Chapter Text
Frodo stared morosely at the bookshelves. None of the dusty volumes piqued his interest in the slightest. Wandering over to the study fireplace, he poked at the burning logs. The logs crackled merrily, the flames burned a little brighter, but Frodo was not impressed. Sighing, he turned toward the study window. Resting his elbows on the sill and his chin in his hands, he stared out into the dark November night. It had been two months now since Bilbo had left, and the emptiness of his departure still echoed throughout Bag End.
He had never imagined that he would miss the old hobbit so. It had seemed that they had drifted through the days together, yet each in their own world. They had met at mealtimes, but like as not, there was a book in hand, a manuscript to peruse. It was only really in the evenings, after dinner, that they would settle together in the study, fireplace ablaze, and pipes in hand. Then Bilbo would spin his wondrous tales, never repeating a one. And Frodo would gaze dreamily into the flames, imagining the great world beyond the Shire. But now Bilbo had finally left, as Frodo had known for so long that he eventually would, and Frodo had been left alone in Bag End, with Bilbo's tales in his memories, and his own dreams in his heart.
He settled on the bench, drawing a blanket about him, and stared unseeingly at the flames.
It was there that Sam found him the next morning. Frodo was curled awkwardly on the bench, half buried in the blanket. Sam frowned worriedly at the sight. He was used enough to the sight of Mr. Frodo asleep across his desk, quill in hand, and blotched manuscript under his cheek. Or half propped up in his bed, head at an awkward angle, and a book still in his hands. But this. Sam was troubled.
"Mr. Frodo," he called softly, gently touching the blanket-wrapped shoulder closest to him.
Frodo awoke slowly and reluctantly. He seemed to be always tired nowadays, and there was nothing he'd really rather do than lose himself in dreamless, heavy sleep. But here was Sam, with a soft touch, and a voice full of unspoken concern.
"Sam," he replied blearily, and tried to rise.
But Sam saw the sway, the missed step. He was quickly at Frodo's side, supporting his elbow for just an instant, before stepping back with no visible sign of anxiety. "Daisy was baking this morn," he mentioned quietly, "and she thought you might like a bit of fresh bread for breakfast."
Frodo hastily sought to shake off his lethargy. "How kind of her, Sam," he tried to force more energy into his voice than he actually felt this morning. "Please thank her for thinking of me."
Sam walked over to the hearth and inspected the burnt-out fire to allow Frodo a bit more time to collect himself. "Firewood's summat low," he mentioned, examining the stack at hand. "Mayhap I'll fetch some up the hill this morning to store." Glancing out the window, he frowned with a worried expression. "There's a fierce winter storm a'brewin', if I'm not mistaken. You don't want your pile to be agoin' low now."
Frodo felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for Sam's thoughtful solicitude. Bilbo had always taken care of that sort of matter, and Frodo had never given any thought as to why there was always firewood at the ready, food in the pantry, and pipeweed in the battered canister. Planning ahead was not something he did especially well, but it seemed as though it was a skill he now needed to learn.
"Would you like me to haul the water up for a bath before I go?" Sam turned around, eyeing his master uncertainly.
"Ah, you're saying I'm not looking at my best," Frodo chuckled affectionately. "No, no," he cut off Sam's immediate protestations, "You are quite right about that, but I'm sure I can manage a few pails of water. You're also right about that storm, it looks to break very soon, and I don't want you caught in it."
It was late that evening when Sam finally returned to Bagshot Row. He had spent the day collecting and stacking the firewood for Frodo, as well as the Widow Rumble, and helping Tom Cotton and his brothers bed down the winter vegetables in preparation for the ensuing heavy winter rains. In addition, there were his sisters' baking supplies and the gaffer's store of pipeweed to replenish, necessitating a quick trip into Hobbiton. He was exhausted when he finally trudged into Number Three and more than ready for his supper. The rain had held off through most of the day, but had finally begun to fall about an hour ago, paired with a chill wind.
"Sam, hold yourself where you be," Marigold Gamgee called out when she heard her brother enter the small smial. "I just cleaned up after Da," she scolded him lightly, bustling from the kitchen with a rag in her hand. "Here," she instructed, handing the rag to Sam. "Just look at yourself, now. I'll not be cleanin' the kitchen one more time tonight."
Sam meekly wiped his muddy feet, as his sister stood firmly before him, hands on hips and a fair imitation, had she known it, of her late mother. "Glad t'hear Da's in," he mentioned. "It's fair drippin' summat fierce tonight."
