Chapter 15 – A Day of Rest

Legolas remained in the garden until an hour before midnight, then went downstairs to wake Merry per their arrangement. Merry had gone to sleep early that evening, knowing he would need to be awake and on his guard for the next twenty-four hours. He woke feeling groggy; surely the hardest part of his duty was waking up when he would normally be going to sleep.

He thanked Legolas and dressed into his livery, making as little noise as possible. The house was silent, no whisper of troubled dreams from any of the rooms. He checked in on Frodo just to be sure, but his cousin slept serenely, curled onto his side. His next stop was the privy, as he knew it would be another ten hours before he would have opportunity to do so again.

The walk to Fen Hollin was peaceful. The city was a different place at night. In the lower circles, he could see the faint glow of lantern-lit streets and knew that many a tavern and inn were still bright and busy. In the upper circles, there were no lights but that of the stars above, and the tall buildings cast dark shadows in all directions. The moon was half full, enough to see by, and the warm summer air carried the scent of the Sea.

At last he reached Fen Hollin and bade good evening to the guard who stood at the door. The guard allowed him to enter and he strolled down Rath Dínen towards the tombs and the House of the Kings where Théoden’s body was kept. Bealdred and Wiglaf were standing guard, sentries still as statues. He nodded to them but did not expect them to acknowledge him. They would exchange brief pleasantries as they switched posts but otherwise would not speak.

Cuthred arrived a few minutes later. He sat next to Merry under a tree as they waited for the turning of the days. Merry liked Cuthred but did not know him as well as the other Riders. Their guard duty together gave them little opportunity to speak, and Cuthred had served in a different company, which had fought on the other side of the Pelennor from Merry and his éored. Even when they took their one meal at midmorning, Cuthred rarely spoke. It was as if the silence of the tombs and their inhabitants stole his voice away. Merry too found it difficult to speak above a whisper while under the shadows of the mausoleums, and he thought it unthinkable that the disaster that befell Denethor had taken place here, just a couple hundred yards away.

Merry looked to the east to the House of the Stewards. Much of the damage that had taken place on the day of siege was now repaired, but there still lingered an air of hostility about the place, as though Denethor’s spirit indeed haunted the tomb. No wonder Pippin’s voice had been stolen away.

Midnight arrived and the guards switched places, saying their good nights and good mornings in hushed tones. Merry took his position to the right of the door, Cuthred to the left, and both stood at attention, still and silent as the tomb at their backs.

It always happened the same way. Merry was cold at first and felt a heaviness in his chest, a mighty weight upon his heart as he thought of the tomb he guarded and what lay within. The heaviness would continue until the greying of the sky as dawn approached. Mist came often in those grey hours and he thought he could see ghosts walking within it, always at the edge of his vision. Then dawn came and the sky brightened from grey to pink-gold to blue. During the day, he could let his mind wander to wherever it would: sometimes to his friends away in Rohan, sometimes back to the siege of Orthanc or Fangorn Forest, or further back to Rivendell and their two months of refuge in that peaceful home, when Boromir was still with them, and always he remembered the Shire. Then the yearning for home was strong as he remembered how he left his family, just a brief note that explained nothing. He imagined what his homecoming would be like, and imagined it with both great joy and awkward silences, along with the occasional fear, wariness and suspicion that Bilbo had reported encountering upon his return. He knew only one thing for certain: Estella Bolger would by now be married to Gordibrand Burrows and his chance with her was gone forever. Then dusk would come followed by black night, and he would again think of Théoden, a father to him when he had felt the most lost and alone, bereft of his friends; it was only with great effort that he didn’t give way to his tears. Finally Osric and Adda would arrive near midnight to take their shift, and Merry would go home, leg-sore and heart-heavy, but proud to have done his part and eager for bed and the oblivion of sleep.

Merry stole a glance at Cuthred. What thoughts ran through his head during the long hours? Perhaps Merry should make an effort to better know his guard-brother.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Only five hours until the dawn.  

“Are you sure you’re all right to be on your own, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked for the fourth time in thirty minutes.

