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Dancing In The Gloaming
Frodo Baggins was in many ways a hobbit of great talents. Of course, he knew
three Elvish dialects, and could write in two of them. He was familiar with
Dwarvish runes as well. When a particular speech or poem was needed to
commemorate a special occasion, it was generally agreed that Frodo Baggins was
your hobbit for the job. And he had a rare gift for a tune, his voice always a
treat for the ear. But Frodo also had a secret failing. He could not dance. He
was adept, however, at the appearance of being able to dance, so his secret had
been safe up until now, but Hobbiton was about to learn the bitter truth.
The occasion was the first Harvest Festival since Bilbo Baggins’ departure from
the Shire. It was customary for the head of the chief family of the farthing to
lead off the dancing, and Bilbo had always performed that duty with great relish
and skill. The thought had never crossed Bilbo’s mind that his cousin might need
some instruction as to this duty. Had he not grown up, after all, at Brandy
Hall? Of course the lad could dance, when he cared to.
Frodo had suddenly been made aware of this looming catastrophe a couple of weeks
prior, when Tom Cotton sang out, upon seeing Frodo arrive one evening at the
Green Dragon in the company of Sam, “Been practicing your vining step, Mr.
Frodo? Won’t be long now!”
Frodo had sat down in his customary corner, smiling and raising a mug in
response, and felt that he probably should have understood that remark. He
turned to Sam, settling down in between Frodo and the gaffer, with a look on his
face that Sam interpreted immediately.
“The Harvest Festival’s only a fortnight off,” Sam mentioned casually. “I
suppose I ought to be gettin’ together with Tom and the other lads to see about
readying the Party Field.”
The connection was suddenly made horribly vivid in Frodo’s mind. The vining
step, that was some sort of a dance step, wasn’t it? Harvest Festival - no Bilbo
- oh, sweet Lady. The dancing. And every bit as bad, the choosing of the partner
for the lead-off dance.
Frodo was all too aware of his position as the most prominent specimen of
unmarried hobbit-hood in the immediate area of Hobbiton. He had become quite
practiced at smiling politely but vaguely when mothers threw their eligible
lasses in his direction and avoiding all discussion of how large Bag End was for
a single hobbit all alone in the world. But the need for a dancing partner was
going to throw that careful equilibrium into turmoil, without a doubt.
Frodo left the Green Dragon that night feeling more despondent than he had since
Bilbo’s departure.
The night proved to be a sleepless one for Frodo. How could he escape this
predicament? An injury to his foot could be feigned, but Sam could never be
fooled, and somehow the thought of appearing a coward in Sam’s eyes was quite
impossible. It was always possible to obtain an invitation to either the
Buckland or Tuckburough festivities instead, but Frodo knew all too well that
the whole of Hobbiton would clearly feel affronted. And despite his fears,
Frodo’s sense of duty was far too well entrenched to allow him this easy escape.
Somehow he had to manage to acquire dancing skills as well as an appropriate
partner in less than two weeks. The next morning dawned clear and bright, but
not in Frodo’s heart. He wandered moodily through the Bag End kitchen,
absent-mindedly picking up a piece of bread-and-butter that Sam had left out for
him. Pouring out a cup of tea as well, he walked out into the kitchen garden in
search of solace and found Sam.
Sam was busy re-staking the bean bush in the garden corner and didn’t hear
Frodo’s approach. The bush had proved fruitful indeed this summer, and had
completely overgrown its stakes. Sam had a firm hold of the bush with one hand
and was single-handedly trying to dig a hole with the other, as Frodo drew near
him.
“Here, Sam, you look as if you could use a third hand,” Frodo smiled, setting
his cup down on the walk.
“Oh! Aye, I guess I could at that,” Sam answered gratefully, allowing Frodo to
hold onto the bush so he could go about digging the hole properly. Quickly
finishing the hole, he started to set in the new stake, giving Frodo a shrewd
look as he worked. “Rather early for you, Mr. Frodo,” he commented, taking in
the sight of Frodo’s rather bedraggled appearance. “Don’t look as you slept that
well.”
Frodo sighed. As always, Sam read him all too well. “I don’t know why things
happen the way they do, Sam, “ he replied distractedly, handing the bush back to
Sam and straightening up again. Turning away, he ambled along the path, staring
unseeingly at the heavy bumblebees buzzing lazily about the lavender in the warm
morning sun. “I have no business at all being the master of Bag End. It’s not
something I was born to do, it’s not something I was raised to do, and sometimes
I think the only reason Bilbo ever chose me was that I was the only hobbit he
knew that didn’t flee at the sight of a book.”
