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Chapter Text

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand… there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.”
—J.R.R. Tolkein

“Some wounds never vanish, yet little by little, I learned to love my life.”
—Mary Oliver

Marigold Gamgee had always done everything exceptionally well. To be good, thorough and useful: that was the path for the youngest child of a large and hardly well-to-do family, or so she had gathered early on. From her days as a lass tending to her siblings’ bumps and scrapes, to folding her father’s napkins as the only child, at thirty-five, who had not yet married or gone off to parts unknown, there was nothing Marigold did halfway. In all her life she had given up on just one thing.

When it happened, the midwife, Mrs. Bracegirdle, lost no time in telling the Gaffer – in the middle of the market, and within earshot of half of Hobbiton – that her last apprentice, Marigold Gamgee, had been the biggest disappointment she had ever known, and if all he did was marry her off, consigning her to a life of cooking and wet nappies, he would be the biggest idiot in all the four farthings (1). The Gaffer scratched his head and forgot her words just as soon, except to complain to the other gaffers at the pub of the time it took to educate a healer, all gone to the dogs. But Sam, once he got back from his adventure, had set the gears in his mind to turning.

Sam quickly observed that Marigold still did her work with speed and efficiency: nimble fingers pressing gauze onto wounds and spoonfuls up to lips as she tended the wounded in the Scouring of the Shire – and this being fresh out of the Lockholes herself. She was more subdued than her usual, but she was still her hardworking, earnest self, particularly as she ate and gained back her charms. So the fact that she refused to work for Mrs. Bracegirdle, or for Dr. Boffin who sought to poach her as an apprentice, seemed to her brother passing strange.

Sam had always been shy around lasses, even his own sisters, so at first, he puzzled long and hard how to ask her what went wrong. But in the end, they settled on a wordless understanding: she would tell him when the time was right. And then Mr. Frodo had offered Sam and Rosie to come live with him at Bag End, to which Sam and Rosie had replied that they couldn’t possibly accept such an honor, and then the three hobbits had gone back and forth like passing a cup of tea between them until it turned to steam. In the end, however, a compromise was reached. That compromise was Marigold.

“You’re a right capable lass, Mari,” Sam had said as she cleared up after supper, the two of them staying back as the rest of the family, a rambunctious group, had scattered to perform their evening ablutions. It was a routine they had settled into after Sam’s return. “I know it didn’t turn out as planned, that midwifery work of yours, but there’s still a great deal you can do with yourself.” 

Bit by bit, Sam explained what happened to him and Frodo in their travels, and what would be expected of her now. And Marigold had acquiesced quite easily – too easily. In retrospect, she ought to have been put out, for they had decided everything ahead of time. But she was not.

She had “met” Frodo Baggins when she was but a wee lass, some time after he moved to Hobbiton to live with Mr. Bilbo from a place called “Buck-Land.” She had known of him before, but tied to her mother’s apron-strings as she was, and occupied in learning her letters by drawing them in the sand with Sam, she paid little mind to the new young master.

One day, however, she had strayed from her playfellows, a little older by then and allowed to go farther away from home. She had taken it into her head to climb a tree and see all the way to Eastfarthing, and perhaps beyond. For Sam was coming back from lessons with Mr. Bilbo with odd words on his tongue – place-names that weren’t easy to say or remember, but that whispered like the wind and danced like the fireflies on a summer evening.

It was, as she recalled, a linden tree that she climbed.

She climbed nearly to the top, singing a song about the love of a Tookland lad – a cautionary tale of the places he would take your heart, learned from her sisters – when all of a sudden the branch under her went “snap” and the leaves around her began to move, all upward. Before she knew it, she had hit the ground, a white-hot pain slicing through her leg. Her vision went white as well.

When she came to, her leg still hurt, and so did her head. But she was being lifted up by a pair of strong arms.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” The voice was not immediately familiar, though not wholly strange. She had heard it in the past, in polite greetings and in kind comments on a fun game, a pretty dress, or a ball returned to the snot-nosed bairns of Bagshot Row. The accent was strange – more rolling and languorous than most hobbits she knew, but each word was carefully measured.

He spoke to her like she was his own.

“Let’s get you home.”

The hobbit’s chest was clad in soft linen. His body was warm and smelled clean, mixed with the smell of pipeweed and of something else nice: not tree bark or leather, but a softer cousin of the two. She looked up, and through the white-hot pain, she saw a pair of blue eyes, dark hair, and a tall, well-etched nose and cheeks. She wondered if the being was a hobbit after all, or perhaps an elf from Mr. Bilbo’s stories.

He took her home, and her family met them teary-eyed at the gate of Number Three, for they were at their wits’ end.

Ever since that day, Mr. Frodo began to visit the Gamgees often. Marigold, too, would come to Bag End and bring her father and Sam their luncheons. They all became good neighbors and friends, and the story of how Mari met Mr. Frodo by falling out of a tree became a jolly good joke to both the families.

In retrospect, as Marigold learned about the hobbit body, it struck her as strange that in a moment of pain she could remember such details so clearly. She thought back to that moment many times, as others spoke of Mr. Frodo as being odd, fey, and much too given to reading books and wandering far from home. Too often, she wanted to defend him, but she was by nature shy and retiring, and she never could find the words.

She thought of it even now, as she stood outside Bag End, having arrived some minutes early as was her custom. She liked to catch her breath before starting a new task. But it would not do to dream when there was work to be done. So she squared her shoulders, adjusted her bag, and put on a smile as she knocked on the round green door.

(1) This is a reference to the movie The Devil Wears Prada. When the main character, Andy, is interviewed for a new job, her new employer states, “I got a fax from Miranda Priestly herself... saying that of all the assistants she's ever had... you were, by far, her biggest disappointment. And, if I don't hire you, I am an idiot. You must have done something right.” In both Andy and Marigold's case, their mentors have high opinions of them, but describe them as a "disappointment."

Chapter Text

Frodo had changed over the years, becoming more solitary and serious, and his slow drift away from others had started long before the quest. When he returned, he was even more that way: unfailingly polite but distant, and with a sunken, sullen look that put most other hobbits off. 

Sam had told her that Frodo was tired. She had not realized how tired – for she had not seen him during his tenure as Deputy Mayor.

It took a good minute for her knock to be answered, and the hobbit that opened the door looked much older than the one who left – older, even, than the one who returned. His face was sallow and his eyes were dark rimmed.

“Good morning, Marigold.” 

Beyond the door, the air was close. It was nearly noon, but it was dim, and the shutters had not been opened.

“So good of you to come,” he said, with an effort at warmth in his eyes.

His voice was the same, but quieter and slower. Voices never really changed past a certain age, unless the hobbit in question had indulged in too much pipeweed.

“Not at all, Mr. Frodo, not at all,” Marigold nodded. “We’ve all been very busy, but it’s been far too long.”

She looked at him bravely, with all the milk of hobbit kindness in the apples of her cheeks. But as they entered the parlor, her words blocked her throat like an underdone potato.

“I am sorry, Mari,” he sighed. “It’s probably more than you expected.”

The furnishings were more sparse than before, though this was not surprising, since the looting left many hobbit holes bare. 

But the heavy wooden table was heaped with papers, books, and inexplicably, laundry. Cold embers lay upon the fire, and the poker, shovel, brush and bellows had fallen where they may. A greasy plate and empty glass sat by the armchair, a fly circling the dregs of wine. The piles of books were not per se new, but the large, half-unpacked trunks certainly were, and they lay about, abandoned and collecting dust.

“Mr. Frodo—”

How in the Shire?!

Had he not told her brother the full extent of things? Had Sam not seen this? Perhaps Sam could be forgiven – with his recent marriage, Frodo had encouraged him to take a leave of absence from Bag End, and with the rebuilding of the Shire there was an endless stream of things to do, with everyone looking to the saviors of Hobbit-kind for guidance.

But no. This was Sam. Sam would never stay away for long. More than likely, he knew everything full well, and had wanted to spare her feelings. In which case, he had done a terrible job. 

For the Frodo she knew, even in his slowly withdrawing days, had been house-proud, if not fastidiously neat. He enjoyed a comfortable parlor and a dinner table ready to serve food at any time. His fire-grate was always clean, and there was always a kettle on in the kitchen for master and visitors alike.

Frodo looked down and rubbed his fingers on his palm – his left one. His right hand was hidden in his pocket.

“Mr. Frodo,” Marigold finally ventured, “Begging your pardon, but are you ill?”

“I… well…”

The words hung in the air, and at length Frodo shook his head.

“Forgive me,” he said, and stepped toward her, reaching for her bag. He moved more slowly than she recalled – more slowly than was natural.

“I should offer you something to eat and drink before you start work,” he said, looking apologetic indeed. “But I haven’t been to the market yet, so I’m afraid I only have… Yes, Sam mentioned I was looking a little ill.” 

His hand was still extended, but she found herself stepping away.

“Mr. Frodo, you look more than a little ill, if I may say so myself…”

She noticed a spasm around his eyes, and instantly regretted her words. Frantically, she tried to calculate how badly she had hurt him – but beyond the initial pang, his face was undisturbed. So she swallowed her apology and extended her bag, which he took, and she got a closer look at his right hand.

It did not look ruined, just uncanny. As if someone had tried to make a finger and then given up. 

He slung the bag over his shoulder, and nodded at her to follow him into the kitchen.

The kitchen revealed a similar state of disuse as Frodo rummaged for the dishes and started a fire. Dust had gathered in the corners of the room, and there was a pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. Frodo’s movements were effortful, and not particularly smooth: he was working double time simply to keep up. Marigold sat uncomfortably at the table, and was torn between pity and sadness, and both wanting and not wanting to ask.

But in the end, the businesslike, erstwhile apprentice midwife won out.

“Mr. Frodo, you really needn’t trouble yourself on my account,” she said. “And if you don’t have much to eat, then I can go to the market for us later.”

She bit her lip, for until recently, such words were an anathema for a hobbit to utter.

But Frodo turned around, and while he did not smile, there was a warmth in his sad eyes.

He shook his head, and said, “No, Marigold, that isn’t in your job description.”

And Marigold raised her eyebrows in mock-mirth.

“Oh? It’s not? Then we had better talk about what is in my job descrip-shun, sir, for Sam said a very different thing.”

She cocked her head, and after some moments, she gained the upper hand.

The water in the kettle begun to churn, just shy of boiling, and Frodo lifted it from its place, pouring her a cup. He then reached for the teapot, only to realize that the tea-leaves were at least a day old. He sighed, but also half-smiled.

“Ah, yes. Sam. What did he tell you?”

Marigold straightened up.

“Well,” she said, with a mock-self-important air, “Sam told me that there is nothing that is not in my job descrip-shun. He told me that I am to do everything for you, even the things you don’t ask for, and even if you say it’s too much.”

She paused, for Frodo had his head down, and was quite consumed by scooping leaves from the pot. 

“But of course, if you forbid me to do something,” she added, “then I am to respect that, though you wouldn’t stop me from going to the market, would you?”

She cocked her head, smiling winsomely.

She was starting to feel quite pleased with herself. She had acted like the best friend’s sister, and the gamble had paid off.

Frodo shrugged.

“Well, I suppose not,” he said, still oddly interested in the flotsam at the bottom of the pot.

“Alright then,” Marigold returned, pulling her bag toward her. “Then we had better make a list, and then I can get started.”

Chapter Text

Sam’s other motive had not been lost on Frodo. In fact, Frodo tut-tutted to himself, leave it to Sam to leave such an obvious trail of hints. He had sent his earnest, pretty younger sister to serve as Frodo’s housekeeper, cook, and when needed nurse, in hopes that her gentle ministrations would coax him back to health, and even if he did not marry or beget a brood of children, he would still live out his days in relative contentment.

Simple, no? The plans of hobbits were never complex affairs, and the Gamgees were no exception in this regard.

But he was Frodo Baggins, and “simple” was not in his fate’s vocabulary.

He understood Sam, of course – Sam was, as like as not, in the highest heights of Valinor after having wed Rosie, and wanted to spread the boons of female companionship. He was also repaying Frodo in kind for the time that he, Frodo, had bodily shoved a younger and more bashful Sam into Rosie’s arms.

But whether Sam intended this or not, his act was a repeat performance of several years ago, when Bilbo first disappeared, and before Frodo took up his mantle of oddity.

It was the autumn of his thirty-third birthday, and no sooner had the hullabaloo of Bilbo’s long-expected party settled down, when a string of mommas and their recently-of-age daughters began to appear on his doorstep, bearing homemade dishes of every kind and lamenting how hard it must have been for the Master of Bag End to be all along in his large smial, and for his uncle to have disappeared in such a bizarre manner.

They all were nice enough lasses, except for the ones who looked at Bag End like it was already their property. But none of them had much beyond food and domesticity on their minds, and like the majority of hobbits past a certain age, their eyes glazed over when matters beyond the Shire were discussed. The more polite and motivated ones tried to hide it, but by the time he came of age, Frodo was a passing fair judge of character. So he acted charming, served afternoon tea, and sent them on their way. Eventually, they stopped coming, and he breathed a sigh of relief, for he no longer needed to scratch his head at how to dispose of dozens of pies, without – the anathema! – wasting food or risking the pies’ originators finding out.

That felt like a thousand years ago.

But the unnatural privations of the quest aside, Frodo was still a red-blooded hobbit, and he did have shame (a great deal of it, in fact), so the arrival of a pretty lass upended things not a little. He now would scrape himself out of bed, and he changed his clothes and bathed, which before he only did when he went out, which was no longer often. It annoyed him and felt awfully dull: for if months ago he was merely tired, now there was an ache in his chest that never went away. His feelings, stale and sad, draped over him like a wet cloak. At times he wept, and wished he could stay in bed all day. But he knew by now that it never brought him any solace.

But it was not all bad, he realized after a while. For in the space of a week, he and Marigold had fallen into a routine. They unpacked two trunks, and Marigold did some superficial sweeping. The deep-clean would come later, she insisted, once the clutter was more at bay. And suddenly, the fireplace was being swept, the laundry sorted, the larders filled, and the dishes washed. The stews were no longer a ghastly concoction of day-old leftovers, and Sam was coming over regularly as well, gardening and sharing their meals, and thankfully kept the conversation light and the encouragement plentiful.

And Marigold noticed things, too. For instance, she noticed that he did not like to open the shutters, and sat far away from the windows whenever he could. When she did open the shutters, the noises from the outside made him tense, and it was not easy to hide, try as he might to breathe as slowly and as deeply as he could, like the elven healers had taught him.

Marigold made no mention that she noticed, of course. She was discrete that way, and it was one of her better qualities. Instead, she simply asked, “Mr. Frodo, have you ever thought of getting eaves? They’ll keep the sun form shinin’ too bright, and keep the nice furni-shins from losing color, if you follow me, without making it black as night. And they’ll keep the curious folk from peeping in, of course.”

And Frodo breathed a sigh, for there never were any eaves at Bag End, but it was a very natural thing to have. So they lost no time in commissioning curtains from Michel Delving, and Sam put them up as soon as they arrived.

In fact, Marigold still had an artlessness about her, even if grown and trained into a trade. And ordinarily this would have amused him – if amusement was not an emotion like a broken string.

“Lor’ bless me, Mr. Frodo, these are not all clothes!” Marigold exclaimed when they got to the trunks that contained his wardrobe – and Bilbo’s before him.

She then looked away and bit her knuckle, like a child caught stealing dessert. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean–” 

But Frodo shook his head, coming over and kneeling by her side.

“No – no need to be sorry,” he said. “Most of these are Bilbo’s.” He remembered being amazed himself that Bilbo had several rooms devoted to clothes.

He fingered an embroidered waistcoat, thinking of the old hobbit. 

“I couldn’t bring myself to give them away, you know,” he said. “So I have been lugging them around from place to place. They probably don’t even fit me.”

Marigold herself, he already noticed, had only three dresses, and one looked like it was made “to grow into,” the hem let out several times. But when she beheld Bilbo’s clothes, he saw no envy in her manner – none of the envy that, in other hobbits, might have induced him to clear his throat and fumble for euphemisms like “comfortable.”

Instead, she took out a dinner-jacket and held it up to the light, running her fingers over the cross-hatched stitching. She looked like she had been allowed to touch an exhibit at the Mathom House.

“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, “we had better pre-serve them, if you get my meaning.” She placed the jacket on the dinner table, smoothing the fabric. “It’s gotten creased from lying folded up so long, begging your pardon. But I know just the thing.” 

Frodo had devolved into memories of Bilbo, feeling sick at heart, and looked up only reluctantly. His poor old uncle’s mind was growing addled, and he did not even write letters anymore.

“Steam,” Marigold said simply. 

“Steam?”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded. “It releases wrinkles – all that’s needed is some gentle pulling.” She smoothed her hands over the fabric a final time. “If you don’t mind, I’ll unpack these, and then I’ll need to take the bathroom for a spell. It will take a might of boiling water, but the creases should come out, and then we can hang them up nice and neat.”

Frodo nodded, and replied that he did not mind. A part of him wondered why he did not hire a housekeeper sooner

She was, indeed, a delightful, resourceful creature. The hobbit-hole was growing brighter with her presence. But suddenly, he wished to be left alone. She seemed to sense that, and set to work without another word.

Marigold cooked expertly, too, and made herself at home in the kitchen with the enthusiasm of any hobbit maid. But soon enough, this also proved a problem.

The Hobbits were not the most technologically advanced lot, but when it came to cooking, they had more appetite for innovation than most. Enter, to that end, the whistling kettle: an excellent way to know, from the other end of a sizable hobbit-hole, that the tea was ready to be brewed. Prior to the quest, Frodo had procured this new-fangled contraption at some expense from the dwarves, and being careful with his money, he did not have the heart to make it a mathom when he returned to the Shire, only to realize that the kettle’s whistle sounded, chillingly, like a Nazgûl cry. At first, he tried to pry out the mechanism with his fingers, but to no avail – they were to stubby. He then tried to ignore it, but it threw him into a cold sweat every time. At one point, his vision actually went dark and he saw the armor and the hoods of his nightmares.

He had climbed Mount Doom, and taken on sword, sting and tooth, only to be undone by a singing tea kettle. The irony was too painful for words.

Eventually, he tried to go without tea altogether – for getting another kettle meant going out, and he hated the idea. Once upon a time, the other wealthy hobbits had learned of his acquisition, and they wanted to have the same, so he brokered a deal between the dwarves and the local metalsmith, who put the kettles up for sale. The metalsmith would not have forgotten Frodo’s role in the affair, so undoubtedly he would be curious why, suddenly, Mr. Baggins wanted a plain kettle. But then, Frodo learned that he easily got cold, and warm drinks settled him down and made him feel less restless. In the end, he did not to forego his favorite comfort, though he did neglect the pot from time to time, and he took up waiting in the kitchen and snatching up the kettle the exact moment the water began to churn.

Marigold’s arrival would complicate things a bit.

The kitchen was now her domain, and beyond showing her where everything was, he had little reason to be there. He considered giving the kitchen a wide berth, but this would not look natural either. And yet if he happened to come too close at the wrong time…

In the end, he explained that he was particular about making tea himself, and that the special dwarrow kettle was for tea and nothing else. (At times, a reputation for being odd was quite convenient). Marigold certainly accepted the circumstance without question, so every day prior to their afternoon tea, or whenever he felt like a spot of something warm, he would join her in the kitchen.

He soon found out that pretending to read and watching her work, bustling about by the hearth, was calming in a way. She did not hum or sing like many other hobbits, but the clop-clop of the knife, the rustle of herbs and the clink of plates was conversation enough. Just like Sam, she was unassuming and easy to be with.

In their early days, Marigold would often go walking with the two of them when Sam was called upon to mind her. She was well behaved but shy: more eyes and ears than mouth, they said of hobbits like her. But to hear Sam tell it, she also had some mettle on her, and took out a chunk of his leg when the two were very young. As she grew older, Marigold stayed reticent, but apprenticeship had settled well on her, and she grew more cheerful every year. By now, she was better at standing up straight, and took charge easily. He wagered she knew how to talk to anyone now, soothing them and convincing them that all was well.

Well, almost anyone. He felt that if he took one wrong step, she would go running back to Bagshot Row, never to speak to him again.

Though, would she?

He watched her deftly chop the carrots, fingers curled away from the knife. A girl grown up, her home razed and trampled over, tending to soldiers and now caring for him – a broken-down veteran, if you like. She had been in the Lockholes when he liberated the prisoners, and emerged looking certainly worse for wear. Not unlike him and Sam, lying on a rock amid flows of lava, waiting for the world to end. They were, each and every one of them, forever changed.

But like many other clever, artless people, Marigold did not seem to dwell on things too much. Rather, she was inquisitive, and her questions were not long in coming.

“Mr. Frodo,” she said once day, during her second or third week, “I couldn’t help but be curious about something, begging your pardon.” 

The two of them were in the kitchen – Frodo taking his tea, and Marigold preparing dinner. 

Frodo’s stomach grew cold, dropping to his knees. But he gathered up his courage.

“Go on, Mari,” he said. “What are you curious about? Curiosity is a virtue.”

Everything felt farther away as he waited for her answer.

“The kettle, begging your pardon,” she said. “You’re always take it off right as it starts to boil. Is that a better way of doing things? If so, I would be glad to learn.”

Is that a better way of doing things.

She looked up from the cutting board with a smile. Her hands were covered in flour.

Her speech (much like her brother’s) had never sent one searching for the dictionary, but the arrangement of eight simple words was healer speak and no mistake. He had known enough healers to guess that it was common professional courtesy – to ask questions that allowed their charges to save face, if face needed saving.

He might have wept with relief. Perhaps Sam knew what he needed after all.

“Yes, yes it is,” he replied hastily. “When I was abroad, I learned some varieties of tea need to be brewed with water that is barely boiled. Let it get too hot, and the leaves get scorched. They even say, ‘a kettle left too long will sour the pot’.”

He felt ill at ease, lying like that, but it was easier than he thought.

“That’s why, coincidentally, they install a whistling mechanism,” he added. “It sounds awfully shrill, because it’s meant to warn you when the water gets too hot. This kettle has one of them, but I don’t like the sound of it at all.”

The words came tumbling out before he could stop them. Perhaps he was a better liar than he thought.

“Well, goodness me, Mr. Frodo, why didn’t you say so?” Marigold exclaimed. “I can make sure that the water don’t get too hot. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

Frodo chucked ruefully.

“Ah, but I do want to trouble myself,” he said. “It’s good for me to trouble myself on occasion, or I would be quite useless.”

Marigold smiled, taking up the dough again.

“No, nonsense, Mr. Frodo,” she returned. “You aren’t useless at all. You help me a great deal.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

Marigold shrugged.

“Well, you’re here, that’s one thing. And you’re in charge of the big ideas here at Bag End. I am only here to carry them out.” 

“Ah. Well, that changes things, certainly.” 

Frodo glanced at his fingers, picking at a cuticle.

“And you help me feel less lonely, anyhow.”

She began to roll the dough, and once it became a wide, thin sheet, she wiped her hands, and began to cut it into slices.

Frodo studied the dishes before her. Besides the bowl of vegetables, there was a bowl of butter, a bowl of grated cheese, a bowl of eggs, and a bowl of fatty bacon. 

“Marigold, what are you making?” He squinted at the food.

“Oh.” Her fingers paused. “I – I made it up.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows. 

“I saw that you weren’t eating very well, sir, and you were puttin’ your fork down after only a few bites,” she explained. “And I reckoned it was unnat’ral, sir, seein’ how thin you are. So I says to myself: Self, how do you pack as much sub-stance as pos’ble into the smallest amount of bites?”

“Ah.” Frodo nodded indulgently. “And how would you?”

It was getting close to dinnertime, but he was scarcely hungry. Food had made him ill ever since he returned from the quest, even the most comforting of Shire-fare. He felt exquisitely guilty every time Marigold served up what should have been delectable pies, meat falling off the bone, and rich mushroom stews that made the house smell like heaven. Sam finished Frodo’s leftovers whenever he could, and what Sam could not finish Frodo insisted they take to Bagshot Row, but it did little to allay his guilt.

But Marigold lit up at his question.

“Ah, well! Let me show you!”

She slid a generous pad of butter onto the pan over the fire, and it began to fizz. Next, it was the bacon’s turn, and as the hissing grew louder, Frodo winced. Mercifully, Marigold turned away, and Frodo racked his brain for an excuse to make an escape. But Marigold looked endlessly delighted. He gritted his teeth.

Making up new dishes. Too clever by half… He was growing irritated – without just cause.

But Marigold had no idea, for her back was still turned.

“In a word,” she chattered cheerfully, “I ended up cutting the dough into very thin strips, so you don’t have to chew it, and then I’ll fry it up, letting the egg and cheese coat it all over. The egg helps the cheese stick to the dough, like glue. And then the bacon has even more fat –” (1)

“Alright, alright, that – that sounds wonderful, Marigold.”

Frodo stood up abruptly, and backed away toward the door.

The tea he had come in for had been drunk, and he placed the cup and saucer in the sink.

“I very much look forward to trying it, but…” He glanced around and swallowed drily. “But I have to – I have to go – I’m sorry… I have to ask Sam if he has any other requests for dinner…”

Marigold did not turn around, and if she felt slighted, he could not tell. 

She said nothing, and he could not bear to stay put.

He rushed out, for the hissing – though not as high-pitched as the Nazgûl-kettle – was reason enough to set his teeth on edge. He sighed once he was out of earshot.

Poor girl. That was not very polite, and she was trying so hard. Hobbits were not usually fond of foreign things, but he, the odd one out and from Buckland besides, had always made a point of going against the grain.

He sighed and lowered himself into a chair, burying his face in hands.

He would have to make it up to her later. But for now, he needed to find Sam and tell him all about the tea-making customs he allegedly picked up in their travels, and hope that Sam would not ask too many questions.

(1) Marigold inadvertently invented carbonara pasta.

Chapter Text

Marigold had what she thought was a secret. When she was younger, if ever there was a hobbit who gave her those kinds of feelings – the kind that make lasses pull petals off of daisies and recite, “he loves me, he loves me not” – it was the interesting and handsome Mr. Frodo. It was a natural consequence of being rescued by him from under the linden tree. Her practical mind knew that it could not be: he was one of her “betters,” not close enough in age, and simply had no cause to ever notice her that way. So she locked up her feelings in a far corner of her heart, and turned to other, more gainful pursuits. Even years later, when he rescued her and others from the Lockholes after the Scouring, she would not think of him that way, for she was only one of many.

But when Sam had asked her to work for Mr. Frodo – alone with him, in his house, for many hours a day – her heart broke inexplicably into a sprint, and she had to chide it to stop being foolish.

Bagginses, after all, did not fall in love with Gamgees, and healers were not allowed to fall in love with patients, nor employees with their employers. It was a recipe for poor judgment and mistakes, and destructive to work ethic.

And Marigold, if nothing else, had very good work ethic. She was a Gamgee after all, and Gamgees worked, from the moment they could stand up. Even Mrs. Bracegirdle had not walloped it out of her, despite her admonitions to “learn how to rest, young miss, or else you’ll spon-taneously com-bust one of these days.”

But at Bag End there was presently little danger of this. There was much to do, and much to fix anywhere she turned, and after a while, she fixed her sights on Mr. Frodo himself, since there was something clearly wrong with him.

It went well beyond Sam’s description of being tired. The first thing she noted was that he never sat close to a window, and did not go out unless absolutely necessary. Whenever he spoke to her, he seemed to be looking right through her. His story about foreign ways of brewing tea was improbable to say the least, and when she spotted a mouse in the kitchen and launched a ladle at it, Frodo jumped so high he nearly put a hole in the ceiling.

But other than that, Frodo was perfectly kind and obliging, and did not seem to be afraid of her. Indeed, he rarely eschewed her company. When he was not helping decide where things should go, he was putting things up where she, being short for a hobbit, could not reach. And he would often sit in the same room as her, reading, though he did not turn the pages often at all. He looked in her direction from time to time, rather like a cat, and there was something catlike in the way he blinked his eyes, and in his placid expression that said, “yes, I do not mind being here with you.”

But also, much like a cat, Frodo often did not stay long. He would get up and leave without apparent cause or explanation, only a clipped apology. He would disappear into his room and stay away for as long as an hour. Whenever he did, she would quell her desire to listen at the door, reminding herself that she would not have wanted others to spy on her, so she could not imagine that he would either.

At first, she had half a mind to quiz Sam on what he thought was going on. But she had a feeling Sam was just as much in the dark, or else he would not have recruited her help. But then, how could she help? She knew a great deal about pre-birth nerves, and post-birth melancholy, and even post-birth hysteria. But when it came to Frodo, she could not name what she was seeing. She thought of going to Dr. Boffin in confidence – having cross-trained with him at Mrs. Bracegirdle’s behest – and describing Frodo’s circumstances under the guise of counsel “for a friend.” But somehow, she sensed that Frodo would not have wanted his affairs discussed this way, so she continued to watch, listen and wait. For on one account Sam had been right: skills translated. And if she envisioned Frodo as a cat, then he was a wounded one who had not seen kindness in a long time. What was one to do with such a being?

The answer was simple. Leave tokens of goodwill, offer good food, and wait for him to come to you.

And so she asked a question here and there, but did not call attention to his strange behavior. She offered solutions, and it seemed to work, for Frodo finally ate more than a few bites of the dish she had invented, even as Sam demanded where the dish had been all his life. She also made a list of soothing herbs she could brew into tea. She started with mint – soothing for the stomach – then chamomile, lavender, passion flower and lemon balm. Frodo accepted them all gladly, but none changed his demeanor until she tried milk.

It had been a rainy day, and Frodo had come in to take his tea in the kitchen. But as he reached for the kettle, she said, “Wait, I thought of something different today.”

Frodo looked curious, and she brought out a cup of milk she had prepared just minutes before. It was warmed in a saucepan, with a spoonful of honey stirred in, and cloves ground on top of it. She even placed a sprig of white flowers on the saucer, which she had picked on the way to work.

Frodo sat down and drank, folding his lips into a sad crescent. He picked up the flowers and smelled them, twirling the stem between his fingers. Marigold returned to stirring the broth, skimming the foam off the top and watching Frodo out of the corner of her eye.

A tear formed over his bottom eyelid, sliding down his cheek. But he drank the milk until it was gone. Afterwards, he licked his lips and sighed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I haven’t had milk like this since I was little. How did you know?”

Marigold put down her spoon and came to sit by him. The rain was pattering matter-of-factly against the window, and it felt like the right thing to do. 

They sat side by side, and he did not move away.

He looked tired, and she wanted to give him a hug, or to rub his back, but that would not have been proper.

She would ask Sam later to give him a backrub, for Sam’s back rubs were famous, and people said he could have made a second living off of them.

“Lucky guess, I s’pose,” she shrugged.

In fact, the milk was a nerve tonic per her book-learning, and it filled the stomach with nourishment, redoubling the effect. But this was quite beside the point.

After that day, tea time became milk time.

After some days of unpacking and cleaning, Marigold realized another, perhaps unsurprising thing.

Neither Frodo – nor apparently Bilbo before him in his older days – had any discernible organization to their household. More often than not, when she asked where something went, Frodo answered to the tune of “oh, I don’t really know,” “come to think of it, I don’t remember,” and, “wherever I put it down, I suppose.”

Frodo was simply that sort – unkind tongues would have called him airy-fairy – but Marigold could not bring herself to be upset with him. Still, given how many belongings he had – more than all the Gamgees combined – she knew that here was another crooked thing to be made straight, another hole to be plugged up, not the least for her own sanity as his caretaker.

To that end, she commissioned shelves, and lots of them, from Sam. She also started sorting.

Frodo watched the proceedings at first like they were an absurd performance. But ultimately, he agreed that it made sense for his uncle’s old maps to be stored away from the manuscripts, which in turn were to be separated from books, while having pillowcases, sheets, and towels placed in distinct cubby-holes was quite convenient.

And so Marigold sorted, and became quite enamored with the process. She had always thought it calming, to do things steadily and repeatedly, and for everything to have its own place. She even cut up pieces of paper to make labels, and before she knew it, the pantry, the clothing rooms, and the two libraries were like an apothecary’s shop: she had affixed labels to everything in the course of an afternoon, while Frodo was resting in the bedroom.

When he emerged, he acknowledged her efforts in his usual languid, sadly smiling manner, and said, “my goodness, Marigold, you really do leave nothing undone, don’t you?”

To which Marigold lowered her eyes and laughed a little, and said that it was nothing, nothing at all, Mr. Frodo, and she had only been a little bored.

But a few days later, something unexpected happened.

Marigold had just returned from the market, and was putting away the shopping in the larder when her eyes fell upon a label she had made for a dry goods jar. It was the flax jar in particular, which stood in the third row from the bottom at the end. The label size and shape were the same, but the handwriting was different – Frodo’s, from what she recalled of his letters and papers they had sorted. The letters were all neat and tidy, uniformly spaced out in a line, like beads on a string. Her letters, on the other hand, were sloppy and lopsided in comparison: some sitting higher, some lower, some squeezed together while others were far apart.

But something else was different, too. The word on the label that had caught her eye was different: it conspicuously lacked the letter K.

She rarely remembered specific words, but she remembered writing that K. Indeed, K was one of her favorite letters. It had a comforting, definitive quality to it, like the shaft of a dwarf’s ax. But instead, there was an X in the word – definitive too, but more like a signal to stop, like something was wrong.

Why was there an X? Did Mr. Frodo like X’s? He might have done, knowing him…

She looked at the other labels. Some had been replaced. A number had not. She peered at the ones that were replaced more closely, but could not find anything different, except the handwriting.

She put down her bags, and hurried over to one of the closet rooms. 

The same thing had happened there. Some labels had been replaced, some not. More were replaced here. 

She hurried to the library, and sure enough, Frodo was there. He was seated at the table in the middle of the room, flipping through old maps. He looked up, sensing her presence before she made a sound.

“Yes, Marigold, is something the matter?”

He had acquired a gift, sometime in his travels, for sounding like nothing was ever the matter. Like “matter” was something earthly and common, whereas he had a foot in another realm.

Was this how elves sounded?

Marigold did not reply right away, and examined the labels on the shelves. Sure enough. Replaced. Most of them.

Something had indeed gone wrong. X.

Her arms grew heavy at her sides, and she suddenly longed to sit. Frodo got up and gestured at his chair.

Manners. 

Dear goodness. Nobody had ever stood for her. Not even when she delivered people’s children.

She did not move, however. 

“M-mister Frodo.” She did her best to sound calm. “I noticed that some of the labels – the ones I made – were changed, begging your pardon. Is that –”

What exactly was she trying to say? The words were running away from her, scuttling into dark corners.

But Frodo waited, and did not resume his seat. Instead, he actually picked up the chair, and carried it over to her.

Marigold sank into it.

“What I mean is – er –” She tried her best to form words, but her tongue would not obey her. “What I mean is – er, did you – did you want me to make them differently? If so, just say the word… I don’t mind – I don’t want you troublin’ yourself –”

She fell silent, and Frodo leaned against the table, watching her. A matter-of-fact something formed on his lips.

“Oh,” he said after a spell. “No. No… I am sorry. It is my fault.”

Sorry?! Him?!

And yet, he was gazing at her face now, his look contrition itself…

“No, Mari, it’s really my fault,” he said. “I’ve already given you so much work to do, and you work so hard. You’re probably tired, and pressed for time. So I suppose – I suppose I simply could not help myself, since I’m a bit… particular about some things.”

He really did sound apologetic. He paused and fiddled with the button on his waistcoat with his left hand. The right one was positioned, as if accidentally, behind him.

“But Mr. Frodo…” Marigold glanced up; the few moments’ respite was more than enough for her to rally. “What things are those? I would dearly like to know, so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

“Ah, well…” He glanced away, and his elvish “nothing is the matter” face wavered. “I suppose… I suppose spelling is one thing. It may be a failing on my part, but when something is spelled wrong, I cannot help but correct it. I used to correct people’s speech all the time when I was a lad. I must have been insufferable – and it must be insufferable now – so again, I am sorry.”

He shrugged, and suddenly looked uncommonly youthful. But Marigold only stared at him, dumbstruck.

At any other time, she might have been relieved. But now…

“W-wait, Mr. Frodo…” Her mouth was dry, but she managed to form the words. “You mean…”

Having her speech corrected was nothing new – Mrs. Bracegirdle, though no fine lady herself, had insisted on the rudiments of proper language, and had nearly beaten the double negatives out of her. But spelling?

Her mind rushed over her history with the written word – which was not extensive. 

“W-wait, wait, Mr. Frodo… So you mean… There is a right and a wrong way of spelling things?!”

Her eyes grew big as saucers. A sweat broke out over her brow.

But Frodo was still gazing at her, which brought a flash of color to her cheeks.

He smiled tepidly.

“Why, yes, of course.” He glanced to the side and shrugged, as if commenting on the weather. “But spelling can be challenging, that much is true.”

Marigold felt dizzy.

For some time, she could not speak, and Frodo stepped away from the table and came toward her, squatting by her side.

“But Sam – Sam said it was alright to –”

She floundered.

Sam teaching her letters, the two of them practicing with sticks in the dirt.

Sam bringing home his notebooks from Bag End, and letting her try her hand in the margins…

“Sam – Sam said it was alright, to write how you think the word sounds,” she stammered at last. “An’ – an’ he said that if you are close, people will understand…”

She fixed her eyes straight ahead – anything to avoid looking at him.

“An’ – an’ he never said anythin’ about bein’ right or wrong, or anyone bein’ particular…”

How desperate she sounded…

Frodo observed her thoughtfully, a knuckle against his lips.

“Well, Marigold,” he said at last, “I am not sure what to tell you. It seems there’s been a misunderstanding of some kind. But Sam taught you a long time ago, did he not?”

Marigold shook her head.

“No, no, there was no mis-understandin’, sir.” She pressed her hands against her face. “Sam said that as long as you can get the meanin’ across, it doesn’t matter at all.”

Frodo scratched his head.

She looked at once so despairing and so earnest…

He hoisted himself up, leaning against the table.

A smile crept nervously around his words.

“Well, I suppose that is true at times,” he said, stringing his words together with some care. “Meaning, for your own records and between family and friends, it might be acceptable, and that’s not to say that I’m not family or friends, mind you. But I am a bit particular, like I said. But when it comes to official books and papers, there is definitely a right and a wrong way of spelling things. The words are always spelled the same. You remember, probably, from when you trained as a midwife?”

But Marigold, to her great and growing shame, did not remember. 

Reading had never been her strong suit, nor did she have many occasions to hold a book. Frodo was right – she did read in her training, but by the time she was learning anatomy and herbology, it was all she could do to recognize the words. She thanked her lucky stars that Mrs. Bracegirdle had no love for reading, believing far more in hands-on learning. The midwife had dumped several books on her, courtesy of Dr. Boffin, and ordered her to read them – which Marigold did, dutifully and painfully. And then Mrs. Bracegirdle proceeded to argue with the books’ contents, so it was all Marigold could do to understand what was what.

It would have been far too much to keep track of spelling by that point. And Mrs. Bracegirdle hardly ever made her write things, except to copy over tincture labels when she was already collapsing from fatigue…

Marigold looked at her hands – small, calloused and pudgy. Perfect, apparently, for rolling dough and for scrubbing floors, but not for writing.

She shook her head, biting her bottom lip.

“I’ve never been much good at reading and writing, Mr. Frodo,” she confessed. “Sam tried to teach me as best he could. And yes, that was a long time ago, when Mr. Bilbo taught him. But to tell you the truth, readin’ and writing’ had always been like chewing rocks, if you get my meanin’. I couldn’t tell you why. I s’ppose that’s just how I am, daft like that…”

She fought not to cover her face with her hands. Her stupid, dense, uneducated face that had no business being here with Mr. Frodo, who had apparently read so much that he learned Elvish.

“Well, hold on just a moment…”  

She did not dare raise her eyes, but she heard his voice, just above her. 

“You are not daft by any means. For I watch you and I talk to you every day. Could it be that Sam simply did not know how to teach you? For goodness sake, you were both children…”

Ah, yes, Sam. 

She would have words for him once she got home. Words that, misspelled or not, would get their meanin’ across.

She looked up and must have looked skeptical. But Frodo looked like his mind was running ahead, and he sounded, if one could believe it, a shade more enthusiastic.

“I mean, maybe reading more enjoyable things can help... Wait… Give me a moment…”

He turned and looked at the shelves, scanning the titles. He pulled down a volume, scanned some more, but did not seem to find what he was looking for. He turned around and padded to the other library.

He returned after a few minutes, carrying two more books. He laid them out on the table.

The books were The History and Customs of Hobbits, an anthology of poems and songs, and Bilbo’s Translations from the Elvish. 

“Here are some of my favorites,” he said, smoothing his hands over the leather. “You can borrow them, and see if you like them too. I always learned the best by finding words in books – and if I wanted to remember them, I wrote them down.”

Marigold gazed at the volumes, dumbstruck.

“And I could help you if you like,” he added. “We could read and practice the words together. If there are things that are especially hard for you, we could see how we can make them easier.”

He paused, swallowing and pressing his hands open and closed.

Marigold ran a finger down the spine of one of the books.

“This… This is too kind, Mr. Frodo.”

But she furrowed her brow as her breath arrested in her chest, the way it had done when she admired Bilbo’s prized possessions.

“But – is it alright if I kept them here, though?” she asked. “I am afraid that if I take them home, my nieces and nephews will spoil them...”

She turned the book over. The spine was pliant from much opening and closing, but the original ink of the title was dark and clear.

She pressed her lips.

“There’s always so much fuss and noise at home, it makes reading all the harder,” she said. “I s’ppose living there as long as I have, I ought to have gotten used to it, but I haven’t.”

Frodo nodded. 

“I understand. Of course. They’re yours to keep wherever you wish.”

He hooked his left thumb into his pocket, and drummed his fingers on the outside. His right hand stayed behind him on the table, however.

“And I get bothered too, these days,” he said, “especially when there is too much noise and commotion. So if you need somewhere else to go, you are always welcome here. Even if you aren’t working.”

He raised one corner of his mouth, and Marigold looked up in surprise. She had just opened the book, and brought it closer to her face to peer at the letters – more beautifully strung, even beads on a string.

She squinted.

Had she heard right? Did he just say… “always” ?

And more than that, did he just say… “bothered”?

He certainly seemed bothered at times, but it was the first time he said as much. It was always “like” and “don’t like” with him, and at times he was “particular,” but never hurt, bothered, put out, or distressed.

“A-always welcome?” She gaped, and then gave a short, nervous laugh. “I’m sure you don’t mean that, sir.”

She snapped the book shut, and put it back on the table. She then looked hurriedly about her, and tried to remember what order of business she had forgotten before all this began.

Ah, yes! 

The shopping! She had abandoned it on the pantry floor. And there was also the mending, and the dinner.

“I mean – I mean… I appreciate the thought, sir, I do,” she stammered, turning toward the door. “But I really shouldn’t be im-posin’ on you that way. An hour or two after work – that ought to be enough – so long as you can spare it. You need your rest, after all.”

Frodo nodded. “Of course.” 

“I ‘preciate that, sir.”

She nodded and gave a curtsy, and turned toward the hallway.

She tried not to run as she made her way to the kitchen, but once she got there, she pressed her fist into her mouth, stifling a scream.

Chapter Text

That evening, Marigold was silent at supper. Not merely quiet, as was her custom in larger gatherings, but completely, deadly silent. She passed dishes and condiments without a word, and nodded and pretended to have too much in her mouth to answer questions. When it came to Sam, who sat across from her, she did not look at him – she looked straight through him. So before long, there was no ignoring the fact that a storm was brewing, and it was only a matter of time before the cloudburst.

It came when they were finally alone in the kitchen, the rest of the Gamgees scattered to their evening pursuits.

She finally spoke to him, in a low, ominous tone.

“Samwise Gamgee,” she said, “Could you please tell me something?”

Silence and his full name. 

This was bound to be a tempest. 

The two of them were standing at the sink, with Sam was elbows-deep in suds and Marigold rinsing and wiping.

Sam swallowed, and lowered the dish that he was scrubbing. It disappeared under the water with a clink.

“Of course. Leastwise I can try.”

Marigold nodded. She took up the towel and carefully wiped a plate, the cloth creak-creaking over the rim.

“Alright. Here’s what I want to know. And mind, you must tell me true. No fibbing.”

“Of-of course.” 

“Is there a right and a wrong way of spelling things?”

She looked at him and put aside the plate. Sam paused with his hand over the soapy water.

That’s what she wanted to know? Then why in the Shire —

“Why, of course there is.” 

There was a beat, and then the towel came down over his forearm, hard.

“Samwise Gamgee, you bloody LIAR!!”

Sam yelped in pain, leaping away.

“What in the world—?!” 

The towel had nearly taken off a strip of skin.

“Mari, what’s gotten into you?!”

He sucked his teeth, rubbing his injured arm. He nearly forgot how dangerous his sisters could be with kitchen implements.

But Marigold did not reply. She dropped her arm and twirled the towel by her side.

“Nothin’s gotten into me,” she replied through clenched teeth. “ ‘Cept today I learned that I’ve got a rotten, no-good, filthy rat for a brother. You told me ‘it didn’t matter, so long as you got the point across.’ Those were your exact words.”

“What?! When?”

“When we were wee! When you taught me how to write! When Mr. Bilbo taught you!”

Sam clutched his smarting arm, and his eyes darted from Marigold’s face to the towel.

“I mean – I mean – maybe?” he stammered, furrowing his brow. “I might have said something like that? But look, I –”

“But you what?”

Sam started to back away, but Marigold advanced toward him, so he hastily put the table between them.

“Well, look – I –”

He bit his lips, putting his hands out in front of him.

“I – I – I didna want to hurt your feelin’s, that’s all,” he stammered. “You were tryin’ so hard, but you just kept gettin’ it all wrong. I didn’t know what to do –”

Marigold stopped and tapped her foot, folding her arms across her chest.

“And I thought, maybe – just maybe,” he went on, “It might have been enough if you got it close to right, if you get my meanin’. We’re Gamgees, after all.”

He slowed his speech, his eyes fixed on the towel.

“We’re Gamgees?” Marigold narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

Her voice was as stony as her expression.

Sam paused, but Marigold had not done anything beyond her initial outburst, so he hazarded an explanation.

“Well, you know what I mean,” he said, sucking his teeth. “We don’t write letters to everyone we know – most folks that we know wouldn’t know how to read letters. And we’re not the sort to write books, like Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo. That’s just not what we do –”

Marigold lunged to one side, meaning to bring down the full wrath of the towel.

But Sam raised his arms with a “whoa” expression, and the towel came down on the rough-cut table.

“And who do you think you are to decide that for me?!” she cried. “I may have wanted to write letters! I did write some things for Mr. Frodo the other day –”

Ah. Mr. Frodo. He might have smiled.

“And what?” he ventured.

Marigold looked like she was about to pout and stamp her foot, but instead she balled her fists.

“And – and if I’da known how important spellin’ was, I would ‘ave worked that much harder at it!” she wailed. “I wrote some things for him, and I got half of it wrong! Can you imagine?! I can’t tell you now embarrassin’ it was!”

Sam took a cautious step toward her, but kept the table between them.

“Well, better late than never, eh?” He tried to inject a cheerful lilt into his tone. “And Mr. Frodo… Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against you. I mean, to be fair, I didn’t expect you to believe it myself, leastwise not for this long. What with all the readin’ that you did for Mrs. Bracegirdle, I woulda thought you woulda figured it out by now…”

He hazarded a smile, but in expecting Marigold to abandon her defenses, he could not have been more wrong.

The towel came down on his hand a second time.

“Don’t you put this on me, Samwise Gamgee!” she cried shrilly. “Don’t put this on me!”

Sam yelped in dismay, and backed nearly to the wall. 

He considered, quite seriously, the option of begging for a truce – or simply escaping into the parlor, but was loth to reveal their argument.

Marigold lunged as if to strike him again, but he was out of reach.

She stamped her foot and took it out on the wash basin, hitting it with her fist.

“You know I was too busy sortin’ out the hip bones from the thigh bones and the ergot from the fenugreek to ever bother over spellin’, Samwise Gamgee!” she spat. “You remember! You used to read to me yourself when I got tired!”

Sam sighed.

That much was true. He recalled how painfully slow her progress was – how she had pored over her books for many an hour, long after the household went to sleep.

He rubbed the side of his head.

“Ugh!” Marigold threw down the towel. “I can’t believe this.”

Sam pressed his lips.

“Well, er, look, Mari,” he ventured. “I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldna have said what I said – not back then, and not now. But see, I really think you ought not trouble yourself with this. I mean, readin’ and writin’s hard, and there’s no need for everyone to do it well. And Mr. Frodo, well, he is the kindest soul alive –”

Marigold scoffed, her upper lip curling.

“Well, yes, that he most certainly is,” she said. “And he doesn’t think I’m a dunderhead, unlike some people!” She bent to pick up the towel. “He agreed to help me, you know. He thinks I can write proper if I’m taught.”

She was about to roll her eyes, but Sam’s expression softened, and she settled for pressing his lips into a line.

“Oh, well, that certainly changes things,” Sam returned, and was about to say more, but the Gaffer appeared in the doorway.

Sam fell silent.

“Oy, what’s going on in here?” the Gaffer demanded. “I won’t have a rowdy house, not unless I’m the one dolin’ out the discipline!”

He glanced ominously at Sam, whose eyes grew wide, and he cast a questioning look at Marigold.

But Marigold, having said her piece, spun around and stomped out, slamming the door behind her.

The Gaffer turned to Sam, who sank down at the table, cradling his head in his hands.

“Forty years an’ three sisters, and I still can’t get on with lasses…”

He, too, made no reply to his father’s question.

A silence settled between the two of them, the Gaffer folding his arms. It continued like that until Rosie appeared in the doorway.

She slinked past her father-in-law on quiet feet, and came up behind her husband. She put her arms around him, and pressed a kiss into his hair. 

“It’s alright, love,” she said, rubbing his back. “You get on with me, and that’s more’n enough.”

Sam sighed.  

“Let’s hope you don’t have as long a memory as her.” 

Rosie began to rock him back and forth, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she said. “So you think Marigold’s got a long memory, huh? I wouldn’t have known.”

She chuckled.

She and Marigold had played dolls when they were little, so of course she knew. But that was quite beside the point.

“Well, now I’m curious,” she added, winking over her shoulder at the Gaffer. “What did you fight about? Was it that time you tied her dress to the tail of a pig and made it run down the hill?”

Sam groaned, covering his face in his hands.

“No,” he returned. “But apparently, I didn’t teach her spellin’ well enough when we were younguns, so she’s gone off an’ embarrassed herself with Mr. Frodo.”

By that point, he did not care who knew.

Rosie clicked her tongue.

“Ohhh, dear," she sighed. “And we really shouldn’t go about embarrassing ourselves with Mr. Frodo, should we? Because Mr. Frodo judges sooooo harshly…”

She continued to rock, nuzzling Sam’s hair. The Gaffer shook his head, stopping just short of a harrumph.

Instead, he released a sigh that was more like a snort.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” he huffed. “I knew no good would come of book-learning’.”

He cleared his throat, turned on his heel, and shuffled out for his evening pipe.

Chapter Text

The days went by, and Frodo came to see Marigold as an unexpected, splendid gift that came and went every day, and would one day be gone for good, off to marry some respectable farmer’s son or tradesman. So he resolved to do the only sensible thing he could, and to appreciate her company while it lasted, even if it was merely lent to him by the world.

He certainly could not think of anything more, because for him, there could be nothing more. Any thoughts beyond the next few days ran together into a mist, and made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a precipice.

He felt that way when he was alone, in any case.

But when he was with her, he felt bits and pieces of a familiar warmth, for her resemblance to Sam was uncanny. She had the same easy, plainspoken manner, the same roundness of features, the same sun-colored hair and gold toned skin – though hers was rather prettier, and could have been compared to a just-ripe peach. But that was not all. Both she and Sam had the same presence of mind that belied a deep-thinking, deep-feeling nature. With Sam, it had been food, rope and distances. With Marigold, it was food, but also cleanliness and health, and the organization of a smial where she was quickly becoming mistress.

He watched her, and was soon overcome with a desire to do something for her. Paying her wages did not feel like enough.

The reading and writing felt like an opportunity. When he first learned of her difficulty, his heart ached with pity, for he had read everything he could get his hands on from the moment he learned his letters. He found it as natural as breathing. At Brandy Hall, after he inhaled all the books, he even read the dictionary for entertainment. He took careful note of all the interesting words, and wrote them down in a notebook, adding to it for years. As such, it was difficult to understand how someone could find reading as difficult as chewing rocks – but what a metaphor, in fact! She was certainly not daft. More than that, he found it incredibly saddening. It made him think of a person standing outside in the cold, locked out of a merry gathering with no key to get in.

He worried at first that he would not know how to teach her. He knew how to read and write quite well, but learning had not been a conscious effort. But his fear proved unfounded. Marigold was a willing student, and at times she all but taught herself. All he had to do was suggest something, and she took to it and ran.

On the first day, they did not even get to the reading. Marigold insisted that he tell her what words she got wrong, so they took to the wastepaper basket, and placed the labels side by side, old and new. She then copied down the proper spellings in her wobbly, laborious handwriting.

When they got to the word “overalls,” which Marigold had spelled with one L, Frodo pointed out that it contained the word “all.” He suggested coming up with other words that had the same ending.

And so Marigold came up with the words tall, ball, call, shawl, and crawl, and began to write them down, when –

“The last two are spelled with a W,” Frodo observed.

Marigold’s quill stopped, and she raised her eyebrows. 

But she did not seem frustrated, only genuinely surprised.

Frodo nodded. 

“Yes. But that’s alright,” he said. “Just start a new column for them. And then let me show you something.”

He pulled a piece of paper toward him and wrote a sentence.

I shall wear a shawl.

He turned the paper towards her.

Her lips moved silently as she absorbed the letters.

“This one is ‘shall’.” Frodo pointed to the second word. “As in ‘will.’ And this one is ‘shawl,’ the thing you wear.”

“Shall, shawl, shall, shawl,” Marigold nodded as she repeated the words. “I shall wear a shawl…”

The simple notion hung palpably in the air. If she had not known, she might not have gotten the point across.

Marigold pressed her lips, and Frodo's stomach gave a squeeze. But he thought it best not to belabor the point.

Instead, he nodded again.

“Just write them both out,” he said.

And Marigold did.

“Shawl – shall… Shall – shawl,” she repeated as she traced the words.

“Very good.” Frodo smiled. “Just keep saying it out loud as you write. It should help, so it can be both your hand and your ears that remember. Try to emphasize that one sounds like an ‘o’ and the other one like an ‘a’ when you say it.”

And that started the drawings. Marigold drew a set of honeycombs next to “wax” when they came up with words that sounded like “flax,” the word that started it all. She drew paw prints next to “tracks,” repeating the words as she wrote them time and again. She did not seem distressed about it all. Rather, she paused and chuckled when Frodo said that there were two ways of spelling the word “ax,” one with an “e” and one without. She then drew an ax and said, “you know, Mr. Frodo, I always thought that the letter K looked rather like an ax, myself…”

Frodo observed that there was something to it, though he had always thought a K looked more like a dwarrow rune – a fact, he supposed, that was not incompatible with axes. But since the association was not proper for remembering the word, he suggested that she think of taking an ax to something, and destroying it by putting an “x” over it.

Marigold laughed at this, and accidentally put her hand where the ink had not dried, leaving an “ax” impression on her hand.

Frodo passed her the blotting-paper.

And so the hour had passed, in cheerful observations, and making mistakes and laughing, and coming up with more and more words, and more ways to remember.

In the end, they had come up with far more words than could have been memorized in a single night, so they agreed that Marigold would only learn the first ten, and then the next day Frodo would quiz her on them.

That night, after Marigold departed, Frodo took to his armchair, and uncharacteristically, he missed his evening glass of wine or three. Instead, he sat before the fire and drank the milk with lavender that Marigold had warmed for him.

He gazed into the embers, and recalled the way she put her hand in the ink, and the way her cheeks resembled turgid apples when he explained something she had not thought about.

And it may have been his imagination, but when he finally went to bed, it took him longer to fall asleep, but his awakenings were fewer, and the voices of the wraiths in his dreams were not as chilling.

The next day, they did get to the reading. 

It was after dinner, and the candles were lit in anticipation of sundown. Marigold had settled in at her usual spot at the dinner table, which was now devoted to their task.  She opened up The History and Customs of Hobbits and began to read.

Frodo listened for a spell, but soon neither his good breeding nor his broad-minded nature were enough to keep his mouth from falling open.

“Hobbits. Are. An. Un–ob–tru… un-ob-tru…sive?… Unobtrusive. Right. Unobtrusive. But very. Ank – ancient. People…” (1)

Marigold plodded along, and as the seconds passed, Frodo cast about for something – anything – to say.

But the only thing that came to mind was “Holy Petunias, she reads like a young child…”

But he couldn’t very well say that… And more importantly, what was he or anyone else to do about it?

He thought of himself when he was a child, when he had learned. The words had leaped off the page, assuming color, shape and size like so many living things. But Marigold was fumbling for her words as they ran from her in the dark. What hope was there of bridging such a gap? And what tenacity she must have had to get so far regardless...

“Even in an-cient. Days. They were. As a Rule. Were often. Not. Wait…”

“Wait, wait, Marigold,” Frodo cut in.

He placed a hand on the book.

Marigold looked up, her expression pained.

His hand lingered on the page, and he made his eyes as kind as possible.

“Marigold,” he said, “May I ask… How did you read when you trained under Mrs. Bracegirdle?”

Marigold’s eyes darted from side to side, and at first she made no answer.

Her shoulders drooped, and she shrank in her chair – but when she spoke, her voice did not waver.

“Why, just like this, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “I told you it was just like chewing rocks. The words never did come together as they should.”

Frodo’s eyes grew wide.

“But it must have taken ages!”

She nodded. 

“It did,” she said. “Ages is right. Sam helped a little; he read to me when I got tired.”

“But I mean – how – what?!” Frodo glanced about, his words wilting on his lips. “I mean – did he – did he know how hard it was?”

He took several gulps of air, willing his heart to be still.

Marigold shook her head.

“No. No, he didn’t,” she replied. “Because you see, at first I was too ashamed to tell him, and then I was too ashamed I hadn’t told him. So instead, I told him that I was having headaches, or that I was tired. In fact, it wasn’t even a lie, because I sometimes do get headaches when I read too long, and the letters start to wobble...”

Frodo winced. The image of an impenetrable door came to mind, much like one at the Mines of Moria.

And Marigold, in turn, looked suddenly forlorn. She fiddled with the corner of the page as if to say, it’s alright, Mr. Frodo, it was a valiant effort, but there’s no shame in turning back now.

Except that there was – to Frodo’s mind, anyway.

Though perhaps… Perhaps shame was not the right word, but there was something in her eyes that made him long to see that despondency erased. In another life, he might have taken up Sting to get rid of it.

But there was no other life, and Sting was at the bottom of a trunk in one of the closets, and would be useless here in any case.

Frodo shook his head, and instead, he reached for one of the other books, thumbing through the pages.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let’s try something different.”

He shifted closer to her, and lay the book between them. He opened it to a short page of verses. But before she could read, he covered all but the first line with a sheet of paper.

“Here,” he said. “This ought to help. I’ll try it first, then you.”

He took a breath and began to sing. 

He had not previously put Bilbo’s poetry to music – nor had anyone else that he knew of. But it was not difficult. He carried the first few words of each line higher, dropped lower in the middle, then came back up again.

All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost. (2)

He stopped and looked at Marigold, tilting his head to the side.

It was not much, but perhaps? If words on a page would not coalesce as they should, perhaps it was better to try with words that were meant to?

“Try doing what I did,” he said, nodding at the page. “This is one of Bilbo’s compositions.”

He watched, and she seemed to shake herself out of a daze.

Slowly, she took the paper from him, and placed it under the first line.

All that is gold… does not gli-i-itter… – she began tentatively.
Not all those … who wander… are – lo-o-ost;
The old that is strong … does not wi-i-ther,
Deep roots are not reached … by the fro-ost.

She sang it, line after line, and before long, the paper was at the bottom of the stanza.

She looked up, her mouth forming a delicate “o.”

And Frodo felt a flicker of… something in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes… that… that is very good,” he said, curling his fingers around the edge of his chair – away from the side where she sat. “Maybe we ought to work on poetry to begin with. You’ve made a lot fewer pauses with this one when you read.”

Marigold smiled, and Frodo felt the “something” turn into a prickle.

“May I – may I copy this one over, though?” she asked, seemingly fighting to keep from looking away. “I think it’s lovely. Is it really one of Mr. Bilbo’s own?”

Frodo nodded.

“It is,” he smiled. “And yes, of course you may. Copying things over is always good practice.”

She dipped her pen in ink.

“And the word ‘reach’ may be a good one for our sound-alike exercise,” he added. “Words with ‘ea’ and ‘ee’ can be difficult to parse out.”

Her pen hovered over the word “all,” now firmly enshrined in the list of letters with two L’s. But she did not put it to paper.

“But Mr. Frodo, what does it all mean?” she suddenly asked.

“The poem?” 

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He paused and closed his eyes. “Well, what do you think it means?”

Marigold pondered.

“I think… I think…” 

Her pen lingered over the page.

Indeed, what did it mean? Once upon a time, he asked Bilbo the same question, and Bilbo did not let him off the hook until he answered first.

He turned toward her. The sun was setting, but it was not so low that the candles were the only light.

She blinked.

Her elbow was resting on the table, her hair a bright aureole in the slanting rays.

“I think… I think…”

She paused. Mouthing soundless words, and then drawing breath.

“I think it means that some things are not as hopeless as they seem,” she said. “You’d think that something was worthless, lost, dead, but it always comes back. It always reveals its true nature.”

Frodo half-smiled.

“It’s curious that you use the word hopeless.”

She turned back to the page, diffident again.

“Well, it is the first thing that came to mind,” she replied. She set to tracing the word “that.” “Because you know, losing things, and losing people, it can feel a might hopeless sometimes… But did I get it right? Is that really what it means?”

Frodo pushed away his chair, and sat at right angles to the table.

A smile was playing on his lips, like when he had mentioned Bilbo.

“Well, poetry can mean different things to different people,” he said. “That’s why I asked you – and that’s why I enjoy it. But in truth, this poem was originally a riddle. It was written about one of the companions Sam and I had on our quest. His name was Aragorn. He is now the king of Gondor, but for many years, they thought that his line was broken and lost, and he was an unassuming Ranger of the North.”

Marigold ceased her writing and put down her pen.

The name Aragorn must have stirred some recognition in her, for she furrowed her brow.

“But how did he find out that he was king, then?” she asked. “How did his line get lost?”

She examined the pen between her fingers, and Frodo felt a trifle guilty.

Having mentioned Aragorn off the cuff, he wondered if it made her feel unworldly.

“Ah, but that is an interesting story,” he said, glancing out the window. “But perhaps we’d better leave it for another day.”

Outside, the trees were spidery outlines against the sky.

“I think,” he said, “once you’ve finished copying down the poem, we’d better end our lesson for the day. The Gaffer will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

1. They are, essentially, reading the prologue to Lord of the Rings, the section entitled “Concerning Hobbits.”
2. “The Riddle of Strider” from J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.

Chapter Text

They started to read every day, poetry mostly, putting it to song and copying it over into the leather-bound notebook Marigold procured for the purpose. She was amazed to learn just how much Bilbo had written, and dismayed that he did not think highly of his own poetry. Sam walked in on them several times, once as Marigold intoned in her hesitant, unpolished voice, “past eyes of pale fire, black sand for my bed, I trade all I’ve known for the unknown ahead” (1). He remarked with a laugh that he thought Frodo was teaching her spelling, not singing.

Soon, Frodo was looking forward to their lessons each day, a brighter spot on an otherwise dreary canvas. He enjoyed putting his mind to work understanding how her mind worked – differently, but not necessarily slower. She needed to sift through more to accomplish each task, and saw the words as parts instead of wholes. This slowed her down, but it also provided opportunities. And she was a maximalist – in all respects. When she learned there were different meanings to songs and poems, she came up with as many as she could.

After that, their evenings were filled with “what if” and “how about.” Soon, they were agreeing to disagree about whether a composition was about garden snakes, dragons, or perhaps birthday parties. By the end of it all, Frodo would be too spent to reach for his customary cup of New Winyards.

And it might have been his imagination – but no. Foregoing his nightcap did not harm his sleep, quite the contrary. The nights were still piling insults on top of injuries, but once he fell asleep, he would wake only three or four times per night, which was a good deal better than his earlier five, or six, or even twelve.

But it was nothing compared to his younger years. As a young hobbit, Frodo had always enjoyed sleep as much as any other hobbit enjoyed food. Come what may, it was a respite he could always count on.

And he did not just sleep. He enjoyed long, beautiful dreams, and was known for his ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere – even in the company of friends when the conversation dragged and no one spoke to him in particular. (2) This uncanny ability served him well early in the quest. Where Sam complained about the cold, hard ground and the painful twigs in his back, Frodo had but to close his eyes, imagine being in home in bed, and he would drift off directly.

But soon enough the Ring took hold, and it would call to him at night, making it preferable – sweet, even – to stay awake. He would sit up all night watching, even as his body ached and his mind could no longer tell what was real. And the dreams! When they came, they continued long and vivid, but the beauty was gone. Instead, he dreamt of long, dark shadows, tall figures with swords, and always something seeking – relentlessly seeking him in the darkness where he lay, naked and afraid.

His sleep never really returned. After they were rescued from Mount Doom, he could lie in the softest bed in Gondor or the Shire, and it still eluded him. If he slept, it was in fits and starts, and he would jolt awake, groping for the Ring in the sheets. In Gondor, the healers gave him draughts to put him in a dreamless haze, but it came at a cost. He felt dizzy and drugged in the morning, and got headaches that lingered long into the day.

Even now, his fatigue was as heavy as boulders, but it was not enough to overcome his fear. His pounding heart ripped him from his sleep as surely as the cruelest executioner.

No – given the sad state of affairs, it would take much more than a bright, lively lass, more than engaging conversation, and more than lavender milk, honey-infused and gently warmed, to bring him peace. But even so, he wondered why he had never noticed her before. She was Sam’s sweet, unassuming younger sister, and perhaps she never wanted to be noticed. But it was sad to think that such a gem had languished unheeded at Bagshot Row.

If there was a reason why he never noticed her, it was perhaps the thinness that set in not long after Bilbo’s departure. He began to feel restless, and was loth to put down roots. He stopped associating with women who might have wanted to marry, and he did not have the wherewithal – nor the desire – to add to his inner circle.

But now, his need for solitude was less. He found himself wondering why she had quit midwifery – a subject he had never given much thought. And he wondered if he ought to do some writing himself, and to add to Bilbo’s account of the War of the Ring. Revisiting the particulars still filled him with dread, but now, in addition to his friends, there was at least one other person who might have wanted to read it. As they delved into both epic and legendary poetry, Marigold had more questions by the day: who was related to whom, and what led to what. She even asked if Bilbo had made any elvish family trees, and if she could see some of his wrinkled old maps.

To say that Marigold liked their lessons would have been an understatement. She chided herself for it, but now and again she actually found herself hurrying through her chores, so that she could finish sooner and they might start faster.

She liked to sit next to Mr. Frodo – but who would not? Though older and more tired, with a collection of new wrinkles and a thinner, more angular countenance, he was still handsome, and he smelled nice: no longer of pipe weed, for he had done what no other hobbit had done before him and inexplicably quit, but of clean clothes and clean skin and the enigmatic fragrance she had sensed all those years ago: of books with leather bindings.

And she liked to watch him trace the letters – a thing he did skillfully, elegantly, and easily, even with a missing finger. In fact, watching him was all the more fascinating for the lack.

But that was not the main thing. She didn’t just like sitting next to Mr. Frodo, or listening to Mr. Frodo, or watching Mr. Frodo.

She was starting to like reading. It felt less like chewing rocks, or banging her head against a wall. Approaching the substance from various angles – speaking it, singing it, writing it and talking about it – all of it helped the meaning coalesce, and it became easier to read and understand.

But it was still, undeniably, hard going. And a number of other difficulties remained.

For one thing, even with the use of a bookmark, her eyes would jump from line to line, and if she read too long the lines would start to wobble.

And she would still get the headaches, which were worse now, and would cut into her time with reading and with Mr. Frodo.

One such headache came when they were poring over a poem about a dwarf named Durin, another one of Bilbo’s recordings from his time with the company of fourteen. Marigold had been reading and imagining the bright din of hammers, the stately halls and the ponderous columns encrusted with runes. Frodo had drawn her a picture of the Mines of Moria, complete with how small a person would look beside the pillars of stone. Outside, the late summer sun was not yet waning, and through the curtain she could see the outline of the apple tree’s branches, rocking in the breeze. The branches were heavy with fruit – a sight, sadly, that Durin and his folk would rarely have seen, spending much of their lives underground.

Did they ever get despondent, living so long without the sun? 

By slow degrees, a pain formed behind her eyes. She looked up and tried to focus on the distance, but it was useless.

Even with the curtain tempering the sun, the light was too bright for her. She turned the page, and the words wobbled worse than usual.

She closed her eyes.

“Are you alright, Marigold?”

She kept them closed.

“Yes, just a headache, Mr. Frodo.” She barely moved her head to nod. “I get them sometimes.”

“Do you want to stop? I think we should stop. You need to rest.”

But she shook her head and pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes. Her head felt like a bucket with water sloshing inside.

“I’ll be alright.”

But she wasn’t alright – and wouldn’t be. 

The fullness, paired with a vice-like grip, made her feel like she would lose what food she had eaten.

She got up and moved to the couch, step by tiny step. She lowered herself onto the cushions, covering her face with her hands.

Darkness. Deep breaths. In and out.

But the moments passed, and the pain did not relent.

She felt the cushions shift as Frodo sat beside her.

“Would you like to lie down? Or would you like me to walk you home?”

Home?... No… 

Bagshot Row was trying at the best of times, and noisy from sunup til sundown…

She shook her head – braving the dizziness that would come.

“No... Please – I,” the words leaked out from her like sap from a cut in a tree. “I just need to sit here… Then I can make – some willow bark tea… I’m sorry – for the in-con-venience…”

“Oh, you’re no inconvenience, Mari.”

She felt the cushions shift again, and then the creak of a step on the floorboards.

Some moments passed – mercifully without a wave – and then the cushions shifted another time.

“Might you have some willow bark in here?” 

She opened her eyes, and saw Frodo sitting beside her, holding her bag in his lap.

“If so, I can brew it for you."

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo.” 

Marigold was looking down, sipping her tea. 

Frodo had done very well in brewing the bark, particularly for one with no apothecary experience. The tea was thick as could be, but the plant showed no signs of being scalded or over-steeped. There was not a trace of dirt or dregs – just warm, heady, golden-brown liquid, and it spread throughout her body, relaxing and soothing wherever it found hurt.

“I have been getting headaches since the Scouring,” she observed absently.

Frodo was sitting by her side, and a look of concern had not left his features.

“But it’s getting better,” she added quickly. “The first few weeks, my head was hurting all the time, and it is a wonder that I knew what was going on around me. But it only happens once in a while now.”

She shrugged and took another sip.

But Frodo, for all his apparent effort, could do little to school his expression.

“But – but – but Marigold,” he stammered, “that not right. Maybe you ought to go see Dr. Boffin.”

He peered at her with his fine blue eyes, full of heartbreaking concern. But Marigold only shrugged, examining her reflection in the cup.

“I could, Mr. Frodo, I could.” She nodded absently. “But I know what it is, and I know that there isn’t anythin’ for it, so there’s naught for Dr. Boffin to do. My brains got rattled pretty well in the Lockholes, so the only thing that’ll fix it is time... ”

“Your… brains got rattled?”

Frodo regarded her, sitting stoop-shouldered at the edge of the couch.

Marigold shrugged a second time, nodding primly.

The headache was finally loosening its grip, and so was the moribund, heavy feeling that had come with it – a feeling that promised no end in sight, no way of feeling happy ever again…

“Yes, rattled is the word,” she said, and was surprised by her own nonchalance. “They beat me almost daily in there…”

She paused.

Indeed, she had no particular reason to tell him. Or not to tell him. The words were forming of their own accord.

“It was – well, I suppose they were bound to happen e-ventually, these headaches.”

She smiled with one corner of her mouth.

But Frodo, for his part, could not remain so unflappable.

“They… they did what?” he exclaimed, blinking his eyes. “But – but why?!”

If before he had made some effort at propriety, by now he was openly staring.

For he must have known that conditions were harsh: after the blacksmith dismantled the locks, many hobbits could barely walk on their own two feet, and some never came out at all. But this was another order of cruelty. Even Sam had said that if Lotho was not already dead, he might have killed him all over again.

Marigold took another sip, and noted that the willow-bark was working famously.

She stood up, and smoothed her skirt over her knees. She then rolled her head this way and that, and placed her hands on her waist. She looked out the window. Thankfully, the sun was going down and a thin blanket of clouds had stretched across the sky.

“Well, why do you think they did it, Mr. Frodo?” she returned. “Because they could, that’s why.” She sniffed, and gazed at the thin, lavender cloud-cover. “Because people, if you give them power, like that sort of thing, if you get my meanin’.”

Of course, she was not about to reveal the other reason why they did it, though she knew it full well. The guards, it seemed, were under orders, for they had not touched her that way at all, but roughing her up was a daily occurrence. The degree to which they did it varied from day to day, depending on the guard and his mood. But it was always cruel, and she often got the wind knocked out of her.

And they did it in plain view of the other prisoners.

In fact, a few of them tried to defend her, including the former mayor, Will Whitfoot. He had boomed, when he still could boom, “Leave the girl alone, for pity’s sake! Whatever is the point of this?!” But it garnered him the same treatment, and he was starved for a week, even as the beatings went on.

They went on and on, and soon, Marigold noticed a curious thing. The guards seemed under orders to avoid her face, and she guessed the reason for this also.

For those not privy to certain facts, it might have seemed odd that they targeted her that way. After all, there were many other good looking lasses, even if her reputation for goodness preceded her. Had she simply refused to do as she was told, she might have avoided such a fate. She might have been passed around by Sharkey’s men and discarded. But in a rare moment of righteous indignation, and in front of the ruffians no less, she found her voice and said something so cutting to Lotho – something only longtime Shire residents would have known – that she earned herself a more elaborate punishment…

Or so she had guessed. Her mind never got much past that part, even on the good days. To think about the workings of Lotho’s and “Sharkey’s” minds… It made her skin crawl.

She drew another breath and said nothing more.

She rolled her shoulders as the stiffness dispelled. 

The branch knocked passively against the window, but in the room, all was quiet and still – until the floorboards creaked again, and Frodo stood up beside her.

She turned to face him, and realized why he had not said a word. 

He looked abjectly horrified.

“But – but Marigold…” He reached for her arm, restraining himself with visible effort. “How… How can you be so calm about this? Should you even be working? You need to rest, to heal, and those ruffians –”

She could almost see the thoughts behind his eyes. Sam had thought the same, and expressed it, too.

He would be running a list of hobbits in his mind who were party to Lotho’s and “Sharkey’s” regime. He would think – I have but to say the word, and Sam and the other farm lads would deliver a justice of the pitchfork and fist variety. But no – such justice would not help poor Mari. An eye for an eye made the whole world blind. (3)

He would decide as much, and his lips would grow stiff, just as they did now.

Marigold smiled.

“But Mr. Frodo, I am almost perfectly well," she said.

And it was true. The headache was melting away, the memories receding.

She was coming back into her own, the Marigold that bounced.

“And I get plenty of rest, too,” she added – which she did, at night, now that the nightmares were fewer and farther between. “And I enjoy work, I really do. It makes me feel like all is well in the world. Even if I am hurting all the time, and even if I have to repeat things over and over. I don’t think I could be happy sitting still.”

Frodo regarded her, opening and closing his hand by his side.

“But… But – how did you make it through?” he finally asked. “I mean – well, you know what I mean.”

His eyes were large, and in the falling twilight, they were darker and less blue.

Marigold thought for a moment.

Indeed, how had she gotten through?

The first thing that came to mind – and she had asked herself the very same question, many times – was Mrs. Tunnelly. She was an older hobbit lady from Frogmorton who had shared her cell and had been kind. She would hold Marigold, and rock her to sleep and sing to her when she was hurting. She told her about her daughter who was just the same age, and she offered Marigold her rations, which Marigold staunchly refused. Mrs. Tunnelly had died in her sleep only days before the liberation.

But it wasn’t just Mrs. Tunnelly. There was something else that made it different from the other thing – from well before. The thing that haunted her and made her loth to remember.

 “Well, I got through because I had to, Mr. Frodo,” she said at last. “I knew it would be worse if I didn’t. It was a simple choice, really, as far as choices go.”

She looked at him.

And, suddenly, it felt like a simple choice to tell him what happened – all of it.

For they were looking at each other now – him at her, and her at him – and she saw something new in her kind, enigmatic master. It was more than beauty, more than goodness. He had a soulful feeling in his eyes – a hint of admiration that she did not deserve, but also a luminosity and perceptiveness. A look of true knowing.

Had their relationship been different, they might have reached for one another and embraced.

“And Mr. Frodo,” she went on, plucking up her courage and making her voice firm, “You know, I really could have done it – I could have kept company with the enemy, if you get my meaning, and kept myself safe that way.” She paused. “But you see, if I had done that, that would have meant that I was con-doning what was happening, con-doning the way that the Shire and the other hobbits were being ill-used. People would have spat at me in the streets for it, and would have been right to do it. But Mr. Frodo, I knew – I knew that this couldn’t go on forever. I knew that Sharkey and Lotho would never win. I knew that we would be rescued. And we were.”

She gave him another significant look.

And Frodo sighed.

For several moments, he gazed at her with wide-open eyes, and if she did not know any better, he might have thought he was admiring her.

But it only lasted a moment.

He looked away, pressing a knuckle to his forehead. And Marigold got up from her seat, turning from side to side with her arms following her shoulders.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” she said at length, rolling her head from side to side. “I am feeling better now. Shall we go back to our letters?”

That evening after Marigold left, Frodo sat in his red upholstered chair by the fire for nearly half an hour. He could not eat or drink, nor could he do much of anything else. He could only stare into the embers.

The things she told him had a vice-grip on his heart, but that was not all. It was not just what they did, or what she did or how she did it. It was how she told it.

It was simple, really.

Simple, yet again.

A word not in his lexicon, but comforting all the same. And for some, salvation in the form of five humble letters.

He could only marvel at her grace – both in body and spirit.

The Gamgees, it seemed, were made of truly strong stuff. Far stronger than he was, and perhaps their secret was exactly that: simplicity.

It was such a rare thing in the world, a pure and innocent heart. But it also kept the world puttering along, the sun rising and setting. It was people like the Gamgees who tended the light, because they could not conceive of anything else.

Perhaps he could take a lesson from the likes of them, but how?

1. This is from “Wandering Day,” written by Bear McCreary for the TV show Rings of Power, a song that easily could have been part of hobbit oral tradition and passed down to the time of The Lord of the Rings.
2. The headcanon of pre-quest Frodo having an uncanny ability to fall asleep anytime and anywhere comes from the Lord of the Rings cast commentary by Billy Boyd. He described how Elijah Wood could sleep on the go, including while waiting to shoot a scene.
3. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind” is, of course, a quote attributed to Gandhi, but Frodo would not know this.

Chapter Text

Summer bloomed on, and soon August was on the wane. It was still warm, and Sam wore a thin linen shirt and breeches as he worked in the garden, while Marigold had not yet exchanged her under-dresses for the ones with longer sleeves. Inside Bag End, it was pleasantly cool, and as they harvested crop after crop of lush peppers, fragrant tomatoes and crispy cucumbers, they started to eat salads with every meal, and Marigold began to talk of canning.

It was as rich a summer as any in Frodo’s memory – and one bright, balmy day, he even plucked up the courage to sit closer to the windows than usual, and looked out at the greenery past the wine-colored, translucent cloth. Passing by with the laundry, Marigold paused in the doorway and said, “You know, Mr. Frodo, we really ought to get you outside more. It is such a fine day.”

And before he knew it, Frodo was nodding and agreeing that it was a fine day, and that he did in fact wish to go outside – though he quickly reversed course, and interposed that the brightness was cutting to his eyes.

But Marigold, as ever, had a solution.

She offered one of her eager, ebullient smiles, and said, “just you wait there, Mr. Frodo,” and disappeared into one of the clothing rooms, only to reemerge with a wide-brimmed hat he had quite forgotten – for he himself did not garden often.

And so they stationed Frodo out of doors on the bench outside Bag End, with a book in hand, wearing shirtsleeves and a hat, and in plain view of Sam. It was later in the afternoon, and the sun had tipped over its zenith.

“Just a few minutes at a time – that ought to do a body good,” Marigold said, and disappeared. 

She even left him a cup of water.

And so Frodo sat, and watched Sam hilling the potatoes. 

The air was balmy and sweet, and the rich smell of earth and freshly cut grass filled his lungs. Beyond the hills and the roofs of other hobbit holes, he could, if he squinted, see the glistening Water, and it made him think how pleasant it would be to run over the soft, thick grass, stretching out his limbs, and shaking out their moribund stiffness. He longed to plunge straight into the cool river, to the head-shaking and muttering of the neighbors. 

That is, if his body still could run, it would have been a fine thing to do.

“May I smoke, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo snapped out of his reverie.

He had not noticed Sam take a seat beside him.

Sam stretched out his legs, and put his arms over the back of the bench, lifting his face to the sun. A languid sigh escaped his throat.

“Of course, Sam,” Frodo nodded.

Indeed, Frodo still enjoyed the flowery, beguiling smell of pipe weed. When another smoked, it came to him in thin, delicate flows, like a perfume, and while his own pipe would make his heart race, another person smoking did not.

Sam snapped up his head, and turned toward him with a chuckle. Then, with a sideways smile, he extracted a pipe from his knapsack, and struck a match.

The end of the pipe glowed golden as the weed caught the flame – and then Sam pulled, contentedly, on the other end, and with each breath, the leaf pulsed orange.

Frodo watched, and neither said anything for a spell.

Indeed, with Sam there was often no need for talking.

If Marigold was fain to ask questions – which was understandable, for she had been instructed to entertain him – with Sam, they had lived together so long that their minds were as one, and a cloud would form around them when they sat together like this, enveloping them away from the world.

Sam drew another breath, and exhaled a long, luxuriant plume of smoke, turning the air before them into a fine, silver mist.

“This here is what we saved the Shire for, isn’t it, Mr. Frodo?” 

He sighed, and took another long, slow, satisfied draw on his pipe.

And Frodo could not disagree. He returned a squinting smile under the brim of his hat.

Some distance away, a cart was moving down the road. Across the lane, a hobbit in a yard hailed his neighbor, and the two came together to speak over a fence. A goldcrest warbled in a nearby tree. 

The mild breeze caressed his skin.

Frodo thought, suddenly, of Minas Tirith.

In just such a manner, not long ago, he and Faramir had sat on a warm sunlit wall outside the Houses of Healing. The stern, proud beauty of the White City rose behind them, and Faramir was speaking with such love for his native land, that Frodo could not help but long for the Shire. He had understood, for the first time, just how alike the peoples of Middle-earth really were.

“More than just the Shire, Sam. More than just the Shire.”

He closed his eyes, the sweat beading on his forehead, and when he opened them again, Sam had shifted toward him.

“Well, that is very true, Mr. Frodo. That is very true,” he smiled.

Frodo sighed – for Sam was looking content as ever, with his round apple cheeks and his guileless lips.

He took the pipe from his mouth, and deposited it carefully beside him.

He then reached into his sack, and rummaged around, extracting a paper bundle.

“Well, you know, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “The mallorn tree is right beautiful just now – the spittin’ image of the ones in Lothlórien it is, the bark smooth and silver-gray, and the leaves shimmerin’ in the breeze all green and silver. Why don’t we go an’ have a look one of these days?”

He withdrew a thick, white wafer from the wrapper.

“Let’s do it soon, for it will be fall again soon. And then we can go an’ see it again, since that’s when the leaves will be turnin’ golden…”

He glanced at Frodo with a conspiratorial air, but Frodo shook his head – not in refusal, but in wonderment.

Had it been that long already?

The mallorn had flowered in April, and back then, and on many occasions after, he had told himself that he would go and see it, and now it was nearly September.

He nodded.

“Yes, I would very much like that,” he said. “But not just yet. Maybe in a little while.”

Sam nodded pleasantly, shifting in his seat.

“Well, that’s just fine, then, Mr. Frodo. Whenever you like.”

He was through admiring the wafer, and extended it to Frodo.

Frodo shook his head – and Sam, giving the dense, triangular loaf a tender look, closed his eyes and took a bite.

And then another, and another.

If before his expression was one of admiration, it steadily turned to bliss. He ate until his teeth and throat were barely keeping up.

Frodo sighed.

The sight, such as it was, was not new. Sam ate like that quite often now, as if each meal was his last. But with this particular bread, Sam had eclipsed his usual gusto.

“Sam… What is that?” Frodo squinted at the wrapper.

Sam ceased to pick up crumbs and returned a sheepish grin.

“Oh, this?” He chuckled, folding the paper into quarters. “Well, it’s nothing much, really… I’ve been tryin’ to make lembas, is all. And now Rosie and my sisters have joined in as well. In fact, we’ve made it a game of sorts.”

“Lembas?” Frodo raised his eyebrows.

Sam picked off one remaining crumb – from the lapel of his shirt – and licked it off his finger. His elated expression returned.

“Yes, lembas,” he smiled. “Now, mind you, it is nothing like the real lembas. Just the taste and the feel of it we’re tryin’ to make. But this im’tation here, I daresay, is not half bad. I think it’s Marigold’s, as it happens…”

“My dear Sam!” Frodo turned bodily toward him.

But if Sam was taken aback, he gave no sign. He placed the wrapper back in his knapsack and looked grave, the way he did when he recited a poem.

“Well, to tell you true, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “At first, when we got back to the Shire, I couldn’t stand the sight of anything that looked, felt, or even smelled like lembas. I thought I’d eaten more than enough for one lifetime. But by-and-by, I got a hankerin’ for it again, and now, it’s all I want.”

He paused, and glanced at his hands.

“Same as I get a hankerin’ for food every time I see it now,” he added. “And it’s unnat’ral, I tell you, even for a hobbit – but every time I sit down, I cannot help but eat everything in sight... So I’m sorry I didna leave you any…”

He scrutinized his hands, picking a callus off the heel of his hand.

Frodo sighed and shifted toward him.

“It’s alright, Sam,” he said, reaching for the Gamgee’s hand. “I said I didn’t want it. And you were hungry. We were both hungry. More hungry than any hobbit had ever been, or ever will be.” (1)

Sam sighed, and moved toward Frodo in his turn.

He took his master’s hand and cradled it. But after a few moments, Frodo readjusted his hold, and their fingers intertwined.

And then, they were those two hobbits once again.

Two hobbits, huddled underneath an overhang of rock on the side of a mountain. A treacherous, narrow staircase ran along its side, and the wind was clawing its way under their cloaks. Gollum was lurking somewhere nearby.

The two hobbits were eating lembas, its sweet, dry texture caking their tongues.

Frodo felt an iciness in his chest. His throat tensed up, and his ears filled with cotton. Sam’s hands, the picket fence, and the bright, brilliant sky felt very far away.

“I’m sorry, Sam…”

He stood up, unlacing their fingers.

“I’ve got to go. It’s getting far too hot.”

“Sam, do you have any notion of why Mr. Frodo came in from the outside, made straight for his room, and hasn’t been seen since – and it’s been more than an hour?”

Sam looked up. The hilling of the vegetables done, he had been hard at work mending the rabbit-proof fence, which had proven less rabbit-proof than he had hoped. 

“What – what do you mean?” He squinted into the sunlight – balmy and outlining his sister’s figure, her hands on her hips.

He could not discern her expression, but her voice was not sympathetic.

“I mean just that,” she clicked her tongue. “He does that sometimes. Gets up and disappears with nary a word. He stays in his room for more than an hour, and then he reappears – sometimes like nothing’s happened, and sometimes there’s this odd look in his eye. So that’s why I wonder, did somethin’ happen while he was out here that made him do it? I don’t know him so well as you, so I wonder, was he like that before?”

Sam blinked, and reached to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Well, no...” He paused. “Not that I remember. Did you try knocking?”

Marigold huffed.

“Of course I did. But he won’t answer.”

“Won’t answer?”

She nodded.

“Won’t open the door, won’t say a word. But I can hear him breathin’ in there, and I can hear the floorboards creak, so I know he’s not asleep. And he’s not crying or anythin’, so I s’ppose he’s not so badly off, but I still can’t help but think –”

Sam rose with a decisive start.

“And you didn’t think to try an’ go in, even if he won’t answer?” 

Marigold shrank back – but to her credit, her posture remained erect.

“Well, he is a gentlehobbit, Sam. I can’t very well go into his room without permission – leastwise not unless there is an ‘mergency. So that’s why I would think –”

But Sam was already walking away, shaking the dirt out of his foot hair. 

Gentlehobbit indeed…

And yet…

It had been odd for Frodo to get up and leave so abruptly, though at first he tried to pay it no mind. Ordinarily, Frodo would wander off to parts unknown, both in body and soul, but he would always come back. And to hide for over an hour, and to give no response… 

The Frodo he knew would not do this. 

Sam stood outside of Frodo’s bedroom, and his heart was in his ears.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Silence.

Sam knocked.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Silence again. 

Sam brought his ear to the door – and released the breath he was holding. Inside, he could hear the faint sound of breathing, as well as the shifting of floorboards, but the door stood ponderous between them – like the door to the Mines of Moria, though that one had a clever riddle for a key.

Speak Friend and enter.

A friend would know what to say, but for once in his life Sam was at a loss.

The only thing he knew was that Frodo had been very reluctant to speak about his troubles, and the closest he had come to asking for help was inviting Sam and Rosie to come live with him – but even that was couched in a comment about “Number 3 not being made of rubber, Sam.” 

And Sam was certainly not blind. He had seen Frodo and Bag End deteriorate as deep fatigue and indifference took hold, so if he had moved in, caring for Frodo would have been all he could think of. 

But Sam’s own life was also changing. Not only was there Rosie and their future to think of, but there were others who suddenly wanted and needed his help – and he was not adept at refusing. He suddenly found himself torn in two – or even three or four – so short of actually splitting himself apart, sending Marigold to Bag End was the best thing he could think of. Some had even said that had Marigold been born a lad, she and Sam would have been two peas in a pod. 

But even so, there were things Marigold could not do – at least not yet. So Sam took a breath, and pushed open the door.

“Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon, I’m coming in.”

No guessing of riddles was needed. 

Frodo was seated on the floor against the wall, and his legs were at sharp angles, like the vault of a pitched roof. There was a vacant, faraway look in his eye.

Sam rushed to his side, and fell to his knees, grabbing hold of his hands.

“Mr. Frodo, my dear, what’s the matter?!” 

He peered into his master’s face.

But Frodo was slow to reply – and slower still to move, even as Sam kneaded his hands between his own.

They were cold – cold as the entire left side of his body had been when he was wounded by the Morgul-blade, and his cheeks were deathly pale.

Frodo took a raspy breath, and raised his eyes.

“I don’t… quite know… Sam…”

His voice came out like a deathly rattle.

His hearing was rippling in and out, and he could scarcely move his eyes. Light, sound, and touch came to him out of order – and he felt Sam’s hand as if through a thick blanket.

“This… this happens sometimes,” he whispered – his tongue barely stirring. “I don’t… I don’t feel quite here…”

Sam’s face hovered above him, and Frodo felt a pang in his chest.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo…” Sam rubbed the other hobbit’s hands, and brought them to his lips.

And Frodo tried to shake his head – to let him know not to trouble himself so much, that it was not so dire – but even that was difficult.

“I’ll… I’ll be alright… Sam,” he finally managed. “Don’t worry… It’ll pass…”

But he felt so tired… 

His head lolled to one side, and Sam caught it, gripping his cheek.

If he were not so tired, he might have tried to explain it, to put Sam’s mind at ease.

But how could he explain it?

To say that he did not feel “quite here” did not do it justice.

Whenever it began, he felt like he was falling into shadow. A nameless fear would grip his heart – and he would hear whispers, or lose his vision, hearing, and speech.

The only thing to do in such a moment was hide, lest he actually lose control and frighten those around him. In fact, he had frightened those around him once, when he was Mayor of Michel Delving. He was meeting with the sheriffs when his tongue ceased to obey him altogether, and he managed to play it off as a bout of indigestion, but in the end, it was the chief reason why he resigned as quickly as he could.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” he heard Sam’s voice.

Sam was blinking his eyes, but his mouth was set in a line, and he was puffing out his cheeks.

“Let’s get you up and off this floor, at least. And let’s get you into that comfortable bed of yours.”

Frodo was about to protest – but before he could, Sam’s arms were hoisting him off the floor. 

The bed, indeed, was not a place of pleasant memories – but another wave of weakness overtook him, so he held his tongue. He let his head loll back, and the world swam before his eyes, but it was a short journey.

Sam carried him far more easily than he had done on Mount Doom, and deposited him on the bed, against the downy feather pillows.

If only Sam knew… It would have been far better, if he could have put him down on the side away from the door, for the nightmares crowded him on this side.

But Frodo’s tongue was stiff, and when Sam put him down, he lingered, holding him close, so Frodo was loth to criticize his efforts.

“My goodness, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “ I know Mari has been tryin’, but we really ought to get you eatin’ more. You’re right skin an’ bones, an’ so light to carry…” (2)

He sat down by Frodo’s side, and rubbed his forearms. He then paused, and looked earnestly at the other’s face – and it might have been Frodo’s imagination, but there was a look like longing in his eyes…

Sam furrowed his brow, and his hands traveled methodically, tenderly up his friend’s forearms.

“Mr. Frodo…” He paused, and gazed earnestly at his face. “When you say that you don’t feel quite there, what do you mean? Is it like feeling faint or weak? Or is it somethin’ else?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Frodo shook his head.

“No,” he sighed, and turned to the side, squinting – for the curtains were not fully drawn, and there was a bright sliver of light, cutting its way in. “It’s not just faint and weak. It’s hard to explain…”

His eyes fell on a bouquet of flowers atop the dresser. Blue hydrangeas, cut and brought in by Marigold – their round, downy heads bent over the sides of a wide-lipped, oval vase. (3)

“I feel – I feel like I’m… disappearing, Sam,” he said, his tongue torpid as tar. “That’s the best way I can explain it… Like everything is fading and melting away…”

He drew a slow, uneasy breath – in and out.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo… Even still?”

Sam stopped the progress of his hands, and peered anxiously into his face.

Frodo nodded. 

“Yes, Sam, even now. I feel… I feel like I did back then.” He sighed – and his voice faded to a whisper. “It happens, sometimes… When I remember… But not every time.”

He closed his eyes, and drew another breath, reflecting.

Indeed, why didn’t it happen every time?

It did not happen during his and Marigold’s lessons – but was that because he had more control? He could, for instance, paraphrase away some of the jagged parts; he could inform, smile, and pause, and use those tricks as railings to keep himself upright.

But with Sam, there was no denying what happened, no dissembling, no pretending. They had shared in every painful part of it, and there was nowhere to hide.

Frodo opened his eyes, and saw his friend’s eyes. There were tears in them.

He squeezed Frodo’s fingers.

“But you’re not disappearing, Mr. Frodo.” He blinked – and his voice quivered. “You’re here… very much so. You’re here, in the Shire… with me, your Sam.”

Frodo sighed.

“I know that, Sam.” He pressed his lips, and closed his eyes once more. “I know…” 

He said nothing more, and Sam, seemingly at a loss for what to do, let go of his hands and began to massage again.

He wiped a tear away with his fist.

“You’re here,” he repeated, “And look, we’re at Bag End. It’s August. The tomatoes and the squashes have come in, and the sweet melons too. We’ll be having some for dessert soon.” He paused, and sniffed – wiping away another tear. “And today, the sun’s been exceedin’ warm, and I was sweatin’ buckets out there, and they were makin’ hay in the fields.”

He drew a ragged breath, and turned back to rubbing.

And he was remarkably good at it, too.

His fingers were pressing small, yet insistent circles – invigorating, reviving tired flesh. He made his way up to Frodo’s shoulders, and then over his torso – avoiding old wounds.

A minute or so had passed like this, and by degrees, Sam brightened.

“But wait, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “What do you see? Meanin’ right here, right in this room.”

Frodo drew a long, cautious breath, and looked warily around him. 

He did not understand – and his vision was blurry. But very slowly, things were coming into view, and his body was regaining feeling.

“I see… My dresser? My bed?” 

Sam nodded, and squeezed his upper arms.

“And do you remember what your dresser is made of?”

Frodo tried to remember, but his mind felt sluggish – at least for worldly things. 

“Mahogany, I think?”

Sam nodded.

“Yes, that’s right – mahogany. And what is on top of your dresser?”

Frodo blinked, and squinted in the half-light. 

Come to think of it, what was on top of the dresser? 

“A round mirror. And… blue flowers in a vase.”

“And do you remember where the flowers came from?”

“I do… We have… a hydrangea bush.”

Sam nodded, and reached to cradle Frodo's hands.

Frodo took another breath.

“And I see you, too, Sam,” he said, his voice suddenly full. “You’re wearing a linen shirt… And your hair is lighter from the sun… And your hands… they smell like the garden…”

He squeezed Sam’s fingers. With some effort, he shaped his lips into a smile.

“And Marigold,” he added, “I do not see her… But I know she is around here somewhere….”

Sam was about to return a smile, but his breath caught in his throat.

He paused, wondering why he was not so keen, all of a sudden, to hear about Marigold…

But he shook his head, and told himself that it was nothing.

He placed Frodo’s hands gently on his stomach, and covered them with his own. 

He blinked, and steadied his breath before he spoke again.

“That’s good, Mr. Frodo. Very good.” He blinked a few more times, and swallowed a lump in his throat. “It seems that your eyes are working well enough. Now, could you tell me a few things that you can feel – meanin’, with your body? How do my hands feel, for instance?”

“Your hands, Sam?” 

Frodo glanced at where they lay.

The hands felt heavy. Heavy and warm…

“Your hands feel good, Sam… Very good.”

“And the bed?” 

“The bed feels very good, too. Soft.”

Frodo sighed, and let his eyes drift shut.

He watched the remnants of the light on the backs of his eyelids, and sank into the heaviness and the softness.

If only he could rest so deeply and so peacefully, like a caterpillar in its silken bed. And yet, a part of him wanted to think and feel, to live in a world filled with the sorts of things he and Sam had named: warm hands, old dressers, and good beds, where they were making hay in the in fields, and all the people were kind, and brought flowers for one another.

So much depended on such a world. (4)

He felt Sam shifting, letting go of his hands, reaching for something at the foot of the bed.

“And how does this feel?” the Gamgee asked.

Frodo felt a blanket being wrapped around him.

He opened his eyes, and ran a hand over the piecework surface. It was a small, well-worn quilt, and he did not need to see it to know that it was lavender, blue and green, and that its surface was comprised of neat, orderly triangles. The threads ran like dashes under his fingertips, the pieces of cloth stitched together by his mother and Brandybuck aunts when he was born.

It was one of the few possessions that had followed him to Bag End.

Leave it to Sam to know just what he needed…

For, by Elbereth, Sam knew how to keep things green – and how to tend to things in danger of falling apart in the world. 

If not for Bilbo’s influence, he might have never been one for elaborate flowers, or complex and delicate rarities, but he knew the immediate wisdom of small truths, and how the tiniest of details could keep things inexorably together.

In the garden, which was his domain, it was good, clean water, timed perfectly with the sun, and peaty, wormy dirt, and thick, cool shade.

And on their long trek to Mount Doom, it had been the elvish rope, and simple knots, and an outrageous, almost contrarian hope.

And here?

Hovering above him, it was the blanket, and an earnest string of questions. Which flowers, Mr. Frodo? Remember? Which month? Remember? How does it feel, the bed?

They were all small things. Trivialities, really. But they were lifelines, thin as strings, and they stitched themselves into his thoughts and bore him up. 

Sam could have grown lily-pads in the snow.

Frodo sighed, and reached for his friend’s hand.

“It feels… like someone worked very hard on this,” he replied. “It’s so… intricate.”

Intricate!

He could have laughed – or certainly, he could have smiled, and with little effort.

“Intricate” was a Frodo-word if there ever was one, and it was not wrenched from him by necessity like the “mahogany” and “hydrangea.” 

He glanced up, and saw Sam’s eyes, which had not left his face.

“And you know who that someone was, don’t you, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s look was both solicitous and solemn.

“Of course I do…”

But he did not wish to speak her name. A silent remembrance was enough. 

Instead, he wanted only to think of this day – of Sam’s hands, and Marigold’s flowers, the blanket around him. He wanted them like he had never wanted anything in his life…

He clasped Sam’s hand.

And Sam leaned in close, emboldened by the gesture. 

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” he said, arching his brows in a confidential look, “Do you think you could, perchance, do this on your own? I mean, whenever you feel poorly, you could try naming things that you can hear, see, touch, and smell, and maybe that could make you feel more here, if you get my meaning?” (5)

Frodo nodded.

