Rating: PG15-R
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Warnings: Angst, harmless voyeurism (Sam), rather needy slutty Frodo, true romance; and a bit of back and forth through time – disjointed, interrupted, narrative.
Summary: After the Birthday there’s an autumn of loss, and a winter of discontent, but there’s always Samwise . . . even if a few other hobbits get in the way of true love. Next springtime will be sweeter than ever.

As he pushed the handcart full of split wood up the wet pitted gravel of the Row, Sam Gamgee sighed. Anything could be sorted with a bit of proper planning, with a bit of thoughtful care: that was something Sam believed with all of his simple heart. He’d sorted the scraping door at Widow Rumble’s smial just yesterday, and he’d mended Daisy’s favourite broom two weeks ago, after she’d broken it on Halfred’s broad back when he came to visit and teased her about her prolonged spinsterhood; he’d found a pin for little Rosie Cotton when she’d torn her petticoats at the Market Fair near six months ago; and he’d guessed last year that those sad stringy foreign plants of Mister Bilbo’s would do better in half sun. The Gaffer bought him an ale at the Ivy Bush when heavy-scented blood-red flowers bloomed and scattered petals over the path in the summer.

But Mister Bilbo was gone now - had been gone these two months and more, and winter was closing about Hobbiton. And Frodo Baggins was a pale quiet shadow of himself with a lost look about him; and Sam’s feet were cold where ice cracked in the puddles under them, and his scarf was stiff and scratchy against his chin.

In the tap rooms of the Ivy Bush and the Green Dragon folks still wondered loudly about the disappearance of Mad Baggins, and a few sour souls grumbled and hinted about the undeserved luck of strangers. Most of all they nodded sagely back and forth over frothy heads in pewter tankards and agreed that there was never no need to be meddling with wizards, no how. “Leave the outside alone and no harm ‘ll come of it,” said Daddy Twofoot, tapping out his pipe against his heel, and spitting into the sawdust on the floor. “The lad needs to forget all that moonshine and nonsense and settle down like a proper respectable gentlehobbit.”

And it seemed to almost everyone that Frodo Baggins had indeed settled down, but Sam had seen him standing lonely on the Hill, gazing at the dwindling grey of the East Road, as though his feet wanted to take him along it into adventures.

Sam had watched the Baggins from Buckland through a child’s adoring eyes when the tweenager first came to live with the old Squire. He’d left limp posies of pretty weeds on the mossy step by the green door while the Gaffer grumbled about his wool-gathering, and there was always a little glazed pot on Mister Frodo’s window sill in those long ago days, full of dandelions and cowslips.

And Mister Frodo would read him stories sometimes in the slow afternoons: and his fair face would light up and his hand would turn each page and his voice would drop to a whisper at the scary bits; then Sam would imagine himself on a tall horse in a dark forest somewhere with a bright sword. After the stories Sam would run home and finish his evening chores, and dream of splendid other worlds where he slew dragons and rescued whole villages from dark-cloaked tyrants and built a grand new smial with golden walls for his Gaffer and the lasses.

As he grew older Sam watched still; he glowed when Frodo Baggins smiled, and he blushed at every casual careless word of recognition. He put daffodils and bluebells in a vase on the kitchen table in springtime after he’d stoked the fire, and roses in the summer.

The sky was a dull heavy mass of cloud above him now; snow before Yuletide, thought Sam, as he propped the gate open. Some folk might shrug or frown at the bare garden, at the piled straw, and the last shivering leaf fall by the green door, but Sam smiled and pushed his cart over the uneven flags.

Winter was a long sleep and bitter sometimes, but the garden needed to rest along with the fields and the woodlands and the high moors. And next spring would be as sweet as ever.

And perhaps Mister Frodo would be smiling again soon, and looking forward instead of backward. Because there was no trouble that couldn’t be sorted with a bit of proper planning and a bit of care . . .

