24. Farewells

When Frodo awoke the next morning he realized three things almost at once. First he discovered with relief that he felt much, much better; the chills of yesterday were only slight now, and some warmth was finally beginning to penetrate. His next realization was that Hazel was still beside him: a small, warm little body pressed tightly against his side, one arm draped comfortably over his middle. The thought made him smile; Hazel was a Gamgee, through and through—as faithful as Sam. A moment later he became aware that there was a large hand resting on his forehead, the long fingers gently stroking back his tousled curls.

"'Morning, Faramond," Frodo greeted him cheerfully, recognizing the now-familiar touch. He yawned and opened his eyes to see the Man’s face break into a smile. "Heavens, it feels as though I’ve slept for days! What is the time?"

"Half-past eight," said Faramond, his heart lightening immediately upon seeing Frodo in such good spirits at last. "Nearly time for breakfast—First Breakfast, that is," he corrected himself. He was rewarded with a bright smile from Frodo. "How are you feeling?"

Frodo considered. "The chills have mostly gone now, and I’ve only a few aches here and there," he said after a moment. "Much better."

Faramond studied him closely for a moment. Color was finally returning to Frodo’s face, and his eyes were bright and shining, without any of the dark circles and marks of pain around them that had been there before. "I am pleased to hear it!" he said heartily. "You are recovering faster than I’d hoped. Hobbits are extraordinarily resilient creatures, it seems."

Frodo smiled again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t felt so comfortable in days. Hazel shifted beside him, mumbling something in his sleep and burrowing his head closer into Frodo’s side. In doing so he unintentionally pressed against the healing wound there and the sharp stab of pain this caused brought a surprised gasp from Frodo, and he opened his eyes again.

Faramond leaned forward with concern, his hand still resting on the hobbit’s forehead. "What is it, Frodo? Are you in pain?"

Frodo waited for his breathing to return to normal before answering. "A little," he admitted. "I’m a bit sore, that’s all." He saw the disbelieving frown on Faramond’s face and sighed. "Honestly, I’m fine now. No need to worry so!"

Faramond echoed Frodo’s sigh. "Very well, Frodo. But I think I shall give you one more dose of that pain-relieving tonic before I leave, all the same. And Jessimine will be supplied with more if you need them."

Frodo looked up quickly. "Leave?" he repeated. "Oh yes, I had forgotten. I expect you must be getting back to your Rangering." He tried to smile. "I’m sorry to have kept you for so long."

Faramond shook his head and gently stroked Frodo’s brow. "No, Frodo," he said, smiling at him fondly. "I would have wished that our meeting had been a happier one, but it gladdens my heart to see you recovering now. I am honored to have met you." To Frodo’s astonishment, the Ranger inclined his head in a small, graceful bow, suddenly appearing inexplicably tall and regal in his humble, travel-worn clothes.

"The honor is mine!" Frodo gasped, recovering from his amazement. "I hope we will meet again."

Faramond withdrew his hand and stood up. "I think we shall." He paused for a moment and glanced out the open door. "Now that you are recovering, I am no longer needed here at present, however. Gavin and I will take our leave after breakfast. In the meantime I will go and make ready, and leave you in Sam’s care." He smiled again and before Frodo could speak, he had slipped silently out of the door, leaving it open to admit Sam carrying a tray laden with a delicious-looking breakfast.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo!" said Sam brightly, pleased to be back in his proper place caring for his master. He set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled up his chair, unable to keep from taking one of Frodo’s hands in both of his and reassuring himself that he was really recovering. "How’re you feelin’?"

Frodo smiled at him. "Hullo, Sam! I’m glad to see that Halfred and Jessi convinced you to take some rest at last—you deserved it, after all those hours you no doubt spent worrying and caring for me." Sam blushed and ducked his head. "I’m feeling much improved, too. I think I shall be walking about the house by this evening!"

