Frodo Writes a Story
by GamgeeFest
Frodo is 43/44, Sam and Fatty are 32, Merry 30, Folco 27, and Pippin 22 (about 28, 20, 19, 17 and
14 in Man years)
~ 1412 SR ~
The mid-summer sun peaked over the horizon on an already warm day. Sam was out in the garden,
getting an early start, as was his custom during the searing summer months. He whistled cheerfully
while he watered the flowerbeds and pruned the bushes, feeling only slightly guilty that he wasn't
inside preparing Frodo's first breakfast. But his master understood Sam's need to get the heaviest of
the work done before the day became too hot and happily prepared his meals himself.
And so Frodo woke up that morning to the delightful sound of Sam's whistled song. He stretched
languidly, feeling sorry for his devoted gardener outside in such heat, as he himself was already
feeling the warmth inside the smial. The heat seemed ready to beat the day before, to make today the
warmest of the season.
He dressed in light clothing and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, cooled by ice from the
cellar, for his friend. He took it out to Sam, who was sweating already from his efforts, and handed
the cold, dripping glass to the grateful gardener. They discussed their plans for the day while Sam
took a short break.
Sam would be tending to the kitchen garden, checking the tatters and other vegetables growing
happily in the ground under Sam's tender care - and on the shaded, west side of the smial. Frodo
would be writing a story.
"A story, sir?" asked Sam, intrigued. His master could tell many tales that would leave the mind
boggling for days, but those were always from books he had read or some of old Mr. Bilbo's
adventures. His master rarely found the mood to write himself.
"I'm feeling inspired, Sam," Frodo announced proudly. "Something different, I think, I just can't get
it out of my head. And you'll be the first to read it. I trust your critiques."
Sam blushed, momentarily thankful for the flush that working in the heat had caused to rise in his
face. Frodo didn't notice his servant's bashful reaction and went back into the smial, emptied glass in
hand, to prepare his meal and get to work.
~*~
Whatever story Frodo had decided to write wasn't revealed to Sam that day, or the next, or even the
one following that. Days turned into weeks and soon a month had passed since Frodo's
announcement. Sam often came in around elevenses to escape the heat for an hour or two and see to
things inside Bag End. He would find his master, every day without fail, slouched over his desk in
the den, scratching away with quill on paper. He knew better than to ask about the story's progress,
and by the many crumpled pieces of paper on the floor and in the wastebasket, he thought he could
guess well enough on his own.
Then, halfway through Wedmath, Frodo came out of the smial near the end of the workday. The sun
was getting ready to set, the first stars twinkling bravely in the sky. A breeze had come in from the
West to bless the land with a cool, refreshing breath. Sam was putting his tools away in the shed
when Frodo found him.
"I'm finished," he announced proudly, nearly startling his gardener to death with his sudden,
unannounced appearance. Frodo rarely came out to the tool shed, and Sam wondered what he could
be talking about.
"Finished, sir?" he asked as he composed himself and put away the last of the tools.
Frodo followed him to the well and waited for Sam to clean up before explaining further. Finally,
once Sam was clean, and cooled considerably by the water, they walked over to the bench under the
elm tree to enjoy the precious evening air.
"With my story," Frodo finally said. He beamed at his friend and swung his legs back and forth as if
he was not more than 10.
Sam smiled and chuckled softly to see his master in such a fine mood. "I'm glad to hear that, sir," he
said, his voice raised only slightly at the end to indicate the unasked question he knew his master
would guess.
Frodo laughed. "Thank you, Sam. And don't you worry. I think I'll send it home with you for you to
read at your leisure. No need to tear through it all in one night. I want you to take your time and
give me an honest review."
"Oh, I will, sir," Sam replied, swelling with pride to think that his master and dearest friend
considered him a valuable source for critique on such matters. Though he was fairly certain
anything his master could write would be above his understanding, he wasn't going to let that stop
him from doing his best to give Frodo what he asked for. So that night when he headed home, he did
so with fifty white, crisp pages tucked under his arm.
