Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Sam padded softly through the unusually silent smial. Such a large family created so much of a ruckus throughout the busy, crowded days that the sudden quiet that nightfall and bedtime brought to the hole always seemed to Sam to be, well, a bit odd and quite unnatural.

Though, of course, there had been a time when silence was all that could be heard in Bag End. For many long years it had housed its sole occupants in unending peace and comfort, and yet that somehow seemed a lifetime ago, when dreaming was sweet and nightmares were nothing to be feared once awakened. Only thirty years had passed since the smial’s last truly quiet days. Only thirty. Now it stood quiet again if only for a few hours, as if in remembrance of days gone by.

Sam shook off the momentary longing and put out the fire in the main parlor, plunging the smial into complete darkness. Picking up his single candle, he walked, yawning, to the tunnel. He stood for a moment, his candle held aloft, staring down the darkened passage with its many doorways leading this way or that, when he was suddenly, unbidden, drawn into a memory from long ago of a much blacker passage, longer and ominous, where he had also stood alone with just a small light for comfort. A chill ran up his spine and for the briefest of moments, he was unable to move as the blackness pressed in around him. But this also was merely momentary. He allowed the moment to pass, then shook his head and chuckled softly.

“Now, none of that, Samwise,” he said to himself. “Nothing down there but sleeping children and a loving wife.”

With that, he headed softly down the tunnel. He checked the rooms, one after the other, counting the contentedly sleeping forms, ensuring himself that, as usual, all children were present and accounted for and tucked away safe for the night. The peacefully sleeping forms were a comfort to behold and he watched them all for a few moments each before moving on to the next room.

He paused at the end of the tunnel, where one room now stood empty. Elanor’s room. Or it used to be, he corrected himself. For Elanor was gone now, living in Greenholm past the Far Downs with her newly married husband. Sam was regretting letting her go so soon, still three years prior to her coming of age, but she had always been such a mature child – an old soul, as Rose would say – that he found he could not object when Fastred asked for her hand.

For Elanor’s soul was old and wise beyond her years. Even as a bairn, she would fix Sam with a wise and knowing stare, seeming to constantly reassure him that everything would be all right. Sam couldn’t help feeling guilty about taking comfort in that gaze in the months following Frodo’s departure, in asking so much of his firstborn child, who could not possibly understand the reason behind her father’s tearful gaze. Yet she would reach up a tiny chubby fist, curl her fingers through his hair, and squeal with laughter and cheer until her father would laugh and hug her fiercely.

And so the relationship was set. When the rare mood would strike him and he yearned for the road and Sea, it was always her who would call him back and root him in the present, and give him a firm hold to latch onto. More than Rose. More than any of the other children. And now she was gone. To the West. On the road to the Sea.

Sam once again shook himself to the present moment and closed the door shut. “At this rate, you’re never going to get to bed,” he chided himself softly and made his way to the room just across the tunnel, the last room. He peeked in and heard the sound of deep breathing from the many folds of bedclothes. Satisfied that all children were sound asleep, he began to close the door, but just as he was about to click it shut, a murmur from within caught his attention.

Sam reopened the door immediately and entered the room. “What is it lass?” he asked with concern, crossing the room to his daughter’s bedside.

“And why’s that?” Sam asked. He sat the candle on the bedside table and leaned over to brush soft brown curls away from his daughter’s face before pressing his palm to the lass’s forehead, checking for fever. “You aren’t coming down with that cold are you, Daisy?”

“No Dad, I just can’t sleep,” Daisy answered simply. “Do you think you could, maybe, stay with me and tell me a story?” she asked shyly.

Sam laughed softly. “Now, Daisy, you and your brothers and sisters already had your story for the night. Now go on to sleep.”

Sam was by no means an uncaring father, but he didn’t believe in indulging his children’s whims or giving them special treatment. With thirteen of them to tend to, there simply wasn’t the time. While he would sit down and read to one of the younger ones who may sometimes wake up in the night from a bad dream and find themselves afraid of the dark, Daisy was too old now to make such an excuse for her father’s time.

“Ah,” Sam said, setting down the candle again. “That’s the problem then, is it?” He sat down on the bed so that he faced his daughter.

“It’s just so strange without her here. She used to come ‘round and check on us too.”

Daisy nodded solemnly. “And now she’s not here to do that no more. And, maybe… one day… you won’t be here to do that either.”

“Now where would you get an idea like that?” Sam asked, shocked that such a thought would occur to the usually cheerful teen. Children always seemed to get the strangest notions in their heads as soon as they approached adolescence.

“I heard Elanor and Frodo talking about it just before she left, that one day you’d go over the Sea and leave us.” Daisy whispered this so softly that Sam barely heard her and had to lean forward to make sure he heard correctly.

‘Well,’ Sam thought, ‘I can’t deny that, but that won’t comfort the lass either.’ Sam sighed. There was nothing for it but to be honest and hope that was enough.

“Aye, that’s right enough I suppose, but not for a good long while, not ‘til after all of you are up and on your own leastways. By then, I bet you’ll be more than happy to get rid of your crotchety old dad.”

Daisy jerked her head up, shocked and appalled. “I would never! None of us – we wouldn’t –” she began, but then noticed the gleam in her father’s eyes and knew he had only been teasing. Daisy rolled her eyes. “Da-ad,” she complained.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Daisy couldn’t seem to think of a proper response to her father’s comment, and soon gave up trying to find one. Instead she turned her thoughts to the many other things nagging her mind. She was soon in deep concentration, sorting through all her questions and trying to decide which one was the more pressing as Sam waited patiently. Finally, Daisy seemed to decide on something and looked at her father questioningly.

Sam nodded slowly. “Could be. It happens that way sometimes. I’d much rather keep you all here close to home, but I know that isn’t possible. That’s just the way of it. Your Uncle Ham went to live up in Tighfield. Your Uncle Fred went up to the Northfarthing. Your aunts all went to be near their husband’s families. I’m the only one who didn’t go very far.”

“But you did,” Daisy said, eyes sparkling. “You went to the ends of the earth.”

“Aye, but I didn’t stay there, now did I?” Sam said, smiling softly before becoming serious again. “But most often as not, people leave and they don’t come back. And you’re right. Now that Elanor’s up and married, it will be different here. She’ll come and visit, but it won’t be the same. One by one, you’ll all go and start your own lives, and we that get left behind will have to adjust and go on as best we can. That’s just how it is. Understand, lass?”

Daisy nodded. “Aye, Dad, I do, though it’s awfully sad.” She sat in contemplation for a few moments, grappling with what her father had told her. She could always count on her father for getting straight to the heart of a matter, and not trying to hide the facts of life, as much as they may sometimes hurt. But now she really wouldn’t be able to get to sleep.

“So how about a story, then?” she asked again. “I can’t go to bed sad,” she added, glad to now have a legitimate reason for her father’s attention.

Sam sighed, knowing he would live to regret this in the morning. “Oh all right, but just one small story, and then to bed.”

“And then to bed,” Daisy repeated, smiling happily as she snuggled down into the sheets, delighted to have her father to herself for a while, as so rarely happened in such a large family.

Daisy loved her father’s stories more than anything else, and she had often been lulled to sleep by the sound of her father’s soft voice relating tales of adventure and sorrow, of brave men and heroic elves in lands so fair and far away they seemed like fairy-tale wonderlands. She had a hard time believing it was all real, that most of the stories she heard were at one point true in the vast and often forgotten history of this world. She often struggled with the reality of the tales, going over them thoroughly in a vain attempt to analyze them for any embellishments. That alone may be enough to explain her suggestion and the story that unfolded as a result of it.

Sam got up to retrieve a chair from the other side of the room and pulled it up to the side of the bed, so he could sit more comfortably as he told his tale. “But what tale should I tell?” he asked quietly to himself, musing over the countless stories that filled his head, trying to find one that fit the required criteria – short and cheerful, or at least with a happy ending.

“All right, that seems simple enough,” Sam said, then fell silent for a moment to think. “How’s this for a start:

“It was as perfect a spring day in the Shire as perfect days go. The flowers were blooming, bright and beautiful, in all their shades of red and blue, yellow and white, and orange and purple. The birds sang their songs up in their trees and the sun smiled down upon freshly clipped grass and the clouds in the distance promised rain in the evening. Hobbit folk bustled here and there in town, buying breads and trading gossip. No one had a care in the world, and no one wanted one.”

“That’s a very good start,” Daisy said and waited impatiently for the rest, more awake now than she had been before.

Sam smiled. “Well, it gets better – I hope.” He paused for a moment, then continued with his tale.

Summary #2 – Sam's bedtime tale. It's 1412 SR, six years prior to the events in LOTR, and the very beginnings of strange rumors in the Shire. But life is as it has always been – simple and innocent. Until something unexpected happens.

Least of all Sam Gamgee, but he had one nonetheless, and its name was Peregrin Took.

Sam was kneeling in the garden of Bag End that pleasant spring morning, attempting to do a bit of weeding. The near-noon sun gently warmed his back as he dug deeply into the soft soil in search of a particularly pesky root. He worked steadily and patiently, waiting for the earth to show him the way, and before too long he had the weed uprooted. He tossed it harmlessly into the clippings bucket before moving on to the next patch.

The morning had not gone exactly as the young gardener had expected, and he was behind in his work. He should have finished the weeding an hour ago and by now be trimming the rose bushes lining the walk path. He would have been too, but for the occasional interruption from Frodo, who was busy making last-minute preparations for his journey to Buckland. Frodo's young cousin Pippin was there underfoot as well, interrupting Sam in his own Tookish nature, that being boundless energy and endless curiosity which refused to be ignored.

“What are those?” he asked now, as he once again popped up behind Sam. He had been doing this all morning, disappearing on what he called 'strolls through the garden' and then showing up again with one endless string of questions after another. Sam could not be sure he really paid attention to the answers, though, as he could never seem to remember anything he was told. No doubt he would be asking again the next time he came to visit.

“These would be begonias, Master Pippin,” Sam answered easily, though he couldn't stop his brow from creasing ever so slightly as he spotted the soil on Pippin's feet, far too much for just a casual stroll. He would have to look into that once his master and young charge were gone.

Sam looked to where he was pointing. “Those would also be begonias, sir,” Sam replied, fighting to keep his smile from becoming a full-sized grin. To be fair, the bush had yet to bloom fully; the buds were still young and small. Sam reasoned it would be easy enough to mistake them for something else for one unfamiliar with them.

“How long will they bloom for? And why aren't those blooming yet when these ones here are?”

So began another string of questions which Sam answered as he continued working, looking up only when Pippin would start pointing again. Finally, the young Took seemed satisfied and went back to wandering around the garden as he waited for Frodo to finish with the packing. Pippin was already packed, as he had arrived only the day before and Frodo had not allowed him to unpack upon his arrival at Bag End. That was one hold up Frodo didn’t need to deal with if he could help it.

With Pippin distracted elsewhere, Sam was finally beginning to make progress with the persistent weeds when an unusually flustered Frodo leaned out the study window for the third time that morning.

Sam sat back on his heels as he pondered the question. “Aye, sir, it'd be in the chest next to your walking stick, in the second parlor, sir.”

Sam smiled and shook his head while he surveyed the remaining weeds. He decided they could wait until afternoon. He wasn't getting much work done at this rate anyway, and the sooner Frodo was off on the road, as much as he hated to see his master gone, the sooner he could get his tasks done. So he picked himself up, brushed himself off and washed up a bit at the pump before going to aid Frodo with the last of the packing.

Frodo, for his part, had done quite well for himself. His cloak now found, exactly where his gardener had reported it, he made his way back to his room to check over his things one last time. He had nearly everything he needed, but a nagging suspicion that he had forgotten something kept him searching through the smial to make sure nothing was left behind.

He had already packed all the clothing he thought he might need, including a formal dining suit for the Spring Feast that was to be held at Buckland in four days and was in fact the reason for his visit. He also had himself a couple of books he was in the process of reading, to enjoy during the dull times. Not that he anticipated there being very many dull times. Between Merry and Pippin and his numerous other relations, he should be kept well occupied for the duration of his visit.

Now all that remained to be packed were the sleeping rolls, a small provision of camping gear and the food for the two-day trek to Buckland. He and Pippin would split the camping gear between them, but Frodo had decided he would carry the food himself. His growing tween cousin had a habit of making food to last a day disappear in a matter of hours.

Frodo tossed his cloak on the bed and looked with satisfaction at his piles and the two half-empty packs waiting to be filled with the rest of the items. Certainly he had to have everything now. But what was he forgetting?

“Your brush, sir?” Sam said from behind him. Frodo turned around to see his gardener standing shyly at the bedchamber door, pointing toward the dresser, where Frodo's brush lay right where he had left it earlier that morning. Frodo smiled. ‘Leave it to Sam to think of the practical things,’ he thought.

“Thank you, lad,” Frodo said as he threw his brush next to his pack. He spotted a couple of other everyday items he would need and added those as well. “How many journeys have I been on, Sam?” he asked lightly. “I would always forget something if it weren't for you. Or maybe it's because of you.”

“Well, I think perhaps I allow myself to forget things, because I know you will remember.”

Sam couldn't think of anything to say to this, though it didn't rightly sound proper to him. Was he too intrusive in his master's life? Certainly a grown and learned hobbit such as Frodo Baggins, Master of the Hill, should be able to remember his own hairbrush without the aid of his simple gardener.

Frodo didn't notice the dilemma he had put his gardener in over his statement. Instead, he asked that Sam make the tea if he didn't mind, while he packed everything up for the road.

Sam didn't mind at all, so he went into the kitchen and set about getting the fire started and boiling some water. Frodo preferred tea with chamomile and rose hips before his treks. Sam gathered the necessary herbs together while he waited for the water to boil. There was also a serving of scones left over from the day before. With a bit of warming up and a helping of butter, they'd be good as new. Sam went to the pantry to retrieve them and spotted some berries ripe and fresh with which to make a quick jam.

By the time Sam finished all the preparations for tea, Frodo was finished packing. Though it may take him a while to gather everything up, once gathered he made quick work of packing it away. He beamed with satisfaction when Sam came in to announce the tea was ready.

“Well, I reckon this a record, don't you, Sam? The tea may even still be hot when I sit down to drink it,” he said teasingly, for he knew there had never been a time when the tea waiting for him was anything but hot, no matter how long he may have taken to pack.

“I reckon it will be, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said with a knowing smile as Frodo picked up the packs and his cloak and began carrying them out to the entrance hall. Sam instantly took the heavier bag and followed him to the front door, where they placed the packs in wait for the journey to begin, Frodo's cloak warming the bench.

“Pippin can carry that one,” Frodo stated, pointing to the bulkier pack, which did indeed belong to Pippin now that Sam stopped to look at it. “Perhaps next time he won't be so quick to let me do all the packing,” he said, a satisfied smile on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Frodo laughed then and patted Sam's shoulder jovially. “I'll go fetch Pippin, and then we can all have tea together.”

He headed out the door and down the path, calling for his wayward cousin. Sam waited until the door had him hidden from view before reaching down to test the weight of the packs. Sam laughed too then. The old hobbit had his devious streak to be certain, for while Pippin's pack looked the heaviest, they both weighed exactly the same. Sam placed the packs back down and went into the kitchen to set the table for tea.

A clambering up the garden path a short while later announced Pippin's arrival. Sam could hear him pronounce proudly to Frodo why worms were good for plants but snails were not. Before long, Pippin and Frodo were seated at the table and the three hobbits sat together to enjoy a leisurely mealtime.

“You'll have to come to Buckland one of these days, Sam,” Frodo said near the end of the meal. “It's quite peaceful on the road, and the gardens of Brandy Hall are so vast you can become lost in them. Merry even has a couple of his own plants and herbs he's growing. He's quite proud of them.”

Pippin nodded along in agreement. He swallowed the last of his scone and washed it down with another cup of tea. “They're the first ones he's managed not to kill in over a month. You should come, witness the miracle for yourself,” he piped in at last. “Really, you don't know what you're missing. The Feast is always a good time. There'll be more food than you know what to do with. And if you think Bag End is huge, wait until you see Brandy Hall. Though it still isn't as big as Great Smials,” he added with pride.

Sam politely shook his head. He had never gone farther from home than the outer fields surrounding Three Farthing Stone, or anywhere that wasn’t more than a day's walk away. In all honesty, that was the farthest he ever wanted to go. True, he enjoyed stories of adventures filled with dwarves and dragon's lairs, and he always hoped to one day see some elves, but he felt no great need for leaving his beloved home himself, not for any money. Then there was the fact that the Spring Feast, held two weeks prior to the annual festivals celebrated throughout the rest of the Shire, was strictly a family affair. He would hardly feel comfortable barging in, even if he was there only to wait on his master. He made the usual excuses of his father and sisters needing looking after, and the garden of course.

They finished the tea and quickly cleaned up the kitchen. Pippin, eager to get on with the trip, bolted off to the entrance hall and saw for the first time what Frodo had done with his pack. He balked as Frodo had expected he would, but Frodo was enjoying his joke far too much to let the youngster in on it just yet.

“You'll just have to make do as best you can, Pippin,” Frodo said, “and try not to slow me down.”

Pippin scowled, but gamely reached down and shouldered his pack. He grimaced dramatically under the weight, which wasn't all that great considering everything they were taking with them.

“You're young yet. You can handle it, surely,” Frodo said, smiling innocently.

“I'll handle it and then some. I'm willing to wager I could even carry yours.”

“I'm willing to wager it as well,” Frodo laughed. He caught Sam's eye then and winked conspiratorially.

‘He hadn't seen me test the packs had he?’ Sam wondered. ‘No,’ he reasoned, ‘he hadn't seen; he just knew I would.’

“Well, we're off, Sam,” Frodo said. “We'll be back in two week's time. I don't want you to put yourself out too much while I'm gone. I realize the garden requires a lot of tending this time of year, but do try to get out and enjoy yourself a bit.”

“I will, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said and followed them out the door and to the gate. They were no more than a couple of yards down the road when Sam called out to stop them. “Sir, if I may, but you do ought to take some sort of shelter as well. It looks likely to rain tonight,” he said.

Frodo looked up at the sky, brow wrinkled in concentration. “Does it?” he asked. “I hadn't noticed. What do you say, Pip? Do you think you could manage the tent as well if Sam can find it?”

Pippin squared his shoulders and hitched his pack up a bit higher. “Certainly cousin,” he said gamely, but Frodo was already laughing.

“Don't worry, Pippin. I doubt it'll rain too hard. We'll stop early and make ourselves a shelter if need be,” Frodo suggested.

“Then you'll be needing something to cut off branches with, as I doubt there'll be too many laying about the ground this time of year,” Sam pointed out. “I'll get you a wee hatchet, Mr. Frodo.”

Sam headed back toward the smial but before he got too far, Frodo called after him.

“Sam,” he said, “I just realized – I left my cloak on the bench. Would it be too much trouble to go and get it as well?”

“Of course not, sir. I'll bring it right out,” he said, catching the key that Frodo tossed him. He ran back up towards the hole. The hatchet of course would be out in the shed. He found it quickly and then trotted into the smial and hastily grabbed the cloak from the bench. He closed the door gently behind him, locked it tight, and ran back out to his waiting master. He handed Frodo the key, cloak and hatchet.

Frodo placed the hatchet into Pippin's pack, as it was easiest to reach he claimed, and then carefully draped his cloak through a strap of his pack and pocketed his key. Finally ready, they headed down the road one more time. Sam watched them off and waited until they turned back to wave good-bye as they reached the bend and walked out of sight. Then Sam returned to his chores.

He finished the weeding in no time at all and moved on to the rose bushes, then the kitchen garden after that, where he found the source of the soil he had seen on Pippin's feet. The Took had been rooting around for mushrooms again in one of the corners that always sprouted the much sought-after prize, and he had apparently found some. Sam sighed, chuckling softly to himself as he pictured the future Took and Thain squatting on his haunches and digging through the soil like he was still a lad of eleven instead of a tween of twenty-two. He quickly fixed the damage, then went to turn over the compost heaps at the back of the garden, the last of his tasks for the day.

The drizzle began as he was returning his tools to the shed and by the time he reached Number Three, Bagshot Row, the rain had grown to a steady sprinkling shower. He stood in the shelter of his doorway and watched the rain as it slowly drenched the earth until Marigold called him in for supper. He threw a glance off towards the east with a silent hope that his master had indeed found a dry shelter for the night, then stepped into the hole, to his family and the warm meal and fire awaiting him inside.

Chapter 2 - An Ordinary Day

20 Rethe

Two days had passed since Mr. Frodo’s departure, and so far Sam had not taken up his master’s request to take it easy and get out of the garden, nor had he any intentions to do so. To abandon the garden at this time of year, even if for just a day, would set him back two days at least. Yet without Mr. Frodo there, Sam was at his leave to arrive at work when he pleased and he took advantage of it to sleep in a bit longer than usual. Or at least he would have, if not for his sister.

“Sam! Up, Sam!” May called as she swept past his bedchamber door, waking her brother before even the sun rose over the hills.

Sam yawned and stretched and stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He washed up and dressed quickly, and stumbled his way down the tunnel to find his sisters bustling about the tiny kitchen. Their soft chatter filled the room, accentuated by the clanking of pots, the chopping of vegetables and the fire crackling in the oven. May turned to grab a bowl of strawberries and found Sam yawning in the doorway.

“What’s this?” she said lightly. “One day sleeping in and you forget how to get up on time? You’ll be no good to Mr. Baggins by the time he gets back.”

“When do you get married again?” Sam asked gruffly, but with an upward tug to his mouth.

“Never you mind that,” May laughed. “Get you over to Dad. His joints are aching again, something awful. We’ll call you when breakfast is on.”

With a flick of her towel and a nod of her head, she dismissed her brother as she and Marigold went back to their chatter, which Sam now realized was indeed concerned with May’s upcoming nuptials planned for later that spring.

Grateful for an excuse to get away from more wedding talk, Sam crossed the tunnel to his father’s chamber. He tapped the door lightly and peeked inside. His father was awake and dressed, sitting in his rocking chair by the window, waiting for the sun to rise, as was he custom.

“Good morning, Dad,” Sam said cheerfully. “May said as your joints were bothering you again.”

Hamfast grunted an affirmation, which Sam took as an invitation to enter the room. He noticed then the water skins filled with hot water, one upon his father’s left knee, the other draped over his right shoulder. Sam went over to the nightstand where his father kept the ointment the healer prescribed for his arthritis.

“You should be in the parlor, Dad. I’ll bank up the fire. It’ll warm you up proper, and then we’ll see to your joints.”

Hamfast remained where he was though and was so still that at first Sam didn’t think he had been heard. Then Hamfast sighed loudly and contentedly as the sun at last peaked over the distant hills and shined into the room, filling it with a brilliant glow. Father and son closed their eyes to the sun’s gentle touch and smiled for the joy of its warmth upon their skin. Sam opened his eyes and watched his father, knowing before he spoke the words that would be said.

“You know, your ma used to love a sunrise. More'n aught else, she loved the start of a brand new day.”

The words he spoke next were not expected. “You’re a lot like your ma, lad, did you know that?” Hamfast asked.

Now, Sam had heard it more than once throughout his life that he had his mother’s eyes, and her quick and good-natured smile. He sensed his father was speaking now of something more than just physical traits. He waited patiently, eager to know in what other way he was like his mother, whom he barely remembered, only that she had often smelled of cinnamon, hazelnut and soap suds.

“Nay sir,” he said finally when it seemed his father wouldn’t speak further. “I never did know that.”

Hamfast smiled, a rare sight on the stodgy retired gardener. “Aye, but you are lad,” he said. “Kind and gentle, always looking after something, with a touch as soft as a breeze and as strong as the bones of the earth.” He chuckled softly now. “But if anyone should ever look at any of you little ones cross, watch out! She’d learn them a lesson or two, and no mistake. She’d be mighty proud of you, lad.”

He looked into his son’s glowing face and smiled again. He stood up then, his bones creaking as he straightened and stretched. He bathed his face in the sunlight a moment longer, then turned to his son and clapped him on the shoulder. “And now that your head’s swollen to the size of a watermelon, I don’t suppose you’d still want to get that fire going for me?”

“Of course I would, Dad. Can’t hardly say no after that, now can I?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Hamfast said, his usual gruffness returned. “So, stop standing about like a ninnyhammer and get to work.”

“Right sir!”

So they went to the parlor, Sam settling his father down in his old patched-up rocking chair before building a fire in the small hearth. He left the ointment to warm by the hearth before returning to the kitchen to refill the water skins with more hot water. He grabbed a cup of tea to keep his father busy while he went about fixing up the bedchambers. By the time he had his and his father’s rooms tidied up, the ointment was warm and went on over his father’s stiff joints giving blessed relief.

Marigold called them to breakfast as Sam was massaging out the last of his father’s knots from his upper back and shoulders. He helped his father up, ignoring the older hobbit’s protests that he wasn’t an invalid and could certainly stand up on his own, but allowing his father to walk unaided in front of him into the kitchen.

They ate a delightful first breakfast of strawberry waffles, scrambled eggs covered in cheese, sausages and bacon, fruit, bread with jam, and freshly squeezed apple juice. His sisters managed to keep talk of the wedding to a minimum while Sam planned out in his head what he would do in the garden today once he got to work.

The spring was young still, the last bits of winter having just let go of the earth, and the gardens were in constant need of tending. There was weeding of course, and the hedges needed trimming, the flowers pruning, the beds mulching, and one of the young chrysanthemum bushes that had been uprooted during the recent rain needed replanting.

His plans set, he filled his plate with a second serving, despite May’s protests that he would be late for work. Hamfast raised an eyebrow at his son but said nothing, so May let the issue drop. Marigold took her brother’s lead and filled her plate again as well. May tossed up her hands at this and set about cleaning the kitchen as her two youngest siblings traded the latest gossip from Bywater and Hamfast returned to his chair in the parlor.

“You’re going to spoil him after I’m gone, aren’t you, Goldie?” May asked with no small degree of reproach, but Marigold only winked at Sam behind May’s back and rescued another sausage from the skillet.

A half hour later, Sam approached Bag End, a bag of elevenses. luncheon and tea tucked under his arm. He swung open the gate, set to get straight to work as his head filled once again with the tasks to be completed today, his spirits high as he thought of his father’s words to him earlier that morning. He was so caught up in all his various thoughts that he almost failed to notice that the round green door to Bag End was standing wide open.

He gave a start at the unexpected sight and stopped abruptly to stare dumbfounded at the smial. ‘Mr. Frodo’s back,’ he thought with confused concern. ‘Did he forget something and come back for it?’ No, that wasn’t Mr. Frodo’s way at all. Once on the road, he would continue onward until he reached his destination and wouldn’t notice anything missing until he arrived. At that point, it would be too late for him to come back. So why had he returned, and why had he left the door open?

Sam abandoned all thought of getting right to work and instead headed up the path to peer inside the door. The hole was dark and cold; no fires were lit, which could be well enough had he just arrived. Yet there were no packs, and Master Pippin’s voice was missing also. Sam knocked tentatively and called into the smial.

“Mr. Frodo?”

He waited but heard no reply. In fact, he heard nothing at all.

“Mr. Frodo?” he called again. He waited a few moments longer. Still nothing was to be heard. Not a shadow moved.

Sam scratched his head in wonder and tried to figure the puzzle out as best he could. Perhaps the wind had pushed the door open, though admittedly the wind wasn’t that strong at the moment, and Sam remembered quite clearly locking the door and handing Mr. Frodo his key.

Sam checked the latch. It was a bit rusty, so he made a note to fix it up proper before Mr. Frodo’s return. He didn’t want the door swinging open on his master in the middle of the night while he was sleeping away in his bed. That wouldn’t do at all. He closed the door behind him, checking it twice to make sure the latch had caught.

He then set about his work, going through each task one by one, stopping only at elevenses, luncheon and tea to take a bit of rest and food. By dinnertime, he had everything done that needed doing. He cleaned up the trimmings from the hedges and decided to go check on the vegetable gardens round back. They looked ready for another watering. The rainwater from the other night had already dried out or been soaked up by the hungry plants. He watered the garden, just enough to soak the soil.

Twenty minutes later, his tools were put away and the flowerbeds put to rest for the night. His stomach grumbled for food and his mouth watered for some hearty ale. He was making his customary final round of the garden checking for tasks to be completed the next day when he noticed, quite to his shock and indignation, that the front door had swung open again.

‘Well,’ Sam thought, ‘there’s naught for it. I’m going have to fix that door right now.’

He grabbed a can of grease from the shed and headed up the path to the hole. After applying a liberal amount to the latch and making sure the handle was working properly, he closed the door and tested it. He pushed on the door and pulled on the handle. The door stayed put as it ought. Satisfied, Sam put the grease can back in the shed and headed for home.

Sam got home just in time to help his sisters with supper and after a hearty meal, decided to go meet Tom and Jolly Cotton at The Green Dragon for a cup or two of ale. He reached the Dragon right around the same time as everyone else from Hobbiton to Bywater. The place was fair packed with hobbits drinking their ales and toasting their health. A couple of young lads had even got enough ale in them to think themselves good enough to sing and were chortling out a field-sowing song in scratchy, off-key voices.

Sam found Tom and Jolly right in the thick of it, sitting back and enjoying the scene. They waved the young gardener over as they spotted each other.

“Good evening to you, cousin,” said Tom. “What a surprise to see you here.”

He was, of course, joking, since Sam was there almost every night that he could manage it, same as them.

“How goes it at the Row?” Jolly asked, as Sam sat down next to him. He clapped Sam on the back heartily and motioned the bar maiden for another ale. “How’s Mr. Baggins these days?”

“He’s off visiting his cousins in Buckland. Should have arrived just today actually,” Sam said, as the bar maiden came by with more ale. She handed them each a drink and headed off to another customer. “‘Sides that, everything’s normal,” he finished, glancing around the crowded inn, searching for –

Tom smiled mischievously. “She ain't working tonight, Sam, but she does send along her love,” he said, teasing mercilessly, and laughed as his friend’s face went hot with embarrassment.

“Aye, well…” was all Sam could get out.

The evening passed quickly after that, with the conversation ranging from the gardens of Bag End, to the spring crops, to the Mayor’s annual Spring Picnic, to the many goings-on of the Shire in general. There were rumors about dwarves in small numbers on the road heading towards the Blue Mountains in the west, and Ted Sandyman showed up late into the night with a story of how he had a run in with one of the Big Folk and nearly lost his head for it.

“Not nearly enough,” Jolly muttered under his breath, to which Tom and Sam raised their mugs and drank deeply.

The night sky was alive with sparkling stars and a dazzling quarter moon as they left the Dragon. Before they could go too far, Tom remembered something and pulled Sam aside. He spoke just loud enough for everyone in the area to hear. “Rosie is expecting you to come by on Highday. You aren’t planning anything ungentlehobbitly-like with my sister, now are you?”

Many of the hobbits nearby stopped and pretended to find something interesting on the ground to stare at as they waited for Sam’s response.

“Aye, I was actually,” Sam said, proving that five ales in three hours was quite too much liquor for even a hobbit of his constitution. “I was going to take her to The Water and catch her a butterfly.”

Upon hearing such disappointing news, the hobbits surrounding them left. Tom and Sam found themselves alone, with Jolly just a few paces away, having some sort of confrontation with Ted. Ted left soon enough, looking quite out of sorts, and Jolly joined his friend and brother.

“What was that all about?” Tom asked.

“Oh, 'tis naught really. Ted just got it in his head as he was going to ask Rosie to the Spring Picnic in Michel Delving,” Jolly announced. He noticed Sam’s scowl and chuckled. “No need to fear, my friend, as I told him the only way he would be able to get near Rosie is if she should somehow lose her senses and mistake him for a handbag. Ted didn’t much care to hear that.”

“I reckon he didn’t,” Sam replied, a grateful smile on his lips.

They reached the main road and Sam waved good-bye to his cousins with promises to see them on Highday. They then turned towards South Lane and he turned up the road towards Hobbiton.

He headed home, tired and happy, and watched the stars twinkling in the night sky, the mighty light of Eärendil outshining them all. Sam waved up at the star, a childhood habit he had broken himself of after his father had caught him at it. Yet there was no one on the road to see him now and he saw no harm in it. He could still imagine that Eärendil could see him and would wave back if the mood so took him.

Sam sighed deeply and contentedly. Another lovely day had come and gone, and everything was as it should be.

To be continued…

Sam rolled over and instantly jumped out of his bed, awake immediately, so surprised he was to hear his father shouting the wake-up call instead of May.

‘Might as well get used to it though,’ he thought as he stretched and yawned. May would be gone after a few more months and it would be just the three of them, Sam, Marigold and the Gaffer, to keep each other company. Sam doubted Marigold would be working up the nerve to wake him up in the mornings anytime soon, which meant his father would be doing it from now on. Which meant Sam would have to learn to wake up on his own.

A few minutes later, Sam entered the kitchen to find only his little sister there preparing breakfast, so absorbed in her task she didn’t hear him come in. He snuck up behind her and grabbed her for a tickle, but she tensed and shied away from him, moving about the kitchen with quick and abrupt movements.

“You’re moody this morning, Goldie,” Sam observed. He settled in to help and added the onions to the frying pan with the already sizzling sausages. When his sister didn’t reply, he tried a different approach. “Where’s May?”

“May went to Jasmine’s, and from there she and the lasses are going into town to see to the dresses and whatnot,” Marigold said, slamming the oven door closed, ignoring their father’s shouted warning from the parlor to keep the racket down.

Sam was beginning to think he saw the problem. “And she didn’t want you along?”

“No, because I don’t understand about wedding dresses. I’m too young and try to be too fancy, and I’ll just wear whatever she decides on and be happy with it,” Marigold fumed and sat at the table, arms crossed.

“Well,” Sam said slowly, “you can’t really be angry at her for wanting the advice of her friends who’re already married.”

“I know,” she pouted. She got up as the onions began to sizzle and stirred them absent-mindedly.

Sam waited. He knew that May’s leaving was hard on his sister, but he had never seen her get this upset over it before. He suspected there was something more behind her mood than a simple disagreement over dresses. Sure enough, after stirring the food, she said into her bowl of eggs, “But it’s market day and we need more grain.”

“Ah, so that’s the problem then is it?” Sam asked, adding the bell peppers to the pan and seasoning the mix with salt and pepper. “Why didn’t you just say so? I’ll go into town with you, and I’ll get the grain myself. I don’t want Ted so much as looking at you if it can be helped.”

Ted Sandyman was an all right fellow when it was just him and the lads. Even Sam could tolerate his presence without any problems, but Ted tended to overdo it when a lass came by. Sam had warned him off his sisters before, but the young miller thought that if the gardener wasn’t around, then there was no harm in teasing. While May would quickly quell his vulgar nature and put him in his place, Marigold was still too timid and unsure of herself to send him off effectively.

Marigold paused in her work when she heard Sam’s offer, a look of relief showing on her fair face. “But, what about Bag End? You shouldn’t slack any more than you have Sam. You’ll get into trouble.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look hurt. “I haven’t been slacking. I get up there late; I leave late. I wouldn’t never cheat Mr. Frodo out of any time that he’s paid for and you know it. Besides,” he said, gentler now to ease his sister’s worry, “Mr. Frodo did say he wanted me to get out and enjoy myself a bit while he’s away, and I do ought to listen, don’t you think?”

Marigold smiled, turned back to her eggs and added a splash of milk. “Thank you Sam. And I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t ever do wrong by Mr. Frodo’s garden,” she said, her mouth quirking slightly. She knew her brother had been defending his service to his master and not the garden, but she simply couldn’t resist the tease.

Sam laughed. “Is that so? I think you deserve a reward for that sauce,” he said, his hands raised, fingers wiggling threateningly.

The attack didn’t last long however before Hamfast entered the kitchen and asked why he wasn’t eating yet. His two youngest stopped their play and got to work preparing the rest of the meal, with only the occasional sideways glance and spasm of giggles.

When breakfast was over and the dishes put away, the two siblings gathered what they needed and headed into market.

Not wanting to use more of Sam’s advanced pay than was necessary, Hamfast had Sam go next door to borrow old Daddy Twofoot’s cart and pony to take some bags of winter potatoes into market. Hamfast was the recognized authority on potatoes in Hobbiton and Bywater, and his taters always sold at a premium price, so rarely did he find need to sell them.

The drive to market was not long, but if it was slow it was only because Sam drove the pony kindly and took his time to admire the flowers that were blooming dazzlingly in the fields and gardens. There were violets and forget-me-nots, snapdragons and irises, daffodils and lilies, daisies and petunias, poppies and roses. Even the Party Tree was in bloom, showing off its delicate white and pink blossoms for all to see. Sam delighted in it all, soaking in the array of color as though he could live off that alone.

Marigold smiled to see her brother so enthralled. ‘He truly is a gardener,’ she thought proudly.

They reached market at the height of business and soon a crowd of eager shoppers was surrounding the cart. They had brought only as many bags as they could spare and those were quickly sold, to the disappointment of many. Sam added these earnings to the money he had brought with him and counted it out as Marigold ticked off on her fingers everything they needed: grain for bread, barely for their father’s ale-brewing, yeast for both, plus milk, eggs, cheeses, various meats, flour, sugar, candles, oil and more of their father’s arthritis ointment. Sam kept what he would need for the grain and handed the rest to his sister.

“We’re going to be stretching it thin,” Marigold said. “I may have to offer the healer laundry services again to get Dad’s ointment.”

“Do what you got to,” Sam said. “I’ll catch you up as soon as I’m finished.”

Marigold nodded in agreement. She pocketed the purse and went in search of the items they needed. She was soon lost to the crowd. Sam turned and made his own way through the various booths and tables to Farmer Goodheart’s stall.

The farmers were selling their excess winter stores to make way for the new grain now being sowed. Last year’s harvest had been plentiful and there was much grain left to be had, but even those stores were slowly beginning to run low as the time of the first harvest approached. Sam would have some haggling to do to get what he needed with what he had.

The miller and his son could often be found here as well, hanging about the farmers’ stalls under the guise of procuring their own business, but mostly they sat and traded – or more often than not started – the local gossip. In fact, they dawdled around the booths so much that it could often be heard that the miller had two occupations: grain and gossip.

Yet neither miller nor son could be seen this morning as Sam approached his destination. He wondered at this but said nothing. Business came first. He found Farmer Goodheart in a happy mood and was able to bring him down to a fair price on the required items. He even had some coins left over. He pocketed this and used the farmer’s wheelbarrow to haul his purchases back to the cart.

After the bags were packed away, he returned the wheelbarrow. Then, looking around the tables once more, he asked, “Where’re Sandyman this morning? Never knew neither of them to miss a market day.”

“Aye,” the farmer said. “‘Tis strange indeed. But I heard it from the baker that there was news come up from the Southfarthing about some trouble or such with Mr. Sackville-Baggins, and the two of them took off at all haste.”

“Must of been this morning,” Sam guessed. “Ted was at the Dragon last night and didn’t seem bothered none.”

“Aye,” the farmer confirmed. “It came up this morning. They rode off while it was still dark.”

“Any word on what the trouble was?” Sam asked, concerned. He never knew anything that could get either Sandyman out of doors before the sun rose.

Farmer Goodheart shook his head. “I surely don’t know, Sam, just that there’s some trouble or whatnot. Methinks it’s got somewhat to do with Mr. Otho’s newly acquired leaf fields, as that’s why he went down there in the first place – to see to their planting.”

“Well, I hope it’s nothing too serious,” Sam said. He didn’t like the sound of this news and remembered with a start Ted’s tale from the previous night. What if Mr. Otho had encountered one of the Big Folk as well? Big Folk in the Shire causing trouble was not a pleasant thought for the young gardener. He expressed his concern to the farmer.

“Oh, don’t think on anything Ted says none. He’s always boasting, you know that as good as any,” Farmer Goodheart said with a wave of his hand. “The trouble’s of a natural sort no doubt. It would be a shame if it was serious though,” he said. “When there’s leaf involved,” he added wryly, meaning he held no concern for Mr. Otho himself.

Sam thanked the farmer for the news, then went in search of his sister, hoping to catch her before she made it to the healer’s. They could use the extra money Sam managed to save for their father’s medicine, which would free his sister’s time to work for paying customers. He bumped into her as she was coming out of the fabric shop.

“Did we need cloth also?” he asked, now concerned that they hadn’t brought near enough coin.

“No,” Marigold answered sheepishly. “I was just getting a peek at what May picked out.”

“What’s left that we need?” Sam asked. They split up the rest of the shopping and separated once more.

An hour later, Sam placed his overstuffed shopping basket in the cart and settled in the coach’s seat to wait for his sister. He spoke casually with the other shoppers while he waited and tried to find out if any of them knew anything about the news Sandyman had received. He had no luck getting new information though, until his sister returned and they were on their way back home.

He told Marigold what the farmer had told him. Marigold nodded in agreement. She had heard the same news as well, and she had also heard that the messenger sent to fetch the miller had knocked upon the wrong door first and awoken the Widow Burrows. His news had apparently been too urgent to bother with the widow’s ranting chatter. He had hastily pressed her for directions then promptly left, with no more than an “I’m sorry for waking ye” thrown over his shoulder as he jumped upon his pony and dashed off up the road. Less than an hour later, the same messenger, now accompanied by Sandyman and his son, went thundering by in the same direction from which the messenger had come.

Brother and sister rode in silence after this, each wondering what it could all mean. Then Sam asked about the fabric May had picked. Marigold wrinkled her nose and told her brother about the horror their sister had picked out for the Best Maid dresses. “Fuchsia!” she complained. “And she said I didn’t know anything about dresses!”

The rest of the day passed quickly for Sam. Too quick. He would have to double his work tomorrow to make up for what he didn’t get done today.

After they returned from market and Sam returned the cart, he made luncheon while Marigold put everything away. After a laid back meal, he headed up the hill to get to work. Half the day was gone and while he knew he wouldn’t get in trouble for it, he felt guilty for taking so much time away from work. He was grateful now that he had taken the time the night before to water the garden, but the rest of the plants still needed watering. He also had to plant a row of ferns along the path leading up to Mr. Frodo’s reading bench under the elm tree.

He managed to get these two tasks completed. He also picked some berries from the laden bushes to make preserves for Mr. Frodo when he returned, and maybe a loaf of that blackberry sweet bread with frosting his master liked so much. Mr. Frodo said he’d be back in time for Sam’s birthday party. Sam could make him a loaf for his present.

‘Wonder what he’s up to now?’ Sam thought, looking wistfully over at the silent and darkened smial. ‘Probably eating a fine supper in that grand dining hall he’s always talking about.’

Normally, Mr. Frodo would just be sitting down to a supper of his own making, and Sam would be going inside the cozy smial to ask his master if there was anything else he needed to do before retiring for the night. Most often than not, Frodo would send Sam home, insisting that his young employee had already done enough. There were times though when he would invite Sam to sit and enjoy a snack before going home to supper, or to sit for a smoke and talk out by the front door as they looked down upon the Party Field. But now the sun was setting and the glow of fires that would usually be burning inside at this time of day was absent, leaving Bag End with an oddly abandoned feel.

Sam sighed deeply, missing his master’s calming presence. Sam couldn’t quite explain it, this feeling he had for as long as he could remember, that as long as Mr. Frodo was around everything would be perfect. Mr. Frodo just seemed to, what was the word… fit into Bag End, but it was more than that. It was the way his master would bring him a glass of ice cold water on hot summer days, the way he would roll up his sleeves after a heavy rain to help set the garden to rights, the way he could sit for hours on his bench and read to Sam while the younger hobbit labored in the garden or joined in with one of Sam’s silly made-up songs as if they were the most elegant Elven poetry. It was the way he laughed at even the slightest of jokes and delights, his clear ringing laughter filling the garden with such joy, Sam could swear the plants leaned in to hear it the better.

“It just ain’t the same,” the gardener muttered to the blueberry bush he was plucking, unable to articulate his thoughts anymore than that. “He belongs here, is all.”

Yet his master never seemed content to just stay here. He was always going off on long trips or hikes, sometimes with his friends, but more often than not by himself. To gather news about Gandalf, he always claimed, for he was worried that the old wizard hadn’t visited in so long. Yet Sam knew, though Mr. Frodo never said and he never asked, that it was really news of Mr. Bilbo he would go in search of. It broke Sam’s heart each time his master returned home with no news to comfort him. Each passing year, the worry weighed upon his master’s shoulders more than the last, and his trips became more frequent.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered what it would be like to accompany Mr. Frodo on one of his longer treks instead of the occasional one-day hike to Three Farthing Stone, the Green Hills, or some other such place. He wondered what it would be like to camp out under the stars, with nothing but bare green fields surrounding them as far as the eye could see, staying up late into the night to listen to his master’s many stories. Yet no sooner did the thought enter his head than he pushed it out again. No, he knew he could never stray so far from home. ‘Not for any money,’ he told himself for what seemed the millionth time.

“Not for any money,” he said now aloud, as if trying to convince himself once and for all. “But maybe…” he whispered a moment later as he watched the sun sink at last below the horizon, bathing Bag End in soothing pink and amber hues. “Maybe…” he muttered again. Then letting the thought drop before it could even form, he picked up his basket of berries and went home to supper.

Sam slipped out of Number Three, Bagshot Row, an hour before sunrise to find the world enshrouded in a dense fog. He drew his jacket tighter around him and made his way up to Bag End, determined to catch up on his work from the day before. He labored steadily all morning, barely noticing when the sun rose to scatter the mist away. He was only grateful for the chill air that helped keep him cool as he went from one task to another with hardly a break to eat a bite or two of the breakfast he brought with him.

By luncheon, Sam had reached the halfway point with the trimming and was just settling down to a proper meal when something caught the corner of his eye. There was movement by the road. He turned his head and felt his heart take a leap and his breath catch in his chest, for standing down on the road, peering at him over the hedges, was none other than Rosie Cotton. She waved heartily, but she had a strange expression on her face that Sam couldn’t quite read. He waved back and beckoned her into the garden.

She entered the gate and strolled up slowly to where Sam was standing, looking around her with rapt attention as she went. She was a regular visitor on Bagshot Row, but she rarely came up to Bag End. Sam realized with a start that it must have been a good two or three years since she last saw the garden, and that had been after some heavy rains when the garden had been in a very sad state indeed and not much to look upon.

“Good day, Sam,” she greeted as she approached him and shyly pecked his cheek. She turned her attention back to the garden and examined it with questing eyes. “The garden is absolutely lovely,” she said, a note of pride in her voice. “The most famous garden in Hobbiton, and all because of my Sam,” she finished, shy again. She was still getting used to saying ‘my Sam’ out loud.

Sam was still getting used to hearing it. He felt his face grow hot with blushing. “Oh, it ain’t all because of me.”

“Oh really? Then I suppose you’re meaning to say that there’s another gardener round here, working the flowerbeds?” asked Rosie. “Why have you never introduced us? I know you’ve more hobbit sense than that,” she said with mock reproach, slipping into the teasing banter that had defined their relationship for so many years. “Well, I’ll just have to find him on my own.” She raised her voice in a singsong manner and called, “Oh Master Gardener, where are you? Do show yourself. I want to congratulate you on your garden.”

The awkward silence now broken, Sam shook his head with a modest smile. “Now you know that isn’t what I meant,” Sam said. “I just meant, it’s only well-known as it’s at Bag End. Anywhere else and no one would pay it any mind.”

Rosie shook her head, clearly disagreeing. “Sam, you know well enough you’re the best gardener in the Shire, and folk know it well enough also, Bag End or no.” Then she seemed to remember something, as her expression changed to the confused look she had worn when she first arrived. “Although, I don’t think that warrants you the permission to go in and out of Bag End as you please. It’s not my place, but I know Hamfast brought you up better than that.”

“I mean, if Mr. Baggins asked you to air out the smial while he’s away, that’s all well enough, but you shouldn’t be leaving the door wide open. It’d be better to open the windows.” She frowned as if he had lost all common sense.

Sam shook his head. “But I haven’t entered Mr. Frodo’s home at all…” His voice trailed off as the full meaning of her words dawned on him, and without another thought, he trotted off to the front door which was standing wide open yet again, as reported.

Rosie came up behind him and looked from him to the door, a look of utter bafflement on her lovely face. Sam told her briefly about coming to work earlier that week and finding the door open. “But I fixed it,” he muttered as he checked the latch. There was nothing wrong with it at all. He shook his head. This didn’t make any sense. He stared hard at the latch, as if that alone would make it behave as it ought.

It was as he was standing in the doorway, between Rosie and the smial, that he suddenly felt a cold shiver run up his spine that was not from the coldness of the weather. Sam couldn’t rightly explain it, but he felt dreadful all of a sudden, as if something, or someone, was looking right at him. Sam turned around in all directions, checking the surroundings, finding only Rosie, still standing there every bit as confused as he was. He felt the chill again, this time clutching at his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He turned slightly and looked into the darkened smial.

He shook his head then, trying to shake off the feeling. What a ridiculous notion. If his father heard of this, Sam knew exactly what he would say – too much time spent listening to silly tales as a lad, instead of working as was proper a hobbit of his station. Sam stepped out of the threshold and turned to Rosie.

“I guess I’ll just have to get someone out here to replace the latch,” he said. He closed the door and walked with Rosie back to his luncheon under the elm.

They sat for a while and ate. Rosie had brought a proper luncheon of ham and cheese sandwiches, apple sauce, sliced pears, sweet strawberries and blessedly warm tea. It turned out that she was on her way to see Marigold, to give her friend some much needed consolation for the wedding dresses, but she had made the detour to visit with Sam for a few moments.

They had only been courting for a few months now, and unofficially at that, since Rosie wouldn’t be allowed to court until she came of age. For Sam, just over a year from his own coming of age, the next five years stretching out before him seemed torturously long. The fact that they never had time to themselves, to relax into the new direction their relationship was taking, away from the prying eyes of overprotective brothers and parents, made that wait seem even longer. Quiet moments such as this were rare and they lingered over it as much as they dared.

“The weather’s been strange lately hasn’t it?” Sam asked with a nod to the sky. “Gaffer’s joints have been aching him all week. I hoped it might be warming up after yesterday, but now it’s chill again.”

“It was feeling a bit like summer,” Rosie agreed, “but I wouldn’t mind a bit more rain. I do love a good rainfall, curled up in front of the fire, telling stories with my brothers.”

“Aye,” Sam said with a smile. “You can’t beat that. Though my brothers and sisters always seemed more interested in telling me how to act proper and not read out of my books. ‘Just tell the old tales that we already know,’ they’d say. Except Goldie. She likes Mr. Bilbo’s tales as much as I do and would always egg me on and get me into trouble.”

Rosie laughed, knowing too well that Sam’s idea of ‘trouble’ was Hamfast looking at him cross. They talked easily after that, finishing the remaining tidbits of the meal as they reminisced on childhood memories. Finally, Rosie had to leave and it seemed to Sam that she had forgotten about the door. Sam had not.

He walked her to the road with promises to see her at supper tomorrow and waited until she turned the bend round the Hill before he approached the door to Bag End again. Not bothering to turn the knob, he simply pushed on the door and it opened without resistance. The darkness inside leaked out to greet him. He shivered again and stepped hesitantly inside.

“Now, you’re just being silly, Sam Gamgee,” he muttered to himself. “Letting your imagination run away with you again.”

He stood in the entrance hall, unsure of what to do and feeling quite bold and scandalous to be standing in his master’s home without him being there to allow him inside.

“It’s just the door acting up,” he continued his chiding. “No need for you to go poking round in your master’s home without leave.”

Yet he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something lay in wait inside and the problem with the door went beyond a faulty latch. He listened intently to his surroundings but heard nothing.

The smial was quiet, as was almost always the case even when Mr. Frodo was there to make the little bit of noise that he did. The quiet had always been one of Sam’s most favorite things about Bag End; it was calm, soothing and inviting in an odd sort of way. It allowed one to think and be still. It let you just breathe, easy and content to do nothing more than relax and read a good book. It was a constant companion in its own way, as if built into the very fabric of the smial itself.

The silence that surrounded him now was of a much different nature and not at all fitting. There was something here, he just knew it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the walls seemed to close in around him, as if trying to push him down into the floor. No, this silence was cold and uncaring, and it needed looking into.

So, even though he knew his father would lay into him if he ever found out what he was doing, and even though he had no clear notion of what he should be looking for, Sam started his way through the hole. He went through every single room, taking much time and care with his investigation. He looked in all the corners, under all the tables, behind every curtain. He disturbed nothing, but left no inch of the hole unchecked.

He passed through the parlor, then the kitchen and the pantries. He went down to the cellar, a likely place for an intruder to hide (though who had ever heard of an intruder in the Shire) and checked every inch of the stores, high and low. He went through the dining room, into the smaller second parlor. He went slowly and quietly, his ears perked for even the slightest sound that might reach his ears. He continued on into the bath, the major wardrobe rooms and then the many guest rooms, where he checked the wardrobes and under the beds. In every room, the exact same thing was to be found – nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary leastways. And yet…

Sam came at last to the master bedchamber. Mr. Frodo’s room. He reached for the doorknob and hesitated. True, he had already been through nearly every single corner and curve of the hole, including the study, which Mr. Frodo coveted above all, but to enter the master’s bedchamber, his most private room, with the purpose of inspecting every last inch of it?

‘No, this is all wrong,’ Sam thought, shaking his head in shame. He was being silly and needed to get out of there. ‘What am I doing in here, poking around like it is my right? I should just get the door fixed and mention its odd behavior to Mr. Frodo when he returns next week and leave it at that.’ He nodded his head. Yes, that was the best thing to do.

Sam turned away from the room and headed back toward the front door, shuffling his feet in his hurry to get outside where he belonged. He reached the front of the tunnel and was nearing the entrance hall when his toe hit something on the floor by the sitting bench. He heard it slide and hit the wall with a soft clink. “Now what could that be?” he murmured as he stooped down to see what he had stumbled upon.

“Now that’s odd. What are you doing on the floor in the middle of the tunnel?” he asked, confused by its presence.

Try as he might, he could not recall seeing Mr. Frodo, or even old Mr. Bilbo for that matter, ever wearing such a ring. In fact, he had never seen either one of them wear any kind of jewelry at all, and yet it must belong to one of them, for why else would it be there? Indeed, why was it there, lying abandoned on the floor? He shook his head, trying to sort out the mystery with half the puzzle missing.

Then something occurred to him. The answer seemed to pop into his head out of nowhere, as if something or someone had whispered it to him.

“You must have been lying here since Mr. Frodo left,” Sam said anxiously. It did look quite small and lonely lying there on the floor like that. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to leave you,” he said reassuringly.

Sam groaned at his own stupidity and stood up. He was getting sillier by the minute and he had been away from his tasks in the garden for far too long. At this rate, he was never going to catch up with his chores.

Whatever the reason for that ring being there, it couldn’t very well stay there. No doubt Mr. Frodo would be missing it by now. Sam could only imagine it had dropped out of his bags or his pocket just before he left on his journey. Perhaps he had meant it as a gift for Mr. Merry.

Well, it wouldn’t do to leave it there under the bench. Sam would just have to put it in some likely place where his master would be bound to find it. But where? The answer came immediately – his study, of course. Sam bent down and picked up the ring, surprised by its heavy weight and unseemly frigid coldness. He found that he dreaded to touch the thing, which surprised him even further. Imagine, feeling dread over a little ring!

He trotted off to the study and hastily placed the ring on Mr. Frodo’s desk, right next to his quills and ink. His master couldn’t possibly miss it there. Satisfied, Sam left hurriedly. The sooner he got away from that thing, the better he would feel.

Sam went outside and breathed the fresh, cool air deeply, relieved beyond any reasonable explanation to be back outside. He closed the door and tried to think of someone who could come and fix it as he headed back to his chores. He worked quickly and did manage to at least get the trimming done, but only just. The night was already faded to black and the fog was well upon the Shire by the time he headed to his home down the Row.

His father and sisters were waiting for him patiently. His sisters were confused by his late arrival considering he had left so early that morning. Hamfast was gravely mulling over something in his head but whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself for the moment: he was hungry and wanted to eat. Anything else could wait until after supper. The meal passed quietly, and Sam was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the quick, perplexed glances cast in his direction.

‘What had that ring been doing there?’ Sam mused. ‘It clearly has some value. So why would Mr. Frodo just let it drop? No wonder it kept opening the door. … Now that was just a silly thought. What would make me think of that?’

Sam puzzled over these and other thoughts throughout supper, not saying much, even when spoken to. Hamfast seemed keen on cutting his meat, but by the tone of his voice when he asked his son to pass the peas, Sam knew he would get a talking to yet for his tardiness. Sure enough, after supper had ended and the dishes were cleaned and put away, Hamfast headed to his favorite chair in the parlor, lit up his pipe, and pointedly asked his daughters to clear out and Sam to stay.

Hamfast watched his son closely. Sam sat as still as he could, trying not to fidget too much and give himself away. After all, his father couldn’t possibly know what Sam had been doing. He just wanted to know why Sam was late from work when he had gone up early, or so Sam thought.

“I saw Rosie this afternoon as you might know,” Hamfast began casually, but Sam heard the note of warning and sternness in his voice.

Hamfast waited to gauge his son’s reaction. Sam simply nodded, holding his breath, and hoping his face didn’t look as guilty as he felt.

“She said there was a problem with the door up at Bag End and you were at a loss of what to do with it.”

Sam nodded again and felt his face flush. He still wasn’t necessarily in trouble, he thought hopefully. Maybe this sort of thing has happened before and his father knew how to fix it.

Well, that was it then. Caught in the act and no mistake. Sam let out his breath in a defeated sigh and waited. Just because he was a year off from his coming-of-age and could really no longer be considered a child, Sam knew that was not going to stop his father from letting into him. He had done wrong and he knew it, no matter what his intentions may have been.

Hamfast puffed on his pipe thoughtfully as he looked at Sam with hard eyes. “I guess you can imagine what I found when I got there?” he said. “The door wide open, and you nowhere to be found. You know better to leave your post in the middle of a workday, Samwise. Where were you?”

“I was looking at the door and thought I heard or saw something inside,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to offer more of an explanation than that.

“And so you thought it proper to go in and investigate, is that it? Did Mr. Baggins ask you to see to the hole while he was gone?”

“No sir,” Sam said, “but the door was open. Someone could have gone in,” he tried in vain to defend his actions.

“Samwise, don’t be such a ninnyhammer,” Hamfast said sharply. “There has never been any report of intruders in Hobbiton and there never will be – until today that is.” Sam cringed at this and hung his head in shame. “It was the wind that went and blew the door open, and it seems natural as it would blow around all the papers and whatnot Mr. Baggins has got in there as well. That’s all you heard or saw.”

“Yes sir,” Sam mumbled, knowing any further attempts to justify his errant actions would be fruitless. It was just as well, for like as not his father was right, and it had been nothing more than his imagination making him think there was anything else there.

“I waited for near on an hour Samwise. I want to know what all you were getting up to in there.” Sam told him briefly about checking Bag End top to bottom for signs of trouble. “And you found nothing amiss, I take it,” Hamfast said.

Sam nodded, feeling miserable. The look of disappointment on his father’s face was enough to nearly do him in, and he was yet to be lectured.

Hamfast settled back in his chair, and took another puff of his pipe. “You’re going to have to tell Mr. Baggins what you’ve been up to, and you’ll take any punishment as he sees fit to give you. I won’t have a sneak for a son.”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times – just because Mr. Baggins treats you kindly is not an invitation to make a nuisance of yourself. You’re not his equal or his friend. You’re his gardener, and out in the garden is the only place you belong without his say so. Quite frankly, you don’t even belong in the garden without his say so either. It’s far past the time you learned your place, boy.”

“There are boundaries, Sam, and you keep crossing them. Would you have done that with Mistress Lobelia? Or Mr. Ponto? Or Mr. Porto? Well, would you have?”

“I should hope not. Remember that next time you think about crossing your boundaries up at Bag End.”

Hamfast dismissed his son then and Sam gratefully fled to his room, where he found his sisters waiting anxiously. They must have heard the whole conversation, or at least Gaffer’s side of it.

“Did you really go into Bag End, Sam?” May said, her hands on her hips with a frown in her eyes, so much like Daisy always used to when Sam was but a child. Sam was feeling bad enough as it was without May gaining up on him.

She seemed to sense this and softened her tone. “Don’t worry on Dad none. You know how set in his ways he can be. Do you really think Mr. Baggins will be angry?”

Marigold seemed worried, but she shook her head. “I think he’ll understand. He’s not so narrow-sighted as Daddy is,” she reassured.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, “and I’d rather not think on it just yet. If you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.” He was close to pleading in his desperation for some silence in which to sit and mope.

His sisters took their leave, giving their brother a last glance of support as they closed the door gently behind them. Sam lay back on his bed, kicking himself for his foolish behavior. His father was right of course, and though he was sure Marigold was right about Mr. Frodo understanding his motives, he wasn’t looking forward to having to explain himself.

He lay awake for a long while, feeling sorry for himself and worrying about the week to come. His master would be back on the Sunday following. Because of Sam, the garden was still almost half a day behind in its tending. Most likely Mr. Frodo wouldn’t notice, but Sam was determined to fix it up proper before his return.

Morning came upon the Shire through a veil of heavy mist, dotting everything with tiny drops of dew. The sun struggled for half the morning to break through the overcast sky, only to manage a dim and short-lived triumph as its dull rays barely reached the earth just after noontime. Hobbit folk bustled about in wool sweaters and light jackets to keep warm, and even those as labored outdoors in the fields had trouble keeping warm if they rested too long from their toils.

The day passed quickly despite the weather and without any strange happenings. Sam once again arrived at Bag End early. Though it was Highday, he did not feel he had earned his day off and so set to work completing what had been left undone the day before. He did the watering in the cool, moist morning air, and then moved on to cutting the grass. One by one, he went through his chores, moving around the gardens in a steady and precise manner that came from tending the same soil for so many years.

The day’s work kept him busy, so busy in fact he failed to notice the late hour until he finished the last of his tasks and put his tools back in the shed. He washed up at the well and stretched his back, wishing for a wind to come and stir the cool air for him. He glanced at the sky and found the sun hiding once more behind thick clouds, so he made his was to the parlor window and peered inside at the timepiece sitting on the mantle. It was past three o’clock! He had to be at Bywater in two hours!

He hastily returned his tools to the shed and tossed that day’s trimmings onto the compost heaps. Then he rushed down the Hill, up Bagshot Row and tore into his home, almost knocking over May in his haste to get some water boiling for a wash. When the water was warm enough, he poured it into the small metal tub that sat in the larder. The Gamgees had no bathing room and so made due with this arrangement quite easily. The door to the larder was only kept closed when someone was inside bathing and that alone was sign enough to everyone else to stay out.

Sam bathed quickly but thoroughly and was obliged to shampoo his hair to remove all the sweat and grime from the day’s toil. He toweled himself dry and, remembering that his sisters were in the smial, he pulled on his breeches so he could dump the water down the drain in the kitchen. In his room, he found his finest clothes already laid out on the bed, washed and pressed. No doubt Marigold had heard about the supper from Rosie the day before, and his sister had been kind enough to get everything ready for him while he was at work.

He slipped into his clothes and was ready to rush into the kitchen when Marigold knocked upon his door and let herself in at his call. She smiled at her brother gently and somehow managed to calm him down. Then she tidied him up, straightening out his collar and combing out his tangles. She circled him critically before declaring him ready for his appointment by reaching up on tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Sam was on the road after an extremely small dinner (just a couple of bites of bread and an apple) and a cup of tea to soothe the nerves. Rosie had promised a “special” meal, being annoyingly secretive of what all that would include. He had no doubt he would enjoy anything she made, and he wanted to be sure he was hungry enough to eat as many servings as she gave him.

Tom and Jolly were waiting by the road when he arrived. They were sprawled lazily on the grass, picking dandelions and making wishes. Sam cringed as he saw them blow the white stems with their fertile seeds to the winds. Didn’t they realize that would just create more weeds?

“Hullo Sam,” Tom called as he came into their view. Sam noticed immediately that they were also dressed up proper-like. He raised an eyebrow at this and wondered how much goading and prodding Rosie had to do in order to get them to dress up so. He said nothing though, certain he would get teased if he did. Silly him.

Jolly waved happily and hoisted himself into a sitting position. “Evening, Sam. Hope you’re hungry. Rosie’s got a good-sized feast brewing in the kitchen. I do believe the lass went and cooked up everything we have.”

“I’m hungry enough,” Sam said, wondering why neither of them were getting up. “I take it it’s not ready, then?”

Tom laughed. “Don’t sound so disappointed,” he said. “Supper’s ready enough. ‘Tis Rosie we’re waiting on.”

At Sam’s confused face, Jolly elaborated. “She’s changing, making herself up nice, if you take my meaning.”

“Aye,” said Tom. “She’s been changing… for the last two hours. She seems to think there’s someone coming over as deserves all that trouble, though I can’t imagine who that would be.”

Sam blushed scarlet red and had to fight the urge to look at his feet rather than their teasing faces. They were trying desperately not to burst out laughing.

“Well,” he finally said, “if he doesn’t show up, I hope I’ll make a good enough replacement.”

“Oh, she’ll be disappointed, and that’s a fact,” said Jolly, feigning distress, “but I’m sure she’ll take the change in company fine enough. Of course, you’ll have to sing her a bit of song for good measure.”

Now they did laugh, clearly thinking back to last year at her birthday party when Sam had become too drunk for his own good and started serenading Rosie in front of half of Hobbiton and Bywater. ‘Come on Rosie,’ Sam thought. ‘Finish yourself up and save me from these rascals.’

As it happened, Sam had to endure another half-hour of their jibbing before Rosie came out and called them in to eat.

Sam’s breath caught in his throat as he got his first sight of her. Even from that distance, he could see she looked more beautiful tonight that any other time before. He blushed to the tips of his ears, and Tom and Jolly found that reason enough to tease him some more as they walked with him to the house, gently pushing him in front of them lest he be glued to his spot at the end of the lane.

Rosie stood in the doorway, waiting patiently. Sam could tell by the way she was fingering the folds of her dress that she was just as nervous as he was, which relaxed him a bit. Not that it did him much good in the end. His mind went completely blank as they approached the house and he got his first good look at his Rose. He was unable to look anywhere else.

There was candlelight behind her in the hall, crowning her head in a golden hue, her hair pulled back with butterfly clips and a golden ribbon so that her soft, brown curls cascaded gingerly down her back. The dress she had chosen was one of Sam’s favorites – green as new grass, with small, delicate white and yellow chrysanthemums dancing over the fabric, and trimmed with white lace. She smiled warmly as Sam came closer and held his gaze with her ginger brown eyes.

“Good evening, Rosie,” Sam managed to reply. “You look – why, you look fair lovely, Rose.”

Her smile widened. “Thank you, Sam,” she said, blushing now also. “You look right handsome yourself.”

“Oh, ‘tis nothing,” he muttered, feeling guilty he hadn’t gone through as much trouble to look so nice as she had.

“Well, enough of this,” said Jolly, reminding them of his and Tom’s presence as he clasped Sam’s shoulder and all but pushed him into the house – and almost into Rosie had she not stepped aside in time. “I’m famished,” he continued, “and the longer the two of you stand here making moon eyes at each other, the longer till I get to eat.”

“Wilcome Cotton!” Rosie exclaimed, forgetting her nervousness in her newfound embarrassment as she scolded her twin brother. “Now I know you have better manners than that. Wait till Ma hears of this.”

“Oh, come off it, Rosie,” Tom said as he entered the house and closed the door shut. “He was only teasing.”

“This is no time to be teasing so,” Rosie shot back. She seemed ready to say more, but thought the better of it. Instead, she said in a much calmer though somewhat forced voice, “Now you lads go get washed up, while I get supper on the table. And,” she called as they made their way down the hall to the washroom, “you’ll be grateful for the servings you’re given.”

Tom and Jolly were barely able to keep from snickering until they were out of earshot of their flustered sister. By the time they and Sam washed up and went to the kitchen, Tom and Jolly had managed to regain their composure, and supper passed companionably. Of course, it helped that their parents and younger siblings were present to keep them in line.

Supper was, indeed, every bit as elaborate as promised: roasted chicken spiced with rosemary and thyme, vegetable stew, mashed taters, salad, corn on the cob, sweet pea casserole, raspberry bread with honey and butter, and of course, Old Tom’s very own homebrewed ale to wash it all down, and tea for the youngest siblings. For dessert, she had made apple pie with whipped cream and hot cocoa. Sam was beyond pleased with the meal and had three full servings of supper and two slices of pie. Rosie had outdone herself. He would have to remind her that he wasn’t worth so much trouble. This must have taken the lass all day to prepare.

Talk during the meal was minimal as everyone was too busy eating to say much, but some business was discussed. The corn crops looked very promising this year, and the wheat crops were looking better than ever as well. Mayor Whitfoot was seeking volunteers to help with the organization of the Spring Picnic. As usual, Rosie, Marigold and their friends would be going down to Michel Delving in the next few days to help out. They of course had to talk about the news of the miller’s mysterious nighttime flight to Southfarthing. Still no one knew what the commotion had been about or when the miller and his son would return.

When supper was over, everyone pitched in with the cleaning up, then Rosie and Sam slipped outdoors to enjoy some time alone. They strolled silently through the fields, making their slow way to the river nearby. They sat on the sand and watched The Water flow past. Rosie clutched a shawl tightly around her shoulders, and Sam buttoned up his jacket as he checked with apprehension the clouds hanging overhead. The night was cold but peaceful, and they rested easily in the deadly quiet. Finally, Rosie spoke.

“Oh, aye, I did,” Sam answered truthfully. “I reckon I went and ate too much, if such a thing’s possible. But you needn’t have gone through all the trouble just for me.”

“It was no trouble at all,” Rosie said. “You’re more than worth the effort, Sam. I’m glad you liked it.”

Sam laughed, then before he knew what he was doing, asked, “Did you really spend two hours changing?”

Even in the darkness, he could see her blush. She let out an annoyed groan. “I’m going to strangle those two when I see them.”

“I know that well enough,” Rosie replied, a smile now showing in her voice, “but I think I’ll strangle them just the same, for good measure. Lor’ knows they deserve it.”

Another beat of silence. Sam picked up some sand and watched it slip effortlessly through his fingers.

“You’ll be staying with your aunt again when you go into Michel Delving?” he asked, scooping up another handful.

“No, with my cousin Celeste. She’s just married you know?” She scooped up some sand of her own and held it softly in the palm of her hand. “I thought we’d help her to settle in a bit. She’s feeling more than a little displaced in her new home, says it doesn’t feel like hers. It just needs a lass’s touch, I think.” She returned the sand to the earth and patted it down gently. Then she remembered something. “Did you ever get Mr. Baggins’s door fixed? I let Ham know you were having problems with it and he’d said he go up and help you.”

Sam paused before answering. No need worrying the lass and making her feel she caused any trouble. The simplest truth would suffice. “Not exactly. I’m thinking of calling in a locksmith,” he said then quickly returned to the previous subject. “What all were you planning for the house? I hope her husband will still be able to recognize it by the time it’s finished.”

Rosie listed off all the things they would be doing while in Michel Delving. Then they spoke about the Spring Picnic and how nice it would be to see their relatives as lived out that way. Sam’s brothers would be there – they went every year and usually helped with the setting up as well. This brought up stories of previous Picnics past and soon they were laughing over many of the silly things that usually happened at such gatherings.

Finally, Rosie started to shiver from the freezing night air, her shawl no longer giving any protection. Sam removed his jacket and offered it to her, which she accepted only if he agreed to call it a night. He tried to protest that he was fine but his chattering teeth soon gave him away. Regrettably, they strolled back to the house, and Sam took the excuse of the chilling wind to wrap an arm around Rosie’s waist, to hold her close and keep them both warm. Far too soon, they were standing on the doorstep.

“This is good-bye, then,” he said, sad as always for the night to end. Then he seemed suddenly to remember something. “Oh no,” he said, distressed, “I was supposed to catch you a butterfly. But there aren’t any out now.”

Rosie smiled sweetly, proving once again that she was the most beautiful lass in the Shire. “Well, I can’t think of a better excuse for you to come and visit me again soon,” she said. “And this is not good bye, only farewell.”

Sam smiled in response. “Then fare you well Rosie,” he said and leaned in to kiss her cheek gently. They separated reluctantly, and he nodded his head toward the door. “I guess I should be saying good night to your folks as well,” he said. They went inside and Sam said his farewells to the Cottons. Rosie returned his jacket and watched him from the porch until he reached the lane and turned for a final wave.

Soon he was on his way home with no one and nothing to keep him company, not even the usual distant chirping of crickets or the dull croaking of frogs. The night was oddly silent. He looked up with concern as the winds suddenly blew in and began to whip fiercely through the trees. He hoped the rain would hold off until he was safely indoors and he quickened his pace, not wishing to tempt fate.

His sisters had already turned in by the time he got home, though judging by the murmuring coming from behind the closed door, they were far from sleeping and most likely talking about the wedding again. He found his father in the parlor, the fire built up high and heating the room to a crisp.

“Bones are aching,” Hamfast stated matter-of-factly as Sam entered the room. Sam nodded and grabbed the ointment from the mantle. He sat before his father and began working the medicine into the usual sore spots. Neither of them spoke, each caught in the estranged awkwardness that lingered still from the previous night.

Hamfast rarely had need to lecture any of his children, and the last time he had done so was many years ago, when he caught May swooning over one of the Proudfoot lads and being incredibly silly about it. Making a fool, he had told her at the time, and over one of her betters no less. She shaped up after that and Hamfast had little need to worry about any of his children’s behavior since. Until yesterday that is, and it was a dilemma Hamfast had been puzzling over all day. He was no closer to a resolution than he had been the previous night, but he did have a few more softer words he wanted to speak to his son.

Sam was in two minds. In one, he was picturing Rosie Cotton as she had stood in the doorway of her house and her lovely smile on the porch before saying farewell. He had caught the scent of lavender when he kissed her, and her hand had come up to rest lightly on his arm for the briefest of moments. He could feel the touch still if he concentrated hard enough.

In the other, he was looking as discreetly as possible at his father and noticed the look of consternation and the tension in his shoulders. He knew he was still in trouble from the day before. He felt terrible about losing his father’s faith for stepping out of line as he had, but now that he had a day to think on it, he knew he would not have done anything differently. Even if his instincts had been wrong, they could not have been ignored and there was nothing else for it.

Time crawled by in suffocating silence, until at last Sam finished his ministrations and prepared to leave. Hamfast chose this moment to speak.

“I was harsh on you yesterday,” Hamfast stated. Sam paused, wondering where this was going. His father cleared his throat and continued with careful patience. “You’ve got too used to the idea that because Mr. Baggins treats you friendly, it means you’re his friend. But you’re not, Sam. You’re his employee, first and foremost. A quick walkthrough to ensure everything was sound would have been within your rights and duty as an employee, I won’t deny you that. But to do what you did, Sam… I just don’t know how to make it clear to you, lad. If you cross Mr. Baggins, he can send you packing and don’t think that anyone else would be willing to take on a dismissed servant. You’ll be out of work and we’ll be out of our hole.” Hamfast sighed, his shoulders sinking with weariness. “I just don’t want to see you shamed, son.”

“There’s no shame in looking after those you care for, Gaffer,” Sam replied. He understood what his father was saying, whether his father believed he did or not. Why couldn’t his Gaffer understand him now? “Why can’t a servant care for his master? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Surely you cared for Mr. Bilbo.”

“There’s a difference between serving and caring, and it isn’t a small one,” Hamfast tried to explain. “You’re paid to serve Mr. Baggins, to plant his gardens and make his breakfast and bring him his tea. You’re not paid to look after him and worry on him. Leave that to his family to do.”

Sam shook his head. “I'm sorry sir, but I don't see the difference. I serve Mr. Frodo because I care for him. And begging your pardon sir, but his family's too far away to do him any good when he needs it,” Sam answered, soft but stubborn. He noticed his father ready to respond, and continued on before he could do so.

“I know we're not equals, and he's got plenty of friends of his own standing and certainly doesn't need to turn to his gardener for aught more’n what flowers to put where. I know all that. I don't imagine myself to be more to him than what I am. But that don't mean I can't be his friend. And I am, whether or no.” Then, not waiting for a response, he turned and left. A moment later, his bedroom door closed with a soft thud.

Sam lay awake, staring at his chamber ceiling. In his mind, he played through all his memories of his dear Mr. Frodo, from his earliest remembrances to when he last saw his master, walking away from Bag End with his cousin at his side.

In all the long years Sam has known him, Mr. Frodo has always treated Sam with nothing but dignity and a degree of respect that most gentlehobbits usually reserved only for themselves. Mr. Frodo wasn’t like that. He never spoke an unkind word or looked down his nose at anyone, least of all Sam. So maybe Mr. Frodo didn’t consider him a friend, but Sam couldn’t ask for a kinder or sweeter master, and that was all that mattered to him.

He thought back to one of his fondest memories: Mr. Frodo’s thirtieth birthday. He had asked Sam to teach him to make strawberry truffle as his present to Mr. Bilbo. Sam had agreed to the task, figuring it would be easy enough and would not take much time away from his duties outside. Yet somehow, Mr. Frodo had managed to make quite an ordeal out of the receipt. The mess that resulted had taken them an hour to clean up, and they had laughed the whole time at Mr. Frodo’s poor culinary skills.

Sam saw to it that his master received more lessons after that. Under Sam’s patient tutelage, Mr. Frodo swiftly became quite a good cook indeed. Mr. Frodo never once berated Sam for having the audacity to try to teach him anything, but he did say he knew he had turned into a good cook the day Sam sat down to one of his meals and didn’t hesitate to dig in. The meal was beef and vegetable stew with cornbread, and it was one of the best Sam had ever eaten. Sam smiled at the memory and drifted off to pleasant dreams.

Moments later, the first flash of lightning lit the sky outside, the answering roll of thunder bringing down a heavy curtain of rain.

The lightning lasted through half the night, the last flash striking the sky as the clocks struck three. The heavy downpour continued on into the morning with no signs of letting up and the occasional rumble of thunder could still be heard as folk sat down to second breakfast.

Sam braved the storm to go up the Hill to Bag End the moment he woke. He wouldn’t be getting any work done today, but he wanted to check the door and make certain it hadn’t swung open again. He didn’t trust its odd behavior and he regretted that his plans to go into town today and fetch the locksmith would have to be put on hold.

He found the round green door sealed shut and, to his continuing bewilderment, once again locked. The handle wouldn’t budge an inch. Shaking his head at the mystery, he carefully made his way through the garden to the back door and checked that as well, then the windows that dotted the west side of the smial. Satisfied that all was sound, he quickly surveyed the gardens.

The ground was waterlogged and thick muddy puddles took over half the garden. Sam sighed, disheartened at the sight. If the rain didn’t stop soon, there would be no garden left. Already the flowerbeds he had lain down just a week ago were flooded over. He would have to replant those and many others. Knowing there was nothing he could do against the unrelenting torrent, Sam begrudgingly left the garden and returned home to wait out the storm.

May met him at the door. Within seconds, his raincoat was removed and replaced by a thick wool blanket. She placed a steaming mug of cider into his icy cold hands and led him to the parlor where a fire roared in the hearth. She ordered her brother to stay put as she went to the kitchen to fetch him first breakfast, only it was Marigold who brought out the tray. She placed it on the table next to the hearth, swatting away her brother’s hands and feeding him a couple of spoons of steaming oatmeal.

“Just you keep your hands nice and warm inside that blanket Samwise Gamgee,” she ordered and fed him another bite.

“Not well. Storm’s not doing him any favors. He’s lying in bed. May’s tending to him, so don’t you even think of getting up,” Marigold finished when she noticed her brother getting ready to rise. “How’s it looking out there?”

“Ugly,” he answered only to get cut off as Marigold placed another spoonful in his mouth. He swallowed, annoyed. “Now, really Goldie, I can feed myself.”

Marigold smiled and lifted another spoon to his lips. “I know that,” she said, “but then I’d have to go back to work and I want to hear how supper went yestereve.”

So Sam told his sister about supper and all that happened, from the meal they ate to what everyone was wearing as best he could remember. She beamed when he mentioned the dress Rosie had worn and how much he liked it. Turns out, Rosie had come over to talk about more than wedding dresses the other day. The girls had spent the good part of their visit planning the supper and deciding what Rosie should wear. Marigold suggested the two or three dresses she knew made Sam drool.

He then related all the news discussed at supper, trying in vain to skim over what he and Rosie had talked about by the river, but Marigold got it out of him in the end. “You know she’s going to tell me anyway,” she reasoned.

By the time they reached the bottom of the bowl, May had joined them with her needlework as she took a break to hear about her brother’s evening. May noted the sparkle in his eyes as he talked about Old Cotton’s only daughter. She smiled, knowing exactly how he felt and wondering how long it would take him to propose to Rosie once she came of age. Not long was her guess.

When Sam finished his recount of supper, he insisted on helping with the household chores. They set to work in the kitchen, which doubled as a wash room when need called for it and gossiped as they sewed, ironed and folded clothes for themselves and their customers.

The rain finally subsided to a steady shower after luncheon. Hamfast came out from his room, hobbling painfully but tired of being in bed. He came into the kitchen and his children smiled to see him up, May and Marigold with full grins, Sam with an uncertain smile. He had not seen his son since their talk last night and he was just as uncertain as Sam was about what would happen next between them. He sat down carefully in his chair and opened the oven door to toss a few more logs onto the dying embers. He poked the flames to life, then sat with his back to the fire to keep himself warm as he watched his children work and chat.

He remembered back to a time when all six of them were still young and at home and how they used to crowd into the kitchen to help prepare meals. They would stand around the table or stove, each with their own task, the older ones chopping vegetables or minding the pots and pans, the younger ones beating, whipping or stirring things around in bowls – and sneaking a chopped carrot or two when they thought no one was watching. He thought back even further, to when Bell was still with them and how gracefully she would supervise her children, cleaning up messes even as Sam, just a baby upon her hip, would reach out and spill a bag of flour or tip a bowl of eggs in his efforts to help.

Hamfast’s thoughts returned to the present as he watched his youngest son expertly folding sheet after sheet as he laughed with his sisters. What was he going to do about Sam?

He loved his son and no mistake. The lad had many fine qualities that gained him the respect of all in Hobbiton and Bywater, and Hamfast beamed with pride whenever someone mentioned what a fine job he was doing as gardener of Bag End. ‘Sam was born with his hands in the dirt,’ he often liked to say. He had always known Sam would one day take his place and the lad had proven himself more than worthy for the job at a young age, just barely into his tweens. At a time when most lads and lasses were getting into mischief, his son had taken on full employment in a prime occupation, for the kindest and most respected hobbit in Hobbiton, no matter how much people may have called Mr. Bilbo ‘mad.’

Hamfast secretly admired his son’s natural curiosity. Or ‘unnatural’ as others would call it. It was another trait he had received from his mother, though she had been better at hiding it than he was. Most often he put it to practical use, to find new ways to improve the garden or navigate through the local gossip to come up with the truth. But there were times when that same curiosity caused Sam to do silly things, and it would get him into trouble one of these days, or his name wasn’t Gamgee.

When Sam was just a little lad, the Gaffer had drilled into him the importance of keeping his proper place and not harassing his betters by asking too many questions. But then Mr. Bilbo would invite him inside for sweets and Elvish tales, or young Master Frodo would insist on helping in the garden or propose that Sam learn to read and write. Young Sam would forget everything his father told him about ‘proper place’ and ‘not speaking out of turn’ and would start yammering away with his masters about dragons and elves and hidden gold.

It was a constant struggle as Sam was growing up, but he gradually learned his lesson. By his teens he had learned to always address them by their titles and keep his questions to himself, though he still tended to lapse into yammering when he became excited about something. By the time he had taken over the garden, he had learned to conduct himself properly and professionally at all times, and it showed in the ever-blooming flowers and neatly-trimmed shrubs. Hamfast rested happily, knowing he no longer had to worry about his son not keeping in his place and he hadn’t worried for many years.

But now Sam had done the unthinkable: entered Bag End without leave, while his master was away no less, and went through it top to bottom like he owned the place. Hamfast sighed and pulled out his pipe. What was he going to do?

He tried to think of what Bell would do, but they had never had this problem with the other children, and she had always been soft on Sam. He thought he had a fix on what Mr. Baggins would do – nothing. He knew his threat of Mr. Baggins punishing Sam was as empty as air. The young master was far too fond of Sam to be upset with him for too long, if at all, and Hamfast knew it. No doubt Sam knew it too, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared what he did. Sam had said as much the other night.

Then there was their talk from yestereve. In a way, that quiet fireside conversation had caused more tension and disapproval between them than Hamfast’s frustrated lecture. His son never butted heads with him over anything. He always conceded to his father’s advice and wisdom, but something about this was different. Sam could be stubborn in his own way, and Hamfast had noticed Sam’s squaring of his shoulders last night. His son for the first time in his life had put his foot down, and he knew there was nothing he could do against it.

He understood Sam’s fondness for Mr. Baggins. As Sam had pointed out, Hamfast had been quite fond of Mr. Bilbo when the elder Baggins was still around. Hamfast had taken it upon himself to check in on Mr. Frodo from time to time after Mr. Bilbo disappeared and knew from those brief visits how easy it was to care for the new Master of the Hill. Mr. Frodo was a proper gentlehobbit, sincere in all he did, and one would be hard pressed to find another who was as open and kind. Everyone who knew him well loved him dearly and would do anything within their power for him, and that was what worried Hamfast the most.

Sam was devoted to his master, as was proper of any servant, but he was unable to separate dedication in his work from his feelings for his master. If he tended the flower gardens, he had to tend to his master. If he served Mr. Baggins tea and saw him fed, he also had to stay up nights when his master fell ill. If he went to market to fetch some items missing from Bag End’s pantries, he had to slip into the novelty shop and see if any interesting books had come in so he could alert Mr. Baggins about them. He lived for his master and was happiest when Mr. Baggins was content and at peace. And at home.

Oh sure, Sam carried on well enough when Mr. Baggins went on his little adventures. He woke early, went to work, took up at the Dragon, gossiped with his friends and neighbors, and generally went about his business as he always did. But Hamfast noticed that his step had a little less bounce and he spent more time in quiet contemplation than he did in merriment and laughter. In a week’s time, Sam would be up at Bag End, waiting eagerly for his master’s return, and he would stay up there until Mr. Baggins was settled into his home once again. Then Mr. Baggins would invite Sam in for tea and tell him all about his trip to Buckland, and Sam would listen eagerly, keeping his questions to himself, but happy and complete once again.

Hamfast lit up his pipe. He supposed he should have been harder on Sam when he was younger, insisting he keep to the gardens rather than spend his time inside with his masters. Now he found himself in a bit of a tight spot, trying to make Sam understand too late the importance of not getting involved in the affairs of one’s betters, and he feared it would be his son who would pay for his bad judgment in the end.

“Look!” May’s sudden exclamation cut through his reverie. He looked to where she was pointing, to the kitchen window. Outside, the sun was shining.

The Gamgees cautiously filed outside their front door and looked about. The sky above was still dark and grey, but the rain had slowed to a sparing drizzle and the sun was bravely shining through a break in the looming clouds. The road outside their gate was a muddy mess, a river of water rolling down the middle. Their garden looked no better than Bag End’s and a tree branch had fallen, knocking over part of the gate.

Sam once again trudged up the Hill to Bag End. The damage was worse than that morning, but nothing was completely unsalvageable. He grabbed a shovel from the shed and went about the garden, digging trenches leading out of the flooded flowerbeds to encourage runoff. Nearly all of the beds required this. He found Mr. Frodo’s reading bench at the bottom of the path, displaced by a small mudslide from its proper place beneath the elm. He sat the bench upright where it had landed, then walked the entire path up to the mighty oak that sat atop Bag End. One giant branch had broken off and lay dejectedly upon the ground. Sam would chop that up for firewood later.

He turned his attention to the land spreading out before him. All of Hobbiton could be seen from this spot and he surveyed his homeland with a sharp eye. From this vantage point, the damage appeared minimal at best; moderate at worst. But appearances could be deceiving from such a great distance, and the storm wasn’t over yet.

