[mark12_30]

The breeze blew in at the window, and Frodo breathed it deeply, and thought ironically of the decay and dust and mustiness of the room he had woken up in. How different than what he had expected! Sam never let Bag End get musty; he always kept it clean, either fresh and breezy, airy, invigorating; or, cozy, warm, and dry from steadily burning wood-fires. And always swept and tidy. Never musty.

Sam always thought of everything, and always anticipated Frodo's every need. Beloved, loyal Sam.

Frodo's gaze wandered down the road, past The Water and to the Mill, and almost unwillingly, up the winding road to The Hill. There, sparkling and shimmering-- he squinted a little; no; it wasn't sunset yet, it was only shimmering in his imagination-- there at the top of The Hill was his old home. There were the hedges, the gardens, the windows, the steps, the inviting round front door. There, where the Party Tree had once been, stood Sam's magnificent Mallorn. And there within his old home lived his old friend, with his devoted wife and his rascally children. Frodo smiled. He had seen those children in dreams more than once. He knew them all.

Eight children, counting the unborn Daisy. No doubt Sam and Rosie were quite busy.

Would Sam have time for a glassy-eyed refugee from the Elvish West? he wondered, and then chided himself. Of course, his dear old Sam would make the time. And of course they would pick up where they had left off. Wouldn't they?

Wouldn't they? Perhaps not, thought Frodo, his heart sinking as he stood by the window. The years had given Sam broader horizons; as Mayor, The Shire was his Master now, and Frodo reflected that Sam would serve The Shire with every fiber of his being. With a sudden pang, he realised that the loyalty and devotion that had once poured from Sam to Frodo was now spent on a much broader need.

And well it should be, Frodo reflected, hardening himself to the thought. I can't expect Sam to pick up where we left off. It might feel natural to me, but it won't feel natural at all to Sam. He's moved on. He's not my own Sam anymore. He belongs to The Shire, deeply, truly. I must let go and let him serve, and not divide him again. He is meant to be whole, and not torn in two. And if I grasp at him, if I intrude into his life too much, he can't help but be torn again.

"Frodo, " said Bilbo's voice from within the room, "I'm getting a bit dry. How about a refill?" Frodo turned to see Bilbo waving his water-glass in the air.

"Water? Or something else?" Frodo asked, turning from the window, and mustering a warm smile for his uncle.

"Just water, for now, " Bilbo said. "Wouldn't want to deplete the party supplies."

Frodo's eyes sparkled accusingly. "You're saving room in case they open something good and old," he said, and took the glass. "Water it is, then." Frodo tried to shake the sense of loss that he felt no right entertaining as he caught up a pitcher and went looking for the best, coldest water available. He ended up at the well. He tasted the wellwater first. It was icy cold, and sweet, as he suspected it would be; he nodded and filled the pitcher. But as he did, he felt Bag End gazing down at him from the Hill. He finished pouring, and looked up.

An overwhelming desire came over him to use osanwe and probe his old home, to investigate how Bag End had changed, to see it through Sam's eyes, or Rosie's eyes, or one of the children; or-- even more tempting-- to share thoughts with Sam; to see how he had changed, to stir up their old friendship, to remind him of their old bond.

But then he recoiled at the idea, and rebuked himself. Don't be absurd, he thought; let them be. Let him go. Leave them in peace.

Taking the pitcher, he returned to Bilbo.

[ February 24, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]

[ March 01, 2003: Message edited by: mark12_30 ]