Indeed, it seemed appealing, a simple thing to do. And it worked, whatever his earlier qualms about anything that seemed simple.

“Yes, Sam,” he nodded slowly. “I think I could… If I start early enough…”

His eyelids began to drift, and he hastened to close them.

Hear. Come to think of it, they had not done that one yet. 

And so he tried to hear, imagining the ripples of air, vibrating against his ear.

He tried to listen for Marigold, clattering with the dishes in the kitchen, her footfall on the floorboards in the hall… But the house was quiet.

“I hear the birds warbling outside,” he finally said. “And I hear the wood settling, and you breathing, Sam.”

Sam swallowed, and clasped Frodo’s hand in turn.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo… My dear…”

There was a crack in his voice, and Frodo opened his eyes.

He looked at his friend, and Sam looked suddenly spent – his head bent low, his shoulders shaking.

“Oh, Sam…”

Frodo pulled on his hand, and Sam came willingly. 

Shaking a little, he lowered himself to Frodo’s side, and Frodo shifted over with some effort. He then rolled to his side, still facing Sam, and wrapped his arms around him.

“My dear Sam.” 

He kissed his friend on the forehead. 

Sam’s shoulders shook. 

“Sam… Please…” Frodo whispered, and brushed a soft, sun-blonde lock of hair out of his eyes. “Please… Just rest a bit…”

Sam whimpered like a child, and Frodo hugged him tighter.

They lay like that for a spell, until Sam raised his eyes.

And in those eyes, Frodo saw – well, he could not be sure what he saw, but there was something… Something Sam himself could not have understood nor named, yet he wanted it dearly…

And Frodo longed to give it to him, and even guessed what it might be.

For it was not the first time that Sam looked at him like that. He carried Sam’s pain, and since it was Sam, it was surprisingly easy. He had but to offer him a kind word or a press of the hand, and Sam would be willing and strong once more, and back on his own two feet, and ready to carry enough for two.

Frodo ran a knuckle over Sam’s cheek, and reached to brush a cowlick from his forehead.

“It’s alright, Sam,” he said, and gave his loyal companion – his friends of friends – a gentle look. “It will be well. I promise.” 

He raised his eyebrows, and Sam smiled through his tears.

“Just… no lembas for me for a while, alright?” Frodo added, with a hint of a smile. “Maybe just blackberries instead?”

Sam had told her to stay nearby, so she lingered close to the bedroom in the hallway, close enough to hear their voices but not close enough to know what was being said. Sam had not fully shut the door behind him, and at first, she tried not to look – in fact pointedly looked away – but then she heard Sam lifting Frodo off the floor, and curiosity got the better of her. She inched toward the doorway, and as she peered into the crack, she witnessed Sam leaning over Frodo on the bed, and massaging him desperately, tenderly.

Her heart fell into her stomach… Would Sam be angry with her now? Should she have sounded the alarm sooner? The Mrs. Bracegirdle who lived rent-free in her head began to chide – berating her for her carelessness – and she screwed her knuckles into her ears and shook her head until the imaginary midwife – who was quite a bit taller in her mind – had finally fallen silent.

But then she looked up, and she was in for an even greater surprise. Across the room, Sam and Frodo were lying in bed together, and Frodo was hugging… Sam?

No, it could not be… 

And yet, her eyes had not deceived her. Sam was the one in pieces now, and it was Frodo’s turn to console him, stroking his hair.

If one of them had been a lad and the other a lass, Marigold would have turned away immediately, but her eyes remained transfixed.

To be sure, they were close, inseparable friends. They had always had a special intimacy, going back to the days when they went tramping around the Shire, and Frodo would join Sam pottering around the garden, and Sam would pretend to work while the Gaffer’s back was turned. The two of them understood each other at half a word, and moved like there was an invisible string between them…

For many years, it had not bothered her, for it seemed exceedingly silly to be jealous of something so rare. After all, even if it were her, not Sam, by Frodo’s side, what Frodo and Sam possessed could not be replicated, nor would she have wanted it to be. In fact, it was an extraordinary thing to see – how Frodo could be with other people. How he could be with Sam.

But now, she did want it to be her. She did wish for her and Sam to trade places. She imagined sitting by Frodo’s side, holding him close, the mild weight of his head against her shoulder. She imagined how it might be to rub his cold, pale limbs and bring the blood back to where it belonged, to talk to him in a soft voice, to be his own, safe harbor. She touched her fingertips to her cheek, and then to her clavicle – where she might have cradled his head – and felt a prickle in her eyes.

Oh, Mr. Frodo. What evils have you seen? 

She had a feeling that the story she had heard was only the young ones’, fireside version of the tale.

1. Sam’s drive to eat everything in sight until he is stuffed, which borders on binge eating disorder, is a not-uncommon outcome of starvation, and is seen at times in people who have survived a war.
2. This is a reference to A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens. When Tiny Tim dies, his mother, Mrs. Cratchit, recalls the following: “But he was so light to carry, and your father loved him so; it was no trouble for him.”
3. In Victorian floriography, blue hydrangeas symbolize forgiveness, rejection, and regret.
4. This is a reference to the poem The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams.
5. Without knowing it, Sam is teaching Frodo a common “grounding exercise,” which is a therapeutic treatment of anxiety, panic, and various trauma-related symptoms including dissociation and flashbacks. The idea is to keep the self grounded in the present by naming things one is experiencing with each of the five senses in turn.

Chapter Text

After that day, Sam spent even more time at Bag End, and would give Frodo daily rub-downs. The two of them had shared their agreement with Marigold: that if Frodo felt poorly, he would not disappear, and instead try to do the things Sam taught him. Marigold had been delighted: for Frodo’s disappearances were no longer shrouded in mystery, and she even started to make tinctures for their massages, experimenting with lavender, rock rose, and skullcap. They had discovered, too, that Frodo liked to rest under heavy blankets even in the summer heat – for their weight calmed his breathing when he felt unwell – so on a chair by his dresser, Marigold and Sam kept a tower of blankets at the ready.

And so, August ripened into September, and soon, the fields were gilded with rye and corn, while the garden of Bag End yielded bright parti-colored carrots, fat parsnips, proud leeks, ballooning cauliflower, and rich, wine-colored eggplants. As she set about preserving summer’s boons, Marigold filled the larder with her fat, matter-of-fact jars, and soon, the shelves were a riot of color with a dozen different types of pickles, a crop of Bilbo’s prize-winning tomatoes, along with peppers, cabbages, and beets.

Undeterred by his first, too-eventful foray, Frodo still ventured outside every now and again, and he would sit on the bench in his wide brimmed hat, reading or watching Sam work. Sam, for his part, had apologized profusely for speaking of the lembas, and swore that he would never bring his efforts at replicating it again. To this string of apologies, Frodo had insisted that there was nothing to forgive – but still, Sam had privately resolved to avoid any mentions of the past, unless Frodo were to bring it up himself.

The sun of September was more gentle than the billows of summer – most days it was a closer sun, more intimate and more golden. The chills of the autumn were many weeks away, and the leaves would not be turning for some time, but soon, it would be Frodo’s birthday.

Frodo did not like to think of his birthday, not anymore, and he only hoped that the other hobbits would not make a fuss – though a visit from Merry and Pippin, and, correspondingly, libations were to be expected. And Sam and Marigold, to their credit, did not make a fuss, but in time Frodo realized that a certain fuss ought to have been made by him, for as a hobbit and, whatever people may have whispered about him, a prominent member of society, it was still incumbent upon him give gifts – to all his neighbors, friends, relations, and even tenants.

And so, Frodo grudgingly began to think of gifts, and this was, as ever, quite the nuisance. For he did not suppose that many of his neighbors, friends, relations, and even tenants would have liked the eclectic riches, an embarrassing amount of which he was forced to accept as thanks in Gondor. For Sam, he had already decided on a wrought silver pipe stand, and for Marigold a tasteful jade inkwell, both souvenirs from Minas Tirith, where swordsmiths, armorers, catapultists, and armorers were returning to more civilian crafts. But when it came to the rest of society, he breathed a disaffected sigh and started a list – which included the likes of cufflinks, next year’s almanacs, umbrellas, hats, and kitchen cutlery – all perfectly boring, pedestrian, respectable items, and to go with them, a series of perfectly boring, respectable notes with pedestrian well-wishes.

But making a list was only the beginning. The gifts, eventually, would need to be bought – and Frodo was reflecting on this chore as he stood leaning over the gate one early afternoon. Sam was off for the day, and the Proudfoots’ garden down the lane was a riot of late-blooming azaleas, the greenery bursting forth indecently over and through the lattice fence. Marigold came out of Bag End, her bag slung empty over her shoulder.

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

“Roast chicken and broth?” Frodo closed his eyes, and with some reverence imagined the dishes. Roast chicken held salt very well, and he liked salt these days, for it made him feel less faint. “That sounds quite good, Marigold. I’d like that very much.”

He opened his eyes, and glanced down the path.

Roast chicken and broth aside, it felt excruciating, the prospect of going to the market and shops. And it was not just the walk – it was seeing people and hearing them, and being bumped into, and the chaos that made his chest feel tight. When Marigold first arrived, he was particularly glad that she took over the shopping.

But the boring gifts were his burden. To ask her to buy them would have been unfair – for she would have even more to carry, and she was already coming back with her shoulder bag full, and a satchel in each hand.

Marigold gazed at him, and leaned against the gate.

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

Ah, there it was… 

He had been wondering when and how such a question might come. He considered pretending that he had not heard – but no. Marigold was too astute for that.

And so he let a moment pass, then two. Then he took a breath, and turned his eyes from the road.

He looked at her, and Marigold, with her clear, hazel eyes, looked back – for in truth, Frodo had been right.

She had been planning to ask the question for some time now.

Indeed, ever since Frodo had ventured out of his hobbit hole, drawn out by the beauty of summer, and by the warmth of the sun and the smell of the good, tilled earth, she had been thinking of what challenge they would take on next. But it was not so simple. She could not ask Frodo Baggins to go for a walk, for an unattached hobbit asking another unattached hobbit of the opposite sex to go for a walk could mean only one thing. Nor could she tell him that it was good for his health to take regular exercise – for that would make her no different from the matrons who spent their days discussing everyone’s business over their fences. And besides, this was Mr. Frodo, who had once explained to her and Sam the difference between walking and “tramping” for a good five minutes – so if “taking some exercise for the good of his health” had been so easy, he would have done it a long time ago.

And so the moments passed and she did not take her eyes off his, waiting for an answer.

And Frodo, for his part, blinked a few more times and pushed back the brim of his hat.

The healer-speak – of course. 

But she was certainly correct, and by now, he did not dislike the healer-speak. It was diplomatic, to be sure, and diplomacy was always in short supply, particularly in the Shire. And tired though he was, there was no denying it – sitting would only make his bones turn to dust, and every time he went outside, he longed for more – more grass and gravel under his toes, more wind coming down fragrantly over the hills in Tookland, more greenly in the Northfarthing Woods, and more of the dappled road with its brocade of leaves high above.

He sighed, and the Proudfoots’ azaleas sighed back. Whether she knew it or not, Marigold knew how to entertain an idle imagination.

“I suppose I might try that, Mari,” he replied, and nodded in the direction of the path. “I do feel tired often, but I think that walking could do me some good.”

And Marigold returned a smile, clasping her hands in front of her chest.

“Alright, then, I have an idea.” She leaned in closer, and looked very confidential.

And Frodo returned a kindly smile, cocking his head.

For whatever her other virtues, holding her cards close to her chest not one of them – not when she was excited and unafraid. He even had a mind to ask her what is your idea, Mari, but was certain that she would tell him whether or no – and unlike Sam with the mallorn in the party field (which he still had not seen), she was far too enterprising to accept “maybe” for an answer.

Marigold seemed to sense his interest, and, loth to contain her excitement, she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“Well, you see, Mr. Frodo,” she said, dropping her voice conspiratorially, “Your birthday is coming up, is it not?”

Frodo nodded. “Indeed it is.” He gave a sardonic chuckle.

“So that would mean that you would need to get gifts, would it not?”

He nodded again. 

“Well then,” she returned an emphatic smile, “That would mean that I would have more to carry when I walk back from town, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh – well…” Frodo paused, and picked, distractedly, at the paint on the fence. “I mean – er – you shouldn’t have to, I certainly wouldn’t want you to –”

But Marigold shook her head.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she exclaimed, waving her hands. “I am happy to do it! But may I ask for just one thing?”

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

“Maybe you could meet me halfway when I carry it all back?” She leaned in slightly, letting him miss none of the sparkle in her eye. “It only makes sense: part of the way, part of the load, and every day a little farther. Wouldn’t that be nice? And it will help us both.”

Frodo regarded her, and could not help but feel uplifted.

“Yes, it certainly sounds nice,” he murmured. “Yes, that is a fine idea.”

He unlatched the gate, and walked it open – and Marigold rode along, leg extended, like a dancing dwarrow figurine under glass.

Graceful… Lovely… 

Any red-blooded hobbit would have agreed.

In fact, he wondered why she was not married. She was shy, but she had a string of admirers – and Sam, protective brother that he was, was fond of calling them good-for-nothings. But more than that, she could play a man’s heartstrings with the best of them, and she was smart, vivacious – certainly a woman… It was enough to wake the part of him that might have said, Oh, you want to play fun little games? Alright, then let’s play fun little games, you pretty, you sweet, you adorable little darling… (1)

But he could never say such a thing – no one in their right mind could, unless it was a particularly rowdy night at the Green Dragon. And he was not thirty anymore, or even forty-five.

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

She landed with a thump, and she clasped his hand a little tighter, and he found himself squeezing before he knew what he was about.

But had he lingered?

He could not be sure – and after he let her go, he opened and closed his hand, nervously, at his side – for if he had not lingered, the feeling of her calluses certainly did. (2)

And then she looked at him. 

She was not doing much – only looking, and smoothing her skirt, and readjusting her bag. But suddenly, his breath caught in his chest, for he saw a lass trying to look pretty: a hand on the hair, her shoulders thrown back, a softness in her movements…

And pretty she was. With the breeze in her hair, there was a brightness and a freshness about her, and it made him want to run helter-skelter down the hill, with the greenery blurring past, and the wind catching him in its arms…

His muscles ached, but it mattered less now.

He wanted to bite his lip – but instead, he spoke.

“Let’s start today,” he said, his voice resolute. “How far do you think we should go?”

Their first time, they had only walked five hundred paces to a fork in the road, and parted ways, agreeing to meet at the same place in two hours’ time. But even so, when Marigold took her leave, Frodo stood at the crossroads for a spell, and watched her back disappear in the direction of Hobbiton. He could not think of why he was doing so at first – for all the world, acting like a fretful mother seeing off a child on their first errand – but then he turned around and realized exactly why. It was because he had to go back. Alone.

It was a painful thing to admit, but sitting at home and doing next to nothing had not done him any favors. Not only did his bones feel heavy and his muscles weak, but the world had not grown kinder in his absence. Even the summer sun was no longer a benevolent orb: it was not as strong as it had been a month ago, but it still peered from the heavens like a great, watchful eye, and it was preposterous to think, but even the Chubbs’ pear tree, its plumes verdant and laden with fruit, was looking very much like it had something to hide, its branches sending long, ominous shadows down the lane.

He felt uneasy and chilled, and anxious to get home. He began to walk, hoping he would not be recognized in his sun hat. It covered his features well, but it also made the world more narrow – like blinders on a horse – but unlike a horse, he was not so sure it was a comfort. A part of him did want to see around him, not because he had any notion that a Nazgûl would come swooping down – no, that would be absurd…

But then again, if it was so absurd, why exactly had he just imagined it, and why exactly had it felt so… 

“Hoy! Hullo, there, Mr. Baggins!”

Frodo froze in his tracks.

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

But no grandchildren were present just then. Only Frodo.

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

“Lovely weather we’re been having, young Mr. Baggins,” the old hobbit remarked. “Unseasonably warm. Perfect for pears.”

Frodo nodded. 

“Indeed."

“Come to think of it, we haven’t seen you for some time,” Mr. Proudfoot added, patting his ample stomach. “I was just saying to my boy, Olo, that if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that you had gone off to meet your forebearers, if you get my meaning.” He gave a hearty chuckle – and the cat, frightened out of his nap, jumped down from the bench and padded toward Frodo. 

“It doesn’t do to be so reclusive,” the old hobbit added, raising a significant finger and emptying his pipe onto the ground. “It’s good for a body to be out in society. Keeps one young.” He looked pointedly up and down the road. “And I can’t think of why you resigned as mayor, either. You weren’t such a bad one by any stretch.”

Frodo listened to him speak, and thanked his lucky stars that his hat was large enough to hide his countenance.

“Well, Mayor Whitfoot did recover,” he replied matter-of-factly. “And as I’m sure you know, I only became the mayor as his deputy.” He hooked his thumbs into his suspenders, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling quite myself lately, so it would have been a hardship anyhow."

The old hobbit harrumphed, and rocked himself onto his feet.

“Not feeling yourself! Well, that won’t do!” he exclaimed and rolled out his chest, reaching for his pipe. “What’s ailing you? Have you seen Dr. Boffin?”

Frodo shook his head, and waited, for a few emphatic moments, as the other hobbit packed a pinch of pipeweed into his pipe, and fumbled through his pockets for a match.

“Well, with respect, Mr. Proudfoot,” he said at last, allowing his voice to assume a firm edge, “I appreciate your concern, but my health is my own affair – and it’s, er, rather complicated” – he added, catching sight of the elder’s furrowed brow.

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

“And in any case, I’m on the mend,” he added, making his best effort at nonchalance. “I’ve been walking more, as you can see, for my health.” He scratched the cat behind the ear. “I’m sorry, Red… I’ve got nothing to give you. Maybe next time.”

The cat gave a purr-row, but did not cease to nuzzle Frodo’s hand.

Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed again, and poured himself back onto the bench. He drew a sigh, striking a match.

The birds were creak-creaking in the trees, and their sound was like a slow-moving barrow. Frodo suddenly felt faint, so he steadied himself by gripping the fence, and fixed his eyes on the Proudfoots’ over-upholstered flower beds.

“Yes, walking is a fine thing,” he heard Mr. Proudfoot’s voice. “So long as it’s done in one’s own back yard, I say. Adventuring far from home – now that’s never done anybody a lick of good, and I’ll wager that that’s what’s made you ill. Dreadful things, adventures. Bad for the constitution.”

Frodo remained silent.

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

“Dreadful things,” he repeated, “And all for what? You get a few riches, and folks singing your praises! But I say – if more people valued home and a good meal over gold and undue excitement, the world would be a much a happier place.” (4)

He was not sure how it happened, but suddenly he felt like his heart was disintegrating in his chest, blowing away like so much sand.

The Proudfoots’ door felt very far away, and everything else was fading quickly. His legs were growing weak, and pins and needles were racing up his arms.

And it was hot, deathly hot – but he felt cold.

Mr. Proudfoot droned on, and as best Frodo could tell, it was about his third cousin who had gone off on an adventure, but his ears were filling up with cotton, the sound rippling in and out.

And his vision, too… Mr. Proudfoot’s face, as he pontificated, sank quickly into shadow. Soon, all Frodo could see were two juggling jowls as the words ran into the other, flowing like a reckless current. He wondered if he might really go blind – but just before everything went black, his eyes fell on the azaleas.

Pink azaleas. 

There was a whole riot of them covering the lawn.

And what do azaleas mean, Mr. Frodo? – he heard Sam’s voice inside his head.

Azaleas mean temperance, Sam… My dear, dear Sam.

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

Although… Kindness? Hah! Unkindness was more like it, considering who they belonged to. An unkindness of azaleas, much like an unkindness of ravens…

But the Sam in his mind ignored his wit.

Instead, his voice persisted.

And what else is there, Mr. Frodo? What else, in this here garden? To tell you the truth, I’ve always thought it a little much – meanin’ no disrespect to Mr. and Mrs. Proudfoot…

And for his part, Frodo might have laughed – laughed at the respectful Sam giving such a “harsh” criticism, and rubbed his back into the bargain.

But indeed, what else was there?

Well. 

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

And marigolds. 

There were marigolds, a whole bed of them. Large, orange and red ones, their heads curly and plump – and they outflamed even the azaleas.

And what do marigolds mean, Mr. Frodo? What do marigolds mean?

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

On the one hand, it was the flower of the sun, and so symbolized all things bright, lovely, and joyful. But he had also seen them at funerals, and people wore them while in mourning.

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

Frodo gasped – like coming up for air – and suddenly, everything was bright and golden.

He felt Red underneath his fingers, his cottony forehead pushing up against his hand. He felt the knots that needed working out, the thick, wooly coat, the rumble rolling through his body.

“And that’s why I say, bah-humbug to adventures!” Mr. Proudfoot loudly proclaimed, bringing his sermon to an end. “To come back and die at sixty-two a broken man. No, thank you!” (4)

Frodo blinked his eyes.

The old hobbit, self-impressed as ever, was sitting like a cock on a fence, and puffing with relish on his pipe.

Frodo coughed into his hand.

“Well, that is a very interesting notion, in its own way,” he returned. “I will be sure to give it some thought.” (5)

He turned, and began to walk in the direction of Bag End, but the old hobbit shouted after him.

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

Frodo paused, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Well, that really is too bad, Mr. Proudfoot,” he said, assuming the pleasantly detached tone that he was used to when he was not particularly keen on a conversation. “They’re missing out on some sage advice, if that is so. But I really ought to get going. It’s very good to see you, but I do have some things to do before I pick Marigold up from the market.”

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

But Mr. Proudfoot harrumphed yet another time, and Red jumped from the mailbox and made for the bushes.

“Well, by all means, don’t leave the girl waiting!” the centenarian cried. “And I have one last piece of advice, if you would be so good to hear it. If I were you, I’d be gettin’ a move on. You can’t expect a girl like that to be free for long. Someone’s bound to snap her up just like that!” He snapped his slack-skinned fingers with surprising energy.

Oh, sticklebacks, Frodo thought.  

You try to make it better, and it turns out like always, as Bilbo had always said.

He dropped his eyelids and rolled his shoulders such that, wide-brimmed hat or not, the other hobbit would miss none of it.

“It isn’t like that, Mr. Proudfoot,” he replied in a flat voice. “I am a confirmed bachelor, and content to remain so. And at any rate, she’s far too spirited for me.”

Mr. Proudfoot raised his caterpillar eyebrows.

“Oh, is that so? Well-well!” He ho-hummed, and rocked back and forth a little, smiling around his pipe. “Well, that may be, that may be… “More’s the pity, though – I tell you, if I was 35 again...”

He wiggled his brows and shook his head, as if remembering a particularly good pie.

Frodo’s face assumed a stony expression. 

Red reemerged from the bushes, looking disappointed, and shook himself out, a shiver running from his nose to his tail. He then flicked his ears, and padded toward his master.

In a nearby tree, a chorus of birds struck up, and the afternoon was heavy with languor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Proudfoot,” Frodo said, forcing a listless smile. “Give my best to Olo and Sancho and the rest, but I really must get on.”

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

At home, Frodo passed the time by taking a long, lukewarm, unnecessary bath, and by trying to read – but the world felt like the hull of a pitching boat. Balancing above the blanket of suds, the letters refused to coalesce – which was disconcerting to say the least, so after struggling for some minutes, he snapped the book shut and watched the clock, the second hand sweeping round and round.

For a long time, it was all he could do to steady his breathing, and even dressing was a chore, for his fingers felt like clay.

But in the end, he did go out, and Mr. Proudfoot was no longer on his bench, and Marigold met him at the crossroads-stone, all smiles and laden with packages. His heart smiled as soon as he saw her, and as they walked back, he carried more than his share. Predictably, he had fewer visions of swooping Nazgûl as they went, but as they passed the Proudfoots’ home, he did usher Marigold to the opposite side of the path, and made sure to question her loudly on what herbs she would use to make the chicken that evening.

At home, he said he needed a rest and went to his room. He left the door open a crack, to signal that he was decent and did not mind being checked on.

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

Frodo was lying on his side, and was turned away, with a small, piecework quilt covering his frame. He looked like he was hugging a pillow.

“Mr. Frodo?” she whispered. “Are you asleep? I have some nice blackberries.”

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

He was crying.

Softly, almost soundlessly – but crying all the same, with his knees pulled up to his pillow. He wept with the same quiet restraint of everything he did, and she stood rooted to the spot.

But unlike the last time, it did not feel like she had witnessed something she shouldn’t have.

“Mr. Frodo,” she whispered, “My poor, dear Mr. Frodo…” 

His chest rose and fell, a little slower now.

And suddenly, oxen and wain-ropes could not have dragged her from that room. (6)

Instead, she rushed to the dressing-table, and seized the stool in front of it, and brought it to the beside. By now, Frodo was shivering, so she put down the stool and rushed to the chair stacked with blankets, picked up another quilt, and threw it on top of him.

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

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

For there had been many accidental touches over the preceding months – when they reached into the same trunk, or when she handed him a plate or cup, or when they sat together shoulder to shoulder over their books. She had even flirted with him and held his hand, and though it was merely gentle manipulation on her part and they both knew it, she had still pressed her fist to her lips all the way to the market.

But now?

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

“Mr. Frodo, I’m going to rub your back,” she said, drawing back the blankets. “Let me know if you don’t want it. Just shake your head no.”

She waited, but no objection came.

And so, she sat down and began to rub, tentatively at first, then harder. She massaged through his shirt, and he shifted into her touch, his sobbing growing louder.

There, Mr. Frodo, there – she thought to herself – Just cry it out. Crying is good…

She rubbed and rubbed some more, and wondered at the state of his body.

His frame was thin – thinner, even, than she might have guessed, for his billowy shirts made him look more ample. His back had precious little flesh, and she felt the ribs through the fabric. Her heart was full: for despite her efforts, he was still so frail that a gust of wind could have carried him away.

And he cried and cried.

Indeed, Marigold could not have known what he cried about, but if she did, she would have gasped, and begged him not to think of such a thing, and to think of anything else instead. But he could not help it. For amid the roiling sentiments of his heart, a single one rose above the rest: the desire to disappear. To be gone. To be taken away from what his life had become, the broken failure of it. He could not bear it much longer, to see everything that he might have done, everything that he might have been slipping away. If only he had fallen into the fiery abyss with Gollum and been done…

But her hands said no.

Her hands, which were at once so gentle and so steady. Her Gamgee hands, which held newborn babes taking their first breaths, and surely massaged them just the same as they made their acquaintance with the world. Her hands, which folded fillings into pie after pie, and stirred equal measures of kindness and lavender into perfectly warmed, perfectly measured cups of milk.

Her hands rubbed on and on, and they insisted, urged, and pleaded. They might have gone to bargain with Sauron for his sake. In another life, he might have resented them for it, but here and now, they cried “live!” – and his tears, powerful as the Anduin, rose up and swelled inside him, until at last he could bear it no longer, and could no longer lie on his side, clutching the pillow. His sobs grew thicker as he rolled over, thrusting the quilt to one side and lying face down, the cloth under his face soaking through.

And yet, still she rubbed, thoughtful and diligent and quiet – and before long, he sank into an inky darkness.

1. This is a line adapted from the TV show Swingers, though Frodo would not know this.
2. This is a reference to Mr. Darcy's well-known hand-flex in the 2005 film Pride and Prejudice, after he helps Elizabeth into the carriage. 
3. This is a reference to Thorin’s quote from The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies: “'If more people valued home, above gold, this world would be a merrier place.” Mr. Proudfoot, though, has completely misapplied the sentiment.
4. Two references at once, here: to Scrooge in A Christmas Carol (“Bah, humbug!”) and Bilbo Baggins in Lord of the Rings (“No, thank you!” to visitors, well-wishers, and distant relations).
5. Frodo unknowingly quoted Kyouya Ootori from Ouran High School Host Club. He seems to unknowingly quote a lot of things.
6. This is a reference to the last line of the book Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson: “oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island.”

Chapter Text

When Frodo woke up from his cry and his nap, he dearly wished that someone could have come along and strangled him in his sleep. (1)

He was alone – Marigold had gone, and the sun glowed velvet through the eaves. 

He groaned as he buried his face into his pillow, which was still wet – and considered, quite seriously, the prospect of never leaving his room again.

He lay like that, unmoving, for a good quarter of an hour.

But in the end, the darkness could not allay his shame.

Nothing could.

So by-and-by, he extricated himself from the bed, and walked swayingly to the door and out into the hallway. His legs were weak, but the muscles of his frame were loose, so he supposed he ought to have been grateful. But he still could not raise his eyes when he emerged into the parlor and saw Marigold in the rocking chair beside the window. She faced away from him, looking out, and her profile was cast in gold. She was occupied with the mending, a basket of clothes by her side.

She turned and smiled at him.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Frodo. Did you want those blackberries?”

The features of her heart-shaped face were lovely and open. She put her needle and thread aside, and he could have knelt and kissed the ground at her feet for her discretion.

He nodded.

“Yes, Marigold, thank you. I would, very much. I’m suddenly quite hungry.”

It wasn’t strictly speaking true – but it was not untrue, for his stomach was calm and for once not in pain. But when she heard the happy news, Marigold swept up from her chair with smile and a “Lor’ bless me, Mr. Frodo, that’s wonderful news! Let me show you what else I’ve got!”

She beckoned him into the kitchen, and he followed, even as she chattered about “a body needin’ more’n berries” to stay alive.

In truth, he might have followed her anywhere – anywhere that would have taken him away from the bedroom and its river of tears, and towards the succor of everyday things.

But for all of Marigold’s discretion, something changed between them after that day. It was barely perceptible – but there was now an understanding, a quiet acknowledgement of the way things were, and one consequence of it was that the back rubs went on. They did not speak of it – not before, during, or after – but whenever Frodo was compelled to retire to his room, Marigold would appear on his doorstep, and with a polite knock, she would cross the threshold and sit by his bed, and then, if he felt so inclined, he would nod and she would start rubbing – long, sweeping strokes coupled with small, circular ones by turns, like rings spreading over a pool of water.

Neither of them told Sam about it, so on some days, Frodo would get two rub-downs instead of one, but he was only too glad of it. The Gamgees had excellent hands, and together they tended him like a garden, turning his body’s hard, inhospitable earth. It was not enough to bring him back when he saw the horrors, but it made his body a kinder place to come back to.

Frodo’s birthday that year was a small affair, with only his closest friends in attendance. Merry and Pippin arrived jocund as always, bearing smiles, casseroles, and firm, brotherly hugs. Fatty Bolger came too, having regained some of his girth, and exchanged a significant look with Marigold, who had taken his coat and hat – their mutual time in the Lockholes short-circuiting any need for a long acquaintance. He then questioned her thoroughly about her health, and about the goings-on of the neighborhood, until a very mulish-looking Sam arrived and took him by the elbow into the parlor.

All pretense had been dropped, by then, of Sam being just the help, and when the party dined, he sat at the place of honor by Frodo’s side while Marigold served – though she, too, eventually sat down and joined the festivities. Fatty had been the first to bring it up, and a slightly in-his-cups Pippin insisted that they needed someone to beautify the proceedings. Frodo then observed, matter-of-factly, that she had never not been invited, so she took a seat closest to the door and ate very un-hobbitlike amounts, and said even less. But still, it was quite the merry gathering, even though the ribald jokes were kept to a minimum on account of the lady, and Frodo contented himself with only a single cup of wine. Merry and Pippin did well in abiding by Sam’s private admonition: that they should speak only of the present, and only of the good, unless Frodo himself did otherwise, and they excelled at their usual routine of goading and facemaking until there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

In the end, the party dispersed well after sundown – and in leaving, Fatty exchanged a few more words with Marigold outside the door, while Sam observed his sister shake her head, and Fatty handed her a piece of paper.

The Gamgees were the last to leave, and as they walked back to the Row, Sam finally plucked up the courage to ask his question.

But Marigold only shrugged, and looked very interested in the stars.

“Oh, it wasn’t much,” she returned. “He only asked me to go for a walk.”

She looked very interested in the stars.

“Ah.” Sam sucked his teeth. “Another one.”

He sniffed, and as Bag End disappeared from view, he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“So what did you say?”

And Marigold shrugged again.

“Oh, what I always say.” She kicked a pebble out in front of her. “I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no. I said that I had my hands full here, but that I’d think about it. So he gave me his address and told me to write, if I wanted to.” She stopped, and drew a piece of paper from her pocket, thrusting it in Sam’s face. “See? I do have occasion to write letters.”

Sam blinked at the paper.

And sure enough, there was Fatty’s name, and an address in Budgeford.

He swallowed, nodding stiffly.

“And are you going to write?” 

Marigold shrugged, and returned the paper to her pocket.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she replied. “I think he’s only takin’ an interest in me because we were both in the Lockholes, and he sees me as a fellow traveler of sorts.”

Sam ho-hummed, and quickened his step to match hers.

The gate to Number 3 was now visible in the distance, and the lantern was lit to signal that the household was still awake.

Sam chewed on the inside of his lip as he walked, and wished that his pants were more capacious. He had eaten too much, again. Too much bread, and too many potatoes – to say nothing of the pies.

Marigold regarded him side-eyed, but did not slow her pace.

For she very much wanted to get home, and did not wish to talk about it. She should have been flattered, certainly – for Fatty was closer in station to Frodo than to the Gamgees, and so a fine catch compared to her prior suitors. And yet, who was she to dissemble? At one point, an uncommon affection might have drawn her away from her studies, but by this point her mind was too full of Frodo to give another hope.

“But bein’ a fellow traveler is no small thing, Mari,” Sam’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

She stopped, and turned around – for Sam had fallen behind.

They were only paces away from the bend in the road that would bring them to their doorstep.

“Maybe you ought to give it some thought after all,” he added. “More’n you have done in the past, I mean.”

Marigold pursed her lips, and regarded him from head to toe.

“What’s this? You’ve never encouraged me before.” She stepped toward him, and punched him lightly on the arm.

But Sam only thrust his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Well, there hasn’t been no one I trusted with you before,” he replied, furrowing his brow. “But Fatty – well, he’s a good sort. I mean, lookin’ back, he might have had the most dangerous job of all, what with stayin’ back and holdin’ off the Black Riders. That is,” – he gave a sideways smile – “Unless there’s someone else that I don’t know about.”

But Marigold squared her jaw, and looked back at him, equally squarely. Her smile was gone.

“No,” she said. “There is no one else. Not unless you count my dedi-cation to bein’ an old maid.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, and she gave him a searching look, but he did not yield.

“Are you sure?” He looked her up and down, like she was a particularly interesting shrub.

Marigold blinked, and did not reply – but her brother’s dark, tea-colored eyes prevailed.

She made a final, desperate effort at repelling his gaze – but to no avail.

“Don’t stare at me like that, Samwise Gamgee!” she cried, all but stamping her foot.

But her brother’s eyes would not leave her face. So she took her hand from her pocket, and balled it into a more serious fist this time – though the effect was rather dampened by Fatty’s missive, now crumpled in her hand.

Sam took a step back, a mix of fear and amusement in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he chuckled. “Stare at you like what?” 

“Oh, never mind,” Marigold huffed. She stuffed her fist – and Fatty’s message – back into her pocket. “Just… Just don’t stare, alright? I know you don’t mean no harm, but I’m not a youngun anymore. I don’t need my brother followin’ my every move.”

Sam drew a breath and puffed out his cheeks.

And Marigold turned on her heel, marching toward the house.

She did not unball her fist until she reached the gate of Number 3.

Marigold did end up going for a walk, but it was not with Fatty, and it was not quite a Walk.

When they first started walking to the market together, Frodo made good on their promise to go farther every time. The heat had abated, and there was a hint of crispness in the air, but it was enough to make the bellows of his lungs more willing, and the burden of his limbs grew lighter as he walked.

Of course, it was still wearisome, rotten work, slow as a slog through the Dead Marshes. With every step, he felt like he was melting metal in a dwarrow forge, and his heart beat faster as his senses grew piqued.

And yet, even as his birthday passed and there were no more boring gifts to carry, they walked side by side every day, partway to the market and back, and soon he was not content with only that. Something would propel him farther every time, and at times his torpor would give way to restlessness and yearning, neither of which he could quite understand.

But perhaps he did not need to understand them. All that mattered was the result, and one day, the result surprised even him.

The day began like any other – and when the time came, Frodo set out to meet Marigold on her way back from the market. He paused to rest at a signpost along the path, and played a game with himself squinting into the distance, trying to discern if the women coming down the road were Marigold or not. The laundry was hanging out to dry in a nearby yard, and people were calling out to each other in a communal field like large, sociable birds. They were sitting down among the patches, pulling out the tubers and shaking them out. Several women were walking down the road, just far enough away that he could barely make them out. The first one, Frodo thought, looked rather like Marigold in that she wore a pink dress. But no, too fat – and the next one was too tall, and each of them had something about her, whether her walk or her shape, or the things she carried that made her not-Marigold, though he kept on squinting and hoping until the last.

And so, minute after minute passed, and then a quarter of an hour, and still there was no Marigold. This made him uneasy, so before he knew it, he got up from the stone where he has been sitting, and his feet propelled him forward.

He walked, and in the end, he hardly knew how it happened, but suddenly he was steps away from the old bridge, and beyond it was the market, together with the dense clustering of smials that comprised the center of Hobbiton.

He stopped, and his legs felt weak – but as fate would have it, there was nowhere to sit.

He felt a familiar tightness in his chest, and his rabbit-heart broke out into a sprint. In the afternoon light, the Water glistened like broken glass. The sounds of the market were strangely absent for how close it was.

If there was no place to sit, then perhaps he could lean on the parapet of the bridge?

That might have been a fine thing. But he was still debating in his mind when his feet began to carry him again. They moved on their own – as if they had their own wants, their own memories and plans.

He got to the parapet, and leaned his elbows on the large, mossy stones. His muscles ached, but not in an unpleasant way – the way they had once done after a long day of tramping.

He looked down.

He looked down at the Water, with the sun scattered across its surface. Away, ever on and on it went, until it reached the Brandywine off to the east, and joined the other river’s fuller swell.

The Brandywine!

Memories of summers in Buckland flooded his mind… 

Memories of days rich with berries and plums and peaches, of mucking about by the side of the river and pieces of his aunts’ pies, wrapped in waxed cloth and stuffed into his pockets…

“Mr. Frodo?”

He had leaned farther over the parapet, and had not seen anyone approach.

“Mr. Frodo, what are you doin’ here? We were goin’ to meet at the sign-post, weren’t we?”

It was Marigold. 

He straightened up and spun around.

She was peering up at him, anxious.

Her curls were pulled back, but the short, wispy strands that framed her brow were pale and flaxen in the sun. Her bag was pulling her shoulder downward.

“I –” 

He bit his lip.

He glanced at her, glanced at the market, glanced at the blue sky above… The sounds were slowly coming back – the gay swell of voices, the lowing and braying of animals.

“Mr. Frodo, let’s get you home.” She stepped toward him, and gently touched the middle of his back. “I don’t want you over-exertin’ yourself. Please.”

“I’m – I’m not overexerting myself."

But she prodded him along in the direction of Bag End, and somehow, he obeyed.

They started to walk, and soon he was matching her stride.

“Well, see, Marigold, I’m actually quite well now,” he protested. “You see, I wanted to come this far…”

But she did not reply. He reached to take her bag, but she kept it firmly at her side. 

They continued on in silence, but then Marigold looked up, a measure less anxious. 

Instead, she looked curious. She seemed to be asking a wordless question, so he explained. There was no reason not to.

“I wanted to walk on,” he said. “It was like my feet wanted to walk. In fact –” 

The sounds of the market were receding into the distance, replaced by the trilling of birds.

And Marigold, for her part, was looking more heartened with every step. She seemed cautiously satisfied by his words – and by the firmness of his step and the sparkle in his eye. He noticed, for the first time, that she had a sheen of freckles across her nose…

“In fact,” he went on, “My feet – they miss the Shire. Perhaps…” He paused, glancing at the leaves above them, which were turning yellow. “Perhaps, while the weather is still warm we could go on a picnic.”

“A picnic?!” 

Marigold gasped, and a cow looked up from its cudding in a nearby yard.

“But Mr. Frodo –”

But Frodo nodded resolutely.

“Yes, a picnic,” he said. “We could go north toward Bindbole Wood – there are some nice rolling hills that way. They’re gentle, and not too steep, and lonely besides – there aren’t many people there. I would dearly love to see that part of the Shire again.”

He glanced at her, but Marigold avoided his eyes.

“But, er, Mr. Frodo – are you sure? It won’t be too soon?”

But Frodo nodded a second time, and thrust his hands into his pockets.

“Yes, I am sure. Sure as sure can be,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “It’s been far too long, and I’ve missed the places beyond Hobbiton. I think it is high time. Let’s go on a picnic.”

Marigold packed plenty of food for the trip, though they were only to be gone for an afternoon’s time – but more importantly, she packed her box of essentials, which contained her herbs, gauzes, salves, and various other accouterments of the healing trade. Sam had made an ironclad excuse not to go, and she was still put out with him – for what if Frodo collapsed? Was she to carry him all by herself? In the days that preceded the trip, it was a question that vexed her for many hours.

But in the end, her fears proved unfounded, for she saw, in time, that Sam had not been uncaring: he simply knew his master far better than she did. And more than that, he seemed to carry a torch for her and Frodo, unlikely though such a union was, and privately, she was thankful for this kindness. For in spite of the hand-hold, the books, and the too-handsome birthday gift that sat unused in her drawer, she herself would never have confessed to any such wishes.

She had been thinking thus, but then the terrain grew harder, and she put aside her idle musings.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo!” she cried.

They were clambering up a hill, and before she could blink an eye, Frodo had put a sizable distance between them, forcing her to work double-time to catch up. She was not used to this so-called “tramping,” whereas Frodo was the exact opposite, and it showed even in his weakened state. In fact, as soon as they left behind the rolling roofs of Hobbiton, Frodo seemed to have grown wings on his feet. Even with the sizable basket he carried (they each carried one), and with the blanket strapped onto his back, his step was sure and true, and with the aid of his walking stick he stood up straighter: his shoulders more square, his limbs more free. He seemed to commune with nature with every step – a dream-like, knowing look in his eye, and hardly the circumspect, haunted expression she had witnessed earlier…

Eventually, they had broken from the main road, and walked past several farms, delving into less populated country. They had walked for a long time – past fields thick with golden wheat, and verdant lawns with grazing sheep, on and on to the northwest until they reached this last hill – which Frodo had promised would command a breathtaking view, and so it likely did, except –

“Oof!”

Marigold’s foot, the one that never listened as well as the other, got caught on a rock with a wet patch of earth underneath, and before she knew it, she had lost her balance, and landed on her hands and knees.

And Frodo, to his credit, was at her side like a shot.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear… Marigold…”

She was still reeling from the impact, and she could scarcely tell what happened next. But all of a sudden, she was being lifted up, and deposited on her feet, and then her skirt was being dusted off, and her hand was in his…

Her hand… 

In his.

Her breath caught in her throat.

That hand, which was so unlike that of most hobbits. Small, hardly bigger than her own, and smooth as a petal, with pillowy pads and short nails – nails that he bit when he thought nobody was looking. The hand she tried not to think about ever since the incident at the gate…

Her mind reeled – so much for pushing away idle thoughts – but then she heard his voice.

“Mari – I’m sorry, it’s the dress and the corset, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he fretted, and dusted off her skirt again and again. “I should not have walked so quickly… Sometimes I forget that there’s no need for haste…”

She blinked, and, suddenly, for all her fluster, she wanted to laugh.

“Oh, no, no, no – oh, my goodness, no, Mr. Frodo!” she exclaimed. “It’s not the dress – why, goodness, I could climb trees in this thing!”

But it was, in fact, the dress, but in another way.

They both looked down to appraise his dusting-off, and there was a pair of large, blooming grass stains where her knees were – and sure as the sun shone, if she returned to Hobbiton in that state with Mr. Frodo, and from the direction of the wooded county no less, it would set every evil tongue to wagging…

She sighed and bit her lip – though she did not step away, even if it was the “right” thing to do. Nothing had happened after all, and nothing would happen, and she had assumed a degree of risk the moment they left Hobbiton.

And so, she raised her eyes and shook her head.

“No, Mr. Frodo, it’s quite alright, really,” she forced a chuckle. “I have the tiniest bit of a bum leg, that’s all. From that time I fell out of the tree, you know.”

She glanced away, expecting to blush, but the warmth never came. Her lips had formed the words without much resistance, without much thought…

“The time you fell out of the tree?”

Frodo’s voice was a shade surprised – and still solicitous.

She turned back to face him.

“That’s right,” she said. “The linden tree, the time you rescued me. But it usually doesn’t show, and most days I get along just fine –”

Frodo bent down and picked up her basket.

“Oh, well – then let me help you, even so.”

He was still clasping her hand, and he guided her up the last few steps as her heart fluttered like a bird.

They walked exceedingly slowly, feeling out the path for any more loose stones, but in the end, it did not take long. At the crest of the hill, the famous vista opened up, and Frodo’s basket, which he had dropped, was sitting on a mound of grass.

Marigold tried to calm the pitter-patter of her heart, but she could not quell the warmth settled everywhere he touched. Swallowing hard, she trained her eyes on the view, and he released her hand, setting to work unrolling the blanket.

Alright, Marigold, alright – she tried to placate herself, steadying her breath – no need to get too excited. He’s merely a gentleman hobbit who did the gentlemanly hobbit thing, and guided you after you fell…  

She looked out at the view, and breathed in the cool, crisp air, her skirt rippling against her legs.

Before her, the view stretched out wide… Wide and majestic.

They had walked only a mile or two from Hobbiton – for Frodo was not fit enough for greater ambitions – yet the country here was different. The hobbit holes were fewer and farther between, and the land was criss-crossed with hedges. Across the nearest field lay the edge of a forest, and its growth was dark and mossy-green.

A flock of geese flew overhead, their cries harsh and exciting. (2)

And besides, she told herself, If Mr. Frodo had any serious intentions – which she very much doubted, for she was a Gamgee, and he was still so ill that taking a wife made very little sense – then he would certainly make it known in so many words. The Mr. Frodo she knew – the honest, forthright Mr. Frodo – was not the sort to lead people around by the nose, so until and unless he did speak, it only made sense to think of him as a friend…

Yes, friend.

Lasses and lads could be friends, whatever her sisters’ opinions on the matter.

She squared her shoulders, and with a resolute breath, she looked down to appraise his progress – and Frodo, for his part, looked up at nearly the same time, and beckoned her over to the blanket.

She came toward him, and carefully stepped on top of it, and then she knelt to smooth it out, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Well, come to think of it,” Frodo said – and glanced over his shoulder, “That is Bindbole Wood across the way. That’s where it happened, did it not? It seems we’ve made a pilgrimage to a historic site.”

He did not smile, but there was a confidential look in his eye.

And Marigold pursed her lips, but could not suppress a chuckle.

“Well, that is hardly historic, Mr. Frodo.”

She folded back the linen covering of one of the baskets, and glanced tactfully at its contents.

But Frodo shook his head.

“Oh, but it is,” he replied, and began to extract the boons of their kitchen from the wickerwork box. "I think it very much is."

He put out the bundles, and first to see the light of day was the chicken and vegetable pie (Frodo’s stomach was still too delicate for the Shire-favorite that was steak and kidney pie), and then the seed-cake, neatly wrapped in gauze mesh, and then the sausages.

“As I recall,” he went on, arranging the dishes neatly side by side, “It was the year 2994 of the Third Age, or 1394 by Shire-Reckoning, and young Marigold Gamgee was doing battle with two foes at once: a tall linden tree, and the force that pulls us all inexorably toward the ground.” He paused, smiling with a sideways glance, and his look was both winsome and serious. “She fought bravely indeed, but regrettably, she emerged the worse for wear. But as luck would have it, a passing traveler found her, and she returned safely to her family, ready to fight another day. About three hundred paces it had to be, from the place where we now sit, and it was late summer just on the cusp of autumn –”

“You remember the season?!” Marigold gasped as Frodo paused, a block of cheese in hand.

“I remember many things,” he sighed. “At times too much.”

Marigold’s shoulders relaxed.

Frodo went back to arranging the food.

She sighed, and rocked back and forth on her haunches.

If before she was not sure, she certainly was now. Frodo was making fun, and that was a good thing. His humor was still dry and bookish, and his smiles never fulsome, only sad – but when things were light like this between them, she got a feeling that all was well in the world.

She reached for the other basket and began to unpack the plates, laying a set of silverware and napkins next to each of them. Frodo, by then, had extracted the cold cuts and the sandwiches, and the casserole dish filled with mushrooms baked in cream, so the spread looked like a veritable feast, and the two of them tucked in – her with hobbitish gusto since the walk had put a fire in her belly, and him with perfectly delicate, pecking bites reminiscent of a very different being.

But nonetheless, as Marigold privately noted, he was eating far better than before, and between bites, it made her heart smile. The mushrooms, she observed, were a particular success, for he had finished nearly the entire portion.

When their meal was done and the dishes put away, they sat quietly, looking out over the fields. The sun had hidden behind the clouds, and the rims of their heavy purple billows were traced with gold. The green of the meadows had grown deeper as the shadows stretched across them. The nearest field lay fallow, and as Marigold squinted she saw that it was covered in flowers – blue ones, likely cornflowers – for they bloomed in autumn, and were known for replenishing the earth.

Blue…

She was tempted to compare them to Frodo’s eyes, but no. It was a different sort of blue, more violet, made cooler by the cloudy light.

They sat leaning toward one another, their legs folded opposite, a respectful distance of a pace between them. Frodo looked out over the expanse, and there was a pensive look in his eye. Again, Marigold thought, he looked like he was seeing things that she did not, looking out over the fields with those fine eyes of his – eyes that were a gift directly from the fairy wife of his Tookish ancestor. But if once upon a time those selfsame eyes were the stuff of jealousy among the lasses of the Shire, by now they were two deep, somber pools of memory, a nameless agitation in their depths.

He had grown more taciturn halfway through their meal, and would pause time and again to look at the fields. And the fields, Marigold had to own, were a beautiful thing to look at: the closest one was glowing gold with swaying wheat, now tawny-brown, and another had been planted, row on row, with trees of some kind. And another had a lavender crop, and throughout, there were trees and barns dotting the landscape.

Come to think of it, it was truly pleasant to be sitting this way, not doing much at all. In contravention to her custom, it did not take long to stop thinking when it would be time to go, and what her next task would be, and she was content to simply sit.

Yes, it was very nice to sit, with Frodo by her side, the two of them watching the flowers sway and his clean, soapy scent mingling with the greenery and the roadside dust.

A wind, like a tentative hand, swept over the blue expanse of flowers, and they bowed their heads.

Frodo began to move his lips, and Marigold perked up her ears.

His voice was hushed and low, and it sounded like he was chanting.

She trained her ears, and heard the words.

“In Pelennor the poppies blow
Between the gravestones, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the horns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Pelennor.” (3)

“The poppies, Mr. Frodo?”

She was loth to interrupt, but the words broke through the silence that his voice had left behind.

And yet, she may as well have said nothing.

It was like dropping a stone into a pool, but creating no ripples. Frodo made no answer, and he did not move. He only sat, looking straight in front of him.

But in the end, he did turn to face her.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He blinked his eyes.

It seemed he had had one of his “moments,” as they now called them.

“The poppies,” Marigold repeated gently. “Is that –” She paused, for there were no poppies in sight, but somehow, it did not seem fitting to contradict him. “I mean, er – is that a poem you wrote? It’s lovely.”

But Frodo shook his head.

“No, this isn’t one of mine. I heard it when I was in Gondor.”

“In Gondor? Were there poppies there?”

Frodo nodded. “Yes, and they ‘blew,’ just like the flowers here.”

They… blew.

Marigold blinked her eyes.

Blew… 

Or was it ‘blue’?

Frodo had turned back to the field, and was looking at the “blowing” flowers.

And Marigold, feeling suddenly enthralled, looked in the same direction, and saw them bobbing their heads, like waves on the surface of a lake. The wind was the thing that blew, but the flowers “blew” as well, because the wind was unseen. It took her breath away.

“That’s… That’s beautiful, Mr. Frodo."

And Frodo nodded. 

“Yes, I think so too,” he said. “But to your question, I don’t think that anyone knows who wrote that poem – it was unsigned. One day, it just started to circulate, in the aftermath of the war, in the city of Minas Tirith.”

“Is that… the White City?” Marigold turned away from the flowers.

“It is. The city itself was half-destroyed, and there were so many dead, that there was hardly any place to bury them. So they made a burial ground in the field of Pelennor, where one of the most important battles had been fought. And after that, this poem appeared – printed on loose sheets of paper, handed out in the streets, stuffed under people’s doors. They did in fact plant a great number of poppies in Pelennor field, but it was only after the fact – after the poem became a sort of rallying cry for the rebuilding of the city.”

Marigold nodded as he explained.

“Because… Because poppies bring sleep, don’t they?” 

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And the dead are asleep, but the living… I reckon that those folks who died wouldn’t have wanted them to grieve, leastwise not for long. They would want them to keep living – to do the living for them.”

She straightened up and gave a short, definite sigh. She looked very pleased, and her cheeks grew pink – the way they did when she interpreted a poem.

She looked very much like she wanted to keep living.

And Frodo looked at her with a gentle joy, for it left him strangely satisfied whenever she learned something new.

But it was not only that. 

There was something new in her eyes: more than the joy of an unexpected meaning, there was a profound understanding well beyond her years, and the same dogged courage he had seen in Sam.

He wanted to touch her hand – but they had already touched too much.

He dug his fingers into the blanket.

“Well, that is true enough, Mari. That is true enough,” he said. “But we really ought to get going.” He took a final look at the vista, the colors growing gray in the waning light. “We’ve eaten all our food, and I really need to move my legs – they’re starting to feel stiff.”

1. “Isn’t there someone kind enough to strangle me in my sleep?” – Akutagawa, Ryūnosuke. “Spinning Gears”, 1927.
2. A reference to the poem “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
3. This poem is a repurposed version of “In Flanders Fields” by Johns McCrae, a poem written about World War I.

Chapter Text

As they walked back, Frodo striding more slowly now, Marigold thought of the poppies. The image of a whole host of them covering a hill, their red bonnets “blowing” in the wind as the men of a faraway kingdom slept their eternal sleep… Whatever she might have said about living where the dead could not, the vision was a calming one, and something about it encouraged one to step away from the river of life for a spell – which, she guessed, was what Frodo wanted.

She watched his profile as he walked – again lost in thought and looking ahead as if he could see for miles, his brows a delicate bow, and the tracing of his nose, lips and chin an idyllic harmony that was all the more beautiful for its sadness.

She had certainly told him much – from the shame of her struggles with reading, to the story of the Lockholes, and even about her bum leg, which in itself was hardly much, except that it added to the long list of failings that was her person. 

And he, for his part, had told her less, but he had shown her plenty. Indeed, every day she felt increasingly grateful that he allowed her to see those secret parts of him, and was grateful that he trusted her again and again.

And in fact, the trust, the allowing – that part was Frodo through and through. Whenever she told him things, he responded with only sincere offers of help, but made no attempt to change how she felt: there were no ham-handed efforts at cheering her up like her girlfriends did, no dismissal of her feelings as “not worth the tears” as was the custom with her sisters, no walking on eggshells as various neighbors did when she quit midwifery, no overindulgent coddling, as her brothers were wont to do. 

There was only the allowing and the witnessing, from someone who knew pain all too well, and knew that feelings were meant to be felt.

As they rounded a coppice, the smokestacks of Hobbiton came into view, and she suddenly felt an urge to speak to him about the Other thing, however great his burdens might have been. It was a selfish desire, but something told her that if she did not speak of it then, she never would – to anyone.

And so they came into town, and she shifted her basket directly in front of her – to conceal the grass stains as best she could – and chatted to Frodo to lift her spirits. He remained pleasantly subdued, but by-and-by he responded to her queries and comments in kind – for as she noticed on every one of their walks, the more he walked, the more it brought him back to life.

When they returned to Bag End, she pulled up the eaves in the parlor – for the afternoon light was waning, replaced by a blue-gray tinge like a wash over the world. Outside, the branches of the apple tree swayed, their fruit now safe in jars in the larder.

Frodo did not protest – he merely offered to help put away the picnicware, but she shook her head, drawstring from the eaves in hand.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “I can do that later. Just let it be. I – I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He placed his basket on a credenza near the entryway, and took the knapsack with the rolled-up blanket off his back.

“That is, if you’re not too tired,” she added hastily. “I know today was hard – don’t say anythin’, Mr. Frodo, I know it was, and not just from the walkin’.”

But Frodo shook his head, and deposited the knapsack by the door.

“No, Marigold,” he returned. “I would very much like to hear what you have to say. I always do.”

He lowered himself onto the red upholstered chair by the fireplace, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His muscles were sore, but no longer in a pleasant way – it was the hot-and-cold, splintery soreness that preceded a fever. His breath was shallow in his chest.

He needed, desperately, to find something else to think of. It was already October the fifth. He nodded at the couch across from him.

“Go on, Mari. Have a seat.”

“Shall I make a fire?” 

Frodo shook his head. “Not unless you want to. I am perfectly warm.”

“Did you want tea?”

“No, not for me, thank you.”

Marigold looked around – her courage flagging.

But Frodo looked at her from beneath his brows, his gaze steady, and the curls that framed his face made him look like a painting.

She could have looked at him for ages.

But now was not the time. It would not do to keep on delaying. So she crossed the room, and sat at the edge of the couch.

She glanced at his face – then squarely at her hands.

“I wanted you to know –” she began, “I wanted to tell you, Mr. Frodo…”

She blinked and swallowed, drawing a breath. 

“I wanted to tell you… About the reason I quit midwifery – if you care to hear it.”

She held her breath.

The first and most important words were out of her mouth, and she waited – her heart echoing in her ears, her back ramrod-straight.

Frodo nodded.

He then drew a breath of his own, but did not speak. Instead, he considered what he knew already.

When it happened, the entire Gamgee family, and indeed the entire neighborhood, had been upended by the news. And what was more surprising was that even Sam had no notion of the reason for her departure, though until recently, Frodo was too preoccupied to wonder at the fact.

“Of course.” He nodded a second time. “I would very much like to hear it, if you wish to tell me.”

He smiled, and his expression remained calm – calm and even. No excess anticipation, no morbid curiosity. Just the acceptance she had hoped for.

She drew another breath, and continued.

“Now, you are the first person I am telling this to, and maybe the last,” she said, her eyes growing dark in the waning light, “So what I am about to say to you, I say in confi-dence, because –” She paused, licking her lips, which were going dry. “Because – to tell you the truth, there are parts of it that are so queer, I hardly know what to make of them myself, which is why I thought you would understand, having – you know – also seen things that are queer…” She paused a second time, and glanced at her hands, running them slowly over her apron.  “And – please,” she added with something like a wince, “If you don’t want to hear it, please, just tell me now.”

She went quiet, and Frodo regarded her.

She sat stiffly, elbows close at her sides, hands clutching her knees like a child reciting a lesson.

He nodded, and made his voice as kind as possible.

“Go on, Marigold,” he said. “Just tell me as best you can. I promise, you have my absolute discretion.”

He made a motion like the turning of a key next to his lips, with the smallest hint at a smile – a silly thing, but a calculated effort nonetheless.

And it seemed to work.

She looked up from beneath her brows, and her tension ebbed.

“Alright…”

She glanced down at her hands, licking her lips a second time, and took a breath.

For all the world like she was reciting a lesson.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” she said, “You see, it goes back to a little while ago, when I was assisting at the birth of Laurel Smallburrow’s youngest. This must have been –” She paused, and counted hurriedly on her fingers. “A year ago. Yes, about a year ago it had to be, and it was a difficult birth.”

Frodo fixed his eyes on her and did not speak, but he searched his mind as best he could.

Smallburrow, Smallburrow… He could not put a name to a face at first, but then he remembered. The family ran a farm near Bywater, and their provenance was dairy. He had seen Laurel in the marketplace selling their wares, and she was a plain, softspoken lass with mousy hair and a dimple in her cheek. He had not seen her in some time, and assumed she was a casualty of the war.

“It was a difficult birth,” Marigold repeated, and by now, her expression was congealing into a mask, “I’ll spare you the details, Mr. Frodo – for you don’t need to know these things, bein’ a gentlehobbit and all – but the baby was breech, meaning facing the wrong way round, and that always makes things hard. Try as we might, we couldn’t make him turn. Mrs. Bracegirdle and Dr. Boffin and I were at it for two days, sleeping in shifts. They say that the sun shouldn’t rise more than once on a laborin’ hobbit, but this was two, I remember it clearly.”

She paused, closing her eyes. Her voice had become an incantation.

“And in the end, the baby died,” she said, opening them once more. “And then she died, three days later, and of course the husband and the little ones were gutted – though no, to say that they were gutted would’ve been to say nothin’ at all.”

She paused, but even so, Frodo did not cease to look at her. 

Present – witnessing. 

She swallowed, waiting for a beat, and then resumed, her voice no longer quite her own.

“And then, Mr. Frodo, we all ended up crying about it” – she ran her hands over her knees, biting her lips – “and nobody really blamed anyone – that there is the thing. Even old Mrs. Bracegirdle, battleax though she is, she sat me down and gave me a speech about how this will happen to every midwife, and how it is better that it happened now than ten years from now, ‘cause hobbits are a hardy lot, and thank the lucky stars that it doesn’t happen often. We went over and over what we did, and we con-cluded there was nothing for it: all that could’ve been done was done, and I didn’t blame myself, I really didn’t. I knew I was just the apprentice, doin’ what I was told. I couldn’t have known any better, even if there was aught to know better. And nobody blamed Mrs. Bracegirdle and Dr. Boffin either – that, too, is the thing.”

She took another breath – this one catching in her throat – and her hands moved up and down her thighs.

Frodo waited in silence, and when she spoke again, her words came out faster, rising like a swell.

“But in the end,” she went on, “I don’t know how it happened, Mr. Frodo. Save something very queer came about not too long after that. I kept goin’ to work, you see, but after a while my feet wouldn’t carry me. It was like they were weighted down by something heavy, like lead – like yours probably were when you were just started walkin’ – ‘cept it didn’t get any better like it did for you. It only got worse. And then, when I was there, I would do everything right, and I worked just as hard, but I wasn’t really there, if you get my meaning. Sometimes I would feel like there were two of me – one doin’ the work, and one watchin’ from the corner, and everything would be movin’ so slowly, if you understand. And sometimes my heart would set to poundin’, like I was a’feared of something, but I didn’t know what. And then I started to see Laurel’s baby in strange places – in the stew pot at home, and in the basin at work, and at the bottom of a well. That’s when I knew somethin’ – unnat’ral going on. And that’s when I thought that maybe I shouldn’t be doin’ the work that I did, that it wasn’t right. Six months after that I stayed on, but every day it got harder…”

She stopped abruptly and looked away, the urgency of her words spent – but even so, her hands were restless.

She clenched her jaw, winding the side of her apron into a horn.

The shadows stretched long across the room, and the grandfather clock was tick-ticking in the corner.

The subject of their conversation notwithstanding, Frodo felt quite comfortable, almost restful in her presence.

But still – her pain could not be denied, for she had finished twisting her apron – she could twist no more – and she was looking at everything but him: at Belladonna Took’s doilies, at the decorative plates on the shelf, at the map of Bilbo’s favorite walks over the mantelpiece that replaced his sword…

Frodo sighed and got up, coming toward her.

“It’s not unnatural, Marigold,” he said, lowering himself on a pouf beside her and taking her hand. “Frightened, that’s what you were. And your mind was trying to protect you. To keep you from feeling that again.”

She was looking about her, but the darting of her eyes was growing slower by degrees.

“But it’s not unnatural,” he added. “Just hard. Very hard. And it pains me to know that this has happened to you.”

She drew a small, uneven breath.

Good girls did not cry. 

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, furrowing her brow.

Good girls did not cry.

Good girls stayed quiet for their put-upon parents, and for their older sisters who wanted to talk of lads and make flower crowns instead of minding their younger charges. Good girls were always reliable, useful, thorough, and, well, good , but never an inconvenience, never a bother… 

Except… It was most certainly an inconvenience, and most certainly a bother, the way her face began to twist, and the way her throat grew thick and filled with cottom – like she was drowning, pushed to the bottom of a well. She stood up with a start, but Frodo held her fast.

She calculated how quickly she could run – where she could run… But the hand, never mind the missing finger, would not let her go.

“Marigold.”

His voice was steady.

But her throat, her chest, her… everything heaved hard, and she could not hold it off.

She broke into sobs. Ugly, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

Her legs turned to jelly, and she bent her knees to keep from falling, but Frodo caught her and held her close.

She sobbed. 

He held her, and she sobbed.

Sobbed into his shirt, smelling of sun and oatmeal soap and soft, mossy earth.

The shirt grew wet with tears, but still he held her like he had done long ago, in that linden grove in Bindbole Wood.

The moments, and then the minutes passed, measured out by the methodical clock.

They did not look at each other. Her stature was just tall enough to rest her cheek on his upper chest – and she did not want to see him. She only wanted to feel him. The decisiveness of his grasp, his firm chest and arms – made lean by his illness but remarkably strong when the need arose.

She slumped against him, her limbs growing weak, and the inside of her head sloshed like a bucket of water. The world grew black – but there was no pain. 

Frodo held her close for a very long time, even after his strength was spent and he dearly wished to go to bed.

His limbs were heavy, his eyelids thick with sand… But the girl in his arms needed him – needed him so much that it felt wrong to simply rest her on the couch and het her weep her fill. She needed him the way he needed Sam and others – and so he did not let her go, not even when her sobs gave way to whimpers, and not even when she grew quiet and her frame grew limp. And he found that he liked to hold her. Her body was soft, confined in a corset as it was, and she was real and round and, yes, shapely and lovely in her form, and her smell was everything delightful about a lass: freshly-pounded corn meal, berries, and flower-water used for hair.

He had not held a lass in a very long time, and his heart beat fast, but not in the frantic rabbit way it had once done. He felt it in his fingers as they held the insensate, soft-skinned girl, and he felt her heart’s more measured, slower response. The heart had no words – it needed no vernacular – but it said that here was a remarkable woman: a listener, a healer, a hobbit who did not abandon those in need.

He wanted to hold this beautiful-hearted girl, who had suffered so, and yet had worried that her pain would burden him. And so he did. He held her as the ticking grew quiet and faded away. For a moment – how long, he could not say – he was in a waking dream.

He stood stock-still – until his ear gave a twitch, alerting him to a creak and a footstep at the door.

He started, clutching Marigold close against him.

“Mr. Frodo? Mari?” 

The sounds of Sam dusting off, muttering, and shuffling his feet were unmistakable – so as quickly as he could, Frodo lowered Marigold onto the couch, such that when Sam came in, he would see nothing more than his sister recumbent, and Frodo kneeling solicitously at her side.

“Marigold isn’t well,” he said by way of greeting.

Success.

Sam was at his sister’s side like a shot, and any other thoughts were promptly out of his head. He fell to his knees.

“Mari, what’s wrong?!” He clutched her by the arms.

But Marigold was too deep in a swoon to answer. Her chest rose and fell, and Sam clasped her hands, pressing them to his lips.

Frodo squatted by his side.

“She fainted,” he explained. “But it’s nothing that ails her body – I can tell you more later.”

And Sam looked up at his friend, nodding soberly – for he was certainly no stranger to ailments beyond the physical – but he did not release her hands. The skin around her eyes, raw and red, had not escaped his notice.

“We should let her rest,” Frodo said, and placed a hand on Sam’s arm. “Perhaps put her in a guest-room. She needs time, that’s all. In the meantime, we can talk here.”

He sensed that something was welling up in Sam, so he treaded lightly. For Sam was wearing the sort of countenance that might have sent any other hobbit sprawling against a wall. But in the end, Frodo was Frodo, and Sam was Sam – so in due course the emotion ebbed from the Gamgee’s face and he took a deliberate breath, turning trustingly toward his friend.

“Alright, Mr. Frodo, if you say so,” he replied, and pushed his palms against his knees as he got up. “I can carry her – you just hold the door. You ought to rest too, you know, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” He clicked his tongue, cocking his head. “Truth be told, I was a might surprised that it wasna you lyin’ on the couch –”

He chuckled, and pursed his lips in the familiar Gamgee way.

“Though of course, you mustn’t misunderstand me, sir,” he added. “I knew you wouldna-have collapsed on the road, I did, for a war-horse can still trot around the barn with a injur’d leg, beggin’ your pardon. But I’d be lying if I said I weren’t a trifle afeared of what might happen after…”

Frodo looked up at the ceiling with an earnestly theatrical expression of Oh, Valar, but stood up just the same. 

And Sam, ever the loyal Sam, took a step toward him, examining him from head to toe – to ascertain that his master was not about to fall in a swoon – and dusted off his sleeves and breeches.

Frodo waited for Sam to finish, and in the end, the Gamgee stepped back with a stolid nod, for to him his master looked the same as always – maybe a trifle pale, and with a wet spot on his shoulder.

But even the wet spot was a happy discovery, for it cast his sister’s tears in a different light, and it made him relieved that he had not drawn any hasty conclusions.

Indeed, the wet spot drew an eager curiosity, but he averted his eyes, and instead took a step toward the couch and hoisted his sister up, one arm under her back and the other under her knees.

As he lifted her up, her head lolled back, and she drew a gasping inhale, but did not wake. Frodo, by his side, nodded gravely, and together, they made their way to the nearest guest-room, where they laid her on the filigreed bedspread, and covered her up with a quilt. They then tiptoed out of the room, and left the door open a crack.

Returning to the parlor, Sam bade Frodo sit – and started building the fires, both in the kitchen and in the sitting room. But Frodo did not wish to sit for long and soon joined him in the kitchen, where he began to make tea, resistant to Sam’s admonitions.

“I’m not such an invalid as all that, Sam,” he retorted when the Gamgee tried to take the kettle away. And when he frowned and puffed out his lips, Frodo insisted that Marigold always let him make tea, and this admonition proved quite effective.

For indeed, the Nazgûl kettle bothered him still, but as the weeks and months wore on, he had discovered that with Sam and Marigold close at hand, the chances of him panicking were much reduced. And he took a great deal of pride in making the tea, just as he took pride in helping Marigold learn, and carrying the shopping, and sitting outside Bag End conversing with Sam on a sunny afternoon.

In the end, the tea was splendidly made – Sam was the first to admit this – and even the scones were arranged in a circle on the tray, reminiscent of a flower.

And so was at last that the two hobbits settled in before the fire – Sam on the couch and Frodo in his chair, with the plate of tea and scones between them. They began to talk of this and that: of the harvest, and how many trees were replanted, and how many people had been rehoused, and who of their acquaintances were more recently wed or handfast.

They talked, and then the conversation fell into a lull as Sam finished off the last of the scones, crumbs and all, and Frodo gazed into the fire.

“I expect you would want to know about Marigold,” he said at length, after the grandfather clock filled the silence for some minutes.

Sam looked up from his teacup – for he was most anxious to know, but with Frodo it was not his custom to hurry the plot. He raised his eyebrows.

“Well, first things first,” Frodo said. “She fell while walking up a hill, hence the grass stains on her skirt.” He looked earnestly at his friend. “But still, you had best hide them from view if you carry her back to the Row. She was rather self-conscious about them.”

He paused, and took a breath. The fire filled the room with the crackling echo of the forest, and its warmth, thankfully, was chasing back the ache that was working its way through his bones.

“She told me she has a bad leg from falling out of that tree, many years ago,” he added. “That much I did not know, in fact.”

Sam nodded soberly, and pressed his hands into the shape of a tent.

“Well, that she does, Mr. Frodo, that she does,” he said, rocking a little. “Though of course she hides it well. She doesn’t like people knowin’.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows. “And there are other things she hides and does not like people knowing.”

Sam sat up straighter, and picked up his cup, drawing a deliberate sip.

“Like why she quit midwifery, for instance,” Frodo said.

Sam’s eyes grew big as apples.

“Lor’ bless me, Mr. Frodo! She – she – told you ?!”

It was by some miracle that Sam did not tip his tea all over his front, and Frodo sat back with a smile.

“Yes, Sam, she told me,” he returned. “But she took me into her confidence, so I am not to say anything more. But even telling me took such a toll that she ended up as you saw.”

Frodo watched him with impassive eyes, and for a moment, Sam was at a loss, and could scarcely think of where to put his teacup.

Frodo sighed, and gave a sober nod – privately noting that this was another mannerism that Sam and Marigold had in common.

“Yes,” he said, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “That is what was happening right before you got here, so I think it’s best not to press her about it when you get home – or at all.” He paused, glancing into the fire. “And in fact, I don’t know that I can offer you much comfort. How long it will take for her to heal, I do not know. But suffice it to say, I understand her reasons – for leaving midwifery, and for not speaking about it all this time. I might have done the same, if I were in her place.”

Sam put his teacup down at last, and interlocked his fingers over his stomach.

Frodo’s mouth was set in the thin line – an expression that foreclosed any further discussion. So Sam took a few deep breaths, and did his best to temper his curiosity, and the sting: for Marigold was known in the family as a “locked box,” but he was one of her closest confidants.

“Mr. Frodo,” he said at length – electing, for the moment, a different approach, “May I speak plainly?”

He looked pointedly but respectfully at his master, and Frodo blinked his eyes.

“Of course, my dear Sam.” 

“What is your opinion of Marigold?”

Sam swallowed, and the question hung in the air. But even so, he would not avert his eyes for anything.

There was a pause – and it stretched for nearly a minute, but in the end, it was Frodo who looked away.

He looked askance at the fire, and the light from the flames danced on the surface of his eyes.

“She’s very good.”

Sam readjusted his seat.

“She’s… Good?” 

Frodo nodded.

“Yes. Meaning she is everything I hoped she would be and more. It was a fine choice to have her come work here.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“And… is that all, Mr. Frodo?” 

Frodo drew his gaze away from the flames.

“Well, no, not quite all ,” he conceded. “But I am grateful to you, Sam, for Marigold and I, we take care of each other. Much the same as you do for me, and I do for you, though of course it goes in one direction most of the time.”

He gave a sad smile, and Sam drew a sigh, settling back into the couch and puffing his lips out with his breath.

Frodo regarded him with a placid expression, and it spoke of things better left unsaid, and feelings that would wilt in the telling. 

And so Sam concluded that the revelations were over for the night – which perhaps was a good thing, for it meant that Marigold’s heart was in safe hands.

Instead, he regarded his friend’s face, and found himself wishing for another thing. He wanted them to sit side by side again, as he had done many times before when they had lived, traveled and slept together during that fateful year.

Frodo looked away, and fixed his eyes upon the fire. 

The flames lapped and crackled, popped and danced – and the shadows wavered across the walls. Outside, it was growing dark, the sky pin-pricked with stars. The walls of the hobbit hole were holding them close, safe in their embrace.

But even so, Frodo’s breath was shallow. He rubbed his fingertips together, and his four-fingered hand was silhouetted against the fire.

Short weeks ago, Sam had resolved not to bring up the past, but just then, his resolve wavered. It was as if a wound lay before him – healed at the surface, but festering within.

He did not have the heart to make it bleed, and yet had no heart to let it be.

So he took a breath, and broke the silence, after the grandfather clock had measured out some minutes.

“Mr. Frodo…” 

Frodo gave the smallest of starts – he seemed to have forgotten that Sam was there.

“Yes, Sam?”

Sam rocked gently forward, and straightened out his shoulders.

“Do you – do you think of it still?”

Frodo blinked, and another moment passed before he answered.

In the dark, his eyes were blue like evening.

“I do, Sam. Often.”

He gathered his stubby-fingered hand into a fist.

“And you know what, Sam? I still want it – can you imagine?” He turned his eyes back to the fire. “Even though it took the heart of me, and I hate – hate – hate it for it.”

Sam drew a breath, and could no longer look directly at his master.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo…” He shook his head.

Frodo gave a rueful laugh, and pressed his hand open and closed.

Sam blinked, and felt that if he was not careful, his eyes would overflow.

“But Mr. – Mr. Frodo,” he tried again, furrowing his brow and scrunching up his nose. “Isn’t – isn’t there anything?... The elves, mayhaps… Gandalf?...”

His voice trailed off. He drew another sigh, this time more ragged. 

Oh, Samwise, you bloody fool . To think that a mere hobbit lass could fix this, even such a one as Mari…  

He wanted to cover his face with his hands, to give himself over to tears, but he did not dare. He needed to be Samwise the Strong – for Frodo’s sake.

And yet… Somehow, in these last few months, he had dared to hope, dared to dream that the shadow had lifted. The way he had seen the two of them together, the way Frodo’s humor was coming back, the way he tried .

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” he shook his head again. “I shouldna have – you know…” 

But Frodo learned toward him, a genial expression on his face.

The genial expression that he used to spare other people’s feelings.

“No, Sam, it’s quite alright,” he said, and reached to pour himself a cup of tea – hot water from the pot, followed by a splash from the tea kettle.

“More tea?”

Sam shook his head. 

He did not want tea – he hardly wanted anything anymore. The thought of Frodo letting go of hope and being lost to something that had already happened, already passed, cast a shadow on his mind, and his face must have shown it.

Frodo settled back into his armchair, and took a sip.

A small, delicate Frodo-sip with an extended finger, which Sam had always thought ridiculous on any hobbit but him.

“Cheer up, Sam,” Frodo said, and smiled compunctiously over his cup.

But Sam only pursed his lips and watched him with dogged eyes.

Frodo pressed the cup between his hands. 

“I’m happy to write to the elves for advice – that is, if they will give it. And to Gandalf, too, if he can be found – seeing how he never has a permanent address. But I’ve thought of something else I could try first.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but the wary look did not leave his face.

“I plan to write,” Frodo said, and put his cup down with a clink. “Just write, that’s all. Paper has more patience than any being, and I need to write an account of our travels in any case.” (1)

“An account of our travels?!” 

Sam’s eyes grew wide.

“But – but, Mr. Frodo,” he tempered his voice, maintaining his most respectful inflection, “I mean, you’re a fine writer, and that is a fact. If anybody were to write an account of our travels, it ought to be you, but don’t you think it’s too soon? Meanin’ no offense, sir, but if you can’t even speak of lembas…”

But a determined look was stirring in Frodo’s eyes, and he took another sip.

The warmth was welcome – for he was feeling chilled in earnest.

He licked his lips before replying.

“But I don’t have to speak about it, Sam. That’s the beauty of it,” he replied. “I can write at my own pace, and at my own pleasure, without anybody’s questions or reception to concern me – at least not just then. It’s not the same as a conversation.”

Sam puffed out his cheeks, and allowed himself to look skeptical.

And sensing his doubt, Frodo explained.

“Consider,” he said, “And this is something I thought of when I was teaching Marigold, and when I was thinking about what you said, about the senses. When you write, there is nothing but you and the paper, and the movement of the quill, and the flow of the ink. Maybe the crackling of a fire at the hearth, and the rain at the window. But all of it is pleasant, all is comfortable. And that sort of comfort is armor against the worse parts of memory, I think.” 

He shifted in his seat, and turned his empty cup this way and that.

“And Sam,” he added, “I don’t think I can avoid thinking about the past. It’s simply not possible. If I don’t write, it’s still going to come back, hiding in the shadows and haunting my dreams. I have to go back, whether by my own will or another’s. And if I must, what better way to do it than by the motion of my fingers and with the protection of the Shire?”

Frodo stopped, and looked at those selfsame fingers.

Sam watched his face. 

As Frodo talked, his look had grown somber – but also unmistakably resolved. He reached for the tea tray and put down his cup, arranging the teapot, cups and empty plate in an orderly square. 

“You’re sure, then?” Sam raised his eyebrows. “You’ve made up your mind?”

Frodo nodded. “I have. It’s time to continue Bilbo’s work. I will make my additions to the Red Book, and tell the story of the Fellowship.”

Sam sighed, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Between Frodo’s tone and his look, his words left little room for argument. In fact, Frodo looked like he had done that day, when he resolved to go to Mordor alone. But also, just like that day, Sam was beginning to understand. The writing – its immediacy, its solemnity – had always been to Frodo what the garden was to Sam: a place that needed intimate knowledge and care, but also an escape, a sanctuary. 

He nodded.

“Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Frodo, that’s all I can say,” he replied, and folded his hands over his lap. “You know yourself better than anyone, and you know what you need better than I. Besides” – he gave a half-smile, for he had not been lying: whatever Frodo wrote, he, Sam, would gobble it up like so many hotcakes – “For my part, I would very much like to read it, when all is said and done.”

Frodo sighed, and nodded in his turn.

He took his eyes off the fire, and got up, stretching.

His muscles were truly sore now – the sitting had not helped – and the warmth and the cold were mingled in equal measure.

He had hoped… Hoped against hope, but it was in vain.

This October the sixth was going to be no different than the last.

He sighed again, and looked at Sam once more, appraising his features: his warm, tea-colored eyes, his dark-blond hair in the firelight, his thoughtful expression, which Frodo saw more often now – for Sam was no longer in the habit of trusting what lay on the surface.

They both had changed – even if the change in Sam was less perceptible.

And yet, one thing would never change.

Sam was always there – never too far away, married or not, living with him or not – and he was still his warm and forthright self, aware of Frodo’s heart in ways that others were not, trusting him absolutely.

Frodo walked around the table, and sat beside his friend. He leaned close against him, and Sam draped his arm around him. Frodo lay his head in the crook of Sam’s shoulder.

Just like old times.

They sat like that for a very long moment, like two hobbits in their sitting room, having finished a spot of tea and talked of many things as the night stretched her cloak around the world.

Before he knew it, Frodo’s lips began to move in song:

“ I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been ”

It was, again, one of Bilbo’s compositions, which Sam remembered, and joined in:

“ Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair. ” (2)

They sang the song, softly, all the way through, and took turns with each stanza, and finished with “voices at my door.” They then grew quiet, and Sam took Frodo’s hands in his. 

“Your hands are cold, Mr. Frodo,” he said. (3) 

He drew Frodo’s hand – the fingerless one – to his lips, and kissed it. 

The wood was sighing in the eaves, settling – or perhaps moving with the earth as the wind rocked the branches of the tree above. Down the hall in the bedroom, they heard a creak and a step. Marigold was stirring.

1. In her journal, Anne Frank said, “paper is more patient than people.”
2. “I Sit Beside The Fire and Think” from Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.
3. An oblique reference to Mr. Darcy’s proposal scene at the end of the 2005 movie Pride and Prejudice.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Frodo?... Mr. Frodo?!”

Oh, dear, he overdid it after all, didn’t he – was Marigold’s first thought when she arrived at Bag End the following morning and let herself in. 

There was no Frodo in the parlor – or in the kitchen, or in the dining room – and it was ordinarily his custom to be up early with the sun, and to already be reading by the time she arrived, greeting her with a nod and a good-natured inquiry about the previous evening.

The door to the bedroom was not quite shut – so she lost no time in making her way in. And sure enough, Frodo was lying in the bed, looking very pale. He stirred only slightly as she entered. She rushed to his side, dropping her bag on the dressing-table, and clasped his hand.

Cold as ice.

Colder than ice.

What in the Shire?!

As far as memory served, he had been perfectly well, or at least no worse than usual, only a few hours before.

In fact, holding his hand brought back memories – memories she knew she should not dwell on in a time like this, but she could not help it. The night before, when she emerged from the guest room, her eyes glued to the floor, Frodo had been very gracious. Unlike Sam, he did not fly into a tizzy, nor did he treat her like she was made of glass or demand assurances that all was well. He merely asked her if the room was to her liking, and if there was anything else she needed, and from the steady look in his eye, she knew that in speaking to Sam, he had kept his word to be discreet. And later, when they were saying goodbye at the door, he had done the unthinkable and bowed – not just with his head, but ever-so-slightly at the waist – and when Sam ushered her back to the Row, it would have been a lie to say that she did not think of that bow as much as she thought of being held by him.

But no, Marigold, NO – this was no time for romantic imaginings. She shook her head, trying to clear it of every superfluous thought, and she regarded Frodo: too weak to move, and splayed out on the bed like one crushed.

Nothing from the night before could have predicted this. Certainly, he had been tired, and moving as if through water, but that was not uncommon, despite his gains in the last several weeks.

“Mr. Frodo,” she whispered, crouching close beside him. “It’s me, Marigold.”

His eyes flickered open, but he made no answer.

Marigold let go of his hand, and pulled up his cuff to expose his wrist. “Mr. Frodo, where does it hurt?”

His wrists were also frigid.

He gave a feeble moan, and Marigold glanced at his face, but his eyes were rolling back.

“Alright, then, Mr. Frodo,” she drew a decisive breath, and pressed her lips. She tried to stoke her courage, and her words were as much for herself as they were for her patient. “I’m going to check you over now. Let me know if you don’t want it.”

Unsurprisingly, no answer came, so she began – deftly feeling the sides of his neck, lowering her ear to his chest in the absence of any instrument, percussing up and down his sides.

Her hands were soft and gentle as she worked, but they were not the hands of a lass; they were the hands of a healer. Sam, blast him, had been right – skills were never truly forgotten, and she was capable, right capable. If she were not, she might have run, mortified, from the room, but once she had recognized the gravity of the situation, a strange calm had settled over her mind, and her hands – right capable hands – were moving on their own, her thoughts picking up old, familiar threads.

Alright, let’s see…

Shallow, rapid, raspy breathing, with wheezes in the chest. Thin, fast, thready pulse. Cold skin. No tenderness or swelling around the neck. A chest cold, easy. Fevers were more common with chest colds, but a profound chill was not unheard of. And then there was the pain, seemingly everywhere by the look of him as she felt up and down his body, though it was particularly bad over his left shoulder. Even in his weakness, he drew a sharp breath and winced as she touched it.

It was strange – and difficult to imagine that a chest cold alone could do this… But what else could it be? There was no injury that she could see, no blood, and how exactly would he have injured himself in his own home, and in a time of peace? Perhaps it was a honey-bee? She had heard of terrible happenings, even near-deaths, from honey-bee stings, but this was not common either, and it was not high season for any sort of insect…

Instinctively, she reached for the shoulder again, but no sooner had her fingertips grazed the linen that he tensed up, and actually shook his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” she pressed her lips once more, reaching for his hand instead. “I shan’t do it again. But look – it seems your shoulder’s ailing you quite a bit, so if you don’t mind me sayin’, somebody’s going to need to have a look at it, even if it isn’t me –”

Frodo moved his lips, and she lowered herself to hear him.

“Ask… Sam… He’ll… Ex… plain…” 

She waited for more, but nothing came. In fact, Frodo’s eyes – two slivers of blue between his eyelids – began to roll back again, so she seized both his hands and pressed them tightly.

“It’s alright, Mr. Frodo… It’s alright…”

She kept her voice low, and rocked her body back and forth, willing her words not to run away with her. Her shoulders shook: the healer-calm was melting away, and her own raw feelings were flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her.

“It’s alright, Mr. Frodo, it’s alright,” she repeated the words, again for her own benefit as much as his. “Stay here, stay with me—” She paused, breathing slowly – two counts in, two counts out. “You’re here. You’re safe. Sam will be here soon. We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry...”

Her heart pounded, and she wanted nothing more than to hold his hands.

No… she wanted to hold all of him. To give him her warmth, to thaw his freezing limbs, and if she could, to bear some of his pain. She raised his hands, and though she did not kiss them, she pressed them to her lips.

Frodo drew a small breath, and as the air wheezed in and out, his hands relaxed, and the wrinkle smoothed between his brows.

A lock clicked in the front hall, and a door whined on its hinges.

Sam.

Thank goodness, just in time.

She squeezed Frodo’s hands a final time and rushed to the linen-press for another blanket – nay, two. She then tucked the blankets close around him, and rushed from the room, waylaying Sam in the atrium – for much like Marigold, he had searched and found no one in the study or kitchen, and, suspecting the worst, he made tracks for the bedroom.

She seized her brother’s hands and related, in rapid terms, what she had transpired, and she watched his face grow grim – though oddly enough, there was little surprise in his expression. He took his knapsack off his shoulder and shook his head, dropping his gaze.

She searched his face, but to no avail – he was hiding his eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears.

Marigold stomped her foot.

“Samwise Gamgee!” she cried, resisting the urge to snap her fingers in front of his face.

He made no answer, so she took a step toward him.

“Sam! Look! Look here!” she exclaimed. “Tell me this instant, what did he mean? And what are you supposed to explain to me? And why aren’t you doin’ it five minutes ago?”

Sam looked like a five-year-old who had wet his breeches.

“I didna – I didna think –”

He covered his face with his hand.

Yes, that’s the problem, you DON’T think – Marigold wanted to snap, but she clicked her tongue instead. This was no time for niceties – but no time for fighting, either.

“I – I didna think it was goin’ to happen after all this time,” Sam muttered, his voice cracking as he shook his head. “I thought he’d been gettin’ better… so I was hopin’ I might spare you some of the ugly parts…”

Marigold tapped her foot, and stared fixedly at her brother.

“Well, then if that’s the case, then you had better let me know now, Samwise Gamgee,” she intoned through clenched teeth. “Tell me now and spare no details this time. I can take it. I can take it all – but make it quick. We need to start tendin’ to Mr. Frodo, but I ain’t doin’ this blind.”

She finished, and drew a sharp, tense breath.

The flint-hearted healer was coming back. She was enunciating every word with deadly precision – it left no room for argument, or dissembling, or hesitation.

Sam knew that tone too well. And part of him rejoiced in hearing it again.

He looked up at his sister, and sighed. There was no stopping her when she was like this, and she was right: in the end, the truth would out, and it was only fair, for she was no child anymore.

He took her by the arm, and steered her into the kitchen.

The rest of the day passed in taking care of Frodo, and as far as patients went, Frodo was a model one. He braced himself bravely every time they sat him up to cough and breathe deeply, clearing out the phlegm. He swallowed warm, honeyed tea and salty broth even as half of it came up again. He even weathered a visit from Dr. Boffin, whom Marigold insisted on calling to repeat her examination, ensure that nothing had been missed, and to bring his antiinflammatory herbs.

Despite his pain, both Marigold and Dr. Boffin agreed that Frodo could not have the milk of the poppy. With a chest cold that severe, they were afraid that it would stop his breathing altogether (1). And so, as they moved him about he whimpered softly, a film of tears covering his eyes. At first, Dr. Boffin was just as puzzled as Marigold had been: for he, too, suspected that a simple chest cold could not account for what he was seeing, until at last Sam pulled him aside and explained what he had previously told Marigold, and Dr. Boffin, with his nearly fifty years of experience, knew better than to disbelieve him: for he knew that Middle-earth was full of strange diseases beyond count, and not all of them could be found in medical books.

And so, they followed Dr. Boffin’s instructions to the letter regarding the chest cold, and left the Morgul-wound to Sam, who boiled pail after pail of water over the fire, filled the water skins to pile around Frodo to keep him warm, and sent a very surprised Rosie to gather kingsfoil – for most hobbits assumed it to be a weed. And Marigold, for her part, began to make poultices – out of the selfsame kingsfoil, and mustard plasters as well, until the kitchen looked like an apothecary’s operation.

They did all that, but it was only the beginning, for every hour they needed to pause and tend to Frodo, and turn him this way and that, until around dinnertime, Dr. Boffin told them to place him on his stomach, which would help to drain his lungs. They did that too, and then, to hasten the process, they warmed a muster of glass jars and arranged them on his back, mouth-down, and let them sit until the flesh beneath them turned pink. (2)

Indeed, it was not until sundown that Marigold had a chance to truly digest what Sam had told her – not that there was anything else to digest, and not that she was hungry. All day, she had been running ragged and taking orders as often as she gave them. Second breakfast and elevenses were completely foregone, and lunch had been a piece of seed cake while dinner was another, except with butter. All day, she feared that she would start seeing dead children – and yet, it never came to pass, so perhaps Dr. Boffin had been right: different types of healing really were different, or perhaps her mind was too rattled to think of anything else.

And yet, by this point Frodo was looking slightly better. The session of lung drainage complete, he was resting on his back again, and his breathing was deeper and clearer. His chest was covered in mustard plasters, and a generous kingsfoil compress lay across his shoulder.

She watched him, and listened to Sam’s snoring in the guest room, for the two of them agreed to watch Frodo in shifts, and would stay until he recovered. With Frodo and Sam both resting at last, and Dr. Boffin gone, the house was quiet, and Sam’s words echoed in her thoughts.

Apparently, some wounds really were too deep to heal. From Sam’s earlier accounts, she had learned that Frodo confronted the Dark Lord’s minions and was stabbed, suffering greatly until they reached the elvish enclave of Rivendell. But what she did not know was the sheer amount of agony he suffered – for the wound was made by a cursed weapon, wielded by a being neither dead nor alive, and it continued to torment him long after it closed, robbing him of his strength and poisoning him from within.

The thought alone made her skin crawl – the thought of those odious, half-dead creatures, their touch cold and clammy, stabbing Frodo and calling, relentlessly calling for him to come join them as he faded before his friends’ eyes. And yet, through it all, Frodo had ridden, and even walked when necessary for nearly a fortnight, and then he took a mad dash on an elvish horse toward a strategic ford, and made one final stand against his assailants.

If she had respected Frodo before, the feeling turned to awe as she heard this version of the tale, and she would have bowed to him if circumstances were right.

But as it stood, the circumstances were not right – he would not have seen it nor known it, for he lay before her, insensate, his skin translucent with rivers of blue blood flowing beneath it. His features were a balm to look at in their harmony, and there was something like nobility in his look – the way Marigold imagined kings and queens must look – and the stamp of suffering made it more noble still. And yet, the delicate flower of his cheeks was kissed with frost: touch it but a little, and it would wither – and all she longed to do was touch it, to hold it between her palms, to give it life with her breath.

Her mind began to drift, and her eyelids fluttered as she pictured that face in her hands… But no… What had Sam said, again? Ah, yes… Sam had reckoned that the wound would make itself known on anniversaries of the stabbing from now on, for Frodo was remarkably tense in the early part of October last. But this time, the chest cold and the exertion cut him down more severely, and the wound had sapped his strength to fight the illness. It was a terrible thing, but in the end, far more than any physical scars, the wound had left a mark on both body and soul, and there were traces of evil that lingered, vying to claim him long after their demise.

Marigold felt a knot in her stomach, and a shiver stole across her shoulders.

Was it final – was it really that final, that Frodo could never be free of this torment?

Sam had insisted that he was only guessing, and that even the wise ones of this world, the wizards and the elves, were as much in the dark as anyone else about such matters. And after all, an anniversary came only once a year, and surely, once a year they could be careful – in just about every way.

She sighed, and Frodo coughed wetly, a furrow forming between his brows.

A trail of spittle ran down his cheek, and she reached to wipe it with a cloth made ready for the purpose. She let the cloth, and her finger, linger over his lips.

The lips were no longer dry, but they were pale and bloodless.

Frodo coughed again, and her lips spread into a smile, her eyebrows tenting.

“Aw, Mr. Frodo, let’s get you turned,” she said, reaching for his shoulder and hip.

In fact, it was time to turn him anyway – every two hours, as was prescribed, along with intentional coughing and deep breathing. But on account of him resting, and so peacefully at that, she decided to forgo the second part, and simply rolled him on his side toward her, positioning his legs at an angle to keep him from rolling back, and placing extra pillows under his head and neck.

Frodo did not wake as she moved him, only mumbled under his breath, and his eyes twitched fitfully under his eyelids. He did not cough, but drew a shallow breath, and then he lay still again. A twitch disturbed his face from time to time, rather like an eddy on the surface of a pool.

Marigold sighed.

At least he was sleeping.

Whatever else could have been said about his illness, at least it exhausted him so much that he could sleep – for his eyes were dark-rimmed on the best of mornings, and she wondered if he slept at all…

She wanted to run a knuckle down his cheekbone, but instead she took his hand, and smoothed long, pacifying strokes up and down his forearm. It was his right arm that she held, and when she reached his hand, her fingers lingered over his.

Frodo was lying in the darkening forest, the twilight slanting through the trees. Some paces away, the other hobbits sat in a circle around the fire, and were speaking in hushed tones, the twigs of the fire crackling softly. His shoulder was aching, and his whole body was stiff with a dark, frigid feeling. The trees rose up around him like the bars of a grate, or perhaps the jagged teeth of a comb. Aragorn was somewhere nearby, on patrol or looking for herbs. Frodo could see and hear everything around him, but it was through a thick haze, and the world was rendered in light and shadow.

He heard a branch snap underfoot, and a rustle of cloth. Someone squatted down beside him and took his hand.

He looked up.

Marigold? 

How had she, of all people, come to be here? 

She had no road clothes on – no cloak, not even a shawl – but she was fresh and full of life in her everyday house dress. And yet it was cold, so terribly cold…

“Marigold, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered urgently. “It’s not safe, go home…” He felt a sting behind his eyes. “Go home, please… Go back to the Shire…”

Go back to your Gaffer, your garden, your girlfriends and your books (3). Go back, before it’s too late… 

But Marigold looked confused.

“But Mr. Frodo, we’re perfectly safe,” she replied. “We are in the Shire, in your bedroom, at Bag End. You must be dreaming. You’re ill, but you’ll be better soon.”

Oh, Marigold… 

Indeed, he was ill, and it would have been pretty to think that he was still at Bag End, in his own bedroom, surrounded by clean linens and not by cold and wet things. How sweet it would have been to never have left home, and to be an innocent lass of the Shire, and never to have heard anything about a Ring, a Dark Lord, or the end of the world.

The darkness thickened all around them, and soon there was little he could see, and little he could feel, beyond the strokes of her warm, clever, hard-working hands, smoothing their way up and down his forearm. But soon even that faded away, and he lay in the darkness and silence, feeling cursed and sad, and longing for company – any company – even of beings as cursed as himself.

And then, one by one, a string of visions appeared before him. He saw tall towers rising in the midst of a barren landscape like jagged teeth, and hosts clashing over vast, lonely tracts of land, and men dressed in armor sitting in a close, tense conference inside a smoky room. He even saw Bilbo, pacing across the floor of his study, anxiously pulling on his pipe, and Merry riding off to battle under the cloak of a mounted knight, and a tall, gray ship, shaped like a swan, and the brilliant shards of sun scattered over the surface of a bay as the seagulls cried overhead.

He saw all this, yet every time the scene changed, he would return to the forest. And every time, the forest was dark and deep, and Marigold was sitting by his side, wearing only her yellow house dress against the cold.

He begged her to go back – every time he returned he would beg her. But she would not go. She only pressed his hand tighter, and once, when he came hurtling back from the Dead Marshes, the cries of the Fell Beasts ringing in his ears, she clasped both his hands and began to sing.

“ The sun is fast fallin'
Beneath trees of stone,
The light in the tower,
No longer my home,
Past eyes of pale fire,
Black sand for my bed,
I trade all I've known for 
The unknown ahead. ” (4)

Her voice was not radiant or enchanting like that of the elves, nor was it tempered yet heavy with feeling like the voices of Gondor as they raised their laments to the dead and celebrated their new king. It was not loud, nor powerful, nor remarkable in any way; it did not rise to the tops of the trees, but it did envelop them in a warm embrace, and for a moment it fought back the darkness.

She finished the song, and peered into his face: indeed a lass who was far from home, tending to a charge whose illness she barely understood… He wanted to weep – for her goodness, for her innocence, which he had not returned with time enough to save. And yet, he no longer wanted her to leave. He wanted her with him.

He gazed at her, and she searched his face. She blinked and sighed, readjusting her hold, and began to sing again:

“ The sun is fast fallin'
Beneath trees of stone… ” 

He closed his eyes, and listened, but by degrees his consciousness drifted, and soon he could no longer discern the words. He lay there, half awake, and as the music soothed him – soothed him like a babe in his mother’s arms – it seemed to promise that all ships lost at sea would find their safe harbor, and all the people who had lost their joy would find it again.

He breathed a sigh, and settled in as best he could against the cold, hard earth. The ground was covered with wet leaves and branches, and he felt them all too well through the blanket. His wound was colder than cold, and rivulets of ice were snaking through his blood. His limbs were heavy, and he knew more terror was yet to come. And yet, the world was melting around him – bit by bit and vision by vision.

And so, it was no surprise that when he next opened his eyes, he was in his bedroom again. His body still ached from head to toe, and there was a hollow pain in his chest that sapped his strength and hope, and made him feel like he would never be well again. The freezing pain in his shoulder sent a jolt through his body every time he moved, and the mustard plasters, quilts and generous fire were only a faint comfort.

But still, he was home and the horror was ebbing away. Marigold sat slumped in the chair before him, and was resting partway on the bed, her head on her forearms. She breathed easily, and her lips were slightly parted.

She had cared for him all day – changing compresses, lifting him up, and wiping unmentionable things off his face. She had even fed him off a spoon and praised him for things as simple as breathing deeply and swallowing his food.

He sighed and closed his eyes, but did not remove his hands from hers.

When Sam awoke, long after his allotted three hours, the house was quiet. He let himself down from the bed onto the floor, and tiptoed down the hall to Frodo’s bedroom.

Both Marigold and Frodo were asleep.

Frodo lay on his side, hot water skins outlining his body. A sharp, sudden gasp would disturb his breathing from time to time, and his eyes would twitch under the thin, fragile curtain of sleep.

