Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Eternity and the Language of Flowers (#816)
Author: SorrowfulEagle
Chapters: 12
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: A pre-LotR fic covering Frodo and Sam's friendship from the day Frodo arrives at Bag End.
Published: 15 Apr 2004
Updated: 18 Sep 2004
Warnings: 
Type: General
Characters: Frodo; Sam


Chapter 1 - Adventus

NOTES:  “Adventus” is Latin for “Arrival”.

*****


Bag End.  The home of Mister Bilbo Baggins.  The richest hobbit in Hobbiton, whom its inhabitants called 'Mad', and for all his long years, had never married.  The peculiar hobbit that took off on some long 'adventure' and returned with a huge pile of dragon gold - now suspected by most of Hobbiton and Bywater to be hidden away in the extensive tunnels of the smial under The Hill.

The old hobbit who had taken in his orphaned nephew, Frodo Baggins, to live with him.

“Nearly here now, Frodo lad.  You'll see Bag End in just a moment.”  Bilbo urged his dappled-grey pony forward, encouraging her up the hill, closely followed by his young charge.

Frodo Baggins sat silently, following behind on his own pony, blue eyes subtly flickering all around him, taking in the new scenery, watching his new neighbours.  Along a road that went to their left, there was a tidy row of small hobbit-holes.  Frodo observed the children playing in the front garden of the first two, while their mothers hung out the second laundry of the day, chattering amiably to each other and keeping one eye on the impish youngsters.  Allowing his gaze to drift to the third smial, Frodo immediately noticed a surprising difference from the other two: apart from only one young hobbit playing alone on the lawn, the tiny garden was a blooming mass of colour of many flowers and plants, all practically flawless from what he could see.  Granted, the other gardens around Hobbiton were something to be proud of - but the patience and love that had gone into perfecting this diminutive area was nothing short of amazing to the young Baggins.  He had certainly seen beautiful gardens before at Brandy Hall, but they were cared for by a small army of gardeners, each with his own designated rank to keep.  Frodo hardly expected this small garden to even have one hired gardener, and instead decided that the family had put in the hard work.  “Very special, indeed,” he murmured to himself before they moved away from the road and turned right and up a small hill.

“Here we are lad: Bag End,” Bilbo said proudly, as he raised a hand to point to it.

If Frodo had been amazed by the garden in Bagshot Row, he was positively astounded by the flourish Bag End displayed in abundance.  As he gaped open-mouthed at the warmth and colour of the landscape, his eyes gradually moved to rest on Bag End itself.  The green-painted wooden door with its shiny brass doorknob, the decorative circular windows on either side of the door, and shutters painted yellow at the front windows.  The red bricks and wooden windowpanes: this hole was built for comfort, and as a home.  Not a display of wealth or position, although it could hardly be denied that the Master of Bag End was wealthy.  But Frodo felt welcome at this home of his uncle's, more than could be said of when he went to live at Brandy Hall after his parents died.

Following Bilbo's lead, Frodo dismounted his pony and began to remove his bags from the saddle.  The older hobbit held the gate open for him to pass through, smiling gently at the youngster's awe of the garden and of the hole.  He looked so small and child-like as he climbed the steps to the front door, looking to his left and right continuously, blue eyes wide and drinking in the magical atmosphere. 

Frodo was unnaturally slim for a hobbit, should have started padding out several years ago, but Bilbo suspected that grief and incertitude was the cause of his scrawny appearance, and hoped that good feeding and long walks would soon sort that problem.  Another quandary that niggled at the back of his mind though, was the fact that Frodo had left all of his friends in Buckland.  From what he knew of Frodo, it was hard enough as it was to get him to leave his books and play outside, but now…he had no reason to be out. ‘I'll give him a reason to get out,’ Bilbo thought as he unlocked the door and gave it a careful shove.  “On you go, Frodo.”

The wide-eyed lad stepped almost cautiously into the entrance of Bag End and looked about.  He held a bag closely against his chest and peered around the first corner to his left, which led into the parlour.  Dust danced in a shaft of sunlight, and warmth glowed from every nook. The subtle hint of dried lavender drifted towards him and he closed his eyes as he took a deep breath allowing the scent to wash over him.  

Bilbo ambled in after him and dropped the rest of his baggage onto the floor.  With a satisfied sigh, he turned to face his nephew.

"You like it here then?"

Frodo looked almost startled as he heard Bilbo's voice break into his reverie.  He smiled warmly, a rare gift indeed from the somewhat reclusive tween, and took at small step towards his uncle.  "Yes.  It's…wonderful, Uncle Bilbo, I love it."

Bilbo returned Frodo's smile and pulled him into a strong hug.  “Glad you think so, lad.  Glad you think so.  Now.  How about a tour of the house, hm?  Then we can see about having elevenses.”

Once again following his uncle's lead, Frodo found himself being given an extensive viewing of Bag End, both inside and out.  Once Bilbo had shown him the kitchen and first pantry, dining room, living room, library and study, he took Frodo to his new bedroom, the largest with the exception of the master room that Bilbo occupied.  “You get a good view of the garden from here,” he said, and urged Frodo over to the window.

With a small gasp, Frodo took in the view; it was indeed wonderful.  “I had no idea the garden was so big, Uncle,” he said softly in wonder.  “The hedge at the bottom looks so small from here!”

Just then, a small figure popped up from behind one of the rose bushes, a bundle of twigs and cuttings in hand.  The boy skipped and hopped carefully over to another area of the garden and deposited the handful on a compost heap.  “Uncle!  There's someone in your garden!  Look, over there, by the roses, to the right.”  Frodo pointed urgently, glancing over his shoulder to see Bilbo's reaction.

Bilbo smiled and walked over to the window, looked out in the direction Frodo pointed in, and laughed.  “Why, yes, so there is!  Frodo, let us venture outside – I would like to introduce you to someone.”

Frodo found that walking through the garden gave him more joy than simply looking at it in passing.  He was beaming, eyes bright and sparkling, a large smile threatening to split his face, as he and Bilbo approached the young boy they had seen from the bedroom.

“Good morning, Samwise!  Where is your father today, lad?  I wish to introduce my nephew to him.”  Bilbo greeted the ruddy-faced child who looked up at them, wiping grubby hands on his breeches.

“Mornin', Mr Bilbo, sir,” came the polite reply.  “Dad's just tidyin' the roses, said they was needin' clipped.  I'll just fetch him for you, sir.”  And he scampered off.

“Dad, dad, Mr Bilbo's got an elf visiting him – he’s in the garden right now!  Mr Bilbo says he wants to introduce you to his nephew, too!”  Sam said, breathless and excited.  

Hamfast Gamgee stood up and looked at his youngest son.  His brown curls were sun-kissed and dusty, face red and happy.  He stared up at his father with respect and admiration.  Ham opened his mouth to tell him to stop being silly with talk of elves, but held back the reproach and instead asked, “Well, has he now? Best go an' introduce ourselves proper then!” As they approached, he realised that the 'elf' was Mr Bilbo's nephew, although he could see where Sam, innocent and enchanted by fairy-tales, had got his notion from.

Frodo had drifted slightly from Bilbo and was inhaling the scent of the yellow roses, gently brushing his fingers over the velvety petals.  He turned around at Bilbo's call and saw that the young boy – Samwise? – had returned, evidently with his father.  The two were very alike, Frodo noted, in the way they spoke and moved, and dressed.

“Frodo, I'd like you to meet Hamfast Gamgee, the wonderful and talented gardener of Bag End, and a dear friend of mine,” Bilbo said.  “Ham, my nephew, Frodo.”

Frodo accepted Hamfast's outstretched hand and shook it companionably.  “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Frodo said shyly, then looked down, noticing Sam peering from his hiding place behind his father.

“It's an honour to meet you, Mr Frodo.”

“I do not know if you notice on our way here, Frodo, the delightful little garden in Bagshot Row.  That is the home of Master Hamfast here, and a fine home at that.  Not only does he toil long hours tending to my flowers and plants, but also spends equal time tending his own.”

“The home with all the…just before we came up the hill…?”  Frodo started to ask.  “Then it is I who am honoured to meet you, Mr Gamgee.  Uncle, I hope you will not mind me saying that 'delightful' does not begin to describe how I thought of it.  I had not seen such a wonder before, and it touched me deeply.  For all the gardens at Brandy Hall, not one held such an intimacy as Mr Hamfast's.  I think it is just as wonderful as-as your own here, Uncle…although it's slightly…bigger…” Frodo trailed off towards the end of his little speech, blushing deeply and shifting uncomfortably.

Sam, in his wonder of the fair 'elf' complimenting his family's garden, suddenly piped up, momentarily forgetting his place.  “I planted the pansies and helped the fris- fre- freesias, sir!”  Then clamped his hand over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at his father.  “Sorry, dad,” he whispered almost inaudibly, then hid behind him again.

Bilbo smiled fondly at the lad.  “Frodo, this is Samwise Gamgee, Ham's youngest son.  He helps out in the gardens.”

Sam hesitantly stepped forward and held out his little hand, still embarrassed by his early outburst of forwardness.  “Hullo, Mr…F-Frodo,” he said softly. 

“Hello, Sam.  I'm afraid I didn't quite see the pansies earlier, we were too far away.  But I would certainly like to come by some day and have a look at them.”  

Sam's large brown eyes lit up instantly and he smiled to the point of grinning.  “Thank you, Mr Frodo, oh, that'd be wonderful, it would!”  Then, somewhat nervously, he took another step forward and tugged Frodo's sleeve, so that Frodo knelt and Sam could whisper in his ear.  “Are…are you an elf, Mr Frodo?” he asked hopefully, then bit his lower lip anxiously, deciding no matter what, he'd never seen anyone so pretty as Frodo.

Smiling gently, Frodo shook his head.  “I'm sorry, Sam, but no, I am not an elf.  I'm a hobbit, just like you.”

“You're very beautiful, Mr Frodo,” Sam added.  “Just like I thought an elf would be.”

“Ah, but elves are tall and slender, and talk different languages from hobbits.  A lot of them have long, golden hair, and it is straight, not short and dark and curly like a hobbit's!”  Bilbo put in.  “They also do not have these lovely furry feet as we do.”  He lifted a foot and wiggled his toes.  “I have told you stories of elves, Sam, but have I ever told you about the time I met them myself?”

Wide-eyed in awe, Sam gaped at old hobbit.  “Really, Mr Bilbo?  Oh…oh…”

With a soft chuckle, Ham ruffled his son’s hair.  “Come on lad, let's get back to work.  I'll speak to you later, Mr Bilbo.  'Twere nice meetin' you, Mr Frodo.  Good day to you both.”

“Goodbye for now, Master Gamgee.  Bye bye, Sam,” Frodo waved as he and Bilbo headed back for the house, watching Sam with interest, who was rolling up his shirtsleeves in imitation of his father and scampering after him. “They seem very nice, Bilbo.  How old is Sam?”

“Ah, only a wee bit thing.  Just turned seven years in April.”  Bilbo smiled, remembering the party held in Sam's honour, to which he had been invited.  Despite being assured he was still too young to give away presents on his birthday, Sam had insisted on doing so, and had given away little treasures, including a jar of ladybirds to his father 'for the garden', and three wooden peg-dolls for his sister Marigold.  Bilbo himself became the proud owner of Sam's white handkerchief, which had been cleaned and pressed and presented to him with a blue ribbon tied around it.

“Does he always help his father?”

“Yes, since he turned five.  He was very keen to start learning his father's trade, and shows quite a knack for it himself.  Promises to be an exceptional gardener one day.”

“I hope that, perhaps, we can be friends too, like you and Hamfast.”

“Frodo!  I'm glad you said it, my lad!  It will save me having to force you out of doors if you will do it willingly.  I'm sure Sam would love to have your company as much as you would his.  He doesn't work all day either – not at this age, anyway – he usually goes home around midday.”

Later that day, as Bilbo and Frodo sat taking afternoon tea and talking amiably, there came a quiet, timid knock on the front door.  Bilbo raised his eyebrows and looked curiously at Frodo, who stifled a laugh as Bilbo asked, “A mouse comes to visit Bag End?  Tapping timidly at my green door?  Let us welcome him in, then.”

Frodo left the kitchen to answer the door.  He opened it slightly and looked out, his eyes telling him that, at the first glance, no one was there.  He pulled the door fully open, then looked down.  'Hello, little mouse', he thought.  “Sam!  Good afternoon.  What brings you here?”  He asked brightly.

“Oh, um, well Mr Frodo…sir, Da' said I could knock off - erm, finish workin' for the day, now, so I wondered if you might like to, maybe, perhaps, come and see the, um, see the flowers at our house proper?  Only if you'd like to, mind, and I know you might be busy…” Sam rambled on nervously, digging his toes into the path and avoiding Frodo's gaze.

“I'd love to come and see your garden, Sam.  If you step inside for a minute or two, I'll just let Uncle Bilbo know where I'm going.”  Frodo stood aside and gestured for Sam to come in.

“Um, no thank you, Mr Frodo.  Da' says not to come in, so I'll just wait here for you, sir.”

“Alright.  I'll just be a moment.”

***

As Frodo and Sam walked down Bagshot Row to the Gamgees' residence, Frodo noted that all the children who he had noticed earlier were still out playing.  They appeared to be the same age as Sam, but paid no heed to him as he slowed down when passing their house, looking longingly at the games they played.  Frodo wondered if Sam ever played with these children, or if he had ever spoken to them.  “Sam, how often do you go out to play?”

Eyeing Frodo guardedly, Sam thought about his answer.  “Their Da works, like mine, and their mam does, too.  They go to school though, and get lessons.  Dad says lessons are no good for me, cause I'm only going to be someone's gardener.  So I don't play with them because they're smarter and know letters and numbers and…I don't.”

“Would you like to learn?”

Sighing wistfully, as one who is thinking of their dearly beloved, or of a cherished dream, Sam replied simply in a whisper, “Yes.”

They reached Number 3, and were greeted straight away by a toddler scampering towards them, and giggling happily.  “Hullo Mari, what you doin' out here then?”  Marigold stopped running toward them, looking surprised, then turned around and hurried back inside.  “That was my baby sister, Marigold.  But we call her Mari.  Do you want to see my plants?”

Sam pointed out every plant in the garden, accurately naming almost half of them (“Gaffer can name them all, though”), and Frodo suspected the young boy had just told him all he knew on gardening, and was proud of it.  He allowed Sam to complete his tutoring without interruption, only stopping to sniff a rose or some honeysuckle, or to allow a ladybird to crawl over his fingers.

“Sam, look, here's a ladybird on my hand,” he said with a smile, wondering if the lad would be impressed.

“We get lots of them in the garden, Mr Frodo.  Sometimes I take 'em up to Bag End and put them on the plants there.  They're good to have in a garden because they eat the bad bugs.”

It was Frodo who was impressed though.  “Well…would you mind if I took this one back to the garden, Sam?”

“No, but I'll put it in a jar for you so it doesn't fly away.”  Sam scurried off to the shed to the far side of the smial and rummaged around for a few moments.  He soon came back out again, brandishing a small glass jar.  He removed the lid and held the jar out to Frodo.  Once the ladybird was safe in her temporary glass home, furnished with grass and leaves, Sam screwed the lid on firmly and handed it over to Frodo.  “That'll keep her safe until you take her home.”

“Thank you, Sam.  I'll put her straight onto the irises when I get home,” Frodo said as he accepted the proffered jar.  “I'd best be off now, Sam.  I'll no doubt see you again tomorrow.  Good evening.”

“Mr Frodo?”

He turned to face the small hobbit once more.  “Yes?”

“Do you think we could be friends one day?”  Sam asked, a distant longing in his dark brown eyes.  “Maybe when I'm bigger, and if I got learnt in my letters…”

Frodo crouched down to look at the young boy face to face.  “Samwise Gamgee, I would love to be your friend, even if you never get any bigger and never learn to read or write."  He smiled at the look of joy shining from Sam's features.  “Goodbye for now, Sam.”

“Goodbye, Mr Frodo.”



~end, part 1~


Chapter 2 - Lessons

Spring moved into Summer, who smiled and lingered well into September.  The gardens of Hobbiton had grown and flourished well this year, and had painted the town in a glorious spectrum of colour.  Now the leaves were turning, and the Shire was aglow with rich, earthy colours.

Frodo Baggins sat beneath his favourite tree in the garden of Bag End, the leaves cushioning the ground.  He tried to read, though his mind had drifted elsewhere.  As he looked at the plants, which were now fading, he was reminded of his first day in Hobbiton.  He had met Sam and spent the afternoon at the Gamgee’s house being taught everything Sam knew about gardening.  And for seven years, he knew a lot.

Frodo remembered Sam’s eagerness and bubbly chatter as they wandered around the little garden in Bagshot Row.  Pointing out and naming a fair amount of what grew, and proudly showing off his own patch in the garden.

Then Frodo’s thoughts drifted to another matter that had briefly stolen Sam’s warm smile: his illiteracy.  He knew the strange names of many a plant and flower, and yet he couldn’t write his own name.  Sam didn’t know the alphabet, while all the other children on the Row were racing ahead in that aspect, and wouldn’t hesitate to show this talent off to poor Sam.  Frodo wondered why Hamfast Gamgee wasn’t bothered if Sam was uneducated.  Certainly, Sam had told him it was because his father said he was only going to be a gardener, but surely there were plenty of gardeners and servants and farmers who could read and write!  Bilbo had told Frodo during lunch just how far Hamfast’s talents extended, and Frodo was very interested to find that this included writing and reading, although he didn’t “waste his time on something so trivial as faeries’ tales”.  But why was he unwilling to give his son the same chance?

Sighing as the daylight had now faded, Frodo stood up and headed back towards the Smial, stomach grumbling.

“Ah, there you are, lad!  I didn’t expect you to be out for so long – it’s well past time for dinner now.  Come in, come in!”  Bilbo danced around on the front step of Bag End and ushered Frodo into the dining room with a sense of urgency.  Frodo almost laughed out loud – he thought this amount of carry on over meals was only restricted to large, frantic households such as Brandy Hall.


After devouring the food that lay on the dining table, Bilbo and Frodo shuffled through to the parlour with full but comfortable bellies, each carrying a mug of cool ale, “which slides down nicely after a roast!” as Bilbo had said before taking a long draught.

They settled in front of the fireplace, and Bilbo turned to Frodo.  “Now then, lad.  What’s on your mind?”

Curling up in a large armchair, Frodo put his mug down and faced Bilbo.  “It’s Sam.”  Frodo chewed his bottom lip in thought. “He’s so intelligent!  And bright, and perceptive…but he can’t read, Uncle, doesn’t even know the alphabet!  Is there any way you could teach him?  He would love to be able to read and write his name.  And…if he was just given a chance, I’m sure he’d make a remarkable pupil.”

“Well, you know Ham can write…I don’t see why I can’t do something for Sam.  If his Gaffer agrees to it, and he keeps working with his father, I will offer to teach the boy his letters and numbers in his free time.”  Bilbo sat back in his armchair and smiled around his newly-lit pipe.  

“I’m sure he’ll be very grateful, Uncle.”

“I am sure.”

*****

“Come on lad, up you get!  The sun is shining and there is work to be done!”

Frodo grumbled as the heavy drapes were drawn back and soft autumn sunlight flooded his room.  “It’s still early!”  He muttered and pulled the sheets over his head, only to have them suddenly disappeared from his grasp again.  “Oh, Uncle!”  Frodo cried, sitting up.

Bilbo chuckled and folded the bedcovers down neatly then reached up and ruffled Frodo’s sleep-tangled curls.  “It is not ‘still early’, Frodo Baggins!  You’ve missed first breakfast already, and it’s after nine o’clock now.  But I thought, ‘there now, let the boy sleep for a while, he was up late last night’.  So I allowed you to stay asleep.  And now you can get up – come on, you lazy lump!”

“Very well.  I suppose if by ‘work’ you mean lessons, then I can drag my lazy bones out of bed.  But I’ll let you know I was quite comfortable.”  Frodo padded over to his dresser and pulled out a fresh cotton shirt and casual breeches.  “Will you allow me to wash and dress before breakfast?”

“Of course!  I wouldn’t have you sit at my table looking like a pig’s mess!”  Bilbo made a dismissive gesture before heading towards the kitchen, calling out, “I’ll have breakfast ready in a half-hour.”

By the time Frodo entered the kitchen, hungry and looking to be fed, Bilbo was nowhere around.  Frodo briefly checked the dining room and parlour, but could see no sign of him, until he heard familiar laughter coming from the front garden.  He crossed over to the front door and watched Bilbo talking to Hamfast, and little Sam running around about them, picking up what appeared to Frodo to be snails, and depositing them carefully in a bucket.

“Good morning, Mr Gamgee,” Frodo called as he wandered over to join Bilbo.

“Why, good mornin’ to you, too, Mr Frodo, and a right nice mornin’ it is at that!”  Ham nudged the boy by his feet.  “Hoy, Samwise.”

Sam looked up at his father, then in the direction he indicated to.  He immediately stood and smiled brightly.  “Hullo, Mr Frodo.”

“Tell Frodo what Mr Bilbo’s goin’ t’be doin’ for you,” the Gaffer prompted, though he said it somewhat stiffly.

“Oh, he’s goin’ to teach me, Mr Frodo!  I’m going to read!”

Frodo smiled widely and glanced at his uncle.  “Wonderful, Sam!  When will he be starting this, then?”

Sam faltered slightly, having forgotten what he had been told.  Bilbo answered for him with a fond look in his direction.  “I told him we would start today, after he finished helping his father.”

“And I’ve agreed, so long’s the lad is home by seven,” he said gruffly, mussing Sam’s brown curly hair.

“Yes, sir, I will be,” Sam looked up at his father with barely contained excitement.

“Well, then Mr Bilbo, I’ll send the lad over to you when he’s done with his tasks.”

And with that, Frodo and Bilbo returned to the hole for their second breakfast while the Gaffer and his son returned to their work.  It was now time to prune shrubs and clip back rose bushes, preparing them from a restful, if cold, winter sleep.

As Frodo hungrily devoured his breakfast, Bilbo kept up a running commentary on his conversation with the Gaffer that morning.  He tapped his spoon against his third egg of the morning him, satisfied when it cracked opened with very little mess.  “Sam stood beside while I was talking to his father…with his little bucket in his hand…” Bilbo looked up from his breakfast.  “He looked like all his family’s birthdays had come on one day…those big brown eyes staring between his father and myself in total amazement!” he laughed and picked up a finger of buttered toast.  “Aye, he’s a fine lad.”

Frodo nodded in agreement as he continued munching on toast thickly covered with blueberry jam.  He took a sip of tea and asked, “when will Sam be coming in, then?  Would you like me to give you some space?”

Bilbo swallowed a mouthful of egg and toast and dabbed his lips with a napkin.  “No, no, Frodo.  I was thinking that you could stay and help.  Do you have any chalk and a slate?  I believe it will be easier for him to learn with that first before ink and paper.”

“Of course.  I’m sure I still own the slate I used when I was being taught my alphabet.  And I found some chalk in your desk, Uncle, when you asked me to clear out t-”

“Ah, yes.  Good, good.”  Bilbo brushed crumbs from his embroidered waistcoat and finished off his tea.  “Well, that’s everything organised.  I’ll be in my study for a while, Frodo.  I want to find some things for Sam-lad.  We’ll begin your Elvish lessons later today, yes?”  As Frodo nodded, Bilbo smiled and stood up.  “Well, then, I can trust you to do the breakfast dishes?  Good lad.”  And then he trotted off to his study, where he spent the rest of the morning comfortably.


It was early afternoon before Sam turned up at Bag End again.  Frodo smiled at the familiar, timid knock on the front door as he went to welcome the boy inside.  “Good afternoon, Sam!  Come in and I’ll just let Bilbo know you’re here.”

Sam cautiously stepped over the threshold of Bag End, fidgeting nervously with the woollen scarf around his neck.  “Thank you, Mr Frodo,” he murmured shyly.  He stood aside to allow Frodo to close the door before watching him disappear down the tunnel to Bilbo’s study.  

As discretely as he could manage, Sam began to take in his new surroundings, much in the same way as Frodo had done when he first arrived in Hobbiton three months previously.  He gazed in awe at the ornate carvings of the joins and supports in the tunnels, the smooth, polished wooden floor and the various decorative items on walls and small tables.  Noticing the two cloaks hung upon two pegs against the wall, Sam shuffled over to them, and reached out to touch them.  He drew in an astonished breath at the feel of the fabrics that had been used in making them, which was nothing like any of the clothes that Sam or his parents and siblings owned.  Even for his tender years, Sam suddenly felt uncomfortable, and for the first time realised what his father meant when he talked about ‘stature’ or ‘class’.

His small fingers let go their grasp of the cloaks and he took a few steps backwards, head bowed slightly, and waited for Bilbo.

“Well, hello, Sam-lad!  This way, come on!”  Bilbo’s voice rang clear and loud, causing Sam to look up with a start, before he nodded and padded quietly behind the Master of Bag End.  The walk from the front hall to Bilbo’s study seemed terribly long and unnerving for young Sam, whose fingers were once again tangled up in his scarf.  “Would you like me to take your coat and scarf?”  Bilbo asked.

Feeling very flustered and nervous now, not knowing how to behave in such circumstances, Sam hesitated to answer.  “Well, I-I…I…”

Smiling, Bilbo spoke encouragingly and patiently.  “If you’re going to be here for a while, Sam, you may find you would be more comfortable if you removed your outerwear.  I can get Frodo to hang it up beside our cloaks at the door.”

“Well…thank you, Mr Bilbo, sir.”  Sam removed the scarf and hand-me-down coat and looked back to Bilbo expectantly.  Frodo appeared from behind his uncle and took the items from Sam.  

“Would you like a glass of milk, Sam?”  Frodo asked before leaving

“Oh, erm, that-that…” Sam looked quickly between Frodo and Bilbo.  “That would be nice, please, Mr Frodo.”

“Alright then, I shall organise that.  Uncle, would you wish a pot of tea brought through?”  His uncle nodded and Frodo left the room for a few minutes.

Sam still stood in bewilderment at Frodo’s serving him.  Surely Mr Bilbo didn’t keep his nephew to wait on him?

“Now, Sam, come over and sit down.”  Bilbo patted the chair at the desk, padded with many extra cushions so Sam would be able to sit at the desk properly.  Sam scrambled onto the big chair and peered up at Bilbo with his large questioning eyes.  “Right then!”  After pushing Sam closer to the table, Bilbo sat down in another chair and moved closer.  Then, reaching over to pull something from a drawer, Bilbo placed the slate and a piece of chalk in front of the young boy.  “These are yours.”

Sam’s brown eyes went impossibly wide and found he couldn’t speak for a few moments.  “Oh…Oh, Mr Bilbo, thank you!”  He whispered.

“Well, then, now you have something to write on, I suggest we start showing how to do so!”

And there began Sam’s first lesson.  Bilbo patiently taught him the names and strange shapes of all the letters, demonstrating on a sheet of paper, getting Sam to repeat what he had said and drawn, which Sam painstakingly did, over and over.  His shaky handwriting filled the slate, and was cleaned away repeatedly, and throughout the afternoon he became more confident at writing down each letter. 

Towards the end of his first lesson, Bilbo took out a bundle of small cards, each with a letter written in the middle.  Bilbo had seen such cards used as a teaching method in Brandy Hall, and had made a set specially for teaching Sam. “Now, Sam.  I’m going to hold up a piece of paper, and on this paper is written a letter.  I want you to copy the letter onto your slate and then tell me which letter it is.”

“Yes, sir.”  Sam replied with a nod, chalk poised ready over the slate.

Bilbo held up the first letter, and Sam immediately ducked his head and slowly wrote it down.  Then, looking up again, he said quietly, “Is it the little ‘m’, sir?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid you’re a little bit off.  It’s the little ‘n’, see?  The ‘m’ has three ‘legs’, remember?”  Bilbo’s finger traced the form of the letter.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, Mr Bilbo.”  Sam squirmed a little in his seat.

“Your name has a little ‘m’ in it, is that not so?”  Sam frowned in thought for a second, then slowly nodded.  “Can you spell it, Sam?”  He asked encouragingly. 

His frown deepened, then he spoke softly.  “S…” he squinted and chewed his lip.  “A…M.”  he looked at Bilbo hopefully.

“Then next part?”

Sam’s frown returned as he thought hard about the second syllable of his name.  “W.  I…Z……no, S.”

“And…?”

The boy watched him in confusion.  “And…and…uhm…” he looked about the room for help.

“It’s alright, this is only your first lesson and--”

“E!  There’s an E at the end of my name!”

“Yes!  Well, done, lad!”

At that moment, Frodo returned to the room with a tray laden with food.  All afternoon he had been popping in and out of the study, whether to bring tea, or clear away cups, or to fetch more paper and ink for his own studies.  “Are you hungry?  How are you getting on?”

Bilbo patted Sam’s cheek and answered proudly.  “Sam is making excellent progress, and can spell his name!  Now, I’ll get you to write the alphabet a few more times, after tea, of course, and then see if you can write you’re name down on the slate.  But now, I think you’ve earned your crumpets.”


Sam arrived home promptly at seven o’clock, skipping happily with a big smile on his face.  After tea with Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo, Sam had surprised them both by confidently scribing his name on both slate and paper, after some carefully teaching with quill and ink.

“Dad! I’m home!”  He called out happily, forgetting that – 

“Hush, boy, your sister’s asleep!”

“Sorry papa.”  Brightening again, he continued his happy chatter, waving a small sheet of parchment.  “Dad!  I can write my name now!  And I know the alphabet and Mr Bilbo showed me how write with a feather and ink!”  And he held up the paper in two hands.

Bell Gamgee smiled in the kitchen at her son’s enthusiasm.  Her joy, like Sam’s, was short-lived though.

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea that you keep with your learnin’, Sam.”

Bewildered, Sam stared at his father, who extinguished his pipe and stood from the armchair where he had settled after dinner.  “But…”

“There’s no use’n you learnin’, it won’t never be of use to you.  I’ve told you afore, lad, you’re a gardener, a servant, nothin’ more.”

“Da’…you-you said that you could write, and read…why can’t I too, then?  You-”

Interrupting Sam’s reasoning, Hamfast spoke again.  “My father taught me when I was younger, he had some fool-idea in his head that I would be needin’ it one day.  When we both of us realised ‘twere pointless, my lessons stopped and I concentrated on what mattered – earnin’ my keep and puttin’ food on the table.  And that became even more important when he had to take early retirement from work.”

“But…”

“I’d thought it best to keep those same foolish notions from your head, Samwise, but when you’re brought up bein’ told faery tales and workin’ for the like of the Bagginses, it’s harder to avoid.”

“But, dad, I can write my name now…”

“Oh, and what use will that be for you when you have a family of your own to provide for?”  The Gaffer shouted.  

“You said I could get the lessons from Mr Bilbo, Da.”

“Aye, and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea after all.  Next thing I know is you’ll start some crazy talk and start gettin’ ideas above your station!”  Standing intimidatingly over his youngest son, Hamfast continued.  “You are a *servant*, Samwise Gamgee.  Them Bagginses, all they’ve ever been is wealthy and never needed to worry about money or clothing their children, or where their next meal will come from.  When was the last time you heard of a Baggins, or Brandybuck or Took for that matter, being hard-up or starvin’, strugglin’ to clean the dirt off their faces?  When have you seen them in aught but fancy clothes and with their fancy talk?”

Sam had started crying softly, but his father ignored his tears and carried on ruthlessly.  “You and I, this family and half of Hobbiton, we’ll never be half of what them posh folk are.  We’re here to serve them, to keep them and the gardens healthy, safe, well tended.  And if that don’t take up all your time during the day, then you’re not doin’ it right.  You get up in the morning and go to work.  You keep workin’ til it’s time to come home at the end of the day.  Then you spend the evenin’ with *your family* before you get to bed.  Then mornin’ comes an’ you start over again.”

“But, daddy!”  Sam wailed.  His face and eyes were red from tears and total despair by his father shattering his dreams.  Oh, yes, he wanted to be as good a gardener as him, but oh, he so badly wanted to read and write!  And Mr Frodo had said he wanted to be friends with him, and indeed, they had become friends in the short space of time Frodo had been in Hobbiton already.  His stomach clenched in fear at the thought of his father forbidding him to be friends with his Master’s nephew.

“Samwise Gamgee, I won’t tell you again!”  Hamfast raised his hand as if to strike his son, but his wife Bell intervened and grabbed his arm with brutal force.

“Hamfast, I will not allow you to strike our son over something as trivial as writin’.  Gracious, it’s not as if he wanted to run off and go on an adventure like Mr Bilbo, now, is it?  What harm can it do the lad to keep at his lessons?  What father would deprive his son of the chances that he once got?”  Loosening her grip on her husband’s wrist, she added.  “It’s nobody’s fault you didn’t keep at your learnin’, Ham.  You chose to give that up.  But you know enough, do you not, and can write a little, just like myself.  Do you remember the first letter we got from Hamson, after his uncle taught him to write?  And May and Daisy learnt from their seamstress.”

“It’s different for Sam, though…”

“WHY is it, Ham?”  Bell was unhappy and close to shouting herself.  “Can you see how his future is paved?  Maybe, perhaps, he needs to know how to write.  There maybe some powers in the world who gave our Sam his curiosity, his…his need to learn, for a reason.  Even if he doesn’t ever need to read when he’s bringing up his own family, what harm will it cause by letting him learn right now, when he’s still this young?”

Sam snuffled loudly as if to remind his parents of his presence.  Hamfast looked down at him again and sighed.  

“Are you afraid that Sam will take over you, or become more than you?  Ham, I love the hobbit you are, you are magnificent and strong and I couldn’t ask for a better husband or more lovin’ a father for my children.  But, dear, please do not stop your children from doing what their hearts desire, jus’ ‘cos it don’t fit in with what you want for them, or ‘cos you never got the chance to do it yoursel’.”  She brushed her fingers lovingly over his reddened, weather-worn face.  “Let Sam have this.  It’s important to him.  And you heard what he said: he can write his name now.  Already, after one lesson.  He has that talent, you see?  He wants this so much, Ham.”

Bell won Sam’s fight for him.  Hamfast relented, and with another deep sigh crouched down beside his little boy.  “My dear lad…I.”  He sighed again.  “I will let you keep takin’ your lessons.  Even if nothin’ is to come of them…I guess there is no harm in…in lettin’ you continue for the time bein’.  Just don’ go gettin’ ideas ahead o’ yersel.”

Tears still slipping down his damp cheeks, Sam nodded.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Aye, alright, then.  Get to bed, you’re workin’ with me at the Goodbodys’ tomorrow mornin’.”

Sam looked at his father, hoping for a hug, then scampered off quickly after he received a brief pat on the head.

And Bell looked after her son as he disappeared down the tunnel to his bedroom, momentarily fancying that she had seen a gentle light other than relieved happiness in his eyes.  Aye, he was a special one, she thought, and, reclining in her rocking chair by the fire, picked up her knitting and settled into the steady rhythm of completing her new creation.

