elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2003-07-23 07:45 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2003-07-23 07:45 pm
Dancing in the Gloaming - completed 6/03
Frodo picks up new skills and a certain relative is re-examined.
Rating: PG-13
Dancing in the Gloaming
Frodo Baggins was in many ways a hobbit of great talents. Of course, he knew three Elvish dialects, and could write in two of them. He was familiar with Dwarvish runes as well. When a particular speech or poem was needed to commemorate a special occasion, it was generally agreed that Frodo Baggins was your hobbit for the job. And he had a rare gift for a tune, his voice always a treat for the ear. But Frodo also had a secret failing. He could not dance. He was adept, however, at the appearance of being able to dance, so his secret had been safe up until now, but Hobbiton was about to learn the bitter truth.
The occasion was the first Harvest Festival since Bilbo Baggins’ departure from the Shire. It was customary for the head of the chief family of the farthing to lead off the dancing, and Bilbo had always performed that duty with great relish and skill. The thought had never crossed Bilbo’s mind that his cousin might need some instruction as to this duty. Had he not grown up, after all, at Brandy Hall? Of course the lad could dance, when he cared to.
Frodo had suddenly been made aware of this looming catastrophe a couple of weeks prior, when Tom Cotton sang out, upon seeing Frodo arrive one evening at the Green Dragon in the company of Sam, “Been practicing your vining step, Mr. Frodo? Won’t be long now!”
Frodo had sat down in his customary corner, smiling and raising a mug in response, and felt that he probably should have understood that remark. He turned to Sam, settling down in between Frodo and the gaffer, with a look on his face that Sam interpreted immediately.
“The Harvest Festival’s only a fortnight off,” Sam mentioned casually. “I suppose I ought to be gettin’ together with Tom and the other lads to see about readying the Party Field.”
The connection was suddenly made horribly vivid in Frodo’s mind. The vining step, that was some sort of a dance step, wasn’t it? Harvest Festival - no Bilbo - oh, sweet Lady. The dancing. And every bit as bad, the choosing of the partner for the lead-off dance.
Frodo was all too aware of his position as the most prominent specimen of unmarried hobbit-hood in the immediate area of Hobbiton. He had become quite practiced at smiling politely but vaguely when mothers threw their eligible lasses in his direction and avoiding all discussion of how large Bag End was for a single hobbit all alone in the world. But the need for a dancing partner was going to throw that careful equilibrium into turmoil, without a doubt.
Frodo left the Green Dragon that night feeling more despondent than he had since Bilbo’s departure.
The night proved to be a sleepless one for Frodo. How could he escape this predicament? An injury to his foot could be feigned, but Sam could never be fooled, and somehow the thought of appearing a coward in Sam’s eyes was quite impossible. It was always possible to obtain an invitation to either the Buckland or Tuckburough festivities instead, but Frodo knew all too well that the whole of Hobbiton would clearly feel affronted. And despite his fears, Frodo’s sense of duty was far too well entrenched to allow him this easy escape. Somehow he had to manage to acquire dancing skills as well as an appropriate partner in less than two weeks. The next morning dawned clear and bright, but not in Frodo’s heart. He wandered moodily through the Bag End kitchen, absent-mindedly picking up a piece of bread-and-butter that Sam had left out for him. Pouring out a cup of tea as well, he walked out into the kitchen garden in search of solace and found Sam.
Sam was busy re-staking the bean bush in the garden corner and didn’t hear Frodo’s approach. The bush had proved fruitful indeed this summer, and had completely overgrown its stakes. Sam had a firm hold of the bush with one hand and was single-handedly trying to dig a hole with the other, as Frodo drew near him.
“Here, Sam, you look as if you could use a third hand,” Frodo smiled, setting his cup down on the walk.
“Oh! Aye, I guess I could at that,” Sam answered gratefully, allowing Frodo to hold onto the bush so he could go about digging the hole properly. Quickly finishing the hole, he started to set in the new stake, giving Frodo a shrewd look as he worked. “Rather early for you, Mr. Frodo,” he commented, taking in the sight of Frodo’s rather bedraggled appearance. “Don’t look as you slept that well.”
Frodo sighed. As always, Sam read him all too well. “I don’t know why things happen the way they do, Sam, “ he replied distractedly, handing the bush back to Sam and straightening up again. Turning away, he ambled along the path, staring unseeingly at the heavy bumblebees buzzing lazily about the lavender in the warm morning sun. “I have no business at all being the master of Bag End. It’s not something I was born to do, it’s not something I was raised to do, and sometimes I think the only reason Bilbo ever chose me was that I was the only hobbit he knew that didn’t flee at the sight of a book.”
Sam had now ceased his task and was watching Frodo carefully. “Mr. Bilbo always had a reason for what he did,” he commented noncommittally. Patiently , he waited for Frodo to continue, knowing that he would.
“It’s the dancing, Sam,” Frodo muttered, his eyes still fixed on the bees.
“Aye?” Sam answered, still not understanding, but still waiting.
“I can’t,” burst from Frodo, his fair face beginning to redden with the admission. “I can’t.”
Sam’s round hazel eyes widened with surprise at that. “What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?” he replied in disbelief. “I remember you last year at the party..” his voice trailed off.
“Yes, and what do you remember?” Frodo turned around to him, his face still rosy with embarrassment. “Did you ever actually see me dance with anyone?”
