Fic: November
This is one of the ficlets I finished during NaNo. :) It's a continuation of sorts to " October," but they both stand on their own (holy crap, it's been 5 years since I wrote "October"?! O_O). Eventually there will be one ficlet for each month of Frodo's last year in the Shire. I'm not sure I like the ending on this, but haven't come up with anything better, so I figured I'd stop poking at it and just post it.
Title: November
Rating: G
Characters: Frodo, Rosie, Fatty, Sam
Summary: Frodo takes care of some business and catches up with an old friend.
"It's no trouble, really. In fact, I insist."
"You sure it won't interfere with your writing or anything?" she eyed him doubtfully.
"I'm sure," he affirmed with a nod. "I need to do some thinking before I write any more, and the walk should do nicely."
"All right, then. Can you remember what to get?" He recited the list back to her, and she nodded. "Aye. Now be sure to remember that cinnamon if you want apple cobbler tonight."
"I won't forget," he said with a smile. Finishing his tea, he rose and carried his breakfast plate to the wash basin. Pausing to peer out the window, he saw with satisfaction the bright, welcoming day. The sun shone from a clear blue sky, and a light breeze sent the fallen leaves skittering across the grass.
Turning away and preparing to leave, he asked, "Will you need help hanging the bigger rugs?" She'd declared yesterday her intention to beat the rugs today, to take advantage of these last few days before winter roared in and made such activities impossible. The absence of the throw before his bed and now the bare floor of the hallway reminded him of this.
"No, thank you kindly. Sam hung them afore he left." Sam had departed earlier, to finish preparing the unplanted shoots to protect their fragile roots from the frost his Gaffer had predicted would come in a few short days. Then his efforts to replant the Shire would come to a halt as winter chill dug its fingers deep into the soil for the season. He would find something to do, of that Frodo was certain. Sam could not stand to pass time in idleness.
"What time do you need me back for the cobbler to be done for supper?" Frodo asked as he shrugged on his coat. The day looked warm enough that he was dispensing with his cloak -it only got in the way in the crowded market, anyway.
"By tea time ought to be enough," Rosie answered.
"I shall return by tea, then. Don't expect me for elevenses or lunch; I'll eat something while I'm out," he said, then shut the kitchen door behind him. He took a deep breath of the crisp air and smiled. It really was a beautiful day to be outdoors, despite it being November.
Frodo got as far as Bagshot Row before it was evident that the breeze was stronger than it had initially appeared, and the bright sunshine disguised a deceptively chilly day. He should have brought his cloak, but he didn't want to go back and get it. Frodo hunched his shoulders against the wind and forged onward, picking up his pace to generate heat to replace what was being whipped away from his body.
The press and heat of many hobbits in the marketplace was a welcome change, his usual thoughts about the chaos aside. His first priorities were the items from Rosie's list, especially that cinnamon. His mouth watered as he thought of her cobbler; it was the best he'd ever had, and considering his aunt Esme's cobbler had won prizes in the Buckland fairs, that was saying a lot.
Rosie didn't like to make it often, said it spoiled the effect if you have it so frequently, but in this case Frodo persuaded her to make it in celebration of the announcement earlier in the week that she and Sam would be parents in the spring. She had known for a number of weeks, but persuaded Sam to keep quiet until she was sure she would not lose it, as sometimes happened without a clear reason. There would be a family meal for the Gamgees and the Cottons in a few days' time in honor of the occasion, and no doubt an even larger celebration would take place after she was successfully delivered.
Frodo had to admit to an ulterior motive in offering to go to the market: he wanted to look for something he could contribute for the babe. A toy, perhaps? But he wasn't satisfied with the wooden blocks or the carved animals on offer by the woodworker. Hair ribbons would be useless if it were a lad, as Rosie seemed to suspect (though how she guessed was beyond Frodo's comprehension). Cloth for clothes and baby blankets might be useful, especially that really soft, bright green flannel, but he knew nothing of clothes making and could not begin to guess how much was needed. He would tell Rosie about the cloth and let her do the purchasing.
Ah, well, he had several months yet, so he could keep looking, Frodo rationalized as he turned away from the dry goods vendor and resumed his shopping. His wandering had brought him close to the spices merchant, which had been his original goal. He breathed deeply of the mixed aromas, mentally identifying many of them -nutmeg, cinnamon, garlic, cloves. The reopening of the trade routes from Minas Tirith had done much to improve the varieties available, and he listened as the old hobbit woman tending the stand explained to a young lass what could be done with cardamom in the kitchen and as a healing herb.
