Chapter Text
Frodo gazed at the flames dancing in the fireplace. It was warm in the study, and the glow was bright and comforting. Frodo was aware of this, but cheer, and warmth, and comfort seemed to settle on his skin and sink no further, leaving him cold within, shadowed.
Allowing himself a quiet sigh, Frodo closed his eyes a moment. It had been a pleasantly uneventful day, and he had no reason for unhappiness. Surely, no one else at Bag-End shared his discontent, except, perhaps, the littlest Gamgee, who squalled like any toddler.
Sam’s spirits were high, for snowdrifts were slowly being replaced by rainfall, heralding the approach of spring, though it was cold and dismal out yet. He was eager to resume his husbandry work throughout the Shire and even more eager to tend the garden at Bag-End as he had for so many years. Already, flowers were abloom in his head, Sam had told Frodo how much he was looking forward to bringing his wife the first roses of the season. Frodo did not know it, but, just as often, Sam daydreamed about giving him a bouquet of flowers and being rewarded with a sweet smile and perhaps a kiss on the cheek.
Elanor’s sixth birthday was fast approaching, and she would not let anyone forget it. She bubbled over with so much enthusiasm that even her younger brother, Wee Frodo, so called to avoid confusion with his namesake, could talk of nothing else but “Ellie’s big party”. Sam and Rosie both came from large families, so the children had no shortage of cousins to serve as playmates, and Elanor, already proving to be as bold and sociable as her mother, had many friends to invite besides.
Rosie was expecting yet again, and, despite the aches, and pains, and irritations, she was happier than anyone. Frodo had once said that Bag-End was big enough for as large a family as Sam and Rosie could possibly want, and they seemed determined to prove it for themselves. Four children would not have seemed like much to most hobbits– in fact, it was barely a start for Rosie and Sam– but Frodo had been an only child and had lived most of his adult life alone or only with Bilbo, so it was a daunting number for him. Even so, he had already welcomed this new arrival in his heart, for he loved Sam and Rosie’s children dearly.
Frodo had many reasons to be joyful and only one to despair.
“But such a one!” Frodo murmured to himself, burying his face in his hands to muffle a sob. He rarely gave in to such fits of melancholy, but they came on more frequently and grew harder to fight whenever one of his anniversaries approached. The thirteenth of March was little more than a fortnight away.
The anniversary was harrowing every year, and Frodo felt even less prepared to withstand it than usual. He had been gravely ill a few months ago and was still rather weak, though it was not his physical condition that concerned him. Ever since falling ill, the pain, and guilt, and sorrow Frodo usually succeeded in relegating to a quiet corner of his mind had intensified, and it was harder than ever not to feel horribly out of place in a home full of whole and happy people. Already, Frodo felt like an open wound. He feared the anniversary would tear him apart completely.
A knock at the door jarred Frodo from his thoughts. It was either Sam or one of the children– Rosie never disturbed him when he retreated to the study. If it was Elanor or Wee Frodo, he didn’t have the heart to turn them away, and, if it was Sam. . . well. . .
Hastily, Frodo dried his tears and said, “come in.”
It was Elanor. She was wearing a nightgown, which meant she was either expected in bed soon or had already snuck out. Frodo felt a vague, parental obligation to inquire which it was, but he did not really want to know. Even if she was misbehaving, he was too exhausted in spirit to work up even a tepid reprimand. However, he found he could manage a small but genuine smile.
“Hello, Elanor. What brings you here this evening?”
Elanor would have none of his pleasantries, for a serious question weighed on her mind. “Do you like Wee Frodo more than me? Tell the truth,” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips the way her mother did when she was cross. She resembled her mother very much in looks and temperament, being a lovely, spirited little lass, but the determined set of her chin was exactly like Sam’s, and it amused Frodo to see it.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Frodo asked.
“He’s named after you, and I’m not, and it’s not fair!” Elanor cried, stomping her foot. “I met you first.”
Frodo did not laugh, but only because he wanted to spare Elanor’s feelings. It was hard to believe that, mere moments ago, laughter and joy had seemed so remote. “Come, Elanor,” he said, patting his lap.
Elanor brightened at once and raced across the study, leaping into Frodo’s lap with such vigor that he needed a moment to catch his breath afterward.
“See? You’re nice,” said Elanor, happily snuggling against Frodo. “I want to be named after you, too.”
Frodo was touched, but he only said, lightly, “I imagine it would be confusing, having three Frodos about.”
Elanor waved this off. “Wee Frodo can change his name. He can be Elanor.”
“I should think you would rather be named for the fairest flower of Lothlorien than a homely, old hobbit like me,” said Frodo. “Besides, you were given a flower name to match your mother’s, so it’s almost as if you were named after her.”
Elanor’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I helped you father come up with it.”
