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Sam was a bit nervous about the proposition, but that was a state of mind in which he had frequently been as of late. Since his moving into Bag End a week ago, his life had been turned upside down, and the straightforward threads of his previous existence had been knotted up into such a wreck of a snarled mess that he wasn't quite sure if he'd ever be able to unravel them again. Up until this last week, he had been used to being the one upon whom family and friends could always depend. He was, after all, the one son who had no intention of heading north to start life elsewhere. He had been content, and indeed quite happy, to follow in his father's footsteps, and take over the position to which his father had so faithfully given himself. Every one of his sisters knew that Sam was absolute reliability itself, when it came to doing any chore that needed a bit of muscle behind it, and what's more, it was done willingly, cheerfully, and usually before they got around to asking. And every neighbor and friend, within a mile or two about Number Three, knew that Sam was the lad to go to if ever an extra hand was wanted. Sam knew all of this as well of course, but what was more important, he somehow had grown accustomed to feeling that this was his place, his own particular strength. In his own mind, at least, he was not the cleverest of hobbits, nor the handsomest, nor was he gifted with his hands in any particular way. But being helpful was something that came naturally to him, and never failed to make him content with his position in life.
So the fact that his father was not speaking to him and, even more disturbing, had made quite sure that he did not even see Sam, was very distressing to him. Marigold was distracted by her recent marriage, of course, but neither Daisy nor May had been near Bag End, and Sam was really not sure if they wanted to see him at Number Three at all. He had not ventured to find out otherwise. It was as if the comfortable niche that he had made for himself in life had suddenly and unexpectedly given way, and he felt himself inadvertently falling, somehow, but into what, he did not know.
The only time that he felt secure and sure of his place right now was when he was in Frodo's arms at night, and they lay together in the great soft bed in Frodo's bedroom at Bag End, and Frodo kissed him, and called him his own dearest love, and Sam felt such happiness that nothing else in his life mattered in the least, other than the feel of those arms around him, those sweet lips on his, and the indescribable sensation of their two bodies together, skin to skin. The loss of his family was a price that he would pay, if he must, but when daylight came once more, he realized that he hadn't known how much it could hurt.
So when Frodo proposed a short walking tour, in the lovely early summer weather, he quickly agreed, even though he had never gone walking for more than a day without returning to his own home at night. After all, it was when he was alone with Frodo that he felt the happiest these days, and it seemed as if this trip would give him a chance to leave all these difficulties behind, at least for awhile.
Frodo had, with well hidden alarm, seen Sam's life abruptly change, and the once comfortable existence that he himself had known at Bag End was suddenly fraught with new difficulties. He could not think of what to do to help Sam, for his intervention would certainly do nothing but worsen matters, but it saddened him to see that the easy flow of everyday life between Bag End and Number Three, Bagshot Row, had suddenly come to an awkward end, and he felt certain that it was due to his impetuousness and blind desire to hold Sam close to him that this misfortune had come about. If he hadn't yearned for more than his blissful afternoons with Sam, if he had only had a little more patience since, after all, Sam was barely over a teen, then perhaps the gaffer would not have felt compelled to try to send Sam away, and matters would not have come to the point to which they had. He had been very greedy, he knew quite well, and that had been the real cause of this dilemma. Of course, he tried to reason with himself, he hadn't known that he was going to fall in love so very completely with a lad who had been around more or less half his life, and he certainly couldn't have known that that very same lad would answer his infatuation back to the extent that he would give up everyone who was dear to him, just for the chance to be with him, and return that passion.
He watched Sam stoically go through his chores, and anxiously looked for the least hint that Sam was regretting his decision. He briefly considered insisting that Sam return to his family, at least for the time being, but really there was no doubt now that such an insistence would only serve to possibly break Sam's heart, and unquestionably his own as well. He had made his choice, and Sam had as well, and now it was time for them to learn how to adjust to those decisions. But at least he could give both of them a few days away from everything that reminded them of the past, and so he had proposed the walking tour. A few days tramping about through the woods, and laying out under the stars would do the two of them, he was quite sure, a world of good.
He had made the proposal at first breakfast, and Sam blinked at the suddenness of the idea. "A walking trip? To where, Frodo?" he asked in surprise, stopping short in the midst of buttering the last piece of bread.
"Oh, I don't know," Frodo shrugged, giving his tea another stir. "Possibly to the west; it's been awhile since I went in that direction, I believe."
"Not to any place in particular, then?" Sam continued to question, still somewhat bewildered, but greatly relieved that this excursion did not seem to be involving any of Frodo's relatives. He most decidedly was not ready for any encounter along those lines, certainly not yet, and quite possibly never.
"No place in particular, Sam," Frodo took a sip of tea, glancing at Sam over the rim. "You know, just out and about. See where our fancy takes us, that sort of thing. Three or four days, possibly more, although I suppose you'd have difficulty being gone for a week."
"Aye, t'be sure," Sam felt alarm at that thought, a matter not at all hidden by his expression. " 'Tis summer now, and folk's have their hands that busy…" and left unspoken was the difficulty of asking anyone for help, things being as they were at the moment.
"Oh, of course," Frodo hastily agreed with him, although that had not actually been a consideration of his until this very minute. "Wouldn't want to impose. Four days should do quite nicely really, two days there and two days back again. I've never followed the other end of the Water that much; I'm rather curious as to where it goes." He refrained from mentioning that he and Bilbo generally had taken the eastern routes, towards the direction Bilbo had once gone upon his great adventure, and the direction that Frodo suspected he had gone when he left the Shire last autumn. Oddly enough, Sam's unspoken reluctance to meet up with any of Frodo's relatives was shared by Frodo himself, at least for the time being. The westerly routes, however, seemed safe enough.
"What sort of things should I be packin' for us then?" Sam asked, rather meekly, after several moments of contemplative silence.
"The usual," Frodo put down his teacup and gave him a slight smile. "Don't tell me you've never done this before, Sam. Haven't you ever gone to visit your brothers, at least?"
Sam shook his head, with a rueful look. "Not exceptin' for once when I was but a wee fauntling. 'Twas with my mam and the gaffer, when Halstad settled down for the first time up there, but I really don't remember naught, save for some fine trees on the way, and how the wind bit something fierce whistling through them. The most I had t'do with the packing was stayin' out of the gaffer's way, and mindin' Mari."
