Chapter 1

Frodo is 45, Sam 33, and Merry 31 (about 29, 21, and 20 in Man years)
23 Solmath, 1414 SR

Frodo checked the infusion in the teapot. The scent of rosehips and honeysuckle wafted up to tickle his nose, the faint and pleasant aroma telling him it was ready. He removed the kettle from the hook over the hearth fire and located the deepest mug he owned. A gift to Bilbo from the dwarves, the earthenware mug was nearly twice the size of a Shire mug and was devoid of the painted landscapes or stenciled flowers with which hobbits so loved to decorate their pottery and dinnerware. Made of plain brown clay, lacquered to protect it from wear, the mug’s bowl was deep and wide. A hobbit could wrap two hands around it and not be able to touch his fingers. If not for the handle, Frodo doubted it would be useable as a mug at all and would rather be employed as a soup bowl instead.

Pausing only briefly to remember when Bilbo first received the mug – by post the day after his hundredth birthday, an offense of which Bilbo instantly forgave his friends being as they lived so far away and were not hobbits – Frodo filled it to just below the brim with the steaming tea and dutifully added two spoons of honey. He stirred carefully, so as not to spill a single drop, and deftly placed the mug on the tray. Into a bowl he ladled hot porridge, flavored with buttermilk and honey in just the right proportions. This too went on the tray, between the mug of tea and a small bread box that contained within it two slices of warm toast, slathered in melted butter and topped with brambleberry jam. A silver spoon rolled into a napkin of soft linen was the final addition to the tray.

“Merry!” he called, sliding the tray off the counter and holding it out when his cousin appeared. “Take this out to Sam for me, will you? If it’s too cold, ask him to come inside.”

“All right.” Merry accepted the tray, unable to avoid jostling the tea in the transition between hands. Three fat drops of the precious hot brew slid down the sides of the mug. He looked longingly at the porridge.

“Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where that came from,” Frodo assured, reading his cousin’s thoughts with little trouble. “I’ve set the table in the breakfast nook for a change. I thought we could sit and look out at the snow before it melts.” Snow had been sparse this winter, which had been mild all around. The weather had brought mostly rain with only the occasional flurry, which never lasted long. The land had not been this white since the week before Yule.

Merry took the tray outside, walking slowly and carefully, yet despite his best efforts, more of the tea spilled over the edges of the mug by the time he was able to open the back door. He noticed immediately that Sam had cleared the walk path through the kitchen garden to the well. He baby-stepped down the path, ever mindful of his load, and stopped at the well to rest the tray on its ledge while he searched the gardens for any sign of Sam. Lacking that, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Sam!”

“Up here, Mr. Merry!” Sam appeared on the roof of the smial and waved down at the young master. “I’ll be right down.”

“No need,” Merry said as he carefully slid the tray off the well and began to baby-step toward the back of the smial.

“I’ll be right down,” Sam repeated and disappeared again.

By the time Merry rounded the smial to the back garden, where the path began to curve up to the crest of the Hill, Sam had dusted the reading bench of snow and dried the stone seat, laying over the seat an old frayed blanket from the shed that he used for kneeling in the gardens; the stone was too cold to sit on it directly. Merry rested the tray on one end of the bench, grateful to see that no more of the tea had spilled to puddle around the base of the mug. He stepped back to inspect the snow-covered garden as Sam made himself comfortable on the bench.

As he stood there, the wind picked up, sweeping through this section of the garden with biting cold intensity, sending chills down Merry’s spine. He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he had remembered to don his jacket before leaving the warmth of the smial behind. He hunched over in an attempt to retain some of his body heat.

“Aren’t you cold out here, Sam?” Merry asked tightly, his jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering as the cold seeped closer to his bones.

Sam shook his head. He was wearing his old wool jacket that had seen him and his older brothers through many countless winters. “Can’t say as I am, Mr. Merry. What about you, sir? You’re chilled clear through. Here,” he said and lifted his mug for Merry to take, but Merry declined.

“That’s for you,” he insisted. “I have my own waiting inside.”

“You best get in there then,” Sam intoned.

“I think I will,” Merry said, though he had hoped to stay out and speak with Sam for a while. When he returned later to retrieve the tray, he would have to remember his jacket. He was eager to find out just what sort of work Sam had managed to find for himself on a day such as this.

He left Sam to his meal, calling over his shoulder as he jotted back to the front of the smial, “Just leave the tray there. I’ll get it later and then we can talk for a spell.”

“Very well, Mr. Merry,” Sam returned, bringing the mug to his lips and drinking deep. While it was true enough that his work was keeping him warm, the steaming tea went down nicely and filled him with a glowing heat that soaked clear through him.

“Come inside if you get too cold!” Merry remembered at the last moment before ducking into the warmth of the smial. The door swung closed before he could hear if Sam replied.

He shuddered loudly at the cold and dipped his feet in the bucket of lukewarm water that was kept by the door. While the water wasn’t hot, it felt blissful against the chill and it melted any snow that had worked its way into his foot hair. He wiped his feet dry with a towel from the pile kept near the bucket and tossed the towel in the laundry basket tucked into the shadow of the corner. Once he was satisfied with his feet, he left the foyer and stepped into the tunnel. By the time he reached the breakfast nook off the kitchen, he was beginning to warm up once more.

Frodo lifted an eyebrow at Merry’s flushed cheeks and red-tipped nose, before his brow crinkled with concern. “How cold is it out there?” he asked.

“Cold,” was all Merry could manage. He instantly wrapped his hands around his teacup before sliding into his seat.

The seats of the breakfast nook consisted of a wrap-around bench that lined the wall beneath the windows, and two wooden chairs that were supposed to sit along the outer edge of the table. However, the chairs were commonly used for extra sitting around the kitchen table and spent most of the year there. Frodo had brought the chairs back on the chance that Merry would want to sit facing the window, the better to enjoy the sight of the snow. Instead, Merry hooked a foot around the nearest leg of his chair and pulled it closer to the table, then propped up his feet to rest on the seat. Frodo sat in the other chair and enjoyed a swig of his tea, while Merry continued to sit with his hands secured around his teacup.

“Is Sam coming in then?” Frodo asked, his earlier delight in the snow now turned to concern for his friend. If Merry was this frozen after mere minutes spent outside, what must Sam look like by now? “He could catch his death if he isn’t careful.”

“Sam? Not careful? We are talking about the same hobbit, aren’t we?” Merry said, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. He grinned fully when he saw Frodo relax, a small smile forming on the older hobbit’s lips.

“I suppose you’re right,” Frodo conceded. “Still, you know how Sam can be at times.”

Merry nodded, though in truth he could not say that he did know. He and Sam had not been on friendly terms until just recently. Much of their childhood was spent at an estranged distance due in large part to a prank of Merry’s that had gone horribly awry, and up until last summer, they had hardly spoken to each other except when necessary. Merry had thought that sweet-talking Frodo into letting him and Pippin barge in on his annual Midsummer walking trip would be the hardest thing he’d have to do that visit. He soon found that convincing the gardener to give him another chance to prove himself a worthy friend had been akin to slaying a dragon. His endeavors would have been completely without hope if not for Frodo’s patient and insightful guidance.

Sam and Merry got along well in most instances now but there were times when Merry felt himself to still be on probation. Whether he was being paranoid, or if Sam really was still keeping him at a distance, be it by habit or design, Merry could not tell. They had not yet reached the level of friendship that he shared with Pippin and Frodo, and so they had no language of their own, no shared experiences of any worth that they could bring forth now to help steer them, nothing to teach them how to interact with each other as anything other than gentlehobbit and gardener. That was only one of their obstacles.

They were of different worlds socially, but they were also of differing personalities and temperaments. All of that collected together meant that they approached life from different angles. Sometimes those angles managed to just slip by each other, causing no disharmony whatsoever. Sometimes they collided against each other and they had to find a way to negotiate the impact so as to prevent themselves from ricocheting off into oblivion. The result was that they were feeling their way through as they went, sometimes running along at a steady pace, sometimes stumbling, and every stumble set them back.

It was a slow process, and while Merry was often tempted to turn to Frodo for help, he knew he could not always rely on his cousin to intercede. He might wish that things were progressing more swiftly, but he was pleased with the progress that he and Sam had made so far. When he began to feel intolerant of the snail’s pace with which they were progressing, he stepped back, took a deep breath and remembered the single most important piece of advice Frodo had given him that hot and muggy summer’s day: be patient. It was difficult, for he was used to things coming to him easily, but a true friendship was being forged now, and that was too important to rush. Merry was beginning to learn just how Sam could be, as Frodo put it. Likewise, Sam was beginning to learn how to read Merry, and whatever miscommunications they had only helped them to move closer to their goal. He knew he could not expect more and he was grateful for what he had.

“What is he doing out there anyway?” Frodo continued, interrupting Merry’s thoughts.

Merry shrugged. “I didn’t have time to ask. If I stayed out there another second, I would have frozen clear through.”

“Is it really as cold as all that?” Frodo asked, his alarm renewed. “Are you certain Sam wasn’t just saying that he wasn’t cold?”

“He said he was fine,” Merry said with a shrug. Frodo didn’t look convinced and instead returned to regarding the snow outside with trepidation. He cast his eyes skyward, for the first time noticing the thin grey clouds that hung low over the earth and the wind that abused the treetops across the lane. “He’s fine, Frodo. Really. He was perfectly cozy inside his jacket.” Frodo still didn’t look convinced and by the tension in his arm and hand that rested along the outer edge of the table, Merry knew he was getting ready to rise. “He said he was warm and he should know,” Merry pointed out. “After all, he is Sam. He knows everything.”

Frodo laughed now and relaxed enough to have a spoon of porridge. “Well, I wouldn’t say he knows everything there is to know; I don’t think even Gandalf knows that much. But he can take care of himself right enough. Still, I think after eating and washing the dishes, we should go out and see if he needs any help. The faster he gets finished with whatever he’s doing, the faster he can get indoors.”

Merry nodded and bent down to eat.  

Sam finished his porridge and washed the mush down with the last of the tea. He picked up the tray and began to stand with the intention of returning the tray to the kitchen. Then he remembered that Merry had said he’d retrieve it. The last time Sam had done something after Merry said he would handle it – tidying up after Frodo’s birthday if he recalled correctly – Merry got very put out by it and had thought that Sam had only done the job because of his servant standing. Never mind that Sam was not technically a servant, a fact of which he knew his master reminded Merry and Pippin constantly. Still, his station was lower that their own, and he supposed that to them, that was all that mattered.

Sam sighed and left the tray on the bench. Sometimes he felt as though Merry spent so much time trying to look past the class difference that he could see nothing else by default. The very fact that it was something Merry had to make himself look beyond was testament to how much it occupied his mind. He just could not seem to accept that Sam enjoyed doing for Frodo and would never consider it work. After all, he did such things at home all the time and Bag End was to him every bit as home as Number Three was.

Leaving the bench behind, Sam treaded the path back to the turf roof, where his work was progressing nicely. He had been surprised by the biting cold weather when he stepped outside his hole that morning, just as everyone else in Hobbiton and Bywater had been. The snow storm had come at night, falling silently, as only snow can do, covering every surface within the surrounding twenty miles. Like everyone else, he at first assumed that it would melt by noon, leaving only patches here and there to turn into small puddles or little pools by evening, which would then freeze at night, blending into the soil or grass so perfectly that the slippery surfaces could not be seen even by the most keen-eyed hobbit. Yet here it was mid-morning, and the snow still stood. Looking at the sky and feeling the wind, Sam suspected this snow would last another day or two, with another storm tonight more than likely. The Gaffer’s protesting joints agreed.

After seeing his father as settled and comfortable as his arthritis would allow, Sam trotted up the Hill. With the weather being mildly warm up until now, Sam had not had much work to do in the garden beyond plucking the winter berries and moving the pinwheels about the garden to keep rodents and other small animals from getting too brave. He had planned to fluff and rake the mulch in all the beds today, but with the snow now covering the ground, that would have to wait. The unexpected flurry brought other chores, and he was now going through the garden checking for damage and knocking snow off the boughs of the slimmer bushes and trees.

He reached the roof and went back to tending the plants. The oak he was not worried about, but the floral bushes here needed binding. They were new plants, just put into the ground last spring, and were not yet strong enough to withstand the weight on the snow on their own for long. He walked around the bushes one by one, dusting the bare branches of snow and winding rope gently around the outermost branches. He pulled the rope just tight enough to offer the extra support needed, careful not to cut into the bark, and tied the rope with a slipknot.

He finished this task and set the coil aside in his tool kit. He was looking up at the tree, inspecting it for possible signs of damage, when he heard his master calling him. Sam leaned around the bole as his master and Merry gained the roof, Frodo carrying another steaming cup of tea. Sam was relieved to see that both hobbits were wearing their jackets.

Sam stepped around the tree to greet his master and took the proffered tea with gratitude. Still, he could not help a small jest. “Thank you, Mr. Frodo,” he said, “but I’ll not freeze out here if I don’t get tea every hour.”

Frodo laughed. “Perhaps not, but it eases my mind knowing you have something warm inside of you,” he said.

Next to him, Merry stood studying the bushes, leaning over to inspect the rope binding. “So this is what you’re doing,” he intoned. “Do you have to do this to the entire garden? This is going to take you forever Sam. Why don’t I help you?”

“Oh, you don’t have to be doing such Mr. Merry,” Sam replied automatically.

“I want to help,” Merry insisted, almost fervently.

Sam did not respond, thrown off at first by Merry’s fierce insistence. Instead, he drank his tea as he tried to decide if Merry was being sincere or if he was only offering to help because he was trying to prove his friendship again.

Merry seemed to understand he had done something wrong, for he breathed deeply, letting it out slowly through his nostrils, similar to a mare being tried for patience by her young. This only made Sam less reluctant to answer. It was at times like this when Merry could be particularly difficult to figure and Sam never knew how to respond in such a way as to put him back on his ease.

A discreet glance from Frodo told Merry to back off and try a different approach. Merry let his irritation go and tried again. “It will help with my herb garden if I could learn these things,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he knelt down to closer examine what Sam was doing. “Is there a specific type of rope you use?”

Sam eased instantly. “Not really, just so long as it’s thick enough not to cut into the branches,” he answered. “The trick is the binding itself. Sometimes, you got to bind the inner branches too, if the outer ones are already bending. Then you got to string them up different and use a different sort of knot. This here is a slipknot.” He finished the tea in two large gulps and handed the cup back to Frodo, who smiled fondly at them both. Sam blushed and smiled back.

Frodo held up the cup. “Let me take this back to the kitchen and then I’ll be back to help also.”

“You don’t need to do that sir,” Sam responded, in much the same manner he had to Merry just moments before. Merry watched carefully to see how Frodo would respond.

“I’ll be right back,” Frodo repeated, still smiling fondly, and disappeared down the trail.

‘So that was the trick. Don’t be emphatic. Stay casual.’ Merry took note and stored the information away for later use. He returned his attention to Sam and asked, “So, is this all you have to do?”

Sam explained what he was doing and why. He pointed to the garden below and indicated what he had accomplished thus far. Not all of the bushes had been bound; Sam explained that not all plants needed the extra protection. The older and thicker ones were sturdier and better equipped to withstand the weather on their own.

“Yet some plants are winter plants,” Merry said. “They thrive in the cold. Do they need twining too?”

“Some of them do,” Sam said with a shrug. “With the winter berries, you mostly got to worry about birds getting to the berries. Sometimes, if the berries freeze too much, they turn bitter and they’re not good for the birds to eat. You got to pluck the bushes bare. Rodents and such come round also, trying to find food. They can damage the branches or the trunks as they’re skittering about, or the branches can be damaged in other ways: rubbing against each other in the wind, the boughs falling off and leaving open wounds. Then you got to cover them up. I got to do such with the elm down in the back garden.”

“How do you remember all this?” Merry asked, marveling at the extent of Sam’s knowledge. “It’s all such a mystery to me.”

Sam just shrugged again. “It’s my job. You can’t always understand their ways, the plants and such, but so long as you know what they need and when, that’s all that matters. And there’s not much mystery to it when your Gaffer’s been drilling it into your head since you could walk.”

“No, I suppose there isn’t at that,” Merry agreed, continuing to study the gardens below.

One large patch of cleared earth near the slope leading to the lower garden glistened with freezing dew, all that was left of the white fluffy snow that had once been stacked a foot deep. Sam had cleared that area because the snow there was too soft and anyone stepping onto what they thought was packed snow would be in for a rude awakening when they found themselves thigh-deep in a freezing snow bank.

Sam had accomplished much for one hobbit that morning, but he still had the majority of the garden to go. There were still the front garden and the vast lower garden left to tend, plus the elm tree. Even with all of them working together, he knew it would take a good portion of the day to finish.

Merry nodded. “We best get started then,” he said as Frodo returned.

Sam acknowledged his master’s return with a nod, then bent down to gather his things. “I’m finished up here. Sorry, sir, but you took off before I could say so. I’ve been showing Mr. Merry what needs doing, elsewise I’d of met you down in the back garden.”

“That’s all right, Sam. A good climb never hurt a body,” Frodo said, stepping off the path to let Sam pass. Sam might trail behind Frodo when they went to market or into Bywater, but in the garden, Sam led the way. “Just tell us where you need us.”

Sam led them down the path to the elm tree that sat at the base of the hill, then walked around the base of the tree, peering up into the boughs looking for the spot where a branch had splintered off during the night. He hoped it was not too far up, not being keen on climbing, and he breathed with relief when he found the wounded bough just a couple of inches from the bole in the lower branches. He sent Merry to get the ladder from the shed while he squinted up at the wounded bough. By the looks of the fallen branch, the wound was not going to be clean enough to merit trying to save it but he wanted to take a closer look just to be sure.

Merry returned with the ladder and Sam leaned it against the bole just under the injured bough, then retrieved from his tool kit a square of burlap and a length of rope.

“I’ll go up if you’d rather not, Sam,” Frodo offered, knowing Sam’s fear of heights. “Just tell me what needs to be done.”

“That won’t be necessary sir,” Sam said, though he was sorely tempted to accept the offer. It was enough that Frodo had offered.

He handed the burlap and rope to Frodo, then climbed up only as far as he needed in order to reach the branch and do his work safely. Reaching up, he ran his thumb over the wound, feeling the various rough edges and deep grooves the bough had left behind. Shaking his head sadly, he reached down for the items he needed. He wrapped the burlap tight around the branch twice and secured it in place with the rope. He climbed back down and nodded up at the bough.

“That should hold it till the Thaw,” he said.

“Then what will you do?” Merry asked.

“Cut it off. If it had been a clean break, I could have tried to take some of the bark off the branch and fit it into the hole and wrap that up tight,” Sam said. At Frodo’s questioning look, he explained further. “It’s like a cut on your skin. It doesn’t always work but sometimes the new bark will mend together with the old bark and fix the wound. If it doesn’t work, then you’ll have to take the branch off anyhow, elsewise it could get infected with all sorts of fungus or insects.”

Sam carried the ladder back to the shed and put it away, then retrieved extra gloves for his helpers. Even Sam had donned the bothersome coverings to protect his hands from constant contact with the snow and he insisted that his master and Merry put theirs on before they did anything else. When that was done, Frodo and Merry followed him around the smial to the front garden. Once there, he pointed out the plants that needed the snow knocked off them.

“Tap the snow off gently, hitting sideways on the trunks and upwards on the branches, not down,” he instructed, and commenced to follow behind them, binding the branches.

When they finished with that, Sam showed them how to bind the branches, making sure they could tie a slip knot and watching them for the first few bushes to make sure they were going about everything the right way, giving them instruction when necessary. Merry understood well enough from what he had seen on the roof and Frodo caught on quickly, having helped Sam in the gardens before. Soon they were all bent to their tasks, and Sam kept a discreet eye on both his helpers, studying them for signs of weariness as the day wore on.

They worked all afternoon, moving to the lower gardens as the sun passed high noon, shining wanly through steely grey clouds. The wind had calmed and was now a mild breeze, but it still carried a harsh bite of frost. They stopped only for a late luncheon and an early tea that Frodo threw together from leftovers in the larder. Frodo then started dinner cooking and banked up the fires in the hearths to keep the smial warm and cozy, then rejoined his friends in the lower garden.

The front garden had taken longer than expected and Sam was beginning to work faster, leaving Merry and Frodo on their own to do what they could. They kept up as best they could, and even though Sam never indicated that they were expected to keep pace with him, they were keen to do just that. Neither of them had the efficient ease or well-trained movements that Sam possessed, but they managed well enough and did their best not to hamper the gardener with their less-skilled hands. Even with their extra efforts, Sam was now saying they’d be lucky to finish before dusk and Frodo wondered how the gardener had ever hoped to complete the work on his own.

The sun was waning behind the gloomy clouds and was approaching its setting hour when they all stood up from their work and stretched their backs, Frodo’s giving a loud pop as abused joints sighed with relief. Sam gave him a sharp look but held his tongue. Instead, he scrutinized the gardens and recalled in his mind the work they had done, going through his mental list from that morning of what he had hoped to accomplish that day. He nodded with satisfaction when he reached the end of the list and everything was checked off.

“Are we finished, Sam?” Frodo asked.

Sam nodded. “That we are, sir. Thank you for helping me today, sirs.”

“It’s my garden too,” Frodo said with a smile and a wink. They both thought of the garden as being more Sam’s than Frodo’s, but that didn’t stop the blush from coming into Sam’s cheeks. “Since we’re finished, I’ll go see to dinner. You’ll be joining us, Sam?”

Sam declined. “Gaffer was right sore this morning, what with the sudden turn in the weather and all. I’d not be surprised if he took up most of Goldie’s time, not meaning to of course. It’ll be my job to make dinner for them and I’m sure there’s firewood as needs chopping. We let the wood boxes get low, thinking as we’d have time to chop some more today.”

“You’ve worked enough Sam,” Frodo said. “Grab a wood basket and take some of my firewood down to your hole, and since I’ve already made enough food for all of us, it won’t go amiss for you take some of the food home as well.”

“Thank you sir. That’s right kind of you.” Merry and Frodo looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to step forward and lead them back to the upper gardens. Sam shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “I’ll just finish up here and then I’ll gather up what wood we need for the night. I’ll come up to the back door afore I go,” he said.

Now it was Frodo’s turn to look at his friend sharply, but he too remained silent. Whatever it was Sam still needed to do, he obviously did not want any help with it. Frodo suspected that with their increased hurry, not to mention their decreased alertness as exhaustion from their toil began to set in, that he and Merry had not completed some of the last few bushes to Sam’s approval. Frodo spared his friend another knowing wink, then turned and placed a guiding hand on the back of Merry’s shoulder, but Merry did not move.

“Do you want me to take anything up to the shed for you? I’ll gather up the wood as well and leave it by the back door for you,” Merry offered. “It’ll save you a trip.”

“You can take the tool kit. I won’t be needing it,” Sam said, pointing to the wooden box that he used for carrying his tools and supplies, depending on what he was doing in the garden. “Just set it on the work bench. I’ll put everything back where they belong tomorrow. Thank you sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, Sam,” Merry said and stooped down to grab the tool kit. He turned and followed Frodo up the stepping stones to the upper gardens as small white flurries began to fall from the sky.

Merry and Frodo parted when they reached the path to the kitchen garden and the back door. Frodo relinquished his gloves to Merry, who continued the short distance to the shed. He reached the old, weather-worn shack and quickly poked inside to set the tool kit on the workbench as instructed. He then rounded the shed to its eastern side, where the firewood was piled under a lean-to off the shed roof. He located the wood basket and quickly filled it with enough wood to keep Number Three supplied in fuel for the night and carried it to the smial, leaving it just inside the foyer.

Sam quickly walked through the lower gardens, rechecking the binding on all the plants, checking for weather damage on the stems and branches as he went. Satisfied with what he saw, he looked up at the sky, letting the snowflakes brush against his cheeks, enjoying the soft cool touch of the flakes that melted upon hitting his face. He smelled deep the scent of fresh, crisp snow, which oddly reminded him of paddling in the Bywater Pool on a cold spring evening after a long day’s work. The peace he so often felt within himself swelled now with joy and he wore the simple smile of happy memories as he strolled up the snow-covered steps.

At the top of the steps, he turned off the path, intending to cut across the lawn rather than follow the path on its triangular course to the back door. As much as he loved the snow, he wanted to retrieve his master’s generous gift as quickly as he could, all the sooner to return to his own home. No doubt the Gaffer would have a thing or two to say about the Master of Bag End making them dinner, but Sam was less worried about the old hobbit’s disapproval and more about the storm about to erupt full force from above.

Sam crunched across the lawn. Since he had shoveled it in the morning, the snow was not built up here and he had little trouble crossing the grass until he stepped on a patch of ice. Before he knew what was happening, his feet slipped out from under him with a loud popping sound that filled the air, and a moment later he was landing hard on his back.

To be continued…

GF 8/5/06

Chapter 2

“What do you think Sam has left to finish?” Merry asked, entering the kitchen as he shook snow dust from his curls.

He breathed deep the scent of roast chicken, rosemary, winter squash, mashed potatoes and fresh-baked bread, his eager stomach grumbling all the more at the delectable aromas. He volunteered to set the table and retrieved the plates from the cupboard, bringing out a serving platter for Sam as well. He handed those to Frodo so he could serve the food without having to move everything to the table.

Frodo began with the platter first, filling it with enough food for Sam and his family. He shrugged at Merry’s question. “I’m not certain,” he said. “I hope he’s not too long in doing it though. It’s going to be hard enough for him to walk home in this snow. It might be easier for him to borrow wood from the Twofoots.”

“It’s not falling too hard,” Merry said, returning to the cupboard for glasses. “If it gets too bad, he can just stay here for the night. Can’t he?”

“I’ll offer of course, but I don’t think he would accept, not unless it snows so bad as to make the road unsafe,” Frodo mused, spooning potatoes onto the platter next to the chicken and squash. “He wants to get home to help Marigold with their father, and he wouldn’t want them to worry about him unnecessarily.”

Frodo finished fixing the platter, placing three slices of bread into the bread box and covering the platter with a heavy cloth to keep the warmth contained. On the table, Merry laid out the silverware and hand towels, the butter bowl and honey jar, then retrieved ale from the cellar. Meanwhile Frodo dished out servings for himself and Merry from the stove, beyond grateful that Merry had thought to bring him the plates. The less he had to move and lift things, the better off he would be. He had worked harder than he was used to today and if he wasn’t sore in the morning, it would be a marvel.

Frodo carried the plates to the table and sat to await his friend. When Merry returned, they wasted no time in digging into their food. For several minutes, all was quiet as they ate and satisfied their hunger. After they each had a bite of everything, Merry sat back and sighed happily.

“I must say, your cooking improves every time I visit. Is Sam still giving you lessons then?” he teased. It was a customary part of every dinner for Merry to jest about Frodo’s culinary skills. Even though Frodo has been an accomplished cook for many years now, Merry knew he still tended to doubt himself at times. Teasing him was Merry’s way of saying that Frodo had no reason to think himself incompetent.

“Actually, he did recently show me how to make his famous cinnamon rolls,” Frodo said, smiling sweetly. “I was going to make you some, since Pippin isn’t here, but now I think I’ve changed my mind.”

Merry pouted. “No cinnamon rolls?” He batted his eyes and tried to look pathetic.

Frodo laughed and shook his head. “That doesn’t work for you anymore. No cinnamon rolls.”

“How about it I offer to polish and dust all the furniture?” Merry bartered. If pouting didn’t work, perhaps bribery would.

“Polish and dust the furniture, and clean the oven, and you have a deal,” Frodo said. He had been meaning to clean out the oven himself for a few weeks now, but if he could get Merry to do it for him, he would make enough cinnamon rolls to last the week.

“Clean the oven?” Merry asked uncertainly. “I’ve never cleaned an oven before. What if I do it wrong?”

“Then you get no cinnamon rolls,” Frodo replied.

Merry considered the offer gravely. That was a lot of work just to get some cinnamon rolls, especially considering that if he asked politely, Sam would probably make him some for nothing. Yet maybe this would be a good way to get Frodo to make him his other favorite dish? “I’ll polish and dust the furniture, and clean out the oven, if you make cinnamon rolls and apple crumble. I know you keep winter apples in the cold cellar, so don’t tell me you don’t have any.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yes.”

Frodo strummed his fingers on the table and pretended to weigh this option before nodding. “All right. You have a deal.”

They reached across the table and shook on it.  

In the half-second after he landed and before the pain began to register, Sam chastised himself for being so careless as to not keep his feet. Both his father and Mr. Bilbo had cautioned him many times during his youth, though for different reasons, to always watch where he was going. Two of his father’s most favorite counsels were “look afore you leap” and “don’t leap”. Those were just two of the many pieces of sound advice that he had never dreamt to disregard. Now he found himself lying spread-eagle in the snow, the air all but forced out of him.

Sam struggled for breath as a sharp, burning sensation spread through his right ankle, sending shockwaves up his leg to his lower back. He remained on his back, knowing it would be pointless to attempt to sit before he was breathing properly. He forced air into his lungs, controlling his intake of air and letting it out slowly, attempting to shake off the shock of impact. The sensation that someone heavy was sitting on his chest slowly subsided with each breath and after a time his lungs were working properly again. Only then did he give thought to his ankle, which he suspected must be the source of the popping sound he had heard.

He sat up slowly, testing his breathing as he went. His back was sore where he had landed and his chest was still somewhat tight, but he was able to breathe without too many difficulties. Once he was sitting up fully and the world stopped spinning around him, he leaned over to inspect the injury, dusting snow off his foot as gingerly as he could. Even touching the ankle with feather-light grazes was enough to make him hiss with pain, and it seemed no matter how much snow he batted away, there was always more to displace. He could never get the ankle completely exposed and he finally gave up, only then looking up to realize why he was having so much trouble.

In the time that had passed since his accident, the mild snowfall turned into a persistent flurry, and flakes were falling fast from the looming black sky overhead. He looked down again, stunned to find that his feet were completely submerged once again, and his legs were quickly being covered also. The pain was momentarily forgotten as the cold registered in his abused body, and he realized that if he sat here much longer, he could very well be buried by the storm.

Keeping his alarm in check as best he could, he lay back down and rolled himself to his stomach, then pushed himself onto his knees, keeping his injured ankle off the ground as much as possible. He had to hold his leg up in order to accomplish this and the pressure this put on the injury was nearly enough to send him screaming. It was only with a great deal of effort that he avoided doing so. He clamped his mouth against the shout, not wishing to alarm his master inside Bag End. There was no need to bring Frodo back out into this weather, not if Sam could somehow manage to hobble to the back door, a mere twenty feet away that now seemed as far away as Bywater. Why had he never noticed before how far twenty feet could be?

Gingerly, he placed his ankle back on the ground, relieved to find that it actually hurt less to do so. He slid his left leg forward, getting his good foot under him, and tried to shift his weight onto that leg as he struggled to stand, using his hands to prop himself up. No matter which way he positioned himself, he found that he was having to put weight on the right ankle to balance himself as he readied to stand. Even that small weight was unbearable and he stopped after his third attempt, not wanting to do it any more harm.

He leaned back on his knees, panting heavily as his vision swam before him and the snow continued to fall. He wrapped his arms around his chest as he started to shiver from the cold and debated what to do until his breathing settled and the pain in his assaulted ankle subsided to a dull throb.

He again measured the distance to the door and looked about at his surroundings. He figured that with the snow here being rather shallow, though it was quickly deepening, he should be able to cover the distance walking on his knees, which would allow his ankle to remain on the ground. At least that way, if there were more ice patches he wouldn’t have too far to fall. Dragging his foot behind him might be painful, but it was worth the effort. All he needed to do was get to the door.

Putting one knee in front of the other, he began to inch toward the smial.  

“You’ve outdone yourself cousin,” Merry said, cleaning off his plate with a flourishing swipe of his last piece of bread. Not a speck of food remained and after he finished munching on the bread, he got up to serve himself seconds of everything. “It’s a shame Pippin had to get sick. He would have loved helping today, and we could have made snow hobbits.”

“We can still make snow hobbits,” Frodo pointed out, though he knew it wouldn’t be the same without their younger cousin. Being a tween has done little to qualm Pippin's more childlike tendencies and he still always named the snow hobbits and made up stories about them. Afterward, he and Merry would have a snowball fight while Frodo went inside to make cider or hot cocoa.

“I suppose, but we’re a tad old for it don’t you think? I mean, without Pippin to use as an excuse,” Merry said, stifling a sudden yawn. The long day of work had tired him as well, and if not for missing Pippin he would be anticipating the moment he could crawl into bed and fall asleep. “If folk see two grown lads making snow hobbits, they’ll think we’re odd.”

“They think we’re odd anyway,” Frodo pointed out, finishing his own serving. He sat back and sipped on his ale, reserving the energy needed to get up for seconds.

Merry cut off three more slices of the chicken, spooned more potatoes and vegetables on his plate, and sliced another piece of bread. As he turned to retake to his seat, he glanced out the window and caught sight of the blizzard blowing outside. He paused, startled at the sudden change in weather.

“Look,” he said, catching Frodo’s attention. “When did it start snowing so hard?”

Frodo glanced at the window now and stood with a jolt, his fatigue forgotten. Merry looked at him questioningly, then followed Frodo’s quick glance at the platter that still sat on the counter. Their gazes met as they realized the same thing: Sam was still outside.

Merry hastily put his plate down and began to follow Frodo to the front door when a heavy-fisted knock sounded on the back door. Frodo sighed with relief, chuckling a little for having worried. Since he was already standing, he went to retrieve the platter from the counter then turned to Merry.

“Maybe if we’re really persuasive, we can talk him into staying. You and I working together should be able to match the stubbornness of a single Gamgee. I don’t like the look of that storm,” Frodo said.

Merry nodded and opened his mouth to respond when another series of knocks sounded from down the tunnel. Confusion settled over Frodo’s face and he stepped into the tunnel as the back door opened, letting in a gale of ice and snow.

“Mr. Frodo,” came Sam’s voice. It sounded strained to Frodo’s ears.

Without checking to see if Merry was following, Frodo dashed down the tunnel to find Sam sitting slumped against the doorframe, panting heavily and shivering with cold. The gardener’s hands were gripped around his right shin. In the dimness of the dark outside and the single candle in the foyer, that was all Frodo could see. He crouched next to Sam.

“What happened?” he exclaimed.

“I fell on some ice and I think I might have broke my ankle. It’s not very happy with me at the moment, that’s for certain,” Sam replied tightly, his teeth chattering.

“That settles that matter then,” Merry said, stepping around Frodo to gain the porch and get to Sam’s other side. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Not as I can tell, sir,” Sam said.

Frodo looked pointedly at Merry and nudged his head toward Sam. Crouching down, Merry came to Sam’s and Frodo’s level, and the cousins wrapped their arms around Sam’s back, supporting him as they pulled him up to stand on his good foot. Frodo was on Sam’s right side and bore the brunt of the gardener’s weight as Sam instinctively held his right leg up, letting the foot hang as it will. 

Both cousins were shocked at how frigidly cold the gardener was. He was shaking uncontrollably and his skin felt like ice. In the candlelight, they could now see that he almost completely blue. There was snow covering Sam’s hair and shoulders, and his clothes, including his thick wool jacket, were likewise covered with clinging ice and snow that slowly began to melt. Frodo wondered briefly just how long ago Sam had fallen and how he had got to the door if he couldn’t walk but that discovery could wait for later. Right now, getting Sam settled into a warm room was the main goal. 

“We have to get him to the closest room that already has a fire lit,” Frodo said, then looked at Merry questioningly.

“My room it is then,” Merry agreed. Since his earliest years visiting Bag End, Merry had always roomed next to Frodo’s old room. After Frodo became Master of Bag End and moved to Bilbo’s room, Merry had continued to remain in his windowless room on the west side of the smial. He considered it his own and wouldn’t dream of staying somewhere else, unless he had to. “I’ll move my things into the room next door,” he offered. That was the room Pippin usually stayed in and would be staying in now had he not come down with the flu earlier that week.

“I don’t want to put you out none, Mr. Merry,” Sam protested.

“Put me out?” Merry said. “Hardly. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to stay in another room, but you know how set in his ways old Frodo can be.”

“Set in my ways,” Frodo said as they started through the foyer, sidestepping to make it over the threshold. Frodo dropped his supporting arm from Sam’s shoulder down to his mid-back, silently encouraging Sam to put more of his weight on him. Sam did not need much encouragement to do this. Shifting his weight to his master allowed his other leg to rest and while it was uninjured, the cold had sapped all energy from him at an alarming rate.

