A/N: This is the third and final installment of the Making of a Ringbearer series.  There are some minor OC’s from the earlier stories who reappear in this one, but each story stands alone.  “Adrift” spans the time from the death of Frodo’s parents to his adoption by Bilbo.  “Anchored” spans the time from the adoption until the Long Expected Party.  “Aweigh” begins a few years after Bilbo’s departure and extends to the Conspiracy.  All three parts are primarily about Frodo, but in “Aweigh” I’m going to focus more on the relationships among Frodo, Merry, Sam, and Pippin than I have previously.

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Lord of the Rings or any of its characters, all of which were created by J.R.R. Tolkien.  I do not profit financially from this story.

1.  Merry Comes to Visit

Late March 1405

Merry reached out to pull the bell cord, and hesitated, letting his hand drop back to his side.  He shifted from foot to foot, and made another abortive attempt to signal his presence.

A scowl crossed the tweenager’s face.  “This is silly,” Merry muttered to himself.  “I’ve visited Frodo plenty of times.  Every year, in fact, since Bilbo went away.”  But usually he arrived in late summer, not early spring.  He knew his parents had written Frodo and received his consent to this change in plans, but he didn’t know what Frodo thought of the reason for it.

“It’s only Frodo,” Merry reminded himself, unconvincingly, for he had to admit, if only to himself, that he cared for Frodo’s good opinion as much as anyone else’s.  More, perhaps.  He scuffed his toe against the corner of his trunk.  He always had a wonderful time when he stayed with Frodo, but part of him worried this visit wouldn’t be all fun and games.  He would be here at least six months, for one thing, unless he got in trouble and Frodo sent him away, too.

Where would he go in that event, if his exile from Brandy Hall was not yet over?  Tookland, perhaps.  It was certainly convenient that he had relatives all over the Shire—

“Merry?  What on earth are you doing out here?”

Merry started, then glared.  “I only just got here, Frodo.  I was just about to ring the bell.”  He looked away, knowing he sounded too defensive.

Frodo looked at him quizzically.  “I heard a wagon drive off ten minutes ago.”  He leaned past Merry to peer into the dusk.  “Saradoc didn’t stay?  I should’ve liked to offer him some refreshment before his return journey.”

Merry bristled.  “I’m not a child, who has to be accompanied to the door,” he retorted.

Frodo regarded him for a moment, not reacting to Merry’s rather ungracious tone.  “Well, come in then, unless you mean to camp out on my doorstep.  You must be hungry; I’ve got plenty of food laid by.”

Frodo picked up Merry’s trunk and led the way into the familiar foyer.  “I suppose you want your usual room?” he called over his shoulder.

“I suppose,” Merry said heavily, trailing behind his cousin.

Frodo cast him a sharp glance, but said nothing more until he had set down the trunk in Merry’s room.

“All right, Merry, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or are you going to keep me guessing until Midsummer?”

Merry stiffened and turned to glare at his cousin.  “You know full well what the matter is,” he blazed, angry that Frodo would feign ignorance.

Frodo looked surprised.  “Why no, I don’t,” he said.

Merry dropped into a chair, unaccountably annoyed by Frodo’s unflappability.  Saradoc would be shouting by now.  When he finally looked up, Frodo was still watching him, head tilted.  He looked the same as always, and hadn’t treated Merry any differently so far, but the nervous knot in Merry’s stomach hadn’t gone away.

“I’m surprised you agreed to take me for so long,” Merry blustered, gladly swallowing that wretched vulnerable feeling.

Frodo looked at him thoughtfully.  “You’re one of my dearest friends, Merry.  Surely you didn’t doubt your welcome?”

Merry squirmed, uncomfortable, and now embarrassed by his display of temper.  “Well, not normally, of course, but in this case... that is—my father wrote you what happened, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Frodo, and Merry was relieved to see only sympathy in Frodo’s eyes and no judgment.  “He didn’t go into the particulars, and of course you needn’t tell me anything if you’d rather not.  Although I’m awfully curious to know what you said to Old Rory to make him ‘sick of the sight’ of you, and to want you out of his hair for so long.”

The bright blue eyes were smiling at him, and the knot in Merry’s stomach loosened a little. 

“You don’t think any less of me?”

Frodo looked at him.  “Don’t be a ninny.  Old Rory is a touchy old bird.  Forget about it, and thank your lucky stars you ended up here with me.  We’ll have a fine time, Merry.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Merry exclaimed.  “I was rather afraid you’d think badly of me.  And, I don’t know, make me sit in my room and think on my misdeeds.” 

Frodo looked startled by the idea.  “Whatever gave you such a notion, Merry?”

“It was all my dad’s idea, sending me here,” Merry admitted.  “He said it would be good for me, that you’re the only one I would behave for.”  He looked away so Frodo wouldn’t see the bitterness in his expression.

Frodo was silent for a long moment.  “Well, however it came to pass, I’m glad you’re here for such a long visit,” he said at last.  “You’ve always been a great help and comfort to me.”

Merry stared at him incredulously.  “Do be serious, Cousin.  What use have I ever been to you?  I think I can safely say that I am the one to benefit from your friendship.”

“No indeed!” Frodo exclaimed.  “What an odd duck you are.  Have you already forgotten how much I relied on you in the weeks after Bilbo went away?  The day after the party alone, you very ably dealt with all the relations who stopped by, friendly and otherwise.  I didn’t even have to ask.”

Merry snorted.  “As if you would.  And what else would I have done?  Really, Frodo, you do go on.”

Frodo laughed.  “You did me a great kindness that day, and many more since then,” he corrected.  “You give yourself too little credit by far.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Merry muttered, colouring.

“Come, Merry, just admit that I’m right.  I could go on embarrassing you for quite some time, you know.”  Frodo’s blue eyes were positively twinkling.

Merry sighed dramatically and slid down in his chair.

“And the delay to our supper would be regrettable,” Frodo added helpfully.

Merry threw up his hands.  “Fine, then.  I surrender.  But you are a cruel fellow, to threaten me with starvation.”

“My cruelty knows no bounds,” Frodo agreed.  “Now come, supper awaits.” 

The first month of Merry’s visit passed quietly.  Frodo did not trouble him with talk of Merry’s future responsibilities and present shortcomings, which was a welcome change.  It was always a bit of a shock to go from the cheerfully crowded chaos of Brandy Hall to the peaceful quiet of Bag End.  Merry didn’t know how Frodo could stand it; he tried sometimes to sit in the garden and read, as Frodo often did, but he couldn’t stay still for long.  The singing of birds and the droning of insects were no substitute for the babble of voices, and before long Merry was driven to round up Frodo and drag him off to the Ivy Bush for some food and conversation. 

Frodo didn’t seem to mind the proddings of his more social (or less dull, as Merry put it) cousin, at least.  And Merry rather enjoyed walking about the Shire with Frodo, which was a frequent occurrence.  He kept a sharp eye on his host; had done so ever since Bilbo had gone away, in fact.  Frodo had never said so, but Merry was convinced that he would follow Bilbo one day.  The only question was when.

Merry had been a mere lad of 19 when Bilbo went away four years ago, but he remembered the long-expected party quite clearly.  Bilbo’s sudden and spectacular departure had been the talk of the Shire for weeks.  Most folks blamed Gandalf, of course, who disappeared soon after Bilbo, although less showily. 

Merry, for his part, was more concerned with Frodo.  He did not know what he expected, but it was not what he got.  Frodo never lost his temper with the Sackville-Bagginses, never spoke a word of regret against Bilbo, and, most maddening to Merry, never asked anybody to do anything to help him during what was surely a difficult time. 

Frodo did have his good qualities, however.  One that Merry particularly admired was Frodo’s ability to throw the expectations of others out the window and act as he saw fit.  Frodo’s custom of celebrating Bilbo’s birthday every year was an excellent example.  Folks had been shocked when, a year after Bilbo’s shocking disappearance, Frodo had thrown a party for his former guardian’s 112th birthday, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

It also didn’t help that Gandalf had started turning up again, adding to Frodo’s reputation for oddity, which was now as deeply entrenched in the minds of the Shirefolk as Bilbo’s had been.  It was quite possible that only Frodo’s friends and closest relations knew that he was in no way off his rocker, or even close.  But Frodo didn’t seem to mind. 

For his part, Merry could at least credit himself with excellent powers of observation.  He didn’t think Frodo had any idea how closely Merry watched him; as admirable a hobbit as Frodo was, he could be a trifle oblivious.  Indeed, anyone would have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Merry’s sharp senses.

April 4, 1405

Merry squelched slowly up the Hill, clutching a small paper package under his jacket to protect it from the steady drizzle that had been carrying on all afternoon.

“Frodo, I’m back,” he called as he pushed open the green door of Bag End.  He cleaned his muddy feet as best he could before stepping into the foyer.

“Frodo?”  The foyer was dark, with little light filtering in from the rain-slick windows.  Merry dried his feet and hung up his jacket.

“I brought the butter you asked for,” Merry called, making his way down the hall.  He frowned and lit a candle, wondering if Frodo had gone out unexpectedly.

“Halloooo!” Merry shouted down the hall, enjoying the faint echo.  “Frodooooo!”

He stepped into the kitchen and set down the butter.  Frodo did not appear to be home.  But appearances could be deceiving, and something did not seem quite right.  He went back into the hall and bellowed, “Oh, bother!  I’ve forgotten to wipe my feet and now the rug is all muddy!”

Merry listened carefully and detected a faint snort coming from the parlour.  He smirked; Frodo hadn’t played hide-and-go-seek with him in years, and it was rather optimistic of Frodo to think he could put one over on Merry now.

But he was forced to revise his assessment when he burst through the parlour door a moment later.

“Happy birthday!” a chorus of voices cried.

Frodo came forward and put an enormous slice of cake in Merry’s hands.  “Come now, Merry, close your mouth before you catch a fish in there,” he teased.

“Frodo!” Merry exclaimed, laughing.  “You remembered my birthday!  And you tricked me!”

“Of course I remembered your birthday, silly Brandybuck,” Frodo said.  “I have known you rather a long time, even if I haven’t been with you at this time of year in quite awhile.  And you needn’t sound so surprised that I tricked you; I might be insulted.”

Merry laughed in delight.  “Well, as I have no wish to insult you, I withdraw the comment.”

“Good,” said Gordo Grubb.  “Now cut the rest of your cake so we can eat!”

Everyone laughed, and Merry looked around, touched to see that Frodo had rounded up a number of the local young folks to celebrate with.  Will Bracegirdle had brought his fiddle, and later that evening they cleared a space in the centre of the floor and had dancing.  Followed by further refreshments, of course.

As he settled into his bed much later that night, Merry reflected pleasantly that it had been a wonderful evening, and a rather pleasant stay at Bag End so far.   Perhaps he had reason to hope he wouldn’t ruin things after all.  He would try, anyway, and do better than he had done at Brandy Hall.

TBC

May 18, 1405

Sam dropped his burden with a grunt.

“Careful with that, Sam-lad,” Hamfast Gamgee said without looking up from the flower bed.

Sam mopped his brow.  “It’s only a sack o’ manure, Dad,” he said.

“That it is, but it wouldn’t do to crush Master Frodo’s petunias by flinging it about without a care, if ye follow me.”

“Aye,” Sam replied absently.  He had seen a flicker of movement over by the garden bench.

“Well, dig in, son,” the Gaffer prompted.  “I’ll be back after I see to the cabbages.  And mind you keep your eyes to yourself,” he added, seeing the direction of Sam’s gaze.

Sam frowned and opened the sack of manure.  It was a warm day for this sort of work, and before long he was sweating and filthy.

The figure at the garden bench continued to move about restlessly, and Sam did his best not to look over too often.  After awhile he lost track of the other’s whereabouts, until a shadow fell across the flower bed.

“Afternoon, Mr. Merry,” Sam said politely.

“Hullo, Samwise.”  If Merry detected a hint of coolness in Sam’s greeting, he gave no sign of it.

Sam waited, but Merry said nothing else.  Sam laid down his trowel and got to his feet, trying not to be annoyed by Merry’s curious gaze.

“Somethin’ I can do for ye, Mr. Merry?” he asked.

“No, no,” Merry said hastily.  “Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Well, nothin’ much to speak of.”  Sam gestured to the flower bed he’d been working on.  He did not know what to say to Merry.  They had played together on occasion as children, it was true, but they had even less in common now than they did then.  They had an acquaintance with Frodo in common, he supposed. 

But although Merry seemed a decent enough sort, and was a regular visitor to Bag End, Sam couldn’t shake the suspicion that Merry was imposing on Frodo this time.  He had arrived so much earlier in the year than was usual, for one thing.  And Sam had heard rumours that Merry had grown into a bit of a firebrand, that his temper and impulsiveness had caused problems for more than himself.  Frodo was too kind-hearted for his own good, as far as Sam was concerned.  And if he felt a bit protective of his master, well, that was his own concern.

Sam looked up as Merry shrugged.  “Well… I won’t keep you from it any longer,” he said, and strolled away.

Sam flushed at Merry’s lofty behaviour and went back to work with a little more force than necessary.

Later that week, Sam had a more welcome interruption to his work.  He was labouring to uproot a particularly stubborn weed.  It came barely up to his knees, but already had put down roots deep enough to make the job difficult.

He was wedging his shovel against the stump when Bag End’s door opened and its master came out.

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, wiping his streaming brow with his rather dirty sleeve.

“How goes it, Sam?” Frodo asked cheerfully.

“Well enough, though this ‘un has me stumped.”  Sam kicked at the stubborn weed stump with his toe.  He didn’t realize he’d made a pun until Frodo laughed.

“Why don’t you come in and have a bite of elevenses?” Frodo asked.  “I’ve more than enough, and you look as if you could use a rest.”

Sam leaned on his shovel.  “I won’t say no, if you’re sure it ain’t a bother.”

“Of course not,” Frodo said, and pointedly took the shovel from Sam, laying it on the ground.  “Now, this’ll still be here when you return.”

Sam followed Frodo gratefully to the kitchen.  He washed as best he could at the kitchen pump, then took the seat Frodo indicated.

Merry was just bringing a jug of cider from the cellar, the final touch to a delicious elevenses spread.  He barely looked at Sam as he sat down, and Sam tried not to feel uncomfortable.  Although Merry had been pleasant enough to him in the past, lately he had the feeling that Merry rather looked down on him.  Of course, many gentlehobbits looked down on plain folks like Sam, but, though the Gaffer would frown on Sam’s presumption, he couldn’t help resenting it more, coming as it did from the close friend and cousin of his master.

Now Sam fumbled awkwardly with his napkin, aware that Merry was looking at him.  He suddenly noticed that the cursory wash he’d had at the kitchen pump had not much improved the state of his hands.  There was dirt under his fingernails, and of course his shirt and trousers were dusty from the morning’s work.

Now Merry and Frodo were exchanging looks, and Sam realized, mortified, that he hadn’t heard a word of the question Merry had just asked him.  He hurriedly buttered a slice of bread to cover his blush.

Frodo somehow kept the conversation going, but Sam was too embarrassed to help him, and Merry too preoccupied.

Frodo shook his head and sighed as he cleared away the dishes later.  He knew the tweens could be a moody time, but this was getting ridiculous.

The sweet smell of June roses was in the air as Merry made his way down the road to the Ivy Bush, but he was in too much of a hurry to notice.  He had just returned from a short camping trip with Frodo, and he didn’t think he could stand another minute of silence and reflection.  Nature was all well and good, he supposed, but it got to a point where a fellow needed to have others around, to be surrounded by folks talking and laughing and just generally being good company.