Marigold lay slumped onto the bed from her chair, and the firelight was dancing on her cheek. Her eyebrows twitched, and she smacked her lips, just as she had done when they were children.

The two were holding hands.

Sam stood quiet, and knew he should have been happy, and he was. They were growing closer, and Frodo’s half-statements and Marigold’s defensiveness were only evidence of this fact. And to boot, they were both learning, both in spite of and because of their pain, to accept and hold one another.

To have and to hold.

Yes, he was happy for them, but also lonely – which was daft, for he had orchestrated the entire thing, and had hoped for this to happen.

He shook his head, and wondered if he should go back to the Row and check on Rosie. She would be happy to see him – that is, if she was awake. But no… Rosie did not need him the way he was needed here. For Marigold would soon be up, and she would want a proper rest in a proper bed after a hard day’s work, and, surely, she would want to wake to find her brother snoring blissfully away, and not be caught in a compromising position with her master.

Sam sighed, and tiptoed back to the guest room.

1. Poppy was one of the first opioids, and as such is very good for pain, but could suppress breathing.
2. Before reliable antibiotics, there were some rather interesting ways of treating pneumonia. A lot of them had to do with clearing excess moisture from the lungs, and not allowing stagnation through coughing and deep breathing, frequent changes in position, and cupping. Mustard plasters were also used as a prototypical heating pad. Some of these techniques are still in use today in certain countries as an adjunct to antibiotics.  
3. Thorin Oakenshield in the film The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies: “Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books, and your armchair.”
4. “Wandering Day,” written by Bear McCreary for the TV show Rings of Power.

Chapter Text

As Frodo recovered from his chest cold and the anniversary of the Morgul-wound, life returned to its familiar pace – but there were also changes, small yet undeniable – the sort of changes that came from seeing a person in the depths of their misery, wiping vomit from their face, and feeding them warm broth by the spoonful.

They were both, by the end of it all, far less ashamed of each other – and there was also more caring, more touching (by necessity, of course), and more sentiments expressed more freely. In fact, there was so much new proximity between them, that once he was feeling better, Frodo wished he were a less scrupulous hobbit, so that he might pretend to be doing worse than he really was, which would have meant more chances to enjoy Marigold’s attentions – more changes for her to sit him up, to feed him his dinner piece by piece, and to complement him on his improving appetite.

But by and by, all good things were destined to come to an end, and by the end of the week, Frodo had gotten out of bed, put on his own clothes, eschewing sponge baths in favor of proper baths, and began to feed himself. Several peaceful days passed this way, and then Dr. Boffin gave them his blessing to brave the out-of-doors – which they did, under the crisp blue autumn sky dappled with the handprints of maples.

Marigold was now wise by experience, so every time they stepped out of Bag End, she would make sure that Frodo wore his scarf and hat, as well as an extra layer “just in case the wind rose.” And “just in case of anything,” she would bring along her medical box, a “spot of vittles” in her basket, as well as a flask of water in case of any fainting spells.

And Sam, too, did his part. He knew that people would see Frodo and Marigold walking, so he spun spirited tales of Frodo’s infirmity to anyone who would listen, and even to some who would not. He did not wish anyone to think that they were walking together like that – not until there was solid proof of the matter. So he took it upon himself to protect his sister, and related that Frodo needed to walk for his health, doctor’s orders, but it was dangerous to let him go alone – and here he would gasp and refer, vaguely but ominously, to “the thing that happened Last Time.”

But all the same, despite the hullabaloo the Gamgees raised on his account, Frodo did enjoy their walks, and not the least because the autumn was his favorite season. The spring, he thought, would roil the blood too much and overwhelm the senses, and the summer was too hot and plagued by insects. The winter he liked somewhat, but mostly for the cheer and intimacy of the time spent indoors, and for the ineffable, enchanted stillness of the earth shrouded in sleep, and the occasional blessing of snow on the ground, and its glittering in the slender branches (1). But the autumn!... The autumn had everything he loved in spades – from the fiery riot of color as the leaves turned, to the voluptuous sadness of the trees’ short-lived finery, and the bracing notes of chill, and the rays of silver sun that were all the more radiant for their scarcity. (2)

They did not dare to walk as far as Bindbole Wood again, but the walks they did take were plenty lively, despite the short distances. Rather than a picnic basket, Frodo would always bring along his sketchbook, and would draw the likenesses of interesting trees, while Marigold would play a guessing game: she would guess at how to spell the names of various birds, animals, and shrubs, and then, once she learned the correct answers, she would write them down in her little book, wide-eyed and delighted.

In time, they even went to see the mallorn tree, which had turned golden, but unlike the rest, it did not scatter its leaves. Standing close beside it, Frodo placed his hand against the gray and silver bark, looking at it with affection, and he spent a long, quiet moment like this, while Marigold – who had resisted the urge to interrupt – had seen her patience well rewarded, for in the end, when he broke his touch and walked away, he was more taciturn for the rest of the day, but his step was lighter, and it seemed that his cares were lifted, if only for a little while.

And so their walks went on. Each of them carried their bundle of pages, hardly bigger than a pamphlet, and their morsels of food and medicine – a burden that they shared. Sometimes they would turn their steps north, and sometimes west, but ever on and on they went, and on one occasion, it was Marigold’s turn to have an intimate moment with nature, and for Frodo to look on – and it was such a surprise that he remembered it for many days after.

As he recalled, it was a cloudy afternoon, and they were passing by a grove on the way to the Old Mill, when Marigold had suddenly stopped and proceeded to ask, with blushing circumlocutions, if he could please hold her basket and allow her to do one, small thing. Frodo had of course acquiesced, and that something turned out to be a mad dash up a nearby knoll, where Marigold kicked up the autumn leaves and laughed and turned around, the cool air blooming on her cheeks like roses (3). It was an extraordinary, gleeful sight, and as Frodo looked on, he stood stock-still like Beren beholding fair Lúthien in a clearing.

For indeed, the suddenness of the act, and the youthful way in which the beauty of the moment moved her... indeed, was she not of an age with Merry? And yet, perhaps she was not so young after all, for both she and his cousin were young enough to kick through autumn leaves without a care, yet Merry was also old enough to be a knight, and Marigold was old enough to hold both life and death in the balance.

No, perhaps it was too late to marvel at her youth, or Merry’s, for each had lost their innocence long ago. But he was still glad enough to have saved the Shire – saved it so that Merry, touched by the Black Breath, could sit in the evenings smoking his pipe – and so that Marigold, though she had lost a mother and a child, could kick through the autumn leaves just like this…

But much as he liked their walks – and blessed though they were with such moments of fascination – in the end, their time outdoors was but a small portion of their activities.

The reorganization of Bag End, thankfully, was nearly complete, and the dusty trunks and shelves no longer commanded their attention. Instead, now that they had figured out where the waistcoats, books, and baubles were to go, they could immerse themselves in the more engaging tasks, the ones that truly mattered. And so they whiled away the hours in the study, each absorbed in their own work, and listening to the fire’s crackle. They liked it, sitting side by side like that, talking back and forth and contemplating the warmth. But even this familiar pastime had changed, for Frodo began making his additions to the Red Book, and Marigold’s exertions with her letters were paying off, with more and more complex words flowing from her pen and coalescing into stories, poems, and songs of her own invention.

She liked this imaginative part – and she was almost as canny as Sam, possessing the same, salt-of-the-earth wit, and a similarly astute ear for rhyme schemes.

And more than that, she finally plucked up the courage to write letters – and she enjoyed this best of all. She wrote many pleasant niceties to her first correspondent, Fatty – letters that she placed with an innocent pride into the post. But Fatty, diligent though he was in his answers, was neither her main nor most beloved correspondent, for she soon found another, even more surprising penfriend.

The matter first came up, as Frodo recalled, when the two of them were out on their daily walk, and had paused to sit on a pair of stumps left behind by the Scouring. It was a chill day, and the sun filtered thinly through the silver-gray clouds, and the surface of the Bywater Pool was ribbed with small, feathery waves.

They had been sitting for some time, contemplating the scene, when Marigold suddenly spoke up.

“I wonder, Mr. Frodo, could you perchance help me?”

Frodo turned from the water and gave her a kind, companionable look.

“Why, yes, of course, Marigold. What can I do?” 

And Marigold straightened up and looked suddenly very serious.

“Well, you see, Mr. Frodo,” she began, “There was a kind…” Her voice waned, and she took a breath before continuing. “You see, back in the Lockholes, there was an older lady by the name of Mrs. Tunnelly. You did not meet her, because she passed afore we were freed. But I’ve been thinking – maybe I could find her family and write them a letter. I remember she was from Frogmorton…”

She paused and fiddled with the hem of her coat.

Frodo did not respond immediately, but he nodded with a pensive look, and his eyes never left her face. He studied her – and by and by, she was emboldened by the attention.

“Because you see, Mr. Frodo,” she went on, “I think it’s really important to tell them how kind she was to me then, and what happened in the end. After all, there was so much to-do at the time, they probably never got much more than a short message, and I don’t think it’s right –”

She paused and swallowed, squaring her face against a rush of emotion.

“Because I don’t think it’s right, I mean,” she added, “For them to get only a line or two and nothin’ else. But at the same time, I don’t want them receivin’ such a – personal letter from a stranger, and to have it sound un-educated and foolish. So I suppose – I suppose I would need a bit of help with the writin’ if you don’t mind, and I don’t know how to go about findin’ them either, short of goin’ to Frogmorton myself.”

She stopped, and her hands arrested over the edge of her coat.

She looked up from the clump of grass at the base of the stump – for she had never been good at asking for favors, newfound intimacy be damned.

But Frodo quickly came to her aid.

“Ah, well, that’s easily done.”

He smiled – and not just with his eyes, nor with his lips.

His entire face was caught up in that smile, and it was far more open-hearted and unabashed than any in recent memory.

It was enough to take her breath away.

And meanwhile, he was nodding, and his enthusiasm was growing by the moment.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he repeated. “I would be happy to help.” And with his smile pressing into his cheeks, he leaned in close, and whispered, “And you know, when it comes to finding the Tunnellys, I know just the thing, and I don’t think you need to go to Frogmorton.”

He said as much, and then he stood up. And then they gathered up their things, and headed back to Bag End – walking more briskly than Marigold could have imagined – and when they were back, Frodo promptly set to work.

He installed himself in the study, and penned a detailed letter to the Mayor’s office in Michel Delving, placing it in the mailbox before the afternoon post. And while he cautioned Marigold that in general, Mayors were not known for their promptness, to their surprise an answer arrived within the week – courtesy, no doubt, of Frodo's influence as a Baggins and as former Deputy Mayor.

And to boot, the letter was not written by the mayor’s assistant, but by Mayor Whitfoot himself. It related that there were, in fact, a number of Tunnellys in Frogmorton, and that there was, indeed, a record of an elderly Mrs. Willow Tunnelly, now deceased due to the unfortunate events mentioned in the letter from his “Dear friend and colleague, Deputy Mayor Baggins.” The letter went on to state that Mrs. Willow Tunnelly had indeed lost a husband and two sons who sabotaged the activities of the First Eastfarthing Troop, but that her daughter, Lavender, survived by going into hiding, and that this Lavender Tunnelly, yes, was in her thirties, and that yes, she was able to receive mail at such-and-such an address.

They pored over the letter with much excitement, and on that very day, Marigold drafted her first missive to Lavender, and when they were both done with their writing for the day, she showed it to Frodo.

The letter ran as follows:

Dear Miss Tunnelly,

You do not know me, but my name is Marigold Gamgee of Hobbiton. During the Scuring of the Shire, I was imprisond in the Lockholes. While there, I got to know your mother, the late Mrs. Willow Tunnelly. 

I do not know how much you have learned of your mother’s last days. But I would like to tell you how kind she was to me then. She told me all about you, and how much she missed you and hoped you were safe. I was very much ill used by the guards when I was in the Lockholes, and nobody could stop them. But your mother did the best she could. She hugged me and sang me songs, and together we cried and made our hearts a little liter. I will always remember her kindness, and I hope your heart will be made glad by knowing about it also. She died piecefully in her sleep as she lie beside me.

As for myself, I am nobdy special. My father and brothers are farmers and gardners, and I have two older married sisters, and I work as a housekeeper and caretaker for a friend. I like the usual things: cooking, sewing, going on walks, and taking care of my loved ones. 

If you would like to write, I would be very much glad to recieve your letter. I would very much like to learn more about your mother and your family, and to tell you anything else that you might wish to know.

Sinserely yours,

Marigold Gamgee

Frodo looked up from the page, and at first could find no words to say.

He had made precious few corrections – but somehow, it was not sufficient to explain the breath catching in his throat.

It was remarkable … Remarkable, how well her writing was coming along. In her early days, even the simplest phrases would upend her. But it was not only that. He read the letter twice – not to look for errors, but to steady his heart, for here was the message of a truly virtuous soul, trying to spread what goodness it could in the world.

He was so overcome that he could not speak, lest it be in a cracking voice.

He sighed, and placed the letter on the table.

“This – this is an excellent letter, Marigold,” he said, and pressed his fingers over the lines of text. “I think Lavender will be happy to get it.”

Marigold smiled, and squeezed her hands over her knees.

“And your writing – well. That has been coming along wonderfully too,” he added. “But you know, I think there is one small problem. You see, you call yourself ‘nobody special,’ but I think that’s hardly the case. Perhaps you could add that you were trained as a healer?”

He regarded her keenly – but somehow, it only served to chasten her.

She shook her head, and looked suddenly very interested in the tapestries.

“But I’m no healer anymore, that there is the thing,” she replied. “What would be the point of puttin’ something like that, when it’s a thing of the past?”

But Frodo shrugged, and slid the letter toward her. 

“Well, it’s not like you’ve forgotten what you’ve learned.”

And that much, she had to concede, was true.

She readjusted her dress over her knees, and smiled – this time more boldly. 

“Well, alright,” she said. “I reckon I can try and put it in a future letter. But this partic’lar letter… Well, it’s not about me at all; it’s about Mrs. Tunnelly.”

And so in the end, they sent the letter off as it was (after making the requisite spelling corrections), and to Marigold’s rather unwarranted surprise, Lavender did write back, and thus began a stream of correspondence that flew back and forth between Frogmorton and Hobbiton as fast as the post would carry it.

They wrote to each other, and fairly soon, the letters were not be enough, so in the beginning of November, when the branches were bare except for a few clinging leaves, Lavender decided to pay a visit, and on the eve of Marigold’s birthday and the anniversary of the Lockholes, the two lasses met for the first time – with Marigold doing the unthinkable and taking a week off from work at Bag End so that two new friends could spend their days walking around Hobbiton, arm-in-arm, conversing and weeping together, and visiting the Lockholes and the cemetery to pay their respects.

They stayed at Bagshot Row, so Frodo did not learn the details until later – but when Marigold returned, one thing was undeniable. She looked a great deal happier than before, and to boot, the letters did not cease after Lavender left; they only got longer.

And Frodo?

Frodo, for his part, had never ceased to derive a private joy from reading her letters – for she still requested that she review them every time. He liked reading her kind thoughts, and he reveled in the fact that Marigold had made a friend, and that he, of all people, had had a hand in it.

1. Lyrics from the Trip Shakespeare song “Snow Days”: “It’s coming down / Snow lays on the chainfields / There's a blessing on the ground.”

2. The overarching sentiment and some of the imagery in this paragraph echo the poem “Autumn” by Alexander Pushkin. The poem describes the poet’s love for the fall, and the ways in which the other seasons fall short. Selected quotes include:

“This is my time: I am not fond of spring;
The tiresome thaw, the stench, the mud – spring sickens me.
The blood ferments, and yearning binds the heart and mind.
With cruel winter I am better satisfied.”

“O, summer fair! I would have loved you, too,
Except for heat and dust and gnats and flies.”

“A melancholy time! So charming to the eye!
Your beauty in its parting pleases me –
I love the lavish withering of nature,
The gold and scarlet raiment of the woods,
The crisp wind rustling o’er their threshold,
The sky engulfed by tides of rippled gloom,
The sun’s scarce rays, approaching frosts,
And gray-haired winter threatening from afar.”

3. The image of Marigold kicking through the autumn leaves was inspired by the song Babylon by David Gray: “Sunday, all the lights of London / Shining, sky is fading red to blue / Kicking through the autumn leaves / And wondering where it is you might be going to.”

Chapter Text

Once her birthday came and went, and the frosts were leaving their first traces on the ground, Marigold returned to work at Bag End, and presented Frodo with a gift: a patchwork quilt that was remarkably heavy, and Frodo soon realized why. In addition to the usual cotton batting between the squares, something else was adding weight, and Marigold insisted, grinning ear to ear, that he guess what it was. It took some fumbling and about three tries, but in the end, Frodo realized that the mysterious filling was none other than paper, which was heavy when stacked, and Marigold proudly confirmed this fact. Indeed, she explained, it was her own collection of practice writing sheets – for she did not have the heart to throw them away. Instead, she put them to good use, seeing how Frodo was soothed by heavy blankets – and because it was writing that Frodo liked best, and it was writing that had done so much to foster their friendship.

She said all this, and Frodo was overcome with emotion – so much so, that he had nearly dropped the blanket where he stood…

For indeed, the sweetness and the ingenuity of it all – and the ingenue-ity of it also – were too great for words. It was not just the substance, nor the inventiveness of the gift (the very thing he needed without knowing it), and it was not the fine stitching, which must have taken her weeks, nor was it the fine wrapping job, which did not stop at paper, but included knots of ribbon and twine, and a sprig of dried flowers. It was all of those things, but also Marigold’s eyes, which were bright and clear as she said the word “friendship,” and yet she looked like he was all her joy, and like she could have gazed at him forever. They were a man-hobbit and a lass, so it was hard to imagine that friendship was all she meant, and yet there was no artifice, no hidden intimation in her features. Only happiness, only unadulterated joy radiated from her face as she clasped her hands, smiling, and he hugged the blanket to his chest and declared that it was the most thoughtful gift he had ever gotten…

It was a wonderful thing – to watch her delight echoing his own, and he was glad of her return, no question. The week before, when she was gone, everything had been harder, even with Sam doing his level best all around Bag End. Sam would always ensure that the dinner was on time, and that the fireplace was well stoked and kept the cold at bay. And Sam would always have a kind word and a smile for his beloved master, but the mornings were still a dismal affair, and even his reading felt lugubrious. In the end, it was Marigold’s fresh, wide-eyed excitement that he missed – the unexpected ways she tied things together, the inventive way she anticipated needs. Each day, she was discovering new parts of him, and he was along for the journey – though now the journey was at an end, and he lay in a forlorn, dreary inn by the roadside.

He thought all this, and as he held the heavy blanket, he thanked her again – for there was little else he could do – and then he told her that he had missed her, missed how her voice had filled Bag End with effortless cheer – that he missed her being there, and at these words she promptly blushed.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Frodo,” she returned. “To tell you the truth, I’ve missed you too, and I’ve missed bein’ here also, if you pardon me sayin’ so...”

She pressed her hand to her lips, but Frodo shook his head, and assured her that no pardons were necessary, for she was always welcome in his home – and upon hearing this, Marigold blushed deeper still, but made no objection like she had done only a few short months ago.

Instead, she smiled and glanced to the side, fiddling with her apron, and remarked that it would soon be time for breakfast, and she had better get it ready, lest his stomach begin to growl.

And so the two of them made off for the kitchen, with Frodo’s gifted blanket in tow, and breakfast that day was an omelet with ham and walnut pie, and the two of them discussed any number of things: from Sam’s progress in preparing the garden for winter, to the Gaffer’s gout, and how it would feel to be an Elf and live forever.

It was a lovely day: it started out that way and it remained so, long into the evening. In time, they finished their food and Frodo returned to his writing while Marigold began the chores, and it felt just like the old times – like days with Bilbo and Sam, the way things had been before it all went to grief. It was pleasant – comfortable, even: so much so that Frodo began to wonder how he might prolong it, for he liked it, and wanted her to stay.

At first, he was convinced that he would lose her to a doughty farm lad – but that no longer felt likely, for matrimony did not seem to interest her. Otherwise, how to explain the fact that she was confidential with Fatty at the door, and yet their correspondence was nothing if not banal? And earlier, she had turned the head of Merry, a known connoisseur of female beauty – yet things had never progressed between them, though Merry had never been one to leave a girl ignorant of his affections.

No, it was plain as day: Marigold had other priorities – other preferences, perhaps. She could speak enticingly to a man, as she had done to him at the gate, but she did not encourage any of her suitors, so it stood to reason that she had no interest. And yet, it was difficult to imagine her caring for him for the rest of her days – if for no other reason than her vibrant curiosity, her bright, vivacious spirit. She would want to a proper career in healing soon – otherwise, why would she tell him, sotto voce, that nothing “queer” had happened when she was nursing him in October, smiling irrepressibly all the while?

No – if there was not a doughty farm lad, then something would come along and separate them before long. He had come to accept it, for what could he do about it? He could have married her himself, and the thought did cross his mind, but he dismissed it just as soon, for a Baggins marrying a Gamgee? Surely, the neighbors would have something to say about that – and even if he did not care for gossip, he suspected that she might, and to boot, a fine figure of a husband he would make, needing help with every little thing. He was more like a child than a husband, and if she accepted him – assuming she had not forsworn men entirely – it would be out of misplaced loyalty and pity, nothing more.

Yes, pity. She could have no other feeling toward him, for he was still very unwell, and even a fool could see it. 

For every day, without fail, he would still have his “moments.” And every day, he would ask her to rub his back. And though he tried his level best, his writing was slow as sap in winter, for several times an hour, he would feel completely overcome and be forced to stop mid-sentence.

At many such junctures, it was enough to simply put down his pen and look outside, or to step out of doors and breathe the misty air. But at other times, he was not so lucky, and had no choice but to stop entirely and go to his room, at which point Sam would put down his work and follow after, and instead of giving him a massage he would simply hold his master and let him cry his fill – and if Sam was not around, then Marigold would come in, and she would hold his hands and let him cry as well, singing him songs as he lay under her gifted blanket.

It was miserable work – and on many occasions, he longed to abandon it, if for no other reason than his distaste for being a burden. But it was also important work – and by degrees, it bore fruit, if only the smallest, hardest apples.

As the days wore on, his quill grew more adventurous, and he delved deeper into memory with each new curling stroke. And in time, he did not only remember: he actually saw the landscape rising up around him, and his own, freshly washed feet walking beside two weary, hungry hobbits. And if at first he could hardly stand to look at them – their faces streaked with dirt, and pent with despair – in a few weeks’ time, he was giving them what words of comfort he could, and as he repeated his assurances, there was a part of him – small, sad, and very unbrave – that would feel its burden lifted.

No, he could never abandon them now – if only for the sake of his former self, who had taken on such labors, and for the sake of others who had walked the same, treacherous road. He was learning to forgive them all, and seeing them as fellow travelers, hardly masters of their own will. They were each doing their level best, faced with the same treacherous circumstances, and he was no better and no worse than any of them – which he repeated to the poor, starving, half-delirious hobbit as he held his hands in the darkness, still ten-fingered, with the ash and sulfur filling both their lungs.

It was a treacherous “return journey,” and on many occasions he feared that Sam was right, and it had every chance of making things worse. But even so, he felt content at the end of each day, for he knew that he had rescued the poor, journeying hobbit – if only a little, if only for a short while. He knew that he would have go back and do it again the next day – a task as thankless as rolling a boulder up a hill, and yet, little by little, things were coming apart at the seams such that even he, the consummate pessimist, could not deny it.

At times, the travelers would walk along and reminisce gladly, or come across some good, clean water to have with their meager meal. And one day, the sky over Mount Doom had been filled with bright, white and yellow with fireworks, the kind there had been at Bilbo’s long-expected party.

In the end, Frodo determined that if such things were possible – that if he could do this with his mind alone – then perhaps not all was lost, and Mordor, with its poisoned, inhospitable earth, had not taken everything after all. (1)

Or so he liked to think – but this was on the good days, and the good days were equally matched by the bad, which were downright terrible.

For during such times, it was the ugly feelings that resurfaced – and “ugly” was not the half of it – or even the tenth. He had never known such feelings – could barely fathom their existence – and yet, it began with mistrust toward Sam, and with harsh words, and underneath it all there lay the true and despicable sentiment: a hopeless fury at himself and everything around him, and if he did not act on it, it was only because he lacked the strength. The fury abated by the time they reached Minas Tirith, but now, the unaccountable feeling had returned, and it had taken on a new, more sinister countenance.

*** (2)

He recognized them undeniably in November, when he received a letter from Pippin, and wanted to throw it in the fire and climb in after it, because Pippin was so busy and well-respected after the Battle of Bywater. And on another, equally momentous occasion, Sam and Marigold had been kind to him as always, but he longed to crush their smiles and to tell them to leave, for they knew nothing of his suffering, nothing at all. And finally, on yet another notable evening, he felt unaccountably poorly and longed to take a fire poker to Mr. Proudfoot’s next door, to pay him back for his self-important comments.

***

He never did any of it, of course, not the least because he knew that the desires were not his own – but rather, they were piped into his ears by a voice, and though it mimicked his own voice, it was tinged by the hisses of the Ring and by other nether-wordly whispers. He knew it was an imprint of the Ring’s evil, but it was a cold comfort, for it pointed to another, still more terrible truth: that the Ring was gone, destroyed, but it had revealed parts of him that he could not unsee. Entitlement, grandiosity and greed: they reared their ugly heads, and their mark showed little sign of fading.

They accosted him again and again, even when times were good, and there was no way to predict it.

On one such occasion, it had been a pleasant evening, and all day, Frodo had been remarkably free of symptoms – there were no palpitations, no difficulty breathing, no rebellion of the senses – and after a walk and a study session with Marigold, he was lying on the couch, perfectly ensconced in the warmth of the parlor and his plaid woolen throw quilt. In the grate, a fire was laid against the afternoon chill, and in the sconces, there was a fresh set of candles. His stomach was not particularly sick – rather, it was full of a delightful mushroom wellington, and Marigold was seated across the room, turned away and puzzling over a letter.

It was such a pleasant time that Frodo indulged in an activity he was allowing himself of late – and that was admiring Marigold’s looks and carriage, if for no other reason than his inability to do anything else. For beyond his own doubt of her feelings, and his belief that anyone who saw his mind would surely run away, he had adopted a certain resignation. When he lay in bed with his chest cold, everyone had assumed he was at death’s door, and perhaps they were correct. As such, he thought himself a dead man walking, and so his eyes could be forgiven for taking pleasure where they could.

And so he looked. For Marigold was quite pleasing to look at, especially to the hobbit eye. Hers was not an ethereal or lofty sort of beauty – she was no willowy elf-maiden or queenly woman of Gondor – but she had the warm, blooming beauty of the Shire: a round and comely face, soft hazel eyes, and curves to get lost in. Perhaps she was shorter and meeker than most hobbits, but these were hardly defects, for she was blessed with a keen mind, a kind, obliging air and a domestic aptitude…

Blast it… Sometimes – too often – his convictions of his own infirmity – and of her indifference – were not enough. That was the trouble with looking: it never ended that way, and he found himself wishing that he was just any hobbit, a simple denizen of the Shire, who could live his life as he chose, could love and be loved, watch sunsets glow and all that business. Why, if he were just any hobbit, he could stride over to her right now –

The lights flickered in their sconces, and he felt the old, familiar iciness up his arms.

But you’re NOT just any hobbit, are you?... 

Whispers – tendrils – of a nameless, faraway voice took shape within his ears.

A chill rushed up his spine and an invisible hand seized his throat.

You’re Frodo Baggins, the great savior of Middle-earth, the greatest hero of our Age–

The diaphanous whisper no less chilling for its softness.

Already, it was making his thoughts fall away, lulling him into a numb, vacant reverie.

The voice would soon take advantage of this – it would happen any moment now, and the next time it spoke its pitch was higher, its tone sharper.

*** (3)

Take what you want! For once in your life! Do it!! Go on!!

And to his credit, even in his half-numb state, Frodo tried to protest.

‘What – what do you mean?’

But he knew full well what it meant, though his mind was filling up with smoke.

Oh, really?

The voice gave a high-pitched, nasty laugh.

As if! Do I really need to spell it out for you? You know perfectly well what you want, and what I mean! Don’t be such a contemptible eunuch. Her own brother gave her to you – to YOU, for your pleasure. Take what is yours by right!

‘No… NO!!…’

Frodo tried to shake his head – but he was losing his grip on the settee, the blanket, and on everything else.

‘No, no, away with you’ – he wanted to shout, but no… Even Sam’s trick of naming things he could see, hear and feel had no power here – it only made the voices angrier.

And angry was indeed what they were, and they had become quite a crowd. The first voice split into several versions of itself, and they all goaded him on and insulted him, and in the end, one snarling, hissing voice rose above the rest –

Just push her down, you maudlin milksop, lift up her skirt, and make her bear your bastard! Go on!!

***

The voice was shrill and ugly, and at first, there was little Frodo could do but cower, imagining himself rocking in a corner.

But by degrees, his thoughts took on a coherent shape, and a different, hotter and angrier feeling stirred inside him. A sick, gut-wrenching pain grew and spread, but suddenly, if nothing else, the lights were back on, and the room was bright as ever.

The voices were gone, and he was Frodo Baggins once more, and in command of his own thoughts and limbs. He was not just any hobbit, and never would be, but what did that matter?

He took a large, ragged breath, and the cushions shifted beneath him. The pain was passing, but his limbs were shaking still, and he pressed the blanket against his face, for he could not bear to look at anything – not at the sconces and not at the rug, and especially not at Marigold, who was sitting at the table, completely unaware of all that had transpired.

But avoiding her would not save him. 

Her image stood before his eyes, and before long, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he lay still, waiting for it to pass.

He waited, but it was useless.

The nausea grew and grew, and after some moments, he could not take it anymore.

He threw himself off the settee and rushed stumbling out of the room, and once he got to the bathroom he vomited, retching, until the inky taste of bile burned his tongue.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo sat collapsed against the toilet, and did not know how much time had passed, but he felt very, very cold.

He might have lost consciousness – but he certainly came to when he heard her voice.

Marigold’s voice.

The voice of the one he had defiled, in his very own mind.

She was here. Of course she was.

Of course she had followed him. But after many dry heaves, his body was spent, and he did not care – he couldn’t care. He hugged the bowl, and his shoulders shook.

“I heard you losin’ your stomach – may I come in?”

Marigold’s voice came from just outside the door, which had not been closed all the way. He imagined her standing turned away a bit, out of her usual respect.

He felt like he was covered in slime. He groaned by way of reply.

A moment passed, and as if in answer, the door creaked on its hinges, and Marigold tiptoed in. A rustle of skirts, and she sat down on the floor beside him, reaching for his forehead, and comparing deftly with her own.

“Oh, dear. Cold as ice, again… Though not as bad as before.”

She reached for his hand to feel the pulse, but he recoiled.

He fought the urge to curl up in a ball, but instead looked away and clutched his thighs, for the forehead touch was already too much, since it had forced him to look at her. 

“I’m – I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” Marigold took a breath, and bowed her head slightly. “I shouldna have pre-sumed. I’ll wait to examine you later. And I’ll be sure to cook the food more thoroughly from now on –”

But Frodo shook his head.

“No, there is nothing wrong with the food.”

“Oh… well then…” Marigold bit her lip.

She sat back on her haunches, and Frodo lowered his head over the toilet.

She folded her lips into a line, and pressed her fist against her mouth.

Well, fiddlesticks and ninnyhammers was her only thought.

Frodo was certainly acting odd – off-putting and terse, and that was never his way. And yet, he also looked ashamed, more so than he had ever done before, though it was not the first nor the tenth time he had vomited in front of her. So what could it be?

It was probably not his shoulder wound – for he was supporting himself leaning to the left. And it was not one of his “moments,” for whenever he had one of those, he either cried or froze up, but he never shrank away.

She sighed.

“Alright, then, perhaps it wasn’t the food,” she said. “But we really ought to get you up and off this floor, shouldn’t we, Mr. Frodo? And how about some nice peppermint tea, once we get you in bed?”

She leaned forward slightly, and kept her hands where he could see them.

She fixed her eyes on his mop of matted hair, such that when he looked up, her face would be the first thing he saw. Neither said anything, and Frodo breathed, waiting for nausea to pass, or resolve itself with a vomit.

In the end, the vomit nearly came, but it stopped just short of his throat, and he looked up from the toilet bowl.

But even then he could not look at her. He kept his eyes on the floor.

Her voice was so mellifluous, so sure. As sure as the sun that would come out tomorrow, and he thought of how freeing it would be, to be just any hobbit, to take comfort in a lass he liked, to drink tea from a cup in her hands, to feel her close beside him…

He felt a pain in his chest, and an echo of sickness in his bowels. Hot tears pricked his eyes, and he blinked to keep them from brimming.

He shook his head again.

“No – Marigold – please – just… Just go home.” 

But Marigold did not move.

Instead, she raised her eyes, and when she spoke, there was a scoff in her voice.

“What, sir, and leave you here like this? Not for all the Shire, I’m not doin’ that!”

Frodo released a sigh, and his shoulders drooped.

Of course. 

What had he expected?

Marigold rocked forward on her haunches, and looked suddenly very dogged.

“Come on, Mr. Frodo,” she said, extending a hand. “Here. You’ll catch another cold sitting here like this, so what’s it going to be? Can you get up on your own, or shall I help you?”

She kept her hand extended, such that try as he might, he could not miss it.

He sighed.

He knew the exact expression she was making. He did not need to look – for she had the same tone, and would surely be making the same face as Sam had done when he had declared that he would sooner put holes in all the boats than let him go to Mordor alone.

And so he did not look up. He fixed his eyes on the tiles and counted them quickly – first spiraling inward, then out, then back again.

The Gamgees, confound and bebother them, were a determined lot.

He sighed again, and clasped her hand in his.

In the end, Frodo could not get up by himself, even with the help of Marigold’s extended hand, so Marigold hoisted him up by the waist and help him walk, a few dizzy steps at a time, back to the bedroom.

On the way, they stopped by the sink and she helped him rinse his mouth, and when he finally got to bed, she brought him a large glass of water mixed with salt, mint, and sugar, and made him drink it all.

The glass was now empty, and Frodo was lying tucked under the covers, and if nothing else he felt warm, and the inside of his mouth was not as putrid. Having settled him down, Marigold busied herself at the grate, and when she was done, she came back over to the bed and hovered above him, checking him over: eyes for yellowing, stomach for tenderness. Predictably, she found nothing, but it did not erase her worry.

But she did not touch him again. She did not take his hand and stroke it with her thumb – as was her custom whenever he felt poorly – and she did not push his hair back more than necessary when she wiped his brow. Her examination done, she pulled the blankets up to cover him, and sat momentarily lost in thought.

She looked to the side as she did so, and yet her face was fresh and sweet, and it hurt to look at her.

He wanted her to go. To be anywhere but here. He could not abide her seeing him like this – and he wanted her far, far away.

He sighed.

“Please, Marigold,” he said, turning over on his side and pulling his knees against him, “Just – just go home. It’s late. I’ll be alright. I need some time, that’s all.”

It hurt, but he fixed his eyes upon her. 

But even then she did not move. She shook her head, and looked at him as if to say, Now, now, Mr. Frodo, don’t be ridiculous. You could hardly walk a moment ago, how could I leave you?

A moment passed, and still they looked at one another, until at last, she drew a sigh and rose up from her seat, smoothing the covers by his side.

“Well, alright,” she said, and folded the sheet into a lip over the blankets. “As you wish, Mr. Frodo.” Her hands lingered a respectful distance from where he lay, and she smiled. “Still,” she added, “I don’t reckon that it’s right leavin’ you like this, so how about I walk back to the Row and ask Sam to come watch you? I’ll have him stay the night, and I’ll tell him not to bother you at all, just to check in on you from time to time, and make sure that nothin’s amiss…”

She folded her hands over her waist, and her smile betrayed a repressed satisfaction. And Frodo, for his part, could do little else but sigh, and bury his face in the pillow. He had no strength to argue, so he returned a half-perceptible nod.

“Well, that settles it, then,” Marigold smiled again, and brought her hands together in a soft clap. “I’ll go and do just that.”

She smoothed the covers by his side one more time, and then she turned and walked over to the dressing table, where she had deposited her bag.

She picked it up and sifted through it, producing several vials. She lined them up on the table, and then retrieved an extra pillow from the closet.

“Here, Mr. Frodo,” she said, and he turned over on his side and looked at her.

And she looked back, earnestly – though her expression was still restrained. And yet, her face was as sweet and docile as ever, and Frodo found himself marveling at her grace, the shame of his earlier thoughts notwithstanding. She drew back the covers, and he accepted the extra pillow without a word, wrapping his arms and legs around it.

And yet, it was no use, was it?

It was her – her! – that he wanted to hold. To hold her in full trust of himself. To rest his cheek against the sweet-smelling, flaxen hair, to fold himself into the curves of her body, to feel the warmth of her skin, and to watch the hesitancy and the doubt melt away.

For she must have sensed it, too – poor girl – that there was a pain between them. She would not have known the cause of it, but she was certainly aware, for she would not allow her hands to linger, nor her eyes to look at him for long.

“Ma…ri…gold,” he whispered softly.

She looked up from the bag – which she had returned to, rummaging for something else. She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, Mr. Frodo, what is it?” 

“Marigold, please,” he whispered, and his words were no less urgent for their softness. “Please, I need you to know. There is nothing that you did wrong… I’m sorry – I’m sorry to have been so… disagreeable tonight…”

In fact – he wanted to add – there is nothing that you CAN do wrong. You are perfect. You are everything. You are more than words can say. 

Oh, dear…

I am falling in love with you, aren’t I?

The realization came softly and unmistakably.

Like gossamer sunlight parting the clouds after an afternoon’s rain. No bolt from the blue, no sudden cloudburst.

Only the warm, glowing firelight from the grate, the mountains of blankets, the languid heaviness of his limbs, and the kind, selfless, loyal Mari, who had paused in her progress through her purse, which seemed to contain the whole world.

“Oh, but Mr. Frodo…” she shook her head, and pushed the bag aside.

She stepped briskly toward him, and pulled the chair toward the bed, sitting beside him and taking his hand.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, my dear…” She shook her head and smoothed her palm over his. “Please, there is nothin’ to forgive. I understand. I do. Sometimes we all need a little peace and quiet, and nobody around. I am sure you’ll feel better soon, and when you do, maybe we can go and see the Mallorn tree again? Maybe it’ll help, with it bein’ elvish magic and all…”

She clasped his hand firmly, and looked suddenly more self-assured. Her eyes were especially lovely: warm and deep, the way they looked when the lights were low.

Frodo gazed at her – though he did not want to.

And yet, he could not look away, so in the end he closed his eyes, and let the room fade away as he clasped her hand.

She began to sing:

The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began (4) 

He sighed, and squeezed her hand in return as her voice enveloped her.

For indeed, he loved her, and was beginning to know it, and a part of him was unbearably glad that his heart was still capable of such a feeling. But even so, it was all the more reason to stay away – for he could stomach his hatred of himself, and his thoughts of revenge against his pompous neighbor, but he refused to abide such thoughts about the ones he loved. He needed to protect them.

The next morning, he woke up well before Sam even stirred, and well before Marigold was due to arrive. He felt better – the nausea, at least, was gone – so he made his way to the study, and while his whole body shook, his mind was perfectly clear, so he sat down at the roll-top desk and wrote to Elrond.

He did not ask the Elf-Lord for advice, for he knew that he would say both yes and no, but he did describe the situation and asked for help, and by the time he placed his signature at the bottom of the page, his body was calm, and he gazed at the lines of text before him, wondering if he should place the letter in the envelope, or throw it in the fire.

In the end, he chose the former, and added: P.S.: Please kindly pass this message along to Gandalf, if he can be reached.

(1) Frodo’s work with the memoir echoes actual psychotherapy techniques. Writing a trauma narrative helps re-conceptualize the past and make peace with it by viewing it from a different angle. “Rescue missions” are also a real technique used to dislodge and re-integrate parts of the self that are trapped in the past. However, Sam was right to be concerned. As one confronts trauma directly, sometimes things get worse before they get better, and this can include worsening of flashbacks and (re)emergence of painful emotions, including, not uncommonly, anger.

(2) Frodo has thoughts of hurting himself, being aggressively cold to Marigold and Sam, and harming Mr. Proudfoot.

(3) Frodo hears voices urging him to sexually assault Marigold, and fights them off.

(4) “The Road Goes Ever On” from The Lord of the Rings.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Frodo considered the situation. At first, he had dismissed the word love as the product of a pained and lonely mind, but on reflection, no other word would have been fitting. For he did in fact see Marigold as perfect and extraordinary, and delighted in everything she did. He did in fact see joy both with her and through her. He did in fact wish to be near her – he regretted her leaving every night, and looked forward to her return every morning. And in the end, he wanted what was best for her – wanted her to live a rich, full life free of hardship and distress, to achieve her every desire… He wanted all of those things, and he was willing to sacrifice for them, and if that was not love, he did not know what was.

And yet, if it was love, not all love needed to be acted upon. It would have been selfish to ask her to be his, and it was selfish even now, to keep her with him and for his “moments,” his ailments and his moods rule her days… No, perhaps there were other ways that he could aid her: he could teach her and influence her, and support her in returning to healing if she felt so inclined. And he could make some useful introductions, and provide her with a better dowry so that if she wanted, she could marry happily and well, however much pain it would bring him.

He considered those options – and yet he did not act. A part of him, irrationally, wanted to throw himself at her mercy and confess, but he could not find the courage, so he simply waited – and this was just as well, for in several weeks’ time, he got his answer from Elrond.

The letter arrived in the nick of time – the neighborhood was just beginning its preparations for Yule, and the letters of invitation and congratulations would soon swell the burden on the post-office, delaying correspondence unless there was an extra stamp and a request to “Rush by the Holiday.” Frodo had plucked the letter from the stack as soon as he saw it, and read it while Marigold was in the kitchen, preparing the second breakfast. The missive was written on fine parchment, in penmanship just as fine – and amid the exquisite, unmistakably elven turns of phrase, the letter extended an offer. An exceedingly hopeful offer, but one that would foreclose any sort of future in the Shire, or anywhere else in Middle-earth – an offer so baffling that Frodo reread the letter several times just to grasp the meaning, and once he did, he was even more at loss, and paced the floor for several long, painful minutes.

Marigold would know what to do – that was his first thought… But of course, of course, he could not tell her. In fact, the letter would need to be kept far, far away from her and Sam, and yet… How queer, how queer indeed, that his first thought had been of her…

He pondered for a little while longer, but then the sound of boiling water came to a stop, followed by the clatter of silverware – so he made tracks for the library, and folded the letter into the guts of a book on Dwarrow mining, which he placed at the bottom of a stack of other esoteric tomes.

He resolved to do nothing for a fortnight at least, and to give himself time to think – about the letter, and about Marigold.

Or at least that was his intention, and he had stuck to it valiantly for the next few days, but it went the way of the wind one afternoon as he and Marigold were reading from Bilbo’s Translations from the Elvish, and came upon “The Song of Beren and Lúthien.” Outside, a light dusting of snow had covered the apple tree’s slender branches, and Marigold had turned the page – and Frodo, for his part, had been admiring the curve of her wrist, its paleness made lovelier by the ruching at the end of her sleeve, and he did not notice the title until it was too late, and he could not come up with a reason to pass it over.

So he nodded stolidly, and dug his fingers into the side of his chair – the side opposite Marigold.

Steady on, Frodo, steady – he told himself – It’s only a poem. You’ve dealt with far worse before… For indeed he had. Ever since he had apologized for his disgraceful behavior in the bathroom, Marigold had gone back to her cheerful familiarity, and he found it quite the trial to feel her arm brush against him as she served his meals, to have her fix the lapels of his jacket as she helped him put it on, and especially to sit close beside her like this, incapable of ignoring the soft, floral smell of her powder…

He folded his lips into a smile, and said, “Why yes, that is a good one. I think the scene is beautifully set. See how you like it.”

And Marigold returned a smile and began to read.

“ The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hem-lock-um-bels tall and fair  – ” (1)

Ordinarily, Frodo would have paid close attention, waiting patiently to intervene if she could not get a word after several tries. But he could not do it just then: the lines of the poem began to run together, and all he could hear was the sound of her voice: a sweet, dulcet lullaby, its notes unstudied and pure, like the heart of a forest stream. The room faded away, and all he could see was the rosebud of her lips and the curve of her face – limned with golden hair that escaped in short, gossamer ringlets from her bun. He could not hear the words, but he did not need to – he knew the story by heart. The mortal Beren came upon the elf-maid Lúthien dancing in a clearing – only to see her flee, and then to find her again, calling forth the spring with her song, and wildflowers springing up at her feet.

There were no ominous whispers now, no thoughts “not quite his own.” He felt calm, like he was under the protection of the elves, yet Lúthien Tinúviel with her shadowy hair and her silver arms could not hold a candle to Marigold Gamgee. 

“ Ti-nú-vi-el! Ti-nú-vi-el!
He called her by her elvish name – ”

Marigold paused, and tented her eyebrows.

“Ti-nú-vi-el?...” She looked intently at the word, coming upon it a second time, untranslated. “Does her name have a meaning in our tongue, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo blinked his eyes. The room was coming back into view – the wine-colored eaves, the warm chestnut wood, the firm layer of cushion between him and the chair.

“Oh –” He shook his head. “Nightingale. ‘Tinúviel’ means nightingale.”

He cleared his throat and Marigold’s face lit up.

“Oh, nightingale!” she exclaimed. “Of course! I should have guessed! There was the light ‘of the stars in shadow,’ and he ‘grasped at moonlight.’ Of course! How do you spell ‘nightingale’?” 

She reached for her pen.

“Well, how do you think?” 

“Hmm, well, let’s see…”

Marigold opened up her notebook to the letter N, and found a blank space. She carefully traced the word “Night” – one of the many words ending in GHT, now firmly mastered – and then the letters I and N, followed by the letters G, A and part of a Y.

And then, before Frodo knew it, his hand was on hers, and he had stayed her progress as she drew the final stroke.

“There is no Y.”

She looked up in surprise, but he did not remove his hand.

His eyes, ardent sapphires, were lovely, bright and deep, even as the pale winter sunlight filtered through the eaves. His gaze sought hers like she was all that was fair, like she was all in the world that mattered.

And suddenly, there was no need for words, written or spoken. They each knew the other’s desire, and their own.

Frodo moved first, and their lips met. He still held her hand, and she let fall the quill, its tip drawing a black line over her fingers.

Her lips were soft. Her mouth was sweet. A faint sigh rose up from her throat, and her tongue caressed his in welcome. He savored it – but then she was still, moving her lips only a little, and he feared she was reluctant – but no, she seemed to want it very much: for as he rose from his seat she came with him, clasping his arms and their lips barely parting. They crossed the room, and then the couch was beneath them, and she was returning his kiss, smoothing her hands over his shoulders, her fingers pressing into his back.

They kissed, and neither seemed to want to stop kissing. He drank in her mouth, returning time and again to explore its silky, yielding cove. The release of many months’ longing was flowing freely now, and it would take many, many kisses to quench it. And yet it was natural, and lovely – a clear and blinding culmination of everything they were as she cleaved against him, returning every touch of his lip, tongue and hand with a shy and tender, but unmistakable foray of her own.

It felt so good – so good.... So different, too, from the time he held her as she cried, for they were meeting not in sorrow, but in tender, nascent joy. Her form – warm, supple – was his for the moment to take comfort in, just as she was taking comfort in him… His blood was up, and he sought to quell it, yet all he wanted to do was push her down and explore her more: to drink at her mouth even deeper, to embrace so much more than the limber spine and delicate waist, to touch and taste the skin that lay beneath the layers of clothing…

But if he did all that, what then?

The scene suddenly shifted, and he saw Marigold in his mind’s eye, falling back into the cushions, and consenting with a nod, and after that a small wedding, sparsely attended because the groom could not bear noises or too many people. The wedding would be celebrated – if one could call it that – and then they would begin their quiet life, or so the tactful would describe it: a life without children, without holidays, without the steady stream of callers that defined a life well-lived for the well-to-do hobbit. Only poultices, only basins and chest colds would abound in such a life, and the bedroom would be a sickroom more often than a place of conjugal delights, and Marigold cry more often – cry because her husband had been aloof, or had ill-used her on account of some illness, or had gone completely cracked and made an attempt on his life. And in the end, what would she be left with? A young widow, not sixty years old, and a lifetime of sorrow and regret, for she might have come to love him beyond loyalty and pity, but her years would be wasted, and her inherited estate a cold comfort for the things that might have been.

He stopped – his hands on her waist, his breath against hers.

She sensed his discomfort and stopped as well, but he did not let her go.

Instead, he pulled away.

“Marigold, we – we can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

He took her hands away from his chest and folded them between his own. He glanced down, biting his lip, which was tender from the kisses.

A part of him wanted to run, to never see her again, but he forced himself to look at her.

For he was not a lad of thirty anymore, and she needed an explanation.

“Mr. Frodo, I – You…”

He was just about to speak, but the words died on his lips. Poor was not the word to describe her.

She had never looked so lost and confused in all the time he had known her. Her eyes cast wildly about the room.

He squeezed her hands, and her palms were covered in sweat.

Oh, Frodo, you unmitigated and comprehensive ass…

He could not help himself… And now, it was worse than ever before.

“I – I can’t give you what you need,” he stammered. “Marigold, please. Please, understand me.”

But it seemed she could not understand.

In fact, he never would have known it – though he might have guessed it – but No, no, this can’t be happening was her only thought, and she could scarcely hear his words, even as they rang like a death-knell.

What did he mean? What did it all mean?

The one she had admired, the one she had longed for, had kissed her like that. The object of her childhood fondness, which had turned into a real affection... One moment, she had her heart’s desire, and the next…

Can’t give me what I need?

But Mr. Frodo, I need… YOU…

She felt dizzy. Her breath was ragged. 

All she wanted was to be back in his arms, and for this nightmare to be over.

And yet there was nothing for it. He was already pulling away, a sorrowful expression in his eyes. Shifting further away from her, though he still held her hands – securely, but in a way that was reassurance only.

No, NO …

She had to do something. 

No way it all meant nothing, no way it was all a mistake –

She took a quick draught of air, gathering her wits and willpower as best she could.

“But you – you make me happy, Mr. Frodo,” she insisted. “There’s naught that you need to give me. You make me happy just the way you are.”

Because he did. He really did. That was the honest truth.

She peered at him, no longer caring for appearances.

She waited, but in the end, Frodo shook his head.

“No… No, Mari,” he said. “You may think that now. But my illness… It spoils everything around me. This is no way to live a life.”

He turned away, for all the world like one ashamed.

No, no…

She had tried valiantly, but had run like water against a rock.

Everything felt smaller – like she was drifting away.

She shook her head, and amid her floundering, a madcap thought rose up in her mind. A thought that under any other circumstance, she would have blushed to think, much less utter.

And yet, the words were already forming. There was no stopping them, and they came gracelessly, tumbling from her mouth.

“But look, Mr. Frodo,” she exclaimed – a sudden, adamant expression in her eye. “You wanted to kiss me. I know you did. You can’t tell me otherwise. And look – if you do want to kiss me – if you think it will make your lot better, then by all means… It doesn’t have to be a promise of anything, it can just be…”

She stopped – scarcely credulous, scarcely able to think.

Just – just what kind of confounded trollop are you, Marigold Gamgee?!

She could not move, could not meet his eye, and yet she had meant every word.

It was not ideal. But maybe it was enough…

He slowly released her hands, and they fell into her lap.

“Oh, Mari… Child. You don’t want that.”

Tears prickled her eyes.

Child.

She knew what he meant, and she could not fault him for it, and yet…

No, no, forget the word “child”, for it was not that!

It was bigger than that. It was the fact that everyone, always, thought it fitting to arbitrate what she wanted and needed, purporting to know better than herself. Because at first there was Sam, who decided she had no need for proper spelling. And then there were her other siblings, who would pluck a piece of fruit from her hands with the words “you don’t want that,” and proceed to eat it before her eyes. And then there were her parents, who had told her she “didn’t want” to work for Dr. Boffin, because she was woman, and would have less grief dealing with other women…

Frodo could not have known this, and yet it was that memory, more than anything, that stung.

But she could not tell him.

Even if a part of her wanted to scream that if she voiced a ruinous desire, then let her have that desire! Let her! He had no right, beloved though he was, to take it from her.

She thought all this – but she could not speak. Instead, she covered her face with her hands and ran them slowly over her cheeks and eyes. Quelling her hurt, and many other feelings besides.

The moments passed, but in the end, they did their work: she was able to look at him again.

“I am of age, Mr. Frodo,” she said at last.

And Frodo, to his credit, bowed his head.

“Yes, so you are, Mari, so you are,” he sighed, biting his lip. “Forgive me. I should not have used that word.”

He reached for her hands and took them in his.

His hands, which were touched with sweat, just as his eyes were reflective with tears.

He looked like he was in mourning.

“But then… but then…” he drew a sigh, and bit his lips once more, “When it comes to kisses, perhaps it is best if I kissed nobody at all, and if you found someone else – someone else who might be better for you.”

He released a breath, casting down his eyes, and Marigold felt the strength drain from her limbs.

“Someone else… better for me?” 

Her face fell, and she suddenly lost all will to breathe, though the words formed on their own accord.

“But – but Mr. Frodo… There isn’t anyone better…”

It was a genuine feeling. 

Indeed, she could not have been more truthful if she tried. But she could not impart the necessary conviction. Her tongue was trailing, her courage spent.

All she could think of were his hands, warm and solid on top of hers.

He gave her hands a final squeeze, and drew away, trailing her fingers over hers for one last, poignant second.

“No, there are many who are better, I think,” he said, and looked at his nails – short, and bitten down to the quick. “Somebody healthy, for one” – he looked up – back at her. “Someone you can live a long, full life with. You’re a vibrant young woman, Mari, but you have to understand – if you hitch your wagon to my star, you’re laying yourself down in a coffin.”

He gave a small, jagged sigh, and looked away.

For a very long moment, Marigold did not know what to say – but now for an entirely different reason.

In fact, several moments passed before she could say anything at all, and when she did, it was truly paltry.

“No, Mr. Frodo, no,” she whispered.

She wanted to shake her head, but she had done enough of that already.

“Please, please… don’t talk like that…”

He did not know what he was saying… Yes, that had to have been it… 

She imagined him, just as he was now, lying down in a coffin, the bloom of life not yet gone from his cheeks. The Gamgees, Fatty, Merry, Pippin – all of them standing off to one side, and herself, gazing down on his face amid the silken pillows…

He would die someday – they all would, for he only looked elfin. Yet surely – surely it was not just her imagination, when she had seen the spirits of joy, peace and hope returning to his brow and sitting there enthroned, even as a fair and gentle smile would play upon his lips, however rare.

“Mr. Frodo – your illness,” she finally found the words – or rather, they found her, “You illness, it is not a flaw, nor is it a death sentence. Please, sir, don’t talk like that…”

She took a deliberate breath, and was about to say more, but already she knew that it was useless. For Frodo was looking quite contrite, but also like a person whose mind was made up, and in the end, it made no sense to argue about such things.

So she turned away and gazed at the fireplace, ready for a fresh set of logs.

“But very well, as you wish,” she said, and pressed her hands over her knees. “I – I can pretend this never happened.” 

She looked down at the stain on her fingers, and remembered the quill that had slipped from her hand – by now probably going dry. Her throat was tight, but she willed herself to keep speaking.

“We can – we can go back to the way things were,” she carefully formed the words as the insides of her chest grew tense. “‘Mployer and ‘mployee, neighbors and friends… Whatever you like. I can be very good at forgettin’, Mr. Frodo – I’ve done it many times before, for the sake of keepin’ things private when I was a healer.”

She got up – not waiting for his reply – and began to straighten her skirt: otherwise, the air in her lungs was in danger of becoming viscous. The skirt was in disarray where it emerged from her bodice, rumpled in the course of their intimacies.

Frodo slumped dejectedly against the couch.

“I’m sorry, Marigold,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.”

She paused, and turned to look at him.

He was opening and closing his hand again, his arm extended to one side. It was a nervous habit, one he had picked up during his quest – yet every time he did it, he seemed to be recalling the shape and size of some invisible thing.

She sighed as well, and gave the folds of the dress one last, smoothing sweep.

“There’s nothing to ‘pologize for, Mr. Frodo,” she said with her habitual, genial smile. “But could I ask for just one thing?”

Frodo nodded and Marigold pressed her lips.

“I’d like to stay away – if only for a few days. It might make it easier, the forgettin’.”

Frodo looked at her, and if the words had stirred any emotion, he did not show it. 

He only sighed.

“Why, yes, Marigold, of course,” he said, and looked down at his fingertips – curled toward him. “That would be fine. Besides, it will be Yuletide soon.”

“Yes, just the right time for the pro-di-gal daughter to return.”

She gave a wry chuckle, and Frodo smiled as well.

“Yes, indeed,” he echoed. “And seeing how it’s been your custom to work every day, except for Highdays, and except for when Lavender came to town, we could also say that it was I who sent you home, on account of your headaches.”

Marigold drew a breath, and ran her fingers over her face.

She paused to press her knuckles against her cheeks before she answered.

“Well, alright,” she replied, and slowly blinked her eyes, which were starting to sting. “That might be a good idea – to put them off the scent. ‘Cept they’ll probably make me see Dr. Boffin.”

Frodo shrugged. 

“Well, maybe it is a good idea for you to see Dr. Boffin.”

He ventured a half-smile, but Marigold did not reply straight away.

Instead, she turned away once more, and walked toward the window, where she looked out at the bare expanse of lawn. The colors of the landscape were a fine-point etching in a book, and the leaves were clinging to the branches here and there. Wisps of snow were drifting past the glass, sure harbingers of laughter and good cheer in days to come.

She blinked and swallowed, forcing down the tingling and the tightness.

“Alright, well, it’s time to start the afternoon tea,” she said.

She glanced down, and her eyes fell upon “The Song of Beren and Lúthien.” The quill lay beside the half-finished word “nightingale,” on top of her notebook. 

She averted her eyes.

Frodo got up and came to her side, and if not for all that had transpired, he might have touched her hand.

But it was preposterous, now.

But instead he whispered, “thank you, Mari,” and stood a respectful distance away, though his eyes did not leave her.

There was, of course, a great deal more that he wanted to say.

Worlds more.

But all his words were spent – as were hers.

So she turned to him, and smiled.

And as she walked away, she looked like a rainbow passing after a summer rain.

(1) “The Song of Beren and Lúthien” from J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings

Chapter Text

At Bagshot Row, Marigold had a room of her own. It was not much, scarcely bigger than a closet – in fact, it had once been a closet, but when the room she had shared with her sisters began bursting at the seams, the Gaffer, exasperated, had removed the long linen shelves, put a window in, and they all worked to move in the furniture, which could barely fit through the door. It was a meager space – and yet, it was an excellent refuge, and by the time she had come of age, her siblings had nearly unlearned the very vexing habit of barging in with nary a knock.

And so, she was exceedingly grateful for this spartan space of hers – and never complained, not even when she realized that she could stretch her arms to either side and touch both walls, or when it proved big enough for only the bare essentials: the narrowest of beds, a tiny desk that made her legs cramp up if she sat at it too long, a miniscule set of shelves, and the world’s shallowest closet – though it was still big enough to hold her coat, her three linen dresses, and at least half a dozen nightgowns.

She liked her little room, and over the years, she made it exactly as she wanted: the walls sandy-white, the furniture painted by herself in a fresh green color and a pattern of flowers, the drapes parted halfway and tied together with pieces of twine at knee height. The desk, even when she used it for writing, would always have a fresh bouquet of flowers in a vase, and if flowers were not in season, there was a diffuser with reeds to spread the scented oil, infused with spices gathered in the garden.

It was a point of envy among the siblings, that Marigold was afforded such comforts – and Daisy and May, ordinarily fast friends and unopposed to sharing while growing up, still brought it up with astonishing regularity: most often as incontrovertible proof that their parents loved their youngest daughter best.

Except this time, May did not bring it up – though she easily could have, considering how crowded the Row had become with Sam’s recent marriage, and Hamson and his family’s return when their home in Tighfield was destroyed. But May made no mention of Marigold’s privilege when she announced her respite from Bag End, and instead, she took up the other role that she loved best: she leapt into action and became the ever-doting mother, and stuffed her sister’s face with turnovers until the latter could barely speak. 

Not that Marigold wanted to speak, in particular. As she chewed an apple turnover dusted with cinnamon, she thought of how little lying appealed to her – and how she hated half-statements, contrary to popular belief. 

She only wanted to be left alone, but where May was concerned, this was easier said than done. So she choked down her turnovers and claimed that she had a headache, repairing to her room, and once there, she installed herself on her bed and worked on Yuletide presents and howled – though the howling was only in her heart, since the walls were, as ever, paper-thin.

And so she worked on her presents and howled, but even then she could not hate him. Heartbroken though she was, if her emotions were a fiddle, that string was irrevocably gone.

Except, she really ought to have hated him. She really ought to have ripped up all her pillows – and her quilt – for the injustice of it all.

For it had been her first kiss. The first kiss she had wanted, anyway. There had been a few others, but she did not like to count them: more than one, for instance, during a game of tweenage blind man’s buff, where the rules allowed the Blind Man or Woman to kiss the members of the opposite sex in an effort to identify them. And Tom Cotton had once landed a kiss on the outer corner of her mouth during a dance – though she had played it off as a joke and pretended not to remember the following morning. And then there was the time with Merry, whom she might have liked, except his boldness had frightened her, and yet she had ended up behind a party tent with him anyway: her more reluctant than she was letting on, both of them inebriated, and it might have led to much more than a kiss, had Rosie not discovered them – and it was only by Rosie’s grace that Frodo and Sam never found out, and that Merry lived and breathed, giving Marigold a very wide berth for many months after.

No – none of those were real kisses. A kiss was not an accident, or a joke, or something done under the influence of drink and barely remembered.

What she had with Frodo… now that was a kiss. His hands caressing her form with a soft, intimate understanding. His lips wordlessly telling her mine, mine. His breath heavy with need.

He was at Bag End – half a world away – but her lips still burned with the memory of his. It was enough to make her want to take her pillow and hit it, repeatedly, against her face, until she gave herself a real and proper headache.

For she tried to understand his reasoning, she really did, but to agree was a far different matter. The side of her that was level-headed and compassionate insisted that she reserve judgment – for his apprehensions, much like his desires, required no explanation to merit respect. And in one way he was absolutely right: it was one thing to be a hired nurse, and another to be a friend, but a wife?

A wife could not leave, not without far greater guilt and shame. A wife could not say, “I go so far with you and no farther.”

A wife was like Sam, who had walked with Frodo into death itself. Could she have done the same, had she been in his place? She could not be sure, so perhaps Frodo was right – hitching her wagon to his star was something she could easily regret.

And yet?

Supposing they put all of that aside, and she moved in, and shared his bed, doing everything that she did now, except for free – how much would really change? They would still spend the bulk of their days together, talking and laughing, and lifting each other’s spirits. They would still have their reading, their meals, and their walks, and there would not be a Mordor – only a distant memory he would always come back from, and she would not begrudge him for it, just as she would not begrudge him his “moments” and his moods.

Frodo had, at one point, told her that he could not “give her what she needed,” but what exactly did he mean? Perhaps, he was too ill to do his marital duty in bed – but even that was all the same to her, for she did not love him for his vigor. He was older than she was, and the years had not been kind, and yet in his eyes and in his smile, and in his silences, she had found a person who had seen her completely. If it was not enough to seal her devotion, nothing was.

No, perhaps it was simply an elaborate ruse – perhaps he did not truly want her, and was trying to spare her feelings.

And perhaps it was just as well. It was more than a girl like her could ever hope for.

For indeed, Rosie had been kind when she called Merry a “confounded Brandybuck goat,” and admonished him, in colorful terms, that Marigold was not for him, on account of being too “precious” and too “good.” But in truth, the likes of Marigold were a dime a dozen – blonde, buxom girls with a modicum of domestic sense and obliging tempers – and to be noticed by a Baggins at all was already high praise. If fortune had given her unwarranted hopes, it was her own fault, and it was also her duty to forget, and to respect her betters’ wishes.

And so she tried to forget – though with varying degrees of success. It felt like taking flowers and crushing them up, like eating food without any flavor, like the door of the Lockholes slamming shut again and again.

She even started to have trouble sleeping. For the first time in her life, as soon as she got into bed her eyes would snap open, and she would not be able to fall sleep for anything. It was a most disagreeable surprise, for it was commonly said that logs did not dream and Gamgees did not either. As long as a Gamgee found themselves in a proper bed, the snoring would begin reliably and directly, yet from her very first night at home, she found herself lying awake for hours, watching the starlight in the trees and thinking, with surprising nonchalance, “Oh, dear, I guess I cannot sleep again, what a bother.” And then, when she did at long last fall asleep, the dreams would come thick and fast, and Frodo would appear before her, and together they would walk and talk until morning, revisiting the spot outside of Bindbole Wood and the market in the heart of Hobbiton. She would wake up in the morning, and she would lay there savoring his warmth until the noises of the house brought her back to the present.

In three days’ time, Dr. Boffin came to visit her – having found the time, amid a flurry of seasonal chest colds and fevers, to respond in person to May’s exhortations on behalf of her “stricken sister.”

He sat on the edge of the bed – for if he had sat on the chair, more of him would have hung over on either side than was supported in the middle: a true credit to the wealth of cakes, sandwiches, and other dainties that he enjoyed as thanks from his patients, and that his constant walking to house calls did little to allay.

“Well-well!” he exclaimed, his voice a booming “hoom” from the depths of his chest, “What have we here, Miss Gamgee? You? Poorly? The sky must be falling!”

He reached for her wrist, and as she well remembered them, his hands were as wide as shovels, but his touch as gentle as a feather – his fingers equally adept at feeling out the threadiest of pulses as they were at setting bones.

He was the only person in the Shire who called her Miss Gamgee – most likely out of professional courtesy – and so, not wishing to be difficult, she sat back against the pillows and recounted, glumly, how she had felt nearly a year ago, when she was first freed from the Lockholes. She added in her present troubles with sleep – praying all the while that her pulse would not give away her secret.

But if Dr. Boffin had suspected any artifice, he gave no sign. Instead, he harrumphed and “hoomed” a few more times, much like the Ents in the adventurers’ stories, and then he had her stick her tongue out and turned her head this way and that, feeling up and down her scalp and pulling back her eyelids to look at their color. He rounded out his examination with an auscultation of her lungs and stomach, and then he “hoom-hoomed” one more time, rubbing his hands as he put away his tools.

“Well-well, Miss Gamgee,” he declared, lifting up his doctor’s bag and depositing his stethoscope within it, “It does appear that I have some good news and some bad news, if you care to hear it.”

Marigold sat up, a trifle apprehensive, and supported herself on her elbow. 

“It seems, Miss Gamgee,” he continued as he puffed out his cheeks and rolled his hoary head back and forth, “It seems there is nothing at all wrong with your body: no new injury, no head cold, no tension in your neck from looking down too long. That there is the good news. But then, that leaves up with a bit of a mystery on our hands.”

He paused, and appraised her from beneath his cloudy eyebrows.

“You’d wonder, what could it be? But then again, I do see some signs. A nervous affliction, that’s the only thing left, and indeed: your hands are cold, your pulse is fast, and you cannot sleep. The headaches may come part and parcel with that, and I could tell you to take a tincture of valerian root and skullcap and be done – but I often find that with these nervous afflictions, it is the source of the illness that we’ve got to find, if we truly want to get you well.”

He looked pointedly at Marigold, and she shrank under his gaze.

How naive, she chided herself, that she had hoped to pull one over on a hobbit more than twice her age, and more than ten times the education.

A nervous affliction indeed. Truer words had never been spoken. 

She pretended to be very interested in her short-trimmed nails, and shifted over to one side as she pulled her legs close beside her.

And Dr. Boffin waited for a spell – but sensing that he would get nothing more from his shy, sensitive patient, he rocked back in his seat, and gave a low, indulgent laugh.

“Ah, well – I see how it is.” He smiled, and hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “But the good news is, with such things time is not always of the essence, and for that we can be grateful. That is” – he paused once more, raising a significant finger – “Unless it were to become acute – but thankfully, such is not the case just yet, so we need not twist our minds to puzzle out the matter now. But what I mean is, think on it, that’s what you’ve got to do! And if an old-timer like me is not to your liking as a counselor – which I understand, mind you – then by all means, find yourself another. But find one, that is my advice!”

He gave a wink with his bright eye, and rocked himself onto his feet – gathering up his medical bag, now packed.

Marigold shifted on the bed and hoisted herself up, swinging her legs over the side.

“Dr. Boffin, I – I thank you,” she said at last, unable to meet his eye. “I mean, er, thank you for coming to see me.”

And Dr. Boffin’s face broke out into the widest smile.

“Why, not at all, Marigold, not at all!” he boomed, and his voice rippled from the top of his head to the bottom of his stomach. “It is always a pleasure to see you, no matter what the circumstance. Now, you take care of yourself, young Miss,” he all but wagged a finger in her face, but settled for clapping her on the shoulder instead. “And whatever you do, don’t overexert yourself. Overexertion is a sure-fire way to rattle the nerves, you mark my words. Now Mr. Frodo – he isn’t working you too hard, is he?”

Speak of the devil.

Marigold schooled her face as best she could.

“No, not at all, Dr. Boffin,” she replied. “Mr. Frodo has been nothing but kind.”

“Oh, is that so? Has he been now?”

Dr. Boffin bunched his lips to one side, and looked suddenly very grave.

“Well-well, I should hope he has been kind – he better be!” He gave another one of his harrumphs, and cleared his throat, rather forcefully. “Why, having the likes of you at his beck and call – it’s not enough to be kind, he ought to be singing your praises!”

Marigold glanced at her hands – but it was too late: she felt a traitorous blush overtaking her cheeks.

“No, Dr. Boffin, no – you ex-aggerate,” she replied quickly. “There is nothing that I do for him that is all that special. Anyone could do what I do.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Dr. Boffin gave an emphatic snort, and straightened up to his full height.

“‘Anyone,’ indeed! Well, that is a novel theory!” He squinted – with one eye more than the other – and sniffed, producing a sound as loud as a honk. “ ‘Oh, well, it could have been anyone!’ Well, by that token, do you expect me to believe that anyone could have diagnosed him with a chest cold when he could speak nary a word? And that anyone could have kept him alive and breathing for two days when his lungs were filled with fluid? And that anyone could have gotten up for him day and night, and him helpless like a newborn babe the whole, entire time?”

Marigold looked chastened, and made no sound – but Dr. Boffin pressed on with remarkable vigor.

“And then, am I also to be persuaded,” he exclaimed, “That – if we are to follow your theory – that it could have been anyone with stomach enough to listen to what your brother had to say about those – those Wraiths, is that what he called them? And that it could have been anyone who heard that tale and still took care of their patient, even as their skin crawled? Well, if you pardon my candor, but I am of the opinion that our Mr. Frodo might have survived a legion of orcs and Wraiths, and all manner of foul beings, but he would not be here today, living out his days at Bag End and eating his seven meals, were it not for the actions of a certain anyone named Marigold Gamgee!”

His peroration done, he dug his hands into his hips and peered straight at her, and Marigold had the impression that he could see right through her, and six feet into the ground besides.

She sighed, and resisted the urge to pull her legs up to her chest.

Instead, she clasped her hands over her knees and nodded.

“Yes, you are right, Dr. Boffin,” she returned, her voice as small as she felt. “I will try and think less poorly of myself, from now on.”

Dr. Boffin gave a stolid nod.

“Well, see that you do!” he returned with another sniffing honk. “I should think I’m right! I am seldom wrong about such matters.” He paused, and dug his fists further into his sides. “And to tell you the truth, if that Mr. Frodo is ever unkind to you – well, then you just tell old Dr. Boffin, and I’ll set him straight in a heartbeat!”

Marigold gave a small, constricted bow with just her shoulders and head.

“I, er, ap-preciate that, sir. Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome, young lady.”

The doctor turned toward the door – which, given his girth and the dimensions of the room, was a task not without its perils.

He nearly knocked over the incense-vase as he went – but caught it just in time and smiled conspiratorially, as if he had just remembered something.

“And you know, dear Marigold,” he added – his tone that of an afterthought, but turning about to face her just the same. “Or should I say, Miss Gamgee – I know that I’ve said it before, but I must say it again: if you ever get tired of working for Mr. Frodo, come work for me. There will always be a place for you in my practice, and I’ll teach you all I know. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – you’ve got a cool head on your shoulders, and a warm heart, and you’ve got brains – brains, by heaven! – both in your head and in your fingers. That’s what we need in this business, heart and brains, and it’s the likes of you that I wish I had for a child, not my own two ignoramuses.”

He gave her another hard look, and Marigold hung her head, pressing her hands against her thighs.

“I ap-preciate that, Dr. Boffin. I do,” she replied. “And I will think on it as well.”

Dr. Boffin surveyed her one last time, and gave a measured – if demonstrative – frown.

“Well, see that you do!” he admonished, and took his doctor’s bag from the painted chair, opening the door.

But he paused again – turning to appraise her one last time.

“But I should tell you, Miss Gamgee,” he added with a firm and gentle look, “Believe you me when I say that Mrs. Bracegirdle and I do not always see eye to eye, but we did when it came to you. And to tell you the truth, maybe it’s better to have many patients instead of one, because when you’ve got many, that’s when you realize – that’s when you realize your own finiteness, I suppose. Your patients are not your charges day in and day out, and everything you do and say, even with your learning, can only change them so much. But you are not their keeper, so don’t go thinking that you are.” He tossed his head, and for a moment looked like a much younger man. “You think on that too.”

Marigold bobbed her head, and felt her face grow tight.

“I will, Dr. Boffin.”

And with a shuffle and a final, punctuating harrumph, he was gone.

Marigold collapsed backward on the bed, and would have splayed out her arms, except the bed was too narrow and too close to the wall, so she hit her hand on the plaster. 

She rubbed her knuckles and put a finger in her mouth.

She lay there, and down the hall, she heard voices –  Dr. Boffin taking leave of May (who was probably stuffing his pockets full of dumplings), the men of the house returning from their chores, her nieces and nephews growing restless as the rabbit stew simmered to a boil.

The pale afternoon sunlight was slanting through the curtains, forming an upside down V.

It would soon be time for dinner.

Chapter Text

The following day, Marigold woke up from the dark of valerian and skullcap only to realize, with horror, that it was nearly noon.

She had never slept that late before, and it was a cold comfort for the embarrassment that was sure to follow.

For everyone would see her, and everyone would know. And everyone would again be full of inane and bizarre suggestions, such as drinking more milk, or taking a stroll before bed, or running around the outside of the house screaming, to cool off and relax the nerves, as Rosie had suggested the night before.

So she buried her head under the covers and fumed, but when suffocation was not forthcoming, she pulled back the covers, took a few deep breaths, and launched herself out of bed.

Outside, in the sitting room down the hall, the Gamgees were making music. 

Indeed, the Gamgees fancied themselves a musical family – and fancied was the operative word. Every year, they made a point of gathering, at least ten of the family at a time, and accosting their neighbors with Yuletide carols performed with varying degrees of skill, and what they lacked in ability they easily made up in enthusiasm. Or at least such was the case with every Gamgee except Marigold herself – for as soon as she was old enough to stand, she would make every effort to conceal herself behind her siblings, and, as she grew older, she would invent every imaginable reason not to go.

But that day it was only the Gaffer and her two nieces, Heather and Cornflower, who were seated by the fire, and the Gaffer was accompanying them on his harmonica.

The girls, who were both teenagers, had become fast friends since Heather had arrived from Tighfield with her family, and Cornflower, Daisy’s daughter, had all but taken up residence at Bagshot Row, walking over from Twofoot Farm nearly every day.

Marigold stood in the hallway for a few moments, and watched and listened from an angle where she could see them, but they could not see her.

The older girl, Heather, was plucking earnestly at her lute, and with any luck, hitting three quarters of the notes. Her cousin, who was only marginally less tone-deaf, was clutching a piece of sheet music and intoning “On - the - first - day - of - Yule-tide - my - true - love - sent - to - meeee” with the gravity of a mayor presiding over a feast with half the Shire in attendance.

The door to Sam’s room was open, and the room was empty. Sam was probably at Bag End, and Rosie was likely in the kitchen, whereas Hamson’s door was firmly shut, and there was a sound of mumbled curses, along with the shuffling of paper.

Marigold smiled. 

The adults were, as ever, if not per se enjoying then at least tolerating the family’s musical forays, since they were an annual chance to improve the family’s fortunes. (1)

She sighed, and put a smile on as she rounded the corner, emerging into view.

“Ah, there you are, Mari!” the Gaffer exclaimed, and broke into a genial smile as the music came to a stop.

Every line in his face was beaming, and Marigold soon realized why. Along with his ubiquitous pipe and mug of cider, there was a shovel-full of roasted chestnuts between him and the girls, and their music had not prevented them from consuming at least half of it.

“Come, come and join us!” Heather called, and patted a spot beside her on the worn, plush pillows of the settee. “You can help us practice the har-monies!”

“And the cheth-nut-th are THO good!” an effervescent Cornflower exclaimed, needing little encouragement to start chewing.

The Gaffer cleared his throat – giving a deep, satisfying hack, which he spat into the fire – and blew into his harmonica, testing the air flow.

“Well, you’ve got that right, Cornflower-lass!” he nodded. “Famous chestnuts, these are!”

He reached for a nut, and cracked it between his fingers, sending the two pieces of shell flying in opposite directions.

“And the girls are comin’ along right well with their music,” he added, aiming a confidential wink at Marigold. “That bit about the swans a-swimmin’? You did it right justice, Cornflower-lass – you ought to sing it with Mari here…”

But Marigold shook her head with a sheepish air.

“Oh, no, Gaffer, I don’t think so,” she demurred. “In fact, I don’t think I’ll go this year. You all go on. Do you need anythin’ that I can fetch you?”

But the Gaffer did not – for by the efforts of May, Rosie, and Daffodil, who was Hamson’s wife, he was now the most pampered elder in all the four farthings, and was fond of saying as much.

So Marigold nodded and proffered another smile, pulling at her apron – for her head was still heavy, and she was not sure that she could take much more of Heather’s clumsy strumming, or the caterwauling that Cornflower called singing, or the Gaffer’s reedy whistling, for that matter.

But on the couch, Cornflower folded her arms, and gave a demonstrative pout.

“Well, that’s a shame, that you won’t go,” she admonished, and Heather folded her arms in solidarity. “You never seem to go, Mari, and why not? Mayhaps you should. It’s ever so much fun, and we always get such nice presents.”

Marigold came over and knelt down by the table, taking a chestnut from the top of the pile.

“Well, I don’t know,” she returned. “Mayhaps I’m just a dull one like that.”

She sighed, and picked at the remnants of shell as her nieces watched her.

Indeed, the older generation was beginning to unlearn their prying ways – and it had only taken thirty years – but the younger ones still had a ways to go – so a little acrid humor was not out of place.

And in the end, Heather seemed to cotton on to her meaning fast enough, and smiled, pointing instead to Marigold’s collar.

“Oh, is that a new embroidery pattern, Mari? It’s lovely,” she smiled. “I adore the butterflies. Did you come up with it yourself?”

And so Marigold reached over to take a few more chestnuts, and engaged Heather and Cornflower on the topic of embroidery – along with a discussion of buttons, bobby pins, and ribbons – particularly the ones that the cousins had procured from uncle Boffo’s shop in anticipation of the holiday.

They talked like that, and it was rather pleasant, but soon enough, Marigold’s head began to feel heavy again, and a dull, aching pain settled beneath her ribs.

And so she sighed, and hoisted herself up, begging leave to do her washing-up.

She figured that she had given her brother a few moments’ respite from his daughter’s artistic forays, and that was enough.

The music started up as she walked away, and she thanked her lucky stars that the girls were too embroiled in their Yuletide advent to pay her much mind – on that day, anyway.

On the way to the bathroom, Marigold encountered her little niece and nephew, Holly and Jolly, who were May’s children, coloring the wall. (2)

They had a pile of wax pencils between them, and were giving it a valiant, determined effort, for all the world like they were tempted with a wheelbarrow full of sweets.

The wall – from their parents’ bedroom to the bathroom halfway down the hall – was covered in an uncanny rainbow of lavender, brown, and green, and in places, there were garish exclamations of red.

“Holly! Jolly! What on earth are you doing?!”

Marigold seized both their hands, and the children froze and dropped their pencils.

“Goodness me, who said you could do such a thing?!” she exclaimed, squatting down to their level.

Jolly, the older of the two, began to snivel and twist out of her grasp, while his younger sister by two years, Holly, plopped down on the floor and pointed a finger at her brother.

“It was him – he said it! It was all his fault!”

Marigold let go of Jolly’s arm, for he really did look like he was in pain, and he ran into the nursery, whimpering and slamming the door behind him. 

Marigold took her niece squarely by the shoulders, and looked her in the eye.

“Holly,” she said, making her voice as serious and as calm as possible, “You know it isn’t nice to tattle. How would you like it if your brother tattled on you?”

The little girl fell silent.

Marigold nodded.

“That’s right. You wouldn’t. And yet you colored the wall just the same as he did, and that is a fact. Now tell me, how did you come up with this idea? Because even if I think it looks pretty, it isn’t nice to do such a thing without asking first, and in a place that we all share.”

She peered at Holly, and all it took was a few moments.

The little girl wrinkled her nose, and plaintively related how she and Jolly had been told to play in their room by a “mad Mommy,” who was apparently about to have a “corn-nip-shun,” and then, when their game of jump-on-bed became tiresome, Jolly got the bright idea to paint the wall, and said that it would be “powerful fun,” according to a mischievous hobbit in one of their stories. (3)

Marigold listened to her niece, and when the story was done, she patted the girl’s arms.

“Alright, come on,” she said, hoisting herself up.  

She took her niece by the hand, and together they walked toward the nursery. Marigold knocked, but after a few tries there was no answer, so she pushed open the door.

Jolly was seated on the floor against his bed, and was bouncing a ball with a frown on his face.

Marigold let go of Holly’s hand and squatted down beside her nephew.

“Come on, Jolly,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Instead of colorin’ the wall, how would you like to help your aunt Mari? I think there are some dumplings that need makin’.”

In the Shire, it was often said that the kitchen was the heart of the home, and this truth was no less self-evident at the Gamgee house.

When Marigold pushed open the door, her little niece and nephew in tow, the room was indeed pounding like a heart – the way a heart pounds when one is excited or running. The close, warm air was filling with steam from the large copper pot, and the rhythmic pounding of May’s knife was punctuated by Rosie’s clarion voice, the rumble of various sauces and stews coming to a boil, and the sound of May’s laughter.

“And so I says to Tom, ‘Tom, do you reckon we should keep goin’?’” Rosie was standing in the middle of the floor with her arms splayed out, a ladle in one hand and a carrot in the other. “Mostly for my own peace of mind, you know, so that I could tell myself that there was someone else to blame – Oh, hello there, Mari! –”

Marigold bobbed her head, and made a gesture as if to tip an invisible hat to Rosie – a long-running joke that had lived in their friend group for at least a decade. She ushered Holly and Jolly to the table, and May threw them a questioning glance. But Marigold shook her head and mouthed ‘I’ll tell you later’ – which seemed to satisfy her sister, who went back to chopping.

Marigold gave Holly a boost onto a stool, and Rosie continued her tale.

“And so I says to Tom, ‘Tom,’ do you reckon we should keep goin’ like this’?” She smiled with a knowing air. “And Tom begins to hem and haw, you see, just like he always does, ‘cause he hardly has an opinion of his own, save one –” With a dramatic pause, she tilted her head in Marigold’s direction. “And then, he finally says he reckons why not, since the Sheriff told us so, even though there was a rope with a dozen handkerchiefs in the way, and that they’ve probably just found a badger’s nest again – but it’s not like we haven’t seen that before. So in the end, we got up and kept goin’…” (4)

Jolly reached across the table for the dough, which was rising out of a nearby pot, and nearly grabbed a handful, but Marigold shook her head and tapped his hand. She drew the pot closer, and began to withdraw its contents – which summarily deflated. But Holly’s eyes were as big as lollipops as she listened to her aunt’s story.

May raised her head, and put down her knife with a decided thump.

“Wait, so you just kept going?” she furrowed her brow. “What you’re sayin’ is, there was a rope blockin’ the path with a dozen handkerchiefs, and you just kept going?!”

Rosie spread her arms with a bumused smile-frown that was her calling card.

“Well, why in the world not?! It was a shortcut! And they never said we couldna!”

“Well, you are a laugh!” May picked up a pile of onions, tossing them into a pan. “So what happened next to the intrepid Cotton siblings?”

She returned to her chopping, and Marigold, who had been extracting the dough, handed her nephew a glass, for his hands were reaching for the pots and pans.

“Alright, Jolly,” she smiled, and squared her eyes with his. “I am going to roll, and you are going to press the dough with the rim of the glass to make circles, see?” She traced her finger around the rim of a second glass. “Try to make the circles as close together as you can, and we’ll see how little dough we can have left when we’re done, alright?”

“Alright, aunt Mari!” Jolly seized the glass and began to roll it between his hands.

Marigold reached for the bag of flour, and with a smile she tossed some onto the cutting board, and spread more over her hands.

“And you are going to be good and not put your fingers in the fillings until it’s time, isn’t that right, Jolly?”

Jolly bobbed his head. “Yes, aunt Mari.”

He glanced at his mother across the table – but May showed little sign of being “mad” anymore, a gave a sympathetic nod and a smile.

For Rosie’s tale, it seemed, had mollified her quite a bit – and it was doing the same for little Holly and for May’s older son, Bingo, who was sitting on a stool in the corner and peeling potatoes, and whom Marigold had at first overlooked. He had been quiet – but his hands stopped moving as he listened, so May used her barking mother-voice to tell him to get a move on.

For apparently – and this seemed to fascinate Holly, Jolly, and Bingo the most – it turned out that Tom and Rosie’s shortcut had lain through a gully or ravine, but when they got to higher ground, they came upon another rope with kerchiefs on it, and a group of farmers and a sheriff standing beyond it arguing.

“ ‘What on earth are you doin’ here?!’ ” Rosie imitated the gruff voice of one of the men as her cheeks worked double-time to contain her laughter. May chuckled, and Rosie nodded, duly satisfied. “Right!” she straightened out her back, and dug her fists into her hips, evidently recreating her posture on the day. “Because you see, as soon as we had crossed the rope, we ended up surprising this fierce-lookin’ Stoor fellow. He had a bit of a beard, but that didna stop him from almost jumpin’ out of his skin! He began to stutter – ‘Didncha– didncha see that there are caution ropes everywhere?! You don’t belong here! Go on!’ ” She waved a hand, brandishing her ladle. “And then Tom starts apologizin’, just like he always does, and I think to myself, what for, when you’ve already come this far. So I decided to go on, and I walked right up to where they were standin’, to see what all the fuss was about…”

Rosie jutted out her chin with girlish pride, and May put down her knife, blinking deliberately.

“You walked right up to see what all the fuss was about?!” She sidestepped from the chopping block to the stove, and tended to the neglected cranberry sauce. “Lass, you are mad!”

Rosie smirked.

“Well, what if I did?” she sniffed. “And what do you think it was, that all the fuss was about?”

Holly bounced excitedly on her stool, and her eyes were bright as candles.

“Oh, do tell us, Aunt Rosie! Do tell us!”

Rosie clapped her hands.

“Well!” she returned, stretching out the word as long as she could. “The fuss was about this strange shelter of sorts, built out of great big rocks. It was the sort that hunters use, and it was sunk low into the ground, and covered with branches, as if there was a treasure inside…”

Holly’s anticipation had grown too much for her, and she gasped. 

“But!” Rosie raised a significant finger. “The thing is, there wasn’t no treasure – no, none at all. Instead, there was a great big heap of barrels – dozens of them if there was one, and each one was marked with three X’s carved into the side, and a great many other symbols besides, that we couldn’t make head or tail of…”

She paused, furrowing her brow, and young Bingo poked his head out of his corner, wrinkling his nose.

“Barrels? But what did they want old barrels for?”

He tossed down his potato knife, and folded his arms, but Rosie was undeterred.

“Ah, well, that there is the thing!” She held her ladle aloft like a staff. “You see, they were not just any old barrels – it was a mystery what they were for. And with the X’s on them, nobody dared to open them and look. And among the symbols, the only one we could make sense of was the white letter ‘S.’ So we figured that the barrels had something to do with Sharkey.”

“Sharkey?”

May’s expression fell, and a troubled shadow came over her face. She put down the stirring-spoon and took a step toward her daughter.

But Rosie, too far gone in telling her tale, was too enthralled to notice.

“Yes, Sharkey, the Sharkey,” she repeated. “And then what do you think my brother does? Because by now he has gotten through apologizin’ to the fierce looking Stoor fellow, and is standing by my side, listenin’ to all we say. He listens for a spell, all thoughtful-like, and then he gets the bright idea to ask if anyone had smelled the things – which of course they had not, because they don’t have half a brain between them –”

May, by this point, was looking abjectly horrified.

“And so, did you smell it?”

She stepped away from her post between the table and the stove, and took her daughter in her arms.

And Rosie, proud as could be, returned an emphatic nod.

“Why, yes, most certainly I did!” she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips and straightening her back. “I had to, you see – seeing’ how old Tom was too a-feared to do it, even though I told him that if he was the one to suggest it, then he ought to be the one to start – but well! In the end, nobody wanted to smell it – not even one, so I had no choice but to walk right up to the things and put my nose against them, and you know what?”

“What?” Bingo exclaimed from his corner.

“It smelled exactly like Gandalf’s fireworks!”

“Gandalf’s fireworks?!”

The exclamation came from both Gamgee sisters at once. 

Holly gasped, and May clutched her tighter. At the end of the table, Marigold paused her rolling pin mid-stroke.

Jolly looked up from pressing rings into the dough, and put a finger in his nose.

May was the first to recover her senses, and once she did, her incredulous voice split the air.

“Wait, you mean – that Gandalf?”

Rosie gave an affected smirk.

“Why, of course, that Gandalf! What other Gandalf is there?”

May sighed and turned away with a disparaging look.

She said nothing more, and looked like she was about to go back and tend the sauce – but then she changed her mind, and sat her daughter down, squatting to rub at a spot on her face with a handkerchief.

Rosie’s triumphant smile faded.

She sighed.

She should have known.

Even the children seemed to notice the change, growing subdued – Bingo taking up his knife, and Holly holding still for her mother.

The children were still too young to know, but their elders certainly did: the wizard’s fireworks were beautiful to behold, but dangerous as the dragons they resembled. Merry and Pippin nearly blew their fingers off when they stole a firework from Gandalf’s cart and tried to light it. And after Bilbo’s disappearance, there were many who insisted that a dragon really had flown through the Shire that night, and they really had been “this close” to being incinerated.

It was a terrible thing to think what might have happened if an evil hand could wield such power. It was too soon – but as always, she had run too far in her enthusiasm…

Feeling cowed, she waited for someone to say something, anything – but no one spoke, and suddenly, she had a mind to pretend that the whole thing never happened, and to find a neglected vegetable to peel.

She was about to look for such a vegetable – but then, Marigold raised her head with a diffident smile, setting aside her efforts with the dough.

“And so, what did happen to the barrels?”

She was smiling softly, and took the remnants of dough from Jolly as he dangled them over his mouth.

Rosie smiled, schooling her features.

“Oh, well…”

She cocked her head, hoping her expression might belie her gratitude.

“Well – you know how it is,” she said. “I think – well – I think the usual thing happened. They stood around puzzlin’ over this new tidbit for a spell – and then there was a whole lot of teeth-suckin’ and a fair bit of wonderin’ whether Sharkey was about to throw a party or do something worse – because apparently they still hadn’t learned. And then Tom and I reminded them what happened to Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin when they touched some fireworks. But in the end, we got it all sorted.”

She smiled again, and as Marigold returned the smile, Rosie walked over to the stove, resuming her post from before she began the story.

“We decided to put it into the river, we did,” she said, and lifted the lid of each pot in turn, stirring the cranberry sauce with a fresh spoon. “Because fireworks are fire, you see, and water is water. One undoes the other, so to speak, and that was that – they loaded up the barrels onto a cart and took them away, over to Bywater Pool, and from then on there would be no more fireworks, and no more Sharkey, so I suppose all’s well that ends well.”

She rounded out her story with a nonchalant shrug – her prior composure nearly returned – and took the sauce off the heat.

Marigold sighed and resumed rolling the dough.

“Yes, all’s well that ends well indeed,” May echoed.

She had not returned to her chopping, and was once again rocking Holly in her arms, her face somber.

“And yes,” she added, with a shake of the head, “I should hope that nothing like that is ever found again – not in the Shire, not anywhere.” She stroked her daughter’s hair. “Ghoulish, the lot of them.” 

She shook her head again.

Rosie turned away and took to stirring.

The savory fragrance of mushrooms filled the air, and for a while, no one said anything. 

Marigold rolled her shoulders and gave a small toss of the head – realizing, suddenly, that despite her rhythmic movements, she had been holding her breath, and that Jolly was pulling at her elbow.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling… What is it?”

“The dumplings!” Jolly pointed at the circles of dough. “Can I start puttin’ in the fillin’, now?”

Marigold smiled, releasing her breath, and slowed down the strokes of her pin.

“Oh, yes…. Yes, of course, darling, let’s do that.”

She reached for the bowl of ground meat, and placed a pinch of the cold, dark-red mash onto the middle of one of the circles. She then demonstrated how to fold the dough in half, and pinch the corners shut around the filling.

“Like this, aunt Mari?” Jolly imitated her movements, with his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

He pinched earnestly around the circle of dough, but when he lifted it up, it summarily fell apart.

Marigold chuckled and shook her head.

“Good try, but not quite. A little less in the middle, if you can. Try it one more time. And when you pinch it at the seam, don’t be shy. The dough needs to be taught a new shape.”

And Jolly tried, and was more successful.

His mother watched him out of the corner of her eye, and with Holly in her arms, she returned to the table.

Humming a tune, she sat her daughter on a stool, and handed her a head of cauliflower, showing her how to pull it apart – for there was still a number of ingredients to be minced, cut, and shredded before they were mixed into the “Everything-salad,” a Gamgee favorite in the colder months, slathered in a creamy, egg and oil sauce. She then took up the pickles – which would add both crispiness and salt – and began to slice them.

But the silence did not to last long.

With Rosie around, it never did, and before a minute was up she spoke again.

“You know, about Tom,” she ventured – just as Marigold and Jolly were tucking the last of the mincemeat into their dumplings, “He has been asking about you again, Mari.”

Marigold drew a sigh, her fingers pausing over the neat, pleated edge of dough.

“Ohh, dear…”

And she was just beginning to feel better.

But the mention of Tom Cotton – specifically, Tom Cotton asking about her – made her feel like she was walking home from the market, and the bottom of her basket had fallen out, strewing her things all over the road.

For Tom Cotton the younger, as was commonly known, was one of her most tenacious suitors, and he returned to renew his affections every season, whenever his courtship with another fell apart.

“Oh, Rosie,” she sighed. “Don’t start. Please, don’t start.”

She put aside her dumpling, and pointed Jolly to the bowl of diced cabbage, which would serve as the filling for their next set.

But Rosie put down her ladle and walked across the room, placing her hands on Marigold’s shoulders.

“I know, Mari. I know,” she sighed. “And I’m sorry. I just promised that I would mention it, that’s all.”

She stroked Marigold’s shoulders, and Marigold leaned into the touch.

“Though you know, I should say, he is my brother,” she added wryly, “So I can’t very well not mention him at all. And it feels mighty awkward – carryin’ these messages back and forth…”

She began to massage – first with her palms and then with her knuckles, and then she worked her thumbs into Marigold’s neck.

Marigold released a sigh and closed her eyes.

“I know, Rosie, I know,” she echoed, smiling faintly. “You don’t have to not-mention him, it’s alright…. It’s just that… uhh – that feels good –”

Her sister-in-law’s fingers found a particularly tender spot, and she gasped as they pressed it.

“I know, love. I understand.”

“No, it’s just –”

Marigold glanced to the side – toward the window, where the flurries were swirling, but not yet sticking.

“I guess – I guess… I feel like I’m bein’ cruel without meaning to be, you know?”

She sighed, and Rosie sighed as well, continuing to rub.

“I know, love. I know…”

Her fingers climbed all the way to Marigold’s nape, and were massaging the muscles beneath her hair. 

“So what should I tell ‘im, then?” she asked after a spell. “Again, the usual?”

And Marigold at first gave no answer.

For Rosie’s fingers were magical indeed… The way they tracked down an aching spot, their undeniable strength… Marigold thought of the thin, wispy flurries outside the window as she relaxed into the pressure – though in the end, this too would have to end, for she hated to impose on others’ patience.

And so she waited for a beat, and then replied.

“I don’t know – I guess?” She opened her eyes and gazed on the ceiling. “I mean… I guess you could tell him the usual? That I’m not ready for that sort of thing, that I don’t see myself with anyone until I’m forty…”

She released a sigh, and Rosie withdrew her fingers, sweeping back the locks over Marigold’s ears. 

“Alright, m’dear, I can do that,” she smiled, “I mean, truth be told, I don’t mind. Awkward or no, I’ll be the go-between for you as long as need be.”

She gave Marigold’s shoulders a final squeeze, and was about to step away – but then she observed how pink Marigold’s ears had gotten, and how delightfully serene she looked – and at once thought better of her intention. She placed her hands back on the other’s shoulders, and for this Marigold was infinitely glad. Another minute passed with neither of them speaking, and the only sounds were Marigold’s deep breaths – along with the bubbling of pots and the voice of Holly, who had picked up the tune where her mother had left off.

But the interlude was not destined to last long – since nothing at the Gamgee house ever did.

A few moments later, Jolly popped up like a kernel of hot corn, and thrust his face into Marigold’s sights.

“Are you feelin’ tired, aunt Mari? Why did you stop? Does your back hurt?”

His eyes were as bright as fireworks.

Marigold gave an indulgent smile.

“Yes, a little,” she conceded.

Marigold and Rosie both sniffed a laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know, Rosie, can he?” Marigold raised her eyes at her friend. “What do you think, is he capable? Is he up to the task?”

Rosie grinned. 

“Well, I should think he is,” she nodded with a serious mein. “I’ll wager that those hands are little, but they are strong.”

Marigold smiled at Jolly. 

“Well, alright, then,” she said. “If Rosie says so, then it must be true. Let’s give it a try. Let’s see how you do at kneadin’ a different kind of dough.”

And so it was that Rosie hoisted Jolly onto a stepstool, and had him put his hands onto Marigold’s back, positioning her fingers on top of his. She guided him to where her hands had been, between Marigold’s shoulder blades and her spine, and applied a steady pressure.

“Like this.”

Together, their fingers made several tight circles, working their way up, and then Rosie took her hands away, and Jolly continued – though without her aid, his pressure was a good deal more feeble.

But all the same, Marigold smiled.

A few more moments passed, and Rosie hung back, admiring the fruits of her instruction. But then she spoke, and her voice was uncharacteristically subdued.

“Well, you know, Mari,” she said, “I really should say, that when I brought up Tom, I didn’t mean that he was only askin’ about you like that –”

She paused, appraising Marigold’s face.

“I meant, he really did want to know how you’ve been getting on, and if there was anythin’ amiss. And he really did say that he missed seein’ you, never mind in what way.”

Rosie blinked her eyes, but Marigold only sighed, her lips set in a line.

“See, you have a friend in him, Mari,” Rosie insisted. “And all I mean is, sometimes, when you’re not feelin’ too well, that’s an important thing to remember. That there are many in this world who care about you, and who wish you well. That there is everything – I mean, that there is everything I wanted to say.”

She shrugged, and Marigold could only nod, but she did not reply, for the little hands on her back were making steady progress, and their pressure, however weak, was nonetheless pleasant.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she finally returned as her nephew’s hands came to a stop. “You’re right – you’re always right. Give him my love, and tell him that I will see him soon, when I am ready – but not my love like that.”

Rosie gave a chuckle, and with a pirouette, she stepped away from Marigold and Jolly, leaning against the table.

“Why, of course, m’dear,” she returned. “That much I figured.”

She reached out, ruffling Marigold’s hair.

“My goodness, still so soft, even in winter…” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “ I will never stop bein’ jealous.”

Marigold glanced up, and returned an artless smile.

“But you’ve got such lovely hair yourself.”

Rosie sniffed.

“Why, thanks, I’m glad you think so. But it’s not at all like yours. You could spin yours into silk and make a fortune…”

She turned on her heel with a waltzing step, and skipped back to her post at the stove, taking up her ladle.

Marigold drew another deep, deliberate breath.

Her nephew’s hands had returned to her shoulders, his fingers were growing bolder.

It was nice – quite nice. 

And Rosie, too, could always be relied on to lift her spirits – if only in little ways, even if they did not always hit the mark. Whatever she might have thought earlier, she was fortunate to have such family and friends.

But even so, her peace was not long for the world.

For May had looked up from the table, and did not tarry in giving her opinion.

