Work Text:
It was a restful winter’s day at Bag-End, and Frodo was almost content. Although more than a year had passed since the quest, he still had a hard time finding happiness in his everyday life. It took something truly special– like Sam’s wedding that summer, or Rosie’s recent announcement that she was with child– to make him forget his pain for even a moment. But he could bear it, if he could not be rid of it, and he tried not to let it trouble him too much.
Presently, Frodo’s mind was clear and calm; only the chill in his bones kept him from feeling relaxed. He thought longingly of Sam, wishing he was there to hold him, keeping him warm with his strong, gentle arms. In his absence, Frodo had no recourse but to settle close to the fire, sitting on his knees and stretching his hands toward the flames.
Rosie, who was embroidering a nightshirt for the baby, glanced up from her needle and thread. Her warm, brown eyes widened. “Why, you’ll roast yourself like a chestnut if you get any closer!” she exclaimed. Frodo drew back a little, embarrassed, but Rosie gave him a reassuring smile. “Here, now,” she said, laying her sewing aside and standing, “you sit proper, and I’ll fetch you a quilt.”
Reluctant as he was to give up the fire’s warmth, Frodo couldn’t help but smile as he got up, heading for his usual chair. Before long, Rosie had returned with one of her lovely patchwork quilts. To Frodo, the varying patches of light, cheerful colors made them resemble meadows in springtime. Rosie laid the quilt around Frodo, then stepped back, scrutinizing him for a moment before giving a nod of satisfaction.
“Much better,” she said, “and now Sam won’t see you a finger’s width from them flames and start fussing over how your hair’s like to catch fire.”
“You fuss over me almost as much as Sam does,” Frodo said, a hint of playfulness in his tone.
Rosie shook her head. “There’s fuss and there’s fuss ,” she replied, sitting back down. “Just as a bird’s a bird, but there’s no mistaking a robin for an eagle.”
The mention of eagles sent a flash of pain through Frodo’s eyes that Rosie did not notice, having returned to her sewing. He watched her work for a while, thinking of the little one her nightshirt would one day adorn, and he felt well again.
“Have you thought of any baby names?” he asked.
“Can’t see why I would,” Rosie replied, setting a yellow spool thread aside and picking up a green one. “Sam’s got his heart set on naming him after you, and that’s fine by me, though I hope this Frodo’s got more sense than to stick his hands in the fire,” she added, laughing.
“As long as the baby takes after you and Sam, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Rosie grinned at Frodo, who softly smiled back.
When Rosie first came to Bag-End, Frodo had worried that their relationship would be a strained one, but Rosie was simply too direct to put up with any awkwardness. She embraced Frodo right away– figuratively and literally– and let him know that she’d be as much of a friend as he wanted.
“But if you’d rather be let alone, just say so,” she told him. From what she had heard about the quest through Sam, she could guess that Frodo might have a difficult time being open to new friendships for a while, but her open, generous nature would not let her rest without offering. “Take all the time you need.”
Frodo had remained shy for a while, but Rosie’s unrelenting cheer drew him out bit by bit, and the two of them had become good friends. They had spent a lot of time together in the fall; Sam had been busy with his husbandry work, but, once Rosie realized she was expecting, she stayed home more often, and Frodo kept her company. While he went out walking most days, that only kept him out of the smial for a few hours as he was not strong enough to ramble from dusk to dawn the way he used to. He only ventured a short distance into the woods, finding a peaceful place to read for an hour or so before returning.
Frodo and Rosie never spoke of anything serious, and he was grateful for it. Rosie mostly shared bits of Shire gossip that had reached her ever-pricked ears, and Frodo would talk about whatever he was reading at the moment. They both enjoyed trading stories about Sam, and Sam loved nothing more than to come home and find them laughing together.
Rosie could find a way to make conversation with anyone. Frodo especially loved listening to her and Sam’s lively chatter in the evenings, for she had a way for drawing Sam out that few others possessed. Bilbo had been like that, and Merry and Pippin had a knack for provoking some of the quickest retorts Frodo had ever heard Sam utter. There were many other things to admire about Sam, but Frodo couldn’t help but feel a sort of quiet pride when he noted how easily Sam could keep up with Rosie’s sharp tongue. Sam was quite a clever hobbit, though few noticed; Frodo appreciated Rosie all the more for being one of them.
