37 ~ Scars  

“I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Frodo,” Ellis says standing at my door the next day with Amber in his good arm. “Ferdi’s got his hands full of the other children, so I thought I’d bring her with me.”

I smile gently. “No, I don’t mind. Come in,” I say, ushering them into the front room.

Ellis sets Amber on the ground, and she glances around in awe.

“It’s so big, Ellis!” she exclaims, sticking close to her brother. “You live here, Mr. Frodo?” She looks up at me with big brown eyes.

“Yes, I do. Rosie, Sam and I,” I reply.

“Do Mr. Sam and Missus Rosie have any children, Mr. Frodo?” Amber asks. “You could fit lots in here, an’ I bet they’d not hafta share rooms, neither.”

I laugh. “No, they wouldn’t. Sam and Rosie don’t have any children yet, though.”

We move into the parlor, and suddenly I feel little hands taking my right hand and turning it over gently.

“What happened to your finger, Mr. Frodo?” Amber asks, glancing up at me questioningly.

“I lost it,” I reply, every muscle in my body resisting the urge to stiffen up and yank my hand back.

“An’ you can’t find it again? My Da takes off his thumb and puts it back on.”

Ellis shows me the trick most hobbit lads learn to scare the girls and I smile.

“No,” I say, “I’ve lost it.”

“Too bad. Maybe you’ll find it again someday.” She gives me a big, cheerful grin, and suddenly I feel my spirits lift just a little.

Ellis grins at me, as if sensing the change in my mood, and pulls Amber onto his lap as we begin our lesson.

I sit across from him on the couch and pick up the parchment he’d brought with him where he’d sketchily written the words I’d assigned him. Halfway down the page I see two words with handwriting different and a bit neater than Ellis’.

“Who wrote these?” I ask, pointing out the two words: quilt and horse.

“Amber did. She said she wanted to read cause she wants to read stories about adventures, so I’ve been teachin’ her what you’re teachin’ me,” Ellis replies, looking a little embarrassed. “So I had her write them words to see if she could write too.”

“Her handwriting is very nice,” I say smiling down at Amber, who is grinning at me.

“Thank you, Mr. Frodo!” she says, blushing.

* * *

They leave before Sam and Rosie get home from the market, so I whistle for Wanderer and shut myself in the study to do some bit of superfluous paperwork for the mayor, then I pull out my leather book to write a little more.

Wanderer curls up on my lap, purring loudly, and I stroke his ears as I consider how to begin the next chapter.

As hard as it is for me to brace and begin writing, I’ve found that I can’t stop very easily once I’ve begun.

I think over my opening statement four times, then finally put pen to paper, and I am swept up in my memories until a soft knock pulls me out of them. I blink, taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

“Frodo, Rosie’s got luncheon ready,” Sam says, opening the door and coming to stand by me.

I rub my face and look up at him blankly. “Hmm?” I ask.

“I said, ‘Rosie’s got luncheon ready,’” he repeats. “You’ve been writin’ since Ellis left, no doubt?” He gives me a reproachful look.

I nod, stretching my hand out and grimacing as pain shoots up my non-existent ring finger.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” Sam says, helping me rise, and leading me out to the kitchen.

* * *

After dinner I slip off to bed quietly after saying goodnight to Sam and Rosie. I keep thinking of Amber’s innocent statement, “Maybe you’ll find it again.” I look down at my finger in the dim light before blowing the candle out. Perhaps my finger will never be physically restored, but perhaps the scars left may be healed.