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We were at Hallas' for dinner one night recently. Fortunately it was just the three of us so I was not required to act the part of the King's emissary.
I confess I grow tired of that at times, weary of all it entails, though I doubt not the honor in it or the benefits to Gondor. But it seems that after all those years of bitter strife when all I longed to do was lay down my sword and lift nothing heavier than a butter knife, that day has finally come and ... I grow restless at times. Perhaps the hand cannot be completely untrained in that for which it was seasoned all its life.
Ah, well, the dinner was a fine one, as are all meals at Hallas' home. He knows how to set a fine and toothsome table and, more importantly, make those who gather round it most welcome.
Hallas set Frodo on his right as he always does when we dine with him, no matter whether it is a large gathering or just the three of us. Tonight they had their heads together for the greater portion of the meal and I could not hear much of what they whispered and laughed to each other. It made me impatient though I know it is foolish of me to feel so when I see Frodo enjoying himself so much. Though were I to be more honest with myself, I would have to admit that my impatience has a fouler name, one not worthy of my forebears and certainly not worthy of Frodo's care for me. Yet did not my own father succumb to jealousy's soft entreaties that burrowed deeper and deeper under his skin until the only way they were defeated was by the fire?
Hallas is a good friend to Frodo—to both of us—but especially to Frodo, for I see the calculating look in his dark eyes soften into true affection when he speaks with my darling. He is a widower of some years, and I wonder if he looked at his wife with such tenderness. Sometimes when I see that look in his eyes, the jealousy licks at me, winding its way inside my belly until it makes me squirm.
That night I was able to push it away with little trouble, not that what replaced it was much more pleasant, though I suppose embarrassment is a lesser imperfection than jealousy.
"But you have eaten almost nothing, my dear hobbit," said Hallas as he urged on him another helping of the noodle pie for which his cook is justly famous throughout the City.
"I cannot ... please, no ... I shall surely burst if I eat more," Frodo said, patting his flat belly in polite refusal. "Though I would like a little more wine," he continued, holding out his goblet for more of the dark red wine we both had first drunk happily in Minas Tirith. Frodo has always made sure that we have a goodly supply of it in our wine cellar, though he rarely overindulges.
Neither do I, at least not with the wine. But it seemed a shame to let the noodle pie go to waste, so as Frodo was having his goblet refilled, I helped myself to another slice of the delicious layered dish, its wide egg noodles barely keeping the thick tomato sauce and fresh white cheeses from spilling out. As soon as I managed to transfer the slice from its serving dish, its goodness flowed out over my plate and filled my senses with its garlicky sweetness.
A "hmph" of disapproval that I have grown to recognize all too easily accompanied my first bite. Frodo stared at me over the rim of his goblet and waited while I wiped my mouth with a napkin already stained with tomato sauce. "Yes?" I asked though I was well aware what might await me.
"That is your third helping, Faramir," Frodo said, clucking his tongue.
"Yes, it is. Are you keeping score for me?" He looked me up and down quickly though to say that he stopped for a long moment and stared pointedly at my belly would be more accurate. I am not ashamed to admit I was glad I was wearing Umbar garb, for it certainly did a better job of hiding the small amount of weight I have gained in my midsection since coming to the City of the Corsairs. I must attend many receptions and banquets in the fulfillment of my duties, and there is often little time for sufficient exercise. Hallas has told me more than once that I might like to take sword practice with the City's guards, yet I ... it holds no charms for me, not any more.
Frodo smiled and opened his mouth to say something in reply, something no doubt filled with hobbity wit and tartness. I expected no less from him. Apparently he thought the better of it, for he picked up his goblet and sipped more wine.
Hallas pounded his fist lightly on the table once and said, "That was a most intriguing smile. Do not keep us on tenterhooks. Tell us what was in your mind."
With a shrug and a quick smile at me that might have been apologetic, which I have to say was not exactly encouraging, Frodo gave Hallas his explanation. "For a minute there, Faramir reminded me a bit of someone I used to know in the Shire."
When he said no more but continued to cast little smiles in my direction that I could swear were ill-concealed attempts not to burst into laughter at my expense, Hallas said, "But you cannot leave us in such suspense, Frodo!"
I leaned back in my chair and held out my hands palms up. "By all means, my love. I am most intrigued to hear of the hobbit I apparently resemble. What is his name?"
Frodo blushed, and I knew I was in for it. I also knew I was more than a little sorry that I had prodded him. He lifted his chin and said, "His name is Will Whitfoot. He used to be the Mayor of the Shire."
