Patchwork.
Elanor sat down with an unceremonious thud and upended the scraps bag onto the floor.
"I'm going to make a patchwork," she announced. "A quilt. There are lots of nice little bits and pieces in here, it would be a pity not to use them."
"Want help sorting?" Rosie asked, sitting down beside Elanor. "Here, what about this one?"
After a while of hunting through worn tea-towels and old tattered clothes, they managed to collect a tidy pile of useful fabrics. Brocade, linen, chamlet, cotton, silk, wool, velvet, felt, gingham and calico, with thread and needle to stitch them together.
-
Brocade.
"My Uncle fell out of a tree when he was a boy and broke his hip and he had to lie in bed for months and months and months and he was lame forever and he could never work on a farm and nobody wanted to marry him."
A chorus of shocked gasps, and then another voice.
"Well, it was my fault he was up there, so I'll marry him if nobody else ever wants to, and ask my Dad to give him some of our land. It's only right."
"He hasn't hurt his hip in the slightest," said a much older and more sensible voice. Mr Bilbo, Sam thought muzzily, his thoughts beginning to come back to themselves. "Just a knock to the head, and a nasty cut."
"Dad wouldn't let you give him any land anyway, fishface, and nobody would marry you, even if you cut their legs off."
"Shut it, Nibs! If you hadn't thrown my bonnet up there I wouldn't have needed rescuing in the first place!"
"Well I didn't think you were such a ninny as to try and get it down yourself, did I? Mum'll tan you when she finds out you climbed a tree and then had to get saved, and then your saver fell and cracked his head open and broke his hip!"
Sam blinked his eyes open, wincing at the sharp midday light. A group of children, including Nibs and Rose Cotton, and Mr Bilbo inspecting a sore spot on his head. Someone else was holding Sam's neck and back at an angle, too, off the knotty roots of the tree he'd tumbled from.
"See, he's all right," Mr Bilbo said with a smile. "Don't move, Sam, you've had a bit of a jolt."
Sam opened his mouth to say thank-you but found that the person behind him was holding a piece of cloth to his jaw. The skin felt raw and wet and tender, and Sam realised that he must be bleeding. It was all a bit hard to piece together, somehow.
"Don't worry," someone soothed, threading his fingers through Sam's hair gently. "Just wait a minute." Sam recognised the voice, and felt shame through his confusion. Fancy Mr Frodo seeing him fall out of a tree!
"Is he going to have a scar?" Nibs asked enthusiastically. Rose put her hands over her mouth in worry and guilt.
"No, no. See, the bleeding's almost stopped already." Mr Bilbo reached over and lifted the cloth away from Sam's chin. For a moment Sam thought that the whole fabric was red from blood, then he realised that it was Mr Bilbo's brocade waistcoat, ruined and stained.
"Don't worry," Mr Frodo said again. "He's got lots of other clothes, but we've only got the one Sam." He leaned over so that Sam could see his face upside-down. Mr Frodo was smiling, and Sam would have smiled in reply if not for the ache in his head.
"I think it's time for everyone to go home." Mr Bilbo put on his sternest voice and motioned for the gawkers to clear off. Rose hung back, doubt still clouding her face.
"I'll look after him, I promise," Mr Frodo assured her, still stroking Sam's forehead with light fingertips. "I'll keep him safe for you."
-
Linen.
Merry Brandybuck felt very, very sorry for his cousin Frodo. Living off in Hobbiton, where the homes were small and echoing and empty. All right, perhaps not echoing, for the rooms were too full up with heavy furniture for that. Still, it seemed a terribly lonely way to live, just two hobbits in a silent smial.
And Frodo, for all the wicked playfulness he'd indulged in while he and Merry grew up, didn't seem to mind at all. Merry thought that was even worse, somehow. To not mind that you were lonely.
Merry was never lonely. Sometimes he was alone, because there were secret crannies in the depths of Brandy Hall known only to him, but the sounds of his family and friends were never muted around him. And if he wasn't in Brandy Hall, he was to be found over in Great Smials, playing games with the children and tweens there. Many's the time that the steaming-hot laundry rooms were a scene of quick pursuit, Merry chasing Pippin Took about, darting in between the huge tubs of boiling water and stirred linen. Nobody could ever catch either lad, unless the boys especially wanted to be caught right then.