"Aye, 'tis a'that," the gaffer grumbled from the kitchen, seated in front of the fire well-bundled in a worn blanket as Sam entered the cozy room. "An' whatever possessed that young Master of yours to find his way to the Green Dragon on a night like this, I'll never know."
"Mr. Frodo was there?" Sam exclaimed in dismay. " Was he there when you'd left?"
"That he was," the gaffer stated firmly. "I'd be guessin' he'd not be lookin' forward to that trip home, as cold and wet as it'd be this night."
All thoughts of a warm meal and bit of a stretch in front of the fire were instantly gone for Sam. He turned around and resolutely grabbed his cloak from the peg by the door where it had just been placed. "I'd best be after him," he called over his shoulder as he opened the door to the stormy night, closing it on the gaffer's exasperation and his sister's concern.
It was at the far end of Bagshot Row that he spotted the cloaked figure. In the dark night, he nearly passed Frodo, huddled against a tree by the lane, but a sudden gust of wind whipped the corner of the cloak out, and Sam hurried towards the slight shape with a cry of dismay.
"Mr. Frodo!" he exclaimed, his voice sharpened with distress and worry. " 'Tis not a night to be out in, no ways!"
"And yet here you are as well," Frodo answered, his voice muffled in the wind. As Sam watched in concern, he walked towards Sam with a slightly unsteady gait, but whether caused by the elements or the Green Dragon's brew, Sam could not tell until Frodo drew closer. And then seemingly, it was the effects of the wet and chill night, and that conclusion caused Sam's concern to mount. A chill was harder to get over than a mug too many, any day.
Without a wasted word, he clasped Frodo's arm and urged him silently up the lane. Frodo followed mutely, leaning against Sam, until they reached the door of Bag End. Frodo silently opened the round green door. Sam followed him inside and, making his way down the dark halls to the study, quickly and dexterously kindled a warming fire. Turning as Frodo entered the small room, Sam handed him a blanket from the bench where he had found Frodo asleep that morning and, in a firm voice that brooked no opposition, declared, "You'll be needin' some tea, Mr. Frodo. I'll put a pot on. And whilst I'm about it, you can be takin' the chill off in here."
Frodo sank thankfully down on the settle, blanket wrapped around wet clothes, and stretched his chilled feet out to the fire. "You're far too good to me," he murmured gratefully, but Sam had already left the room.
Sam returned before too long. "The tea's steepin', Mr. Frodo, and there's a pot of water on the fire heatin' up for a bath. And I'd be thinkin' that your bed would feel better tonight than that hard bench," he added with a meaningful look.
Frodo chuckled ruefully, and rose. "Yes, I felt that most the morning." He paused a moment, and then added softly, "I'm sorry to put you to all this bother, Sam. It's just that I was in here all day, and I.." he motioned briefly at the room and felt silent.
"Felt like a bit of company?" Sam hazarded a guess, with an understanding smile.
Frodo's eyes met his, the returning smile somewhat pensive. "You wouldn't be able to stay and warm up for a bit?" he asked wistfully.
Regret was clear on Sam's face. "My sisters will be all in a fret 'til I get back," he declined reluctantly.
"Then tea tomorrow perhaps?" Frodo persisted and was unaccountably relieved when Sam's face cleared with a smile at that.
"Aye, that I will," he promised, and was gone out into the dark night.
Sam did not appear the next morning. Frodo rose late, as he usually did on these cold grey mornings, but the kitchen fireplace was lifeless, and there was no water heated for tea. Sam usually stopped by, of a morning, but apparently not this one. Frodo quelled his disappointment sternly. "And why should he run all the way up the Row just to start my tea and stoke the fire?" he chided himself. "I'm surely not as useless as all that."
But the bleak morning stretched interminably before him. There was no chance of Sam coming up the Hill to work in the garden, the rain pounded outside mercilessly. Frodo finished a bit of cold breakfast, and retired back in his bed, a volume in hand. It dropped more than once from his hand, however, and he found himself staring blankly at the sheets of water hitting the window. Collecting himself up again, he sighed, and tried to find some consolation in the fact that Sam must be holed up in the Gamgee smial, tending to the chores of his own family. "I shouldn't take up so much of his time," he thought guiltily, but that didn't stop him from looking ahead yearningly to Sam's promised appearance at tea-time.