"Oh." Frodo was slightly surprised by this. He knew that working hobbits didn't generally have the time to go touring purely for pleasure, but he had assumed that Sam must have accompanied his father on a trip or two, and he was sure that he remembered Bilbo mentioning that he had brought Hamfast Gamgee with him, once or twice, on his visits to Brandy Hall. But the idea of walking about the countryside with Sam had quite charmed him by now, and he didn't mind, in the least, showing Sam how one went about it.
"Well, food's the main thing," he warmed to the topic, leaning forward in his chair and pouring himself another cup of tea. "That, and something to cook it in. If you're along the main roads, you can always pick up a bit along the way, but I don't expect that we will need to. Just the basics, of course, and then with any luck, one can find some berries, or a bit of game as one goes along. If the meals get to be too wildly boring, there's usually an inn to be found, and that's always as good a reason as any to sample the local brew."
"Sounds wonderful," Sam murmured, smiling shyly, with an elbow resting on the table and his chin propped up in his hand.
"Oh, it is," Frodo informed him reassuringly. "Food does taste amazingly delicious out under the stars, especially with a good pipe afterwards. It's nearly summer, and the weather has been lovely lately, so the only other items we'd need, I should imagine, would be a blanket each and a stout walking stick. Not too much to pull together, really. Perhaps we could be off by elevenses?"
"Oh, aye, I suppose so," Sam pulled up a bit at this, clearly a little startled. "But there's a bit of watering that I should be tendin' to first, an' the strawberries want pickin' or the birds will have them all before we get back, and…" his voice trailed away with some reluctance, as he stood up quickly, and cleared the dishes off to the wash basin.
"I can take care of the strawberries, Sam, that won't be a problem. What else needs to be done?" Frodo questioned him, curiously.
"Well, I'd best let those down the Row know where we're off to," Sam added quietly, keeping his back to Frodo. "They might be up this way, an', well, I should let them know," he ended, rather lamely.
Frodo got up at Sam's words, and walked over to him, wrapping his arms tightly around him and resting his forehead on Sam's shoulder. "It won't always be like this, Sam, dear," he said quietly. "I'm sure they'll get over it."
"Oh, aye, no doubt," Sam agreed softly, dropping his head, but bringing his hands up to cover Frodo's. "They'd be family, after all, and 'tis more a matter of the being worried than angry, excepting maybe the gaffer. 'Tis I who should be actin' like there's naught to be concerned about, and that'll bring'em round, sooner better than later."
Frodo kissed the back of his neck tenderly, but had no words to say as Sam left, his back squaring itself and his head held high as he strode purposely down the kitchen walk towards Number Three.
It was not long after elevenses, after all, when they left Bag End, closing the door neatly behind them. Frodo had decided to take the back road in the direction of Hobbiton, since it actually was more of an infrequently used path than a road, and there was very little chance of meeting anyone else on it. Besides, it cut down towards the village not far from the Water, and it rather looked, as he gave the map of the Shire in the study one last desultory glance, as if, as long as they headed in a generally straight direction, that they ought to run into the Water before very long. The idea of finding its end had quite fixed itself in his fancy now, and it seemed like a proper sort of goal for this adventure.
It was a lovely morning on which to begin a hike; blue skies with puffy clouds sailing past high overhead, and all the woods in their freshest late spring state. The path had grown over quite grassy, and indeed, if Frodo had not known it so well, finding it might have been a bit of a puzzle from time to time. Festive wildflowers were liberally strewn throughout the occasional small clearing, and the trees that lined the path were far on their way towards reaching their glossy green summer foliage. There was a bustle and chirping, as the hobbits passed quietly under the branches, for it was the end of nesting season, and they noticed more than one fledgling being coaxed into fluttery, uncertain flight by a patient parent.
Frodo felt his spirits rise immediately, for who could be gloomy on such a gay day? He adjusted his pack to fit a bit more comfortably over his cloak, which he really didn't need at all, and reached out for Sam's hand. Sam's fingers, strong with that delectable touch of roughness, intertwined easily with his, eagerly returning his clasp, and Sam gave him a warm return smile. Frodo had not asked any questions regarding Sam's brief visit to the Row, and Sam had not volunteered any information, but that was behind them now, and there would be plenty of time to discuss the matter before they returned, Frodo felt. Right now, what really mattered was the touch of sun on his face, and the green fragrance of the woods, and Sam at his side.
They reached the fork in the path, where they generally turned down towards Hobbiton, about mid-afternoon. "I've never gone this other way," Frodo said thoughtfully, as they stood at the junction, and both gazed in the other direction. "But Bilbo told me that it eventually hits the road from Hobbiton to Nobottle, in the direction of the Bindbale Woods. The Water is either on this side of it or the other, I'm not too sure which, but no doubt we'll run across it soon enough. After all, this is the very heart of the Shire; I can't imagine we could get too terribly lost."
Sam nodded trustingly in agreement, and gazed down the nearly imperceptible passage through the trees. If the other path had been overgrown and difficult at times to follow, this one was even more lightly trod, and Sam was privately not sure if it was indeed a path at all, and perhaps nothing more than a deer track. He was confident in Frodo's experience in these matters, however, and took the opportunity to glance at the trees around them. The pines, he was conversant enough with, and the oak and larch as well, but there were some tall darkish trees with which he was not familiar.
"Oh, those?" Frodo responded thoughtfully, as Sam asked what they might be. "Actually, I don't think I can tell you. Bilbo knew all of this, but I never thought to ask him. Tell you what, Sam," he laughed, throwing an arm around Sam's shoulders. "You need to collect some leaves, or bark, or something of the sort. Then when we get back, we can see if we can find them in Bilbo's books. Pity I didn't bring any sort of a sketchbook with me, I suppose."
Sam gave a satisfied nod at that proposal and walked over to one of the trees in question. It was then that the difficulty presented itself, for the tree really was quite tall, with no branches within reach. "'Tis naught in the way of leaves, but more of a needle, like pine," Sam eyed it contemplatively. "But that rough bark, now, that'd never be pine, nor fir, neither. Well, I'd best be givin' it a good look, for there's naught much else I'd be able t'bring back with me."
Frodo joined him then, and gave the tree a close appraisal. "I can get up that," he announced, with a certain amount of satisfaction. "I'll cut you off a bit, Sam."
"You can't be climbing that high, Frodo!" Sam protested almost immediately, in alarm. "Why, 'tis eight feet to the nearest branch, if not more!"
