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When Frodo was very young, his parents had taken him to visit his grandparents’ house, located on a sprawling bit of land tucked away in one of the smaller corners of the West Farthing. His grandfather would hold him on his lap and feed him bits of cake and tart, while the other adults talked and told stories from long ago. Faunt that he had been, Frodo still remembered with perfect clarity the tale that his grandmother always told from when she was a little girl and the fields surrounding her father’s house had caught fire.
“We were down at the creek, my brother and I,” she would begin, as her rapt audience clung to every word, despite having heard the story many times before. “And I remember I was drawing shapes in the mud when he sniffed the air and asked if I smelled smoke. When we came up the bank, all I could see was a red glow through a thick cloud of grey. We were both frozen in shock, till I heard the sound of my mother screaming. You best believe I took off like a shot right into the smoke.”
Even after he had grown too big to be held on a lap, and after his grandmother had passed away, with his parents following close behind, Frodo still shuddered when he remembered how his grandmother described sprinting to the house through the burning fields in a mindless horror, heedless to the flames and embers licking at her skirts and alighting in her braids.
“It wasn’t till much later,” she always said, “after I knew that everyone was alright and all that remained was smoldering ash, that I realized all the hair on my legs and feet had been singed clean off. Never did grow back,” she would finish wistfully. And Frodo would always sneak a glance at her bare legs, and the thin, patchy scruff of hair on her feet, so different from his mother’s. And then he would surreptitiously run his hands down his own legs and tangle his fingers in the hair of his feet and imagine what it would be like to not have it there at all.
-
Now, behind the great walls of Minas Tirith, which were so far away from the quiet corners of childhood, Frodo was thinking about his grandmother. When he had regained consciousness, it had been difficult to for him to take a total stock of how his body had changed. To be perfectly fair, there was a lot to keep track of. Things like a missing finger, a whip weal, and giant bloody scaring around his neck tended to draw his attention most strongly. But as time passed and he came to terms with those big things, a never-ending litany of smaller complaints began to make themselves known.
It was the hair loss, of course, that reminded him so strongly of his grandmother. The heat from the explosion had seared most of the hair from both his and Sam’s legs and arms and had burned their feet so badly that for the first few weeks they had keep them wrapped and weight off them as much as possible. Frodo had gotten into the habit of obsessively wrapping and unwrapping the bandages to check if the hair had started growing back in. As of yet, there had been little progress. He wondered if his grandmother had wanted her hair to return too, and if she had been sad when it didn’t.
Not that he had much time or privacy to do so too often though. His wounds had to cleaned regularly and there was a never-ending array of ointments and salves to apply, once, twice, three times a day. Then there was re-learning how to walk, and how to use his maimed hand, and breathing exercises and a slow reintroduction to food, and working up an appetite from scratch, and having his every move constantly monitored, for fear of strain. In the early days, Frodo had half-joked to Sam that if he knew that recovery would have resulted in so much hassle, he wouldn’t have bothered getting rescued in the first place. He meant it mostly in jest, but Sam just gave him the saddest sort of look and clutched Frodo’s good hand as tears started in his eyes.
“Please don’t say such things my dear,” he said, and Frodo had wrapped his arms around him and murmured an apology and told Sam not to listen to an old hobbit’s griping and he was dreadfully sorry for making Sam cry and that he should just forget he had even said anything.
Frodo felt like he was always making Sam cry these days, so he did not say anything like that again. But he still thought it sometimes.
It all just made him so exhausted. One the one hand, he found himself exalted everywhere as a hero, a peace bringer, a victor of immeasurable status! When their party had first arrived in Minas Tirith, people had shoved and clamored on the street just to get a glimpse of the legendary Ringbearer, and the other periannath too! Hands reached out touch his cloak, his pony, to brush his arm. Someone had shoved a garland of flowers on his head, and another pressed a little cake into his hand. Before he had gotten a chance to thank them, or even get a good look of their faces, he was whisked away by the crowd. When they finally arrived at Gandalf’s apartments, he locked himself in the washroom and collapsed against the door, desperately trying to reorient himself and get control of his breathing. He had stayed there, slumped on the cold stone tiles, until he had been interrupted by a knock and Merry timidly informing him that it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Because that was the other thing that troubled Frodo so: he had quickly discovered that being elevated to a figure of legend didn’t automatically make one feel powerful. In fact, he had trouble recalling another period in his life outside of childhood where he had felt so utterly small and helpless to resist the deeds of others (the exception, of course, being the recent events that had landed him in this position in the first place. But there had been extenuating circumstances there, and so maybe shouldn’t count).