The kettle whistled on the range, and Sam measured chamomile and ground ginger into the pot, and brushed his dusty fingers against his grey waistcoat. He’d lit the fire in the kitchen, and one in the study and another in the parlour; he’d drawn a deep bath and he’d laid white thick towels beside it, and he’d set the kitchen table with a blue and white plate and a mug with painted flowers; there was bacon sizzling in the cast iron pan, and he’d put a dish of yellow butter on the white cloth, and Daisy’s bread . . .

He’d arranged a few sprigs of bare twisted willow and sweet-smelling South Farthing fir in a blue vase, and then he’d knocked carefully on the door of Mister Frodo’s bedroom . . . the new Master of Bag End hadn’t seen fit to change his room since the Birthday. Mister Bilbo’s room was untouched still.

After that Sam walked home, pushing the empty cart through the mud as the sun spilled pale and uncertain and glancing over his ruddy cheeks.

“You should come back to the Hall with me, Frodo,” Merry Brandybuck leaned against the gate with his pony’s reins draped over his gloved hand, “Mother would love to see you there again . . . and Dad too . . .”

“Thank you, Merry,” Frodo leaned forward to kiss his cousin’s forehead, “next year, maybe . . .”

“But you’re all alone here, and the Sackville-Bagginses might decide to visit between now and the New Year.” The younger hobbit tucked his arm about Frodo’s slight waist, “You’d be much safer at the Hall . . . and Grandfather still has a bottle or so of the Old Winyards.” Merry grinned broadly for a moment before his grey eyes grew concerned again, “Please come home, Frodo; I don’t like to think of you here all alone.”

“I am home, Merry . . . and I’m not alone, dearest; Freddy’s coming down the day after Yule if he can, and Folco promised to visit just as soon as the family lets him go about his own business again after that last disaster at the pony races . . . Well, they’ll most likely come down together, but they’ll be here; and . . .”

Sam didn’t mean to listen; he was turning the compost pile just behind the hedge. When the Master’s friends dropped by - and stayed - he set extra plates and mugs on the snowy cloth in the kitchen and used the large teapot. He made sure to bring more firewood – every two days; and sometimes as the bacon sizzled over the flame, he thought he’d become invisible.

“ . . . and Sam’s here nearly every day, Merry, I couldn’t do without him, I promise you . . . I’m never alone.”

Hidden behind the thick evergreen, Sam felt the blood rush into his cheeks; he wasn’t invisible after all. Mister Frodo needed him; he understood that Sam was there for him. The gardener knew better than to let his dreams run away with him, but maybe . . . maybe . . . Frodo thought of him as a friend.

The sound of small hooves and creaking leather faded down the road and Sam bent to his task with renewed vigour, trying to calm his pleased muddled thoughts. Then a heavy sigh broke the stillness and he peeked through the hedge to see Mister Frodo’s shoulders droop as though in defeat when he turned towards the smial.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Sam threw down his pitchfork and walked out onto the path; “Mister Frodo, happen I could brew a pot o’ tea for you afore I go?” He’d never been so bold before, but there was a new kind of reckless feeling in him and there was nothing out of place in his offer. Even the Gaffer couldn’t object to a pot of tea.

“Only if you’ll take a cup with me, Sam.” Shadowed blue eyes glanced at him and away again, “You heard what I said to Merry, didn’t you?” Frodo’s brown coat hung about his thin frame like a sack on a scarecrow, “I don’t mean to burden you so, Sam, but truly, I don’t know what I would have done without you these past weeks and months; so please don’t be stuffy.”

Sam’s heart seemed to clench in his chest but he wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself how much – and for how long - he’d been hoping for just such an invitation, “I’ll gladly take a cup wi’ you, Mister Frodo. This cold spell’s playin’ somethin’ cruel wi’ the Gaffer’s joints, and I’ve to see to Missus Lobelia’s greenhouses, and chop wood for the Widow too afore I get home, but I reckon I’ve time for tea and a pipe.”

They walked up to the green door together. Saying nothing more.