“Yes, set in your ways,” Merry repeated. “You’re getting just as predictable as all the other Bagginses, never doing anything adventurous or unexpected at all.”

“Perhaps another trip into Bindbole Wood is needed,” Frodo said. “I thought that was fairly unpredictable. You could send more wasps after us.”

“Yes but everyone knows that you’re unpredictable, so they predict that you will be. If you really wanted to be unpredictable, then you should try being more predictable,” Merry said.

“I’m sorry, Merry, but I don’t speak gibberish,” Frodo said.

Merry turned his attention to Sam then, both to avoid Frodo’s trap and to keep the gardener alert. Sam’s head was beginning to droop somewhat. “Sam,” he said and Sam lifted his head instantly, trying to focus on the voice that had addressed him. “You know Sam, if you wanted to go sliding on ice, you should have borrowed my gliding shoes. Granted I’d have to go all the way to Buckland to get them, as there’s not much need for them here.”

“Sliding wasn’t the problem,” Sam said, managing a wry grin. “Or rather, it was the problem, if you take my meaning.”

They reached the room and sidestepped through the threshold. “Ah, but see, in this type of sliding, you stay on your feet,” Merry continued as they shuffled toward the bed. “Well, you’re supposed to anyway. Some people do fall. Pippin always does, but don’t tell him I told you that. It’s a bit of a sore topic for him and not just because his bum is usually black and blue by the end of the day.”

They reached the bed and sat as one, then Frodo helped Sam to slide into a comfortable position while Merry gently took Sam’s legs and placed them on the mattress, careful of the injured foot. When Sam was comfortable, Frodo joined Merry in inspecting the injury.

Both feet and shins were blue from the cold and the right ankle was swollen a fair bit, though not as much as they would have expected. Merry almost touched it before thinking better of it. He withdrew his hand and instead leaned over the foot of the bed to open the linen chest and pull out two thick wool blankets.

“If it’s not broken, then it must be sprained, or possibly even both,” Frodo said, guessing as best he could. He did not know what other problem it could be. “Did you try standing on it at all?”

“I tried to sir, but it hurt too much,” Sam said.

Frodo added more logs to the fire and used the bellows to encourage the new wood to catch fire. The room was warm already but he was afraid it wasn’t warm enough to heat up Sam in time to prevent frostbite. Merry helped Sam out of his jacket and debated silently with himself about removing the breeches. They were soaked as much as the jacket, but he also didn’t want to pull wet breeches over the injured ankle. At length, he shook out the blankets, folded them once lengthwise and lay them over his friend. He retrieved the warming pan, a flat round steel pan with an attached lid with holes in it, and shoveled the larger pieces of embers into it. He closed the lid and slid it under the blankets next to Sam’s legs, being sure that it did not touch skin. Frodo remained at the hearth, banking the fire to a roar, casting worried glances at Sam between each log thrown onto the flames.

“Were you making tea?” Merry asked and Frodo nodded. Merry dashed out of the room and returned moments later with a steaming mug of hot water; he had not bothered to take the time to add any herbs for flavoring. He sat next to Sam and held it to his lips as Sam was still shaking too badly to hold the mug himself. “Here, drink this.” He gave Sam the drink in small sips, not wanting for him to burn his mouth on the water.

Frodo soon joined him, lighting the oil lamp on the bedside table and the candles that sat on the small writing desk in the corner. The candlelight reflected off the mirrors and brightened the room considerably. Now they could see Sam clearly and they were heartened to see that his blue pallor was starting to look more rosy. The hot water was quickly working its way through Sam’s system, warming him faster than the blankets, fire and warming pan combined could. Frodo retrieved a second mug as the first one neared empty and after that mug, Sam was much improved.

Frodo got a towel from his bathing room and dried Sam’s hair as Merry replaced the cooling embers in the bed warmer with fresh ones. The breeches were still wet and they were drying out slowly.

“Should we risk taking the breeches off?” Merry asked. “He could get sick if he stays in them.”

“I’m not too keen about lying here in naught but my smallclothes and shirt,” Sam complained through shattering teeth.

“You’ll be less keen to have a cold on top of an injured ankle,” Frodo said. “Undo your buttons and lacings. We’ll hang your breeches by the fire and you can put them back on as soon as they dry. We better move you to the other side of the bed also, since the sheets on this side would have got wet from the breeches.”

Sam reluctantly did as he was bid, and Merry and Frodo managed to slide off the breeches without displacing the blankets. Sam hissed as the breeches brushed against his right ankle, even though Frodo went as slow as he could and tried his best to keep the material from touching the injured area as much as possible. Then Merry and Frodo helped Sam to move over, and Merry rearranged the warming pan and blankets as Frodo went for a third mug, this time adding a shot of brandy to it.

After this last mug, Sam was feeling considerably better. He was still shivering slightly but no longer uncontrollably or violently and he teeth had stopped chattering. He was as warm as he would be in his own bed at home, and Merry and Frodo sighed with relief to see him returned to his normal brown skin tone. Frodo replaced the embers in the warming pan again and sat in the chair next to the bed.

“How are you feeling lad?” he asked.

“Much better, thank you sir,” Sam said. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Frodo said. “I’m just glad we were able to get to you before you froze to death. How did you fall? There was no ice on the path that Merry or I saw.”

Sam shook his head and looked at them ruefully. “Well, that’s where I was being a ninnyhammer,” he said. “I thought I’d cut across the lawn and save some time. Didn’t bother to think that I only salted the pathways this morning. There was ice just off the top of the steps from the lower garden and I stepped right on it.”

“The top of the steps?” Merry questioned. “How did you get to the door then if you couldn’t walk?”

“Well, I had to walk on my knees,” Sam said.

“Is that so?” Frodo said after a pause, and Merry’s ears perked at the slightest hint of agitation in his cousin’s usually dulcet tones. Frodo studied Sam’s face closely, his relief suddenly turned to ire. Sam noticed also and fixed his eyes on his hands. “You walked from the top of the stairs to the back door on your knees?”

“Yes sir,” Sam said cautiously, nearly a whisper.

“That’s a good twenty feet, Sam,” Frodo said. “How long did it take you?”

“I don’t know sir,” Sam answered. “I didn’t think as it’d take me as long as it did. I guess it was snowing harder than I thought. The wind didn’t help none.”

“How long was it since we left you that you fell?” Frodo rephrased the question.

“Five minutes maybe,” Sam mumbled.

“Five minutes,” Frodo repeated. The ice in his glare made the storm outside seem scorching hot by comparison. Merry thought it was a good thing Sam wasn’t looking up to see it. “And you fell at the top of the steps, which is directly in front of the kitchen window?”

Merry hastily stood and stepped away backward from the bed, toward the door. “I just remembered we left that back door wide open. At this rate, we’ll be able to make snow hobbits in the foyer. I’ll just go and close it and get some more tea brewing,” he said and retreated as quickly as his feet would carry him.

Frodo didn’t even acknowledge Merry’s exit. He continued to glare at Sam while taking deep breaths, attempting to calm himself for the little good it did him. “You fell within shouting distance of the kitchen and chose instead to drag yourself to the back door in the freezing cold?”

Sam nodded, wishing the bed would somehow miraculously swallow him whole. He risked a quick glance up and winced at the glare that greeted him. He glanced back down quickly, feeling as though he had been slapped. “Yes sir. I figured as I could make it fine, and I did. I just figured as there was no need for you to be getting cold if you didn’t have to.”

“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, disbelief mingling with frustration. He paused to take a deep breath, which did little to calm him but at least it did keep him from saying anything harsh. “You know, or at least I would hope that you know, that I wouldn’t have hesitated to go out to get you. I don’t care about the cold.”

“I know that, sir. That was never a thought,” Sam started but Frodo cut him off before he could say more.

“Wasn’t it? What was the thought then? That you’d rather crawl through a blizzard for the last half-hour, exposing yourself to the elements, risking not only more injury to yourself but a cold or flu or worse, than to give a shout so Merry and I could go out and get you inside in a matter of minutes,” Frodo said, to which Sam gave no reply. He hardly needed to, for they both knew that was exactly what Sam had been thinking. “You are insufferable sometimes, Sam.”

He huffed out the last of his anger and grabbed a couple of small pillows from the linen chest. He lifted the blankets at Sam’s feet and gently placed the abused foot upon the pillows, checking the foot hair for any clinging snow or ice. If there had been any when Sam had dragged himself inside, it was melted now and the hair was dry. He tucked the blankets back around Sam’s feet, being ever so gentle.

“We need to keep this foot elevated. We’ll have to wait until the blizzard passes to fetch the healer to come look at it. In the meantime, I know Bilbo had some herbals in the library once. They might have some information on sprains and breaks, if he didn’t get rid of them.” He turned to leave.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, finding his voice. Frodo paused at the door, not turning to look back. “It’s not that I didn’t know you wouldn’t come out there for me. If I couldn’t of made it, I’d of called, honest. It’s just, I didn’t know how much ice there was and I didn’t want to risk you or Mr. Merry getting hurt too. That’d put us in a right fine mess.”

For a moment, Frodo said nothing and made no movement. Then he half-turned, so that Sam could see him only in profile and he looked as miserable as Sam felt. “But you did hurt me Sam.” He left before Sam could respond.

Sam groaned and slammed his head back into the pillow. It was moments like this that he earned his name ten-fold.

To be continued…

This chapter references “Babysitting Pippin” and “A Day in the Life”.
 

Chapter 3

Merry retrieved the broom from the kitchenette and started down the tunnel to the foyer, tiptoeing past the bedroom door where he could hear Sam stammering for an explanation. That was to be expected, but as he neared the foyer he heard Frodo do something altogether unprecedented: raise his voice. His cousin’s sudden irate shout of “Sam!” was enough to make even Merry stop dead in his tracks and huddle against the curve of the wall for protection. He cringed with sympathy for his friend. Poor Sam! Merry had never thought his cousin capable of actually shouting at anyone. Not even when Merry once caused the Party Field to nearly be burned to a cinder did Frodo see fit to raise his voice.

Not knowing what else to do, Merry peeled himself off the wall and continued to the foyer. Even before he reached the foyer, he could feel the freezing air being blown into the smial. It swirled around him with chilling and violent wisps, stealing into his clothes to raise gooseflesh on his arms and misting his breath with each exhalation. Inside the foyer, the floor was buried by snow, piled high around the door and spreading out toward the threshold in many icy cold arms of slush. The walls and bench there were likewise covered in slush or icy water.

He swept out as much of it as he could and closed the door, sliding the bolt into place with a resounding ‘chink’. The towels for feet-wiping were now soaked or stiff with ice, so he tossed those into the hamper and fetched more from Frodo’s bathing room one door down. He tossed a handful onto the floor to absorb the snow and water that remained, then wiped down the walls and bench with another handful.

By the time he finished and tiptoed back toward the kitchen, he could hear no voices coming from the bedroom. The door was left open a crack and Merry peeped inside to find Sam alone, sniffling softly with his head hung low. Merry almost went in to comfort him, knowing how deeply Frodo’s lectures could cut. He imagined it must only be that much worse for Sam, who admired his cousin to a fault and never did anything that would cause Frodo harm or ire, at least not on purpose. He held back though, not knowing if Sam would want to be disturbed before he could pull himself back together.

Wondering where his cousin could be, Merry continued toward the kitchen and noticed a faint, flickering glow of a candle warming the floor outside the library just beyond the kitchen. More light could be seen inside the room. Merry passed the first kitchen entrance and stopped just beyond the second, at the library door on the other side of the tunnel, hanging back in the shadows so he couldn't be seen.

Inside, standing along the far wall and surrounded by shelves stuffed with books, tomes, ledgers and scrolls, he could see Frodo holding up a candle, his neck craned to read the spines of the books as he scanned the clustered shelves from side to side. Frodo’s shoulders were tense and the hand that held the candle was shaking ever so slightly. Merry could all but feel the ire and guilt that filled the space around his cousin and leaked out toward the tunnel, too immense to be contained by the cramped room. Frodo was feeling no better than Sam, that much he could tell. He wondered what exactly Frodo had said but knew that now was not the time to ask.

He went into the kitchen and put the broom away. Then he filled the kettle with more water and hung it over the fire. Seeing the bottle of brandy, he popped the stopper into place and put the bottle back on its shelf, then searched the cupboards for the bed tray and pulled it out. The food was lukewarm by now, so he banked up the fire in the oven and set his plate on the middle of the stove to let everything warm while he nibbled on a slice of bread and mulled things over.

Even if he had not seen them for himself, he would have known that both Frodo and Sam were upset. Frodo must be feeling wretched for losing his temper at Sam, especially in light of Sam’s injury. Sam would be feeling equally wretched for having betrayed Frodo’s trust, as unwitting as that had been, and he was likely continuing to berate himself now that Frodo had stopped. Merry wanted desperately to go to them and offer comfort, but if he did that, which one did he go to first? The decision tore at him and all he could do was continue to sit and stare blankly at the tabletop, his head held between his hands as if they were the only things keeping it from falling off his shoulders.

Frodo had told him once before that Sam could frustrate him beyond belief sometimes, that he too had his own problems when trying to relate to Sam as a friend rather than an employer or a ‘better’. Now that Merry had seen it for himself, he was more inclined to believe it and not think that Frodo was just trying to be make him feel better about Sam not trusting him. Frodo had clearly been at the end of his tether. Had something similar to this happened before? How many times had Sam held back from asking for help or accepting it when it was offered? Did Frodo usually push his hand like he had this morning in the garden, or let it be? Had Sam accepted their help this morning as friends, or as his betters whom he couldn’t say no to?

Only one thing was certain. If Sam truly was this way with Frodo, then Merry’s own miscommunications with the gardener couldn’t all be because of Sam not trusting him. While Merry still suspected that trust did at least have some part to play in it, he now saw that much of it was just Sam’s natural habits and behaviors. Even though he knew he shouldn’t be, Merry felt greatly relieved by this for it took considerable pressure off of himself. There was, in the end, only so much he could do. With this new-found understanding, he vowed to not be so pushy or worry so much about his seeming lack of progress with Sam as a friend. He would just be his usual self, minus the pranks as he had promised, and let things fall as they may.

With that decision made, Merry stood and checked the food. Deciding it was warm enough, he put his plate on one side of the bed tray and retrieved Frodo’s plate from the table to fill with seconds. He pulled a third plate from the cupboard, one of the yellow ones with the painting of the flower field in the middle and blue birds along the edges, and heaped it high with food for Sam as the gardener had yet to eat.

He heard more than saw when Frodo came into the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder to find Frodo carrying two volumes of herbals, one large and heavy with a cracked spine, the pages frayed at the corners; the other small but thick, the pages just beginning to yellow along the edges but in good condition otherwise. Frodo sat at the table with a thump and set the volumes on the table with a smack that somehow sounded as demoralized and self-deprecating as Frodo’s shrunken-in form made him look. With a heavy sigh, Frodo opened the older, larger herbal and began to leaf through it. Merry didn’t have to see his face to know his expression was tight and pent-up.

“Frodo?” Merry started.

“I know, Merry,” Frodo said, sounding resigned. He sighed again. “I know. I shouldn’t have become cross with Sam. I just wish sometimes that he wouldn’t always put everyone else before himself, that he wouldn’t always put me before himself. If this had happened at the Cotton farm, he wouldn’t have hesitated to call out for help.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The only way we’d know that is if it did happen at the Cotton farm,” Merry said. “If Sam always does put everyone before himself, then I don’t think it would have happened any differently, except that maybe some of the Cottons would have been out there with him. He wouldn’t have needed to call for help.”

“I know,” Frodo muttered, sounding even more defeated if that were possible. He flipped through the pages one by one, scanning them with such an intensity Merry wondered how the pages didn’t welt. “They wouldn’t have left him out there alone.”

“Well no. It’s their land,” Merry said.

“And this is mine,” Frodo said.

“So what’s really upsetting you, Frodo? That Sam fell and didn’t call for help, or that he was alone when he fell?” Merry sat next to Frodo and placed a comforting hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Sam’s been alone in the garden plenty of times. It’s rather his job to be, actually.”

“It was snowing, and the only reason he stayed behind was because we got sloppy with the last few bushes.” Frodo shrugged Merry’s hand away and commenced browsing through the herbal. Finally, he found the page he was looking for and stopped to scan the text as he thought out loud. “Here it is. Sprains and strains. If the ankle’s broken, there isn’t much we can do about that. I’m fairly positive that it is sprained though. Willow bark is good for pain. I’m fairly certain I have some in one of the pantries, though I can’t be sure of its freshness or potency. Here, now. This says that chamomile and rosemary teas are good for muscle tension and cramps. It also says that we should put ice on it for 20 minutes right away, and then again for twenty minutes every hour or so, or as often as needed. That will reduce the chance of swelling and bruising and help to dull the pain.”

“I think Sam rather took care of that already,” Merry pointed out, pleased to see Frodo smile despite himself. “You see, Frodo. Sam was simply sparing you a trip down to the cold cellar. Why spend all that time breaking up ice when he had some near at hand?” Frodo’s smile widened into a grin and he favored Merry with a wry glance. “You’re being rather silly, you know. This isn’t your fault in any way. Sam said it himself, he stepped off the path.”

“And he didn’t call for help,” Frodo said, sobering. “He was out there for a half-hour while we were sitting in here eating. I should have noticed sooner that he never came in.”

Merry wasn’t sure how to respond to this at first. He sat back and let his cousin mope as he tried to think of way to make Frodo see that he wasn’t entirely to blame. Finally, he said, “Well, I was in here too and didn’t notice. Do you blame me?”

“No.”

“Then stop blaming yourself,” Merry said. “There’s no way either us of could have guessed that something was wrong. Even if Sam hadn’t been hurt, he could have been doing something else. You know how he can be at times.”

“I know, but-”

“No, Frodo. You are always blaming yourself for things you can’t prevent or that aren’t your fault. Stop it,” Merry ordered. Knowing however that Frodo wouldn't be able to do that until he spoke with Sam again, he slid the herbal away from Frodo and continued, “Now, I’ll get the herbs and get them seeping in the tea. You need to talk to Sam again before he can give himself too many lashings. Take the tray so he can start eating. I’ll be in as soon as the tea is finished.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Frodo said. He stood and kissed the top of Merry’s curly head before gathering up the tray and returning to the room. Merry rose after him and searched the larder for the required herbs.   

“Sam?” Frodo said cautiously when he entered the room. He carried the tray of food in front of him as a peace offering, knowing how inadequate it was. This was confirmed when he heard Sam sniffle. The gardener turned his face away and quickly reached up to wipe the tears off his cheeks as Frodo approached the bed. Frodo put the tray on the bedside table and sat next to Sam.

“Sam?” he repeated, reaching over to turn Sam’s face toward him. “I’m so sorry Sam. I should not have been cross. What I should have been was more vigilant. I should have noticed sooner that you hadn’t come in yet. I was angry with myself for leaving you out there alone to fix our work.”

Sam sniffled again, his brow creasing in confusion. “There was no work as needed fixing,” he said. “I did check the bindings just to be sure, that’s true, but I’d’ve done it had you been there or not.”

“Then why did you send us away?” Frodo asked. “We could have helped.”

“Well it was starting to snow,” Sam said, then they both laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Dearest Sam,” Frodo muttered and shook his head. He dropped his hand to cover Sam’s, which was resting on the coverlet. “You know I don’t like to give orders, so I want you to promise me that you won’t hesitate to ask for my help when you need it. I want you to understand that you can rely on me.”

“I know I can, sir,” Sam said then nodded. “I promise I’ll not do something so foolish as this ever again. I never meant to hurt your feelings, Mr. Frodo, honest.”

“I know you didn’t, but you scared me. What if you had frozen out there and I was sitting within helping distance? I would have noticed eventually that you never came for your food, but by then it could have been too late. It nearly was too late as it is,” Frodo explained.

“I never thought of that,” Sam said, paling at the thought. “I guess we both got lucky.”

“That we did,” Frodo agreed, gracing Sam with a smile that put all worries aside. Still, he had to ask, “Am I forgiven? For losing my temper and yelling at you and for being so negligent?”

“Now, Mr. Frodo, you don’t got a negligent bone in your body. I’ve been plenty later’n that coming in to bid you good night before, bad weather or no. Tisn’t your fault I got clumsy. There’s naught you need to be apologizing for,” Sam assured, “but I’ll forgive you if you think you need it. Am I forgiven for being such a numbskull?” But he smirked as he said it.

Frodo laughed. “You are no such thing, Samwise Gamgee, though you did come rather close to being numb!”

“I did at that, didn’t I?” Sam agreed, laughing also.

Frodo indicated the tray and stood to pick it up. “Now, you must be hungry. Merry’s fixing your tea, but you can start with your meal now. After all, you missed the first serving, so you have some catching up to do. Are you warm enough now? Do you need me to bank the fire some more?”

“I’m fine, Master, thank you. I just hope Goldie’s managing on her own,” Sam said, raising his arms as his master slid the bed tray over his lap and removed the two extra plates. Frodo and Merry would have to eat balancing the plates on their knees.

Sam pulled off a bit of bread and nibbled on that while they waited for Merry. He was starving, he couldn’t deny it, but he also didn’t feel right about eating until Merry was there with them. Common hobbit manners wouldn’t allow it.

“Your sister is a smart lass. I’m sure she and your father are managing just fine,” Frodo assured. “If the blizzard’s passed by the morning, I’ll stop by Number Three and let them know what happened when I go to get the healer.”

“You’re not going alone, are you Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

“Someone needs to stay here in case you need something,” Frodo replied smoothly. “I’ll be careful.”

“Is it safe to come in yet?” Merry asked, popping his head into the doorway and watching both hobbits carefully.

“We were just waiting for you to start eating,” Frodo said and moved to one of the chairs.

Merry came in with the tea tray, which was laden with two mugs of ale, a teacup, the teapot, a bowl of sugar and jar of honey. He handed Frodo his mug, then poured Sam some tea. “Sugar or honey?” he asked.

“Honey,” Sam said. “Two spoons, but I can do that myself.”

“Nonsense,” Merry said. “It’s not often that we have you at our mercy Sam, and we fully intend to take advantage of the situation to smother you with comfort and care. Though you know, if you wanted to stay the night, you could have just asked.” He poured two spoons of honey into the tea and stirred it briskly. When he finished, he tapped the spoon against the rim of the teacup and handed the cup to Sam. Then he sat down to his own food.

Sam ate heartily now that he was no longer waiting for anyone. He was as close to ravenous as he had ever been and he could not eat fast enough. He felt a little bad about being so impatient but short of Frodo ordering him to slow down, he did not think anything could keep him from shoveling in one mouthful after the other. After his sharpest hunger pains were assuaged, he took a swig of his tea and sighed with relief.

When he picked up his fork again, it was to eat more courteously and he made sure to compliment Frodo on his cooking. This wasn’t the first time that Frodo had served him dinner, but it was certainly the first time his master had been made to go through so much trouble to do so. Sam would have to make it up to him as soon as he was healed and back on his feet, maybe make him some of that blackberry sweet bread with icing that he loved so much. Next to mushrooms, it was the only other dish always guaranteed to delight his master and be devoured in a blink of an eye.

He wondered what it would be like having his master and Merry wait on him and tried not to feel too uncomfortable at the notion. He wasn’t too keen on the idea but considering the circumstance he couldn’t rightly complain over the arrangement. Besides, after their earlier conversation, Sam was hesitant to say anything that Frodo might interpret as a lack of faith in Frodo’s ability to care for him. He would simply have to be as little bother to his master as he could be until he was healed enough to go home. When that would be was anyone’s guess, but he knew that Frodo was not about to let him out of the smial anytime soon and possibly not until the snow melted. He supposed it was just as well. With Goldie having her hands full with the Gaffer, she hardly needed another invalid to look after.

Frodo and Merry let Sam fill his stomach. They had been tired earlier and both had been contemplating turning in after dinner, but the shock of finding Sam injured and nearly frozen had revived them. Neither of them could fathom going to sleep now and they were eager to assure themselves that Sam was indeed whole and warm. Frodo also wanted to see if the tea would work. He hoped Merry didn’t put too much of the willow bark in it, since neither of them knew what the proper dosage should be; the herbal had not mentioned it.

“You didn’t have any problems making the tea?” Frodo asked now.

Merry shook his head. “No. I decided to put in the regular amount of chamomile and a couple of sprigs of rosemary. I only put a pinch of the willow bark since you weren’t sure how strong it was and healers are always saying how easy it is to misuse it. I figure if it’s not strong enough, we could add more for the next dose, which the book says should be every two hours, or as often as needed. How’s the tea Sam?”

Sam took a more liberal drink than before, expecting to taste the bitter willow bark, but instead he tasted the rosemary and honey most, with a hint of the chamomile. The willow bark was hardly discernible at all. “Well, either the healers should learn to make the tea like you do, or you didn’t put enough of the willow bark in,” he assessed. “We’ll find out soon enough I suppose.”

“We will at that,” Merry agreed, taking a sip of his ale.

“Is the ankle any better?” Frodo asked.

Sam was still for a moment, considering the injury. Then he attempted to move the ankle, wincing at the pain that erupted up his leg at the slight movement. “Not so much,” he admitted. “Still, it’s bearable.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” Frodo asked.

“I’ve slept with injuries before this Mr. Frodo, and without no help of a draught either,” Sam said. “I’ll manage it.”

“When have you been injured before?” Merry asked. He could never remember seeing Sam injured or hearing of him having to miss work because of an injury.

“Oh, it was naught so serious as this, Mr. Merry,” Sam said. “I pulled a hamstring real good a few summers back during the branding. I don’t know at exactly what point it happened, cause I was working on it all day without any problems, wrestling with bulls and heifers, and clambering up the stairs into the hayloft, helping the Cotton lads pull hay bales up all afternoon. It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning and couldn’t hardly move my leg that I realized what I’d done. It smarted something awful that first week, and even after I could walk on it again, it was another week until it was completely healed. No one would let me do anything more strenuous than lift a bag of sugar. I never felt so useless afore.”

“Well, get ready to feel useless again,” Frodo said pointedly, but his smile was kind. Sam could do nothing else but nod.

“Was that also your right leg?” Merry asked.

“No, it was the left.”

“So now they’re even.”

Sam laughed. “Aye, I guess they are at that.”

“Was this before or after May married?” Frodo asked, trying to remember.

“Oh, it’d have to be after, as it were just Marigold at home,” Sam said. “That’d be when Dandy and Randy came up to help Dad with the garden. Not the best of substitutes, but they managed well enough.”

“How are your sisters? And your brothers?” Merry asked. “How many nieces and nephews do you have now?”

“Well, Hamson and Carmen’ve got three now, they’d be Young Hamfast, Rowan and Fern,” Sam said, counting them off on his fingers as he named them. “Daisy and Harman’ve got the one lass, Bell. She’s named for our ma.”

“How old is Bell now?” Frodo asked, smiling as he thought of the lively faunt he had seen at Sam’s birthday last year.

“She just turned three last month. She’s a charmer, that one. Likes to run and dig, and she talks a blue streak. Gaffer says she looks just like Ma.”

“She must be the apple of your Gaffer’s eye,” Merry guessed.

Sam smirked. “You have no idea. She’s got Gaffer wrapped right ‘round her little fingers. She doesn’t even get a chance to cry when she’s with us acause he hardly ever puts her down and he don’t deny her nothing.”

Merry and Frodo laughed. Frodo had noticed at the party that the Gaffer seemed to gravitate toward little Bell whenever he got the chance.

Merry finished up his second helping and set the plate on the bedside table, settling back into his chair to nurse his ale. “What about May and Halfred? Do they have little ones yet?”

“May and Elson’ve got a boy and they’re expecting another. Erling’s four, or will be. Their next is due in the summer. They’re hoping for a girl this time around.”

“Have they picked names yet?”

“Elton, if it’s a boy, for Elson’s pa. If it’s a maid-child they’re going to name it Jasmine, for May’s best friend, the Twofoot’s lass.”

“Those are nice names. What is Erling like?”

“Deviant.” Sam smirked again and winked at Merry. “Dad says he’s like me.”

“You’re not deviant,” Merry laughed in disbelief, looking to Frodo for back up. The day Sam defied his father, or anyone else for that matter, would be Highday the first. Frodo just smiled. “When have you ever disobeyed anyone?” Merry asked.

“Two Springs ago,” Sam answered, catching Merry off guard, despite Frodo’s subtle warning. “Gaffer didn’t think as I should go with you and Master Pippin to look for Mr. Frodo when he was late coming back from his walking trip. He said it weren’t my place.”

“Really?” Merry asked, shocked by this news. Sam had never given any indication that he had argued with his father. Or perhaps there had been signs, and Merry just hadn’t known how to read them. “What happened next?”

“I told him my place was with Mr. Frodo and if he didn’t like it, I didn’t have to live at Bagshot Row no more.” He smirked again when Merry gaped at him. “I didn’t really mean it, about moving out, and neither did he, about Mr. Frodo. We were arguing about somewhat else.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Merry said, finding his voice again. He’d have to look at a calendar the next chance he got to see if Highday the first of Summerfilth had snuck onto it while he wasn’t looking. “What were you really arguing about then?”

Sam’s smirk widened and it was his turn to laugh. “I was in a bit of a tussle and I wouldn’t tell him who with or why.”

Sam? In a brawl? If not for the plate still held in his hand, Merry’s jaw would have dropped to the floor. “Now you’re just joking with me,” he stated but Sam shook his head. Frodo’s sage negation confirmed Sam’s denial. Merry struggled to recall that Spring, trying to remember if Sam had sported any marks of a fight at the time. He did seem to remember, if a bit fuzzily, that Sam’s lip had been healing from a split. Merry had just assumed that Sam had fallen over something. “My goodness Sam. What else have you been holding back?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sam replied.

“We should leave the shocking revelations to a minimum,” Frodo suggested. “There will be plenty of time to pepper Sam with questions over the next few days. As for now, why don’t you tell Merry how Halfred just made the Gaffer the most jubilant and relieved father in the Shire.”

Merry cocked an eyebrow at Sam, who was grinning proudly now. “Well, that would be more Astrid’s doing, giving us little Ashley and all, if you take my meaning,” he started.

“Gaffer was plenty relieved when Fred finally married about two years ago, at the ripe old age of 42. For the longest time, Gaffer was right worrit that Halfred would never get married, much less have children. Fred’s been saying all his life how he never wanted to settle with no lass, you see. Then he found out as our cousin Hale Goodchild was of a like mind, and they decided the only way to get away from hearing about how they should marry and settle down like proper lads was to get as far away from home as they could. Course, it’s only one of the reasons Fred took the ‘prenticeship way up in Little Smithy, but it’s the only one as Gaffer ever remembered and he’s been holding a right grudge against Ma’s folk since then. Leastways, he was up until Hale married some eight years back and Fred continued to refuse to set his cap on a lass.

“We’re still none too sure what happened as to change his mind, but he finally found himself a lass of his own a few years back. The rumor up there was that they got too close during a Harvest dance and he got her into a spot of trouble, if you take my meaning, but that couldn’t be further from the truth from what Fred told us. Why, they all but waited the usual year to marry and any sign of trouble would have shown itself in that amount of time.

“Anyway, Astrid’s a pretty lass, and she’s just as sweet as can be hoped for. Her folk are from Long Cleeve and she’d gone over to Little Smithy to work in the same shop as Fred. She paints the tiles and she’s a right talent for it too. She even has them set up the tiles temporary like so she can paint murals and such on them. She’s a good nine years younger’n Fred is and they set the wedding as close to her coming of age as her parents would allow – a month to the day. When we got the word in the post that Fred was getting married… I tell you, you never seen a hobbit so happy as the Gaffer was that day. He marched right down to The Ivy Bush and bought every hobbit there a round of drinks.

“But that weren’t the end of Gaffer’s worries. Like I said, Fred had his ‘no children’ rule and Gaffer was right worrit he’d stick to it. Turns out, they’d been trying for children right from the start, but they were having trouble. There’d been a couple of miscarriages, early on in the first term, afore they could tell anyone about them. They decided to just keep quiet until it looked like they got one as would stick. So finally last Winterfilth, we got another letter in the post saying they were expecting sometime around Afteryule. Gaffer marched right down to the Bush again and celebrated all the night through.

“When we got word that little Ashley was born last month, Gaffer wanted to pack up and go visiting right there and then, but we just didn’t have the means to at the time. Now he’s talking about going up as soon as Rethe, he’s that eager to see his newest granddaughter, and see for himself that Fred’s a father now. I don’t think he really fully believes it just yet. He’s just waiting for Fred to send word back saying how soon he can come.”

Sam finished his story and his food with a flourish and Merry rose to take his plate. “Would you like some more, Sam?”

“I could do with a bit more, if it’s not too much of a bother,” Sam admitted, still not comfortable with the idea of one of his betters doing for him, but he also knew that Frodo would never believe he was full after just one serving. Merry took Frodo’s plate also, put them on the tray and went to get more food for everyone.

When Merry returned, again having heaped more food on Sam’s plate than either his or Frodo’s, which only had a few bites of everything for filling the corners, they talked some more of family matters and the doings of their friends. Merry took careful note of everything Sam related. In the past, he had always dismissed what Sam said about his activities outside of Bag End’s garden, thinking he’d never have any need to know them. Now that they were friends again, he listened eagerly to everything Sam had to say and he learned much about the gardener. In return, he began to tell Sam about the various antics of the Brandybucks, explaining who was related to whom and where different places were located.

Sam learned much as well, not only about Merry but about Frodo, who he had always prided himself on knowing things that Merry and Pippin did not. Sam wasn’t sure why his master confided in him about his dark years spent in Buckland but it made him feel like he held a special and important place in his master’s life. As a result, much of the shared experiences that Merry told him now he had already heard, but he happily listened again since Merry often had a different way of remembering things.

“Remember that time we took Mother to the River and you splashed her when she wasn’t looking?” Merry said.

“I was splashing you and you ducked,” Frodo said.

“You winked and nodded your head at Mother, and so I ducked,” Merry corrected.

“I did not wink,” Frodo defended.

“You did so, you rascal, and you know it,” Merry insisted.

“I’m sure I just had something in my eye,” Frodo said, unperturbed.

“That is a weak defense,” Merry laughed. “The only thing in your eye was mischief!”

“A look you know all too well,” Frodo returned.

“Coming from you, yes I do. I’ve been the recipient of that mischief more times than I can count,” Merry went on.

“Dearest Merry, what have I ever done to you?” Frodo asked, feigning innocence and befuddlement.

“Plenty and don’t deny it! Why, even Sam here has been witness to his share, or need I remind you about the year I turned 25? You let me get drunk senseless at the Dragon just so you could put me in a dress in front of half the populace of Hobbiton and Bywater, and then you actually let me get on the carriage home dressed like that! Tell me, dearest cousin, how much coin did you slip into that driver’s hand so he wouldn’t pull over until we reached Frogmorton?”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam admonished, shocked that his master would do such a thing. Well, about the carriage driver at any rate. He had known about the dress of course.

“Merry, I assure you I did not pay off the driver,” Frodo said and he would have sounded sincere but for the laughter in his eyes. “He must not have heard you. As for the dress, that wasn’t entirely my idea.”

“Oh really? Then whose idea was it?” Merry asked, concentrating so hard on Frodo that he missed when Sam blushed and pretended to be studying the pattern on his teacup.

Frodo just shook his head. “I’ve told you before, Merry, it’s a Hobbiton-Bywater tradition. I had to go through it and so did Sam. So does every lad when they turn 25. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Besides, I did not put you in that dress. The Twofoot lads did.”

“What?!” Merry exclaimed. In all the years since that humiliating night, he had never fathomed that someone other than his cousin had played a hand in the prank. He was horrified anew to think that the Twofoot lads – who were they, did he even know them? – were the ones to do the dirty work. “Frodo! Of all the lying, scheming, devious—”

“I’m confused. Are you describing me or yourself?” Frodo asked with a laugh, ducking just in time to miss Merry’s not-so-playful swat.

“If I’m any of those things, then it was obviously to survive being raised with you,” Merry said, crossing his arms.

“You were only raised with me for seven years Merry. What’s your excuse for the last 25?”

“I think I was too kind with my revenge,” Merry said, ignoring Frodo’s attempt to change the subject. “I should have told the entire town you had some mysterious rash, and then let them make up their minds where it was and how you got it.”

This only made Frodo laugh harder and he was soon at the point of tears. “Oh Merry. No one even remembers that ridiculous rumor you started. Except Miss Willow. She asks about you sometimes, wanting to know if my darling little cousin has dreamt up any more pretend ailments to give you an excuse to talk to her.”

