Chapter Text
“Waiting again?”
Rosie’s warm voice startled Sam from his thoughts. He had been standing at the junction where the path to the Cottons’ smial met the road, but he turned with a smile to face his betrothed. She was a pretty lass, with merry brown eyes, and bright, golden curls, and the sweetest lips in the Shire. . . but she was not who Sam was looking for just then.
“It’s nearing nightfall,” Sam replied. Unconsciously, he started turning toward the road again. “Mr. Frodo should be back soon. . .”
Rosie set a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I reckon he can handle himself after dark, if it comes to that,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice.
Although Rosie sometimes teased Sam for his overprotective nature, she found it quite sweet. Besides, she was grateful to Frodo for diverting much of Sam’s worry– she could only imagine how much Sam would try to coddle her if he had no other vent for his affections. She didn’t mind the occasional bit of pampering, but she thought it might get a touch suffocating, being fussed over as much as Frodo was. Fortunately, Frodo didn’t seem to mind at all, so Sam could love both of them to his heart’s content.
Not that Sam was feeling content at the moment. He squinted into the setting sun, scanning the road anxiously for any sign of Frodo. “I wouldn’t want him to catch a chill.”
“In May? Why, it’s warm as can be!” She took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, green scent of the Shire air. “Can’t you smell summer coming on?”
At this, Sam smiled again. He could never stay unhappy long when Rosie was near. “That I can, and it’s shaping up to be a fair one, too.”
“Because of you,” said Rosie, draping her arms around Sam. “All that hard work you’ve been doing, running back and forth across the Shire, tending every tree and blade of grass– now, it’s bearing fruit.” She giggled at her own cleverness.
“I may have helped things along with the soil I got from the Lady, but I reckon everyone’s done their part,” said Sam, and he was correct. While his husbandry work was at the heart of the Shire’s restoration, there was far more to be done than one hobbit could accomplish– even such an estimable one as Sam.
Rosie cast admiring eyes at the fresh, blossoming world around her before pressing a kiss to the back of Sam’s head. “When Sharkey took over, everything got to be so torn up, and ruined, and scarred. I’d never have guessed it’d all look so healed just a few months later.”
Rosie’s talk of healing sent a pang through Sam’s heart. The Shire was recovering, and so were many of its inhabitants. The old mayor would be well enough to resume his duties in a matter of weeks; Fredegar Bolger was more of a Fatty than ever; the Gaffer was happily installed in the newly refurbished Bagshot Row, and, as of tomorrow, Bag-End would no longer be empty. Sam was to live there alongside Frodo and Rosie, a delight he had never even dared to dream of before dear, thoughtful, generous Frodo made it possible. But, as for Frodo himself. . .
Suddenly, Sam spotted a familiar figure coming round the bend, dark against the setting sun. “Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, so relieved and overjoyed, he couldn’t help but race down the road to meet him partway as Rosie’s laughter chimed behind him.
Excited as Sam was to see him, he had to admit that Frodo did not look well. He was pale beneath the flush of sunset, and his eyes were shadowed. He was pitifully thin even yet, with hollow cheeks that broke Sam’s heart to behold, and the ill fit of his clothes only emphasized his slightness. Then Frodo smiled, touched and amused by Sam’s enthusiastic approach, and that was all it took to make him achingly beautiful.
Sam swept Frodo into his arms, not caring who saw. He never would have done such a thing before the journey, but, of course, Frodo was not his master anymore, and, as for them both being lads. . . well, the world had been upended in so many ways, the old rules held less sway. After everything Sam and Frodo had lived through together, some bitter gossip and distrustful stares were nothing. Sam could care less what anyone thought of him, and if anyone dared to insult Frodo, they would find themselves faced with the hobbit who had bested the spider Shelob and braved the slopes of Mount Doom.
Frodo nestled into Sam’s embrace, grateful for his warmth. Ever since being pierced by the Nazgul blade, Frodo felt as if he could never get properly warm, and even the balmy air was cold to him. He felt drained, too, and wanted nothing more than to lie down for a spell. Perhaps Sam would even stroke his hair a bit as he drifted off. . . it was all Frodo could do not to fall asleep then and there, in the comfort of Sam’s strong arms.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” Sam asked, noting how Frodo slumped against him.
Frodo straightened up. “Always, it seems, but no matter. It’s tolerable.”