“Yes, Sam. I’m quite improved,” Frodo answered yet again. “I should be able to manage a few hours on my own. I might even go out for a walk later.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself, Frodo,” said Gandalf, coming into the room. He looked at his friend critically and smiled at what he saw. Frodo’s light was strong and steady. “You are improved, but you may tire more easily than you think. If you simply must walk, then at least wait until someone is here to accompany you.”

“We could go down to the fourth circle to that little outdoor café and have tea, sir,” Sam said, looking hopeful.

Any response about not requiring a babysitter died on Frodo's tongue at that beseeching look. “I suppose it doesn’t matter where I’m walking, so long as I get out of the house for a couple of hours.”

“Remember also that Aragorn will expect you to return to the Citadel tomorrow to commence your activities there. Adrik and Amarlicus are most concerned for you, as are Elladan and Elrohir.”

“Please let them know that I am well,” Frodo said, “and I will be there tomorrow with bright eyes and bushy feet.”

Gandalf laughed. “I will inform them. They will be glad to hear it. Now I must be off. The arrival of the Haradrim distracted us for a couple of days, but court commences today and there is much to discuss.” Gandalf turned and swept out of the room, his white robe billowing around him as he left.

“What with all their talking, it’s a wonder as they find time to actually do anything,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Men.”

Now Frodo laughed. “You can’t fault them their lack of hobbit-sense, but they make do. Come Sam, Gimli is cooking breakfast from the smell of it. Salted pork and peppered bacon with greens, I imagine.”

“There’s bread in the pantry, sir,” Sam said, following his master out the door and down the stairs.

Thankfully, Gimli was not alone in the kitchen. Pippin was there also, and he had brought out not only the bread and butter but had whipped up a half-dozen eggs as well. Frodo and Sam helped Legolas to set the table and when all was made ready, they sat to their breakfast. Frodo especially felt famished after eating so little the day before and helped himself to seconds, much to his friends’ delight.

After breakfast, Pippin, Sam and Legolas washed and put away the dishes, while Gimli and Frodo readied for their days. Gimli was excited; yesterday they had fired their first full batch of concrete. Today he would be inspecting the results and if they were as he hoped, he would set the soldiers to build a small wall to test the concrete and bricks properly. Meanwhile he, Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir would ride to the Pelennor to go over the plans for each home to determine how much material and manpower would be required; once Gimli and the masons were satisfied with the material, they would start rebuilding homes as soon as they had enough supplies.

Frodo on the other hand went to the bathing room and readied his bath. The people of the city used kneeling tubs for their baths, but the tubs were large enough for the hobbits to lie down and soak. Legolas brought in the water from the kitchen, one cauldron steaming hot, the other lukewarm for adjusting the temperature as needed. When Frodo was satisfied, Legolas left him and went with Gimli down to the first circle. 

Pippin left soon after Legolas and Gimli. He had his regular duties at the Citadel, but afterwards would be going to the Houses of Healing to lend his hand in cheering the wounded soldiers there. Sam lingered, tidying up here and there and making sure there was elevenses and luncheon easily available for Frodo when he got hungry again. Then he too gathered his things, a basket full of seed bags and gardening tools, to take to the King’s House. It was his intention to do a bit of weeding in the King’s garden, and if he was lucky, perhaps he might learn a thing or two about what was actually bothering Aragorn these days.

Sam knocked on the bathing room door before he left. “Is there aught else you’re needing, sir?”

“No, Sam. I’m quite all right,” Frodo said as he stepped into the tub and sank into its delightful warmth. He sighed in bliss and closed his eyes.

Sam left then also. He opened the front door and started in surprise to find the laundresses from the citadel there, about to knock upon the door. “Good morning, Lord Samwise,” they chorused.

“Morning, ladies,” Sam said. “You’re early.” Usually they did not come for the laundry until noon.

“We were informed that Lord Frodo might not want any interruptions today,” said one of the laundresses. “Is this not correct?”

