Frodo fic: Shattered - Hobbit Smut "When Pigs Fly" Challenge
Name: Mariole
Title: Shattered
Challenge: Hobbit Smut "When Pigs Fly" Challenge
Word Count: 9,200
Rating: R
Pairings: Frodo/OFCs
Warnings: Het, angst.
Summary: Pimpernel’s schemes to seduce Frodo backfire.
Note: Book canon. Characters are loosely based on “Too Many Tooks”, featuring Paladin’s three daughters. This is a dark AU that is completely at odds with any planned sequel, so consider it an exercise in possibilities. Dedicated to elasg (Ariel) in thanks to her story for me, “In the Fallow Earth”. Thank you aussiepeach for the beta!
Shattered
Once
shattered, strength ended
Twice
shattered, never mended
-Shire proverb
Pimpernel could not keep her hands
still. They fidgeted with her skirt, plucking and releasing its folds time and again
as she hurried towards the front rooms in response to the housekeeper’s summons.
Frodo Baggins had come. He had
not-significantly-invited any of them but Pippin to his fortieth birthday
party. Nel tried to tell herself that it meant nothing; he was bruised and
wounded from his affair with Pervinca, and to see any of Vinca’s sisters so
soon after their break-up would only cause him pain. That was more than six
months ago, and Nel had not seen a scrap of him since. Perhaps his acceptance
of a Took dinner invitation now meant that he had finally come to terms with
his loss. Yet Nel felt anxiety and giddiness sweep her by turns as she hastened
down the hall.
She heard him before she saw him.
Down the corridor, round the corner leading to the main sitting room, her
mother’s voice welcomed their guest warmly. “Frodo! What a pleasure to see you.
It’s been far too long since you visited.”
“I beg you will forgive me. I have had
much to do in Hobbiton these past months.”
Nel’s heart fluttered. He sounded
just as he used to: gentle, urbane. He was the finest gentlehobbit in the
farthing, Nel was convinced.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Eglantine
continued. “But now that the weather has improved, perhaps we’ll see more of
you.”
“Perhaps.”
His answer was not encouraging. Nel
quickened her pace.
“I’m not sure if Pippin told you,”
her mother continued, “but we’ll be one short tonight. Vinca has gone to spend
a couple of weeks with Willy Whitfoot’s family, in Whitwell.”
“Yes, I had heard that.”
Nel rushed round the corner and
stopped short. Her mother had just handed Frodo a glass of honey wine. He was
well dressed, as suited the occasion. His dark blue frockcoat was wonderfully
complementary to his coloring, and the white cravat set it off perfectly. He
looked composed, though his expression was more guarded than formerly. Her
mother was watching him keenly, doubtless trying to assess his mood.
They both looked up when Nel burst
into the room. She colored, aware of the sight she must make, all blowsy from
her hurried walk. She smoothed her hands down her skirts, as her eyes
automatically sought Frodo’s. His gaze locked on hers: vivid, intense, unreadable.
Eglantine cleared her throat. “I
believe Pearl is fluttering about the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.”
She exited so gracefully, Nel would never have suspected her of hurrying, but
she knew her mother too well.
Nel’s heart pounded beneath her
ribs. “It’s been a long time, Frodo. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten
us.”
Frodo set down his untasted drink.
The small clink of glass on the sideboard jarred her brittle nerves. He faced
her again, and Nel felt her hopes crumble at his unsmiling look.
“I’m relieved your mother chose to
remove herself. I can now dispense with what I’ve come to say, without drawing
out the matter.”
Nel’s mouth was dry. She felt faint,
yet mastered herself enough to take a step forward. “Something to say?” She’d
meant to sound offhand, but her nervousness made her voice raspy.
He approached her, holding her gaze.
Nel quailed. There was no doubt about his feelings now. The indifference he had
feigned before her mother had fallen away. His face showed nothing but anger
and dislike.
“I know what you did,” he said
quietly, so his words could not be heard across the room, were anyone else present
to hear it. “I have learnt it all; every last step.”
Nel’s pulse pounded in her throat. “I
don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t pretend!” His words sliced
through the air. For a moment, she saw rage flicker in his eyes, and felt
afraid. He’d never frightened her before.
“We haven’t much time,” he
continued, “so I will be brief. I uncovered your entire plot to separate me
from Vinca. I know how you used Mira to set it up, and Gerda to confirm it. I
know how you duped Hugo into marrying Mira, and how they all worked together,
wittingly or not, to bring Vinca and Willy together. Not only did I have to
suffer the pain of seeing another hobbit steal away the love of my life, I had
to pay considerable money to maintain peace with Hugo’s family, who were
convinced that I was the worst sort of cad. All of this was your doing, solely.
I only want to know, why.”
Nel thought she might faint. He
knew! He had figured it all out-how, she wasn’t sure. Mira wouldn’t have
told; she was desperate to capture Hugo after she’d become pregnant by another
lad. Gerda was their loyal friend; surely she wouldn’t have confessed. Pippin couldn’t
have told him, because Pippin knew nothing about it. Or rather, he hadn’t
known. With sinking heart, she realized that her younger brother had
been rather cool to her lately. She wondered if Frodo had shared his
speculations with him.
“You… you must know how absurd this
sounds.” Her voice barely passed a whisper. That, and doubtless the whiteness
of her face, must have proclaimed her guilt. Yet she could not admit it,
or all her efforts would be in vain.
“I wouldn’t have believed it of you.
You’re Vinca’s sister. Couldn’t you see our affection was genuine? Didn’t you
want the best for her?”
Not if it meant losing you, thought Nel. But she said
stubbornly, “If Mira’s story was false, I wonder why you would pay anything to
hush it up. That would seem rather to be a confirmation that you were the father
than otherwise.”
To Nel’s surprise, Frodo looked
suddenly weary. He passed a hand through his hair. “By then, I only wanted it
over with. Vinca didn’t believe me; you had set up your chain of false
witnesses too well. Since she chose to believe my guilt, why should I care if
the whole farthing believed it, too? I have a reputation to maintain, Miss
Took-or did, before you began this sorry business. So I ask you again: why?”
Nel opened her mouth, but found no
reply ready. She searched his eyes, but gone was any hint of the regard they
had used to share as friends. The deep blue eyes were ominous as the sky before
a storm.
Frodo broke the gaze. A muscle moved
in his jaw, betraying his inner tension. Softly he said, “Thank you for confirming
my suspicions. I’ll be leaving now.”
Impulsively, Nel grabbed his
shoulder. “Wait!”
“For what?” The words stung like
stones; his tightly held wrath snapped in his eyes. “More of your games? Tricks?
Lies? Deceit?”
Nel’s eyes filled with tears. “I
love you!”
He shrugged off her hand. “You call
this love? Shaming me, breaking your sister’s heart?”
“You’re all alone!” Nel found
herself spouting the various justifications she had repeated to herself at
night, lying alone in her empty bed. “You couldn’t have married Vinca for
another ten years-“
“Well, you’ve fixed that problem for
me. Now we won’t marry at all. Congratulations.”
Nel tremblingly reached out a hand.
“You need someone to be with you…”
“Someone I won’t have to wait ten
years for, you mean? Someone who’ll be available in, say, four?”
Nel winced. “From the moment I met
you, I never wanted anyone else.”
“After Filibert left, you mean.”
Nel bit her lip. That memory was
still painful to her. But Father had made Filibert leave, not Nel. It wasn’t
her fault. Her voice trembled as badly as her knees. “You liked me once.”
“As the sister of my lover, I cared
for you. There was never anything else. You must know there was nothing
else. After Vinca, there could never be another lass for me. You knew this in
your heart. I should never have believed you would go to such lengths to
destroy me.”
The tears fell down in a hot
cascade. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I could never love you now,” Frodo
answered. “Not if you were the last hobbit in the Shire. The only lass in
Middle-earth I truly cared for is forever beyond my reach. I leave you to savor
the fruit of your victory. Well done, Miss Took. I concede the game.”
Nel dropped her gaze in shame and
despair. She stood, breast heaving, and heard his soft footfalls approach the
door. They suddenly halted.
“Have I come at a bad time?” a
youthful voice asked uncertainly.
Nel’s head jerked up. Pippin!
Through the watery veil of her tears, she saw him standing just outside the
door.
“You’ve come at an excellent time,”
answered Frodo. “I’ve said all I wanted to say.” The resignation in his voice
tore at her heart. “Pray make my excuses to your family.”
“What excuse do you want me to give?
Illness in the family, a dispute in the village, the Mill caught fire?”
“Say whatever you like. I’m
incapable of thought at the moment.”
Pippin squeezed his shoulder. “Go
ahead, dear cousin. I’ll catch up to you shortly.”
“Thank you, Pippin.” Frodo left the
room without a backward glance.
Pippin turned towards Nel. Though he
was still but a teen, there was something fierce in his expression, some
less-developed quality of the fury that had been so potent in Frodo. He crossed
to her. “I didn’t want to believe it, you know. When Frodo told me the story, I
said, ‘It couldn’t be Nel. She would never do something like that.’” His green
eyes flickered over her face, taking in her tear-swollen eyes and disheveled
appearance. “I think I shall spend some time at Bag End. I’m not certain I can bear
to look at you at present.”
Though Nel had swatted down Pippin for
his impudence countless times before, her conscience held her dumb. Feeling the
tears rise afresh, she dashed from the room.
#
“Crickhollow?” Eglantine paused in
the middle of handing a filled teacup to her husband. “Pippin, are you sure?
Frodo actually means to abandon Bag End?”
Pippin smiled sadly, as he helped
himself to toast. “He says he’s run out of money.”
“Balderdash,” Paladin stated
strongly. “Frodo, overreaching his income? Impossible.” He rescued his teacup
from his wife, who was still gazing at her son in astonishment.
Nel listened to the exchange, no
less thunderstruck than her parents. Her stomach shrank into a knot, and she
lost all interest in the remains of her second breakfast. Next to her, Vinca’s
face went white, and her hands grew still. Pearl, less affected than her
sisters, studied Pippin keenly.
“All I know,” Pippin said patiently,
to the ring of amazed faces, “is that Frodo says Bilbo’s gold is running low,
and he’d rather live someplace less expensive to keep up.”
“But, his income.” Eglantine looked
upset. “He has income from his tenants. What has he been spending it on?”
Pippin shrugged. “That I don’t know.
It must be something, or he wouldn’t have sold Bag End.”
Paladin stirred milk into his tea,
frowning. “There’s something amiss, here. Frodo would not be so foolish as to
lose his money through some risky speculation.”
Eglantine turned towards him. “But
my dear, what would he speculate in?”
“No idea,” Paladin grumbled.
Nel poked at her congealing egg,
though her mind whirled. Frodo, leaving. True, he hadn’t been a regular visitor
for several years-not since Nel’s plan had backfired, and driven him away. She
forced herself to speak. “Pippin, did he say when he would be moving?”
Pippin took a bite of toast.
“September,” he said around it. “His birthday.”
Nel dropped her gaze, and went back
to pushing food around on her plate. September. It couldn’t be coincidence,
could it? That he was leaving the very month before Vinca came of age, and her
long-term romance with Willy Whitfoot would be consummated?
Apparently Vinca’s mind was moving
the same way. In a small voice, she asked, “Will he come back for the wedding?
I… I should very much like for him to attend.”
“After what he did,” Pearl said
tartly, “I shouldn’t think he’d be much of a loss.”
“Tut!” Paladin interjected. “Pearl,
those accusations were never proved. Please use your sense when confronted with
an idle report. I’ll not have any daughter of mine turn into a foolish gossip!”