The weariness in Frodo’s voice frightened Sam, but he didn’t show it beyond holding Frodo just a little tighter in the moment before reluctantly letting go. Still, he kept close to Frodo and put a steadying hand on the small of his back, dismayed by how prominent his bones felt against his palm. Frodo gave Sam a faint smile of gratitude that set his heart to fluttering, and the two of them headed for the Cottons’ smial.
“One more day,” said Sam encouragingly. “Then you’ll be back in your own Bag-End.”
Frodo did not reply.
Rosie greeted Sam with a kiss on the cheek and Frodo with a smile. “And how are we today, Mr. Mayor?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“ Deputy mayor,” Frodo corrected, as he always did. “And not for much longer, fortunately.”
“So, not well, then,” Rosie surmised.
“Oh, no, all is well,” Frodo assured her in a guilty rush. He hated to burden Rosie with his pain and tried to shelter her from it as much as he could. The truth was, Frodo was exhausted, body and spirit, and he couldn’t be relieved of duty soon enough. No more quests, no more tasks. . . at long last, he could sink into the darkness of sleep for as long as he wished and simply rot.
Rosie smiled and nodded, though she was unconvinced. Frodo was always so skittish and shy around her. She knew better than to take it personally– he was like that with everyone, really, except Sam– but she wished things were different. If they were going to keep living together, they ought to be good friends. For her part, Rosie felt she could be quite fond of Frodo, if given the chance, he was such a sweet, gentle soul. Maybe he would warm to her in time.
Sam and Frodo went to the room they shared, which had once belonged to one of Rosie’s older brothers. The Cottons had been kind enough to let the two of them stay in their smial while Bagshot Row and Bag-End were being restored, although they could only spare a single room, which, naturally, had one bed. Frodo suggested that they take turns sleeping in the bed, but Sam refused. He couldn’t bear the thought of Frodo lying on the cold, hard floor, especially not while he was still recovering from his many injuries. In theory, Sam slept on a bedroll, but, more often than not, he ended up in bed with Frodo, soothing him after a nightmare, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Frodo went to bed at once, pulling the blanket up over his head and turning on his side.
Sam was torn. On the one hand, Frodo needed rest, for he had never quite regained his strength after the journey and tired easily. His position as deputy mayor kept him busy from dawn until dusk, and nightmares kept him up half the night. It seemed cruel to discourage him from trying to sleep whenever he could, but, if Frodo took a nap now, he would miss dinner. He couldn’t afford to skip many meals, nor to eat so little at the few he did attend.
In the end, Sam decided to speak up. “You might want to stay awake a while yet, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “It shouldn’t be long until dinner, and you’ll have plenty of time for a nap after that.”
Frodo did not stir. “I don’t think I could eat, anyway. My stomach is in knots.”
Sam was anxious at once. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong .”
“If you’re worrying yourself sick, there is. Won’t you tell your Sam what’s bothering you?” asked Sam gently.
Frodo came out from under the blanket and sat up. “Well, I’m nervous, I suppose,” he confessed, “about going back to Bag-End tomorrow.”
“What for?” Sam asked, confused. “I’d’ve thought you’d be looking forward to it– getting to go home at last.”
“But it won’t be as I remember it,” said Frodo sadly. “It won’t be home anymore.”
Sam understood what Frodo meant. He had visited Bagshot Row once the Gaffer moved back, and, despite the many bright and loving memories Sam had of his old home, he could not help but feel like a stranger setting foot in it for the first time. It wasn’t only that changes had been made to the smial itself– he was different, and he had never felt it more keenly since his return. Sam could only imagine how much harder that would be on Frodo, who had changed even more than he had.
“It’ll take some getting used to,” Sam admitted. Not wanting Frodo to despair, he added, “but, who knows– you might be surprised.”
With a glimmer of pride, Sam thought of how he had managed to get Frodo’s old possessions back from Crickhollow without Frodo being any the wiser. He had spent the past few days arranging them throughout Bag-End, hoping everything was in the right place. Of course, many things were unaccounted for– lost, looted, or destroyed– but Sam was surprised to realize how much remained, and he hoped Frodo would be pleased, too.
Frodo sighed. “Well, at least I won’t have to impose on Rose’s family anymore.” A shadow of a smile crossed his face. “And you’ll get to tend the garden again.” It eased Frodo’s mind to know that happiness would come as a result of the move, even if it would not come to him.
