Disclaimer: Nope, I'm not Tolkien. I don't get any money from this. And sadly, I don't own the characters - but don't I wish I did! Oh, to have my very own Sam to plant me a lovely garden, cook delicious food, keep my house clean and provide plenty of cuddles! ... but hey, a fan can dream, can't she?

^ * ^ * ^ *

            “One, three, five, seven … twenty!” Samwise counted clumsily as he stood by the big oak tree with his little hands held tightly over his hazel eyes. “Here I come!” he called, uncovering his eyes only to see his older brother, Hamson, still lying in the grass beside him. “Why aren’t you hiding?” he grumbled, squinting down at him, hands on his hips – the image of his Gaffer when he was angry. “Remember, I hid last time – it’s your turn to be the hider.”

            Ham rolled over onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows to glance lazily at the younger hobbit. “I’m tired of this silly game, and besides – you can’t count right!”

            Sam slid to the ground sulkily, saying “I can, too, count right! Mister Bilbo is teaching me and those are real numbers. Anyways, you could’ve at least hid.” He buried his face in his stubbornly-crossed arms and muttered, “Stupid ninny hammer…”

            Hamson gasped, feigning shock. “And from my own brother,” he said, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t have said that, Sammy boy, oh no.”

            “Why? Sam asked cautiously, tensing his muscles as all nervous creatures do, ready for the instinctive ‘fight or flight’.

            “Well, I was just sitting outside the window the other day,” Ham sing-songed at Sam, thoroughly enjoying this, “and I happened to, er … ‘overhear’ Gaffer and Bilbo. Now, being the kind brother that I am, I was going to tell you, but after that remark …”

            “Oh please, Ham, please!” Sam jumped up.

            “No, you obviously don’t deserve to know,” Ham replied sadly as he stood and began walking down the grassy hill of Bag-end without a single glance back, leaving Sam to stand dejectedly by the tree, arms hanging limply by his sides.

            “Ham! Wait! What is it?” he called helplessly.

            “Oh, nothing…” Ham replied casually, still on his way down the hill, pausing for a moment before saying “It’s just that Bilbo’s bringing some relative of his to live at the Hill.”

/ ^ / ^ / - - - *

            The next few days were all hustle and bustle, with Gaffer Gamgee and his children scrubbing Bag-end from top to bottom, preparing a room for the ‘young Master’, as they began referring to the mysterious hobbit as. Sam himself was set to preparing a small meal for the Bagginses to eat after their long journey. Bilbo Baggins had also requested a gooseberry pie, saying it was his nephew’s favorite.

            Rumors abounded concerning this young Master. Those who frequented the Green Dragon reported hearing that this so-called Baggins was part Brandybuck and had been raised by them in the ‘savage lands’ of Buckland. There were also rumors about his parents, but Gaffer refused to allow Sam to hear any of these. Desperate for information, Sam turned to what he deemed a more reliable source – Master Bilbo himself.

/ ^ / ^ / - - - *

            Bilbo sat in his study with Samwise just as they did each afternoon when there were no chores that needed doing.

            “Good, good,” he said as Sam slowly scratched clumsy letters onto a scrap of paper. “But here – hold the quill like this, gently, and don’t press down quite so hard. There.”

            Sam wrote out the letters again, much neater this time, after following Bilbo’s instructions.

            “I did it! S-A-M. Sam!” He clapped his hands in delight, nearly upsetting the inkwell. “Oops – sorry Master!”

            That’s fine, lad. Just be careful – your dad would be none too happy if you stained your nice white shirt!”

            This brought a sigh from Sam’s lips. “He don’t really hold with me getting’ these lessons in the first place …”

            “Your Gaffer’s just set in his ways. Don’t fret over it. I’ve spoken to him about it before and he knows I fully intend to continue these sessions with you. You’re a bright boy and it’d be a shame to put that mind to waste.” He ruffled the young Gamgee’s sandy brown hair affectionately. “You seem as much a nephew to me as Frodo sometimes.”

            Sam looked up quizzically at the name. “Frodo? Is that who’s comin’ here, sir?”

              “Indeed, he is!” Bilbo smiled. “I think he’s a bit older than you – how old are you again, lad?”

            “I was nine this spring, sir.”

            “Ah. Well, Frodo is turning twenty one in a few weeks’ time – we have the same birthday, you know.”

            Sam’s face fell slightly. “Maybe he won’t like me then, I’m so much younger’n him.”

            A comforting hand patted his shoulder as Bilbo assured him this wouldn’t be so, for Frodo loved stories as much as Sam did.

            “And his mum and dad let him? Wait – why is he leavin’ them, sir? Beggin’ your pardon, but it don’t seem right to separate them.”