Not that Frodo wasn’t good company, of course—he was just… quiet.  And he would look at you with those perceptive azure eyes, and even if you squirmed and changed the subject, somehow you felt you hadn’t fooled him at all.

Merry shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling and pushed open the heavy door.  He smiled in satisfaction as the sounds of hobbit chatter and clinking tableware surrounded him.

A large group of young folks had congregated around a large table, and one of them waved to him.

“Pull up a seat,” Gordo Grubb said cheerfully.

He didn’t know everyone, but introductions were duly made.  The evening passed pleasantly until Merry realized with a start that it was dark outside.

“I told Frodo I’d be home before dark,” he explained in response to Gordo’s questioning glance.

Another tween at the table guffawed.  “Well, you’d better run home then,” he said.  “Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

Some of the others laughed and Merry flushed.  He felt a trifle guilty for not keeping his word to Frodo, but also embarrassed.  Why should Frodo set a curfew for him, anyway?  He wasn’t much younger than most of the hobbits at the table.

Merry recalled the fellow had introduced himself as Kip Hornblower.  “I can do as I like,” Merry heard himself tell Kip loftily.

“I’d believe that,” Kip said mysteriously.

Merry wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.  “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Kip rose from his chair and sauntered over to stand eye-to-eye with Merry.  “Only that I know all about you—you’re in line to be master of Buckland!”

“Everyone knows that,” Merry said angrily.

“Only my cousin moved here from Buckland just a month ago, so I know a little more than you’d think,” he smirked.

Merry’s fists were clenched, but he didn’t say anything.

Kip noticed that half the table was watching, and went on, clearly enjoying the attention, “I know the future Master of Buckland is not considered very promising.”  He looked Merry up and down.  “And now that I’ve met you, I can see the rumours are true.”

Merry’s fury boiled over, and blindly he lashed out at the mocking face.

Kip fell back in surprise, clutching a bruised chin.  “Why, you—” he cried, and ran at Merry.

The ensuing fight was furious but brief, as the innkeeper, not being one to put up with any nonsense, quickly broke them up.

“Now see here, I won’t have any o’ that in my place!” he said firmly.  “You lads better not show your faces round here till ye’ve learned to behave like civilized folk!”

With that, he seized each boy by his collar.  Merry had a brief impression of many startled faces as he was escorted none too gently out the door.  Perhaps most mortifying of all was the sight of Sam Gamgee sitting by the back wall with his brother.  And just when he’d hoped the gardener’s opinion of him couldn’t sink any lower.

Outside, Merry and Kip glared at each other.

“Just you stay away from me!”  Merry hollered before Kip could say anything.  Then he turned and stalked off toward Bag End.

It wasn’t a particularly long walk, and not nearly long enough to cool his temper.  He was just opening the garden gate when he heard footsteps behind him.

“What can I do for you, Samwise,” Merry said, turning round.

Sam withered a little under Merry’s glare, but pressed on determinedly.  “I came to see that ye were all right, Mr. Merry.”

“You sure you didn’t come to tell tales to Frodo about me?” Merry demanded.

“Indeed not!” Sam said indignantly.  “And if you’ll forgive my sayin’ so, Mr. Frodo’ll have only to look at ye to know you’ve been fightin’.  Or haven’t ye noticed the dirty great lip you’ve got?”

Merry put a hand to his lip and realized that indeed, his lip had swelled up.  He only now noticed the pain.  He felt he should apologize to Sam, but the other lad had already turned on his heel and disappeared down the dark path.

Feeling even worse, Merry went into the foyer as quietly as he could.

Frodo paused in the middle of doing up a button, trying to decide if he’d heard something or not.

“That you, Merry?”  A shuffling step in the foyer confirmed his suspicions.

“Thank goodness, I was getting ready to send out the search parties,” Frodo joked, trying not to sound as worried as he’d been.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Merry said from the foyer.

Frodo frowned.  Merry’s voice sounded odd somehow.  He looked down at his half-buttoned waistcoat.  He’d been putting it on, getting ready to go out and look for Merry.  He hastily unbuttoned it and tossed it aside.

“Well, never mind that, are you going to come in here and tell me what you’ve been up to this evening?” Frodo winced at his choice of words, fearing they sounded too accusing.

“I’m a little tired, actually,” Merry said after a pause.  “I think I’ll just go to bed, if you don’t mind.”

Frodo was puzzled.  Merry didn’t sound offended, just… odd.  He extracted himself from Bilbo’s favourite armchair and headed for the foyer.

“All right, Merry,” he said, “what’s the matter—why, your lip is bleeding!”

Merry accepted Frodo’s proffered handkerchief with thanks, but wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “It’s nothing, Frodo.  It’s just you have a ninny for a cousin, is all.”

“Well, what happened?” Frodo demanded, worrying even more.  “Did someone hit you?”

Merry sighed, clearly embarrassed.  “It was my fault, Frodo.  I lost my temper with this windbag down at the Ivy Bush, and hit him.”

“What?” Frodo exclaimed incredulously.

“There, now you know it all, and I’d like to go to bed.”  Merry flushed.

“Merry, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Frodo said softly.  “Please, I’m worried about you!”

Merry scowled.  “Yes, I suppose you’re worried right along with everyone else that I’ll be a lousy Master of Buckland one day!”

“Now hang on—”  Frodo was too surprised to stop Merry from storming past and slamming into his bedroom.

“Who is ‘everyone else’?” he wondered aloud.

He spent a minute cleaning up the dishes from his bedtime snack, then prepared for bed.  He knocked on Merry’s door on his way, wondering if his younger cousin had cooled down yet.

But there was no answer, and Frodo sighed in exasperation and resolved to try to find out more tomorrow.

A/N: I'm sorry it's been so long. It's been a rough year, but I haven't abandoned this story. Got another chapter almost finished, so that should be up within a week.

3. The Free Fair

July 1405

Sam wedged the shovel blade and strained with all his might, but he could not budge the woody root that had firmly taken hold under the wisteria.  He could at least be grateful the wisteria provided some shade.

“Going to be stubborn, are ye?” Sam said grimly to the root.  He’d already extracted the main body of the plant this root had been attached to, and it lay in a disconsolate pile nearby.

He sat down panting after another failed attempt.  “Oh aye, ye look pretty harmless, windin’ your way around Mr. Frodo’s wisteria, but if I leave ye be you’ll just grow another weed like this ‘un over here.”  He jerked a thumb at the root’s recently fallen offspring.

Sam sighed, leaning upon his shovel, considering.  He could get the axe and take the root out in pieces, but then there would be more risk of damaging the wisteria’s roots.

“There’s nothin’ for it,” Sam told the offending root.  “You’re gonna have  to come out, and that’s that.”

He wedged in the shovel blade for another try, wishing he had a longer and thicker handle for better leverage.  He pushed with all his might, then leaned his full weight on the handle.

CRAAAAACKK

Sam suddenly found himself on hands and knees, holding the broken end of the shovel handle.

“Fiddlesticks!” he exclaimed crossly, just as he heard the front door close.

“Sam?” Frodo asked, coming out with a covered basket on his arm.  “What on earth was that?  Did a branch fall?”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sighed.  “I’ve just gone and broke the shovel, is all.”

“Oh.”  Frodo approached to inspect the damage.  “The blade looks all right, at least,” he said, peering at it where it still stuck in the earth against the root of Sam’s difficulties.

“Aye,” said Sam.  “I can fix it, soon as I find a good stout branch ta make a new handle of.”

Frodo brightened.  “Let’s give that job to Merry.  He’s been moping about indoors all day, and wouldn’t come with me to bring Widow Chubb some of this morning’s baking.  Said it was too hot out, but it will be cooler in the woods, and a nice walk will do him good.  If you’ll tell Merry what sort of branch you need?”

Sam nodded.  “Sounds good to me, sir, if Mr. Merry’s amenable.”  Sam privately doubted he would be, but Frodo went in to talk with his cousin before continuing on his errand.

Soon after, Merry sauntered into the garden, where Sam was now pruning SOME CREEPER away from the pathway.

“Hullo, Sam.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Merry.”

They eyed each other for a moment.  Merry said, “Frodo asked me to look for a branch to make a shovel handle.  What kind do you need?”  His words were perfectly courteous, but Merry’s tone did not convey much enthusiasm.

Sam described what he needed and Merry ambled off toward the woods while Sam bent again to his pruning.

It took longer than Merry had hoped, but at last he returned with a branch for Samwise.  He found the young gardener in back tending to a window box.

“Here you are, Sam,” he said.  He was rather proud of the branch he’d found, so he didn’t understand the look of dismay that crossed Sam’s face.  “What’s wrong?” Merry asked.  “This is the right size, isn’t it?  I couldn’t find anything bigger, though I looked over an hour.”

“Aye, it’s a fine size, Mr. Merry,” Sam said hesitantly.  “Only—well, what you’ve got there is from a hemlock tree.  The wood’s too soft to be much use, if you follow me.”

“Oh.”  Merry scowled in embarrassment, feeling like a ninny.  Sam was looking at him, probably thinking he couldn’t do anything right.  “Well, maybe you ought to just be more careful with Frodo’s tools,” he snapped before he could think better of it.

Sam coloured, his slow-burning temper finally flashing.  “Aye, and maybe ye oughtn’t ta go worryin’ Mr. Frodo by getting into bar fights!”

Sam looked as shocked as Merry felt.

“I’m sorry, sir, I had no business ta say that,” he muttered, and hurried away.

Merry sighed, somehow feeling even worse.  He dropped the useless hemlock branch and went inside.

A few weeks later, Sam and Halfred sat cooling their toes in a stream.

“I really think you oughta come,” Halfred said.

“I told ye, I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Sam replied, studying a shiny black beetle making its way across a nearby rock.

Halfred rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be a ninny, Sam-lad.  Of course you’re coming.  It’ll be loads of fun.”

Sam grinned and splashed his brother with one foot.  “We all know why you’re so keen to go to the Free Fair, Hal.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I enjoy some time with Jessimine?” Halfred said, a trifle defensively.

Sam snorted.  “Why not indeed!  Are you ever gonna ask her ta marry you, Hal?”

“Well—I’m working my way up to it!” Halfred said, and elbowed his brother in the ribs.  “What would you know about it anyway!”

Sam sputtered when Halfred managed to kick water all over his trousers.  “Hang on now, there’s no call for that!”

Halfred snickered, then remembered his earlier line of questioning.  “Well, when are ye going to decide about comin’ to the Fair? We’re leaving day after tomorrow, after all.”

“I’ll decide when Mr. Frodo decides,” Sam said eventually.

“Oh.  Mr. Merry still sayin’ he won’t go?  What a sullen feller he is there days.”

“Aye,” Sam sighed.

Later that afternoon their eldest brother, Hamson, arrived with his wife and two children.  Number three, Bagshot Row, was to be very crowded the next two nights, but Sam didn’t mind much.  He was always glad to see Hamson, and Henna had proven to be a kind sister-in-law.  They were to leave their little ones with Daisy, May, and Marigold, who had elected to remain at home.  May had never liked the Fair, with its noise and its crowds, and Daisy’s interest had dimmed significantly when she’d learned her sweetheart, Holbert Cotton, was to stay at home and mind his father’s farm.  Marigold liked the Fair all right, but she liked playing with her niece and nephew even more.

“Uncle Samwise, play with me!” a little voice crowed, causing Sam to smile.  He was helping May keep the little ones occupied outside while the adults packed for the coming journey.

“All right, Hob-lad, what do ye want to play?”

“Piggy-back!” was the immediate response.

“Come on, then.”  Sam crouched low enough for the seven-year-old to clamber onto his back.

Hob’s little sister, Petunia, was playing in the grass at May’s feet, and Sam carried Hob over there.

“Decided whether you’re going to the Fair yet, Sam?” May asked, absently pulling an ant off Petunia’s sticky little hand.

“Stay, Uncle!” Hob cried from where he clung to Sam’s neck.  “Stay with uuuuss!  We’ll have loads of fun.”

Sam laughed.  “We’ll see, Hob-lad.”

Just then Bell walked by.  “Say, Samwise, have ye made up your mind about comin’ to the Fair yet?” she inquired.

“No, Ma, not yet.”  Sam tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Well, best go and talk to Mr. Frodo before it gets too late, and find out what his plan is,” Bell reminded her youngest son.

“Aye,” Sam agreed reluctantly.  He’d really put it off too long; he wanted to stay and help Mr. Frodo, if he was staying, but he dreaded getting into another argument with Merry.

“Everybody’s asking you that, Uncle,” Hob whispered in his ear.  “Go on, let’s go up an’ talk to your Mr. Frodo!”

“Hob—“

“Giddayup!” the lad cried, digging his heels into Sam’s ribs.

“All right, you can come along,” Sam exclaimed, “but no more kicking!  I’m not a pony, ye wee imp!  And ye must behave, in front o’ Mr. Frodo.”

“I will,” Hob promised, laying his curly blond head on Sam’s shoulder.  “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Sam had no doubt he would try.  The little lad got into a surprising amount of mischief for one so young, although usually with the best of intentions, and that along with a beseeching look from his wide blue eyes made it hard to stay cross with him. 

Sam shook his head and trotted up the road to Bag End. 

“You’ll have ta pull the bell, Hob, as my hands are a mite full,” Sam said when they reached the round green door.

Hob had gone unusually quiet, but he reached forward and pulled on the bell-cord.  Sam realized Hob had likely met few gentlehobbits in his small village, and deduced correctly that that accounted for the child’s nervousness.

The door opened to reveal Merry.

“Sam!” Merry said, clearly surprised.  Things had been rather awkward between them since the incident in the garden, and Sam was no more happy to see Merry than Merry looked to see him.

“I suppose you want to speak with Frodo,” Merry said eventually.

“Aye, if you please,” Sam replied.  He could hear voices inside, and felt suddenly embarrassed, not realizing Frodo had company this evening.

“Who’s that?” Hob whispered in his ear when Merry had vanished back inside.  “He looked cranky.”

Sam tried not to laugh.  “That was Mr. Merry, and you’d best remember your manners.”

He had no time to say more, for Frodo appeared then.

“What is it, Sam?  Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, everything is just fine, Mr. Frodo.  I didn’t realize ye had company, or I shouldn’t’ve intruded.”

Frodo shrugged.  “Don’t worry, Sam.  It’s only some of my Tookland relations, stopping on their way to the Fair.”  His blue eyes widened as he noticed Sam was not alone.  Hob had been holding quite still, but now he peeked around Sam’s head, peering at Frodo curiously.

“This is Hamson’s lad, Hob,” Sam quickly explained.

“How do you do, Mr. Frodo?” Hob piped up, and then ducked his head uncertainly.

Frodo smiled.  “Pretty well, thanks,” he replied, and shook Hob’s little hand.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

That fairly finished Hob, and he shrank back behind Sam, blushing furiously.

Sam grinned, remembering a time not so long ago when Frodo’s kind blue gaze had had a similar effect on Sam.  “Will ye be going to the Fair then, Mr. Frodo?” he asked, finally remembering his question.

“I’m afraid not,” Frodo replied. “Merry isn’t keen to go, and poor Pippin isn’t feeling well, so I’ve offered to mind him while his folks are at the Fair.”

“I’m right sorry to hear about Mr. Pippin,” Sam said.  “I hope it’s not serious?”

“No, just a head-cold.  But Paladin and Eglantine thought it best not to tire him out with the Fair.”

Sam said, “The lasses and I are stayin’ behind as well, so just let us know if ye have need of help.”

Frodo gave him a puzzled look.  “Your Gaffer told me your sisters were staying to look after your niece and nephew, but why aren’t you going to the Fair, Sam?”