“And I’ll get to tend to
you
,” said Sam with loving determination.
The frantic pace of Sam’s husbandry work was slowing as the natural world settled back into its long-established patterns, and Frodo would relinquish his position as deputy mayor on the first of June. At long last, Frodo would be able to get the rest he so desperately needed, and Sam was looking forward to ensuring that he got it, along with six full, nourishing meals a day, and all the affection as he could possibly want.
Sam knelt at Frodo’s bedside and kissed his cold, pale hand. “I know you’ve not been feeling well, Mr. Frodo, my dear, but you’ll get better.” He held Frodo’s hand between both of his, trying to press some warmth into it. “You’ll heal, just like the Shire has done.”
“I hope so, dear Sam,” said Frodo softly, closing his eyes. He laid down again. “But it’s hard to keep faith when I’m always so tired.” The shadows under his eyes were dark as bruises. “It’s because I am wounded. I have been torn open, and any strength I might have had once has bled out.”
Before he could stop himself, Sam said, “it’s simpler than that, I reckon.” Frodo cracked his eyes open, and Sam flushed. “I mean–” He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I’m sure you’re right, and all, and it
is
on account of your wounds and such, but, it seems to me, if you don’t mind me saying it. . .”
“Go on,” said Frodo, curious in spite of himself.
Sam managed to meet Frodo’s eyes. “You’re not eating much at all, these days. Aren’t you like to feel even worse, if you don’t eat enough to keep your strength up?”
Frodo had not even considered this. He was so caught up in the torment of his mind and the sickness in his soul, he spared little thought for his body, aside from noticing when he was in pain. He was eating more than the bite or two of lembas a day he had grown accustomed to, but, when he stopped to reflect, Frodo could admit that, even so, it wasn’t much. Frodo often skipped meals without realizing it, for he did not feel hunger as he used to. The gnawing ache had given way to utter emptiness– it was fullness that seemed aberrant to him now. If others were eating, he would sit down to eat, but a sense of unease stole over him after more than a few bites.
Frodo sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll have to make more of an effort.” To his surprise, Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “What is it? Have I upset you?”
Sam shook his head, wiping his eyes. “Not you. Never you.” And it wasn’t Frodo he was upset with– it was what had been done to him.
After a time of suffering and starvation, Frodo had at last returned to a place of peace and plenty. Sam, Merry, and Pippin all ate with heartier appetites than ever, savoring meals as never before, but, for Frodo, eating was just another dreary task, a matter of survival and no more. Many times throughout the journey, Sam had vowed he would give anything if only Frodo’s life would be spared, but to watch Frodo lead that life and find so little pleasure in it was a torture Sam never could have anticipated. Sam blinked hard, not wanting to cry anymore lest Frodo feel guilty about it, but it was devastating to think that Frodo might never enjoy food as he had before.
Reminiscing, Sam pictured the way Frodo would always sidle up to him in the summertime and charm a few cherries, or peaches, or plums from his basket while he was tending the fruit trees. There was really no need for him to gaze pleadingly at Sam or employ any other wiles. Frodo was the master of Bag-End, after all– it was his harvest, and he had the right to do with it what he wished.
One day, Sam told him so, and Frodo pouted and said, “well, yes, but the fruit always tastes sweeter when you give it to me.”
Sam blushed clear to the tips of his ears and gave Frodo an apple from his basket. Frodo smiled as Sam handed him his bounty, making his soft, red cheeks look even rounder. Sam at once set to humming a tune, needing to occupy his mouth with something that wasn’t kissing Frodo senseless.
Sam recalled how much Frodo used to love sweets. He lit up like a child whenever Bilbo surprised him with some toffee or caramel from town, even well into his tweens. Sam had carried on the tradition in Bilbo’s stead after the old hobbit’s departure.
Sweets were a luxury, and, even with his generous salary, they were not one Sam could often afford. Even so, when he had the money to spare, Sam handed it over eagerly, picturing the sparkle that would fill Frodo’s eyes when presented with the unexpected delight. Of course, Frodo always protested when Sam used his wages to treat him to anything, but, no matter how stern he tried to look when he told Sam not to do it again, he couldn’t keep a smile from playing across his lips.