“Well, if you ask me,” she sniffed, “I don’t see why you don’t just marry Tom Cotton and be done.”

And, there it was.

It was so like her, to come crashing through it all – as she had done innumerable times before, from the moment Marigold had joined her sisters in their crowded childhood bedroom.

“May!” Rosie exclaimed.

But May had tossed her spoon into the tub of everything-salad, and dug her hands into her hips.

“Well, am I not right?” she quipped. “What exactly is Tom’s flaw? He is a good lad as any, and his family farms their own land, so why not get a move on?” She pursed her lips, making a face rather like a duck’s bill. “Forty, indeed! Then why not just wait until you’re sixty! Or better yet, spend all your time scrubbing the floors for Mr. Frodo. Bag End would be so clean!”

“MAY!!” Rosie threw down her ladle, nearly splattering the stew all over the wall.

Jolly ceased his rubbing – and though she could not see him, Marigold was sure that he was cowering, casting about for a place to hide.

She reached behind her and took his hand.

But May was unrelenting.

“But you know I’m right,” she exclaimed, straightening her back. “If she waits too long, you know what’s going to happen –”

Rosie shook her head and snatched up her ladle.

“No, you’re not right,” she cried, sniffing with matching vigor. “Marigold likes working at Bag End – don’t you, Mari? And she does a great deal more than just cleanin’ the floors, thank you very much, and she brings in a good wage, and Mr. Frodo’s kind to her. What more can you ask for?!”

May scoffed.

“Well, she does look a might morose these days, if you ask me. So I’m not sure that it does make her happy. She’s probably caught whatever he’s got, from the looks or her – like an apple that’s been stepped on!”

She crossed her arms, and looked defiantly from Marigold to Rosie.

And Marigold sighed, finally squaring her gaze with May’s – though her voice came out timid and ineffectual.

“May, please, that’s not how that sort of illness works…”

She drew Jolly closer to her – in hopes of steadying her nerves.

But on account of her nerves, she had no need to worry.

“Yes, that’s not how it works!” Rosie echoed with a renewed vigor, all but brandishing her ladle and drawing an unwilling smile from her friend. “And by the way” – she shook the ladle after all – “I will have you know that Mr. Frodo has been looking a great deal better these days – what I’ve seen of him, anyway! He still does not like to go out much, leastwise not without Mari along, but it’s only a matter of time –”

“Oh, and I suppose that means he is going to marry her, for her pains!”

Marigold’s eyes grew wide.

“No, please, May, I wouldn’t want him to, not for that!”

She shook her head, but her sister’s expression grew more acrid.

“Yes, that’s right, lass,” she shot back, snapping up the stirring spoon. “Nor should you, because he won’t, and you know he won’t, not in a thousand years! He’ll marry a respectable Bolger or a Boffin, or a Took or a Brandybuck, if he marries at all – but pray tell, what are you going to do when his wife shows up at his house and doesn’t take kindly –”

“MAY, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Rosie bellowed.

The ladle came down hard on the table, and every glass, bowl, and saucepan gave a clink.

Holly gasped, and dropped the cauliflower she had been dismantling. She hopped down from her chair and ran to her mother’s side, burying her face in her skirt.

“See, you frightened the child, now.” Rosie gestured coldly with her eyes.

May drew her daughter close against her, and stroked her hair, and when she spoke again, her voice was low.

“I frightened the child? You are the one wavin’ the ladle around.”

Rosie scoffed, and turned back to the stove.

“Well, you were the one that started it, May. Pickin’ needless fights like you always do.”

She retrieved an extra pot, and readied the sieve, for one of the sauces was ready to be strained. 

“It’s Yuletide, and here you are, bein’ a scold, again. It’s Marigold’s business, don’t you know, and no one else’s, and she’s your sister – and now you’ve gone and dragged my Tom into all this. Doesn’t Boffo keep you happy anymore, what with his famous hands?”

And to this May thankfully had no answer.

In fact, the mere mention of her husband had a near-miraculous effect on her, and she turned back to the table, taking up the mixing bowl.

A few moments passed like this – with May stirring intently, and Rosie pouring the sauce and clicking her tongue – which allowed Marigold to take a breath. She let go of Jolly, and sat him down at the table, adjusting his uneven suspenders and placing several circles of dough in front of him.

She demonstrated how to add three different fillings to one dumpling.

“Carrot. Cabbage. And then… onion! One pinch of each.”

Jolly nodded thoughtfully, and peered intently at the circles.

“One pinch of each,” he repeated, reaching for a bowl.

She watched him for a spell, and just as he had done before, he grew quickly engrossed in the task.

She patted him on the shoulder, and turned away, walking to the window.

Outside, past the mosaic of small, tightly assembled window-panes, the trellises of the garden stood bare. A pale light was hatching from behind the clouds, and the smoke from the nearby hobbit holes was mingling with a soft, pearlescent sky.

Of course, May and Rosie both were right, each in their own, stubborn way – but the mortar and pestle in her heart began to grind again.

For it was true – she and Tom, unlike her and Frodo, actually made sense, and it rankled quite a bit, that things were no longer the same between them. Tom had been her childhood friend, but now he had decided he was in love, and there were too many questions, too many expectations lingering between them.

Tom was a fine fellow – kind, happy, sturdy, and energetic, if somewhat predictable, and certainly less vibrant than his colorful sister.

And she found that she could not hate her.

Just like Frodo and Sam during their quest, and the entirety of the Shire in their dealings with Sharkey, she was forever changed, and there was no going back, nor getting a move on – at least not in the way that May was expecting.

The future was more uncertain than ever – and it lay before her like a great, open plain – and while this might have frightened another, Marigold was by nature a cheerful lass, and in her mind, a “what if” without an answer was not a quest without hope – as long as true despair could be postponed. (5)

And so, she turned to face her sister, and observed as the latter mixed the marinade for the salad, all three children now at her side.

And she found that she could not hate her, not at all – even with all their fights and their many misunderstandings.

For May, though no paragon of the right way to “get a move on” herself, was certainly happy enough, and likely wanted the same for her sister. Eleven years ago, May – ever the rebellious one who had become more so after their mother’s death – had caught the seed of one Boffo Banks, a poor tailor’s apprentice, and Mrs. Bracegirdle had refused to provide her with a remedy yet again, marching her straight back to the Gaffer, and from that point on there could be no stopping the wedding.

But contrary to all expectations, the match had turned out well, for Boffo Banks was pliant and reliable where May was prickly and high-strung, and many years later, Marigold still saw the two of them confidential by the fire, and they now had three children. In fact, May was always telling everyone how proud she was of her husband – how quickly he had come into a partnership in his master’s shop, how fast he was saving up for a hobbit hole of their own, how skilled he was with his hands – apparently not being a tailor for nothing.

And so, if things had turned out well for Boffo and May, Marigold had faith that they could turn out well for anyone. It did not matter at all, what she and Frodo might become – if they would fade away, or change like her and Tom, or continue as they were until they were old and gray – or even if he were to show up at Bagshot Row tomorrow, with a gift of a partridge in a pear tree and profuse apologies.

The sun would still come out, and the Yuletide season would come and go, and the children would still grow up, and call her their favorite auntie.

She would not allow herself to wither away. There would still be bread on the table, and flowers in the fields, and a whole lot to be grateful for.

Or at least, so she tried to tell herself, standing in the corner of the kitchen and watching her sister work, surrounded by her young ones. And she would have believed it, too, had the scene not suddenly changed.

Instead of May at the table, she saw herself, and him by her side… Him drawing her close and kissing her hair, him smiling down and saying something she could not hear. As the clutter of Bagshot Row gave way into the cleaner kitchen at Bag End, she saw their children by her side, standing on the tips of their toes, pulling at her hem, clamoring for the first bite of the dish she had just made.

She felt hot tears in the back of her eyes, and turned away as fast as she could.

“I – I need to go lay down – I’m sorry.”

She turned on her heel, and before May and Rosie could look up, she was gone with a click of the latch. (6)

1. Traditionally in the UK, carolers were rewarded for their door-to-door singing with food, drink, gifts, and money. The fact that the Gamgees sing and play poorly is inspired by the Bridgerton series, where the Smythe-Smith Musicale is an annual concert where society gathers to listen to the Smythe-Smith children play chamber music, and the performances are always painfully bad. In the words of Julia Quinn, author of Bridgerton, “bad music is much funnier than good music.”
2. This is based on a family legend about my uncle and aunt-in-law when they were children. They got bored and started coloring the wall with crayons. I doubt Middle-earth would have crayons, but they would have pastels or wax pencils.
3. The hobbits might have a version of the tale of Tom Sawyer, one of whose adventures involves being made to whitewash a fence, and outsourcing the work to his friends by calling it “powerful fun.”
4. This story is based on an incident with two of my extended family members. They crossed not one but two police lines in the name of going for a walk, and eventually came upon a group of police officers trying to extract a murder weapon from a lake. True story.
5. This is a direct reference to Sam’s emotions during The Two Towers, where he is described as being a cheerful hobbit, who did not need hope as long as true despair could be postponed.
6. The overall busy, lived-in atmosphere of this chapter was heavily inspired by the Bennetts’ home in the 2005 cinematic version of Pride and Prejudice.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Frodo, what on earth are you doin’?!”

Sam had rounded the corner on the way to Bag End. It was just before breakfast, two days before Yule, and the cold was nipping at his feet through his foot hair.

But he instantly forgot the chill when an unaccountable sight met his eyes.

In the front yard of Bag End, stripped down to his shirt sleeves and apparently unfazed by the patches of snow on the ground, Frodo was engaged in a most peculiar activity.

He was digging.

More specifically, he was digging a large and completely unwarranted hole in the middle of what, in another season, might have been Sam’s lush and blooming garden. And he was going about the task with uncharacteristic zeal, throwing his back into each stroke and driving the shovel with his foot.

His jacket and his hat lay on the ground beside him.

Without thinking, Sam broke into a sprint and covered the distance between them.

“Mr. Frodo, what in the Shire –?!”

He nearly grabbed Frodo by the shoulders, and would have wrestled the shovel away, but Frodo straightened up, and tossed it on the ground.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Sam? I’m digging.”

His tone was clipped, but his face was oddly lacking in expression. His breath came in quick, ragged puffs, and Sam peered desperately into his master’s face.

“Diggin’?! Whatever for?”

Frodo huffed, and channeled what was left of his emotion into crossing his arms and glancing back and forth between his gardener and his “work.”

Sam sighed, and glanced at the large, unsightly hole – right in the middle of his beloved lawn…

He shook his head, and stepped right over the thing – it was at least a foot deep – and placed his hand on Frodo’s arm.

“Come on, Mr. Frodo,” he said, pulling gently. “You’ll catch your death out here. Come on, leave it be, let’s go home.”

But Frodo did not move.

“I’ve already caught my death, Sam. You know where.”

He stared fixedly at the hole, and Sam’s mouth fell open. But Frodo’s lips were set in a defiant line, and he said nothing more.

A few more moments passed like this, and Sam drew a long, slow breath, shaking his head.

“No – look, come on now, Mr. Frodo,” he protested. “Don’t talk like that. Come on, let’s go inside.”

But Frodo dropped his arms, balling his fists at his sides, and looked at Sam in a way that would have repelled most anybody else.

“Well, why shouldn’t I talk like that, Sam?” he sneered, crossing his arms. His white linen sleeves were cruddy.

Sam sighed, but did not relinquish his grip.

“Am I not allowed to say what I’m thinking anymore, Sam? Is that it? Not even with you?”

Sam lowered his gaze.

“No, er, it’s just –” 

He bit his lip, tightening his grip in the cold, keen air.

“It’s just – well – I didn’t want you to do nothin’ reckless, that’s all,” he said at last. “It’s cold as the bottom of a well out here, and you not wearin’ much more than your skin…”

He paused, and chewed the bottom of his lip. His nose was prickling with the cold, and he blinked his eyes rapidly.

And by degrees, Frodo’s countenance softened.

He slowly unballed his fists, and let his shoulders droop.

He said nothing more, but when Sam gave another tug, he followed without protest.

With only a few gentle words of encouragement, Sam conducted him to the house, scooping up the coat and hat as they went.

The shovel remained laying where it was.

Inside, Bag End was cold and quiet. No fire had been started in the hearth, and the lights in the sconces were not lit, so Sam guided Frodo to the couch and sat him down, wrapping the throw quilt around him. Frodo gave a diffident look, his body no longer tense and his breathing no longer rapid. Sam gave his back a gentle rub, and with a “there, there, Mr. Frodo, you just rest here while I do a few things,” he set about making the fire, lighting the lamps, and preparing a pot of porridge in the kitchen.

It was not the first time that he had come to Bag End and discovered Frodo acting unwell, but it was certainly the strangest. Never mind, by this point, what the neighbors might have thought. But was it really true, what Frodo said about his death?

Sam shook his head, and a shiver stole across his shoulders. He listened for any sign of activity in the parlor, but there was none – so he went back to stirring.

Indeed, over the last few days, ever since Marigold had returned home, quiet was not the word for Frodo. He was not only quiet, but reverting back to his old ways, meeting Sam at the door in clothes that had clearly been slept in, and when Sam would bring him into the kitchen and regale him with stories of the outside world, Frodo would seem to listen, but his conversation would betray that he heard nothing at all.

But the most telling sign was perhaps the covers. Whenever Sam would poke his head into the bedroom, he would see that wine-colored bedspread barely disturbed, while Marigold’s heavy blanket lay on top of it, tented and retaining Frodo’s form.

It was plain as day. He missed her. He was not well without her.

And so, while his private discovery had given Sam a slight, if somewhat shameful frustration, he took it upon himself to try and puzzle out what had gone wrong, and to bring the two of them back together.

For it did not matter what he, Samwise Gamgee, wanted. It did not matter that had found a new, if temporary, sense of purpose, and taking care of Frodo was hoisting him out of bed far better than any rebuilding or replanting project in the Shire. Rather, it was a question of what Frodo wanted – and Marigold, who was sitting at home, but was not faring much better, and despite a great deal of food and plenty of rest, was looking sicker by the day.

And yet, both Frodo and Marigold were exceedingly tight-lipped people, so again and again, Sam’s lines of questioning came to naught. With Marigold, it was always her headaches, and if this was a ploy to conceal a falling-out, Sam could not think of the reason, for they had been getting on so well, and Sam had taken up leaving them alone for longer periods of time, lest his presence would obstruct the inevitable.

The porridge had begun to bubble and simmer, and after a few more moments of pondering and fretting, Sam took it off the fire, and ladled it into a bowl. Adding a spot of milk and some preserved strawberries, he carried it back to where Frodo sat, slumped over a cushion against the armrest.

The blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and his legs were tucked up beneath him.

When Sam approached, he looked up with a plaintive expression and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

The mournful look sent a shiver through Sam’s hands.

He hastily put down the porridge and sat next to Frodo, drawing him tightly into his arms.

He shook his head, and pressed a kiss into his master’s hair.

“No, Mr. Frodo, no, there’s nothin’ to be sorry for.”

He rocked the two of them back and forth, and by degrees, Frodo relaxed against him. Sam took his hand, and stroked it with his thumb.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” he returned, threading their fingers together. “I just didn’t understand, that’s all.” His voice was quiet, his breathing regular. “But then again, there is a lot that I don’t understand, slow-witted as I am…”

He tightened his embrace, but Frodo shook his head, leaning toward him.

“No, Sam, you are not slow-witted.” He lowered his head and rested it on his shoulder. “I just – I didn’t know what else to do, feeling the way I did…”

He sighed, and Sam could not see his face, but he could feel him. He felt the warmth of his cheek, his torso and his limbs, which had gained some meat in the preceding months. He felt Frodo’s grip as Frodo hugged him back.

He had never been especially hardy, not Frodo – but after the quest, he had grown more fragile still.

Sam wound his arms around him tighter, and Frodo half-lay in his arms.

Like the way they had once been on the slopes of Mount Doom. Frodo lying in his arms barely alive, and Sam, reminding him of the taste of strawberries.

But unlike that time, Sam did not want it to end.

He only wanted to stay here, with his Mr. Frodo, and to be leaning, almost nuzzling against the tender neck, with its two birthmarks at the nape, the skin creamy as milk, the delicate life pulsing within.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo…”

He pressed another kiss against his brow.

Outside, the light was growing bright, and the candles in the sconces were no longer necessary. The fire was both luminous and warm.

Sam drew the cushion closer to them, and let Frodo rest against it, his legs draped across Sam’s lap. He reached for the bowl of porridge, and scooped up a spoonful, with a nod and a raise of the eyebrows.

Frodo nodded and accepted the porridge off the spoon.

Sam fed him a few bites, and then Frodo gestured to take the bowl into his own hands, and ate a few more.

“It’s good, Sam, thank you.”

He went on eating, and did not look up until three quarters of the porridge were gone. And all the while, Sam watched him: watched the spoon traveling from the porridge to his lips – and once again, he longed to take those dear, dear, stubby-fingered hands and hold them.

He wanted to do a great deal more than hold them.

He wanted to pull Frodo into his lap, so that every part of them was touching. He wanted to disappear in Frodo: to melt into his skin, which was warm, lucent, and smooth underneath the shirt that had come undone. He could smell Frodo’s sweetness all around him – the delicate scent he had not lost even when they slogged through the Dead Marshes…

It was enough to make him feel like a tweenage lad again, and for his breath to catch in a most unsettling way – feelings he ought not have had, but they came unbidden at the worst possible moments. They even came when he lay side by side with Rosie at night, but this was far worse: being alone with Frodo, not even a Marigold around, and sitting so very close together. It left him completely without a rudder. On a more ordinary day, he might have controlled himself – might have suppressed his feelings before he knew what he was about, but now…

He tried to think of Marigold – of how she loved Frodo… For try as she might to conceal it, she looked at no one else when he was near, and grew even quieter than was her custom. And Frodo… It would have taken an extraordinary circumstance for him to allow another into his heart, but were the quest, and his illness, not extraordinary? And what a heart it was! Like Mithril it shone, or so Bilbo had said (or was it Gandalf?) No matter, for Sam had seen it for himself, and he had decided: even if he was not the one for Frodo, there was none other in the world who suited him better than his kind and selfless sister.

And as for Sam himself?

Sam would pay the price for his thoughts with guilt of equal measure, for he had made a promise to Rosie, and even if he were to take it back, and even if Frodo were, by some wild chance, to return his feelings, then a life in the shadows would bring them both to grief. Bilbo had been self-assured enough to scoff at the rumors, and people could speculate all day about what really went on between the confirmed old bachelor and his too-handsome nephew, but neither Sam nor Frodo were Bilbo, and Frodo was too ill for Sam to suffer him being ridiculed any further.

With Marigold, Frodo had a chance – at respect, at acceptance, and this was true even if it was not an equal match, nor a match anyone expected…

Frodo’s movements with the spoon came slowly to a stop, and Sam – who had been lost in his musings – heard the clink of metal against the bottom of the earthenware bowl.

He glanced up at Frodo, and Frodo looked at him like a child who had failed to finish his portion.

Sam sighed, and after a much-needed breath, he cupped Frodo’s hand over the bowl, and placed his arm over his shoulders.

Allowing himself, for one last instant, to bask in the pleasure that was Frodo by his side – holding, protecting, but also wrapped up as if in a cloud…

“I wish – I just wish,” he murmured softly, “I wish there was something that could make you happy, Mr. Frodo…”

He sighed.

Now that Frodo had eaten, his color was returning, and his face was like an early spring rose – though his gaze was dejected.

“Or, I should say,” he added quickly, scooping up the bowl just as Frodo let it go, “What would you like to do for Yule? Does anything strike your fancy? I know that you haven’t been all that well lately, but I still think it wouldn’t hurt to do somethin’ special.”

He looked earnestly at Frodo’s face, but Frodo only shrugged and looked at his hands.

“Well, I don’t know, Sam,” he returned. “I was rather thinking I could get some sleep.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sleep, Mr. Frodo?!”

Frodo blinked his eyes and gave a hint of a smile.

“Why, yes, Sam. Sleep. The cold and the dark are making it easier – which is not to say that I sleep well, but it’s a help. And I expect that you would want to go home early too, and be with your family.”

“My fa –?”

A twig snapped in the hearth, and from the pantry, there came a scuffle of tiny rodent feet – but otherwise, the house was quiet. Frodo curled his fingers around Sam’s hand.

“But Mr. Frodo, you – you are my family,” Sam finally replied, and was surprised by his own candor. “And if you – if you don’t mind me sayin’, sir, meanin’ no disrespect, but I have always thought of you as my family – equal with any Gamgee in my esteem – and now even more so, with everythin’ that’s been said and done…”

He smiled, and Frodo bowed his head and placed it on Sam’s shoulder.

“Why, of course, Sam, of course,” he returned, taking his friend’s hand between his own. “Of course, you are my family, even if not by blood, but you have others too, and on Yule, you should be with them. So go and be with them, and don’t worry – I can manage for a night.”

He smiled, and Sam was at a loss for words.

He let his hand meander over Frodo’s curls, stroking them gently.

“But I thought – I thought,” he finally ventured – his fingers tucking a stray lock behind Frodo’s ear, “I thought, maybe if there was too much noise and hullabaloo at Bagshot Row, then maybe… Maybe we could have Mari and Rosie come over here, and have a nice bowl of punch, and some plump goose to go with the Gamgee salad… I thought that might make you happy…”

He gazed at his master with hopeful eyes, but Frodo shook his head.

“We can’t, though. Marigold’s got her headaches.”

Sam’s hand paused over the curls, and he might have cursed inwardly.

“Well, yes, that she does, I suppose…”

And yet, he could not help but smile.

For in his preoccupation with proving a point, Frodo had given the game away – perhaps inadvertently.

For unless the two of them were corresponding in secret – which Sam very much doubted – how was Frodo to know how bad her headaches really were?

And so, Sam rallied his defenses, and allowed his voice to become insistent.

“But her headaches really are better now,” he countered, growing bolder by the moment. “In fact, I would wager that she would be ready to work again soon – and that is just as well, for it doesn’t do to have a Gamgee sittin’ idle for so long.”

He paused, and once again appraised Frodo’s expression.

But Frodo shook his head, and with a clipped sigh, Sam relented. Frodo shifted away, and Sam allowed it, but in the end, Frodo turned to face him, and looked apologetic.

“Marigold can come back as soon as she’s ready, of course,” he said, and reached to twine their fingers together. “But Yule? That would be too much of an imposition. She needs to be with her family at Yule – not with her infirm neighbor.”

He released another sigh, and looked at the grandfather clock, which was showing half past nine. The light from the window had nearly reached it, and Sam breathed a sigh as well, squeezing Frodo’s hands between his own.

Well, I am going to pretend I did not hear that, Mr. Frodo – he wanted to sigh – but held his tongue.

Instead, he ran his hands over Frodo’s a few more times, and then another thought came to his mind – the product of its slow but sagacious course that was always plodding along in the background.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo,” he said, blinking his eyes, “Are you… Are you… Punishin’ yourself for somethin’? Are you… Pushin' us away?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and bituminous.

And Frodo looked away, slumping against Sam’s side and saying nothing.

The Gamgee drew a quick, jagged breath, but beyond the fire and his own heartbeat, he could hear very little. Then, by degrees, the sound of Frodo’s breaths came into his ears, punctuated by the occasional wheeze. And then he felt Frodo’s heart – his Mithril heart – through the layers of flesh and clothing.

No answer came, but Sam needed no answer, and he could not imagine what he might do.

He only knew what would be useless – to try and persuade Frodo, to beg and plead… Threatening to drown himself had worked the one time, but he could not very well do such a thing again…

“But Mr. Frodo, nobody should be alone on Yule,” he said at last.

He pulled his beloved hobbit closer, and buried his face in the soft, brown curls.

“Please, Mr. Frodo,” he whispered, “Please, put those thoughts out of your head, I beg of you… You know that we all love you. You aren’t a burden on us, ever. You’re our Mr. Frodo…” (1)

As if in testament to his words, his eyes splintered into tears, and a pain rose up inside his throat.

“Please, we love you,” he repeated.

For indeed he did. And so did Marigold, and so did many others – for it was impossible not to love Mr. Frodo, unless one truly had a black heart.

And so it was hard, cruel hard, for Sam to see him like this – like a knife twisting in his heart every time. For Sam himself had walked the same treacherous road, but he had many relations for comfort, and Rosie to hold him and cheer him at the end of a long day. But what did Frodo have? A cold hearth and an empty house, and few hobbits asked about him anymore, except to gossip about his ailments.

And yet, it was Frodo, not him, who deserved it all. It was Frodo who deserved to be married, and happily at that. It was Frodo who deserved to fill Bag End with children. It was Frodo who deserved to have the other hobbits banging down his door, singing his praises and asking for advice. And it was Frodo who deserved to live the rest of his days in peace and comfort, to sit quietly at the twilight of his years on a bench outside Bag End, watching the clouds going by… (2)

The minutes trickled past, but still no answer came from Frodo.

He hardly made a sound, and his heart was beating slower, so Sam began to rock his love, and to hum a tune – one of the many his mother had sung to him when he was small, and that his sister sang to her own children.

A quarter of an hour passed this way, and in that time Frodo hardly moved at all, hardly even shifted from where he rested against Sam’s side – until at last he gave a small, sudden gasp, and started up, looking anxiously around him.

Sam drew a slow, gentle breath, and pressed his hands around Frodo’s.

“Oh, Sam… I’m – I’m so sorry…”

Frodo glanced around him, but the hands that cradled his own kept a blush from rising to his cheeks.

“Oh, but Mr. Frodo, don’t you worry,” Sam returned, and stroked the backs of his hands with calloused thumbs. “It seems you needed a rest, that’s all.”

He squeezed Frodo’s palms, but even so, Frodo averted his eyes, biting his bottom lip.

“Oh, but we were having a conversation, weren’t we? And here I go, falling asleep –”

He forced a chuckle, but Sam shook his head.

“No, Mr. Frodo, no,” he returned, and released his master’s hands to stroke his forearms. “If I may say so, I would think it is a good sign – it looks like we have a bit of the old Mr. Frodo back, fallin’ asleep like you used to do, anytime and anywhere.” (3)

He sniffed a laugh, and Frodo smiled as well – a barely perceptible twitch of the lips.

And yet, Sam would have known that smile anywhere, and it was enough to light up his whole countenance.

“My dear Sam…” Frodo’s smile grew wider, and he reached out to touch his cheek.

And from that point on, Sam knew that there would be, could be no more arguing.

His heart swelled three sizes in his chest as Frodo touched his face, and, come what may, he knew that he would do anything Frodo asked him, now and for always – but especially now, when Frodo’s eyes were dark-rimmed and heavy with pain, but kind as summer, and Frodo’s fingers, just above Sam’s brow, were weaving through his hair so gently… (4)

And so it was that Sam acquiesced – with a nod and an “of course, Mr. Frodo, we’ll do it your way” – by which he meant their agreement for Yule, at which point he insisted that he would only be back all the earlier the next morning.

And with an apologetic look, Frodo had replied that it really was just the one day, and that he really did want Sam to go and make merry with his loved ones…

For indeed – what else was there to do and say? Sam wagered that he would have agreed to anything just then – even another trip to Mordor – if it meant sitting next to Frodo like this, feeling the touch of that warm, dear, mangled hand of his, and hearing him speak so sweetly.

In fact, what would it have been like, if he were born a maid, or if Frodo had been his Mistress and not his Master?

But no…

He himself might have been happy, but what of Rosie and Marigold?

Try as he might, he could not imagine doing such a thing to them.

He and Marigold had both loved Frodo since they were young, and Rosie… Rosie was not simply a lass to whom he had made a promise. She was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and his most loyal protector, and she believed in him like few others did.

And so, there was little else for Samwise Gamgee to do but step aside.

He gathered up his courage in a fist, and put his hand on Frodo’s, slowing down its movements.

“Well, now,” he said with a smile, and willed himself into the present moment – with its crackling fire and its pale morning sun filtering through the eaves.

“Well, now,” he repeated, and cleared his throat, giving Frodo’s hand a final squeeze before drawing away, “You’ve done and fair well convinced me, Mr. Frodo. Go and make merry with the Gamgees is what I shall do, but I dare say” – and here he gave a sly, confidential look, letting go of Frodo’s hands, “I dare say,” he repeated, “It is nearly time for your second breakfast, and here you haven’t even finished your first.” He glanced at the unfinished bowl. “I wonder if your Sam might be losin’ his touch – or perhaps I should make you somethin’ a little nicer?”

1. This is a reference to “he’s not heavy; he’s my brother.” The phrase first appeared in the 1884 book The Parables of Jesus by James Wells, Moderator of the United Free Church of Scotland, where a little girl carrying a boy was asked if she was tired, and she replied “no, he’s not heavy; he’s my brother.”
2. The premise of this paragraph, that Frodo deserved a future where he was comfortable, respected, and happy in the Shire was inspired by a post by tumblr user nowandforalways.
3. The headcanon of pre-quest Frodo having an uncanny ability to fall asleep anytime and anywhere comes from the Lord of the Rings cast commentary by Billy Boyd, who related that Elijah Wood could sleep on the go, including while waiting to shoot a scene.
4. “Now and For Always” is a song sung by Frodo and Sam in the Lord of the Rings musical.

Chapter Text

Sam had been quite insistent, and it was only a pie.

It was evening after dinner, and Marigold had been in her room, finishing up the stitching on the dress for Holly’s new doll, when Sam had come in, and sat by her side on the bed, and the two had talked a little.

They talked of many things – of the dishes planned for the Yule-day meals, and how the preparations were coming along, and what time the caroling would begin, and whose presents were yet unfinished. On this last subject, Sam had turned a worrying shade of red, and admitted that he promised Rosie he would finish the wrapping on his own, so that she could devote herself entirely to the cooking.

Marigold could not help herself, and morose though she was, she smiled.

“And how many do you have left to wrap, Sam?”

Sam’s color deepened. One by one, he extended his fingers, but abandoned the count sometime after twenty, at which point he looked up with a pathetic, fearful expression.

Marigold returned a smirk – just the right amount of supercilious – and was about to reassure him that this happened every year, and just like every year, something was bound to turn up and everything would turn out just fine. But all of a sudden, she felt very sad in a way that eclipsed the matter at hand, and instead of speaking, she shifted toward him, and wrapped his arms around him.

And that was when the floodgates opened.

Before she knew it, she was close to sobbing, and was lamenting how Sam was such a big silly, but also a good soul – and apologizing for being such a sour sister, for not appreciating his hard work, and for not taking the time to talk the way they had always done.

Sam seemed at first taken aback, but by that point, he was no longer a stranger to Marigold’s quiet spells, punctuated by storms, so he lost no time in reassuring her that she was not a sour sister at all, and that they had all been worried about her – which was just as well, except one thing led to another, and suddenly, she was agreeing to take a pie to Mr. Frodo on Yuletide, and could scarcely remember how it happened.

Perhaps she had agreed out of pity – to lighten Sam’s load – and in any case, Sam had painted Frodo in such a tragic light, all alone in his large smial, that she could not have refused him if she tried.

And so, she devised a plan to go there and back again as quickly as she could.

All she had to do was set the pie at the foot of the door, ring the doorbell, and run back before he answered.

But as she approached Bag End on Yuletide Eve, the snow coming down thicker than it had done in a week, her brilliant plan crumbled.

The closer she got to the gate, the more her heart fluttered, and the more her feet felt like they were restrained by rubber bands. She imagined him coming out, taking her in his arms, the two of them reconciling…

She shook her head, and gripped the pie tin as best she could with one hand (which was quite a feat, for she was wearing gloves), and pulled her hat over her ears.

The evening was falling fast, and candles were being lit in the windows of the surrounding smials, but Bag End lay dark, deep and quiet. Under the shadow of the great tree above, its windows were obscured. (2)

The gate creaked only a little as she pushed it open, and beyond it, her step was little more than a rustle of the wind. The snow lay thick as a blanket, dampening and muffling all movement, and the evergreen bushes lay slumbering in the cold.

She made it halfway up the path to the house, when suddenly the door opened.

Beyond it, there was scarcely any light at all, but he was in the doorway.

Wearing a hat, coat, scarf, and gloves, he looked ready to go out, and peeked around the half-open door, casting his eyes up and down the garden.

And then he saw her.

In another life, she might have run – might have let go of the pie, and run fast and hard until she ended up in the next Farthing.

But something – maybe the cold, maybe the gathering darkness – rendered her immobile, and she stood stock-still, rooted to the ground.

She looked at him – and he looked at her – though it was too far away to see each other’s faces.

Her breath rose from her mouth, and finally, he stepped around the door. She gathered what strength she could and began to walk away, but he called out to her.

“Mari, wait –”

She stopped, and slowly turned around, feeling every bit of the wind against her cheeks. The thin silver veins of snow glittered in the trees, and she squeezed the pie – which was still somehow warm.

Shutting the door behind him, Frodo emerged from the house. 

Shrugging his shoulders, and bundling the coat close around him, he walked quickly down the garden path, and closed the distance between them.

“Mr. Frodo, I –” she stammered, and her knees quivered under her coat, even as she clutched the pie tin. His expression, now that he was close, was difficult to read, but he was not angry. He rather looked sad – but she looked away before she could see any more.

“I just – I just…”

Her hands were not free, so she could not fiddle with anything, so she dug her toe into the snow that had gathered between the stepping stones.

“My family – I – er – they in-sisted, sir,” she stammered, “And I was about to leave this by the door, so as not to bother you at all –”

But before she could finish, her entire body jolted, and a pair of strong arms wrapped around her.

She had just enough time to make a quarter-turn, to protect the pie, and he hugged her around the shoulders.

“Mari, please… Please don’t apologize.” 

He dug his fingers into the wool of her coat, and held her tight.

Her heart beat fast, like a bird against a cage, and she looked up slowly. 

“Please, it is I who should apologize,” his breath came hot over her ear. “It is I who was in the wrong… In fact, I was just about to come find you, to see if I could talk to you. I know it is almost Yule, and it would be an imposition, but if you can’t speak the truth at Yuletide, when can you? And then I step out of my house, and here you are.” (3)

She thought she heard his voice break a little, but she quelled her desire – her hope – for what that might mean.

And yet, all she wanted to do was hope, even as two wills battled inside her. On the one side, there was the pain and frustration – rising in her chest, stinging her throat, turning her cheeks bright red. And on the other, her heart hammered like a fool at the feel of his breath, his warmth, the pressure of his forehead against her temple…

Well, talk to me, Mr. Frodo. Talk to me, then.

And so the seconds passed, until at last he drew away and turned her to face him.

The pie was still between them.

He looked at her – silently, longingly – and this time, she did not look away. His face was even more beautiful than she remembered it, and across the lane, the neighbors’ lantern gave off a scant glow.

“Mari, I –”

He stopped. The words caught in his throat, and he let her go – just long enough to put his hand against his mouth to cover a cough.

“By goodness, Mari,” he shook his head, and returned his hand to her arm – his gaze never wavering, “I really do wish we could be together, you and I. In another life, we could have had everything. A home together, children…”

Marigold’s hold slackened on the pie tin, and it was a miracle she did not drop it.

In her heart of hearts, she knew exactly what he would say. She even knew exactly how he would say it.

And yet she was still wounded against all resolutions not to be.

“But Mari… Sweet Mari…”

Her skin prickled.

Whom exactly was she trying to fool? The words she wanted to utter, the expressions she wanted to make… She could never do or say such things. All she could do was keep herself from crying, and even that just barely, which Frodo seemed to feel, for he pulled her close and held her tight.

And hurt though she was, she let him do it, and even put her head in the crook of his shoulder.

The pie threatened to fall, but she held it fast, her fingers and her wrist aching.

“And I know, Mari, I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking over her name, “I know.” He searched for her hand, and found it. “It pains us both… But it isn’t fair or right, Mari. So much of our relationship is about you doing for me, you caring for me, you forgiving my bad behavior. But that isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It isn’t equal, and yet, if we were to wait for me to get well, we would be waiting a long, long time…”

He sighed and shook his head, pressing his face against her temple.

In the darkling air, the snow settled, whisper-soft, onto the nearby trees.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” she finally replied, and peered into the gloom over his shoulder, “It seems that your mind is fairly well made up, so I don’t know what else there is to say…”

She paused and squinted, following the snow with her eyes. She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the heaviness of his arms, the warmth of his neck and face.

“Though for my part,” she added, “If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think that it is unequal. You have done plenty for me, and I would not trade it for the world, the time that I have spent with you, and as for your s’posed bad behavior...”

She sighed again, unable to put the rest of her feelings into words.

And yet, her limbs were finally feeling less heavy.

So she drew a breath, and as gently as she could, she raised her arms. He took the gesture for what it was, and let her go – letting her step away and turn to face him.

The pie was still in her hands, but it felt like a comfort now, a steadying force.

“It’s alright, Mr. Frodo,” she said – and glanced up, pressing her lips. “I know it has been hard. And I know that things are not so simple, both with your illness and with… other things.” She paused, and pressed her lips once more, resisting the urge to lick them. “And I know – I know… there are things you cannot tell me, and that is just as well, for you have a right to keep things to yourself as much as you please. But as you know, and as Mr. Bilbo used to say, this world is full of strange phen-om-enons beyond count, and it is not for me to know or understand them all. But it is for me, I think, to be there for you when you need me.” (4)

She paused and appraised his face, more curiously and more cautiously this time – but he made no sound, nor moved a muscle.

He only looked at her, his eyes as sad as ever, and she noticed that his foot hair was gathering snow.

“Mr. Frodo, we – we need to get you inside,” she gestured with her chin. “It’s cold. You’re going to get sick.”

She stepped toward him, reaching for his arm, and shifted the pie into a single hand – but suddenly, her free hand was in his and he was –

…Pressing it against him? 

“But, Mari, please, I’m – I’m not –”

His eyes, even in the darkness, were a cutting blue. 

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, Mari.” He paused, and his handsome features quivered. “Mari, please, I don’t know what to do…”

Of all things, he looked suddenly sheepish – like a hobbit much younger than his age. Marigold wondered if he might avert his eyes, but his gaze never wavered.

“And I know, Mari – I know,” his voice rose with every word, “I know I am too old to be saying this. At fifty and some, I really should know better. And I know too well that I am hurting you, with this contemptible hemming and hawing. By rights you should’ve even be here. By rights, you should have spat in my face and never seen me again. But by goodness, it is hard… it is hard to be away from you…”

He shivered, and pressed her hand tighter against his chest.

It was indeed growing cold.

For a long moment, Marigold said nothing.

She only looked like she was in pain, her features quivering and twisting.

And it felt like torture. 

Yes, torture was the word, and it was nearly enough to break him.

Alright! – he wanted to cry – Alright! Enough of this! Come, hang it all, and be with me! Come, be the Mistress of Bag End, and live with me, have me, such as I am – but for Eru’s sake, don’t look like at me that –

He wanted to say it.

Every fiber of his being cried out for him to say it.

It would be so simple… He would utter the words, and everything would fall into place… 

But there was no chance of it.

Not with the way things were – not with the state of his mind, the Ring, the things his mind had said and done to her, and would surely do and say again. Not with the future she would be condemned to…

She shivered, and he resisted pulling her more fully into his arms.

The wind was high in the trees, and she shivered still.

And by degrees, the moment passed. The wind died down, and the pain in Marigold’s expression lessened.

“Mr. Frodo, the pie.”

She gestured with her eyes toward the tin, trembling and tilting in her hand.

“Oh, I’m – I’m sorry.” Frodo released her hand and reached to assist her. “Here, I can take it.”

He took the pie in his hands, and lifted it up to examine it.

They had been speaking for some time, and the warmth caught him by surprise. A rich aroma of berries rose from beneath the cover, along with the sweet and savory fragrance of pastry dough and melted butter.

He looked up, and his eyes met Marigold’s.

And he was struck by how sorrowful she looked, her eyes large and darkling.

Indeed, it was no ordinary pain. It was not the deep, wrenching agony from moments before, nor the sickening shock of one who had been stabbed…

It was a deep, still sort of sadness, quiet and profound as the winter night. The only other time he had seen her like this was months ago, when she had sat by his side during his wraith sickness.

She shook her head.

“No, it’s alright, Mr. Frodo,” she said. She gave a diffident smile, and now that her hands were free, she pressed her arms against her sides, raising her shoulders against the cold. “There is nothin’ that you need to do. The answer will come in time. Sure as the spring follows winter.”

“Oh, Mari…”

How many times was it, now, that he wished he could fall on his knees before her, kissing the ground beneath her feet?

“And we don’t have to do anythin’ or be anythin’ other than what we already are,” she added, tucking her chin into her collar. “Just Mr. Frodo and Marigold, walkin’ and talkin’ and reading’ as always, and takin’ care of you and Bag End. If that is what you want, then that is how it will be.”

“Oh, Marigold…”

He took a step toward her – with every intention of taking her in his arms again – but was thwarted by the pie in his hands.

He stopped – and she glanced up at him, smiling.

And he could scarcely look at her at all – but by slow degrees, another feeling rose inside him – a desire that defied all definition, and all better sense, and yet he had to do it. He could not not do it.

In whatever way she chose to come to him, he would cling to her, like a drowning man to a raft.

And so he extended a hand.

“Well, ehm… would you like to come in, then?” he ventured, glancing in the direction of the house. “We can have some tea, and maybe I can find some supper, and then we can have this exquisite pie, and you can warm up before you go? How does that sound?”

It sounded…

It sounded wonderful.

Particularly since it was cold, and growing colder by the minute, and the chill had wormed its way past every article of clothing, settling into her bones…

But also, who was she to dissemble?

She wanted to come because Frodo was willing to have her – and she could never, not under any circumstance, resist that smile.

That smile was enough to make it feel like the hole in her heart never existed.

He offered her his arm, even as he held the pie – and she took it.

Because, who was she to lie, it hurt to be away from him. It hurt to deny her feelings, and to see him in pain. 

In fact, to see him in pain – that was the worst of all. The entire time they had been talking, she struggled with the same desire as always – to take him in her arms, propriety be damned, to stroke those lovely cheeks, to map kisses around those beautiful eyes, to coax those lips into a smile…

Even if it led to nothing, even if they could never be each other’s except for that one, fleeting day…

And so she held his arm, and followed him to the door. It opened with a creak, and she reminded herself to find some tallow to grease the hinges later.

Inside Bag End, the fire had not yet burned out in the parlor, and a kettle sat on the stove in the kitchen.

As Frodo hung up the coats, she went to fetch the tea set, and chose the one for everyday use, instead of the fine porcelain for special occasions.

She then returned to the parlor, and cast her eyes about the familiar room. On the table, there lay a book she did not recognize, bound in red with gilded inlay.

She moved it to one side as she lay out the tea service, and Frodo came to join her – but the conversation dragged, with him blushing and avoiding her eyes – so she asked him about the volume.

She poured the heated water over the leaves, holding the spout steady, and as she spoke, Frodo’s face lit up, and the tension ebbed in a moment.

He began to tell her about the book, and Marigold soon learned that just the other day, the bookseller had come with a selection of new volumes, but this one stood out among the rest. It was about a Man of Bree named Scrudge – a wholly unappetizing character if there ever was one – and this scraping, grasping Scrudge had at first been quite the miser, but on the night before Yule, he was haunted by three spirits, and they helped him see the error of his ways. (5)

Marigold smiled at Frodo’s description, and confessed that she could not wait to read it.

It was well past eight o’clock, and the two cups of spiced cranberry tea had been drunk, and the pie eaten – along with a spot of roast chicken and mashed potatoes that Frodo had extracted from the larder – and by all measures, it had proven a pleasant evening.

They did not touch beyond him leading her into the house, and they sat a respectful distance apart, even as they talked and laughed and ate like nothing was amiss between them. There was still a vague uncertainty about it all, but Frodo seemed glad to have her back, just as she was glad to have him back, and the firelight was merry on both their faces.

Frodo first explained to her the story of Scrudge, and Marigold had professed that she wanted to read it as soon as she could, so they put away their dishes and opened the book, with Marigold taking up her trusty text marker. She began to read out loud, and soon enough, Frodo sat back, casual and content, with the sound of her voice filling the spaces between them.

The writing flowed over him and through him, bearing him away, and its cadence was both wild and joyful, with many bon mots peppered in like jewels throughout the text. From time to time, Marigold would pause and laugh out loud, and she made her habitual notes on a scrap of paper whenever she encountered a new word.

Indeed, it was not until the miserly Man of Bree had finished interfacing with the ghost of his late partner, setting the stage for the rest of the book, that Marigold suddenly grew tense, and her ear gave a twitch, and the pie turned uncomfortably in her stomach.

For it was all well and good to sit next to Frodo in the warm and comfortable parlor, reading out loud like they had done before, and to think that nothing was amiss as long as she was with him. But beyond the frozen-over glass, she suddenly heard voices.

Familiar voices.

Gamgee voices.

And they were singing.

Singing, if one could call it that, to the accompaniment of the most ghastly cacophony of out-of-tune instruments imaginable.

She did not need to see them to know what they were: a lute she had sworn she would break and throw into the millpond, a fiddle made of wood so warped that it was nearly all whorls, and a pair of metal sticks that replaced the tambourine that was lost some days ago, and apparently never recovered.

Here we come a-carolin’
Amon’ the leaves so green
Here we come a wanderin’
So fair to be seen (7)

If it had not been clear before, Marigold was now wholly convinced. Her family existed to torture her.

And certainly, there was nothing to be done.

In fact, continuing to read would only delay the inevitable, so she drew a sigh, and pushed back her chair, getting up and turning toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “It’s my family. I’ll go and get rid of them…”

She fixed her eyes on the floor, hoping that he would not try to take her hand – would not try to stop her.

But thankfully, he did nothing of the kind – he only stood up with her.

“It’s alright, Mari,” he said, offering a gentle smile. “You don’t need to do anything of the kind. It is only a shame that I don’t have much to give them, as far as favors go. I don’t even know where my wassail bowl is anymore, and Sam made a figgy pudding, but it would need to be warmed up again…”

Marigold fought back a wave of nausea, but very slowly, the meaning came to her as she worried the silken bookmark…

“Wait, Mr. Frodo,” she said, and glanced up with anxious eyes. “Do you – do you mean to say that you actually want to give them things? And you actually want to listen to them? You don’t want me to go and tell ’em that you need your peace an’ quiet?”

Frodo raised his eyebrows.

“Well, no, why would I want you to do that?”

His voice was calm – pleasantly unaffected.

So much so that if Marigold had not stepped away from her chair, she might have fallen directly into it.

Love and joy come to you,
An’ to you glad Yuletide too

“Because – because, Mr. Frodo –” she stammered.

The last note of “Yuletide too” was particularly jarring, and reverberated in her ears…

She began to twist the side of her apron.

“Because – because, Mr. Frodo –”

Her face grew hot, and finally the words burst forth like water from a dam.

“Because – because they are horrible , Mr. Frodo!” she cried, letting go of the apron and covering her face. “Because! It’s like an oliphaunt stepped on each one of their ears! And they don’t seem to realize it! At all! And it might be just as well for the really little ones, seein’ as how they don’t know any better, and for the Gaffer, seein’ how his hearin’ is goin’ faster every year, but the rest of ‘em? They go paradin’ themselves for all to hear, and it’s a wonder they’re not the laughingstock of the entire neighborhood!”

She stopped – her chest rising and falling, and she was breathing hard – entirely too hard.

A hot blush covered her cheeks.

But Frodo only looked at her, and amid the shadows of the room, his eyes were dark and somber.

Good Master and good Mistress 
now as you sit by the fire
Accept the kindly thought 
from the members of the choir

She glanced down, and squeezed her hands fitfully – ashamed not only of the performance outside, but now of her own.

She drew a hitching breath, and Frodo shook his head.

He took a step toward her, reaching for her hand – but stopped midway, squeezing his fingers together.

“No, Mari, please,” he said. “Please, don’t be ashamed of your family. At least, not for something like this.”

Love and joy come to you,
An’ to you glad Yuletide too

She looked up, and in the half-light, his eyes were almost black.

“Trust me,” he said. “Because your family, at least they are here with us. You know what I mean.”

The words hung in the air.

He regarded her quietly – but his gaze did not contain the judgment she expected.

He said nothing more, and then he turned away and walked to the cabinet, extracting a set of keys from his pocket.

Marigold sank into her chair, and covered her face with her hands.

The moments passed, and Frodo did not speak, and she heard him rummaging and putting a key in the lock. The cabinet gave a creak, and she heard the rustling of papers, along with the clatter of coins.

She thought about the death of her mother. Bell Gamgee had died from the consequences of “sweet blood,” which carried off a great many hobbits of a certain age (8).

Marigold had been in her tweens at the time, and had cried for many months, her midwifery her only salvation.

But Frodo… Frodo had lost not one but both of his parents, and then his uncle Bilbo had gone, and what did he have now? No siblings and an empty house, and what family he did have was far away in Buckland…

Lor’ bless the Master of this house,
Likewise the Mistress too,
And all the little children,
That round the table go

She felt foolish and no mistake. Foolish, and unfeeling, and her cheeks burned, but now with a different shame…

The sliding of the coins continued, when suddenly, a bright childish voice pierced through the window and the blinds.

“But Mr. Frodo doesn’t have no Mistress!”

Jolly.

His voice carried in loud and clear, and the cacophonous music-making ground to a halt.

“Jolly, hush!” somebody hissed – May, Marigold guessed – and a scuffle confirmed her suspicion.

But whatever happened to Jolly as a result of his impertinence, he remained undeterred.

“And he doesn’t have no children, neither!” he insisted. “Maybe that’s why we keep singin’ and singin’ and he won’t come out, maybe that’s why he won’t give us no presents –”

There was another scuffle, and then the words, “Jolly! So help me, when we get home, you’ll sit in the corner so long, you’ll grow roots and needles!” 

But May’s vituperation was cut short by another, deeper voice.

“May, please, not now –” 

It was Boffo: Marigold could see him in her mind’s eye, placing a hand on her sister’s arm.

But if Jolly had been for the moment chastened, May and Boffo’s older son, Bingo, was only too happy to take up the torch.

“Well, I think Mari is as good as any mistress,” he exclaimed, his voice high and ironical. “She does most everything for him, so why not? You say that he will never marry her, Ma, but methinks they’re already as good as married.”

A general rumble rippled through the crowd, and another teenage voice piped up.

“Yes, and she’s probably in there now,” it quipped. “She went over there after dinner, sayin’ she was goin’ to take the pie, and I ain’t seen ‘er come back –”

“Well, just because you ain’t seen her, doesn’t mean she didn’t do it, now does it?” another voice retorted, and there was a smattering of giggles.

Marigold listened to it all, and felt an ardent desire to die.

Or, if she could not to die, then to fall right through the earth, and to emerge at the other end of the world, where none would ever find her.

But a loud male voice rose mercifully above the din.

“Quiet, you all, it doesn’t MATTER!” it cried. “It is only a song, snakes and adders, so can we just get back to singin’, and do what we came here for?! One or two more songs, and if he still ain’t comin’ out, we can jolly well move on – like we always do!”

The voice belonged to Sam.

Good, jolly old Sam.

But it was hardly enough to salvage the predicament.

Outside, it had the intended effect, and all the voices fell in line with a shuffle of instruments and feet. But inside Bag End, it was a different matter entirely.

Marigold kept her eyes glued to the floor, and as the silence fell, she traced the parquetry with her eyes until a shadow fell before her, and she looked up – very slowly.

She first saw his feet, their hair dry and fluffy now, and then the lines of his breeches, and finally, his face.

“Well, shall we?”

He did not extend a hand, but he nodded towards the hall, where the singing had resumed.

There was a purse of what looked like coin in Frodo’s hands, and nothing else.

Marigold swallowed – her eyes darting between the hall and the hobbit before her.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo…”

A new and ill-formed feeling rose inside her – a queer and bewildering feeling, but enough to launch her from her seat, and to knock the consternation clean out of her.

“Wait – no – that’s not – hold on –”

There was something sad – so inexplicably sad – about that small leather purse. 

She raised a finger to her lips as Frodo regarded her.

“Wait – no – I have an idea –”

Her voice hitched, but her words barreled on.

“Look – Mr. Frodo – why don’t you – why don’t you go out there and start talkin’ to them first –”  

She blinked, squeezing her hands together.

“And look – I can come an’ join you in a moment, lickety-split. I can go into the kitchen and grab somethin’ to eat, because it doesn’t do, you know – it’s not very Yule-like, not to have any food, even if there's coin and it can buy whatever food you want…”

Her blood was suddenly up, and her heart was in her ears.

Frodo returned a nod, and that was all the encouragement she needed.

Without another word, she turned on her heel, and bolted to the kitchen.

Behind her, she thought she heard a chuckle – but after another moment, she was in the larder, and heard nothing more.

In the half-light, she rummaged from shelf to shelf, and nearly plunged her fingers into a sponge cake (Sam’s recipe, for there were nuts beneath the crust), and nearly stubbed her toe on a barrel of pickles.

But thankfully, the larder had a wealth to offer, so she hastily assembled a tray of honey-glazed brittle, a dozen slivers of sausage, and a sliced-up block of cheese.

She then drew a deliberate breath, squared her shoulders, and raced toward the entry hall.

Just inside the round green door, the hall was dark and quiet, save for the echo of several voices.

She tried not to pick apart the words, and placed the tray on the table for keys and letters. She then donned her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and paused for another breath before poking her head outside, where her eyes met a curious sight.

Just paces away from the door, the Gamgees were assembled in a gaggle. And among them was Frodo – though no, he was not simply among them: he was inundated by them. And he looked very happy, having just finished shaking the hand of every hobbit present.

Marigold’s mouth fell open – and she watched as he leaned in and said something to Gaffer.

And then he turned around, hailing her with a wave.

“Ah, there she is!” he exclaimed, and suddenly all Gamgee eyes were upon her. “I’m sorry I kept her so long, Gaffer, but I assure you, it was only because she was sorely missed…”

The Gaffer chewed his pipe, and if he was unhappy with Marigold’s entrenchment at Bag End, he gave no sign.

Instead, he returned a smile, and joggled his eyebrows.

“Well, no harm done, no harm done,” he chuckled, sucking on his gums. His features were softened by the not illiberal amount of punch he had consumed.

But even so – even with the kind greeting from Frodo, and the Gaffer’s good humor, and the agreeable smiles from all the rest, Marigold’s hands began to shake, and her face grew hot, and her knees began to dance under her coat. It was nonsensical, she knew, but she had a sudden urge to bolt – until her niece Cornflower broke away from the crowd.

With her flushing cheeks and ribbons in her hair, she rushed up the snowy steps, crying, “Oh, Mari, show us what you have, Mari!” – and before a moment was up, her younger brothers, Tim and Tom, followed suit, and so did the rest of the young Gamgees – for apparently, Frodo had told them that Marigold would be bringing “a surprise,” and there was nothing that children loved more than a surprise.

Before she knew it, Marigold was surrounded – a dozen or so little hands were reaching toward her, and she had not even stepped outside the door.

There was no escaping them now.

Her heart hammered like a frenzied drum, and a cold, clammy feeling overtook her.

The world wobbled before her eyes, but just in time, Frodo stepped away from the others and came toward the door. Once there, he tried to corral the children – “Now, now, Marigold doesn’t like that” – but his efforts had next no effect.

The only effect was that the adults, seemingly chastened, fell in and followed suit, and after a minute or two, they managed to arrange the children in semi-orderly queue, and Marigold stepped around the door and came to stand by Frodo, tray miraculously in hand.

And so it was that the caroling favors were at last given out, with Marigold holding her own as well as the tray, and murmuring that the honey nut brittle was an old Baggins family recipe (which it was), and that it was not good to eat it too fast, and Frodo handed each child a silver coin, with a word or two of encouragement.

But in fact, he gave much more than that.

To each of her nephews who were ten years and older, he gave a firm, gentlemanly handshake and called them “good sir.” And to each of her teenage nieces, Cornflower and Heather, he gave a chivalrous kiss on the back of the hand, and sent them tittering and blushing. And with Holly and Jolly, he squatted down to their level, and when Jolly extended a single glove, the receptacle for coins he had gathered in the course of the evening, Frodo complemented his ingenuity, and when Jolly replied that the other glove had been lost, he persisted in his admiration, stating that Jolly was a very clever lad who did not let anything go to waste. He then leaned in and told him, quite confidentially, that it was very perceptive of him to observe that Frodo might not like their song on account of having no children and no wife, but make no mistake, he liked it just the same.

And so, in the end, no one was left unhappy, and there was a general clamor to sing once the tray was empty and everyone had their coins. Indeed, it was only by the imperious grace of Daisy, Rosie, and, to a lesser extent, May, that the children were at last convinced that it was time to go, for Frodo needed his rest, as did the children themselves. And so, after a brief debate as to whether Marigold would stay behind to finish a few things, the Gamgees trooped into the lane through the garden gate, and with many a “whoop-hullo!” and myriad other exclamations, they disappeared around the bend in the road, taking the noise and the laughter with them. (9)

As they departed, Frodo and Marigold watched them – with Frodo waving until the last, and then he turned to Marigold.

“Well, that was rather nice, I think?” he said, extending a hand. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, but did not move.

She looked ahead of her and wanted to speak, but her throat clamped up.

Her tongue felt thick, and everything from the fence posts to the pale glistening snow felt far away indeed.

She glanced at Frodo – at his calm countenance, at his attentive eyes.

Yes, because I lo–

A sound akin to a hiccup broke from her throat, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Frodo extended a hand to the small of her back, and nodded toward the house.

“Let’s go in, Mari,” he said. “You look tired.”

But Marigold shook her head.

The air felt suddenly crisper – purer, more bracing. The flesh behind her eyes felt tight.

She drew a breath.

“Is it – is it alright if we stay here for a bit, though?” She blinked into the darkness. “You don’t feel too cold or too tired just yet?”

Frodo shook his head.

“No, of course not,” he smiled, and his hand hovered over the small of her back. “As long as you don’t feel too cold or too tired.”

“Alright.”

And so, the two of them stood looking out into the darkness, over the slumbering hills, and watched the pinpricks of pale light flicker across the river. By degrees, the lantern lights were growing fewer, as households turned in to bed.

They stood like that for a very long time, until Marigold spoke at last.

“They are… a bit too boisterous sometimes,” she said, glancing up at the twisted branches. “I hope they weren’t too much for you, Mr. Frodo – and I apologize if they were…”

But Frodo’s features, even in the dimming light, had a certain luminosity about him – one that transcended any source of light.

He shook his head, pressing his lips together.

“No, Marigold,” he returned, and slid his hands into his pockets. “I do not think they were too boisterous at all… In fact, they reminded me of the Brandybucks…”

“The Brandybucks?”

Frodo smiled and nodded.

“Yes, the Brandybucks,” he said. “They were just as lively as your family, and make no mistake, I was grateful to live with Bilbo at Bag End, and to finally have a room of my own, but a part of me never stopped missing them.”

He tucked his chin inside his scarf, and, raising his shoulders, he gave another small, intimate smile.

It was the sort of smile that, quite apart from taking her breath away, made another shiver steal across her shoulders.

She could neither quell nor deny the feeling, and she swallowed, blinking back the tightness.

“Well, yes,” she nodded, pausing for a breath, “I think I understand your meaning, Mr. Frodo.”

She smiled, and mirrored his gesture from before, putting a hand behind his elbow to usher him into the house.

“And right you are,” she added, pressing her lips and avoiding his eyes, “I am sure I will feel the same someday – if some of my family are no longer with us, or if I move and live far away… And I’m sorry – I’m sorry I was so… unfeelin’ with them earlier…”

She garnished her apology with another smile, but Frodo shook his head as he followed her.

He did not say more, but as they came inside, they paused in the hall to take off their gloves, hats, and outer clothing.

In the parlor, there were no more flames in the grate, but the orange embers smoldered with a patient warmth. Frodo lingered behind Marigold, and shook the snow out of his foot hair over the rug.

“No, you were not unfeeling, Marigold,” he said with a smile, taking up the conversation from before. “Indeed, it is only too true that we do not always like the ones we love. Even in the best of times, they can try our patience. So I am sorry, too, that I was not more – understanding.”

He glanced at her, and began to fold his scarf, winding it round and round.

She watched him, folding her own, and suddenly his eyes looked like the Sea, though she had never seen it.

In songs and tales, the Sea was always described as vast and limitless, endlessly moving, ever-changing… It was exactly how she felt, watching those eyes – though they stood in the dry and indoor entryway.

But no, it was not just his eyes. It was all of him. 

The way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he was.

The way she felt when she was with him.

Even Sam, who was the closest sibling to her of all, had never spoken like this, had never given such consummate form to feelings she had, but could not name. A simple turn of phrase, a soft, obliging look. Never in her life had she felt so thoroughly seen – like everything she felt was allowed, and where necessary, forgiven.

And so she made up her mind.

Because in fact, until then she had not decided. They had not discussed it directly, and there was no agreement – whether she would come back the following day, or the following week, or even at all.

But now she knew she would come back – tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

“Mr. Frodo,” she said, and took a step toward him, extending a hand. “Is it alright if we make tomorrow the day that I come back, even though it’s Yule?” She smiled. “I can certainly make some time, even with all the festivities…”

For there was no denying it. To be in his presence, to feel the ineffable Frodo-ness of him and the quiet magic of being together at Bag End…

It was her lot to stay, and he had said, earlier, that it was hard to be away from her, and she had not quite believed him, but now, he was gazing at her with such artless warmth, and perhaps his tenth, most delightful smile of the day.

It was all the answer they needed.

A part of her wanted to feel stung – but for the moment, it was good to be in each other’s presence again, and it was more than enough to satisfy her simple heart.

1. This is based on Mr. Nisile’s habit of volunteering, every Christmas, to wrap all of the presents that he can get his hands on. Others, myself included, will try to lend a hand, but are always told there is no need. In the end, between the cooking and the various social engagements, he invariably puts off the wrapping, and can be found awake at 5 a.m. every Christmas morning – frantic, put-upon, covered in bits of tape, and very much in a prison of his own design.
2. This is a reference to the line “the woods are lovely, dark and deep” from “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” a poem by Robert Frost.
3. This is a reference to a line from the movie Love, Actually: “If you can’t tell the truth at Christmas, when can you, eh?” Specifically, it is in the Christmas card that Natalie sends the Prime Minister.
4. Bilbo actually said “Middle-earth is full of strange creatures beyond count,” and the proper word is “phenomena,” not “phenomenons.” But Marigold is trying to put her newfound erudition to good use.
5. Yes, this is a reference to the eternally quoted 1 Corinthians 13:4-5: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.”
6. A reference to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Middle-earth, apparently, has its own version of the tale. In the original Christmas Carol, Scrooge is also described as “grasping” and “scraping,” and the original edition of the book in our world was also bound in a red cover with gilded inlay.
7. The Gamgees sing a version of the traditional Christmas song “Here We Come A-Caroling,” also known in some sources as “Here We Come A-Wassailing.” Wassailing is an antiquated term for caroling, and in fact, Frodo later makes a reference to a “wassail bowl,” which is a bowl of punch usually presented to singers. The word wassail comes from the Old English wes hál, literally meaning “be in good health,” which is, incidentally, similar to the Rohanese greeting westu hál and may be one of the parallels between Hobbitish and Rohirric that is mentioned in Merry’s linguistic treatise. The song lyrics quoted in the text are adapted largely from the traditional version, though the line “accept the kindly thought from the members of the choir” is from the version by the Ray Conniff singers.
   Readers might also be interested to know that the song, as it exists in our world, does have several references to “The Lord” and “God,” and in Middle-earth, the word “God” would of course not be used, but “Lord” would not be altogether out of place. Sam says “Lord bless me” on several occasions throughout Lord of the Rings, and while the hobbits, or indeed any race in Middle-earth, do not have organized religion the way that we do, there can be several explanations for such an utterance. This may be a reference to Eru Illúvatar, and there is some evidence that the hobbits were aware of elven mythology, and remnants of such awareness may have remained in particularly old songs, or songs assimilated from other cultures. “Lord” could also be a reference to the King, under whose dominion the hobbits once existed, at least nominally. Finally, if we operate under the assumption that all of Lord of the Rings is in fact a translated work, the hobbits may have a phrase akin to “Lord bless me” that doesn’t carry a religious connotation, and it is a quirk of translation that such a connotation is even introduced.
8. This is a reference to diabetes. The hobbits, with their rich diet, may well have been prone to it, particularly later in life.
9. “Whoop, hullo!” is an exclamation by Scrooge in A Christmas Carol when he is particularly happy.

Chapter Text

The after-Yule euphoria only lasted a few days, before turning to sheer agony.

Marigold’s departure from Bag End had hurt Frodo – physically hurt him. It was a pain deep inside his chest, and in the days he spent without her, his fingers often wandered over his ribs, rubbing in small circles.

But that was then. Now that she was back – and curse the truism for being true! – absence really had made the heart grow fonder. The whole second week of January, he spent lying frailly in his bed – for his lungs were not equal to his outdoor adventures, and his time with the carolers had given him a terrible cough. And as he lay, he felt the same, deep and gnawing pain every time she sat down by his side, reading from his old books, and brought him tea by the bucketful and trayfuls of warm biscuits.

In the end, his cold did get better, and he finally ventured out of bed, which taught him to hope that perhaps with distance of the moderate kind, things might get better. But they did not. In fact, there was no going back, for whenever they sat together reading now – and it did not have to be the Song of Beren and Lúthien – he found himself wanting to kiss her. And whenever he saw her folding the linens, he wanted to bed her. And whenever she was in the kitchen, he wanted to take her hand, go down on one knee, and ask her to make good on her nephew’s tongue-in-cheek comment and become the Mistress of Bag End.

Some mornings, he even tried to relieve himself before she arrived, but that, too, only stoked his frustration. It was a pleasant surprise to know that things worked just as well below the belt, but his exertions only fanned the flames, and created an irritating need to wash his handkerchiefs in secret.

And the voices… The voices were as bad as ever, gagging on their bile, and made him ashamed to even look at her.

For Marigold, they insisted, was at worst an empty-headed girl with a hot slit for her employer, and at best, she was a willing tool in the hands of Sam and Gaffer, who sent her to Bag End to improve the family’s fortunes.

And as for the real Marigold – on the surface little had changed, for she was still her usual, cheerful self, but here and there he would catch a glimpse of something gone awry. She still did everything exceptionally well – from folding the corners of the bed sheets, to the latticework on top of the pies – but there was a quiet sullenness about her, from the way she paused whenever she said anything new, to the sad air of a punished but loyal dog he would catch in her eyes from time to time.

It was plain as day. They were two people in love, and the love was like a great rock in the middle of the hall, and they were constantly bumping into it, stubbing their toes. And the worst part was, he could end it all in a moment. He had but to beckon, and she would come, and together, they would have all their hearts desired until everything turned black – and turn black it would, with Marigold like a bird in a cage in a deep dwarrow gold mine… (1)

If only she would leave and save herself the grief.

But she would not leave, that much was plain as well. She would not move on, nor find another – and he did not have the heart to send her away, and even if he did, what would be the use? She would still live just around the bend, would walk the same streets… Goodness, no! Even if he were to flee, and move all the way to Buckland, or journey hundreds of miles to Rivendell where Bilbo was, it would not be far enough, and there would come a day when his feet would turn toward the Shire, and he would end up at her door, foolhardy and despairing.

There was only one thing to do. He had to leave – and leave quickly, and take up Elrond on his offer to go west on the next elven ship.

It was only a chance – there was no guarantee of healing even in the Undying Lands, but it was far better than anything in Middle-earth, and yet, if he were to go, there would be no coming back. And if there was no going back, then perhaps he would put his feelings to rest, and so would she, after a time.

After all, she was a good, straightforward, resilient girl, and Gamgees did not break easily. They had only a few months together, enforced by happy circumstance, and they had only just one kiss, and he was still angry with himself about it. So perhaps she would cry longer than usual, but the passing time would heal all wounds (as it was wont to do with wounds that were not of the cursed variety) and one day another spring would come, and with it, a solid, cheerful farm lad who would take her on long walks, and sing her songs, and on whose broad shoulder she could rest her head, and forget all about her maudlin poet.

So Frodo thought, but he could not bring himself to tell her.

When it came to Sam, he had already decided. If he were to go, he would not breathe a word until the very end – and that, he felt, was a necessary unkindness, for Sam was the sort to lay under his horse’s hooves to keep him from leaving.

But his sister?

Marigold would go to no such extremes – she was level-headed to a fault, and in the early stages of his debate, it was her level-headed nature that nearly convinced him to tell her everything: about his love for her, and how it was corrupted by the Ring, the extent of his illness, the offer from the Elves. He even thought to seek her counsel, and to throw himself at her mercy, but what would happen then?... Odds were, she would tell him to go – she might even beg him. Oh, Mr. Frodo, she would implore, Please, please just go. If there is better healin’ to be had… If the Elves might… I cannot bear to have you stay on my account, in all your pain, and to die an early death…

She would say it, and immediately look away. She would say it, whether or not she meant it, and it would be his last memory of her: fighting to conceal her regret. And if he stayed just the same, and things turned out for the worst, then she would carry the guilt for the rest of her days.

No, telling her was out of the question – for if told her and then stayed, it would make things a thousand times worse. And if he told her and sought to leave, he would not make it to the Grey Havens.

Such was her power over him, that he had to leave without breathing a word. It turned his guts to think of it, but there was nothing to be done.

He did not want to think of what would happen then – it turned his guts, but there was little else to be done.

And so it was that in the second half of January, when the sun was hanging low over the horizon, he confined himself in the study under the pretext of doing the yearly accounts, and composed a response to Elrond.

The next ship, Elrond had said, would be departing in the beginning of March. With any luck, all the arrangements would be made in time.

At first, Frodo seemed delighted to have her back, but as time went on, he looked more and more aggrieved, and before long, only the insensate would have missed it.

And Marigold was anything but insensate. It began with him spending more and more time at the window, staring blankly at the pale winter landscape and the flurries wafting past the glass. And in the beginning she had told herself: if nothing else, the cool, opaline light and the closeness of the window did not bother him anymore, and in fact seemed to lift his spirits.

But as time went on, she saw him looking at her more often, and following her steps with his eyes when he thought she was unaware. And if at first, she had dared to feel flattered, recalling his almost-confession and how he spoke of what might have been, with time she observed that his eyes were sad, and the delight of Yule had transformed into a heavy confusion.

But in the face of her own feelings, she tried to have compassion for him, she really did.

His cold had been a miserable one, and he was still grappling with his feelings: that much was plain.

And yet, whenever he looked at her with his fine eyes, or praised her newest baking creation, or asked her to sit with him as he ate, it was hard, cruel hard, not to let it stoke her desires, much as she tried to tell herself that it was unwise to waste her feelings on a hobbit who did not return them, and that anything short of an unequivocal “yes” was a “no.”

Besides, humble Gamgee though she was, she still had her pride… 

And so she tried. She really tried. She tried, first and foremost, to recall Mrs. Bracegirdle’s advice: the selfsame advice that had allowed her, some years ago, to overcome her shyness at least in matters of work. “Pretend that you are wise, and do as a wise person would. Pretend that you are self-assured, and do as a self-assured person would. Pretend that you are me – or another quick-witted and strong-minded person – it doesn’t matter who.” So Mrs. Bracegirdle would say every time, with a proud toss of the head, before they gathered up their things and headed off to “battle.”

It was good advice – if rather self-satisfied – but thankfully, it worked even now, if only for a time.

She would start each day with a deep, calming breath, and with a resolve that she would do as she had always done, and be a good employee, neighbor and friend, and do as any good employee, neighbor, and friend might do… But even then, it was a struggle.

If before, Mrs. Bracegirdle’s guidance had been useful in learning how to speak to others – neighbors and strangers alike – about matters that transcended all bounds of decency, if before, she could step outside herself and play the role of a person who could – there was, with Frodo, no pretending and no acting; there was no directive, no mentor and no book that could tell her how to act with a hobbit she loved and who might have loved her, and pretend that none of it had happened. And so, as the day wore on, her resolve would drain from her like water from a leaking bucket. For Frodo was like a truth serum for her, and more often than not, when she sensed his eyes on her, her own would start to sting, and a lump would form in her throat, and it could happen anytime, anywhere – when she was stirring the stews, or copying her letters, or arranging the linens – crisp, scented, and folded into stacks and arranged on shelves in the closet.

She even pitied herself – and sometimes she chided herself for being stupid. She thought, fleetingly, that May was right, and she was only wasting time… But more often than not, she felt prickly as a hedgehog. The image came to mind when she was sitting at her books one day, with Frodo at her side, and trying not to think of his sunken countenance, and how his eyes were all the more beautiful for his pallor.

He was not eating again, only pecking, and still she thought of him of lovely, even as she tried not to think of the white triangle of chest at the top of his shirt – the very same shirt she had washed not long ago, and imagined him taking it off to reveal the pale hobbit flesh beneath…

It hurt to be this way: to be so near and yet so far, to get so close only to get pricked (2). She wanted to hold him and to cradle him in her arms – even if it solved nothing, healed nothing, undid nothing.

But of course, healers did not do that. That sort of healing only existed in books, and in bawdy fireside tales.

Instead, real healers used their words, their expressions and their voices. They were not intimate in the usual way, but they did ask. And in the end, if she could not ask after everything that passed between them, what was it all for?

And so she did ask, after a time. Or rather, she made a comment – without judgment or expectation, as she had learned well to do.

It was a fine morning in January, with the snow thinly veiling the ground, and the sun like a pearl over the horizon.

“Mr. Frodo, you are not eating well again,” she observed as she placed the seed cake, thinly sliced and covered in glaze, carefully on the table. “Should I try to make something more tender – maybe some nice duck? Or is it something else?”

It was elevenses, and Frodo was in the kitchen with her, and he had been pretending to read, but she had felt his eyes on her the entire time.

“And you haven’t touched your milk, either,” she added, nudging the cup toward him.

Frodo sighed, and, without a smile, he snapped his book shut and shook his head.

“No, Marigold,” he said, “The food you make is excellent, as always.”

His voice was low, and it reminded her of many months ago, when she had first started visiting.

“It’s rather…” He looked around, and his features grew tense, as if seeing something she could not. “It’s rather – I was thinking of taking a journey.”

“A journey?!”

Marigold nearly dropped her tray of deviled eggs, but hastily put it down – a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

But Frodo nodded and raised his eyes, at once stern and solemn.

“Yes, a journey,” he said, glancing at his fingertips. “But do not worry, it will not take long, and it will not be far.”

“But Mr. Frodo!” Marigold put her hands on her hips, and before he could say much more, she jutted out her chin, exhaling with a huff. “I must say, as your nurse, and as a person who is gen’rally not-’ndifferent to your fate, I have to wonder if that is wise –”

She sniffed – and scrambled to adopt the air of the most authoritative person she knew, and for the moment, that was Dr. Boffin.

And Frodo seemed to cotton on to her meaning fairly quickly, for he turned to face her with an equally performative air.

“Oh, but Marigold, you have to know,” he said, “I am not going on my own account. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t go – not as far as the next Farthing. But this is about Bilbo, you see…”

“Mr. Bilbo?”

Frodo nodded.

“Yes. My uncle has been afforded a special honor, as I’ve learned. Being an elf-friend and living in Rivendell for many years, they are offering him passage to the Undying Lands, to live out the rest of his days in peace and comfort. And Sam, Merry and Pippin and I have been invited to see him off – and I want to go, because after sailing to the Undying Lands, there is no going back, and this will be my last chance to see him.”

He paused, and his lips grew tense, but his expression did not waver.

“Oh…”

Marigold looked away, and reached for a kitchen glove.

It made perfect sense, she supposed, and she felt foolish for her assumptions.

She took the saucepan off the heat, and placed it on a folded towel.

“Well, Mr. Frodo, you have been looking downhearted of late,” she said after a moment, taking up a bowl and ladling the soup into it.

Frodo nodded.

“Yes, I suppose I have,” he returned. “Though… I am sorry. I did not mean to make it quite so obvious, and to make you worry.”

He rubbed his fingers together, and said nothing more.

Marigold reached for the plate of small sandwiches – open-faced, and each decorated with a slice of cheese, a circle of marinated tomato, and a spoonful of preserved Gondorean olives.

Frodo regarded the food, and made a valiant attempt at a smile.

“And yes,” he added, taking up the milk spoon once more. “I do miss Bilbo after all. I’ve grown used to his absence, but it hurts to think that he will leave for good, and it hurts even more to know how ill he has become. His mind was not the same even when we stayed in Rivendell on our return journey, and to hear the elves tell it, he barely knows his right hand from his left. It will be painful to see him like that, and even more painful to say goodbye…”

He paused, and gazed unseeingly ahead of him, his face stony-still. A moment or two passed like this, and then, as if woken from a daydream, he gave a start, and turned to face her.

“And yet I must go,” he added, nodding decisively. “I cannot do otherwise. I hope you understand, Marigold.”

And Marigold nodded in her turn, smoothing her hands over the white linen napkin she had been folding.

“Of course, Mr. Frodo.”

But still, she could not bring herself to feel as she was meant to.

She was sad for Bilbo and for Frodo, yes, but something was missing…

She lowered her gaze. 

“I understand, Mr. Frodo, I do,” she said quietly. “He is your uncle, and the closest person to you in all the world.”

She kept her eyes down, and her fingers paused over the crease in the cloth. The food was laid out, and folding the napkins was the final touch before she would lay a place for each of them.

“I’m glad you understand, Marigold.”

Frodo watched her, but she avoided his eyes. Instead, she laid down the folded napkins – and then the fork, spoon and knife – and turned to take the kettle from the fire.

He reached toward her, his hand pausing in the air.

“Try not to worry,” he said, biting a lip, and for lack of anything else to do, he pressed his fingertips into the table. “Sam and the others will be there for me.”

Marigold turned around, and cushioned her grip on the kettle with a towel as she stepped toward the table.

She did not reply, but poured the water into two cups, following with the brew from the teapot.

“I’ll try not to,” she returned. “But I cannot help it, as you well know.”

“Oh, I certainly do.” Frodo nodded, and glanced at her hands, and then at her face. “That is why you are such a good companion, Mari, and such a good caretaker. I do not appreciate you enough.”

He tried to catch her eyes, but she looked away.

She put the tea pot and the tea kettle on their respective cozies, and sat down opposite him.

But she did not touch her food. She waited for him, fiddling with her napkin, so he took up his spoon, and scooped up the thick, creamy stew.

A rich, salty aroma of ham and potatoes curled into his nostrils, and his stomach felt less queasy.

He ate a tentative spoonful, then another, and another.

And Marigold, feeling more at ease, ate some stew as well – but not so eagerly that it might have been rude.

They both ate, and in time their bowls grew empty. But even so, Frodo looked sadder than before, so when his spoon had ceased to move, Marigold offered a gentle smile.

“But you know, Mr. Frodo,” she said, patting her lips dry and placing her spoon beside her bowl, “Mr. Bilbo will be in a better place, will he not? I know that doesn’t make it any easier, but I have all the faith –”

“I know,” Frodo said.

And Marigold could not go on.

There was so much that she wanted to say, but her voice arrested in her throat, for she had finally seen him – seen all of him. She had avoided it before, but she had seen all of him at last.

Without thinking, she stood up and came around the table, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Frodo,” she said. “You don’t look well.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I am not.”

“What hurts?”

“Nothing, Marigold. Just my heart.”

She tightened her grip on his shoulder.

“Mr. Frodo, if it’s alright…”

Her tongue wanted to hesitate, but there was no room for hesitation. He looked uncertain, glancing this way and that, so she squatted down beside him.

“Mr. Frodo, meanin’ nothin’ untoward, may I give you a hug?”

She positioned herself such that if he turned toward her, their eyes would meet.

For untoward or not, he was sick at heart, and this was the medicine.

She waited, and after some time, he did in fact turn.

The clean and lucent light fell through the kitchen window.

“Of course, my dear Marigold,” he said, and brought his hand to hers. “Whatever had passed between us, you are one of my closest and dearest friends. You need not even ask.”

And so she stood up slowly and he stood up with her. Reaching for her hand and now taking it, after all.

Their arms entwined, and he cradled her back, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

They stood like this for a very long time, and he kissed her on her hair just above the ear.

It was a brief, soft kiss. Not the sort that should have sent goosebumps down her neck.

But she pressed against him all the same, and he held her, and then he released her and drew away.

“I’m sorry, Mari. I have to go.”

He nodded toward the bedroom.

She sighed, and her pulse pounded in her ears…

“Of course, Mr. Frodo. I’ll save the food. You go.”

He stepped away, but then seemed to change his mind and turned back to face her, taking her hands.

He held them for a good long while but did not kiss them, and a tear seemed to fall upon them, but his eyes were dry. (3)

He gazed at her hands, tracing their outlines with his thumbs, and then he let them go, turned on his heel, and was gone.

Marigold was unsettled.

At first, the idea of seeing Bilbo off had seemed perfectly reasonable, as did Frodo’s grief over the prospect – for he loved the old hobbit, and Sam had even confided in her that Frodo volunteered to take the Ring on his account.

But it also felt unsatisfactory, and it did not explain his behavior the day of his announcement, nor in the days that followed.

It did not explain his sudden surge of gratitude toward her, nor the kiss on the hair, nor did it explain why, for all of the following week, he seemed afraid to even look at her, and then he moved to the opposite extreme, offering to help her with the dishes, or to assemble the sandwiches for luncheon, or to wipe the window sills and fold the clothes on account of her “working too hard.”

And then, in the middle of February, came the strangest event of all, and that, too, was unexplainable.

And then, in the middle of February, came the strangest event of all.

It was, as she recalled, some weeks before Frodo’s departure, and Gandalf had come to visit. 

The wizard’s precise arrival date was not announced ahead of time – Frodo merely said that he was expecting him, so for the first half of the month, Marigold had kept all of Gandalf’s favorites on hand: her best toad-in-the-hole, treacle tart, and plenty of eggs, despite the season, for if the wizard came in the morning, he would surely want a breakfast of a dozen eggs, sunny-side-up, please.

But then, on the day – after the requisite greetings, the serving of elevenses, and Marigold giving an account, at Gandalf’s request, of how her family were doing – she had repaired to the linen room, and had fully expected to spend the rest of the day folding laundry when Frodo came to find her.

He had appeared in the doorway, silent as a shadow, when Marigold had just finished folding a sheet in half, and she heard his voice not too far away.

“Marigold, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

She glanced up from the sheet, and started as she saw him leaning against the doorframe.

He looked abashed, his eyes fixed on the linens, but by degrees he grew bolder, and took a step across the threshold.

“You deserve some time off,” he said, and raised his eyes as he took a seat beside her. “Please. I can manage on my own for a day.”

An earnest look from him.

But she shook her head, and looked away quickly.

She sniffed, and pulled another basket of bedding toward her – the sheets all finished now, and the pillow cases newly dry and off the racks, as white as flour. She removed the topmost one, and shook out the nonexistent wrinkles.

“No, Mr. Frodo, I don’t need any time off,” she returned. “I have plenty to do here.”

In shaking out the pillow case, she sent the smell of lavender wafting through the air – for she had been adding it to the wash water in recent weeks. (4)

But Frodo shook his head.

“Please, Marigold,” he implored, “You work so hard. I insist you take at least an afternoon.”

He stood up, reaching for her hand, and though she tried to pull away, he was too fast for her. He pressed some coins into her palm.

“Please, Mari – please. Go buy yourself something nice, and rest.”

She glanced at her hand, and for a moment, all words escaped her. She felt a buzzing in her ears – but it was gone in a flash.

She snatched away her hand.

“But Mr. Frodo, I don’t need anything!” she exclaimed. She put the coins down on the table. “And I don’t need to rest. I am a Gamgee.”

“But you want things, I am sure.”

He stepped away, but slid the coins toward her.

She busied herself with the linens and vigorously shook her head.

Oh, how she wanted things.

She pulled a pillow case toward her and folded it – once, twice – and placed it on top of two bedsheets, making a set.

But Frodo did not stir.

He watched her and he waited, wearing an unyielding look. And as the moments passed, her movements grew less tense, and she finished off the last of the bedding – deftly folding each pillowcase into halves and quarters, and adding them in pairs to each stack of bedsheets. She then took a piece of twine, and tied it around each bundle with a firm knot.

Her business done, she reached across the table and took the pay.

It was three silver coins – three days of her regular wages.

She pocketed them with a nod, and Frodo turned away, pressing his hand open and closed at his side.

They parted, and the next quarter of an hour passed quickly – with Marigold gathering up her things, and Gandalf and Frodo talking in the kitchen.

She then said goodbye, with Gandalf raising up his pipe in thanks as Frodo nodded, and then Marigold Gamgee was standing outside Bag End once more – shivering in the pallid winter air, and rather confused, for it made no sense to feel this gutted.

After all, he had not let her go, had not sent her away.

And yet, only a fool could deny it. He had paid her off, and that could mean only one thing: that he and Gandalf had something important to discuss, and he could not risk her hearing it.

But what could be so important?

What could a hobbit and a wizard discuss?

Could it be?...

No, that was mad. The Dark Lord had been destroyed… Or had he?

For a moment, she had half a mind to do what Sam had done, and listen under the windows.

But no, she had far too much respect for Frodo to do that, and she was afraid of getting caught by Gandalf…

She sighed, and lingered by the stout, barrel-shaped mailbox.

She would not cry – she had already decided. 

Come to think of it, she had no right to feel gutted – for if Frodo chose to go on an adventure, even to his own death, he had made it abundantly clear that it was not for her to know, and not for her to question him.

Because who was she, really? She may have been “dear,” and a “close friend,” but in the end, she was nobody at all, for as the Gaffer always said, a show was worth a thousand tellings.

And so, being the nobody that she was, she would take the afternoon off, just like she had been told.

She would take it off and take a long, long walk, and let her heart do something besides hurting for a change…

And so, she began to walk, looking straight ahead.

She walked past the bare etchings of the trees on either side of the lane, and past the golden silhouette of the mallorn tree in the Party Field.

She walked past the fences and the smoke-stalks, their issue rising wispily into the sky.

She walked toward the Water – ignoring Mrs. Burrows who hailed her, walking with her basket from the center of town. And once she came to a fork in the road, she turned away from Hobbiton and began to walk north, thinking very little. (5)

The wind was worming its way underneath her clothes – but with every step, she felt a little lighter.

Her nose would eventually turn pink, but today was no day for embarrassment. Her limbs were finally stretching out, her heart doing what it was meant to do. She quickened her pace, and focused on the pebbles and the snow beneath her feet, and the trees and smials sliding anonymously past.

She walked that way for an hour, maybe two, not thinking where she went.

And she might have walked for another hour yet, but her legs began to cramp and she slowed down, panting puffballs of steam. The sun had long eclipsed its zenith.

She stopped, and looked about her.

Before her, only paces ahead, there was a tall, dark, tree, and her eyes followed its trunk until she realized: she was standing on the edge of Bindbole Wood.

And it was not just any part of the Wood. 

It was the linden grove.

It had appeared – because of course it would, it had been always there, lying in wait – just as the road reached a coppice at the edge of the woods and became a path.

The sun splintered through the trees, and the barren branches swayed, rustling, in the wind.

The trees were a good deal taller than she remembered them – and the sun hurt her eyes.

Somewhere deep within the forest, a bird called, making a sound like the winding of a spring, but otherwise, the wood was silent. (6)

And then, it grew colder still.

Of course it did.

She had been walking for so long, but now she had stopped, and her blood was no longer flowing.

Her limbs felt suddenly heavy and her knees grew weak.

She lowered herself to the ground, and folded her coat under her knees. She rubbed her hands together and blew on them.

And as she did so, she remembered the sun.

The sun that was so sparse now, but had not been all those years ago. The sun, slanting through the branches as she fell, and then the white-hot pain.

She covered her face with her mittened hands, and a scream broke from her throat.

She rocked forward on her knees, and tried to stuff her hands into her mouth, but still she screamed and screamed.

She screamed for a very long time.

And then, when she finally ran out of screams, and her throat burned like she had swallowed razors, she began to sob.

She sobbed for a very long time, and by the time she stopped, the shadows of the trees had lengthened. 

For there was no denying it.

She loved that hobbit. She loved Frodo Baggins. She could not run or hide or escape the fact, and even if he commanded her to burn, she would burn. 

Even if he watched at the edge of that clearing, watched her with indifferent eyes as she screamed and burned to death, she would only welcome such an end, for she loved him so completely that all he had to do was beckon, and she would come, never mind if it was a thousand times a lie. (7)

Her fingers curled into the earth, and she wept all the harder.

At home that night, she would hide her extra pay under the floorboard with her old midwifery things, and vow to never use it unless she was destitute.

1. I hesitated to use the familiar term “canary in a coal mine,” because if Middle-earth did have canaries, they would live in the far south, and I doubt that the dwarves would import them for the purposes of mining alone. However, a practice of using other small birds or animals to detect toxic fumes could easily be part of dwarrow mining culture.
2. The “hedgehog’s dilemma” is a real parable used to describe the challenges of human intimacy, first described by German philosopher Arthur Shopenhauer.
3. This passage echoes an exchange between Frodo and Sam in The Two Towers: “ ‘If we can nurse our limbs to bring us to Mount Doom, that is all we can do. More than I can, I begin to feel.' Sam nodded silently. He took his master's hand and bent over it. He did not kiss it, though his tears fell on it.’ ”
4. In the Victorian language of flowers, lavender represents both devotion and mistrust. While Marigold may not intend this, her use of lavender echoes her ongoing dedication to Frodo, but also her burgeoning mistrust.
5. Marigold is loosely based on my late grandmother, who was also blonde, petite, part of a large family, domestic yet well-educated, and had lived through a war. One of the ways she dealt with her emotions was by going on long walks, even in the cold, and this was long before exercise was touted as a tonic for anxiety and all manner of emotional distress.
6. This is a reference to the novel by Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. One of the motifs in the book is a mysterious bird whose call sounds like the winding of a spring.
7. This is a reference to the song “Love The Way You Lie” by Eminem, featuring Rihanna. This scene first came to my mind as I was walking and listening to that song. “Love The Way You Lie” is about a toxic relationship, and while Marigold and Frodo’s dynamic is not toxic per se, Marigold is imagining that it could turn that way, because of the depths of her devotion to him.
   
   The specific lyrics referenced are as follows:
   
   Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?
   Well, that's alright, because I like the way it hurts
   Just gonna stand there and hear me cry?
   Well, that's alright, because I love the way you lie

Chapter Text

“Frodo, my boy, where are we going?”

Frodo opened his eyes, and saw Sam across the carriage, wearing a compassionate expression.

The carriage creak-creaked languorously along, and it was their second day of travel, for they were a caravan of carts and ponies, and moved very slowly. Outside the window, the woods, fields, and towns were slipping anonymously past, and the world was a painting in muted grays and browns. 

A chill breath of air found its way past the heavy velvet curtains, and within, the hobbits were resting on the cushioned seats, and it was the third time that Bilbo had asked the same question in as many hours.

Frodo sighed, but unlike Sam, he was determined to not let it perturb him.

He wrapped his hand, four-fingered, around Bilbo’s wizened one.

“To the Grey Havens, uncle,” he said, gently stroking the old hobbit’s thumb. “The Elves have afforded you a special honor, and you are going with them over the Sea, to heal.”

He sighed, and the old hobbit ho-hummed and looked around, until his misty eyes settled on the curtain.

“Oh… Hmm… Well, isn’t that interesting,” he said, sucking the insides of his cheeks. “Elves!... Huh… I should dearly love to see some Elves…”

Frodo nodded, and drew him closer to his side, stroking the elder’s arm.

“You will, uncle. You will very soon.”

He glanced at Sam, and Sam, for his part, was rather hard at work keeping a straight face.

Frodo thanked his lucky stars that at least Merry and Pippin were not in the same carriage.

For indeed, when they first met the delegation from Rivendell, Bilbo’s condition was a surprise to all – even to Frodo, who had been receiving regular updates. (1) At an age well beyond the lifespan of most hobbits, it may have been expected, but to know a thing and to see it were two different things, and none of them had ever met an elder so forgetful, and who knew those around him only intermittently.

But while Merry and Pippin had taken to hanging back, looking markedly subdued from their usual liveliness, Sam had immediately resumed his role as skillful caretaker, and for this, Frodo was infinitely grateful. Indeed, Sam would only now and again fix his eyes on Frodo as if to ask, wordlessly, if his uncle had gotten on his last nerve, and assuring him of his full compassion if he did. But on other occasions he wore a concerned and docile expression – as if begging forgiveness for a guilty amusement.

But even Sam – “friend of friends” that he was – could not have guessed the full extent of Frodo’s feelings. After getting over the initial shock, Frodo had never left his uncle’s side, and his doing so was a welcome respite to his minder, an elf-maiden named Nisilë, who would only be going as far as the Grey Havens. Indeed, in the hours that followed, Sam had watched with wide-eyed admiration as Frodo sat by his uncle’s side, minding him with eagle eyes whenever they stopped to rest – for Nisilë had informed them, in a voice both soft and serious, that Bilbo had a habit of wandering off into the woods, and the first time he had done it, nobody could find him on account of his quiet feet. And Sam could only shake his head in wonderment as Frodo tucked a cover over his uncle’s vest, fed him little bits off a spoon, and wiped the crumbs off his face, his words both gentle and encouraging.

Sam could not have known – could never have guessed – what truly drove his friend to act as he did.

For indeed, when Frodo first saw Bilbo, his heart had squeezed with pity, and it continued to do so every time he heard his uncle’s reedy voice – a far cry from the cheerful and commanding tone that had once preached, cajoled, and lectured Frodo into a “fine specimen of hobbithood and no mistake,” as the Gaffer liked to say. And it did make Frodo feel a trifle better to be doing something for his uncle in his old age, for Bilbo had cared for him just the same, from the time Frodo was scarcely out of his teens, newly arrived at Bag End, and ill with scarlet fever.

But more than that, it was an effort to distract himself – and to atone for the wound he was about to deal Marigold and Sam, though neither of them knew it.

For even as the hills slipped easily past, leaving mile after mile between them, Frodo could not shake the image of Marigold standing on the doorstep of Bag End – standing and waving until they lost sight of her.

He wondered, on many occasions, whether she did in fact know, and he regretted many times how clumsily he had sent her away the day of Gandalf’s visit. If he had known when the wizard might come, he might have planned it better, but Gandalf, blast him, arrived “precisely when he meant to…”

He cursed the wizard’s proclivities even now – the guilt gnawing painfully at his sides, but thankfully, he could not imagine Marigold knowing anything at all, what with her endless optimism and her eye for all that was good in the world…

She had prepared the bags as if nothing had happened, packing ample stores of food and even a medicine chest in her infinitely discerning, impeccable way. And she had looked only a little sullen when she had seen them off on their ponies, lingering only a little when she hugged them, and admonishing Sam to ensure that Frodo stayed warm on his journey there and back again.

He thought of her standing at the gate seeing them off, and admonishing Sam… And every time he thought of it, the pain in his chest returned.

Did he already miss her? A thousand times…

He missed her hard-working, calloused hands and her salt-of-the earth cleverness. He missed her rustic beauty, and her earnest, plodding attempts at befriending the written word. And every time he missed them, he felt the edges of the package jutting against his ribs.

The package was an old leather sleeve of the sort used to hold money and papers, and he had placed it, unbeknownst to Marigold or Sam, in a pocket in the inner lining of his jacket before they set off. And in the packet, there was a book – the red leather-bound memoir of the War of the Ring that he and Bilbo had begun, and that he would give to Sam at the docks in the Grey Havens.

And inside the book there was a will, along with a letter to Marigold.

And in the letter – which he had written and rewritten dozens of times, its predecessors flung angrily into the fire – he had laid out his decision as best he could, and asked for her forgiveness, both for his departure and for his secrecy. He then confessed his love in words he never knew he possessed, and he wished her, in terms that were as sincere as they were clear, a life much happier than the one he could give her.

And as for the will?

In the will, signed and notarized at the office of Messrs Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes on the afternoon that Marigold had taken off, he bequeathed Bag End, the associated rents, and all of his effects to Sam and Marigold in perpetuity. This was, of course, small reparation for the knife he was about to plunge into their backs, but at the very least, Sam and Rosie would have a place of their own, and Marigold, whatever she chose to do in life, would want for nothing until the end of her days.

He ran his hand over the front of his jacket, and time and again he felt the packet. And every time he did, the image of Marigold returned…

The image of Marigold trying to read the letter, with her hands shaking and her tears falling onto the page… Marigold, with Sam by her side, equally grief-stricken and rubbing her back as he fought his own emotion.

He wondered if Sam would need to read the letter to her – if in her pain she might forget what she had learned…

Indeed, he was often drawn to such imaginings, perhaps because he knew that it would hurt. And he could only hope that this strange urge, along with his painful love, might eventually be healed where the healing was better…

He thought as much, and his thoughts ran over each other in his mind, digging deeper into their furrows. The dappled sun slipped languidly past the window, until at last, he heard his uncle’s voice.

“Frodo, my boy,” Bilbo creaked beneath his ear, “Do you remember that old ring I gave you?”

The old hobbit had been nodding off for the better part of their journey, but suddenly, he looked Frodo straight in the eye, and assumed an animated expression.

Frodo sighed.

The Ring… Ever the Ring.

Even now it called to his poor uncle, who could barely remember his own name, and saw eternity in an hour. (2)

Frodo shook his head.

“Yes, uncle,” he replied softly. “But I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”

Bilbo sighed.

“Oh, that is a shame.” His eyes, which had momentarily fixed themselves on Frodo’s, had drifted away again, pausing on the bobbing drawstring of the curtain. “I should have liked to hold it one last time…”

Frodo sighed again, and as he wrapped his hand around his uncle’s, he shook his head.

“Well, it’s alright, uncle,” he said, and pressed a kiss onto his temple. “Just go to sleep, and we’ll be there soon.”

And Bilbo, for what it was worth, eagerly heeded his words. He closed his eyes, and rested his head on Frodo’s shoulder, smacking his lips. The Ring was almost instantly forgotten.

The trees, with their shadow lattice, slipped with a rustle past the window, and Frodo glanced across the carriage.

Sam’s expression was a mirror of his dismay – but also utterly unsurprised.

Frodo sighed and cheerlessly closed his eyes.

It was, of course, a fool’s errand to try and sleep – for it still eluded him unless circumstances were ideal. But as Bilbo nodded off on his shoulder, he thought it better to rest. He was, after all, quite tired, and the seats were rocking, cradle-like, beneath him.

They were passing through a dappled wood, and the light flickered briskly across his eyelids.

The carriage took a turn in the road, and Bilbo’s head slumped lower against his shoulder. 

Frodo opened his eyes to check on his uncle, and glanced at Sam across the way.

Both hobbits seemed to be dozing, and everything was quiet and still. His gaze drifted idly past the curtain.

Outside, the trees were still barren, but here and there, new buds were lining the branches with yellow-green.

In the twilight of his half-closed eyes, Frodo saw a child run across the road. 

And though they were miles away from the next settlement, it did not strike him as strange.

Nor did it strike him as strange, as he looked closer, to see that it was a hobbit maid-child, judging by her size, and the fact that her feet were bare.

She was wearing a blue dress, her hair done up in brown braids, and she ran, laughing, away from the road, crunching through the thicket into a clearing… 

But it was no ordinary clearing. Inexplicably, it contained a kitchen hearth, and there was a hobbit woman standing before it. She was turned away from him just then, stirring a pot with one hand as she looked at a book from time to time, nodding to herself as if committing words to memory.

The child approached, and she turned, and Frodo saw what he already knew.

It was Marigold.

She had lost some of her youthful roundness, but she was still as warm and lovely as a bright spring day. She wore a crisp, simple, well-made dress, and her face was happy and at ease.

She broke into a smile and squatted down, catching the girl between her arms. She lifted her up, spinning her around, and said something inaudible. The child shrieked with delight, and Marigold hugged her to her breast, the two of them turning in his direction.

Two heart-shaped faces, both alike in their gentle expression, watched him pass as the sunlight slanted through the trees. In the pale spring air, Marigold’s hair was a luminous wreath of gold, and the child had finely formed, almost elfin features – and enormous blue eyes.

There was no doubt as to whose child she was. And if she lived, he would walk through Mordor again for her sake.

It was enough.

It was more than enough.

Frodo started out of his seat like one possessed.

He let go of Bilbo, and the sudden movement woke up Sam, who looked wildly about him.

“What in the Shire, Mr. Frodo?!”

But Frodo had already gotten up, and was standing on his seat, rapping on the roof of the carriage. (3)

“Gandalf!” he cried, “Please! Stop! I need to speak to Gandalf! It’s very important!” (4)

And so it was that the caravan of hobbits, elves, and wizard came to an unexpected stop in the middle of the woods, not two hours’ journey away from the Grey Havens. Sam and the others watched as Gandalf descended from his carriage, and as Frodo led the way to a clearing some distance away from the main road, just out of earshot of the others.

Their conversation was not a long one.

Frodo appeared to be speaking quickly, and an agreement was quickly reached.

But Sam had not the slightest idea what was discussed. The only thing he could discern was Gandalf’s form bending politely in Frodo’s direction, and Frodo’s gestures – sometimes toward the caravan, sometimes toward the trees, and sometimes in the direction they had come from. Gandalf’s long hat nodded deliberately from time to time, and after several minutes, they ceased to speak altogether and walked to the carriage of the elves, where they spoke to its occupants, and after that, Frodo returned to Sam and Bilbo.

