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Frodo was having one of those days again.
The hobbit was no stranger to hardship, but he still hadn't learned how to cope with the nightmares or the way certain reminders of his past journey seemed to shake him. Late in the night, his entire body would seize and sometimes he'd be stuck in his head replaying haunting memories until he managed to destroy the loop—at least temporarily. Or, more often, Sam eased him out of whatever horrific scenes he was stuck in. He was always so gentle, with his concerned eyes and uncanny knack for knowing what Frodo needed.
Frodo didn't know what he'd do without Sam.
When Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin had rid the Shire of the hold of Saruman and Grima, there had been enough cleanup to keep Frodo busy and able to focus on the present moment. It had been grueling, but he’d been tended to by great healers after the destruction of the One Ring, and he had been able to play a prominent role in the Shire’s rebuilding. He wasn’t the same hobbit as he’d been before, and he’d been satisfied with following the lead of his cousins and Sam. Frodo had advocated for peace and mercy even to those that had erred, but otherwise he stayed quiet and kept himself engaged in whatever needed done. But as he ran out of tasks and Sam somehow found more, the first debilitating waves of sorrow and struggling had hit. Sorrow and despair had never left him, and perhaps hadn’t left him since he’d first departed Rivendell as the designated Ringbearer. But on the road, he had little time to dwell on tragedy. He’d hoped that once the Quest was over, everything would be as it had once been. Frodo was wrong. Every part of his life was forever changed, in ways he had yet to fully understand. It was difficult to sort it out, to piece together all of his thoughts and memories. He categorized everything in two ways: Before, and After.
Now, faced with so much time, luxurious amounts of it, Frodo found himself unable to do anything. As life in the Shire became more familiar, more settled, Frodo became much more prone to falling ill, and he often felt the ache of his wound from the attack at Weathertop. He hid his ailments from Sam whenever he could, and it had been easy at first. Just being in the Shire seemed to heal Sam. He just needed good soil, laughter, and sunlight.
Frodo wasn't sure what he needed anymore.
That day, many months after they’d won back the Shire, Sam had already left Bag End when Frodo woke up. He'd moved in with Frodo after being sure that the Gamgee family would continue to get along fine without his constant presence, and acted as though Frodo was doing him a favor for letting him move in. They both knew it was really so he could keep a closer eye on Frodo and his episodes. His very presence in the hobbit hole was an asset all by itself: when Frodo had briefly moved back into Bag End alone, it had been awful. Everything had changed when the Sackville-Bagginses were living there, and it felt huge and empty. Before originally leaving the Shire to embark on his Quest, Frodo had gotten rid of so many old knick-knacks and familiar old items. Returning felt strange, and Frodo had barely slept before Sam moved in. Frodo had never said this aloud, but he was sure Sam knew. It was incredible, how selfless and caring Sam was. He’d hold Frodo throughout long nights, oftentimes staying in the same bed, stroking his hair and singing to him whatever song he’d heard recently or had thought up himself. Distantly, Frodo reflected on the first time he learned of Sam’s own verses and song-writing, early in their quest. He remembered how he’d teased him and how simple and innocent their talk had been back then.
When Frodo mustered the energy to get up and plod to the kitchen, he smiled sadly at the breakfast Sam had so carefully set out for him. He almost always set out food for Frodo on the days Frodo was too exhausted or lost in sorrow that he couldn’t rise at the same time as Sam. Sam was so busy with his new duties as Mayor of Hobbiton that Frodo couldn't believe he still found time for him, especially so consistently and with such caring.
Frodo picked at the food, knowing Sam would get that concerned wrinkle in his forehead and glint in his eyes if he found the carefully set out food uneaten when he returned from whatever task had needed done. It tasted wonderful, if a bit cold, but Frodo still struggled to swallow. He felt hollow, thin and worn as if he was still on that infernal Quest, always walking and starving and aching. The memory of his own thinness made Frodo shudder. He’d been so weak, at the end. It was a miracle that he and Sam had been healthy enough to save and heal. It was enough to push Frodo to choke down a few more bites before he drifted away from the kitchen, food half-eaten.
Frodo didn’t really remember what he had done with all his time Before. He knew that he’d lost some part of himself, some intangible, indescribable thing that he couldn’t get back. The absence worsened the hollow feeling in his stomach.
Unable to remember the good and unable to forget the bad, Frodo wandered. It felt like that was all he did: drift from one room to the next, stare listlessly at an old book for a few minutes, write a sentence or two in his account of the Quest, fall asleep at the dining table. Sometimes he meandered through the gardens, which were once more under the care of Sam’s strong, gentle hands. Sam couldn’t afford to dedicate half as much time as he once had, but his handiwork was still admirable. But Frodo almost never wandered beyond the gardens of Bag End if he was by himself, not anymore. He was afraid, somehow. Afraid of what, he could never manage to put it into words. Once upon a time, Frodo had found words for anything and everything. That had been a long time ago, and he no longer spoke long or often.
When Sam returned from wherever he’d went off to—Frodo tried to keep up with his doings, he really did, but it was just so much to remember—Frodo was simply sitting in an armchair, staring out a little round window into the the distance. Outside, it was bright and sunny. In the distance, Frodo saw rolling hills and two young hobbits, not yet tweens, playing some elaborate, made-up game with sticks and bright cloths.
“Afternoon, Mister Frodo.” Sam’s voice was slightly gruff-sounding as he greeted Frodo.
“Not Mister,” said Frodo automatically. Sam had agreed to stop calling Frodo that forever ago, before they’d even made their return to the Shire, but old habits died hard. It had become rather funny to Frodo though, that Sam still slipped up and called him “mister” and “sir” when Sam was now mayor and certainly considered to be a hobbit of rather respectable standing.