Sam shook his head a little at Frodo’s obliviousness.  He didn’t want to be away so long in case Frodo had need of him, but he couldn’t very well say that, because he knew Frodo would only encourage him to go and enjoy the Fair.  “Thought I’d stay and help the lasses look after Hob here, and Petunia,” he said instead.  “They’re quite a handful, you know, sir.”

“Am not!” Hob huffed.

Frodo smiled.  “Well, good luck then.  Do let us know if you need anything, Sam; I think most of the neighbours are going, so the Hill will be a quiet place the next few weeks.”

“Aye, and the same goes for you, sir,” Sam replied.

Frodo waved him off.  “I’ve looked after my cousins before, Sam.  I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

4. Many Mishaps

The Hill emptied out over the next several days, and soon Frodo was alone with Merry and Pippin.  Other than the remaining Gamgees, and Daddy Twofoot and his sons, Bagshot row was empty.  He knew there were still folks on the surrounding farms, and a smattering of hobbits remained in Hobbiton, but the normal buzz of activity had gone.

On the third day of the Fair, Frodo decided he was rather proud of how he was managing.  Pippin was recovering nicely; the fifteen-year-old had been sleeping a lot and was no trouble.  Merry continued to be moody, but Frodo kept finding errands to send him on, so at least he was doing his sulking out of doors, in the fresh air.

“I’m bored!” Pippin announced, coming into Bilbo’s study. 

Frodo turned around in surprise. “Pippin-lad!  I thought you were taking a nap?”

“I woke up,” Pippin said, rubbing his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine, Cousin Frodo.  I’m hardly stuffed up at all today.  Please, can’t I go outside and play?  I’ve been cooped up inside for ages,” Pippin moaned.

Frodo hesitated and reached out to feel Pippin’s forehead.  The lad’s slight fever had broken the day before, and he did look much better.  “Well, maybe for a little while,” Frodo decided.  He picked up his book and followed Pippin into the garden.

Pippin immediately found a patch of dirt to play in, and Frodo sighed inwardly and settled on a bench to read.

He gradually became aware that Sam was muttering a good deal more than usual, and he seemed to be hacking vigorously at something.  Frodo set his book aside and went over to look.  What he saw made him gasp, “Sam, what have you done!?”

Sam slowly raised his head. “I—I was trying ta dig up this weed, an’ trying to get all of it so it couldn’t come back, but it goes all over the place.”  He sat back on his heels unhappily.  He looked around, and suddenly his eyes went wide.  “Oh, sir!  Oh no, I didn’t mean to!” he cried, aghast.  There were plants overturned, roots showing, and shrubs tilting drunkenly all over the garden.

He turned to look at his master, who was still staring around in shock.  “Mr. Frodo, I’m so very, very sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, why I wasn’t paying attention to where I dug…”  Sam trailed off, clearly close to tears.

Frodo tried to think.  It was dreadful to see Bilbo’s beautiful garden in such a state, but berating Samwise clearly wouldn’t help the situation.  He tried to swallow his dismay and said, “Calm down, Sam.  I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.  Just… take a deep breath, and then we’ll figure out how to fix it.”

Sam didn’t get a chance to respond, for just then they heard a loud splash, followed by a wail from inside the smial.

“Pippin?” Frodo called uncertainly.  He hadn’t noticed the lad going back inside, but he realized guiltily that he had gotten totally distracted by the destruction wreaked upon his garden by Samwise.

“My Gaffer is gonna kill me,” he heard Sam say mournfully, but Frodo had no more time to spare for the young gardener, for he was already hurrying inside.

“Pippin?” he called again.  The racket had seemed to come from the direction of the room they used for bathing, so Frodo went that way.

Pippin suddenly walked into view, dirty wet footprints trailing behind him.  Frodo also noticed that the lower half of his trousers was soaking wet.

“Pippin?  Are you all right?” Frodo asked worriedly.  Pippin didn’t appear injured or unwell, just… guilty.

“Um, Cousin Frodo?” the lad said hesitantly.  “You’re not gonna like this, but my legs were all dirty from playing outside, so I wanted a bath, but, ah, it didn’t… go well.”  Pippin looked up at him shamefacedly. 

“Oh, dear.”  Frodo had just noticed a slow wave of water seeping out of the bathing room, soaking into the floor, and the baseboards, and… the hall carpet, a beautiful thing which Bilbo had brought back from one of his visits to the Elves.  He started to move the carpet out of the water, but then hesitated.  The carpet would dry, but if too much water got into the floorboards, they would rot.  He quickly put the carpet back, and pushed it up against the doorway of the bathing room to slow the seeping water.  Time seemed to be passing very slowly, the water creeping across the tiled floor of the bathing room and out into the hall.  Frodo almost laughed; a crisis in slow motion, and yet he still couldn’t make himself think what to do.

He noticed Pippin still standing there, gaping at the water like a fish.  “Well don’t just stand there, get the towels!” Frodo snapped a little crossly.

Pippin just nodded and ducked into the bathing room, coming out with an armful of towels, which Frodo mounded up on top of the carpet.  Satisfied that further damage had been averted, Frodo went into the bathing room.  The bathtub lay on its side, a water bucket overturned nearby.

“I filled the tub all by myself!” Pippin said proudly.

Frodo closed his eyes.  And emptied it too, clearly.

Pippin took in his cousin’s pained expression.  “Frodo?” he said cautiously.  “What’s the matter?  Did you stub your toe?”

Frodo didn’t say anything for a moment.  Then, “Are you still feeling all right?”

Pippin nodded.

“Good.  Then go and get the mop, and clean up this water.  And for goodness sake be careful.  I’m… going for a walk.”  And with that, Frodo turned around and walked back outside, leaving a concerned Pippin in his wake.

It was well past time for afternoon tea, but Frodo decided that could wait.  He needed a nice, calming stroll first.  Unfortunately that was not to be, as he met Merry on the road down the Hill.  That in itself wouldn’t have been bad, but Merry was in the company of one of Frodo’s least favourite people.

“Frodo!” cried Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, dragging Merry along by the ear.  “I won’t stand for this!  Something must be done.”

Frodo sighed inwardly.  “What’s the matter, Cousin Lobelia?” he said, trying not to grit his teeth.  He hadn’t seen any of the Sackville-Bagginses lately, and had entertained hopes they’d all gone to the Free Fair.  Lobelia at least hadn’t, for here she was, her face red with anger and clashing horribly with the rather garish orange and brown hat she wore.

“Young Meriadoc here,” she said, giving Merry a shake, “was disrespectful to me.  In public!”

Frodo glared at Merry.  Apparently the mishaps of today were not yet over.  “Merry?”

“I—uh, well, I may have… insulted Cousin Lobelia’s hat,” the tween said sheepishly.

Frodo raised an eyebrow.  “Insulted?”

“I… said it looked like a… chicken was roosting on her head.”

“You see?” Lobelia shrieked, giving Merry another shake.

Frodo closed his eyes, hoping faintly that when he opened them he would be in bed, this whole dreadful day nothing but a dream.

No such luck.

Frodo took a deep breath.  “Merry, come along.  Lobelia, I am most dreadfully sorry.  I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“You assure me?” Lobelia exclaimed angrily.  “Well, that’s not good enough!”

“I assure you,” Frodo repeated firmly. “It won’t.  Happen.  Again.”  He glared at Merry, who had the grace to look chastised.

Lobelia sniffed loudly.  “Well… see that it doesn’t!” she exclaimed, and turned on her heel.

Frodo turned as well and began to walk back to Bag End, Merry trailing behind.

“Didn’t you think it looked like a chicken?” Merry whispered when they were well out of earshot.

“Well yes, but why on earth did you have to tell her so?” Frodo said, exasperated.

“You know she’s always insulting us Brandybucks,” Merry said mutinously.

“Did she this time?”

“Well no, but—“

“Merry, you can’t just go about saying whatever you like,” Frodo snapped.  “Your words and actions have consequences!”

“Now you sound like my father!” Merry shouted, and ran ahead into Bag End.  Frodo heard his bedroom door slam a moment later and shook his head, following more slowly.

As he passed through the garden, he saw a sandy head bent over what had previously been a neat bed of marigolds.  Frodo’s heart sank as he remembered his dug-up garden, but he really didn’t want to think about that just now.  “Sam, you should go home,” he called.  “It’s getting late.”

Sam looked up, and Frodo was shocked to see the tracks of tears on his young friend’s face.

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed.

After he’d sent Sam home, he had Pippin help him carry the sodden carpet outside to dry and then got tea for the two of them (Merry was refusing to come out of his room).  Feeling calmer with food in his belly, Frodo brought Pippin, and Pippin’s wooden dragon, up to the very top of the Hill and collapsed on the grass.  He laid there and tried to relax as Pippin ran about with the dragon.

It was almost time to think about supper when he heard someone else coming up the path.  He sat up to see Samwise approaching nervously.  “Sam?”

“Mr. Frodo, I just wanted ta… see if there was anything ye needed, and ta say again… how sorry I am.” Sam paused, crouching next to him and wringing his hands.

“Sam.” Frodo put his hand over the calloused ones of the young gardener to stop their fretful motion.  “It’s all right.  You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“But—“

“Sam,” Frodo waited until the anxious brown eyes rose to meet his gaze.  “The flowers will grow back.  The garden will recover,” he said gently.

“You’re a kind master, more kind than I deserve,” Sam said quietly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frodo said, and tossed away the blade of grass he’d been fiddling with.  “We’ve all had a difficult day.  Tomorrow will be better, you’ll see.”  He nodded firmly.

Sam smiled softly, thinking, not for the first time, that he had a better master than anyone.

“Frodo,” Pippin said suddenly.  “What’s that smoke there?”

They turned to look where Pippin was pointing.  Frodo frowned.  It did look like smoke, and it seemed to be coming from Bagshot Row.

“Sam, who was home when you left?” Frodo asked.

“Just Daisy and the babies, sir,” Sam replied uneasily.  “May and Marigold went visitin’ in Bywater today.”

“Let’s check on them,” Frodo decided.  “Pippin, go back inside till I’m back, all right?”

Pippin’s face fell and he looked ready to argue, but at a glance from Frodo he nodded reluctantly.

As Frodo and Sam made their way down the Hill the smoke seemed to diminish.  At #3 Bagshot Row they found Daisy standing in the open doorway, fanning the smoky air with her apron.

“What happened, Daisy?” Sam asked his sister.  “Everythin’ all right?”

Daisy rolled her eyes.  “Oh, just fine, Sam-lad.  I plumb forgot about the biscuits I set to baking for dinner is all, and, well, we shan’t be having any biscuits now.”

Frodo and Sam both looked at Daisy, who blushed under the scrutiny.  She certainly could be a bit of a scatter-brain, but she was an efficient and capable cook.

“You forgot?” Sam asked dubiously.

“Well, yes,” Daisy said, exasperated.  “I was a mite distracted.  Not to tell tales, but a certain someone got pond muck all over himself and his sister, and I had quite a time putting them both to rights.”

The door to the back bedroom opened a crack and Hob peered out.  “I said I was sorry, Aunt Daisy,” he whined.  “Can I come out now?  I’m getting’ hungry, an’ so is Pet.”  Petunia’s little face appeared below Hob’s, and she nodded solemnly.

Daisy looked around.  “I guess the smoke is as cleared as it’s gonna get.  Come on out, you two.  Sam, will ye help me with supper?”

Sam nodded and ducked inside.  Daisy smiled at Frodo and shrugged apologetically.  “Thanks for comin’ down, Mr. Frodo.  Sorry if we worried ye—it’s just been one o’ those days, if ye follow me.”

Frodo huffed a laugh.  “I do indeed.  Things have been going wrong all day for us, as well.”

Daisy smiled.  “Hob thinks he’s cursed us all, poor lad.  He broke Henna’s table mirror the day before they arrived here, and another lad told him he’s brought bad luck on ‘imself and all he meets, for seven days.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Frodo snorted.

“Aye,” nodded Daisy.

Frodo frowned as he suddenly noticed Daisy’s left foot was an entirely different colour than her right.  “What happened to your foot, Daisy?” he exclaimed.

Daisy glanced at the enormous bruise.  “Dropped Ma’s iron skillet on it, I did.”

Frodo winced in sympathy.  “I don’t suppose this other lad told Hob there was a way to lift the ‘curse’,” he said off-handedly.

“Oh, aye,” she said. “Hob has to save someone from ‘mortal peril’, or someone has got to save him.”

“Mortal peril?”

“Aye.”

Frodo sighed.  “Not much of that round here.  I suppose we’re doomed then.”

“Aye,” Daisy smiled uncomfortably.  “But as you said, Mr. Frodo, it’s just superstitious nonsense.”

“Exactly,” Frodo nodded.

“Well… I’d best be getting back to it,” Daisy said.

“Right.  Ah—be careful.”

Daisy smiled. “You as well, Mr. Frodo.”

When Frodo got back to Bag End, he was greeted at the door by Pippin.

“Guess what, Cousin Frodo!” he chirped.  “Merry’s come out of his room, finally, and we’re makin’ supper!”

Frodo went into the kitchen cautiously, dreading what he might find.  He didn’t smell any smoke, at least.

Merry turned from the hearth when Frodo came in. “Stew’s almost done,” he said, and smiled a little apologetically.

Frodo smiled back, relieved that Merry was speaking to him again, and that no further mishaps had befallen the household.

He took a step toward Merry and flinched as a wet, sticky substance squished between his toes.

“Ah—sorry about that,” Merry said sheepishly. “Pippin and I tried to get out that gelatin you had setting in the pantry, and we spilled some of it.”

“Most of it,” Pippin piped up.

“Um, yes, most of it,” Merry confirmed reluctantly.

“All over the floor!” Pippin continued, and Frodo looked down to see that, indeed, the sticky substance was spread over most of the floor.  Merry’s footsteps squelched as he walked over to Frodo.

“Pippin tried to clean it up, but I think he just spread it around more,” Merry added apologetically.

“I was helping!” Pippin said indignantly.

Frodo sighed.  “Merry… Pippin…” He looked at each of them in turn.  “Get out the plates and let’s have that stew.  I’m starving.”  And he squelched resolutely out of the kitchen, wiped his feet on a handy dishrag, and went to sit at the dining table. 

A/N: Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading this, and especially to those who have been reviewing; I know it’s a ridiculously long time between updates sometimes, but your reviews keep me going!  :)

5. Disaster

The following day found Sam back in the garden, feverishly working to undo the damage he’d done.  Frodo had gone out to look at the hall rug Pippin had soaked with bathwater, and decided if he was going to clean one rug, he might as well clean them all.  So he’d enlisted Merry and Pippin to gather up all the rugs that could easily be gathered up, and they spent the warm but overcast August morning stringing twine between trees and hanging up the rugs.  After second breakfast they began to beat the dust out of the rugs.  Merry and Pippin thought this was great fun, and Frodo was relieved to have found a way to keep his cousins busy and out of trouble.

Down on Bagshot Row, Daisy Gamgee was similarly occupying her charges; it was a little earlier than they did it most years, but Daisy was determined to refill the straw ticks they slept on.  Getting the bulky mattresses outside was no easy feat, but the three sisters managed it somehow.  Then came the fun of opening the ticking and getting the old straw out.  Hob and Petunia thought this an excellent game; they grabbed fistfuls of straw and flung it in the air, giggling delightedly as it floated down around them.

“We’ll have to sweep all that up when we’re done,” Daisy sighed as she surveyed the rapidly growing mess.

“Maybe the wind will blow the old straw away,” Marigold said hopefully.

