The Wardrobe sighed into the dust that covered its top. Was that not the meaning of life?
From the Oaken Bed (a torpid creature without much of an opinion on anything) the rustling of sheets and some husky murmurs could now be heard. Apparently, the intruding daylight had wakened the Bed's two occupants and roused them to renewed indulgence, if the wobbling of the mattress was a reliable indication.
On the other side of the window, the Petunias stuck their little heads together and whispered about the wicked frenzy that had seized their gardener (they thought of him in a rather proprietary fashion). Altogether silly things that they were, the Petunias had long been in love with the gardener, and now their petals drooped with heartache. Look at him! they lisped, huddling wistfully against the window-glass, his broad shoulders and strong arms were made to carry little ones, and his lap -- ah, what better place to cradle a gurgling babe? One so familiar with the careful planting of seed should have a passle of tow-headed children!
A passle! they repeated with increasing agitation.
Although it didn't usually pay much attention to the flighty Petunias and preferred to remain a passionless observer, the Wardrobe now glowered dark approval. But the pair indulging their unnatural proclivities with mounting ardour remained oblivious. All that the Wardrobe could see from its post was a veritable ruckus under sheet and blanket, and a twitching foot sticking out at a rather bewildering angle.
"Mmmm--Mr. Frodo," mumbled the gardener, causing the Petunias to emit a collective gasp.
While the Curtains fluttered anxiously, the Window-Sill maintained a philosophical disinterest. In the Wardrobe's opinion, it had stared too long into the sun to recognise proper order (or lack thereof) any more, but the delicate Curtains stood to lose their long-preserved purity after all. Confronted with a bare knee that rose from the shifting blanket, the Wardrobe rather wished for a firm show of support from the Bed.
Yet the sad truth was that the Oaken Bed often flaunted an attitude of negligent tolerance. That might be part of its nature, the Wardrobe supposed, but it still seemed utterly perverse. Was not the Bed the most noble fixture in the room, created solely to cradle generations of young hobbits and their dutiful begetting? Why it then had to accommodate such abuse without even a sigh of disgust was beyond the Wardrobe's comprehension. Though even if the Bed had voiced protest, it might well have been drowned out by a rising clamour of moans.
Briefly, the gardener's curly head perked up from the tangle as he gasped something that contained no particle of lucid speech. The blanket slipped aside to expose the Master's thigh, and when the gardener's bare bottom came into view, the Petunias promptly swooned. But I, the Wardrobe thought with grim dignity, I must watch while our propermost hopes are defiled, and the Master himself submits to ignominy.
Indeed, the Master now writhed unbefittingly beneath his gardener whose hand was busy somewhere at his nether regions -- his only half-intellegible utterance being, "Ohhh... Sam... hmmmph..." -- but what articulation of sense, the Wardrobe asked itself, could one expect from a being that so denied its own purpose?
Certainly, the Oaken Bed (which occasionally rambled about the enormous extent of its memory) had not witnessed such energetic activity in years untold. Yet now, the Wardrobe noted with distaste, it creaked along quite merrily as the romping reached a crescendo of fitful cries and stammers.
The Wardrobe shuddered quietly when all the huffing and puffing had (finally!) subsided into low murmurs and quiet laughter (inappropriate as that was). While the Curtains blushed with the strengthening dawn and sighed about the vanity of all existence (and the queerness of hobbits in particular), the Petunias had revived and rustled excitedly in the breeze. The Wardrobe rather suspected that they had secretly enjoyed the base exhibition and glared disgruntlement at the foolish flowers. Just then, the Master of Bag End managed to speak a complete sentence from his downy white pillow.
"Good morning to you too, Sam."
* * *
To Rosie's mind, these clear, crisp autumn days full of pale sunshine and lazily turning leaves were some of the year's worst. Especially on afternoons like this when the washing needed doing and the water pulled up from the well were cold enough to draw more than just a prickle to her skin. She dropped the pair of breeches that she'd been scrubbing and ran a damp hand across her forehead with a forlorn sigh. There was no job more dull than sloshing her brothers' things about in a barrel of soapy water, but Rosie was not the sort of lass to shirk her duties about the farm. That didn't mean she weren't entitled to a daydream or two, though.