While he waited for the old woman's attention, his eyes skimmed the colorful jars of yellow, green, red, black on the rack behind her, each one filled with a different spice or herb. He tried to guess why they were arranged in that order, since color evidently did not play a role, based on how the reds and yellows were scattered around the various shelves. Perhaps by use? Or primary use, anyway, since many had multiple uses, like the cardamom that the merchant was now bagging for the young lass. "Thank you, Mother," the lass said to the old woman as she paid and left.
Evidently Frodo was next in line, for the old woman turned and smiled toothlessly at him. "What'll it be for ye today?"
"Cinnamon, and two pounds of black tea please, ma'am."
"Call me Mother, lad," she said jovially. "How many sticks of cinnamon?" she asked, pulling the jar from its shelf.
Frodo considered a moment. He had no idea, so he'd better get several. "Four?"
He must have sounded as uncertain as he felt, for she chortled. "You ain't the one as normally does the shoppin', are ye? No matter, four's plenty for anything you could wish to be makin'. Do ye have a bag for the tea?"
"No, I'm sorry, I forgot to bring one."
"No matter, I always carry extras," she said, squatting and rummaging around beneath her table, then emerged with a burlap sack. She scooped the tea into the bowl on one side of her scale and set a weight on the other; when the two sides were balanced, she dumped the bowl's contents into the sack and started again. Two pounds measured, she tied off the sack with twine and handed it to him, followed by the smaller pouch of cinnamon sticks.
Frodo dropped several coins in her hand, more than was strictly necessary for what he'd bought, and said politely, "Thank you, Mother."
She eyed the coins and smiled widely at him again. "Come again anytime, lad!" she called after him.
Next on his list was a wheel of cheese. Cheese usually sold out rather early in the day, but while he enjoyed looking at the stacks of cheeses, Frodo didn't relish the thought of carrying the wheel with him while he finished his shopping. So he purchased the needed cheese and paid a lad who had been hanging around the stall to run it up to Bag End for him.
That finished, he attended to the last item on Rosie's list, a keg of ale. The merchant was a jolly old fellow, very eager to please, and Frodo had to turn down several offers of a larger keg for the same price -the size he was asking for was the only one that would fit on the keg stand in the cellar. At length and with some haggling, Frodo succeeded in buying the right size keg that would be delivered to Bag End the next day and the old cask would be taken away.
With his assigned errands done, Frodo saw to his personal list. He needed quills and ink, for his work on the Red Book consumed both in sizable quantities. The work was proceeding well, so he was eager to replenish his supplies and resume before the inspiration waned. Frodo was tempted by the books also in the shop, but resisted even touching them, knowing if he picked up even one, he might be in there all day.
Having secured his supplies, Frodo returned to the outdoor marketplace and browsed for a while, hoping for ideas for a gift for the coming babe, and absent-mindedly mulling over the next section of the story. He wandered aimlessly, letting the chatter wash over him without paying heed, until he thought he heard his name. He stopped and looked around, puzzled. In a moment, he was being clapped on the back by a panting Fatty. "Frodo, finally! I've been calling your name for at least ten minutes! I was beginning to wonder if you've gone deaf," he said with a breathless chuckle.
"Just not paying attention," Frodo replied wryly. "I hope I haven't caused you permanent harm."
"No, no, but I do insist you join me for lunch in exchange for my trouble," Fatty said, grinning.
"I do believe I have room in my schedule for lunch," Frodo said, returning the grin. "Where are we going, and who's paying?" he asked cheekily, and Fatty roared with laughter and steered Frodo toward the Ivy Bush.
The matron spotted them entering the large, warm common room and quickly settled them at a table near the roaring fireplace with mugs of ale and a promise of a hot, hearty meal coming right up. While they waited for their food and began nursing their ales, Frodo told Fatty of the recent goings-on at Bag End, including the pending arrival of Sam and Rosie's first bairn. "I'll have to drop by and congratulate them," Fatty commented.
Any further conversation on the topic was forestalled by the arrival of their food: steaming bowls of hearty soup, thick slices of bread, and a slab each of meatloaf. "Call if you need anything, lads," the matron instructed before leaving them to eat in peace. The common room was relatively quiet and fairly uninhabited, and for a time this pair was silent as well, devoting their attention to eating as hobbits usually do when food has just been laid before them.
