It was early in the spring of 1402, of the Third Age, by Shire reckoning. Bag End and its occupant were still in the midst of turmoil. Throughout the long winter, Frodo had not allowed himself to believe that his Uncle Bilbo had really gone, never to return. As a result, not much had occurred in the way of sorting through any of the belongings Bilbo had left in his wake. With the warmer weather, Frodo had finally decided it was time to begin that chore, so he sought out Sam, whom he found pulling out tools from the shed.

“A good spring cleaning is just what this place needs. I think it would help me a great deal to sort out this mess and put Bilbo’s things away, don’t you? After all, he really isn’t coming back, is he Sam?” Frodo said, looking to Sam for support in his decision.

From the moment Frodo had first arrived at Bag End, Sam Gamgee had become a great friend to Frodo, and Sam had grown into a fine hobbit over the years. But since the night that Bilbo had simply vanished from Hobbiton and from Frodo’s life, Sam had become more than just Frodo’s gardener. To Frodo, Sam had become a treasured companion. Frodo relied on Sam’s good hobbit sense more often these days, especially since he was still at a loss where Bilbo was concerned.

“I reckon not, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, with a gentle grin. “If naught else, you’d be able to find things a mite easier, afterwards.”

“You’re right, Sam. It is a bit too cluttered, even for me!” They both laughed, and Frodo found he felt much better for the decision.

“Would you, by chance, have time to help me with this today, Sam?”

“Of course! I would be glad to, Mr. Frodo. I’ve just got a bit of tending to see to in the garden and around the smial. I need to get those shrubs and flowers near the walls uncovered so they can feel the sunshine, now that the frost is over at last. But that shouldn’t take more’n a few hours, I’d reckon. Well, then I could help you for what’s left of the day.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, Sam.”

With that, Sam went off to the gardens and Frodo made his way to the dreaded room where Bilbo had stored all of the mathoms given to him in years past. Bilbo had never been one to follow the normal tradition of passing on mathoms from one person to another, as most of the Hobbiton folks did. He kept each and every mathom he had ever received, and they now totally filled the room. Sorting through what remained of Bilbo’s belongings brought up lonely feelings in Frodo that weighed heavily on him at times. This room, Frodo felt, he could, and perhaps should, deal with alone. He’d tackle it first, before Sam came to join in on the cleaning.

It wasn’t long before the task began to take its toll on Frodo, frustrating him and wearing on his nerves. Every mathom somehow reflected an aspect of Bilbo’s personality. There were many crude, childish mathoms that had been made for him by the many hobbit children with whom Bilbo had shared his considerable story-telling talents over the years. There were simple mathoms given to him by the farmers and the elderly folk who enjoyed his generosity as landlord. In addition, there were pipes given to him by his more well-to-do friends and relatives, who wanted Bilbo to share in their good fortunes, as he had always shared his with them. Some of them were so fancy as to be totally unusable. Yet, in the end, none of them had meant enough to Bilbo for him to bother taking them with him. In fact, it seemed like very little in Bag End had meant enough to Bilbo for him to --- No, Frodo wouldn’t go down that path again…

As Sam spent the day uncovering and cleaning up the shrubs and verge that surrounded Bag End, carefully preparing them for the warm weather ahead, he worked his way around to the side of the smial where Bag End’s storerooms were. Frodo had opened the window where he was working, to allow some fresh air into the stale room, and Sam could hear Frodo muttering and cursing every now and then. Sam had heard about this room full of mathoms, but he could only imagine what it must be like, for it had always been locked and closed to even the most curious of eyes. Suddenly, Sam heard a loud bang, and a cry of pain. He rushed to the window to see what had befallen Frodo. However, just as he got to the window and looked in, something came whirling toward him, and struck Sam hard upon the head. Everything went black, and he fell, hard, to the ground.

Frodo sat in the middle of the room, exhausted, forlorn, and frustrated. The more he dug through the room, the more there seemed to be in it! So many things received, over such an eventful life. A life that was still probably just as eventful. But not here. Frodo began to pace the room.

