When he couldn't sleep, Frodo would go to his study and write. The desk still had scratches on it, swirls and stars he'd put there with his pen knife when he was a child, long afternoons when he'd been bored with studying, and wanting very much to go out into the garden to play with sweet-natured little Sam, the gardener's son.

He traced his fingers over the marks in the wood, smiling to remember those hours where learning mathematics seemed like the worst torture life could offer. The desk had a pile of loose papers strewn across it, as well as two thick books for writing in, several pots of ink in various states of dryness, and a thick white candle for light. It was one of the ones Rosie made, a faint vanilla scent in the smoke, the flame bright and steady.

One book was the history the world needed written, the dark red cover worn at the corners, the pages crisp and neat. The other, smaller and thinner, less tidy and more haphazard with style, was the story that gave sense to the longer adventure. This book was where Frodo recorded the parties of the Shire, with fireworks like exploding stars and games for children, with paper donkeys filled with boiled sugar to be hit at with sticks while blindfolded. This book was where Elanor's handprints and footprints were pressed against the pages with the same blue paint that had ended up everywhere on their painting afternoon.

He was writing it for her. He didn't know if he'd give it to her himself, when she was old enough to appreciate it, or if it would be left to Sam and Rosie to hand it over in his stead. Either way, she needed to have it, needed to understand.

Sam is troubled, Frodo wrote. He hears what people say about me, the way I make them ill at ease. I might as well be invisible sometimes, but it doesn't bother me. Better they dislike a wounded hobbit than serve a dark lord.

Sometimes I find myself saying goodbye to the Shire, looking out at the view the same way as I did before leaving the first time. That seems so long ago now. But at other times I feel as if I'll never leave again, I'll be here to teach you your numbers and letters, queer Uncle Frodo with his stories and his songs.


He had nightmares, of dead faces in water and icy fingers around his neck. He'd wake to find them true, his own betraying hand clutching for a precious prize, finding only a silvery-white jewel in its place. Sometimes he feared to touch Sam and Rosie and Elanor, in case he polluted them with the infection that made him feel hollow and rotten - of course, they never stood for this behaviour for long. When his hands opened and closed and shook for want of a lost ring, Rosie would be there with vegetable to chop and nappies to fold and knots to untangle.

When he got lost inside his head, Sam would touch their foreheads together, a wordless reminder that anywhere Frodo had been, would ever be, he wasn't alone.

You were banging your rattle against the over door today, Frodo smiled as he wrote. It make a terrible din, and when your father scolded you, you just smiled at him and touched the rattle to his nose so gently it barely touched.

I bought him new pans, when he married your mother. He'd lost his old set on our travels. Thrown them down a crack so they couldn't be spoiled by Gollum. The first thing he baked with the new set was a sultana cake for the Cottons.

He says he still misses the old pans, though, even with the new ones so shiny and nice. Your father's got such a big heart he never wants to leave anything out of it, when he has to, it tears him up. It's lucky that the four of us in our happy little life fit there so snugly, isn't it?


Frodo yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes heavy. The candle had almost burned down to guttering, if he left it he'd have light to find his way to bed by before it extinguished. Instead, he blew it out with a puff, walking carefully in the dark, leaving enough wick to light it again another time.

~

Pretty Good Year | email Mary