Sam had now ceased his task and was watching Frodo carefully. “Mr. Bilbo always
had a reason for what he did,” he commented noncommittally. Patiently , he
waited for Frodo to continue, knowing that he would.
“It’s the dancing, Sam,” Frodo muttered, his eyes still fixed on the bees.
“Aye?” Sam answered, still not understanding, but still waiting.
“I can’t,” burst from Frodo, his fair face beginning to redden with the
admission. “I can’t.”
Sam’s round hazel eyes widened with surprise at that. “What do you mean, Mr.
Frodo?” he replied in disbelief. “I remember you last year at the party..” his
voice trailed off.
“Yes, and what do you remember?” Frodo turned around to him, his face still rosy
with embarrassment. “Did you ever actually see me dance with anyone?”
“Well, now. I suppose not,” Sam turned back to the bush, giving the soil around
it a final pat. “But what with it being your party and all too, you were that
busy. Never really gave it no mind.” This was not entirely a truthful statement,
so Sam kept his hands busy and his face away. He had certainly noticed the lack
of a partner, and had been inexplicably pleased by the deficiency.
“But this year,” Frodo continued, with a sigh. “The Harvest Festival. Everyone
will be expecting me to take Bilbo’s place to lead off the dancing. I can’t
possibly look busy enough to avoid that.” He stuffed both hands in his pockets
and glared at the newly replanted but unoffending bean bush.
“Your cousins?” Sam questioned carefully, straightening up and dusting off his
hands on his trousers. “Mayhap they could teach you a step or two? There’s still
time enough.”
“Well, yes,” Frodo admitted reluctantly, “ But you see… It‘s just that…”
Turning to the bench under the kitchen window, he sat down heavily and stared at
the ground in frustration. “Oh, Sam, it’s silly I know. But I’m the older. I’m
supposed to know these things. And you know Merry and Pippin. I’d never hear the
end of it.” He raised his eyes unhappily up to Sam.
“Aye, I don’t doubt it,” Sam had to agree to that. He knew Mr. Frodo’s cousins
well enough to know that they wouldn’t let something like that slip by easily. A
sudden thought made him stop still. But Mr. Frodo did seem to looking to him as
if he had the answer.
“Would you like me to show you a few steps, Mr. Frodo?” he asked shyly, the tips
of his ears beginning to redden unavoidably.
Frodo’s sudden smile was all the answer needed. “That would be wonderful, Sam,”
he replied with relief.
“Aye. Well then,” Sam stumbled at the words. “I did tell Tom Cotton and the lads
I’d help them ready up the Party Field today, but I could ..”
“That would be fine, Sam,” Frodo reassured him quickly. “Why don’t you come back
for tea and maybe then…”
“I will, at that.”
Frodo was oddly nervous but ready for Sam when he turned up at teatime. He had
hated to impose on Sam’s good nature this way but the idea of having Sam help
him out seemed rather comforting. And besides, Sam really was an excellent
dancer. He picked at a biscuit or two while Sam ate his normal rather hearty
tea, and waited impatiently for Sam to push back the kitchen chair and say, with
some hesitation, “Well, then.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Frodo rose too, speaking hurriedly, “there’s not much room
inside Bag End, and Valar knows I don’t want to attempt this in sight of the
Row, so maybe the back garden?”
Sam nodded without comment and followed Frodo out.
The back garden was situated behind the kitchen garden towards the back of the
Bag End hill. Bilbo’s favorite cutting gardens lined the edges, colorful in the
late summer with great masses of flowers, but there was also a broad bit of lawn
as well before the orchard began. Frodo stopped at the edge of the lawn, his
hands clasped together uncertainly before him, and cleared his throat. “Yes.
Well.”
Sam, following behind, stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Frodo
appraisingly. “Mr. Frodo, how much do you know about dancing?”
“Trust me, Sam, nothing whatsoever,” Frodo responded wryly. “I do know it’s done
in pairs or large groups, and involves a good deal of stepping about, but
nothing past that.”
“So the footwork first,” Sam decided, nodding his head. “All right then, Mr.
Frodo, just watch my feet.”
Sam’s golden furred feet, as sturdy as the rest of him, then did something
nearly mystical to Frodo’s mind. Sam , seeing the expression on Frodo’s face,
laughed aloud. “All right, Mr. Frodo,” he continued, still chuckling. “We’ll
take it a bit slow then. You really don’t know aught about dancing, do you.”