One early summer night when Sam Gamgee was seventeen he’d seen Frodo Baggins standing at the bridge on the Bywater road with another hobbit. They were wound closely, urgently against one another; the dusk was just settling pink and grey on the Water and shrill small birds were fluttering and hurrying into the old oaks along the way. Sam had hidden amongst the laurel, and its heady cream scent turning old and spent seemed like something out of the old tales, and, without thinking, he’d tucked his hand into his britches and moaned.

He’d moaned when Frodo did, and bitten his lip hard against the helpless sound.

Sam had crept away while the lovers were whispering still and leaning together, while the dark had fallen like a blanket. He’d slept late the next morning and May had teased him for hankering after some lass or t’other. He couldn’t meet Mister Frodo’s eyes for more than two weeks after that . . . He’d struggled to keep his mind on his work during his waking hours . . . but Sam couldn’t help his dreams after all . . . and they were sweet.

There was no harm in dreams, and despite his blushes and despite his misgivings Sam had become used to these odd new feelings. No one seemed to notice anything untoward, and so Sam watched when he could and sat in his room at Number Three every night, thinking about silvery blue eyes and lips he wanted to taste. There was no harm in that.

Two years back, the old squire had given Sam four silver pennies before the Autumn Fair and told him to spend them how he would. Sam gave three pennies to the Gaffer and spent the rest on skittles and shies, and toffee apples and plump pasties and ale. And he’d bought a little pewter ring with pretty letters on it from the Travellers, and he’d imagined giving it to Mister Frodo . . . he’d wrapped the ring in a scrap of blue linen, laid it in small box and hidden it in the wood shed the next day.

After the day, just before Yule at Bag End, when Frodo asked him to stay for tea; after tea and scones and raspberry jam and a chaste kiss goodbye on the cheek, Sam walked up the Row more often. He pushed his cart over the ruts and potholes and set the fires and lit them; he laid the kitchen table with two blue and white plates and two mugs with painted flowers on them. Everything could be sorted . . . he knew that . . . sometimes he thought about the little pewter ring still hidden away in the wood shed.

They drank tea together, him and Mister Frodo, and talked sometimes. Sam started coming by in the evenings too with jars of Daisy’s preserves, and stoneware bottles of May’s elderberry wine, or any other ready excuse in his broad work-roughened hands. The long dark evenings were comfortable and the firelight flickered and danced in the hearth while Frodo read from yellowed parchment – sad stories mostly, about the old heroic days and men and elves and great enchantments and doomed lovers - and Sam thought that Frodo was more content than he had been since Mister Bilbo went away.

Mister Folco fell through the green door with Mister Freddy right behind him three days into the New Year when the frost was just melting under the early afternoon sun.

“I would have been here before, Frodo, but the Oldster insisted that I do polite with the visiting aunties . . . Ask Fatty if you don’t believe me. I need a drink . . .”

The Boffin seemed more than a little worse for drink already and Sam frowned in quiet disapproval; it wasn’t much past two o’clock. But Frodo seemed happy to see his friends, he was laughing as he extricated himself from their enthusiastic embraces.

“I see you stopped at the Dragon, lads. You need a quiet pipe and a good meal, Folco.” He pattered away into the kitchen and pulled pots and pans from under the sink, calling over his shoulder, “I wasn’t expecting you today, so you’ll have to wait and amuse yourselves while I slave over a hot stove.”

“I’ll help,” said Sam, spilling an armful of potatoes onto the draining board, “I could nip down t’ Number Three, if you want, Mister Frodo, likely Daisy’s been baking.”

Frodo put his small ink-stained hand over Sam’s then, “Don’t run errands for them, or for me, Sam. Don’t ever run needless errands for me . . . I don’t want that.” He waved a saucepan as though frustrated and his wide blue eyes sparkled with some strong emotion that Sam couldn’t quite identify.