They could have had as much to eat as they could stomach if they'd asked the kitchen folk, because everyone from the Thain downward was enchanted by the clever and mischievous faces of the pair. But food was more delicious when it was sneaked and borrowed, gobbled up between laughs.
-
Chamlet.
There were not many memories of his parents in Frodo's recollection. The ache of losing them was difficult to forget, but all that went before it was a hazy, happy blur of a cushioned and comforted infancy. He remembered his mother's hands, carding wool and explaining how it would be weaved with goat hair to create chamlet. She loved to make things, dainty things and sturdy things, to write tripsy verses for friends. Her laugh had been a tinkling thing.
Frodo remembered her fondly, but did not exactly miss those days. He'd miss Hobbiton and Bywater, though, every stump and rock and pathway stamped with a ghost of an afternoon or evening. That tree was where Samwise had fallen and knocked his head, this hill had been right for sitting on at sunset. He'd taken the Gamgee children down to swim at a particular curve in the riverbank, he'd watched with a smile as young Rose Cotton had picked the wildflowers by the old stile over to the lefthand side of the field. Visiting cousins had helped him play cruel jokes on clumsy, brutish Lotho, dear Uncle Bilbo had told him wonderful stories while they walked on long rambles together.
But Uncle Bilbo had been gone seventeen years, and all those children were grown up, and now Frodo himself would have to leave. He was in two minds about whether this saddened him or not, and couldn't decide which way to let his opinion finally settle. But anyway, it didn't matter, because he'd go regardless. He had to, for those ghostly memories. Sam's gangly childhood form, now grown so strong and strapping. Snappish little Rose, now older and lovelier but just as thorny and proud. Frodo's mother's clever hands, weaving exotic cloth by firelight. He'd had those moments, carried them in his heart even now that they were gone forever. And it was up to him to see that new children, new weaves, new sunsets, would come in the future.
He sighed, nodded to himself, and patted at the pocket that held a plain gold ring.
-
Cotton.
"Fellows want to marry a bride and be wed to a wife," the old aunts used to say sagely, but blithe little Rosie Cotton had ignored them all. She'd no desire to be bride or wife or both together, so what did it matter?
And then, quite out of the blue, little Rosie Cotton found she did want something, though it was hard to say exactly what. A sweetheart in shining armour, maybe, a hero of the land. Or was it a sensible solid husband, to bounce babies on his knee and put good food in the kitchen for her to cook, that she wanted? The silly blatherings of gossipy gammers made a sudden sense: it was supper-cake and lunch-bread, smiles and solemness. Rosie wanted to be a bride and a wife, and she wanted a lover and a friend in one for a husband, and it didn't matter how contradictory the thoughts were.
There was a decided lack of romance in Sam Gamgee, but he was good-natured and as practical as they came, and at least daydreaming about Elves was more whimsical than usual hobbit behaviour. Yes, he'd do nicely, Rosie decided. He was a dependable choice, and she felt proud of how well she'd selected a mate.
Of course, traipsing off with Mr Frodo to places unknown wasn't exactly practical or expected, and for several months Rosie was too busy feeling surprised to miss him much. Then her initial shock gave way to the realisations that she wanted him home, that she was horribly jealous of Frodo Baggins, and that perhaps she'd never had the faintest idea who Sam really was.
Time went on, and the Shire became an uncomfortable place to be, and for all her wishing Rosie never, ever let herself hope that she would see Sam and Frodo again. If she began to hope she might be let down, and that thought was unbearable. So she sat and remembered but never hoped, and never dwelt on the fact that somewhere along the way her thoughts had stopped being 'Sam' and started being 'Sam and Frodo'.
Frodo was nothing like her girlish daydreams of a husband. He was fair enough to look at but not sensible in the least, not strong or sociable or even friendly, really, except with his few close chums. He was always polite enough to Rosie, in a vague and absent way. It was such a flighty, silly, stupid thing to do; to fall for an austere, solitary gentlehobbit who didn't know her from a turnip. Rosie felt very exasperated with herself.