“Well, now. I suppose not,” Sam turned back to the bush, giving the soil around it a final pat. “But what with it being your party and all too, you were that busy. Never really gave it no mind.” This was not entirely a truthful statement, so Sam kept his hands busy and his face away. He had certainly noticed the lack of a partner, and had been inexplicably pleased by the deficiency.
“But this year,” Frodo continued, with a sigh. “The Harvest Festival. Everyone will be expecting me to take Bilbo’s place to lead off the dancing. I can’t possibly look busy enough to avoid that.” He stuffed both hands in his pockets and glared at the newly replanted but unoffending bean bush.
“Your cousins?” Sam questioned carefully, straightening up and dusting off his hands on his trousers. “Mayhap they could teach you a step or two? There’s still time enough.”
“Well, yes,” Frodo admitted reluctantly, “ But you see… It‘s just that…”
Turning to the bench under the kitchen window, he sat down heavily and stared at the ground in frustration. “Oh, Sam, it’s silly I know. But I’m the older. I’m supposed to know these things. And you know Merry and Pippin. I’d never hear the end of it.” He raised his eyes unhappily up to Sam.
“Aye, I don’t doubt it,” Sam had to agree to that. He knew Mr. Frodo’s cousins well enough to know that they wouldn’t let something like that slip by easily. A sudden thought made him stop still. But Mr. Frodo did seem to looking to him as if he had the answer.
“Would you like me to show you a few steps, Mr. Frodo?” he asked shyly, the tips of his ears beginning to redden unavoidably.
Frodo’s sudden smile was all the answer needed. “That would be wonderful, Sam,” he replied with relief.
“Aye. Well then,” Sam stumbled at the words. “I did tell Tom Cotton and the lads I’d help them ready up the Party Field today, but I could ..”
“That would be fine, Sam,” Frodo reassured him quickly. “Why don’t you come back for tea and maybe then…”
“I will, at that.”
Frodo was oddly nervous but ready for Sam when he turned up at teatime. He had hated to impose on Sam’s good nature this way but the idea of having Sam help him out seemed rather comforting. And besides, Sam really was an excellent dancer. He picked at a biscuit or two while Sam ate his normal rather hearty tea, and waited impatiently for Sam to push back the kitchen chair and say, with some hesitation, “Well, then.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Frodo rose too, speaking hurriedly, “there’s not much room inside Bag End, and Valar knows I don’t want to attempt this in sight of the Row, so maybe the back garden?”
Sam nodded without comment and followed Frodo out.
The back garden was situated behind the kitchen garden towards the back of the Bag End hill. Bilbo’s favorite cutting gardens lined the edges, colorful in the late summer with great masses of flowers, but there was also a broad bit of lawn as well before the orchard began. Frodo stopped at the edge of the lawn, his hands clasped together uncertainly before him, and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”
Sam, following behind, stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Frodo appraisingly. “Mr. Frodo, how much do you know about dancing?”
“Trust me, Sam, nothing whatsoever,” Frodo responded wryly. “I do know it’s done in pairs or large groups, and involves a good deal of stepping about, but nothing past that.”
“So the footwork first,” Sam decided, nodding his head. “All right then, Mr. Frodo, just watch my feet.”
Sam’s golden furred feet, as sturdy as the rest of him, then did something nearly mystical to Frodo’s mind. Sam , seeing the expression on Frodo’s face, laughed aloud. “All right, Mr. Frodo,” he continued, still chuckling. “We’ll take it a bit slow then. You really don’t know aught about dancing, do you.”
“You have no idea, Sam,” responded the older hobbit, unable to stop from chuckling as well.
As they worked on, the late afternoon wore into evening, and the sparrows and swallows began to settle into their nests with sleepy murmurs, and the cicadas began to sing lustily, and Frodo felt it was time to call it a day. “Come have dinner with me,” he threw an arm over Sam’s shoulder as they started to walk back towards the smial. “However did you learn all of this, Sam?”
Sam laughed. “You forget, Mr. Frodo, he replied easily, looking over at Frodo with a grin. “I’ve three sisters and they needed someone to practice on. You’d be fair amazed at how hard a lass can trod when she wants to help you remember. Aye, I learned quick enough.”
The lessons became a comfortable rhythm in the following days, and Frodo felt an unusual amount of sureness enter his steps, and he began to think that he might really pull this off after all.
“Well, I think you’ve about got the steps down, Mr. Frodo,” Sam commented as Frodo managed a rather successful series of complicated steps. “But you don’t want to be watchin’ your feet. A lass wants a bit of attention paid to her face as well, you know.”
“A lass.” Frodo stopped short, the second of his predicaments suddenly springing to mind. “Oh, sweet Lady. I had forgotten the lass.”
“Sam, I just can’t ask any lass,” he explained with a pained glance at Sam’s raised eyebrow. “Anyone I would ask would immediately assume herself the next Mistress of Bag End. And somehow, well, I just don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
For reasons he had no time to examine right now, Sam found this piece of information quite uplifting, but he had no solution to Frodo‘s dilemma.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, plopping himself on the grass. Sam hankered down beside him, glad of the rest as well. These lessons on top of a full day of work could wear even the most robust hobbit out, though he would never admit it to Frodo. “This is so hopeless. I have no business being the master of Bag End anyway. No-one could be worse at this than I.”
“Well,” said Sam, gazing at his master meditatively. “If you hadn’t come, I suppose I should be workin’ for Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”
Frodo gave a sudden snort at Sam’s melancholy expression, which was quickly dissolving into a grin. “All right, Sam,” he laughed, “Point well taken. And do you know Lobelia cornered me a couple of days ago in town?”