“No, I mean, yes, thank you,” Sam said, grateful that Aragorn had been so thoughtful. “He’s at his bath now, so try not to disturb him.” He stepped aside to let them in. They already knew where the hampers were, so he went to the bathing room to inform Frodo of their presence in case he heard them moving about. “I’ll just put your nightgown and other things outside the door for them so as they can take those with them.”

“Very well, Sam,” Frodo said, half-groggily, eyes still closed.

Sam shut the door quietly, dropped the clothes on the floor and left.

He reached the citadel in quick time and gained entry to the King’s Houses with ease. He informed Mistress Porcia of his intentions and she nodded in ascent. After all, the King had ordered that the hobbits were free to go anywhere in the house, so who was she to argue? She saw him to the staircase and left him to climb the three stories to the roof garden alone.

Sam found a handful of gardeners already at work. They were more than eager to let him join them, and for the next couple of hours they worked in comfortable silence, watering and weeding, trimming and clipping. He spoke with them about the gardens in the Shire and the things that grew there as they went through the clippings and arranged them into baskets. The clippings would be placed in vases all over the house, depending on the room’s use and lighting. Sam offered to take a couple of the baskets so that more of the gardeners could remain to pick the vegetables and berries ripe for cooking that week.

“Do you need assistance finding the rooms, Lord Samwise?” asked a young woman.

“I think I can remember my way around,” Sam assured her. They split up at the third floor landing and Sam spent the next hour strolling through the house, putting the fresh flowers in their vases and the dead flowers in a third basket.

Eventually, he worked his way down to the King’s study. He smiled cheerfully at the two guards who were posted there and went inside. He looked around the room; the curtains were open to the light, and the grand and majestic furnishings gave the room a forbidding feel. He gulped and tiptoed over to the desk. A quick, cursory look revealed nothing, so he opened the drawers one by one. He found there only meeting notes, weekly itineraries, lists of advisors and nobles, their connections and holdings.

Abandoning the desk, he replaced the flowers in the vase on the mantle behind it and moved to the hutch. It displayed many trinkets and weapons, such as daggers and dirks, but a few of the panels he guessed were actually hidden drawers. It took him a few minutes to find the releases, but he got the drawers opened and quickly searched the contents. To his surprise, one drawer contained all the plans for the remodeling, with notes written in Elvish. The other drawer contained a list of shops and proprietors of the city which seemed to have nothing to do with the remodeling efforts. There was also a calendar on which Aragorn had crossed out each day since his crowning to the current, but whatever day he was counting down to was not marked. Sam committed the list of shops to memory, closed the drawers, quickly replaced the remaining flower arrangements and slipped outside. He smiled brightly at the guards again and went on to the next room.

The list wasn’t much to go by, but it was a start. At the very least, it should keep Merry preoccupied from playing matchmaker to the King.  

Frodo woke from his nap with a start, spraying water out of his nose and splashing water on the floor. He berated himself for falling asleep, but was too relaxed to keep up the pretense of anger for long. He washed quickly, for the water was beginning to cool, and climbed out of the tub. He dried himself and dressed, and brushed out his hair, head and foot alike. Feeling much refreshed, he went into the kitchen for a mop and returned to clean up his mess. He left the water to sit, not wanting to endure any lectures from the others if they arrived home and discovered he had drained the tub by himself.

He instead went to the parlor and rifled through the table where their mail and the various gifts that the citizens of Gondor felt compelled to send them were gathered over the week. Most of the letters and gifts were sent anonymously, so there was no way for them to send the proper thank-you cards. The letters all said more or less the same thing; Frodo blushed to think of their glowing praises. The gifts though could range from a simple poem to an ash-box or, their favorite to date, wooden pipes with the weed bowl shaped like a hobbit’s foot.

Frodo found the ones addressed solely to him, an embarrassing majority, and sat on the settee to open them. He was halfway through the pile, and growing more embarrassed and horrified with each package opened – one lass had sent him a clipping of her hair! – when a knock sounded on the front door.

“Hallo!” came Bergil’s voice through the door. “Anyone home?”