She had always been one to go all or nothing, and one not-very-special morning Rosie knew that she would either have to start hoping with her whole heart or give up completely. Naturally, she let herself hope, even though by this stage she was almost certain it would end in heartbreak. Everyone was saying that Sam and Frodo were dead, yet she could never look out the window without expecting them out on the path. So Rosie threw caution into the wind, and hoped and hoped and hoped that she would have her happy ending.
And now, well, even though Sam was the hero-sweetheart as well as the husband she'd dreamed of, Rosie didn't know if she could be what Sam wanted in return. She could guess what that might be, but it only took plain sight to see that Frodo required a lot of care and helping and that he couldn't give much back. Sam couldn't do it alone, and even if Rosie wasn't exactly what they wanted, she could be what they needed.
For now all this talk and musing was shoved aside, though, because for now Rosie Cotton was a very flustered young hobbit in a breezy sky-coloured dress with crochet down the front in a way that was very bridal and not at all wifely, and her mother's ancient and grease-spotted apron, mitts on her hands as she pulled a tray of biscuits off the stove. Oh yes, a fine and romantic way to spend the hours before her wedding, fixing up extra food because her brothers had eaten what was ready.
"Rose?"
Rosie bit back a groan. She cared about Frodo, she did, but right then she had a dozen things to do and only two hands.
"What are you doing here?" she snapped, then paused and took a breath. "I'm sorry, Mr Frodo. Just a bit overwhelmed."
"That's why I'm here," said Frodo with a smile. "I ran into Jolly down the lane - that's quite a black eye he's sporting - and he said you were up here alone with a lot to do. I thought I might be a bit of help."
Rosie felt later that perhaps her doubt was a bit unfair, but there was at least one memory from her girlhood involving Frodo and some very burnt food, and the thought of serving charred vanilla slices to her new husband's sisters was not a comfortable one. But beggars and choosers aren't bedfellows, and Rosie needed all the help she could get.
"If I give you the recipe, do you think you can make a marmalade roll?"
Frodo nodded. "Yes, Rose. Go brush your hair out of that baker's knot and wash the flour off your face."
He meant well at least, thought Rosie as she combed her curls into order and untied her apron. And that counted for a lot, even if the sweets did end up charred.
But somehow everything went as it was meant to, and when Rosie was finally satisfied with her fingernails and the folds of her skirt, the air smelt of warm oranges and pastry.
"Well, how do I look, then?" she asked, coming into the kitchen with a theatrical flourish designed to get a laugh out of her unexpected cook. Frodo didn't laugh, though, gazing at her as if he'd never seen anything so fine and graceful. Frodo, who had seen queens and Elves and magic! Rosie's vanity was very pleased at the reaction.
"Oh," he breathed. "You and Sam... you'll be very happy... you'll make each other happy." It seemed that his eyes couldn't decide whether to be terribly happy or incredibly sad, and welled up from indecision. Rosie's heart felt as if it had been cleft cleanly down the middle and pulled apart. She wanted to run to Frodo and shout 'I can make you happy, sir, if you'd only let me'. But what about Sam? She loved him, too, loved him butterflies-in-the-stomach and tears-before-bedtime; and it was her wedding day, hardly an appropriate time to make confessions of secret love in the kitchen. It was all so confusing that Rosie's head felt swimmy.
Just as she thought that to herself, Frodo's eyes clouded and he leaned heavily against the edge of the table.
"Are you all right?" Rosie rushed to help him down into a chair.
"Yes.. yes, I'm quite all right. Just lightheaded, I must have forgotten breakfast this morning."
Typical, Rosie thought to herself with a snort. Most likely he forgot supper and dinner the night before as well, what with Sam away and unable to remind him.
"Here, then." She picked up a knife and cut a healthy thick slice off the marmalade roll. "This should help."
"Don't - that was for this afternoon." Frodo's protests were feeble but emphatic. "Sam -"
"None of us will live to see the day when Sam would fault me for tending to you, Mr Frodo. Now hush, eat."