But Frodo laughed, confident of his skill. "Of course I can. The product of a misspent youth, Sam," he insisted, gaily. "I never paid any attention when there was something useful to be learned at Brandy Hall, but skills such as climbing trees, holding my breath underwater, and pilfering current buns from behind Cook's very back? Ah, there was never my like in abilities such as those, as Merry could well tell you. You've a pocketknife on you, don't you, Sam?"
Sam uneasily produced it, and Frodo slipped it into his own pocket. "Right, then," he studied the rough trunk with the air of an expert. "Just a little boost up, now, and I'll make for that low branch." He pointed it out authoritatively to Sam.
"Frodo, you really don't need to…" began Sam uncertainly, but Frodo already had one foot up, waiting for his hand. With an inward sigh, Sam bent slightly, and hooking his hands together, brought them under Frodo's foot and lifted as high as he could, as Frodo scrambled up the trunk.
He had to admit, as he watched Frodo's progress, that Frodo actually was quite a good climber, lithe, with strong arms and toes, and a powerful grip. The coarse bark did have the benefit of allowing him a toehold, and he was within reaching distance of the lowest branch in no time. Leaning into the trunk, he reached into his pocket with his right hand, as his left arm wrapped around the tree, and brought out Sam's knife. It only took a practiced flick of the wrist to open it, and reaching out toward the branch, Frodo, with, if Sam had been able to see it, his tongue very slightly stuck out with the effort, slashed as best he could at the nearest needle cluster on the branch. But perhaps he hadn't climbed up quite far enough, for with a cry of dismay, he felt himself overbalance, and inadvertently opened his hand, dropping the knife.
Sam gasped below in sudden fright, watching Frodo waver, and he only just ducked the falling knife. His hands flying involuntarily to his mouth, he saw one of Frodo's feet losing its hold, and both of his arms embrace the rough trunk as he began to slide down the tree. He landed in the grass with a sharp intake of breath and a loud whump, and Sam flew to his side in an instant.
"Oh, Sam, I'm fine, really I am," Frodo shook his head with embarrassment as he gingerly picked himself up, and checked himself cautiously for damage. "Nothing worse than some scrapes, fortunately. It's what I get, I suppose, for fancying myself a teen still. Not quite as light as I once was."
But Sam refused to be distracted, and carefully grasping Frodo's hands, turned them palms up. They showed clearly enough the marks of his skid down the tree, being scraped and bloodied, and Frodo gave them a rueful look. "Some of that salve of yours would have done nicely, I suppose, but that can't be helped, I'm afraid. I certainly don't want to turn back now, just to fetch it, just on account of my clumsiness."
"Well, now, let me just see," Sam blinked at Frodo's words, and reached one hand down to search his pocket. "If this ain't a piece o'luck," he murmured, giving Frodo a sudden smile. " 'Tis my gardening jacket, after all, and happens as I was pruning the roses last week. I popped this in my pocket, just in case, as it were, and a good thing, too." Triumphantly he produced a small twist of oiled paper from his pocket. "Have a sit, m'dear, and let your Sam see to those poor hands."
So Frodo sat in the grass under the tree that had been the cause of it all, and Sam opened the twist, revealing the daub of salve that he had put away in his pocket. Gently, and with the greatest of care, he first found a cloth in his pack, and the water bottle, and washing the dirt away, then eased the salve into the scrapes. "No ink marks," he mused, glancing up to see Frodo watching his face with a loving smile.
"Haven't spent much of my time in the study, this past week," Frodo replied softly, his smile deepening. "Perhaps we should find someplace to stop for the night fairly soon."
"Aye," Sam answered his smile, his heart, as always, leaping into his throat and his pulse quickening at the sight of Frodo's look of desire. "That would be right nice."
"Very well then," Frodo stood up, decisively. "A little further away from the cross-roads, I should think. Sing out as soon as you spot a likely location, Sam. Oh, and here," he stooped, picking up a couple of objects and handing them to Sam with a grin. "Your knife. And your branch. Let's only collect specimens on the ground from now on, shall we?"
But the further down the path they found themselves, the less likely there seemed to be a good location in which to camp. The trees were high overhead, and the bushes underneath were thick indeed, and unless they planned to camp directly in the middle of the road, there didn't appear to be many alternatives. And it wasn't more than a half hour later that the first of the drops hit Frodo, on the nose and then on the hand, and he glanced up in dismay. "Rain," he muttered. "Lovely. And a brisk breeze as well. Where in the name of all that's good did that come from? Well, perhaps if we spread out the cloaks over some branches, and build ourselves a snug campfire…. oh, bollocks!"
Sam stopped at that exclamation, and watched in surprise as Frodo suddenly began to search through all of his pockets and then, snatching his pack from his back, it as well. Finally he gave a sheepish glance up over to Sam, distinctly embarrassed. "Forgot the tinder box," he admitted. "Bilbo always brought it, and I never thought…. I don't suppose you did?"
Sam shook his head in dismay, and Frodo gave a frustrated sigh. "Marvelous. I'm really not too sure where we are, I don't mind telling you Sam, and now it's chilly and raining, and I have no way of making a fire for us tonight. I suppose we might as well pack it in, and try to head back to Bag End at least as far as we can get, before it becomes too dark. It's not going to be a very pleasant evening though, I'm afraid."
"No," Sam said quietly, after a moment's thought. He laid an encouraging hand on Frodo's arm, and continued. "I don't mind any of this, Frodo, as long as you don't likewise. Let's just go on a little more, and see what we can find, in the way of a place t'rest for the night. Tomorrow will be another lovely day, I'm sure of it, and I'd not want to go back, not just yet."
Frodo studied his face for a minute, and then smiled back lovingly. "Always the optimistic one, aren't you, my dear? Very well, let's try to find someplace just a little further on, and if not, I suppose the path will do."
The sun should have stayed out much longer, as near to mid-summer's day as it was, but the quickly thickening dark bank of clouds was bringing the darkness on faster than expected when Sam, looking up from the path, spied a glimmer off in the distance. "What's that, Frodo?" he asked, slightly apprehensive, reaching out and catching hold of Frodo's arm, and wiping the rain out of his eyes with his other hand.
Frodo stared off in the direction that he was pointing and soon saw it too. "Well, it appears to be the light from a smial," he announced, somewhat uncertainly. "Possibly, there's a better road somewhere about as well, but perhaps we could find a shed, or an outbuilding in which to stay for the night. But we'd better make our way there before we altogether lose the light, for this underbrush is decidedly thick."