This caught Merry’s tongue. He blushed furiously and avoided Frodo’s teasing grin.

Miss Willow was one of Hobbiton’s two healers. She was a few years Merry’s senior and strikingly beautiful, with light brown hair that shined like golden silk in the sunlight and deep brown eyes that could pierce straight through him. Merry did still at times make up reasons (though no longer medical ones) to talk to her whenever he saw her in the marketplace. The fact that she knew what he was doing was more than he could bear. What a fool he’d made himself to be if she thought of him as ‘darling’ and ‘little’. He had always thought he acted suave and charming around her. He wondered what could have given him away. His tendency to sometimes stop mid-sentence to stare at her openly? His excessive hand-wiping? His palms did get rather sweaty while talking to her, especially when she smiled.

Sam decided it was time to step in and come to Merry’s rescue. “I’d not say she’s the only one as remembers that day, begging your pardon. Tom and Jolly ain’t stayed for dinner since.”

“Yes, well, it’s a long walk back to Bywater,” Frodo said as Merry took his turn to gloat. Frodo stood and gathered the empty plates on the tray. “Who wants afters?”

Merry and Sam waited until Frodo was in the kitchen, moving things about, to break into quiet laughter. “They really haven’t eaten here since?” Merry asked.

Sam shook his head. “I explained what happened, about your prank and all, but they reckon Mr. Frodo’s finally gone mad and there’s no talking them around it no how. They figure anyone who would force young hobbits to miss a meal must be a bit loose in the head, to put it kindly.”

“You know, I always did like the Cotton lads,” Merry said and they laughed heartily together until Frodo returned.

To be continued…  

Chapter 4

When afters was finished, Frodo retrieved some books from the library to keep Sam occupied while he and Merry cleaned the kitchen and put away the leftovers, which were more than usual. The cousins worked side by side, saying little, and within short time they had the kitchen back in order. Then they consulted the herbal again and discussed how to go about making an ice pack for Sam’s ankle.

“It might be easier to use the snow outside than walk down to the cold cellar every time we need ice,” Frodo mused.

“You could have told me that before I swept all the snow back outside,” Merry said lightly. “The snow will melt faster than the ice. How do we keep Sam’s ankle and everything else from getting wet?”

“We could use a couple of my water skins,” Frodo suggested. “The trick will be getting the snow into the water skin. If we can’t figure out a way to do that, we’ll just have to use ice.”

Merry took a bucket from the kitchenette and collected snow from the back porch while Frodo located the water skins he used for his walking trips. The storm was still blowing fiercely and Merry was chilled after the few seconds he was outside. He hastened back to the warmth of the kitchen and waited near the fire for Frodo to come back.

Frodo returned a minute later with a couple of water skins. They studied the narrow opening for a time, considering what to do, for it would be impossible to get anything but water into the slit. Merry was about to suggest they just use the ice when Frodo opened a drawer, pulled out a knife and cut off the mouthpiece from one of the skins. Merry then watched as Frodo searched through a drawer filled with random spare items and knickknacks until he found some old bottle corks and attempted to fit them one by one into the new opening. Most were either too small or too big, but he did find one that wasn’t quite so fat and almost fit. Frodo cut the tiniest of tears into the skin and tried again. This time the cork did fit but it was clear that it would not stay there. “We’ll have to tie it into place with some string, but this will do nicely,” Frodo said.

“Sam’s not going to like that you ruined one of your water skins,” Merry stated.

“They’re old,” Frodo said, and cut off the mouthpiece to the second skin. “I would have wound up using them for something else before too much longer anyway. Behind you, in that drawer, should be a funnel.”

Merry opened the drawer Frodo pointed to and shuffled through the items in it. There were three tin funnels so he chose the one with the widest throat and handed it to his cousin. Frodo pushed the screen out and started spooning snow into one of the skins. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on the pack,” he said as he worked. “Once the snow is melted, it should be replaced right away. We want the packs to be full enough so that it doesn’t melt too soon, but we also need to leave enough room so that it can conform to his ankle without hurting him.”

When the skin was about three-quarters full, Frodo popped the cork into place and looked about. “String?”

“There’s some in the wardrobe in the kitchenette,” Merry said and fetched it for him.

Once the pack was finished, Frodo tested it, turning it upside down and jiggling it back and forth. The cork stayed in place and no droplets of snow or water leaked through. “We’ll keep a towel around the mouth for tonight, just in case.”

Merry took the bucket with the rest of the snow into the third pantry, away from the heat of any fire, and rejoined Frodo in the tunnel outside the kitchen.

“We’ll play a few games of draughts until bedtime,” Frodo said. “Then we’ll give Sam another dose of the tea to help him sleep. If the weather doesn’t clear tomorrow…” He trailed off, not wanting to think of that possibility.

“We’ll manage,” Merry assured.

“His ankle could be broken, Merry. If it goes too long without being fixed, it will only hurt Sam the more. It might not ever heal correctly. We’ll just have to splint it and hope for the best. We can do that after the snow treatment. There should be something suitable to use for a splint in the kitchenette or the mathom room,” Frodo said.

Merry nodded. “I’ll get the draughts board, and the set of throw dice while I’m at it,” he offered and went to the second parlor to find the games.

Frodo returned to the bedchamber to find Sam engrossed with his book, an old leather-bound tome of ballads that Bilbo had collected over his long years in the Shire. Most of the ballads were traditional songs of hobbit-make and so were already known to Sam. More than a few of the songs had changed in minor ways over the years since Bilbo’s youth and Sam studied them with interest, wondering at the differences. Many of the songs were Dwarven or Elvish, and there were even a few from the men of Dale and Bree. The rest were written by Bilbo himself. These were also well-known to Sam and much loved by all the hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater as well as the Took, Baggins and Brandybuck families.

Sam looked up when Frodo entered and smiled. “Mr. Bilbo always liked that Man in the Moon,” he said. “I wonder if he’ll ever write another song about him.”

“He might have already,” Frodo said, glad he had chosen that book. It was thick and heavy and would keep Sam occupied for a few days, if not more.

He carefully lifted the blankets back from the injured foot, as though he were afraid the foot would shatter at any moment. The ankle looked only slightly more swollen than before, about the size of an onion. There was no bruise that he could see, though he realized one could still develop by morning. “How is your ankle?” he asked.

“I can manage it,” Sam said.

“Is it better or worse?” Frodo pressed. “Did the tea help or was the willow bark too weak?”

Sam sighed and shook his head, trying not to feel like the burden he was. He couldn’t help but think that had he been more vigilant of his feet and where he was putting them, Mr. Frodo would have been relaxing in a nice warm bath just about now, his only worry being whether to wear his blue or green nightshirt to bed.

“Sam?” Frodo asked when the pause grew too long. “You never let me get away with evading questions when I’m ill. I’m not about to let you tell me you’re fine when I know you aren’t. Now did the tea help or not?”

Sam had to concede to that point. If it had been Frodo who stumbled and hurt himself, Sam wouldn’t put up with any foolishness either and they both knew it. “I reckon a few more pinches in the next mug wouldn’t hurt none,” Sam said. “It’s still throbbing something fierce, though it’s not so bad when I hold it real still like.”

“This should help then,” Frodo said and placed the water skin over the ankle, to Sam’s immense relief.

“Aye, it does at that,” Sam admitted, as near to bliss as he could ever remember being. The chilly cold of the snow extinguished the burning in his ankle and he felt his body relax as the pain began to subside. Frodo smiled sympathetically and gently tucked the blankets back around the foot.

Merry arrived then with four different board games and the pouch of throw dice. Merry put the other games on the floor against the wall, then he and Frodo sat on either side of the bed, using the bed tray for a table to set up the draught board. Usually, only two people played a game at one time but the checkered board was big enough to accommodate a third and fourth player with a minor rearrangement of the chips. Merry selected the plain wood chips for himself, Frodo took the red-painted ones, and Sam the yellow.

They played for a couple of hours, with Merry easily winning the first few rounds until Frodo and Sam decided to get tough with him. They stopped only to rotate the water skins and to help Sam to the chamber pot when he could no longer hide the fact that he needed to relieve himself. Frodo helped him out of bed and behind the screen in the corner of the room as Merry made himself scarce, going to the kitchen to dump the melted snow from the water skins and heat more tea, adding a spoonful more of the willow bark at Frodo’s suggestion. By the time the tea was ready and Merry returned to the room, Sam was back in bed, looking rather embarrassed but otherwise composed. Frodo was setting the board for one last game.

Sam drank his tea dutifully, and by the time Frodo won the game, his ankle was feeling much improved if still painful. When Sam began to yawn, Merry packed up the game, leaving it with the others on the floor. He then banked the fire while Frodo set the tray aside and picked up the book of ballads to read the one Sam had book-marked. It was a silly nonsense poem but Frodo read it softly and soothingly until Sam dropped off to sleep.

Frodo and Merry went to the kitchenette and found a couple of peg boards that had lost their pegs. Pippin liked to use the boards now as a game, trying to see how many coins he could throw into the peg holes within a minute. The boards were rather thick and about a foot long, having originally been hung on the wall in the entrance hall as coat racks, but Frodo figured they could serve as a splint until the healer could come. All he needed to do was cut one in half somehow.

“Do you have a meat cleaver?” Merry asked.

“No,” Frodo said. “The meat comes ready to cook from the butcher.”

“What about a bread knife. The blade is somewhat shaped like a saw,” Merry suggested.

“It’s worth a try,” Frodo agreed and set the peg board on the counter, then pulled the knife from the drawer. He measured the midpoint of the board with his eyes and began to saw away. The blade was not as sharp or striated as a saw so he had to put a lot of muscle behind it, but eventually he was able to cut deep enough into the board that he could break it in two over his knee.

“Maybe we shouldn’t tell Sam how we’re acquiring all these things,” Merry said, taking one of the shortened boards and running his hand along the freshly-cut edge. “It’s a bit jagged on this side.”

“The other one is fine,” Frodo said. He took the board back from Merry and quickly cut off the rough parts while Merry cut a few more lengths of the string. “And if Sam doesn’t ask where we’re finding everything, I won’t tell him.”

Trying to splint Sam’s ankle without waking Sam was no easy task and more than a few times, Sam’s face scrunched up with pain, annoyance, or both. He remained asleep however, and Frodo and Merry stepped back to examine their handiwork. It looked clunky, truth be told, but as long as it kept Sam’s ankle from moving while he slept that was all that mattered.

“Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight? We’ll fix another guest room for you in the morning,” Frodo whispered once they were back in the tunnel. “I’ll sit with Sam.”

“Are you sure? I can relieve you after a few hours if you want,” Merry offered, whispering also.

Frodo declined. “Take your rest, I’ll be fine. I can answer that stack of correspondence I’ve been ignoring,” he said with a wry grin. Merry knew without asking that if Frodo had letters he was ignoring, they could only be from one person: Lobelia. “I just want to be there in case he wakes up and needs something.”

Merry nodded and stifled a yawn with difficulty. “Try to get some rest yourself. I’ll see you in the morning.”  

When Merry rose early the following morning, it was to find Frodo lightly dozing in a chair next to Sam’s bed, the forgotten book of ballads fallen to the floor. An empty mug sat on the bedside table next to a warm water skin, and Sam was fast asleep. Merry tiptoed past the sleeping hobbits to pick up the book and smooth out its pages before placing it on the table. He retrieved the water skin and mug, then went to the kitchen to brew more tea.

While the water was warming, Merry grabbed the bucket and walked through the smial, looking out the windows as he went, or attempting to. Ice covered the windows in every room, making it impossible to see outside. Not until he opened the front door did he know that the weather had turned again in the night. The blizzard had ended, leaving everything blanketed in deep snow. Small flakes were still falling slowly from grey skies but the wind was mild and held the promise of sun.

The snow on the porch stood a foot-and-a-half deep and came up to Merry’s hips. In the distance beyond, he could just make out the top rail of the garden gate and the very top branches of the bushes that lined the walk path from the door to the gate. Overhead, hanging from the lip of the turf roof was a row of small icicles. Winter had arrived in full force at last and was bent on making up for lost time.

Merry pulled the bucket through the snow bank, filling it easily, and hoped that Frodo either had a shovel or snow shoes somewhere in the smial. If he didn’t, then they wouldn’t be going anywhere until all this melted, which would be a couple of days at the least if they were lucky. To attempt to walk through the snow would be too much of a struggle; he would be exhausted and frozen before he even reached the gate, much less the bottom of the Hill.

Merry closed the door and returned to the kitchen. He stuffed the water skin with snow until it was nearly full, making sure that it would still bend and conform to Sam’s foot. Without waking Frodo or Sam, he applied the water skin over Sam’s ankle, which he was pleased to see did not look any worse than it had the night before.

He was nearly finished cooking first breakfast when Frodo came yawning into the kitchen, dragging his feet and rubbing his eyes in such a perfect imitation of Pippin that Merry suddenly felt an immense yearning for his younger cousin. He wondered if Pippin was feeling better and knew that either way, Aunt Tina would forbid him from going outside to enjoy the snow. He smiled to himself as he imagined Pippin’s protests, as strident and persistent as they were in vain.

“Morning cousin,” he greeted and handed Frodo a mug of coffee, which he had brewed alongside the tea. He figured Frodo would need the strong drink after his long night sitting up with Sam.

“Morning Merry,” Frodo replied, accepting the mug groggily. He drank the bitter beverage as it was and Merry was grateful that he had already treated it with cream and sugar when he first poured it.

Frodo blinked down at the mug, clearly trying to figure out why his tea tasted so funny. After a few more blinks, he figured out what the problem was and took another swig without comment. He looked next at the food Merry was preparing: eggs sunny-side up, grilled toast with melted cheese cooling on top, slices of baked ham and piles of bacon, plus the tea and coffee. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, gratitude in his voice.

“I did if I wanted first breakfast on time,” Merry quipped. Frodo was notoriously known for sleeping in late, even when he wasn’t up half the night.

“Have you been outside yet?” Frodo asked, squinting at the ice-covered window.

“I have,” Merry said. “The snowfall has slowed considerably, but its deep. I hope you have snow shoes or mud shoes. Otherwise, I’d say we’re as good as stuck. How was Sam during the night?”

“He woke about midnight, so I gave him more tea and another snow treatment. He tossed about a fair bit after that but he finally settled down just after two. He’s overdue for another treatment though,” Frodo said.

Merry shook his head. “I took care of it when I woke.”

“You are a jewel among hobbits, dear Merry,” Frodo said. He drained his mug and set it in the washbasin. “I think I saw some snow shoes in one of the wardrobes once. I’ll look for them while you finish breakfast. We’ll eat with Sam again, then I’ll go for the healer, whether or no.”

“No you won’t,” Merry said. “I’ll go for the healer. You’re exhausted and more than a little sore from yesterday by the way you’re shuffling about. Sleeping in that chair all night wouldn’t have helped.” Frodo opened his mouth to protest but Merry continued before he could make a sound. “I’m better at walking in shoes than you are. Besides, Sam will fret much less over me going than he will you, and don’t deny it.”

“Do you even know where the healer’s house is?” Frodo asked.

Merry blushed and concentrated overly hard on the cooking eggs. “I might have walked by it a couple of times before,” he mumbled.

“Is that so?” Frodo grinned. “You know, Miss Camellia is away visiting family. Miss Willow is there all by her lonesome.”

Merry blushed scarlet and did not reply.

Frodo chuckled. “I’ll look for those shoes,” he said, stifling a yawn, and left Merry to his cooking.

Frodo peeked in on Sam before continuing to the wardrobes. Sam was beginning to toss and turn again; he would be awake shortly. Frodo paused, wondering if perhaps he should wait with Sam until he was fully awake. He knew it was silly to worry but he didn’t think Sam should wake up alone. Yet the longer it took to find the shoes, the longer it would be before Sam could get the help he needed.

Frodo left the doorway. He reached the end of the tunnel and opened the door to the first wardrobe.

The two wardrobes sat between Frodo’s old bedroom and the foyer, and they had been bedrooms themselves when the smial was first built all those years before. Bilbo had long ago converted the little-used rooms into two large wardrobes to store all his various suits. No hobbit loved clothes more than Bilbo had, and he had quickly outgrown the standard-sized wardrobe that stood in his room. Rather than haul another wardrobe into his room or use the wardrobes in the other rooms, he had commissioned a carpenter to come in and convert the bedrooms into two large walk-in wardrobes. The carpenter built two rows of hanging rods into all the walls, as well as a large, circular hanging rack to stand in the middle of each room. Bilbo then had a doorway put in between the two rooms for convenience and, in true Mad Baggins fashion, had the carpenter further cut into the wall and design a series of drawers that were built through the wall next to the door so that the drawers could be opened from either room. In these drawers he put all his scarves, cufflinks, belts and other such accessories.

By the time Bilbo left, he had acquired so many suits that he had been considering building a new wardrobe. Then the Birthday Party came and Bilbo went, and there was never any need to do so. Bilbo had not designated any of the suits to be given away after the Party and Frodo found that he could not bear to part with them now. A few had been altered to fit himself for special occasions and now hung in his own wardrobe in his room, but most remained as they had been in Bilbo’s time. Every now and then, Frodo would take them outside in handfuls to hang from the clothesline for a day so they could air out, a project that easily took him a good two weeks to complete.

Frodo stood just inside the doorway as a wave of longing washed over him. He wondered, as he did more and more often, where his beloved cousin was in the wide world Outside. Was he happy? Safe? Maybe he was off gallivanting in lands unknown, ever the adventurer. Perhaps he had settled down somewhere quiet and restful where he could finish his book. Was he alone or did he have friends surrounding him and looking after him? Was he healthy? Alive? So many years had passed with no word, no letter. Gandalf had used to bring him the occasional correspondence, but he had not seen the wizard in years. Why hadn’t Frodo gone with him while he had the chance?

Frodo brushed his hand along the silky thread of an emerald green dinner jacket, the one Bilbo had worn once to a cousin’s wedding in Tookbank. Bilbo had been so happy about the color and the cut of the jacket, going to great lengths to brag about it to everyone he saw. The trousers had also been emerald green, but the waistcoat had been peridot and the shirt white. Even know, Frodo could picture it perfectly. He held the sleeve of the jacket under his nose, even though he knew that Bilbo’s scent had long ago faded from the fabric. He dropped the sleeve and glanced around the room, remembering when he saw Bilbo in every one of those suits.

Smiling fondly at the memories, Frodo bent down and scanned the walls and floors beneath the hanging clothes for the elusive shoes.  

Merry carried the tray into Sam’s room and set it on the bedside table just as Sam woke up. “Rise and shine,” he greeted as Sam stretched and yawned. “If you continue to sleep in this late, you’ll give Frodo a run for his money. You’ll have to become the master of Bag End and Frodo will have to be the gardener. May the stars protect the garden.”

Sam chuckled. He was just berating himself for sleeping so late, even though he knew there was no helping it and nothing useful he could do now that he was awake anyway. Whether Merry knew this or not, he was grateful for the young master’s teasing. “Morning Mr. Merry,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position, being careful not to jar his foot. Merry hurried to reposition the cushions around Sam’s foot and behind his back. “Where is Mr. Frodo?”

“Looking for snow shoes,” Merry answered. “I’m going to need them to make it down the Hill.”

“You’re going?” Sam asked, and as Merry had expected, he saw a hint of relief in the gardener’s eyes.

Merry nodded. “That I am. Only seems fair, doesn’t it? If you get to slide on ice, I should get to walk on snow. Frodo can stay here and do some actual work for once.” He slid the bed tray over Sam’s lap, tea and all.

“Thank you sir,” Sam said.

“You’re welcome, Sam,” Merry returned.

“No, I mean…” Sam paused, considering what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. “Thank you for helping yesterday, with everything and all. It was right kind of you.”

“You sound surprised.”

Sam blushed. “Well, it’s just that I never could tell afore when you were being sincere or not. Begging your pardon sir, but sometimes it just seemed like…”

“Like what?” Merry asked, curious now. He sat down and waited for an answer.

Sam fidgeted with the blanket and looked down at the food, his stomach grumbling at the sight. Now that he had spoken, he was wishing he had kept quiet, but there was nothing for it now. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then said, “Sometimes it felt like I was a game you were trying to learn the rules to. I know you didn’t really think that but… well, that’s how it felt, meaning no offense.”

“None taken, and you’re right. Sometimes I was trying to learn the rules. I didn’t mean for it to be a game but I can see how you might think that,” Merry admitted, then chuckled ruefully. “A game. Frodo once accused me of being competitive. I guess he might have had a point.”

“You guess he might have?”

“Very well. He did have a point,” Merry conceded. “To think, all those years ago I was jealous of you for being such good friends with Frodo, when he first moved here and I couldn’t be with him. Last night, I realized that I have been jealous of Frodo for being such good friends with you. Without even realizing it, I was trying to prove to myself that you and I could be just as close. Only instead of letting our friendship develop naturally, I was forcing myself on you and trying to figure out all your little quirks and idiosyncrasies: the rules as you say. I was trying too hard and that never works. I see that now.”

“What changed last night?” Sam asked.

“You and Frodo fought,” Merry said simply. “There’s no doubt that you have a good friendship, but it’s not perfect like I always imagined it was. And even if it was perfect, I was creating a competition where there shouldn’t have been one in the first place. I’m always doing that it seems. Even when I was as young as four years old I was doing that, and on one such occasion it ended in a rather embarrassing way that we don’t have to speak of right now. You think I would have learned my lesson then, or at least once I was old enough to understand why it was embarrassing, but I am getting better about it now.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Sam said, a little uncertainly. He was still confused on a few points but he was clear on one: Merry would be sincere from here on out and Sam would no longer have to double guess Merry’s motives.

Frodo leaned against the wall outside the room and waited until Merry and Sam moved on to talk about the food Merry had prepared. Only after they had been discussing this for a minute or so did he enter the room, shoes in hand. “I found them,” he announced to Merry and leaned them against the wall by the door. “After we clean up from breakfast, you can go. Don’t forget to stop at the Gamgee’s first. I’m sure they must be anxious for word of Sam by now. Oh, and take them the wood.”

“Any other errands you would like for me to perform while I’m out?” Merry asked with a grin.

“That will do for now,” Frodo said smoothly.

“Begging your pardons, sirs, but what if Miss Willow don’t got any snow shoes of her own?” Sam asked.

Frodo and Merry paused. This was a valid concern, for not everyone had snow shoes in these parts. It rarely snowed so deep as it did last night and when it did, most folk stayed inside until it was melted enough to walk through. It would be a fair guess to assume that the vast majority of hobbits in the area had no form of shoes at all. The strange footwear was really only prevalent through the mud banks of the Marish and in Buckland along the Brandywine.

Merry eventually shrugged. “Well, if she doesn’t have shoes, I’ll just have to carry her up the Hill.”

“You could hurt your back,” Frodo said with teasing concern.

“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Merry replied, blushing again but grinning this time. “Anything for Sam.”  

After first breakfast was eaten and the kitchen cleaned, Merry borrowed a pair of Frodo’s snow breeches, having brought none of his own. Then he sat on the bench in the entrance parlor and strapped the snow shoes onto his feet.

Snow shoes, or mud shoes as they were more commonly known as, were made of thin straps of light but sturdy wood woven in a loose criss-cross pattern, and they were flat and round. In the middle of the shoe was a heel guard and a strap for tightening over the foot to keep the shoe from slipping off. Nearly four times as wide as the average foot, they were designed to distribute the wearer’s weight over a large surface and so prevent the wearer from sinking into the snow or mud.

Merry stood and tested the straps to make sure they were secure and would not break. The straps were of thick leather and ideally should be oiled regularly, or at least before being worn, but he had not the time for that now. He slipped into his jacket and buttoned it tight, then wound a scarf about his neck. Frodo insisted that he also wear a snow cap with ear flaps and Merry couldn’t be sure if Frodo was just concerned about him getting cold and wasn’t just imagining Miss Willow’s reaction when she saw Merry in the yellow yarn cap with the silly little bobble on the top. Frodo tied the strings of the ear flaps snug under Merry’s chin and tested it to make sure the cap wouldn’t slip. Then he put Merry into mittens and stood back with a nod and a laugh.

“You look just like a faunt again,” he announced happily.

“I’ll be lucky if I can squeeze through the hole,” Merry said irritably. Really, it wasn’t that cold outside.

Frodo knocked the icicles off the roof with the handle of the broom and held the door open for Merry, turning the bucket upside down for Merry to use as a stepping stool. He was then obliged to push from behind as Merry scrambled onto the snow bank, sending a cascade of displaced snow into the entrance hall. Merry was just barely able to squeeze through the opening. He struggled to his feet and turned for the basket of firewood that Frodo handed him.

“Don’t be too long. Be careful,” Frodo said with a wary glance at the sky. He was heartened to see that the mild snowfall from earlier that morning had ended and the sun was peeking through white clouds.

“I’ll be as swift as my carefulness and ten pounds of clothing allow me,” Merry promised tartly, turning around and waddling toward the lane. When he reached the gate, he turned and waved. Frodo waved back and closed the door against the cold.

Sam was sitting with his eyes closed when Frodo returned to him. Frodo noticed immediately that Sam had removed one of the blankets. It was now folded neatly on the pillow next to him. The other blanket had been pushed down to his waist.

“Is it too warm for you, lad?” Frodo asked. He took up the tongs and removed a couple of logs from the fire, leaning them against the back wall of the hearth to burn out.

“I’m fine enough sir,” Sam said, opening his eyes to follow his master’s movements around the room. “It’s just, since I’m not in danger of freezing no more, I thought I’d remove the blankets for a bit.”

“Of course,” Frodo said smiling, then instantly cringed as he glanced up and saw Sam’s breeches still hanging there, now dry. He handed them to Sam. “I forgot to tell Merry to get you some changes of clothes.”

“I’m fine as I am, sir,” Sam repeated, taking the breeches gratefully. He would feel even better once he could get those on again.

“You’re going to need to change your clothes at some point, and you’re going to want a bath before too long,” Frodo mused as he checked the ankle again, vainly hoping that if he checked it enough, it would somehow get better. “The splint is holding. It’s not too bothersome is it? Is it feeling any better?”

“It’s not as bad,” Sam said, “leastways, not as bad as I was expecting, and since I can’t move it anyhow, the splint ain’t no bother either. And speaking of baths, I know you went without yours last night. I can entertain myself for a while. Why don’t you go take a rest, Mr. Frodo?”

“What if you need to use the chamber pot?” Frodo asked.

“Well, if you find me somewhat to use as a crutch, I’ll be able to manage on my own,” Sam said hopefully.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Not until the healer says you can have them,” Frodo said as his head filled with images of Sam hobbling about the smial, cleaning up and being useful while Frodo sat in the bath, unaware of his gardener’s wayward behavior.

“It’ll be the same as it would if you or Mr. Merry helped me,” Sam pointed out.

“We can help you in and out of bed. Crutches can’t do that,” Frodo said, trying his best to ignore Sam’s imploring regard.

“I’ll be real careful, you don’t got to be worriting on that account. I promise to behave myself and use ‘em only for the chamber pot,” Sam pressed. He held his breath and looked up at his master beseechingly, taking full advantage of the big brown eyes his mother had given him. He tried never to pout to get his way, especially never with his master, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Frodo was dangerously close to caving in. He took a deep breath, looked away and shook his head. “I’m sorry Sam. Not until the healer says,” he said to the bed post, avoiding looking at Sam for as long as he could. When he did eventually look, Sam was pouting mournfully, looking similar to the way he had when his beloved cat passed away last year. Frodo’s heart twisted with empathy and he knew if he stayed there a moment longer, he would give Sam whatever he wanted. He backed away toward the door, talking hastily to the floorboards as he went. “You know, a bath does sound rather appealing. Do you need to use the chamber pot right now? Can it wait an hour or so? You have your book. Do you need more tea? No. Well, then, I think I’ll take a short reprieve, if you’re sure you don’t need anything.”

“I’ll be all right, sir,” Sam assured, only marginally disappointed. He knew it had been a long shot to get crutches so soon, but at least he had convinced his master to take a rest.

“I’ll be back shortly then. Don’t hesitate to call out if you need anything,” Frodo said from the doorway and retreated, wondering ruefully when Sam had learned to manipulate him so well and why he had never noticed before.

To be continued…

Chapter 5

Merry pounded a mitten-covered fist on the door at Number Three, Bagshot Row, and waited.

The walk down the Hill had taken longer than he expected, for the shoes were cumbersome at best and the layers of clothes that he wore encumbered him further. He was no longer grumbling about the excessiveness of the clothing. Once he was outside, he felt for the first time how truly frigid the air was, the gusty wisps of wind adding its own chilling bite to sting at his exposed cheeks, nose and brow and raise gooseflesh on the exposed bottom half of his lower legs.

Plodding alone through an eerily silent, empty, white Shire had been an odd experience. At one point, Merry almost forgot where he was, so transformed was the land around him by the blankets of snow. He looked around and recognized nothing, saw no one, no sign or whisper of life beside himself. Not even a bird call could be heard in the Party Tree. Only the vague, moving plumes of chimney smoke rising from below him in the distance told him where Bagshot Row was. The smoke and the Party Tree reassured him that he was still in his beloved Shire and not somehow magically transported to another land where talking wolves carrying goblins might jump out at him at any moment.

At length he had reached Bagshot Row. The snow at the bottom of the Hill was deeper still, covering the tops of the gates along the Row. Merry suspected that at least some of the snow was displaced from the walk paths of Numbers One and Two, which had been shoveled clear. The garden of Number Three, however, was still filled with snow which came halfway up the round yellow door, covering the brass knocker completely, and so Merry had pounded on the door for the Gamgees did not have a bell pull.

Merry crouched down as the door opened so he could look Marigold eye to eye, though she still had to crane her neck upward to see him properly. She looked confused at first, then startled as she realized who it was she was looking at, then amused as she took in the clothes that Merry was wearing. She quickly hid her smile behind seriousness but the laughter could still be seen in her soft brown eyes.

Merry nodded his head and tried to ignore how foolish he must look to her while also trying to not get distracted by how lovely she had become since the last time he saw her. Sam’s younger sister had always been a pretty maid, but as she advanced into her later tweens she was becoming more and more a lively and comely lass, her eyes bright and sharp, her chestnut curls pulled back by a simple ribbon to show off her slender neckline. Or to keep her hair out of her face as she worked, most like, Merry chided himself. After all, the lass hardly had anyone she needed to worry about impressing at such a time as this. Besides, she was already promised to Tom Cotton. Looking at her now, Merry thought Tom had been quite wise to lay his claim on her as soon as he had. As it was, he probably had a hard enough time keeping other lads away from his lass.

All these thoughts passed in the course of a few short seconds and soon Goldie was nodding her head to him in greeting, smiling curiously as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Hullo Master Merry. Or Mr. Meriadoc I should say,” she greeted.

“Merry is fine,” Merry said. “How are you and Master Hamfast holding up in this weather?”

“Well enough, Mr. Merry,” Goldie said, then looked past him expectantly. “We’ve been expecting Sam. Is he still at Bag End then?”

“He is and he sends some firewood,” Merry said, handing the basket through the gap between the snow and the top of the doorframe. Marigold took it and placed it on the floor alongside the wall, next to the near-empty wood box.

“Thank you kindly for bringing it,” Goldie said, a note of hesitancy now in her gentle voice. When she spoke next, her words were almost a question. “I suppose Sam will be a while yet.”

Merry adjusted his weight on his haunches, wishing their positions weren’t so awkward. Breaking the news would be bad enough, without him sitting there so much higher and so removed from her. He nodded and said, “Sam won’t be able to make it down today. He had an accident last night an-”

“He what?” Goldie exclaimed, her hands flying up to her chest as though to stop her heart from dropping to her knees. “He had an accident? What sort of accident? Is he hurt? Is he all right? Oh, Gaffer figured as he dawdled at Bag End too long and got caught in the storm. We never imagined he was hurt!”

“It’s not so bad as all that, honest,” Merry hastened, holding up his hands reassuringly before she could work herself into tears. “He twisted his ankle up rather good. We figure at the worst it might be broken, but Sam’s strong and healthy. He’ll heal up in no time at all. We have him resting and we’re making sure he’s getting his medicaments. I’m going for the healer now. He’ll likely be staying at Bag End for a few days, at least until the healer says he can walk again and the snow clears up enough for it to be safe to bring him home. Will you and the Gaffer be all right on your own?”

Goldie nodded, dazed at the news but thankful to hear that Sam was, for the most part, whole. “We’ll manage. We’ll get help from the neighbors. The Twofoot lads will dig us out.”

Merry cast a wary glance toward Number Two and shivered involuntarily. He wondered if Frodo really had allowed the Twofoot lads to put him in that dress, or if Frodo had only been jesting. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be gone before Goldie could call them out of their hole. Before he went though, and against his better judgment, he asked, “Tell me Goldie, how many lads does Master Twofoot have?”

“Two,” Goldie answered. “They’re good, sturdy lads. They’ll have the snow cleared in no time, soon’s I call for them.”

“Goldie-lass! Who’s there? Is that Sam? Close the door! You’re letting the cold air in!” Gaffer hollered from the parlor.

“No Dad, it’s not Sam. It’s Mr. Merry, Mr. Frodo’s cousin as lives over Bucklebury way,” Goldie called back. She turned back to Merry and fretted with the collar of her dress. “I’ll tell him after you go. It’ll worry him so to hear about poor Sam. Are you sure he’s going to be all right, Mr. Merry? Sam’s never been broken afore.”

“We’ll find out for certain once the healer has a look at him,” Merry said. He stood and stepped back a pace, bending over so he could still look her in the face. “I will be back later to let you know what the healer said, and you’re welcome to come up any time you want to see him of course. I know Sam will be glad for the company.”

“Wait, sir,” Goldie said, reaching out a hand to stall him but stopped before touching. She pulled her hand back to fret at her collar again. “If Sam’s to be staying on with you for a spell, he’ll be wanting some things. Come inside while I fix a pack for him. I’ll have the Twofoot lads dig us out while I’m at it.” Then she leaned out the door and all but shouted toward Number Two in a booming voice that belied her small, demure stature, “Dandy! Randy!”

Merry felt cold panic run down his spine and he backed up toward the buried gate. “How about if I get his things when I come back?” Merry hastened. “No need for you to rush yourself.”

“Well in that case, I’ll trot them up the Hill this afternoon,” Goldie said. “No need for you to be making a second trip down, Mr. Merry.”

“I’m afraid the snow’s too deep on the Lane for you to come out today,” Merry said, reaching the gate as the door at Number Two began to open. “I’ll come down to fetch his things after elevenses. That should give you time to ready a pack for him.”

He stepped over where the gate rail should be and onto the lane as next door an older lass stepped outside. Merry gave a great sigh of relief and bowed farewell as Jasmine said, “You hollered Goldie?”

“Aye, I did. Sam ain’t coming looks like. Can you get your brothers out here with their spades?” Goldie asked. From inside the smial, the Gaffer shouted something indecipherable.

“Aye, I’ll rouse ‘em out,” Jasmine said. “That no good husband o’ mine can help ‘em too. Where’s Sam got to?”

Merry had never been so grateful for gossiping lasses before. He was back on the Lane and continuing down the Hill toward the Grange before any of the Twofoot lads were even called for. Indeed, he was so grateful that he was nearly at the healer’s house before he remembered that he didn’t particularly wish to see her either, not if she knew of his crush on her, and especially not if she thought his crush was cute. Yet as much as he wished it, there was no avoiding seeing her, and even as he began to dread every step that took him toward her house, he began to tremble at the thought of seeing the lovely healer again.

The healer’s house was at the bottom of the Hill, past the Grange and Old Farm, near the fork in the Lane just before the Mill Yard. Nestled in a small thicket of trees, with a clearing in the back for growing their herbs, the healer’s house was built in usual hobbit fashion, as close to a smial as it could be, covered with sod and with a round red door and many small round windows.

Merry reached the little house and jumped down from the Lane into the snow-cleared garden. He looked around as he hastily took off his mittens and wondered who had cleared the garden for Miss Willow. He did not think it likely that Farmer Bushmore had come over from Old Farm to shovel the healer out of her home. She must have done it herself. Merry nodded appreciatively at that and deftly untied the lacings of his bright yellow snow cap, pulling it off with a yank. He stuffed the cap inside his jacket pocket and ran his fingers through his hair a few times, then pulled the mittens on again. Straightening the scarf so it did not entirely cover his mouth, he stepped up to the door, drew a deep breath and pulled the bell.