But even after that, Sam had not the faintest notion what was going on.

The only difference was that Frodo’s breath was quicker, and his cheeks were pink as roses as he resumed his seat. But he did not speak, though he seemed much calmer than before, and Sam had resolved not to ask, for Frodo had a way of telling him when the time was right.

When they arrived at the Grey Havens, the departure of Gandalf, Bilbo and the elves went off without a hitch, and there were many tears, and deeply felt words, and an air of finality that was both sad and uplifting. 

Before they boarded the ship, Gandalf addressed the hobbits and said, “I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are evil” (5) – and Sam could feel these words quite keenly in his breast as he and Frodo conducted Bilbo to the gangplank, and the elderly hobbit smiled with a childlike glee, and said that he was “quite ready for another adventure.” 

Frodo was quite overcome to let his uncle go, and he had squeezed Sam hand harder than necessary as he released his uncle’s, and Sam, quite naturally, squeezed it back. And then the four hobbits (and Nisilë, as well as two other elves who were not leaving) looked on with unshed tears as Galadriel, Elrond and several other elves boarded the ship, followed by Gandalf in the end, and then the vessel’s stately sails unfurled, swelling in the wind, and it pulled away from the harbor, taking what seemed like the last of the elven majesty of Middle-earth with it.

The sun was high over the horizon, and as the ship embarked, it made a trail like a gilded path, receding into the distance.

The elves and the hobbits watched the scene, until at last the sail disappeared between the pillars of the bay, sinking into the golden sunlight – but even then, they could not stop watching. Instead, they lingered, each with their own thoughts, thinking of the paths they had traveled, and the people they had become – shaped, in many ways, by the ones who were now departed.

And then, slowly, they began to turn away – first the elves, and then Merry and Pippin, and then Sam and Frodo, making their way to the hitching post where the horses and ponies remained, some distance away from the docks.

They thanked Nisilë and the others, who would remain in the Grey Havens to deliver messages and to visit acquaintances, and there was talk of whether the hobbits would begin their journey home straight away, or find a place to sleep and take their dinner.

In the end, they decided to set off sooner rather than later – for Frodo, in particular, seemed eager to return, and Sam, being solicitous of his health, was not about to contradict him. And so, they took their evening meal in a quiet guesthouse with their elvish friends before setting off, and decided to spend the night at an inn closer to familiar country.

It was the second day of their journey home, just around noon, when the hobbits had once again mounted their ponies after a short luncheon by the side of the road. Sam was thinking wearily of home; for not only was the journey tiring, but the lembas, actual lembas, which he had again overindulged in – had left him feeling dull and slow. He nodded sleepily in his saddle – but Frodo, seemingly refreshed, spurred his own pony forward, and beckoned to Sam to follow him alone.

Merry and Pippin seemed to have been warned that something like this might happen, and as soon as Frodo trotted forward, they hung back, checking their ponies until they were some fifty paces behind him. And so, Sam cottoned onto what was wanted, and blinked and slapped his cheeks, clicking his tongue to urge his pony forward.

The day around them was gray, with only a hint of a blue sky and the hesitant warmth of spring. The buds of the trees that stood young and wispy by the side of the road were just beginning to come in, and the fields, speckled brown and white, lay quiet and undisturbed, but for the cries of birds that echoed from a distant grove.

Frodo’s face looked serene, even comfortable, but he did not speak at first as Sam trotted up beside him. Instead, he looked straight ahead, but when he did speak, it was on a topic that Sam expected.

“Well, Sam,” he said with a hint of a smile, “I expect you might want to know why I halted the carriage, and about my conversation with Gandalf.”

And Sam, for his part, proceeded to straighten his back and looked suddenly very serious.

 “Why, yes, Mr. Frodo,” he returned with a stolid nod. “But only if you wish to tell me. I don’ mean to pry in any case.”

He offered a conciliatory smile, but Frodo only nodded, and at first did not reply, closing his eyes against the cool, crisp air. His gray elvish cloak was wrapped around his shoulders, and the wind tousled his hair.

“No, Sam, I do not mind at all,” he said at last. “After all, it’s only a matter of time before the others” – he glanced back at Merry and Pippin – “will demand to know what’s what. They only need to drink a little more. And I know that you’ve been doing everything but stitch your mouth shut to avoid asking, but it’s really my fault, in the end…”

He looked like he might have laughed – but his lips remained tight. He gazed at the approaching horizon.

And Sam nodded soberly in response, waiting for the explanation that was sure to come.

And so Frodo gave it.

He explained everything about the offer from the Elves, and the healing he might have had in the Undying Lands. He explained that as a Ringbearer, he was entitled to sail to Valinor just like Bilbo, and that he had accepted the offer, keeping it a secret from the others for fear of being stopped. But in the end, he could not do it.

He finished and drew a breath, fixing his eyes on his friend – waiting to be questioned or judged – but Sam could not do either.

In fact, he could do nothing at all: he only stared at Frodo – as if Frodo had morphed into an Ent, an oliphaunt, or some other alien creature.

“W-wait, Mr. Frodo,” he stammered at last, once the gears of his slow but deliberate mind had finally caught up, “Are you sure? Are you sure you want to stay?”

It was a genuine, heartfelt question, and it broke from his lips with an artlessness uncommon even for him.

He blinked, and Frodo nodded, solemn as could be.

“Yes, I am sure, Sam,” he returned. “Sure as sure can be. But it was not an easy choice, and until the last I was not sure – which is why I did not speak of it, even to you.”

Sam nodded, and fiddled with his reigns, even as another, wordless question came to mind.

And Frodo nodded once again, glancing at the passing scenery.

“And you know, Sam,” he went on, “Back when we first returned, my soul was like Mordor itself – scorched earth – and I expected it would stay that way. I had lost all hope that it might be different…”

He fell silent and brought his eyes once more to the horizon, squinting at a flock of birds that rose from the hills.

“But something had taken root in that barren rock. A living thing.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, glancing at his friend – but he did not speak.

“A Marigold.” (6)

Sam’s eyes grew wide, and it was only by some miracle that he did not tumble off his pony.

Frodo smiled, and Sam fumbled to regain his balance.

“Well, Sam, are you really so surprised?” He sniffed a laugh, and his eyes looked mirthful as he arched his eyebrows. “Was that not your intention all along? That your wonderful sister takes care of me, and I fall entirely in love with her? Well, my dear Sam, allow me to congratulate you – I have.”

Frodo’s gaze did not waver, and as the Gamgee peered at him, his lips were twitching at the sides.

But he could not speak.

He only made an unintelligible series of sounds – a jumble of syllables culminating in a fit of a coughing – and Frodo watched him through it all, a mild amusement playing on his lips.

This lasted for good long while, until at last the Gamgee regained his composure – and by degrees he found his words as well. He drew a long, slow breath, and with a final clearing of the throat, he readjusted his reins.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” he finally said, and shifted in his saddle, “I do have to say – and if you pardon me, I can not tell a lie, it was my inten-tion, like you said. But I have to admit” – and here he paused, rubbing the back of his neck and coloring to the roots of his hair, “You an’ Mari are so tight-lipped and no mistake, that I got to thinkin’ that perchance it could happen, but I never thought it would get so serious, if you understand. And I didna think that if you was goin’ to leave, that she would be the one to tip the scales, if you get my meanin’.”

He rounded out his words with a cautious look at Frodo, but Frodo only chuckled, for he did seem to get the meaning. 

He wrinkled his eyes at his friend, and returned his gaze to the hills beyond the field they were passing.

“Well, to be frank,” he said with a gentle smile, “I decided that if I could care for a new person, particularly one I had overlooked before, then there was hope for me here yet. My Mordor will never turn into any lush green country, and the healing here does not have the magic of Valinor, but even so…”

His voice trailed off, but this time, Sam was quick to understand.

He nodded primly.

“Well, I think I get your meaning, Mr. Frodo,” he returned – and if they were riding any closer, he would have reached out and touched his arm. “Sometimes, it’s the little things that do a body good, and it’s the ones around you, and all the things you do for one another, that make a life worth living. Marigold knows that, and it seems you know that too.”

He smiled, and Frodo nodded in his turn.

“Yes, that it most certainly is. That it most certainly is.” He chuckled in his turn – and as he readjusted his seat, his pony snorted. “Though if you don’t mind me sayin’, you doin’ any more fightin’? That would make for an excessively unjust world.”

He chuckled, and Sam nodded again.

“Well, that it most certainly is, Mr. Frodo. That it most certainly is.” He chuckled – and as he readjusted his seat, settling contentedly into the saddle, his pony snorted in return. “Though if you don’t mind me sayin’, you doin’ more fightin’? That would make for an excessively unjust world, if you ask me.”

He sniffed – but Frodo only sighed, and for a spell both were silent.

The afternoon sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, and slanting over the dormant farm fields.

Sam watched the passing scenery – the golden patches of sun, the quiet slumber of the earth untouched by a plow. But before long, his heart grew uneasy, and he furrowed his brow as another thought surfaced in his mind.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo,” he said suddenly, swallowing hard as he fixed his eyes on his master. “Does she know? That you thought of leavin’, I mean?”

And to this, Frodo also had an answer. 

In fact, he seemed anything but surprised by the question.

He shook his head. 

“No, she knows nothing, Sam,” he said. “She does not even know my feelings, though she might suspect them. But no, I did not tell her that I was thinking of leaving – and that was wrong of me, I’ll admit. I am already so much in her debt. But Sam, I think it is best we do not tell her what almost happened. And I ask your forgiveness for that as well.”

He glanced down briefly at his reigns, but beyond that, his eyes did not leave Sam’s. 

And in the end, it was Sam who looked away first, lapsing into silence.

It was the sort of silence that might have boded ill had Frodo not been Frodo, and Sam had not been Sam. Indeed, had the circumstances been different, he might have easily found himself on the side of the road, getting his face pounded in.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Sam remained silent at first, and then his face grew hard. He clasped his reins until his knuckles turned white, and then the tension ebbed.

He released a sigh, ending in a hitch.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “I suppose there is no helping it now.” He turned to face his friend, and with a guilty twinge of relief, Frodo saw the clouds parting over his face. “I won’t say a word if you won’t. But then –”

Dear old Sam!

Frodo could have laughed – for it was not the first time Sam had “forgotten” a wrong – though he never truly did forget; he simply did not let on that he remembered.

“But –” Sam repeated, gravely – and Frodo sighed – for there was always going to be a but. Even he, Mr. Frodo, could not have gotten off scot-free.

“Please, Mr. Frodo,” Sam went on, and sat up straighter in his saddle, “Please, you must promise me one thing” – he paused, and here, Frodo noticed that there was a mist covering his eyes. “Please, you must treat her well, I beg of you. And if you send her away – meanin’ if you have a fallin’ out or some such thing, please, do it kindly, and explain to her why. She is a good lass, she’ll understand. She deserves at least that much –”

He paused – for his voice was cracking and growing hoarse.

And for his part, Frodo pressed his lips and looked away – and for a moment more, there was only the sound of hoof-falls.

Coward. Bloody coward.

He closed his eyes, and let the pony’s sway soothe his pounding heart.

Indeed, he could only imagine poor Sam and Marigold… The latter probably scouring the floors of Bag End as they spoke, completely oblivious to all that had transpired. But in his mind’s eye, the Gamgees were hugging each other and crying, puzzling over why Mr. Frodo, who had apparently loved her, had left without so much as a goodbye…

The image would ever leave his mind.

He drew a sigh – as slow and as ragged as Sam’s – and reminded himself to burn the letter, as well as the will, as soon as he could find a flame.

He opened his eyes, and glanced at Sam once more. 

“Why, yes, she certainly deserves a good deal better than me,” he said. “But even so, she shall have me, such as I am, if that is what she wants. I plan to confess to her as soon as I get back.”

He sighed, and offered a sad smile.

And Sam, to his credit, smiled as well, nodding his assent – for the height of his emotion was receding.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” he said, and cocked his head with a conciliatory look, “That is just as well, for it’s none of us that have no hard edges…”

He paused, and hummed, the wind in the treetops humming back.

“And I say,” he added with a laugh, “I wouldn’t think so poorly of myself if I were you, Mr. Frodo. After all, Mari is my own flesh and blood, and I wouldn’t have trusted her to anyone less worthy.” (7)

He chuckled again, and suddenly, a glad feeling overcame him, and he had an inexplicable urge to whoop, and to spur his pony forward.

He glanced at Frodo with a wink, and struck up an old tune –

There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old gray hill… (8)

He knew, of course, that it would not be easy – he had no illusions about that.

But all the same, nothing could have stood in the way of his hope and his delight at that precise moment.

His heart still pounded, and his mind was still reeling from everything he had learned. He still could not picture Frodo leaving for what may as well have been the Moon (9) – and it would take many days to fully comprehend the fact, much less stop feeling like he was trampled by a horse.

But even then, he knew one thing and one thing only. This was Frodo, and though the workings of his mind were sometimes strange, he never did anything halfway, and once he decided on something, he never turned back.

He knew Frodo, and that was enough.

More than enough.

He smiled to himself, and turned to face his friend.

And Frodo, for his part, took up the tune as well, and pulled on his reins – for Merry and Pippin needed to catch up, and they, too, would need to be told what happened and sworn to secrecy with the aid of libations.

1. In this version of the story, due to Bilbo’s severe dementia and the need for supervision during travel, I have elected to have the hobbits, Gandalf, and the elves meet up fairly early in the journey to the Grey Havens.
2. An interesting thing about people with dementia is that, by dint of short term memory loss, any emotion or experience becomes, in essence, their entire existence. This makes certain experiences excruciating, while others bring an unparalleled delight, and an hour can feel like eternity, because that hour, effectively, is all they know. The phrase “eternity in an hour” is borrowed from a poem called “Auguries of Innocence” by William Blake.
3. In the days of horse-drawn conveyances, travelers would rap on the top of the carriage to signal to the driver to start or stop, but Frodo, being a hobbit in a non-hobbit sized carriage, can not do this easily unless he bodily gets up onto the seat.
4. As readers might have guessed, Frodo’s vision and his reaction to it were heavily inspired by the scene in The Return of the King film where Arwen is journeying to the Grey Havens, ready to leave Middle-earth, and then sees a vision of Aragorn and their future son, which forces her to turn around. Frodo and Marigold’s story does have parallels to that of Arwen and Aragorn, particularly the choice between being with a loved one and immortality – or, in Frodo’s case, superior healing and perhaps a longer life.
5. This is a direct quote from the book The Return of the King.
6. This is one of the reasons why this work is called The Flowers of Mordor.
7. This is a reference to Mr. Bennet’s words in Pride and Prejudice: “I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”
8. “Merry Inn,” from The Fellowship of the Ring.
9. Valinor is located in the land of Aman. When Middle-earth went from being flat to spherical, Aman remained a separate, ethereal entity, connected to Middle-earth by the Straight Road. As such, Aman is similar to a moon that remained tethered to the land.

END OF BOOK I.

Chapter Text

Frodo had been right, on one account.

Marigold was, in fact, scrubbing the floors of Bag End as the afternoon sun slanted obliquely through the stained glass windows in the foyer.

When Frodo had gone, he had asked her to look after Bag End, and she had done so. In fact, just before his departure, her headaches had grown worse, so once he left, she invoked every possible excuse to take refuge there – to do simple chores, to rest (the anathema!), and to read as best she could when her pain allowed her.

Without Frodo, the rooms were quiet and sad, but she still found it pleasant. In spite of the pain and heartbreak, it felt like home.

And so the days had passed. But on the final day there was little time to dawdle. She was expecting him back by the afternoon, so she prepared his favorite winter dinner – a thick mushroom stew, mashed peas, and crispy preserved cabbage from last season. And she wanted the first thing he would see, the foyer, to be clean – so she was on her hands and knees scrubbing.

The front hallway had a way of collecting grime between the tiles, so she did this every week without fail. She washed the tiles with salt and water to keep the mildew at bay, and by tea time, the bulk of the foyer was dry, though a few stubborn spots remained.

She was applying some extra elbow grease with a rag, attacking the final holdouts, when the door creaked open, and she glanced up.

Frodo was standing in the doorway, his travel pack on his back, and his gray woolen cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, welcome back.” She raised her hand to wave. “If you don’t mind, I’m nearly finished here – and it’s mostly dry, quite safe to walk – and dinner’s ready; it just needs to be warmed up…”

Frodo crossed the threshold, and as Marigold resumed her efforts with the tiles, he stepped gingerly around the wet spots, watching her blonde head. He remained eerily quiet – not even a greeting passed his lips, and he dropped his pack on the bench against the far wall.

She stopped the progress of her rag, and appraised him quizzically, but even then, he regarded her in silence. He did not look the way he usually did – guilty, furtive, as if his gaze alone might harm her – but he did in fact look at her. Like she was all there was to see, and they were the only two people in the world.

Her heart beat fast, and her head felt suddenly dizzy.

And then Frodo spoke.

“Get up, Marigold,” he said. “You bow to no one. Least of all me.” (1)

He extended a hand, and it left no room for argument. His grasp felt uncommonly firm as he pulled her up.

Marigold stood up, and her heart began to hammer. But even so, she found her voice.

“But – but, Mr. Frodo,” she stammered, “Beggin’ your pardon, but you can’t very well get the dirt from between the tiles without gettin’ on your hands and knees and scrubbin’ for all you’re worth. And what’s this got to do with bowing, I don’t understand –”

She pressed the rag in her hand, but the words died on her lips as Frodo went down on one knee before her.

He kept her hand in his, and placed the other one on top.

“Marigold, I’ve been an unmitigated and comprehensive ass,” he said, his eyes filling with longing. “I’ve hurt you – you and your lovely heart – and now it is I who should bow to you, and beg your forgiveness.” (2)

“Mr. Frodo, I –” 

Marigold’s heart pounded wildly, and there was a ringing in her ears.

But even so, Frodo's voice came through loud and clear, resolute as never before, and he clasped her hand firmly.

“Marigold, be mine,” he said. “You deserve everything, and everything that is in my power, I give to you. I love you, and I never wish to be parted from you again –”

Marigold gasped.

The rag dropped wetly by her side, and her legs felt like jelly. The buzzing was growing louder, and Frodo’s face began to swim, as did his words inside her head.

She needed to sit down… Immediately. 

Her breath choked in her throat, but even so, she had the presence of mind to lower herself down, and covered her face with her hand – still wet from the cloth.

“Oh, no, oh, no, Marigold – what’s wrong?!” 

She could not see him, but she could hear him – and he was anxious as a mother whose child had fallen taking her first steps.

He clasped her hand, but she could barely raise her eyes.

“No, Mr. Frodo – it’s nothing… It’s nothing…” She pressed her hand against her mouth.

But Frodo was undeterred.

“Mari, it can’t be nothing… Here –”

She uncovered her face, but already, he was scrambling up, and before she could blink, she was being lifted up, one of his arms supporting her back, the other underneath her knees, her foot-hair catching a breeze.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo, you’ll strain yourself!”

But Frodo shook his head.

“No, hush. I won’t. You’re light as a feather.”

He pressed her close against him, and carried her to the parlor with surprising ease. Once there, he deposited her carefully on the couch, and took off his travel cloak – the elvish one, with the leaf-shaped clasp – and draped it over her. Squeezing her arms, he said, “Wait just a moment, I’ll be right back,” and padded to the kitchen, where she heard the sound of water being poured.

She closed her eyes, and tried to steady her breathing.

Mr. Frodo… loved her?

To be fair, she had already suspected as much – except whenever things edged toward calling a spade a spade, there was always a reason why they could not. So what had changed? What had he seen out there?

She opened her eyes – and saw Frodo coming toward her with a cup in his hand, wearing his shirt and vest. She hastened to sit up, the cloak still over her, and he squatted down at her side, offering her the water.

“Here, have a drink. What else can I do to help?”

He rubbed her back as she took a sip, but she could not look at him.

Her reflection rippled on the surface of the water. 

“I’m – I’m alright, Mr. Frodo,” she finally managed – and that much was true. Now that she was sitting, her head no longer swam, and her vision was clearer. She gazed at his delicate features, his full lips, his cheeks still shining from the road…

He shifted toward her, and rubbed her back again.

“Is this alright?” He cocked his head, and his eyes were deep and earnest. “I know you haven’t given me an answer, so I don’t want to do anything untoward…”

“Oh…”

Marigold glanced at the cup, and the Marigold in the cup glanced back.

His hand paused in its progress.

“I guess…” she returned, “But I don’t understand what happened, what’s changed. I don’t understand why now…”

She lowered the cup onto her lap, and appraised him with anxious eyes.

And his eyes, large and blue and infinite as the sky, looked back.

“Well, that I understand, Mari,” he returned, his hand pausing over her back. “And I would have the same question, if I were you. And believe me, I have no right to expect you to trust me, not with the way I have behaved. I said that we cannot be together, not once but twice, but I was wrong – so wrong.”

He paused, and for a moment avoided her eyes, opening and closing his hand over his knee.

“And I have to say,” he added, glancing up once more, “It took my going away, and saying my goodbyes – to others, not to you – to recognize that our lives are fleeting, but that is why we must hold on to the ones we love, and give them everything we can while there’s still time. And you – you’ve made me see that there can be life, where before I only saw death –”

He squeezed his hands in his lap, and then seemed to change his mind, reaching for her hand.

And Marigold, for her part, moved only to place her cup on the table before them. He took her hand, and their fingers intertwined.

“Well, then,” she said, nodding demurely, “I understand your meaning, Mr. Frodo. And as for my answer – my answer is yes.”

She looked up at him, and her eyes were bright and clear.

The light from the window, coppery-gold from the slanting rays, cast the outlines of the window across the floor.

Frodo’s features quaked, and he clasped her hand tighter, his lips quivering.

“Oh, Mari…”

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but his hands were warm, and he was warm, and the parlor was filled with the calm, gauzy light of evening.

She nodded, shifting closer to him, and broke their hold just long enough to remove the elvish cloak from her knees and place it carefully to one side.

“I love you too, Mr. Frodo” she said, turning back to face him, and as she spoke, her voice was clear and high as a rushing brook. “I love you, and I always will, you should know that by now. But you should know another thing as well.” She paused, and her eyebrows pinched together in the middle. “You should know that after everything that’s happened, if ever you say you’ve changed your mind again –”

She bit her lip, and Frodo shook his head and shifted closer, clasping her hands with a desperate fervor.

“No, Mari, I won’t,” he exclaimed. “By the Valar I won’t.”

And Marigold returned a smile.

“I know, Mr. Frodo, I know,” she said, and extracted her hands from his, taking one of them – the one with the four fingers – and placing it over her heart. “I know, you are un-doubtedly as good as your word, and you’re not one to make a promise lightly. I know that there’s a reason you didn’t speak to me before – it’s because you had to be sure, so as not to disappoint me. But it may take a while for my heart to know it, if you understand.”

She drew a breath, and Frodo felt a gentle thumping beneath her ribs.

He nodded slowly.

“Of course, Marigold, of course,” he said. “Anything. Anything for you and your lovely heart. It is the greatest treasure in all the Shire – in all of Middle-earth, in fact.”

He took his hand from her chest and wrapped it around hers, bringing it to his lips.

“What can I do? What can I do to help you feel secure in my affection?”

His lips lingered over her hand, brushing it like a honeybee settling on a flower. He then kissed her fingers one by one.

Marigold closed her eyes… 

It was rather hard to think, with him looking at her like that – like she was all his joy, and her word was the difference between hope and despair. But she tried her best, even as her mind reeled…

To think… Her and Mr. Frodo, now talking of love, and being together, when only days before they had been… What exactly had they been? Though perhaps Bingo was right… They were not married, but for many months, she had cared for him like a wife might have done, and they shared so many things no one knew about.

She opened her eyes, and glanced about the room.

“What can you do?” she repeated gently. “Why, nothing in particular, Mr. Frodo. Just this. Just us. And nobody else, for now.”

Frodo straightened up, and drew a determined breath, cradling her hands in his.

“Why, of course, Mari. Goodness me, who else would there be?”

He chuckled, but Marigold stolidly shook her head.

“No, Mr. Frodo, that’s not what I meant.” She pressed her lips and interlaced their fingers. “I meant, I just want to keep things quiet for now, if you understand. I don’t want to tell anyone just yet, and I don’t want you to talk to Gaffer, or to make any wedding plans.”

She glanced at him, appraising his expression.

“And don’t think,” she added hastily, “That it’s because I don’t want to be with you – quite the opposite,” she smiled. “I simply want to take some time to get used to it, if you understand. I need some time to get used to this change between us, before we start thinkin’ about how everyone else is goin’ to take the news, and what to do about the party and all…”

She sighed, and glanced at their fingers: hers a sandy-tan and calloused – not too pretty, she thought with some chagrin – while his were pale with ever-bitten nails. And Frodo, who had been listening in silence, inclined his head as he took one of his hands from hers, winding it around her waist.

“I understand, my Mari,” he said, and his eyes, just like his touch, were gentle. “There is much to think of, that is plain. First we were not even courting, and now I’m asking for your hand. It is a change, to be sure.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it yet again. “But don’t worry – we will move at your pleasure, and at your pleasure only.” His grip was tender and definite, and he ran a thumb across her knuckles. “Though, I must say, there are some who know already – about my feelings for you – nothing more.”

“Oh.” Marigold’s face fell, and she looked down at her apron. “Who, Sam?”

Frodo nodded, and clasped her hand a little tighter.

“Yes, Sam,” he returned. “And Merry and Pippin. But that is all.”

Marigold’s ears grew warm, and she scrutinized her knees – and then the rug by the mantel.

“But they are all sworn to secrecy,” Frodo added quickly.

Marigold shook her head.

“Yes, secrecy,” she sniffed. “Secrecy is all well and good, Mr. Frodo, ‘cept it is a well-known fact that the key to Merry and Pippin’s secret vault is ale, or Winyards if ale is lacking, and Sam – well, anythin’ Sam knows, Rosie is sure to know as well, for she’s got a key no one else has…” (3)

Frodo furrowed his brow, and Marigold shook her head a second time.

“And what’s more,” she exhaled ruefully, “The more people that’s keepin’ a secret, the worse it keeps.”

She straightened her back, tossing her head a little.

Frodo sighed.

“Well, I am sorry, Mari,” he replied at last, hazarding a glance at her face. “I only wanted to seek their counsel. And I wanted to get Sam’s blessing before I confessed to you.”

“Oh. And did Sam give his blessing?”

Marigold cocked her head, and Frodo nodded.

“He did,” he smiled. “And then he admonished me to treat you well. He is an excellent brother, Mari, and he cares for you above all.”

He let go of her hand, and reached to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear.

And Marigold smiled.

“Well, alright then, Mr. Frodo,” she returned – a rush of warmth overtaking her neck. “I’ll talk to Rosie, and I’ll try an’ make her see sense, and make sure she doesn’t forget herself.”

Her voice was even, and Frodo’s hand lingered over her shoulder, just where it met the neck.

Her heart beat fast, but she was no longer fearful. Instead, she wished he could touch her more, leaving invisible tracings on her skin, and not just over the neck and arms.

But Frodo had yet another question.

“And, pray tell, my dear Marigold,” he said. “What are we, then? Courting? Betrothed? Lovers?”

His face, which she once admired like a painting, was open and keen before her.

She smiled.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she returned with a chuckle. “Courting – I think we know each other too well to call it that, and anyway, we’ve been courtin’ in all but name for many months now. And betrothed, that is a word for others. That is what we will be when we start plannin’ a wedding, and tellin’ all our family and friends.”

Frodo nodded.

“And as for lovers, that does not pre-sume marriage, just the enjoyment of the moment, I think.”

Frodo smiled.

“Well, look at Marigold Gamgee. Writing the dictionary.”

He chuckled, and as her smile grew wider, a blush colored her cheeks. She slid her hand a few finger-breadths lower, to where his chest lay exposed.

“Well, of course,” she returned. “It is important to be precise. To be on the same page, so to speak, and readin’ the same book.” (4)

She schooled her expression, but the bright, uplifting feeling did not leave her. Despite her cautious words, she found herself wishing to be held by him, claimed by him.

“We have an understanding, I think,” she said at last. “That is what we have. We love each other, and we have an understanding.”

“An understanding,” Frodo repeated slowly. “We love each other, and we have an understanding.” He nodded, his lips forming the words like a precious treasure. “Yes, I think that is exactly right. Those are the perfect words.”

He smiled, and she smiled as well, and felt a tightness behind her eyes.

He reached for her face and traced a knuckle down her cheekbone.

“The perfect words,” he repeated, drawing her closer by the waist. “Picked, like the brightest blossoms for an impeccable bouquet, made by my sweetest, most beloved Marigold.” He cupped her face, and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Like the freshest berries, chosen from all the rest.” He kissed her again, just to the side of her mouth. “Like the one person who understands you like no other, and whose edges match your own…”

His hand was on the small of her back, and the other meandered to her hair, and then down her neck, raising goosebumps as it went. Her heart quivered in her chest, more intensely than before, and the feeling grew and buoyed her up, a warmth overtaking his face, arms, and back. They were nearly flush against each other now, and she breathed in his heady scent – a scent like linens and Yuletide spices, like book leather and being held.

He took a breath, his fingers pressing deeper into her skin. His face grew tense, and he held his breath, as if his heart was pounding just like hers, echoing in his ears.

“Mari.”

Her name on his lips was an incantation.

He breathed in his breath and their lips brushed together, reticently at first, like flowers blowing in the wind, but then he drew her in and his tongue begged entry. (5) She granted it willingly, and she moved her hands to his back, smoothing them over the velvet.

She had touched that back many times before, and she had even seen it, white and smooth as a petal when she had helped him change. And yet, this feeling was a world apart: her eliciting sighs wherever her fingers strayed, him arching into her touch, his mouth seeking hers with a renewed vigor.

They were at last on the same page, and reading the same book. They touched, and kissed, and neither wanted to stop. Their mouths inhaled one another, all hesitation forgotten, their hands losing their way and finding it again, their bodies crying out.

Yours… Mine…

It did not take long for a fire to ignite within her, and then he broke the kiss with a ragged gasp.

***

“Mari, may I? –”

His hand was just above her hips, and until then, he had not reached for any place that was untoward.

But her breath was quick and shallow, and her cheeks were blazing, and the blaze was equally matched by a quiver of a different kind. It felt like a bee sting at first: warm and swollen and sweet between her legs, and it grew and grew, and she ached to stoke it.

Maiden though she was, she knew exactly what it meant.

She nodded.

“Of course, Mr. Frodo. Whatever you like.”

She gazed at him, flushed and eager, and it felt like nothing existed but that room and the space between them.

“Alright…” he smiled, “But it’s not just about what I want anymore, Mari.”

He took his hand from her breast, where it had meandered, and his eyes were bluer than blue.

Marigold nodded.

“I know, Mr. Frodo, I know that too,” she returned. “But I want exactly what you want.”

She pressed her lips, and he lowered his eyes.

“Well, alright, then,” he replied. “Here, sit athwart my lap.”

He pressed her hip, his hands sliding down, and Marigold’s breath caught in her throat – though in retrospect, it really should not have. “Untoward” it may have been, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world, to let the soft animal of her body want what it wanted, and love what it loved (6). Her body, especially the parts he had not yet touched, burned and ached for him, and the tender tension between her legs was growing steadily…

And so, with a resolute nod, and with his hands firmly guiding her, she moved to sit atop his lap, with her legs on either side. Even with the volumes of fabric between them, she could feel his need – and again, it ought to have made her blush, but all it did was send voluptuous images through her mind: images of fingers reaching for drawstrings of corsets, of linen shirts and shifts being flung away, of hands roaming over soft, yielding flesh, of skin meeting skin…

Frodo drew an uneven breath, and his eyes looked suddenly youthful and reticent – almost apologetic. But she shook her head and cradled his cheek, kissing him first this time – and he needed little encouragement after that. After the first caress, his lips sought hers more urgently than ever, and his hands moved to her hips, and then to her thighs. Even through the layers of clothing, she could feel his desire, the desperate moans that broke from his lips every time he took a draught from her lips… All of it made her long to use her body as it was meant to be used, to wrap herself around him, her arms encircling his strong yet slender form.

She rocked her hips against him, the movement both stoking and allaying her desire, and in the same breath he began to push her skirt upward, exposing her knee and then her thigh. He paused, a gasp breaking from his throat, and then he froze, closing his eyes with his lips against hers. He stopped, but the fire between her loins was spreading quickly – up her thighs, coiling thickly between her hips, rising to her breasts. Her nipples prickled under her corset, and she thanked her lucky stars that there was so much fabric between them, for the spot between her legs was growing wet, and it could have easily sent his pants to the wash.

He opened his eyes, and gazed at her like there was nothing else in the world.

“Mari, do you – do you want to?” he ventured softly, his breath laboring between the words. “I know it is untoward, and very soon… I know that, and I still want you, like I haven’t wanted anything in a very long time.”

His fingers lingered over her thigh, and his eyes were dark with longing.

“I’ll take care that I don’t make you with child,” he added, “Not until we’re wed, that is, and not until you’re ready.”

He took another breath, his lips half-open, and there was no way she could say no to that face.

No way in the world.

Not when her breasts were crying out to be freed, yearning for his hands to peel away her corset, for his lips to do to her nipples what they had done to her mouth… Not when her insides hungered to be filled…

What else, who else, was her body made for, after all?

In truth, nobody abided by the “rules” – there were too many tempting hedges, haystacks, and barns for the simple folk, and too many sprawling smials with out-of-the-way corners for the rich. Preserving one’s maidenhead was a laudable endeavor – and certainly, it assured that any heirs were legitimate. But it was a distinction she no longer desired.

She gazed at him, and drew her hand down his neck.

“Of course, Mr. Frodo, of course,” she smiled. “That is something between us, so I don’t see any sense in putting it off.” She paused in trailing her fingers over his shirt, and rested her palm on the mound of flesh beneath it. “But I am a maid,” she added, “So we’ll have to get some towels, and we need to talk about how we’ll take care, so that I don’t fall with child.”

Her gaze was kind and inviting, and she cocked her head.

She calculated, quickly, the time of her last month-blood, and Frodo averted his eyes. But even so, he reached for the inner pocket of his vest, and extracted a small bag.

“Will these do?”

He had procured them early that morning in the town where they had stopped for the night, venturing to an apothecary before the others had woken up.

Marigold took the packet from his hands, and extracted several sheepskin covers, rolled into neat, round disks.

He was about to explain their function to her, but she looked like she knew exactly what they were. (7)

“Of course,” she smiled – and this time, she looked at once sheepish and determined. “These will be perfect. And for the future, I have more at home, from my midwife days, and some other things besides. We used to hand these out like hotcakes, Mrs. Bracegirdle and I…”

She folded the covers back into the bag and handed it to him.

And Frodo accepted it back, and placed it in his pocket.

“Well, then,” he said.

Gently, he drew her to him by the small of her back, and pressed another kiss against her lips. Then, equally gently, he patted one of her thighs, and she got his meaning, shifting her legs to one side so he could bring his arm under her knees and lift her up. And as he did so, she pressed her curly head against his shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

“Off we go,” he whispered. “By way of the bathroom, where we will procure a towel.”

She nodded, and remained silent as he began to walk – across the parlor and to the hall – noting, this time in his own mind, that she was lighter than he had thought. Or perhaps he was getting stronger.

They stopped by the bathroom, where he picked up a towel without relinquishing his hold on her – and then, they continued to the bedroom, where it was cool and quiet, the heavy, wine-dark bedspread stretched across the bed. The window shade was drawn, letting in the amber sunset.

He sat her on the edge of the bed, placing the towel to one side and the packet of sheepskins on the bedside table. He then lit a candle and pressed another, chaste kiss against her lips.

“It’s alright, Mari,” he said, for she looked more shrinking than before. “If you’re afraid, or you no longer wish it, it’s alright to change your mind. You can at any time.”

He kissed her on the cheek, and knitted their fingers together.

He gazed at her, but Marigold shook her head.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “I want this. I want you.”

She squeezed his hand, and then she leaned toward him, pressing her lips to his this time.

And after another moment, there was no stopping things, no holding back.

At first, there were more kisses – sweet as treacle and honey, and more profound and more delightful with every breath. And then, fingers and hands were roving wildly here and there, finding new ways to touch and hold, new spaces to discover, and reaching inexorably for buttons and clasps, unfastening and undoing, clumsy yet determined. The strings that trussed Marigold’s bodice, the buttons of Frodo’s vest, the collar of his shirt (which Marigold had helped to pull over his head) – all of it had come undone, and at some point – neither of them could remember when – they had gotten up to make undressing easier.

Marigold was on her toes, and Frodo leaned down a little, and while he guessed that she could not see his scars – her eyes were busy elsewhere – for once he found that he did not care, for he only wished he could be in better form, and to please her better…

The bodice undone, he moved to the drawstring of her skirt, and it fell to the floor with a rustle of layers. He put his hands on her arms, and as he slid her bodice down, her full, firm breasts came into view, covered by the thin, gauzy fabric of her underdress. The fabric was so light that he could see the pink, strawberry-shaped nipples, and if before his pants had been tight, the sight shook him with a seismic wave of desire.

He swallowed hard, and Marigold bit her lip.

“You are entirely too beautiful,” he breathed, and pressed his fingers into the flesh of her arms. “No elf maiden, no being I’ve ever seen could compare.”

Marigold sighed and her breasts moved up and down.

“No, you exaggerate, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “I’m nothing like that.”

But Frodo only reached for her in response, and motioned her, gently, to raise her arms, which she did. He drew the underdress up and over her head, and once it was off, he let it fall to the floor. He then pulled the drawstring of her bloomers, and slid them gently down her hips.

She stood before him, eyes averted, and her arms were pressed against her sides.

He recalled that in distant lands, it was said that men who saved their country were rewarded by fortune – or the Valar – with beautiful wives, and while Frodo did not think he truly saved anything, in that moment he was glad of fortune’s mistake. (8)

For the Gamgees were a comfortable and sturdy lot, and in Marigold’s case this nature was revealed in breasts the size of young melons, and hips so lush that from the start he was in danger of finishing before he started. He felt this way from the moment they began to kiss on the couch, and had been quite anxious, fearing that the voices might come back at any moment…

But against all odds, the voices did not come back, and for that he was glad, but that left the other problem – so he deployed the last-resort tactic of men the world over.

L-L-E-D… N-E… V-I-R – he spelled, tracing the letters in his mind.

He stepped toward her and took her hand – and she looked up at him, her face patient, open, waiting. 

He drew her down, pushing aside the covers, and pulled the towel toward them, to put under her hips. Coming to rest beside her, he kissed her lips, and then he reached for her head, and began to extract the pins from her curls as he molded his body against hers.

A-I-R… O-M…

The letters assembled easily, and he sought a more challenging word as he imagined resting his head against that breast, and falling into a sweet, untroubled slumber. He imagined that breast feeding their children, and suckling him during intimate moments.

N-E… I-R… O-L… H-T-O-L…

No matter what anyone said, she was not simply a beautiful woman. She was the only woman he had ever truly wanted, the only one he wanted for a future and a life. A woman with a heart as gold as her hair – who had come to him, and shown him her pain, and made him feel at ease enough to reveal his own. The woman who had chosen him, despite his darkness and his shame.

Her hair now loose, and the last of the pins gathered in his hand, Frodo reached to place them on the table, and, tasting her lips once more, he buried his fingers in those curls, soft as flax, as he began to kiss down her neck, her upper chest, and finally her breast, capturing the nipple with his mouth.

The nipple, which had grown hard against the cool bedroom air, had grown more so under his touch, a sigh breaking from her lips. He kissed further down, and as his lips progressed across her skin, she drew an uneven breath.

Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth half-open, but her hips actually pitched, and she pressed her thighs together.

He sighed. This would not do – he did not know how long he could hold out.

The moment, he supposed, would have had to come sooner or later.

Until then, he had not taken off his trousers, not wishing to scare her. But in the end, was this not the test of trust between them?

He raised his head.

“Mari –”

She opened her eyes.

Valar, her face, her skin, her – everything was lovely. 

“I – I need to take my pants off,” he whispered. “But – I – we… We don’t need to do it just yet. I want to kiss you and touch you down there first, to give you some pleasure, and to make it hurt less when the time comes…”

He fought to keep his eyes on her face – though it was painful, like looking directly at the sun. But thankfully, Marigold kept a steady gaze for the two of them, and though her face was anxious, she nodded.

“Of course – of course, Mr. Frodo,” she replied. “Whatever you think is best.”

She blinked and traced her finger down his jaw.

Her eyes were so trusting, so loving… It made him want to dispense with the kissing altogether, and bury himself in that soft skin.

Swallowing a second time, he shifted upward on his elbow, and pressed himself against her, scouring his mind for another landmark to spell backwards.

He undid the top buttons of his pants, but the relief was short-lived, so he pushed both his pants and undergarments down his hips, and then he kicked them off, kissing Marigold as he did so.

“But Mari, I don’t always know what’s best,” he said, and nuzzled the peach-fuzz of her cheek as the air drew across his middle. “Everyone is different in what they like and don’t like, so please let me know if something does not feel good.”

She nodded slowly, and then she closed her eyes, a flutter racing across her thighs.

Valar – those thighs.

Frodo reached for them, and caressed the place where they met her hips.

D-L-O-F… T-S-E-W…

He closed his eyes, and took a long, slow breath to steady himself.

“And I do wish you did not call me that – meaning Mr. Frodo,” he said at last. “Maybe just Frodo? Try it.”

Marigold opened her eyes, and, in the dim, gauzy light, their color was like dark, golden wheat.

She tented her brows.

“Of course,” she nodded slowly. “I can try… Frodo…”

She reached out and touched his face again – and then she drew her fingers across his neck, collarbone, and chest.

Frodo looked away as his fingers hovered over his scar – and sensing this, she drew away.

“Your scars are on your front, Frodo,” she said quietly. 

He nodded, but did not reply.

Instead, he turned to face her, and from that moment on, their bodies needed no more words.

He slid his hand between her legs, and she parted them without further encouragement. He then drew away, and kissed slowly down her body, bidding a temporary farewell to every part of her, both with his lips and with his hands.

H-T-I-R… I-T… S-A… N-I-M…

Or, Valar, even the spelling was hardly enough anymore.

And so he set to work, directing all thought and effort toward one goal.

And Marigold, as he touched her, kept her eyes on him for as long as she could, but it was not a task for the faint of will, so at length, she lowered her head against the pillows.

For this – this was everything she had ever dreamed of. The warmth and the aching yen, the way they cast their clothes aside, the way their bodies met and claimed one another.

To think that Frodo – her Frodo – was here before her, bare and eager, aching to please her…

It was still too much to comprehend, and she wanted to drink it all in – to abandon herself to the madness, and now, Frodo’s fingers – those fingers, which were already playing her like a violin – were caressing her opening, and sliding inside, and feeding the fires within her.

She squeezed against him, and her pleasure grew – for without having been taught, her body knew what to do.

And it was hardly painful… Yes, it was hardly painful at all.

Instead, her pleasure swelled, and before long, it spread beyond her hips, beyond her thighs… But oh, it was a wonderful thing – or by all accounts, it was meant to be, so why… why in Middle-earth was there still a part of her that shivered and shrank into the sheets? It was hardly shame alone, though he was attending to a part of her that was close to other parts, which were known for being dirty. But no, the cold flutters were something else entirely.

They were fear. And they were all too familiar.

They made her want to scream, for Frodo was no ruffian and he would never harm her. He loved her and he longed for her, was glad as a child at Yule to be with her…

But the hungry looks and the lustful smiles, and Sharkey’s cold, hard, obsidian eyes, and the rough hands and Lotho’s sneer… It all rose up in her mind’s eye, making her ill, and she tried to bat the images away before Frodo could take notice. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, but the tears formed just the same.

She felt her beloved’s fingers, massaging more firmly at a sensitive spot inside as his tongue and lips caressed the outside. It was good – so good, the tender tightness throbbing headily, and it spread by the moment, spilling out from between her hips and engaging muscles she scarcely knew she had.

Her muscles quivered and grew tight, tensing and releasing, and each wave of pleasure set off another one.

She cried out as the waves crashed through her, and her back arched on its own accord, the final spasm shaking her legs like rolls of summer thunder. 

The hungry, lustful faces flickered and disappeared, and then she felt Frodo shift, taking his lips from the tender spot.

He was sitting up now, his eyes liquid with adoration.

She could hardly stand it.

The painful lust was melting, turning to a hot and heady languor, and a desire of a different kind.

She trembled still, and there was a sheen of sweat over her forehead, chest, and arms. Her heart was racing painfully, and there was a prickle behind her eyes, and she pleaded with him, wordlessly, for something she could not name. 

But she could not have moved, or spoken, if she tried. 

Frodo smiled, and reached for the bedside table for one of the sheepskins. She followed his movements as he put it on, though she did not look directly below the belt, and then he moved toward her, coming to rest above her and brushing the hair back from her forehead.

“My love,” he whispered.

Their lips came slowly together, and he entered her with the same loving care that he had done everything else.

But she could not pretend it did not hurt – in fact, it hurt a great deal.

She whimpered, and he tightened his hold on her, breaking the kiss.

“Should we stop?”

But Marigold shook her head.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she whispered. “It always hurts at first. Just keep going.”

She rubbed gentle circles into his back, and by degrees, he began to move again, tightening his embrace. Their lips found each other again, and she closed her eyes, allowing Frodo’s tongue to claim her just like he had claimed her elsewhere.

She drank in his taste, breathing in his breath – and it smelled of familiar things: book-leather, spices and wash day – and despite the pain, she felt at ease. Her hands traveled further down his back, long and silky-smooth, and she thought of exploring further down still, past the button-like indentations at his hips.

It was beginning to feel good, and the pain was relenting at last, though Frodo was going faster now, his sighs and the rhythm of his hips ample evidence of his pleasure.

She took another breath, wishing to imbibe his scent – but with it came something else.

Her own scent, from down there, and that of blood – diffused by the vigor of their activities.

A shiver stole across her shoulders, and she sank her fingers deeper into his back. Imagining herself wrapped around him, ever closer, until they dissolved into one another.

She pressed against him, and squeezed him with the same muscles that had brought her such pleasure just moments ago. She squeezed and squeezed again, as though by holding him tight, she could keep him from ever leaving. But by the third squeeze, she felt suddenly fearful. She breathed deeper, but it did not help – her heart felt hollow, and the pain was returning, and Frodo’s breaths were ragged, almost sobs. At first, his lips had refused to relinquish hers, and his tongue overtook her mouth again and again. But by degrees, he broke from her lips, and then he kissed her jaw and the side of her neck.

She had never imagined his lips on her throat that way… Never considered how it might wing her shoulders with goosebumps, how it might arrest her heart, and how his breathing would become everything…

But then she heard another sound.

Somebody was sobbing.

At first, she thought it was Frodo, but no – it was a woman.

Marigold opened her eyes – for in their intimacies, she had closed them – and she glanced around.

At first, everything seemed familiar, but not quite the same.

The bed, for one, was of similar dimensions, but the bedspread was green instead of burgundy, and there were two figures in the corner, conversing in low tones, their gestures bespeaking their urgency.

One figure had a pot belly, and the other was a woman with her hands on her hips, but Marigold could not discern their words – and when she glanced down, she was also a figure in the play: no longer naked and recumbent, but sitting up and clothed, her hands shaking as she washed metal instruments.

The instruments were glinting coldly in the light, and the water was turning red.

The room was filled with the smell of blood, and its metallic taste was in her mouth. The blood was all over her hands, her apron, and the towels before her.

Her stomach twisted, and she wanted to vomit.

Oh, no….

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…

It could not be… No, please… Not again… Not now… 

She wanted to cry, but something held her back. Her limbs felt heavy and leaden, and Frodo was still on top of her, equally heavy and still moving, and she did her best to steady her breathing…

Only a little while longer…

After all, he had waited so long. He could not know this was happening.

But already, the voices were growing louder, and were talking over one another.

A deep, moribund feeling was coiling in her chest, and it felt like drowning, like clutching at the wet, mossy stones at the bottom of a well… Her reflection rippled in the dark red water.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and tried to push the images from her mind, but they would not go. The hands, still blood-red no matter how hard she scrubbed, the cruel, hard-edged instruments – they stood in front of her eyes, and were etched into the backs of her eyelids. (9)

A moan – a painful one – broke from her throat, and almost at the exact same time, a cry came from Frodo as well. He gave a thrust, shorter and harder than before, and his fingers dug into her arms, and then he pulled away, gasping…

The sobbing was still echoing in her ears, and her lips were open, and her head was thrown back. The remnants of his heat lingered on her skin.

Please… Please – she begged – don’t let him see it for what it is. Please let him see it as the throes of pleasure – it looks similar, does it not? Or at least let him see it as the natural pain of losing one’s maidenhead…

But no such fortune was to be.

“Mari – Mari, what’s wrong?!”

His voice broke into her consciousness, anxious and high.

Her eyes flickered open, and she saw him – those beloved eyes, mad with worry and guilt. He was touching her face, her shoulders, her neck. He was shaking them gently, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

“Oh, Mari, please, please say something,” he begged, “Oh, goodness, I knew it – I knew I shouldn’t have…”

The smell of blood still lingered in her nostrils, and she could feel the lukewarm water and the cold, wet steel. Her chest was collapsing on itself, and she tried to speak, but she had no breath to do it.

A whimper escaped her throat, and her face twisted – starting with the muscles of her forehead, and then her mouth and her nose. She covered her face with her hands, and gave in to the relentless cry.

“Oh, no, no, no, Mari, please...” 

And before she knew it, he was pulling her hand away from her face and kissing it, but her vision was clouded over, and she could hardly see a thing.

She could only feel the bed shifting beneath her, and as she blinked away her tears, she saw Frodo pulling the towel from under her hips, wiping her bottom as he went, and pulling the sheepskin off himself. He then tossed the sheepskin and the towel onto the floor and pulled the covers over them, wrapping his arms and legs around her.

And so she let herself cry.

She buried her head in his shoulder and cried, plaintively and for a very long time, and all the while, Frodo rocked her and kissed her hair, though she could not bear to look at him.

It did not matter that the awful sights were gone, and that his warmth was all around her. It did not matter that she felt lighter, as if nothing existed but their bodies against one another, their limbs braided together under the covers.

It did not matter. She still felt like she had ruined everything. She had ruined his pleasure, certainly, for what hobbit would want such a thing? What hobbit would have felt like a worthy lover when a woman cried in his bed, and not from pleasure?

But eventually, her tears dried up and she felt empty.

She lay between his arms, not wanting it to end, but she could not look at him – even as he stroked her back and pressed his cheek against her hair.

“Oh, Mari, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, trailing his fingertips across her skin. “I knew it was too soon. We moved too fast, and I ended up hurting you.”

But Marigold shook her head.

“Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, no,” she returned. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t you at all.”

She bit her lip, and Frodo squeezed her arm.

“It wasn’t? Are you sure?”

He rested his chin against her shoulder, cupping her cheek.

“Marigold, please tell me.”

He nuzzled her neck, but Marigold remained silent – though as the moments passed and it became abundantly clear that he was not going anywhere, she sighed.

She wanted to bury her face in his chest, to cry some more, to pretend none of it had happened.

But she could not. She was no child; she was a grown-up woman, handfast now, who she had shared her body with him. If they were to have a life together, they would have to share this too.

And so she turned and met his eyes. Limpid in the candlelight, they waited for her.

A person with such eyes could not misunderstand.

“It was… I saw” – she swallowed, her breath snagging in her throat – “I saw those queer things again, Mr. Frodo. I hadn’t seen them in a while, but they came back…”

She stumbled over the last word, exhaling sharply.

It was all she could handle, as far as confessions went.

Frodo nodded, but before she had finished speaking, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed it, and then he pressed it to his chest, ensconced in his own.

“Mari, I’m so sorry.”

He cupped her cheek, which kept her from averting her eyes, but it did not matter: she could not stop looking at him.

His look was salvation and strength, and she clung to it until he released her cheek, running his knuckle down the curve of her face.

“It’s alright, Mari,” he said, his eyes limpid in the waning light. “Don’t worry, it all makes sense. It could have been the blood, or the pain – or the possibility of falling with child, even if it was small. Your body took it as a danger.”

She nodded, averting her eyes as he stroked her cheek.

Indeed, it did make sense. It made perfect sense. The only thing that surprised her was how quickly he had put two and two together, being a man.

But then again, perhaps that was not surprising either. He was no stranger to pain, and he seemed to know a great deal about women’s bodies, though the last part made her a little sad.

“And we… We don’t have to,” Frodo’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We don’t have to do this anymore, if you don’t want to. Even when we are married, we don’t have to. This is not why I love you.”

He pressed his lips against her forehead and cheek, and as he kissed her lips, she drew him in, caressing his shoulders, arms and back.

Indeed, a persistent yen had been growing inside her for some time. Heavy though her heart was, it stirred at the powdery feel of his skin, the living warmth beneath it.

His words made perfect sense, and yet, something rebelled inside her, and it felt unthinkable – to resign herself to being so close to him, but never close enough.

He took his lips away and gazed at her, the pad of his thumb grazing her chin.

His lips were heavy with words unspoken, and in the end, it was Marigold who broke the silence.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she said, and rested her hand against his collarbone, running her fingers down its slender, sculpted length. “I do want to do this. Even with the pain, it was everything I ever dreamed of, and I don’t want –”

She glanced away, and felt a tugging at her throat. But she could not look away for long, for they drew her back, those fine blue eyes.

“I do not want – I do not want the past to steal the future, if you get my meanin’,” she said. “You see, I do… I do want a life with you, Mr. Frodo, and maybe even a family someday – that is, if you are well enough, and if you want it too. And I really do want to get better, just like you’ve been doin’ – after all, at first you couldn’t hardly leave the house, and now, here you are, goin’ on a trip, and comin’ back safe and sound…”

She might have said more, but before she could utter another word, Frodo swept her up in an embrace, and she froze, but then, her mouth melted easily against his, and he kissed her again and again – though between kisses, he paused, searching her eyes for any change.

Outside, the darkness was falling fast, and the evening was fading from pink to black. But the cocoon of darkness only added to their passion, and as they kissed their lips forgot all language, their legs braiding together, their hips grinding against each other, aching and untamed.

They might have done this for some time, and Marigold’s words may have turned prophetic, with the two of them making a family right then and there. But after a while Frodo pulled away, gazing at her with dark eyes.

“Oh, Mari,” he breathed, “I’m sorry. You have to go soon, don’t you? The sun is down. They might send Sam over soon, to come banging on the door…”

Marigold drew a sharp, hesitating breath.

“Yes, I think you’re right, Mr. Frodo.”

And then, in an effort to wake up her limbs, she moved her arm and found that her hand was on Frodo’s bum, where it had never been before, not even at the height of their passion.

She blushed, and Frodo smiled as well.

He sensed her squeezing him, and he responded with a swift kiss on her lips.

***

“But I’ll help you, Mari,” he returned. “I promise, I’ll help you. I think that what worked for me might work for you, and we’ll have our life together, I promise, and our child…”  

He began to kiss her again – covering her face with kisses from the top of her forehead to her chin – and Marigold closed her eyes.

It was divine, to be kissed like that, like he could never get enough of her. It was like having her every wish granted.

It was divine – but Frodo was right, it would be time to go soon…

The Gamgees – she could see them now: they would be gathering around the fire, making ready for supper, the little ones playing a game of who could jump the highest and who could scream the loudest in their clamor for vittles. The Gaffer would be finishing a game of bones with Hamson, and the women, as ever, would be trading gossip.

She would return to them soon, but not just yet. She would enjoy things here a little longer.

A life with Mr. Frodo was going to be wonderful.

1. A reference to Aragorn’s statement to the hobbits as he honors them at the end of the Return of the King film, “You bow to no one.”
2. When Bingley proposes to Jane in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice film, he says “I’ve been the most unmitigated and comprehensive ass.”
3. In Seinfeld, Elaine brags that she is good at keeping secrets because she has a “vault.” However, her friends point out that the key to the vault is schnapps, since that is the only beverage that gets her drunk enough to forget herself and start divulging everything.
4. In modern society, to “be on the same page” is a widely used idiom, but it is less likely to be common parlance in the Shire, since the Shire is an overall less literate society. Among the “working class” hobbits, Sam and Marigold are unusual in “knowing their letters” at all. As such, it is more likely that Marigold came up with the metaphor herself rather than having heard it elsewhere. 
5. This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald: “Then their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.”
6. “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver: “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
7. They’re condoms. Historically, sheep intestines were a common material used to make condoms. Colloquially, I’ve decided hobbits call them “sheepskins” or “sheepskin covers,” both as a euphemism and because it sounds rather less… unappetizing than “sheep guts” or “sheep innards.” 
8. This is based on a K-drama trope, wherein a character sees his bride, usually dressed in a wedding gown, and exclaims, “I must have saved my country in a past life!”
9. In Macbeth, Lady Macbeth hallucinates blood that she can never wash off her hands as a result of the king’s murder.

Chapter Text

That evening, when they had finally unlaced their limbs and admitted that they could not delay parting any longer, Marigold had gotten out of bed, and she got Frodo out of bed also. She then ushered him into the kitchen to eat his belated dinner, and remained stubbornly deaf to his protestations (expressed with a languid look and a winsome smile) that he got “plenty to eat elsewhere.”

They were both wearing little more than their under-clothes, and it was cold with only the cooking fire to warm them, but even so, Marigold extracted and served the food with her usual alacrity: first the creamy mushroom stew, then the pickled cabbage, and finally the mushy peas, and in the end she let him kiss her, peeling his hands away from her waist and bottom, and then, with a smile she took her leave of him to go wash up, walking with a giddy step toward the bathroom.

She made her way down the darkened hallway, carrying a candle with her, and as she shut the door behind her, she looked in the mirror – to see if she had changed at all, for it was not every day that a lass lost her maidenhead. She gazed at her reflection, but disappointingly, there was nothing – only the familiar rounded cheeks and tousled blonde curls – though messier now – and after squinting for some time she sighed and turned away, and set to dousing herself with lukewarm water.

It took some time, but eventually, she was sure than even the most sharp-nosed Gamgees would not divine the day’s activities – and then she dried herself off and made tracks for the bedroom, where she retrieved her clothes and hastily got dressed, doing up her hair.

She then returned to the kitchen, and as she stepped over the threshold, Frodo gazed at her like she was the Sun and the doorway was the east (1). He blushed over his mushroom stew, unable to stop smiling, and as she came flush against him, he drew her into an embrace, and while they both had a mind to turn it into more, they soon concluded that it was unwise, for if they did, Marigold would not have gotten home until the following morning.

And so it was, with some chagrin, that Frodo let her go and saw her to the entryway, where they kissed passionately a third time, and then he helped her into her coat and handed her her bag, and after a final peck on the lips, she hurried back to the Row in the darkness.

Her heart pounded all the way home, but when she arrived, nobody seemed especially concerned that she was late. Instead, they were engrossed in the time-honored task of picking apart the latest news from Tighfield, and dissecting the rumor of an orf outbreak at a nearby farm, and hardly anyone looked up as Marigold hurried in, assuming her place at the table with a flurry of apologies.

Indeed, it was only the Gaffer who bid her welcome – but even this was not in word, but with a salute of the tater’d fork. And so, emboldened by her invisibility, Marigold pulled a plate toward her, filling it with mashed potatoes and roast – and then she began to chew, carrying the food to her mouth with a clockwork rhythm that she hoped would seem unobtrusive.

It made sense, in a way – it was not in her character to be late for any untoward reason, and even at the best of times there was far too many comings and goings to keep track of. But she herself knew, and therein lay the rub. She could not shake the feeling that they could all see, if they looked close enough, that her hair was not done up in exactly the same way as it had been that morning, and that her skin was still aglow. She could imagine them squinting and seeing fingerprints on her skin, and it made her burn with a traitorous warmth – as if she was sitting there completely naked.

She fixed her eyes on her plate, which afforded a little peace, but then, she grew worried that this was suspicious also – so she tried to look up now and again, but every time she did so, she was met with a disagreeable surprise.

She could swear that Sam and Rosie were looking at her. The first time, she told herself that it was nothing, but by the third or fourth time, she could not deny it.

To which end she sighed, and began to plot her post-dessert getaway.

It was, thankfully, not her evening to do the dishes. And as luck would have it, she sat at the far side of the table nearest the washbasin, so that she could deposit her plate posthaste, and then make a beeline for the door as soon as the Gaffer, who inaugurated and ended every meal, would push away his plate with a contented sigh.

And if anyone stopped her, she would claim she had a headache.

She thought this way, and flattered herself that she had timed it all perfectly – but then the plan came spectacularly, appallingly undone. At first, she was waylaid by Holly and Jolly, who erupted out of nowhere and insisted on showing her a new dance they had either learned or invented – she was not sure which. And then, as she tried to elope from the kitchen, she felt someone pulling at her hem, and turned to find Heather looking up at her with beseeching eyes, begging to borrow her sage-green embroidered purse, and promising to do her dishes for a fortnight.

And so, once Marigold did escape from the kitchen, having praised Holly and Jolly in full and acquiesced to Heather, she returned to her bedroom in record time – but in spite of her haste, it was too late. Rosie was sitting at the foot of her bed, looking up at her with a familiar, pert expression. It was one of Rosie’s favorite looks: one where she tilted her face forward, gazing upwards from beneath her brows and hardly blinking, and there was a sparkle in her eye as she pressed her lips knowingly together.

On any other day – and indeed, had it been any other but Rosie – Marigold might have cried out in dismay. But a part of her almost expected her sister-in-law to be there.

She scoffed as she dug her fingers into the doorframe, pausing on the threshold.

It was not what she had wanted, but what choice did she have?

She released her grip on the doorframe as she strode in, and let the door click behind her. She took the cushion from the only chair in the room, and tossed it at her friend.

“Rosie, no,” she huffed through clenched teeth. “Go back to your husband, will you? It’s late.”

But Rosie caught the cushion deftly between her hands.

“Nice try,” she returned. “But not until you spill the beans.”

Her smile was impish in the moonlight.

Marigold walked over to the bed, but she did not light a candle. It was nearly a full moon, and the blue and silver light beamed brightly through the window.

She plopped down on the bed beside Rosie.

“I’m not spillin’ any beans,” she retorted. “And you can tell Sam I said so.”

She folded her arms, repressing a huff.

For it would have been infuriating, really, if it was not a story as old as the hills, and if it did not play out with astonishing regularity, both within the family and within the neighborhood, and indeed in every part of the Shire. For apparently, Frodo had revealed something to Sam on their journey, and now Rosie knew it from Sam, and before long, everyone would be in the know or at least suspect it, and if Marigold flew into a tizzy and accused everyone of butting into her private business when they really had no right, everyone would be duly apologetic, but nobody would admit to spilling the beans, or letting the cat out of the bag, or whatever metaphor seemed fitting at the moment.

They may as well have put up a sign and sold tickets, Marigold thought ruefully, but Rosie did not let up. She regarded Marigold with the same repressed jubilation, and Marigold relented at last, folding her hands on top of her lap as she bit back a scoff.

“You know, just once,” she said – and despite her efforts, an acrid note rose up in her voice, “Just once, I’d like for something to be mine. Just mine, my own. Is that so much to ask?”

She glanced at her sister-in-law, and her look must have been harsher than she intended, for Rosie bit her lip.

“I’ve never had anything be mine in my entire life,” Marigold went on, and with a twinge of regret, she schooled her features. “Except this room, maybe, but even here, anyone can come and go as they please.” She paused, and did not dare to look at Rosie. “Even my thoughts and feelin’s, even those were never my own,” she continued. “Instead, it was always ‘alright, then, keep your secrets,’ only to shake them out of me, or pretend to be my friend and wheedle them out of me, and then to laugh at them for sport.”

She exhaled sharply, and Rosie rubbed her forearm.

“Peace, Mari,” she said, and took Marigold’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry, I didna mean it like that.”

Marigold remained silent, but she let Rosie have her hand, and Rosie stroked it.

“But surely, Sam wasn’t like that?” she said after a spell. “I can’t imagine him bein’ like that.”

But though the tension was ebbing from her shoulders, Marigold sniffed.

“Sam too, sometimes,” she returned. “Though of course he was kind – kinder than the lot of them. But he weren’t ex-empt, not by any means.”

Rosie massaged her thumb up and down Marigold’s upturned hand, and at first did not say anything. Instead, she pressed the middle of Marigold’s palm, drawing forth a sigh and a gasp.

Marigold glanced up, and Rosie smiled once more.

Indeed, after many days of carrying, scrubbing, and kneading, Marigold had become accustomed to the pain, and to have it suddenly relieved was nice – more than nice.

But she shook her head all the same.

“But it’s not just that,” she said, glancing away. “You see, all I ever wanted was some peace and quiet. You know what I mean? Some room to breathe.”

Rosie nodded, and continued to work her fingers into Marigold’s palm.

“I understand,” she said, her voice as smooth as her pressure. “Of course I do. I come from a large family too, you know.”

She rubbed for another moment, and then she put the hand on Marigold’s knee, patting it where it lay.

Marigold slumped against her friend, and rested her head against her shoulder as Rosie put an arm around her.

“But you know, you’ll get it soon enough, I think,” Rosie said, squeezing Marigold’s upper arm. “That is: you’ll have your peace and quiet, and something of your own, and not just this room. But maybe you’ve got that somethin’ already?”

She chuckled, her voice trailing off. Not exactly inviting an answer, but not repelling one, either.

And this time, Marigold did her best to suppress a sigh, but she could not do it. Her shoulders, wrapped in Rosie’s affectionate embrace, rose and fell. Rosie, ever the diplomat.

She might have laughed, but it was still too painful.

Never mind, of course, that Rosie was right, and that she had Frodo now – or had him after a fashion. Never mind, too, that the two of them were in love and they had said as much. They had an understanding now, but nothing had been decided, nor planned. This was entirely of her own design, but no matter how quickly or how slowly things progressed, there was still the possibility that it could all go wrong, and vanish like pollen off a flower.

Rosie stroked her shoulder, and Marigold reached back, the two of them linking fingers. 

“But you do, you do have something of your own,” Rosie repeated, squeezing her hand. “You do, I know it. And soon, mark my words, it will be even more your own, and you will marry also, and leave this place, and I will help you with the weddin’ plans, and I will visit you in your new home, which will be quiet and uncrowded as you please. And then, when the time comes, we will help raise each other’s little ones.”

She paused, sighing contentedly, and Marigold returned an unwilling chuckle, squeezing her hand in return.

“But little ones and quiet?” she mused. “Those things don’t mix, I’m afraid.”

She sighed, but her spirits were already growing lighter, and she drew another breath, feeling like she could float a little.

And Rosie, for her part, shook her head and gently unlaced their fingers. She then shifted away, reaching for her friend’s hair, and pulled at the pins at the base of the bun.

“Ah, but that there is the thing, my dear,” she said, tucking the pins deftly into her palm as the hair unfurled over Marigold’s neck, “You will be blessed with the quiet sort of little ones – not like the Cottons or the Gamgees…” She paused, stroking the flaxen curls as she proffered a smile. “Sam and I will have a bevy, as like as not, but you will have only one or two, and their parents will love them all the more for it.”

The last of the tresses uncoiled, and as it joined its fellows over Marigold’s back, Rosie drew away, admiring her handiwork.

Marigold gave another chuckle – for her friend had always had an odd fascination with her hair – and Rosie ran her fingers through the soft, powdery curls.

Marigold smiled.

“Hm, well, that sounds nice,” she said, tossing her head a little. “But I cannot help but wonder, who gave you the gift of foresight?”

She paused, schooling her features as she eyed Rosie up and down, and after a diffident pause, Rosie chuckled in return, picking up a strand and running it between her fingers.

“Oh, no , I don’t have the gift of foresight,” she lilted, and flicked the ends of the tress as if toying with a ribbon. “But what I do know is that modesty, and sweetness, and goodness – they aren’t just rewarded in songs and tales. It happens to us living folks, too.”

She stopped, and with an affectionate smile, she placed the lock back in its place, giving it a pat.

She then stood up, and turned toward Marigold, taking her hands in hers.

“But really, Mari,” she said – and suddenly, her intimate jocularity faded, replaced by an earnest candor. “Really – I do hope you can be happy someday, and I pray that you will be. And to tell you the truth, as much as I’ve wished that our children could be cousins twice over, I’ve always suspected that the world had grander designs for you.”

She paused, and cocked her head with a questioning smile, again inviting an answer if Marigold chose to give it.

But Marigold did not. She only looked down, and Rosie let their hands swing back and forth, like when they were children.

“Well, thank you, Rosie,” she returned at length.

She did not look up at first, but when she did, she returned her friend’s smile, and stood up with her.

“Though, I s’ppose – I s’ppose it’s early days still,” she conceded, enunciating each word with care. “We just… We just have an – understanding, that’s all…” She paused, and with an indeterminate smile, she bit her lip. “So let’s – let’s just keep it quiet for now and not count the chickens before they hatch, eh? You can tell Sam that.”

Despite her tone, which smacked of admonition, she rounded out her words with a smile, and Rosie got her meaning.

She released her friend’s hands, and assumed the sunniest of expressions.

“Well, alright, then. I can do that.”

She folded her hands over her stomach, and took a step away, backwards toward the door.

“You wish is my command, m’dear,” she added with a wink. “But before I go, there is one more thing that I must tell you.” 

She drew a breath, and patted her stomach under her apron.

Her lips spread wide – so wide, in fact, that her cheeks could barely contain them – and she bit her lip, looking every bit as sheepish as her friend had done just moments ago.

“Have I – have I told you we’re expecting?”

She pressed her lips, evidently in an effort to keep an indelicate sound from escaping, and Marigold glanced up. Her eyes had drifted to her hands in consternation, and now she gaped, seemingly uncomprehending.

A moment or two passed like this, and as Rosie beamed still wider, the meaning seemed to reach Marigold all at once, and she jumped up, as if doused with a bucket of water.

“NO! I mean – YES!”

She seized her friend’s hands, and before they knew it, they were jumping up and down, for all the world like they were ten again.

They jumped for several moments, laughing, and then Marigold pulled Rosie into an embrace, and when she let her go, Rosie pressed her fists into her cheeks, her smile bursting at the seams.

“Oh, my – oh my, oh my goodness, Rosie, that’s – that’s wonderful,” Marigold exclaimed, and squeezed her arms all the tighter.

But even so, a shiver ran up her back.

Rosie’s belly bumped into hers, and she drew a sharp breath.

She pulled away and fixed her eyes on Rosie’s face: on the elated curves of her cheeks, her smiling eyes…

“Just – just be sure to take care of yourself, alright?” she admonished. “You must promise to take care of yourself.”

Rosie chuckled, raising her arms, and spun out of her grasp.

“Alright, Miss Midwife, I will.” She rolled her eyes a little, and gave another twirl – as much as the space would allow her.

Marigold folded her arms, and collapsed backwards onto the bed.

“I told you not to call me that!” 

“And if I have questions, I’ll be sure to come to you!” Rosie exclaimed, and took up spinning again, flapping her arms like a bird.

Marigold took the pillow and tossed it at Rosie.

“No, don’t come to me! Go to Mrs. Bracegidle!”

The pillow missed Rosie by a wide margin, but even so, Rosie arrested in her twirling, and grasped the back of the chair.

“Mrs. Bracegirdle? Hah! I hate that old bat. She thinks she’s so clever.”

Marigold did not respond; instead, she folded her arms across her chest, and rested with her head against the wall at an uncomfortable angle.

Rosie drew a breath, and swallowed the remnants of mirth as she stepped toward her.

“But truly,” she said – and her look turned serious as she put her hands on her waist, arching her back this way and that. “You know, I really do wish you hadn’t quit, for it would’ve been a fine thing, if I could come to you for those sorts of things, and it could’ve been another thing we did together.”

She leaned back, stretching out her spine with a toss of the head, but Marigold only sighed, hoisting herself up, and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Well, that is true,” she said, and returned a melancholy look, “But it can’t be helped, and I’m sorry for the way it turned out, I really am. I would have liked to be your midwife too, but if that is not to be, I still want to help with your little ones – whether or not I marry, or make good on my promise to become a confirmed spinster.”

She reached for the bedside table, extracting a comb from the drawer, and began to work it through her hair. 

Rosie regarded her in silence, and rocked on the balls of her feet.

“No, you are too pretty to be a spinster,” she said at last. “In fact, you are too pretty to be a midwife, and too pretty for anything besides marryin’ up, and sittin’ there like a princess, and having us all wait upon you hand and foot.”

She winked, and again tossed her head.

Marigold deposited the comb on the table and furrowed her brow. 

“Get. Out,” she hissed.

The cushion was on the floor, and if not for the fatigue that was rapidly binding her limbs, she would have gotten up and thrown it a third time. 

But just then, she had only the strength to slump down on her quilt, and to pull her knees up to her chest.

And Rosie, for her part, turned at last toward the door.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” she chuckled with an affected curtsy. “Your wish is my command, Mistress Baggins.”

(1) Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

Chapter Text

“Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo?!”

That morning, Marigold had woken up early, and there was a bright and elated feeling in her chest as the birds twittered outside her window.

She splashed some cool water on her head as was the hobbits’ custom in the morning, and thought about the boon that was being up early, for it was the only time when there was little competition for the bathroom – and then, after a quick breakfast of apples and seed cake, she bade goodbye to the other Gamgees who were up (at that point, only Hamson and his wife Daffodil), and made off in a hurry for Bag End.

But at Bag End, she found the house eerily silent, and wherever she looked, there was no Frodo.

There was no Frodo in the parlor, nor in the kitchen, nor in the study, and not even in the bathroom – which was easy to see, for the door was wide open.  

In the kitchen, the dishes were drying on the rack – washed with care, and standing neatly on their sides, though she had never asked him to wash them. Her stomach gave a painful lurch when she saw them, and she recalled his odd behavior before the trip: when he had been at once so solicitous and so cold, to the point of her fearing that he might dismiss her…

Had he?...

It defied all sense, but suddenly, images of him leaving flooded her mind – images of him changing his mind and absconding back to Buckland, leaving Bag End and everything in it…

It made her dizzy, and she grasped the kitchen table. She shook her head.

No, it was madness. Frodo would not simply leave… He had, perhaps, made off without a warning when it was a matter of life and death, but now…

He was probably just ill. Yes, that had to be it. And he was likely in the bedroom, though she had not been there just yet, for somewhat nonsensically, she was still too embarrassed to go in without permission. And yet, if he was ill – oh goodness, she knew it was too good to be true. He could scarcely walk for a full afternoon, and he had taken a days-long journey, and acted fit as a fiddle, and then, he had exerted himself with her…

Yes, that had to have been it: he was ill from it all, and she was a silly girl for thinking anything different.

Swallowing her guilt, she thought how strange it was, to be relieved at the notion of illness. But with illness, at least, she knew what to do, so without another thought, she squared her shoulders, readjusted her bag, and made tracks for the bedroom.

She got to the threshold, and there she paused – but the scruples felt less consequential now, and with a calm, collected breath, she pushed open the door, only to be met with an extraordinary sight.

Frodo was sleeping.

He lay on his side, in the middle of the wide, expansive bed, and the covers were piled on top of him. Both the heavy blanket and the maroon bedspread stretched over his form, and his chest rose and fell as he breathed. His face was turned toward her, and his skin was fresh and clear, his lips shapely and rose-colored.

He lay very still, and seemed to be clutching a pillow beneath the blankets. He did not stir as she opened the door, which whined softly on its hinges.

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she approached, but he lay still as a log.

Pausing at the bedside, she gazed at him with wide eyes, for even in his stuporous state, he did not look ill: his complexion had a healthy glow, and his eyes did not dart under his eyelids.

Marigold stood agape, and did not stir for a very long time.

For she had never seen him sleep like that before. She had only seen him sleep on two other occasions: once when she had rubbed his back as he fell asleep weeping, and the other time in October, when he was ill with his chest cold and with his “Wraith sickness.” Both times, he had slept fitfully, dreaming unquiet dreams and always on the verge of waking – but now, he looked as deeply asleep as any hobbit could without being dead. But he was certainly not dead: the flower of life bloomed radiant on his cheeks, and a thin, glistening trail of spittle ran down his chin as he moved his lips with a soft, smacking sound.

It was such a confounding sight that she acted against all better judgment. At first, she had thought it best to leave him, and to let him sleep his fill – but instead, she reached toward him, stopping just short of his brow, and he seemed to sense her presence, for his eyes fluttered open.

“Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo – ”

Marigold jerked her hand back, but Frodo blinked, and his lips melted into a smile.

He extracted his arms from beneath the blanket, and stretched them toward her.

“Mmmm… Mari… G’morning…”

His voice was sleepy and thick, and Marigold was about to take a step backward, but instead, she lowered her hands and pressed them together.

“Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” she stammered. “I really am. I should’ve let you sleep, shouldn’t I? You didn’t sleep much last night, I’ll wager, since I caught you sleepin’ later than you usually do…”

She proffered a sheepish smile, but Frodo shook his head against the pillow, and his smile did not relent.

“No, Mari, no,” he returned, and his tone was nothing short of elated. “In fact, I slept exceptionally well. I fell asleep soon after you were gone, and I only woke up just now…”

He gazed at her, his eyes filled with gratitude and adoration, but even so, Marigold dropped her hands at her sides.

“Oh,” she whispered, and cast her eyes anxiously about her, “Well – er, in that case, I still think I should let you sleep, seein’ how yesterday was such a big day for both of us…”

She pressed her lips, avoiding his eyes, but Frodo smiled all the brighter, and stretched his hands insistently toward her.

“No, Mari. Please,” he said, and smacked his lips with the remnants of sleep. “Don’t go. Stay. I miss you. I miss my Mari.”

There was a languorous hint of a yawn in his voice, and he pawed at the air in front of him, opening and closing his hands.

And, consternated though she was, Marigold smiled and took a step toward him.

She sighed.

To think that in spite of everything, she was still self-conscious around him, and yet… Her hands still reached toward him, and his smile grew wider as he clasped them tight.

“Ma-ri…” He closed his eyes, and her name on his lips was an incantation. “Mari, could you lay down beside me – please? For just a little while?”

He opened his eyes and gazed at her, his cerulean orbs filled with longing, and yet it was not the dusky, amorous longing from the night before. Rather, it really did feel like he wanted to lie beside her, holding her in his arms.

She ventured a less tentative smile, and cocked her head. 

“Well – but look here, Mr. Frodo,” she said, furrowing her brow, “You know that Sam will be here soon, and I have my chores to start, and when you do get up we have to talk about Sam, and how we are to be with him, now that he’s privy to everythin’…”

She was about to plead that she simply did not have time to lay down, but the words died on her lips, for Frodo’s smile was as brilliant as ever, and he squeezed her hands with a confidential look.

“Well, when is Sam going to be here?”

He shrugged where he lay, his eyes ever-blue, ever-languid.

Oh-so-inviting, like two clear pools on a summer’s day.

“Oh…” Marigold bit her lip, and glanced to the side. “I – I reckon by second breakfast or so… Definitely by elevenses.”

She balled her hand into the pocket of her apron, but Frodo smiled, nestling against the pillow.

“Well, alright,” he said. “Then there is still time. So let’s talk – how do you wish for the two of us to be when he is here? What endearments are we allowed?”

He gazed at her steadily, and after a few moments, Marigold found the wherewithal to look at him again.

And she was glad she did it. His hands were a steadying force, his expression one of patient approbation.

She did not know how to answer him at first, but before long, her thoughts wriggled free from their torpor.

“I think – I think that we can hug,” she began, the words forming with surprising ease as a giddiness thrilled in her throat. “And I think it is more than proper to hold hands, and kiss on the cheek. But of course, Sam can not know about last night, even if he is your closest friend, and my brother.”

She tented her brows, and Frodo nodded, a gentle look in his eye.

“Well, of course,” he smiled. “About last night, that goes without saying. That will remain between us. But one more question.” He paused, and pressed her hands, the blink of his eyes a tender, aerial kiss. “What endearments, oh my dear Marigold, am I allowed when Sam is here? Can I call you ‘darling’? Or ‘my dear Mari’? Or ‘love’?”

Marigold blushed at the last word, but the pressure of his hands was steady, and while she looked down, pretending to be deep in thought, she did not stay that way for very long.

She looked up, and smiled at her beloved.

“My dear Mari, I think,” she returned. “Yes, I think that would be best – at least for now. And I will call you just the same: my dear Mr. Frodo.”

She smiled a little wider, and her blush deepened – but this time, it was joy, not diffidence, as Frodo gave her hands another squeeze.

“Well, alright then, ‘my dear Mari’ it is, then,” he returned. “For that is what I shall call you, my dearest, sweetest Mari.” He pulled her gently by the hands, and glanced at the clock on top of the dresser. “And now to bed,” he added, with a wink that betrayed a sweet, if exaggerated longing. “For it appears that one of our tasks is done, and it is barely time for first breakfast, let alone the second. And if Sam arrives early, you can always pretend you were trying to wake me, or tending to me in some other way.”

“But – but…” 

Marigold let herself be drawn along – but she made a last, valiant effort at resistance.

“But I mean – I mean – what if Sam surprises us?”

She lent her words what conviction she could, but they came out hollow, and Frodo chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, that isn’t possible,” he smiled. “Your ears are too keen for that, my dearest Mari. And besides, Sam is so loud, he couldn’t surprise a sleeping troll.”

His smile grew wider, and Marigold, despite her best efforts, could not help but smile as well.

She was standing flush against the bedside now, and Frodo let go of one of her hands, reaching for the small of her back as he drew her closer still.

But even then, Marigold protested.

“But – but – Mr. Frodo,” she quipped, knowing full well she was playing into his hands. “What if my dress gets wrinkled from lyin’ down?”

She smiled, blinking her eyes, and Frodo took the cue, returning a good-natured shrug.

“Well, it won’t get wrinkled if it’s folded over the chair,” he returned, upstanding as could be. “And in any case, the hallway’s long enough. If Sam gets here early, you can get dressed ten times over as he’s making his way down the hall.”

His statement was accompanied by another gentle pull, and his hand hovered just above her peach-round bottom. 

A tender yearning stirred within her breast, and suddenly, everything felt a good deal less important. Even Sam and the Shire with its endless talk, and the image of the lot of them, pressed against the window trading “clever” observations. It all fell away, and all she wanted to do was lie down by his side, feeling his arms around her and the space between them their own private wonderland.

She could not find the words to say it, but with an eager look, she nodded – and Frodo pushed aside the covers, moving the pillow he had hugged to the opposite side of the bed.

He stretched his arms toward her, and with a demure look, she pulled the drawstring of her skirt, and slid it down her hips.

The skirt rustled to the floor, and she felt Frodo’s eyes – which brought a blush to her cheeks, but what was more surprising was that he, too, seemed anxious, and was squeezing the covers between his hands. He had done it the prior night as well, which did not congrue – for he clearly knew how to please a lass – but at the time, she had no wherewithal to wonder…

But even now, she did not wonder long. A delighted, effervescent feeling rose within her – at the sight of Frodo, like a demure lass himself, waiting for her with a soft expression on the bed. She felt a bright, elated thrill as she thought of what her feminine forms could do for him.

It was more than she ever dreamed – to be admired, to be worshipped in this way, and yet, she was self-conscious like never before at the curve of her shoulders, to say nothing of the swell of her breasts. She slid off her bodice, leaving only her thin linen under-dress, and the memories of the sweet and the bitter flooded her mind, the shame and the darkness rearing their heads. But as the moments passed, the light prevailed, and her chest, hips and thighs tingled with desire as she imagined Frodo caressing them, and she glanced down at where he lay, nodding his encouragement.

It did not matter if it hurt again. She wanted this.

She crawled onto the bed, and lay her bodice, carefully folded, onto the bedside table. Frodo welcomed her with open arms, and gently kissed her lips, wrapping his arms and legs around her.

He lay his head on her shoulder, trading the pillow for her breast, and at first, she wondered if he was going to do more – if he might start caressing her, or pressing his hips against her in repudiation of his desire to simply lay together… But he did neither.

Instead, he nestled against her, mild as a babe, and held onto her as if it was just the two of them in the world.

“Mari, I love you,” he whispered. “I need you right here.”

And to this, Marigold nodded gently.

“I love you too, Mr. Frodo,” she returned. “Always have, always will.” (1)

She listened to his heartbeat, and by degrees, it grew slower. In the dim light of the bedroom, it felt like it was barely daybreak, though a ray of sun splintered through the eaves.

She caressed his mop of dark curls, and he relaxed his head against her shoulder. Within a few minutes, his breathing was soft and rhythmic, and she closed her eyes as well. (2)

That morning, Sam woke up late – courtesy of Rosie’s enthusiastic ministrations the night before – and as his eyes meandered to the bright patch of sunlight on the clean, whitewashed wall, he felt an irrepressible desire to pull the covers over his head, and to go back to sleep for at least ten more hours.

Not that he was particularly tired. He was quite well-rested, and his stomach badgered him for breakfast – which Rosie was already making, for she was gone from his side, and the tendrils of delectable frying bacon were wending their way down the hallway. But even so, he knew what the day would bring, and he was not at all sure he wanted to see it.

The euphoria of the journey was passing – the whirlwind of finding out that Frodo was about to leave Middle-earth, but had chosen to stay on account of his love for Marigold. He had been delighted to learn that his sister’s love was requited, and that Frodo was starting to mend under her care, and that with any luck, the two of them – once master and servant, and always affectionate friends – would be bound not only by friendship, but by kinship.

Except, now that his efforts were finally bearing fruit, he was growing anxious and despondent – for soon, he would be seeing them together like that, and quite often at that.

He was quite happy for the two of them – that was not the question. But even so, he could not tell how his heart would take it when he finally saw it for himself: for oddly enough, he had never witnessed Frodo with a lass, except when Frodo danced at festivals – which hardly counted, since everyone did that – and though he knew of his master’s more liaisons, he had never met his lady-loves in the flesh.

Several times in the prior days – since he had learned of Frodo’s feelings – he had tried to imagine his master and his sister together, and every time he did, he regretted his audacity, for the image of the two of them, sitting cozily in the kitchen and leaning up against each other would leave him unsettled and perturbed – wishing he could turn away and run, but finding that his feet were glued inexorably to the ground.

It was pure self-flagellation, no more and no less, and yet he could do nothing about it. He would imagine Marigold, again and again: pouring Frodo’s milk, and gently stroking his arm, and talking to him softly as their fingers laced together. In Sam’s fantasy, it was never the morning light that cast a lambent glow over their features – rather, they were really and truly be happy, and so entranced with one another that they gazed into each other’s eyes until his shadow fell upon them, at which point they would look up, sheepish and smiling, and his chest would grow tight, his breath arresting in his throat.

But it was not consternation alone – nor was it jealousy, and Sam was glad of it, for he had always thought it an ugly, loathsome feeling.

Instead, it was a painful longing – of all things, to be in Marigold’s place: to look into Frodo’s eyes and touch him as she did, without the veil of double-think between them – and to have Frodo look at him like that, like he was all he cared about… (3)

And indeed, Frodo had looked at him like that, once, when they had thought that death was upon them, and Frodo said, “I’m glad you’re with me, Sam, here at the end of all things.”

But that was another life, another age.

Sam pulled the covers over his head and groaned, punching his forehead – once, twice – through the thick cotton blanket. 

A right pickle he had gotten himself into… And what would Rosie say?

He imagined her smiling at him in her periwinkle house coat, the spatula for flipping bacon in her hand.

She knew nothing, of course… or perhaps she knew all too well – and she was with child, too! That was the most mortifying thing of all, for it meant that they had passed the point of no return, and brought an innocent soul into the whole shameful business.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight, and thought of Rosie – how she was the first girl he had ever felt at ease with, his first and fondest female friend. He thought of her boisterous, winning charm, and her love for the clandestine and the transgressive, the things he himself had never dared to do. He loved her well enough – admired her, certainly, and all his firsts had happened with her, though some of them – oh, irony of ironies – were not without Frodo’s help. It was only natural that they should end up together, though he had tarried for some time, and he had not been honest with himself as to why, and now he was paying the price.

He sighed – a long, slow, heavy breath –  and realized that he knew what Rosie would say, and he knew exactly how she would say it.

She would brandish her grease-stained spatula, and with an ominously furrowed brow, she would tell him that he was a daft hobbit, and if he really did feel the way he did, then he should go and speak to Frodo, and if Frodo returned his feelings, then she would release him from their marriage, their child notwithstanding. It was not often done – for when hobbits married, they usually married for life, but Rosie was proud, if practical – and she would not see the shame in raising their child alone, and would never settle for being second-best.

Sam thought of this – and a part of him, the Brave part, certainly wanted to do it… To hoist himself out of bed and march to the kitchen, and then to Bag End, but then…

What then?

Therein lay the rub, but one thing was for sure: Frodo would not return his feelings.

Whatever had come before, he was certainly in love with Marigold now, and he would look at Sam with the languid, faraway look he had picked up in their travels, and he would tell him that he cared for him and esteemed him greatly, all in a circuitous path to the word “no.” It would be no, even in the face of all of Sam’s heroics, and then where would they be? It would be a right muck up, and nobody would be happy, and Marigold would cry, for she would know that she lived a life that her brother wanted but could never have…

No – as the gears of his slow and fastidious mind clicked through it all, he could not imagine a scenario in which things would turn out well – for any of them – and so it was, for the hundredth time, that he decided that he, Samwise Gamgee, brother to Marigold, husband to Rosie, and most devoted friend to Frodo, would put his feelings aside and do what needed to be done.

He sighed, and hoisted himself out of bed with a heave. Still in his nightshirt, he walked heavily down the hallway – toward the scent of crackling bacon and the officious liveliness of his wife, which he hoped would soothe his heart, and fortify him against the trials of the day.

When Sam arrived at Bag End that morning, it was nearly time for elevenses, and thankfully, Frodo and Marigold were not so confidential in the kitchen that they failed to notice his arrival. 

Instead, Marigold was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of stew, while Frodo nursed a cup of tea at the table. The two of them were glancing at each other, and talking in soft tones, and when Sam appeared in the doorway, they both looked up, and greeted him with nearly identical, softly blushing smiles.

“Well, hello, there, Sam,” Frodo rose up from his seat and stepped forward, taking his friend by the elbow. “Come, join us.” He drew Sam toward the table. “It’s about time. What would you like?”

Sam swallowed, and cast his eyes uncertainly over the vittles. The table was already set, and featured the finger-food for which the eleventh-hour meal was famous: his sister’s open-faced sandwiches topped with cheese, fresh cold-cuts and various Gondorean delicacies that Frodo now apparently loved, and palm-sized egg-and-tomato quiches that he never got to eat at home because they flew off the platter as soon as they left the oven…

Indeed, though he was moderately full from second breakfast, the sight of the table was enough to send his stomach growling again, and his consternation – particularly as Frodo rubbed his back – only added fuel to the fire.

He had not expected such a welcome – for things to feel so… ordinary, and for Frodo to be smiling so brightly, a smile the likes of which he had not seen in months.

He lowered himself onto the bench by the table, muttering his assent, but as soon as he settled down, his sister spun around from her place by the stove, her smile tinged with bitter irony.

“Yes, welcome-welcome,” she chirped, and picked up a pot with two thick cotton pot holders. “So good of you to join us, Mr. I-Can’t-Keep-Anything-From-My-Wife-For-Half-A-Moment.”

She stepped toward the table, and put down the pot with more force than was necessary.

“Mari ” –

Frodo glanced at her with a look that was one part amusement, one part soft disapprobation – but Marigold shook her head, and turned toward the dish rack, where the bowls and the silverware were drying.

“No, don’t you be too kind to him, Mr. Frodo,” she retorted, and took up the bowls and spoons with equal brusqueness. “I have it on good authority that he went and told Rosie instantly last night, never mind that his friend and master asked him not to. I could barely contain the damage, an’ if I could have it my way, he’d get no elevenses at all, and a bit of my wooden spoon into the bargain.”

She returned to the table, and put down the bowls and spoons before Frodo, Sam, and a third setting – again with more force than was necessary.

Sam shrank down in his seat, curling up like a hedgehog before an unfriendly cat, but Frodo, now that she was near, put a pacifying hand on Marigold’s arm, and a measure of her irritation faded. She glanced at her beloved with a sweet, confidential smile, and he returned her look with adoring eyes.

Sam breathed a sigh, and made a grateful note that the positive influence seemed to be flowing both ways – but then, he felt a renewed twinge of dismay, and decided to mount a defensive – but he would not mount it too hard, he decided, for Marigold was, in fact, correct.

“Well, wait just a minute, Mari,” he began, and raised his eyes as he reached for the quiche – for even in such a moment, the steaming, aromatic dough and the rich, creamy egg were giving him no peace, “Look, I am heartily sorry that I told her, I am, but you aren’t bein’ fair, not by a long shot. You know Rosie, and you know she can be downright terrifyin’ if she has a mind to be. It’s like she can see right through my ‘ead if I’m tryin’ to keep somethin’ from her – you’ve seen it.” He took the quiche and blew on it – which gave him occasion to avert his eyes. “You’ll see – you’ll understand when you’re married…”

Marigold appraised him silently, but if she was sympathetic, she did not show it. She merely tapped her foot – a ripple on the surface of a storm that Frodo was containing – and when Sam finished his speech, she stepped away and took a ladle, and began portioning the stew.

“I’m sure,” she sniffed, and filled the last bowl – her own – with a fragrant concoction of mushrooms, onions, and potatoes. “But don’t you go holdin’ your breath, Samwise Gamgee.” She clicked her tongue, and put the ladle neatly on its holder. “I’m not marryin’ anytime soon, and you do know what it means to have an understandin’, don’t you? I’m sure Rosie told you.”

She turned on her heel, and reached for one of the shelves to fetch the jug of sour cream. And Sam, relieved for the moment that the storm had passed, unglued his eyes from the precious, golden quiche, and took a bite.

Frodo glanced at him apologetically from across the table, and extended a hand.

But Sam was already busy – taking hasty, immoderate bites, and when he spoke, his words were scarcely intelligible over his chewing.

“I can’t imagine why, though,” he observed as he sumptuated in the crispy dough. “I can’t imagine a better match than Mr. Frodo. I can’t see why you would want to tarry a single moment.”

But Marigold – at whom his words were directed – did not respond, and indeed, she seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time with the sour cream, her back turned to both of them.

Frodo gave a conciliatory smile, and extended his hands across the table.

“Well, Sam, you really shouldn’t say that,” he ventured, and when Sam sent the last of the quiche into his mouth, he took the Gamgee’s hand in his. “You know very well that I’m an odd and needy sort of fellow – so a life with me isn’t easy, unless you have extraordinary patience.” He glanced at Marigold’s back as she stood by the counter, rubbing the jug. “But Sam,” he went on, “To tell you true, I would marry tomorrow, if I could – for you have a most remarkable sister. Everything I have, I would give to Mari, but if she is the one who wants to wait, and get used to the idea, then who am I to contradict her?”

His fingers lingered over Sam’s – his one hand cradling the larger, more weather-beaten one, and the other stroked it gently.

Sam sighed. Frodo’s hands were pleasant, comforting – though it felt undeserved – and Sam examined Frodo’s face: its fine-boned, elfin beauty, the kindness of his eyes, the purity of his expression.

And at first, he found no words to say, but then a thought formed in his mind – gradually yet unmistakably, gestated by the balmy air of the kitchen – its lambent fire, its bubbling kettle, the warmth of Frodo’s hands.

It was in that moment, and in that precise place that Samwise Gamgee fell in love a second time.

But it was not with Frodo. 

He fell in love with Frodo’s love, with his heart, with his and Marigold’s togetherness, and their future.

He imagined them, handfast in his mind’s eye, and felt no bitterness at all. Rather, he felt an urge to protect them, to see their love growing like the daffodils in the garden, drinking in the sun and the fresh, clear water, blooming bright and beautiful for all to see.

Marigold turned around, and glanced in his direction. She looked like she was caught unaware – like he, a lad, had come upon her gossiping with a girlfriend, or drying her hair after a bath.

She came toward the table, clutching the jug, and Frodo released Sam’s hand, taking Marigold’s instead. She put down the sour cream, and Frodo drew her down to sit beside him.

Marigold fixed her eyes on the placemat before her, and it was another moment before she spoke again – with Sam reaching for another quiche from the tray.

“I – I just wanted some time to ourselves, that’s all,” she returned at last. “That is – before the curious folk start askin’ all sorts of questions, or tellin’ us what they think is best, or sayin’ that Mr. Frodo is too good for me, or too ‘odd’ for anyone to marry...”

She drew a breath, and brought her hand to her chest, clutching the space below her neck as if grasping an invisible necklace.

Frodo released her hand – but only to place his own on her upper back, rubbing it gently.

Sam deposited his half-eaten quiche on the plate before him, and wiped the crumbs from his mouth, extending a hand to his sister.

“Well, look, Mari,” he said, “Nobody’s goin’ to say that.” He paused, and reached for the pitcher to pour himself a glass of milk. “And look, I’m sorry that I said what I said before. You know it’s not my place to tell you what to do, and it’s your and Mr. Frodo’s business, no one else’s.”

He picked up the quiche again, and took another bite – but Marigold, whom he was watching from beneath his brows, did not reply immediately. Instead, she shook her head and peered straight ahead of her, her gaze falling short of where he sat.

“I’ve – I’ve – I’ve never loved anyone more than Mr. Frodo in all my life,” she said at length – after Sam resumed nibbling his quiche. “No one has ever been so kind to me before –”

Her bottom lip quivered, and she blinked her eyes, but summarily losing the battle with her tears, she lowered her head to Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo drew his arm around her, pulling her close against him. He pressed a kiss against the side of her head, clasping her hand in his.

Marigold drew a deliberate breath, and Frodo rocked her gently, glancing at Sam across the table.

And Sam, for his part, was speechless for a spell – forgetting his quiche and fiddling with the embroidery on his napkin – but then, a new and profound sentiment stirred within him: a feeling as old as the hills, and the ties that bound the generations together.

He still could not understand what it was about Frodo – except, perhaps, the ineffable Frodo-ness that made him, in Sam’s opinion, impossible not to love. But all the same, there was something about him that had taught Marigold to speak and act more freely, to cry and convey her sentiments – and this was the same Marigold who scarcely talked at home, only to explode with pent-up frustrations once in a blue moon, and if she was cheerful (which, granted, was much of the time) it was always a cheerfulness that belied something deeper, something unsaid…

Indeed, it made him a touch despondent – to hear Marigold say that she loved someone, and to name her fears so clearly. It might have been impossible only a year ago, and it still seemed impossible at Bagshot Row, and yet, it was Frodo, and not any Gamgee, not her own flesh and blood, who had drawn out this new sister of his, and who had made a home for her where could live as she liked and act as she pleased. Sam wished that it could have been him, and his brother’s pride was wounded that he it was now – but now, what was done was done, and he, Samwise Gamgee, had a new and perhaps more important role to play.

He sighed, straightening up, and reached once more across the table. Marigold’s face was buried in Frodo’s shoulder.

“Well, er, look, Mari,” he said, and took up his soup spoon once more, twirling it between his fingers, “I’m glad that you love Mr. Frodo so, and that he’s such a fine match for you, and I promise, if anyone does say anythin’ about the two of you, they’ll have Samwise Gamgee to deal with, a’right? You’ve got my word: the first time they wag their tongues, I’ll stove their head in, and the next time, I’ll set their hobbit holes on fire, if it still don’t sink in.”

He raised his eyebrows, and wiggled them a little – rounding out his expression with a wide and unadulterated smile as if they were children, and he was comforting a small and weeping Mari who was being bullied.

Marigold raised her eyes, and seemingly in spite of herself, she smiled, blinking through her tears.

“Well, no, you don’t need to do that,” she returned, shaking her head. “Not only will you catch all kinds of trouble, but you shouldn’t go around stovin’ people’s heads in – that’ll only make them think they’re right, and that if it’s gotten to us so, then it must be true.”

She took Frodo’s hand, and squeezed it gently as she rose from her seat. She wiped the remnants of the tears from her eyes, and set about spooning the sour cream into the bowls of stew. She then returned to the stove, where the kettle was coming to a boil.

Sam shrugged. 

“Well, suit yourself,” he returned, and raised his spoon to the light, examining the freshly polished silver. “But then, I still get to come here and hold your hand, alright? Along with Mr. Frodo, of course – and I get to tell you what kinds of dunderheads they all are, and how they don’t know their right foot from their left.” He sniffed a laugh, and winked at Frodo across the table. “What else are a brother and a husband for? And then, we can all eat stew together.”

He readjusted his belt, leaning gingerly against the table, and tucked his napkin under his collar, picking up a dollop of stew with a careful reverence.

“Mmm–mmm, now that is some fine stew, Mari.” 

He smacked his lips, and Marigold turned back toward the table, kettle in hand. The blush on her cheeks was a familiar one – a shy but beaming sort of pride.

“Why, thank you, brother,” she returned, pouring a spot of tea for Frodo.

Frodo glanced at her, and looked like she had gifted him a precious jewel.

Sam observed them – but where he had expected a painful longing, there was only a dull echo.

