Waiting by Lbilover

In the language of flowers, astilbe means 'waiting'.


'Astilbe is a grand plant for shady spots,' said Sam.


'Whatever you think is best, Sam,' Frodo replied, but he sounded a trifle dubious.


'I know they don't look like much right now, sir, but when they blossom, you'll see. The flowers are a right pretty pink and they're feathery-like - they'll go well with them dark green hostas.'


Frodo laughed. 'You don't have to plead their case. I trust your judgment implicitly.'


Sam's cheeks turned a rich astilbe-pink. 'You're too kind, Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact.'


'Not at all.' Frodo waved an airy hand. 'Well, I'll leave you to your work. Step inside when you're done and we'll have tea together. I've baked too many scones and I need some help eating them.'


He spoke airily enough, too, as though the invitation were no great matter, but the look that accompanied his words, shy but hopeful, set Sam's heart to racing.


'All right, sir.' Sam tried to match Frodo's casual tone. It was perilous hard when he wanted to whoop and shout for joy.


'Good. Good.'


Frodo wandered back inside the smial and Sam returned to his shade garden. But both knew the waiting was over at last.