It was thick, and thorny and prickly as well, so it took some going to reach what finally turned out to be a small inn tucked into the side of a crumbling hill and bordered by, Frodo noted with surprise in the fading light, a broad and well-trod road. There was a faded board hanging above the entrance announcing that they were in the presence of the Rusty Thrush, but even without that indication, it was unmistakably an inn, to judge from the warm light and sound of voices from behind the partially open door.
The rain was coming down now in earnest, as Frodo and Sam stood in the shadow of the tall poplar that sheltered the entrance. "I suppose that this is a good a place as any to put up for the night," Frodo grasped Sam's hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze, and they started to enter. But just then, there was a loud cry from within, and the round door was flung wide open, nearly in their faces. The stout figure of an older hobbit was propelled out rather suddenly from inside, nearly colliding with them, before managing to gain his balance as the door banged shut again.
"Pardon me, I'm sure," Sam stammered out, reflexively, as the older hobbit shook himself off and gave the newcomers a glare.
"You'd want t'be mindin' yourselves, young sirs," he growled, jamming a battered cap on the top of his already wet head, "if you're plannin' to go on in. An infamous lot, they is, and tight with their brew, likewise."
His complaint might have had more credibility to it, however, without the very noticeable scent of the brew which the speaker had already consumed, so Frodo gave him a polite nod, and said, "Thank you very much for the warning; we'll keep our heads about us. But any shelter in a storm, you know."
With a shake of his head, and a huff that clearly disclaimed all future responsibility, the older hobbit disappeared into the rain, and Frodo reached out to open the well-scuffed door.
It was a crowded room that night, with a rather boisterous crowd and a noticeably frazzled lass serving the guests. Frodo looked around unnoticed for several moments for the proprietor until a hoarse voice from an ancient hobbit, seated close to the door, yelled out, "Hoy! Willum! There's summat new here f'ye!"
Willum turned around from a large keg at the side of the room, that he'd been in the process of trying to hoist onto his back, and gave the newcomers a quick glance. "Aye, then, I'll be there once I get this round to the front," he called out, turning back to the obviously full keg.
"Here, now, let me give you a hand w'that," Sam slipped behind the elderly hobbit and made his way back to the burly proprietor to offer assistance. "Looks like a handful."
"No mistake about that," puffed the proprietor as he bent his knees, struggling to lift it. "Just help me get it up, that's all I'd need."
Sam grasped the other side then, holding it up and letting the older hobbit bend down to get a shoulder under it. "Aye, that's it," he grunted, lifting it up with the skill of long practice, and quickly toting it over to the counter.
"Well, then," he exclaimed with satisfaction, setting the keg down on the counter with a solid thump, "that will do right nicely." With a quick swipe of his forehead and hands with a well-used handkerchief, he gave Sam a wide grin and stuck out a broad hand in greeting. "A round on the house for you and your friend, or my name ain't Willum Broadbur. And welcome to the Rusty Thrush on a sorry a night as we've had in awhile. Fair cut right loose out there, didn't it just?"
"True enough, that it did," Sam answered with a smile. "I'd be Samwise Gamgee then, and my…" It was there he stopped, turning and unsure as how to identify Frodo.
But Frodo was there, at his elbow, and stuck a hand out to shake as well. "Sam's friend, Frodo Baggins," he added smoothly, "and most happy to find your establishment. We really hadn't come prepared for this type of weather at all."
Willum gave a grunting chuckle at Frodo's remark. "Ah, to be sure, not a one did. But 'tis still spring, and as fickle as the finest of lasses, as the sayin' goes. Baggins, did you say?"
Frodo nodded, but did not elaborate. However, the elderly hobbit by the door had been watching and now made his slow and bandy-legged way up to them. "I'd remember a Baggins, from down Hobbiton way," he frowned, giving Frodo a careful look. "But you ain't him a'tall. He'd be an older chap, and not near as dark."
"Bilbo Baggins, my cousin," Frodo explained politely.
"Well, that's not the one as comes to mind t'me," Willum responded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "There's a Baggins which is taller. About this un's age but more pimply about the face," he added, contemplatively.
"Most likely Lotho Sackville-Baggins, another cousin," Frodo managed to keep from grinning at that description of Lotho.
"Aye, most likely," Willum nodded, having gone through his recollections of Baggins' and not having found Frodo. "Anyways, you're more than welcome t'stay the night, but I'm afraid we're not the sort of inn as has rooms. Just the space what's in front of the fire. We generally clear away the tables, later on, and if you can find a spot to stretch out, why, you're more than welcome to it."
"That would be very kind of you, and we certainly would appreciate it," Frodo answered, knowing that it would be better than a soggy evening out no matter even if it was a little crowded.
"I'm not sure as I'd call it kind, seeing as how you'll be paying me for it," Willum flashed the two of them a grin, "but on a night such as this, I'd wager you'll be thinkin' it a good bargain." Reaching out for the empty mug the old hobbit had brought over with him, he filled it and handed it back with a grunted, "There you'd go, old'un."
"Keep an old hobbit company. The name's Tom," the recipient lifted his mug as Willum passed one each to Frodo and Sam as well. "Just you be leavin' your packs there by the wall. They'll be safe enough there, no matter what that Bill might a'told you on the way in."
Frodo laughed as he and Sam sat down at the table, after following the old hobbit's instructions regarding their packs. "I must say I did have a bit of concern, but the night is not one in which to be out."
"Oh, there's not a bit o'harm in him; he just doesn't like goin' home," Tom chuckled. "But look at the pair o'ye, now. You must work the land," he eyed Sam as he leaned back in his seat, taking a pipe out of his pocket and tamping it on the table. "You've got a strong back, t'be sure, and a bit o'color about ye. But you…" he turned then to Frodo, giving him a piercing look. "An indoors job, no mistake. What is it, lad?"
"I keep books," Frodo declared, after a quick moment's thought, and saw Sam's grin at his answer.
"Ah, I knew it then!" Tom exclaimed in triumph. "I can allus tell, that's what they'd tell me. Well, I'm that glad to see your friend taking you out in the country, for you certainly could use a bit of color, if you'd allow an old hobbit a free tongue. So where are you off to, lads?"