“It won’t matter anyway,” said
Pippin. “I’m quite sure from something Frodo said that he expects to be quite
busy in October.” He gave Vinca an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Sis.”
“That’s settled, then.” Vinca continued
cutting her egg and toast into slivers. Nel was certain it was distress; those
pieces were far too small to eat. “Still, it would have been nice to see him
again on a friendly basis.”
“Vinca,” said Pearl, “the last thing
Willy wants is to see you on a friendly basis with Frodo Baggins. Trust
me on this.”
“Willy has been far more important
to this household for a while than Frodo has,” said Eglantine soothingly,
looking round the table for support. “After all, he’ll be Vinca’s husband in
just a few months. Perhaps after that, we can all let go of our past bitterness
and become friends again.”
“I hope so, Mother,” said Vinca.
But Vinca didn’t eat any more, and
excused herself shortly after the subject turned. Nel watched her go with an
ache in her heart.
Willy was a sweet lad. He worshipped
Vinca, and Vinca was fond of him. But he was no Frodo Baggins. Even now, after
all these years, Nel believed that Vinca still regretted what she had lost. Nel
had never been brave enough to confess her role in the duplicity that drove him
away. But if she came clean now, what good would it do? Would Vinca break up
her long courtship with Willy to pursue Frodo again? Would Frodo abandon his
plans to move, in the hopes of regaining Vinca? It was too absurd. All that
would probably happen is that Vinca and Pearl would hate Nel forever, and Vinca
would be miserable all over again. Pippin had long ago made up his mind to
believe Frodo’s side of the story, but Pippin’s aloofness towards her would be
nothing compared to the acid hatred of her sisters. As Vinca seemed sincerely
attached to Willy, Nel deemed it cruel to meddle with her happiness yet again.
Yet, as the wedding approached, Nel found herself questioning again whether she
had done the right thing in remaining silent. Vinca was… well, she was well
enough. But Willy, dear as he was, never put the smile on her face that she had
worn in the days when she was courting Frodo.
“Nel.” Her mother’s gentle voice
startled her from her reverie. Eglantine nodded at Nel’s plate. “You aren’t
eating.”
“I’ve had enough. If you’ll excuse
me?”
Her father waved her on. She needed
a place to hide, to think; her mind was in turmoil. She had to pass Pippin’s
chair to get out. She was almost afraid to look at him, afraid to find some
lingering shred of condemnation in his look. But her glance at Pippin surprised
her; he was looking at her with something close to pity.
Her composure shattered, Nel fled
the room.
#
Nel had been cold and damp for so
long, she wondered how she felt it any more. Yet she did feel it, as she felt every
gritty step over the rough stone floor. She could almost imagine where she had
worn tracks in it from her feet, tracing over and over again the same steps. She
shivered, hugging herself. It was always cold in the Lockholes, but even here, hidden
from the sun, she could feel the season turning. Autumn was settling in. The
summer had leaked away beyond her sight. Now she faced an even bleaker end to a
dismal year. She wondered if she’d survive.
She plucked her cloak more tightly
around herself. The ruffians had shown her this much kindness; they’d let her
keep her own clothes. Of course, the dress was ruined beyond repair after
months of her sleeping in her clothes. The cloak was equally shabby. Both had
been designed for the lighter weather of spring, not the penetrating cold of
winter, to be endured in a stone cage. As she drew the tattered fabric close,
she was too conscious of its sour smell, and the overripe stink of her body.
The stench of this place permeated her clothing and hair even as it fouled the
stale air. She never had water enough to clean herself. She attempted it after
her monthly courses, but the cost of this minimal basic hygiene was thirst.
She inquired constantly, of course;
every new prisoner who was brought down their row was interrogated by their
nearest neighbors, their information passed along the line in whispers. Ned Stoakes
of Bywater, dragged in for “hoarding” food; Bella and Ruffo Headstrong, of the
Upper Smials, brought in for sheltering hobbits without leave; Folcard Hornblower,
taken from Whitwell after he violated curfew. Nel’s heart contracted when she
heard his name and village. She contrived to send a message back to him: Was
Pervinca safe? Did Vinca and her new husband receive Nel’s warning in time,
or had her sacrifice been worthless, leaving her closest kin to languish in
some distant cell?
The answer healed her heart. “Escaped
to Tookland,” was the message passed along to her from the Goodbody family,
confined in the cell beside hers. Nel bent her head, feeling tears burn her
eyes.
That Spring, she had learnt quite
suddenly that her sister had become a target, for the Chief hoped to use her
capture to force Paladin’s hand. This intelligence, which had reached her by
way of a messenger inbound to the Great Smials, had sent her hastening to
Whitwell, where Vinca had moved to live with her new husband. Abandoning the group
with which she’d been tilling Tookland’s scanty fields (the hilly area the
Tooks commanded contained little arable land), Nel cut straight across the
sentry lines toward Whitwell. Her pony had been stopped at dusk by ruffians at
the outskirts of town. She had shouted her warning to the amazed hobbits who
had come to their doors to find out what the commotion was.
“Vinca Took!” Nel had shouted, as a
pair of Men dragged her from her pony. “She’s married to Willy Whitfoot. The
Chief’s men mean to seize her. She has to get away!”
Then the biggest brute caught her by
the wrists. He had gripped her so tightly, she wore the bluish marks on her
skin for weeks. She was certain the bone in her right wrist had fractured; it swelled
up after her capture, and she fashioned a bandage for it out of her
underclothes. The pain diminished over time, and function gradually returned. That
first night, however, she had cradled it to her breast, terrified of having it reinjured.
The chief scoundrel bellowed at her, hoping to frighten a confession out of
her.
“Who sent ye? Paladin Took?”
“I came on my own,” Nel answered.
“Who are ye? Where do you live?”
“My name is Nelly Proudfoot. I’m a
farmer from Tookland.” The dirt on her clothes made this an effective lie. The
ruffians must never learn that she was the emissary sent from the Smials to
coordinate the sowing of the few fields safely within Took borders. Were her
identity discovered, she would become the pawn she had tried to prevent her
sister from becoming.
Vile as the ruffians were, they were
not clever. They had believed Nel’s story, so patiently repeated, and dragged
her off to the Lockholes. Once there, she had tried to locate the old mayor, Whil
Whitfoot-now her kin. She was confident that news would have come to him if Vinca
and Willy had been taken. However, it seemed he was being held in another part
of the storage holes. The sheer number of hobbits detained fueled her fears; if
her sister and brother-in-law were taken, would she even know?
The iron gate at the end of the long
tunnel squealed; someone was coming. Faint voices drifted down the hall-light
voices, quick voices, not the deep grunting of the Men. Nel drew near to the
little grate in her door, and listened. There was a great deal of clanging up
the hall, some weeping and exclaiming. Faintly beyond it, she thought she heard
cheers.
The news reached her in the normal
way, from Old Marta Clayhanger in the neighboring cell nearest the door.
“It’s hobbits!” she called in her wavery
voice. “Hobbits has took over the Lockholes! They’re letting everyone out!”
The hobbits in the nearby cells let
out a cheer-some weakly, if they’d been here long. Nel clutched her throat, hardly
daring to believe such good news. Surely the ruffians would set upon the rescue
party before they could set everyone free. Even if they got out, how
could the prisoners hope to evade any search parties, as weak and exhausted as
they all were? Nel’s heart skipped rapidly. Now that deliverance was at hand,
she couldn’t allow herself to feel it. She was trembling all over just from the
notion. If hope, so long delayed, were snatched from her now, could she be able
to face the vile hole in which she was imprisoned?
The hobbit working the keys came
swiftly down the row. Door after door was thrown open, the occupants within
softly but swiftly greeted. It was all a muddle; in the wake of this first
hobbit, there was a murmur and shuffle of hobbits being helped outside; beyond
that, dimly, a great din of cheering. Nel breathed quickly; certainly any Men
in the area would hear such an uproar. Was it possible? Had the ruffians been…
driven away?
The door next to hers flew open. A
soft voice murmured, “Please make yourself easy, Madam. Someone will be along
to help you out in a moment.”
Nel’s hands flew to her face. She
knew that voice; it was the very same, though roughened by time or strain. She
staggered back from her own door, as the key turned in the lock. The door swung
open. A silhouette familiar to her dreams stood outlined in the entrance, backlit
from the soft white light coming from far up the hall.
“Good afternoon, Miss. Are you
strong enough to walk? There are… Nel.”
They stared at one another through
the gloom. She nodded once.
A hobbit bustled up beside her
liberator. It was Sigismond Goold, of Tookbank. “Does this one need help,
Frodo?” He glanced at Nel without recognition; she must be very changed, for
him not to know her.
Frodo handed him the keys. “I’ve got
her. Do you go on.”
“Right.” Sigi disappeared, and Nel
heard the lock rattle on the door next to hers. The murmur of the eager Goodbodys
blended with the commotion in the hall.
“Nel. Thank goodness you’re safe.”
Frodo stepped, hands raised as if to embrace her. Nel shrank back. She was
deeply ashamed of her state and appearance. What would he see, once he stepped
inside? The vile pot in the corner that was her privy? The filthy blanket upon
which she huddled every night, shaking so fiercely from cold on the hard floor that
she could scarcely sleep?
But Frodo did not look about him. He
paused upon her drawing back, then slowly extended one hand. He clasped her
forearm gently; his grip was warm. Nel began trembling violently; she lowered
her head, as painful tears crowded behind her eyes, constricting her chest. She
whispered, “Vinca?”
“Safe,” said Frodo. “Safe at home.
Your warning reached her in time.”
Nel sagged with relief. She blotted
her eyes with a filthy sleeve. “Is she… is she well?”
“I assume so. I haven’t seen her.
Pippin learnt of your capture two nights ago, when he rode to Tookland to get
reinforcements for the rebellion.”
Nel looked at him quickly, through
her tears. “Then, you really are fighting the ruffians?”
“The fighting is over. They are all overthrown:
ruffians, Chief… Sharkey.” His voice hitched.
Blinking away her tears, Nel looked
at him closely for the first time. It came as a shock to see that he had been
ill. Perhaps not ill-but there was something about his face, a pinched look
that had not been there before. That disturbing discovery was succeeded by
others. She had been used to consider Frodo as well-preserved as ever Bilbo had
been; in all his years at Bag End, Frodo’s face had never changed. Only the
gradually growing waistline had given any hint of the passing years. Otherwise,
he always looked just as he had done when he’d first come of age: young and
handsome, a hobbit fresh out of his tweens.
The hobbit who looked at her now had
aged. Silver flecked his raven hair, faint lines clustered round his eyes. It
was as if, during the past year, all the aging he had neglected to do over the
course of his lifetime had caught up to him at once. It was the more
disconcerting to see, because his figure had returned to the slimness of his
youth. She stared at him in puzzlement. “Were you… were you captured, too?”
Something flickered within his eyes,
some door that instantly shut. “For a time,” he said quietly, “and very far
from here. But I know what it is like.” He took her arm, and this time she let
him draw her forward. “Come. We must get you outside. Pippin is anxious to find
you.”
She kept her head down as she
stepped into the corridor. She much preferred for the moment to be some
anonymous lass that Frodo was escorting, like so many other detainees, up the
long hall. Dark silhouettes obscured her view to the outside: ranks of former prisoners
being supported or carried. The open door beyond was a painful blur of white.
“You made it back,” Nel murmured.
“I’m glad. Father believed you were all dead.”
“I know. Pippin told me. I’m very
sorry about that. None of us suspected that the Shire would be in danger after
we had gone. We tried to set things to rights as quickly as possible.”
