Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I’m not getting paid for this in any way and am only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical worlds.

Credit: www.bbc.co.uk/gardening/plants www.Northamptonshire.co.uk/gardening/septdiary2004 www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/howtogrow/3337816/On-the-spot-the-best-white-flowers-for-shade

Dedication: A little bit of gardening angst for Antane.

A Gardener’s Lament

Hobbiton, 1421 Shire Reckoning

It was the start of a warm, sunny September and Samwise Gamgee was in a bit of a reflective mood as he knelt in the garden of Bag End to take stock of the summer blooms.

An infant’s cooing floated towards him from the direction of kitchen window, making him smile. Frodo had sole care of Elanor for an hour or two while Rosie went to the market for supplies with her mother - a duty which his dear friend adored. The Hobbit babe was one of the few people who could elicit a smile of genuine happiness from him these days and he was often to be found cradling her in his arms on the garden bench of an afternoon, enjoying the beauty of the day from a nicely shaded spot while he told her stories of Elves, Men and affable Dwarves. In the evening, he would sing her lullabies in the sitting room before Rosie whisked her off to bed. These were the moments the gardener lived for: to see his master so content was almost worth the worry of fretting over his declining health - for it was plain for any fool to see that the Master of Bag End was not faring well.

Enough of that! Sam dispersed his sudden melancholy with a vigorous shake of his head and returned his attention to the soil beds at the rear of the garden.

Frodo would be fine, he just knew it. His friend hadn’t survived the horrors of Ring-bearing to succumb to the taunts of dark dreams!

His practised eye swept over the shady borders of the garden and he suddenly wished it were spring, so he could see the funnel-shaped flowers of Oliphaunts Ears. Their cheery name and pleasing shape reminded him of one of the nicer parts of the quest and the magnificence of the creatures they took their name from. For the moment, their beds were occupied by some colourful flowering asters whose lilac-blue, daisy-like petals were put into sharp contrast by the dark green leaves on their stems. At the edge of the garden, near the base of a little wall, rose-pink amaryllis proudly displayed their trumpet-like petals. Both these plants would fare well for a while yet and, satisfied, Sam moved further on.

Ah, the coneflower. He knelt down again and fingered some of the purple, pink and white petals; all were showing the droop of lost youth. Time to divide them. Gently digging the soil from their bases, he exposed the undersides and gently lifted them from the ground, taking care not to damage the root systems. After dividing each plant into several portions, Sam dug over the original sites before replanting the newer divisions, leaving enough room between each to allow them to grow. He discarded the old, woody centres on to the compost heap and, brushing off his hands, turned to admire his work. There, that was much better! Out with the old, in with new - that was the way of nature after all.

The sound of an Elvish song drifted through the air: Frodo was singing Elanor into her afternoon nap. Sam sighed. He was worried that the other Hobbit hadn’t left the Smial to sit on the garden bench with her as usual, but, truth be told, he hadn’t done that for over a week, which was becoming a cause for concern to him.

Not that he would let it show. If Frodo suspected Sam was beginning to lose sleep with worry over his friend’s health, it would distress the elder Hobbit, and that just wouldn’t do at all. He was pale and sickly enough as it was, without adding another burden to him.

Sam blinked rapidly. What was wrong with him? His master was alive! He had survived a horrific ordeal and was now back home where he belonged, cradling his dearest friend’s daughter and soothing her with sweet song - he should be happy. But he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling of dread that was burgeoning in his heart, like dandelions invading the flower beds and pathway.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and forced his chin up. There now Samwise Gamgee! No need to be occupying your mind with wild imaginings, when you should be occupying it with the autumn beds instead! Resolving to lose himself no further in gloomy thoughts, he marched towards the marigolds. Their sunny colour always cheered him up. The yellow flowers remained vibrant for the moment, so he wouldn’t have to worry about removing any fading blooms until later that month.

Satisfied, Sam moved to the roses. His beloved wife had been named for these blossoms and several graced the garden of Bag End. Velvety red, pink and yellow petals seduced eye and nose with their summer finery and he delighted at the sight of them. They were his favourite flower: elegant, understated, yet bold and vibrant - sort of like his master. He caressed the flowers lovingly, before checking for fading blooms. Spotting a few, he removed a pair of scissors from the deep pocket of his overall and began to prune the branches with sharp cuts that slanted away from any remaining buds, removing additional branches that may cause congestion before securing the new shoots with string. This occupied him for almost an hour; inspecting, cutting, removing, tying and by the time he was finished, he was very well satisfied. He mulched the beds with some well-rotted fertiliser from the local Hobbiton farms, thankful that the plants were not too near the actual Smial itself. It wouldn’t do to put him off his dinner, after all.

Gathering his scissors and string, Sam dusted himself off intending to head for the vegetable patch. As he passed by the rosebushes he had already seen to, he caught sight of a bush he had neglected. Approaching it, his found his gaze inexplicably transfixed by the ivory flowers; the clustered blooms of each branch sporting a delicate apricot centre. They had weathered the hot summer well and he inhaled deeply of their honeyed fragrance. He reached a hand out to touch one, but it hovered in mid air, refusing to go any further.