A half-minute passed before his call was answered by a young lass four years Merry’s senior. She was dressed in a simple, deep green frock that complemented her dark brown eyes, her sandy curls hanging loose in the way he loved so it hugged and framed her round fair face. She smiled at him happily when she saw him standing there, her eyes twinkling with joy and what he dared to hope was interest.

He froze, caught in those expressive eyes. She truly was a sight to behold. How all the lads must have wept when she announced her desire to be a healer, for healers did not traditionally marry. Sometimes, Merry wondered if part of her appeal was due to the fact that she was so unattainable. He could indulge his fancies for Miss Willow while he waited for Estella Bolger to come to her senses and leave Gordibrand Burrows.

“Mr. Merry,” Miss Willow greeted, taking a half-step out of her door, her dazzling smile widening as he continued to stare at her dumbly. “What a pleasant surprise for an otherwise drab winter morning. What brings you all the way down the Hill?”

Merry could only ever nod when first confronted by that smile. As he had come to expect, he could feel his heart give a lurch as it began to race, and inside his mittens his hands were sweating. His face flushed noticeably, even more than it already was from the cold, and his mouth went dry. “Miss Willow,” he croaked out and gulped several times to moisten his throat while simultaneously pulling himself together. This was not a social call. “Miss Willow,” he tried again. “Sam took a spill in the garden last night just as the storm hit. We think he might have broken his ankle.”

Willow quickly dropped her teasing pretense. “Is it swollen? Bent in an unnatural angle? Are there any bones protruding through the skin or pressing against it?”

“Yes, no and no. We splinted it and we’ve been giving him tea with chamomile, rosemary and willow bark. We’re being very conservative with the willow bark, no worries. We’ve been icing it, or snowing it as the case may be, every hour or so for about twenty minutes at a time, and we have the ankle elevated and we’re keeping it covered with a blanket.”

Willow nodded. “What makes you think it’s broken?”

“Sam said he heard a popping sound when he fell and he can’t put any weight on it,” Merry answered.

“Is he responding to the tea and the snow?”

Merry shrugged. “It hasn’t got any worse. He’s mostly just in pain, and it’s swollen a fair bit but not that badly.”

“Very well. I’ll get my satchel and a few other things I might need, and my snow shoes,” she said with a glance down at Merry’s feet. While it was true that most hobbits in these parts did not have snow shoes, the healers each owned a pair; they could not allow the weather to keep them from getting to a patient.

She disappeared for a few minutes and when she returned, she wore a long cloak over her frock and was carrying her satchel, shoes and some sort of odd-looking wooden L-shaped box with clasps at the sides and a hole on the top and in the middle. She handed the satchel and box to Merry, closed the door, then slipped her feet into the brackets on the snow shoes, fastening the strap tight. She tested their hold before following Merry to the Lane. Merry handed the satchel and box back to her so he could climb up onto the snow bank, then turned and reached his hand down to help her up. She handed him the box again before taking his hand and once she was on the snow bank, she was content to let him carry the box while she kept the satchel.

“He’s at Bag End?” Willow asked.

“Yes, Miss Willow,” Merry said and commenced to tell her everything that had transpired since Sam’s accident yesterday night as they began the long trudge back up the Hill.  

Frodo stepped from the bathtub feeling much more refreshed. He stretched his muscles and sighed with deep relief. He was still sore and likely would be for the next couple of days, but he could move with relative ease now, no longer having to resort to shuffling about to get from place to place. He doused the fire in the hearth before releasing the bath water down the drain, then toweled himself dry.

He wondered how long he had been in the bath, feeling the wrinkled skin on his fingertips and cringing inwardly as he thought of the light doze he had fallen into shortly after submerging himself into the warm water. He hoped he had not left Sam on his own for too long. It was not customary to leave an ill or injured hobbit by himself and he felt guilty for having to leave Sam alone as often as he had. Sam must think him terribly negligent, even if this last instance was slightly Sam’s fault. Frodo berated himself further. He needed to learn to be strong in the face of Sam’s pouts, especially if the gardener was going to continue to resort to such trickery while he was in Frodo’s care.

Frodo hastily pulled a brush through his tangles and his foot hair and dressed quickly. He found Sam sitting comfortably against some pillows, reading the book of ballads again as he sipped on his tea. He looked up as Frodo entered the room and smiled guiltily. “Hullo Mr. Frodo,” he said meekly. “Feeling better sir?”

“I am,” Frodo admitted, glancing at the clock on the mantle. Forty minutes. “Merry hasn’t returned yet?”

Sam shook his head. “No sir. I reckon it must be a bother to walk about in those clunky shoes. Have you worn those contraptions?” he asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he thought of the shoes. He couldn’t deny that they came in handy today, but he didn’t think he’d ever want to put his foot in such a strange device.

“I have, once,” Frodo said. “It was after the Great Storm, you remember that?” Sam nodded, for he would never forget that storm. He had never seen so much rain fall in a single storm in his life, before or since. “Then you also remember that there was a nice-sized mudslide in the back garden and along the Row.”

“Aye, I remember that,” Sam said. “I also remember it took a good week to clear all that mud out and put it back where it belonged, and even longer to fix up all the gardens and get everything back to straights.”

“But you managed it,” Frodo said proudly. It had also been Sam’s first year as official gardener of Bag End and the disaster had tested him in every way imaginable. Sam had come through it all excellently and with only a few mild bouts of worry.

“Just barely,” Sam said. “There were times there I thought I’d never get it all done. I thought for a time afterward that I was being tested, like one of them heroes in those stories of Mr. Bilbo’s. It was silly, I know, to think I’d ever compare to any of those great folk, but it kept me going when I thought I’d rather just give up.”

“That doesn’t sound silly to me,” Frodo said, then smirked when he noticed Sam squirm uncomfortably. “What does sound silly to me is a grown hobbit refusing to use the chamber pot.”

“It’s embarrassing, sir,” Sam said.

“It’ll be even more so once Miss Willow gets here,” Frodo pointed out.

Frodo was helping Sam back into bed when the front door opened. He saw Sam settled and reached the entrance hall just in time to see Willow slip as she struggled to step down from the snow bank into the smial. She gave a little yelp and Merry caught her just in time, looking perhaps a little too pleased to have his arms wrapped snug around her waist as she regained her footing. Frodo watched in amusement as Merry let her go and quickly placed a studious, concerned expression on his face while the healer straightened her coat and frock and quickly tied her hair back into a bun.

“Sorry about that,” Merry said. “There wasn’t time to shovel the walk path. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m quite fine. Thank you Mr. Merry,” Willow replied with as much dignity as she could muster. She slipped off her coat and Merry took it, hanging it on the peg next to his own. They removed their shoes with haste, grateful to be done with the bothersome things, for now at least.

“I take it the journey went smoothly then,” Frodo said happily, making them both jump. They hadn’t seen him there. Merry narrowed his eyes briefly at Frodo to keep his cousin from laughing entirely.

“Good day Mr. Frodo. Where is Sam?” Willow asked, retrieving her satchel from the floor where it had fallen. Merry too picked up the box and Frodo cocked an eyebrow at the contraption. Merry could only shrug for an answer.

“Just down the tunnel, in one of the guest rooms,” Frodo said and led the healer there.

They reached the room and at the healer’s silent request, Merry leaned the box on the wall outside the bedroom. He then opted to linger in the doorway as Frodo returned to Sam’s side and Willow entered behind him.

Willow quickly assessed the room in a single glance. The fire was lit but not blazing and the room was comfortable and warm without being stifling. Candles and oil lamps were also lit, providing plenty of light in the windowless room. Sam himself was perched against sturdy pillows, his foot propped up on another pillow, covered with a blanket as Merry had said. A cold, half-empty cup of tea sat on the bedside table next to a large book.

“Hullo Sam,” she warmly greeted her patient.

“Hullo Miss Willow,” Sam greeted back.

Willow set her satchel next to the teacup. “Is this the medicinal tea?”

“Yes,” Frodo said, “as best as we could figure to make it.”

Willow tasted a sip of the tea. Merry had spoken true when he said they were being careful with the willow bark. She could hardly taste it over the chamomile, rosemary and honey. “Has this been helping you?” she asked, putting the cup down and grabbing up a candle to check how his eyes responded to light while he answered.

“It’s been a right help,” Sam said. “It ain’t making nothing worse anyhow. Mr. Merry made it somewhat stronger last night for the pain so’s I could sleep.”

“And how is the pain?” Willow asked, putting down the candle and checking the glands in his throat next. Merry had told her on the way up the Hill that Sam had been in the cold for well over a half-hour and she worried that he might develop a cold. She was glad to feel that the glands were normal, not swollen or sensitive to the touch.

“It’s better than it was. It’s more a dull persistent throb now, so long as I keep it up like this,” Sam answered. “If I have to get up to use the chamber pot, it gets worse, like something’s fixing to burst clear out of it.”

“Hm-mm,” she hummed noncommittally, checking his pulse in his wrist. She pulled a long wooden tube from her satchel, put the small end in her ear and the other wider end on Sam’s chest, listening to his breath. “How’s your breathing?” she asked.

“Well, I had the wind knocked out of me when I fell,” Sam admitted, avoiding Frodo’s eyes, which were no doubt accusing. Sam had not mentioned it the previous night, thinking it better to stay silent on the matter in light of all that happened. If Frodo knew that part of the reason it had taken Sam so long to reach the back door was because he’d had to stop every few feet to catch his breath, well, he didn’t want to think what his master would have to say on the matter. He rushed on now, more to reassure Frodo than the healer. “But I’m fine now. No troubles at all.”

Willow was not convinced. Sam’s chest was still slightly compressed, which the gardener would have noticed had he been up and walking about. “Take a slow deep breath, taking in as much air as you can. Then hold the breath to a count of five and let it out slowly,” she instructed and watched Sam’s chest rise as he complied. He winced at the slight pain and stretch he had not expected to feel. “Very good. Do that five times every hour for the next day or so, until you feel no more restriction.”

Sam nodded. “Yes Miss Willow.”

“Now, how long after you prop your foot up again does the increased pain fade?” Willow asked, returning to her previous line of questions.

“Well, I just now got into bed and it’s about back to normal already,” Sam answered.

Satisfied with his vitals, Willow folded the blanket back from the feet and inspected the ankle in the splint. She spared Frodo and Merry a dubious look when she saw what they had used, then smiled at the ingenuity of it. She untied the sting and gently removed the peg boards, then propped up the left foot to inspect both feet from every angle.

The injured right ankle was about twice the size of the left, and when she crouched down and looked up at them from below, she could see what Frodo and Merry had missed. The right ankle was twisted ever so slightly upward. The skin showed the slightest hint of a contusion, but she knew that it was only the quick application of snow that prevented the bruise from forming completely. She supposed that if one had to be injured at all, it might as well be in the snow, though preferably without the blizzard.

She glanced quickly at Frodo and he instinctively moved closer to Sam’s side. She smiled with approval then bent over to probe the ankle, feeling the muscles and ligaments, searching for signs of fracture or break in the bones. Sam jumped and yelped at her initial prod, then gritted his teeth, breathing deeply and quickly as she continued, unaware that he was now squeezing the blood out of Frodo’s hand. From the doorway, Merry looked on with concern.

“Can you move it?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sam said. “I tried a little last night but it hurt something fierce. I haven’t wanted to try again.”

“Move it side to side, as much as you can without it hurting,” Willow instructed and watched closely as he tried to comply. The foot hardly moved at all, but the miniscule motion was enough to be detected by the healer’s keen eye. “How about up and down?” Willow asked next and she was not surprised when nothing happened. “That’s good Sam,” she said and Sam sighed with relief. Beside him, Frodo pulled a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from Sam’s brow. Only then did Sam notice his death grip on Frodo’s other hand and let go.

“Mr. Merry said you heard a popping sound when you fell,” Willow went on. “What sort of pop was it? Did it sound like when you break a twig in two, or like when you pull a cork from a bottle?”

Sam thought for a moment before answering. “Like a cork, I guess,” he said, gritting his teeth against renewed waves of pain where the healer had just finished probing. Each wave felt like a series of needles being pushed up his leg, some even shooting clear up to his lower back. He was grateful when the pains steadily, if slowly, subsided.

At last, Willow nodded and stepped back. “Well, I have good news and bad news,” she said. “The good news is it’s not broken. The bad news is you’ve sprained your ankle.”

“But that’s good news,” Merry said, interrupting from the doorway. “He’ll be up and walking within a week.”

“I’m afraid not,” Willow said. “The majority of sprains do heal on their own in a day or two, but there are different types of sprains. Different degrees. Most sprains are what we call a first degree sprain. The ankle twists, stretching the ligament, and it hurts a bit, but you can walk on it and move it and eventually, so long as you don’t twist it again, the ligament heals on its own and the pain goes away. With a second degree sprain, there’s more pain and usually it hurts to put weight on it. The ankle swells up and there’s some bruising, and the joint is resistant to move. That takes longer to heal, about a week of bed rest and a splint, then some rehabilitation afterwards.

“Then there are your third degree sprains. The joint swells even more and there’s deep bruising. Because of the snow, it prevented that from happening completely. The ankle is often usually twisted in an unnatural angle; yours is twisted upward slightly. The foot is unable to bear any weight at all and even the slightest pressure can make it feel ready to burst, as you say. The ligament doesn’t just tear, it ruptures, making the popping sound that you heard, and in some cases it even detaches from the bone. The joint becomes completely immobilized.”

“Ruptures?” Sam whispered weakly. He was squeezing Frodo’s hand again and Frodo could feel him trembling.

Willow nodded sympathetically and while her tone softened, her words were no less terse. “I’m going to have to put you in a cast, Sam. It will have to stay on for at least three weeks to give the ligament a chance to repair itself. After three weeks, I’ll look at it again, but I want this to be very clear – it’s unlikely that you’ll be using this foot again any time soon. This is a very serious injury, and you must be very careful not to injure it further or put any kind of stress on it at all. I know you will get impatient, especially as it starts to feel better, but this sort of sprain is troublesome at best. The ligaments will remain highly sensitized for a long time, easily prone to further injury. If you try to do too much too soon and injure it again, it might never heal.”

“I’ll be crippled?” Sam said, the color draining from his face as his heart dropped and his stomach twisted in knots, tears instantly welling in his eyes. “I can’t be crippled. I’m only thirty-three. What will I do? What about the garden?”

Frodo quickly sat on the bed next to Sam and put an arm around his shoulders, patting his back soothingly. “Hush, lad. Don’t panic. She said if it’s injured again. We’ll do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He turned to the healer. “What do we have to do?”

Willow glanced briefly at Frodo to acknowledge his question but directed her answer to Sam. “The cast will take a day or two to dry and set, so you will have to remain in bed during that time as much as possible. However, you still need to change position every couple of hours, so that you do not develop bed sores from contact pressure. The foot should remain elevated at all times. I’ll make you some medicinal tea that will alleviate the swelling and ease the pain.”

Sam nodded, trying his best to appear calm and concentrate on the healer’s words, while inside his world was in turmoil. The words ‘ruptures’ and ‘crippled’ kept repeating in his mind every few seconds, an echo that refused to fade. “After the cast sets, will I still have to stay abed?” he asked, still clinging to his master’s hand as hard as he dared and Frodo could feel how icy cold his grip had become. Every few seconds, the gardener’s body shook with shock and fright.

“Yes,” Willow said unflinchingly. “You are not to get up for another week at least. Only then will I even consider giving you a pair of crutches.”

“And after the cast comes off?” Frodo asked.

“I will look at your foot again when I remove the cast,” Willow said to Sam. “If I see enough improvement, I won’t have to put another one back on, or I might put you in a splint for another week. Once the cast is off, we’ll start to do some rehabilitation exercises and build your strength back up. The best case, it’ll be at least two months before it’s healed enough that you can start to walk on it again, but you will certainly not be able to do any kind of heavy labor until you are completely healed, and that could very well be another two to four months afterward.”

“Two months?!” Sam cried, his panic rising anew. “And then another two to four months! But spring’s just two weeks away and this snow ain’t going to stick around forever. I can’t be off my feet until clear into summer or autumn. Who’s going to take care of the garden? Gaffer can’t do it no more.”

“Well,” Frodo said, attempting to sound casual and failing miserably. He felt just as shaken as Sam did at the healer’s cautionary words. “We’ll just have to hire another gardener in the meantime.”

Frodo might as well have handed Sam a dismissal letter by the look of dismay and betrayal Sam gave him. “Another gardener?” Sam said, his voice breaking as the tears slipped down his face.

“Oh Sam, don’t cry please,” Frodo said, at a loss of what to do. He had never seen Sam this worked up before. He petted Sam’s head, soothing the curls back from his face. “It’s just until you’re healed. I would never dream of replacing you permanently. You know the garden better than anyone. You can supervise the interim gardener.”

“But what if I’m crippled?” Sam sobbed into Frodo’s quickly-offered embrace.

Willow gathered her satchel and slipped past Merry into the tunnel. Merry looked quite shaken himself and it was a few moments before he realized the healer was standing next to him. “I’m going to brew a mild sedative and prepare the medicinal tea. We passed the kitchen on the way in but I’ll need help finding things.”

“Of course,” Merry said and followed the healer to the kitchen. Once there was safe distance between them and the bedroom, he addressed the healer curtly. “You could have scared him more I think. You could have told him his foot would fall off.” He was not altogether happy with her handling of the situation.

“Well, I certainly hope I shall not have to remove the foot,” Willow said somberly, making any further words of discontent freeze on Merry’s tongue. She had not missed Merry’s point though and she looked at him sternly as they entered the kitchen. “I understand if you don’t agree with my methods Mr. Merry, but if you were in Sam’s place, would it have mattered how I said it? Would it have been any less frightful to hear, remembering that he can hardly afford to be crippled? It may have sounded terse, but what I said and how I said it was in Sam’s best interest. I know the Gamgee fellows. They’re all stubborn to a fault. Sam would have been hobbling around this smial as soon as he thought he could get away with it, and Frodo, for all his kindness and fondness, would be too sorely tempted to permit it. If he’s had a shock, then all the better for both him and Frodo in the long run. A little bit of fear now is better than a lifetime of regret. Do you agree with that?”

“Yes,” Merry admitted grudgingly. He regarded her thoughtfully, fear apparent in his eyes as well. “There wouldn’t really be a reason for you to… remove the foot?”

Willow shook her head. “There’s no sign of infection or frostbite,” she said. “As long as there are no complications, then no, it won’t come to that.” She placed a comforting hand on Merry’s shoulder and felt the tension held there. “Can you help me or do you need to lie down?”

“I can help,” Merry said, squaring his shoulders. In truth, he rather felt like collapsing himself, but someone needed to help Willow, and Frodo was not about to leave Sam’s side now.

“Your friend will be fine, Mr. Merry,” Willow promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Merry nodded, believing her completely, and some of the tension drained from his muscles. She would not fail Sam and neither would he. “Tell me what I need to do,” he said and they set to work.

To be continued…

Chapter 6

Sam did not notice when the others left. He knew only the endless sobs that wracked through his being down to his very core as he felt his life crumbling to pieces before him. He couldn’t be crippled. He couldn’t be anything other than what he was, a gardener, Mr. Frodo’s gardener. Where would he work if not Bag End? Who would be his master if not Frodo? How could a single moment’s misstep throw such a bramble into his path? The morning had begun so well, so promising. Now he wanted nothing more than for the day to end.

He clung tight to Frodo, who held him back just as fiercely, rocking him back and forth and making soft shushing sounds that aimed to soothe and fell yards from the mark. Even now, when his prospects looked as dim as they ever had, some small part of his brain told him he should not be bothering his master with this, should not be sobbing all over Mr. Frodo’s fine silk shirt. Then he thought of how sweet his master was to try to calm him and that only made him think anew of the possibility that he might no longer be able to serve him, and his sobs only redoubled instead of abating.

He felt the soft caress of Frodo’s fine satin handkerchief on his cheeks, wiping up streaming rivulets of tears. “There, there, Sam,” Frodo murmured, low and soothing for all the good it did. “Shhhh. It’s not so bad. You’re not crippled yet and you’re not going to be. We won’t let it come to that. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. It’s not so bad as all that.”

Sam attempted to nod, to acknowledge his master’s words and let him know he was understood, but he could do nothing more than imagine a now bleak and desolate future looming out ahead of him. One without gardens. Without Bag End. Without Frodo. What would he do? Go work for his Uncle Andwise in Tighfield making rope, most like. He simply could not imagine himself sitting for countless hours twining rope every day for the rest of his life. What would happen to Gaffer and Goldie if it came to that? There were too many complications and every question only brought about more speculations, none of them cheerful.

Frodo brushed the curls from his eyes and kissed his brow before enfolding him again. Sam closed his eyes and let himself be held, hearing his master’s pattering heart under his ear. Poor Master, he was that worried, and if his heart was racing that fast, then his mind was working doubly so. He didn’t know what to do and Sam wasn’t helping.

After a time, he felt Frodo take several deep breaths, and his master’s heart slowed. As Frodo calmed, Sam felt himself begin to gain control but he was still far from composure. Then Frodo’s rocking became more rhythmic, its slow steadiness almost sedating, and gentle fingers combed through his curls in placating comfort. Gradually, he realized that Frodo was humming under his breath, every now and then a word or two forming fair on his lips. He had only heard his master sing a few times before. He was surprised to find that he had all but forgotten how lovely was Frodo’s voice, like a cool summer’s breeze, refreshing and carrying the memory of the warm, lazy day.

Sam felt himself calm, being lulled by the rocking and humming, his sobs reducing to shaky and hitching breaths. Eventually Frodo really did sing, a familiar lullaby that Daisy and May had sung to him many times when he was younger. Once Fred had even obliged him, singing it to him after he had been woken by nightmares, though it made his brother feel silly to do so and Sam had been sworn to secrecy. He wondered if Fred would now sing it to his little lass or if he would leave that up to Astrid.

Goodbye Sun, you’ll see Her soon
On the other side of midnight
But for now, you’ll greet the Moon
And drift asleep under starlight

May your dreams reflect your days
And bring you only ever delight
May you sleep beneath the rays
Of the soft and gentle moonlight

Go to sleep, close your eyes
I’ll let nothing ever hurt you
Drift away beneath the skies
In your dreams I’ll protect you

Have no fear, I’ll be right here
Watching over you always
Never far, forever near
For now and all of your days

Rest my child, sleep my love
Till the stars go to their rest
You’ll rise in morn with Sun above
As Moon goes down in the West

You are joy and you are mine
For me a beautiful sight
When you laugh, your eyes shine
I love you with all my might.

Frodo finished and Sam found himself calmed considerably, if still distraught. There was a hitch in his master’s voice, and Sam knew it must have been a struggle for him to recite that nursery rhyme, for surely his mother had sung it to him often. Sam did his best to gather his wits, so Frodo’s efforts would not be in vain. He reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes and cheeks and struggled to steady his breathing and stop the hiccups that had developed. Then he sat back and favored Frodo with a shaky smile.

“That was lovely,” he said, sniffling. “I don’t remember that last part.”

“My mother added it,” Frodo said and Sam saw tears standing in his eyes also, though they did not spill. “She used to sing it to me every night, until…”

“Until she lost the baby,” Sam filled in what his master could not say.

Frodo nodded. “After that, she only sang when she was happy, which wasn’t often, or I would sing it to her. That always seemed to cheer her up a little, but it never lasted very long.”

“I’m sure she appreciated it, Mr. Frodo, even if she couldn’t say,” Sam assured.

“I know,” Frodo said and smiled bravely now himself. “I always liked the part about her protecting me in my dreams. After my parents drowned, I dreamt of them often. I still do from time to time, though not as much as before. I think the last time I dreamt about them was right before Bilbo left. Do you ever dream about your mother?”

“Not really. I used to all the time just after she died, like you,” Sam said. “She would tell me things, like where to find things that were missing, or to ask me if I could try to get Ham to laugh every once in a while, or to make sure that Gaffer knew she still loved him and thought about him always. Last time I dreamt about her was the night of the fire. She asked me not to be too mad at Gaffer for whooping me, even after I told him it wasn’t me as started it. When I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, I went outside for a bit of air and found him kneeling in his taters, crying like I never heard him do afore. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? I keep expecting to see her now, but she ain’t come yet. I guess she probably won’t.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t looking out for you,” Frodo soothed.

Sam nodded numbly. “I know. I guess I just miss her still.”

“I miss my parents too,” Frodo said.

“What sorts of things would you dream about them, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked.

“They weren’t always pleasant. Most of the times, they were horrible. But when they weren’t…” Frodo trailed off, thinking back over the years to dreams he only remembered fleetingly, like vague wisps of familiar scents carried away by a spring breeze before they could be recognized. “I dreamt of memories mostly, but sharper, clearer. I remembered things, little details that I had forgotten, like how I acquired my pocket watch, the one I gave to Merry on my coming of age. Uncle Rory did give it to me, but I stole it from him first. When he found out I was the one who took it, he was very upset but then he sat down and told me how my father had carved the buck on the casing and engraved it on the inside with Rory’s initials. It had been my father’s Yule present to him the year he married my mother. So Rory gave it to me, saying I should have something of his.

“In another dream, I remembered the first birthday present I gave my mother: primrose and gladioli, wrapped with blue lace. She was sitting in her rocking chair, crocheting a blanket, and she was wearing her periwinkle housedress. Father and I were in the kitchen and Father was trying to keep me from laughing in my excitement. I’m sure Mother heard us but she pretended to be surprised when Father led me into the parlor and over to her. I was supposed to be hiding the flowers behind my back, but I was doing a terrible job of it, but neither of them said anything about it. I handed her the flowers and she took them and picked me up and spun me about the room a couple of times. Then she let me choose the vase to put them in and watched me add the water. They only lasted a few days and I was very distraught about it, so Father told me to sing them to sleep that night and the next morning they were alive and looking beautiful again. It wasn’t until years later that I realized he must have gone out and found more flowers to replace the old ones.”

“That was right kind of him,” Sam said. “I don’t reckon as my Gaffer would have done somewhat like that. He would’ve had me find the seeds and plant them for next year’s blooms.”

“Your father is the practical sort,” Frodo intoned. “Mine was always rather a romantic. He always said that the only reason Mother married him was because she was the sun and moon to him and what lass in her right mind would say no to that.”

There was nothing to say after that. Frodo continued to rock Sam back and forth, and Sam closed his eyes, feeling spent and tired. They remained that way for what felt like an hour, but was really only a few minutes. Then Frodo squeezed his shoulder tenderly and said, “Are you calm now?”

“I think so.”

“Then maybe we should talk about who to hire to fill in for you?” Frodo queried cautiously. He did not wish to upset Sam again, but he knew the sooner they had the matter settled, the sooner Sam could get used to the idea.

“Well, there’s any number of good lads,” Sam said, pushing down the momentary panic to focus on the practicalities.

He started to lean back into the pillows so he could spare his master while he thought of who to choose, but as Frodo stood to help him settle back into his cushions, a flash of white cloth caught his attention. He paused and looked down at his ankle with confusion. Frodo followed his gaze and noticed that his ankle was now draped in gauze, wet with a thick poultice. The poultice was making Sam’s ankle burn, though not unpleasantly, and he wondered that he didn’t notice it before. Frodo too was baffled by its appearance; he had not seen the healer come in to place it there.

They stared at it for a moment, then Sam voiced the question they were both thinking. “When did that get there?”  

Merry pulled out pots and pans, spoons, measuring cups and mugs. He next banked the fires in the hearth and the oven as the healer pulled out several pouches from her satchel, removing the contents of a couple of pouches to sprinkle into her mortar. She crushed them quickly with the pestle, releasing their fragrant fumes into the warm kitchen air. In the glow of the firelight she looked absolutely radiant, the orange of the fire dancing across the soft brown skin of her face and in the red and golden highlights of her hair.

Merry found himself staring and shook himself into the action. He shut the oven door closed, a bit more forcefully than was necessary, and turned away from the heat. “What next?” he asked.

Willow tilted her chin toward the oven. “Make sure that it is very hot. Get the fire going as high and strong as you can. We’ll need it later. Right now, steep some of these herbs to make a sleeping draught for Frodo and Sam while I prepare the medicinal tea and a poultice.”

Merry added a few more logs to the oven fire, then poured some steaming water into a small earthenware jug. He added the herbs and closed the lid tight over the jug’s mouth. He then watched as the healer took a couple of small vials of oil from her satchel and a few more pouches of herbs. “How do you know which is which?” he asked, indicating the pouches, for there were no labels that he could see and only a handful of them were dyed.

“The pouches are different colors, or the drawstrings are knotted differently,” Willow said, pointing at the knots. “See this one here, with two knots close together and one knot far apart? This has crushed rose hips. And in this one is dandelion; see the knots, three far apart.”

“What do the oils do?” Merry asked, curious now. He sat cattycorner to her, leaning over with his arms folded on the tabletop, the better to watch.

He had never known a healer to explain things to him before. He had always been rather intimidated by them, truth be told. As a child, they had held a sort of mysticism about them, these stern and compassionate ladies with their studious and steadfast apprentices. That they could heal hurts and illnesses was the closest thing to magic he ever experienced in his life, outside of Bilbo’s disappearing acts that is. As he grew older, their enigma took on a different quality as he realized the full implication of the personal sacrifices they made for their craft, never marrying, never even courting. They stood apart from the rest of the hobbits, they were nearly otherworldly. Even his little cousin Mentha, who had recently expressed an interest in learning the healing arts, was suddenly removed from trivial and ordinary pursuits. There was something untouchable about them and Merry couldn’t quite put his finger on it. That wasn’t even considering the many rumors that healers really did have other powers, that their herbs could do more than heal but could enchant or enthrall. Pippin was absolutely convinced that the healer in Waymeet was a witch, and after having met her, Merry had to admit that he agreed. And now here was Willow, answering his questions and explaining things to him. It was enough to put his head in a whirl, if it wasn’t in one already.

Willow held up one of the small vials and Merry studied the oil, the transparent pink fluid turning bright red-orange in the firelight. “Oils are similar to juices,” Willow explained. “When you bite into a fruit, you eat its juices as well as its meat. When you press a fruit, you remove those juices, and without the meat, the juice becomes stronger. Have you ever noticed that?” Merry nodded. “That is because the juice is now thicker than it is in the fruit alone, more concentrated. Plants and flowers have juices of their own. You can dry a plant and use that, or you can press its leaf, petal or stem and extract its oil. The oil is stronger. One small drop holds more nutrients than a handful of dried leaves or petals, but they both have their uses.”

“And what oils are these?” Merry asked.

“Chamomile and rosemary. The herbs are good for pain when ingested, as you know, but the oils, applied topically, will reduce swelling, and dried flaxseed, fenugreek and slippery elm bark will reduce inflammation. I’ll make a paste with the herbs by crushing them and adding water. Then I’ll mix in a couple of drops of the oils. Once the poultice is ready, I’ll spread it onto this gauze and wrap it around Sam’s ankle. A poultice really is the best way to draw the toxins out of the wound but I won’t be able to use one once I make the cast. I’ll use the poultice until the cast is ready to be poured. Once the cast is on, there are teas and juices that Sam can drink to further the healing process started by the poultice, and the juices will also help to make sure that he does not become ill from his little adventure outside.”

Willow made quick work of making the poultice and she disappeared down the tunnel for a short time. When she came back, she put the oils and herbs for the poultice away and selected a few more pouches. “This is the willow bark, and these are feverfew and ginger root. When the water for the tea begins to boil, we will remove it from the heat and add the herbs to let them steep for five minutes,” Willow explained.

“You don’t boil it?” Merry asked.

“You can, if you need the tea to be less potent,” Willow explained. “Much of the potency is lost in the steam when you boil it.”

“How do you know what plants are good for what?” Merry asked.

“How do you know which bird song belongs to what bird?” Willow said. “You learn. You pay attention to what your mistress is telling you. You study tirelessly, and no matter how much you learn, there is always something more to discover.”

“But how do you know?” Merry asked again. “Who figured out that chamomile and rosemary are good to reduce swelling, as opposed to something else?”

“I don’t know who,” Willow said. “That knowledge is long lost to us, who the first healers were.”

“Do all plants heal?” Merry asked.

“No,” Willow said, “not all plants, but a good deal of them do.” She noticed then the herbals that Frodo had used the night before and she flipped through them curiously for a few moments before nodding with approval, a small chuckle on her lips. “Why, Mr. Merry, here you have a perfectly good learning tool. Why don’t you read it, if you are so interested?”

“I’d rather listen to you,” he replied and blushed when he realized what he said.

Willow smiled at him sweetly, causing him to blush further. “Maybe later,” she said. “Now, you said you had made snow packs?”

After pouring the herbs into the kettle and removing it from the hearth fire to let it steep on the counter next to the sedative, Merry showed her the bucket of snow and the water skins and explained how they made the snow packs. She had to smile again at their inventiveness.

“I know folk say as you’re a strange one, being as you’re from Buckland and all,” Willow said. “I’ve certainly seen and heard a fair bit of oddness from you myself, but you are smart.”

“Er, thank you,” Merry said, uncertain if that was a compliment or not.

He was rescued from having to say more when Willow checked the sedative and determined it was ready. She poured the tea equally into two mugs and Merry stepped forward to take one from her. When they returned to the bedroom, they found a much subdued Sam, red- and puffy-eyed but no longer crying, talking quietly with Frodo, who still sat at his side, an arm draped over Sam’s shoulders, his other hand once again in Sam’s grasp. Frodo was reluctant to leave Sam’s side until he knew Sam would be able to contain himself, and Sam wasn’t too eager for Frodo to be going either.

“Basil’s a good lad,” Sam was saying. “He helps his ma with the nursery mostly but he gardens from time to time to make ends meet. Then there’s Mule Goodchild. He’s my third cousin once removed on my mother’s side. He’s married to Jasmine, Daddy Twofoot’s lass. He’s not exactly a green thumb, but he knows his way around a garden right enough. Robin’s brothers are always good for an odd job or two. I know Furzy’s been asking for work and he’s helped me with projects afore, when the Cottons couldn’t spare the time from the farm. He’d be the best one, I’m thinking.”

“We’ll see if Marigold can get word to him once the snow melts a bit,” Frodo said. “The important thing is for you to rest and heal. You’re not going to be crippled and four to six months isn’t so terribly long. You’ll be back in the garden before you know it.”

“Yes you will,” Willow said, making her and Merry’s presence known. “The healthier the hobbit, the faster they heal, and you Sam are one of the healthiest hobbits I know. You’re also one of the most stubborn. If my words of caution scared you, then I can trust you will follow my instructions to perfection and not do anything so foolish as to attempt to get out of bed and work or hobble about before I say you can. I don’t even want you to so much as flex a toe, understand?”

Sam felt chagrined, remembering his earlier attempt to attain a pair of crutches. That seemed days ago now rather than just an hour or more. He was grateful now that Frodo hadn’t given into him. Imagine what Miss Willow would have said about that! “Yes Miss Willow,” he mumbled and accepted the mug she handed him.

Willow reached for the mug Merry held and handed it to Frodo, who finally had to peel his hand away from Sam’s to take it.

“As soon as you are asleep, I will cast your foot, so expect for it to feel quite strange when you wake up. I unfortunately will have to shave your foot hair. When it comes time to take the cast off, you will be grateful for it,” Willow said to Sam. She turned now to Frodo and addressed him directly. “Above all else, we need to keep him healthy. The teas and juices I’ll be leaving will help, but there are other things that might improve healing. He needs to cut back on sugars and salts. They will only increase the swelling and make the injury worse. He can eat poultry or fish, nuts, leafy vegetables and the sort. Since he’ll be in bed for a time, I suggest you find something that can keep him occupied.”

“You can help Frodo with his accounts and transcriptions,” Merry suggested.

“Good idea,” Frodo said dryly. “Bore him to sleep.”

“Sleeping is good,” Willow said, smiling at the jest along with the others. “When you sleep, you heal.”

“I wouldn’t mind helping you sir,” Sam said to Frodo. At least then he would feel he was doing something useful and it would give him something to focus on other than the worst. “If you don’t mind my choppy writing, that is.”

“Your writing isn’t choppy,” Frodo said. “I do have a few scrolls I’ve been meaning to work on and we never did get very far into your Elvish lessons.”

“Truly? I can help with that?” Sam said, his face brightening considerably. For the first time since the healer’s news, he looked hopeful again.

“You will be a great help,” Frodo said.

“Now that that’s settled, drink your tea, both of you,” Willow ordered. “Then I suggest you get to your own bed, Mr. Frodo. You’ll be feeling drowsy soon.”