“Whyever for, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s face was suddenly distrustful. “That one’s naught but trouble, beggin’ your pardon, for all she’s your cousin.”
“Something about the wine tasting. She was wondering if I’d care to have Lotho help me out.” One of the chief events of the Harvest Festival, of course, was the ceremonial sampling of that year’s vintage, and Bilbo had always been held to be a rare judge.
Sam gave a derisive snort at this bit of news. “That dolt wouldn’t even know good beer if it bit him,” he grimaced.
Frodo could help but laugh. Lotho was no favorite of his either. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I ever so gratefully declined her offer. I’m sure my list of faults has grown no end.” He sighed then, gazing towards the back hill, where the sun was setting in a hazy fiery glow. “But I hate these bad feelings, Sam. You know the three of us are the last of the Baggins line, now that Bilbo’s gone. Maybe I should give Lotho something to do.”
Sam made no comment, but the look on his face clearly reflected his opinion of Frodo’s generosity.
Three days before the Harvest Festival, Frodo was at least beginning to feel confident of his feet. The lessons had become the highlight of his day, and as much as he had previously hated dancing, he found that being swung about in Sam’s arms was quite enjoyable, and in fact, much more than that.
The issue of the partner, however was beginning to trouble him more and more. He had strove to put this problem out of his mind as he and Sam moved to the actual patterns of the dances, Sam covering the various different ways that the dance partners moved together. They had reviewed the leading dance, the various assorted couples dances, the lads-alone jig, and the final wild tarantella. Shadows of evening were lengthening across the lawn when he tried a final attempt with Sam at meeting his partner in a reel. Somehow, every time that he tried to meet up with Sam, he ended up stepping on his foot, or grabbing the wrong arm, or reaching out the wrong hand. Finally, Sam stopped. “Mr. Frodo,” he exclaimed in fond frustration, “You’re thinking too much.”
“I don’t understand,” Frodo frowned, feeling awkward and, as usual, so very clumsy.
Sam had been standing with his left hand out ready to grasp Frodo‘s right. “You have to trust your partner, Mr. Frodo,” he said softly, reading Frodo‘s uncertainty. Frodo was suddenly so very aware of the warm and strong hand as it reached out for his. “You can’t do your partner’s work for her,” Sam continued, watching Frodo’s face carefully, “You just have to trust that she’ll be where she should be when she has to be.”
An eternity seemed to pass for Frodo before he dared let himself respond to Sam’s words. Even the normal sounds of the evening seemed to suddenly hush, and he was aware of the fragrance of the honeysuckle over the garden gate arbor as never before. “But I do trust my partner,” he whispered, his eyes on Sam’s face, surrendering to the need to say this. “I’ve always trusted my partner. Always.”
Sam’s eyes were unreadable in the dusk, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Frodo’s hand and he didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t there a final dance, Sam?” Frodo continued in nearly a whisper, obeying an impulse that had become inescapable.
“Aye, there is,” Sam replied in a muted murmur, his hand still holding tightly to Frodo’s. “Do you want me to teach it to you?”
“Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Then suddenly Sam’s arms were around him tightly, and Sam’s lips were on his, and his kiss was sweet, oh so sweet, and Frodo felt his heart surging with joy and knew that this was so very right. He clung tightly to Sam and kissed him back fiercely, pouring all his love into it. Gone were all those years of trying to pretend that the only feelings he had for Sam were those of a friend, all the years of wondering how Sam could possibly feel anything like that for him, and the sheer bliss of this moment he knew he would always treasure, come what may. He broke slowly apart from Sam and holding Sam’s face between his hands, gazed deep into Sam’s eyes. Sam’s face held an expression of delighted shock and wonder, and he raised one of his hands up to lightly graze Frodo’s cheek.
“Oh, Frodo,” he breathed, “I can’t believe…”
Frodo quickly covered Sam’s hand with his own. “Believe it, Sam,” he responded tenderly. “Always believe it.” And as their hearts beat faster, he melted into Sam again, meeting him in a more intense kiss than before. Frodo’s pulse was racing, he felt wild joy running through every vein. Sam’s response was more passionate than he had ever dreamed of, in the loneliest of his nights, and it suddenly became clear to him that the very wildest of his dreams had unexpectedly come true. And then he heard a cough.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was standing under the honeysuckle in the gateway, a certain grim satisfaction written on her weathered face. Frodo and Sam turned as one towards her, their arms still unmistakably wrapped around each other, and Frodo felt suddenly certain that he was going to faint. Terrified as he was at that moment, a corner of his mind made a note that what he did not feel was Sam pulling away from him. Indeed, Sam stood his ground, his arms still firmly around Frodo, watching Lobelia warily.
Frodo determinedly pulled his emotions together and slowly and reluctantly separated himself from Sam, though still standing close to him. “Lobelia. What a surprise,” he stated flatly.
“I would imagine so,” she retorted dryly, showing no sign whatsoever of surprise.
Squaring his shoulders, Frodo faced the unavoidable. There was no point to making Sam go through this, after all she was his family, not Sam’s. But he refused to give in to any embarrassment or shame, and by Sam’s close stance, he seemed to feel the same.
“Sam, would you care to have dinner with me this evening?” he turned and asked Sam, praying with all his heart that he had not misread Sam.
