Chapter 37: A Little Bit of the Shire

Sam looked worriedly at his master as Frodo stumbled for the third time in a half hour. Faramir looked over also and shared a glance and a nod with the younger hobbit.

“Why don’t we take a little break, dear, and get rid of the stuff we don’t need then get going again,” Sam suggested.

Frodo sank to the ground wearily. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam watched him for a moment, then started to gather what they could get rid of. He held his cooking pan against him for a moment in an almost tender embrace, then reddened a bit when he looked up and saw Frodo looking up at him with a faint smile.

“I know it’s strange,” he acknowledged, “but I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a friend.”

Frodo squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “No need to explain, Sam, I know what you mean.”

Sam looked at him and briefly touched begrimed fingers to that loving smile that still graced his brother’s lips. “It’s so wonderful to see you smile,” he said quietly.

Frodo’s smile widened. “Thank you for giving me a reason to.”

Sam smiled then also, then knelt down and laid a pan almost reverently into a crack in the ground. He was surprised to hear a strange clink and removed the pan and reached down. He pulled out another he never thought he’d see again.

“Look, it’s my old pan!” he cried. “Imagine coming to the exact same place as we did last time. I can’t believe it.”

Sam’s initial joy turned to near pain as he traced the marks on the pan. It was pitted and scored with dirt.

“Oh, Sam, your poor pan,” Frodo said as Sam tried to clean off some of the dirt.

“It’s beyond hope,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to use it in this sad condition. Not that we have anything to cook anyway.”

Suddenly, all the stress and exhaustion caught up to the young hobbit and he started to cry. Frodo rubbed his beloved friend’s back, then pulled him into a side embrace and let Sam cry into his shoulder as he murmured what comforts he could.

Presently, Sam raised his head, wiped at his tears and gave his brother a weak smile. “Sorry. I know I’m a ninnyhammer to be crying over nothing but a spoilt pan, but...”

“No, Sam,” Frodo said softly, stroking his friend’s arm. “Of course you’re not. It’s a little bit of the Shire you’ve found and you have to leave. That’s enough to make anyone sad. And I know it’s not just the pan. I’m sorry.”

The two looked at each other for a long time, not speaking, not needing to. Then Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, if it’s a bit of the Shire here, then maybe some good will come of it,” he said, his customary cheer shakily returning. He put both pans into the crack, then straightened his shoulders and stood. He offered a hand up to Frodo who accepted it gladly.

“Come on, my dear,” the gardener said. “We’d best be going.”