Take, for instance, the whole business of the haircut. When he awoke for the first time in Cormallen, he found that his hair had been cropped while he was unconscious. It was shorter than he had ever worn it, shorn above even his ears. It had been explained to him by an apologetic healer that his hair never really stood a chance against the combined forces of an inadequate diet, little rest, extreme stress, and illness, and had apparently been rapidly falling out ever since his rescue (and probably before that too, but Frodo had been otherwise occupied and hadn’t noticed). It had been deemed prudent to simply cut it off to allow for a fresh start, the healer said, and that she hoped Frodo wasn’t too upset by it.
Frodo had handed the looking glass back and assured her that it didn’t matter in the slightest. For how could he in seriousness tell her that while most people claimed he took after his mother, his hair had been inherited from his father and his father alone? And how it had been Drogo, not Primula, that had combed and styled his curls every morning, and that he never once pulled too hard or carelessly tugged the comb on a snarl? And how his father had always worn his hair long, and so Frodo’s was always long too. And how even after Frodo was a grown hobbit and could no longer remember the sound of his father’s voice, his hairstyle was still modelled after Drogo’s: dark silky curls pulled back into a low ponytail and tied with a ribbon. Frodo would have felt absurd trying to explain why it was so important that he match with someone who had been dead for decades now, for he wasn’t even sure why it was so important himself. So instead, he patted her hand and said that it was only hair, and that hair would grow back.
-
Besides, it wouldn’t be strictly true to say that his days were entirely characterized by this strange dissonance. For the most part, the happy moments outshone the sad. It was wonderful to be reunited with Legolas and Gimli, and to enjoy their company and jokes without a constant doom looming over their heads. Strider (but was it Elessar or Aragorn now? Nobody should have that many names) was as noble and dry-witted as ever, though understandably very busy. Frodo and Sam were introduced to the Lady Eowyn and reintroduced to Faramir, both of whom were perfectly lovely. Faramir was even kind enough to give them a tour of Minas Tirith – the parts that had not been destroyed by warfare, at least.
“I wish I could show you how the city used to look when I was young,” he had said wistfully as they passed yet another partially demolished storefront. “There were gardens and pavilions everywhere, and parks, and tea rooms, and strings of lights, and there was always singing and dancing to be had somewhere.”
“That sounds real nice,” said Sam, lending Frodo a helping hand over a bit of rubble. They had both made promises to take it slow.
“It was,” Faramir replied. “Now that the King is back, I imagine its former glory will be restored. Or even exceeded! But I expect it’ll never the exact city I remember.”
“No, I should expect not,” Frodo had said softly. Only Sam overheard his comment and gave his hand a soft squeeze.
-
Seeing his cousins couldn’t be easily qualified as happy or sad, so Frodo had a third separate category for it.
They were so tall now! And warriors to boot! They wore livery and talked of battles which made Frodo’s head spin and his heart ache. At first, Pippin was nearly as banged up and bandaged as Frodo was, and Merry carried a sort of quiet within him that Frodo thought he recognized. But at the end of the day, they were still essentially his cousins: they still bickered and joked and harried him constantly. Frodo loved them just the same as he always had. Plus, now there were new positive aspects to their relationship that hadn’t been there before! For instance, when Frodo told Pippin to fetch him something that he just as easily could have fetched himself, now Pippin did it without complaint, instead of telling Frodo that he was “so bossy” and to “get off his ass and do it himself”. Or, when Frodo won a round of cards against Merry, he was merely met with a smile and a “you win this time, cousin”, rather than with impassioned accusations of cheating, and a demand for a rematch. So that was nice.
And last but certainly not least, Sam. Sam was still Sam: a little stubborn, a little shy, but immeasurably kind and attentive. Frodo went to bed each night in his arms and woke up the same way and that was more than enough.