He had not. “Aye, that I will,” Sam answered defiantly, giving Frodo a steady glance, his jaw firm. “I’ll be back in about an hour, if that be right.”
“Perfect,” Frodo breathed, his heart swelling with relief and pride. Turning to Lobelia, who had been watching this exchange closely, he nodded formally to her. “Shall we go in then?”
He turned to her sharply as they entered the Bag End parlor. “Well?” he asked crisply, “How may I help you?”
“Save it, Frodo,” she retorted sharply, seating herself without invitation. “This isn’t the Hobbitown marketplace.”
Frodo sat down on a bench opposite her, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. He was trying desperately to keep his emotions in check, but the fear that Lobelia could cause great harm, especially to Sam should she choose to, was starting to choke him.
“I had come about the Festival business,” she continued, scrutinizing him closely, “but there appears to be another matter to address, doesn’t there.”
“If there is, it would be entirely my business, and not a subject of conversation,” he replied shortly, feeling a sudden weariness in having to deal with all of this.
Lobelia gave a sudden snort, that might be interpreted as laughter, and continued, “Would it surprise you, cousin Frodo, if I told you that you were absolutely right?”
Frodo sat in a stunned silence, still watching her with trepidation.
Lobelia suddenly stood up and walked over to the round window facing the garden, staring out of it. “I suppose you think the same of me as did Bilbo,” she continued in an exasperated tone. “That old fool.”
“Oh, I know you thought the sun and the moon of him,” she growled, spinning around, glaring at a surprised Frodo, “but of course you would, after what he did for you.” She eyed the room, as if the ghost of Bilbo’s presence was still enough to affront her.
“He was just so insufferably smug. You really have no idea,“ she went on, glowering at Frodo. “Why do you think I took his spoons? Did you really think I wanted the blasted things? But it did annoy him so, it was worth it purely for that.”
Frodo sat in stunned silence as Lobelia gave him a shrewd look. “You’re still worried about what I saw,” she said, her mouth quirked. “I could make life unpleasant for you, and I would imagine, especially for Sam. I’m sure that’s not what his gaffer wishes for him, is it.”
Frodo’s heart gave a sudden stab of pain and he shut his eyes at that.
There was a few moments silence, and Frodo opened his eyes again. Lobelia was standing staring sightlessly into the fireplace, obviously lost in her thoughts. She looked suddenly somehow older and so very drained. Recalling herself, she glanced over at Frodo and gave him a grudging slight smile.
“Don’t worry, cousin,” she said wryly. “A mother is used to a shock or two.”
Frodo felt the blood drained from him in relief. He stood shakily up and slowly walked over to her. “Lobelia. Why…” he began hesitantly.
Lobelia’s expression was suddenly bitter. “You really want to know why I always hated Bilbo, Frodo?” she asked angrily. “Because it always worked out for him. He’d go off in the face of everything and somehow come out of it better than ever, richer than ever. If he had no heir of his own, why, there you were.” She held up her hand as if to forestall any potential denial from Frodo. “What did he ever know of putting up with what he had, trying to make the best of it? What did he know of disappointment, of losing all of one’s dreams, of accepting what you have because you’ll never have naught better..” She stopped, shaking her head with the loss on her face terrible to see.
“No,” she continued, looking back up to Frodo, studying his face carefully. “I’ll not be the one to take away your dreams, Frodo. I saw your face out there in the garden.”
When the Harvest Festival dancing commenced in the late afternoon, a couple of days later, all of Hobbiton could talk of nothing else. The unusual couple leading the opening dance were none other than Frodo Baggins and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Frodo acquitted himself with great glory, and Lobelia, dancing with a solemn grace and a formidable majesty, was wondrous to behold. Lotho did head up the wine-tasting panel, though most said with more enthusiasm than expertise.
As the warm afternoon faded into a late evening, and the dancers had begun to drop off in favor of dinner or other less public amusements, Frodo sought Sam out. He found him at the beer casks, pouring up another mug. His sister, Marigold, and Tom Cotton were at his elbow, chiding him merrily, mugs of their own in hand.
“Hurry along, Sam,” she laughed, “We can’t let Da dry up now, can we?”
Sam shook his head at her with a smile. “No more fear of that than the Brandywine doing the same,” he answered, turning with a grin, and then catching sight of Frodo. His smile suddenly deepened, and his eyes turned warm and welcoming.
Stepping away from the others, he said so softly that only Frodo heard, “Let me just deliver this, Mr. Frodo. Mayhap you’d be under the ash?”
“Of course I will,” Frodo replied, with anticipation running sharply through him. “I’ll be wherever you want me.”
Sam’s answering smile glowed, but he said nothing more, and walked off quickly to find the Gaffer.
Not long after (but oh, it seemed long to Frodo) he appeared under the ash where Frodo stood in the shadow, and in a moment more, Frodo was in his arms and they were kissing hungrily. “You were that wonderful, Frodo,” Sam finally pulled away and gently brushed the dark curls off Frodo’s temple. “I was so very proud of you.”
“I only did what you showed me, Sam, the credit was all yours,” Frodo tightened his grip around him and rested his head on Sam‘s broad shoulder. The faint music still floated in from the Party Field, haunting in its melody, and Frodo began to softly sing the lovely tune.
Suddenly he lifted his head up. “Wasn’t there a final dance, Sam?” he looked at Sam in the deepening dusk.
“Aye, love,” Sam replied tenderly, and in the twilight they began to dance through the tall grass, with steps that were entirely all their own.