Fatty was finished with his meal first, so Frodo asked about his family to keep Fatty talking while he finished his last bites. Fatty's parents were well, life was proceeding normally, and Estella was courting.
"Oh, really? Estella has finally settled her eye on a lad?" Frodo asked with interest, sitting back in his chair, his hunger satisfied.
"Has she ever! She lives for the days he can call on her."
"Do I know the lad?"
"Do you - do you know the lad?" Fatty sputtered, then began laughing uproariously, slapping his leg in merriment. "'Do I know the lad,' oh Frodo, that's a good one!" He continued laughing so hard he could not speak.
After several uncomfortable minutes, Frodo said irritably, "If you would let me in on the joke, I would be grateful."
With an effort, Fatty calmed down to a chuckle. "It's our cousin."
"We have quite a few cousins in common, if you'll care to remember." Frodo said, still irritated, "and I do not happen to be aware of any that are currently courting."
"He's probably too embarrassed to say anything yet. He did, after all, say once that the Brandywine would run dry before he would settle down and get married."
"Courting doesn't mean a wedding is right around the corner. Some hobbits court for years," Frodo reminded him.
Fatty shrugged. "I'm certain that Estella will make sure it won't last for years, but we'll see."
"So are you going to tell me who this mysterious lad is, or do I have to call on our relations until I find him?"
Fatty grinned, and waited to say anything until Frodo was taking a sip of ale. "Estella's suitor is Merry."
Frodo choked on the ale and nearly had it come out of his nose. "That wasn't fair," he griped, wiping his face as Fatty howled in laughter. "Merry? Really? I'm-"
"Shocked? Appalled? Horrified?" Fatty supplied with a wink.
"Surprised," Frodo finished. "But pleased. They would be a good match. I shall have to tease him mercilessly the next time I see him," Frodo said with a sly grin.
"The teasing is the best part for us spectators," Fatty agreed.
"How long have they been courting?"
"Officially it's been about a month. Merry was the picture of discomfort when he came to ask Father's permission to court Estella."
"I can well imagine! In his place, I would have been exceedingly nervous. Your father has quite a reputation of protecting Estella fiercely."
"That's true. I still remember him chasing off some lad from Frogmorton with a pitchfork."
"Will you be braving the anger of a lass' father anytime soon yourself?" Frodo asked curiously.
"No, not yet," Fatty said thoughtfully. "I have a few interests, but I need to know more for certain before I commit to courting any of them."
"That would be wise," Frodo agreed.
A comfortable silence fell; the matron stopped by to refill their mugs and remove their empty dishes, then returned with a generous slice of pecan pie for each of them to fill up the corners. Fatty attacked his with gusto, but Frodo ate his meditatively. When he was halfway finished, Fatty paused and said uncertainly, "I don't mean to pry, but what about you?"
"Will I ever marry, you mean?" Frodo said.
Fatty nodded, blushing, and stared at his pie rather than meet Frodo's gaze.
"No, I don't expect I will," Frodo answered frankly.
"That's what I assumed when you had Sam and Rosie move in to Bag End," Fatty admitted. "May I ask why?"
"You may ask, but the answer is more complicated than I think I can explain, or than I should explain in a public place," he said, vaguely waving a hand at the rest of the common room. "The easiest answer is that no lass would want me as I am, and I am too set in my old bachelor ways to accommodate a wife."
"I think you're selling yourself short, Frodo, but I won't try to persuade you," Fatty said, pushing his empty plate away from him and sitting back with a sigh. "I'll agree that the life of a bachelor has its attractions."
"You live with your parents. That is hardly the same," Frodo said with some amusement.
"I had a grand time at Crickhollow," Fatty said defensively. "Well, except for those black things creeping about the place, and everyone asking if I'd pitched you four in the Brandywine. . ."
"The Brandywine? I expected the Brandybucks would have thought you purposely let us get lost in the Old Forest. It's a much easier way to get rid of someone than trying to drown them in the river. Especially since Merry and Pippin and I can swim," Frodo replied.
Fatty shrugged. "There's no accounting for the lack of sense in some folk," he said dismissively. "Of course, I thought you lot lacked in sense to go into the Old Forest in the first place, but you obviously survived the experience, so I may not be the best judge of sense."
Frodo chuckled. "It is more intelligent to stay out of the Old Forest than to try to trek through it, as we realized. But we didn't have much choice, so we did what we could. I suspect your time at Crickhollow wasn't as grand as you claim, considering we came back to find you in the Lockholes."