Nel halted and stared at him. “You!
You started the rebellion!”
Frodo smiled sadly. “Well, it was
Merry and Pippin more than me. But Sam and I were certainly in the party.”
“Oh, Frodo.” Nel felt herself
wanting to cry again, although she wasn’t sure why. Because he was as wonderful
as she had ever thought he was? Because he was so wounded and wise and kind?
“Here, none of that.” One of his
arms went round her, and she leant into the embrace gratefully. “You have your
father and Pippin to thank, really. Without support from Tookland, the
rebellion would have failed hardly before it began.”
“I’m sure you did your part.”
“Not much of one. They’re calling
Pippin a captain now-he and Merry. But I did not strike any blow.”
Nel looked at him sharply. She saw
it again: pain so sharp in his face that it hurt her even to look at it. She
asked, doubtfully, “You didn’t fight for the Shire?”
He would not meet her eyes. “With
everything I had. But it was not my part to raise arms, nor will it ever be
again.”
She gazed at him, bewildered. A
shadow fell across her. “Nel!” She found herself caught up in a mighty embrace,
someone huge and strong with a deep voice. “Oh, Nel! Everyone at home was so
worried. Thank heavens you’re safe!”
He loosened his hold, and she could
see his face against the glare of the open door. Her eyes widened. “Pippin?”
He laughed and hefted her lightly in
his arms. She gasped at finding herself lifted as easily as a faunt. She
clasped her hands round his neck for balance. “Pippin. How did you get so big?”
“Thereupon hangs a tale,” he said.
“But first we must get you some proper food and rest. There’s a whole army of
helpers outside, eager to do for you whatever you need done.”
Nel looked back at Frodo. The
contrast between him and her brother struck her heart. Pippin had grown-larger,
louder, more joyous. From her fresh vantage point, Frodo seemed to have shrunken
more than ever; in the better light of the hall, it was easy to discern his new
marks of age.
Pippin took off with a stride.
“Let’s get you outside. The goodwives have clothes for you, and I imagine you’d
kill for a bath.”
“Yes, yes, I would.” She looked
anxiously over his broad shoulder, but Frodo had already turned away. She
caught only a glimpse of his narrow figure, passing between groups of newly
freed hobbits as he disappeared into the dark.
#
She didn’t see Frodo again until May
of the following year. She had returned to the business she had set up for
herself prior to the Troubles: a baker. She chose Waymeet as her new base of
operations; there was much coming and going on the East-West Road as hobbits gradually moved from
temporary quarters into permanent ones, and custom was good.
She was just closing up shop for her
midday meal when she noticed yet another
group of hobbits gathering down the street, perhaps preparing for a move. She
glanced their way, then looked again. Surely that was Frodo Baggins with them,
giving them directions.
He had brought a wagon with him,
pulled by two ponies. He spoke to what looked like the heads of several
households; he was too far off for her to hear his words. Then one of hobbits
took the ponies by the bit, and led them towards the place where the displaced
hobbit families were encamped. Frodo lagged behind, smiling as the hobbit
children skipped about the wagon, shouting with excitement. Then he looked up
and saw her.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, Nel
nodded a greeting. Frodo lifted his hand in response. Then he started to walk
towards her.
Nel secured her shutters and flipped
round the sign showing the bakery was closed. She brushed her hands against her
apron, but they were clean. At six in the morning, she was flour everywhere.
But this was the end of her work day; at least she was tidy.
“Good afternoon,” Frodo called,
drawing close.
“Good afternoon.” Nel stepped off
the porch to meet him.
His eyes held a trace of the
lingering sadness that had so struck her upon their earlier meeting. His smile,
too, was sad, though soft and kind. “It’s good to see you looking so well
again.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” She
could not have returned his compliment. Frodo looked, if anything, thinner than
when she had last seen him. The signs of poor health were more pronounced. It
was not just age that had altered his features; he had certainly been ill
during the recent months. Shadows underlined his eyes, and his color was too
pale.
She nodded towards the settlement
off the road, where the homeless hobbits gathered round the wagon. “Have you
brought supplies?”
Frodo shook his head. “I’ve come to
lead four of these families back to Hobbiton. You’ve heard of Lobelia’s legacy
regarding dispossessed hobbits, haven’t you? The first of the new homes are now
ready.”
“I see.” Nel looked closer at the
group; a couple of hobbits had started to load bundles onto the wagon. “Have
you time for luncheon? You must be hungry after your early start.”
“I would be happy to share your
company. I’m quite at leisure; we won’t leave until tomorrow morning, for the
return journey will be slow.”
Nel pictured a long line of hobbits,
bearing bundles and herding little ones-a regular sight these several months.
She nodded. “Please come in.”
She led him through the store to the
kitchen at the back. The bedroom behind was bored into the hill; she had never
got used to sleeping anywhere but a burrow.
“I’m surprised you’re not at
Tuckborough,” he said, as she got out a couple of glasses.
“I do more good here. Besides, it’s
not so extraordinary. Pearl is the only one of us who still lives in the Smials
these days.”
“True enough.”
She had a good beer on hand; she
poured herself and Frodo tall mugs. She carried them to the little dining table,
where he had seated himself. She handed him his glass, and waited for his
reaction. He took a sip, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. She smiled. “I
made it myself. I have a feeling that 1420 is going to be a very good year.”
“It certainly will. For the Shire,
at least.”
She pondered how to ask him what he
meant by this, when he suddenly said, “You never married.”
“No.” A confusion of emotions swept
through her. Despite that, some courage she didn’t know she possessed caused
her to meet his eye. “Neither did you.”
Frodo held her gaze. He wasn’t
anything like the hobbit she had known before. His eyes held no anger, no
reproach, no laughter-nothing but this pervasive sadness, and a sense of
compassion deep as a sunless lake.
He indicated the empty chair across
from her, and she sat. All notions of making dinner went out of her head; she
felt tension coil within her. This conversation was what she’d been waiting
for, without knowing it, for the last twelve years.
But what he said surprised her. “Nel,
you must forgive yourself.”
She opened her mouth before she
found she had no reply. Frodo reached across the table, and closed his hand
gently upon her wrist. With a start, she saw his missing finger. Pippin had
told her all about it, of course. She hadn’t noticed it at the Lockholes. Now
she saw the gap against the linen of her sleeve; it seemed to symbolize all the
empty days of her life. He was holding the wrist that had been broken.
“I hurt you terribly.” Her voice was
so tight, she could scarcely speak. “You and Vinca. It broke her heart, Frodo,
it absolutely did.” The words ran out. She covered her face with her free hand.
She heard his chair push back. Still
holding her wrist, he came round the table, and put his arm around her. With a
shock, she felt him pushing her aside, so he could share her chair. She moved
over to accommodate him, then wrapped her arms about his neck. Her tears fell
upon his lapel, soaking into the soft fabric.
He petted her hair. She hugged him
fiercely, trembling. So long she had wanted to do this. And now it was all
wrong, because she was poison, had always been poison, had hurt the people she
loved most in the world. Emptiness was her portion; she deserved no better.
“Nel,” he said, when she had quieted
a little, “I want you to understand something. What you did those long years
ago, turned out to be for the best.”
She pulled away, to meet his eye.
She wanted him to see her indignation. “How can you say that? Vinca was never
the same, nor you. She loved you, Frodo. I‘m convinced she loves Willy, too,
but in a different way. Something died in her forever when you parted, and I
am the one to blame!”
Maddeningly, he did not rise to her
anger. His gaze seemed to soak it in from her, letting it dissipate in the
depths of his eyes. “I am truly sorry about Vinca. I don’t dare visit her even
now; opening those old wounds would serve no one.”
“Then how can you say it turned out
for the best?”
Frodo sighed. He remained with his
arm about her, but gazed vacantly into space. “Nel, I came into possession of…
a terrible object.”
Nel’s emotions steadied with the
change of subject. “I heard about that. Pippin told me.”
“I know he did. You are one of the
few hobbits in the Shire who bothered to ask.”
Nel was silent. She could well see why
no one quizzed Frodo about his journey. If she didn’t know him so well, his
reserve and unblinking eye would have intimidated her as well.
“I could not have married Vinca
until the year I left; she would not have been of age before then. Had I
continued courting her, our relationship would have been nearly a dozen years
old when I learned the nature of this hideous relic. What was I to do then?”
Nel said softly, “You would have
taken Vinca into your confidence.”
“That could have sealed her doom.
No,” Frodo shook his head. “I could never have told her.”
“She could have gone with you, like
Pippin did.”
“I would never have taken her. I
would not have taken Pippin or Merry either, had they not tricked their way
into joining me.”
“Why did your journey have to be so
secret?”
“It was the dar-the danger.” Nel
thought Frodo changed what he was going to say. Perspiration dampened his skin.
He swallowed. “You can’t… you cannot know the danger. I did not
understand it myself, until I was already underway. By the time I did, I was
struck down and nearly killed. I have not recovered from that evil wound, not
to this very day.”
Nel stared at him. Frodo was
breathing hard; his gaze seemed far away, seeing distance events. She adjusted
her arms about his neck-now she was comforting him. She said gently, “Vinca
would have waited for you to come home.”
“But I never meant to return.” Frodo
passed a hand over his eyes. “At the time that I left, I thought I must leave
the Shire forever. I intended to. I was carrying an object so dreadful, the
mere knowledge of it could have changed the course of the war. My options at
the time were limited. Had I still been courting Vinca, I could have taken her
into my confidence, as you suggested. That would have left her vulnerable to the
evil servants that the dar-that their master had sent to find me. Or, she could
have come with me, and run straight into their arms, as I ultimately did. She
might have ended up as I did-or infinitely worse.”
Nel stared in amazement. Every line Frodo
spoke cracked with truth, like lightning upon the hills. This changed Frodo was
more intense than he had ever been. “No, I could not have told her, even
had Gandalf not advised against telling anyone. What were my choices then? I
could have pretended that nothing was wrong, and slipped away without a word,
leaving everyone to wonder. Alternatively, I could have broken off our long
engagement for no apparent cause. If our breakup so many years before had been
painful, what would the repercussions be, were I to abandon her so shortly
before we were at last to become husband and wife?”
Nel’s heart pounded in sympathy for
his anguish. She wanted to protest, but how?
“There was one option more,” Frodo
said heavily. “I could have married her. I could have refused the task,
renounced the Quest, and settled with my dearest love in the comfort of Bag
End.”
Nel’s mouth was dry. She whispered,
“Why didn’t you?”
Frodo turned within her arms. He
rested his forehead against hers, his hands about her waist. “Who else could
have taken up the burden? Would they have succeeded? The War was won, dear Nel,
largely by good luck, and the dogged persistence of a hobbit named Sam who
refused to give up even after his master was wholly broken by his task. We came
that close to losing… everything. But for an accident of fate, there would be
no restored king, no kingdoms, no victory-nothing but blackness and ruin, even
into the Shire itself.”
Nel could feel his heart beating
against her chest. Petting his hair, she kissed his brow. “You sacrificed
yourself to save Vinca.”
His voice was hoarse. “Not Vinca. The
Shire. I did what I did for the Shire.” He murmured next to her ear, “It was you
who sacrificed yourself for Vinca, when the dark times came.”
Nel’s eyes filled. “She’s my sister.”
Her throat was painfully tight. “I love her.”
“I know.”
His lips brushed hers, closed with
her. His kiss was warm, alive, urgent. Nel found herself responding eagerly, lavishing
kisses upon his lips and face, pulling him into her, even as tears streamed down
her cheeks.
They made it to the bedroom somehow.