“Sorry, Mister Frodo, I’ll set the table then, and fetch some bacon from the cellar,” Sam turned away, as surprisingly strong slim fingers grasped his wrist, “er . . . and there’s more than half a wheel o’ the Widow’s good cheese . . . Mister Frodo, Sir . . .“

“You’ll stay and eat with us then, Sam?” The fingers tugged, gently, “I’m sure the Gaffer can spare you for a bit longer today, and I’d like Folco and Fatty to meet you properly.”

Against the odds of class and expectation, they’d become friends, thought Sam. And the thought warmed him down to his furry toes . . . but he knew all too well that he couldn’t just sit down with these fine folk (even if one of them was the most heedless ne’er-do-well from Hobbiton to the White Downs and beyond), so he shook his head and murmured his thanks and apologies.

“I appreciate that, Mister Frodo, Sir, but I’d best be getting’ home soon.” Sam closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ll fetch the cheese, then . . . and the bacon . . .”

Frodo let go of Sam’s wrist, “And a bottle or two of South Farthing Red, and a kiss - if you don’t mind, Sam?”

Before he could do more than gasp in surprise, Sam found his arms full of warm hobbit. Forgetting himself completely, he raised one hand and brushed Frodo’s silky cheek, tangling his fingers into dusky curls, “I don’t mind, Mister Frodo, but . . . “

Frodo wrapped his arms around the younger hobbit’s neck and the saucepan glanced across his broad shoulder but Sam barely noticed, “I’m glad you don’t mind, Sam. Kiss me please.”

Sam had taught himself not to want too much – and he’d been almost happy with cups of tea and quiet talk and magical tales and Frodo’s company; he’d been almost content with making sure that his Mister Frodo was comfortable and never lonely. He’d promised himself not to ask for more.

But now Sam found all his good intentions slipping away in a moment as soft lips pressed gently against the corner of his mouth, and he had to taste those lips, and they were sweeter than he’d ever imagined.

He realised that he’d pushed Mister Frodo against the sturdy kitchen table and that he was rubbing himself shamelessly against the other hobbit; he realised that Frodo’s mouth tasted like honeysuckle and ginger, that a saucepan was clattering and ringing on the slate floor beside them, and that his hands were sliding under a snowy lavender-scented linen shirt . . . touching smooth skin.

“I’m making tea, lads, but don’t let me disturb anything . . .” Mister Freddy’s low-voiced interruption by the door seemed more amused than annoyed or appalled, “Perhaps you’d rather take this somewhere more private, Frodo?”

Sam came to his senses in one horrified second. He tried to extricate himself; tried to move away, but Mister Frodo had twisted his fingers into the buttonholes of Sam’s waistcoat and he wasn’t letting go. Instead, he was trying to pull Sam closer again, and his face was flushed warm pink and his dark eyelashes were fluttering closed. He didn’t seem to have heard Mister Freddy.

“I were just tryin’ to . . .” Sam blushed harder and hotter than he’d imagined was possible; he couldn’t think of any words to make this better, “Mister Frodo thought as how . . .”

“Don’t worry, Samwise, we all know what Frodo’s like when he takes a fancy to a fellow.” The Bolger scooped chamomile and crushed ginger into the teapot, just as Sam did every morning and most afternoons, and he set the kettle on the range. “I don’t mind cooking, Frodo, if you’ve better things to be doing, but I’ll expect you to keep it quiet. Folco’s asleep on the couch – he’s a bit tired.”

Sam was mortified.

“How dare you talk to Sam like that, Fatty?” Frodo seemed to have recovered himself somewhat, but he still held tightly to the gardener’s waistcoat; “I thought you were my friend.”

“Of course I’m your friend, Fro. I’m glad to see you’ve not been pining for company. I admit that I was a bit worried about you after Old Bilbo left. Very bad form that – Great Grandmama Chubb’s written all of you Bagginses out of her will again.” Fredegar started to wash and peel the potatoes that Sam had left by the sink. “I should have known better.” He chuckled softly, “We love you Frodo, and we don’t care if you want to enjoy a little rough trade now and then.”