"Oh, yes, that. That had nothing to do with Crickhollow and everything to do with Lotho, so it doesn't quite count."
"I see," Frodo said seriously. "You'll have to tell me sometime about what happened while we were gone. I've only gotten bits and snatches from the Gaffer and the Cottons. They haven't wanted to talk about it much."
"Much like you don't talk about what happened to you," Fatty noted. "But yes, sometime I'll tell you everything that I know of what happened, if you'll allow me to ask some questions in return."
"That would be fair," Frodo agreed.
"I'll write after Yule and we can set a day for our little chat. But for now I'm afraid I must be going. Ma needs the wagon back in time to go to tea in Frogmorton," Fatty said apologetically as he rose.
Frodo rose also. "It's no trouble. I need to be back by teatime with the few things Rosie needed. It was good to see you."
"It was good to see you, as well. I'll keep you up to date on Merry and Estella."
"Please do! Sam will no doubt enjoy any news, as well," Frodo said with a smile.
They paid and tipped the matron, then stopped short in the doorway. It was raining. Fatty turned to Frodo. "Would you like me to give you a ride home? I'm sure Ma wouldn't mind me being a few minutes late."
"No, but thank you. It's not raining very hard. I'll be fine," Frodo said, shrugging off his coat and wrapping his parcels in it to keep them dry.
Fatty eyed him uncertainly. "If you're certain . . ." he said doubtfully.
"I'm certain," Frodo insisted. "I'll walk fast."
"All right, but you catch your death of cold be sure to tell Sam and Rosie it's not my fault."
"I will," Frodo said with a smirk. They parted ways, and Frodo began the trudge back to Bag End. It really wasn't raining all that hard, but it was cold and it made short work of drenching his shirt. He was shivering by the time he reached the other side of Hobbiton. The leaves that had skittered across his path that morning were plastered to the ground and floating in new puddles that he didn't always notice before plunging in ankle deep.
To distract from his discomfort, he dwelled happily on thoughts of Merry courting Estella. Frodo hoped he could see them together, see if Merry felt the same about Estella as Fatty claimed Estella felt about Merry. At the very least he would question Merry closely about her, probably during Yule, since Merry had promised an invitation to Buckland for the Yule celebrations.
At length Frodo finally staggered up to Bag End's gate, his back aching from hunching over his bundle to protect it a little better from the rain. He went around to the back door so he wouldn't drip all over the front hallway. Rosie was in the kitchen when he opened the door and stamped his feet on the rug, water dripping from his hair and his clothes onto the floor. "Oh, look at you! You'll catch your death of cold, or at least a chill," Rosie fussed. "Stay right there, and I'll get you some towels."
Frodo nodded and stood patiently while she fetched towels and a change of clothes. Rosie took the bundle from him and placed it on the table, then gave him the towels. She stood off to the side while he stripped down to his drawers and had him give her the wet clothes to hang up. While she was out of the room, Frodo dried off and dressed in the clothes Rosie provided. He was toweling his hair when she returned.
"Sit by the fire and warm up, Mr. Frodo, you're still shivering," she said, shooing him toward the fireplace as she unwrapped his soggy coat from around the items he bought at market.
"Did everything stay dry?" he asked.
"Yes, it seems so. A little damp, perhaps, but that can be fixed."
"Good," he said, and sat back in the chair she had pulled over from the table for him. "Do you need me to do anything for you while I sit here?"
"If you'd help peel and core the apples, I'd be grateful."
"I would be happy to wield the peeling knife for you," Frodo said gallantly.
Rosie laughed. "Listening to you, I'd never guess you're looking forward to that cobbler," she said with a wink. She gave him the pail for the peelings, the basket of apples, and the small knife.
Frodo happily peeled and cored the crisp apples and dropped them into a pan of water for Rosie to slice when she was ready to make the cobbler. As he worked, he mused about Merry and Fatty and everything else. It was good to see life going on as it always has, hobbits marrying and having bairns, then the children growing up to start the cycle again. He was outside the cycle, and would be leaving this life entirely, but he appreciated knowing that it would continue long after he was gone. It was comforting.
Rosie stopped him before he absent-mindedly peeled the entire basket of apples and gave him a cup of tea to finish warming him up. It was cozy, sitting by the fire and having a cup of tea; the warmth cradled him and a sense of well-being filled him. He must have dozed off, for the next thing he was aware of was the smell of that wonderful apple cobbler baking.