Just like Bilbo, too! Looking to the Elves to take care of him in his old age. Running off and leaving everything for me to take care of. Except the one thing I wanted to take care of. Run off and…

Frodo suddenly cried out in pain. He’d smashed his foot against something heavy on the floor. He swore loudly, tears in his eyes, and saw a strange bookend, of dwarvish make, on the floor in his path. “Curse those Dwarves! Always sending things to Bilbo from who-knows-where, reminding him of when he was with them… coming back to help him leave the Shire. Coming back to help him leave…” Frodo picked up the misshapen object and hurled it, as hard as he could, out the open window into the bright spring air, where it landed with a muffled thump.

Somehow, Frodo felt no better. In fact, he felt a bit ashamed of his childish outburst. He could hardly leave the mathom sitting outside the window in the flowerbed. He supposed he should go get it and just put in on the pile of things to be thrown out. He wandered over to the window to see where it had landed.

“Oh, no!” Frodo was horrified to see, lying in the nasturtiums, not only the ugly bookend, but Sam Gamgee, sprawled unconscious on the ground, with an ugly gash on his forehead.

Calling himself every bad name he could think of, Frodo ran outside to the garden. “Sam! Oh, Sam! Are you all right? Sam? Sam! Oh, please wake up! Oh, I am the stupidest hobbit in the world! Oh, Sam, how could I have?”

Frodo somehow got his arm around Sam and half-carried, half-dragged him into Bag End. Frodo managed to settle Sam on the bed in his room and then ran out the front door, scanning the road frantically. He thought to run down to Number Three and get one of the Gamgees to fetch the Healer, but he knew they had gone to Overhill for a few days to visit with Sam’s Uncle Halfred. He finally spotted a hobbit-lad strolling up the road.

“Hey! Hey, Jocko Boffin! Please. I need you to run to the Healer’s! Please, tell Mistress Greentoes that I need her to come to Bag End as soon as can be! There’s been a terrible accident. Please hurry!”

Jocko’s eyes became as large as saucers at this news and the agitated state of the normally staid Mr. Baggins. Frodo looked at him frantically. “Please? Hurry!” Jocko broke out of his daze and ran off down the road towards the Healer’s smial.

Frodo ran back in through his door and returned to his room. Sam was just as still and pale as he’d been before. Frodo ran around and started boiling water, and then he soaked several cloths in cool water. He sat by Sam’s side and gently tried to mop up and stop the bleeding on his forehead. So much blood! He’d never forgive himself if he’d caused Sam a serious injury! What had he been thinking? What an imbecilic thing to do!

He heard a noise out in the front Hall, but he could not bear to leave Sam, so he shouted out, “Who is there?” He heard hard breathing, and Mistress Greentoes bustled into the room. She scanned the room and took in Sam, unconscious on the bed, and Frodo’s distraught state. As was typical for a head wound, there was a great deal of blood to be seen. The path from the garden had been easy to follow. She gently moved Frodo aside, and bent to examine the wound, but she did not react as if she thought the wound was a bad one.

“Mr. Baggins, I know you’re concerned. Head wounds can be very messy, indeed, but they tend to look far worse’n they really are. I think Sam’ll be having a fierce headache come morning, but I don’t think any serious damage has been done. I’ll clean up the wound, and give you some salves to put on it and some herbs for the pain. If he wakes up soon, I think things will be just fine. Ah, see, he’s coming around now.”

Frodo turned back to the bed. Sam was stirring, and moaning a bit. “Sam? Are you all right, Sam? You look a bit cross-eyed. That can’t be good, can it, Mistress Greentoes? Are you sure he’ll be all right? I’ll never forgive myself if.…”

“Mr. Baggins,” she interrupted gently. “Sam does look a mite dazed, and he was unconscious, so I think it best if you keep an eye on him tonight. If he becomes confused or his talk slurs, or you notice anything else odd like that, or if he can’t keep food down, send someone for me. Same if you can’t rouse him after he sleeps. Otherwise, I think he’ll heal just fine with some rest. You try and get some rest, too, Mr. Baggins. You look done in.” After she finished bandaging Sam’s head, she pulled back his eyelids and checked his eyes. She gave him a draught from her bag, and he settled back down with a sigh.