Sam’s eyes widened and he released Frodo’s hand to ready the breakfast tray, assured now that his master was truly getting better. "I don’t know about that, Mr. Frodo," he said doubtfully. He examined the contents of the tray. "Although with Jessi’s cooking, you just might. Look what she’s made!" It was indeed a delicious-looking and rather large breakfast she had prepared: warm oatmeal with cinnamon and sugar, a small bowl full of fresh strawberries, a few sausages, and a cup of fresh milk.

Frodo’s eyes lit up as he realized that he was extremely hungry. "It looks splendid, Sam!" He paused. "But I think it’s rather too much for one hobbit to eat—you must share it with me."

Sam turned redder as despite himself, his stomach chose that moment to loudly announce its emptiness. "I couldn’t, Mr. Frodo!" he protested nonetheless. "I already ’ad a bite to eat earlier an’—"

"Nonsense, Sam, I heard your stomach growl just now," Frodo retorted firmly. "At least have a few bites. I can’t finish it all myself, and I should hate to waste Jessimine’s wonderful cooking."

Sighing, Sam gave in, and despite his protests, ended up enjoying the shared meal immensely. He was also relieved to find that Frodo’s appetite had returned and his master was in high spirits; their first breakfast together since Frodo’s wounding was a cheerful one.

The tray was nearly picked clean when the small blanket-covered form nestled against Frodo’s side began to stir. Frodo, propped up now against the pillows, smiled and gently jostled Hazel. The boy groaned and pulled the covers up over his head, and there he lay for several moments without moving. Frodo exchanged an amused look with Sam before lifting the blankets and bending down close to Hazel’s ear. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" he whispered, nudging him a little. "Wake up, or you’ll miss the last of the breakfast Sam and I are sharing. We’ve left some strawberries for you. Come, wake up!"

Whether it was Frodo’s prodding or the mention of food, Hazel was wide awake in an instant. He threw off the blankets and sat up with a yawn, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. "Good morning!" Frodo greeted him.

"Mornin’, slugabed," Sam teased with a smile. "I thought you’d sleep right through First Breakfast!"

Hazel grinned at him, a large strawberry already in his mouth. Hardly pausing to chew, he swallowed it and reached for another, then paused and suddenly turned to Frodo seriously. He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes wide. "Uncle Frodo?" he breathed at last. Tears sprang to his eyes. "You’re… you’re better!" He launched himself at Frodo, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist for a moment before hearing his uncle’s gasp of pain and loosening his grip. "I’m so very, very glad," he murmured earnestly, his voice muffled as he buried his face against Frodo’s uninjured side.

Frodo smiled and returned Hazel’s embrace. "I’m glad, too, Hazel," he said softly. Then a lighter tone came into his voice as he added playfully, "I don’t think I could have endured another night with you tossing and turning so!"

Hazel raised his head and grinned, dashing the relieved tears from his eyes; he knew as well as Frodo did that he, in typical Gamgee-fashion, slept like a log through the night and scarcely moved at all. "You thought you had it bad, Uncle!" he exclaimed, joining in the game. "I was the one who had to try an’ get comfortable with your sharp elbows!" He unwrapped one arm from Frodo’s waist to rub his own ribs with a feigned grimace of pain.

Frodo laughed. "Imp." He looked at Sam accusingly. "Haven’t you taught your nephew any respect for his elders?"

Sam chuckled, inwardly stifling the impulse to sing for joy at the sight and sound of his master’s recovery and high spirits. "Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but he’s your nephew, too," he said innocently. "And he don’t seem to listen to me as much as he listens t’you, anyhow."

Frodo pretended to scowl. "Well, I can’t be expected to teach him everything! What about Halfred? He’s Hazel’s father, and the oldest one here. He should be teaching his son some manners. I shall have to speak to him about this—where is he?"

Sam looked up as he noticed for the first time the eavesdropper standing outside the open door. "I believe he’s standin’ in the doorway, laughin’ at us," he observed wryly. As Halfred came into the room, grinning broadly, Sam added, "But I don’t think he’s very useful as far as teachin’ Hazel good manners, Mr. Frodo. He’s too much of a rogue himself!"