Frodo blinked rapidly, eyelashes flecked with droplets. "Oh, Rose, you and Sam shall have a honey moon, and sugar stars, and rain kisses, for all of the days of your life."
"And will you be there with pretty poetry when we're fighting and old and grumbling?" Rosie shot back with a laugh. "Hurry up, eat, eat, we've got a wedding to go to."
-
Silk.
One day, Sam knew in his heart, there would be a dozen young voices come to greet him as he pushed in through the gate. Searching his pockets for trinkets and treasures, demanding stories and cuddles. For now there were only three voices, but they were the sweetest sounds his ears had ever heard. Elly was far too young for words yet, only three months and a sprinkle of days since she emerged, blinking and serious, into the world. Rosie and Frodo, however, were more than glad to shout hullos to Sam as he came home at dusk-time.
"Oh, we're a bunch of ninnies, aren't we?" Rosie had laughed the night before as they sat down to dinner in the firelight. "All this time we wasted edging around each other in a dance, and there was no reason for any of it."
Rosie always looked at the hours and weeks and months that came before happy moments as a careless use of precious time, but that wasn't Sam's way. He saw the yesterdays as a path that had to be trodden to get to anywhere. If he'd never tasted bitter, he wouldn't know sweet when it met him. And they were home, finally, in the warm evenings out chatting in the garden, in Elanor's splashy, laugh-filled morning baths. Sam didn't care about the yesterdays that had been wasted and spent on other things, not anymore. Today was all it should be, and the tomorrows to come were like clear glass beads one after the other on a string before them.
Today had Elanor's silky-pale hair in tiny soft curls, and Rosie's frequent and cheerful laugh, and Frodo's wry and clever jokes. Today had the most uncomplicated happiness Sam had ever thought could exist.
Today had shadows at the edges, but clever jokes and cheerful laughs and babyfine hair in ringlets chased those shadows back. Today was theirs, and they weren't going to waste a minute of it.
-
Wool.
Once upon a time there was a boy who threw caution into the wind and stood still when he should have kept on walking. There were reasons for his choice, but there are always reasons in some form or another. He had reasons enough to walk on, too, and perhaps his eventual decision surprised even himself.
Nevertheless, the boy stood still. And Time (which can be cruel or kind but it known more for the former) decided to knock him down. Time had reasons, but there are always reasons, and Time's reasons were flimsy, petty things. So as September turned to October, and the boy stood still and proud, Time conjured up a bitter wind of ice and sent it whirling.
The boy struggled to stay standing, but the wind was so cold, so strong and sharp on his skin. "See, see?" Time crowed. "You should have walked, you should have walked."
And the wind blew and blew, and the boy forgot how to see, or hear, or laugh, or dream, or breathe, and Time smiled mockingly. "You should have walked."
But still the boy stood.
The wind became fierce as a dragon, painful as a knife in the dark, insidious as poison.
"No," a new voice said in the wind.
"No," said another.
Two children, younger than the boy and not as brave but sturdy and steadfast, stood there in the gale.
"Yes," Time said. "What can you possibly do against my wind?"
"What we can," the children said, and stood beside the boy. They threw a blanket of soft wool around his shoulders, and reminded him how to breathe. Dreaming and laughing and seeing and hearing could come later, when the wind was passed.
The wind went on and on and on, but the children and the boy did not fall, even as their warm blanket was ripped away and they were left naked in the cold.
"Stupid children," cried Time. "Stupid, selfish children. You cannot stand against me forever."
"You cannot blow your wind forever, either," the children shouted, and with their help the boy breathed and breathed. All through the night the wind blew, and then, as dawn came, the world was still again.
"You haven't won," Time spat. "I shall come back, and I shall triumph."
But the children did not hear the words, and did not care what Time had to say. They were busy reminding the boy what laughing was, and music, and sunshine, and love.
And they made a new blanket to keep warm under, and stood together in the morning light.
-
Velvet.
You, Estella was fond of saying to Dinny. You are made of pears and velvet.
You, Diamond would always reply to Stel. You are made of musty rooms and crystal bells.
The soft swells of their flesh fitted and crushed together, and their mouths smiled lip to lip.