Frodo gladly abandoned his mail and went to answer the door. “Bergil!” he greeted. He was fond of the lad, as the others were. “Do come in! Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Thank you, Lord Frodo,” Bergil said, knowing by now that it was useless to refuse refreshment. The hobbits always felt that they needed to offer him something and if he refused, they worried that he was unwell or not getting enough to eat. Besides, he needed to go to the pantry anyway. “A glass of orange juice would be appreciated.”

“Come on, then,” Frodo said and led the lad to the kitchen. He bade Bergil to sit, then poured them each a glass of orange juice and divided the bowl of apple-and-raisin salad Sam had put aside for elevenses. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I was nearby and thought I’d check if you have any provisions you wish to be delivered,” Bergil said, accepting the juice and salad. He normally didn’t come until Wednesday to pick up the provisions that were to be delivered around the neighborhood, but it wasn’t unusual for him to make a side trip if he was in the area. It prevented people from knowing when to expect him and so made it easier to keep the source of the donations anonymous.

“We do, actually,” Frodo said. “They’re put aside in their usual place. How is your father? I understand you are to be moving to Ithilien soon. Are you excited about your new home?”

“Father is. He thinks it will be good for me to leave the city, but I don’t want to go. All my friends are here,” Bergil said.

“You will make new friends,” Frodo assured. “Many families will be moving there. You’ll have places to play that aren’t made of stone, and you won’t have the memories of the siege there.”

“Victar’s family is moving there, but we don’t get on very well,” Bergil said. “You were there, weren’t you? You and Lord Samwise? Prince Faramir told my father how he met you there. What is it like?”

“Oh, well, we weren’t there for very long and we were blindfolded part of the way,” Frodo said, stalling. The truth was he couldn’t remember much about Ithilien, nor anything else beyond the Emyn Muil, yet he had to reassure Bergil somehow. He thought hard and wished Sam were here, but he couldn’t rely on Sam for everything either. “Well, there was this oliphaunt,” he began at last and tried to piece together the day they had eaten stewed rabbit and been taken to the Window to the West.

A pleasant hour passed, during which Bergil began to feel a little better about his impending move, and finally the lad had to go. He went into the pantry for the provisions and was about to excuse himself when Frodo stopped him.

“You didn’t drink any of your juice,” Frodo said and handed him the cup. “It’s hot out today, and I don’t want you getting heatstroke.”

“Oh, er, thank you, sir,” Bergil said. He took the cup one-handed and immediately lost his grip. The cup tipped and fell, spilling its contents all over Frodo’s shirt and breeches. Bergil gasped aloud, horrified. “Oh, sir! Lord Frodo! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—I mean I—I’m sorry, sir!”

“It’s quite all right, lad,” Frodo said, reaching for a towel and running it over his face and shirt. “I do have other clothes.”

“No, you don’t,” Bergil said miserably, surprising Frodo.

“I assure I do,” Frodo said gently and patted Bergil on the hand.

“But you don’t!” Bergil said and began to sob.

Alarmed, Frodo ushered Bergil back to the kitchen table and sat him down. He handed the lad a handkerchief and ordered him, in soothing tones, to explain himself.

“Sir Merry,” Bergil finally managed to get out. “He asked me to come here. I’m sorry, Lord Frodo! Please don’t tell my father! He’d be so angry!”

Frodo looked at Bergil in astonishment, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Merry. Clothes. This couldn’t be it, could it? This was far too simple a prank for Merry to pull, far too obvious… Frodo turned and glared out the kitchen window. The sun was still at mid-morning and the laundresses had come early. Panic seized Frodo’s mind as he realized the implications in this, until he remembered that he had dutifully stashed away a set of clothes beneath his bed the previous night after his conversation with Legolas. Feeling instantly elated, he patted Bergil on the shoulder.

“Shush now,” Frodo said. “I know what Merry is up to, and trust me when I say that I know much more about this sort of thing than he does. I am prepared, so don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble, and your father will not hear about any of this from me.”

“Really?” Bergil asked, sniffing and wiping his tear-streaked eyes on his sleeve. “I wouldn’t have, my lord, except Sir Merry can be very persuasive.”

