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Why they went out on the river
Bedding down for the night, he asked sleepily: “Mother, what was that shiny thing auntie Asphodel had?”
“It was a tear-shaped pearl brooch, dear. Pearls are like white jewels that sometimes grow inside mussles. Did you like it?”
“It was so pretty! And you are the prettiest mom. You should have many pearls!”
“What a nice thing to say!” She kissed him. “Sleep well, dearest one!”
Closing the bedroom door, Primula turned to Drogo. “The weather’s lovely tonight. What if we rowed down along the riverbank and tried to find him some pearl-mussels to open? Imagine how happy he’ll be!”
A poem he would remember
The warm summer sun, the sweet scent of fresh grass, the solid feel of earth beneath them, and Frodo’s body pressing close: Sam was thoroughly happy, enjoying the moment. Frodo, immersed in the contents of one of Bilbo’s elvish poetry books, pointed out a beautifully illustrated poem.
Sam studied the strange text on the page with curiosity. He knew his letters, but didn’t understand these words.
“What does the poem say, Mr. Frodo?”
“Oh, Sam, it’s lovely. I’m not sure I can honor it in translation. It begins: In Western lands…. beneath the sun….. the flowers…. may rise in spring….."
Broken wings
Sam’s rapid entry spoke of obvious agitation. His eyes were sad, and his hands tenderly cradled a black-crested lapwing.
“Look, Mr. Frodo! That there Sandyman hit this little’un with his wagon and just kept going!”
Frodo studied the bird, now calmed by Sam’s gentle hands, its bright eyes alert.
“Is it badly hurt?”
Carefully Frodo extended its wings. Immediately the lapwing started thrashing painfully, beak snapping in futile defense. The wings were crushed.
“It will never fly again, never properly mend.” Frodo looked up, face and voice compassionate. “For someone so wounded, a swift end might truly be a kindness.”
Flower crown
“Look, Sam! The king has a crown again!”
Sam looked where Frodo pointed, seeing star-flowers like a golden coronet around the fallen king’s stern forehead.
Frodo considered it a sign of hope, assurance that those who had desecrated the ancient king would not conquer forever. But Sam shuddered, remembering one distant, sunny day: Frodo had fallen asleep in the garden, and Sam couldn’t stop himself from lightly threading apple-blossoms through Frodo’s dark curls, - a diadem fitting a royal elf.
The flower-crowned, broken king now seemed to Sam an omen, predicting the fate of that long-ago sleeping prince of Bag End.
22. September S.R. 1420
The time had come for filling up the corners. Frodo’s stomach was pleasantly full, and he sipped the excellent wine. The birthday dinner had seen one delicious, mouth-watering dish following the next. Across the table Merry and Pippin were leaning back, grinning drowsily. Loud song streamed from the kitchen.
Warmth, light and life, food and song, joy and beloved friends – on this evening Bag End was certain testament to a Shire-year of marvelous plenty.
Whatever had been, whatever would be; if Frodo at this moment was to describe his feelings, he’d state, with perfect honesty;
"Gratitude and contentment."
A light in dark places
Whenever the sigh and murmur of the sea upon the shores of Middle-earth calls too loudly to him, he goes quietly to the study, carrying a single candle. Staring into the tiny flame in the night-dark smial, he lets himself grieve and remember; - remember that terrible, much darker place, where he once reached out blindly, firmly clasping the hand of another, giving him courage to go on.
He nearly spooks when a warm hand suddenly touches his. Two bright eyes reflect the candle-flame.
“Daddy?”
His own shining light, dispelling the darkness of loss and regret! He hugs Elanor tightly.