Rosie fished through the sodden garments till she spotted a pale sleeve, drifting listlessly with the stir of the water. She plucked it up and ran the weave between her fingers, pleased with how the water made it softer, more transparent somehow. She dreamed of washing such shirts as seemed so fine even when dry, fine enough to allow careful eyes a glimpse of the creamy, fair skin underneath. Mr. Frodo's were like that, every time she'd seen him at the Green Dragon or on the rare occasions when he turned up at the market alongside Sam Gamgee to point out this and that for stocking Bag End's pantries. Rosie closed her fist and ran the sleeve through her fingers, letting it drift limp and easy in the water once more. Yes, a lass could dream.
Rosie longed for the day, too, when her brothers' clothes would be the concern of their own wives, if they could even find any, the silly lads. Too much for courting ale and gossip, Rosie thought with a sniff, sloshing about for the next pair of breeches that needed tending. No mind for what's really important. One day, she'd show them what a proper bride was about, dainty and respectable on the arm of a dutiful husband. A handsome, caring husband -- maybe with a title and a servant or two, if her luck ran aright. She could dream...
Of a ring on her finger, a ring as perfect and golden as the arc of sunlight reflected down through the water and upon her left knuckle. Rosie paused in her scrubbing, entranced, moving her hand just so, till the shaft of light curved to her finger as best it were able. She would have a ring of the finest gold, with naught else for adornment. Rosie traced the curve of light with her fingertips and hummed faintly, till a rhyme befitting a vision of such perfection took shape:
Golden trinket on my finger,
Shine so bright and sweet and clear,
Bind a laddie's heart forever,
For the time of spring is near--
"Rose! Ain't you finished yet?"
Rosie pulled her hands from the water and turned to see Tom peering out the front door and into the yard, half smirking. "What's it matter? I've got to rinse and let it all dry before you can go wearin' any of it again."
"It's just that you've been out there since after breakfast, and what's a hungry lad to do if the kitchen's bare?" Tom asked, putting on his best look of misery. "Supposin' you got your head out of the clouds for a bit and thought about supper?"
Rosie turned around and rinsed her hands off, drying them on her apron. "If there ain't nothin' in the kitchen, then whatever am I to cook with?" She hated the thought of leaving the fading sunlight and her daydreams, of leaving a job unfinished.
She could hear Tom's pout. "Then I guess me an' Jolly are up for a trip to the Dragon. You can deal with Dad when he gets into a bit of a fuss--"
"Take me with you?" Rosie said suddenly, turning around and fixing her brother with a hopeful look. "Dad's better at fendin' for himself than you lot. But I'm hungry, and I could do with a bit of a stroll." Or a glimpse at Sam Gamgee, she thought, or Master Baggins, if fortune's with me. Yes, she'd show them...
Tom grinned and shook his head. "Runnin' out on the old man, for shame! No harm in it, I guess. Get presentable, and we'll be off."
Rosie untied her apron, drying her hands thoroughly before tossing it over the clothesline. "I am presentable."
Tom laughed again. "If you like. Jolly!" he called over his shoulder. "We're off, and we've got company!"
As they walked along, Rosie found the tune that she'd been humming and elaborated upon it, sighing at the brush of grass and sweet, cool air on her arms and ankles. If there was anything a lad that wasn't one of her ridiculous brothers liked, surely it were a lass with a carefree step and music on her lips. She thought up another verse and saved it for when they reached the road, singing gaily as she spotted the familiar bustle of Bywater in the near distance:
Sparkle, sparkle, golden treasure,
On the day that I'll be wed,
Grace my bower with your pleasure,
Lead me to a fresh-made bed!
"Goin' courting, Rose?" Jolly called from far behind.