Sam also remembered that Frodo had a special fondness for blackberry jam and would put it on almost anything. Once, after a dare from Pippin during a holiday dinner at Bag-End, Frodo tried some on a bit of roast goose and insisted that it was delicious, though no one else elected to find out for themselves. Sam had not witnessed this for himself, as he had spent the holiday with his family, but he was not in the least surprised to hear Frodo’s account. After that, Sam had experimented with using blackberries as a base for sauces or marinades, and, while some turned out edible, he did not think any of them quite worthy of gracing Frodo’s table.
Dear as these memories were to Sam, they hurt to recall. Frodo had changed so much, it almost felt disloyal to think fondly of the way he used to be, as if doing so meant that Sam loved Frodo more then than he did now. But Sam drove this thought from his head the moment he had it. His devotion to Frodo had only deepened after everything they had gone through together. Thin, tired, and tragic as Frodo was, Sam had never loved him more, nor had he ever been more determined to care for him, to make him smile again.
If eating was truly such a trial for Frodo now, Sam didn’t have the heart to insist he attempt it when he was already exhausted. Instead, he smoothed down Frodo’s blanket and kissed his brow.
“You just rest, now, and never mind these tears of mine,” Sam whispered. “I love you, is all– so much, it comes pouring out my eyes at times.”
Frodo was not convinced by Sam’s explanation, but he let it lie. Sam could be terribly stubborn, when he wanted to, and Frodo was too tired to coax the truth out of him, so he only said, “I love you, too,” before closing his eyes once more.
Sam let his tears fall freely as Frodo shivered beneath his blanket. He got his own blanket and laid it lightly over the one Frodo was already wrapped in.
“Thank you,” Frodo murmured.
“Sh-sh.” Sam stroked Frodo’s hair. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you for supper.”
So, Frodo slept until he was roused by a reluctant Sam, and the two of them joined the Cottons for supper. Frodo was quiet, for he was still half-asleep, and it took all the concentration he possessed just to lift a fork to his mouth. Thinking of his conversation with Sam, he tried to clear his plate, but he began to feel ill less than halfway through and had to stop.
Meanwhile, Mr. Cotton chatted with Rosie and Sam, both flush with plans for their wedding, which was to take place on Midsummer’s Day. Although Sam and Frodo were returning to Bag-End on the morrow, Rosie would not join them until after the wedding, as her sense of propriety was still somewhat intact. Although she and Sam shared a smial at the moment, it was understood that the Cottons were simply sheltering a friend in need– their living together before marriage would be seen in quite a different light once that need was no longer present.
“You’ll have to come up often and visit,” Sam was telling Rosie.
Rosie laughed. “We’ll only be apart for a few weeks.”
“ Five weeks,” said Sam, injured. “Almost six.”
“Well, I’ll be in as much as I can,” said Rosie. “By your leave, of course, Mr. Frodo,” she added deferentially.
“You don’t need my permission,” said Frodo with a gentle smile. “Bag-End will be your home, too, soon enough. You’re always welcome.”
Rosie beamed at Frodo, and Sam gazed adoringly at them both, the two dearest loves of his heart. As yet, Frodo and Rosie had little more than shy, tentative affection between them, but, to Sam, this small connection was a bud that would one day blossom forth in fair flower.
After supper, Frodo returned to bed, and Sam and Rosie went out together to sit beneath the moon and stars, speaking of their most cherished hopes.
“I want a
big
family. The biggest!” Rosie’s face was aglow with enthusiasm, and she threw out her arms as if to embrace every one of her imagined children. “The happiest, too, and the loudest–”
“Loudest?” Sam interrupted. He had been in perfect accord with his betrothed until that score. “I don’t know but that I like a bit of quiet, sometimes.” He thought also of Frodo, worrying about the effect a noisy smial would have on his delicate constitution. Hopefully, by the time Sam and Rosie started having children, Frodo would be in better health and spirits, and the strain on his nerves would be tolerable.
“I don’t think a family can be happy, if it’s too quiet-like,” said Rosie decidedly. “There’s nothing sadder’n a baby that don’t cry at night because it knows no one’ll come tend to ‘em even if they do, or wee ones just learning new words getting told they ought to be seen and not heard. Crying, laughing, talking, yelling, all of it– you’ve got to have all of it.”
