Chapter 65. Of a Birthday Remembrance

Freddy and Budgie stayed a week at Bag End before beginning the journey homewards. The last morning before Freddy's departure, the cousins walked early to the top of the Hill. They discussed for the last time their conspiracy to keep the others in blissful ignorance.

 ‘A conspiracy to end an affair that began with a conspiracy,’ Frodo said. ‘What a delightful irony.’

Budgie and Freddy would arrive at Bag End on the sixth of October for a “belated birthday” visit, sending Sam and Rose to the farm with little Ellie for a holiday. Frodo had been able to resist the onset of Shadow the previous October until the evening hours, and so he thought he’d be able to reassure Sam enough this time to send the faithful hobbit away before evening came, especially with Freddy and Budgie there. When all was over and done, Budgie and Freddy—or just Budgie, should Freddy’s heart fail him—would deal with the aftermath. It was the only plan they could think of, to keep Sam from the agony of possibly... probably... inevitably watching the Shadow take his beloved master.

 ‘What do I tell Merry and Pippin?’ Freddy said. ‘And Sam, for that matter?’

 ‘Tell them the truth,’ Frodo answered. ‘Tell them I love them, and if there is any part of me that continues, I will miss them with all my being.’ He took a deep breath, watching the sunrise turn the clouds to puffs of gold. ‘If you feel the need to tell them how I deceived them, be sure to give them the reason why. Sam will be grieved, but he will understand, I think, as will Merry... but Pip might feel betrayed, and that is not how I would leave him.’

 ‘I’ll know what to tell them,’ Freddy said. ‘You might write a note to each, just in case I’m not able...’

 ‘A good idea, cousin, I will do that,’ Frodo said. He smiled suddenly. ‘We might just be lucky, you know,’ he said.

 ‘How is that, cousin?’

 ‘I might yet die before the sixth of October, you know. Then all this will be moot,’ Frodo said lightly.

Freddy cleared his throat. ‘I think if that happens, Sam will suspect that something’s wrong.’

Frodo laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘I suppose it’s unavoidable,’ he answered. ‘Come, let us walk down to breakfast before they send the coach for us.’

***

Post moved fairly regularly between Midge Hall and Bag End for the rest of the Summer. Freddy was glad that it was such a beautiful season, for Frodo’s sake. It seemed to him as if the Shire put on her finest gown to honour the Ring-bearer as he prepared to take his leave. Freddy supposed he ought to be more worried about himself, but facing mere death seemed trifling, compared to what his cousin anticipated.

***

On the First of September, a Ranger of the North stopped at the Prancing Pony in Bree. He asked for the proprietor, and when Barliman Butterbur finally came from dealing with a minor crisis in the kitchen—something to do with the amount of salt in the gravy—the grave-faced Man asked to speak to him privately.

 ‘I have here a message that must go to the Shire without delay,’ the Ranger said, after Mr Butterbur had closed the door to his private office. ‘I am told you ought to be a reliable person to leave it with.’

 ‘Who told you that?’ Mr Butterbur wanted to know.

The Dunadan smiled, just the slightest smile, and held out a sealed envelope. In the corner was a simple G-rune, and Mr Butterbur paled.

 ‘Not—’ he said, but the Dunadan nodded. ‘Make sure it goes off at once,’ he said, and as Mr Butterbur took the envelope, he bowed, and was gone.

 ‘But—’ Mr Butterbur stuttered after him, to no avail. Swift strides had taken the Dunadan to the door and out, and by the time Mr Butterbur hurried after him, he’d already mounted his horse and was riding into the darkness.

Bob hurried up. ‘Mr Butterbur, sir, them taters we got are all spots and sprouts and I don’t know what we’ll do for the mash to go with the bangers...’ Mr Butterbur hastily shoved the letter behind a pint pot on the mantel and went into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves in his determination to get a decent late supper on the table for the hungry diners that were soon to descend upon him.

***

On the twenty-second of September, a package arrived from Bag End as Freddy was rising from his usual nap before tea. ‘A package from your cousin, Freddy!’ Viola sang out.

 ‘Which one?’ Freddy called in return, buttoning his shirt and emerging from his room. The smial was filled with the good smells of baking: jam-filled biscuits, he’d wager, and apple pockets, if his nose wasn’t deceiving him.

A bulky package sat in the centre of the well-scrubbed table. ‘You’d best deal with that,’ Viola said, ‘or none of us will get our tea!’

