But, worst of all, he felt miserable, and guilty for Sam. Now he knew how he had hurt his best friend, he had seen that wounded look in Sam’s eyes. And that was the last thing he wanted in life.
The next morning Frodo felt even worse, if that was possible, and he stayed inside all day, unable to do anything. His mind was totally blank, and his heart filled with remorse. Sam hadn’t come to Bag End and Frodo didn’t know if his absence was in some way related to the previous night.
Only after sunset did he get up and decide to spend the evening at the Green Dragon. A good night of drinking, to sedate his pain and forget, at least for a few hours.
But in the confusion of the Green Dragon, through his alcoholic dizziness, he could detect several pairs of mocking and hostile eyes, often set on him, and words not that gentle at all directed to him and his uncle.
He had became a stranger in a strange land, uncomfortable even with himself and unable to deserve his best friends. He felt more alone than ever.
When he got back to Bag End he was totally drunk, and stumbled more than once during his trip.
‘Maybe a bath would be of some help’, Frodo thought as he entered the smial, a last attempt to clear his mind before going to sleep.
* * *
That same day Sam hadn’t showed up at Bag End, having to go to the Market with his father and then to the Cotton’s farm. But that night, though he was tired, Sam was unable to sleep.
‘Hamson needs your help, you know …’
The words his father had said last night, when he caught him talking with Mr. Frodo, still resounded inside Sam’s aching head. The Gaffer wanted him to work with his oldest brother Hamson. He had to leave not only his home, but Bag End … and Mr. Frodo. All within a few days.
As with the night before, he had spent a lot of time silently crying, in pain and frustration. He hadn’t wept before his father, but alone, on his small bed, he had let the tears fall unheeded. He didn’t want to go. He could not go like this, without a word from Mr. Frodo.
He had to face him, to explain, to reassure himself that nothing had changed between them.
He got up and went to the open window. It was a wonderful night, and the nearly full moon allowed him to clearly see almost every detail outside. Sam directed his eyes along Bagshot Row, and saw, in the distance, a little figure walking alone towards Bag End.
Mr. Frodo!
Sam hastily put on some clothes and left the smial, heeding his irresistible need to talk to his young master as soon as he could, and settle all things between them before he left. He knew his father would not have approved if he had discovered this nocturnal runaway, but for Sam it didn’t matter anymore. And there was no more time.
When he arrived at Bag End he saw no lights inside, but he knew that Frodo had to still be awake.
Sam decided not to knock on the green door because he didn’t want to disturb Mr. Bilbo, who surely was asleep at this late hour. So he managed to edge around the perimeter of the smial to reach the window of Frodo’s bedroom, hoping to find it open, so he could quietly make him aware of his presence. But the window was closed and latched from inside.
His attention then was caught by a faint sound of splashing water, coming from the open window of the bathroom. Sam peered inside and the sight before his eyes let him breathless.
Frodo was taking a bath.
Never in his life had Sam witnessed such a stunning beauty, so pale, though gleaming in the moonlight. Eyes closed, lips parted, silken curls darker than the night itself dripping tiny streaks of water on his chest and shoulders …
He was so perfect, so slender and fragile, almost a magical, ethereal creature, the finest creature in all the Shire.
