Footstool

It was an object of much admiration and perhaps the cause of a twinge of jealousy among certain of those who'd had occasion to see it. Crafted from wood rarely seen in the Shire, it possessed a honey-gold patina that made the fingers want to touch it, to know for sure that it was as satin smooth as it looked.

Intricate carvings twined around the wood, flowing with the grain so that it seemed as though the delicate markings had grown along with the tree. And on top rested a thick cushion of deep green-gold silk, embroidered with a pattern of leaves, completing the illusion that this was a living, growing thing rather than a piece of furniture.

Few knew the true origins of the item, though many had heard one story or another. There weren't many left who knew the truth of it, and of those, fewer still were inclined to tell it for the sake of idle curiosity.

It remained in its place of honor, of course, even after all these years. Those few who were welcomed into this fine room were allowed the rare privilege of its use. To a one, they pronounced it the finest footstool they had ever rested tired feet upon.

Even after she had children aplenty to take on the chore, Rosie considered it her right and duty to polish this item, treating it with reverence, ever vigilant that her rambunctious younger children shouldn't borrow it for their games.

She knew every curve of it, had traced each pattern until she could recall the feel of it from memory alone. She knew the smell of it, even, and treasured the fading memories of it from that time before, when she was newly married and given the care of household matters at Bag End.

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Her dear Sam had been away overnight, gone at the bidding of his master to convey an urgent message to the Master of Buckland. Mr. Frodo himself had spent most of the day in his study, writing almost feverishly, barely stopping for food or drink. He had been pale, although the pink flush of his cheeks, and the shadows under his eyes hinted at troubles in his body and mind.

He had always been kind to her, accepting her motherly scolding with good humor, complying when she insisted he eat or rest. He always seemed grateful for her care and for the way she treated him, more like a well-loved brother than her employer. In truth, she sometimes had to remind herself that he was her master now, and not just a friend who needed a bit of looking after.

But this day he had been different; though not in a way she could put her finger on. It was as though he were struggling with a difficult decision and much in need of distraction. When she had coaxed him into the dining room for supper, he had taken the seat across from her, where Sam usually sat, rather than his usual place at the head of the table.

"This was my place when Bilbo was here," he told her, his eyes filled with images of the past. "And Sam would sit here," he touched the place beside him, "that is, when Bilbo and I could convince him to dine with us." A gesture across the table towards her and the chair beside her. "And Merry and Pippin just there, as often as they could find an excuse to visit."

Frodo reached out towards her but stopped shy of touching her hand. "What a terrible, hungry lot we were. Poor Sam had all he could do to keep our bellies filled and the garden tended."

Rosie completed the contact for him, taking his hand, hoping to bring warmth to the cool skin. "He loved every minute of it, Mr. Frodo. I've heard him say it right often enough. Even When Mr. Pippin would play his tricks."

Frodo leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if to impart a secret. "Sam played a fair number of his own tricks, Rosie. Don't let him try to tell you different." Frodo's delighted smile lightened his eyes and made her laugh. "Someday when you need to get his attention, you might ask him about the cornsilks in Ted Sandyman's breeches."

Rosie smiled broadly, remembering the long-ago sight of the young bully squirming as he tried to get rid of the clingy fibers that someone had placed inside his best breeches as they dried on the wash line. The younger hobbits had been highly amused at the spectacle of Ted being scolded by a multitude of Aunts and Uncles. Although there had been much speculation, no one had ever known for certain who had masterminded the prank.

"I expect I'd be right in thinking that you and Mr. Merry contributed your fair share to the mischief as well, Mr. Frodo." She paused a moment, savoring a bit of information that she'd kept to herself for many years, knowing that he would not take offense at her speaking of it now. "I might even be thinking that you were the one to put Mistress Bracegirdle's second best nightdress on the Mayor's scarecrow."

Frodo laughed, a full-bodied, delighted sound that pleased Rosie right down to her toes. He had laughed easily enough before he and Sam had gone away. These days it was too rare a sound for her liking, and to her mind it was what was needed to chase the shadows away, not just from Mr. Frodo's eyes, but from the clear brown depths of her Sam's as well.

They took their meal together as Frodo had insisted from the start, refusing to eat alone and send his servants to their proper place in the kitchen. Rosie had been around Frodo enough growing up that she hadn't been surprised by this, no more than by any of his other kindnesses.

And he was kind to her, letting her marry his beloved Sam. Not that she would ever stand between her husband and her master. What they shared was rare, and she knew she was privileged to have some measure of it for herself. When she and Sam had shyly given him news of the coming birth Frodo's joy was almost as full as theirs.

Although she was not yet showing, Frodo was careful with her, doing small tasks quietly so that she would not feel it was a rebuke of her efforts. She had expected Sam to take it hard; the Gamgees were a stubborn prideful lot, but his time away had changed Sam in ways she was still discovering.

"I am sorry to take Sam away from you today, Rosie. It could not be helped." Frodo's words, so heavy with regret, startled her. They had fallen into comfortable silence as they ate, and she had been so caught up in her own musings that she had failed to notice the change in Frodo's expression and posture.

"I am glad you sent him, Mr. Frodo. If you'll pardon my saying, sir. I am glad you had the sense enough not to push yourself. You're looking a bit pale."

Frodo smiled weakly, before lowering his eyes to his teacup without responding. Rosie waited a moment, then, feeling a bit as if she'd overstepped, she rose and cleared the dishes away.

When the last dish was dried and put away and the kitchen tidied, Rosie went to the parlor to see if Frodo needed anything. She'd made her mind up to apologize for her words, but not the sentiment behind them.