He looked up at the sky and felt the wind. The rain had paused during his inspection of the garden, but more rain would come before the day was over. Still, he thought it might hold for a while, long enough for him to go to town and gather some news.

He walked back down the path and made a final round of the garden, making a list in his head of the work to be done in the next few days. As soon as the water receded, he would get to work making all the necessary repairs. He was confident he would have everything back the way it was by the time Mr. Frodo returned.

After tea, Sam headed into town, looking around his homeland as he went. As he had suspected, the damage was worse than what could be seen sitting atop the Hill. Many fields and gardens had suffered from the storm and it pained Sam to see the bright crimson and amber blossoms crushed into the mud or floating in muddy pools. He didn’t like to think of how things would look when this was all finally over.

Rain was a blessing he often took joy in, but too much of it was a curse. ‘Too much of a good thing will undo you in the end,’ his Gaffer would say. Sam first came to understand that statement many years back, when he was just into his tweens and newly appointed to Bag End. The Great Storm had hit that year, wreaking much havoc and destruction throughout the Shire. He had seen for the first time just how deadly and powerful something as simple and pure as water could be. He had hoped it would be the last time he would have to witness such a thing.

He reached The Ivy Bush a half-hour later, his breeches soaked up to the knees from falling in a hole he had mistaken for a puddle, and his teeth chattering to beat the band. He ordered some ale and sipped on his mug as he sat near one of the hearths and warmed up. The inn was just beginning to crowd as hobbits started streaming in, talking excitedly about the storm. They would come to hear and give reports on damage and other happenings caused by the downpour, as well as find out who needed help with repairs and who was able to offer it.

Sam listened to the various reports as he dried out by the fire. A fig tree in Mr. Proudfoot’s field had suffered a lightning strike and caught fire, which spread to the gate, burning half of it down before the rain put it out. Missus Burrows’s cat was missing. Farmer Goodheart’s herd had been chased off into the hills by the thunder and lightning. The postmaster Mr. Sarco had left a window open and the supplies cellar had flooded. But the most exciting and talked-about news came in at the four o’clock hour.

Young Missus Scarlet was expecting her first child in a few weeks, but at the first lightning strike, she had gone into labor and woken her frazzled husband to run for the midwife. He had done that, not even stopping to pull on a coat, and ran all the way to the midwife’s house in naught but his undergarments. He barely paused long enough for the midwife to grab her satchel before hauling her back to his home. Only she had tripped on the way, spraining her ankle, and poor Harper had been obliged to carry her the rest of the way, then go out to fetch the healer for the midwife. The impatient newborn who caused all the ruckus was a bright-eyed lad they named Anson, though he was quickly nicknamed Torrent, which was just as quickly shortened to Tory, and for the rest of his years no one ever remembered his proper name.

The inhabitants of The Ivy Bush clapped Harper on the back for the good news and drank to his family’s health. Then they drank again to the midwife’s health for good measure. Pipes were taken out and lit up and the fathers began regaling everyone with accounts of their children’s births, though it was generally agreed none could top the one that brought them a Torrent in a tempest.

A gust of cold wind from the front door blew into the inn as another bustling hobbit came rushing inside. Sam looked up to see who the new customer was and was surprised to see young Finch Fernbrook, a friend of the Cotton brothers, standing at the bar, his hair and coat soaking wet. The barkeep pointed the lad over in Sam’s direction and soon he was making his way through the crowd.

“As best as could be hoped for. What brings you here?” he asked, curious to find out why the lad had come all the way to the Bush instead of heading for the Dragon.

Finch sank gratefully into a chair, his hands held out to the warmth of the fire. “We’re short-handed,” he answered simply. “This storm’s making a mess of things and no mistake. Me and a few other lads came in hopes that you folk had faired better and could lend some hands to help out.”

“How’re my cousins?” Sam asked concerned. The last time the weather had raged on as it was, The Water had flooded. Entire crops had been lost and Cotton had to struggle to feed his family.

“Not so bad as last time,” Finch said, thinking the same thing. “There’s some flooding, that’s to be expected, but Cotton doesn’t look to lose that much and it’s early in the season yet. He’s thinking it won’t set him back too bad, as long as the rains stop soon that is. If it doesn’t, well, then we’ll see won’t we? No, it’s mostly wind damage and the like. The wind rips through the valley pretty strong on the best of days. Add the storm and lightning to it, and it makes a right fine mess. Everyone’s got some sort of property damage. Old Tom got a hole punched into his barn by that old oak tree. Went and toppled over right into it. House is fine though, everyone’s safe and sound.”

“How soon are they looking for help?” Sam asked. He would have to put his other plans on hold for as long as it took to fix the farm, but there was no helping it. Crops were more important than gardens, and he knew his master would understand the circumstances. The garden had gone neglected for two weeks last time, as Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo had insisted on seeing to others first.

“It was starting to rain again when I left, light rain, but it could pick up still. They’ve got the hole covered over and the animals moved to some stables up at his brother’s place for now. They’re hoping to set to work first thing in the morning if at all possible.”

“Well, count on me to be there come morning,” Sam vowed. “Weather allowing.”

They sat another hour longer, sipping their ales and joining the conversations around them. Finch recruited another fourteen volunteers for the Bywater folk, with promises from all that they would bring more help with them if they could.

A threatening rumble of thunder sent many people home. Sam offered for the lad to stay at Bagshot Row, but Finch turned him down with great regret. He had only been allowed to come as long as he promised to return immediately and he didn’t want his parents to worry about him. Sam saw Finch to the stable, then turned toward his own home.

The light shower Finch had reported earlier found its way to Hobbiton just as Sam stepped away from the inn. The mildness of the rain didn’t ease Sam’s heart though. This shower was moving slowly and would do no one any favors.

His sisters had dinner on the table by the time he returned, soaked and shivering once more. Again they ushered him to sit by the hearth and moved the meal into the parlor to keep their brother comfortable. Sam reported on everything he’d heard at the Bush. Hamfast agreed to let both him and his sisters go to the Cotton’s as soon as the rain went away. Lily and Rosie would need extra hands in the kitchen as well to feed all the workers laboring to repair the fields and barn.

After dinner, Gaffer turned in for the night. He raised his hand as if to pat his son on the shoulder as he passed him. It was a ritual way of saying ‘good job’ whenever he was pleased with something his children did, but he stopped just short of contact and continued without looking back. His sisters could not help but notice as Sam watched his father’s retreating back, his expression troubled by a heavy heart. He wondered how long the strain between them would last. Perhaps he should have kept quiet last night, but somehow Sam knew that would have only made things worse. Well, if Hamfast could be stubborn, so could Sam. He was his father’s son after all.

Resigning himself to another night out of his father’s good graces, Sam made his way to the kitchen and set to work making some preserves from Mr. Frodo’s berries. His sisters came to help him, both to repay him for his help that morning and to silently offer him some much needed emotional support. They were soon chatting and laughing again as they had that morning. They were finishing up the last jar of mixed-berry marmalade when the thunder sounded again and the rain began pouring once more, fiercer than ever before. The kitchen was soon too cold to stay there. They quickly put everything away and put out the ineffective fire in the oven.

The lasses went to their rooms and brought their needlework out to the parlor as Sam built up the hearth fire a final time. They sang softly as they worked, their sweet voices filling the smial with cheer and delight. Sam retrieved a book from his nightstand and sat with them as he read. The book was on loan from Mr. Frodo and was filled with many of the stories and poems Mr. Bilbo used to tell when Sam was a child. Most of them he knew already, but others he had never heard and he went in search of those now. He found a tale even May would not be able to protest, and waited until his sisters finished their song to read them a poem about a Maia goddess who fell in love with an Elf lord.

And so the three siblings passed the long rainy night in each other’s quiet company, as their father snored softly in his bed.

The rain moved into the west during the night, but the high grey clouds lingered throughout the following day, blocking the sun completely from view. Only a pale, dim light could be seen through the clouds, and folk were obliged to look to their clocks or pocket watches to determine the time of day.

First breakfast was eaten early at Number Three, Bagshot Row, for the Gamgees had many things to do before they left for Bywater. May took what laundry they had finished to their customers and collected their pay. She explained that the next loads of washing might be unavoidably delayed a day or two due to her and Marigold helping the Cottons. Her customers understood entirely, and she returned home with her next loads of laundry, as well as some food donated for the feeding of the laborers.

May added the loaves of bread, bundles of cheese and jars of sliced fruit to the stack that Marigold had gathered together. Their pantries were well-stocked thanks to their shopping last week and they had some food to spare. They wrapped the bread in towels and packed all the food into an empty laundry bag, which was quite heavy by the time they were ready to leave. They would have to take turns carrying it and make sure that Sam didn’t attempt to keep it once he got it.

Sam at the moment was at Bag End, making a quick survey of the grounds. He found things only marginally worse than the day before, a good sign he supposed. The water had already run out of the gardens into the pathways or down to the lane in most places. A few standing puddles still remained in the gardens closest to the smial, but those would recede on their own in a day or two. More of the plants had survived than he’d originally hoped, but there were still entire beds and a few shrubs that would have to be replanted or replaced.

He had changed his mind about waiting to restore the garden. He would have to be telling his master about his insubordination when he returned, and Sam thought it best to not have the garden looking abandoned on top of that. There was no telling how long he would be needed at the Cotton farm, but he figured he could get in a couple of hours each day in the garden to bring it back to the glory it had enjoyed before the storm. Whether he had to wake before the sun or work by the light of the moon or both, he would have it looking lovely once again by the time Mr. Frodo returned next week, and he could spend those quiet hours figuring out the perfect way of telling his master about his indiscretion.

His sisters were waiting for him at the end of the Row when he came back down the Hill. Hamfast waved them off, and then turned back towards their home. He would be busy himself today. He intended to spend his day fixing up their own garden, and he had already recruited Daddy Twofoot’s sons to fix the gate.

Sam was against his father being out in the cold against the healer’s instructions, but none of his children had been able to dissuade him. Besides, Sam was not currently in the position to tell his father to stay inside as was proper of someone in his condition. The last couple of days had put an unprecedented strain on their relationship. They were at present teetering on a sort of unspoken truce, called upon only for the need to fix what was left in the storm’s wake. Sam was in no rush to test that truce by bringing up “proper” behavior to his father.

There were many hobbits out of their holes in the early morning hours, many more than was common to see on an ordinary day. They were all eagerly toiling away to undo the harm caused by the storm, raking here and shoveling there. In fact, they were working so cheerfully that one would be hard pressed to guess that a storm had just ruined a month’s worth of hard labor, had the evidence not been so readily available. That the damage was not as great as many had feared it would be lifted their hearts as much as the rainless skies above.

The Gamgees waved hello to everyone they passed and were greeted joyfully in turn. Marigold and May wanted to stop by to see Scarlet and the newborn. Of course, half the lasses in Hobbiton had the same idea and they found a small crowd outside the house. Sam refused to wait and bother the new mother more than she was already. They walked on by and were soon on the Bywater Road.

The country between Hobbiton and Bywater was mostly open land, with some farms and cottages along the way. The Water was running swift, already high on its banks before even reaching Bywater Pool. Beyond the Pool, the story changed. Every farm for the next ten miles had suffered some sort of harm to the crops or structures. Noakes’ farm, sitting right upon the Pool’s outlet, was hardest hit. Half his lower fields were completely submerged in water three feet deep.

The Gamgees arrived at the Cotton farm just in time to eat some leftovers from second breakfast. Then the lasses rose to help a very grateful Lily and Rosie. A few of the wives and daughters of the other helpers had also come to lend a hand in the feeding of the working hobbits. Soon the kitchen was buzzing with lively talk and the sound of cupboards opening and pots rattling.

Sam went outside and headed to the barn, where he could see many hobbits, young and old, standing around the fallen oak and discussing what they were going to do about it.

“Good morning Old Tom and all,” Sam greeted cheerfully. “Where can I be of most use to you?”

“Good morning Sam!” the hobbits replied. The Cotton lads waved happily and the other lads smiled broadly. “Good to have your help, Sam,” one lad said, a boy named Will who Sam had met before on previous visits.

“Sam, my lad,” Tolman Cotton said as he turned to clap the newcomer on the back. “Just in time! We’re getting ready to chop up this here tree, for being bold enough to topple over into my barn. Grab up an ax and work with the other lads. Don’t forget a pair of gloves, else your hands’ll be smarting by the end of the day.”

“Come on, Sam,” Nick Cotton called as Sam tested the various axes leaning against what was left of the barn wall. When he found one that fit his hands well, he grabbed up a pair of gloves and joined Nick and the other lads near the top of the tree that lay inside the barn.

Besides the Cotton brothers – Tom, Jolly, Nick and Nibs – there were also Finch Fernbrook, and Will and Carl Hornbeam, whose father was a craftshobbit and so looked to make a good profit, if a regrettable one, from the storm. Next to them were Alden and Furzy, both of whom Sam knew quite well, for his good friend Robin Smallburrows was their eldest brother. They all said their hellos and after a few brief exchanges of pleasantries, Sam turned his attention to the task at hand.

He slipped on his gloves as he stared down (and up where the tree towered over his head) at the many innumerable and interweaving branches. He then turned his gaze down the long, thick trunk to where the gaffers stood at the tangling, unearthed roots. “Well, this ought to take a while,” he said simply. The lads laughed and each took a first swing, chopping off the smaller branches first.

“We’ll be taking care of this part of the tree, trimming off the branches and all,” Tom said and then filled Sam in on the plan. They would work their way inward to the larger branches and once those were out of the way, would begin to saw the trunk. The elder fellows would be doing the same at the other end, clearing the roots and then attacking the base of the tree and working their way up, to meet the lads somewhere in the middle.

“And after luncheon,” Nibs said enthusiastically, “we’re having a firewood chopping contest. Whoever can split the most wood wins.”

“And what would they be winning?” Sam asked as he took his first swing and broke off a branch.

“Then I hope you’re in the mood for roast beef, lads,” Sam said. “I’ve been craving that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you all, but I believe we’ll be having lamb chops tonight,” Jolly said as he took a mighty swing, lopping off one of the thicker branches with ease.

They spent the first part of the morning bantering back and forth as they each invented their ideal suppers, which grew more elaborate with each round. By the time the call for elevenses was sounded, each lad had Missus Cotton creating a meal that would be rivaled only by the Birthday Party old Mr. Bilbo had thrown ten years ago.

Elevenses was served outside at the long picnic table that sat beside the house. The matrons and lasses served the meal with swift proficiency. Rosie gave Sam a dazzling smile as she handed him his plate and cup. Sam momentarily forgot he was supposed to be eating as he watched Rosie serve the others and then go into the house, where the lasses were eating in the kitchen. With great reluctance, he tore his eyes away from the door and back to his food.

The other lads were diligently eating but Sam had expected to find at least Tom waiting with a tease ready. What he found instead was a flustered Tom peeking glances at Marigold as she finished serving the last of the workers and went inside. Sam quirked an eyebrow in surprised wonder. Now, how long had that been going on? The kitchen door closed with a bang, but Tom remained transfixed, as if he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing.

Sam smiled knowingly, but quickly placed a mock scowl on his face as he kicked Tom beneath the table. Tom snapped his attention to his friend, a look of guilt crossing his features until he noticed Sam’s scowl was actually barely contained laughter. Tom picked up a bread roll and tossed it at Sam, who easily caught it and took a mighty bite from the still-warm roll. “Thanks, I was eyeing that,” Sam said innocently.

“I noticed,” Tom replied, just as innocently. Then both lads laughed heartily and dug into their well-earned meal.

They went straight to work as soon as they finished their meal, which was eaten quickly. They worked steadily and without pause, and by luncheon had cleared all but the branch stumps from the top of the tree. The roots were gone entirely and the base of the trunk was being sawed away by the elders. After luncheon, the smaller branches were stripped of their leaves and gathered into bundles of tinder by all the elders, while the lads lined up at the chopping blocks. The lasses came out to enjoy a break from their cooking and watch the competition.

Lily was in charge of conducting the game. She held a pocket watch in her hand and stood between the two chopping blocks. “We’ll be doing this in five pairs, and in - ” she quickly calculated how much time was left for supper “ – three rounds of five minutes each. Whoever chops the most logs wins. May, you keep count lass. First pair starts when I say ‘go.’ Line up!”

Nick and Nibs picked up their axes and bent with hands poised over their pile. “Go!” cried Lily, and the game began.

Pick up a log, place it on the chopping block, take aim, swing and chop. Over and over they repeated the routine as quickly – and safely – as they could. At a leisurely pace, singing or whistling all the while, the average hobbit could chop between five to eight logs of wood a minute. That could usually be doubled if the motivation were strong enough, and Nick and Nibs had plenty of motivation. It wasn’t every day they could tell their mother what they wanted to eat and actually expect to get it.

The spectators and competitors alike cheered them on, whistling and shouting words of encouragement. At the end of their five minutes, May tallied their scores while everyone loaded the wood into waiting wheelbarrows. A couple of the hobbits then hauled the loads into the barn and dumped them inside one of the empty stalls. By the time they returned the wheelbarrows, the next pair of competitors was lined up and waiting their turn. Will and Finch took the second round, followed by Alden and Carl, then Jolly and Furzy.

Sam and Tom took the last round. They made a show of stretching and loosening their muscles, then each gave a couple of practice swings, showing off their speed and strength. The elders smiled fondly and shook their heads, remembering what it was like to be young and silly in love. After a while, Lily snapped her fingers and the lads got serious.

“Go!” she shouted, and their turn began. Of all the rounds played, theirs was the fiercest, as the young lads eagerly showed off for the objects of their unspoken affections. And of all the spectators, Rosie and Marigold cheered loudest, though neither shouted any names, equally wanting both lads to do their best.

The competition came to a close an hour and half later and Lily was pleased with the results. The once gigantic pile of uncut wood had dwindled to a reasonable, if still somewhat daunting, size. If her husband was correct in his assessment that the remainder of the tree would be sawed to nil by the end of the next day, Lily reasoned that five or six more such competitions would be needed. That would give everyone something to look forward to at the end of the long days to come.

The lasses went back to the house to bring out a late tea and early dinner. The lads quickly sat down at the table. Without a single word of exchange between them, they began devouring their meal with such enthusiasm that one would think they’d been starving for a week. The elders followed their lead, eating more slowly but no less eagerly.

Near the end of the meal, the lasses came out of the house once more and May stood at the head of the table to announce the winner of the competition. “The winner, with a score of 187 is,” and she paused, making everyone squirm with anticipation, “Tom Cotton.”

Tom let out a whoop and everyone cheered wildly. May waited for the cheering to die down, then continued. “And in second place, with 185, is Sam Gamgee, so he gets to pick dessert.”

It was Sam’s turn to celebrate and everyone cheered for him, Rosie clapping fiercely. Tom shook his head. “That wasn’t a rule!” he cried. “You just made that up.”

“A lass’s prerogative,” May replied and winked at Sam. “Now give your orders to Mother Cotton and the rest of you, back to work,” she said with a laugh.

The workers laughed in return and stood. They headed back to the barn, congratulating the two winners as they passed. The lads shouted back suggestions for dessert as they followed the elders, not able to believe Sam’s good luck for losing. Soon, Tom and Sam were standing alone, each beaming with pride. Tom came and clapped Sam on the back. “Good thing I didn’t know about the dessert rule sooner,” he boasted, “or I’d have let you win.”

“Let me win?” Sam said. “My dear Tom, what you don’t realize is that I did know about this, which is why I let you win.”

“Tell you what,” Tom suggested, “tomorrow, dessert will be the prize, and then we’ll see who wins.”

Lily came over then to take their requests. Tom requested lamb chops with mushroom gravy, cornbread and mashed potatoes. Sam wanted strawberries with cream. Lily called the lasses back to the kitchen, but not before Rosie and Marigold could congratulate the winners with a gentle hug. Tom grew flustered when Marigold also gave him a soft, shy peck on his cheek and he blushed bright red with pleased embarrassment. He watched the lasses go back into the house and waved overzealously when they glanced back before going inside.

Sam laughed. “Come on, Tom,” he said. “You don’t want to scare my little sister with your incessant grinning, now do you?”

Tom had enough sense to look abashed. “I’m not scary,” he mumbled as Sam clapped him on the back and gently steered him back to work.

The workers had already started cleaning up when they joined them. Soon, they were carting the last of the chopped wood into the barn, then raking the leaves and the remaining twigs into a pile in the clearing behind the barn. On their last day of work, the pile would be high enough for a mighty fire, and they would celebrate the end of the repairs with a night of feasting and games.

They went to examine what was left of the tree and the giant, gapping hole in the barn wall. A couple of stalls had also been ruined, the walls smashed, though thankfully the ponies had not been harmed. They cleared up the splintered wood and hauled this to the clearing and added it to the pile. They placed a tarp over the mound to prevent it from scattering in the winds, then retrieved some old party tents to cover the now fully-exposed hole in the barn wall for the time being.

After that, they walked down to the lower fields, where a quarter of the wheat crops were submerged a foot deep in water. Tolman was pleased to see that the water was beginning to recede already, though admittedly he had hoped it would go down further and faster than it was.

“There’s naught we can do but wait for The Water to spill this into the Brandywine,” he said. “We’ll chop up the rest of that tree tomorrow, then get the barn fixed and the animals moved back in. Then we should be able to worry about the crops.”

But they waded into the crops at any rate. After the last flooding caused by the Great Storm, farmers up and down the river had found many odd things in their fields, washed down from barns, farms, homes and outbuildings further upstream. They looked for any such items now, hoping to get them returned to their rightful owners sooner rather than later. Nibs fished up a pitching fork and Carl found an empty letterbox. Will discovered a lengthy coil of rope, which had snaked its way around and through the crops, and soon everyone was helping him untangle it and carry it to the barn. Any other discoveries would have to wait for tomorrow.

By the time they returned from the fields and had everything squared away for the night, supper was being laid out on the table. Several lanterns were brought out and lit, casting the table in soft candlelight under the fading sky. Everyone sat down to enjoy a leisurely meal, the elders chatting at one end, the teens and tweens at the other. Rosie, Tom, Sam and Marigold sat at the very end, chatting easily and enthusiastically in each other’s company.

Dessert followed quickly after supper and everyone agreed it was the perfect follow up to the perfect meal. The hobbits toasted the matrons’ wonderfully delicious efforts and then everyone helped with the final clean up. Soon after, everyone was breaking for home with promises to return in the morning. The Gamgees were the last to leave, waving good-bye as the whole Cotton clan stood in front of their house to watch them go.

They reached Bagshot Row near the eight o’clock hour, the lasses yawning widely, glad to be home at last. But their work was far from over. They had to check on their father, who no doubt would need an ointment treatment after working all day himself. They also had to get at least one load of laundry washed and hung to dry. And while they were not surprised to see Sam continue up the Hill, they felt they should at least attempt to protest.

“You won’t be able to see much at this hour. There’s no sunlight,” May tried to reason.

“Then I’ll work by starlight and moonlight,” Sam replied over his shoulder, never ceasing his slow march up the Hill. He soon disappeared around the bend.

His sisters shook their heads. They really couldn’t tell him not to work anymore tonight when they would be working themselves. If he felt he had enough light, who were they to argue? They lifted their faces to the night sky and noticed with surprise that the clouds had finally passed on indeed. A brilliant clear sky greeted their sight and it seemed to them that they could see more stars than they could ever recall seeing before. The half moon lay low to the ground, bathing all the land with its gentle beams.

“A good sign that,” May said. “Things will be getting back to normal now, I reckon.”

“I don’t recall a more lovely night,” Marigold agreed. They stood in the lane a few minutes longer, then turned down the Row to Number Three and went inside to work a couple hours more.

At Bag End, Sam was also admiring the night sky. “It’s as though it’s making up for the last few days,” he mused quietly to himself. The nocturnal display encouraged him greatly, and he took it as a sign that he had come to the correct decision regarding his father.

He had spent much of the day figuring out a way of getting them past their differing opinions and thought he finally had one that would make them both happy. Sam knew that going into Bag End and all was wrong; he would admit to that. He also understood his father’s view on what was proper behavior when taking care of your betters; he would agree to that. Hopefully, his father would accept that and overlook his lack of apology for regarding Mr. Frodo as a friend.

He hummed softly and got to work, his spirits higher than they’d been all day. He and his father would soon be back to normal speaking terms, he was certain. Storm damage, overall, was minimal compared to what folk had feared. Though there was still much work to be completed over the next several days, the worst of the spoilage left in the storm’s wake would soon be repaired, and the crops that needed it would be replanted. The restoration had begun. The stars and moon were beaming and tomorrow there would be sun. Nothing more could go amiss.

The next day was much the same as the one before, except the sun was shining brightly and not a cloud could be seen in the vast blue skies overhead. The wind was still cold, but the light and warmth of the sun lifted the hearts of all and work progressed quickly.

Sam watched the sun rise over the horizon as he finished raking the debris of foliage from the last of the flowerbeds. True to his word, he had risen early to come up to Bag End and begin putting the gardens to rights. Despite getting only five hours sleep, he was feeling energetic and he worked swiftly. In just a couple of short hours, he had raked clean all the grounds and replaced a couple of the path stones that had come loose and floated to places they did not belong.

Now he turned his attention to the salvageable flowers, plants and shrubbery. The kitchen garden had faired best of all, and Sam set to work recreating the tidy rows of growing produce. The garden would not take long to repair. It was small, only big enough to keep his master well-fed throughout the year.

Sam worked steadily, keeping a watchful eye on the rising sun. When it reached high enough to cast long shadows on the ground around him, Sam called it a day and quickly returned his tools to the shed. He was almost finished with the vegetable patch and decided to come again tonight to finish up. Tomorrow, he would get started on the flower gardens.

He returned home in time for a hurried first breakfast. He waited until the dishes were washed and put away, and his sisters were in the pantry gathering food for the day, before he approached his father.

Sam had prepared himself for this talk while he was working in the gardens. He figured the best way to approach it was to get Hamfast speaking first on a common, harmless topic and find out what kind of mood he was in. The way Sam approached the subject of their disagreement would depend largely on whether his father was in a good mood or a grumpy one.

“So what are your plans for today Gaffer?” Sam asked innocently, while he wiped down the tabletop.

Hamfast fixed him with a stern gaze. It was an expression Sam was familiar with. It meant his father was preparing himself to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it. Sam’s heart sank. He had finally decided to swallow his pride, and his father was going to lecture him again. Sam lowered his gaze to the table, not sure he could endure this today. He heard his father clear his throat.

“Well,” Hamfast started, “I thought I’d get some ale-brewing done, and fold up some of this laundry for the lasses.” And here he paused. Sam closed his eyes and braced himself, wondering what in the Shire he had done now to upset his father. Hamfast cleared his throat again and continued. “Then I thought I’d take those berries of yours and finish up the jams and whatnot for Mr. Baggins.”

“What?” Sam asked, positive he had heard incorrectly. He raised his gaze to his father and studied the old hobbit’s face with confounded uncertainty. “The jams, sir?”

“Aye, that’s what I said. No point in those berries going to waste,” Hamfast said tersely. “Stop gawking at me like you never seen me afore, lad. I’ve done my share of cooking in the past and I reckon I could do a decent enough job of it. Jams used to be a specialty of mine, you know.”

Unable to stop himself, Sam continued to stare at his father, but now with an expression of shocked gratitude. This was the last thing he had expected to hear. He wasn’t being lectured? His father was going to help him and was extending the olive branch? “Thank you Dad,” he finally managed.

Hamfast stood up and came around the table to clap his youngest son on the back. “The least I can do considering what all you’re busy with,” he said. “I might even get up to Bag End today if my knees feel like holding up.”

Sam’s gratitude soared. This was more than he could have ever wished for, but he shook his head. “Now, Gaffer, the gardens are my job,” he tried to protest. “I’ll get it done. No need to risk yourself getting hurt.”

“You won’t get it done in a week working only half days as you are. I won’t do anything this old body can’t handle,” Hamfast retorted stubbornly.

Hamfast had done quite a lot of thinking of his own the previous day. It did not escape his attention that Sam had stayed at Bag End until nearly eleven o’clock last night, and his daughters had told him about everything his son had helped to accomplish at the Cottons. Sam was dedicated and reliable, and everything else one could wish for in a model hobbit. Hamfast knew every morning he woke up how lucky he was to have such a son.

While he still had his reservations, he figured that as long as Sam was wise enough not to extend the familiar relationship he shared with Mr. Baggins to his other betters, no real harm could come of it. He would not go so far as to say he was wrong when he was not, but he was proud of his hard-working son. He regretted deeply the last few days of tension between them, and he saw his offer of help as his way of apologizing for the harshness of his words, if not the words themselves.

Sam knew his father well and understood the unspoken meaning behind his father’s offer. He nodded his acceptance. “I suppose it won’t be too much for you to get the beds as need it cleared out and turned over for planting. But you leave the planting to me,” he said as sternly as he could. He knew his father was still disappointed about his misbehavior a few days back, but it eased his mind to know he could always count on him to be there at need. That meant more to him than all the flowers at Bag End. “Thank you Dad,” he said again, smiling his mother’s smile.

The sun was high in the sky when the Gamgees arrived at the Cotton farm. Just as the day before, they ate a quick second breakfast and went to work.

The top of the tree was now free of branches, though many thick stumps remained to be hacked off before they could begin work on the trunk. The lads abandoned their axes for saws and were soon working tirelessly as they invented their ideal desserts. Jolly was certain he would win today’s competition and he would treat everyone to peach pie. Carl insisted that he would be the winner this time around and they would be eating three-layered chocolate cake with strawberry swirls and mousse frosting. Nick and Nibs secretly hoped that Carl would win.

Tom nodded to Sam, and the two friends broke off from the others to work on a particularly thick branch stump. For quite a while now, Tom had wanted to talk to his friend about something of great importance. After yesterday, he decided it was now or never, but he was still working out how he wanted to begin the conversation. Sam waited patiently for Tom to work up his nerve and speak his mind.

“As a friend maybe,” Tom continued worriedly, “but I was thinking more along the lines of, well, if I were to ask to court her, do you think she’d accept?”

Sam thought on this as they continued sawing back and forth through the oak. That Marigold was fond of all the Cotton brothers was no secret. They might be only third cousins, but they were raised as though they were next of kin. But did her feelings go beyond that? There was no question of that either. He and his sister spoke often of many things, and lately she had got into the habit of always managing to somehow bring the conversation around to Tom. If Sam had already brought the conversation around to Rosie, that made Marigold’s job even easier. He noticed also that she had served Tom at every meal yesterday, a soft blush ever present on her cheeks as he had taken the plates offered him. The sparkle in her eyes when Tom was announced the winner had been almost palpable in its intensity.

Sam smiled at his friend and nodded. “Aye, she’d accept. She’s fond of you Tom.”

Tom nodded and visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders dissolving as he smiled jubilantly. He took a deep, calming breath, probably his first real breath of the day. “Because I was thinking, at the feast when we finish up here, that might be a good time to ask her that we be promised.”

Just as Tolman had a rule that Rosie couldn’t court until she came of age, Hamfast had the same rule for his own daughters. The rule wasn’t unique to them alone. Many of the fathers throughout the Shire enforced this tradition, causing much frustration for the older lads who were ready to reveal their hearts. They got around the rule by asking the lass of their desire to be promised. If the lass said yes, the lad would give her a token of intent, usually a necklace or brooch, though anything that can be worn and displayed with pride by the lass would do. The lad would then wait impatiently for the day she came of age, at which time they could declare themselves as official suitors. Proposals usually followed within the year and weddings not long after that.

Not all couples became promised though. Sam and Rosie were not, but it was quickly becoming general knowledge that they would have only each other. Not that others didn’t still try. Rosie had many lads wishing to court her, and Sam had been approached by a bold lass or two as well. All were kindly turned down.

Marigold had her share of potential suitors as well, something Tom was very much aware of. Still timid about asserting herself, she found it difficult to turn any of the lads away, not wanting to disappoint any of them and having no real reason to send them off anyway. Tom was perfectly aware of this also. If he asked her to be promised and she said yes, he would not only secure his place in her future, but also give her a valid reason to turn down the other lads and spare her any discomfort for doing so.

“How do you think I should ask her?” Tom asked. “Won’t she think it’s rather sudden? We’ve only been as friends to each other up ‘til now.”

Sam laughed and shook his head. “No, you Tom-fool. Rosie wouldn’t talk to me for a month after that. She thought I was making her a fool. I only just convinced her I meant it all, drunk as I was.”

“So what should I do then?” said Tom. If he had been nervous about broaching the subject with Sam, he was near barely-contained hysterics about approaching Marigold. But before that, he had to speak with Gaffer Gamgee. Tom didn’t even want to think of that conversation.

Sam saw the panic in his best friend’s eyes and guessed the source of it. He had seen that look twice before and knew it well. Yet both Daisy’s and May’s beloveds had escaped unscathed, and they had not been life-long friends of the family, much less kin, as the Cottons were. He smiled reassuringly at his friend. “Gaffer already thinks of you as a son Tom, you don’t need to worry about him none. Fact is, he’d be thrilled to make it official, the way I see it. And don’t you fret about Goldie either. I happen to know exactly how she’d want to be asked,” Sam said.

They finally finished sawing through the last of the stump and let it fall away with a thud. They moved to the next branch stump and began the process over as they made their plans.

After elevenses, they cleared all the branch stumps and began working on the mighty trunk. This required them to work in groups of four, two to each side of a long-saw, two groups working side-by-side to hurry the process and simultaneously warm up for the competition by seeing who could saw through the trunk first. The two youngest lads, Nick and Nibs, were sent to ready the woodpiles for the competition.

They were just sitting down to luncheon when company arrived. Lily came out of the house carrying a platter of sliced fruit. Trailing her was an unannounced, though not unknown, visitor who was bearing a pitcher of apple juice.

Alden and Furzy jumped up from their seats. “Robin!” they shouted and ran to embrace their brother. He managed to place the pitcher on the table just in time to greet his siblings. Everyone rose to welcome the newcomer, all of them taking silent note of the feather he now wore in his hat. He greeted everyone cheerfully and at last came to Sam. They embraced briefly, but fiercely. It had been a long while since they last saw each other.

“And I thought you’d be busy with your shirriffing duties,” Sam replied and motioned for Robin to sit.

“I am busy,” said Robin as they sat. Lily placed an empty plate in front of him and May served him as he spoke. “Too busy in fact,” Robin continued. “I had it on good authority this was easy work. I think I should have waited another week to start this job.”

“Good and proper,” Robin said. “This storm has made things interesting, to say the least. We’re getting reports from all over the four Farthings and even a couple from Buckland. I feel more like a post messenger than I do a shirriff.”

“And how goes it elsewhere?” Tolman asked. The lasses sat down to hear the news and everyone somehow managed to not eat while business was discussed.

“All reports are the same,” Robin said. “It was a good storm, but not a Great One. This here is the worst of it in these parts. There’s also flooding along the Brandywine; they had a bit of a flash flood. Captain thinks it probably came down from the rocky terrains in the north part of the Eastfarthing. There aren’t any homes in that part of the Shire thankfully, but they’ll be feeling it in the Marish once the river goes down again. It’s muddy enough there in fine weather. There were also a few crops lost here and there, but not many. It’s early in the season still. All will be recovered well enough I expect.”

“They have you going around seeing who needs help where, I wager?” Tolman asked.

“That’s one reason I’m here, sure enough,” Robin replied. “I heard you were hit hard and came to see if I could send any extra hands out this way. I just sent a cartload up to Noakes’ place. I could send one up here as well if you need it.”

“I think we’re set here,” Tolman said. “I won’t begrudge more help, but only if it’s not needed elsewhere. See to the others first. We can manage as we are if help runs out.”

Robin nodded. “I’ll do that. Thank you Mr. Cotton. But I’d like to take a look and see what’s what. If there are extra hands, I’d like to know how many to send up.”

Tolman nodded. “Sure thing, Robin. But first, we eat.” And with that, the talk stopped and the eating began. The lasses and matrons returned to the house and the workers ate until not a single morsel was left.

After the meal, Robin followed the workers to the ruined barn and the little bit that was still left of the tree. He whistled low when he saw the destruction and chatted with the farmer about how long he thought repairs would take and when they would be fixing what. Tolman laid out his plans for the next several days, taking Robin down to survey the lower fields while everyone else went to prepare for today’s competition.

When they returned, Robin went to see his friends and spent some time chatting them up. They talked eagerly, none of them paying much attention as the younger lads took their turns chopping wood. The group of friends hadn’t seen Robin in close to a month, since he first decided to become a Shirriff. He had heard that a position had opened after an older shirriff retired and had went to seek out the Captain to ask about joining.

They discovered now that Robin had been obliged to track down the Captain and his team as they moved through the Northfarthing. He had done that easily enough, even in the vast, open fields of Oatbarton. The Captain had agreed to take him on – if he could lead them to Needlehole through Bindbole Wood. The position available was in the Northfarthing and the Captain wanted assurance that Robin knew the land as well as he claimed.

Robin passed the test with no complications and was allowed to follow the group to Michel Delving, where the Mayor placed him in the official employ of the Shirriffs. They had then gone to Frogmorton, where all the shirriffs met once a season at The Floating Log Inn, and he was introduced to the rest of the crew. The next day was the storm, and he’s been busy around the clock ever since.

“You always wanted travel and adventure,” Jolly said when Robin concluded his tale. “You certainly found it.”

“That’s all Sam’s fault, that is,” Robin grinned. “All his tales of elves and dwarves and trolls went to my head. Not that I’d want to go looking for such things out of the Shire mind you, but there’s always the chance of glimpsing an Elf from time to time in the Northfarthing. Captain himself has seen them twice, from a distance, but there’s no mistaking them or so he says.”

Robin shook his head. “No, but you have my word as soon as I do, I’ll be sending you a letter in the post.” Then his smile rapidly faded. His face became grim, and he shook his head and sighed heavily. “But I’m stalling,” he muttered.

“What?” Tom asked. He hadn’t heard the murmured words, but his friend’s sudden resignation concerned him. They didn’t even notice the pause in the competition while the spectators waited for Jolly to join Finch for their turn. “Robin?” Tom asked again.

Robin raised his head, but looked past Tom to the gardener, his best friend for so many years. A pained expression was on his face. “Sam, walk with me for a moment,” he said, then turned and headed into the barn.

After furtive glances with the others, and confused looks amongst the spectators who had not the slightest clue as to what was going on, Sam followed Robin into the silence of the barn. Robin stopped near the center stall, just out of earshot of the others but still within their sight, and faced his friend with great reluctance.

“What’s this about Robin? Is it Gaffer?” Sam asked, imagining the worst and preparing to run all the way to Hobbiton if need be. Why had he allowed his father to go and work at Bag End? Now he’s hurt and –

Robin interrupted his thought. “No, no,” he reassured. “No, it’s not your Gaffer.” And here he stopped. He fidgeted with his hands and seemed unwilling to continue.

“Well, what is it then?” Sam asked, confused and still more than a little worried. It wasn’t like Robin to withhold anything from him. Suddenly, he remembered his friend’s greeting at luncheon, as well as Robin’s other careful words while giving his reports. He realized too late what they meant. “You came here looking for me. Why? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I do know. We just got word yesterday see, but it could already be taken care of. It’s just, the rumors will be flying soon and I didn’t want you hearing it that way.”

“Out with it Robin,” Sam ordered. He had never seen his friend this flustered and reluctant before and it was scaring him.

Robin nodded and let out a slow, steadying breath before looking his friend in the eyes, his own expression for the moment unreadable. There was no easy way to say this, best to get it over and done with.

“It’s your master, Mr. Baggins,” he said. “He went missing, just before the storm hit.”

When they had first begun making their plans for their visit to Brandy Hall, Pippin had suggested riding to Buckland. He had even offered to bring a couple of the Tuckborough ponies that Frodo especially favored. That would cut the travel time in half, and they could easily enough stay the night at The Floating Log Inn. They could even stop in Budgeford to visit with Fatty for a couple of hours.

But Frodo had not much liked the idea. He had, after all, been cooped up all winter, except for a brief visit to Great Smials earlier that month, and so was in a mind to stretch his legs a bit and see the country. He also had no desire for traveling the road and certainly not for staying in rowdy inns his cousin Paladin would strangle him for taking his tween son to. (He also secretly hoped they might chance upon some Elves out in the open country, and he could ask after news of his cousin Bilbo.) As for visiting Fatty, Frodo felt it best to wait until Merry was there to go with them. Then they could all enjoy a much longer visit together.

Pippin accepted this. After all, he didn’t want his older cousin to think him too soft for a three-day hike. But that didn’t seem to be any reason to go walking there like a pack pony, so he then suggested the use of at least one pony, to carry their gear and packs. To leave them free to enjoy the journey at their leisure, he wrote in his response to Frodo.

Again, Frodo would hear nothing of it. In his younger days, he had accompanied Bilbo quite often on minor treks throughout the Shire, and they had always carried their own packs. Frodo insisted his cousin have the same experience. “After all, you can’t really say you’ve taken a journey if you don’t have the pains to show for it,” he had written in his last letter to Whitwell. The sore shoulders, aching back and weary legs were all part of a proper trek, and he would not have his cousin be cheated on his first real venture out.

After that final letter, Pippin began to understand why sensible folk would call his dear cousin mad. Imagine, thinking sore muscles a good thing! But he had an adventurous spirit, being a Took and all, and had finally agreed to make the way by foot and burden. However, he was now wishing he had been more persistent about the pony. As they made camp that first night, out in the open fields of the West Farthing, he almost wanted to cry from exhaustion.

The walk had started off leisurely enough, and the cousins had chatted about the different goings-on in the Shire, or regaled each other with stories and tales. Pearl, Pippin’s eldest sister, was soon expecting her first child. The experience was not one Pippin was enjoying very much.

“She goes through these mood swings. One minute, she’ll be laughing, the next crying,” he explained. “Then there’s her food cravings: peanut butter and pickles, chocolate frosting and pickles. She’s craving pickles like she’s never going to have one ever again.”

“Yes,” Pippin admitted. “The chocolate and pickles was horrendous. For a minute there, I thought I would be ill. The peanut butter and pickles actually wasn’t so bad.”

Frodo laughed. “I remember when Aunt Esme was pregnant with Merry. I don’t recall any mood swings, but she went through this phase where everything had to be raspberries. Poor Uncle Sara had to scour Buckland top to bottom to keep Brandy Hall stocked in enough raspberry preserves. To this day, I’m convinced that is why they never had a second child.”

Now it was Pippin’s turn to laugh. “That at least explains Merry’s love for raspberries though.”

Frodo nodded. “He once got me to go out in the rain and hunt down raspberries for him. I was sick for a week and he never apologized. Of course, he had just broken his arm because of me, so I suppose I owed him one.”

“He told me about that. It had been raining then too he said. And he did regret that you were ill,” Pippin added.

This brought them to other misadventures in which rain had played a part. Pippin amused Frodo greatly with one such famous tale of ‘Took madness’ as Frodo called it: during the Great Storm some years back, the hills of the Tookland had become muddy enough for a great amount of fun to be had. Some of the youngsters, led by Pippin, had spent the storm outside rather than in, and much to their mothers’ displeasures as they had come back covered head to toe in mud from their antics. Frodo shook his head as Pippin concluded the tale by recounting how they had been caught sneaking back inside by his father. ‘And they call us Bagginses mad,’ he thought to himself.

But the tale brought Sam’s warning of rain back to his mind and Frodo picked up the pace as night approached. He kept a close watch on the sky, grey and gloomy above them, and felt certain that some sort of shower would be upon them before the night was over. While he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be anything to worry over too much, he had been caught in the rain before, and he had no desire to get caught again. They needed to find a suitable camp sight and set up shelter.

Frodo led them to a small but closely-knit batch of trees that stood in the middle of the plain. He had sheltered there once before and knew the trees would provide more than enough cover without the need for any extra work on their part. The small grove was farther than he remembered however, and he and Pippin were hard set to reach it in time. As it happened, they reached the protective, sheltering branches of the trees just as the first, fat raindrops fell from the sky.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Frodo and Pippin set down their packs and got to work making a fire to cook their evening meal, Frodo pestering after Pippin the whole time to keep the young Took from falling asleep before all the work was done. For his part, Pippin gamely set about collecting firewood without so much as a whimper of complaint. He was even obliged to use the hatchet, for just as Sam had predicted, there were not many branches upon the ground. By the time he chopped off enough of the lowest branches to make a fire with, Frodo had set up camp. He now started a fire while Pippin went to retrieve some food for cooking.

It was then Pippin discovered the truth of the prank Frodo had played on him. Their packs weighed exactly the same! Imagine, Frodo making him think he was carrying the heavier pack all this time. Then a thought struck him – he would be carrying the heavier pack before too long as Frodo was carrying all the food, and the more food they ate, the less his pack would weigh. Pippin stared at the packs bemusedly; he kept forgetting that Frodo could be devious in his own way.

‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘we’ll see whose pack weighs the most tomorrow.’ He took out the food to be cooked, then the pots and necessary cutlery from both their packs that they would need for their meal. Then, making sure Frodo wasn’t watching, he discreetly slipped a small frying pan from his pack into Frodo’s, closed the packs up tight and returned to the fire to start preparing the food.

They ate a meager supper (by hobbit standards) in silence, listening to the soft rainfall hitting the leaves above them. Frodo often caught Pippin looking at the laid-out sleeping rolls with longing, but when asked, he claimed he was not yet ready to call it a night. Occasionally, a raindrop or two would make its way past the maze of leaves and hit the ground around them. They debated the need for making a shelter and decided quickly against it. They would be dry enough for the night just as they were.

Soon after that, Pippin lost his battle to keep his eyes open and was snoring softly, curled up gratefully in his sleeping roll. Frodo stayed up only a little while longer, finishing his tea and thinking about how wonderful it would be to see Merry again, but he was beginning to nod off himself. After the fifth time jerking his head up in less than a minute, he laughed softly and admitted defeat as he yawned widely. He had driven them both too hard those last couple of hours. Hopefully, the rain would only last the night, and they would be able to slow the pace again tomorrow.

He built up the fire one last time and settled into his sleeping roll next to his cousin and fell asleep almost instantly.

The rain did clear up by morning and after eating a hearty breakfast they broke camp. Frodo, feeling guilty about his trick on Pippin, had attempted to redistribute the items in their packs before setting off. He knew his pack would start weighing less with each meal they ate, and his cousin was really too young to carry such a weight for two more days. Pippin, however, had adamantly refused, insisting he could handle the weight just fine. So they shouldered their packs and were on their way again as the first soft rays of sun came up over the Shire, and Frodo allowed Pippin to set the pace as he pleased.

They were only an hour out when Frodo’s shoulders began to ache. A half hour later, his back was becoming sore as well. By the time they stopped for a late second breakfast and early elevenses, he was ready to collapse from the weight of his pack. One look at Pippin’s guilty face was all it took for him to figure out the cause of his discomfort. He laughed good-naturedly as he set down his pack and stretched his back and rubbed his shoulders.

“So you found me out did you?” he said and opened his pack. “What did you put in here?” He found not only the small frying pan, but both pots from the evening and morning meals, all the cutlery and the hatchet. He laughed again. “You scamp!” he exclaimed. “Get your pack over here and let’s distribute this all fairly.”

Pippin complied immediately. He hadn’t stopped to think that the extra weight might hurt his cousin, and he was feeling quite guilty about his attempt at payback. He was glad to see Frodo had a good sense of humor about it though. He was laughing also, as they began to play-fight over who had to carry what, taking things out of their own packs and shoving them into the other.

The play ended when their stomachs reminded them of their hunger. They quickly squared away the packs and sat down to enjoy a leisurely meal. Frodo even allowed himself the luxury of a mid-day pipe before they continued on their way.

They were now in the open plains of the East Farthing, were no hobbits lived. On the horizon due east only more flat grasslands could be seen. To the far north, past the Brockenborings and almost out of eyesight, could be seen the rocky terrain of the Hills of Scary. To the south lay The Water, a small ribbon of sparkling blue running softly through the land. Frodo pointed out the paths and trails he knew from his many wanderings through the Shire, many of which were the trails drawn on Bilbo’s map that hung in Bag End’s front hall.

“When will Merry and I get to come with you on one of your little adventures?” Pippin asked, not for the first time.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe this summer, or the next,” Frodo answered evasively, not for the last time.

Frodo had steered them away from The Great East Road the day before, keeping The Water in view but at a great distance. Now after dinner he began to take them toward the river once again. By nightfall, they could hear its whispering flow and could just make out the mark of the Buckland border, the Brandywine Bridge, and the larger, swifter Brandywine River on the horizon.

Frodo decided to camp there, just within view of his birth land. They managed to stay awake quite a bit longer this night, and talked for close to an hour of all the things they would do once they reached Brandy Hall. There were numerous cousins to catch up on, the gardens would be in their first bloom, the river seemed to be begging for fisherman and avid swimmers, and the whole countryside was waiting to be explored anew.

And of course there was Merry, Frodo’s dearest friend next to Pippin. Merry was the first true friend Frodo remembered having. He had known Merry from infancy and practically helped to raise him. They had grown nearly inseparable over the years, Frodo teaching his young cousin all the ways of making mischief without getting caught – and he knew many – and telling him the tales of their cousin Bilbo late into the night.

The parting had been sore for them both when it came time for Frodo to leave for Hobbiton, but they had kept in touch over the years, with endless letters and numerous visits. As time went by, they had set a sort of pattern. Merry would come to visit for Yule, again in the spring for the first two weeks of Astron, and of course in Halimath for Frodo’s birthday. Frodo would return the favor in Thrimidge for Merry’s birthday, then in summer for the Lithe and Midyear celebrations, and again at harvest.

Once Pippin became a permanent fixture in their group, right around the time of Frodo’s coming of age, the pattern had been rearranged to accommodate their young friend. They started spending Lithe in Whitwell and added to the schedule of get-togethers the first two weeks of Rethe for Pippin’s birthday. All the other dates for their visits remained the same, so that two weeks after Pippin’s birthday, they would meet again at Bag End. Until a few years ago that is, when Frodo made an unexpected announcement: he wanted to start spending the spring in Buckland.

The speculation for this abrupt change had been rabid. It was general knowledge that Frodo’s parents had died in the spring, and Buckland during that time did not hold pleasant memories for him. Though they pressed him endlessly, Frodo never gave more of an explanation than he had always enjoyed the Spring Feast given at Brandy Hall every year, and he sorely missed it. He was always careful to leave before the anniversary of The Day, which only caused the gossipers to speculate more.

Yet with or without this change, the cousins had finally arranged it so that they hardly went more than a couple of months without seeing each other, and they wrote constantly between visits. This year, however, Merry had been ill the first week of Rethe and had been unable to attend Pippin’s birthday. Nearly three months had passed since Frodo last saw his dear friend’s smiling face. Now at last, and none too soon, Frodo would be seeing his beloved cousin once again. He could hardly wait, now that the border was within sight.

They broke camp early the next morning and ate a quick yet satisfying breakfast. Once again donning their packs, they set off on the last leg of their trip. Frodo took special care not to rush his cousin too much in his eagerness to get to their destination. He reluctantly allowed the youngster to once again set the pace, figuring they would arrive in time for dinner. But Pippin was also eager to see their journey’s end now that it was so near and he set a quick pace, so that they arrived at Brandy Hall just after teatime and therefore unlooked for. Or so they thought.

They entered Brandy Hall to find the entrance parlor quiet, with only a pair of older hobbits lounging about, both of them napping from their meal. They tiptoed through the parlor to the main tunnel and down the passageway toward the kitchens, where they hoped to find a couple of bites to scrap together before setting out to look for Merry. They had no sooner entered the dining hall and set down their packs, rubbing their shoulders in relief, when out of nowhere, a bundle of hobbit energy came bounding at them, knocking them both to the ground.

“Never prepared for an attack, are you?” their assailant asked in mock disbelief. “Or perhaps you had forgotten our little game: you’re It.”

“I had forgotten,” Frodo laughed, rubbing his elbow ruefully where the ground had rushed up to meet it. He put on his best stern face as he sat up to get a better look at the young Meriadoc Brandybuck, who had obviously recovered from his illness. “But now that you have reminded me, you best be on your guard. I will teach you not to take a poor old hobbit so unprepared.”

“Yes, you had better be doubly guarded,” Pippin said as he stood up and brushed himself off. “That was not what I would call a pleasant greeting, and I shall repay you for it before I leave.”

“Oh you shall, shall you?” Merry asked, eyes twinkling, as he helped Frodo off the ground. “Well, I shall be looking forward to it.” He then noticed Frodo’s wince as his cousin stood upright. “And I do apologize Frodo,” he said with genuine concern. “I forget you’re not as young as you look.”

“And you are not as innocent as you would have us believe,” Frodo replied. “There is no way you could have known to wait here for us unless you saw us approaching. You’ve managed to get away with such pranks in the past, but you’re about to meet your match. I have ways of sneaking you couldn’t possibly imagine.”

Merry did a good job of feigning anxiety, but he also noted the spark in Frodo’s eyes and knew the old hobbit wasn’t really serious. “Well, then, in that case, I should like to see them, Frodo. I’ve learned all other manners of sneaking from you and there’s no need for you to stop your lessons now.”

They all laughed then and hugged each other warmly. Frodo tousled Merry’s soft brown curls affectionately, as only Frodo was allowed to do, and Merry led them to a table. He left them to settle in as he went to the kitchen to alert the staff that two more hungry mouths had arrived seeking food. He returned only when the food was ready, carrying it out himself. When he entered the hall once more, he found his two cousins deep in whispered conversation. Upon seeing him, they stopped talking and looked at him with an air of innocence.

Merry placed the food upon the table and cast a knowing look at his cousins. “Now, you wouldn’t be thinking of doing anything so foolish as trying to get back at me now, are you?” he asked.

Pippin only smiled bemusedly before attacking the food, and Frodo shrugged in confusion. “I have no idea what you mean, dear Merry,” Frodo said before setting to his meal as well.

“You always were a horrible liar,” Merry said as he noticed the corner of Frodo’s mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. “I won’t be so easy to catch.”

But neither of his guests responded: they were far too busy with the all important task of filling their stomachs.

Merry kept them company until they finished their snack and then showed them to their sleeping quarters, where the travelers unpacked and the three friends made their plans for the following day.

Frodo woke to the sound of whispering across the room. He rolled over to find his cousins, dressed and ready for the day, sitting across Pippin’s already-made bed, their legs dangling over the side. They had been talking adamantly for some time before their softened voices stirred their elder cousin, and it took them awhile to notice he was awake.

“Well, it’s about time you wake up,” Merry chastised when he saw Frodo watching them with interest and amusement. “Your visit, I’m afraid, is already half over, and you’ve missed the Feast entirely.”

Frodo laughed and sat up, stretching his arms and legs out of their slumber. “What a shame. I was looking forward to your mother’s famous apple crumble.”

“You would have enjoyed it,” came Merry’s reply. “It was the best to date. Everyone said so. And she made it especially for you, her ‘precious little dumpling.’ She was quite disappointed you weren’t awake to have any.”

Frodo laughed again. “She couldn’t have been speaking of me then, as any embarrassing childhood names she had for me, you were supposed to be too young to remember.”

“You will find I have a remarkable memory, cousin,” Merry shot back. “Particularly for the things most would wish forgotten.”

“Before you two get carried away,” Pippin said, jumping in before Frodo could work out another reply, lest the banter continue all morning, “I believe we had agreed last night to go visiting some of your old haunts, Frodo.”

“Yes, we had,” Merry replied firmly. He was not about to let his cousin off the hook this time, especially now that Pippin was here to back him up, unburdened for once of parents and sisters. “Time to reveal your secrets, cousin. I often wondered where you would disappear to for hours at a time.”

To this Frodo made no reply, but instead became greatly interested in choosing his attire for the day.

When they entered the dining hall a half hour later, they were welcomed by a chorus of greetings, from ‘Good morning’ to ‘How have you been’ and ‘You must tell us what you’ve been up to’ to either ‘You haven’t aged a day’ or ‘Growing like a weed’ depending which visiting relative the breakfasters were greeting.

Another half hour later, all greetings returned and promises made to catch up later, the visitors finally sat down to a breakfast fit to rival that of the richest court in the land. Brandy Hall had become famous for its endless vittles back in old Master Gorbadoc’s day, and even now a well-stocked table was the standard at even the most mundane occasion. Living alone, Frodo had not seen so much food in one place in many months, not counting Pippin’s birthday of course, and he quite enjoyed having his pick of the table.

They ate with Merry’s parents, Saradoc and Esmeralda. They spoke lightly about many things during the meal. Pippin was eager to once again tell everyone about his sister’s pickle experiments. Merry’s little garden was flourishing quite well, and Saradoc was allowing him to make the weekly rounds of the farm fields and vineyards by himself now. Frodo kept quiet on his own affairs, speaking only to add to what his cousins said.

By the time they finally left Brandy Hall, the sun was high in the sky and the early morning mists had long since disappeared. The air was warm, and hobbits were bustling here and there going about their daily activities, dressed in light clothing as if it were summer already. Merry, Frodo and Pippin quickly made for the less populated area just east of Buck Hill, and Frodo was soon leading them to a small pond often overlooked in favor of the river.

The pond lay in the middle of a small grove of trees about half a mile east of Buckland Road. Grass grew up to the very edges of the water and blossoms of yellow and white wildflowers decorated the lawn, spotted here and there with pink and gold blooms. Sunlight came down through an opening in the leaves and shone soft yellow over the pool. It was a well-known area, but as it was little more than a wading pool to even the youngest of hobbits it was seldom visited. As it happened, Pippin had never been there before and he took his time taking it all in. At first glance, it was a beautifully serene spot, but he soon became disquieted.

“I wouldn’t consider this a haunt, Frodo,” Merry said. “Everyone knows about this place.”

“Yes, but they rarely come here do they?” Frodo reasoned. “It’s quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Pippin said. He couldn’t even hear a bird chirping, and the wind made not even the slightest whisper in the leaves over their heads. “It feels abandoned.”

“It is in a way, I suppose. It’s true that hardly anyone comes here,” Merry said thoughtfully. He had never described the location as abandoned, but it did seem to fit the place – and the young lonely teen who had sought refuge there. “Is this where you spent all your time then, Frodo?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

“One of the places,” Frodo answered elusively. He was still reluctant to show his cousins what he considered private refuges, places he had gone to many times in the past, to get away from the bustle of the Hall, or to read or to simply think in quiet contemplation without being interrupted every few minutes by nosey relatives.

In the end, Frodo showed them many of his retreats and found that he actually enjoyed sharing his secrets with his dearest of friends. Though ‘enjoy’ was the wrong word for the relief it gave him to finally have someone else know about his many hiding places. He had no need to hide anymore anyway. For their part, Merry and Pippin found themselves in a similar state of mind as Frodo led them around. They listened, enthralled, as he told them his stories of how he had come by the locations and when he would seek them out. Each spot had its purpose.

A mile east of the pond, in a hillside overgrown with brush, was a deserted hole. It was small, only two rooms, a pantry, kitchen and parlor. The smial was devoid of furniture and the floor was buried under several inches of loose soil. Merry dug some of the soil away with his foot, unearthing what had once been a pristinely polished cherry wood floor. He walked to the hearth and ran a hand over its surface, displacing the thick layer of dust to reveal a smooth marble slab of fine quality. He stared at it with puzzlement.

“Where are we?” he asked. The smial, so obviously unused for many years, had once been elegant. To still be standing in as good condition as it was – even the rusted door had opened with only minor prodding – someone had once spent a great deal of money to have this hole expertly built. He couldn’t understand why it now stood empty and forgotten.

“How did you even find it?” Pippin asked. He scratched absently at a cut he had acquired while crawling through the brush. This hole was near the road, and faint traces of a pathway still could be seen on close inspection. He went to a dirt-covered window and tried to find the road through the grime and shrubbery. People probably walked by this hole a hundred times a day and never knew it.

Several moments passed before they turned to Frodo, who had failed to answer either of their questions. They found him standing in the doorway to the master bedroom. He stared inside the vacant room as if transfixed by a vision only he could see. With great effort, he at last answered, “I was hiding from some of the other lads and I found it. I used to come here and pretend…”

Frodo swallowed and looked embarrassed. When he answered, his voice was small and uncertain. “Pretend they were still alive. This was their room. … It was silly.”

“No it wasn’t,” Merry answered quickly. He went over to his friend’s side and placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. Not knowing what else to say, he turned toward the other room. “Would this room be yours?”

Frodo only nodded. Pippin entered the second bedroom. There was no window here and the light filtering in through the front door was hardly enough to see in. Long shadows cast themselves upon the floor and along the walls, coming to rest in dark corners. He shuddered. “Well, it certainly is a cheerful place,” he said. “Nice and homey.”

Pippin liked this place even less than the pond. He could not begin to imagine Frodo, even as a young displaced teen, hiding out here. The hole was dilapidated and depressing, so much the opposite of his usually joyful cousin. He was glad when they left.

The tour became more pleasurable after that. Frodo next took them to a wild garden surrounded by high hedges, about a mile south of Crickhollow Lane. Here he would come to read or study in the early morning sun, thanks to a tip from one of the gardeners of the Hall. Not far from there was a willow tree that sat at the far end of a vineyard. He would climb the tree to look out over the land, to watch the workers in the fields or to daydream about adventure. A couple more miles east, near the Hedge in the middle of an open plain, was a large boulder. The rock was shaped almost like a large chair and was positioned so that its seat faced away from the road. He would come here often when he would get into trouble for one thing or another, and he would simply brood or think.

They sat on the boulder and ate a mid-morning meal of biscuits, apples and cheese, which they carried in pouches tied to their belts. Merry had even managed to grab some sausage links, smoked for tonight’s dinner, and they tasted just as good cold as they did hot. Pippin had been wise enough to procure some brownie squares and a handful of biscuits. Frodo had brought a water skin and they drank from it in turns. After their meal, they turned back toward the Road and Buck Hill, now many miles away.

Frodo led them back on another route than they had come out. There were still two more places he needed to show them. The first was an old bell tower, about two miles east of the Road, which the younger lads like to climb as a dare in the summer months. Not far from the tower was a small outbuilding, a shed of some previous, unknown purpose. Inside the shed, under one of the floorboards, was a box. He took up the box and opened the dust-covered lid. Curious, they looked inside to find several rocks of assorted shapes and colors, all of them beautiful and unusual.

Frodo shrugged. “Just a collection, picked only because they pleased my eyes.”

Frodo smiled. “Because they are,” he answered simply. He replaced the lid and handed it to his cousins. “Here. They’re of dense quality and fairly large. Perhaps you could get someone to fashion some chess pieces out of them. Mind, the pieces won’t match very well, but I’m certain you can find a solution to that.”

Merry took the box. This was all so odd and wonderful; he had no idea what to say. Finally he managed a perplexed and pleased, “Thank you.”

The last stop on their trip was a bluff overlooking the Road and the town of Bucklebury. They sat there and rested their legs, observing the people below going about their daily activities. Frodo gave no explanations for this location, and they found they didn’t need any. For now it was simply enough to sit and watch, knowing that they at last knew their cousin’s secrets. And Frodo smiled, and let them think they had been shown everything, for he had indeed showed them many of his hideaways.

All, that is, but one. For to his most savored and precious haven he did not take them. ‘Not yet,’ he told himself. ‘When they’re older maybe and are better able to understand, and I better able to explain.’ Because he knew when he did eventually take them there, they would want to know its purpose, and he didn’t think he could bear the telling of that tale. Whether he truly intended to show them or not, none can be sure, for the secret of that haven, indeed of its very existence, went away with him many years later over the Sea.

Once they were rested, they walked down into Bucklebury and took an early teatime at one of the inns. The exploring had left them all hungry and blessedly tired, but gave them much to talk about and the conversation flowed as easily and readily as the tea. Pippin then insisted on going into some of the shops, so he could find something to take back to his sisters, who were fond of the trinkets and candies of the Bucklanders, though Frodo wondered just how much of that sweet loot would survive to be enjoyed by his sisters. They browsed then for birthday presents. Merry’s birthday was coming up in a few more months and he liked to be prepared ahead of time. After their shopping, they finally turned and headed back for Brandy Hall.

Supper at Brandy Hall was a wondrous affair, and Frodo and Pippin were the center of much attention. Everyone wanted news of Tuckborough and Hobbiton and they wouldn’t let their guests go until they heard their fill of gossip.

Pippin, having spent much of his youth in the Great Smials, was quite in his element and entertained his relatives with numerous stories of the adventurous Tooks. Frodo on the other hand found with each passing year that he had grown quite accustomed to his solitude and the silence of Bag End, and all this attention was beginning to take its toll. So he did not follow the main crowd out to the front parlor and instead headed to his room to gather his thoughts and take an early bedtime.

He found the room just as he liked it: empty and silent, though not exactly tidy as Pippin had wasted no time upon their return to change into fresh clothes and string his old clothes all about the room. Frodo shook his head at the mess, a small smile on his lips as he thought of his young friend who was, no doubt, at this very moment once again in the middle of the crowd, regaling everyone with tales as true as a hobbit is tall.

Frodo yawned and stretched. ‘I should really go to sleep now, I suppose,’ he thought. The day had been quite busy and exhausting for them all, and him especially. He found now that he was more tired than he originally suspected and could easily fall asleep right there where he stood. But he stifled his next yawn and sat at the desk, where paper and quill lay waiting. He wanted to record the events of the day while they were still sharp in his mind. He dipped the quill in ink and gently touched the quill to paper.

Dark and cold were all around him, and wet clothes clung to his chilled skin. He was in a tunnel of grey mist and sharp, jagged rocks cut into the protective skin of his feet, drawing thin streams of blood as he stumbled blindly forward. He took no heed of the pain, and he knew not where he was, only that he was alone, utterly and completely alone, and he was searching desperately, frantically, for something that would make it all go away and give him back that which he most desired: peace and comfort. He looked all around him, trying in vain to pierce the veil of shadow before him, for he knew, if he could only see, it would be sitting there, right there before him, waiting to be found; he had only to reach out his hand, to take one more step, to turn one more corner, and he would find it. But the veil would not lift and with each step it became darker, denser, more complete, until it bore down upon him, forcing him to the ground, where he crawled until all strength left him. A great horrible heat rose out of the ground beneath him, suffocating him, and as he took his last breath, the mist lifted and he saw it, just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm. The ground shook with a force never before known to the earth, a fissure broke open to his left and he fell and all faded to black.

Pippin shook his cousin once more, desperate. He knew he should go and get Merry, get someone, but he couldn’t leave Frodo, not until he was breathing again. “Frodo! Please, wake up!”

Pippin had returned to the room, laughing quietly at the fun he’d had in the last few hours. He had opened the door quietly, figuring Frodo would be asleep already and found that he was quite correct. He hadn’t even been surprised to find Frodo slumped over the desk, a forgotten quill blotting a half-filled page. He had thought only briefly of rousing Frodo enough to get him to his bed, where he would spend the night more comfortably, when he had noticed that Frodo looked pale and sweaty. Not until Pippin had placed a hand to Frodo’s forehead did he notice that Frodo appeared to have stopped breathing, and he was cold and stiff to the touch.

And Frodo awoke, with a sudden intake of air. He bolted from his seat, upsetting the chair, and looked about frantically, gasping for the air that had been denied him in his slumber. Not until he calmed did he realize Pippin was there, watching him anxiously.

“Just after midnight,” Pippin said, still shaking. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, and the haunted look in Frodo’s eyes as he once again searched the ground made his skin crawl. “Are you all right, Frodo? You were having some sort of night terror.”

Frodo did not respond immediately, but closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was shaking, though why he did not know. He only vaguely remembered dreaming, and the details of the dream eluded him. He only knew it was not a dream he wanted to have again.

Frodo shook himself back to his senses and forced himself to look into his friend’s eyes. Slowly, he remembered that Pippin had asked him a question. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Pippin, I’m quite all right. It was only a dream.”

“Vinca can never remember her dreams either, and sometimes she sleepwalks. She once wound up clear outside and halfway to the South Road before Father could catch up with her,” Pippin said lightly.

Frodo smiled, grateful to Pippin for the distraction. “She has a wandering spirit, your sister. I often thought that’s where you get yours from.”

“Without a doubt. The two of us are forever driving Father mad. But those aren’t tales for so late in the night,” Pippin managed as a yawn overtook him. “I suppose it’s time to turn in. No doubt Merry has another busy day planned for us tomorrow.”

Frodo rose early. From across the small room came the sound of Pippin’s rhythmic deep breaths as the young tween peacefully slumbered. Frodo had no fear of waking his cousin, who could easily sleep through an avalanche, but he slipped silently out of his bed all the same and quickly changed from his rumpled clothes of the previous night. He washed quickly at the basin, then tiptoed out the door.

The tunnels were dimly lit with nearly burnt out candles, their dying flames fighting valiantly to remain lit in the dark and shadowed passages. Frodo padded softly through the hallways, passing the occasional servant and pausing to greet them pleasantly before going on his way.

The outside world greeted him with pale mist and a chill breeze. A sudden panic rose in his chest as a flash of the previous night’s terror flickered violently in his mind, but the vision slipped away as quickly as it came, and was just as instantly forgotten. He shook off the brief discomfort as nothing more than lack of sleep, then stretched long and breathed in deeply the cool crisp morning air before heading down the path away from the Hall.

He walked swiftly and confidently. It mattered little that he couldn’t see clearly through the fog: he would be able to pick out the path in pitch-black moonless night. A hundred yards from the Hall, now completely hidden in white veil, Frodo turned off the lane onto a path that led toward a vacant field seldom visited by the inhabitants of Buckland. He went swiftly to keep himself warm, and within an hour reached his destination.

He stood at a fence and looked about him. He listened intently to the deadly silence of his surroundings before he opened the gate and stepped inside the fence. Only then did he pause, to wonder briefly as to the wisdom of his actions. He knew he shouldn’t be here yet, after only one full day at Brandy Hall. He knew he should turn around and leave this place. He paused a moment longer, then firmly closed the gate behind him and continued on his way.

“Merry!” Pippin’s high voice rang through the dining hall as he made a beeline for his older cousin.

Merry, startled half out of his wits by the call, was getting ready to lovingly berate his cousin for calling at him so shrilly – and it only being second breakfast – when he looked up to see his friend’s worried expression. The taunt died on his lips as Pippin came to a halt before him.

“Have you seen Frodo?” he asked, lowering his voice now that he was aware of numerous relatives giving him curious glances.

“No,” Merry said, shaking his head. “I’ve only just returned from my rounds of the fields. Have you not seen him this morning?”

“He was already gone when I woke up. I figured he was with you, but then he wasn’t at first breakfast. I’ve looked everywhere for him, Merry,” Pippin explained.

He had woken to find Frodo’s bed empty, but as his cousin would sometimes join Merry on his rounds of the farm fields, Pippin had thought nothing of it. Having enough of farming back home, he always left Merry to his work and this morning had decided to seek out his friend Ilberic, only to find out that Ilberic and his family were staying at Crickhollow for a time. Disappointed, he then went to the dining hall, where he expected to at least find Frodo already eating first breakfast. Pippin knew that even if Merry was not finished with his rounds, he would insist that Frodo return to the Hall and eat a decent breakfast. When Frodo was nowhere to be seen, Pippin began to worry.

“Well,” Merry said, still struggling to understand his friend’s agitated state, “this would not be the first time Frodo’s given us the slip to get some time alone. I imagine yesterday rather wore him out.”

“That’s just it,” Pippin persisted. “He had the most unusual night terror last night. He wasn’t breathing, and he was cold and stiff to the touch. He said he didn’t remember any of it, but he had the most haunted look in his eyes. … Merry, I’m worried.”

“So he’s been gone for four hours,” Merry murmured. The worry and fear in Pippin’s eyes was evident, and the night terror sounded frightening indeed, but Merry knew how easily Pippin’s imagination could get away from him. “Did the servant say if he seemed out of sorts or knew where he was going?”

Pippin shook his head and shrugged helplessly. He waited impatiently for his cousin to come to a verdict.

“Very well, I’ll go look for him. There are a couple of places we didn’t go yesterday that I know about that are rather close. And one that isn’t. You get something to eat. I’ll be back by noon at the latest, and I shall have our meandering cousin with me.” He smiled calmly and chauffeured Pippin to one of the tables.

Merry waited until Pippin was seated and eating before he slipped into the kitchen to grab a basket. He packed it with food, plates and cutlery, then left the Hall through one of the servant doors. He retrieved a pony from the stables, mounted it swiftly and set off down the road.

Though he hadn’t shown it to Pippin, Merry was concerned. It wasn’t like Frodo to wander off and not leave some sort of word with someone, even if it was simply ‘I’ll be back for supper.’ Frodo was always careful to make sure someone knew where he was or when to expect him. Now Pippin was saying Frodo had some sort of terror, a rather frightening one by the sound of it, and had slipped off before dawn. Why? Unless… Pippin said he hadn’t been breathing.

Frodo sat cross-legged in the soft grass, gazing absently at the stone before him. The sun was climbing high in the sky and the mist had dissipated to reveal clear blue skies above. The birds had awakened in the surrounding elms and filled the otherwise silent field with their sweet, whistling music. Frodo paid no heed to any of this. He was blissfully unaware of everything around him.

He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply the scent of the grass and flowers. He could almost imagine he was back home, sitting under his own elm tree in the garden with a book near at hand, and at any moment Sam would begin humming one of his many tunes as he went about his weeding or whatever else he did. If it was a song Frodo knew, he would join in and Sam would reward him with a beaming smile, brighter than the sun.

The sound that eventually entered his ears and shook him from his daydream was not the rough tenor of his young gardener but the clip-clop of hoof beats near the fence. A moment later, the gate swung open and shut again and footsteps approached him, swift and sure. He opened his eyes, but did not turn around, even as a picnic basket was placed near his left hand and his friend sat down next to him.

Merry was glad that his hunch had been correct and he had found his cousin. He was so glad that he allowed Frodo to remain silent for the time being, though he was maddeningly curious as to why his cousin would be here at all. He had only just arrived in Buckland, and this particular trip always came at the end of his visits. Merry asked no questions, knowing the answers would be short if they came at all, and instead settled on opening the basket and setting out the food.

“It’s probably cold by now,” Merry said at last, bringing up the only topic of conversation that seemed safe – food. He searched the basket for the desired morsel. “But there’s nothing in here that can’t be eaten hot or cold. Here, you must be hungry.” He handed Frodo a buttered cranberry muffin. “I forgot a blanket,” Merry apologized.

Frodo laughed, an unexpected response for its lightheartedness. “My dear Merry, I do think we will survive without a blanket,” he said, still looking straight ahead. He brought the muffin to his mouth and bit into it thoughtfully.

They ate in silence and Merry watched Frodo closely. From all appearances, his cousin certainly wasn’t suffering from any lingering effects of his night terror. He wasn’t pale or jumpy; his shoulders were relaxed and his posture open. Indeed, he seemed to be in very high spirits, despite his present location. But why was he here? The question burned in Merry’s throat, yearning to be asked.

Frodo knew how curious Merry was; there was no way he could not know. Brandybucks were well known for their inquisitiveness, more so than even the Tooks, and Merry was no exception. He could practically feel Merry’s questioning gaze drilling into the back of his neck. Frodo easily avoided his friend’s gaze, keeping his head forward, wishing to put off as long as possible the conversation that was guaranteed to take place when he eventually turned around. He began to construct his answers as he nibbled on his muffin.

Merry allowed the time to crawl by, and after many furtive glances and unspoken questions, the food was gone. Merry packed up the plates and cutlery, and could finally wait no longer. “This is rather early,” he stated carefully and Frodo knew he was not talking about the hour. There was a moment’s pause, then Merry continued, “Pip said you had a night terror. You scared him, slipping off the way you did.”

“I suppose I failed think of how he would react,” Frodo said, then fell back into silence.

“And what of your dream? Do you want to talk about it? Pippin said you weren’t breathing. Was it that dream? Is that why you’re here?” he asked, indicating the grey stone before them.

Frodo shook his head. “I do not remember my dream from last night, and I have not had that dream for many years now. As for my reason for being here,” and here he paused ever so slightly, just long enough for Merry to notice the hesitation, “I’m afraid I do not have one. I just had to come.” Another heartbeat of silence, then, “It’s cracked.”

“Where?” Merry looked at the stone, unable to see any sign of wear despite the last thirty-two years.

Merry strained his eyes. The stone was made of granite and was etched with roses at the center and vines of ivy around the border. The names had been chiseled into the stone in a delicate, flowing script: Drogo Baggins 1308-1380 & Primula Brandybuck Baggins 1320-1380. Merry looked for the crack, but could not see it. He shook his head.

Frodo chuckled to himself, embarrassed suddenly. “Oh, it’s not there yet, but it will be one day,” he stated simply.

“Frodo?” Merry asked, uncertain what his friend could mean. This wouldn’t be the first time Frodo said something that even Merry would consider unusual, love him though he may. He supposed his cousin just really was odd sometimes.

Frodo at last turned to look at him, with eyebrows raised in wait. Merry stumbled for something to say that would take them past Frodo’s strange proclamation. His gaze returned to the stone. “Do you remember them at all?” he asked, and wished immediately that he could take it back as Frodo’s amused smile slowly faded from his lips.

Merry was born two years after his father’s aunt and uncle drowned in the Brandywine River, and he knew of them only what others had told him. He had heard many tales of them over the years, as well as all the scandalous rumors of their drowning. A very few number of relatives entertained those rumors as the truth, but overall the majority remembered the accident for the tragedy that it was. Everyone spoke of Drogo and Primula fondly, and their passing had been hard for many to bear. Yet much as their numerous relatives and friends mourned them, no one had grieved as deeply and completely as Frodo, their only child.

Only eleven years old when fate had turned its cruel hand and stolen his parents away forever, carrying them away on unforgiving currents, Frodo had been unable to cope with the loss. An introvert at heart, inherently shy, no one had been able to reach him those first agonizing months after the accident. Saradoc and Esmeralda feared they would lose him to despair, for he refused to eat or to leave the room they had moved him into, and he would speak to no one.

No one, that is, until his beloved cousin Bilbo made an urgent visit at the request of old Master Rory. Frodo clung to Bilbo and at last allowed his tears of grief, anger, confusion and guilt to spill free. Yet he had never stopped mourning the deaths of his parents, and he spoke of them rarely. His brief mention of them yesterday morning had been his first in many years, and it had pained him greatly. Now Merry had asked him to share his memories.

Frodo turned back to the gravestone, his expression unreadable though his shoulders were now tense and his breaths carefully steady. Merry restrained from apologizing or taking the question back. Because he wanted to know. He wanted at last to hear from his beloved friend what he had to tell, wanted to know his deceased relatives through the eyes of he who had loved them most. ‘Please,’ he thought, ‘please tell me. I will help carry your wounds if you would but share them with me. Please.’

Whether Frodo guessed his thoughts, Merry could not say, but Frodo sighed then and looked down at the grass he was clutching unconsciously in his steel tight grasp. He forced himself to relax his grip and turned to face Merry again. He did not meet his friend’s eyes and instead gazed just past Merry’s shoulder as if seeing something far away in the shadowed depths of time.

“I remember my father would hold me in his lap at night,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, unsure at first but growing in strength as he went. “He would tell me stories, usually Bilbo’s, and I would drift off to sleep with his large chest rumbling softly under my ear. He smelled of musk and pipeweed and wood shavings, and he would sit by the fire on stormy winter nights, whittling barn animals out of birch wood. I remember the day he took me fishing for the first time, as if it was yesterday. He was patient always, and cheerful even more, and he claimed he could call the fish to his line simply by wishing it. And he caught so many of them I believed him. He could have told me that he caused the sun to rise and set every day and I would have believed him.

“And my mother… She took me everywhere, insisting I get my head out of my books and play with my cousins more. She would sit with her knitting by the fire or out in the garden and she would mutter to herself as she knitted. What she said I could never tell, but she would chuckle at times and I would laugh also to see her happy. Her smile could light up a room and when she sang it was as if the stars had come down from their nightly perch to kiss the ground with their radiant light, if only to hear her the clearer. She would tuck me in at night and she would sing to me of spring meadows, summer barley and autumn leaves, and she always smelled of jasmine and thyme, and her hair was soft as silk.”

Frodo looked up at Merry then, a sadness and yearning filling his eyes where just moments before had been contentment and merriment. He seemed ready to say more, but in the end remained silent and turned back one last time to the gravestone.

Merry stirred and swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. He had not really expected Frodo to tell him anything, and now that he had Merry wasn’t sure what to make of it. The pain in his friend’s eyes was enough to pierce his heart and he felt he could cry for time unending. Instead, he took a deep steadying breath and forced himself to remain calm. It would do no good to fall apart on his cousin now.

At last he stood up and made a show of stretching, and then gazed at the sky. The sun has nearing its highest peak and he realized with a start it was already near noon. How had the time passed so quickly without him noticing? Pippin would be waiting for them and he would be frantic if they did not return as promised.

He reached down to help his cousin up. Frodo accepted his hand and stood on legs weary from sitting in one position for so long. Merry took up the basket and slipped a supportive arm around Frodo’s waist to help him walk back to the gate as circulation slowly returned to his legs. Merry insisted Frodo ride back to the Hall, and Frodo knew better than to protest at this point. He mounted the pony and let Merry lead them home. They went silently, each lost in his own thoughts.

Merry had many memories of his own. He remembered how Frodo was withdrawn from much of the family, and was often lost in the bustle and shuffle of Brandy Hall. His cousin had never grown accustomed to the Hall’s hectic routines in his ten years under the care of Saradoc and Esmeralda. He remembered how Frodo used to cling to him at times, so that Esmeralda could hardly get two minutes together with her own son. He remembered how Frodo would come alive when their cousin Bilbo would visit, and how lonely he would be after Bilbo left.

He remembered that Frodo would sometimes cry himself to sleep, especially on special days, like his birthday or holidays. He remembered how Frodo would often disappear and no one would be able to find him. They had soon stopped searching altogether, knowing he would return by the following morning from wherever he had been. Merry had always found sleep difficult on those nights and would only drift off when he heard Frodo finally slip into the room in the predawn hours. He remembered when Frodo started sneaking out at night and he would wake up to find Frodo gone, and how that was almost worse than getting no sleep at all.

They arrived at Brandy Hall at half-past noon and found Pippin waiting for them outside, surrounded by a group of young cousins. He was trying to get them interested in a game of hide-and-seek when he looked up and saw his friends approaching, just as Merry had promised. He noticed the silence between them and a thousand questions popped into his mind, all of them running along the line of ‘what happened?’ He met Merry’s eyes. Merry shook his head: he would explain later.

Pippin nodded and turned to the children around him. “Well, see now, you waited too long. Go off with you then, and find someone else to torment. Cousin Berilac is setting to ask some lass he fancies to the Feast. I’m sure he’d love your assistance.”

The children brightened at this and went off in search of their unsuspecting cousin as Merry and Frodo finally reached the smial. Frodo dismounted and took the basket from Merry. He gave Pippin an apologetic squeeze on his shoulder, then left them, saying he must wash up for luncheon. When he was safely inside, Pippin turned to Merry.

He followed Merry as his cousin led the pony back to the stables. “Well what? I said I would find him and I did. He’s well enough, just thinking on his parents is all. He’ll be fine.” He left the pony with an ostler and the two friends returned to the Hall.

“And?” Pippin asked. He wanted to know where they had been, and what they had talked about, how long it had taken Merry to find him and what state he was in when found. He wanted to know why they had been gone so long and every single word that was spoken between them.

“And,” Merry said, “Frodo’s right. We had best be getting ready for luncheon. Wouldn’t want to show up looking like paupers. Though I imagine you would be mistaken for one anyhow the way you eat.”

Pippin nodded, accepting for the moment the unanswered questions. He clapped Merry on the back. “My dear Merry,” he said, “if eating habits are the mark of a pauper, then you must be the poorest hobbit in the Shire.”

Luncheon passed easily and the cheer returned to Frodo’s eyes as Pippin told them about the trick he played on Berilac. Frodo then laughed with outright glee when Berilac barged in at the end of the meal and chased Pippin out of the hall. Apparently, he had not been pleased by the arrival of a swarm of children just as he was kissing the lovely Ivory Burrows for the very first time. Merry and Frodo allowed them a minute’s head start before giving chase themselves. After all, they didn’t want anything to happen to either cousin that would cause any lasting regret or hard feelings.

They were not difficult to find. The chase had stirred many of the residents of the Hall, and they followed the curious onlookers outside. Once outside, they found that Pippin had squirreled his way up a tree and Berilac, who was afraid of heights and couldn’t climb, was roaring at him to come down.

Merry, ever the persuasive charmer, somehow managed to get Berilac to see the humor in the situation and give Pippin a break. Berilac agreed but he vowed to one day get even, and Merry warned his impish cousin that Berilac was not one to break his word. Pippin only shrugged unconcernedly as he jumped out of the tree and reminded them that they were supposed to be fishing at some point today.

Frodo was eager to see more of the countryside so, still laughing from the excitement, they returned to the Hall and prepared to leave. There was a creek Merry knew that had good fish this time of day, on the other side of the river past Bucklebury Ferry. Frodo and Pippin retrieved the fishing gear from the storage rooms while Merry saw to the food. They met in the entrance parlor and proceeded on foot.

They walked at a leisurely pace, the Hall and Buck Hill receding steadily in size behind them. Pippin finally got the story out of his cousins of their graveyard visit. Merry did most of the explaining, with a nod or two from Frodo. Pippin listened in wonder, suddenly sorry that he had not insisted on going along. Like Merry, he had never heard his cousin speak of his parents. More than that, he had never been to their resting place. Up until today, he had never given much thought to the fact that Frodo may still be missing his parents after all these years. He realized with a sudden sadness that Frodo would feel that grief and longing for the rest of his life, that he had, in fact, already felt that longing for nearly three-quarters of it.

The sadness didn’t last long however. Pippin was cheerful by nature, as most hobbits were, and he couldn’t stay melancholy for more than a few brief moments. In fact, he saw it as his duty to keep his cousin in good spirits and was soon singing a lively fishing song his Uncle Merimac had taught him many years ago. They all were familiar with the song and were soon singing together in high, fair voices.

They came to the ferry and Merry guided them across the river. Pippin switched to a boating song, another one of Merimac’s and thought too late of how Frodo might react. But Frodo joined the chorus with ease and they continued with the tune as they reached the other side of the river and continued south. A few miles and many songs later, they reached the outlet to the creek and Merry turned them right and took them west into a small grove of birch trees. They set down their gear and looked around.

The grove was only a half-mile wide and they could see either end of it with little trouble. The trees were close together where they sat and shaded the hobbits from the sun. All around, the air was filled with a peaceful silence, accentuated with an occasional bird singing in the trees above. No flowers grew here, but the grass was green and soft and seated them easily. There were many rocks near the shallow shore of the creek, but the water ran deep in the middle and that’s where Merry told them to cast their lines. They sat three in a row, enjoying the comfortable silence between them and the gentle babbling of the water at their feet.

They became so involved in their fishing that they at first failed to notice when the sun was once again cloaked by the clouds overhead. Frodo at least eventually noticed the drop in temperature, or the dimming of the light, or perhaps even the biting cold of the wind that unexpectedly swept through the glade. For suddenly, he felt a cold dread spread throughout him and he looked about for the source of it. He hoped it was merely the weather but a deep nagging suspicion told him it was not. Seeing nothing out of sorts however, he forced himself to focus on his friends next to him and the creek before him and the fishing rod held loosely in his hand.

Had he guessed the true source for his sudden discomfort – that at that very moment away in Hobbiton, Sam was peering under the hall bench in Bag End and making his small discovery – Frodo undoubtedly would have insisted they stop what they were doing and have Pippin lead them through the Woody End to the Stock road, and on to home. But as far as he was concerned, his ring was still tucked safely into the pocket of his traveling cloak, which now lay peacefully at the bottom of his pack, so the possibility that the ring was missing never occurred to him. Nonetheless, he began to feel that something was not right and the thought distracted him ceaselessly. With great effort, he shook off his unfounded foreboding, thinking perhaps he was still feeling some of the effects of the night terror Pippin claimed he had.