Tea-time came and went and there was no Sam. By now, Frodo was truly beginning to become concerned. He could not remember the last time Sam had not appeared when promised. Finally his anxiety had risen to the point that he strode to the front door and wrapped himself in his cloak, despite the dark and cold and continued rain. There was no need however. Just as he was pulling the hood over his head in preparation for departure, there was a rap upon the front door of Bag End, "Sam," he sighed in relief, never stopping to think that Sam no longer knocked, but entered through the kitchen door without any further ceremony.
There was a Gamgee on the doorstep when he opened the front door quickly, but it wasn't Sam. Daisy Gamgee's ginger curls had been plastered to her face under the hood of her cloak by the driving rain, and her tall, spare frame shivered as she stood, ever polite, as were all the gaffer's offspring, in Frodo's doorway. "Mr. Frodo, Sam wanted me to tell you …," she started, but Frodo quickly drew her inside before she could finish.
"Tell me inside, Daisy," he urged, and then seeing how drenched she was, took her hand and led a surprised Daisy down the darkened hall to the warm kitchen.
"There's no fire in the parlor," he poured a mug of tea out for her as he spoke. "This is probably the warmest room… Oh, I should take that for you," he turned around with the mug and motioned towards her wet cloak.
"Oh, sir, there's no need," she finally found her voice, but Frodo was paying no heed.
"One way or the other, it will be dripping on the floor, it may as well be off you," he stated firmly. So Daisy found herself seated in Mr. Frodo's kitchen, warm mug in hand, and her cloak hung before the kitchen fire.
"Now," Frodo finally sat at the table across from her. "What was your news?" His apprehension at Daisy's unexpected visit was only revealed in his tightly clasped hands that he kept hidden under the table.
"Our Sam, he's been that worried," she began, staring down into her mug. "He knew as you were expectin' him, and he's been frettin' so.." her voice trailed off uncertainly.
"What's wrong with Sam, Daisy?" Frodo asked anxiously.
"Well, he did catch such a chill last night," Daisy looked back up at him with trepidation clear in the wide hazel eyes that were so like Sam's. "He's been abed all day, and I can't remember the last time…" her voice died away, and she took a nervous sip of her tea. Daisy was a quiet lass, with a reputation as being skilled in the arts of healing and herb lore. But she hadn't been able to save her mother, and there was yet a haunted look to her eyes, despite still being four years away from her coming-of-age.
"He just kept sayin' that you were awaitin' on him, and so as to give him some peace, I told him I'd come up and let you know," she finished, and took another swallow. "But I'd best be gettin' back, Mr. Frodo, waitin' always seems longer when you're feelin' sickly, and it'll put his mind at rest a bit."
She stood up quickly and crossed over to the sink to clean the mug before she left. "Leave it, Daisy, I'll wash it later," Frodo said in an abstracted voice and held out her cloak for her to put on.
Blushingly, she slipped the wet garment back on her shoulders. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo," she murmured.
"Do you think I should send for some herbs?" he asked her with concern as they stood in the doorway again, Daisy preparing to enter back into the storm. "Would you like me to walk back with you?
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Frodo, but there's no need. for aught," but she smiled thankfully at him anyway.
"Well, I'll not be bothering your family this late at night, but I will stop by tomorrow and check on Sam, if you think he wouldn't mind," Frodo answered uncertainly.
"He'd be right pleased," she returned, with another brief smile, and was gone into the night.
The rain still continued the next morning, as Frodo made his way down the muddy lane that was Bagshot Row. There had been a time when he had been a more frequent visitor to Number Three, when he was still recently arrived from Brandy Hall. The slumberous quiet of Bag End had initially unnerved him at times, being used to the clamour and bustle that was the home of the Brandybucks, and he had taken occasional refuge with the Gamgee family. Sam's mother had managed to always make him feel warmly welcome, without offending the gaffer's firm sense of propriety. But now Sam's mother was gone, and he was the young Master, and it had been at least a year since he had been this way.
It was Marigold who came to the door, and her freckled face lit up upon seeing Frodo. "Ah, 'tis you after all, Mr. Frodo," she exclaimed in relief. "It will make Sam that happy to see you." She closed the door swiftly behind him, shutting out the rain. "Da and May, they took the cart to the Widow, she'd be runnin' low of provisions," her honey-colored braids shone in the dim light as she held out her hands for his cloak. "Sam'd be in the kitchen, as is the warmest room." she continued, motioning him to follow.
Frodo followed her through the cold and seldom-used front room to the kitchen, the heart of the Gamgee household. Daisy, who had been seated by the hearth, patching a worn jacket sleeve of her father's, rose quickly, with a happy exclamation. "Why, Sam, Mr. Frodo has come, now wasn't I a'tellin' you so?"