~*~
Frodo had said not to tear through it all in one night. He had also warned Sam, while tentatively
handing over the velvet-smooth pages, that it was a short story, perhaps a bit rushed. He seemed
reluctant to let Sam take the manuscript from his hands, but looking into his gardener's soft and
caring eyes, he realized he could trust Sam with anything. Even if his 'new idea' turned out to be a
horrible one, Sam wouldn't make him feel foolish or silly. He let the pages go and watched Sam
walk away with his very first creation, his stomach aflutter with nerves and excitement. He wouldn't
get any sleep tonight.
And neither would Sam. He was absorbed in Frodo's story, sitting in his bed with candle in hand,
forgetting the wax and letting it drip onto the bedding. His Gaffer would scold him in the morning
for being so careless - yet again - but he simply couldn't tear his eyes away from the words his
master had written.
He found that Frodo had been correct. It was short, and did feel rushed at some places perhaps, but
Sam felt that was only because it was too short, and not that it was lacking in the quality of the
writing in any way. He flipped through it, page after enchanting page, amazed at the workings of his
master's mind. He never knew his master was so creative as this! And the style in which the story
was written, Sam couldn't begin to fathom where Frodo had thought up such a thing, but he found it
delightful in its uniqueness. He read the whole story in one sitting, and didn't get to sleep until the
wee hours of the morning.
As it was, neither servant nor master got more than an hour or two of sleep that night, so that Frodo
was wide awake and waiting for Sam as he came up the road the next morning.
"Well?" Frodo asked, unable to wait even for Sam to close the gate behind him. "What did you
think? It was horrible wasn't it? It wasn't conventional and didn't have enough narrative and I
perhaps put too much of my own thought into it..."
"Mr. Frodo, really, at least let me answer one question before you go asking another," Sam teased
lightly, smiling tiredly but happily at his anxious friend.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo replied. "I'm just eager to hear what you thought is all."
"Well," Sam began slowly, fitting the words together in his head how he wanted to say them. He had
to say them in just the right way, so that his master knew he was being sincere and not just being
respectful to his betters. "I thought it was wonderful, sir. I liked that it wasn't 'conventional' as you
say. It makes you pay attention to it more, so it does just rush by, but it isn't a bad thing, not at all.
And as for it having too much of your own thought in it, well..." and here Sam stumbled, wondering
if perhaps there were such a thing as being too honest. "Well, it was rather like seeing you for the
first time, sir. I mean, really seeing you, if you follow me, seeing what's locked up inside your head
all day long. It... it was lovely, sir." He blushed at his friend's grateful beaming smile, and lowered
his gaze to the ground. "Besides, all stories are told by the thoughts of those who write them. There's
no getting away from that," he finished, too embarrassed at his own words to meet his master's gaze again.
Frodo on the other hand felt elated, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Sam liked his
story! Loved it even! He didn't think it was horrible or silly or odd.
"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said, and reached out to raise his friend's gaze to meet his own. "Now, get
to work or I shall garnish your wages," he teased, laughing at Sam's relieved smile. He watched his
friend prepare for work, then took his story back into the smial with him. He would get to work right
away with copying a cleaner edition. He wanted it to be perfect when his cousins Merry and Pippin
came for his birthday next month, as it would be his birthday present to them.
~*~
The twenty-second of Halimath dawned on a blessedly cool morning, the breeze from the West
bringing a hint of salt air. Sam paused in his march up the road to revel in the refreshing wind. He
had noticed that the wind was always from the West on Frodo's birthday, a confirmation in his
simple mind that this day truly was one of great importance in the world. He continued his way to
Bag End, where he would be working primarily inside today, helping his master care for his cousins
and friends and fixing the evening meal.