They fished through afternoon tea and packed shortly after. Pippin and Merry made three catches each, and Frodo had managed two despite his distraction. Not until they were crossing back over the river did Merry notice anything amiss with Frodo. His cousin was staring into the depths of the river, his eyes unfocused and his expression restless. Merry waited until they were on land once more and headed toward the Hall before he said anything.

“Hm?” Frodo replied absently, then shook himself from his reverie. He forced his head to clear and focused on his cousins. “It’s nothing, Merry. Perhaps I simply did not get enough sleep last night after all.” And then, as if saying it had made it so, he yawned widely and tiredly. He suddenly felt as if he could sleep for a week. Thinking that he at last found the source for his uneasiness, he sighed with relief and smiled at his friends. “Yes that must be it. And don’t look at me so. Honestly, Merry, you worry after me like a mother hen. There’s no cause for alarm.”

“Maybe so,” Merry responded, “but I’d feel better if you got a good night’s rest tonight. Don’t let this one jabber in your ear till the wee hours of the morning.”

“What?” Pippin exclaimed. “Me keep him up? He’s the one who snores incessantly. It nearly brought the ceiling down on my head last night.”

“No, but you do talk in your sleep,” Merry said. “Sometimes that’s the only way to discover what’s bothering you.”

“There’s nothing bothering me,” Frodo insisted. He was beginning to regret his hastiness at slipping away this morning. The last thing he needed now was everyone watching him like a hawk day and night. No, that wouldn’t do any good at all. Certain he would feel better once he returned to the Hall and had a short nap, he quickened his pace and forced his cousins to do likewise. “Now come on,” he said, “or we’ll be late for dinner, and I for one do not want to be caught out in open country with a hungry Took and no food.”

Pippin scoffed, then grinned widely. He was getting rather hungry. “Well, we do have the fish,” he pointed out as his stomach gave a soft rumble.

They managed to return to the Hall with the fish still intact and Frodo did take a short nap before dinner. He awoke feeling much more refreshed and his friends relaxed their vigilance.

After dinner, they discussed their plans for the next day and what kind of food there would be at the Feast. Then Esmeralda came over and invited Frodo to a private afternoon tea before the Feast with just her, Saradoc, Merry and Pippin. Frodo accepted heartily. Though he thought he could guess what the main topic of discussion at tea would be and wasn’t looking forward to it, he always enjoyed his private meals with his former guardians and wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Then Merry turned to him at the eight o’clock hour and insisted that Frodo get a decent night’s sleep. Seeing that his cousin was serious, Frodo obliged. He yawned widely then, proving Merry’s point about needing proper rest despite himself, so he said good night to his relatives and friends and gratefully turned in early. After all, it would be a busy day tomorrow, and he would need all the energy he could get.

Frodo woke the next morning feeling thoroughly refreshed. If he still had any nagging trepidations from the day before, he kept them perfectly to himself. His friends, pleased to see him back to his usual self, quickly cast their worries aside; they would have no time for them today.

The Hall was buzzing with last-minute preparations for the Feast. The decorations were being put up in the formal banquet room; the food prepared in the kitchens; the ale, wine and other beverages brought out from the cellar. On top of that, the final guests were arriving. Most of them lived nearby and would leave after the festivities, but some would stay the night and rooms had to be found for them. Esmeralda was supervising the decorations and cooking, and Saradoc was greeting the late arrivals and getting them settled in. Merry was given the job of overseeing the entertainment, and he and his friends took to the task with great enthusiasm.

While the feast itself did not begin until six o’clock, the unofficial start of the festivities was luncheon. This was held outdoors under the Grand Pavilion, a series of large tents that were erected atop Buck Hill. Once connected together, the tents would encompass an area large enough to sit 300 hobbits comfortably, but it took thirty men close to an hour to erect them and another hour to move the tables and chairs inside. If not for the threat of inclement weather, the tent would not have been bothered with at all.

Luncheon was a casual affair, with folk coming and going as they pleased. The food was catered in from Bucklebury to free the kitchen staff to prepare the feast. The amount of food was not great and was mostly appetizers, but as everyone wanted to be hungry for the feast, they did not mind. They ate and conversed casually about the turn in the weather and what they would be wearing to the Feast. Once the guests had their fill of food, for the time being anyway, the tables were cleared out and the chairs moved to the perimeter, clearing an area for the games to be held.

Merry stepped into the center of the pavilion and began the activities. They played several games. The first was the Egg Walk, where the contestants had to walk, as quickly as they could, from one end of the Pavilion to the other while balancing an egg on a spoon. Those who still had their egg at the end of the race, win or lose, got to eat it.

Next, they played Tag, a game that usually required a great amount of room. Merry insisted that the limited space of the center tent would make the game more interesting and he was right. Lads and lasses were ducking and bobbing and jumping out of the way and into each other. The children loved it and wanted to play again.

After the second round of Tag, they went on to a three-legged race. The length of the tents accommodated this easily, but Pippin suggested that the racers run two laps. The spectators soon found out why. It was the turning around between laps that proved the most entertaining part of the race, for it was then that most of the participants tripped and fell in giggling heaps.

The final game was Musical Chairs. By this time, the caterers had cleared away all their tables and equipment and the band was ready to warm up. Most of the children and several of the younger adults wanted to participate in this game, so Pippin, Frodo and Merry each officiated over their own circle of chairs. The game went on for quite awhile and the band was able to practice their livelier tunes, much to the delight of the players.

The end of the game marked the start of afternoon tea, and most of the guests left to prepare for the Feast. Merry gave final instructions to the band, then he, Frodo and Pippin went down the hill, barely noticing the gloomy clouds overhead as they discussed the games with great jubilation.

They arrived at the Master’s family quarters just as a kitchen servant was leaving. Saradoc and Esmeralda sat waiting, but stood as soon as they entered. “Frodo, Pippin,” they greeted, and encircled their cousin and nephew in tight embraces.

Everyone sat down and served themselves tea and crumpets. Merry and Pippin sat together, prepared to become invisible. These meals were largely for the purpose of Merry’s parents to ensure themselves that Frodo was doing well. Saradoc and Esmeralda rarely had the opportunity to see their young cousin to whom they had served as guardians for so many years. The running of the Hall took up so much of their time that they only ever saw Frodo on his visits to Buckland, and they made a point of dining with him privately as often as they could.

Frodo, for his part, enjoyed his meals with his ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle.’ They had provided him with so much comfort and love during his often difficult stay at Brandy Hall and he loved them dearly for it. He regretted often the troubles he had caused them and was glad to reassure them during these meals that their worries and headaches had not been for nothing.

“So, Frodo,” Saradoc began, “how goes it away in Hobbiton? Keeping yourself busy, I presume.”

“Busy enough, though probably not as much as I could be,” Frodo answered truthfully. “My friends keep me company and make sure I don’t sit idle for too long. Folco comes by often – for the free food, I suspect – and Fatty comes to visit at least once a month for a few days at a time. And of course these two rascals never give me a moment’s peace.” Merry and Pippin beamed innocently.

Esmeralda smiled fondly at her son and nephew, then turned her keen eye back to Frodo. He did seem healthy, as young as ever, and he was finally beginning to fill in round the corners a bit. “You look well, being kept in your vittles I see. I’m always worried you don’t get enough food living all by yourself, with no lass to look after you,” she hinted.

Merry and Pippin snickered into their teacups and Frodo restrained an exasperated sigh with expert ease. ‘Every year,’ Frodo thought, and wondered vaguely who Esmeralda would try to pair him up with at this year’s Feast. He didn’t have many cousins who were of age and not courting already, but she always managed to find someone. As long as it wasn’t Posy Goold again (that lass was much too forward) Frodo figured it wouldn’t hurt to humor Esmeralda for a few hours.

“I manage to feed myself well enough,” Frodo answered casually. “I cook for myself most days, and Sam makes sure I do not slack off. I assure you I’m very well taken care of, Esme.”

Pippin choked on his tea and Merry’s shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter. Frodo blushed shyly and became intensely interested in stirring his tea. ‘Just get past this and you’ll be fine,’ he reminded himself.

“I’m quite happy with things as they are,” he finally responded, and took a long sip of tea.

Taking pity on his cousin, Saradoc cleared his throat. “Esme, dearest, I’m certain that Frodo will make such decisions about his family life when the time comes. No need to press the lad on the matter. Now Frodo, I trust you are enjoying your stay so far?”

“I am, thank you Saradoc,” Frodo said, relieved for the change in topic. “I’ve been reacquainting myself with the countryside here. For one reason or another, I never seemed to have the opportunity on previous visits. I cannot believe I’ve forgotten where so many things are.”

“I hope it is not too much for you. I noticed you weren’t about yesterday morning,” Saradoc stated easily, making his question clear but saying it in a way that Frodo would not have to respond if he did not want to. Frodo’s disappearance the previous morning had not escaped their attention, and neither had their son’s own disappearance at second breakfast.

Frodo shook his head apologetically and kept his voice light and carefree. No point in worrying everyone all over again. “I’m enjoying my stay quite well, uncle. Please excuse my absence yesterday morning. I found it necessary to get away for awhile. I never seem able to remember how crowded and noisy it is here.”

“That’s quite understandable, dear,” Esmeralda soothed. Then, seeing another opportunity, she added, “It does take some adjusting to if you’re not used to it. Though Bag End is certainly big enough to accommodate the pitter patter of little feet.”

Merry and Pippin’s snickering renewed. Frodo gave them a pained expression but they could only manage sympathetic shrugs. He decided the best course of action would be to pretend he didn’t know what she was hinting at.

“Yes it is,” he said. “I suppose there’s no reason to let those rooms go to waste. I could host Merry’s next birthday party. It would be nice to have more of the family over.”

“A splendid idea,” Saradoc agreed. “We’ll have to keep it small then. Bag End will only accommodate so many. We’ll iron out the details before you leave.” He was impressed but not surprised. Frodo had picked the perfect topic for distraction, for if there was one thing his wife enjoyed more than playing matchmaker, it was planning parties.

“Don’t be silly,” Esmeralda interjected on cue. “We may not have time again before he leaves. We’ll iron out the details now.”

Then Saradoc was surprised, as his wife’s response seemed to distress Frodo even more than he already was. “Oh, no, Esmeralda,” Frodo said. “That’s really not necessary. I would not want to waste your time.”

“Frodo, you can never be a waste of my time,” Esmeralda chided softly. “And neither can my son. Now, who shall we invite?”

Reluctantly, Frodo helped Esmeralda to plan the party. They went over the guest list, when to send out invitations, how many days the visit should last and what to do during those days, and all the other necessary details. They finished an hour later, and they never once consulted Merry, who sat back and watched the scene with great amusement. He couldn’t really complain after all, as any excuse to visit Bag End was a good one.

When tea was over, the three friends took their leave, Frodo being the first out the door. By this time, Merry and Pippin had mostly recovered from their hysterics, though they couldn’t help pointing out a pretty lass or two who would make a wonderful wife for a particular eligible bachelor they both knew.

“Laugh while you can my friends,” Frodo said when they reached the bathing rooms. “Three more years and Esme will be trying to marrying you off as well Merry, and she’ll be able to hound you every single day. And I believe Tina is already looking for a bride for you Pip, among the North Farthing Tooks. She seems to think responsibility cannot come too soon for you.” He smiled sweetly at his now stricken cousins, stepped inside an empty bathing room and quietly closed the door.

Merry shook his head. “No, it can’t be,” he said uncertainly. “He’s just joking.”

Pippin nodded, not sure which cousin to believe. Then without saying another word, they separated, Pippin into an adjacent bathing room and Merry back his family’s quarters.

The Feast began at six on the dot, and not a single hobbit was late for the meal. The banquet room had been decorated with large bouquets of wildflowers hanging along the walls. Small crystal vases sat upon the tables, displaying fragrant fresh-cut lilies, roses and carnations in a variety of brilliant colors. Various colored streamers ran across the ceiling in an endless celebration of the turning of the seasons, coming to rest near the middle of the roof, where the grand chandelier proudly hung. Table clothes of fine silk ran the lengths of the tables, and hand-painted porcelain plates were laid out at every seat. Silverware enlaced with gold, and silver goblets bearing the Brandybuck seal, completed the set.

As wonderful as the room looked, the best decoration of all was the food. There was so much food the eye could hardly take it all in. On every table there were salads, fruit platters and piles of mixed berries, roasted chicken, salted pork and honeyed ham, wheat and oat bread loaves and buttermilk dinner rolls, potatoes of every variety, more side dishes than one could name, and every type of dessert one could hope for: pies, custards, puddings, cakes, biscuits and of course, Esmeralda’s famous apple crumble.

Hobbits sat impatiently in their chairs, waiting for the Master to make his speech, hopefully short, and announce the beginning of the feast. Merry, Pippin and Frodo sat at the front table with Saradoc, Esmeralda, Merimac, and Berilac and Ivory. If Berilac was still upset about Pippin’s prank, he gave no indication. At any rate, he seemed more than happy to let it be for the moment as the delightfully delicious fragrance of the food made his mouth water with anticipation.

Saradoc stood up and called the hall to attention. He waited until every eye was upon him before clearing his throat dramatically, seemingly preparing for a good, long speech. But he was kind to his relations and kept the speech extremely short, no more than two lines: “Winter is over, Spring has arrived. Let the Feast begin!”

The hall erupted into cheers and the servants bustled about serving drinks as hobbits eagerly dug into the dishes nearest them and began passing the food around. The Master and his wife were allowed to serve themselves first, but there was no fear of the food running out before everyone got a serving. Frodo piled his plate high and had to restrain himself from eating the apple crumble first.

Talk stopped as they ate their first serving. As people began getting seconds and thirds they began to roam and mingle, both to chat with their friends and to see what food had survived at the other tables. Soon the hall was alive with many conversations. At one point, Frodo was called upon to relate another party of endless vittles, Bilbo’s 111th, and he did so with much zest and fanfare. He had a knack for telling stories and keeping his audience enthralled, just as Bilbo had, though he seldom entertained it. Tonight, however, he seemed more than happy to fill the air with as many stories as they could think to ask for, and even gave them a song or two.

The band arrived at eight o’clock and struck up a tune. Hobbits ran onto the dance floor and requests were called from all angles from the observers. Frodo wrapped up his story of a camping trip he and Bilbo had taken with a couple of Bilbo’s dwarf friends. He was foolishly beginning to think he might escape any matchmaking attempts when he noticed Esmeralda approaching him with Melilot Brandybuck in tow. Of course, his aunt would wait until the dancing to make her move. He braced himself for the inevitable.

“Frodo,” Esmeralda said as they reached him at last. “You remember Melie don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Frodo said smiling kindly. “Could I interest you in a dance, Melie?”

Melilot smiled sweetly and took his arm. He escorted her to the dance floor, where everyone was lining up for the next number. They danced and chatted companionably for a couple of tunes before he saw Merry and Pippin pointing at him and laughing. He was about to ignore them when he noticed Berilac and a young lad he didn’t recognize sneaking up behind them with a bowl full of fruit punch. A moment later, Pippin was doused and Merry was both scolding Berilac and holding his sides from laughter. Frodo laughed also, glad to see they were enjoying themselves just fine without him.

He turned his attention back to Melilot and tried to appear interested in what she was telling him, something about an embroidery project she and her friends were involved with. He nodded along while he discreetly kept an eye on the clock; he would soon be able to leave and then this would all be over.

The Feast had no official end. Folk left when they had their fill and were ready to turn in. Some left to break off into smaller parties in their family quarters or guest rooms. Others would go into the parlors or sitting rooms and continue the party there. Still others would stay in the banquet room, to have fourth or fifth servings as they pretended to help clean up, and a handful more stayed to dance slowly to the band.

Frodo was the first to leave. He made sure Melilot was interacting comfortably with some distant cousins from Standelf, then snuck out of the hall just past ten o’clock. Not long after he left, other folk began to leave the dining hall and the number of revelers slowly dwindled as they scattered throughout the smial. Those who had planned to return home tried to leave, but they quickly returned when the rain that had been threatening all day finally began to fall as a streak of lightning blazoned the sky. Servants scrambled to find them rooms, and many wound up staying on cots in already filled guest rooms, or on divans or settees in their friends’ private residences.

By two o’clock, the only hobbits about were the servants, who walked around making sure everyone was adequately supplied with a blanket and pillow, and tucked in as comfortably as possible for the night. Not all the revelers were asleep however. Many were still talking in whispers and would not go to sleep for another hour more. Others were just lying down to drift off to sleep, while still others had wisely chosen to turn in early and were snoring softly and dreaming sweetly.

Pippin returned with Merry to his room, not wanting to stumble around in the dark of the guest room and run the risk of waking Frodo. He removed his soaked dining suit, imagining with dread the lecture he would receive from his mother if the laundresses failed to get the stains out. He washed as thoroughly as possible at the basin and Merry offered him some sleeping garments.

They climbed into bed and mumbled incoherently of their plans for the next day. They would fetch Frodo early and sneak away before the clean up began. They would go up to Newbury and see what the merchants and traders had to sell. Pippin had some spending money left over from his father he was itching to burn, and Merry wanted to treat them to dinner at the inn there as a surprise for Frodo. They yawned widely and whispered good night as sleep took them at last into peaceful slumber.

Merry crawled out from under the table, where he had been scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain. Someone, at some point during the previous night’s festivities, had spilled blueberry hosp in the entrance parlor and Merry was attacking the stain with fierce determination. As such, he had only heard part of what Pippin had said.

“I said, Frodo’s missing out,” Pippin now repeated. “I don’t see why I have to be the only one polishing all this silver.”

“But you’re not the only one, are you? Berry and Melie are helping,” Merry reasoned as he turned back to stare down the unrelenting stain. There was nothing for it – he would have to use the old Brandybuck secret weapon. He stood up. “Besides, I’m sure Frodo’s enjoying himself just as much as you are, wherever he got landed cleaning.”

“Please, Merry. Like Frodo would consider dusting books in the library a chore,” Pippin countered.

“We don’t know that’s where he is, just because he managed it the last few years. Now, I’m going to retrieve something for that stain. I’ll be right back, so don’t you dare try to sneak off while I’m gone.”

Merry left the parlor and navigated his way expertly through the labyrinth of Brandy Hall. All around him, hobbits were busy wiping, sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, polishing, moping and washing. The annual day of Spring Cleaning was upon them.

Every year, the day after the Spring Feast, came the day of cleaning. All hobbits, no matter what their station, were expected to participate. Even Master Saradoc could be found with sleeves rolled up, scrubbing clean one of the kitchen hearths. And all hobbit children, no matter what their station, would try to sneak away early in the morning before they could be assigned any chores. The children who succeeded in escaping, usually all of them, were then able to spend the day doing as they pleased, with no adult supervision whatsoever.

This year, however, none of the children had escaped, for come morning, the rain that had started the previous night was still coming down in curtains. The adults had awoken after their night of merriment to find the children of the Hall sitting mournfully in the parlors and sitting rooms, staring out the windows at the tempest outside. The few that had braved the storm were found huddled in the stable, dripping wet and shivering. The rain could not have come at a worse time.

On top of that, Merry and Pippin had the misfortune of sleeping in. By the time they pried open their eyes and stumbled out of bed, the morning was half over and the easy jobs were all handed out. Pippin wasn’t even allowed to go to his room for fresh clothes, so that he had no choice but to borrow some of Merry’s older clothes to clean in.

Merry now reached the desired storage closet and quickly found what he was looking for. He grabbed the bottles, mixed the contents into a bucket and went to fill it with rainwater. On his way back, he passed by the library and peeked inside. Knowing his cousin, Frodo would be in there somewhere, dusting and reading. Unable to spot him – ‘He’s probably squirreled away in a corner near the back.’ – Merry continued to the parlor and went back to work on the stain. Moments later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a hungry Took: stomach rumblings loud enough to be mistaken for thunder by a startled Melilot.

“We’ve only another hour to go. Why don’t you sit down and work on the tea set with Berry?”

“Why?” Pippin asked. “So I can think about the tea I’m not drinking and the water-biscuits I’m not eating?”

“Yes, that is precisely why,” Merry said with deadpan seriousness. “Now get to work or no one will be drinking tea.” Pippin and his stomach grumbled unhappily.

Another disadvantage to their unfortunate sleeping in was missing first and second breakfasts. Typically, they would have awoken well before sun up and snuck outside by way of the kitchen or one of the many pantries, where they would stock up on food to last the morning. The adults knew this of course, and could easily stop them, but this was the one day of the year they were able to get work done without constant interruptions. Not only that, but with all the adults pitching in and the usual spotlessness in which the servants kept the smial throughout the year, there was not ever much cleaning to do and they were usually finished before second breakfast. This gave them the rest of the morning to enjoy in peace and quiet. Not surprisingly, they turned a blind eye to their children’s “sneaking off.”

To keep up appearances, the adults had been obliged to deal out chores to the children, which slowed down progress. The youngest were more of a hindrance than a help. The teens complained constantly and the tweens were more interested in playing than working. Work progressed steadily all the same, and even given a late start, most everyone was finished by elevenses.

Pippin, Berilac and Melilot stacked their share of the silver, now bright and shining, into a shallow carrying tray. also polished. Berilac and Melilot went to distribute it all to where it belonged as Pippin lay down dramatically on the settee.

“My fingers ache,” he said. “I do not believe they shall ever recover from this ordeal.”

“Remember that the next time you grab a silver goblet with grubby hands,” Merry said. For that was, of course, the reason behind this exercise – to remind everyone of the hard work the servants did day in and day out, all the year round. Merry could not help but notice that many people seemed to miss the lesson.

Merry stood up and stretched, his knees sore and his wrists aching. Once the blueberry hosp stain had given way, Merry had moved on to other spots. He had a keen eye and noticed many smaller and easily overlooked stains throughout the parlor. He towel-dried the carpet where the final stain had once been and gathered together the cleaning supplies, then went to pull his cousin off the settee.

“Yes, now we may eat,” Merry said, his own stomach protesting the lack of food it had been made to endure.

They quickly dumped the dirty water outside on the pathway, tossed the rags in one of the many laundry bins set out in the passageways and put the bucket back where it came from. Then they headed to the dining hall.

Almost all of the inhabitants and stranded guests were eating already. The room was buzzing with excited conversations about the storm, which was still raging outside with no signs of stopping. Merry and Pippin quickly retrieved a few plates of food and scanned the room for Frodo. Not seeing him, they gave each other a confounded shrug, then sat down to eat with several of their young cousins before their stomachs caved in entirely.

Frodo did not turn up at all during the meal, and the two friends wondered at this. It wasn’t like Frodo to miss a meal, especially when every hobbit who passed him would have reminded him to head for the dining hall. Perhaps he was simply so absorbed in his reading he had forgotten to come and eat. After Merry and Pippin had their fill, they went to look for their friend.

They found the library empty but for Merimac, who had taken his meal in the quiet room and was now reading a book about different types of fishing bait. Their uncle declared that he had helped clean the library to its current pristine condition, but oddly enough he had not seen Frodo all morning.

“He must have been dragged off somewhere else before he could get here,” Merimac stated. “Shame too. I was wanting to speak with him about the fishing at Bywater Pool.”

So Merry and Pippin went up and down the tunnels, asking everyone they passed if they knew where Frodo was. Many shrugs and blank expressions later, they stood once more outside the library, and they were growing concerned. How is it that no one had seen him all morning?

“That sly old rascal!” Merry exclaimed, startling Pippin with both his sudden proclamation and his choice of words. Merry laughed and shook his head. It was so obvious. “He’s hiding in his room, waiting for all the work to get done.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Pippin said, but then thought maybe Merry was onto something. “Why didn’t we do that?”

“They never would have let you,” Pippin corrected. “I could have been hiding with Frodo this whole time. I knew I should have gone back to our room last night.”

“Come on,” Merry said, an evil twinkle in his eye. “We’ll fix him for shirking his duties.”

They ran down the tunnels in their eagerness to play on their cousin and get him back for his slacking. They had no clear idea of what they would do, only that it would not be something that would require them to do more cleaning afterward. This automatically excluded most of their tricks. They decided to start with a simple ‘jump and startle’ technique. Frodo would be relaxing, so if they barged in, that would at the very least make him jump, and possibly scream if they roared while they did it. After that, they would improvise.

They slowed down as they rounded the corner to their guest room. Waiting several moments to catch their breath, they finalized their plan of attack with simple eye movements and facial expressions. Merry placed his hand upon the door and they poised to burst into the room. They could already picture Frodo’s startled reaction.

Merry pushed open the door and they began their attack, which came to a swift and abrupt stop as the door suddenly hit upon something on the floor and refused to move another inch. The cousins looked at each other, the question clear in their eyes. The door had only opened a foot and from the little they could see of the room, it had not been cleaned either. If anything, it looked worse.

Merry shook his head. Not yet. He pushed upon the door again, wondering what was going on and why his friend wasn’t responding. Pippin came up next to him and added his weight to the door. With both of them pushing, they moved it enough to squeeze through into the room.

The room was in shambles. It looked as though the storm raging outside had come to wreak havoc inside the room’s small confines. Papers were scattered everywhere. An ink jar lay tipped over on the desk, its contents spilled down the face of the desk and onto the floor. The beds were ripped of their linens, the wardrobes turned out and the clothes were strung about the room. A mattress from Frodo’s bed was on the floor, jammed between the door and the wall. The one-day candles, replaced just yesterday evening, were burned nearly two-thirds of the way down to their base and their cousin was nowhere to be seen.

Coldness spread through Merry’s body as a sinking realization became apparent: Frodo had not slept in this room last night. And no one had seen him this morning.

“Merry?” Pippin said again. He had realized the same things, and one other. “He left the party just after ten. He’s been gone for more than half a day,” he said, panic evident.

Merry took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. This may not be entirely what it seemed. They would have to speak with Melilot to find out why he had left the party early. At the time, they had assumed it was to get away from having to play suitor any longer, but it could be he had said something to her. They hunted down Melilot in her family’s quarters and asked her what she knew.

“Well, he said he’d forgotten something in his room and he’d be right back,” she said casually.

Melilot shrugged. “I can tell when a fellow isn’t interested. I figured it was just an excuse to leave. Then I started talking with the Standley brothers, they’re from Standelf you know and-”

“Thank you, Melie,” Merry said, then turned and ran back down the tunnels, Pippin close at his heels.

“A full search?” Esmeralda said five minutes later. She was pacing in their sitting room, considering carefully everything her son had reported. This did sound serious. While Frodo may slip away from time to time, he would not simply just disappear, and he was not in the habit of destroying property. Plus, it had been raining since about eleven o’clock the night before. No hobbit in their right mind would go into or stay out in something like that.

“I don’t think a search will be necessary, Merry,” Saradoc said to his son. “This Hall was just thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom; there wouldn’t be a room that went unlooked. All we need do is gather everyone back into the dining hall and ask if anyone’s seen him. If no one has, we need only to search the store rooms and the cellars.”

Merry nodded but looked doubtful all the same. He had a bad feeling about all of this. Pippin stood in the background, not sure what to think at all. Why would Frodo be in the storage rooms? If he was hiding to avoid work, surely he would know that it was past elevenses already and would have come out on his own. He did have a pocket watch after all.

A half-hour later, everyone was once again gathered in the dining hall, and the news was not good. Only one person had seen Frodo after he left the dining hall last night, and that was a servant who said he had been walking quickly and stiffly, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, his eyes glued to the floor. As best the servant could figure, that had been around 10:30.

That was enough for Saradoc. He ordered a full search of the storerooms, cellars and pantries, and asked everyone to check again all the public rooms as well as their personal apartments. He wanted to be absolutely certain that Frodo could not be hiding anywhere in the Hall and requested every inch and corner to be searched. Everyone was to meet back at the dining hall as soon as they were finished with their searches.

‘It may very well embarrass the poor lad when he’s found however,’Saradoc thought. Frodo was after all a grown hobbit, more than capable of taking care of himself. The shambled room concerned him though. Only once before had Frodo ever done anything like that and the circumstances surrounding that event were not pleasant ones to think about. He shuddered still whenever he remembered it. ‘Let him be embarrassed then. As long as we find him.’

Merry and Pippin took the west side cellars beneath the kitchens, along with Melilot and her siblings and a handful of servants.

“This is ridiculous,” Merimas whispered. “Frodo’s forty-three years old and we’re searching for him like he’s a faunt.”

“He may be ill,” Melilot chided her brother. “He really didn’t seem well last night, now that I think of it.” Her brother continued to grumble, and she nudged him to be quiet as Merry came out of another empty pantry.

The situation became less ridiculous and more serious as more of the searchers returned to the dining hall with no news. An hour after the search began, now two o’clock, everyone was back in their seats, looking up at the Master and waiting to see what would happen next. The Hall had been searched and Frodo had not been found. There was only one conclusion to make.

“Frodo left the Hall at some point last night. We don’t know why, but all the signs point to him being under some sort of duress. I need volunteers to come with me to search Bucklebury and the surrounding areas. Hopefully, with the rain, he didn’t get far, but he could be hurt or ill. We must find him as quickly as possible.”

Merry and Pippin stood up instantly, ready to leave that very second to look for their missing friend. Berilac stood also, and Merimac stood with him. Some of the Burrows lads stood next. More and more fellows and lads took up the call and by the time they left, they were twenty strong. They went to their rooms to change into thick clothing and met outside by the stables, where each was given a pony.

They were fortunate when they departed, for it had stopped raining and they remained dry. Saradoc and Merimac split the searchers into four groups. Saradoc’s would go east and circle around south on the return pass, Merimac’s east and north. The two other groups would search the southeast and southwest sectors. They set a perimeter for each quadrant and fanned out to search as much ground as possible before it started raining again.

In Saradoc’s group were Merry and Pippin, and his cousins Marmadas Brandybuck and Milo Burrows. They searched the area just east of the Road, south of Crickhollow Lane and north of the first farm fields.

Merry and Pippin said nothing when they came upon Frodo’s pond. The water now stood deep but it was as vacant as ever and there were no signs that Frodo had come this way. When they reached the area of the deserted hole, Merry and Pippin led them off the lane and through the brush, feeling like traitors for doing so but knowing it was for the best. They were greatly surprised by the Master’s reaction. Saradoc stood rooted in the doorway and stared into the hole in shock, his face pale. When Merry asked him what was wrong, he only shook his head and told Merry and Pippin to return to the lane at once. Then he, Milo and Marmadas searched the hole quickly. Finding it empty, they left without saying another word.

They turned south from there. Saradoc came to ride by Merry and asked him what else he and his cousins had been up to since Frodo’s arrival. He wanted to know even the minutest details: every place they had gone, every word Frodo had said and every mood he had expressed. Saradoc seemed especially interested in the smial, wanting to know what Frodo had told his friends about it.

Merry told him everything he knew, but he had a question of his own. When he asked about the smial and who had once lived there, Saradoc only shook his head sadly. Not seeing any reason to keep the truth from his son, he sighed and said, “No one ever lived there. That was to be his parents’ smial. They’d just finished building it when they passed away. They hadn’t even moved their furniture in yet. We hoped that if we hid it, Frodo would forget. He’d only been there once before.”

“But I thought his parents already had a house,” Merry said. “I know well enough Frodo never lived in the Hall until his parents passed away.”

“They did have a house, a rather big one for their small family. Primula always wanted a large family like the one she grew up in and they planned accordingly. They tried for several years after Frodo was born to have another child and were never successful. Finally it was determined that she could have no more children, and she was devastated. Drogo thought it would be less depressing for her if she lived in a home without a hallway of empty bedrooms, so he decided to build a smaller home just for the three of them,” Saradoc explained.

“Where’s their old house?” Pippin asked. He could never remember hearing this story before and it seemed Merry had never learned this information either.

“You’ve been there,” Saradoc said. “It belongs to Milo and Peony now.”

They rode in silence after this news was revealed. Merry felt the cold dread return as he thought again of what Frodo had told him. His friend would go to that smial and pretend his parents were still alive. Merry understood now that what he pretended was not of times long past, but of what could have been and almost was. It must have been a terrible strain to Frodo to take them there. No wonder he’d had that night terror and wound up at his parent’s graveside the following day. Why had Merry insisted that Frodo show them his haunts? He felt like crying and screaming both.

Pippin’s feelings were less accusatory than Merry’s. After all, Frodo did not have to take them to that smial if he did not want to; they’d have been none the wiser if he hadn’t. For all they knew, there could be many more places their friend would hide that they still didn’t know about and this was what concerned him. He did not see how they could ever find Frodo if he had more hiding places like that smial. This thought tormented him, and the drizzle that started to fall again did not help his mood.

“Why do my cousins always disappear during rain storms?” Pippin said. “I have decided that I do not like the rain,” he added, as the drizzle quickly turned to a steady sprinkle.

Merry nodded beside him, glad to momentarily have something else to think about. “It always does come at the worst possible moments: picnics, festivals, parties, mushroom raids,” he said, managing to keep his tone light, if somewhat strained.

Merry was becoming discouraged that they had found no trace of Frodo, but he clung desperately to the hope that one of the other groups would have better luck. They may have already found his friend and taken him back to Brandy Hall. Merry pulled his cloak tighter around him and mopped his hair out of his face.

Pippin fell back into silence. He was shivering despite his cloak, and the wind returned to blow the rain violently around them. No, he did not like the rain at all. He liked sunshine and flowers and gentle summer breezes, boating lazily on the Brandywine or running through his father’s farm fields in Whitwell. He liked lying under clear blue skies and smoking beehives for honey and laughing at Merry’s antics. This cold, hard, bitter rain and gloomy sky were not for him and he wished them to be gone.

A short while later, they passed the halfway mark and checked their ponies for the turn around. As they began their slow return to the Hall, the skies let loose again, the sprinkle turning to a downpour as thunder rumbled in the distance. Their clothing, already wet, was soaked within seconds. Instinctively, they quickened their pace, but Saradoc slowed them with a shout. He was not going to rush the search, especially in the rain, for there was too great a risk of overlooking something. They found nothing however and returned to the Hall, miserable and cold.

The clocks chimed five o’clock when they returned. They were the first group to arrive, and this encouraged them slightly. Hopefully, one of the other groups would bring back better news. They would have Frodo with them. He would be cold, wet, possibly ill and most likely injured, which would explain why he did not return of his own will. But he would be with them, and he would get better.

One by one, the groups returned wet and hungry – and empty-handed. They were ushered into the dining hall, where they were fed dinner and given warm tea or ale. Soon, the only group left out was Merimac’s. At six o’clock, they at last entered the hall and shook their heads.

Pippin’s courage failed him, and he sobbed quietly into Merry’s shoulder. Until this moment, he had been unaware just how close to despair he has been since first discovering Frodo was gone. He found now that he was exhausted with worry and could not hold back his fears any longer.

Merry rubbed his friend’s back absently, unable to offer any more condolence than that. He himself was suddenly tired, more than he ever remembered being before. He stared blankly at the wall, thinking hard. Nearly a day was wasted and the rain continued to pour with harsh indifference. Their friend was missing and there was nothing they could do to help him.

“We’ve failed him,” Merry said. Saradoc came and gathered his son and nephew to him as they both now cried freely. Though he would never admit it to his son, Saradoc couldn’t help but feel that Merry was correct. Somehow over the years, somewhere along the line, they had failed Frodo, and it all led to this moment.

He and his brother took the children to Esmeralda. Under the circumstances, they felt it best for Pippin to remain in the family quarters and room with Merry. They had to be prodded into changing out of their wet clothes and into their nightshirts, and coaxed again to get into bed to try to sleep. Esmeralda gave them some tea mixed with chamomile and willow bark to help them relax, and finally she was able to soothe them to sleep by humming a lullaby she’d not had need for since Merry was ten. When they were at last resting peacefully in each other’s arms, she returned to the sitting room, where her husband filled her in on the results of the search, and the counsel began.

Saradoc was of two minds. On the one hand, Frodo had clearly been upset about something. His sweet and gentle cousin was not the type to dismantle a room. Something had unhinged him and that had been enough to send him from the Hall into the cold, dark night. The question there was why didn’t he return when it began to rain? This is what worried Saradoc the most, for he believed his cousin could still be injured and in need of help. Frodo just got farther from the Hall that Saradoc had hoped.

On the other hand, he remembered Merry’s words in the dining hall about having failed Frodo in some way and his own initial fear that Frodo had left purposely. He shook his head, not wanting to believe it. Merimac saw the conflict and denial in his brother’s face, and voiced the fear that he could not. “Perhaps this was all a ruse Sara. He may have been planning this from the start and saw the storm as an opportunity to get away unnoticed. I’m sorry to say it, brother, but I’ve been expecting something like this ever since Bilbo left.”

Saradoc hung his head and sighed deeply. When he spoke, his voice was soft and weak with exhaustion. “I know, Mac. I have as well.”

Esmeralda shook her head. “No, Sara. Frodo’s always worn his emotions for all to see. We would have known if he was planning to leave. And let’s not overlook the fact that he took nothing with him. Frodo’s done enough wandering to know better than that if that was indeed his intention. Then there’s the room: there’s no cause for that. No, I think your first guess is the correct one. Something upset him and he ran off.”

But something clicked in Merimac’s mind. The final piece of the puzzle had slipped into place. “How would we know if he took nothing with him?” he asked. “The room is in shambles.”

Saradoc shook his head. “No, Esme’s right. There was no cause to destroy the room. For that reason alone, I cannot assume that Frodo planned to leave.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done such a thing,” Merimac countered.

“Please, Mac,” Saradoc said, his temper on this subject short. “That was over thirty years ago, and he’d just lost his parents. It was a perfectly natural reaction.”

Saradoc fixed him with a dark, warning glare. “Those wounds are healed. Frodo would not attempt something like that again.” Merimac nodded, and the Master dropped his gaze and stared into the fire. “But, there was the smial and his dream…” he said a minute later. He shook his head to try to clear it; his mind was racing in too many directions at once for him to keep track of his thoughts. “Let’s start from the beginning. I had Merry tell me everything that they had done since Frodo’s arrival.”

He recounted to his wife and brother what he had learned during the search. The revelation that Frodo had known all along where the smial lay hid was a hard one for the others to digest. Merimac listened attentively and grew more convinced of his theory. Esmeralda simply grew more worried.

“The poor lad’s been at unease since he arrived it sounds,” she said. “But he was fine at tea yesterday. He told us – ”

“That he’s been familiarizing himself with the surrounding areas again,” Merimac interrupted. “For what purpose would he do that? He’s never bothered on previous visits. He was feeling out the land, figuring out his best route out of Buckland. Why would he take Merry and Pippin to all his old haunts? They would cling to the hope that he may be at one of those unknown places of his, waiting out the storm. Unless of course they aren’t unknown and we can go to them ourselves to see that he’s not there. And the smial… Even if that did upset him, why would he visit his parents’ graveside so early? The anniversary of their death is still two weeks away.”

“He was saying good-bye and we didn’t even know it,” Saradoc said, his tone neutral and flat.

“That could explain his light mood at the graveyard. He knew he would never have to see it again.”

“No!” Esmeralda exclaimed. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She began pacing. “No. I see your point, Mac, but it’s wrong. There’s still the room. There’s still the fact that he left here with nothing. Pippin said that both his and Frodo’s clothes were strung about.”

“Perhaps he already had a pack stowed away somewhere,” Merimac said. “He did disappear the other morning and was gone for quite a while before Merry found him. All of the things he brought with him are in his room, you say. But he’s always forgetting things here when he leaves. Perhaps they weren’t forgotten, but left purposely? And as for his room, tell me brother, how long would it have taken you to believe that something was wrong if not for the room? Too long, as far as Merry and Pippin are concerned. They may have gone in search of Frodo before you ever decided to do anything. Frodo would have known this. He wouldn’t want them out there by themselves.”

Saradoc sunk into his chair. What his brother said made perfect sense. Frodo was sharp in his observations and close in his intentions. If he had been truly planning something like this, would they really have known? Saradoc doubted it. They simply did not spend enough time around their cousin to know when he was up to something. But even given that, Frodo was not cold-hearted or discourteous. He would not simply disappear.

As though reading her husband’s mind, Esmeralda turned on her brother-in-law, her features desperate and cold. “If Frodo was planning to leave, he would have said something, to one of us. Even Bilbo said good-bye,” she argued.

“The second time,” Merimac said simply. He was staring gravely into his untouched teacup, hating the words coming from his mouth but unable to deny them. “No, Esme. You’re wrong. He would not have said anything. He knew there was too great a risk that Merry and Pippin would follow him.”

“And he knew it would break their hearts if he left without notice,” she countered. “He would never do that to them.”

Merimac turned to his brother. “It’s ten miles to the East Road and the Gate, fifteen to Haysend, and he’s been gone for nearly a day. You can search for him in Buckland and through all the Four Farthings, but you will not find him Sara. He’s already left the Shire.”

“We will search,” Saradoc vowed. He was not going to give up just yet. Even if Merimac was right and Frodo had planned to leave them, he would not have left in the manner that he had, of that the Master was certain. He clung to that certainty stubbornly. “Whatever the reason for his leaving, he could still be hurt somewhere. The storm is greater than any of us expected, and he’s still largely unfamiliar with the lands outside Bucklebury. I want search parties to go out at the dawn hour, rain or shine. They will alert anyone they come across; we must get word out. The Bounders must be alerted immediately.”

“I already took care of that,” Merimac said. “I stopped at Crickhollow during my search and Seredic agreed to get word to the Bounders post haste. I also ordered that their watch be doubled as soon as may be. I hope you don’t mind.”

Saradoc shook his head, too tired to say anything, knowing that his gratitude would come across as agitation if he tried. Merimac had given up before the search was even complete, but Saradoc could not. Not yet.

Neither could Esmeralda. Her heart was breaking with all this talk of Frodo leaving and her denial was strong still. She stopped her pacing as a slight glimmer of hope dawned on her. “What if he went home?” she said. “Maybe he just went home.”

Saradoc nodded. It couldn’t hurt anything to try. “Someone will have to go over the bridge and rise the alarm. The Shirriffs could help get the word out. They’ll be going around to check on storm damage.”

Merimac nodded and stood. “They’d be in Frogmorton, first Highday of the season. I’ll go now.” He had no hope of finding Frodo, but if it would ease Esmeralda’s mind, he would go.

“No Mac. You may go in the morning, brother. It’s too dangerous right now.”

“It’ll be just as dangerous in the morning, if not more so,” he countered. “Don’t worry about me. I can hold my own in a rainstorm, but it’s a day’s journey to Frogmorton by way of the bridge and we cannot afford to lose any more time.”

Merimac took his leave before his brother could argue further. He was already mapping out his route in his mind’s eye. He could shorten the trip if he took the ferry across the river and cut through the forests to The Yale on the Stock Road. He could then cut across the fields to Frogmorton. It would be a miserable journey, and he knew just the hearty pony for the task.

Dawn brought neither rain nor shine, but a chilling cold and heavy grey skies. All who could be spared joined the search, either by choice or appointment. So it was that sixty hobbits in all were called to the dining hall in the early morning hours. They sat bleary-eyed, yawning into their eggs and toast and sipping on steaming cups of tea. Few words were spoken and many folks had to be prevented from falling asleep into their plates by the steadying hands of their neighbors.

After the meal, Saradoc stood at the head table next to a large map of Buckland that had been brought in from the library. On it were drawn lines, dividing the Eastmarch into six sections. He rapped on the wood floor with his walking stick. The sound, loud and booming in the near empty and uncommonly quiet room, alerted everyone at last to full awareness. He waited until he had everyone’s attention, then gave his orders.

The sixty hobbits were divided into six groups of ten. Each group was assigned a region of Buckland. Two groups would search west of Buckland Road to the river, one north of Buck Hill, the other south. East of the Road the remaining four would search. Two would go north, searching the area between the Road and Crickhollow Lane, using the route to Newbury as a dividing line. The final two would go due east and south, using the farmlands that ran south to Standelf as a border for their assigned areas.

The Eastmarch was small and a rider on pony could travel from one end of Buckland Road to the other in a day’s time at a quick pace. Going slowly and carefully, and mostly on foot, Saradoc figured it would not take any one group more than two to three days to search their assigned section. Once their section was searched, the northbound groups were to meet at the Gate and return to the Hall as one. The southbound groups would meet at Haysend. With luck, in no more than four days, they would all be back at the Hall and they would know the outcome of the search.

In each group he placed those who would know the assigned land best. The fisherhobbits would be part of the westward groups. He regretted Merimac’s absence now, but they would have to make due without his knowledgeable brother. In the northbound groups he placed those who often went to the Gate or Newbury, or who visited Crickhollow regularly. This included the guests who lived in those areas and knew it well. The hobbits from Standelf were placed in the group searching south through the farmlands. Saradoc would lead the final group.

“I want every crag, quarry, streambed, woodland, bog and field searched thoroughly. Alert all who you come across, knock on doors if you come across no one. It’s possible someone may have already found him and is nursing him back to health. If anyone finds a valid trail or lead, I want to be alerted immediately.”

With that, the conference ended. They stood as one and filed out of Brandy Hall. They went to the stables, where everything had already been prepared. Six pony-traps supplied with provisions, cooking gear and cutlery, tents and sleeping rolls awaited them. The searchers placed their packs in the carts, and from each group, a driver took up the reins and led the ponies to the Road.

Seredic Brandybuck left Crickhollow before dawn. He rode to Newbury and from there on to the Gate on the East Road, never stopping his progress. His sons, wanting to help, had gone to alert the bounders on the High Hay, but he wanted to make the journey to the Bridge himself. While kindly old Hob may listen to his sons, he knew the guards at the Gate would be more inclined to listen to someone of authority than they would to a couple of tweens. He reached his destination by late morning.

“Hoy there,” called the bounder on duty. “Who are you and how may I help you?” he asked officially but pleasantly.

“I am Seredic Brandybuck of Brandy Hall, and you may help me by telling me if you’ve seen any hobbits pass out of these gates in the last two days,” Seredic said. “The Master’s in search of a missing cousin.”

The bounder shook his head. “Couldn’t say myself. I just started this post.”

“Then wake them up,” Seredic commanded. “I’m here on authority of the Master and unless you want to see yourself dismissed, you will find the ones who can answer my question and bring them here post haste.” This wasn’t technically true, as he had come on the order of the Master’s brother, but what the bounder didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Plus, the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to Crickhollow and begin work on clearing up the damage left by the storm.

The bounder jumped up from his seat and rushed off to the guardhouse. A few minutes later, two tired-looking hobbits came out and approached the rider.

Seredic explained the situation as best he understood it and described Frodo to them. “No other hobbit quite like him. He has a fair complexion, dark hair and pale eyes.”

The guards shook their heads. “You’d have to be out of your mind to go about in a storm like we just had, begging your pardon for saying so, sir. Besides, no one gets in or out of these gates without us knowing it, and we saw no one.”

Seredic nodded. “Well, if you do see anyone who fits that description, run a message to Brandy Hall immediately. I want all the bounders informed by the end of the day and your numbers doubled as soon as may be.”

His duty done, Seredic left the guards standing at the Gate and returned to Crickhollow.

Once the search parties reached the Road, they separated and branched out to begin their task.

Saradoc’s group included Merry and Pippin. They had refused to be left behind and made it clear that they would go out on their own if need be. For their own safety, Saradoc and Esmeralda had yielded. Esmeralda, feeling it best to keep Paladin and Eglantine informed on the activities of their son, penned a letter to Great Smials and sent it by Quick Post.

Also riding with Saradoc were Berilac, who had willingly taken his father’s place in the search; Marmadas Brandybuck and his son Merimas; Milo Burrows, his eldest son Mosco and his brother-in-law Porto Baggins, who was also visiting from Hobbiton. Porto was not particularly close to Frodo and thought his distant cousin more than a little odd, but he was a Baggins and that was enough for him. He had volunteered immediately. The final member of their group was Ivory’s brother, Gordibrand, who had only come at his sister’s bidding to keep Berilac company.

They were to search the lands east of Buck Hill, between the Road and the Hedge, and south through the open fields east of the farmlands. They already knew that most of Frodo’s haunts lay out this way and it seemed the most promising area to search.

Progress was slow. Except for the driver, Merimas, they were all on foot. The ground was sodden, muddy and full of many puddles and shallow trenches. They had to be careful of their steps, and the trap gave the ponies difficulties over the uneven terrain. There were also many smials and houses in the lands closest to Buckhill and Bucklebury, and they had many doors to knock upon. They bypassed Bucklebury itself; the remaining hobbits at Brandy Hall would sweep the town after first breakfast.

They searched again the lands from yesterday, just in case something had been overlooked in the dark and rain. Merry and Pippin pointed out the other places Frodo had taken them to earlier last week. None of them gave any clues, though Saradoc noticed immediately the theme that wove them all together, a theme made brazenly clear by the vacant smial – isolation and neglect. This knowledge stung him deeply and he began again to feel that somehow they had failed in their keeping and care of Frodo.

They stopped at noon for lunch and some rest. The adults sat together, making plans. Marmadas suggested they spread out in a line so they were each a tenth of a mile apart to increase their search area. The land from here to the Hedge was mostly flat and they would be able to see anything lying upon the ground easily enough. This would also increase their search area three-fold. Milo and Porto declined, saying a tenth of a mile was too far apart. Smaller clues might be missed, they reasoned. In the end Saradoc agreed to line out at twenty feet apart. While he was in favor of increasing their search area, he didn’t want them so far apart should it start raining again.

The tweens meanwhile sat and munched quietly on their bread and cheese. Merimas was not happy to be searching for the hobbit who had ditched his sister at the Feast. By his way of seeing it, the fact that Frodo had chosen a storm to escape into only proved that Mad Baggins’s heir had cracked at last. Mosco shared this opinion, though he was kinder in his judgment; Frodo was simply taking after the cousin who had reared him through his tweens. He only hoped Merry and Pippin would not take it too hard when everyone returned to Brandy Hall once again empty-handed. Gordibrand had yet to make up his mind how he thought the search would end, though he was at least pleased to have this opportunity to get to know the lad who was courting his sister. Berilac, for his part, had come to a similar conclusion as his father. Frodo had planned this and no one would ever find him.

Merry and Pippin sat apart from the others, but close to each other. For the first time in his life, Pippin found he was not particularly hungry and only picked at his food as he leaned against his friend for comfort. He was certain they would find Frodo around here somewhere, and he was extra careful to check every possible square inch for more hidden retreats. He had even insisted on trying to lift all the floorboards in the shed by the windmill, thinking that maybe there was a room hidden underneath the ground, but only the board that Frodo had shown them proved to be loose.

Merry ate only out of habit, his mind numb still to the shock that Frodo was missing. In his mind, he kept returning to his earliest memories, when Frodo would slip out and disappear for hours on end. He clung to those memories, insisting that this was no different. He kept telling himself that he would not be surprised to return to Brandy Hall and find Frodo already there, waiting for them and wondering why they had made such a fuss. He imagined many different scenarios in which they would greet each other and then laugh over the confusion and uproar. He took a steadying breath and gave up eating. He wrapped an arm around Pippin and the two sat staring into the fire until they broke camp a half hour later.

Merimac rode into Frogmorton just after three o’clock. He had ridden all night and day, stopping only to eat a quick breakfast at sunrise (or what would have been sunrise but for the clouds still looming overhead, blocking the sun) and again at midday for a small elevenses. The journey had been difficult and he was exhausted.

His first challenge last night had been convincing his pony to board the ferry, which was bobbing up and down violently on the swift-flowing Brandywine. Then he had to navigate the river, fighting the current that threatened to carry him away downstream in a heartbeat. He had managed to just barely meet the dock at the other side of the river, and the pony had jumped off gratefully. He had followed quickly after, and just a second later, a mighty wave came by, the force of it yanking the ferry rope out of his hand, burning the skin of his palm. The last he saw of the ferry it was bobbing helplessly down the river, spinning madly with the current.

He mounted his pony and rode past the ferry gate and up the lane towards the forest. He was just registering his close call and good luck when he heard the oddest noise behind him. It was akin to a stampede, but louder, fiercer and more relentless. He turned in time to see the flash flood come down from the northern part of the Eastfarthing. Within mere seconds, the dock was completely submerged and the banks overflowed. The ferry, wherever it was, would be nothing but splinters by now. Stunned beyond thought, Merimac quickly checked his pony into a gallop and rode away from the river as fast as the beast could take him.

The forest was not much better than the river however. The quarries had become ponds and he was forced to ride around them. By the time the rain stopped, he was soaked, shivering and ready to sleep. He had not rested much the night before due to the Feast and had spent much of the day either cleaning or searching. But he pushed on and by the time he stopped to eat, he could see the Stock Road and The Yale on the horizon.

After breakfast, he hurried on his way. By his reckoning, it would be near six o’clock. He was pleased with his progress; he was already more than halfway there. This encouraged him to continue without rest. Even the pony seemed to sense the end of their journey in the near distance and gamely trotted on without any qualms.

He passed many hobbits out in the fields, cleaning up the storm’s mess. They waved at him curiously and politely. He nodded back and spoke only simple words of greeting that would not force him to slow down and engage in conversation. The number of working hobbits in the fields and on the road increased as he approached Frogmorton and he found it more difficult to continue to cut through people’s fields. He found a path and followed that to a road, calling his apologies to the owner of one farm who stared after him with a befuddled expression. He reached the East Road at last and was soon blessed with the sight of The Floating Log Inn standing benevolently in front of him.

He stabled the pony and went inside for a bite to eat and a sip of ale. While he waited for his order, he asked about the shirriffs. The barkeep took him to their rooms after he finished his meager snack, and soon he was face to face with the Captain himself. Most of the shirriffs had already gone out to work, but a few remained in the room with the Captain. They were looking over a map and getting their assignments when Merimac knocked upon the doorframe.

“Can I help you?” the Captain asked, polite but curious. Who was this important fellow in fine garb looking like a drowned rat upon his doorstep?

Merimac realized what a sight he must be by now, but was too tired to apologize for his appearance. He turned to the other shirriffs in the room and acknowledged them with a nod of his head before stating his name and purpose. “I am Merimac Brandybuck of Brandy Hall, brother of the Master of Buckland.” At this, the shirriffs stood up taller and their curious expressions now had a hint of excitement in them as well. Merimac continued, pretending not to notice this change. He explained quickly the situation. “There’s a slim hope he may have simply returned home. I came to ask if you could pass the word around while you go about your business, that any hobbit who comes across Mr. Baggins of the Hill send word to the Master immediately.”

“Of course,” the Captain started to say, but was interrupted by a young shirriff, barely out of his tweens. “Would that be Frodo Baggins?” he asked.

“It would be,” Merimac confirmed, and was shocked to see the young lad’s complexion pale.

“I know him,” Robin explained. “Well, I don’t know him, not really, but my best friend Sam Gamgee does. He’s Mr. Baggins’ gardener. Oh Captain, it’s going to tear him apart to find out his master’s missing. Please, sir, I hate to impose being as it’s my first week and all, but please let me go to Hobbiton and break the news to him myself. I know the town better than Gib does anyway. He could take my assignment at Stock.”

The Captain didn’t respond right away, but turned back to Merimac. “You said a slim hope. Why only a slim one?”

“Well, it’s believed he may be injured and thus would not have come this far,” Merimac explained. “It’s also believed he may have been leaving the Shire, and not returning home at all. But the Master is adamant that Buckland be searched high and low before we give up hope. He does not ask for you to do any searching, only that you send word that folk keep their eyes opened.”

The Captain nodded. “News like that will travel fast indeed. There won’t be a hobbit between here and Michel Delving who doesn’t know by the end of the day. We’ll spread the word. And Robin, get you on a pony and out to Hobbiton, and mind you find one that travels faster than rumors fly. Don’t forget to send Gib back this way, and I expect you to get to work once you’ve got there and seen to your friend.”

“Thank you Captain. Good day sir,” Robin said, bowing to the Captain and Merimac. He left the room swiftly.

Merimac turned to the Captain. “I thank you as well Captain. Now, if you don’t mind, I will take my leave. I’ve been traveling all night and morning, and I need some rest.”

The Captain waited until Merimac was out of the door and down the hall before turning to the remaining shirriffs. “Well, now, if that isn’t news from Bree I don’t know what is.”

The afternoon brought no clues or signs of Frodo, and the searchers finally stopped at sundown to eat dinner and set up camp. Saradoc and Marmadas consulted a map and with Milo and Porto they plotted out their course for tomorrow while the lads went in search of firewood.

Two hours later, everyone was asleep, except for Merry and Pippin. They sat up next to the dying fire, bathed in the pale blue light of the blazing stars and half-moon above. Pippin stared up at the stars, feeling slightly better for their presence. At least the clouds have moved on and they would not have to worry about more rain for a while. Merry also looked at the sky but his mood was bitter.

“It’s as though they’re mocking us,” he said quietly, so as not to wake up anyone. “Look at those stars. Frodo could stare at a sky like that all night and never feel the cold.”

Pippin placed a comforting hand on Merry’s shoulder, unsure of what to say. He knew what his friend was feeling, but he couldn’t help but think the stars a good sign. He stared up at Eärendil shining brightly above and he could not feel despair. “And maybe he is looking at the sky, finding his way back to us. He’s just lost Merry. He’ll be back.”

Merry only nodded. He lay down in his sleeping roll and closed his eyes to the stars, wondering why Frodo had even left in the first place.

Pippin’s appetite returned just in time for breakfast. He was famished and would have torn into his meal if not for Merry. His friend was only picking at his food now, not even pretending to eat. There were also bags under his eyes and Pippin knew his friend had not slept much during the night. He tried to get Merry to eat something, even offered to let him win if they raced to see who could finish first. Merry only ate a couple of small nibbles to humor his friend before picking at his food once more, and he didn’t speak a single word throughout the meal.

Pippin was at a loss of what to do. There were no happy anecdotes or silly songs to remedy their current situation, and Merry’s despair was starting to wear on the young Took. He relied on Merry’s practicality and good humor to get them through nearly every bad situation they have ever been landed in the past. To now see his cousin wearied with fear made Pippin’s own fears come to the surface and they were nearly suffocating. Pippin tried to be hopeful for the both of them, but he simply did not have Merry’s tenacity.

He looked up from his own half-full plate and caught his uncle watching them. Saradoc nodded his acknowledgement of the problem, but he would have to wait to speak to Merry. Right now, he was busy finalizing the search route for today with Milo and Porto.

They were entering land they had not searched before, and they would have to pay closer attention. They would keep the line to a mile wide; Saradoc did not want any possible clues overlooked. Now that the sun was up and the water was receding, it would make footprints and other such clues easier to find, should any remain. This should help speed up their search somewhat, and he figured they would be able to reach their halfway mark by late afternoon and travel a few miles further before stopping for the evening. On top of that, the lands in this part of Buckland were largely flat, open plains and would cause no hang ups, unlike yesterday when they were searching through homesteads, groves and hillsides.

After breakfast, they broke camp and set out once more. Saradoc convinced Merry to drive the pony trap for the morning. It was a testament to Merry’s exhaustion that he didn’t protest or insist on walking. Pippin took the position closest to him on his right, and Berilac walked on his left. They were both worried about Merry and wanted to stay as close to him as possible throughout the day should he nod off or need assistance.

They had camped near Frodo’s boulder on Hay Field and within half an hour they came upon the Hedge. They turned south and continued on for another half hour before finally coming upon a solitary bounder, who was riding slowly north. The bounder greeted them pleasantly and the group took a brief break while Saradoc spoke with him.

The bounder confirmed that he had heard word of the search at midday yesterday, and he had already passed the word on to the southern bounders. In fact, he was just coming back from that very task.

“What about the increase in numbers that was ordered?” Saradoc asked. He was concerned that they had camped all night within sight of the Hedge and marched so long this morning before coming across this lone guard. That his brother was the one who actually ordered the increase made little difference to him. Merimac’s orders were as good as his own in this regard and he wanted to know why they weren’t being followed.

The bounder bowed his head apologetically. “We put the call out, Master Saradoc, but volunteers are in short supply right now, as you can imagine. Folk are busy looking to their own affairs due to the storm. We are making sure everyone knows about your cousin though. I reckon they know clear down in Haysend by now, sir.”

Unfortunately, the bounder had a point about hobbits not volunteering as readily as they normally would, but Saradoc was not discouraged. The word had gone out and that was the main thing, for in the Shire there was nothing more powerful than a juicy rumor. He would not be surprised to reach Haysend and find the town already searched three times over.

They pushed forward another mile before turning west, back towards the farmlands. They figured the best way to search their section was to zigzag back and forth until they reached their destination. That way, they would leave no area unchecked by accident or check the same area more than once. Saradoc wanted to avoid all possible delays.

They rested at noon to take luncheon, and Saradoc chose this moment to speak with Merry. He found his son tending to the ponies, giving them food and water. Saradoc handed him a water skin and Merry accepted it gratefully. When Merry was handed a plate of food, however, he refused it.

“I’m not hungry,” he insisted. He picked up a currycomb and began brushing the first pony’s mane.

“Yes you are, Merry,” Saradoc replied sternly. “I know your appetite, and more than that I know you.” He reached over and stayed his son’s hand. Gently, he turned his son to face him and regarded him with worried eyes. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

Merry shrugged, avoiding his father’s gaze as best he could. “An hour, maybe two.”

“You must rest Merry. We cannot afford to have you falling asleep on your feet,” Saradoc said. He lifted his son’s face. When Merry at last met his gaze, Saradoc saw there the same worry and fear he had seen so many times when Merry was but a child and Frodo would disappear. He remembered that Merry would have difficulty sleeping then as well.

“How can I rest, Father?” Merry asked. “Frodo’s out there somewhere. He needs our help.”

“And what help will you be to him if you cannot even keep your eyes open?” Saradoc reasoned. “Frodo is not the only one who needs you now, and he may not even need you at all. But Pippin does. He depends on you, son. He looks to you for strength and courage. You must set the example. If he sees you fall apart, he’ll lose heart, and I know you do not want that to happen.”

Merry nodded. “Of course I don’t. It’s just every time I close my eyes I see my worst nightmares come to life.” His face went even paler than it was already, but whatever his nightmares were he kept them to himself. Saradoc thought he could guess anyway.

Then something flickered in his son’s face, a sudden dawning or realization. He kept this to himself also, but he looked at his father with a scrutiny Saradoc knew only too well. Merry had put something together, or was beginning to, and he did not like what he saw. Saradoc prepared himself for an argument, but disagreement was not what Merry had in mind.

“We must find him, Father. Tell me we’ll find him,” he said and it sounded almost like a challenge.

“We will leave no inch of Buckland unturned,” Saradoc replied. He regretted he could make no better promise than that. He desperately wanted to reassure Merry that he could give him what was asked for, but he could not.

Merry accepted this with a heavy heart. Long ago when he was still a child, he thought his father capable of anything. He even fancied him more powerful than the wizard Gandalf. Only when he reached his tweens did he come to the humbling realization that his father was merely mortal and limited in his abilities. Yet now, as he stood exhausted against the pony trap with a search party surrounding him and sitting to a meager meal, he wished he was again just a child whose father could always make everything right as it should be.

Merry knew he could never go back to that blind innocence and it pained him. That he now suspected there was something his father was not telling him did not help him to feel any less adrift. What had his father meant that Frodo may not need their help? How could he not assure him that Frodo would be found? Unless his father didn’t believe Frodo to be in Buckland. Then why were they searching here at all? And why send Merimac over the River? He lowered his gaze to the ground again while he puzzled over these questions.

Saradoc, mistaking the gesture for renewed despair, placed a supportive hand upon his son’s shoulder and squeezed it briefly. He had an example of his own to set. “Only those who know what the future holds have right to despair. We do not know what may come, and so we shall continue to hope. You will have something to eat, whether you’re hungry or not, and you will continue to drive the cart for the rest of today. Tonight, you will sleep. Your nightmares only chase you because you run away from them. We will face them together if need be.”

“Yes Father,” Merry said complacently as a way to end the conversation. He stepped out of his father’s grasp and took the proffered plate, then went to sit with Pippin and the other lads. He greeted them pleasantly and asked Berilac how he was faring. His cousin must be worrying about his own father.

Saradoc watched his son, glad to see him eating at last, yet he worried now about something else. He knew that look Merry had given him earlier and he had heard that appeasing tone before. His son was planning something. Saradoc would have to watch him carefully.

They continued their march after their meal. When they reached the proximity of the farmlands, they turned about, back toward the Hedge again. They ate a midday snack while traveling and did not stop again until nightfall. Camping again within sight of the Hedge, the lads set up camp and left the ponies free to graze as the elders cooked some meat and vegetables for supper.

During the meal, they speculated on how the other groups were doing in their searches. Many believed that Frodo did not come this way at all. Either that, or all traces had been washed away by the rain. Porto was certain one of the other groups, most possibly one of the northern parties, had already found him and a messenger would be waiting with the good news when they reached Haysend.

Merry was not so hopeful. He put on a brave face for Pippin’s sake, but he was beginning to suspect that Frodo would not be found, not anywhere they were looking at any rate, nor anywhere else in the Shire. He suspected his father knew this also but was refraining from saying so. His father did not want him to worry more than was necessary. Merry shook his head, infuriated that his father still tended to treat him like a child when things became serious. Well, if Saradoc would not speak, there was one other person he could turn to who would tell him the truth if he knew it.

Merry waited until after supper to make his move. The lads were sitting around the campfire telling stories of other happier expeditions while the elders stood over the map by the cart. Merry finished cleaning the cookware and walked over to his cousins.

“Berilac,” he said, interrupting his friend who was in the middle of describing a fishing trip he and his father had taken down the Brandywine last year.

Berilac looked up, surprised to hear his cousin address him by his proper name. “Yes, Merry? What do you need?”

“May I have a word with you?” Merry said. Without waiting for an answer, he strolled from the fire and stopped near the grazing ponies. Berilac had no choice but to follow.

Merry turned to him, a determined look on his pale face. “You spoke with Uncle Mac before he left?” Merry asked.

“I did,” Berilac answered cautiously, suddenly suspecting where this was going.

“But you know what they spoke of, what was said between them,” Merry pressed. “Please Berilac, what did he say? I must know.”

Berilac looked at him doubtfully. His father had not forbidden him from sharing the information he had heard the other night, but Berilac knew instinctively not to go blabbing. Folk would come up with their own decisions and opinions in their own time. When they did start whispering, it would do no good to have them support those opinions with self-righteous edicts of ‘and the Master agrees with me.’

He was surprised though to discover that Merry did not know what had been spoken of that night, and this made him reluctant to say anything. If Saradoc had wanted Merry to know, then his uncle would have told him. Berilac said something similar to this now. “Maybe you should ask Uncle Sara first.”

Merry shook his head in agitation. “He would have already told me if he was intending to. Please Berry, you’re the only one I can rely on.”

Berilac still looked hesitant and cast a glance over his shoulder to where Saradoc was standing with the other fellows. He looked back at Merry and shook his head ever so slightly. Merry gritted his teeth, feeling he might snap at any moment if he didn’t learn something soon.

He tried a different approach. “Come on, ole Ber, how many secrets have I stolen for you? How many times have we helped each other out of a tight spot? Are you going to tell me that now, when it matters most, you’re going to turn away from me?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Berilac said, wounded by his cousin’s words.

It was true that they spent much of their time together, though they were nowhere near as close as Merry was to Pippin or Frodo. Still, Berilac was next in line after Merry for the Mastership of Buckland, and he saw it as his duty to back up Merry and help him in any way he could. Usually, this meant collaborating with him one of his many pranks (unless Pippin was around to preoccupy him), but it also meant they were tutored together and went on rounds of the farm fields together and spent many hours discussing how they would do things differently when they ran the Hall.

He looked at Merry and tried again to state his reasoning. “I meant that if Uncle didn’t tell you yet, there is a reason.”

“Berilac, you’re far too practical. Sometimes, you have to throw reason to the wind and go with your heart,” Merry said. “You won’t let me stumble around in the dark, will you?”

So Berilac at last told him of their parents’ debate and his father’s verdict. He went through his father’s analysis of Frodo’s disappearance with perfect accuracy. Merry nodded, taking it all in, as a sickening feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. He looked back over the last few days with Frodo, scrutinizing them from every possible angle. In a strange way, Merimac’s conclusion made incredible sense. It made much more sense than Frodo simply running out in a rainstorm and getting lost at any rate.

When Berilac concluded his recount, he returned to the lads and resumed his story, but Merry stayed with the ponies. He was thinking hard, making his plans. He knew now what he must do and he would not be swayed.

Merry managed to sleep, if somewhat fitfully, between Pippin and Saradoc. His dreams troubled him even more than the previous night. While the news he learned from Berilac may have spurred him into action, it also aggravated his fears for Frodo and he dreamed many horrible things about his cousin’s fate. At some point during the night he woke to find that Pippin had reached out in his own sleep and taken Merry’s hand. Merry squeezed his friend’s hand gratefully and itched a little closer to Pippin for the comfort his young cousin provided. He closed his eyes and regretfully drifted back to dark dreams.

He woke in the morning to find the camp already awake. His father was standing with Milo and Marmadas, once again pointing at his map. Porto, Mosco and Merimas were cooking while Berilac and Gordibrand readied the ponies. Pippin still lay next to him, but he was awake now and was watching him thoughtfully. Merry smiled weakly and tiredly. “Good morning, Pip.”

“What did you talk to Berry about last night?” Pippin asked, cutting straight to the point. He had watched their conversation from the campfire and could tell that the exchange had been serious. He had tried to get Berilac to tell him last night what they had spoken of, but Berilac had refused to say anything and turned in early. Merry had also avoided him when he had lain down to sleep, but Pippin was not going to let his cousin evade him any longer.

“Nothing,” Merry lied after an obvious hesitation. He was caught off guard by Pippin’s question, though he really should have seen it coming. He sat up now and stretched his arms, avoiding any further eye contact.

“Don’t lie to me Merry,” Pippin said. “What did you talk about? It was about Frodo, I’m certain. Do I have to remind you that you’re honor-bound to include me whenever it involves Frodo?”

“Of course not,” Merry said, irritated. Why did Pippin always have to remember everything he said? He looked up and saw his father beckoning them to the campfire; breakfast was ready. He stood up and helped Pippin to stand as well. “A pact is a pact after all. I’ll explain later.”

They sat to the simple meal and Pippin was relieved to see his friend eat without any prodding. He noticed also that Merry had a strange mixture of resigned acceptance and stubborn determination in his expression and posture, where yesterday had been only despair. This lifted Pippin’s spirits immeasurably, but he wondered what the change meant.

He had first noticed a change in Merry after his talk with Saradoc, but then there had been only contemplation, confusion and a hint of anger. Not until Merry spoke with Berilac did the determination show in the set of his shoulders. Now Merry sat munching thoughtfully on his breakfast and staring into the fire with a calculating expression. Pippin could almost see the wheels turning in his friend’s head and he knew that Merry was planning something drastic, though what or why he did not know. He would have to keep a close eye and make sure Merry kept to his word about telling him what this was all about.

The farmlands that made up the western border of their section grew in number and size the further south they traveled. As such, the lands they were searching narrowed to a couple of miles wide where it ran along the Hedge towards the river. Even with the decreasing width of the open plains, they still had another ten square miles to search before reaching Haysend at nightfall.

Time passed slowly and quietly under clear blue skies. The sun was warm and by mid-day they were obliged to remove their cloaks and overcoats to remain comfortable. The ground beneath their feet was still damp, though thankfully no longer muddy. The water had receded, in these lands at any rate, claimed by the earth. New sprouts of wildflowers dotted the fields in a brilliant array of color, and for a while the company forgot their purpose as they appreciated the beauty surrounding them. Merimas and Gordibrand even found a raspberry bush and plucked several handfuls of the sweet, juicy fruit to share with everyone.

Pippin marched, lost in thoughts of his own. As far as he was concerned, Frodo was still in the Shire somewhere. The way he understood it, Frodo had run from the Hall, for a currently unknown reason, and somehow became lost in the storm. Or hurt. Or both. Even if they did not find him, someone else would. They were searching Buckland high and low after all; there was little fear that Frodo would not eventually be discovered in whatever ditch he had inadvertently fallen into. With any luck they would reach Haysend and find Frodo waiting for them there, picked up by one of the other groups. Or most likely, he would have been taken back to Brandy Hall immediately, since he would be injured and possibly ill. In which case, there would be a messenger waiting in town for them when they arrived. Assuming this would be the outcome, he could not even fathom what it was Merry could possibly be planning.

Unless Saradoc and Berilac had told Merry something different. Pippin knew that Merimac had crossed the River to raise the alarm over there. Perhaps Merry now believed that Frodo may have gone home after all and he was planning to go to Bag End once they returned to Brandy Hall. No, Pippin shook his head. That didn’t make any sense at all. Why would Frodo go home and not tell them? They could have gone with him to spend the rest of their visit in Hobbiton if Frodo had truly been that miserable at the Hall.

Maybe Merry thought that Frodo had just played a prank on them? But that didn’t sound like something Frodo would do. Frodo was more likely to hide in a storage closet and jump out at them when they were walking past or, he remembered with a grin, pretend to overstuff your traveling pack and watch you struggle under the imagined extra weight. Not only that, but Frodo’s mild pranks had nothing to do with Saradoc and Berilac. Pippin shook his head again; he would give himself a headache at this rate.

To add to his frustration, his stomach chose that moment to start grumbling softly for something to digest. Pippin popped the last of his raspberries into his mouth, but this did little to help. They soon passed another bush, this one of blueberries, but no fruit yet grew upon it, or else it had been plucked bare already. His stomach was not pleased to see this and grumbled, unsatisfied. He placed an impatient hand over his belly to silence it. He couldn’t count the number of times in the last few days he had been hungry, but he never complained. If anything, it made him more determined to find Frodo as quickly as possible. His friend needed food more urgently than did any of them.

Pippin took a long drink from his water skin, hoping that would be enough to satisfy his hunger until luncheon, then went back to watching Merry from the corner of his eye.

They stopped for luncheon in the shade of the Hedge. The land here started slopping downward at a shallow angle to a valley below. Far into the distance they could see the Road, and just beyond that they could glimpse the Brandywine River as it snaked its way south through the land. Just a short distance to the south sat the town of Haysend, from here no more than a cluster of tiny dots on the land. Their journey was almost over.

Marmadas and Milo took their turn to cook while Merry and Pippin refilled the water skins at a small creek created by the rain water. Merry took this opportunity to speak in hushed whispers with Pippin. He knew better than to try to exclude Pippin from his plans and he would need his friend’s help at any rate if he wanted to succeed.

He looked around to make sure no one was standing close enough to overhear them, then leaned toward his friend in confidence. “I’m going after Frodo,” he said.

Pippin paused, a look of utter confusion on his face. “What do you mean?” he asked. Isn’t that what they were doing already?

“I mean, we’re never going to find Frodo where we’ve been looking. Father knows it, though he doesn’t want to admit it. Berry explained it all to me last night. Frodo’s left the Shire. When we get to Haysend, I’m leaving the group. I’m going after him.”

“You’re not making any sense, Merry,” Pippin said, his mind whirling from what he had just heard. How could Merry entertain such thoughts? This was much worse than Pippin had imagined.

Merry went over everything Berilac had told him, and brought up some other evidence of his own. “Those rocks he gave us. Why would he give them to us now, of all times? They were a parting gift, don’t you see? He knows how much I like chess and that I’ve been teaching you to play. He wanted to give us something to remember him by. Well, I for one am not letting him slip away that easily. We’ll have to leave as soon as we reach the town if we are to have any hope of catching him. We’ve already lost four days.”

Pippin stared bewilderedly at his cousin, trying to take everything in. Merry was talking like a mad hobbit. He shook his head. “But Merry, what if Frodo’s at Brandy Hall already? We can’t leave until we know for certain. You know your father will stop us if we leave now anyway. He’ll never give us permission. And we can’t just sneak off, not after doing all this to look for Frodo,” he reasoned. He was desperate to keep Merry from riding past the Hedge into unknown territory. Men, wolves and trolls lived out there somewhere, and he didn’t want anything to happen to Merry just because his friend had some silly notion that Frodo had taken off on purpose.

The way Pippin saw it, there were two holes in Merimac’s conclusion. The first was the one Esmeralda had pointed out. Frodo would have told someone, plain and simple, if he was intending to leave. The second was the thought that Frodo had somehow managed to pack a travel bag and stow it somewhere. Pippin had peeked very briefly into the bedroom window at Bag End while Frodo was packing the morning they left for Buckland. The sight had been extremely comical. He had no doubt that they would still be at Bag End this very moment if Sam had not gone inside to help. He told this to Merry now.

Merry nodded distractedly. He admired Pippin’s innocence and hopefulness, but those would not help them now. Frodo was gone, that could be the only explanation. The more time they wasted, the further out of their reach he would get. Merry knew it would take some convincing to get his father to let them go, but he would go without permission if need be. He noted that Pippin had said ‘we’ which encouraged him, for he was terribly frightened about leaving the Shire. Knowing that his friend would be there with him no matter what helped him to feel brave.

“How can you be certain he left from here anyway, assuming he did leave?” Pippin asked suddenly, breaking into Merry’s thoughts.

Merry had a perfectly logical answer for this. “He would have been seen for certain if he had gone through the Bridge Gate, so he didn’t go north. He couldn’t have gone east because of the High Hay, and he wouldn’t want to go through the Old Forest by himself. That leaves south. It would also be the way we would be less likely to assume he had gone. He doesn’t know the southern regions at all.”

“Where do we look? How do we catch up with him?” Pippin asked, trying again to dissuade Merry at least long enough to go back to Brandy Hall. Why did Merry always have to have an answer to everything?

“Unless Father physically restrains us, he can’t prevent us from going. He’ll see the reason in that. We can restock our supplies in Haysend and we can borrow a couple of the ponies. These carts only require two ponies to haul them. We brought three in case we needed to send a messenger back to the Hall for some reason. That leaves three ponies free once all the groups come together, one for each of us and one for Frodo when we find him. He’ll be on foot, so it will only be a matter of time before we catch up with him,” Merry explained. “As for where Frodo went, I think that would be east. He always felt that was the way Bilbo went and he would want to follow the old rascal if he can,” Merry finished.

He noticed Porto motioning for them to come and eat. Their break was almost over. They finished filling the water skins and stood up. “We’ll work everything out once we get to Haysend,” he promised in a quiet whisper as he picked up his half of the skins and started walking back towards the group.

Only as soon as they reached the outskirts of Haysend in the early twilight hours, they were immediately approached by one of the leaders of the other two search parties. Both companies were present and camping already and it didn’t take them long to notice the arrival of Saradoc’s group.

“Master Saradoc,” the hobbit called. He was a Greenbanks by name and a fisherhobbit by occupation. His group had searched between the banks of the Brandywine and Buckland Road, and had been the first to arrive at the town this morning. “We were hoping you would show up today.”

“What have you found?” Saradoc asked, too tired to bother with pleasantries.

The group waited anxiously, suddenly hopeful, and Pippin said a silent thanks. This sounded promising, and now he and Merry would not have to go traipsing through all of Middle-earth on a reckless errand.

But Greenbanks shook his head and lowered his voice. “Will you come with me, sir?” he said quietly, so that only Saradoc could hear. “I have someone who wishes to speak with you.” Greenbaks led Saradoc past the center camp and towards his own. At the edge of this camp stood a hobbit, unknown to them all.

They watched as Saradoc approached the hobbit and shook his hand. The hobbit was twisting a hat in his right hand and he kept bowing nervously as he spoke. Every once in a while, Greenbanks would jump in to say something, then Saradoc would say something, then the nervous hobbit would start twisting his hat and bowing again. This went on for some time. Finally, Saradoc himself bowed and the nervous hobbit left the camp in the direction of the lane leading into town. Saradoc stayed and spoke with Greenbanks for several minutes, then the leader of the third group joined them and they all spoke some more. At long last, Saradoc took his leave and returned to his own group, his face grave and ashen.

Saradoc said nothing for many long moments. Then he breathed deeply and said in a hoarse voice, “Set up camp. We leave for Brandy Hall at daybreak.”

The company exchanged many furtive and confused glances amongst themselves. Saradoc rarely evaded answering a direct question, or even an indirect one. Many of them could never remember him ever doing so before. “Sara?” Milo asked again, somewhat reluctantly now.

They waited breathless for several moments before Saradoc answered. “Neither of them found him.”

“But what did that hobbit want, Father?” Merry asked, concerned. He did not like any of this and knew it could not be good news. If his father refused to report the news now, he would have no choice but to return to the Hall with the others to find out what was going on.

Saradoc shook his head. “Get some rest. We will know more when we return to Brandy Hall and hear what the others have to report.” With that, he turned silently and walked alone into the darkness of the night.

Pippin, usually a heavy sleeper, woke several times during the night, thinking he heard something. Each time he woke he found the camps silent as the grave. A few times he saw that Merry was awake also, laying still and looking up at the stars, his expression unreadable. Pippin wondered what this mystery would do to Merry’s plans. Pippin would follow Merry no matter what his friend decided to do, but he hoped they would return to the Hall first. He at least still hoped to find Frodo there upon their return.

The mood the next morning was reserved and subdued. Everyone was tired and if Merry and Pippin had little sleep, Saradoc had got none. He was gone all night and did not return until the predawn hours. He called the wake up, then said no more as everyone readied for the return journey.

The lads cooked while Milo, Porto and Marmadas sought out the elders of the other camps to gather what news they could. Whatever they learned, they did not share with the lads upon their return. They did speak amongst themselves in muted whispers, but they were careful not to say anything where Merry or Pippin might overhear them.

After breakfast, the camps were packed up one final time and everyone filed onto the road as the still-hidden sun began to lighten the horizon. Brandy Hall was only fifteen miles from Haysend but the majority of them were walking and exhausted. Saradoc drove the lead cart and he set a slow pace. While he wished to return to the Hall as quickly as possible, he also needed to consider his footsore searchers.

Merry was at a loss as to what to feel. On the one hand, he was frustrated at the delay. They had already wasted four days and this would make five. They had not found Frodo and there had been no messenger waiting for them at Haysend from the northern groups. He did not anticipate meeting a messenger upon the Road, and the news when they returned to the Hall would be the same as their own: nothing. He and Pippin should be following the Brandywine out of the Shire, looking for their lost friend, for that was the only place they would find him.

On the other hand, his father had learned something last night and Merry wanted to know what it was. Saradoc was keeping close on the news until they returned to Brandy Hall and had clearly given instructions that he and Pippin were not to be told. Therefore, Merry would have to wait until they were home to find out what the nervous hobbit from the night before had said.

He was frustrated that they were not traveling more quickly, for the sooner they reached Brandy Hall, the sooner he and Pippin could leave. Merry figured at best they would only lose another day and be over the bounds by early next morning. There was one advantage to the delay: Pippin. His cousin would at last be appeased that Frodo truly was gone and he would raise no more protests.

They stopped at mid-morning to rest and eat. Merry convinced Berilac to go amongst the other lads and try to get information. Most lads shook their heads and shrugged, confused also about what was going on. One lad though seemed to know something and spoke eagerly, but when Berilac returned, he avoided making eye contact and said he had learned nothing. Merry felt betrayed. If there was one cousin Merry could always depend on, other than Pippin and Frodo, it was Berilac. His last card played, Merry could only wait until they returned home.

They began their march again at half past ten, with just under half the distance remaining. Pippin’s feet ached and he wanted desperately to ride on one of the carts as some of the other young tweens were doing. He stayed next to Merry however, walking so closely their arms almost touched. He was terribly anxious about this news of Saradoc’s. It didn’t help that everyone who knew the news was either avoiding them or lying about what they knew.

His stomach twisted in knots of apprehension as he imagined every possible horrible thing he could think of. Surely, nothing bad had happened? Maybe that hobbit had nothing to do with Frodo. After all, no one had found him, so what could that strange hobbit possibly know? He wouldn’t even know who Frodo was or what he looked like. Pippin focused on these thoughts, trying to convince himself that he was overreacting, as he was prone to do.

But his stomach twisted with nerves again despite himself, and he reached out and took Merry’s hand, momentarily forgetting he was too old for such actions. Merry relaxed just the slightest bit at his cousin’s touch, and he squeezed Pippin’s hand before pulling him close and slipping his arm over Pippin’s shoulders. They walked like this for several minutes before separating again, each to worry in his own way.

At just after one, the outline of Bucklebury came into view on their right, and on their left the large mound of Buck Hill emerged on the horizon. The welcome sight spurred them on even faster and they reached the lane just before three. When they came at last to rest by the stables, a large group of hobbits was there to greet them and more were coming out of the Hall.

Merimac was there, and he embraced Berilac briefly. Berilac was greatly relieved to see his father safely returned from the River and his hug was fierce and long.

Esmeralda came and embraced her family and Pippin, then looked about expectantly. “Well,” she said, “what luck did you have?”

“We have,” said a hobbit who Merry recognized as the leader of the Newbury group. The hobbit stepped forward and bowed apologetically. “We found nothing, not a trace nor sign. We were hoping your news would be better.”

“What about from across the River?” Milo asked. “If Frodo had returned home, we would know by now, wouldn’t we?”

Merimac shook his head. “It's not very likely that we will hear anything. Seredic returned last night from Crickhollow and according to him, the bounders saw no one upon the Bridge the night of the storm. Frodo did not pass that way. But I did spend out the call. One of the shirriffs even went directly to Hobbiton to spread the word. Should there be news from that way, we'll know as early as tomorrow.”

With that Saradoc ordered the unpacking of the carts, and the crowd went to work. Pippin tried to help, but soon gave up and slumped to the ground, exhausted and weary with despair. Merry was at his side immediately. He hated to see Pippin disappointed and was secretly disappointed himself. Deep down, Merry had hoped to be proven wrong and that Frodo would be standing outside waiting for them when they returned.

Merry held Pippin close. “Tonight,” he whispered, “we’ll go tonight. We’ll find him.” Pippin nodded, and clung to Merry and to hope.

Esmeralda came to them then and motioned for Merry to follow her. He stood up and lifted Pippin to his feet. They trailed Esmeralda to the dining hall, where all the searchers would gather once the carts were unloaded. They both sat at a random table and waited in exhausted silence. Before long, the others were filing into the hall and sitting down around them.

Servants came out and served them a late tea and early dinner. As they ate, the leaders of the northern groups recounted their searches, all of them uneventful. Then Saradoc and the other southbound companies related their own journeys. Merry and Pippin listened attentively when Greenbanks began to talk, but no explanation or mention of the nervous hobbit was given. ‘See, it wasn’t really about Frodo after all,’ Pippin thought, but the tight knot of unease in his stomach did not go away.

Saradoc thanked everyone for their efforts, which they accepted with heavy hearts. He adjourned the meeting and everyone slowly filed out of the hall. Only Merimac did not get up just yet. He was waiting for his brother. Saradoc wanted to speak with him privately in his family’s apartment; Esmeralda was there already. Before the brothers left, Saradoc turned to his son and nephew.

“Go with Pippin to his room, Merry, and wait there until I call for you,” he said. The brothers left, the door closing with a dull thud behind them.

“He’d said he didn’t want to waste my time,” Esmeralda sniffed. She was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, her tears for the moment spent. Why did they not see this sooner? How could they be so blind? Saradoc sat with his arm around his wife’s shoulders, his own eyes moist with unshed tears.

“Explain it again,” Merimac said, in disbelief still. He had been so certain on his assessment of Frodo’s motives. He was beginning to realize how terribly wrong he had been. While before he had regretted his lack of hope, he now wished that he had been correct, that all Frodo had done was leave the Shire in search of Bilbo and adventure. What his brother was telling them was so much worse than he could ever have imagined.

“The miller was certain?” Merimac asked. “There’s no way he could have been mistaken?”

Saradoc shook his head. “He knew things he could not have unless he had seen Frodo.”

“They suspect something, I am certain, but they do not know anything. How do I tell them?” Saradoc asked. Never before had he faced a task so difficult. He was not certain he could get through it without breaking down entirely. Merry will be furious, he’ll refuse to believe at first. Pippin will be heartbroken. They would have to get him home to his family as soon as possible. He turned to his wife. “Maybe we should wait until your brother can get here, dearest. Or at least until tomorrow. Maybe word will come yet from Hobbiton.”