They were so pure, so ethereal, so very frail. They may have weathered the warmer elements, but autumn would soon be arriving, depriving the blossoms of the heat they enjoyed and then winter would follow - to deprive them of the remaining light. Their petals would inevitably wither and fall, leaving the branches naked and cold.

A pang of sorrow, so acute that it robbed him of breath, flooded him, causing the scissors and string to fall from his grip.

Why? Why?

The single word rebounded through his head and he fell to his knees; great, fat tears of despair leaking from his eyes. It wasn’t fair! Hadn’t he tended them well? Didn’t he nurture the delicate blooms, cherish their purity, guard their innocence fiercely as he would guard his own child? He fought desperately to control his sobs as the ivory blossoms seemed to glow at him with a brilliant, white light.

Just like Frodo.

Because, no matter what he did, Sam knew that his gardener’s touch could not save his master. Frodo’s innocence was gone, lost on the long, painful trek from Crickhollow to Mount Doom. The joyful laugh that used to resound in Bag End’s halls was now little more than a mockery, a ghost of the past. His insatiable desire for knowledge of the world outside the Shire’s borders had been replaced by a quiet acceptance of its cruelties and an almost obsessive desire to write of them to the exclusion of all other activities. Indeed, were it not for Elanor, the Hobbit would spend most of his time locked in the study and Sam’s concern would be allowed to grow unchecked by the occasional sighting of him.

The roses were oblivious to his grief, of course, but the sight of their apparent indifference to it caused a swelling of anger in the miserable gardener and he reached out to them in uncharacteristic fury, ripping the blooms from their branches as if the very sight of them was responsible for his own woes.

“Useless, stupid, crawling things!” he spat, face glowing with passion. Why should they be allowed to flourish while his master slowly faded? They might cast their petals in the colder seasons, but their glowing vitality would be in evidence again come spring.

The same couldn’t be said about his master.

For Sam was beginning to doubt that Frodo would live to see this time next year. The last anniversary had taken a terrible toll on him and the ailing Hobbit had needed weeks to recover afterwards. It was now only a month until the next one. Would he survive that? Would Sam and Rosie’s loving ministrations pull him safely through the terrors that lurked in the recesses of his mind, ever ready to strike, always happy to hurt? Could Sam himself bear to see the shivering, sweating form of his master in the small hours of the night, deliriously striking out at unseen demons and begging for his friend’s help? It destroyed a part of the gardener’s soul each time he witnessed it, the hollow feeling of utter helplessness was crippling.

A joyful giggle shattered his moment of sorrow and, spell broken, Sam ceased his demolition of the rambling rose bush, looking at the destruction he had wrought in disbelief. He had managed to rip a goodly amount of blooms from the bush in his fury and it lacked the appeal it boasted minutes before. Wounded branches, snapped in half by the gardener’s violent tugs, swayed gently and petals were strewn over the grass, stained with fat blobs of red.

Frowning, he brought his hands up to eye level and saw that they had been viciously scratched by the bush’s many thorny protrusions. Wincing, he pulled a few remnant thorns from his fingers and palms and wrapped a clean handkerchief around the worst of them on his left hand.

He knew it had been a foolish thing to do, ripping at his lovely roses, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. It was difficult getting up every day, putting his best smile on and pretending that everything was going to be all right. Perhaps he was fooling himself: Frodo might never get better. But the thought of losing his friend was infinitely worse than the trek to Mordor had ever been; worse than watching him claim the One Ring at the Crack of Doom. What would he do without him if he didn’t recover? Would his Rosie be enough to heal the void his master left behind if Frodo died?

Leaning back on his heels, he surveyed the ruined bush. The damage was great, but not irreparable. With some selective pruning and a lot of love, the blossoms would flourish and grow again.

Why couldn’t he do that for Frodo?

“A garden can be a thing of great beauty, my lad. But even the best gardener can’t make it do things that goes against nature. A rose won‘t bloom in winter, after all.”

The Gaffer’s words to him when he first saw the splendour of Bag End’s blossoms came rushing back to him.

Was that the problem? Was the Shire, once the Spring of Frodo’s life, now his Winter? Did he need to be planted in warmer climates, richer soil?

And did Sam have the heart to uproot him and send him safely packaged on his way to this far green land?

Wiping the angry tears off his face, he started to gather the ruined flowers that lay scattered around him and picked himself up, placing the dead blooms on the compost heap.

He would not give in to the inevitable just yet. As long as he had breath in his body, Samwise Gamgee would offer his ivory rose warmth and light. He would prune it, mulch it and watch it flourish and grow - or else he would turn his back on his beloved craft forever.

After all, any gardener that couldn’t make a rose bloom each year, wasn’t worth his weight in fertiliser.

And with that, he walked to the vegetable patch to pick some tomatoes for his dinner.

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Author’s Note: This is wildly new territory for me as I know absolutely nothing about plants and gardens other than what I have extrapolated from the above websites. Any errors in the portrayal of them such as type, best conditions to grow, etc are purely my own and I freely hold my hands up in admitting to them. I have not given ‘secateurs’ their proper name in this fic, merely because I don’t believe they would have been known as such in the Shire (it seems a bit French to me and I’ve never heard of a French Hobbit before). Other than that, I hope you enjoy!