“You have no idea, Sam,” responded the older hobbit, unable to stop from
chuckling as well.
As they worked on, the late afternoon wore into evening, and the sparrows and
swallows began to settle into their nests with sleepy murmurs, and the cicadas
began to sing lustily, and Frodo felt it was time to call it a day. “Come have
dinner with me,” he threw an arm over Sam’s shoulder as they started to walk
back towards the smial. “However did you learn all of this, Sam?”
Sam laughed. “You forget, Mr. Frodo, he replied easily, looking over at Frodo
with a grin. “I’ve three sisters and they needed someone to practice on. You’d
be fair amazed at how hard a lass can trod when she wants to help you remember.
Aye, I learned quick enough.”
The lessons became a comfortable rhythm in the following days, and Frodo felt an
unusual amount of sureness enter his steps, and he began to think that he might
really pull this off after all.
“Well, I think you’ve about got the steps down, Mr. Frodo,” Sam commented as
Frodo managed a rather successful series of complicated steps. “But you don’t
want to be watchin’ your feet. A lass wants a bit of attention paid to her face
as well, you know.”
“A lass.” Frodo stopped short, the second of his predicaments suddenly springing
to mind. “Oh, sweet Lady. I had forgotten the lass.”
“Sam, I just can’t ask any lass,” he explained with a pained glance at Sam’s
raised eyebrow. “Anyone I would ask would immediately assume herself the next
Mistress of Bag End. And somehow, well, I just don’t think I’m the marrying
kind.”
For reasons he had no time to examine right now, Sam found this piece of
information quite uplifting, but he had no solution to Frodo‘s dilemma.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, plopping himself on the grass. Sam hankered down beside
him, glad of the rest as well. These lessons on top of a full day of work could
wear even the most robust hobbit out, though he would never admit it to Frodo.
“This is so hopeless. I have no business being the master of Bag End anyway.
No-one could be worse at this than I.”
“Well,” said Sam, gazing at his master meditatively. “If you hadn’t come, I
suppose I should be workin’ for Mr. Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”
Frodo gave a sudden snort at Sam’s melancholy expression, which was quickly
dissolving into a grin. “All right, Sam,” he laughed, “Point well taken. And do
you know Lobelia cornered me a couple of days ago in town?”
“Whyever for, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s face was suddenly distrustful. “That one’s
naught but trouble, beggin’ your pardon, for all she’s your cousin.”
“Something about the wine tasting. She was wondering if I’d care to have Lotho
help me out.” One of the chief events of the Harvest Festival, of course, was
the ceremonial sampling of that year’s vintage, and Bilbo had always been held
to be a rare judge.
Sam gave a derisive snort at this bit of news. “That dolt wouldn’t even know
good beer if it bit him,” he grimaced.
Frodo could help but laugh. Lotho was no favorite of his either. “Well, you’ll
be pleased to know I ever so gratefully declined her offer. I’m sure my list of
faults has grown no end.” He sighed then, gazing towards the back hill, where
the sun was setting in a hazy fiery glow. “But I hate these bad feelings, Sam.
You know the three of us are the last of the Baggins line, now that Bilbo’s
gone. Maybe I should give Lotho something to do.”
Sam made no comment, but the look on his face clearly reflected his opinion of
Frodo’s generosity.
Three days before the Harvest Festival, Frodo was at least beginning to feel
confident of his feet. The lessons had become the highlight of his day, and as
much as he had previously hated dancing, he found that being swung about in
Sam’s arms was quite enjoyable, and in fact, much more than that.
The issue of the partner, however was beginning to trouble him more and more. He
had strove to put this problem out of his mind as he and Sam moved to the actual
patterns of the dances, Sam covering the various different ways that the dance
partners moved together. They had reviewed the leading dance, the various
assorted couples dances, the lads-alone jig, and the final wild tarantella.
Shadows of evening were lengthening across the lawn when he tried a final
attempt with Sam at meeting his partner in a reel. Somehow, every time that he
tried to meet up with Sam, he ended up stepping on his foot, or grabbing the
wrong arm, or reaching out the wrong hand. Finally, Sam stopped. “Mr. Frodo,” he
exclaimed in fond frustration, “You’re thinking too much.”
“I don’t understand,” Frodo frowned, feeling awkward and, as usual, so very
clumsy.