At the thought of Sam, Frodo suppressed a small sigh, again wishing for his warm, comforting presence. But Sam refused to be idle, even in the dead of winter, and he had taken it upon himself to give Bag-End its most thorough cleaning since his wedding. Currently, he was organizing a mathom room that had evidently been forgotten both when Frodo was pretending to move to Crickhollow and when Lotho and Sharkey’s minions had moved in. Every so often, Sam would come running in with an old trinket of Bilbo’s, and Frodo would praise him for finding it as if he had recovered a long-lost heirloom.
After the second or third time this happened, Frodo had offered to help clean the room to spare Sam the trouble of going back and forth. Frodo would not be able to lift many of the heavier objects, but he was sure he could find a way to make himself useful. Sam stroked his wounded hand and told him not to worry himself over it.
“It’s terrible cold in there. The room’s dug down deep, like a root cellar, almost, and the fireplace must be clear buried in mathoms– if it’s got a fireplace at all,” Sam said. “You’d best stay where it’s warm, Mr. Frodo, and not go catching a chill.”
While Sam had a tendency to be overprotective, Frodo was still rather frail, and even a minor bout of illness, like a cold, could be dangerous for him. Frodo knew this, so he acquiesced, remaining in the living room with Rosie. However, Frodo had decided that the next time Sam returned, he would convince him to take a much-needed break. Frodo imagined cuddling up with Sam on the settee for a bit and felt warmer than he had all day.
Then Frodo heard footsteps. He brightened at once, but Sam did not arrive as quickly as he had before. He must have been walking rather than running. Was he tired? Was he carrying something heavy?
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam called, just out of sight. “You won’t believe what I’ve found!”
Frodo rose, curious, but, before he was all the way out of his chair, Sam entered the living room, his upper body completely obscured by a portrait in a gilt frame. Frodo fell back as if shoved by an invisible enemy. He gave an involuntary cry of dismay that Sam evidently took as one of excitement. He peered around the edge of the portrait and beamed at Frodo, who hastily rearranged his expression of horror into an eager smile.
“Can you believe this portrait of yours was just lying around in some musty old mathom room?”
“No,” said Frodo in a strangled voice, doing his best not to sound as if he loathed the object Sam was so delighted to have found. “I cannot even imagine how it got there.”
He didn’t have to imagine; while many of Frodo’s memories from before the quest had dimmed, he could vividly recall taking that hideous portrait off the wall and hiding it in the most out-of-the-way mathom room he could find as soon as Bilbo was gone. Frodo hadn’t wanted to get his portrait done in the first place, but Bilbo had been inflexible.
“You’ll be the master of Bag-End one day, and your portrait will hang right there, where mine is now,” Bilbo said, pointing to a prominently displayed portrait of himself that had been commissioned not long after his coming of age.
“Surely not in the living room! Have mercy, Bilbo!” Frodo had pleaded. “Portraits are so old-fashioned. No one has them commissioned anymore. All of my younger cousins will make fun of me for it, and–”
“Now, Frodo, it’s no use whinging. I’ve made up my mind,” Bilbo replied cheerfully. “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has been bragging to everyone in the Four Farthings about how the portrait she commissioned of Lotho was so masterfully done , and no one in the Shire has ever seen the like, and so on. Just imagine the look on her face when she finds out that my nephew had his portrait done by a real Elvish painter!”
Frodo perked up. “I’m going to meet an Elf? Why didn’t you say so?”
The portrait, for which Bilbo had paid substantially in gold, was every bit as well-crafted as one would expect a work of Elvish hands to be. It had been done from the shoulders up, which was some small consolation to Frodo, who was relieved not to have been made to strike an absurd pose, like his cousin Lotho had. The level of detail was exquisite, perfectly capturing the elusive shade of Frodo’s bright, inquisitive eyes, the softness of his red cheeks, the hint of mischief in his otherwise sweet smile. Every curl on his head was accounted for, the darkness of his hair contrasting well with the vivid green behind him, for Bilbo had made him stand in front of the door to Bag-End.