~End, part 2~


Chapter 3 - The Guardian

It was an incredibly hot day, although the sky was covered with thick clouds and the air was almost unbearably heavy, and Sam wished he were lying somewhere cool and sheltered.  Or wished that at least there were a slight movement of air to ease the discomfort of the humidity.  The atmosphere was heavier than the previous day, if it were at all possible, and the Gaffer was certain there would be rain before sunset.

“Aye, we’ve had this good weather for a fortnight now and, nice as it is, the garden needs some waterin’ more than a can gives.”  He shook the earth off the weed he had pulled from a flowerbed.  “Afore the day’s out, lad.  Maybe even by lunchtime.  An’ if it rains like it did last time we had this heat, we won’t get nothin’ done in the garden, less we want sweepin’ away with it all.”

Sam pulled another weed from a different part of the flowerbed.  “Did you stay at Mrs Proudfoot’s house that time da’?”

The Gaffer shook his head.  “Course not, lad!  She offered, of course, she felt obliged to, but no, ‘twouldn’t have been the done thing to shelter at her home.  Aye, I got wet right through gettin’ back to the Row…but it’s only water, lad.  It dries.”  He stood up and stretched.  “Ah…I’m going to the back garden to trim them bushes now.  You finished off what you’re doin’ there with the flowerbeds, lad, then come round and see me.”  Sam nodded and Hamfast ambled off through the garden.

Now nine years old, Sam was gradually being given more responsibilities within the garden, and this included being left to do the weeding alone.  His Gaffer trusted him enough to be able to discern weed from flower, and thus left him to deal with this menial but important task while he took care of larger, or more complex jobs.  

However, Sam felt a little nervous being left alone.  It didn’t usually bother him, no matter whose garden they were working in, but today the air was heavy, so heavy, and all was quiet.  Sam couldn’t hear any birds singing or any leaves stirring on the trees and plants.  The air didn’t move at all, not even with the warm breeze that had been such a blessing the day before, until it faded to nothing around supper-time.  The thick air made Sam feel slow and tired, and hot and restless, and seemed to make his skin tingle unpleasantly.  

After a few long minutes of struggling with a stubborn dandelion, he sat back on his heels with a sigh and looked up at the dark clouded sky.  Then looked down again to poke aimlessly at the offending weed; then distracted himself by picking a loose thread on his well-worn breeches; then--His reverie was suddenly broken with the first distant rumble of thunder.  

Sam’s eyes widened and he gasped, sitting up straight.  He could only remember one or two storms, but he also remembered that he hated the lightning and thunder, and it usually kept him awake when he wanted to sleep.

Large, fat raindrops began to fall on the garden, landing with a pitter and patter on the leaves, slowly turning the pale, dry earth rich and brown.  Sam stood up and looked around for his father.  As he turned to face the front of Bag End, he saw a bolt of lightning slice through the heavy dark sky, his large brown eyes growing as wide as saucers.  The thunder followed a few seconds after, a rolling rumble that lasted a long, tense moment.

As the rain became heavier, soaking the young hobbit right through, more lightning illuminated the sky and was followed, much too quickly for Sam’s liking, by deafening cracks of thunder.  Trembling, Sam gathered up the gardening tools he borrowed from his father and hastily packed them into their carrying bag.  His small hands were shaking so much he was hardly able to fasten the buckles on the bag, and as the thunder roared again, he abandoned all attempts and ran around the garden frantically looking for his dad.

“Daddy!  Daddy!  Where are you?  Where have you gone?”  He cried, his soaking face stark white.  His brown curls were plastered again his forehead and the light summer shirt he wore stuck uncomfortably to his skin.  He shrieked as the thunder shouted angrily at him, much closer than ever before, crackling and rumbling on and on, until Sam thought it must have ran all the way around the Shire and back to where he stood.  “Daddy!”

Ham at this point, however, was approaching his home on Bagshot Row.  As the thunder had started, he stopped working and, after a quick scout around the garden for his son - who was in turn looking for him - the Gaffer assumed that Sam must have set off home already and hurried down the road himself before the weather got worse.

Sam decided he’d had enough - he didn’t want to be outside anymore.  He crept along the side of Bag End to the still-open kitchen door, then huddled under the slight overhang.  The lightning flashed once, twice, and in a fit of sheer panic, Sam ran inside, servant of the Bagginses or no.  He didn’t have a clue where he was going, just ran as far back into the hole under the hill as he could, hoping that would keep the storm away.  He scurried into the last room on his left at the end of the dark passage, slammed the door behind him and threw himself under the desk that sat conveniently in the corner opposite him.  The room was warm and dark.  And, being the furthest room from the front of Bag End, had no windows, only lamps and plenty of candles, none of which were alight at present, as no-one was working there.  From his hiding place, the thunder was only an occasional dull rumble.  Shivering and trembling with fright, the little hobbit curled up and fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth.

***

Frodo looked out of the kitchen window.  The sky had brightened and the storm had moved on, leaving the ground all over Hobbiton refreshed.  He smiled as he took in the lush vibrant colours of the garden, then lifted the tea tray he was preparing and carried it through to the living room.  “The garden looks wonderful now the rain has been, Uncle,” he said as he poured Bilbo a cup of tea.

“I don’t doubt it, lad.  We were in sore need of it.  Even Ham can’t revive a rain-starved flower.  He can only give them what there is to give, and in just the last few days, that hasn’t stretched as far as rain.”

“Where is the gaffer, Uncle Bilbo?  I saw him first thing this morning…”

“I suspect he may have gone home, Frodo, unless he is hiding in the shed.”  Bilbo said, giving his nephew a somewhat cheeky grin.  Frodo rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly before heading towards his study to practice translation on the poetry Bilbo had given him.

He pushed open the door and reached for the taper to light the lamps and candles.  As he was doing so, he became aware of a few dark wet patches on the soft, thick carpet, and wonder if the roof was leaking.  Once the last lamp was lit, Frodo could see that there were more than just a few of these wet patches, and they led up to his study desk.

Seeing no apparent problem with the low roof, Frodo walked over to his desk, knelt on the floor and peered underneath.  What he saw made his eyes nearly pop out of his head and his mouth opened in surprise.   “Sam?!”  

The boy awoke with a start and tried to sit up in the cramped space under the table.  “Oh, Mr Frodo!  Oh, you frighted me!”  He struggled to sit up then looked at Frodo with wide, scared eyes, and didn’t make a move to come out from under the piece of furniture acting as his shelter.

“How long have you been there?  How did you get there?  Won’t you come out?”

Sam crawled forward until he was out in the open again and avoided gazing up at Frodo.  “I’m s-sorry, M-Mr Frodo!”  Sam’s eyes flitted around the room nervously as he tried to hold back his tears.  “It-it’s just…it was stormin’ so bad outside and…and I got so scared with the lightnin’ and thunder!”  He sniffled loudly and added quietly, “I just wanted to hide from it.”  He wiped his eyes on the still-wet material of his shirt.

Frodo pulled they soggy-Sam into his lap and hugged him.  “Oh, it’s alright, dear Sam!  The storm has passed now, I think its going to another part of the Shire.  I don’t mind that you hid in here from it.  I don’t like them much either, but I had Bilbo to tell me it was all right.  I wish I had seen you or heard you come in, Sam.  Then we could have sat together and listened to Bilbo’s stories.”  Sam sighed deeply and leaned heavily against Frodo.  “You want to go home now?”

Sam nodded.  He’d have to face his gaffer sometime and, boy, he wouldn’t be happy with this.


As Sam squelched his way down the path from Bag End, he spotted a small group of children, no older than himself, throwing stones and acorns at something at the side of the muddy path.  He squinted and saw the something fluttered weakly.  As he approached, he realised it was a bird, which had likely fallen out of it’s nest during the storm.

“Hoy!  Leave it alone!”  He shouted and pushed his way through the throng of hobbits to get to the injured creature.

“Oh, Samwise, it’s just a bird.”

“It fell out its nest durin’ the storm - it’ll probably die soon, anyway.”

“Aye, a cat’ll eat it.”

“Yes, my cat, Ginger!”

“No!  Leave it!”  Sam pushed one of the bigger lads out of the way and stooped to pick up the bird.  But before he could scoop it up, the lad he had pushed grabbed hold of his shirt and shoved him across the path into the hedgerow.  “Oh, Hugh, let him alone!  He’s jus’ bein’ Sam, not doin’ no harm.”  Hugh’s sister reached to pull him back.

“He pushed me out of the way, so I’ll push him an’ see how he likes it!”

Sam flailed around in an effort to untangle himself from the spiky thorns and twigs.  Hugh grabbed one of his arms and yanked him up hard.  “Yow!  That hurt, stop it!”  Sam made to push the older boy again but was prevented from making any movement by a fist in his face.  He cried out and fell to the ground, lifting a hand to tentatively touch his bruised face, then felt a hard foot connect with his mouth.

“Hugh Brambleleaf!  That is enough!”  His sister shouted and grabbed her little brother fiercely by the ear, ignoring his squeals for her to let go and marched off in the direction of their home.  “Jus’ you wait ‘til I tell mam what you’ve done now!”  The other children followed after Rose Brambleleaf, wanting to see how Hugh would be punished.

Sam, on the other hand, crawled over to where the bird still lay and carefully scooped it up.  The poor creature was wet and cold and very quiet, and it quivered slightly, which upset Sam a little.  As he stood gently stroking the bird’s soggy feathers, Bilbo came to the door of Bag End, having heard all the commotion.  “Samwise!  What was all that about?”  He shouted as he marched down the path.  “Have you been fighting?”

“No, sir!  I-I- I was walkin’ home and there was these children throwin’ stones at the bird, Mr Bilbo!  And then…then Hugh Brambleleaf hit me, cos I pushed him out the way to get to the bird.”  Sam held the sparrow closer, as if Bilbo were a predator who would take it away.

Noticing Sam’s bloodied lip, Bilbo pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to him.  “Here you go, lad.  I’m not angry with you, don’t look so worried!”

“Thank you, Mr Bilbo.”  Sam took the pro-offered handkerchief and wrapped his precious bundle in it, allowing his small fingers to stroke the bird’s head again.

Bilbo opened his mouth to tell Sam the handkerchief was for *him* to use, but was touched by the picture presented to him: his littlest gardener nursing the tiny creature that now looked up at the provider of its new security.  “Hello, birdie,” Sam whispered.

“Samwise, come back inside and we’ll get you…both…cleaned up.”

Once inside, dried and warmed up, Sam helped Bilbo look over the sparrow for signs of injury.  “I think it may have a broken wing, Sam.  See how it hangs limp?  And I think he needs to sit in your hands and stay warm.”

Sam looked sadly at his little pet.  “Can you fix his wing?”

Bilbo, looking slightly pained, replied as truthfully as he dared.  “I could try.  But I do not wish to get your hopes up Sam - he might be too ill, or too sad to get better again.”

“Too sad?”

Bilbo bit his lip and thought carefully.  “Well Sam, he loves to fly, and sing and be free.  It makes him happy.  That’s where he gets his cheerful spirit.”

“Just like gardenin’ makes me an’ the Gaffer happy?  And reading makes you an’ Mr Frodo happy?  And…it makes me happy too?”

“Yes.”  Bilbo stroked the bird’s broken wing gently.  “What would happen if you weren’t able to work anymore?  Or read, or do all the things that made you happy?”

Sam’s eyes clouded with tears, remembering how devastated he had been when his father threatened to stop his lessons, and after only his first, too.  “I-I’d be so, so sad…I…” Sam suddenly understood why Bilbo said his little bird may be too ill to get better.  “But I love him…he looks at me like…like he knows I won’t never hurt him, and I’m his friend and I’ll look after him…”  The sparrow gave a tiny shudder and moved in Sam’s gentle hands.  Sam looked back up at Bilbo.  

“I could try splinting the wing, but it could only delay…the inevitable.  What is going happen.”

“Could we try anyway?  I’ll try anything to help the birdie…even if it’s only for a little while.”

Bilbo diplomatically agreed, and that evening, Sam went home with a sparrow tucked safely inside his coat pocket.  As soon as he walked through the door, he hurriedly said goodnight to his mother and father, leaving his explanation of where he had been all afternoon until the following day.  He went to his bedroom, and changed from his damp clothes into a fresh, warm nightshirt.  Then he lay down on his right side under his blankets with the tiny bird at beside him, and he nursed it and sang hushed lullabies until he fell asleep.

***

The next morning, Sam awoke to find the sparrow dead.  His mother came in to rouse him for breakfast, and found him already sat at the edge of his bed, crying over a small object wrapped in a red and white-spotted handkerchief.  “Sam-dear, whatever are you crying for?”  

“Birdie died while I was asleep!  I tried to help him get better, but-but Mr Bilbo said he might not get better and…he didn’t…Because he was too ill.  And too sad.”

Bell was reminded of the gentle singing she had heard coming from his room as she passed by the previous night, then saw the reason for his abruptness when he arrived home that evening.  She sat beside Sam and ran her fingers through her dark chestnut hair, pushing stray bits behind her ears.  “I’m sure you and Mr Bilbo did all you could for it, love.  And I’m sure the little bird wouldn’t have been too sad when he died.  You mind o’ your Great Aunt Lily?  When we heard she wasn’t going to get better, your father and I went to visit her, and stayed over.  In the mornin’, she…had passed, too.  But we knew that she hadn’t been sad, because we were there.  She wasn’t alone, and she had people around she loved and knew loved her.”

Sam sighed and sniffed wetly, wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt, and looked back at the still bundle of feathers in his hands.  “I should prob’ly put him somewhere where he can sleep then.”

Bell smiled and hugged her son close, one hand around his shoulders and the other stroking his brown curls soothingly.  “Aye, there’s m’lad,” she whispered, then kissed his brow.

“Love you, birdie.  I’m sorry you couldn’t get better.  It was nice havin’ you for a little while, anyway.  Better than lettin’ those others hurt you more.”  Sam placed the box into a small hole in the ground and covered it, patting the earth carefully into place.  “Bye, bye, little friend.”

Then he stood up, brushed dry earth from his trousers, and followed his father up to Bag End.

~End, part 3~


Chapter 4 - The Depth of Dreams

Despite only knowing each other a few years, there was a special bond growing between Frodo and Sam.  They spent a lot of time together, whether playing or picnicking or ‘adventuring’.  Bilbo had noticed that Sam’s awe and wonder of everything around him was having a positive effect on his nephew, and to him it seemed that he was being given another chance to have his childhood, the one that was robbed of him when he was twelve.  

Frodo thought nothing of chasing through muddy puddles with Sam to catch tiny little frogs, then take them all the way down to the Water.  It meant that Bilbo had extra laundry to give Miss Clover, who was paid for how many garments there was to wash, but he knew that he wouldn’t have it any other way.  “Better than him moping around the hole with his nose in a musty old book!” he muttered as he looked at another torn pair of breeches.  He remembered with a smile, Frodo running through the door of Bag End breathless with laughter and exertion, trying to explain why half a trouser leg was dangling by a thread and why he had bite marks on his left calf.

Just then, Bilbo heard Sam’s cautious knock on the front door.  He hurried to open it then looked down at the young boy.  He had grown up a fair bit over the past year and at the age of twelve, was showing strong signs of the hobbit he would grow up to be.  “Ah, Sam.  I was thinking since it’s so hot outside today, maybe you and Frodo would like to spend the afternoon together.  Out of doors.  You could pack lunch and sit under the trees and then…well, whatever you feel like doing.”  

Sam’s face fell slightly at the thought of missing a lesson, but then brightened with the prospect of spending the whole afternoon with his best friend.  “Thank you, Mr Bilbo.”  

“Please, come in.  I shall let Frodo know you’re waiting for him.”  

***

Sam insisted that he carried the picnic basket, and reluctantly allowed Frodo to take the blanket they were to sit on.  They wandered along a little path that took them to the little copse about a mile from Bag End.  Frodo had said how much he loved going to sit amongst the trees, with the little brook burbling happily and quietly nearby, skipping over and among the pebbles.  

Reaching the copse, Frodo picked out his favourite spot under a large oak tree, where the sunshine shone through gently, dappled and warm.  A mild breeze shifted the humid air around them enough to make sitting around still comfortable and relaxing.  

As Frodo finished spreading the soft-woven blanket on the leaf-softened ground, Sam quickly began to unpack the feast, which Bilbo had helped to prepare.  Ham and tomato sandwiches and soft cheese and watercress sandwiches, a block of mature yellow cheese, strawberry tarts and blackberry tarts and juicy red apples.  They each carried a flask, Sam’s with apple juice and Frodo’s with ginger beer.  Having unpacked everything, Sam handed Frodo a plate and smiled, his silent indication that Frodo could start his lunch.  

“Well, if I’m going to start eating, shouldn’t you?”  Frodo asked, hesitating to fill his plate.

Sam shook his head, curly hair waving slightly.  “No, Mr Frodo, you take what you want first.  That’s the way it goes.”  The young hobbit was quick to remember what his gaffer had instilled into him, and implemented it as oft as he remembered.  Which, in fear of being punished for not doing so, was most of the time.

“But…we’re friends, Sam.  We can eat at the same time.  Besides, if you wait ‘til I fill my plate, why, I may not leave you anything if I’m very hungry!”

Sam’s bottom lip stuck out slightly.  Surely Mr Frodo wouldn’t eat all their food?  Was he just – 

“I’m teasing Sam, don’t look so worried!  Here,” he passed him a couple of sandwiches.  “Fill up.  We’ve packed a lot, and I am sure Bilbo will not have us return with one crumb!”

After each ate their fill, they lay stretched out side-by-side on the blanket, drifting in and out of lazy summer slumbers, the little brook burbling only feet away.  Sam cherished the feel of the sun on his face, feeling relaxed and even almost equal with the hobbit beside him.  He lay to Frodo’s left, and opened his right eye just a tiny bit to peep at him.  Frodo was in the midst of a happy dream, a small smile curving his lips and his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly against his soft cheeks.  Still Sam wondered if there was a bit of Elf in his friend.  He wasn’t just attractive, like hobbit-attractive.  He was beautiful, like mystical, elven beautiful.  Sam clearly remembered seeing Frodo for the first time at Bag End and mistaking him for an elf.  His father had later told him he was daft for thinking so, but Sam knew that Mr Bilbo didn’t think him daft or foolish, and Mr Frodo didn’t laugh at him for thinking it either.

Sam smiled to himself and closed his eyes, thinking how lucky he was to have someone like Frodo as his friend, and he drifted into his own dream.

Frodo was the first to awaken a short time later.  Sitting up slowly, he stretched and yawned, looking down at the little lad still asleep.  He was curled up in a ball like a kitten, thumb slightly inside his mouth.  Frodo regretfully woke him up, shaking his shoulder gently.  “Sam…come on, lad, time to wake up.”  Sam slowly opened his eyes and struggled to move into a sitting position.  “Hello, there!  Shall we go looking for tadpoles now?” said Frodo, reminding Sam of one of their original plans.

Sam rubbed his eyes and nodded.  “Mm-hm.  What shall we do with the picnic stuff though, Mr Frodo?”  He asked and began sleepily packing the (very few) leftovers and crockery into the basket.

“Oh, just leave them for the now, Sam!  Come on, let’s have fun.”

Sam smiled and followed his friend.

***

After spending an exhausting hour collecting tadpoles and chasing small tiddlers in the stream, Frodo left Sam to return each one to their natural habitat while he packed away the picnic things.  Sam lifted his head when he heard the clatter of plates being carelessly tossed into the basket.  “Mr Frodo!  You should have left that for me to deal with!”

In turn, Frodo lifted his head.  He blinked a few times and brushed stray curls away from his eyes.  "It's no problem, Sam, really.  I don't mind tidying these things away.  You carry on with what you're doing, and enjoy yourself."

Sam quickly emptied the remaining amphibians from his hands into the water and scampered back to Frodo, who had finished packing and now sat on the blanket, watching Sam.  "Are we going home now?"  He asked sadly.

Frodo smiled and shook his head.  "No, I'm sitting here thinking up a new game for us to play. Bilbo said we needn't be back until dinner time, which gives us at least a couple of hours yet."  Frodo lapsed into silence as he thought through various options.  

Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a few minutes then sat down near the older hobbit and looked at him curiously.  "We could play hide an' seek, if you'd like," he started shyly.  "Or-or, hide and seek, but where one person hides somethin' and themselves and then the counter has to find both.  Me and my brother Ham play that with Daisy and May sometimes."  Frodo had shifted his attention from his toes to his companion, who was looking down and tracing patterns on the blanket with his fingers.

"What are the rules for that game then, Sam?"  Frodo asked, and shuffled closer to his young friend.

"Oh!  Uhm…well, I hide somethin', like-like a fancy stone, then I hide too, away from the…thing.  Then you have to find me and the thing.  But if you find the thing before you find me, then the game's over anyway.  It usually works better with more people, though."  He finished quietly.

"Well, then!  Shall we go and find a particularly special stone to use?"  Frodo could now remember playing this version of hide-and-seek with some younger relatives at Brandy Hall a few years ago, just before he moved to Hobbiton, actually.  It had been a cold and stormy April afternoon, and the teachers and nannies were at the end of their tether.  They had spent much of the morning chasing after numerous Brandybucks and Tooks and Bracegirdles.  The final straw had been when young Meriadoc, then six, threw Mentha's teddy bear across the length of the living room - a surprisingly long throw for a child - and knocked a prized vase from the mantelpiece. 'Oh-ohhh - I'm tellin', Merry!' had rung out from various children around the room.  Frodo had rescued the little Brandybuck, tidied the mess then suggested playing a different game, to which they all agreed.  

Then Merry decided that game would be the New Hid and Seek, and they spent the remainder of the afternoon hunting high and low for Mentha's teddy, and with easy and quick results.  However, when it was Merry's turn to hide the teddy, the game ended, and sourly.  As he had taken to exploring the somewhat dirtier parts of Brandy Hall, Merry tucked the bear away up the chimney/flue of the least used room in the entire hole, which also happened to be the furthest away from the playroom and surrounding area where they were playing that day.

"Will this stone do, Mr Frodo?"  Sam's soft voice broke Frodo's daydreaming, and he turned around to face the younger hobbit.  He took the stone Sam offered, and looked at it closely.  It was pale, off-white but with a pinkish tinge, and had tiny veins of light red and dark blue threaded through it.  Sam had fancied that it looked a bit like a heart, and Frodo now viewed it with the same mind.  The stone was almost bigger than Sam's small palm, but it fit snugly into Frodo's older and larger one.  "Yes, I think it's perfect."

Sam peeked carefully through the rough shrubs, eyes darting and ears alert to the slightest noise.    He crept stealthily through the small woods, his feet barely making a sound as he moved about, taking his turn in looking for Frodo.

They had been playing for some time now and Sam was beginning to tire of the game slightly.  But as he carefully stepped over a rotten branch, his eye caught sight of a heart-shaped stone.  He blinked and bent to pick it up.  It was the stone they were playing with - this meant he had won his turn without even finding Frodo!  He carefully examined it for a long moment, to be sure this was the stone.  But it had to be - it was very unique.  Sam had never seen another stone like this before, which was why he had picked it up to start with.

Frodo peered through foliage of the tree he hid in.  What was Sam doing?  He was standing turning something over in his hands.  Shifting impatiently, Frodo was about to call out to Sam, when Sam called out to him.

“Mr Frodo!  I’ve found the stone, so…you’ll have to come out now.  Mr Frodo?”  Sam looked around him.

Before he could speak, Frodo slipped and began to tumble headfirst out of the tree.  Dropping the stone, Sam looked up quickly then gasped in surprise and covered his eyes, waiting either for a thump as Frodo hit the ground, or to be squished as Frodo landed on him.  After a couple of seconds, Sam was aware neither had happened, and he peered through his fingers.  Still three branches above him, Frodo dangled perilously, his green cotton shirt holding onto a broken branch for dear life as he swayed to and fro, arms folded in irritation.  "It would appear that I'm having some difficulty in escaping this tree, Sam.”

“Oh, uhm.…”  Sam scratched his forehead in puzzlement.  “Could you--swing over and grab a branch…?”

“Well…I could try…” Frodo began wiggling slightly.  Of a sudden, the material of his shirt gave way.  With a shriek, Frodo came tumbling down the last few feet of the tree, landing with a solid thud beside his shocked friend.  “Ohh…”

“Mr Frodo! Oh, are you alright?”  Sam gasped and knelt at Frodo’s side.  “Are you hurt?  Can you move?”

Frodo rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows.  He wiggled his toes.  “I’m alright, thank you.  No, I’m not hurt.…I can move.”

Sam nodded.  Then shifted slightly.  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I think I won that turn.”  He held out the stone.  “I found this nearby.”

Frodo sighed, admitting defeat and stood up.  Then his hand brushed against something in his pocket.  He frowned as he remembered that he had never hidden the stone.  “But I have the stone here in my pocket…”Sam shook his head, also got to his feet.  “Beggin’ your pardon again, Mr Frodo, but you can’t have, ‘cos I have the stone here.”  He held out his hand and Frodo looked closely at it.

“But…that-that’s impossible!  I have it right here!  I didn’t hide it because…well…and…” Frodo cleared his throat.  “So, that stone you have can’t be the right one.  Look.”  He held out his hand and showed Sam the stone he held.

They were identical.

Sam’s eyes widened impossibly.  “Oh…they’re the *exact* same!  But…I’ve never seen any stone like this before today.”  He paused, then laughed a bit.  “Oh, Mr Frodo - there must be a lot of these kind of stones in this wood, that’s the only reason.”

Frodo continued turning his stone over in his hand.  “No…I’ve never seen one before.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Sam, this is an Elven Heart-Stone.  When you found that one…I mean this one,” he held up the one he had.  “When you found this, I didn’t think anything of it but…that’s two now, which would make sense.  These stones are usually found in two’s, because...Oh, it’s silly really.”

Sam continued to stare at Frodo, waiting for him to carry on with the story. “These are only meant for…they’re given as wedding gifts.  Exchanged with or instead of rings.  I…I guess it’s a culture thing.”  Frodo shrugged.  “I remember Bilbo told me about it, years ago.  As a bedtime story, or something, when he visited.”

Sam looked at his stone.  “What should we do with these, then?”

Frodo thought deeply before giving an answer.  “I guess we should put them back where we found them.”

“But I found them both.”

“Hmm, yes.”  Frodo smiled and looked up.  “Well, you know where you found it, so you may as well take this one and put it back….roughly.…where you found it.  I’ll take this one and put it back, as it’s just around here anyway.”

Sam nodded.  “Yes, I found that one just over there.”  He pointed.  “I can remember where I found this one….I…I’ll be back soon, Mr Frodo.”

Making sure that Frodo couldn't see him, Sam stopped a little distance away and looked again at the stone he still held.  Instead of placing it back to be half-hidden by the soft earth, Sam wrapped it in his handkerchief and placed it carefully in his coat pocket.

As soon as Sam had disappeared through the trees and brushwood, Frodo stared longingly at the precious heart-shaped stone.  Since Bilbo had told him the tale about the Elven Heart Stones, Frodo, then only fourteen, had regularly scoured the woodland areas for such a stone.  His only problem had been who to give the other one to when he found them.  He could give one to Bilbo, he supposed, but Bilbo lived miles and miles away in Hobbiton.  He asked Bilbo why they were so hard to find and Bilbo said you couldn't just look for them; they were a blessing from the Powers, and often to the First-Born or those of their bloodline.  They had to come to you (or be given to you, as it were), and the one you loved. Then he asked why Bilbo never mentioned them in his stories, and the given answer was that they were never mentioned in tales, as they were private, intimate entities for the two persons involved only.  The legend of the Stones was rarely documented in history.  Frodo sighed and resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't find one right now and would have to wait until he was older, if he would be that lucky at all.

And now he had one, sitting in his hand, and he had to put it back.  'The irony of it all.  I have no one to love enough that I would exchange it with them.  But why did it come to me?  Or rather, Sam...Is it for…Maybe I should keep it…Maybe I will find someone who also has one later in life…'  With that thought in his mind, Frodo took a breath and made his decision, stuffing the object into a pocket and silently praying that he hadn't deprived some other soul of their Heart-Stone.

Once again settled on their picnic blanket, Frodo and Sam sat playing a game of 'I-spy'."…Something beginning with…hmm."

"Hmm?  Which letter is that, Mr Frodo?"

"Hmm?  Oh, sorry Sam, I was thinking.  We may have spied everything there is to spy around here."  He wriggled against the bark of the tree they leaned against.  "Oh - I see something - it starts with R."

Sam immediately searched carefully with his bright eyes, muttering the letter 'R' under his breath.  "R-r…rabbit?  No, can't be, he'd be gone by now…Rrr-r…re-ri-ra…oh!  Rainbow!"  he stood up and pointed at the patch of sky between the trees.  "It's a rainbow!"

Frodo stood up as well.  "Yes, it's a rainbow.  It must be raining a few miles north of here.  I hope it doesn't move this far south."  

"Is it true what Mr Bilbo says about there bein' treasure beside a rainbow?"  Sam looked up earnestly at Frodo.

"I'd like to think so…" he replied softly.  "But I don't think Bilbo meant gold or gemstones or precious metals…"

Sam frowned slightly and looked at the now fading rainbow.  "Ah.  Ohhh…"  he mumbled.  Turning his attention back to Frodo, he asked, “What did he mean then, sir?”

Frodo turned to Sam and reached out a hand to brush soft, brown curls from his friend’s gentle, enquiring face.  “I think he meant treasure that you hold close to your heart.  Your family and friends; your dreams and hopes.  Your rainbow and your pot of gold is that which you cherish most.  No-one can take them away from you, Sam.  Don’t you ever let anyone try to tell you otherwise.  Rainbows and treasures have long been associated with the weather, and perhaps there once was an element of truth in the legend…But I think that rainbows are just your dreams….”

“Ohh.…So, do you have a rainbow, Mr Frodo?”

Frodo shrugged.  “Maybe. Once.  I think, however, they faded some years ago.”

“What?  Will my rainbows - my dreams - fade away, too?”

Shaking his head emphatically, Frodo replied quickly.  “No, I doubt it, Sam.  Everything changed for me when my parents died.  I have forgotten how to dream.  I do not doubt you will ever forget how to dream, dear friend.”

“But Mr Bilbo says you’s always dreamin’, Mr Frodo.”

“No - only day-dreaming, which can simply mean becoming lost in your thoughts, as it means for me.”

Sam picked at the lint on his worn off-white shirt.  “Gaffer says I’m always day-dreamin’.  Says I’ll become so distracted with m’thougths, one day I’ll end pullin’ up Mr Bilbo’s pansies, or plantin’ taters with the roses…when I’ve been learnt how to plant taters, I mean.”

“Not a thing wrong with day-dreaming, Sam.  What sort of things are you thinking of when you drift away?”  Frodo watched as his young friend blushed slightly and became fascinated with picking the fluff on his shirt. 

“Just silly things, sir,” he mumbled.

“Will you want to tell me what kind of ‘silly things’?  I’m sure I’ve thought sillier things, you know.”

Sam contemplated this for a moment, then nodded.  “I sometimes wonder if the elves visit hobbits, and if I’ll ever see ‘em if they do…or if I’ll be too busy workin’.  Sometimes, I think what it would be like to be able to read things as you an’ Mr Bilbo do, or play games more of’en than I get to.  Sometimes I wish I was a lot older so’s I could…be with you more of’en…and do more things with you.  I keep forgettin’, when I’m dreamin’, that you and Mr Bilbo are more important and only need me and gaffer to do for the garden, and stuff.…”

Frodo shuffled his feet uncomfortably.  Sam was terribly young to know so much about…. status.  It irritated Frodo often to receive such preferential treatment, because of his name, and he also wondered how many people were friendly with him because of his stature and connections.   

But Sam was one of the few he felt properly comfortable with, and cherished his friendship.  He had hoped Sam knew that Frodo appreciated him and was fond of him, though it now seemed this was not the case.  “Sam…you *are* important.  I’ve never told you before just how important you are - at least to me.  You’ve made me feel so at home in such a strange place, and you’ve cheered me up and kept me company.  You’ve grown so much since we first met…the changes I can see astound me.  You’re going to be such a wonderful and strong hobbit.  You’re everything a hobbit should be.  I wouldn’t worry about not being older.  We can still do things together - spend days like this, listen to Bilbo’s stories.…we can grow up together.  I….I know that there’s what some people call…a ‘class difference’ between us, but Sam, I honestly do not let that colour our friendship – or any of my friendships – in any way.  As far as I’m concerned you’re….well, you do a different job from me.  And more useful, I may add.  You grow things, care for things, and you enjoy it.  Me, well, all I do is read all day.  Oh, it’s confusing to work out.  I appreciate you so very much, and I am glad we are friends.  You are worth your weight in gold, Sam.  Which would make you as valuable to those around as your dreams are to yourself.”

Sam smiled up at Frodo, showing a small gap between two teeth where one had fallen out the day before, and moved forward to hug him.  Frodo met him half way and wrapped his arms around the little hobbit.  “Come on, now.  Let’s go back to Bag End.  We’ll have supper together and I’ll tell you one of Bilbo’s faery-tales.”

***

“Well, lads, did you have a pleasant afternoon?  What sort of mischief did you get up to, hmm?”  Bilbo hopped around the kitchen, throwing together a hasty supper for the three hungry hobbits.

“Well, we did not leave a crumb for the birds to have of the picnic, Uncle.  We’ve napped, and talked, caught tadpoles and played hide-and-seek.…”

“Oh, aye, that sounds like you’ve had a busy afternoon then…you’ll be ready for bed as soon as you’ve had supper then, early though it is.”

“Well, I was hoping to tell Sam a couple of faery-tales before he went home for the evening…”

“Aye, you do that, lad, I’ll be meeting Ham at the Green Dragon in an hour or so.  He didn’t appear to be too keen to….socialize with me, but I talked him around, after saying we could make it a business meeting and discuss the garden, and all that.  I think Ham likes to keep his professional front when he’s dealing with me…although he’s a lot more relaxed now than he was six or seven years ago.  Ah, now then - to the dining room, boys: supper will be brought through in just a moment!”

Sam moved forward to help Bilbo with the supper trays.  “No, no, Sam, you go and sit down beside Frodo - I can manage with this.”  Reluctantly, Sam followed Frodo into the next room.

After a grand supper - at least to Sam - including sardines on buttered toast and sticky jam rolls, all washed down with tea (or warm milk, for Sam), Bilbo excused himself and got ready to go out for the evening.  

Once he had left, after Hamfast came to meet and accompany him down to the Inn, Frodo and Sam settled themselves on the sofa in the living room, ready for an evening of magical stories.

“Come on, you can sit a bit closer.”  Frodo pulled Sam towards him and covered them both with a cozy blanket.  “Now then.  Shall I begin with a tale of elves, and of lost treasure and dragons?”

“Oh, yes, please, Mr Frodo!”  Just the answer Frodo had expected.  With a smile, the two friends tucked into each other as the story unfolded…

When Bilbo returned home much later that night, Sam had not returned to Bagshot Row.  In fact, as the old hobbit pattered through the rooms of Bag End, extinguishing lamps and candles, he came across the two young hobbits, so curled into each other, he could hardly distinguish between them. 