Esmeralda stood up and gathered herself together. “And Paladin may not even be on his way; I did not beckon him to come,” she said. “We cannot wait to tell them. They’ll hear it from someone else before long.” She placed her hand under her husband’s chin and lifted his face to hers. “And you will tell them the same way you told us. There is a strength in weakness, my husband. They will need you to be strong, but they need to see you weep as well when the time is right. I will get them now.”

Saradoc nodded. There was no preparing for this anyway. He squared his shoulders for the task ahead and took a deep, steadying breath. He would be strong long enough to make them understand. Then he will let the chips fall where they may.

Merry and Pippin entered the guest room. They noticed immediately that someone had been through to clean it. Everything was back in order. The beds were made, the candles replaced, and the ink stain on the desk and floor nearly completely scrubbed clean. Merry opened the wardrobe and looked inside.

Pippin came and grabbed the traveling packs. He placed them upon the bed and went through them. “All the cooking gear is, and the sleeping rolls.” He looked at the clothes Merry was slowly pawing through. “That could be all his clothes. He didn’t bring that much, just a few day’s worth.”

“No,” Merry said shaking his head. “Well, I mean, yes, that is odd he would bring so few changes of clothes with him, but that isn’t what I meant.” He pulled something out of the wardrobe and held it up for his friend to see. “His traveling cloak. He never goes anywhere without this, not even to Tookland. Why would he leave this behind?”

Pippin shrugged, surprised by Merry’s find. Bilbo had given that cloak to Frodo on his coming of age. Frodo cherished it and could always be seen with it whenever he was more than a day’s walk from Bag End. He had even interrupted Sam in the garden to find out where it was. Pippin ran his hand along the smooth red velvet, his fear redoubled.

“He hadn’t meant to leave then,” Pippin said uncertainly. “That’s the only reason he would leave it, right? But then why would he leave if he didn’t mean to?”

Merry was at a loss. He had been trying to answer a similar question several times over the last four days and still he had no answers other than the ones Berilac had supplied. Now that they were home and able to assess the scene anew, even that theory came short. “It makes no sense,” he said. He sat down next to the packs with the cloak held firmly in his grasp and, for what seemed like the hundredth time, went over everything that had happened since Frodo’s arrival. There had to be some sort of clue there somewhere that would reveal to them their friend’s mind.

Pippin sat down on the other side of the packs and sighed. “He did say he had ways of disappearing we couldn’t possibly imagine. He wasn’t joking after all.”

“What?” Merry asked, more sharply than he intended. Pippin jumped at his tone, but Merry ignored him and stood up again, the cloak falling to the floor as Merry suddenly realized something. Why did he not think of it before? The ring. “Of course! That’s it!” he exclaimed, not noticing Pippin’s confusion as he began to pace back and forth excitedly.

Bilbo had given Frodo his magic ring. Merry knew this perfectly well, as he had been there, hiding in the pantry, when Gandalf showed up and started talking gibberish about how Frodo needed to be careful with it. If Frodo had been wearing the ring, they could have walked right past him and never have known it. Still, this didn’t answer the question why Frodo would leave in the first place, unless Merimac had been right after all. In his desperate hope, Merry told himself this made sense, even as his eyes fell again upon the beloved cloak lying dejectedly on the floor, and the half-full packs sitting on the bed. The packs.

“We already have everything we need,” he said. “I’ll take Frodo’s pack, you take yours. I’ll get provisions from the kitchens and see to the packing of the ponies. We can leave as soon as night falls. Father will never agree, so we’ll leave him a letter explaining everything. If we go quickly, we can be long out of the Shire before they wake up and find us gone.”

“He’ll come after us, and he’ll be upset,” Pippin reasoned, still at a loss as to what had Merry so excited.

Merry nodded, thinking quickly. If only there was some way they could leave where they would be guaranteed no one would follow. There was the Old Forest, but that would do them no good, as they needed to go south first. They would simply have to travel as quickly as they could and hope that no one caught up with them.

That was the least of his worries though. His main concern was that he had no real idea where they would go once they crossed the bounds. He had said east, and he did feel that was the best way to go. But, how far east would they have to travel? And what exactly lay to the east of the Shire anyway? There was Bree, but that was north on the East Road. From Bilbo’s stories, he also knew that Rivendell lay at the end of the East Road, and the Misty Mountains, Mirkwood, Lake Town, Dale and the Lonely Mountain all east of there somewhere. He realized now just how little that would help them. For the first time, Merry wished he had paid more attention to Bilbo’s maps when he visited Bag End. Bilbo’s were the only ones that didn’t show a vast white nothingness beyond the borders of the Shire.

“Gold and silver,” Pippin said suddenly. He stood up from his bed and walked across the room. Merry watched him questioningly as he opened the box of rocks Frodo had given them a week earlier. The box was sitting on the chest at the foot of Frodo’s bed and had previously gone unnoticed by them. Pippin picked up a rock of a deep red-brown color and examined it. “One side could have the bases encased in gold and the other in silver.”

Despite himself, Merry smiled. He went to his cousin’s side and picked up another of the rocks, this one a cloudy bluish-grey. “That would be one way to do it, and I bet your cousin Ferdibrand could shape them for us,” he said, then frowned as another uncomfortable thought intruded in his mind. “Why would he give these to us now?”

Pippin shrugged, once again forlorn. “You said they were a parting gift, to remember him by,” he reminded, his voice small and uncertain. He fidgeted impatiently with the rock he held. What was taking so long? Pippin slipped Merry’s pocket watch from his cousin’s waistcoat and looked at the time. 3:30. “Maybe they forgot about us?” he said.

Yet just as he said that, a loud, single knock sounded on the door and Esmeralda entered. She looked tired and pale, and her eyes were red with dried tears.

She nodded. “As well as I can be. Come along you two. The Master is waiting for you.”

The Master. Merry gulped and followed her reluctantly. Only once before had his mother addressed his father to him in that way, and that had been after Merry and Pippin nearly injured someone with one of their pranks. Pippin followed closely behind Merry, dreading what was about to come. All indications promised nothing but bad news.

When they reached the apartment, Esmeralda opened the door to let Merry and Pippin enter first. They stepped into the room to find Merimac and Saradoc sitting gravely on the settee. Saradoc fixed them with a conflicted, doubting expression. The Master took a deep breath and stood up as he motioned for them to sit down. When they didn’t move right away, Esmeralda nudged them gently from behind and steered them to the settee. The two friends sat and waited, hardly breathing for their fear. Esmeralda and Merimac came to sit beside them and give what support they could. They waited for the Master to speak.

Saradoc paced back and forth. How could he say this to his son? To Pippin? Yet the longer he waited, the harder it would be, on him and the lads. It was best to get it over with. Keeping this in mind, he rooted himself in front of the settee and looked at the two young lads before him with sad eyes.

“I have something to tell you both that will not be easy for you to hear and even more difficult to understand,” he started at last, relieved that his voice was staying steady for all that it wanted to quaver. “As you know, Greenbanks’s company searched the area east of the River and west of the Road. Theirs was the smallest to search, and was made even smaller by the rising of the river. As such, they were the first to arrive at Haysend, and they decided to search the town. Only when Greenbanks arrived at the inn to announce their arrival, they found someone already waiting for them.

“The hobbit was a miller who lives near the River and his home was flooded in the storm. He was staying in town until his home could be repaired and he had heard about our news from the bounders. He knew we would be reaching town by that day or the next, and he was desperate to speak to us.

“He told Greenbanks that he was evacuating his wife and children on the last night of the storm. Some debris had crashed into the wall of the mill and water had begun to spill inside. He was helping his family into a cart, when some movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned his head and no more than a few hundred yards away, at the edge of a small wood that came up to the very edge of the River, stood a hobbit. It was Frodo.

“The miller described him perfectly: average height, thin, pale and with dark hair. He described his clothing: a formal dining suit, dark red in color, with a white flower in the lapel. The miller called out to him and went to see what was the matter. He had not heard of our news at this point and thought this to be one of the hobbits from town, though he did not recognize him. However, before he could get more than a few feet, Frodo turned around, back towards the road. He gave no indication of seeing the miller.”

Here Saradoc paused. He cleared his throat, wet his lips and seemed unable to continue. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking for a strength he did not feel. Resolving himself to continue without strength, he looked up and his eyes were red with unshed tears. When he started speaking again, he voice was hoarse and quiet, and he had to speak carefully to keep from choking on the words.

“What happened next went by too quickly for the miller to help. He was too far away. He said that Frodo smiled and stepped back into the River. By this time the river was high and the current strong. When Frodo at last broke through the surface, he was already nearly out of sight. The miller thought he might still be able to help if he drove the cart along the River and watched for a place he could attempt to grab hold of Frodo, but then he heard a monstrous noise and barely got away from the water in time to escape the flash flood.

“He followed the River to the bounds, but there was no hope of finding Frodo. The flood was too great, too powerful and too fast. No one could have survived it. I am sorry.”

Silence followed Saradoc’s statement. Merry and Pippin sat in shock, too stunned to do anything but stare at Saradoc in disbelief. Then Pippin began to shake his head and couldn’t stop. “No,” he said, his voice choked and fragile. “No. No no no no no.” He sobbed and tears spilled down his face. Esmeralda embraced him fiercely and cradled his head as she cooed soft nothings in his ear.

Merry’s brow was furrowed and his expression became grim with anger. All these stories. All these rumors and guesses and theories. He’d had enough. “You’re lying,” he spat. He stood up with his fists clenched tight. “That miller was lying.”

Merry turned on him. “Don’t say it,” he warned. “You had already given up on Frodo anyway. I know; Berry told me since none of you could find the courage to do it yourselves.” Pippin lifted his head from his aunt’s lap and watched his enraged cousin stare down their uncle. It did not encourage him to see his ever-steady Merry falling apart and his despair doubled.

“It wasn’t him,” Merry insisted. “It was someone else. How could he know? How could you be so sure he’s right about what he saw?”

“He knew what Frodo was wearing. Mac never gave that information to Seredic. There was no way the bounders could know to pass that along.”

“No!” Merry exclaimed. “He’s lying. He has to be. Frodo wouldn’t step into the river. That’s absurd! How could you even believe he would do such a thing? Why would he? It makes no sense. You just don’t want to look for him anymore. You just want to give up!” he accused, heedless of the tears now streaming down his face. He faced his father and uncle, his expression full of wrath. “Well I’m not giving up. I’m going to find Frodo and none of you can stop me.” His bottom lip wavered and a sob escaped his lips. “I will find him. I’ll bring him home and he’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He will be fine. … Dad.”

Saradoc was at Merry’s side in an instant and sat him upon the settee before his legs could give out from beneath him. He held his son fiercely as Merry sobbed ceaselessly, and at last let his own tears fall.

Merimac stood and removed from the hearth the tea the healer had brought while Esmeralda had been fetching the lads. The tea would soothe their wearied nerves and help them all to sleep. He poured out the tea into five cups, then sat at the table and placed his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

With those words, spoken in haste and earnestness, Gandalf had left the Shire and entrusted Frodo with the keeping of Bilbo’s ring. Gandalf had also urged Frodo never to wear the ring, just before the wizard disappeared into the night on his mysterious errand.

Frodo had felt the best way to follow the wizard’s advice was to put the ring away where he would not be tempted to use it. He also had to make sure he put it someplace secure, where no one else would accidentally stumble upon it. He eventually decided on keeping it in the pocket of his traveling cloak, so it would be with him always but not on his person while he was at home.

He remembered what Bilbo said about the ring growing on his mind as the years went by. Frodo was careful not to let himself worry about the small band of gold for too long and was mindful to resist any urges to look at it. He added a couple of buttons to the cloak pocket and always kept them sealed. The ring could go nowhere.

Frodo rested secure in the fact that the ring was safe and secret as Gandalf had requested. He was not worried about someone finding it. Only Sam knew where his cloak rested while at home and his trusty servant was not the nosy type. Besides, no one even knew that the ring existed, and so how could it possibly go missing if Frodo did not move it?

Despite his best intentions, he did begin to check on the ring just before any journey he went on. He reasoned it was to ensure that the ring had not somehow managed to slip out of the pocket and into the chest. After all, Bilbo had also told him that the ring had a habit of shrinking, and Frodo reasoned it was perfectly natural to worry about such a thing. So he checked, even though he knew it was silly, and the ring was always right where he left it.

When he was packing for his trip to Buckland however, he found that it was not the ring that was missing, but his cloak. Try as he might, he could not find it where he usually kept it, folded in the chest in his bedroom. Not wanting to admit he had lost his treasured cloak, he had asked Sam where he might find the extra sleeping roll and the spare fire striker, thinking maybe the cloak would be wherever they were. Still unable to find it, he at last had to ask Sam outright where his cloak might be.

Sure enough, Sam knew exactly where it was and Frodo checked the pocket immediately. Feeling the ring through the fabric, he sighed with relief and wondered briefly how the cloak had come to be in the chest in the second parlor. He could not remember putting it there. He dismissed the worry as nothing to be concerned over and carried the cloak back to his room. He would simply have to make sure the cloak was put back in its rightful place when he returned.

Only he forgot the cloak again. Thankfully he realized his mistake before he and Pippin got too far along. Kicking himself for his forgetfulness, he took the opportunity of Sam’s offer of a hatchet to send his gardener back inside to get his cloak. When Sam handed everything over, Frodo resisted the urge to check the pocket again and instead carefully hung it from his pack. When he and Pippin reached Brandy Hall, he placed his cloak at the bottom of his pack underneath the cooking gear and thought no more of it. That is, until the night of the Spring Feast.

Melilot Brandybuck was a sweet young lass and Frodo would be lying if he said he did not think her pretty. She was infinitely kind, and had the added benefit of being both smart and sharp-witted. She also loved to dance. Frodo found to his dismay that she simply never tired of it. One song after another, she kept Frodo on the dance floor, talking to him the whole time.

At first, the conversation had centered around small talk, and they spent the first few dances catching up on various topics. Melilot even listened to a couple of his camping stories and seemed interested in hearing about his other travels as well. Then Frodo caught Berilac getting his revenge on Pippin and lost track of the conversation. When he finally started listening again, Melilot was talking about her parents’ upcoming wedding anniversary. She was telling him about the pillowcases she and her friends were working on and she continued on this most tedious of topics for quite some time.

Frodo tried to remain interested, but he was soon wishing he could sit down and never have to talk about embroidery again. Barring that, he would settle for the ground opening up and swallowing him whole. He glanced at the clock: a quarter of nine. He inwardly cringed. The Feast had no official end, but the soonest people could politely leave to break into smaller parties was ten o’clock.

Frodo waited patiently. He tried to bring the conversation around to something more interesting, and eventually they wound up recounting previous Spring Feast celebrations. Even with the more favorable topic of discussion, Frodo found that with each passing moment, the desire to get away from this Feast was growing in its intensity until it was nearly all he could think about. He wished to disappear and realized with regret that the answer to his problem was lying in his room, too far away now for his comfort.

‘What could it hurt just to look at it?’ he thought as he spun Melilot around the dance floor. The desire to see the ring was almost unbearable now. His hands all but itched to hold the small golden band in his palms. ‘It has been a long time since I looked at it last. What if it needs polishing?’ Though of course he could never remember a time when the ring was anything but shining and spotless. Still, he reasoned one never knew and it was better to be safe than sorry. He glanced at the clock again. 10:04.

“Frodo?” Melilot said, somewhat loudly, cutting through his thoughts. She had been calling him for a while now, since she first realized he had stopped listening to her. She was feeling a bit foolish and put off, especially since the topic was one that Frodo had started. “Are you feeling well?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I’m sorry Melie. I just realized I’ve forgotten something in my room. I should go get it.”

Melilot laughed. “Is that all it is then? Well go on with you and get it. I’ll be fine until you return.”

So Frodo led her to a table where some young lads were sitting. He noticed their faces light up when they saw her approaching and he knew she would be well left in their care. He promised to return as soon as he could, figuring that by the time he satisfied this sudden obsession with the ring, one of these young lads would have whisked Melilot onto the dance floor. With luck, he could return to the Feast and enjoy the festivities from the comfort of one of the dining tables.

He went quickly through the halls, and as he was the first to leave the Feast, he passed no one. Sooner than he expected, he was standing in his room. He closed the door soundly behind him, opened the wardrobe and lifted his pack from the back corner. He placed the pack on his bed and began to empty it, not even pausing to consider how silly he must look or why he was suddenly being driven to distraction with thoughts of the ring.

He reached the bottom of the pack and with a great sigh of relief lifted out his cloak. Barely registering that his hands were shaking and completely overlooking the unbuttoned pocket, he slid his hand into the folds of the soft velvet fabric and found nothing.

“It’s gone!” he exclaimed in dismay. He searched the pocket again, then felt all the folds of the cloak. Still finding nothing, he tossed that aside and searched the bottom of the pack and its numerous compartments, then everything he had just taken out of it. Still nothing.

“No, I can’t have lost it,” he begged, pleaded, with the room. It had to be here somewhere. He looked around, questing with his eyes until they fell upon Pippin’s pack still sitting in the wardrobe. Hoping against hope, he grabbed the pack and dumped it out, tossing the items aside haphazardly as they each came up empty.

He then turned his attention to the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. He ripped them out one by one and checked the pockets. He rummaged through the desk and even went so far as to tip over the inkwell on the off chance the ring had somehow fallen into the murky liquid. He went next to the beds and threw off the bedding, hoping perhaps maybe the ring was lost there. He searched under the beds and, still finding nothing, threw his mattress off its frame in anger and frustration.

How could he lose the ring? How? And more importantly – where did he lose it? It could be anywhere from here to Hobbiton. Since it clearly was not in the room, Frodo left it, accidentally slamming the door against the wall in his rush to find the precious heirloom. The door bounced off the wall and tipped over the mattress that had been balancing precariously against the wall and a chair. The mattress fell, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Frodo walked quickly through the halls, checking every corner and turn, muttering obsessively under his breath, “Where has it gone? Where could it be?” He passed a servant, not even registering the other’s presence. He walked right past the banquet room and into the vacant dining hall next door, retracing his steps the day of his and Pippin’s arrival. They had sat at this table. They had placed their bags here. They had come through this door, down this passageway, through this parlor and the first entrance door. He opened it and stepped outside.

The wind was blowing fiercely and it pushed him back against the door. With effort, he made his way down the path to the lane, searching in every direction, heedless of the weather. He tried desperately not to think of the possibility that someone else may have already found his ring and instead concentrated on retracing his steps, even if that took him all the way back to Hobbiton.

Then another more horrible thought occurred to him and he stopped dead in his tracks. There had been times in the past when he had suddenly discovered the ring in his pants pocket, always after he had just lost a battle not to check on it. He racked his brain; he was certain he had not checked on it since leaving Bag End, but what if he had and forgotten about it? That happened sometimes also, almost as if some other will had momentarily taken over, leaving him with no memory of how the ring came to be on his person. If that had happened, then the ring truly could be anywhere from here to Hobbiton, or clear in the other direction to his boulder by the High Hay, or down and across the River to Merry’s stream.

He turned around, looking into the pitch black darkness that surrounded him at every direction, feeling completely helpless. Which way should he go first? As if in answer to his question, another gust of wind blew through the area and pushed him from behind, toward the east. He followed its lead blindly, grateful to be moving again at last.

How long he was gone from the Hall before the storm broke, he did not know. A roar of distant thunder sounded through the air and the rain came down an instant later, fast and hard. Frodo was soaked within moments. He stopped and looked about him, trying to determine where he was. In the utter blackness that surrounded him, he had difficulty making out any landmarks to guide him. He turned around full circle, lost as to what to do.

He had to return to the Hall, some logical part of his brain tried to tell him. He couldn’t stay out in this storm and he would find nothing in the dark anyway. He could look again once the weather cleared. But he had to find the ring, the frantic part of his brain reminded him. Bilbo would be so disappointed if he lost it, not to mention what Gandalf might do or say. He must continue until his task was complete.

He turned again in the direction he thought was east and continued on, cursing himself silently for his carelessness, now so blatantly obvious. He should have checked on the ring sooner. He should have relearned these lands better before this trip. He should never have left the ring out of his reach.

Two hours later Frodo had no choice but to admit he was completely lost. He was shivering and wet and could see nothing around him. He would never find the ring at this rate and was more frustrated than he ever remembered being before. And then he tripped. His foot caught upon something protruding from the ground and he fell face first in a puddle of muddy water.

“Perfect,” he muttered as he sat himself up. He wiped his face clean as best he could and looked to see what he had tripped upon. It was a rock. He looked at it closely. It was the size of a teacup and was pointed at the end. He picked it up and held it close to his face, trying to make out the color: a cloudy greenish-blue. It reminded him of one of the rocks he had given to Merry. Hope flared in him and he looked about wildly. A flash of lightning lit the sky, and in the distance he could see the outline of a large, vaguely-defined structure. The bell tower!

He lifted himself up and ran toward the structure, slipping a few times in his haste. He managed to remain on his feet this time and came to a stop in front of his target. He looked up and discovered not the old tower, but a tall, billowing fig tree. Where did figs grow in Buckland? Frodo could never remember seeing one before.

Frodo slumped against the tree trunk, getting at least some shelter from the storm, and tried to think. The last thing he had passed that he recognized was the sweets shop in Bucklebury. He had been heading southeast then, but his direction had changed numerous times as he ran about with no clear thought in his head other than finding his ring. He could be anywhere now, but he thought that he had been generally traveling east. So if he turned in the opposite direction, he would be going west again. Sooner or later, he would come upon Buckland Road and could follow the lane back to Brandy Hall to start his search again.

With this plan firmly in his mind, he stood up and started back the way he came. Only he soon discovered that he had the direction altogether wrong, for instead of returning to the open field from which he came, he soon found himself standing upon the edge of a vineyard. ‘Well, this is at least promising,’ he thought. A vineyard had to be worked by someone, so somewhere nearby there had to be a house or a smial.

He stepped into the endless rows of vines and attempted to navigate his way to the front of the field. The darkness around him was so complete he felt himself blind, and he had great difficulty making his way through the field. Eventually, he found his way to the other side of the vineyard and looked about him, squinting into the blackness.

Five hundred yards ahead of him sat a house at the edge of an open field. Frodo ran towards it, joy filling his heart at the sight of secure shelter. He came to the door and pounded upon it. No one answered. Figuring the owners asleep, Frodo knocked again, louder and more persistently. Still no one came, and no one would, for they were at that moment stranded in Brandy Hall, unable to return home.

Not knowing this, Frodo knocked until his knuckles bled, then walked around the house peering into the windows. At the fourth window, a dog jumped up against the glass, barking fiercely. Frodo let out an involuntary yelp and ran away from the house. He was terribly afraid of dogs, especially angry, barking ones. Suddenly fearful of more dogs about the property, he went back to the vineyard and quickly made his way through it until he was again standing in an open field. Only now his tree was gone.

He turned left, thinking that must be north, and continued to walk as he tried to ignore the sore throbbing in his hand. How long he walked he was not certain and he had quite given up paying attention to where he was going. He was discouraged, wet, tired and needed to sleep. He was in another open field – how many fields had he passed? – and there was no shelter anywhere about him. He stumbled forward until he found some low shrubs. He hid himself beneath the bushes and settled himself in as comfortably as possible, no longer able to notice the dampness of the ground. He was entombed in fitful sleep an instant later.

When he woke up, the rain was coming down in a soft drizzle, and the sky was dark still, though no longer as oppressing as the night before. Frodo crawled out from his bush and stretched his limbs, wondering how long he had been asleep. However long it was, he did not feel it had done him any good. He could remember shivering through most of his slumber and always seemed just on the edge of consciousness.

He stretched again as the drizzle turned to a heavy sprinkle, then turned to look at his shelter and shouted for joy. Luck had graced him at last. The bushes were laden with large ripe blueberries. Frodo picked them deftly, eating eagerly as he went. After a few handfuls, he made a pouch of his shirt and filled it with berries. He then sat on the soggy ground to munch on his meal and think.

Looking around him, it was clear he had no idea where he was. As best he could figure, he was somewhere in the southern regions of Buckland and still east of the Road. That meant he had to go either west or north. Going north would take far too long, as he had no idea how far south he had come, but going west would take a couple of hours at most. Buckland was only about seven miles long at its widest point, and that was well to the north. Once he got to the Road, he could then head north and be back in Brandy Hall before the end of the day. The question now was, which way was west?

He looked around him and saw a hill in the distance. He could climb that and look for the Hedge and figure out the lay of the land. Slowly, he stood up and made his way over to the hill. It was steeper than he thought, but not terribly so. As he reached the hill, the sprinkle gave way to another steady shower and an instant later, thunder rumbled through the air. Frodo began to carefully walk up the hill, making sure to keep his feet, and reached the top without any mishaps.

He turned around again in all directions. On one side were acres of fields and farmlands. He thought briefly about going up to one of the houses he could see from here. Then again, with his sense of direction being so skewered as of late, not to mention his raw knuckles and the mean dog from the night before, he thought it would be better not to attempt it. He didn’t need to get any more lost than he already was. Not only that, but he would have to give some sort of explanation as to how he had managed to get so far from Brandy Hall, and Frodo could not think of a convincing enough lie.

Behind him were some open fields. He squinted through the quickly gathering darkness. Somewhere back there had to be the Hedge, for the High Hay ran all along the eastern border of Buckland from the Gate to Haysend. He strained his eyes and thought he could just glimpse it on the horizon.

Then he turned and looked in the last direction, into the west. Somewhere over there had to be the Road. His certainty was jarred when another flash of lightning blazoned the sky and illuminated the river below. Frodo stared down at the sight below him, even after he could see it no longer, his brow furrowed in confusion. That had been the river, hadn’t it? The water had been running fast and swift, but unless he was remembering the map of Buckland entirely wrong, he should still be east of the Road. Unless the road was closer than he thought it was.

With this encouraging thought in mind, he slowly made his way back down the hill and turned slightly to his right. As long as he kept the farm fields above within his sight and to his right, he would be going west. He stopped at his blueberry bush and got a couple more handfuls for later. He would have to wait until he returned to the Hall to satisfy his hunger completely.

Yet returning to Brandy Hall caused him a particularly difficult problem: Merry and Pippin. They would be getting concerned soon if they weren’t already and they would demand to know where he had been all this time. What could he tell them that would sound both convincing and credible? More than that, how would he then be able to leave again to look for the ring without them insisting on going along? Somehow, Frodo knew a simple ‘nothing’s wrong’ was not going to suffice this time. He would have to come up with some sort of story. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got plenty of time to think one up.’

He walked carefully, mindful of the puddles which surrounded him at nearly every step. It took him a long time to pick a path through the bog-like plain and his progress was slowed considerably. Eventually, he looked up and saw the flowing water he had glimpsed from the hilltop a few hours ago. He rushed towards it, but stopped in disappointment once he reached it. The ‘river’ was actually just a stream created by runoff from the farmlands above. Beyond the shallow stream was a woodland. There was no river, and no road.

“This is ridiculous,” he said out loud. How could he get lost in Buckland of all places? He had grown up here, and it was surrounded by either the Hedge or the River. Was he going around in circles without knowing it? He felt almost as if the land was purposely working against him, keeping him adrift in the storm, steering him to where he could not find his way.

He sat down in the stream, completely discouraged. He drew his knees up to his chest and hid his face in his folded arms. He tried to tell himself that if he continued to walk in the direction he was headed, he was bound to come upon the Road. This did not help his deepest fear however. For every hour he was delayed here, the longer he spent wandering about his homeland, the more time someone else had of finding the ring first. Frodo had no hope now of ever recovering it and this weighed on his heart and mind heavily.

Some time later he jerked his head up, surprised to have found himself dozing. He was more tired than he had suspected and had drifted off. He yawned now and stretched. He stood and ran his fingers through his sopping hair, no longer even aware of how wet and cold he was. He reached into his pockets and soon ate the rest of his berries. Again, he looked around him, found the direction he had been heading in before and set out for the next lap.

He came soon to the woodland he had spotted earlier, not even questioning why a woodland would be on the eastern side of the Road. Maybe in the southern regions, the woodlands embraced both sides of the road. Either way, he would have to reach the Road soon and that thought kept his feet moving.

Only it was not the Road that he came upon. Vaguely, he became aware of a constant, rolling, rushing noise ahead of him. He knew that sound. The woodland opened up. Before him, strong and furious and swelling over its banks, was the Brandywine River.

Frodo stopped and stared at it, completely bewildered. How had he come to the River without crossing the Road? It made no sense. Had he crossed the Road last night? No, of that he was certain. Then realization dawned on him and he could have kicked himself for not seeing it earlier. That shallow stream had been the Road, flooded over. He had been sitting right on it and had not even known it.

He whirled around, looked back in the direction from which he had come and relaxed visibly. He had found two of his landmarks. There was only one possible direction for him to go now and he would be back at Buck Hill before the coming of the next day if he could make good time. Relief rushed through him and he smiled for the first time since the Feast.

His triumph however was short lived, for at that very moment, the soggy, waterlogged ground beneath him gave way and crumpled into the River. Reflexively, he stepped backward to keep his balance and realized only too late that there was nothing behind him to stop his fall but the ravenous currents of the swollen river.

He was swallowing water, and lots of it. The river surrounded him and pushed him along on unforgiving currents, careless of his wishes to return to the shore. He forced himself to remain still, to let the river take him, to become one with its mighty force. When he was no longer spinning out of control, he gathered his legs beneath him and kicked against the current, using his arms to propel him upward.

His head broke the surface of the water, and he coughed and gasped for air. He could just make out the bank. He knew he would have to swim at an angle towards the bank if he wanted any hope of getting out of the river alive. He aimed for shore, took two strokes and then heard a noise unlike any other he ever heard before. It was a thunderous, pounding, unrelenting roar, and it was crashing right towards him.

The last thing he remembered was feeling the river rising up around him at a horribly out-of-control rate. Then the flash flood was upon him, slamming into him with bone breaking force and pushing him down to the riverbed below. His head smacked upon the rocky floor, and he knew no more.

At that exact moment, away in Hobbiton, in the blackness of Bag End, on the desk in the vacant study, the Ring of Power flashed gloriously with a light of its own, then faded to darkness once more.

Berwin rode north along the Baranduin. The rangers had told him to follow the river to the first westward bend, then turn due east and travel for one day to the Green Way. From there, it would be a three-day ride north to Bree. The rangers had also told him they would be watching to ensure he did not stray back over the river or otherwise try anything suspicious. He was to follow their directions exactly and leave these lands as quickly as his horse could carry him.

Berwin was more than happy to oblige. He had heard rumors of the rangers and had tried to get across the Sarn Ford without encountering any of them. He had not been successful. They had delayed him half a day asking him to explain his purpose until they were satisfied with his answers. At last they allowed him to go, but only after he swore not to stray from the path they had dictated for him.

He left the ford quickly behind, glad he could now continue on his way untroubled. Then the storm had hit and he’d had no choice but to wait out the torrent. Now the river was swollen beyond its bounds and he was afraid he would bypass the bend that would direct him to turn east. He did not want to risk calling attention to himself by passing into territory he had been warned against. He could not afford any more delays to his task. Finally he decided his best course of action would be to head east directly from wherever he currently was. He would come to the Green Way in time, even if it took more than a day, and the sooner he could get away from the river and its guards, the better he would feel.

He was riding through what would normally be grasslands, but was currently something akin to a marsh. Water inches deep surrounded him and the grass here grew shoulder-high and dense.

His mare was cautiously plodding through the flooded terrain and was slowly taking them north. Now he pulled the reins to his right, toward the east, but the horse did not heed his command. She kept her nose low to the ground, as if she had sniffed a patch of sweet grass she liked.

“No Bera, this is not the time to graze,” Berwin chided and pulled the reins again towards the east. The mare reluctantly followed his lead, nickering gently. Then after only a few short paces, she again turned north. She snorted into the grass and swished her tail. Something down there had distracted her. “What are you looking for, girl?”

As soon as he asked the question, he saw the answer. The tall grass split and he saw a small form lying in the shallow water. He dismounted swiftly and bent over to examine what he at first thought to be a child. An instant later, he discovered his mistake as he noticed the slightly pointed ears, and the curly hair upon the creature’s feet. This was a halfling, one of the Little Folk. The man stared at the creature in confusion. How had this halfling come to be at this place?

He reached down and deftly felt for a pulse in the wrists and neck. Finally he found one, faint and weak, but steady. He placed his hand close to the halfling’s nose and could feel just the slightest warmth of breath, though he could not see the chest rise. So the halfling lived, but only just.

He sat back and examined the hobbit before him, taking in what injuries he could see through the soaked and ripped clothing. The halfling had a deep gash across his right temple and forehead, and the skin was bruised to a deep purple. Several other, less severe bruises could be seen along the arms and legs, as well as many small cuts and scratches, the most curious being those upon the left hand. The knuckles alone were scabbed, yet the right hand was flawless.

Berwin regarded this with interest, but did not linger. There were more serious injuries to be seen to. The halfling’s torso was battered and bruised with many dark splotches. The man touched the ribs carefully. This was one injury he was familiar with, having experienced it himself once, and he could feel several cracks under his untrained hands. Again, he lowered his head to the halfling’s body, his ear pressed to the tiny chest. Yes, he could hear it: fluid in the lungs.

He sat back on his heels once more and quickly came to a decision. He could not in good conscience leave this creature here to die. Berwin would have to get this small being to a healer if he was to have any hope of surviving at all.

Berwin stood and went to his horse to look through his saddlebags. First thing first, he had to get the halfling to dry land and in dry clothes. The Little One was unconscious and had showed no sign of awareness or even pain as the man had gently pressed his ribs. Berwin would be able to move him without fear of causing further pain.

He pulled out a thick, wool blanket and draped it over the saddle, then went back to carefully scoop up the small form and carry him to the waiting mare. He sat the halfling on the saddle, wrapped him in the blanket, then swiftly mounted behind him. Once his hold on the halfling was secure, he took up the reins and guided the mare east. She complied with ease.

He rode for an hour, keeping the mare at a gentle trot, then pulled the horse to a stop. The river and tall grass were safely behind them now, and while the land here was still moist, it was not muddy or sodden. Here he would be able to attend to the halfling as best he could, then make his plans.

The man dismounted and lifted the hobbit off the saddle. He placed his bundle on the driest piece of earth he could find and wrapped the blanket more tightly around the small creature. He returned to his horse and searched his saddlebags again.

He was not a healer and had only a few basic skills in that art. Neither did he have any medicines to stave off infection or illness, or even to clean the wounds properly. He would have to make do with what he had. He pulled out a couple of spare nightshirts, a knife, some rope, a water skin, a bowl and a handkerchief, then returned to his ward.

Berwin knelt on the ground next to the halfling and looked at him again. Now that they were removed from the water, he could see more clearly how deathly pale the poor creature was. The man placed a hand to the halfling’s left cheek and could not feel even the faintest hint of warmth. He would have to make a fire as soon as he was able.

Bending over, he opened the blanket and quickly removed the ruined clothes, sitting the halfling up when necessary. He used the blanket to quickly dab the hobbit dry, checking for more breaks and injuries as he did so. Gratefully, he found none and this eased his mind somewhat.

He picked up one of his nightshirts and cut it open with the knife. He then cut this lengthwise in thirds and wrapped the first piece as tightly as he dared around the halfling’s torso to keep the broken ribs from moving. He took the second piece and wrapped this once around the creature’s chest, then tied the ends together to keep the makeshift brace in place.

After this was finished, he poured some water in the bowl and soaked the handkerchief. He softly cleaned all the cuts and scratches before taking the other nightshirt and slipping it over the halfling’s body. He dipped the handkerchief again and went to work on the gash on the halfling’s forehead, trying his best not to cause it to break open and bleed again. He was not quite successful and had to use the final piece of his shirt to wrap around the wound.

Once these meager ministrations were complete, Berwin walked to a small grove of trees nearby and gathered as much firewood as he could. The storm had knocked many small branches and even a few large ones off the trees, and he soon had an armload of wood. He just hoped it was dry enough to catch fire. He returned to camp and cleared the area near the halfling for a fire pit. After several attempts, he finally had a blaze going.

Figuring he may as well eat while he was stopped, he took some cram and fruit from his saddlebag and ate this as the fire warmed the space around them. He munched on his food as he closely watched the halfling so unexpectedly placed in his path and care, and tried to figure out what he was going to do about it.

Berwin could not afford a delay in his errand. He had been regretting for the last two weeks that he had even started his travels late, delayed three days in the mountains due to his own carelessness and lack of haste. Then three days had turned into five, thanks to the rangers and the storm. Now he had this halfling to tend to and he was riding at a much slower pace than he should be. He would be lucky indeed if his companions still waited for him at Bree when he arrived. He did not look forward to traveling all the way home alone.

He supposed he could take the halfling back to the rangers and get the burden off his hands. He shook his head. No, that would not do. It would be at least three days back to Sarn Ford, then three days back to where he was now, not to mention how long the rangers would delay him by asking more questions. They might even suspect him of foul play; they had not exactly let him go in good faith. For that reason, attempting to find this halfling’s home was also out of the question, though he figured it must lay somewhere to the north along the river. He could not be caught wandering in lands he had been forbidden to enter with an injured halfling in his presence.

So to Bree it was. He was going there anyway and it was only an extra day’s ride than it would be to go back down the river to the ford. Hopefully, that would not be too long a time for the hobbit to hold on. Once he reached the town, he could easily find a healer and leave the halfling in more capable hands. Plus, there were plenty of the Little Folk living in Breehill. They could take in this small one until he was well enough to travel home.

Now came the problem of how to transport the halfling to Bree. They were four days away at best, as long as there were no more unforeseen events to delay them further. Four days was a long time to be riding on a horse with broken ribs. The man also suspected that the halfling would be ill with fever or worse before too long, which would aggravate the halfling’s discomfort, if and when he eventually woke up.

Berwin almost thought it would be best if the halfling did not awake until they reached their destination and a soft bed, but how long could one remain unconscious before it should cause concern? And if he did wake, it would be best if the halfling could lie down during the journey, which meant the man would have to somehow construct a stretcher.

He finished his meal, then went back to the trees and picked through the branches until he found two of relatively similar length. He dragged these back to the campfire, laid them next to the halfling and nodded. They would be long enough for his small charge. Berwin then dug again through his saddlebags. He pulled out his shelter, a single large piece of canvas cut into a square with ropes attached to each corner. He had used this to take cover during the storm by tying each corner of the canvas to different trees. He would use it now to wrap around the poles and give the halfling something to lie upon.

He wrapped the canvas over the poles twice, then tied the ropes around each end of the pole. He tested it to make sure the rope would not slip or come undone during the journey. He then took up his coil of rope and cut two long cords which he would use to attach the stretcher to the mare’s harness. It would not be the most comfortable stretcher ever constructed but it would serve its purpose until they reached Bree.

Picking up the water skin, he bent over the halfling and managed to trickle some drops of the clear liquid down the Little One’s throat. Then he drank the last of the water himself and quickly packed everything away. He checked the halfling’s temperature and was glad that the fire had done its purpose. The halfling was no longer cold and stiff to the touch, and color was returning to the pale skin. The most reassuring sign that the halfling was beginning to recover was that he was now shivering; his body was attempting to warm itself.

Berwin snuffed out the fire with some handfuls of dirt, then wrapped the halfling into the blanket once more. Carefully and gently, he lifted the little being and carried him to the stretcher. Making sure the halfling was secure and tightly wrapped, the man mounted his horse and checked her into a gait. He was losing more time and would have to ride long into the night to make it up.

He stopped twice more during the day, once at midday and again just before twilight. At each stop, he checked on the halfling. Not much had changed and he did not know whether that was good or bad. He also tried to get the halfling to drink more water from one of his other water skins, but could only get a few drops down the halfling’s throat at each attempt. Still, he figured that was better than nothing.

At twilight, he noticed that the sky had cleared of all clouds, and he watched his first sunset in five days as he traveled slightly northeast. The sky was drenched in cheerful hues of bright yellow, orange and pink on his west, and to the east, the first stars were bravely shining through the brilliant array of color. He watched as the stars claimed the heavens and rode for a few hours more under their gentle silvery beams. When the half moon rose over the horizon, he looked for dry territory and stopped at last for the night.

Quickly and effortlessly, he set up his camp. Ever mindful of his unexpected guest, he gathered wood for another fire and started that first before doing anything else. He lifted the halfling and placed him close to the fire’s warmth before setting out his bedroll nearby. He then relieved the mare of the saddlebags and ate his evening meal in serene silence.

As he ate, the man watched the halfling and wondered what the creature would do when he awakened to find himself in strange clothes in a strange land with a strange man. Berwin smiled grimly. The halfling was certain to be frightened and confused, but at least he wouldn’t be able to run off and risk more harm to himself. That is, if the halfling even woke at all. It could happen that Berwin would reach Bree, get a healer and leave before the Little One even stirred.

For some strange reason, this thought saddened the man. He did not want to think of leaving without at least speaking to the lad. He was extremely curious as to how the halfling had wound up in open land, though he guessed the river had something to do with that. Yet from the little he knew of the halflings, they did not like water and avoided it. He wondered why this one had not.

“What’s your name? Where do you come from? Don’t you have loved ones who miss you?” he asked the sleeping form. He looked at the pale, thin face and the dark, curly hair tumbling around his head. He had seen many of the Little Folk his first time in Bree, but he could not remember seeing one quite like this halfling. Truth be told, they all rather looked the same to him, but this one stood out. There was something different about this one, and the man hoped he would be able to learn more about this creature before having to leave him.

After he finished his meal, he again made the halfling drink. He had tea now and thought this would be better for the halfling than mere water. He managed to coax about half a cup down the creature’s throat, then dried up the spilt tea with a corner of the blanket. He added more wood to the fire and banked it to a roar, then lay down to a sleep of his own.

Morning dawned pale and clear on the horizon. Berwin awakened early and checked on his charge. He was pleased to feel the heartbeat was now strong as it should be and to feel warmth in the halfling’s cheek. The Little One still shivered however, and Berwin realized with a frown that the fire had died out at some point during the night.

He gathered his empty water skins and went in search of a stream or rivulet to fill them. Careful to keep the camp within eyesight, he soon found a small pond of rainwater. He filled the skins, then decided to bathe while he was there. Once that was accomplished, he returned to camp, gathering more firewood as he went. He placed the water skins in his saddlebags and soon had a fire going.

Smells, rich and tantalizing, yet strangely unfamiliar, were wafting up his nose, enticing him out of his slumber. He could hear someone moving about and the unmistakable sound of meat sizzling on the grill. Someone hummed and it was not a tone or tune he recognized.

For several moments that seemed closer to hours, he lay there, completely still. His body was stiff with exhaustion, and he somehow instinctively knew that if he moved, he would be in a great amount of pain. He tried taking deeper breaths, but his lungs burned fiercely at the effort and he could feel them rumbling unhappily at the attempt. Slowly and with great effort, he lifted his left hand and brought it to his eyes to rub the sleep away. His hand felt like a dead weight and though he could feel his fingers upon his brow and nose bridge, he somehow felt disconnected from the touch, as if it was happening to someone other than him and he was watching from a safe distance. He wondered at this feeling and let his hand fall back to the ground as it pleased.

The aroma of the food caught his attention again, and his stomach clenched in hunger. He licked his lips to moisten them; they were cracked and parched. His throat also was dry and he found speaking difficult. “Sam?” he croaked.

Berwin looked up from his frying pan and stared at the halfling, who was lying every bit as still as he had been for the last several hours. Had he just said something? Berwin waited to see if anything further would happen. Perhaps the halfling was merely dreaming.

For a moment it appeared the halfling had indeed gone back to sleep, but then he spoke again. “Sam?” he said in a rough, dry voice.

The man took up a water skin and went to the halfling’s side. He cradled the halfling’s head and tipped the water into his mouth. The halfling drank eagerly, never opening his eyes or moving in the slightest. When he was finished, he cleared his throat and managed to say in a somewhat clearer voice, “What in the Shire are you cooking, lad?”

Berwin frowned at the strange question and sniffed the air. The food smelled fine to him. The halfling said nothing further for a long while and Berwin thought his small charge had returned to sleep.

He gently laid the small head back upon the ground, yet even as he did this, bright crystalline blue eyes opened at last and looked directly at him. Those large, expressive eyes mesmerized the man and held him frozen to his spot next to the halfling. He could see the shock there, which was quickly overtaken by confusion and finally fear.

Why was Sam not answering him? Why did he feel so exhausted and drained? His sense of detachment was ebbing but with that came a throbbing in his head and his lungs burned still with each breath he took, no matter how small. Every muscle he attempted to move seemed to protest the motion and he so thirsty. But now Sam was giving him water, supporting his head so he could drink. Sam always seemed to know what he needed, even before he himself did sometimes. Yet why had Sam not answered him?

He struggled to open his eyes and after several attempts was finally able to muster the energy needed to do so, just as Sam was lowering his head back to the pillow. Only when he focused on the face before him did he realize with a start it was not his trusty gardener but some unknown Man, one of the Big Folk. A thousand questions seemed to invade his head all at once, increasing the painful throbbing and making the room spin. Only he was not in his room. This was not his bed. There was sky above him, clear and blue, and the ground beneath the blanket upon which he lay was soft and hard as earth.

“Who are you? Where am I?” he asked as panic and alarm sank in. He tried to sit up to get away from the man, but his chest exploded in a fire of pain and he lay back down immediately. The dizziness increased and he thought for a moment that he would be sick. He tried to calm himself and realized as he did so that the man was gently dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth.

He looked up again at the stranger and saw the kindness and concern in his light brown eyes. The man saw him watching and smiled. Then, as if suddenly remembering proper etiquette, he stood and bowed formally. “I am Berwin, Man of Dale, at your service,” he said, and his voice was soft as meadow grass under a clear Spring sun, and his face was filled with empathy and care.

“Frodo Baggins, at your service and your family’s,” Frodo replied automatically, with a barely detectable nod of his head.

Whoever this man was and however he came to be in his company, the man obviously had been caring for him and Frodo felt no threat from him. Yet when he introduced himself, Frodo thought he saw a brief flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes, but the moment was gone so quickly Frodo could not be certain it was ever really there.

Berwin smiled gently at his accidental companion, then bent down and resumed his ministrations. He swathed Frodo’s forehead with the damp cloth, then carefully began to unwrap the bandage that was in place there. Frodo had not even noticed it before. At least now he had an explanation as to why his head hurt so much. He figured another such bandage must be wrapped around his chest.

“As for where you are,” Berwin continued when the bandage was removed, breaking into Frodo’s thoughts, “you are currently in open lands. By midday, we will reach the Green Way, the great highway that stretches from the South to the town of Bree in the North, our destination.”

“Why am I here? Why are you here?” Frodo asked. He was desperately trying to remember what he had been doing last, but he only vaguely recalled waving good-bye to Sam for some reason. And someone had been with him. He thought hard, ignoring the pounding in his head. Who was it? Sparkling green eyes appeared in his memory, and they were full of laughter: Pippin. He was going with Pippin to… Buckland.

In the moments it took for this information to reveal itself, Berwin finished his inspection of the head wound and wrapped it up again. He was stalling, using the need to check on the gash as a way to delay answering Frodo. Those last two questions were not exactly ones he could answer. As for the first, he simply didn’t know why the halfling had been lying by the river. As for the second, he was not at liberty to divulge more than a general statement. He hoped that would be enough to satisfy Frodo’s curiosity.

“I am here because I am returning to my homeland. I had business to conduct with the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, to both the ranges north and south. That business is now complete, and I must return to my Lord and King to give report,” Berwin said at last as he returned to preparing the food.

“You are here,” he continued, “because I found you yesterday morning washed up on the riverbank. Why you were there I do not know, and I was planning to ask you that myself. Several of your ribs are cracked and you have fluid in your lungs. Best I can tell, you were nearly drowned and are lucky to be here. But you are not yet safe; we must keep you as warm as possible to stave off any ailments. Once we reach Bree, I will get you a healer. I’m afraid I have no skills with medicines and cannot be of any help to you if you fall ill on the road.”

Frodo frowned at him, his confusion doubled. Drowned? Washed up on the riverbank? He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on bringing up his memories. He and Pippin had gone to Buckland. They would have spent most of their time with Merry naturally. And this was Spring was it not? Which meant they also would have attended the Feast, unless that hasn’t happened yet. But none of that explained why he would be near the river; he generally avoided it during his trips when he could.

“Why can’t I remember?” he asked and shook his head in frustration. He soon regretted it, as the throbbing in his temples grew more intense.

“Easy now, Frodo,” Berwin said. “You suffered a terrible blow. You must give the wound time to heal and move your head as little as possible. Your memories will return in time. Now, you must rest and eat.” He scooped some food onto a plate and handed it to his companion. Then he helped Frodo to sit up and placed a stuffed pack behind him for support.

Frodo sniffed the food curiously. Yes, that was what he had smelled earlier. He watched the man and waited until Berwin ate a couple of bites before taking up his own fork. He brought a sausage to his mouth and bit into it. It was spiced with seasoning he had never tasted before, or at least never in this combination. The meat itself was sweet and tender.

“It’s good,” he said, then took another, bigger bite. He was starved and wondered vaguely how long it had been since he ate anything.

The food seemed to strengthen him. He no longer felt disoriented and the last of the lingering detachment faded completely. His hands shook at first from the motion of lifting the fork to his mouth, but he was soon having less trouble eating as his stomach filled. Yet this itself brought a different problem, for the dizziness did not ebb entirely and he realized that his stomach was beginning to protest the food, however good it might taste. He slowed down his intake, hoping the nausea would pass.

When his meal was complete, Berwin offered him a cup of tea. “This will not ease your pain, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “but it will keep you warm.”

Frodo accepted the large mug with both his hands. “Thank you,” he said and sipped the steaming tea. This too was sweet and tasted strongly of mint. It did warm him and as he sipped, he felt his stomach settle gratefully.

“How far is it to Bree?” he asked suddenly, having just realized that he had no idea where on the Green Way they were, or how long he would be in this man’s company. Or how long it would be before he received the care he needed.

Berwin frowned and looked to the north. “I could get there in three days, but that’s me alone without an injured hobbit in my care. I will have to go more slowly if you are to remain comfortable at all. That may add a day or two, though I will ride northeast until we reach the Green Way to try to shorten that time as much as possible. How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Frodo answered truthfully. He had been sick before in the past and had suffered a few serious scrapes in his youth, but nothing compared to what he felt now. The food and drink had helped, but he was still so tired. He felt that if he closed his eyes, he would be asleep in an instant. Every part of him ached and he could see the bruises dotting his arms. Only then did he notice that he was no longer in his own clothes and he wondered what had happened to them. This large shirt hung down nearly to his feet and he could not see what state of abuse his legs were in.

“No,” Frodo said. “I’m cold.” Berwin promptly came to his side and wrapped the blanket around him. Frodo smiled with gratitude. “Thank you, for all of your kindness.”

Berwin smiled in return. “It was my pleasure, Frodo. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack up. Finish that tea and then we will see about finding someplace for you to relieve yourself,” he added as he noticed Frodo squirm uncomfortably.

A half hour later, they were on their way. Berwin placed Frodo once again on the stretcher. Now that Frodo was awake, he could tell the man if the ride was comfortable or if adjustments needed to be made. Berwin did not want him to be jostled about too much while they traveled. Frodo assured him that it was comfortable enough. In all honesty, he was so uncomfortable anyway, it was difficult to tell if the stretcher added to it or helped relieve it in any way. In any case it did not matter much, as he was soon sleeping once more.

Frodo remained asleep for much of the day, waking only when Berwin stopped for meals. The man would gently shake him awake and insist the halfling eat something and drink more tea. He could tell that Frodo was in pain and that every movement caused him discomfort, yet Frodo did not complain and spoke courteously with him between mouthfuls.

Berwin marveled at Frodo’s stoic politeness and admired the diplomacy that the halfling displayed. While he was concerned about the amount of food Frodo seemed able to consume in a single sitting, as his stores were limited until they reached Bree, he let Frodo eat as much as he could. Berwin wanted his companion to get as much nourishment and fluids in him as possible, and it would encourage sleep while they traveled.

Berwin rode in a northeasterly direction as he had promised, hoping this would help get back some of the time he lost. He at last reached the Green Way by midday and turned his mare due north. He kept the horse at a gait and stayed to where the land was mostly flat and smooth. He felt that despite the delay, they were making good time.

By this time tomorrow, they should be able to see the hills of the Barrow Downs on the horizon. Those hills were treacherous, or so he was told, but as long as he did not stray from the highway, he would be able to pass without hindrance. They would reach Bree just a few hours after emerging from the downs. He hoped his traveling companions would still be waiting for him when he arrived, perhaps held up by the storm themselves.

At nightfall, he traveled again under the stars until the moon rose. The day had been warm and much of the dampness of the soil had dried. As such, he had little trouble finding a suitable place to set up camp. However, he did have trouble finding wood. There were few trees here and the branches available were small and of little use. He gathered as much as he could and lit a fire anyway. Frodo could at least be kept warm for a few hours if not more.

He lifted Frodo from the stretcher and placed him near the fire. He shook the halfling awake only after the meal was cooked. “How are you feeling?” he asked again.

This had been his answer throughout the day. Berwin frowned and placed a hand upon Frodo’s cheek. His frown deepened. “You’re warm,” he said simply. The fever was settling in. By morning, Frodo would be burning with it. “You should be all right until we reach Bree.”

Frodo smiled wearily and shivered involuntarily. His feet felt like ice and his hands shook. He did not feel warm anywhere. All he knew was the pain and weakness throughout his body and the burning in his lungs with each breath he took, no matter how small or careful.

Whatever rejuvenation he had felt earlier in the day was now gone. He yawned with exhaustion, still tired even after two days of sleep. The yawn proved too much for him and he was soon coughing. His chest protested this abuse, but he could not help it, and his eyes watered from the pain.

Berwin did what he could to bring his companion comfort, but it was of little help. In the end he could do little more than hold a cup of tea to Frodo’s mouth and gently hold his companion in a sitting position until the coughing fit ended on its own. He had never felt so useless before, and he regretted the long miles ahead of them.

Though he knew little of Frodo, the halfling was kind and eloquent in his manner and bore an air of nobility and innocence that the man found intriguing. He had never known anyone quite like Frodo Baggins. He had been looking forward to getting to know him better over the few short days they would have together, but if Frodo took ill… What if he didn’t make it to Bree?

Berwin shook his head. There was no use thinking such things. He could only care for his companion as best he could and hope that it would be enough.

Berwin woke to the sound of coughing and muffled whimpering. He was out of his sleeping roll and at Frodo’s side in an instant.

Frodo’s face was flushed red with fever, and he was clutching his chest trying to keep from coughing. The pain that shot through his body every time he coughed was nearly unbearable, and tears were stinging his eyes as he tried not to cry out. He felt a cold cloth being pressed to his forehead and opened his eyes to find Berwin kneeling next to him. The man’s eyes were full of concern.

Berwin was worried that Frodo shivered still. It could not be from cold now and must be rooted in an altogether different problem. He pressed his hand to his companion’s cheek and his frown deepened. The slight fever that had begun the night before had risen alarmingly while they slept, and there was little the man could do to help.

“How are you feeling this morning Frodo?” he asked, wondering if Frodo would still claim to be cold.

Frodo fought to steady his breathing and keep from coughing. The task was difficult, as he had developed a tickle in his throat during the night and every breath he took threatened to bring about another fit. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” he managed at last. His voice was scratchy and weak, and his eyes squeezed shut in misery as he gently cleared his throat to keep another fit at bay.

Berwin smiled ruefully and shook his head in wonder. How could Frodo be thinking of the man’s comfort at a time like this? Surely, Frodo knew his needs were the most urgent to attend to. “I was waking on my own,” Berwin said in response. “Besides, we must get started as early as possible.” He went to his saddlebag and pulled out some meat cakes and a water skin. He handed these to Frodo. The halfling accepted them but did not eat and only drank a mouthful of water. “How are you feeling Frodo? Are you still cold?” he asked again.

“My head does not hurt as much as it was,” Frodo said, then nibbled on a cake. He washed this down with water, and repeated the process a few more times.

“And the rest of you?” the man asked. He waited for nearly a minute while Frodo occupied himself with his food and water. Berwin shifted his weight to his heels and arched his eyebrows at his small charge. “Either you’re feeling better, or you’ve suddenly grown incredibly stubborn about admitting that you are not well. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

Frodo smiled sheepishly. “My cousin Bilbo would agree with that assessment. And Sam would also, though he never bothers to wait for an answer before fussing over me.”

“He’s a wise one not to wait,” Berwin said with a smile, marginally relieved to see a spark in Frodo’s eyes as he talked of his family. He also could not help but be amused at Frodo’s dodging of an obvious answer, though he was ever-mindful about the time. He had meant it when he said he wanted to get started as early as possible. “I suppose I should follow his lead then if I’m to get any answers out of you. Though I’m afraid I do not have much practice with fussing. You might want to spare yourself the experience and answer me directly.”

Frodo sighed. While back home, his cousins would eventually find something else to take their minds off of him, he did not have any hope that Berwin’s attention would be so easily averted. “My feet are like ice. I can never remember a time when they were so cold. My head and chest are burning, and I don’t believe there is any muscle in my body that does not hurt,” he finally divulged.

He took another nibble of his food and washed it down with water. His mouth and throat were so dry, he found eating difficult. He was grateful for the water but was worried about drinking it all, lest there be no more water sources between here and Bree.

“Do you remember anything about the river or the days prior?” Berwin asked suddenly.

Frodo paused at the question, but knew it would be pointless to try to further evade the man. “A little,” he said. “Bits and pieces. Esmeralda set me up with Melie at the dance. Merry, Pippin and I went to the Rock, then I gave them some rocks. I misplaced something, something important. We went fishing, and there was a mean dog.” Frodo shook his head slowly and carefully. “It’s not very coherent I’m afraid. Perhaps I will remember more before the day is over.”

“Perhaps,” Berwin agreed and regarded Frodo sympathetically. There was not much he could do for the fever, pain and confusion, but he could see that Frodo ate as many provisions as could be spared. As for the cold feet…

Berwin rummaged through his saddlebags. He pulled out two pairs of thick wool socks, bundled into balls. He knelt by Frodo’s feet and noticed the halfling watching him curiously. He unrolled one pair and reached down to slip a sock over one of Frodo’s feet. Instinctively, Frodo pulled his feet away and slipped them deep into the blanket.

“Frodo, you must keep your feet warm if they are cold,” Berwin explained patiently. “Don’t hobbits ever cover their feet?”

“Then you can wear socks for the cold,” Berwin reasoned. He motioned with his hand for Frodo to bring out his feet. Frodo reluctantly complied, knowing the man was correct. Berwin quickly slipped both pairs of socks on, trying not to laugh at how enormous they looked on Frodo’s child-sized feet or at the displeased expression on Frodo’s face. “Give them half a day at least. If your feet are not feeling warmer, I’ll take them off.”

Frodo nodded and tried his best not to brush his feet together in his desire to remove the offending cloth. He did have to admit that his feet were already feeling somewhat warmer. Or perhaps they were feeling suffocated. He frowned down at the strange coverings, wondering if it was possible for feet to suffocate.

Finally, he forced himself to return to his meal and watched as Berwin quickly packed up the camp. “Are you not eating?” he asked. He had not seen the man eat anything.

“I will eat once we are on our way,” Berwin replied as casually as he could.

He did not want to alarm his companion, but he was frightened about Frodo’s symptoms. He had a friend once who had taken ill many years ago with many of the same symptoms Frodo now reported. His friend had not survived, even though he had been taken to a healer almost immediately upon coming down with the fever.

Now more than ever, Berwin wanted to be on the road as soon as possible and he hoped they could move more quickly today. Bree was suddenly too far away for his comfort, and he was afraid another two to three days would prove too long and perilous for the hobbit’s restitution.

They were on the road just a few short minutes later. Frodo was too feverish to be tightly wrapped in the thick, wool blanket all day, so Berwin replaced it with his raincoat. It was big enough to drape completely over Frodo’s small form, but was lighter in weight and easier for Frodo to move about in. Once Frodo was settled, Berwin checked his mare into a trot, keeping an attentive ear on his charge for sounds of discomfort.

He kept his word and ate some of his preserved food. This was another problem that bothered him. He had only brought enough provisions for himself to get him to Bree, and that was without the delays that had plagued him thus far. Only a small amount of his provisions now remained. He decided quickly that he would go the next few days with minimal to no food if necessary and only hoped that Frodo’s appetite did not fail him as his illness progressed.

He stopped at noon and watched closely to see how well Frodo was eating as they talked. Just as with breakfast, he nibbled on his food and took many draughts of water to wash the food down. Though he was eating still, Berwin noticed with concern that Frodo’s appetite was not anywhere near as strong as it had been the previous day.

Frodo, in the meantime, turned his attention to finding out as much as he could about his companion. He was greatly interested in Dale and the Lonely Mountain, and Berwin told him many things of his homeland during the meal. He explained his position in the King’s court as best he could to one unfamiliar with their system of law.

“I am one of the King’s advisors, and am responsible for the keeping of things, mostly the peace between the dwarves and the elves during their dealings with the King. I am mostly responsible for delegating to the dwarves, which is why he chose me to come west with a small troupe migrating to the Blue Mountains. It has been many years since we extended our alliance to the western clans and the King feels it is time to renew those bonds.”

Berwin smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I try to be,” was all he said in response.

Frodo nodded, understanding more than the man would think possible. “It is not always easy living up to the expectations of others, especially those we admire so much. I would do anything for Bilbo, even stay behind in the Shire to keep Bag End away from the Sackville-Bagginses. I do love the Shire, but I am beginning to regret that I did not go with him.

“I really have no place in the Shire, no family of my own. Instead, I have a gardener and a handful of nosy cousins who seem intent on keeping me as close to home as they can. I know they mean well, but they simply do not understand my desire for solitude. Out in the open plains and quiet fields, with no one and nothing to distract me, I can almost feel Bilbo’s presence again and it brings me such a sense of peace. But it’s a bittersweet relief, for as soon as I return home, I realize anew how truly alone I am. If only I could get word of where he is.”

Berwin regarded Frodo closely. He seemed to struggle with some inner conflict, but looked away quickly when Frodo lifted his soulful blues eye to gaze intently upon him. He took the tea off the fire and poured some into Frodo’s cup, then his own. He drank deeply, then cleared his throat. “Tell me about this cousin of yours. He sounds like quite the adventurer. It was my understanding that your kind did not stray far from your homelands.”

So Frodo began to tell the man about his lovable, if somewhat eccentric, older cousin. For the first time since awakening yesterday morning, a smile lit his face, true and happy, as he told Berwin about some of their more adventurous hikes and family get-togethers. Before long, Berwin was laughing helplessly at Frodo’s description of the strawberry truffles he made on his thirtieth birthday for Bilbo. “If they were any good at all, it was only because Sam rescued them,” he finished with a wistful smile.

“Your brother sounds like a handy person to have around in a crisis,” Berwin commented as he readied them to continue with their journey.

He paused and turned in surprised when he heard Frodo’s laughter, but grew dismayed when it quickly turned to a coughing fit. He knelt next to Frodo and poured the last drops of the tea into the cup and held it to Frodo’s lips. Frodo drank cautiously, attempting to slow the coughing with the task of swallowing the warm liquid. When the tea was gone and the fit passed, Frodo caught his breath and strength, then laughed softly once again. “Did I say something amusing?” Berwin asked.

“Sam is not my brother. He is my gardener,” Frodo explained, “and a very handy person indeed to have around in a crisis.”

An hour later, the Barrow Downs peeked over the horizon. Berwin resisted the urge to slow his mare to a gait. Though both the dwarves and rangers had assured him the highway between the haunted mounds was safe to travel both day and night, he did not like the thought of camping between the hills. He measured the distance as best he could and figured they would not reach them until early the next morning.

When he stopped for the evening meal, he had difficulty in waking Frodo. The hobbit did not want to stir and if not for the desire to see him fed, Berwin would have let him sleep. Once Frodo was awake though, he only nibbled again on his food, eating it slowly with many sips of tea and water in between bites. He ate only half the food given to him before claiming to be full.

“How are your feet?” Berwin asked as he dipped a compress in some water and placed it onto Frodo’s forehead.

Frodo wiggled his toes and frowned. “They are warmer than they were before,” he admitted. The man nodded, satisfied, then helped Frodo up so he could find someplace to relieve himself.

Shortly after, they were on the road once more. The man rode long into the night, until the moon was high above in the glittering sky. When he could keep his eyes open no longer, he stopped to sleep but did not set up camp. He pulled out only his sleeping roll and lay down next to Frodo, who was sleeping fitfully.

Berwin did not want any delays in the morning if they could be avoided. He was desperate to get Frodo to Bree. His loss of appetite would only get worse and the man knew that once Frodo stopped eating, he would not have long to live.

When Berwin woke in the predawn hours, he could hear Frodo mumbling incoherently on the stretcher next to him. The halfling was struggling in his dreams, thrashing about in the blanket wrapped tightly around him. Berwin carefully slipped the blanket off and tried to wake Frodo so he could eat. Failing that, he attempted to get some water down Frodo’s throat but only managed a few drops.

“The spiders! Bilbo!” Frodo cried in his sleep. Berwin ran his hand through sweat-drenched raven curls and was alarmed at how much warmer the hobbit felt this morning. Frodo’s temperature had risen again and he was not waking, trapped instead in nightmares. Berwin knew it would do no good to wake him; he would not eat.

The man tried again to get more liquid into Frodo’s system, but as he reached down, bloodshot eyes flew open and Frodo grabbed Berwin’s arm in a steel-tight grip. “I have to find the ring! Gandalf said I was to keep it safe, and now it’s gone. You took it, didn’t you?”

Berwin sat, shocked at the outburst and Frodo’s sudden strength. He was fairly certain Frodo was still asleep, and quickly pulled himself together to try to comfort his companion. “Have no fear, Frodo,” the man spoke in soothing tones. “You are dreaming. It’s a hallucination brought on by the fever. It will pass. Try to rest.”

“I should have gone with Bilbo,” Frodo mumbled. Then just as suddenly as he had ‘awaken’ he was asleep again. His grip on the man’s arm weakened, and his arms fell limply to his sides. He was then seized by a coughing fit, but no sign of pain etched his face in his slumber.

Berwin stood and looked around him at the vast empty plains and the nearby grassy hills of the Barrow Downs, crowned with crumbling stones. They were miles from help and Frodo was rapidly deteriorating. Even riding at a full gallop, it would take them all day and night to reach Bree, and even then they may be too late. But they could not ride at such a speed with Frodo hanging behind them on a stretcher.

Berwin resolved himself and made his decision. He could no longer be concerned about Frodo’s comfort. More important now was getting him to help. He untied the ropes holding the stretcher to the mare’s harness and lifted Frodo from the makeshift bed. He untied the chords holding the canvas to the poles and quickly folded the tent into a bundle and stuffed it into his saddlebag. Then he raised Frodo to the saddle and mounted swiftly behind him. An instant later, they were galloping up the Green Way as fast as Bera could carry them.

Frodo woke near mid-morning and Berwin stopped in hopes of getting him to eat something. Frodo took the water gratefully, but refused the food with a distasteful expression on his wan face.

“You must try to eat something,” Berwin urged, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as he held out the final piece of bread. “At least try. This will settle your stomach.”

Frodo regarded the bread with bleary, unfocused eyes. He did not reach out or even seem to notice the food. He was seeing something else, another feverish vision. “They call to me in my dreams,” he whispered in a flat voice. His expression turned sadly troubled and a lone tear slipped down his cheek. “I often dream of the sea, and I can hear them calling to me from within its watery depths. They wait for me there, but I’m too afraid to go. When the wave came crashing down on me, I thought it was them coming to take me at last. I think I was happy for it; I’ve missed them so much. But now I’m scared again. I’m not ready to go and I don’t want to and I know that makes them sad. Does that make me a bad person?”

Berwin shook his head, his own eyes moist with unspent tears. He was at a complete loss of what to think or do. Who was Frodo speaking of and what could he mean? The man had a suspicion this was not mad ramblings brought on by the hallucinations and felt he should say something to comfort his friend. But what? The answer came to him immediately, something that would hopefully give Frodo peace of mind and a reason to hold on just a little bit longer.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “You are not bad, Frodo. You are kind, unselfish and wiser than you know, and I have this on good authority,” the Man of Dale declared. “I have seen your cousin Bilbo. I met him in Dale nine years ago, just shortly after he left the Shire.” He had Frodo’s full attention now and was grateful to see a glimmer of hope in the halfling’s bloodshot eyes. “He spoke of you often and held you in nothing but the highest esteem. You are his light, he said once. You gave his life meaning and he would do anything for you.”

“Was he well?” Frodo asked in amazement. He could hardly believe that after all these years he had finally, miraculously and unlooked for, found someone who had the answers he so desperately sought. “Was he happy? How long did he stay? Where is he now?”

Berwin smiled fondly. “He was extremely well. None of us could believe he was one hundred-and-twelve, or what did he call it? Twelvety-One, I believe?”

“He was so spry and energetic,” Berwin continued, and Frodo smiled with relief. “He was overjoyed to be on the road again and traveling with the dwarves of Lonely Mountain. His joy was infectious and everywhere he went, men would smile and laugh and sing his silly tunes. I especially like the one with the cat and the fiddle.”

“I know not,” Berwin shook his head. “He stayed in Dale for near on a year before he left. He said he wanted to go south and possibly further east. But he always maintained that he would eventually return to Rivendell and there live out the rest of his days.”

“Rivendell,” Frodo muttered. A great heaviness of exhaustion crashed over him then, and he closed his eyes to drift off to sleep, the image of his beloved grey-headed cousin sitting with the Elves and learning their songs imprinted on his mind.

An hour later, they reached the first mounds of the Barrow Downs. The mare whinnied nervously but continued forward at a full gallop. She seemed to feel the urgency of their errand and needed no prodding to continue at her current speed.

For his part, Berwin hardly registered when they entered between the hills, so intent he was on the road ahead. He could hear Frodo mumbling again in his sleep. He could only make out a stray word here and there, about apples, kings, silver spoons, caves, and Bilbo. He heard Bilbo’s name often and hoped it was a sign that Frodo was fighting to hold on. He did not think he could bare it if Frodo failed now.

Berwin could not explain his fear for this creature who he barely knew. It was true that he had heard Bilbo tell many tales of life in the Shire, and Frodo had held a prominent role in many of them. To say that Bilbo was fond of his cousin would be an understatement. The old hobbit had often spoken of Frodo as if he believed him to be the best hobbit in all the Shire.

Never had Berwin thought he would meet Frodo Baggins, much less stumble upon him along the Baranduin and under such strange circumstances. He had quickly seen why the older hobbit had been so proud of his young cousin. In the short amount of time he has known Frodo, he found himself caring for him as one of his own and he had become personally invested in Frodo’s welfare. What had first begun as a task his conscious could not let him leave undone had turned into a friend of great worth. Berwin realized he had been correct to assume this hobbit was special, and he would do anything in his power to save him.

He rode straight through the afternoon and evening, never stopping or slowing. When the sun went to bed and the moon rose high in the sky, he slowed only to determine his current location. The Barrow Downs were now behind them and he was greatly pleased for it. They had covered much ground and within just a couple of hours, they would see the gates of Bree. He tightened his grip on Frodo and urged Bera into a gallop one final time.

At last, the gates of Bree came into view. Berwin rode the last few miles as quickly as his winded horse could manage them, pushing the mare to the end of her limits. He was concerned that he had not heard even a whisper from Frodo, nor had he felt the hobbit stir even once since the sun had first began to wane, and he was desperate to find a healer.

He pulled to a stop at the gate and pounded on the door until the gatekeeper answered. “Who’s there, and what do you want?” the gatekeeper asked through a large peephole in the door.

“I am Berwin of Dale. I just traveled up the Green Way and I have a hobbit with me in need of a healer. Please, it’s vital. He must get aid immediately.”

The gatekeeper’s face disappeared from the peephole and the gate swung open. The gatekeeper peered up at the rider, then at the hobbit sitting before him. “Oh, he doesn’t look good at all, does he?” he mumbled. “You best get to Mistress Hazel; she deals with the lost causes. Follow this road to the first inn, The Silver Sterling. Turn left up the road behind the inn, take a right by the hay mills and go to your first house on the left. It has a yellow door and there’s a sign of an eagle hanging over it.”

“Thank you,” Berwin said, then nudged Bera into motion for one final lap. They galloped up the cobble-stoned street, ignoring the curious glances of the few on-lookers standing by. He found the inn and turned left, then followed the small lane a mile to the hay mills. He turned right and a half-mile up the road, saw the house at last. He pulled up to the house and dismounted. Taking Frodo in his arms, he went to the door and knocked upon it ceaselessly.

Moments later, a lock was sliding from the bolt and the door swung open. A young woman in a modest nightgown stood there, yawning. She beckoned him in as soon as she saw Frodo and bade him to follow her to the darkened front parlor. She quickly started a fire in the hearth from the embers still glowing from an earlier fire as Berwin went instantly to the settee and gently laid Frodo upon it. When he looked up, he noticed that the girl had disappeared and a small fire was slowly growing to light the room. He sat on the settee holding Frodo’s feverish hand and waited.

A few minutes passed before a pretty, middle-aged woman came into the room. Unlike her apprentice, she was properly dressed and was fastening her long auburn hair into a bun as she entered. Her face was kind but determined, and she walked into the room with an air of grace and absolute control.

The girl followed behind her, carrying a kit and tray. As the girl set everything out, Mistress Hazel bade Berwin to move so she could examine her patient. “Tell me what happened. What are his symptoms?” she ordered in a controlled, soothing voice.

Berwin explained everything as simply as he could. The healer nodded along as he described how he had found Frodo and about his own meager treatments. She removed the sweat-drenched clothing and the bandages around Frodo’s head and chest and nodded again. She poked and prodded, watching the halfling’s face for signs of discomfort.

Then Berwin explained Frodo’s symptoms and his steady decline over the last two days. Her face became troubled and she turned to the man with a steadying expression. She regarded him closely for several moments before speaking.

“Your friend, I’m afraid, is already nearly spent,” she said, and her face showed a resolved sympathy. “I will help him in every way that I am able, but you must prepare yourself for the possibility that he will not survive.”

She turned then to the girl, who was boiling water over the hearth and waiting for further instructions. “Rowan, draw a bath. Go down to the lowest cellar and break some ice from the block. Put a bucket full in the bath to cool the water. We must do what we can to bring down his fever. Then get dressed and make yourself some coffee; we will get no rest tonight.”

Morning dawned pale and soft over the hills of Bree. Berwin stretched and yawned heavily, wondering vaguely at the mattress beneath him and the cool sheet that covered him. He opened his eyes and found himself in a small room. A washbasin stood in the corner and a hutch stood near the door. The dresser top was laden with bandages and bottles.

Berwin was up in an instant as he recalled the events of the previous night: the desperate ride to the healer’s house, the healer telling him to prepare to lose his friend and then quickly shepherding him down the hall, out of the way.

He had paced the small room for endless hours, listening intently to every muffled word and sound. He knew they had bathed Frodo in ice water at least once, and thought they may have again. Between baths, the healer and her young apprentice sounded to have taken Frodo to another room near the front of the house, and Berwin could make out nothing of what they said, nor could he decipher the meaning of the muffled sounds he heard.

Berwin had finally fallen asleep, too exhausted with hunger, worry and travel to stay awake any longer. The hour had been late and as he briefly glanced at the clock now, he realized he had only managed a few hours of rest.

He took three long strides to the door, opened it and made his way down the hall, checking each room for his friend as he passed. At the door second from the parlor, he stopped. Inside this room sat Hazel, at the side of a patient’s bed. The patient was an old woman, who had many bandages on her left arm and she was asleep.

“Good morning,” Hazel said without turning around. “I hope that you slept.”

“He is next door, and he holds onto life still,” Hazel answered and turned from her patient to regard the man carefully. “He has a strong will. If we can get the fever to break, I believe he may recover fully.”

Hazel smiled politely. “Rowan is attending to him. I will join her shortly. In the meantime, there is food prepared for you in the kitchen. You must eat.”

“Can’t I see him first?” Berwin asked, realizing he must sound childish to the healer but not caring.

“No,” she answered gently. “We will call you when it is time.” And with that, she turned back to her patient and said no more.

Berwin turned and walked slowly past the last room. The door was closed and he was tempted to open it and at least get a peek at Frodo. He resisted the urge with difficulty, knowing the healer was right. The less distractions they had, the better it would be for Frodo.

He walked through the parlor, which somehow seemed bigger and more inviting in the morning light than it had the night before. The curtains for one were pushed open, as were the windows. A breeze passed softly through the room, and outside, birds could be heard wallowing nearby. Berwin lingered briefly in the parlor and felt a sense of calm return to him despite his worry.

In the kitchen, which was equally as bright and soothing as the parlor, was a small table with seating for two. At one seat, breakfast was laid out. Berwin’s stomach grumbled loudly at the sight and he sat down to his meal: eggs with cheese, blackberry muffin, sausage and ham, and sliced fruit. A steaming cup of tea sat next to the plate.

Berwin picked up the fork and began to eat. He was surprised to find the eggs and meat still warm, and wondered how long ago the food was prepared. The healer and her apprentice must have just finished their own meals before he had woken. The food was delicious and he savored every bite.

As he ate, he heard the door to Frodo’s room open and close. Hazel must be with him now. A few minutes passed, during which Berwin finished his tea and poured himself another cup. Then he heard the door open and close again. Berwin stilled himself and listened attentively. He could just faintly hear the soft pattering of the apprentice heading down the hall. Another door opened and he could hear the unmistakable sound of water being poured into a tub. So, it was another icy bath to keep Frodo cool. How many of those had there been?

Berwin forced himself to remain seated and finish his food. He took his last bite as he heard the door to Frodo’s room open again, and remain open. They were carrying Frodo to his bath. Berwin quickly stood and went to the parlor to catch a glimpse of his friend as they carried him down the hall.

What he saw did not encourage him. Frodo was flushed with fever and drenched in sweat. His arm slid from his chest and hung down limply at his side and he was unconscious still. The bruises at least looked better, and the gash on his head was an angry red scar. Yet to Berwin, Frodo did not appear to be healing much at all.

Berwin turned and walked stiffly out of the house. Once outside, he took a deep, steadying breath and buried his face in his hands as he fought to regain control of his emotions. Then he lifted his face to the cloudless sky above. “Please,” he pleaded. “Please, let him live. Let him be spared.”

“Mistress,” Rowan said when Hazel entered the room. “His fever has gone up again.”

Hazel closed the door softly behind her and quickly came to her apprentice’s side. She turned an expert eye on her patient and examined him thoroughly. The fever had risen, but not drastically so and he was still cooler than he had been the night before. His breathing was easier, though still raspy and short, and his coughing has subsided substantially; what Berwin had believed to be water in the lungs was just the sound of restricted lungs trying to breath around broken ribs, the only good news she had been able to give him last night.

She noted the fresh sweat breaking out over his body and she smiled, relieved. “I do believe his fever is beginning to break. It will pitch up again before it lets go completely. Let’s help it along shall we? Draw a bath, just cold water, no ice.”

Once Rowan was gone, Hazel prepared Frodo for the bath. She removed the soft, thin dressing gown they had placed him in, checking his cuts and bruises. They were already beginning to mend and fade, a good sign. She gingerly unwrapped the bandages that secured Frodo’s head and torso. A poultice of comfrey leaves had helped the gash to fully mend at last and the swelling had decreased to a bump. His ribs would take longest to heal, but they too were mending.

She checked the willow bark and linden tea Rowan had prepared. She added a dash of honey for flavor, then prodded Frodo’s mouth open and poured the tea, bit by bit, down his throat. She was encouraged to see that he was conscious enough to swallow on his own; she would not have to insert the feeding tube again. Once he swallowed it all, she placed the cup on the bedside table. At that moment Rowan returned, and together they carefully lifted him and carried him down the hall.

Once Frodo was situated in the water and Rowan was washing the sweat from his hair and face, Hazel went in search of Berwin. She had caught a glimpse of the man watching from the parlor and wanted to reassure him. She saw the front door standing open and stepped outside as Berwin was finishing his plea.

She waited a few moments, not wanting the man to know his words were overheard, then stepped next to him and stood silently. When he turned to look at her, she said, “His fever, I believe, is breaking. It will be a long wait until he awakens however, so if you have any business to conduct in town while you are here, I suggest you do so. You may see him as soon as you return.”

Berwin was relieved more than he could say and only his sense of diplomacy kept him from sweeping the woman into a mighty bear hug. He did shake her hand heartily though, and thanked her repeatedly for her help. She accepted gracefully and returned to her patient, and Berwin saddled his horse.

He did have business to take care of. He needed to order the supplies he would need for the longer road ahead. Then he needed to find The Prancing Pony and see if his traveling companions yet remained in town. Now that he knew Frodo would be well, he needed to be on his way as quickly as may be.

Frodo’s fever did break, as Hazel suspected. The final bath had cooled him enough that the fever gave way at last. Rowan took him from the water when he began to shiver and quickly wrapped him in warm blankets. They took him back to his room, redressed the ribs and forehead, and slipped the dressing gown back on him. They settled him into the bed and covered him in blankets. Rowan built a fire and prepared another cup of the strong, healing tea.

Hazel took over the vigil from there. She bade her apprentice to go and sleep, as neither of them had got a moment’s rest during the long, grueling night. She left Frodo briefly to check on her other patients and then slumped in the chair in the parlor to get a few hours of sleep herself; she did not want to be far away should one of her patients awaken and need something.

She woke as Berwin returned, shortly after the lunch hour. He was overjoyed to hear that Frodo was now officially on the mend, and he quickly forgot his own news.

He had not found his friends in town as he had hoped. Barliman, the innkeeper of The Prancing Pony, confirmed that his companions left just yesterday morning. They had left a letter for him for whenever he eventually arrived, but it brought him little comfort. They said only that they would rest for half a day at Amon Sul and again at the Ford of Bruinen to await messengers from other regions. He supposed if he left tomorrow and traveled swiftly, he could try to catch them at the Ford. They would be traveling quickly themselves and would not be easy to catch.

“He sleeps still,” Hazel said and led him to Frodo’s room. “You may stay with him until he awakens.”

Berwin went to Frodo’s side and felt his forehead, warm still, but not dangerously so, and blissfully dry. He shook his head in wonder. “I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed with relief.

Hazel handed him a compress and he placed it gently over Frodo’s forehead. “Hobbits are surprisingly sturdy folk,” she said. “I’ve seen them get up and walk away from falls that wound break most men, and survive many illnesses that have claimed the strongest men’s lives. That Frodo was alive still when you brought him to me speaks much of his constitution.”

“It does indeed,” Berwin said. “How much longer must he stay here? I know he will be eager to return to his home.”

“Once he awakens, I will be able to tell. It depends how well he’s feeling, but I will keep him here two days at the very least.”

Hazel allowed him to sit by his friend as promised then went to prepare the evening meal. When Rowan awakened, she came to help her mistress and check on the patients while dinner was cooking. Once everyone was fed, Hazel dismissed herself for a proper rest and Rowan and Berwin returned to Frodo’s room.

Rowan placed a tray laden with medicine and clean bandages on the bedside table. She slowly unwrapped the poultice from Frodo’s forehead, then picked up a garlic clove. She cut the clove in half then gently rubbed one half over the gash. “Prevents infection,” she explained at Berwin’s perplexed expression. “Honey does the same, but it’s a bit more messy and it can’t be reused.”

With that, she placed the other half into a mortar. She took up the pestle and began to crush the juice out of the clove and drained this into a waiting glass of warm water. She mixed the water thoroughly then prodded Frodo’s mouth open, a much easier task than it had been before, and in his sleep he drank the water down.

Rowan shook her head. “No, but it helps alleviate that little tickle that causes him to cough. It will also soothe his sore throat and improve his health overall. Very handy, garlic is.”

“I will have to remember that,” Berwin said. “All I had was peppermint tea, not very useful that.”

“Oh but it is,” Rowan assured. “Peppermint alleviates nausea. That will explain why he was able to eat as long he did, and that’s very important. Mistress was wondering about that.”

“What other kinds of tea do you suggest?” Berwin asked, eager to learn what he could while he was here. He did not want to ever again be in the position of helplessness he had experienced over the last few days.

Frodo stood in a meadow of clover and daffodils. Eagles circled high in the sky above him and the narrow creek trickled softly at his feet. The sun shined down brightly upon him but he felt no warmth from it. Neither did he feel the cool breeze that gently ruffled his hair and clothes. He wriggled his toes on the grass and laughed for the peace he felt.

Across the creek, at the far edge of the meadow, he saw two figures emerge from the silver trees. The figures were running and laughing, though he could not hear them, and they were tagging each other back and forth. He wondered who they were.

“You’re it!” cried one voice, but it came not from the figures playing and instead sounded like it came from within his own head. Frodo recognized the voice as Pippin’s.

The two figures ran closer to the creek and Frodo could now see they were indeed his cousins. Pippin tagged Merry and darted away, closer to the water’s edge. Merry gave chase and he was crying as he laughed. But before they could reach the creek and look up to see Frodo standing there, they turned and ran back to the line of tall trees.

They were no longer alone. Many other figures now sat or stood at the edge of the meadow. Merry and Pippin joined them and Frodo saw it was a picnic and many of his friends and relatives were there. Merry and Pippin sat with Folco, Fatty and Sam, while Pervinca sang of a love unquenchable.

Frodo sat down to watch from a distance and found that he was suddenly sitting on a seat of stone high on a hill, and he was looking down at the scene in the meadow, his friends at one side of the creek, himself on the other. He stared at himself in wonder. How could he be in two different places at the same time?

“What I want to know is, why aren’t you over there with your friends?” asked a jubilant voice from behind him.

Frodo jumped and turned around. “Bilbo!” He embraced his cousin fiercely and tears of joy sprang to his eyes.

“I know you have, my boy, and I’ve missed you.” Bilbo held Frodo at arm’s length and looked him up and down. “You’re still as thin as a willow wand. I’d hoped Sam would have fattened you up by now. And look how you’ve grown! If you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be a giant among hobbits.”

Frodo smiled and shook his head. “That’s Merry and Pippin,” he corrected.

“Ah, so it is,” Bilbo said. “And that brings me back to my question. Why do you not join your friends Frodo?”

Frodo shrugged. “They’re fine on their own. I want to stay here with you.”

“But there is no ‘here’ Frodo. ‘Here’ is nowhere,” Bilbo said and waved his hand around them to prove his point.

Frodo looked past his seat of stone to see a vast white nothingness spread out before him, surrounding him at every angle. It was nearly blinding in its intensity and Frodo found himself squinting to keep out the light. On the edge of this crystalline void, he could see black figures, nine small dots. They did not appear to be moving, but Frodo knew they were flying towards him as fast as their steeds could carry them. They filled him with dread but Bilbo seemed not to notice them.

Frodo turned back to the scene below and found that he was once again himself, standing by the creek and watching his friends. He looked behind him, up the hill, but could not see the top as it was shrouded now in mist. But Bilbo stood next to him still and he motioned for Frodo to cross.

“But I cannot cross,” Frodo said and pointed to the creek, just a few feet wide. “It’s deeper than it looks. It will be the end of me.”

Bilbo laughed and shook his grey-curled head. “Really, Frodo, have I taught you that little? Use your Baggins sense. If you can’t go through it, go around it. And if you can’t go around it, then go over it.” He placed a long, thick log over the creek from bank to bank. “That will get you where you belong.”

“Thank you Bilbo,” Frodo smiled and stepped onto the log. Then he hesitated and turned back to his beloved cousin. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Not yet, my lad, but we’ll be crossing the water together one day. Sooner than you think.”

“No you don’t. You’re doing a marvelous job of things Frodo, taking care of yourself and your friends.” He pointed and Frodo could see only Merry, Pippin and Sam now, smoking their pipes and humming mournfully. “They need you now, and you’ll need every single one of them before the end, especially the one you expect to need the least. Go to them lad, you’ll all be the gladder for it.”

Frodo took another step over the creek, then stopped again, suddenly remembering. He turned to his cousin fearfully. “But your ring Bilbo. I’ve lost it and I can’t find it.”