 ‘Ah, Frodo,’ Freddy said, seeing the familiar firm flowing script. ‘That’s right! It’s his birthday this very day...’

 ‘How thoughtful,’ Viola murmured, coming to lay a hand upon Freddy’s shoulder. She knew very well the state of Mr Baggins’ health.

 ‘But it is not just directed to myself,’ Freddy continued. ‘Your name is there, and Budgie’s, and even the babe’s.’

 ‘What!’ Viola said in astonishment, laying a hand upon her gently swelling belly. ‘Babe’s not even born, yet!’ She could not deny the bold script, however, which read “Mr Fredegar Bolger, Master and Mrs Budgerigar Smallfoot and family, Midge Hall, Bridgefields”. ‘Would you look at that!’ she breathed. ‘I can’t say as how I’ve ever had a package before!’

 ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ Freddy said.

 ‘Well don’t just stand there, undo it!’ Budgie said from the doorway. ‘My wife is about to expire from curiosity.’

Seeing Freddy fumble with the twine, Viola took her little snips from her sewing basket and quickly dealt with that impediment. It was quick work after that to undo the wrappings...

Viola gasped as a beautifully soft knitted baby blanket appeared. ‘That’s Rosie’s work,’ Freddy said. ‘She wore a shawl of much the same pattern, some time back, the day I bought a waggonload of apples from the good farmer and sent them all off to Merry.’ He added absently, ‘Her fresh face and sweet smile stayed with me in the dark of the Lockholes; she and other hobbits like her were the reason we stood against Sharkey and the ruffians.’

Budgie laughed, pulling him back to the present. ‘I heard about that,’ he said. ‘It was the talk of the Shire—an entire waggonload of apples for the heir of Buckland. “Extraordinarily fond of apples” became a byword for quite awhile after.’

The bundle had been too heavy to contain only a knitted blanket, and so Viola unfolded it carefully lest any of the contents should fall out and break. Inside were several items with tags identifying them. The first to emerge was for Freddy, a well-thumbed little book. He picked it up, handling it reverently. ‘One of the volumes of Bilbo’s translations from the Elves,’ he breathed. ‘Frodo read to me from this during that long, dark time when he never left my side.’

 ‘Young Master Pippin brought him some of his books from Crickhollow, “to keep him out of mischief” whilst they routed out the last of the ruffians, as I recall,’ Budgie said.

 ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Freddy said. The next item he lifted was a pipe. ‘For you, Budgie,’ he said, reading the tag. ‘This is one of the pipes King Elessar had made for Frodo during his stay in Minas Tirith.’

Budgie and Viola exclaimed over the fine workmanship, the beauty of the inlaid silver that wove an intricate pattern through the carvings along the stem and around the bowl.

 ‘For Viola,’ Freddy read, taking up a carven butterfly. ‘It’s one of those things you use to decorate your hair.’

 ‘O Freddy!’ Viola laughed, taking up the delicate comb and tracing the lines with a wondering finger. ‘It’s a work of art, it is!’

 ‘It was his mother’s, one of a pair,’ Freddy said. ‘I imagine he’d give Rose the other. Oops,’ he added suddenly. ‘Nearly lost this in a corner of the blanket...’ He picked up a paper packet, of the sort hobbits fold to contain seeds saved from the garden for the next year’s planting. ‘For Viola,’ he read, and held it out to her.

She took it, and sudden tears flooded her eyes. ‘Remember me when this you see,’ she read in a whisper, touching the little blue flowers with their bright centres, drawn in ink with exquisite detail and carefully tinted. ‘I always think on him when I see that colour of blue,’ she said. ‘I know just where to plant these...’ And indeed, the descendents of those forget-me-nots bloom to this day in a little spot by the kitchen door of the smial.

There was one more paper-wrapped object, long and slender, with a warning printed on the front: Fragile! Freddy took it up and unwrapped a quill and a note. ‘I have finished the work,’ he read aloud. ‘As much as I am ever going to finish; I’ve left the rest for Sam to complete. Perhaps you can help him with his spelling, as you helped me. I thought you might like to have this, to remember our collaboration. It is the quill which wrote the final word of mine, in Bilbo’s book.’

Feeling an absurd desire to weep, Freddy straightened his back and said briskly, ‘I do believe I’ll take tea in the study today, Viola.’

 ‘Very well, Freddy,’ Viola said, wiping her tears away. ‘I’ll have it for you in three shakes.’