He smiled fondly at them, his dear nephew, and the little gardener.  Lying the full length of the sofa, using it as an impromptu bed, blanket half-over and half-off.  They slept facing toward each other, Sam sucking his thumb amid his peaceful dreams, with the fingers of his left hand threaded loosely through Frodo’s dark curls, while Frodo had thrown an arm around his companion, a gesture both protective and possessive.

Bilbo stooped to pick the blanket from the floor, and tucked it around their shoulders.  He would leave them there to sleep as long as the wished, unwillingly to disturb them.  But Ham would be wondering where Sam was.

Taking a last look at the sleeping hobbits, Bilbo headed out into the clear starlit night, down the road to the Row…


~End, part 4~


Chapter 5 - Winter Gardens

In the early winter of 1396, Sam’s sixteenth year, Hamfast Gamgee found that his limbs were now failing him and protested at the strain of working in Bag End.  He was 70, and still had many years in him, but the joints and muscles were demanding rest after more than 50 years of labour.

Now Sam found himself walking the short distance to Bag End every morning by himself, distracted by the many views of Hobbiton as he sauntered along.  

Granted, there had been slight disagreements about Sam taking on the job at such a tender age, but after a couple weeks, Sam proved himself as able as one with an extra ten or more year’s experience.

This day however, Sam was puttering around in his own kitchen, as most work for Bag End had been tied up for the long winter.  Still he would go up to the hole in the Hill, asking if there were any jobs needing done, or if Mr Bilbo or Mr Frodo needed anything from the market.  

As Yule was fast approaching, Sam was making long lists of everything he would need to keep the family going.  Markets did not operate over the Yule fortnight, so it was a fool hobbit who neglected to stock up for this time.

“Right, Da, I’m off to market.  Callin’ by Mr Bilbo first, of course.  Got to make sure they’re all safe and snug up there over Yule…”

“Aye, lad, and make sure there’s plenty o’ firewood for ‘em, too,” the Gaffer called from his chair by the fire.  He turned to his son.  “And make sure *you* get wrapped up warm afore you go trampin’ around Hobbiton.  Do you have your list?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam waved his carefully hand-written note in front of his father.

“Aye, well, off wi’ye.”  The Gaffer waved his pipe dismissively and smiled crookedly at the hastily retreating figure.

Sam knocked on the large green door of Bag End and stepped back.  He noticed that a small pane of glass was cracked and partly missing in the corner, most likely because of the hard frost they’d been getting recently.  He made a mental note to fix that up before the Yule holiday and turned his attention back to the door, which was now half-open.

“Good morning, Samwise!  How are you this fine, if a bit chilly, day?  Your father keeping well?”

“Good mornin’, Mr Bilbo.  Gaffer’s keepin’ well right now, thank you for asking, sir.”

“Well, do come in, Sam.  Wouldn’t want you to fall ill over the festive period.”  Bilbo pulled the young hobbit indoors and closed the door with a thud.  “Now, what  brings you up here this day?”

“Well, sir, I’ve got here a list of things we’ll be needing over Yule.  To keep us well fed and stocked up, if you take my meaning.”  Sam held up his list.  “And, well, I was wonderin’ if there was anythin’ you and Mr Frodo would be needing.  I’m goin’ down to the market jus’ now, so I can pick up any bits and bobs you might want.”

“Why, thank you, Sam!  That is a very good point.  I don’t suppose you would help me whip up our own list?  You can have a look through the pantry and storerooms and take inventory of them; I’ll ask Frodo if there is anything in particular he may want.”

“Yes, Mr Bilbo, sir.”

Just as Sam had started for the first storeroom, Bilbo turned around with a short exclamation and beckoned Sam back over.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’ve only just remembered, how careless of me.  Frodo and I will be in Buckland over Yule, and shall be returning mid-Afteryule.  So it’s likely that we won’t need much, just enough to tide us over the few days when we return.”

“Yes, Mr Bilbo.  When will you be leaving?”

“I’d imagine in three day’s time, Sam.”  The old hobbit shook his head.  “I’m getting very forgetful.  We shall most likely require your assistance.  But we wish, more than anything, to have you accompanying us to Brandy Hall for a holiday.”  He put his hands on his hips and studied Sam for a few moments.  “You work very hard for us, Sam.  Clear it with your Gaffer, and return here this afternoon, if you please, to let me know of your plans.  But after you’ve done your own chores, mind.  You’d best be getting down to the market now.”

“Y-yes, Mr Bilbo.”  Sam stuttered.  His dark brown eyes were still huge and wide with Bilbo’s request - that he, Samwise Gamgee, was to accompany them to Brandy Hall, and stay there over Yule!

***

Laden down with his goods and supplies, Sam shuffled through the front door of Number 3.  Marigold bounced over to help him and took several parcels from his arms.  “Dear Sam!  I shan’t think we’ll starve this Yule!  Oh, you’ve been buyin’ presents, too!  Is this mine?”

Sam laughed as he dropped his burden in the kitchen.  “No, not that one.  No, I’m not tellin’ you what it is!”  He started putting away the provisions as Marigold kept up her chattering, occasionally handing something to her older brother.

After finding a home for everything and hiding the presents for his family, Sam moved slowly back through to the parlour where Hamfast sat.  “Da’?” 

“Aye, what?”  

Sam took a seat opposite his father and watched him carefully for a few moments, trying to gauge his mood.  Not that it mattered; he would have to tell his dad his news from Mr Bilbo at any rate, since they were due to leave quite soon.  Indeed, leaving for almost a month in three day’s time.  He took a deep breath and came straight out with it.  

“Mr Bilbo wants me to go with him and Mr Frodo to Buckland, over Yule.”

The Gaffer looked up.  His second youngest stood before him, scarf twisted between his fingers nervously, a flicker of hope in his dark, reflective eyes.  ‘You are so much like your mother…’ he thought.  ‘Eyes…gentle nature…determination…’

“How long?  When does Mr Bilbo want to leave?”

“Three weeks, I think.  No more.  Uhm, he hopes to leave in three days at the latest.”

Hamfast nodded.  “You’d best tell him ‘aye’, then.  And start gettin’ ready.”  He watched Sam’s brown eyes widen with surprise and he laughed gruffly.  “Oh, away wi’ye!”  He waved his hand, for the second time that day.

“Thank you, Da’.”


***


“Sam!”  Bilbo rushed to the door and yanked a bemused young hobbit inside.  “Oh, I’m glad you’ve arrived - Frodo’s an utter disaster!  He’s not even packed!  ‘Make sure you’re ready to go when Sam arrives on Friday morning’, I told him.  Oh, he said he had been, of course, and to give the lad credit, he had been, but he *needed* to look for something.  And naturally, the ‘thing’ had been packed at the bottom of his trunk!  Wouldn’t even tell me what the thing was - just that it was important and….goodness’ sake, he’s still to cram everything back into the trunk again!”

Sam obediently followed Bilbo through the smial from room to room as he checked the windows were closed, until they finally reached Frodo’s bedroom.  The poor hobbit sat amid a pile of crumpled shirts and waistcoats and creased breeches, with a look on his face that was easily read ‘where do I start?’.

“Oh, Frodo, couldn’t you just have left your *thing* where it was?  It would have been easier to find it at Brandy Hall when you were unpacking again.  Oh, what will I do with you!”  The old hobbit sighed and shook his head.  “I may as well get second breakfast ready for us.  Sam, would you please help my careless nephew with this -mess?”  He gestured to the scattered piles.  “The Thain has generously agreed to send someone by our way to cart our luggage to Buckland.  We were told he would be here by mid-morning.  And I said we would be ready.”  Bilbo looked pointedly at his nephew.

“Yes, Mr Bilbo,” Sam said around a careful smile.  He looked at Frodo, who was watching him with a sheepish grin, and returned the smile.

Bilbo scampered out of the room and muttered something under his breath about hobbits in their tweens.

“Hello, Sam.  My apologies for the mess….I thought I had lost something precious to me, and I wanted to find it so I knew it was safe.  I have found it, and it was my bad luck that it had slid to the bottom of my trunk.”  He patted the open wooden chest beside him.  “Well, I guess we should get started!”

Frodo was keen to be ready now, and so began roughly folding his clothes and packing them any old way.  After a few minutes of Sam’s careful folding and Frodo’s manhandling, the young gardener politely asked Frodo to leave the room so he could finish the job.  “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Frodo, but it only takes one hobbit to plant a seed, if you take my meaning, so I think if I just keep goin’ with this, I’ll make sure you don’t leave anything behind, an’ we’ll be ready to leave here soon.”

Frodo smiled and stood.  “Very well, Sam.  I shall go and select a few books to take with me.  That will keep me out from under your feet for a short while.  If you’re unsure of anything, I’ll only be next door.”

As Sam returned to the task in hand, it quickly dawned on him how new this whole situation was, and that he was taking on the role of more than the Gardener of Bag End.  Within the few weeks that his father had retired, Sam was running more and more errands for the Bagginses, and now, here he was sitting in Mr Frodo’s bedchamber, sorting through and packing his clothes, and accompanying his Master to Brandy Hall…..Sam couldn’t be sure if he was excited or nervous.

***

Having travelled for almost seven hours, the party from Hobbiton eventually arrived at the hall of the Master of Buckland.

“Ooh, just in time for dinner, I’ll wager!”  Bilbo smiled eagerly, and after greeting the necessary hosts and relatives, he disappeared amid the swarms of hobbits coming and a-going.

Frodo smiled and shook Saradoc’s hand as he appeared.  “Young Frodo!  It’s been many a month since you have last graced us with your presence!  All is well, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you, we are all fine in Hobbiton.  I trust matters are the same for yourself and your family?”

“Indeed.  With the exception of the frequent visits we have been receiving from our relatives from Tuckborough.  Young Peregrin Took being six years now, and leaving a trail of mischief wherever he goes!  But such news I expect you shall hear over the course of your holiday here!”

Frodo nodded with a laugh then placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder, who had been standing quietly at his master’s side and looking around anxiously at the ‘rabble’ that was Brandy Hall, as he had come to call it.  “Uncle, I would like you to meet Samwise Gamgee.  Sam, this is my uncle whom I stayed with until I moved to Bag End - the heir of Brandy Hall and future Master of Buckland, Saradoc Brandybuck.”

“An honour to meet you, sir.”  Sam bowed low to the older hobbit.

“Yes, yes.  A Gamgee, you say?  That’s not a name I'm familiar with.”

“Oh it won't be sir, beggin' your pardon.  We Gamgee's are ropers and gardeners.  I'm the gardener for Bag End, where Mr Frodo lives....I'm his servant, sir.”

“Servant, aye?  Then why aren't you receiving tasks from the housekeeper?”

“Sam is here as my friend and guest, sir.”  Frodo interjected, his expression darkening a little.

Saradoc stiffened slightly.  “Well, Master Gamgee, I'm afraid we...we were not expecting you.  You will have to stay in the servants’ quarters.  Flora!”

A flustered looking hobbit lass stopped short beside her master.  “Yes, sir?”

“See to it that Master Gamgee is shown to his room.  Put him with the Tooks' servant-lad.”

“Aye, sir, straight away.  You have a bag with you?” Flora asked Sam.

“His luggage is at the main door, with mine,” Frodo informed her sharply.

“Well, we'll pick it up and get it to your room, then I'll show Mr Gamgee where he'll be sleepin'...even if he won't be takin' no orders while he's here.” The last part of Flora’s retort was aimed directly to the young lad standing before her.  Sam heart dropped as he followed Flora back to the front door to retrieve his and Frodo’s luggage, and Frodo watched his friend as he slunk away through the crowds of Brandybucks and Tooks.

Despite her words, Flora managed to drop plenty of tasks on Sam.  While the gentry dined, Sam and the house-servants scampered around busily, preparing beds and rooms ready for weary heads to lay upon after supper.  One room to be prepared happened to be Frodo’s, but at this point all of Saradoc’s relatives and guests were feasting in one of the large dining rooms, and there was no sign of Frodo or Bilbo, who was staying a few doors down from his nephew.

Twice the young Hobbiton gardener got lost in the numerous tunnels, and both times found himself in the presence of one of a higher position, followed by a chastising from Flora.

By midnight, the house was winding down and the only people still up were those on a ‘night-service’.

Shuffling back to his room, Sam felt dreadful.  He’d never been so tired as he was now.  They had worked him since he arrived and only stopped him for five minutes to let him grab a bite to eat - and a bite was all he got.

He now lay on his bed, a candle still flickering on the nightstand, listening to the muffled chatter of servants saying goodnight and, closer by, the sound of quiet snoring.  Sam sighed deeply and turned onto his other side to face the wall.  He wondered where Frodo was, thinking of how much he wanted to see him right now, but knowing he’d never find him in this warren.  He berated himself for becoming disillusioned - for thinking when Frodo said ‘my friend and guest’ that he really meant ‘friend’ - as in, one to stay close to…next door, say.  Not a room next to the housekeepers, on the other side of the great smial.

“I was wrong.  I should never have started thinkin’ like that.  He is my master.  Not my friend.  I’m a Gamgee…He’s a Baggins….” Sam rubbed his eyes wearily and sighed again.  “Da’ was right after all.”  His stomach grumbled, demanding attention.  “Naught I can do for you, I’m afraid.”  He mumbled in return.

The candle guttered slightly, and a tear of warm wax slipped silently down its glossy length.  In the silence, broken only by soft snores, Sam heard a quiet knock on the door.  “If that’s Flora.…I’ll be remindin’ her it’s after midnight and she can.…”

“Sam?”  Came a quiet, familiar voice.

Sam jumped up and pulled the door open.  “Mr Frodo?”  Sam’s soft brown eyes widened in surprise.  “W-what are you over here for, sir?”

“I.…wanted to know you were alright, Sam.  I never got a chance to see you after Miss Flora whisked you away.  Have you been working all evening?”  In the dim light of Frodo’s candle, Sam could see faint lines of worry across his brow.

“Yes.  Yes, I-I have, Mr Frodo.  I just….” he indicated into the dark room.  “Just got back here a few minutes ago.”

“Did you eat supper?”

Sam hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Sam?”

“I.….had a bite to eat earlier, sir.”

“You’ve missed two meals.  No, it’s three now, I’m sure.  We only stopped to eat our lunch; we didn’t stop for afternoon tea.”

“It-it it’s not important, Mr Frodo,” Sam mumbled awkwardly.

Frodo leaned against the doorframe and stared intently at Sam.  “It *is* important, Sam.”  He held Sam’s eyes in a strong hold until the young lad began to squirm.  “Come with me.”

Sam subconsciously took a tiny step backwards.  “I’m sorry, Mr Frodo, but I have to work tomorrow.  I-I’d like to go to bed now, sir.”

Frodo set his jaw and grabbed hold of his retreating friend.  “Samwise!  You were invited here by Bilbo and myself, first and foremost as our friend - *my* friend.  This is supposed to be a holiday for you just as much as us.”

“No, sir.  I’m your gardener, and your servant, and -”

“If it makes you feel better, I’d rather you just worked for me while we are all here.  I don’t want you working your fingers to the bone over Yule.”

“Oh, I would love to be able not to work.  I’d love this to be a holiday, and to spend some time with you…”  Sam blushed and shook his head.  “No, that’s wrong.”

“What?  Why is it?  We can’t be friends or do things together because your job involves doing things for me?  I want to spend more time with you.  But I don’t want you to think that you *have to* because Mr Frodo asked it of you.  I shan’t do that; I shall not use you in such a way.  I think that we both want the same from each other.  And I know that I would dearly love to have you as my closest friend.”

“But my gaffer.…”  Sam moved forward again and rested his hand o the door handle.  “I *do* want to be your friend.  I really, really do.”  His stomach interrupted again.  “Oh.”

With a smile, Frodo pulled Sam forward.  “Come, on, let’s get you fed.  Then tomorrow I shall speak with my Uncle.  I shall not have you working with the servants of Brandy Hall for all and sundry.  Perhaps, if you wish, I could ask if there is any work you could assist with in the winter garden?”  

Sam’s beaming smile gave him his answer as the two hobbits headed towards the candle-lit kitchens.

*** 

“Frodo!”  A young lad shouted, much louder than necessary, causing all those around to stare in the direction of the voice.  He looked sheepish for a brief moment, then ran towards his older cousin and wrapped his arms around his knees.  “Frodo!”

“Hallo, Pippin,” Frodo replied good-naturedly, and patted the russet curls of his six-year old cousin.  He tried to unwrap the lad from around his legs, but Pippin only clung on tighter.  “Pip, you’ll have to let go of me, I’m afraid.”  Frodo managed to remove one limb from his cousin’s vice-like grip, before looking up as another called out to him.

Pippin also looked up and behind him briefly and grinned.  “Merry!”  He squealed and immediately detached himself from Frodo and leapt onto his other cousin.  “Hullo, Merry!”

Merry, unlike Frodo, had bent over and scooped up the bundle of mischief and kissed him on the forehead.  At fourteen, Merry knew better than most how to handle Pippin.  But on the other hand, it was because of Merry that very few could handle Pippin.  “Did you show Frodo your gap?”

Pippin smiled impishly and tucked his head into Merry’s shoulder.  “No!”

“But Frodo might want to know what happened to your tooth.  Turn around and smile, Pip.”

Pippin turned around then, wriggled out of Merry’s arms, and looked up proudly at Frodo.   “My firth toof came out lath night!”  The little hobbit grinned wide to show the small gap at the front of his mouth.  Frodo crouched down to Pippin’s height and looked curiously at the gap, making murmurs of admiration and interest as he did so.  He smiled at Pippin’s slight lisp caused by the missing tooth.  

“I bet you miss that tooth, Pip.”

The youngster shook his head.  “Nope!  ‘Cauth Merry thaid to put my toof under my pillow before I went to thleep lath night, and the toof-fairy would come and take it away, and thee did come, Frodo!  Look what thee gave me!”  He dug around his pockets and pulled out a shiny sliver coin.

Frodo’s jaw dropped slightly.  He never expected Pippin to pull a silver coin out of his pocket.  “Wo- Well, Pippin, you’ll have to take special care of that coin, won’t you?”

“Yup!”

At that moment, one of the Thain’s daughters rounded the corner.  “Peregrin! Mama wants to see you!”  Pervinca Took stopped in front of her baby brother and planted her hands on her hips.  “She wants to know where you found that silver penny.”

Pippin pouted at his sister and put the coin away again.  “The toof-fairy gave me it.”

“Oh, rot, Peregrin!  The tooth-fairy doesn’t exist!  You probably just ‘found’ it.”

“Vinca…” Merry said sharply, then scowled at her.  “Don’t be mean.” 

“We’re going to see Mama right now, whether you like it or not!” Pervinca ignored Merry’s warning and grabbed Pippin’s arm, as Frodo and Merry braced themselves for the screeching that would begin any moment as Big Sister dragged Little Brother down the hall.  

“NONONONONOOO!!”

Merry cringed and covered his ears while Frodo bit back his smile and leaned against the wall.

“Merry!  Tell her NOOO!”

Vinca’s annoyed comment followed quickly.  “Pippin, shut up!”

Once the Tooks were out of sight, Frodo turned to face Merry again.  “Does Vinca think Pippin stole that coin?”

Merry sighed dramatically.  “Oh, probably.  But he didn’t, Frodo, honest.”

“I know.  It would have been his father, if his mother didn’t know anything about it.”

The younger of the two shook his head emphatically.  “No.  I did.  I gave him the coin.  Aunt Eglantine didn’t have time and-and no-one else paid him any attention.  It’s his first tooth, and I thought I would make it special by tellin’ him about the tooth-fairy, and giving him something for it.  It’s such a tiny thing, too!”  Merry put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a creamy-white handkerchief.  He unfolded it with great care then held out his hand to Frodo.

“You kept his tooth?”

Merry blushed to the tips of his ears and rewrapped the little treasure.  “I-I wanted it to remember.”

“Where did *you* get the coin Merry?  You didn’t take it, did you?”

Again, Merry shook his head.  “It was mine.”

Frodo patted Merry on his shoulder and smiled.  “Come on, then.  I think we’d best go and speak to your aunt before the coin is confiscated from little Pippin.”

As they neared the parlour where Vinca had dragged Pippin off to, another hobbit padded quietly around the corner, almost walking into Merry, his arms loaded with clean linens to be folded and put away.

“Hoy, watch it!”  Merry scowled at the clumsy servant lad who began stuttering an apology, moving backwards.

“Good morning, Sam.”  Frodo said with a smile.  Sam shyly looked up again and acknowledged the greeting.

“Is he your servant?”  Merry asked and squinted up at Sam, then looked back to Frodo.

“I’m Mr Frodo’s gardener.”

“Sam is also my friend, Merry.”

“You’re friends with your servant?”  Merry’s eyes widened.  “I hardly even *talk* to Flora or Ben or the others.”

“Well, Sam’s father is a good friend with Uncle Bilbo. And since there are only two of us living at Bag End, and there are much less folk living in Hobbiton than Brandy Hall…we tend to get to know people.  Sam was one of the first people I met when I moved to Bag End.  And the closest to my age that I spend most time with, indeed, enjoy spending time with.”

While Sam stood blushing and trying to politely leave their company, Merry listened attentively and carefully considered Sam.  “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.  I’ll be seventeen in April, Mr--Merry, sir.”

“You’re two years older than me.  I just turned fourteen two days ago.”  He turned back to his cousin.  “Shall we go and get Pippin now?”

***

“Peregrin, are you listening to me?”  Eglantine scowled and tapped her foot on the floor, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Yeth, Mama.  But look - it’th tharted to thnow!”  Pippin turned his face from the window to look at his mother.  The features on his small face were lit with a pure joy.  “Pleeeeath Mama, can I go play?”

“I was asking you where you found that coin. You are not leaving this hole until you tell me the truth, young lad.”

Pippin’s bottom lip trembled and his forehead creased.  “But I did tell you, Mama.”

A knock at the door was welcomed with an exasperated sigh from the Thain’s wife.  “Yes, come in.”  Merry, followed by Frodo, shuffled quietly into the parlour.  “Merry, Frodo.  Good morning to you.”

“Good morning Aunt ‘Tine.  May I speak with you, please?”

“Merry, I’m having a word with Pippin right now.  Could you return in a half hour or so?”

Merry moved his weight from one foot to the other and fidgeted with a button on his blue cotton shirt.  “It’s…it’s about Pippin.”

“Really.”  Eglantine glanced sideways at her son.  She waved her hand resignedly.  “Pippin, go with cousin Frodo while I speak with Merry.”

“Then can we all go play in the thnow?”

“I’ll think about it.  On you go.”  She gently pushed Pippin towards his older cousin and pulled Merry towards her.

Frodo distracted Pippin with promises of cookies and milk, as Merry took a deep breath and told his aunt his side of the story.

***

Out in the corridor, Frodo bumped into Saradoc, who was followed by a troop of servants, being barked at by a very grumpy Flora.  Frodo noted that Sam was not among them and took his opportunity to speak quietly with him.

“Uncle, may I have a moment?”  Frodo asked politely, shifting Pippin from one hip to the other.

“Ah, Frodo.  I….if it is only a moment, then yes, I can spare that time to speak with you.  What is it you wish?”

“It’s about Samwise.”  Frodo started, and looked his uncle straight in the eye.  He knew that the older hobbit could pull his rank when he wanted to, and if there were any issues with servant folk, or those of a ‘lower class’, they more often than not found themselves on the receiving end of that attitude.  He seemed to want to prove himself capable of running Brandy Hall as well as his father, and every opportunity he got, he seized quickly.  

“Aye, what about the lad?”  

“I do not want him serving while we are residing with you.  He came as my friend first and foremost.  Bilbo had also seen this as somewhat of a holiday for him.  He has recently taken over his father’s job as the full time gardener at Bag End, and has also taken on the small household chores.  He has come on in leaps and bounds this year, and worked exceptionally hard.  You did state in your invitation to us that we could bring a guest if we so desired.  And as it was our desire, we invited Sam.  If he is to be serving anyone over this festive time, it will most likely be some small whim of mine.  I will not have him returning home burnt out and miserable.”  

Pippin huffed and wiggled in Frodo’s arms.  “I want to play outhide, Frodooo!”

“All of our other relatives’ servants and gardeners know their place.”

“They are not here though, are they?  They stay behind the in Great Smials, or wherever in the Shire it is that they reside.  They stay behind and keep the house of our relatives, while they are gone over the festive period.  You have a small army here, and as such had only need for a few extra pairs of hands.  Sam is not one of them, else you would have specifically asked.”

“So, what is it that you want, Frodo, hmm?  That your young Samwise does not lift a finger while he is here?”

“I want you to tell me there is no need for Sam to be working, and excuse him from duties.  I want you to send Flora to set up a guest room near mine for him.  If he wishes to work, that is for him to come to you, or the housekeeper.”  Behind Saradoc, Flora made an indignant noise.  Frodo ignored her and kept his eyes trained on his uncle.

“You never did demand a lot, did you, young Frodo?”  He said in a sarcastic tone before turning to Flora.  “See that it is done.”  When she opened her mouth to protest, Saradoc added.  “All of it.  Straight away.”

“Thank you, Uncle.  It is much appreciated.”

Frodo turned and took the restless Pippin towards the kitchen in search of his promised cookies.

***

“Pippin, sit still!”  Merry grabbed his little cousin by the shoulders of his thick winter coat and pushed him onto the wooden bench by the side door.  He picked up a long woolly scarf and wrapped it snug around Pippin’s neck.  “Right, then.  Where are your mittens?”  The young hobbit smiled and picked them up from where they sat beside him.  He held them up by the string that kept them attached for Merry to see.  Pippin was very proud of these mittens - Merry had given them to him last Yule, and they matched the scarf that his mother had knitted him, which was also a present the year before.

“Oh, Pippin!  They’re supposed to be put on first, before your coat!”  Merry sighed and knelt to Pippin’s height to unbutton the coat.

Frodo smirked slightly as he paused in finding his own gloves.  “Come on, Merry.  Get yourself ready.  I’ll finish seeing to Pip.”

Once Pippin was stuffed back into his coat and buttoned up again, Frodo picked up his little woolly hat and put it on him.  “Nooo, I don’t want to wear thith one!”   Pippin pulled the hat off and tossed it on to the bench.

“Well, you don’t go outside unless you have a hat on to keep your ears warm, Pip.”  The older hobbit sighed and shook his head sadly.  “We all have to wear a hat.”

Pippin made a huffy sound and crossed his arms firmly across his chest.  “Well, I want to wear your hat then, Frodo!”

Merry rolled his eyes and pulled his own moss-green hat into place.  “Pip, it’ll be too big for you.  Just put your hat on and we can all go outside.”

“But I don’t like my hat!”

At that moment, Sam ambled towards them, all snug and warm in his own winter woolies.  “Hello Mr Merry, Mr Frodo.”  He glanced from Frodo to Pippin then back to Frodo.

“Sam, this is Pippin, the Paladin Took’s son.  Another cousin of Merry and mine.  Pippin, this is Sam, my best friend.”

Pippin considered the shy hobbit standing beside his older cousins.  “I like your hat.”  He said after careful consideration.

Sam’s eyebrows rose slightly.  “Oh, well, thank you, Mr Pippin.”

“Why d’you call me ‘Mith-ter Pippin’?”

“He’s Frodo’s servant, Pip.  But they’re friends, too.”  Merry explained to his little cousin.

“But you’re not thuppothed to talk to the thervanth, Merry.  Why doeth Frodo?”

“I’ve known Sam since he was about your age, Pippin.  We’ve been friends for years and years now.  Before he started being….my servant.”  Frodo glanced at Sam, who looked uncomfortable being talked about, despite being the second eldest among the four of them.  “Oh, Sam, I’ve talked to Uncle Saradoc.  He is arranging a room to be set up near my own for you.  And you are not to take any more orders from Flora while we’re here.  If there is anything you wish to do, however, that is your own choice.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you very much, Mr Frodo, sir.”  He smiled gently around a faint blush.  “I hope it weren’t no trouble.  Wouldn’t want to be puttin’ you out.”

“It was no trouble, do not worry about it.  Now, we three are about to go and, hm, play in the snow.  Do you wish to join us?”

“I was goin’ to take myself around Mr Brandybuck’s fine gardens, sir.  But if you want my company, I’ll not say no.”

Frodo pulled on his gloves and adjusted his hat.  “Well, that’s settled then.  These two can roll around in the snow and we shall enjoy the garden!”  He pulled open the door and took a deep breath of the crisp, fresh air.



Frodo and Sam left the two younger hobbits scooping up armfuls of soft snow and kicking at the high drifts piled against bushes and trees.  Pippin squealed as Merry shook a branch and showered him with the loose snow.  Frodo chuckled as he and Sam turned away and headed for the gardens.

The so-called ‘winter gardens’ were enclosed within four walls of tall, thick holly bushes.  Even covered in a half foot of snow, little shrubs peaked through, some showing off dainty blooms, others frosted green leaves.  The flowers on one particular bush looked to Sam’s eyes almost too fragile to survive the cold, but he marvelled at its delicate prettiness.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Mr Frodo?”  He said with a large smile on his face.  His cheeks were already tinged pink from the cold kisses pressed to his skin and his breath puffed out in little clouds.  Frodo peeked over his muffler, cheeks and nose also pink, and smiled, his eyes taking in the garden he hadn’t seen for a good few years now.  “You never notice how beautiful they are in the summer, when there are other plants vying for attention.  But in the middle of winter, when the summer blooms are sleeping…these plants take the limelight for themselves, and bring a lot of cheer to what are otherwise dull and gloomy months.”  He wondered over to a tall bush with small white flowers and fingered them carefully.  “Sam, what is this called?”

Sam joined him and looked closely at the small blooms.  “I believe this is called ‘Winter Beauty’, sir.  It’s a type of Honeysuckle that grows in winter.”

“Ah, yes, the scent is familiar.  Why, I never realised this species existed.”

They continued their tour of the garden, Sam pointing out small plants to Frodo, and the latter asking frequent questions.  Sam was proud to be able to show off his expertise, and was able to name most plants, pointing out Sweet Box, Saxifrage, Oleaster, and the numerous, colourful Barberry bushes.

“Sam!  Is that not a Rhododendron?”  Frodo gazed in awe at the huge tree-like shrub, blooming with pinky-red flowers and covered in glossy-green leaves.

Sam smiled broadly with Frodo’s knowledge.  “Aye, indeed, Mr Frodo.  Some of them keep puttin’ out flowers all through winter.  Fairly brightens the place up.”

“That it does…” Frodo murmured.  He stepped off the snow-covered path and clambered into the bush.  Sam gaped for a moment then followed him.  “Sam, it’s the sort of bush you can hide in!  I remember…when I was younger, we used to do just this.  We would be playing hide-and-seek or sardines and many times, we would end up in a huge Rhododendron like this.”

Sam carefully sat down on one the low branches.  “My Aunt May had one like this.  Her garden was bigger than the one we have at Number 3, and she used to work all day outside.  Us wee ones would of’en play out there…seein’ as we never played much at home, what with all the work that was to be done.  But until I started workin’, I’d always looked forward to seein’ her.  And playin’ outside, playing under the huge Rhoddy bush.”

Frodo sat down beside him and smiled as Sam recounted the memory.  After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak

“Oi, whatch’you fink y’doin’?”  A grouchy voice startled the two.  “Get outta there, now!”  Sam blushed furiously as he scrambled out of the tangling branches and leaves, and was followed closely by Frodo, who appeared a lot less flustered.  “They ain’t for playin’ hide ‘n seek in, so you’s ju’ keep away from ‘em, alright?”  Sam looked up and nodded at the old gardener.  

“Aye, we’re sorry, sir.  Won’t do that again.”

The gardener scowled at them once more before he shuffled off down the path, rake in hand, muttering under his breath and scratching his chin.

“Well, we won’t get caught again, at least!”  Frodo whispered to Sam, as they headed back towards the place they had left Merry and Pippin playing.

***

A quiet knock on the door awoke Frodo from his dreams on Yule morning.  He rolled over and lifted his head, rubbing his eyes sleepily.  “Uh, yes, come in,” he said groggily.

The door opened slowly, and Sam stepped into the room, arms full with a heavy-laden breakfast tray.  “Mornin’, Mr Frodo.  I thought I’d bring your breakfast to you.  It’s so frantic out there - everyone rushin’ around, cooks and servants and whatnot - all doin’ last minute jobs for the day.  Oh, and the childer are all runnin’ ‘bout madly, too.  The nurses can barely control the little ’uns.”  He placed the tray on Frodo’s lap, as he now sat upright in bed, propped against the pillows.  “There we are.  How’s that, sir?  Comfortable enough?”

“Yes, Sam, thank you.”  Frodo smiled then picked up a buttered slice of toast.  “So, any sign of Pippin yet?  I doubt even that cold of his would keep him in bed today.  He won’t be making snow angels for a while now.”  Frodo finished his statement with a slight smirk.

“Well, I don’t actually remember seein’ him.  At least, not from here to the kitchen.  Mayhap he’s still asleep?”

Frodo snorted ungracefully.  “On Yule?  Hardly.  There is plenty to be eaten and presents to be opened.  He’ll be somewhere.”

***

Pippin, however, was nowhere to be found, until it was time for the family to gather in the main drawing room to open the presents in the late afternoon, before they settled down to a huge dinner.

The children proudly presented their gifts to their parents, and the adults the same in return, and all equally as excited.  Merry, sitting closest to Frodo, showed his gifts happily to his older cousin, and thanked him many times for his present to him, a large toy wooden horse, even though Merry felt he was getting to an age where he was too old for toys.  But it was a beautifully carved horse, and Frodo had given him two very big fruit lollies and a smart, embroidered weskit as well.

While the household was abuzz with this excitement, Frodo leaned over to whisper in Sam’s ear, “I have a gift for you, Sam.  Will you stop by my chamber after dinner?”

Sam blushed and nodded shyly.  “Yes, certainly, Mr Frodo.”

Frodo nodded turned away again, distracted by an ecstatic Pippin who came bounding over, holding a tiny baby rabbit in his hands, a present from his parents.  And as Sam wandered away, he heard, over the racket in the room, Pippin declaring the rabbit’s name as “Filbert”.

***

Sam had never been so well fed in his life.  It got to the point where he was refusing when someone offered to refill his plate.  He now shuffled wearily down the lamp-lit tunnels to his room.  As he passed Frodo’s room, he remembered his master’s request to see him after dinner.  Sam paused, then hesitantly lifted his hand to knock.

“Yes, come in.”  Came the voice within the room.

“You-you wanted to see me, sir?”  Sam asked softly as he closed the door behind him.  Frodo, he observed, was sitting at the desk provided in the room, reading from a small green-leather bound book.  

Frodo stood up and turned to face his young friend.  “Yes.  I have a Yule gift for you.”  He headed for a small cupboard.

“Oh, sir, you shouldn’t have!  Really, sir, I…” Sam trailed off as Frodo returned from his rummaging in the cupboard and handed him a small wrapped box.  Before accepting it, Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out a box of his own, wrapped in plain brown paper: he hadn’t been able to find anything as fancy as Frodo’s patterned gift-wrap.  “I-I have this for you, Mr Frodo.”  His face burned with the shy blush covering it, and he held out the present to Frodo.

“Thank you, Sam.  Shall we open them together?”  Frodo asked with a subtle smile.