“Me?” Frodo asked in alarm.

“Yes, you. You need rest as much as Sam does. I’ll be gone by the time you awaken, so I’ll leave all further instructions with Mr. Merry. I’ll return in the morning to check on Sam’s progress; however, should anything develop in the meantime, don’t hesitate to come and fetch me. Now drink,” Willow said and she watched her two patients until both cups were drained. She saw Frodo to his room while Merry went to pour a mug of the medicinal tea to give to Sam before he could drift off.

When Willow came back to the room, she took over Frodo’s previous place, sitting next to Sam and propping him up so he could drink the medicinal tea. With each sip, his eyes grew heavier and his motions groggier. Merry began to wonder if they shouldn’t have given him the medicinal tea before the sedative, but Sam was able to finish it before falling asleep completely.

Willow lay him back into the pillows and tucked the blankets around him, then walked past Merry back to the kitchen, pausing to pick up the oddly-shaped box from the tunnel floor. Only then did Merry realize what it’s odd, angular shape was meant for: to hold a foot. She placed the box on the kitchen table and Merry inspected it while she checked the fire in the oven. He undid the clasps and opened the box, the top half of which ended in the L-shape where the foot was to go and had a hole in the middle of the leg portion. The bottom half was a simple rectangular box and both halves were fitted along the walls with wooden contours shaped in the outline of a large leg.

“You put Sam’s leg in here, close it shut and then pour the plaster into this hole?” Merry guessed.

“Not quite,” Willow said but did not explain further just then. She added one more log to the oven fire and stood back to eye the flames critically. Satisfied, she had Merry dig through the lower cupboards to find a large stew pot and bring it to the table.

She pulled from her satchel a smaller bag. Inside that were various oddly-formed shapes of an opaque pinkish color. She handed one to Merry for his scrutiny and he turned the clunky object over and over in his hand, studying it from every possible angle. It looked to him like many long, angular, unevenly shaped shafts, clustered together to stick out at odd angles. He figured it must be a mineral of some sort, but the shafts did not feel like sandstone or rock and were more like unpolished glass or even a gemstone before the jeweler’s skilled cut. Indeed, now that he thought of it, he had seen a geode once, before the gems could be cut out of the rock. While what he held now did not exactly resemble that, it was the best comparison he could make.

“That is gypsum,” Willow explained before he could ask. She had several more such objects now lined up on the table and she was beginning to break them into large chunks. “When the gypsum heats, it becomes a powder and we can then mix it with a little water to make a paste. We will pour some of the paste into the bottom half of the box, then put Sam’s foot in it and encase it with the top half of the box, then pour in the rest. The box will have to remain over the foot until the plaster dries. That’s why it has these brackets on either side, so it can be locked in place so it won’t slip or slide off.”

“Will he still be able to get up to use the chamber pot at least?” Merry asked.

“Yes, but the box and the weight of the plaster will make it a very clumsy affair, so be careful and take your time,” Willow said.

When all the gypsum was broken into smaller portions, Willow lifted the stew pot and set it on the stove over the open burner. The fire in the oven was so hot that flames were flickering out of the burner and Merry was afraid that something might catch fire. Before he could voice his concern, Willow easily moved anything that might pose a threat to the far end of the counter.

“How long does it take to heat?” Merry asked.

“About an hour, give or take,” Willow answered as she observed the fire. “As it heats, it will release steam. Don’t be alarmed if it begins to hiss or sizzle. It’s just doing what it’s supposed to do.”

Merry nodded, fascinated by it all. Only one thing sent up an alarm in his brain. One hour to heat. “And how long will Frodo and Sam be asleep?”

“A couple of hours,” Willow replied. “I want Sam asleep while we put the cast on. The molding itself won’t hurt him, but I need to realign the ankle before I cast it and that will hurt. You’ll have to hold him down while I align it. Thankfully, it’s not twisted out of position too much and it shouldn’t take long to get him straightened out again.”

Merry only nodded, his discomfiture returning now that they had nothing to do but wait. An hour or two alone with Miss Willow. He found the prospect nerve-wracking. What would they do with the time? He couldn’t see her being talked into a game of draughts or throw dice. So that left talking. What do they talk about? Perhaps this would be a good time to get to know Miss Willow a little more.

Before he could think of anything to ask her though, she turned from the oven and said, “Do you have quill and parchment?”

Merry nodded again.

“Good. I’ll leave you with some herbs for making another pot of the medicinal tea as you need it. I’m also going to give you a juice for him that will aid the tea and keep him healthy. You’ll need to write down all the instructions,” Willow said.

Merry scampered off to the study to retrieve the requested items and came back to the kitchen, again sitting cattycorner from Willow as she held up the pouches, telling him which one contained what and how much and when to use them. She waited patiently while Merry jotted down every word and made notes for himself on the pouch color and pattern of knots on the drawstring so he would know which herb he was using.

“Continue to use the rosemary and chamomile as you have been. Only use the willow bark when the pain is particularly bad or when he needs to sleep,” Willow said. “Two spoons in a pot should be your starting point, you can add more if it’s not enough but don’t use more than four spoons. Add a teaspoon of feverfew and ginger when you don’t use the willow bark. That should be for during the day. He should have a mug every two to three hours as needed.

“The cast will prevent any further ice or poultice treatments. The teas will help to make up for that, but they really are meant to be use along with the ice and poultice. So, since we can’t use those, he’ll have to drink this juice.” She pulled a small jar with a stopper from her satchel and set it on the table. Merry snapped open the top and sniffed at the juice, scrunching up his face at the smell. Willow nodded knowingly. “It will be quite vile to drink, I’m afraid, but it is absolutely necessary that he have one quarter-cup three times a day for the first three days. After that, reduce it to two times a day.”

“What’s in it?” Merry asked, putting the top back on and sliding it away from himself.

“Juice,” Willow answered with a smirk then winked at Merry’s exasperated expression. “Raw vegetables, mostly beets, garlic and radishes.”

“Can’t we add something to it so it’s not quite as vile, like peppermint,” Merry suggested.

Willow laughed. “You would have to add a lot of mint to cover up that taste, not to mention the fact that you’d have to first heat it up to steep the mint in it. I doubt Frodo would appreciate his smial smelling like garlic and beets.”

“Maybe we’ll just give him some mint to chew on afterwards then,” Merry mused. He reread his list of instructions. “So, there’s tea and juice, and we need to make sure he changes position every now and then. You said something about no salts and sugars before. What else was there? He should eat fish and poultry… and nuts and leafy vegetables. Anything else? Oh, yes, breathing exercises.”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Merry,” Willow said, impressed. She took the list from him when he finished writing and read it over, nodding at his notes. “And you’re good at dictation. This is nearly word for word.”

“That skill comes from long arduous hours of taking notes for my father,” Merry explained.

“What does your father do?” Willow asked.

Merry started at the question. He had thought everyone by now knew who his father was. “He’s the Master of Buckland. He runs more or less everything, except Uncle Mac takes care of the monetary aspects of the job. Father has no head for money, unless it’s how to spend it. What about your father?”

“He’s a goat-herder, over near the Far Downs,” Willow answered.

“He must be very proud of you,” Merry said.

Willow shrugged. “He wanted a brood of grandchildren to bounce on his knees and play peek-a-boo with. He seems to think that by becoming a healer I’ve condemned marriage altogether. I keep telling him that there are healers who do marry, it’s just a matter of finding the right lad, a lad who will understand that there will be times when others will come before him. My father is convinced that no such lad exists, but I think I might know of one or two.”

“Really?” Merry breathed. Maybe it was just the heat of the oven making him delirious, but Merry was certain he detected a note of suggestiveness in Willow’s voice and in the gleam of her eyes as they rested upon him. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, then nearly jumped right out of it when a loud pop and crackle sounded from the pot of gypsum.  

Willow laughed again. “Relax Mr. Merry. I told you that would happen. It’s perfectly normal.”

Merry nodded distractedly. He cleared his throat and shifted again, irritably wiping at the sweat that suddenly erupted on his brow. By the stars, this kitchen was hot and Miss Willow was still smiling at him. “Would you like to play a game of draughts in the sitting room?” he asked suddenly and exited the kitchen before she could respond.

He escaped into Sam’s room and leaned against the closed door, absently staring at Sam’s sleeping form. His head was in a whirl again and he stood frozen where he was, trying to make sense of things. He must have misunderstood Miss Willow. He had simply taken her words and misconstrued them, thinking she was talking of him when clearly she was not. Why would she want him anyway? He was younger than she was, four years younger and that was not often done in the Shire. The image of his parents popped up in his mind to mock him and he pushed it aside stubbornly.

“Get a hold of yourself, Meriadoc,” he chided himself quietly. “She is clearly speaking of someone else and you’re letting your imagination get away with you.”

After a few deep breaths, he peeled himself off the door and retrieved the draughts board from the floor. He found Willow already in the sitting room. They played companionably for the rest of the hour, and he wasn’t sure if he should be happy or disappointed when no further flirtations were forthcoming.

When the hour was over, they returned to the kitchen and Willow checked the consistency and quantity of the powder. Upon her approval, Merry took the pot holders from where they hung on the wall and lifted the stew pot from the stove. Willow filled another pot with cold water and laid the box over the top of it so she could carry both to the room at once. When they reached the room, they put the pots on the floor out of the way and Willow pulled a small blade and a jar of cream from her dress pocket. She removed the poultice and slathered Sam’s foot with the cream. 

Merry watched in fascination as she gently but quickly shaved Sam’s foot hair. Except for very small bairns, he had never seen any hobbit with a bald foot and he knew that Sam would feel self-conscious about it when the time came to remove the cast. Willow wiped the foot dry and washed it once with a towel, then ran her hand over the foot to check for stubble. Satisfied she put the blade and cream back in her pocket.

Next, she instructed Merry to gently hold down Sam’s arms. “Be ready to hold him down if he jerks or struggles,” Willow advised while Merry got into position, leaning over the bed and Sam to get a hold of Sam’s forearms. 

Willow examined the ankle, satisfied with what she saw. Though the poultice had only been in place for an hour and a half, the swelling was already much reduced. If not for the need to restrict Sam’s ankle completely, she would have left it on all day. She took what she could get though and was simply grateful that the reduced swelling would make it easier for her to realign the joint. She knelt down so she could see the twist and gently took the ankle in hand. Already, Merry could feel Sam tense in his sleep. He leaned over more and tightened his grip on his friend’s arms. 

Merry wasn’t sure what he was expecting the healer to do. She had not explained it or given him any warning other than to hold Sam down if the need arose. He had never known anyone before who had needed a bone or joint reset and so did not even have experience to fall back on to tell him what was coming. Given the nature of Sam’s injury, he did not think that the healer would do anything terribly traumatic to get the joint to realign, and when she at first prodded the ankle, he thought it would be no more than that. What he didn’t know was that she was simply feeling for the tear in the ligament and figuring out how she needed to move the foot to get the ligaments to line back up properly. Once she was able to feel what she needed to do, she tightened her own grip on Sam’s foot and lower leg and carefully, slowly, but with as much force as she could muster, manipulated the joint back into place. Sam gave a lurch and a yell that curled the hairs on Merry’s feet, but Merry did his job, leaning over so he was all but lying atop Sam, holding him down with all his might. Sam was strong, even in a sedated sleep, and Merry feared his grip might slip, but thankfully the joint did not give too much trouble and slid into place after a few minutes. 

Willow examined the ankle again and nodded with approval. Only then did Merry stand up on shaking legs and let go of his friend. He silently thanked Willow’s foresight for making sure Frodo was asleep during that procedure. 

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now, you can hold his ankle in place while I ready the plaster,” Willow said. “Do not allow it to move even the slightest.” 

Merry came around the bed and put his hands beneath Willow’s. She slowly slid out her hands, made sure the foot was still aligned, then stooped down to pour the water into the stew pot with the powder. After she stirred it into a thick but runny plaster, she put the bottom half of the box on the bed and poured in half of the mixture. With a nod to Merry, she joined him in lifting the leg and resting it inside the box and the wet plaster. She dismissed Merry at this point; he found the chair and sat down gratefully to watch the rest.

Willow leaned down for the top half of the box and put this in place. She locked the clasps, then poured in the rest of the plaster until the box was full.  On the side of the box was a little lever and a notch that Merry hadn’t noticed before. She pushed the lever down into the notch and the hole cover slid into place.

“That’s that,” she announced. “Nothing more to do but wait until it dries. You sit and watch him, Mr. Merry, while I clean up.”

When Willow returned, she handed Merry a mug of tea. “It won’t make you sleep,” she informed. “One of you needs to stay awake. This will revitalize you. You’ve had a very trying morning.”

She waited until Merry drank it down and only then did she allow him to stand and escort her to the door. She put on her cloak and her shoes, and turned to Merry as he opened the door for her. “Has his family been informed of his injury?” she asked.

“They have, but they don’t know the extent of it.”

“Then I’ll stop on my way and give them the prognosis,” she said. “I need to check on Master Hamfast anyway.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Miss Willow,” Merry said.

“And thank you for your help, Mr. Merry. You’re a natural,” Willow said. She hesitated a moment then stepped toward him a half-pace, that suggestive flirtatious look back in her eyes. “Tell me, do you have a lass away there in Buckland?” she asked, watching him pointedly.

If his hesitation didn’t say enough, his quickening breath and sudden agitation did. “Well… no, not exactly. I mean, not at all. She’s rather courting someone else,” he finally said.

“And you haven’t gone on to find another lass?” Willow asked.

Merry shrugged, his mind reeling yet again. He hadn’t misread her earlier? She had truly meant to suggest that she was interested in him and willing to court and eventually marry? What was going on here? His safe crush suddenly didn’t feel so safe anymore. “Well, I’ve, um… I haven’t found anyone else to find.”

“Is that so?” Willow asked, smiling sweetly at his discomfort. He was usually so cocksure, it was nice to see him bewildered for once. She took another step closer and noted that he did not step back. “Why is that?”

“Well…” Merry trailed off, searching for a valid enough explanation that didn’t make him look like the pathetic lovesick puppy he was. “I’ve been very busy and all, what with my duties to my father, as you know,” he ended lamely and immediately felt like kicking himself.

Willow hummed, her smile widening. She took his hand so he could help her up onto the snow bank, which was still as high as it had been that morning. Once she was up, she squeezed his hand rather than let it go. “You should always take time to find what you seek, Mr. Merry,” she said, then leaned down to quickly kiss him on the lips. She gracefully rose to her feet, turned and walked away, swaying her hips with expert ease.

Merry waited until she was on the Lane before closing the door, then slid down to sit on the floor in a daze, the press of her lips still hot against his.

To be continued…

Chapter 7

When Merry was able to stand again, he shuffled to the back foyer and cleared the rags from the floor and tossed them into the laundry basket. He went into Sam’s room and quickly gathered up his things to take into the room next door, where Pippin usually slept during visits. Merry quickly arranged everything in the new room as they had been in the other room and dressed the bed with fresh linens before making sure there was oil in the lamp and wood in the hearth.

After he was finished there, he trudged out to the tool shed and used the bucket to dig out the shed’s door. Inside, he located the spade and set to clearing the pathways and doorways around the smial. The work was hard and took longer than he thought it would, but Willow’s tea kept him from tiring and the constant movement kept the chill of late morning at bay.

The work was also dreadfully monotonous and allowed too much time for his mind to wander. He kept thinking back to Willow’s kiss, and he thought over everything she had said and suggested. The more he thought, the more clouded his head became and the more confused he grew with each moment.

He shook his head of thoughts of the healer as best he could and tried to compose a letter to Pippin instead. They would need to send word to Pippin that they would not be going to Whitwell before his birthday and would have to meet him at the Great Smials as soon as they could. He never got very far in his letter though, for his thoughts inevitably returned to Willow and what might happen upon their next meeting.

He sighed in frustration, his breath misting the air around him even as his thoughts clouded his mind. He watched the mist for a time and that distracted him for a while, but then he caught himself looking down the Hill in the direction of the healer’s cottage, hidden from view but ever present. She had kissed him, quick and simple, shy almost and it was over before he could respond, but it was no less exhilarating for it.

He tightened his grip on the spade handle and dug into fresh snow with alacrity. He was so intent on his work and lost in his thoughts that he almost did not hear Frodo calling him two hours later.  

“Sammy, you lazy slug-about. Get up! Gaffer’s waiting on you! You’re supposed to go with him up to Bag End today!” Daisy called, her voice growing louder beyond the closed bedroom door as she made her way down the hall from the kitchen.

Little Sam struggled futilely to get up but Halfred only laughed and tightened his grip on his little brother’s arms. “I can’t get up!” Sam called. “Fred won’t let me.”

“Tattle-tell,” Fred accused from his perch on top of his brother. He was pinning his brother down to the bed and the ropes were starting to dig into Sam’s back.

“She’ll notice when she comes in, Fred,” Sam pointed out.

“Not if you say the secret word before then,” Fred said, laughing gleefully.

Before Sam could respond, the door opened and Daisy stood there with arms crossed, glaring at the both of them. She arched her eyebrow and looked at Fred pointedly. “All he has to do is say the secret word,” Fred said.

“But you never told me the secret word,” Sam protested.

“Of course I didn’t. It’s a secret,” Fred teased, laughing anew.

“Fred, let him go,” Daisy demanded but Fred still refused to move and actually tightened his grip again. The ropes pinched at Sam’s skin through his nightshirt and the sheets. “Come on, Sam,” Daisy continued. She had no time for horseplay. She went to the foot of the bed and pulled on his ankle, sending hot white sparks of pain up his leg.

Sam howled with pain but Daisy kept pulling and Fred just shook his head. “Don’t be such a baby,” he admonished. “Now, say the secret word.”

“Please!” Sam cried, guessing wildly.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Pretty please!”

“That’s two words.”

Daisy gave one last tug and gave up, much to Sam’s relief. She marched around the bed and grabbed Fred by his ear, twisting it until he scrambled off the bed. “Out!” she ordered.

“But he didn’t say the word!” Fred protested.

“I have a word for you,” Daisy said, twisting the ear even more so that Fred had no choice but to hop after her as she stormed out of the room. “And that word is out! Get out and leave Sammy alone! You are incorrigible, Halfred Gamgee. Sitting on your brother like that, making his foot go numb and hurting him.”

“You were the one pulling on his ankle,” Fred said through pain-clenched teeth.

“Because you were sitting on him!” Daisy said.

They disappeared down the hall and soon Sam could hear them in the kitchen, setting the table for first breakfast.

Sam yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He struggled to get up but his foot was weighed down and he couldn’t move it. He looked down at his foot and tried to make sense of what he saw, but it was oddly in shadow and he couldn’t make out what was restricting him. Whatever it was, it was big and heavy. He tried and tried but his foot only got heavier the more he struggled until finally he was too tired to try any more. He plopped back down and hoped that Daisy did not return to pull on his foot again, or send May in to do it for her.

Hamson entered then and smiled over at Sam. “Hullo there, little brother.”

“Ham, I can’t move my foot,” Sam said and pointed at his foot.

Ham nodded. “I know but don’t worry. That just happens sometimes. Be glad it’s only your foot. Once, I woke up real sudden like and I couldn’t move a muscle. I couldn’t even speak. It was like I was frozen or dead or somewhat. Then I fell asleep again and the next time I woke up I was fine. Go to sleep again and then you’ll be all right.” He pulled his storage drawer our from under the bed and shuffled through it for his work shirt. Finding it, he pushed the drawer back into place and walked out of the room.

Sam sighed and tried again to move his foot, to no avail. He wasn’t sleepy and couldn’t go back to sleep no matter how hard he tried and his foot was getting ever heavier and more encumbered. He was beginning to panic, beginning to suspect that something was terribly wrong. He was working his way up to tears, not able to understand what was the matter, and he did not even notice when his mother entered the room.

“Hush, love,” she said soothingly. She smoothed his hair away from his face and straightened the blankets around him. “Lie still.”

“But I can’t move it,” Sam said, lip quivering as he struggled to hold back his tears.

“I know, dearest. You’ll be all right,” Bell promised. She smoothed his brow and smiled down at him until he smiled back. “There’s my big lad. Just lie still. Ma will kiss it and make it all better.” She went to the foot of the bed and touched his ankle, leaned over and kissed it.  

Sam opened his eyes and for a moment he did not know where he was. Nothing was familiar. There was a gentle glow of a fire in the room to his left and above him a green cotton canopy blocked the ceiling from view. He blinked several times, trying to decide if he was awake or still asleep. There was a sort of haze before his eyes and he felt like everything was slow and far away. He heard more than felt the ruffle of clothe as the blankets were being lifted and pushed back from his foot and he blinked down to find Frodo staring at his feet, an expression on his master’s face that he had never seen before.

“Master?” Sam said. As he had done in his dream, he attempted to move his foot and found it just as heavy and cumbersome in waking as in sleep. He struggled up onto his elbows and glanced down his torso at his right foot and saw instead his calf disappearing into a wooden box. “Is my foot dead?”

Frodo looked up sharply at this, the odd expression clearing to one of confusion and finally understanding. He smiled wryly and rested a feather-light hand on the box. “No Sam, your foot isn’t dead. The cast is drying and the box has to stay in place until it does. Merry told me. How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

Sam nodded. “Aye, I did I guess. I’m still a little groggy.”

Frodo nodded slowly in return. “Me as well. It’s like I’m walking in a fog, but the fog will clear eventually. You must be hungry. I have a late elevenses cooking. You should take your medicines before you eat I think. Willow did not specify when you needed to take them but I always found them to be more tolerable when I knew food was coming shortly.”

Sam relaxed back into the mattress and closed his eyes. A moment later, or maybe it was a minute or two, he felt a cool cloth on his forehead and opened his eyes to find his master sitting next to him, waiting patiently for him to awaken again. Frodo was smiling again, but cheerfully this time. “You must be more groggy than I am.”

“I don’t exactly have aught else to do, Mr. Frodo,” Sam pointed out, yawning. Frodo helped him to sit up and fluffed up the pillows to provide more support for his friend. “I don’t reckon I can keep my eyes open long enough to read anything and the fire crackling is rather soothing really.”

“I always thought a low fire was comforting, perhaps because of all the nights I fell asleep in my father's arms next to one. Here, drink this one first.”

Frodo handed him a small snifter, the kind used for drinking brandy and other hard spirits, but it was filled with a sustenance Sam was quite certain he had never drank before. Sam took the snifter curiously, wondering what it was. He took a sniff and instantly held the glass as far from his nose as he could. “What is it?” he asked.

“A juice that Miss Willow says you have to drink three times a day. I think first breakfast, luncheon and dinner will do well, but since we’re getting a rather late start of things today, you’ll have one now and another at dinner,” Frodo informed. “Drink it up in one go, as you would a shot of brandy. Then I’ll get you the medicinal tea. The tea should make up for this I hope.”

Sam looked at the snifter warily, then took a deep breath and downed the juice in one gulp. Only a hand quickly clamped over his mouth and the horror of being sick in front of his master kept the juice from coming back up. Tears sprung to his eyes and Frodo quickly offered him a handkerchief as he went back to dabbing at Sam’s forehead with the cool clothe.

“Vile is it?” Frodo asked.

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth just yet. He gulped several times and waited until his stomach was more settled, which did not take as long as he would have thought. Then he shook his head vigorously and gasped at the taste. “Vile don’t cover it,” Sam complained, his voice strained. “That was horrid, rather like the way turpentine smells, if that makes any sense.”

“I’m sorry lad, but healer’s orders. You’re going to have to drink it again tonight,” Frodo said, taking the empty snifter away and handing him a sprig of mint. “Merry told me you might want this afterward and I can certainly see why. Chew on this and I’ll get your tea.”

The mint leaves did help to alleviate the strong and pungent aftertaste that lingered in the back of Sam’s throat, as well as settle his stomach the rest of the way. Frodo returned shortly with the tea and Sam was glad to find that it tasted normal, nearly divine compared to the last drink.

“How long do I have to drink that juice?” Sam asked.

“The instructions Merry took down says three times a day for the first week, twice a day after that. It doesn't say for how long. I suppose until Miss Willow says you don't need it anymore,” Frodo informed, sympathy filling his eyes. He had tasted a smidgen of the juice when he poured it out for Sam and even that miniscule amount had been enough to make him gag. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover that this juice could peel paint. “We have plenty of mint though. It should last a while. Is it helping?”

Sam nodded. “Aye, it is at that.”

“Merry’s outside clearing up the walk paths but he’ll be in shortly. Will you be all right on your own until he comes in? I can stay with you,” Frodo offered.

“I’m fine, sir, honest. You don’t have to be lingering about all the time,” Sam said. “I know as you have things to be doing. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“It’s only elevenses, though it would be better if it isn’t burnt,” Frodo smiled. “Just lie back and rest. Sleep some more if you can. Don’t worry, I won’t let you miss your meal. We all missed second breakfast as it is. Missing another meal would not be advisable, especially if we are supposed to be keeping you healthy.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frodo said and left.  

By the time Merry finished clearing and salting the doorways and the pathways to the garden gate and the shed, elevenses was finished and ready to eat. Merry came inside from the cold, stamping his feet on the foyer floor, and found that the water in the wash bucket was warm and waiting for him, fresh towels piled by the bench. The foot bath warmed him quickly and he removed his jacket and joined Frodo in the kitchen.

Frodo still looked tired to Merry’s eyes but his cousin was moving about with ease and alertness now, a much welcome sight. Just as welcome was the food. The bed tray was laden once again with three filled plates. Frodo had made crepes with cheese and a fruit salad with spiced cider.

They ate with Sam again and if the gardener was still shaken by the healer’s words of caution, he did not show it. They ate with ease and spoke little. Together, Merry and Frodo helped Sam to roll onto his side when they were finished. Sam’s back was getting sore and the weight of the cast and the box was beginning to cut into the top of his leg. The new position required them to experiment with the pillows until they finally had them piled to make Sam comfortable. Then Frodo left to clean up the kitchen, bidding Merry to take a rest and remain with Sam.

Merry picked up the book of tomes and leafed through it quietly as Sam took a short doze. When Sam woke up just ten minutes later, he blinked in confusion again but quickly remembered why his foot was so heavy. He stretched his neck and yawned with exhaustion despite all his sleeping and found Merry staring blankly at a page in the book.

“You’re awful quiet, Mr. Merry,” Sam noted.

Merry stirred, as if he himself had been dozing, and he looked up at Sam thoughtfully.

“Sam, what would you do if you liked one lass who was courting someone else, and liked another lass who by tradition shouldn’t be courting anybody?” he asked.

Sam furrowed his brow and shrugged. “Find an available lass who is willing to court,” he said.

“But what if Rosie was courting another lad? What would you do then?” Merry persisted.

Sam paused at this, considering the question carefully. Rosie, courting someone else? It wasn’t too difficult to imagine, since he and Rosie were not officially a couple. Indeed there had been a time or two that Rosie had gone to socials or festivals without Sam, when the gardener was not available to go with her. But if she were to court someone else officially? The thought prickled at the small hairs on the back of his neck and it was only with effort that he kept his hands from fisting around the sheets. “Well,” he said evenly, “I like to think I’d do the proper thing and let them be, so long as he made her happy and she loved him.”

“I figured that’s what you would say,” Merry said with a mournful sigh. He sank back into his chair, the book forgotten. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so sensible.”

“Well, that’s not to say it wouldn’t hurt something fierce to see her step out with another lad,” Sam said. “Just thinking it might be possible is enough to make my blood boil, but short of trying to break them up, which would only make them both hate me, what is there to do? Who is it you like?”

“Estella Bolger, Fatty’s sister. Have you met her?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Sam said.

Merry nodded absently and sighed again, even more mournfully than the first time. “We used to be such good friends when we were younger. She was a bit of a tomboy back then, running about in breeches and getting up to all sorts of pranks with us lads. Then all of a sudden she turned into this prim and proper lass and she just seemed… I don’t know, far away somehow. But then she kissed me once and I thought that’d put everything back into it’s place, but it didn’t. Now we hardly say two words to each other, and she’s courting Gordi Burrows who, even if he’s dull as a wood post, is a good and gentle lad and always treats her right, unlike me. I guess it’s all rather hopeless.”

Sam’s heart went out to Merry. He knew he would feel the same if Rosie declared herself to another lad. Then he remembered Merry’s other half of the question. “Who is the other lass? Let me guess – Miss Willow. She’s a comely lass and no mistake, but she’s out of reach for a lad like me. She was flirting with you a fair bit though.”

“She’s a healer,” Merry said. “She wasn’t supposed to be interested in courting. That was part of her appeal.”

“There are healers who’re married. It’s rare but it’s not unheard of,” Sam pointed out. “And now that she ain’t so unavailable, are you having second thoughts?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.” Merry shook his head of its cobwebs as he had been doing all that morning, for the little good it did. He needed to talk this problem out and he was hoping Sam might be able to give him some perspective on it. “Estella’s never going to break it off with Gordi and they’ll be married as soon as she comes of age. Sooner, if her mother has anything to say about it. I can’t step between them. It wouldn’t be fair to either one and you’re right, it would only make them hate me.

“There’s more to it than that though. If I don’t set my cap on another lass soon, Mother will do it for me. She’s already dropping hints of who would make a good match for me and the closer I get to coming of age, the more hints she drops. She’s even gone so far as to invite some of the lasses and their parents to the Hall. Now that she’s given up on Frodo ever marrying, she’s spending all her efforts on me. I know she means well and she and Father would never dream of forcing me into a relationship that was not of my choosing. A couple of the lasses I could easily see myself spending time with, but marrying… That’s harder to imagine.

“Willow though… I always thought she was off-limits, that she’d never return my interest and so I’ve allowed myself to imagine all sorts of things with her. Not just courting her, but marrying her, raising a family. She could easily come to Brandy Hall. We could always use a second healer. Mother will be thrilled that she’s older than me. It’ll be just like her and Father; she’s fours years older than he is too. Plus, I could marry right away and she won’t have to worry about all the lasses who will try to have a go at me if I’m not courting anyone. Plus, Willow is smart and curious about things, we always have things to talk about, and she has a wonderful sense of humor. She likes to travel a bit, go on short hikes to gather up the herbs she can’t grow in her garden, and the healers these have seasonal gatherings, to discuss cases and any new developments in healing that they might have discovered.”

“And she’s interested in you as you are in her?” Sam asked. “Fancy that. I figured as there had to be more to her teasing than just humoring you.”

“She kissed me,” Merry supplied. “Before she left this morning. She said she wanted a family and needed a lad who understood how busy she’d be with her work, which I can. Mother isn’t just my father’s wife. She’s the Mistress of the Hall and every bit as busy as he is. If Willow is serious and isn’t just being a terrible tease, she very well could be the one.”

“But?”

“But she isn’t Estella.”

“Then why don’t you talk to her? Miss Estella I mean,” Sam asked.

“She’s courting Gordi,” Merry reminded. “What would be the point? Besides, every time I do try to talk to her, it only ends in awkward silence or me saying something obnoxious. No wonder she avoids me.”

“What does Mr. Frodo have to say about it all?” Sam asked.

“I haven’t talked to him about it,” Merry said. “He’s not exactly well-versed in the lasses. I don’t even remember the last time he spoke of being interested in a lass. Pippin’s too young to understand. He still thinks that all lasses are poisonous.”

“Poisonous?” Sam asked and tried not to laugh.

Merry nodded, grinning also. “Because they make older lads do silly things.”

“Surely Master Pippin’s old enough to be taking an interest,” Sam said.

“I think he just doesn’t realize that he does. Either that, or he’s resisting it so he won’t get infected.”

“Infected?” Sam said and this time he did laugh. “Oh but that does beat all.”

Merry didn’t laugh though and suddenly became very serious. “Maybe that’s what I need. A cure for Estella.”

“There you go then. Miss Willow it is. She is a healer after all, and she’s taken a liking to you,” Sam said. “Why don’t you give it a go and see what happens? It’s just courting, not a betrothal, and you might find you’re better suited to each other than you and Miss Estella.”

“What’s this about Estella?” Frodo asked as he returned.

“Sam and I were talking about lasses,” Merry informed. “I’m thinking of giving up on Estella. It seems Miss Willow is more interested than either of us thought.”

“Is she?” Frodo asked, his tone unreadable. “How do you know this?”

“Well, she said she wanted a family, if she could find the right lad. Then when she left, she kissed me,” Merry said.

“I have to admit it I do think it’s past time you start looking elsewhere for a lass,” Frodo said, taking his seat next to Sam’s bed. “If you don’t, you know Esme will.”

“She has already,” Merry said. “So far, she’s narrowed it down to Rosalba Stonebows of Stock, Ana Goldworthy, and Polly Hornblower of Waymeet. They’re all nice enough, pretty and all and I have fun enough with them but I can’t see it going any further than that.”

“And Willow?” Frodo said. “Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, Merry, but I hope that your interest in Willow is genuine and not just a way of distracting you from Estella. If it is, and you do decide to court Willow, it would be unfair to her.”

Merry blushed and looked down at the book in his lap. “Maybe it is, but it will be that way with any lass I decide to court. So long as I tell Willow how it is upfront, and she does sort of know already, then it’s not like I’m taking advantage.”

“I know it isn’t,” Frodo said, “but sometimes we make the right decisions for wrong reasons. I just don’t want to see you, or her for that matter, getting hurt because you let yourselves believe something that wasn’t true. You need to really think about this Merry, and I don’t mean about courting other lasses. You need to make sure you really are serious about letting Estella go. If you are, then I think you’ll find that it will be easier for you to realize what you do want, and if that happens to be Miss Willow, then all my hopes and good wishes to you and her.”

Merry nodded and looked at Sam.

Sam shrugged. “Couldn’t of said it better myself,” he said.

“I’m tired of waiting for Estella,” Merry said.

“Being tired of waiting and being ready to move on are two different things, Mr. Merry,” Sam said. “There’s somewhat my granddad told me once, on how to tell if you’re meant to be with someone. ‘No relationship is perfect,’ he said, ‘but if you spend more time happy and less time sad then you know she’s the lass for you, and if you wake up and she’s the first person you think about and want to see and talk to, then that’s all that ought to matter.’ That’s what he said and I think he had the rights of it.”  

After Frodo retrieved his scrolls and writing things from the study and set up the bed tray to use as a writing table, Merry left him and Sam to their transcribing and returned to Number Three for the bag Marigold had prepared for her brother. He was grateful to see that the Twofoot lads had long ago finished their work at Number Three, the pathway cleared so he could stand rather than squat at the doorway. He knocked on the door which was quickly answered by Marigold. Just as quickly he found his arms full of the distraught Gamgee lass.

“Oh Mr. Merry,” she said with shaky voice. “Miss Willow come and told us about poor Sam.” She pulled away and looked up at Merry with tearful eyes, looking far too appealing for Merry's comfort. “Is he all right? He must be a right wreck, thinking as he might be crippled and all.”

Merry stood frozen and numbly wondered how many other lasses were going to go throwing themselves at him before the day was over. Merry cautiously reached a hand up and carefully patted Goldie on the shoulder, reminding himself with every breath that this was Sam’s little sister and, propriety or no, if Sam thought he had done anything to take advantage of his sister, Merry would likely find himself in a cast next. That's not to mention what Tom might do. Merry stepped out of Goldie’s reach and said, “He’s fine. He’s doing quite well, and I do believe the shock is wearing off. He’ll be more distraught to think of you and the Gaffer down here worrying about him. He will be glad for some of his own things though. Do you have his bag ready?”

Goldie nodded. “I do. I got carried away and packed it heavier than I could lift. It’s in his room.” She led him down the short tunnel to the second bedroom and showed him inside.

Merry looked around curiously. This was his first time inside Number Three. The smial was small and cozy and if the furnishings were old, they were in good condition and serviceable. Sam’s room was small, just big enough for the bed, wardrobe and ewer. The bed was large though, as it had once been used by all the Gamgee lads, and Merry thought that if they could only get a smaller bed, Sam might have room for a little desk to sit and write at. As it was, there were books piled under the ewer and Merry could see storage boxes under the rope bed. He wondered what the boxes held but did not want to pry. He stood in the doorway and waited for Marigold to gesture for him to enter.