"Ah!" said Hallas. "A most appropriate comparison, then. This Mr. Whitfoot must be a very important personage, if I remember well what you have told me of Shire officials."
Hmm. That name was familiar to me though for the moment I could not remember where I had heard it before. Then it seemed that I heard another hobbity voice lilting in my ear.
"And old Will, when the roof collapsed on the Town Hole in Michel Delving ..." Merry had stopped for a moment to laugh, holding his injured arm tight against his body. How he had refused to let the Darkness overwhelm him completely, even in those terrible final days before Frodo threw down the Dark Tower, while we both stayed helplessly in Minas Tirith!
I had waited until his laughter subsided. "And?"
"And he was buried in an enormous pile of chalk and had to be pulled out by four strong tweens." Merry had nudged me with an elbow before he continued. "He looked like the biggest apple dumpling there ever was, all floured and ready for the oven ..."
I looked down at my belly and tugged surreptitiously at the waistband of my loose trousers. It was perhaps a bit tight though I did not want to loosen its drawstring at table and draw more of Frodo's sharp attention to the apparently considerable similarity between me and the fattest hobbit in the Four Farthings.
"Hmph," I said to Frodo, though unlike the same utterance from Frodo, my version was decidedly sour and irritated.
Frodo stuck out his tongue at me and turned to Hallas. "Oh, yes, the most important hobbit in the Shire. Why, during his years as Mayor he must have gone to more banquets and free fairs than any hobbit that I know of ... and possibly more than any Mayor of the Shire ever has. It was a good thing he enjoyed his vittles."
With eyebrows raised high, Hallas regarded me with a slowly spreading smile. "Of course! Well, it is no surprise that Faramir is turning hobbit given his similarities to the most famous of all hobbits in Middle-earth. I know nothing of 'vittles'."
Which of course was a good thing. Though I no longer carry sword or bow, nevertheless I believe I could wield a deadly table knife at need. Fortunately, Hallas is a perceptive man and soon changed the subject, though he did give me a parting shot as Frodo and I were leaving.
"The City's men-at-arms tell me often that they would have you demonstrate your skill with sword and bow even if you do not care to join them regularly for practice and play. I know you do not want to carry such things on your person any more—nor is there a reason for you to do so in our peaceful City, thanks be to Frodo and Elessar the King—but surely you will take pity on their desire ... and mine also. Though much of Middle-earth is at peace now, still there are the wild Easterlings to consider and it would ease my heart to know that the men have had the wisdom of your counsel and experience."
It would have been churlish of me to refuse, but still I hesitated.
Frodo said, "It would be good exercise for you, too."
I told Hallas I would think about it, and then Frodo and I left. I'm afraid I was angry with Frodo and let it show in my long, quick strides that he had no hope of keeping up with.
Finally, he called out to me, "Faramir, wait!"
I stopped and waited for him to catch up to me. In truth, I needed to stop for the way from Hallas' home to our home was uphill and I needed the rest.
Frodo took my hand when he caught up with me. "I am sorry. It was foolish of me to think that you would want to ..."
"That's right. It was." Between panting to catch my breath and my lingering hurt, I fairly bit out my words. "Surely you of all people should understand how it sickens me to even think of picking up my sword again. And did you not send Sting back to Bilbo with Gandalf?"
Frodo said nothing to me; he didn't have to say anything for the hurt in his eyes was enough to quench all the heat of my anger and make me ashamed at my outburst. I knelt and pulled him into my arms. He whispered against my face, "I'm sorry." He rubbed my belly gently. "I was only thinking it would be good exercise for you to work off some of the extra pounds you've gained by being forced to be so inactive ..."
Pulling back, I grinned. "What? Do you not like me hobbity?"
He smiled at me then. "Yes, I do, actually. Come on, then. Let us go home, Mayor Whitfoot."
When I first heard about the hobbit custom of "filling up the corners" at the end of a meal, I frankly thought it foolish and absurd. Little did I know that I would find it a delightful practice, even if the meal had ended several hours ago and I was merely raiding the kitchen for a last slice of apple tart. Far better to eat it rather than risk it going bad or mice sneaking into the larder and nibbling away at it.
I washed it down with a glass of cool water and made my way back to our room. Since I walk quietly after so many years of creeping about in the thickets of Ithilien, I was through our bedchamber's door before Frodo became aware of me, and I was glad of it for he was a charming sight sitting propped up in bed against a snowy mountain of pillows, with half-moon spectacles perched on his nose to help him with reading.