Sam was ready for that question though. Following Frodo's lead, he boldly replied, "I've a couple of brothers as live up North Farthing." Even though it had nothing at all to do with their trip, it was undeniably true, and Sam's cheeks were pink with pleasure as he returned Frodo's tickled glance. That satisfied the old hobbit's curiosity, and as both Sam and Frodo had found their own pipes, the rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.
It did end up being somewhat crowded on the floor, that evening, as several of the local inhabitants decided, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, to remain at the inn until the morning. Frodo and Sam had found some space near the edge of the room, fortunately near the one window, which was left cracked open for a bit of fresh air. Just as well, for even with the fire dying down to embers, the atmosphere of the small inn was a trifle close.
Tom had left for his own smial as soon as they began clearing the oak tables to the sides, not wishing, as he said, to make the old lady fret at home. Other patrons did not seem to share his concern, as they took a quick look outdoors, into the rainy night, and turned back into the common room with a shrug. "Ah, she knows where t'find me," one lanky hobbit muttered to his comrade with a grin, who nodded agreement.
"Long as you're back in time for first breakfast," his friend laughed, clapping him on the back in a jovial manner. "Not as it's never happened before, now, is it?"
So Sam and Frodo were mostly left to themselves, other than an occasional friendly nod, and Frodo pulled his blanket out of his pack, where he had thrust it as soon as it had started raining. "I suppose this is better than trying to huddle under a bush out there," he murmured, as he tried to make himself comfortable on the blanket, drawing his cloak over himself, "but it really wasn't what I had in mind for tonight. Not exactly a peaceful evening under the stars."
Sam quietly chuckled as he followed Frodo's example. "Seems like a quick storm, just passin' through," he reassured Frodo. "Tomorrow will be fair, no doubt. And mayhap we might be able to pick up a tinderbox near abouts here."
"Oh, good thinking, Sam," Frodo reached out for his hand under the cover of their cloaks, turning on his side to face him.
The room settled down quickly, but sleep would not come to Frodo as he lay there listening to the strange assortment of noises that issued from the room's occupants. Finally cocking an eye open, he saw, in the dim light from the embers, that Sam's eyes were open still as well.
"Can't sleep either, Sam?" he whispered, scooting in a little closer to him.
Sam gave a slow smile. "Ain't right," he murmured. "You're here all right, but not enough of you, if you catch my meaning."
Frodo ventured a quick kiss on Sam's cheek for that comment. "Clothes are an infernal nuisance, aren't they?" he smiled tenderly back at Sam. "So much better without them. I can't believe how fast I've gotten used to you being in my bed without the bother of them. It's only been…"
"Eight nights," Sam instantly replied, tightening his grip around Frodo's hand and his expression unmistakably devoted. "Eight nights I've spent with you. Not countin' this one, of course."
"Oh, Sam, my dear," Frodo, touched, reached out a hand to caress his cheek. "You'll lose track soon enough, my love, because there will be so very many of them."
Sam chuckled, in quiet denial, and murmured, "Never, me dearie. I've a good memory, you know, and there ain't a one I'll ever be forgettin'. An' especially this one."
Frodo reached out then, and pulled a quite amenable Sam close to his side. "I suspect neither of us will forget this one, dearest. But none of them know us; I don't care what they think. At least I can hold you, Sam, and maybe we can at least get to sleep."
And eventually, they did.
Sam was correct, as Frodo had fully expected him to be, and they set off early the next morning, which was as clear as could possibly be, with a new tinderbox courtesy of Willum and a fresh loaf of bread as well in Frodo's pack. The rest of the occupants were still sleepily stirring on the floor as the proprietor handed the two travelers a bundle of items to be eaten along the way, as well as an admonition to be sure to stop by on their way back. "We'd be not seein' much in the way of new faces in these parts, and me Da fair took t'the pair of you."
"Old Tom?" asked Frodo, slightly startled, as he had not suspected the connection.
Willum grinned and winked at them. "Doesn't like any special favors, he don't." But he was distracted at that point by a sleepy dispute by two groggy hobbits as to who had snored louder than the other the night before, so with a last wave of farewell, they left the Rusty Thrush.
The only remnant of last night's rain was the muddy condition of the road, but it dried quickly enough under the bright rising sun, and the woods that lined their way appeared freshly washed and brilliantly green. Stopping not too far from the inn, they ate the breakfast Willum had thoughtfully provided for them; a wheel of cheese, a handful of dried apples, and the quite tasty loaf of brown bread. "We may as well finish off the water," Frodo commented, shaking his flask a bit, "for I am sure now that we are not far from the Water. I checked with Tom the night before, and this is definitely the road from Hobbiton north to Nobottle, so it should come up on the left any time now."
He was absolutely right, for the broad willow-lined stream soon appeared just where he thought it might, glistening gold in the sun, since it was fairly shallow at this point. "Let's get off the road now," he proposed at the sight of it, turning to Sam with a smile. "It wasn't the most restful of nights, last night, and it would be lovely if we could find somewhere to camp early. Some place quite secluded as well, not so near the road, I should hope."
Sam instantly saw the attraction of this plan, so they climbed down the sandy bank from the road, and began to follow the lazily meandering river. The rain of the previous day was gone, as if it had never occurred, and the sun shone comfortably upon them as the two hobbits slowly made their way through the small rivulets and tributaries that spun off from the mighty Water. They chatted gaily as they walked hand in hand leisurely along the sands, gleefully discussing their companions from the night before, and paying only occasional attention to their surroundings other than their immediate footing. By noon, the road and any sign of hobbit inhabitants had long since passed from view, and they seemed to be in an older and slower world, where the broad Water glinted with a golden shimmer, and whispered and burbled to itself; a far cry from the swiftly flowing river that passed under Brandywine Bridge far to the eastern side of the Shire. Willow lined the banks, as well as other trees that liked their toes in the water, and rushes and reeds grew thickly between them. The only other creatures to be seen was the occasional family of ducks, who paddled right up to them, as they walked by on the shore, and eyed them curiously with tilted heads. Both Sam and Frodo couldn't help laughing as the fowl discussed them in muttered quacks and then, obviously deciding that they were of no import, returning to their business of bobbing underwater, tail feathers waggling high.
By afternoon, as the sun was beginning to arch to the west, the two travelers turned their attention to finding a suitable campsite for the night. The ground underfoot, though, was still a bit mucky, and Frodo stopped and looked back toward the direction of the road. With a start, though, he saw that somehow they had managed to become surrounded by the Water; and that there were rivulets interspersed with grassy muddy banks on either side of them. It was only then that he began to vaguely remember that this end of the Water, on Bilbo's old map, had had the word "marsh" written somewhere about it.