They left the door open for light. In time Nel lay on her back upon the bed,
her hands exploring the naked body of the hobbit she had loved as no other. He
ravaged her mouth with kisses; his hands seized her with a kind of desperation.
Through the long afternoon her fingertips discovered his many scars, as yet
unexplained by Pippin’s account. They caressed his smooth skin, too thinly
covering the sweet bones of his frame. She welcomed his weight as he plunged
into her-exulting in their mutual release even as tears ran down their faces.
Later that night, she held him as he cried. She comforted him, taking in his
pain as deeply as she could, emotionally and physically. When he finally
drifted into sleep, she wept.
#
Nel rose early, as always. Frodo was
soundly asleep; she daren’t risk waking him with a kiss, so contented herself
with brushing one of those silken locks from his dear face. Smiling, she took
herself off to the kitchen to begin baking her many loaves.
When Frodo left her bedroom just
after sunrise, he seemed better-brighter, more composed. He didn’t look rested;
Nel supposed that was impossible, given the night they’d had. After a brief
greeting, they moved about the kitchen in companionable silence, preparing
their morning meal amid the aroma of fresh-baked bread. She couldn’t stop
stealing glances at him as they worked. He saw what she was doing, of course,
and her game of hiding her fond smiles became one of both of them smiling to themselves
until at last Frodo took her in his arms from behind and hugged her, planting a
good-morning kiss on her ear.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“It wasn’t the sleeping I enjoyed,” Nel
replied.
Frodo kissed her again, then moved
away to carry their breakfast to the table. When she saw his face again, his
smile had softened. He looked pensive. A foreboding rose within her.
Nel joined him, bringing butter and
jam for their toast. “You must go this morning?”
“Within an hour or two. Although
they loaded the wagon yesterday, I imagine it will take some time for the
families to get everyone fed and together. Still, I should put in an appearance
fairly soon.”
“And I, alas, must open shop. In
half an hour the bread line will be out the door.”
“A fitting tribute to your labors,
I’m sure.”
Nel buttered her toast thoughtfully.
“Waymeet is not so very far from Hobbiton.”
He smiled, and Nel saw that the
sadness was back, full force. It struck a pang through her heart. “I hope we will
meet, from time to time. I will certainly look for you, whenever I’m here.”
It was a bland assurance at best. Nel
hurriedly fixed her tea, to cover her disappointment.
Frodo interrupted her. “Nel, I’m
sorry. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
Nel looked up with the teapot in her
hand. “Hurt me?”
He seemed to search for words. “I’m…
failing, Nel. I feel it. These wounds…”
Nel’s mind shouted an angry protest:
I can help you! But she let him speak on.
“The land is blossoming, the saplings
that dear Sam planted last autumn are springing up as if eager to make one year
do for six. Everywhere around me I see it and feel it: everything in the Shire
is coming back to life-everything but me.”
Nel set the pot down briskly.
“That’s nonsense. You’ve had a bad time, Frodo, but so did we all. You need time
to rest, to heal.” To love, she mentally added.
Frodo divided the eggs he’d made
between them. It was such a small portion, Nel had thought he’d meant them only
for himself. No wonder he was so thin.
Frodo didn’t look at her when he
spoke. “I’ve invited Sam and Rosie to live with me at Bag End. They moved in
just after their wedding last month.”
Nel didn’t quite see where this was
going. “That was kind of you.”
“Bag End has room for loads of
children. And I…” He met her eye, held it. “I will never marry, Nel. It…
wouldn’t be fair.”
Nel’s anger returned. “You might
well let a lass make up her own mind as to what she considers fair! You’ve been
ill, I can see that. What of it? We all have our burdens. No one past the age
of tween expects life to be perfect.”
“I know. I wouldn’t tell you this if
I didn’t know you’d understand. The Shire is growing. You are growing; I
see it in your face, in the glow of your spirit. You-well, I mustn’t advise you
what to do with your life. But if I could have a wish, it would be to see you
happily married at last. You have punished yourself for your past
transgressions long enough. I would see your affection returned by someone
capable of making a return. Someone who will be here, three years hence.”
She didn’t understand him. Did he
mean to go away again? Where would he go, back to Gondor? Irritably, she said,
“Well, you’ve obviously taken yourself out of the running. Who do you think
this mystery husband of mine could be?”
“Filibert.”
It was spoken so matter of factly, Nel
stared at him. “Filibert!” She hadn’t thought of her old beau for years-well,
not seriously. “How do you know he’s even available?”
“I don’t. But he was your first love
and… it would please me to know that you were with someone who appreciated you,
and the reverse. You are capable of a great deal of love, my dear Nel.” His
smile warmed. “I am qualified to comment in this regard, I think.”
Nel huffed. Filibert! Imagine
her looking up Filibert Boffin, after all these years. She spread jam on her
toast distractedly. “I believe he’s moved up to Little Delving.” She froze when
she realized she had spoken aloud. At Frodo’s smile, she felt her face warm with
a blush.
“Interesting.” Frodo nibbled at his
eggs, but his eyes were bright with mischief. “I believe by road Little Delving
is just as close to Waymeet as Hobbiton, if not more so.”
Nel clucked her tongue at him, which
made him grin. The conversation lightened, and they finished their meal. Every
moment the sky was growing lighter, as Nel could well see from her kitchen
window.
There came a rap at the front door
just as they started clearing the table. Nel leant close to plant a swift kiss
on Frodo’s lips. He tasted sweet, like blueberry jam. “I must open shop, I fear.
And you-“
“Yes. Our public awaits. Sweet Nel.”
He pulled her in for a deeper kiss. Nel thought nothing could feel as fine as
the way she melted against his chest. He broke the kiss and stroked her cheek,
gazing deeply into her eyes. Out front, the muffled rap came again.
Nel sighed. “I’d best open up before
whoever it is decides to come round back.”
Frodo released her. “Quite. I
suppose I should make my escape, whilst I have a chance.”
Nel caught at his hand. “Don’t stay
away, Frodo. Please.”
“You’ll see me again. I promise.” He
kissed her hand and, with a final, serious look, slipped out the back door into
the brightening day.
#
For the next year and more, Nel kept
up a correspondence with Hobbiton. She sent her finest baked goods to the
master of Bag End, and he sent her the best flour from the newly restored Mill.
They did meet at times, usually public events. Even as early as that first autumn,
however, Nel could see for herself what Frodo had tried to warn her of earlier.
He was indeed failing. The entire Shire had rebounded with fervor; he alone
seemed to shrink. His skin grew more pale and drawn, his figure less robust at
each meeting. The knowledge pierced her heart, even as it made her feelings towards
him more tender.
Aware of the maddening lack of
respect, she defended Frodo vigorously to anyone who dared to pronounce that
Captains Meriadoc or Peregrin had done more to free the Shire, or that Sam Gamgee
had done more to heal it. Hadn’t Frodo along with Sam been recognized by the
High King? Wasn’t he an Elf friend and the rest? She’d heard it all from
Pippin. It vexed her that so few of her neighbors thought further than what
they could see in front of their own noses. This quiet, self-effacing hobbit
had been through more than any of them, and Nel seemed to be one of the few who
realized it.
Not long after Frodo’s Waymeet
visit, she looked into the fate of Filibert. She had found herself thinking about
him more and more after her conversation with Frodo, and at length followed up
through his family in Whitwell. He had married, as she had expected. He had two
little ones, still living in their new home in Little Delving. However, his
wife had died in childbed with their third during the Troubles, a scant two weeks
before Frodo freed Nel from the Lockholes. Filibert had been greatly affected by
the loss. Nel was finally able to meet them all in person at the next Free
Fair, the summer after Frodo had resigned his office of Deputy Mayor.
“I was so sorry to hear about the Lockholes,”
Filibert said, after their initial greetings. “I didn’t know you’d been taken
at the time.”
“No one knew, outside of Tookland,”
she replied. “I reported a false name. It was impossible to do otherwise, given
the situation.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m very sorry to hear of your
loss. Primrose was an admirable lass, by every account.”
“She was.” Filibert’s eyes did not
mist; time had softened the blow. Quietly he said, “She might have made it, had
we better food, and if I could have convinced the midwife to come as early as
we wanted her. But everyone feared to break the Rules then. Thank goodness your
brother came back when he did. It was too late for dear Prim, but he saved many
other lives, I dare say.”
“Yes. All of Pippin’s friends did
their share.”
He nodded, accepting. “It’s good to see
you looking so well, Nel.” His smile was sad, but there was lightness beneath,
like thin clouds veiling the sun. Within minutes, the little ones demanded his
attention, and they all four went off to play at the games.
Nel saw Frodo briefly later in the
day. He stood quietly on one side, wearing that Elven cloak that he favored on
High days, and clasping his jeweled necklace the way he did. He noticed Nel
over the intervening crowd, and nodded. His smile was also sad, but there was
nothing lighter behind it, only pain and a shut door.
#
From that day, Nel’s thoughts were
divided between Little Delving and Bag End. She now regularly made two sets of
deliveries, one to either town. Bag End continued to send her grain, but Little
Delving reciprocated in its own way, with childish pictures sent as thank-you
notes to Auntie Nel. Late in the summer, Filibert stopped in to say hello on
his way to Whitwell to visit his kin. Nel thought about his visit for a whole day,
then closed up shop and went to visit her own sister in Whitwell. Vinca was
most penetrating in her guest selection, and arranged many conducive gatherings.
By the end of the visit, Nel began to understand her own heart, and Filibert’s
as well.
Still, it was hard to leave Frodo on
his own. She had a tenderness for him that grew fonder over the years, if less
passionate. She worried over him, almost as a brother. Now, in early October, Filibert
had invited Nel to visit him in Little Delving. She had little doubt as to how
such an invitation must develop. This was it, the crossroads, her deciding
point. She read again Filibert’s kind invitation, then looked at the open door
of her bedroom. The candle on the kitchen table did not throw sufficient light
to illuminate it, but she remembered the whispers and caresses, the joy tinged
with pain. Filibert had also suffered, but his heart Nel knew she could heal.
Frodo’s, she feared, would be forever beyond her reach.
Someone rapped at the front door. It
was full dark, far too late for visitors. Concerned, Nel hurried to the door.
Her surprise upon opening it was great. “Pippin!”
He stooped and kissed her cheek. “Might
I come in?”
“Of course! But whatever are you
doing here? I thought you were in Crickhollow.”
“Sam, Merry and I are on our road
back to Hobbiton. We’re staying at the inn.”
“Back to Hobbiton! This is a
strange road from Crickhollow. Why did you not all come? Here, let me make you
some tea.”
“We didn’t ride from Crickhollow.
Stay a moment, Nel; I have something to tell you.”
Nel looked at her brother closely.
His usual heartiness was gone. She was seeing a rare glimpse of the new Pippin,
the one who had come back altered from his travels-older, wiser, someone who had
seen suffering and knew what it was like.
Suddenly, the significance of his list
of companions struck her. She froze. “Frodo,” she whispered. “Has something…?”
Swiftly, Pippin guided her to a
chair. The smell of bread was heavy on the air. Nel found it hard to breathe.
Pippin sat opposite her, and took
her hands in his. “I do have something to tell you about Frodo, but it’s not
the worst news. Bad enough for us, but better for him, I think.”
“What do you mean? I want answers,
not riddles!”
Pippin sighed, and met her eyes.
“The three of us are on our way home, from the Grey Havens.”
#
Later that night, Nel finished her
letter to Filibert. Yes, I will certainly come. She addressed it
mechanically, her mind dull and a great emptiness in her chest. She kissed the
envelope, and laid it on the table. Then she lowered her head on her arms, and
wept.