But he wasn't reading and he was definitely not pleased with my stealth when I said, "What are you doing, sweet heart?" In fact, I startled him rather badly though he tried to cover it up by smiling at me.
"There you are!" he said, quickly putting away the sheet of paper he'd had resting on his lap, sliding it beneath a book on the bedside table.
"Writing a love letter, are you?" I asked as I slid beneath the sheets and pulled him close to me. He'd bathed and smelled fresh and clean, his hair damp and bergamot-scented.
He wriggled closer and laid his hand on my belly. "Perhaps," he said and nuzzled my neck.
"Ah, a secret lover, I see it now." A possibility occurred to me, an unpleasant one that I knew was unreasonable of me. Though I could not keep from spitting it out, nevertheless I managed to keep my voice low and sweet. "Now I see what you and Hallas were doing all evening, whispering together."
His only answer was a laugh that I felt warm against my throat with his soft puffs of quick breaths. I pulled him closer and started to pull up the hem of his nightshirt, wanting only to feel his smooth bare skin against my hands and thighs.
He pulled away, patted my belly and yawned. "I'm so sleepy. G'night."
I lay on my back with clenched fists and hard cock until I slipped out of bed and went into the bathing room to relieve my desire. No, that's not true. I relieved none of my desire, only its momentary itch.
A day or so later Frodo and I went to the market place in the City to do a little shopping. Normally it was an activity we both enjoyed doing together, but that day Frodo said something about it not being necessary to accompany him. He had never said that before.
"But I like shopping with you. Plus it is a goodly walk, especially back to the house. Did you not say you thought I needed more exercise?"
Frodo smiled then. "Well, then, let's go now. It's a fine day for painting, and I've something I want to work at this afternoon."
We left the house through the terrace and padded down the steps that led from it to a path ending at a small wooden gate at the back of our property. From there, a long walled passageway—flights of stairs broken up by sections of cinder-paved paths—led straight down to the City. Its arched exit gave on to a garden located next to the City's market place, and it was a very handy short cut.
After wandering among the stalls and shops for an hour, enjoying the bright profusion of vegetables and flowers and fresh seafood—the mussels looked particularly fine and we ordered a few dozen to be sent to us later in the day for our dinner—we made our last stop at Menel's bake shop. It was always our last destination before heading home; standing before the counter and pointing out our choices among the wealth of sweet goods had become a pleasant tradition for us.
His daughter was behind the counter and greeted us. "Good day, Master Baggins ... Captain Faramir ... what may I give you today?"
Frodo nodded at me to place our order and wandered off to the back of the shop where Menel was busy setting small frosted cakes into boxes, no doubt a special order. Though normally we made the selection together, I thought nothing of it.
I asked his daughter, "What do you recommend today? It is so difficult to choose."
"Hmm ... how about some nice cinnamon rolls? The batch of raisins we used are particularly sweet."
"Very well ... a half dozen ... and an apple tart, if you please."
She nodded and began boxing up the rolls, choosing the fattest ones with the thickest layer of cream cheese icing oozing down their sides. I was quite pleased with myself as I thought how the long climb back up to the house would earn me the right of eating at least one of them as soon as we arrived.
My anticipation disappeared when I turned and saw Menel kneeling next to Frodo, though it was certainly not unusual for Men to do such a thing when talking with him. In fact, I normally found it charming and most appropriate, but this time Frodo was just in the act of slipping a folded sheet of paper into Menel's hand. Frodo clapped him on the shoulder and rejoined me, calling back over his shoulder, "Hallas will contact you as well."
"For what?" I asked and Frodo stopped short of me, his face reddening.
"Oh ... nothing in particular, I don't think. The other night Hallas just, well, he said if we happened to stop in at Menel's in the next day or so that I should tell him that he might have an order for him since he might not get to the store here any time soon." Frodo stopped babbling and had the good grace to at least look away in embarrassment.
I kept my eyes trained on Frodo as I paid for the cinnamon rolls and tart and took the neatly tied boxes from Menel's daughter. "Yes, I see exactly. Since, of course, Hallas would not be able to send one of his servants."
"Mm hmm. I thought it a little strange myself," Frodo said, his cheeks still bright red. "Come on! I want to get home." He grabbed my free hand and pulled me away. "Never mind Hallas and his odd requests."