He mentioned this rather hesitantly to Sam, but Sam gave an unconcerned shrug, and reassured him, "A little soggy, t'be sure, but it doesn't rightly look like a marsh t'me. We'd just be needing a patch of dryish ground, t'build a fire on."
"You're right, Sam," Frodo cheered up at that thought. "The blankets should be enough to protect us from a bit of damp ground, and the surroundings are definitely more peaceful and pleasant that those of last night."
And they were, too, until after dinner.
Dinner had been taken care of, and the decision had been made to forego pipes for the evening, when Frodo spread the both of their blankets over the driest patch of land that he could find. The two blankets, he reasoned, should be enough to keep them from the damp, and there were still their cloaks in case they needed some sort of a cover. For the time being, though, that did not seem to be the case, for the evening was wonderfully soft and balmy, and the stars were quite bright in the early night sky. He and Sam had nestled on the blankets together, and were lying side by side and both staring dreamily up into the gradually darkening purple overhead.
"The very same stars, Frodo," Sam murmured, in a sort of wonder. "Just like those over Bag End."
"Well, yes, Sam love, but we really aren't so very far from home yet," Frodo answered, with a bit of amusement.
"Seems that way t'me," Sam turned his head, glancing at him with a slight smile. " 'Tis the furthest I've ever been, no mistake."
"Oh, I suppose you are right," Frodo hastened to assure him with a slight tightening of his hand that grasped Sam's. "But I believe that the sky looks the same pretty much all over the Shire. Certainly, I never noticed a difference between the stars I saw at Brandy Hall and those at Bag End. I imagine one would have to go quite far away to see different stars."
"Do you think we ever will?" Sam asked softly, turning back to gaze at the sky again.
"Perhaps," Frodo responded quietly. "I'm a Baggins, after all, and we have been known to wander. But I'm no Bilbo, my dear, I can't imagine leaving alone."
"Well then," Sam turned back again, and quietly reached out to touch Frodo's cheek. "That's all as matters t'me. Just as long as you let me tag along, Frodo, me dear."
"Oh, Sam. As if I never would," breathed Frodo, and covered Sam's hand with his own. "At last," he continued in a low tone, but with a smile in his voice. "This is what I had had in mind the entire time, you know. No one but you and me, and the stars above." Rolling to his side and facing Sam, he ran a thoughtful finger down Sam's nose and stopped at his lips. "I missed these terribly last night," he whispered, and leaned over for a kiss. Sam's mouth opened promptly to his and tongue eagerly met tongue. "I missed this too," Frodo murmured, as soon as he found breath to speak again, slipping a covetous hand under the collar of Sam's shirt, and finding smooth warm flesh there.
"Ah," gasped Sam, drawing a knee up, and leaning in to Frodo. "Can't say as I didn't, likewise."
Frodo laughed aloud at that response, and drew his hand down, tugging Sam's shirt out from his trousers. "Fortunately there's no one about for miles, save the ducks," he murmured, in a throaty voice, running a slow greedy hand up Sam's firm side under the shirt. "And they don't seem to be very curious about us at all."
"Aye, I did notice that," Sam's response was markedly husky, and his hand joined Frodo's. Frodo could feel him hesitating for just the moment, and then he boldly directed Frodo's hand down to where Frodo had been planning to send it all along, down under the still-fastened trousers, to where Sam was unmistakably ready for him.
"Sam!" Frodo exclaimed in pure delight, laughing aloud for joy. "You are catching on rather quickly to this camping under the stars thing." His hand caressed and enticed, and Sam gave a heartfelt groan, clamping both of his hands tightly over Frodo's.
Frodo felt himself in the very same condition as Sam at this point, and there seemed to be very little point in continuing the preliminaries, so finding Sam's mouth again, and using his kiss as an apology for withdrawing his hand, he rapidly unfastened his own clothing, and broke from Sam's delectable mouth for just the moment to sit up and strip himself of all clothing. Sam had taken the hint, and had just as rapidly removed his own, and in no time, they were in each other's arms, with no aggravating fabric in between.
"Ah, Sam, dearest one," Frodo breathed, inflamed with an overpowering joy once again at the beloved form he held in his arms. "How I managed to get through the days, without you to look forward to each night, I'll never know."
Sam smiled up at Frodo, who had rolled the both of them with himself on top, and reached up to touch Frodo's curls, his eyes aglow in the starlight, and his expression still holding more than a hint of wonder. "You are a marvel as I never dreamed of, Frodo-love, and no mistake," he whispered softly, and let his hand slide slowly down the smooth plane of Frodo's cheek. "I still can't help feelin' as if the gaffer will be rousing me up to head for the fields, at any moment, an' I'll find 'twas all naught but a dream."
"No dream, my own darling," Frodo smiled tenderly, and bent his head down to give a lingering kiss to the base of Sam's throat. "No dream at all," he murmured as he continued up to just behind Sam's ear.
"Ah, Frodo, me dearie," Sam groaned, writhing instinctively under Frodo's skillful stimulation. "Aye, 'tis no dream, no ways. Just a wonder you are, me darling," and his hands reached down, cupping the silky roundness.
"Sam, dear Sam," Frodo's response was decidedly husky, as he let his hand glide between them, and ground delectably down on the enticing figure under him. "Ahhh, hi!"
The latter syllable was delivered in what was very nearly a squeak, and Sam quite suddenly found the luscious form that had covered him but a moment ago abruptly removed. Opening his eyes with bewilderment, for they had quite closed of their own accord not a moment before, he beheld Frodo standing up next to him with an unmistakably annoyed expression on his face. "I can't see it, Sam," he snapped, "but something has definitely taken unwelcome liberties with me."
It was then that Sam noticed that Frodo appeared to be massaging that very same roundness that he had so admired not a moment earlier. It was also only then that he began to hear the faintest of drones, a buzzing in the background. "Stinging mites," he exclaimed, in sudden understanding. " 'Tis the marshes they love, now."
"Definitely stinging something," Frodo growled in irritation. "And I can't even see the damage."
"I can, love," Sam successfully hid his smile at Frodo's exasperation. "Let me see your, erm, let me see you, m'dear." Sure enough, there was a bright red spot, visible even in the moonlight, on that milky skin. "Well, 'twill itch for a day or two," he clucked sympathetically, "but naught too bad, I'd be guessin'."