He was seated in his usual chair by the fire, legs stretched out to warm his feet. A book lay across his lap, but his eyes were focused on the fire, perhaps seeing or remembering something far away.

"Mr. Frodo, sir?" her voice came out softer than she planned, and she almost started over, but his gaze met hers and the words stopped in her throat. With a smile she came forward, taking the hand he held out to her. She would have knelt at his side but he stopped her by standing up.

"You're a good friend, Rosie. You are good for Sam." He smiled, just a hint of wistfulness in his expression. "You will be very happy together."

"We all will, Frodo." She chose her words carefully, sensing the volume of unspoken words locked behind those eyes. She wished she could do something to help free them.

"May I sit with you for a while, sir?" she asked, suddenly bold in her determination. She smiled at the faint frown of disapproval.

"You know you need not ask, Rose. You are always welcome here. But there will be no titles and formality if you wish to stay."

He drew Bilbo's old chair close to his own and waited until she had taken a seat before settling back into his own chair. He set the book aside and stretched out his feet towards the warmth again.

"Here," Rosie was on her feet again, picking up the footstool she had always admired and moving it towards Frodo. She didn't see the expression on his face as she placed it on the floor in front of him. When he didn't make use of it, she turned, urging, "you'll be more comfortable."

Frodo was focused on the footstool, an odd lack of expression on his face. Slowly he leaned forward, picking up the wooden object and studying it. When he finally returned his attention to her, his eyes were very dark.

"I don't know if even Sam knows about this, Rosie. But I feel as if someone should. In case, well, because there should be more than me that knows it. And it isn't likely that Bilbo will ever have occasion to return."

Rosie returned to her seat, leaning slightly forward to study the item where Frodo had placed it on the floor between them.

"Was it made by the Elves?"

"Indeed it was, specially crafted at Bilbo's request. He wanted a special gift for my parent's wedding. But there was a delay, and with one thing and another it didn't arrive until after I was born. Gandalf delivered it himself, and came with Bilbo to see me when I was just a few days old.

"I remember my father, holding me on his lap and telling me stories when I was very young, his feet propped up on this footstool. Sometimes he'd sit on the floor and I would sit on this," he tapped the cushion. "I could look straight into his eyes then, and we would tell each other outrageous things, to try and make each other laugh. We'd sneak into the pantry and get apples and then make a tent out of sheets and this would be our table."

Frodo's laughter filled Rosie with warmth. In all the years she had known him, this was the first time Frodo willingly spoke of his parents. The worry that had been settled in the back of her mind lifted a little. Perhaps having a little one in Bag End was exactly what Frodo needed.

"There'll be need for those stories soon enough, Frodo, if you'll be willing. And this fine footstool still makes a good table."

"That it does, Rosie, and other things besides. Be sure to tell that to Sam, Rosie, should there ever be the occasion." He caressed the cushion one last time, then surprised her by reaching down and moving the footstool in front of the chair and setting his feet on it. There was a tiny smile on his face, one that stayed with her and warmed her.

It did her heart good to see him with his feet up. Both he and Sam were so mixed up in not hurting each other or reminding each other of the bad times that they had taken to hiding the soles of their feet; as if the scars they both bore were marks of shame instead of heroism.

The relaxing silence gave way to quiet reminiscences of her own childhood and the silly antics of her siblings and those of a certain young Samwise Gamgee. Laughter came easily to both of them and when the fire burned low, they went to their beds with light hearts, ready to rest.

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There were other memories of Frodo, fondly kept, but that one was just hers and Rosie treasured it, and because of it she treasured the little footstool and the secret that it held.

Thinking back on it, somehow she knew that the day she remembered so fondly was also the day Frodo had made his decision to leave the Shire forever. Perhaps that was why his leaving had not really surprised her, although it did hurt. What had been a surprise was the letter Frodo had left just for her, hidden under the cushion of the footstool.

By the time she found the letter, Frodo had been gone for months. The footstool had been pushed to the side, out of the way. Despite her best efforts, Sam still refused to use it, saying the likes of his feet had no right to rest on something so fine. She didn't want to force the issue yet. She could be very patient when she had good reason.

It was a beautiful spring day and she was giving the parlor a good cleaning. With a smile, she picked up the footstool to look at it, tracing the pattern of the carving. The slightest crinkle of parchment caught her attention and she studied the object, finally spotting the item barely visible beneath the cushion.

She slipped it free, setting the footstool down and taking a seat as the shock of seeing her name written in that familiar handwriting made her weak. "Mistress Rose" he had written, meaning that this unexpected treasure was hers alone.

Her hands shook as she opened the envelope and for a second she hesitated, listening for the sound of her Sam's voice outside in the garden. Only when she was sure he would not interrupt her did she open the letter and look at it.

It was a short message, but she read it over and over, taking the words into her heart. He thanked her for her kindness and her friendship. He wished her health and happiness, and the joy of family and friends. And he asked one last favor of her - he wanted her to make sure Sam used the footstool.

Tears stung her eyes as she folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. There wasn't anything in the wide world she wouldn't share with her Sam. Except this. This was her small treasure, and she knew Sam would not begrudge her keeping it if he knew. But she would not tell him while Frodo's absence was still too near and painful.

With determination, she adjusted the angle of the footstool, making sure it was placed invitingly in front of his chair, just the right distance from the fire to warm his chilly toes on a cool spring night. There would be no more hiding his feet, no more worry that the sight of the scars on his soles might upset anyone. No more shame for his deeds in the black days.

It was a small thing, seemingly, not something grand and heroic, like saving Middle Earth. But it was what needed doing all the same, and she would do it.

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