The day passed quickly and eventfully, thanks to the irrepressible Pippin Took. Frodo finally had to
send the lad into town with Sam to do some "overlooked" shopping while the others remained at the
smial, cleaning the spilled honey and attempting to keep the blueberry jam from setting into Bilbo's
old rocking chair. If it left a stain, Frodo would strangle the tween and just have to send a letter of
apology to his cousin Paladin that his son wouldn't be returning to him in one piece. Or breathing.
But Merry was an expert at cleaning up after his youngest friend's many messes and not only
managed to keep a stain from showing, but also cleaned the upholstery to such a degree that even
Sam gawked in amazement when the pair eventually returned from the market.
"It's like new," Sam said as he admired Merry's handiwork.
"Thank you," Merry said. "Old family secret," he added elusively and left the gardener still shaking
his head at the bright red chair.
~*~
The time for present giving finally arrived. Frodo was beyond nervous and was contemplating his
alternate presents until he thought again of Sam's heartfelt praises. No, he would give them the story
and let the chips land where they may. Sam received his present first, as he had to be returning to his
own home to look after his Gaffer, whose arthritis was starting up again now that the weather had
turned cold.
Sam's gift was a mathom of Bilbo's: a paperweight of clear glass with an eagle etched onto the
surface. Frodo rarely had use for it, and he was forever catching Sam fingering it during his dusting.
Sam's eyes lit up when he saw what he held. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Frodo!" he exclaimed. "I always
did love this thing. Reminds me of Mr. Bilbo's story, about riding on an eagle. Do you ever wonder
what that would feel like, sir?"
"I imagine it would be frightening to be so high up; I'd probably pass out from the shock," Frodo
answered truthfully, and then sent Sam home before his friend could attempt to refuse the gift by
saying it was worth too much for someone of his station, or some other such nonsense.
Fatty and Folco's presents followed, each of them receiving brand new pipes, made of cherry oak,
and hand painted on the side of each was a replica of their homelands. Fatty and Folco were so
elated with their gifts that they wanted to smoke them immediately, which is just what Frodo had
hoped. He waited until they were safely outside before giving Merry and Pippin their gift.
"You'll have to share it I'm afraid. I didn't have time to pen a second copy." They opened the box to
find his completed manuscript. "I wrote it myself," he added quietly.
"A story?" Pippin asked, intrigued. He loved his cousin's stories. "The one about the gollum in the
cave. I like that one."
"No, it's an original."
Now Merry's curiosity was peaked. His cousin didn't often write his own prose. "What's it about?"
he asked.
"You tell me," Frodo said, getting up and feigning sleepiness. "Good night."
Merry and Pippin mumbled their replies as Merry lifted the pages from the box and turned the first
sheet over.
~*~
Frodo had slept soundly that night. He was nervous about what his cousins would think but was
confident they would enjoy it. After all, if Sam could appreciate it with his simple mind, then his
cousins should be able to grasp the concept without any problems.
He woke up at his usual hour, which is well past first breakfast, and went into the kitchen to munch
on whatever food had escaped being devoured by his cousins. He found a plate prepared for him,
with a note written in what he recognized as Sam's solid, thick hand that no one was to touch
anything on, near, or around the plate except Mr. Frodo.
Frodo smiled, not at all surprised that his gardener would think to save him a plate, but surprised
that the note was enough to keep his cousins off it. He ate his meal and wondered how long exactly
Sam had to stand there watching Pippin like a hawk before the tween gave up on getting the plate
out from under his nose. After he finished his meal, he went into the parlor to find his friends.
Fatty and Folco were enjoying a game of checkers, while Merry and Pippin were discussing
something in quiet whispers. When Frodo entered the room, they stopped talking, a look of guilt on
their faces as if they had been caught at something they shouldn't have been doing. Frodo felt a
twinge of apprehension at this, but quickly dismissed it as unfounded paranoia and approached his
best friends.
"Well?" he asked. "What did you think of my gift?"