-
To Frodo’s mind, as long as he managed to keep his body and attention occupied, the frailty that he was struggling with stayed away, or at very least lingered from a respectable distance. Being around people he loved certainly helped, but this too was a fine line. For whilst their company was a balm, the constant attention and care and fretting that they insisted on bestowing him was the very thing that made him feel so small and weak and childlike. And that would make him withdraw, which led to more fretting, which led to more withdrawal. You see?
He had been doing alright though. All things considered, everyone seemed to be in agreement that he was “on the mend”, and that his occasional fits of melancholy were natural result of the trials he had endured, but that surely they would recede in time. Frodo wasn’t so sure, but he also did nothing to discourage this assessment.
It might be an awfully fine line, but he was walking it. That is, until the night of the dinner party.
Along with the announcement of the date of Aragorn’s coronation, it had also been made generally known that there was to be a celebratory feast held in honor of Faramir and Eowyn’s engagement. It was to be a massive affair, with many courses, fine clothing, splendid decorations, and hundreds of guests in attendance. This was a much anticipated, but also a touch overwhelming event for the new couple. Thus, it had been decided that there would also be a smaller, more intimate dinner party to be held a few nights beforehand, with only friends and family present.
“It’s like a rehearsal,” Pippin had explained. “A dry run, if you will.”
“It better not be dry,” Sam had grumbled, not looking forward to the prospect of spending more precious hours than necessary stuffed into fancy attire.
Sam needn’t have worried, for both the wine and the conversation was sparkling, and there was copious amounts to be had of each. Frodo was sat in between Aragorn and Gandalf, which pleased him, for he had seen little of either in recent days. The food, of course, was superb, and Frodo did his very best to be present and to pay attention to the conversations swirling around him. But try as he might, he found himself inexorably sinking into lethargy as the night progressed. He thought that perhaps the high energy of the company and the exotic food might prevent such a thing, but it was proving an exercise in futility as his eyelids grew heavier and heavier with each passing dish.
His last memory was watching the candle flames go all hazy through unfocused eyes, pinching his inner thigh, and dazedly thinking I must NOT fall asleep!
-
He was later informed by Merry that the Lady Eowyn had been first to notice, and that she had displayed the utmost sensitivity as she subtly caught Aragorn’s eye and gestured to Frodo’s slumbering form besides him. Merry also assured him that practically no one had noticed as the King of Gondor gently lifted the sleeping Ringbearer in his arms like a babe and carried him from the assembly. Frodo wanted to know why Merry knew that all this had happened if the whole thing had been so utterly discrete. But Merry would not be swayed from his telling, and Frodo couldn’t remember a damn thing, so the conversation had been dropped.
What he did remember was this: he had known he was being carried, and he had known that he trusted the person doing the carrying. But he also remembered that for the life of him, he had not been able to distinguish which Frodo-being-carried he was.
For there was a part of him that felt he was the Frodo who had stayed up too late visiting his grandparents, and who had been borne off to bed by his mother, where she kissed on the cheek and tucked him in soundly. Or if he was perhaps the version of himself whose grief had worked him into an exhaustion during his parent’s wake, and who had to be carried off to his Aunt Esme’s chambers by his Uncle Rory? Or maybe he was the Frodo who had nobody to carry him home after the fated Birthday Party, but who had sorely wished for someone after Gaffer Gamgee had clapped him on the shoulder and whispered it’ll be alright lad in his ear. Or, worst of all, was he the one who had lain battered and broken on the slopes of Orodruin, who had been so incredibly drained of all spirit that he could not find it in him to even form words? And who Sam (brave, good, loyal Sam, nearly as weary as he was), had lifted on his back so tenderly to begin that final crawl towards the end.
These impressions rushed at Frodo all at once, swirling and chasing each other around in his mind over and over and over again. It was too much. He could not bear the weight of all this memory; he could not bear it.
As he was lain down upon silken sheets, Frodo could contain them no longer. He burst out into hysterical sobs. Aragorn started (for Frodo was aware enough now to tell who it was), and immediately drew Frodo to his chest, hushing him and asking him what was the matter. This only made Frodo cry harder, to the point where he was keening for breath.