Sam came home, the three of them ate a late dinner, then Rosie presented the cobbler and gave each of them a large helping. Frodo slowly savored each bite, satisfaction welling up and spilling over in an appreciation for friends and family. He was truly blessed.
Title: November
Rating: G
Characters: Frodo, Rosie, Fatty, Sam
Summary: Frodo takes care of some business and catches up with an old friend.
"It's no trouble, really. In fact, I insist."
"You sure it won't interfere with your writing or anything?" she eyed him doubtfully.
"I'm sure," he affirmed with a nod. "I need to do some thinking before I write any more, and the walk should do nicely."
"All right, then. Can you remember what to get?" He recited the list back to her, and she nodded. "Aye. Now be sure to remember that cinnamon if you want apple cobbler tonight."
"I won't forget," he said with a smile. Finishing his tea, he rose and carried his breakfast plate to the wash basin. Pausing to peer out the window, he saw with satisfaction the bright, welcoming day. The sun shone from a clear blue sky, and a light breeze sent the fallen leaves skittering across the grass.
Turning away and preparing to leave, he asked, "Will you need help hanging the bigger rugs?" She'd declared yesterday her intention to beat the rugs today, to take advantage of these last few days before winter roared in and made such activities impossible. The absence of the throw before his bed and now the bare floor of the hallway reminded him of this.
"No, thank you kindly. Sam hung them afore he left." Sam had departed earlier, to finish preparing the unplanted shoots to protect their fragile roots from the frost his Gaffer had predicted would come in a few short days. Then his efforts to replant the Shire would come to a halt as winter chill dug its fingers deep into the soil for the season. He would find something to do, of that Frodo was certain. Sam could not stand to pass time in idleness.
"What time do you need me back for the cobbler to be done for supper?" Frodo asked as he shrugged on his coat. The day looked warm enough that he was dispensing with his cloak -it only got in the way in the crowded market, anyway.
"By tea time ought to be enough," Rosie answered.
"I shall return by tea, then. Don't expect me for elevenses or lunch; I'll eat something while I'm out," he said, then shut the kitchen door behind him. He took a deep breath of the crisp air and smiled. It really was a beautiful day to be outdoors, despite it being November.
Frodo got as far as Bagshot Row before it was evident that the breeze was stronger than it had initially appeared, and the bright sunshine disguised a deceptively chilly day. He should have brought his cloak, but he didn't want to go back and get it. Frodo hunched his shoulders against the wind and forged onward, picking up his pace to generate heat to replace what was being whipped away from his body.
The press and heat of many hobbits in the marketplace was a welcome change, his usual thoughts about the chaos aside. His first priorities were the items from Rosie's list, especially that cinnamon. His mouth watered as he thought of her cobbler; it was the best he'd ever had, and considering his aunt Esme's cobbler had won prizes in the Buckland fairs, that was saying a lot.
Rosie didn't like to make it often, said it spoiled the effect if you have it so frequently, but in this case Frodo persuaded her to make it in celebration of the announcement earlier in the week that she and Sam would be parents in the spring. She had known for a number of weeks, but persuaded Sam to keep quiet until she was sure she would not lose it, as sometimes happened without a clear reason. There would be a family meal for the Gamgees and the Cottons in a few days' time in honor of the occasion, and no doubt an even larger celebration would take place after she was successfully delivered.
Frodo had to admit to an ulterior motive in offering to go to the market: he wanted to look for something he could contribute for the babe. A toy, perhaps? But he wasn't satisfied with the wooden blocks or the carved animals on offer by the woodworker. Hair ribbons would be useless if it were a lad, as Rosie seemed to suspect (though how she guessed was beyond Frodo's comprehension). Cloth for clothes and baby blankets might be useful, especially that really soft, bright green flannel, but he knew nothing of clothes making and could not begin to guess how much was needed. He would tell Rosie about the cloth and let her do the purchasing.
Ah, well, he had several months yet, so he could keep looking, Frodo rationalized as he turned away from the dry goods vendor and resumed his shopping. His wandering had brought him close to the spices merchant, which had been his original goal. He breathed deeply of the mixed aromas, mentally identifying many of them -nutmeg, cinnamon, garlic, cloves. The reopening of the trade routes from Minas Tirith had done much to improve the varieties available, and he listened as the old hobbit woman tending the stand explained to a young lass what could be done with cardamom in the kitchen and as a healing herb.
