Chapter Text
When Frodo arrived at Bag End for the first time, Hobbiton was full in the arms of spring. Wheatfields rose up tall and gilding, flowers bloomed pink and blue and yellow on the mounds of the hobbit-holes, and though the road was dusty, it was easy on the feet. Frodo couldn’t help but suck in breath after breath of the sweet, wholesome air. It was not so very different to the springtime he had left behind in Buckland, but it felt brighter and newer anyhow.
Maybe it was just the thought of him having a real home, one where he didn’t have to rub elbows with a hundred cousins, and someone to take care of him and break bread with him and tell him stories, just them and no-one else. Indeed when Bilbo turned in at the gate and waved at Frodo to follow him, and Frodo looked upon the smial’s green door for the first time of many, it felt like it was his home already.
“Here we are,” said Bilbo fondly, grasping the shiny brass knob and pushing the door open. He wiped his feet on the rug, leant his walking-stick in the corner and looked back at Frodo expectantly, unbuttoning his vest. “Are you coming in? I’ll put the kettle on, and then I can show you about the place.”
Frodo followed him slowly, eyes wide with wonder. Bag End was far from the clutter and noise he was used to: while the rooms were filled with any number of curious things, they were arranged with care and worn smooth by admiring hands, and the whole smial had an air of quiet comfort to it, as if it had regarded itself wholly and been very much pleased with what it saw. It was clear Bilbo fit among the thick rugs and dark tea chests and strange maps that hung on the walls, and Frodo knew then that he desperately wanted to fit into this world, too. It seemed both exciting and different, and like a place that could very easily become his home.
Bilbo lit the stove and set the kettle to boil, then moved about the kitchen, humming, while Frodo watched. There was a small round window that let the fragrant afternoon air in, and a long table of polished wood, and cabinets filled with pans and crockery and dried foods and things that glinted silver. Bilbo pointed out a door that led to the pantry, and another to the cellar. “I’ve some barrels of good ale down there,” he said, eyes twinkling, “and don’t go telling any Sackville-Bagginses, but there’s a fair mushroom crop, too.”
At that moment the kettle began to hiss, and Bilbo busied himself for a minute before handing Frodo a cup of strong tea. “I’ve got some fruitcake around here somewhere,” he muttered to himself, bending to look in a cupboard. “Go on, put your feet up, I’ll join you in just a moment.”
Frodo sighed a little in relief when he sat down, for though they had travelled leisurely it was a few days since they had set out from Brandy Hall, and pleasurable to sit in a chair once again and know there would be no more walking, and a soft bed to sleep in. He sipped his tea and wondered what the other young hobbits in Hobbiton were like. It seemed strange to be so far from any cousins—except for Bilbo, of course, though really he felt closer to an uncle. He had heard that hobbits around here did not keep boats, or even swim. It would be a strange summer indeed without cooling dips in the Brandywine.
After they had eaten, Bilbo showed Frodo the rest of Bag End, including the room that was to be his bedroom. There were linens in a cupboard, and a chest for his clothes, and when Frodo sat on the bed to admire the view out onto the back garden, it felt like the mattress was stuffed with the best goose feathers, and full to bursting at that.
Bag End’s garden really was spectacular. As Frodo gazed out at it, he found there were some plants he did not recognise—bearing tall golden swords of blossom, or tiny white lacy petals. He stood and moved to the window to get a better look, and found himself looking instead into a pair of wide brown eyes inches below his own.
“Oh!” Frodo exclaimed, and the other hobbit blushed and cast his eyes downward. “Hello, I’m Frodo.”
“Samwise!” came a great bellow from down the garden. An older hobbit in working clothes was stomping towards them, soil still clumped in his trowel. “I’m sorry about Sam, sir,” he said in a more even-tempered tone, bobbing his head to Frodo and clapping one hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I had him cutting this grass here, but I can move him elsewhere should you wish.”
“No, it’s alright,” Frodo replied, in fact excited to see someone else of his age at Bag End. “I’d like to meet him. My name is Frodo Baggins, and I’m Bilbo’s second cousin. I came from Brandy Hall today.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Frodo,” said the older hobbit solemnly. “I’m the gardener here, Hamfast Gamgee, though most as calls me the Gaffer. Sam’s one of mine.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Sam echoed hesitantly. The Gaffer, feeling his work was done, tipped his hat and went back to the flowerbed he was working on, leaving Sam by the window unmoving. Frodo lifted onto his tiptoes and regarded him contemplatively. Maybe they could be friends.