Aragorn called out for the guard, bidding them to “fetch Mithrandir and Master Samwise”. He then turned his attention back to Frodo and smoothed his hair from his brow as he reclined him against a pillow. But his attempts at comfort went unheeded as Frodo grew more and more distraught. He clutched at Aragorn and buried his face in his fine tunic, not even caring that he was spoiling it with his tears.
Aragorn was no fool and was not afraid to admit when he was out of his depth. He gently disentangled himself from Frodo’s grasp.
“Hold on,” he had murmured, and when he returned it was with a vial of a dark colored liquid. He moved over to the bedside table, Frodo heard a clink and gurgle, but distantly, as if from a long way off. Then there was suddenly a glass at his lips and a sickly-sweet scent wafting up to him.
“See if you can drink all of this,” was the order, and Frodo was too discomposed to even think about disobeying.
The last thing he registered before the sleeping draught pulled him down into unconsciousness was Sam’s voice calling to him from somewhere outside of his line of sight.
-
Frodo slept through the night and most of the next day. He did not recall any dreams.
-
When he finally woke, it was to a room lit by the orange of sunset and the warmth of Sam’s body curled up against his back. He sat up carefully, as not to disturb his rest, and immediately made eye contact with Gandalf, who was sat in the corner armchair, smoking a pipe and watching him.
“This has got to stop happening,” Frodo groaned.
At the sound of Frodo’s voice, Sam snuffled himself awake.
“Frodo!” he gasped, and practically leapt out bed and over to the nightstand to pour him a glass of water. “Mr. Strider said you’d be needing this when you woke up.”
Frodo accepted it gratefully – his mouth was awfully dry, and his head throbbed incessantly. When he drained the glass, both Gandalf and Sam were looking at him expectantly.
“What?” he said, though he knew what they wanted.
Gandalf extinguished his pipe and leaned forward thoughtfully.
“You had us all dreadfully worried my lad,” he said gently. “Perhaps you could tell us what upset you so?”
Historically, Frodo had never cared to answer questions immediately after he had woken up. And he especially did not feel like answering this one.
“It was nothing,” he tried. “I’m perfectly well. I really couldn’t tell you what happened if I tried.”
He was met with two unconvinced stares. Frodo sighed. It was just his luck that he was being minded by the only two people in the world whom he could not stonewall.
“Fine. I had a nightmare,” said Frodo, which was as close to the truth as they were like to get. “But I don’t remember it and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Something in Gandalf’s expression told him that he knew Frodo wasn’t being entirely honest, but Frodo gave him a slight frown and shook his head. If he wanted to stick his nose in, he would have to wait.
“I’ve never known you to react to a nightmare like that,” Sam said doubtfully, evidently oblivious to the exchange that had just occurred.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there Samwise?” Frodo snapped. Sam pressed his lips together and looked away.
The shame came to Frodo immediately. He placed a hand on Sam’s knee.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell. And I appreciate the concern,” he added, nodding to Gandalf. “From both of you. But I really don’t feel well, and I’d appreciate being left alone right now, if that’s alright.”
Sam nodded wordlessly but gave Frodo a quick peck on the lips before he got up and left. Gandalf stood as well but lingered by Frodo’s bedside for a moment longer.
Frodo looked up at him. “I’m alright, Gandalf,” he whispered.
Gandalf smiled sadly. “I know, dear boy.”
At this, Frodo could feel the tears threatening to make another appearance. He screwed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths, so he did not see when Gandalf left the room, and only heard when the door shut behind him.
-
Frodo got his wish. During the next few days, he was largely left alone by his friends. It seemed that no one wanted to be the one responsible for upsetting him again (not wanting to run the risk of provoking Sam’s wrath, most likely). They would make light-hearted conversation with him over the breakfast table, and then leave him to his own devices for the rest of the day – just as long as he didn’t wander too far from the house alone.
Frodo had conflicting feelings about this approach. Whilst it was nice to be able to pretend that he wasn’t an active source of concern for the others, he also was unable to pretend that he couldn't tell when people had been talking about him just before he walked in a room. He was deeply familiar with the way that their eyes would go wide when they saw him, before being immediately replaced with plastered on smiles and inviting words urging him to come sit, and telling him how they had just been thinking about taking a stroll to that nice bakery, and would he like to join them?