            Bilbo looked troubled. “I won’t touch on that subject, little one. There are enough tongues wagging about it as it is.” He sighed sadly and looked out the round window with an expression that Sam knew meant this interview was over. Sam crept quietly out, leaving Bilbo to his thoughts.

/ ^ / ^ / - - - *

            His curiosity was only heightened after that encounter and the anticipation was almost too much for Samwise. Bilbo had left the next morning on the trip which would take a little over a week there and back. Sam busied himself with meal plans but often found himself daydreaming instead, which had earned him several scoldings from the Gaffer, who said,

            “How d’you expect things to be ready for the young Master if you just go off like that? After all Mister Bilbo’s done for you?”

            That got Sam right back on track, but he still stole a few moments to wonder about Bilbo’s nephew and whisper the lovely-sounding name to himself: Frodo. It seemed foreign, almost Elvish to his ears and he pictured the new hobbit as one of the ethereal sketches in Bilbo's books. Sam had never seen or met an Elf, but dearly wished to, so he hoped to find something like that in Frodo.

After waiting for what seemed like months, the big day finally dawned. Gaffer ran the final inspections, announcing that everything was ready. Sam wore his best breeches and, an early birthday present from Bilbo, a new, green vest. He had never worn anything so fine and Sam was afraid to move and risk damaging the silky material and its lovely brass buttons. He lined up outside of Bag-end with his siblings, gazing down the road at distant dust clouds - the heralds of Bilbo's wagon. It began to rain softly as the wagon came into view at last, raindrops turning dirt to mud beneath Sam's feet. A slight figure was visible beside Bilbo, and Sam examined him as the wagon pulled up at the Hill.

Frodo was rather pale and skinny for a hobbit, but not sickly looking. In stark contrast to his complexion was his head of curls, blacker than any nighttime shadow Sam had ever seen. But it was when Frodo glanced over at Sam, reacting to his stare, that the Gamgee was taken by surprise. His eyes were a startling color of icy blue, like the rain that now fell, and they seemed to pierce Sam's own soft brown ones with an intensity that made Sam look away. When he looked up again, Bilbo was hurrying Frodo inside, out of the chilly rainfall.

"Sam," the Gaffer said was he lifted out a trunk and a few stacks of books, held together straps, from the wagon, "stop gawking. Go inside and get the food set out. The lad must be starving."

He hurried off to the kitchen to do was he was bid. He laid the potatoes, bowls of vegetables and the roasted chicken he had carefully prepared out on the clean white linens. Hearing footsteps in the hall, he sped out of the dining room and back to the kitchen, where he had set aside a plat of food for himself. He was shy of the new hobbit, so as soon and Bilbo and his nephew had sat, he snuck out to eat in a nook down the hall. In Bag-end's many rooms it was rather easy to disappear; something that Sam often took advantage of.

As soon as he'd polished off the small piece of chicken and roasted potatoes, he hopped up and walked softly back towards the kitchen. Though he had taken great care to pass the door by quickly, he wasn't quick enough.

"There you are, Sam lad!" Bilbo called out. "I was wondering where you went off to. Put your plate in the kitchen, get one of your lovely pies and come join us."

"Yessir ..." Sam trudged off to do so and soon returned with a perfectly golden gooseberry pie.

"Take that seat beside Frodo," Bilbo offered, gesturing with one hand and reaching for a piece of pie with the other.

As Sam sat beside him, Frodo smiled, his blue eyes shining brightly. "Hullo there." His voice was melodic, reminding Sam of a brook. "I'm Frodo, Frodo Baggins." He paused and looked over at Sam who still just sat shyly. "What are you so nervous about? I won't hurt you."

At this Sam broke into a grin. "My name's Sam, -er, Samwise. Gaffer Gamgee's my dad."

"And you made all this food for m, didn't you?" Sam nodded his curly head in response. "You know, gooseberry pie is my favorite."

"Oh, Mister Bilbo told me, sir. He also said that you love stories like I do.'

"Indeed I do," Frodo said. "In fact, if you come help me unpack I'll show you some of the books I brought with me."

"Yes, please, sir!"

"Ah, now that's much better," Frodo said as he stood. "You'll have to help me find it - this is a huge place, I don't really know my way around yet."

Bilbo piped in. "It's the room by the library, you know the one, lad."

"C'mon, Mr. Frodo - it's this way. I helped get your room ready yesterday." He had Frodo by the hand and at his hurried pace they arrived in a matter of moments.

Frodo found himself gazing around a spacious room full of furniture that appeared to be made of mahogany, including a desk and a huge, partially filled, bookcase.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Sam cut into his silence, pointing out the leaf-ornamented sconces. "That's Elvish, that is. Master Bilbo says he'll teach me to read that language someday, but I'm still workin' on learning Westron."