“We wouldn’t get that lucky,” Daisy grumbled, then brightened as a familiar wagon and pony came into view.  “Oh, look!  The fresh straw has come.”

May and Marigold giggled as Holman Cotton slowed his pony and hopped down from the wagon.

“Good morning, fair ladies!” he said brightly, although he had eyes only for Daisy.

“Morning, Hol,” Daisy smiled at her beau.

May and Marigold giggled some more but obligingly helped Holman lower the bales of fresh straw from the wagon bed.

The morning proceeded, second breakfast and elevenses were eaten, and before long it was time for luncheon.  They laid one of the filled mattresses over the loose straw so it wouldn’t blow away (just in case), and everyone trooped inside.  Samwise came in just as Daisy was setting the food on the table.

“How is it up there, Sam?” May asked her brother.

Sam sighed.  “Well, I s’pose it’s not as bad as I thought at first, but Mr. Frodo’s poor garden is still in a right state, and that’s a fact.”

“At least it’s not too hot today,” Marigold observed, glancing out at the overcast sky.

“No…” Daisy suddenly looked worried, “hang on now, is that rain?”

“That’s rain, Aunt Daisy, and a whole lot of it, too,” Hob confirmed, running to press his nose against the window.

And indeed, a rainstorm was moving in, and the initial sprinkling rapidly developed into a downpour.  Daisy, May, and Marigold all scrambled to their feet and headed for the door.

“What’s the matter?” Sam asked, confused.

“Three of our beds and the fresh straw are still out there!” Marigold cried before she disappeared out the door after her sisters. The straw had to be perfectly dry or their beds would get musty. 

Sam grimaced and put down his spoon. 

Hob and Petunia watched him with wide eyes.  “Why’s everyone so tetchy?” Hob asked.

“Don’t worry, Hob-lad,” Sam said distractedly.  He got to the door just as Daisy and May came through, carrying one of the freshly-filled mattresses awkwardly between them.

“This’un didn’t get much wet,” Daisy panted as they went by.

Sam squeezed out the door and found poor Marigold struggling with the second mattress.  He hurriedly ran to help her.  When he got outside again he met Daisy and May each carrying an armload of straw.  “What about the last tick?” he asked.

“Too wet,” May gasped, “but we reckon the straw that was under it is all right.”

Between the four of them they got most of the loose straw indoors.  Daisy directed them to pile it in the corner of Sam and Halfred’s room.  The third tick would have to be emptied, washed, and refilled with clean straw, but they’d saved the two empty ones they were going to fill that afternoon, and enough straw for at least one of them.

They were all rather exhausted after that.  Hob, at least, was in good spirits, delighted by the novelty of a pile of the dry, crackling straw in his room, although Daisy had to scold him more than once for trying to jump in it.

“That’s goin’ in our beds, Hob, so it has to stay clean,” she snapped when Hob grumbled.

Finally they sat down gratefully to their abandoned luncheon.  Sam, however, bounced back up almost immediately. 

“Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed.

“What about him?” Marigold asked curiously.

“He had all his rugs hung out to air!  I’d better run and see if he needs help getting ‘em in.”

“But Sam, you need to eat!” May called after him, but he was already out the door.

Daisy sighed.  “Well, we’ll keep some food back for him,” she decided.

“Well, I’m beat,” Pippin announced, and Merry nodded in agreement.

“We got most of them, at least,” Frodo said, surveying the pile of rugs they’d rescued from the rain.  “The others will just have to dry when the weather clears.”

Sam peered out the window.  “Rain’s starting to let up, sir.”

“We’re all of us soaking wet,” Frodo commented. “Come on, Pippin, I’ll get you some dry clothes.  Merry, why don’t you lend Sam something of yours, you’re about the same size.”

Merry stiffened and Sam looked uncomfortable.  Frodo wondered, not for the first time, why those two couldn’t seem to get along.

“Ah, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Merry,” Sam said hastily, and rather coolly.  “I’d best be gettin' home.”

“All right,” Frodo said. 

Merry didn’t say anything, but stalked off in the direction of his bedroom. 

“Come along, Pippin,” Frodo sighed when Sam had taken his leave.  “Let’s get changed before we drip on everything.”

The next morning dawned clear and hot.  Frodo woke late, but Merry and Pippin were still asleep.  The chaos was beginning to wear him out, and he decided to let them sleep in so he could enjoy some time to himself. 

Frodo wandered out into the garden and found Samwise already hard at work.

“Good morning, Mr. Frodo!” the young gardener said.

“Good morning, Sam,” Frodo replied absently.

Sam frowned at his master.  “Beggin’ your pardon, but are you feelin’ all right Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo looked at him.  “I feel fine, Sam.  Well, maybe a little tired.” Frodo smiled weakly.  “Not used to so much excitement, you know.”

Sam’s expression darkened for some reason.  “You look kinda pale, sir.”

“Looking after Merry and Pippin is more work than I expected, I suppose,” Frodo shrugged.  “How are your sisters getting on?”

“Well enough, sir,” Sam said slowly.  “I think Daisy’s lookin’ forward to the return of our parents though, if ye follow me.”

Frodo laughed.  “I can understand that.”

Sam scowled again.  “T’isn’t right, sir,” he murmured.

“What isn’t?” Frodo asked, but Sam was silent.  “You can tell me, Sam.  What’s the matter?  I know something’s been bothering you.”

Sam hesitated.  “Well, sir, it isn’t exactly my place to say, if ye follow me.”

“I won’t be angry, whatever it is,” Frodo assured him, frowning. 

“Well…” Sam chewed his lip uncertainly.  “It’s just, with Mr. Merry actin’ sorta wild sometimes, I don’t like ta see how it worries you, and all.”

Frodo stared at him, uncertain how to interpret this.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ‘a said anythin’,” Sam said hurriedly when Frodo didn’t reply.

“Sam, Merry is family,” Frodo said, a little defensively.  “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of those, or at least not so many that want much to do with me.  Merry might be having some difficulties at present, but he’s a good lad, and I’d do anything for him.”

Sam flushed.  “I didn’t mean ta say anythin’ against Mr. Merry,” he said earnestly.  “I just… oh, what a ninny I am.  I just can’t bear ta see you all tired and sad like you are sometimes.  It ain’t fair, is all.  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve spoken, Mr. Frodo,” he added miserably.

“No, it’s all right,” Frodo said.  “You are very kind, to worry about me so.  But please, try to be patient with Merry.  I know he’ll turn out well, he just needs some time, and to be treated kindly.  He’s under a good deal of pressure, you know.”

Sam looked a little doubtful, but he said, “I’ll do my best, sir,” so hesitantly that Frodo chuckled.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said sincerely.  “I’d best get back inside, I think I hear Pippin rummaging in the kitchen.”

That afternoon Frodo herded Merry and Pippin outside to check on the rugs.

“They’re still wet,” Pippin commented, frowning as he gave one of the hall rugs a good pinch.

“It’s only been one day.”  Merry rolled his eyes and wandered away.  “Thick rugs like these take a long time to dry.”

Pippin watched him go but didn’t scamper after him, as he would have done years ago.  Frodo noted this with dismay; he just didn’t know how to snap Merry out of this moodiness.

Something else caught his attention then.  “Does that look like smoke to you, Pippin-lad?”

Pippin nodded.  “Yup.  I guess Daisy must’ve burnt the baking again.”

“So it seems.” Frodo frowned.  The smoke wasn’t particularly thick, but Frodo felt strangely uneasy.

He went over to the rear of the Hill where Sam was working.  “Hey, Sam!  Do you reckon your sisters are all right?” he called down.

Sam straightened and squinted up at him, mopping his sweating brow.  “Daisy and May went to the Cotton farm ta see about gettin' more straw,” he said.  “Marigold was gonna stay home and watch Hob and Pet.  Why, sir?”

Frodo pointed at the smoke, feeling even more uneasy. 

Sam looked, and raised his eyebrows.  “I guess she might’ve tried ta bake something…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“It’s probably nothing,” Frodo decided, “but let’s go down there and make sure they’re all right.”  He called Merry and Pippin.  Pippin ran down to him immediately, but Merry was not in sight.  Frodo sighed in exasperation.  “Merry, we’re going down to check on the Gamgees!” he shouted, hoping Merry would catch up, but he didn’t want to wait any longer.  He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his admittedly active imagination, but he thought the smoke might be intensifying.

He ran down to Bagshot Row, no longer caring if he was making a fuss over nothing.  He stopped in front of number three, horrified.  The smoke was coming not from the chimney, but from the open windows and the door, which stood ajar.  Little Petunia sat near the door, her face streaked with tears.  “Aunty an’ Hob are in there,” she cried when she saw them.

Sam made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream, and Frodo had to hold him back from running in.   He couldn’t see any flames, but the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see very well.  He went to the door and pushed it all the way open.

“Hullo?  Marigold, you in there?” he shouted.  He thought Sam shouted as well, but Frodo’s heart was pounding so loudly it was difficult to focus.  He felt Pippin’s small hand seize the leg of his trousers.

They all heard coughing, and then Marigold came out.  Sam picked up Petunia and ran to his youngest sister, asking if she was all right, but she was practically hysterical, crying something that sounded worryingly like ‘Hob’.

His fear growing, Frodo made her sit down away from the door and take several deep breaths.

“Now, Marigold, where is Hob?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t know!” she sobbed.  “Oh, Mr. Frodo, we were playin’ in the grass out front here, an’ Hob says he wants his pony, his wee wooden one, and went in ta fetch it, and next thing I knew I smelt smoke, an’ I went in an’ looked about but I couldn’t look very long, it got hard ta breathe, and I couldn’t find Hob!”

“Shush, it’s all right, I’ll find him,” Frodo said in what he hoped was a soothing voice, but inside he was quaking with fright. “Where could he be?  Where didn’t you have time to look?”

“I… I didn’t get ta Ma and Dad’s room, but he wouldn’t’ve gone in there.  I was just gonna look in the lads’ room when I heard ye shoutin’, but the door was stuck so I came out.”

“All right,” Frodo said.  “All right.  You stay here… No—take Petunia and go and find some neighbours.  Daddy Twofoot might be about, but if he isn’t you must keep looking. Get them to sound the alarm.  Sam, take Pippin and fill as many water buckets as you can.  Bring them back here, but don’t follow me inside.”  His voice sounded much calmer than he felt.

“No!  Sir, please, let me—“ Sam started to say. 

“No!” Frodo interrupted, shaking his head.  “I couldn’t abide sending you in there, Sam.”

“But—“

“Go!” Frodo shouted, the fear colouring his voice with anger.

Marigold scrambled up and seized Petunia from Sam.  She ran along Bagshot Row, toward the Twofoot hole.  Sam hesitated a moment longer, but stuttered “Come along, Mr. Pippin,” taking the younger lad’s arm with one hand and the water buckets with the other.  They hurried in the direction of the well, and Frodo turned back to the Gamgee smial.  The smoke was undoubtedly thicker now.  He got out his handkerchief, held it over his mouth and nose, and plunged inside before he could hesitate any longer.

He recognized the main room, with the hearth and the shabby sitting room, but it was dim and full of smoke, and Frodo’s eyes immediately began to sting.

“Hob!  Hob!” Frodo shouted.  He listened carefully but heard no response.  He quickly looked in the pantry and the cupboards, and anywhere else he thought a small hobbit lad might hide, but met with no success. His heart sinking, Frodo went down the short hall in the direction he vaguely remembered Sam’s room being.

The smoke was much thicker here, and Frodo doubled over, coughing.  He crawled along the floor, where the air was slightly clearer.  He stared with watering eyes when he reached the door to Sam’s room.  It was closed, but he could clearly see smoke coming from the cracks around the door.  He ran his hand lightly over the door, and reached up to feel the handle.  The door felt warm, and Frodo realized he had found the fire.  He knew with grim certainty that Hob would be in there as well.

Frodo hesitated.  It surely wasn’t safe to enter, but if he went back out and waited for help, how long would he wait?  Ten minutes?  Twenty?  With so many folk at the Fair, Marigold might have difficulty finding help.  Hob might suffocate in the windowless bedroom in the meantime.

Decision made, Frodo tried to open the door from his position on the floor.  As Marigold had said, it was stuck.  Frodo got to his feet hesitantly and put his handkerchief back in his pocket; he needed both hands.  He shoved against the door experimentally, but it didn’t budge.  He tried several more times before he began to get lightheaded.  His eyes were blurred with tears, and he wiped them on his sleeve, trying not to sob in frustration.  The effort started another coughing fit, and Frodo tried to breathe more shallowly in the thick smoke.

He steadied himself and threw his full weight against the door.  It opened at last, and Frodo nearly fell through before catching himself on the door jamb.  His eyes widened when he looked down; the large rag rug on the floor was alight.  He started coughing again and quickly got out his handkerchief.  The flaming rug blocked the doorway; Frodo tried to nudge it out of the way with his toe, but it was too heavy. 

Frodo backed up, and with a running start tried to jump over the rug.  He didn’t quite make it, and cried out in pain as his feet touched the smouldering rug.  He crouched, trembling and coughing, in the middle of the room.  It was so smoky in here he could barely see his hand in front of his face.  The flames were mostly in one corner of the room, licking up the wall near the door.

“Hob?  Hob!” he tried to shout, but again there was no response.  He was starting to panic, and calmed himself with an effort.  He asked himself where he would hide, if he were very small and trapped in this room.  Staying low to the ground he peered under each of the beds.  He didn’t see anything, so he shouted some more.  This time he heard something, a snuffling sound.  Frodo turned toward the sound, and noticed a large, dark shape on the other side of the room.  A wardrobe?

He crawled over, opened the door and nearly sobbed in relief, for there was Hob curled miserably on the floor of the wardrobe.

The air in the spacious wardrobe was much clearer, so Frodo squeezed inside and shut the door after him.  He caught his breath and felt around in the dark.  He put his arm gently around Hob’s small shoulders.

“Hob?  It’s me, Frodo.  Come on, you’re all right now,” Frodo told him hoarsely.  “Can you get up?”

Hob nodded against his side, too terrified to speak, but he took Frodo’s hand.  Frodo opened the door a crack, belatedly remembering the flames that blocked the only exit.  “Ah—stay here a second, Hob.”

Without waiting for a response, Frodo crawled out into the smoky inferno again.  He grabbed the blankets off the nearest bed and threw them over the part of the rug that blocked the door.  He patted the blanket down quickly, smothering the flames as best he could.

He went back into the wardrobe.  He could hardly breathe for coughing, but he found Hob’s little hand and gave him his handkerchief.  “Hold this over your face, there’s a good lad,” he croaked.  Then he pushed open the wardrobe door and scooped Hob up in his arms.  Bending double to stay near the ground, he ran over the smouldering blanket and out into the hall.

His eyes streamed so badly he couldn’t see where he was going.  He knew he should try and close the bedroom door, to starve the fire of air.  He shifted Hob to one arm and reached out blindly with his free hand.  He fumbled for agonizing seconds but at last he found the door and pulled it shut.  He tried to make his way back to the main room of the smial.  He bumped raggedly into the wall a couple of times, and Hob tucked his head under Frodo’s chin, whimpering.  Frodo wanted to speak, to reassure him, but he could hardly breathe. 

At last he felt fresher air on his face and headed in that direction.  He bumped into something he recognized as the Gamgees’ dining table and knew he was almost there.

Then he stumbled through the open door and felt deliciously cool grass under his feet.  He lurched forward a few paces; the world was tilting crazily and he couldn’t keep his balance.  He fell to his knees and let go of Hob.  He thought he heard someone shout nearby, but he was busy trying not to be sick.  His vision cleared enough that he could see the vivid emerald of the grass.  He had just enough time to think it looked like a good place to lay down for awhile, and then the grass rushed up to meet him.