He first had this sort of experience when he was twelve years old, and it appeared that he wasn’t going to get away from it any time soon.
-
Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it), this “whisper and tip toe around Frodo” game they all had going on came with a firm ending date: that of Eowyn and Faramir’s actual engagement celebration.
Frodo knew the day was rapidly closing in but was still caught off guard one morning when Gandalf bluntly informed him at the second breakfast table that the feast was that night, and if he had any sense, he would take a bath so as not to offend any nobility or foreign emissaries with his greasy hair.
Frodo spluttered and considered arguing back, but decided against it, seeing as he really did need a bath. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid bathing (a hot bath being one of the things he missed the most while on their trek), but it had proved to be one of those awkward things. For what was left of his ring finger was still bandaged up, and the skin of his neck, back, and feet had not yet healed and still required diligent care. If he needed anything more than a quick rinse, he also needed someone else to help him with it.
“Where’s Sam?” he asked, resigning himself to his fate.
“I believe he was persuaded by Gimli to accompany him to some sort of handball competition,” replied Gandalf as he buttered a scone and handed it to him. “I couldn’t be bothered to sniff out more of the details, but I don’t expect they shall return until later this afternoon. And before you ask,” he added, sensing the direction of Frodo’s next question, “Master Peregrin has accepted an invitation to luncheon in the Steward’s quarters. It seems your options are Legolas or Mr. Brandybuck. Or yours truly,” he tacked on, waggling his eyebrows teasingly at Frodo.
Frodo slumped in his chair and munched on the scone with as much despondency as one could manage while eating a baked good. There was definitely a lesser evil among those choices.
He swallowed his mouthful, wiped his face with a napkin, and hollered, “MERRY!” in the direction of his cousin’s room.
-
Merry brought an excessive amount of vim and vigor to his task, certainly more than was needed for a simple bath.
“Do you want rose or lavender scented shampoo?” he asked, waving two glass bottles at Frodo.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” was Frodo’s response, his face half obscured by the massive amount of bubbles Merry had added.
“Be that way,” said Merry, unaffected. “I’ll pick.”
Frodo fought the urge to cross his arms and pout as Merry began lathering his curls and humming a little tune. He was being silly, he knew. It was just a bath, and there was no shame in admitting he needed help. But normally he and Sam took theirs together, and even though Sam didn’t really need the assistance, it always felt more like a mutual thing, something that they could do for each other, rather than something Frodo needed to have done to him.
As Merry helped him out of the tub and bundled him in a thick towel, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What he saw was a small, pale, and very slight figure, dwarfed even by the towel around his shoulders. Startled looking eyes that were almost too big for his face gazed back at him. And his hair was still short and thin, too short for even the meagerest of ponytails. If somehow, he had seen what he looked like now a year ago, he didn’t think he would be able to recognize himself.
To be honest, this wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been such a sharp juxtaposition between his reflections and his cousin’s. He looked tanned and so very tall. Muscled, strong, healthy. Confident.
“I’m so pathetic,” Frodo murmured before he could stop himself. Merry, in the midst of toweling Frodo’s hair, froze.
“What did you say?” he asked hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly.
Frodo regretted speaking already. “Nothing,” he said. “Ignore me.”
But it was too late. Merry led him over to the stool and plunked him down, towel and all.
“What do you mean ‘pathetic’?” he asked, kneeling before him.
Frodo shrugged but was unable to prevent himself from glancing over at the looking glass. Merry followed his gaze.
“Oh,” said Merry. “Is it about how you look?”
Frodo hummed noncommittedly. It was much easier to allow Merry to think this was about appearances. For how could one even react to the confession of I’ll never be like I was before, and I don’t know who I am now, and how can I possibly survive a sorrow as enormous as this if I clearly haven’t recovered from the sorrows of childhood? No, it was much better to leave others as untroubled by him as possible.
But in the meantime, he was still caught in Merry’s grasp.
“Oh, Frodo,” Merry sighed, and Frodo looked away, for fear of the pity he might read in his face.
“It was a shame about your hair,” Merry said. “My mother always said it wasn’t right that such a fine head of hair went wasted on a rascal like you, and that if you had a lick of decency, you’d trade with her.”