Title: Shattered
Challenge: Hobbit Smut "When Pigs Fly" Challenge
Word Count: 9,200
Rating: R
Pairings: Frodo/OFCs
Warnings: Het, angst.
Summary: Pimpernel’s schemes to seduce Frodo backfire.
Note: Book canon. Characters are loosely based on “Too Many Tooks”, featuring Paladin’s three daughters. This is a dark AU that is completely at odds with any planned sequel, so consider it an exercise in possibilities. Dedicated to elasg (Ariel) in thanks to her story for me, “In the Fallow Earth”. Thank you aussiepeach for the beta!
Shattered
Once
shattered, strength ended
Twice
shattered, never mended
-Shire proverb
Pimpernel could not keep her hands
still. They fidgeted with her skirt, plucking and releasing its folds time and again
as she hurried towards the front rooms in response to the housekeeper’s summons.
Frodo Baggins had come. He had
not-significantly-invited any of them but Pippin to his fortieth birthday
party. Nel tried to tell herself that it meant nothing; he was bruised and
wounded from his affair with Pervinca, and to see any of Vinca’s sisters so
soon after their break-up would only cause him pain. That was more than six
months ago, and Nel had not seen a scrap of him since. Perhaps his acceptance
of a Took dinner invitation now meant that he had finally come to terms with
his loss. Yet Nel felt anxiety and giddiness sweep her by turns as she hastened
down the hall.
She heard him before she saw him.
Down the corridor, round the corner leading to the main sitting room, her
mother’s voice welcomed their guest warmly. “Frodo! What a pleasure to see you.
It’s been far too long since you visited.”
“I beg you will forgive me. I have had
much to do in Hobbiton these past months.”
Nel’s heart fluttered. He sounded
just as he used to: gentle, urbane. He was the finest gentlehobbit in the
farthing, Nel was convinced.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Eglantine
continued. “But now that the weather has improved, perhaps we’ll see more of
you.”
“Perhaps.”
His answer was not encouraging. Nel
quickened her pace.
“I’m not sure if Pippin told you,”
her mother continued, “but we’ll be one short tonight. Vinca has gone to spend
a couple of weeks with Willy Whitfoot’s family, in Whitwell.”
“Yes, I had heard that.”
Nel rushed round the corner and
stopped short. Her mother had just handed Frodo a glass of honey wine. He was
well dressed, as suited the occasion. His dark blue frockcoat was wonderfully
complementary to his coloring, and the white cravat set it off perfectly. He
looked composed, though his expression was more guarded than formerly. Her
mother was watching him keenly, doubtless trying to assess his mood.
They both looked up when Nel burst
into the room. She colored, aware of the sight she must make, all blowsy from
her hurried walk. She smoothed her hands down her skirts, as her eyes
automatically sought Frodo’s. His gaze locked on hers: vivid, intense, unreadable.
Eglantine cleared her throat. “I
believe Pearl is fluttering about the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.”
She exited so gracefully, Nel would never have suspected her of hurrying, but
she knew her mother too well.
Nel’s heart pounded beneath her
ribs. “It’s been a long time, Frodo. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten
us.”
Frodo set down his untasted drink.
The small clink of glass on the sideboard jarred her brittle nerves. He faced
her again, and Nel felt her hopes crumble at his unsmiling look.
“I’m relieved your mother chose to
remove herself. I can now dispense with what I’ve come to say, without drawing
out the matter.”
Nel’s mouth was dry. She felt faint,
yet mastered herself enough to take a step forward. “Something to say?” She’d
meant to sound offhand, but her nervousness made her voice raspy.
He approached her, holding her gaze.
Nel quailed. There was no doubt about his feelings now. The indifference he had
feigned before her mother had fallen away. His face showed nothing but anger
and dislike.
“I know what you did,” he said
quietly, so his words could not be heard across the room, were anyone else present
to hear it. “I have learnt it all; every last step.”
Nel’s pulse pounded in her throat. “I
don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t pretend!” His words sliced
through the air. For a moment, she saw rage flicker in his eyes, and felt
afraid. He’d never frightened her before.
“We haven’t much time,” he
continued, “so I will be brief. I uncovered your entire plot to separate me
from Vinca. I know how you used Mira to set it up, and Gerda to confirm it. I
know how you duped Hugo into marrying Mira, and how they all worked together,
wittingly or not, to bring Vinca and Willy together. Not only did I have to
suffer the pain of seeing another hobbit steal away the love of my life, I had
to pay considerable money to maintain peace with Hugo’s family, who were
convinced that I was the worst sort of cad. All of this was your doing, solely.
I only want to know, why.”
Nel thought she might faint. He
knew! He had figured it all out-how, she wasn’t sure. Mira wouldn’t have
told; she was desperate to capture Hugo after she’d become pregnant by another
lad. Gerda was their loyal friend; surely she wouldn’t have confessed. Pippin couldn’t
have told him, because Pippin knew nothing about it. Or rather, he hadn’t
known. With sinking heart, she realized that her younger brother had
been rather cool to her lately. She wondered if Frodo had shared his
speculations with him.
“You… you must know how absurd this
sounds.” Her voice barely passed a whisper. That, and doubtless the whiteness
of her face, must have proclaimed her guilt. Yet she could not admit it,
or all her efforts would be in vain.
“I wouldn’t have believed it of you.
You’re Vinca’s sister. Couldn’t you see our affection was genuine? Didn’t you
want the best for her?”
Not if it meant losing you, thought Nel. But she said
stubbornly, “If Mira’s story was false, I wonder why you would pay anything to
hush it up. That would seem rather to be a confirmation that you were the father
than otherwise.”
To Nel’s surprise, Frodo looked
suddenly weary. He passed a hand through his hair. “By then, I only wanted it
over with. Vinca didn’t believe me; you had set up your chain of false
witnesses too well. Since she chose to believe my guilt, why should I care if
the whole farthing believed it, too? I have a reputation to maintain, Miss
Took-or did, before you began this sorry business. So I ask you again: why?”
Nel opened her mouth, but found no
reply ready. She searched his eyes, but gone was any hint of the regard they
had used to share as friends. The deep blue eyes were ominous as the sky before
a storm.
Frodo broke the gaze. A muscle moved
in his jaw, betraying his inner tension. Softly he said, “Thank you for confirming
my suspicions. I’ll be leaving now.”
Impulsively, Nel grabbed his
shoulder. “Wait!”
“For what?” The words stung like
stones; his tightly held wrath snapped in his eyes. “More of your games? Tricks?
Lies? Deceit?”
Nel’s eyes filled with tears. “I
love you!”
He shrugged off her hand. “You call
this love? Shaming me, breaking your sister’s heart?”
“You’re all alone!” Nel found
herself spouting the various justifications she had repeated to herself at
night, lying alone in her empty bed. “You couldn’t have married Vinca for
another ten years-“
“Well, you’ve fixed that problem for
me. Now we won’t marry at all. Congratulations.”
Nel tremblingly reached out a hand.
“You need someone to be with you…”
“Someone I won’t have to wait ten
years for, you mean? Someone who’ll be available in, say, four?”
Nel winced. “From the moment I met
you, I never wanted anyone else.”
“After Filibert left, you mean.”
Nel bit her lip. That memory was
still painful to her. But Father had made Filibert leave, not Nel. It wasn’t
her fault. Her voice trembled as badly as her knees. “You liked me once.”
“As the sister of my lover, I cared
for you. There was never anything else. You must know there was nothing
else. After Vinca, there could never be another lass for me. You knew this in
your heart. I should never have believed you would go to such lengths to
destroy me.”
The tears fell down in a hot
cascade. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I could never love you now,” Frodo
answered. “Not if you were the last hobbit in the Shire. The only lass in
Middle-earth I truly cared for is forever beyond my reach. I leave you to savor
the fruit of your victory. Well done, Miss Took. I concede the game.”
Nel dropped her gaze in shame and
despair. She stood, breast heaving, and heard his soft footfalls approach the
door. They suddenly halted.
“Have I come at a bad time?” a
youthful voice asked uncertainly.
Nel’s head jerked up. Pippin!
Through the watery veil of her tears, she saw him standing just outside the
door.
“You’ve come at an excellent time,”
answered Frodo. “I’ve said all I wanted to say.” The resignation in his voice
tore at her heart. “Pray make my excuses to your family.”
“What excuse do you want me to give?
Illness in the family, a dispute in the village, the Mill caught fire?”
“Say whatever you like. I’m
incapable of thought at the moment.”
Pippin squeezed his shoulder. “Go
ahead, dear cousin. I’ll catch up to you shortly.”
“Thank you, Pippin.” Frodo left the
room without a backward glance.
Pippin turned towards Nel. Though he
was still but a teen, there was something fierce in his expression, some
less-developed quality of the fury that had been so potent in Frodo. He crossed
to her. “I didn’t want to believe it, you know. When Frodo told me the story, I
said, ‘It couldn’t be Nel. She would never do something like that.’” His green
eyes flickered over her face, taking in her tear-swollen eyes and disheveled
appearance. “I think I shall spend some time at Bag End. I’m not certain I can bear
to look at you at present.”
Though Nel had swatted down Pippin for
his impudence countless times before, her conscience held her dumb. Feeling the
tears rise afresh, she dashed from the room.
#
“Crickhollow?” Eglantine paused in
the middle of handing a filled teacup to her husband. “Pippin, are you sure?
Frodo actually means to abandon Bag End?”
Pippin smiled sadly, as he helped
himself to toast. “He says he’s run out of money.”
“Balderdash,” Paladin stated
strongly. “Frodo, overreaching his income? Impossible.” He rescued his teacup
from his wife, who was still gazing at her son in astonishment.
Nel listened to the exchange, no
less thunderstruck than her parents. Her stomach shrank into a knot, and she
lost all interest in the remains of her second breakfast. Next to her, Vinca’s
face went white, and her hands grew still. Pearl, less affected than her
sisters, studied Pippin keenly.
“All I know,” Pippin said patiently,
to the ring of amazed faces, “is that Frodo says Bilbo’s gold is running low,
and he’d rather live someplace less expensive to keep up.”
“But, his income.” Eglantine looked
upset. “He has income from his tenants. What has he been spending it on?”
Pippin shrugged. “That I don’t know.
It must be something, or he wouldn’t have sold Bag End.”
Paladin stirred milk into his tea,
frowning. “There’s something amiss, here. Frodo would not be so foolish as to
lose his money through some risky speculation.”
Eglantine turned towards him. “But
my dear, what would he speculate in?”
“No idea,” Paladin grumbled.
Nel poked at her congealing egg,
though her mind whirled. Frodo, leaving. True, he hadn’t been a regular visitor
for several years-not since Nel’s plan had backfired, and driven him away. She
forced herself to speak. “Pippin, did he say when he would be moving?”
Pippin took a bite of toast.
“September,” he said around it. “His birthday.”
Nel dropped her gaze, and went back
to pushing food around on her plate. September. It couldn’t be coincidence,
could it? That he was leaving the very month before Vinca came of age, and her
long-term romance with Willy Whitfoot would be consummated?
Apparently Vinca’s mind was moving
the same way. In a small voice, she asked, “Will he come back for the wedding?
I… I should very much like for him to attend.”
“After what he did,” Pearl said
tartly, “I shouldn’t think he’d be much of a loss.”
“Tut!” Paladin interjected. “Pearl,
those accusations were never proved. Please use your sense when confronted with
an idle report. I’ll not have any daughter of mine turn into a foolish gossip!”