Bilbo laughed again and flippantly waved the concern away. “It’s not lost, you silly scamp. It’s right where you left it. Just get there before he can. Go on now, child, you haven’t a moment to lose.”

And just as he had appeared, Bilbo was gone. Frodo stared at the spot where his cousin had been standing and felt like weeping. He turned instead; he would do as Bilbo asked. He always would. He walked over the log, looked up and gasped.

The white void had returned, and the black figures with it. They were still small dots on the horizon, still unmoving, but somehow closer and getting closer all the while. Dread returned to him and he cast his eyes about, looking for his friends. They were nowhere to be seen.

He turned and fled over the log. He stepped down onto the grassy floor, but the earth disappeared as he did so and he was falling, fast and out of control through a wall of fire, which scorched and burned him mercilessly. A deep, rumbling laughter echoed all about him and darkness descended upon him so swiftly he thought he had gone blind.

He cried out for help and a soft, blue light appeared below him. He was slowing, floating now like a feather on a breeze, and the eagles soared in circles above him. He felt something soft beneath him, a mattress, and he smelled the fragrance of roses sweet in the morning breeze. Then footsteps could be heard pattering softly across the floor, near silent and wonderfully familiar.

“Mr. Frodo. Wake up, Mr. Frodo. Breakfast is ready.” Sam threw open the curtains.

Rowan was explaining the many different uses of willow bark when Frodo’s eyes fluttered open. Berwin was the first to notice he was awake.

“Frodo,” he said and squeezed his friend’s hand gently. He smiled warmly and easily. “You’re awake.”

“So it seems,” Frodo said, smiling weakly at his friend as the fright of his dream quickly faded to distant memory. He looked around the room curiously, his eyes coming to rest on a pretty young woman. “Hello,” he said shyly.

Rowan smiled. “Good evening Master Hobbit,” she said in a high, sweet voice like a bell chiming in the early morning light. “I am Rowan, the healer’s apprentice. Mistress Hazel is resting at the moment, but she will be with you in time. How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Frodo answered truthfully, and Berwin and Rowan laughed knowingly.

“Mistress expected you would be,” Rowan said and stood. “I will get your meal.”

Frodo waited until Rowan gathered her tray and left before turning back to Berwin. He looked at the man questioningly. “Are we in Bree then? The last I remember clearly was camping on the Green Way.”

Berwin nodded. “We arrived last night and the healer has been attending to you nearly nonstop since. Your fever broke this morning and we were only waiting for you to awaken. I must say, I am extremely glad to see you awake.”

Frodo smiled softly but his eyes were worried. “I am sorry for all the trouble I caused you. I will forever be in your debt.”

“You owe me nothing,” Berwin insisted. “I fear to think what may have happened had I not found you when I did. I could not leave you, neither then nor now. And speaking of now, how are you feeling?”

Frodo turned inward and quickly assessed himself. His head no longer hurt, except when he touched it or moved it too suddenly. His throat was still a little dry, but he could breathe with little difficulty, though his sore ribs kept the breaths short. His muscles ached still, but he could move them with ease. He was neither hot nor cold, but perfectly comfortable under the quilted blanket. “I am better,” he said and Berwin nodded.

“I am glad to hear it,” the man said. Then he looked at the hand he was holding, at the scars upon the knuckles. Even the healer had felt those were not caused by the flood, but from being repeatedly scratched or rubbed against something. “Do you remember anything more, of why or how you came to be by the river?” he asked.

“I do,” Frodo answered. “I remember everything and it was all a silly thing really. I thought I lost something, but I think now I know where it is. It’s of little importance.”

“All of this for nothing then?” Berwin asked, hoping Frodo would elaborate. The hobbit was clearly thinking deeply on something, the way he cast his eyes about the room, not seeing anything.

“No, not for nothing,” Frodo replied, but was interrupted from saying anything further when Rowan returned with a tray.

The apprentice placed the tray on the table and Frodo could see that it held a deep bowl of chicken broth, plain rye bread and a cup of tea. She picked up the bowl and dipped a spoon into the warm liquid. Slowly, she fed Frodo the broth, with an occasional bite of bread, watching him carefully for signs of nausea. He showed none and took the food eagerly.

Frodo took advantage of having to eat to think about everything he remembered from the last two weeks. It has been a strange time, to say the least. The Feast, touring Buckland and remembering all those dreadful things, getting lost and falling into the River, and Berwin finding him only because he had been late in leaving for his destination. It could not simply be all coincidence. It happened for a reason and Frodo thought he knew what it was.

At the time, Frodo had thought losing Bilbo’s ring a horrible thing, but it had turned into an unlooked-for opportunity. All these years, yearning for information on Bilbo’s whereabouts, and now he not only knew where Bilbo was, but he also sat next to the man who would be passing that way on his return to his own home. It was too perfect, too tempting to pass up. It was the only thing he ever wanted and had always thought he would never be able to get. Now it was just within his grasp. He had only to reach out, stretch his hand, and grab it.

Some nagging, practical side of his mind told him he needed to go home, return to his friends and retrieve the ring. He had things yet to do in the Shire before he could leave it for good. It was too soon and the circumstances were not ideal. This is not how he would have chosen to leave his friends and home, but Frodo was too determined now to listen to any practicality. He would not sit idly by and let this opportunity pass him. Especially after that dream: it had turned so frightening after Bilbo had left.

He waited until Rowan left again, to take the tray back to the kitchen. Frodo turned to Berwin and found the man regarding him suspiciously. So, Berwin knew him that well already?

He bit the inside of his lip, deciding how to approach the subject. Finally, he decided to discern first Berwin’s intentions. “Were you able to find for your companions?” he asked.

Berwin shook his head regrettably. “I was not. They waited until yesterday morning and then could wait no more. I was able to put in all my orders, though they will take some time to be filled. I shall keep you company then as you recover, for a day at least. Then I must away.”

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Berwin said regrettably. “I have grown fond of your companionship and will miss your presence on the road, especially now that I must travel it alone. But I must leave as soon as everything is in order; I’ve been too long delayed, though I no longer curse the lost time.”

Frodo shook his head. “Can’t you wait, just another day longer?” he asked, trying not to plead and failing miserably. “The healer will not let me go tomorrow, I know that much without having to speak with her.”

“I wish that I could,” Berwin said, confused about the hobbit’s dismay. “But as much I would like to wait and see you safely on your way, I must leave immediately.”

“But I do not want you to see me on my way, unless that way lies with you,” Frodo declared. “I wish more than anything to find Bilbo and this may be my only chance to do so. I will accompany you to Rivendell, if you will have me.”

Berwin felt his heart soar with gladness as he considered the brave little hobbit before him. Perhaps he would not have to be so lonely on the road after all. He squeezed Frodo’s hand gently and nodded. “I shall be glad to have you as my companion once more. I will wait then, and we will go together.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, not taking his eyes off Robin as the young shirriff walked away with his best friend. When he failed to make any further response, Jolly answered for him. “Robin was telling us how he got picked for the shirriffs, then he pulled Sam away to talk. It seemed mighty serious.”

Lily shook her head impatiently and waved her sons over to the chopping blocks. “Well, whatever it is, leave them be. I’m sure we’ll hear all about it sooner or later. In the meantime, this wood won’t chop itself. Jolly, it’s your turn with Finch now. Tom, you’re next.”

“I can’t go without Sam,” Tom reasoned and used this excuse to walk towards the barn.

He stayed far enough away so as not to eavesdrop, but close enough to read Sam’s and Robin’s facial expressions. He noted Sam’s agitated confusion and Robin’s reluctance. Finally, Sam placed his hands on his hips like he did when he was demanding an answer to something, and Robin drew himself up and calmly replied. Tom could not begin to imagine what kind of news Robin had to deliver that he would have to screw himself up so much to give it.

Tom’s sense of unease grew as the scene before him seemed to freeze for the longest of moments, and he knew that something bad was about to happen.

“It’s your master, Mr. Baggins. He went missing, just before the storm hit.”

Robin froze after his declaration, readying himself for Sam’s reaction. He expected Sam to shout out in dismay or make some other such dramatic display. What happened instead was much worse. Sam simply looked at him with an expression of stubbornly confused doubt and for several moments, said and did nothing. Then he slowly shook his head.

“What are you rambling on about?” Sam asked. Had he just heard Robin correctly? “Where did you hear this from? Is Ted Sandyman back and spreading rumors again? You know better than to listen to him.”

Robin shook his head and tried to remember what he had so elaborately rehearsed during his ride from Frogmorton. “It’s from Mr. Merimac Brandybuck, the Master’s brother, that this news comes,” he began. “He came into Frogmorton yesterday afternoon. He had ridden all the previous night and that whole day to get to us. According to him, on the day of the storm, it was discovered that your master was missing. He was nowhere to be found in Brandy Hall or the area immediately nearby. The best that could be figured, the last time anyone saw Mr. Baggins was the night before, around the time the storm started. They were to start searching all of Buckland yesterday until he’s found,” Robin finished, relieved to finally have the story out but worried still about how Sam would take it once the news sunk in.

Sam was silent for many minutes, trying to sort out what he had just heard. He seemed reluctant still to believe the story and shook his head again. “That doesn’t make any kind of sense,” he said at long last. “How could he be gone so long without anyone realizing it?” he asked, as if he could reason the problem away.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Robin replied. “But it happened. Mr. Baggins is lost, but they are searching for him, high and low.”

Sam mulled this over as he began to absent-mindedly fidget with one of his shirt buttons, his expression growing more confused and agitated by the second. He was beginning to accept at last what Robin was telling him. He really had no choice but to accept it, as he knew Robin would never lie to him, especially about something so serious as this. But that didn’t mean that Robin would not refrain from mentioning certain facts if he felt Sam couldn’t handle hearing them. Sam suspected this was the case, as there was something about all this that wasn’t making sense.

“What aren’t you telling me, Robin? Mr. Frodo wouldn’t go disappearing into a rainstorm for no reason. And if he’s in Buckland, why are they sending word over here?” he demanded.

Robin grew reluctant again, affirming Sam’s suspicions by his hesitation alone. Sam returned his hands to his hips and glared at his friend. Robin sighed and rushed ahead, knowing it would be futile in any case to try to keep the information from him. He would hear it one way or another eventually.

“They think he wasn’t in a … ‘right frame of mind’ when he left. They think he was troubling over something and that’s why he took off. They don’t know what that something could be, but they think there’s a slight possibility he could be making his way home. But they think it’s more likely that he’s in Buckland, that he was injured or some such in the storm. That’s why they’re searching Buckland, see, but they still wanted to send word over the River just in case. Of course,” and here he paused and braced himself for the inevitable, “they think it’s also likely that Mr. Baggins left a purpose. … That he left the Shire and won’t be back.”

“They think?” Sam asked, his tone and expression incredulous. “They’re certainly spending a lot of time thinking. Why don’t any of them know anything?”

“They just weren’t expecting this to happen, that’s all,” Robin shrugged, realizing too late that was the wrong response.

Sam let go of his shirt button and began to pace. The fear Robin had expected earlier had finally arrived and in full force as Sam at last realized what this news meant. What Robin had not counted on was anger. He watched as Sam’s pacing quickened, and he stepped back a few paces as Sam began to rant, his normally sweet and gentle voice gradually growing from frustration to full on rage.

“Not expecting it? And why would they? Mr. Frodo wouldn’t take off for no reason or no word, and he especially wouldn’t just leave the Shire. Any fool would know that. Though they must be fools, for how else could he slip past over two hundred hobbits to walk outside into a rainstorm? Wasn’t anyone watching him? And how could they not know if something was bothering him? Even if he was trying to hide it, which of course he would, all you have to do is watch for the way he fusses with the things in his pockets to know something is wrong. Wasn’t anyone paying attention? And if they did know, why didn’t they do anything about it? Don’t they care? And where were Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin that they didn’t notice he was gone until clear into the next day!”

“Sam! Sam, calm down,” Tom said as he stopped Sam’s pacing by placing strong hands upon his friend’s shoulders. He had run into the barn when Sam started yelling and now turned to Robin, who was watching Sam as if he had never seen the gardener before in his life. “Robin, what’s this all about? I could hear him shouting clear outside,” he said as Tolman and Lily rushed into the barn.

They too had heard the commotion – everyone had. Lily had quickly handed control of the contest over to another hobbitess and ordered everyone to stay put, then had come running behind her husband to find out what the problem was. Neither of them could remember ever hearing Sam raise his voice in anger before, and they were greatly concerned about what could have caused the outburst.

Tolman stood next to Tom, and Lily went to Sam’s other side to help her son in his attempts to calm the unusually upset gardener. She was shocked to feel the tension in Sam’s muscles, strained so tight they were shaking. “You best start at the beginning lad,” she said to Robin.

So Robin repeated everything, avoiding Sam’s glare as best he could. He noticed that the Cottons were taking the news rather hard as well, and he wondered how much of that was for Sam’s benefit. Everyone knew how highly Sam regarded his employer, and his outburst had shown them just how deep that attachment went.

When he finished, everyone was quiet as they absorbed the full implication and meaning of the news. Hearing it a second time had done Sam no favors. He was now leaning heavily against Tom and his expression was one of resigned disbelief and shock.

“Oh dear,” Lily said at last. She tightened her grip on Sam’s arm and concernedly stroked his hair. “That doesn’t sound good at all. Not in a right frame of mind? Mr. Baggins may have his oddities, but I always found him to be a sensible, levelheaded lad. I can’t see him doing something as rash as this.”

Tolman Cotton shook his head. “It’s none of our mind what Mr. Baggins does or doesn’t do, but you, Sam… Let’s get you into the house until you calm down, and then you best get on home for the day. You’ll go with him, Tom. You too Robin.”

They slowly made their way out of the barn and towards the house. As soon as they emerged outside, all pretense of keeping up the contest stopped. Everyone turned and gawked at the sight of the usually sturdy Gamgee being guided by Tom and Lily, with Robin walking miserably alongside and Farmer Cotton leading the group.

Tolman reached the contest area in time to stop May, Marigold, Jolly and Rosie from rushing to Sam’s side. “Stay here at least long enough for me to explain what’s going on. That way no one has to repeat themselves a hundred different times.” He waited until he heard the kitchen door close before proceeding with the news.

In the house, Tom and Lily led Sam to the guest room and sat him upon the bed. Tom went to grab a pitcher of apple juice and a glass, while Lily went to retrieve a couple of damp cloths. Robin sat next to Sam and draped a supportive arm around his friend’s shoulders to keep him sitting upright. Sam just sat where they had put him, staring blankly at the wall.

Moments later, Lily bustled in, with Tom close behind. “Lay him down Robin, and prop his legs and feet up with the pillows. Leave his head level with the bed. Tom, have him drink two glasses of juice now, wait ten minutes and give him another.”

“What’s wrong with him Ma?” Tom asked uncertainly as Robin quickly followed the orders given him. It was easy enough as Sam seemed aware of everything going on around him and lay down on his own with support from Robin. He let his friend move the pillows from under his head to under his feet, yet he said nothing and continued to look around the room with a dazed expression, and his face was pale.

“He’s gone into a bit of a shock, poor thing. It should pass soon enough, but for now, keep him drinking that juice. All this news drained him out, and that will help replace some of the gumption he lost,” Lily explained. She handed the damp cloths to Robin, who was still sitting next to Sam on the bed, now holding his hand. “Robin, dear, place these towels underneath his head and on the top of his chest near his neck, no need to undo the shirt.”

Robin reached over with his free hand and took the towels. Sam lifted his head so Robin could slip a rolled-up cloth under his neck, and Tom helped Sam drink his first two glasses of juice at the same time. Then they gently laid him down again and Robin placed the second cloth upon Sam’s chest. Robin ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, pushing errant curls off of his pale face while Tom and Lily looked on. “Sam,” he said pleadingly, “say something.”

Sam was silent for what seemed like agonizingly long minutes before mumbling, “This is all my fault.”

“Now Sam, you know it isn’t,” Tom said. He knelt by the bed and took his friend’s other hand in both of his. “How could you even think such a thing?”

Again Sam took a long time to respond. By the time he did, there was a thundering of feet outside in the kitchen. He answered just as Jolly, Rosie and his sisters burst into the room, speaking so quietly that only Robin could hear the answer. “I should have been with him.”

“Oh, Sam!” Marigold exclaimed a second later as she saw her brother lying upon the bed, looking as close to death as she had ever seen a living person look. She attempted to rush to his side, as did May, Jolly and Rosie, but Lily stepped in front of them and blocked their path.

“Not so fast, children,” she ordered in a calm, controlled voice. “I know you’re all concerned but we must not crowd him. May and Goldie, you take over for Tom and Robin. You lads, go fetch the cart and harness, and get ready Robin’s pony. You’ll have to take Sam home when he’s ready. Rosie, go into the kitchen and put together a bowl of mixed berries, then bring it in here for Sam. He needs to eat something for the shock.”

The children quickly obeyed. Tom gave Marigold the glass of apple juice, and he and Robin followed Jolly outside, back to the barn. Rosie went with her mother to the kitchen as Marigold and May took over vigil of their brother.

Sam became more respondent with his sisters in the room and took the glass of juice to drink himself. The muddled confusion in his mind was beginning to clear and he was starting to feel silly for all the commotion he was causing. But with the clearing of his mind came the questions and ‘what ifs’ and Sam soon found it difficult to continue laying still. When he tried to sit up, however, his sisters gently pushed him back down. He waited a minute before trying again to rise, and again his sisters restrained him.

“Sam, you can’t see how pale you are,” May replied worriedly. “You stay put until Auntie Lily says you can get up.”

Sam complied then and stayed put as he was told. He really did feel strangely tired and lightheaded, but without something to do, he could only replay over and again everything Robin had told him. There was a horrible image in his mind of Mr. Frodo running blindly through the rain, then slipping and falling down an enormously high cliff. Or twisting his ankle and falling into a ravine. Or tripping over something and falling into the river.

‘Now what was it Robin said about the River?’ he thought. It had flooded over, but there was something else. A flash flood. What if Mr. Frodo was trying to cross the bridge over the river when the flood came down? Sam had never seen a flash flood, but from everything he heard about them, they were dangerous and destroyed everything in their path. Panic overtook him and he sat up at last, despite his sisters’ attempts to restrain him. He was simply too strong for them and without his willing compliance, they had no hope of keeping him abed.

“Sam, you need to rest,” May said as Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He waited until the room stopped spinning, then grabbed the towel on his chest and threw it upon the bed. He crossed the room in three long strides and was almost out the door when Rosie came back. They nearly collided and Sam had to reach out quickly to grab hold of the doorframe to keep from stumbling backward.

Rosie looked up at him with surprise and concern. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said then handed him a small bowl of sweet berries. “You need to eat. It will make you feel better.”

Rosie, however, wasn’t about to let him go so easily. She placed a hand upon his arm and rooted herself between him and the exit. She knew he couldn’t get past her without pushing her aside, and she knew also Sam would never attempt to do that. He frowned at her but she shook her head.

“I’ll get Robin, but only if you go back to that bed and lie down as Ma told you. Take this bowl with you and eat everything in it. And another glass of apple juice, Goldie,” she said, looking pointedly at Sam. Keeping her one hand upon his arm, she motioned with the other towards the bed. “Go on, now.”

“Don’t you ‘but Rosie’ me, Samwise Gamgee,” Rosie said. “You do as you’re told or I shall get Pa, and then we’ll see what Gaffer has to say about your appreciation of our hospitality.”

That did the trick. Sam grumpily took the bowl and returned to the bed. Rosie waited until he was sitting down, leaning against the wall for support, his mouth full of strawberries, before leaving to get Robin. May and Marigold tried their best not to snicker but couldn’t hide their smirks. “Oh, quiet you,” Sam grumbled as he took a bite of blueberry.

Sam was finishing the last of his snack when Robin returned, followed by Rosie, Jolly and Tom. “Pony’s ready,” Robin said. “We best get you home Sam. Are you feeling better?”

But Sam wasn’t interested in his own needs at the moment and ignored the question. He quickly swallowed his last bite and turned to his friend. “You said there was a flash flood,” he started. “What if Mr. Frodo was coming home and he was on the bridge when it came down?”

Robin shook his head. Is that what had got Sam so riled up? “No, Sam,” he reassured. “If Mr. Baggins was coming home, he’d have been well over the bridge by that time, so don’t you fret none.”

Sam nodded, having no choice but to believe his friend. After all, he only knew the lands within twenty miles of Hobbiton and couldn’t begin to know how long it would take to get to and from anywhere beyond the Three-Farthing Stone. Then a more hopeful thought occurred to him. “The storm began three nights ago. If Mr. Frodo were coming home, he’d be arriving today. I need to get to Bag End.”

“Come on,” Tom said. “Pa’s given us all leave to go, so we’d better get moving on.”

So Sam was at last allowed out of bed. His sisters stayed close to him in case he stumbled, but Sam walked steadily and with determination. He was still somewhat pale, but his energy had returned in the form of adrenaline as his heart raced with the hope that he would be seeing Mr. Frodo soon. He would see about being left on Bagshot Row once they got home, but now was not the time for arguments.

They piled into the cart and Robin took the reins. The ride to Hobbiton was subdued. No one really knew what to say. They all hoped to find Mr. Baggins once they arrived home, but they couldn’t forget what else Robin had said, about the possibility that Mr. Baggins may have taken off like old Bilbo Baggins had all those years ago. Sam also remained quiet and kept a hopeful eye towards home.

When they reached Bagshot Row, Sam tried to argue against being taken home, but he was rather outnumbered. Robin stopped the cart for Marigold to jump out where the lane met the Row. She ran up the Hill as Robin urged the pony to Number Three, where everyone clambered out and made their way inside. Sam only managed one brief glance up the Hill before being led inside the smial.

“Really, I’m fine,” he insisted as May and Rosie led him to the kitchen. “I’m much better now, honest. I can go up to Bag End.”

“Daddy!” Marigold called as she entered the gate of Bag End. She ran up the path and into the smial’s front entrance. “Daddy!”

“What are you doing in there, lass?” Hamfast called. He had been startled from his work by his daughter’s many frantic calls and had come running from the back garden to see what was the matter. He came to the front of the hole to find Marigold standing fretfully in the doorway to Bag End. “Why aren’t you at the Cottons? What’s happened?”

“Is Mr. Baggins here then?” she asked, indicating the door as she ran down the steps to her father.

“Of course he ain’t,” Hamfast said, growing more confused by the second. “That door’s broken, though how I can’t see. Locksmith should be here soon. Now are you going to tell me what you’re doing here lass, or not?”

“Is he hurt?” Hamfast exclaimed, his heart sinking and pounding simultaneously with fear for his youngest son.

“No, not that kind of not well,” Marigold said and grabbed her father’s arm. “I’ll explain on the way home.”

“Really, I don’t need any more food,” Sam was protesting to May and Rosie as his father and younger sister arrived. He saw them and stood up expectantly. “Is Mr. Frodo here?” he asked.

Marigold shook her head apologetically as Hamfast came to his son’s side and felt his forehead, which other than being a bit clammy felt fine. “Are you all right, Sammy?” he asked, forgetting Sam’s age and calling him by his childhood nickname in his worry.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sam said, losing patience. “Why won’t anyone believe me? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to Bag End. I should be there when Mr. Frodo gets back. Please, Gaffer?”

Hamfast considered, carefully scrutinizing his son. Sam did appear to be fine enough, but he wondered how long that would last if Mr. Baggins didn’t show up as Sam was hoping. Still, there was no point in forcing Sam to stay at home when he didn’t need to be, and at least he could get some work done with what was left of the day if he went up to Bag End.

“Very well,” Hamfast finally agreed, “but you’re working while you’re up there, and I want someone with you.”

Hamfast looked up, for the first time noticing the company, and gave a start. “Robin Smallburrows! Good to see you, my lad,” he greeted. “Do you know your way around a garden?”

Hamfast nodded, then looked sternly at Sam. “If you start feeling even the slightest bit light-headed, I want you to come home straightaway. Tom, Robin, I’m counting on you to keep an eye on him. May, Goldie, you may as well stay here and get some chores done. Jolly, Rosie-dear, you can stay or go, but if you stay, you’re working.”

So the lasses brought out a load of laundry to wash and press while the lads made their way up the Hill to Bag End. They walked into the garden, everyone looking around in interest. Many long years had passed since the last time Tom, Jolly or Robin had been inside the garden. Even after the abuse of the storm, it was still a sight to behold. Sam was pleasantly surprised by how much his father had been able to accomplish in just a few hours and quickly set about finding tasks for everyone to do.

They weren’t there long before company arrived. Sam was explaining to Robin how to clear a flowerbed and turn the soil for planting when a knock sounded upon the gate. Sam was up and running a moment later. He came to the gate only to see the locksmith there standing in the lane. He let the locksmith in and together, they inspected the round green door of Bag End as Sam explained its odd behavior over the last week.

The locksmith shook his head and frowned. “There’s nothing to fix, Sam, as far as I can see. You don’t have a ghost do you?”

“That’s the best kind to have,” the locksmith said with a laugh, “but that still leaves us without a clue to go by. I can put in a new lock and see how that works for you, but that’d be a waste of effort in my opinion. Of course, it’s not my opinion as counts. You just tell me what Mr. Baggins would prefer, and I’ll do it.”

Sam shook his head, also at a loss. “I don’t see how it would do any good myself either, and Mr. Frodo’s not home at the moment to ask. Best to leave it till he gets back I suppose. If it continues, I’m sure he’ll be calling on you for your services.”

“I could go ahead and reset the lock for you while I’m here, unless you have a key.”

So the locksmith took out his tools and slipped the lock into place from the outside, ‘working backwards’ as he called it. When he finished, he rattled the doorknob experimentally and the lock stayed in place as it ought. “Easy as pie,” he stated, then waved off any fee and headed back to the lane.

Sam followed him to the gate and waved him off before returning to work. With everyone pitching in, he was able to get the last of the flowerbeds turned, as well as reset the reading bench in its rightful location under the elm tree. They raked up the last of the debris from the lawn and out from under the shrubs, then started plucking the weeds that were growing in full force.

They chatted easily amongst themselves, and the friends couldn’t help but notice that Sam was not really listening. At least, not to them. He was easily distracted throughout the afternoon, his ear tuned for any sound of someone coming up the lane, and his eyes constantly wandered to the gate, which he kept in his sight at all times.

At last, Robin and the Cottons had to go. The sun was beginning its final descent and twilight would soon be upon them. They had to be back in Bywater soon and could not stay any longer. They helped Sam to clean up and walked with him back to his hole. Rosie was keeping watch for them and came out as soon as they reached the gate. She pecked Sam on the cheek, then climbed into the cart with her brothers. Robin took the reins again and started them off.

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything new,” Robin promised. He would have to get back to his own work tomorrow or risk getting lectured by his captain.

Sam walked into his smial with a heavy heart but he didn’t have long to brood. As soon as he was through the door, May was escorting him to the kitchen table. She at least still seemed convinced that Sam needed to be kept in food and served him three full servings until Sam could eat no more. Marigold offered him dessert out of courtesy but wasn’t surprised when he refused it.

Throughout the meal, Sam kept looking out the kitchen window every few minutes, a fact that Hamfast noted, along with Sam’s poorly-concealed worry. When supper was over, he asked for a moment alone with his son and the lasses left for the parlor.

“Mr. Baggins is more than capable of taking care of himself, Sam,” Hamfast said, jumping straight to the point as he gathered pots and dishes for washing.

“But Robin said he wasn’t feeling well. What if he shows up tonight? He may need someone to care for him.”

“Then he shows up tonight and he’ll be there in the morning,” Hamfast reasoned. “If he’s not well, you can go fetch him a healer then. There’s no point in you camping outside of Bag End on a ‘what if’. You’ll wind up ill yourself.”

“What if he shows up sometime tomorrow? The storm could have held him up. I should be there when he gets back.”

“You will do no such thing,” Hamfast said. “You promised your cousins you would help them and that comes first. Mr. Baggins will understand that well enough. I’ll keep my eye out on the Road during the day. If I see him, I’ll go up and see if he’s needing anything straightaway.”

Hamfast decided not to mention the possibility that Mr. Baggins may not even be heading this way at all. If Sam needed that hope to keep him functioning, then Hamfast would indulge him for the time being. Once it appeared Mr. Baggins would not be turning up, well, then he’ll deal with that problem when it came.

Sam thanked his father and dismissed himself from the table to wash up and go to bed early. He would not admit it to the others, but he was still tired and growing more weary by the moment. It didn’t help that the ‘what ifs’ were starting to plague him again.

Mr. Frodo had not shown up and Sam wondered what that meant. The possibilities were endless and each one more horrible and dreadful than the last. The only thing that kept the crushing and befuddling darkness at bay was the hope that Mr. Frodo was making his way here with each passing hour. Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to spend a whole day away from Bag End tomorrow. He didn’t want Mr. Frodo returning to an empty smial, not if he wasn’t well. Not ever.

Sam nodded to himself, his mind made up. While he knew his father was correct about keeping true to his word with the Cottons, he also had a responsibility to Mr. Frodo and as far as he was concerned, Mr. Frodo came first. But Sam couldn’t just take off either. He would have to think of a way of leaving early tomorrow that wouldn’t cause alarm on the Cottons’ part or disapproval on his father’s.

What if Mr. Frodo didn’t show up tomorrow, or the day after that? Sam tried to keep himself from panicking, told himself that surely, nothing truly bad could have befallen his master. ‘If he doesn’t show up here, that means they’d have found him in Buckland is all,’ he thought sensibly to himself and hoped he was correct.

Bag End’s front door was still locked the next morning, and Sam knew from that alone that Mr. Frodo had not returned, for the door was always open when his master was at home. ‘Well, he’ll be back by tonight for certain, even if the rain held him up,’ Sam thought and went to the toolshed to pull out the long shears to cut the grass.

As he raked up the grass clippings and added them to the compost piles, he made a mental list of the flowers that needed replanting and where. He had an idea of how to leave the Cottons early today, and only hoped he didn’t give away his true intentions when he approached Tolman.

He stayed at Bag End as long as he dared, listening always for the sound of footsteps upon the road or the creak of the gate swinging open, and hearing neither. By the time he pulled himself away from the garden and returned to his own home, his sisters were preparing to leave and Hamfast was washing the dishes. A warm plate was left on the table for him and Sam had to eat quickly to be ready to leave with his sisters.

Hamfast saw them off from the gate. He would not be working today for his joints were too sore, but he would be ‘puttering about’ his own garden. Then he planned to go to The Ivy Bush to take some ale with Daddy Twofoot. He was interested to see how fast the rumor had spread from Bywater about Mr. Frodo’s disappearance. He also wanted to curtail any whisperings about “Mad Baggins” as far as he could help it.

Sam went immediately to work when they reached the Cotton’s. He greeted everyone with a smile and a wave. They were pleased to see him back to his normal, cheerful self and they greeted him happily in return.

Sam noticed right away that the last of the tree was gone. Nick explained that after he and the others had left, they had finished sawing the last of the tree to nil. Shortly after that, the lumber for the barn wall had been delivered and the delivery had taken up the rest of the evening. Sam was about to ask why that was, but Nick explained before he could open his mouth to speak. “I’m sorry, Sam, but Furzy let it out about your master. I’m sure everyone in town knows by now.”

“Which means they’ll know in Hobbiton by evening if they don’t already,” Finch put in.

“You better prepare yourself,” Jolly said with a degree of seriousness uncommon for him. “You’re going to be the center of much attention over the next few days. Everyone’s going to want stories of your master.”

“They’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Sam replied shortly and said no more, for at that moment, Tolman gave the order to begin their daily task and the chatter turned to work.

Now that the tree was out of the way, they turned their attention to repairing the barn wall and damaged stalls. A weakened support beam needed replacing, as did half of the wall planks, the door and its frame. One stall needed to be completely rebuilt and another two needed structural work. With all of them working together, both in and outside the barn, Tolman hoped to have the wall completed by the end of the day. Then they would have to figure out what to do with the steadily-growing pile of firewood currently being stored in the ruined stalls, for once the barn was repaired, Tolman wanted to move his ponies out of his brother’s stables and back into his own.

Their first job was to add temporary support beams for the hayloft so they could replace the old one. Once the beams were in place, they set to work tearing down the planks that had been damaged or splintered by the impact of the tree. These then where broken into smaller pieces and added to the scrap piles. After this was finished, they began to carry the lumber to the barn.

Carl Hornbeam had taken Tolman’s order to his father a few nights earlier and the lumber was already cut to the appropriate sizes. This would save them considerable time, but even given that, they still needed to make sure the beams would fit as well as they were meant to. As it turned out, a couple of the beams did need some sawing and shaving and they fixed those before they did anything else.

Elevenses was served as they were finishing the prep work, so they took a break to eat. Sam chose this moment to approach Farmer Cotton. “Uncle Tom, I was wondering if I might speak with you privately?” he asked. He was fidgeting nervously with a shirt button and trying to appear composed at the same time.

He led Sam through the kitchen to the parlor and they stood facing each other. Tolman had been watching Sam closely all morning and had been relieved up to this moment that Sam had at last got over his shock from yesterday. Looking at him now, however, Tolman was not so certain Sam was completely out of the woods yet and thought perhaps he was not feeling as well as he was letting on. “Now what’s the matter, lad?” Tolman asked with concern.

Sam forced himself to stop fidgeting, aware of the farmer’s scrutiny. He stood up straight and asked calmly, “I was wondering, sir, if you didn’t mind, if I could leave early today, at teatime?”

“Well, you see, sir, I’ve been trying to get Bag End to straights when I can,” Sam explained. “I’ve been working there mornings and evenings since the storm. I’ve got nearly everything done as needs it now, thanks in large part to your sons helping me yesterday. But I still have the planting to do, see, and I have to get the plants and whatnot ordered. Only, I can’t order them while I’m here. So I was wondering if I could leave early, just for today.”

‘There, that sounded casual enough,’ Sam thought guiltily to himself. That he wasn’t lying did not appease him. He knew he could easily enough ask his father to put the flower order in for him, but he wanted to leave. He wanted to get up to Bag End as soon as time would allow to see if his master had returned yet.

Tolman nodded, considering. “I suppose we could do without you for another afternoon, though we’ll miss your help. But stay for tea by all means. Rosie made some of that seed cake you like so much, and she’ll be sorely disappointed if you miss it.”

Sam nodded gratefully and let out a breath he did not know he was holding. “Thank you, Old Tom. I’ll make up for it, you have my word,” he promised, then turned and left the room, not realizing that Tolman watched after him with troubled eyes.

After elevenses, they set to work making the repairs. The younger lads and a few of the fellows worked on the stables while everyone else concentrated on the wall. With the number of experienced hands available to do the work, the job went quickly and steadily. One group worked on staining the wall planks while another did the heavy work. They put the new support beam in place, then replaced a splintered crossbeam. After constructing a new doorframe, they raised this into place and tested the structure as it stood so far. It was perfectly sound and solid. Now it was just a matter of nailing the new planks to the beams to make the wall, and hanging the new door into place.

Not until they stopped for luncheon was Sam able to tell his friends he would be leaving early. At first they were concerned, but once he managed to convince them he was fine and only leaving to get some of his own work done, they quickly relaxed. Tom was disappointed though that he would not have a partner to chop firewood with.

“How am I supposed to show off to Goldie without you to lose to me?” he asked, pretending to be put off.

“I have faith in you Tom. You’ll find a way,” Sam teased, causing the others to laugh in turn.

Tom just grinned, taking the teasing with ease. He looked up and caught a glimpse of Marigold through the kitchen window and nodded. He would most definitely find a way.

After tea, Sam waved good-bye to everyone and told his sisters he would be home later. As he walked through town, he greeted everyone cheerfully but was mindful of Jolly’s warning and did not slow or linger to talk. He could see the eager expressions on folk’s faces when they spotted him and knew without having to look that their heads were coming together to speak in whispers after he passed. He ignored it as best he could and put on a face as though nothing was wrong or out of sorts.

He relaxed once he was on the Bywater Road, where there was less traffic. He soon found this a mistake for the Road brought with it another problem. Folk traveling from Bywater to Hobbiton would slow down to offer him a ride, and he had difficulty turning them down. Finally, he left the Road altogether and traveled the rest of the way through the open fields. ‘No wonder Mr. Frodo fancies open land when he travels, if everyone is so pushy and nosy as that,’ Sam thought bemusedly.

When he reached Hobbiton, he found that Finch had been correct in his suspicions. Still, the whispering was not as rabid as in Bywater, and Sam found it easier to keep to his own business. These hobbits were his neighbors and they knew him well. As such, many of them knew better than to question him about his master; Sam was not a servant who gossiped. On the other hand, many hobbits also felt he owed them his confidence for the friendship they shared.

“Sam,” called Farmer Goodheart as Sam walked past his stall, “what’s this I keep hearing about Mr. Baggins? They say he cracked like his uncle and flew off into the Blue.”

“You heard wrong. He’ll be back, if he’s not back already,” came Sam’s short reply as he continued by without stopping.

With great relief he reached the nursery. The owner was kind and knew both him and Mr. Frodo well. She was always respectful to the Master of the Hill and Sam knew she would hold her tongue on any questions she may have.

“Good afternoon Flora,” Sam greeted as he looked around the shaded nursery. There were only a few other shoppers at the moment, and they thankfully stayed near the other side of the shop, looking at the potted shrubbery.

“Good afternoon Sam,” Flora greeted cheerfully. “I thought you were over at the Cotton’s all this week.”

“Aye, I am, but I’m needing to get some flowers ready for planting up at Bag End,” Sam explained. “It’s hard to do that after you close shop.”

Flora nodded again. Her hands at the moment were wrist deep in soil, so she pointed with her chin. “Have a look round, then. I just put out some orchids. They bloomed just last night. Those lilies there sprouted a few weeks ago and will be ready for planting soon, and there’s some honeysuckle already growing on a trellis. But I reckon you know best what Mr. Frodo would like.”

Sam smiled and picked up a crate from the stack near the door. He walked up and down the aisles of fragrant and colorful blossoms and felt calmness return to him for the first time since yesterday afternoon. If he let himself, he could spend hours in this nursery, just looking at all the flowers and planning the garden. He had work to do though, so he went through the list in his head as he fingered the petals and leaves of the various flowers. He wanted everything to be as close to its previous appearance as he could manage it.

Figuring he would need five crates in all, he packed them according to where he would put the different flowers in the gardens. So, front garden first. For that he needed bearded iris, primrose, carnations and sunflowers. Next came the side garden, with more carnations, some daisies and tulips, a rainbow of flowers there. Then came the reading garden near Mr. Frodo’s bench. In this crate went gardenias, snapdragons, dahlias and lavender. He grabbed a vine of honeysuckle at the last moment, thinking Mr. Frodo would like to sit under the elm and watch the hummingbirds when his eyes tired of reading. Finally, daffodils, violets and roses for the beds lining the walk paths went into the last two crates.

“This should do the job,” Sam said as he placed the last crate on the counter. “Can you deliver them today? I’d like to get started as soon as I can.”

“I’ll have my son bring them up shortly,” Flora said as she added the last crate to a cart loaded with other purchases. “This’ll go on Mr. Frodo’s account?” Sam nodded silently. “I do hope he turns up soon,” she added quietly and patted his hand sympathetically.

“He’ll turn up,” Sam said with a grateful smile. Then, bracing himself for the curious on-lookers outside, he said good-bye and stepped out the nursery gates onto the lane.

“Sam!” He heard his name being called from every direction. At this rate, it would be a miracle indeed if he reached Bag End without being stopped. He waved at those who called him and greeted them pleasantly before hurrying out of town and over the bridge.

When he reached Bag End, he bee-lined for the door and knocked. When no answer came, he turned the knob and again found it locked. His heart sank and he slumped down to sit on the top step.

Why hasn’t Mr. Frodo returned yet? He reminded himself that the storm had lasted more than a day and if his master had waited it out somewhere, then that would explain the delay. ‘Still doesn’t explain why he would leave in the first place though,’ he thought uneasily, remembering Robin’s words about Mr. Frodo acting out of sorts.

What if his master still didn’t turn up tonight? How long would it be until they heard news from Buckland of the search? Robin said they started the search the day before yesterday, and it would take up to four days to complete and return to Brandy Hall. That would be tomorrow. ‘Then another two days at least for word to reach here,’ he thought miserably, not sure at all he would be able to wait that long to discover his master’s fate. What if Mr. Frodo was injured? Too injured to return home right away? What if he was ill? How could he not be after being out in the storm all day and night? What if…

Sam grunted impatiently and shook his head. “Stop playing ‘What If?’ Sam Gamgee. It does no good and you’ll drive yourself to worry,” he told himself firmly, but it did no good. The questions, worries and concerns continued to plague him until the sound of a squeaky cart wheel shook him from his thoughts.

He looked up to see Flora’s son at the gate and waved down to beckon the lad in. Then Sam got up to help with the crates and tell the lad where he wanted them. The lad followed him obediently, and though he cast many curious glances at the smial, he did not pry. He did wish Sam a good evening, and Sam tipped him generously for his courtesy.

Once the lad was gone, Sam got to work. The beds were already filled with compost and rich soil, so all he had to do was dig. He filled a large kettle with water from the well, for he would need to water the flowers as soon as they were planted to encourage them to take root. The front garden came first and would take him the rest of the sunlight hours to plant. Thankful to have something to occupy his mind, he set to work, arranging the flowers in a way he knew would please his master.

He worked long into the night, not stopping for food or drink. After he finished planting the front garden, he began trimming the shrubs at the back of the garden, barely registering the sunset that dazzled the sky with brilliant hues of yellow and pink. Dinner and supper passed, and the stars were twinkling brightly before he lifted his face to the sky.

Though he knew he had to, he was reluctant to leave, fearing that as soon as he did, his master would return. Only when the moon rose over the horizon did Sam force himself to put away his tools. He washed up at the well and headed down the Hill to Number Three, Bagshot Row.

A strange sight greeted him there. A cart overstuffed with firewood sat in the Row outside his home, and a pony was grazing in the field across the lane. ‘So, that’s what Old Tom finally decided to do with all that firewood? Divvy it up and hand it out,’ he thought, a small smile forming on his lips. Well, they should not want for wood again for a good long while.

Sam entered the darkened smial soundlessly and gently closed the door. He saw a plate sitting on the stove for him and was just sitting down to eat when Hamfast entered the kitchen with candle in hand. He did not look pleased to see his son.

Sam put down his fork and waited for the inevitable. His father sat down across from him and set the candle between them. It was a small flame and barely lit the table, casting everything into smoky shadow. Even in the dim light, Sam could see the conflicting emotions on his father’s face; this was going to be a long lecture.

Hamfast did not exactly have a lecture in mind. He looked at his son and sighed. “Don’t you see lad? This is what I wanted to protect you from. Mr. Frodo’s a model gentlehobbit and a proper fellow, but he’s still Mr. Bilbo’s heir. Just as Mr. Bilbo took off into the Blue, I figured one day Mr. Frodo would too and you’d be left behind. Now, it could be that he’ll turn up soon enough and I hope to the stars above that he does, but you need to prepare yourself for the fact that he may truly be gone. If that’s the case, you’re going to have to get yourself to town once you’re finished at the Cottons and see if you can find any other assignments. Shouldn’t be hard, everyone knows you’re the best gardener in these parts and they’ll be happy to have you. Mind, they won’t be able to pay as handsome a stipend as Mr. Frodo does, and things’ll be tight round here for a while but we’ll manage just as we’ve always done.”

He stood up and shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving the candle on the table. He stopped in the doorway and said over his shoulder, “Tom’s here waiting to speak with you, so finish up your supper. And I don’t want to hear again about you leaving your post early, for whatever reason.” With that he returned to his room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Sam sat in troubled contemplation alone in the candlelight. He watched the tiny flame dance, suddenly no longer hungry or even aware of the food before him as he tried to make sense of his father’s words. They painted a bleak picture of a future Sam did not want to think about. Mr. Frodo gone for good, never to return, just like old Mr. Bilbo. Sam remembered how upset his father had been when he found out Mr. Bilbo had left the Shire behind for the Road and adventure. Did Sam now face that same fate?

‘But Mr. Frodo wouldn’t just take off like that,’ Sam insisted to himself. ‘He had plans for when he returned and he said to me, “I’ll be back in two week’s time” and told me to get out of the garden for a bit.’

“He’ll be back,” he told himself again, even as a nagging seed of doubt planted itself in his heart.

He ate his food and washed the plate and fork. He put these away and picked up the candle to take to his room. There he found Tom, sleeping on the covers in the middle of the large bed. Sam tiptoed over to the bedside and placed the candle on the nightstand. He reached over and gently shook his friend, who woke immediately and yawned.

“Lor’ bless me Sam, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. How ever did you come by such a comfortable bed?” he asked.

Sam smiled. “The hard way,” he answered and sat next to his friend. “By waiting out two older brothers who liked to hog the sheets. What are you doing here?”

Tom smiled now and pointed with his thumb in the general direction of the front door. “Had to bring the firewood and Gaffer told me to wait until you got back to unload it. Besides, someone had to bring your sisters home.”

Tom shook his head. “Oh, that. That was easy enough. I just chopped both your share of the wood and mine – without breaking a sweat. She was mightily impressed.”

Sam shook his head. “No,” he replied simply. He reached over, picked up the candle and lit the oil lamp sitting on the nightstand. “Come on, you Tom-fool. Let’s get that firewood unloaded, then you best just stay here tonight. That way, you can impress Goldie with your cooking in the morning.”

Tom grinned. “I do make some rather delicious mushroom omelets if I do say so myself.”

Tom guffawed and gently nudged Sam on the arm, then took the lamp from his hand.

They went outside and began the enormous task of unloading the wood. Some they took directly inside, but the vast majority of it they piled outside the front door or behind the tool shed in giant mounds until there was no more room to put it. The rest they divided between Sam’s neighbors, piling the wood just inside their gates. By the time they finished, both lads were ready to fall asleep where they stood.

Tom woke Sam early in the morning. He was so eager to start cooking that Sam couldn’t help but laugh. Of course, this also meant he would have to stay and help his friend find his way around the kitchen. He climbed out of bed and washed quickly at the basin, then went with Tom to the kitchen to start breakfast.

They prepared the meal in companionable silence. Sam settled on chopping the vegetables and mixing the eggs, letting Tom do the actual cooking. He retrieved some bread and milk from the pantry, and set the table as Tom heated the omelets to a light golden brown.

The smell of the food soon woke the others in the house. Hamfast came to the table first, pleased to see Tom still there and making sure his son spent a normal breakfast at home. A few minutes later, May and Marigold came to the table, surprised to find breakfast already prepared and waiting for them. May said good morning as she poured herself some milk. Marigold followed her lead but with a noticeable flush to her cheeks as she greeted Tom.

Sam insisted his sisters sit down and allow themselves to be waited on for a change. He handed out slices of the bread, warmed and buttered, and slices of apples and pears. Tom served everyone a steaming omelet and poured them cups of sweetened tea. Once everyone was served, the lads sat down to their own plates.

“Tom did all the cooking himself, so if it’s bad you can’t blame me,” Sam said with a wink.

Everyone dug in and tasted the food prepared for them. Sam was impressed. He rarely had opportunity to taste anything his friend cooked and when he did it was usually something simple. This was delicious and he nodded his head approvingly.

“Thank you Goldie,” Tom said. “I’m glad you like it.” He quickly took a large bite of his own omelet to hide the wide grin threatening to split his face in two.

Hamfast only grunted his satisfaction between bites, laughing softly at Tom’s and Marigold’s obvious flirtations. So his youngest daughter has found a suitor. He shook his head, amazed and saddened at how quickly his children kept insisting on growing up.

Since they ate early and had the pony trap to take them all to Bywater, Sam had plenty of time after the meal to go up the Hill and get some more planting done. Tom went with him and volunteered to get everything out of the tool shed they would need as Sam checked the door. It was still locked. He tried to play off his despair when he joined Tom in the small side garden, but his friend quickly noticed his disappointment.

“Oh don’t worry, Sam,” Tom tried to cheer up his friend. “Two more days and word’ll be coming from Buckland that your master is just fine.”

Sam nodded in agreement, even as the unease grew in the pit of his stomach. As much as he wanted to convince himself that his master was bound to turn up somewhere, he kept coming back to the alarming manner in which Mr. Frodo had reportedly disappeared. What could upset his master so much that he would run into a storm? He knew it was too soon to hope for word from Brandy Hall, but he decided to seek out Robin at some point today if he could.

With Tom’s help, Sam fiddled with the potted flowers, placing them here and there until he was satisfied with the arrangement. Once they knew where the flowers would go, they made quick work planting the blossoms. Tom was not as efficient with a trowel as Sam was and tended to be slower, but he knew what to do and required no instructions.

Once the flowers were in their beds and watered, Sam studied the sky and figured they had time to plant the honeysuckle vine as well. They went to the reading garden and began looking for the best place to plant the vine. They argued over this spot and that spot, and Tom suggested taking the vine off the trellis and letting it grow as ground-cover. Sam disliked this idea and finally decided to plant the vine behind the reading bench, near a steep slope in the hill. With this decided, they had just enough time to dig a hole deep enough to support the trellis and cover all the roots. They planted the vine, watering as they packed the soil tight around the plant.

Once finished, they washed quickly at the well, then headed down the Hill. They would have to leave for Bywater as soon as they returned. However, May and Marigold had different ideas. They had some loads of laundry to deliver and took advantage of the cart while they had it. Sam helped them load their bundles onto the cart while Hamfast pulled Tom inside the smial for a private word or two.

They left at last and Tom steered them through the roads and lanes so the lasses could make their deliveries. Sam was not pleased about the delay. He found the same attention he had received yesterday and had difficulty keeping his master out of casual conversations with passing hobbits as his sisters were inside speaking with their mistresses. Thankfully, they kept their visits short, and Tom was there to steer conversations onto other topics while they waited on the lasses.

Finally, they were on the Road and away from prying eyes. Even starting late, they arrived at the same time they normally did, thanks to the sturdy pony. The lasses headed into the house as Tom and Sam put the cart away and led the pony into her brand new stall. Sam was surprised to turn around and see so much firewood still laying against the repaired wall. The pile was half as long as the wall itself and came nearly to his waist. Half of it was made up of logs yet to be chopped.

He turned and gaped at Tom, who simply shrugged. “Just let us know when you need more wood,” he said as they walked out the door and down to the lower fields.

The last of the water had drained away at last, and the beasts had been returned just in time to help pull up the dying grain. Tolman was relieved that he had not lost as many crops as he initially feared. Only the crops closest to The Water that were submerged the longest had failed, just over an acre all together. He would have to keep his eye on the acre next to this if he was not to lose those crops as well, but for now, he need only worry about reaping the spoiled grain and reseeding the plot for a new yield.

Even with the ponies to help, it was hard work. The day passed quickly, and before everyone knew it, teatime had arrived. They left the lower fields for the last time that day and went to the house. Sam noticed immediately that the remainder of the logs had been piled onto two large carts to take into town. He stopped and looked at the carts with a comically put-off expression.

“Now come on Tom,” he said. “You have to give me a chance to beat you at the wood-chopping contest.”

Tom laughed and draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “You should have thought of that before you left yesterday. I guess I’ll have to suffer with everyone knowing I’m better than you, as Pa wants this wood gone. We’ve enough here already to last us till the king comes back. We’re to take this into town and hand it out free to those as wants it.”

Sam perked up at this. He would be able to look for Robin without leaving his post.

After tea, he and Tom took one cart, Jolly and Finch the other. They rode into town to The Green Dragon and began asking who needed firewood. Before long, the word was out and hobbits were coming with wheelbarrows and small carts of their own to haul the wood away. Many of the hobbits tried to get word of Mr. Baggins while they were at it, but none of them volunteered any information.

When the second cart was a quarter of the way distributed, Sam spotted Robin leaving the inn’s stables. He hopped down from the cart and ran after the young shirriff. “Robin!” he shouted to get his friend’s attention.

Robin turned around, spotted Sam and waved. He waited for Sam to catch him before speaking. “You’re looking better,” he said. “Are you hungry? I was just going in for dinner.”

Sam shook his head and came right out with it. “Have you heard anything yet?”

Robin shook his head apologetically. “Folk have been looking as they go about their business but it’s fairly certain Mr. Baggins didn’t come this way at all. We got word from the bounders that he never crossed the bridge and we know for a fact that he didn’t take the ferry as that’s how Mr. Brandybuck crossed the River. That means he’s either in Buckland or he’s…”

“Left the Shire,” Sam finished. He hung his head and muttered what sounded suspiciously like “This is all my fault.”

“You keep saying that,” Robin replied. “This isn’t your fault. No one could have thought something like this would happen like it did.”

“I should have known,” Sam insisted. He looked suddenly exhausted, as though he had not slept in days. “I should have known if I was paying more attention. Something was bothering him and I didn’t know it. It would have been something that’s been building up for a while for him to leave the way he did, and I didn’t see it.”

“You still couldn’t have stopped this,” Robin tried to reason. Sam’s words were similar to the ones he had used when he first learned the news, and Robin now suspected that Sam had been speaking of his own lack of vigilance even then. “Mr. Baggins was out of your care when this happened. You couldn’t have done anything even if you did know something was wrong. It’s not as though you had a choice to stay or go.”

“But I did!” Sam exclaimed, truly distressed now. “I did have a choice. He said to me ‘You’re going to have to come to Buckland one of these days, Sam’ meaning he wanted me to go but didn’t want to ask outright so I wouldn’t feel obligated. And I made excuses not to go, just because I was afraid to leave home and be surrounded by so many important folk. If I had gone, then I would have been there to take care of him and he wouldn’t have been able to sneak off without anyone noticing.” He hid his face in his hands, too ashamed to look as his friend any longer.

“Sam,” Robin said helplessly. He had never seen Sam distressed like this before. At least in his shock of the day before, Sam had been thinking clearly and practically. “You couldn’t have known, not if Mr. Baggins didn’t want you to.”

“I should have known anyway. I should have gone,” Sam mumbled into his hands. Then a wild thought occurred to him and he seized upon it desperately. He looked at Robin with determination. “I’ll go now,” he said. “I’ll go look for Mr. Frodo.”

Robin stared at him in disbelief and shook his head. “Sam, be practical about this. The search is probably already over, which means Mr. Baggins is most likely relating his adventure to everyone in Brandy Hall as will listen to it. In two days, we’ll get word that all is well.”

“And if they don’t find him?” Sam pressed. “If he’s left the Shire? What then?”

Robin shrugged sympathetically. “Then nothing. He’ll be a week out of the Shire by then and who knows where in the Wild. How would you have any hope of finding him? You’d get lost on your way to Buckland.”

“What? No,” Robin replied emphatically. “I can’t leave my post. I’ll get dismissed. This is my first job. I can’t afford that and neither can my family. And neither can yours. You can’t just leave your post.”

“Mr. Frodo is my post,” Sam argued, ignoring the truth of Robin’s words. “I have to find him.”

“Bag End is your post,” Robin corrected. “And tell me, where are you going to look?”

Sam shrugged, helpless and defeated. “I don’t know. Bree maybe? He’d have to stop and get supplies wouldn’t he, if he left Brandy Hall all of a sudden.”

“Bree? Sam, the folk in Buckland are odd enough. Who’s to say what you’d find in a town half run over by Men. Besides, we’re assuming the worst and I’m sure in the end it will be for naught,” Robin reassured calmly. “Your Frodo is fine and he’ll be home before you know it. The more you obsess over this, the longer it’s going to seem. Just go home and go about your day like normal. I’ll find you with the good news as soon as I hear it.”

Sam nodded cheerlessly and returned to the carts, his shoulders slumped, feeling no better than he had that morning. It was going to be a long two days.

Merry woke from a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling unusually exhausted. He soon remembered why.

Merry squeezed his eyes against the words echoing ceaselessly in his head, but it was no use. When he wasn’t hearing those words, he was asking himself why and how this happened. The questions were endless and deafening, and the only answers he could come up with were that he had not been vigilant enough: he had not paid adequate attention. He buried his head in his pillow, wishing he had not awakened.

Images came back to him unheeded from the last weeks, months, years, stretching all the way back to his earliest memories. Frodo teaching him how to fish. Frodo, dripping wet and sneezing, a basket of raspberries in hand. Frodo’s twenty-first birthday party, his first at Bag End. Swimming in Bywater Pool, hiking through the Green Hill Country, Yule celebrations, Free Fairs. That Harvest Moon Dance so many years ago when he and Pippin had played a prank on Sam that got him in trouble with his gaffer and Frodo got so upset. Frodo never yelled, never raised his voice, even when he was angry. No, instead he turned his piercing blue eyes on you, cutting you straight to the heart in a way no one else could. Merry would miss that.

He remembered a few years back when Frodo first decided to start spending Spring Feast in Buckland. He never told anyone why, though everyone wondered at the change. Frodo had also never agreed to show them his secret hideouts before this trip. That haunted look when they were on the Ferry coming back from fishing. What had Frodo been thinking then? Is that why Frodo had gone to his parents’ graveside early? That’s why he left his cloak. That’s why he destroyed the room. That’s why he left.

Merry had known something was wrong, had known something was bothering Frodo terribly, and he had let it pass. He could have said something, done something, but he hadn’t and now Frodo was gone. It was too late. “This is all my fault.”

Merry turned to Pippin lying next to him. He was awake and his face was pale and drawn. He reached over and wiped a tear from Merry’s cheek. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated, remembering words spoken long ago by his father during a similar and altogether different crisis. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It just happened.”

Merry shook his head. “Things like this don’t just happen, Pippin. This isn’t like with Ilberic. This was no accident. There is no happy ending.”

Pippin lowered his gaze to his hands. He was not yet ready to grapple with that fact and wanted only to let the grief wash over him, numbing him to all else. Merry sighed next to him and said with an attempt at normalcy, “Are you hungry? It should be about time for breakfast.”

But neither of them made any effort to get up. Instead, they clung to each other and closed their eyes to everything around them. The grief was crushing and all-encompassing. It took over all other thoughts and emotions; it was suffocating.

Esmeralda found them an hour later, still in each other’s arms, staring blankly at the ceiling. She was tired also from last night. Pippin had cried the longest and hardest, to the point that Esmeralda thought his sobs would never stop. After Merry’s outburst and initial tears, her son had fallen into a stupor, curled up at Saradoc’s side. The healer’s tea had helped them all to sleep through the night, but now that morning had come, the true grieving would begin.

She walked to the window and threw open the curtain. “Breakfast time, lads. I had it brought in, so wash up and join us in the parlor.”

“I know, loves,” Esmeralda said. She brushed the curls off her son’s forehead and smiled sadly at him and Pippin. “Come anyway and keep us company. We’ll wait.” She left the room, closing the door gently behind her, and it was only with great effort that they were able to comply.

“Hm? What?” Sam answered groggily. He yawned and stretched his tired limbs. “What time is it?”

“It’s nearly time for you to be getting to the Cottons,” Hamfast replied and felt Sam’s forehead. He frowned. “How long were you up at Bag End last night?”

“Well, no more of these late night hours, or you’ll get yourself sick,” Hamfast ordered. “This is the last day you’ll all be needed at the Cottons, or so May says, so you can go back to your regular hours tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” Sam yawned, too tired and worn to argue. He waited until his father left before stumbling out of bed and preparing for the day. Just as the day before last, he had only enough time to eat before leaving.

On their way to Bywater, his sisters chatted excitedly about the feast tonight that would celebrate the end of the restoration. Once the hobbits finished sowing the new barley, they would help to bring the rest of the crops to rights. By the time they were finished with that, the feast would be ready. Several of the workers played instruments and they would provide music for the others to dance to after the meal.

Sam tried to be enthusiastic but found it difficult. Despite Robin’s reassurances, Sam could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. The fact that Sam was unable to help look for his master was a hard one for him to bear. The only comfort he had was that tomorrow, he should know the outcome of the search in Buckland. He knew it was too much to hope that Mr. Frodo would return on the First of Astron as he originally planned, but that would at least allow Sam the extra time he needed to get the gardens in order.

They reached the Cottons and Sam joined the others in the lower fields. His eyes strayed momentarily across The Water to the open fields beyond, straining for the slightest hint of movement on the distant horizon.

Saradoc knocked on his son’s door. As soon as first breakfast had finished, of which they ate very little, Merry and Pippin had returned to Merry’s room. While Saradoc and Esmeralda wanted to give their son and nephew time to sort out their thoughts and confusion, they also wanted to keep the young lads from hiding in Merry’s room all day.

A mumbled answer met his knock and Saradoc stuck his head into the room. He found Merry sitting at his desk, playing with his pocket watch, a gift from Frodo years before. Pippin was lying on his stomach on Merry’s bed with his head propped on his folded hands, his bent arms dangling over the edge of the bed. They had been speaking but now waited to see what Saradoc wanted.

“We’re sending for your parents Pippin,” Saradoc said. “In the meantime, I asked one of the maids to bring your things here. They should be arriving shortly.”

“They’ll be put in the mathom room with his parents’ belongings for now. We have plenty of time to figure out what to do with it all,” Saradoc answered. “Porto will be leaving for Hobbiton in an hour. He’ll carry the news to the rest of the Bagginses. Is there anyone you can think of who also needs to be told before I make the official announcement?”

Merry nodded. “There’s Fatty and Folco. They should hear first. And Sam should be told. He’s going to be devastated. We should write him a letter.”

“I don’t know,” Merry shrugged. “What can we say? Sorry Sam for losing your master, please don’t hunt us down and throttle us?”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” Pippin asked worriedly. Sam did tend to get defensive when it came to Frodo, but would he get that defensive? Ordinarily, Pippin wouldn’t think so, but he was not thinking clearly enough at the moment to brush Merry’s comment off as nothing more than a badly timed joke.

“Of course he wouldn’t, he knows his place,” Saradoc answered with a warning glance at Merry, but Merry was still playing with the watch and didn’t notice. Saradoc softened his gaze and tone. “Don’t worry about the letter. If you feel it’s necessary, I’ll see to it myself. Right now, you two need to get dressed. Berilac will be arriving soon. You need to do your rounds Merry, and you can take Pippin with you.”

Merry looked at his father incredulously, the first emotion he had shown all day. How could his father ask such a thing of him now? “Can’t someone else do it?”

“No,” came Saradoc’s gentle reply. “You need only accompany him to keep the records, but you both need to get out for a few hours. You cannot ignore your duties, son, as much as you may want to. Be ready when he arrives.”

Merry nodded dully and Pippin let out a long sigh. Neither made an attempt to move. Saradoc shook his head sadly and closed the door behind him. They needed time to come to terms with their loss and he knew better than to push them too much. He and Esmeralda agreed that they needed to keep to some regular routines though, and they hoped that the work would help get their son and nephew through the next few days while their grief was the strongest.

He found his wife at the table in the parlor, quill to blank page. Her attempts at finding the right words were proving an impossible struggle. Her brother and sister-in-law were fond of Frodo and would take the news hard. “How much do I tell them?” she asked her husband.

“Only the basics, love,” Saradoc answered as he gently massaged his wife’s tensed shoulders. “That Frodo is gone and Pippin needs them. They’ll come and we can explain everything in detail when they arrive.”

Esmeralda nodded and reached up to briefly squeeze her husband’s hand. Then she dipped the quill in ink and started the dreaded letter. Dearest Paladin and Eglantine…

A knock at the door sounded then and Saradoc went to let in Berilac, who was standing in the hallway, looking nervous and forlorn. “Uncle Sara,” he began as soon as the door opened, “I can do the rounds myself today. Gordibrand has agreed to keep me company and help me if need be.”

Saradoc smiled gratefully for his nephew’s concern and thoughtfulness, but beckoned him to enter all the same. “I appreciate your concern, Berilac, but I want Merry and Pippin to at least get some air if nothing more. Take Gordi with you and if Merry and Pippin start to tire, send them home.”

Saradoc left Berilac standing in the doorway and went to once again knock on Merry’s door. He did not wait for an answer, and entered to find Pippin and Merry exactly as they had been before. They looked up when Saradoc entered.

“What?” Sam shook himself from the stupor he had fallen into yet again. Numerous times throughout the morning, he had caught himself staring out over The Water instead of minding the field he was supposed to be sowing. He was surprised to find that he was at the end of his row, nearly done despite his constant daydreaming.

“It’s time for tea,” Jolly repeated now. “You’re awfully distracted today,” he added.

Jolly and the others had noticed Sam’s unusual lack of vigilance, and Jolly took this opportunity to question Sam about it. He waited for Sam to hurriedly finish his row, then walked with him up to the house, noticing that Sam never responded to his hinted question.

Jolly smirked and rolled his eyes. “Checking on the necklace again no doubt. He’s going to ask Marigold tonight to be promised remember?”

Sam cringed. He had not remembered. “So that’s what he and Gaffer were talking about yestermorn,” he said as he suddenly realized the true purpose of Tom’s visit. “When did he have time to get a necklace? He’d wanted me to go with him.”

Jolly shrugged. “Says he got it from Gaffer. It’s a pretty thing. He’s been rehearsing what he’s going to say. There are several versions. Want to hear them? I know them all by heart.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “I think I’ll wait for Goldie to tell me.”

They reached the upper fields and headed towards the tables. They sat just as tea was being served. Rosie caught Sam’s eye and smiled sweetly at him, then raised her eyebrows in Marigold’s direction. Sam returned the smile back and nodded as Tom emerged from the house, looking nervous. Sam loaded his plate with scones and sliced fruit as Rosie poured him tea. They would be only two of many discreetly watching the promise-making tonight.

The workers took their time with their meal and returned to the fields late. They were now finished with the replanting of the crops and would be spending the rest of the afternoon tending the rest of the fields, neglected for a week while storm reparations were made.

Sam made an effort to keep his mind on the task at hand and away from the plains across the river. He worked alongside Tom and asked him how he planned to approach Marigold. Sam felt guilty about not helping Tom as he had promised, but Tom assured him all was well.

“Well,” Tom replied, “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and when I tried talking to Goldie at tea, I couldn’t get a single word out. Do you think that’s a problem?”

Sam shook his head. “For you? Not at all. In fact, it’ll probably be of help. You do tend to run on at times.”

Tom laughed and dug another rock from the dirt. He tossed it into the wheelbarrow with all the rest, washed up from the flood to tangle the growing crops.

They had been riding all afternoon, going from one field to another, assessing any remaining storm damage and the progress of the reparations. Most everyone had fared well and any damage had easily been taken care of. No crop losses were reported, a welcome relief.

Not many had yet heard of the tragic news of Frodo’s drowning, and those who had did not say anything. Such a serious matter was not lightly discussed, nor was it gossiped about. Or at least, it was not widely gossiped until after the Master officially announced the loss. Whisperings could be heard though amongst wives and their husbands who had been directly involved in the search, and those whisperings were quietly and discreetly spreading amongst close confidants.

Those who had heard the story greeted Merry and Pippin with great sympathy. All the others greeted them normally, and if they wondered about the presence of Gordibrand and Pippin, they said nothing of it. Unfortunately, in the area immediately around Brandy Hall and Bucklebury, it seemed that almost everyone had been involved in the search or knew to some extent what had happened.

Pippin preferred it when the hobbits did not know. He did not want anyone’s sympathy and was growing tired of the tragic expressions he had been receiving all day. He could tell from the tightness in Merry’s shoulders that his cousin was growing tired of the attention as well, though he would never say as much. They were both glad as they went farther south, and less and less folk knew of the gossip.

Berilac turned to Pippin as they left the last vineyard. “This is the last, on this side of the River. There’s still the Marish to be checked, but it looks like they’ll be on their own until further notice. The new ferry is still being constructed.”

“As are the new docks,” Gordibrand said. “The flood ripped all that old wood to shreds. There’s nothing of them left.”

“The docks were destroyed too?” Pippin asked dazedly. “The flood did all that then. Who would have thought water could be so destructive?”

No one responded right away. Gordibrand eventually cleared his throat and continued as if he hadn’t heard the comment. “It’ll be a couple more weeks before the new docks are built I wager, but I suppose we may as well check on its progress if there’s nothing else to be done.”

Berilac nodded. “I suppose we could do that, but you and I can go alone well enough. Why don’t you two go home now?”

Merry shook his head and sat up taller on his pony. “We’ll go with you,” he said halfheartedly.

“Merry,” Pippin started uncertainly. He was tired and worn, and more than ready to rest, if not necessarily return to Brandy Hall. He also had no desire to see the River just yet and was dreading the day he would eventually have to cross it to return home. How ever had Frodo managed it all these years? “Maybe we should go back,” he pleaded. “I’m tired and I’m starting to miss the breakfast we didn’t eat this morning.”

Merry saw the anguish in his friend’s eyes and gave in gratefully. He nodded and slumped back into the saddle. “Let’s go then. I am a little hungry,” he admitted. He turned to Berilac and Gordibrand. “We’ll see you back at the Hall, except I don’t think we’ll be at supper.”

“We’ll see you later then,” Berilac said, understanding. Saradoc would make the announcement at supper, and Berilac had not expected his cousins would want to be there.

Gordibrand followed, “Go take care of Pippin, and yourself. I may not have your charm, Merry, but I can get information from hobbits just as easily as you can.”

“Oh, but the charm isn’t to get them talking,” Merry corrected. “It’s to get them to stop.”

Merry and Pippin turned north to Buck Hill. They rode in silence, just managing to politely greet those they passed. They looked about them as they went and noticed the many blossoming wild flowers dotting the fields. There were children out picking the colorful blooms and rolling in the grass, laughing with joyful abandonment. Mothers were hanging laundry out to dry and pruning gardens, or talking on the lanes with friends and neighbors. Fellows were pushing carts and hauling wood, or taking a drink of cool water as they rested in the shade of billowing trees.

“It’s just a normal day,” Merry commented bleakly as he waved at some hobbits walking past them on the Road.

“There’s nothing normal about it,” Pippin replied. “Why can’t they see that?”

“Come on Pippin. Let’s stop in town and get something to eat. I don’t really want to go home just yet. We can ride around some.”

Pippin nodded, not really caring where they went now that they were no longer in threat of going within sight of the River. They stopped at the same inn they had visited last week with Frodo, and ordered a modest meal of soup and sandwiches, with tea to wash it down. They did not speak while they ate, and they only half-noticed the other diners laughing and conversing merrily around them. When they finished, Merry paid and left a generous tip, then they returned to their ponies and the road.

Pippin followed his older cousin out of town and into open lands. It did not take him long to see where Merry was leading them to, whether by design or not. He said nothing until they reached their destination. They left the ponies to graze and, after making sure no one was around to see them, ducked into the narrow pass between the shrubs. Merry opened the door to the abandoned smial and they walked through the silent, lonely home. They stopped in the doorway of the second bedroom, Frodo’s room, or what would have been.

“It’s not fair,” Pippin said as he entered and sat in the middle of the floor, the ideal place for a bed had one ever been placed in here. “The river took them all and none of them ever lived here. But it does sort of feel like his, doesn’t it? I never thought when I first saw this place I could find it comforting.”

Merry sat next to him and drew his knees to his chest. “I never thought I could hate the River. Frodo taught me how to swim in that river. He insisted I learn and took me out nearly every day one summer until I was swimming like a fish.”

“And then you taught me.” There was a pause of silence, then Pippin whispered, “I wonder what Uncle Saradoc wrote to Sam. You don’t think he was too business-like, do you?”

“Knowing Father, he probably was. We’ll have to go see Sam when first we’re able,” Merry said.

Merry liked Sam and respected the faithful gardener of Bag End. He knew Frodo regarded Sam more as a friend than a servant, and Merry knew how dutiful Sam was in his care of Frodo, much more than his duties actually called for. He knew very well how hard the news would come for Sam and regretted he could not tell him personally. Yet he had to admit he was glad he would not be put to that task; he could not imagine the words “Frodo’s dead” passing his lips; the mere thought of it left him cold and drained. The next best thing would be to pay Sam a visit when they were in Hobbiton seeing to Frodo’s will. By then, the pain should not hurt so badly as it did now. Or at least, he hoped it wouldn’t.

Pippin nodded. They would make sure Sam was all right, though he wondered vaguely if any of them would truly be all right ever again.

The feast was as good as any of them could hope for. If not for the season, they would almost think it a harvest festival. There were games for the youngest children and dancing for the tweens and adults. The mound of broken wood scraps was burning high in the bonfire pit and the music of the band filled the air with energy and bliss.

Hamfast arrived as the feast was getting started and greeted everyone pleasantly. Only Marigold was surprised to see him there. Supper was grand and delicious and there were many conversations up and down the table as everyone relaxed and enjoyed the company of their friends and neighbors.

The festivities started soon after the food was cleared. Sam asked Rosie for a dance, giving Tom an encouraging look as he whisked Rosie away. Tom took his cue and turned to Marigold. She was sitting with her sister, quietly watching the festivities. Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wiped his hands dry on his breeches and stepped up to Marigold and May.

“Good evening May,” he said with a nod, then extended his hand to Marigold. “Goldie, would you care for a dance?”

The smile that lit Marigold’s face nearly took Tom’s breath away. She accepted his hand gently and let herself be pulled up by Tom’s strong arms. She slipped her arm around Tom’s and followed him onto the dance floor.

They danced near Sam and Rosie for a handful of tunes, losing count as they laughed and talked of meaningless things. Then Jolly requested a two-step from the band, a favorite of Marigold’s. Tom whisked her all around the dance floor and past the other couples in a flurry of motion. When the song ended, he brought them to stop near the bonfire and Marigold was laughing. They caught their breaths as they watched the other dancing couples, then Tom turned again to Marigold.

She turned and smiled at him sweetly. “Yes Tom?” she asked, suddenly expectant. May and Rosie had hinted that something might happen tonight. Could they have been right?

Tom tried to remain calm and remember what he had wanted to say. He quickly checked his pocket to make sure the treasure was still safe within as he looked at Marigold before him and tried to keep his senses about him. This was no easy task, for the firelight lit Marigold’s hair and face with a sparkling reddish hue and there was joy in her eyes.

“You are lovely,” Tom said, almost absentmindedly and Marigold beamed. He took a steadying breath and continued with purpose. “You’ve always been lovely, and I must have been foolish and blind not to notice it sooner. And now that I have noticed, I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t ever want to stop thinking about you.” He pulled a delicate gold chain from his pocket. A golden bloom of marigold dangled from the chain and caught the firelight.

Marigold’s eyes filled with tears as she recognized the familiar pendant, her mother’s necklace. It was to have been given to her by her mother when she found a suitor, had her mother lived to see this day. She looked over to where her father stood with Tolman. Hamfast nodded, tears in his own eyes, though he hid them well, and Tolman smiled fondly at them both. Marigold turned back to Tom as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Gaffer said I might as well give it to you now,” Tom said and extended the necklace to Marigold. “May I give it to you?”

Marigold nodded vigorously and struggled to find her voice. “Yes,” she breathed, and she turned and lifted her hair. Tom slipped the necklace around her neck and with shaking hands fastened the clasp. Breathing deeply with relief and unabashed elation, he took her hands in his and turned her gently to face him again. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, and she embraced him as the onlookers erupted in cheers and applause for the new couple.

They separated, embarrassed but proud. “Care for another dance?” Tom asked with a dashing smile.

The couple rejoined the revelers to a chorus of well wishes and congratulations. Hamfast came and embraced his youngest daughter, his last child. Lily and Tolman extended their congratulations next, then Sam and Rosie and all the others, until everyone had greeted the couple and made the necessary and sincere exclamations over the necklace. Then the band struck up another tune and the celebration began anew.

Saradoc was exhausted. The formal declaration of Frodo’s ill-timed fate had drained him. It did not help that he had been worrying half the evening about his son and nephew, who had not returned from their rounds with Berilac. When they finally returned from wherever they had been just before suppertime, they retreated to Merry’s room and Saradoc knew that Esmeralda was right. They could not be made to go to supper and probably would have refused at any rate. So the family again ate in their private quarters, the Master leaving early to go to the dining hall and make the announcement.

Now that the news was proclaimed, it would not take long for the gossip to spread further than it already had. At least Porto should be able to deliver his grim messages before the rumors could reach across the River and into the Shire. He would have already passed through Budgeford to see the Bolgers. Tomorrow, he would arrive home and would see to the Boffins in Overhill and the Gamgees. The letter to Paladin would be sent by post messenger the morning following.

He hoped that it would not take Paladin and Eglantine long to arrive. Pippin needed his family here with him. Yet even if they came at all haste, he could not hope for them to arrive for a week at least. Then would come the dreaded explanations, and the even more dreaded work of cleaning out the mathom room. Drogo’s and Primula’s belongings had only been kept on the chance that Frodo may one day ask for them. They sadly no longer needed to be concerned with that. Once that was finished, they would have to go to Hobbiton, to see to Frodo’s will and estate. He had a long couple of weeks ahead of him.

Saradoc returned to his quarters late and peeked into Merry’s room before turning in for the night. His son and nephew were deep in sleep. Esmeralda had given them more of the soothing tea to help calm them enough to sleep. Saradoc knew they were doing as good as could be expected, but he worried. Their earlier disappearance concerned him. He wanted to know where they had been, but he would have to find a way of asking them so they would not refuse to tell him, for he had a feeling he would not like the answer.

While Merry and Pippin were asleep in Buckland, and Frodo was in Bree eagerly planning his journey to Rivendell, the Gamgees turned at the end of South Lane in Bywater and waved good-bye to the Cottons.

The Gamgees were the last to leave the feast, as they’d had another, private celebration of cake and hot cocoa to celebrate Tom and Marigold’s promise. They strolled up South Land and turned down Bywater Road, May exclaiming still over Tom’s promise to her little sister, already making wedding plans as she momentarily forgot her own upcoming nuptials. Hamfast walked silently behind them, smoking a pipe and smiling fondly, and Sam finally allowed his eyes to stray again toward The Water and the dark and silent fields beyond.

Robin rode up to the Cotton farm in the early morning hours, when farmers and their children were the only ones awake. He spotted Tom and Jolly out near the barn, feeding the ponies and livestock. They looked up as they heard him ride up and waved.

“Oy, Robin,” Tom called. “A bit early for you isn’t it? I thought you didn’t wake till noon.”

Robin laughed and checked his pony to a halt. “These shirriffs will turn me into a morning person yet,” he said and looked around. “Will Sam be here today? I’ve got a bit of news, and I promised I’d keep him updated.”

Tom and Jolly shook their heads. “We’re finished here. Sam will be at Bag End all day,” said Tom.

“How does he seem to you?” Robin asked. He wondered how much they knew of Sam’s self-accusations about all this.

“What do you mean ‘a little’?” said Jolly and shook his head. “I think you’re the one distracted, Tom. Get your mind off your lass for a moment.” He turned to Robin and fixed him with a worried expression. “We know Sam well enough to know when he’s trying to keep something close, and he’s not well. He’s hanging on by a thread.”

“So tell us what he said,” Sam continued, as he cracked eggs into a bowl. He picked up a whisk and started to whip the eggs, adding a trickle of milk every few strokes until the mix was a light soft yellow.

“It was a private conversation, Sam,” Marigold said casually. She flipped the pancakes on the skillet expertly.

May smiled at her baby sister as she sliced a watermelon open and cut it into hand-sized pieces. “Mama’s pendant looks lovely on you,” she commented. “But what did he say?”

“Come on Goldie,” Sam pressed, “you know Tom’s just going to tell me anyway.”

May laughed to hear Marigold’s familiar persuasive phrase, used so often to coax information out of Sam, for once used against her.

The Gamgees had slipped back into their normal routine with little effort and with great relief. Now that they were finished at the Cottons, they could turn their attention to their own day-to-day affairs and all the work that needed to be done. Before they did that, however, they had to lovingly tease their sister as they prepared breakfast.

Marigold was still too overjoyed to be annoyed and she went into a very detailed account of Tom’s promise, down to the way every strand of his curly hair sat perfectly on his head. By the time she finished, Hamfast had come into the kitchen and was sitting on his chair near the oven, beaming proudly.

He watched as his children prepared breakfast, maneuvering easily around each other in the small kitchen. He listened to the sound of his daughters’ melodious, cheerful voices and laughter. They turned now to May’s wedding, and the flowers she wanted at the reception and for her bouquet. Sam offered many suggestions that would work well and May memorized them all for when she would next go into town.

But Sam did not stay in the conversation long. Gradually, he dropped out of the chatter and stopped talking altogether. By the time breakfast was ready and served, he was completely preoccupied with his own thoughts, no longer even pretending to listen to his sisters. He kept his eye out the kitchen window and ate quickly.

Hamfast knew what preoccupied his son’s mind, for what else could it possibly be? Unlike his son, Hamfast had been in town the last couple of days and knew the rumors that were being spread about the Master of the Hill. Most folk were saying that Mr. Baggins had cracked at last and would never be seen in the Shire again, just like old Mr. Bilbo. As much as he hated to agree, even Hamfast could not defend Mr. Frodo’s actions away. There was nothing proper about dashing off into a storm.

He was glad that Sam had been busy at the Cottons the last few days, but now that their lives have returned to normal, he knew the reality of the situation would soon sink in completely for his son. Up until now, Sam had been able to feed his denial with fancies that his master would soon be returning. He might even try to trick himself into believing that Mr. Baggins would be back tomorrow, the First of Astron, the date he was originally to return to Bag End. When that failed to happen, when Mr. Baggins failed to turn up, Sam would give in to his despair at last and Hamfast knew that could prove devastating, not just to Sam but to them all. He would have to talk with Sam, remind him of his familial duties. Sam will find it difficult at first, but he would simply have to learn to live without his beloved master. They all would.

Sam was quick to leave once the breakfast dishes were washed and put away. He promised to return in time for dinner and grabbed the lunch bag that Marigold held out for him. He trotted up the Hill, and as soon as he reached Bag End, he went directly to the door. No answer came to his knock and the door remained locked. Sam had not really expected anything different.

He left the door and turned to work. He still had the flowerbeds that needed to be planted along the walk path before anything else was done. Only the top part of the path closest to the smial needed to be replanted, along with a few other beds near the gate.

He started at the uppermost bed and worked his way down. He sprinkled the beds with water to moisten the soil, then set out the flowers where he would plant them. Once everything was arranged, he picked up his small trowel and began, one by one, to dig the holes and plant the flowers. He watered again after he finished, packing the soil tight. With that done, he went back and weeded the other beds, pruning the flowers and shrubs as he went, watering where needed.

He took lunch at the reading bench. Never able to stop thinking of work for a second, or more accurately never allowing himself to, Sam scanned the gardens, building a mental list of everything that was in desperate need of doing. First, he needed to water the flowers newly planted from the previous days. Then he needed to show some attention to the kitchen garden. There were also the hedges to be trimmed near the gate, the compost piles needed turning, and the outside of the windows needed cleaning. And for some reason, he seemed to think there was something that needed to be done with the oak tree that sat atop the smial. He would have to get up there to see if he could remember what it was.

Merry and Pippin entered the dining hall as elevenses was being served. This was to be their first meal with the rest of the family since the day of the storm. So much had happened since then, they could hardly believe that only six days had passed. It felt closer to a lifetime ago. They did not feel up to the task, but they had lost the argument with Esmeralda.

They would rather have remained in the private quarters, and now that they were here, they wanted more than anything to leave. Perhaps it was just their imagination, but it appeared to them that all conversations ceased when they entered the hall as everyone paused for just the slightest of moments to stare at them. They did not like it, and stayed close to each other as they made their way up to the front table where Esmeralda and Saradoc sat waiting. They sat down next to them and it was a relief to them both as the conversations began buzzing around them once more.

They ate their meal, keeping their eyes on the food. A few cousins came by to share their condolences and regrets. Melilot came to say how sorry she was. She tried to blame herself, for not thinking to be alarmed when Frodo failed to return to the Feast. Esmeralda was quick to assure her she was not to blame, and Saradoc quickly agreed. Merry and Pippin only nodded their agreement and Merry was struck with the realization that everyone seemed to be blaming themselves for one thing or another. Pippin was right; it really was pointless to place blame. So why couldn’t he stop feeling so guilty?

Saradoc turned to Merry near the end of the meal and told him he could take it easy the rest of the day. After Merry and Pippin had disappeared the previous day, he and Esmeralda decided it was best not to push the lads too much too soon. The lads could spend the next week or so until Paladin and Eglantine’s arrival doing as they wished, but they wanted to know where Merry and Pippin planned to be for the day and wanted them home at a decent hour.

As it happened, Merry and Pippin were planning to go to Crickhollow for the afternoon with Ilberic and his older brother Doderic. They had run into their friends on their way to the dining hall and made their plans. Merry was glad his father had spoken first, for he really wasn’t feeling up to an argument, and after just an hour under the scrutiny of the rest of the Brandybucks, he wanted nothing more than to get away from Brandy Hall and prying eyes. From the hunched-over form of Pippin, he could tell his cousin felt the same way.

As soon as elevenses was over, Merry and Pippin went to the stables. They found Ilberic and Doderic waiting for them, along with their sister Celandine. They had the ponies already saddled and waited until Merry and Pippin were mounted to head out for the Road.

“What do you mean?” Merry asked. At the same time, Pippin said, “Where are we going?”

Ilberic smiled impishly, the scar on his cheek accentuating the mischief in his eyes. “It’s a surprise. It’s a bit of a ride, but it should be fun once we get there.”

They turned north on the Road, then east on Crickhollow Lane. They followed the Lane until they were out of sight of any homes, then turned north again, off the road and into open fields in the general direction of Newbury. Merry began to recognize some landmarks and thought he knew where they were going.

Eventually, they came to a narrow glade and passed through the trees to a shallow cliff overlooking a pond. The glade was quiet and serene and the sun sparkled off the water’s surface in peaceful tranquility. Many years had passed since Merry had been here last, and Pippin had never been. Pippin looked around with interest and noticed a mighty tree branch hanging over the pond. A knotted rope was tied to it.

“Jumper’s Point,” Celandine answered. “Just four miles south of Newbury. It’s usually packed with hobbits here in the summer, but during spring it’s quite lonely. There shouldn’t be anyone else about.”

“Here, put those on,” Doderic said and threw his cousins a pair of swim trunks each.

“I don’t know,” Pippin said, hesitant. He looked at Merry to see what his cousin would do.

Merry looked down at the pond, a stubborn expression on his face. Merry knew the pond to be perfectly safe and had no fear of it. He was nervous however, if only for Pippin’s sake. He should probably insist on leaving, or at least on sitting out with Pippin to watch from a distance. But in the confusion of his grief and guilt, he became defiant of this uncalled-for fear. He nodded. “I haven’t been here in years, it was always fun before. Come on Pip.”

They changed in the cover of the trees and came out to watch as Celandine took the first leap and swing over the pond. She released the rope on the return, and dropped into the water with a mighty splash. She broke surface only seconds later and waved up at the others. “The water’s perfect,” she called up and waved for them to hurry and join her.

Doderic grabbed the rope as it swung back toward him and soon he was flying over the water’s surface. He released at the highest point of the arch and crashed into the pond, farther out than his sister. He also came to the surface just moments later and squirted his sister in the face with water. She splashed at him and swam away laughing as he gave chase.

Ilberic grabbed the rope next and noticed Pippin’s worried expression. “Come on, Pip, it’s easy,” he assured and ran the short distance down the cliff. He jumped onto the rope as the ground dropped away and swung out over the pond. He let go and fell into the water. He disappeared for a short while, popping up near his brother to dunk him unexpectedly under the water.

Pippin watched the horseplay and breathed deeply. He knew it was silly to be afraid. At any other time, he would have been the first person in the water. But still he hesitated. Merry came and squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to Pip. I’ll sit with you if you’d rather just watch.”

“No,” Pippin said and shrugged off his uneasiness. They had left the Hall to get away from the heaviness that surrounded them there. They had left to try to find something to enjoy. Why not enjoy this? Merry had done this before and said it was fun and the water did not look that deep. He took a deep breath and resolved himself. “Come on, before they start having too much fun without us.”

In the water, Ilberic stopped his play to watch his cousin and his friend. Doderic and Celandine waited also to see what they would do and looked at their brother doubtfully. “Are you sure about this Ilby?” Celandine asked.

Ilberic nodded with determination. “It’s understandable if they want to stay away from the Brandywine for the time being, but they can’t avoid water altogether, nor should they. This will be good for them.” Then he smiled and nodded toward the cliff. Pippin was preparing for his first swing. “No horseplay though, unless they want to.”