Rosie slowed her quick pace and turned to face her brothers as she walked, hands on her hips. Tom was laughing heartily in accompaniment, and before Jolly could open his mouth again to say something equally as contrary, Rosie shouted, "And what if I might be? That's more'n can be said for the likes of you!"
"No hurry, lass," Tom called. "You've got plenty o' years yet! Take it from me an' Jolly, enjoy 'em while they last!"
Hmph, Rosie thought, paying her brothers no mind as she turned toward Bywater once more. They were quite close, now; Rosie could see the Dragon clearly enough to distinguish the colours on its sign, the smoke pouring gaily from its chimney. The day had spent itself wondrous fair indeed, the breeze warm and tame. There weren't a cloud in the sky, not even one to cover the full, golden beauty of the sun just beginning to lower towards the horizon. Her heartbeat quickened as she came within a stone's throw of the Dragon's front door, for she could hear many voices inside. That and the rich, sharp scent of ale boded well for her determination, very well indeed. And if neither Sam nor the Master of Bag End were about today, what right had she to complain if some fine young Bolgers or Boffins were all that she had for setting eyes on?
"Rose! Rose, wait up!"
"Slower'n pokeweed," Rosie mumbled, but she paused in front of the building, trying her best for a peek inside as a young gentlehobbit with a pipe in hand emerged squinting into the shimmer of evening. She turned around and shaded her eyes, gazing into the distance; Tom and Jolly were still a handful of steps behind, ambling along at their leisure, exchanging some joke or another. Rosie sighed and wound her fingers impatiently in her skirts, and found herself humming once more, which called for another attempt at being poetical, and besides, perhaps someone might take notice of her voice, so well suited for cradle-singing...
Wedding ring, o precious fetter,
Brings a light to every home,
How long must I wait until you
Will belong to me alone?
"Rose," interrupted Tom's voice, somewhere behind her, more in the direction of the inn itself. "We haven't got all day -- Rose, look out!"
Sure enough, she'd turned around and smack into another hapless arrival, though the minute her head cleared and she managed to sort herself out on the gravel, she realised that both resulting cries of alarm sounded vaguely familiar. She blinked and found herself staring into a pair of dazzling, disoriented eyes just a few feet away.
"Master Baggins -- forgive her, she ain't been in her right mind all day--"
Rosie would have scowled at Tom if he hadn't already been there at her elbow, tugging her to her feet just as Sam Gamgee was bent beside his master, asking in a soft voice if everything was all right.
Frodo laughed quietly, dusting at his breeches. "I'm fine, Sam."
Rosie disentangled herself from Tom and curtsied contritely. "I'm very sorry, sir."
Frodo was still dusting at his clothes, eyes fixed reassuringly on Sam's, which were still quite wide and alarmed. "It's all right, Miss Cotton. I'm fine. Sam, see here, I haven't even a scratch--" Frodo stopped, both hands over his pockets. "Though I do believe I might have lost..."
It was in that very instant that Rosie's eye fell on something gleaming on the stones between them, a perfectly-formed band of rich, unmarred gold. Frodo spotted it at the nearly the same time, just as Rosie bent to retrieve it with a gasp of delight --
"That's it! You have no idea how much this heirloom--Miss Cotton--!"
Mr. Frodo's voice was lost in the scuffle. Rosie had felt the beautiful thing beneath her fingers, only to lose it again as the gentlehobbit's lunge forward set her off her balance. Blindly, Rosie reached for the nearest thing to steady herself, which happened to be Frodo, or his waist, rather, and she hadn't quite expected -- well, she hadn't ever dared to hope -- that she'd end up in such a compromising tangle with such an attractive and promising bachelor, much less in a tangle with him and his servant, all things considered. The wedding band was nowhere to be found, alas, probably turned somewhere under the stones, but when all was said and done, Sam had managed to pull his master away from the tangle of Rosie's arms and skirts and -- bother, so it really was what had fallen out of Frodo's pocket, wasn't it? Rosie struggled to her feet and brushed herself off, staring at the thing nestled in Frodo's palm before he tucked it safely back in his pocket.
