That Ink May Character
by Lullennye-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
Story notes: "I would always know your words, Mr. Frodo."
Sam tackled the second bedroom closet with determination and two large boxes. Into one box would go the things Mr. Frodo would want to take with him to Crickhollow, and into the other would go such items he wanted to be given away. Only those possessions carefully negotiated in the bill of sale would be left for the Sackville-Bagginses. Sam knew Mr. Frodo's mind well enough that he felt confident he could tell the difference between the first two categories, and he had a carefully ordered list for the third.
Clothes filled the closet for the most part, hanging with dusty shoulders in casual disorder. Sam sorted through them putting most aside to be given away, for they were clothes Mr. Frodo had worn through his early forties. Mr. Frodo had broadened in the past five years, both through the shoulders and in the stomach, though not by much, and more in the stomach than in the shoulders. He enjoyed visiting notable tables throughout the Shire, and he had both the leisure and the connections to visit them often. It seemed that with his fiftieth birthday fast approaching, time and comfort were at last thinking about catching up with the youthful Mr. Baggins.
Sam was content. He liked Mr. Frodo no matter his size or age. And since Mr. Frodo had spent more time this past year tramping around the Shire than he had in the past ten, he had slimmed a bit off that rounding stomach, and some of these older clothes might fit once more. Sam kept back the best to take to Crickhollow. He imagined bringing out this ornate blue vest or those fine green trousers one morning and seeing the surprise on Mr. Frodo's face.
Old mathoms and oddments lay heaped on the floor, and Sam delivered each thing to its proper box. In the back, he found an old canvas pack that Mr. Frodo used to take on every camping trip until a shoulder strap broke, something Sam would have mended, but Merry had presented Frodo with a lovely new leather pack just after, and the old one had been forgotten. Sam held it in his hands a moment and sighed, thinking of all the times he had followed this worn old sack. He remembered each crease still deeply green, and all the corners that had faded nearly to white.
Frodo favored his leather pack greatly, so Sam set the old pack in the box of things to be given away with a small regret, and as he did, he heard a crinkle of paper, and paused. Frowning, he opened the pack. If there were papers in there, he knew Mr. Frodo would prefer they not be seen by just anyone, but the pack was empty. He could still hear it, though, and felt into the pockets inside, and there he found a crumpled piece of paper. He set the pack into the box, spread the paper on his thigh, pushed the worse wrinkles from it, and then began to read.
Untidy words covered both sides, and Sam had to figure where it started mid-sentence, where it continued on the backside, and where it ended, again in mid-sentence as the thought ran off the page.
...and though I have seen elves on two occasions while walking alone through Woody End they did not pause in their journey nor turn their faces to me. I had assumed that Bilbo held their interest, not me, and without his presence they would never approach, but the events of last night prove I am mistaken, though I fear I will never guess their motivation. Whatever their thoughts, I know I must put mine into words before the event fades completely: even now, only hours later, the details are hazy, as if the entire episode occurred before the setting sun bringing dazzled tears like a veil between me and my memory.
I sensed stillness first. When traveling with Bilbo we often heard their fair voices singing before we saw them, but this time their silence gave them away. The moon was getting ready for his bed, and I was wrapped in blankets as I smoked and stared at the embers of my small fire when a soft quiet settled over the dell where I camped, unnoticed until my very breath seemed loud. My heart leapt to full wakefulness but not fear, and I slipped from my covers and crept up the side of the dell.
Their feet stirred the mist, turning it to stardust as they walked: two tall elves, both with hair like the night around them, brows as white as the dawn, and pale lights in their eyes. One paused as I looked, as if he could feel the weight of my gaze upon him. The other spoke to him and gestured at me.
The first one greeted me; he spoke Quenya. I stood as if in a dream, and I answered him in like manner although I spoke haltingly. He smiled at me and gave me his name, and I curse myself that I cannot recall it now. The second elf watched soberly but said nothing after having spoken to his companion.
The elf who spoke to me wore a bow and quiver on his back, and a strand of silver bound his dark hair. His companion carried a tall spear. They wore silver garments, or perhaps the fading moon hid the true colors; light like motes of dust seemed to come from both the elves, as if they were made of living silver.