They opened the presents in silence, paper rustling quietly and landing on the thick-carpeted floor with a gentle ‘pat’.  They both gasped and looked up at the same time as their gifts were revealed.   Identical.

“You - ”

“And you.”

Sam stared in disbelief at what he held in his hand.  “The Heart Stones.”

“Oh, Sam!”  Frodo pulled Sam towards him and hugged him tightly.  After a moment’s hesitation over propriety, Sam returned the embrace sincerely.  At that moment, they were equals, without a thought for social standings that were imposed.  Free to speak, to hold, to care and love for any and every being.  

“I can’t believe you kept it, too!”  Sam whispered, his eyes misting.

“Do you know what this means, Sam?”  Frodo asked.  He smiled slightly at the answering shake of the head he felt against his shoulder.  “You do not ever doubt my friendship again!”

Sam smiled widely.  And he held Frodo in his heart for the rest of their lives.

~End, part 5~


Chapter 6 - Storms and Solitude

“…‘I am going.  I am leaving NOW.  GOOD-BYE!’ He stepped down and vanished.  There was a blinding flash of light, and the guests all blinked.  When they opened their eyes Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.  One hundred and forty-four flabbergasted hobbits sat back speechless.” - the Lord of the Rings, chapter one; A Long-Expected Party.

***

Sam sat with his eyes widened in surprise, mouth slightly open.  Frodo sat in silence, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around him.  The younger of the two was vaguely aware of a murmured comment, behind and to his right.  “Well *that’s* a present ‘e weren’t expectin’!”  

Sam glanced at Frodo, who had let out a long shuddering breath, and slouched into his seat.  “Mr Frodo?”  He asked carefully.

“I’m going to find him,” Frodo whispered after a few moments, to himself more than in answering Sam.

After giving orders for more wine to be brought out, Frodo raced up the road towards Bag End, calling out Bilbo’s name occasionally.  His initial surprise wearing off, he was now getting himself into a pure panic; his throat felt tight and his shirt restricted the air getting to his lungs.  His eyes were huge and watery as they flickered to the left and right.  

Every little noise made his heart stutter, his breathing hitch.  By the time he reached his home, he would gladly have collapsed into the nearest chair.  But he couldn’t.  

“Bilbo!”  He shouted as he charged through the front door. ‘don’t leave me, too!’ he thought desperately, all reason and ability to think straight fleeing him.  He had known Bilbo was planning something, but…  The smial was in darkness as he walked slowly towards the parlour.  

He found Gandalf, and only Gandalf, sitting there, in front of the unlit fire.  They exchanged a few words, and the old wizard saw that Frodo received the package Bilbo had left for him, containing his various papers, including his will, and his gold ring.  After Gandalf took his leave, Frodo sat alone, staring blankly into the fireplace as he chewed his thumb nails, listening to the mantleclock tocking, and ticking.  

But now the master of Bag End, Frodo had to reluctantly make his way back to the party field to bid his guests farewell and goodnight.  He sighed and heaved himself from the armchair, and set out.

Sam kept a close eye on him as he went around the field several times doing the ‘right thing’ and being polite, almost to the point of going overboard.  Eventually he and Merry were drafted in to help chase off persistent relatives, which they did with remarkable speed, taking no nonsense from no-one, as Sam put it, before bidding Frodo a good night.

Frodo lay his weary head down on his pillow.  He sniffled a little in the dark, feeling young and alone again.  It wasn’t as painful as it had been 21 years ago…he was older now and able to care for himself, for one thing.  But he hadn’t realised just *how* attached to Bilbo he had become.

Frodo dragged a shirtsleeve across his eyes, berating himself for crying.  He was of age now, an adult, perfectly capable of looking after himself.  And he wasn’t alone - he had plenty of friends - not least Sam, Merry, Pippin and Fatty Bolger.  “But I feel alone,” he whispered to the silent room.  ‘Oh, how I wish I weren’t alone right now!’ he thought as more tears fell from his sorrowful eyes on to the soft pillow.

A tapping noise upon his window made him sit up quickly and dry his eyes.  He walked over and peered out of the open pane.  “Sam?  What are you doing here?”

“Well, Mr Frodo, I was standin’ at your front door awhile, knockin’ and callin’, but I didn’t get an answer.  I-I would’ve let you be, normally, but I just felt I had to look in on you, sir.  I…was worried about you.”

Frodo felt a surge of gratitude towards his companion.  “Dear Sam, you’re so thoughtful.  Give me a moment to get to the front door, and I’ll let you in.”  Frodo disappeared from the window and Sam ran around the smial to the front.

Wiping away the last traces of his sorrow, Frodo pulled the door open.  “Sir, have you been crying?”  Sam asked with concern when saw Frodo red eyes.

“Oh…only in the sense of… my eyes watering slightly…I just---miss him," Frodo murmured, turning away from the door and letting Sam close it behind him.  "You know he’s left for good, Sam,” he added, wrapping his arms around his middle as he walked slowly through to the front room, leaving Sam to follow him through.

“I’ll miss him, too, Mr Frodo,” Sam said softly as he entered the parlour.  “Always a kind word for folks, even them who didn’t have one to give back,” he mused.  “Treated my Gaffer real well, too.  Asked him how he was each mornin', how Mam and the others were.  Popped in a generous bonus at Yule-time, he did.  And he had so many nice stories to tell.  About Elves and dragons, and- Mr Frodo?”  Sam stopped mid-flow and looked down at his master, who sat tucked up on the sofa, crying softly.

“Mr Frodo?”

Frodo looked up and spoke in a hushed, quivery voice.  “I miss him, is all.  I suspect I’ve had too much to drink as well.”

Sam settled on the chair beside Frodo, tucked his feet beneath him, and pulled the older hobbit close.  “He might come back.”

Shaking his head, Frodo answered, “No, he won’t, he won’t.  He’s gone for good!”  He covered his face with his hands as fresh tears sprung from his large, wet eyes.

“Are you afraid?  Of being alone?”  Sam asked, so softly, Frodo had to still his sobs to hear.  He nodded slightly, and Sam tightened his arms around him.

“And--” Frodo started, then stopped, shaking his head and closing his tired eyes.

“Are you scared someone else you love will leave, too?”  Frodo didn’t answer, leading Sam to wonder if he had fallen asleep.  After a few moments, however, he spoke again, though somewhat lethargically.  

“Please don’t leave me, Sam.”

Sam rested his head against Frodo’s, then rocked them both gently into peaceful repose.

****

The madness of the following day meant Sam had little time to speak with Frodo.  Bag End was packed with hobbits coming to claim their part of Bilbo’s wealth.  One young hobbit asked during the course of the morning: “Is he dead, then?” earning a clout round his ear and a pinched nose from Sam.  The lad’s mother, already rather annoyed at being fobbed off with two brass candlesticks (when her family had gold sconces, anyways), kicked up a huge fuss before receiving a sharp swat on her plump bottom from Merry, who waved cheekily as she was marched off the premises.  

“Any relation to Miss Sackville-Baggins?”  Sam asked Merry with a frown.

“Do you know, I believe she was…” Merry said, before divesting a little lad, about ten years, of the small ornaments he carried in his arms.

Sam stuck his broom out in front of Hobbiton’s middle-aged physician, Tobias Hedgeworth, the look on his face enough to make the said healer empty his pockets.  As the old hobbit waddled off down the path empty-handed, Sam muttered, “Why was he needing to raid Mr Frodo’s medicine box?”  His eyes widened in horror as the healer stumbled out of the way for a new family who trampled up the busy garden path, then proceeded to stomp the rest of his way from the premises through the garden.

“Not the borders!”  Sam wailed and ran outside.

***

Frodo let himself drop heavily into Bilbo’s - his - armchair by the fire and yawned.  Considering what little sleep he got the previous night, he was surprised he had managed to last the entire day.  Sam was in the kitchen, preparing supper for three, and Merry was taking the opportunity to straighten up the furniture, relishing the quiet of the smial.  At Sam’s call, Frodo and Merry shuffled wearily through to the dining room, and they sat down to a large supper, making up for the meals they missed during the day.

With dishes now piled high in the kitchen, the three friends took a stroll in the cool early-autumn evening, throughout the Bag End gardens.  Ever attentive, Sam would pause occasionally and pull up a small weed and murmur to himself.  Merry watched curiously, and as they walked, learned more of the gardener, and Frodo smiled contentedly with the familiar small noises Sam would make.

Eventually, after a good hour's standing around and talking beneath the stars, they decided to call it a night.  “Well, friends, I must be off: tomorrow I head back to Buckland and I need my rest.”  Merry clapped Sam on the back then pulled Frodo into a strong hug.  “Look after yourself, cousin.  I expect I shall be visiting again before Yule.  And don’t hesitate to come to Brandy Hall, yourself!”

Sam turned to his friend.  “Aye, I’d best be headin’ off an’ all now, Mr Frodo.  I’ll be up again in the morning; the garden needs a bit of a treat.  You’ll be alright for the night, sir?”

Frodo patted Sam’s shoulder and smiled.  “Yes, Sam.  I think I’ll stay outside a little longer then head off to bed.  Give my love to your family.  I’ll speak with you in the morning.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mr Frodo.”

Not long after Sam left, it began to rain.  Frodo sat beneath his favourite tree and watched the leaves catch the heavy raindrops, then reluctantly let them go as they rolled like tears to the tips, then fall with a gentle patter to the leaf-covered grass.  

He thought of the many times in the past he had sat here, lost in thought, or in recent years (thanks to Sam), daydreams.  A book open but unread on his lap, or a forgotten manuscript spoiled with ink blots.  Pages whisked out of his light grasp by a teasing wind as his thoughts drifted further afield.  His eyes watching the flight of a butterfly, during summer months; or throughout autumn, a yellowing leaf, which added itself to the small piles of russet and gold scattered the length and breadth of Bag End’s gardens.

Frodo became suddenly aware of the worsening weather when a roll of thunder brought his attention back to the present.  His body jerked, and he blinked repeatedly, coming back to his senses.  He stood up and looked down at himself.  “Soaked to the skin,” he murmured, and wandered slowly back to the smial, leaving the dark and sodden garden.

~End, part 6~


Chapter 7 - Storms and Solitude II

As the sun was peeking her face around the side of the hill, Samwise Gamgee was making his way in the direction of Bag End.  The heavy rainfall from the storm last night had refreshed many of the plants despite their autumnal colours.

Sam slowed his pace to make his plans for the day.  “Them borders need special attention…some of the plants got fair trampled yesterday!  And I’ve noticed quite a few weeds stickin’ their bit in where it ain’t any good…Oh, the grass needs a trim.  And Mr Frodo will need more chopped wood…”

Frodo grunted and turned over in his sleep.  Despite his deep dreams he felt his head pound unpleasantly and his throat burn.  He mumbled a few incoherent syllables and buried his face in the soft pillows, effectively blocking out the strong sunlight shining through a gap in the drapes.  What felt like only a moment later, Frodo heard a key scrambling in the lock of the front door.  He forced his eyes open, winced when the sunlight hit them, and immediately shut them again. He took a few deep breaths then sat up.  “Ohh…” Mistake.  The room tried spinning around, and he ached all over.  “Was I drunk last night?  Did Farmer Maggot let his horse dance on me?”   With a weary grumble, he fell back against the bed.  He felt awful.

Sam was humming away cheerfully as he clattered pots and pans in the kitchen, setting about making first breakfast.  He toddled over to the pantry and fetched a few rashers of bacon, a couple of eggs, a couple of tomatoes.  Once they were all happily sizzling, Sam turned his attention to the fresh-baked bread he had brought from home.  Frodo had always loved Bell’s cooking, and there was nothing Sam liked more than having his mother’s baking cheer him up when he was feeling down or ill.  And Sam hoped it was the same for Frodo: he wanted to keep him cheerful and content, and keep his mind off the large empty spaces at Bag End.  “Too big for one hobbit on his own,” he mumbled, then left the kitchen to wake his master.

Sam knocked lightly on Frodo’s bedroom door.  Though the sound was no louder than usual, Frodo’s sensitive head decided it was like being disturbed by Gandalf’s fireworks, and he groaned, scrunching his face up. 

“Mr Frodo?  It’s Sam.”

“Mmhm…’m awake, Sam,” Frodo mumbled.

The door opened carefully and Sam quietly entered.  “Mr Frodo?  Are you…”

“Ill.”

Sam bent over Frodo’s prone figure on the bed.  The covers were damp and crumpled in a heap by his feet.  One arm was covering his face, as if shielding it from a bright light.  Sam carefully placed his hand on Frodo’s hot forehead, and sucked his breath in sharply.  “Dear me, Mr Frodo!  Seems you’ve got rather a high temperature!”

“Could tell you that myself.  Too hot.”

“What else?  Does your head ache?”

“Head aches…not too bad for the moment.  Feel like a giddy horse has trampled me.  Eyes hurt.  The light’s too bright.”  Frodo paused for a moment, removing his arm from his face.  “Throat’s dry.  Need water.”  He sat up slowly and swung his legs off the bed.  Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Frodo raised his hand.  “I’m fine.  I can get myself water.  Need a bath anyway.”  He stood and half-heartedly tugged his sweat-soaked nightshirt into place.

Sam stood back and cautiously watched the other hobbit as he took slow, shuffling steps towards the door.  Half way across his room, Frodo stopped, looking like his legs would give out any moment.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, actually,” Frodo said, not moving from the spot, but wobbling precariously.

Sam went to him and guided him to a large armchair.  He picked up a blanket and covered his poorly friend with it.  “You let Sam take care of you.  I suspect you’ve just come ill of a sudden because of all the stress these last couple of days.  I’ll change the bedcovers and bring you water.  I don’t think a bath is a good idea right now, Mr Frodo, sir, but I’ll bring some cloths and you can wash down then change that shirt.  Now, you keep that blanket nice and snug ‘round you while I get things ready.”

One of Frodo’s hands weakly ran through his hair.  “Sam, am I ill?”  He was much too tired to be thinking about these things himself.

“Yes, I believe you are at that, Mr Frodo,” Sam said as he stripped down the old bedsheets.  “You’ve the ‘flu, I think.  Mari had it a couple of years ago.  In bed for ten days, she was.  Hot, then cold, then hot again.  Slept a lot, and that did her the world of good.  She also had Mam and Gaffer and me and Daisy to look out for her.”  Sam turned to face Frodo.  “And I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

Frodo attempted a smile, but couldn’t quite make it.  Instead he closed his heavy eyes and tried to sleep some more.

Sam tucked in the corners of the blankets and sheets, fluffed up the pillows, then crossed over to the window and closed the drapes.  If Frodo’s eyes were sensitive right now, he wouldn’t want the sunlight pouring in and making it worse.  A pity, since it was a gloriously clear morning, promising to stay constant throughout the day.  Sam turned back to Frodo, who was dozing in the armchair, curled up like a little hobbit-child.  With great care Sam picked him up and lay him in bed.  He sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, watching his sleeping form, then quietly stood up and left the room.

***

Frodo awoke around mid-morning with a deep shudder, just as Sam was returning to his room with a tray.  “Oh, hello again, Mr Frodo! Now, Mam told me when you’re ill, you’ve got to take lots of drinks, so I’ve brought you some tea, sir.  If you’d prefer, I can get a big jug of cold water.”

“No, Sam, I’d like tea.  I’m feeling rather cold right now,” Frodo replied.  Truth be told, his teeth were starting to chatter, he was shivering so hard.  “D-do you think you could fetch an-n-nother blanket, please?”

Sam hastily pulled three more blankets from the linen chest then tucked one of them around Frodo.  “Are your feet cold?  Shall I heat up--”

“N-no, that’s enough, th-th-thank you.”  Frodo said, curling up in a tight ball and pulling blankets around his shoulders.

“I’ll light a fire for you.  That will keep the room nice and warm--”

“B-but I don’t feel cold - to touch, I mean.”  Frodo grimaced.  “Ugh, this is awful.”

Sam placed his hand on Frodo’s forehead and gauged his temperature.  “Aye, that’s mighty high, alright.”  He took hold of the hand peeking out of the mass of blankets.  “Hands feel cold though.  Ah, no doubt you’ll feel too hot soon.”  Sam murmured, feeling more than slightly useless at present, watching Frodo carefully until his shivers lessened and he looked towards the cup of tea waiting for him.

“Might I have that tea now, Sam?  I think I’ve stopped shivering enough that I can hold the cup without spilling anything.”  Sam carefully placed the cup in Frodo’s hands. He watched him closely for a moment, the let him be.  “I’ll be around Bag End or in the garden should you need anythin’, Mr Frodo.  I’ve left a little bell here if you want to use that to get my attention.”

“A bell, Sam?  Ah, but such dreadful noise only aids in making my head ache and my ears ring!”  Frodo sighed wearily and rubbed his eyes after setting his cup down.“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it’s one that was sat on the mantelpiece.  Mr Bilbo said he got it from the elves, sir, and that it has a very pleasant ring, even for sensitive ears, he told me!”  Sam beamed as he recounted Bilbo’s words.Frodo smiled weakly.  

“Then we shall trust his word, for he has gone to live with them now, Sam.”  He closed his eyes.  “I think I shall sleep some more now…”

***

Sam whistled softly as he raked the fallen leaves into neat piles around the garden.  After they were raked, he would gather them in his wheelbarrow, put them into the covered compost heap, and let them dry out.  Once dried, he could mulch them and use the mulch to spread on the garden.  It was a simple enough job, and one that he had done so often, he allowed himself to daydream as he worked.  At present, he was making a list - another list - of things to pick up from the market, as opposed to floating away on  a dream.  Bits and pieces that both he and Frodo would need in terms of provisions, and medicines, if he could find them…

The soft tinkling of a bell snapped Sam quickly out of his thoughts.  He dropped the rake and scurried back into the hole, heading straight for Frodo’s room.  He entered when he didn’t get a response to his knocking, and saw Frodo lying limp on the bed, blankets thrown aside and the lacing on his nightshirt loosened.  One of his hands hung over the side of the bed, and from the position he was in, Sam puzzled over how Frodo had reached the bell at all.  He crossed the distance between them quickly and knelt by his side.

“Mr Frodo, sir?  You need me?”  Sam asked.  No response.  Sam took Frodo’s hand in one of his and placed the other to Frodo’s flushed cheek.  Heat was radiating from him: Sam could feel it through his shirt.  To Sam it also sounded like Frodo’s breathing was much to slow and shallow.  Worried now, he pressed his fingers to Frodo’s wrist, counting his pulse, before gently patting his face to get a response from him.  “Frodo?  Can you hear me?  Can you open your eyes for me?”  He didn’t move.  “Oh, Frodo!  Oh, come on, Sam, think…he needs to cool down, he’s far too hot…water...cloths and water...” 

He got up and grabbed the cloths from the wash basin he left in the room earlier.  Returning to the bed, Sam immediately pressed a cool damp cloth to Frodo’s fevered brow.  With a second cloth, Sam bathed his neck and chest and arms.  “Come on, wake up, please!”  Re-soaking the cloths and wringing them out, he repeated the process.  Sam could feel the time dragging its heels as he reapplied the cloths a third time.  Frodo’s eyelids flickered.  Another moment and he opened his eyes, and made a weak, disoriented noise.

“It’s alright, I’m here.  Your fever knocked you out a bit, Frodo.”  Sam replaced the cloth on his forehead for a cooler one.  “Lucky I heard that bell ring when I did.”

“I…did I…” Frodo’s voice was small and cracked.  “I didn’t--the bell, I couldn’t…”

Sam hushed Frodo with a gentle finger to his dry lips.  His fingers trailed from mouth to cheek to soothe the weak hobbit.  “Hush, don’t speak right now.  Rest and let me take care of you.” He continued the calming caresses until Frodo's eyes drooped.

Frodo let weary eyes follow Sam as he straightened the sheets and blankets again.  He smiled faintly as the pillows beneath him were plumped and fluffed again and two strong hands tucked him in like a child.  “Sam--would you...sit with me--a while?”  Frodo whispered.  “Sing or...or...recite a poem, or some…thing?  Like to hear your voice…” 

With a little smile, Sam pulled up a comfy chair and sat facing Frodo.  “Well, I don’t rightly know about song or poems, Mr Frodo, but I’ll think of something.”  His smile widened.  “How about one of Mr Bilbo’s stories?  Plenty to chose from, and I’ve told a lot of them to Mari, and I…well, I-I can remember some of them.”  He finished with a shy look.

“Sounds delightful, Samwise.  Tell as many as you wish.”

Sam leaned forward, checking Frodo’s temperature once again, then settled down to delve deep into his imagination. 

***

Late that afternoon, as Frodo slept, Sam took himself back home for a short time.  He had decided that Frodo’s fever was still too erratic for him to be left alone, and so would stay at Bag End that night.

“Evenin’, sir,” Sam greeted his father as he walked through the door of Number 3.  

“Where’ve ye been all day, Sam-lad?  I took a wander by your Bag End just past midday, and not a sign of ye was there.  Not even your tools outside in the garden - and the borders along the path such a mess, too!”  The Gaffer walked up to his son and drawn himself up to his full height.  “Have you been slackin’?  Were you sittin’ inside all day listenin’ to faery tales?”

‘I was tellin’ them!’ Sam thought to himself.  Out loud, he answered, “no, sir, I was not slackin’, not at all!  Mr Frodo’s ill, you see.  It’s the flu he’s got, and he’s in such a state that I spent most of the day lookin’ after him.  He slept a lot, but I did a lot of in-door jobs.”  He walked through to the kitchen with his father, where Marigold and Bell were preparing vegetables for dinner.

“Hello, Sam-love,” Bell said warmly, and turned to kiss her son’s cheek.  “What’s this about Mr Baggins being ill?”

“Oh, uhm, it’s flu, Mam.”  Sam explained, then began fidgeting as he continued, explaining his plans for the evening.  “I was, well, planning to go back to Bag End and stay with Mr Frodo tonight.”  His father turned and faced him, his ire visible.  Sam’s eyes widened.  “I-i-it’s just that he’s so ill right now, his fever could be dangerous, and he needs someone to be with him.”

“Did you speak to the healer?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I-I…didn’t think…” Sam mumbled, lowering his gaze to the floor.

“The healer will tell you if he needs someone to baby-sit him or no.  Fetch the healer, come back and tell me his verdict, then sit down and eat your dinner with the rest of us!”

Sam bristled.  Was his father telling him he couldn’t - in any sense - look after his master?  He took a deep breath, and answered.  “I take some stew and medicines to Bag End.  I will look after my master.  I will not leave Mr Frodo on his own tonight!”

Marigold’s eyes widened in surprise at Sam talking back to their Gaffer.  Bell fussed with the carrots and potatoes, but listened intently.

“Samwise…” Hamfast started.

Sam held up a hand to stop him.  “When Mari had the flu, you wouldn’t let her on her own for three days until her fever came down!  You and Mam sat up all night, takin’ turns to sit in.  I’m doing the same for Frodo!”

“Samwise Gamgee!”  His father shouted.  “It is MISTER Frodo to you, and me, and the rest of us.  Don’t let me ever hear you say it any other way!  And Marigold is *family*.  Of course we’re going to sit up all night when one of you is ill, it’s only natural!  But Heaven’s above, Samwise, Mr Baggins is your employer, and twelve years older at that - he can look out for himself!”

“It’s YOU who told me it’s up to US to look after them!”  Sam shouted back at his stunned father.  “It was YOU who stood through there almost fifteen years ago and said there was no point in me learnin’ letters or numbers, because I’d be workin’ for the likes of Mr Bilbo all my life - because they *need* us!”

“Don’t you answer back at me!” 

“I’m not answerin’!  I’m TELLIN’!”

At that point, Bell turned around and held her hands out between the shouting males.  “Right, that’s enough, from both of you!”  They quieted in an instant.  Bell planted her hands on her hips and frowned at her husband.  “Sam is right, that is what you told him.  I have no doubts that if Sam stays up at Bag End tonight he’ll be kept busy enough.  What you suggested fine - involve the healer, but let Sam stay the night.”  Ham started a protest, and Bell raised a finger “Ah-ah! No!”

Marigold bit her lip to keep in her giggles.  Her mother was able to whip the men of the house so easily.

“Sam, go and fetch Mr Hedgeworth.”

“But he trampled my borders!”  Sam wailed.

“Half the Shire trampled them! Sam…fetch Mr Hedgeworth.  Listen to what he tells you.  Come back home an’ pick up some stew an’ broth to take up to Bag End.  I’ll look out what medicine you need - whatever Hedgeworth tell you - an’ then Mari will help you take everything up the Hill.  Is that fair?”

Sam knew it was, and he nodded.

“Good.  Now, you two apologise for shouting at each other, then Sam, off you go.”  Bell said, then tucked her loose brown curls behind her ears and turned her full attention back to dinner.

Hamfast looked at his son.  Samwise looked at his father.  They mumbled apologies as Bell had dictated, and Sam headed back outside.

***

Sam hovered beside Frodo’s bed as Mr Hedgeworth poked and prodded and umm-ed and ahh-ed around his patient.  Sam was becoming annoyed and impatient - he just wanted to know what to do and get on with it.

At last the healer stood up and turned to Sam.  “He has influenza – that is, flu - and needs total bed rest for at least three days until his temperature returns to normal and the aches and pains disappear.  Get him to take an infusion of Echinacea, up to three times a day.  Do you know how to do that?”  Sam frowned in thought for a moment, but the doctor didn’t wait for him to remember.  “You prepare a standard infusion by adding two to four teaspoons of fresh herb to a cup of boiling water. You infuse this for 10 minutes before straining. If the herb is left too long, the mixture becomes bitter.”

Sam had grabbed the healer’s notebook and pencil and was scribbling furiously.  When he stopped talking, Sam looked up, awaiting further instruction. Hedgeworth looked at Sam curiously, then continued.  “As well as infusions, you may give him this special cough mixture up to four times a day.”  He placed a small brown bottle on the nightstand.  “He has cough medicine in his medicine box, he doesn’t need this ‘special’ stuff.”

“He will.” Hedgeworth informed him flippantly.  Sam reluctantly noted cough mixture on his list.  “Now, oils and poultices. Oil infusions are for external use only. They can be prepared by hot or cold methods. For the hot method, fill a jar with fresh herbs and cover with sunflower or almond oil. Place the jar up to the neck in a saucepan of water and bring to a medium temperature. Simmer for up to three hours.”  Sam looked up from his writing.  “Yes, three hours. Then strain it into a bottle.  The process can be repeated with the strained oil infusion and a fresh supply of herbs to make the oil stronger. Now, a poultice can be quite effective for chest infections.  To make it up, mix chopped herbs or powdered seeds with boiling water to make a pulp. Place the pulp in a piece of cloth and apply to the affected area while hot. It should be replaced when it cool. A dab of this calendula cream will prevent the poultice from sticking and burning his skin.”  He placed a small jar the ointment on the nightstand.  “You may wish to use this if Master Baggins develops a nasty cough, or he complains his chest aches because of coughing.”  The doctor paused for a moment, allowing Sam to catch up with writing.

“Now.  You may find that a few drops of this-” he took out yet another bottle, “-will help him relax if he has problems sleeping.”  The young gardener smiled and took the bottle.  “I’ll need payment for all that.”

“Now?”  Sam’s brow creased worriedly.  Hedgeworth stood with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting.

“Oh, I…I don’t really have a-anything…”

“Sam…ask--ask Mr Hedgeworth to wait…in the parlour, please.”  Frodo wrestled with his blankets and sat up stiffly.  The doctor sniffed and paced out of the room, closing the door behind him.  “Thank Eru…he was making my guts ache!  Talking as…as if I wasn’t in the room with him!  Now, if-if you could pass me that wooden box from my dresser, please.”

“I think he like listenin’ to himself talk, an’ all.  And showin’ off, as I can see.”  

“It surprised him when he saw you writing.  He kept talking to try and confuse you.”

Sam nodded as he cast his glance over the dresser, picked up a small ornate box and brought it to Frodo.

“I cannot believe that hobbit wants payment immediately…I-I suspect this is some sort of...revenge for my shafting him the other day!”

“Deliberately stamped on the borders, he did, Mr Frodo!”  

“Here, give him this.  That should cover the visit as well.”  Frodo held out a small leather pouch.

Sam left the room to hand over the payment to the healer, and like as not, exchange a few sharp words with him as well.  “Here’s payment for the medicines and your visit, Mr Hedgeworth,” Sam held out the bag, which jingled when dropped into the healer’s outstretched hand.  “You tread on my hard work again and I’ll be expecting that payment back!” Sam said, and crossed his arms over his chest.  “Though you had no reason to even be up here!”

Hedgeworth scowled at the young hobbit.  “You should learn to respect your elders, and those of higher station, Sam Gamgee.  Mixing with your betters and getting notions above yourself, giving cheek….you’d be well to mind what your father taught you about manners and class.  And you would do well to remember that before the rest of Hobbiton reminds you!”

Sam flinched, but answered confidently.  “Tis only ignorance that can’t let folks see the truth.  If they would take time as to ask questions and find proper answers, instead of spreading local gossip, they’d know all they need.”

Hedgeworth grabbed his bags and bowed curtly to Sam, who returned to gesture.  “Indeed!  Good evening to you Master Gamgee.  Remember to take care of your patient!”

***

Frodo had fallen into a light slumber when Sam returned to his room an hour later, bearing various medicines and bits and pieces for bedside nursing.  He strategically positioned his load in various places, all within reach by the bed.  He sat by Frodo’s side and shook him gently.  “Mr Frodo.  Frodo, wake up.  I have something you have to take before you go to sleep proper.”

Coming to, Frodo whined, “Nooo, let me sleep!” and pulled his blankets over his face.  He overheated quickly, and pulled them down an inch again, so that only his fever-bright eyes peered over the edge.

“Now, then, Mr Frodo, I’ve to get you to take this three times a day - take some now and then you can sleep!”  Sam held up a small teacup.

“I don’t want to drink any Echinacea tea!”

So he was a difficult invalid.  Sam hadn’t expected that from Frodo.  “Now, come on!  Stop acting like a tweener!”

Frodo sat up indignantly.  “I am not--” his voice cracked and he coughed until the irritating and painful tickling eased.  “You’re only just into your tweens, Sam.”

“Aye, and you don’t see me kicking up a fuss about taking medicine!”

“You’re not ill!”  Frodo retorted.  He realised he was being completely irrational, but for the moment, he didn’t care: he wanted to sleep and hopefully get rid of the thumping headache afflicting him. 

“Look, take a few sips.  It’s really not that bad, Mr Frodo - I tasted it myself to make sure I got the infusion right.”  Sam smiled softly and held out the cup.  After a moment’s hesitation, Frodo took it from him and grudgingly took a sip, his face ready to screw up into a grimace.  “There, not so bad, is it!”

The contortion on Frodo’s face disappeared and he looked sheepishly over the rim of the cup.  After taking a longer draught, Frodo replied, “you’ve done very well, Sam.  It tastes…well, quiet nice in comparison to other concoctions I’ve been fed in the past.”

Sam beamed happily when Frodo quickly drained the last of the tea from the cup and settled down against his pillows a quarter of an hour later.

“You will let me sleep now, Sam?”  He asked wearily, eyes drooping.

“Aye.  I will at that,” Sam whispered, and tucked that sheets and blankets close around Frodo.  He brushed a few dark curls back from his forehead.  “Goodnight, sir.”  He extinguished the lamps and took the candle on the nightstand with him.

After going around Bag End once more to tidy up, Sam settled down in a chair next to Frodo, and closed his eyes to rest while he could.  It wasn’t long before a distressed moan came from Frodo.  Sam awoke immediately and leaned forward.  Frodo’s temperature was up considerably from when it was last checked.  “Here, now, this won’t do!”  Sam murmured quietly and picked up a damp cloth and cooled Frodo’s brow with it.

“No…don’t touch me, please…” Frodo’s feverish voice could barely be heard, so high and delicate it was in the thick heaviness of the night.

“Shh, it’s alright.  It’s just Sam.  I’m just helpin’ you to cool down.”  Sam lightly stroked Frodo’s cheek in an effort to pacify him

“Noo…” Frodo’s brow creased as if he was frightened of something.  “Please…I don’t want to.”  He didn’t seem to be calmed by Sam’s gentle actions, but became more agitated.  “No, don’t!  Where is Mama?!”

Sam’s hand drew back and chewed his bottom lip anxiously.  He dipped the warmed cloth into a basin of cold water, wrung it out, and reapplied it to Frodo’s face.  He took a second cloth and began an attempt to cool the rest of his body.  With the blankets pushed down to the foot of the bed, it didn’t take long before Frodo began shivering involuntary, and Sam growled in frustration.  How could he keep Frodo cool and warm at the same time?

He tucked a blanket around Frodo’s feet and continued to bathe his face, neck and chest and arms.  While he did so, he unintentionally began to hum softly, occasionally singing a line or two that he remembered.

Frodo’s eyes opened slightly, with a great deal of effort, and he watched Sam go about nursing him.  He swallowed and tried to form a sentence with his parched mouth, but merely gave out a tiny croak instead.

Sam looked up at his face and smiled slightly.  “Just you rest yourself, Mr Frodo.”

Frodo raised an arm and swiped away the face cloth.  “Nnn-mmm…”

“No, that’s to keep your forehead cool,” Sam said, chiding softly as he replaced the cloth. Frodo coughed weakly and groaned, his head lolling to the right to face his healer.  “Would you like a drink of water?” he asked.

Frodo nodded and Sam carefully pulled him into a semi-sitting position.  He didn’t let Frodo hold the cup, which frustrated the older hobbit, and he scowled to show Sam his disagreement with the situation.  He was, however, immensely grateful for the cold water sliding gloriously down his throat.  He sighed and smiled faintly.

“There we are.  Now, you try and sleep again.”  Sam manoeuvred him and brought the bedcovers back up to his chest.   Frodo’s temperature had began to drop again, satisfactorily enough for Sam at this point in time to tuck him up nice and snug.

“Sing---sing some more, please,” came a cracked and hushed request.

Sam settled back in the armchair and granted his wish, and in a short space of time, Frodo was fast asleep, and for the time being, peaceful.

***

The rain rapped upon the windows softly, trying to awaken the two sleeping hobbits within the hole.  Frodo’s eyes flickered, his brow creased slightly, and he inhaled sharply as he came to.  Almost immediately he was seized by a violent fit of coughing.  Sam’s eyes popped open as quick as a reflex.  He winced as his neck protested to sudden movement, but moved to Frodo’s side straight away.  “Here now, sit up.  That’ll ease your coughing.”  He placed his arms carefully around Frodo’s waist and slid him into a sitting position.  The poor hobbit leaned forward, one hand covering his mouth and the other holding his chest.

“Oh, here now, it’s alright,” Sam rubbed his hand in circles on Frodo’s back as he stopped choking and slowly got his breathing under control.

“That…was-was not…fun,” Frodo wheezed, slumping weakly against his friend.

“Do you want a drink of water?”  Sam asked as he settled Frodo against a stack of plump feather pillows.

“Oh, p-please, Sam,” Frodo replied wearily.  “Why am I so tired?  I’ve only just woken up!”