“It won’t matter anyway,” said
Pippin. “I’m quite sure from something Frodo said that he expects to be quite
busy in October.” He gave Vinca an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Sis.”
“That’s settled, then.” Vinca continued
cutting her egg and toast into slivers. Nel was certain it was distress; those
pieces were far too small to eat. “Still, it would have been nice to see him
again on a friendly basis.”
“Vinca,” said Pearl, “the last thing
Willy wants is to see you on a friendly basis with Frodo Baggins. Trust
me on this.”
“Willy has been far more important
to this household for a while than Frodo has,” said Eglantine soothingly,
looking round the table for support. “After all, he’ll be Vinca’s husband in
just a few months. Perhaps after that, we can all let go of our past bitterness
and become friends again.”
“I hope so, Mother,” said Vinca.
But Vinca didn’t eat any more, and
excused herself shortly after the subject turned. Nel watched her go with an
ache in her heart.
Willy was a sweet lad. He worshipped
Vinca, and Vinca was fond of him. But he was no Frodo Baggins. Even now, after
all these years, Nel believed that Vinca still regretted what she had lost. Nel
had never been brave enough to confess her role in the duplicity that drove him
away. But if she came clean now, what good would it do? Would Vinca break up
her long courtship with Willy to pursue Frodo again? Would Frodo abandon his
plans to move, in the hopes of regaining Vinca? It was too absurd. All that
would probably happen is that Vinca and Pearl would hate Nel forever, and Vinca
would be miserable all over again. Pippin had long ago made up his mind to
believe Frodo’s side of the story, but Pippin’s aloofness towards her would be
nothing compared to the acid hatred of her sisters. As Vinca seemed sincerely
attached to Willy, Nel deemed it cruel to meddle with her happiness yet again.
Yet, as the wedding approached, Nel found herself questioning again whether she
had done the right thing in remaining silent. Vinca was… well, she was well
enough. But Willy, dear as he was, never put the smile on her face that she had
worn in the days when she was courting Frodo.
“Nel.” Her mother’s gentle voice
startled her from her reverie. Eglantine nodded at Nel’s plate. “You aren’t
eating.”
“I’ve had enough. If you’ll excuse
me?”
Her father waved her on. She needed
a place to hide, to think; her mind was in turmoil. She had to pass Pippin’s
chair to get out. She was almost afraid to look at him, afraid to find some
lingering shred of condemnation in his look. But her glance at Pippin surprised
her; he was looking at her with something close to pity.
Her composure shattered, Nel fled
the room.
#
Nel had been cold and damp for so
long, she wondered how she felt it any more. Yet she did feel it, as she felt every
gritty step over the rough stone floor. She could almost imagine where she had
worn tracks in it from her feet, tracing over and over again the same steps. She
shivered, hugging herself. It was always cold in the Lockholes, but even here, hidden
from the sun, she could feel the season turning. Autumn was settling in. The
summer had leaked away beyond her sight. Now she faced an even bleaker end to a
dismal year. She wondered if she’d survive.
She plucked her cloak more tightly
around herself. The ruffians had shown her this much kindness; they’d let her
keep her own clothes. Of course, the dress was ruined beyond repair after
months of her sleeping in her clothes. The cloak was equally shabby. Both had
been designed for the lighter weather of spring, not the penetrating cold of
winter, to be endured in a stone cage. As she drew the tattered fabric close,
she was too conscious of its sour smell, and the overripe stink of her body.
The stench of this place permeated her clothing and hair even as it fouled the
stale air. She never had water enough to clean herself. She attempted it after
her monthly courses, but the cost of this minimal basic hygiene was thirst.
She inquired constantly, of course;
every new prisoner who was brought down their row was interrogated by their
nearest neighbors, their information passed along the line in whispers. Ned Stoakes
of Bywater, dragged in for “hoarding” food; Bella and Ruffo Headstrong, of the
Upper Smials, brought in for sheltering hobbits without leave; Folcard Hornblower,
taken from Whitwell after he violated curfew. Nel’s heart contracted when she
heard his name and village. She contrived to send a message back to him: Was
Pervinca safe? Did Vinca and her new husband receive Nel’s warning in time,
or had her sacrifice been worthless, leaving her closest kin to languish in
some distant cell?
The answer healed her heart. “Escaped
to Tookland,” was the message passed along to her from the Goodbody family,
confined in the cell beside hers. Nel bent her head, feeling tears burn her
eyes.
That Spring, she had learnt quite
suddenly that her sister had become a target, for the Chief hoped to use her
capture to force Paladin’s hand. This intelligence, which had reached her by
way of a messenger inbound to the Great Smials, had sent her hastening to
Whitwell, where Vinca had moved to live with her new husband. Abandoning the group
with which she’d been tilling Tookland’s scanty fields (the hilly area the
Tooks commanded contained little arable land), Nel cut straight across the
sentry lines toward Whitwell. Her pony had been stopped at dusk by ruffians at
the outskirts of town. She had shouted her warning to the amazed hobbits who
had come to their doors to find out what the commotion was.
“Vinca Took!” Nel had shouted, as a
pair of Men dragged her from her pony. “She’s married to Willy Whitfoot. The
Chief’s men mean to seize her. She has to get away!”
Then the biggest brute caught her by
the wrists. He had gripped her so tightly, she wore the bluish marks on her
skin for weeks. She was certain the bone in her right wrist had fractured; it swelled
up after her capture, and she fashioned a bandage for it out of her
underclothes. The pain diminished over time, and function gradually returned. That
first night, however, she had cradled it to her breast, terrified of having it reinjured.
The chief scoundrel bellowed at her, hoping to frighten a confession out of
her.
“Who sent ye? Paladin Took?”
“I came on my own,” Nel answered.
“Who are ye? Where do you live?”
“My name is Nelly Proudfoot. I’m a
farmer from Tookland.” The dirt on her clothes made this an effective lie. The
ruffians must never learn that she was the emissary sent from the Smials to
coordinate the sowing of the few fields safely within Took borders. Were her
identity discovered, she would become the pawn she had tried to prevent her
sister from becoming.
Vile as the ruffians were, they were
not clever. They had believed Nel’s story, so patiently repeated, and dragged
her off to the Lockholes. Once there, she had tried to locate the old mayor, Whil
Whitfoot-now her kin. She was confident that news would have come to him if Vinca
and Willy had been taken. However, it seemed he was being held in another part
of the storage holes. The sheer number of hobbits detained fueled her fears; if
her sister and brother-in-law were taken, would she even know?
The iron gate at the end of the long
tunnel squealed; someone was coming. Faint voices drifted down the hall-light
voices, quick voices, not the deep grunting of the Men. Nel drew near to the
little grate in her door, and listened. There was a great deal of clanging up
the hall, some weeping and exclaiming. Faintly beyond it, she thought she heard
cheers.
The news reached her in the normal
way, from Old Marta Clayhanger in the neighboring cell nearest the door.
“It’s hobbits!” she called in her wavery
voice. “Hobbits has took over the Lockholes! They’re letting everyone out!”
The hobbits in the nearby cells let
out a cheer-some weakly, if they’d been here long. Nel clutched her throat, hardly
daring to believe such good news. Surely the ruffians would set upon the rescue
party before they could set everyone free. Even if they got out, how
could the prisoners hope to evade any search parties, as weak and exhausted as
they all were? Nel’s heart skipped rapidly. Now that deliverance was at hand,
she couldn’t allow herself to feel it. She was trembling all over just from the
notion. If hope, so long delayed, were snatched from her now, could she be able
to face the vile hole in which she was imprisoned?
The hobbit working the keys came
swiftly down the row. Door after door was thrown open, the occupants within
softly but swiftly greeted. It was all a muddle; in the wake of this first
hobbit, there was a murmur and shuffle of hobbits being helped outside; beyond
that, dimly, a great din of cheering. Nel breathed quickly; certainly any Men
in the area would hear such an uproar. Was it possible? Had the ruffians been…
driven away?
The door next to hers flew open. A
soft voice murmured, “Please make yourself easy, Madam. Someone will be along
to help you out in a moment.”
Nel’s hands flew to her face. She
knew that voice; it was the very same, though roughened by time or strain. She
staggered back from her own door, as the key turned in the lock. The door swung
open. A silhouette familiar to her dreams stood outlined in the entrance, backlit
from the soft white light coming from far up the hall.
“Good afternoon, Miss. Are you
strong enough to walk? There are… Nel.”
They stared at one another through
the gloom. She nodded once.
A hobbit bustled up beside her
liberator. It was Sigismond Goold, of Tookbank. “Does this one need help,
Frodo?” He glanced at Nel without recognition; she must be very changed, for
him not to know her.
Frodo handed him the keys. “I’ve got
her. Do you go on.”
“Right.” Sigi disappeared, and Nel
heard the lock rattle on the door next to hers. The murmur of the eager Goodbodys
blended with the commotion in the hall.
“Nel. Thank goodness you’re safe.”
Frodo stepped, hands raised as if to embrace her. Nel shrank back. She was
deeply ashamed of her state and appearance. What would he see, once he stepped
inside? The vile pot in the corner that was her privy? The filthy blanket upon
which she huddled every night, shaking so fiercely from cold on the hard floor that
she could scarcely sleep?
But Frodo did not look about him. He
paused upon her drawing back, then slowly extended one hand. He clasped her
forearm gently; his grip was warm. Nel began trembling violently; she lowered
her head, as painful tears crowded behind her eyes, constricting her chest. She
whispered, “Vinca?”
“Safe,” said Frodo. “Safe at home.
Your warning reached her in time.”
Nel sagged with relief. She blotted
her eyes with a filthy sleeve. “Is she… is she well?”
“I assume so. I haven’t seen her.
Pippin learnt of your capture two nights ago, when he rode to Tookland to get
reinforcements for the rebellion.”
Nel looked at him quickly, through
her tears. “Then, you really are fighting the ruffians?”
“The fighting is over. They are all overthrown:
ruffians, Chief… Sharkey.” His voice hitched.
Blinking away her tears, Nel looked
at him closely for the first time. It came as a shock to see that he had been
ill. Perhaps not ill-but there was something about his face, a pinched look
that had not been there before. That disturbing discovery was succeeded by
others. She had been used to consider Frodo as well-preserved as ever Bilbo had
been; in all his years at Bag End, Frodo’s face had never changed. Only the
gradually growing waistline had given any hint of the passing years. Otherwise,
he always looked just as he had done when he’d first come of age: young and
handsome, a hobbit fresh out of his tweens.
The hobbit who looked at her now had
aged. Silver flecked his raven hair, faint lines clustered round his eyes. It
was as if, during the past year, all the aging he had neglected to do over the
course of his lifetime had caught up to him at once. It was the more
disconcerting to see, because his figure had returned to the slimness of his
youth. She stared at him in puzzlement. “Were you… were you captured, too?”
Something flickered within his eyes,
some door that instantly shut. “For a time,” he said quietly, “and very far
from here. But I know what it is like.” He took her arm, and this time she let
him draw her forward. “Come. We must get you outside. Pippin is anxious to find
you.”
She kept her head down as she
stepped into the corridor. She much preferred for the moment to be some
anonymous lass that Frodo was escorting, like so many other detainees, up the
long hall. Dark silhouettes obscured her view to the outside: ranks of former prisoners
being supported or carried. The open door beyond was a painful blur of white.
“You made it back,” Nel murmured.
“I’m glad. Father believed you were all dead.”
“I know. Pippin told me. I’m very
sorry about that. None of us suspected that the Shire would be in danger after
we had gone. We tried to set things to rights as quickly as possible.”
Nel halted and stared at him. “You!