"Begging your pardon, Rose, but I think Tom had it about right," Sam said somewhat brusquely, helping Frodo to his feet for the second time, lingering over smoothing his master's weskit and sleeves. So familiar. Rosie bit her tongue, tempted to ask Sam what on earth had gotten into him, forgetting his place with so much ease.
"Well, I..." Frodo was still somewhat out of breath, and he didn't seem to mind Sam's tending one bit. "I... should like to thank you for finding it, at any rate."
"Pleasure's all mine, sir," Rosie said absently, her cheeks finally heating under Sam's glare. Wherever Tom and Jolly had gotten off to inside, they'd probably hear about it before supper was through. She hung back till Sam had managed to steer Frodo safely inside (still touching his master till they'd nigh crossed the threshold, such nerve!). Rosie took a deep breath and gave her skirts a last brush over, hoping that her hair hadn't fallen that desperately into disarray. If anything, the exertion would have given her cheeks a fine flush, she reasoned, and that certainly couldn't hurt...
"Lookin' fine today, miss," said a voice in passing, neither too distant nor too encouraging. Polite, even.
Rosie turned and recognized the figure of Ted Sandyman sauntering purposefully up to the Dragon's front door. Realising that Tom and Jolly had probably begun to wonder, she steeled her breath and followed him inside. If even the likes of Sandyman knew a comely face when he saw it, well then. She'd have her chance, wedding ring or no.
* * *
"It's hard to believe," Frodo began with a rueful chuckle, idly studying the ring by the inn's low light, "that Bilbo's possessions are in the habit of causing such a ruckus. He'd be terribly disappointed in them, I'm sure." He tucked it back in his pocket and looked up at Sam, whose smile had nothing to do with the thought of Bilbo scolding his pipes, bowls, and saucers. Frodo returned the look warmly, quite tempted to reach across the table and take his hand.
"Some folks' things are just like that, I reckon," Sam said thoughtfully, picking through his taters in search of another plump mushroom. "So fine for lookin' at that it's hard to ignore 'em. Mr. Bilbo's old dad decked Bag End out as fine as ever a hole's been, and no mistake."
"And added such wondrous things in his own right," Frodo agreed, "but I still don't understand how such a plain thing--"
"We'll have another over here," Tom Cotton shouted from across the room.
"They're drinkin' up a storm," Sam remarked.
"Yes," Frodo murmured, still half lost in thoughts of how he'd very much like to continue showing Sam his devoted appreciation once they returned to Bag End.
"Hoy, make that two while you're at it!"
"Too much, mayhap," Sam said into his taters.
"Sam, are you all right?"
"It's just Rosie," he said suddenly. "She had no right, knockin' you over with no regard whatever. It's not like her, neither, sir. I've been about with those brothers of hers since she was no bigger'n a basket, and she ain't ever once acted so strange."
"She seemed taken with the ring, that's all," Frodo suggested. "Perhaps she's hoping to wed?"
"Come to think on it, I heard as much from Jolly a fortnight back, but I weren't sure I believed it."
"She's certainly... enthusiastic," Frodo observed. "She'll make someone a fine wife."
"Aye, and the sooner Farmer Cotton ties her town, the better," Sam muttered.
Frodo chuckled and took a sip of his ale. "Sam, surely you don't think--"
"I think she has as fine an eye as any, if she's done set it on you."
"And if she has, then she'd do well to notice that mine is set elsewhere," Frodo said softly, finding Sam's ankle under the table with the tip of his toe.
Sam shivered a little, and Frodo thought he might melt with the brightness of that smile. "She would, at that."
"If you please, good sirs!--I'd like--"
"What on earth," Frodo murmured, turning his head. There was Rosie Cotton, standing on the bench of the table that she shared with her brothers and a few of their companions. She had a full mug of ale in her hand, though judging by the steadiness of her grip, there was perhaps far more already in her belly.