A straw mattress had been brought in for the invalid, and Sam lay propped up on it, in the fire's warmth, well tucked about in blankets. Frodo felt his heart tighten for a moment at the sight of him. Sam's cheeks and forehead were flushed and damp, and his breathing was clearly labored. "Sam, how are you, my lad?" he exclaimed anxiously, dropping to his knees on the floor at Sam's bedside.
"Just a chill, naught to it, Mr. Frodo," Sam said weakly, before being interrupted by a coughing fit.
Daisy immediately crouched down at Frodo's side and slipping a hand behind Sam's back, easily lifted him upright and handed him a chipped mug filled with a dark brew, that had been by the side of the mattress.
"I don't care what you'd be thinkin' o'the taste of it, Sam Gamgee, you drink this down right aways."
Sam, with a small smile towards Frodo, meekly obeyed his sister.
"Now," she stated flatly, carefully laying his head back to rest on the folded blankets, "that ought to be givin' you a bit of rest right soon. Mayhap, Mr. Frodo will be givin' you some company until then. Come, Mari," she spoke firmly to her sister, who had been hovering anxiously on the side of the mattress, "that laundry in the washroom ain't going t'be washin' itself."
"I'm that sorry I wasn't able to come by yesterday," Sam whispered weakly as his sisters left the room. "You wouldn't be runnin' low on wood, now, would you?"
Frodo's mouth tightened as he carefully smoothed back the dampened curls from Sam's forehead. He was warm, but not dangerously so, Frodo decided in relief. He kept his hand there though, as Sam's eyes began to blink sleepily, Daisy's potion starting to take effect. "I'm fine. When are you going to learn to care for yourself, Sam?" he muttered, his voice tight. "You always think of everyone else but yourself."
"Naught to worry about, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured drowsily, with a smile. "I'll be right enough in no time, you see if I ain't."
Frodo bowed his head as Sam's eyes slid shut and his breathing steadied itself. It was several moments before he rose, and went to find Sam's sister.
Sam was back to work within a few days. The rains had ceased for the time being, and Sam had his hands full with tending to the paths and plants that had been choked with mud. Frodo insisted, however, that he only work for short periods of time, and take plenty of rest. Taking tea with Frodo had thus become a daily occurrence, and more and more often, it was late into the evening when Sam would return home. Day by day, in the congenial kitchen of Bag End, they planned changes for spring to the Bag End garden, discussed the doings of Hobbiton through the bits of news gathered by Sam's sisters, worked out thorny patches in Frodo's translations (Sam's reliable ear was proving itself invaluable to Frodo), or else just sat and sipped their tea in comfortable silence. And gradually, as the darkness of evening came sooner and sooner, and the leaves of autumn had been all quite swept away, Frodo felt the pattern of his life being mended. Bilbo's departure still caught his heart unawares at times, when he found a particularly interesting passage and yearned to show it to Bilbo for his opinion, or when the setting winter sun struck a frozen puddle and glowed gold and verdant for a moment. But now, more and more, it was Sam to whom he would attempt to describe the beauty of the light, or his fascination in the words of those that had lived long before him.
He also discovered that there was much about this quiet hobbit that he had not known. He had not known that Sam's memory was so sharp and sure, and ranged back to some of Bilbo's tales that he could scarcely remember himself. He had not known that Sam's store of plant lore came not only from the gaffer, but dusty old volumes that Bilbo had lent to him. Sam had carefully and methodically translated them, and remembered every detail that could apply to Bag End's garden. He had not known that Sam had the eye of an artist. He had known that Sam was fond of planting flowers amidst the more necessary vegetables, but never realized that it was so wherever Frodo glanced in the garden, his gaze would be pleased with a piquant pink here, or a deep blue there.
Before Frodo had quite realized what had happened, he found that his days had become wrapped around the shy gardener, that his mornings were spent in anticipation, his afternoons in contentment, and his evenings in remembrance.
The carefully written invitation to Brandy Hall arrived, as always, a week before Yule. Although there was no doubt that Frodo would spend the holiday with his cousins, as he normally did, the Mistress of Brandy Hall was one to uphold the customs. The driver and his cart spent the night at the Green Dragon, and by noon the next day, Frodo was gone. Sam wandered through the empty halls of Bag End that afternoon feeling unsettled and lonely.