Far more than that – and this came as a surprise – he actually wanted to keep looking at them. He wanted them to be.

But he also wanted to eat. He wanted to savor the dark, dusky mushroom meat on his tongue, and the thick, milky broth on his lips…

He scooped up another, generous spoonful, and placed it in his mouth – and then another, and another. 

Marigold poured the tea for all three of them, followed by a lump of sugar and a spot of milk for Frodo, and then she sat by his side, and also began to eat.

Some minutes passed with nobody speaking, and only the deliberate sound of chewing – but then Frodo paused unexpectedly between bites, and placed his spoon by the side of his plate.

“But you know, Mari,” he said, leaning confidentially toward her, and assuming an air that was familiar to Sam – as if he was having a private conversation with himself, and had finally chosen to give it voice, “There is something that we need to tell you. It concerns a date that is coming up.”

Sam ate a few more bites – but out of the corner of his eye, he watched Marigold put down her spoon, and glance at Frodo with a curious expression.

Sam lowered his spoon as well, in daft mimicry – but beyond that, he did not move a muscle.

“It is nearly March the twelfth,” Frodo said, tilting his head back and knitting his brows. “And March the twelfth is the anniversary of something important. It is something that happened on the quest, and perhaps, whether alone or with Sam’s help, I could tell you about it, because it may be a repeat of October.”

Sam glanced at Marigold from beneath his brows, and, unsurprisingly, she had turned pale, a mouthful of food behind her cheeks. Her eyes darted between him and Frodo.

Frodo reached for her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Sam peered down at his plate.

“It is the story of what really happened with the spider in the mountain pass, and what it did to me, in the end,” Frodo explained. “And I think that you must know, that you deserve to know, now that you will be my wife. And we don’t have much time, since it’s the day after tomorrow.”

Sam felt a heady twisting in his chest – and his appetite instantly swelled.

He avoided Marigold’s eyes – for he was sure she was on the verge of tears, or just the opposite: wearing the dull, expressionless mien of one losing hope.

He reached for the bread basket, and took a generous slice, pulling the butter pan toward him.

He slathered the bread in oily, yellow butter, and sent it quickly down his throat.

“A–alright,” he heard Marigold’s voice just above him. 

And oddly enough, it sounded neither moribund nor tearful. A little timorous, perhaps, but also determined.

He raised his eyes, and saw Marigold clasping Frodo’s hand between her own.

Frodo turned to face his friend.

“And Sam, if you can help me,” he said, “If you can be there for me and Marigold while I tell the tale, I would be greatly in your debt. I do understand that you might not want it, and I would tell Marigold alone if I could – but I don’t remember it all, and I don’t know how it would be for me, to finally give it voice.”

Sam nodded – very slowly – but at first could find no words to say.

Instead, he reached – equally slowly – for one of the sandwich trays, and picked up a piece of toast topped with a tiny, salty, oily fish – the dryness of the toast being intentional, to soak up the oil and to bring out the fish’s flavor.

The Gondorean sandwich went straight down the hatch, but this time, the salt and the tinny taste stirred within him a memory – of all things, of the bracing, salty air of the bay at the Grey Havens.

He reached for another sandwich – this one topped with bright orange roe, like lush rowan berries – but stopped, and glanced at his friend and sister across the table.

Frodo’s handsome face wore a restrained and solemn expression, demanding nothing, and giving him silent permission to refuse. But Marigold was imploring him with her eyes – just as she had done when she was young. Frodo had drawn his hand around her waist under the table, and she was leaning against him, hardly reticent anymore.

Sam felt a pinprick at the base of his chest, but within a moment, it was gone, replaced by a new and more determined feeling.

He took the sandwich covered in roe, but did not bring it to his mouth. Instead, he placed it carefully on his plate, and drew a sigh, tenting his fingers. 

“Well, Mr. Frodo, if we must, we must,” he said, wiping the salty oil from his lips with his napkin. “I have to say, though,” he added, placing his hands on his stomach, where the food was settling nicely and doing wonders for his mood, “I don’t relish the thought – and if it were me, I would rather let sleepin’ dogs lie if you get my meanin’. But even I, unlettered gardener that I am, know that it’s not the right way of doin’ things…”

And so it was, that afternoon, that Marigold learned the story of Frodo’s stabbing by the great spider Shelob, in the high mountain pass of Cirith Ungol, and it was far from the fireside children’s tale that she and the Gamgees had heard before.

That story – the one that was hastily shared after Frodo and Sam’s return – had been comparatively brief, and had amounted to Frodo getting wounded while Sam had wrestled with the creature Gollum, and after he bested him, Sam had caught up with his master and, thinking he was dead, had taken up the Ring, and carried it for a day until he learned that Frodo was not in fact dead but simply stunned, and had been captured by the servants of the enemy. Naturally, a rescue ensued, and the journey was set to go on.

However, on this March the tenth, the day after Marigold and Frodo had forged their understanding, the tale and the telling looked quite different, and took a grand total of several hours.

To begin with, before Frodo began to speak, he brought his hand to the smooth, pallid scar at the side of his neck and rubbed, gazing fixedly at the fireplace for several minutes. Then, his voice recitative and low, he declared his intention to stop telling the story if anyone grew too upset – though it was not clear if he was speaking to himself or to the Gamgees. And then, Marigold – who had found plenty of fault with Sam’s behavior just that morning – pressed herself against her brother and squeezed his hand: for touch, Frodo said, was a good and comforting thing to have at such a moment, as long as it did not go too far.

And so, Frodo and Sam began their tale, and far from the mere facts of the journey, Marigold soon heard and felt the feelings of it all: from the triumph of slicing with the elvish sword through the spider’s web and escaping, to the love between Frodo and Sam as the two of them held hands and made their way through the tunnel in the darkness. She felt the joy of their escape, and the bitter cutdown of being stabbed – and then, the cloying, cold, and dizzying sickness of Frodo’s dreams as they pulled him down into the darkness.

It was these dreams – like creeping, half-dead creatures at the bottom of a swamp – that Frodo feared most of all, because a year ago – on the first anniversary of being stung – they had returned, and had kept him bedridden for some days until a neighbor found him. The dreams had returned without a warning, but once they did, they clung like cobwebs to every thought, to every deed and sentiment, and as Frodo recalled this, he drew his share of uneven breaths as Sam averted his eyes, admitting that he had not been there for Frodo at the time for some entirely trivial reason. Frodo paused in his speech, and Sam apologized profusely, but with a gentle smile, Frodo insisted that he would have none, and that Sam should stop apologizing right this minute. Instead, Frodo rose up from his seat, and walked across the room to his friend’s side, hugging him heavily around the shoulders, and rocking him back and forth until the Gamgee’s tears turned to smiles.

And so the hours passed as they shared their words and their feelings between them – like a glowing orb that burned their fingers and their eyes, but none of them wanted to put it down. And so Marigold learned of her brother’s despair when he discovered Frodo “dead,” and the moribund resolve with which he took up the Ring. She even learned of the desperate self-hate that was Frodo’s only sentiment when he came to, and of the things he dreamt – and felt, with a sixth sense, that the orcs had done to him.

There were many breaks, of course – they could not have done without them – and there were pauses to make soothing brews of tea, and many tears. There was even a kiss or three on the cheek, at which point Sam would tactfully avert his eyes, and a myriad touches, and countless encouraging words.

It was, all in all, an afternoon unlike any in Marigold’s life, and when it ended, it felt like she had spent the entire day crying, but there was also a calm like the one that came after a rainstorm, when the air smelled fresh and clean – of earth that had finally had its fill to drink, and of lush, blooming greenery washed clean, and of the bracing air newly born from the skies.

There was a heady swelling in her chest, and when Sam left at last – to do what he could in the garden – she and Frodo looked at one another, and it felt like there was no space between them.

They saw each other more clearly and more distinctly than before: moreso then even the prior night, when there had barely been a stitch between them.

The sun outside had hidden behind the clouds, and the parlor filled with gauzy gray light, with motes of dust dancing in the stillness. The papers lay on the table in the middle of the room – the quills quite forgotten, for there would not be any writing that day. The fire in the grate had not been started, for outdoors, it was growing warm.

Outside, the greenery was sprouting, its shoots peeking around the rims of the circular windows. 

Frodo stepped toward her first, and as he came, she extended her hands, and their lips found each other in the stillness. They began to kiss, and soon their hands were reaching for their waists, hips, and thighs, their mouths needing no other language beyond moans, their fingers sinking into downy-soft, curly hair.

She wanted him again – that much was plain. She wanted to be as naked with him as she had felt when they walked together, hand in hand, through the twisted path of Cirith Ungol.

She wanted it – and it did not matter if it solved nothing. Wounded and diminished, he would nonetheless find his safe harbor.

She felt all of this, and she kissed him all the harder – and as the moments passed, the kisses, such as they were, were no longer enough. She felt his hands on her hips, drawing her toward the couch, but then – hardly knowing what she did, a madcap courage overtook her, and with a quick, sharp breath, she launched herself upward like a spring.

Frodo buckled from the impact, but somehow, he remained standing, and she grasped his shoulders as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Mr. Frodo, bedroom, now,” she whispered hotly.

Frodo’s eyes grew wide, and he looked exactly like a hobbit who had been propositioned by his once-shy sweetheart.

“But – but, are you sure?” he stammered. “We moved too fast yesterday, did we not? And that’s what ended up hurting you, did it not?”

But the feel of his pants, even though the layers of skirt, was making its own entreaties, and Marigold she shook her head.

“No, no, Mr. Frodo, I want this,” she returned firmly. “I want to be close with you, and it’s alright – if anythin’ happens, I’ll tell you right away.”

She peered earnestly into his eyes, and tried, as best she could, to look brave – to reassure him, for she had noticed a glistening sheen over his eyes, and a pinch between his eyebrows.

But even as he held her, his arms were sure and true, and there was nothing in his air that suggested reticence.

All politeness, all gentlemanly artifice, all desire to temper his feelings so as not to inconvenience others – all such “clothing” fell away. He nodded, and this time, when they got to the bedroom, they barely took off their clothes. They did not need to.

***Frodo only undid his pants, and pushed up her skirt, and she pulled on the drawstring of her bodice and the collar of her underdress, exposing her breasts. He looked at them like they were the sun come out from behind the clouds, and after that, neither felt like there was time for more – except the requisite slipping on of the sheepskin – and then he entered her, clasping her hand, and watching her face without a break.

It still hurt – even despite her desire – but a warmth was steadily growing inside her, and his presence was stoking it, as it was meant to do.

“Mr. Frodo, closer…” 

She wrapped her arms around him, and their bodies molded together. He would not be able to see as much of her anymore, for they began to kiss, but it gave her the chance to envelop all of him, and not just with the space between her legs.

He started to move, and she echoed his rhythm with her breath.

If Sam had happened to return from the garden just then, there was no telling what he might have seen, for there was no sundering them now.

They moved as one, breathed as one, but even so, Frodo ceased to kiss her from time to time, pulling back to glance at her face.

And sure enough, the thing he was watching for came, just as the heady warmth between her legs began swelled and grew, spreading over her inner thighs and the outside of her sex. (4)***

The mild, pearly light from the window turned dark red, like the glow from the dying embers on a deep winter night. She felt rough hands grabbing her by the shoulders, and the covers of the bed changed from burgundy to green, and an image of her own hands, doused in blood and hovering over a bowl of equally red water flickered before her eyes.

She whimpered and squeezed Frodo’s arm, and he instantly stopped moving.

“Mari – is it – is it… happening?” She heard his voice but could scarcely see his face: it was fading as the room was changing, and she was being carried far, far away.

She nodded, and he started to pull away, but she shook her head and held him fast.

“Mr. Frodo, please…” she whispered.

There were no words for how orphaned she would feel if he pulled away just then, and thankfully, he understood, and held her tight as the voices ebbed and flowed like roiling waves.

She heard his voice, and felt his lips against her cheek.

“Mari,” the words came from a thousand miles away. “How do my lips feel?”

How did his… what?

She turned the words this way and that was in her head, but could make no sense of them.

But his voice persisted.

“Please, Mari. Just tell me. How do my lips feel?”

He kissed her again, avoiding her mouth, and then the sobbing returned, desperate and plaintive.

How did his lips feel? What did it matter? 

***Her face contorted, and she gripped him tighter, and very slowly, the movement resumed below – though it felt like rocking, a smooth and steady rhythm, and nothing like the way it should have felt.***

She wanted to weep, and yet his voice insisted.

“Mari – stay,” it called out to her. “Mari, stay with me. Please, just tell me. How do my lips feel?”

The words were followed by another kiss, just on the edge of her mouth – and it felt like the only part of her that was not numb. Every other part felt like it was wrapped in cotton.

She gathered what wherewithal she could and replied.

“Soft, Mr. Frodo… Very soft…”

Like a whisper on her cheek it felt, and being covered in flowers.

She felt his smile against her as he nodded his assent.

“Of course, Mari, of course,” he said. “That is a very good word for it. But then, how does my voice sound?”

She could still barely see him, a pall hanging over her eyes, but to describe his voice, that was easy.

Warm and smooth as velvet it was, and soft as the rushing summer rain, and steady as a hundred year oak tree…

It was the most beautiful voice in the world, and the only one she wanted to hear.

She moved her lips, but before she could do utter the words, a new and sudden feeling overwhelmed her.

Or rather, it was not a feeling. It was tears.

The tears that had been building for days, weeks, and months – they swelled and stopped her throat, and they overtook her breath, and soon, she felt like she was drowning.

She wept – and wept, and wept some more. She wept so long that her tears, which gushed like blood from a severed vessel, might have depleted all within her.

But even so, Frodo held her. 

He held her as the feeling returned to her limbs, and the sight to her eyes, and the room grew bright again, clean and washed in pale, early spring sunlight.

***He held her, and by degrees, she realized that somehow, he had managed to stay inside her though it all.

He pulled away a little, appraising her keenly, but she refused to meet his eyes – for a sudden regret came with the realization: he was not as hard as he had been.

He had lost his desire, and who could blame him? Weeping every time he tried to make love to her. Even when she asked for it, and even when she wanted it. A right lovely betrothed she turned out to be…

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, I’m sorry,” she whispered, burrowing her face into the angle between his shoulder and chest. “I’m sorry I spoiled your pleasure, yet again…”

Her breasts, she realized, were still exposed as she felt the air draw across them – as were her legs – and she felt suddenly cold and lonely.

But Frodo shook his head, and drew her underdress over her bosom. He then shifted and pulled himself out of her, and Marigold glanced down – only to realize, from the cloudy look of the sheepskin, that Frodo had gotten his pleasure unbeknownst to her.

But still, it must have been a pyrrhic, hollow sort of pleasure. (5)***

She felt hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, and blinked them away.

Frodo put the sheepskin aside and cupped her face.

“I’m Frodo,” he said, and placed a kiss, soft as a butterfly’s touch, on her lips. “Frodo,” he repeated, and kissed her again. He kissed her several more times, and with each kiss, he lingered a little while longer, delved a little deeper. 

“And you didn’t spoil anything, Mari,” he added – her body relaxing into his caresses. “I have faith – someday, mark my words. We will be able to make love without pain.”

She did not answer – but his eyes, brilliant as the endless summer sky, were gazing down on her. He smiled and drew his hand across her thigh, pushing aside her skirt.

She gasped, but this time, when the air met her thighs, it did not make her feel lonely.

***The touch of his hand was loving, and it responded to her every sigh. 

It did not take long, and this time, when she came, she did not see any horrors. (6)*** 

1. Blair Waldorf to Chuck Bass in Gossip Girl: “I love you, Chuck Bass. Always have, always will.”
2. In truth, it is really quite rare for PTSD-associated insomnia to improve as quickly and dramatically as it did for Frodo, but I wanted to make a reference to the Korean drama Crash Course in Romance, where a deeply unhappy man who happens to be an insomniac finally has a good night’s sleep after an intimate night with the woman he loves. It is somewhat accurate that oxytocin, the hormone released during sex, is conducive to sleep, as is emotional catharsis, but again, it is rarely this dramatic an effect. However, just because Frodo had one night of better sleep does not mean that the improvement will persist, since healing is often a nonlinear process.
3. A reference to Alois Trancy in Black Butler, who says to his servant, Claude: “Why won't you look at me the way you did back then? […] Why can't you look at me the way you did that day, like I'm all you care about?”
4. Marigold and Frodo start making love. Frodo watches her for any signs of distress, and just as it begins to feel good, Marigold slips into a flashback.
5. Marigold wonders if Frodo got pleasure, and when he takes off the condom, she realizes that he did, but she must have missed it. She voices regret at spoiling his enjoyment.
6. Frodo pleasures Marigold with his hand, and she does not have a flashback.

Chapter Text

Frodo’s Shelob sickness that year passed as well as it might have – if ever it could be said that an illness had gone well. 

Marigold and Sam took care of Frodo by turns, and set up their healing operation again at Bag End: sleeping in shifts, and making draughts and essences of Kingsfoil, as Frodo lay in his bed, insensate and a sickly shade of green, and looking every bit like he had been poisoned.

During his brief lucid intervals, he ate a little, and looked at Marigold and Sam with a vague comprehension of who they were and what was being asked of him. But heavy as his illness was, he still nuzzled into their touches, and smiled whenever he heard their gentle words, and whimpered only a little whenever he was moved, or when they helped him do something unpleasant or embarrassing.

He was, in his illness, ever the accommodating, gentle Frodo, but much of the time, when he wasn’t being jostled about or spoon-fed or offered calming draughts, he slept and dreamed his unquiet dreams, and his eyes quivered fitfully under his eyelids.

But even in this state – to Marigold’s stark mortification – she managed to have untoward thoughts about him.

She wanted to hold him, to love him, even and especially as his breath fluttered in his chest, and as his brow lay wreathed in sweat, and his vessels shone like sickly sunbursts under his skin.

But to take advantage of a hobbit in her care would have been beastly, so every time she thought of it, she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut tight – and yet, his hand would linger every time she withdrew hers, and whenever she and Sam held his hands, his breathing would grow less fitful.

And so, her thoughts returned again and again to wrapping her arms around him, to taking off her clothes and lying with him, skin on skin, of giving him her warmth – but not like that, for Sam was in the next room, snoring away, and it was a far cry from when Frodo told her that the hallway was long enough, and if Sam came early, she could get dressed many times over before he got to the bedroom.

But the only thing she braved, in the end, was to lie down close beside him, clothed and outside the covers, and to press against his flank, whispering that she loved him, and that wherever he was, whatever was in his mind, she was there with him, come what may (1).

He whispered something inaudible in answer, and it made her heart glad to know that if nothing else, he could at least hear her. Like many times before, she tried to imagine the torments of his mind – and it was easily done, for the story of the spider was fresh in her mind. But in the warm and brightly lit room, and on the warm bed, it was difficult to imagine such a thing for more than a few moments, so instead, she rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hands on his chest. She took several breaths – blinking back her tears – and molded her body against his, smoothing her hand over his chest under the blanket.

“I’m here, Mr. Frodo,” she whispered. “It’s me, your Mari.”

And though her voice was low, he seemed to hear her.

He turned his head toward her, moving his bloodless lips, and Marigold imagined the deck of a pitching ship – the storm passing, and the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

She smiled into his neck, and pressed a kiss against the fluttering vein beneath its surface. The light from the bright orange flames danced against his skin, and his breaths were peaceful.

He sighed with a hint of a whimper, and tried to move his hand toward his chest.

But he did not need to – for Marigold took it – and in that moment, she was more glad of this show of affection than all the kisses, and all the skin they might have shared in a lifetime.

By and by, the illness passed, and once again Frodo was able to write. As the cherry trees and the apple trees blossomed in the orchards, the farmers began to sow the barley in their fields, and Frodo and Marigold watched the arrival of spring through the broad, open window in the parlor.

In the garden outside, Sam certainly had his hands full: for the potatoes, artichokes, peas, and lettuce were all ready to be planted, and there was the pruning of the shrubs, the dividing of asters and bellflowers, and a thousand other tasks that waited in the wings, now that the cold had subsided and the earth was ready to give up is boons. 

The soft breezes made their way through the window as Frodo worked at the table, and Marigold decided that it was high time to start the spring cleaning: a project that involved the washing and airing out of draperies, the rearrangement of the pantry, and the wiping off of every surface, seemingly clean or not, that could have gathered an appreciable layer of soot in the course of the winter.

As it turned out, this was true of many of the surfaces, including the windows and the walls, so oftentimes, Frodo observed her hovering on tiptoe as she strained at the top of a step stool, making the most adorable huffing and puffing noises imaginable. Too often, it was quite the trial to keep his wits about him in such moments – for her figure, already lovely, would gain the advantage of height, and the sight would be so enticing that at times Frodo would get up, because coming over and kissing her was decidedly more appealing than thinking of Mordor and orcs – and at first, whenever he did so, she would protest, but they soon learned that it was all in jest, for she would quickly abandon all objections, and wrap her arms around him with equal ardor.

In short, it was a Spring, and with it came the restless energy of all the other springs in the Shire, when everyone was longing to be outdoors, and when hearts and minds would soar, and vows of love were made, and Frodo would long to run helter-skelter down a hill, and to go off on a faraway adventure… At any rate, that was how it once had been, but even now, the echoes of that brisk, sunny, restless feeling were stirring in his breast, and edging out the guilt and the heaviness.

For after all, he was going to be wed to the most wonderful girl in the world, who loved him also, and who was already a wife to him in all but name. Most days, he felt remarkably vigorous on account of his happiness, the mild, fragrant air lending strength to his limbs, and when it came to the voices in his head, he made a surprising discovery.

The voices, now that Marigold was no longer forbidden, had not gone away, but they were undoubtedly easier to fight, for now he could stand in his mind’s eye as a protector to her, and expose the voices for what they were: not only as frauds, but as attacking the sanctity of his hearth and family. He could imagine himself now, standing with his glowing sword and fending them off, and the voices, like dark, miserable curs, would go scattering off into musty corners.

It brought him a measure of satisfaction, if not of pride, to know that he could do things like this, and as he practiced his defenses in his mind’s eye, he noticed another remarkable circumstance. The closer to Marigold he got, the weaker the voices became. The more certain he was of her love, the more they went, whimpering and defeated – chiding until they disappeared into thin air.

They did at times scream that she did not truly love him, or that she would not stay, that it was all a dream. And there were times when they left him with a chilly, helpless feeling, and a gnawing, relentless doubt. But all the same, he was glad, for it was better than anything he could have imagined, better than anything he could have felt only a few short weeks ago.

He did still fear that if anything went wrong he might lose her, and he did still harbor a measure of guilt that he relied on her in such a way. For if he credited her with his rescue, did it not also mean that if she fell out of love with him, things would go back to the way they were? Perhaps it did… And perhaps not, but it was altogether too much to heap on the shoulders of the young, impressionable Mari…

But somehow, Frodo was still too drunk on love to be troubled by such thoughts for very long, and the breezes painted in his mind’s eye a series of tables in the party field, with long white table cloths and strings of lanterns floating overhead, and fireflies winking in the gathering twilight.

It was all entirely too inviting, and entirely too hopeful, and it was difficult to imagine anything going wrong, and all the joys of the past being wasted.

Even if the darkness was not yet gone, something told him that it would not endure, and for the moment, it was more than enough to keep him persevering.

But spring, of course, was not all planting, cleaning, and being lost in one’s own thoughts or greenery and rebirth, for as time went by, the hobbits of Bag End made another determination. Now that Frodo had endured his biannual sickness, they decided it was high time to continue the work they had begun in retelling the story of Shelob. 

Like poison from a wound, they agreed, the pain needed to be drawn out, and washed away with tears, and born witness to with attentive ears and loving words.

And it was not just Frodo who needed healing – it was all of them – though Frodo most of all.

So whenever Sam had a free hour, and Marigold could put aside her dishes and her duster for a spell, they would come together in the parlor, and read from Frodo’s memoir, which by then had a name: The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King.

Frodo’s voice, as he read, would invariably start off tremulous and hesitant, and he would often look away, worrying at his scars. Quite quickly, they realized that someone needed to sit by his side, so he could feel the living warmth – and Sam had declared, rather adamantly, that since Marigold was the betrothed, it was her place to do the honors.

And so, Marigold would sit by his side on the couch, and Frodo would read, and here and there, Sam would fill in the missing details. As time went by, Frodo’s voice grew firmer and they began to discuss what he was reading, considering how things could have gone differently, working to understand why they had not, and trying, as best they could, to allay Frodo’s shame: for at every turn, he would blame himself for not doing enough, and for hesitating and not doing what he ought to have done at the proper moment.

The “official” version of events – the one that everyone was told in the evenings over tea – was that Frodo was about to throw the Ring into the fire when the creature Gollum attacked him from behind and wrestled the Ring away, eventually falling in himself. However, what Marigold – and everyone else – had not known was that Frodo had made a fatal mistake, and given Gollum the opportunity. Frodo had turned around and said to Sam, in a voice not quite his own, that he would not discharge the task he had come there to do, and that the Ring was his, and then he put it on his finger.

When Frodo confessed this, he did not cry, but he wore an expression like somebody had died, and he had confessed to the murder.

The others, at first, did not know what to say, but Marigold had clasped his hand, and drew it quietly to her chest.

Sam was seated across the tea table, and as soon he heard the words, he released a sigh, and said, “Now look here, Mr. Frodo – there ain’t no shame in it. I know you think that, but please – please don’t look at it like that…”

But it was to no avail.

For the rest of the day, Frodo barely said anything… He barely even kissed Marigold goodbye when they parted later that evening – though he apologized for his coldness, and held her longer than was his custom to allay the hurt. And he barely said anything the next day, either, hardly touching his food, but by that point, Marigold knew what to do – and that, as she shared in strict confidence with Sam, was exactly nothing. Or rather, they were to do nothing out of the ordinary.

“You’ll see,” she said. And she was right.

They went about their usual business, with Sam planting and turning the soil, and Marigold smiling and serving Frodo his meals – which at times went untouched – but in the end, just as she predicted, one day something changed, and it was the day she brought out the season’s first strawberries, courtesy of her brother.

She touched Frodo’s hand as was her custom, placing the bowl of fruit in front of him, and was just about to leave, when unexpectedly, Frodo turned and placed his hand on her wrist. He did not restrain her, but instead got up and said, “Mari, forgive me.”

Which she did. Gladly. Perhaps too gladly, judging by the ardor of the kisses that followed, and the way that Frodo’s eyes grew misty with a sheen of tears. The strawberries were, for the moment, very much forgotten…

And so, their readings went on, and the next time the events at the Cracks of Doom came up, Frodo had the fortitude to engage in a debate with Sam, and the two of them spoke at length on whether Frodo had succeeded or failed, and what had led to the Ring’s destruction.

Frodo, with his mind still clouded by inexorable guilt, maintained that his efforts were all for naught, and that it was all a fortunate accident, a complete and utter happenstance, whereas Sam, dogged as he was in all pursuits, was relentlessly bending the opposite line.

“But Mr. Frodo,” he insisted, with all but foam at his mouth, “Whether you got to the end or nearly to the end, what does it matter? It is still far more than anyone else could have done, and far more than the fine folks at Rivendell would have managed! None of them had even dared to touch the Ring, so it would’ve gotten right far with them!”

He nearly spat the last word, but Frodo shook his head, pressing Marigold’s hand between his own.

“But my dear Sam,” he countered, “Don’t you see? With some tasks, it is not the effort – it is the result that matters, and in those cases, stray but a little, and if you fail, then it is all for naught. You cannot be almost-alive or almost-saved, now can you?…”

He rounded out his words with a mirthless smile, and Sam furrowed his brow in a way that had more sadness than approbation in it.

“You take on too much, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, and tented his fingers over his stomach. “You talk as if this whole business rested on your shoulders, but it didn’t – and you know it didn’t. That’s why they gave you your companions.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, and Frodo returned a chastened look.

“Well, yes, Sam, there you are correct,” he said. “But it is also said that to be a Ringbearer is to be alone. And I know that many helped me along the way – including you, Sam: you even carried me when I did not have the strength to walk, and I will never cease to be grateful for that. But nobody else could have carried it for me – nobody else could have fought that battle of wills, and nobody else could have resisted it on my behalf…”

And so they went on like that – with Sam insisting that Frodo’s every act, even his act of mercy toward Gollum, was a means of assuring success in the end, with Frodo dismissing it as a chance circumstance entirely.

They sparred like that – like two friendly champions, and Marigold looked on, trying to follow the lines of thought and to find something meaningful to say – but at first, it seemed like a hopeless business, for they knew the details of the quest far better than she did, and Frodo, at least, had made such a comprehensive list of everything that had gone wrong, that she could hardly hope to outthink him. But then, as she listened to them speak, and watched the ray of sunshine moving across the floor, a thought came slowly into her mind, like bubbles rising to the surface of a pond.

“But Mr. Frodo, I think,” she interjected, leaning forward, “I think we’re not askin’ the proper question here, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

At the sound of her voice, both Sam and Frodo looked up – Sam with a renewed hope, and Frodo with a hapless and tired expression. But the two of them looked at least mildly curious, and Marigold had a sudden urge to stare at her hands, for the thought that felt so momentous a moment ago was fast disintegrating on her tongue.

“I mean… I mean,” she stammered – but then, she saw Frodo’s eyes upon her, and his engagement lent her strength. 

It was just like during their lessons.

“I mean,” she straightened her back, and folded her hands before her, “What I mean to say is, maybe it’s not about whether you had succeeded or failed, Mr. Frodo, because in the end, I agree with Sam – no one thing is really any one person’s doin’. After all, if King Aragorn had not brought his forces to the Black Gate, and if you and Mr. Bilbo had not spared Gollum’s life, and if Captain Faramir weren’t as noble as he was, then no amount of will and determination on your part might have done it, Mr. Frodo…”

She paused, and looked tentatively from Frodo to Sam, but seeing no strong objection on either of their parts, she continued. 

“Perhaps – perhaps it’s really like this, Mr. Frodo” – she paused once more to take a diffident breath – “Perhaps, it’s all the folks in this story together who bent the arc of the world towards good, and weren’t you part of that? (2) You were. And maybe you could have done better – we all could have done – but was your heart in the right place? I’ll wager that it was, Mr. Frodo, but that, I think, is the real question we ought to be askin’.”

She said all this, and when she finished, she drew another breath, and for a moment, the sitting room was quiet. Sam looked at her with a new and profound respect, while Frodo wore an inscrutable expression as if she had just spoken Dwarrow – but to Sam, his expression was the same as when Aragorn had told them “you bow to no one” at his own coronation, and then the entire square had followed the king’s lead in bowing to the four astonished hobbits.

For such was Marigold’s effect on Frodo. She did not need to say anything new, or particularly profound. The thoughts she had expressed, he had heard before – from Sam, and from others who had walked beside him on his journey.

But somehow, hearing it from his sweet, earnest betrothed – whom he had once thought so simple, and loved her for it, but who was anything but – had made a great difference to Mr. Baggins, even in the face of howling despair. (3)

There was no way in the world that he could tell her that his heart was in the wrong place. 

Because as much as he wanted to believe it, it was not. 

It was time to put away the cat-o-nine tails.

“Well, yes,” he conceded – but on his lips, a smile was already forming. “You may be right, Mari. Perhaps my heart was in the right place, or at least not in the overly wrong place.”

He glanced at the fireplace for a quiet moment – so unnecessary now, with the buds and the shoots, which he could almost hear, bursting from the branches in the trees outside.

“Because you know,” he continued, speaking to no one in particular, “Of all the things that the Ring had promised me, I only wanted one, and that was an end to all suffering, a peaceful death.” 

The sun outside had grown unseasonably warm.

Marigold shifted in her seat beside him, but he did not look at her, nor yet at Sam.

A soft, melancholy smile was playing on his lips.

“Was that cowardly of me?” he mused.

Sam opened his mouth as if to answer, but Frodo shook his head, and raised his hand to the opening of his collar at the top of his chest.

“Perhaps it was, perhaps it was,” he sighed, touching the skin beneath, “But at the very least, I never did fancy myself to be Sauron.”

They spent many days retelling Frodo’s story, and Marigold soon learned about a number of new characters, a collection of unsung triumphs, and many new and untold horrors. But through it all, her own tale was not forgotten – though as time went by, she discovered she had a new problem.

It boiled down to this. Every time she heard her beloved speak about his pain, and every time she saw him worry at his scar, and every time he returned from his mental sojourns and looked at her like she was home, she wanted him – in that sense.

Or more precisely, she wanted to burst out of her clothes, and to beg to be bedded, all consequence be damned. It was a burning desire that would not leave her long after their sessions of reading and conversation were done for the day.

But of course, there was no way she could ask for such a thing, for if she did, and if Frodo acquiesced, she had every chance of crashing like a ship against the rocks – which meant there were always two wills battling inside her: one that longed to be free, and one that refused to forget the guilt, which lay like a serpent coiled around their bed and never seemed to sleep. For yes, it was their bed now – shockingly, after only a few weeks – and it might have made her heart glad, if not for the bitter conundrum.

In time, she thought to confess her feelings to Frodo, but as it turned out, she did not need to speak a word. He already knew, and had devised a plan, which he set into motion soon after their second time together.

The plan had two parts, and the first part was, unsurprisingly, in bed.

Frodo thought that it would help Marigold if the two of them could get to know their bodies in a way that did not presume the act of love – and so, when their work for the day was done, and Sam returned to Bagshot Row, they would make their way into the bedroom and lie together side by side, with the sun descending goldenly outside their window.

At times, this was all they did – they would lay together with their fingers intertwined and communing softly, calling each other “my sweet Mari” and “my dear Mr. Frodo,” and “meleth nîn,” which meant “love of mine” in Elvish.

Quite often, they would imagine a high blue sky above, or a canopy of stars, and grass blowing softly all around them. They would reach for one another, and softly, slowly, Frodo would invite Marigold to undress him – and they would kiss and caress each other as she did. First, she would peel away the velvet waistcoat, and then the sun-washed linen shirt that smelled of soap and mellow breeze, and then she would unbutton the leather, or pearl, or ram’s horn buttons of his trousers. “Kiss me,” he would say, and she would do so – wherever her fingers peeled away the clothes, unwrapping him like a gift, and exposing the pale hobbit flesh beneath.

***He would never press her to move more quickly than she wanted to, and he never pressed her to remove her own clothes, but even so, oftentimes she did, and the lovely curves of her breast and shoulders would draw a gasp from him as they emerged – golden or milky-white, depending on the hour and whether the darkness had descended.

He loved to nuzzle against them, and would rest his head on them like a pillow, sucking on the nipples – her delicious strawberries, as he called them – but this, unfortunately, reliably stoked both of their desires, so they needed to be careful.

And careful they were, but Marigold would still find it hard to restrain herself at times, caving and asking him to touch her down there, and he would obey, lovingly and using one finger at first, then two, and gently stretching her and filling her up, for she was still quite tense between the legs, even for one who was so recently a maid.*** (4)

They would lie together like this, mouth on mouth, and skin on skin, and if it got to be too much for her, they would immediately stop, and breathe together, and if she ceased to respond and was drifting away, he would call out to her.

“Meleth nîn,” he would whisper, and his velvet eyes would caress her, across time and across space, rising in her mind’s eye against the dark green bedspread and the gesticulating figures of Dr. Boffin and Mrs. Bracegirdle. “Where are you? You’re here. With me, at Bag End. Come back. Come back to me…”

He would insinuate himself into her visions – taking her by the shoulders and pulling her away.

Away from Mrs. Bracegirdle and the weeping and the arguing, away from the bloody bedroom and the sneering eyes and the overly made-up fire in the middle of the parlor at Bag End (for the ruffians were never content with the fireplace alone). He would envelop her in his arms, his scent of cloves and nutmeg calling her home, his voice a thick, woolen cloak, keeping her safe from the wind and rain.

And she would come. It would take time, but she would always come, letting herself be drawn along, away from the sorrow that seemed to cling to her as much as she clung to it.

For somehow, she felt that she did not deserve it, this love without pain, when others had suffered and died and gone without. She even confessed as much to Frodo in the end, one evening as the sun was going down, and their love was illuminated by a single candle and a single, orange ray.

As she confessed, Frodo listened to her words, and for a moment did not speak – he only drew her closer and held her tight, burying his head in the crook of her shoulder.

“I understand, Mari,” he said at last, “If only you knew how much I understand.”

Those were his only words, and he drew a sigh, burying his fingers in her hair.

He did not need to say much more. She already knew his pain all too well, and in some ways, she reckoned that he had never ceased to feel naked in the dark.

But even in spite of his pain, or perhaps because of it, he never ceased to think of her as well – of how to make things easier and better for her, of how to make her feel both loved and worthy, of how to make her past hold less sway.

And so it was only natural, in return, that she should do the same: that she should cherish him and hold him and let him drink in every part of her. And though he tried to make light of it and to play it off as a coincidence, after some weeks the pattern became clear: in the mornings after they made love all the way to the end, with him finishing inside her (with a sheepskin on, of course), he would still be sleeping by the time she returned the following day, or at least his eyes would be less dark-rimmed and bloodshot.

This did not surprise her, of course, for she had read of such things in her training – the many indirect benefits of the act of love. And so, she made every effort to love him just as he loved her, and every effort to grow accustomed to the act herself. Indeed, this latter part she feared would be a challenge, but before long, she found it easier than expected.

***She even got to know his hobbit-hood – both in its passive and its excited states – and she would hold it and let it lie in the palm of her hand, kissing it once or twice, though she did not take it in her mouth as some people did when they pleasured each other.

One evening, she even told him that her heart and mind were enthralled with that part of him, but it was her body in particular that was afraid. And Frodo, after thinking for a while, had adopted an uncommonly plucky expression, and wondered if perhaps she might think of it not as a part of his body, but instead as her small, reclusive friend.

And Marigold had laughed at that, and then she had blushed, and soon, remarkably, she felt no fear at all.

She even laughed and said that she might make a tiny flower crown for her new friend using lilies of the valley, and Frodo assured her that he had full faith in the dexterity of her fingers – at which point she touched the top of her new friend’s head, and marveled at the tiny bead of nectar that had formed there, thin and stretchy like new honey, though when she put the nectar in her mouth, she found that it was rather salty, and really not like honey at all.

That evening, as could have been expected, Frodo ended up going inside her – slowly, lovingly, and exercising enviable self-control as he lay and did not move at all at first, and let her breathe and mold around him. He then began to roll his hips against her, and while her pleasure never blossomed into a climax – it never did, just yet, except by the efforts of his fingers and lips – it was still the first time she had ever seen their love-making through to the end, and did not experience any horrors.

Indeed, whatever came to pass – even if she did not finish from his hobbithood inside her – she still delighted in the closeness of the act: their intertwined limbs, his heady breath, the way he embraced her and called her his own. She loved that they were as close as two beings could be in such moments, and she loved that she could envelop, hold, and pleasure him without restraint. By dint of this knowledge alone, the pleasure within her would kindle and flare, and she would express her love for him in whimpers and moans, forgetting every bit of pain and mortification.*** (5)

Indeed, with the way things were between them, Marigold was surprised that none of the watchful eyes of Bagshot Row, save perhaps those of Rosie, had observed the dewy glow of her skin, nor did they notice that she smiled more, and seemed to float in a world of her own. They were, perhaps, accustomed to her keeping secrets – or perhaps they were more preoccupied with other matters, between Hamson and his family’s planned return to Tighfield, and Rosie being with child, and Heather’s unauthorized romance with a local cartwright’s apprentice. The poor lass insisted, though she was barely twenty, that she had found her one true love, and she was in pieces at having to move – and while Marigold certainly felt for the girl, having fallen in love early herself, for the moment she was glad that the family’s attentions were busy elsewhere.

But even so – even as she and Frodo were getting along famously in the bedroom (a fact that boded well for their future marital felicity), they also knew that Marigold’s troubles would not be solved in bed alone, and so in the quiet morning hours, between their meals and when Sam was busy mulching the flower beds, pruning the trees, and planting everything from dahlias to artichokes, she and Frodo would sit together at the table, and their writing lessons would take on a very different character.

For by now, Marigold was no longer writing tales of adventure fit for her younger nieces and nephews, nor were they tracing the journey of Merry and Pippin between Isengard, Edoras, and Minas Tirith. Instead, Frodo asked Marigold to record her own accounts of pain and loss: both the story with the ruffians and the one with the baby that passed away, and together, they read and reread them, holding hands and pausing to talk, re-imagining things and prying apart the places where her thoughts got stuck, and breathing and crying together when the going got heavy.

“And you know, Mr. Frodo,” Marigold said one day, “The baby did not even have a name, can you imagine?… His mother did not want to see him, and she did not want to hold him. I was the only one who did.”

She said as much, and began to cry, clasping Frodo’s hand as she buried her face into his shoulder.

And Frodo, for a moment, could find no words to say – for he knew very little of children, and of childbirth even less, but in the end, her pain was keen, and could not be denied by anyone with a heart, so he clasped her hand, and held it between his own as he rocked her back and forth.

“Yes, and it seems the baby had parents, yet at the same time he did not,” he said, and thought unwillingly of his own mother and father, lying in a hawthorn grove some distance away from Buckland.

It was, he supposed, a different type of orphaning that the child had experienced, and though he was not alive to know it, that did not make it any less sad.

He pressed Marigold against him, and when her breathing grew less ragged, he quietly asked her, “Would you like to name the child? That way, he can be yours, too.” 

But Marigold shook her head, and fixed her eyes on his hand without a finger. 

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she said, biting her lip. “I don’t think I should – it isn’t my place, because he isn’t mine, you know. I don’t think his family would like it.”

She remained quiet, and they listened to the birds trilling outside the window – finches, as like as not – and their blood rushed thrillingly in their veins in the anxious, undefinable way that blood rushed in the springtime, when emotions came and went without anyone knowing why.

“But even so,” Frodo ventured after a spell as he turned to face her, “I do think that he is yours, in a way. It may have been too painful for his mother to hold him, but don’t think that it made no difference, what you did. Because who knows – maybe she did wish to hold him before she sent him on his final way, but she could not, and there you were.”

In the end, they did not name the baby, but Marigold cried a good long while, and on that day her tears were not only tears of grief, but also tears of sadness unnamed, and tears of happiness and humility that she had one such as Frodo at her side.

In fact, Marigold cried quite easily in those days, and before long, there was little left of her reputation for being stoic, for she cried at the literal drop of a hat: whenever she dropped a plate into the sink, or pricked her finger, or did any number of small, inconsequential things that went awry, and she cried even when the breeze came through the window and brought in with it an exceptionally sweet smell of flowers.

She cried so much that she joked that Frodo might as well send her away, for who would want such a weepy betrothed – but Frodo only smiled and fell, if possible, even deeper in love.

He even called her “his lady of perpetual tears,” and said that a monument ought to be erected in her honor: it would be a monument that would also cry, and people would come to see it from far and wide, and its tears would bring good fortune to whoever possessed them.

Marigold smiled at this, and then, sure enough, another volley of sobbing came, but this time, Frodo’s arms were ready for her. He spread them out wide, nodding, and summarily she came, putting down her work and pressing tight against him.

“But you know, Mr. Frodo,” she said at last, after her sobs had quieted down and she rested her head on his shoulder, “It’s like – it’s like a dam had broken, if you get my meanin’. It’s like, whatever I do – whether I’m fixin’ a pie, or wipin’ down the windows, I’ll suddenly be cryin’, and it’s all I want to do…”

It was not an exaggeration, either. It was as if the slightest wind, the slightest word could hit her just right – or perhaps wrong – and the wound would open up and weep like it would never run out of blood.

But even so, Frodo remained by her side. Every time it happened, he would get up from his seat and come toward her, and he would take her snugly in his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He would smile during those moments, too, and say, “But crying isn’t bad, my dear Marigold. It isn’t bad at all. Even Gandalf said when he departed, ‘I won’t tell you not to weep, for not all tears are evil’.”

And so Marigold continued to cry, crying soon not only for the baby, but for herself, and for all the Shire – for she had always known, though it was only just beginning to crystallize as a thought, that her suffering was part of that great, ineffable whole. And she also cried for her mother’s passing, and for all the times she had been left out, passed over, misunderstood, and for all the times she had said yes when she really meant “no,” and for all the times she had been a diligent, thorough, good, and useful girl, and pretended she wanted no thanks – that she was merely a bright, cheerful piece of sunshine, and not a person with any other feeling. (6)

In time, she ran out of tears to cry, but even then her heart was not easy. There was a quiet emptiness in her breast, like the silence of a tomb – but her soul was restless.

She knew a time would come when she would have to face those feelings alone – that she would have to be for herself what Frodo had been to her: to hold her own hand, and to tell herself that it was alright to cry, for life was no fairytale, even with a belly full and a happy home, and the gross of her relations living.

But she could not do this quite yet, so she felt a measure guilty. To expect him to be a husband, parent, brother, and friend all at once felt like too much – and yet, that was the way it had to be, for at Bag End, she could speak of many things, but as soon as she stepped outside…

But even so, as much as she hated to burden him, there was one more thing that she had left to do, and she could not do it alone – not now and not ever – so one fine sunlit morning in May, she gathered up her courage and told him all about it.

“Mr. Frodo,” she began – as the birds twittered outside the window, and the sun lay in a printed lattice on the floor, “I wonder, could you perchance help me? There is something that I need to do, something very important.”

She put aside her whipping whisk, having finished the frothy, sweetened cream that her betrothed liked on his berries, and Frodo, for his part, raised his eyes from his stack of letters – fanned out before him as he took his tea – and looked at her like she was all his joy, and a most welcome respite from his correspondence.

“Well, you know the answer to that, Mari,” he returned, blinking slowly. “To the ends of the world, I would go with you – but I wager that since it’s you, and since it’s peacetime, it would be quite a bit closer than that.”

He winked, and Marigold drew a spoon over the surface of the cream, bringing it to her mouth to have a taste.

She smiled. The powdered sugar had mixed into the cream quite nicely.

She pulled the bowl of fresh strawberries toward her, and picked up another spoon to scoop the cream over the berries.

“I need to go to the baby’s grave,” she said – more to the berries than to Frodo.

She gazed at the berries fixedly, avoiding his gaze, but even so, she could feel his eyes upon her. 

She paused with spoon in hand, and let the remnants of the thick, creamy concoction drip slowly from its side.

She could just imagine his look – and it would not be surprised. Nor would it be questioning, or excessively worried. He trusted her completely, and he would, after the way they had held hands, and taken each other apart, and put each other back together.

The splinters of sun, split by the bottle on the windowsill, danced colorfully across the table.

“Of course,” he replied. “When would you like to go?”

And so they went, that very afternoon. 

They said goodbye to Sam, who was hoeing, for the weeds were starting to come in, and they walked down the lane toward the road away from Hobbiton in the direction of the cemetery.

It was considered bad luck to live near a cemetery, so they walked a good long while, and as they did, they saw just how much of the spring they had missed, having spent the bulk of their time indoors with their papers and their memories.

The ground, as they walked to the north and east, had turned once more into a lush green carpet, and the grass was tall on either side of the dusty, yellow path.

The land they had entered was a well-known fruit-growing country and pasture land, and the balmy air, cooled by the occasional breeze, was filled with the scent of growing grass, and the birds whistled in the trees. It was still too early for fruit, but the apple trees were covered with a froth of white blossoms, and the cherry and peach trees were wreathed in gossamer pink.

They walked, and Marigold watched Frodo out of the corner of her eye: his walking stick in hand, his wide brimmed hat shielding his face from the sun, his step as firm as ever. It made her glad, for he was fast coming into his own – the Frodo who was master of tramping to any part of the Shire, in any kind of weather – and while he did not hail any of the hobbits in their gardens in the vicinity of Hobbiton, he did approach a lad who was herding sheep, and exchanged some thoughtful words with him beneath a wide-sprawling oak tree.

They talked about how the ewes were doing, and how many lambs were born that year.

The sheep looked soft and fluffy, and very content – just like their master who was sitting by the root of the tree taking his meal of hearty bread and cheese. But Marigold declined the offer to pet the lambs, their wool allegedly soft as silk, and their coats exceptionally curly. She had a job to do, and Frodo sensed her urgency and took his leave, the two of them continuing down the road.

The cemetery was situated past the northward branch of the Water, beside a grove of slender birch trees. As they crossed the river, Marigold noticed a patch of lilies of the valley, shielded by the arched stone bridge and covering the riverbank.

She stopped, and scrambled down to pick a few, and Frodo followed after – but as she squatted down and reached for the blossoms, she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

“It really is a shame, Mr. Frodo,” she said, and carefully pinched the stems at their bases. “In flower language, they mean sweetness and goodness and rebirth, but there’s not going to be any of that, not for this little baby.”

She plucked the flowers, arranging them carefully into a bouquet, and took a piece of twine from her pocket.

She tied them together, and Frodo watched her – and when they stood up again, he placed a hand on her arm.

“No, not in life,” he said, “But in memory, perhaps.”

The river flowed quietly on, and for some time Marigold did not answer. They stood together, looking out over the water, and the seaweed, flowing like hair, rippled over the mossy rocks by the sloping banks.

“Come on,” Frodo whispered, “It’s not too far now.”

And so they went – a few hundred more paces, at which point they found themselves at the edge of a grove of birches, where, despite the chorus of birds, and the riot of wildflowers spilling over the surrounding fields, there was a certain stillness: the sort that lived in abandoned places, and places considered “fey.”

But it was only a feeling, for the place was hardly deserted. A groundskeeper’s hut stood at the edge of the grove, neat and well-tended with a freshly mowed lawn, and they stopped to ask the way to the Smallburrows’ burial plot.

The groundskeeper turned out to be a very friendly fellow, and before giving detailed directions, he talked Frodo’s ear off about the fine weather they had been having, and the news from two weeks ago about the cow that had given birth to triplets. He then offered them a spot of tea and to conduct them to the burial site, but Frodo and Marigold refused – first politely, and then insistently – so he drew them a picture of the route on a scrap of paper, and sent them on their way with a flurry of well-wishes.

Frodo gave the hobbit a coin in thanks, and armed with the scheme of the cemetery, he and Marigold set off. 

They walked along, and sure enough, the graves of the mother and child were not difficult to find, for they were located by the edge of the burial ground. In that part of the cemetery, the grass was mowed all the way up to a dense thicket of ferns, and the birches stood around it, like spirits of tall, pretty maidens wrapped in airy cloaks of green.

The baby did not have a name here either – it simply said “baby boy,” and the last name, Smallburrow, and the years of birth and death, which were the same. 

The afternoon sun was warm on their faces and shoulders, and a single bird sang its repetitive, two-note song in the trees. The insects trilled in the grass, their sound like the rubbing together of two sticks.

Marigold went down on her knees before the two graves, picking up her skirt so there would be no grass stains.

She drew her hand over the limestone headstones, but there was precious little to brush away. A stray leaf, a few blades of grass, a prickly bit of cocklebur. But otherwise, someone had come along and clipped away the grass from around the stones, and swept the dirt from the indentations that formed the letters.

Not every grave was like this – as they walked through the cemetery, they had seen a number of graves less tended, so it seemed that somebody remembered. But even so, there were no tokens at the heads: no vases with flowers, no mugs with a favorite drink, no bits of food, no handkerchiefs or toys.

Frodo watched Marigold closely, and her lips were moving as she stroked the plaque at the baby’s head.

It did not take her long to cry, but here, she resisted more than she had ever done at home.

And when she cried, they were not loud tears.

They were the pitter-patter of a warm summer shower, when the sun was barely behind the clouds.

Her shoulders quivered like leaves and gossamer under a passing rain, and as he stepped around the grave to kneel by her side, he saw that her entire face was quaking. She was biting her lips, and the tears were running down her cheeks unchecked, dripping from her chin.

There was nothing to be said right then.

Nothing to be said, and nothing to be done, save to reach for her shoulder, and to lay his hand upon it.

Her skin was growing blotchy – from her face to her chest – but as the moments trickled past, he kept his hand where it was.

The birdsong in the grove came to an end, and now it was just the whirring of insects, sawing through the heat.

“We will remember them,” Frodo whispered. “We will. I know we will.”

Marigold nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on the headstone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and Frodo did not need to see her eyes to know that her words were not addressed to him.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and then she rocked back and forth, sighing, as if trying to breathe away a pain that had bored into her bones.

Frodo sighed as well, and pressed her shoulder tighter, and then something unexpected happened.

She reached back over her shoulder and lay her hand on his.

They twined their fingers together, and she wept some more, rocking again and again, but through it all, she did not let go of his hand. She only clasped it tighter, and when she finally ceased to cry, she sat silent and still.

She sat there, and only when the shadows lengthened did she finally get up, and Frodo got up with her.

But even then, she did not let go of his hand.

They walked quietly to the entrance of the cemetery, where the groundskeeper’s hut stood, and as much as Frodo squinted, he could not tell if the groundskeeper was still at his post, or tending the grounds, or gone home for the day.

They approached the gate, but even then, Marigold did not let go – which Frodo did not mind at all, but he did venture a question.

“Er, Marigold,” he said, gesturing with his eyes toward the approaching hut, “I do not mind, of course – but perhaps we should not be holding hands, at least for now? We are still keeping our relationship a secret, are we not?”

The groundskeeper’s door was open, but Marigold shook her head.

She remained silent, but as the wind drew across the grasses and the flowers beyond, she began to limp a little, exaggerating the motion.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she said at last. “Your hand is mine.”

That was all she would say on the matter, and she “limped” all the way home, leaning on his arm and clasping his hand as if her life depended on it.

1. Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden: “I’m with you. No matter what else you have in your head I’m with you and I love you.”
2. Martin Luther King Jr.: “The arc of the universe bends toward justice.”
3. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit: “Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins.”
4. Frodo admires Marigold’s breasts, likening her nipples to strawberries, and they work their way up to progressively more intimate touching.
5. Marigold grows accustomed to holding Frodo’s hobbithood in her hands, and they eventually make love without her having a flashback. Although she does not have orgasms from having him inside of her, she still enjoys the closeness.
6. Loosely inspired by “His Lady of Perpetual Tears” by Konartiste on Ao3, where Lothíriel cries frequently, whenever she has strong emotions. Additionally a reference to the movie Something’s Gotta Give, where Diane Keaton’s character, Erica, sobs for two weeks straight as she pours her heartbreak into the writing of a play, and is shown crying randomly throughout the day as she does various activities.

Chapter Text

Frodo and Marigold returned home as the sun was leaning westward. Marigold, enigmatically quiet, said little, but she smiled with a faraway look in her eye, and she did not let him go even once, holding his hand between her own as she pretended to lean on him, limping slightly. 

She did not even let him go as they approached the lush, grassy knoll of the Hill with the sprawling tree above, and she only dropped the limping act and released his hand when she saw her brother’s back, bent double over the garden beds.

Sam straightened up, and Marigold hailed him with her usual cheer, but after a few pleasantries, she turned and walked briskly toward the house, with Frodo following after. As the door clicked behind them, he wondered what she was about – but then, she grew suddenly lively, drawing him into the kitchen and chattering pleasantly about how hungry he must have been, and about the lovely, savory duck pâté she had been saving.

On the one hand – Frodo thought as he allowed himself to be dragged along – her actions spoke for themselves: she wanted to hold his hand, but she did not dare to be seen that way, so she assumed a limp. But she also did not wish for Sam to worry, so she released his hand and ceased to limp as soon as they approached the house.

That much was clear. But all the same, when he asked if they were keeping their relationship a secret, she shook her head and said “your hand is mine.”

To do one thing and to say another, and then to clam up about it…

He certainly did not miss that sort of behavior – which was rampant in courtships. But this was Marigold, so he could not be unhappy.

After all, sharing things and facing hardships together was their strength, so all he had to do was ask, and surely she would explain, now that they were safely home.

And so he did ask, as soon as she emerged from the cold cellar with a chicken in her hands – already divided into wings, breasts, and thighs, and each wrapped in oil paper and ready to be fried for dinner.

Frodo looked up from his efforts at spreading pâté over bread (nice and thick, for he liked the buttery texture of it, and the mushroom additions were better than icing on any cake) – and the look in his eyes, a kind but deliberately questioning one, arrested her where she stood.

“What – what is it, Mr. Frodo?” she chuckled thinly, and turned the packets of chicken this way and that. A blush colored her cheeks, and the balmy sun cast a glow over her hair.

Frodo rose from his seat and came toward her.

He took her hand, and cradled the chicken, gently coaxing it from her grasp. He lay it on the table – its long wooden panels latticed with light – and took both of her hands in his.

“Mari, before you cook this delicious chicken,” he said, with a smile that delighted in his own wit, “I’d like to ask you something important.”

He paused, and Marigold dropped her gaze – only to change her mind and look up with surprisingly candor.

“What is it, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo took her engagement as a good sign, and nodded.

“Mari, did you mean what you said earlier, when you said ‘your hand is mine’?” he asked. “Do you want to start telling people about our relationship?”

He did his best not to sound overeager – for he could easily conceive that her words were born of the height of emotion, and she would renege on them shortly after.

Indeed, to announce that she wanted to wed her employer, and to convince everyone that no harm would come of it was no easy task, especially for a reticent lass like Marigold… (1)

But to his surprise, her forthright look did not waver, and she looked solemn as she met his gaze.

Her eyes, which varied in shade according to the light, were now the color of new grass.

And her answer was no more and no less than what he had expected.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “That I do. And I’m sorry – I’m sorry that I was so hesitant in walkin’ home. I just thought –”

She paused, and Frodo’s lips melted into a smile.

“You thought it was better for me to talk to Gaffer first, before we formally announced it?”

She nodded quietly, and looked relieved.

Her heart beat fast – he could feel it in her hands – and the blush rose to the tips of her ears. 

“Oh, Mari…” 

He drew her closer to him, pressing kisses against her temple, cheeks, and lips.

And for a moment, she was too overcome to answer. 

She only breathed against his lips, and rose to the tips of her toes to meet him.

She took her hand from his, and reached to draw her arms around his waist, smoothing her palms over his back. 

She began to kiss him back, as if tasting something sweet, and wanting to make it last.

Oh, how wrong he had been to doubt her, to liken her to all the others…

He savored her warmth, her powdery-soft skin, her lovely forms as she quivered beneath his fingers…

They might have kissed for a long time, perhaps even moved their intimacies elsewhere – but in the end, their hands and lips knew there was more to be said, more to be decided.

And so Marigold drew away, glancing down and blushing.

Her reticence was gone, and she seemed as merry as she might have been at Midsummer, dancing with ribbons in her hair.

She sighed, and took Frodo’s hand, which he brought around to touch her cheek – but she intercepted it. 

She gave it a small, pecking kiss, and raised her eyes.

“Indeed, Mr. Frodo,” she said – as if taking up a thought she had meant to express all along, but was momentarily interrupted, “I think it is silly to pretend that nothin’s happenin’ anymore, and that there’s nothin’ between us. We’ve done so much together – things we could not have done with anybody else, and we’ve come to know so much of each other…”

She paused, overcome yet again, and the light reflected in her eyes.

She was so lovely that Frodo had to fight the urge to kiss her, and he drew a long and steady breath, clasping her hand in his. He nodded, and she continued.

“That’s why – that’s why, I think,” she said, forming the words with care, “Even though it will take some doin’, tellin’ everyone, I think it is time. Time to be together proper – I mean, proper-ly.”

She rounded out her words with a shy but contented smile, and Frodo felt so endeared that he released her hand and reached up to cup her cheek, pressing another kiss against her lips.

It was true, it was real…

His heart fluttered like he was thirty-three again, and the fatigue and the ache were momentarily gone.

The kiss came to an end, but as Marigold leaned back, his hand did not leave the curve of her cheek. She smiled, and turned her face into his palm, kissing it again and again.

How pure, how loving she was…

In the beginning, he had loved her for her resemblance to Sam, her easy familiarity, her sweet and generous nature. And after that, he had loved her for the bright ray of sunshine that she was, for her infinite patience and devotion. And now, he loved her for so much more – for all the things they had shared, and for the trust and understanding that had grown between them.

Indeed, he could hardly believe how far they had come, and she felt like a butterfly in his palm. If he moved too fast, or closed his hand too quickly, she would flutter away – or be crushed. 

He drew his hand from her face to her neck, grazing his fingers over her shoulder, her back, her waist.

His mind was quiet, as it was meant to be. No voices tormented him now. He thought of her dress, the ruffled piping around the neckline, the way it pressed against her collarbones, which he wanted to see more of. He thought of the warm, definite feel of her flesh beneath the cloth.

He drew another breath, and pressed a chaste kiss against her lips, lingering as he pulled away.

“Of course – of course, my dear Mari,” he whispered. “When would you like me to talk to Gaffer? Today? Tomorrow?”

In his own mind, he fretted as much as Marigold likely did about how her father might take the news – for old Hamfast had opinions about “his Sam mixing up in the affairs of his betters.” But for all the Gaffer’s grousing and grumbling, Frodo knew that he cared, first and foremost, about the happiness of his kin, and he would see Marigold, a smitten bride-to-be, and would be blissfully and tearfully content. (2)

Marigold smiled at his words, and looked down – at his collarbones – and her eyelids fluttered.

“Tomorrow, I think,” she returned, biting her lip. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for today.”

She chuckled, and the movement of her eyes was like the flutter of a bird’s wing.

Frodo smiled, and thought about how people thought he had fine eyes – but anyone who thought so had not seen Marigold’s.

Green they were, but not just green, but with a tawny sprinkling of gold around the pupil…

“Tomorrow it is, then,” he replied, and pressed his hand against her waist. “But before we do that, there is something that I must give you.”

He pressed her hand, taking a step away, and Marigold glanced at the chicken on the table, the juice seeping through where the corners were not quite flush.

“Why, of course, Mr. Frodo,” she returned, “But we shouldn’t tarry too much with the dinner, beggin’ your pardon.”

Frodo glanced at the chicken and his lips spread into a smile.

“No, indeed,” he said, shaking his head. “But it will not be long, don’t worry.” He reached out and gave the chicken a pat. “You just wait – your time will come.” (3)

Marigold sniffed a laugh, and Frodo took her by the hand, leading her away from the kitchen.

“Now, close your eyes,” he said, “I want it to be a surprise.”

And she obeyed him.

With his hand on her hand, and with his other on her waist, he conducted her down the hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath their feet. Through the dim veil of her eyelids, Marigold saw the surroundings darken, and then Frodo paused – pressing her hand to signal that she should stop as well. He then took his hand from her waist just long enough to open a door.

“Alright, it’s not too far now.”

They stepped into a room that Marigold could not see, but by now, she knew Bag End like the back of her hand, and knew it was one of the storage rooms – the dimmer one, where Bilbo’s clothing hung on rods, and where his keepsakes lay in chests, stacked nearly to the ceiling. But even so, she played along, and smiled as Frodo conducted her across the floor – tightening his hold as their journey came to an end, and stepping away to turn an invisible lock.

“Alright, now.”

Marigold opened her eyes. 

She had been right – they were indeed in a storage room, and Bilbo’s clothing hung around them like a living forest.

In front of them was a low armoire, and on top of it was a box. She had seen that box before, when they were sorting through Bilbo’s and Frodo’s belongings, but it had always been locked. It was made of wood, with strong and ornate metal bracings, and in addition to the lid, it had several drawers, each of them with its own lock. The lid was now open, and Frodo ushered her forward, the contents coming into view.

It was a jewelry box.

And it was filled with more jewelry than Marigold had ever laid eyes on, packed tightly between the raised velvet cushions – and as for the quality… These were no mere trinkets that the farmers’ wives displayed at their market stalls, nor were they the “respectable” brooches, necklaces, and bracelets made of leather, silver and pretty-colored stones that she had seen at the haberdasher’s or at her brother-in-law’s shop.

The decorative stones shone brightly even in the dim light, and there was not only silver; there was also gold, yellow and bright as sunshine, and bronze, as red and blazing as a bright copper pot. The necklaces, rings, and bracelets lay flush against one another, and as she leaned in to look, she saw one necklace in particular that resembled spun moonlight, and another with a pendant set in frosty stones encircling a crystalline opal, and finally a third, made of white, iridescent pearls, each the size of a hazelnut.

She blinked, and made a sound like an “erp,” and Frodo placed a hand on her back, rubbing it gently. 

“It’s alright,” he said, and his voice was as gentle as his hand – not an inkling of pride or false modesty in it. “This was Belladonna Took’s, and some of it was my mother’s, and it will be yours too, when we are wed.”

He said it simply, as was his wont, like he was commenting on the weather.

But – but – but I –

Marigold’s tongue felt thick, and she could find no breath to protest.

The moments passed, and as her eyes darted from the box to her beloved, his face changed little by little. He was smiling sweetly still, but he was no longer nonchalant. Instead, he was like a child who had drawn a picture for his mother, and above all wanted her to like it.

He waited for her to speak – but soon enough, it became clear that she would not: her eyes were racing, and her mouth was half-open, so Frodo squared his shoulders, and stepped toward the box. From among the necklaces, he selected one, and lifted it from its place.

It was slightly more modest than the rest, and made not made of gold and jewels, but of pink velvet ribbon with an oval pendant in the same color. As Frodo brought it closer for her to look at, she saw that it was a cameo rimmed in gold, and carved with an intricate floral design.

“But this,” he said, “Will be a symbol of our engagement, a gift for you today.”

Marigold drew a halting breath, and this time, there was not even an “erp” as she reached for the necklace, running a bashful finger across the velvet.

“Would you like to try it on?”

She nodded before she knew what she was about, and Frodo stepped behind her. The pendant came to rest in the indentation between her collarbones, and Frodo fastened the latch, the back of the velvet settling against her neck.

He pulled out one of the drawers of the armoire, and extracted a handheld mirror. He held it up, and her face came into view, with his own just behind her.

The necklace looked like she was born to wear it. The pink, a warm and muted shade, harmonized with her freckles and her rosy cheeks. It also matched the color of one of her dresses, the pink one, though she was not wearing it that day. And it was not too dear, nor resplendent, like the others, which were fit for an elven queen or a dwarrow dame or a great lady of the race of Men. This one she could wear even now, and most certainly later in her life, when she would wake up every day and look forward to spending it with Frodo.

She ran her finger over the floral carving in the pink pendant stone.

“It’s perfect, Mr. Frodo. Thank you…”

She was about to turn and reward him with a kiss, but he was faster, and pressed his lips against her temple, and then against her cheek. Reaching back to the armoire, he deposited the mirror just as she turned to face him, stepping into his arms.

“Would you like to know its story?” he smiled, his arms settling heavily, but oh so pleasantly around her waist and back. (4)

And in the meantime, her hands had found their way to his chest, and their forms had molded together.

If anyone had been there to observe, they would have thought it made a right proper wedding pose.

She gazed at him, and though she only wished to think of the present moment, she nodded.

After all, anything Frodo said, any story he told, she was happy to hang on every word. That, she realized, would never change.

“Oh… well…” Frodo bit his lip, and though she gazed at him with her usual alacrity, he faltered for a spell.

He glanced around, but wherever he looked, a bit of Marigold beckoned out of the corner of his eye, and before long, the weight of her hands, the steadiness of her breath brought him back to where they stood – her with her hands on his chest, and him with his arms around her.

“Oh, well,” he resumed – and formed the words carefully, reverently, “It was, as it happens, a necklace that my father gave my mother when I was born. They had almost despaired in having children – my mother was in her forties, and my father was in his sixties, but after many years, I finally came, a late in life miracle child, and I thought the same about you. Here I am, in my fifties, and feeling older yet, and here you are, my late in life love.”

He seemed overcome – and by the time he finished speaking, the surface of his eyes was quivering with emotion. And before she knew it, Marigold reached out and touched his cheek.

“But fifty isn’t all that old, Mr. Frodo,” she smiled. You’ve got half your life ahead of you, she wanted to add – but she checked her tongue.

And Frodo, for his part, nodded simply. 

“Yes, yes – you are right,” he said, drawing her close. “And for what it’s worth, I do not think that now. I only said it because it’s relatively later than for most, to fall in love and to marry – but I’ve had a change of heart about being old in general, and it’s all thanks to you. Without you, I might have withered away in a year, or lived here like a ghost, with only Bilbo’s clothing for company…”

He smiled as he glanced around. 

The clothes, of course, made no answer, but Marigold went up on her toes, and Frodo knew straightaway what she wanted.

He drew her into an embrace, and they kissed, with the waistcoats, coats and hats muffling all sound. It felt like time stood still, but even so, after a few blissful moments Marigold placed a hand on Frodo’s cheek.

“But really, Mr. Frodo,” she said, a blush coloring her face from her well-formed chin to her tender earlobes, “I am glad that you told me the story. And I am glad to know about your parents – though it is a might sad, that they won’t get to see us wed, just like Mr. Bilbo…”

She sighed, her words dissipating into a smile.

And Frodo, for his part, sighed as well, and he drew her close, cradling her head against his shoulder.

He scarcely knew what to say, but then the words came, unbidden.

“Well, would you like to know more about them?” he smiled against her hair. “I could tell you many stories – for instance, of why my father went to Buckland in the first place to look for a wife, and how we all lived together at Brandy Hall, before they passed away…”

He stroked the thick, golden curls, and for a moment, Marigold pressed her head against his neck, and thought how nice it would be to nod off that way, to the sound of Frodo telling those selfsame stories, surrounded by his warmth…

But of course she could not – the day was far from over, and there was so much yet to do – like, for instance, the chicken needed to be fried…

She nodded.

“Why of course, Mr. Frodo.” She drew back a little.

And Frodo smiled in return.

“What would you like to hear first?”

But unfortunately, it was not to be – that is, Marigold was not destined to hear about Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck that afternoon, for as soon as the words were out of his mouth, they heard the whine of the entryway door, followed by the sound of Sam, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat so loudly that he could be heard in the next Farthing.

Over the past several weeks, Sam had adopted the aforementioned practice, and Frodo and Marigold exchanged cockeyed smiles before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

They laughed for several moments, until Marigold finally stepped away, and reached for the clasp of her necklace.

“Well-well, Mr. Frodo,” she chuckled, “I suppose the stories will have to wait, won’t they?”

Frodo sighed, and flexed his hand by his side.

“And as for my gift,” Marigold added, proffering a conciliatory look, “If you don’t mind, let’s put it away for now. I think it’s better to wear it once the Gaffer’s given his consent.”

She gestured with her chin at the clasp, and Frodo got her meaning. 

He stepped toward her, and carefully unclasped the necklace, taking it from her neck.

He stepped toward her, and undid the necklace, taking it from her neck. But where the necklace had been, he pressed a kiss, and his lips lingered lovingly against her skin. 

The following evening, Bagshot Row was rife with the happy chaos and domestic leisure that was commonplace in such households, and so nobody could have predicted that the night might portend more than the usual: a simple, hearty meal, steaming baths for all, and a warm and cozy bed after a long day of work and eating in equal measure.

It was the hour when everything was turning blue, but it was not yet late enough to go indoors. On the lawn above the house, the teenagers were playing a spirited game of battledore and shuttlecock – and as far as they were concerned, so long as it was light enough to find the shuttlecock, it was still too early to go in. On the other side of the hill, by a hedge in the gathering shadows, Holly and Jolly were engrossed in their witch’s brew of hollyhock and wood chips, while Hamson, their oldest uncle, was watching the proceedings languidly from the bench, and pulling on his evening pipe. Daffodil, his wife, was taking down the laundry from the lines, while Sam was cording wood, and the rest of the family were indoors preparing supper.

Indeed, the children were so engrossed in their games that they barely noticed Frodo approach the gate, and the adults were so wrapped up in their respective tasks that they hardly acknowledged his presence at all – Hamson raising his pipe in greeting, and Daffodil waving as best she could with an armload full of washing.

Only Sam looked surprised – and he was right to be, for it had been weeks since Frodo came to Bagshot Row with any sort of intention. But Frodo smilingly returned his wave, and instead approached his elder brother – whom he asked in a quiet voice where the Gaffer might be found, for he very much desired to speak with him, assuming it was no inconvenience.

Hamson removed his pipe from his lips, and replied that the Gaffer was in his bedroom taking a nap, but it was certainly no inconvenience, for it was about time to wake him up, and he was happy to do just that.

The eldest Gamgee brother had no notion of why their master might want to speak to the Gaffer in particular – after all, by reason of the Gaffer’s advanced age, most of the household accounts were handled by Sam, and at times, by Hamson himself. But in the end, he determined it was not his business, so he conducted Frodo into the house, and left him to wait in the parlor (which also served as the dining room on formal occasions) while he went into the bedroom to rouse his father.

The parlor, as was often the case on spring and summer days, was largely deserted – for the supper preparations were underway in the kitchen – and Boffo Banks was the only hobbit in the otherwise empty room, having closed his eyes and put his feet up before the fire. But he opened a languid eye when Frodo arrived and took a seat on the opposite couch, and they exchanged a few pleasantries, largely to stave off Frodo’s consternation.

The minutes passed, however, and just as the conversation began to drag, Hamson emerged from the bedroom, and beckoned Frodo to step inside. He then shut the door, and joined his brother-in-law before the fire.

The fire, which was small and dying on account of the warm weather, crackled listlessly on, and the two hobbits exchanged a glance before shrugging their shoulders and devolving into an indolent dialogue of half-statements.

This lasted a minute or two, until all of a sudden, they heard voices – at times notably raised – coming from the Gaffer’s room. 

In any other home, this might have been reason for alarm, but the brothers-in-law contented themselves with shrugs, for the Gaffer’s hearing was growing worse every year, and such exchanges were commonplace enough – so much so that the denizens of Bagshot Row had adopted a selective deafness to afford their patriarch his privacy.

Besides, the darkness was rapidly descending, and Daffodil had at last succeeded in herding the children back into the house, while May emerged from the kitchen to scold and cajole, and to tend to the bumps and scrapes of the young ones.

Indeed, once the parlor filled with children, everyone was so consumed with the aftermath of the game of shuttlecock that no one batted an eye when the Gaffer emerged from his room to ask for Marigold, and his reason for doing so went largely unexamined. May looked up from her task of bandaging a knee and shouted, “Mari! Gaffer wants you,” and in response, Marigold emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and her cheeks blazing from the steam.

Marigold and the Gaffer disappeared into the bedroom – and as the chaos rose to a crescendo, the voices behind the wall were readily drowned out.

In the end, it took some minutes, but eventually the hullaballoo of the children’s presence settled down, and then Rosie emerged from the kitchen, announcing that supper was ready. 

There were, to be sure, few other words in their native language that excited hobbits more, and as a result of Rosie’s pronouncement, there was a loud and general rush to set the table and do the washing up – but then, the door to the Gaffer’s room flew open, and the patriarch strode out, followed closely by Frodo and Marigold.

The Gaffer gave a raucous cough, and every Gamgee, by dint of many years’ experience, paused where they stood, knelt, or sat as the Gaffer cleared his throat, eyeing the assembly to make sure they were ready to receive his communication.

“Gamgees-all,” he proclaimed. “I have an important announcement.” 

He paused, and the room fell instantly silent. Even Jolly ceased to squirm in his father’s lap. 

While stooped in his age, the Gaffer still commanded a formidable presence, and he cast his eyes over each Gamgee with a firm benevolence.

The silence was deafening, but he was in no hurry.

The moments passed, and people shifted in the seats, glancing uncertainly at Frodo.

But in examining their master’s look, they could find little out of the ordinary. As ever, Frodo looked reticent: his hands folded tensely before him, his shoulders rounded, as if seeking to occupy less space. And yet, there was nothing in his expression to suggest bad news: he wore a polite half-smile, while Marigold was standing with her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, for she did not like people looking at her.

The Gaffer waited for a moment more, and then, with a fiendish grin, he clapped Frodo on the back, sending him flying an unwilling step forward.

“May I introduce,” the Gaffer declaimed, his face splintering into a thousand wrinkles, “Your newest brother-in-law, Frodo Baggins!” 

The result was immediate, and explosive. 

Hamson clapped his hands once, and the sound reverberated in all four corners of the room. (5)

May jumped up from where she sat, and began to squeal, jumping up and down.

“I knew it, I knew it!” she cried, her hands balled into tight, delighted fists. “I knew she was doin’ more than just scrubbin’ his floors, the sly little fox!”

Her sister-in-law, Daffodil, chuckled and learned against her husband.

“Yes, it is the quiet ones that you’ve got to watch, isn’t it? I never would have guessed –”

But before she could finish, the intrepid voice of Haldred, her teenage son, rose up bright and clear.

“Oh, she scrubbed his floors alright,” he quipped, only to get an immediate elbow to the ribs from his father, and then Holly and Jolly erupted in an ecstatic cheer in Boffo’s lap, and from then on, there was no way to tell who was speaking, for the voices mixed and mingled into a wild, exuberant cacophony.

“Well done, Marigold – I say, well done!” somebody cried.

“Better late than never, Mr. Frodo!” someone else exclaimed. “Marigold’s a treasure!”

“Wait until Tom Cotton hears about this – he’s goin’ to go into mourning!”

“Congratulations! Ale! Ale!”

It was altogether too much, and Frodo was entirely overcome.

The Gamgees’ parlor rocked a little, and his heart fluttered – much like it had done a number of months ago at the slightest provocation.

His eyes darted about the room, and in the corner, he saw Sam and Rosie squeezing hands and looking like two cats who had gotten the cream – but then, acquiescing to the general clamor for drinks, Rosie jumped up from her seat, and ran toward the cellar – quite briskly for a woman in her condition.

Hamson got up as well, and followed suit presumably to help with the barrel, but even with the party thus diminished the din did not let up. Soon, there were mugs being passed around, and people were suddenly flush again him and Marigold, and a child was hugging him around the legs.

Even the Gaffer, in all of his imperiousness, could hardly put a stop to it at first.

His voice rose booming above the din, but the cries of “Really?! Really?! This isn’t a joke, or a prank – it better not be!” and “You have to tell us everything!” overpowered his attempts, and before long, Frodo’s ears began to fill with cotton – and then he realized, with deep mortification, that from the moment the Gaffer made his pronouncement, he had not tended once to his betrothed.

Admittedly, he did not think he needed to at first. She had been so forthright, and so clear – so impassioned in her speech about all Frodo had done for her, that he was sure that she would face her family and do well. Only a few short months ago, she had come around quite nicely during the caroling, and now, he was so overcome that he could scarcely do much at all – though no, that was no excuse…

He turned to look and saw her gazing at the floor, seemingly determined to bore a hole in it with her eyes.

He blushed – but then, a nearby Gamgee clapped Marigold on the back, and her tweenage niece appeared at her elbow, crying, “But whatever is the matter, Mari, why are you so gloomy?!”

And Marigold predictably did not reply – but the question was not long without an answer, for someone else piped up, with a laugh, “Oh, never you mind, she is always like that when somethin’ big happens!”

The words – which came from a source Frodo could not identify – were exuberant and blithe, and they only ratified their observation.

Marigold shrank further into herself, and it scarcely helped when Frodo reached to take her hand. She did not object to the gesture, but her hand was cold and limp, and the only thing that did help was the return of Rosie and Hamson with the barrel – at which point a general cheer went up, and Marigold’s temperament, along with the ever-mysterious nature of their union were, for the moment, forgotten.

A few of the Gamgees broke off to watch the ale being poured, and Daffodil stepped aside to usher Marigold and Frodo to the couch, with Frodo taking deep, deliberate breaths all the while.

The breaths, on the whole, worked famously to steady his heartbeat, and once they were seated in their place of honor, he examined Marigold once more.

She was no longer quite as shrinking, but she pressed against his arm as if fearful that he, too, was going to lambast her.

In truth, the look made him a might worried, so he took advantage of the Gamgees being merry with the barrel to put his arm around his bride, nuzzling her temple.

“Mari, are you alright?” he whispered. “Do you need to go lay down?”

He was not sure what else to offer her, not being in his own house, but in recompense, he clasped her hand, and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb.

“It’s alright, I’m here,” he said, rocking her from side to side. “It’s me, your Frodo.”

And to this, Marigold made no answer, but all the same he drew her close, wrapping his arms around her.

They sat like this for a stretch of time, and then she finally looked up, a warm recognition in her eyes.

She looked like she might say something, but before she had the chance, her nephew Haldred erupted over the other couch – the one across from where they sat – and even in his haste, he spilled not a drop from the mugs he was holding.

“Ey! Save some for the weddin’,” he cried, shoving a mug with a frothy cap into each of their hands.

Frodo graciously accepted the mug, and blew on the top to deflate the bubbles.

The foam dampened and collapsed a little, and the Gamgees followed the lead of the young nephew, gathering in a gaggle around the bride and groom.

At last they were no longer chattering like a thicket of birds – their hands and their lips occupied with ale – and Rosie poured the last of the halves as the Gaffer approached the couch, with Sam supporting him by the elbow. (6)

Without any particular word from the Gaffer, the assembly called itself to order, like a summer rainstorm passing on or a cat exhausting itself at play. And as the last of the hubbub settled down, the Gaffer eyed the lot of them and smiled, raising his mug a full five feet into the air.

“And I am sure that not a single Gamgee would contradict me,” he declaimed, “When I say: Mr. Frodo Baggins, welcome to the family!”

1. In The Fellowship of the Ring, the Gaffer tells the other hobbits that Bilbo taught Sam his letters, and is quick to add that “no harm will come of it.” The Gaffer also tells Sam not to get involved in the affairs of his “betters.” As such, the Gaffer seems to believe that trying to rise above one’s station can cause problems, and he is likely not the only hobbit who thinks this way.
2. This passage is dedicated to Mr. Nisilë’s father, who is incapable of uttering the word “family” without growing misty-eyed.
3. Frodo talking to the food and telling it to “wait” is inspired by the comedian Gabriel Iglesias (also known as “Fluffy”), who tells the story of how he purchased a dozen donuts, and in anticipation of eating them, he was saying, “oh, you’re going to get it when you get home… you’ve been so bad.”
4. While adopting two elderly cats from the mother of a friend of a family member, Mr. Nisilë and I had a phone-call with their owner. Unfortunately, we were in a rush, and had bad reception on account of being in a hardware store, so we only thought to get the practical details: names, needs, time and place of pickup, etc. We were about to conclude the call, but then the owner asked the most important question of all: “do you want to hear their story?” In an instant, we felt hasty and rude. Their story? It is too long for a footnote, but they were the best of cats. To this day, “do you want to hear their story?” is a happy refrain in our house.
5. When Mr. Nisilë and I announced our engagement, it was quite a surprise, and my father-in-law famously clapped once, very loudly, as his initial reaction. After that point, it became law in our house that every time I write a scene with an engagement announcement, somebody must clap once. 
6. Due to their size, hobbits don’t drink pints of ale, but rather “halves,” which are half a pint. This is the origin of Pippin’s famous line in the film, “it comes in pints?!” 

Chapter Text

It was afternoon on Highday, the day of the week that Marigold always spent with her family, and the sunlight was streaming through the door as the children squealed and shouted in the yard, while in the kitchen, the chicken was roasting over the open fire, and the stew was simmering out its last hours.

Much of the food had been prepared the day before – including a myriad casseroles and a delicious honey cake from an old family recipe – for Frodo was expected for dinner that evening, and they did not wish to risk any last-minute missteps.

As a result, there was relatively less to do, and the afternoon could be spent in slow-moving indolence as Marigold, Rosie, and Daffodil cleaned and sorted a formidable bushel of mushrooms that the children had brought home earlier that day.

The three hobbit ladies sat in a circle in the kitchen, and having finished their afternoon tea, they chatted pleasantly at their work, with the load of mushrooms piled on a piece of butcher paper between them.

That is, Rosie and Daffodil were chatting, while Marigold was assiduously scraping the dirt off the stalk of a particularly large penny bun mushroom – the most desirable of the mushrooms, and well-regarded for its fulsome flavor. She turned the mushroom this way and that, scraping, and the activity imparted a measure of comfort, for oddly enough, the breeze from the outside was stirring an ill-defined feeling in her chest – a nameless queasiness and an uncanny apprehension. The door to the kitchen was open, and the door to the parlor was as well, but the smell of apple blossoms and freshly mown grass were giving her goosebumps – to the point of her finally, finally understanding Frodo’s reticence to go out when he first returned from his journey.

But Frodo, in those days, had been doing a great deal worse, whereas now, he was decidedly on the mend – so much so that he was coming to see her. And certainly, she was impatient to see him, for whenever they were apart, she would grow increasingly lonely, and somewhat selfishly, she was hoping that the dinner might diffuse some of the questioning, for it had scarcely let up since their engagement was announced.

Indeed, Frodo’s impending arrival – and the lovely, thick mushrooms with their golden-brown caps – were just about all that was keeping her above the waves – like a small red float bobbing on a fishing line. 

The cameo of his engagement necklace rested solidly between her collarbones, and the ribbon around her neck imparted a steady, pleasant pressure. She would reach up and touch the pendant from time to time, but even that would only bring a modicum of comfort – for in the end, the greatest of unholy disruptions would not be long in its return, and Marigold could smell it in the bright, spring air. (1)

It began – as Marigold’s scraping came to a stop – with the distinctive creak of the garden gate, and then, the gleeful shouts of Holly and Jolly, and then more voices and a scuffle on the outside steps, culminating in May exploding into the kitchen.

“Well, hello there, my lovelies,” she crowed, and swept into the kitchen with Holly and Jolly at her heels, and at least a dozen packages in her arms. “Mmm-mmm, is that the lovely crop of mushrooms I keep hearing about?” 

She tossed the packages on an unoccupied part of the table, and lost no time in seizing a particularly beefy specimen from the basket of forest-boons, breathing in its scent.

Indeed, in the last several days, May had been so ecstatic that one might have thought that she was the one getting married.

She tossed the mushroom back into the basket, and, with a fluttering half-pirouette, she turned her attention back to the packages, picking one up and pulling at its string.

It was, by now, a fairly established ritual – established, that is, over the course of that week – and Rosie shook her head, while Daffodil put down her mushroom cap and folded her fat, drumstick arms over her still more ample bosom.

“Well, who wants to hear the latest?” May intoned in her singsong voice – her face a picture of ill-disguised alacrity as her children clung to her skirt, their eyes big as saucers.

Marigold drew a long-suffering sigh, and lowered her head onto her folded arms.

“As you no doubt wish to tell us, I doubt we have any choice in the matter,” she replied into the darkness. (2)

And May, for her part, needed no other invitation.

She tugged the knot at the top of the bundle, and as it fell away, she set to unwrapping the next one – the contents more a testament to the number of merchants she had visited than the true needs of the household.

Indeed, news of the engagement had spread like wildfire, and if possible, it was discussed more fervently than the onetime disappearance of Mr. Bilbo. Rumors flew about and multiplied, swirled and ebbed, and May stood in the middle of the kitchen every day just like this, eager to give them exhilarated voice.

“Well, now,” she began – and placed the crinkling paper aside as she put something Marigold could not see on the table. “Mrs. Chubb – that’s the elder solicitor Mr. Chubb’s widow – she seems to be of the opinion that somebody saw, or heard, Marigold getting thrashed by the Gaffer for ensnarin’ her master just the other day.”

She paused, and gave a low, demonstrative laugh, and Marigold was glad that she could not see her face, for if she looked up, she was sure that May’s expression would be as fascinated as it was dismissive.

“As if!” May continued, and punctuated her words with an affected sniff. “That is, ‘nless there is somethin’ we do not know about our sweet an’ shy an’ virt’uous princess. But then again, there is also the other con-tin-gent of people, from one Mrs. Bunce the glazier’s wife, to farmer Goodbody’s wife, to Violet Sandyman, who are con-vinced that there is a little Baggins on the way – for that, they say, is the only way to get a confirmed bachelor under the weddin’ pergola, if you understand, and they’re sayin’ they even saw the Gaffer threatenin’ Mr. Frodo with a garden hoe, can you imagine?!”

Her last few words came hand in hand with a derisive snort – though it carried a measure of mirth – and the table shook as she deposited another acquisition.

Marigold raised her eyes, and saw the end of the table: littered with wrapping paper, as well as a village of cans, herbs, meat and other foodstuffs. There was also a bag of grain, and Jolly was reaching for something in his mother’s hands.

Marigold buried her face in her arms as Rosie offered a rejoinder.

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” she sniffed, “And Violet Sandyman is probably the source of it all, the miserable wench. She’s just as miserable as her brother.” 

Some distance away, May gave another sniffing laugh – but rather than bringing her to heel, Rosie’s words had the opposite effect.

“Don’t listen to their nonsense,” Rosie whispered, before snapping back at May with a renewed vigor. “And you!” she cried. “Why – why on earth do you keep on bringin’ that rubbish back here? You know she doesn’t like it, so some sister you are.”

Some distance away, May sniffed another laugh – but rather than bringing her to heel, Rosie’s words seemed to have the opposite effect.

“Ah, well, mayhaps,” the older sister conceded, and Marigold imagined her expression – one of expansive nonchalance. “But to know is to be forewarned, I say, and then again – oof, Jolly!”

Her words were cut short by her son getting the best of her apron strings, and Marigold raised her head, only to see her sister squatting down to the children’s level.

“Alright, alright,” she rubbed their arms, and patted each of their cheeks. She then handed each child an item that Marigold could not see, and Jolly immediately seized the thing, but May held him fast. 

“Now, what do we always say?”

The little boy tried to twist away – but to no avail, and when his efforts were exhausted, he nodded and replied, “Thank you, Mommy.”

May nodded in return, and as her daughter thanked her as well, she released both children’s arms, and Jolly immediately bolted toward the door, holding aloft a toy that looked like a dragon, and making a delighted roaring sound.

May watched him go, and then she turned to her daughter, who was clutching a toy grasshopper to her chest.

She handed her a bag from the table, and patted her shoulder as she ushered her to the door.

“Now, you go and help uncle Sam with the chickens, alright?”

And for her part, Holly needed little persuading.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she too was gone in a flash, with a scampering of feet across the terracotta floor.

With Holly departed, May straightened up, and turned toward her sisters.

“Well,” she smiled wryly – and eyed the progress of Daffodil and Rosie, who resumed their scraping as Marigold’s head lay like a thick, yellow mop between the two of them. “It’s not all bad news, I suppose…”

She eyed Marigold’s head in particular, but neither word nor movement came from it, so she took a ladle from the earthenware jar and sauntered to the stew pot, taking off the lid and setting it down at an angle.

The steam rose up, and a rich aroma of herbs filled the room. May hummed her approval as she reached in with the ladle to have a taste.

“Well, like I said, it isn’t all bad,” she repeated. “After all, the bit about her scrubbing his floors? That seems to be old news by now, and it’s naught but the teens and tweens repeating it, and same goes for ‘baggin’ a Baggins’ – at least they’re not chantin’ that in the streets anymore –”

“And, that,” Daffodil suddenly cut in, breaking her tenacious silence as she tossed a mushroom into the ‘good specimens’ basket, “Really ought to be the end of it, as far as I’m concerned.”

She clicked her tongue, and clasped Marigold gingerly by the shoulder.

“I think they are simply green with envy, my lass,” she insisted, even as May turned with a mock-dispassionate shrug, and reached to skim the foam off the stew. “I still remember when Mr. Frodo was one of the most eligible bachelors in the Shire, and I wager he still is, what with how handsome he is despite his years, and how rich. But I tell you: the most important thing is how he looks at you, and I’ve seen it. He could have had anyone he wanted – a Took, a Bolger or a Boffin, but he chose you, and I say, when a hobbit looks at you like that, like he did when he was here askin’ for your hand –”

Daffodil bit her bottom lip and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

Marigold made to straighten up, but May cut in from above the stew.

“Yes, you are right,” she said, “And I say, it is good that he looks at her like that, for we wouldn’t want our Mari to be ill-used by some rich man who thinks he can do whatever he likes. But I also wager that he could have warts and a leer and still get away with it, bein’ who he is.”

She smirked, and the brightness of her tone belied the meditative way she stirred the pot.

“I mean, in one matter you are correct, Daf,” she went on. “He is rich and no mistake – because after all, Bag End? All the rents, and half the businesses in Hobbiton as investments? How many thousand a year do you think that makes?”  

She spun around, and folded her arms over her chest, her vulpine chin thrust jauntily forward.

“Five thousand? Ten? What do you reckon?” (3)

Daffodil, with a businesslike air, picked up another mushroom and set to scraping, and as she peeled a leaf from the sticky brown cap, she tossed it in the refuse heap.

Daffodil, with a businesslike air, picked up another fat mushroom and set to scraping it, and as she peeled a leaf from the sticky brown cap, she tossed it in the refuse heap, and pointedly pressed her lips.

But where Daffodil seemed to have said her piece and resolved to ignore any further provocations, Rosie was not about to capitulate so easily.

She spun around, and tossed both her knife and a meaty, red-capped mushroom onto the table in front of her.

“Really?” she exclaimed, and locked her eyes with her jut-chinned sister-in-law. “Money? Is that all you care about? Even those fine folks themselves don’t care about it – they call it vulgar, you know, to even discuss it.”

She squinted, frowning in a way that recalled their escapades in early childhood – when Rosie had been the fiercest defender of her friends in all of Hobbiton.

But May was undeterred. She narrowed her eyes, and her lip curled in a way that recalled a baited fox.

“Oh, well,” she replied glibly, in a voice far too quiet for comfort. “I am not surprised, there. Of course they would not care about money – they’ve got plenty of it! But tell me, Ro, when you’ve got three children of your own and not the fortune that our Mari has, tell me, what else will occupy your thoughts?” (4)

She blinked her eyes severally, and her cheeks grew taut as if tasting the spoils of victory. 

But Rosie, without question, was not the sort to be cowed, and she took the words as an opening to a full-fledged offensive.

“Well, yes, most certainly,” she reparteed, picking up her mushroom knife. “I will think about it, but I certainly shan’t be coveting what’s not mine – ‘cause that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it, May?”

She dunked her mushroom into the pot of water by her side – for it was not a particularly dirty one, and did not need scraping. She then shot a look over her shoulder – not quite daggers, but as if daggers were too much effort to waste.

“Yes, that is what it’s all about, and you know it,” she intoned, lopping off the mushroom’s head, and placing it in the “finished” pile. “Always has been, always will be: you, yourself, and all the things you haven’t got. I’ll wager, you want Mr. Frodo for yourself, and that’s the real truth.”

She flicked her eyes in Daffodil’s direction, and then snuck a look at Marigold, who was no longer hiding her face, but looked downright petrified.

Rosie shook her head, and Daffodil’s lips curled into a wry expression.

May seized the ladle and slammed the lid over the stew, stalking around the table.

“How. Dare. You,” she hissed. “I am a married woman.”

She tried to lock her eyes with Rosie’s, but Rosie pointedly avoided her, and reached for another mushroom from the pile.

“Now, now,” she returned – and began to scrape the stalk. “That we know, but that’s never stopped anyone before.”

“I – I –” 

May looked like she was about to choke – but Rosie hammered home the point.

“Yes, a little thing like marriage never got in the way of true determination. But in your case, even if you weren’t wed, that wouldn’t have helped matters – not in the slightest.” 

Pausing, she raised the mushroom to the light, and turned it this way and that. 

“Yes,” she repeated, and flicked away a barely visible clump of dirt before setting to scraping again, “It would’ve been a right disaster, if you had been the one to go to Bag End to do for Mr. Frodo. You wouldn’t have lasted a week, because you don’t seem to com-pre-hend that Mr. Frodo is a person, with his own none-too-simple fate, and not some hen that lays golden eggs.”

With a satisfied smirk, she tossed the mushroom into the clean and ready pile, and Daffodil tented her fingers over her stomach, her eyes darting back and forth between the other women.

Marigold was too afraid to look in May’s direction, and instead, she glanced at Rosie, pleading through bloodless lips.

“Rosie, please, that’s enough…”

Rosie’s eyes flickered over to Marigold – and they were shining now, for she had seen May’s knuckles turning white. 

She put down the knife and smoothed her hands over her apron, tight over her growing stomach. 

“Oh, really, should I stop, then?” She sighed, and clicked her tongue with a shake of the head. “Pity, for there was so much more I wanted to say.”

Marigold drew a sigh, and mirrored Rosie’s motion – though her own hands needed it less. 

Rosie shifted down the wooden bench, and with a clumsy motion, she draped her one leg over to the other side, then the other one. She rocked herself to her feet, and sauntered to the sink with its suspended washbasin.

She pushed the long metal plug that stoppered the outlet at the bottom of the basin, and the water came pouring out over her hands. (5)

“Ah, but that is just as well,” she concluded. “I think we ought to talk about something more interesting, myself.”

“Oh, and what is that?” 

May squatted down beside the roasting chicken, and poked tensely at the embers.

Rosie smiled, and wiped her hands on a nearby towel, turning jauntily on her heel.

“Ah, well, what is far more interesting,” she chuckled, and assumed the singsong voice that she always did when performing for a crowd, “Is just how much fun Mari is going to have between sundown and sunup when she is wed, knowin’ Mr. Frodo. You see, bein’ the good friend that I am, I have been collectin’ gossip of a different sort, now that everyone’s thinkin’ and talkin’ about Mr. Frodo again…”

Marigold, who had been inching bit by bit out of her torpor, felt her stomach drop to her knees.

If she knew Rosie at all, what her friend was about to relate was about as mortifying as May bursting into the kitchen, followed by all the urchins of the neighborhood singing “Mari-golddigger.”

The fire popped and crackled in the hearth, and it was getting harder to breathe, so Marigold fixed her eyes on her hands as the world rocked beneath her.

But Rosie, by that point, was too far gone to pay her any heed, and only paused to shut the door, throwing back her head in a soundless laugh.

“And you know, when it comes to gossip, let me tell you,” she began, her face as mirthful as could be, “Little did I know – our old confirmed Mr. Bachelor was in fact quite a favorite with the ladies, once upon a time – we were just too young to know it!” 

She gave a spirited laugh, and Daffodil rose from her seat, striding over to the cabinet to fetch three basins – one for the mushrooms that would be cooked, one for the ones that would be canned, and a third one for those that would be threaded and hung out to dry as a means of preservation. (6)

“Well, I was not about to say anything, little sister,” she gave a deep, hearty laugh from the bottom of her belly. “Leastwise, not until you started sniffin’ about.”

She chuckled as she returned to the table, putting down the crockery with a ker-plink.

Rosie nodded at Daffodil, and returned a wink and a smile.

“Indeed,” she said. “In fact, first there was the commotion that he caused over in Buckland. I mean, you can probably imagine, with those fine eyes of his – like nothing else those Buckland lasses ever did see! They say it was a fine thing that Mr. Bilbo took him in hand, or goodness knows what kind of trouble he might have got up to. But even here, he seems to have done his share of sneakin’ about after sunset. And, well, mayhaps he didn’t want to get married, but just as there are confirmed bachelors, there are confirmed spinsters, too. They ain’t as common, that’s for sure, but they are there.”

She paused, drawing a hasty breath, and avoided Marigold’s eyes – for in that very same kitchen, on many a prior occasion, a very similar group of women had discussed whether the youngest Gamgee would in fact meet a similar fate.

But the pause was short-lived, for Rosie barreled on like a madcap pony cart.

“An’ then, there are the young widows,” she exclaimed, and clasped her hands over her cheeks, which looked like they were ready to pop. “Ladies who have had enough of the married life the first time around. An’ I tell you, Mr. Frodo must have had practice enough in his day, though in time it was forgotten, and then pooh-poohed altogether, what with how proper and how unusual he had become. So much so, that I had to go deep to find it. But proper or not, a man has his needs, says I, and all that wanderin’ around at night? It weren’t just stargazin’, that’s for sure! But make no mistake, that’s a favored thing, for he ain’t likely to start off like Sam, who had to be taught everything, though a willing pupil he was, if I say so myself –”

Daffodil emitted a loud guffaw, and dusted off her hands as she settled down to do the threading. 

May got up with a conciliatory sigh, and walked over to Rosie’s side, but Marigold shrank against the table – for she could scarcely feel her arms and legs, and the parts of her that were not numb were flushing hot and cold, and prickling with a rash of goosebumps…

But Rosie, all the while, was carrying on, and May was tilting her sharp-featured face toward her, their argument seemingly at a truce.

Marigold squinted and tried to watch them, but their words slipped away.

For it wasn’t so much that she cared… True, her brother having relations was the last thing she wanted to think about, and the fact that Frodo had other lovers… Well, that part she had already guessed, and while it made her sad, such behavior was all but expected of men, and given Frodo’s age, his looks, and the fact that he knew how to please a lass, it only stood to reason…

But there was something else. She had the distinct feeling that everyone in the room – from May touching Rosie’s shoulder and cocking her head, to Daffodil with her oily grin as she threaded the needle through the mushroom bits – was imagining her and Frodo naked, peering in on their intimacies, and somehow aware of what had already transpired…

Rosie chattered on, and Marigold felt the world rocking beneath her, but then, her sister-in-law’s eye fell haphazardly in her direction – and yet, if the sight of her consternation had impressed her, she gave no sign.

Nothing could stop Rosie once she got started.

“Oh, don’t blush so much, Mari,” was her only concession – and she paused, waving a hand as May grinned wider by the moment. “You’ll be a married woman soon, so you can talk about these things – and you were a midwife also, so it’s not like any of this is news to you!”

Rosie’s voice faded in and out, and Marigold felt a churning in her stomach as a wave of dizziness overtook her. She clutched the edge of the table, too weak to clasp at Frodo’s locket – but for the moment, she was glad, for even that simple act might have stoked their imaginations.