"I ought to have a word or two with Tom," Sam said, sounding a bit concerned. "If she ain't right in the head--"
"A song! Yes, I have been quite hard at work on a song, and since our dear Mr. Baggins is busy at enjoying his meal, I should like to take the chance to apologise by way of a verse or two."
Frodo instinctively leaned into his hand, eyes fixed firmly on the table. "Sam, I think perhaps you're right."
Sam looked as if he might have more than just a word or two with Tom, once this was over.
With that, Rosie took a long drink of her ale and handed it down to an unsuspecting Jolly, who ended up with half of it down his shirt. To the accompaniment of much raucous laughter and encouraging applause, Rosie launched into her song, which was more than a little off-key:
Golden trinket on my finger,
Shine so bright and sweet and clear,
Bind a laddie's heart forever,
For the time of spring is near!
"She is, er, rather fixated, isn't she?" Frodo sighed, finishing his chicken off in a few hasty bites.
Sam nodded, and seemed to have lost his appetite. "Her Mam will have a fit when this gets about, and rightly so, too."
Frodo wiped his mouth on his napkin and reached across the table, brushing Sam's arm. "Then perhaps we should leave it at that and just get going."
"Aye, as good an idea as any," Sam muttered in firm agreement, catching Frodo's hand with little regard for who might be watching and squeezing it as he finished his ale. Frodo's stomach fluttered wondrously, and it was much easier to ignore Rosie's warbling continuation as they extracted themselves from the corner table and wove their way toward the front of the inn, exchanging both salutations and parting wishes with friends along the way. Except one such character couldn't exactly be called a friend, and his message was far more enigmatic than Folco Boffin's have a fine day! or Mr. Proudfoot's nice seein' you about, young Samwise.
"You'd best watch your step," Ted Sandyman remarked as they pushed past his table. "There's more'n tipsy lasses about as can block your path."
"I'll keep that in mind, Ted, thanks," Sam said dryly, urging Frodo ahead of him to the door. "You'd best remember it, too, lest you take a stumble of your own."
"Sam, what's gotten into everyone this week?" Frodo asked in complete puzzlement once they'd gotten outside in the fresh air again.
"I can't say as I know, Mr. Frodo," Sam said softly, but his closeness was enough to ease away the unsettling nonsense of it all, and surely, the sooner they got home, the better.
* * *
"Well, then..." Frodo closed the front door and rubbed his hands together, to drive away sudden nervousness rather than any outward chill. "I suppose we will finally solve the mystery now, won't we, Sam?"
"Yes, sir..." Sam looked a little apprehensive himself. "I left that queer clump o' knitting in the guest bedroom, but seeing as how the smell's so dreadful, perhaps you'd rather take it out into the garden?"
Only a smattering of afternoon light slipped into Bag End's hall, yet it sufficed to kindle a bronze gleam in Sam's eyes and play havoc with Frodo's focus all over again. Later, he told himself firmly. But later would come sooner if -- "Let's look at it where you left it," he managed, "and then decide what to do about it."
The reek wafted towards them in a dense cloud as soon as they opened the door and held undisputed sway inside. Sam darted over to the window at once, throwing it wide open before he dropped to his knees and retrieved the bundle from beneath the bed.
"And here's the bit of writing I told you about..." He tugged a rolled parchment free as he wriggled backwards.
Frodo blinked, momentarily distracted by that most alluring view, but Sam was back on his feet quickly and placed both writ and knitting on the clothes-chest under the window.
"Thank you, Sam." Frodo cleared his throat and refocused on the daring mismatch of woolly colours. The hearty breeze that came in through the window might not disperse the pungency, but at least it let him breathe. With outstretched fingers, Frodo unrolled the bundle, and it fell apart into two equally sized pieces.
"Now what on earth might that be?" Sam muttered. "Scarves of some sort?"
