Summary: Frodo wonders what to do when Sam loses his mother.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Author note: You are invited to see my LJ here.

In the summer of 1392, nearly two weeks before the third anniversary of the day I came to live with Bilbo at Bag End, Bell Gamgee died.

I first heard the news from Bilbo. I had risen that morning to find him gone, but he had left a note on the kitchen table saying that he was at the Gamgees', that it was nothing I should trouble myself with, and that I should go ahead and make us both breakfast if he wasn't back by the time I got up. I had just finished my second cup of tea, and was eyeing the portion of scones I had meant to save for Bilbo, when I heard the front door open and close.

A few minutes later, Bilbo came into the kitchen, looking as disheveled as I had ever seen him, his kind, mobile face drooping as he scrubbed wearily at his hair with one hand.

I stared at him in shock. I'd never known Bilbo to look so -- so sad. So old and tired. "Uncle?"

He glanced at me and quirked one corner of his mouth upward, as if a full smile would have taken too much effort. "Frodo. You're up, I see. Is there any jam left for those scones?"

I was near bursting between curiosity and dread, but I quickly retrieved the jam jar and knife, and set them in front of him as he sat at the table. I poured him some tea, and waited until he had taken a sip before I asked him, "Uncle, what's happened?"

He set down his cup very carefully, then he sighed and looked up into my eyes. "Mistress Bell has passed on."

"What?" I sat heavily in my chair, my mouth gone dry. The scones, cheese, and apples I had eaten for breakfast suddenly seemed to turn into rocks in my stomach.

"Halfred came up the Hill a little after midnight to fetch me. They had also sent for the healer, but she was gone by the time Miss Tilly got there. A sudden seizure of the heart, Miss Tilly says."

"Why didn't you wake me?" My voice sounded strangled to my ears, muffled by the pounding of my heart.

"Forgive me, my lad," Bilbo said quietly. "I thought it kinder not to do so. There was nothing you or anyone could have done. It was that quick."

I swallowed heavily, fighting to steady myself even as the tears stung behind my eyes. "How are the Gaffer and the children?"

"The older ones were still in shock when I left them. As for Sam and Marigold, they hadn't awakened. I stayed long enough to let Master Hamfast know that he shouldn't hesitate to ask for anything at all, though I don't know if he heard me. Even if he did, it will be a wonder if he takes me up on it, knowing how proud he can be. But I intend to help them in any way I can."

"And I will, too," I declared with a sniffle. "She was always so kind to me, Uncle Bilbo. I can't believe she's gone."

"I know, my lad. Neither can I."

***

The days that followed were full of activity: funeral arrangements, visits to the Gamgees', helping to prepare for the relatives who were coming to pay their respects. Bilbo and I both did our best to provide aid and support to the Gamgees, for they were not just our servants but our closest friends in many ways.

Bilbo baked like a hobbit possessed: all manner of cakes, pies, breads, and pastries. He also insisted on paying Miss Tilly for her time and trouble, as well as the gravedigger, Mr. Cobb. I mostly ran errands, taking Bilbo's food-gifts to the Gamgees, or taking his letters of condolence to be sent to the relatives through the Post. I also did the bulk of the cleaning that week, to give Daisy and May the time they needed to mourn their mother. It never felt like enough.

Though it was plain that all the Gamgees were devastated, I found the main part of my concern centered on Sam. I had always held a certain affection for him -- indeed, it would have been difficult not to do so. Sam had the most simple, loving, and unselfish nature I had ever seen in a child so young, and he had made it obvious from the first that he adored me. What I had done to deserve such regard, I had no idea, but I did my best to live up to it nonetheless.

In this time of bereavement, of all the Gamgees, Sam was the one I felt for the most. It struck me, a few days after Mistress Bell's passing, just why that might be. Sam was twelve -- the same age I had been that night back in Buckland, when I had gone to bed a happy child with two loving parents, and awakened the next morning to find myself an orphan.

Now at last I understood the helplessness that my Buckland relatives must have felt then. How awkward it was for me now that I was on the other side! I longed to say something to Sam that would comfort him, yet I knew from my own experience that nothing I could say or do would have any immediate good effect. But words or actions on my part were moot in any case, for somehow I never got a moment alone with Sam during that week.

The day of the funeral came. Mistress Bell was interred in the small Gamgee plot, in a shady spot behind the Hill. Bilbo presided, wearing the most somber clothes he owned, and speaking movingly of Bell Gamgee's life, of her devotion to her family and generosity to her neighbors. As he spoke, and indeed all through the funeral, my eyes went most of all to Sam. He was standing so straight and still between his two brothers that he seemed to have turned to stone. All I could think was that I must have looked much the same when my parents were laid to rest.

The next morning, he went missing.

It was Hamson who appeared at our door, wringing his cap in his hand, to ask for our help, as Sam had not appeared at breakfast, and his bed had not been slept in. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Bilbo, Mr. Frodo, sirs, but we're at our wits' end. We've looked everywhere we can think of: the garden shed, the Twofoots' hole, all the barns and haystacks near enough for him to have walked to in the night. We thought maybe you might know of a few more places he might be."