“Of course,” Doderic and Celandine agreed as Pippin joined them with a splash. Seconds later, Merry followed and soon they were all racing to the other side of the pond.

In the end, Merry and Pippin found they quite enjoyed the solitude of the little pond. There was no one there to look at them sadly and tragically, no one to ask how they were doing. Their cousins were only concerned with having fun and Merry and Pippin soon found themselves laughing and playing along with their games. Occasionally, they would become serious and forlorn, but then Celandine would tag them and swim to the other side of the pond, or Ilberic would dive under the water and sneak up on his brother to pull down his trunks and hold them out of his reach on the shore.

When they tired of swimming, they lay upon the hill and bathed in the sun, drying off and enjoying the absolute silence of their retreat. Then Pippin’s stomach grumbled, causing everyone else’s to follow suit. They dressed and walked back to their ponies. Celandine and Ilberic had packed a lunch and they brought it out and spread it on the ground in the shade of the trees. They ate slowly and talked about other times they had spent here in this favored retreat.

When they finished their meal, they left for home. If they did not return for supper, they would be questioned as to their whereabouts and none of them wanted any trouble. Merry and Pippin grew somber the closer to Brandy Hall they got and they slowed their ponies as much as they could. Ilberic came to ride beside them, offering support with his presence.

“We could do something tomorrow if you’re able,” Ilberic said when they reached the stables, five minutes before the dinner hour. “Just let us know.”

Merry and Pippin nodded. “It shouldn’t be a problem, but we should know where we’re going ahead of time.”

“Of course,” said Doderic. “It’s just, we thought if you knew, you wouldn’t come. And you enjoyed yourselves didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Pippin admitted with a twinge of guilt. Should he be enjoying himself at a time like this?

“Let’s try getting together after elevenses again then,” Celandine said. They all agreed and went inside to eat.

Sam had not got as much done as he had hoped. The watering had gone easily enough, but the kitchen garden had taken longer to get into order than he anticipated. Snails had come out to enjoy the rainwater while it had lasted and they had found the crops in the process. They were munching happily on the strawberries when Sam found them and began the eviction. He did not kill the pests but instead gathered them into a bucket and carried them to the other side of the Hill, to a patch of wild grass and weeds where they could do some good. He then plucked the ruined strawberries and tossed them into another bucket with the rest of his trimmings.

When he finished with the kitchen garden, he had turned his attention to the trimming, which had taken the rest of the afternoon. The bushes were far overdue for tending and had taken a lot of attention to get them presentable again. Many stray branches had to be cut back before Sam was able to find the original line to guide his shears. He was nearly done now and looked down the row of perfectly round shrubs. He checked the position of the sun in the sky and calculated how long it would take him to complete the job. He should be able to finish and get home in time for dinner. Sam started the last of the trimming, stubbornly keeping his mind on the task before him.

When he was raking up the final cuttings, he heard at last the sound he had been waiting for all day: hooves on the lane. He looked up and saw Robin approaching. Sam finished his raking while Robin let himself in the gate and came to join him.

“Never stop,” Sam replied. He dumped the cuttings on the wheelbarrow, then laid the rake and shears across the mound. He turned to his friend and asked, “Well?”

Robin shuffled his feet and fingered a newly trimmed branch. “Well, Missus Burrows found her cat,” he started. “Got itself up a tree and has been living off a bird’s nest. And the post master’s got all the water out of his cellar, but there was no saving any of the supplies.”

“Not much I’m afraid,” Robin answered apologetically. “We’re still waiting for word on the southern half of the search. They found nothing in the northern regions, but as we weren’t expecting them to, that’s not much of an alarm.”

“A day or two? I could have been in Buckland by now if I had left when I wanted. I can’t wait another day or two,” Sam exclaimed.

“I know Sam, I’m sorry. I did think we would know something final by now. It’s usually not so slow as this,” Robin pointed out.

Sam’s brow furrowed in concern as he realized the truth of that statement. News was never this slow, unless… “Do you think something bad may have happened?”

“I don’t know Sam,” Robin said, feeling useless. He knew it would be pointless to attempt any reassurances at this point, but he did have one offer to extend. “I’m leaving tonight to Frogmorton. I need to report back to my captain by tomorrow evening. They should have heard something by then. You can come with me if you like.”

Sam hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the offer, but he swallowed his fear and nodded with resolve. “I’ll come,” he vowed. He knew his father would try to argue the practicality of such a decision, but Sam was determined. He had sat idle long enough.

“Nonsense,” Sam chided. “Stay for dinner. There’s no need coming up here twice if you don’t have to.”

So Robin waited while Sam finished up. He sat on the top step, leaning against the door, and admired the gardens, in awe of what Sam had been able to accomplish in so short a time. He almost envied his friend’s talents, until he thought of all the work these beautiful gardens required. Far too much work, in his opinion. No, gardens were definitely much better to look at than work on.

When Sam was finished, the gardener came to fetch his friend. They walked down the Hill together, Robin leading the pony beside them. They entered Number Three as May was pulling a fresh loaf of bread from the oven. “Hello Robin,” she greeted. “Come for dinner have you?”

Robin took the empty seat next to Sam as Hamfast and Marigold entered the kitchen. More greetings followed and soon everyone was sitting to a delightful meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes and mushroom gravy, steamed vegetables and honeyed bread.

No one asked why Robin was there, but they all knew. They knew also from Sam’s silence what Robin’s news had been. Or rather, what it had not been. Not wanting to risk depressing Sam more, they focused their conversation instead on more common things.

“I saw Missus Scarlet and the new bairn today,” Marigold said as she dished more peas onto her plate. “Little Tory is such a delightful baby, and so beautiful. He’s going to have the lasses running after him when he gets older, I can tell already.”

After Marigold stopped gushing over the baby, Hamfast turned to Robin and asked, “Any word yet on all this business of Sandyman’s? It’s odd that we’ve still heard nothing after so long.”

Robin nodded and gulped down his tea. He set his glass on the table and grabbed another slice of bread. “Aye it is, but we have heard a little, if not much. I only know there was some sort of trouble with Mr. Lotho, if you can believe that. He’s usually such a delightful lad,” Robin said with mock alarm. When everyone was finished chuckling, he continued, “Word is Sandyman was to have left Sackville the day before yesterday. More will be discovered when they return no doubt.”

When the mysterious doings of the miller and his son were exhausted, May changed the subject yet again. “The Mayor’s having the Picnic on your birthday Sam. Rosie and Goldie were going to help of course, before the storm pushed it back, and Rosie still has to go help her cousin settle in to her new house. We were wondering, would you mind terribly moving your birthday from the Party Field to Michel Delving? Sam?”

Sam stirred and shook his head. “Makes no matter to me where we have it,” he mumbled.

A few minutes of silence followed as everyone finished their meal. Then May and Marigold gathered the dishes for washing, and Sam and Robin cleared the rest of the table. Hamfast retired to the parlor, to smoke a pipe by the fireside. Sam waited a few minutes more, then looked at Robin and nodded toward the parlor. Robin nodded in return and watched as Sam retreated down the tunnel after his father.

“Gaffer?” Sam said as he entered the parlor. He sat in the chair across from his father and clasped his hands together, waiting.

“What’s the matter, Sam?” Hamfast asked and paused in stuffing his pipe to regard his son closely. Whatever his son was about to say would no doubt explain why Robin had visited for dinner.

“Sir,” Sam began, then hesitated. He had not given any clear thought to how he was going to ask permission to leave for Frogmorton and realized too late that he should have had his reasons prepared ahead of time. He took a steadying breath and plunged ahead. “Gaffer, Robin tells me there’s no news yet of Mr. Frodo, but he’s leaving for Frogmorton tonight. By the time he gets there, his captain should have word. He offered for me to come along and I want to go with him, sir.”

Hamfast studied his son sternly and shook his head. “No, Sam, I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”

“No Sam,” Hamfast interrupted. “There’s no sense in you wandering off halfway across the Shire just to hear something you’ll find out in another day or two.”

“I can’t just sit here, wasting my time, waiting for word,” Sam tried to explain calmly, failing utterly.

“You’re not wasting your time. You’re working,” Hamfast returned. “You’ll be wasting your time going to Frogmorton is what you’ll be doing. Really, Sam, what are you going to in Frogmorton other than get in the way?”

Sam shook his head and stood up, his hands clenched at his side. How could his father deny him this? “I need to know what’s happened to Mr. Frodo. If I go to Frogmorton, I can find out as early as tomorrow. I can’t stand not knowing any longer. It’s tearing me apart,” he exclaimed in a strained voice.

“And if there’s no word in Frogmorton? What then?” Hamfast asked, trying to keep some semblance of reason in the conversation. He could hardly stand to look at his son, who was looking down at him so mournfully. He turned back to his pipe to keep himself from caving in.

“Then I’ll go to Buckland, to Brandy Hall,” Sam replied stubbornly. “I’ll ask the Master directly if I have to.”

“Don’t be such an ninnyhammer, Sam,” Hamfast said in exasperation. He put down his pipe and stood now also. He had known Sam was slipping, but had not realized it had come so far that he would throw all sense of propriety to the wind. Such rash decisions would do no one any good and Hamfast needed to put a stop to such flights of fancy. He rooted himself in front of his son and challenged firmly, “Go to Buckland will you? And what are you planning to do once you get there? Knock upon the door and explain to the Master that you’re Mr. Frodo’s gardener, can you see him? You’ve no right to do such a silly thing as that.”

“Why haven’t I?” Sam asked hotly, his voice rising threateningly as the fear and anxiousness of the past few days gave way to anger.

“You can’t just do as you want to, Sam!” Hamfast retorted. “You’ve no right and you know it, and you know why. Lor’ knows I’ve explained it to you enough times. I’m not going to explain it again. You’re staying here where you belong and you’re going to work as you’re supposed to. You’re not taking yourself up to Frogmorton or Brandy Hall or anywhere else.”

A resounding silence filled the smial. Hamfast stared at his son in disbelief. In the kitchen, Robin closed his eyes in dread. May and Marigold gaped down the hallway, dishes long forgotten. They all stood rooted as they numbly waited for the consequences of Sam’s defiance.

How long the silence may have lasted or how long the fight may have continued will never be known, for it was at that moment that a knock sounded upon the door. The call shook Robin from his stupor. He looked questioningly at the lasses, who were equally as baffled. Who would be calling at this late hour? Robin stepped carefully around the lasses, went to the door and opened it to find Porto Baggins standing on the stoop.

“Is this a bad time?” Porto asked, having only heard the unmistakable murmurings of an argument taking place when he first came through the gate. He could feel the tension in the air and thought perhaps he should come again in the morning; there would still be time.

Robin shook his head and waved him inside. “Mr. Porto Baggins, do come in. How are you this fine evening, sir?” he managed to ask politely and casually.

“Well enough,” Porto answered as the Gamgees came to stand in the entrance hallway with their unexpected guest. They looked at him curiously and with concern.

Porto shook his head. “I have only a delivery to make. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, especially given the news I have to deliver.” He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded letter of fine parchment. “Sam, I’ve a letter to you from Master Brandybuck.”

Porto held the letter out towards Sam, who took it hesitantly. The letter felt like a dead weight in his hand. He turned it over and examined the wax seal. The official mark of the Brandybucks, a stag standing before a row of alders, stared back at him. Why would the Master be writing to him? He forced himself to bow politely. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

Porto cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Don’t thank me, lad, but if there’s anything you need, do not hesitate to let me or Ponto know. We’ll help in any way we can; it’s what Frodo would have wanted. I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening.” He bowed stiffly and let himself out the door, closing it gently behind him.

Once the door was closed, everyone turned their attention to the letter firmly gripped in Sam’s shaking hand. Sam’s face was pale with fear and he continued to stare at the seal. He had not taken his eyes off it.

When it appeared Sam would make no move to open the letter, Robin stepped forward and gently pried it from Sam’s hand. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Without glancing ahead to see what the message may contain for fear he may not be able to read it, he began to speak in a quiet, nervous voice.

By now, I trust you have heard the startling news of Frodo’s disappearance, and I do not doubt that you have been waiting anxiously for the outcome of our search. On Merry’s advice, I write this to you, so that you may hear the news directly before anyone else, or before you can chance upon it and think it a cruel rumor. If only it was just a rumor…

It is my sad duty to report that Frodo was not found by any of our search parties. Though we searched high and low, we could find no sign of him. We have however learned of his fate by Mr. Alder Thatch, a miller in Haysend. The news is beyond unbearable, and I ordered this letter delivered to you at your home so that you may not be alone when you read it. You will need your family with you during this difficult time. I regret that there is no easy way to say this, so I will out with it directly and hope that the abruptness of the announcement does not make it harder for you to bear.

Frodo was taken by the river Brandywine and was drowned on the evening of the twenty-fourth of Rethe. He went into the river, and the flood proved too great for his abilities…

Robin could not finish the last few paragraphs, nor could he look up, for fear of the expression he would find on Sam’s face. He could hear the lasses’ sobs and heard Hamfast move to embrace his son.

Sam remained silent and still. He stared dazedly at the letter in Robin’s hand, hardly believing what he had just heard. Still with eyes cast toward the ground, Robin turned the letter towards his friend and Sam took it without noticing. He stared down at the smoothly textured parchment and the fine, elegant script. Such a fair hand to write such terrible words. It hardly seemed real.

But one word in particular jumped out at him, and it became the only reality he was aware of in the numbness that stole his breath. Drowned. He could see nothing else, knew nothing else and for the first time in his life, he hated the fact that he could read, if a single word could bring such horror. Drowned. Just like his parents. How? How could fate be so cruel? Where was the justice in this?

Tears blurred the page. He let the letter drop soundlessly to the ground. His knees gave out from under him and he slumped down to the ground, his father embracing him still, though he was unaware of anyone’s presence. He was unaware of anything but that single piece of paper, that single, simple, terrible word.

“Just staring at the wall as he is now? I don’t like this. If he hadn’t been breathing, I’d of thought…”

“He’s got to get up and eat at some point. He can’t just lie there all day.”

“Well, he can’t be expected to go to work either. You can’t send him to Bag End today Gaffer.” May turned to her father, and Marigold nodded in agreement.

“I don’t think there will be any fear of that, loves,” Hamfast said. “We’ll do good just to get him out of bed.”

They were in the parlor before a dwindling fire, talking in hushed voices and holding tepid cups of tea. None of them noticed that the fire was failing or that the smial was gradually growing colder. In their worry for Sam, they noticed nothing but the echoing silence of their little hole and the lack of Sam’s cheerful voice.

They had stayed up long into the night and early morning. Robin had been reluctant to leave after reading the Master’s letter and had stayed to help. Once Sam’s tears were spent, Hamfast had steered his son to bed, and he and Robin had stayed with him through the long, endless night. Robin had managed to stay awake even after Hamfast drifted off on the desk chair, and he sat next to Sam until morning.

They had not spoken, for what really could be said in a time such as this? Robin had never lost anyone close to him and Sam had now lost two. Robin simply did not know what to do or how to help. He had heard Sam weeping silently off and on, and all he could think to do was keep a constant, comforting hand resting upon his friend’s shoulder.

Finally, when the moon had set and the sky began to pale with the coming of dawn, Robin had to leave. He did not know when he would be back in town, but he promised to check on Sam as soon as he was able. Before he left though, he had beckoned Hamfast outside. When they reached the gate, Robin turned to Hamfast and looked him in the eye.

“There’s something you don’t know about all of this,” Robin said in a confiding voice. “It seems Sam was invited to go to Buckland with Mr. Baggins, but he turned the offer down. He’s somehow turned that around to mean that Mr. Baggins’s disappearing was all his fault. I’ve tried explaining that it isn’t, but he won’t hear of it. He’s convinced he could of done something had he been there. He was barely hanging on before and now this… I’m scared for him Gaffer. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“So that’s why he wanted to go to Frogmorton so badly,” Hamfast realized and hung his head in regret. “And I yelled at him. Thank you for telling me Robin. We’ll keep an eye on him, and I’ll sit him down for a chat. He’ll come round, it’ll just take time.”

Hamfast did not tell the lasses what Robin had said. They were worried about Sam enough as it was, but as he sat now in the parlor across from them he knew they were right. Sam could not be made to go to work today, nor should he be allowed to. He needed to have this time to grieve. They could live without his income for a short while, but Sam would have to get out and look for other assignments before too long. There was always the possibility that he could continue on as the gardener of Bag End, if the new Master of the Hill said so, but they could not depend on that no matter what Mr. Porto had promised.

He turned the topic instead to more practical matters: how to survive until Sam returned to work. The advanced pay Mr. Baggins had given Sam was just about run out, and they needed to replenish much of the stores they had used while helping the Cottons. The lasses latched on to this topic at once. This was something they could help with.

“May and I could take on some extra jobs,” Marigold said. “There’s some houses we could clean, and Missus Brown said she needed someone to watch her little ones on Trewsdays.”

Hamfast nodded. “I’ve got some barrels of ale that’ll fetch a decent price, and I’ve already dug up the last of the winter taters to take into market.”

“Elson’s mother is looking for someone to stitch her some pillowcases,” May offered. “Mayhap she’ll pay me if I explain the circumstances.” For her future mother-in-law was known for being tight with her purse strings and did not part with her money easily.

Their plans set, the lasses struggled to their feet and went to the kitchen to start breakfast. Hamfast stood and picked up the Master’s letter from the mantelpiece. He stared at the strange, black markings on the fine parchment. Somewhere in all that mess spelled Mr. Baggins’s doom, and Sam was blaming himself.

“What happened with getting together after elevenses?” Merry whispered as he and Pippin snuck out of his bedroom and through the darkened sitting room.

“Doderic found me after supper and said there was a place just outside Bucklebury where we could have a breakfast picnic,” Pippin whispered back. “We’re to meet them in the kitchens and help with the food.”

“All right then, but hold on a minute,” Merry said. He opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out parchment, quill and ink. He scribbled a note to his parents and set it on the table where they would see it.

He followed Pippin out the door and down the silent passageways to the kitchens, where the staff was already busy kneading dough for bread. Their friends were waiting already, two picnic baskets packed and ready.

“I know, but as your idea of helping is to eat the food before it’s packed, we thought it best to have everything ready before you got here,” Ilberic teased. Pippin simply rolled his eyes in response.

The cousins filed out of the kitchen through the servants’ door and stepped soundlessly towards the road. As the hour was so early, there were only a handful of servants about, who nodded politely and gave respectful good mornings as they passed. Merry was reminded sharply of Sam and wondered how the gardener was holding up. He would have received the letter by now.

“Merry?” Pippin’s voice brought him out of his brief reverie. He turned to find his friends several yards ahead of him on the path. “Are you coming or planning on growing roots?”

Back inside the grand smial, Esmeralda returned to her bedroom, her son’s letter in hand. “They’ve left already,” she announced, a note of worried agitation in her voice. “Are you certain we’re doing the right thing? Maybe we should talk to them after all. They can’t keep going on like this.”

“We will talk to them,” Saradoc soothed. He took his wife’s shoulders gently in his hands and squeezed them reassuringly. “But we decided it would be best to wait for your brother to arrive, and I still think that’s the best course. Once Pally and Tina are here, we’ll sit down and we’ll talk it all out.”

Esmeralda shook her head and waved the letter in her hand. “So we’re just to let them do as they please until then? They’ll wind up hurting themselves or worse.”

“Why would they do that?” Saradoc asked. “They’re just trying to sort everything out in their own way. They’re not getting into trouble.”

“They’re avoiding what’s happened,” Esmeralda said. “That’s the worst thing they can do. Don’t you remember how it was with Frodo? I can’t do that again.”

“We won’t let it get that far this time,” Saradoc said. “We know what we’re doing this time around, and most importantly, we know Merry. It won’t be the same, I promise.”

Esmeralda slipped out her husband’s grasp and shook her head. “No, Sara, it will be the same. It’s already started; Merry’s just better at hiding his despair than Frodo was. And Pippin, the only thing keeping him going is Merry. If Merry falls apart, we’ll lose them both. I know what we agreed to, but they cannot be left to deal with this on their own for a week or more until my brother arrives. We’ve got to do something now.”

Saradoc sighed heavily and nodded. “Very well. When they get back tonight, we’ll talk to them. We’ll tell them how we feel about everything first, that’ll help them to open up.”

“I can’t go through this again, Sara,” Esmeralda said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I can’t.”

“I know, love. I know.” He took his wife in his arms and held her gently. “It won’t be the same,” he repeated, wondering who exactly he was trying to convince.

Doderic led his siblings and friends along the outskirts of Bucklebury and into a small grove of trees. At the center of the small forest was a clearing, and here they put down their picnic baskets and spread out the blankets they had brought to sit upon. Celandine and Ilberic brought out the food, while Merry and Pippin set up the plates and Doderic poured the juice. Once everything was ready, they served themselves and settled down to discuss their plans for the day.

“They’re opening the Hay Gate today,” Ilberic said. “Hob told us, when we went to tell him about Fr… Um, well he told us it would be at noon. Interested?”

Twice a year, the Hay Gate was opened to allow the other side of the Hedge to be tended. The more adventurous teens and tweens would line up just inside the gate to run short races into the Old Forest. Everyone knew the Old Forest was haunted and the race was more to see who could run in the farthest without getting scared and turning back.

“No,” Merry and Pippin said hurriedly and ignored the curious glances of their friends at their refusal.

“We could go to Fosco’s,” Doderic said. Fosco was a friend of his who lived about five miles south on Buckland Road on one of the most productive and reputable vineyards in the Eastmarch. He also had seven brothers and sisters. “We could get some teams together and play horseshoes or something.”

That decision made, they turned their full attention to their food and finished their breakfast in silence. A half hour later, they packed up their things and marched south through the forest. When they came to the edge of the woods, they found themselves already on the lane leading to Fosco’s house, which could be seen a quarter-mile away to the east, a vast vineyard stretching out behind it. Doderic steered them in that direction.

They came at last to the courtyard to the house. A small, brown fluffy dog ran toward them as they stepped onto the walk path. Celandine dropped to her knees and opened her arms, and the dog flew into them. “Hello, Bickie,” she greeted and the dog yipped excitedly and licked her face.

She stood up and set the dog down on the ground. She and the others continued up the walk path, with Bickie bounding happily between them, looking for attention. They reached the house just as Fosco came out the front door, and the friends grinned at each other.

“Hallo Fosco,” Doderic greeted. “I hope you don’t mind us just dropping by.”

“Of course not,” Fosco said. “I missed you at the Feast. How was Crickhollow?”

“Horribly dull,” Doderic answered, then indicated the others. “We thought, if you’re able, that we’d play some games.”

Fosco nodded. He was older than Doderic, and even Merry, and was the eldest of his siblings, but he still enjoyed whatever games his friends and siblings would come up with. “I’ll get everyone together,” he said, with a brief glance toward Merry and Pippin before he disappeared back into the house.

“Please Sam? You need to eat,” Marigold said and held the forkful of sausage up again.

Sam gave no indication of noticing his sister or the food. He was lying on his side staring blankly at the wall just as he had been since their father laid him down hours earlier. He had not moved an inch since.

“Sam,” she said again and placed her hand to her brother’s forehead, then swept his curls off his face. He did not stir or give any acknowledgement of the touch. “Sam? Do you even know I’m here?” she asked, her voice straining with despair.

She dropped the fork with a clatter to the plate and buried her face in her hands. She breathed deeply and slowly, blocking out temporarily the image of her brother lying so still and lifeless. When her tears were in check and she had control of herself once more, she lifted her head and reached out for her brother. She took his hand in hers and pressed it gently.

Just then, May knocked on the doorframe and stepped into the room. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Let me try,” May offered. She came to the bedside and took the plate from her sister. She took up the fork and held it right up to Sam’s mouth. “Now I know you’re hungry Sam,” she said in the no-nonsense tone their older sister Daisy would always use. “You’re going to eat this, and then you’re going to drink your tea and wash up.”

Still, no response came. May turned to Marigold and shrugged. “Let’s leave the food here then. He’ll eat when he’s hungry enough,” she said without conviction. She put the plate on the table and helped Marigold to her feet.

In the kitchen, Hamfast was gathering the items to take into market. The lasses had some loads of laundry to return as well, and May had gathered them together while Marigold was attempting to feed Sam. Now they carried everything to Daddy Twofoot’s pony trap and loaded the cart. Hamfast and Marigold climbed into the cart and Hamfast took up the reins.

May waved them off and returned to the smial to begin cleaning it out. The hole needed a thorough going-over and May started with the dirtiest work first: the hearth and oven. She turned next to dusting and polishing the furniture, and washing the mirrors and windows. She dragged the rugs outside to beat the dust off them and give them a thorough scrubbing. When all the stains were washed clean, she left the rugs to hang dry and went back inside to sweep out the hole and mop the floors.

May was resting in the parlor, letting the floors dry themselves, when Hamfast and Marigold returned. They were not in good moods. Their time at market had been spent mostly listening to one hobbit’s theory after another about Mr. Baggins’s disappearance. They did not bother correcting anyone to tell them the truth: that news would spread fast enough without their help once Ponto Baggins, the head of the Baggins family, declared the news. They even held their tongues when hobbits mentioned Mad Baggins and how they were surprised this didn’t happen sooner.

Marigold and May finished cleaning the smial, scrubbing down the kitchen and cleaning out the pantry before putting their market purchases away. Hamfast returned the cart to Daddy Twofoot, then retreated to the parlor to work out their finances. They would have to watch their money tightly for the next week or so. Hopefully by then, Sam would be working again. He would have little choice in the matter really. Necessity came before anything else, even grief. As hard as it was to continue on after the unthinkable, it was just something Sam would have to learn to deal with. The end of life was inevitable; so too was its continuation. Sam would learn that lesson anew and he would have to learn it soon.

“Gaffer!” Marigold’s cry sounded through the smial. She ran into the parlor with May close behind.

“What’s the matter, lass?” Hamfast asked, rising from his chair as quickly as his old bones would allow. It must be serious indeed if Marigold had called him by his nickname.

May shook her head. “I left him alone so he could rest, but I didn’t hear him stir. He must have gone out when I was round back cleaning the rugs.”

“Went to Bag End,” Hamfast finished. He went to the door and grabbed his jacket off the coat rack. “That’s as good a place to start as any. I’ll check. You lasses stay here in case he returns.”

Hamfast didn’t have to search long once he reached the top of the Hill. He found Sam standing just inside the garden gate, staring up at the round green door with sunken, bloodshot eyes. Hamfast cleared his throat to announce his presence and stepped into the garden, softly closing the gate behind him which Sam had left open.

“Sam?” Hamfast said hesitantly. “You shouldn’t be up here today lad. Come back to the Row and rest up while you can.”

Hamfast took his son firmly by the elbow and attempted to steer him out of the garden, but Sam did not budge. For all that he looked like a slight wind could topple him over, Sam was rooted to his spot and he stood firm, his hard, accusing stare never wavering from the door. If Hamfast didn’t know better, he’d almost think that Sam was having himself a staring contest with the door, as if he was willing it to open simply by standing there. ‘And how long has he been standing here?’ Hamfast thought.

“Sam?” Hamfast ventured again. Still he got no response. He shook his son and stepped around him to stand between Sam and the door. “Samwise, I’m your father and I will not be ignored. Now, you best tell me what’s going through that head of yours. Do you want I should fetch a healer?”

At last, Sam shifted his attention to his father. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on their new target, and when they did, Hamfast nearly quailed at the vacant expression in those usually cheerful brown eyes.

Sam swallowed, preparing himself to talk, and his voice came out scratchy and hollow. “He said he’d be home today. I need to finish everything up. It should look nice for him.”

Hamfast shook his head and tenderly lifted a hand to Sam’s pale face. “He’s not coming, son.”

Tears welled up instantly in Sam’s eyes and he shut them tightly. He steadied himself with several deep breaths before trusting his voice again. “He said he’d be here, so I’m going to be here too.”

“You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. I’m not letting you work today. Now come on. You need to take care of yourself now.”

Sam shook his head stubbornly and stepped away from his father’s touch. “I have to be here. He’ll be expecting me, to take his bags and get his clothes that need washing and light the fires and fix him tea, and if he’s not too tired, he’ll want to talk about his trip. And Mr. Pippin will be here again too. I’ll have to see to him, that he’s fed and all. That lad is always hungry, even ate half of Mr. Frodo’s mushrooms afore they left and don’t think Mr. Frodo won’t have a word or two for him when he finds out.”

Hamfast shook his head and took his son’s arm again, gentle and firm. “He’s not going to find out. He’s gone, Sam. Don’t do this to yourself, lad.” He tugged on Sam’s arm but the result was the same.

Sam put a hand over his father’s and gently but firmly pushed it off his arm. “I need to be here today Gaffer. He’s never lied or been late afore. He said he’d be here today, so if he doesn’t show up, then I’ll know it’s true. Without a doubt. Then I’ll rest some. But I just… I need to be here today. I’m staying here alone.”

Hamfast nodded, agreeing against his better judgment. “Then I’m staying with you, but you’re eating something before you do anything else.” He turned and went back out the gate, and paused on the lane. “I’ll let your sisters know where you are and bring you some lunch. Don’t lift a finger until I get back, but get yourself to that bench of Mr. Frodo’s and in the shade.”

“Yes sir,” came the automatic reply, but Sam did not move and Hamfast could tell his son was studying the door again. The old hobbit hurried down the Hill, moving more quickly than he had in years. He did not want to leave Sam alone for too long.

They had been playing most of the day and talking about everything other than what was on everyone’s minds. Merry and Pippin were trying not to notice how Fosco and his siblings kept throwing curious glances their way. Why they had thought leaving Brandy Hall would keep curious onlookers at bay was beyond them. Now that the word was out, they would not be able to go anywhere without being so attentively regarded. Not for a while anyway, not until something else came along to distract everyone’s attention.

Afternoon tea came, and everyone sat down for a light meal. There were twelve of them in all and the seating at the table was tight. Merry and Pippin found themselves sitting between Doderic and Fosco at one end of the table. Fosco handed them a pitcher of tea and looked at them long and knowingly.

“I heard about your cousin,” he said and continued before either of them could get up or protest. “It doesn’t seem fair at all, does it, the way it happened or that it happened at all. You must be so angry, if it’s not too forward of me to say.”

“And it’s not fair,” Pippin said and relaxed visibly for the first time since they arrived. “Thank you for understanding.”

Fosco shrugged. “I think everyone understands; they’re just not very good at saying so.”

“No,” Merry dissented. “Not everyone does understand. Some don’t want to, others don’t care, and still others only pretend they do. I imagine there will even be a few who will be happy to hear the news.”

Ilberic shook his head. “Lobelia isn’t hearing it from us. Father’s told Mother that she’s forbidden to tell that old hag anything, even if Lobelia is her aunt.”

“She’ll hear it anyway,” Doderic said. “She lives in Bywater after all. As soon as Ponto makes the announcement, don’t think she won’t be up at Bag End taking measurements.”

Celandine shook her head. “Don’t you remember? They’re in Sackville right now, and everyone knows how long it takes for news to reach the Southfarthing. It’ll be another month at least before she’s taking measurements.”

Merry clenched his teeth and noticed Pippin doing the same with his fists. “She won’t get it,” Pippin said. “Frodo wouldn’t leave Bag End to her lot.”

“He may not have had a choice, having no heir of his own,” Merry said and conversation lulled as everyone thought through this unsettling news. “Not to fret. Father should have everything settled before they get back. It may not be so bad,” he added unconvincingly and fell silent again.

The silence was broken by Fosco’s youngest sister, Violet. She looked up with innocent confusion and said through a mouthful of jellied bread, “Well, what I don’t understand is why Frodo couldn’t just swim out of the river. He did know how to swim, didn’t he?”

“You can’t just swim out of a flood,” Fosco explained with a worn patience. They have clearly had this conversation before.

“It matters if there’s no time to react to it,” Fosco said. “Let’s not talk about this right now.” He turned apologetically to Merry and Pippin. “Sorry about that.”

“Where are you going to bury him?” Violet asked next, oblivious to the stricken reactions of everyone at the table.

“Violet!” Fosco exclaimed. He picked her up and carried her into the house, Violet protesting the whole way. No one said a word or moved while he was gone, and when he came back alone, they pretended to go back to their meal though no one ate. Pippin was taking one deep breath after another as Ilberic unobtrusively patted his back. Merry sat stock-still, blinking at his near-empty plate.

Finally Celandine broke the awkward silence, changing the subject to planning their next game and soon everyone was debating how to spend the rest of their afternoon. They still had an hour before they needed to head home and didn’t want to waste it on dire conversations.

A few minutes later, they were finished with their meal. Everyone stood and headed back to the courtyard to continue their play, but Merry lingered behind. Pippin stood back with him, a strained expression on his face.

“Merry?” he asked, as Merry finally stood and headed purposely toward the walk path out of the courtyard.

“Home,” Merry called back. “Thank you for your hospitality Fosco. Say good-bye to your sister for us.” With that, he went out the courtyard, not stopping to answer any more questions. Pippin ran to keep up with him and when they reached the end of the lane where it met the Road, he reached out and pulled Merry to a stop.

Merry turned to his friend, a strangely calm expression on his face. “Frodo was one of the best swimmers in the Shire,” he said. “If there was any way to swim out of that flood, he would find it.”

“But how could he?” Pippin asked. “It was too fast, Mac said so. So did that miller. We heard what it did to the ferry and all that. How could he?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, but we need an accomplice, someone he won’t expect.”

“Who won’t expect someone? And what do we need an accomplice for? Merry, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about our cousin, who as we both know, always manages to one way or another do the impossible. What’s more impossible than surviving a flood? He’s not dead, and we’re not going to bury him. We’re going to find him, but we need more information. We need to know absolutely everything there is to know, and we’ll need help to get it.”

With that, Merry turned up the Road and walked purposefully toward Brandy Hall. Pippin followed behind, keeping a skeptical and worried eye on his friend.

Mr. Frodo had not returned. Sam and Hamfast stayed at Bag End until midnight, for Sam refused to leave and Hamfast would not leave him alone. Marigold and May brought up supper and some blankets at sunset. They were pleased to see Sam out of bed, but disheartened by the worn and weary expression on his face. Hamfast confided that Sam was having difficulty working, and he would often stop for long minutes at a time, his thoughts wandering off to the Blue.

When Mr. Frodo did not return and the night bled into morning, Sam did not speak, did not make a sound. He simply stood up from the bottom step, where he had been sitting with his father, an unlit pipe held forgotten in his hand, and walked away. Hamfast hurried to walk next to him down the Hill and when they reached their home, Sam went directly to his room and curled up on the bed. He sniffled once and the next instant was fast asleep.

Hamfast stood in the doorway and watched his son for nearly an hour, then went to bed himself. He would talk with Sam tomorrow when he woke up, would explain to him that none of this was his fault, that he wasn’t to blame. Sam would not believe it and probably never would, but maybe if he heard it enough he would be able to put aside his guilt and get on with his life. Just maybe.

Frodo was sleeping peacefully when Berwin checked on him the next morning. Frodo had improved over the night. Only an occasional cough could be heard, and he was breathing more easily, taking deep full breaths in his sleep. His forehead was cool, all traces of fever now gone. Berwin shook his head and marveled at the hobbit’s resiliency.

Still, Frodo was not well enough to travel, not for any great length at any rate, and Berwin knew it. Frodo was weakened by his illness and injuries, and it would be another week or two before he healed enough for a journey down the East Road. While Frodo had said he did not mind traveling while he recovered, and claimed that he would be able to handle the discomfort as long as the destination was Rivendell and his cousin, Berwin would not feel comfortable taking such a risk. He would have to wait if he was to take Frodo, and this troubled the man greatly for he knew he could not wait that long.

With feelings of much trepidation, Berwin made his way through the house to stand outside in the morning sun. Had it been only yesterday that he stood in this very spot, pleading with the unseen forces above for Frodo’s life? Now he must ask guidance to show him what to do, to keep his word made unwisely in haste or to break it for the inconvenience it would cause.

He could hardly believe it was real, that Frodo had improved so dramatically over so short a time, after being so close to death itself. The healer’s skill and medicine undoubtedly helped, but he could not help but feel there was some other force at work in all this. How else could he explain all that had happened?

He had left the Blue Mountains late, had he not? First, his horse had slipped a shoe. Then his saddlebag had split in two, the seams bursting open for some inexplicable reason. Instead of insisting that the repairs be made immediately, he had used the excuses to linger and see the unveiling of a new jewel for the chieftain’s wife. Never before had he done such a thing. When he was finally on his way, he had traveled quickly to make up time, only to be held up by the rangers and the storm.

All of the delays had led him seemingly directly to Frodo, who surely would have died had he been left by the river a moment longer. Who’s to say when the rangers may have ventured out that way? What if another wayward traveler had found him, someone with ill intentions or who may not have hastened to reach help in time? Instead it had been him, who already knew the name Frodo Baggins and would have taken all care with Bilbo’s beloved cousin no matter what the circumstances. It could not be coincidence. Berwin could only conclude that he was meant to find Frodo, and that Frodo was meant to live. But was Frodo meant to go to Rivendell?

Berwin simply did not know. What he did know was that he was pressed for time and every day he remained here would mean an extra day his friends and loved ones would have to worry about his whereabouts, especially once his companions reached Dale ahead of him. He was also running out of money, and if Frodo came with him, he would have to acquire a pony, saddlebag, sleeping roll, at least two changes of clothes, not to mention the extra food. He would also need to take some medicines with him and he had to pay the healer still on top of everything else.

As for Frodo himself, he would need to send word to his family in the Shire that he was well and sound. The storm had been nearly a week ago and they must be desperate to know what has become of him. Frodo would want to assure them of his safety. Finding someone to deliver the letter should be easy enough; they could leave it with the innkeeper at The Prancing Pony to forward to the Shire. But what would his family think of Frodo leaving in such a manner? And even though Frodo was determined to travel no matter what the discomfort, Berwin knew they would be slowed by Frodo’s injuries.

Would it come down to that then: time and money? They were silly things on which to make such a decision, yet it was inevitable. He could not travel the road without any coin, and he could not forget his duty to his King. Berwin was not one to break his word once he gave it, and so only gave it after careful consideration. Why had he promised so hastily to take Frodo with him? Was he to break his word now, to one whom he cared so deeply and who yearned for this chance so greatly?

No, he could not do that. He had a couple of weeks at least to acquire the things he needed. He would work in exchange for as many of the supplies as he could and pay for the rest. Once they reached Rivendell, the Elves would supply him with enough food to get him to Mirkwood. If they had to travel more slowly until then, so be it. He would explain to his King the reason for his delay, that it was a favor for Bilbo. His King would understand, being fond of the elderly hobbit himself.

A shuffling of cloth behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned and nodded good morning to Hazel as she came to stand beside him.

“Concerning Frodo?” Hazel asked. “If there is something the matter with my patient, I must be told.”

“There is nothing the matter,” Berwin assured, “except that he misses his cousin terribly and wishes to seek for him. I agreed to take him to Rivendell. It will not be easy, but I believe I can make it work.”

“Yes… well, I’m not sure really. Bilbo was planning to stay with the Elves, to settle there after he tired of adventuring. I have not heard if he is actually there yet or not.”

Hazel narrowed her eyes and nodded slowly. She said nothing for several minutes, then asked, “When were you planning to leave?”

“Two weeks at the most,” Berwin said. “Frodo should be able to travel by then. He’s healing so quickly.”

Berwin looked the healer in the eye. Her expression was stern, and her arms were crossed before her in a gesture of absolute finality.

“With all due respect, Mistress,” Berwin said with an authority of his own, “this is Frodo’s decision and mine. You have no place in it.”

Hazel nodded and continued, unflustered by Berwin’s disagreement. “Oh I agree. This decision is yours and his alone, but it will have to be made under my conditions. Frodo is barely recovered from a grave illness that nearly claimed his life. It will be many days before his energy and health are restored fully. He needs two days rest at least before he may go, and that is only to return to his homeland, where his own healer can attend to him and he can get the rest he needs. If it is now your intention to take him to Rivendell, then I will not allow him to leave here until he is fully recovered from all of his ailments and injuries. That will be two months at the least, no exceptions. Can you wait that long?”

“No, I cannot,” Berwin said with a shake of his head. “Nor will I. There is no reason he cannot travel as soon as two weeks. I’ve seen this sort of injury before, even had a few of my own ribs cracked, and you yourself said that hobbits are not so fragile as men. He wants to go and I agreed to take him. I will not break my word.”

“Then you will have to wait two months,” Hazel said unabashed and continued before Berwin could protest further. “His health is still fragile, for all that he’s recovered. He could become ill again. Would you so carelessly risk the life of the one you were so desperate to save? You cannot guarantee that his cousin will be in Rivendell when you arrive, nor can you guarantee that he will arrive any time soon or at all. Would you leave Frodo there alone, to travel home alone when he gives up waiting? Is that the only reason you agreed to take him, so you would not have to travel that road alone, but you would condemn him to it?”

Berwin did not answer but stared down the lane, lost in thought. He could not wait two months, and he had given no thought to what would become of Frodo if they arrived in Rivendell and his cousin was not there. Berwin would then feel obligated to escort Frodo safely back to the Shire and that would be even more time lost. He had been foolish to ever consider helping Frodo beyond the gates of Bree. He should have left as soon as he heard Frodo would recover, yet he had not and it was but a moment’s weakness that made him stray from his original intent. Now he was bound by the promise he had given.

“I gave him my word,” Berwin said. “It is no longer mine to break or take back. It is his decision.”

“Then help him make the right one,” Hazel said. “Decisions made in haste and selfishness are rarely good ones.” With that, she turned back into the house, leaving Berwin with his thoughts once more.

Frodo was awake and attentively observing his room when Hazel brought his food to him five minutes later. He smiled at her warmly and brightly.

“Good morning, Mistress Hazel,” he greeted politely. He had met the healer briefly the night before and had liked her immediately. She reminded him very much of his Aunt Esmeralda, firm but kind.

Hazel set her tray on the table and pulled open the curtains. She sat down and smiled at him warmly. “Good morning Frodo. How are you feeling this morning?”

“I’m feeling quite well, thank you,” Frodo replied. Then he yawned and gave a slight cough.

“Some horrible-tasting medicine before you eat?” Hazel said with a knowing smile. She handed Frodo a glass of warm garlic water. “Gargle a mouthful of this for ten seconds, then drink it all down.”

Frodo took the glass reluctantly and complied, failing not to grimace at the strong taste. He handed the glass back and noticed Hazel was now holding a spoonful of a dark, syrup-thick liquid. “A spoon of this to keep the fever from coming back. You need take it only once more.”

Frodo opened his mouth for the spoon and grimaced worse than before as he swallowed the foul-tasting medicine. At least she had been honest about the taste. “Now I remember why I never admit when I’m ill,” he said bemusedly.

Hazel laughed and next handed him a cup of tea. “That was the last of the nasty stuff. Here’s your tea. Sip on that while I examine you.”

Frodo took the tea gratefully and gargled a mouthful to wash away the taste of the other medicaments. While he sipped on the rest, Hazel unwrapped the compress and lightly pressed the bump on his head. The swelling was hardly discernible now, and the gash completely scabbed over. She placed a fresh cloth soaked in comfrey leaves to the wound, and wrapped his head in fresh bandages. One more day should do it.

She moved on to Frodo’s ribs, pressing lightly. Frodo winced but did not protest the pain, and the healer pressed with slightly more pressure. The bones were mending perfectly. His minor cuts were no longer a concern and the bruises had faded to a pale blue tinged with yellow. She checked the glands in his neck. They were still slightly swollen but would soon return to their normal size.

“You are very fortunate Frodo,” Hazel said as she continued studying her patient, mostly his body language and the depths of his eyes. He was open and relaxed, at ease despite his discomfort.

“You are also incredibly strong.” Now Frodo gave a slight shrug, and his mouth quirked in a bashful, half-smile.

“It was your will to live more than anything else that brought you through your illness. You must have many loved ones back home that you were so determined to see them again.” Frodo now looked at her intently and paused for the space of a heartbeat. Then he nodded, but his expression had turned inward to some conflict that lay deep within.

“I do,” he said at last, a look of guilt crossing his features. He thought of Merry and Pippin, Folco and Fatty. In his dream the previous day, Merry had been crying, but he had been laughing also. One to make the other hurt less. Frodo shifted uncomfortably, knowing Hazel was watching him closely. He had the unsettling feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Well, you shall be seeing them soon enough and that should ease your mind,” Hazel finally said and picked up a bowl of chicken broth. “Now open up.”

Frodo accepted the spoon of broth held out to him and swallowed the rich, delicious liquid as he studied the design on the coverlet.

‘Back home.’ Back home were Merry and Pippin, no doubt fit to be tied by now, and Frodo remembered with a sinking feeling of regret that he had torn apart his room while looking for Bilbo’s ring. What must his cousins think had become of him?

Back home was the ring. It seemed obvious to him now that the ring was at Bag End still, most likely stuck at the bottom of the trunk in the second parlor, or else in his room. His panic had fogged his mind temporarily, making him jump to every horrible conclusion, not allowing him to think rationally. Now that he could, the answer was so ridiculously clear that he felt silly for not realizing it earlier. Had he simply remained calm, all of this could have been avoided.

Frodo needed to go back and get the ring, and he needed to see Merry and Pippin to let them know that all was well. Yet it was a three-day ride from here to Hobbiton, and three days back, plus two days at least to sidetrack to Buckland. Berwin would already have waited longer than he should by then and Frodo did not want to lose his chance to go with him. He desperately wanted to see Bilbo again.

He would write Merry and Pippin a letter explaining everything, or almost everything. The ring would be safe enough locked up inside Bag End, just so long as he came back before a year has passed so that no one could declare him dead. He did not need the fiasco Bilbo had returned home to after his adventure with the dwarves.

When he was finished eating, he asked Haxel if he could use some parchment and ink. Hazel nodded obligingly and carried out the breakfast tray. A few minutes later, she returned with an inkwell, quill, sandbag and parchment. She set a small writing table in front of him and left him alone to his thoughts.

Frodo stared at the paper for a long while before positioning the table so that he could write comfortably. Then he dipped the quill in ink and pressed the quill to paper. Dearest Merry and Pippin…

He was sitting by the Brandywine, playing in the dirt with his child-sized hands. He could hear his parents laughing somewhere behind him. Saradoc and Esmeralda, newly-married, were with them also.

“…not happen often,” Primula was saying, “that a lass has to wait for a lad to come of age to marry.”

“Or perhaps it was I who did not want to wait,” Saradoc said. “Did you think of that?”

“I think it’s that you just love a good scandal, Sara, taking a wife as is older than you,” Drogo said with feigned sternness.

“Oh, hush you,” Esmeralda said with a laugh, which highlighted her Tookish lilt. “It was my doing actually. I find younger fellows much more accommodating and easier to manage.”

“What? I am not,” Saradoc said in an offended tone, then dissolved into laughter with the others.

The adults continued with their joyful banter, and Frodo blissfully ignored them with the simple confidence of a child who knew they would be there when he needed them.

He was packing a small pail with dirt, attempting to make a grand castle like he imagined from one of Bilbo’s tales. He packed the dirt firmly, turned the pail over and tapped it lightly. He lifted the pail up and beamed to himself as he saw a perfectly formed base for his castle. Then the dirt crumpled. Frodo frowned and looked down his long row of crumpled piles. He sighed, moved over a couple of inches, and started packing the pail again. This continued all afternoon, until Frodo had a line several hundred yards long of crumpled piles. He was beginning to get frustrated. What was he doing wrong?

He looked up and noticed a lad just a few feet away, playing the same game as him but much more successfully. The lad had a bucket of water, which he used to moisten the dirt as he packed his pail. When he tipped the pail over, the dirt kept its shape perfectly. But the lad was not shaping the piles into anything else, no castles or even houses or smials. Frodo was about to ask him why when the lad turned to him and smiled, and Frodo gave a start.

“Sam?” he asked, perplexed. “What are you doing here? You aren’t even born yet.”

Sam shrugged and began packing another pail of dirt. “Well, sir, this is a dream isn’t it, and logic doesn’t have much place in them. I mean to say, I’ve never been to Buckland neither, and I don’t much like this river. It’s much bigger and wider than a river ought to be, to my way of thinking. So that’s three reasons why I shouldn’t be here.”

Sam shrugged simply. “I missed you. You left you know, and everything’s been wrong ever since. I thought if I found you, it’d make it better, especially with him coming back and all. He’ll make everything all the worse for wear, and I don’t want to be there when that happens.”

“That’s all it is then?” Frodo asked as Sam dumped out another perfectly formed pile of dirt.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t want to be there, but I have to be. I have to go soon, but I made your piles for you, so you can make whatever you please. Is there anything else you’ll be needing, sir?”

Frodo nodded. “Where are Merry and Pippin? Seems they should be here too.”

“Oh, they wanted to come, but they couldn’t. Not just yet anyhow,” Sam explained.

Sam only shrugged and stood up. He brushed the dirt off his breeches and hands, then began to walk into the river. Frodo rushed to his side and held him back. “Sam, what are you doing? You’ll drown!”

“I don’t see the difference, begging your pardon. ‘Tears are worse than raindrops’ as my Gaffer always says. At least raindrops are good for something, but too much of either will drown you.” He cocked his head and looked at Frodo accusingly. “You should know that well enough.” Then Sam abruptly turned and vanished into the water.

Frodo looked about him frantically for help, but to his dismay, he discovered that he had come farther down the river than he thought. His parents and cousins were nowhere to be seen or heard. He began to run back up the riverbank following his line of crumpled piles, and as he passed them, he saw that the piles did have shapes after all. The shapes were that of ruined homes and destroyed smials and in the river he could see the reflection of a great fire. He stopped in terror and turned around, but found only the forest, silent and serene. Walking toward him were Merry and Pippin, not child-sized as he was but full-grown and weary.

Merry and Pippin stopped before him and stared down at him with vacant eyes. “You said you’d never leave so far I couldn’t visit,” Merry accused. “You lied to me and this is all your fault.” Then he turned without waiting for a response and disappeared back into the trees, which Frodo saw were now charred black and dead. A great veil of smoke was rising out of the woods into the sky, blocking out the sun.

Frodo turned to Pippin, seeking an explanation, but Pippin only patted Frodo on the head. “I’ve been trying to take care of him for you, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it. I’m not the brother to him that you are,” he said and turned to follow Merry.

Frodo watched him leave, completely at a loss as to what to think. Where had his parents gone? Why was everything in ruins where just moments before it had been blissful and beautiful? He watched, clueless, as Pippin disappeared into the veil of smoke. Then a sinister, inhuman voice rose up behind him, sneering with mock gratitude. “I just want to thank you Frodo,” it said. “You really should leave more often.”

A strong hand grabbed him with bone-crunching force and whirled him around, where he was confronted with a masked figure standing over him, breathing a fool stench and laughing triumphantly. Frodo opened his mouth and screamed.

Frodo woke with a start and found Berwin sitting next to him, dozing restfully in the chair.

Frodo sighed with relief to be out of his dream, but the images of it lingered still and he wondered what they could mean. This dream was even worse than the previous one. Yet there was something slightly familiar about this one, something Bilbo had said in his other dream. What was it? Oh yes…

‘It’s not lost, you silly scamp. It’s right where you left it. Just get there before he can…’

Now what did that mean? ‘It means nothing, is what,’ Frodo tried to convince himself and shook his head, frustrated that his sleep was disrupted yet again. These nightmares were most likely nothing more than a lingering effect of his illness, or somehow brought on by the medicaments the healer was giving him. Maybe he should mention them to Hazel when next he saw her.

Frodo carefully lifted himself into a sitting position, then carefully reached over with shaking hands to the bedside table for the cup of tea that sat there. The tea was cold now, but it tasted as sweet as ever. Frodo sipped on it as he waited for his heart to stop racing. He focused on the writing table in front of him to distract himself, his eyes falling upon the letter. He had not got far in his writing before drifting off. ‘Dearest Merry and Pippin’ was all it read.

Frodo took the quill and dipped the tip gingerly in the ink. He set the quill to the paper, his letter already composed in his mind, but his hand stalled, unable or unwilling to form the words. ‘You said you’d never leave,’ came Merry’s accusing voice, and Frodo knew that was exactly how Merry would react. Frodo could try to reason his actions away any number of ways, but it would make little difference. A letter would do no good.

Frodo rested the quill in the inkwell and fell back into his pillows with a troubled sigh. His head was pounding again, and he felt sick to his stomach but not from his illness and not entirely from his dream. “What am I doing?” he mused dismally to himself.

At the sound of his voice, Berwin woke and sat up. He gave a slight yawn and smiled tiredly. “How are you feeling?” he asked automatically.

Frodo turned to the man tersely and frowned. “Well enough to get annoyed if I hear that question one more time,” he snapped, then shook his head regrettably. “I am sorry. After all you have done for me, I should hardly be biting your head off for being concerned, especially over something that is none of your doing.”

Berwin regarded Frodo closely. He had been shocked to be so abruptly scolded by his friend, and he took a moment to recover. Up until now, he would have found it difficult to imagine Frodo in a temper, and he hoped it was just a momentary thing, for he would soon have to broach the topic of going to Rivendell. He had feared the disappointment and confusion he would see in those expressive blue eyes when he told Frodo of his concerns, but he had not counted on anger. He did not want to be on the receiving end of such a glare again.

“I really am sorry,” Frodo said again when Berwin took too long to answer.

Berwin laughed ruefully and smiled. “It’s quite understandable, Frodo. I would get tired of hearing the same question repeatedly myself,” he assured lightly. “If there is something bothering you, I’ll offer whatever advice or help that I am able to.”

“You cannot help me more than you already have,” Frodo said. He sighed heavily, shut his eyes and let go his hopes to what may very well be the only opportunity he would have of seeing Bilbo again. “I’m afraid I’ve been terribly selfish. I must return home and see to my cousins, and that will take far longer than you are able to wait. I cannot go with you, and I fear I’ve delayed you longer already than I should have. Can you forgive me?” he asked and opened his eyes to look pleadingly upon the man who had grown so dear to him over so short a time.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Berwin said with disappointed relief, and he clasped Frodo’s hand in his own. “I regret nothing, not even the lonely road ahead if I can think of you happy and safe with your family as you should be. In all honesty, it was selfish of me to offer to let you come, and I’ve been regretting that decision ever since. I raised your hopes needlessly. Can you forgive me?”

“You have done me no harm and if anyone raised my hopes, it was me alone,” Frodo replied. “Just promise me one thing: that if you should come upon Bilbo, or someone who knows where he is, send the message that I am well and that I wish him all the happiness he deserves.”

Berwin nodded. “I shall do that,” he promised. “You must promise me something as well.” He waited until Frodo nodded cautiously. “You must promise to forget everything I told you about Bilbo. The old hobbit would have my hide if he knew I told you anything of his whereabouts, past or future. He wants nothing more than for you to be happy in the Shire, to have a family of your own, to have the life he never did. He would not want you attempting to find him, and I should have remembered that last night.”

Tears came to Frodo’s eyes, but he calmed himself with deep breaths and dried his tears with a corner of the bed sheet. He nodded at last and said with forced cheerfulness, “Well, I would not want any harm to fall upon you on my account. I will do my best to forget what you told me, and I shall keep myself home where I belong.”

“Good, because you do belong there,” Berwin said, “whether you see it now or not.”

Berwin left momentarily and returned with a tray of medicine and food the healer wanted Frodo to take upon awaking. Frodo screwed himself up for the abhorrent taste of the medicine and quickly followed it with the much more appealing food. Hazel had added some solids to his meal besides the standard bread. There was a bowl of mixed fruits: apple, pear, peach, cranberry and honeydew. The chicken broth was replaced with chicken soup, thick with vegetables: peas, carrots, string beans, squash and onion. His herbal tea was on hand, but Hazel had also supplied him with a cup of milk.

Berwin had a plate for himself as well, and they ate their meal in companionable silence. There was no need to talk, or learn any further about each other. They knew all they needed to know already, of honor and unwavering purpose, stubbornness and extraordinary resilience, and a friendship that, though brief, would be fondly remembered the rest of their lives.

When their lunch was finished, Berwin carried the trays out to the kitchen, and Frodo took the few moments of solitude to gather his wits enough to keep himself from crying. Berwin returned and the friends smiled sadly and joyfully at each other. Berwin came to Frodo’s side, sat upon the bed, and enfolded Frodo in a mighty, yet gentle, hug.

“It was my honor to serve you Frodo Baggins,” Berwin said formally as he rose from the bed. He bowed deeply, then straightened himself to his full height. “My service is now over, and I must go as my duty calls. Fare you well.”

“Fare you well, Berwin, Man of Dale,” Frodo returned just as formally. “It was my honor and great fortune to have found so worthy a traveling companion. You shall never be far from my thoughts.” Unable to rise and bow himself, he gave a small nod of his head.

Then Berwin turned and walked resolutely out the door, closing it softly behind him. He paid Hazel for her services, refusing to hear that the stipend was too high, and bowed and thanked her and Rowan for all their hospitality. He left the house, mounted his waiting mare and rode off. Not until he reached the end of the lane and turned left at the hay mounds did he allow himself to briefly weep. Then just as quickly as the tears had come, he bit them back and lifted himself high in his seat and rode proudly into town. He did not look back.

Frodo stared blankly at the parchment sitting before him. He was fighting his own tears and was for the most part succeeding. He sniffled softly and came to a decision. He took the quill in hand again, gently removed the excess ink and stared at the letter he had started to his cousins. He knew he would never deliver the letter. His cousins would never know it existed and would never know anything that was written in it aside from the few necessary details he would have to relate when he arrived at home. Yet if he were to tell them…

You will not believe the adventure I have to tell you. The most amazing thing happened and when I least expected it. I was strolling along the River, enjoying the storm – you know how I love a lightning show! – and what should happen? A mighty wave came and whisked me away before I had even a chance to guess what was happening.

Next thing I know, I’m stranded down the River and in a very pathetic state indeed. My clothes were in shambles, I was wetter than the floor after one of Pippin’s baths, and I was miserably unsure of how far I would have to walk before finding the Shire again. I think there’s no need to mention how hungry I was. Let me just say, the thunder you heard was not coming from the storm!

Just as I was assessing this rather difficult pickle in which I had found myself, I looked up and saw none other than a Man, one of the Big Folk. He was riding a valiant steed and was wearing shining mail and a helmet of polished brass. He was looking for gold, he said, stolen from his family by a pair of highway robbers, and he asked if I could assist him. He had heard that hobbits made good burglars, and who better after all to catch a thief?

Frodo sat back and stared with pleased surprise at what he had written so far. That was not at all what he had intended to write, but he quickly came to the conclusion that it was far better than the truth. Bilbo had understood that. He had known that some things were better left unsaid or fudged a bit for others to enjoy the telling of it. He smiled at his tale; he had Bilbo’s flare for storytelling after all.

Was he ever anything else? An only child, an orphan, a bachelor. The only person who had ever made him feel like he belonged somewhere was Bilbo, and now Bilbo was really, truly gone. He would never see the old hobbit again. Why hadn’t he asked Berwin again to stay? He had lost his nerve, had never really had any nerve to start with.

He shook his head carefully, trying to dispel the foul mood he had woken up in. He should be grateful, he knew, simply to be here, alive and well, yet he did not feel it. Where he wanted to be was on the road, with his friend at his side, headed towards Rivendell. Even if Bilbo was not yet there, he would wait. It would not be so terrible to be alone in the land of the Elves; there would be so much to see and to do, so much to learn and explore while he waited.

Yet he was here, in the healer’s house in Bree, and would be soon heading back to the Shire where they no doubt would be talking about his disappearance and reappearance for a year and a day, if not longer. Gossip was a natural part of living among hobbits, but he often grew weary of it and had heard “Mad Baggins” too many times, whispered amongst neighbors as he walked away.

A knock upon the door disrupted his thoughts. Rowan entered with the tray of medicine and food Frodo was becoming accustomed to. He gingerly raised himself to a sitting position and leaned back against the pillows.

“You’re looking better this morning,” Rowan observed. “Still tired and sore though, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Frodo agreed with a forced smile. “Tired and sore, but mending all the same. I believe I shall survive after all.”

Rowan frowned at him concernedly and set the tray down on the table. “You do not sound pleased with this,” she said.

“Oh, I am,” Frodo rushed to assure. “I am happy to be here and well, but I just wish that the circumstances had been more ideal, that I could have gone with Berwin. I know I made the right decision not to, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No it doesn’t,” Rowan said. “It’s never easy when your heart lies in one place, and you must reside in another. I suppose the trick is to get your heart to follow you, rather than the other way around.”

“I never thought of it that way before,” Frodo said and smiled. “Thank you.”

Rowan nodded and picked up the medicine from the tray. She poured the thick liquid onto a spoon and held it out to him. Frodo took it gamely and was surprised to find it not so abhorrent and strong as the previous day. He looked closer at the bottle and noticed the label was different than the one Hazel had been using.

“Three times a day for a week,” Rowan answered. “Now eat up, and get some more sleep.”

“My dreams,” Frodo said, and paused. Did he really want to tell Hazel about the things he had been dreaming? He had not dreamt during the night after all, perhaps the dreams were now over and would plague him no more.

“Are your dreams troubling you?” Rowan asked when the pause became a silence.

Frodo looked into her kind and trusting eyes, and nodded. Better to be safe than sorry. “Do you think it could be a lingering effect of the illness, or caused by the medicine even?”

Rowan shook her head. “I do not believe the medicine would cause such a thing, but I will mention it to Hazel as soon as she awakens,” she promised, then stood. “I’ll be back to collect the tray when you are finished with your meal.”

She left the room and closed the door behind her, and Frodo was alone once more. He sighed forlornly and picked up the fork to eat.

The food was delicious as he had come to expect. It even rivaled Sam’s cooking, which was saying a lot in Frodo’s opinion. The food was simple and in portions large enough to satisfy a hobbit: scrambled eggs, porridge, hash browns, fresh strawberries and cantaloupe, milk and tea. He took his time eating, savoring every bite, and allowed his thoughts to wander aimlessly as he did so.

He wondered how Berwin was doing, how far the rider had got already, and hoped the man was not so lonely as he was. It would have been nice to travel with his friend to Rivendell when his life was not in mortal peril, but it was not meant to be. He supposed he could still take that journey one day, though he honestly thought it unlikely now. He simply wasn’t like Bilbo and he would never have the nerve to leave the Shire once he returned to it.

Maybe he would settle down after all. It wouldn’t be so bad really, to have someone else around, and he would like to have children one day before it got too late. Lots of children. No child of his will ever want for companionship. Then he would have no fear of being lonely again, though he may find that he missed his solitude dearly when he couldn’t hear himself think from all the noise a family tended to make. He remembered all too well the commotion and distraction he had been surrounded by when living in Brandy Hall.

Yet how likely was it that he would find a lass who could put up with all of his oddities and eccentricities, not to mention his wanderlust? Lasses wanted a husband who came home every night and didn’t take off for days or weeks at a time to travel the open fields and speak with Dwarves and Elves when he could find them. How would he ever be certain that the lass wasn’t simply looking for money and the chance to claim the title of Mistress of the Hill?

And what of him? There had been so many lasses through all the years and none of them had held his interest. They were all so incredibly dull really, talking of their knitting and their baking and whatnot, not caring to hear anything about travels or adventure. There was Melilot. She was interesting at least and seemed to have enjoyed herself at the Feast, yet she was years from her coming of age, much too young for him, and after the way he treated her, he’d be lucky to even get a rotten egg out of her again.

There had to be someone surely. If someone like Otho Sackville-Baggins could find a wife… but then again, considering his wife, that wasn’t the best example. He’d simply have to bide his time and keep his eyes open. Eventually, he might find someone, and if he didn’t and he became serious enough about it, he could always ask his friends for help. Except he would not tell Esmeralda. That was the last thing he needed. She was bad enough now as it was. He’d probably walk outside Bag End one morning to find a line of eligible hobbit lasses all the way down the Hill and won’t Sam have a time with that, trying to keep everyone off the flowers.

Well, even if he never did settle down, Sam would always be there. Sam had said so after Bilbo first left, during that first horribly long night on his own. Sam had promised to stay as long as he was needed, and he knew that the gardener meant more than just that night. Hopefully Sam had not heard anything about his disappearance, yet how unlikely was it that such a rumor wouldn’t spread to Hobbiton?

Oh, and how Lobelia must be dancing now. At least she was dancing in Sackville, but he did not doubt that she would make her way home once the rumor reached the Southfarthing. She and Otho would walk about, smug as can be, just waiting for a year to pass so they could go to the Mayor and declare him dead. They would have a shock if that ever did happen, for Frodo had been expeditious about drawing his will as soon as he came into his inheritance, and he had left Bag End and everything in it to Merry. Lobelia really couldn’t complain as she was, after all, always accusing him of being more than half a Brandybuck. In the meantime however, she would make life miserable for everyone.

How had he ever thought he could leave the Shire without it impacting those he left behind? He was a fool to think he could get away with something even Bilbo had not been able to do.

Perhaps that was what all the dreams were about, to tell him to go home, but he didn’t think so. In both dreams he had been warned that ‘He’ was coming back and ‘He’ would make things worse. Yet what could he do to stop this mysterious person from doing whatever it was he was going to do? Frodo did not know, but he did know he had to get back as soon as he could. ‘You haven’t a moment to lose,’ Bilbo had warned, but he had lost a day already and looked to lose another. How long would Hazel keep him here?

As if in answer to this question, someone knocked upon the door and stepped quietly into the room. Hazel smiled pleasantly and held up a bundle of folded cloth – Frodo’s clothes. They were washed, pressed and mended. Frodo sighed with relief to see them. It had not been the foremost worry on his mind, but he had worried about them vaguely and was glad to see Berwin had not accidentally ridden off with them still in his saddlebag.

“Good morning Frodo,” Hazel said and set the clothes upon the dresser.

She sat next to him and examined him closely, checking the progression of his recovery. His color had returned, though he still seemed a bit pale to her eyes. Hobbits weren’t normally so fair as this one, but his eyes were bright and he was alert. Perhaps that was simply his coloring. All traces of fever were gone, his coughing had subsided to an occasional irritation in the throat. She prodded his ribs: those would be sore for some time yet but already he was wincing less than before. She took the bandage off his head and left it off. Satisfied that all was physically well, she patted Frodo’s hand and leaned back to look upon him more casually.

“You’re doing much better, I see,” she said. “Your appetite has returned,” she added as Frodo’s stomach grumbled softly, though all his breakfast was consumed. “I’ll bring you seconds in time, but first, Rowan tells me you’re having nightmares. Tell me about them.”

Frodo shifted uncomfortably and fiddled with the coverlet. “Well, I’m not certain there’s anything to tell really,” he said, reluctant to reveal to her what he thought the dreams meant. She might think him mad.

Hazel arched an eyebrow skeptically. “Then you would not have told Rowan anything,” she pointed out. “These dreams are bothering you and any stress after so grave an illness may prove too taxing for you to bear. You could become ill again and then I will have to keep you here longer. So out with it. I am not leaving this room until you tell me about these dreams.” To prove her point, she moved to the chair and settled into it comfortably. She clasped her hands together and waited patiently.

Frodo sighed and nodded. He would have to keep close on some of the details, but it couldn’t hurt to hear an objective interpretation of the dreams, if that was indeed what she was offering. So he told her about the first dream, about the meadow, creek and white void; about Bilbo and his friends and falling uncontrollably; about the eagles, the blue light and floating softly to rest. He left out the nine black specks and any mention of the ring.

“Who is Bilbo?” Hazel asked when Frodo finished his recount. She remembered this name as the cousin Berwin had mentioned the previous day, the one Frodo had wanted to go after. She knew enough about hobbits to know how extensive their family ties were, and she was curious to find out why this cousin was held in such a high regard for Frodo that he was willing to go so far to find him. Hobbits were not known for traveling abroad; not even the ones in the Bree-hill country ever ventured outside the townships.

“He is my uncle,” Frodo replied. “Well, my second cousin really, once and twice removed. He adopted me and raised me through my tweens.”

Frodo looked slightly taken aback by the question but answered all the same, if somewhat reluctantly. “They drowned, when I was eleven.”

“Did they drown in the same river you nearly drowned in?” Hazel guessed and Frodo nodded. “What were you doing by the river Frodo?”

“I was lost and trying to find my way back to Brandy Hall. The river marks the western border of Buckland. I don’t see what this has to do with my dream,” Frodo finished curtly.

“I cannot interpret a dream when I don’t know who the players are,” Hazel said, noting the defensiveness in Frodo’s tone and tense shoulders. This clearly was not something he talked about often, which concerned her greatly. He should not be experiencing such pain after so long a time. “Who are the others you mentioned?”

Frodo gave brief descriptions of Merry, Pippin, Folco, Fatty and Sam. By the time he finished, he was relaxed again, though his breath remained a bit shallower than before. The difference was so slight that only Hazel’s practiced eye was able to see it.

“And your friends on the other side of this narrow yet impassible creek were always unaware of your presence?” Hazel asked. “Then when you walked to their side of the creek, they were gone, disappeared? Did you at any point attempt to get their attention, call out to them in anyway?”

Frodo paused for a moment, thinking. He frowned and shook his head. “No, I was trying to stay with Bilbo or to get him to come with me.”

“He said I didn’t need him, that I was doing fine taking care of myself and my friends.”

“Curtains,” Frodo answered, then corrected himself, “Sam, I mean. Sam opened the curtains and let the light in. That’s when I woke up.”

Frodo skimmed through the second dream. The images of that one were still clear in his mind and he did not wish to linger over them. He told her about his crumpled piles of dirt, how Sam had shown him the correct way of making a pile before going into the River, how he then discovered he could no longer see his parents or cousins. He mentioned how the crumpled dirt piles had turned into ruined homes, how the forest had become charred and burnt. He told her about his friends’ odd behavior and what they had said.

“And?” Hazel asked when Frodo stopped suddenly. He seemed to be hesitating, trying to decide if he should continue or not. “Who are Saradoc and Esmeralda?”

“They are my cousins; Merry’s parents. They took me in after my parents died,” Frodo replied.

Hazel nodded to herself. There was more to this than she would ever learn, but she felt she knew enough. Orphaned at a young age, cared for by cousins who, if she had any understanding of hobbit genealogy at all, would have been obligated to take him in but not adopt him. He had spent ten years in a sort of limbo, belonging to no one until Bilbo adopted him and gave him a home once more. Then Bilbo had left. Yes, that explained a lot, if not everything.

“How did you wake up from that dream?” Hazel asked, keeping her thoughts to herself for the time being.

Frodo closed his eyes and shuddered. With his eyes still closed tight, he said, “I was grabbed from behind by a hooded figure. It thanked me for leaving. I screamed and woke up.” He opened his eyes and looked at her warily.

Hazel regarded him closely, a puzzled and bewildered expression on her face. “Do you often have these sorts of dreams?” she asked softly.

“No,” Frodo answered quickly, then said even more softly than she, “not often.”

Frodo shifted uncomfortably and fixed his attention back to the coverlet. He played with a frayed thread for several moments before responding. “They’re just dreams. They don’t mean anything.”

“I cannot help you Frodo if you do not tell me everything,” Hazel said. “Whatever you tell me will not leave this room. You can speak freely here; I will not judge. I’m merely here to help if I can.”

Frodo breathed deeply and closed his eyes shut once more. He let his breath out slowly and nodded ever so slightly. “There was a dream, my second night in Buckland. I was in a sort of tunnel or passage. It was dark and there was fog all around. I was looking desperately for something, but I didn’t know what. I only knew that if I went a little bit farther, I would find it and everything would be all right. Only I failed. I ran out of breath and I collapsed. That’s when the fog lifted and I saw, just barely out of my reach, what it was I was looking for, but by then I had not the strength to move. Then the ground opened up beneath me and I fell. Pippin woke me up from that one, said I wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t remember any of it at the time; I don’t know why I remember it now.”

Frodo shook his head. “I don’t know, but they are just dreams, aren’t they?” he asked again imploringly.

“No Frodo, they are not,” Hazel said. “They are glimpses into your heart and mind. Ordinary dreams can sometimes tell you things you cannot see, or do not wish to see, during waking day. I do not know you well enough to attempt anything other than a literal interpretation, but I will offer one if you would like.”

“Your first dream is rather straightforward. You think that the only place you belong is with this one particular cousin of yours, with Bilbo. You feel that your other cousins and friends don’t notice how alone you are, how cutoff you feel, yet at the same time you do not let them in. You do not tell them how you feel, you create barriers between yourself and them. Bilbo is who you trust completely, yet he is in this void, he is inaccessible to you, unavailable for comfort, and he doesn’t notice this. He left you to your own defenses and did not fully consider the impact it would have on you. You weren’t ready to be on your own, and that doubt still lingers with you. When he voiced his confidence in you, you did not agree with him. You said nothing of your own abilities. He wanted you to stand on your own, and again he left you before you were ready. When you discovered that your friends were also gone, you panicked and fell. That is when you called for help, when things were most dire and you had already lost all control and hope. Then help came and brought you to peace. In the end, all you had to do was ask, to open yourself up,” Hazel finished. “What do you have to say to this?”

“That it’s true,” Frodo said, a bit unnerved that the healer had seen him so well through just a simple dream. “Is it so wrong of me to want to be with Bilbo again?”

“No, it is not,” Hazel answered, “but I do not believe that is the question you need to be asking yourself. It’s natural to want to be with those you love. As such, it seems odd to me that you would rather be with this one cousin than all the others that wait for you in the Shire. Do they mean so little to you then?”

“No, of course not,” Frodo exclaimed. “I love them all dearly. I would do anything for them.”

“I know they care, but they have each other and families of their own. They don’t need me.”

“They do need you Frodo. You don’t love people if you don’t need them in some way. Need is what brings people together, and love keeps them at your side. They may have families of their own, but there are some bonds stronger than blood.” Hazel waited for this to sink in, then continued with her analysis. “You say that they care and that you know this, yet at the same time, you do not feel that you matter to them. That’s why you don’t impose yourself on them. Why else would you be so eager to leave them, on their own, before they’re ready for it? Would you leave them as you were left?”

Frodo made no reply but his brow furrowed as he considered the questions. He had never seen the situation in quite that way before, would never have made such a connection, but it was all too true now that he did see it. He was about to do to his friends what he had spent so much of his life in grief of: leave them without comfort or care. No, that was not entirely true. They had parents, they had families to love them and take care of them. Yet Pippin had called them all brothers, and that was a bond that was stronger than mere cousins.

He looked up to find Hazel waiting patiently. She said nothing further and seemed to have spoken her mind on the first dream. “What of the second dream?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.

Hazel shook her head. “I do not know. That was not an ordinary dream. It visits again the theme of being abandoned too soon, before you are ready to be on your own, of your feelings of incompetency, and again stresses your importance to your friends, but there is more to it than that I feel. There are elements at work in this one that I do not believe came from you. The first dream had those elements also, but in this one they dominated. The dirt turned to destroyed homes, the forest turned black, the hooded figure. I do not know much in the way of magic, but I would guess this is a prophecy of some sort. Or a warning.”

Frodo jerked his head up at this and locked his eyes with hers. “What do you mean?”

“You have already figured that out on you own, have you not?” Hazel guessed, for Frodo had the look of one caught doing or thinking something he shouldn’t. “You are not telling me everything Frodo, so I cannot say for certain, but it seems clear that you are needed at home, if nothing else. You are well enough now. You may leave tomorrow morning. Rowan will take you by carriage to the borders of your land.”

Hazel shook her head. “I do not, but there is clearly something different about you. Do not begrudge your differences. It is often those who walk a different path from the rest of us who we end up needing the most. They show us things the rest of us are blind to; they accomplish things the rest of us wouldn’t even attempt. It is not always easy, and you will often feel alone, but you have friends who care and will do anything for you, and that is more than a lot of us have.”

With that, she stood up and placed a cool hand to Frodo’s forehead. She smiled warmly. “I will be back in an hour with your second breakfast. Get some rest now. You will need it for your journey home, and whatever it is that awaits you there.”

“Wait,” Frodo said before she could leave. “What about the tunnel and the fog? What does that mean?”

“I do not know Frodo,” Hazel said. “Perhaps it means that you are looking for meaning in your life and you don’t know where to find it. Perhaps it means something entirely different. It could even be a memory. That is for you to discover.”

Hazel picked up the tray and left the room silently. Frodo watched her leave, unsure what to make of her guesses and not liking any of them.

Frodo woke early, before the sun even began to lighten the sky outside, ready to leave that very instant. He did not tell Hazel about his latest dream, but it gave him a sense of urgency and desperation that he could not ignore. That he had no idea what was awaiting him, or if anything truly was amiss back home, only intensified his urgency.

Hazel did her best to calm him and insisted that he eat a large breakfast to hold him through the morning. Frodo did not argue but ate the food as quickly as he could, barely tasting it as his mind raced to make meaning of his latest dream.

What did it mean? Was it merely a dream, or was it a warning? It had seemed so real. Did it tie into his other dreams somehow? Someone was coming, someone was going to make things difficult for his friends, and he was too late. Too late for what? To stop it? To help? He had no answers, had not the slightest clue what any of it meant. All he knew was he had to leave, and leave now.

He would ask Rowan to hurry, and they could reach the Brandywine Gate by nightfall. There he would have to choose which way to go next: Brandy Hall or Hobbiton. It was a three-day hike to Hobbiton, only a half-day to Brandy Hall. If he went to the Hall first, he could get a pony and take the Ferry across the River and be in Hobbiton in a couple of days. He would lose no time and would also be able to determine the state of things in Buckland while he was there.

Finally, Rowan came into the room and beckoned him. The time had come. Frodo jumped off the bed and walked hurriedly through the house to the carriage waiting outside.

Hazel opened the carriage door for him, and Frodo paused, both at the size of the carriage and the sight of the healer in the early morning light. He had not expected a carriage so large, though he realized how silly it was to have expected a hobbit-sized one. He simply had not given it any thought before now.

Hazel knelt down to his eye level. Her long auburn hair was loose from its bun and was cascading down her back. The sunrise glinting off her hair gave it an appearance of a waterfall on fire. Her eyes were emerald green in the sunlight, and her smile was warm and soft. She reminded him even more of Esmeralda, and Frodo found saying good-bye difficult. In the end, they embraced gently, then Frodo bowed low, ignoring the strain to his ribs.

“I cannot thank you enough for all your hospitality and care,” Frodo said. “I have nothing to give you now, but I will send you a stipend once I return home.”

Hazel shook her head and stood to her full height. “Berwin paid for our services already. All I ask is word that you returned home safely and that all is well.”

She held out her hand and Frodo took it. She guided him up the steep carriage steps. When he was inside and seated comfortably, she handed him a parcel of various fruits, nuts and breads, and a water skin filled with tea.

“Do try to make that last until you arrive home,” she said with a teasing smile.

Hazel closed the door and Rowan climbed up to the coach’s seat. A moment later, the carriage rattled and they were moving. Hazel slipped out of view and Frodo kept his eyes out the window, curious to see the town of Bree for the first time. A small thrill grew in his stomach as they left the hay fields behind for the large, cumbering buildings of Men that towered overhead. There was so much to see, he could hardly take it all in. Soon, these buildings gave way to a wide, open court. The carriage stalled for a moment then started again, and Frodo looked up as the gates of Bree slipped passed them. He was going home at last.

Melilot Brandybuck tiptoed through the library and tapped Merimac on the shoulder until the older hobbit woke up. He blinked up blearily at his younger cousin and yawned. “What’s the matter Melie?”

“Berry said you slept in here last night,” Melilot started. She stepped back and wrung her hands nervously. “I have a question, if you don’t mind.”

“You already woke me up,” Merimac said and stretched. “Let’s not have that be for nothing. What’s your question?”

Melilot wrung her hands uncertainly again and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Well, it’s just, since the storm and the flood and everything, I’ve been afraid to go near the River again. What if I’m swimming and a flood comes out of nowhere like it did with… I mean, I’m not even as good a swimmer as he was.”

Merimac sighed and moved to sit at the edge of his chair. He took Melilot’s hands in his and said calmly, “What happened with Frodo was a horrible accident. It’s unlikely to happen again.”

“But it happened once already. What if it does happen again? The weather’s not always the same here as it is up North. It could be raining fierce there and we wouldn’t know, until it floods,” Melilot explained. “You have to teach me how to swim out of a flood. If there’s anyone who knows how, it’s you.”

Merimac blinked again and studied her bemusedly. That was a very logical argument, almost a little too logical. “Teach you to swim out of a flood? Who would give you the idea that such a thing is possible?”

Melilot didn’t waver or miss a beat. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her bottom lip began to tremble as she wrung her hands again. “You mean it’s not? I’m doomed?” She hid her face in her hands and started sobbing – hard.

“Now, now, child, don’t do that,” Merimac said and hastily helped the lass to sit down in the chair next to his. He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes dry and took deep breaths in an effort to calm down. She looked up at him with pleading bloodshot eyes and waited. Merimac sat back down and took her hand again. “Now, what did you want to know?”

Half an hour later, Melilot entered Merry’s bedroom. He and Pippin stood up expectantly.

Melilot sat at the desk and shook her head. “He said no at first but I kept pushing like you said to, and he eventually said that maybe, if the initial impact didn’t knock you unconscious, you might be able to force yourself to relax enough so that you might eventually be able to float with the current and then attempt to swim out of it. But he stressed that even then, it would be fruitless. No one can hold their breath as long as it would take to do that and if they did, they would be too tired to attempt to swim for very long. In the end, they’ll drown. I’m sorry.”

“But he did say it was possible,” Merry said, stubbornly ignoring all else she had said. “As long as you can hold your breath long enough, which Frodo can do. You’ve seen him Pip. He can swim the entire length of Bywater Pool without taking a single breath, and you know when Frodo gets tired, that’s when he tries his hardest.”

Pippin nodded. He had seen Frodo do that a couple of times, dunk under the water at one end of the pool, disappear for a few minutes and resurface near the other end. He did not swim the entire length but nearly, about three-quarters of it. Pippin was always frightened and impressed to watch him do such a remarkable thing, and Merry was right about Frodo trying harder at something when he was exhausted. That’s when his famous Baggins stubbornness flared up, and he would refuse to give up until the job was done. But…

“Mac said that was only if the flood didn’t knock him out,” Pippin reminded. “Did Mac say how likely that was?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merry said sternly. “There’s a chance and that’s all we need to know.” He turned to Melilot. “Thank you for agreeing to do this Melie. You remember your promise?”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Melilot said, “but you owe me. I had to cry.” With that, she stood up and let herself out the door.

Merry started pacing his small room, speaking fervently as he did so. “We have to make our plans now. It’s been a week since the flood, and Frodo isn’t back. That means he was injured, it has to be. He wouldn’t stray far from the river; a fresh water source is crucial. So, we just travel down the river until we find him.”

“How are we supposed to organize everything without your parents catching on?” Pippin asked.

Saradoc and Esmeralda had cornered the lads last night after dinner to talk about the accident. They were concerned with how Merry and Pippin were handling their grief and had wanted to talk out their feelings about the accident. The conversation had been awkward and delicate. Merry had done an excellent job of appearing contrite and giving expressive yet empty answers. Pippin had said very little, not trusting himself enough to not let anything slip about Merry’s newfound beliefs.

After the conversation ended, Saradoc had told them both to stay closer to the Hall until Paladin and Eglantine arrived and had appealed to them to be more open about their feelings. Then Esmeralda had assigned them enough tasks to do each day to keep them busy from sun up to sun down.

Merry had assured his parents that he and Pippin would not run away from their grief anymore. Pippin had been impressed by his cousin’s ability to make promises that both sounded reassuring to his parents but also sounded like the plotting of a plan to his own ears.

Merry was certain of his plan, but Pippin did not have Merry’s desperate faith. He could not help but think that Merry was indeed still running from his grief, that he was denying the truth, ignoring the things he did not want to hear and seizing onto the things that gave the slightest slimmer of a possibility, however farfetched. Pippin would go with him of course, but he had no hope of finding Frodo alive. If anything, he dreaded what they would find, a torn and battered body perhaps, and he dreaded even more being alone when that happened. Maybe if he could somehow tip off Saradoc and Esmeralda without breaking confidence with Merry.

“Pippin!” Merry said impatiently and waved his hand in front of his friend’s face. “Where did you go?”

“What?” Pippin said, coming back out of his worries. He noticed Merry’s exasperation and quickly covered. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Merry nodded understandably and repeated his question. “Do you think you can talk to Ilby? He can help prepare some of the things we’ll need while we’re busy with Mother’s little chores.”

“They’re going to Stock today with their folks,” Pippin said. “He approached me after supper last night and told me.”

“Oh. Well, we’ll manage it somehow,” Merry said, undeterred. “Come on, let’s get to breakfast before Mother and Father suspect anything.”

“Then you might not want to be so cheerful,” Pippin pointed out. He followed Merry out of the room, not looking forward to this new day in the slightest.

Sam shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Only Marigold was still there, washing the breakfast dishes. There were no other sounds or sense of movement in the smial.

Marigold jumped and turned, surprised to hear his voice. She was even more surprised by what she saw.

Sam was haggard. He looked to have aged twenty years over the last two days. His face was pale and wan. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and puffy from lack of adequate sleep. He had not attempted to comb his hair or change his clothes, which were now two days old and rumpled.

“Oh Sam,” Marigold said. She quickly dried her hands on a towel and steered him to the table. She took a plate from the oven and placed it before him. She grabbed him a fork and a cup of tea. “You need to eat, dear. I’ll heat you up some bathing water and set out some fresh clothes for you. I think it’s time your hair gets a bit of a trim, don’t you?”

Sam nodded absently and picked at his food, an occasional forkful reaching his mouth. He failed to notice that his sister was indeed walking about the smial, preparing everything for him, until she returned several minutes later. She frowned at his plate, still nearly full. She sat down and watched him worriedly.

Sam swallowed his current bite and repeated his question. “Where is everyone?”

“Gaffer’s outside in the garden. May went over to Elson’s. She’s going to ask his mother if she’ll pay her for stitching some pillowcases.”

Marigold paused, stunned both by Sam’s name-calling and the edge of anger in his voice. She cleared her throat and answered tentatively. “It wouldn’t harm our purse none, nor hers if she agrees.”

“No, no,” Marigold said quickly. “We’re good for a while Sam. Don’t you worry about that. Just finish up your food, get yourself cleaned up, and then we’ll see about cutting your hair.”

Sam shook his head and put down his fork. “I’m not hungry.” He stood brusquely and went back to his room where a small copper ewer was filled with steaming water. He took his time washing, not caring when the water turned cold. He eventually finished and put on the clothes his sister had laid out for him. He ran a brush recklessly through his curls, noting with frustration that Marigold was right. His hair was past needing a trim, but he had no patience for one at the moment.

He left his room and was out the front door before Marigold knew what had happened. She ran to catch up with him, only to find their father already speaking to him.

“Aye, and I did,” Sam snapped back. “What am I going to do here, other than get in the way and waste my time?” Sam shot his father’s words back at him, reminding Hamfast sorely of their fight from the previous night.

Sam attempted to leave, but Hamfast stopped him. “Sam, you need to take time to…”

“Do what?” Sam interrupted. “I thought I was meant to work. We need money, so I’m going to look for some jobs. I have to do what’s proper after all.” With that, he forced himself past his father and out the gate. Hamfast called after him, but Sam did not slow down or look back.

The Ivy Bush was nearly empty when Sam entered. Only one pair of elderly hobbits was present, of which Sam was very grateful. He pretended not to see them and headed for a booth near the back corner. He sat in the booth facing away from the door and blew out the lamp over the table, casting himself in shadow.

The bar maiden came over with a tankard and a pitcher of ale. “A quart, Sam?”

Sam nodded. The bar maiden filled the mug and set it before him. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here in the middle of the day,” she said casually.

“Thank you for the ale. I’ll let you know if I need more,” Sam said shortly and took a sip from his mug.

The bar maiden took the hint and left. Sam swirled the ale absent-mindedly, watching mesmerized as the golden liquid swished along the walls of its earthenware. Around and around it went and if anything was unfortunate enough to be floating in the liquid, it would be trapped in that vortex, unable to get out. It would be drowned.