Frodo tugged me along behind him, prattling away about the odd things the Old Took used to do and say, and I'm afraid I was lost among all the hobbity detail after a few minutes. I gave myself a little shake mentally that there was nothing unseemly going on, that such a thing was impossible to think of with respect to Frodo, that he had never given me any reason to doubt him. Had he not given up his own Shire to join his life with mine? My suspicions were foolish.
A poke in my ribs brought me out of my reverie. "Eh, what's that?" I asked rather stupidly.
Frodo laughed and said, "My, you were woolgathering. What were you thinking?" We were halfway through the garden, getting closer to our private path that would bring us home.
I laughed but couldn't think of anything to say that would not be a lie yet would not betray me for the foolish fellow that I was being.
"I know! What's in the box?" he asked, reaching for the bounty I carried.
I cuffed him gently across his cheek. "Good guess," I said and set out again, eager to be home safe and sound in our little house above the sea.
Frodo kept making excuses to get me out of the house during the afternoons. While quite frequently I find I must be away to a City Council meeting or something similar, nevertheless I came to believe that he was finding ways to get rid of me—with help from Hallas on more than one occasion.
More than once I received a note from Hallas asking me to consult with him on some point of trade that was being debated. Now, I normally would not find that unusual, but when I arrived at Hallas', he was always alone and without those merchants or officials of the City with whom I expected to discuss the necessary points of negotiation. Other times, I would come inside from the terrace, only to have Frodo tell me that someone had called for me to let me know I was wanted on the far side of the City. Of course it took me hours to complete the journey and I always found the reason to be trivial and something that could have been handled with a note.
Most disturbing of all, twice I came home after one of these seemingly useless trips to find Hallas out on the terrace with Frodo. They both appeared tongue-tied and flushed when I joined them outside. I cared not to make a scene either time so did not question them closely, but my heart sank as I saw the glances that passed between them. Yes, and those looks seemed to say "ah, that was a close one."
At night in our bed, Frodo continued to push away my amorous attentions though I knew he was not overly tired. In fact, he seemed distracted by something because I heard him mumbling to himself, but I did not understand his words. It was probably just as well.
I was hot and sweaty. My long linen shirt stuck to my skin. It's a long walk to Hallas' and back again, to use Bilbo's phrase. I imagine there might be another Bilbo-esque saying to describe how I felt, though as I've never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, I haven't the faintest idea what it might be.
As I said, it was a long walk to and from Hallas' home, especially when I arrived to find him not there and his servant shrugging her shoulders about the note I'd received from him commanding my presence immediately. I marched back home in the late afternoon heat, the sweat pouring down my face, and rehearsed what I was going to say to Frodo. "You will tell me what is happening right now, Frodo, or I'll not be responsible for my actions." That sounded about right to me—and about time, given the strangeness of the past few weeks.
I stopped before our front door and leaned against it for a moment, squinting out into our front garden which looked as dusty and disheveled from the heat as I felt. Taking out a handkerchief, I wiped my face and neck, took a deep breath, and walked into the house.
The house was cool and dim and quiet. Suspecting that Frodo would probably be out on the terrace engaged in ... something ... I headed that way. Oddly, the door was closed and the curtain drawn.
"Oh, no," I thought, sure that Hallas was with Frodo and that they had drawn the curtain to ensure their privacy.
I leaned my forehead against the curtained door for a minute, gathering my strength for the scene to come. Sure enough, I heard small rustlings and whisperings—recognized Hallas' voice and then Frodo's voice shushing the man. Ah, perhaps Frodo had heard me come in the front door. He had sharp ears, my faithless lover did.
There was nothing else to do, so I pulled aside the curtains and opened the door in one motion.
Frodo and Hallas were there. As were Beregond, Bergil, Rian, Lilas, Menel and his daughter, and what appeared to be the rest of the City of the Corsairs crowded on to our little terrace.
"Surprise! Happy Birthday, Faramir!" they all shouted, and I nearly fainted.
"I can't believe you actually forgot your own birthday," Frodo said as he snuggled next to me on our bed, the sheets pulled down in the warm night. A fine film of sweat covered us both after our exertions. Lovemaking does seem especially fine after a long drought.
We lay nose to nose, discussing my surprise party and the previous few weeks during which my darling had certainly led my suspicions in a not so merry direction. Every now and then, I rose up on my elbow to look across the room at my present. Though I planned to fix it above our front door in the morning as welcome for all who came to visit us, tonight I wanted to see it whenever I pleased. Our "Sea Dream" was a beautiful home, and Frodo's painting of the view from the terrace even more beautiful since he'd made it with his own hands.
