Eternity and the Language of Flowers

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