But Frodo hated it. He thought he looked ridiculous, as if merely having a portrait of himself wasn’t embarrassing enough. After much wheedling, he had at least convinced Bilbo to display the portrait in some out-of-the-way corridor after it had served its purpose of irritating Lobelia. Still, Frodo had winced anytime he thought of that portrait with its silly-looking little smile. In the end, Frodo had hidden the portrait so thoroughly, he could not have told anyone where it was by the time he was fifty. After that, he had obviously had. . . other concerns. He had in fact completely forgotten the portrait's existence until Sam dredged it up.
Sam set the portrait down with reverence, propping it up in an empty chair. He smiled at it with love in his eyes and reached out as if to caress Frodo’s cheek before drawing back, not wanting to damage the paint.
Rosie set her sewing down long enough to examine the portrait. “Well, weren’t you a handsome lad?” she exclaimed, turning to grin at Frodo.
“Hardly,” said Frodo, flushing. “I was odd-looking then, and it’s unlikely I’ve improved.”
Sam was indignant. “Odd-looking! Who called you that, Mr. Frodo?” he asked, hands clenched into fists. “I’ve got words for them myself!”
Frodo laughed, setting Sam at ease. “Now, dear, there’s no sense in getting upset over it now. This was all many years ago.”
Reassured, Sam returned his attention to the portrait. “I’m no painting expert, but this seems a fine work to me, Mr. Frodo,” he said. Again, he reached out to touch the paint, then caught himself. “Seamless, like, as if it’d been painted all at once rather’n with a bunch of little strokes. It looks more like the portraits they had in Rivendell than any I’ve seen here in the Shire.”
Frodo was reluctant to give Sam another reason to admire the portrait he so despised, but he couldn’t keep anything from his love. “Well, it was painted by an Elf.”
Sam’s eyes widened. Although he did not have quite the same childish awe of Elves he had before the journey, he still respected them tremendously, and he regarded the portrait with even greater appreciation.
“I always did reckon you was as fair as an Elf out of one of Mr. Bilbo’s tales,” said Sam fondly. “If there’s any hobbit that ought to have a fine Elvish portrait like this, it’s you.” Then he shook his head, frowning. “When I think of all the years a treasure like this has been down in that mathom room, gathering dust–”
Frodo blushed at the word ‘treasure’, wondering if Sam would ever use it to refer to him rather than his portrait, but he regained his composure and said, “if it hadn’t been down there, it may have been lost or destroyed during the Scouring. If we wish to preserve it, the best course of action would be to return it to the mathom room at once.”
“But then we’d never see it. Of course, the thing to do is to put it up right away, where everyone can see it,” Sam continued, too intent on carefully lifting the portrait to notice that the delicate pink of Frodo’s flushed cheeks had darkened to a scarlet shade of mortification.
“It’s only proper,” Rosie added. “You’re the master of Bag-End, after all.”
“Please, don’t,” Frodo protested. “Oh, Sam, do put it away.”
Sam froze at once. He lowered the portrait, and opened his mouth as if to ask why, then closed it, the sheen of his eyes threatening tears. At last, he said, “I’ll put it back where I found it, then,” and slowly trudged out of the room.
Frodo followed, guilt gnawing at his conscience. Sam had only meant to make him happy; Frodo couldn’t bear the thought that Sam might think he was upset with him.
“Sam,” said Frodo gently, touching his shoulder.
Sam turned. He set the portrait down facing the wall and said nothing, but he studied Frodo’s face with questioning eyes.
“Thank you for finding that portrait,” said Frodo.
“But you don’t like it,” said Sam. He looked away suddenly. “And I ought to’ve guessed,” he added in a low tone. “I ought to’ve known it’d upset you, seeing something out of your past like that. I know it’s hard for you to think of how things used to be. Of course you don’t want this about.”
“Oh, that isn’t–” Frodo began, distressed. No wonder Sam had taken his rejection of the portrait so hard. “I wasn’t hurt by it,” said Frodo, letting go of Sam’s shoulder so he could take his hand instead. “I was only embarrassed. Not by you,” he added quickly. “By the portrait. I’ve never liked how I looked in it, and, I know it’s silly to still care, at my age, but I do. That’s why I didn’t want it on display.”