Sam thought that Rosie was very wise, but he knew she would scoff if he told her so, shrugging it off as “common sense”. Instead, he took her hand and squeezed it. “I get what you’re saying, right enough.”
Rosie leaned against Sam so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder, smiling at the many stars above. “And what’re you hoping for, when you think of our family?”
Sam blushed at the phrase ‘our family’. “Same as you, I reckon. Big, happy– loud, too, if you like, only I’ll have to go out in the garden to rest my ears, now and then.” He followed Rosie’s gaze heavenward, but the glittering stars did not catch his eye, drawn as he was to the silver moon, waning and solitary. Lucent it was, yet, somehow, desolate. Unbidden came the image of Frodo’s thin, careworn face, with its cold pallor and cratered cheeks. Tears filled Sam’s eyes, and he turned to Rosie and said, “there’s just one more thing I want, and it’s that whatever family we have, Mr. Frodo feels part of it.”
“Of course he will. You love him, and that’s reason enough for me to welcome him as far into my heart as he’ll go,” said Rosie, kissing a tear from Sam’s cheek.
Rosie thought, but did not say, that if Frodo felt alone in their household, it would most likely be because he chose to hold himself apart. Her overtures of friendship had been met mostly with polite evasiveness from Frodo, but this neither hurt nor surprised her. From what Sam had told her, Frodo was ailing grievously as a result of the quest– he was sick at heart, and it must have seemed a daunting task to open it to someone new.
“I worry for him,” Sam continued in a low voice. “He’s lost. We’re home, but he’s lost. It’s all so hard for him now. . .”
Rosie cooed in sympathy, nestling closer to Sam. “It’ll get easier in time, won’t it? And he has us, at least,” Rosie added with spirit. “We’ll look out for him, and when he gets lost, we’ll just remind him that his place is with us, and, one of these days, he won’t need reminding at all. He’ll have found his way.” She patted Sam’s back. “Have faith, me love.”
A part of Sam wanted to object, to point out that the ring had left wounds on Frodo beyond anything Rosie could comprehend, but then a warm, sweet breeze whispered past, lush with the promise of summer. Sam took one deep breath, then another, and he decided to trust. Frodo’s path to healing would not be as simple as the one Rosie laid out in all her well-intentioned optimism, but Sam had to believe that there was such a path, and Frodo had to have faith in it, too.
Sam wrapped his arms around Rosie, holding her in silent thanks. After a while, the two began to talk of pleasant things, and, later still, Sam went to bed. Rosie followed him as far as the living room but stayed up later than her wont, for she was embroidering flowers onto her wedding dress, which, naturally, Sam wasn’t supposed to see.
Perhaps an hour later, Frodo wandered into the living room. He was clad only in a nightshirt, and his eyes were bleary at first, but they widened in alarm when he noticed Rosie. Rosie was just as surprised to see him, but she only smiled and said hello. Frodo nodded in acknowledgement and sidled back toward the hall.
“No need to run away, now,” said Rosie with a little laugh. “Did you come out to get something?”
“Not quite,” Frodo replied, looking askance. He did not seem inclined to elaborate, so Rosie didn’t push for an explanation. Then he said, quietly, “sometimes, when I can’t stay asleep, it helps to walk around for a while.”
Rosie was stunned to find Frodo confiding in her, even for something as small as this. Perhaps it was just because he was too tired to maintain his usual defenses, but, even so, she decided to take it as a hopeful sign. “Well, keep at it, then.”
“I can go outside or keep to the hall, if my being here bothers you,” said Frodo.
“You go where you please, and don’t mind me one bit,” Rosie told him. “I’d stay inside, if I was you, though,” she added. “It still gets cool at night, and we wouldn’t want you taking ill.” She had laughed off Sam’s concerns earlier, but Frodo looked so frail, drowning in that nightshirt, Rosie feared a strong cold just might finish him off.
Frodo paced up and down the hall for a few minutes, but, gradually, he began to venture into the living room at the end of each circuit, and Rosie saw him casting wistful looks at the hearth.
“Why don’t you sit by the fire for a spell?” she suggested.
Frodo was uncertain at first, but Rosie looked so warm and comfortable in the fire’s glow, he couldn’t bring himself to turn down the cold, dark corridor once more. He sat in a chair by the fire and gave Rosie a shy smile.