It had been two days since the Yule as Sam inspected the back pantry of Bag End. Although he did not expect Frodo back for at least another week, there was no harm in preparing the smial for his master's return, Sam thought.
There had been some snow a few days back, but mostly the weather continued chill and grey. He had taken care of the few chores in the garden that he could think of, to escape the cramped quarters of Number Three, but there was little to do this time of the year. He had visited the Green Dragon with his Da on several evenings, but the company was always the same, and it seemed as though he had heard all those stories before. He had gone with his sisters when they went to the Cottons, but the lasses were full of giggles and silly stories as they sat together stitching, and he sat moodily with the Cotton lads as they oiled the tools and straps, and spoke idly of the prospects of the new year's grain, and how many piglets they should be keeping to rear come spring.
He had escaped to empty Bag End on the pretence of doing a bit of cleaning before Mr. Frodo returned. In truth, there was naught to be done, since Daisy and Marigold had gone through the smial soon after Frodo's departure and had given it a proper turning out (May had been visiting the Cottons again). But Sam found enough odd chores to do to keep himself occupied. He shivered slightly in the cold pantry and decided that there was adequate tea and pipeweed for Frodo's return, and that the root vegetables were sufficiently bedded with straw.
He slowly walked up the hall to the study, to see if it needed a bit of dusting, and paused in the doorway. Of all the rooms in Bag End, this was the one that spoke most clearly to him of Frodo. Once it had been Mr. Bilbo's study, and Sam had many memories of lessons in this room as he was growing up, especially of a winter's afternoon, just as this one, when there was naught to do about the garden. The cozy room was always warm, and there were ever so many candles about, as he did not have in his own smial, since Mr. Bilbo always took care not to strain his eyes. And then, there was tea, and a special treat to eat, like as not, and the most wonderful stories from Mr. Bilbo. His nephew would be there as well, enjoying the tales as much as Sam, his mobile features staring dreamily into the flames, or smiling warmly back at Sam with shared enjoyment of Bilbo's more dramatic flourishes. They were some of the most treasured memories of Sam's childhood, and had been a comfort to him through hard times. He knew he was fortunate indeed to have such memories, as his brothers and sisters had never had.
But now he had new memories as well, those of the afternoons he and Frodo had been spending here as of late. It was a marvel to him, as he thought back on it, as to how easy it had become to sit with Mr. Frodo, and listen to him speak of this or that, even, on occasion, to hear his full-throated chuckle to some observation or comment that he, Sam, had made. Those were the days he returned home full of happiness, and gave no heed to any sharp comments the gaffer or his sisters might make. Sighing, he walked through the room in the dim afternoon light, and dusted what he could, leaving everything in the room precisely as Mr. Frodo had left it.
And suddenly there was a noise at the door, and his heart leapt up.
Frodo piled his bags and boxes at the door of Bag End, and thankfully opened the round green door. Fond as he was of his cousins, his heart and thoughts had been far away on this holiday, and once Yule had passed, he had not been able to wait any longer. All he had wanted was to return to the life that he had suddenly found for himself here.
And here was Sam, running from the back of Bag End, crying out , "Mr. Frodo! You're back!"
At the sight of Sam's joyful face and cry of delight, Frodo, without a moment's thought, strode forward and threw his arms around Sam. There was only the hesitation of an instant on Sam's part, and then Sam's arms were tight around Frodo, warm and sure, and Frodo heard Sam give an indefinable hum of happiness. Closing his eyes tightly, he held Sam in his arms for long moments, and felt the beating of Sam's heart, so close to his.
At first, there was only bliss in holding Sam like this, but then cold uncertainty began to creep into his heart. What must Sam be thinking? To be sure, Frodo customarily greeted his cousins with an embrace, but never Sam, never before. Hesitantly, he slowly pulled himself from Sam, and with apprehension, glanced at Sam's face. But Sam's face was lit with pure happiness, and there was no embarrassment, no awkwardness in that honest face.
"I never thought t'see you this soon," Sam murmured, his hands still on Frodo's shoulders.
"Yes, well," Frodo struggled to gain his composure. He took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It was rather dull this year, I guess, and the weather seemed right for travel.."
But then Frodo's smile broadened once more with anticipation. "Oh, and I brought something for you, Sam." Swiftly, he turned back to the pile of parcels and bags strewn by the door in his initial haste, and turned again, holding out a dirt-streaked cloth bundle. "I've a bet riding on you, Sam-lad, a dozen of Old Winyard's finest. So don't be letting me down, now."