You started the rebellion!”
Frodo smiled sadly. “Well, it was
Merry and Pippin more than me. But Sam and I were certainly in the party.”
“Oh, Frodo.” Nel felt herself
wanting to cry again, although she wasn’t sure why. Because he was as wonderful
as she had ever thought he was? Because he was so wounded and wise and kind?
“Here, none of that.” One of his
arms went round her, and she leant into the embrace gratefully. “You have your
father and Pippin to thank, really. Without support from Tookland, the
rebellion would have failed hardly before it began.”
“I’m sure you did your part.”
“Not much of one. They’re calling
Pippin a captain now-he and Merry. But I did not strike any blow.”
Nel looked at him sharply. She saw
it again: pain so sharp in his face that it hurt her even to look at it. She
asked, doubtfully, “You didn’t fight for the Shire?”
He would not meet her eyes. “With
everything I had. But it was not my part to raise arms, nor will it ever be
again.”
She gazed at him, bewildered. A
shadow fell across her. “Nel!” She found herself caught up in a mighty embrace,
someone huge and strong with a deep voice. “Oh, Nel! Everyone at home was so
worried. Thank heavens you’re safe!”
He loosened his hold, and she could
see his face against the glare of the open door. Her eyes widened. “Pippin?”
He laughed and hefted her lightly in
his arms. She gasped at finding herself lifted as easily as a faunt. She
clasped her hands round his neck for balance. “Pippin. How did you get so big?”
“Thereupon hangs a tale,” he said.
“But first we must get you some proper food and rest. There’s a whole army of
helpers outside, eager to do for you whatever you need done.”
Nel looked back at Frodo. The
contrast between him and her brother struck her heart. Pippin had grown-larger,
louder, more joyous. From her fresh vantage point, Frodo seemed to have shrunken
more than ever; in the better light of the hall, it was easy to discern his new
marks of age.
Pippin took off with a stride.
“Let’s get you outside. The goodwives have clothes for you, and I imagine you’d
kill for a bath.”
“Yes, yes, I would.” She looked
anxiously over his broad shoulder, but Frodo had already turned away. She
caught only a glimpse of his narrow figure, passing between groups of newly
freed hobbits as he disappeared into the dark.
#
She didn’t see Frodo again until May
of the following year. She had returned to the business she had set up for
herself prior to the Troubles: a baker. She chose Waymeet as her new base of
operations; there was much coming and going on the East-West Road as hobbits gradually moved from
temporary quarters into permanent ones, and custom was good.
She was just closing up shop for her
midday meal when she noticed yet another
group of hobbits gathering down the street, perhaps preparing for a move. She
glanced their way, then looked again. Surely that was Frodo Baggins with them,
giving them directions.
He had brought a wagon with him,
pulled by two ponies. He spoke to what looked like the heads of several
households; he was too far off for her to hear his words. Then one of hobbits
took the ponies by the bit, and led them towards the place where the displaced
hobbit families were encamped. Frodo lagged behind, smiling as the hobbit
children skipped about the wagon, shouting with excitement. Then he looked up
and saw her.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, Nel
nodded a greeting. Frodo lifted his hand in response. Then he started to walk
towards her.
Nel secured her shutters and flipped
round the sign showing the bakery was closed. She brushed her hands against her
apron, but they were clean. At six in the morning, she was flour everywhere.
But this was the end of her work day; at least she was tidy.
“Good afternoon,” Frodo called,
drawing close.
“Good afternoon.” Nel stepped off
the porch to meet him.
His eyes held a trace of the
lingering sadness that had so struck her upon their earlier meeting. His smile,
too, was sad, though soft and kind. “It’s good to see you looking so well
again.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” She
could not have returned his compliment. Frodo looked, if anything, thinner than
when she had last seen him. The signs of poor health were more pronounced. It
was not just age that had altered his features; he had certainly been ill
during the recent months. Shadows underlined his eyes, and his color was too
pale.
She nodded towards the settlement
off the road, where the homeless hobbits gathered round the wagon. “Have you
brought supplies?”
Frodo shook his head. “I’ve come to
lead four of these families back to Hobbiton. You’ve heard of Lobelia’s legacy
regarding dispossessed hobbits, haven’t you? The first of the new homes are now
ready.”
“I see.” Nel looked closer at the
group; a couple of hobbits had started to load bundles onto the wagon. “Have
you time for luncheon? You must be hungry after your early start.”
“I would be happy to share your
company. I’m quite at leisure; we won’t leave until tomorrow morning, for the
return journey will be slow.”
Nel pictured a long line of hobbits,
bearing bundles and herding little ones-a regular sight these several months.
She nodded. “Please come in.”
She led him through the store to the
kitchen at the back. The bedroom behind was bored into the hill; she had never
got used to sleeping anywhere but a burrow.
“I’m surprised you’re not at
Tuckborough,” he said, as she got out a couple of glasses.
“I do more good here. Besides, it’s
not so extraordinary. Pearl is the only one of us who still lives in the Smials
these days.”
“True enough.”
She had a good beer on hand; she
poured herself and Frodo tall mugs. She carried them to the little dining table,
where he had seated himself. She handed him his glass, and waited for his
reaction. He took a sip, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. She smiled. “I
made it myself. I have a feeling that 1420 is going to be a very good year.”
“It certainly will. For the Shire,
at least.”
She pondered how to ask him what he
meant by this, when he suddenly said, “You never married.”
“No.” A confusion of emotions swept
through her. Despite that, some courage she didn’t know she possessed caused
her to meet his eye. “Neither did you.”
Frodo held her gaze. He wasn’t
anything like the hobbit she had known before. His eyes held no anger, no
reproach, no laughter-nothing but this pervasive sadness, and a sense of
compassion deep as a sunless lake.
He indicated the empty chair across
from her, and she sat. All notions of making dinner went out of her head; she
felt tension coil within her. This conversation was what she’d been waiting
for, without knowing it, for the last twelve years.
But what he said surprised her. “Nel,
you must forgive yourself.”
She opened her mouth before she
found she had no reply. Frodo reached across the table, and closed his hand
gently upon her wrist. With a start, she saw his missing finger. Pippin had
told her all about it, of course. She hadn’t noticed it at the Lockholes. Now
she saw the gap against the linen of her sleeve; it seemed to symbolize all the
empty days of her life. He was holding the wrist that had been broken.
“I hurt you terribly.” Her voice was
so tight, she could scarcely speak. “You and Vinca. It broke her heart, Frodo,
it absolutely did.” The words ran out. She covered her face with her free hand.
She heard his chair push back. Still
holding her wrist, he came round the table, and put his arm around her. With a
shock, she felt him pushing her aside, so he could share her chair. She moved
over to accommodate him, then wrapped her arms about his neck. Her tears fell
upon his lapel, soaking into the soft fabric.
He petted her hair. She hugged him
fiercely, trembling. So long she had wanted to do this. And now it was all
wrong, because she was poison, had always been poison, had hurt the people she
loved most in the world. Emptiness was her portion; she deserved no better.
“Nel,” he said, when she had quieted
a little, “I want you to understand something. What you did those long years
ago, turned out to be for the best.”
She pulled away, to meet his eye.
She wanted him to see her indignation. “How can you say that? Vinca was never
the same, nor you. She loved you, Frodo. I‘m convinced she loves Willy, too,
but in a different way. Something died in her forever when you parted, and I
am the one to blame!”
Maddeningly, he did not rise to her
anger. His gaze seemed to soak it in from her, letting it dissipate in the
depths of his eyes. “I am truly sorry about Vinca. I don’t dare visit her even
now; opening those old wounds would serve no one.”
“Then how can you say it turned out
for the best?”
Frodo sighed. He remained with his
arm about her, but gazed vacantly into space. “Nel, I came into possession of…
a terrible object.”
Nel’s emotions steadied with the
change of subject. “I heard about that. Pippin told me.”
“I know he did. You are one of the
few hobbits in the Shire who bothered to ask.”
Nel was silent. She could well see why
no one quizzed Frodo about his journey. If she didn’t know him so well, his
reserve and unblinking eye would have intimidated her as well.
“I could not have married Vinca
until the year I left; she would not have been of age before then. Had I
continued courting her, our relationship would have been nearly a dozen years
old when I learned the nature of this hideous relic. What was I to do then?”
Nel said softly, “You would have
taken Vinca into your confidence.”
“That could have sealed her doom.
No,” Frodo shook his head. “I could never have told her.”
“She could have gone with you, like
Pippin did.”
“I would never have taken her. I
would not have taken Pippin or Merry either, had they not tricked their way
into joining me.”
“Why did your journey have to be so
secret?”
“It was the dar-the danger.” Nel
thought Frodo changed what he was going to say. Perspiration dampened his skin.
He swallowed. “You can’t… you cannot know the danger. I did not
understand it myself, until I was already underway. By the time I did, I was
struck down and nearly killed. I have not recovered from that evil wound, not
to this very day.”
Nel stared at him. Frodo was
breathing hard; his gaze seemed far away, seeing distance events. She adjusted
her arms about his neck-now she was comforting him. She said gently, “Vinca
would have waited for you to come home.”
“But I never meant to return.” Frodo
passed a hand over his eyes. “At the time that I left, I thought I must leave
the Shire forever. I intended to. I was carrying an object so dreadful, the
mere knowledge of it could have changed the course of the war. My options at
the time were limited. Had I still been courting Vinca, I could have taken her
into my confidence, as you suggested. That would have left her vulnerable to the
evil servants that the dar-that their master had sent to find me. Or, she could
have come with me, and run straight into their arms, as I ultimately did. She
might have ended up as I did-or infinitely worse.”
Nel stared in amazement. Every line Frodo
spoke cracked with truth, like lightning upon the hills. This changed Frodo was
more intense than he had ever been. “No, I could not have told her, even
had Gandalf not advised against telling anyone. What were my choices then? I
could have pretended that nothing was wrong, and slipped away without a word,
leaving everyone to wonder. Alternatively, I could have broken off our long
engagement for no apparent cause. If our breakup so many years before had been
painful, what would the repercussions be, were I to abandon her so shortly
before we were at last to become husband and wife?”
Nel’s heart pounded in sympathy for
his anguish. She wanted to protest, but how?
“There was one option more,” Frodo
said heavily. “I could have married her. I could have refused the task,
renounced the Quest, and settled with my dearest love in the comfort of Bag
End.”
Nel’s mouth was dry. She whispered,
“Why didn’t you?”
Frodo turned within her arms. He
rested his forehead against hers, his hands about her waist. “Who else could
have taken up the burden? Would they have succeeded? The War was won, dear Nel,
largely by good luck, and the dogged persistence of a hobbit named Sam who
refused to give up even after his master was wholly broken by his task. We came
that close to losing… everything. But for an accident of fate, there would be
no restored king, no kingdoms, no victory-nothing but blackness and ruin, even
into the Shire itself.”
Nel could feel his heart beating
against her chest. Petting his hair, she kissed his brow. “You sacrificed
yourself to save Vinca.”
His voice was hoarse. “Not Vinca. The
Shire. I did what I did for the Shire.” He murmured next to her ear, “It was you
who sacrificed yourself for Vinca, when the dark times came.”
Nel’s eyes filled. “She’s my sister.”
Her throat was painfully tight. “I love her.”
“I know.”
His lips brushed hers, closed with
her. His kiss was warm, alive, urgent. Nel found herself responding eagerly, lavishing
kisses upon his lips and face, pulling him into her, even as tears streamed down
her cheeks.
They made it to the bedroom somehow.