Rating: PG-13
Dancing in the Gloaming
Frodo Baggins was in many ways a hobbit of great talents. Of course, he knew three Elvish dialects, and could write in two of them. He was familiar with Dwarvish runes as well. When a particular speech or poem was needed to commemorate a special occasion, it was generally agreed that Frodo Baggins was your hobbit for the job. And he had a rare gift for a tune, his voice always a treat for the ear. But Frodo also had a secret failing. He could not dance. He was adept, however, at the appearance of being able to dance, so his secret had been safe up until now, but Hobbiton was about to learn the bitter truth.
The occasion was the first Harvest Festival since Bilbo Baggins’ departure from the Shire. It was customary for the head of the chief family of the farthing to lead off the dancing, and Bilbo had always performed that duty with great relish and skill. The thought had never crossed Bilbo’s mind that his cousin might need some instruction as to this duty. Had he not grown up, after all, at Brandy Hall? Of course the lad could dance, when he cared to.
Frodo had suddenly been made aware of this looming catastrophe a couple of weeks prior, when Tom Cotton sang out, upon seeing Frodo arrive one evening at the Green Dragon in the company of Sam, “Been practicing your vining step, Mr. Frodo? Won’t be long now!”
Frodo had sat down in his customary corner, smiling and raising a mug in response, and felt that he probably should have understood that remark. He turned to Sam, settling down in between Frodo and the gaffer, with a look on his face that Sam interpreted immediately.
“The Harvest Festival’s only a fortnight off,” Sam mentioned casually. “I suppose I ought to be gettin’ together with Tom and the other lads to see about readying the Party Field.”
The connection was suddenly made horribly vivid in Frodo’s mind. The vining step, that was some sort of a dance step, wasn’t it? Harvest Festival - no Bilbo - oh, sweet Lady. The dancing. And every bit as bad, the choosing of the partner for the lead-off dance.
Frodo was all too aware of his position as the most prominent specimen of unmarried hobbit-hood in the immediate area of Hobbiton. He had become quite practiced at smiling politely but vaguely when mothers threw their eligible lasses in his direction and avoiding all discussion of how large Bag End was for a single hobbit all alone in the world. But the need for a dancing partner was going to throw that careful equilibrium into turmoil, without a doubt.
Frodo left the Green Dragon that night feeling more despondent than he had since Bilbo’s departure.
The night proved to be a sleepless one for Frodo. How could he escape this predicament? An injury to his foot could be feigned, but Sam could never be fooled, and somehow the thought of appearing a coward in Sam’s eyes was quite impossible. It was always possible to obtain an invitation to either the Buckland or Tuckburough festivities instead, but Frodo knew all too well that the whole of Hobbiton would clearly feel affronted. And despite his fears, Frodo’s sense of duty was far too well entrenched to allow him this easy escape. Somehow he had to manage to acquire dancing skills as well as an appropriate partner in less than two weeks. The next morning dawned clear and bright, but not in Frodo’s heart. He wandered moodily through the Bag End kitchen, absent-mindedly picking up a piece of bread-and-butter that Sam had left out for him. Pouring out a cup of tea as well, he walked out into the kitchen garden in search of solace and found Sam.
Sam was busy re-staking the bean bush in the garden corner and didn’t hear Frodo’s approach. The bush had proved fruitful indeed this summer, and had completely overgrown its stakes. Sam had a firm hold of the bush with one hand and was single-handedly trying to dig a hole with the other, as Frodo drew near him.
“Here, Sam, you look as if you could use a third hand,” Frodo smiled, setting his cup down on the walk.
“Oh! Aye, I guess I could at that,” Sam answered gratefully, allowing Frodo to hold onto the bush so he could go about digging the hole properly. Quickly finishing the hole, he started to set in the new stake, giving Frodo a shrewd look as he worked. “Rather early for you, Mr. Frodo,” he commented, taking in the sight of Frodo’s rather bedraggled appearance. “Don’t look as you slept that well.”
Frodo sighed. As always, Sam read him all too well. “I don’t know why things happen the way they do, Sam, “ he replied distractedly, handing the bush back to Sam and straightening up again. Turning away, he ambled along the path, staring unseeingly at the heavy bumblebees buzzing lazily about the lavender in the warm morning sun. “I have no business at all being the master of Bag End. It’s not something I was born to do, it’s not something I was raised to do, and sometimes I think the only reason Bilbo ever chose me was that I was the only hobbit he knew that didn’t flee at the sight of a book.”
Sam had now ceased his task and was watching Frodo carefully. “Mr. Bilbo always had a reason for what he did,” he commented noncommittally. Patiently , he waited for Frodo to continue, knowing that he would.
“It’s the dancing, Sam,” Frodo muttered, his eyes still fixed on the bees.
“Aye?” Sam answered, still not understanding, but still waiting.
“I can’t,” burst from Frodo, his fair face beginning to redden with the admission. “I can’t.”
Sam’s round hazel eyes widened with surprise at that. “What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?” he replied in disbelief. “I remember you last year at the party..” his voice trailed off.
“Yes, and what do you remember?” Frodo turned around to him, his face still rosy with embarrassment. “Did you ever actually see me dance with anyone?”
“Well, now. I suppose not,” Sam turned back to the bush, giving the soil around it a final pat. “But what with it being your party and all too, you were that busy. Never really gave it no mind.” This was not entirely a truthful statement, so Sam kept his hands busy and his face away. He had certainly noticed the lack of a partner, and had been inexplicably pleased by the deficiency.