Goldie riffled through the bag she had prepared. It was quite full and bulky and she began to list off everything she had put in it. Merry wondered how she could remember it all. “Now Miss Willow said as he’d likely be up there another couple of weeks, depending on how his foot heals up and how long this snow lasts, which I don’t think will be very long for all that it’s piled up so high. So I packed five pairs of breeches and shirts and smallclothes, and I put in here his robe and his nightshirts. This is his blanket right here. It’s been his since he was a faunt and I always make sure he’s got it when he’s not feeling well. Not that he needs it or nothing like that, but Ma made it and I think it makes him feel better to have it even if he don’t say as such. I put in his hairbrush and foot brush, and his nail clippers and what all. He’s got his journal here, he likes to keep track of things in it, things that happen or things that he remembers, or things he’s heard or read, quotes he calls them. He’s got all sorts of things like that in there and I know he’ll want it. He draws sometimes, not very well but decent enough. You can usually tell what it is anyways. There’s also the scroll he’s working on, some poem or other for Rosie that he’s been writing forever. Maybe now he can finally finish it. I’ve put in some good-sized wood blocks for whittling and his little woodworking knives and sandpaper and things. And since he’s just going to be lying there doing nothing, I’ve also got this bag of clothes that need stitching up and the thread and needles are in this little satchel. You don’t got to worrit about rushing them back down. I think the snow will be melted enough for me to come up tomorrow.”

“Is that all?” Merry asked.

Goldie thought for a moment. “He likes to play on his mouth box that he got from Mr. Bilbo at the Birthday Party. I put that in there too, even though I don’t reckon he’ll be wanting to bother you or Mr. Frodo with such a racket.”

Merry shouldered the two bags and turned to leave, only to find a weary and pale Gaffer standing in the doorway. “Master Hamfast, it’s good to see you up and about. I know Sam was worried about this weather effecting you,” Merry greeted.

“How is Sammy?” Gaffer asked, easily ignoring the pain in his protesting joints. “He’s not being no bother to Mr. Baggins is he?”

“No, not at all. Sam is the perfect guest,” Merry said.

Gaffer nodded. “You don’t think he’ll be crippled do you, Master Merry?”

“Miss Willow is confident that he will come through this without even a limp,” Merry said. “I don’t see any reason to doubt her, so long as Sam does as he’s instructed and doesn’t try too much too soon.”

“Then you best tell Sam to keep off his feet, or I’ll march up there and tie him to the bed,” Gaffer said, his voice gruff but full of concern.

“I’ll tell him just that,” Merry promised. “Have no fear, Gaffer. Your son is in good hands. Between me, Frodo and Miss Willow, he won’t even have to lift a finger, except to mend these clothes.”

“Good. I can’t thank you and Mr. Baggins enough for looking after my Sammy,” Gaffer said and hobbled back to the parlor, wincing with each step.

Goldie escorted Merry to the door and hugged him again. “You make sure to tell Sam we love him and we miss him. I’ll find some way to come up tomorrow.”

“I will. Farewell Marigold.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Merry returned to Bag End and deposited Sam’s things in his room, relaying his family's messages for him. Sam took the stitching happily, both for the work and for knowing that his family was managing without him. Merry then left Frodo to put everything away and took his turn at his own bath. When he came out of the bath, he found that the Bag End blankets were put away and Sam’s blanket was now draped over him and he was sleeping restfully. Merry helped Frodo make luncheon, frozen chicken broth from the cold cellar that they warmed and made into a light soup, alongside bread and cheese wedges.

Frodo and Sam worked some more on the translations after luncheon, Frodo carefully explaining the Elvish script. While they worked, Merry wrote letters to his parents, Pippin and Fatty. As with that morning though, his mind was not on the letters and he was thinking endlessly of Estella and Willow. If his friends noticed his restlessness, they didn’t say anything about it but Merry did catch Frodo watching him closely every now and again. Merry would then screw up his effort at writing again and would manage another few lines before his mind wandered again. Between that and helping Frodo tend to Sam, he was not surprised when teatime arrived and he had only written Pippin’s letter and half of Fatty’s.

After tea, Merry began polishing the furniture and Frodo saw Sam back to sleep before going outside for a short stroll to the garden gate and a smoke of his pipe. Dinner came and they played more of the board games that Merry had found the previous night, and when it came time to sleep, both Merry and Sam insisted that Frodo retire to his bed. He did not fight them and soon the smial was full of the sounds of three slumbering hobbits.
 
 

To be continued…

Chapter 8

The following morning dawned bright and warm. Frodo rose feeling much refreshed and pulled back the curtain to glance outside. The world was still white but he could see the tops of the bushes now and in the distance the top two rails of the fence peeked out from the snow. If the day continued to be as warm as the morning was beginning, then the snow could very well be gone by the end of the day if not tomorrow.

Frodo peeked in on Sam and found him sitting up and working on the stitching that his sister had sent up with Merry. Sam was squinting in the dimness for the fire was low and Frodo could feel the chill of the air in the room. He added more wood to the fire and stirred the embers, using tender to catch flame from the ashes. Soon a new fire was blazing and Frodo replaced the oil in the lamp and the candles in the sconces and had those lit also.

“Is that better?” he asked.

Sam nodded. “Aye, it is,” he said gratefully and stopped squinting.

Merry woke groggily just moments later, yawning widely. He had trouble falling asleep during the night and was not at first his usual chipper self. After a warm mug of tea, he perked up considerably and sat with Sam, looking over the transcriptions from the previous day as Sam continued stitching and Frodo made first breakfast and retrieved Sam’s medicines. The medicinal juice tasted no better today than it did yesterday but Frodo followed it quickly with a sprig of mint and the sweet and fragrant tea.

The grogginess of the sedative had worn off for Sam also and he was alert and much refreshed himself. If they were glad to see him smile and jest, they were dismayed to realize that his alertness only made him restless. He could not get comfortable no matter which way he lay, and the weight of the cast and the cumbersome box were clearly irritating him, though he did not complain. Getting on and off the bed was a chore, and they had not factored in the extra weight of the cast and what that might do to Sam’s leg when he stood. He had difficulty holding it up and after the second time the box hit the floor, they decided to bring the chamber pot to him instead. If he still felt embarrassed about using the chamber pot in front of his betters, he said nothing about it and simply finished his business as quickly as he could.

After first breakfast, Sam finished his stitching and Frodo brought another translation to keep him occupied, giving him a book of Elvish runes and scripts with the equivalent words in the Common Speech listed next to them. “Try to translate this poem. Don’t worry about getting it right or wrong. Many Elvish words have multiple meanings, depending on how they are used. Try to puzzle it out as best you can, based on what you think the writer is trying to say,” Frodo suggested. The poem was short by Elvish standards but still as long as the longest hobbit song and Frodo hoped it would keep Sam engrossed for hours if he had to try to work out the translation on his own.

Frodo sat at the desk working on his own writing, while Merry continued his polishing from the previous day. Merry had only finished cleaning the rooms on the eastern half of the smial yesterday and he was now working on the guest rooms. Frodo could hear him moving about next door in Frodo’s old bedroom, moving furniture around with great zest, giving the room a thorough going-over. Merry was still thinking furiously about his little dilemma and Frodo was tempted to give Miss Willow a piece of his mind for putting Merry’s head into such a whirl. He would not do that though. This was Merry’s decision to make and Frodo had said his piece. He wouldn’t say anything more unless asked.

Merry paused long enough in his cleaning to make second breakfast, but returned to it as soon as his food was finished. Sam only shook his head. “I think that room has to be sparkling by now,” he said.

“If only we could open up Merry’s head and clean out his cobwebs as easily,” Frodo jested.

Sam smiled at this and a spark of humor lit his face, but whatever he thought to say in response, he kept it to himself.

Shortly afterward, Willow arrived. The bell jingled in the entrance hall and the noise of the wardrobe sliding across the floor in the adjacent room stopped abruptly. Frodo hastened to his feet, waited a few moments to see if Merry was going to answer the door, then stepped into the tunnel. “I’ll get it,” he called.

“Very well,” came Merry’s measured response.

The silence that followed Frodo to the front door was nearly palpable. He imagined he could hear Merry’s heart pounding, and he could hear his own near-silent footsteps on the tile floor of the tunnel. He reached the door and after a bracing breath, opened it. Willow stood outside, satchel in hand and ribbons in her free-flowing hair, the light brown curls cascading down her back to her waist, a vast contrast to the bun she had worn the previous day. She smiled cheerily.

“Good morning, Mr. Frodo,” she greeted.

“Good morning, Miss Willow. Please come in,” Frodo greeted in return and stepped aside to let her pass. He noted that the healer had no snow shoes this morning but the cream-colored jacket she wore still reached down to her shins and the hem was soaked in melted snow. On her hands were cream-colored mittens to match the jacket, which was buttoned up clear to her chin. “Is the weather cold still? It was looking rather hopeful when I woke up.”

“It is a tad nippy, but it’s warmer than yesterday,” Willow answered with a quick, nearly indiscernible glance down the tunnel. She dunked her feet into the foot bath and stamped them dry on the towel, then turned to the coat hanger and slipped her mittens off to unbutton her jacket. “How has Sam been? How is he adjusting to the cast?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid, but I think it will just take time. It’s heavy and it bothers him a great deal. He has trouble getting comfortable,” Frodo informed, watching the healer with growing trepidation.

Yesterday, listening to Merry speak, he had been convinced that Willow had only been teasing Merry to keep his cousin’s mind off of Sam. Frodo had not missed how Merry’s complexion paled when he heard the healer’s diagnosis of Sam’s condition. Frodo had assumed the flirting and the kiss was all some grand, if somewhat unkind, design to keep Merry distracted and it had worked quite effectively. Now however, seeing the young lass with her hair so neatly brushed and ribbons carefully placed, he was beginning to suspect he had it all wrong. When Willow finally finished unbuttoning her coat and shrugged it off, she revealed not the usual simple plain-cut frock and apron of a healer but instead a lilac-colored floral-print dress with white lace trim and a wide white sash tied in the back at her waist. The ribbons in her hair matched the dress perfectly and when she turned around again, he noticed a thin golden chain around her neck, a small teardrop amethyst pendant hanging from it to rest above the cleft of her bodice. If Willow was still only being a tease, then she was certainly proving to be a very proficient one.

Frodo felt himself blush. He turned quickly and led the healer down the tunnel to Sam’s room without another word. At the doorway to the room, Frodo again stepped aside and watched the healer keenly as she walked into the room. She was as professional as could be hoped for now but Frodo did not miss the way her eyes quickly darted around the room and the pinch of panic at their centers when they did not find what they were looking for.

“Excuse me for a moment, Miss Willow,” Frodo said with a small bow and left the healer to her patient. He went next door and found Merry sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands tucked between his knees, looking very much like a child on restriction. Frodo lifted an eyebrow at him and looked at him sharply. He spoke quietly so Willow and Sam wouldn’t hear him. “You better be sure, Merry, and you better get over there.”

For her part, Willow didn’t miss a beat, despite her disappointment at not seeing Merry. She placed the satchel on the bedside table and turned to Sam. “Good morning Sam. You’re looking much more rested. I trust that you are feeling more collected today.”

“I am, Miss Willow, thank you,” Sam replied, taking in the healer’s stunning appearance as well. Mr. Merry was one lucky lad, to his way of thinking. “I’m sorry for making such a spectacle of myself yesterday.”

“You received rather disturbing news Sam. It was only to be expected,” she said kindly as Frodo slipped into the room. She checked Sam’s vitals quickly and nodded with satisfaction. “Your health remains well. That’s always a good sign; the healing will not be impeded. Now, I understand the cast is bothering you.”

“It’s heavy and it cuts into my leg a fair bit,” Sam said.

“It will be lighter when the box comes off,” Willow promised. “That won’t be until tomorrow though, I’m afraid. We’ll try using more pillows until then. Part of the problem could be that the cast is weighing the pillows down and your leg is not getting the support it needs. Have you been doing your breathing exercises?”

“Aye, Mr. Merry reminded me about them during first breakfast,” Sam replied.

“Is the restriction lessening?” Willow asked.

Sam nodded.

“Very good. And the pain in your foot?”

Sam shrugged. “I can’t really tell no more,” he answered.

“Also good,” Willow said. She turned to Frodo then and asked, “How is the supply of tea coming?”

“We’re running low,” Frodo answered. “We have enough supplies to make one more pot.”

“I brought some more supplies for you, enough to last you another day,” Willow informed. “I will put them with the other supplies if you’ll show me where you stored them.”

“Merry put them somewhere,” Frodo said. “I’ll go find him. I have ruthlessly requested him to earn his keep and polish all the furniture. I’m afraid he gets rather lost in it if he’s left alone for too long.” It wasn’t a lie necessarily, but from Willow’s small, knowing smile he knew he had not fooled her.

“Of course,” Willow said graciously. “In the meantime, do you have any extra pillows that I can use to prop up Sam’s leg?”

“I do,” Frodo said and left to retrieve the pillows and Merry both.

Merry was no longer in the adjacent room. Frodo perked his ears and could hear his cousin across the tunnel in his bathing room. The door was open so Frodo peeked in on him and found Merry scrubbing at his face and hands at the ewer, so occupied with making himself presentable that he did not even notice Frodo standing there.

Frodo left him to his scrubbing and found the pillows that Willow had requested. The extra support helped Sam’s leg considerably, though it did not alleviate the discomfort entirely. Still, the weight was bearable enough now and Sam felt he would be able to ignore it more easily.

“I will return tomorrow afternoon to remove the cast box,” Willow said to Sam when she was finished, and picked up her satchel. “Do you have any other concerns before I go?”

Sam nodded and glanced furtively at Frodo. Frodo excused himself again, saying, “I’ll see if I can find where Merry put those herbs.”

When Frodo was gone, Sam turned to the healer but at first did not know how to start. He gripped the blanket unconsciously and bit on his lower lip as he tried to piece together what he wanted to say. At length he drew a deep breath and asked awkwardly, “If it’s true that I’m… well, that I can’t… if I’m crippled… How bad will it be?”

Willow considered this question at length. She had been curt and direct yesterday to get her point across. The message had been received and she knew there was no harm in comforting the gardener now. “That depends,” Willow answered, her voice soft and soothing, her eyes gentle. “The rupture was extensive and you already know you could not move your foot before. If it does not heal completely, or heals incorrectly, you may never regain full mobility of the joint, but you will still be able to walk. You’ll limp but I doubt very much it will slow down a lad like you. The joint, as well as the leg for having to accommodate the limp, will be sore if used too much or too excessively at least at first. You won’t be able to work all day as you do now, not such strenuous work at any rate, but it certainly won’t prevent you from finding other ways to help.”

“I’ll be like some old gaffer,” Sam stated, his voice steady even while his eyes filled with dismay.

“I think your father would agree that there are worse things to be,” Willow said and smiled when Sam smirked. “You will not be an invalid Sam.”

Sam nodded, the words not quite sinking in yet. “Thank you, Miss Willow, for coming and all.”

“You just do as I say and you’ll be right as rain,” Willow promised. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

She went into the kitchen, where Frodo was setting out the remaining supplies from yesterday that he had found in the tea cupboard. Willow was in the process of removing the medicinal herbs from her satchel when she heard Merry enter behind her. At his cousin’s appearance, Frodo excused himself to check on Sam.

Willow finished what she was doing, being deliberately slow to give herself time to collect her calm, and snapped her satchel closed when she was finished. Only then did she turn around and find Merry standing just inside the doorway, looking at her with what could only be described as awe and wonder. Her knees threatened to go weak and she carefully, gracefully, placed her hands behind her on the table to keep herself on her feet.

“Mr. Merry,” she breathed in greeting.

“Miss Willow,” Merry greeted in return. He was no more eager to leave his doorway than she was her table. He openly stared at her for many more moments and finally forced himself to enter the kitchen, approaching her halfway before stopping at a respectable distance. “You look quite lovely today.”

“You look quite dashing yourself, Mr. Merry,” Willow said.

“Please, call me Merry. I insist,” Merry said.

“As you wish, Merry,” Willow said. She released her knuckle-white grip on the tabletop and smoothed out her dress. She searched for something clever to say but in the end could only think of, “I’ve brought more herbs for the tea. Frodo said that you were running low.”

“We are,” Merry said. “We’ve been giving Sam an extra half-cup of the tea after that juice he has to drink. It’s rather vile, the juice that is, and the tea helps to wash out the aftertaste. We figured it couldn’t hurt for him to have more, but if he shouldn’t be having any more than what you said, then we can give him something else.”

“No, no, extra tea is fine,” Willow said, relaxing now that they were speaking of something familiar to her. “I will remember that and bring more supplies when I return tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Merry said and the situation threatened to become awkward again until he took another step toward her. “I’ll see you to the door.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Willow said and followed him to the entrance hall. He helped her into her jacket and stood back fidgeting as she buttoned herself up again. She was just about to pull on her mittens when he shuffled his feet uncertainly and looked at her frankly. “Miss Willow,” he began.

“Please, call me Willow,” she said.

Merry smiled, relieved at this allowance. “Willow,” he began, “I need to know something. Were you… Were you being serious yesterday or were you just teasing?”

“Teasing? Maybe I was, a little,” Willow admitted, “but you have to admit that you’re an incredible tease yourself, always coming around all smiles and charm. Were you ever serious?”

“I guess I wasn’t,” Merry said and hesitated.

Willow nodded. “You’re a fine lad, Merry, one that I’m very glad to know. I know you don’t really feel the same way about me as I have come to feel about you. You have your lass. What’s her name?”

“Estella,” Merry said, his face flaming with shame. She had known the truth all along, known Merry’s heart belonged to another. Frodo was right to worry that she could be hurt just as easily as him.

“Estella,” Willow echoed. “That’s a lovely name. And the lad she’s courting?”

“Gordi. Gordibrand. He’s a good lad, treats her right. He loves her.”

“And you’re going to let him have her?” Willow asked.

“Seems the right thing to do,” Merry answered.

“The right thing would be to give her the choice and not make it for her,” Willow said.

“She chose him,” Merry said, then repeated it as if it were a revelation. “She chose him, and I’ve been a fool.”

“A fool in love,” Willow said, a small smirk on her lips and understanding in her eyes. “Aren’t we all though?”

Merry chuckled ruefully. “I suppose we are at that.”

They looked upon each other, silence filling the room, and the moment yawned between them. Merry looked at her and thought of the lass he had lost because he was too afraid to accept the offer of her heart and love, such fragile and delicate things to be entrusted into his unsure hands. He looked at Willow and saw new hope. He was no longer as clumsy as he once was, nor as scared.

Merry stepped toward her, feeling more terrified than he ever had before despite his conviction. “So you were serious then?” he asked.

“I was,” Willow said, holding his gaze.

“Then let’s give it a go,” Merry said with finality. “Let us see where the wind takes us.”

Willow let out the breath she had been holding and smiled wide with relief. She bridged the remaining gap between them with another step. “Here’s to hoping we land somewhere favorable.”

They sealed their fates with a kiss.  

Around noon, Marigold arrived with food and a letter from Halfred. She had made a couple of casseroles and loaves of bread and she followed Frodo to the kitchen to deposit them there. “I’ll bring up some preserves and taters next time I come up, Mr. Baggins,” Goldie promised as she set the food on the table.

“You don’t need to go through so much trouble, Marigold,” Frodo stated.

“Tis no trouble at all,” Goldie insisted cheerfully. “You’re the one as being put upon and we are more grateful than we could say. You’re showing a real kindness to Sam.”

“It’s the least that I can do,” Frodo said.

He led Goldie to Sam’s room then he and Merry left the siblings to themselves, exiting the room while Marigold was fussing over Sam, fluffing his pillows and straightening the sheets. They couldn’t help but notice that Sam was thoroughly enjoying the attention. When the door closed, Goldie leaned over and kissed her brother on the brow.

“Jasmine’s looking in on Gaffer for me and they both send you their love,” Goldie informed and continued to fret over her brother, tucking in the blanket to make sure he was snug and secure. “You poor dear. How are you feeling? Does the ankle hurt? Which one it is? Can I look at it?” She lifted the blanket aside and tilted her head at the box. “I’ve not seen a cast like that afore.”

“The cast is inside. It’s still drying,” Sam explained. “I can’t move my foot a bit no more, or so I would assume. I haven’t tried and I ain’t about to until Miss Willow says as I can. The cast is fair heavy. She propped my foot up good this morning though and it’s feeling better than it was. It helps to roll over onto my side every now and then also, but I’ve been sleeping on my back. I keep thinking that with all that extra weight, I might roll outta bed during the night if I try sleeping on my side now.”

“But you like sleeping on your side,” Goldie said.

Sam shrugged. “It’s not so bad really, just takes some getting used to. The teas they give me at night help. It makes me drowsy-like so it don’t take as long to fall asleep. The worst part is being waited on by Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry, but there’s no way around it no how. It’d be one thing if they let me be, but one of them is always in here, if they both aren’t. It’s like they don’t trust to leave me on my own, though I suppose I deserve that for not asking for their help in the first place. I just feel as I’m keeping them from more important things and I know for a fact they’d be heading out tomorrow to Whitwell if it weren’t for me.”

“I can’t see how any of that would be all too bad. Mr. Baggins is awful kind to take care of you like he is and to be sticking by you so as you don’t get lonely in here by yourself. He’s a good master. I can see why you’re so fond of him,” Goldie said, dropping the blanket back in place. She pulled the chair up to the bedside then and handed Sam the letter. “The messenger said it’s from Halfred, but he must’ve hired a different scribe acause the handwriting’s different.”

Sam glanced quickly at the handwriting before breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. Not only was the handwriting different, but the syntax of the sentences was different also, more formal than the usual messenger Fred used. Sam wondered at the change but quickly dismissed it as unimportant. He read the letter thoroughly then relayed the highlights. “This says that Astrid and Ashley are well and good. Astrid’s mother and eldest sister are staying with them right now to help with the bairn and all, but they’ll be leaving in a couple of weeks. Gaffer can go up at the beginning of Rethe and stay on for a month. And look at this. Hale and Joy are expecting their third child this autumn. They’re hoping for a lad this time.”

“A whole month? Gaffer will be thrilled,” Goldie said and gave a little jump of excitement. “You can come with us now, since you’ll not be working in the garden. The three of us can go together! Oh, it’s been so long since we’ve seen Fred, and I know you want to see your newest niece as much as we do. You should be able to travel by then surely. We’ll rent the Twofoot’s trap and you can lie in the back.”

“I suppose that’ll work,” Sam said. “So long as I’m allowed to travel that is.”

“Who’ll be taking over the gardens for you?” Goldie asked.

“Mr. Frodo’s going to ask Furze Smallburrows tomorrow. He reckons the snow will be melted enough by then for a walk down the Hill,” Sam said. “Mule can help Furzy when he’s available.”

Goldie nodded, approving of the selections. “They can handle the garden on their own for a month,” she said, “but there’s no need for Mr. Baggins to go taking himself down the Hill. I’ll let Mr. Twofoot know and he can take the word to the Bush tonight. He was planning to go anyway, now as the snow’s melting.”

“How is it looking out there?” Sam asked. He yearned desperately for a sight of the outdoors and the smell of fresh, crisp air.

“Much better than yesterday, though I’m sad to see the snow go away so soon. It’ll be all gone by tomorrow, I’m sure,” Goldie answered then returned to the previous topic. “Now, if you can’t travel by the first of Rethe, we can wait a week or two until you can. We’ll just send a post explaining our delay and that way they can prepare a room for you so as you’ll be more comfortable. You will come, won’t you Sam? Mr. Baggins can survive a month or so without you.”

“It would be nice to see Fred again, and Astrid and little Ashley,” Sam said. “But it’ll depend on Miss Willow. She made it very clear I wasn’t allowed to do anything without her say so. I can’t so much as flex a toe.”

“Well, Gaffer said you’re to listen to Miss Willow and not be any more of a burden to Mr. Baggins than you can help. He also said that if you ever do anything this careless again and scare him half out of his wits again, that he’ll thump you a good one,” Goldie said, smiling warmly despite her words. “He’s been fretting ever since we heard the news and it’s only his joints keeping him from marching up here to check on you himself.”

“He’s that worrit?” Sam asked, wishing he could rush home and reassure his father that all was well. Goldie would just have to do that for him when she went home.

“He is. He was grumbling the whole while in that half-muttering way of his, so his lips don’t move, so I know he’s real worrit. He said it’s a good thing you learnt to make rope that one summer you were in Tighfield, acause you can always do that if you can’t garden no more.”

“Make rope?” Sam said half-heartedly.

Goldie place a hand on her hip and looked down at Sam, ready to lecture. “Roping is good, steady work and it’s a respectable job. You always need rope. ‘Sides that, it’s in the family and you can’t be telling me that something as is good enough for our uncle and cousin ain’t good enough for you, and you did say as you enjoyed it well enough while you were visiting. If you turned sour towards it, it’s only from listening to the likes of Ted Sandyman, and you know better than to be listening to him. And there’s plenty more that you could make asides rope. You could make yarn and thread too.” She ended her lecture with a nod then smiled sweetly. “’Sides, there’s plenty more’n that you could do. You could do your wood sculpting that you like, and maybe branch out to carpentry work. That don’t require so much moving about as a garden does.”

“Miss Willow said I might just have a limp,” Sam said. “I could walk about just fine but I’ll get sore and tired quicker.”

“So then you could still work a garden, if it’s a small one or you get help with this one here,” Goldie pointed out. “You could teach just about any prentice you take on. I wouldn’t be surprised if Furzy were to agree to stay on permanent like. He’s always been interested in gardening and he’s a quick study. With a lad like him about, you could still keep Bag End as beautiful as ever. ‘Sides, it’s no use making such decisions afore we even know if you’re going to be crippled or not.”

“You’re right,” Sam said with a sigh, his worry easing considerably at his sister’s reassurances. After all, Gaffer had gardened for years with his arthritis, and the worst Sam could expect was a painful limp. “Thanks Goldie. You’re my favorite little sister.”

“I’m your only little sister, big brother,” Goldie said, beaming at the praise all the same.

Marigold stayed to help the master heat one of the casseroles for luncheon and prepare a salad, and stayed to feed Sam his medicines and food as they talked about the weather, the Twofoots, the Cottons and anything else that came to mind. Sam showed Goldie the translations he and Frodo were working on and read to her some of the sonnets and ballads from the book he kept by his side for the rare quiet moments when he was alone. He read, moving his finger along with the words so Goldie could follow, but she preferred to listen with her eyes closed, saying it helped her to picture what was happening better. Sam only read the love poems or Mr. Bilbo’s works, knowing his sister wouldn’t be interested in the poems about battles or the struggles of Men and Elves against the Darkness.

Before she left, she fluffed up his pillows again and brushed his curls back from his face. “You should ask Miss Willow if you can get up for a bath,” she stated point-of-fact.

“And if I ask and she says no?” Sam returned. “I’m not keen on being bathed like a bairn, healer or no.”

Goldie giggled. “If it’s Rosie you’re worrit about, I’ll tell her you hated every second of it and that Miss Willow smelled like rotten eggs.”

“You’re a dear,” Sam said sardonically. “Now I’ve finished all the stitching. It’s right there in the weave basket. Go tell Gaffer I’m all right, and tell him I’m sorry to make him fret so.”

“I will. I’ll be back tomorrow if I can, but it might be later if I’m waiting on the Cottons. I know they’ll be wanting to see you as soon as they hear what happened.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him tight, straightened his bed sheets and blankets, then collected the tray and weave basket and left him with his book.

Before she left though she peeked into the parlor, where Frodo and Merry were speaking quietly. She curtsied. “Mr. Baggins, sir, I was wondering if I might have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Of course, Marigold,” Frodo said and beckoned her to have a seat. Merry left them quickly and Frodo waited until Marigold was settled in one of the high-backed cushioned chairs to continue. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“About Sam,” Goldie said. “About somewhat he said. I hope I’m not imposing or stepping out of bounds. I don’t mean no offense and Sam don’t either.”

“What about Sam?” Frodo asked, a cold thrill running down his back. Had he and Merry inadvertently been neglecting some need of Sam’s that Marigold had noticed?

“Well, I just don’t know how it is with gentlefolk and all, when they have a sick or injured one?” Marigold said.

Frodo paused, wondering if that was the question and what that had to do with Sam if it were. “I don’t follow,” he admitted.

“It’s just, Sam’s feeling just awful about keeping you from your work. He doesn’t understand why you or Mr. Merry are always about the room,” Goldie explained in a rush.

“Well, it’s customary to remain in a room with someone who is sick or injured,” Frodo said, still not understanding. After all, the age of the afflicted had no bearing on whether they should be left alone or not. “It’s considered uncouth to leave someone who is ill by himself.”

Marigold smiled with relief. “That’s what I thought it was. I knew it couldn’t be what Sam was thinking, that you didn’t trust him to be on his own acause of how it happened with his foot and all. He just doesn’t understand, see, acause we can’t exactly be stopping our work all day to sit with someone like that. A mother or older sibling will sit with a young child, but once they’re old enough to amuse themselves and call out when they need somewhat, they’re left on their own so as work can get done. Sam knows as you ain’t got no servants here, so he’s just thinking that he’s keeping you from doing what work you would be doing if he weren’t here.”

“Of course,” Frodo said, feeling chagrined for not realizing this sooner. It explained a lot. “I should have thought of that. I will talk with Sam. Thank you for bringing this to my attention Marigold.”

He escorted Goldie to the door and saw her into her wool coat. “Thank you for taking such good care of my brother, Mr. Baggins,” Goldie said. “You really are the sweetest master one could hope for. I see now why Sam is so fond of you.” She curtsied again and left.

Frodo watched her until she reached the gate, then he closed the door and went to talk with Sam.
 
 

To be continued…

Chapter 9

“So you’re courting her then?” Sam was saying to Merry when Frodo entered the room. “I wish you both the best and happiest.”

“Thank you Sam,” Merry said, looking as cheerful as the sun beaming outside. “I never would have thought this possible. Pippin’s going to be devastated that he missed this visit.”

“That he will,” agreed Frodo, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. “We’ll have to make it up to him somehow. Will you be writing your mother to let her know?”

Merry nodded. “As soon as I finish cleaning the other rooms. I’ll take the rest of the posts with me when I go. We’ll have to send the one to Pip by Quick Post if he’s to get it before tomorrow.”

“I thought I was taking the posts on my way to commission Furze for the garden,” Frodo said.

“Oh, begging your pardon Mr. Frodo but Goldie said as Daddy Twofoot could get word to him tonight,” said Sam.

“So I’ll take the posts,” Merry reiterated.

“And stop by a certain healer’s house on the way back?” teased Frodo. Merry only grinned in reply. “Very well. Get to your cleaning then, Merry-dear. I’ll let you know when tea is ready. You can go afterwards.”

Merry hopped up and disappeared down the tunnel. Frodo watched his cousin’s retreating back with a fond smile. “I suspect the next rooms won’t be quite so clean now that he has nothing gnawing at him, and more than enough reason to leave.”

Sam hummed in agreement and shifted against his pillows, making himself more comfortable. Frodo readjusted the pillows that Sam’s foot was resting on, making them more even, for they were beginning to sag to one side as Sam wiggled about. Willow had used nearly every pillow available to her to prop up Sam’s foot and it was now nearly level with the top of the foot board. When Sam was situated, Frodo regarded the box with the same odd expression he had worn the day before, resting his hand feather-soft upon it.

“Merry broke his arm once, but I don’t remember the healer in Brandy Hall putting his arm in a box. She used bandages dipped in plaster and wrapped them about the break. She had to wait for each layer to dry before she put on more. It was very messy and it seemed to take hours,” Frodo said.

“Mayhap she didn’t know about the box,” Sam suggested. “Or mayhap there ain’t a box that will fit an arm easily like this one.”

“Perhaps. Are you more comfortable now?” Frodo asked.

“Aye, it’s much better than it was.”

“Good. We’ll have to make sure the pillows don’t soften with the weight then. Did Goldie’s visit ease you? You seem much more relaxed.”

Sam smiled fondly, remembering his sister’s visit. “She’s a blossom, she is, always looking after. May always said Goldie’d spoil me soon as it was just the two of us, and she weren’t wrong.”

“She is a good sister,” Frodo agreed, coming around the bed to sit in the chair Merry had vacated. He turned it to face Sam more directly before sitting. He slunk into it casually. “She spoke with me before she left.”

Sam looked alarmed at this news. “She did? About what? She weren’t bothersome, was she, sir?”

“No, not at all. She wanted to talk about you. Or me, point of fact,” Frodo answered easily. Deciding there was no other way to broach the subject, he got right to the point. “You think I don’t trust you and that’s why we don’t leave you alone?”

Sam flushed furiously, his ease and joy sinking with him into the pillows. He silently berated himself while simultaneously trying to make himself as small as he could, with little result. He knew he should have told Marigold to keep quiet about his concerns. “She said that? I’m sorry sir, she shouldn’t have bother—”

“Yes, she said that,” Frodo interrupted gently, still sitting easily, making every effort to show Sam that he was not upset. “Is it true? You think that?”

Sam nodded miserably, dropping his gaze from Frodo’s inquiring eyes to his master’s shoulder. “I just couldn’t think of any other reason why you’d be hanging about so much. Goldie figured as you just didn’t want me to be getting lonely, and I reckon she’s got the right of it.”

“She was partly right,” Frodo admitted. “It was also because that’s just what we do, though apparently it’s only gentlehobbits who do it, never leaving someone alone who is sick or injured. And here I was thinking that the only reason you didn’t want us around was because you didn’t want your ‘betters’ looking after you. Now I find out that it’s also because you’re simply not used to it. I wish you would have told me.”

Sam’s flush deepened, both at his master’s gentle understanding and at his knowledge that Sam was still treating him as a ‘better’ in regards to his care despite promising not to. Sam had once again been caught not speaking frankly to his master, at least not in words Frodo would truly understand. “I did say the other day as you should take your rest sir, begging your pardon,” Sam muttered. “I guess maybe I ought to have spoke more plainly.”

“That would have been helpful,” Frodo said, realizing now the true meaning behind the words spoken as suggestion. At the time, Frodo had simply thought that Sam only wished for Frodo to rest that first morning since he had been up with Sam nearly the whole night before and was in much need of sleep. Now Frodo saw that Sam had meant the suggestion to last for the entirety of his stay. He knew also why Sam had stated his request as he had – it was a servant’s way of ordering his master without issuing a direct command, leaving the choice to the master to listen or not listen as he pleased. Frodo suppressed a frustrated sigh as he felt the weight of his title bearing down on him; every time that happened he felt that much more removed from his friend. He shrugged it off stubbornly, not wanting Sam to feel he had let him down yet again. The last thing he wanted to do was get into another argument.

Frodo managed a smile, which eased some of the tension from Sam’s shoulders.  He cleared his throat and suggested, “How about Merry and I use the mornings to keep the household affairs in order and in the afternoons, if you’re not resting or don’t have other company, Merry and I will attempt to keep you from getting too bored.”

“I don’t want you thinking you got to stay away, sir,” Sam said anxiously, fretting with his blanket as he regarded his master earnestly. He had not missed Frodo’s pained expression, as brief as it had been. “I just didn’t know as why you were always about, but now as I do, I won’t be so worrit about it. You don’t got to do nothing you’d rather not do. This is your home, sir, after all and it’s not for me to say where you can and can’t go.”

“You’re right. This is my home and part of being a good host is accommodating your guests, not smothering them,” Frodo insisted, sitting up now so Sam would know he was serious. “We’ll let you be. If you need something, you’ll call for us. That was the original agreement.”

Sam nodded, relief evident despite his words and regrets. “If that’s what you feel is best sir. I wouldn’t want you getting behind on things just because of me.”

“I understand, Sam. It’s been a while but I do remember what it’s like to have everyone around you worrying so much about what you might be needing that they don’t hear you when you tell them what you actually do need,” Frodo stated. “I’ll give you more time to yourself, and no offense taken. Now, I do have another letter or two I need to write myself, and then I best start on tea. Marigold brought a casserole for dinner, but I will have to see if I can find some squash to go with it. Call if you need anything. Or maybe…”

Frodo broke himself off and with a gesture to wait a moment, he left the room and went next door. Merry had cleaned Frodo’s childhood room nearly top to bottom, including the little bell of frosted glass that sat on the dresser. The bell was stenciled with violets around the bottom hoop, the flowers painted with the faintest of colors, muted further by the long years. Frodo lifted the bell gingerly and returned to Sam. He held it out for his friend to see, rang it twice, then sat it on the bedside table within Sam’s reach.

“Or give that a ring,” Frodo suggested. “Bilbo used to let me keep this when I visited. If I had a nightmare, I could just ring the bell until he woke up and came for me, rather than risk getting out of bed and wandering through the dark all alone.”