“Yes, it’s one of his talents,” Frodo said. “Here, I’ll pour you another glass.” He refilled the cup and gave it to Bergil, then mopped the floor. When Bergil finished his juice, Frodo saw his guest to the door. “You’re in absolutely no trouble at all,” he reiterated.

“Thank you, Lord Frodo,” the lad said, sniffing still. He turned and walked up the road with his basket, his head hanging.

“Poor lad,” Frodo muttered.

Ten minutes later, he was cursing Merry and Bergil both and seriously rethinking his promise not to mention any of this to Beregond. He had gone upstairs and immediately searched his wardrobe, which he was not entirely surprised to find completely bare except for a set of clothing he had never seen before. Clearly, these were the clothes Merry had bought in the market. Avoiding these like Lobelia’s ire, for all that they looked harmless enough, he rooted under his bed for the clothes hidden there only to find that these too had been taken by the laundresses. Huffing in irritation, he had next gone to Sam’s room, then Pippin’s and finally Merry’s. No clothes anywhere! Desperate, he went into Gimli’s room to see if there might be a spare tunic he could wear while he washed his own clothes and set them out to dry – nothing! Legolas only had one change of clothing, so he bypassed that room. Would Gandalf possibly have something for him to wear that wouldn’t be too cumbersome? He found Gandalf’s old grey robe hanging in his wardrobe. Having no other choice, he pulled this down and carried it downstairs to the bathing room.

The water was cold now, perfect for laundering. He removed his clothes – even his smallclothes had been soaked! – and washed them with rough, irate motions. Then he pulled out the box of sewing things Sam kept in the cupboard there and pinned temporary hems on Gandalf’s robe. He was obliged to also pin up the sleeves, lest he trip over these and do some harm to himself. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to come home and find him sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in Gandalf’s robes which would not, he was certain, even be covering the bare essentials. Moving carefully, mindful of the pins, he went upstairs to the roof garden, thanked the stars that they had no neighbors and that their roof was hidden from view from the circles above and below, and hung his clothes out to dry.

That accomplished, he went back downstairs, tripping now and then despite his best efforts, and finally gained the parlor without too much more adventure. Sitting on the settee, he adjusted the robe around him, trying his best not to feel foolish and failing utterly, and pointedly returned to his mail with all the dignity he could muster.

He was just about finished with his mail when another pounding knock sounded on the door, sending his heart to thumping just as strongly and loudly. Who could that be?

“POST!” came the call a moment later.

Frodo actually growled. He knew the postmen would simply leave the mail on the stoop if no one answered the door, but would they peer through the opened windows first to be sure no one was home? If they did, they’d get a grand view of Frodo sitting on the settee surrounded by opened letters, locks of hair – the first such admirer had not been the last – various trinkets and loaves of bread, and drowning in Gandalf’s grey robes. Not wanting to take that chance, Frodo deftly climbed over the settee and hid behind it until he heard the thumps of packages being placed on the stoop. He waited another five minutes, his thighs beginning to burn from squatting, to be absolutely sure they were gone before taking his seat again.

He cleaned up the mail, putting everything worth keeping aside to carry to his room later, and went into the study where he could hopefully get some work done on his book. He had interviewed some of the Rangers of the North the other week but hadn’t had time since to expand on his notes. He located the scrolls that contained his notes and sat at the desk. He pulled out a few loose sheets of parchment, ink, quills and sand. He arranged the desk to his liking, unrolled the scrolls and skimmed his notes as he sharpened the quills, then set to work.

The windows were open for the breeze, such as it was, and the study thankfully looked over the gated courtyard. He would have time enough to duck out of view should anyone else come calling. In the meanwhile, he could look out at the statuettes on the portico and the plants that hung from the patio and the flowers blooming in the boxes beneath the windows. Now and then a hummingbird would come looking for nectar, or a moth or butterfly would flit past. Frodo tensed every time he heard someone upon the road beyond the walls of the yard, but no one else seemed inclined to have business with the Fellowship.