“Don’t talk like that about Sam either, Freddy!” Frodo untangled his fingers from Sam’s buttonholes and caught one of the Bolger’s hand’s in his own - a half-peeled potato spilled onto the floor and rolled away. “Do you care so little for me?”

“I care very much for you, Frodo . . . Do you care about yourself? I wonder sometimes. . .” Fredegar pulled his hand free and began to lay slices of potato into a square dish. He sprinkled tansy and rosemary, and a little salt. “We need onions, and bacon and cheese. I’ll care about you still, Frodo, even when this latest little fancy’s played out.”

“It’s different this time, Fatty . . .”

Sam fled then, out of the kitchen and along the hall. He fled not caring that he’d left the green door swinging behind him. He’d been such a fool to think that Frodo Baggins might care about a moonstruck gardener lad more than he cared about any of the others. He should have known better.

But he remembered the sweet hungry kiss too; and the taste of honeysuckle and ginger; and he couldn’t go home, so he sat beside the hedge and watched the frost close and burn over each bold green leaf, and creep over the straw where it was piled on the garden beds. It wasn’t more than four o’clock and the fleeting warmth of scarce an hour ago had vanished away completely.

Sam drew his knees close to his chest. He’d left his thick cloak hanging on the peg behind the green door but he couldn’t bear to go back inside and fetch it.

He wondered if he’d be bothered so much if Mister Freddy hadn’t said it all in that light knowing voice of his. A part of him admitted that he might have taken his chances without that. But it was all spoiled now.

A part of Sam admitted that some things might be past sorting after all.

Last year, not long before the infamous Birthday Party, Sam had watched again as Frodo was pressed against a tree in the nearly bare orchard at Bag End in the twilight; he knew he should walk away, but he couldn’t move his feet and his hand wandered to touch himself as he listened to breathy urgent encouragement.

“Please, F . . . Freddy . . .”

Sam’s face had burned as he’d imagined himself there with his shabby britches around his knees, as he’d imagined himself pushing inside warm clenching flesh, as he’d imagined Mister Frodo murmuring his name instead, and collapsing sated into his arms - instead.

Later he’d imagined them waking together in a feather bed with white sheets, kissing gently as if the world had spun on its tangled way without them, as if the world had left them impossibly and perfectly together. He’d imagined his little pewter ring on Frodo’s finger.

He’d cried himself to sleep that night, like a child in the dark, and Daisy hadn’t teased or scolded him when he’d woken later than usual afterwards. Daisy seemed to understand things sometimes.

And when he’d gone to set things to right at Bag End the next morning Mister Bilbo had been sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table with the white cloth on it, frowning when Sam came in to set the fire; “It won’t do, Samwise,” the old hobbit shook his head, “It won’t do at all . . . I can’t wait any longer, and it just won’t do.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Bilbo.” Sam fumbled with the kettle and spilled comfrey all over the floor, he wasn’t sure what he was apologising for . . . “I’m sorry . . .”

“Dear lad, it’s no fault of yours.”

Bilbo poured tea for both of them, and waved rather vaguely at a chair, “I might have to go away soon, off on my own adventures again, don’t you know?”

“I’d be sorry for that too, Mister Bilbo,” Sam had a sinking slow feeling that “away.” might mean going outside the Shire rather than to Tuckborough or Michel Delving, “I wish you didn’t have to leave, Sir; Mister Frodo’ll be . . . sad . . .”

“But you’ll be here for him, Sam,” the old hobbit tucked his fingers into the pocket of his gold-broidered waistcoat, “I’m old, Sam, old and worn thin . . . and tired . . . If I know you’ll still be here with your cart and your firewood and your plain good sense I’ll rest easier at nights along the way.”

“I’m . . . Mister Bilbo . . . I’ll be here.” Sam ducked his sandy head and his voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ll be here.” He couldn’t say more.

There was a warm hand on his shoulder then, “I know, lad, I know. Let me pour more tea for you, Samwise . . . Let me tell you a story from long ago about hope . . .”

He remembered that strange morning now in the gathering cold and darkness by the hedge.