While he waited for the old woman's attention, his eyes skimmed the colorful jars of yellow, green, red, black on the rack behind her, each one filled with a different spice or herb. He tried to guess why they were arranged in that order, since color evidently did not play a role, based on how the reds and yellows were scattered around the various shelves. Perhaps by use? Or primary use, anyway, since many had multiple uses, like the cardamom that the merchant was now bagging for the young lass. "Thank you, Mother," the lass said to the old woman as she paid and left.
Evidently Frodo was next in line, for the old woman turned and smiled toothlessly at him. "What'll it be for ye today?"
"Cinnamon, and two pounds of black tea please, ma'am."
"Call me Mother, lad," she said jovially. "How many sticks of cinnamon?" she asked, pulling the jar from its shelf.
Frodo considered a moment. He had no idea, so he'd better get several. "Four?"
He must have sounded as uncertain as he felt, for she chortled. "You ain't the one as normally does the shoppin', are ye? No matter, four's plenty for anything you could wish to be makin'. Do ye have a bag for the tea?"
"No, I'm sorry, I forgot to bring one."
"No matter, I always carry extras," she said, squatting and rummaging around beneath her table, then emerged with a burlap sack. She scooped the tea into the bowl on one side of her scale and set a weight on the other; when the two sides were balanced, she dumped the bowl's contents into the sack and started again. Two pounds measured, she tied off the sack with twine and handed it to him, followed by the smaller pouch of cinnamon sticks.
Frodo dropped several coins in her hand, more than was strictly necessary for what he'd bought, and said politely, "Thank you, Mother."
She eyed the coins and smiled widely at him again. "Come again anytime, lad!" she called after him.
Next on his list was a wheel of cheese. Cheese usually sold out rather early in the day, but while he enjoyed looking at the stacks of cheeses, Frodo didn't relish the thought of carrying the wheel with him while he finished his shopping. So he purchased the needed cheese and paid a lad who had been hanging around the stall to run it up to Bag End for him.
That finished, he attended to the last item on Rosie's list, a keg of ale. The merchant was a jolly old fellow, very eager to please, and Frodo had to turn down several offers of a larger keg for the same price -the size he was asking for was the only one that would fit on the keg stand in the cellar. At length and with some haggling, Frodo succeeded in buying the right size keg that would be delivered to Bag End the next day and the old cask would be taken away.
With his assigned errands done, Frodo saw to his personal list. He needed quills and ink, for his work on the Red Book consumed both in sizable quantities. The work was proceeding well, so he was eager to replenish his supplies and resume before the inspiration waned. Frodo was tempted by the books also in the shop, but resisted even touching them, knowing if he picked up even one, he might be in there all day.
Having secured his supplies, Frodo returned to the outdoor marketplace and browsed for a while, hoping for ideas for a gift for the coming babe, and absent-mindedly mulling over the next section of the story. He wandered aimlessly, letting the chatter wash over him without paying heed, until he thought he heard his name. He stopped and looked around, puzzled. In a moment, he was being clapped on the back by a panting Fatty. "Frodo, finally! I've been calling your name for at least ten minutes! I was beginning to wonder if you've gone deaf," he said with a breathless chuckle.
"Just not paying attention," Frodo replied wryly. "I hope I haven't caused you permanent harm."
"No, no, but I do insist you join me for lunch in exchange for my trouble," Fatty said, grinning.
"I do believe I have room in my schedule for lunch," Frodo said, returning the grin. "Where are we going, and who's paying?" he asked cheekily, and Fatty roared with laughter and steered Frodo toward the Ivy Bush.
The matron spotted them entering the large, warm common room and quickly settled them at a table near the roaring fireplace with mugs of ale and a promise of a hot, hearty meal coming right up. While they waited for their food and began nursing their ales, Frodo told Fatty of the recent goings-on at Bag End, including the pending arrival of Sam and Rosie's first bairn. "I'll have to drop by and congratulate them," Fatty commented.
Any further conversation on the topic was forestalled by the arrival of their food: steaming bowls of hearty soup, thick slices of bread, and a slab each of meatloaf. "Call if you need anything, lads," the matron instructed before leaving them to eat in peace. The common room was relatively quiet and fairly uninhabited, and for a time this pair was silent as well, devoting their attention to eating as hobbits usually do when food has just been laid before them.
Fatty was finished with his meal first, so Frodo asked about his family to keep Fatty talking while he finished his last bites. Fatty's parents were well, life was proceeding normally, and Estella was courting.