They left the door open for light. In time Nel lay on her back upon the bed,
her hands exploring the naked body of the hobbit she had loved as no other. He
ravaged her mouth with kisses; his hands seized her with a kind of desperation.
Through the long afternoon her fingertips discovered his many scars, as yet
unexplained by Pippin’s account. They caressed his smooth skin, too thinly
covering the sweet bones of his frame. She welcomed his weight as he plunged
into her-exulting in their mutual release even as tears ran down their faces.
Later that night, she held him as he cried. She comforted him, taking in his
pain as deeply as she could, emotionally and physically. When he finally
drifted into sleep, she wept.
#
Nel rose early, as always. Frodo was
soundly asleep; she daren’t risk waking him with a kiss, so contented herself
with brushing one of those silken locks from his dear face. Smiling, she took
herself off to the kitchen to begin baking her many loaves.
When Frodo left her bedroom just
after sunrise, he seemed better-brighter, more composed. He didn’t look rested;
Nel supposed that was impossible, given the night they’d had. After a brief
greeting, they moved about the kitchen in companionable silence, preparing
their morning meal amid the aroma of fresh-baked bread. She couldn’t stop
stealing glances at him as they worked. He saw what she was doing, of course,
and her game of hiding her fond smiles became one of both of them smiling to themselves
until at last Frodo took her in his arms from behind and hugged her, planting a
good-morning kiss on her ear.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“It wasn’t the sleeping I enjoyed,” Nel
replied.
Frodo kissed her again, then moved
away to carry their breakfast to the table. When she saw his face again, his
smile had softened. He looked pensive. A foreboding rose within her.
Nel joined him, bringing butter and
jam for their toast. “You must go this morning?”
“Within an hour or two. Although
they loaded the wagon yesterday, I imagine it will take some time for the
families to get everyone fed and together. Still, I should put in an appearance
fairly soon.”
“And I, alas, must open shop. In
half an hour the bread line will be out the door.”
“A fitting tribute to your labors,
I’m sure.”
Nel buttered her toast thoughtfully.
“Waymeet is not so very far from Hobbiton.”
He smiled, and Nel saw that the
sadness was back, full force. It struck a pang through her heart. “I hope we will
meet, from time to time. I will certainly look for you, whenever I’m here.”
It was a bland assurance at best. Nel
hurriedly fixed her tea, to cover her disappointment.
Frodo interrupted her. “Nel, I’m
sorry. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
Nel looked up with the teapot in her
hand. “Hurt me?”
He seemed to search for words. “I’m…
failing, Nel. I feel it. These wounds…”
Nel’s mind shouted an angry protest:
I can help you! But she let him speak on.
“The land is blossoming, the saplings
that dear Sam planted last autumn are springing up as if eager to make one year
do for six. Everywhere around me I see it and feel it: everything in the Shire
is coming back to life-everything but me.”
Nel set the pot down briskly.
“That’s nonsense. You’ve had a bad time, Frodo, but so did we all. You need time
to rest, to heal.” To love, she mentally added.
Frodo divided the eggs he’d made
between them. It was such a small portion, Nel had thought he’d meant them only
for himself. No wonder he was so thin.
Frodo didn’t look at her when he
spoke. “I’ve invited Sam and Rosie to live with me at Bag End. They moved in
just after their wedding last month.”
Nel didn’t quite see where this was
going. “That was kind of you.”
“Bag End has room for loads of
children. And I…” He met her eye, held it. “I will never marry, Nel. It…
wouldn’t be fair.”
Nel’s anger returned. “You might
well let a lass make up her own mind as to what she considers fair! You’ve been
ill, I can see that. What of it? We all have our burdens. No one past the age
of tween expects life to be perfect.”
“I know. I wouldn’t tell you this if
I didn’t know you’d understand. The Shire is growing. You are growing; I
see it in your face, in the glow of your spirit. You-well, I mustn’t advise you
what to do with your life. But if I could have a wish, it would be to see you
happily married at last. You have punished yourself for your past
transgressions long enough. I would see your affection returned by someone
capable of making a return. Someone who will be here, three years hence.”
She didn’t understand him. Did he
mean to go away again? Where would he go, back to Gondor? Irritably, she said,
“Well, you’ve obviously taken yourself out of the running. Who do you think
this mystery husband of mine could be?”
“Filibert.”
It was spoken so matter of factly, Nel
stared at him. “Filibert!” She hadn’t thought of her old beau for years-well,
not seriously. “How do you know he’s even available?”
“I don’t. But he was your first love
and… it would please me to know that you were with someone who appreciated you,
and the reverse. You are capable of a great deal of love, my dear Nel.” His
smile warmed. “I am qualified to comment in this regard, I think.”
Nel huffed. Filibert! Imagine
her looking up Filibert Boffin, after all these years. She spread jam on her
toast distractedly. “I believe he’s moved up to Little Delving.” She froze when
she realized she had spoken aloud. At Frodo’s smile, she felt her face warm with
a blush.
“Interesting.” Frodo nibbled at his
eggs, but his eyes were bright with mischief. “I believe by road Little Delving
is just as close to Waymeet as Hobbiton, if not more so.”
Nel clucked her tongue at him, which
made him grin. The conversation lightened, and they finished their meal. Every
moment the sky was growing lighter, as Nel could well see from her kitchen
window.
There came a rap at the front door
just as they started clearing the table. Nel leant close to plant a swift kiss
on Frodo’s lips. He tasted sweet, like blueberry jam. “I must open shop, I fear.
And you-“
“Yes. Our public awaits. Sweet Nel.”
He pulled her in for a deeper kiss. Nel thought nothing could feel as fine as
the way she melted against his chest. He broke the kiss and stroked her cheek,
gazing deeply into her eyes. Out front, the muffled rap came again.
Nel sighed. “I’d best open up before
whoever it is decides to come round back.”
Frodo released her. “Quite. I
suppose I should make my escape, whilst I have a chance.”
Nel caught at his hand. “Don’t stay
away, Frodo. Please.”
“You’ll see me again. I promise.” He
kissed her hand and, with a final, serious look, slipped out the back door into
the brightening day.
#
For the next year and more, Nel kept
up a correspondence with Hobbiton. She sent her finest baked goods to the
master of Bag End, and he sent her the best flour from the newly restored Mill.
They did meet at times, usually public events. Even as early as that first autumn,
however, Nel could see for herself what Frodo had tried to warn her of earlier.
He was indeed failing. The entire Shire had rebounded with fervor; he alone
seemed to shrink. His skin grew more pale and drawn, his figure less robust at
each meeting. The knowledge pierced her heart, even as it made her feelings towards
him more tender.
Aware of the maddening lack of
respect, she defended Frodo vigorously to anyone who dared to pronounce that
Captains Meriadoc or Peregrin had done more to free the Shire, or that Sam Gamgee
had done more to heal it. Hadn’t Frodo along with Sam been recognized by the
High King? Wasn’t he an Elf friend and the rest? She’d heard it all from
Pippin. It vexed her that so few of her neighbors thought further than what
they could see in front of their own noses. This quiet, self-effacing hobbit
had been through more than any of them, and Nel seemed to be one of the few who
realized it.
Not long after Frodo’s Waymeet
visit, she looked into the fate of Filibert. She had found herself thinking about
him more and more after her conversation with Frodo, and at length followed up
through his family in Whitwell. He had married, as she had expected. He had two
little ones, still living in their new home in Little Delving. However, his
wife had died in childbed with their third during the Troubles, a scant two weeks
before Frodo freed Nel from the Lockholes. Filibert had been greatly affected by
the loss. Nel was finally able to meet them all in person at the next Free
Fair, the summer after Frodo had resigned his office of Deputy Mayor.
“I was so sorry to hear about the Lockholes,”
Filibert said, after their initial greetings. “I didn’t know you’d been taken
at the time.”
“No one knew, outside of Tookland,”
she replied. “I reported a false name. It was impossible to do otherwise, given
the situation.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m very sorry to hear of your
loss. Primrose was an admirable lass, by every account.”
“She was.” Filibert’s eyes did not
mist; time had softened the blow. Quietly he said, “She might have made it, had
we better food, and if I could have convinced the midwife to come as early as
we wanted her. But everyone feared to break the Rules then. Thank goodness your
brother came back when he did. It was too late for dear Prim, but he saved many
other lives, I dare say.”
“Yes. All of Pippin’s friends did
their share.”
He nodded, accepting. “It’s good to see
you looking so well, Nel.” His smile was sad, but there was lightness beneath,
like thin clouds veiling the sun. Within minutes, the little ones demanded his
attention, and they all four went off to play at the games.
Nel saw Frodo briefly later in the
day. He stood quietly on one side, wearing that Elven cloak that he favored on
High days, and clasping his jeweled necklace the way he did. He noticed Nel
over the intervening crowd, and nodded. His smile was also sad, but there was
nothing lighter behind it, only pain and a shut door.
#
From that day, Nel’s thoughts were
divided between Little Delving and Bag End. She now regularly made two sets of
deliveries, one to either town. Bag End continued to send her grain, but Little
Delving reciprocated in its own way, with childish pictures sent as thank-you
notes to Auntie Nel. Late in the summer, Filibert stopped in to say hello on
his way to Whitwell to visit his kin. Nel thought about his visit for a whole day,
then closed up shop and went to visit her own sister in Whitwell. Vinca was
most penetrating in her guest selection, and arranged many conducive gatherings.
By the end of the visit, Nel began to understand her own heart, and Filibert’s
as well.
Still, it was hard to leave Frodo on
his own. She had a tenderness for him that grew fonder over the years, if less
passionate. She worried over him, almost as a brother. Now, in early October, Filibert
had invited Nel to visit him in Little Delving. She had little doubt as to how
such an invitation must develop. This was it, the crossroads, her deciding
point. She read again Filibert’s kind invitation, then looked at the open door
of her bedroom. The candle on the kitchen table did not throw sufficient light
to illuminate it, but she remembered the whispers and caresses, the joy tinged
with pain. Filibert had also suffered, but his heart Nel knew she could heal.
Frodo’s, she feared, would be forever beyond her reach.
Someone rapped at the front door. It
was full dark, far too late for visitors. Concerned, Nel hurried to the door.
Her surprise upon opening it was great. “Pippin!”
He stooped and kissed her cheek. “Might
I come in?”
“Of course! But whatever are you
doing here? I thought you were in Crickhollow.”
“Sam, Merry and I are on our road
back to Hobbiton. We’re staying at the inn.”
“Back to Hobbiton! This is a
strange road from Crickhollow. Why did you not all come? Here, let me make you
some tea.”
“We didn’t ride from Crickhollow.
Stay a moment, Nel; I have something to tell you.”
Nel looked at her brother closely.
His usual heartiness was gone. She was seeing a rare glimpse of the new Pippin,
the one who had come back altered from his travels-older, wiser, someone who had
seen suffering and knew what it was like.
Suddenly, the significance of his list
of companions struck her. She froze. “Frodo,” she whispered. “Has something…?”
Swiftly, Pippin guided her to a
chair. The smell of bread was heavy on the air. Nel found it hard to breathe.
Pippin sat opposite her, and took
her hands in his. “I do have something to tell you about Frodo, but it’s not
the worst news. Bad enough for us, but better for him, I think.”
“What do you mean? I want answers,
not riddles!”
Pippin sighed, and met her eyes.
“The three of us are on our way home, from the Grey Havens.”
#
Later that night, Nel finished her
letter to Filibert. Yes, I will certainly come. She addressed it
mechanically, her mind dull and a great emptiness in her chest. She kissed the
envelope, and laid it on the table. Then she lowered her head on her arms, and
wept.