Sam was still sitting in the cover of the hedge half an hour later when someone came out and wrapped him in a warm woollen cloak. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I wish . . .” Frodo sat down next to him, not quite touching, “I never meant anything like that to happen. I hope you can forgive me.”

Sam pulled the brown folds about his cold body, “You don’t need to be sorry . . .” He coughed, wiping away tearstains with his arm, “ I shouldn’t be . . . I’ll be getting’ on my way in a minute or so. Do you get back to your friends now, Mister Frodo and into the warmth. I reckon Daisy’ll be waitin’ for firewood.” He stood up, “I’m sorry if I did aught improper.”

“It wasn’t like that, Sam,” Frodo stood too but didn’t move any closer, “It’s not what Fatty said; I care about you, Sam.”

A chill wind was in the bare trees along the Row, and lights were flickering to life in round windows. “I’ll set the fires in the morning, Mister Frodo.” And Sam set off with his back straight and his heart sore; he didn’t turn around until he reached the gate at Number Three.

Daisy was glad for the firewood. She was baking again, with Mari sewing in the corner of the kitchen and May away again with her friends. The Gaffer had gone to the Ivy Bush.

Mister Freddy and Mister Folco stayed for a month, and Mister Merry joined them once he’d done his holiday duty at the Hall. Sam trundled his cart up the Row every day, with Daisy’s baking and other tasty delicacies, wrapped in cheesecloth, tucked into a corner of the barrow.

Sam didn’t look at Mister Frodo sitting in a dark corner of the parlour when the others were arguing over a last teacake, and he didn’t watch the sad droop of Mister Frodo’s lips as the others talked about the merits of various racing ponies and the first Spring Meet in Michel Delving. He’d learned better than that. He made tea and fetched ale and wine from the cellar; and then he went home to his restless dreams.

Other days, Sam hid in the kitchen and scrubbed pans while the gentlehobbits laid improbable bets about a bumper pipeweed harvest in the South Farthing for the coming year. He felt like a fool. He still wept sometimes at home in his little cot. And all the time Mister Frodo acted the part of the perfect host – though a little more reserved than usual - and looked along the East Road early in every morning with his cloak pulled tight about him when he thought he was alone. And Sam looked at Frodo then, when he balanced the handcart against a new dip in the road, because he couldn’t stop watching after all.

On the day Frodo’s friends gathered on the road by the gate with their ponies breathing smoky puffs into the chill, Sam thought that he was glad to see them leave. He was sorry to feel so ungenerous, but there it was. Mister Merry clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for his services and pushed a handful of coins into his hand; the Brandybuck had a bright generous way about him and Sam couldn’t help but smile as he tucked the coins into his pocket; “It were no trouble, Mister Merry, Sir.”

Mister Folco had to be helped onto his pony after he’d hugged Frodo, after he’d cried a little. He was sober now and feeling the worse for it. A scatter of snow made the mud sparkle in the sun.

“Love you, Fro,” Folco threw a long arm across his cousin’s thin shoulder, “I wish you trusted me enough to tell me what’s wrong. I‘m sorry I’m not stronger for you.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Folco, I’m missing Uncle Bilbo just a little still,” Frodo held the lanky redhead close, “You are strong, Cousin, just a bit given to excess. Love you, dearest; don’t forget to give my best regards to the Aunties. Come straight back if they’re too much to stomach.”

“Thank you, Fro;” Folco looked as though he’d lost the world just then, “I hope you’ll find the right hobbit at last; I hope he’ll be the one for you, Frodo.”

Sam turned away to buckle Mister Freddy’s girths; he felt sorry for the Boffin. He wondered whether Lavender Proudfoot might change her capricious mind yet again and make the poor fellow happy.

Fatty Bolger swung himself into the saddle with a practised ease; he was tall and well knit with a tidy midriff that belied his nickname; he had a handsome saturnine face with a sharp chin and a wide generous mouth. Sam didn’t care to study the Bolger. He didn’t like him.

