The drab, damp depressing weather clung to the Shire into the middle of Solmath. No one could remember seeing much of the sun since Foreyule. In every town the old mills had been demolished. In every town the new mill was large and ugly, belching out dust that settled on everything. If built on a stream, it soon fouled it. If the wheels were turned by oxen, they seemed to grow exhausted quickly, dying in a short time. But at least the hobbits still had grist to be ground so the mills still produced flour, at least there would still be bread in the hobbit’s holes and houses.

The hobbits’ holes and houses. In every town some of them began to be knocked down or dug up for no apparent reason, to be replaced by areas tightly packed with tarred shacks. In every town the poorest, oldest, most infirm hobbits were forced to move into these poorly thrown together one-room dwellings. It didn’t take much hobbit sense to see that the shacks would be numbing cold in the winter while, being black in color, turning into small ovens in the summer.

The shacks of Lobelia Lane in Hobbiton were like the hundreds of others marring the charm of the villages of the Shire. The grey weepy sky matched well their look. Number Seven Lobelia Lane was as drab as all the rest. It was now home to Hamfast and Bell Gamgee.

"Are ya warm enough, Bell?" Ham asked as he adjusted the counterpane more snugly around her. Her rocking chair was pulled up close to the tiny fireplace.

"Oh, aye." She was interrupted by a fit of coughing that belied her words. "Aye just right now, Ham, my dear."

The Gaffer hugged her shoulders, or hugged what he could of her shoulders, buried as they were beneath two shawls, two wool blankets and the counterpane. He kissed her forehead, at lest there he knew she would actually feel his touch. He sat across from her in his rocker, staring at her dear face. Ham knew Bell would be asleep in moments, if she weren’t already. In the few weeks they had lived in this wretched shed her lungs had gotten worse allowing her to do little else but sleep. They hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t talked about the blood that often stained the handkerchief into which she would cough. They both knew, and could see no point in wasting her breath discussing it. He tended her needs so she didn’t have to make the long, cold walk to the privy. That also was done without discussion. They both knew it was how it must be.

There was some help, but oh, how hard it was! So much sneaking about. Dimm Twofoot would bring by a small pot of stew, well wrapped up and hidden under his jacket. He snuck a bit of extra wood to the Gamgees as well. If any of the many Sherriffs or Ruffians that were constantly abroad in Hobbiton noticed the gussets added to Dimm’s jacket to loosen the fit, they hadn’t guessed why. Young Tom Cotton also seemed to be wearing a larger jacket these days. The Cottons, out away from Bywater on their farm, had managed to hide a goodly amount of their stores from the Gatherers. A couple of times a week Young Tom would bring taters, carrots, turnips, onions, along with dried and cured meats to the Gaffer and Bell, hidden in large pockets sewn into the inside of his oversized jacket. And every time he brought some of his dear mother’s seed cakes, as she claimed, "A body needs some pleasant sweets in times like these, not just life’s necessities."

Ham and Bell were grateful, grateful beyond words. But for all that, despite the extra food or the bit of extra wood, the cold dampness found its way into Bell Gamgee. It gave her nothing. It slowly took her breath, her strength, her very will to live.

Bag End was warm, dry and cozy. A fire burned brightly in every fireplace while the pantries bulged with food. Lobelia marveled that she didn’t need to wear her woolen skirts, nor even a shawl. A heavy cotton skirt with a lighter weight long-sleeved blouse kept her plenty warm. She was extremely proud of her son. He had the respect of those who worked under him. He was providing her with the most elegant hole, the best food, the finest clothes, the largest jewelry she had ever had. He had even hired a hobbit lass to clean as well as a hobbit who used to work at the Ivy Bush to do the cooking. Lobelia spent her days doing embroidery and writing letters to people she had long disliked, bragging about her new position in life. She was now the Mother of the Chief of the Shire. Because of the bone-chilling damp she remained tucked snugly inside Bag End.

Lotho sat behind the huge desk he had ordered for the study at Bag End. In a way it angered him that Frodo had carted away much of the old hole’s furnishings. But it really, he consoled himself, worked out for the best as what he bought to replace it all was much more opulent. He had no idea that the Men and Hobbits working for him thought his furnishings rather foolish. Most of it was gaudy, garish and far too large for the rooms at Bag End. In the study there was barely room for two chairs for visitors because Lotho’s desk and throne like chair took up so much space.

A large map of the Shire, Lotho’s Shire, hung upon the wall behind and to the right of the large chair so that all who faced Lotho faced a constant reminder of whom it was now owned their once free land. Lotho loved to sit and gaze upon his realm. Ragged white edges showed where the less populated areas at the edges of the Shire lay between the last of the farms and the actual border. Buckland was as red as the Shire. Only Tookland showed as a glaringly white spot in the heart of Chief Lotho’s Shire. Glaring white excepting a few holes and a dart from Lotho venting his wrath. He had grown to accept it though. Let the Tooks have their little land. Let them have it all to themselves. Lotho laughed. He had his plans for Tookland.