Frodo could not muster a laugh, but he managed a little half-hearted smile.
“It’ll grow back, I’m sure of it,” said Merry. “And all it’ll take to put some meat back on your bones is a few hearty Shire meals. The stuff here is good and all, but it doesn’t compare to the food back home. You’ll see.”
“It will be nice to be home again,” Frodo allowed.
“And in the meantime,” Merry said as he reached for the little hand-held mirror, “it’s not like you’re completely horrible to look at right now.”
“Charming,” Frodo said dryly.
Merry waggled the mirror in his face. “Look! Just look!”
Frodo had learned a long time ago that it was usually easier to go along with Merry than it was to fight against him. He looked.
“See, you’ve still got your biiig blue eyes, and delicate bone structure,” said Merry. “Not to mention your alabaster brow!”
“Ah yes, how could I forget my alabaster brow?” responded Frodo, rolling his eyes and smirking, mostly for Merry’s sake. It worked. Merry beamed.
But it did not work long, as he suddenly sobered, setting aside the glass and grasping Frodo’s hand.
“You’re anything but pathetic, my dear cousin,” he said seriously.
Frodo swallowed. “Alright.”
Merry considered him for a second more, then winked, and the mood lightened. He stood up and retrieved his towel.
“Besides, us Brandybucks are a resilient sort,” he said, gesturing for Frodo to turn his back towards him. “You’ll be right as rain sooner than you know it.”
“I’m a Baggins,” Frodo shot back.
Merry scoffed. “If you say so,” and resumed toweling.
-
After Frodo had been declared sufficiently washed and dried, Merry had deposited him in his bedroom, and left to see to his own toilette and “oh, I don’t know, probably go bother Eowyn or Legolas.”
Frodo had been given specific instructions to begin thinking about his attire and to encouraged to begin getting ready early, just in case. So naturally, when Pippin let himself in the bedroom several hours later, Frodo had not even changed out of his bathrobe.
“I say, it’s a good thing they sent me to check and see how you were faring,” Pippin said with amusement. “You are aware that the feast starts in 90 minutes time? And here I find you lounging about in your dressing gown like somebody’s gammer on Second Yule morning!”
Frodo was curled up in his armchair, an oversized illustrated encyclopedia of the local fauna perched on his lap.
“I’m aware” he said mildly, flicking a page. “I don’t think I shall be going.”
Pippin laughed, until he saw that Frodo was not laughing along.
“You aren’t serious?’ he asked incredulously.
“I’m afraid I am,” replied Frodo, not even bothering to look up from the entry he was reading. “Did you know Minas Tirith is home to at least 300 different species of birds?”
At this, Pippin darted across the room and snatched the book from Frodo’s lap.
“I was looking at that!” Frodo exclaimed, but Pippin ignored him.
“You can’t not go!” he cried. “I was just with Faramir, and I told him you were going! He asked after you specifically. You’re to be a guest of honor, up at the main table.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Frodo hissed, suddenly angry. He looked to be on the brink of an attack of – what? Choler? Tears? Pippin stared at him, open mouthed.
“Stars, Frodo,” he whispered. “What happened? Do you need me to fetch someone? Gandalf?”
Like a summer storm, the fit passed almost as quickly as it arrived. Frodo suddenly collapsed in the chair, and the frantic look left his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said to a still shocked Pippin. “I don’t know why I said that.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Of course I’m going. I’ll start getting ready now.”
Pippin looked like he still wanted to wring his hands a bit, but he rallied remarkably.
“I was going to get ready in here anyway, so I’ll help get you started before I tend to myself.” He hesitated, looking down at his older cousin. “Are you really sure you want to go?”
“Yes, yes, I’m perfectly well. I was just feeling a little tired, but I really am excited for the feast.”
“Frodo,” Pippin said, and the exasperation in his voice startled Frodo from his brooding. “You don’t have to lie. You can just say, ‘I’m feeling badly Pip, but I’d prefer not to talk about it here and now’, or you can say ‘Yes O my perceptive cousin, it’s true. I have been downcast of late. Now sit down and I shall tell you how such a fate befell me’. But there’s no point in pretending you’re fine and dandy. We’re still your friends, might I remind you. We can tell when you’re not doing well.”