Sam fingered the little bell with an expression of sudden understanding mingled with mirth and nostalgia. “So that was it,” he muttered then elaborated. “It was just after one of your visits. I was helping to keep Mr. Bilbo company. He always used to get so lonely after you’ve gone. I left him in the parlor napping and I came into your room to play at adventures. I saw this bell which I’d never seen before and rang it just to hear what it sounded like. Next thing I know, here comes Mr. Bilbo dashing down the tunnel all affright. I always figured he was afraid I’d break it but now I’m wondering if he just didn’t let himself forget you were gone.”

Frodo laughed heartily, remembering the anecdote. “He told me about that in his next letter, and you’re right – he did forget. He felt rather foolish at first but of course he laughed about it later. And speaking of letters, I’d best get to mine. Is there anything you need before I go?” Sam shook his head. “Very well. I’ll make sure Merry doesn’t forget to clean in here.”

The rest of the day passed quickly for everyone. Merry finished his cleaning in time to help Frodo with tea, during which Frodo explained to him that they were to give Sam more time to himself. After tea, Merry left with the bundle of letters, deciding to write to his parents the following day when he had more time to sit and think of all he wanted to say. Frodo saw him to the gate, both of them noting with delight that the snow was nearly all melted. The ground was still covered in all directions but here and there patches of dirt or grass could be seen. In the distance, the Water was rushing high in its banks. Frodo smoked his pipe while he watched Merry disappear around the bend of the Hill, then turned to face the sun as it sank closer to the earth in the west.

He found Sam dozing when he went back inside and he left the gardener in quiet, opting to read in the parlor until Merry returned two hours later, red-cheeked from the cold and bouncing happily from his visit to Willow. She had been busy preparing more herbs for her various medicines and she had given Merry a lesson on the drying of flowers and plants. Then they had sat talking about their families until Merry looked outside and noticed it was nearly dark. Now he helped Frodo to warm up the casserole and bread and make a soup from the squash and lentils he had found in the pantry.

Sam was working on translating the Elvish poem, having only finished the first stanza to his own satisfaction, when they brought him dinner. He looked up gratefully for the food and drank down his medicines gamely. Then they sat and ate in comfort and played draughts for the rest of the evening.  

Sam should have known when Marigold suggested a bath to him that it wouldn’t be long before the healer would decide he needed one. When Willow arrived the following afternoon and announced the cast was dry and the box ready to be removed, she made another announcement as well. “It would be best if Sam has a bath before the box is removed. The cast should not get wet under any circumstances and the box will protect it from the water.”

Sam’s heart sank. He knew it was unlikely but he asked anyway, with the sullen regret that no amount of pouting would work on Willow. “I can get up to take a bath?”

“I’m afraid not. The bathing room is too far away and it would too risky getting you in and out of the tub at any rate,” Willow stated. “I brought a bathing pad to slide over the mattress so it doesn’t get soaked. After your bath, we can move you to a chair while the bedding is changed for fresh linens.”

“You’re going to give him a bath?” Merry asked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh at Sam’s uncomfortable position or scowl at him for it. Frodo had no such holdbacks and was attempting to hide his grin behind a concealing hand.

Willow looked at Merry keenly but patiently. “Yes I am. It’s part of my job Merry. Don’t worry, he’ll stay covered the whole time.”

“Thank the stars,” Sam said.

“A part of your job?” Merry said, not consoled. “Is it a part you have to do often?”

“There are a couple of my older patients who are bed-ridden. They usually have attendants who do such things for them,” Willow said, a small smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. “Sam however has no such attendant, so unless you’d rather bathe him yourself…?”

“No!” cried Merry and Sam as one, and Frodo quickly suppressed a chuckle.

“Very well then. I’ll need a large pitcher of warm water for the ewer, as well as soap, shampoo, a washcloth and a towel,” Willow ordered and Merry reluctantly went to retrieve them.

“Can’t I just bathe myself?” Sam suggested desperately, clutching the blanket up to his chin and holding it there for dear life. Whether it was a part of her job or not, Sam wasn’t keen on the idea of Willow cleansing him, and he was absolutely appalled at the suggestion that Merry, or Frodo, do it instead. He nearly died of embarrassment every time they had to help him on and off the bed just so he could use the chamber pot. He didn’t even want to think about how they went about emptying it.

Sam watched in growing horror as Merry returned with the requested items and Willow quickly set about preparing for the job.

“I can bathe myself, honest I can,” Sam pleaded. “It’s not a bother at all. I can reach everything and it won’t be no bother to my foot either, not with the cast and all.”

“What about your backside?” Frodo teased unhelpfully. He tried to look contrite but everyone could see the glint of humor in his eyes. Merry turned to scowl at him instead.

“I’ll manage it sir,” Sam said and hoped he wasn’t gritting his teeth when he said it.

“Tell you what Sam,” Willow said, before the situation could get any more out of control. “I’ll wash your hair, since you’ll have to hang your head over the side of the bed for that and you don’t have to be undressed for that either. Then Frodo and Merry will lift you so I can get the bathing pad under you. Then we’ll leave you be, but only with the promise that you call for one of us if you’re not able to reach anything without compromising your foot. Agreed? Do I have your word?”

Sam nodded, relief flooding his face. “I promise.”

After this was decided upon, Frodo stopped snickering long enough to help Merry move Sam so he was lying along the width of the bed. They then scooted him back so his head hung over the side and moved the pillows to prop up his ankle again, using the bedside table to keep it from hanging off the edge of the bed along with his other leg. Willow moved the ewer to just under Sam’s head, the stand being just high enough so that the edge of the ewer acted as a rest for Sam’s neck. She draped a towel over his shoulders and around his neck while Frodo selected a fresh set of clothes for Sam. Merry and Frodo made themselves scarce then, leaving Willow and Sam alone.

Sam was surprised to discover how relaxing having his hair washed could be. He could not recall a time that anyone but himself had ever washed his hair, and he could feel himself nearly falling asleep as Willow’s fingers slowly circled his scalp, working the shampoo through his hair. The warm water slowly trickling over his scalp only made him more drowsy and by the end of it, he was close to dozing. Willow didn’t seem at all surprised by this as she gently coaxed him into sitting and she waited until he was awake enough to hold himself up before she dried his hair.

She called for Frodo and Merry to return, and they helped Sam off the bed and into a chair so Willow could strip the bed and position the bathing pad, a soft absorbent fur underlined with an oilcloth, over the mattress. Then Frodo and Merry helped Sam back onto bed as Willow filled the ewer with fresh water and placed soap and a rag within easy reach. Then they left the room, closing the door behind them.

They went to the kitchen so they would be close enough to hear if Sam called for them. Frodo served them tea and set out a plate of water-biscuits with a crock of butter and jar of jam.

Merry sipped his tea, looking at Willow thoughtfully. “So, do you wash everything when you bathe your patients?” he asked. “I would think there are some things they could wash for themselves.”

“If they’re able to, certainly I allow them to do so, but some of them are not,” Willow explained patiently. “They stay covered the whole time. I never see anything.”

“You’ve never seen anything?” Merry asked pointedly.

“Well, not when I bathe them,” Willow said. The scowl was instantly back on Merry’s face. “Merry, it’s part of being a healer. It’s not always herbs and poultices. I have to examine my patients.”

“Examine? Who are you examining?”

“How long do you think it will take?” Frodo jumped in before Merry could get himself too worked up. “How long do you think it will take Sam, I mean? I can’t imagine it would be easy to bathe yourself while lying in bed, especially with that box on his foot. We probably should have insisted that you or I help him, Merry.”

“He didn’t want our help,” Merry said, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he frowned at Willow unhappily. “How many have you examined?”

Willow sighed and could only manage to look at Merry with a mixture of empathy for his feelings and regret that this subject had been brought up at all. She was about to answer when a loud eager knock sounded on the front door. Frodo answered the call and found not only Marigold on the stoop but the three eldest Cottons and Furze Smallburrows as well.

“Good day Mr. Baggins,” they all greeted warmly.

“Good day to you,” Frodo greeted back and let them in, noting ruefully that Tom and Jolly gave him as wide a berth as they could.

“How is Sam?” Rosie asked eagerly.

“He’s well. He’s taking a bath,” Frodo announced as he led the young hobbits to the kitchen.

“Oh,” Rosie replied, obviously disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to see Sam right away. “How long will he be?”

“That’s what we were just wondering,” Frodo said, gesturing for his new guests to sit at the table. “Sam only just now started bathing. He’s probably still undressing.”

“He’s up and about already then?” Tom asked as he and his friends arranged themselves around the table. He and Goldie sat on one side next to Willow, while Jolly took the head of the table and Rosie and Furze sat across from Goldie and Tom and next to Frodo. “Ol’ Twofoot made it sound like Sam could hardly stand. It must not be so bad as we were thinking if he’s in a tub already.”

“Oh, it’s bad,” Merry assured. “He can’t walk, not yet. He’s in his room bathing. We had to put a bathing pad on the bed.”

“He’s in bed?” Jolly asked, his eyebrows arching up so high they disappeared under his bangs. “That can’t be comfortable. Who’s helping him?” he asked with a glance at the healer.

“He didn’t want our help,” Merry announced. “He actually begged us not to stay.”

Goldie and the others laughed. “Sounds just like our Sam,” Tom said with a knowing wink at Jolly. The brothers stood and stepped back from the table. “Come on, Jolly. We’ll see if we can’t lend him a hand.”

“But he didn’t want any help,” Frodo said.

Jolly nodded. “Aye, and he wouldn’t, not from you, meaning no disrespect. But me, Tom and Sam and the other lads go paddling in the Pool often enough. He won’t object to us. Coming Furzy?”

Furzy shook his head. “I thought I’d take a look about the gardens, if you don’t mind Mr. Baggins,” he said.

“Of course not,” Frodo said. “I’ll go with you and show you around.”

“Then it’s just you and me, brother,” Jolly said to Tom. Then he grinned mischievously and winked at his sister.

“No,” Rosie said, reading her twin’s mind before he could say what he was thinking.

“Oh, come on, Rosie,” Jolly said. “It’ll be funny.”

“No and you’re just cruel to think it Wilcome Cotton,” Rosie said.

“Fine. I don’t need you anyway. I can do it on my own. Come along Tom. Which room is he in?” Jolly said.

“Out this doorway, four doors down on your right,” Goldie instructed, looking as confused as everyone else.

Jolly whispered in Tom’s ear as they made their way out of the kitchen. Rosie just shook her head at them and sighed. “Poor Sam,” she said as down the tunnel they suddenly heard Jolly calling out in an uncannily accurate imitation of his sister’s voice.

“Oh dear, the door’s closed. I hope he’s not asleep. Sam? Are you in there?” A soft knock was quickly followed by a yelp, two roars of laughter and something wet slamming against skin.

“You buggers!” Sam accused hotly as Tom and Jolly continued to laugh hysterically.

“Sam swears?” Merry said in surprise as the bedroom door closed, muffling the sounds of laughter.

“Oh, he cusses up a storm when he’s of the mind,” Goldie informed.

“Serves ‘em right,” Rosie said, not at all surprised by Sam’s outburst.

“That’s actually one of his kindlier ones,” Furzy stated.

Rosie shook her head again and stood herself. “Well, we might as well make ourselves useful while we wait, Goldie. Do you mind if we take over your pantries and kitchen Mr. Baggins? We’ll get dinner started and make tea while we’re at it.”

“Make yourselves at home, lasses,” Frodo said and gestured for Furzy to follow him outside. “I couldn’t tell you what Sam was planning to do next but maybe you could figure it out just looking at the grounds. You could always ask him too of course.” A few moments later, the front door opened and closed behind them.

Goldie and Rosie headed for the pantries. “I’ll help you lasses,” Willow offered and followed them back down the tunnel as more laughter erupted from the bedroom.

“That’s fine, everyone,” Merry said to no one. “I’ll just go in the study and write that letter to my parents.” He took the tea and food with him to the study, making himself scarce before the lasses could return.  

After Sam finished regaling his cousins with words not fit to repeat in polite company, Tom and Jolly helped him out of the rest of his clothes then settled themselves on the floor to play a game of draughts while Sam bathed. They helped only when Sam needed it, being otherwise content to sit and concentrate on the board game while they told Sam about all the rumors already running rampant about his unfortunate condition.

“I heard it from Farmer Noakes this morning that you actually might lose your leg,” Jolly said with a sad, exaggerated shake of his head. “Noakes has a cousin lives down Waymeet way and he has a peg leg. It’s his second peg leg, if you believe what Noakes says. According to him, his cousin’s first leg was infested with termites and it up and disappeared on him in the middle of the night one night. ‘Tis a tragedy.”

“His cousin’s half-blind too,” Tom added. “I reckon he just mistook his leg for firewood.”

Sam laughed at that. “I reckon you’re right about that, if he’s half as blind as Noakes is getting to be. Is that the worst of it?”

“From what I’ve heard so far,” Tom said. “Give folk for another couple of days. They’ll have you paralyzed and atrophied.”

“Does Noakes have a cousin who’s paralyzed?” Sam asked with a chuckle.

“I’m sure he’ll remember one,” Jolly said with a wink and a grin. “He’s got cousins with all sorts of ailments. Bad luck just seems to take a liking to some families better’n others.”

After Sam finished bathing, the brothers helped him out of bed and steadied him as he toweled himself dry and slipped into the clothes Frodo had set aside. Then they removed the bathing pad from the bed and dressed the mattress in fresh linens, cleaned up the room and helped Sam back into bed. Jolly took the ewer and bathing pad outside to pour the water over the grass and lay out the pad to dry in the sun. As he went, he let Goldie and Rosie know that Sam was ready to receive them. When the lasses came to a stopping point in their cooking, they washed their hands and went to join the lads in the room. Rosie and Goldie greeted Sam with a kiss on either cheek, Goldie automatically reaching for the hair brush to pull through Sam’s damp curls.

Willow unclasped the box and opened the lid to reveal a perfectly molded cast covering all but the toes of Sam’s feet and coming up his leg to just below the knee. Tom lifted Sam’s leg so Willow could slide out the bottom half of the box.

“All that for an ankle?” Tom said, warily eyeing the cast up and down.

“Can we draw on it?” Jolly asked.

“Is it heavy?” Rosie asked.

“Tisn’t heavy at all,” Tom answered, placing the foot back onto the pillows as Frodo, Merry and Furzy entered. “Though I reckon it’s heavier for Sam than it is for me.”

Sam agreed. “It’s not as heavy as it was with the box, but it’s still heavy. I’d say about the weight of a small bag of oats.”

“Only that?” asked Furzy and Sam’s face lit up to see another friend. They hugged briefly. “With all you must have to haul about the garden to keep it looking as grand as it does, one little bag of oats shouldn’t be too much for you.”

“So you’re going to do it?” Sam asked. “You’re going to take over for me?”

Furzy nodded. “I’ll need help I’m sure, at least during the planting season as is coming up real quick, but I’ll manage it. I just need you to give me an idea on what all you do and when you do it. I ain’t no green thumb like you Sam. I can’t feel my way through it.”

“Can you stay long today? I’ll tell you what all needs to be done through the early spring. It’s a lot but it shouldn’t be too hard for you to remember. I could jot it down for you even, if you like. You could always find someone to read the instructions for you if you think you’ve forgotten anything.”

Furzy nodded. “That’ll do.”

“Sam,” Willow said, regaining everyone’s attention. “You are still not to move this leg, not for another four days. At that time, I’ll come back to check on your progress and get you into a pair of crutches.” She turned to Frodo and addressed him. “I’ll leave the box and bathing pad here, so you can use them the next time he has to bathe.”

Frodo nodded. “Very well. As for the crutches, I believe there is a pair in the mathom room. They were used once by Bilbo’s father and they should be serviceable enough.”

“Only if they fit him,” Willow said. “If they’re too tall or short, we’ll have to find a way to make them fit or get him his own pair.”

“What if they have termites?” Jolly asked. Tom and Sam snickered, and Rosie lightly cuffed Jolly on the shoulder.

“Then we’ll definitely have to get him his own pair,” Willow said, amused. “Either way, I’ll be back up to examine him before he can get on his feet.”

“So, once I can use the crutches and get up and about, can I go home?” Sam asked. “Daddy’s got a trap we can use and I know Gaffer will be happier once I’m home again.”

Willow considered the request for a few minutes before answering, “We’ll see. I want to see how you manage the crutches first before anything of the sort is attempted. I’ll leave your master with enough medicaments to last the next few days. I’ll see you on Hensday Sam.”

“Hensday?” Merry echoed and followed Willow from the room.

Frodo turned to Sam and his friends. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll see to the rest of it,” he said. “Have a rest and visit with Sam. That is why you came. I’ll bring in more chairs for everyone to sit.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Baggins. We only need three more,” Tom offered and followed Frodo to the kitchen.

“I better make sure he knows what to do with the cooking,” Goldie said and left also.

Furzy and Jolly sat, and Jolly eyed Sam’s cast with longing, already thinking of the things he could draw on it. Rosie stood beside the bed and patted Sam’s arm. “You poor dear,” she said. “You must be anxious to get that cast off and back on your feet again. Does your foot still hurt?”

“Not anymore, but I think the waiting and being patient is going to be worse than the pain ever was,” Sam admitted. “But I have to do as the healer says. I’ll just be glad when I’m not here bothering Mr. Frodo no more.”

“Well, there’s nothing as can be done about that right now,” Rosie said sensibly. “Besides, the way I see it, it’s just as much his job to take care of you as it is for you to take care of him. Masters have to look after those in their service and from what all you’ve told us about Mr. Baggins, I don’t think he would consider this a burden to him. Does he?”

“No,” Sam said. “It’s just, well…”

“He’s your master,” Jolly supplied and Sam nodded. “I guess that makes sense. I wouldn’t much know about that myself, being as my master’s my pa and he has to take care of us. Ma won’t let him do otherwise.”

This earned Jolly another laugh from his friends, Rosie especially. “Yes, Jolly, he has to, even you.”

“Don’t be jealous just because I’m his favorite.”

“You wish. I’m his favorite,” Rosie said. “Fathers favor daughters.”

“No, actually, he told me just last night that I’m his favorite,” Jolly replied.

“You’re both wrong,” Tom said, coming back with the chairs, Goldie trailing behind him. “I’m his favorite ‘cause I’m his first. Parents always like their firstborns most. Everyone knows that.” He set the chairs down and everyone else took a seat.

“I have it on good authority that parents prefer their youngest children,” Goldie said, “so me and Sam are Gaffer’s favorites.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Tom said, grinning sweetly at Goldie.

“Tom please, we’re going to have to eat soon. Don’t go making us nauseous,” Furzy said, earning him a laugh from everyone, including Tom.

Rosie waited until the laughter died down then reached into her dress pocket and brought out a small box made of cherry wood, a white rose painted on the lid. She handed it to Sam. “Here you are, Sam. We got you this.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“It’s a box,” Jolly informed.

“What’s inside it?”

“Open it and find out,” Tom said.

Sam fingered the lid and admired the skill that went into making the box before lifting the lid. Inside, he found a small handful of seeds resting on a soft cushion of blue cotton. He looked at his friends questioningly. “What sort of seeds are these?”

“Late-blooming flowers, acanthus I think it’s called,” Rose answered. “They blossom ‘round late summer, just about the time you’ll be getting back to your duties regular-like. Furzy’s going to plant them here for you in the side garden with the other perennials. Mr. Baggins has already given his permission.”

Sam grinned happily at his friends, feeling his chest tighten as tears threatened. Their simple gesture of faith that all will go well for him meant more to him than he could ever say. He held his tears back, tightening his hold on the box in his effort to control his emotions, and simply nodded with appreciation. “Thank you, everyone. This is wonderful, truly.”

“It’s was my idea,” Jolly said and ducked just in time to miss another light tap from his sister. “Rosie helped with getting the seeds.” Tom cleared his throat. “Oh, and Tom made the box but I painted it.”

“Thank you,” Sam said again and gestured for Furzy to take the box. He shifted to make himself more comfortable and Rosie stood briefly to fluff up his pillows. When he was settled, he regarded each of his friends with fondness. “So, what all has everyone been doing?”

Tom shrugged. “Just the usual. Pa’s getting things ready for the sowing and Ma’s putting together her annual feast for the Clearing. She says there’s naught better to celebrate than seeing the stars again after so long a winter. Nick and Nibs are staying with Aunt Rose and Uncle Jasper for a spell, to keep ‘em company and help fix up the roof in that barn that’s leaking.”

Jolly grinned, and his siblings grinned back knowingly. They loved their younger brothers but having them out of the house was a relief. “Course,” Jolly said now, “that ain’t the only reason for them being off with Aunty and Uncle. As if it weren’t bad enough when Nick was just clumsy and Nibs just followed him about with his thumb in his mouth, they’re turning into right terrors they are.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam laughed. “You’re as good a terror as I ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few!”

“I ain’t,” Jolly defended.

“You’re not?” Furzy said, feigning confusion. He scratched the side of his head as one in deep thought. “Then it must of been someone else who put those worms in Missus Cartwright’s straw hat last summer.”

Rosie snickered. “And it must’ve been some other lad who rigged that bucket of flour over the door so’s it would tip over on Mr. Scruttle.”

“And it couldn’t of been you then,” said Sam, joining in, “who switched the salt and sugar last time you were at Number Three.”

Jolly beamed with pride at mention of his successful tricks but he did not relent on his earlier point. “I’m a tame buck compared to what Nick thinks up. Worse yet, he’s still clumsy, so when he fouls something up he really fouls it up. I fear for my safety.”

“As you should,” Sam said, pretending to admonish his cousin. “You’ve played plenty of jokes on your younger siblings over the years and they’re looking to get some payback if I guess aright.”

Goldie sat quietly beside Sam, smiling with the others at their reminiscing but with a look of growing bafflement. “I just don’t understand it,” she admitted at last. “I don’t understand all the pranking lads do. It sounds exhausting to me and that trick with the sugar and salt weren’t very nice. I’m glad Gamgees have more sense than to go about tricking each other.”

“Gamgees aren’t so quaint and proper either,” Rosie laughed. “Fred’s pulled his share of trouble while he was here and pulled even more when he moved off to Northfarthing or so I hear.”

“Ham never did such,” Goldie pointed out, “and if Sam ever did, it was only at the bidding of Mr. Baggins.”

“Hold on now,” Sam said. “Give me some credit. It weren’t always Mr. Frodo’s doing.”

“Yes, Goldie, we mustn’t discount Sam,” Tom agreed sagely. He was, after all, Sam’s very best friend and he knew the gardener better than anyone. “He’s game enough for most jokes and when he does come up with his own, they’re right brilliant.”

Furzy nodded eagerly, remembering one such prank. It was a tale that was well known amongst their small group of friends and it could even been heard whispered in the fields on warm summer days when working lads were resting from their toil. “There was that trick he played on Mr. Lotho a couple of years back. It was simple enough but it worked wonders. You see, Sam sent Robin and Tom to distract him. They pretended to not notice they was going on Mistress Lobelia’s property and it was easy enough to distract him when he saw them about to step all over the geraniums. While they were about keeping Mr. Lotho company, Sam put some sacred bark in his tea glass, slipping in and out of the garden without a hitch. At Sam’s signal, Tom and Robin ran away and Mr. Lotho just went back to his drinking and scowling. He never noticed nothing different about the tea but he was jumping up to use the privy every twenty minutes after that all the same. And he never once figured that Tom and Robin had aught to do with it. How could they have when he was yelling at them the whole while?”

“Sam!” Goldie admonished. “Why ever would you do such a thing? And to gentry?”

“He insulted you,” Sam said, “and said a bunch of things that you oughtn’t never hear about. I weren’t going to let him get away with that but I couldn’t very well say aught to him direct either. So I just watched him from a distance for a couple of days and noticed that he always took his tea outside in the garden, and I figured out what to do from there.”

“But that isn’t even the best part,” Tom said, his eyes gleaming proudly with mischief remembered. “Sam waited until the last day of Mr. Lotho’s visit. He was leaving back to his plantation in Southfarthing that very night, and Sam dosed him with enough cascara to last ‘til morning.”

“Our hero,” Furzy said and the lads erupted with laughter.

Soon the lasses were joining in, Goldie glowing with pride for her great protector. When the laughter ebbed and everyone was drying the tears from their eyes, Goldie said with mild seriousness, “You could of just told Mr. Frodo about what Mr. Lotho said.”

“He did find out a few days after Mr. Lotho left,” Sam said. “Seems Mr. Porto overhead Mr. Lotho talking with Ted about it – and it was Ted as told it to us – and Mr. Porto told Mr. Frodo. He were fuming when he heard about it and he wrote Mr. Lotho right quick, telling him he better never set foot near you again.”

“What he said couldn’t of been that bad,” Goldie said.

“Maybe not if it had been someone else who said, and if they have been kindly about it,” Jolly said, “but as it were him, well…”

He trailed off and the other lads kept quiet. She turned to Tom next. “And what did you do to protect my honor? Did you think up anything of your own?”

“No,” Tom answered. At Goldie’s pout, he stammered, “Well, we weren’t exactly courtin’ at the time, and Sam’s idea worked wonderfully, so…”

“You didn’t do anything?”

“Tell you what,” Tom said, recovering smoothly. “I’ll ride down to Sackville and box him in the nose right now if you want me to.”

Goldie smiled prettily at that and reached out to pat Tom’s hand. “I don’t want you getting into trouble just because of me.”

“‘Just because of you’ is reason enough for me,” Tom replied, just as sweetly.

Jolly gagged. “That’s it. I’m nauseous.”

“Good. More food for us,” Rosie said and everyone laughed again.

Sam’s friends stayed through tea and dinner, which Rosie and Goldie retrieved and served so Frodo wouldn’t have to. They ate, crowded into Sam’s little room, and laughed through the meals and all the time in between as they shared various anecdotes or teased each other softly.

Frodo and Merry took their tea in the parlor, reading and listening to the laughter coming from Sam’s room. For dinner, they ate in the kitchen and wondered what the friends were laughing about, knowing that if they entered the room, the friends would sober. For the first time they could remember, they felt out of place in Bag End.

“We’ll never be that close with Sam, will we,” Merry stated and Frodo didn’t have to answer. They both already knew the truth.

To be continued…

Chapter 10

Four days was not a long time for a hobbit kept busy with the daily requirements of living. For such a hobbit, there never seemed to be enough time to finish everything that needed doing. From rising in the morning for a large first breakfast that will sustain him through his work until luncheon, to stopping from his toil for a cup of tea and then cleaning up his work and putting his tools away to head home for dinner, the hours passed so quickly as to be disbelieved.

But for a hobbit bound to bed, the time stretched indefinitely. The hours between sunrise and sunset, determined only by the play of sunlight on the walls and floor across the tunnel spied through the open doorway, grew so long that Sam almost thought the hours themselves had doubled in length. He longed to get up, to move about, to go across the tunnel and soak in the sunlight. Instead, he spent the hours quietly reading, or writing, or working on the translation Frodo had given him, or whittling gifts from carving blocks for his friends and master. This helped the time to move more quickly, even if the hands on the clock did not move as fast as he would have preferred.

Having visitors helped. The Cottons returned the following morning, having stayed the night at Number Three, but they could only stay through first breakfast before having to return home. They were unable to come back again while Sam was at Bag End. Finch Fernbrook came that afternoon for a couple of hours and he added to the artwork that Jolly had started on Sam’s cast. Furzy began work in the garden the following day and with him came his brother Alden. They took their breaks with Sam, both to keep him company and to get his advice on what else needed doing in the garden; spring was coming up quick and the beds needed to be prepared. Marigold came every afternoon after luncheon and usually stayed through tea, before she had to go home and prepare dinner for the Gaffer. On the sixth day of Sam’s convalescence, she was late in arriving.

“I’m sure she’s well,” Frodo assured a fretting Sam.

“She’s late,” Sam could only say.

He was not worried that something amiss had happened to his sister, though he did wonder at the delay. She must be busy with a hundred different things, what with Sam not being there to help and the Gaffer still hobbling about with his arthritis. She had reported yesterday, after Furze and Alden returned to the garden, that Gaffer was getting up and down more easily now that the weather was beginning to warm again, and he could move around the smial without too much trouble, but she worried that she wasn’t as good at rubbing the ointment into his joints as Sam was. Sam couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt upon hearing that. It made him yearn all the more to be home, to be able to help, to be able to do anything.

“Maybe she won’t be able to come today,” Sam said lightly, feeling the full weight of his isolation as never before. He had come to rely on his sister’s visits but he knew she wouldn’t always be able to come. She must be getting further and further behind on the household chores with every hour she spent at Bag End, help from the neighbors or not.

“Maybe,” Frodo agreed. “I could go and make certain that everything is well, if you like.”

Sam paused, weighing this option. It was kind of his master to offer, but Sam could well imagine the look on Goldie’s face to find the Master of the Hill on the stoop of Number Three, asking why she hadn’t come to see her brother yet. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I’m sure everything is fine.”

“I could send Merry,” Frodo suggested next but before Sam could decline, the bell ran in the entrance hall. “That must be her now. Merry!”

“I got it!” Merry called from the kitchen. Moments later, the door opened and closed in silence, and silence filled the smial as Frodo and Sam strained their ears for any sound of their guest.

“Merry?” Frodo called again, standing up. He moved toward the bedroom door but only took two steps when the Gaffer entered the room, followed by Marigold. Merry stayed just outside the door.

“Dad!” Sam exclaimed, joy and relief flooding over his face.

When Hamfast entered the room, he was hunched over and straining to move, breathing shallowly from his long, slow walk up the Hill. At the sight of his son, his face brightened into a smile as full of love and relief as his son’s. He straightened to his full height and walked toward his son like a hobbit twenty years younger.

Frodo circled the Gaffer and Goldie and watched with Merry at the doorway as Hamfast leaned over the bed and embraced his son for a long, lingering, reassuring hug. No one noticed when Frodo closed the door behind him, leaving the family in private reunion.

“There’s my good lad,” Hamfast mumbled into Sam’s ear. “Darn bones kept me from coming sooner. Worst time for a snow storm if you ask me.” He turned his head and kissed Sam’s temple.

“I know, Dad,” said Sam. “I know.” He squeezed his father tighter for a brief moment before releasing him.

Hamfast stood back and stared long into his son’s eyes, wanting to be sure that Sam really was fine as Goldie had been telling him. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he patted Sam’s hand and sat in the chair that Goldie brought him, close to Sam’s side. Goldie sat next to him.

“You never stop causing me grief, lad,” Hamfast said. “I told you not to be a coming up here that day, the garden will be fine without you. Maybe next time you’ll listen to an old hobbit. Has Mr. Baggins been doing right by you?”

“Aye sir.”

“You best not be causing him no grief.”

“No sir. I’m being good.”

Hamfast patted his hand again, then sat back fully in the chair, exhausted by his walk. The healer had told him to stay home, that he shouldn’t be exerting himself like that just yet, that Sam would likely be home in just a few more days, but he was impatient to see his son. Six days his son has been lying up here injured, alone except for his master and his master’s cousin. He didn’t doubt that Frodo was giving all care to Sam, but Frodo wasn’t family.

“Are you all right Dad?” Sam asked with concern, seeing the fatigue on his father’s lined face.

“Aye, I am now,” Gaffer mumbled and looked at Sam sharply. “Being good, are you? You doing as Miss Willow says and keeping put?”

“Yes sir. I haven’t flexed a toe,” Sam said and pointed to his cast.

Hamfast looked at the cast and shook his head. “Clumsy-looking thing, if you ask me. That’s supposed to make your foot better?”

“It don’t hurt no more,” Sam said. “The medicines help too, though the one is fouler than anything I’ve ever tasted afore.”

“Aye, healers and their tonics,” Gaffer said. “You think they’d find a way of making them more drinkable.”

“It’s drinkable enough and I only have to take it twice a day now,” Sam assured.

“That’s a relief,” Goldie said. “And Miss Camellia is due back tomorrow. Maybe after she takes a look at you, you won’t have to drink that juice at all anymore. You’re healthy enough.”

“Hardly never been sick a day in your life,” Hamfast said proudly. “Mayhap you should speak to Miss Willow instead though, as she’s the one caring for you. Miss Camellia can only advise her what to do. It’s up to Miss Willow to decide if that’s what’s best for you.”

“She ain’t coming back till the day after tomorrow,” Sam said of Willow. “She’ll decide then if I can go home or not.”

“Daddy’s already said we can use his trap to cart you home,” Hamfast informed. “We went to the post messengers and had them jot down a letter to Fred that we might not be able to come up until the cast is off your foot, but Miss Willow said if the trap ride down the Hill goes well enough and doesn’t aggravate nothing, you could come with us as early as next week. She could send instructions up with us for the local healer there. She already sent the healer a letter saying you’ll be coming.”

“She has?” Sam asked, surprised by this development.

“Just yesterday,” Goldie explained. “She was there at the post master’s office when I arrived, after leaving here. Harman was there too; he and Daisy will be by tomorrow with little Bell. The lass has been wanting to see her Uncle Sam.”

“She’s got it in her head that she can make you all better,” Hamfast said, already beaming at the thought of seeing his granddaughter again.

“How’s she going to manage that?” Sam asked, grinning to see his father so happy.

“That’s to be found out tomorrow I reckon,” Hamfast said. He noticed the bedside table then, littered with all of Sam’s various projects. “Now, what’s all this nonsense you’re working on?”

So Sam showed him the carvings he had finished so far: a rose blossom for Rosie, a dove for Tom, and a duckling for Jolly. He was working now on a furze blossom for Furzy and next planned to carve a colt for Merry and an eagle for Frodo. He wouldn’t say what he had made for Goldie, but he had the fawn tucked away safe inside the table drawer. Then he showed them the poem he was translating. He had only managed two stanzas so far and he read them tentatively to his audience.

“I’m not sure how accurate that is,” Sam said when he finished. “Probably not very. Mr. Frodo will have to do it all over again most like.”

“Sounds like twaddle to me, either way,” Hamfast said. “Dragons and cities of elves.”

“Sounds exciting,” Goldie said. “What about that poem you’re writing for Rosie?”

Sam blushed and put his writing aside. “I’m still working on it.”

“You better finish it, if you want to have it ready for your birthday,” Gaffer said.

“If we go to Fred’s I likely won’t be here for my birthday,” Sam pointed out. “I can keep working on it till Rosie’s birthday then.”

“Well, read us what you have so far,” Goldie suggested. “We can tell you if it’s any good or not.”

Sam blushed further and shook his head. “It’s for Rosie.”

“Not if you never give it to her.”

“I’ll give it to her,” Sam insisted, “when it’s ready.”

“Leave him alone, lass. It ain’t easy for a lad to figure out something that’ll impress his lass,” Hamfast said.

“All the more reason he should read it to us,” Goldie said. “I am Rosie’s best friend after all, and a lass myself. I’ll know if it’s something Rosie’ll like.”

Sam shook his head again. “It’s for Rosie.”

“She’s just going to read it to me anyway,” Goldie pointed out.

“Then you can hear it then,” replied Sam.

“What sorts of things would you do to impress Ma while you were courting, Gaffer?” Goldie asked now.

“Just the usual,” Hamfast replied. “Brought her flowers or candies, took her to socials if any were being held while I was in Tighfield visiting, took her on picnics. I’d buy her hair clips when I had the extra coin or could work it off somehow and send them off to her. I made her a keepsakes box one Yule, for all her little earrings and whatnot. That’s the one your sister May has now.”

“Did she ever do anything for you?” Sam asked.

“Aye, she didn’t send ‘em back,” Hamfast laughed. Long-distance courtships were common in the Shire, particularly among the working class, but they did not always last to see a marriage. Lasses or lads sometimes found a suitor closer to home and the accepted way of letting the old suitor know this was to return any gifts of courtship.

“She never got you nothing?” Goldie asked.

“She’d make me things, like hats or sweaters and the like and send those on to me when she could afford the post or find someone as was traveling this way,” Hamfast said.

“Like that hat you gave me at your last birthday,” Sam said and Hamfast nodded.

“Maybe I should make Tom a hat,” Goldie pondered. “Do you think he’d like a hat Sam? See how I ask you what he would like?”

“I’m not reading you the poem Goldie,” Sam said with a chuckle, “and yes, he’d fancy a hat to keep the sun out of his eyes.” Goldie pouted and Sam laughed harder. “That won’t work this time, lass.”

“Daddy,” Goldie complained and pouted at her father.

Hamfast grumbled something under his breath about manipulating children and stood with a wince. “I’d better check what all Furze and Alden are doing with the garden,” he said and escaped before he could give in to his daughter.

Goldie huffed disappointedly at her failed plan. She looked at her brother with arms crossed. “Boar,” she accused.