“But this year,” Frodo continued, with a sigh. “The Harvest Festival. Everyone will be expecting me to take Bilbo’s place to lead off the dancing. I can’t possibly look busy enough to avoid that.” He stuffed both hands in his pockets and glared at the newly replanted but unoffending bean bush.
“Your cousins?” Sam questioned carefully, straightening up and dusting off his hands on his trousers. “Mayhap they could teach you a step or two? There’s still time enough.”
“Well, yes,” Frodo admitted reluctantly, “ But you see… It‘s just that…”
Turning to the bench under the kitchen window, he sat down heavily and stared at the ground in frustration. “Oh, Sam, it’s silly I know. But I’m the older. I’m supposed to know these things. And you know Merry and Pippin. I’d never hear the end of it.” He raised his eyes unhappily up to Sam.
“Aye, I don’t doubt it,” Sam had to agree to that. He knew Mr. Frodo’s cousins well enough to know that they wouldn’t let something like that slip by easily. A sudden thought made him stop still. But Mr. Frodo did seem to looking to him as if he had the answer.
“Would you like me to show you a few steps, Mr. Frodo?” he asked shyly, the tips of his ears beginning to redden unavoidably.
Frodo’s sudden smile was all the answer needed. “That would be wonderful, Sam,” he replied with relief.
“Aye. Well then,” Sam stumbled at the words. “I did tell Tom Cotton and the lads I’d help them ready up the Party Field today, but I could ..”
“That would be fine, Sam,” Frodo reassured him quickly. “Why don’t you come back for tea and maybe then…”
“I will, at that.”
Frodo was oddly nervous but ready for Sam when he turned up at teatime. He had hated to impose on Sam’s good nature this way but the idea of having Sam help him out seemed rather comforting. And besides, Sam really was an excellent dancer. He picked at a biscuit or two while Sam ate his normal rather hearty tea, and waited impatiently for Sam to push back the kitchen chair and say, with some hesitation, “Well, then.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Frodo rose too, speaking hurriedly, “there’s not much room inside Bag End, and Valar knows I don’t want to attempt this in sight of the Row, so maybe the back garden?”
Sam nodded without comment and followed Frodo out.
The back garden was situated behind the kitchen garden towards the back of the Bag End hill. Bilbo’s favorite cutting gardens lined the edges, colorful in the late summer with great masses of flowers, but there was also a broad bit of lawn as well before the orchard began. Frodo stopped at the edge of the lawn, his hands clasped together uncertainly before him, and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”
Sam, following behind, stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Frodo appraisingly. “Mr. Frodo, how much do you know about dancing?”
“Trust me, Sam, nothing whatsoever,” Frodo responded wryly. “I do know it’s done in pairs or large groups, and involves a good deal of stepping about, but nothing past that.”
“So the footwork first,” Sam decided, nodding his head. “All right then, Mr. Frodo, just watch my feet.”
Sam’s golden furred feet, as sturdy as the rest of him, then did something nearly mystical to Frodo’s mind. Sam , seeing the expression on Frodo’s face, laughed aloud. “All right, Mr. Frodo,” he continued, still chuckling. “We’ll take it a bit slow then. You really don’t know aught about dancing, do you.”
“You have no idea, Sam,” responded the older hobbit, unable to stop from chuckling as well.
As they worked on, the late afternoon wore into evening, and the sparrows and swallows began to settle into their nests with sleepy murmurs, and the cicadas began to sing lustily, and Frodo felt it was time to call it a day. “Come have dinner with me,” he threw an arm over Sam’s shoulder as they started to walk back towards the smial. “However did you learn all of this, Sam?”
Sam laughed. “You forget, Mr. Frodo, he replied easily, looking over at Frodo with a grin. “I’ve three sisters and they needed someone to practice on. You’d be fair amazed at how hard a lass can trod when she wants to help you remember. Aye, I learned quick enough.”
The lessons became a comfortable rhythm in the following days, and Frodo felt an unusual amount of sureness enter his steps, and he began to think that he might really pull this off after all.
“Well, I think you’ve about got the steps down, Mr. Frodo,” Sam commented as Frodo managed a rather successful series of complicated steps. “But you don’t want to be watchin’ your feet. A lass wants a bit of attention paid to her face as well, you know.”
“A lass.” Frodo stopped short, the second of his predicaments suddenly springing to mind. “Oh, sweet Lady. I had forgotten the lass.”
“Sam, I just can’t ask any lass,” he explained with a pained glance at Sam’s raised eyebrow. “Anyone I would ask would immediately assume herself the next Mistress of Bag End. And somehow, well, I just don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
For reasons he had no time to examine right now, Sam found this piece of information quite uplifting, but he had no solution to Frodo‘s dilemma.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, plopping himself on the grass. Sam hankered down beside him, glad of the rest as well. These lessons on top of a full day of work could wear even the most robust hobbit out, though he would never admit it to Frodo. “This is so hopeless. I have no business being the master of Bag End anyway. No-one could be worse at this than I.”
“Well,” said Sam, gazing at his master meditatively. “If you hadn’t come, I suppose I should be workin’ for Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”
Frodo gave a sudden snort at Sam’s melancholy expression, which was quickly dissolving into a grin. “All right, Sam,” he laughed, “Point well taken. And do you know Lobelia cornered me a couple of days ago in town?”