“Samwise,” he said, “would you like to take a walk together?”
He knew he oughtn’t, but Sam couldn’t help thinking Mr Frodo was a bit of a queer one. He didn’t seem to much care for what folks in Hobbiton called “the proper way of things”, for a start, and unblinkingly invited Sam in for tea every morning he came to Bag End to work in the garden with his Gaffer. He liked big, dusty books more than gossip and paying visits, and his hair was too long, like nobody had bothered about cutting it in months; and he was learning Elvish from Mr Bilbo, bits of which he would sometimes try to relate to Sam, reading a verse or two of a song and translating it haltingly, with a look of determination. Despite knowing vaguely that none of it was quite hobbitish, Sam enjoyed spending time in his company. The differences were what made him exciting and unexpected, and (in Sam’s mind) elevated him above anyone else in Hobbiton, except maybe Mr Bilbo, who had more experience at it, after all.
Sam was timid with him at first, being both the son of the gardener and quite awed at how smart and worldly he was. It was Mr Frodo that tried to teach Sam to swim, in a shallow little lake half a mile from Bag End, and clapped for him enthusiastically when he managed to paddle half a dozen yards without sinking. He would also read to Sam sometimes from the lower branches of a tree, head thrown back against the trunk, while Sam sat in the roots with his whittling knife. Most of all, he seemed to really enjoy his company, and would listen to whatever silly rhyme Sam had thought up latest with wide, attentive eyes. It was the first time any hobbit his own age had done that, wholly and freely, without laughing or sighing. It made Sam feel rather special.
“Sam,” said Frodo one hot summer’s day, when Sam was weeding the flowerbeds and he was sitting back on his hands in the spotted shade of a plum tree, watching, “do you suppose we’ll ever be heroes, like the ones Bilbo speaks about in his stories?”
Sam pulled out a last tangle of dandelions and sat back on his heels. At this hour, the sun bore down upon him, and he took his hat off for a minute to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Gaffer was busy setting up the Party Field for the Midsummer fete the next day, and had passed all his regular chores onto his son. “I don’t rightly know, Mr Frodo,” he said honestly, looking down at his dirt-stained gloves. “You may do, but I don’t suppose I ever shall.”
Frodo looked at him thoughtfully, his eyes half-shut against the bright day. They looked bluer than ever. His hair usually hung in his face, but now it was tied back against the heat and Sam could see the dark splash of freckles across his nose and beneath his eyes. “Why is that?”
“Well,” said Sam, hot with embarrassment, “you’re Mr Bilbo’s cousin, sir, and quite the hobbit besides, if you don’t mind me saying. If ever that Gandalf comes up the Hill looking for another hero, it’s you he’ll be finding, Mr Frodo. I’m just a gardener, and hardly even that.”
“And that is your greatest strength, dear Sam,” Frodo replied, “for you are strong and have a stout heart. From Bilbo’s stories, heroism seems to involve a good deal of walking and sleeping in peculiar places and enduring the elements. Moreover, there’s scarce anyone I would trust better than you to push on in a crisis, and to keep up hope in even the darkest of times.”
Sam blushed and lowered his eyes. He could feel Frodo’s words burning right into his heart and making a home there. “That’s mighty kind of you to say.”
“It’s true,” said Frodo simply, and lay down against the tree, face upturned to the green boughs. Sam blushed once more and picked up his trowel.
It was not long before Frodo settled into his new life at Bag End, though sometimes he would wake up in the mornings expecting to see the low, dark ceilings of Brandy Hall above him, or catch a glimpse of a young hobbit on the Road and think for a fleeting moment it was one of his cousins. Altogether he got on well enough with the other residents of Hobbiton, even if some of the nosier folk—the Sackville-Bagginses particularly, who Frodo soon learned had quite a sour relation with Bilbo—whispered that he was a strange sort, just like Mad Baggins and those other Tooks, though perhaps quieter, with his head in queer books all the hours of the day.
One of the younger hobbits with whom Frodo got on particularly well was Peregrin Took, called Pippin by his family (and indeed Frodo was a cousin to him). He was a child still, fond of games of hide and seek in Bag End’s numerous and cluttered rooms, but had already developed a skill for mischief. Whenever he visited, Frodo was constantly pulling him down from high places and relieving him of objects that seemed likely to cause damage in the hands of a young troublemaker.