“We should leave as soon as your parents are asleep,” Pippin whispered as he and Merry made their way through the tunnels of Brandy Hall after their day of chores.

They had done their rounds again with Berilac, and again avoided going to the River. Then Merry had needed to tend to his little herb garden, which one of the gardeners had been kind enough to take care of over the last week. They had made more plans in the garden, until Merry’s tutor found them and made up for a week’s worth of lost studies.

Merry now nodded in agreement with Pippin. “We’ll leave at midnight. I only wish we had more time to get everything ready.”

“Maybe after dinner,” Pippin suggested. “I still have my pack and we know where Frodo’s is. All we really need is food and ponies.”

“No, if we go to the kitchens now, it will raise suspicion. It’s too late in the day to pretend we want it for a picnic.”

They turned the last corner to the Master’s quarters. Merry put his hand to the doorknob and studied Pippin carefully. He knew Pippin didn’t believe him and would rather stay here. He knew Pippin was still grieving and probably thought Merry to be mad. Pippin had been dragging his feet about this entire plan, pretending to go along but really looking for ways to delay Merry leaving. This last attempt was his weakest yet. If any hobbit knew how to get food out of the kitchens undetected, it was Pippin.

“Don’t be a fool,” Merry said, knowing also how much Pippin hated being called that. “All we have to do is wait until it’s late enough to raid the kitchens. I’m leaving tonight. Are you with me or not?” He would rather have Pippin go with him, but he would go it alone if need be.

“I am,” Pippin said meekly. “You know I always am. I just don’t… I don’t think it’s a good idea, us going alone. What if Frodo is injured or sick? We won’t know what to do to help. We should take someone with us. Maybe if we just explained it to your father…”

Merry looked at him as one betrayed. He released the doorknob and stood to his full height, which was significantly taller than Pippin, who had yet to hit his growth spurt. He leaned forward and lowered his voice even more. “There is no way he’ll agree and you know it. You just don’t want to go. You’ve given up on Frodo too, just like them. So stay then, see if I care. I’ll go alone. I’m not abandoning Frodo.”

He turned abruptly and opened the door. He stalked into the parlor and beelined for his room. Pippin followed close behind, desperate to make Merry understand. “Merry, please, that isn’t what I meant.” He grabbed Merry’s sleeve and turned his cousin around, only to receive a look so full of vile and contempt that he quickly dropped his hand and stepped back. “Merry?”

Merry shook his head, unable to speak, and turned to enter his room. As he reached for the doorknob, the door to his father’s study opened and Esmeralda emerged. She spotted them and smiled.

“Lads,” she called to them and headed straight for Pippin. “He’s here, dear. He arrived at noon.”

“Who is?” Pippin asked and glimpsed movement over his aunt’s shoulder. He looked up and his face lit up with joy. “Da!” he exclaimed and ran into his father’s arms. “How did you get here so fast?”

Their greetings were interrupted by the slamming of a door. Merry had gone into his room in a temper. Now that Paladin was here, he really would have no choice but to go alone.

Esmeralda stared at her son’s door, completely confounded. She turned to Pippin and asked, “What was that about?”

“We’re just having a bit of a fight,” Pippin said casually, then turned back to his father. “How did you get here so fast? Is Mum here too?”

“I came as soon as I received the first letter that Frodo was missing. I’m not sure why, I just had a feeling,” Paladin said. “Your mother stayed behind with Pearl and the lasses. Pearl’s expected to deliver any day now, as you know. Anyway, Esme and Saradoc just told me about Frodo. How have you been holding up, my lad?”

Pippin shrugged, not sure what to say. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said and hugged his father again. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“And I’m glad you’re here,” Paladin said and held his son tight, not wanting to let go.

Night settled over the Shire. The Ivy Bush was busier now, even for a Sunday. With so much good gossip to talk about, no one had been able to stay in their homes as they normally would.

Several hobbits had attempted to talk to Sam and buy him a quart, but he ignored them all until they let him be. He was in no mood to talk to anyone and was in the middle of nursing his fourth ale, feeling worse with each passing hour. He really should just get up and leave, but that would require maneuvering his way through the crowded inn and drawing even more attention to himself. So he stayed where he was, in his unlit corner, and stared at the wall.

He had not even attempted to approach anyone about a job, even though Mr. Boffin was here. Sam knew Mr. Boffin needed a gardener, as Sam’s cousin Halfast had told him so. There was Mr. Sandstone, who wanted to build a garden atop his newly built house, which he fashioned after a smial. And over there in the far corner was Mr. Hornblower, who was always trying to steal Sam away from Bag End. Well, Mr. Hornblower would have to learn to live with disappointment, but Sam had to approach one of the other two soon, or this whole day would go to waste. He would have to return to his father in humiliation if that happened.

He downed the last of his ale and readied himself to get up. Any minute now, he would stand up, go tap Mr. Boffin on the shoulder and ask to speak with him outside. Yes, that’s what he would do. Any minute now.

Sam sighed and pushed the empty mug back and forth between his hands, focusing on the scrape of wood beneath the mug so completely that he almost failed to notice a familiar voice speaking behind him.

“Go away Ted,” Sam said automatically. A moment later, he started and turned in surprise to find the miller’s son standing behind him and looking at him curiously. “Ted? When did you get back into town?” he asked.

“Just about an hour ago,” he said and slid into the booth opposite Sam. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you? Everyone seems to be avoiding you for some reason, and I need some peace from all these pesky questions.” He looked at Sam for the first time and even in the dim light, he was surprised by what he saw. “By the stars, Gamgee, you look about as good as I feel. What’s the matter?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing I really want to talk about right now.” He raised his mug at the bar maiden as she walked by and the two remained silent while she came to serve them. When she left, Sam studied Ted evenly. Ted had the fading remnants of a black eye. “How was Sackville?” he asked at last, glad to have something to occupy his mind and eager to get to the bottom of this particular mystery.

Ted shrugged. “It’s been better,” he answered vaguely and took a long drink of ale.

Sam was impressed. Ted was really going to try to keep his mouth shut. Well, Sam knew how to get around that. He shrugged disinterestedly and said, “That’s a shame, but at least now that you’re back, we’ll be able to get our grain milled without having to go to Overhill. It’s getting short, you know? The grain I mean. You picked a bad time for a holiday.”

Tom snorted. “Holiday? That would have been a kind thought indeed, but you know how my father is about holidays. Doesn’t believe in them, thinks they’re only for lazy folk. No, there’ll be no holidays for us, especially now that… Well, especially not right now.”

Sam nodded as though this cryptic revelation was completely obvious. “So you’ll be opening the mill again tomorrow, I take it?” he asked.

“Why ever not? You’re back and not on holiday and we need flour,” Sam said, ticking off on his fingers all the reasons why the mill should be opened. He looked at Ted inquisitively.

Ted drummed his fingers on the tabletop and scanned the inn quickly. There were no other hobbits near them at the moment. He bit his lip, then leaned toward Sam conspiratorially. “I suppose I can tell you,” he whispered, “seeing as you’re not a blabber. I have your word you’ll keep this close?”

Ted played with the mug in his hand and downed the rest of its contents in one long gulp. He motioned for the bar maiden and drank down a second mug before she was even halfway across the room again. Feeling he was now sufficiently drunk enough, he leaned even closer to Sam and said as quietly as he could, “It’s Mr. Otho Sackville-Baggins. He’s passed on.”

Sam froze, caught completely off guard by this revelation. “But, he’s not even that old.”

Sam took a few minutes to process this information. How had they managed to keep this quiet for so long? And Robin had said… “I thought it was Mr. Lotho causing a ruckus and that’s why you went.”

Ted affirmed this also. “Aye, it was. See, Mr. Otho and Mr. Lotho never really saw eye to eye on things, and Mr. Otho was always blaming Mr. Lotho for everything under the sun. So Mr. Lotho was always trying to impress his dear old dad, and he finally thought he was making some headway on this trip. Seems he found a way to help the family earn more money with their leaf trade, selling out of the Shire or some other such thing. Then they had this enormous fight about Mr. Lotho’s prospective buyers or whatnot. Mr. Otho said Mr. Lotho was nothing more than a disappointment and he should never have been born, and Mr. Lotho stormed out of the house and was gone all night. When he came back in the morning, ready to apologize, Mr. Otho was dead.”

Ted shook his head. “Nay, he’s had the drinking illness for a good long while now. I guess he finally drank one bottle too many. Mistress Lobelia was completely distraught, didn’t know which way was up or down. Mr. Lotho, well, you can imagine his reaction. He went into a rage, and no one could get him settled. Finally, one of his cousins rode all the way up here to fetch us, hoping we might be able to calm him, seeing as we know him better than they do. By the time we got down there though, the worst of it had passed. It was raining pretty hard by then, and Mr. Lotho was just standing out in it, letting the storm express his rage for him it seemed. I eventually talked him inside, and he stayed locked up in his room until we left.”

“So the S.B.-s are back now too?” Sam asked, his mind racing to absorb everything he had just learned. Was there no end to the misery going around of late?

“No, the funeral’s in two more days,” he said, then sat back in the booth and continued in normal tones. “They should be up after that, by Highday at the latest.” He motioned again for the bar maiden and again they waited until she was gone to resume their conversation.

Ted nodded and shrugged. “Got on his bad side,” he answered flippantly, as if this was a normal state of affairs. He took a sip of ale and leaned forward again. “I should tell you something else though. You best tell your master to keep clear of Mr. Lotho when he does get back. Mr. Lotho’s decided this is all your master’s fault, for stealing Bag End from them. I guess that’s when Mr. Otho’s drinking problems started.”

Sam felt a thrill run up his spine at the mention of his master. He realized with a start that Ted didn’t know anything that had happened while he was away, which meant the S.B.-s didn’t know either. They would learn it soon enough but not from him.

“I’ll do that,” he replied and lifted his empty mug to Ted. “I best be going though. Thanks for the news. I’ll keep it close, no worries. Give Mistress Lobelia and Mr. Lotho my regards.”

He stood and walked away before Ted could respond. He was out the door in the cool crisp air a second later. He took a moment to gather his wits before heading home, realizing too late he still hadn’t commissioned himself a new job. He would simply have to go to Mr. Boffin’s smial tomorrow and ask about work.

Inside The Ivy Bush, Ted stared after Sam, completely taken aback by his abrupt exit. The bar maiden came to collect Sam’s mug, and he turned to her, bewildered. “What was all that about?” he asked. “Do you have any clue what’s got into that Gamgee?”

The bar maiden paused and looked at Ted as though he were a fool to ask. “Didn’t you hear?” she said. “His master drowned.”

“What?” Ted asked dubiously and sat up straight in the booth. “What kind of nonsense is that? Are you trying to pull the wool over my eyes?”

“No, I swear by it,” the bar maiden replied. “Mr. Ponto Baggins, he’s head of the Bagginses you know, he said so just this morning. Mr. Frodo drowned in the Brandywine while visiting his cousins over that-a-way. Happened during the storm. I hear tell he went stark raving mad and flung himself into the river.”

An odd sort of smile slowly lighted Ted’s face and he motioned for the bar maiden to sit down. “Mr. Ponto said all this? You mean to tell me, there’s no Master under the Hill? How interesting.” He poured himself another mug and lifted it in a silent toast to the bar maiden. He took a long, lingering drink and looked over at the door Sam had just retreated through. “I want to know everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Pippin lay curled up at his father’s side. They had been talking quietly on the settee in the parlor, until Pippin drifted off to sleep. Paladin remained awake for many hours after his son, but he too eventually nodded off as the last of the embers in the hearth died and cooled.

Merry’s door opened silently and Merry tiptoed out of the room and across the parlor. He looked back at the shadowy figures of his cousin and uncle, regretting his uncle’s ill-timed appearance. He could still have talked Pippin into coming if not for Paladin, but Merry was resolved.

Ever so quietly, he opened the door to the main tunnel and slipped out of the parlor. He closed the door just as gingerly, took a few silent steps around the corner, and broke into a run. He had not a moment to lose.

Sam stared blankly up at his bedroom ceiling then rolled over to his side with a sigh. He would get no rest tonight.

Ted Sandyman staggered to a stop at the mill. He leaned against the mill house wall and listened to the swish of the great wheel turning in The Water. He looked up the Hill to where Bag End lay at the top, a sneer playing on his lips. He would find out if these rumors were true, and if they were… He laughed softly, imagining the possibilities.

“Halt!” the bounder called. “Who are you and what’s your business?” He uncovered his lantern and held it up to illuminate the cloaked figure.

Rowan pulled the horse to a stop and lowered her cloak hood. She peered past the light at the shadowed figure of the hobbit and said, “I am Rowan of Bree, and I have with me Frodo Baggins of Hobbiton.”

The bounder could hardly believe his eyes, and he believed his ears even less. He had always known the Big Folk were strange and backward, but to send their women folk out alone in the middle of the night was unfathomable. Even more unfathomable was who she claimed to have with her. Last he heard, Frodo Baggins had been drowned in the Brandywine near the southern border of the Shire. Now this woman was not only claiming to know him but to have him with her. Unless he had heard her incorrectly.

“You have a delivery for Mr. Baggins?” he asked, for this would not be the first time the Bagginses would have someone bring a delivery into the Shire under the cover of night.

Rowan shook her head. “No, I have Frodo with me. He’s resting in the carriage.”

“Is that a fact?” the bounder asked skeptically. He motioned for two other bounders to approach the carriage. “Open up the door and let’s see for ourselves who’s in there,” he ordered.

They hurried to comply, but found the carriage door quite out of their reach. They were negotiating who would climb up the steep steps when the door swung open on its own. The bounders jumped back in surprise, stumbling into each other when none other than Frodo Baggins appeared and gingerly climbed down the steps. None of them had ever met Frodo before, but there was no doubt who this dark-haired, fair-skinned, pale-eyed hobbit could be. They stepped back instinctively as he reached the ground and focused those dazzling blue eyes upon them.

Frodo allowed the bounders a few moments to get over their shock, but when they continued to gape unblinkingly at him, he cleared his throat and politely addressed the leader. “Master Bounder, if you please, Miss Rowan and I require lodgings for the night. I also request on being awakened before dawn and to be loaned a pony to get me to Brandy Hall if that is at all possible, otherwise I will have to walk.”

The master bounder blinked a few times, then forcibly shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes, yes of course, Mr. Baggins,” he stuttered. “Miss Rowan can take a room in the guardhouse, though it’ll be a mite cramped I’m afraid. If you don’t mind, you can take my bunk for yourself. You may borrow one of the ponies, of course, but one of us will have to accompany you to bring it back.”

“You should not be riding Frodo,” she said. “If you grow weary, you must be able to lie down and rest.”

Rowan accepted this and climbed down from the carriage as the bounders hurried off to prepare her a room. Frodo and Rowan followed the leader inside. He noticed that the heads of the other bounders came together as soon as they were out of earshot, and he knew they were already discussing who would spread the news. He wondered bemusedly how elaborate the story of his return would become by tomorrow.

He turned his back to the bounders and said good-night to Rowan while they waited for their lodgings to be prepared. Rowan gave him some last-minute instructions. “Don’t forget to take your medicine, twice a day for another eight days. Drink plenty of water and tea, and take it easy for the next couple of weeks. No strenuous activity for a month at least.”

Frodo laughed. “I shall do as you order,” he promised then stepped out of the way so Rowan could return to her beast and remove its harness. Rowan was tying the horse to a tree and securing the carriage when the bounders stepped outside to say all was ready. Frodo stayed with her until she was safe in her room, then followed the bounders to the master’s room. He didn’t bother undressing but fell on the bed in exhaustion. He was asleep within moments.

He was awakened the following morning by the master. After a light meal, he found his guide outside, the pony and trap ready to go. The fog from the River was heavy in the still-dark air, and he was obliged to pull a blanket, provided by the bounder, tight around him. He was disconcerted to see that the bounders were still regarding him with a mixture of disbelieving fascination and trepidation. Frodo guessed what they were thinking and so did not ask any questions. Instead, he turned to face the road.

The bounder next to him took up the reins. He clicked the pony into motion and set a quick pace, eager to get to Brandy Hall where he might be able to eavesdrop on any explanation Mr. Baggins would give for his unexpected return after being pronounced dead just a few days before. Clearly, he could not ask Mr. Baggins directly.

For his part, Frodo was glad they were going quickly. He was not sure what time it was, but he hoped to make it to Brandy Hall before too many of its occupants woke up. The fewer questions he had to deal with the better, and he really wanted to speak with Merry and Pippin first.

He lay down flat in the cart. There was no fear of being spied now, not while night and fog lasted, but he wanted to try to get a few hours sleep if he could. He covered himself with the blanket the bounder had provided and closed his eyes.

Merry slipped quietly into the stable, clutching a bag of food he had raided from the kitchen. He placed the bag near the other provisions he had already managed to smuggle out of the Hall and retrieved his pony from its stall. He expertly saddled the pony and packed the saddlebags swiftly, distributing the weight evenly. When he was finished, he picked up the reins to lead the pony out of the barn.

“You’re only taking one? You’ll need a second if you should find Frodo.”

Merry’s head jerked up, his heart pounding at being caught unawares. His mother stepped through the door and stopped just before him and the pony. Merry’s shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply. “Father knows too?”

“No, Merimac did,” Esmeralda answered. She took Merry’s hand and gently led her son to sit on a nearby bale of hay. “I passed him in the tunnels yesterday afternoon. He seemed put out and I when I questioned him on it, he told me about the most curious conversation he had with Melilot. I would have let it go at that, if your father hadn’t already mentioned that Melie had visited you last morning. Wouldn’t you know, that was just after she finished talking to Mac. It didn’t take much after that to figure out you were up to something, and I’m assuming this is it. Is this what you and Pippin were arguing about?”

“Yes,” Merry admitted. “I think there’s a chance Frodo may have survived.”

“You do know that a group of hobbits was already sent by boat down the River to look for Frodo, don’t you?” Esmeralda said. “They are traders from Haysend and were planning a trip to the Sea to trade for some salt and large fish. They were going to postpone their trip because of the flood, but your father convinced them not to. They left the night you camped there.”

“I didn’t know,” Merry mumbled, feeling like a fool. Of course, his father would think to send someone long before now. “Have any of them returned yet?”

“I don’t know. They went in two groups, so that in case they did find something, one could come back and the other continue to the river’s end. We haven’t heard anything yet, but I suppose if you want to go to Haysend to get word, that will be fine. I’m not here to stop you leaving,” Esmeralda assured, “but you’ll go faster yourself by boat, don’t you think? Mac agreed to take you.”

“Of course he would. Now come back inside, dear, it’s chill out here and you’ll catch cold.”

“You can’t leave until you’ve apologized to Pippin,” Esmeralda said, guessing the source of her son’s reluctance. The two had been avoiding each other since Paladin’s arrival.

“I know, but that isn’t it,” Merry said and hesitated. He looked away from his mother before continuing. “It’s just, if I go inside and sleep in my bed, I might change my mind, find excuses to stay. I don’t really want to go. I’m afraid to actually. I’m not ready to face the River, but I have to. If there’s a chance, even the slightest, I have to try.”

“My Merry,” Esmeralda said fondly. She cupped his face with her hand and turned him to look at her. “You have such dedication and determination for those you love. I’m so proud of you. I love you more than anyone, you know that don’t you?”

Merry nodded, his eyes sparkling with unspent tears. “I know.” He was silent for several moments, then asked the question that had been plaguing him since their return from the search. “Do you think he knew?”

Esmeralda considered the question carefully and nodded slowly. “I think he did.”

Merry lowered his eyes and played with some loose hay. He picked up a single stalk and started splitting it, strand by strand. “Then why did he do it?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Esmeralda shook her head. “The practical side of me doesn’t see how, but I think, deep down, I will always hope that he did. I almost hope the traders don’t find him, that they come back empty-handed. I’d rather think of him wandering through the Blue with Elves and Dwarves and whatever else is out there, than to bury him next to his parents.”

Merry smiled fondly at this and added, “Maybe he’ll even find Bilbo. It’s what he’s always wanted. Then they could go to Rivendell and the Lonely Mountain together. They could visit all those dwarves from Bilbo’s tales. I saw some dwarves once, during Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday. Pippin, Ilby and I snuck up to Bag End to spy on them.”

Esmeralda chuckled. “So that’s where you three disappeared to. Who let the tadpoles loose in Lobelia’s skirts?”

Merry laughed. “That would be Ilby. His first real prank. We were so proud of him.”

“Ah, a mystery is solved. You know, Frodo rather enjoyed that little prank.”

“I’d hoped he would. He was taking the party far too seriously,” Merry said and yawned widely. “You know, I got the idea from him. He said he did that once to his Aunt Dora during a visit to Bag End. I think that’s when Bilbo decided to adopt him.”

They both laughed now. “I wouldn’t put it past him… either of them. If ever there was a pair of hobbits more suited for each other, I’d be sorely pressed to find one,” Esmeralda said as Merry yawned again. “Go to sleep, lad. You should start your journey well rested. I’ll send Mac out first thing in the morning to fetch you, and I’ll see that Pippin comes with him so you can make amends. Don’t be too hard on Pippin, dear. He’s young yet, and he doesn’t have your courage.”

Merry nodded and lay down. Esmeralda pulled a blanket from the saddlebag and draped it over her son. Then she relieved the pony of its burdens and took it back to its stall. Merry listened as she closed the barn door quietly behind her and then settled in to try to get some sleep with the rest of the night.

He was dreaming he was at Bag End and Frodo was attempting to teach him some Elvish. Merry, however, was restless and not paying attention. Frodo finally gave up and suggested they go for a ride instead. They went to the stable and… no, that was wrong. Bag End didn’t have a stable. That made no sense, but he could hear Frodo clearly.

“You can stable your pony in here. There are plenty of stalls to choose from,” he was saying.

Merry frowned. Were they going riding, or getting back from riding? And who was there with them? He looked around but couldn’t see anyone, not even Frodo anymore.

“You’re more than welcome. It’s the least I could do after you drove all morning to bring me here,” his cousin responded. “Now, just go through the first main door, the north one, and that will lead you to the front parlor. The first tunnel on the left will take you to the dining hall. It will be another hour at least before they’re ready to serve first breakfast, but you may wait there until then. Ask to speak with the Master if anyone has any concerns.”

Merry’s frown deepened. Now this really didn’t make any sense. They weren’t even at Bag End anymore. They were in Buckland and there was a strand of hay poking him in the back. He shifted his position irritably and settled back down to dream some more.

“Merry?” Frodo finally remembered that Merry was present also. Maybe now they would go riding. “Merry? What are you doing sleeping out here?”

Frodo shook Merry gently, baffled by his friend’s presence in the stables. He noticed the stuffed saddlebags lying on the ground and his confusion deepened. What was going on here? Where was Pippin? He shook Merry again, harder this time. “Merry, wake up you lazy dolt.”

Two grey eyes blinked open and focused on him. “Frodo?” Merry said dazedly, still half in the midst of sleep. Then his eyes widened in surprise and Merry bolted upright, fixing Frodo with the same disbelieving expression the bounders had used. “Frodo?” he said again, this time with amazement and fear. He inched away quickly from the vision before him.

Merry wasn’t sure whether he was still dreaming or not. Everything around him told him he was awake, the stable, the saddlebags, the blanket and the bale of hay he was sitting on. Mist was pouring in through the open door and there was a pony trap in the middle of the stables that didn’t belong there, and it was branded with the mark of the Bounders. The other voice he had heard must be a bounder then, yet that person was no longer here.

Then there was Frodo. Merry realized he had to be dreaming still, for how else could Frodo be standing before him, looking so beautifully baffled. With a scar. A dark, red line crossed Frodo’s forehead where there had not been one before. Why would he dream of Frodo with a scar? He reached out without thinking and lightly traced the mark, then quickly pulled his hand away. He stared down at his fingertips, warm from the brief touch, then looked back up at Frodo, a wild hope in his eyes.

“Of course it is,” Frodo answered, a sinking cold feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Something was seriously wrong here. He had expected to be greeted by contemptuous stares or curious puzzlement, depending of course on whom he was encountering. He had not expected to be greeted with the same disbelieving amazement by everyone. “Are you all right, Merry? Why are you sleeping in the stables?”

“You are?” Frodo asked, his turn to be surprised. It had not occurred to him that anyone would still be attempting to look for him. After all, the Bagginses of Bag End were always disappearing, him especially.

“We looked before but we couldn’t find you,” Merry explained further. He was still backed into the stall behind him, tense and frightened, tears standing in his eyes. “Then the miller, he said, he said he saw you. He said you, he saw you, you went into the River and there was a flood and everyone said, they said you were dead. But you’re not dead. Are you? I’m not dreaming? Are you real?”

Now it was Frodo’s turn to look disbelieving, and the coldness in his stomach slowly spread throughout the rest of his body. They thought he was dead? All this time, they had thought he’d perished in the flood? So this was why he had to come back. It was this, Merry, sitting before him, trying so hard to keep from crying, not believing yet but wanting to so desperately.

Merry stiffened at the first contact, but then Frodo’s arms were around him and his face was pressed to Frodo’s shoulder. He could smell the scent that belonged to Frodo alone: pipeweed, ink, old dusty books, sandalwood soap. He sank into the embrace and clung to Frodo tightly, tears streaming down his face, his chest racked with sobs. His Frodo was here, alive, beyond all hope.

Frodo rocked Merry gently back and forth, humming softly, his mind whirling even as he tried to comfort his friend. If Berwin had waited, if he had not changed his mind and had gone to Rivendell, even with a letter sent home, would that have been enough? How had all this happened? He knew how – the ring. This had all started with him losing the ring. No, that wasn’t it either. He had not misplaced the ring, it had slipped from his traveling cloak without him noticing. Why?

Someone was knocking persistently upon the door. Paladin answered the call just as Esmeralda emerged from the bedroom and Saradoc from the study.

“Milo?” Paladin said and let Milo Burrows into the room. He had another hobbit with him, who looked to be a bounder by his dress. “What is the matter?” Saradoc asked.

“Sorry for the interruption so early in the morning,” Milo said and looked around. “Where are Merry and Pippin?”

“Merry’s in the stable, or at least he should be. Mac just took Pippin out to see him before they leave,” Saradoc answered. “Now what is the matter?”

Milo indicated the bounder, who stepped forward with a formal bow. “You’re going to want to hear this,” Milo said.

“Hear what?” Paladin asked, annoyed with the pretense and wanting to get to the point already.

The bounder cleared his throat and addressed Saradoc. “Well, sir, I don’t know rightly how to say this, but Frodo Baggins came through Buckland Gate last night, or early this morning I should say. I brought him here in a pony trap. He stayed behind in the stable with your son.”

“You go in first, lad,” Merimac said to Pippin. “Once you and Merry clear everything up, send him on out.”

Pippin nodded and walked the last several yards to the stable by himself. The mist was clearing and he could make out the outline of the building from where he left Merimac standing. By the time he was close enough to see the stable clearly, he spotted the door standing wide open. His heart sank, fearing Merry had already slipped off and that his cousin had not wanted to speak with him after all. He was about to turn back when he heard Merry’s voice from inside the barn. It sounded as though he were speaking to someone. Curious, Pippin entered the stable and saw… “Frodo?”

Frodo and Merry looked up and grinned. Merry’s eyes were red and puffy, and Frodo looked close to tears himself. Merry bounced with excitement and said, “Look Pippin. It’s Frodo! He’s not dead.”

“I suppose I should get used to this reaction,” Frodo said. “Yes, Pippin, it’s me, in the flesh and all that.”

Pippin looked back and forth between his two cousins. Merry was elated and Frodo looked, well, he looked different somehow, but happy and very much alive. That was all Pippin needed to know. “Frodo!” He ran at his cousin at full speed and hugged him fiercely, immensely relieved to find a solid form to enclose his arms around.

Frodo grunted in pain at the contact and Pippin bounced back immediately, not certain what to make of anything really, but smiling all the same. Merry looked at Frodo curiously. Frodo shrugged sheepishly and explained, “I cracked some ribs.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pippin said, a look of utter guilt falling onto his face.

“Not just now, you silly goose,” Frodo said. “When I fell into the River. They’re healing quite nicely actually, and they don’t hurt anywhere as much as they did before.”

“Oh, right.” Pippin noticed the scar then and reached out to touch it as Merry had, amazed again at the contact. Frodo was here. His grin widened and he was oblivious to the tears streaming down his own face. “Is that when this happened also?”

Frodo nodded. “Yes it was. I suppose now is as good a time for an explanation as any,” he said but was interrupted by a sudden clamoring at the door. He looked up and found Esmeralda, Saradoc, Paladin, Merimac and Milo staring at him with confusion and glee. “Hullo,” he said, for lack of a better greeting.

Many tearful hugs later, everyone left the stable and went inside to the Master’s quarters, walking in one big clump so they could smuggle Frodo in unseen between them. Once they were safely inside, Saradoc sent Milo to fetch Frodo’s things from the mathom room and allowed him to clean up and change into fresh clothes while first breakfast was brought in and served. Finally, they settled down to eat and hear Frodo’s story.

Frodo decided, after hearing Merry confess that they thought him dead, that the truth was the best way to go. He told them nearly everything, but left out any mention of the ring. He said only that he had panicked when he realized he had lost something and had gone out to look for it. Once the storm started, he had gotten lost. He told them about that whole day out in the storm, about falling into the river (and noticed many furtive and relieved looks among everyone as he explained how the riverbank gave way beneath him and he lost his balance), about waking a day later to find himself in the company of Berwin, and all his time spent in Bree. He left out his nightmares and any mention of Bilbo and Rivendell.

When he was finished, everyone had questions and he spent the time between first and second breakfasts answering them all. Then second breakfast was brought in, and Saradoc filled Frodo in on everything that had happened in Buckland during his absence. He explained how Merry and Pippin had found the guest room in shambles and about the search to look for him. He recounted the miller’s story nearly word for word, changing only the part of how the miller reported Frodo going into the River. He next explained that the formal announcement had been made and that nearly everyone near and around Brandy Hall had heard it by now.

Saradoc nodded. “Porto was visiting here also, as you know. He took the word back with him.”

“Five days,” Saradoc answered. “Three since it would have reached Hobbiton.”

After second breakfast, Frodo, Merry and Pippin retreated to Merry’s room. Merry and Pippin still had much to tell and ask of Frodo. They wanted to know more about the abandoned smial and why Frodo had never told them what it really was. They wanted to know about Berwin and Bree and the healers. Frodo answered them as best he could, then coaxed out of them everything they had been up to since the announcement of his ‘death.’ They were reluctant to answer, but he eventually got it out of them.

“It was so horrible without you here, thinking you were gone for good,” Merry said. “I felt as if I was walking around in a fog and I would never find my way out.”

“But you didn’t think he was gone,” Pippin pointed out. “You thought there was a chance he might survive, and I didn’t believe you. I don’t have your faith. You were right, I did give up on Frodo.” He hung his head in shame. “I’m sorry,” he said to them both.

“You had every reason to despair,” Frodo said. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t have any more faith than you do, Pip,” Merry admitted. “You were right. I was in denial, and it wasn’t really that I believed there was a chance. I just didn’t want to believe that there wasn’t one, if that makes any sense.”

“I think what Merry’s saying is that not having hope at all is worse than to have it and lose it,” Frodo explained and Merry nodded.

“Why do that to yourself?” Pippin asked, not convinced. “I would think it would be worse to lose it. You can’t miss what you never had.”

Frodo shook his head, considering. “No, you have to have hope; it’s like air and water. You can’t live without it, not as you were meant to live. For a long time, I had no hope. I had what I thought was hope, but was really desperation. That was no way to live. Bilbo taught me what true hope is: it’s the sun hidden behind a cloudy day that shines all the brighter when the clouds go away. Clouds come and go, but the sun, She will always be there, even if we can’t feel Her warmth. You can never really lose hope as long as you are strong enough to hold onto it.”

“But we weren’t strong enough and we very nearly did lose you,” Merry said. “If that Man hadn’t found you… the hobbits sent out from Haysend would have come along a few days later, but by then, you really would have been gone. We’ll have to find a way to send him a thank you letter, though I don’t think mail gets out of the Shire very often anymore.”

Merry nodded. “We did. Porto took it with him. I thought it would be best if he heard the news directly. I didn’t want him hearing it somewhere and thinking it a nasty rumor. That would have been even harder on him, not knowing for certain what to believe. We didn’t know what else to do; it would have been a while yet before we had opportunity to get out there.”

“Thank you for looking out for him Merry,” Frodo said. “It’s kind of you to care. You did the best you knew to do, both of you, and I am amazed at how well the two of you handled this.”

“It doesn’t feel like we handled it all that well. We were a wreck, Frodo,” Merry said. “We don’t say it much, maybe we think it’s understood and that we don’t need to, but all this time, I was ripped apart by the thought that you might not really have understood how truly we need you here. You’re the brother I never had and I love you dearly.”

Pippin nodded in agreement. “Plus, you need to stick around to keep this one in check. He was going off the deep end, in more ways than one.”

Merry reached over and cuffed Pippin lightly on the shoulder and they both grinned up at Frodo. Frodo didn’t know what to say. If he had any doubts before about his place in his friends’ lives, those doubts were now gone. How could he have so grossly underestimated what he meant to his friends? “I do know,” he said, “and thank you so much for telling me. I love you both dearly as well, and I would give up the world to be with you.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Merry’s room or in the parlor. Everyone was still in awe of his return, but they were quickly becoming used to seeing him about again. Saradoc went out at luncheon and announced Frodo’s return to a skeptical audience. He grinned as he left the dining hall and heard the room burst into excited chatter as the door swung closed behind him. It wouldn’t take long for this rumor to spread, and he knew that many hobbits would be debating the truth of all these rumors for many weeks to come. He was eager to see what kinds of stories they would come up with.

A healer came to see Frodo shortly after luncheon. She was impressed by the job the healers in Bree had done and nodded in approval at the medicine that Frodo showed her. She insisted then that, though everyone was undoubtedly excited about his return, he was to be in bed for the rest of the day and not do anything more strenuous than lift a bell when he needed something. Esmeralda quickly saw him to Merry’s bed and the rooms grew quiet so Frodo could rest. He did not realize until his head hit the pillow how truly exhausted he still was. He was asleep within moments.

He awoke with a start to find Merry and Pippin still with him in the room, playing a game of chess while they waited. Pippin was the first to notice him awake, and he informed Frodo that Saradoc had gone with Paladin, who was curious to see the abandoned smial for himself. “You don’t mind that we told everyone about it do you?”

Frodo shook his head. “It never should have been hidden in the first place,” he answered. “It really was beautiful at one time. It’s a shame no one ever lived there.”

“Will you be going back to Hobbiton soon? The sixth is coming up,” Merry said.

“I know, but that’s not why I need to be going,” Frodo said, almost to himself. “I cannot explain it, but I must get back before anything bad can happen.”

“I do not know, and that is what has me worried.” Frodo noticed his friends looking at him strangely, but he did not care. It was clear to him now, far too clear, how incredibly delicate the situation was. He had thought his things, and most importantly the ring, would be safe as long as he returned before anyone could legally declare him dead. Now he returned to find that the declaration had already been made, and quite legitimately as far as everyone was concerned. “I may already be too late.”

“Too late for what?” Merry asked, bewildered. “Frodo, you’re back. You’re home. What could possibly go wrong now?”

He had snuck out of his home early in the morning to avoid another confrontation with his father. Hamfast had not been pleased when Sam came home the night before. His father had attempted to talk to him, but Sam had not been in the mood. Instead of fighting yet again, he had ignored his father and locked himself in his room without a word or upward glance. The move had done the trick and Hamfast had stopped his rant, only to slam his own bedroom door shut a few seconds later.

To give himself an excuse for leaving so early this morning, he went up to Overhill with every intention of speaking with Mr. Boffin about a job. Instead, he had wound up speaking with Halfast out in the work shed for the majority of the day. He was not as close to Halfast as he was to his sisters or friends, but he somehow found talking to him to be easier. Halfast had twined some rope while he listened sympathetically, until Sam finally tired of talking. Then Sam had joined him in his work and the rest of the day had passed in silence.

Now Sam was coming home, another day gone without any work of any worth done. He admitted grudgingly that his father was right; he needed to take some time just to grieve.

He reached the top of the road and walked slowly down the Hill to Bagshot Row. When he passed by Bag End, he looked up mournfully at the grand smial, and stopped dead in his tracks. What he saw there took his breath away: lights in Bag End. Someone had opened the curtains and lit the fires, and the round, green door was standing wide open.

Daring to hope, he ran through the gate and up the garden path. His heart pounded in his chest as he ran into Bag End without a knock or call to announce his presence. He came to a stop in the entryway, where he could see down the long tunnel that snaked its way to the back of the smial. A dark-haired figure stood nearby, in the doorway to the study, transfixed by something within.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaimed. The figure turned around abruptly and faced Sam, and hope shattered at last as Sam realized his grim mistake. “What are you doing here?”

The Ring had been waiting for many countless centuries at the bottom of the Great River, looking for any opportunity to get out of Its watery cage. It hated the River, hated all bodies of water, so imbued they were with Ulmo’s power. The water weakened It, subdued It. It could feel Its power being slowly stifled, and so It rested and waited.

The passage of time meant nothing to It, but It could sense the changing of the seasons, an ever constant and meaningless cycle of death and rebirth. It knew when Winter’s deadly chill was upon the land, when Spring brought forth new life, when Summer nurtured the grains for harvest, and when Autumn prepared the world for slumber. Over and again, for time immeasurable, It felt the changes of the Earth, and It waited.

An age of the world passed, and another age was growing old before the Ring was rescued at last by a wayward fisherman. It could sense the heart of Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Orcs. It liked Orcs best, for they were greedy and deceitful and easily swayed, but It could turn the heart of any creature who possessed It long enough, and It knew Its long awaited opportunity had come at last.

This creature’s heart was pure and simple, but there was another nearby, equally simple but full of greed and malicious deeds. It gathered all of Its reserved strength, luring the Pure One to Itself and soon found Itself out of the suffocating water. Its power was freed in an instant, and It lashed out violently, focusing all Its power on the one full of greed, reveling in the chaotic fight and triumphant murder that resulted.

The Greedy One took It, and It soon found that this was no Orc, but a creature previously unknown to It. The creature was selfish and malicious, and used It to create even more chaos among his fellow creatures. These deeds were petty and trite, a gross misuse of the Ring’s powers. It could do so much more, yet for all Its whisperings and suggestions, the creature did not obey It or even listen. This creature was a slave to no one but himself and he kept It for his own purposes.

Soon, It found them both at the bottom of a wet, dark cave deep beneath the mountains, hidden once more, surrounded by water again. There was no passing of the seasons here, only dark and more dark. It discovered though as the creature grew hungry and went hunting that goblins lived higher up in the caves. Goblins were good; they knew and feared Its master, unlike this stupid creature. So It waited, until such a time It could slip from the creature unnoticed, to be picked up by a goblin and taken at last to Its master who waited for It to return.

At length, It acted – and was foiled. It was picked up, not by a goblin but by a creature similar to what the Greedy One used to be, but this creature was pure, kind and not the least bit selfish. There was not a speck of greed or ambition for It to lash onto, nothing by which It could entrap this happy creature who, of all inconceivabilities, did good deeds with It! But It went to work on the Happy One all the same, wearing him down slowly through the passage of years, encroaching Itself ever more into his very soul. It was finally making progress, It could feel the Happy One growing thin, It was close to enslaving him completely.

Yet in this unimaginable development, It realized potential immediately. This new creature was kind, pure, gentle and unselfish, all the annoying things that made a creature so difficult to ensnare. But he was also… sad and lonely, and he had a secret desire, to be with the Happy One again. He kept It far from him, locked away in a chest, and the sad moments were few and far between. It could always sense when his mood turned to melancholy and used those moments to lure the Lonely One to It.

In just this sort of fashion, It discovered a new target. The Happy One and the Lonely One both did not like a fellow creature, and It could feel the jealousy and contempt pouring out of this one they called Lotho. It searched Lotho’s heart whenever he was nearby and It discovered a secret that could work very well to Its advantage. The Angry One knew Men, dishonorable and inherently weak Men, who could easily be lured into going to Mordor. If only It could find a way into the Angry One’s hand, the Ring knew It would not be long before It was finally returned home.

So It waited. It learned the Lonely One’s routines and the routines of those around him. Better yet, It learned that the Angry One could sense It when he was nearby, even though he knew not what he was sensing.

It waited, until the Lonely One was going away. It could feel a great storm brewing in the skies above, and It knew the Lonely One would be far away. It made Its move, slipping from Its velvety prison, and It waited. It used all Its power to seek out and lure the Angry One to It. Instead, It was picked up by the Simple One and taken to the study, placed out of the way but not hidden.

It waited until the storm was brewing. It focused all Its power on the Lonely One far away, until It felt him panic and flee, until It felt him no more. It would have all the time It needed now. Or so It thought. The Lonely One soon resurfaced, weak but alive, and he had help. It needed to move quickly now. It sought out the Angry One and found him in a tormented rage. It saw the Angry One’s heart, saw his hatred for the Lonely One and seized upon that hate until he heeded Its call.

Ted entered the parlor late in the morning, yawning widely. He needed to start a fire and see to first – he glanced at the clock – no, second breakfast. He placed logs in the hearth and soon had a fire lit, then went into the kitchen.

“Mr. Lotho,” Ted said with a hint of surprise. “I thought you weren’t coming up for another few days.”

“Changed my mind,” Lotho said. “Couldn’t take any more of Mother’s constant nagging and fretting.”

Ted had hoped that attending the funeral would finally allow Lotho to cry and grieve as he needed to, but he didn’t see how that would be possible if Lotho avoided the whole affair. Lotho had been avoiding many things since his father’s death, most precisely the death itself. He even refused to sleep because of the nightmares it brought, and the stress of it was causing his friend to act irrationally. Ted knew Lotho couldn’t continue like this for much longer, but there seemed to be nothing he could do to help.

Lotho made no reply, but he pointed to the stove, where remainders from second breakfast waited to be warmed. Ted nodded his thanks, stoked the fire in the oven, then sat at the table across from Lotho as he waited for the food to warm. After a weary silence, Lotho said, “How’s your eye?”

“I said I was sorry,” Lotho whispered meekly and stared with dull eyes out the window, where Ted could see his father working to repair the mill wheel for what must be hundredth time. The wheel itself worked, but a couple of the spokes had been damaged in the storm and needed replacing.

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have said those things about your father,” Ted replied, his voice gentle now, sympathetic. “It was improper of me and I’m sorry. You didn’t need to be hearing all that, and I should have kept them to myself.”

“They were true though,” Lotho said softly, almost to himself. Then he shook his head forcibly and turned his attention back to Ted. “You’re up late,” he repeated.

“Hitting the inns already are you?” Lotho asked. “Getting drunk off that poison? Despicable. They should close those inns.”

“Aye, but then I never would have learned some very interesting news about that whiny little cousin of yours,” Ted said with an innocent smile. If he couldn’t help his friend, at least he could cheer him up. “Want to hear it?”

Everywhere he went, he heard the same story. Frodo had dashed out into the storm in a mad rage and had fallen into the River and been swept away. A few hobbits even whispered in his ear that they heard Frodo did it on purpose, that he hadn’t fallen but jumped. Even stuffy old Ponto Baggins confirmed Frodo’s passing. Lotho stayed in The Ivy Bush until the luncheon crowd returned to their work and shopping. By then, he had heard all he needed to know. Now he wanted to see it for himself.

He left the inn, walked over the Hobbiton Bridge and up the Hill to Bag End. He walked through the gate and scanned the gardens critically. They were as tidy and flourishing as ever, which meant that pesky gardener must be around here somewhere. He strolled through the gardens with ravishing eyes, soaking in the colorful blooms and their sweet fragrances, but did not see the gardener anywhere.

He walked back to the front of the smial and found the round, green door standing wide open, beckoning him to enter. He was fairly certain it had not been open before. So that gardener was about, and he apparently thought he owned the place, going into Bag End as he pleased, leaving the front door open, as if this were nothing more than that run-down rut of a hole he lived in.

Lotho walked up the garden path and into the entryway. He paused to listen but heard nothing or no one moving inside. He was utterly alone. The door must have opened on its own.

He struck a flame to one of the candles sitting in the nook by the door and held it aloft. He fingered the grand map that hung there, a detailed map of the Shire that Bilbo had marked in red ink with his favorite hiking routes. That old fool had loved his hikes, would even take Frodo with him on occasion. The two of them made mockeries of themselves with their little ‘adventures.’ Lotho had spied them a couple of times far off in the fields, singing around a cozy campfire like it was the most natural thing. That map would be the first thing to go.

He stepped into the main tunnel and followed it, room by room, to the very back of the hole. The first room on the east side was the first bathing room. He lit all the candles in here and fingered the large alabaster tub, big enough for a hobbit to lie in comfortably and still have room to move in. Next to the tub there was a shelf of bathing soaps and oils; he picked one up and pulled the stopper. It smelled of sandalwood. Beneath the tub ran a drain, no need to tip the tub over even if you could. A small hearth was in the room, to heat the water so that it didn’t need to be carried in from the kitchen, less risk of burning oneself. A gilded mirror hung over a brass ewer, and towels of finest linen hung along the wall, embroidered with the Baggins monogram.

He went next into the first of the guest rooms. One had been converted into a library, as Frodo had far too many books. He scanned the titles on the covers, some of them in languages he couldn’t even read. Worthless books, terrible waste of space and money. Another room was now a storage room, stuffed with more mathoms than one hobbit could possibly ever need. He picked up one mathom, a flute carved from ivory, and blew into it. The sound was high and filled the room, echoing mutely. He put the flute down and picked up a jewelry box of polished cherry wood, the lid of which was hand-painted with a fox in a meadow.

The next rooms were the pantries, three in all. They were stocked full with food of every kind: sweets, fruits, cheeses, bread, whatever one could possibly think of or wish for. No fear of going hungry in this hole. Behind the middle pantry was the higher cellar, where the wine racks were kept. Numerous bottles of Old Winnyard and other fine wines lined the walls. Behind the largest pantry was a staircase that led down to the lower cellar. This cellar was deep in the Hill and naturally cold. A block of ice sat near the back wall, and in a thick-walled steel chest were frozen meats of every sort. Lotho stared at the ice and thought how lovely it would be to have a nice, cold drink on a hot summer’s day. It was a luxury not even the richest hobbits could enjoy very often.

Lotho climbed out of the cellar and left the pantry. The next five rooms were ready to be filled with guests, the beds made with fresh sheets, the wardrobes polished and clean, the rugs washed spotless. Lotho lit the candles in all the rooms, and investigated the chests in each one. He found in them only spare blankets, sheets and pillows. He walked around the rooms, stomping on the floor with his feet, knocking along the walls, searching for a hollow thud and finding none. Yet Frodo had to have kept his fortune around here somewhere close at hand. He got on his knees and looked under the beds, four-posters all of them. He looked behind the wardrobes and under the desks. In the room he knew to have been Frodo’s before the imp inherited the hole, he searched every single square inch, finding nothing but the finest handcrafted furniture polished to a pristine shine.

The last two guest rooms at the very end of the tunnel had been converted into large wardrobes, just to house all of Bilbo’s custom-made suits of silk, fine wool and even the rare overcoat of cashmere. Lotho counted them all, nearly one for every day of the year. That was far more clothes than any hobbit could ever require, and several of them he had never seen before, proving his point. Another waste of space and money.

Next to the wardrobes was the back door leading out to the kitchen garden and next to that was the second bathing room. This was much the same as the first one, but for the window, as it was located on the west side of the Hill, and the piping. When had Bilbo put the piping in? Lotho stared at the pump or whatever the contraption was called, not sure how to use it or if it even worked. Yet it must work, for the bathing room was obviously used and he couldn’t imagine his spoiled cousin carting water into it when there was no need. He looked out the window at the garden and spotted the well not far away. So the crazy old fool had run pipes to the well and got his water here that way. Lotho shook his head in amazement and backed out of the room.

Next to the bathing room was the best guest room. It had all the trappings of the other guest rooms, plus a window, a chandelier, and the four-poster bed was enshrouded with embroidered lace. The gilded mirror was etched with roses along the edges, and the linen chest and wardrobe were carved from pine, a rare wood for the Shire. Lotho realized it must have been ordered by one of Bilbo’s many odd friends from Outside, as no doubt were so many other items in this smial. Lotho opened the curtains here to let in the late afternoon sun while it lasted and lit the candles. He built a fire in the hearth and let the warmth of the flames melt away the last of his chill from the cellar.

He left the grand guest room and went into the master bedroom. This room he checked thoroughly as well, finding nothing but more of the same finely crafted and painstakingly decorated furniture. He lay down on the bed and stared up at the canopy as he sank into the softness of the mattress. The feather pillow enveloped his head perfectly and if he closed his eyes, he could easily have drifted off to sleep. But he mustn’t sleep. He got up, fighting off his fatigue, and went through the wardrobes. In here, Frodo kept his everyday attire, which could hardly be considered casual, even by Lotho’s standards.

Next to the master bedroom was the formal dining room. Lotho lit the candles here and fingered the gold candleholders and sconces in which they sat. A silk tablecloth, woven to resemble a landscape, decorated the long, grand oak table. The chairs were equally as grand, the backs and seats of each one hand-painted to match the tablecloth. A crystal vase sat in the middle of the table, reflecting the candlelight with dazzling little rainbows all about the room.

He went next to the kitchen, opening the curtains there and looking through the cupboards. There were glasses of all sorts, silverware of various styles, one set of utensils even made of gold. Frodo had been left with several sets of fine china; he could probably entertain a handful of guests every day of the week and never use the same dishes. Yet how often did he entertain? Hardly ever. He didn’t even utilize the gifts he had been given.

Off of the main kitchen was a smaller kitchen, with just a stove for keeping things warm. This would be used when company was over and several dishes would have to be prepared for a single meal. The kitchenette ran into the breakfast nook, which was used for casual dining or even by servants resting from their work. This led into the second parlor, or the sitting room. Lotho went through all these rooms without stopping. He had seen the second parlor in particular several times on previous visits, as that was were Frodo, and Bilbo before him, would entertain their unimportant guests. He couldn’t imagine they would keep anything of importance there.

He entered the main parlor and threw open the curtains. He set his candle on the mantle and quickly built a fire in the hearth. When the fire was roaring, he sat in the old blue rocking chair and stared into the dancing flames. He looked around the room, taking in the settees, the other stuffed chairs, the ornamental rug, the stenciled mirror, the grandfather clock, the chandelier and the portraits that hung above the mantle and all along the walls.

He breathed in deeply the scent of the smial and let his breath out with a great, contented sigh, and in that moment, he knew with absolute certainty that Frodo Baggins was gone for good. No longer could that nuisance’s presence be felt here and the smial itself seemed to be sighing with relief along with him. It craved a new master now, and as he became entranced by the dance of the flames, the smial seemed to enfold him in a tender embrace. He was the Master now. The smial and everything that came with it was his at last; he had only to claim it and he would not waste it as Frodo had.

The sun set without him noticing and soon the smial was in shadow. His stomach grumbled with hunger and figuring he may as well start making himself at home, he picked up his candle and went back to the hall with every intention of going to the pantry. His progress was stopped when he realized that he had yet one more room to inspect on his tour: the study. Of course, the study was Bilbo’s and Frodo’s most favored room. If any gold or jewels were to be found, it would be in there. Lotho felt foolish for not realizing that sooner, but no matter. He had plenty of time to go through every inch of it.

He stepped into the doorway of the study and found the curtains already drawn back. A slimmer of quickly-fading light fell across the desk and as he looked upon it, a brief yet blinding flash of purest gold caught his eye. He squinted at the desk, searching. There! Next to the quills and paper. ‘So, that Brandybrat has so much of it, he leaves it lying about in his study, does he?’ Lotho thought. He held the candle higher, and the gold caught the flame, dancing triumphantly in its gentle glow, so bright, so beautiful, so…

Yes, precious. A wonderful, beautiful, precious present. A well-deserved present for all his years of patient waiting.

He took a step into the study, his heart racing excitedly at the thought of touching that perfect band of gold. But suddenly he was ripped violently from his intoxicating yearning by a harsh, raspy shout from behind him.

Lotho narrowed his eyes. He knew that voice. He forced his eyes away from that dazzling gold and turned abruptly on the intruder, whose eyes widened stupidly when he realized his foolish mistake.

“Claiming what’s mine,” Lotho said, smiling at the horror that flashed across that simple face. “And the question, I believe, is what are you doing here?”

Sam’s heart was breaking anew. For a few short moments, he had dared to dream, to hope beyond reason. His beloved master had returned and the dull, empty numbness that had become his life would finally be over. Everything would go back to the way it belonged and always should be. As the realization of Lotho standing before him, leering at him, sank in, he realized that he could no longer deny what everyone else had already accepted as the truth. Mr. Frodo was gone and there was no changing that.

Sam jumped and jerked back to attention. Lotho was staring at him with such open hostility it was all Sam could do to not shrink back into the wall. He forced himself to answer. “I saw the lights and I thought…” Only he was not able to finish. He didn’t need to.

“You thought it was Frodo, come back from the dead,” Lotho supplied. “And why would you think something so silly as that, when everyone knows he’s gone? There’s no coming back from where he is.” He cocked his head and stared at Sam, who openly stared back. Was there no end to this servant’s defiance? Lotho’s temper broiled and he spat out, “He’s gone, you hear me! And he isn’t coming back!”

Sam didn’t respond but looked down at the ground by Lotho’s feet. There was a joy and elation in Lotho’s voice, but there was a tightness also, a haunted grief and strangled anger that could not be ignored. The mixture was unnerving and Sam wondered if he should just leave. Only he couldn’t move. His feet seemed nailed to the floor and his legs were leaden, as if some other will were forcing him to remain. He had no choice but to stay.

Lotho glared at Sam. This gardener was another example of his spoiled cousin’s wasteful ways. Just like everything within the smial itself, Lotho could see no need for this servant. Yet Frodo kept him about the hole and for what? So he could leave the smial open to the elements and barge in as he pleased to defy those of higher authority than he?

That Brandybrat never deserved Bag End. In Lotho’s eyes, there was only one person who should have inherited the luxurious smial, and that person was now dead. His sneer deepened and he took a step towards Sam. It was time to teach this gardener a lesson.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, nearly contemplative, almost as if he were explaining a simple sums problem to a small child. The hardness in his eyes remained however, and it gave him an eerie appearance, surrounded as he was by candlelight, with the study dark and cold behind him.

“You wait your whole life for something, something that by all rights should have been yours without question. You sit and you wait and you watch your life crawl by as that thing is constantly denied you, knowing that if you just had it, all your problems would go away. You hope and you dream, until you’re stumbling in the dark, falling, and with your last strength you reach out to find it already yanked just beyond your reach and all you can do is stare at it as it mocks you.

“All of this was supposed to be my father’s but instead it’s stolen away by that opportunistic little brat, blinding that old fool with his innocent face. My father spends his whole life watching that ungrateful brat live in his home, only to die in disappointment, his one desire left unfulfilled, and for what? For that Brandybrat to fling himself into a river two weeks later? He deprived my father that which he desired most, only to stay long enough to see him dead. How is that fair? Where is the justice in that?”

Sam raised his head sharply at this and stared unblinking into Lotho’s twisted, anguished face. “Mr. Frodo fell. It was an accident,” he said.

The sneer returned to Lotho’s face and he took another step towards Sam. “Ah, is Mr. Frodo’s servant going to defend his good name?” he mocked. “Why? When he neither knew nor cared to know how he was besmirching the family name. Now he’s caused a permanent defilement, taking his own life, just like the ungrateful, selfish, inconsiderate whelp that we always said he was. Only no one believed us. Well, they know now, don’t they?”

The calmness had melted away and Lotho began to pace back and forth as his agitation grew. His speech turned to ranting and he seemed to forget that Sam was even there.

“You defend him, even though he would smile and say nothing if people spoke ill of you and would actually join in and agree with them. You defend him still after he turned his back on you, left you without even so much as a farewell. You defend him, even though he cared nothing for those he left behind, even though he knew you would blame yourself for pushing him too far. He left, knowing it would be his final revenge, that you would have no hope of getting back at him without looking petty and cruel.

“You spend your life trying to make him happy, doing everything he asked, and it was never good enough. You sweated for him, bled for him. You were the one who went to market for him, who made the improvements to the smial, who negotiated for him to get him the things he wanted. You were the one who knew what he needed and got it before he asked, who took care of him all those years, who gave your life for him. Did you ever get any gratitude for it? Did he ever look at you with anything but contempt and scorn? And you know it’s silly to try, you know he’ll never approve of you, but you do it anyway because what else can you do?”

Lotho stopped his pacing and stared wretchedly at Sam. “You’re bound to him. And you failed him.”

Sam lowered his eyes again, but he could feel those conflicted, tortured eyes upon him still. He could feel when that gaze turn cold. He shivered involuntarily.

“He left you, knowing you would be duty-bound to serve the next Master of the Hill in whichever way he sees best. You’d better learn your place, boy. There’s no one to protect and coddle you now, because Frodo’s gone and everyone knows it. I won’t be so silly as my parents were, I won’t wait for what’s mine. Frodo took his own life; in death he proved what we were saying all along. He was incompetent to ever have been Bilbo’s heir. The Mayor will have no choice but to agree. His title as heir will stripped from him, his will invalidated. The ownership of Bag End will revert back to Bilbo’s next of kin, and guess who that is.

“Bag End and everything in it will be mine. You will be serving me. Your days of lazing about the hole are over, Sam-dumb. Now leave or you’re fired, and if I fire you, I will make certain no one else ever hires you again.”

Sam’s mind reeled. He was not as dumb as Lotho thought he was. He knew of whom Lotho was really speaking, even if Lotho himself did not. He would have known even if Ted hadn’t revealed it to him the night before. He felt sorry for Lotho suddenly, for having to be raised by such uncaring and selfish parents, yet that didn’t give him the right to slander Mr. Frodo’s name.

“Are you deaf, boy?” Lotho yelled and took another step toward Sam. “Leave. I will not tell you again.”

“No,” Sam repeated purposefully. “This isn’t about Mr. Frodo. Don’t you dare try to make it about him. This is about you and Mr. Otho.”

Lotho stared at him with unmasked disdain and misery. “How dare you talk of my father? You know nothing about him.”

“No, I don’t,” Sam agreed. “I know how it is to lose someone close to you though. You asked how this is fair, you asked where the justice was. There is none. There never will be, and that makes it all the harder for you to bear when you know you could have stopped it, had you been brave enough to face your fears and just followed him as you knew you should have. And now it’s too late. You’re condemned to spend the rest of your life knowing it didn’t have to happen like this and knowing that it did happen all the same. You can’t go back, you can’t change it. The weight of that guilt will crush you just a little more each day, till you can hardly breathe or stand from the pain. It feels like your heart and soul were ripped from you and you’re hollow inside.”

“How do you make the pain stop?” Lotho asked, tears springing into his eyes. “How do you fill that void?”

Lotho shook his head. “No. I can’t accept that. There has to be a way. Tell me the way,” he demanded.

“Then leave,” Lotho commanded. He pointed to the door and Sam saw that he was shaking with suppressed rage and sorrow. “Get out!”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not leaving until you do. Bag End isn’t yours yet and you’ve no right to be in Mr. Frodo’s home without leave.”

What happened next occurred too quickly and suddenly for Sam to comprehend or prevent. In a matter of seconds, Lotho closed the distance between them and caught Sam off-guard with a hefty punch, splitting his lip, followed closely by another to his temple, blinding him temporarily. “You insolent fool! How dare you defy me!” A fist slammed into Sam’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, doubling him over. An instant later, an elbow crashed into his spine, sending him sprawling to the floor. “How dare you command me!” A foot struck his side with a snap, the force rolling him onto his back. Lotho straddled him, pinning him to the floor, and grasped his neck in an iron tight grip, chocking out his life.

Sam gasped for breath that wouldn’t come and his vision began to spot with white specks. He tried to dislodge Lotho or pry his hands away, but it was no use. His hearing faded to distant echoes, his vision clouded until there was white all around, edged with black. Sam cast about the floor for some weapon to wield, to defend himself with, his hands finding nothing. He could hear nothing now, the black was collapsing around him. He returned his hands to Lotho’s and, with failing strength, he tried again to pry Lotho’s hands apart, but there was no hope. No hope, save one.

Lotho felt Sam’s body go limp beneath him. He stood up quickly and backed away, staring in horrified shock at what he had just done. He was shaking violently and he felt he would be sick, but something was whispering in his ear. Something was telling him everything was all right, that this meant nothing, that this was a trivial matter, beneath him really, he shouldn’t have lowered himself to dirty his hands so. He was meant for greater and grander things.

He turned away from the still form as if in a daze and looked into the darkness of the study, where the glint of gold once again caught his attention. He stepped over the mass on the floor and into the threshold. He stared at the ring, glowing impossibly in the blackness of the room. Transfixed, he held out his hand and took a step into the room.

“So it seems,” Sam said, gasping for breath. He coughed uncontrollably as his senses returned, then rolled over to lift himself into a sitting position. His head was throbbing and his ears were buzzing. His vision was blurred and spotted. His side hurt so badly every movement made him wince with pain, and it was then he noticed his lip was bleeding profusely as the blood splattered the floor beneath him.

Before he could begin to recover, an enraged Lotho was upon him again, fighting wildly, throwing fists that landed where they may: Sam’s back, neck, head, the back again. Without thinking, without even considering what he was doing, Sam rolled to his uninjured side and kicked up once, landing his foot square in Lotho’s abdomen. Lotho staggered backward and Sam took advantage of his imbalance. He sprang forward and grabbed Lotho by an ankle, yanking his foot out from under him. Lotho crashed to the ground, his head striking hard on the tile floor, dazing him momentarily. Sam moved quickly and pinned Lotho to the ground, holding his arms harmless above his head.

“No, Mr. Lotho,” he said. “You can’t keep fighting everyone. I know it hurts…”

“What do you know of it? You know nothing!” Lotho raged. “You wait your whole life for something and you never get it. You’ve never looked into your father’s eyes and known that he blamed you for his rotten life. You’ve never looked at him and seen nothing but hatred and loathing in return. You’ve never come home and found him dead and knew it was because of you that he did it. What do you know of that?” Tears sprang to his eyes and streamed down his face as he at last gave into his grief. Sam let him go and Lotho clung to him desperately, sobbing into his coat. “What do you know? You, the Gaffer’s favorite son. What do you know?”

Caught by surprise for the second time in less than a minute, Sam could only manage to get them into a sitting position. He held Lotho close and patted him on the back as he spent his long-held tears. Sam rocked him back and forth, until he felt Lotho’s sobbing slow and calm. Then Lotho stiffened, and he pushed Sam away from him and scrambled to his feet. He looked abashed and confused, and his eyes were bloodshot from his grief. Sam remained still and kept his eyes to the ground until Lotho began backing away.

“Bag End will be mine,” Lotho uttered as he stepped outside the hole. “You’ll be working for me. I can be kind or I can be cruel. You just give me a reason, Gamgee. Just give me a reason.”

Sam remained on the floor, barely noticing the passage of time. He was shaking and bleeding, and coughing still. His head pounded, his ribs ached and his throat burned. He stared numbly at the spot where Lotho last stood. What had just happened? And what was going to happen next?

“I really wish you would consider staying another day or two,” Esmeralda said. “I think it would do you good to spend the Anniversary here. Enough time has passed.”

“That isn’t why I’m going,” Frodo said. “With all that has happened, I need to return home and make sure everything is as it should be. If I stay here, I will only worry.”

They were alone in Merry’s room. Frodo was triple-checking his pack, making sure he had everything, convinced he was forgetting something. Esmeralda sat at the desk, watching her former ward with fondness, and waited. She had noticed Frodo glancing at her significantly during first breakfast, which was eaten in the family parlor, and she suspected he had something he wanted to talk to her about.

Getting Frodo alone had not been easy. From the moment of his return yesterday, Merry and Pippin had been practically glued to his side, not letting him out of their sight for more than a few minutes. They had even wound up in bed with Frodo during the night, snuggled together cramped but cozy on Merry’s small bed. When Esmeralda had asked for a minute alone with Frodo, they had balked at having to leave the room. It finally took their fathers coming in and pushing them out the door to give her and Frodo some peace. Now that they were alone, Frodo did not seem to know how to start the conversation.

“Out with it, lad,” Esmeralda finally goaded. “I know that look. What’s on your mind, child?”

Frodo fastened up his pack and sat on the bed to face his ‘aunt’. He hesitated another minute or two, then asked, “Do you remember me having any strange dreams while I was living here?”

Esmeralda raised her eyebrows in surprise. This was not the topic of conversation she would have expected, but she considered the question carefully. “You had so many dreams, so many nightmares, especially those first few years. Most of them you could never remember. The rest were typical dreams, I suppose.”

“Are you certain? I never mentioned any dreams that were especially strange?” Frodo pressed.

Esmeralda thought harder, searching her memory. She shook her head. “No, none that I recall. I mean, dreams are supposed to be strange. I don’t see how one could be any stranger than another. What’s this about? Did you have a dream last night you want to talk about?”

“No. I suppose it’s nothing,” Frodo said with a shrug. Whatever his dreams meant, if they indeed meant anything at all, would have to remain a mystery for now. In the meantime, he had something else he needed to say and he rushed ahead before he could lose his nerve. “I’m sorry to have put you through so much worry. That’s all I ever seem to bring you is worry. Sometimes I wonder how you were able to put up with me all those years.”

“It wasn’t easy raising you,” Esmeralda admitted, “but Saradoc and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was never a matter of putting up with you. We just didn’t know what we were doing. We ever only wanted what was best for you, and in the end, that was Bilbo. He was the only one who could save you from your sorrow. Maybe we should have sent you to him sooner, after that first incident. Maybe you weren’t ready then. I still don’t know for certain, but Merry was good for you at least. You lit up the first time you held him. It was the first real smile I’d seen on your face in a long time. You were good for him as well, letting him tag along after you.”

“He’s the closest thing to a brother I have, him and Pippin, and you were the best substitute for a mother I could ask for. Bilbo may have ‘saved’ me from here, but he was only able to do so because you and Sara loved me first, and you never gave up on me, even though I am sure there are times you wanted to.”

“Oh Frodo,” Esmeralda said, tears springing to her eyes. “I never could have given up on you. I may have doubted myself quite a few times, but I always knew you were special. You’re the best hobbit I know.”

They laughed comfortably, then stood to hug warmly. An impatient knock on the door interrupted the tender moment. “Frodo?” Merry asked worriedly on the other side.

“Go on, lad, before they batter down the door,” Esmeralda chuckled and kissed Frodo on the brow. “Take care of yourself and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask us for help.”

Esmeralda followed Frodo to the parlor where the others were waiting. Paladin took Frodo’s pack and Saradoc embraced Frodo tightly, mindful of his ribs. “Don’t you scare us like that again lad,” he whispered into Frodo’s ear.

Saradoc patted Frodo’s back and ended the embrace with a brief kiss to Frodo’s brow. “Travel safely. Send Merry back home whenever you get tired of him, or in two weeks, whichever comes first.”

“I’ll be sending him home in a couple of days then,” Frodo said with a mischievous grin.

“You will not!” Merry protested. “I shall not let you get rid of me that easily.”

“Oh, I fear that’s only too true,” Frodo said, a tortured expression on his face. “I shall never have any peace again.”

“That’s right,” Merry affirmed. “You just best get used to it Frodo. I’ll be by your side night and day for the duration of my stay. As for future visits, I’ll show up when you least expect it, and they shall be more often, and longer, so I can keep an eye on you better.”

“I could do that, but then I’d have to travel here to visit Mother and Father, which would still mean leaving you alone, unless Pippin can come up during those times. What do you say Uncle Pally, do you think we could work out a schedule?” Merry asked seriously.

“Honestly, Merry, that’s much too much trouble,” Frodo said, laughing. “Sam could watch me while you’re gone and since he’s there all the time anyway, you can stay here.”

“Before you two get carried away,” Pippin interrupted, “I believe the carriage is ready and waiting. We had best be going.”

The tunnels were empty as Paladin led Frodo, Merry and Pippin to the exit nearest the stables. Frodo thought it odd that they did not pass anyone, not even a servant. Usually after first breakfast, the tunnels were busy with hobbits going about their daily business and even the ones that slept in late would be making their first appearances. Yet there was no one about. He soon found out why.

News does not take long to travel through the warren of Brandy Hall, and the more outrageous the rumor, the faster it went. When it was discovered that Frodo, who had yet to be seen by anyone except the Master and his family, Milo Burrows, the healer and a few very privileged servants, would be leaving after first breakfast, the residents of the Hall had made their way outside to see for themselves the miracle of Frodo’s return.

When Frodo emerged outside, he was scared nearly out of his wits by an outburst of cheering and applause. “He is alive! Doesn’t that beat all?” someone near the back of the crowd shouted, and several others agreed that it did, in fact, beat all. Frodo could only gape at everyone in response.

“Don’t look so surprised Frodo,” Merimac said at the front of the crowd. He nodded towards Merry and Pippin. “You’re the only one who can keep those two in check. You think we don’t appreciate that?”

Merry and Pippin attempted to scowl through their grins, then went with Paladin to wait by the carriage as Frodo said his good-byes. Paladin patted his pony, tied to the back of the carriage, then mounted the coach’s seat to watch the scene.

Most of those assembled, now sufficiently convinced that Frodo was indeed whole and sound, dispersed back to their regular duties, but many lingered to properly welcome Frodo back and send him off. Berilac followed his father, then went Sederic, Hilda, Ilberic, Doderic and Celandine, then Ivory and Gordibrand, then Marmadas and Merimas, and several others Frodo was not even aware held any regard for him at all. Melilot came forward last. “It’s wonderful to have you back Frodo,” she said, and kissed him shyly on the cheek before turning quickly and retreating back into the Hall.

The crowd had gradually thinned during the farewells, so that only a handful now remained. Frodo waved a final farewell to them and climbed into the carriage, where Merry and Pippin were already seated. Merry was looking at his pocket watch, a painfully bored expression on his face.

“I must say Frodo,” he said as the carriage jolted into motion, “you took long enough with that, we might as well stay for second breakfast now. Really, when you said you wanted to get an early start, I thought you meant it.”

Merry nodded seriously. “Yes I believe he did. He’s clearly lost his touch.”

“I think that bump to the head did something to him,” Pippin added, serious now also. “Next trip we take, I think you should plan it Merry. You’ll make sure we get on the road early and unnoticed, unlike a particular unreliable Baggins we both know.”

“No, I believe that you still hold the record of Worst Rascal in Buckland, my dear Frodo,” Merry said sweetly.

“For all that you’ve tried to usurp me,” Frodo put in. “You may as well admit defeat now.”

“Frodo? The worst rascal in Buckland? I find that hard to believe,” Pippin said.

“Oh that’s because you haven’t even heard half of the stories there are about him. He was a regular delinquent in his day, and those stories are still told to young Bucklanders everywhere as examples of why they should be good little lads and lasses. I’ll be happy to tell you some of them.”

“Now, now, Frodo,” Merry said with mock concern. “Don’t you worry yourself. I’ll take care of this. After all, the healer said you’re not to strain yourself, so you just sit back and relax. Now where was I? Oh yes. So, there I was telling Frodo I wanted some mushrooms, and so what does he suggest?”

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Frodo said as sternly as he could manage, but try as he might he could not hide the grin on his face. It was good to be home.

They crossed the Brandywine Bridge just after lunch. The three friends looked out the window at the River below, their first glance of it since the Storm. The River was running calm and serene, no longer a threat to any who ventured into it. The water level had lowered to its original bounds and the riverbanks were decorated with an array of wildflowers. One would never guess that just a week and a half before, the River had been raging out of control.

The River may not have succeeded in taking Frodo from them, but Merry and Pippin knew they would never regard it with innocence again. It would always appear just a little bit darker now, there would always be danger lurking just below the surface, out of sight. Pippin shuddered and looked away. Merry snuck a glimpse at Frodo and saw on his face the same expression he had seen that day coming back from fishing. Merry understood now what that expression meant. It was grief mingled with forgiveness, anger and acceptance entwined. It was innocence lost.

They reached Budgeford an hour later and stopped at Knob Creek, home of the Bolgers. Word of Frodo’s return had already reached across the Bridge, courtesy of the bounders, and it was a very relieved Fatty who greeted them.

“Folco’s here too,” Fatty said as he led his guests inside. “He was visiting when Porto stopped by and he hasn’t wanted to go home. Estella was baking non-stop the first few days. Now she’s baking and knitting. It just caught us all completely by surprise. When we heard the news yesterday, we didn’t know what to think.”

They entered the front parlor, where Fatty’s parents, Odovacar and Rosamunda, his sister Estella, and Folco stood waiting. Estella hugged Frodo with relief, then went on to hug Paladin, Pippin and Merry. Folco hugged Frodo also, tears springing to his eyes. Frodo patted his friend’s back until he calmed down enough for Fatty to steer him to a chair. Odovacar and Rosamunda were more formal in their greetings, shaking Frodo’s and Paladin’s hands.

Greetings over, they settled into their seats as a servant brought in tea and cake. When the servant left, Odovacar began. “Well, it’s been a very interesting couple of days to say the least. No one’s going to know what rumors to believe.”

“There wasn’t exactly anything you could do about it Frodo,” Merry said. “It’s not like you can really argue with a healer. If she had said the word, you’d still be in Bree.”

Frodo made no response but everyone looked at him curiously. “Healer? Bree?” Odovacar ventured. “I think it’s safe to say we’re all curious what exactly happened.”

Frodo told them an abridged version of the story, hitting only the major points, and they listened attentively all the way through.

“I wouldn’t have thought Men good for anything,” Rosamunda said when he finished.

“Was it frightening, being in a strange place so far from home?” Estella asked.

“No, I can’t say I was ever scared,” Frodo answered. “I was asleep most of the journey to Bree and once I got there I never saw anything but the room in the healer’s house, until I left of course.”

“And I’m glad that miller was wrong about you,” Folco added in his simple way. “I knew that part didn’t make any sense.”

“Porto said that miller saw you step into the river,” Folco explained, “but you fell.”

There was a long, strained silence. Frodo saw everyone’s stricken expressions, but comprehension only dawned when he looked at Merry and Pippin and they lowered their heads in shame. He felt as if he had been smacked in the face and punched in the gut simultaneously. He felt foolish and betrayed. He breathed deeply to steady himself and said in a disbelieving tone, “You thought I did it intentionally?”

“And you believed him?” Frodo asked looking still at Merry’s and Pippin’s bowed heads. “How?”

“We didn’t know what to think,” Merry said at length, his eyes still glued to the floor. “You had been acting so strangely and you left so suddenly, without your cloak. Then there was the room.”

“You believed him,” Frodo repeated accusingly, a lump forming in his throat. He could hear Pippin sniffling and could tell from Merry’s stillness that he was trying not to do the same. “You know me better than anyone. How could you think I would do something like that?”

Paladin cleared his throat and sat up straight. He regarded Frodo closely and chose his words carefully. “The important thing is that we now know the truth. What the miller reported came as a shock to us all, and that was because we didn’t believe it. We couldn’t imagine you doing anything of the sort. Yet at the lack of any other explanation, we had to accept it, unbelievable though it was. Do not judge us too harshly lad. I’m sure you can remember how grief can make you do and believe extreme things.”

Frodo held the Thain’s gaze solemnly and nodded. “I remember. I understand,” he said and sighed tiredly, suddenly exhausted.

Paladin noticed this and stood. He had promised the healer he would not allow Frodo to grow weary and it was time to leave at any rate. They still had a long way to go to The Floating Log Inn. “Thank you for your hospitality, Rosamunda, but we must be going.”

Soon, they were on the Road again and Paladin was driving them swiftly to Frogmorton. Inside the carriage, the three friends were silent, the earlier jubilance of the morning now gone. Merry and Pippin were contrite and Frodo was withdrawn into his own thoughts. Finally, Merry could stand the silence no longer.

“Frodo we’re sorry. We didn’t want to believe, I even accused Father of lying at first. It’s just…”

“Merry, I understand,” Frodo interrupted gently. “Actually, I have a confession of my own to make. Berwin knew Bilbo and knew where I might find him. He agreed to take me to him. I wasn’t going to come back, not for a good long while anyway.”

Frodo gave in to his exhaustion soon after that. He lay down as comfortably as possible and drifted off to sleep. His friends watched him in his slumber, appreciating anew how lucky they were to have him back. To give up Bilbo must have been a difficult decision.

Yet Merry was troubled. He replayed Frodo’s confession, especially his explanation for not leaving. ‘It wasn’t time.’ Which meant, one day, it would be time. Frodo would tire of the Shire eventually, especially now that he had been Outside. The desire to follow Bilbo would one day become too great a temptation to resist. Merry would have to watch him closely for signs of restlessness. He will have to be ready. ‘When that day comes, Frodo will not be going alone.’

Pippin was nearly overwhelmed with guilt. He had given up on Frodo, had given up hope and faith. He had found it easier to grieve than to believe the impossible. He had never really had any courage. Pippin peeked at Merry from the corner of his eye, then glanced back at Frodo sleeping peacefully across from them. He may not have Frodo’s sensibility or Merry’s determination, but he would strive never to let that stop him again. ‘Next time, I will not fail, I will not give up. I will stay true to the end.’

Frodo slept most of the afternoon, waking only when they stopped for tea by the roadside. The exuberance from earlier in the morning, followed by the tension of luncheon, had exhausted him. Merry and Pippin were not feeling very energetic themselves. They looked out their respective windows, dolefully watching the landscape roll by.

Paladin picked a secluded part of the road to pull over and take a midday snack. They hiked a short way to some nearby trees that would block them from the road and spread out a blanket. Tea was more relaxed than luncheon had been. Everyone seemed to have come to a silent agreement that there was no need to talk everything out just yet. That conversation was best left until they’ve all had a good night’s rest. For now, they spoke of their plans once they arrived at Bag End.

“It will be past midday when we arrive,” Paladin said. “I wish now I had agreed to let a servant drive the carriage. It will raise many eyebrows to see the Thain at the reins of the Master’s carriage.”

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” Frodo said. “Besides, word will most likely reach Hobbiton before we do anyway. They’ll be looking out for us either way.”

“Do you think Sam will be there? At Bag End I mean,” Pippin asked between bites of bread.

“I don’t know,” Frodo said. “If he’s not, I’ll have to go down to the Row to see him. I hate to think what he must be going through.”

“We could drop you off at the Row and get Bag End ready for you,” Merry suggested. He was rather eager to see Sam himself. He knew once Sam heard the rumor that Frodo was back, the gardener wouldn’t know what to make of anything. He would be even more confused than Fatty had been.

Frodo shook his head. “No, we’ll check Bag End first, just in case. He was the first you told I was gone. He should be the first to know that I’m back.” Frodo also wanted to be the first to enter Bag End so he could look for the ring, in case it was lying somewhere in the open. He did not want to risk one of his cousins finding it before him, especially without him readily available. Bilbo and Gandalf had wanted him to keep it a secret after all.

After tea, they returned to the road and traveled in companionable silence until they arrived at The Floating Log. As it was Trewsday, the inn was only half full of its usual patrons, but it was far from quiet. One hobbit was singing a lively jig atop a table and a half dozen others were cheering him on while the rest sang along. The hobbit on the table had the best vantage point of the door, and when the Thain came in, trailed by his son, nephew, and a very alive Frodo Baggins, he was so surprised he caught his foot on the edge of the table and fell onto the floor. In the resulting commotion, it took many minutes before anyone else noticed the newcomers. Once they did, an uncommon silence settled over those assembled as they stared in disbelief at the Master of the Hill.

“Are there rooms to rent for the night or not?” Paladin finally asked hotly to the room in general.

At the sound of the Thain’s booming voice, everyone quickly went back to their merry-making but with a noticeably subdued murmur. Frodo knew everyone was discreetly watching him, no doubt discussing the ever-increasing oddity of the Bagginses of the Hill. He found, quite to his surprise, that he did not mind this in the slightest. He knew he would tire of it by the time they reached Hobbiton, but for the time being, he enjoyed standing about casually, looking bored and chatting with his friends, while Paladin made the arrangements. Anyone looking at them would have thought it was just an ordinary day.

Paladin rented two rooms, one for him and one for the friends. They did not stay in the main room to eat, but ordered dinner to be brought to their rooms. As soon as they entered the hall leading to their rooms, the common room erupted in excited chatter. If the patrons had nothing to speak of before, they now had a topic to keep them going long into the night.

Dinner was brought to their rooms while they were washing up and after a satisfying meal, Paladin said good night and went to bed. Merry, Pippin and Frodo stayed up only a little while longer before following suit. Merry made sure Frodo took his medicine, then let his cousin into bed first. He and Pippin climbed in on either side of Frodo, and the three friends lay next to each other on their backs, relaxed and content.

“Sam will be so excited to see you,” Merry said with a yawn. “I wonder how Bag End fared with the storm. Last time, there was that little mudslide that buried part of your reading garden. Sam was in fits about that for weeks.”

Frodo smiled at the memory. “It was a sore test for him. Gaffer had just retired and he wanted to prove he could do the job on his own, and he did.”

“I think he was more upset for your sake Frodo. You had to suffer reading on the porch for a month, poor soul.”

Pippin sniggered softly. He had heard this one before, but wouldn’t mind hearing it again. “A whole month, you say? How ever did he manage that without going mad?”

“I think Merry’s told enough stories for today,” Frodo interrupted, the smile turning into a grin. “Besides, Peregrin Took, you have your own stories to tell about that storm if I recall correctly. Whatever possessed you to go sliding down the hill on a shovel?”

Merry and Frodo laughed until their sides hurt; they both knew how dangerous a bored Took could be. “It had been raining for days,” Pippin said defensively. “Besides, it was Merry’s fault.”

“You told me that last time it snowed, you went sliding down hills on a shovel,” Pippin explained. “And you said that next time it snowed, you would take me, but it never snowed.”

“Well, if age is your excuse for acting silly, you must still be eleven,” Merry responded.

Frodo shook his head. He had heard Merry and Pippin have these arguments before and knew how easily they could get out of hand, and how long they could last. Best nip this one at the bud or none of them would get any sleep. “Well, it sounded like it would have been fun, if not for what resulted afterward. Next time it rains or snows, if we’re all together, we’ll have to try it out,” he said. He yawned widely. “Good night Pippin. Good night Merry.”

“I know it. It’s, well… that’s odd. He doesn’t have one. We should give him one.”

“Oh, I know! Blue Ice, because of that look he’s no doubt giving us right now, but it’s too dark to see. Really, you’re wasting a perfectly good glare Frodo.”

Paladin listened to the laughter and murmuring in the next room, a contented smile on his lips as he drifted off to peaceful sleep.

Sam didn’t remember falling asleep, nor could he remember much of anything that happened after his confrontation with Lotho the night before. He vaguely recalled at some point going through Bag End to put everything back into order and clean up the mess in the entrance hall, but how long that had taken and how he had got down the Hill and to his home afterwards was a blank. He must have also removed his shirt before falling on top of his bed, for he felt a chill now and wished he was under the covers where he could keep warm.

He looked around his darkened room. There was a dim light filtering in from underneath the door but nothing more. He had no window in his room or any hearth. There was no clock to tell him the time, but by the murmurings of his sisters – and possibly a couple of guests – he figured it had to be mid-morning at least.

Even without moving, he could feel the tightness in his chest, back and side at every point a fist had struck him. His head felt like it was in a vice and he could not open his right eye. His lip was swollen where the skin had torn, and his throat hurt still from being grasped so brutally. He realized he must look a fright and was glad no one had thought to check on him yet. They no doubt thought he had been out drinking again and were letting him sleep it off.

Yet how long would it be before someone did check on him? He would need an explanation for how he looked, and it would have to be believable. Even if he had not sworn silence to Lotho, he would never be able to tell his Gaffer the truth of what happened. His father would want retribution for anyone who dared to hurt one his children, and it would sore him painfully to know that in this case, he would not get it. However ill-thought of Lotho was, he was still gentry and Hamfast would hardly be in the position to demand punishment. Not only that, but if Lotho was successful in his attempt to acquire Bag End, Sam would be looking at having to serve him, and it would not help matters any if Sam spoke.

Sam sighed and willed the panic he felt to subside. He could not work for Lotho, not in Bag End or anywhere else. There had to be a way out of it. Somehow, he would think of a way out of it.

May was putting away the luncheon dishes and Marigold was stitching up some clothes when a knock sounded on the door. Marigold put down her sewing and went to answer the door, as her sister had her arms full with a stack of plates. She opened the door to a pleasant sight.

“Rose, Tom,” Marigold exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” She let her friends inside and led them to the kitchen to greet May.

“We heard about Mr. Baggins the other day and this is the first we could get out here,” Tom said. “I didn’t want to believe it at first. After everything Sam’s been through, that was the last thing he needed.”

“Not well,” May admitted. “We’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of him since he got Master Brandybuck’s letter. He was gone all day and night yesterday to who knows where and didn’t come stumbling in until after midnight, making all sorts of racket. Gaffer reckons he went and got himself drunk, so we’re letting him sleep it off.”

“Drunk?” Tom asked, his concern rising. While Sam might occasionally drink to the point of intoxication after a hard day’s work in the company of friends, it was generally agreed upon among hobbits that doing so during such grievous times was bad form. One could easily become accustomed to using drink as a way of dealing with their grief, and such a troublesome habit was frowned upon. The thought that Sam had been doing this was disturbing. “Maybe I’ll just peek in on him.”

Tom left the lasses to talk amongst themselves and stopped outside Sam’s room. He knocked lightly. No answer came, so he cracked open the door to peek inside. He could make out the outline of Sam’s form on the bed and could hear his friend breathing unevenly. Then Sam stirred and looked in his direction.

Tom entered the room and closed the door gently behind him. If Sam was hung over, he would hardly want the light shining in on him. Tom made his way carefully to Sam’s side. He felt along the table for the striker and lit the candle that sat there. The flame came to life and dimly lit the room.

“That’s not too much light for y…” The question died on his tongue as he looked up and saw his cousin. He stared at Sam in shock, so alarming was his battered face and bruised body. There were black splotches covering Sam’s back, stomach and neck. His side was a sickly bronze. There was a nasty knot above his right temple and his right eye resembled a plum by its size and color. His lip was nearly just as bad. “Sam! What happened to you?” he finally managed to croak out.

Sam shook his head. “It’s nothing really. Looks worse than it is I imagine.”

“You look like you’ve been run over by something,” Tom said, for he could not think of anything else that would cause such severe damage.

Sam nodded, grateful for being supplied a believable lie. “I startled something in the woods last night. Got knocked over and kicked a few times. It was stupid of me really; I wasn’t paying attention as I shoulda been.”

“You need a healer,” Tom said, still taking in the injuries. Every time he looked, there seemed to be more bruises than the last time. “What did you startle?”

“Too dark to see,” Sam said, feeling guilty for lying but knowing it was for the best. “Listen, get Gaffer for me, will you? Don’t let onto the lasses aught’s wrong. Try to get them out of the smial if you can.”

Tom nodded. Not knowing what else to do, he followed his friend’s instructions, or tried to. He exited Sam’s room and closed the door shut. He stood in the tunnel until he felt he was composed enough to face Rosie and Sam’s sisters. Appearing as casual as he could, he went into the kitchen, intending to tell the lasses that Sam needed some supplies from market for a morning-after drink. One look at his face though and they knew something was wrong.

Tom hurried to explain what Sam had told him and at the news, they rushed to Sam’s room. They gasped in horror at what they saw, and Sam was not very pleased to see them either. He tried to reassure them over their exclamations, but it did no good. May would hear none of it and sent Marigold and Rosie to fetch the healer. She ordered Tom to wake Hamfast from his nap and went about the room lighting all the candles and lamps. The healer would need as much light as possible when she arrived.

Hamfast woke from his nap to find Tom gently shaking him awake. “What do you think you’re doing in here, lad?” Hamfast asked grumpily.

“It’s Sam,” was all Tom said. The fear and anguish in his eyes said far more than Tom ever could.