You, Stel would whisper. You are everything.
You, Dinny would reply. You are all.
-
Felt.
"They're so little!" Frodo-lad muttered in a mimicking, spiteful voice, earning a stern look from his father.
"Here, now, no cheek from you. Eldarion's never seen a hobbit before, and there's naught wrong with being small."
Frodo-lad made a face and sat himself down on the edge of the bed he was sharing with Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast. "I don't want him thinkin' I'm a baby. I've two years and a month on him."
"Yes, we'll be sure that nobody forgets it," Elanor assured her brother with an enraptured smile. "Oh, Dad, wasn't it all so lovely? Goldy couldn't even say hello, she was so taken by it all. And Queen Arwen is the beautifullest lady in the world, and King Elessar's very noble isn't he?"
"Careful to pause for breath, there," Rosie put in. "Now to bed, everyone. Your uncle's out rounding up the small ones from where they've fallen asleep, and you bigger folk can set an example."
"Are you going to sleep now, too? If you're staying up, may we as well?" begged Frodo-lad, but his eyes were dropping closed and he put up no resistance when Rosie tucked him into bed.
"Can I be called Meril for always, Mum?" Rose-girl asked, her face lit up from romantic thoughts. "It's much prettier than an ordinary name."
"'Rose' is the prettiest name of all." Uncle Frodo's voice was sweet and teasing as he herded Merry and Pippin into bed, Hamfast asleep against his shoulder. "If we'd known it was this easy to get them all exhausted, we'd have invited royalty long ago."
Sam smiled, his own face showing a deep wish for bed. "Come along, girls, young Goldy will steal all the pillows if you leave her in the bed alone."
"But I want to see the Elves again, Dad!"
"Hush, Ellyelle. The Elves will still be there tomorrow, and your eyes will be clearer to see them after a rest," Frodo soothed her. "And even Elves and kings need sleep, you know."
"Oh, all right," Elanor sighed, as if she was making a terrible sacrifice. "Come on, Rose."
With all the children taken care off (Rosie had a sneaking suspicion that there would be much after-hours creeping, but there was nothing to be done about that for now), the grown-ups went to their own bed. The babies were nestled together in their crib like a mewling litter in a basket, sleeping contentedly. They were growing so fast, not long now until Daisy would be wobbling about on chubby legs. Primrose had all the sweet complacency of Sam's mother in her face already, and was a quiet and placid child to nurse. She was larger than her older brother, but wee Sam-lad had a set of lungs unmatched by any of his siblings when it came to yelling. Three parents stood looking down on the three tiny dreamers, tucking the soft felt blanket in closer against the light chill before walking over to their own blankets and pillows.
It was funny, Rosie mused sleepily as she lay down. She felt as if she understood the King in a way she'd understood almost nobody, save her kin and family, before. Seeing the way that he looked at the Queen, his mouth not quite smiling but shaped in a way that suggested a deep, endless happiness. Rosie knew that look.
If Sam had been in Aragorn's position, he would never have even thought of Arwen staying and choosing as she had. He'd have cried, sure enough, and spent all his days forever listening for the whispers of the sea. But Rosie, well, she wasn't that sort. Dried seeds never rotted or fell as fruit trees could, but they didn't bloom or bear fruit neither. Living a life was always worth the dying at the end; Imp-eyed Eldarion and little Sam-lad were proof enough of that, and the swell of Arwen's belly beneath her royal gown. It made Rosie wish for another on the way, for that full-up waiting feeling beneath her own heart. Her wish would be granted soon enough, if the current count was anything to go by. And that made her glad, glad, glad.
For all the pain life might bring, all the aching and aging, Rosie knew that Arwen had made the only sensible choice. After all, what sort of consolation could the alternative possibly offer? Some shiny little beach off over the waves, with no arguments or summer parties or growing sons?
She heard Frodo chuckle softly beside her as a stealthy group of childish footsteps crept past their room. Sam laughed too, planting a goodnight kiss on Rosie and Frodo's foreheads and laying his arm across them.
No, there was never a forever that was worth giving up moments like this.
-
Gingham.