Sam, though visibly relieved, was still upset. “Is it on account of folks calling you odd-looking? I don’t care how long it’s been,” he insisted, clenching his hands into fists. “Tell me who said it, and I’ll set them straight.”
“Sam!” Frodo laughed, and, for the first time since he had been told not to hang up the portrait, Sam smiled.
“I don’t see how you can look at this painting and think you look anything but beautiful,” said Sam, taking up the portrait again and gazing at it with tenderness. “You look just as you did when I first laid eyes on you.”
Frodo imagined how he would feel if he found a portrait of Sam from a simpler, happier time, and his heart softened. “Would you like to keep it, Sam?”
“Not if you don’t want it about,” said Sam, nonetheless clutching the portrait’s frame tighter, as if worried that Frodo would snatch it away from him.
“I don’t want it displayed where everyone can see it, but. . .” Frodo blushed again. “If you wanted it for yourself. . .”
Sam was struck dumb for a moment, gazing at the portrait incredulously, as if he couldn’t imagine what he had done to earn such a prize. “Do you mean it?” he asked at last. When Frodo nodded, Sam’s face lit up. “I’ll cherish it! I’ll hang it right across from the bed so’s I can see it every morning, first thing when I wake up.”
Frodo wondered what Rosie would make of that, but he would leave the two of them to work it out for themselves. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“Would you ever sit for another one, sometime?” Sam asked. “Rosie was right– you are the master of Bag-End, and it’s nigh indecent of us not to have your portrait up.”
“Bag-End is yours and Rosie’s as well as mine now,” said Frodo with a soft smile. “Perhaps, one day, the two of you will decide to have a family portrait commissioned.”
“And you’ll be in it, too, won’t you, Mr. Frodo?”
Frodo kissed Sam’s cheek, a silent promise.
A few years later, Frodo found himself seated in a plush chair with Elanor on his lap, Sam and Rosie standing on either side of him. Rosie was cradling her namesake, who was only a couple months old, and Sam, looking quite handsome in his dark brown coat and a reddish-orange waistcoat that highlighted the autumnal colors of his hair, was holding wee Frodo against his hip. Sam and Rosie had decided to get a family portrait done not long after Rose’s birth, “before there’re too many of us to fit in the frame”, as Rosie said.
Elanor, a very talkative toddler, pointed eagerly at the paintbrush, easel, and paints with her chubby little hands as the artist readied the materials, exclaiming, “what that ?”
“What is that, Elanor?” asked Frodo with a smile. “What do we think?”
Elanor’s face scrunched up in thought as she studied the paint brushes laid out carefully on a side table near the easel. “Spoom spoon!”
“No, not a soup spoon, although they do have narrow handles like one. Those are paint brushes, my dear,” Frodo explained. “Those are what the artist is going to use to paint our portrait.”
“Goo’ mornin’!” cried Elanor, waving hello at the artist. That was how she greeted everyone, regardless of the time of day.
The artist, a straightforward and sober widow from down the hill, glanced up from the paints she was mixing long enough to smile at Elanor. She was a merry little lass, and her red cheeks and golden curls never failed to win a smile from anyone.
Sam smiled as he watched Frodo kiss the top of Elanor’s head. He couldn’t quite put it into words, even to himself, but he was glad Elanor and Frodo would be painted together. Though they didn’t look the least bit alike, Sam thought they had the same fey air, and Elanor seemed to be just as much Frodo’s child as she was his and Rosie’s. Frodo loved the younger children as well, but it was clear he had a special connection with Elanor.
Frodo noticed Sam watching him and smiled back. “I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing this portrait far more than the last one,” he said. “Even if I look ridiculous, it’s sure to be balanced out by you, and your lovely wife, and, of course, charming young hobbits like our Elanor and her siblings.”
“You’ll look just right, Mr. Frodo. You always do,” said loyal Sam.
Sam only hoped the portrait would capture the hard-won wisdom in Frodo’s eyes, the gentleness of his smile, the glints of silver cropping up among his curls. As much as Sam adored the younger, softer, more cheerful Frodo depicted in the old portrait, he loved Frodo more and more each day and was glad there would be a record of how he looked now. The marks of the quest were still evident, but so was Frodo’s quiet resolve, his slow but steady progress toward healing. He was beautiful.