lotrchallenges | Home Thoughts, from Abroad by Celeritas (Reply)

Author: Celeritas
Title: Home Thoughts, from Abroad
Rating: G
Theme: Birds
Elements: The Chaffinch
Author's Notes: This tale is based on imagery in Robert Browning's poem of the same name. Since it was through this poem that I first even heard of the chaffinch, it immediately came to mind when I received my element. The suitability of the poem is almost uncanny: it's set in April, looking forward to May, and it was written while Browning was living in Italy on account of the delicate health of his wife. If the Shire is around the latitude of England, then Gondor is around the latitude of Italy. The reader is highly encouraged to read the poem in order to trace the imagery as it appears in the fic.
Summary: Springtime in Gondor makes Pippin--and Sam--realize what they miss most.
Word Count: 925

“I’ve discovered,” said Pippin, swinging his legs idly from the stone bench, “what’s wrong with the flowers here.”

“Oh, have you?” said Sam mildly from his work below.

“Yes. They’re entirely too bright.”

“Hum,” said Sam. They were still only a few days in the White City, Frodo and Merry had managed practically to lock themselves in the Archives in a fit of scholastic frenzy, and Sam had finally prevailed upon the Warden (with the help of the King’s clout) to let him putter around in the gardens at the Houses of Healing—to, as Strider put it, help him get used to everyday life once more. Sam was grateful. The garden was about the only thing that came close to everyday in this grand place, with all the bowing and scraping and praising with great praise; and while he didn’t mind “grand” terribly, especially if it was an elvish sort of “grand,” the stuff that came with it he could do without. And Pippin was with him, because sworn to Gondor or no, hobbits were not meant to live in a city of stone.

“They are! They’re too bright, and they’re too big! Makes your eyes almost hurt looking at them! Why, I’ll bet the folk here can’t tell the difference between half a dozen shades of yellow waistcoats, if they’re used to stuff so—so gaudy!”

“I think the flowers here are just fine,” said Sam. “I’m glad enough they’ve still got what’s good for growing—fresh soil, water, and sun.”

“Sun,” repeated Pippin. For the briefest moment a shadow flitted across his face. “Yes, I’m glad they’ve got plenty of that here.”

“Did you notice,” said Sam, “all the trees looking west in Ithilien?”

“Looking west? I didn’t think trees—barring Ents, of course—looked anywhere!”

It took Sam a moment to recall exactly what Ents were; sometimes all that had happened to them looked fit to make his head burst with confusion. “Well—maybe ‘looking’s’ not the right word. But a plant’s leaves try to get all the sun they can shining down on them. They’ll grow tilted if they think there’s more to be found that way. There weren’t no Sun to the east in that land—only shadow. I’d have noticed it sooner if I hadn’t been looking after Mr. Frodo all the time.”

“You don’t say!” said Pippin.

“Only—” and here Sam looked up with a deft, secretive smile—“I saw, just before we crossed the River, a couple of trees putting out new branches to the east.”

“They could tell already?”

Sam gave him a sagacious look. “Plants are mighty intelligent, Mr. Pippin.”

“Now you’re tugging my toehair.” Pippin stuck out his tongue; the infantile gesture looked almost out of sorts on his face, so much older than it had been a year before. “If these plants were smart, they’d try to look more like the ones back home.”

“Why?”

“Well, because we’re here, obviously! D’you know, there’s this marvellous spot at home—in Tookland, that is—right at the edge of the orchard, by the hedge, where there’s the sweetest pear-tree, and its blossoms get so heavy that its branches dip down to lay them on the ground. Well, that’s what I always thought, at least, though it really leans over all year—and then all the birds that’d nest nearby: the thrush, and the whitethroat, and all the swallows…” He sighed. “The birds aren’t right here, either.”

“Look, Mr. Pippin,” said Sam, setting down his trowel and wiping the dirt from his hands. “What’s this all about? If you wanted to get homesick on me you could’ve given me some sort of warning.”

“Sorry, Sam,” said Pippin. “It’s just that I was thinking this morning, how it must be April back home—or May, perhaps; those pesky Men had to change the calendar and confuse us—and that means that the pear-tree back home’s in flower and I won’t be there to see it. Not that I’d rather have stayed behind, but—”

“I know,” said Sam. For how could he say that thoughts of spring had also taken his heart back home, to the chaffinch that sang sweetly every morning in the orchard and the elm tree just outside the Cottons’ farm where Rosie had kissed him on the cheek? He swallowed. “We’ll be back soon enough. And we’ll be able to watch as many springs as we want then. And,” he added, “come to think of it, I thought there used to be orchards in these parts. The Enemy may have got some of them, but he can’t have gotten all of them and things grow back anyhow. Captain Faramir might be able to find you a nice pear-tree.”

“He might,” said Pippin. “Wouldn’t be the same as home, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, eh? We’ll drag that cousin of mine on a picnic and force all kinds of food into him. He may be finally getting his appetite back, but he’s still as thin as a fencepost!” He leapt off the bench. “I’ll see what can be arranged!”

“Don’t push it! You’re forgetting the other fencepost you’ve been talking to!”

“I’ll ask for twice the food, then!” Pippin said airily, and trotted off down to the main House, leaving Sam to finish tidying up.

And at that very moment, leagues upon leagues away in the north of Middle-earth, Rose Cotton heard a chaffinch sing from outside Marigold Gamgee’s bedroom window. Come home soon, Sam, she thought. We need you here.