“You’re ill, an’ you’ve just had and nasty cough there,” Sam reasoned, tucking blankets around his ill friend again.  “I’ll just go and get a glass of water for you.  After that, you’ll have to take some more of that tea.”

“Yes, yes.  Fair enough,” Frodo sighed and closed his eyes again.

***

A loud, confident knock came from the front door around midday.  Sam scampered to answer it, drying wet hands on a tea towel as he left the kitchen.  He flung the big green door open, then stopped short, a look of surprise settling on his features.

“Da?  What- uhm, what are you doing up here?”  Sam asked with a slightly frown.

“Thought I’d, ah…come up and see how y’were doin’, lad.  See how your Mr Frodo was…coming along.”  The Gaffer lifted a wrinkled hand and rubbed the back of his neck in an almost nervous manner.  The other hand he stretched out, offering a large brown paper bag to his son.  Sam accepted the gift, smiled warmly and stepped aside to let his father in.  “He’s asleep right now.  He’s been sleeping all morning.  I think his temperature is gettin’ steady - not so high last time I checked…”

“So what did the healer say?”  Ham asked as they walked back to the kitchen.

“Said it was flu and…left me with a long list of things to remember.  Echinacea tea, medicines, funny smelling stuff that’s supposed to help ease aches in the chest…I think Mari had a lot of this to take, didn’t she?”  Sam opened the bag and peered in: it was one of his mother’s honey sponge cakes.  He would save that for when Frodo felt a bit better.

“Aye, that she did.  Kicked up a right fuss about taking that tea,” Ham replied with a grimace as he sniffed something in a small box.  “Look, lad.  I came here to tell you something.” 

 Sam spun around to face his father with a worried crease on his forehead.  “W-what?”

“Sit down, Sam, I’m not going to bite you.”  With his son sitting tentatively opposite him, Ham launched straight in to his little speech.  “I won’t keep you long, Samwise.  I only popped by to see how you were coping, and-and to let you know that I’m sorry for arguing with you last night.  I know your mam made us apologise to each other, but things were still tense and heated, and I think we said it just as we were told.  But I am sorry, son.  I didn’t want to suggest that…well, I guess I just didn’t want folks to be thinkin’ anythin’ out of sorts.  Sam Gamgee stayin’ the night at Bag End like a relative of equal rankin’, without so much as a blink in the direction of his roots and those he grew up with.”

“But Da, you know…”

“Aye, lad.  But other folks don’t.  Remember where you’re from Sam.  By all means serve your master, and serve him well, but don’t forget where you’re from.”  Hamfast stood up, placed his cap back on his head and nodded.  “We’ll see you home for dinner tonight?”

“Aye.  Aye, I’ll be home.”

***

As Sam stood at the threshold of Bag End, waving his father goodbye, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took came running up the road, waving and calling out noisily.

“Sam!  Hoy, Sam!”  The eleven year-old Pippin bounced up the path energetically and hugged the startled older hobbit.  “It’s very good to see you again!”

“Y-yes, you too, Mr Pippin…” Sam looked beseechingly at Merry, who poked his younger cousin in the sides, causing him to giggle and promptly let go of Sam.

“Merry! Stop it!”  Pippin poked his cousin in retaliation, then turned back to face Sam again.  “Can we see Frodo?  Is he in?  Are you making dinner for him tonight?  Will you make us dinner too?”

“Pippin!”  

As they walked into the hole, Sam quickly ran over the last couple of days for them.  “But I thought you were going back to Buckland, Mr Merry?”  Sam asked.

Merry smiled as he flopped wearily on to the sofa.  “Yes, that was the plan, but Mother and Father wanted to spend a week at the Smials, so they left us in the capable hands of…well, Hobbiton.  We’re booked to stay at the Green Dragon Inn with an older cousin to supervise, but I suppose they don’t expect to see a lot of us.”

“Yes, and it’s such a tiring distance to walk once we’ve been wandering all around Hobbiton and Bywater all day,” Pippin added with a dramatic sigh.  He pulled his pack from his shoulders and clutched it to his front.  “But may we please see cousin Frodo?  I’ve been wanting to see him all day.”

“Well, he’s been sleeping a lot, and I don’t know if he’s up to visitors…” Sam trailed off as the soft tinkling of a bell could be heard.  “I-I got to--” Sam indicated towards Frodo’s room.

“Very well, we’ll come with you, then!”  Merry said, heaving himself out of the soft, comfy seat.

“You need me, sir?” Sam asked as he peeked around Frodo’s bedroom door.

“I believe I heard the voices of my cousins…” Frodo said drowsily and rubbed his eyes, before struggling to sit up.  He coughed for a few moments then sighed.  “Are they well?  I thought they had left Hobbiton.”

“Frodo!  We came by to see you again - Auntie Esme and Uncle Saradoc are visiting Mama and Papa at the Smials and so Merry and me got to stay here a bit longer!”  Pippin high voice carried across the expanse of the room and filled it up as he and Merry appeared beside Sam.

“Ah, that’s nice Pippin…” Frodo said with a smile, which looked more like a grimace, as he tried to wrestle with the bedcovers that were tangled around his limbs.

Pippin grinned and ran across the room, leapt over the footboard and landed heavily on his older cousin’s feet.

“Oof!  Pippin, would you please warn me if you are going to do that.  You landed on my feet.”

Sam was immediately over at the bed, removing Pippin and dumping him - though not without proper respect - into the armchair nearby.  He pulled the sheets and blankets back, allowing Frodo to wriggle free and reposition himself.  “Now, sir, I’m afraid it’s time for another cup of that tea.  But after that, if you feel up to it, I’ll bring you a large slice of warm honey cake.  Gaffer left it when he stopped by earlier.  So I could bring you that, and some ‘proper’ tea, if you would like that, sir, and Mr Merry and Mr Pippin could sit here with you?”

Frodo nodded, as another fit of coughing took his speech temporarily.  It wasn’t as vicious as the previous bout had been, and Sam hoped that this meant it would not get any worse, nor lead to any secondary infection.  “I-I don’t suppose you could make something for my sore throat, Sam?”  Sam nodded while rearranging quilts and covers.  “Oh, and some more handkerchiefs, please I’m going to need them.  Oh, and a bag of those little apple-drop sweets?  I think we would all like some.”

“Right you are then, Mr Frodo,” Sam acknowledged his requests then ambled out of the bedroom.

“Oh, I wonder if he would let me sit in the parlour for a while and change the bedcovers…”

The following week was a flurry of activities for Sam.  Merry and Pippin had decided they wouldn’t stay at the Green Dragon, and also decided that Frodo wouldn’t mind if they occupied one of the spare rooms - each - for their special extended visit.

So now Sam was changing bedsheets in three rooms, administering medicine and balms to one sick hobbit, tripping over scattered toys and books, taking two loads of laundry to Miss Clover every day, and cooking enough to feed two growing hobbits.  On top of that, he still had to chop wood for the fires, do minor repairs around the hole while Frodo was laid up, as well as take trips to the market for him, worrying all the time about the garden just as much as Frodo.  After staying at Bag End for two nights, Sam returned home late in the evenings and slept in his own bed, glad for the peace and quiet.  As much as he was fond of the young Took and Brandybuck, they tired him more than Mr Frodo’s constant requests for certain things every quarter hour.

The end of the week finally came around, and for the first time in his life, Sam was relieved and couldn’t wait to say goodbye to Pippin and Merry and see them off the premises of Bag End.  He marched in through the green door and straight to the kitchen.  After setting the kettle to boil and the first of the sausages popping and frying, he headed towards the guestrooms where Merry and Pippin slept.  He knocked on the first door, waited a moment, then tiptoed in.  Pippin lay on his back, an arm and a foot sticking out from under the mass of blankets, snoring softy, and looking calm and innocent.

With a shrug, Sam crossed the room and pulled the curtains open.  “Up you get, Master Took.  Breakfast will be ready soon an’ you have to head back to Tuckborough today.”

“Nnnnyyyuumph,” Pippin mumbled, and pulled a pillow over his face.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sam said and yanked the covers back and removed the pillow in one fell swoop.  “Up.  Bath.”  

“Oh, alright.  Don’t be a grump, Sam,” Pippin sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes, then gawped at Sam gormlessly, mouth hanging open, eyes half shut, hair sticking up at odd angles.  “Is it first breakfast?”

“Yes.  I’ve brought fresh-made flat cakes and I’ll set about making the porridge, too.”

“And will there be toast and jam and sausages and bacon and eggs and tomato?”

“Give him time, Pippin, he only got in ten minutes ago!”  Merry appeared in the doorway, hair mussed up and nightshirt crinkled.  “Come on, I’ll fill your bath tub.”

With Pippin happily on his way to splash around and scrub up, Sam went back to the kitchen to keep a close eye on a spitting and popping frying pan.  It wasn’t long before buttered bread, and various fried foods were piled onto plates and arranged on the kitchen dining table.  It wasn’t long after that when Pippin came charging through and with a squeal, took his usual place at the table and reached over to begin loading up his plate.

“Hoy, Pip!  Wait for me before stuffing your face!”  Merry entered the room, buttoning up his weskit.

Rolling his eyes, Sam left the two cousins in the kitchen, bickering over who got the largest tomato. To his surprise, Frodo was tugging on his robe when he opened his bedroom door.  “Are you well enough to be gettin’ up?  I could bring you a tray and--”

“No, Sam.  I am quite well now.  I have spent six days in bed doing little more than sleeping and reading.  The worst of the flu has left me, and I do believe I will be back to my normal self quite soon.”  Frodo smiled at his surprised friend then headed towards the kitchen.

***

Sam was wrapped up in his hat, gloves, scarf and winter coat and still he felt cold.  His eyes felt hot and stingy, and his head felt full of cotton.  He reached Bag End and wandered in aimlessly.  He found Frodo up and about already, humming to himself in the kitchen as he poked something in a pan.

“Good mornin’, Mr Frodo,” he said quietly and walked over to the fire to warm his hands.

Frodo stopped humming and turned his head to watch Sam.  “Are you alright, Sam?” 

 Sam nodded even as he shuffled closer to the heat of the fire, shivering visibly despite layers of outdoor clothes.  “Sam?”

“I-I’m fine, really.”  He paused, stood up and held his hands behind his back.  “Maybe a little under the weather, but I-I’m fit enough for work…”

The young Master of Bag End removed the frying pan from the heat and slid the contents onto a waiting plate.  After placing the pan carefully into the sink, he turned back to his friend.  “You do look under the weather.  Everything here is fine, I have plenty of firewood and no repairs needing done.”  Sam opened his mouth to speak but Frodo held up a hand.  “I’ve been up and about for the past two days and feel perfectly fine, so don’t ask me.  Like I said, everything is in order here, so you can go home and have a day in bed.  Your family is out of town for the week, are they not?”

“Yes, sir.  A funeral at Michel Delving.”

“Well then, I shall look in on you later to see how you feel.”

“But--” Sam began to protest.

“No ‘buts’.  I shall be along at midday.  Now, off you go.”  Frodo waved his hand in the direction of the door.  “Go on! Bed!” 

 Sam smiled gratefully and headed off home.  

It wasn’t until he had closed the door of his home and shuffled into the unlit parlour that Sam realised how awful he felt.  With a sigh, he resigned himself to the fact that he had probably picked up the flu from Frodo and would need more than a day in bed.  But, if Frodo need him back at Bag End tomorrow, he would be there.

“But right now…bed…”

Frodo kept his word and turned up at the Gamgee’s doorstep right on midday.  He had been standing there for a good five minutes now, and was becoming impatient and cold.  After waiting a few minutes longer, he decided that he’d best just try the door and let himself in.  It was unlocked, and he quickly stepped inside.  He called out for Sam a few times, but never received a reply.  The hole was silent, and neither of the fires were lit in the parlour or kitchen.  “Sam?  It’s Frodo.”

He wandered slowly through the smial, peering into every room in search of his friend.  He found his room at the end of a dark, unlit passage.

“Here you are!”  Frodo exclaimed with a small smile.

Sam blearily sat up in his bed and winced.  His headache seemed to be worse now than when he had lain down a few hours earlier.  “Is it afternoon already?”

“Yes, it is.  And you look a lot worse for wear now than this morning.”  Frodo sat himself down on the edge of Sam’s little bed and pressed a hand to his forehead.  “That’s quite a temperature you’re running there, Samiwse.  Let me go and fetch a cool cloth for you--”

“No!”  Sam said, eyes wide.  “I-I mean, I-I fine, really, just a little hot from all these blankets…I can look out for meself, honest.”

Frodo raised an eyebrow.  “I thought the same thing myself last week, Sam.  But I would probably be still in bed if you weren’t waiting on me constantly, feeding me medicine and keeping me cool and warm.”

“I don’t have flu, though.  It’s only a little chill.”

“Your face is flushed, your forehead is burning.  And I’ll bet this-” he tapped gently the side of Sam’s head “-feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool, threatening to pop out of your ears.”

Sam frowned, flopped back against his pillows, and pulled his woollen blanket up to his chin.  “Alright, maybe...  But I can look after myself!”

Frodo sighed and shook his head.  “Sam, you looked after me the whole time I was ill.  You have no one here to look after you, so allow me to.  You deserve the same caring you show to others, Sam.”

“But I’m…”

“You’re ‘just a servant’?”  Frodo carefully tucked the blanket into Sam’s body.  “Do you forget that we are friends also?  How often must I remind you?”  He paused to watch Sam’s reaction, then ploughed on.  “It is your job to keep the gardens tidy and healthy, and the smial respectable.  Whatever else you do for me is out of the goodness of your heart for me.  I know this because I pay you for your labours because I must, and these are our places in ‘society’, but everything else I do for you is because I care for you.”

“That…that’s a good way of puttin’ it, I guess…” Sam offered a lop-sided smile.

“So allow me to do this for you, as your friend.  Until your family return.”  Frodo stood, with the intention of gathering together some necessary ‘bits and pieces’.  “Besides, you want to be fit again for Yule, and able to attend all the parties around the Shire, don’t you?”

“Well, in Hobbiton at least,” Sam agreed.  “And it ain’t much fun havin’ to be in bed when ev’ryone else is up and eating th’ goose at the dinner table…”

“Then it’s settled.  You’ll let me take care of you,” Frodo said, and headed towards the door.

“Yes…” Sam murmured and closed his eyes again.  “For a short time, anyway.”



~End, part 7~


Chapter 8 - Of Special Yuletide Greetings

The time between Frodo and Bilbo’s birthdays in September and the Yule festive period always passed quickly.  There were many tasks to do before festivities began.  Gardeners, for one, had their allotments and gardens to tidy and cut back for the winter.  Farmers finished final harvesting of late crops or vegetables, and stocked up for the winter months ahead.  They made and repaired animal pens and shelters, making sure they also had plenty provisions to last.  Healers were on more calls for flu or cold treatments, and the occasional sprain or broken limb from a fall on the wet leaves or early frosty patches.  

This year, Sam felt rushed.  He and Frodo had both suffered a bout of flu, Sam spending one week caring for and another being cared for.  Since he became fit and well again, he had been catching up on a lost fortnight.

Frodo had told him at the beginning of November to slow down: not to rush, that he was well ahead of himself and he would burn out again before the Festivities began.

So now, two days before Yule, Sam sat at home in his room, wrapping gifts for his family, to include his four elder siblings, who would be returning home for three days.  Presents for friends and other relatives were long since wrapped and delivered.  His mother and gaffer’s presents had arrived that very morning, and were now carefully hidden out of sight.  Only a present for Frodo was still to be sent to Bag End.

“SAM!  Whatareyoudoing?!”  Marigold’s head suddenly appeared around the slightly open door.  She giggled when her older brother leapt out of his skin, still clutching a half-wrapped gift.

“Mari!  Gracious, lass, don’t be scarin’ your brother like that!”  He let out a breath and relaxed again.

“Whose present it that?  Is it mine?  Dear Sam, oughtn’t you to have that all finished?”

“This is Hal’s present.  Yours has been wrapped already, Mari.  And out of your sight and reach!  And I *have* almost finished.  You can’t tell me you forgot that I work up at Bag End!  Mr Frodo is a fair employer, and generous, but he has plenty to keep me busy, so you needn’t be thinkin’ I don’t have enough to keep my day filled!” Sam grumbled good-naturedly and watched Marigold as she came into the room proper, and close the door behind her.

“That’s rubbish, Sam!  Mr Frodo is your friend, as well as your employer, and if anyone keeps you busy ‘til dusk, it’s yourself!  Aye, you have plenty to do, and I have no doubt Mr Frodo can occasionally find extra for you, but by the most part, it’s you that keeps your nose in the garden, or otherwise.”  Marigold rolled her eyes and flopped onto Sam’s bed.  She twisted a loose lock of hair around her index finger and kept herself propped up on an elbow as she eyed her older brother with a soft smile.  “Mrs Burrows’ youngest daughter, Heather, is my closest friend.  I don’t see there bein’ a problem with you havin’ Mr Frodo as a companion, Sam.”

Sam shrugged. Mrs Burrows was Mari’s employer, and kept her employed as a seamstress.  She gave her a few pennies for each garment that needed repaired before returning to their owners.  But the difference was, Mrs Burrows’ family was of working class like Mari and Sam’s.  Not of higher class like Mr Frodo, so engaging in social activities with the Burrows’ was acceptable, whereas spending free time with aristocracy was not.

“Sam…do you spend free time with Mr Frodo because he asks you to?  Or because you want to?”

Sam started.  “What do you mean?” He asked slowly.

“When Mr Frodo asks you to stay for dinner, or go down to the Ivy Bush with him.  Do you do it because your master asked you, or because you want to spend time with him, as a friend?”

“Well…I want to.  If F-…Mr Frodo asks me to stay for dinner, I’d be glad to.  I love being able to spend more time with him.  But…”

Marigold sat up and pointed a finger at her brother.  “No ‘buts’, Samwise!  Mr Baggins dearly loves your company, and it’s obvious he wants to be your friend first, and employer second.  But you’re turning into Da’!  He’s so stubborn, Sam, and put up all those…” Marigold waved her arms around for emphasis.  “…Social barriers, came up with excuses not to go for a drink with Mr Bilbo…you know - you saw it.”

“He doesn’t think it’s proper.  We’re employed to work for the higher classes, not to socialise with them, Marigold.”

“Heather is my friend.”

“Heather is of working class, just like us.”

“You’re just as stubborn as Da’!”

“And you are keeping me from finishing this!  I still have to go down to the market!”  Sam stood up and ruffled his little sister’s hair.  In perfect imitation of their father, he added, “go on, off wi’ ye!”

Marigold rolled her eyes and pranced out of the room.

***


Frodo smiled at the elderly owner of the poultry stall and tucked away his purchase in the basket he carried.  As he was turning to head in the direction of the hobbit who owned the spices stall, a familiar weight pressed on his shoulder, and he spun around.

“Sam!”  Frodo exclaimed, a wide smile lighting up his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr Frodo!”  Sam beamed in return.  “Fine weather we’re getting today, although it feels like it may close in quite soon, and we may have snow tonight.”

“A Yule softly blanketed in deep snow?  How very idyllic that would be,” Frodo murmured, head tilted slightly as he pictured the scene: waking warm and cozy inside and looking out of his bedroom window to see the sleepy Shire dressed in a pure white, while inhaling the crisp cold air. He smiled again softly.  “Yes.”

“Indeed, it sounds mighty attractive, Mr Frodo.  It seems to snow a fair bit at Yule.  But it’s always special.  It’s lovely seein’ the gardens and holes all white an’ pretty,” Sam shook his head slightly and focused on the present.  “But right now, it’s as good as you can hope for while doin’ your last moment market-run afore the year-end.”

“Yes, I must keep the pantries well stocked, seeing as holidays, and potential bad weather, will keep me away from market for a while.”

“Aye, you’re getting right independent, sir!”  Sam jested, but then nodded at his basket, becoming serious and business-like again.  “But you could have asked me to take a list and fetch these things, Mr Frodo. You know I come down this way often enough.  It wouldn’t be any hassle for me to get a little extra.”

“It’s been a while since I was at market, Sam.  You do enough for me as it is, and I thought it would be nice to take a stroll down this way and wish everybody a glad and peaceful holiday.  Besides, I only have a very few things to buy, and I shan’t be much longer.”

Sam frowned and tugged gently on Frodo’s coat sleeve.  “Aye, but you’re not dressed proper for even that!  You should have a scarf on, and a thick cloak over this - you don’t want to take ill at this time of the year!”

Frodo blinked in surprise.  “That was very forward for you, Sam!”  He immediately shook his head and continued when Sam’s face reddened and he took a small step back.  “No, no – I was teasing, Sam.  You are right, after all; I should be dressed more warmly for going out.  The weather could change at any moment, and I would be done for.  And it *is* actually getting colder now…I shall just get some more rosemary and head --Sam?”

Sam had unwound his scarf the moment Frodo mentioned the cooling air, and began to wrap it around his master’s neck instead.  “It’ll keep you warm,” he said by way of explanation, and nodded with finality.  He frowned and looked slightly apologetic.  “It’s not as soft or thick as your own, Mr Frodo, but it should keep the worst away and ward off any chill.”

“It does the job just fine.  Thank you, Sam,” Frodo tilted his head again and looked thoughtfully at Sam for a long moment.  “I shall see you later…now let me think, it shan’t be until the new year, hmm?  Well then, I wish you the very best of the season, Sam, for you and your family.  I hope you have a very happy time.” 

As Frodo turned away, Sam started after him again with a question he felt he already knew the answer to.  “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Frodo, but who are you spending the next two days with?”

Frodo thought of lying, and telling Sam he would head out to Buckland, but realised it wouldn’t make a plausible excuse, especially the day before Yule.  He cleared his throat and played with the hem of Sam’s scarf before answering.  “I’ll…be on my own, this year, Sam,” he said, then set his mouth in a firm line, in a way that clearly meant ‘it doesn’t bother me’.

“No relatives?”  Sam pressed slightly.  “Master Took not even passing by with the family?”

Frodo frowned deeply and started walking again.  “No, Sam.  But it isn’t a big deal - I shall be going out to Buckland in the new year, after all the festivities and noisy relatives are out of the way.”

“Hmm, if you say so, Mr Frodo,” Sam murmured casually, then waved him goodbye and went back to his shopping list.

***

As Frodo slowly wandered back up the Hill to Bag End, he noticed Bell Gamgee gathering in a load of fresh laundry she had put out earlier that morning, and came to a halt by the little wooden gate.  “Good afternoon, Bell,” he said with a smile.  “Are you well enough to do that?”

“Ah, Mr Frodo!  Yes, I’m well again, a thanks for your askin’, sir.  Good t’see you, too - it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Bell wandered across the grass to stand beside Frodo.  “And how are you keeping these day, dear?”

Frodo smiled warmly - little things like Bell calling him ‘dear’ went a long way to making him feel welcomed by the Gamgees.  “I am well, thank you for asking.”

“Managing fine without your Uncle?”  Bell asked carefully, as she balanced her laundry basket on her hip.

“Yes.  It…it gets lonely sometimes, because Bag End is so big…but I’m usually surrounded by people I know, people who look out for me.”

“Does Sam?”

Frodo laughed.  “Yes - and very well, too!” 

Bell nodded, just as her eye caught the scarf around his neck - Sam’s.  She smiled to herself and continued their conversation.  “Good, I’m glad t’ hear.  And are you ready for Yule?”

“As ready as I can be.”

“Ah, setting off for Buckland soon, are you?  Or is it Tuckborough this year?”  Bell asked, then tilted her head and fixed her gaze on Frodo in a way that reminded him of Sam.

Again, he hesitated.  But why? Sam would no doubt tell his family when he got home.  “I’ll be alone at home, this year.  I didn’t make any plans…”

“Gracious, Frodo, spendin’ a family holiday alone?”  Bell sighed and straightened up to switch the laundry basket from one hip to the other.  She lifted her free hand and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.  “Dear lad, you’ll find that dreadfully lonely, what with your Mr Bilbo having just left a few months ago.”

“Well, maybe I would prefer to be alone this year!”  Frodo said defensively  “Bilbo didn’t have anyone to spend the holiday with before I came to live with him, so why should it be any different for me?”

“I’ll let you know, Mr Baggins, that your Uncle spent a good deal of time *away* from here at this time of year, in the company of others.  It was very rare that he took to spendin’ Yule alone.”

Frodo looked sheepishly at Bell, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  “…He’s spent many a Yule with me, I guess.  Whether at Buckland or Hobbiton, before he adopted me, and after.”  The young master of Bag End sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly.  “But maybe I do want to be alone this time, Bell.  I deliberately didn’t make plans to go away.  I made other specific plans to stay at home.”  He patted the basket still hanging on his arm and gave her a half-smile.  “Got my goose and everything.”

Bell shook her head and laughed lightly.  “Must be a mighty small goose if it fits comfortably in that basket, Mr Frodo.”

“Maybe so, but it’s more than enough for one hobbit.  And I’d best be off, now.  The dear bird shall not cook on its own, or in cold damp air!”

Bell nodded.  “Aye.  I’ve had both Ham’s stiff knees and Sam’s smart head tellin’ me that there will likely be snow for Yule.”  She looked at the grey, heavy clouds.  “And I believe they may be right.”

“Well, I shall wish you a very happy Yule now, Bell.”

“Thank you most kindly, Mr Frodo.  And I hope yours is an enjoyable time also,” Bell replied, briefly resting her free hand on his arm.  “Goodbye for now, dear.”

“Goodbye.”

***

Indeed, Sam and the Gaffer’s knees were right, and the first flakes of snow began to drift quietly to the earth as Frodo reached the door of Bag End.  He hurried inside and locked the door, stamping his chilled feet as he did so.  He padded through to the parlour and built up the dwindling fire, and then went to set another going in the kitchen and his study.  

With the hole warming up nicely again, Frodo divested himself of his coat and scarf.  Carefully folding the soft length of wool, Frodo made a mental note to return it to Sam as soon as was possible.  Which now looked as though it would not be until well after Yule.

Frodo sighed and shuffled back to the kitchen, where he began hauling things out of cupboards and pantries.  Starting to prepare the dinner now meant he would only have a few bits and pieces to deal with the next day.  “Come along then, Baggins: get yourself into action!”

***

Sam scurried through the front door of the Gamgee home a few hours into the snowfall.  His curly head was covered with melting snowflakes and his cheeks were pink and chilled.  As he walked into the kitchen, he shook his head, sending cold water drops flying, and causing Marigold to squeak as one slid down her back.

“Sam!  Ooh, that was cold, brother!”  The young lass of eighteen summers shuddered and frowned half-heartedly at her older brother.

“Ah, good evening, Sam-love,” Bell’s soft voice reached them from the other side of the kitchen.  She wandered over to greet him, her concentration on the family dinner.  “How was your day?  Did you get all that you needed?”

“Yes, Mam,” Sam replied and handed over a small packet.  “I got the last of this from Mrs Longleaf’s market stall!  How are you feeling today?”

“Thank you, lad,” Bell took the herbs and set them down beside the others for use in garnishing and flavouring the stew.  “I’m feeling quite fine, Sam.  I’ve told you already there’s no need to fuss.  It was only a cold I suffered from.”  She glanced sideways at him.  “I had a wee talk with Master Frodo earlier.”  She commented.

“Oh yes, I met him at the market this afternoon,” Sam informed her as he picked up a spoon to stir the pot of vegetable soup.

“Yes…he told me he would be alone tomorrow, and the day after as well,” Bell quickly chopped up the carrots and onions and added them to the stew.  “It’s not right.  Him spendin’ the holidays alone.  He needs t’be in the company of others…his Uncle only left in September…”

Sam listened to his mother’s fretting quietly, nodding in agreement every now and then.  

“Aye, he said he *wanted* to be alone…it’s no’ right…” Bell sighed and went to set the table.

“What’s this, love?”  Hamfast enquired as he hobbled into the kitchen, pipe in one hand, an empty mug in the other.

“Mr Frodo, Da’.  He’s staying at Bag End alone this Yule holiday,” Sam explained, then dipped the spoon into the pot to taste the soup.  Satisfied, he began to serve it.

“No Uncle to organise him, eh?”  Said the Gaffer as he emptied out his pipe into the fire.

Sam frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Bell placed a hand on his arm, then spoke for him.  “He thought it would be nice to spend the time alone this year.  But I think he’s regretting that decision now.”

“Hmph.  Nobody t’blame ‘cept himself, then,” muttered Ham as he sat down at the table and Sam placed a bowl of steaming soup at his place.

Marigold wandered off to call in her brothers and sisters, who were home for the holiday for a change.  As she returned with them in tow, she shook her pretty head and put her penny’s worth into the conversation.  “Should we pay him a visit tomorrow?”

Sam’s eyes lit up and he looked straight at his father.

The Gaffer spluttered and dropped his spoon into the soup bowl.  He opened and closed his mouth a few times, and looked quite like a fish.  In anyone else, Sam would have found the expression amusing, but this was Hamfast Gamgee.  It made him nervous.  “I-I-” Ham started.  From all around the dinner table, seven pairs of eyes were on him, waiting for his answer.  Hal’s expression was the only one in the room that remained neutral.  The others - including his wife! - looked at him expectantly, and hopefully.  “I…”

“Don’t try to say t’ain’t proper, Ham Gamgee!”  Bell said as she picked up her spoon.  “As far as I can see, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with showing your master you’re thinkin’ of him and are concerned about him.  He’s a hobbit like the rest of us, and there’s none who deserve t’spend such a time alone.”

Daisy and Hal glanced at each other across the table and shrugged, seeing the sense in their mother’s statement.

 “Well, we canna very well just turn up on his bloody doorstep without so much as a note sent in his direction aforehand!”

“Well, it’s a damn sight too late t’be sending out invitations and messages - we either do, or we don’t.  A couple of hours, even, just to let him know we’ve thought of him.  I’m quite sure there is a gift or two lurkin’ around this hole for a certain Master Baggins at any rate.”

Sam and Marigold kept a hopeful silence.

“Hm.  Well.”  Hamfast picked up his spoon and dipped it into the bowl again.  “Best make sure we take all the provisions in one trip tomorrow mornin’ then.”

It was Sam’s turn to drop his spoon and waggle his mouth like a fish.  Marigold giggled.

“Sam, eat your dinner,” his father requested nonchalantly.  

“Wha-what do you mean?  Morning?”

The old Gaffer lowered the spoon, again, and scowled.  “Ain’t no sense in only going along for a couple o’ hours, Sam.  Go in the morning, dinner’s delayed when ye get back.  Go in the afternoon, there’s no time before, or after, to eat a decent meal.  Now, if you visit someone for a day, you can cook and eat wherever and whenever suits both parties.  Suits the master of the house, I should say.”

Sam blinked dumbly for a few moments.  Spending a quiet, family Yule with Mr Frodo?  His father consented?  He shook his head and tucked into his dinner.



Bell sat in her rocking chair by the fire, knitting quickly and quietly.  In just an hour she had whipped up a long, twin-coloured scarf, intended as a modest, but heart-felt gift for the young Master of Bag End.  She had chosen the softest wool she could lay her hands on at short notice.  It may not have been expensive, but it had been both spun and dyed by the hands of Bell and Daisy, deliberate and slow, and worth their efforts.  Bell hummed a light song as she worked.  Sam murmured the words as he sewed a small wooden button onto his finest weskit, with the intention of wearing it to Bag End the following day.

“Sam love, go an’ see what your father’s up to,” Bell asked a few minutes later.  “Make sure he hasn’t escaped out of the bedroom window.  Wouldn’t want him to be turnin’ up forty miles away in Michel Delving jus’ as he didn’t want t’spent Yule at Bag End, even after a’ he’s said!”

Sam chuckled and wandered down the tunnel towards his parents’ bedchamber.  Upon arriving at the door, he knocked lightly and called, “Da?  Mam wants to know if you haven’t run away yet!”

The Gaffer opened the creaky wooden door and glowered at his son.  “Don’t be ridiculous!  Said I would go tomorrow, and I ain’t goin’ back on me word.”

“So why are you hiding here?”

“Gettin’ ready for tomorrow, ain’t I?  Nosy beggar!  Awa’ with you, and tell your mother there’s naught wrong and I’ll still be here in th’ mornin’!”

***

Unfortunately the following morning Bell felt worse for wear, and looked it, too.  She did her best not to show it, or snuffle and cough too much, and her husband watched her cautiously.  It was apparently ‘just a cold’ like that she’d had a month ago - yet she had been far too weak to even get out of bed for five days.  But she appeared to recover quick enough after that, and satisfactorily for the healer, Mr Hedgeworth.

“Ham! Stop fussing!  I’ll be fine - I’m going to Bag End with you today, and I do not want to hear any protests and suggestions that I can’t cope!”  Bell slapped her husband’s hand away from her forehead.

“Bell, love, the last time you were ill you couldn’t leave your bed for near a week!”

“Aye, and Hedgeworth said that was just another symptom of the cold I had!”

“Da’, if Mam says she’s fine, then let her be,” Marigold stood in the kitchen doorway, speaking as she finished tying her hair back.  “Sam’s been up and got ev’rythin’ ready, so we’re just eatin’ breakfast before we go.”

“Thank you, Marigold,” said Bell.  “Hamfast, listen to your daughter - let me be!”

Sam, at that moment, wandered into the kitchen.  “What’s this, then?  Are you feeling ill, Mam?”

“Aye, she is, but being her stubborn self, she’s insistin’ there’s naught wrong!” said Ham grumpily.

Sam looked closely and anxiously at his mother, lifting a hand to touch her forehead, before pulling back as she slapped it away.  

“Hamfast!  Samwise! I’m fine!  It’s Yule, and I’ll no’ have anybody worriting over a damn cold!”  She frowned at her husband and son.  “Now, sit down, eat yer breakfast, and then let’s be off!”

***

Bell was at the point of biting off her concerned husband’s fingers before they even left the smial.  He fussed over her endlessly at breakfast, then brought her coat, cloak, scarf, hat and gloves to her while she sat by the fire and the children did the dishes.  

When they were ready to leave, Hamfast held her hand tightly and kept their pace slow and leisurely so she wouldn’t be tired out or breathless when they reached Bag End.  

“Ham, it’s just another chill.  I’m not fragile, I’m not going to break!”

“Just humour me, Bell-lass.  Don’t want to risk anything.”

As they approached the smial under the hill, the Gaffer silenced them all.  No use in coming to surprise Mr Baggins if he could hear them before they were even in sight!  

They all stood arranged neatly on the front step, Sam at the head of the family.  He felt quite nervous of a sudden, and had to pause before lifting his hand and knocking loudly on the door.  The Gamgees took a collective step back from the door and waited.  A few moments later, they heard scuffling and muttering, and a key being turned in the lock.  They all looked expectantly at the mass of heavy wood was pulled open.

Frodo stood gaping at the eight hobbits huddled together at his door.  He held a gooey spoon in one hand, and had smears of goodness knows what all over his face.  He had evidently wiped his hands on his breeches, and the white cotton shirt he wore was….no longer white.

“S-Sam?”  He stammered.  “What are you…all doing here?”  His large, bewildered eyes took in Sam’s parents and siblings, all smiling tentatively at him.  They were all weighed down with bundles and baskets, except Bell, who only had a hand filled with Hamfast.

