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rabidsamfanMore of "The Ringbearer and the Rose", some of which has appeared before, in anticipation of having to work tomorrow. *yick* Still working out the kiss, but I wanted to get through the conversation first.
Some of this may have to get trimmed...
She waited, rocking him gently and rubbing his back to soothe him. The Gaffer was puttering happily in his garden – there would be time to go to Sam – she could take time enough now for Frodo.
He never let anyone see seen him crying; not since after the battle, when Elma Bracegirdle found two of her sons in the rows of slain hobbits and the whole village had been weeping. He hid his tears, even from himself. But she was the one who changed the linens, and she knew it wasn’t sweat that made his pillow damp so many mornings.
Even before he’d gone away, he’d been shy of showing too much of his heart; quick with a song, a story or laughter, but quiet with his griefs. A gentlehobbit in more sense than one, was Mr. Frodo, even if most of Hobbiton and Bywater thought him a bit too educated for his own good. There’d been more than one lass had set her cap for the master of Bag End, only to find herself forgotten for the sake of a bit of poetry or a book that he’d tucked into the picnic basket. She could remember Angelica Brownlock saying once that it wasn’t much fun chasing after a hobbit who was prettier than she was and likely to stay that way. Better just to stand back and enjoy looking from afar.
But he looked every year of his age since he’d come back. There were new lines drawn into his fine, fair skin, and new sorrows in his eyes. Her father thought it only right, she knew, and respected Frodo’s judgment all the more for the silver strands in his hair. But he felt frail in her arms, like a child newly risen from a long bout of fever.
At last he pulled up a little, and she could take the corner of her apron to his face. “There now, there, it will be all right,” she murmured, as if he were one of her nephews weeping over a skinned knee.
”It won’t,” he said, “not if Sam leaves the Shire.”
”Leaves? Sam?” Her eyes stung. “Why would he leave?”
”Because you were right, Rosie. You saw what I didn’t want to see. A puff of wind…” He swallowed, once and again, as if he were finding the words hard to get past his throat. “If it weren’t for the Gaffer he’d already be gone.”
”Nay, nay,” she said. “Why would he go?”
”He’s grieving,” Frodo said. “Grieving for Gollum, and the trees of the Shire, and everywhere he looks he sees reminders of what he didn’t do, and forgets all he did. He’ll go. Unless…” his eyes searched her face, as if he were looking for something only he could see. “Will you marry him, Rosie?”
”Marry him?” She cried, “How can I marry him if he won’t even court me?” It was the question she’d asked herself a hundred times since November, and it didn’t improve by being asked again. She’d had such hopes when Sam came to their farm in his fine new armor and all, but after the battle and the death of Saruman he’d hardly seemed to notice her at all. “How can I marry him when he doesn’t even see me.”
”Make him see you,” Frodo urged her. “Don’t let him go away. He wants to court you. I’m sure of it. But he needs reminding. I know him better than I do myself, Rose Cotton, and I know that he's not one to put himself forward. He hasn't a thing to offer you, from his standpoint, that you can't find better somewhere else. The gold Bilbo gave him he's spent helping others, and he's not got a roof of his own. And then there's the gossip. Merry and Pippin don't seem to come in for much of it, but they're always laughing these days. And I'm the nephew of Mad Baggins, and never had a reputation to begin with. But Sam -- it's hard on a hobbit to leave the Shire and come back. There's always fools ready to label him as queer. They’ll push him away if they can, and they mustn’t. He needs you, Rose. He needs someone to anchor him here."
"But isn't he anchored to you? And wouldn't you be jealous, if I took too much of his time?"
"Tis the other way around, Rose. The only thing holding me here is Sam. It doesn't work the other way, no matter how much I wish it did. I would never be jealous of you. Only grateful."
She looked away, "I was that jealous of you, while I was waiting for Sam to come back. And I feel it still sometimes, but never when I see him with you. It'd be like I was jealous of the sun for making the moon shine at night. Might as well be jealous of the Shire, for needing someone to plant trees around."
“I’m neither Sun, nor Shire,” Frodo said, shaken by her words.
“You are to Sam.”
“No. For Sam is the Shire, and if I am the Sun I am setting. Elrond healed me in Rivendell, Galadriel solaced my grief in Lothlorien, and Gandalf summoned me from death in Ithilien. It is only by the power of the three remaining Rings that I have been given the grace of a few years, and the three Rings are fading. They will leave Middle Earth in time.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
"I'm dying, Rose. I’ve seen it, and I know it is true. When the Three leave Middle Earth, all that keeps me from the cold and grief and shadow will be gone, and I shall slip deeper and deeper into pain and bitterness and death. And there will be nothing Sam can do to save me, but he will try, and that will break him."
"But..."
"But I can spare him that, if I go with Gandalf and the others. I've seen that too -- a future where Sam stays in the Shire, and is whole and well for many years. But it will require something -- something I cannot give him."
"Me?"
"A child." He took her hands in his. "I won't lie to you, Rose Cotton. If you choose this you shall always have times when you feel second best, because you do not need Sam as much as he needs you. You are the stronger, now. You will have to love him as he has loved me, knowing all the while that my eyes have gone to Bilbo -- yes, and even to the Ring -- before him. I might have withered without Sam's care, but it was always there, and I took it for granted. It is only now that I am learning how much it has meant to me."