"No, I don't think so..." Frodo studied the unfamiliar shape a moment longer. As he rummaged through the considerable (and, to a large extent, useless) stores of learning that Bilbo had bestowed on him, a suspicion crept over him and took hold. "I believe they're called... stockings. Dwarves wear them, and so do Men, but these must be of dwarven origin."
"Stockings?" Sam mouthed the word with clear discomfort. "But where'd they wear 'em, if you don't mind my asking?"
"On their feet, Sam," Frodo said faintly, for several other suspicions now wreathed themselves into a treacly garland, like poison ivy.
"But that's... unnatural!" Sam exclaimed, a fierce frown troubling his fair brow.
"Well, you have to take into consideration that their feet are unlike ours and require protection, especially..." Frodo glanced sideways at the thoughtfully pursed mouth, then had to scramble after the dangling trail of his thoughts. "...especially in winter. They are, for all intents and purposes, quite dainty feet."
Sam pulled up his shoulders and still looked rather doubtful. "But what would Mr. Bilbo want to keep them for, begging your pardon? There wasn't aught wrong with his feet, I'd hope."
"Not that I know. Perhaps the parchment will explain..." Frodo smoothed the tight roll against the clothes-chest. Upon first sight of the letters that filled the sheet in tight lines, his fretful abstraction mixed uneasily with a pang of curiosity. Decrypting strange characters had always presented the most engaging challenge to his restless mind, so much that it ranked among the few passions he could reasonably allow himself -- and here was a fine challenge indeed.
"Is it dwarvish?" Sam asked in a hushed tone.
"The runes are, but it's written in the Common Speech. Otherwise I would not be able to read it. Dwarves keep their own language an absolute secret." Even from themselves, Frodo sometimes thought. He raised the parchment to the light. "It's a letter sent to Bilbo... in 1342, it appears."
Well, this much was obvious, since the date had been clearly marked at the top, and the missive opened with, My dear Bilbo, renowned champion of burglars, paragon of noble hobbits, and honoured gem of the Shire overall.
"The handwriting is somewhat difficult to decipher," Frodo murmured as his eyes flew over the phalanx of rather effusive greetings. His curiosity had been well and truly piqued now, all the more since parts of the letter bore the stains and smudges of repeated handling.
"Ah, here!" he tapped a line beneath the rambling salutations. "It says: ...a pair of my stockings which have been carefully doused in... in a special perfume my kind considers irresistible, for it is known to rouse..." He peered closely at the word that followed, but it was entirely illegible.
"Why, that fits!" Sam remarked, then added hastily, "No offense to Mr. Bilbo's friends, or friends of theirs, sir, but that pipeweed as they were smoking had a foul smack to it, and no mistake."
Frodo nodded distractedly, now quite engrossed in the translation. "...May they always remind you of our most adventurous exploits," he read on, "and grant to you the warmth of recollection as you wander the expanse of your lonely (but utterly charming!) hobbit-hole."
"Them stockings are a remembrance then?" Sam asked incredulously. "Surely he weren't thinking that Mr. Bilbo would put them on his feet!"
"I wouldn't think so." Frodo skipped ahead to the next paragraph in the letter and tried to ignore the twitching disquiet that reawakened in the pit of his stomach. "No dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness, or feel less than humbled by the undeserved honour to tend -- nay, to worship! -- with a sweet blend of oils and lotions, the tender glades of--" There he ran into another smear of obstructing ink and sighed. "Of what, I wonder..."
"Sounds a bit like my great-aunt Lil's soap-making recipes." Sam scratched his head. "But I can't say as I take his meaning about tending glades and all, Mr. Frodo."
"And I'm afraid I can't explain it to you." Frodo shook his head and decided to give the next paragraph a try. "I would beg you, my friend, not to concern yourself about the negligible difference in our respective stature. 'Size matters not,' so my ancestors and kin have always believed, and I find this to be very true indeed." Frodo raised an eyebrow at that. "Never has a great-grandfather, or grandfather, or indeed any forbear of mine fondled such an exquisite column of crimson and dawn-rose ripeness, or the chiselled perfection of round globes, paired voluptuously above the marble strength--"
Frodo broke off to wipe a hand across his forehead and found it, not much to his surprise, dampened by anxious sweat.