Merry and Pippin exchanged a quick look. They seemed to be conversing with their eyes. 'You tell
him.' 'No you tell him.'
Finally, Merry sighed and answered. "Well, it was good, cousin, it truly was, but... it's just..."
"What?" Frodo asked, concerned now. "You didn't like it?"
"No, we did," Merry answered quickly, but then faltered once again. He wasn't good at criticizing
Frodo, who was for the longest time almost a brother to him. An older brother, whom he loved and
admired above all others.
"It's just not a story," Pippin finally blurted out. Best get it over with, he figured. "It's not even a
poem. Just lines of dialogue, with narrative inserted here and there."
"I'm sorry, Frodo," Merry said, looking as if this hurt him more than it did his best friend.
"Not a story?" Frodo asked, crushed. "I know it's not structured like a typical story, but I wanted to
do something different, to have something where you could act out the story yourselves, play it as
you might say. There's not supposed to be much narrative, except to clarify the actions that are being
taken or explain why I thought certain things happened. I thought you would understand that. ...
Sam liked it."
"Well, of course Sam is going to tell you he liked it," Merry said. "He thinks the sun rises and sets
for you alone. You could write a formal proclamation from the Mayor, and he'll think it's the
greatest thing ever written."
"You don't know Sam if you think that's true," Frodo said, irritated that his cousins always saw Sam
as 'just the help' and thinking the only reason the gardener took care of him and Bag End was to
'fulfill his duty'. "I'm sorry you didn't like it. I'll get your other presents."
Only he didn't go into the den to retrieve the vests he had planned on giving them as their alternate
gifts. Instead, he walked out of the parlor, down the hall, then out the door into the clean, crisp air of
the garden. He slumped onto the bench under the elm and sat staring blankly at the grass under his toes.
On the other side of the smial, Sam heard the round green door open and close. There was only one
hobbit he knew who could slam a door so politely and mournfully as that. He put down his trowels,
brushed the dirt off his pants and hands and went looking for his master. It didn't take him long to
find him, sitting on the bench looking as if all the joy had been sucked out of his life.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked as he sat down next to his master. "What's wrong, sir, if you don't mind my
asking."
"Oh, Sam, they didn't like the story. It isn't even a story, according to them."
"How could they say that?" Sam asked before he could think better of it. He knew he shouldn't be
questioning his betters, especially the future Master and Thain, but he quickly tossed aside propriety
when he looked into his master's mournful gaze. "They just don't know any better is all. It's got
characters in it, doesn't it? And a setting, and a plot and everything else that's required. So what if it
doesn't read like a normal story?" And then he said something he knew he might likely live to regret.
"Why don't we show them? Play it out for them proper like, so they can see it better."
"You would do that?" Frodo asked amazed. He knew how shy his gardener could be, especially
around hobbits of the gentry.
"Of course I would," Sam said.
Frodo smiled. "Thank you, lad, but that won't be necessary. I'll have them act it out themselves, then
maybe they'll understand. That's an excellent idea, Sam!"
"Thank you, sir," Sam replied, for the compliment as much as for his master's saving grace.
"I'll come and get you when they're ready to perform," Frodo said, then ran off for the smial,
determined to enlighten his cousins.
~*~
"All right, all right," Merry said after a grueling rehearsal. He hadn't eaten in nearly two hours and
felt his stomach would collapse after all the work Frodo had subjected him to. Next to him, he could
hear Pippin's stomach growling loudly in protest and, if he wasn't quite mistaken, even shaking the
ground in its demand for food. "I concede. It's a story. Now, please, cousin, let us eat something
before we keel over from hunger."
"Don't let them do it, Frodo," Fatty warned from his vantage point on the gleaming clean rocking
chair. "You'll never see them or your food ever again."