Her heart was pounding, and her head was full of howling wind until at last, May’s voice broke through the veil.

“Well, then, it’s official – some people have all the luck.”

She separated herself from Rosie and strolled over to the table.

“I only pray that you won’t forget us simple folks,” she went on, leaning forward, and propping herself up on her arms. “When you are over at Bag End cavorting with your husband, covered head to toe in dragon jewels, and feastin’ on the rents we all pay to Mr. Frodo.”

She peered at Marigold from beneath her brows, and there was no warmth in her smile.

There was not even humor.

The curve of her mouth recalled the dragon guarding those selfsame jewels, and Marigold felt sicker yet, the churning of her stomach spilling over to her chest.

But she could do very little to help herself. She could barely breathe, and it was a mercy when Daffodil’s head snapped up.

Her salacious look was gone, and her eyes were shooting daggers.

“Now. May.” She pursed her lips and raised her well-defined chin. “That is enough now. I will not have this on my watch – and I wager the Gaffer won’t either.”

Her voice was clipped, and it was less angry than her look, but they all knew it from experience: it was the voice she used on her children when a cuffing was not far behind – from Hamson, not from her, but at her explicit direction.

The matron rose up from her seat, and walked resolutely toward Marigold.

“You well, lass?” She leaned against the table and rubbed her sister-in-law’s arm. “Don’t mind her, lass, don’t you worry your head about her.”

She whispered a few more soothing words, but Marigold could scarcely hear her. Another rush of dizziness overtook her, and the world shook before her eyes.

All she felt was a vague pressure – her sister-in-law’s hand on hers, and her breath against her ear – but her eyes were on May across the table. Her sister straightened up, and there was a twitch in her lip as Rosie stepped away from the sink.

“Yes, Daf is right,” she said, and her voice was uncharacteristically even. “That was hard, cruel hard, May, and it was ugly of you to say it. After all, the poor man can’t help it. What is Mari to do, send him away for bein’ too rich? That would be right silly and you know it…” (7)

She sniffed a laugh – making it clear that it was forced – and Daffodil took a seat by Marigold’s side, smoothing her hands over her arms.

They both appraised the older Gamgee with the same castigation, but even then, May refused to bend.

Instead of answering, she tossed her shoulders, and walked over to the stove, her posture as straight as if carrying a tray on top of her head.

She opened the lid to inspect the stew, releasing another cloud of steam, and gave it a stir.

“Well, yes, I suppose it would be ridiculous,” she wrinkled her nose with an airy shrug. “But let me guess, the next thing you’ll say is that our dear, virtuous Mari would love Mr. Frodo even if he lived in a hovel, is that right?”

She closed the lid, spinning around, and fixed her eyes on Marigold.

And Marigold could not speak.

Never mind that something inside her was stirring – she still could not move a muscle. 

Never mind that something inside her was stirring – she could only gaze at the floor, where the lattice of light had made it nearly to the wall. The air in the kitchen was close, smelling of bouillon and crispy chicken, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rosie straighten up, walking briskly toward her.

She stopped behind Marigold, but before she could speak, Marigold heard her own voice.

“I would … I would love Mr. Frodo if he lived in a hovel…”

Her voice was small, and barely above a whisper – but it had been so long since she had said anything at all that the other three were stunned into silence.

May’s mouth formed an indelicate “O,” and Rosie grabbed hold of Marigold’s shoulders.

But even then, the silence was not long for the world.

May’s lips curled into a smile, and she chuckled – acridly as ever.

“Oh, she can talk ,” she crossed her arms, ladle still in hand. She strolled over to the window, and squinted at the children playing on the lawn. 

“And a right admirable thing it is, too,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Too bad that it is only words, such as they are. Because Ro is right – would you send him away for bein’ too rich? I hardly think so. And yet, I wager that it is not so soon that we might have another time of troubles on our hands, such that Mr. Frodo’s fortunes might be reversed, and then we would see…”

She clicked her tongue as if to intimate “so much’s the pity,” but this show of mock appeasement died before it bore fruit – for within a moment, Rosie’s hand was no longer clasping Marigold’s shoulder, and May had cinched her hand around her ladle, but before either of them could blink, Daffodil had scrambled up and there was a scuffle and a series of grunts.

“Why… why… why, you…” – Marigold heard Rosie growl, but she choked on her own vitriol, and there was another bout of shuffling and huffing, followed by Daffodil’s firm and determined “e–easy, lass, easy…”

In spite of herself, Marigold turned around, and sure enough, Rosie was straining against the matron’s two-armed grip under her chest and above her belly.

“No, no, that is it,” Rosie spat, violently as a cat who had been picked up the wrong way. “Let me at her! I am tired of playin’ nice… You – you wench!…”

She struggled hard, and Daffodil began to drag her toward the door that led into the parlor.

Marigold swallowed, and her eyes darted to her sister, who was standing by the sink in the corner, pleased as a cock on a fence.

“E-easy, now, easy,” Daffodil repeated – her voice more gentle now, as if speaking to a child. “I think it is high time that we went out an’ got some air – we are all gettin’ right addled in the brain with the heat in here…”

She freed a hand – deftly, and not long enough for Rosie to elude her – but long enough to pull open the door.

With another brusque movement, she readjusted her hold – and then she pulled Rosie out of the room, walking backwards, with Rosie writhing and spitting all the way. Where they went from there, Marigold could not tell, but Rosie’s protestations faded.

But even then, she could not raise her eyes.

She fixed them on the table, breathing slowly as the room fell silent. But it did no good: when she finally did look up, there was May, appraising her with shining eyes.

The kitchen suddenly felt too big – and May’s eyes bored into Marigold.

“Well, well, well, well, and then there were two,” she chuckled.

She reached out and smoothed Marigold’s hair.

“But you know – I am right,” she added, cocking her head this way and that. “It is such a pity, that there is no way to prove ‘em wrong, no way to show ‘em you’d love him without his wealth, short of a disaster. But if your love is true, you will endure it, no?”

And if her words had been on paper, there would have been nothing at all wrong with them.

For they were true. And they may even have been kind. 

But Marigold suddenly felt stiff – and wanted nothing more than to run away. Away from her sister’s mawkish voice, away from the false affection and pity.

It was not supposed to be like this. 

At once, things around her felt both near and far, both big and small.

She felt numb, but she had the wherewithal to pull away.

She rose from her seat, and though the effort nearly sapped her strength, she whispered, “I swear it, May, you seem to delight in making me unhappy. Why?”

But she did not wait for a reply. 

She rushed out of the room, her cheeks blazing hot as a fire.

***Marigold was sitting in her bedroom with the golden light, filtered by the vines outside the window. Before her, there was a basket of mending, but she knew better than to take up the sewing needle, for if she did, she might have stabbed it into the back of her hand.***

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It really wasn’t. But from the moment she was born, things had not been right between them.

It began with May dropping her doll “accidentally” down the well, and ruining her things whenever she helped with the washing. And then, as she grew older, Marigold could do no right in her sister’s eyes, and every topic Marigold wished to avoid, May incessantly brought up under the guise of “giving advice” and “being helpful.”

At first, it was not so bad when their mother was alive, and when Daisy was living at home. But even then, it took extraordinary abuses for them to intervene, for Daisy and May were always the better friends, and when it came down to it, there was no overt name-calling or insults, and nothing like true ill will. May never said anything entirely false, and she had a reputation for honesty to a fault, so whenever Marigold complained, people always waved their hands, and dismissed her for being too sensitive.

And so, Marigold had made up her mind not to complain. She even tried to please her sister, and when that failed, she tried to ignore her, and then she tried to agree with her. But it was all for naught. May never changed, and even when Marigold avoided her, May would seek her out, and accused her of being unsociable. This went on for years, until finally May had children of her own, and suddenly, there was more than Marigold to occupy her thoughts.

Marigold thought all this, and as her mind traversed the decades like a stone skipping across the water, her fingers balled into the quilt. 

Some time ago, she had fixed her eyes on the top of the mending pile, but only now did she notice that there was a towel with an unraveled hem, its edge decorated with clumsy stitching – likely the work of one of her nieces practicing embroidery.

On another occasion, tears might have fallen on that hem, but just then, her insides felt frozen. There was only an emptiness, and the thought, “Not like this.” It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She wasn’t supposed to be longing for dinnertime, when Frodo would come and his presence would keep her sister in check. She wasn’t supposed to be longing to marry so that she could get away as soon as possible.

I swear it, May, you seem to delight in making me unhappy. Why? 

Why indeed…

She could not understand it, except perhaps May found something about her objectionable. But what was it?

She thought this way, and her thoughts went round and round, until at last, she lost all concept of time: it might have been three minutes, or three hours, and she only started up when she heard the voices of children and the clinking of cutlery down the hall.

Yes, she thought as she drew a sigh, she would soon move out, and if nothing else, Sam and Rosie would have the room for their baby, or someone else would have a room of their own…

The door creaked behind her, and despite her newfound awareness, Marigold started a second time, though she did not turn around. She only ran her hand over the stitches on the towel.

“Mari?”

Marigold blinked, and wondered if her ears had deceived her.

The voice was no longer laced with a guilty delight, but it was certainly May’s.

Marigold turned, and her sister was standing in the doorway. May crossed the room, pushing the door shut, and came to stand at the foot of the bed, her expression listless.

“Mari, it’s dinner time,” she said, her eyes at an oblique angle. “Mr. Frodo will be here soon. You should be getting ready.”

Marigold drew a sigh, and suppressed an acrid chuckle.

Knowing May, it was the closest thing she would get to an apology.

But instead of answering, she shifted on the bed, and pulled her knees against her chest. She did not speak, and May appraised her with a hesitating glance.

“Mari, don’t tell me you’re still angry,” she said. “Look, I understand, but the world is harsh, and you must not be so – I don’t know…”

She paused, clasping her hand as if searching for a word.

But Marigold was in no hurry. She angled her legs to one side, and draped the towel over her thigh.

“Alright,” she said, and though she did not meet her sister’s eye, her voice was even. “I am going to get ready. But I want an answer to my question from before.”

May raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, which one?”

Marigold frowned.

“You know which one.” 

A tense silence settled between them.

I swear it, May, you seem to delight in making me unhappy. Why?

There had been no other.

May nodded.

She turned, and sat at the edge of the bed, running her hands over one another. 

Though they were now in the privacy of the bedroom, it did not feel like they were alone – the young ones were laughing and squealing down the hall.

May bit her lip, blinking before she spoke.

“You really want to know, Mari? You were always preferred, that’s why.”

She drew a breath, and seemed to chew the insides of her cheeks – but then she turned away, and Marigold could barely see her face.

And for her part, Marigold made no answer. She breathed the way she was used to doing in such moments – two beats in, two beats out – and fixed her eyes on her sister’s hands, which were clasped over her knees.

But May was not satisfied with her point.

“Always, always preferred,” she repeated, and turned with a quick, sharp look at her sister. “And it weren’t just this room, neither, though that was part of it. It was everything. You were always our parents’ favorite. Gaffer always wanted you on his knee, and Ma always wanted you by her side, because you were quiet, and good, and I… I was the noisy one, the slattern, the one who couldn’t sit still. They were forever sending me away, or didn’t you know that?” (8)

She paused and looked away.

“And then, when the time came,” she added, “You were the clever one who got to go into a trade. And half of my suitors asked about you. And now you are the one to marry up, and to who? To Mr. Frodo, who wanted neither Took nor Brandybuck, but somehow wants you, and seems to have no flaws, ’cept bein’ a little odd, and doin’ what any man might have done when he was young. And it’s not fair, I tell you – It’s not fair. It’s like good fortune simply falls into your lap.”

She bit her lip, and fixed her eyes on the opposite wall.

Marigold sat transfixed, and her mouth fell open in a soundless gasp.

But of course…

How could she have been so daft?

It was a story as old as the hills. Except, she had never thought of herself as someone to be envied. 

It still made very little sense.

“But May… May… I’m sorry,” she whispered at last, reaching for her sister’s arm.

But May did not move and her shoulders stiffened.

And Marigold should have felt pity – and perhaps a part of her did. Pity for all the little pains that added up to big pains. Pity for all the things that left holes in her sister’s life.

But she could not feel it in her heart. For a confession did not erase a day’s hurt, much less that of years.

It erased nothing, in fact, but perhaps it was a start. Even if it completely missed the fact that they were born with different tempers, but May’s behavior had done little to redeem her, and to say that Marigold’s fortune had fallen into her lap would have sent a less obliging lass screaming.

May’s shoulders were shaking unmistakably now, and Marigold slid closer to her side.

Her sister was blinking at a frenzied pace, and there was a raw, reddish line across her bottom lip.

“May… May…” 

Marigold wanted to put a hand around her shoulders, but something held her back… If she tried to touch May now, one of two things could happen. May would either cry out and strike her, or devolve into a flood of tears, and perhaps strike her anyway.

“May…” Marigold tried again, and kept her voice as even as she could. “May, please… I’m sorry it was like that… And believe you me – I never wanted – and look, the things you think are good in my life – you don’t truly know them. And you don’t want to know them – you don’t want to know what it’s like, tryin’ to be a midwife. And look, Rosie – Rosie’s right, Mr. Frodo has a difficult fate…”

She reached for her sister and kept her hands where May could see them.

“May…”

And at last, May relented. She looked back at Marigold and blinked, returning a sad smile.

“No… No… All is well,” she said, and drew a spasmodic breath as she pressed a knuckle against each eye. “After all, there’s naught to be done, is there?”

There was a thickness in her voice – the kind that came with a burning of the eyes.

Marigold gazed at her, and May shook her head, the sun illuminating her pale freckles.

“After all, we cannot trade fates, now can we? So there is nothing for it. Only one frog will make it out of the well, and maybe that’s enough.”

She pressed her fingers against her eyes, and got up, walking slowly toward the door.

“Yes, there is nothing for it,” she repeated. “So let’s go. Let’s go and enjoy Mr. Frodo’s smiles. They say he smiles a good deal more these days, and that it’s all thanks to you – but I expect it’s Sam’s doing, that people know that. But I didn’t tell you that, did I?”

She reached for the doorknob, but seemed to change her mind, reaching into her pocket instead.

“Here,” she said, extending a hand. “For you. It’s nothin’ like the treasures and gems that you’re going to have, but it’s something.”

She pressed an object into Marigold’s hand, and Marigold took it.

It was a simple, two-pronged wooden hair comb, covered in lacquer. The end of it was round, adorned with a painted design of pink flowers, and the wood was blonde, just like her hair.

“Th-thank you?”

Marigold gazed at the comb – and May nodded primly.

“You’re welcome,” she said, turning away. “Mrs. Hornblower’s husband had a few of those made not too long ago, so I got one for you. And for what it is worth, I am sorry. I’ve been a horrid sister – and I know ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t make nothing right, but I am…”

She sighed, her hand pausing over the doorknob, and she listened to the voices down the hall – the talking and laughing growing louder and a cheer going up, which suggested that Frodo had arrived with a bottle of New Winyards.

Soon, the Gamgees would be expected in the parlor – for it was impolite to make a visitor wait – and it would be just like the night when Frodo had asked for her hand: the two of them, in their small bubble of warmth, sitting close together, as the rest of the family chatted and chewed and called out to one another, and the children laughed and squirmed and got scolded for touching dishes that were too hot. And May would be walking around the table, offering extra gravy and generous slices of bread, and wearing the thin, sealed smile that she wore even now, with remnants of tears glistening in her eyes…

“Wait,” Marigold started up, and before May could open the door, the younger sister was on her feet, crossing the room and grabbing May by the wrist.

“Wait…”

May blinked and looked back at her dully.

“What?”

“I mean – I mean…” 

As always, Marigold’s tongue could not do without a stutter.

But a curious, determined feeling was rising in her chest.

“May – look – look,” she exclaimed, “I don’t think there is nothing for it.”

May narrowed her eyes, but Marigold was buoyed up by such a whirlwind that the words tumbled out of her pell-mell.

“I think – I think – look,” she drew a breath, “I think I have an idea. Consider – you never did get to have the wedding you wanted, right?”

May nodded slowly.

“But look – we haven’t yet decided much about our wedding, Mr. Frodo and I. Whether it would be big or small, and who all would be there, and what sort of party it would be –”

May chuckled, and two dimples formed in the corners of her mouth. 

“Well, just so you know,” she returned, “The neighborhood’s expectin’ a party of Baggins pro-por-tions, if you get my meanin’. Maybe even fireworks.”

Marigold drew a sigh, but even that bit of news could not dampen her spirits.

“Well, then,” she nodded resolutely, “Then we shall take that into account – but be that as it may, I know you cannot be the bride this time, but look – I care less for what the neighborhood thinks, and if it were me, I would be happy to wed Mr. Frodo with just the closest family around, and no frills at all – but I won’t, because I want this to be a party you can be proud of. I want you to be at my side, the matron of honor, and for everything to be as you like. Your word, and we will do it like you say, and look, it won’t stop at the wedding either. Every day, you will be welcome at our house, and your children, they will want for nothing, and if ever they want an education or a trade, they will have it –”

Marigold’s eyes were shining – and indeed, she ran out of breath before she ran out of words. But even as she spoke, her sister gazed at her with an inscrutable expression – that is, until her children were brought up, at which point her face quivered.

Suddenly, she looked much younger than she was.

“Oh… Marigold. You… you would do that?”

And Marigold chuckled, for she expected just such a reaction – and the vision of Frodo, a few rooms away, was giving her strength. She smiled and released her sister’s hand, squeezing her upper arms instead.

“Why, of course, May, of course,” she replied. “Of course. Because it’s like you said – it would not do to forget where I come from. We are a pair of Gamgee sisters… and there is nothing better in the Shire than having a Gamgee sister.”

She smiled again, and though it took all her strength and composure to do so, she rose to the tips of her toes and tilted her head, pressing her forehead against May’s.

And May, for her part, nodded and pressed her forehead back, her cheeks glowing pink and her expression chastened.

“Well, then, it is decided,” Marigold smiled, taking a step back. “But you must promise me one thing – or else the deal is off.”

She paused for dramatic effect, and the silence lingered as May raised her eyebrows.

“You must not say that my fortune simply fell into my lap,” she said, and turned away to pick up the gifted comb. “You must not say it, for every chance we get is like a seed – we must water it with our labors, and if we don’t, we might squander it just as soon, and that is not a thing to be forgotten.”

1.  Mr. Nisilë and I do not often go to church, but once upon a Christmas, we found ourselves at a Lutheran service, where the pastor sought to make the sermon relatable and accessible. That day, the sermon focused on the birth of Jesus and described it as a “holy disruption.” The pastor and his assistant, who were both leading the service, continually went on tangents and interrupted one another to demonstrate the point. 
2. A reference to Mr. Bennet’s response in Pride and Prejudice when his wife insists on telling him who rented Netherfield Park. In the book, the quote is “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it,” and in the 2005 film, the quote is “As you wish to tell me, my dear, I doubt I have any choice in the matter.”
3. There are two references in May’s speech. One is to Elizabeth Bennet’s quote in the 2005 film Pride and Prejudice, “For five thousand a year, it would not matter if he’s got warts and a leer.” In addition, the general discussion of Frodo’s income is reminiscent of marriage-minded women’s gossip throughout Austen’s world.
4. Another reference to the 2005 film Pride and Prejudice. Mrs. Bennet tells Elizabeth, “When you have five daughters, Lizzie, tell me what else will occupy your thoughts, and then perhaps you will understand.”
5. The hobbits do have some indoor plumbing according to The Hobbit trilogy, but they also use wells and lavabo style sinks, particularly if they are less well off. A lavabo style sink has a container of water that is suspended (typically at eye level), and one must either open a tap or push up a plug to make the water pour out with the aid of gravity.
6. The hobbits are engaging in a time-honored way of preserving mushrooms. They thread pieces of the mushroom onto long strings, making garlands, and hang them over a fire or in the sun to dry.
7. A final reference to Pride and Prejudice, the 2005 movie. Elizabeth’s uncle, Mr. Gardiner, tells her, “Oh, heavens Lizzy! What a snob you are! Objecting to poor Mr. Darcy because of his wealth! The poor man can’t help it.”
8. May (and her son Jolly, for that matter) are coded as having ADHD. Due to their impulsive tendencies, people with ADHD are sometimes disliked by others, and may struggle to reach their potential because they find it hard to see things through.

Chapter Text

After the marriage had been announced, everything else followed in the best of ways – for the river, as per the popular parlance, had finally been crossed. 

News of the engagement spread like wildfire, and by the next morning, every village as far as Buckland was abuzz with the surprise of a decade. In Hobbiton, too, the neighbors and the market-goers, already having heard the news, pretended to be surprised when this-or-that Gamgee leaned in, and speculated with wide eyes on the scale and size of the anticipated wedding. Shopkeepers, too, had immediately raised their prices on the finer clothes, the fizzing wines, and, of course, the flowers, and when the news officially reached their doorsteps, they puffed out their lips, and twiddled their thumbs, and feigned ignorance with varying degrees of conviction.

Excitement was general all over the Shire (1). Even the blossoms seemed to blaze in brighter colors, and the wind was far more fragrant for the happy news. And though, from time to time, an eyebrow might have been raised, and an upper lip may have grown stiff, the joyful anticipation was far more apparent than any dark, unsavory whispers as the Gamgees lost no time in commencing the preparations. The Gaffer was moving at double his usual speed, though regrettably accomplishing just as little. And by the time the first week was up, any number of bakers, florists, and napkin-makers had just so happened to stop by, bearing gifts and hopeful smiles and making small-talk aplenty. Even Sam, usually demure and prim amid such hubbub, was effusive about the progress of his garden, and his smile both pink and inexhaustible.

But amid all the excitement – for exciting it was, at least to hear Sam and Rosie tell it – it was not too long before Frodo realized that something was amiss. Amiss with Marigold, that was.

At first, it had seemed perfectly plausible. Sam, Rosie, and May were coming to Bag End to work on the wedding plans, so it stood to reason that the house needed a thorough cleaning, and a number of tasks neglected during their healing-work could no longer be put off.

And of course, Marigold was nervous, which Frodo understood perfectly – and this, she claimed, made her clumsy, so she spilled the washing in the yard one day, and had to do it all over again.

But it was not only that. Another time, she burned the entire luncheon, and nearly cut off her fingers slicing radish, and then she declared that with all their delving into the past, she had neglected her spelling, so she had to practice that as well, for she did not wish to blush when she was signing her letters “Mrs. Baggins.”

And then, another day, it was a headache, and then she had eaten something bad, and then, shared in sotto voce, it was her monthly illness…

As a result, there was little chance to go on walks – and in fact, they spent nearly every day indoors – and in the evenings, once they were alone, Marigold would lay down by his side, and bury her face in his chest and shoulder. She was not especially keen to talk, and he did not press her – he only took her in his arms and enjoyed her warmth. But all the same, his mind was uneasy.

Certainly, he knew that telling others would be a trial – she was so sensitive, and so afraid of what others might think. But on the whole, the consensus was more favorable than not if Sam was to be believed, and the denizens of the Shire were only too happy that Frodo had grown some hobbit sense and was finally settling down, while Marigold was as good a girl as could be, and would take great care of him, and deserved her good fortune.

Of course, when it came to weddings, Frodo never formed many opinions, never having expected to have one himself. But according to May, Rosie, and Sam, the balrog was ever in the details, and the litany of things to be decided was formidable: from the size of the guest list, to the members of the wedding party, to the date itself, as well as the food, the clothes, the colors, the flowers, the tableware, the seating chart, the entertainment, as well as a myriad other matters.

Ordinarily Frodo would not have cared for much of any of it: he only wanted to be wed so that Marigold would not have to go home every night, and so they could be together, warm in bed with the windows open and the stars shining brightly (2). He wanted to wake up every morning and to hear her voice, and to see her combing her hair as she sat in front of his vanity, her clothes hanging up next to his in the closet. Everything else mattered little, but he knew full well that many lasses dreamt of their weddings since they were small, so he was happy to oblige her, even if a gathering at the Gamgees’ was enough to send his heart into a sprint.

Except – therein lay the trouble. Marigold didn’t appear to want much. At the first meeting of the “planning committee” (as Sam, Rosie, and May were now informally called) she appointed May the matron of honor – which surprised Frodo more than a little – and then, she expressed the wish for “nobody to feel left out,” and for “everyone to have a good time,” though what exactly this meant, she could not say, and when May began to sketch out the details, whatever her sister proposed, Marigold would only smile and nod, and when Frodo suggested that perhaps they should have a smaller wedding, on account of them both being shy and retiring, they took to examining their family trees, and concluded that among the hobbits at least, there could be no such thing.

And so they settled on a wedding of “Baggins proportions,” especially since May was of the opinion that the rumor mill was like a beast that wanted to be fed, and it would take its revenge if it was hungry (3). They all surmised that it was for the best, to curry the favor of the populace and to give them the party of a lifetime: after all, it was a matter of noblesse oblige for hobbits of Frodo’s station to entertain the rest – and so, a party of a lifetime it would be.

But all the same, something felt amiss, for Marigold was quiet – even more quiet than was her wont – except for the moments when she was unnaturally prone to laughter, and she was forever busying herself with things that barely needed doing.

Something was not right – and so Frodo had two options: either to watch and wait for her to come to him, or to ask her about it. And in the beginning, he had chosen the former – for if nothing else, he was certainly patient, a fact he was now seeing as a virtue, for it had served him well as the Ringbearer, whatever his other flaws.

But then, the voices began to whisper again – all the same dark, insidious things that were not true, but felt very much true in the moment, and made his hair stand on end.

They whispered that perhaps she had never loved him, and was finally showing her true colors. They were also of the opinion that she had secured an advantageous marriage, and thus no longer felt the need to show him affection. They even insisted that it could only get worse, and then, in a perfectly contradictory spirit, they claimed that she never wanted to marry him in the first place, and had only agreed because she couldn’t say no – because a servant didn’t say no to their master.

The last part was particularly chilling, true or not – because it seemed, if one squinted, that it could have been the truth, and on top of that, he did not have her to hold and to touch quite so often – not in the way he liked – and he could not reassure himself of his safety and her affection.

Instead, night after night, he would fall asleep with a familiar pain under his ribs, though he determined to endure it until the last – and he did endure it, until one night he woke up in a cold sweat, with a scream punching its way out of his lungs.

He had dreamt of her finding the will and the letter, which he had written prior to his trip to the Grey Havens, but had subsequently burned in the fireplace of an inn on the way back. In the dream, however, the will and the letter had reappeared, and Marigold had found them.

He sat bolt upright on the bed, his heart pounding in his temples as her face rippled in and out – stained with tears, and her lips whispering, “How could you.” In the dream, she had turned around and started walking away, and he tried to grab her by the shoulder, but his hand slipped again and again, and then the door slammed behind her, sending a thunderbolt through his soul.

He scrambled up, and did not sleep for the rest of the night – searching instead through his papers like a man possessed to make sure that the letter hadn’t in fact returned – and once morning came, he knew that patience was no longer a virtue, though how exactly to proceed, he still had not the faintest notion.

The only thing he could think of was to get back in bed, and to pretend to be resting when Marigold returned, and to tell her he had had a nightmare.

Which was, for the moment, the right thing to do, for the instant she had heard his words, she threw back the covers and got into bed with him – for how could she not, the poor, devoted girl? She even wrapped her arms and legs around him, and for a spell, everything seemed to be well in the world, and perhaps it was, except for the voice that whispered in his ear that he had simply traded one “Precious” for another. This “Precious” was a good deal more ephemeral, and a good deal less dangerous – but what did it matter? He still could not stand to lose her, and it was further proof that he could never truly be well.

He thought this way, but in the end, he shook himself free… For with Marigold’s breath and the softness of her form, it was only a matter of time before holding turned to kisses, and then to more insistent touching, and then to heavier breaths, with hands sliding down and pushing aside clothing, with barely a word exchanged as their bodies wound around each other, gasping in pleasure for the first time in days.

He was barely fast enough to put on the sheepskin, and his pleasure was all the more intense for having withheld himself for days. 

And Marigold, too, seemed to get her pleasure – nearly climaxing from the act alone, with only a little help from his fingers. 

She did not see anything terrible, either – which was getting to be more often the case – and as they lay down together after the fact, skin on skin, laughing softly and exchanging nipping kisses, he decided to ask her.

But he would not ask right away. It was still too frightening.

Had it been any other matter, he might have asked her long ago, but this was different, and darker, and yet more immediate than any question that had ever passed between them. 

It felt nearly impossible to keep a cool head, and to keep his mind from repeating – why, why?

Though perhaps he knew why, or at least suspected… Beyond anything the voices said, there were two possibilities, and one was simply sad, while the other made him feel like he was slipping, watching her turn and shake her head, hearing the door slamming shut again and again.

It was still too desperate, and too frightening.

He could not speak of it just yet. He was not ready. He had to speak to another person first.

That person was Sam.

It was evening, and Sam and Frodo were sitting in the parlor of Bag End, puzzling over the guest list. The time was just after dinner, and May and Rosie had gone home, while Marigold, at the encouragement of Frodo, was resting with a headache in one of the guest rooms.

“Curse it all,” Frodo huffed, and cast his eyes dejectedly over the long mahogany table, illuminated by the warm candlelight as the trees faded into a brocade of blue. “Tell me again, Sam, why can’t we simply register at the mayor’s office and be done?”

The table was covered with a prodigious number of lists, family trees, and stationery. Mountains and mountains of stationery.

Sam shook his head, and chuckled as he leaned forward on his elbows.

His eyes were red-rimmed from staring at numbers and letters too long, and he shrugged as he leaned back and stretched his arms, bringing them behind his head.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, and rolled his shoulders one after the other with a languid yawn. “You know the answer to that, I’ll wager. It seems that May’s word is law nowadays, though why Mari has decided so is anybody’s guess. There’s never been much love lost between them, though who are we, mere men, to contradict them?”

He chuckled, and Frodo smiled as well, rising from his seat, and striding toward the window.

“But at any rate,” Sam continued – and Frodo heard the characteristic sound of a jaw being put together after a yawn, “It seems that we’ve done this backwards and forwards a thousand times now, and there’s still no way to get it under a hundred. There’s not even a way to get it under a hundred and fifty, leastwise not unless you want to go choppin’ whole branches off your family tree, if you pardon me sayin’ so – and Marigold said we can’t exclude the Tunnellies, neither…”

Frodo squinted into the falling evening, and watched the lights being lit in the hillsides across the way. The staccato of a sedge warbler came in through the open window, and Frodo listened to it sing as Sam drew a decisive star next to several names. 

They both knew it, of course – what such a large gathering would do to Frodo – and inevitably, when it came to the march to the wedding pergola, a certain other unfortunate trek came to mind.

But until that moment, Frodo had scarcely said a word against it – which had surprised Sam like nothing else – but in the end, he had reasonably surmised that it was perhaps for the best: the more Frodo and Marigold kept out of the public eye, the more curious everyone would become, and the more outlandish rumors would be spread, so it was better for all concerned to stand up and face the music.

Frodo turned back from the window, and Sam observed a strange mirthfulness in his eye.

“Hmm, well, perhaps I should have gone to Valinor after all,” he mused. “And maybe I should have taken Mari with me. She would have made a fine stowaway – I could have hidden her under my cloak.”

He chuckled, and Sam returned a diffident smile as Frodo ran his eyes over the guest list.

“Well, it is elvish,” Sam agreed, and put down his feather quill. “And perhaps, bein’ elvish, that cloak could have hidden the fact that you had four feet – or am I wrong?”

He chuckled in his turn – for it never failed to cheer him when Frodo’s sense of humor made a showing. But his happiness was short-lived, for Frodo winced as he settled back into his chair.

The hobbits sat in silence for a spell, and then Sam got up, and walked to stand behind his friend.

“One thing’s for sure, though,” Frodo said, and sighed as the gardener’s hands settled over his shoulders, “Gandalf’s gone, so there won’t be any more fireworks, much as they might wish it. Not that I could stomach any more fireworks…”

He sighed again, and there was a wistfulness, if not a regret, in his voice. 

“It’s odd, though, isn’t it?” he mused. “I never thought I’d say that. But so it goes, I suppose.”

Sam nodded gently – and began to smooth his large, calloused hands over Frodo's shoulders.

Frodo sighed, and relaxed into the touch.

Sam’s hands were both definite and gentle. They were the sort of hands that could drive a shovel and put a baby bird back in its nest, and they smelled of good, tilled earth and bright, sunlit days, and of newly mown grass and freshly ground pipeweed. Some things, it seemed, would never change, and a smile spread slowly over Frodo’s features.

“Yes, Gandalf,” Sam replied. “I miss him alright.”

And Frodo nodded in his turn, but said nothing at first.

He did not need to. Sam’s hands continued their work, and melted each muscle one by one, rubbing and shaking the flesh a little.

“Me too, Sam. Me too,” he said at last.

A few more moments passed like this – with Sam rubbing, and Frodo smiling – and it reminded Frodo of the days when they were both bachelors, and Sam did a great deal for Frodo at Bag End.

Sam rubbed his shoulders for several minutes, and then, as his hands came to a stop, Frodo glanced behind him, and gave a reassuring smile.

He then stood up, and walked to the other end of the room, where he fetched a tray with a cut-glass decanter from the long, low cabinet. 

He had taken up keeping the wine in the living room again, to entertain May and Rosie and their other newfound guests.

“Gandalf’s health,” he said – and poured the wine into two accompanying glasses.

Sam nodded soberly and took a seat beside him.

The two hobbits drank – though Frodo only took a sip, and then he poured Sam another, which Sam enjoyed as well, smacking his lips as he imbibed the dark, cherry-colored sweetness.

They both seems to simultaneously have the same thought: they wanted – nay, needed – a break from the wedding planning. But after the second glass, Sam was a good deal happier, and his face was glowing a dewy red.

Pitching awkwardly from side to side, he began to try and raise Frodo’s spirits – for even more so than a sober Sam, an inebriated Sam hated to see people sad, and he always tried to cheer them up by “bringin’ things into p’rspective.”

He bumped his shoulder clumsily against his friend’s, and nodded over his third, half-full glass as he gestured in an exaggerated manner.

“Well, you know, Mr. Frodo,” he intoned, his voice as serious as could be, “You’re not alone in all of this – much as you might think it. Marigold, she is havin’ troubles too, though I don’t know how much you know of it already…”

“Oh, is she?”

Frodo raised his eyebrows, but was careful not to look surprised.

They had resolved to drink to Gandalf’s health, and they had done so – twice already. And Frodo had thought tenderly about the wizard’s haughty smile, and the outlandish stories laced with humor.

Carefully, he put down his glass, and shifted toward Sam.

His plan – to the extent that he had a plan – was working to a fault, though he still felt a measure of guilt about it. Sam’s glasses, predictably, were outpacing his master’s by a wide margin, and while Frodo had a mind to lubricate the works before he spoke of Marigold’s heart, here he was, good old Sam, innocent as the plants he cared for, and Frodo did not even need to ask.

His only shame was that Sam assumed they had spoken of it already – but he fixed his eyes on his friend and returned a firm nod.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do know some things,” he said. “But it is only a guess – for I had noticed she was not quite herself, and I was meaning to ask, but I could not think of how best to go about it.”

Sam nodded, and placed his glass on the table with an audible clink. He furrowed his brow – but it was not a look of displeasure. Instead, it was a familiar mien – one that he wore when he was deadly serious.

“Well, then, I do hope you can think of somethin’ soon, Mr. Frodo,” he returned, bobbing his head with an exaggerated cadence. “For you see, I have to tell you, just the other day, on Highday, Boffo – he brought some fabric samples over from the shop, since they were startin’ to do a fittin’ at Bagshot Row – for the weddin’ dress, you see…”

He paused, and took a moment rocking forward, drawing a deep, deliberate breath as he puffed his cheeks out like a toad.

“Well, at any rate,” he continued, “I weren’t there myself, exactly, but to hear Rosie tell it, everythin’ was going well at first, but then Mari somehow got it into her head that there was someone at the window who weren’t one of the family, and that apparently gave her such a fright, that she ran off to the bedroom and would not come out for anyone or anythin’, no matter how much they begged and pleaded. Rosie even got to thinkin’ that if it really was that bad, then we were in danger of havin’ a runaway bride on our hands, if you pardon me sayin’ – but you know, I s’spect that that’s just Rosie bein’ Rosie, and exaggeratin’ things…”

He took another breath, and reached for the decanter, but Frodo put a pacifying hand on his arm.

“Wait – hold on a moment, that bad, truly?”

He willed Sam’s eyes to remain on his.

Sam looked taken aback, and even seemed to sober up by a degree, but then he nodded, slowly.

Frodo sighed, and sucked the air in through his teeth, though Sam was thankfully quick on the uptake.

“Well, you know, Mr. Frodo, I do have to say,” he said, lowering his voice, “It’s not that her feelin’s for you aren’t true, you know. ‘Cause whenever she is at home, it’s always Mr. Frodo this, Mr. Frodo that, and ever since she started doin’ for you at Bag End, she’s always been the first to leave each day and the last to come home, and she’s always touchin’ that fine necklace of yours when she thinks no one’s lookin’…”

He paused and bit his lip, and the furrow between his brows grew deeper.

“She is happy, Mr. Frodo,” he went on, “That much I know for a fact. But she’s also afraid, you see. She’s afraid of everyone lookin’, and of what everyone might say’. She has been since she was a little girl.”

Sam paused, and Frodo felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

“But – but,” he stammered, “I suppose, if that is the case, then what are we really doing here?” He swallowed, furrowing his brow, and bit the insides of his cheeks. “Shouldn’t we be getting married in the Mayor’s office, with only the closest family around, and have that be the end of it? What is the sense in all of this?”

Sam blinked as Frodo searched his face, but as the silence fell, the Gamgee had no answer.

Instead, his smiled and raised his shoulders. Frodo let him go, and Sam spread out his hands, palms skyward.

Frodo drew an exasperated sigh and looked away, fixing his eyes on the floorboards. The shadows outside the window were turning a deep violet.

“I thought as much,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Sam – I just…”

But Sam, despite his consternation, was quick to put a hand on Frodo’s.

“No, I understand,” he said, blinking slowly. “You want what’s best for Mari, and that’s only nat’ral of course. But it seems you do not understand her wishes, and to tell you the truth, none of us do, and it’s always been that way, and it’s anyone’s guess why that is…”

Frodo’s eyes snapped up, and he locked his gaze with Sam’s.

“Well I understand that now,” he returned. “But all the same, has anybody tried to speak to her about it? You? Rosie perhaps?”

He searched Sam’s face, and Sam shook his head.

“No, not this time, Mr. Frodo,” he replied dejectedly. “And to tell you the truth, there never was much point in askin’ anyhow. Mari is the type of person who will tell you, or she will not, and if she won’t, she won’t tell you for anythin’ in the world. She’s stubborn like that – all the Gamgees are, and I suppose we reckoned it was best if you were to ask her, what with you bein’ so particular-good at getting’ her to say things, unlike the rest of us.”

He sighed, and Frodo sighed in his turn.

The birdsong outside the window faded to a thin creak-creak, and there was a light, powdery smell of flowers winding its way into the room.

They listened for Marigold stirring in the bedroom, but the house was quiet.

“Well, you know, Sam,” Frodo mused at last, “One thing I must say is, I’ve never truly understood – if everything you say is true, how exactly did she work when she was a midwife? I would have thought that if you are a healer, everyone is going to look to you, and expect you to do what others can’t in a moment of danger…”

It was, in truth, a question he had longed to ask Marigold herself – but he had never had the courage, and it never felt like the right time.

The grandfather clock was tick-ticking in the corner, and Sam’s lips spread slowly into a smile.

“Ah, well, therein lies the rub, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, and gave Frodo’s hand a pat before tenting his fingers over his stomach. “That, I wager, is quite a bit different – though I have to say, I’ve often wondered the same thing.”

He paused, and his eyes meandered over the ceiling.

“‘Cause you see, you’re right,” he went on. “Mari is right confident when she is working. Mrs. Bracegirdle trained it into her like a charm, and it brought a tear to the eye to watch, just how much she changed and came into her own. But on the other hand, no one’s workin’ at their own weddin’ if you understand – and a weddin’ is a right personal thing, that’s the best I can explain it. At the weddin’, ‘specially such a one as this, you can bet that some folks will be sayin’ good things, and some folk will be talkin’ ill, and that’s only nat’ral, I s’pose, and there’s nothin’ for it but to stand up and face the band playin’, so to speak. ‘Cept Mari – Mari’s always been a’feared of havin’ no control, you see…”

His words gradually drifted off, and his tongue was still dragging from the wine, but his eyes, large and eager, were fixed on Frodo’s. He drew his longest sigh yet, and Frodo shook his head.

“But, but –” he ventured lamely, “I suppose I can understand that, but in the end, does she really want it?”

He paused, and cast his eyes over the zigzagging parquetry at his feet.

“I mean,” he continued, “What May has said certainly makes very good sense, but if it comes at such a cost, is it truly worth the trouble? I mean, if it was Mari who wanted it, if it would truly make her happy, then I would grit my teeth and make do with a lot worse, but if it brings both of us pain –”

He released his breath, and looked searchingly at Sam, but Sam was busy chewing on his lips, and did not answer. 

Frodo watched him as the slow, deliberate gears clicked behind his eyes, and it took a good moment, but then something fell into place, and Sam squared his shoulders – certain once again.

“No, I do think she wants it,” he returned, his eyes glowing bright with feeling. “I do think she wants it, Mr. Frodo – just like every lass who dreams of bein’ the Midsummer Queen at her own weddin’. And look, if she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t be spendin’ such late hours with her sisters and her nieces every night, porin’ over the flowers an’ the fabrics and all the rest, talkin’ about the fun they’re all goin’ to have – an’ she smiles about it, too. Smiles, Mr. Frodo, like she’s rarely smiled before…”

His voice drifted off again, and Frodo fancied seeing Marigold, leaning over a table with a group of curly-headed blondes, laughing and pointing things out, and then glancing up and growing sheepish at the sight of him, an interloper male. 

He ventured a half-smile, and Sam continued.

“And you know what else is true, Mr. Frodo,” he intoned, drawing another deep breath, “I’ll wager that she wants it for another reason – and that is this. You see, there have been some evil tongues a-waggin’, and there was even a time when she cried about someone callin’ her an uppity wench. But even then, I tell you, she might ‘ave wailed that she should call the whole thing off, and maybe then they’d all be happy – but I tell you, she did not mean it, not even then – not from the looks of her, and I swear –”

Frodo started, and looked suddenly like a man possessed – or like a lightning bolt had struck him.

“Wait, who called her an uppity wench?!” 

He seized Sam’s arm, more painfully than before.

Sam glanced at him – and then averted his eyes. But he did not hesitate to answer.

“Well, er, nobody important,” he replied. “And look, in any case” – he placed a gentle hand over the one that grasped him – “I gave that customer a good sluggin’ after that, and they haven’t done it since, so that’s all that matters, eh?”

He gave Frodo’s hand a reassuring pat, but Frodo turned away, releasing a slow, painful sigh as he collapsed against the lattice-back of the chair.

He tried to take his hand away – but thought better of it, and took Sam’s hands between his own instead.

Sam gazed at him with a kindly expression. 

Neither said anything for a spell, but Frodo nodded slowly – as if the Gamgee’s words had finally reached him.

“Why, yes, you are right, Sam,” he echoed dully. “I suppose that is all that matters. But then again…”

He took a long, slow look around him, and blinked his eyes as if just comprehending familiar objects.

“But then again,” he sighed, “Do you really think… Do you really think she didn’t mean it? That she doesn’t want to call it off?”

He must have sounded pathetic, but he scarcely minded.

He looked at Sam with unsmiling eyes, and Sam moved toward him, taking up his hand and smoothing it between his own.

His voice was soft as ever as he stroked Frodo’s arm.

“Oh, but of course she weren’t in earnest, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, and gazed at his friend with eyes like liquid velvet. “Of course she weren’t – after all, she is not so craven that she’d let some scoundrel come between her and her beloved, now is she?”

Frodo sighed, and Sam returned a hopeful look, his hands smoothing over Frodo’s arm.

And it was working, too, though Frodo hardly had the strength to thank him. Instead, he cast his eyes over the empty fireplace.

“Sometimes I feel like I am that scoundrel, Sam.” 

Outside, the darkness had descended fully, and now, the outlines of the trees were barely visible.

Sam glanced at Frodo with a quizzical brow.

“Er… I don’t know – I don’t think I know what you mean there, sir…”

His look was truly puzzled, though the haze of drunkenness was lifting.

Frodo gave an acrid chuckle.

“Ah, well, but you do know, Sam,” he returned, his head lolling back against the top of his chair. “Because I had been cruel to her, had I not? I’ve caused her so much pain and trouble already – and I still am, it seems, with this wedding. And I was planning to leave Middle-earth – and leave her without saying goodbye. It still haunts me to this day – ”

He closed his eyes, and yet his gardener’s hands remained, heavy and definite.

The Gamgee kept his peace, however, and Frodo sighed again.

“In fact, how do you do it, Sam?” He smiled – and his smile was despondent. “How do you go on? The great stories never tell you what happens after the hero finds the treasure or kills the dragon. They do not tell you how to live your life after that, even if you do find comfort in your beloved.”

Sam furrowed his brows, and Frodo closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, the furrows had smoothed out.

And yet – the Gamgee had to concede – what Frodo said was most certainly true, and most certainly a puzzle.

Outside, the wind rustled in the trees, and the air meandered through the open window – a balmy, moonless night.

The quest was so long ago… It had been two years since they left Bag End.

The apple tree whispered in the breeze, its scent mingling with the heady, honeyed fragrance of the hydrangeas, and Sam pressed his lips, chewing on their insides.

“Well, I don’t rightly know, sir,” he said, squeezing Frodo’s hands. “I wonder, too, about the same, and while it’s not near as bad for me as it is for you, sometimes I don’t feel glad that the sun has risen in the mornin’ neither…”

He glanced from side to side – feeling like things ought to have changed from the way they recalled the past – but they had not.

The candles were still flickering in their sconces, and the papers lay scattered about like leaves, and Frodo was still sitting by his side, letting him hold his hand. 

Sam did not wish to let go of that hand, so he took a breath and continued.

“And look,” he said, willing his tongue to obey him – much as it longed to loll about in his head, “Perchance I do not know about the other thing – for I never did a bad thing to Rosie, nor ever even thought about it, ‘cept maybe makin’ her wait too long. But the best thing I can tell you is that I still get up every mornin’, and I still tend my garden, and I do for you here at Bag End, and I eat my seven meals…” (4)

Indeed, he liked his seven meals a bit too much, even for a hobbit. But Frodo’s quiet acceptance of the fact had been a secret balm, and it was another reason why his heart was glad for having Frodo in it.

“And I – I muddle through one way or another,” he added, running a finger over the back of Frodo’s hand and pausing over the knuckles. “I do not know how I do it, but I do. And of course I bring Rosie flowers. That always makes the both of us happy.”

He gave a quiet sigh, and trailed his finger over each of Frodo’s.

Frodo was listening intently, but when Sam had ceased to speak, he looked up, and his lip was curled in a familiar expression.

“Yes… I suppose, Sam… Flowers,” he echoed. “Flowers always seem to make things better, don’t they?”

Sam did not reply at first – for dash it all, he was too busy thinking of that lower lip, its lovely form, but then…

Frodo shook his head. “Yes, it’s true,” he repeated. “Flowers – they seem to cover everything, don’t they? Even graves, just like the simbelmynë.” (5)

His eyes meandered over to the window, and the wind shifted a bit, as if it had been waiting. The window, already cracked open, spread its casements wide, and as Frodo turned his head, there came the bright, unmistakable smell of flowers.

Sam observed him with keen eyes, but if he was surprised at the sudden turn in his master’s thoughts, he did not show it.

Instead, he shifted in his chair, and ran his fingers down the bones of Frodo’s hand.

“Well, I suppose that is true too, Mr. Frodo,” he replied, and clung to the secret hope that he might sit there forever, holding Frodo’s hand. “Yes, I remember Merry tellin’ us about the simbelmynë.”

He thought of the small, starlike flowers – which he had never seen, but which he could imagine, spreading like a mesh over the grave-mounds. 

The world, indeed, was a curious place – where flowers, many and varied, could mean almost anything – from life to death, to happiness, to loss. And he imagined, too, a world for just the two of them, sitting amid the gorse bushes shielded from prying eyes – talking and laughing and loving each other in an endless summer.

Sighing, he put down Frodo’s hand, but did not release it.

“Yes,” he repeated. “Just like the simbelmynë. And I do agree: flowers could cover almost anything – even Mordor, I should think.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows, and gave a small, uncomfortable chuckle.

“Mordor, Sam?”

His hand grew slack in the Gamgee’s grip, and his look was not a comprehending one.

But Sam returned a conspiratorial smile.

“Well, yes, you heard proper there, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “Come to think of it, I never did tell you what I saw when I carried the Ring for those two days, did I?”

Frodo shook his head.

“No, you in fact didn’t…”

Sam sat up straighter in his chair, and tightened his hold on Frodo’s hand, locking eyes with him.

“Well, the fact of the matter was,” he said, “It was flowers. A garden full of them, if you understand, coverin’ all of Mordor, and the most splendid in the world, as far as the eye could see. They covered every rock and cranny, and they were every color and type you could possibly imagine: sunflowers three times as big as you and me, and dahlias – round and perfect and big as melons –” 

He paused, studying Frodo’s face.

And Frodo blinked several times, studying his face in turn.

And then he laughed.

He laughed delightedly and unmistakably, though timidly at first, the laughter bubbling out of him like a brook.

And then he laughed more boldly, though still covering his face, as if fearful that his friend might take offense.

“Oh, my goodness, oh my goodness, Sam… Really?! Flowers?!”

But Sam, for his part, did not look sheepish. He straightened his shoulders and assumed a dogged expression.

He gave a stolid nod, and shifted in his seat, his mein as serious as could be.

“Well, yes, Mr. Frodo, you heard a’right – flowers,” he returned, his lips forming a resolute line. “For flowers was what it was – all manner of flowers, coverin’ everythin’ in sight, just like I said. But worry not, I did not believe it for a moment, for I knew it could not be, and that the Ring was tryin’ to trick me. I knew that the Ring could make anythin’ bad, even a garden, and of course I was not about to fall for that. I mean, even if I was to bring all the flowers of the world to Mordor, I didn’t want to do it like that – not with that kind of help.”

He sat up straighter – like a cock on the edge of a fence, and Frodo cupped the bottom of his face, his lips quivering with mirth.

“My dear Sam,” he said at last – as the last of the laughter left him. He took his hand away, and revealed the most beautiful of smiles.

“My dear Sam,” he sighed, and curling his fingers just a little, he squeezed the hand that was holding his, “That, I must say, is one of the most Sam-like things I have ever heard. I really do think you should consider changing your name to Gardener – for remember when Faramir said that the Shire must be a truly special place, where gardeners are held in high esteem?”

He cocked his head, leaning in a little, and Sam nodded soberly. 

But he did not reply straightaway.

Indeed, it was impossible to find the proper thing to say – for in that moment, there was only the night, the candles, and the fragrant darkness, and a story so real, no song or tale could compare.

The Gamgee blinked his eyes, and then he heard a creak of a floorboard at the entrance to the hallway. 

They both turned to look, and Marigold was there.

It was not clear how long she had been standing there, but Frodo immediately got up and walked over to her side.

“Oh, Mari, there you are,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Are you feeling any better?”

She seemed surprised by the action – for holding hands was not uncommon in Sam’s presence, and there had been hugs aplenty, but never ones filled with such urgency and need.

She nodded, and placed her head on his shoulder, pressing her cheek against the corrugated cloth.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “I am indeed. Though it’s getting late, and Sam and I should get going.”

Frodo nodded in his turn, and pressed a kiss against her temple.

But he did not release her.

“Alright then, go home you shall,” he said. “But not just yet – I need you here for another moment.”

Sam turned toward the table to peruse the papers, and Frodo tightened his grip, with Marigold’s form molding against his own. She exhaled and nuzzled closer, and suddenly, it dawned on Frodo exactly what he needed to do.

He would, of course, speak to Marigold in the coming days, but that was not all.

He would start bringing her flowers.

He would bring them to her every day – flowers from the garden, or plucked up from the side of the road, or bought at a stall at the market – it did not matter.

And she would take them gladly from his hands and cherish them – for what lass would not? She would place them all around the house in vases – and she would never know the truth, would never know what they truly meant.

That truth, he determined, would be his own private pain, his own private reckoning. 

And so the years would pass them by, with flowers upon flowers, and she would speak of them with pride to all the ladies, and they would say it was the mark of a good husband, and wish their own husbands would do the same.

They would never guess it was an expiation, and a remembrance – like the simbelmynë on the Rohanese graves, like the poppies in the Fields of Pelennor. 

They would never guess what the flowers covered, but only as a veil, and in doing so they would serve as a reminder.

A reminder of all that she had done. A reminder of all he had nearly lost, and all the ways he had hurt her. A reminder to stay and live in Middle-earth, and to make her days both happy and bright, and an endless refrain of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

1. The Dead, by James Joyce: “Snow was general all over Ireland.”
2. A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway: “We would be together and have our books at night and be warm in bed together with the windows open and stars bright.”
3. “The ton feeds on the nouveau, and it gets ill-tempered when it’s hungry” – Madame Delacroix, Bridgerton, season 3.
4. In Voltaire’s Candide, the main character is urged to cope by “cultivating his garden,” even though terrible things have happened to him, and even when terrible things continue to happen all around him.
5. The Three Comrades, by Erich Maria Remarque: “Never apologize. Never talk. Send flowers. No letter. Only flowers. They cover up everything. Even graves.”

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Frodo reflected on how best to broach the subject with Marigold. 

His conversation with Sam had emboldened him, and he reassured himself that even with the most devoted couples, trust and understanding were forged over time – and yet, there was still the dilemma of how he would get her to confide what he already knew, without letting her know that he knew it.

To ask point-blank, of course, would have only spelled disaster, for embarrassment could only grow in the light, and to suggest that Sam had already told him would have cast doubt on their confidence.

And so, after turning over some ideas – none of which seemed entirely satisfactory – he at last chose the least obtrusive path, but even then, he could not shake a measure of guilt, for what he chose could easily have been termed “manipulation.”

But still, now that he had decided, there was no turning back – so on that very same day, he brought Marigold to sit in the parlor – warm and intimate on the couch after dinner, with Sam working just beyond the open window.

In the fireplace, there was no fire – for the early summer warmth was more than enough, and the sun touched the curtains with translucent gold. Both of them had plenty of food in their bellies, and since Marigold was on the mend – no headache for her that day – she was sitting on Frodo’s lap, with her fingers hooked into the buttons of his waistcoat.

Their work for the day was done – the wedding planners sent home with explicit directives on which florists to interview and what questions to ask – and the two of them were exchanging whispers and kissing, and Marigold’s shorter height was perfectly suited for the purpose.

He kissed her, and his slow and heady breaths were mixing with their short and playful nibbles as he rubbed her shoulders until they relaxed. Of late, it had been a trial for her to feel at ease at the end of each day, and to give herself fully to their private moments. But once she did, her kisses were more lingering and more soulful each time, and her hands more willing to explore. Such was the case now – and she was pressing herself against him, molding her body against his own.

He wondered if she had finally forgotten whatever tasks she was running over in her mind, and if she had forgotten that somebody (such as Sam) could easily accost them – though this was growing less likely, what with how much noise he made whenever he came in.

It was, in truth, quite a challenge, to prime himself for the conversation that was about to take place, and it was a further challenge given the pressure of her full, firm breasts, bending his mind relentlessly toward bed business…

In the end, it took a herculean effort to put the images out of his mind – images of delicate ruffles and tantalizing skin – and he reached to cup her face as they parted from a kiss, his lips warm and flushed with the memory.

He pulled back just enough to see her face, and her thumb slowed its circumnavigation of his ear.

“Marigold,” he whispered.

Using his eyes to press his advantage with a lass was not something he had done in… a decade, it had to be? Back then, his eyes were famous to the lasses of the Shire. And yet, no particular artfulness was needed here. The face before him, in its earthly simplicity, with its shy, retiring glow, had become exquisitely dear to him – so much so that it brought a mist to his eyes.

Marigold, my dear Marigold… why won’t you tell me?

He longed to say just those words, and almost did, but instead, he ran his thumb across her chin, and then over her lip. Feather-soft and lush as peaches it was, and pink as petals… He drew a sigh.

“My dear Mari, how are you feeling?” he said instead.

She nodded, and returned his look with an eager, forthright affection.

But all the same, there was an effort to her words, and her back grew stiff where he lay his hand.

“Oh, I am doing very well, Mr. Frodo – er, Frodo,” she replied, and gave a reticent smile. “I mean… I do feel very good, truly. There is no place I would rather be.”

She gazed at him – and her lips released a breath against his own. She leaned in close – an act he could not imagine ever feeling common. But all the same, her demeanor recalled their early days: pliant and anxious for his approval, unsure if she had given a proper answer.

Frodo remained quiet, but as he watched her, he drew a halting breath. He brought his hand from her chin to her temple, and swept a honey colored lock behind her ear. 

“And what about the wedding?”

“Oh, well, what of it?”

Ah.

There it was. The ever so slight cadence of alarm. She probably had not noticed it herself.

His hand hovered at the apex of her ear, stroking its pointed tip.

“Have you been nervous at all?”

“Nervous? How do you mean?”

He gave a shrug, smiling.

“I have to admit, I’ve been more nervous than I expected,” he said. “After all, we are to be wed, and everyone’s eyes will be on us. All of those relations – people I have not seen in some time, some I can’t even remember.”

He took a breath, and studied her face for a ripple of admission – but finding none, he continued.

“The last time I was part of a great celebration, Bilbo had turned the whole Shire on its head. And now, there will be the speeches and applause and cheering, which is still troublesome for me.” 

He took his hand off her waist, and gathered her hand in his, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“But do not worry about all of that,” he added, brushing the fingers of his other hand against her lips. “I can take care of myself, as long as you are by my side. But I do want to be sure that you are well. I know you are not fond of being the center of attention very often, and I’ve noticed that you have not been quite yourself of late…”

He paused, and raised his eyebrows just a little, his eyes refreshing pools of blue on a summer’s day.

But as much as he sought to press his advantage, what followed happened a good deal faster than he intended.

After all, Marigold had resisted his watchful waiting for at least a fortnight. But now, he had barely finished speaking when two fat, dewdrop tears formed at the corners of her eyes, and traced twin curves toward the edges of her mouth. 

Her hand left his ear and she brought it to her eyes, pressing it against her eyelids.

“Sam – Sam – he told you, didn’t he,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He did, I know he did…”

Frodo remained silent. He tried to pull her hand away from her eyes, but after trying once or twice, he gave up.

“Mari, it’s…” 

But her face was painfully twisted up now, and silent tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was pressing her fingers against her eyes, and a whimper wormed its way out of her throat.

Frodo tilted his head, and carefully watched her face and affect, but she did not move.

She did not move, and as the moments passed, he released her hand, twining his arm around her waist. He waited for her to raise her eyes, but she did not do so, so he waited a little while longer and gentled his voice, speaking like the waves along the shore.

“Mari, I am sorry,” he said, “Truly, I am. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but it seems we are both people who are afraid, though it may be for different reasons. And we can hide those reasons from the world, but I don’t think we should hide them from each other. I do not wish for you to feel like you have to bear these burdens alone.”

He raised his eyebrows – waiting for her to uncover her face.

But Marigold shook her head, and kept her hand pressed firmly against her eyes.

She sat unresponsive for a very long time, and when she finally did speak, the words came out slow and halting – like the creaking of a dwarrow wind-up toy.

“I – I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,” she said, her hand slipping down to reveal a thin sliver of eye. “I suppose I can’t explain it, and I didn’t mean to keep anythin’ from you, I promise. I just didn’t – I didn’t know exactly how to say it – an’ I s’ppose – I s’ppose Sam has told you ‘bout the weddin’ dress already?”

Frodo maintained his silence, but he did clasp her hand more tightly.

“No, Marigold, it’s perfectly alright.” He fixed his eyes on the sliver of hazel beneath her hand. “You already told me a great many things: about your midwifery work, and about the Lockholes and everything that happened there, so why not this? I understand perfectly, believe me…”

He paused. He was about to say more, but Marigold shook her head – small movements at first, and then more briskly.

“No, no, Mr. Frodo,” she said. “This is diff’rent. This is not the same at all.”

“Oh, how so?”

Frodo raised his eyebrows, and another silence fell, with Marigold pressing her hand against her lips, studying his features. Behind her eyes, the gears were clicking away, and Frodo could almost hear them.

“Well,” she began, and the word was punctuated by a hiccup that jerked her shoulders, “It is dif’cult to explain, Mr. Frodo, but I suppose… I suppose you could say that it’s because it’s about us, Mr. Frodo, and not even about us bein’ together or not bein’ together, if you understand. I guess – I just wanted to act like nothin’ was wrong because with everythin’ that I’m goin’ to get in this marriage, I didn’t think that it was right to be anythin’ but grateful, and I didn’t want you to think that you were causin’ me trouble by marryin’ me…”

She hiccuped again, and Frodo smoothed his hand from her waist to her shoulders.

“Would you like some water?” 

He smiled, but Marigold shook her head. Instead, she lowered her hand to her chest, and drew a slow, steady breath.

She held it for a good long while, and when she finally released it, she smiled.

Frodo gave her hands another squeeze, and, emboldened by her steadiness, he ventured the question that was forming in his mind.

“But I – I don’t understand,” he said, examining her face – apologetic, and stained with tears and pitiful red blotches, “I mean, do understand that you did not wish to hurt me, or make me feel like the marriage was causing you pain. But don’t they also say about brides, ‘my day, my way’? The party is for you, and it’s meant to please you, and if it does not do that, then perhaps there is another way, one that would suit you better –”

He paused, but Marigold shook her head, biting her bottom lip.

“Ah, but no, Mr. Frodo,” she sighed, lowering her eyes, “I do not think the party is for me, leastwise it is not only for me, if you understand. We were correct when we agreed that if you are a Baggins, certain things are expected – and those that can have a grand party ought to do so: a farmer’s place is to farm, and it is a – priv’ledged person’s place to entertain –”

“The ‘benevolence of wealth,’ you mean?” Frodo gave a sardonic chuckle.

Marigold nodded, but now it was Frodo’s turn to shake his head.

He bit his tongue, however, and contented himself with a less expletive-ridden version of his thoughts.

“No, Marigold,” he sighed, and slid his hand over her waist, drawing her closer. “I do not think that is quite right. Bilbo and I are Bagginses – and yet, we never cared for any of that – at least, I never did, and Bilbo didn’t in his later years, so I don’t believe it is right for there to be such – suffering for the sake of people who barely know you.”

He tilted his face to the side, and the rays of the sun cast his curls in a reddish gold. He gazed at her, forgetting all else, but then outside, a bird gave a long, trilling call, and Marigold lowered her eyes.

“I understand, Mr. Frodo.”

But then, after a pause, she shook her head.

“Except you see,” she added, “That there is the thing – it is not just for the people who barely know me. It is also for May, and Sam, and Rosie, and all the rest who never got to have a fine wedding. I mean: a bride cooking her own food for the wedding feast – that was Daisy. And May – her wedding was so rushed, that the Gaffer barely invited anyone – so that’s why she is the matron of honor this time, in case you were wonderin’. And then, at the end of it all, there was the Scourin’, and so many weddin’s after that, and so many still recoverin’, that that’s why Sam and Rosie got mostly mathoms for their gifts, and Rosie’s gown was a hand-me-down.”

She drew a sigh, and the sun’s orange glow mingled with the warmth of her cheeks.

Her almond eyes fluttered, and she glanced up, the light painting her eyes the color of new grass. 

“You understand, Mr. Frodo,” she said, the surface of her eyes glistening, “I must give them a big party. We can be the quiet and retiring couple for the rest of our lives, but just this once, I want all my kin and yours, and all the neighborhood, to have a grand party and be the guests of honor, even if it’s not their own occasion.”

The bird outside trilled a second time, and the sound of a cart, its wheels creaking languorously past the hill, carried in through the open window. 

“Marigold…” was all Frodo could say.

Indeed, if she had not been seated in his lap, he might have gotten up and bowed to her, low as the floor.

In fact, he had half a mind to do it, but instead, he released her hand, and reached out to touch her cheek, and in that moment, no image felt more fitting than the two of them under a wedding pergola, with Marigold’s face lambent in the sunlight.

He pressed his knuckle against her cheek, and resisted the urge to kiss her – for if he did, there would have been no more talking.

He drew a quiet breath and nodded.

“Well, ehm – that’s – that’s…” He sucked his lower lip, and lowered his eyes, but only for an instant. “That is one of the kindest things I’ve ever heard, Mari – and so fitting for you, that I can’t imagine how I didn’t guess it. But all the same, I don’t understand – why didn’t you tell me? I would have tried to help.”

He sighed, keeping his eyes on hers – no insinuation, no insistence, only presence. 

Marigold glanced away, and reached up to touch her neck, running her fingers over the ribbon and pendant.

“Well, er, like I told you, Mr. Frodo,” said. “I was wanting to say it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I suppose…”

She paused, and her eyes flickered upward, but they did not linger long on his face, for she seemed to think the answer was written on her knees.

“I mean – I already cause so much trouble for you…” (1)

“Trouble?”

Frodo narrowed his eyes.

But Marigold nodded, her voice resolute.

“Yes, trouble,” she said. “I am all sorts of trouble, Mr. Frodo, and I think we both know that by now. My family is not like yours, and of course there has been all sorts of talk, and it concerns you, too – don’t tell me it doesn’t. And of course I still can’t spell or speak proper – I mean, proper-ly – and I’m likely to embarrass you as like as not. And there are those visions I still get, and all the times I’ve cried when we were – you know…”

Her breath and her words barreled on, but suddenly she could speak no more, for Frodo’s lips were on her mouth.

His hands were cupping her face, and he was kissing her, again and again.

He kissed her: her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, and then he kissed her on the lips again, leaving messy trails.

She gasped when his mouth left hers, but without delay, she wrapped her arms around him and drew him in. His gasp echoed hers as he captured her mouth, and his lips begged entry – desperate, hungry.

They kissed, and their kisses grew more needful by the moment. And in the end, it was only a matter of time before his hands traveled down, ever down – toward her ample hips and bum, squeezing as they went. 

He wanted more – ever more… But he made a monumental effort and willed his hands to be still.

Haltingly, he drew back, and the mist over his eyes lent his words a fragility and a conviction.

“Mari, you will never cause trouble for me,” he whispered. “Do you understand that?”

Marigold blinked, and he shifted his hands to her waist, but then changed his mind, and clasped her upper arms.

“It is simply not possible. You are my Mari…”

Marigold grew still, overcome by passion, and he swallowed gingerly, savoring the remnants of her honey-warm mouth.

“Look, Mari,” he whispered – feeling, somehow, that he needed to explain himself, though he likely did not. “Mari – do you remember when I told you that Lady Galadriel gave me a phial of light, and she said that it would be there for me when all other lights went out? Well, with you, Mari…”

He paused, and his eyes fluttered as he pressed his lips together, suddenly sheepish as a teenage lad.

“With you, Mari… I don’t need any light. Because you see – that time when you came, and saw what I had become, and chose to stay with me, time and again – that made all the difference. So please. I want you to tell me everything that’s in your heart, and never wonder if it is too much for me to take, because I’m yours, and you are mine, no matter what is happening in your mind…” (2)

He looked at her – and the whole world seemed to stop.

The remnants of the sun cast her face in soft relief – the shapely nose, the petal lips, the thoughtful eyes.

Neither of them spoke, but then, Marigold bent her head to his shoulder, and he felt the cool remnants of her tears.

He breathed – with every inch of his body twice as sensitive as it was meant to be, the air prickling between them.

Her breath, her living warmth.

Was this what love was meant to be? To understand each other fully, to feel each other keenly, without the need for words?

They sat in silence, their arms wound around each other, breath mingling with breath.

The shadows gathered slowly, first in the corners of the room, then making their way inward. The eaves rippled in the breeze, and the sky outside was turning violet.

A thin sliver of moon would soon be rising, and it would be time to close the windows. But even so, he felt like he could fall asleep holding her like that – the sleep a fragile veil, but restful all the same.

He cupped her head, and she placed her hand on his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat.

Frodo began to drift, his limbs no longer feeling like his own, when suddenly he heard her voice.

“You know, Mr. Frodo,” she said, as if remembering something trite, “You’ve been so dear to me – for such a long time. Ever since I was little.”

Frodo opened his eyes.

Had he…

Had he heard her right?

Ever since she was… what? 

He wondered, vaguely, if the dreamlike state had addled his senses.

How little did she mean, exactly?

He started – shaking off the coils of sleep as he pressed her close against him.

“I… I have been?” 

His words faded into silence.

Of all things, he had never expected this – though if there was time to reveal such a thing, now was as good as any.

He felt chastened, and wished he could undo his surprise, and yet, to return a love nurtured over a lifetime? He could not fathom how to do it…

Marigold bit her lips. 

“Why, yes, Mr. Frodo,” she nodded, her mouth flickering into a smile. “That was… I mean… It’s not the way I feel about you now, of course. It was a child’s love – and I didn’t truly know you. But I still thought that I should tell you – I’ve loved you ever since I fell out of that tree. So long as I’m tellin’ you things.”

She rested her hand against his chest, her fingers curling against the cloth. 

Frodo took her hand and kissed it. 

“I understand,” he said. 

Her hand was warm. Small, calloused, and solid.

“That long, huh?” he mused, studying its shape. “I never would have known – you are quite good at keeping secrets. But I think we know that already.”

He chuckled – for what more was there to say? Young people, he knew full well, gave their hearts remarkably freely. He remembered how quickly he, an orphaned boy, had taken to his uncle when the latter started paying visits to Brandy Hall – simply because Bilbo took him out for walks, regaled him with fantastic stories, and gave him beautifully illustrated books to read.

He sighed. 

“Well, I am glad we found each other in the end,” he said, and ran a comforting finger down her cheek. “It was worth it in the end, even if it took us years to bridge a hundred paces.”

Her lips parted into a smile, but no further tears were forthcoming. 

“And who knows, I wonder,” Frodo mused, returning a wistful smile. “If we only would have found each other one or two years earlier, things might have turned out very differently.”

Marigold raised her eyebrows, and in the half-light, her face assumed a curious expression.

“Oh. Different how?”

Frodo shrugged, and took her hand once more, examining its outlines.

“Well, I for one may have never volunteered to take the Ring,” he said. “I might have taken it as far as Rivendell, and taken you with me to keep you safe, but I would not have done much more than that. I would have been a married hobbit, and I would have said to myself, ‘I’ve done my part, now let them sort it out’.”

He gazed at her, a smile hovering over his lips, and Marigold sat pensive, but then she raised her eyebrow.

“Would you have, though?” 

Frodo paused, and then gave a shrug.

“Well… I’d like to think so.”

Marigold nodded tactfully, but when she spoke, there was a strange conviction in her voice.

“Ah, but see, Mr. Frodo, I think you still would have taken it,” she said. “Of course, that is just my thought. But I don’t think you are the sort of person who lets others ‘sort it out.’ You are too – noble for that.”

Frodo gave an acrid chuckle. 

“Me, noble?”

A broken smile lingered on his lips, but Marigold was not deterred.

“No, truly, that is what I think,” she said, her smile growing wider. “You are not the sort to walk away from a purpose, and you know your duty when it calls. So I think you still would have gone – married or not, whether I was there or not, even if your heart would have broken for it.”

Marigold pressed her lips, and Frodo hesitated in his answer.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles, and watched the gloom settle in the corners of the room. 

The shadows were not particularly dark, but rather friendly-seeming, and velvet in their texture. The window was the only light, a circle of orange and violet.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he replied slowly, and put her hand in her lap, covering it with his own. “But then again, I still think it would have been different. I would have been a married hobbit, so perhaps I would have felt compelled to leave something for the journey back. Perhaps I would have resisted the Ring corrupting me as it did…”

He sighed, and glanced out the window – where Sam could not be seen or heard, but was surely hoeing, replanting, and trimming the verge.

Outside, indeed – where people were living life, sitting down to their supper tables, like they did on a thousand other nights.

“Well, perhaps,” he heard Marigold’s voice beside him. “But what’s the sense in thinking about it now? It only hurts you, Mr. Frodo, and perhaps there’s a part of you that wants to sit with that hurt. But we must live the life we have, and who knows, another life may still have turned out ill.”

Her voice was so mellifluous, so sure… 

It enveloped him in a tender warmth, and he blinked his eyes, the light from the window flickering in the corner of his vision.

He sighed, and wrapped his hand around hers.

“Well, then I will say,” he replied, turning to face her. “I’m glad I found you when I did, Mari. Not a moment too soon, and not a moment too late – we can agree on that.”

He smiled, and she smiled as well – and in the darkness, her joy was infectious. 

“And I am glad too, Mr. Frodo,” she returned, her voice as soft as roses. “And I am glad that Sam finally grew some sense, and pushed us together.”

Frodo gazed at her, and the joy spread to every corner of her face – beyond her lips, beyond her eyes, and into every curve, like warm summer sunshine.

No light was needed indeed. 

And so he found his own, deep-set feelings stirring – deeper than deep, and daring, and delightfully bold. Suddenly, he had a wild thought. 

He let go of her hand, and clasped her by the shoulders.

“Mari do you want to…” – he leaned in closer – “Do you want to tell the Gaffer I’m sick tonight?”

Marigold’s eyes grew wide, and he touched his forehead to hers, such that she missed none of the heat in his fine eyes.

And decidedly, she got his meaning, and started.

“Oh! Mr. Frodo!” 

She started, but he held her fast.

Though wedding plans were underway, she was not allowed to stay the night at Bag End – “propriety must be main-tained,” the Gaffer had insisted, still sore from what had happened with May. But then, caring for a sick Frodo was not impropriety – it was work, so if she had to stay, she would, though a family member had to act as chaperone.

And who would act as chaperone? Sam or Rosie were two obvious choices, and they would never tell – in fact, far worse had been ignored by chaperones the four Farthings over.

All they had to do was be discrete.

Marigold’s heart kicked up a rushing sprint.

She was, after all, a good girl. She was. And he could see it in her eyes – she did not want to lie to Gaffer.

To which end, he shook his head. His smile grew bolder as he placed another kiss, remarkably chaste, on her lips.

“Shhh. It’s ‘Frodo,’” he whispered.

She drew the tiniest of breaths, and yet…

She could not hide. He would see it in the way her eyes had darkened, and the way she looked at his lips, but not his eyes.

It was all she wanted.

She tried to shake her head, but it barely obeyed her, and her heart pounded against her ribs.

“No, Mr. Frodo,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

He held her by the shoulders – and his fingers slackened as he heard the words.

“Ah. I have been refused,” he sighed, and raised his eyes to the ceiling in mock despair. “But all is well – I shall recover in time, I think.”

He hummed a chuckle, and slid one of his hands from her arm to her shoulder, and then to her back. Rubbing comforting circles into the base of her neck, where the tension settled at the end of the day.

“Do you want to lie down with me, then, just for a moment before you go?”

His eyes seemed to be everywhere, and her heart pounded like a captive bird. It was a wonder it did not echo in the far corners of the room.

She bit her lips, recovering her breath just enough to speak.

“Oh, but Mr. Frodo,” she ventured, tactfully as ever, “I do not think I can – for if we lay down, we are not gettin’ back up again, if you get my meaning.”

She fixed her eyes on his, and tried to look both ironical and stern, but it was dangerous, looking at him like that – at those fine blue eyes that were no longer blue, but deep and dark, and with his hand on her neck, where the goosebumps were.

Frodo took his other hand and brought it to her chin. Brushing his thumb across her lower lip.

“Ah, but do you doubt my restraint, then?”

More fluttering in her chest. Her skin was growing warm – aching to be touched, to be savored.

“As a matter of fact I do, Mr. Baggins.”

She tried her best to give her voice a sharp edge – sharp and witty, but his hand trailed from the base of her neck to her breast, pressing his thumb against the place where her nipple would be.

Rubbing insinuating circles.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she was about to tell him off – in jest, of course, but then… 

His lap certainly told no lies when it came to his desire. It raised a flush to her cheeks and an earnest longing in her breast.

And then she thought, dash it! Dash it all! 

The twitching curtains, the waves of whispers rippling through the square, the fact that even her engagement gift – whether it was too dear or too plain – was a topic of conversation, and every neighbor’s dog and pig had some miserable opinion.

She was of age. She knew what she was doing and her heart’s desire. She was the one getting married, not them. 

She would give them a party to remember, and extend a helping hand to those in need, but she had no duty beyond that.

A glad and powerful feeling rose inside her chest, and she suddenly felt that even if Frodo’s mind were elsewhere, and even if he were not paying attention to her in the slightest, she would have walked right up to him and used her charms, such as they were, to make him see her and only her.

She raised her hand to his face, and pressed it against his forehead.

“My-my,” she said. “You’re burning up.”

And in a way, he was. His mouth fell open and the corners of his lips gave a twitch as she pressed her ear against his chest.

“And your breathing,” she gasped, her voice and face deadly serious, “My goodness. Not good at all. A chest cold, as like as not… Or worse.”

She looked up, and they exchanged a long, searing look as he drew her closer.

Their fingers interlaced, and their lips met – it was an inevitability – and their kiss was not chaste in the slightest.

His lips drew her in, relentless, and the kiss promised much as he explored every bit of her mouth, claiming it for his own.

When they broke apart, he looked at her like there was nothing else in all the world.

“Why, Miss Marigold Gamgee,” he said, a sparkle in his eye. “How mischievous you are.”

She brought her hand to her lips, but he caught it midway, and pressed it against his own lips instead. 

“Now,” he said, and looked up from her knuckles, romancing each in turn. “Let’s go and tell everyone how sick I am.”

1. Marigold’s assertion that she “causes trouble for Frodo” was one of the earliest tenets of her character development. Her persona was heavily inspired by female anime protagonists – the sweet but ordinary, humble girls who would win the love of the hero through hard work and emotional labor. Such characters often believe that they cause trouble for others – and while such a sentiment is more likely to occur in an east Asian society, where the interests of the group supersede the interests of the individual, it is also not out of place in a society like the Shire, which relies heavily on collaboration.
2. Ernest Hemingway, The Garden of Eden: “I’m with you. No matter what else you have in your head I’m with you and I love you.”

Chapter Text

“Mr. Frodo’s sick.”

Sam looked up from the black-eyed Susans he was replanting, instantly alarmed. The sun was setting beyond the hills, a bright orange line above the horizon, and the rest of the world was sinking into light and shadow.

“Oh no. What’s going on?” 

Marigold dropped down by his side – and in so doing, she dropped both her voice and her pretense.

“No, it’s nothing, really,” she said, putting her hand on her brother’s arm. “That was just for the neighbors. Leastwise he’s not sick in any way that’s beyond the usual. It’s just –” She glanced down at the flowers, which were sitting in an orderly line in earthenware pots, a furrow in the ground made ready to receive them. “We were really just wanting to be together tonight, that’s all. It’s very important.” 

She emphasized the last words, and as she raised her eyebrows, Sam dropped the trowel he was holding, and fixed his eyes on the earth for a very long moment.

But when he finally looked up, Marigold’s expression had not wavered.

Sam sat down heavily on his bottom, indifferent to the fate of his pants, and gingerly shook his head – but not in refusal. Rather, it was like a dog shaking off fleas.

“Are you – are you sure, Mari?” 

Marigold nodded primly.

She also pressed her lips, and assumed the most dogged expression she could.

In truth, she did not feel like telling him that it was hardly the first time – for what Sam did not know could not hurt him. And she did not wish to remind him that she was handfast and of age, and many lasses in her place would not have thought twice – nor been judged – for taking such a step.

She bit back her annoyance, and folded her lips into a smile, running a hand over his dusty forearm.

“Why, of course, Sam,” she returned, her voice soft – lilting, even. “Mr. Frodo and I love each other, you know that, and we just confessed something really important that brought us even closer together. Now, please, would you help us? We can say that he is sick, and I could stay here and pretend to be working, and perhaps you or Rosie can come over and sleep in the guest bedroom?”

Her eyes were big – a deep hazel in the gathering darkness.

Sam sighed. In some ways, she would always be his little sister.

He gave a long-suffering grunt, and hoisted himself to his haunches.

“Does it have to be tonight?”

He glanced at her from beneath his brows.

The black-eyed Susans nodded in the passing breeze, glancing from brother to sister.

“What do you mean?” Marigold raised her eyebrows.

Sam straightened up, and tossed his head a little, adopting a sudden, if forced air of importance.

“Well, all’s I mean is, it’ll only be a few weeks’ time before you’re married and all, and that’s not so long to wait, now is it?” he said. “I mean, compared to all the years that you’ve spent waiting already...”

Marigold’s eyes grew wide, and she cut him off with an incredulous laugh.

“What – years?! What are you talking about?” 

But Sam bumped his shoulder against hers, and picked up the trowel, glad of the chance to stall and press his advantage. He began to work a black-eyed Susan out of its pot, easing the roots and dirt out of their temporary home. 

His lips curled into a smile.

“Oh, but you know full well what I am talking about,” he said. “You’ve loved him since you were yay high.” 

He gestured with his hand barely off the ground.

Marigold’s mouth fell open, and for a few moments, she could not utter a word, and made a series of indignant sounds.

“Have not!” she finally cried.

But Sam shook his head, and returned to the black-eyed Susan.

“Have so,” he returned, and finally separated the plant from its pot with a smooth, caring motion. “In fact, I remember it as plain as day. Wherever he was, if you were there too, he was all you looked at. It was plain to anyone, save maybe Mr. Frodo himself, thinkin’ of whatever higher things he’s always thinking about.”

Sam gave another chuckle, and Marigold pressed her hands against her cheeks.

“Oh, no… No, no, no, no, no,” she frantically shook her head. “No, you don’t understand – that was just childish silliness.”

Sam placed the black-eyed Susan into the fulsome earth.

“And yet, you’ve never had anybody else.”

He swept the soil into a hillock around the flower’s base, and Marigold studied the ground they sat on, dark and peaty and full of worms and other living things. Somewhere off in the distance, there rose the trilling of a whip-poor-will, and someone opened a door with a plangent creak. The sun was going, and the warmth of twilight faded into a deepening blue.

She sighed. And she had thought herself so clever.

How many lads had she sent on their way, smiling as they pocketed her assurances of friendship and goodwill. But her assurances always faded in the face of her apprenticeship, or how much she was needed at home? And then, from time to time, she would tell them that her sister May was lonely, and was a good deal more generous with her time.

Whoever would have thought that in trying to look away from Frodo, she made it abundantly clear that all she wanted was to look at him.

And yet, as time went on, Frodo was no longer the hobbit she had longed for years ago. This Frodo was a good deal more warm, and bright, and real – hurting, and flawed in his own way, but indelibly real – and far better than any hobbit she had ever dreamed up from afar.

She nudged Sam’s shoulder with her own, and reached for a bit of earth, pressing it between her fingers.

“Well if I loved him then, then you loved him too,” she said at last. “Maybe even more so, if you think about it. You followed him like a sick old dog wherever he went, and if he jumped into a fire, you would have jumped right after him – and you nearly did in the end.”

She sniffed a laugh, a note of wistfulness in her tone, and pressed her temple against his.

Sam paused abruptly in his movements.

He put the black-eyed Susan into its spot on the flower bed, and his hands shook a little.

Indeed, Marigold, for all her winsome grace, knew how to cut to the quick, whether she intended it or not. 

The evening breeze carried with it the sounds of laughter from a nearby house, and Sam coughed, low in his throat, making a show of shaking the dirt off his fingers.

“Well, I can’t say that you’re wrong there, Marigold,” he said with a willful shake of the head. 

Another pause – and he looked up, an anxious furrow in his brow. 

It would not do, he supposed, to fight what was inevitable. He had done it for far too long. 

He imagined the Gamgees sitting down to supper soon, and the Gaffer waking up from his third nap of the day, and Rosie beaming as she garnished a plate of lamb chops and argued with Halfred about which ale was best to pair them with.

No – time was moving too quickly, and they were destined to move with it, whether they liked it or not. He sucked his teeth, and turned to his sister with a frown.

“Alright, well,” he said – and screwed his face up to look as serious as could be. “I suppose I will help you, but under one condition. You must promise that you’ll be careful. You have to be careful. Can you promise me that?”

Marigold watched his face for a long, indeterminate moment, and studied his tight-pursed lips, his furrowed brow.

But hers was not a solemn silence. She was too busy sucking in her cheeks, trying not to burst into laughter. 

Sam puffed his cheeks out like a toad, but this did not stop her.

She released a snorting laugh, assuming a mock-exasperated expression.

“Look, Sam, I am a midwife,” she retorted, folding her arms over her bosom. “I know how to be careful, you can be sure of that, and that is the last thing you need to worry about.”

She puffed her cheeks out to match his, and for a moment, there was a tense sibling standoff, both Gamgees glaring at each other like two hobbits over the last piece of pie.

But in the end, Sam was destined to yield. He always yielded. 

He sighed, dropping his attempt at brotherly authority, and gazed at her with an arch expression.

“Waaaaait, waaaaait, waaaaait, waaaaait, ” he intoned slowly, his eyes and lips curling into a smile, “Did I just hear you just say ‘I am a midwife’?”

Marigold shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“Well, amn’t I?”

Sam nodded.  

“Yes. That’s right. Am. As in, ‘am one right now’.”

He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head forward.

Marigold felt a flash of irritation, and had the urge to push him into the flower bed. But seeing how it would not have been very sisterly, nor very conducive to her ends, she refrained.

She bit her lip, and straightened out her skirt as she stood – as if beating out a dusty rug.

“Yes – yes, indeed,” she quipped, and gave a mirthless laugh, running her hands over her apron. “That was just a turn of phrase, Samwise Gamgee, in case you couldn’t tell. And don’t you push your luck – I am still not going back.”

She huffed, and thrust her hands into her hips, rocking back and forth on the balls on her feet.

But Sam, by then, had lost a measure of his archness.

He went back to tending the black-eyed Susans, and carefully placed one of them in the earth, like a newborn babe.

He then looked up – facing off squarely with her obstinate expression, and pushed himself to stand.

He peeled her hands away from her hips, and cradled them in his own, rocking them back and forth.

The way he had done when they were children.

He glanced away, biting a lip.

“Well, er, look, Mari,” he said, sucking in his cheeks. 

The two hobbits stood in the middle of the garden, and neither said anything for a spell. The rich, peaty aroma of earth filled the air, and it would soon be carried off by the breezes from the Water, but for now, it was heady, and lovely, and promised too many boons to count.

“Just… Just be happy, alright?” he said, daring a smile. “I’ll tell the Gaffer anything you want, I promise – that Mr. Frodo is at death’s door, or that he has caught the worst chill of his life and won’t last until morning. Just – be happy, please.”

He smiled – allowing his lips to push into his cheeks, but grateful for the gathering darkness.

He squinted, peering into her face – and she looked back at him bravely, her distaste ebbing.

“I will, Sam. I will,” she nodded primly – and her voice, at last, was soft and sweet. “Don’t worry about me, I will. And – and thank you.” 

She got up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, and then she turned away, glancing at her feet.

Their hands released each other slowly, and she stepped away, walking toward the house.

She did not look back, and Sam squinted to see if he had imagined a spring on her step – but before he knew it, the door had latched behind her and she was gone.

He was alone, standing in the middle of the garden, a collection of empty clay pots by his side. The hour was growing late, and the bright orange sun was nearly gone, the bushes and the flower beds turning gray and sinking into shadow.

He sighed once more, and felt like he was drifting – alone and on the waves of a great river, in a boat as fragile as a leaf.

Marigold was right, of course. He loved Frodo too. Loved him enough to follow him across Middle-earth and never wonder if it was right to leave his home, forsaking all others, and face torment and death by his side. He loved him so much that if he were a woman, anyone would have called his feeling “being in love,” though it was a different sort of love from what he felt for Rosie. What he felt for Frodo was deep and pure like nothing else in the world, like nothing any language of Men, or Elves, or any other creature could describe.

But he was also growing weary.

He had watched his beloved’s suffering, and in his despair, he had brought to him another who was dear to his heart – Marigold, his own little sister, though it had stung him like a thousand bees.

But no – “brought her to him” was not right at all, for it made her sound like an object, a beast, deprived of her own reason, and she was anything but that. She was as perceptive as him, perhaps more, and she had done for Frodo what he could not do himself, and now she would live a life that he, Sam, could not allow himself, and give form to feelings he could not voice.

It was all going according to plan – his plan – and it was time to stop macerating his heart like meat under a hammer.

It was time to go somewhere else besides Bag End, where he could be something more than a man who loved his closest friend and master, but was not loved in return, not in the same way.

He would go someplace where he was wanted and needed, where he was not a quietly suffering third, a rival to a person he loved. 

He had a wife, and a child on the way, and he would go to them, and be happy. 

That was his intent, but even so, sometime before the end, he decided he would tell Frodo – simply to avoid carrying the secret to the grave. Perhaps it would be on his own deathbed, or on Frodo’s, and certainly after the passing of their wives if he could help it. But he would tell him one way or another. He was not sure why it felt so important, but it did.

“Be happy, Mr. Frodo,” he whispered into the night.

The wind rustled in the trees, and he knew it would be a long, slow walk back to Bagshot Row that evening.

One would have thought that with everything they had been through – having faced treachery, certain death, and the worst parts of Middle-earth and themselves together – it would have been no hard thing. And yet, Frodo’s confidence in Sam’s discretion aside, the prospect of looking him in the eye and declaring his intention to sleep with his sister was daunting like nothing else in the world. So much so that he almost gave up the idea, and thought to retrace his steps and claim that he had been too eager.

But in the end, it was Marigold, ever logical, who had said that it would not make sense for Frodo to show himself outside if he was ill, and she took it upon herself – brave girl, and certainly braver than him – to bring their request to Sam. 

And so it was that Frodo was in his bedroom – soon to be their bedroom – and he was busy imagining, with a tender, slightly embarrassed emotion, the hairpins that would live on the dresser and the linen slips that would hang in the closet, and how they would wear their housecoats and their bathrobes instead of their regular clothes at the end of each day, and how she would sit at his vanity wearing a peignoir, undoing her hair, and he would come up behind her and meet her eyes in the mirror, and press his lips against her neck and shoulders.

He thought this way, and puttered about in a general and nervous way, lighting candles and drawing curtains, having donned the wine-colored, velvet-collared dressing gown that matched the bedspread. 

He had lit a dozen candles by the time the door creaked open and Marigold came in.

She closed the door behind her with a dimpled smile, and turned the handle twice to make sure the mechanism had clicked. 

She then nodded to signal “success,” but any further words from Frodo – and any questions or assertions, complements or exaltations – were summarily cut short when he saw the sight before him.

It was Marigold, but Marigold as he had never seen her before.

On a typical day, he was the one who peeled back her clothes, trailing kisses over her skin, and she would allow it, with blushing nods, whimpers, and gasps.

But this time, her dress was riding lower than usual – the corset loosened, the sleeves of the under-dress no longer fixed in place so tightly by straps. They fell to reveal her soft, rounded shoulders, as pale as two full moons.

But more resplendent was her bosom: her shapely, generous breasts, which on an ordinary day were hidden under her bodice until he removed it.

But now, the low-riding dress left little to be imagined. The lovely breasts overflowed the lip of the corset like new, rising dough, and he missed none of their turgid, milky swell, nor the enticing cleft between them.

She crossed the room on quiet feet, as only a hobbit could, and her eyes – two sleek obsidians in the darkness – did not stray from his face as she approached, and she paused entirely too close for comfort.

The comfort of his pants, that was.

“Mr. Frodo,” she said, and reached toward him, but stopped just short of his face.

His mouth went dry.

“Frodo,” he echoed, and the candlelight flickered like liquid gold, against the surface of her eyes.

He swallowed, and a prickle rose not only between his legs, but along his back, his neck, and behind his ears.

Perhaps some Valar somewhere had indeed believed that he saved Middle-earth to give him such a reward, but more than that, his heart felt full – as full as it might have been on witnessing a flower’s bloom, so long and patiently tended.

She took his hand.

“Frodo. I know.” She pressed his hand between her own, as if warming it against a chill. “I was thinking – you said no getting on my knees anymore, and no scrubbing floors, but can I try something? Just this once?”

His breath had already quickened at the scent of her skin – a mix of talcum powder, seed-cake and herbs – the scent of everything lovely about a lass – and he drew a catching breath as she stepped ever closer, leaning in, and pressing a kiss against his collarbone. 

He was nearly lost by then; he knew that whatever she asked, he would give it. The anticipation of pleasure settled heavily between his loins, and it was a mercy that his bathrobe was so thick.

She smiled a little, looking up as she pressed a hand against his chest, running it over the velvet collar, down his chest, and over his stomach.

And as she did so, she lowered herself to her knees.

“They keep sayin’ that I polished your floors in the other way… and I wonder, why not make it true?” she said. “Why not be the rumor? That is one way we can best it, I should think.”

Her smile was one part impish, one part serious, and oh-so-irresistible in the candlelight.

“I –”

Frodo’s voice died in his throat, and his toes curled into the floor as he fought between arching his back, and keeping his eyes fixed on the beloved curly head, the creamy richness of the exposed shoulders and back, the voluptuous swirl of her skirts as she settled onto the floor before him.

“I – I have no objections,” he gasped, and his voice was barely his own.

His fingers curled into the mattress behind him – still halfway standing, and stretching his legs out on either side of her.

Marigold gave a gentle smile, and pulled at the sash of his dressing gown, slipping her hand between the folds to open it.

The cool night air sent another rush of goosebumps over his chest and stomach, and Marigold faltered a little, averting her eyes as the sides of the robe fell away.

But her eyes returned quickly to his face – demure and docile as ever – and her lips twitched as she licked them, her eyelids fluttering. A soft whimper escaped her throat, and then she bent down and set to work.

She was not at all confident at first. But Frodo soon felt the warmth of her mouth enveloping him, and began to lose all control: his fingers dug into the bed behind him, and his head pitched back, his teeth gathering over his lips.

Hardly a minute passed before his throat began to ache, and sigh after sigh escaped him as the pleasure mounted in his abdomen and down his legs – speeding up, growing warmer, coiling tighter and tighter until at last it released, and he could finally catch his breath.

It was not perfect, or even practiced. After all, she had been a maid only a short time before.

But even so, her lips and her hands had been just as willing as her exposed skin had promised. And they were just as gentle and devoted as every part of her he had come to know. Timid at first, she was nonetheless the same earnest, giving Mari, and when she finally drew a cry of fulfillment from his lips, he knew that his sleep would come easily that night.

Marigold watched him sleep.

She had woken in the depths of the night, and there was nothing by which to tell the time – no moonlight or breaking dawn through the shutters, and the clock was invisible across the room.

It was not exactly pitch-black – it was, instead, the sort of summer night where a gentle, gray glow came from everyone at once, and it gave the illusion of floating.

She had woken up, perhaps, because she was not used to sleeping outside her home, and the house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock, and the creaking of the half open window.

Rosie must have been asleep in the guest bedroom – she was only too happy to come after they assured the Gaffer that Frodo’s illness was not catching. Frodo, too, was asleep by her side: curled up with his knees pulled up against him, as if trying to take up as little space as possible.

She understood why he did that now – he and Sam had spent many a night sleeping on actual sides of cliffs, with only two paces between them and a drop to the death.

No matter what would come to pass, he would always be that hobbit – and she would not want him any other way.

She gazed at the outline of his form, his face pale in the starlight – and as her eyes adjusted, she saw no ripples in the space between his eyes – no dreams disturbing him that night.

It was a wonder that hero though he was to many – including her own brother – she had seen and come to know things about him that were so entirely… human.

For example, he still enjoyed his milk with lavender and honey before bed, and if he made love with his sweetheart he slept better at night – which his sweetheart did not mind, and was only too happy to oblige. He had one eyebrow that arched more than the other, a perky bum from frequent walks, and the gap between his two front teeth! While charming, most people did not know that it came from one of those teeth growing crooked, and he had a strawberry shaped birthmark on his chest, along with his two fated scars, and when he slept, he either hugged a pillow or her, or folded his hands under his cheek like children did.

There were only a few people who knew these things about him, and now she was one of those privileged few. 

It scarcely felt real, and after all the years she spent on the outside looking in, she still wondered if she might wake up, and find that she was in her room at Bagshot Row, unkissed and unloved, and people would laugh at her for even harboring such notions.

She drew his linen nightshirt close against herself, for the room was growing chill. She reached to touch his cheek, but stopped just short of doing so.

She was wearing his nightshirt because they were intimate twice that night – the second time being the “regular” way, which left her wearing naught but her skin. But she still felt oddly ashamed to be sleeping that way.

A ripple ran between Frodo’s eyes, spreading to his eyelids, and suddenly, they were open – for all the world like he had simply blinked.

“M-Mari? You’re awake?” he mumbled sleepily. “Why are you awake? Is something the matter?” 

There was an echo of the old Frodo in his voice, who had startled out of his sleep with every noise. Except just then, he was not awake enough to truly be alarmed.

Marigold drew her finger over his cheek, and he pushed against it, like a cat getting a scratch behind the ear. She trailed her fingers over his forehead and hair.

“No, nothing is the matter, Mr. Frodo,” she returned. “Go to sleep now.”

She shifted closer to him, and pressed a kiss against his temple and cheek.

Frodo sighed, and cuddled closer in his turn, moving his lips and releasing a small sigh.

She placed her palm against his chest, just above the birthmark, and settled close beside him, forehead against forehead. She touched her lips, butterfly soft, against his cheek. 

“I woke up because I missed seein’ you, I reckon,” she said, and smoothed a circle over his chest, bringing her face close enough to feel his breath. “So I thought I’d try watch you sleep, and I think you’re quite sweet when you sleep, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” 

She smiled, and kissed him yet a third time, on the tip of his tall, shapely nose – and Frodo’s lips, though his eyes were still closed, spread into a playful smile. 

He opened his eyes just a sliver, and though he was too sleep-addled to appreciate her wit, he drew her into his arms, and gave a soft sigh, pulling the covers close around them. 

The covers were heavy, just like he liked them – the paper-weighted blanket laid on top of the thin duvet that he used in summer. Together, the two covers made it feel like they were in the world’s smallest tent, sleeping under the stars, pressed together for safety.

Ordinarily, Marigold would not have relished such a prospect, but she relished it with him. The world was full of possibilities when they were together, and even going for a walk was an adventure.

Chapter Text

The following morning, after Rosie had cooked breakfast and departed with a number of winks and insinuations that Marigold did her best to ignore, Frodo and Marigold luxuriated in their bed for a little while longer – until at last the hour of second breakfast came and went, and Frodo propped his head up on his elbow, and looked at Marigold quite winsomely – straight into the eyes – and said, with a perfectly insinuating smile,

“Well then, my dear Marigold, shall we go for a walk together soon?”

And Marigold, who had been enjoying the unexpected decadence of resting in bed even though the sun was up, started up indelicately from lying with her hands behind her head, and glanced up fearfully at Frodo, whose hand was still caressing the outline of her breast beneath the thin linen under-dress.

“A – a walk, Mr. Frodo?” she stammered, covering her breasts in an unnecessary show of modesty. 

But Frodo, with his eyes ever blue and ever intent upon their purpose, did not cease to gaze at her for even a moment, and propped himself up on his elbow, giving her an even more resplendent smile.

“Well, yes, a walk,” he repeated, and placed his hand on her breast, his thumb drifting to its tender peak. “It has been some time since we have been on one, you see, and I, for one, have rather missed it.”

He seemed like he was about to say more, but Marigold gave an instinctive shake of the head, and her eyes grew wider. 

“But, er, Mr. Frodo,” she protested, even as his thumb continued its ministrations to her breast, “I’ve got a right hill of dishes to do in the kitchen – for I couldn’t very well impose on Rosie in her state, and the veal in the pantry isn’t gettin’ any younger, so if I don’t fry it up soon –”

She was just about to elaborate – no doubt, having kept a litany of abstruse kitchen lore at the ready for just such a purpose – but Frodo’s hand moved quickly from her breast to her back, and he drew her to him, so that they were eye to eye, and mouth against smiling mouth. He chuckled against her lips, pressing his forehead into hers, and draped his leg over her thighs, the layers of skirt between them.

“Oh, but Mari,” he whispered gently, “Isn’t it time you gave up the charade?”

Marigold’s shoulders stiffened, but he brought his hand from her back to her cheek, and she felt the smooth veins of the scar at the end of his finger. 

“You’re avoiding it – I know,” he said, and angled his head until their noses touched. “But that doesn’t make it any easier, now does it?”

He paused, and there was a confidential sparkle in his eye, and the sun and the dust motes formed a halo around his head. 

Marigold sighed, her eyes half-closed, and waited for him to continue.

“I know that it is difficult,” he went on, and brought his hand around to cup her chin, the thumb grazing where his lips had been, “But if we are to have a wedding in good time, we cannot keep on hiding ourselves, now can we? The more we do, the more it feeds the gossip beast, and the harder it will be to face them on the day.”