“Did you pick Wee Frodo’s name, too?” Elanor asked.
Frodo shook his head.
“Then I’m your favorite,” declared Elanor proudly. “And Mam’s favorite, too, if I’m named after her.”
“Your mother doesn’t have favorites– she loves all three of you just as much,” said Frodo, softening this little lecture with a caress of Elanor’s curls. “As does your father, and as do I.”
Elanor squeezed Frodo tight. “You’re my favorite– my favorite uncle. But don’t tell,” she added in a hush. Elanor had several uncles, and she did not want to hurt any of their feelings.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Frodo, smiling as he returned the embrace. He quite liked that Elanor and her siblings thought of him as their uncle; it reminded him of his own dear Bilbo. He would have been happier still to be called Uncle Frodo, but it was sweet, in its own way, that the children called him Mr. Frodo like their father.
Frodo could still remember when Elanor said his name for the first time. Sam had been away, for his husbandry affairs had taken him to Buckland, so he had missed Elanor’s first word, much to his disappointment. Once Sam returned, Rosie settled Elanor in her lap and tried to get to get her to repeat it for her father.
“Say ‘Mama’!” Rosie coaxed, bouncing Elanor’s knee. “Just like you did yesterday. Mama, Mama!”
Elanor chewed on one of her chubby fists, far more interested in her growing teeth than her developing vocabulary, but her eyes lit up when she saw Frodo in the doorway. She stretched out her arms and cried, “Mida Fodo!”
“Don’t you learn fast!” exclaimed Rosie in delight, holding her daughter close. “Two new words in the same day! Where could she have heard them, I wonder?” she added, laughing and turning toward Sam.
Sam beamed with pride. “She’s my daughter, through and through!”
Frodo was distracted from the memory when Elanor yawned loudly in his ear.
“I’m tired. I’ve been busy, busy, busy all day,” said Elanor, borrowing one of her mother’s phrases.
“Busy, busy, busy with what?” Frodo asked.
“Trying to catch my shadow. It’s always following me around. I don’t like it. How come I never get to follow it?” Elanor yawned again, curling up so that her cheek rested on Frodo’s chest. When she spoke again, her words were muffled. “But I couldn’t catch it.”
“I don’t think you can catch a shadow,” said Frodo softly. “They always follow.”
Elanor said nothing. She had fallen asleep. Frodo considered trying to carry her to bed, but he didn’t think he could get out of the chair without waking her. Besides, she was quite a sturdy young hobbit, and Frodo doubted he was strong enough to carry her all the way to her bedroom. He let her sleep and was not far from sleep himself when he was roused by the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
Sam paused in the doorway, smiling fondly at the sight of his daughter resting in Frodo’s arms. Elanor looked as sweet and content as a dozing kitten. He hated to wake her, but she had been naughty, sneaking out of bed, and it wouldn’t do to let her off without a little scolding at the least.
“Elanor,” Sam called, a warning tone in his voice.
Elanor started. Her gaze darted around the room before landing on her father. “Uh-oh,” she said, clambering off Frodo’s lap and smoothing down her nightgown. “Bedtime.”
“Bedtime, indeed, Little Miss!” Sam shook his head. “Your bedtime’s twenty minutes past, and here I find you bothering Mr. Frodo!”
“I’m not a bother!” Elanor pouted. “I’m his favorite.”
“She was really no trouble at all, Sam,” Frodo appealed earnestly. “And I’m sure she’ll never sneak out again.”
“Well. . .” Sam was helpless against Frodo’s pleading eyes. He took Elanor’s hand. “Just this once, if you go right to bed and stay there– stay there, mind– I reckon you needn’t have any punishment for this. But, I’m telling you now–” Sam’s voice trailed off as he led Elanor down the hall.
A few minutes later, Sam returned, sinking into the chair beside Frodo’s with a sigh. “I’ve not gone too easy on her, have I?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Frodo reassured him.
Sam had his doubts. “If I’d’ve done that at her age, my Gaffer would’ve boxed my ears.”
“Elanor shouldn’t have broken the rules, of course, but she did help me tremendously,” said Frodo. As he spoke, his gaze slid toward the fireplace. “I wasn’t feeling well before she came, but, now, I think I can manage it, at least for a while.”
“Not feeling well?” Sam repeated, concerned, setting his hand over Frodo’s.
Frodo continued to stare at the fire, light and shadow flickering across his face. “It comes and goes.”
“It’s passed, then,” said Sam, relieved.
Frodo nodded slowly. “Yes, it’s passed. Only–” This was where Frodo would have caught himself on a better day, but, with the anniversary so near, and all his pain so close to the surface, he couldn’t help but admit, with a quiver in his voice: “I get so tired, sometimes. So desperately tired, I hardly know how to go on.”