Bilbo was already moving, gathering cloaks and walking sticks. "I'll help in any way I can, of course, Hamson, though I'm afraid I don't know offhand of any places other than the ones you mentioned."

"I do," I said suddenly. At their startled, questioning looks, I felt myself flush a little. "I mean, I think I do."

"Where's that, my lad?" Bilbo asked.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo, but I'd rather not say, if you don't mind. It's somewhere Sam showed me once, in private, and I think he may have gone back there." As I spoke, I took my cloak from Bilbo and put it on.

"Are you sure?"

I shrugged. "Not entirely, no. But I remember when -- when my parents died -- there was a spot I thought of as my secret place, and I went there whenever I needed to...escape."

Hamson was frowning in puzzlement. "Escape, Mr. Frodo?"

"That's what I said." I laid a hand on his shoulder. "You and the rest of the family have done nothing wrong, Hamson. But I remember well how I felt, and I was the same age he is now. Sometimes the -- the feeling just got to be too much, and I had to get away for a while, to somewhere where I didn't have to be brave. Then I would come back when I felt I could face things again."

"But Sam could be hurt out there." Hamson's voice grew a little higher, and seemed to tremble. I saw the glitter of tears in his eyes.

"I know, Hamson. I'll go and check the -- the place I'm thinking of. If I'm wrong, I'll come back and help search."

Bilbo was nodding. "Very well, Frodo. We'll wait for you at the Gamgees'."

***

Dragonhold was a cave Sam had taken me to, one day the previous summer. Well, to be precise, it wasn't really a cave; it was more of a hollow in the side of a modest cliff, a mile or two from the Hill. The rock in the area was too hard and too close to the surface of the soil for building hobbit holes, but part of the land there had subsided and created a place just large enough for two, or possibly three, hobbits to sit inside.

I found it hard to believe that nobody else knew of the "cave", but Sam seemed sure that that was the case, and I had neither heard nor seen anything to prove otherwise. He confided to me that it was just like he imagined Smaug's cave might have been, except, he conceded, that it was likely a bit smaller. So I named it Dragonhold, and he was happy.

As I approached, I saw that my guess had been right: there were the remains of a small campfire just outside the hollow. I stepped up to its mouth, and peered inside. "Sam?"

"Mr. Frodo?" said a sleepy voice, from a shadow that stirred from the sandy floor.

"Sam, thank goodness I've found you! Your family is very worried, you know." Bending a little, I carefully stepped inside. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Sam sitting up slowly and stiffly, letting fall the blanket that had covered him. There was a small pack nearby -- the one Bilbo had given him last year at our birthday. So, he had taken the time to plan, and to bring with him what he needed. I was at once relieved, impressed, and saddened.

I put aside the mix of emotions, and knelt beside him. "Are you all right, Sam?"

He nodded. "I'm right sorry, Mr. Frodo. I just...I reckon I got a mite upset last night, and I thought I'd come here to be alone for a while. I didn't mean to worry anybody, truly I didn't. But after I ate what I brought, I lay down to close my eyes just for a bit, and, well, I guess I slept longer than I thought I would." After a pause, he peered anxiously into my face. "Are they angry with me?"

"I don't believe so," I said. "But you really should have asked someone, you know, or at least told them where you'd be."

"I reckoned they wouldn't notice afore I came back." He shrugged, lowering his gaze as his face colored. "No one's hardly talked to me since Mum died."

"Well, they noticed, all right. Hamson even came up the Hill to ask me and Uncle Bilbo if we had any idea of where else to look that they hadn't thought of. He nearly cried, in front of us, Sam, if that tells you how much they care. He was afraid you were lying somewhere, hurt."

Sam's head bent even lower, his whole body going rigid. I watched, dismayed. I hadn't meant to upset the lad further, just to let him know that his family loved him and was concerned for him. For a long moment, that feeling of helplessness came over me, and I sat frozen.

Finally, though, I felt I had to move, or else shatter into pieces. I touched him on the shoulder, and this seemed to trigger something at last -- a release. Suddenly my arms were full of Sam, trembling, his breath coming in gasps as he wept. All I could think to do was to simply hold him, one hand buried in his hair to stroke it.

Finally he pulled away, and slowly raised his eyes to mine. A look of horror came into them, as if he had only now realized whose shirt he had just soaked.

"I -- I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo!" he managed.

"It's all right, Sam," I told him gently. From a back pocket, I produced a handkerchief and handed it to him, only to watch in bemusement as he attempted to wipe my shirt instead of his running nose. I stopped him by taking his hand and guiding it to his own face. Wide-eyed, he complied, blotting his eyes and blowing his nose.

"I didn't mean to ruin your fine shirt, Mr. Frodo," he gulped.

"It's hardly ruined, Sam. Even if it were, I have plenty of other shirts." I smiled, and brushed back a stray lock of his hair. "Feeling better?"