Frodo knelt down beside his trunk, picked up one of the stacks of books and undid the leather straps. He held two up saying, “Well, would you like to see some of my books? See - Bilbo translated this one," he handed it to Sam, "into Elvish for me." he held up another.

Sam flipped through the book that he was given, glancing over to compare it to the one Frodo held open.

"You can read both of these?" he asked in awe.

"Well," Frodo replied, "this is one of the first stories I ever read - it's much simpler than most of the stories in Bilbo's library. The Elvish version is still a bit difficult for me; I haven't had much chance for lessons, just a couple days at a time when Bilbo used to visit the Hall."

Sam flipped through the Westron one again, looking for familiar words and gasped when he saw the inside cover. "Why, Mr. Frodo! Someone's gone and written on your lovely book!" He held it up as evidence.

Frodo laughed, as sound Sam remembered later as being like bells, saying, "Oh, Sam! That's just a note from the person who gave it to me, as a remembrance. It says, 'To Our Dear Little Frodo, all our love ...' "

Sam broke in, "That's from your mum and dad, isn't it? Why did they let you come to live here? Mister Bilbo wouldn't tell me."

Frodo's face fell and he hastily put the books away. As he spoke, it seemed to Sam that the watery quality in this voice had frozen over. "I - I'm tired, Sam. I think I'll go to bed now." He bent his head and riffled through some items in his trunk. Still sensing the young gardener's presence, he glanced up for a moment to administer a harsh "Goodnight, Samwise" on the curly head.

"Goodnight, sir ..." Sam replied softly as he walked out, closing the door behind him.

Frodo heard the clink and fell back on his heels, allowing the stinging tears to run down his face and clutching a wrinkled portrait to his chest.

 ^ * ^ * ^ *

TBC. A/N - And so ends Chapter One ... And hopefully now it's review time! I would dearly love to hear from you and if you do a gold star is automatically plastered on your forehead! Wow! And all you have to do is hit that little button ;) ...

Disclaimer: No, I'm not Tolkien. I'm not an Oxford professor, I don't live in England, and I don't make any money off of these stories - aw, man!

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Frodo woke late the next morning after a restless sleep, startled at first by his unfamiliar surroundings. He lifted a hand to his eyes and found them to be swollen and encrusted with the dried salt of his tears, reminding him of the events of the previous night: Uncle Bilbo, Bag-end, his own room. With those thoughts came images of a small, sandy-haired hobbit lad backing out of that same room, the pain of rejection etched clearly on his round face. Frodo buried his face in one of the soft pillows, ashamed at having hurt the one who had been so kind to him.

He reached under the pillow for the paper he knew was there and pulled it out, smoothing the creases that lay over the image of his dear mother and father. He fought back another storm of tears as memories of his parents came rushing back as surely as the river that had swept them away from him. He shook his head, coming back to the present and his situation with Sam. Bag-end was his home now, Bilbo his guardian, and Sam could be what he had dearly wished for: a friend.

“I won’t let you down,” he whispered tenderly to the portrait before carefully placing it on his nightstand. “I will make a place for myself here, make you proud of me.”

/ ^ / ^ - - - *

            Though he had yet to learn the layout of Bag-end’s halls, the enticing smell of frying bacon and fresh-brewed tea led Frodo to the kitchen. There, by the hot stove, stood Samwise Gamgee. His focus was on the skillet of hot bacon and so he did not notice the new presence in the room until Frodo broke the silence with a murmured Good morning, Sam. Straightening with a start, Sam whirled around, nearly upsetting the tray of biscuits that lay on the counter.

            “M-m-m-mister Frodo, sir. G’mornin’ to you as well. I’ll just set out your breakfast an’ be out of your way.” As he spoke he reached for a finely painted plate from the nearby cupboard and placing several of the fluffy biscuits on it. When he reached a shaky hand for the butter crock, Frodo stopped him.

            “Wait, Sam. Don’t be in such a hurry to go. I … I wish to talk to you about last night.”

            “Oh, no, sir. No need. I stepped out of my place, bein’ so forward and pestering you with all my questions.” He hung his head ashamedly, shuffling his feet. Frodo’s position between himself and the door made escape impossible, so he remained there, shifting uncomfortably, awaiting his fate.

            Frodo let out a sigh, hanging his head himself. “No, it is I who should be apologizing. What happened was not your fault, it was mine. I should not have reacted that way, I should not have sent you away, I should have given you an explanation”. He lifted his head, holding Sam’s gaze. “I know that there must be a lot of gossip circulating about me. Why I’m here, where my parents are …”

            Sam cut in abruptly. “Oh, yes, sir. But I din’na listen to any of it. My gaffer tol’ me not to listen to any of those busybodies – I mean, those folks who was talkin’ about you,” he finished sheepishly.