Sam held out his hands for the bundle, and examined it curiously. "A cutting?" he hazarded a guess, glancing up at Frodo.
"From Brandy Hall's vineyards," Frodo answered, smiling broadly. "Saradoc Brandybuck has wagered me that this vintage cannot be grown this far west. I answered his challenge, saying that I knew one who could do it. Much rides on this, Sam, but I know that you will not fail me."
"All a matter of the right place, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied with a confident grin. "They'd be naught of the Old Winyards a'goin' to Brandy Hall, rest you easy on that."
Frodo laughed, and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I suspected as much. And now, Sam, what about helping me get some fires lit? It certainly is dreadfully cool this evening."
Frodo sat on his bed that night, lost in thought. Returning home had been all he had thought of, the last several days. Sighing, he snuffed out the candle with a quick pinch. There was no doubt. Somehow, when, he knew not, Samwise Gamgee had become the center of his life. The memory of those strong arms around him, the pleased murmur in his ear, these were the memories that he savored alone that night. Gradually, the cold bed warmed around him, and he fell asleep to dream of welcome summer sun, fields of undulating green grass, and warm hazel eyes.
Sam shivered in his unheated room, on the cold hard straw mattress of the bed that was his alone since his brothers had left, but his thoughts were far away, and his heart was light. Mr. Frodo was back, and Sam felt himself whole once again.
The winter continued on cold and wet. Clear days were rare, and the morning's rain shower often turned to sleet by the evening. Frodo had been postponing the trip into Hobbiton, waiting for more favorable weather, but a fortnight after his return, it could be postponed no longer. His store of ink was dangerously low, and the supply of foolscap had nearly vanished. In addition, Sam had mentioned to Frodo that Frodo's shelves were beginning to look rather bare. Frodo paid little heed to what was in the pantry when he prepared his own supper, preferring simple foods such as bread and cheese, but he did like to offer something nice to Sam at teatime. Sam had offered to accompany Frodo, to Frodo's secret delight. "The lasses are plannin' t'dip candles on the morrow, and there'll be naught but string and tallow strung about the kitchen. They'll not be missin' me and my clumsy ways at all," he informed Frodo, and they planned an early start for the next day.
The sky was a cold white, and ominous darkening on the horizon boded worse than rain as the two hobbits set off for Hobbiton the next morning, but neither paid the weather any heed. Frodo regaled Sam with tales of his visit to Brandy Hall as they walked, and Sam, more than once, was laughing so hard that he had to lean against the bare trees along the way to catch his breath.
"Oh, Mr. Frodo, he never did!" he exclaimed, wiping the tears of merriment from his eyes at Frodo's wry story of Pippin's current fall from grace with Merry's mother. "Lor' if that lad ain't a handful!"
"To be sure, Sam," Frodo chuckled wickedly. "I'm sure there's a good reason his own mother lets him spend so much time with the Brandybucks. At least he's good company for Merry."
They were now walking past the small smials on the outskirts of Hobbiton. Carts rumbled past them laden with goods for the marketplace, and the town's inhabitants were stepping around icy puddles in the muddy road, leading the cattle out past the two travelers to the neighboring fields for a quick graze on such vegetation as was left, before the approaching storm forced them back in again. As they reached the center of town, they parted ways, as was their habit, Sam heading towards the marketplace, and Frodo to the bookseller's.
Frodo had meant to meet Sam at the Golden Perch at midday, but there was a box of volumes newly arrived from an estate out Bree-way, and it was late in the afternoon when Frodo heard the familiar voice uncertainly asking, "Mr. Frodo?" as he sat in a comfortable chair by the window, lost in the musty volume at hand.
"Oh, Sam," he startled up, hastily closing the book and jumping up to his feet, "what time is it anyway?"
"Late enough, Mr. Frodo. We'd best be off lest we lose all the light."
"Oh, we should have started sooner," Frodo sighed, hastily paying for the book and sliding it along with his other purchases in his pack. "You weren't waiting for me too long at the Perch, were you, Sam?" he guiltily glanced at Sam, striding beside him with two heavily laden sacks slung over his back.
"No worries, Mr. Frodo," Sam smiled at him. "Seems as if there's always a body about that I haven't seen for a bit, to have a nice chat with. But I don't think we'll be outrunnin' this storm." He frowned at the sun, setting opalescent in the cloudbank, and already swirls of thinly blown snow were gusting around their legs. And as night fell, the snow was driven harder, and became wetter, until the two hobbits found themselves trudging through a biting ice-storm, wind-blown sheets of hard pellets of hail. They had soon left the last small farms clustered around Hobbiton behind, and the night grew ever blacker, the stars and the moon hidden behind thick blankets of clouds.
