The Breathing Sea by StarSpray

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Chapter 2

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The Free Fair at Midsummer was as bright and successful a fair as had ever been held in Michel Delving. There were flowers everywhere, in overflowing gardens and growing wild along the roadside, where Frodo spotted a dozen hobbit children in various places gathering daisies to make daisy crowns and wreaths. Bill pulled a cart Sam had hired for himself and Rosie and the Gaffer, who had several large potatoes to enter into some sort of strange vegetable contest in which, as far as Frodo could tell, the participants mostly sat about with mugs of beer and laughed at tubers.

Frodo rode on Strider beside the cart, taking this chance to get a good look at the Shire as they passed through it, at the rolling fields of green and golden wheat, and the pastures full of clover and sheep and busy honey bees. In Michel Delving the air was filled with a myriad of smells of baking and roasting, of a hundred songs being played at once, and hundreds more voices shouting and laughing and singing. The Free Fair was always a strange mixture of chaos and order; in years past Frodo had loved it. This year he had expected it to be rather overwhelming.

But Fatty and Estella found the almost immediately, and once the cart and ponies were tended to, and the Gaffer left with his friends and their own odd potatoes and carrots, the Bolger siblings led Frodo and Sam and Rosie to a relatively quiet place near the edge of the town square, where they could sit and watch the goings on without being swept up in it. It wasn't long before Rosie and Estella left them to do some shopping.

"Are Merry and Pippin here yet?" Frodo asked, watching Pippin's sisters cross the square, all of them giggling.

"I haven't seen them," said Fatty. "I'm sure they'll be here soon, all dressed up as soldiers or knights or whatever it is they are."

"You mean a Guard of the Citadel," Sam said. "And an Esquire of Rohan. It's a pity we didn't get to spend more time in Rohan, Mister Frodo. I would've liked to hear some of their stories, told proper-like."

"There soon won't be anything stopping you from going back," said Frodo.

"Well, there's Rosie," said Sam doubtfully. "I don't know that she would be keen on a journey like that."

"You'll be able to take proper roads, I mean," said Frodo. "The Gap of Rohan is open again, and I'm sure the Greenway won't be so green anymore before long."

As it turned out, Merry and Pippin were not dressed in uniform, although they did dress in southern styles instead of proper hobbit clothing. Frodo had wondered why, but then he saw beribboned heads turning in their direction as they crossed the square. Pippin was very close to strutting, though Merry handled himself better. Fatty elbowed Frodo and nodded in the direction of a stall where an old gammer was displaying delicately-knitted shawls, and where his sister had paused to do her own staring after Merry. "I told you," he said in a low voice. "Making eyes."

"Has Merry noticed yet?" Frodo asked.

"I don't think so. But I'm certainly not going to say anything. Estella would toss me back in the Lockholes."

"Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo!" A gaggle of children appeared suddenly, as though sprung out of the grass. Many of them had grass-stains on their knees and bits of it stuck in their hair, and many more wearing daisy crowns. "Will you tell us a story, Mister Frodo?" asked one of the older children, Aric Rumble—one of Widow Rumble's many grandchildren. "Tell the one about old Mister Bilbo and the three trolls!"

"No, tell the one about escaping the Elvenking's castle!" said another.

"Tell us about your adventure, Mister Frodo!" pleaded yet a third, and this received overwhelming support—as it meant a new story, instead of a well-worn one.

Frodo stared down at them, startled. Fatty laughed, and even Sam chuckled before getting up to get the three of them some beers. Frodo tried to think of a part of his journeys that could be tamed for an audience of children, but came up empty. He looked helplessly at Fatty, but Fatty was still too busy laughing at him to be of any help.

"My own journey was not quite so exciting," he tried, but this was met with a storm of protests, including one question about how he'd lost his finger then. Frodo covered that hand with his other one. "But," he continued, raising his voice a little, so that the children quieted, "I did hear quite a lot of stories when I was in Rivendell. Elvish stories."

The children seemed to consider this, murmuring among themselves. "Are they elves like the Elvenking that Mister Bilbo fought?" asked one small child.

"Mister Bilbo never fought no elves!" Sam exclaimed, indignant, returning just in time to hear this remark. "Who's going about saying that?"

"I think Bilbo's stories have changed a bit in the tellings," Frodo said. "But there are lots of stories about many Elven kings from the Elder Days. Shall I tell you about Prince Fingon the Valiant, who journeyed into the Enemy's fortress to rescue his cousin Maedhros the Tall?"

This was agreed upon as suitably exciting, much to Frodo's relief, and by the time he finished it was nearing lunchtime, and the children scattered, some of them already arguing over who was going to play Prince Valiant and who would play Prince Tall in their games. Frodo sat back and sipped at his beer. "I remember Bilbo telling that story," said Fatty. "He used rather more poetry, though."

"His translations of Elvish songs, most likely," Frodo said. Then he looked at Sam. "You know, Sam, I didn't realize until the middle of the telling just how familiar that story is." He smiled as Sam turned bright red. "I think Samwise the Stouthearted would get along quite well with Fingon the Valiant!"

"Oh don't tease, Mister Frodo," Sam protested.

"I'm not teasing!"

"Samwise the Stouthearted, eh?" said Fatty as he got out his pipe. "I like that. No, don't get up, Sam. I'll get us lunch. Storytelling's hungry work."

When they were alone, Sam said more quietly, "I am glad we're coming to better fates than those Elf princes, Mister Frodo. Mister Bilbo never told it, but I read about the Battle of Tears Uncounted. And about what happened to Maedhros, at the end."