Sam had been standing with his left hand out ready to grasp Frodo‘s right. “You
have to trust your partner, Mr. Frodo,” he said softly, reading Frodo‘s
uncertainty. Frodo was suddenly so very aware of the warm and strong hand as it
reached out for his. “You can’t do your partner’s work for her,” Sam continued,
watching Frodo’s face carefully, “You just have to trust that she’ll be where
she should be when she has to be.”
An eternity seemed to pass for Frodo before he dared let himself respond to
Sam’s words. Even the normal sounds of the evening seemed to suddenly hush, and
he was aware of the fragrance of the honeysuckle over the garden gate arbor as
never before. “But I do trust my partner,” he whispered, his eyes on Sam’s face,
surrendering to the need to say this. “I’ve always trusted my partner. Always.”
Sam’s eyes were unreadable in the dusk, but his fingers tightened almost
imperceptibly around Frodo’s hand and he didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t there a final dance, Sam?” Frodo continued in nearly a whisper, obeying
an impulse that had become inescapable.
“Aye, there is,” Sam replied in a muted murmur, his hand still holding tightly
to Frodo’s. “Do you want me to teach it to you?”
“Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Then suddenly Sam’s arms were around him tightly, and Sam’s lips were on his,
and his kiss was sweet, oh so sweet, and Frodo felt his heart surging with joy
and knew that this was so very right. He clung tightly to Sam and kissed him
back fiercely, pouring all his love into it. Gone were all those years of trying
to pretend that the only feelings he had for Sam were those of a friend, all the
years of wondering how Sam could possibly feel anything like that for him, and
the sheer bliss of this moment he knew he would always treasure, come what may.
He broke slowly apart from Sam and holding Sam’s face between his hands, gazed
deep into Sam’s eyes. Sam’s face held an expression of delighted shock and
wonder, and he raised one of his hands up to lightly graze Frodo’s cheek.
“Oh, Frodo,” he breathed, “I can’t believe…”
Frodo quickly covered Sam’s hand with his own. “Believe it, Sam,” he responded
tenderly. “Always believe it.” And as their hearts beat faster, he melted into
Sam again, meeting him in a more intense kiss than before. Frodo’s pulse was
racing, he felt wild joy running through every vein. Sam’s response was more
passionate than he had ever dreamed of, in the loneliest of his nights, and it
suddenly became clear to him that the very wildest of his dreams had
unexpectedly come true. And then he heard a cough.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was standing under the honeysuckle in the gateway, a
certain grim satisfaction written on her weathered face. Frodo and Sam turned as
one towards her, their arms still unmistakably wrapped around each other, and
Frodo felt suddenly certain that he was going to faint. Terrified as he was at
that moment, a corner of his mind made a note that what he did not feel was Sam
pulling away from him. Indeed, Sam stood his ground, his arms still firmly
around Frodo, watching Lobelia warily.
Frodo determinedly pulled his emotions together and slowly and reluctantly
separated himself from Sam, though still standing close to him. “Lobelia. What a
surprise,” he stated flatly.
“I would imagine so,” she retorted dryly, showing no sign whatsoever of
surprise.
Squaring his shoulders, Frodo faced the unavoidable. There was no point to
making Sam go through this, after all she was his family, not Sam’s. But he
refused to give in to any embarrassment or shame, and by Sam’s close stance, he
seemed to feel the same.
“Sam, would you care to have dinner with me this evening?” he turned and asked
Sam, praying with all his heart that he had not misread Sam.
He had not. “Aye, that I will,” Sam answered defiantly, giving Frodo a steady
glance, his jaw firm. “I’ll be back in about an hour, if that be right.”
“Perfect,” Frodo breathed, his heart swelling with relief and pride. Turning to
Lobelia, who had been watching this exchange closely, he nodded formally to her.
“Shall we go in then?”
He turned to her sharply as they entered the Bag End parlor. “Well?” he asked
crisply, “How may I help you?”
“Save it, Frodo,” she retorted sharply, seating herself without invitation.
“This isn’t the Hobbitown marketplace.”
Frodo sat down on a bench opposite her, his hands clasped tightly in front of
him. He was trying desperately to keep his emotions in check, but the fear that
Lobelia could cause great harm, especially to Sam should she choose to, was
starting to choke him.
“I had come about the Festival business,” she continued, scrutinizing him
closely, “but there appears to be another matter to address, doesn’t there.”
“If there is, it would be entirely my business, and not a subject of
conversation,” he replied shortly, feeling a sudden weariness in having to deal
with all of this.
Lobelia gave a sudden snort, that might be interpreted as laughter, and
continued, “Would it surprise you, cousin Frodo, if I told you that you were
absolutely right?”
