For Lindelea and Garnet Took for their birthdays.

Not as Was Intended

            “What can I do for you, Mr. Baggins?”

            Frodo gave a sigh as he examined the form of his gardener from the top of his head to the sturdy feet planted firmly on the soil of Bag End’s garden.  “Well,” he said sadly, “at least you didn’t sir me this time.”

            Sam stood still, formally, his trowel caught between his hands, his knuckles nearly white as he held it, his mouth firmly closed.

            Frodo looked away from Sam to the bush beside which he stood.  “The roses are beautiful,” he said.  “Red as blood.”

            “Yes,” Sam said, and glanced at the circle of gold to be glimpsed on Frodo’s right ring finger.  “’Ceptin’, they was white when I planted them.”