Some of this may have to get trimmed...
She waited, rocking him gently and rubbing his back to soothe him. The Gaffer was puttering happily in his garden – there would be time to go to Sam – she could take time enough now for Frodo.
He never let anyone see seen him crying; not since after the battle, when Elma Bracegirdle found two of her sons in the rows of slain hobbits and the whole village had been weeping. He hid his tears, even from himself. But she was the one who changed the linens, and she knew it wasn’t sweat that made his pillow damp so many mornings.
Even before he’d gone away, he’d been shy of showing too much of his heart; quick with a song, a story or laughter, but quiet with his griefs. A gentlehobbit in more sense than one, was Mr. Frodo, even if most of Hobbiton and Bywater thought him a bit too educated for his own good. There’d been more than one lass had set her cap for the master of Bag End, only to find herself forgotten for the sake of a bit of poetry or a book that he’d tucked into the picnic basket. She could remember Angelica Brownlock saying once that it wasn’t much fun chasing after a hobbit who was prettier than she was and likely to stay that way. Better just to stand back and enjoy looking from afar.
But he looked every year of his age since he’d come back. There were new lines drawn into his fine, fair skin, and new sorrows in his eyes. Her father thought it only right, she knew, and respected Frodo’s judgment all the more for the silver strands in his hair. But he felt frail in her arms, like a child newly risen from a long bout of fever.
At last he pulled up a little, and she could take the corner of her apron to his face. “There now, there, it will be all right,” she murmured, as if he were one of her nephews weeping over a skinned knee.
”It won’t,” he said, “not if Sam leaves the Shire.”
”Leaves? Sam?” Her eyes stung. “Why would he leave?”
”Because you were right, Rosie. You saw what I didn’t want to see. A puff of wind…” He swallowed, once and again, as if he were finding the words hard to get past his throat. “If it weren’t for the Gaffer he’d already be gone.”
”Nay, nay,” she said. “Why would he go?”
”He’s grieving,” Frodo said. “Grieving for Gollum, and the trees of the Shire, and everywhere he looks he sees reminders of what he didn’t do, and forgets all he did. He’ll go. Unless…” his eyes searched her face, as if he were looking for something only he could see. “Will you marry him, Rosie?”
”Marry him?” She cried, “How can I marry him if he won’t even court me?” It was the question she’d asked herself a hundred times since November, and it didn’t improve by being asked again. She’d had such hopes when Sam came to their farm in his fine new armor and all, but after the battle and the death of Saruman he’d hardly seemed to notice her at all. “How can I marry him when he doesn’t even see me.”
”Make him see you,” Frodo urged her. “Don’t let him go away. He wants to court you. I’m sure of it. But he needs reminding. I know him better than I do myself, Rose Cotton, and I know that he's not one to put himself forward. He hasn't a thing to offer you, from his standpoint, that you can't find better somewhere else. The gold Bilbo gave him he's spent helping others, and he's not got a roof of his own. And then there's the gossip. Merry and Pippin don't seem to come in for much of it, but they're always laughing these days. And I'm the nephew of Mad Baggins, and never had a reputation to begin with. But Sam -- it's hard on a hobbit to leave the Shire and come back. There's always fools ready to label him as queer. They’ll push him away if they can, and they mustn’t. He needs you, Rose. He needs someone to anchor him here."
"But isn't he anchored to you? And wouldn't you be jealous, if I took too much of his time?"
"Tis the other way around, Rose. The only thing holding me here is Sam. It doesn't work the other way, no matter how much I wish it did. I would never be jealous of you. Only grateful."
She looked away, "I was that jealous of you, while I was waiting for Sam to come back. And I feel it still sometimes, but never when I see him with you. It'd be like I was jealous of the sun for making the moon shine at night. Might as well be jealous of the Shire, for needing someone to plant trees around."
“I’m neither Sun, nor Shire,” Frodo said, shaken by her words.
“You are to Sam.”
“No. For Sam is the Shire, and if I am the Sun I am setting. Elrond healed me in Rivendell, Galadriel solaced my grief in Lothlorien, and Gandalf summoned me from death in Ithilien. It is only by the power of the three remaining Rings that I have been given the grace of a few years, and the three Rings are fading. They will leave Middle Earth in time.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
"I'm dying, Rose. I’ve seen it, and I know it is true. When the Three leave Middle Earth, all that keeps me from the cold and grief and shadow will be gone, and I shall slip deeper and deeper into pain and bitterness and death. And there will be nothing Sam can do to save me, but he will try, and that will break him."
"But..."
"But I can spare him that, if I go with Gandalf and the others. I've seen that too -- a future where Sam stays in the Shire, and is whole and well for many years. But it will require something -- something I cannot give him."
"Me?"
"A child." He took her hands in his. "I won't lie to you, Rose Cotton. If you choose this you shall always have times when you feel second best, because you do not need Sam as much as he needs you. You are the stronger, now. You will have to love him as he has loved me, knowing all the while that my eyes have gone to Bilbo -- yes, and even to the Ring -- before him. I might have withered without Sam's care, but it was always there, and I took it for granted. It is only now that I am learning how much it has meant to me."