TBC

6. Sudden Reversals

Pippin struggled along after Sam, but the bucket he carried was too heavy and he kept sloshing water over the sides without meaning to.  He was concentrating so hard on not spilling the water he almost ran into the legs of Daddy Twofoot.

Pippin looked around, confused.  All of a sudden there were hobbits everywhere, all rushing in the same direction Pippin was.  He lost sight of Sam, but went doggedly on with his bucket.

Marigold suddenly brushed by him, and Pippin tried not to spill water on her skirts.

“Oh, Hob!” she cried.  Pippin followed in her wake and emerged in front of Number Three, Bagshot Row.

“I’ll take that, little fellow,” someone said, and Pippin let him take the bucket.  He might have felt annoyed at being called ‘little,’ but numerous distractions soon presented themselves.

Marigold had flung herself into the grass beside Hob and held the little lad close, sobbing.  Hob started crying too, and hiccoughing and gasping about how scared he was, and how sorry that he’d knocked over the lamp, and he was sure he’d be burnt up.

But Pippin had eyes only for Daddy Twofoot, bending over a figure that lay unmoving in the grass.

“Frodo!” Pippin screamed.  He heard Sam gasp and come running up behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried, falling to his knees beside their friend.

Pippin dropped down on Frodo’s opposite side and began to cry.

“Now, lads, he’s still breathin’,” Daddy Twofoot reassured them hastily.  “I’ve sent for the doctor, he’ll be along any moment.”

Pippin wouldn’t be consoled and continued to sob. He heard folks shouting things, but he didn’t pay much attention.  Distantly he heard someone cry, “the fire’s out!” followed by a ragged cheer.  He wondered where Merry was, and then suddenly Merry was there.

“He’ll be fine, Pippin, you stop that crying,” Merry said.  His voice shook, but he put his arms around Pippin and it began to seem like things might be all right.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo!” Sam kept saying, and after hesitating briefly he began to smooth Frodo’s dark curls out of his dirty face.

Pippin gulped and tried to calm himself.  He watched Frodo’s chest and was somewhat reassured by the regular movement up and down.

“The doctor’s here!” someone said.  “Make way for the doctor!”

“Very well, very well, who is injured?” said a kind voice that Pippin didn’t know.  “Were you in the fire, young fellow?” he said to Hob.

“He was, but Mr. Frodo is hurt worse, you must see him first,” Marigold said, her voice wavering as she hugged Hob tighter.

Merry pulled Pippin aside as Dr. Hornblower approached.  “My goodness!” the elderly hobbit exclaimed in concern.  “Step back, please.  The boy needs space.”   His tone brooked no argument, and the crowd of hobbits that had gathered drew back. 

Pippin watched anxiously as the doctor, looking quite grave, opened Frodo’s slack mouth and peered inside.  He pressed an ear to his chest and muttered “Come on, lad.”  He tapped Frodo on the cheek a few times and suddenly Frodo coughed.  Pippin’s fists clenched as Frodo wheezed, then coughed some more and opened dazed blue eyes.

A cheer went up among the surrounding hobbits.  Pippin started crying again, this time in relief, and Merry’s arms tightened around him.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Pip,” Merry whispered so quietly that Pippin barely heard him.

Frodo was blinking and muttering in confusion as Dr. Hornblower helped him to sit up.  “How do you feel, son?” the doctor asked kindly.

“Dizzy,” Frodo said hoarsely, after staring at Dr. Hornblower for a moment, clearly disoriented.

The doctor frowned some more.  “Do you know who I am, Frodo?” he asked.  “Do you remember what happened?”

“You’re Dr. Hornblower,” Frodo replied.  “There… there was a fire.  I went to look for Hob.”  Frodo suddenly sat up straight, looking worried.  “Did I find him?  Is he out of the fire?”

“You got him, all right,” Dr. Hornblower soothed.  “He’s right over there.  Now you sit here quietly while I have a look at the little one, and then we’ll get you settled, all right?”

Merry, Pippin, and Samwise sat with Frodo while Dr. Hornblower looked Hob over.  To everyone’s relief, Hob was fine; he had no burns and had not breathed in much smoke, thanks to Frodo getting him out as quick as he had.

“Keep an eye on him just the same,” the doctor advised Marigold.  “Problems can show up later on, in cases like these.  And he needs to rest away from the smoke; your smial will need to be thoroughly aired out before it will be habitable.”

Many folks spoke up at that, offering to help.  “Aye, count me in,” said a grown-up Pippin didn’t know.  “We’ll not get it sorted tonight, though.  I been in there just now and a layer o’ soot covers everything.”

Marigold looked ready to cry again at this, but Frodo, obviously feeling more alert, spoke up.   “All of you must come up to Bag End, as long as you need,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo, we couldn’t impose like that,” Marigold said fretfully.

“I insist,” Frodo said in a tone that brooked no argument. 

“Thankee, then, sir,” Marigold murmured, ducking her head.

“Someone oughter tell May and Daisy,” Sam spoke up from his place at Frodo’s side.  Someone went to do so, and the crowd began to disperse, with many promises to return at first light for the cleanup.  Dr. Hornblower remained, saying he wanted a further look at Frodo.

“Can you walk, Frodo?” Merry murmured to his cousin.

“Yes, I should think so.”  But when they began to help him to his feet, Frodo gasped and sat abruptly back down, hissing in pain.

“What is it, Mr. Frodo?” Sam cried.  “Are you hurt?”

Dr. Hornblower crouched back down and quickly looked over his patient.  “He’s burnt the soles of his feet,” he said grimly.  “There are some burns on his lower legs and arms, as well.”

“How did you burn your feet, Frodo?” Merry asked.

“I tried to jump over a rug that was smouldering, to get to Hob, and didn’t quite make it,” Frodo explained wryly.  Pippin noticed some of the remaining neighbours had stopped to listen and were murmuring to each other, clearly impressed by Frodo’s bravery.  Pippin felt a burst of pride in his elder cousin.  Frodo realized folks were looking at him then, and stopped speaking, confused and embarrassed.

Marigold impulsively flung her arms around Frodo’s neck and exclaimed, “You dear boy!  Thankee, thankee for saving Hob!”

Frodo turned bright red, and chose that moment to have another coughing fit.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Marigold said, subsiding into a blushing silence. 

Dr. Hornblower smiled fondly at his patient, and Pippin realized he had probably known Frodo for many years, ever since he had come to live with Bilbo.  “Let’s get both these lads up the Hill, then,” he said briskly.  “Frodo’s burns need treatment, and they should both be resting quietly.”

Merry started to go to Frodo’s side, but Sam was already there, helping to lift a protesting Frodo over Daddy Twofoot’s broad shoulder.  Merry and Sam had a brief staring match, but then Merry looked away, abashed.  “Come on, Pippin,” he said.  “Let’s run ahead and get things ready.  We’re going to have a lot of company, and Frodo will need us to play host.”

Pippin followed on Merry’s heels and they had Frodo’s bed turned down and fresh clothes laid out by the time Frodo was brought in.  Pippin watched as Frodo changed and got settled in bed, then stood back so the doctor could enter.  Sam waited respectfully in the hall, but Merry came forward and, with a maturity Pippin rarely saw him display lately, asked Dr. Hornblower to explain exactly what should be done for Frodo.  The doctor showed Merry how apply the salve he’d brought and cover Frodo’s burns with clean linen, while Frodo looked on, bemused.

“Now look, young fellow,” Dr. Hornblower addressed his patient when they had finished.  “I want you off your feet at least till I come back to check on you tomorrow. I’ve bandaged your burns and I’ll leave some extra salve to put on in the morning, but I don’t want you up and about.”  Frodo looked about to protest, but the elder hobbit shook his head.  “I don’t like the sound of that hoarseness you’ve still got, either.   You had a fair amount of soot in your throat, which tells me you breathed in a good deal more smoke than would leave me at ease.  There could be lung damage, but we mightn’t see signs of that for some time.”

Frodo frowned at that, and Pippin went to hold his cousin’s hand.  He noticed suddenly that Frodo’s cerulean eyes were red-rimmed and tearing.  “Are you all right, Cousin Frodo?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry, Pip, the smoke stung my eyes is all,” Frodo said with a reassuring squeeze of the younger hobbit’s hand.  “I’m really feeling much better.”

“Let’s be cheerful,” Doctor Hornblower said with a smile.  “You got yourself and little Hob out of a nasty situation, and we can all be grateful for that.”  He gathered his things up and looked round at Pippin.  “Now you, young fellow, have a special job to do.”

“I do?” Pippin asked nervously.

Doctor Hornblower nodded.  “Your job is to keep an eye on your Cousin Frodo here, and if he looks to be getting out of bed, you must make him get back in!”

Pippin smiled.

“Do you think you can do that?”

Pippin nodded seriously.

“Good lad,” Dr. Hornblower said.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.  In a way it’s lucky most folks are at the Fair now; there hasn’t been as much demand for my services, even without Jessi here to help me.”

After the doctor left, Merry herded Pippin out of Frodo’s room so their cousin could rest.  Sam was sitting in the hall, but he scrambled to his feet quickly.

“How’s Mr. Frodo?” he asked anxiously.

“He’s going to be all right,” Merry replied.  “We’re to keep him off his feet till tomorrow at least.”

Sam nodded, relaxing a little.  “Then I’d best help the lasses bring up what clothes and such we can rescue down Bagshot Row.”

“Pip and I will start making up beds,” Merry replied, hoping no one noticed the quaver in his voice.

“Oh boy, company!” said Pippin, and did a little skip of excitement as he ran ahead.

“Please don’t put yourselves out, Mr. Merry,” Sam said uncomfortably.  “We feel bad enough imposin’ as it is.  Just point us where you’d like us ta kip, and we’ll do the work.”

“Sam… “ Merry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Aye?” Sam said curiously when Merry didn’t continue.

Merry shook his head.  “Nothing.  Never mind.  You go ahead.”  He watched Sam walk away.

“There you are, Merry.”  Pippin bounded back to Merry’s side.  “Come on, we’ve beds to make up!”

Merry smiled half-heartedly.  “You’ve never been so happy about housework before, Pip,” he pointed out.

Pippin rolled his eyes.  “What’s not to be happy about?  Frodo’s going to be all right, and we’re having company!”

TBC

A/N:  I put the A/N at the end because I figure I’ve kept you waiting long enough for this chapter!  ;)  The amount of time it’s taken me to update, and generally between most chapters of this fic, is pretty unforgivable.  I know when I’m reading a fic and months go by between updates, I get pretty frustrated!  All I can say is I’m sorry, and I will try to do better.  You’re going to get a bunch of quick updates, though, because I wrote this chapter and the next, and part of the one after that, on a train trip this past weekend to visit a friend.  :-) 

7. Assessing the Damage

The next morning, Sam woke up and stared at the ceiling.  Something was wrong, and it took him a moment to realize that this was not the ceiling he normally woke up to.  He frowned in confusion, then abruptly remembered where he was.

“Good heavens!” Sam exclaimed, and sat up.

Hob was playing nearby, unobtrusively for once, and looked over at him.

“Hullo, Uncle,” the younger lad said quietly.

Sam blearily rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared at his nephew.  “Are you feelin’ alright this morning, Hob?” he asked.

Hob nodded, but the child still seemed subdued.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothin’.”

“Go on, tell me.”

Hob sighed.  “I burnt down your smial, Sam!  An’ Mr. Frodo got hurt ‘cause of me.  My tummy hurts, but it isn’t hungry.  It feels bad in a diff’rint way.”

“Oh, Hob, everybody knows it were an accident.  No one blames ye.”

“I wish I could see Mr. Frodo, an’ say I’m sorry,” the wretched Hob went on.  “My tummy thinks that might make it feel better, if ye follow me.”

Sam smiled.  “Well then, I’ll take you ta see him as soon as I can, all right?”

Hob nodded, looking a bit happier.

Sam’s sluggish mind went back over the last few minutes.  “Hang on, it’s mornin’!  Why aren’t you hungry, Hob-lad?”

“’Cause Aunt Daisy came and got me for first breakfast ages ago,” Hob said.  “She said to let ye sleep.  She reckoned ye needed it.”

“Oh, sticklebacks,” Sam muttered.  “I meant ta be up in time ta help Daisy.”  He felt around for his shirt, but all he could find was a different shirt, neatly folded, that definitely wasn’t his.

“If you’re lookin’ for your shirt, Aunt Daisy took it for the washin’.  Mr. Merry left you that ‘un.”

Sam frowned, disturbed that so many folks had apparently tromped through here without Sam noticing.  “Whose shirt is it?” he asked.

Hob shrugged.  “I dunno.”

Sam unfolded the shirt, which was of a much finer quality than his own homespun clothes.  Along one seam, he noticed a monogram, “B.B.”  This was one of Bilbo’s shirts.  He put it on reverently.  It was big on him, of course, but not by much.  Sam was big for his age, and broad.

There was a bowl of water for washing, which Sam put to good use, thinking again how odd it was to be waited on like this.

“Come along, Hob,” he said to his nephew.  “It’s about time for second breakfast, I reckon.”

Hob put down the little wooden cart he’d been playing with and followed Sam to the kitchen.  There they were treated to the peculiar sight of May and Marigold standing at the hearth while Merry bounced little Petunia on his knee.  Pippin sat beside Merry, looking rumpled and drowsy.  Sam was glad he wasn’t the only one to have a lie-in.

“I tried to cook, but they wouldn’t let me!” Merry explained to Sam’s raised eyebrows.

“He was burnin’ the porridge!” Marigold said indignantly.  She stirred said porridge importantly.  May just smiled.

Merry shrugged.  “Wasn’t paying attention, I’m afraid.  At least I’m good with babies,” he said as Petunia giggled.

Sam couldn’t help laughing at the sight.  “Where’s Daisy?” he asked.

Marigold pointed at the back garden with an enormous wooden spoon.  “She’s hangin’ up the laundry.  All our stuff smelled like smoke.  Daisy said we’ll go home after we eat, and start cleanin’.  Some townsfolk are down there already.”

“All right,” Sam said, and hesitated.  “And Mr. Frodo?  How is he this morning’?”

Merry smiled at him tentatively.  “He was napping when I looked in earlier.  You can come with me when I bring him his breakfast, if you like.”

“Aye, I’d like that.  And Hob too, if he may.”

Merry nodded.  Daisy came in then, and they had second breakfast.  Merry ate in the kitchen with them, but he was not moody this morning and so Sam was not uncomfortable.  Breakfast was wonderful.  There was the porridge and cream, toast with marmalade, and fruit and pastries and sausage and thick slices of cold ham.  It was as nice a breakfast as Sam had ever tasted, and he said so, as they all sat filling in the corners. 

Daisy looked a little embarrassed.  “I thought it was too much, but Mr. Merry said we ought to have a good breakfast after yesterday.”

Merry shrugged.  “Mother always says nothing helps folks recover from a trying day better than good food, and lots of it.”  He grinned and took a big bite of sausage.

“Aunt Esme knows what she’s talking about,” Pippin proclaimed with a thoughtful nod.  “Why, look how much brighter we all are after that good meal.”

And they were, undeniably.  Sam actually felt a bit cheerful as he followed Merry to Frodo’s room.  Merry had an armload of clean bandages for Frodo, and Sam carried the breakfast tray, Hob walking hesitantly beside him.

When Merry knocked softly and pushed open Frodo’s door, Sam’s good cheer melted right out of him, to be replaced by concern for his master.