"Oh, really? Estella has finally settled her eye on a lad?" Frodo asked with interest, sitting back in his chair, his hunger satisfied.
"Has she ever! She lives for the days he can call on her."
"Do I know the lad?"
"Do you - do you know the lad?" Fatty sputtered, then began laughing uproariously, slapping his leg in merriment. "'Do I know the lad,' oh Frodo, that's a good one!" He continued laughing so hard he could not speak.
After several uncomfortable minutes, Frodo said irritably, "If you would let me in on the joke, I would be grateful."
With an effort, Fatty calmed down to a chuckle. "It's our cousin."
"We have quite a few cousins in common, if you'll care to remember." Frodo said, still irritated, "and I do not happen to be aware of any that are currently courting."
"He's probably too embarrassed to say anything yet. He did, after all, say once that the Brandywine would run dry before he would settle down and get married."
"Courting doesn't mean a wedding is right around the corner. Some hobbits court for years," Frodo reminded him.
Fatty shrugged. "I'm certain that Estella will make sure it won't last for years, but we'll see."
"So are you going to tell me who this mysterious lad is, or do I have to call on our relations until I find him?"
Fatty grinned, and waited to say anything until Frodo was taking a sip of ale. "Estella's suitor is Merry."
Frodo choked on the ale and nearly had it come out of his nose. "That wasn't fair," he griped, wiping his face as Fatty howled in laughter. "Merry? Really? I'm-"
"Shocked? Appalled? Horrified?" Fatty supplied with a wink.
"Surprised," Frodo finished. "But pleased. They would be a good match. I shall have to tease him mercilessly the next time I see him," Frodo said with a sly grin.
"The teasing is the best part for us spectators," Fatty agreed.
"How long have they been courting?"
"Officially it's been about a month. Merry was the picture of discomfort when he came to ask Father's permission to court Estella."
"I can well imagine! In his place, I would have been exceedingly nervous. Your father has quite a reputation of protecting Estella fiercely."
"That's true. I still remember him chasing off some lad from Frogmorton with a pitchfork."
"Will you be braving the anger of a lass' father anytime soon yourself?" Frodo asked curiously.
"No, not yet," Fatty said thoughtfully. "I have a few interests, but I need to know more for certain before I commit to courting any of them."
"That would be wise," Frodo agreed.
A comfortable silence fell; the matron stopped by to refill their mugs and remove their empty dishes, then returned with a generous slice of pecan pie for each of them to fill up the corners. Fatty attacked his with gusto, but Frodo ate his meditatively. When he was halfway finished, Fatty paused and said uncertainly, "I don't mean to pry, but what about you?"
"Will I ever marry, you mean?" Frodo said.
Fatty nodded, blushing, and stared at his pie rather than meet Frodo's gaze.
"No, I don't expect I will," Frodo answered frankly.
"That's what I assumed when you had Sam and Rosie move in to Bag End," Fatty admitted. "May I ask why?"
"You may ask, but the answer is more complicated than I think I can explain, or than I should explain in a public place," he said, vaguely waving a hand at the rest of the common room. "The easiest answer is that no lass would want me as I am, and I am too set in my old bachelor ways to accommodate a wife."
"I think you're selling yourself short, Frodo, but I won't try to persuade you," Fatty said, pushing his empty plate away from him and sitting back with a sigh. "I'll agree that the life of a bachelor has its attractions."
"You live with your parents. That is hardly the same," Frodo said with some amusement.
"I had a grand time at Crickhollow," Fatty said defensively. "Well, except for those black things creeping about the place, and everyone asking if I'd pitched you four in the Brandywine. . ."
"The Brandywine? I expected the Brandybucks would have thought you purposely let us get lost in the Old Forest. It's a much easier way to get rid of someone than trying to drown them in the river. Especially since Merry and Pippin and I can swim," Frodo replied.
Fatty shrugged. "There's no accounting for the lack of sense in some folk," he said dismissively. "Of course, I thought you lot lacked in sense to go into the Old Forest in the first place, but you obviously survived the experience, so I may not be the best judge of sense."
Frodo chuckled. "It is more intelligent to stay out of the Old Forest than to try to trek through it, as we realized. But we didn't have much choice, so we did what we could. I suspect your time at Crickhollow wasn't as grand as you claim, considering we came back to find you in the Lockholes."
"Oh, yes, that. That had nothing to do with Crickhollow and everything to do with Lotho, so it doesn't quite count."