The only time he was ever quiet was when Bilbo told a story. Pippin would then sit wide-eyed in Frodo’s lap and listen raptly to whatever their older cousin had to tell, whether it be from his own life or out of a book. Frodo would watch him fondly and wonder if he would follow his Took blood one day and go on an adventure, and if perhaps Frodo would go with him. He was sure if they did, they could persuade Sam to come; although he got quite cross with Pippin whenever he tramped through the flower-beds, he was protective of him generally and would follow anxiously a few paces behind him wherever he went. Frodo thought it amusing.
The day that Pippin smiled brightest was the day Gandalf came to visit.
It was late summer, in truth more the cusp of autumn; and though the Shire still saw warm sunny days, the nights had begun to grow cooler and the eagerest leaves to turn yellow. Frodo was out in the garden reading, while Pippin poked at some interesting beetles with a stick and Sam examined the apple and quince trees. The sound of hooves in the Road drew Frodo out of his book, and he glanced up just as Pippin dropped his stick and shouted, “Visitor! Visitor!”
At first Frodo was perplexed, for the visitor rode not a pony but a horse, and seemed not a hobbit but a man, which were very seldom seen in the Shire. Then he took in the blue pointed hat and the long grey beard, and leapt to his feet in excitement, book forgotten. Sam, who had come to stand at his side, whispered, “Is that really him? Just like Bilbo’s stories?”
The visitor swung himself down off his horse and tied it to a fence-post, then approached the gate. As he entered the garden he caught sight of the three hobbits watching with wide eyes, and chuckled. “Hello,” he said, and his voice was every bit as deep and benevolent as Bilbo had said, like the tolling of a great bell. “I see old Bilbo has some company.”
Pippin curled his fingers into Frodo’s trousers. Sam took off his cap and held it to his chest. Frodo kept looking up at Gandalf, trying to take the sight of him in. It seemed like a dream that the very person he’d heard so many stories about was standing just inside his own front gate. Somehow he found a voice to say, “I’m Frodo Baggins. I live with Bilbo,” and almost in a daze let Gandalf clasp his small plump hobbit-hand in a long, knobbly wizard-one.
“Pleased to meet you, Frodo Baggins,” he said, and turned next to Sam, whose cheeks were red with wonder and embarrassment. “I am called Gandalf in these parts. I imagine you have heard of me?”
“Yes, Mr Gandalf, sir.” Sam ducked his head in a hasty sort of bow. “I’m Samwise Gamgee, sir. My father is the gardener here at Bag End.”
“An honourable profession,” the wizard said solemnly, then knelt so he was eye to eye with Pippin. “And what is your name, little one?”
“Pip,” the young hobbits said bravely, and hid his face in Frodo’s leg. He had never imagined someone so tall could exist in all the world. Frodo could tell he feared getting accidentally underfoot, and being stepped on and squashed like a bug, which was an issue he had raised before regarding ponies. Although Gandalf was a great deal wiser than ponies, Frodo was obliged to agree that there was something about him that suggested if a squashing was required, he would be quite thorough.
At that moment the round green door of Bag End opened and Bilbo stepped out, perhaps having spied his old friend through a window. “Gandalf!” he said merrily, and they exchanged a friendly embrace. “Come in, then,” he said to the hobbits. “We must offer our guest some tea. Yes, you too, Samwise.”
The kettle sang over the hearth; Frodo lifted it carefully as Bilbo bustled in from a pantry with several cake tins stacked high in his arms. Pippin, still wary of Gandalf but forbidden from ever crossing round the kitchen table lest he cause some catastrophe, had now latched onto Sam’s trouser leg, and both were watching in fearful awe as the wizard blew complex blue smoke-rings from his pipe. Finally, as Frodo set the last teacup on the table, he turned to the littlest hobbit and asked, “Would you like to hear about your uncle Bilbo’s sixty-ninth birthday party?”
Seconds into the story Pippin was entranced. By the time Gandalf began to describe the fireworks, Frodo himself was filled with a powerful longing to see the sights he spoke of, great showers of silver stars and golden horses that galloped across the night sky. Afterwards Gandalf allowed Pippin to take him to the pond to see the ducks, and from that day forward was forever endeared to the young hobbits of Bag End.