He eased into his work, slowly immersing himself into the accounts of the northern Rangers, so that everything around him fell into oblivion. He scribbled, scratched out, revised and scribbled some more until he had a draft with which he felt satisfied. Now to write a fresh copy for the Rangers’ inspection.

He wasn’t sure how long ago it was that he stopped working and nodded off to sleep, lulled by the droning of the bees, the warm summer gusts and the homey scents of pipeweed and wild flowers in Gandalf’s robe. He dreamt vaguely of green rolling hills and little streams glittering with sunlight under skies of bright blue, strolling along The Water with his friends, smoking pipes of Old Toby and Morning Star, a picnic basket swinging on his arm. A few children ran past, chasing butterflies and laughing merrily, and Sam approached from the other side of the bridge, looking perplexed. “Now really, sir, oughtn’t you to be wearing somewhat proper?” Frodo looked down at his naked body and woke abruptly.

His mind took a moment to clear from his dreams, then he let out a sigh, looked around to make sure he was quite alone, and returned to his notes. He was grateful to see that he had placed the quill in its inkwell before falling asleep, and he reread his notes, draft and what so far constituted his fine copy in an effort to recapture his last string of thought. He soon gave it up for a lost cause as his mind refused to settle on the words before him. His burst of energy was spent with the morning’s excitement and he found himself yawning more often than writing. He put everything away and went upstairs to his room to sleep more properly.

Some time later, he was awakened by Sam shaking his shoulder. When Frodo opened his eyes and looked up, Sam quickly arranged his features into mild concern, but Frodo caught a glimpse of amusement nonetheless. He made sure the robe was covering everything essential then sat up.

“Afternoon, Sam.”

“All right then, Master?” Sam asked. “What happened to your clothes?”

“Bergil spilled orange juice on them and the laundresses took all the other clothes. I washed my clothes and hung them in the roof garden. They should be more than dry by now,” Frodo said. He perked his ears but the house was silent. “The others?”

“Not back yet,” Sam said. “I’ll fetch your clothes for you, sir. I brought you some water and a bit of a snack. You slept right through luncheon, I wager.”

Frodo thanked him and went to the little table that sat in the corner by the window overlooking the wall to the fourth circle below. Frodo still couldn’t look out this window without getting dizzy or without his eyes eventually straying to the Mountain of Doom in the distance. He settled on watching his food instead.

Sam returned shortly with his clothes, dried and clean, with no visible stains from the juice. He laid the clothes on the bed and opened the wardrobe, more out of habit than need. “Why, there’s clothes here, sir!” he exclaimed, seeing the clothes from Merry. “Why aren’t you wearing these?”

“Those are part of Merry’s prank,” Frodo said. He explained what Legolas and Faramir had uncovered about Merry’s scheme and went into further detail of what had happened that morning with Bergil. “Clearly, it was all devised to get me to wear those clothes. He’s sabotaged them in some way, I’m certain.”

“They look fine enough to me. Did you even try them on?” Sam asked.

“No,” Frodo said, suddenly doubtful. He looked at Sam, who looked back at him, eyebrows raised. “He’s not that subtle.”

“He also weren’t one for letting others do his work for him,” Sam said. “Seems as he’s learned a thing or two since leaving home.”

Frodo fingered the clothes. Could Merry possibly have counted on Legolas giving Frodo his information, and further counted on Frodo to distrust any new clothes that just happened to appear? He pulled off the robe and changed into the new clothes: fine material, expert make, complimentary colors, and a perfect fit.

Frodo scowled at the wardrobe, feeling even more foolish than before. “I’m going to strangle him.”

“He played a fair game, sir.”

“That he did, Sam, but this isn’t about fair. It’s about winning. I do believe I’m in the mood for that walk.”

“To the outdoor café?” Sam asked hopefully.

“Eventually.”

Before Sam could think of a reply to this rather ominous declaration, a knock sounded on the front door below and a woman's call floated through the open windows. The laundresses were back with their newly-cleaned clothes.

To be continued…

GF 5/16/09
Published 6/15/09