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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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TBC!

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