“Yes, yes, thank you, Mistress,” said Frodo distractedly. “I’ll make sure he takes the medications you leave, and I will observe him. And, yes... make sure he rouses. Thank you, thank you for coming… Are you sure he’ll be all right? I haven’t caused him any permanent injury, have I? What kind of person gives his gardener a concussion? Are you sure there isn’t more I should be doing? Are you sure.…”

“Mr. Baggins. Hush, now. Rest is the best thing for him now. Keep him quiet, no heavy activity for a day or two. I’ll come back and check on him in a couple of days unless I hear from you.”

And with that, she left several packages, with written instructions, on the bedside table. “Don’t bother to get up, Mr. Baggins. I saw myself in; I’ll see myself out. Good afternoon.”

Frodo looked at the medications the Healer had left and decided to prepare things for Sam.

Sam’s head seemed to have been exchanged for a drum. And someone was playing a tune fit to burst. That was the only explanation for the fierce pounding behind his eyes. He felt a cool cloth placed on his forehead, and he slowly opened his eyes. He blinked in confusion at the roof above his head. This can’t be right. This ain’t my room. It’s… it’s... no, can’t be! This was a perspective of Frodo’s bedroom that he’d never had before. Not that he hadn’t thought about it from time to time… all right, more often than time to time… but he had always expected the result of that perspective to be an ache of another sort altogether. A hand crossed his vision, and the cool cloth was replaced with a new one. He turned his head gently and found Mr. Frodo sitting in the chair next to the bed, a drawn, worried look on his face. A bit of a smile brightened his expression as he saw that Sam’s eyes were open.

“Oh, Sam! You’re awake! Oh, good! I was just beginning to get concerned. Mistress Greentoes said to send for her if you had trouble rousing! How are you, Sam? Can I get you anything? Here, have another pillow. And you must drink this tea. Wait, it’s cold! I’ll go make a fresh pot!” Before Sam could stop him, or get a word in edgewise, Frodo had run out of the room.

Sam blinked and looked around. He couldn’t quite tell what time it was. The curtains were drawn, and the room was fiercely bright, with the largest, most intense fire going in the grate, and what appeared to be every candle and lamp that Frodo owned perched at various spots around the room and the bed. Sam ran a mental inventory of how he felt. He had a throbbing headache, and as he gingerly touched the bandage on his head, he felt that he was developing a good-sized lump. But other than that, he felt mostly fine. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but had a good idea that something had managed to connect itself with his forehead.

Frodo bustled in with not one, but three teapots, which emitted a rather noxious combination of smells. Sam sat up, and started to turn and put his feet toward the floor.

“Sam, what—what are you doing? You can’t get out of bed! Mistress Greentoes said you need rest! You still look pale, and I’m not altogether sure that getting up would be good for you. Here, drink this tea, the Healer said it would be good for the pain, and I’m sure you must be in pain. Here, would you like another pillow? Food? Would you like to eat? I could make you some broth, but you should drink the tea first….”

Sam looked at Frodo in puzzlement. He’d never seen his master babble like this. Something was definitely wrong here, but Sam couldn’t quite figure it out. “Mr. Frodo? Are you all right? You seem a little.…”

Frodo froze, and then hung his head. He then looked up at Sam, and started babbling again, in a rush. “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! I just got so frustrated and that stupid bookend was in my way, and I hit my foot. I don’t know, I just picked it up, and I threw it through the window to get rid of it. I didn’t know you were there! I could have killed you. I don’t know what I was thinking, you must just be so furious with me. The least I can do is take care of you until your family returns!” He snapped his mouth shut and bit his lip, turning back to the tray he had brought with him.

