2 September, 3017
Frodo Baggins had never panicked before in his entire life, had never known the fear that now fluttered through his chest and sent him wavering to the nearest chair, trembling all over, his heart beating so fast he could hardly breathe.
Sam was coming today. This morning. To Bag End. And what was this miserable Baggins supposed to do now?
The predawn darkness of his familiar hall held no answers and all that Gandalf had said was, '...open your heart and listen...'. But how? And to what?
Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed, and Frodo jumped up, a fresh stab of alarm slamming through his chest.
Sam was coming today, this morning. And what was he supposed to say?
With a little moan, Frodo dropped back into the chair, combing his fingers through curls gone wild. By all that was good and decent, when had Sam happened to him? When had his comfortable and orderly existence taken on the guise of torture? When had the Gaffer's youngest son begun walking through his dreams, claiming his heart and turning his life upside down?
Frodo let his hands fall back to his lap and closed his eyes, memories tumbling madly round his head.
Sam... standing behind behind the hedge with his busy clippers, eyeing the new Spring growth with an air of fortitude and whistling under the breezy overcast sky.
Sam... on hands and knees in the garden, humming a jaunty tune and occasionally reminding the weeds that there were other places to grow than among Mr. Frodo's vegetables.
Sam... walking up the path from Bag Shot Row, grinning in the morning sun, his face full of light and happiness just to be alive.
Sam... smiling shyly up from under his thick curly hair to watch as Frodo chewed thoughtfully. "Well, sir, our Hal's mum had a new recipe, from Old Harning's cousin. And since I know how much you like your seedcake..."
Frodo crossed his arms over a stomach that seemed to be tied in endless knots. Dear Sam. If that soft voice had ever uttered an unkind word, Frodo had never heard it. If those clear, bright eyes had ever held anything other than joy and honesty...
Frodo shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. But the tears had their way and his lips tasted of salt as he caught his breath. For a very long time now, he'd been able to avoid looking into those trusting eyes, so afraid that something would show on his own face, in his own eyes, that would turn Sam away in disgust. Through his bitter, cold anger, Frodo almost smiled. What would a lad like Sam ever see in him?
Frodo pressed both palms against his eyes, curling his body around the pain in his heart. The truth was hard to bear, but in all of the Shire, there couldn't possibly be a hobbit more unimportant, more useless than himself. What had he ever done with his life but write letters and spend Bilbo's money? What sorts of things did he know that mattered? Did he know how to build a new Hole or how to repair his own? Did he know how to set a hayfield or when to pull in the corn? Could he cut flagstones or stitch up a fine, new waistcoat? At most, he knew how to cook and to bake, how to mend rips and tears in his clothing. How to dust and clean and sweep and... damn, blow smoke rings. Frodo pushed harder, until his eyes hurt. But the salt filled his mouth, bitter and cold.
The rosy glow of dawn had spread its light through the hall before Frodo dropped his hands from his eyes, sagging back into the chair. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe. And he was so tired. But Sam was coming this morning and this would be Frodo's last chance to listen, his last chance...
Gripping the arms of the old chair, Frodo pushed himself up, swaying a little as the room spun round. It was far past time to get breadfast ready if he meant to greet Sam.
And then softly, between one breath and the next, with sweet birdsong filling the morning air, there was a knock on the door.
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Tales From Middle Earth 3. The Taste of Salt by MJ
Story notes: Follows TFME: Not Far Now. Related to TFME stories under Merry/Pippin and Gandalf/Radagast.
The Tales of Middle-earth series.