Frodo was asleep, but as pale as Sam had ever seen him.  Of course, Frodo was paler than most hobbits, but normally it was a healthy, radiant kind of fair.  Now, the dark sweep of his lashes contrasted sharply with a starkly white face. 

Merry went to Frodo’s side, and hesitated.  Sam realized suddenly that Merry must feel as out of his depth as Sam himself did.  He gave Merry an encouraging nod when Merry turned round to look at him uncertainly.

“Frodo,” Merry murmured, resting a hand lightly on his cousin’s shoulder.

Sam’s heart unclenched a little as Frodo stirred and the deep blue eyes opened.

“Merry,” Frodo croaked, and cleared his throat.  “Merry, what time is it?”

“You still sound so hoarse, Frodo,” Merry said in dismay.  “How do you feel?”

Frodo frowned and pushed himself into a sitting position.  “I’m all right, Merry.  You mustn’t worry, I’m sure my voice will get better soon.”

“We brought ye some breakfast, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said when Merry didn’t respond.  “I’ll just put this here, shall I?”  He set the tray down on Frodo’s bed-side table and arranged the pillows so Frodo could lean back.

“Honestly, Sam, you don’t need to fuss.  I’m fine, truly,” Frodo said.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you don’t look fine.”

“Nor sound it,” Merry added.

Frodo sighed.  “Honestly, the two of you!”  He looked back and forth between them.  “How have you been getting on, anyway?  Are you and your sisters settled in all right, Sam?  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help.”

“I’m the one who ought to be sorry,” Merry mumbled.

Frodo looked at him oddly.  Sam said hastily, “Sir, I brought Hob-lad with me; he wanted ta see you, beggin’ your pardon.”  He stepped aside to reveal the small hobbit, who had been hiding behind Sam.

“Hullo, Hob,” Frodo said, a slight smile curving his pale lips.  “I trust you’re feeling better this morning?”

“Yessir,” Hob said quietly.  He looked up at Sam, who merely inclined his curly head.  “I just wanted ta—ta say ‘thankee very kindly’ for getting me out o’ the fire, and ta say I’m sorry ye got hurt,” Hob finished in a rush.

“You’re quite welcome,” Frodo said solemnly.  He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t pull away, when Hob suddenly came to his side and seized his hand.

“Also…” Hob murmured, “thankee for breakin’ the curse.”

“Curse?” Frodo asked.

“Aye, the curse on account that I broke mum’s mirror,” he said confidingly.  “Borro said I ‘ad to be saved from ‘mortal peril’ ta break the curse.  I reckon that fire was mortal enough.”

Frodo’s mouth twitched and he squeezed the little hand in his.  “Well, I’m glad the curse is broken,” he said.

“All right, Hob, let’s leave Mr. Frodo to his breakfast now,” Sam said, not wanting his master to tire when he had yet to eat and have his bandages changed.  He ushered Hob out of the room with a quick glance at Merry, carefully setting out the clean bandages.

Merry watched Frodo watching him.

“Is everything really all right, Merry?” Frodo asked.

“As all right as can be,” Merry replied with a shrug.  He folded back the blanket over Frodo’s feet and began hesitantly to unwind the bandages Dr. Hornblower had applied.  “Everyone’s gone down to Bagshot Row to help clean up.  May and Marigold have taken charge of your kitchen for the duration, I think.  Sam’s being more helpful than I probably deserve, and I…  I am managing as best I can, I suppose.  Goodness, that looks painful, Frodo.”

He had come to Frodo’s bare feet, the bottoms of which were red and blistered.

“Thank you for doing this, Merry,” Frodo said seriously.

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, truly.  It is a great comfort to have your help.”

Merry looked down at his hands, which blurred before his eyes.  “Please don’t say that,” he whispered.  “How can you?”

“Merry, what’s the matter?  Please, tell me,” Frodo begged.

Merry clenched his hands into fists, tortured by the sound of Frodo’s poor hoarse voice.

“Merry—“  After some awkward shuffling, Frodo pulled himself to the end of the bed, legs to the side.

“I didn’t come!” Merry whispered harshly, looking up into Frodo’s shocked blue eyes.  “You’re always there when I need you, but when you called me, I was in a mood and I didn’t come, and I left you to---to--“

“Merry, hush,” Frodo said.  “It’s not your fault I got a bit singed.”

Merry scrubbed at his eyes angrily.  “But it could have been.  There might have been something I could do to help…  Old Rory is right, I’m not responsible.”

Frodo sighed and put an arm around Merry’s shoulders.  “You’re just a lad, Merry.  You’ve plenty of time to become responsible.  I think you’re doing pretty well, in fact.”

Merry squirmed, wondering if—hoping it was true.  He looked at Frodo’s pale, earnest face, and felt a rush of warmth and affection.  “I promise I’ll always come if you need me, Frodo,” he whispered, laying his head on his cousin’s shoulder.  Frodo pressed a kiss to Merry’s messy curls.

Frodo awoke sometime later, not realizing he’d dozed off.  Merry had managed to change all his bandages and re-apply Dr. Hornblower’s salve, and then he’d gone to help the Gamgees.  Pippin had been left behind to make sure Frodo didn’t stir out of bed until Dr. Hornblower came that afternoon, much to Frodo’s annoyance.  It felt wrong to be laying here doing nothing while Merry and the Gamgees worked to salvage their home.  And he couldn’t even be a proper host in his own smial!  He knew Merry was capable of acting in his place, despite the hit his confidence had taken in Brandy Hall, but it was frustrating just the same. 

Frodo didn’t know if it was due to his early, largely unsupervised childhood in Buckland, but he strongly disliked needing help or putting people out.  He wondered if that was how Sam and his sisters felt now.  Ha!  If only he could go and ask them.

He stared blankly at the wall, wishing he were out aiding the cleanup effort.  Even without the doctor’s instructions, Frodo doubted he would get very far on foot.  He still wasn’t sure how he’d carried Hob out of a burning smial the day before, with his feet burnt as they were.  He hadn’t even noticed at the time, in his fright.  Now the salve was pleasantly cool on the soles of his feet, and by the light he could tell it was mid-afternoon.  It was also very quiet; he thought he should probably sit up and see what Pippin was up to.  His stomach growled, and something shifted in his arms.  He looked down in surprise to see a tousled head resting against his chest.

“Oops, I fell asleep on duty,” Pippin mumbled, peering up at him blearily. 

Frodo smiled and kissed the child’s forehead.  Pippin had always loved a cuddle as a babe; evidently he still did.  “Guard duty wore you out, did it, Pippin-lad?”

Pippin nodded and snuggled against Frodo’s chest. 

“Are you hungry?  It’s past luncheon, I think,” Frodo said.

“I know, I already had mine.  Yours is there, waiting for you.”

Frodo sat up and sure enough, there was an ample tray waiting for him.  He supposed if someone had remembered to feed him and Pippin, then Merry and Daisy had things reasonably under control.  His stomach growled again, and he pulled the tray closer.

A/N: This chapter represents the end of the material I accumulated on my train trip in February, so posting will unfortunately slow down until my next trip in July.  I hope to get out one more chapter between now and then, but it’s possible I won’t manage it.  On the plus side, this chapter is about 30% longer than the last few have been.  :)  Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews (they really do motivate me) and your patience. 

8. Pippin the Grey

It was late afternoon when Frodo and Pippin heard a soft tapping at the door.  They looked up to see May at the door. 

She smiled at them.  “I hope you’re feelin’ better, Mr. Frodo.  Dr. Hornblower has come.”

May stepped back so the doctor could enter.

“And how are we this afternoon, young fellow?” Dr. Hornblower said to Frodo, setting his bag on the dresser.

“We’re bored out of our heads and could do with some fresh air,” Frodo said hopefully.

The doctor laughed and began removing Frodo’s bandages.  “We’ll see, Frodo.  Is he behaving himself, Pippin-lad?”

“Well, he squirms a lot,” Pippin reported honestly.  “And he keeps muttering about going down to Bagshot Row, or out to the kitchen, but then I glare at him and he stops it.”

Frodo grimaced, for Pippin’s account was fairly accurate.

“Hm,” said Dr. Hornblower.  “I’m afraid he’ll be pretty grouchy the next couple of days.  These burns are probably getting more uncomfortable, eh Frodo?”

Frodo nodded, surprised.  “I thought I was imagining it,” he said, trying not to rub at the raw skin on his left arm.

The white-haired doctor shook his head.  “The way it works with a burn sometimes is that at first the aspects of the skin that give you sensation are damaged, so the pain is somewhat dulled.  As the skin heals, you gradually regain sensation.  The healing process can, unfortunately, be quite painful, but the salve I left you yesterday will help to numb the pain.  Make sure you put it on twice a day—have someone help you with the areas that are hard to reach—and cover your burns with clean bandages.  And put it on thick, mind.  Whoever did it last—Merry, I assume—didn’t put on enough.  Make sure you tell him that.”

The whole time Dr. Hornblower spoke, he bustled about Frodo’s bed, inspecting the burns, applying fresh salve and new bandages while Pippin watched, wide-eyed.

“Now, I can hear that your voice is better,” Dr. Hornblower went on, “but open your mouth and let me have a look.”

Frodo reluctantly opened his mouth, and let the doctor turn him to face the light so he could see better.

“Hm,” said the doctor again.  “Still inflamed, but improving.”  He pressed an ear to Frodo’s chest, listening as he breathed.  “Have you felt dizzy since last night?  Short of breath?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Frodo.  Although he would have to stand up and move about to know for sure.

“Probably your lungs are all right, then.  They sound fine, at least.  That’s the greatest concern.  I’ve brought you more salve—you’ve cleaned me out, young fellow!  I shall rebuild my stock tomorrow, and call again the day after to check on your progress.  Will that suit?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frodo.  “But what about my feet?  Can I move about now?”

The doctor shook his head sympathetically.  “You must be careful, Frodo.  You can’t yet feel the full extent of the damage to your feet.  You will increase the damage without realizing, if you put too much weight on your feet.”  He thought for a moment as he packed up his bag.  “You can be out of bed, and as active as you like while sitting down, but you’d best see that you aren’t on your feet for more than a few moments at a time, at least till I come back.”

Frodo sighed.  “Well, all right.  Thank you kindly for your trouble, Dr. Hornblower.”

“Always a pleasure, lad,” he nodded at Frodo.  “Keep up the good work, Pippin!” he added with a wink as he went out the door, ruffling Pippin’s hair on the way.

Frodo sat back and thought about the situation.  “It would be so much more bearable,” he mused aloud, “if only I could do my convalescing in the sitting room, where I can see everyone and not be shut away like an invalid.  And maybe I could be of some use, even if it’s only peeling taters for supper.”

 “Now, Frodo, I’ve promised to keep you off your feet,” Pippin reminded him, watching uneasily.  “If you wait till everyone is back, maybe Sam will fetch one of the neighbours to carry you to the sitting room…”

Frodo smiled.  “We’re not waiting till then, Pip.”

“We’re not?”

“No.  Help me down to the floor, Pippin-lad.”

“The floor?” Pippin repeated blankly.

“Yes, the floor,” Frodo said firmly.  “My hands and knees aren’t burnt, are they?”

Pippin looked at him doubtfully, as though he was sure this was a bad idea, but couldn’t pinpoint why.  But he automatically reached out to help Frodo lower himself to the floor on his knees.

Frodo sat on his knees for a moment, then brought both hands to the floor and began to crawl for the door.  He was glad no one but Pippin was there to witness this undignified locomotion.

Crawling on carpet was comfortable enough, he decided as he made his way slowly down the hall to the sitting room.  He had to pass several guest rooms, a parlour, dining room, kitchen, and pantry to get there, but he was determined.

Pippin followed along gamely enough.  “Are you sure this is all right, Frodo?” he asked anxiously when Frodo stopped for the second time to catch his breath.

“Almost there, Pippin-lad,” Frodo said, trying to sound energetic.  In truth he was wondering the same thing; he could not seem to catch his breath, and the distance from his bedroom to the sitting room had never seemed so great.  Frodo leaned against the wall and sighed.  “Just a quick break,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

Pippin sat down beside him, watching doubtfully.  “Do you want me to get you anything, Frodo?” he asked after a long silence.

Frodo shook his head.  “No, I’m ready to resume our journey.”  He got back to his hands and knees and felt rather suddenly unwell, his vision going gray at the edges.  “On second thought…” he slumped back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Frodo?”  Pippin sounded worried now.

Frodo laughed weakly.  “You know, this reminds me of when I was close to your age, Pippin.  When I first came to Bag End, I was so excited to be living with Bilbo, I liked to sneak through these halls, pretending I was Bilbo on his adventure.”

Pippin smiled, distracted as Frodo had hoped.  “Ooh, can I be Gandalf?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Frodo smiled.  “I’ll be Bilbo again, and we’re off to find a dragon’s treasure.”

They played the game for a little while, imagining what they were doing and what danger lurked around the next turn in the hallway.

Frodo by this time had recovered his breath, and indicated to Pippin that they would continue. 

“You look very pale, Frodo,” Pippin observed after Frodo sat up.  “If I was really Gandalf, I would magic you back to your bed.”

“Nonsense, Gandalf, I feel hale and hearty,” Frodo retorted with a smile, for the light-headedness soon passed, and he was able to continue his crawl to the sitting room.

They were almost at their destination, with only one more corner to turn, when they heard a rustle in the sitting room.

“Halt!” Pippin cried, springing forward with his imaginary staff held before him.  “Friend or foe?”

“Friend, I promise!” gasped a startled Marigold.  “Mr. Frodo, whatever are you doin’ down there?”

Frodo sat up on his knees to address the young lass from a relatively more decorous position.  “Ah—I thought I’d like to spend the evening in the sitting room, you see.”

Marigold’s eyes narrowed.  “And you’re still not s’posed to walk, are you, Mr. Frodo?”

“No, he’s not,” Pippin broke in, “and he wouldn’t listen to me, even though I am Gandalf, mightiest wizard that ever lived!”  He brandished his imaginary staff.

Marigold laughed.  “Well, you’re almost there, I reckon you might as well come in.”

She helped Frodo very awkwardly maneuver into his favourite easy chair and brought a stool so he could put up his feet.

When Frodo had his wits about him again, he asked Marigold what she was doing.

“Why, I thought I’d start supper, as it’s nearly time, and I expect everyone is famished,” Marigold replied.  “I was just goin’ to your cellar to get some taters.”

Frodo finally had his opportunity to do something.  “Excellent!  Won’t you bring them to me after you’ve washed them?  The least I could do is peel some for you.”

“No, the least you could do is sit there an’ rest like you’re supposed to,” she said pertly, then smiled.  “But I suppose that would be all right.  With Gandalf’s permission, of course.”

Pippin nodded regally.  “You may proceed,” he said.

It was a rather dusty but cheerful group of hobbits who gathered around the supper table at Bag End that night.  Most of the able-bodied folk in the surrounding area who hadn’t gone to the Fair had turned up to help, bringing clean rags and wash buckets to clean the thick layer of soot that covered the interior of Number 3, Bagshot Row.  The Gamgee lasses had washed every scrap of fabric that could be washed, for everything smelled of smoke.  The next day they would get to work repairing the damaged wall in Sam and Hal’s room and refilling all the mattresses. 

Sam accepted the basket of bread Marigold passed him and generously buttered a slice.  With any luck they would be back in their own beds and out of Frodo’s hair by tomorrow night.  This was good in the sense that they wouldn’t be imposing anymore, but bad in the sense that Sam found he liked staying in Bag End and being able to help his master.