“Whyever for, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s face was suddenly distrustful. “That one’s naught but trouble, beggin’ your pardon, for all she’s your cousin.”
“Something about the wine tasting. She was wondering if I’d care to have Lotho help me out.” One of the chief events of the Harvest Festival, of course, was the ceremonial sampling of that year’s vintage, and Bilbo had always been held to be a rare judge.
Sam gave a derisive snort at this bit of news. “That dolt wouldn’t even know good beer if it bit him,” he grimaced.
Frodo could help but laugh. Lotho was no favorite of his either. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I ever so gratefully declined her offer. I’m sure my list of faults has grown no end.” He sighed then, gazing towards the back hill, where the sun was setting in a hazy fiery glow. “But I hate these bad feelings, Sam. You know the three of us are the last of the Baggins line, now that Bilbo’s gone. Maybe I should give Lotho something to do.”
Sam made no comment, but the look on his face clearly reflected his opinion of Frodo’s generosity.
Three days before the Harvest Festival, Frodo was at least beginning to feel confident of his feet. The lessons had become the highlight of his day, and as much as he had previously hated dancing, he found that being swung about in Sam’s arms was quite enjoyable, and in fact, much more than that.
The issue of the partner, however was beginning to trouble him more and more. He had strove to put this problem out of his mind as he and Sam moved to the actual patterns of the dances, Sam covering the various different ways that the dance partners moved together. They had reviewed the leading dance, the various assorted couples dances, the lads-alone jig, and the final wild tarantella. Shadows of evening were lengthening across the lawn when he tried a final attempt with Sam at meeting his partner in a reel. Somehow, every time that he tried to meet up with Sam, he ended up stepping on his foot, or grabbing the wrong arm, or reaching out the wrong hand. Finally, Sam stopped. “Mr. Frodo,” he exclaimed in fond frustration, “You’re thinking too much.”
“I don’t understand,” Frodo frowned, feeling awkward and, as usual, so very clumsy.
Sam had been standing with his left hand out ready to grasp Frodo‘s right. “You have to trust your partner, Mr. Frodo,” he said softly, reading Frodo‘s uncertainty. Frodo was suddenly so very aware of the warm and strong hand as it reached out for his. “You can’t do your partner’s work for her,” Sam continued, watching Frodo’s face carefully, “You just have to trust that she’ll be where she should be when she has to be.”
An eternity seemed to pass for Frodo before he dared let himself respond to Sam’s words. Even the normal sounds of the evening seemed to suddenly hush, and he was aware of the fragrance of the honeysuckle over the garden gate arbor as never before. “But I do trust my partner,” he whispered, his eyes on Sam’s face, surrendering to the need to say this. “I’ve always trusted my partner. Always.”
Sam’s eyes were unreadable in the dusk, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Frodo’s hand and he didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t there a final dance, Sam?” Frodo continued in nearly a whisper, obeying an impulse that had become inescapable.
“Aye, there is,” Sam replied in a muted murmur, his hand still holding tightly to Frodo’s. “Do you want me to teach it to you?”
“Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Then suddenly Sam’s arms were around him tightly, and Sam’s lips were on his, and his kiss was sweet, oh so sweet, and Frodo felt his heart surging with joy and knew that this was so very right. He clung tightly to Sam and kissed him back fiercely, pouring all his love into it. Gone were all those years of trying to pretend that the only feelings he had for Sam were those of a friend, all the years of wondering how Sam could possibly feel anything like that for him, and the sheer bliss of this moment he knew he would always treasure, come what may. He broke slowly apart from Sam and holding Sam’s face between his hands, gazed deep into Sam’s eyes. Sam’s face held an expression of delighted shock and wonder, and he raised one of his hands up to lightly graze Frodo’s cheek.
“Oh, Frodo,” he breathed, “I can’t believe…”
Frodo quickly covered Sam’s hand with his own. “Believe it, Sam,” he responded tenderly. “Always believe it.” And as their hearts beat faster, he melted into Sam again, meeting him in a more intense kiss than before. Frodo’s pulse was racing, he felt wild joy running through every vein. Sam’s response was more passionate than he had ever dreamed of, in the loneliest of his nights, and it suddenly became clear to him that the very wildest of his dreams had unexpectedly come true. And then he heard a cough.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was standing under the honeysuckle in the gateway, a certain grim satisfaction written on her weathered face. Frodo and Sam turned as one towards her, their arms still unmistakably wrapped around each other, and Frodo felt suddenly certain that he was going to faint. Terrified as he was at that moment, a corner of his mind made a note that what he did not feel was Sam pulling away from him. Indeed, Sam stood his ground, his arms still firmly around Frodo, watching Lobelia warily.
Frodo determinedly pulled his emotions together and slowly and reluctantly separated himself from Sam, though still standing close to him. “Lobelia. What a surprise,” he stated flatly.
“I would imagine so,” she retorted dryly, showing no sign whatsoever of surprise.
Squaring his shoulders, Frodo faced the unavoidable. There was no point to making Sam go through this, after all she was his family, not Sam’s. But he refused to give in to any embarrassment or shame, and by Sam’s close stance, he seemed to feel the same.
“Sam, would you care to have dinner with me this evening?” he turned and asked Sam, praying with all his heart that he had not misread Sam.
He had not. “Aye, that I will,” Sam answered defiantly, giving Frodo a steady glance, his jaw firm. “I’ll be back in about an hour, if that be right.”