Frodo tried not to gape at him.
“You and Merry must have practiced at giving impromptu speeches while I was gone,” he said weakly. Pippin smiled but did not rise to the bait as he pulled Frodo up and led him to the wardrobe.
Frodo leaned against the wardrobe and watched as Pippin flicked through the various waistcoats and shirts within.
“I’ve been downcast of late, Pip,” Frodo said quietly. “I feel very strange.”
Pippin’s movements stilled for a moment, but he recovered almost immediately.
“Strange how?” was all he said.
Frodo drew a breath to steady himself. “You know when I had that breakdown the night of the dinner party, how I insisted that it had been set off by a bad dream?”
Pippin nodded. “Sure.”
“That wasn’t entirely the truth, I’m afraid. It wasn’t a memory of my recent ordeals that troubled me so. Well, it was, but it was more than that. I don’t think I realized how much the Ring was taking from me until it was destroyed. And now that it’s gone, all those memories have come flooding back, and I’ve been reminded of hurts that I’ve forgotten about until now.”
He fiddled with the drawstrings of his robe. “I’ve been thinking about my parents,” he said quietly. “And Bilbo leaving. And my grandmother’s burnt legs.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “Imagine that. Imagine getting teary over something that happened over a hundred years ago. But here we are.”
By this point, Pippin had selected several waistcoats, which he draped over his arm. He held one up to Frodo’s chest, eyeing him critically.
“You always did cut a fine figure in red,” he said to himself. “But I’m partial to the green as well.”
With his free hand, he took Frodo’s elbow and guided him back over to the bed, where he lay out his selections one by one.
“I’m still listening,” he said. “So, you’ve been struggling with old wounds as well as new. That’s rough luck. But why keep it so secret? I think we’d all have sympathy for that.”
Bewildering as this conversation was, Frodo was committed now. He still didn’t particularly want to talk about it, but there was also a need to make Pippin understand.
“It’s not just the memories,” he said, collapsing into the bedside chair. “The thing that troubles me is what they imply.”
Pippin hummed and began rummaging around the dresser drawers.
“Gold or silver cufflinks?” he asked.
“Silver,” Frodo replied automatically.
“Right-o,” said Pippin. “What do they imply? The memories, I mean.”
“Perspective. Because now I know how trivial those old sufferings were. In the grand scheme of possible pain, those troubles were comparatively small indeed. But here I am, still hurting from them years and years later. And if that’s true with these small things, it naturally follows that there is no future in which I will ever fully heal from the wounds that this journey inflicted. They’re too big for me. If that’s the case, then what’s the point of trying to recover at all? I’m utterly helpless and my frailty is painfully clear to everyone that knows me. It’s humiliating.”
Frodo finished his speech and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the outpouring of pity and concern that he had come to expect whenever he spoke like this. But several seconds passed and it did not come. Frodo opened his eyes in confusion and snuck a glance at Pippin. To his surprise, Pippin wasn’t looking at him at all, but was gazing off into the middle-distance, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That’s very interesting,” he said. “And I can see why this has been troubling you so. But I can’t say I entirely agree with some of your conclusions. Do you care to hear a spot of counterargument, or would you rather I left it alone?”
Frodo blinked. “Go on then,” he managed.
Pippin came over and sat on the footstool, facing Frodo. He rested his elbows on his knees, and cradled his face in his two hands, his thoughtful expression still intact.
“I was reminded of something myself whilst you were talking earlier,” he said. “Do you remember when Great Uncle Hugo died?”
Frodo nodded his assent.
“Then you’ll remember how hard Great Aunt Liligard took it. Father had to a lot of coaxing to get her to eat and sleep, and the slightest thing would set her off into tears. But the funny thing was– well, perhaps funny isn’t the right word. The strange thing was that if you paid attention to what she was saying during her cries, it wasn’t always Uncle Hugo that she was weeping for. More than once, we heard her saying something about ‘poor, poor Peony’”.
“Who’s Peony?” Frodo asked, curious in spite of himself.