“Brat,” he returned.

“Mule.”

“Tease.”

“Goose.”

“Pest.”

Goldie laughed and swatted her brother’s arm. “Write me a poem then,” she ordered.

“Oh, well that’s easy enough,” Sam said and thought for a moment before laughing. “There once was a lass named Marigold, who was quite pretty or so it’s told, but her voice was shrill and her personality nil, and she lived alone till she was very old.”

Goldie gawked at Sam when she wasn’t bent over with laughter. “You’re horrible Sam!” she said at last and got her revenge by tickling him mercilessly. He tickled her back and soon they were both laughing uncontrollably, slumped on the bed with tears streaming down their eyes.

A light tap sounded on the door and Frodo peeked inside. “Is everything all right in here?” he asked, looking at them with curious amusement.

“She called me a boar,” Sam said, pointing at Goldie, who was lying against his side.

“He said I was shrill,” Goldie said, giggling still.

“Very well,” Frodo said, smiling at the siblings. “Are either of you getting hungry? Merry finally cleaned out the oven this morning, so I made apple crumble and cinnamon rolls. I’m sure the healer wouldn’t protest if you have a small serving of each, Sam.”

“That’d be right wonderful, Mr. Frodo, thank you,” Sam said. He waited until Frodo was gone and the door was closed before draping an arm around Marigold and hugging her briefly. A moment later, he was tickling her again.

She shrieked and wiggled out of his grasp, escaping across the room. “You’re insufferable Sam,” she accused breathlessly. “You think about that while I go help Mr. Baggins serve.”

Merry was kind enough to share his treats with everyone, and he called Furzy, Alden and Hamfast inside so they too could sample the delectables. They were served in Sam’s room so they could visit while they ate, then Furzy and Alden returned outside. Hamfast and Goldie left early, needing the extra time to make their way back down the Hill. They kissed Sam good-bye and Goldie promised to return tomorrow with Daisy and her family.

Before they left though, Hamfast wanted a word with Frodo. Goldie waited outside, chatting with Furzy and Alden while Hamfast sought Frodo out in the study. He stood in the study door, twisting his hands together, and cleared his throat. “Mr. Baggins sir, if I could take but a moment of your time?” he asked.

“Of course,” Frodo said and closed his ledgers. He took Hamfast to the parlor, where he knew the old gardener would feel more comfortable, and indicated he should sit down. When they were both settled comfortably, he asked, “What do you wish to speak about?”

“I just wanted to be thanking you for looking after my Sam and being so kind to him and all,” Hamfast said, appreciation brimming in his eyes and filling his voice. “You’re a proper hobbit, I’ve always said, and you’d do Mr. Bilbo proud if he were here to see you.”

“Thank you Master Hamfast,” Frodo said, swelling with pride and warmth at the praise. “That means a great deal coming from you. I’m glad to do all that I can to help Sam. I am very fond of him.”

“As he is you,” Hamfast replied. “You do a lot for us folk and you never ask for naught in return. You could of sent Sam home to us a long time ago, never mind what the healer said, but you didn’t and I thank you for it. But I won’t take advantage. You’ve used a good deal of your food and all taking care of Sam and I know the healer ain’t cheap…”

“Master Hamfast, you needn’t worry about any of that,” Frodo said, seeing where this was going and hoping to put a stop to it now before the conversation could go any further. “Sam fell on my property, in his duty to me. The costs belong to me alone and I am happy to pay them. I seek no repayment, nor do I require any.”

“That’s right kind of you to say sir, but he’s my son.”

“And he’s my employee,” Frodo insisted gently. “As his master, it is my responsibility to look after his welfare, and I intend to do so. I will keep Sam here until Miss Willow releases him to go home. I will continue to pay her fees for as long as Sam requires her services, as well as the Northfarthing healer. I have directed Willow to send all bills to me directly, and I will send a small purse with you when you leave for Little Smithy to pay for the healer there. That is how it will be.”

Hamfast was on the verge of arguing but upon seeing the Master’s determination and obduracy he knew he would not be able to win an argument. He bowed his head in acceptance of the offer, relief mingling with pride. While he was glad that he wouldn’t have to worry about the expense, he still wanted to find some way to repay Mr. Baggins for his hospitality. Perhaps a couple of kegs of ale and a sack of potatoes on his next birthday would do the trick. “Thank you, Mr. Baggins. You’re a proper hobbit, as I said afore.”

“And thank you Master Hamfast. Your son has been a joy to me in more ways than I could count. It’s an honor to return the favor to him now,” Frodo said.  

The following day brought Goldie earlier than normal, just after elevenses. Not more than a half-moment passed after Frodo answered the door than little Bell was giggling and craning her neck as she peered around the unfamiliar smial in search of her favorite uncle. “Unc’ Sam!” she called as she squirmed against her father’s arms. Harman tightened his grip on the faunt and urged her to maintain her voice.

“I’m sorry Mr. Baggins,” he apologized as she continued to squirm. “She’s been that eager to come see Sam all mornin’.”

“You don’t mind us coming early, do you sir?” Daisy asked, her hands full with a picnic basket. “We figured it’d be better to bring her now than keep making her wait.”

Frodo looked at the wiggling little lass and smiled at her beaming face. She was the spitting image of her Aunt Marigold, who was said to look the most like her mother of all the Gamgee children. Both lasses had inherited many of the late Bell's comely features, including her round face and full cheekbones. Little Bell had her mother’s caramel-colored curls and slender nose and her father’s grey eyes and dimpled chin. Bell giggled at Frodo. “Hi!” she cried happily.

“Hello, little miss,” Frodo said, grinning like a fool but not able to care.

Merry joined them then and Bell greeted him also. “Well aren’t you the cutest little thing?” Merry cooed.

“Yes,” Bell agreed, making everyone laugh. “Where Unc’ Sam? He play peek-boo?”

Frodo nodded with as much seriousness as he could muster. “He is. He hid just as you got here. He’s waiting for you to find him.”

“Go, Daddy!” Bell cried, bouncing on her father’s hip and leaning toward the tunnel, her arms outstretched. She made grabbing motions with her chubby hands. “Peek-boo, Unc’ Sam!”

“Which door is it?” Daisy asked Frodo.

“I’ll show you,” Goldie said and led them to Sam’s room.

There was no surprise this time, for Sam couldn’t possibly miss the cries of his excitable niece. He was sitting up and waiting eagerly to receive his guests, and after the hellos, hugs and kisses, Bell was plopped onto his lap. She turned her head to look at the cast on his foot and giggled, pointing. “Your foot is hiding,” she said. She crawled forward to get a better look. “Peek-boo! I see your toes.”

“Careful, Bell,” Daisy said gently, picking up her faunt and turning her about. “Your Uncle Sam hurt his foot and it will only get better if it’s not bothered, so don’t go touching, understand.”

“Yes Mama,” Bell said and cuddled into the crook of Sam’s arm to listen to his heartbeat. “It’s loud,” she announced.

“It’s happy to see you,” Sam said. “It gets louder when it’s happy.”

“I make it happy?” Bell said.

“You do at that,” Sam said, resting a hand on Bell’s curly head, and beamed up at his sister and brother-in-law. “How are things on the farm?”

“They’re good,” Harman said and looked at his wife meaningfully. She nodded and he continued. “In fact, Daisy and I were talkin’, and if it ends up that you can’t garden no more, we could use an extra hand about the farm to help tend the geese and make the pillows and quills and such.”

“Gaffer explained everything to us this morning,” Daisy said. “It’s not so bad as we were hearing, but we know it can’t be easy for you to be a wondering what’ll come of you if worse comes to worst. How are you holding up with things?”

“Better,” Sam said with a shrug. “If I end up crippled, then I end up crippled. Nothing much I can do about it really, except do as Miss Willow says and hope for the best. I appreciate the offer, more’n I can say. You’re close enough that I could still stay at Number Three with Gaffer and Goldie, though I’ll likely have to find a pony to make the journey if my foot winds up being bothersome.”

“You could use our pony,” Harman said, “and stable it with Daddy’s.”

Sam nodded. That was sensible enough, since his brother-in-law didn’t require the pony to be on the farm during the night. “That sounds like a plan. I could offer to help tend Daddy’s beast to cover the cost of any feed he has to give for sheltering your pony,” he mused aloud. It was the best plan he had heard so far and he would certainly take them up on it if it came to that. “Thank you Harm, Daisy. That’s a load off my mind.”

“Anything to help, little brother,” Daisy said. “If you end up being fine, then maybe we could talk Furzy into coming over after he’s finished helping you here. In the meantime, we get day workers coming by often enough, looking for work. We were considering taking one of them on permanent, when we heard about your accident.”

Bell listened attentively to all this and when her mother stopped talking she looked up at Sam seriously. “Unc’ Sam will take Peanut?” Bell said of the pony, that being the only part of the conversation she really understood or cared about. “You take good care of Peanut.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam agreed. “I wouldn’t never do aught to hurt your pony, have no fear of that, lass.”

They visited through luncheon, which they had brought with them in the basket. Frodo might not want repayment for his expenses in taking care of Sam but that didn’t mean they had to eat any more of his food than was necessary. They had bread, cheese and the last of the winter berries, as well as a jug of warm tea. Sam fed Bell from his plate, then showed the lass the wood sculptures he had finished whittling. She played with them for the rest of their visit while Sam spoke with his eldest sister, his surrogate mother in many ways, and learned everything that was happening on and around the farm. They stayed for just over an hour after luncheon before they had to go, and then Sam was alone again.

When Frodo checked on him an hour later, Sam was staring with blank puzzlement at a piece of parchment that was laid out on the dinner tray, the edges of the yellowed parchment curling inward. Sam looked up when Frodo entered the room and sighed. “Mr. Frodo, can I ask you for some advice sir, if you have the time?”

“Of course you may, Sam. What do you need?” Frodo asked.

“How do you write a poem?”

“Haven’t you written poems before?” Frodo asked, being fairly certain that Bilbo used to make Sam write poems as part of his lessons.

“Aye sir, but they were always silly, nonsense things. How do you write a real poem, like the elves do?” Sam asked. “I’m writing this poem for Rosie, see, but it’s not very good.”

Frodo sat at the foot of the bed and considered the question. “Well, you should write from your heart, that’s always the most important thing,” Frodo suggested. “Don’t worry about making it rhyme, not at first. Just write what you want to say. If it helps, you can try writing a letter instead. Then you can go back and put the key points into meter. Whether it’s four lines or forty, she’ll love it, so don’t fret about the length either. So long as it carries your deepest and truest intentions, that’s all that matters.”

Sam nodded, looking at his parchment with renewed determination. “Thank you sir.” Frodo was about to leave when Sam spoke again. “Could you maybe, if you want, if you don’t mind, could you maybe take a look at it afore I give it to her?”

“If you want to me, certainly I would be glad to,” Frodo accepted. “Just let me know when.”

Sam nodded again, dipping the quill and pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment. “I will. Thank you Mr. Frodo.”  

Willow arrived early the following morning, just after first breakfast. Merry was washing the morning dishes when she knocked upon the door. Since Frodo was in his room, having just awoken, Merry set the pan he was scrubbing back into the washbasin and answered the door. He was surprised and delighted when he saw Willow standing on the stoop.

“Good morning, Willow,” Merry said, letting her in and taking her jacket. While the days were warmer, the mornings were still chill and jackets were carried if not worn in case of a sudden turn in the weather. “I didn’t think to see you until closer to noon or after.”

“I figured I’d check on Sam first thing. If he is well enough to go home, there’s no reason to delay his father from retrieving him, or so Hamfast was kind enough to point out to me yesterday,” Willow said with a laugh. “He’s eager to have his son back home, and there was something about a trip to Northfarthing. I don’t know about the trip, but if Sam’s leg is sound and if he can manage the crutches well enough, there’s no reason he can’t go home right now. Is he awake?”

“Yes, we just finished first breakfast,” Merry said and took her arm to escort her down the tunnel, walking leisurely. “How have you been? I understand that Miss Camellia has returned.”

“Yes, just yesterday. She’s going to rest from her journey today, then tomorrow she will start seeing her patients again. It will give me more time for socializing,” Willow informed hopefully.

Merry looked at her, crestfallen. “Frodo and I will likely be leaving for Tuckborough as soon as Sam is gone. It’s Pippin’s birthday in another couple of weeks and it’s to be held at the Great Smials this year.”

“You’ll be leaving right away?”

“Well, I assume by tomorrow at the earliest,” Merry guessed as they reached Sam’s room. Across the tunnel, Frodo’s door opened and he smiled pleasantly at Willow.

“Good morning, Miss Willow,” he greeted.

“Good morning, Mr. Frodo. I hope you don’t mind my coming so early,” Willow said with a diffident dip of her head.

“Of course I don’t,” Frodo said, stepping into the tunnel and following the healer and his cousin into Sam’s room, where the gardener was waiting. He perked up at sight of the healer and looked as eager as a child on Yule morning.

“Good day, Miss Willow,” he said.

“Good day to you, Sam,” Willow said, setting her satchel on the bedside table. “How are you this morning?”

“Much better,” Sam answered. “I’m feeling right fine, actually, certainly good enough to go home.”

Willow chuckled softly. She had seen her share of overly-eager patients and she knew that hopeful gleam in his eyes all too well. “I’m sure you are, but we have to be certain first,” she cautioned. She checked his breathing and heard no more restriction. His pulse was strong and his glands were not swollen even in the slightest. His coloration, as best as could be told in the fire and candlelight, was his usual brown pallor, and his eyes reacted normally to changes in light.

“Very good,” Willow said. “You’re healthy as ever, Sam. I think we can dispense with the medicinal juice and cut the tea down to one cup at nights, to help you sleep. How has your sleep been?”

“Good enough,” Sam said. “Sometimes I wake up, when I want to roll over and can’t, but I get back to sleep real quick once I resettle myself.”

“That’s good. No dreams?”

Sam shook his head. “No, Miss Willow, none out of the usual.”

Willow pushed up the breeches leg of the injured foot and uncovered the top of the cast. There was a space of an inch or two between the top of the cast and the kneecap. “This might hurt,” she said calmly, then pressed her fingers all along the muscles within that area. Sam’s quick intake of breath, hissed through his teeth at the pain that erupted wherever she pressed, made Frodo and Merry wince in sympathy. “Deep breaths, Sam,” Willow said. “With me.” Then she breathed in deeply and slowly and nodded encouragingly as Sam did the same. She held the breath a moment and let it out, just as slowly, and Sam did likewise. “Good. Keep doing that, and try to relax.”

“Relax?” Sam said incredulously, then hissed again when she pressed into a fresh spot before remembering he was supposed to be breathing deeply. By focusing on his breathing, he found the pain didn’t hurt quite as much.

Willow finished her examination and patted Sam’s hand. “You can relax now,” she advised with a smile.

Sam nodded and let out one final breath, the tension in his body draining with it.

“Is everything all right?” Frodo asked with concern.

Willow nodded. “Oh, yes. Sam’s recovering well, right on schedule. I don’t see any reason he can’t go home today, so long as we can get him a suitable pair of crutches. You said you had some, Mr. Frodo?”

“Yes, in the mathom room,” Frodo said but he didn’t leave. He was still concerned about the amount of pain he had seen in Sam’s face during the healer’s examination. “Is the pain normal then? That isn’t where Sam was hurt.”

“All the lower leg muscles connect to the heel or near it. When Sam fell, he not only twisted the ankle, but sent those muscles into spasm,” Willow explained. “That was another reason for keeping not just the ankle but the whole leg as immobilized as possible. It helped those muscles to settle, but they are still tense. By pressing along the attachments around the knee, especially the ones that hurt the most, it will help to release some of that tension, which will then release the pressure on the ankle and help it to heal faster. The deep breathing helps to both ease the pain and relax the muscles further.”

“Really? Fascinating,” Frodo intoned, “but I’m sure the only thing Sam is interested in is getting on a pair of crutches. I’ll get them. I looked for them yesterday and set them just inside the mathom room’s door. I’ll be right back.”

Frodo returned a short while later with the crutches. They were no more than two sticks with the tops curved in a u-shape to fit the armpit. Halfway down the shaft of each crutch was a knob for the hand to fit around. Willow inspected them and announced them to be sound, so Merry and Frodo helped Sam to sit on the edge of the bed and stand up. Sam took the crutches and tested how to hold his weight on them with Frodo and Merry still standing on either side of him.

“Stand up straight Sam,” Willow instructed and Sam did. “Go toward the fireplace.” Frodo and Merry released him and he made his way, slowly and awkwardly, to the hearth. She watched him closely, scrutinizing his every move, then moved to his side to physically measure the distance from the top of the crutch to his armpit. After a few moments, she nodded. “These will do. I’ll stop by Number Three on my way home and tell your father he can come collect you.”

Sam’s face split into a joyous grin. “I can go home?”

Willow nodded, smiling just as cheerfully. “You can go home, and go right to bed once you get there. I’ll be by in the afternoon, after you’re settled, to give you and your family further instructions on your care. Pack up, Sam.”

“Thank you Miss Willow,” Sam said, full of gratitude and downright giddiness. He couldn’t stop grinning and would have jumped for joy had it been advisable. Instead, he settled on giving the healer a sideways hug.

“You’re quite welcome,” Willow said, returning the brief embrace before stepping back. “Mr. Frodo, can you help Sam back to his bed? I still want him off his feet as much as possible. We’ll introduce walking with the crutches slowly. Merry, accompany me to the kitchen, please. You know where the extra medicinal supplies are located?”

“Yes, of course,” Merry said. He followed her to the kitchen and if they took longer retrieving the supplies than was necessary, Frodo and Sam pretended not to notice.  

After Willow left, Sam gave Merry and Frodo their gifts then packed his things while the cousins began packing for their trip to Whitwell; if they left tomorrow morning, they could still arrive at the farm and surprise Pippin there before the family set out for Great Smials. They could already hear all the questions Pippin would have for them when they arrived.

The Gaffer wasted no time in collecting his son. Not an hour passed since Willow’s departure before he was knocking on the front door. Behind him, a pony nibbled on fresh grass in the Lane, the trap hitched up behind her. Frodo let the Gaffer inside, as well as the help he had brought with him.

“Dandy Twofoot,” he greeted. “What a delightful surprise. Is Randy with you?”

“Good day to you, Mr. Baggins,” Dandy greeted back, ducking his head as he twisted his cap nervously in his hands. He had never been inside Bag End before and he wasn’t sure how to conduct himself or if it was safe to touch anything. He stuck by the Gaffer’s side like a burr. “Randy couldn’t come, sir. He had to go into town to fetch a few things for our pa.” He looked over Frodo’s shoulder as Merry joined them and before even being introduced he said, “And good day to you Mr. Merry. It’s good to be seeing you again sir.”

“Is it?” Merry asked, wondering who the lad was and how he knew his name.

“Yes it is,” Frodo said, smiling sweetly. “Surely you remember Dandy Twofoot, Daddy’s youngest lad.”

“Twofoot,” Merry said, suddenly remembering Frodo’s confession about the dress prank. He had nearly forgotten that it had been the Twofoot lads who had done the dirty work of putting him into that frock. He wondered briefly if Willow knew anything about that prank and pushed the thought instantly from his mind. Instead, he looked the sturdy lad up and down and smiled pleasantly. “Yes, of course,” Merry said and gamely shook Dandy’s hand. “I’m afraid I was a bit drunk the first time we met, so things are a bit fuzzy.”

Dandy smiled shyly and bobbed his head again.

“Come on, lad,” Gaffer said. “Let’s round up my son and get him home.” He patted Dandy on the shoulder and led him down the tunnel toward Sam’s room, the old hobbit moving as swift as the younger.

They disappeared down the tunnel and came back out a few minutes later, Dandy carrying Sam’s pack and the Gaffer carrying the wooden box and bathing pad. Sam followed behind them, navigating the tunnel somewhat awkwardly on his crutches. Frodo and Merry followed them outside and down the garden path to the gate, staying close to Sam in case he should stumble or need help. Dandy helped the Gaffer and Sam into the trap and the Gaffer pillowed Sam’s foot with old tattered blankets they had brought with them for just that purpose.

“When will you be leaving for Little Smithy, Master Hamfast?” Frodo asked. He and Merry weren’t the only ones who have been delayed in visiting family. Gaffer, Goldie and Sam were all eager to visit Halfred and meet the newest addition to their family.

“First thing Highday morning, if Miss Willow allows,” Hamfast said, as close to being giddy as Frodo had ever seen him. As if having Sam back in the smial wasn’t present enough, the old hobbit simply couldn’t wait to hold his newest granddaughter but he had a long journey ahead of him. Little Smithy was five miles northeast of Long Cleeve, and it was a good four to five day trip from Hobbiton under normal circumstances. With Sam’s injury, they would have to travel slowly and that might stretch the trip out another day or two. Frodo couldn’t blame the Gaffer for wanting to leave as soon as possible, but he wouldn’t go until it was safe for Sam to travel.

“Enjoy your journey and your visit,” Frodo said. “I don’t doubt that you’ll have plenty of fun with little Ashley.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Baggins, for everything,” Gaffer said. “You’re a kind soul, I’ve always said, just like old Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and I’ll say it to anyone as’ll listen!”

“Thank you Master Hamfast,” Frodo said graciously then turned to Sam. “We’ll miss you around here, lad. Make sure you get plenty of rest and that you stay off that foot.”

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “I’m sorry I was such a bother to you, sir.”

“You know you could never be a bother to me Sam,” Frodo said. “Don’t worry about the garden. Furzy will take good care of it until you return to work, and I’ve arranged for him to stay on after you return to help you until you’re back to full strength again.”

“Thank you sir. And you too Mr. Merry. Say hullo to Master Pippin for me,” Sam said.

“We will,” Merry promised. “And we’ll write down all of Pippin’s questions for you about what it’s like having a cast, and any other pesky things he thinks up, so you can answer them at your leisure. That should fill up the rest of your convalescence and then some.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Sam said with a grin.

They waved farewell and Dandy shook the reins, clicking softly at the pony. The trap gave a small lurch then it was rolling smoothly down the Lane. Frodo and Merry waited until the trap rounded the bend in the Hill before heading back up the garden path.

“What are the chances that Sam will ever let us wait on him again once he’s healed and back on both feet?” Merry asked.

“My guess is slim to none,” Frodo answered. “Most likely, he’ll be cooking second breakfast, luncheon and dinner for a month to make up for the last eight days.”

“Really? You think so?” Merry asked hopefully and quickly calculated the estimated time that Sam would be allowed back to work. “In that case, I think Pip and I will be due for a visit right after my birthday. We wouldn’t want all that cooking to go to waste, now would we?”

“Trust me, Merry dear, I would never allow Sam’s cooking to go to waste,” Frodo assured. They stepped into the smial and closed the door behind them.

To be concluded…

Epilogue

Afterlithe, 1414 SR

Frodo checked the level of juice in the jug. The faintest scent of apples filled his nose, the aroma refreshing and invigorating. He unfolded the handkerchief he brought up from the cold cellar and dropped the ice chips into two tall wooden cups. Lifting the jug with both hands, he carefully poured the juice, the ice clinking against the walls of the cups as the juice poured in around it. When the cups were filled nearly to the rim, he set the jug back on the table and absently traced the garland pattern painted on its handle. His mother had given Bilbo this jug for her birthday one year, and in it Frodo had the memory of Bilbo and his parents sitting on the porch of their little house in Bucklebury, enjoying glasses of cool water on another hot summer day.

Pausing only briefly to remember that long ago day, Frodo next reached for the fruit that he had brought out from the pantry. With quick, assured flicks of his wrist, he sliced off the leafy tops of the strawberries and pulled the stems off the cherries. He separated the fruit into two wooden bowls and set the bowls and cups on a tray next to his plainest cloth napkins. Bread rolls slathered with blueberry preserve were the last addition to the tray.

“Merry! Pippin!” he called, sliding the tray off the counter and holding it out when his cousins appeared. “Take this out to Sam and Furzy for me, will you? If it’s too hot, tell them to come inside. They can finish their work after the sun passes her zenith.”

“What if they don’t want to come in?” Pippin asked, peering at the tray with longing.

“That’s why we’re going to tell them to come in,” Merry explained patiently, taking the tray from his cousin, easily keeping it steady so none of the juice spilled.

“Then why don’t we just tell them to come inside now so we don’t have to carry it outside to them?” Pippin asked, still eyeing the food.

“Because we don’t want to order them about unnecessarily. And don’t you worry, Pip. There’s plenty more where that came from,” Frodo assured, reading his cousin’s thoughts with little trouble. “I’ll set the table for us while you’re outside. Oh, and if you notice that Sam is straining even the slightest bit, he needs to come in and rest right away.”

“We’ll see to it, Frodo, have no worries,” Merry promised and nudged his chin in the direction of the front door, indicating that Pippin should go in front of him.

Pippin turned on his heel and dashed down the tunnel to the entrance hall and threw open the door. Merry followed close behind, managing the loaded tray with expert ease. He stepped out into the warm summer day and breathed in the air and sunshine as a fish breathed water. The late winter blizzard and the many spring rains had made the Shire green from one end to the other and everywhere he looked flowers were in full bloom, showing off their brilliance for all to see and enjoy. From the flowers that grew wild over the hillsides to the cultured flowers in the gardens of every smial and house, the Shire was alive with color and the sweet fragrance of the blossoms.

Pippin bounded outside, undaunted by the heat and the sun looming hotly overhead. He dashed toward the fence, where Furzy and Sam were replacing some rotted posts for new ones. Sam wore a splint on his foot, a simple piece of canvas cut to fit snug around his foot and was laced up back, with flat wooden beams sown into the fabric at either side of his ankle. Merry thought the splint had to be uncomfortable in this heat but Sam wasn’t one to complain.

Merry followed Pippin to the fence, ignoring the wave of heat that assaulted him the moment he stepped onto the porch. He felt almost as if he were stepping into an oven and he couldn’t begin to imagine how Furzy and Sam could continue to work in such weather. Already, Merry was beginning to feel drowsy and he was only carrying a tray of food.

He abandoned the sun-heated cobblestones to walk on the lawn to the fence, the cool grass a comfort to his feet. He reached Pippin in time to hear the tween telling Sam, “My cousin Ferdi once fell on his hand and now he can bend his thumb both ways. It’s really gross and astounding. Can you bend your ankle both ways?”

“Pippin,” Merry admonished, throwing an apologetic look towards Sam and Furzy, who were looking down at the lad with amusement. “Don’t go bothering Sam with your pesky questions.”

“But we didn’t get to see him yesterday,” Pippin complained. “We got here too late, remember? Do you always go home so early now Sam? It was only five when we arrived.”

“Aye Master Pippin. I got to be home by tea,” Sam answered. “Morning, Mr. Merry.”

“Good morning Sam,” Merry said and held up the tray a little more. “Frodo sends this out to you. Working under this sun all morning, I’m sure you’re both in need of refreshment.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Merry,” Furzy said with a bob of his head, his eyes focused on the ground at Merry’s feet.

“That’s right kind of you sir,” Sam said, meeting Merry’s smile with one of his own. “Now’s as good a time for a break as any.”

He hobbled around on his splinted foot with little trouble and took the tray from Merry. He led them to the sawhorse and sat the tray across the beam they would be cutting next. He picked up a bowl of fruit, sliding the other to Furzy. Sam bit into a strawberry nearly as big as his fist and hummed with satisfaction. Across from him, Pippin licked his lips.

“Would you like some Master Pippin?” Sam asked.

“Yes please,” Pippin said, reaching for one.

Merry grabbed his hand and held it back. “We have our own inside,” he said pointedly to the tween. He leaned over one end of the beam and looked around the garden again, enjoying the air and wind as much as the garden itself. If only if weren’t quite so hot. When he spoke next, he addressed Sam. “So, I see you’re doing better. Frodo assures me the splint is just precautionary.”

“Aye, it’s only while I work,” Sam affirmed, “and only when the work is heavy. I’ll be taking it off as soon as the fence is done and I’ve rested a little.”

He selected another strawberry. With a small nod of his head, he prompted Furzy to eat as well. The younger lad was reluctant to eat in front of his betters but he was also quite hungry, and to turn away such a generous gift would be inexcusably rude. He picked a cherry from his bowl and popped it into his mouth, refraining from biting into it until he assured himself the young masters wouldn’t mind. Then he ate more freely, but only when Sam himself ate.

“You’re not going to be crippled anymore?” Pippin asked.

“No sir. And to answer your earlier question, no, I can’t bend my ankle both ways, or I can but no more than is normal,” Sam said, chuckling at the thought. “Miss Willow is a very good healer, as is Miss Bluebell up in Long Cleeve. They took real good care of me and my ankle’s all better now, for the most part.”

“For the most part? You’re not straining yourself, are you Sam?” Merry said, looking at the gardener sharply for signs of weariness. He saw nothing other than a perfectly fit hobbit, sweating from the heat and hard work but otherwise whole and sound.

Sam shook his head but it was Furzy who answered, in his quiet and shy tones that Merry suspected were reserved for the gentry only. “No sir, he ain’t. I’m keeping a close eye on him and I won’t let him do aught he oughtn’t to do.”

“That’s good. He can’t always be relied on to take care of himself, you know,” Merry replied but he was grinning when he said it. At Sam’s bemused glare, Merry’s grin widened and he tipped the gardener a wink.

“I’m getting better about it,” Sam insisted. “Aren’t I Furzy? I take my rests when I need them and I don’t always have to be told.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. You’re better at knowing when your foot’s about to protest than I am,” Furze admitted. “But Miss Willow still had to put you back in line when you went home limping last week. Had to keep him off his foot the whole day after. Now he won’t dare step a toe out of line.”

“Is that so?” Merry asked, a note of pride in his voice at the mention of his lass. “Willow does have a way of making even the most stubborn hobbit see sense.”

Beside him, Pippin snickered but he also looked close to gagging if he had to hear Merry talk about Willow any longer than was necessary. He quickly changed the subject. “So, Sam, how was your visit to your brother? I thought he lived in Little Smithy, not Long Cleeve.”

“He lives on the outskirts of Smithy, going towards Long Cleeve. Cousin Hale lives a couple more miles down the road, between the two towns,” Sam informed. “I spent most of my time at Fred’s place, helping Goldie and Astrid with the bairn, that is when Gaffer put her down long enough for any of us to get our hands on her. The healer lives in Long Cleeve though, so we went there just about every day, me and the Gaffer, especially once my cast came off. I met some of the North-Tooks while I was there.”

“Did you?” Pippin asked, perking up. Even his parents had yet to meet any of the North-Tooks, though they kept in correspondence with the family head there. His mother kept promising that one day she would get the North-Tooks down to Tuckborough for an extended visit but with one thing or another, her dream had yet to be realized. If she succeeded it would be the first such visit in over 100 years. “What are they like?”

“Well, I only met the few,” Sam said, “but they were all grand folk. They didn’t take on airs though. They’re just as nice as you could hope and as full of hobbit sense as you can be. One as I met was the forehobbit of the shop where Fred and Astrid work, Mr. Roddy North-Took. When the bairn was born, he sent over all sorts of clothes for the lass, hand-me-downs he called them but they looked almost new and they were fancy little gowns. Fred and Ashley were afraid to use them at first, not wanting to get such nice things dirty and stained, but Gaffer pointed out they’d be wasting a gift if they didn’t and naught is worse’n that.

“At the healer’s I met a young maid named Ruby. Apparently, all the North-Took children learn to dance, just as you would learn your letters and numbers. She’s the youngest daughter of the Chief and Lady, as they call the family head and his wife up there, and she broke her wrist trying to execute some dance step or tumble just afore I got there. She was put in a cast too but she only had to wear hers for a week. The second she got it off, she bounced right out the door and over to the dance square for her lessons with her sister. I wish my ankle would heal that quick, but Miss Bluebell says as children heal faster.

“Then Halfred introduced us to Holfast, the master gardener there at Cloven Hills, that being the home of the North-Tooks. We met him our second week there and he showed us about the garden one day. We toured Fred’s shop once and saw what all he does there, making the tiles and everything. The rest of the time we were at Hale’s. He and Joy are going to be having their third child this autumn, due in Blotmath. They have two lasses already so they’re hoping for a lad this time around.

“There was also some to-do over one of the post messengers, but it’s all been settled now. How about you Mr. Merry? How’re things going with you and Miss Willow?”

“Not as well as I would have hoped,” Merry admitted. “We’re always just missing each other. I never realized how busy healers could actually get, and when we do manage to find time together, Miss Camellia always comes along and hovers.”

Sam chuckled knowingly at this. It could be frustrating sometimes when a young couple wanted to be alone and found more than enough chaperones to go around. “Miss Willow might be a healer in her own right but Miss Camellia is still her mistress,” Sam said. “She’s got to look out for her, especially as her folks are all the way over in the Far Downs.”

“She’s of age,” Merry complained but he knew that Sam was right. A chaperone’s job didn’t end until the lass was properly married.

“But you’re not,” Pippin piped up now. “Maybe Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara should come and chaperone you. Maybe then you wouldn’t always be so eager to dump me to go down the Hill and see if Willow’s at home.”

“I don’t dump you,” Merry said unconvincingly. “It’s just that I never know when she’s going to be there. Even when we do arrange to meet, if something comes up she has to go. I told you about the last time. Bairns always pick the worst times to be born.”

Pippin didn’t respond to this but it was clear for everyone to see that as far as he was concerned, that bairn’s timing couldn’t have been better.

“I just didn’t realize she’d always be so busy,” Merry repeated.

“It’s just as well, at least for this visit out,” Sam said, meaning the walking trip that Merry and Pippin would soon be taking with Frodo. They would be going to the Brockenborings to explore the caves in the hills there, after a brief stop in Overhill to pick up Fatty Bolger and Folco Boffin.

“I suppose,” Merry admitted. “We’ll be gone at least two weeks. But then Willow is leaving in a week to go home and visit her family. She won’t be back until after I’ve returned home. My parents were going to come to collect me until Willow wrote to inform me of her plans. They won’t fully approve of my courting her until they meet her.”

Furzy scrunched his brow at this and Sam said what the other lad wouldn’t. “Well, then, her folks would be wanting to meet you also, and both your folks and hers will need to meet each other,” Sam began. He saw the disillusionment in Merry’s eyes and continued more hopefully. “Don’t fret about it, Mr. Merry. When you all live so far away, there’s bound to be problems finding the time to meet up proper-like, but you’ll find a way to make it happen. And when you do all get together, it’ll be right as rain.”

Pippin wasn’t so sure about this, thinking again of his mother’s attempts to get the North-Tooks down to Tuckborough. There were simply too many things that factored into it, schedules that had to be rearranged, jobs and duties that had to be filled for the interim. Pippin couldn’t imagine a goat herder wanting to leave his herd for more than a day or two, nor could he see that Willow would have much opportunity to travel to Buckland, especially if she used her holidays to visit her family as she would want to do, and while Esme and Sara might be able to travel to Hobbiton for a day or two that didn’t mean they’d be able to go to the Far Downs as easily.

Pippin kept his thoughts to himself. He patted Merry’s hand instead, offering reassurance.

“Well, we’re supposed to have tea today,” Merry said. “So long as no other bairns decide to be born or someone doesn’t fall off a ladder and need fixing up, I should at least be able to see her for an hour.”

“Well that’s something,” Sam said.

Merry nodded gamely, then knocked on the wood post before stepping away from the sawhorse. “We better get back inside. Frodo’s waiting for us. If it’s too hot out here, Frodo says you’re both to come inside and wait until it cools off some. Furze, I can trust you to keep your eye on Sam here.”

“That you can, sir,” Furzy affirmed.

The young masters went inside. Furzy waited until the door closed before eating his food freely, watching Sam closely now. Sam wasn’t limping or straining himself yet, but he didn’t want to take any more chances. He also wasn’t keen on spending more time inside Bag End than was necessary. Mr. Frodo was a kind and easy-mannered master and he liked the fellow well enough, but the thought of sitting inside so fancy a smial with the heirs of Buckland and Tookland about made him uncomfortable. “It is getting hot,” he stated after a time. “Mayhap we better finish off this fence. Then we could go down to the Pool or the Dragon and see what the other lads are up to.”

“A pint would go down fine right about now,” Sam agreed, understanding his friend’s reservations without having to be told. He would have liked to chat with Merry and Pippin some more, but there would be time enough for that later. “I’ll have to let Mr. Frodo know afore we go.”

They finished their meal and Furzy ran the tray up to the porch, where Frodo would retrieve it later. Then they set themselves back to their task, visions of ale dancing in their heads.

The End.