Sam beamed, a large smile spread across his face.  “We’re here to take over your kitchen, so it seems.  Happy Yule, Mr Frodo.”

***

Frodo returned to the living room freshly scrubbed and dressed in his finer clothes.  He buttoned the cuffs of his silken shirt and smiled at Bell, who had been left near the comforts of the fire with orders to sit still and relax.

“How are you feeling, Bell?”  He enquired.  

“I feel a little under the weather, Mr Frodo, but my dear husband is treatin’ me as if I was expecting!”  Bell shook her head and chuckled.  “’Tis merely another touch of the cold.  But I think he’s feart I’ll take to my bed again for another week…”

“There’s nothing wrong with being fussed over, Bell, my dear,” Frodo said, and sat in the chair next to her.

They both laughed, and Marigold entered the room carrying a tea tray, a confused look on her face. Bell noticed, and smiled.  “No, Mari-lamb, we’re no’ laughing at you.  Mr Frodo was just saying how there’s naught wrong with being fussed over.  It seems we both have a fair idea of what it’s like.”

“Ah, of course,” said Marigold, and set the tray down on the small table near Frodo.  “I brought some tea for you, Mr Frodo.  Sam thought you might like some.  And I’ve been told to tell you no’ to worry about dinner, as Sam and Daisy are working at it as we speak!”

“Where are the others?”  Bell asked lightly.

“The boys have gone outside with Da’.  Sam kicked ‘em from the kitchen!  Da’s gone to inspect Sam’s work of the gardens, and I think Hal and Ham are tagging along.”

“Well, I’m quite sure they will find nothing to gripe about, and nothing that needs tending, as Sam has it under control!”  Frodo added his part to the exchange.  “Now, Mari, unless you are required to help anymore, please join your mother and I for tea.”

Marigold smiled shyly and sat on the sofa beside her mother.

It seemed a remarkably short time later when Sam appeared at the doorway of the parlour, announcing that Dinner would be served in the dining room shortly.  As Frodo, Bell, and Marigold prepared to make their way through, they could hear Daisy arguing with her older brothers.

“No!  That knife sits on the outside!  Hal - fold the napkins like this!”

Hamson muttered something vague and Marigold hid a smirk behind her hand.

“No, one will not do!  We’re doin’ this proper, for Mr Frodo, or not at all!”  The sound of cutlery being slammed on the hard wood table was heard.  A moment later, Daisy appeared in the corridor.  “Ah, there you are!  I was beginnin’ to wonder if Sam had gotten side-tracked an’ forgot to tell you dinner is being served!” 

***

It wasn’t long before the starter dishes were devoured and scraped almost clean.  After the two cooks for the day had cleared the empty tableware and, sharing the weight of the tureen (and partly for show: Sam - or Daisy, for that matter - could easily have carried it alone), placed the goose in the centre of the table, everyone waited quietly for either Frodo or Hamfast to say something.  Frodo waited for Hamfast, thinking it polite, as he was the head of the family; Hamfast waited for Frodo - he wasn’t about to jump ahead of his betters and tell his family to dig in as usual.

The brief pause stretched into a long moment.  Clearing her throat, Bell broke the silence.  “Would someone like to carve the goose?”

Another moment of silence followed, before Hamfast handed the carving knife to Frodo.

But Frodo smiled and shook his head.  “No, I would like you to have the honour of carving the goose, sir.”

The Gaffer’s eyes widened slightly and he paused, debating fiercely with himself, but he slowly lifted the large blade and smiled at the eight pairs of eyes watching him closely.  “Well…here we go.. But before I do, I must say thank you to my son, Samwise.  Yer a good lad, honest and hard-workin’.. even if I don’t tell you as oft I should.”  He cleared his throat and glanced up at his wife, who sat at the opposite end of the table, smiling softly.  “Well, then..”

Without further ado, Hamfast expertly sliced into the goose.


Creamed potatoes, roast potatoes, peas, beans, sprouts, boiled cabbage and carrots, batter puddings, and gravies and sauces in abundance accompanied the roasted goose - and that was just for their main course.  Before getting stuck into it, Daisy had served up creamy mushroom soup with warm crispy bread rolls, and followed that with a slice of light, refreshing watermelon with a small dollop of raspberry sauce to sweeten, much to the other Gamgees’ delight and surprise.  Frodo had smiled and caught Sam’s eye - he had once described to the young lad the extravagant and exotic affair of Yule at Brandy Hall…then the following year, Sam had experienced the event first-hand.  And Sam remembered Frodo’s fondness for the particular quirky appearance of the melon as a starter.

Goblets of mead and wine were drained and refilled, happily accompanying the rich food down the gullet.  There was silence, save for the clacking and scraping of knives and forks, and appreciative noises from the small party.

And despite his initial misgivings of their sudden appearance on his doorstep, Frodo was immensely grateful for the Gamgee’s company that day.  He occasionally glanced around the table, taking in the happy faces of his companions, and smiling to himself.  Another problem, however, that presented itself to Frodo during the course of their meal, was the presents, or lack thereof, that he had to give.

After a prolonged desert of lemon sponge cake or blackberries and custard (or both: hobbits not being folks to tolerate leftovers), the group moved themselves - slowly - to the parlour.  Bell directed Hal and Ham to clear the table, despite their, and Sam’s, protests.  Frodo excused himself from the room, setting his glass of rose wine on the end table and scampering as quick as his full belly would allow through the tunnels of the smial.

“Gifts, gifts.…where did I put them.…” He went into his bedroom and opened his closet doors.  No presents.  He frowned, and headed across his room to the cupboard built into the wall.  “Oh, yes, Frodo Baggins, it’s a safe place to leave them ‘til the new year alright!”

“Mr Frodo?”

Frodo spun round, hastily closing the cupboard door, and holding his hands behind his back.  “Yes?”

Sam started a little, stepping further away from the open bedroom door.  “Just…we’re all in the parlour now and we…”

“Yes.  I’ll be there in a moment.”

Frodo turned back to the cupboard, then, after making certain Sam had left, carefully pulled a delicately wrapped packed from the top shelf.  He closed his fast-welling eyes, breathing deeply.  The moment passed, and he collected the rest of the parcels and shuffled back through to the parlour, arms laden.

Bell was emptying a basket containing small gifts as Sam urged her to sit down and relax.  She took a breath and opened her mouth to protest, but was caught with a short coughing fit.  

“Oh, mama, please just sit down afore the Gaffer gets into a flap!”  Daisy rushed to assist Sam and together they guided her to an armchair.  Frodo watched the scene worriedly and silently, then continued into the room, placed the bundle of gifts on the floor behind a chair, and forced a smile on his face.

“Well now, where is Master Hamfast?”

“Just coming, Mr Frodo!”  The Gaffer hurried through as fast as his old pins would allow him, propped up by an old walking stick and carrying a mug of beer in his free hand.  Sam smiled to himself, and not for the first time, happy that his old dad was having a good time.

With the last of the family settled in the parlour around the warm fire that had been banked up during his absence, Frodo moved to stand in the centre of the gathered hobbits.  “Before we begin with the traditional gift-giving, I would like to say a few words.”  He glanced around the room, certain he held their attention.  “I wish to thank you all for being here today.  I must confess that it was my intention to bide here alone over Yule.  I hadn’t accounted for how lonely I would feel, and I cannot express enough how much I appreciate all your thoughtfulness, everyone.  But, without further ado…” And with that said, Frodo smiled jauntily and moved to grab the first of his gift for the Gamgees.

A new washtub for the family, even if four of them no long lived at home for the most part of the year; a small keg of ale to see in the new year; a bag of flour and jars of fresh, heady spices; a bright, new axe for chopping firewood, a new kettle and plenty of tea aside to set it to good use.  

And then after the family gifts were given, Frodo brought out small individual wrapped and tagged presents.  Marigold held her package in her hands a while, looking carefully at the coloured paper and hand-written label.

“You can open it, Mari,” came Bell’s soft voice.

Marigold looked up, suddenly aware of her sisters’ gleeful expressions as they admired the hair ribbons and matching lacy collars and cuffs, May’s in buttercup yellow and Daisy’s sky blue.  With shy eagerness, the youngest of them pulled the wrapping off the small bundle.  The two ribbons were white and green checks; the lace pieces a soft white.

Sam’s brothers appeared eager to try their new pipes, each carved uniquely and from different woods.  He heard Frodo mention something about the weed coming from the same trader in the Southfarthing as he and Bilbo used, gaining appreciative murmurs from the guests in the room.

A whoop from the Gaffer, who cleared his throat in embarrassment, turned all heads toward him.  Frodo smiled as Ham lifted up his new pipe in one hand and a beautiful new walking stick in polished mahogany, as chuffed as he had been in a long while.  After a moment, Frodo passed gifts to Bell and Sam.  Sam watched his mother closely as she slowly accepted the present and removed the delicate paper, and for a moment it was struck by how fragile she looked, and a wave of uneasiness washed over him.   But the disquiet vanished and was immediately replaced with something else.

“Oh!  Oh, Master Frodo…” whispered Bell, holding up a crocheted, ivory-coloured shawl, with small pink roses, also crocheted, scattered over it.  A very faint scent of lilac clung to the fibres and the garment, although old, still felt as soft and as strong as if it were just created.  “It’s beautiful.”

“It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?”

Frodo nodded, silent, as he watched Bell’s joyful face, a soft smile tugging on his lips as she bent her head to breathe in the old, comforting scent.  Her eyes were closed, but whether in contemplation or some kind of reverence, he couldn’t tell.

Sam watched from his place next to the Gaffer, tears misting his vision and his heart full of gratefulness and gratitude toward his thoughtful master.

“Sam…open your present.”  Marigold’s sweet voice brought Sam back into the world and he blinked for a moment, then stared at his gift.  Slowly, he pulled the string holding together the paper and pulled it away.

For Sam....a book of Elvish tales, ordered especially for him from Dale.

“I searched the Shire constantly for such a book, but…but I had to go with my last resort and order it.”

“From…it says inside that it’s from Dale,” Sam murmured, and turning to a random page of the book, running his fingers over the elegant script.  “Sir, you…I…you can’t give me this…”

“Well, why ever not, Sam?”

“It’s…it’s…too good for the likes of me.”  Sam blushed, sneaking a look at his Gaffer.

“But you enjoy Elvish tales, do you not?”  Frodo argued.  “Here is a book of your own.  To read at your leisure, and to keep.”

“Have you read these tales?”

“No,” Frodo conceded, “but I could borrow it from you, or you could always read them to me,” he teased.  “Here, did you see the inscription?”

Sam turned to the title page of the book, blank save for the heading in thick, flowing writing.  On the other side of the page however, Sam found a short paragraph, written to him by Frodo, the handwriting light and graceful.

"To Samwise Gamgee: without whom Frodo Baggins would be lost in a world with little colour; for showing his old friend that dreams come true, wishes are granted and faerytales still live on in the world.  For restoring faith in close ones and building trust in peers.  To Samwise, whom I owe much, my rainbow, and dear friend.

"Yours, F.B.  Yule 1401"


~end, part 8~


Chapter 9 - Kith and Kin

AUTHORS NOTE: I don’t say thank you enough and I can’t say thank you enough. 

Frodo 33, Sam 22. It’s around about July, almost a year after Bilbo left.


*****


Sam drifted from hazy dreams to quiet wakefulness.  He stretched languorously and smiled at the sunshine peeking through his window, then immediately started planning his day.  But, as he lay in the peaceful stillness of early morning, Sam murmured and allowed himself to daydream for a minute or two before rising.  Work could wait for a moment….  He listened to the birds as they finished their dawn chorus and began chattering noisily to one another, delighting in all the happy twittering and chirping, then sat up and peered out the window by his bed catching a glimpse of a white tail bobbing off, under the gaffer’s neatly trimmed hedgerows.

He had picked the bedroom for this purpose – to overlook the garden and beyond, into the rolling fields and hills of the Shire.  His own bedroom had been at the end of the passage in the Gamgee’s home: the smallest and only room without a window, such was the draw being the youngest son in the family.  When he was younger, he didn’t fuss, but every now and then, thought of how nice it must be to sleep in his brothers’ room.  It wasn’t until long after they moved out that he actually moved into it.  Halfred and Hamson’s room wasn’t the largest in the hole, but it had the best view of the family’s little garden, and Sam wondered why he had never claimed the room before.  Even Marigold’s room, shared with May and Daisy for years, overlooked the kitchen garden.

As the young hobbit sat on his bed, still wearing a dozy sleepy smile, he heard a commotion coming from his parents’ room.  The smile disappeared quickly, and was replaced with a frown.  He got up and padded over to the door, opening it slightly to catch fragments of a heated discussion.

“...again, Bell.  I asked you *last* time to let me fetch the healer!”

“It’s nothing, Ham, jus’ another tickly throat.”

“Bell, love, you’ve had these ‘tickly throats’ three times this year so far, an’ each time you’ve been knocked for six – in bed for at least a week!”

“Ham!  It’s probably just hay-fever!”

“This month, in July, yes.  But back in February?”

“In February it would have been a cold! Mayhaps I’m just becoming prone to catching whatever bug is goin’ about with each season.  Let me be, husband – there’s naught wrong with me!”

Sam winced as his mother was caught by another coughing fit.  It didn’t last long, and she cleared her throat carefully before speaking again, though a bit croaky.  “I’m fine.  Now, there’s a lot o’ laundry t’be done.  I’d like t’get started.”

Sam heard the gaffer sigh and mutter something. He nodded in agreement, although he didn’t quite catch the words, and then dressed himself before going to breakfast.

***

“It’s your birthday at the end of the week, Mama,” Marigold said with a teasing smile.  “Do you have anythin’ special planned?”

Bell smiled at her youngest and shook her head as she placed her empty teacup on the dining table.  “No, Mari-love.  But I was hopin’ for a small family dinner.”

“Oh.  Alright.”

“Plannin’ an’ plottin’ were ye?”  Bell asked playfully.

“Not plannin’, no,” her daughter replied nonchalantly, and cleared the breakfast dishes from the table.

At that moment, Sam bustled into the kitchen, hastily kissed his mother and sister, then headed for the door, muttering to himself.

Bell raised her eyebrows and Marigold smirked.  “He’s runnin’ late again.  Daydreamin’ no doubt.  Hardly said a sentence at breakfast.”

“Well, he’s old enough t’get on and stay out o’ trouble now.”

***

“Lost something, Samwise?”

Two deep brown eyes widened in surprise, a hand hovering over an upturned plant pot under a bench.  He could have said no, he was...actually planting a nice new hyacinth, but he was currently on his hands and knees, rear on full view to the Shire, with no gardening tools or bulbs in sight.

Slowly he sat up and looked at the study window just above him.  Before he could open his mouth to reply though, the other spoke again, voice laced with amusement, and right beside his ear.

“I’m behind you, Sam.”

The poor lad almost leapt out of his breeches and whipped around as fast as his current position allowed, coming nose-to-nose with his master.

“You look guilty about something.  Were you planning to surprise me at my desk?”  Sam shook his head abruptly.  “No?  Hmm.  What could Samwise possibly be doing, then?  Crawling around under garden benches and talking to empty plant pots…” Frodo smirked and bit his lip to hold back any laughter welling up.

“I-I…”  

“I came out to ask you if you would like some refreshment, since it’s quite hot.”

“I *have* been workin’ Mr Frodo, sir, honest, I’ve not been slackin’ off all mornin’ or-or foolin’ about, sir, really I’ve not--”

Frodo actually laughed then.  He put out a hand to help Sam to his feet, smiling at the rosy blush covering his face.  Now obviously wasn’t the time to mention the way he had….‘greeted’ Frodo.

“I know you’ve been working hard,” said Frodo, looking around at the dark soil where it had been recently watered; the fresh, overturned earth that indicated weeded flowerbeds.  “It shows,” he murmured.  He looked back to Sam.  “Well.  Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

The young hobbit nodded, mumbled something about washing his hands, before following his master to the pump in the garden where he scrubbed up a bit.  Frodo respectfully enquired about his family, and Sam politely answered.

“Your mother is ill again?”  asked Frodo, his forehead lined with concern.  “It hasn’t been that long since she was last laid up in bed…is it still the same problem?”

“Aye…a bad cough and her weariness again,” said Sam biting his lip as he frowned in deep thought.  “Actually, ever since….”

“Sam?”

“She was helpin’ one of our neighbours.  Widow Green.  She was ill for a long while, before she died – which the healer just put it down to old age, and left it at that.”

“But you think she may have picked up a recurring chest problem from Mistress Green?”  Frodo enquired carefully.

Sam gave him a small half-smile.  “Aye, it seems most likely.  Mistress Twofoot has a similar problem.  Gets the coughs quite frequently.  Mam might even have picked it up from her – with the amount of time they spend together.  Daddy Twofoot has a stock of herbs and medicine that Mr Hedgeworth gave him.  Mayhaps I should ask him for some, too.”

“Well, I would try anything, Sam.  I’d like to think that would work.”

Sam nodded and followed Frodo into Bag End.

***

The herbs that Sam brought home that evening indeed helped to set Bell back on her feet, and after a couple of days, she was back to her usually self.  When Sam next discussed her health with Frodo, they both agreed that it was the same virus that Mama Twofoot suffered frequently.  Sam muttered something about wishing they stopped his bad dreams, ones he got when his mam was ill.  Frodo tried to reassure him that they were just dreams, and talk returned to the miracle of herbal medicines

“Aye, they worked a wonder…” Sam said absently, then knelt down to look under an upturned flowerpot.    He found nothing and sighed and sat back, hands resting on his knees.

“Sam, you’ve been doing that all week.  What are you looking for?”

Sam shrugged, then stood up again.  “Oh, it’s-it’s nothing important, sir….”

“It must be if you have spent this amount of time looking for it,” answered Frodo.

Sam scuffed his feet in the soft grass.  “Well…it was Aunt Rose’s – that’s mam’s sister – son in law, Toby, who came by Bag End, on his way north to Needlehole.  He had intended to stop by at home, but he said since he’d saw me workin’ away here, there were no need to be delayed, as he’d already been when he visited Great-uncle Tom.  Said he just wanted to give us a gift for Bell.  ‘I know it’s not quite the done thing, givin’ presents to someone who’s birthday it’s coming up’, says he, ‘but your Auntie Rosie wanted her to have this.’”

“A family heirloom?”

“Aye.  Well, mayhap.  ‘just a trinket,’ he said.  ‘Something yer mam will be glad t’have hold of again!’ and nothing else, just to make sure she got it,” explained Sam.  “Well, that was two weeks ago now, and I’ve been that busy its just been pushed clean from my mind.  And now I have a need for to find it, and I seems to have lost it!”

“If you would tell me,” said Frodo, “then I believe that two heads put together would produce a better result than that of one seeking alone.  And it must be of some importance to the family, Sam, if you have taken your time to continually search for it.”

Reluctantly, Sam nodded.  “Well, it’s a necklace, and the like I’ve never seen before.  It’s much nicer than all her other jools and bobbins, and then there’s the old family tale that says it was a gift from the Tooks.  Years and years ago, mind you – but I think it’s been exaggerated somewhat – there’s been no dealing with the Tooks in mam’s side, nor the Gamgees neither.  Now, the Whitfoots, that’s possible.  The Goodchilds were in the Whitfoot family’s service for many generations, so it could have been a gift from them.  Maybe they even bought it in Tookland….”  Sam trailed off, and looked by the roots of the rowan tree next to him.

“What does it look like, Sam?”

Blushing, and realising he had been babbling about something Mr Frodo probably cared not for, Sam stood up.  “It’s….it’s short – the chain – only comes down to the lass’s collar.  It’s fine silver, but strong, and the pendant is tear-shaped, silver vines twisting round it, and a white stone in the middle.  Well, the stone is sort of see-through, but not, if you take my meaning sir.”

“Pearlescent, iridescent – pearly and glimmering in the light – yes?” 

Sam pondered his words.  “Well, they sound like they should fit.”  He nodded.  “Yes, that sounds right.”

“Where did you last see it?”  Frodo asked as he crouched down and peered into a rosebush.

Sam knelt beside him and began poking around.  “Two weeks ago, when I was given it, sir.  I completely forgot I was supposed to have it, until the gaffer mentioned it at the beginning of the week.”

“Why did he mention it?”

Sam paused to clear his throat awkwardly. “He heard that Toby had passed through the town, and was thinkin’ of sendin’ a message down his way to see if he might return that very necklace for his Bell’s next birthday.  Last time Toby visited, during spring, they went off a-ways to talk about it, you see.”  

Frodo looked over his shoulder at his friend.  Smiling in amusement, he asked, “and…?”

“I told him since Toby and I could both write, I would send word to him.  Obviously, I haven’t, for I was a-hopin’ to be able to find it afore mam’s birthday.”  The young gardener sat back on his heels and sighed.  “For some reason, the gaffer seems to really want it, to give to her.  He knows she’ll give out her presents as usual, but this necklace…it’s as if it’s somethin’ important he has to do.”

Sam fell silent, and became thoughtful.  After a few minutes, Frodo touched his arm to capture his attention.  “Sam, do not dwell on those dreams you had.  As like as not, it is just a possibility that your mind was working through.  Remember what I told you about dreaming – it can merely be your subconscious trying to puzzle out certain things that elude you during your waking hours.”  He paused, and smiled wryly.  “Though I do not deny that they can conjure some rather interesting scenarios.”

Sam gave him a small, crooked smile, then plunged his hands back into the undergrowth.


Again that night Sam’s dreams plagued him with disturbing visions of his father being choked by a goblin, and his mother’s energy being sapped by a terrifying, unnamed menace, while Frodo dreamed of clasping a glittering silver necklace around his friend’s neck, beneath a canopy of stars.

***

When Sam awoke at dawn the next morning, bleary-eyed but rested, he was greeted by the scent of rain, coming for his bedroom window, which was slightly ajar.  He pushed away his blankets and swung his warm feet onto the cold floor.  The shock of the cold woke him up as good as any bath or walk in the rain, and he stretched luxuriously as he padded over to the window.

A slight movement of the air billowed the short, coarse curtains screening the window as Sam raised his hand to draw the apart.  He sighed contentedly as he looked out at his family's small, neat garden.  These days, when the gaffer's hands pained him, Sam tended this garden as well as the one on the Hill, and in summer months such as these, he was working hard, from early morn until the sun set late in the evening.

With a smile he noted the misty rain watering the garden, as gentle as could be, with the colourful blooms relishing the refreshment and nodding happily. Looking down at his window box, he noted that even those tiny little flowers reached and stretched out towards the rain.  He peered further out, and could see the edge of the patch of chamomile, soft scented and willowy.

A sharp knock on his door brought his from his reverie.  The gruff voice of his gaffer could be heard clearly from the other side, and he didn't sound to be in a mood to suffer fools.

"Samwise!  Times ye should be ready!" 

Sam sighed, and set about his daily routines.

***

Frodo sat at the table in the kitchen, re-reading a letter received from his cousin Merry, which begged him to visit before the snows came – or as they came.  Merry's frivolous nature had envisaged a situation that involved Frodo residing at Brandy Hall over winter, snowed-in no less, and with Pippin and himself for company.  Apart from anything else, Frodo laughed at Merry's grandiose plans for winter, when outside the mid-morning sun was already drying the rain from the night, flowers presenting a flurry of colour, and grass growing as quick as Sam cut it.

“Ah, my dear Merry!” chuckled Frodo, finishing the last of his breakfast tea.  As he stood up to leave the room, he caught sight of Sam ambling up the path to Bag End, and remembered news of his own he had to pass to the lad.

A vague memory of his dream flickered across his mind and he smiled.  He wouldn't be doing anything as ridiculous as setting the necklet upon Sam's throat, but he was almost certain he knew where Sam would find it now.

“Good morning, Sam!  And a fine day it shall be, too,” Frodo said as he strolled into the garden.  

Sam looked over his shoulder as he unlocked the tool shed.  “Mornin', Mr Frodo.  I think you're right about the weather.”  He looked skywards briefly, then back to his master.  “Not a wisp of cloud to be seen, but that rain last night did the garden no end of good.”

The door of the shed swung open and Sam began to rummage around for his tools, then startled as he turned around, coming almost nose-to-nose with Frodo.  “Oh.”

“Sam...” said Frodo, a beguiling smile gracing his lips.  He crossed his arms, then after a pause, raised a hand to tap his chin.  “Are you sure there are no other places to search?  For the necklace, that is.”

The younger of the two paused a moment in thought as he mentally ran through all the spots he had explored.  Then he shook his head and sighed deeply. “Well, I've searched everywhere I can think of.  All over the garden, the road from Bag End to home, the kitchens and pantries, laundry baskets, under tables and shelves...the only thing I can think is it's at home, and I can't very well turn the place upside down without anyone noticing.”

Frodo nodded.  “Mmm.  Did you check in here - properly, I mean?”

Sam nodded.  “I took everything out and had a look around, then put it all back in again.  I didn't find it.”  He paused, his head tilted to the right slightly.  “I did find one of the gaffer's musty old weskits, though.  It was behind...” Frodo nodded as comprehension lit Sam's eyes.  “Behind the old paint cupboard.  It had slid down the-the...gap!”  He spun around, intent on moving the cupboard to look for the necklace, then hesitated.

Frodo pushed his sleeves past his elbows.  “You'll be needing a hand to move this, then?”  Sam looked at his master in astonishment.  “Oh, come along, Samwise - you think I've never had to move the sideboard in the parlour before when I've knocked a book behind it?”

“But...” Sam gestured weakly at Frodo, “...your clothes...”

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re--” Frodo paused as he looked down at his attire.  Slightly flustered, he realised that, though he was wearing 'old' clothes, perhaps to Sam they were still as fine as anything else he wore - and mostly likely as good as he owned himself. “Oh...oh...well, I mean, don't worry about them for the moment, Sam.  I promise if I damage them, I'll repair them myself.”

Sam nodded and cleared his throat, then opened the small three-shelved cupboard and began removing tins of paint, old and new, of various colours, including the lovely green used when repainting the front door of Bag End.

With the unit now empty, Sam stood to take a hold of one end, and Frodo the other.  On a count of three, they lifted slowly and carefully, surprised at how the heavy it was for its size.  Lowering the cupboard just enough that Sam could slip behind, Frodo glanced at the dusty floor, eyes scanning for a glimpse of silver.  Sam was on his knees, disturbing the fluffy balls of dust, shooing a spider back to its web, checking for gaps in the boards.

“Nothing.”

He sounded so dejected and unhappy Frodo bit his lip in sympathy.   He crouched down beside him and rubbed his shoulder.  “I'm sorry, Sam.  I must admit that the idea of looking here came to me in a dream...I thought it couldn't hurt to look.”

With a deep sigh, Sam stood, dusting off his work-worn breeches.  “No, sir. It didn't hurt to look at all.  But I suppose that's it well and truly finished now.”

They rearranged everything neatly in the shed once again, after which Frodo left Sam alone to his work, and his thoughts.


*****


Frodo was in a dark mood.  He sat in the cold, unlit parlour, lost in thought.  The deep blue eyes that usually sparkled with wit and humour and delight were dulled and distant as he thought back to his childhood.  The problems Sam was having at home only brought back the memories, those which he had long come to accept, if nothing else.

Sam was not at Bag End today.  His mother had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was now bed-ridden, her husband and son and daughter attending to her, and making every effort they could to keep her to her bed.

Frodo hadn't grudged him a day off.  In fact, if it meant he was left alone, so much the better.  

***

A howl escaped his lips; a long blood-chilling cry.  Servants of the house hurrying through the tunnels stopped and turned to the closed door of the study.  A few already knew what trouble went on behind that door, already knew the awful news.  With shaking limbs they hurried away again.

From within the study, more piteous wails could be heard.

Saradoc, heir to Brandy Hall, held a small, scrawny child in his arms.  His father, the Master of Buckland, sat behind his polished mahogany desk, his hands covering his face.  The news he just broke to his son and nephew left him drained and shaken.  Frodo's cries had barely lessened in the half-hour since.  Rorimac wouldn't send for his nursemaid to carry him away; he would do that himself.  There was very little he, or anyone else, could do for the grieving boy at present but show him love.


‘Of course,’ Frodo thought, ‘if love was being left alone by relatives after the burial of one's parents, then I was the most fortunate child ever to have been orphaned.’   His hands threaded into his tangled curls, and he tugged sharply on a lock of hair, wincing as it tore from his scalp and snapped him back to the present.

He pressed his hands over his eyes and muttered wearily.  “Twenty-three years to the day.”

***

Bell coughed harshly again, her face contorted with anguish.  Sam fidgeted at the foot of the bed, while the gaffer bathed her sweat-damp forehead.

Once again, Ham had wished to send for the healer, and had again been admonished by Bell.  Sam and Marigold tried to convince her it was for the best, but she merely scowled blackly at them, before another coughing fit took hold of her.

“I am fine; ‘tis just over-exertion.  Now, it's my birthday in two day's time, an' I will be up and about again by then - jus' wait and see.”

Sam became frustrated and overwhelmed, leaving the house in the late afternoon to escape to Bag End's gardens.  Hamfast hollered after him, his voice carrying far and clear on the slight summer breeze.  Few paid attention the old hobbit's irritated voice and angry words, Sam the least of all.  When he arrived, he made a special point of not disturbing his master.  He wanted to be alone; with just his thoughts and the plants for company.  Lily and lavender nodded in understanding and it appeared that word spread through out the garden with a rippling breath of air.  By the time Sam reached the shed and had filled a watering can, the whole garden was silent and still.  

Silver preyed on Sam's mind, delicate and glittering.  He tipped the spout of the tin watering can and delivered a spray of glistening water to the thirsty flowers and plants.  The water made barely a sound as it fell upon leaf and earth.  Out of habit, Sam gently parted the blooms and peered into little dark corners, still searching.  With a sigh, he continued the gardening.  He was wearying of this – just wished he knew where it had gone...wished he could pass it over to his father...  He had spend almost two weeks looking.  All over.  Every nook and cranny; under every bench and table and up-turned pot...

“Under...not over...” he suddenly muttered to himself.  He glanced around, wondering how 'up' made a difference.  

Trees...but he hadn't been near a tree for weeks, and it would be a while yet before he would help harvest apples.  But if he hadn't been up a tree...Slowly he turned his head and stared at the huge tree standing in the corner of the garden.  “The magpie...!” he whispered to himself. 

A wet, squelchy noise drew his attention back to the garden.  He still held the can tipped forward, and had created a small puddle beside the begonias. With a startled hoot he dropped the can, then without hesitating further, ran to the shed to grab the stepladder. 

He was scared of heights, for sure, as most other hobbits were.   Climbing trees as a child or standing on a ladder to pluck apples was a different matter to climbing the tree to find a bird's nest.  But there he was, peering through the foliage of the chestnut, spying the thieving bird's straw and twig nest, just too far from his reach.  There was nothing for it: Sam would have to climb onto the branch.

With twig and leaf rustling noisily about him, he hoisted himself onto the lowest branch.  Cautiously, he stretched up and with a bit more effort, made it to a higher limb.  Now there was only the task of leaning over and...

“Oh!”

Not only was his mother's inheritance nestled safely there, but the treasures of others, items Sam imagined they would have accepted as gone for good.  With a gasp of delighted laughter, he also found two brass buttons that Frodo had thought lost from one of his fancy dress-weskits, and what appeared to be one of Lobelia's garish dress rings.  Boy, did Sam remember the right to-do she made when that went missing.  Then there was a simple, unadorned chain of silver, and he remembered one of the younger lasses being in tears when she discovered it missing.  Other necklaces and lockets, distinctive buttons and brooches all lay within.  

Sam reached out to grab the nest, then paused.  As was his nature, the young hobbit wished to cause as little upset and disturbance as possible in a tricky situation, even to a bird with a not-so-slight problem with kleptomania.  If the magpie came back, he'd at least want a nest to come back to.  Best just to leave it's home in place, and take the jewellery straight to the Hobbiton Shirriff.  

As he gently lifted his necklace from the tumble of metal, jewels and twigs, his relief caused him to quickly blink away tears.  He still didn't know why his father felt so strong about getting it back to his mother, but now Sam felt a strange urgency himself, and was just as keen to get out of the tree to return the necklace as he was to return to safe, solid ground.

***

“Sir, I have something I think you'll be please to see.”

Sam stood with his hands behind his back, holding Bell's necklace that was carefully wrapped in a plain cotton handkerchief. 

Hamfast Gamgee looked up from the empty fireplace.  “Aye, what, lad?”

It pained Sam to see his father look so wearied, and knowing he worried about Bell.  The gaffer rubbed his slow, stiff fingers, hunched and bent in his chair, and looking as if he had aged ten years in a few hours.  Wondering how much comfort he would take from Sam's gift now, he was slow to present the heirloom.

The gaffer slowly unfolded the soft cloth to reveal the previous bundle.  “Oh!  Oh!”  The handkerchief drifted to the floor, and Hamfast clasped the necklace to his heart, relief etched into the lines on his aging face.  “Oh, my lad!  Thank you…thank you…”

“Are you going to...give that to her tomorrow?”

Hamfast looked up, his thin mouth set in a firm line.  “Aye.  Oh, aye.”

***

A couple of days later, as Sam set off to work, conflicting feelings fought within him.  He was desperately worried about his mother, and the gaffer was still trying to persuade her to see a healer.  No sooner had she sat with the family for her birthday dinner the night before, than she was shivering and coughing.  But struggling through, she remained with them, at dinner and then in the parlour, for another three hours before allowing Ham to take her to bed.

The other emotion within him was a small tingly feeling of hope and excitement, for even though Bell's health was cause for concern, he had spoken with Tobias Hedgeworth, one of Hobbiton's healers.  Mr Hedgeworth had told Sam that it sounded as if Bell just needed total bed-rest and a certain medication which he would drop off that afternoon, for a few weeks, and reassured him that he had treated a lot of patients suffering from what he called ‘recurring summer illness’.  His excitement was supported by the fact the town Shirriff was delighted to be handed the magpie's hoard and told Sam he should return as soon as possible for a reward to his honesty (and bravery in climbing the tree).  This also meant he could now return Frodo's brass buttons and repair the weskit that had lain tucked out of sight for many months now.

But there was still a nagging at the back of his mind that all was not well at home.


***

Two weeks into the treatment left by Hedgeworth, and then three, passed.  Though the symptoms of Bell’s mystery illness were somewhat tempered, she was still having moments of sudden weakness or painful coughing fits.  She hadn’t cooked meals for the family since she got out of her bed after two weeks, rather strangely saying that she didn’t want to ‘get caught out’.

Between them, Sam and Marigold had taken over cooking duties, and, at their father’s request, other household chores that might irritate Bell’s throat, such as dusting.  Gradually, everything seemed to go back to normal.

Then, one morning toward the end of September, Hamfast was surprised and pleased to find his wife up and about, humming to herself while bustling about the smial, dusting, cleaning, polishing, with the smell of fresh baking floating from the kitchen.

“Better, again, my love?”  Ham said inquiringly, trying to be subtle and casual as he sauntered over to the fireplace where she stood cleaning little trinkets from the mantelpiece.

“Aye, and I told ye it were naught t’worry ‘bout, husband,” said she in reply, a smile curving her lips.