The archer said he and his companion hunted this night, deer, and then he asked a question that I did not understand about the intentions of arrows and white flags in the paths of the moon. I tried to answer, but my vocabulary does not run much past the simplest of pleasantries, although I can understand more than I can speak, and finally I shook my head, feeling helpless. In the common tongue I said, "As much as I wish I could, I do not understand, and I am sorry but I cannot help you."
I had a sudden impulse to ask them about Bilbo: if they had seen him or heard rumor of his travels. But just then, both elves looked away as if they heard something. The archer nodded to me gravely, and then they were gone.
I returned to my camp and wound myself into my blankets once more. I stared into the cooling ashes, and my thoughts went to a strange place of mist and wandering that evoked not fear but sadness. When I came to myself with the rising of the sun, I know I had not slept, and my mouth tasted of salt.
I find it hard to gather my thoughts into words even now. Bilbo would cluck his tongue at me impatiently, and I would cherish the sound. Nine years he has been gone, and stunned as I am by the sheer magic of my meeting with the elves, I am keenly reminded of him, and I miss him still.
The innkeeper at the Knife and Stone cast the most dubious of looks at me when I arrived and requested a few spare leaves, a quill and some ink instead of luncheon, but how could I explain to him when I can hardly find the words for myself? They run from me like water from my hands. I feel if I could firm my thoughts hard, like glass, I could contain them, and I would have the brilliance of this memory forever with me. Instead, it fades.
Oh, if only Sam could have joined me! He has the greatest interest in the elves, and he would thrill so to have seen them. He would put up with my fumbling descriptions, as he puts up with all my less noble traits, and he would help me remember with his questions. Of all my friends, he is the one I cherish most, and...
Though written on yellowish paper unlike that used at Bag End, in faded brown ink different from the strong, black ink Mr. Frodo used, Sam knew it was Frodo's even without the references to his uncle. He could hear his master's voice in the words even as he read them, and he warmed inside when he read the last part again.
"Sam?" Mr. Frodo entered the room. "There you are." He looked into the boxes, mildly curious, and uttered a small, pleased sound when he discovered the blue vest with the birds embroidered on each side. He glanced at the paper in Sam's hand. "And what's this?"
Sam smoothed it against his thigh once more. "I didn't mean to pry, but I found this in your old pack."
"What is it?" Frodo knelt next to Sam.
"I'm not sure, but it looks like a letter you wrote, or maybe a page from your diary, excepting that it's not the right paper or ink, and it ain't in no book." He offered it, and Frodo took it.
Frodo read. Sam could see his eyes track the words, and then his brows lifted, and he smiled. "Well, it's my handwriting, though rather messy. How could you tell it was mine?"
"Oh, it hardly mattered it didn't have your name on it, or your black ink, or even your usual hand," said Sam. "I would always know your words, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo fell silent as he read further, and his hand came down to rest on Sam's thigh as he turned the paper over. His gaze flickered to the end of the paper, and then leapt from the last word to Sam. Sam knew all of Frodo's moods, and he could see a great emotion swept him inside, for his eyes shone and his brows reached up again.
"What is it, Mr. Frodo?"
"Oh, Sam," he said. "I thought I had lost this. You read it; do you know what this is?"
Sam frowned thoughtfully. "It looks like one of your visits to the elves, though not something as you'd planned, seemingly."
Frodo laughed softly. "Oh, no. None of them were planned, not even those with Bilbo, I suspect, though he made it seem like he had some say in the matter." Frodo ran his fingers over the words. "No, I wrote this two years ago last spring. Remember that trip to the Far Downs I took not long after your birthday? You could not come with me." He squeezed Sam's thigh. "Remember when I came back?"
Sam ducked his head and softly said, "Aye. You were full of something as fretted you awful, though you couldn't say what, and then finally..."
"And then finally I said it didn't matter because even if I could not remember the encounter, I could remember who I most wanted to share it with," Frodo said.
Sam felt his eyes widen. He remembered well what came after Frodo's declaration. "And all that happened because this went missing?" He tapped the paper.
Frodo laughed. "I guess so, Sam. Romances have been built on less."
"I thought it was what you and I felt in our hearts that built it, and in our mouths, and in our hands: all those embraces and words and sweet times in bed that wanted a chance to be."
"Oh, indeed." Frodo pressed a kiss high on Sam's cheekbone. "It's just that sometimes the chance happening can bring about understandings that lie under our very noses."
"Maybe your nose. Me," said Sam, and he turned his head and felt Frodo's breath on his mouth, "I already knew."