He was pleased to see Frodo up and about, although he still looked too pale for the young gardener’s liking.  Frodo made light of it, but Sam knew that folks who spent too long breathing the fumes of an enclosed fire, as Frodo had, often suffered illnesses, and sometimes even death, weeks or months after the fact.

“What are you mulling over, Sam?”

Sam looked up in surprise to find Frodo regarding him curiously from across the table.

“Why, not much to speak of, sir,” he replied.

“It’s just you’re tearing that bread to pieces as though it had done you an injury,” Frodo pointed out, amused.

Sam looked down to find that he had indeed.  “Oh…”

“Maybe ‘e likes it in bite-size pieces, like Petunia,” Hob suggested.

Daisy smirked.  “It’s been a few years since Sam needed his food cutting up for him.”

“Really?  How many?” asked Hob.

“At least two years,” said Marigold before Sam could answer.

“Oh yes, it was the summer he first learned to dress himself,” Daisy said nostalgically.

Hob eyed him scornfully.  “Really?  Cuz I can almost dress myself already, and you’re way older’n me.”

Sam sighed.  “They’re just teasing you, Hob.”

“Actually, we’re just teasing you,” Marigold told Sam with an impish grin.

“Poor Sam,” Pippin said sympathetically.  “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to getting your brother back again.  I know what it’s like to have nothin’ but sisters.”

Sam choked back a laugh as Frodo commented, “I always thought your sisters were very nice, Pippin.”

Merry leaned over to ruffle Pippin’s hair.  “That’s because they never tried to make you join their tea parties or weave flowers into your hair,” he told Frodo with a smirk.

“And just last week, Pervinca made me try on her new apron.  It was trimmed with lace!  I looked so silly,” Pippin added indignantly, not understanding why everyone else laughed. 

“Well, Halfred will soon return to protect you from sisterly teasing, Sam,” Frodo said.

“Divide their attention, anyway,” Sam muttered.

“But Pippin will have to go back to Tookland, and it wouldn’t surprise me if his sisters brought back all manner of lacy things from the Fair,” Frodo added with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh no,” Pippin groaned, but Daisy, May, and Marigold were nodding.

“I hear lace-trimmed hats are very fashionable this year, and that’s a fact,” Daisy commented, bouncing little Petunia on her knee.

“Aye, and don’t forget bows,” Marigold said excitedly.  “I saw Estella Bolger in town t’other day with a lovely sash tied in a big bow round her waist, and you know Miss Bolger’s always real fashionable.”

This started the lasses on a discussion about fashion, for although they led simple lives they were as interested in the topic as any young lady from a well-to-do family.

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin exchanged dismayed looks.

“May I please be excused, Mr. Frodo?” Hob piped up, clearly having grown bored long ago.

“I think we can all be excused at this point,” Frodo said drily. 

“Come, Pippin, let’s you and I do the dishes,” Merry said.

“Shall I come help you, Mr. Merry?” Sam asked uncertainly.

Merry shook his head.  “No, thank you, Sam.  You can stay out here and keep Frodo company, if you like.”

Sam nodded politely at Merry, impressed again with how willingly the other lad had assumed responsibility.  Just a few days ago he would have been shocked to hear Merry speak to him in such a friendly manner, let alone insist on helping with chores.  Frodo had been right about Merry, Sam realized; Frodo had seen past the surly attitude and temper tantrums to the potential that was always there.  And, Sam acknowledged guiltily, he himself bore part of the blame for the recently frosty relationship between himself and Merry.  He had jumped to conclusions; he had not tried to give Merry the benefit of the doubt as Frodo did. 

But there could be no doubt that Merry was rising to the occasion.  Apart from cheerfully helping with menial chores—Sam remembered Merry joking with Daisy as he helped wash the Gamgee quilts that afternoon—Merry was supervising the household, playing host, taking the burden off Frodo, for which Sam was grateful. 

He pondered this as he helped Frodo to the sitting room.  His master still looked pale and wan, but Frodo clearly knew he could rely on Merry and did not seem unduly worried about anything.

“I’ll just fetch the salve and change your bandages then, shall I, sir?” Sam said once Frodo was settled with his feet up on a stool.

Frodo fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable having Sam do such a personal thing for him.  But Sam carried on without waiting for a response, coming back into the room with the bandages and things he had helped Merry use earlier.  Fortunately Frodo was too tired to protest much, and Sam soon had the old bandages off.

“Ouch, your poor feet,” Sam murmured when he got his first good look at the damage.  He felt rather presumptuous but it needed to be done.  He opened the jar of salve and went to work, gently applying it to every burned area he could see.

Frodo flinched occasionally but otherwise made no movement.  When Sam finished tying off the bandage he was working on he looked up.

“How are ye feeling, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.  Frodo had gone very pale and was clutching at the upholstery.

Frodo swallowed and opened his eyes.  “I’m all right, Sam,” he said with a shaky smile.

Sam looked at him sympathetically, knowing such burns must be abominably painful.  “Is there anything else I can do, or get for you, Mr. Frodo?”

“No, thank you.”  Frodo shook his dark head. “Won’t you sit down, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, wondering if he should help in the kitchen.  But Merry had said he should keep Frodo company, so he settled himself on a nearby chair with a well-worn wooden back.  It was a good thing Frodo didn’t sit in the good parlor very often; that’s where Bilbo’s fine furniture was kept, and Sam didn’t think he would ever be comfortable on one of those elegant chairs, even assuming Frodo asked him to sit down.

“We’re all done!” pronounced Pippin, coming in from the kitchen with soapy hands a little while later.

Merry followed, wiping his hands on a dish towel.  “Aren’t we forgetting something, Pip?” he said pointedly, tossing the damp towel at Pippin.  It landed on his curly head.

“Hey!” Pippin exclaimed, slightly muffled.  “Gandalf needs no dish towel,” he added with great disdain, and turned to wave his soapy hands in Merry’s direction.

Merry sputtered and proceeded to tickle Pippin, who squealed and ran to hide behind Frodo’s chair.

“Actually, I seem to recall he, as in the real Gandalf, did use a dish towel,” Merry said.

“When?” Pippin popped up to challenge him.

“At Cousin Bilbo’s long-expected party.  Remember when he had us doing dishes for nicking his fireworks?”

“Yes,” Pippin said from behind the chair.

“And you dropped a stack of dishes in the water and it splashed him?” Merry continued.  “I definitely saw him reach for a dish towel then.”

“Oh yes,” Pippin said, standing up.  “I was afraid he would turn me into a toad!  But he didn’t.”  He finally took the towel off his head and wiped his hands.

Frodo laughed.  “Come and sit by me, Great Wizard,” he said, patting his arm rest.  “I was hoping I could persuade you to read us all a story.”

Later that evening, after the little ones had been put to sleep, Merry bumped into Sam in the hall. 

“Hob and Petunia asleep?” he asked in a low voice.

“Aye,” replied Sam.  “Marigold and I just tucked ‘em in.  They were worn out by all the doings today, and that’s a fact.”

“Good,” Merry said.  “Well, I’ll bid you good night, Sam.”  He turned to go, but paused when Sam touched his sleeve hesitantly.

“I just wanted to say thankee, Mr. Merry, for all you’re doin’ for us.  The lasses and I are real grateful to ye.”

Merry was momentarily startled; it had been awhile since anyone had singled him out for doing something right.  “Maybe my Dad was right after all,” he mused, and gave a half smile.  “Frodo is a good influence on me.”

“Sir?”  Sam looked puzzled. 

Merry shook his head.  “Listen, I owe you an apology.  You and Frodo both, but especially you.  I’ve been a real ninny to everyone lately and I have no excuse for it.  I wasn’t there when Frodo needed me, but I’m sure as sherbet going to make his friends at home when he isn’t able to.”  Merry knew he was colouring and he couldn’t bring himself to meet Sam’s frank gaze.

After what seemed to Merry like an interminable pause, Sam said “I reckon we have more in common than ye think, Mr. Merry.”

“Oh?” Merry said.

“Aye, we both want to be there when Mr. Frodo needs us.”  Sam was smiling slightly when Merry looked up.  “And I accept your apology, thankee, sir.”

Merry grinned, pleased.  “As we are of one mind, would you do me the honour of helping me convince Frodo to go to bed before he exhausts himself?”

Sam inclined his head.  “That I would, Mr. Merry. That I would.”

TBC… likely in July 2012.

A/N: Yup, still here. If anyone is still reading this, I really am sorry. I know how frustrating it is to read a fic that gets updated so rarely. I do plan to finish this. For some reason I like to write on plane trips, and not only do I have my usual Christmas trip home this year (which is where I wrote this), but I will have some job interviews in January. Two, to be exact, and both require plane trips. Hopefully I'll be caught up on work and able to write fic on the plane.

9. End of the Fair

It was the last day of the Fair when Daisy approached Frodo, who was, as usual, reading in the sitting room with his feet up.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo," she said cheerily.

"The same to you, Daisy," Frodo replied. He felt his curiosity growing; the usually confident lass was clutching her hands together nervously. "Won't you sit down?" he added courteously when she made no move to continue on her way.

"Thankee," Daisy said, and dropped into the chair next to him. "I wondered if… I thought I should…"

She trailed off, but Frodo waited patiently. He closed his book and gave her his full attention. "Is your smial progressing satisfactorily?" he asked when she said nothing else. Number Three Bagshot Row was fully inhabitable once more, and the Gamgees had been busy all morning putting back curtains and making beds, not to mention transferring their belongings from Bag End.

"Oh, yes!" Daisy said. "Only I noticed—I wanted to ask you… Well, I was having a look round the pantry earlier, and I couldn't help but notice. We've about eaten you out of house and home, Mr. Frodo!" she exclaimed at last.

"That's quite all right," Frodo said with a laugh.

"But you've really been far too kind, and I couldn't bear to leave your stores so depleted." Daisy said in a rush. "I thought I'd take May and we'd do your marketing this afternoon, if you don't mind, Mr. Frodo."

"Why should I mind? That's very kind of you," Frodo said. "If you'll fetch Pippin for me, I'll ask him to get you some money."

"Thankee, but that's not necessary," Daisy said, with a stubborn expression that warned Frodo to tread carefully.

"I'd hardly be much of a host if I let my guests pay their own way, now would I?"

"This is hardly a normal situation, Mr. Frodo," Daisy insisted. "And we'd really like to repay your kindness in puttin' us up so long."

"You've already done that," Frodo told her. "You and May and Sam have looked after everything. And Marigold has done most of the cooking! No, if you're going to do my marketing as well, I must insist on paying for it."

Daisy looked like she might argue some more, but Pippin and Hob raced by just then and Frodo caught his cousin by the sleeve, whispering what he wanted.

Pippin nodded and ran off, little Hob trailing behind. Daisy looked at Frodo consideringly, but finally sighed and asked Frodo if he needed anything in particular while she was out. Frodo shook his head.

May came in then, with a large basket over her arm, and Frodo was afraid Pippin would be too late. But just as the two lasses were headed for the door, Pippin and Hob returned, flushed and breathless. Pippin whispered in Hob's ear and stuffed something into his little hand. Hob nodded eagerly and ran over to Daisy, twining his small arms around her waist.

"I love you, Aunt Daisy!" the child exclaimed, grinning madly.

Daisy sighed. "You're not near as sneaky as you think you are, Hob-lad," she said, patting the coins he'd slipped into her dress pocket. "But thankee, Mr. Frodo," she added, nodding at her host. "We'll be back by teatime, I should think."

Frodo smiled and picked up his book.

Merry set the dish of butter on the table and frowned. "All set for tea," he called to Frodo, who was still in the sitting room. "And I think I hear Daisy and May coming back. Sam, would you mind helping Frodo to the table?"

"My pleasure, Mr. Merry." Sam turned from the wash basin, shaking out his hands. He'd been in the garden all day and finally seemed satisfied that he'd repaired most of the damage.

Merry stepped outside to call Pippin, Hob, and Marigold and his eyes widened. Not only were Daisy and May headed up the walk, but they had brought company. Two friends of Frodo's he recognized, Folco Boffin and Fredegar (Fatty) Bolger, with a lovely lass he couldn't help staring at.

"Hullo, Merry!" Folco called out. "I hope you don't mind us turning up like this, but we saw the Gamgees in town and wondered if we might come along and check on Frodo."

"Of course," Merry stammered. He elbowed Pippin, who was peering over his shoulder curiously, and whispered, "set another three places at table, quick!"

Everyone filed inside, and Merry stood awkwardly as the strange girl passed him.

"Why, don't you know me Merry?" she asked. "It's been years, hasn't it. I'm Estella!"

Fatty's sister. They'd played together years ago. Merry felt himself blushing fiercely. "Sorry… it's good to see you again. You've grown a lot," he added lamely.

Estella laughed and linked her arm through his. "Come along, Merry. What's for tea?"

Tea was a happy affair, although somewhat mortifying for Frodo.

"You should hear the talk in town," Fatty exclaimed. "Everybody's saying you're a hero, that you went into a burning smial and rescued someone!"

"He rescued me," Hob pronounced proudly.

Sam smiled and shoveled some more bacon onto Frodo's plate, thinking his master looked far too thin these days. "Aye, our Mr. Frodo is a hero, an' that's a fact."

Frodo cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on his bacon. He could feel his face heating up.

Folco grinned at his friend. "Why, Frodo, you're blushing!" he crowed delightedly.

"No, I'm not," Frodo said primly, hoping it wouldn't be true if he didn't acknowledge it.

"Yes, you are," Merry said, and bit into an apple.

Hob studied him. "You are rather red, Mr. Frodo," he confided. "Rather like a ripe tomato."

Everyone laughed, and Frodo groaned and blushed even more.

"Just think, Frodo, this almost makes up for your reputation for oddity," Folco said teasingly.

"I've never minded being odd," Frodo protested. "I just hope folks get tired of talking about this soon."

"Seems unlikely," Marigold said matter-of-factly. "Nothing so interestin' has happened round here in years, an' folks are bound to talk about it for a good long time, if ye follow me."

Frodo groaned and covered his flaming face while the others laughed. If he had known the thoughts behind the laughter Frodo would have blushed even more. Everyone present had already held the young master of Bag End in high esteem, for his kindness, his generosity, and his good humour. But recent events had earned him their admiration as well, for Frodo's bravery and quick thinking had saved a child's life, and they wanted all the Shire to know it.

Fatty and Estella had to leave soon after tea, much to Merry's confused disappointment, but Folco stayed well past supper, keeping Frodo company while the others finished up the work on Number Three, Bagshot Row. By the time Folco took his leave, the Gamgees had moved home, leaving Frodo with Merry, Pippin, and a thankfully replenished pantry.

The trickle of hobbits returning home from the Fair had swelled to a flood, and Frodo found himself spending the morning alone. Merry and Pippin had run off to Hobbiton to watch people coming back and hear the news. Frodo was allowed to hobble around for brief periods, but his burns were still painful enough that he found he didn't want to be on his feet any more than necessary. Thus when someone rang the bell, Frodo was rather reluctant to rise from his armchair.

"Come in!" he shouted, hoping the visitor would hear through the open foyer window and open the unlocked door. After a brief pause, the door opened to reveal Hamson and Henna Gamgee, with Sam lurking behind them.

Frodo blinked. "Do come in," he repeated, motioning to the other chairs in the sitting room. He wondered if he should offer them tea, and how he would get to the kitchen.

They sat, and Frodo looked at them uncertainly. Hamson looked more uncomfortable than Frodo had ever seen him, and Henna was wringing her hands.

Finally Hamson cleared his throat, and much to Frodo's surprise, came forward to Frodo's chair, going down on one knee and clasping Frodo's hand tightly.