            Smiling kindly, Frodo went on. “That was very kind of your gaffer. You see, some of those rumors are very cruel. My parents … they drowned in the Brandywine River when I was twelve years old …” his voice trailed off as memories of that day snaked through his mind, but he fought them back and continued. “I lived with my aunt and uncle in Brandy Hall before Bilbo adopted me, and it seems that in those years the story of their death was twisted into several different, horrible versions. Some even say that my mother was pushed in by my father and she pulled him in after her.” Tears swam in his eyes and he brushed them away angrily and looked back up to see Sam holding out his handkerchief for him. “Thank you”.

            Sam watched sadly as Frodo dabbed at his streaming eyes. “I’m sorry ‘bout all those folks causin’ this trouble. It ain’t right. There are kinder hobbits here as well, not just ninnyhammers like them.”

            “Hobbits like you, Sam,” Frodo replied with a smile. “I would like to be your friend. Is there any way I can make up for how I acted?”

            “Oh, no!” Sam cried, horrified. “You’ve nothin’ to make up for, sir, you …”

            “Now, Sam. I know very well that it was wrong of me to treat you that way. I insist you let me do something for you. That’s what friends do, is it not? Now, you said that Bilbo was teaching you your letters. How would you like to work on those with me today?”

            He was rewarded with the sight of Sam’s lit up with delight at the proposition and his enthusiastic reply of “Yes, if you please, sir.”

            “Shall we go into the study after breakfast, or will Bilbo be in there – where is he, by the way?”

            “Right here lads”. A voice from the door made them both jump. The master of Bag-end stood there surveying them with a gleam in his eye. “It seems you two are getting along fine. Let’s all sit down to the table, shall we? Frodo, be a good lad and bring that fine plate of biscuits there”.

            Sam hurried to gather the rest of what was needed and set it on the table, accepting an invitation to stay and eat after being practically forced onto the bench seat by Bilbo himself. Once his awkwardness at ‘dining with the master’ vanished, he found himself drawn into a conversation with Frodo about plans for a garden outside his bedroom window.

/ ^ / ^ - - - *

            Once the dishes were cleared, Frodo and Sam settled down at Bilbo’s desk in the cluttered study. The older hobbit had gone off to town for a few items and so the space was available to them until later in the afternoon. Sheets of fresh parchment lay in a pile in front of Sam, who sat with a quill clutched in his unsteady hand. Frodo had promised to teach him his first letters of Elvish by showing him how to write his name in the beautiful language.

            Sam bit his lip in concentration as he struggled to copy the beautiful lines and flourishes Frodo had written at the top of the page. He could hardly believe that his simple hobbit name was represented by those letters. The result of his first attempt was hardly a match for Frodo’s neat handwriting, but could certainly be identified as the same figures.

            “That’s wonderful, Sam,” Frodo said as he examined the parchment. “You very nearly have it. It took me weeks to get my letters to look like that.”

            Sam beamed and blushed at the praise. “I wish I could read more o’ those letters, like the ones in Mister Bilbo’s books,” he said with a sigh.

            “I’ll be happy to be able to get lessons from Bilbo more often now,” Frodo said. “I’d like to get into some of those books myself. We’ll try to work on your Elvish some, but I think that perhaps we should focus on Westron to begin with. That will make the Elvish easier to learn once you can write well in that language.”

            Sam agreed with a fervent nod, glad for any opportunity to learn. His gaffer may call the lessons frivolous, but Sam wanted very much to be able to write things like the gentry did, to be able to speak and write that beautiful language like Mister Bilbo and Mister Frodo could. Just as he thought this, a searching voice drifted in the open window.

            “Samwise? Where have you gotten to, lad?”

            Sam got up quickly. “It’s my gaffer!” he cried. “I must be going, sir. He don’t exactly approve of me learning my letters like this, an’ I’ve got to go out and help him with putting the mulch on the flowers by the front path, an’ …”

            Frodo stopped him with a kind hand on his shoulder. “It’s quite alright, Sam. I understand that your gaffer needs you, but I hope that we will be able to continue these lessons sometime.”

            “Of course, sir,” Sam replied right away, “Mister Bilbo said he would talk to him about lettin’ me come. He wouldn’t say no to the Master if he pressed him about somethin’.”

            “Good. I would hate to lose your company. We are friends now, aren’t we? I dearly hope so, I’ve never really had any true friends.”

            “Yes, I am, sir,” Sam said simply, grinning at him as he rushed out the door to join his father in the garden.

            Frodo wandered over to one of the many filled bookcases, browsing the titles, unable to suppress a smile as it sunk in that he had found a friend at last.

^ * ^ * ^ *

TBC!

A/N: yay! another chappie up at last - it took me long enough! The special gift that will be awarded to reviews on this chapter will be ... a big slice of chocolate cake and a tall glass of milk. yummy! So hit that beautiful review button ... it gets lonely down there all by itself.