"Best to get Sam in there first before letting these two loose," Folco piped in. He had been impressed
at the gardener's way of handling Frodo's cousins at breakfast that morning. Pippin in particular. No
one back home would believe it when he told them how all Sam had to do was raise an eyebrow to
stop the Took's hand from getting too close to Frodo's plate. Before that moment, Folco had always
held the firm belief that nothing short of rampaging oliphaunts could keep the tween away from food
when he was having a craving. And he was always having a craving.
"No food," Frodo said firmly. "Not until you learn your parts properly. You want to give us a good
show, don't you?"
"All I can say is, no story I've ever read before has ever been this much work," Pippin said, frowning
as his stomach grumbled again, more loudly than ever before.
"It's getting angry," Merry said. "I think we should feed it."
"Yes, Frodo," Pippin pleaded, "just a nibble of something."
"From the top," Frodo said, ignoring his cousin's pleas. "Sam will be finished with his tasks outside
soon enough. I'll ask him if he doesn't mind cooking something extra special for all your hard work."
"His pork roast with mushroom gravy?" Pippin asked, salivating at the thought of it.
"If he has time and the necessary items," Frodo promised. "Now, from the top..."
~*~
The smells wafting from the kitchen were nearly enough to drive the young Took and Brandybuck
mad with desperate hunger. Even Fatty and Folco found it hard to concentrate on anything else, and
after another half hour, Frodo gave up the effort all together as his stomach began to grumble softly
in anticipation of the food being prepared. He brought some buttered bread to settle the stomachs of
his depraved cousins, then went to help Sam with the final preparations, setting the table and pouring
the drinks. He insisted Sam stay and eat with them and gathered everyone around the kitchen table
rather than the formal dining table. His friends were so hungry they didn't think to question the
move, but dug in as soon as Sam set the food on the table before them.
The pork roast was devoured, and Pippin would have drunk the gravy directly from the boat had
Fatty not restrained him. Or more correctly, had Sam not raised his eyebrow. The salad met the
same terrible fate as the roast, as did the mead and bread. Dessert followed quickly afterward. Once
his cousins were satisfied, Frodo clapped his hands and headed for the parlor.
"It's show time! Merry, Pippin!"
Merry groaned. "Well, one thing's for certain: we'll have a story to tell our parents when we get home."
Pippin grinned, then allowed Merry to pull him to his feet and drag him into the parlor. Fatty, Folco,
Sam and Frodo took their seats, and waited for the story to unfold before their eyes.
The story was a simple one really, about two friends on a camping trip and their many
misadventures, from losing their camping gear, to raccoons stealing their food, to rain dousing their
fire and soaking the remaining of their clothes. By the end of the trip, the friends had decided to
never go camping again, but were stronger in their companionship than ever before for the
experience. Merry and Pippin managed to perform with very little flaws, improvising when they
couldn't remember a line exactly. Their audience applauded enthusiastically at the end, and the
performers bowed low and proudly.
~*~
The end of their visit came too soon for Frodo, as it always did. He hugged his friends good-bye and
wished them safe journeys to their homes. Folco left in the morning for Overhill. Pippin waited for
Merry and Fatty so he could walk with them partway down the road before he, too, would have to
branch off for Tookland. He was eager to get home and get his sisters to put on a play with him,
where he's the sole child at Whitwell and his sisters but servants made to obey his every command.
Frodo shook his head as the trio walked off. Somehow, he didn't think the play would go as Pippin
was planning it, and he had a feeling that Merry had that in mind when he suggested the idea to the tween.
He stayed by the gate until he could no longer see or hear his friends in the distance, then went back
to the quiet of the empty smial. He walked the silent halls to the guest rooms and began to clean up
the rumbled bed sheets and used towels for the laundress. He always missed his cousins and friends
terribly the first day after a visit. But then something drifted in through the window to ease his heart:
a whistled tune, that gave way to softly sung words.
Frodo smiled. As long as Sam was here, he would never truly be without a friend.
The end.
© GF 4/27/04