Sam trudged alongside Frodo, although Frodo could not see him in the gloom, but suddenly stopped short. "Mr. Frodo," he suddenly called out to Frodo in the howl of the wind. "We should probably put up with the Cottons for the night. They'd not be mindin'."
Frodo knew that this was a sensible suggestion, but felt reluctant to agree to it. It was all very well for Sam to show up unannounced on the doorstep, but if he did the same, the reaction would be far different. The Cottons' smial was not much larger than that of the Gamgees, and there would be a fuss and a bother, and someone would insist on giving up his bed to Frodo. He felt that he should tell Sam to stay there as he continued on, but knew that he needed Sam's sure sense of direction and intimate knowledge of the roads around Bag End to get home.
Sighing unheard in the wind, he shook his head. "I'd really rather get back to Bag End, Sam," he shouted towards Sam. Abruptly, he suddenly felt quite alone. He hesitantly extended out his hand, searching for the familiar form of Sam.
And there was Sam, first his sturdy shoulder under a sodden cloak, and then Sam's strong hand, clasped firmly over his. "Right enough, Mr. Frodo," he heard Sam's shout, "we'd best not be wasting any time, then."
Frodo remembered that night quite clearly for many years. The fierce winds, driving the numbingly sharp bits of ice into his legs and face, the utter darkness that surrounded them, forcing them to find their way back by only their memories and the feel of the road under their chilled feet, and the feel of Sam's hand firmly clasping his, warm despite the chill that had crept into Frodo's very bones, and comforting beyond all imagination. He felt no fear through that long night, for Sam was with him. Cold and horrific as that journey was, his heart still sang within him, and he knew finally that he was in love.
They reached Bag End finally long after midnight. There was no question but that Sam would stay the rest of the night. "Like as not, they'll think we're with the Cottons, or that we've stopped in town," Sam answered Frodo's query as they slowly made their way to the smial.
"Stay with me, Sam," Frodo murmured in exhaustion as he leaned against the front door, one hand still tightly grasped in Sam's. Sam nodded, too tired for any other response, and allowed himself to be dragged into Bag End. They made their way down the dark corridors, and Frodo opened the door of his bedroom. Sam made a feeble remonstrance, but Frodo was too weary, too thoroughly drained, to pay it any mind. Unfastening his sopping traveling cloak and dropping it on the floor, he quickly helped Sam do the same. Then, still with Sam's hand firmly in his, he staggered to his bed and, pulling Sam with him, fell into the soft mattress, still fully clothed, and immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Sam awoke with the dawn's first pale grey light. It was a moment or two's work for him to place himself. What he was sleeping on was far softer than he was accustomed to, and he was warmer than usual due to a down-filled coverlet draped over him. These luxuries were partially offset by the fact that his clothes had apparently dried on him while he slept, and were now twisted around and dug into him in a rather uncomfortable manner. It didn't take that long to puzzle out where he was, and he sat up suddenly, taking care, however, not to disturb the coverlet. Yes, it was unmistakably Frodo's bed room, and Frodo's bed in which he found himself, and there was Frodo, still asleep, beside him. It was difficult to see much in the pale light other than the crown of dark curls, and Frodo's fair face under them against the white-clad pillow. Although he, too, was covered by the same coverlet, Sam could see by the bit of collar showing around Frodo's neck that he still must be dressed as well.
Sam carefully crept out of bed, so as not to disturb the sleeper, and noiselessly made his way through the dark smial to the kitchen. He lit the kitchen fire and, as he waited for the kindling to alight, absentmindedly pulled at and smoothed out his clothing. His mind was far from these matters though, as he stared into the growing flames. How had he found himself in Frodo's bed, and what did Frodo mean by that? "Ah, now you're bein' daft," he chided himself fiercely. "We were both just that tired last night that the both o'us weren't thinking at all. It was nowt but that." Still a small sigh escaped him at the memory of waking up so warm and comfortable, and Frodo beside him. The thought of Frodo's hand in his, through that long night's journey, came back to him as well, and how wonderful it had seemed to be holding it. "Useless dreams," he told himself sternly, as he picked up a couple of buckets to take to the water pump outside the kitchen door. "You're meant for a sensible hobbit-lass somewhere, Samwise Gamgee, and naught but that. There'd be no use throwin' your heart at the stars."