He smiled, cocking his head, and with a sinking feeling, Marigold conceded that he was right. As much as he had tried to conceal it with pretty words and gentle looks, the truth could not be denied – and she had thought herself so terribly clever in trying to avoid it…

But in reality? She had never had a plan. Never in her thirty six years had she found a way to overcome her shyness. At work, perhaps, there were more opportunities to do so as she stepped into a role where she, as a person, mattered less. But now…

She sighed and nodded slowly against his forehead.

“Well, what are we to do then?” she asked, surprised at her own resignation. “For you are right, Mr. Frodo, you are absolutely right. But I have never known a way to help it – for it is not an illness, I don’t think. It is just the way I am, and I wouldn’t think there was a cure, nor a clear thing that caused it, like it did for you…”

She sighed once more, but Frodo only smiled, and brought his fingers to her mouth.

She kissed the tips lightly, but looked as despondent as ever.

“Oh, but it does not have to be that difficult,” he returned, and shifted his hold so that he was clasping her hand instead, kissing the knuckles. “How did I cease to imagine Nazgûl everywhere I went?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Marigold hazarded a smile.

“Practice,” he nodded, and his smile grew wider. “You said so yourself – no walking all the way to the market at first, just to the corner, and then a bit farther each day. And back when I did it, I had you by my side, and now you will have me, when perhaps earlier you did not have anyone to help you.”

He paused, looking, as ever, only at her. Two wrinkles formed by the sides of his mouth, and he leaned in to kiss her gently – a butterfly landing on the tip of her nose.

“So why not start today?” he whispered, drawing back a little. “Today is as good a day as any.”

And so it was that Marigold acquiesced – acquiesced quite easily, in fact, with Frodo’s arms around her in a tight embrace.

She settled with her head against the crook of his shoulder, and nodded simply. 

“Why, yes – yes, of course, Mr. Frodo,” she smiled into his neck. “Today, like you said, is a very good day. So just give me a few moments, and then we can get going.”

That morning, after they had fortified themselves with their second breakfast, Marigold fixed her hair in the bathroom, and then, after inspecting her dress for the minutest of wrinkles for another quarter of an hour, they set off, arm and arm, out of Bag End. 

And at first, it seemed like it would be easy. For in fact, the twittering of birds and the heady smell of flowers was such a boon for the senses, that at first Marigold had forgotten to think altogether, and with Frodo by her side, she had paused to smell Bilbo’s prize roses by the gate, and angled her face upward, drinking up the sun that was coming from the sky in torrents.

It was already June, and nearing Midsummer within the fortnight, and to have been trapped indoors was a disgrace to say the least.

But all of her elation faded in a moment as she cast her eyes up and down the lane, and saw old Mrs. Burrowes coming toward them.

Or rather, she saw old Mrs. Burrowes’ kirtle first: a bright forest green, embroidered with red and yellow flowers. Which would have been fine and fitting in itself, except that Marigold knew what that kirtle contained: one of the Shire’s most grinning, energetic gossips, a cinch-smiled woman who fancied herself not merely an expert on all the goings-on of the neighborhood, but a participant, and a shrewd manipulator thereof.

And so, as Mrs. Burrowes raised her hand to wave, quickening her step, Marigold’s soul sank into her ankles, and she had every notion to abandon all hope and bolt, her earlier resolve notwithstanding… 

She curled her toes into the dirt, and as her fear prickled across her arms, Frodo sensed it as well, and he reached to clasp her hand, drawing her closer to him.

“Why, good morning, Mrs. Burrowes,” he called out, and as the woman ambled nearer, he slipped into his warm, erudite, if slightly detached expression that he reserved for anyone who was not a close friend or a relation. “Wonderful weather we are having,” he added with a smile, “Even if a bit too hot –”

Marigold glanced in Mrs. Burrowes’ direction, and sure enough, with her waddling walk, she was drawing ever closer.

If only she could never get here, that would be grand!

She was walking slowly, and little else could have been expected given the heat and her age, but it was too good to be true. In fact, Mrs. Burrowes’ speed was an illusion, for before Marigold could blink, the matron was standing flush against them, her eyes boring into Marigold…

Marigold felt her soul nearly leave her body, and she ventured a strangled “erp” – but then, Mrs. Burrowes’ eyes shifted toward Frodo, and Marigold’s vision began to swim, and her ears filled with cotton.

She saw Frodo’s mouth move a little, folding from time to time into a pleasant smile, and Mrs. Burrowes chattering avidly, though what she said was anybody’s guess.

The only thing she was sure of was the pounding of her own heart, and the spot behind her collar that was growing hotter. 

She clutched Frodo’s arm, thankful that it was so close at hand, and she counted the moments passing by – watching Mrs. Burrowes’ mouth, opening and closing. 

Like two thick, rosy sausages it was – and at first she tried to count their movements, maybe even put them together into words… But unsurprisingly, it was to no avail, so she began to count her own heartbeats, and then…

In fact, counting her own heartbeats had begun to soothe her – and she luxuriated in the reprieve for a spell, when suddenly, a pair of fat fingers snapped in front of her face, and her whole body jolted as Mrs. Burrowes came into view, waving her hand calling “Maaa-ri! Mari-gold! Yoo-hoo! Are you standin’ there sleepin’ with your eyes open, lass?”

Curses… 

Curses, curses, curses…

And she had finally dared to hope that all was going well, and that Mrs. Burrowes had forgotten all about her, what with Frodo’s charms.

But even Frodo could not have occupied that chatterbox for long – and yet, Marigold could think of nothing better to do than to cleave to Frodo’s side, peering at him with beseeching eyes.

And thankfully, Frodo got the message. 

With a gentle look, he nodded at both women and smiled, rubbing Marigold’s arm.

“Well, Mrs. Burrowes, she may very well be tired,” he said, and peered into Marigold’s face, every bit the devoted bridegroom. “After all, Mari has had a great deal to do, and it is my fault, I’m afraid, for the planning of a wedding is hard work at the best of times, and so is caring for the likes of me, I would imagine.” 

He cocked his head, and Marigold glanced at his face, doing her level best to return a smile of equal vigor.

But it was not easy.

For truthfully, she was thankful to him for coming to her rescue, but a part of her wanted to be upset – for the rumor mill was such a malicious instrument that it could have had a field day with her tiredness alone, and his words did nothing to disabuse any sordid notions.

But even so, she could not bring herself to be angry. For Frodo was looking entirely too handsome just then, and too kind, with his cloudless-blue, flaxen eyes that filled up half his face. And he was much too innocent of the gossip mongers’ wily, jealous ways for her to truly blame him.

So instead, she allowed her heart swell with affection – even as the goosebumps assailed her skin – and she thought of his quiet, bookish ways, and the way in which he and Bilbo never cared for the opinions of the Burroweses of the world, or indeed any other kind of nonsense…

If only she could be like them… She had prayed for it dozens of times. But even if she could not, it heartened her to think that there were people like him in the world – that thinking and being a different way was possible, that she might not be imprisoned by the neighbors and their twitching curtains forever.

She looked down at her hands, hoping to escape once more – but to her surprise, they were no longer shaking. And the sweat was pouring from her brow, but it was hard to tell if it was from the heat of the day, or something more. 

Taken aback by the sudden change, she glanced up at Mrs. Burrowes, and here as well there was a change. If before, the woman’s eyes had bored right through her, the matron’s look was now a wide, almost conciliatory smile, and any further sniffing about for worthy “news” felt somehow less important.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Burrowes said, and gave a soft click of the tongue, punctuating her words with the self-important nod that older hobbits doled out when they had something to impart to the younger generation, “Maybe then, being tired is just as well – for it may be a burden now, but the boons will be ripe for the picking soon, for this is a fine hobbit you are marrying here.”

She reached and patted Frodo’s arm, as if appraising livestock at a market – but Frodo, for his part, seemed to take no offense, and even inclined his head in a show of civility.

“Well, then, I am grateful that you think so, Mrs. Burrowes,” he replied, and drew his hand over Marigold’s arm, taking her hand in his. “But I must say that the honor is all mine, for I am still amazed that this treasure of a woman has accepted me.”

He snuck a particularly longing look at Marigold, and though it made her feel momentarily weak in the knees, part of her wished that he had refrained, and kept his lovely eyes to himself this time.

For indeed, even if the “tired” comment could be interpreted any number of ways, there was no mistaking that look, and it was sure to keep the gossips talking for at least a fortnight.

She sighed, but even so, she did not avert her eyes. 

For after all, whether he looked at her or not, they were sure to talk regardless. And he was looking at her , not at them, which was certainly best for all concerned, and the gossips would have been the first to confirm it.

“And, he is just so humble, is he not?” Mrs. Burrowes cut in, grinning.

The matron gave Frodo another slap on the shoulder – hard enough to nearly send him to the ground – and then she folded her lips into a much more sober mein.

“And I must say,” she added, her voice barely concealing her enthusiasm, “I do also like the fact that he is loyal to the local enterprises – much unlike the elder Baggins in his day. Indeed, the local dealings for the wedding will be a great boon, so if I may be the messenger, the populace is well and truly grateful.”

After Mrs. Burrowes’ form disappeared around the bend, the basket at her hip, Frodo and Marigold both drew a sigh of relief – but Frodo’s sigh, as Marigold unwillingly noticed, was a good deal more relieved than she expected. 

She was therefore about to ask – but before she could do so, Frodo turned to face her, and tightly clasped her hand.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” He gave a winsome smile, which belied how earnestly he held her.

“But, er, Mr. Frodo, wasn’t it a bit hard for you?”

Marigold proffered a conciliatory smile, and knowing full well what she did, she readjusted their hold such that she was holding his hand, and raised it halfway to her lips.

“Oh… hmm… well…” Frodo lowered his eyes.

The sun was high over the horizon, its billows stronger than before, and it was getting harder to breathe, such that Marigold was sure that her heart might start pounding at any moment.

But even so, she continued to hold him, and thankfully, his hesitation was short-lived. He raised his eyes, and gifted her a lovely smile – fairer than all of the azaleas in the Proudfoots’ garden.

“Well, yes, it was a little difficult,” he conceded, and shifted their hold such that her hand was in his once again. “But even so, I am a passing fair actor, don’t you think? And I am not so ill that I can’t practice my craft now, thanks to my beloved.”

He gave a cheerful, confidential wink, and closed the distance between them, bringing her fingertips to his lips.

His lips… Which were somehow so cool, as if by sorcery.

She gasped, and had a mind to look wildly up and down the street – but she refrained.

And Frodo, in his turn, seemed to capture her feeling, and as he drew away, he whispered gently.

“Come on,” he said – and his voice sounded like the inside of Bag End – cool as the larder, where she was longing to return to make his luncheon; cool as the shadows of a faraway wood.

“Come, let’s go home now,” he repeated. “I think it is high time we rested now, for that was more than enough practice – and more than enough acting – for one day.”

And so, the walking continued – with Frodo and Marigold going out every day, and talking to the denizens of the Shire whom they met along the way – at times about the weather, at times about the wedding and harvest, and at times, about nothing in at all. 

Marigold, for her part, behaved variably. At times, she would not utter a sound, and found herself shedding buckets of sweat that were hardly commensurate with the weather. And at other times, her silence would invite a tongue-in-cheek comment to the tune of “cat got your tongue, young lady?” that her interlocutor would find terribly clever. But to his credit, Frodo was ever kind, ever watchful of her demeanor, and whenever she could not answer a question, he would step in and try to deflect any further inquiries.

It was, all in all, no more difficult – though no easier – than any other mountain they had climbed together, and though it might have been tiresome if either did it alone, Marigold was now starting to enjoy it: she enjoyed the feel of Frodo’s hand on the small of her back, and she enjoyed the sneaking feelings of envy she saw in the other hobbits’ eyes, and when she was anxious, she had but to glance at Frodo and count her blessings, for the look of him was as good as a dip in the Bywater Pool: the serene smile that she loved so well, the tousled hair, the four-fingered hand in hers… All these things she had fallen in love with, and that other people would never know – she would think of it all, and it would make her feel proud and brave, and by degrees, her heart would grow quiet.

And in time, their outings became enjoyable in other ways: for Marigold was reminded that the Shirefolk were not a bad lot after all, and were ever excited by the prospect of a party. Indeed, they were a good deal more obliging than she remembered them being, and while this made her anxious at first, wondering if it was some sort of trick, in the end, she was still a red-blooded hobbit lass, and not immune their flattery.

On one occasion, for instance, she and Frodo were about to head to a spot by the Water to have a picnic. They sallied forth from Bag End, and began to walk down the lane, when Frodo, basket in hand, slowed down and greeted old Mr. Proudfoot over his short fence as the other hobbit sat, puffing languidly on his pipe, and offered his hellos right back. Frodo asked him if he would not mind parting with a few sprigs of lilac – blossoms to make a present for his bride – and Marigold (or Miss Gamgee, as she was now almost universally called) blushed a hot crimson, and protested that they had plenty of flowers at home. But Frodo insisted that there was no such thing as too many flowers, and that the Proudfoots’ lilacs were beyond compare – meaning no offense to the accomplished Samwise Gamgee, of course – and Mr. Proudfoot disappeared promptly into his hobbit hole, reemerging moments later with a piece of twine and a green pair of garden shears.

“You-you shouldn’t, Mr. Proudfoot,” Marigold stammered, “It is far too kind…”

But Mr. Proudfoot was already fastening together the vivid lilac cuttings with an overhand bow, his knobbled fingers moving with an efficiency that left no room for protestation. Before she knew it, his hands were on hers, and the tight little bouquet was firmly in her grasp.

Six bewitching sprigs of lilac, and a central bloom of baby’s breath…

“Confirmed old bachelor, my thick and hairy foot,” Mr. Proudfoot grumbled, and cast a significant look at Frodo before returning his gaze to Marigold. “Enjoy them, lass,” he admonished, and clasped her hand, looking misty-eyed in the sunlight. “Enjoy them,” he repeated, “And goodness forbid, don’t let that daft hobbit go on any more adventures!”

And so, with a few more admonitions, they parted ways, but even as old Mr. Proudfoot waved his hand, holding his pipe, and shouted more congratulations along with further “good advice” until they were well out of earshot, it was not until they rounded the corner that Marigold’s heart was finally no longer in her throat.

Indeed, as she quickly realized, nobody before had ever been so eager to give her gifts – not even the lads who purported to court her, and not even her own family, except in a perfunctory way on birthdays, and certainly never with this much glee.

But something about the matter troubled her, and she clasped Frodo’s elbow and raised the delicate bouquet to inhale the heady fragrance…

A fragrance that sought to lull her into oblivion, and recalled to mind the Highdays in Boffo’s shop, with the happy hullabaloo of friends and sisters fussing over her dress – which Frodo would not see until the day – and all of their talk of flower garlands, and centerpieces for tables, and memories of their own courtships, and how happy they all were.

It was almost enough to forget the bits of darkness that lurked in the corners of her mind. Enough to quell the unease that sat in her stomach even now.

Almost enough…

But as the tendrils of sweetness mingled with her breath, she knew that almost enough was not enough. And she could no longer keep it hidden, at least not from Frodo.

And so, as the houses in the lane disappeared, and they reached the grass-covered slope to the Water, she stopped just short of stepping off the road, and Frodo glanced at her with attentive eyes, as if to ask, “what is it?” 

To which end she shrugged, as if to give him a sense of ease, and to let him know that it was nothing too distressing, but nonetheless needed to be said.

“I wonder,” she mused, and squinted at the sun, “I wonder, would all of them – Mr. Proudfoot and the rest – still look at us like that, and be so kind to us, if you weren’t, well – a Baggins?”

She paused, and followed the leisurely Water with her eyes, furrowing her brow.

“It’s so strange,” she added, for in the end, she had thought of many ways to say it, but there was no use in beating around the proverbial bush. “It’s like – I suppose behind our backs they have always talked, and they always will, and maybe I should learn not to trouble myself about it as much as I do. But to our faces, it is as if I, at least, am a very different person…”

She glanced at him, pressing her lips, and Frodo smiled, draping his arm around her.

He remained silent, and watched the Water for a spell.

“Well, yes,” he said at last, and turned to examine her face. “I do believe you’re right – if I wasn’t in a position to help so many people, and if there wasn’t a large wedding to be had, then no, I don’t suppose they would be so obliging. But then again, that’s only hobbit nature, no? So we can’t exactly fault them for that.”

He smiled again, the breeze ruffling his hair, and suddenly, Marigold understood, though it made her feel a trifle lonely. 

For indeed, the things she was only starting to comprehend, Frodo had been living with for years. He had already considered them, backwards and forwards, and made peace with them, just as he had done with a number of other things she scarcely knew existed.

But even so, the loneliness did not last long. For even as he spoke, he reached to tuck a strand of hair into her bun, the fingers grazing her skin…

“But worry not,” he said, his lips edging against his cheeks. “Even if I was a poor hobbit, and even if they were to say very different things, I could not think of a better person to face it all with…”

He said as much, and his smile sparkled like the surface of the Water.

And Marigold leaned in. 

Of course she did. She could not help herself. 

He always said such tender, clever things…

And so they kissed. Kissed ever so shamelessly, by the side of the road near the Water, in a way that would have made her die of shame only three months ago…

And so they kissed. Kissed ever so shamelessly by the side of the road near the Water, and she wondered, even then – who might be watching them? What might they say? “Like mongrels in the street…” But even so, they did not stop kissing, and the picnic basket was slowly slipping from Frodo’s hand. (1)

But of course, not every outing was so nice – not for Marigold, and not for Frodo. And yet, even the not-so-nice ones taught them a thing or two, and one of these took place on a damp and muggy afternoon punctuated by showers.

The two of them, Frodo and Marigold, were walking down a narrow path in the direction of Hobbiton, this time with the intention of going all the way and looking at some of the shops, when suddenly, several dozen paces ahead they spied a figure both of them might have been glad never to see again.

It was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and though advanced in years, she was difficult to miss, for she was fond of acid-green dresses, flowered hats that looked like veritable wedding cakes, and on account of her stoop, she carried an excessive cane to match: its short, polished shaft cut of rich mahogany, and topped with a leatherbound handle and golden finial that wanted little sunlight to razz the eyes. (2)

But even in the face of her flamboyant appearance, Frodo and Marigold were so absorbed in conversation, that by the time they caught sight of her, there was nowhere else to go but a nearby ditch – and Lobelia, along with the woman who accompanied her, had already recognized them as well, and they were calling Frodo out by name.

“Oh, sticklebacks,” Frodo muttered under his breath, and drew Marigold hastily against him. “Oh, well, er, look, Mari – don’t – don’t speak to them if you can help it, alright? I’ll say everything that needs to be said…”

He pressed his lips nervously, and his eyes darted from Lobelia to Marigold.

Marigold drew a breath, and nodded just as hastily.

Lobelia, from what she could recall, had moved back to Hardbottle soon after the Scouring, having bequeathed Bag End to Frodo, so what she was doing back, one could hardly guess – except perhaps the wedding had drawn her out of her hole.

She took several breaths – and Frodo pasted on a smile, and none of it was a moment too soon – for no sooner had they finished speaking than Lobelia was already before them, and her voice, as ever, was like poisoned honey.

“Oh, my, my, my, is this dear Marigold, the one I’ve been hearing so much about?” she crooned as Frodo gave a clipped “good morning.” 

Lobelia, whose face was a mass of wrinkles but fastidiously powdered nonetheless, looked this way and that at Marigold, and then directed a quick, businesslike nod at Frodo.

“Lovely, lovely girl she is,” Lobelia smiled, and puffed her lips out in a show of approval. “That is all I can say” – and here she straightened up a little, such that her hat stood a full four and a half feet high up in the air. “Where, oh where, did you even find such a person?”

She clucked, the way elderly people did – and her friend assumed a jovial expression.

But Frodo did not take much longer in finding his voice, and when he did, it had none of the lilting, disarming quality from before.

“Aunt,” he said, and his expression was ominously lacking in affection, “I don’t mean to interject, but you know Marigold already.” He paused, and looked like he might have turned the conversation toward fouler details, but he softened with a pallid smile. “You lived at Bag End for a year; and she was your neighbor, the third daughter of the respected Hamfast Gamgee.”

The older woman squinted, and seemed to make a good-faith effort to recall, but in the end she shook her head.

“Ah, no,” she sighed with a mock-pathetic air, and rolled her fingers over the shiny knob of her walking stick. “I do not remember, I’m afraid. I am getting old, and I meet so many people.”

She clicked her tongue, folding her wizened lips in a bald-faced smile, and Marigold, for all her initial consternation, forgot to feel anxious – so flummoxed was she by the unexpected amnesia.

For indeed, Lobelia had purported not to know her, but Marigold certainly knew her . It was difficult to forget the way she had called upon Marigold to fetch and carry when her own maid was unavailable, and the way that she, Marigold, had picked up the old woman in the lane and dressed her ankle when the latter had taken a tumble, and it was equally hard to forget the way she had been slapped by her and called a “clumsy fool” for transgressions as minor as dropping a tea cup.

She had even endured the leers and pinches of her son Lotho, and had been thrown into the Lockholes by him into the bargain, though when it came to the last part, Marigold could not exactly blame her.

She sighed, glancing down – but then, before Frodo had a chance to rescue her, the old hobbitess reached out and took Marigold’s hand between her own.

“But – my-my-my,” she chuckled, and looked Marigold straight in the face, even as Frodo seemed to be fighting a unseen battle with himself, “You really do look as kind as you are beautiful, and that I could have told you from a mile away, for I have a sense for these things, you know. I’ve developed quite a good eye for people over the years.”

She took another step forward, cupping Marigold’s face, and appraised it this way and that like a piece of fruit at the market.

“Indeed,” she went on, “I am so glad that my beloved nephew finally found someone to take care of him. For I see him as a son of my own, you know, and from now on I will see you as a daughter as well. You should know that you can always come to aunt Lobelia if you want for anything, anything at all – and it would make my heart glad in my old age.”

She clucked, and tut-tutted some more, beckoning to her friend to come over and take a look – but as she did so, Marigold’s head began to swim, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Frodo giving the women a thin, sealed, excruciatingly courteous smile…

And that was when she realized why Frodo, beyond his initial greeting, had said so very little – not that she could fault him, for he was as flabbergasted as her…

But he was not only flabbergasted. He was livid. 

He seemed on the verge of verbally pouncing on the old woman – her age precluding any other violence – and he was pressing his hand open and closed at his side, which to anyone else may have seemed like an inconsequential gesture, but she knew exactly what it meant.

“Well, that is very kind of you, Lobelia,” Frodo managed at last – as Marigold’s hearing rippled in and out. “But with all due respect, we really should be going. I thank you for your consideration, but we will be seeing you at the wedding. Good morning.”

He drew Marigold to one side, stepping around the two women, and pulled her after him.

But Lobelia, to credit her tenaciousness, had a final trick up her sleeve.

She had released Marigold’s face, but when she spoke, her voice was still dripping with maudlin affection.

“Ah, yes, well, tut-tut,” she clucked, and bowed her sizable, perfumed head as if their departure had been her idea. “You young ones always have so much to do, and it is only right – but be that as it may, if you could wait for just one moment –” (3)

The old hobbitess ho-hummed, unpinning something shiny from her chest, and overtook the couple with her short, mincing steps.

“A family heirloom,” she said, and before either of them could protest, she pressed something firmly against Marigold’s chest.

She smiled as she took her hands away, revealing a brooch pinned to the strap of her dress.

“I do hope you’ll appreciate the artistry,” she said with a satisfied, if sycophantic smile. “It is eastfarthing amber, and the finest hobbit craftsmanship in all the Shire since the Wandering Days. It was passed down from the eminent Camellia Sackville, one of the founders of the family, and I could tell just as soon as I saw you this morning – your coloring is a flawless match for a treasure like this.”

Marigold looked down, and as the sun came out from behind the clouds, she saw that the brooch was a spider, made of amber, and it was set in a fine ring of gold. (4)

As the old hobbitess walked away, her friend shuffling dutifully beside her, Frodo breathed a sigh and stroked Marigold’s forearm.

Neither said anything – not even “that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” which had become their refrain after the more uncomfortable encounters, and they certainly did not burst into laughter, as they often did after the more ridiculous ones. Frodo pressed his lips several times, and then he released her hand.

Marigold breathed a sigh as the breeze meandered through her hair, and then she said what she was thinking.

“Well, er, she seemed… nice?” Her smile was uncertain as she tented her brows and Frodo wrinkled his forehead. “Though I can’t exactly think why she doesn’t remember me – after all, we weren’t exactly passing acquaintances – unless she’s well and truly gone since the last time I saw her.”

She allowed her smile to slip into her eyes, but Frodo shook his head, glancing in the direction where Lobelia had disappeared.

“Well, no,” he said, and took his beloved’s hand once more. “On the contrary, she certainly does remember you. Her mind is like a steel trap. But the fact of the matter is, you’re not some girl she can boss around anymore, and I suspect she is lonely and regretful. But whatever penance she has done by returning Bag End to me and giving up her wealth, it is still no reason to be friends with her – especially if she is going to be like that.”

Marigold unpinned the brooch from her chest, and squinted at it in the sunlight.

It was, admittedly, a pretty thing, despite the creature it portrayed. The eight legs were lustrous, and looked more relaxed than menacing, and the amber was deep and variegated, the sun gleaming softly through it. Amber, she remembered, came from the sap of ancient trees – a fact she had asked Frodo to confirm more than once – and there were tiny flecks of wood in it. She was still not used to owning such fine things, so she closed her hand around the brooch and hid it in her pocket.

Frodo gave a smile, and his eyes softened – for they had become quite hard when he was speaking of Lobelia.

“Hm, well, how fitting,” he said, curling his upper lip. “A spider. Well” – he paused, and glanced at the lattice of trees above them. “I would perform an exorcism if I were you before I wore it. And I wouldn’t trust Lobelia any farther than I can throw her – not that I condone tossing old ladies – or any hobbit, if you understand.”

He gave a sardonic chuckle, and then his smile became intimate once more, as if the foul odor of Lobelia was carried away by the breeze.

Marigold chuckled in her turn, and suddenly she felt like a tweenager again, and like he was about to grab her hand and run after a particularly good prank.

“Oh, but come on,” he smiled, seeming to read her thoughts. “I have a different idea for what might brighten the afternoon.”

Frodo’s idea, as it turned out, was to poke their heads into a shop or two in the center of Hobbiton, and as they approached the clustering of smials where people did their business, Frodo dutifully tipped his nonexistent hat to several more people, while Marigold was relieved to imagine that there was only one woman who might have possibly eyed her dress with an ill-favored look. They glanced at a few displays at the potter’s and clockmaker’s as they made their way through town, and then they finally came to the door of a shop called “Mrs. Goodbody’s,” which Marigold recognized straightaway. Mrs. Goodbody was the purveyor of all things feminine in that part of the Shire – from artificial pearls to real ones, along with hats, purses, ribbons and a myriad other things that Marigold never felt justified in buying.

In fact, for as long as she could remember, whenever she came to Hobbiton on shopping days, Marigold would stop by and look at the displays in the large round windows, but it was only on the rare occasion that she went inside, for she hated to disappoint Mrs. Goodbody by wasting her time, and hated even more to pretend that she did not like what was on offer.

And so, as Frodo ushered her in with his hand on the small of her back, Marigold felt a flutter well beyond what she was used to.

To be sure, she was worried that the eminent Mrs. Goodbody might judge her without saying a word: that she might be taken for a spoiled, uppity girl who had gotten her hands on her betrothed’s fortune and was putting on airs, or for an unlettered bumpkin who did not know a pin from a pinafore.

But even so, she felt a measure of excitement… Excitement – and like she might finally belong. And this last part, oddly enough, was making her feel uneasy – as if asking her in a still, small voice, “Do you? Do you dare? Do you really?”

The inside of the shop was quiet – a magical hush sitting over the display cases of ribbons, buttons, and jewelry, and there were mannequin hands here and there, carved of delicate wood, and displaying rings like fruit-encrusted trees in a garden. A few similarly carved busts displayed necklaces and hats, and the entire wall to the left was made of tiny drawers, each inscribed and painted with a gossamer vine of flowers.

The bell tinkled above their heads as they stepped in, and Frodo took Marigold gently by the shoulders and whispered in her ear.

“Go on, pick anything you like,” he said, his breath a kiss against her skin. “Anything.”

Marigold felt a prickle across her back, but thankfully Frodo moved away quite quickly, and took her elbow as the velvet curtains covering a door moved aside, and Mrs. Goodbody appeared on the threshold.

“Ah, the couple of the hour!” the woman exclaimed, and stepped like water around the drapes, folding her cherry mouth into a smile. “I was wondering when the two of you would come – welcome, welcome to the both of you.”

Mrs. Goodbody – now moving on in years, was still the picture of elegance that Marigold remembered: her jewelry, her clothing, every bit of her the paragon of understated harmony. There was not a single garish tone to be seen – not on Mrs. Goodbody herself, and not in her shop – the exact opposite of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and there were none of the simple, bright, yet ordinary patterns that her sisters enjoyed.

“Marigold is here to pick out a gift – a gift from me to her,” Frodo said, and Mrs. Goodbody stepped toward the counter.

Marigold felt a rush of goosebumps down her neck, and a rush of warmth across her cheeks.

Mrs. Goodbody, certainly, would offer her advice if she asked. In the past, whenever Marigold poked her head into the shop – only to look – Mrs. Goodbody would offer her advice even when she didn’t ask, at which point Marigold would hastily retreat…

She turned around, as if to look at the display case nearest the window, but really to cover her face with her hand, and then she saw it. 

It was still in the display case: close to the end, where all the other buttons were. It had been there for some time, likely because it was not as ostentatious as the rest, and buttons were a commonly-used and oft-replaced item. Come to think of it, Mrs. Goodbody probably replenished her button supply every few weeks, so it was probably a copy of a copy of a copy of the button that she had seen before.

But still – she liked that button. It had a finely brushed pewter finish and was wrought to look like an intertwined lattice of vines. She had often wondered how it might look on her brushed woolen coat, though she had never had the coin to justify the expenditure.

“This – or, rather… three of these,” she muttered quickly, pointing at the glass.

“Ah! Is that all? Are you certain?” Mrs. Goodbody raised her finely shaped brows as she stepped around to look.

But Marigold nodded, and thankfully, Mrs. Goodbody’s manners were as delicate as her appearance, for she said nothing more, only reached into the drawer, smiling graciously.

“I do also have some lovely tortoiseshell combs that I could show you,” she said as she turned the key in the lock. “The paler ones would do famously with your coloring.”

Marigold’s throat grew tense, and her heart turned a somersault as Frodo took her arm.

“Well, I think that the combs are a marvelous idea,” he said, and his smile was luminous – almost too luminous for a hobbit of his sex on such an occasion. “How about it? Shall we look at the combs?”

He nodded toward the counter, and Marigold, whose mind was shaking like an autumn leaf at the sight of everything around her, could find no words to say. She nodded primly, and Mrs. Goodbody returned an affable smile, and with a turning of another lock, the combs came out and saw the muted light of day.

And Mrs. Goodbody had not been lying when she said they were lovely. Indeed, lovely was not even the word.

They came in a spectrum of colors that ranged from the deepest ebony to a gold flecked with amber, and each comb had a mosaic of pearls on its crest: grayish-white for the dark ones, and various hues of pink and cream for the lighter ones.

Each and every one of them was fit for a queen, or at the very least for entertaining guests at Bag End on especially festive occasions. As Marigold gazed at them, she had the fleeting image of herself, looking very much like a Mrs. Goodbody, in an elegant, understated frock and pearls in her hair, serving afternoon tea.

But she shook her head and stepped away, like a horse that had been spooked.

“No – er, no,” she said – or rather hiccuped, her words reminiscent of a spasm. “I mean, er, no, thank you, truly – but really, the buttons are all I want.”

She glanced away, pressing her hand into a fist at her side, but then, something unexpected happened.

Frodo picked up the tortoiseshell comb towards the lighter end of the “rainbow,” and slid it towards Mrs. Goodbody.

“We’ll take it,” he said, and touched his hand to his pocket. “The comb and the buttons, please.”

Marigold’s eyes grew wide, and though her voice did not feel like her own, she whispered, “No, Mr. Frodo, no…” 

But it was to no avail. Frodo smiled, and his look was as airy as the summer breeze.

“Ah, but Marigold,” he sighed, with an air of mock dismay. “Don’t you know that the hair comb is for me ?” He placed the comb against his temple, and batted his fine blue eyes. “After all, I rather think that it goes well with my coloring, too – don’t you agree?” 

And so, without further ado, the buttons and the comb were wrapped in a beige square of paper, and packaged neatly by Mrs. Goodbody with a practiced overhand bow.

Marigold’s dismay was well and truly diminished with Frodo’s touching show of comedy, and indeed, everything seemed suddenly to be going well, with Marigold even chatting with Mrs. Goodbody about the wedding – specifically, the color scheme, and how Rosie, May, and Sam had at last decided that a wedding in peachy pink would be best, so long as there were accents in gold, sage and cream, since a compromise was in order. And Mrs. Goodbody, whose knowledge and attention to the wedding eerily surpassed that of a passing acquaintance, smiled knowingly, and vowed to reserve “any items whose services may be needed” in the back of the shop, away from greedier eyes.

And so, Marigold had smiled, for Mrs. Goodbody – whose profession as the hospitable finery-monger appeared to go button-in-hole with that of the friendly scandalmonger – seemed nonetheless sympathetic to her plight, and understood all too well the flickerings of strife that came with planning a party. Ever the skilled commiserator, she had mollified the younger woman’s sense of overwhelm, and even anticipated the sickly-sweet and objectionable presence of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

But as was invariably the case, the reprieve was short-lived, for just as Mrs. Goodbody finished recording the sale in her account book, Marigold got the sense that she was readying herself for something important, and in a matter of moments, she was proven correct.

“Ah, but my dear Marigold,” the shopkeeper said – and as she dotted the “i” and crowned the “a” with its three light-footed dollops, she gentled her voice, pressing her lips with a regretful air, “As many a lass as I have shepherded through their weddings, there are some things I will never get used to. I keep having to say to myself, ‘So it is really true. Marigold Gamgee is to be married.’”

She shook her head with an airy sigh, and quietly clicked her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, and looked at Marigold with a cautious curiosity, “As happy as I was at the news, I cannot help but feel it is a loss. Even Mrs. Bracegirdle, I heard tell, was holding out until the last, thinking you might return to her…”

She set down her stilus, and with a final sigh – soft as the feathers on the hats displayed to either side of her – she pressed her fingertips together.

“Indeed,” she went on, and looked at Marigold with a cautious curiosity, “As happy as I was at the news of your wedding, I cannot help but feel it is a loss to your profession. Even Mrs. Bracegirdle, I heard tell, was holding out until the last, thinking that you might return to her…”

She pressed her cherry lips into a pout, but suddenly, Marigold could barely hear her.

The words swirled about in her head, and the only thing that surprised her was how long it took for anyone to mention it…

She sighed, and as her hearing rippled in and out, she prayed that she might survive it, for Frodo could hardly help her here. If they had spoken of her midwifery, it was always in the queer, intimate poetry of their daily communications, and to transpose it onto a moment like this…

And so she counted… counted her breaths, counted the number of times Mrs. Goodbody opened and closed her mouth, and when she grew tired of counting, she traced the outlines of her and Frodo’s “gifts” with her eyes, along with the outline of Mrs. Goodbody’s hand.

Was she done talking yet?

She glanced at Frodo by her side – and sure enough, there he was, staid but undeniably tongue-tied.

She wanted to grab his hand and run, but suddenly, another thought entered her head, and the shackles gave a crack, and she felt, of all things, angry.

Angry that they thought they knew what was best for her, angry that they discussed her life so freely.

She tried to speak, but her mouth felt disconnected from her mind – yet somehow she managed it.

“Well, I don’t – I don’t think I ever said I was leaving midwifery for good,” she said – sure that she had interrupted, but caring very little. She blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “Or at least, I never said I would never work with the sick again, and I did take care of the sick after the Scouring, and I’m still taking care of Mr. Frodo, every day…”

She glanced at her betrothed and he nodded diffidently, touching her arm.

He seemed relieved that she was the one to interrupt Mrs. Goodbody – if a trifle chastened that he had not done it himself. But all the same, his smile gave her the courage to continue.

“Indeed,” she added, emphasizing the word with some aplomb, “The world works in mysterious ways, and none of us can tell what the future might hold, if I may say so myself.”

She said as much, and then she planted her gaze on the counter. Already, her cheeks were burning, and she felt as foolish as she had expected…

She drew a spasmodic sigh, and Frodo smoothed his hand up and down her arm, which brought a measure of relief, but she cursed herself for not anticipating the obvious.

“Well,” Mrs. Goodbody returned with a smile, and pressed her hands against the counter as she slid aside the account book, “There I do agree – for this marriage was an unexpected development to say the least. So indeed, who is to know what the future may hold? And yet, I would imagine that your husband, once you are wed, would always come first – for Mrs. Bracegirdle, she is the exception rather than the rule, I should think.”

She clicked her tongue and bit her lip with a significant air, but Marigold did not see it – her eyes remained fixed on the polished wood.

And in the end, she did not need to see. She could well imagine the woman’s expression. Softly disparaging, damning in its reserve, as only a hobbit’s could be – and yet, what had she expected? Did she even believe her own words? It was hard to imagine even now, working outside the home, and in reality, most women didn’t, especially the ones who did not need to, like the Bagginses and the Brandybucks and the Tooks. Even the likes of Mrs. Goodbody worked in businesses co-owned with their husbands, while the farmer’s wives engaged in cottage industries as an extension of their daily chores.

And yet, a part of her had dared to ask “what if?” It was only a still, small voice, and it had spoken now for the first time.

What if?

What if, now that Frodo was better, she could devote her energies elsewhere, if only for a little while?

It would have been grand.

Except, a fine fool she was, unable to defend her notion – unable to even open her mouth.

Or could she?

“Well, I think my wife should do anything she likes,” she heard Frodo’s voice above her. “My first priority is that Marigold be happy, and that means she should spend her time in any way that suits her – even if it takes her attention away from me.”

He smiled, and drummed his fingers on the counter, and then he slid the packages toward him.

And Marigold, petrified as she was, caught his eye as he proffered a pointed smile, squeezing her shoulder with a gentle pressure.

The squeeze stirred the blood in her veins, and by degrees, her voice returned to her.

“Well, er, yes,” she muttered quickly, and returned a smile as she stole a glance at the woman across the counter. “I do agree, Mr. Frodo would always come first. But I do – I do appreciate how thoughtful he is when it comes to my desires…”

She glanced at him, and then quickly to one side – out the window, where the sun had come out from behind the clouds. All afternoon, it had been coming in and out, as if unable to make up its mind. But even so, it cheered her. 

She imagined herself… Standing on the cusp of a new life, and whither then?

She could not tell. She only knew that it would be different – in a thousand infinitesimal ways that would seem unimportant at first, but would prove remarkable in the end. A good different…

She smiled, and then she heard Frodo’s voice.

“Come on, Mari,” he said, leaning in close. “I think it is high time, let’s go home.”

“Yes, let’s go home,” she echoed.

And so they went. 

Before she knew it, the bell above the door gave its quiet tinkle, and Frodo bid Mrs. Goodbody a “Good afternoon,” and they were out in the lane once more, with the gossamer sunlight all around them.

1. In the show Dickensian (2015-16), Frances Barbary admonishes her sister, Honoria Barbary, for kissing her beau in public, by describing them as “mongrels in the street.”
2. A nod to the following Ron Burgundy quote from Anchorman: “I have many leather-bound books, and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.”
3. In War and Peace, in the fifth chapter, a description of Vassily Kuragin goes as follows: "His head was pomaded and powdered and smelled of perfume."
4. I kept Lobelia Sackville-Baggins alive longer than in canon for the express purpose of getting good morning’ed by Frodo. My version of her character is a composite portrait of several of my own self-important, cloying and disingenuous family members.

Chapter Text

Rosie brought the meeting of the wedding committee to order by rapping a meat hammer against the dining room table.

Before her, there lay a great collection of lists, receipts, and other notions, and dutifully beside her sat Sam, who undertook his role as a recorder with an enthusiasm that could only have been described as marital.

Frodo and Marigold were seated on the couch, a pace or two from the table, and Merry was reclining in the red upholstered chair, his chin on his hand, and his ubiquitous pipe in the other.

The sun was slating through the eaves, and the four hobbits – Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin – had celebrated the visit from the latter two with an outing to the Green Dragon, where good fortune had intervened, and the trip proved less upsetting than they had feared, with Frodo lasting a good long while until the echoes in the rafters got the better of him.

And so, the atmosphere of the after-dinner meeting was a pleasant one, with every hobbit except Frodo having put away a few pints, and Pippin having finished several more, and now sleeping it off in the adjacent room.

Rosie smiled, and her eyes traveled from Sam, to Merry’s contented and somewhat languorous mein, to Frodo and Marigold holding hands and leaning up against each other on the couch.

She cleared her throat and summarily began.

“Well, it seems that we are nearly ready,” she said, straightening her shoulders with her stomach swelling like a hill under her dress. “Can you believe it? And not a moment too soon, for we have but a paltry three weeks before the appointed day!”

She paused, and cast her eyes over the assembly.

“Ah, yes, here we are,” she said, and squinted at the piece of paper in her hand. “So it seems that, first things first, the gross of the potatoes, carrots and summer squash have already been set aside, and the ducks, pigs, chickens and geese are nearly ready, and my brothers’ wives, and the Mistresses Rumble, Clayhanger, Sandheaver and Chubb will all be running their kitchens double-time, devoted to the cooking at least a week in advance. And the kitchens at the Ivy Bush and the Green Dragon will also be at our disposal, that is finally confirmed now –”

Frodo sighed and smiled, settling cozily against Marigold’s side.

For try as he might, and as much as he respected Rosie, he could scarcely keep his eyes from drifting shut, and the fact that this meeting was like a dozen others before it did nothing to remedy the situation. Rosie’s voice was carrying gleefully on – about the recipe lists, which remained to be distributed, and about the misadventure of the missing cake-toppers, which was finally resolved. In time, despite his valiant efforts, he was scarcely able to hear her, and her rollicking tones sank further into the background like a coin disappearing into a stream. The echoes of the ale sent a sweet lassitude down his limbs, and he fended off a yawn, thinking how nice it was to have both family and friends who delighted in such matters.

For in the end, he was still as hopeless as ever at the mechanics of weddings, though it fascinated him to learn that not all colors could be paired together, and that there was both an art and a science to floral bouquets. And when it came to the ales and the food, he admired Rosie’s epicurean acumen, for at the meeting two weeks prior, she had taught him that a bright, blonde ale such as Whitwell White – his own particular favorite – could go very well with a roasted chicken and salad, but would taste like dishwater next to a honey-glazed pork. Rosie had also inveighed against Sam’s favorite, Greenholm Barley, saying that it would overpower any flavor in its vicinity, and that Old Mugworth Stout was not so bad, but it could only go well with herb-roasted peppers, whereas next to everything else, it was nothing to write home about. In the end, after much wrangling and sucking of teeth, they finally selected Longbottom Ale, a pale, amber, full-bodied beer that Rosie believed could go well with a variety of foods, and Frodo, upon tasting the pairings she suggested, was forced to concede that she was right, as if by dint of some magical foresight. Some ales really did bring out the food’s better qualities, but without Rosie’s guidance, he would never have known this for himself, despite the mountains of food and lakes of beer he had consumed in his lifetime.

He sighed once more, and stroked Marigold’s hand as she placed her head on his shoulder.

“And then, there is Mrs. Goodbody and her daughters,” Rosie intoned, and Frodo opened his eyes to find her squinting at another list Sam had given her, “The Goodbodies, it seems – the lot of them are giving good reports about the progress of the boutonnieres, the corsages, and the centerpieces – and it seems that young Tulip Goodbody’s wrist is finally healed – for a good girl she is, but a bit too active, and when it comes to our purpose, that is not a fortuitous quality –”

Rosie chuckled, and paused once more to appraise the sleepy audience – and Frodo chuckled in his turn, but then, his attention wandered.

Indeed, if everything was going well, why not simply retire for the day? 

The sunset was painting the walls a bright orange, and even Marigold, who had not had any ale, was nuzzling comfortably against his shoulder. Her body was warm, and her breath so sweet and inviting that he wanted nothing more than to go to the bedroom and take a nap, his cheek against the flaxen curls…

He smiled, reveling in the relative quiet of Rosie’s voice, for May was home with a sick child, and there was less bickering than before.

Lúthien appeared in the doorway, and he beckoned to her – the newest addition to his growing family.

Lúthien gazed at Frodo, her blue eyes shining amidst her black and white fur, and she walked his way, her tail flicking in the air. She had been an early wedding present from Merry and Pippin, and they had trained her to recognize his scent, soothe his nerves, and follow various commands.

Frodo tapped on the couch beside him, and Lúthien jumped up, lying down and flanking his thigh with her long, warm body.

Merry smiled from across the way, and between that smile, Lúthien’s warmth, and Marigold’s head on his shoulder, Frodo felt like the luckiest hobbit in the world.

“Alright, then, movin’ on to the music,” Rosie’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Frodo snapped his head right up. “It seems that the Brockhouse Boys have finally bit at the higher price we were offerin’, and they agreed to play the extra hours.”

She paused, and cast a dramatic look at each hobbit in turn.

“And, I think it is well worth the investment,” she said, “For it seems that all the fine folks are havin’ music for walking’ down the aisle these days, and there is, apparently, somethin’ called the ‘first dance’ that no one told me about – or rather, no one told me until recently that it was required at the finer weddin’s, but you learn as you go, eh?”

She chuckled, and eyed both Frodo and Marigold with a measure of amusement, and Marigold finally raised her eyes.

“Wha? A first dance? What does that mean?”

Her eyes darted around the room, and Frodo gently rubbed her hand.

“A first dance is when the couple dance alone in the middle of the floor, for everyone to see,” he explained. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t know it was required. I suppose it might be. Merry, what do you think?” 

He glanced at his friend, and Merry – who had hitherto been sitting quietly and twirling his pipe – felt four pairs of eyes upon him.

Their expressions ranged from curious to “lamb at the slaughter” – but all the same, no one spoke, and Merry felt ill at ease, though he straightened up, and did his best to think of all the weddings he had recently attended.

It was a decent number – on account of his growing prominence in Buckland. And after some moments of nodding and counting, he was forced to concede that Frodo was right. A first dance tradition seemed to exist in all the prominent families – along with the families who wanted to be prominent – so he drew a sigh, and nodded compassionately at Marigold.

“Yes, I would think so,” he said, and rubbed his fingers together before taking up his pipe. “Though of course, you needn’t do anything that you don’t want to. I, for one, would think that a wedding that does not please you is a sad affair indeed, and it would not do to start a life on that note – if you’ll pardon me being on the nose.”

He tented his brows, and once again twirled his pipe – his eyes never leaving Marigold. 

But Marigold lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“No, Merry,” she returned, and peered at her hands as if they were specimens in a museum. “There you may be right, but surely May is goin’ to find out, and she will insist that we do it right. I know her, that’s how she’s been this whole time. So if we must, we must – and even if there wasn’t a May, people would still be expectin’ it, and they might ask questions.”

She longed to bury her face in her hands, but Frodo draped his arm around her.

“It’s alright – we can practice,” he said, pressing his nose, and then his cheek, against her temple. “We’ve practiced before, haven’t we? And you’ve gotten good at all sorts of things.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and Marigold brightened up a little, with Sam and Rosie nodding their approval.

In fact, Merry was the only one who did not look immediately heartened – though he folded his lips into a smile.

For truly, he wanted to be glad, but every time he saw Frodo and Marigold like this, it made him wince and wonder, “what if?”

What if Rosie had not intervened that day behind the tent? What if his heart had refuted his senses, and he had pursued Marigold fully intent upon marriage? Could he not have weathered the jibes and sneers of his family? Could he not have thrown their well-meaning disapproval into the Brandywine?

Even now, Marigold was steadily winning over his heart. It was not many days ago that the others had departed on such-and-such an errand, leaving Merry and Mari together, all alone except for the watchful eyes of Lúthien. Merry, as affably as he could, had accepted the tea she had brewed for him, and savored every sip as she explained that she would never tell Frodo what happened – or nearly happened – that day behind the tent. And he had smiled as valiantly as he could when she explained that there were no hard feelings between them, and no spoiled times – only friendship.

Merry, by now, wanted to be more than just friends, but it was too late. He could not encroach on her happiness, nor on his cousin’s, especially now that Frodo was finally on the mend, and it was all – to hear Sam tell it – thanks to Marigold’s ministrations. 

And so, Merry resolved to do his best, and inclined his head as Frodo took Marigold’s hand.

“Well, and I think,” he added with a solemn look, “You may not even need the Brockhouse Boys for this – meaning the first dance, and practicing for it. Pippin, as I’m sure you’ve heard – not the least from the man himself – has a proper cottage industry now, singing and playing the fiddle at weddings. So I’m sure he would not mind, if you asked him nicely.”

Merry gave a cheerful smile – the most cheerful he could muster – and raised his pipe, like a mug in a toast. 

In fact, pretending that it was a mug in a toast made his mirth all the more life-like – which was sorely needed, for Frodo looked very much like he wanted to be alone with his bride.

But thankfully, Frodo was none the wiser to the cracks in Merry’s countenance – or so Merry had gathered, observing how enthralled Frodo looked at the sight of his beloved. He paused in examining her hand, and said, “Well, that is certainly an idea, Merry. But don’t you think it would be unseemly to ask Pippin to work, much less at a wedding where he is meant to be a guest of honor?”

Frodo’s words were laced with a chuckle, but Merry, catching the infectious curve of his cousin’s lip, gave a chuckle of his own.

“Oh, but really, Frodo?” he smirked, and glanced over at Sam, who was watching with his chin in his hands. “Pippin – this is Pippin we’re talking about. He would never miss a chance to be seen and heard. Why, I should think that if you let him –”

“Begging your pardon, someone said my name?”

Pippin’s voice, with its winsome lilt ensconced in a yawn, came from behind Merry’s chair, and everyone – from Merry, who had nearly dropped his pipe, to Sam and Rosie – who exchanged knowing glances – instantly turned to look.

Pippin rubbed his eyes, and looked around at the assembly, pressing his fist against his mouth and yawning once more.

“Well, what is it that I’m meant to do?” he asked, innocent as a child in leading strings. “I’m sure I would be happy to do it, if the reward is right.”

He chuckled, and took a step toward Merry, leaning against the red upholstery.

Merry pressed his lips, and gave a good-natured eye roll before replying. 

“Oh, but the reward is right alright, Pip,” he said. “It’s not gold and riches, but something more. How would you like to play at the Long Expected Wedding?”

Merry had been right. 

By that point, Pippin really had created a veritable cottage industry of singing and playing his violin at gatherings, the most common being weddings. He had begun by singing for family members who were wounded in the Scouring, and the result was so favorable that he took up writing poetry and songs of his own, and by the time the sick were recovered, he moved on to celebrations and made a tidy sum – not that a tidy sum was something he terribly needed.

And so, on that particular day, Pippin agreed to play at Frodo’s wedding before Frodo had finished asking, and his only request was a strange one.

“Marigold, how are you at throwing?” he asked, his eyes innocent as daisies.

“Well, er, passing fair, I think,” she replied. “I have three brothers.” 

And so, Pippin clapped his hands, and exclaimed, “Well, then, that settles it! You can throw the bouquet to me, yes? It is the only compensation I ask.”

He gazed at her, like a puppy begging to play, and Marigold nodded indulgently, turning her eyes to Merry and Frodo.

Merry sighed, and made a dramatic show of pausing before clapping Pippin on the arm.

“This one,” he said, twirling his pipe, “Is uncommonly fond of catching bouquets – better than all the lasses, he is – though we will not make mention of what happened at the Boffin wedding just the other month.” (1)

Merry assumed a solemn, almost sepulchral expression, and Pippin shook his head, his smile growing wider.

“Well, it is an excellent way to meet new people,” he conceded.

Merry twirled his pipe, and returned an impish smile.

“Well, that it most certainly is,” he said, savoring each word. “That is, if by people you mean indignant lasses, and if by meet, you mean having a dozen of them pile on top of you at once, with everything that comes from such a proceeding.”

He smirked, and put his pipe back in his mouth, bouncing his eyebrows.

And so it was that the very next day, as soon as they had finished their breakfast, Pippin was already in the parlor, and by the time Frodo and Marigold came in, he had already laid out a dozen pieces of sheet music on the table, and proudly proclaimed that he composed it all, some of it the prior night.

He even had his violin at the ready – claiming that he had brought it on account of needing to practice, and not in hopes of being hired at all.

And so it was that Frodo and Marigold sat down and heard several songs – each of them distinct in character, and each with its own extensive history, which they also heard thanks to Pippin’s love for his craft, and his earnest desire for thorough appreciation.

The first song was called “Everlasting Spring,” and was, with some regret, also the first to be rejected, for it was too sweeping and voluptuous in tone, and did not suit the couple’s bittersweet story. 

Pippin nearly wept at the injustice – but Marigold got up, smiling, and placed a hand on his arm, urging him to play more.

And so he did play more.

He played, in quick succession, a song called “Orb of Light,” which was about a beloved who was so resplendent in the eyes of her intended that she seemed to glow, and a wall came tumbling down in his heart every time they were together. (2)

Frodo and Marigold were delighted by this song, and said as much, but Pippin only nodded and played the next one, which seemed even better. “Waking Dreams” it was called, and it was about a man who had met a woman, and his dreams and his reality melded into one. (3) Frodo nodded his approval – clasping Marigold’s hand – but even then, Pippin gave an enigmatic smile, and urged them to not be hasty.

And so Pippin played and played, cheerful as a butterfly in summer, until at last, after a few more “strong contenders,” he played a song called “Kiss Me,” which spoke of a couple who had pledged to meet in the bearded barley, and the woman was asking the man to bring his flowered hat, and to follow the trail marked on his uncle’s map. (4)

The song struck an instant chord, and as the final measures quivered under Pippin’s bow, Marigold and Frodo looked at each other and nodded in unison.

And so it was decided: “Kiss Me” was the one. But soon enough, another problem emerged.

Marigold, with her usual blushing circumlocutions, began to confess something – and after some effort, Frodo and Pippin finally understood what it was.

In seemed that Marigold did not know how to dance to such a tune. In fact, she hardly knew how to dance at all.

“What, not at all?” Frodo exclaimed.

Marigold blushed to the roots of her hair and shook her head, her curls swishing back and forth.

“Well, no,” she conceded, and twisted her apron in her hands. “I mean, what I do know hardly counts as dancing. All I know is that you’re supposed to jump around a lot and hold hands, and I’ve never done much more than that… I’ve never even danced a reel, with how petri-fied I get.”

She clasped her hands over her apron.

Pippin turned his eyes significantly toward Frodo, but Frodo was well-schooled by then in handling such predicaments. 

He stepped toward Marigold and placed a hand on her shoulder, smiling.

“Well, it seems our objective is not only to practice but to learn,” he said, running a hand down her arm. “Praise be to the Valar, at least I remember what my aunts had taught me.”

And so Marigold learned to dance, and the three of them practiced.

Merry, eventually driven to distraction by the constant, repetitive music, had begged off to visit friends who lived in the neighborhood, while Sam and Rosie had returned to their usual tasks, and the long-running list of duties that came with planning the wedding.

But through it all, day in and day out, Pippin happily wore out his wrist and arm, while Frodo and Marigold doggedly wore out their feet, preparing for the necessary penance that was the couple’s dance.

Of those days Marigold remembered relatively little. She remembered afternoons passing by in counts of one-two-three, and learning to move, according to Frodo, “in the shape of a box,” as well as to “progress” down the floor that had been cleared of all furniture.

It was like learning to walk again – for a turn was no longer a turn, and going to the right or the left worked very differently.

And so she tried. She really did.

But while she was perfectly adept with her hands – as anyone who knew her could have attested – when it came to her feet, it was another matter entirely.

Perhaps it was her bum leg, or something else, but the bottom of her body staunchly refused to cooperate with the top. It took nothing at all for her feet tangle up with Frodo’s, and to stumble over one another like a rambunctious set of hooves.

It did not matter how much they counted; it did not matter if Frodo nudged her with his thigh, or whispered instructions, or guided her patiently with his hand below her arm.

It took nothing at all to make her anxious, and when she was anxious, she would stop, forget which leg she was on, and revert to the familiar “box,” which she had mastered on the first day and arrested in her progress.

It was funny until it was not, and even Pippin learned not to giggle – as he had done the first few times, though he had had the decency to hide his face behind his fiddle.

By the end of the first week, Marigold was so fed up that at one point, when Frodo called for a break as he did every hour or so, she went over to the couch that was pushed against the wall, and sat down, burying her face in her hands.

She sat like that for a very long time until a shadow fell at her feet.

She glanced up, and as expected, there was Frodo: with his well-brushed foot hair and his gentle look.

She looked away, biting her lip.

She had promised herself – in the many interludes between their lessons and the nights at Bagshot Row – that she would try to be patient, would not act out, would not allow herself the tantrums that some others might have thrown in her place.

But it was no use. This was beyond her. Piecing together her letters was painful at first, but it grew easier with time. And facing the neighbors was a success because Frodo was with her.

But when it came to dancing, there was no hope.

Her body was dead weight from the start. For all of Frodo’s talk of “feeling the music,” and “counting in your head,” and following his lead, she could not grasp the simplest notions. Every suggestion was another thing to think about, another way to get confused.

And so she raised her eyes and uttered the fated words.

“It’s hopeless, isn’t it, Mr. Frodo?” she said. “I’m hopeless – so maybe we should stop deceivin’ ourselves...”

She shrugged, and as Frodo reached to take her hand, she shook her head. She did not even care that Pippin was close by, and that her reputation for being cheerful was going the way of the wind.

Frodo tried to placate her, taking her hand and saying, “No, Marigold, nobody’s hopeless,” but she pulled away, and Frodo glanced at Pippin, signaling that they needed a moment alone.

But Pippin did not get the message.

Instead, he approached the couch, placing the violin by its side, and sat at Marigold’s elbow, offered a leisurely sigh and leaning toward her.

“Well, look, Mari,” he said, “Methinks, you may be right. Not that you are hopeless, mind you. But not everyone is going to have an easy time with every task. So maybe – just maybe there’s no shame in doing it the easy way. I could simply play the song, and that would be that. What do you think?”

He peered eagerly at her face like the cheerful tweenager he still was, and Frodo furrowed his brow. 

Marigold examined her hands, wondering at the prospect.

Could it be that Frodo was too confident in her, and Pippin was right? 

The floor – polished and golden brown – stretched out long before her, and the dust danced in the rays from the window. It was terribly hot – sweat dripping down her back even indoors, for it was well into July now.

Part of her wished she could stop, and live her life as she had done before.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frodo mouthing something to Pippin, but as the silence dragged on and it became abundantly clear that Pippin had nothing more to say, and nothing more to offer than a bald-faced smile, Frodo spoke at last.

“Well, look, Mari,” he said, echoing Pippin’s earlier words. “I truly did not mean for this to be a hardship. So maybe Pippin’s right – if it really is that bad, then maybe we should stop. There is no shame in it.”

He smiled, reaching for her hand – every bit the lovely, arresting vision of peace with his calm blue eyes.

If only she could acquiesce. It would be so easy…

But Marigold shook her head, and looked away – at her knees, and at her clumsy feet, and at the floorboards beneath them.

“Well, no,” she said, and pressed her lips into a line. “I mean, maybe you’re right, ‘cept you and the rest had many chances of turning back on your quest, only you didn’t.”

She looked up – first at Pippin, then at Frodo.

“So why tell me to turn back? Why tell me to do something you wouldn’t do yourself?”

She gazed at them pointedly, and for a moment, no one spoke. Frodo looked down at his hands, and Pippin’s smile wavered.

But it did not waver long.

“Well, for starters,” he returned glibly, running a finger down the neck of his violin, “We didn’t turn back because it was a matter of life and death when we were gone, and this is only dancing. When I told Merry we ought to turn back, he said that there wouldn’t be a Shire if we did that. But I imagine that the Shire would still be standing if you didn’t dance, or am I wrong?”

He cocked his head, and Frodo raised his eyes, nodding his assent.

But Marigold shook her head, feeling somehow belittled.

Perhaps Pippin was right. The Shire would still be standing. And of course, the march to the wedding pergola was nothing next to the trek to Mount Doom. 

But even so, it felt important. Vital, even. Not for form’s sake, or for May’s sake, but for her own.

She shook her head. 

“No. I don’t want to quit,” she said. She glanced at Frodo, who was watching her with calm eyes. “The two of you, Sam, Merry – you all did it, so it would put me to shame if I could not do this. I’ll dance.”

She said as much, and then she got up, extending a hand to Frodo.

“Let’s dance.”

And so they danced. 

With a keen smile, Frodo extended a hand, and Pippin took up his violin.

All through the afternoon, they danced, with nary a break, and then they danced long into the evening.

And it would have been pretty to think that with her newfound vision, things got better for Marigold, but that was hardly so.

She still stumbled through her steps; she was still stiff and froze at every turn, even with Frodo’s instructions. Her body never learned to trust itself, not even with Frodo’s arm at the top of her back, drawing her after him like he did when they went walking.

The music would lose its way somewhere between her ears and her limbs, and only the motions she had overlearned seemed feasible at all, and even those by happy accident. So in the end, they decided they would simply glide across the floor, making a spiral with their “progression” so that the guests would have something to look at, and it would have to be enough.

“Yes, enough,” Marigold echoed as they assumed their starting position – his hand between her shoulder blades and her arm over his, backs straight.

“No, more than enough,” Frodo smiled.

“Yes, definitely enough – and more!” Pippin cried, leaning against the dining room table and massaging his shoulder and arm.

And so they danced. They danced across the floor in curling, winding patterns, moving at times slowly and assiduously, and at other times with too much haste. But either way, they kept on, with Frodo’s smiles and whispers her twin beacons of encouragement, and Pippin’s bow-arm growing exhausted, but drawing relentlessly across the strings.

Pippin would often smile, and bounce his eyebrows over the neck of his instrument when she caught sight of him, mouthing encouraging words. And invariably, Marigold would blush and stumble, and Frodo would whisper in her ear, “No, it’s alright. Look at me – only at me,” a sweet, ironical smile playing on his lips.

And so she would look at him, because who else mattered? The guests? She imagined them talking at long tables on either side of them, chewing and laughing behind piles of pastries and savory meats. She imagined a darkening sky, filled with fireflies… But more than that, she saw in her mind’s eye the two of them, spinning and laughing underneath the stars just like the song said…

Oh, if she could spin!

But even if she could not, what she could do was still nice – no, not nice, exquisite. She could dance and gaze at Frodo’s lips, whispering, his eyes, the most beautiful in the world. She could feel his confident arms and her own body, safe between them.

And so they danced. Danced a little bolder, or a little slower, with Pippin playing louder or softer, every iteration of the dance a new one, their steps tracing repetitive figures across the floor.

The only time they did not dance was when Pippin took breaks – sneaking away to practice with the Brockhouse Boys, who would provide the accompaniment to his solo, or to attend a meeting of the secretive “Men’s Planning Committee,” which formed some days after Frodo and Marigold began their lessons, and from which Frodo was pointedly excluded. (5)

But outside of that, Pippin was present every day, and every hour – with his cheerful smile and his tireless bow, sawing away – and between bouts of dancing, he would tell Marigold of his adventures in Rohan and Minas Tirith, and a veil of sorrow would cover his eyes…

It seemed they were, all of them, forever changed, even the most sparkling ones among them.

But still they danced. There was nothing to do but dance. For Marigold’s step was growing more confident, though still she stumbled, often quite badly. She could dance one time across the floor, but that was all. Which meant that she needed to keep dancing; she could not stop, she could not allow herself to think. None of them could stop. Whatever happened, they needed to keep on dancing, to keep living, or it would all come to grief… (6)

Or at least, that was Marigold’s thought in those last few weeks before the wedding. Her body sweated as it moved, like a marionette on strings, and that was all she could think of – dance, dance, dance.

It was all she could think of when Pippin’s sister, Pearl, came to visit, and joined in their rehearsals – for she had a sweet voice, and would take part in a family duet when both singing and playing were wanted.

And it was all she could think of when Heather and Cornflower got wind of the musical plans for the wedding, and wished to contribute with full conviction that they were just as good as Pearl and Pippin.

It was only by some miracle that they convinced the girls that to be the entertainment for the day would be destructive to their enjoyment of the proceedings, but still, the refrain sounded in Marigold’s head, “dance, dance, dance. Dance like your life depends on it.”

Because in a way, it did. Dancing was vitally important, in a way she could not explain. But still she danced, and sweated over the food in the kitchen, and took her breaks with Frodo from time to time, sitting quietly and holding hands.

And so the time had passed, and they were nearly there. They danced the days away, and soon the wedding was only a week away.

“If this ankle doesn’t a-meel-yore-ate anytime soon, I won’t be able to walk Mari down that aisle, I’m a’feared,” gruffed the Gaffer, raising his foot to the table for all to see. 

Only a handful of days remained before the wedding, and it was early morning at the Row – before Marigold would hurry off to Bag End for her endless dancing lessons.

From her spot at the stove she could see the bee sting glowing large and lurid on the Gaffer’s ankle, ripe as a red berry.

“I might have to delly-gate that bit to you, son,” the Gaffer said, and looked pointedly at Sam, who glanced at him from his potato chunks, thickly cut and doused in butter.

Sam furrowed his brow, considering his father’s words – but to his chagrin, his heart sprinted at the very thought of walking down the aisle towards Frodo, his renewed commitment to Rosie notwithstanding.

He shook his head. Quietly but firmly. 

“No, there ain’t no chance that a father of mine is goin’ to be missing out on that walk,” he said. “You keep off your feet for the rest of the week, Da, and Mari can make you a compress – can’t you, Mari?”

Marigold, who had just finished prying the eggs from the bottom of the pan, swept over to the Gaffer, and slid the eggs onto his plate, placing a carefully-folded napkin with his silverware beside it.

She pressed a kiss against her father’s cheek.

“Of course, Da,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “I’ll just go get some rosemary, willow, and clove, alright?”

She was about to let go, but the Gaffer clasped her tight – as if she was young again, and he was about to pull her onto his lap. He ruffled her hair.

“Ah, but Mari, yer a treasure,” he said, and pressed his wizened cheek against her temple. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, and you bein’ taken from me so soon. It is a right injustice…”

He huffed, and Marigold extricated herself with a chuckle.

“Ah, but Da,” she blushed. “I’m only goin’ down the road. And I’ll be visitin’ all the time. And thirty-seven years is hardly too soon to be leavin’ one’s home, I should think.”

She glanced at Sam, who raised his eyebrows with a knowing smile. 

But the Gaffer shook his head. 

“A hundred and thirty-seven years is not enough to have you by my side, my dear Mari,” he replied. “Mr. Frodo better be knowin’ what sort of treasure he’s gettin’, or I’ll have a word with him myself – mark my words.”

He frowned, as if Frodo was already before him, and already unworthy – and Marigold started a little, turning toward the door. 

But then she smiled, and placed a hand on her father’s arm.

“He knows, Da. He knows,” she said.

And with those words, and a rustle of skirts, she was gone, the door clicking behind her.

A quarter of an hour later, Sam had taken his leave – for there was something urgent to attend to with the shipment of ale for the wedding. But the rest of the household was just beginning to stir, and Marigold was sitting on a stool with her father’s leg propped up on her thighs, bandaging his ankle. 

She was just about done, and the Gaffer had been talking about this and that in his mumbling, lip-chewing sort of way – when suddenly, he ceased his meandering speech, and looked at her intently, as if trying to memorize her every feature.

Marigold stopped, sensing his gaze, and looked up from her work.

She gave a small, uncertain smile, and cocked her head.

“What is it, Da?”

May had been right: since childhood, she had been her father’s favorite. But there was always an odd feeling between them. She saw him punish the other children harshly, holding her up as an example, and to this day, it left her both affectionate and fearful.

But if the Gaffer knew, he never let on. He stretched a hand toward her, pushing a lock behind her ear.

“Ah, my Mari,” he smiled, gazing at her in the clean morning sunlight, “Here, come here.” He beckoned her closer. “I’ve got something for you.”

He smiled, lips curling around his gums, and she obeyed, cradling his leg as she placed it on the stool.

The Gaffer pulled up his sleeve, and undid a bracelet cuff around his wrist. He then clasped it back together again – his knobbly fingers fumbling – and placed it in Marigold’s hand.

“Here. For your new husband. A worthy gift, methinks.” 

His voice was gruff as he blinked his small brown eyes.

“But – but – but… Gaffer…” Marigold stammered, gazing at the bracelet.

She knew it well: a tough, practical thing molded by time such that it preferred to be a circle. It was made of leather, and had a burned, interlocking design running along its length. The Gaffer nodded, guessing her thoughts.

“The very thing,” he said, “Your mother gave it to me when we were first wed. From her first pay she got it, doin’ people’s washin’ and mendin’, and it was made by old Mick Twofoot, the tanner, now deceased. It ain’t too much, but if Mr. Frodo gave you somethin’ of his Ma’s, then you can give him somethin’ of your Da’s – it is only right, I say.”

The Gaffer pressed his lips, furrowing his brow, and Marigold knew better than to argue.

Even if he had worn that bracelet for the better part of his life, he would not take it back.

She glanced fearfully at the door, where the voices were starting up and the children fussing.

“But – but – but, Gaffer,” she stammered, cupping the cuff in her palms, peering at its crescent shape, “Why give this to me? Why not Hamson? This is a gift for an eldest…”

She sighed, knowing full well what he would say.

Neither spoke, listening to the sounds in the parlor, but then the Gaffer reached out and touched her cheek. Without thinking, she turned to look, and saw him smiling, the outlines of his mouth etching valleys of mirth into his cheeks.

“Why, because Hamson and the rest are all nincompoops,” he huffed, his lips etching valleys of mirth into his cheeks. “And you – well, you remind me of Bell most of all, what with goin’ about smilin’ and takin’ care of your Mr. Frodo from morning till night. Just like she took care of me back in our day. It brings a tear to the eye, it does, and I say, I’ll give my weddin’ bracelet to whomever I like, so long as there’s breath in this body.”

He measured her with a look – a mixture of tenderness and severity, and Marigold threw her arms around him.

“Oh, Da,” she whispered into his hair.

The Gaffer wound his arms around her, and they sat like that for a very long time, with him rocking her back and forth.

“My darling girl,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

It was not until Jolly burst into the room that they remembered themselves, and the Gaffer reached to ruffle his hair, complimenting him on his abundance of energy. 

1. This is inspired by Sam’s wedding scene in The Return of the King film. Rosie throws a bouquet (presumably for the single women to catch, as in our world), and Pippin catches it instead.
2. This song is inspired by “Halo” by Beyoncé. I imagine that Pippin is playing a classical arrangement of this song, a notion inspired by the soundtracks of Bridgerton, which include modern songs rearranged for a string quartet.
3. “Dreams Are My Reality” by Richard Sanderson, played in classical arrangement, of course.
4. “Kiss me” by Sixpence None the Richer, ditto.
5. The name “Men’s Planning Committee” was inspired by an American social concept known as the “Men’s Group.” Usually, a “Men’s Group” is a semi-formal support group that forms along religious, social, political, or other lines. They meet on a regular basis and have coffee or do other activities together. 
6. Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance: “‘Dance,’ said the Sheep Man. ‘Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don'teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck. Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou're tired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon'tletyourfeetstop.’” The Sheep Man’s quote in Murakami’s novel is, admittedly, a strange one, but I understand it as having to do with a need to keep moving forward, whatever happens in life. Marigold espouses this sentiment with her dancing as she reflects on her and the other hobbits’ journeys.

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the wedding, and Marigold was concealed in a white tent at the edge of the party field, not far away from where the ceremony was slated to take place. In accordance with tradition, Frodo was not to see her until she took the aisle, for her wedding garb was supposed to be a secret – not only from her beloved, but from the guests as well. But while Frodo, like a dutiful betrothed, was kept away by ritual and expectation, nothing could keep a steady stream of well-wishers – some invited by the Wedding Planning Committee, and some invited by themselves – from insinuating their heads into the tent, with pretenses of congratulations, gossip, and other topics of dubious importance as a ploy to catch a glimpse of the future Mrs. Baggins.

Merry and Pippin came first – Pippin inseparable from his violin – and they brought a litany of jokes and tight, warm hugs, stepping severally over the kneeling form of Boffo’s assistant, Beryl, who was working double-time to finish Marigold’s hem. And then Sam appeared, and if he were a horse, his sides would have been flecked with foam, but even so, he drew Marigold into a tight, warm hug – having stepped over Beryl in his turn – and admonished her to be happy until at last an earnest voice summoned him outside to attend to something with ladders.

And then her girlfriends had stopped by, brimming with laughter and with flowers in their hair, and then the Gaffer came, two cups already into the festivities, and Lavender holding hands with one of the Boffin boys, and then all of Marigold’s siblings, nieces and nephews – all of whom took turns stepping over and around Beryl, who by then looked like she might run out of the tent screaming.

But that was not the end. Once the gross of the hobbits dispersed, there were also Legolas and Gimli, who were traveling Middle-earth together, and were invited as guests of honor. When Beryl finished wrangling with the hem, she stood up and there they were, and she just about swallowed the pin in her mouth, so marvelous was the sight.

Gimli, with his massive red beard secured by braids and intricately wrought pieces of metal, looked, smelled, and talked like a roaring fireplace, and he embraced Marigold and nearly shook off her arm as she stood riveted by his rolling accent. And Legolas, for his part, was more demure, dressed in a silver raiment with his hair falling over his shoulders, but his presence lit up the tent, and as he got down on one knee and kissed her hand and called her “my lady,” she just about swooned, and if not for her love for Frodo, she would have been lost.

And now, the final hour before the ceremony was on the wane.

Rosie, her sisters, Lavender, and Beryl had long since assisted her into her wedding gown, which Boffo had slaved away until the last to finish. The dress fit her like a glove; the skirt had layers enough to make a wedding cake – a riot of tulle gathered in roses that looked like frosting – while the bodice and the veil were a brocade of pearl, embroidery, and slivers of iridescent mica. (1)

It was, altogether, more than Marigold would have chosen herself, but May had insisted upon it – she wanted everyone to be speechless at the sight, and so they would be.

But Marigold was not thinking about that.

Indeed, her mind was strangely empty as she faced herself in the mirror. The band was winding up its melody like a halting dwarrow music box, and the sound of conversation swelled, like rain pounding on a roof.

It was a miracle: her hands were not shaking, and her cheeks were not burning. Rosie had brought her half an ale, and its headiness hung over her like a cloak, muffling all fear.

She thought, mostly, of how she wished things could move along. She wanted to stand at Frodo’s side, their hands linked, and for Mayor Whitfoot to pronounce them husband and wife. She wanted the party to be over, and for the two of them to be left alone, to rest and to find peace in one another. Or better yet, she wished it could be several weeks from now, when the wedding would be old news, and there would be no more prying eyes and equally prying questions.

But most of all, she longed to see Frodo’s face – to meet his eyes across the dais. She imagined it now: his features quivering like the surface of a pool, his eyes iridescent with tears.

His hand reaching for hers and his voice whispering “I do.”

It was all that mattered, but this, she knew, was a selfish thought, and her eyes pricked at the thought of all the people who had aided in the coming of this day. Legolas and Gimli, who protected Frodo on his quest. Boffo and Beryl with their nimble, calloused, pinpricked fingers. Sam, Rosie, Pippin and Merry. The Gaffer, with his good-natured, toothless smile and his earnest admonitions. And even May, despite all her chiding, and Holly and Jolly who would scatter petals down the aisle as she walked.

The day’s festivities would include a part called the receiving line, where the couple would shake the hands of everyone who came. And despite her shyness, she wanted to shake their hands, and not only that, but to tear off a piece of her gown and give it to each of them… (2)

“Hey, Mari! Quit your noddin’! It’s almost time!” May’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she spun around.

Her sister swept into the tent, wearing her peachy-pink bridesmaid’s dress and her hair in high curls. The bell-shaped sleeves of the dress were too big for her frame and looked like pinwheels, but May had insisted they be large, overruling her husband (3).

Indeed, everything about May’s look was “too much,” but she did not think so. She glowed like she was the one getting married, and had been bouncing in and out of the tent all morning with a gleeful, self-important air.

Marigold smiled, and tucked a curl behind her ear.

“I know, I know, May.” She gathered up her skirt. “I’m nearly ready. Just a few more moments to get my wits about me.”

“Well, don’t be too long,” May clicked her tongue. “After all, you’ve had a year to gather your wits. Here, let me have a look at you…”

And before Marigold could protest, May stepped toward her – coming up as close as the volume of the dress would allow. She clasped Marigold by the upper arms.

“Ahhhh, you look good enough to eat,” she smacked her lips. “If I were Frodo, I would eat you right up.” 

She smoothed her hand over Marigold’s bodice.

Marigold sniffed a laugh. “Well, leave it to you to give the oddest compliments in the Shire!”

May curled her lip, but before she could answer, Jolly poked his head into the tent, and the rest of him, clad in a pair of sage-colored overalls, followed after.

“Mari! Mari! Mayor Whitfoot is here!” he cried. “And the band is playin’! It’s almos’ time!”

The band was playing indeed – the formless tooting and string-plucking had swelled into a tune, and Marigold glanced from her sister to her nephew.

“Just one more moment – please.”

May measured her skeptically from head to toe, but thankfully did not argue. She drew Jolly after her as she exited the tent, and the flap fell with a dull thud, the music growing quiet.

Marigold drew a sigh, and pressed her hands together. 

She looked once more in the mirror – lush curls decorated with flowers, blushing cheeks and lips tinted with rouge for the first time in her life. The dress, like billows of frosting all around her. A cake indeed.

But something was missing. It lay in the pocket of her regular dress, for she did not want anyone to comment.

She turned and strode to the chair where her regular dress lay – yellow, and washed too many times – and reached into its pocket.

In the dim half-light, she examined May’s comb, blonde wood painted with pink flowers, solid but unremarkable. The flowers were the wrong shade of pink, cooler than the ruddy, cozy shade that permeated the wedding’s decor, and cooler than the blossoms in her hair. But she twisted it into her curls regardless, and turned toward the door.

And so it was that Gaffer Gamgee saw his youngest child married nearly without a hitch on the fifteenth of August in the year 1421 by Shire reckoning, and the first year of the Fourth Age. 

The wedding’s scale and generosity rivaled even Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, and despite the Wedding Planning Committee’s every attempt at a limited guest list, nearly the whole population of the Shire invited themselves, sitting two-a-plate where they needed to, but it still snowed food and rained drink, and everyone left indelibly satisfied. Sam later opined that if nothing else, this meant that the entirety of the Shire had gotten the change to shake the hand that sacrificed a finger to save them – and to this Frodo muttered something unintelligible, but dutifully shook the hand of every well-wisher nonetheless.

Pippin, for his part, learned that even the best-laid plans could go awry, even for the luckiest of fellows. He stood at the agreed-upon spot, but he did not catch the bouquet – Marigold was too flustered by that point, and in spite of her three brothers, she was anything but adept at throwing, so the bouquet ended up in the Mallorn tree, and nobody got it. But even so, Pippin did not begrudge her this floral failure, for that very same afternoon, he met a lass named Diamond Took from Long Cleeve, and when he was not playing or singing, the two of them got on like a house on fire, and struck up a lively correspondence soon after.

But the throwing of the bouquet was not the greatest misadventure. The incident of Marigold’s veil perhaps eclipsed it – for as the Gaffer walked her down the aisle, the long swath of tulle detached itself from her head, courtesy of a great gust of wind, and summarily sailed up to the dais, nearly hitting Frodo in the face. Rosie, however, rushed to the rescue and captured the thing (in spite of her pregnancy-encumbered state) and did her best to reattach it – but this last part took some doing, and more than a little bit of wrangling. The band did not cease to play as Rosie struggled, and the guests in the first few rows bore witness to a frustrated, “Nell’s Bells! This makes no sense!” and a hissed “well, figure it out!” from Gaffer. (4)

But in the end, the wedding did both Frodo and Marigold credit: neither bolted as some of the Wedding Planning Committee feared, neither cried, and Marigold remained impressively calm when gnats got caught in the netting of her skirt and had to be picked out one by one by Beryl and Boffo (5). And when it came to the dinner, the couple’s kisses were both soulful and well-received, and Frodo benefited from a pair of ear plugs, sitting next to Marigold and smiling “like an exquisitely happy fool,” as he himself would later describe it.

But as it turned out, the party was not just a celebration of the wedding. Largely by dint of his friends’ speeches (written during the secretive meetings of the “Men’s Committee”) the party became a celebration of Frodo, and the denizens of the Shire were reminded of his many accomplishments before, during, and after the quest. Marigold’s accomplishments were not neglected either, and she was described as the “Jewel of Bagshot Row” who had nursed a wounded hero back to health, and brought both sunshine and happiness into his life. Indeed, after Sam’s best man speech there was not a dry eye in the house, and this fact garnered him no small number of votes in his subsequent bid for mayor.

And then, after the speeches, there was the dancing. Pippin played “Kiss Me” as if the heartstrings of the audience were his own violin, and Pearl sang exquisitely in her well-tempered voice, while Marigold did precious little stepping on Frodo’s feet, and even managed a spin toward the end – which they had practiced but ultimately left discretionary, depending on Marigold’s inclination on the day.

There were no flying dragons or showers of gold, but Merry and Pippin – and the others who were in on it – did not disappoint either. As “Kiss Me” drew to a close, a thick, smoky mist began to rise from beneath the tables nearest the dance floor, and the couple disappeared from view. And then Frodo and Marigold did the other thing that they had practiced: Marigold discarded her veil and skirt – the dress had a second, more modest skirt underneath – and then the two of them dropped to their hands and knees and made a hasty escape by crawling underneath the tables, past the legs and feet of unsuspecting guests.

By the time the smoke had cleared, the newlyweds were nowhere to be seen, and such an uproar the party field had not seen since the night of Bilbo’s disappearance.

But here, too, Sam proved himself a capable brother-in-law and brother-of-the-bride. 

He climbed onto a table and shouted – a fact that garnered him a few more mayoral votes – and raised his glass, hitting a spoon against it.

“Everyone, remain calm!” he cried, “I am pleased to announce that the bride and groom have left on their honeymoon, but unlike Bilbo before them, they have not gone far and they SHALL RETURN! The banquet continues!”

And then he waved his arms at the confounded musicians.

At the other end of the party field, Frodo and Marigold did not hear Sam’s words, but they stopped in their ascent up the path and squinted into the darkness. Neither could tell what Sam was shouting, but they did see his burly frame standing up on top of a table, and they laughed with fists against their mouths when his silhouette waved its arms at the Brockhouse Boys. A moment later, they were on their way again, with the sweeping echoes of “Everlasting Spring” permeating the air.

Once they got around the bend, however, they stopped, clasped their hands and turned to face each other. They laughed at the success of their joke, their hearts brimming with their love for their friends, and Frodo kissed Marigold deeply on the lips, picking her up and spinning her around amid the last of the summer fireflies.

Marigold had changed into her nightgown, made for the occasion by the seamstress and decorated, as a personal touch, with embroidery by her friends and sisters. It was quite demure: precious little of her skin was left exposed, but the cloth was light and airy, like mist covering her form.

Frodo was more dressed than her – for although he had removed his waistcoat, he was still wearing his chemise, undershirt, and pants.

And although it was not their first time – far from it – he still felt a blush rising to his cheeks at the sight of her lambent face in the moonlight, and the cloth of her nightgown skimming every part of her as she approached.

His arms rose to meet her, and she went on tiptoe so they could see eye to eye.

“Mr. Frodo,” she whispered. “Do you think we might…” 

She bit her lip, glancing away, and Frodo ran his hands down her back, willing himself to stop just short of her waist.

He nodded, as if to say “go on,” and Marigold raised her eyes.

“Do you think we might… do it without a sheepskin tonight?” 

Her eyes were dark, and they had an iridescent sheen in the moonlight.

Frodo’s heart skipped a beat. 

His fingers tensed over her back, and he neither spoke nor breathed, his eyes transfixed.

Her chest was rising and falling, her lovely mouth smiling, and he wound his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him. Letting her feel all of his desire, though his breeches were still on.

“You’re sure you want that? It’s not too soon?”

His voice came out tremulous.

The last time he had finished inside a lass without a sheepskin, he was a very young and very foolish tweenager, and the weeks that followed were nothing short of terrifying. But the idea of making love to Marigold that way, the possibility of her carrying his child, stirred within him such an intense desire that he could have ripped her nightgown off right then and there.

She nodded, her eyes bright.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been feeling so much today that I think it will carry me through. And if tomorrow I won’t want to try anymore, then so be it. But just for tonight, since it’s so special, I want it all. I think I can do it.”

“Mari…” 

Frodo released a sigh, and fought the urge to take her face in his hands and kiss it, and to draw her down on the bed without another word.

But he swallowed and gathered his wits as best he could.

“But look, Mari,” he said. “This isn’t something to ‘think you can do.’ It’s only something to do if we want it and need it. Goodness knows I want to be a father” – he swallowed, for many hobbits his age were, many times over – “But it’s your feelings that matter most.”

He held her with bated breath and watched her eyes.

And Marigold raised a hand, touching his cheek, and swept a dark, curly lock behind his ear.

“But I do, Mr. Frodo. I do want it and need it,” she replied. “I do want you and me, together at last, and not a thing between. And if it is fate that a child should come of that – well, I want that too, because it will be our child.”

She raised herself on her toes, and was about to kiss him, but he was faster.

He swept her up, lifting her bodily off the floor, and they spoke no more as he carried her to the bed.

And though Gandalf was gone, that night Bag End did have fireworks.

Once they got to the bed, her body welcomed him again and again, and their hands and moans were by turns fierce and intimate. Here, they exchanged savoring kisses and delicate words, and there, they sweated and pulled at clothes ready to rip them off. To Frodo’s surprise, the nightgown did survive the night, but more importantly, Marigold’s eyes never clouded over with fear, nor with painful visions.

1. The idea of using slivers of iridescent mica to simulate sequins comes from the show Outlander. The designers made the wedding gown in the first season using this technique because they wanted the dress to shimmer in candlelight, but actual sequins would not have been available in the 1700s.
2. In the movie Mean Girls, the main character is elected prom queen, and during her acceptance speech, she says that everyone deserves a piece of her crown. She then actually breaks the crown into pieces, and passes them around.
3. May is fancast in my mind as Jessica Madsen, who played Cressida Cowper in the Bridgerton series. As such, I decided to give her Cressida’s ostentatious taste in clothing.
4. The wedding veil incident is based on something that happened during my and Mr. Nisilë’s wedding. The veil slipped out of my hair as I was walking down the aisle, and the maid of honor (Mr. Nisilë’s sister) scrambled to reattach it, but fumbled for a while before she succeeded. She grew frustrated and told her father she could not do it, to which he replied, somewhat tersely, “well, figure it out.” In his defense, he is not usually a terse person, but it was a stressful moment. 
5. The bugs getting caught in the skirt of a wedding dress hearkens back to Mr. Nisilë’s cousin’s wedding. The bride wore a large, voluminous skirt made of mesh and lace, and bugs kept getting caught in it, which caused some stress during the photo session.

Chapter Text

Marigold opened her eyes to the sunlight streaming through the window, and with Frodo’s arms around her.

His large blue eyes were the first thing she saw, and then his smile, and then she felt his arms and legs, warm and entwined with her own under the covers.

“Good morning, my love.”

Frodo kissed the tip of her nose, and squeezed her tighter, his body warm and seemingly all around her.

Nothing between them indeed.

A blush rose to her cheeks as she felt all of him, and memories of the night before flooded her mind.

“Mmm… Mr. Frodo.” 

She nuzzled in for a kiss, and Frodo’s lips responded, welcoming her with a smile. They tasted of sleep, but they were sweet, and for a long and gratifying moment they savored each other, lingering and caressing. 

But when they broke apart, Frodo’s face had an air of regret.

“Still Mister, huh?”

She flushed, and he pressed his forehead against hers, a winsome smile on his lips.

“We’re married, and yet I’m still Mister… Alas, I do not know what else to do.”

He blinked like a child denied a sweet, and she extracted a hand from under the covers, pushing a lock of hair from his eyes.  

Her hand lingered by his ear as she tucked the lock behind it, smoothing a finger up and down its curve.

“Well, you know, Mr. Frodo,” she replied, her finger tracing his earlobe and meandering down his neck, “Methinks me callin’ you Mister is an expression of love now, and not of distance. There’s callin’ you Mr. Frodo, and then there’s callin’ someone else Mr. Somethin’-or-other. It’s more than respect… it’s memory now – memory of how we were, of how we started out…”

The smile spread coyly over her lips, and she brought her head forward, pushing her forehead against her husband’s.

And Frodo, for his part, broke into a wider smile yet, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him.

“Ah, well, that I can live with, Mistress Baggins.”

He slid his hands over her back and cupped her bum, and Marigold’s eyes grew wide – more at the appellation than at his boldness.

Their earlier, half-dressed copulations had been exciting enough – but this – this was what she lived for.

His hands, more daring than before, were claiming more of her now, mapping the swell of her hips and thighs. He looked at her with supplication, his lips swollen with need.

“Ahh – Mari,” he gasped.

But she needed no words to get his meaning.

She felt it already between his legs, and smiled, cupping his face and positioning herself athwart his hips.

He entered her gently, and they began to move, gasping softly, nibbling each other’s lips.

They lay in each other’s arms, still dazed and dizzy from the pleasure they had shared, and Marigold’s breath was growing steadily slower. She only had a bit of anxiety toward the end, and now she lay in the patch of sunlight as they breathed together, with Frodo coiling her hair around his fingers.

“Are you alright, my love?”

He gazed at her with warm blue eyes, and she nodded, dazed and languid. There was a mild misgiving in her heart, but she did not wish to give it voice – the moment was too tender.

She nestled against Frodo’s shoulder, but as her eyelids drifted downward, her ear twitched at the click of a lock in the front door, and the heavy whine of hinges.

She started, nearly sitting up, but Frodo’s arms restrained her.

“It’s Rosie – ugh, I told her…” Marigold shook her head, and Frodo ran his hand up and down her arm.

“It’s alright. Just let her do as she wishes. She was never going to listen anyhow.”

There was a chuckle in his voice, and he raised himself on his elbow.

But Marigold shook her head, her lips curling into a frown. Rosie had insisted on cooking and cleaning at Bag End while they were on their honeymoon, and Marigold had insisted there was no need – but in the end, the pre-wedding hullabaloo had precluded any consensus.

“For pity’s sake, she’s supposed to give birth soon,” Marigold huffed, and peeled her his fingers away from her shoulder. She rolled over, and stretched her arm toward the floor where her nightgown lay. “She shouldn’t have to – I’ll just send her on her way.”

Frodo looked at her with earnest skepticism, but in the end, he settled back against the pillows.

He watched her as she got up, scooping the nightgown off the floor, and hurriedly pulled it over herself. He sighed as the light, embroidered fabric settled over her form, a seam mapping the arch of her hip. In the morning light, the vision was too alluring for words.

Marigold faced the mirror, turning halfway left and halfway right.

“Covers nothing,” she muttered, and squatted by her glory box, rummaging inside.

It was a large, heavy wooden chest, carved all over with oak leaves and flowers, and carried in with some ceremony by her brothers the day before.

She found what she was looking for, and straightened up, holding out a dressing gown in pink that leaned mauve.

Frodo glanced at her and at the gown.

“Well, don’t be too long,” he said, smiling. His eyes were bright with unmistakable intent. “I will miss you more with every passing minute.”

“I won’t be a moment,” Marigold returned, and threw the gown over her shoulders. “You just wait where you are, Mr. Baggins.”

Marigold encountered Rosie in the kitchen, where the latter was humming as she unpacked a loaf of bread, eggs, and berries from her basket.

“Rosie, I thought we agreed,” Marigold strode across the floor, and paused just shy of the table, measuring her friend with her eyes. “I said there was no need for you to help us. I am perfectly capable of feedin’ Mr. Frodo and myself, to say nothing of the guests, and you are, well –”

She glanced at Rosie’s stomach, which was bulging under her apron, the front of her periwinkle skirt ending higher than the back.

But Rosie was undeterred, and sniffed, shaking her head.

“Tut-tut, workin’ on your honeymoon? That won’t do.” She glanced at the collection of jars on the shelf. “Now where do you keep your flour? Ah – there we are.”

She waddled towards it, but Marigold stepped in front of her.

“No, I mean it,” she clasped her friend’s arm. “You shouldn’t be doin’ anythin’ extra anymore, not in your state. Half of what you did for the wedding, you shouldn’t have done, so please, go home.”

Her eyes were earnest, and she glanced toward the door.

Rosie returned an earnest look, smiling brightly.

“Well, alright, dear,” she chuckled, and twisted, as if in a dance, out of Marigold’s grip. She took the canister of flour from the shelf, and danced with it toward the table. “But on one condition.” Her eyes were impish as she ended her pirouette with a clumsy hop. “You have to tell me everything about last night. I’m dying to know – did all those merry widows teach your husband well? Was it everything you had hoped for and more? I mean, I suspect it wasn’t your first time,” she paused, and the sides of her mouth dug deep into her cheeks, “But I’m sure that it was right special, seein’ how it was your wedding night, and you need to share the wealth, now that you’re Mistress Baggins.”

Marigold folded her arms, but her dogged expression was hardly enough to hide her blazing cheeks.

“Rosie, that’s not fair.”

But Rosie puffed out her chest, and clutched the flour with a self-important air.

“How is that not fair?” she retorted. “I’ve told you everything about my weddin’ night.”

“Yes, and I was loth to hear it!” Marigold exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Sam is my brother, you know, so what makes you think I’d fancy hearin’ about his relations?!”

Rosie smirked, depositing the flour, and leaned against the table.

“Well, I don’t see the problem, then,” she sniffed. “I’m not related to Mr. Frodo.”

Marigold strode over to the hearth, and pulled a pan from the rack – though by now, she was scarcely containing her laughter.

“Well, then, in that case, I really do wish you were related to him,” she scoffed. “Though I doubt even that would stop you.”

She turned to fetch a cord of wood from the alcove – thinking that if she started a fire and began to cook on her own, Rosie would have no space to intervene. But suddenly, there was a shuffle of heavy feet, and a deep clearing of a throat behind her.

“S’cuse me, Mistress – not to disturb you, but…”

“AAAAAAAH, MERCIFUL PETUNIAS!!!”

Marigold spun around at Rosie’s cry, and sure enough… She had heard him earlier that morning, and she even heard his footfalls in the parlor, but she never imagined the dwarf looking like this…

His beard was twice as big as it had been the prior night, for it was matted and in disarray, and his only clothing was an ill-fitting pair of breeches: they were too long, yet scarcely wide enough to cover the bulge of his groin.

His arms, chest, and stomach were covered in tattoos – patterns of indigo swirling over hardened muscle. There were faces, too, and symbols, and runes that twisted about and looked like processions of twigs.

And Rosie was standing opposite, bug-eyed and speechless and clutching the table.

Marigold rushed to her side and wrapped her arms around her.

“Rosie, Rosie – it’s alright, it’s just Master Gimli –”  

“I’m sorry, my lady – I’m sorry…”

Gimli, fully conscious of his size – which was two hobbits wide, and at least a head taller – looked deeply apologetic as he slumped his shoulders and pushed his beard out of his face.

He gave a genial smile, his brown eyes twinkling – but as he drew closer, a heady smell of liquor assailed their senses.

“Ladies, verily,” he intoned, offering a deep, ceremonious bow as he descended on one knee. “I am truly sorry if my look offended you. I was only hoping to find some hair of the dog, if you are acquainted with the concept: a splash of liquor to drown the ills of last night’s festivities.”

Gazing up from where he was kneeling, the dwarf looked a good deal less wild, and Rosie nodded as Marigold lowered her solicitously onto the bench.

The dwarf examined them both, his eyes a trifle out of focus, but his air was that of a courtier.

“M’ladies, may I help you with anything?” he rumbled. “Please know, I am eager to serve, in respect for your dignity, and in thanks for your renowned hospitality.”

Rosie peered at the dwarf in numb fascination, and as he scrambled up, Marigold shook her head, smoothing the front of her dressing gown.

“No, no, Master Gimli,” she returned, squeezing her friend’s shoulders. “You just rest here a bit. I won’t be a moment.”

Now that he was closer, she could tell that he reeled a little, and she took an instinctive step back. Perhaps he was still inebriated – that would have explained a thing or two.

She sighed, and nudged Rosie to the other end of the bench, squeezing her hands.

“I do – I do have some hair of the dog,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder. “Just a moment, let me find it.”

She strode over to the cupboard and rummaged until she found the plum cordial. She set it on the counter, noting that it was half full, but she suspected the dwarf would need at least that much. She then turned to where the tumblers were kept, plucking out the largest one, and –

“AHHHH!!”

Another sharp, jarring cry split her ear, and she nearly dropped the tumbler into the sink. Her entire body jolted, and she spun around – fearful that Gimli had finally split his pants from all the kneeling.

But no.

She had not heard their other guest stirring, or moving about the smial, but she recalled that elves were remarkably light of foot.

And there he was. Standing in the doorway, tranquil as the sun, his head nearly touching the ceiling. His hair was lambent as the moon, and a silver silken robe hung over his shoulders, opening in a long, lean V over his chest.

“Gimli, light in my eyes, I asked you not to borrow my garb,” Legolas smiled, his voice as mellifluous as a river. “Surely you’ll embarrass yourself one day, when the threads aren’t strong enough to hold you…”

He looked placidly at Gimli, and then at Rosie and at Marigold.

“Good morrow, ladies,” he said, as if interrupted in the midst of archery practice in a clearing in the woods. “I ask your pardon.”

He inclined his head, and both women gasped as his robe shifted open, revealing a chest defined as a glacier.

Rosie’s eyes grew big as saucers, and she uttered a strangled “erp” as Gimli swayed over to Legolas’ side.

The elf lifted his arm, opening a space for Gimli to nestle into.

Rosie gaped at the two of them, opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

Legolas gave a serene smile and began to draw Gimli away.

“Come, Gimli,” he said, but their progress was arrested by another, sharper cry from Rosie.

Legolas turned, and Marigold hastened to her side.

But she hardly needed to see, for with a sixth sense she knew, and sure enough, there was Rosie, whimpering and pawing at her skirt, and a thin, glistening line was snaking down her leg.

The elf and the dwarf stood aghast – whether they comprehended it or not, Marigold could not tell. And then – holy petunias –

“Mari, what’s going on?”

Frodo stood on the threshold in his burgundy dressing gown, with Lúthien at his feet.

Two nearly identical blue eyes were peering at her from the doorway.

Marigold’s eyes darted from elf to dwarf to hobbit, and she felt like she was falling.

Her stomach began to churn, and red patches appeared on her hands.

“Mari…”

The voice came to her as a whisper.

A strangled whisper, like there was not enough air.

A tiny girl, dressed in blue, was standing before her, clutching a doll to her chest.

But her mother would not come. Nobody would come, for there was only darkness.

“Mari… Please… Help me…”

The voice rippled in and out, and – slowly, very slowly – something began to move inside her.

The onlookers – Frodo, Legolas, and Gimli – would never know what happened in the end, and Marigold herself would not remember it, but as Frodo would later tell it, it seemed like something was breaking inside her: first, she fell deathly silent, getting up and backing away. Then she stopped, and her face looked like it was holding back a flood. It quaked, her color changing from pink to red, and then, as if a wizard had snapped his fingers, Marigold came to, rushing to Rosie’s side, and spoke in a voice he had never heard before.

Soft yet determined it was, urgent but unhurried. 

“Rosie,” she said, clasping her friend by the shoulders, and lowering herself to her level. “Listen to me. All will be well. I need you to answer me – do you have any pain?”

Rosie spasmodically shook her head, clutching her belly tighter.

“Good. Have you had any contractions?”

Rosie’s eyes grew wide, but Marigold squeezed her hand.

“Have you had any contractions?” 

Rosie nodded.

“Alright, when?”

“L-last night.”

Marigold nodded.

“Anything regular?”

“N-no.”

Marigold watched her friend’s face, and for a moment did not speak.

She took one of her hands away from Rosie’s, and her fingers were moving in the air.

“Early – it’s too early,” Rosie gasped. “Mari, it’s too early. What do we do?”

Her last word was a sob, and she cast her eyes about the room.

But Marigold shook her head.

“No, Rosie, it’s alright,” she said. “Early it might be, but there are things we can do. I am going to have a look at you – in private, in the bedroom. But most likely we will need to get Mrs. Bracegirdle today, and you will need to stay here. You may need to give birth, today.”

Marigold fixed her eyes on Rosie’s face, but Rosie, as if scalded, shook her head.

“No… No… I can’t,” she cried, and made a sudden effort to wrest herself away. “No, please – I can’t – not in your house… Not on your honeymoon…”

She whimpered, but Marigold shook her head, grabbing both her hands.

“Yes, yes, you can,” she insisted. “It doesn’t matter whose house this is, and whose honeymoon. All that matters is you and your child. Come on, now.”

She scrambled to her feet, seeking Frodo’s eyes across the room.