Frodo sat in a stunned silence, still watching her with trepidation.
Lobelia suddenly stood up and walked over to the round window facing the garden,
staring out of it. “I suppose you think the same of me as did Bilbo,” she
continued in an exasperated tone. “That old fool.”
“Oh, I know you thought the sun and the moon of him,” she growled, spinning
around, glaring at a surprised Frodo, “but of course you would, after what he
did for you.” She eyed the room, as if the ghost of Bilbo’s presence was still
enough to affront her.
“He was just so insufferably smug. You really have no idea,“ she went on,
glowering at Frodo. “Why do you think I took his spoons? Did you really think I
wanted the blasted things? But it did annoy him so, it was worth it purely for
that.”
Frodo sat in stunned silence as Lobelia gave him a shrewd look. “You’re still
worried about what I saw,” she said, her mouth quirked. “I could make life
unpleasant for you, and I would imagine, especially for Sam. I’m sure that’s not
what his gaffer wishes for him, is it.”
Frodo’s heart gave a sudden stab of pain and he shut his eyes at that.
There was a few moments silence, and Frodo opened his eyes again. Lobelia was
standing staring sightlessly into the fireplace, obviously lost in her thoughts.
She looked suddenly somehow older and so very drained. Recalling herself, she
glanced over at Frodo and gave him a grudging slight smile.
“Don’t worry, cousin,” she said wryly. “A mother is used to a shock or two.”
Frodo felt the blood drained from him in relief. He stood shakily up and slowly
walked over to her. “Lobelia. Why…” he began hesitantly.
Lobelia’s expression was suddenly bitter. “You really want to know why I always
hated Bilbo, Frodo?” she asked angrily. “Because it always worked out for him.
He’d go off in the face of everything and somehow come out of it better than
ever, richer than ever. If he had no heir of his own, why, there you were.” She
held up her hand as if to forestall any potential denial from Frodo. “What did
he ever know of putting up with what he had, trying to make the best of it? What
did he know of disappointment, of losing all of one’s dreams, of accepting what
you have because you’ll never have naught better..” She stopped, shaking her
head with the loss on her face terrible to see.
“No,” she continued, looking back up to Frodo, studying his face carefully.
“I’ll not be the one to take away your dreams, Frodo. I saw your face out there
in the garden.”
When the Harvest Festival dancing commenced in the late afternoon, a couple of
days later, all of Hobbiton could talk of nothing else. The unusual couple
leading the opening dance were none other than Frodo Baggins and Lobelia
Sackville-Baggins. Frodo acquitted himself with great glory, and Lobelia,
dancing with a solemn grace and a formidable majesty, was wondrous to behold.
Lotho did head up the wine-tasting panel, though most said with more enthusiasm
than expertise.
As the warm afternoon faded into a late evening, and the dancers had begun to
drop off in favor of dinner or other less public amusements, Frodo sought Sam
out. He found him at the beer casks, pouring up another mug. His sister,
Marigold, and Tom Cotton were at his elbow, chiding him merrily, mugs of their
own in hand.
“Hurry along, Sam,” she laughed, “We can’t let Da dry up now, can we?”
Sam shook his head at her with a smile. “No more fear of that than the
Brandywine doing the same,” he answered, turning with a grin, and then catching
sight of Frodo. His smile suddenly deepened, and his eyes turned warm and
welcoming.
Stepping away from the others, he said so softly that only Frodo heard, “Let me
just deliver this, Mr. Frodo. Mayhap you’d be under the ash?”
“Of course I will,” Frodo replied, with anticipation running sharply through
him. “I’ll be wherever you want me.”
Sam’s answering smile glowed, but he said nothing more, and walked off quickly
to find the Gaffer.
Not long after (but oh, it seemed long to Frodo) he appeared under the ash where
Frodo stood in the shadow, and in a moment more, Frodo was in his arms and they
were kissing hungrily. “You were that wonderful, Frodo,” Sam finally pulled away
and gently brushed the dark curls off Frodo’s temple. “I was so very proud of
you.”
“I only did what you showed me, Sam, the credit was all yours,” Frodo tightened
his grip around him and rested his head on Sam‘s broad shoulder. The faint music
still floated in from the Party Field, haunting in its melody, and Frodo began
to softly sing the lovely tune.
Suddenly he lifted his head up. “Wasn’t there a final dance, Sam?” he looked at
Sam in the deepening dusk.
“Aye, love,” Sam replied tenderly, and in the twilight they began to dance
through the tall grass, with steps that were entirely all their own.
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