"One should hope not," Frodo retorted grimly, easing himself gingerly back down next to Sam. "An infernally awkward spot to scratch."
Sam couldn't help a laugh at Frodo's tone and expression. "Come here, m'dear," he enticed him, reaching out to Frodo's bare shoulder and running a slow hand down the front of his chest. "Let your Sam take your mind off o'it."
That was certainly an acceptable plan as far as Frodo was concerned, and he lay back down at Sam's side. Sam's leisurely caress journeyed on, to Frodo's side, around the smooth jut of his hip, and back in front again. With a yearning sigh, Frodo wrapped his arms around Sam, drawing him over himself. "My own, my dearest one," he invited him with an alluring push upwards, and Sam lost no time in accepting.
Sam's hand, between the two of them, had found them both, and Frodo inhaled sharply, drawing his leg up and encircling it around Sam. Sam's breathing was quickening, and Frodo felt his own falling into Sam's rhythm when that sudden sharp pain suddenly bit again, this time on his thigh. Involuntarily, he jerked upwards and gave a sharp muttered curse, as Sam froze in confusion. "Blast if they didn't get me again," Frodo explained, sitting up and glaring at the site of the bite. "Haven't they anything better than hobbit to eat?"
"They do seem that fond of you," Sam observed mildly, sitting up next to Frodo, not without a certain amount of difficulty. These sudden halts to the proceedings were becoming unmistakably awkward, not to mention painful.
"Afraid I can't return the sentiment," Frodo muttered in annoyance, rubbing at the latest reddening circle. He lifted his head up abruptly then, and gave Sam a look of unmistakably dismay, even in the lessening light. "Hear that, Sam?" he asked, rather nervously. "Getting louder, isn't it?"
Sam listened, and Frodo was quite right. The hum had increased, and there was a sense of activity in the air. "Here, Frodo," Sam exclaimed, snatching up the cloaks that had been carelessly dropped to the side of the blankets. "They can't be gettin' through this."
In a moment, Frodo was curled under the cloaks, quite covered, as Sam gave a last look about their campsite. There hadn't been much of a campfire, what with the damp ground, but he made sure what there had been was put out, and the packs were ready for the morning. Although he was still without the benefit of clothing, the mites paid no attention to him whatsoever, but rather seemed to be hovering over the wool-covered mound that was Frodo, humming in disappointment. After Sam saw that apparently they did not intend to disburse, he waved a still smoldering branch in their direction long enough to drive them away for a few moments, so that he could burrow under the cloaks to join Frodo. Unfortunately, any activity other than sleep was decidedly out that night, since Frodo did not dare stretch a limb out from the narrow confines of the cloaks. But at least they were able to fall asleep wrapped together, and some time during the night, the disillusioned mites left.
Sam poked his head out cautiously the next morning, but the interlopers from the night before were gone. Instead, the morning was misty, chilly, and damp, and a white haze seemed to rise from the Water itself, enveloping them in its soft clammy grasp. Sam gave an unconscious shiver, and glanced down at Frodo. He was still asleep, the cloaks falling away from his face, and Sam felt as if he could spend the morning in blissful contemplation of that fair countenance, with the long dark lashes resting against the creamy white skin, and the straight sharp nose jutting out over the soft rosy lips. He was the most dazzling being as ever was, he decided once again, and what he saw in a plain ordinary hobbit such as himself, Sam felt he would never really know. But it was not a mystery that he truly needed to understand, he conceded, reaching out to imperceptibly touch those dark curls, as long as Frodo loved him the way he did. And on that matter, he had no doubts whatsoever. Frodo did love him, as improbable as it seemed, and with a love that was for a lifetime. Sam could only feel humbled by that thought, and vowed once again to try his very best to never fail Frodo, no matter the cost. And the very first thing he could do, his practical nature reasserted itself, was to start the tea, and prepare the best breakfast he could manage.
Frodo awoke, therefore, to the alluring aroma of a steeping kettle, and toasted bread and cheese. "Oh, Sam, how late is it anyway?" he yawned, stretching luxuriously and then suddenly opening his eyes quite wide as he remembered the events of the evening before. "They aren't still around, are they?" he asked, anxiously, suddenly ready to pull the cloaks back over himself again.
"No, they'd be evening creatures," Sam chuckled, pulling the mugs from his pack. "As long as we find drier ground by tonight, they'd not be botherin' us again."
"Bothering us?" Frodo responded, a trifle sharply, as he stood up and stretched his cramped limbs. "I just don't understand why it was me they took a fancy towards. Seems to me they could have shared us."
"Skin's too tough," Sam answered with a grin, holding out a steaming mug. "They'd not be liking the taste o'me, no ways."
Frodo gave a disgruntled grumble at that rationale, but the hot tea, and cool, creature-free morning air soon raised his spirits, and they were off before the mist had vanished in the summer's morning air.
Since they were two days from Bag End, it was time to be turning back, so Frodo stuck east towards where he anticipated the road to Nobottle would be found, and indeed, they reached it by second breakfast. The going was certainly easier after that, but not nearly as interesting, and Frodo had no desire to spend a second evening at the Rusty Thrush, no matter how welcome it had been in the storm a couple of nights ago. So he eyed the woods to the side of the road, and when he spotted a promising semblance of a path, stopped short.
"I'm quite likely to lose us again, Sam," he explained, glancing at his companion rather apologetically, "but I'm hoping that we might meet up with the fork of the back road from Bag End, where we left it a couple of nights ago. Of course, we may never see Bag End again, but I'd rather walk through the forests than this dusty road."
"Of course, me dear," Sam agreed instantly, with a smile. "We can't be but that far away, I'd be thinkin'."
So they climbed up the bank of the road and into the trees, and Frodo did indeed feel his spirits lift at the fresh green fragrance that quickly surrounded them. Perhaps, he thought, this trip might not end as the complete disaster that it had been up until now. The forest was close around them for most of the morning, as they walked along in a companionable silence, hand in hand. But sunlight shone through the leaves overhead mixed with dappled shadow, and the faint path was cool under their toes with spring's fresh grass. At first Sam had his doubts as to whether there really was a path, but just when it seemed to fade into a complete close, Frodo would glance about, and sure enough, find it continuing on the other side of the clearing. It was obvious that Frodo had had training in woodcraft, and Sam found one more unsuspected reason to admire his lover.