“Perfect,” Frodo breathed, his heart swelling with relief and pride. Turning to Lobelia, who had been watching this exchange closely, he nodded formally to her. “Shall we go in then?”
He turned to her sharply as they entered the Bag End parlor. “Well?” he asked crisply, “How may I help you?”
“Save it, Frodo,” she retorted sharply, seating herself without invitation. “This isn’t the Hobbitown marketplace.”
Frodo sat down on a bench opposite her, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. He was trying desperately to keep his emotions in check, but the fear that Lobelia could cause great harm, especially to Sam should she choose to, was starting to choke him.
“I had come about the Festival business,” she continued, scrutinizing him closely, “but there appears to be another matter to address, doesn’t there.”
“If there is, it would be entirely my business, and not a subject of conversation,” he replied shortly, feeling a sudden weariness in having to deal with all of this.
Lobelia gave a sudden snort, that might be interpreted as laughter, and continued, “Would it surprise you, cousin Frodo, if I told you that you were absolutely right?”
Frodo sat in a stunned silence, still watching her with trepidation.
Lobelia suddenly stood up and walked over to the round window facing the garden, staring out of it. “I suppose you think the same of me as did Bilbo,” she continued in an exasperated tone. “That old fool.”
“Oh, I know you thought the sun and the moon of him,” she growled, spinning around, glaring at a surprised Frodo, “but of course you would, after what he did for you.” She eyed the room, as if the ghost of Bilbo’s presence was still enough to affront her.
“He was just so insufferably smug. You really have no idea,“ she went on, glowering at Frodo. “Why do you think I took his spoons? Did you really think I wanted the blasted things? But it did annoy him so, it was worth it purely for that.”
Frodo sat in stunned silence as Lobelia gave him a shrewd look. “You’re still worried about what I saw,” she said, her mouth quirked. “I could make life unpleasant for you, and I would imagine, especially for Sam. I’m sure that’s not what his gaffer wishes for him, is it.”
Frodo’s heart gave a sudden stab of pain and he shut his eyes at that.
There was a few moments silence, and Frodo opened his eyes again. Lobelia was standing staring sightlessly into the fireplace, obviously lost in her thoughts. She looked suddenly somehow older and so very drained. Recalling herself, she glanced over at Frodo and gave him a grudging slight smile.
“Don’t worry, cousin,” she said wryly. “A mother is used to a shock or two.”
Frodo felt the blood drained from him in relief. He stood shakily up and slowly walked over to her. “Lobelia. Why…” he began hesitantly.
Lobelia’s expression was suddenly bitter. “You really want to know why I always hated Bilbo, Frodo?” she asked angrily. “Because it always worked out for him. He’d go off in the face of everything and somehow come out of it better than ever, richer than ever. If he had no heir of his own, why, there you were.” She held up her hand as if to forestall any potential denial from Frodo. “What did he ever know of putting up with what he had, trying to make the best of it? What did he know of disappointment, of losing all of one’s dreams, of accepting what you have because you’ll never have naught better..” She stopped, shaking her head with the loss on her face terrible to see.
“No,” she continued, looking back up to Frodo, studying his face carefully. “I’ll not be the one to take away your dreams, Frodo. I saw your face out there in the garden.”
When the Harvest Festival dancing commenced in the late afternoon, a couple of days later, all of Hobbiton could talk of nothing else. The unusual couple leading the opening dance were none other than Frodo Baggins and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Frodo acquitted himself with great glory, and Lobelia, dancing with a solemn grace and a formidable majesty, was wondrous to behold. Lotho did head up the wine-tasting panel, though most said with more enthusiasm than expertise.
As the warm afternoon faded into a late evening, and the dancers had begun to drop off in favor of dinner or other less public amusements, Frodo sought Sam out. He found him at the beer casks, pouring up another mug. His sister, Marigold, and Tom Cotton were at his elbow, chiding him merrily, mugs of their own in hand.
“Hurry along, Sam,” she laughed, “We can’t let Da dry up now, can we?”
Sam shook his head at her with a smile. “No more fear of that than the Brandywine doing the same,” he answered, turning with a grin, and then catching sight of Frodo. His smile suddenly deepened, and his eyes turned warm and welcoming.
Stepping away from the others, he said so softly that only Frodo heard, “Let me just deliver this, Mr. Frodo. Mayhap you’d be under the ash?”
“Of course I will,” Frodo replied, with anticipation running sharply through him. “I’ll be wherever you want me.”
Sam’s answering smile glowed, but he said nothing more, and walked off quickly to find the Gaffer.
Not long after (but oh, it seemed long to Frodo) he appeared under the ash where Frodo stood in the shadow, and in a moment more, Frodo was in his arms and they were kissing hungrily. “You were that wonderful, Frodo,” Sam finally pulled away and gently brushed the dark curls off Frodo’s temple. “I was so very proud of you.”
“I only did what you showed me, Sam, the credit was all yours,” Frodo tightened his grip around him and rested his head on Sam‘s broad shoulder. The faint music still floated in from the Party Field, haunting in its melody, and Frodo began to softly sing the lovely tune.
Suddenly he lifted his head up. “Wasn’t there a final dance, Sam?” he looked at Sam in the deepening dusk.
“Aye, love,” Sam replied tenderly, and in the twilight they began to dance through the tall grass, with steps that were entirely all their own.
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I love it how you describe Frodo's inability to dance and the details on how Sam taught him dancing.
"You have to trust your partner, Mr. Frodo." *shakes head*
Brilliant!
no subject
Thanks!