Frodo rubbed absently at the place where his finger had once been. He, too, had read to the end of Maedhros' story: he had reached his goal, and it had not been at all like he had expected, and he could not hold onto it. It was a familiar sentiment. "I'm glad too," he said.

"It makes me wonder about that Maglor, though," said Sam. Fatty returned with meat pies and apples for all of them, with Estella and Rosie in tow. "Is he still out there wandering about, do you think?"

"Anything is possible," said Frodo. "How is the Gaffer doing?" he asked Rosie as she sat down by Sam. "I thought I heard shouting."

"Someone brought a potato they said shriveled over the winter to look precisely like Will Whitfoot's head," Rosie said. "The shouting was them calling for him to come over so they could compare."

"It really is uncanny," Estella remarked. "By the way, Frodo, they're nearly done setting up the stage for the ceremony."

"Will I be returning Mayorship to Will or to the potato?" Frodo asked. Fatty nearly choked on a bite of apple his apple.

An hour later, Frodo did in fact return the mayorship to Will himself, although the potato made an appearance much to the delight of everyone in attendance. The ceremony itself consisted of a handshake and a speech from both of them; Frodo used his only to thank everyone for their hard work over the past year, and to say that he was very pleased to see Will return to his role. Will's was much longer, of course, as suited the Mayor of the Shire, and he accordingly got a great deal more applause. It was a relief to step off of the stage and, hopefully, back into relative obscurity.

Before he could retreat fully, though, he was surrounded by well-wishers, many of whom wanted to know why he hadn't decided to run for Mayorship himself—Will Whitfoot was a fine Mayor, of course, but Frodo had done quite a good job himself—perhaps in seven years' time…?

Frodo laughed off the suggestions. He had no desire to run for Mayor—he hadn't before the Troubles, and having spent time as Deputy Mayor, he wanted the position even less. The Mayor was in demand for far more than presiding at banquets and wrangling the Shirriffs, as it turned out—Frodo had mediated half a dozen disputes that family heads had thrown up their hands at, some of which had taken days to sort out, and signed so many wills that he never wanted to see his signature in red ink again.

His speech given, Will followed Frodo back to his seat at the edge of the square. He still needed a cane when doing a great deal of walking about, as he was that day, and he was still quite thin, with hollows in his cheeks, but there was color in his face again and a twinkle back in his eyes. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said, shaking hands warmly. "Have I thanked you properly yet for all the work you did? Things were in a right state after all that business with Sharkey and his Big Men. I made the speech, of course, but that's different. So, thank you very much, Frodo."

"It was the least I could do," said Frodo. Sam made a noise behind him that sounded a little incredulous, but Frodo ignored it. "But I'm very glad to see you up and about again."

"I'm very glad to be up and about!" Will laughed. "Oh, and before I forget, the missus has instructed me to invite you to dinner sometime soon. Perhaps next week? And of course Master Samwise and Mistress Rose, you are invited as well!"

"That's very kind of you, Mister Whitfoot," Sam said, apparently startled at the invitation. Rosie accepted the invitation for all three of them.

The rest of the Free Fair was taken up by games and competitions, and several more requests from an ever-growing group of children for Frodo to tell stories. By popular demand he told several stories of dragon-slayings, including Bard's killing of Smaug at Laketown, and Eärendil's defeat of Ancalagon the Black during the War of Wrath long ago. No one really believed the stories, but that didn't bother Frodo much.

On the way back to Hobbiton, in a cart piled modestly with Rosie's purchases, which included several bolts of cloth and something beneath them that looked suspiciously like a cradle, Rosie asked Frodo, "Is that Eärendil you talked about really sailing around the skies in a magic boat?"

"Yes," he said. They had come to the New Row at twilight, and as Sam helped the Gaffer inside his hole, Frodo pointed to the purpling western sky. "There he is, just there."

"Oh, that's just the evening star," Rosie protested.

"But why do you think it doesn't act like other stars?" Frodo asked, smiling. "That's Eärendil on his ship with the Silmaril on his brow. All the Elven songs say so. And Sam and I met Eärendil's own son, Master Elrond in Rivendell. I think if the songs had gotten it wrong that he would say something about it."

"Sam, is he having me on?" Rosie asked as Sam rejoined them. "The evening star's really an elf with a great big diamond on his forehead, and you met his son?"

Sam stopped and scratched his head. "Well, it sounds a bit odd when you put it like that," he said. "But Master Elrond did say that Eärendil was his sire. And then the Lady Galadriel gave the star-glass to Mister Frodo, that's got the Silmaril light inside it. Saved our lives, that star-glass did."

Showing the star-glass to Rosie had to wait until the cart was unloaded and the ponies taken to the stable down the lane. Frodo had it tucked away with the rest of his things from their journey, including Sting and the mithril shirt and the clothing he had worn in Gondor. "Here it is," he said, pulling it out of a small pouch. They had not lit any lights in the parlor, and the starlight blazed out of the glass as it nestled comfortably in Frodo's palm. It lit the room with pale light, and shimmered in Rosie's eyes as she leaned forward to peer at it, mouth open in a small o.

"Well that's a marvel, and no mistake!" she said. "Oh and look, it's catching in that jewel of yours, Mister Frodo!" They all looked down at Frodo's chest, where the queen's white jewel did indeed seem to be shimmering like a star itself, doing more than only reflecting the light from the star-glass, even after Frodo put it away and Sam turned up some proper lights. And when Frodo touched it, it felt comfortably warm.

That night he dreamed again of the sea, and of a ship faintly gleaming in the starlight bobbing on the waves, its sails unfurled and its anchor weighed, only waiting for him to step on board.