"That don't make much sense, Mr. Frodo, meaning no harm," Sam muttered beside him, but Frodo's eyes remained glued to the conclusion of the sentence he'd just read.
-- paired voluptuously above the marble strength of your thighs.
Misgivings now squirmed vigorously in his stomach. How would Sam respond to the discovery that Frodo's cousin and guardian had apparently harboured unnatural and entirely un-hobbitlike cravings? The parchment began to tremble slightly in his fingers as he skimmed to the end.
I remain
Yours, in deep devotion,
Ever at your service,
And further in the fervent hope that you will require additional services of me in the coming years
Frequently, oh, if my most burning wishes be granted -
"Oh dear," escaped Frodo, but there the letter mercifully ended.
Yours, sincerely and most passionately,
Balin.
"Mr. Frodo?"
For a moment, the writing swam before Frodo's eyes, and he lowered the parchment to the clothes-chest. When his sight cleared again, Sam was gazing at him with tender concern.
"Frodo... are you all right? You've grown all pale and shaky."
"It must be," Frodo croaked, "the smell."
"Oh, but then you'd better leave these nasty things be!" Sam touched his arm imploringly. "Surely the smell will fade out of the letter when it's been aired a bit."
Frodo looked into those sweetly trusting eyes, and his stomach now gave a distinct lurch. He could not be dishonest with Sam and keep this unnerving discovery a secret, but he desperately needed some moments to think...
"I -- I think I should like to get changed," he said, seizing on the first (and rather implausible) excuse that occurred to him. "The smell seems to have settled into my clothes."
"Then we'd better get you out of them right quick," Sam agreed and ushered him from the room at once, closing the door with a firm hand.
But when Frodo entered the sanctuary of his bedroom, he still felt faint, and his mind refused to untangle and yield up helpful suggestions while Sam stood in the doorway, observing his movements with worried eyes.
"See, Mr. Frodo, it's just as Mr. Gandalf feared when he told me not to let you find out about them stockings, and... those more private things, and all."
"Gandalf had no reason to cause you so much distress," Frodo answered a bit testily. "It seems to have become a habit with him, to meddle with the lives of hobbits who he believes are chosen for a greater purpose!" And perhaps somewhere within his scheming mind, Gandalf had already devised just such a purpose for him, too. Or was it that Gandalf had wanted to protect Sam, and preserve him for -
No, he would not think that. Hands locked into fists, Frodo approached the wardrobe. He was well aware that his oversensitized conscience would try to undermine his new-found happiness sooner or later, and determined to fight any onset of retrospective guilt and miserable scruples, even if they fell on him as darkly as the wardrobe's ominous shadow. He would not waste time meditating upon the fact that he had violated the most noble principles by corrupting his young, innocent gardener (repeatedly!); that his thoughtless selfishness had taken so many alternate routes and promising possibilities away from Sam, to enfetter him instead to the sterile companionship of -
Frodo yanked the wardrobe open with more force than needed and reached blindly for the stack of neatly folded garments. But instead of a good linen shirt, a very skimpy silken thing tumbled out and unfolded into a low-cut nightshirt tailored to underline feminine curves. Befuddled, Frodo caught it before it could slide to the floor.
"What..." Sam's voice wavered a little. "What's that, Mr. Frodo?"
"It's, um..." When Frodo held up the nightshirt, the afternoon sunlight shimmered seductively through the fine fabric. "It must be... one of Grandma Belladonna's. I had no idea that Bilbo kept it."