“That’s what we all wanted to know,” said Pippin. “My mother did some asking around. Apparently, Peony Banks had been a close playmate of Aunt Lili’s when they were very young. But she was killed when a pony threw her during an afternoon outing. I guess Aunt Lili saw the whole thing.”
“How dreadful,” Frodo murmured.
“But here’s the thing,” said Pippin. “The sorrow that she felt for Peony never went away. She learned to live with it. But the new grief over Hugo stirred up the old grief for Peony, right? It didn’t mean that the loss of Hugo was any less horrible. It just meant the sadness she felt then was just as serious as the sadness she felt when she was a little girl. Or if you want, you can think about it this way: you didn’t stop loving your parents when you moved in with Bilbo, right? It’s not as if your emotions have a time limit, and that you have to stop feeling them after a certain amount of days have passed.”
Sometime during Pippin’s monologue, tears had started silently rolling down Frodo’s face.
“Do you want me to stop?” asked Pippin hesitantly.
“No!” Frodo choked out. “Please keep going.”
“Well, what I was driving at was this,” Pippin continued, evidently bolstered by Frodo’s response. “I think it’s wrong of you to say that those old sufferings were trivial.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s say I have the flu this week. That doesn’t mean the migraine I had last week wasn’t also totally horrendous. I can’t even bring myself to imagine the horrors you must have endured because of that awful ring. But I think anyone would agree that losing your parents so young is also a horror. You just got better at living with that grief. And you’ll get better at living with this grief too, even if it takes a lot of time.”
Frodo nodded, openly weeping now, his hand over his mouth. But when Pippin tentatively leaned forward and put his arms around him, he leaned into the embrace.
“It’s okay to be upset about your hand, and falling asleep at the dinner table,” Pippin said softly. “And it’s okay that you miss your long hair. And it’s okay if you aren’t always at your best. We all love you Frodo. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Frodo said through sobs.
After a while, Frodo drew back and gave Pippin a watery smile.
“Now I’m all stuffed up. And I need to wash my face again.”
“Luckily, those are the type of problems I can fix for you right away,” said Pippin, producing a kerchief. “Let me know if you have any more.”
Frodo shook his head. “When did that little snot that used to follow me around Bag End and crawl into my bed when he had a nightmare get so wise?”
“He’s done a bit of growing up,” said Pippin.
“Well, I’m sad about that too!” said Frodo, triggering a fresh bout of sobs. But these ones were mixed with laughter, which was only exacerbated when Pippin threw his arms around Frodo once again and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll be a little snot whenever you like!” he cried. “Just say the word and I’ll become perfectly wayward!”
It was at this moment that Sam chose to make his entrance.
“What’s this about being wayward?” he said. “What’s the matter?” he asked upon seeing Frodo’s tear-stained cheeks.
“Oh, it’s nothing Samwise,” Pippin said airily. “We were just dinking around instead of getting ready.”
Sam, never one to be easily convinced, looked at Frodo for confirmation.
“We were!” he said, still halfway crying. “We’re very undisciplined.”
“Alright then,” said Sam, willing to drop it. “But you two should really get a move on. Mr. Merry’s on his way up, and he’s already dressed. He might have a conniption fit if he sees Frodo still in his robe.”
“Tyrant,” said Pippin, but he got up and reached for the waistcoats he had selected.
“Which one do you think Sam?” he asked, holding them up for inspection.
“The green,” said Sam without a moment’s hesitation.
“That’s what I said!” Pippin crowed. He turned his attention back to Frodo. “Will you let me do your hair?” he asked. “I picked up some tricks for styling short hair when Vinca cut off Pearl’s braid as revenge for the cow incident.”
Frodo laughed as Sam practically clutched his pearls.
“Meaning no offense Mr. Pippin, but your sisters sound like holy terrors,” he said.
“They are!” Pippin said gleefully. “I’m the good one! You have no idea how fortunate you are that you got me and not one of them. But what do you say Frodo? Can I do your hair?”
“I say that as long as you’re quick about it, then you may,” replied Frodo.
Pippin cackled and sprung up. “I’ll just run and fetch a comb,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it!” and darted from the room.
Sam watched him go, then turned back towards Frodo.
“Are you really alright?” he asked, all tenderness.
Frodo took his hand and kissed his palm.
“I believe I will be.”