Eternity and the Language of Flowers

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~