Sam had long ago ceased to be embarrassed about reverting to honorifics, and he kept speaking with only a slight nod to acknowledge Frodo’s words. “I brought home a good wheel o’ cheese and some fresh peaches.” Frodo smiled faintly as Sam unloaded his goods onto the dining table across the room from him. “Gifts from the Greenhands, for the help—funny thing, being mayor an’ all and still called on for advice on vegetables. Bein’ mayor is all the reason I need to help, but they insisted and I do like a good bit of cheese and fruit besides.”
“That’s good,” Frodo tried to sound pleased, but he knew Sam would see through him no matter how good of a performance he put on.
“Now, Frodo-dear,” Sam made his way over to Frodo, concern and love in his voice. “What’s on that mind of yours now?”
“I’m not quite sure, Sam.” He was being honest, though he knew it was dreadly unhelpful to hear. He pressed on and tried to ignore how his stomach turned on itself. “It’s just quite hard remembering how to be how I used to be. It has been troubling me.”
“Is it the remembering that’s botherin’ you most?”
“Not quite, it’s just that…I don’t know how to be that hobbit again.”
Sam gently took Frodo’s hand in his own. Frodo stared at where their hands touched, vision suddenly blurry all at once. “There’s nothin’ that says you ‘ave to be that same hobbit.”
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. He rarely ever was able to get any words out when he was this lost in old wounds and bad memories—usually he just leaned into Sam’s warm arms and let Sam do the talking. But today, he kept trying to push. It was partly to give Sam something to work with, as Frodo worried Sam would stop asking after him with so long without a proper response. Frodo knew this was unlike the younger hobbit, but he still feared it. However, Frodo also spoke partly because he was so tired of being empty, of being scared and sorrowful.
“I don’t know how to be any kind of hobbit.”
Sam tucked a curl out of Frodo’s face with his spare hand. His hands were calloused—not as much as they’d been Before when he was only a humble and kind gardener, not mayor or hero—but they were still soft and gentle. “Then you will learn. You’ve always been good at that.”
Somehow, this stirred something within Frodo. He’d spent so much time dwelling on the past and wondering at who he had been Before that he’d hardly thought about the possibly of true, radical change. Maybe he could figure out how to live again.
Frodo blinked rapidly, and tilted his head so he was making eye contact with Sam.
“I’m not sure how to begin.”
“I’ll help you, Frodo. An’ I always will.”
“Okay,” whispered Frodo. He seemed so pale and fragile, even after all this time spent peacefully, and it made Sam’s heart ache painfully. Sam lifted the hand that he held in his own, and tilted his head to press a gentle kiss to the soft skin of Frodo’s knuckles.
“My dearest Sam…”
The dirty blonde gardener looked at Frodo with a question in his eyes. Frodo sounded pained, as if every word hurt to speak.
“This isn’t easy. Any more change, I—it could be awful.” Frodo looked at Sam pleadingly. “We both know it. I know I am already difficult…”
Sam pressed another quick kiss to Frodo’s hand before responding. “Don’t go worrying your lovely head about being difficult on me. You know I’ve never minded some hard work, Frodo.”
At that, Frodo actually laughed a little. That, at least, was true. But then his laughter dried up and his face became deadly serious. “I’m more than hard work, Sam. It feels like I am more lost than we ever were in the mountains or those awful, far-off lands of the South. It’s like I’m constantly drowning, back in those awful marshes.” He swallowed, hesitant and once more searching for the right words. Sam squeezed his hand in encouragement. He hadn’t heard Frodo speak this much in a long while. “I’m covered in that filth and drowning in dark water. There is grime on my skin and soul and it would be dirty, awful work to clean it off. I don’t know if anyone could. I cannot see how anyone would want to, including my own self.”
“I want to. I want all the dirty work.” Sam’s voice was soft and solemn. “I should like to see you smiling again, Frodo.”
Tears welled up in Frodo’s eyes all over again. “Oh, Sam-love,” he whispered and he stood, pulling Sam into an embrace. The younger hobbit immediately enveloped Frodo in his arms, his strong body supporting Frodo as he trembled.
“You’ll feel like your own hobbit again,” Sam murmured into his hair. “An’ I’ll be there, always. I’ve never let you down in that regard, ‘ave I?”
“You never have, Sam.”
A long, quiet moment passed. The sunlight continued to stream in through the windows and outside, Frodo heard the sound of songbirds trilling. Sam traced slow circles over Frodo’s back. Everything was at once peaceful and turbulent.
Gently, Sam pulled away. “Now,” he said firmly, brushing another wayward curl out of Frodo’s face. “If anymore talkin’ is to be done, it is to be done over afternoon tea—I doubt you’ve had your whole breakfast, let alone second breakfast or elevensies…”
Frodo attempted an innocent smile, and Sam couldn’t help a short laugh.
“I’ll fix a quick luncheon then. An’ you’re to come help me.”
Frodo opened his mouth to protest. “But—”
Sam shook his head, smiling. “None of that, now. I’m still holding out hope that I can teach you to make a few decent meals.”
Frodo resigned with a sigh, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. The sight made Sam’s heart swell. He hoped that he could keep coaxing those smiles out of Frodo until he was laughing again. Sam took Frodo’s hand in his own and gently pulled him towards the kitchen.
Nothing was quite right yet, but Frodo felt that the emptiness within his chest had subsided and a renewed glimmer of hope rested in his heart. Frodo squeezed his dear Sam’s hand, and let himself be led to the kitchen.