“I’ll see you soon I hope, Fatty,” Frodo’s hand rested lightly on the Bolger’s knee.

Sam looked away.

“I owe you an apology, Frodo, and you too, Sam,” Mister Freddy scratched the mare’s neck and settled her; “I think I’ve made things so much more difficult for you both. I’m sorry for that.”

The pony shied across the track rolling her pretty eyes and tossing her head, and Fatty scratched harder and cooed . . . then he dismounted and threw the reins to Frodo.

“Sam . . .” He reached for the gardener’s hand; “I’m sorry for what I said that day, I was jealous.” The brown-haired hobbit had grabbed Sam’s hand before he could pull it away; Mister Frodo was stroking the little bay mare and whispering to her, with his eyes downcast. “I was so jealous that I thought I’d die from it . . . but I didn’t.” Fatty shrugged and smiled; “Forgive me, Sam . . . I was a complete fool . . . and worse. I think you’re a better hobbit than I am.”

Sam took Mister Fredegar’s broad warm hand in his and squeezed, “I don’t reckon there’s aught to forgive, Sir; I reckon we both love him. I can try to understand. Still I’m naught but a gardener, Mister Freddy, I’m naught but a common workin’ hobbit wi’ calluses and aches in the knees when all’s said and done.”

“You’re a good fellow, Samwise, I’m proud to shake your hand.”

“Likewise, Mister Freddy.”

“I can’t believe you two can stand there and talk about me as though I was a dizzy lass with no more sense than Rosie Cotton;” Frodo stroked the pony’s nose gently but his eyes were filling with angry tears, “I’ve had enough of you both, enough of your rivalry and enough of your damned chivalry! Take your pony and go away, Fatty. And, Sam, I don’t want to see you here for at least a week . . . Well, not until tomorrow at the very earliest.”

“Aye, Mister Frodo,” Sam held the bay pony while Freddy climbed aboard once more, “I reckon we’ll be seeing all of you again before too long; I’ll be workin’ to get things sorted.”

“Do that, Samwise,” Fredegar turned the pony to follow his friends, “I wish you good luck. Don’t threaten me, Fro; I’ve seen you without clothes more than once.”

Frodo snorted his disgust and walked away.

There were late-winter buds swelling along the path, and Sam reminded himself that there were the folk up the Hill and there were the folk down the Hill, and then he laughed because he couldn’t help himself. It was all too ridiculous. He thought that Mister Frodo looked back over his shoulder just for a moment, and smiled.

The days of frost and darkness and blustering wind and shivering mornings had passed like a cold hand over the small burned-brown meadows of the Shire; and Sam Gamgee was glad for the waning of the season. He knelt and planted tender herbs in shallow trays in the shed at Number Three, and watched as the bulbs pushed their fresh green blades through the soil into the spring in the garden at Bag End.

”Tea, Sam?” Mister Frodo had lost the shadows under his eyes somewhere between then and now.

“Thankee, Mister Frodo.”

One day in Astron Sam put golden daffodils in the vase on the table in the kitchen at Bag End. He liked the pretty furl of their cream-yellow petals; he liked their deep golden throats. He put a little wooden box on the table too, beside the patterned plates and the painted mugs.

“I like the flowers, Sam.” Frodo tucked himself against the gardener and kissed his neck. “I think I forgot to tell you how much I liked them last year.”

“Minds me o’ my birthday, Mister Frodo; and me Mam, and her birthday too. And I reckon I’ve been gathering flowers for you since I were a little lad; I can’t stop no how. Open the box, m’dear.”

Frodo held the little pewter ring in his fingers, “Put it on me, Sam . . .”

“I love you, Mister Frodo, m’dear;” Sam slipped the thin band onto his lover’s finger; “I love you more than life, more than anythin’ . . .”

“I made up the bed in Bilbo’s old room, Sam.” Frodo let his dressing gown fall over his slim bare shoulders; “I love you, Samwise.”

”I love you too, Mister Frodo.”

The End