Sam exhaled shakily, my handkerchief pressed to his mouth. "I reckon so, sir. A little."

"Good." I held out my arm, inviting him to lean against me, and after a glance around -- as if to make sure no one was watching -- he did so. We sat like that for a short while in silence.

"Mr. Frodo?" His voice was very soft, half muffled against my side.

"Yes, Sam?"

"Did -- did you cry when your mum and dad died?"

The question startled me, and I had to take a moment to compose myself before I could answer. "Not for a while," I said at last, quietly.

"Why not?"

I sighed. "I'm not sure. I think it was because everyone else was so sad, and somehow I got it into my head that if I cried, it would only upset them all even more. And if I upset them, they might send me away, and I had nowhere to go. Of course, I realized later that they wouldn't have done anything of the sort, but at the time I didn't know any better. I was only twelve, after all."

"You mean, you were the same age I am now?" Sam asked.

"That's right. I think I only cried when I finally couldn't hold it in any longer."

He sniffled. "Like me, just now?"

"Yes." I stroked his hair again.

Sam was quiet again for a few moments. "How did they die, Mr. Frodo? If you don't mind my askin'. No one's ever really told me about it, you see," he added in a rush, as if afraid he'd offended me.

"No, I don't mind, Sam." I paused, steeling myself to remain calm against the memories. "We were staying at Brandy Hall for my cousin Milo Burrows' coming-of-age. One night, they went out boating together on the Brandywine River, and -- "

Sam interrupted. "Why would they want to go out on the water?" He didn't sound judgmental, as some people did when they discussed my parents' ends, thinking I was out of earshot, of course. He sounded merely honestly puzzled. "My Gaffer says 'tain't natural. Hobbits wasn't made for no such things."

I smiled sadly. "Well, folks in Buckland don't feel the same way as your Gaffer. They grow up by the river, you see. So they know a bit more about it, and they're more comfortable with it, than people are here in Hobbiton. My mother was a Brandybuck, so she knew a thing or two about boating." My voice dropped lower as I recalled what the Shirriffs had pieced together after the accident. "It was spring, and the river was high because it had been raining for three days. But they thought it would be safe enough for a short trip. However, it turned out that the boat was unsound. It sprang a leak, and broke apart as it filled with water." I drew a deep breath to steady myself. "My father was from Hobbiton, so he didn't know how to swim. My mother did, but the current was too strong for her. She might still have been able to get to the shore, if she hadn't tried to save my father. But she did, and failed, and they both drowned."

Sam shifted slightly, and I looked down to see his solemn hazel eyes gazing up at me. "I'm awful sorry, Mr. Frodo."

"Thank you, Sam," I said, touched that he would pull himself out of his own grief to console me.

"It must'a been even worse for you than for me. Losin' 'em both, so sudden-like." He reddened a little as I knit my brow quizzically, but went on. "And you not havin' any brothers or sisters. I got mine, at least. And the Gaffer."

"And me and Bilbo, and the Cottons," I reminded him. "But really, Sam, it's not as if I had no one at all. And there's no point in comparing your grief to mine, or anyone else's. What matters is that your life has changed, and you're sad and hurting."

Sam absorbed this somberly for a moment, then ventured, "Do you still feel sad, Mr. Frodo?"

I knew what he was really asking: will the hurt ever go away? "Sometimes," I said at last, after some thought. "I won't lie to you, Sam. For me, the hurt has never gone away, not completely, no matter how much I love Uncle Bilbo or how good my new life here is. There are still times when I miss my parents terribly and wish that I had them back again. But it has gotten easier to bear, over time."

He seemed to give that a great deal of serious consideration. Then he looked up at me again. "I reckon havin' Mr. Bilbo helps, too."

"It does," I agreed fervently. "And so does having some other people. Like my cousins Sara and Esme, and Merry, and the Took girls, and Freddy, and -- well, I have far too many cousins to name right now, so I'll just say all of them, or rather, almost all." I pointed to the end of my nose, knowing that Sam would immediately think of a certain someone who had a prominent blemish there, caused by an infected pimple: Lotho.

Sam laughed, then clapped his hands over his mouth, blushing, as if he had startled himself.

I grinned. "You see? It got a little better, there, just for a moment, didn't it?"

"I reckon so," he said, sounding a bit reluctant to admit it. He sighed. "I'd best be gettin' myself home now, Mr. Frodo. I don't like thinkin' of them all worried for me."

He rose, and I moved aside to help him roll up the blanket and stuff it into the pack with the little frying pan he had brought. We worked together for a few minutes, without speaking.

"Do you know what else helps, Sam?" I said at last, after I helped settle the pack onto his back, and stepped out with him into the light.

"What, Mr. Frodo?"

"You do. You, and all your family." I smiled at him, and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Maybe from now on, we can help each other."

He actually smiled back, fleetingly, but it was there. "I'd surely like that, Mr. Frodo."

"So would I, Sam."

I started off, back towards the Hill and Bagshot Row, knowing that he was behind me, as somehow I guessed he always would be.

~end~