Rosie beamed back, but there was worry in her heart. The fickle firelight emphasized the hollows under Frodo’s cheeks, and she remembered that he had slept through dinner. Sam wanted Frodo to feel like part of the family, so Rosie considered what she would do if Frodo was one of her brothers. It was not easy, for sensitive Frodo was not in the least like her boisterous brothers, and she couldn’t imagine quarelling with him, as she probably would with Jolly, were he in Frodo’s place.
Rosie decided to take a more indirect approach. She set her dress to the side and stood. “I was planning to go to bed soon, but I’d like to fix myself a snack first– some bread and honey, I was thinking.” That seemed filling and wholesome, and she knew from Sam that Frodo was fond of anything sweet. “You’ll keep me company and have some, too, won’t you?”
“Oh– certainly,” said Frodo, who was rather flustered by Rosie’s request but too polite to refuse.
Rosie went to the kitchen and returned a little later with two plates, each laden with thick slices of bread lavished with butter, honey drizzled generously overtop. She handed a plate to Frodo, then sat down with her own.
As Rosie started eating, Frodo regarded his bread and honey with trepidation. He wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to Rosie’s feelings. Besides, he had said he would make an effort to eat more, so he took a bite.
“Good, isn’t it?” Rosie asked.
Frodo nodded, but, in truth, he hadn’t noticed the taste. Food seldom left any impression on him these days– in fact, he had already forgotten what had been served for supper mere hours ago. Frodo took another bite and chewed it slowly. As he ate, he remembered that bread and honey had been a favorite snack of his in childhood because he pretended to be visiting Beorn with Bilbo whenever he had it. Frodo tensed at the recollection. Even the brightest memories of life before the quest were tinged with sorrow now. They all felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely, and the joy within them seemed far beyond his reach.
Then Frodo looked up from his plate and saw Rosie smiling at him. She was beautiful, with cheeks like the roses she was named for and curls painted golden by the firelight. She was giving, and vivacious, and stubborn in the sweetest way– determined to show kindness to everyone, even wounded, anxious hobbits who did not often feel they deserved it. Frodo could not imagine a better wife for his beloved Sam.
Rosie brought such joy to Sam’s life, Frodo was willing to do anything in his power to make her life pleasant, too. In his mind, this translated to keeping his distance as much as possible, for he feared he could only be a burden to Rosie. . . but she never acted as if this was so. She treated Frodo like a friend, or perhaps even family– someone she was bound to by love. Frodo cared for Rosie, and, when he met her warm brown eyes, the taste of honey from the bread she had given him still on his lips, he wondered, for the first time, if she might feel similarly toward him. He smiled back.
“I do hope we can be friends,” said Frodo. A wistful note crept into his voice. “And I apologize if I’ve been cold to you, these past few months. It’s only–” Frodo wasn’t sure he remembered how to be a friend. There were places in his heart that had fallen into shadow, and he did not know if light would ever come to them again, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that to Rosie, who was pure, and whole, and could not possibly understand. “It’s my fault,” he said at last. “It’s all my fault.”
Rosie shook her head. “Oh, dearie, I’m sure you’ve got troubles enough without feeling bad on my account.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t know the half of what you’ve been through, but even I can guess it’ll take time to get well. No need to rush things, if you aren’t ready yet.”
Frodo doubted he would ever be well again, and he dreaded the day when Rosie’s patience finally ran out. Still, he bowed his head and thanked her.
“And of course we’ll be friends, if you’d like,” said Rosie with a sweet smile. “I aim to do all I can for the hobbit me dear Sam loves so.”
Frodo straightened up. “That’s exactly how I feel about you, Rose,” he said softly.
“Well, there you have it!” Rosie exclaimed with satisfaction. “We’re friends, then. There’s no reason for us not to be.”
Rosie knew nothing would make Sam happier than to see her and Frodo grow closer. Besides, it was clear Frodo needed all the care and kindness he could get– Rosie hoped he would accept her affections and no longer feel the need to shy away.
The conversation had lifted a weight from Frodo’s heart that he hadn’t even noticed was there, overshadowed as it was by greater burdens. Still, it was a relief to know that Rosie saw him as a friend– even if, wounded as he was, Frodo wasn’t quite sure why she would want to. He silently resolved to prove himself worthy of her grace and kindness, then took another bite of bread and honey. This time, Frodo could taste its sweetness.