Sam realized that the something that had hit him in the head must have been one of Mr. Bilbo’s mathoms. He’d have to make sure that mathom made its way out of Bag End before Mr. Frodo did himself an injury. Perhaps he’d best finish cleaning out that room himself. The chore didn’t seem to be sitting too well with Mr. Frodo. Sam reached out to take a mug of tea from Frodo, but he batted away Sam’s hands and insisted on holding the mug to Sam’s lips himself. Sam sighed and obliged, drinking all of the proffered medicine.

After Sam had drunk all the tea he could handle, and, much to his chagrin, used the chamber-pot, as Frodo refused to let him leave the bed, Sam settled back down and went to sleep.

“Sam? Sam? Wake up Sam! You’ve been sleeping for ages. Mistress Greentoes said to call her if you had trouble rousing. I was going to send for her. You’ve been asleep for way too long this time!”

“Mr. Frodo, I was tired. You’ve woken me up every hour on the hour for the last day and half to make sure I could rouse, and it’s wore me out. Don’t you think I could get up now? I really feel much better.”

“No, Sam!” Frodo fidgeted nervously with the bottles and cups on the bedside table, not looking at Sam. “Mistress Greentoes said you need plenty of rest, and I intend to see you get it. Why, what kind of hobbit would I be if I let you get out of bed too soon, and you fell ill? It’s all my fault this happened! Bilbo’s right, I’m not fit to care for myself, let alone anyone else! No wonder he left to let the Elves take care of him! I wouldn’t be surprised if you never came back here either! Look at the mess I’ve made of things! Look how just being around me has hurt you! Look---“

Sam reached out and grasped Frodo’s chin, trying to get him to turn and look at him. When Frodo finally met his eyes, there was a sadness in them that had to do with so much more than Sam’s accident. Sam moved his hand and placed his fingers over Frodo’s mouth to stay the stream of words that was still flowing non-stop.

“Mr. Frodo, that’s just silly. Bilbo did not leave because you didn’t take good enough care of him. He just had the wanderlust, and it was time for him to move on. It had nothing to do with you, or how you treated him, or whether the Elves could do it better’n you. You could have been the best caretaker in the world, and Bilbo still would have left. And killing me with kindness, taking too much care of me now, isn’t going to make me stay, either.”

Frodo’s eyes became huge, and his entire face went white. Before Sam could say or do anything, Frodo had backed himself across the room. He looked ready to bolt at any moment. Finally, something seemed to snap in Frodo, and he laughed bitterly. “Fine, Sam. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He turned away, staring at the floor. “Of course you’re leaving, too. Everyone does.”

Sam looked at Frodo, who stood forlornly, with his back to Sam. Sam knew he had to say something quickly, before this all went beyond repair. Sam stood up, and after a moment to steady himself, moved over to Frodo’s side, and gathered him into his arms. “No, Frodo! No, you mis-understood. I just meant you don’t need to take such extra care of me to get me to stay! Don’t you know that? You taking care of me is lovely, but I’ll be staying because I love you, not because of the care you took of me.”

Frodo turned toward Sam, and his mouth moved, but for the first time in the last two days, he seemed to be speechless. Sam took advantage of that and leaned in close, kissing Frodo gently on the lips. The color suddenly returned to Frodo’s face, along with a look of wonder. “You love me, Sam? Truly? I never thought… I never dared hope… I mean, I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, and I really hoped you did, but after the way I hurt you and the things that happened, and with me being so clumsy and foolish and—“

Sam decided to stop this torrent of words in the best way he could think of, and leaned in to kiss Frodo again. It worked. Frodo stopped talking and instead returned the kiss enthusiastically. As Sam began to draw Frodo toward the inviting bed, Frodo suddenly became hesitant. Sam looked at him questioningly.

“But, Sam… Mistress Greentoes said you weren’t to have any heavy activity.…”

Sam smiled at him, and, as he pulled Frodo in for another kiss, murmured, “I’ll take my chances.”

The End