"And don't think you'll get away from explaining yourself, sir, by looking at my little daub," Frodo said, pulling me back and giving my nose a quick nip. I rather liked all of Frodo's nips; death by a thousand hobbit nips seemed a very pleasant way to depart this life, at least at the moment.
"Ahem," I said and cleared my throat. "Leaving aside your 'poor little daub' for later discussion, I owe it all to you that I managed to forget my own birthday." Ah, it was good to laugh again wholeheartedly, and I confess I wallowed in it while Frodo's gaping mouth dropped further and further open.
"Me! What ever did I do?"
Do! What did my sweet, darling Frodo do to make me forget my birthday!
In a flash, I had him pinned down beneath me, his arms spread wide and my fingers wrapped around his wrists. He laughed up at me and, though I meant to give him my sternest lecture, instead I kissed him. Several times.
"I'm still waiting," he said after a few minutes, though his eyes had grown a little hazy and unfocused.
Now that I had run out of excuses not to tell him, I found myself a little tongue-tied. How ridiculous it had all been. "I thought that you ..." I remembered that I had not looked at my painting in at least a minute and so turned my head to buy myself a little more time.
"Faramir!" Frodo wriggled beneath me, freeing one hand to return my face to its proper state, which apparently was looking at him. "Thought I had what?"
There was nothing else for it. I blushed. I coughed. I said all in a rush, "I thought you and Hallas were having an affair."
Never mind that Frodo's eyes widened so much that I thought they'd pop out of his head at my confession. I thought the red that stained my face would never fade now that I had given utterance to my foolish fears of the past weeks.
Eventually Frodo managed to close his mouth, and I dropped down to lie by his side. He curled closer and stroked my face. "But how could you ever ... What did we do?"
I found that I still had a little indignation left in me, just thinking of the things that had transpired (or that I thought had transpired). Well, if he wanted to hear about it all, then hear about it he would. In great tedious detail.
Fixing my eyes across the bed on a blank spot of wall, I ticked off my evidence and did not look at him until I was finished.
He spluttered at me. "B—b—but ... that's just ridiculous! Hallas and me?"
I tried not to, but I felt my spine stiffen at his spluttering. After all, he wasn't the one who had to watch the two of them. "Yes, you and Hallas. All that whispering and laughing together. And what about when I kept coming home and finding him here? You cannot tell me you two did not look terribly guilty of something."
Finally I was ready to face looking directly into Frodo's eyes again. He looked like he wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry, which made for a rather intriguing play of expressions across his beautiful face.
"Oh, Faramir. We were just talking about the party, planning it ... and I wanted to have his advice on how your painting was coming along. That's why we met at the terrace." When I said nothing, he hmphed at me and continued. "It's really very simple," he said in a prim voice.
"Simple?" Well, I'd been close to completely forgiving him, but really, such an officious little statement deserved something other than forgiveness and absolute understanding. "And what about that note you passed to Menel that you said was for Hallas?"
Frodo compressed his lips tightly in the way he did when he was trying to behave in his most serious manner but really wanted to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks. "It was not a note for Hallas. It was the list of guests and my estimates on the amount and type of food to be served. What I said to Menel was that he would receive another list in a day or so ... from Hallas."
Truly, I did not know what to say or do. Being not a complete idiot most of the time, I decided it was the better part of valor to do as my brain bid me and keep silent for the moment. What a good little liar my Frodo had turned out to be.
Apparently, he had thoughts along a similar line, though filtered in an entirely different manner. He nuzzled even closer to me, wrapping a leg and an arm around me, and said, "What a terrible liar I am."
My suspicion was not completely allayed. "What do you mean? You threw me off your course like a professional thief who shakes one's hand and manages to make off cleanly with one's purse."
That seemed to have an effect on him, for he wrinkled his brow. "Yes, but ..."
"But what?"
"I did not mean to make you miserable. Why did you not say anything about your suspicions?"
"Phfffft."
"Well?"
A knowing look came into his eyes as I gave him my answer though he had to lean a little closer to hear me, for I'm afraid I merely mumbled the words. "Because I knew it was ridiculous."
"Exactly!"
I'm not sure whose lips twitched first, but after a moment, we were in each other's arms again, loud chortles of laughter turning to sighs of desire melting to moans of satisfaction.
After long minutes, we lay still again, spooned against each other after we'd snuffed out all the candles. Bright moonlight shone through the window and lit my painting with a pearly radiance.
I whispered against Frodo's hair, "It was the best birthday party I've ever had, and I love my present."
Frodo wriggled happily against me. "I wanted it to be perfect."