By mid-afternoon, they found themselves under a grove of gnarled oak trees, and casting a chance glance upwards, Sam spotted a large hive attached to a great branch, and a steady stream of bees coming and going from it. "Look," he pointed it out to Frodo. "There's no flowers about that I've seen, but 'tis busy indeed."
Frodo gave it a curious examination. "I wonder," he said softly, and then looked over to Sam with a smile. "Let's follow them, Sam," he suggested, impishly. "After all, they must be feasting on something, as industrious as they seem, and I see nothing but the deepest of woods about us. Perhaps it will be a more promising place to stop for the night. I have no idea how far off we still are from home, but we really haven't had an undisturbed night yet, and I'd not be surprised if you never cared to go camping again. It would be lovely if we could spend a peaceful evening together."
"Peaceful?" Sam crooked an eyebrow up at that suggestion, and Frodo burst into laughter.
"Very well, perhaps peaceful isn't exactly the mood that I was thinking of, but as long as the local fauna will let us be, I won't ask for more."
Sam grinned in response, and they left the faint path, following the flight of the bees. Through thick brush and silent woods they made their way, with Frodo keeping his reckoning with a careful eye on the sun and the prominent landmarks as they went along. But it wasn't long before they found the bees' destination.
From under the trees they emerged and found, stretching before them, a wide field, completely covered in high grass thickly mixed with clover. "Oh!" Sam exclaimed, stuck in wonder by the sight. "Ain't it that lovely!"
And truly it was. No trees interrupted the low sea of green that spread out before them, only the occasional brightly golden dandelion or deep blue lupine. It was no higher than their knees, and the clean scent was temptingly soporific, as they stood on its border, gazing at the lovely scene. The bees lazily flew back and forth over the field, buzzing in contentment and completely ignoring the strangers in their midst. As they both looked about themselves in delight, Frodo detected, under the hum of the bees, another sound. "Listen, Sam," he exclaimed, turning to his companion with a delighted smile. "Water!"
Sam heard it as well, a cheerful splashing only faintly audible in the distance.
"I didn't know there was any other stream in these parts," Frodo admitted, "but it certainly sounds like one to me. I don't know about you, but I definitely wouldn't mind getting my toes wet. Let's look into this."
That sounded tempting to Sam as well, so they started across the wide green field, leaving the woods farther and farther behind them. There were no trees bordering the far side of the meadow, and as they neared it, they were startled to see that the ground on which they stood was actually the top of a fairly high hill. The source of the burbling sound was there too, a small clear spring that flowed down the side of the hill in a series of terraced sparkling pools, before it disappeared down into the verdant valley below.
"Why, I never knew this was here," exclaimed Frodo in delight. "We can't be that far off from Bag End, after all, but this is marvelous!"
Sam couldn't help but agree as they gazed out over the rolling hills and tree-lined ridges that faded far off into a hazy distance. "I never knew the Shire was that big," he murmured in awe.
Frodo nodded in agreement. "You can never see all that much of it at once," he explained, "but I do know that you can go for days and days and still not leave the Shire." But lovely as the sight was, there was a more immediate concern in his mind. He studied the scene below them carefully, and then, with a smile, indicated a location to Sam.
"There, Sam, that second pool down. Wouldn't that be perfect? It seems to be fairly shallow, and the bank next to it is quite wide and level. We could camp there, this evening, and not have to worry about rolling down the mountainside, I should think."
Sam nodded in approval. "Naught of the flying nuisances, likewise, for they'd not like running water," he agreed. "And just at the edge, see there? A bit of wood for a fire."
"Just the thing," Frodo concluded with satisfaction. "Only a bit of clambering down that slope, Sam, and I think we'll be set."
It was in wordless agreement, as they reached the desired location, that they dropped their packs to the ground, and found themselves suddenly in each other's arms. All the pent-up desire of the past few days suddenly surged to the surface as they clutched tightly to each other; their mouths hungrily coupled together, and desire inflaming them both once again.
"Ah, then," groaned Sam, feeling his knees beginning to buckle as Frodo's hands found their way under his clothing and after caressing his back, began to find their way lower.
"Oh, my dearest Sam," moaned Frodo, no longer caring who or what might be about. They had had to make do for the past two nights, and that was something he did not think he could manage one more time. The thought of this beautiful lad, gloriously tempting and so unconsciously alluring, and who loved him with a deep unwavering love like no other he had ever known, was inflaming and intoxicating, and there was nothing else and no one else in his life who mattered even half as much. Sinking onto the grass, with an equally eager Sam in his arms, he vaguely realized that his foot was wet, falling into the pool of spring water, and he suddenly knew what he craved.
"Sam," he whispered hoarsely, between kisses. "The water."
Sam needed no further explanation. Breaking apart from Frodo only briefly, he instantly stripped himself of his clothing, throwing it in a most uncharacteristic manner to the side, and discovered that Frodo had done the same. Together they tumbled into the pool with racing hearts, unable to refrain from clutching each other tightly, and kissing nearly frantically. The water was clear and warmed perfectly by the afternoon sun, and the bottom of the pool sandy and delicious between the toes, but they never noticed as they found themselves at the edge with Sam on his back and only his head resting on the shallow grassy bank, fiercely pulling Frodo down hard over himself.
"Ah, Sam," moaned Frodo, as he planted a knee on either side of Sam's hips, and slipped one hand behind Sam's head. Sam's response was necessarily nonverbal, as they mouths met greedily yet once again, but Sam reached both hands around to grasp him from behind and pushed himself up to meet Frodo. A deep groan come from one of them, neither really knew who, as Frodo's hand expertly slipped between them and, efficiently yet lovingly, caressed and stroked and soon brought them both ecstatic relief. Only then, with a guttural cry, he slumped forward onto Sam's body, breathing in great gulps as his pulse gradually calmed itself. Sam was also breathing in a gasping rhythm, still trying to catch his breath as well, but both of his hands came up to cradle Frodo in his arms, and he tenderly kissed the side of Frodo's face as it lay on his shoulder.
"There, now, dearie," he murmured happily, gazing dreamily up past Frodo's dark curls at the golden clouds that were floating by in the late afternoon sky, and feeling the gentle water lap at his chest. "There, now, my own sweet one. 'Tis your Sam here with you, and no one could ever love you more."
Often, after that first trip, they tried to find the meadow again. That shouldn't have been very hard to do, for they were but a day's journey from Bag End, but they never found it again.