“Hmm.  I suppose you’ll say that all ye needed was that ‘proper bedrest’, as the healer called it.”

She laughed and flung aside her duster, throwing her arms about her husband’s neck.  Utterly delighted to have his Bell back again, Hamfast wrapped his arms about her and squeezed her tight, lifting her off her feet somewhat.

Marigold peeked around the doorframe and smiled, before dashing through to the kitchen to save the bread from the oven, with Sam following through minutes later, even as Bell and Ham continued to caper like young newly-weds.

“I’m so glad she’s all better, Sam,” said Marigold, beaming as she set the fresh loaf to cool by the open window.  “And so quick as well!  Why, just last night she was in bed early feeling run-down.  But it can’t be a cause for concern if she’s up and about as normal – we all know that she can’t hide bein’ ill from us.”

“Aye…But ‘twere only a matter of time before she got better again, Mari,” replied Sam, hiding his relief beneath his statement.  “Though I’m right glad, too.”

“Well, hurry up with that breakfast of yours, brother – can’t have Mr Baggins comin’ knockin’ at our door a-wonderin’ where you’re at…”

A sudden, startled cry stopped all conversation dead.

“What-?! Bell?!”

Without hesitating the two children dashed through to the parlour, shocked to find their father holding their mother, limp, on the floor, staring in disbelief. 

“She….just….and.…S-Sam, move – get the healer – now!” cried Hamfast.

“I thought she was better!” Marigold shouted in fear, as Sam ran from the hole toward the town.



Something was wrong with his mother, and as he ran through the market place, he decided to avoid Hedgeworth this time, and headed towards another building altogether.  

The older hobbit listened attentively as Sam gabbled high-pitched and anxiously and at an exceedingly fast pace, and all the while he nodded and murmured as Sam spoke, grabbing his things and stuffing them in a large bag, pulling on his jacket before motioning for the lad to lead the way to his home.

Despite his advancing years, Tomas Sandheaver was as fit a hobbit as Sam and neither paused as they sprinted back up the Hill to Bagshot Row.  Thrice they narrowly missed running straight into other hobbits going about their business, and Sam didn’t even notice that the last had been his own master, who stepped out of their way just in time, before turning about in the lane and quickly following after them.

Sam, closely followed by the healer, ran through the open door of number three.  He stopped abruptly as he entered the parlour.  Tomas Sandheaver excused himself and followed Marigold through to where Bell now rested.  “Hal?”  

Halfred looked up from where he was building up a fire in the hearth.  “Hello, Sam,” he said with a small smile.  “Thought I’d surprise mam an’ the rest o’ ye with a wee visit.”

It had been a long while since Sam had last seen his older brother, and despite everything else going on around them, he was delighted.  Now standing next to him, Sam looked for any sign that he had grown a bit taller and was the same height as Halfred.  He doubted it, of course, since he seemed to have stopped growing upwards for a few years now.  Halfred was the tallest of all of Bell and Hamfast’s children, and he was at least a whole three inches taller than Sam.  But it didn’t stop Sam from checking any time he saw him.  For his part, Halfred was never sure if Sam really was growing, or if he himself was shrinking.

Sam moved forward and gave his older brother a brief, but sincere, hug.  “I just wish the circumstances were different.”

“What’s happened, Sam?”

Halfred’s younger brother shrugged wearily and sat down on a footstool by the fire.  “I don’t know…But I think she’s really ill this time.”

They both looked up when they heard a hesitant knock at the still-open door.  “Sam?  Can I come in?”

Sam sighed inwardly. “Aye.  We’re in the parlour.”



End of part 9


Chapter 10 - Grave

WARNING: Death doesn’t play chess in Middle Earth.


*****


The healer sighed and passed a shaking hand over his eyes as he quietly spoke.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Frodo stared ahead silent and unmoving in shock.  To his left he was aware of Marigold stifling an anguished sob.  Sam sat to his right, head bowed, wringing his hands and trembling, a tear slipping down his pale face.  

“Nothing...” Sam whispered in a broken voice. Before silence could fill up the room again, he turned to Frodo, and, clearing his throat, added, “would—could you...stay for a while, sir?”  

“Oh, Sam...of-of course I’ll stay,” murmured Frodo as he looked towards Sam, reaching out to cover his restless hands with one of his own.

Sam nodded once vaguely, stood abruptly, and walked away.


After long months of ill health and a racking cough that seemed to be getting progressively worse instead of better, the Gamgees had been relieved when Bell appeared to be on the road to recovery.  But just that morning, all of a sudden, she collapsed as she delighted with her husband at her new-found fitness.  Even as Sam ran through Hobbiton to fetch the healer, he knew this time that it was something far worse than   what Hedgeworth had called a ‘summer illness’, and thus had resolved to gain the expert help of another Healer.  The elder Tomas Sandheaver was immediately available and together they dashed back up the hill to Number Three.

Their eldest daughters, May and Daisy, married and living elsewhere, knew of their mother’s ill health, and would no doubt come straight home when this most recent news was delivered to them.  Hamson had also been kept up to date with the situation at home and had sent a reply, which had arrived just that morning to say he would be back as soon as he was needed.  Hamfast would have new letters sent to bring them all home, knowing now that every moment was precious.

Frodo had been out walking when Mr Sandheaver and Sam charged past him in a hurry.  Upon arriving at their home, he was briefly filled in about the recent change and at Hamfast’s request, stayed while they waited for Tomas’ verdict.

As they waited, Sam had paced the kitchen nervously while Frodo sat at the dining table with Marigold close by.  Halfred, who was home from the North at present, stared out of the kitchen window with his father beside him.  Frodo had eventually removed his hand from Marigold’s and stood, moving to lead Sam through to the warmth of the parlour where he could sit in comfort and with a little privacy.

It was then that the home, usually full of life and laughter, became unbearably tense when Mr Sandheaver emerged from Bell’s room, and they were gathered together in one room and told his diagnosis.

Bell was dying and it was beyond his power to help.  The illness was so advanced she now had very little time left.

Too overwhelmed to feel anger at that moment, Hamfast quietly slipped from the room once the healer had left, to sit with his wife.  Halfred, however, startled everyone when he viciously punched a cupboard door, nearly splitting the wood with the force and causing Marigold to cry out.  They remained silent for a long while.


“Ham?”

Hamfast sighed and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Husband?”  Bell’s cracked voice reached him across the dim candle-lit room.

“You knew,” he whispered brokenly as he moved to her bedside, falling into an armchair there.

“Oh, Ham, I’m sorry...” Bell cried weakly.

“How long?”

“Hedgeworth wouldn’t say – no, he didn’t know...But the old widow I nursed last year...she...I picked it up from her.    I didn’t know what it was, I just knew somethin’ was wrong...and it jus’ got worse.  Mr Sandheaver says it was probably because I was weakened from a fever I had had back then...” A fit of coughs took her, and she paused a while before adding, “I didn’t want you to—cry...or hurt...I wanted as much time as I could have to be happy, and be happy with you, for as long as possible...”

“Bell, we were all so worried when we didn’t know what was making you ill!”

“But we were still happy!”  She sobbed, covering her face and coughing as she tried to draw each breath.

“Oh, Bell, my love!  My dear, sweet wife!”  Ham leaned over the bed and laid his head on her blanket-covered lap, weeping as he felt his heart breaking, knowing now the answer to all his worries, and now knowing that even her short spell of apparent good health had been a mere rouse played out by the disease, tricking all but Bell into believing she was going to be fit and well and alright.



Frodo stayed for hours, until the stars lit the clear, early-autumn sky, then bid the others goodnight and headed back towards Bag End with a heavy heart: heavy with memories of his own mother, and father, heavy with sorrow for the Gamgee family, and for Sam.  He remembered the shawl he had given Bell last Yule – it had been his mother’s, a present from Frodo when he was four. Frodo had picked it out from his advantageous view-point in his father’s arms, reaching over the market stall to touch it, Drogo tightening his hold on the squirming boy.  He had then bought it for his son to give... On Yule day, Frodo ran up to his mama and dropped the gift-wrapped garment on her lap and watched round-eyed and excited as she opened it.

Grown-up Frodo smiled and blinked tears away, remembering that sweet morning from almost thirty years ago.  Primula loved the shawl.  Wore it as oft she could without wearing it thin, and Frodo delighted in seeing her wear it of a cool summer evening as they sat outside picnicking.  And even before he passed it on to Sam’s mother, Frodo could still close his eyes as he held it, and imagine she was there in the room beside him...


 “Sam, would you help me to prepare supper?”  Marigold asked quietly, appearing in the doorway to the parlour.  Sam looked up then crossed over in her direction; her face was damp with tears and her eyes were red and puffy.  He held his arms open and she went to him, holding on to him tightly.  “I don’t want Mama to-to...”

“Shh, Mari-dear.  I know...I know.  Come on; let’s get that supper ready.  Mr Frodo has kindly sent some things for us.  I think there may even be some chicken.”

The two of them prepared a quick and simple meal for the family in relative silence, then after they had finished eating, cleared the dishes, washed and dried them.  As Marigold put the last of the crockery away, their father appeared in the kitchen.

“Your Mam’s asleep right now.”  He said softly and sat at the dining table.  “Mari-lamb, go light the fire in the parlour for your old Gaffer.”  As Marigold scampered off to carry out her task, Sam placed supper in front of his father then sat opposite him.

“I could hear her coughin’ real bad earlier Da...” Sam murmured.  “It in’t goin’ t’be long now, in’t it?”

Sam had only known one case of consumption before.  When he was a child, he knew a pretty hobbit-lass who lived nearby, and they were friends.  Iris, her name was.  Her father had died in a rare farm accident when she was three, leaving her mother had to look after four children.  Then, one winter that was particularly bad, Iris took ill.  The healers who came had said it was a severe cold, and she should be well in a couple of weeks.  But weeks stretched into long months, and she only became more ill.  Sam was kept away from the house, in fear that he would take ill of the same wasting disease that was now claiming Iris.  Then, one bright morning in early March, her eldest brother Alfram came by Bag End, where Sam helped his Gaffer, learning his trade, tearfully breaking the news that Iris had died in the night, slipping away quietly in her mother’s comforting arms, eleven years old.  Sam, only six then (but mere weeks from his seventh birthday), was sent home by his father and cried for long time in his mother’s lap. 

Hamfast looked at his youngest son thoughtfully, remembering his behaviour when Iris was dying.  Though he hadn’t seen her getting weaker and weaker day by day, coughing up dark blood, unable to eat or even to sit up, Sam became distant and forgetful, and more quiet than usual.  It had taken a while after Iris died before Sam returned to normal again, and Frodo’s arrival in Hobbiton that summer helped greatly, though Frodo knew nothing of the young girl or Sam’s fading grief.

Now Ham wondered if Sam would be able to go through the same thing again, watching it happen his mother, of all people.

“Sam lad, I want to send you and Marigold away for a while.  Although what your mother has is infectious, Sandheaver said the most dangerous stage should have passed, and if no one’s showin’ symptoms by now, then we should be alright.  But I don’t want you here while—”

“But I’m twenty-two, Da!”  He protested.  “Mari is nineteen, and-and we don’t need to go...” The Gaffer shot him an imposing look, one that despite his sadness, would still brook no argument.  Eyes tearing, Sam quietly asked, “How far?  How long?  Will you call us back if...she...”

“I don’t want you here and gettin’ upset.  She’s yer mam and...” Hamfast shook his head slowly.  “I don’t mean to upset you, lad.  I know yer probably old enough to cope, but...  Look boy, I mean only to send you to a neighbour, or perhaps the Cottons, for a couple o’ weeks.  Hal’s gone out to ask round.  But...you’ll be away from tonight so maybe you should pack a few things for yourself and your sister.  Send her through and I’ll tell her, too.”


It was an hour later when Halfred returned.  As he hung up his coat, he caught sight of Sam and Marigold sitting in the parlour looking miserable, their two little packs sitting by them on the floor.  The gaffer rose from his armchair.  “Well son...are they sorted for the time being?”  He asked Halfred.

“Widow Longleaf is so deaf she didn’t even know what I was askin’ her, so I tried the Goodbody’s.  But no one answered.  I think they may have left for the winter now – you know how they visit Mrs Goodbody’s cousins in the south farthing at this time of year.... And the Chubb family don’t want to take neither o’ them in case they give any o’ their kids the sickness.  I told ‘em Sam and Mari are fine, but they ain’t taking none of that.  The Cotton’s said they could only take one – they’ve got relatives staying right now.”

Sam looked at his father and spoke hesitantly.  “I...I could stay here Da...I want to.  I could help...Please?”
Hamfast put an old weary hand on his son’s shoulder and nodded.  And so Sam remained at home while Marigold was taken to the Cottons.

***

The lovely cool, dry and colourful October morning was lost on Sam as he trudged slowly and silently up to Bag End, fidgeting with a loose button on his coat.  He knocked on the door and waited for Frodo to appear.  Shortly, he heard the door being unlocked and then pulled open.  Frodo peered around the door, blinking in the sunlight and still in his nightclothes, with a warm, thick robe over, and pulled close.

“Sam...come in,” he said softly, voice still heavy with sleep, then closed the door after him.  “Did you leave your key at home?”

Sam shook his head, then frowned slightly.  “Key?”

Leading him to the parlour, Frodo replied warily, “You have a spare key to Bag End - Bilbo gave it to your Gaffer when he worked for us.  You’ve been using it yourself since your father retired...Have you lost it?  Did you forget it this morning?”

“No....I...” Sam shrugged Frodo’s hand off his forearm abruptly, and fumbled around in his deep coat pockets before he held up a large brass key.  “It’s here, sir.”

It was Frodo’s turn to frown, but in concern, at the sudden return of formality and standoffish-ness Sam addressed him with.  Like he was being given the third degree from the Master of Buckland again.  “You’re much earlier than usual – it’s not even a half-hour past dawn,” he said carefully.  “You know you don’t have to knock and wait for me to answer the door...and ...Sam?  Are you listening?  Are you alright?”

Startled, Sam tugged on the loose button of his coat, pulling it until it came away in his hands.  “I-I...Yes, Mr Frodo.  I’ll just get started with m’duties now, sir.”  He hurriedly stuffed the button and key into a pocket before heading through to the kitchen, placing his coat on a wooden bench, and starting to prepare Frodo’s breakfast, leaving Frodo standing in the parlour looking after him worriedly, before he headed back to his room to quickly wash and dress.

When Frodo emerged again, Sam was nowhere inside.  Breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table, and a warm fire kindled brightly.  Sighing, Frodo padded over to the round kitchen window and peered out.  He watched the yellowing leaves as they fell slowly and mournfully from tired branches and limbs, covering the ground with colourful tears.  Petals hung limp and withered on fading flowers and bushes, and the garden seemed cold as a graveyard, save for the autumn colours which were beginning to bloom, blood-red berries ripe and ready for what little creatures depended on their sustenance during hard, cold months.  

And there in the garden, Sam knelt amongst the fading plants, trimming them back carefully with his shears, his whole posture tense.  Frodo chewed his lower lip as he watched his dear gardener fumble with a difficult little shrub several times, before crying out and throwing his tools aside in frustration.  The young hobbit crumpled, shoulders shaking as he wept amongst the dead and dying of Bag End.   Frodo pulled open the side-door in the kitchen and hurried outside.

“Sam, here now, shh...come on, come back in.  Leave the garden right now...alright, come on...” Frodo murmured as he gently helped Sam to his feet, steadied him, and guided him back to the warmth of the kitchen.  When Sam had settled at the table, sitting close to the fire, Frodo made a hasty pot of tea, and narrowly avoided scalding himself with the water as he continually glanced over his shoulder at Sam.

“I don’t think you should be at work right now, Sam,” Frodo said gently, handing him a cup of strong, sweet tea and sitting next to him.  “You’re worried about your mother and are not your usual self.  Do you want to go home?”

Sam shook his head earnestly, paused, then took a hesitant sip of tea.  “No, it’s too horrible at home.  Da won’t leave her, Mari is staying with the Cotton’s...Hal is staying home ‘stead of going back up north, Hamson is coming home today...and...and May an’ Daisy, too.  They’ll all be here soon.  It sounds awful...and no-one can help her...I thought I’d be better coming to work, to take my mind off ev’rything...” his bottom lip quivered again, and he took a deep, shuddering breath followed by a gulp of tea.  “But I can’t concentrate on anything,” he continued.  “I feel like...like I’m not proper awake, and—I can’t...” his voice trailed off as he slumped in the chair, looking utterly wretched.

“Would you like me to stay with you for a while? Or-or would you like to rest?  You look as if you haven’t closed your eyes all night.”

“I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  Mam had a real bad time.  It’s getting so much worse, the coughing and crying and gasping.  I just lay in bed staring at the ceiling.”  

“Come with me, Sam,” Frodo said as he stood up and moved away from the table.  Sam set the mug on the table and followed slowly and obediently.

He was led through the winding smial to the nearest guestroom and guided to the soft bed.  “Lie down and rest.”

When Sam was settled, Frodo tucked the blankets around him carefully and sat on the edge of the mattress beside him.  “Close your eyes,” Frodo whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sam’s doleful eyes. Gently, soothingly, he began stroking Sam’s forehead, humming a soft tune.  A simple melody: a lullaby from the East Farthing, near Buckland where he grew up.  Too weary to be troubled by any impropriety at present, Sam sighed faintly as the tension slowly lessened and he gradually fell asleep.


Sam awoke several hours later, to find that Frodo had left to prepare dinner and he was quite alone in a strange room.  From where he sat in the bed, he looked curiously about, before leaving the room to wander down the long tunnel leading to the kitchen, yawning and stretching, where he was greeted by his friend.

“Did you sleep well?”  Frodo asked as he looked up from the pot of soup he stirred.  “Yes, you’ve sleep most of the day away, but you looked very peaceful, so I didn’t want to wake you until dinner was ready.”  Glancing at the soup he smiled apologetically.  “Will soup be enough?  I’ve buttered some bread as well, put together a salad, and then some odds and ends...but as you know, I am not known for my exotic culinary skills...” He spoke softly and Sam found even his voice soothing.

“Soup’ll do fine...I’m not really hungry...” Sam crossed over to him and shuffled nervously.  “Thank you,” he murmured and blushed slightly.  

Frodo smiled, and hugged him close, still holding the soup spoon in his right hand.  “Anytime, Sam.  I’m always here.”  He turned his attention back to the pot.  “Soup’s ready,” he observed and removed the pot from the heat.  Sam moved toward the crockery shelves.

“I’ll set the table.”

After their dinner, they piled the dishes in the sink – Frodo insisting that they be left – and went through to the living room, where they curled up in front of the fire.  After chatting softly for a while, Frodo picked up the book that sat on the floor beside them and opened it at a random page.  “This book contains many tales of elves, Sam.  One Bilbo was given years and years ago.  Apparently he needed several pages rewritten after I took a penchant for...snacking on paper.”  He quirked an eyebrow and smiled briefly.  “Do you want to hear something from it?”

Sam sat in thought, and then shook his head.  “No, not tonight.  I have to be home soon anyway.  But I’d very much like just to sit here until I have to leave, if I may?”

Frodo nodded, feeling sober once more.  “For as long as you wish, Sam.”

They sat together in silence until the fire died down on the hearth, when Sam arose, put more logs onto the fire to keep it going for Frodo, and then got ready to leave.

“Give my love to Bell, and the rest of your family,” said Frodo, as he bade Sam goodnight.

***

The next two days brought a sudden chill in the air, causing the fragile plants to diminish with the shock, and Bell becoming increasingly frail. Just as disturbing as her sudden, quick decline was her weakness, as Hamfast discovered when trying to encourage her to eat, but she could no longer find the strength.  He helped her to sip at a mug of warm milk and honey or thin soup occasionally, then left her to sleep.   It was only in those recent days that Hamfast had reluctantly removed her necklace, for her comfort and well-being, despite her weak, feeble protesting that left them both red-eyed and holding each other closely.

Marigold had returned from the Cottons, having stayed much longer than intended – and looking only slightly better than those of her family that had stayed at home.  Dark circles under her eyes marred her pretty face, and she shuffled her feet as she walked.  Coming from her mother’s room one evening, she tearfully asked her father, “How much longer?”

Hamfast shook his head and looked at the ground, saying nothing, but wondered the same himself, then took his youngest child into a gentle embrace.  Worse than knowing his Bell was dying was the knowledge that she was suffering greatly, too.

Early in the next morning, desperate coughing which came from the bedchamber opposite his caused Sam to pull his blankets over his head, trying to block out the noise.  Moments later he could hear the now-familiar sound of his father comforting his mother, knowing that he would calm her as best he could and hold her carefully until the fit passed, rocking her until she slept again.  Sam moaned quietly then got out of bed.  He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep now, so he decided to get ready for work.

His two brothers Halfred and Hamson – who arrived at suppertime the night before – were already sitting in the kitchen, talking in hushed voices and picking at a simple breakfast.  Despite his older brothers leaving home when he was still a child, Sam was remarkably close to them. Hamson – older than Sam by 15 years – had left home at the age of 20 to work for his Uncle Andwise and Halfred moved to North Farthing when Sam was 10.  Many other hobbits would have missed the brotherly companionship at that young age, but Sam had been working since he was seven, and hadn’t played so much that he missed them when they went.

“Mornin’ Sam.”

“Can’t sleep either?” Sam asked.  The other two nodded.

“For a while, only lightly.”  Halfred said softly.  “But I’m furthest away from Mam’s room.  What about you Sam?  Have you had any sleep recently?”

Sam looked at him, remembering all the times when they did play, and on occasion fought like cat and dog.  And how they would cause all sorts of bother and blame each other.  ‘Like the time when Hal ate the cake mix for Daisy’s birthday...’ Sam thought, and his mouth twitched in amusement.  Then he sighed and sat at the table.  “No, I ain’t had much sleep at all.  I don’t think any of us have.”

“Da’s not been eating proper neither.  Skipped half his meals yesterday.  Only had a cup of tea for breakfast...” Halfred added, though they all knew this already, and lifted his own cup to drain the last out of it.  “Right then.  I’m heading off to do those odd-jobs in the town.  Da said ain’t much point us being idle right now, not until...--Well, reckoned I’d just get an early start.  I doubt it’ll take too long, and I should be home for lunch.”  He ran a hand carelessly through his dark brown curls, a gesture he had picked from their father years ago, when they played copycat.  It was a habit that stuck, however, and when he was agitated, it showed through the action.

With that, Sam stood again in agreement to starting early and headed out the door. “Hoy!  You ain’t had breakfast, Samwise!”  Hamson called after him.

Sam ignored the shout and made his way to Bag End.  

The biting cold had not lessened any, and now a chill north wind moved the air and cut through thick layers of woollen clothes.  The heavy clouds were greyer still than the day before, but the sky did not appear to wish to let them go just yet, and the blandness seemed to make the autumn scenery appear dismal. It all depressed Sam further, and he felt the pressure on his shoulders increase as he trudged forward.


Frodo had also been unable to sleep that same night, his rest being plagued by visions of his dead parents and others of Sam’s mother.  He had awoken before dawn, in a sweat and breathing hard, with a heavy feeling of dread in his stomach.  Frodo was hardly surprised when Sam arrived at Bag End half an hour later as he was stirring a pot of tea and forcing a piece of toasted bread down.

 “Oh, hello, Mr Frodo.  You look just as I feel right now.  Is there something I can do for you?”  Sam asked as he pulled his coat off and draped it over an unoccupied chair.

“Dear Sam, I couldn’t sleep for worrying about your mother.  And you.”  Frodo’s brow creased deeply as he took in Sam’s dishevelled appearance, and he paused before replacing the lid on the teapot.  “Have you been missing meals as well as sleep, Samwise?  After you telling me yesterday how worried you were about your father...you’re so pale and tired...Oh, Sam...”  Frodo stood and pushed Sam into a seat.

“I ate supper last night...”

“That’s because I made it for you.  You took a half slice of toast and let your tea go stone cold.”

“...I had dinner.”

“I made that, too.  And you picked at it for half an hour before eating a potato and three mushrooms.”

“I...didn’t really want breakfast.”

“You will now.  Here, I’ll make us both something,” said Frodo, and stood, making his way to the pantry.

“No, I’ll make it...”

“No, let me—alright, we both shall.”  Frodo handed Sam the eggs.  “Here.  Work your magic with these.”  Sam smiled crookedly and set about scrambling them.  “Did May and Daisy arrive at your house safely?  When did they arrive...the day before yesterday?  Last time I heard news of them from you, they were travelling from Whitfurrows and Frogmorton to be here...”

“Aye, they’ve been here a couple of days now.  Daisy’s expecting her first baby very soon now.  Left her husband, Hugo, and his mam at their home.”  Sam paused a moment in thought.  “Baby won’t ever know their Gran’ma now...”

Frodo shuffled slightly then pushed the conversation on.  “How is Hugo’s mother?  Is she keeping well?”



“Hamson, fetch the healer, quickly!”  Hamfast’s voice cried out.  “May, Marigold, fetch Sam and Halfred...Oh, Bell...hold on...”


Tomas Sandheaver ran from his workroom, with Hamson by his side.  They barged their way out of the last crowd of hobbits gathered for market, and just behind them ran May with Halfred, who had been dragged away from leaf-sweeping someone’s front garden without an explanation from his sister.

“Sam!  SAM!  SAM!!”  Marigold cried and thumped her fists on the green door of Bag End.

Frodo looked up from scrubbing the breakfast dishes.  “Is that...?”

“Mari!”  Sam dropped the plate he was drying, barely registering the crash as it smashed on the stone tiles, raced through the hole and wrenched open the front door.  “Mari!”

“Sam, it’s Mama!  Da says you got to come now!”  Marigold tugged on his sleeve.  Without looking back at Frodo, Sam and Marigold ran down the road back to their home.

They arrived back at Number 3 minutes before the others, and charged into the parlour where Daisy paced nervously.  

“You’re back!”  She called, and awkwardly hugged them both.

“Oh, sweet Daisy, sit down!  Rest yourself!” cried Marigold, though she herself was hardly able to sit.

Sandheaver burst through the door with Hamson, closely followed by Daisy and Halfred.  The doctor rushed through the tiny smial into the bedchamber he had become accustomed to seeing in the grim and sad circumstances that had befallen the Gamgee home.

Marigold sat clutching May and Daisy’s hands as they sat together on the parlour sofa.  Halfred was resting his elbows on the mantle above the fireplace, head bowed and staring into the fire, while Hamson sat on the arm of the sofa beside his sisters, one hand gently placed on May’s back.  Sam was crouched by the doorway to the kitchen, eyes closed, concentrating on breathing evenly and biting his thumbs, while trying to control the fear, panic, and nausea that he felt pressing too tightly upon him.  It was an unbearably long time before both Hamfast and the healer came out from the bedroom, and everyone looked up at them expectantly.  Sam bit hard into his lip.

“Your mother wants to see you...all of you.  Halfred...Hamson...she’d like to see you first.”

***

Marigold and Samwise now stood at the foot of their mother’s bed.  They had rarely seen her in the past week, and had been unable to hide their shock when they looked at her.  Thin, wan, breath coming in short wisps, her eyes barely open.  Marigold looked at her father, who stood on the other side of the room in the shadow.

“Mari...come to me, baby...” Bell whispered, lifting her hand slightly.  

“What about...?” Marigold started, looking at her father as she moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed, clasping her mother’s cold hands and kissing the finger tips carefully.  

“Your father and I have had our time together...” She paused for a moment.  “Ah, my baby girl...how I love you.  You are growing int’the...the beautiful hobbit-lass I...knew you would.  I know you’ll marry well and do your father proud.  Don’t you ever...ever change, M-Marigold....” She paused again to try and control her breath that was fast leaving her.  Marigold tightened the grip on her hand, as if by doing so she could bring her mother back to them.  Her tears slipped soundlessly down her pale face.  “No...don’t cry, love...I am not leaving you, just resting....somewhere else, s-s-somewhere better.  I’ll always be...with you.  I love you, remember that, a’right?  I-I love you...  Where...where is my Samwise?”  She looked blindly to the foot of her bed when he still stood silently, though she could barely see him through the light, grey mist that had clouded her vision.  

Marigold kissed her mother’s forehead, then stood back to let Sam sit beside her.

Pulling Sam close with an unusual strength, Bell spoke her last words to her youngest son.  “Samwise Gamgee....the greatest gardener o’ the Shire—my own Sam!  And a hero!  Don’t you forget about the glorious being that shines at you from the Hill...d-don’t leave him, look out for him—he-he’ll need you...If not now...soon....” Another fit of violent, choking coughs seized her, and she held onto Sam’s hand with more strength than she seemed capable, while facing away and holding her free hand to her mouth.  Sam’s eyes widened in utter horror when he saw the blood on the pillow and on his mother’s hand.  

As she lay wheezing, her lips still parted slightly, Hamfast moved forward to carefully dab his wife’s mouth with his handkerchief, and they looked at each other with silent, tender gazes, lingering, saying their last ‘I love you’ and ‘goodbye’ with their eyes.  Ham reached out and lightly stroked her forehead, before withdrawing from the side of the bed.  Bell’s eyes closed as she turned her head back slowly to face Sam.  “Mari...Sam...love you...” she wheezed in a voice so quiet they barely heard.  Then she smiled and expelled the last of her breath with whispered words, “all is well...”

Her hand slipped from Sam’s gentle grasp and her struggle ended.  


~ End, part 10 ~


Chapter 11 - I Grieve

WARNING: Death doesn’t play chess in Middle Earth.

*****

Marigold's eyes were wide and frantic as she cried out and clamped her hand over her mouth.  She fell to her knees, gasping, staring but not seeing; then with a wail, she began to sob wretchedly.

Sam held onto his mother's hand again, rubbing it, trying to warm it.  His own breathing was laboured, his chest tight, but he did not cry.  Hamfast placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, then crouched down to gather Marigold in his arms and carry her out of the room.

From the parlour, where the rest of the family waited, and Tomas Sandheaver stood by respectively, they heard Mari's dreadful lament.  In that moment they broke, and wept.

*****

“SAM!  SAMWISE!”

Sam rushed out of the weeping house and down the garden path.  He flung open the gate and turned left, walking quickly and keeping his eyes fixed on the road forward, headed in the direction of Bag End.

But when he came to the crossroad that led to the Hill and to the town, he took a right, and continued down the dark, dusty road, not stopping, not looking at anyone or acknowledging their polite good afternoon’s. 

He pushed open a heavy wooden door, walked into a bright and bustling room, and closed the door with a dull thud.

“The usually, Sam Gamgee?” a smiling voice called out.

Finally looking up and crossing over to the bar, Sam nodded at the bright face and large green eyes watching him in amusement.  The cheery young girl filled a mug and pushed it across to him. 

Sam cast his gaze back down to stare at the mug he held in his hands.  He didn't lift it, or make any attempt to.  When the cheerful lass came over to him almost an hour later, it still sat untouched.

Her smile faltered and she laid a hand on his forearm.  He started and looked at the hand touching him, then to the face of which it belonged to.  The happy chatter of the other patrons in the room became suddenly loud and harsh to his ears.

“Are you a’right, Sam?” She said, then gasped at the raw anguish in his eyes.  “Oh, no, Sam....your mother...?”

“She's gone.” He muttered, then finally raised the mug to his lips and drank deeply.




“Gone?” whispered Frodo, and leaned heavily against the door, absorbing the news.  “Oh...”

“Have you seen Sam?”  The Gaffer asked again. 

It distressed Frodo to see his Uncle's old gardener and dear friend in such pain.  His back bent over with more than age, eyes red and sorrowful, his whole demeanour nothing like that of the cheery, friendly Gaffer whom Frodo knew.  He looked much beyond his eighty-five years.  “No.  I haven't.  He left earlier, this morning after breakfast, with Marigold.”

“Aye...he’s...gone off somewhere...this afternoon,” said Hamfast, half to himself.  “We left him to his own devices for an hour or two, thinkin’ he’d be back soon enough, but we’re gettin’ a bit concerned now that it’s after sunset.  We’ll check the _Ivy_ and the _Dragon_ next, I suppose, but...  Well, Mr Frodo, if you wouldn't mind sending him home if he comes this way...”

“I shall.”

*****

He was vaguely aware that he wasn't in his own bed, nor at home.  He was also aware of the dull ache in his head and the heaviness of his limbs.  Upon opening his eyes, he saw that he lay curled against a large tree, and the weak, early winter sun broke through the heavy clouds to shine feebly upon him.

With a short, low moan, Sam sat up carefully, questions filling his clouded mind.  Then with the rush of the chill November wind, the previous day came back to him in a painful surge.  Slumping back against the trunk of the great oak, Sam stared blankly ahead, his hands lying limp in his lap.

“Sam?”  A familiar voice called near by.  “What are you doing here?  Oh, you didn't sleep outside all night, did you?!”

Suddenly Frodo was kneeling beside him and stroking his cold, damp face.   Without Sam saying anything, he understood.   “Come on, let's get you home.”

*****

Bagshot Row had been a hive of activity while Sam was missing.  Neighbours and friends pulled together, helping the family anyway they could.  Word had been passed around of what had happened, and eyes were also on the lookout for young Sam.  He had remained elusive throughout the searches, and had now been missing for almost sixteen hours.  It later transpired that Sam had spent several hours in the Ivy Bush before traipsing around Hobbiton and Bywater awhile then collapsing beneath a tree three miles from his home.

Tomas the healer had left and returned with the undertaking party, who removed the body from the smial and took it for preparation and burial.  May fussed about the kitchen, taking control of the home.  Marigold and Daisy sat in the parlour with their father.

Not long after Frodo had quietly entered the hole with an arm around Sam, returning him home with murmured condolences and apologies, Tobias Hedgeworth ambled in, brisk and orderly, and asked straight off to speak to Hamfast.  While Frodo argued in hushed tones, reminding the healer none too kindly of the circumstances, the Gaffer came to the door, slow and weary with grief.  

“Thank you, Mr Frodo.  I’ll speak to the chap now.”

“Master Gamgee,” Tobias nodded, waltzed into the parlour, then launched into his prepared speech.  “It has been brought to my attention that your wife, Bell Gamgee, passed on yesterday afternoon after her brief fight with *consumption*.”  He ignored Hamfast’s flinch and continued.  “I feel it is my duty as healer to remind you that this disease is infectious – and contagious!  – and that anyone who has had contact with the deceased within the last three months must be quarantined for a minimum of four weeks – a month – lest they show symptoms of the diseases themselves, and put anyone else at risk.”

Hamfast stared coldly at the other hobbit.  “The ‘deceased’ is...is my wife.  And might *I* remind *you* that those who have been in contact with her also include Mr Baggins, Mr Sandheaver and yourself, *Master Hedgeworth*.”

“You may remind me.  It was only yourself, and your two youngest I was to quarantine.  You’ve been living with her.”

“I am not waiting a month to bury her!”

“I wouldn’t hear of it!  Just think of the uproar and mess!  But I cannot allow you--”

“And I shall not allow you to leave this hole without apologising, before you leave the family well alone,” said Frodo in a dangerous tone.