"I see," Frodo said seriously. "You'll have to tell me sometime about what happened while we were gone. I've only gotten bits and snatches from the Gaffer and the Cottons. They haven't wanted to talk about it much."
"Much like you don't talk about what happened to you," Fatty noted. "But yes, sometime I'll tell you everything that I know of what happened, if you'll allow me to ask some questions in return."
"That would be fair," Frodo agreed.
"I'll write after Yule and we can set a day for our little chat. But for now I'm afraid I must be going. Ma needs the wagon back in time to go to tea in Frogmorton," Fatty said apologetically as he rose.
Frodo rose also. "It's no trouble. I need to be back by teatime with the few things Rosie needed. It was good to see you."
"It was good to see you, as well. I'll keep you up to date on Merry and Estella."
"Please do! Sam will no doubt enjoy any news, as well," Frodo said with a smile.
They paid and tipped the matron, then stopped short in the doorway. It was raining. Fatty turned to Frodo. "Would you like me to give you a ride home? I'm sure Ma wouldn't mind me being a few minutes late."
"No, but thank you. It's not raining very hard. I'll be fine," Frodo said, shrugging off his coat and wrapping his parcels in it to keep them dry.
Fatty eyed him uncertainly. "If you're certain . . ." he said doubtfully.
"I'm certain," Frodo insisted. "I'll walk fast."
"All right, but you catch your death of cold be sure to tell Sam and Rosie it's not my fault."
"I will," Frodo said with a smirk. They parted ways, and Frodo began the trudge back to Bag End. It really wasn't raining all that hard, but it was cold and it made short work of drenching his shirt. He was shivering by the time he reached the other side of Hobbiton. The leaves that had skittered across his path that morning were plastered to the ground and floating in new puddles that he didn't always notice before plunging in ankle deep.
To distract from his discomfort, he dwelled happily on thoughts of Merry courting Estella. Frodo hoped he could see them together, see if Merry felt the same about Estella as Fatty claimed Estella felt about Merry. At the very least he would question Merry closely about her, probably during Yule, since Merry had promised an invitation to Buckland for the Yule celebrations.
At length Frodo finally staggered up to Bag End's gate, his back aching from hunching over his bundle to protect it a little better from the rain. He went around to the back door so he wouldn't drip all over the front hallway. Rosie was in the kitchen when he opened the door and stamped his feet on the rug, water dripping from his hair and his clothes onto the floor. "Oh, look at you! You'll catch your death of cold, or at least a chill," Rosie fussed. "Stay right there, and I'll get you some towels."
Frodo nodded and stood patiently while she fetched towels and a change of clothes. Rosie took the bundle from him and placed it on the table, then gave him the towels. She stood off to the side while he stripped down to his drawers and had him give her the wet clothes to hang up. While she was out of the room, Frodo dried off and dressed in the clothes Rosie provided. He was toweling his hair when she returned.
"Sit by the fire and warm up, Mr. Frodo, you're still shivering," she said, shooing him toward the fireplace as she unwrapped his soggy coat from around the items he bought at market.
"Did everything stay dry?" he asked.
"Yes, it seems so. A little damp, perhaps, but that can be fixed."
"Good," he said, and sat back in the chair she had pulled over from the table for him. "Do you need me to do anything for you while I sit here?"
"If you'd help peel and core the apples, I'd be grateful."
"I would be happy to wield the peeling knife for you," Frodo said gallantly.
Rosie laughed. "Listening to you, I'd never guess you're looking forward to that cobbler," she said with a wink. She gave him the pail for the peelings, the basket of apples, and the small knife.
Frodo happily peeled and cored the crisp apples and dropped them into a pan of water for Rosie to slice when she was ready to make the cobbler. As he worked, he mused about Merry and Fatty and everything else. It was good to see life going on as it always has, hobbits marrying and having bairns, then the children growing up to start the cycle again. He was outside the cycle, and would be leaving this life entirely, but he appreciated knowing that it would continue long after he was gone. It was comforting.
Rosie stopped him before he absent-mindedly peeled the entire basket of apples and gave him a cup of tea to finish warming him up. It was cozy, sitting by the fire and having a cup of tea; the warmth cradled him and a sense of well-being filled him. He must have dozed off, for the next thing he was aware of was the smell of that wonderful apple cobbler baking.
Sam came home, the three of them ate a late dinner, then Rosie presented the cobbler and gave each of them a large helping. Frodo slowly savored each bite, satisfaction welling up and spilling over in an appreciation for friends and family. He was truly blessed.