"We just wanted to thankee, most sincerely, for savin' our lad," Hamson said gravely.

Henna came forward too, and she bent down to hug him and kiss his cheek. "When I think what might've happened, well…"

Frodo patted her hand awkwardly. "I'm just glad Hob is all right."

They both smiled, and Henna looked at Frodo's feet, eyes tracing the white bandages that still covered his burns.

"It's nothing, really," Frodo said hastily, seeing the direction of her gaze. "Everything is healing well, and I'll be good as new in no time."

Henna put her hands on her hips. "That, Master Baggins, is not 'nothing', an' there's no use denyin' it."

"We're real sorry you got hurt," Hamson said sincerely, "an' you know if there's ever anythin' we can do for ye, don't hesitate to ask."

"We're off home tomorrow," Henna added, "but Sam ain't going anywhere."

Sam nodded vigorously. "Ye can call on me anytime, Mr. Frodo, an' that's a fact. I'm out in the garden most days, and I'll hear if ye shout."

"I'll remember that, thank you." Frodo was touched, but with the way they were all looking at him he really wanted to change the subject. "How was the Fair? Did you bring back any news?"

"Halfred asked Jessimine ta marry him, and she said yes!" Sam piped up excitedly.

"Well, that's wonderful!" Frodo said, truly happy for is friends.

Henna laughed, and Hamson rolled his eyes. "You're supposed ta let Hal share the good news, Sam-lad."

Sam grinned guiltily. "Well, I'll let you share your own news, at least," he said.

Hamson just shook his head. Frodo looked between them curiously as Henna smiled and rested a hand on the gentle swell of her belly through her loose skirts.

"Well, you see Mr. Frodo, we're expectin' another little one," Hamson said, wrapping an arm about his wife's waist.

Frodo laughed delightedly and congratulated them both. Unfortunately he forgot about his poor burned feet when he jumped up to hug them, and Sam had to catch him when he stumbled. Luckily Sam was both tall and broad for his age and didn't even stagger as he took his master's slighter weight and eased him back into his chair.

Frodo smiled sheepishly, wincing at the soreness of his feet. "Er, I don't suppose I could get you some tea?" he said hesitantly, wondering again how he would get to the kitchen and whether Merry and Pippin would be home in time to help.

"I can get it, Mr. Frodo," Sam volunteered. He hurried off without waiting for a reply and returned shortly with Frodo's tea set and several kinds of biscuits.

Much later, Hamson and Henna had gone, and Sam helped Frodo to his room and changed his bandages, an office he had performed several times since the fire.

"Is there anythin' else I can do for ye, Mr. Frodo?" Sam inquired when he was finished.

"No, thank you, Sam," Frodo said with a sigh.

Sam frowned. "Is somethin' wrong? Didn't I do somethin' right, Mr. Frodo?"

"No, not at all," Frodo assured him hastily. He hesitated, but Sam was clearly expecting him to say something else, so he decided to share his thoughts. "It's not that I don't appreciate everything you've done for me this week, Sam, it's just I feel a bit guilty."

"Guilty!" Sam exclaimed. "Whatever for, sir?"

"Well, having you serve me like this, performing duties so far from your usual responsibilities as my gardener."

"But I like doing for ye, Mr. Frodo!" Sam protested. "I feel right proud of myself when I can do somethin' that helps you. What's wrong with that?"

Frodo smiled fondly at the tween. "Nothing at all, Sam. I will always be happy to have you attend me, whether as my gardener or as my friend."

Sam beamed delightedly. "Well then, Mr. Frodo, I'll ask again. Is there anythin' you need before I go home/"

"Nothing, but thank you," Frodo said affectionately. "Good night, Sam."

"Good night, sir."

I actually wrote almost a whole 'nother chapter on the plane, so for once you can expect an update in the near future. That should be up before New Year's. Happy Holidays!

A/N: Today is my birthday!  Well, in a few hours.  In accordance with hobbit tradition, I am giving you a present (this chapter).  ;)

10. Loss and Profit

The eventful summer of 1405 gave way to a rather dreary fall.  Frodo returned to his solitary existence in Bag End by stages: first the Gamgees decamped when their own smial was set to rights, then Pippin when Paladin and Eglantine returned from the Fair to collect their son.  Next, although of less direct impact on Frodo’s daily life, Halfred Gamgee married Jessimine Goodbody in October and they moved to North Farthing.  Finally, in early November Merry received word that Old Rory had finally forgiven his impertinence and he was to journey home to Buckland at once.

That letter sent Merry into a fit of temper.

“Could he be any more high-handed about the whole thing?” the young Brandybuck demanded.  “Haughty old goat.”

“Merry,” Frodo said exasperatedly.  “Please don’t antagonize him if you can help it.  As much as I’ve enjoyed having you here, I doubt your family would be impressed if the ‘old goat’ banished you a second time.”

Merry sighed.  “I know.  And I’ll try, Frodo.  I’ll do better this time, I will.”

“I know you will,” Frodo told him with a smile.

The carriage Saradoc sent arrived the following morning, and with a heavy heart Frodo helped carry his cousin’s trunk outside and load it in the back.

“Well.  Thank you for everything, Frodo.  I mean it,” Merry told him earnestly.

Frodo was momentarily too choked up to respond, and pulled his cousin into a hug.

“Safe travels, Merry,” Frodo said at last, as Merry climbed into his seat.  “Don’t forget to write.”

The wagon lurched into motion and Merry waved his hand madly until he was out of sight, just as he had done at every parting since he was a small child.

Frodo stood looking out at the chill grey October day for a moment, then turned and went back inside.

Sam was the last, and the least expected.

It was a dark morning in December when the gardener came to speak to him.  Frodo knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door, for Sam was wringing his hands anxiously.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said as soon as Frodo invited him in out of the drizzle.  “We just got word—I can hardly believe it.”

“Slow down, Sam.  What’s the matter?”

“We just got word,” the sandy-haired tween repeated, then gulped, “from my brother, I mean.  It’s Henna, she’s awfully sick.  She’s been abed for almost a week, an’ Ham has ta work, an’ there’s no one ta look after Hob an’ little Petunia, so Mam is goin’ out there ta help awhile… an’ Dad wants me ta go with her, by your leave,” Sam finished.

“Of—of course,” Frodo said.  “I would not keep you from aiding your kinfolk.”  He tried to ignore the selfish ache in his heart at the realization that he would have to make do without Sam for the foreseeable future.  While his burns had healed, Frodo had been rather more listless and tired than usual, these last few months, and he had come to rely on Sam’s able assistance and cheerful disposition more than ever.

“Are ye sure, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked anxiously.  “I hate ta leave you here alone, an’ that’s a fact.”

Frodo determinedly swallowed back his thoughts and forced a reassuring smile.  “I can manage, Sam.  It’s a long journey up to Tighfield and your mother will need you.”

“Well all right, but I still don’t like ta leave you,” Sam said stubbornly.  “You will take care o’ yourself while I’m gone, won’t ye?”

Frodo’s mouth quirked in a half smile.  “I shall do my utmost.  And anyway this will give you a chance to practice your writing, Sam.  You do plan on writing to me, don’t you?”

“Aww, Mr. Frodo….”  Sam had learned to read and write, and while he quite liked being able to read he didn’t much fancy writing.  The tween sighed.  “Aye, I’ll write,” he promised at last, for he could never refuse Mr. Frodo anything.

Upon learning that they were to leave the next day, Frodo decided to walk down to Number Three, Bagshot Row that afternoon to wish the travelers well.

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo!” Marigold greeted him at the door.

Frodo smiled.  “How are you, Marigold?”

She wrinkled her nose.  “I dunno.  I’m worried about Henna and the new babe, o’ course.  And I wish Mam would take me with her.  I know I could be just as helpful as Sam, but she says I’m too little.”

Of all the Gamgees, Marigold was the only one who never showed much reluctance to tell Frodo her mind, something he had always appreciated in her. 

Frodo smiled kindly at her.  “You’re needed here, I’m sure.  You’re such a good cook, and with Daisy and May gone all day, it falls to you to look after your dad.”

The elder Gamgee lasses had secured jobs in Hobbiton that fall; May as a housemaid and Daisy as a nanny in the grand Boffin smial.

Marigold beamed at the compliment, and then the door opened wider.  “Now hang on, Mr. Frodo, ye make it sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave,” Gaffer Gamgee objected, making his youngest daughter snicker and duck under his arm, back into the cozy kitchen.  “Well, come in, lad, before ye catch your death.  This wind could freeze your very marrow.”

Frodo stepped gratefully inside.  The smial was in a state of disorganization he hadn’t often seen there.  The object most obviously out of place was a large trunk in the middle of the floor, open and overflowing.  Sam was crouched before it, muttering and trying to squeeze in a few more items.

“Why, Mr. Frodo!”  a voice exclaimed warmly.  Bell Gamgee appeared from the back room and looked Frodo over before nodding approvingly.  “I’m right glad ta see roses in your cheeks again, although maybe it’s just this wind.”

“I feel fine, Mrs. Gamgee,” Frodo assured her, smiling.  He couldn’t help but enjoy such motherly attentions, warranted or not.  “I came to say good-by, and to ask if there is anything I can do to help.”  He knew the Gamgees would never accept his money, but occasionally he could persuade them to accept some other form of aid.

Bell looked at the young gentlehobbit fondly and gave his arm a squeeze.  “At present, no, but thankee.  Just take care o’ yourself!  Marigold tells me you’re a fine cook, so I don’t want ta come back and find you’ve been skimpin’ on meals.  You’re too thin as it is, if ye don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“We usually just say ‘yes, Mam’ when she gets like this,” Marigold confided in a loud whisper. “Gets it over with faster, if ye follow me.”

Frodo stifled a laugh as Bell turned to her daughter.  “Marigold Gamgee!  I’ll have no more of your cheek!  Honestly.”

“Yes, Mam,” Marigold said contritely, before winking broadly at Frodo.

This time Frodo covered his laughter with a strangled cough.  Bell rounded on him questioningly.

“Er, yes,” Frodo said quickly, “I’d best be off and stop distracting you from your packing.  Mrs. Gamgee?  If you need anything, have Sam write to me and I will see that you have it if I can.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Frodo,” Bell acknowledged.

Sam got up and came over to him.  “Post comes early in the morning, so I might not see you again for awhile, sir,” he said, and hesitated.  “I hope… I hope I shall be back before Yule, but if not—”

Frodo cleared his throat and patted Sam’s sturdy shoulder.  “If not, I’m sure Hob and Petunia will be very happy to have their Uncle Sam for a Yule guest.”

“Aye,” Sam nodded, smiling slightly.  “In any case, I’ll write.  Take care o’ yourself, Mr. Frodo.”

Sam always kept his promises, and little more than a week had gone by before Frodo had a letter from him.  Unfortunately, the short letter was more bad news than good.  Bell and Samwise had arrived safely in Tighfield, but Henna was very ill and everyone was quite worried.  Sam did not say so, but it was obvious to Frodo even in the few short sentences.  They would not return to Hobbiton in time for Yule, and quite likely not for some time afterwards.

15 December, 1405

Dear Mr. Frodo,

We have arrived Tighfield without incidint.  Hob and Pet send their regards, and Ham.  Henna is very ill, though Mam won’t tell me much.  She looks after Henna and I look after the little ones when Ham needs to work.  With much regret, I must tell you we shan’t be back for Yule.  Will you go to Buckland again this year?  I enclos a letter for Dad, would you be so kind as to read it to him?

Respeckfully yours,

Samwise Gamgee

22 December, 1405

Dear Samwise,

I will always be happy to read a letter to your father, or indeed to be of service in any way.  I enclose the Gaffer’s response with this note.  I am sorry you will not be home for Yule.  Do try to be cheerful; although it is not a happy time you are serving a very important office in looking after Hob and Petunia.  I do not doubt you are helping to keep their spirits up.  I have also enclosed something I hope will help you with that responsibility.

In answer to your question, yes, I believe I shall go to Buckland.  I promised Merry I would visit, and it will be good to see how he is getting on.  Please give my regards to your mother.

With best wishes,

Frodo

Frodo looked around at the chill dreariness of Bag End in the wintertime, with no Bilbo and now no Sam to liven it up, and decided he would indeed go to Buckland for Yule.  He packed his warmest clothes and set out on foot, remembering all the trips he had taken this way with Bilbo.  It was fine weather for such a jaunt, clear and crisp and sunny, and Frodo enjoyed it, save for the lethargy he could not seem to shake.  Each day he walked as far as he could, but it wasn’t as far as he used to walk in a day.  He stopped to rest as needed, but he needed a rest more often than on past trips.  A dull ache would start in his chest after awhile, and each breath would get harder and harder until he had to stop and rest.  Frodo could think of no reason why the cold, dry air should disagree with him so much now when it never had before.

“Hullo, Cousin!” Merry greeted him when Frodo happened upon him in the crush of hobbits outside Brandy Hall’s enormous dining room at supper-time.  “We were expecting you yesterday!  Well don’t just stand there, come along to supper.  You look as if you need it.  Hold on—are you quite well, Frodo?” the young Bucklander stopped his prattle abruptly to focus a concerned gaze on Frodo.

It made Frodo wonder what he looked like.  “Fine, yes, I’m fine.  Just need a hot meal and a rest, I’m sure.”

Merry brightened immediately.  “Well, you’ve come to the right place!”

Later, alone is Saradoc’s rooms, Frodo found he did feel better.  He leaned back to rest his full stomach and eyed his cousin.  “You’re looking rather cheerful, Merry,” he commented.  “Things are going well, I take it?”

“Yes, rather,” Merry replied.  He bounced on his toes, which made Frodo smile.  “I’ve been given a job!”

 “And the responsibility agrees with you, it seems?” Frodo asked, raising his brows. 

Merry nodded importantly.  “Father made me administrator for the farmlands in Crickhollow.”

Frodo couldn’t help a gasping laugh.  “And the mushroom farmers are managing to trust you?”

“Well, they do seem to keep a sharp eye on their stores when I visit.”  Merry rolled his eyes.  “And Farmer Greenhand said I was a good choice for this post, seeing as how everyone knows what a mushroom enthusiast I am.”

“I’m glad they took it in good spirit, anyway,” said Frodo.

“But I’m making myself useful,” Merry continued.  “Farmer Mugwort brought me a type of mushroom they’ve started cultivating in Bree; he thinks it would do well for us in next year’s planting.  His brother goes back and forth regularly, so I wrote a letter to the Bree farmer Mugwort mentioned, asking about this mushroom, the yields they’re getting and so forth.  He wrote back and if he’s to be believed, which Mugwort says he is, then it could be a very promising crop.  And as no one in the Shire grows it yet, it could be quite profitable for us.  He’s willing to sell us enough spawn to do a planting in the spring, and if it does well we can expand.”

“Spawn?  I thought mushrooms made spores,” said Frodo, puzzled.

Merry nodded.  “Yes, they make spores, but those are too tiny even to see. You have to combine them with grain or something so that you can plant it.  The farmers call that the spawn.”

“You’ve really been working hard at this, Merry,” Frodo said.  “How did you learn so much about mushrooms?”

“We’ve plenty of books in the library, as I’m sure you remember, Frodo.  I wasn’t as familiar with the collection, but I was able to find quite a few books on mushroom cultivation.  It’s actually quite interesting, more than I expected.  And I’ve been meeting with the farmers to ask them questions and find out what concerns they have.”

Frodo was briefly speechless, he was so proud.  “Merry, you are a wonder,” he said finally, reaching out to ruffle his cousin’s messy light brown curls.

Merry actually blushed a little, but he’d never looked more pleased.