Sam was on his feet at once. “If you’re as tired as that, I’ll carry you to bed myself.”
Frodo couldn’t bring himself to explain what he meant. Besides, “tired” couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt, living always in pain or in fear of it, finding brief snatches of joy one moment only to sink into the cold, dark waters of despair the next. The waters were always there. The shadow always followed. How tiring, then, to laugh and smile, even when he was happy, even when he truly wanted to.
“Up you come, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, gently lifting Frodo into his arms and cradling him close. He smiled, but his eyes were dark with worry. “You’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.”
Frodo smiled back weakly. There was no rest, not for him.
As Sam carried him to his bedroom, Frodo thought, a trifle guiltily, about how he hadn’t even attempted to do the same with Elanor. Sam was stronger than he was, and Frodo’s bedroom was closer than Elanor’s, but, even so. . .
“I’m not too heavy for you, am I?” Frodo asked.
“Never,” said loyal Sam. “You could be the heaviest hobbit in the Shire, and I’d find a way to carry you, if you needed it.”
Frodo did not need to be carried, but he did need to be comforted, and Sam’s touch helped. Besides, he had frightened Sam with his talk of tiredness and not feeling well– it would ease his mind to have a simple, physical task at hand. For the same reason, Frodo didn’t protest when Sam helped him undress for bed. Even with a missing finger, he could have undone the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt himself, but Sam was determined to take care of him in every way he could.
Once he was in his pajamas, Frodo thanked Sam with a kiss on the cheek, and Sam embraced him in response. Anxious as he was, he held Frodo a bit tighter than usual. Frodo didn’t mind. He only wished Sam could go on holding him forever.
Wistfully, Frodo thought of asking Sam to stay with him for the night. Sam did, sometimes, for he could always tell when Frodo had been having more nightmares than usual, and he knew Frodo slept easier when he wasn’t alone. Frodo had no idea how Sam had worked out this arrangement with Rosie and was far too embarrassed to ask.
Even after sharing a hobbit-hole with her for years, Frodo was still rather shy around Rosie. She had always been friendly toward him, but her straightforward, cheery kindness itself made him nervous. He did not feel undeserving of it, exactly, but it struck him as precarious. Rosie led such a simple, happy life. . . one in which Frodo could never belong.
Rosie may have experienced hurt, but she had never been wounded. Frodo was glad of it, for her sake. He wanted to shelter her from ever having to understand pain of such magnitude, and the simplest way to do so was by keeping his distance.
At the thought of Rosie lying in bed alone, Frodo withdrew from Sam’s embrace. Rosie was with child, after all, and that was something Frodo would never understand or experience. Surely, she needed Sam’s warm, comforting presence at least as much as he did.
“And you’re sure you’ll be alright, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, peering anxiously into his eyes.
“It’s only the anniversary,” Frodo murmured, avoiding Sam’s gaze. “Once it passes, I’ll be myself again.”
“Well,” said Sam after a pause, “at least you won’t be alone, like that first year.”
Frodo winced. On the first anniversary of the destruction of the ring, Sam had been preoccupied, as Elanor’s birth was close at hand, and Frodo managed to conceal the extent of his suffering. He had not been so lucky the second time around, and Sam had found him collapsed on the floor of his study, trembling in fear, and pain, and despair.
Sam held Frodo until the shivering eased, patiently whispering reassurances in response to his frantic, half-hysterical cries about rings, and eyes, and wheels of fire. Even when Frodo calmed down, he was still much afflicted, for his wounded hand throbbed, and his body ached, as if remembering the bitter exhaustion of the journey. There was nothing Sam could do to alleviate the pain, but he offered Frodo some distraction from it by reading passages from his favorite books and singing soothing songs.
In the days that followed, Sam treated Frodo with great tenderness, as he always did, but he couldn’t hide his hurt and bemusement. He simply could not understand why his beloved friend hadn’t turned to him in his time of need, or why he felt the need to hide his suffering the year before.
“It’s my burden,” Frodo tried to explain. “I have to bear it alone.”
“You have to bear it, yes,” said Sam, stroking Frodo’s four-fingered hand. “But you needn’t be alone.”
Frodo realized that Sam was caressing his hand, just as he had during that conversation years ago, and he smiled. “Yes,” he said, meeting Sam’s eyes. “I’ll have my dear Sam to take care of me.”
“That you will,” said Sam softly. “Always.”
Gently, Frodo withdrew his hand. “Good night, Sam.”
“Good night, Mr. Frodo, my dear.” Sam kissed Frodo’s brow. “Sleep well.”
Frodo laid down, closing his eyes. “I’ll try.”
Sam lingered for a moment, but eventually Frodo heard receding footsteps, then silence. Frodo turned over, sighing and clenching his pillow, bracing himself for the nightmares to come.