Summary: On a sunny day in spring, Frodo got the urge to go north and west, up into Arnor, which was still quite wild and uninhabited outside of newly-built Annúminas, and the slow trickle of work happening around the ruins of Fornost, which even the Dúnedain were still sometimes reluctant to visit. When he spoke of his plan, his dad told him to remember to pack enough food and not to forget a bit of rope, and his mother said not to forget his cloak. Most of his siblings were too young yet to be permitted to go along, but Elanor immediately asked if he wanted company.
Major Characters: Elanor Gardner, Frodo Gardner, Maglor
Rosie’s hushed voice caused Sam to snap his head around, pulling him out of his reverie. The sight of his wife, more breathtaking to him than ever in her loose dressing gown of moss green silk with hand-painted daisies, caused his heart to flutter. They had been married for years and yet, whenever she graced his field of vision, he found himself a blushing mess and weak in the knees. It mattered not that her golden locks appeared windblown despite having remained by the hearth for most of the day. It mattered even less that deep circles underlined her eyelashes. In his eyes, she was nothing but perfection incarnate.
Sam slammed the book he was holding shut and placed it atop a pile of other dust-covered volumes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Rosie, I didn’t see the time fly, I swear!’
With a little laugh chiming through the room, she stepped forward, fixing her gown over her shoulders. She ran a hand through his curls and gave them a tender kiss as he stood up.
‘Don’t bend too much, my love,’ he cooed with a grin, laying a hand over her round belly. ‘I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you or the little one.’
‘I’m alright, Sam. By now, I’ve got the hang of it.’
The pair shared a loving kiss, laced into the other’s arms and fingers woven through each other’s hair. When their lips parted, Rosie nuzzled Sam’s cheek and grinned.
‘Would you like me to rub your feet before you go to sleep?’ he asked, stroking her waist with his fingertips.
‘I’ll be fine for tonight but thank you.’
‘Oh. Well… Good night, then.’
Sam kissed her again, then watched her walk over to the door, saddened that he would not see her for at least another hour. Then, once he rid himself of this unpleasant idea, he knelt beside the stack of books again. He pulled out another volume from the open box before him and blew off the accumulated dust from its cover. How long had it sat on a shelf before being discarded into such a shabby box?
His eyes wandered over the numerous piles of discarded items he had collected over the years, never to pay them any mind after all. How funny; he has never been one to give much importance to the material, but now that he had to clear the room for the arrival of their third child, throwing away these possessions seemed harder than ever. Most of what he desired to keep he could always bring over to Bag End, he thought. Bilbo and Frodo would never return anyway, and whenever nostalgia would hit, that would allow him to go over them and make the place a bit livelier.
Bag End was frozen in time, in a way. Sam always found it quite difficult to set foot there, knowing that Frodo would not be sitting at his desk or chewing a piece of bread while relaxing by the fire with a book on his knee. Entering the house without hearing the scratching of the quill on Bilbo’s aged pages made his heart ache beyond compare. Beyond the occasional cracks in the wood, the house was awfully still. It served merely as a constant reminder of their departure a few years prior.
The only way that he could stay there without dwelling on it was to stick to the maintenance of the garden. Every few weeks, he religiously tended to the plants and plucked the invasive weeds threatening to spoil the beauty of it all. It was one of the few moments when he did not need to even think at all. Not about his fatigue from tending to his family, not about caring for the house, not about the next meal to cook that would bring Rosie some sweet relief from pregnancy pains. Gardening was, as always, his escapism. Not that he did not enjoy his life. If anything, he was the happiest he had ever been! But when things became overwhelming, when the world became too loud, when he could no longer think straight, he had the gardens.
And now, he had the task of sorting out their belongings so that he and Rosie could build a new nursery for their baby. Perhaps, one day, their children would be sharing the large room and playing together while their parents tended to the house. Sam could picture it already; himself, sitting on a rocking chair with the youngest on his knee and the two others already tucked in bed, reading them old Hobbit tales to lull them to sleep. Then, when their quiet snores would welcome his words, he would bring the youngest to their bed and tuck them in in turn, before kissing each forehead on his way out and finding Rosie for a quiet moment by the hearth with a glass of wine and her little hand in his.
Sam smiled at the thought and brought his attention back to the books. No luck so far in finding a book of children’s stories; he was sure that he owned one, but it seemed that it had vanished. Next time he would go to the market, he would buy one and have it decorated especially for his children, who one day could pass it down to theirs.
His hand brushed the faded embossing on the cover of the red book he held in his hand. He could no longer tell what this was. Was it a history book? Tales about dwarves? One of the love stories he used to read while daydreaming about Rosie?
He opened it and turned the first pages until his eyes beheld a familiar handwriting. He squinted his eyes, frantically searching his memories to find who it belonged to. And when the realisation hit him, his jaw slacked, and a gasp escaped him.
It was his mother’s. One of the few remaining traces of Bell Goodchild’s existence. Tears filled his eyes as he read the words on the pages, her voice reading them to him inside his head. It was her precious recipe book, which he had so often looked for under the assumption that she had chosen a blue cover, as it was her favourite colour. It had been right under his nose this whole time, and now that he held it, he never wanted to let go.
He flipped the pages for nigh on an hour, plunged into deep nostalgia for the time that his mother would hold him and tell him stories while handing him little pastries she loved to make. She was an amazing baker, Bell. There was no ailing that she could not cure with her sweet words and a small pie.
She had been the parent that Sam aspired to be himself. He did not know whether he was doing a good job, but his love for his family transpired into everything he did. Every little task, every word, every song, every embrace. There was nothing that he was not ready to do for his family’s well-being, and he hoped that he could tell. Sometimes, he felt that they did, especially when Elanor and Frodo looked up at him or Rosie with their big eyes and smiled as if there was nobody they would feel safer with.
Now, with Bell’s book, he finally had a family heirloom that he could pass down to them. Either through the taste of the food or through the love of cooking and baking. One day, this book would belong to them, and he could only wish that they would take good care of it.
The next morning, Rosie awoke to the piercing laughter of her children. Beside her was nothing but the faint marks of Sam’s body on the bedsheets and the indentation of his head on the pillow, but he was nowhere to be seen. Surely, she had not slept that long, had she? She stretched out her sore limbs and caressed her belly as she felt the baby kick.
‘Good morning to you too, darling.’
With a bit of difficulty, she pulled herself out of bed and dragged her feet across the room. She grabbed her dressing gown from the hook beside the door and wrapped herself up in the soft silk, taking a whiff of the flowery perfume that lingered on the fabric. When she reached the kitchen, the scene instantly caused her lips to dig little dimples into her cheeks.
Sam, bent over the kitchen counter, was carrying young Frodo on his shoulders, letting the child hold on to his head. Beside him stood Elanor, carefully placing fresh strawberries on top of a cake, with her face smeared with flour and a pat of cream on the tip of her nose, probably caused by her father poking it earlier. He was recounting memories and anecdotes from his youth, exaggerating voices and adding little jokes here and there to keep the children entertained.
And right in front of them, was Bell Goodchild’s book, open on a stand.