“Master Baggins, the affairs of the Gamgees are not for you to concern yourself with,” argued Hedgeworth.  “And you probably shouldn’t have spent so much time around the sick patient, but...who am I to say what a Baggins does?”

“Oh, but there you are wrong, sir.  They have everything to do with me,” Frodo shot back.  “Do you not think that we would have shown signs of the disease already, if we had it at all?  And with all respect to Master Hamfast, he would be the first to show the symptoms, and long before now. Sam and Marigold are young, fit and healthy.  Just because you couldn’t diagnose Bell’s illness until she was nearly dead--”

“You are not the physician around here, Master Baggins.  Reading about diseases, medicines and cures in dusty old books with pictures doesn’t qualify you as a healer.”

“You are not a ‘healer’,” Frodo spat.

Hedgeworth pointed to Marigold, sitting on a chair by the fire and shivering.  “The young girl seems to me to be under the weather...but I suppose you could have told me that, Baggins,” he said, deadpan.

“For the love of the Shire – her mother has just passed on!  How would you *suggest* she looked right now?  Shall I demand that she skips among the dead roses singing spring-time choruses about how jolly life is?!” yelled Hamfast.

Ignoring the statement, the offensive, corpulent hobbit ploughed on.  “I cannot, and indeed shall not, leave without taking you into quarantine.  If you refuse to come along nicely, I shall return with the Shirriff. But I am willing to accept Mr Baggins’ suggestion of leaving you be, Hamfast Gamgee.  You hardly leave the house now, but I do believe you would have started to succumb already if you had the illness.”

Marigold stared incredulously.  “What about-- You would prevent us from attending Mama’s burial?”  Her voice wavered.  “But...you-you...can’t!  Just CAN’T...”

“You are too young to attend such ceremony at any rate,” said Hedgeworth, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.  “In fact, lasses of your age generally do not show up at all.  I suppose it would distress them too much, and on that basis, would also suggest that your older sisters did not attend either.  After all, we can’t have a burial in uproar because of a few emotional girls.”

He ducked just at the right moment.  Turning around with a caustic remark on his tongue, Hedgeworth cringed to see the poisonous look Samwise pinned him with.  In one hand was clenched a damp wash cloth.  His other hand was free, having disposed of a dish in a rather unconventional manner.  The healer could almost hear Sam’s teeth grind in fury.

“Take that back.”

“Wha-what?!” Hedgeworth turned away from Sam.  “Hamfast, really, I cannot abide--”

Hamfast looked oddly proud of his son’s behaviour.  He looked as if he wanted to do more than throw crockery at the foolish hobbit in front of him.  “This is our home.  I want you to leave now before I have Sam fetch the Shirriff.”

Snatching up his floppy felt hat, Tobias Hedgeworth stormed out of the smial, muttering and swearing.

***


A knock at the door that evening startled Hamfast from his nap by the parlour fire.  May answered the door, and a moment later he heard raised voices.  

“Can’t a grieving hobbit have some peace?” He sighed, going over to the door to assist May. “Can I help ye?”  His face hardened.  “Mr Hedgeworth.”

“Mr Gamgee,” came the reply.  “I have here written permission to take Marigold and Samwise into quarantine.  Now spare me formalities and embarrassment and let us proceed quietly.”

“Oh, and I see you’ve brought some friends to liven up the party!  Tell me, will these lads be going into quarantine too, for stepping into my house, just in case the air has been polluted?!”

“Papa, don’t stress yourself, please!”  May begged.  “Let me get Hal or Ham to deal with this.”

Halfred and Hamson appeared in the doorway with Sam, but even with the whole family protesting, and Hamfast shouting that they were being treated like law-breakers, and rousing their neighbours from their snug holes in the process, Marigold and Samwise were dragged off at dusk and taken to a secure place for those in isolation.

***

“Bell Goodchild Gamgee, beloved wife of Hamfast, devoted mother of Hamson, Halfred, Daisy, May, Samwise and Marigold, 1332 - 1402.”


It was cold and grey the day they buried Bell Gamgee.  With all the upheaval of recent days, the family had not given a thought to where she should rest, and so she was laid in the ground amid the other deceased in Hobbiton and Bywater’s burial ground.  Ham was devastated, having always maintained that they would lie in the earth together beneath some great tree, out of the way, peaceful. Now his cherished wife lay in cold hard ground in a small plot of a grassy field.  

There had been a fair turn out for the ceremony.  Even Tomas Sandheaver came to show his support.  

After the burial, and after receiving condolences from most residents of Hobbiton, the Gamgee family, without Marigold and Samwise, headed wearily back to their home. It seemed so dull now, and unfragrant where once was the scent of lavender, and cold, and unwelcoming. They wanted peace now, the quiet time they had not been allowed in previous days, and they had not arranged for any wake to take place, nor for any visitors to call.  The general feeling was just to eat and then fall asleep together in front of the living room fire, though there was still Bell's will to be dealt with, even without the youngest members of the family present.

With a heavy sigh, Hamfast brought into the living room a small wooden box, plain except for two initials; 'BG' carved by the loving hand of her father in the centre of the lid, a gift she had treasured her whole life.  Ham remembered how his wife dictated to the Mayor’s assistant who she wished to pass her few belongings to.  Too weak to sit and write it herself, as she was once capable of, having been lucky to receive basic teaching and knew how to read and write.

Now the assistant sat with them again, and Hamfast passed the small scroll to him for reading aloud.  Before he started, he stood and gently announced, “the Mayor has heard of your distress and will have Marigold and Samwise released from isolation immediately.  They shall return to you tomorrow morn.  Hedgeworth will be reprimanded for his lack of sensitivity and diplomacy and will be made to apologise to the family in person...then it may be that he will be suspended from his profession for a period of time for his misdiagnoses.  Now...the Will of Bell Gamgee reads as follows...”

But no sooner had he started, than there came loud knocking at the door.  




When the last of the relatives were crammed into the tiny hobbit hole, more than was comfortable, Halfred left the parlour abruptly and retired to his room, without looking at anyone, or bidding them a polite good-day.  He stayed there for the remainder of the day.

His Aunt Lily huffed loudly and commented, “Well, that was dreadfully rude!”

Slamming a cup of tea in front of Lily and ignoring the mess it made as it slopped over the side, May said contemptuously, “Well, I'll make sure he comes out to apologise immediately.  He must've forgot to stay and entertain you, though I can't think why.  Maybe it's the small trifling matter that Mama just died!”  With her voice threatening to break, May rushed from the parlour.  

Daisy stood up awkwardly and faced the company who sat gawking at the door her brother and sister had left through.  “I-I must apologise for their unusual behaviour...but I'm sure you can understand how hard it is for them...for all of us, actually.  If you'll excuse me, I think I need to-to spend some time alone.”  Glancing at her father she added, “Sorry, Papa.”

There was silence for a moment, before Aunt Lily sniffed and lifted her teacup.  “Really, Hamfast, I held your parenting skills in higher esteem before this ridiculous outburst.”

*****

“I'm worried about Sam.”

The Gaffer sat forward in his chair with a slight frown. 

“I've not seen him since....” Frodo paused.  “I only saw him briefly before the quarantine.  And I've not heard from or seen him since then, about two weeks, I believe.  Is he here?”

“Mr Frodo, he's...not quite right at the moment.  He's...I've....He....”

Marigold sat beside her father and looked at Frodo shyly.  “Sam's hardly come out his room since we got home.  He's barely touched his food, and he's not made a peep of a sound.  He's not cried yet.”

“Oh....”

“Oh, he's not ill or anything, he's fit.  Just quiet and distant...detached.”

Rubbing his palms together slowly, Frodo asked carefully, “May I see him?”

Hamfast heaved his shoulders and sighed.  “If you can.  He's taken to lockin’ hisself in his room.  Mari'll take you through.”  With that he stood slowly and headed for the kitchen.

Frodo followed Marigold silently down the short passage to Sam's room.  She knocked on the door then spoke softly.  “Sam...it's Mari here.  Mr Frodo's with me.  He wants to...speak to you.”  She chewed her bottom lip and flattened her palm against the wood.  “Sam..?”

The door opened slightly, just enough that Frodo and Marigold could see Sam's bloodshot eyes staring at them.  “I'll...leave you alone,” said Marigold nervously and scurried away.

Frodo stepped forward and Sam pulled the door open further, enough so Frodo could squeeze in.  With the door closed behind them, Sam went over to his bed and sat on it, drawing his knees up and resting his chin on them.  Frodo noted his crumpled, worn shirt and equally creased breeches, the result of many days’ use without change.

“Sam...we --I'm worried about you.”  Frodo sat on the bed near him and ran his fingers through the chestnut-brown curls that lay limp on his head, meant to soothe.  But Sam moved, out of Frodo’s reach, and turned his body away from him. “Sam, look at me, please.”

When he didn't respond, Frodo sniffed a little and closed his eyes against a sudden surge of old and painful memories.  He thought of the days and weeks following the death of his father and mother when, quite the opposite of Sam, Frodo had done nothing but weep after the news was broke to him, and he lay for long hours in their bedroom, holding tight to a weskit, a blouse, a letter, a pen, a pressed flower...  

Curling up, Frodo moved closer to Sam and rested his head on the younger hobbit’s shoulder, shuddering involuntarily.  Sam broke his reverie when he felt the shiver, and leaned across his bed to pick up a large blanket.  Turning back slowly to face Frodo, he reached up and carefully placed the heavy woollen throw around Frodo’s shoulders.

“Don't want you to catch a chill,” he said simply, quietly, then rested his chin upon his drawn-up knees again, but this time allowed Frodo to keep his contact, which eventually extended to sharing the blanket when Sam himself began to tremble.

*****

The Mayor’s assistant finished reading out Bell's will.  The inheritance that could be given immediately was, and this included the gifting of her silver necklace to Sam.  It felt only days ago that he found it in the nest of a magpie...

He sat looking at the delicate chain that lay on his hand, vaguely hearing what his father told him.  “...wanted you to have it.  What with the older 'uns bein' married now...I guess she wanted you to give it to your sweetheart...when the time comes, of course...”

“I'll never let it go,” he murmured softly, then looked up into his father's eyes.  Suddenly his breathing hitched and, with a blurred glance down at the shining stone, Sam stood and walked to the front door.  He pulled it open and went into the chill night.  He walked hurriedly down the road, as he had done weeks ago when Bell had died, though instead of turning left or right, he took the path straight ahead.

Frodo, on his way to visit the Gamgee's, noticed a familiar face pass him in a hurry, heading towards the burial ground of Hobbiton.  “Sam...?”

He stood staring for a moment before he saw Marigold and Halfred hurrying after him.  Without saying a word, he followed them.



Sam fell down to the ground in front of his mother's grave, sobbing as if he was breaking apart.  “You-you sh-shouldn’t be th-there!”  He wailed.  “Not where it’s s-so ...so cold and dark...I w-wanted you t-to have f-f-flowers and...and green things...be peaceful...”

His fingers clawed at the frozen stony ground beneath him and clenched his hands into fists, closing around the earth in them, closing his fists tighter until he was shaking with the strain.  He was unaware of the blood leaking between his fingers as sharp, broken stones pierced his skin.  He doubled over on the ground, forehead almost touching the cold earth, one hand pressed against his chest, as if trying to hold onto the pieces of his heart that threatened to fall away from him.

The weather that had been building in pressure and intensity for days now looked set to break, with the dark, clouded sky loosing a weak roll of thunder before the deluge began as Sam grieved. Huge, fat raindrops soaked everything within moments, as if the world was grieving with him, and even the wind subsided in respect for the mourners.

Frodo reached the graveside and stumbled.  With his own tears mingling with the rain, he fell beside Sam and pulled him into a tight embrace.  He held the injured limb carefully, then uncurled the fingers to brush away the dirt and stone that still bit Sam's hand.  Sam whimpered amid his tears and pulled his hand back.  Frodo hushed him and began to rock them back and forth gently.  He whispered comforting nonsense in Sam's ear, in Common Speech and broken Elvish, pushing the drenched hair out of his eyes.

Marigold stood holding onto her brother a short distance away, watching carefully as Frodo Baggins dropped to his knees in the now muddy ground, and cradled their brother in his arms, helping him with the grief that had at last spilled.  

Feeling his little sister shiver from the cold and rain, then looking at what they were wearing – they had ran from the hole without coats – Halfred start to move away, still holding Marigold.  “Come on, we'll tell Da' that he's with Mr Frodo.  And I don't want you getting ill, Mari.”

“What about Sam and –?” asked Marigold with a look over her shoulder to them.

“They'll be fine,” Halfred replied softly, with a last look of his own before heading in the direction of home.


“Sam, do you think you could stand?”  Frodo whispered into Sam's ear, no longer rocking, just kneeling.  “I’d like to get you out of this rain...and clean that hand.”  

Sam allowed Frodo to help him stand and leaned heavily on him as they stumbled along the muddy paths.  “Shall I take you home?”

Sam shook his head weakly.  “Not yet, please.”

“Come with me, then.”

They headed slowly up the hill to Bag End.  A fire in the front parlour still smouldered and, after guiding Sam to an armchair, Frodo built the fire up again until it crackled and the flames leapt high.  “You’ll need to have those clothes dried out, Sam.”

“Aye, they're a bit damp,” Sam replied.  He looked down at himself, then to Frodo, who was sitting on the floor in front of him, and smiled slightly, feeling his aching heart ease.

Aye, the master and servant relationship was kept and respected, but when it came to friends or family, who would deny another of support during a grievous time?  Those who talked, who looked and turned away again: those who did not understand – they could all jump in the Brandywine for all Sam cared.  He was smart enough to know that a close friendship such as the one he shared with his master was not to be shunned.  

Joy doubled and grief divided, and two lives led all the better for it.

“Thank you for helpin’ me,” he murmured sleepily, then allowed his wounds to be tended.




~End, part 11~


Chapter 12 - Deadly Belladonna

SUMMARY:  Sam takes time out for grieving

DISCLAIMER:  Yeah, still not mine.  I’m a student, not an heiress to millions.

NOTE:  Belladonna never turns up here, unless you take the meaning --literally--…Oooh, I’ve come over all cryptic!    


----------


“Sam.”

A warm hand touched his forehead, then stroked lightly along his jaw.  “Sam, wake up.”

“Five more minutes,” Sam mumbled sleepily, then rolled over.

“I’ve brought you a cup of tea.  Strong.  It’s almost time for breakfast.  I thought you deserved to sleep longer for a change.”

Slowly, Samwise rolled over to face the person who sought to disrupt his relatively peaceful sleep.  Upon opening his eyes, he appeared to be confused as to why Frodo sat before him and not his sister or gaffer.  “How…?”

“Tea,” Frodo interrupted, holding out a small china cup of fresh, steaming hot tea.  Sam reached out a hand, and then stopped.  He stared at the white bandage that covered his right hand, suddenly remembering the events of the previous day.

“The stones.  I cut it on the stones beside her grave,” he whispered.

Muscles in Frodo’s face twitched, and silently he leaned over to the bedside table, placing the cup of tea there.  After a moment he stood, then stepped back and held his hands before him.

Sam smirked and shook his head at the irony, then pushed himself to sit upright in the bed.  “Sir, there ain’t no need to be standin’ like that.  It should be me waitin’ on you, anyways – not the other way round.”  With that, Sam pushed the bedcovers off himself and made to get up.

“Sam,” Frodo said firmly, pointing a finger at him, and one hand planted firmly on his hip.  “Stay in bed, drink your tea.  I want to talk to you.”

“I ain’t needin’ to be talkin’ about it, sir.”

“I know,” Frodo replied gently.  “You will talk in your own time.  But Sam, I think…”

“Please, sit down, Mr Frodo,” Sam interrupted.  “If you’re goin’ to be talkin’ to me a whiles, mayhap you should be comfortable.”

Frodo smiled and settled himself into the overstuffed chair by Sam’s bedside.  “Yes.  Well…” Frodo paused.  “Sam, I think you should take some time off work – away from Bag End, possibly away from Hobbiton.  Obviously, you will need time to allow your hand to heal, but I believe you should allow time for your heart to heal also.  My cousin Merry extends an open invitation to me to visit at this time of year.  If you wished, you could accompany me.”

Sam leaned back against the pillows and headboard, apparently deep in thought.  But after a moment, he shook his head slowly.  “No.”

“Sam?”

“Sir, I couldn’t be away from my family at this time.  The Gaffer needs me to bring money home, Mari needs her brother.  Daisy has gone home to Hugh, and the baby is due soon now.  Hal and Ham can’t stay away from their work any longer, and I heard them makin’ arrangements for travellin’ back to their homes.  May’s husband told her to stay as long as she needed or wanted to, but she is anxious to get back to Whitfurrows.  That leaves me.  I can’t go no-where right now, Mr Frodo.”

“Well…” Frodo started.

“Mr Frodo,” Sam said, interrupting again, and held up his hands.  “I can’t just go off on a holiday when they need me so much.”  He sighed, then added, “I’d like to take your offer of a few day’s rest, though.  But then I shall be back to work.”

The young Master flopped back in armchair and sighed.  “If you are certain.”

“Thank you, sir.”


-----


Frodo did insist that Sam need not lift a finger during that day, but soon he found himself with his feet up in the parlour, pipe in hand, and book on lap, while Sam buzzed around doing little tasks such as his injuries would allow.  As the sunset that day, Sam took his leave and bid Frodo a good evening, promising he wouldn’t return to work for another two or three days.

But for the rest of that week, Frodo heard and saw nothing at all from Sam or his family.  He hadn’t been worried, but when rumours began to pop up at the market, ranging from the probable to the ridiculous, he felt a little uneasy, though without need.  Late on Sunday afternoon, a neighbour of the Gamgees reported a sighting of Sam and the Gaffer tidying the garden together – alive, fit and well as far as he could tell (a lot, it turned out).

Sam returned to his job at Bag End first thing on Monday morning, and, as he had expected, a load of work awaited him – weeds needing pulled, bushes needing pruned, flowers needing watered, grass needing cut, a trellis to repair – as far as he could see from a first glance.

Before he tackled his work in the garden, however, he headed into Bag End itself to clean out and light the fires in the kitchen and parlour, then make breakfast for Frodo.  Once that was done, he knocked on Frodo’s bedroom door to rouse him, let him know his breakfast awaited him, and if he wished a bath drawn, Sam would see to it straight away.

Frodo sat up sleepily, but before he could call out to Sam, heard his footsteps retreating down the tunnel again.  

By the time Frodo appeared in the kitchen, Sam was already in the garden, hard at work and deep in concentration as he hauled at stubborn dandelion weeds and threw them into a metal pail by his side.  Breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table, hot and ready for Frodo.  A bowl of porridge drizzled with honey sat steaming at his place at the table, to the left a plate of toasted bread, to the right, butter, jam, and a pot of freshly brewed tea.  A loud grumble from his stomach reminded Frodo just how hungry he actually was, and he settled down to make short work of the spread before him.

As he finished his first breakfast, Sam came trampling back indoors.

“Ah, there you are, Sam!  I was beginning to wonder if the weeds had taken revenge on you and sent you headlong into the compost heap!”

Sam smiled, but said nothing.  Instead he began to gather the empty dishes for washing, then set about tidying the worktops and banking the fire.

“I should like to take that bath now, Samwise,” said Frodo.

Sam immediately stopped what he was doing and turned about to face his master.  “Yes, Mr Frodo, sir.  I’ll see to it straight away, so’s you can go about your day as soon as possible.  Nothin’ worse than havin’ to wait on someone else to do their job, is there?” With another smile and a brief nod, Sam scampered off in the direction of the bathing room.

Frodo returned to his room to gather clean clothes, then hovered there for a few minutes to give Sam time to prepare the room for him.  When he reached the bathroom and opened the door, he was greeted with a pleasant mixture of orange-blossom and rosewood, as a cloud of steam wafted across his face.  

“Mmm, lovely,” he commented quietly.  Sam turned around from his position in front of the fireplace.

“Just finished here, sir.  Fire’s going to keep you from getting chilled, soap and clean cloths to wash with, towels warming by the fire.  You just give Sam a shout if you need anything more.”

Frodo nodded.  “Thank you, Sam.  I’m sure I’ll be fine here now.”

With a polite nod and a little bow, Sam ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him.


-----


For the remainder of the morning, and then afternoon, Frodo saw and heard nothing else of Sam.  His second breakfast and lunch had been waiting for him in the kitchen each time he ventured through, hunger and the hope of speaking to Sam bringing him out of his study, away from his letter writing or bookkeeping.  Each time he had been disappointed that Sam wasn’t there, but disappointment soon disappeared when he became distracted the substantial meals set before him.

When he popped his head into the kitchen again, late in the afternoon, he discovered that the dishes from breakfast and lunch had been done, and now a fresh pot of tea and a plate of fruit scones sat on the table.

A little frustrated now, Frodo grabbed a scone, took a large bite, then put it down again, as he decided to first of all head out to the garden and invite Sam in for afternoon tea.  To his surprise and utter irritation, Sam was nowhere to be found.  The grass had been cut, the clippings gathered and thrown on the compost heap, along with the weeds Sam had pulled that morning.  There was evidence that the garden had been watered, from one end to the other, and the trellis that had needed repairing was standing upright and whole once again.  It also appeared to Frodo that his rose bushes had been pruned, and looked all the healthier and happier for it.  An unfamiliar scent on the air had the perplexed hobbit sniffing curiously for a minute or two, roaming the garden for its source, before he noticed two pots of paint and a clean brush sitting by the tool shed.

“Sam?”

The tool shed door opened and a familiar curly head peered round the corner.  “Yes, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Frodo shook his head, then said, “I haven’t seen you since first breakfast.  Have you been that busy today, Sam?  Will you not come indoors and take afternoon tea with me?”

“I have indeed been busy, Mr Frodo.  A lot of work to catch up on, as has been neglected by my absence.  Almost finished now – just to repaint the front door, then I’ll be away for the day.  The gaffer has another job for me to do at Mr Burrows’ garden.  I think he said there were a few repairs needin’ done.”

“Will you be back at dinner or supper time?”  Frodo enquired.

With a gasp, Sam brought a hand to his face in shock.  “Goodness, but I’d almost forgot!  Of course, sir – I’ll see to making your dinner before I leave for Mr Burrows’ hole, then I’ll return later this evenin’ to see to your supper, if you’d wish, of course.”

“That wasn’t what was concerning me.  But if you are going to be busy, do not worry about feeding me.  I can do that for myself.”

Sam smiled again, the same strange, distant one Frodo had seen often that day.  “It’s no problem, sir.  I’ll do it before I leave.”

“Very well, Samwise,” Frodo conceded.


-----


Frodo thought no more of Sam’s odd behaviour, putting it down to him feeling stressed, running around until he caught up with everything he felt he had ‘let slip’ during his absence.  

Weeks turned the autumn toward winter again, and it seemed to most folk that Sam had overcome his grief over losing his mother, and was back to his old self again.  Most, that was, except two of Sam’s closest friends: Frodo and Robin Goodbody.

Since Sam first returned to work, Frodo had seen very little of him.  He always seemed to be busy with one job or another, despite the fact the winter months usually brought a lack of work for a lot of hobbits.  

On one rare occasion that Frodo had seen Sam out of work, he again asked if he would like to accompany Frodo to Buckland for a few weeks over the Yule holiday.  Sam’s answer was the same, and was as resolute as he had been the first time Frodo had asked.  Frodo acceded to his response, and two days later, set off for Brandy Hall alone.


-----


Three weeks later, in the new year, as Frodo walked to the Ivy Bush, Robin Goodbody approached him, asking after Sam.  It transpired that Robin had seen next to nothing of Sam for at least a week, and when he had, Sam had drunk himself well into his cups.  From this, Frodo also gathered that it wasn’t the first time this had happened.  But when he asked if Sam was gaining a reputation as a ‘regular drinker’ – a polite way of asking if he was constantly getting himself drunk – Robin hastily assured him that no, Sam rarely turned up at the Inn any more at all – but when he did, he seemed to ‘make up for it’.  Frodo at least was reassured that Sam wasn’t drowning his sorrows, or becoming dependant on a mug of ale to see him through the day – Frodo had heard what could become of a hobbit if that happened.  

But he still found it disconcerting and out of character, and resolved to enquire of Sam himself.

The matter of confronting Sam determined itself when Frodo later heard from another friend that Sam was working from dawn, well into the night, day in and day out.  She couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a day off work, but wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead himself one day, what with the gaffer’s constant demands, Marigold’s struggle to keep up with her own work, and the fact that Daisy had lost her baby, which her healer said was the result of her severe distress and grief.

“Daisy…what?”  Frodo gaped in disbelief, and felt numbed and sick as a lead weight seemed to settle in his stomach.  “I never knew.”

“You never knew he was holding down three jobs neither, though.  Did you?”

Frodo had no answer.


-----


“So much has happened in the months since Bell passed on.  I haven’t seen much of Sam at all since he returned to work, and I find this unsettling.  I have just returned from visiting the relatives in Buckland.  Many of them enquired as to Sam’s whereabouts, and Merry passed on his condolences.  I have not yet been able to pass these on, however, as Sam seems more determined than ever to avoid my presence.”

“It’s not you he’s avoiding, Frodo.  Samwise is avoiding the issue of dealing with his grief.  He is working himself into the ground – and an early grave, at this rate – to avoid dealing with it.  This method also seems to involve avoiding anyone that may actually be able to help him – his friends, close and professional, healers, employers, family…and unfortunately, it will all come to a very messy head some day.  Unless you are prepared for it, of course, and can treat the situation with care, gentleness and empathy.”

Frodo sighed and slouched in his armchair.  He said nothing for a few minutes, but stared across the room at his companion, who was perched delicately on the edge of a very large stool.  Then, he spoke again.  “Every day I hope to see him to speak with him, yet all the new day brings is more rumour or news of Sam’s crumbling life.  Daisy, his sister, lost her baby.  He was born sleeping.  I found out two weeks after it happened, and from a friend of the family, who didn’t even know all the details.”

Frodo lapsed into silence again, which stretched into a quarter of an hour.  Then, with another sigh, he added, “You always turn up when you are needed most.”  A pause.  “And you always know what to say, don’t you, Gandalf?  In any situation.”

“What is a wizard for, if not for these very circumstances?”  Gandalf asked, before chuckling quietly as Frodo opened his mouth to retort.  “No, Frodo.  I know what you would say.  ‘That’s not all you’re are good for, Gandalf’…and you would be right.  All I meant by that statement was that I am here, now, and I intend to help by not interfering in the slightest.”

Shaking his head, Frodo asked, “will you be giving me advice, at the very least?”

Smiling, Gandalf reached inside his robes for his pipe, and, lighting it, said, “I already have.”


-----


Later that day, Frodo and Gandalf took themselves outside to wander around Hobbiton and the Hill a while, discussing the many going-ons of the outside world.  As usual, the old wizard evaded a lot of Frodo’s questions, and stuck to telling him news of the Elves of Rivendell and Men of Gondor.  And as usual, Frodo answered Gandalf questions, most of which, again, consisted of asking how he felt, within himself and physically.

It was as they walked that Frodo spotted the forlorn, round-shouldered form of his once- amiable friend, walking slowly over the bridge beside the Mill toward them.  It was at that moment Gandalf found a plant of much interest, and he moved away from the path to investigate, leaving Frodo to confront Sam.

“Good afternoon, Samwise,” said the Master of Bag End.

The young, wearied gardener looked up from the stony path.  “Afternoon, Mr Frodo, sir.”

Before Frodo could launch into his little practiced speech, Sam made to move away again.  Instead of a gently enquiring talk came out a string of frustrated words.

“Samwise Gamgee!  Do not turn your back on me!  What do you think you are playing at?  I am still your master and I demand that you give the time due to me!  I have been trying for weeks to speak to you, yet you seem dead-set on either ignoring me out of sheer ignorance or punishing me for not being able to read your mind!”  

Sam stood gaping at Frodo with his mouth open.  Gandalf sighed and shook his head.  This was not what he had meant by ‘care and empathy’.

“I need you to speak to me.  I can’t help you unless you *talk* to me!”  Frodo ranted.

“I don’t need your help!”  Sam shouted.  “There ain’t nothin’ you can do anyway, you have no idea what we’re goin’ through!  Leave us alone!”  He took a step forward, determined to escape, but Frodo’s hand shot out and grabbed him tightly by the arm.

“I don’t know what you’re going through,” he said quietly, through clenched teeth.  “Because you won’t tell me.  The day you broke down in the cemetery, I held you, and you opened to me.  But every day since then, I haven’t been able to make a bit of sense out of you and your behaviour.”

Sam wrenched his arm out of Frodo’s grasp.  With an expression on his face like thunder, he stormed up the path, never hesitating or looking behind him.

As he disappeared from sight, Frodo’s anger left him immediately, only to be replaced with the sickening feeling of guilt, leaving him bone-tired.

Gandalf walked over to him and tapped his shoulder lightly.  “Mr Baggins, that is not what I meant when I said--”

“--Said ‘treat the situation with care, gentleness and empathy’, I know, Gandalf, I *know*!”


-----


Nothing a Baggins says or does goes unnoticed, wherever they live in the Shire.  The following morning, as his friend the wizard prepared to leave again after yet another flying visit, the market and town was abuzz with the standoff between the Master of the Hill and his gardener, which had unfortunately taken place by the Mill.

“Shouting and screaming…it almost came to blows!”

“Told his master to stick his beak into some other sod’s business.”

“Almost got told where to stick his job, too, I heard!”

“That old wizard ‘ad to ‘old ‘em apart, they were that keen on stickin’ into each other.”

“Typical Baggins, though, nosin’ around like that.”

“Can’t let a family grieve in peace.”

“Just got back from a visit in Buckland, too, I ‘eard.  Wouldn’t surprise me if they influence ‘is be’aviour…”

Ted Sandyman smirked to himself as he picked out the best of the day’s fish from the market stall before swaggering down the road again.


-----


Frodo spent a very sore next few days, as he came to terms with the damage he had done to his and Sam’s friendship.  It was only out of his sense of duty that Sam turned up to work at Bag End now, and no words passed between servant and master in all the hours they were together.

After a week of hostile behaviour, Sam seemed to fade to a shadow of his former self.  It appeared that he had very little energy left, and the three jobs he had been holding down were now reduced once again to the one, at Bag End.

Frodo stood at the kitchen window one morning, searching for signs of new life in the garden, his gaze constantly falling to Sam, who knelt among the sleeping plants, tending to the earliest of the new shoots pushing through the cold, damp earth.

The movements of this usually very active hobbit seemed this pale morning to be more slow and lethargic than his master had ever seen him.  Every lift of his arm seemed to be an extreme effort, and even from a distant side profile, Frodo could tell Sam’s face was contorted with grief, exhaustion and illness.  His skin looked grey and transparent as he struggled on with the task at hand.  Frodo could have compassion and shame as he realised that this whole sorry mess could only be resolved if he took the first step.  

As he steeled himself, ready to move to the side door, he noticed Sam’s movements had halted completely.  He knelt on the cold ground, staring blankly ahead, before suddenly keeling over, face-first into the earth.

Frodo cried out, dropping the teacup he held and tripping over a mop and bucket in his haste to get outdoors.

“Sam!  Sam!” Frodo shouted, running across the short, dewy grass to where Sam lay, unmoving.  A hundred thoughts sped through his mind.  Was Sam ill?  Did he really have the same disease that had taken his mother mere months before? Had he hurt himself? Deliberately? Maybe he had given up….Frodo would be to blame if he had, surely, for he had caused only more suffering with his insensitive tirade…  “SAM!”

He skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees by his friend’s side.  He grabbed his shoulders and shook him firmly, before turning him onto his back and gently slapping his face to gain a response.

“Wake up, please…” he begged.

After what felt like an age, Sam’s eyes opened, sad and dull.  Frodo’s own eyes sprung tears that quickly ran down his face.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo whispered.  “Forgive me.”

“Never…was a finer thing than…to hear-to hear you s-say that…right now…sir.”

With a grunt, Sam propped himself on his elbows, and attempted to stand.

“Careful, Sam,” Frodo urged, helping Sam to move slowly and carefully.  “Oh, look at you – you’re exhausted.  It’s all my fault…”

Leaning against Frodo for support as they moved back toward the smial, Sam managed a weak smile.  “Sir…”

“It’s going to change, I promise,” a suitably chastised Baggins added hastily.

They stopped at the doorway, Sam staring at Frodo intently.  “I haven’t rightly played my own part too well neither, sir.  I’ve hidden away from things, see, and it’s just made me plain tired, down to my bones…”

They moved on.  Frodo helped Sam to settle in front of the fire in the kitchen, and he moved to the kettle, where he began preparing a fresh pot of tea.

“Well, talking will have to wait just a while longer, Sam.  I want you fit and healthy again.  That is going to start today.  Once you have rested, and had breakfast here, I want you to go home, and rest for another week, before you even consider coming back to work.  I shall visit you tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to catch up on your rest and sleep.  If your Gaffer wishes an explanation, I will be more than happy to speak with him.”

Frodo heard a vague grunt of agreement from Sam, and smiled as he poured steaming hot tea into two white china cups.  He then picked them up, carefully, and turned toward the table.  “Now, Sam.  Would you like something to e-”

But Sam lay over the table with his head resting on his arms, chestnut curls hiding his worn features, and deep in sleep.

“Dearest Sam,” Frodo sighed.  He placed the teacups down, then moved around the table to gently shake the sleeping hobbit awake.  As loathe as Frodo was to disturb him, he knew Sam would not appreciate a stiff neck and aching back when he awoke, if he was allowed to sleep on in such a position.

At the light touch of Frodo’s hand, Sam’s head jerked up, and he snuffled sleepily.  “Wha--?”

“You fell asleep.  Come now.  To bed with you.”  Frodo carefully pulled Sam to his feet.  “We can talk over tea and crumpets later.”

“You’re too nice to me, sir.  What a lump of a servant you have, an’ yet you show him a kindness!”  Sam staggered slightly as together they walked down the dimly lit tunnel to the guest room Sam had previously stayed in.

“You must not be hard on yourself, Samwise.  You didn’t take time for grieving, but I did not help matters by accusing you of negligence!” Frodo pushed the bedroom door open and stepped back to allow Sam into the room first.  “I should have been more sensitive to your situation.  I have acted badly, and let you down as a master and friend.”

He fell silent as he pulled back the blankets on the bed and lit a small lamp on the nightstand.  “I can only hope that you forgive me,” he added quietly, before stepping away from bed and nightstand.

Sam regarded his master wearily as he slid his weskit from his shoulders and loosened the top button of his work-worn shirt.  He sat down upon the bed silently and removed his braces, placing the removed items neatly at the foot of the bed before lying down.

“I’m that tired as I canna think, sir,” Sam murmured in the darkened room.  “But I know that’s there’s naught to forgive you for.  I never was that angry at you, Mr Frodo.  And more besides, friends don’t ever hold a grudge against each other.”

Frodo smiled softly and looked over his shoulder at his friend from the door.  “Rest now, Sam.  We can talk more later.  I will be nearby in the smial should you need me.”  But Sam was asleep before the door closed again.

And when Sam awoke later in the small hours of the morning, it was to find that Frodo had fallen asleep right by his side, deep in the armchair placed by his bed.


-~End part 12~-
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