"It is, though ..."
"Oh, dear, I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
I laughed. "It should have been me giving you a present."
"Do you think so? After all, we live in a Man's country, not the Shire."
"Yes, that is true." I pulled him even closer to me and buried my face against the hollow of this throat for a moment. "But did you not say I remind you now of Will Whitfoot?"
Oh, he laughed at that. "I did, indeed! Well, then, my lord halfling, I shall expect a present from you."
"Ah, but can you not give me an idea of what you would like?"
Frodo grew quiet then, so quiet that I might have thought he was falling asleep if it were not for his hand stroking my wrist. Finally he gave me his answer. "I know you do not want to join the City's men-at-arms in their swordplay, but I want you to promise me you will take more strenuous exercise. Our peaceful life here is not giving you enough of that, so you must devise a way to do so."
I thought perhaps I could still jest him out of it. "But I thought you liked me hobbity."
"Oh, I do, but I want you healthy, and I see what a strain it is for you sometimes after you've climbed up from the market place. It barely winds me, but you have to stop halfway up."
I was glad it was dark and he faced away from me so he could not see my face flush hot. He said nothing, just stroked my hand. At last I said, "So that's why you haven't wanted to make love with me lately. I understand."
He sighed then. "No. You don't understand. I love you—all of you. I don't give a hang if you've got a little belly. There is nothing that would change what I feel for you, though I confess I have been a little distracted lately. I guess I was just concentrating so much on making your party perfect that I paid little attention to our everyday life, and especially our lovemaking. But I want to have you here to love for many more years. It frightens me to see you so out of breath sometimes. Promise me you will do something?"
As he spoke, he turned round and twined his arms around my neck.
"Very well," I said, my heart oddly lifted. "I promise. And perhaps I have been foolish not to do as Hallas has asked. I shall speak with him tomorrow."
Frodo nipped my throat again. "And will you tell him of your suspicions?"
"No! And you'll not either, if you care to see another of your own birthdays. Have I your promise?"
"Yes."
And so, promises made after the secrets were revealed, we slept until the morning light woke us to a new day.
"Oh, that feels good." I groaned with pleasure and leaned back in Frodo's arms while he scrubbed my chest and pressed his fingers into the tired muscles of my neck and arms.
"Are you sure you're not overdoing things?"
I twisted around and smiled at him, kissing his pointed chin quickly. "I thought you wanted me to take sword practice with the City's men-at-arms."
"I wanted you to take some strenuous exercise to work off a little of your extra padding ..." His clever fingers dug into my ribs, now easily reachable after several weeks of regular training with the Umbar guards.
I squirmed and grinned at him. "And would you say it's worked?"
"Oh, yes. My Ranger of Ithilien has returned to me ... not that I don't love my hobbity man as much." Frodo's smiled faded. "But are you happy working with sword and bow again?"
I settled back against Frodo and his arms held me fast while I thought about what he'd asked me. Finally, I said softly, "Yes. I did not think I would be, yet it is pleasant to my muscles to make the old accustomed moves. Not that I would want to engage in battle again, but it relaxes something in me. I don't know why exactly," I finished, my voice rushing my words together.
"No, indeed. But it seems right to me too that you should practice occasionally, and especially proper to pass on your skills to where they might be needed in the future."
"And you, my Frodo? Do you not grow restless to hold Sting again?"
He held me closer. "No, never."
"Ah, of course not. How foolish of me. You were never trained for such a life as I was, so of course you would not miss it as I have."
"Not foolish, but you are right. I never expected in my life to hold a sword in my hand, much less use it."
We lay in the warm water quietly together, just drifting peacefully. "And you never will have to again. I swear it by all I hold dear."
I felt so terribly solemn in my oath to Frodo that I needed to say something to lighten the atmosphere, not that I regretted my words. But hobbits are best at breaking a solemn moment and yet not lessening it, and I was still but an honorary hobbit.
Frodo said after a minute, "So ... do you swear by the apple tarts that Menel's daughter bakes?"
"Oh, yes ... and by her cinnamon rolls and those scones that you bake yourself and your absolutely enormous dishes of fried mushrooms and bacon and ..."
I was unable to continue my enumeration of the foods that I was willing to swear by unless I cared to swallow a gallon of soapy water, my head having been dunked quite forcibly beneath the surface of our bath. Since I did not care to do that, I gave in quite happily and was soon pulled up from the depths, as it were, spluttering a bit but quite pleased to be in Frodo's capable hands.
As I always was.