Hamfast was out of bed and down the tunnel before Tom could blink. He followed after the older hobbit and found him at Sam’s side, tears in his eyes as he looked at his son.

“Sammy, what’s happened to you lad?” Hamfast asked, his heart breaking to see his child injured so. He listened to Sam’s explanation and shook his head. Something about that wasn’t adding up. He looked up at May and Tom, standing at the edge of the room. “May, go get some water boiling. The healer will no doubt need it to make her teas and whatnot. Tom, you go with her.”

When they were alone, Hamfast looked closely at Sam and shook his head again. “You got trampled sure enough,” he said, “but there’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

Sam didn’t respond right away. He was feeling even more miserable now than he had before, if that were possible. He couldn’t stand the worry he was causing everyone and he was horrified to find that Rosie was here. Of all the days to come and visit, it would have to be today, when he looked like death itself. It was bad enough having his father see him like he was, especially after the strain and distance of the last few days. Especially after he had been so rude to him the day before.

“Sorry?” Hamfast asked, confused. “Whatever do you have to be sorry for?”

“For everything,” Sam answered. “I’m sorry for saying I don’t care about what’s proper. I do care.”

“Oh forget about that,” Hamfast said flippantly. “There are more important things.”

“No there aren’t,” Sam said with a small shake of his head. “It’s the most important thing. It’s proper, see, to listen to your parents and do for them what you can. It’s proper for parents to look out for their children and keep them safe and teach them what they need to know, whether they want to learn it or not, and all the while encourage them to do their best. It’s proper to be grateful for those you love and who love you back and will do anything for you. I haven’t been doing anything proper the last week or so, and I’m sorry. I just feel so lost.”

“I know you do lad,” Hamfast said, tears coming to his eyes again. He reached out and wiped away the tear that slid down Sam’s face, careful of the injured eye. “I know how you’re feeling. I understand how fond you are of Mr. Frodo, I do. I just sometimes forget the two of you were friends before you were master and servant, and if I know aught about the Bagginses of the Hill, I reckon Mr. Frodo considers you a friend still. He’d not want to see you like this.”

“This ain’t your fault,” Hamfast said. “Had you been there, you couldn’t have done nothing different. It may have even been worse. Knowing you, you’d go in after Mr. Frodo and then where would we be? I can’t lose you Sammy. I’ve already lost your mother. I couldn’t stand to lose you, or any of you children. So if you’re going to blame anyone, blame me, for making you feel you had no choice but to stay here.”

“I can’t blame you,” Sam said. ‘But you might lose me still,’ he thought, remembering again what Lotho had said. There had to be a way out of it.

Sam shivered involuntarily and Hamfast took it for cold. He grabbed the blanket that was folded at the foot of the bed and draped it loosely over Sam to keep him warm. He smoothed the curls back from his son’s face and settled in to wait the long minutes until the healer’s arrival.

The healer, Miss Camellia, arrived twenty minutes later, with Marigold and Rosie fast on her heels. She entered Sam’s room to find it illuminated with candlelight, a stack of fresh towels and bandages waiting by the bed. Hamfast, May and Tom were sitting around Sam’s bed, and Hamfast was helping Sam drink a cup of cool water.

Within seconds, Camellia had everything in hand. She ordered everyone to the other side of the room to give her space to do her work. She removed the blanket and took in Sam’s wounds with an expert eye, assessing him quickly.

The bruises, as nasty as they looked, were not of any concern, nor were the eye and lip. She suspected a broken rib and internal bruising from Sam’s short breaths and the coloring of his side. She ran a smooth hand down Sam’s side as gently as she could and found the break, clean and simple. She listened to Sam’s breathing and did not hear any fluid or blood in the lungs.

“When and how did all this happen Sam?” Camellia asked. She opened her satchel and took out several pouches and jars as she listened to Sam’s explanation, her brow creasing as Sam spoke. “How did you get the bruises around your neck then?” she asked.

Sam paused before answering. “I don’t know, maybe I was pushed into some rocks or some such.”

Camellia pursed her lips but said nothing else on the subject at the moment. She continued, “Where did all this happen?”

Camellia nodded again. She had assumed as much, as there was no way Sam could have walked very far in his condition. “Have you been awake the entire time since you were hurt?”

“No, I think I passed out just after and again when I got home,” Sam said. “I woke up around the time Tom and Rosie arrived. I think the commotion must have woken me.”

“Good. Now, follow my finger with your eyes. Puff out your cheeks. Stick out your tongue and wriggle it back and forth. Good Sam.” Camellia turned her attention to Hamfast. “He doesn’t appear to have a concussion or any other head trauma, and most likely he passed out from the pain. He’s coherent now, that’s the important thing. He’s broken a rib, but it did not puncture the lung. There is some internal bruising around the break, and those bruises will come to the surface before too long, so don’t be alarmed when that happens. It’s just a sign he’s healing. The rib is the most serious, everything else is trivial, as horrible as it looks. Actually, it looks worse than it really is.”

She picked up a few of her pouches. “May, make a tea please. We need to give him something for the pain and the internal bruising. In a medium-sized cooking pot, fill it halfway with water, then add chamomile, willow bark, rosemary, and a pinch of comfrey root. Bring the water to steaming and let it seep for five minutes, then fill a mug. That should make enough tea to last a day if you give him a mug every three to four hours.”

May took the pouches as Camellia handed them to her and rushed to the kitchen to prepare the tea, grateful they already had water steaming on the stove.

Camellia helped Sam roll onto his stomach and picked up a jar of medicinal cream. She applied it generously over his bruises. “This will help the bruises to heal and fade more quickly, as well as ease the pain and soreness in his muscles,” she explained to Marigold. “Apply it four times a day to start. As the pain lessens and the bruises fade, go down to two times a day. It’s readily absorbed, so you don’t need to rub it into the skin. Just apply it lightly over the affected area. Add a hot cloth if you like, but keep any heat away from the broken rib or that will cause him more pain.”

Marigold nodded and waited for the healer to scoop some of the cream into a smaller jar. Marigold took this and held onto it dearly.

“Master Hamfast, you and Tom need to help Sam sit up so I can bandage his chest. Sam, you need to get your knees up under you, then your father and Tom will lift you up.” Sam nodded and within moments, Hamfast and Tom had him up and were supporting him on either side.

Camellia took out another jar and spread its contents onto a soft cloth. She wrapped the cloth around Sam’s torso and made Hamfast hold it in place while she began bandaging the torso tightly. When that was done, she turned to Rosie.

“Boil some water in a small pot. Put in some of this lavender and elder, half a spoon each. Let it seep for five minutes, then soak two small hand-clothes in it. Drain the clothes nearly dry and bring them to me.”

Rosie took the proffered pouches and left just as May returned, cup of tea in hand. Camellia sipped it and nodded her approval. She helped Sam drink the tea in sips, then instructed Tom and Hamfast to help Sam back onto his side. When Rosie returned, Camellia took one compress and draped it over Sam’s eye. The other she instructed Rosie to hold over Sam’s lip.

“When the cloths cool, replace them with warm ones. Keep doing that for about half an hour, then every two to three hours after that for half an hour each time,” she said. “I’ll be back early tomorrow to check on him, but if he worsens come fetch me immediately.”

“I thank you kindly Miss Camellia,” Hamfast said and walked her to the door. May went quickly to the kitchen to retrieve the supplies that had not been used. Then Hamfast walked Camellia to the garden gate. “Miss Camellia, I was wondering about those bruises around Sam’s neck. I’ve seen my share of animal tramplings and none of them ever managed bruises like that.”

Camellia nodded. “It looks to me as though he was chocked. Sam’s not one to fight, is he?”

“No, he’d never harm anyone,” Hamfast said. “But you reckon it was someone else who did this to him?”

“That’s what I figure. I’m sorry Ham,” Camellia said sadly, then went out the gate and down the lane.

Hamfast watched after her, following her descent down the lane as he tried in vain to calm himself. He could not fathom that Sam would ever do anything to merit such an assault, even if his son had been acting cross the last few days. And even if he had, this was far beyond a simple brawl. No, someone had attacked his son and had done him serious injury. More than that, Sam had lied about it, which meant he was afraid.

Hamfast gripped the gate rail until his knuckles turned white and let out a slow, frustrated breath. After everything that had happened over the last couple of weeks, this was beyond unbearable. Whoever did this, Hamfast would give him a lashing he won’t soon forget. No father worth his taters would deny Hamfast the right of retribution. But before he did that, his son needed him.

Hamfast willed himself to calm down and returned to Sam’s room to find him fast asleep. Marigold sat next to Rosie, who was still holding the compress to Sam’s lip. Tom was covering Sam with the blanket again. May stood next to her father and watched the scene with him and knew they were all thinking the same thing. When would things ever return to normal again?

Tom and Rosie spent the rest of the day at Bagshot Row. They took turns with May, Marigold and Hamfast to sit with Sam, for he was not to be left alone for any amount of time. He slept most of the time, but May managed to get luncheon into him, then Tom helped him to the chamber pot. Marigold brought her sewing in, and she and Rosie talked while Sam slept some more. When Sam woke next, he found Rosie alone sitting next to him.

Rosie answered, “She’s getting ready to go to Missus Brown’s. She’s watching the little ones tonight and I said I’d help her.”

“What happened to helping with the Picnic?” Sam asked, just now remembering that she and Marigold should be in Michel Delving by now, staying with Rosie’s cousin.

“I’m helping you instead,” Rosie said. “Are you needing anything? Tea? Food? Are you cold?”

Sam shifted position slightly, to give some relief to his side, which was starting to go numb. “How about you tell me what Jolly’s been up to? And Nick and Nibs and everyone else? I could use a distraction just about now."

Rosie nodded and sat so she was facing Sam more directly. It broke her heart to see him like he was, but as distressing as his physical appearance was, the emptiness in his eyes worried her more. There was something bothering him and if he needed distracting from it, she would do the best she could.

“Well, there’s not much to tell really, just little things,” Rosie began. “The farm’s finally back on track and Pa doesn’t think we’ll lose that other acre after all. We’ve planted a new tree to replace the one that fell, further away from the barn this time. It’s a cherry blossom tree and it’s already blooming so beautifully. You should come see it and as soon as there’s fruit, we could have a cherry picking party and Ma can make pies.

“Nick bought a sack of marbles off a traveling salesman. He and Nibs were playing fine until Nibs got carried away and bounced one off the floor and into his nose. How he managed it I have no idea, and Ma had a time trying to get it back out. Then he and Nick went fishing and they caught a good number of trout until Nibs started playing with one that wasn’t dead yet and it bit him something fierce. So now he’s got a swollen nostril and a bandaged up finger and he’s in a bit of a mood. I don’t know what his problem is; he’s far too old to be having such accidents anymore. Ma figures he just likes the attention and told us to stop fussing over him.

“Jolly’s got himself a crush. You remember Pansy Scruttle down off Bywater Road? She’s been staying with her gammer up in Tighfield over the winter and she’s just come back. She wasn’t but a scrawny little thing when she left, but she’s turned right pretty now. All the lads are taken with her and Jolly seems the worst off. He’s managed an excuse twice in one day to go down her way to try to catch a glimpse of her. I don’t want to discourage him, but she’s always had an eye for Finch, and Finch never teased her so mercilessly as Jolly used to. Finch seems to be fair taken with her too now. I just hope this doesn’t come between them, Jolly and Finch I mean.”

Rosie went through all the family news while Sam listened attentively, a small smile on his face. He let Rosie’s voice wash over him, so that all he could picture were the things she spoke of, and not the bleak future that had been plaguing him all day. He was disappointed when Tom came tapping at the door and announced it was time for Rosie and Marigold to go. He was going to escort them to Missus Brown’s, then go to The Ivy Bush to take an ale or two. They would be back to bring Marigold home, but then he and Rosie would have to return to their own home.

“We’ll be back first thing tomorrow,” Tom promised. He hated to leave his friend, but there was no helping it. “You take it easy Sam.”

May came in a moment later to replace Rosie, and she carried a tray laden with food. She set the tray on the table and helped Sam to sit up as comfortably as was possible. She then sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a bowl of thick, creamy soup.

“Here you go Sam,” she said. “This should be easy enough for you to eat with that lip.”

May dutifully fed him, careful not to upset the lip or dribble the soup. It was a tedious task and it was a while before the meal was finished. Another dose of medicinal tea followed, then May treated Sam’s bruises while he was sitting up.

“Do you want back on your side again?” May asked when she finished and Sam began to yawn.

“Not particularly, but as it’s the only part of me that isn’t hurt, I don’t suppose I’ve much of a choice,” Sam said.

“Why don’t you try to sleep sitting up then,” May suggested. “We’ll adjust the pillows so you can lie down a bit and it’ll be softer on your back than the mattress.”

Sam nodded, willing to give it a try. He was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. As long as he didn’t move about too much, he found it bearable enough. May left to take the dishes to the kitchen and when she came back a minute later, Sam was already asleep again.

She sat next to Sam, intending to do some embroidery while her brother slumbered. Instead, she found herself simply watching Sam in his sleep. He seemed so much older now, worn out even as he rested. She tried to remember the last time he smiled, truly smiled so that the cheer reached his eyes and lit up his face. It could not have been that long ago, yet it seemed an age had passed.

May shook her head in wonder and grief. Try as she might, she had never understood her brother’s relationship with his master. He spoke of Mr. Baggins fondly and often enough, but she could not understand the friendship they seemed to share. Mr. Baggins was kind to her and always respectful, but he was still gentry and not to be approached familiarly. Yet Sam had never been able to see him as just an employer. Still, she would not have expected this strong of a reaction to his loss. As hard as it was to imagine, her once-steady brother had fallen apart completely. How else could he have been so distracted as to startle an animal? Sam never did such things.

May bent her head to return to her work, but something caught her eye. She looked over at the far corner of the room and saw crumpled in the shadows the shirt Sam had worn yesterday. She stood up and went to retrieve it, saddened further to find it covered in dried blood. Underneath the shirt was a rag, also stained red. She picked this up, her brow knitted in confusion. Sam did not carry rags around with him and even with the stains she could tell this was not one of their rags. She wondered where her brother had come by it.

She held the shirt and rag up to the candlelight and eyed them critically. The stains might come out, but she would have to soak them before attempting to wash them. She went into the kitchen and dumped them into a waiting bucket of water, then hurried up and cleaned the dishes while she was there, keeping a keen ear on her brother’s room in case he should stir. She didn’t think he’d sneak out of the house this time, but he might need something when he woke up.

He had not told Sam, but the truth was he and Hamfast had come to The Ivy Bush in an attempt to find out if anyone knew anything about this panicked animal of Sam’s. Sam was not one to lie, but when he did, it was always for the benefit of another and he covered himself well, so it was difficult to tell he was being misleading. Yet there was something about his injuries that did not add up to an animal attack. The healer had thought so as well, and Hamfast intended to find out what he could before approaching Sam again. Someone had dared to harm one of his children and he was determined to find out who it was and make him pay for his offense.

Hamfast was speaking with the older hobbits, while Tom approached the younger lads. They had decided to be as discreet as they could about their inquiries and come about the topic in a round about way. Tom started talking about a brawl he had with Jolly a few months back, hoping that would bring up the topic of more recent fights. If anyone knew anything, they were likely to let it slip as the night went on. The lads did have plenty of stories about tussles and brawls, but those were all between brothers or friends and usually occurred after one too many ales. Across the room, Hamfast did not look to be having any better luck.

Suddenly, the front door opened and in walked Farmer Goodheart. The farmer went over to Hamfast’s table and started talking to the group with great excitement, waving a letter clutched in his hand. The group seemed skeptical about what he was saying and Hamfast looked downright revolted. Curious, Tom excused himself from his company and walked over to the farmer so he could hear what was being said.

“I’m telling you, my third cousin’s a bounder and he says he saw him,” Goodheart insisted. “I even had the post messenger read it to me twice just to make sure he wasn’t making it up as he went along, and he read it exactly the same the second time ‘round.”

“So, you’re telling me first he’s dead and then he’s not?” Daddy Twofoot said. “You’ve got you’re stories mixed up, sounds like to me.”

“I haven’t. They saw Mr. Baggins. He was in Bree this whole time, if you’ll believe that.”

“I don’t believe it,” Hamfast finally said, standing up. “This nonsense your spreading is in poor taste Goodheart. Just leave one well enough alone.” Several other hobbits nodded in agreement.

“I’d figure if anyone would be happy of the news, it would be you Ham,” Goodheart said, looking hurt. “Especially for Sam’s sake. He wasn’t looking so good the other day and…”

“You leave Sam out of this,” Hamfast cut off the farmer. “He’s been through enough without having to hear such prattle. You speak even a word of this to Sam, I’ll clock you good. Come on Tom. They know nothing.”

Hamfast left the inn in a temper with Tom following close behind. Hamfast was disgusted, and by more than just Goodheart. For once, when it really mattered to him, no one knew anything of importance.

Frodo and his cousins had an early start. The innkeeper woke them an hour before dawn at Paladin’s request and brought them breakfast while the carriage was readied for their departure. They thanked the innkeeper for his help and were on the road before the sun had fully risen over the curve of the earth.

Frodo watched in blissful peace as the world rolled silently by. The sky was cloudless and lightened gradually from black to red to yellow and finally blue. The lush green grass of the fields was dotted with daffodils and dandelions. The trees were blooming, fruit growing to weigh down the branches. Farmers were in the fields already, working busily to ensure a plentiful harvest after the rains. Whatever damage the storm had done, no signs of it could any longer be seen.

Frodo closed his eyes and breathed in the rich, simple fragrance of the earth. He listened to the birds in the sky and trees, the clop of the ponies’ hooves and the grind of the carriage wheels in the dirt. This was the Shire he knew and loved, the one that woke with the sun and basked in its glow, the one that rejoiced the rain and the wind, that weathered the elements and came through looking more beautiful and glorious for it.

Now that he was so close to home, he found he was more impatient than ever to get there. The nagging fear was still there, a vague worry that something was amiss, but there was now also an excitement. He longed for the privacy and comforts of Bag End. He wanted nothing more than to sit under his elm tree with a favorite book while Sam weeded a flowerbed nearby, humming while he worked. He wanted to stand against the garden gate with pipe in hand and gaze up at the stars overhead while the night flowers bloomed around him, filling the air with their sweet fragrance.

He still regretted that he could not have gone with Berwin, but he no longer regretted coming home. He was needed here, if only for a little while. Some day, when the timing was right, he would seek out Bilbo and find him, but until that day, he had his friends to keep him company. That was enough for now.

He smiled at Merry and Pippin across from him. Pippin had fallen asleep again, his head resting on Merry’s shoulder. Merry noticed Frodo watching him but did not return the smile. He had been reflecting deeply also and he now knew what he wanted to ask Frodo.

Since his friend’s return, and especially since his revelation that he might really have left them, Merry had been plagued by a single question: how? He thought back to his earliest memories of Frodo and went through them all one by one. He was struck by how often Frodo had been sad or troubled, by the number of times Frodo had disappeared and reappeared again. Frodo had never truly been happy until Bilbo took him in.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Merry started and waited until Frodo nodded before continuing. “How did you do it? I always thought I could imagine what it must have been like for you, to lose your parents so young, so unexpectedly. But I couldn’t. Not until I lost you did I realize how much I didn’t understand. I felt so lost. It was so bleak and horrible, and yet it must have been a hundred times worse for you. How did you survive it?”

“Who said I did?” Frodo answered. “There’s a lot you don’t know Merry, so much I have to tell you. You’re nearly old enough now to hear it, but I’m not quite ready to tell it. For now, know this: I didn’t survive. I was saved. Those first two years were a fog and I was stumbling blindly within it, with no way out. I kept hoping it was a dream, that one day I would wake up or turn a corner and they would be there, but they never were.

“And then there was you. You came and I was part of a family again. It wasn’t perfect as you know, far from it, but it was something other than pain and grief. It was joy, sharp as a blade, so that it almost hurt to be touched by it but for the happiness it brought.”

“I think I understand that,” Merry said. The happiness he felt at having Frodo back was still painfully sweet, excruciating in the relief and delight it brought him. It pleased and relieved him to know he had been able to do that for Frodo as well, even if it had not been quite enough. “I’m sorry. I handled everything so poorly.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Frodo said. “You did nothing wrong, but I think you need to reassure Pippin how much he means to you. He feels left out sometimes, between you and me. I have a feeling he felt pretty helpless during all this, that he couldn’t take care of you the way you needed, that I was more important to you than him.”

“I know,” Merry said. “He handled everything better than I did really, but I didn’t make it any easier for him by fighting. I still haven’t apologized properly.”

“I won’t,” Merry promised then said, “Frodo, I would have understood if you had gone to look for Bilbo. I’m glad you came back though.”

Pippin stirred then and yawned widely. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then blinked at the sunlight coming through the window. “I’m hungry,” he complained.

Frodo and Merry laughed. Frodo reached into his pack. “It’s a good thing I brought provisions then,” he said and tossed his friends an apple each.

Hamfast stirred at his son’s voice. “How are you feeling this morning son?”

Hamfast helped Sam out of bed so he could relieve himself, then had him sit on the edge of the bed to apply the cream to Sam’s back and neck. Hamfast was please to see the medicine was doing its job. The bruises were already beginning to fade, though it would be many days before they were gone completely. The swelling around the eye and lip had also gone down somewhat, and Sam now had partial use of his right eye again. His left eye still held a haunted look in it though and Hamfast realized Sam had not answered his question.

Hamfast smiled bravely and said, “You’re looking better already. Still a bit stiff though I suppose.”

“Tom and Rosie are already here, and Jolly’s come with them. They’re helping the lasses with first breakfast. Is there aught special you want? How about those sweet berry tarts you love so much?”

“I’ve been thinking sir,” Sam said, making no sign that he heard anything his father had said. “I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll go visit Hamson for a time.”

Hamfast paused, taken aback by this abrupt change in subject and the hollowness in Sam’s voice. “Well, I’m sure Hamson will be glad to have you, but it’s a long ride up to Tighfield. You’ll not be wanting to go till you’ve healed up some more, and you need to give your brother time to prepare for you. How long will you be wanting to stay?”

Sam shrugged. “Through the summer, maybe longer. I’ll work while I’m there, don’t worry about that. Uncle Andy’s always needing extra hands. I could be a roper, maybe settle down there.”

“What are you talking about?” Hamfast asked, his alarm rising. He shook his head in bafflement. “Why would you be wanting to do that? You’re a gardener, not a roper. Your hands are meant for the earth. Roping’s no life for you.”

“It might not be so bad,” Sam said, trying to convince himself more than his father. “I could make a bit of a garden in my spare time. I’ll resign from Bag End. The new Master will have to formally request my services to continue; I’ll just turn him down. I can’t go back there.”

“But why give up gardening?” Hamfast asked. “There’s Mr. Banks you could work for, or Mr. Boffin, or any number of hobbits. They’d all be glad to have you. I’ve already got them asking me if I’ll consider letting you work for them.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t stay here. I’ve thought this out and I’ve made up my mind. It’s what I want.”

“Hogwash. You’ll waste away in a life like that. You’re not made for it. Now you tell me what this is really about.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He stared down at his hands, callused and brown, so much like the earth itself. What his father said was true, but there was no helping it. He had to get away from here.

“They say Mr. Frodo threw himself in the river,” Sam said. He swallowed the bile he felt threatening to come up his throat at the thought and continued. “They could have him declared incompetent and then the S.B.-s will get Bag End. I’d have to work for them.”

“Where did you hear that from?” Hamfast asked, startled by this revelation. He had heard the ridiculous rumor about Mr. Baggins of course, but this was the first he was hearing about the Sackville-Bagginses getting their hands on Bag End.

“I figured it out on my own,” Sam said dully, still looking at his hands. “And even if Bag End were to go to someone else, I can’t go back there. There’s too much of him there, everywhere I look. I can’t bear it.”

‘So that’s the problem,’ Hamfast thought. He took his son’s hands gently in his own and said, “Sam, none of this is your fault. You might as well blame the rain for what it’s worth. It was an accident.”

“Was it? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like an accident. Accidents happen when you don’t pay attention; this wasn’t like that. I was afraid to go,” Sam admitted. “I was afraid to leave home, to cross the River. I was afraid I’d be putting myself forward, going to stay with all them Brandybucks and other important folk. I was afraid of making a fool of myself at the Feast, of not having the proper clothes or manners. I was afraid I’d shame Mr. Frodo. That’s the only reason I didn’t go.”

Hamfast squeezed his son’s hands reassuringly. “If Mr. Baggins were concerned about things like that, he wouldn’t 0f invited you. I think he just wanted a friend along.”

“With gentry, no. With Mr. Baggins – he was always fond of you Sam. You were his first friend here, and don’t think that didn’t mean a lot to him. I think you made moving here easier for him, and that was no small favor after everything he’d been through. You’ve always had such a big heart, it’s the best part of you, and you’ve never thought twice about giving it to someone as needs it. Just like your mother.”

Hamfast squeezed his hands again. “We’ll work something out,” he promised. “We’ll figure it out after breakfast, and Tom can send word to Hamson on his way home tonight.”

“I love you, lad,” Hamfast said. “You frustrate me something fierce sometimes, but I love you. You’re the best son a hobbit could ask for, and I couldn’t be prouder of you if I tried.”

The tears streamed down Sam’s face now and he could only nod in response. Hamfast moved to the bed and drew his son into a tight embrace. It would be difficult to let Sam go, to see him off to Tighfield, but if it was what his son wanted, he would do it. He would do anything for his children.

Miss Camellia returned shortly after first breakfast. She was pleased with the progress Sam was making so far. She was also pleased he had so much support. She hoped that would help with the melancholy that had settled over him. The healer replaced the cold compress she had wrapped around his ribs, then took her leave again. She would stop by before the end of the day to bring more supplies and instructed May and Marigold to continue administering the tea and cream as they have been.

Jolly spent first breakfast with Sam. He exclaimed over Sam’s “battle wounds” as he called them, the only one to find anything positive about any of this. He hinted that he suspected Sam had done it just to get Rosie here and looking after him and that he thought it quite a smart move. Rosie certainly wasn’t thinking about any other lads at the moment.

“Everything’s about you, Sam,” Jolly informed him. “All through dinner last night, it was ‘Sam’ this and ‘Sam’ that. ‘Oh, Sam looks so dreadful and sorrowful, my heart was just breaking.’ ‘I can’t work at the Dragon tomorrow, Pa, Sam might need me.’ Not the way I would go about winning a lass’s favor, but it seems to have worked.”

Sam chuckled in spite of himself and shook his head. Leave it to Jolly to make light of any situation. Sam couldn’t help but tease him a bit in return. “Oh really? How would you go about it then? By pulling her hair and throwing sticker weeds at her back? Pansy must just be swooning over you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jolly said, but his bright red blush gave him away.

Sam chuckled again. “Come on, you ole romantic. Give me some expert advice.”

Jolly pretended to fume, but he quickly broke down and told Sam everything he had managed to learn about Pansy Scruttle in the last few days. He was perfectly aware of Finch’s affection for her and he was wondering if he should even make a move. Sam listened to his dilemma and offered what advice he could, knowing in the end it would be the lass’s decision anyway.

Paladin stopped the carriage just within site of Three-Farthing Stone. Frodo knew once they reached the Stone, Bywater would be peeking over the next horizon. Frodo almost wanted to tell Paladin to continue on until they reached Bag End, but he knew his cousins needed to stretch their legs and attend to other, personal matters. He also knew Merry wanted to talk to Pippin before they got home and everything became hectic with settling in.

He gave Merry an encouraging nod before leaving the carriage. Merry nodded back and held a hand out to stay Pippin. “Wait a minute, Pip. I need to talk to you,” he said seriously.

Pippin sat back down and waited, concern and confusion written on his face. “Very well,” he said. “About what?”

“Oh that,” Pippin said, as if he had already forgotten the whole affair. “No need Merry, I understand.”

“Then let me explain it will you?” Merry snapped. “Do you always have to make apologizing so difficult?”

“It’s part of the fun, watching you squirm,” Pippin said, a mischievous glint to his eye.

Merry nodded gamely. He deserved that. He took a deep breath and started again. “Look, Pip, I should have been taking care of you, not the other way around. You were brave to stand up to me the way you did. It takes a lot of courage to try to talk sense into someone as pig-headed as I can get. I know you would have found a way to come if I had just waited, but I didn’t. Because I was afraid, that I had failed Frodo. Not you or Father or anyone else. Me. I couldn’t bear that thought and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Pippin nodded, understanding now. “You’re forgiven,” he said and started to get up again.

“Oh, sorry, go on then,” Pippin said, wondering what else his cousin could have to say and thinking this apology was one of Merry’s best to date.

“You do know, that if it had been you, I would have done the same thing,” Merry said intently. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth to find you. I probably would have had to as well, because knowing you, that is exactly where you would be. But I would have gone there, without a second’s thought, and I wouldn’t have come back until I’d found you.”

Pippin smiled fondly and shook his head at his best friend. “I know that, but it’s good to hear. And I’m glad you thought I was being brave, because I didn’t feel very brave.”

“I think that’s what being brave is,” Merry said, “doing things even when you’re afraid to.”

“So to be brave, you have to be afraid?” Pippin asked. This was a thought that had never occurred to him before. He had always thought that brave people were never afraid.

Merry nodded. “If you’re not afraid, then you don’t need courage, and you can’t be brave without courage. You were very courageous Pippin. I’m proud of you, little cousin. As impossible as it seems, I do believe you’re growing up.”

“Don’t get carried away now,” Merry said. “You’re nowhere near as brave as I am. If you had even a fraction of my courage, you would be ten times the hobbit you are now.”

Merry ruffled Pippin’s hair and allowed Pippin to do the same to him. They left the carriage then to join Frodo and Paladin in the sunshine.

Jolly stayed with Sam until he drifted off to sleep, then was joined by Tom. Jolly had managed to keep the mood light, for all that it broke his heart to see Sam so abused and forlorn. He agreed with Hamfast and Tom that someone rather than something had injured Sam, and he thought he knew who. Tom was not so certain.

“Ted Sandyman?” Tom asked skeptically at Jolly’s guess. “Why wouldn’t Sam just say so then?”

“I just think it’s suspicious,” Jolly continued. “I heard Ted had a good long talk with Sam the night he got back, and Sam up and left the table in a mood. Next night, Sam’s looking like this.”

“It’s a fluke is all,” Tom said. “Besides, it couldn’t have been Ted. He was at the Bush the whole night. Several hobbits saw him.”

“Several hobbits also saw Mr. Lotho back and asking after Mr. Baggins that day. Was he at the Bush that night too?”

“Didn’t hear as he was,” Tom said, his blood running cold at the very thought. That at least would explain why Sam would lie, if it had been one of the gentry who attacked him. But Lotho? “I don’t know. He’s unpleasant enough most times, but he’s all talk. He’s never actually ever hurt anyone before, not counting Ted of course.”

Tom shuddered and shook his head. In all honesty, he did not like to think any hobbit capable of hurting one of their own so severely.

“And he wasn’t looking very good himself yesterday either,” Jolly added, interrupting his brother’s thoughts.

“He was puttering about the gardens outside his hole, looking every bit as run over himself,” Jolly informed. “Not in the bruised and battered sort of way, just drained, like there was nothing left in him, sort of like Sam now. It was rather distressing to see actually. He didn’t even threaten me when I walked by, just kept staring at this dried-up sunflower like he hadn’t a clue what it was.”

They let the conversation lull after that and they sat quietly until Marigold and Rosie relieved them at elevenses.

The rest of the day passed in hushed silence. Sam slept most of the time, his friends and family taking turns to sit with him. They did their best to entertain him when he woke, and while he would listen and smile at their ramblings, there was a vacancy in his eyes that would not go away.

May brought afternoon tea in to Marigold and Sam. Sam was awake again, gazing up at his ceiling. He sat up when the food was placed on the table and gamely ate as his sisters talked about Marigold’s time at Missus Brown’s last night. The meal was complete and May was cleaning up when Hamfast poked his head into the room.

“I saw Master Brandybuck’s carriage going up the Hill a while back. Will you go up and see if he’ll be needing aught?”

“Of course,” Marigold agreed and took the tray from her sister, who sat down to take her place watching Sam.

“He’s here already?” Sam asked. It was like the final nail to the coffin. Master Saradoc had arrived to see to Mr. Frodo’s will, not that it would matter once Lotho had his way. The final thread of resolve unraveled and broke, and tears of defeat spilled heedlessly down Sam’s face. He rolled onto his good side and faced the wall, then closed his eyes and sobbed endlessly.

His father and sisters were at a loss of what to do. Try as they might to comfort Sam, nothing helped. Even his friends were unable to console him, and Rosie finally sent Jolly running to the healer’s house.

Camellia arrived ten minutes later, Jolly all but dragging her in his haste. She brewed a strong sleeping draught and helped Sam to drink it through his distressed sobs. Within minutes, the medicine took effect and Sam was deep asleep. Everyone else stood back, exhausted and needing a calming tea of their own. The healer brewed this as well and decided to stay until Sam awoke so she could speak with him. There was more going on here than simple grief and physical injury. Sam would not heal completely unless he cleared his conscience of whatever it was that was plaguing him.

As Paladin had expected, they arrived at Bag End at midday, or as Pippin put it, “just in time for tea.” Frodo had to do some quick talking to convince everyone to search the gardens for Sam while he went inside to prepare the meal. They finally agreed, knowing that once they did find Sam and explained everything to him, he would see that Frodo did not tire himself unnecessarily.

Frodo walked up the path alone and took out his key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, breathing in the familiar scent of his beloved home. He lit the candle sitting by the door and carefully retraced his steps from the day he left, starting with the tunnel.

He had put his cloak on the bench, had carried the cloak from his bedroom, after leaving the second parlor. He searched the tunnel, under his bed and beneath his dresser. He went into the second parlor and began searching through the trunk there. He pulled out all the contents and reached the bottom, finding nothing.

Frodo sat back on his haunches, forcing himself to think rationally of anywhere else the ring might be. He had set his cloak on the bench and then… he had left it. Sam had gone back to get it and had carried it out to the gate and handed it over the fence to him.

“Sam’s not here,” Merry informed him. “I thought you were getting tea on.”

“Where are Uncle Paladin and Pippin?” Frodo asked, ignoring the hinted question.

“They’re unloading the carriage,” Merry said, a note of concern in his voice. The disarray of the room was looking too familiar for comfort. “Are you feeling well? Perhaps you should lie down. I’ll see to tea.”

Frodo dissented, quickly placing all the items back in their place and closing the trunk. He stood up with Merry’s help. “I’m well enough,” he insisted. “I’ve just misplaced something.”

“Already? We’ve only been here five minutes,” Merry said lightly. “I think Pippin’s right. That bump did do something to your head. Well, I’ll help you look then. What are we searching for?”

“Never mind about it,” Frodo said and forced himself to smile. “But perhaps it would be best if you made the tea. I’ll go and supervise Paladin and Pippin.”

Merry watched after Frodo worriedly and looked back at the trunk. This must be the same “something” Frodo had been looking for in Buckland. Not wanting history to repeat itself, Merry followed Frodo outside. He wasn’t about to let his cousin out of his sight now. He found Frodo searching the path and flowerbeds with questing eyes.

“Merry, really, it’s nothing. If it’s not here, then it’s inside somewhere and it will turn up eventually,” Frodo insisted, keeping the panic out of his voice with great effort. “Go make tea, unless your new plan is to starve me to death.”

Merry relented grudgingly and caught Pippin’s eye as he turned back towards the smial. Merry gave a slight nod in Frodo’s direction and Pippin nodded in return. He would keep an eye out.

Paladin took his things into the smial and then let the ponies free from the carriage. He led them across the road to a tree where they could graze and tied them to it, then went inside to wash up and help Merry with tea.

Pippin sat on the porch step and fished through his pack, taking out the things that belonged in Bag End. He pulled out the pans and water skins, and various other items that had found their way into his pack, all the while keeping a cautious eye on Frodo as his cousin searched about the gate. By the time Frodo gave up, Pippin had completed his own task and had two stacks of camp gear to be carried inside.

“No,” Frodo said dismally, looking at the piles Pippin had made. “Let me give you a hand with that.”

“I’ve got it,” Pippin insisted. “I know where it all goes, or Merry does. We’ll manage. But this, you should take this.” Pippin handed Frodo his diary. “I didn’t read it, but I couldn’t stand to think of it locked up in the mathom rooms for time out of memory.”

“Thank you Pip,” Frodo said, accepting the small book. He did have quite a lot to write about. He forgot about the work to be done, as Pippin had hoped, and went into the study to sit at his desk for a while. Pippin carried his piles one by one into the kitchen and set the gear in a tub for washing later, then went to clean up himself.

Frodo entered the study and sat dejectedly at his desk. He absently placed his diary on the desk and reached over for a quill. He opened his book to a blank page and stared at it just as blankly, his mind preoccupied with Bilbo’s missing heirloom. What if his assumption was wrong altogether and it had slipped from his cloak during the journey to Buckland? It could have been found and picked up by anyone.

He was in the process of telling himself yet again not to panic when he was pulled out of his thoughts by the bell ringing. Frodo turned and saw Merry go to answer the call and listened intently, hoping it was Sam.

Merry walked to the door and pulled it open, expecting to see Sam, a speech already prepared. “Marigold,” he greeted in surprise. He rarely saw Sam’s sister here, and he wondered why she had come instead of her brother.

“Hullo Master Merry,” Marigold greeted. “Or Mr. Brandybuck, I should say now.”

“Of course, Mr. Merry,” Marigold said. She hesitated and wrung her hands nervously. Even with the healer’s tea she was still feeling frazzled, and she was hoping the Master wouldn’t need anything so she could return to her brother. She hated to leave him as he was.

“I was wondering if you or your father were needing anything sir,” Marigold managed politely.

Merry shook his head. “No, actually, my father’s not here. It’s just me, Pippin and Uncle Paladin. Listen, do you think you could send Sam up the first chance he gets?”

Marigold shook her head and fought back the tears that threatened to spill. “I’m afraid Sam ain’t feeling well sir, and he won’t come up here.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” Merry asked in alarm. He ushered Marigold inside and closed the door. “Marigold, what’s the matter with Sam?”

Marigold shook her head again and took a deep, steadying breath. She did not intend to spill her worries on him, but she found the words pouring out of her mouth without heed, not even noticing when Paladin and Pippin joined them. “Oh Mr. Merry, he’s a wreck. He’s fallen clear apart and Gaffer reckons he’s been in a fight but Sam says he was trampled by some animal, if you can believe that. Either way, he looks a fright and he won’t come back here for naught and now he’s talking about quitting gardening altogether and going up to Tighfield and taking up roping.”

“He’s blaming himself for all that’s happened to Mr. Baggins, though how he figures it’s his fault I don’t know,” Marigold explained.

“I mean, he’s not dead,” Pippin repeated. “He was caught in the flood but he survived. We just didn’t know because he was found by one of the Big Folk and taken to Bree for healing, but he’s back now.”

“I’m here,” Frodo said from the study door. He rushed to Marigold’s side and steered her to the bench. The poor lass looked ready to pass out.

“Mr. Baggins?” Marigold said in astonishment. Frodo smiled knowingly and all her despair melted away in an instant. She surprised Frodo with a fierce hug. “Oh, Mr. Baggins! Oh Sam’s going to be thrilled to see you, sir, and that’s a fact. That will cheer him up right quick.”

“I certainly hope so, but first tell me more about what’s been going on with Sam,” Frodo said. He did not like the sound of anything he had overheard.

An hour later, the tea finished, they sat around the kitchen table every bit as exhausted as Marigold. She had told them nearly everything that had happened since Sam heard the news that Frodo was missing. The news of Sam’s mysterious injuries was especially unsettling. Frodo stood up purposefully. “I’m going down there.”

“Then I will be there when he awakens,” Frodo replied. He went into his room and grabbed an old green cloak from his wardrobe. He put it on and pulled the hood tight around his face; he did not need all of Hobbiton following him to Bagshot Row. He went back to the kitchen and retrieved Marigold. “Come lass. Take me to him.”

“Sammy, stop ninnyhammering around and plant those flowers already. Mr. Bilbo wants it done today, not next year,” Hamfast chided gently but sternly. This was the fifth time he had checked on Sam’s progress and still the lad had only a handful of the carnations in the ground.

“I’m trying Gaffy,” Sam said, “but the trowel hurts my hands.” He held up his tiny hand and showed his father the blister as proof.

“They feel funny,” Sam complained. “They’re too big and they make my fingers sweat.”

Hamfast chuckled. “You’re going to have to get used to sweating if you want to be a good gardener Sammy. Here, give me that glove and trowel, and I’ll see if I can work something out.”

Hamfast disappeared into the tool shed and Sam went back to playing in the dirt. When his father returned, he found that Hamfast had cut a finger off the glove and glued it to the handle of the trowel. “See how that suits you,” he said.

Sam took the trowel and tested the handle as he had seen his father do numerous times with other tools. Then he dug a hole and planted a flower. He beamed up at his father. “I like this much better,” he declared. “Thank you Gaffy.”

Hamfast reached down and ruffled Sam’s golden-brown curls before returning to his own planting. Sam worked busily, thrilled at being able to plant a whole bed by himself. Of course, it was a small bed, and his father had already started the holes so Sam would know where to dig, but he was still doing most of the work by himself. He hummed nonsensically while he worked, delighting in the feel of the dirt beneath his hands. The trowel no longer hurt him, and he didn’t have to wear those cumbersome gloves. He smiled at the trowel, glad to have such a smart father.

Sam was nearing the end of his task when a shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw Mr. Bilbo’s young cousin Frodo standing there, observing the gardens, as had quickly become his habit over the last few weeks. Frodo was staying with Mr. Bilbo for the spring and had come all the way from Buckland, across the River itself.

Sam had never known anyone from across the River before, nor had he ever known anyone who looked quite like young Master Frodo. Sam had never met an elf, but he imagined that if elves were as small as hobbits, that’s what they must look like: thin and fair, with dark hair and unguarded blue eyes that were older than his years. He regarded Frodo with an awed reverence and tended to get tongue-tied around the older lad, but Sam couldn’t get flustered today. He had a very important question he needed to ask Frodo, but he was still unable to begin a conversation with the lad even though it had been nearly a month since they first met.

Sam made himself as small as possible and snuck peeks at the teen as he finished the last of the planting. Then he started cleaning up as quietly and discreetly as possible, not wanting to disturb Frodo’s thoughtful observation of the gardens. He worked slowly, hoping he could delay the moment he would have to get up and search out his father.

Finally, Frodo looked down at the tiny gardener. “Hallo Sam,” he greeted in his soft, refined accent. “Did you plant all these yourself?”

“Thank you,” Sam said, and smiled sweetly, getting a smile in return. He loved Frodo’s smile; it took the sadness out of his eyes. “Can you come to my birthday party?” he asked in a rush before he could chicken out.

Frodo’s easy smile turned to surprise. “I would love to, but I would not want to impose.”

“You won’t impose,” Sam assured. He didn’t know what impose meant, but he was certain that a gentlehobbit such as Master Frodo could never do that.

“I won’t know anyone,” Frodo said, uncertainty creeping into his dazzling blue eyes.

“I’ll meet you to everyone,” Sam said, and he was so relieved that Frodo wanted to come to his party that he started yammering excitedly. “Daisy’s making the cake, and Halfred’s hiding boiled sweets in the Party Field for a hunt, and Hamson says since I’ll be turning five, I’m old enough to hand out the presents myself this year, and May has a new dress. Marigold will be there too, but she’s still a wee bairn and so she won’t be doing aught. And my best friends Tom and Robin will be there, and Tom’s ma is making pudding pie.”

“That sounds like a delightful party,” Frodo said, smiling again. It would be nice to meet more of the other childen around here. “When is it going to be?”

Frodo stirred instantly at the sound of Sam’s voice and quickly sat up in the chair he had been dozing in. He realized the error in this when his ribs protested the sudden movement after resting so uncomfortably all night long. Frodo stretched slowly, ignoring the discomfort as best he could and returned his attention to his friend.

Frodo had arrived the evening before to find the Gamgees and the older Cotton children sitting around the kitchen table, exhausted and discussing their next step. Tom was figuring out what to put in the letter to Hamson. As Sam’s eldest brother did not read, the post messenger would have to read the letter for him, and they did not want to put too much personal information into it. Something simple and direct should be enough. Just the fact that Sam wanted to stay in Tighfield for a time would let his brother know the urgency of the situation.

Frodo had created quite a stir when he entered the smial after Marigold. He paused only long enough to greet everyone before going to Sam’s room. He felt terrible for giving them such a shock and not staying to explain, but he wanted to see Sam before he did anything else. He could hear Hamfast saying, “Marigold, what’s the meaning of this?” as he knocked lightly on Sam’s door and entered the small room. Fortunately, Merry and Pippin had insisted on coming with him, so he left his cousins to do all the explaining.

He found the healer with Sam and asked after his friend’s progress to take his mind off the shock of seeing Sam so battered. Marigold had warned him, but he was still not prepared for the sight. Camellia assured him Sam was healing quite well physically. What concerned her most now was Sam’s mental state. His melancholy had reached a dangerous peak. She did not typically give her patients such powerful sleeping draughts, but there had been no other way of calming him.

“Mr. Baggins is here now,” Hamfast said from the doorway. “That should do the trick. I don’t know what miracle brought you back to us, Mr. Baggins, but I’m mighty glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to be back, Master Hamfast,” Frodo said. He sat in the chair by Sam’s bed and took his friend’s hand. “How did this happen? Marigold said something about an animal attack or a fight.”

“It was a fight, or my name ain’t Gamgee,” Hamfast said. “I might buy the back and rib as the result of an animal trampling, but he was chocked, plain as my nose by those bruises ‘round his neck. And that eye and lip are the result of well-placed punches if I know aught about such things.”

Hamfast shook his head. “We don’t know, and Sam won’t say. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it again.”

“No one else walking around looking like him then?” Frodo said. He turned to the healer. “Have you treated someone else with similar injuries?”

“Whatever happened, my son’s not one to fight. He was attacked plain and simple, and he didn’t even get to defend himself is my guess,” Hamfast said. “Maybe you could get it out of him what happened, if you don’t mind Mr. Baggins. If he’ll tell anyone, it’ll be you. I’d really like to know who’s responsible for this. My belt’s been itching to lash the culprit.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Frodo promised. He did not typically condone violence, retaliatory or otherwise, but in this case he thought he could make an exception.

The rest of the night had passed quickly. Camellia left, her services no longer needed for the moment. Dinner was served and then the Cottons said their good nights. Merry and Pippin came to see Sam for a few minutes before leaving as well, knowing Frodo would not leave Sam’s side for anything. Marigold and May administered more of the medicinal cream to Sam’s bruises, then cleaned up the kitchen and went to bed early. Hamfast stood out by the lane, happily composing an apology to Goodheart in his mind as he puffed peacefully on a pipe and gazed up at the stars and the shining full moon that blazed brilliantly overhead. Then he went to bed himself and Frodo was left alone watching Sam.

Sam had woken briefly once during the night, but the sleeping draught had not fully worn off and he was groggy and incoherent. Frodo helped him drink a cup of water when he woke and then hummed softly to him as he quickly drifted back to dreamless sleep. Frodo slept lightly in the chair and did not stir again until he heard Sam’s murmuring.

“Tomorrow,” Sam said again, louder now. He blinked open his eyes and looked about the dim room, his unfocused gaze coming to rest on Frodo.

“Tom?” Sam said uncertainly. He blinked a few more times then rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. He yawned widely and stretched his tired, aching limbs, then looked again at the blur sitting next to him. The blur slowly cleared, but he continued to blink. He could not be seeing correctly.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam said in dazed wonder, then a horrified expression fell across his face. “Am I dead then?"

“What?” Frodo said. “No, Sam, you’re not dead and neither am I. We’re both alive and well. Well, maybe not well, but on the mend certainly.”

Sam blinked a few more times and looked at Frodo skeptically. “I don’t understand. The Master’s letter said you drowned. Was it a lie then? Was it a joke?”

“No, certainly not,” Frodo said, aghast at such a thought. “It was all a terrible misunderstanding, an accident that never should have happened.”

Sam struggled to sit up and Frodo reached over to help him. The contact unnerved the gardener terribly. He shied away from Frodo and continued to peer at him cautiously. He could not believe that this was real, but the pain as he moved told him he was both alive and awake. So this had to be real, didn’t it? Yet how could it be? It made no sense.

He studied Frodo closely. His master was slightly paler than the last time he saw him and maybe even a tad thinner, but other than that he looked the same. Except for a scar. Sam frowned at the mark. “You’ve been hurt,” he said automatically. “Are you all right sir?”

Frodo couldn’t help but laugh in amusement. “Really Sam, I should be asking you that. How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” Sam answered uncertainly, his frown deepening. He was still slightly groggy from the medicine, but his head was clear enough to know how impossible all this was. Despite everything telling him that he was awake, he could not help but think he had fallen asleep again. This was all so surreal; he felt as if he were in a waking dream. Yes, that was it. This was a strange sort of dream where everything sad comes untrue. How else could his master be here, talking to him as if it were an ordinary day?

Frodo frowned himself now. His heart was breaking at the hesitation and doubt he saw in Sam’s eyes. This was so unlike his friend, who was always so easy-going and cheerful. More than before, he wanted to find out exactly what happened to Sam; this was more than just confusion at work. But before he could question Sam, he had some explaining to do himself.

He placed his hand over Sam’s, hoping to reassure him with the contact, glad at least that Sam did not pull away from the touch. “This is a long story,” Frodo said. “Is there anything you need before I start?”

Sam shook his head, so Frodo recalled his adventure, starting with the Feast. He did not leave out a single detail, except the ring of course. He included Bilbo and his plans to go to Rivendell, he even touched a bit on the dreams he had, and his conversation with Hazel and why he decided he had to come home. He explained everything that happened upon his return to the Shire, and how he learned that everyone thought he had perished in the flood. He hoped the more he explained, that the longer Sam had to absorb the story, the more Sam would believe it.

Sam listened attentively, looking back and forth between his master’s face and his hand carefully resting over his own. The touch was warm and light and completely familiar, and his master’s gentle voice filled the room with warmth, slowly melting away the doubt and fear that this was another cruel trick of his mind. A smile slowly crept onto his face and by the time Frodo got around to the day he left Brandy Hall, walking outside to find the entire Hall waiting to see him, he laughed at his master’s impersonation of the hobbit who had called out from the back of the crowd ‘He is alive! Doesn’t that beat all?’

“It does beat all,” Sam answered, accepting at last the miracle sitting before him. He beamed at Frodo, and there were tears of joy standing in his eyes. He would have drawn his master into a fierce embrace if he thought he could get away with it. He settled instead on grinning like a fool and placing his free hand over Frodo’s.

Frodo smiled in return, relief and cheer flooding his own eyes as he saw Sam’s acceptance at last. He quickly recounted his visit with the Bolgers and his stay at The Floating Log, and went on to his return home and Marigold’s visit to Bag End.

“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry you had to go through all of this,” Frodo finished. He squeezed Sam’s hand and was rewarded with a reassuring squeeze in return.

“It’s no concern now, sir. You’re back now and that’s all that matters,” Sam said, feeling like the luckiest hobbit to have ever lived.

His beloved master had returned, beyond all hope, and everything would go back to normal. He didn’t have to go to Tighfield. He didn’t have to worry about serving Lotho. He could return to Bag End without fear or grief. He could slip quietly inside to cook first breakfast and wake his master from his sleep by throwing open the curtains and letting the light spill into the room. He could weed the gardens and sing some nonsense song and hear his master’s melodious voice join his own coarse one. He could rest from his work under the elm tree and Mr. Frodo would bring him out a glass of iced tea and discuss the plans for the gardens in the shade and puff lazily on a pipe.

Frodo’s smile brightened. Now this was the Sam he knew, happy and relaxed. “Still, I’m sorry all this had to happen. I learned a thing or two from it, so I suppose it wasn’t a complete waste. I never would have thought I would have been missed so much.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s rather silly to think you wouldn’t be missed,” Sam said. “I mean to say, you missed Mr. Bilbo and I’m sure he thought you’d be just fine and wouldn’t miss him all that much. And now it’s all these years later and you still miss him. Of course not having you here would make us sad. You belong here, sir. Home isn’t home without you. If it’s not too forward to say that.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Frodo said. “Thank you lad. It seems we’ve both learned some things, had our own adventures.”

Sam just nodded in agreement; he would agree to anything his master had to say. Then he laughed as a sudden realization struck him.

“Our adventures ended up sort of the same, didn’t they sir? We both have broken ribs,” Sam said, “and we’ve both been knocked on the head. Do you think I’ll have a scar too?”

Frodo laughed now also. “I doubt it and mine will fade with time, but we do make quite a pair, don’t we? We could be twins.”

Sam crinkled his brow and looked at his master critically. “But, we’re not even related sir.”

“I know that, silly,” Frodo said and laughed again. Sam joined him this time, and they laughed simply for the joy of it, blissfully ignoring the pain to their sides.

“Now this is more like it,” May said from the doorway. She was smiling fondly at the scene, glad to have her brother back at last. “I hope you’re hungry, little brother. Marigold’s ready to cook up a feast looks like, but we need to know what you want to eat first.”

“Why?” Sam asked as he wiped away the tears in his eyes, chuckling softly still.

“It is?” he asked. Frodo nodded and May simply waited. “Well, in that case, I’d like some of those sweet berry tarts, buttermilk pancakes with sausage, eggs sunny-side up, apple juice and muffins smothered in strawberries and cream; and some mushroom omelets, hash browns and rosemary tea with honey for Mr. Frodo.”

“I’m suddenly very hungry,” Sam said, feeling as though he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

“That’s good to hear,” Frodo said, “but you didn’t need to include me.”

“I can always count on you to do what’s proper,” Frodo said, and saw this as a good opportunity to get some information of his own. “Now, about this fight you were in. Who did this to you Sam, and I don’t want any story about some animal you startled.”

The smile faded from Sam’s face. So, his father had not believed his lie after all. He lowered his head, trying to decide if he should tell or not. He had promised to say nothing, but he had never denied his master anything before.

“Sam, it’s not like you to fight,” Frodo said. “I don’t believe you started it, and as no one else has turned up with similar injuries, I know you didn’t fight back. At least tell me what happened.”

But Sam couldn’t even do that without giving away who had hurt him. “I’m sorry Mr. Frodo. I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

“One thing I learned from the last two weeks is that not all promises are meant to be kept, because they never should have been made in the first place,” Frodo said. He was not going to let Sam out of telling him what happened. He wanted to see justice just as much as Hamfast did. “I can understand you wanting to keep quiet if this was nothing more than a simple tussle, but this goes far beyond that. He choked you Sam. You have a broken rib because of him. Now who did this?”

“He didn’t mean it, sir,” Sam said. “He was grieving and folk can do strange things sometimes when they’re grieving. He’s let go his grief some, and I don’t think he’ll be a threat to anyone else.”

“Because I understand how he feels,” Sam said. “In his position, I’d be just as angry.”

“Being angry and hurting someone are two completely different things,” Frodo said. “One does not lead directly to the other. Even if you do understand how he feels, that does not give him the right to do what he did. Now tell me who did this.”

Frodo sat back and nodded, defeated for now. He would not give up on this though and would find out who did this no matter what it took. He had some information about the culprit at least, and even that little bit could point him in the right direction. He would wait until after breakfast before going up the Hill to retrieve his cousins and go into town.

Sam insisted on being allowed to eat first breakfast at the kitchen table. Together Hamfast and Frodo helped him to his chair and everyone watched him carefully for signs of fatigue, but he showed none. After the elaborate and delicious meal, Frodo helped Sam back to bed and kept him company until he drifted off to sleep and one of his sisters could take over the watch. He dismissed himself then with promises to return later.

“So, we’re looking for someone who’s grieving and angry, or was three days ago,” Merry said as they made their way down the Hill. “That should narrow it down.”

“Oh, I imagine it should be easy enough for me to get information,” Frodo said. “Everyone will be more than happy to catch me up on the local gossip, hoping to get some gossip themselves in return. I may as well use my miraculous return from certain death to my advantage.”

Frodo was quite correct in his assumption of course. Hobbits were stopping him in the lane before they even reached the Bridge and they learned quite a lot of information, though none of it anything they could use. By the time they reached the marketplace, they had heard enough gossip to make their heads spin.

Once in the market, Frodo suggested starting with Farmer Goodheart, since fellows tended to gravitate toward his stall and they talked about all sorts of things they couldn’t speak of in front of their wives. This was a wise decision, as they learned within just half an hour of idle chatter about Lotho asking after Frodo just a couple of days before.

“Bywater, locked up in his home, last I heard,” Goodheart said. “Ted was here just this morning, says Mr. Lotho’s been crying off and on the last couple of days, if you can believe that. Seems Mr. Otho died all of a sudden a few weeks back, and Mr. Lotho is just now coming to terms with it. None too soon, for I heard he was causing quite a stir down in Sackville, tearing things up, destroying property and whatnot.”

“Do you know if he’s had any contact with Sam Gamgee since he’s been back?” Merry asked.

Goodheart shrugged, confused by the seemingly unrelated topic. “Couldn’t say.”

“I saw him go up the Hill,” another farmer put in, “that same day as he was asking all them questions about you Mr. Baggins, and then again the morning after besides. If he went to Bag End, I reckon he would have run into Sam, wouldn’t he?”

“Well, the description fits like a glove,” Merry said. “Angry and grieving.”

“I know Lotho is a pompous lout,” Pippin said, “but to have done something like that? To Sam? Even he’s not that vile.”

“I don’t know. Grief can make you do extreme things,” Frodo said. He was trying not to let his own anger get the better of him, and he was failing miserably. He could guess now Sam’s reasoning for not saying anything. Lotho was in a position of authority, however small, and he no doubt coerced Sam into keeping quiet. Once Sam had given his word, he would never lightly break it. It frustrated Frodo not knowing exactly what happened, but all he really needed to know was that Sam had been hurt and Lotho was the cause of it. “I think I’m going to pay my dear cousin a visit.”

He waited until after elevenses to head into Bywater. He had not been to Lotho’s home very often over the years, but he could find it in the dark if need be, simply because he always avoided going near it if he could. He marched up to the door and pounded on it until he heard the lock slide open.

Lotho opened the door and the sight of him stunned Frodo enough that he forgot what he had planned to say. There were dark bags under Lotho’s bloodshot eyes. His hair was knotted and lank, and his clothes were rumpled and wrinkled. He yawned and stared at Frodo dully. “I heard you might be back,” he said lethargically. “I guess it was too good to be true that you were really gone. Far be it for me to ever be that lucky.”

“I heard you went up to Bag End,” Frodo said, making no effort to hide the anger in his voice. He held Lotho with his fiercest glare.

“So, the rat squeaked, did he?” Lotho said. “Not really surprised by that.”

“Shut up,” Frodo said savagely, and was surprised when Lotho complied rather than sneering another disdainful comment. “Sam said nothing, but you don’t cover your tracks very well. It was far too easy to figure out it was you.”

“How could you?” Frodo continued as if Lotho had not spoken. “Sam wouldn’t hurt a soul and you nearly killed him. You should be banished for what you did.”

“I know,” Lotho said, surprising Frodo again by his apologetic tone. “I don’t know why I did it. I just – ”

“I don’t care why you did it,” Frodo cut him off. “You are not to lay another hand on Sam ever again. You are not to go anywhere near him. You will pay for the cost of the healer for as long as Sam needs her services and you will compensate him for any work he is unable to perform because of this. It is only out of Sam’s wishes that I will say nothing at this point, but if you put one more toe out of line, I will not hesitate to go to the Thain, and you will be marched to the bounds before you can even blink.”

Lotho nodded, accepting this without argument. “Very well. I’ll go see the healer after luncheon and I’ll send a stipend up to you tomorrow, since I’m not allowed contact with him directly. Any other edicts you would like to pass down from on high before you leave?”

“That will be all for now,” Frodo said, managing to keep some anger in his voice though Lotho’s easy compliance was making him feel rather lame. Until Lotho spoke again.

“Good,” Lotho said. “Now get off my property, or I’ll have to charge you with trespassing.”

“You have a lot of nerve to speak to me of trespassing,” Frodo spat in disgust.

“It’s not trespassing when the door’s wide open,” Lotho reasoned coolly. “You really should consider locking the doors when you go away Frodo. Anyone could just walk in and take whatever they want.”

“You like making assumptions, don’t you cousin? I assure you I took nothing.”

“We’ll see about that,” Frodo said and turned to leave before he could do anything foolish.

He was at the gate before Lotho called after him to wait. “How is Sam?” he asked. “Will he be all right?”

“Will he be all right?” Lotho asked again. There was genuine worry in his eyes and voice, and Frodo felt some of his anger ebb away. “I haven’t seen him about since. I went back to Bag End the day following but he wasn’t there. I haven’t heard anything. I was just wondering.”

“He will be fine in time,” Frodo answered. “Thankfully for you, there is no permanent damage.”

“I’m glad,” Lotho said. “Tell him sorry for me. Tell him thank you also. I appreciate what he did for me, especially after what I did to him. No one’s ever been kind to me like that before.”

Frodo didn’t know what to say. This was the first he had ever seen Lotho acting like a caring, sympathetic hobbit and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. At length, he nodded. “I’ll tell him,” Frodo promised. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. It’s not easy losing a parent, especially so unexpectedly. Give your mother my regards.”

Lotho nodded obligingly and closed the door with a soft click, leaving Frodo standing by the gate, completely confounded. But Frodo did not linger long. He wanted to return to Bagshot Row before Sam could wake up. It had taken long enough to convince the lad that he was real this morning, it would do no good to have Sam wake up and think he dreamed the whole thing.

How the Gamgees and the Cottons had managed to organize a party on such short notice was beyond Frodo. The Party Field was strewn with lights and Sam’s friends were gathered around him, waiting for him to blow out the candles so they could cut the cake. He closed his eyes, made his wish, and blew the candles out in one attempt. May and Marigold began cutting the cake and handing out slices.

Sam had not been allowed to come up to the Party Field until the very last moment, and had spent the afternoon with Frodo, who was also not allowed to move about too much. Merry and Pippin had come down to keep them company – or keep an eye on them more like – and they had entertained their friends with various stories and songs.

Not until all the preparations were made did Tom retrieve Sam and bring him to the Party Field, but even given that extra precaution, Sam was starting to show signs of wear. He insisted on staying until the cake was eaten at least, and he did not argue being confined to the table, for he had plenty of visitors throughout the evening.

Sam thankfully had gifts for everyone, being one of those hobbits who liked to be prepared early. His sisters had helped him with the wrapping, and he handed them out as his friends stopped by to see him. He now had only one gift left.

He had not been able to make the blackberry sweet bread with frosting for his master as he had planned. He would bake it eventually, once he could move about more easily and after Mr. Frodo’s cousins left, since that was the only way to ensure his master would actually be able to eat any of it. That wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks, so Sam had to think hard about what to give his master. The idea had come to him seemingly from nowhere and he had to be very sneaky about the whole affair, making it when Mr. Frodo and his cousins were in the kitchen preparing afternoon tea for him, which was entirely improper but couldn’t be helped as everyone else had gone to set up for the party.

Now Sam looked down at his gift, wondering if it was good enough for all he wanted to say, but he was nervous for more than just that. He also had a confession to make before his father could lecture him again. He was just trying to figure out how he would be able to find his master if he wasn’t allowed out of his seat, when Frodo showed up at his side and sat down.

“Oh, I am indeed Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered, then turned serious. “Mr. Frodo, I have something to confess to you and I’m hoping you won’t get mad or think what I did was improper, because I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Whatever could you have done Sam?” Frodo asked, alarmed at the agitation in Sam’s voice.

“Well, sir, I came to work one day shortly after you left and found the front door wide open. Now, I know for a fact I locked that door, but there it was sitting open all the same. I thought I had heard something inside, like an intruder or whatnot. Anyway, I went in to have a look round. I didn’t find anything of course, but Gaffer said I had to tell you I was sneaking. If that wasn’t bad enough, I did it a second time on top of that, but that time I thought it was you. I guess that’s what you’d call ironic. Anyway, I’m sorry sir. I didn’t mean to enter your home without leave.”

Frodo relaxed and laughed softly. “You had me worried Sam. I thought it was something serious. Of course I’m not angry. You’re more than welcome to go into Bag End whenever you wish, especially if you think there’s something amiss. Thank you for looking out for it while I was gone. It is quite out of your duties however.”

“Well, I shall have to compensate you accordingly then. Twice you said? That’s worth two silver pennies I think. I’ll bring your pay down in the morning.”

“What?” Sam said, his head snapping up. “That’s far too much coin sir, I couldn’t accept that…”

“Sam, it’s my decision what I pay you,” Frodo said, in a tone that would brook no argument.

“Yes sir,” Sam agreed, knowing already what his father would have to say about this unexpected development. He smiled softly; things really had returned to normal.

Frodo noticed Sam’s smile and knew what he was thinking. He also knew Hamfast would just have to accept it. “How did you get the door locked up again?” Frodo asked now, returning to the topic at hand.

“Oh, well it’s been doing that,” Sam said. “Locking and unlocking again. I had the locksmith out here at one point, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Still, he said he’d replace the latch if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” Frodo said. Then hoping for an answer to the location of his ring, he looked about to make sure no one was within earshot and asked, “Are you certain you didn’t find anything during your inspections though? I think I forgot something here the day I left, a ring maybe.”

Sam nodded. “Oh aye, sir,” he affirmed. “I did find a strange little ring and put it in your study on your desk.”

“But it’s not there now,” Frodo said. “Are you certain that’s where you put it?”

“Without a doubt,” Sam said, then paused to think. His memory of that night with Lotho was still foggy but he did his best to retrace his steps. After Lotho had left, he had cleaned up the mess and then he had put out the fires and the candles. He had picked up the candle sitting in the hallway outside the study where Lotho had let it drop, and then… “I moved it,” Sam said, remembering finally. “I hid it.”

“You hid it? Why? Where? And please tell me no one else knows about it. It’s important that it remains a secret,” Frodo said fervently.

Sam stared down at his hands, knowing he would have to break his promise after all. “Well, I didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“But I think Mr. Lotho might have seen it, and I didn’t want him getting his hands on it. Didn’t seem like that would be a very good thing for some reason. So I hid it in the compost heap. I figured it’d be the last place he’d ever look for it, and if he did it’d be sort of like a needle in a hay stack.”

“Please tell me you have a way of finding it again,” Frodo said, ignoring for now the dreaded news that Lotho knew about the ring. He was tempted to tell Sam then that he knew what Lotho had done and he could tell Sam was waiting for just such an announcement, but he did not want to ruin Sam’s birthday. There would be plenty of time to talk about it later. Right now, his main concern was getting the ring back.

Frodo and Sam snuck away from the party, up to Bag End and around the smial to the back of the garden. Sam pointed to the middle mound of compost. “It’s chained to that there stick, the one that’s leaning out of the pile halfway down. Just pull it up. I’d do it myself but…”

“But what?” Frodo asked. He stepped up to the mound and began pulling out the stick.

Frodo laughed. “Sam, it’s a ring.” He pulled the stick free and sure enough, hanging from a chain wrapped tightly near the bottom was Bilbo’s ring. Frodo sighed with relief and took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it and the chain clean. “There you are,” he muttered quietly. He untangled the chain and held the ring tightly in his fist. He opened up his hand and looked at it bemusedly. “You’ve caused an awful lot of trouble for such a little thing. Well, you won’t be getting away from me again.” He clipped the chain to his belt loop and tucked the ring safely into his pocket.

With that worry now out of the way, he beckoned Sam to follow him to the top of the Hill so they could watch the festivities from afar.

“I knew I was forgetting to do something up here,” Sam said when he saw the downed oak branch still sitting on the ground where it had fallen during the storm. “I’ll get that chopped up for you Mr. Frodo, as soon as the healer says I can anyway.”

“I like it,” Frodo said and found a comfortable place to sit upon it. Sam sat next to him and together they watched the hobbits in the Party Field. “How long until they notice we’re missing?”

“We better make our stolen freedom count then,” Frodo said, a mischievous note to his voice. “What say we climb to the very top of this tree and hang upside down by our ankles? Do you think that will give them a stir?”

This was an old game of theirs, from when they were younger and Sam often wanted to do things his father would never let him get away with. Frodo had figured there was no harm in at least pretending to do those things, and they would sit for hours coming up with all sorts of ideas and scenarios.

“It’ll give them a stir right enough, and it’ll get us locked in our rooms for a week, so I think I’ll pass if you don’t mind,” Sam answered. “If you have a sling shot, we could pick some berries and aim them at anyone who comes close enough. We could get four or five of them at least before we’re caught.”

“That is a shame,” Sam intoned. “I suppose we could just make up conversations for people. Like, what do you reckon Mr. Pippin is saying to Mr. Merry right now?”

Frodo found his cousins standing near the cake and laughed. “That’s far too easy. He’s saying, ‘But Merry, it’s already cut, we’re supposed to eat it.’”

“And Mr. Merry’s saying, ‘Now, Pip, you’ve already had five pieces and you know your father will strangle me if I let you come home all hyper-like and keep us up all night.’”

Frodo burst into laughter, out of shock more than anything else. It wasn’t often Sam would allow himself to be cheeky about his ‘betters’ but Frodo always delighted in it when he did. He shook his head fondly and draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Oh, Sam, I do believe I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

There was a slight pause in which they enjoyed the simple peace and tranquility of their temporary hideaway, then Sam said, “I was dreaming this morning about the first birthday party I invited you to. I was so nervous to ask you, and so happy when you said you’d come.”

“I remember that party,” Frodo said. “I almost changed my mind about going though.”

“I never told you, but the day my parents died was the exact same day that you were born,” Frodo revealed. “Your birthday is the anniversary of their death. I usually spent this day curled up alone, hiding somewhere in Buckland, in this one place my mother and I used to go to all the time, to watch my father at his work. That was part of the reason Saradoc and Esmeralda sent me to stay here with Bilbo that spring, and all the ones that followed, until I moved in with him. They hoped it would help with the grief, but I wasn’t so certain it would. Then you asked me to attend your party and you were so excited about it, I couldn’t say no. To my surprise, I actually found myself looking forward to that day instead of dreading it.”

“You did,” Frodo said. “So it seems we did each other a favor that day.”

Frodo smiled. “Yes, I do believe you’re right. … Do you ever miss your mother Sam?”

“Sometimes,” Sam said. “I don’t really remember her all that well. I wasn’t even four when she died. There are times I wish she were here. Just simple things really, like when I try a new receipt, or when I hear a young mother humming a song to her bairn that Mama used to sing to me, or when I notice Gaffer’s sad with missing her.

“I know May misses her, especially right now, what with the wedding and all. She’d much rather have Mama around than have to rely on her friends and their mothers for help, though I don’t think it’s as hard for her as it was for Daisy. I think even Marigold misses her in a way. She never knew Mama at all and I think that’s why she’s so unsure of herself sometimes. She’s been more confident since she and Tom got promised.”

“They’re promised?” Frodo asked in surprise. He spotted Marigold sitting with Rosie and Tom at one of the tables below and noticed that she did seem more relaxed and jubilant than she did before. “They make a fine match. I’ll have to congratulate them when next I get the chance. How are things going with Rosie? I saw her at your home last night.”

Sam blushed shyly. “Well enough I suppose. It’s not really anything serious.”

Sam’s blush deepened. He chuckled softly and gave a small shrug. “Oh, no, it’s far too early to be thinking about all that. Do you think you’ll ever get married Mr. Frodo, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Now it was Frodo’s turn to shrug. “Maybe, one day, I might eventually settle down. I would like to have children. Lots of them.”

“Six is a good, round number I think,” Sam commented. “Three lads and three lasses, if you can manage it that way.”

Frodo looked up at the full, round moon hanging overhead, glowing bright and bathing them in gentle silvery-blue. “Or maybe thirteen, one for each full moon.”

Sam looked up at the moon and shook his head warily. “I don’t know, Mr. Frodo. That’s an awful lot of children.”

Someone behind them cleared their throat then and Frodo looked back to see Merry and Pippin standing there with their arms crossed. They were giving him that look that meant they thought he was overexerting himself and he was almost tired enough to agree. Almost.

“Hello Merry, Pip. Did you enjoy your cake?” Frodo asked innocently and saw Sam struggle to keep from snickering.

“I would have if I had been allowed to eat any,” Pippin complained, and now both Frodo and Sam were struggling to maintain their composure.

“What do you mean been allowed?” Merry admonished. “You had three pieces already! You know how you get and your father is going to…”

But whatever Paladin was going to do, Merry never had a chance to say for it was at that moment that Frodo and Sam lost their battle and burst into renewed laughter. Frodo laughed more freely than Sam, who was valiantly trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Merry and Pippin simply stared at them, flabbergasted by their behavior.

“Well, will you look at the time? I do believe it’s past my curfew,” Frodo said through stifled chuckles. He stood up, wiping tears from his eyes. “Good night lads. Happy birthday Sam. I don’t expect to see you at Bag End for at least another week, and then it will be only light work, inside. I won’t have you doing anything strenuous on that rib.”

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam agreed, his own chuckles now under control, though he still could not wipe the grin off his face. Then he remembered his gift. “Mr. Frodo, wait. I have something for you. I’ve never tried my hand at writing anything before, so I don’t know how good it is, but I mean every word of it.” He handed Frodo a sealed piece of parchment. “I hope you won’t think it improper.”

Frodo took the gift and smiled warmly. “I’m sure that it will be lovely. Thank you lad.”

Sam watched his master head down the Hill and looked up at Merry and Pippin, who were gazing down at him questioningly. Finally, Merry spoke. “Goodness, Sam, what was all that about?”

“Nothing, Mr. Merry, just a private joke so to speak,” Sam said with a grin, not really wanting to get into an explanation at the moment.

“Very well then,” Merry said. “Your father wants you to come down. It’s time for you to be turning in as well.”

They turned and left just as quietly and quickly as they had come. They reappeared again a minute later in the Party Field, and Sam could see them pointing Hamfast in his direction. He knew he would only be allowed another minute of peace before being sent for again.

He sighed contentedly and stood up easily. He made his way slowly down the path to the lane, whistling softly, planning already what he would do tomorrow. He had to deliver those jars of marmalade to Mr. Frodo and then he might as well help his sisters with their work. Then maybe he would go fishing. That wasn’t strenuous.

He smiled up at the beaming full moon and waved at Eärendil’s star, still reveling in his luck at having his master back. Everything sad had come untrue and that was the best gift Sam could ever hope for. This was a very happy birthday indeed.

“That can’t be the end of the story,” Daisy-lass protested. “You can’t tell me Mr. Frodo didn’t do anything else about Lotho-Pimple. He at least told Granddad didn’t he? And what was your gift to Mr. Frodo?”

Sam laughed. “I’m sorry Daisy but that is the end. Lotho kept his toes in line, or at least we thought he did until the War. Mr. Frodo did tell Gaffer eventually, when it came time for us to leave for the Quest. There was no way Gaffer would have me stay in Hobbiton after he found that out.”

“Wait a minute,” Daisy said and looked at her father accusingly. “This was supposed to be a made up story.”

“Sorry, flower, I did my best, but the best way to make something up is to start with something that’s real,” Sam explained, smiling fondly at his daughter. He could see the wheels turning in her head already, trying to figure everything out. He waited patiently, an encouraging look on his face.

“Well,” Daisy started, considering everything carefully. “I know Mr. Frodo never left the Shire until the Quest, so all the things that happened on the Greenway and in Bree weren’t true. But then that would make almost the whole story untrue, because Mr. Frodo never would have left.”

“It’s true enough he never left the Shire,” Sam agreed. “He did disappear on us for a couple of weeks that summer, but that’s an entirely different story that will have to wait for another night. What else?”

“I don’t think the Ring could have done all that, not at that point. It wasn’t strong enough,” Daisy stated confidently. “Why not just stretch itself further and try to get hold of the Men directly?”

“Well, the Men wouldn’t know how to find Bag End would they?” Sam asked, more to give his daughter something else to think about than to deny or confirm her guess. He knew how much she enjoyed dissecting his stories and didn’t want to spoil anything for her.

Daisy considered this question carefully, but said nothing further on the topic. She would have to come back to it later. For now, she continued on with the next thought that popped into her head. “The fight still happened, obviously, you just said so, but not like in the story.”

Sam nodded. “No, not like that exactly. He certainly never chocked me, but he did knock me around pretty good. And he did apologize for it. He felt right awful for what he did.”

“I thought he was a monster, like Gollum was,” Daisy said, confused. She would never have thought someone like Lotho capable of feeling sorry about anything, not after the things he did.

“No, neither of them were monsters,” Sam said. “It’s a horrible thing, to yearn for something so completely you forget everything else that ever made you happy. That’s to live in despair and no one should have to live like that. If you never had anything to make you happy in the first place, that could make anyone bitter enough to do the things Lotho did.”

Daisy considered this. She had never thought of it that way before. It would be sad indeed to forget the things that made her happy, and to never have been happy at all, she couldn’t even imagine that.

Sam nodded. “They were, but for the first one, the one with the tunnel and the fog. That one was real.”

“That was about Shelob’s lair,” Daisy said knowledgeably. “And you were looking for Mr. Frodo.”

“I was indeed, and never finding him until it was too late,” Sam confirmed. “It was a dream I had many times after the War, when we were in Minas Tirith. It went away once we got home and got everything settled, until Mr. Frodo went over the Sea. Then Frodo-lad was born and I haven’t had it since.”

“I’m sorry you had it at all. It was a scary dream,” Daisy said sympathetically.

“It was, but it’s only a dream and dreams can’t hurt you,” Sam said and waited. He could tell Daisy had more questions.

“Was that what it felt like, when Mr. Frodo sailed away?” Daisy asked. “It felt like he died?”

Sam nodded slowly. “It did,” he admitted. “It is very much as though we lost him for good, more so for your Uncle Merry and Uncle Pippin than for me. I at least have the choice to see Mr. Frodo again, one day, though when that may be I have no clear idea.”

“So what else was made up?” Daisy finally asked. “What about Berwin and Hazel? I liked them, I don’t want them to be made up. Did that storm really happen? I know the Great One did, but the one in your story? Is that how Uncle Tom really asked Aunt Marigold to be promised? Were all those other places Mr. Frodo took his cousins to in Buckland real?”

Sam turned around and looked at his wife guiltily. “Rose-love, I was just finishing up.”

Rose gave him a doubtful look but spoke to her daughter instead. “Say good night, Daisy,” she instructed. Sam stood up and leaned over to kiss his daughter’s brow and tuck her in.

“Shhh. Maybe later. Good night, love,” Sam whispered. He picked up his candle, now burned low, and left his daughter’s room, closing the door gently behind him.

Daisy sighed heavily and stared through the darkness at the door. “Now I’m never going to know,” she mumbled. A minute later she was fast asleep.

Sam entered his room after his wife. He quickly dressed into his nightshirt and climbed into bed. He reached over and kissed Rose on the cheek and wrapped his arms snuggly around her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

“A little? It’s three in the morning,” Rose said. “Now Daisy’s going to be tired all day and you have a meeting in Michel Delving in case you’ve forgotten. You wanted to be heading out early for that. A little. This is why I don’t like you telling the children stories in bed.”

“It was just supposed to be a small story,” Sam attempted to defend himself, but he knew it was futile. This always happened and he had promised not to do it any more but… “Daisy couldn’t sleep. She was missing Elanor, so I thought I’d take her mind off it a bit.”

“Take your mind off it, you mean,” Rose said and sighed. “Oh Sam, I miss her too, but we’re going to have to get used to it. Our children are growing up, starting their own lives. Before too long, this smial will be empty again. It’s hard on all of us, but you still shouldn’t be telling the children such long stories. Knowing the mood you’ve been in, it was probably something dire. If she has nightmares because of this…”

“She won’t. Daisy learned to read with the Red Book. That lass isn’t afraid of anything,” Sam assured. “It won’t happen again.”

“Until the next time one of them can’t sleep,” Rose amended, knowing her husband far too well. He could never say no to them. She laughed softly. “You’re just a big softie Samwise Gamgee.”

“Luckily for you,” Rose said and leaned in to kiss her husband again. “Now get some sleep while you can. You have to be up in another three hours.”

“I’ll be up, and out before the children wake. Let Frodo-lad know I want to talk to him when I get home.”

Rose nodded and they snuggled closer together, Rose’s head tucked comfortably under Sam’s chin. Rose was soon asleep and Sam listened to his wife’s deep, even breaths, unable still to sleep himself. Truth was, he was missing more than just Elanor. He was missing his friend as well. Today marked the thirtieth anniversary of Frodo’s departure over the Sea. Thirty years. Where had the time gone?

The day brought with it the same comforting distractions Sam had come to rely on. His mayoral duties kept him well occupied from dawn to dusk, and when he returned home at twilight, he made his customary walk through the gardens. It was his way of unwinding after his long days, of remembering simpler times and quieter days, of being alone for just a few precious minutes. But on this night, his eldest son was there waiting for him.

“Honestly, Dad,” Frodo-lad teased, “you don’t need to check on my work every night.”

Sam bent down all the same to examine the flowerbeds for weeds, more for the feel of the fragrant soil beneath his fingers than for the worry of an overlooked weed he knew he would not find. “I just miss it I suppose,” he mumbled to himself.

Frodo nodded. “You wanted to talk with me?” he asked, wondering how long it would take to get a response.

He had seen his father in such wistful moods before. He would watch as the graying hobbit hunched over, humming softly under his breath an old folk song, the words long since forgotten, a far-away look in his eyes as memories of years long gone played themselves lazily in his mind’s eye. Then Elanor would come and hum with him and ease him back to his family and home. But Elanor was no longer here, and Frodo knew without her, his father could sit out here in the garden all night and not feel the cold.

His father was not humming tonight, however, and there was a sadness in his gaze Frodo had not seen before. He realized his father was not dreaming, merely thinking, perhaps even wishing, but not dreaming. This Frodo felt he could handle. So he waited for his father to finish his examination of the flowerbed, but when he still failed to rise again, Frodo instead sat beside him and waited some more.

The minutes passed slowly, as gentle and chilling as the breeze. In the fields beyond the gardens, crickets chirped their lonesome songs and leapt from blade of grass to blade of grass to find each other for a brief, frantic embrace and lose each other again. The stars above grew bright and brilliant, shining a soft pale light over the land that yearned for a moon that would not rise tonight, and still Frodo waited.

Just when he began to think they would remain there all night, Sam stirred. He pulled his hands from the soil and brushed them against his respectable suit.

“You’re doing a fine job, Frodo-lad. A right, fine job. Your granddad would be proud to see your garden.”

Sam nodded. “You know, I first came to work here when I was but a wee tot. Your grandmam had got real sick after your Aunt Marigold was born. She got into bed one winter morn, and never left it again. She died a week later. Gaffer was at a loss at what to do with all of us. He finally decided to leave the lasses and me with the Widow Rumble, though she weren’t no widow then. Then May came sick and I refused to leave his side. That’s when Mr. Bilbo started letting me run about the smial, seeing as it was the only way Gaffer could get aught done. Time came that Gaffer started showing about the gardens. Then one day he sat me down right here in this flowerbed he did, and let me dig the whole thing up as I pleased. Then he brought me out again the next day and showed me how to replant it all, as Mr. Bilbo pleased. That’s how I started working at Bag End. I never dared to dream that one day I would own it all, and now I don’t have any time for it hardly. I think, my lad, I may be getting ready to retire.”

“Right now?” Frodo asked, shocked out of his dismal mood. His father couldn’t be serious.

“Now, Fro, haven’t I told you before, that nothing ever happens ‘right now.’ Even things that seem to happen all of a sudden are a long time coming, you just weren’t looking in the right direction to see them approaching is all. Take Mr. Frodo for instance. I was over by that elm tree one morning pulling weeds, and I looked up and there he was, just standing in the midday sun, staring around at the garden as if it was the most wonderful thing he ever saw. Just appeared out of nowhere he did, or so I thought at the time, but his coming here had taken many a long year, been happening a little each day since his own parents died. I just didn’t know it. All I knew was I looked up, and there he was.”

“And you following him over the sea?” Frodo said, for he knew this was what his father wanted to speak with him about. About Daisy overhearing him and Elanor, and her uneasy mood since that night. This conversation was also a long time coming, Frodo realized, since he was just a wee tot himself, and his father found it difficult to say his full name, always having to call him Fro, or Frodo-lad. Never just Frodo. “That’s been coming since he left, hasn’t it? And now you’re talking about retiring.”

Sam said nothing, but reached out and brushed the lone tear that had slipped from his son’s eye.

“I’m talking about thinking about it. You know how long it can take me to come to a decision about things. You’ve got me for a while longer yet.”

Frodo could only nod, not trusting his voice to remain steady. He looked up at the stars, to the Sickle cutting across the sky, and Eärendil shining brightest of all, cold and lonely, the last remnant of the Elves who no longer dwelt in Middle-earth but for a few. Frodo had seen lesser stars fall sometimes and as he imagined the day that Eärendil itself would fall and leave the sky vacant and yearning for its light, he lost his resolve and sobbed softly into his father’s quickly offered shoulder.

The strong, reassuring arms encircling him were both a comfort and a painful reminder of what he would one day be losing. He clung to his father stubbornly, refusing to release him just yet, holding him just a little longer, and when finally his tears were spent, he pulled away and looked his father in the eyes and finally asked the question that had haunted him since his earliest memory, in a voice so weak even he could hardly hear it.

Sam didn’t answer right away, but waited until he was certain he could trust himself to say what the truth of his heart demanded. It grieved him to see his son in such pain, and he knew in the end he was powerless to stop it. He could perhaps ease it for a while. He could try.

“No, son, I don’t. I could never love anyone more than I love all of you, but I do love him, just as much. And just as I wouldn’t want to leave this world without seeing all of you and telling you farewell, I wouldn’t want to leave it without seeing him one last time either, the Valar willing. Since he can’t come back here, I’ll have to go to him. Can you understand that, lad?”

Sam smiled, joy creeping back into his eyes. “I’m glad. For I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are my home, not this garden, or this hole. You. All of you. My heart goes with each of you, wherever you may be and I will never truly leave you, as long as you have the strength to hold me in your heart always. Understand?”

Frodo nodded and smiled as one last tear slipped down his cheek. “I understand,” he said.

“Good. Now, dry your eyes, and we’ll go in to supper. This old hobbit is hungry and likely to fall over of starvation if I don’t get something to eat soon.”

Frodo laughed and nodded. He leaned into his father and breathed deeply the scent of the sleeping earth and his father’s warmth and they sat there a little while longer. Inside, he could hear the commotion of his many siblings preparing for the evening meal and his mother’s joyous laugh. And above them in the still night sky, unnoticed by the world, a star fell.

Frodo said good night to his cousins and Sam and went inside to his room. He changed into his nightshirt and got into bed, but he did not sleep. Not yet. He first opened the envelope Sam had given him. Inside, in Sam’s rough and pointed letters, was a poem, simple and honest. Frodo read it, touched by his friend’s sentiment, love and devotion.

“No my dear Sam,” he said softly to the crinkled paper in his hand. “It’s not improper at all.”

He read the poem once more, then carefully folded it up and placed it in his nightstand. He blew out the candles and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, knowing at last that he would never be left wanting for comfort again.

You once were innocent and strong,
Until one Spring your life went wrong.
You came here without hope or song,
Needing a home you may belong.

You were sad at the very start,
You hid behind a broken heart.
Your eyes so rarely showed a spark,
Your sorrow deep had left its mark.

Through all the years I watched you grow,
You took your grief and let it go.
In your face a shimmer and glow,
Brought out in you the friend I know.

You braved the heartache of your pain,
And learned to smile at the rain.
Courage and strength in you remains,
Despair no longer is your bane.

Don’t you know you inspire me?
Don’t you know the wisdom I see?
Don’t you know the way it will be?
I give my life to you freely.

For never is there doubt or greed,
For you only there is my creed:
I am your friend in trust and deed,
I am your friend in every need.

A Tale That Grew in the Telling by GamgeeFest