Aislin twirled and smiled broadly, splitting her dances between Borry Brandybuck and Ham Gardner. She wore a carefully made dress with a wide collar of gingham ribbon, and sang and laughed with the heady freedom of the young.
"Do you know who I'm reminded of?" Sam asked in close to Rosie's ear as they watched the dancers. Rosie snorted.
"Frodo, I reckon. Look at the skin on the girl, it's clear and pale as milk fresh from the byre. Our Ruby's the only other I've seen with hair that bright. How lovely it is."
"I'm partial to brown woven with silver myself," confessed Frodo, sitting the other side of her. "It smells nice on the pillow beside me in the morning."
"Is that me or Samwise you're speaking of?"
"What, you mean I have to choose one or the other?" Frodo's voice was indignant, and they laughed long and loud.
-
Calico.
Ruby was still too small to reach the washing line, so while her mother pegged up all the clean clothes she sat nearby and worked on her mending skills. Ruby didn't care much if a hem was even or not, but doing it badly would just result in unpicking and resewing, so she'd learnt to bite back her boredom and just get it finished.
"Mum," Ruby said to Rosie in an inquisitive sort of voice. "What's a moon-rag?"
Rosie looked slightly surprised at the question, the wind whipping Hamfast's good going-out shirt about as she pegged it on the line.
"Womenfolk and lasses that are almost grown up use them when they're not carrying a baby. Your body tills the soil, like, to keep it ready for planting."
Ruby made a face. "Sounds horrid."
Rosie laughed. "To hear the way Rose-girl bellyaches about hot water bottles and chocolates, it's easy to think the whole business rather grim. Whatever made you ask, anyway, dear?"
"Just something I heard one of the fellows down at the market say. He was selling that new calico just come in, and he was shouting out to all the people. 'Nappies, moon-rags and winding sheets, good for everything' he was calling. I know what nappies and winding sheets are, so I was curious."
"Well, what he said is a load of rot anyway." Rosie put the basket of wet clothes aside and came to sit beside her daughter. "Only hobbits with too much sour and not enough sweet in them could ever think in such a way. Calico can be made into a lot of other things besides those you mentioned; there are pretty skirts and dresses for girls to swan about in, and curtains for sunny kitchen-rooms. Party tents and castle turret flags. And between moon-rags and nappies, my little one, there has to be a set of bedsheets made. And what about bindings for books, and shawls for chilled old shoulders?" Rosie shook her head. "Nappies, moon-rags and winding sheets. That's a terrible thing to say, I see why Mr Frodo says that some folk need shaking out of their stupid ways. Don't you dare forget that there's more to living than birthing and dying, Ruby. Even small furry things in the forests know better than that."
-
Thread.
If you knew where to look, there was an imperfectly mended twist of ribbon on the hem of Mother's old dancing dress. Goldy had offered to mend it on several occasions, complaining at the way it spoiled the design.
"It's coarse black thread, see? It's not visible from the front, really, but if you turn the edge up it's an awful knot. I'd hate for people to see it and think I was responsible."
"Maybe you should be more careful about who you let look up your skirt," retorted Rosie, smiling at her daughter's glare. "It's part of the dress now, and I'm not changing it." Her face went sad-looking, at some memory Goldy didn't know about. "It's only a little black thread, darling, and it's hidden well. It's not enough to complain about, not when you think at how much worse things could be."
Goldilocks got the distinct feeling that they weren't talking about clothes anymore, and hugged her mother tightly without another word.
-
Needle.
"How's that patchwork coming?" Rosie asked Elanor one day as the girl sat sewing.
"Nearly finished." Elanor smiled. She was a graceful, methodical lass whose voice seemed always bubbling with an unshed laugh. She put her work aside with a wistful sigh. "Do you want to go with Sam-dad and Fo and the little ones to decorate trees for Yule?"
"Ankle-deep snow and pine-needles poking all over, and those overgrown boys misbehaving worse than their children?" Rosie paused, then nodded with a wide grin. "Yes, sounds like fun. Come on, then."
Elanor put the half-completed patchwork aside and followed her mother out the door, the high sounds of play drifting up to greet them.
~
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