Or why he should have stowed it here, Frodo thought. Strangely, as he stared into the yawning depth of the wardrobe, he remembered how Aunt Esmeralda had often and eloquently praised Belladonna's beauty, the size and shape of her gracious bosom in particular -- and how, when put on display (aptly garnished and cupped by the enticing cut of her dresses), those luscious curves would whip the hormones of countless suitors into a raging storm. Yet Frodo himself had never felt a single hormone so much as wriggle in the presence of a generous bosom (in fact, he had often wondered if there was, within his dubious Fallohide constitution, a hormone to call his own), and perhaps that was the mark of an unnatural Baggins inheritance after all. He wrenched his glance away from the wardrobe with an effort.
"I see, sir," Sam murmured, but he wouldn't meet Frodo's eyes.
"Well, it's nothing I can possibly wear," Frodo said with feigned cheer, but fresh doubts launched a dark foray from the back of his mind, even as he tossed the nightshirt into the wardrobe and began fumbling through his shirts. Perhaps the sight of shimmering silk had woken similar notions in Sam's fancy, and perhaps his hormones would respond appropriately, if he were ever given a chance to --
Frodo tried to squash the thought, but it caught up on him as he tugged a proper shirt from the stack. I'm depriving Sam of such a chance. A chance to court an ample-bosomed maid, to get married and father many lovely children... There was an odd rustle from the window, as if a sharp wind had ruffled the petunias, and a queer pressure rose to Frodo's temple where an ancient, creaky voice now seemed to be crooning.
Someone so given to kind and patient nurturing as Sam was destined to be a father -- why, in all his self-absorbed and confounded musings, had that never occurred to him before? Did not the tending of delicate shrubs and of toothless babes amount to a well-nigh identical task? Gandalf's foresight must have divined a marriage and multiple offspring in Sam's future -- and of course Sam's children would all be as handsome, strong and gifted as he was. Frodo's eyes filled with tears (to which he had no right, all things considered) as he clutched the shirt to him.
"Mr. Frodo... is something wrong?" Sam asked hesitantly, now from close behind.
"Yes, I--" Frodo wiped furtively at his eyes, but now that he'd begun, he had to honour his personal principle of absolute honesty (if not for his own sake, then for Sam's). "I am starting to think that perhaps Gandalf was right," he said woodenly. "His wisdom is far greater than ours, after all."
When he turned around, Sam stared at him, his face full of misery. Though there was no draft from the open door, the curtains billowed strangely.
"But you -- we--" Sam stammered. His head dropped as if he, too, was fighting tears.
"Yes, we--" Frodo's throat closed up tightly around the words that in all honesty he had no wish to speak. At that desperate moment, it was the indomitable spirit of his very straight and respectable Baggins ancestors that came to his aid. "I think, my dear Sam," he said in a voice that sounded decidedly unlike his own, "we should both take some time to consider our choices carefully. We must not allow barren and flighty passions to govern our lives, or distract us from... from our true purpose."
A distinct shudder ran through Sam's frame. "I understand, Mr. Frodo."
He lifted his face slowly, and the bronze embers of day sculpted his features, burning every line and curve into Frodo's mind. Had he ever seen anything as beautiful? Was there anything more precious than the vulnerable candour in Sam's dark eyes (a frankness which Frodo couldn't hope to match for a lifetime's trying)? But those eyes now shimmered with tears, and the gentle mouth trembled.
"And I--I'd better go, I expect, begging your pardon." Sam dashed from the room almost as quickly as he'd rushed out those half-choked words.
The sound of his hurried footsteps down the corridor tore with whetted claws at Frodo's resolve and very nearly sent him running after Sam -- but the dogged Baggins spirit kept him upright and unswerving until the front door had fallen into its lock with a smack of doom. Now nothing remained for him except to embrace the bleak company of depression. As he sank down on the bed, the wardrobe creaked forbiddingly. Frodo glared at it and seized on every ounce of willpower he could muster on so short a notice.
He would remain here, holding steadfast to the noble sacrifice required of him, Frodo told himself -- and bolted from the room.
* * * * *
[to be concluded]