As he opened the kitchen door, he could see that the ice from the night before had changed back to rain again, and the clouds were beginning to break up in the west. The storm was nearly over.
Daisy, Marigold, and May sat about the kitchen fire in the late afternoon's fading light. Sam was up the Hill, as usual at tea-time, and the gaffer had taken advantage of the clear weather to visit the Green Dragon. Daisy was bent over the shirtsleeve that she was stitching for Sam, and Marigold was knitting a scarf with homespun. Who it was for, she would not tell, but her sisters suspected that it was for Tom Cotton. May sat with some kitchen towels that she had been hemming in her lap, but they lay forgotten as she was busily licking every drop of honey she could off of the old battered spoon that they had shared for their tea. "I think it's that hard," she finally declared petulantly, "that we cannot be havin' more than the one spoonful. Now, if we had some hives of our own, we could be havin' as much as we pleased."
Daisy looked up from her stitching, eyeing her sister levelly. "And it'd be you that'd be tendin' those bees, May Gamgee?" she queried, with a slight smile.
"Why, what else would we be havin' a brother for?" May tossed her curls with the dexterity of long practice, pausing to once more admire the effect as they settled into place. "Of course," she snorted, her wistful gaze on the spoon once more, "if it'd been Mr. Frodo as wished for honey, Sam'd be the first to be pluckin' the clover just for those bees."
"May, you know I'll not be havin' you say a bad word about Mr. Frodo," Daisy set back to work, but the look on her face was stern. "You know as well as I that it could have been Mistress Lobelia up on the Hill."
"And that nasty piece o'work of a son of hers," Marigold popped out, glancing up from her knitting and making a face. "Hoy! There's a face I'd not like to be seein' every day." The other two girls nodded at that sentiment. There was no question in the Gamgee household but that it had been a great day the day Mr. Bilbo brought Mr. Frodo to stay at Bag End.
"All the same," May continued, stretching out her toes luxuriously towards the fire, and admiring the effect of the light on her russet hair, "poor Rose'll be waitin' forever as long as our Sam is payin' court to Mr. Frodo."
" 'Tis what I'm afraid of," Marigold sighed, giving her yarn a small yank. "Tom'n I, we'd hoped.." but then she stopped, her face faintly rosy. "My! But this yarn knots so!" And grabbing the ball into her lap, she busily proceeded to unwind and wind it up again. Both sisters had been staring at her hopefully, but, as it seemed that no announcement was to be made, they returned to their previous thoughts.
"And what of you, May?" spoke up Marigold suddenly, determined to shift the general topic of conversation to her sister. "Which o'the lads would you be thinkin' of now?"
"Oh, 'tis a worrisome puzzle," returned May, delighted to discuss her dilemma. "That Ned, now, he'd be a fine lad, and he has three cattle, mind, but Hob, why he already has a smial all of his own, and that'd be fine." Sighing prettily, she thought a bit more. "And Johun, why, he certainly is a pretty lad, and well-spoken too, but with four brothers older that he, well…" she shrugged her shoulders, and her sisters knew that Johun's chances were not good.
"But don't you love any o'the lads, May?" Marigold burst out. "After all, that's what matters."
"Oh, you have your Tom, so it's easy for you to say," May tossed her head with a laugh. "But I, I say 'tis the best bargain as makes the best husband. After all, a lass must look for herself."
"And what of you, Daisy?" Marigold turned to her older sister. "What would you be sayin' on the matter?"
"Oh, she'd be thinkin' like you," May retorted before Daisy could speak, "for didn't she just turn down that Jem Bayberry, now, as has been widowed these two years? And wouldn't he and those four bairns just be needin' a lass about the place? They'd be sayin' that he'd have five cattle soon enough, and no end of a fine flock of geese."
"I'd not be marryin' for cattle nor geese, nor bairns, for that matter," Daisy replied shortly, concentrating on her stitches.
"Then what?" asked Marigold curiously.
"They'd be only one reason t'marry," Daisy looked over to her younger sister intently. "You know that as well as I, Marigold Gamgee. There'd be worse than ending your days livin' alone."
"And if he never comes?"
"Better he never come than he comes whilst you're bespoken to one who you'd be lovin' not," Daisy said firmly, carefully drawing the needle through the coarse linen. "For there never'd be anything in all the world so dear, and t'lose your chance at it, well…."
Her sisters eyed her intently, but she said no more.