Halfred could not keep back his laughter any longer. "Ah, Sam-lad," he said when he had breath enough, "but where would you be without me? I may be a rogue, but at least I’m an entertaining one!" He pulled an empty chair next to Sam’s and draped an arm companionably across his younger brother’s shoulders.

Frodo nodded. "That’s true," he conceded, grinning. "Very entertaining."

"And anyhow, my Hazel seems to ’ave abandoned me for you!" Halfred continued mournfully. "I ’aven’t seen him t’all this morn an’ he won’t even say ‘Hello, da!’" He stuck out his lower lip in a feigned pout.

"Hello, da!" chirped Hazel, grinning as he remembered the strawberries on the tray. He made a great show of first moving closer to Frodo and then focusing all his attention on stuffing as many of the strawberries as he could into his mouth at once and ignoring his father.

Halfred sighed heavily. "Don’t worry, Hal," said Frodo reassuringly, "I’m sure he’ll be happy to come and visit you every so often once he’s settled at Bag End with me."

Sam couldn’t help but laugh, and Halfred snorted. "Sam-lad, it’s this Baggins fellow who’s teaching Hazel all that cheek towards his elders," he said. "I think he’s a bad influence—cracked, he is!"

"And proud of it!" Frodo retorted promptly. "At least I’ve taught Hazel the finer arts of rock-skipping—as I recall, you are the only hobbit in the Four Farthings of the Shire who couldn’t hit a rock wall at five paces!"

"That’s true, Hal," Sam agreed, nodding gravely. "I’ve seen you try an’ miss, meself. More like four paces away, though, you was that time."

Halfred sighed again, loudly. "My boy is never goin’ to get a proper education in manners with either of you around!" he lamented. "Our only hope lies in his mother now."

"Well, at least she can teach him how to cook," Frodo remarked cheerfully. "Neither of us could do that—except you, of course, Sam," he added hastily. Then he grinned. "But I don’t recall you ever making raspberry tarts like the ones I smell cooking right now!"

Hazel perked up. "Tarts?" he said eagerly, popping the last strawberry into his mouth. "Mum must like you a whole lot, Uncle—she never makes tarts!"

Halfred sighed and shook his head. "This Master Frodo o’ yours better get well soon, Sam," he said disgustedly. "He’s takin’ over my whole house! First my Hazel-lad, now even my own Jessimine’s smitten. I’ll be keepin’ Fennel and Tansy away until he’s gone."

Sam grinned. "That mightn't be so easy, Hal," he laughed, gesturing to the doorway where little Fennel stood, her doll Goldilocks clutched in one small hand and her eyes fixed happily on Frodo.

Halfred moaned theatrically as he rose, scooped his daughter up and carried her to the bed, where he set her down. "Say good morn’ to Uncle Frodo, Fennel-lass," he said. "But be quick, now. Your mum’ll have my head if I don’t get you an’ your brother into the kitchen so she can clean you both up a bit—Hazel-lad, I can see those snarls in your hair from here." Hazel groaned in dismay.

Fennel leaned down and kissed Frodo on the cheek. "Good morn’, Uncle Frodo!" she said joyfully. "Are you better now?"

Frodo smiled at her. "Much better, now that you’ve come to visit," he said brightly. "I’ll be out of bed and walking about before you know it."

Fennel grinned, fully convinced of this, and did not protest when her father lifted her up again. She gave a squeal of surprised delight when he lifted her up onto one of his shoulders and stooping, grabbed Hazel and set him on the other. "Lawks, how big you’re getting, Fenny-girl!" he exclaimed, staggering dramatically. "And you’ll soon burst your buttons, Master Hazel, if you insist on growing so fast." Both children nearly fell off their perches with giggles. "Now, say goodbye to your uncles. You’ll see them later."

The children, still laughing and cheerful, called out goodbye to Frodo and Sam, who were laughing themselves. Halfred directed a sly, playful wink at the two ‘uncles,’ which neither failed to notice, and then he left the room, having completely regained the position of favorite in the eyes of his children.

"I reckon he’ll keep the little ’uns’ minds off the goodbyes this afternoon just fine," observed Sam after a moment. "Without our help, what’s more!"

"Blast," said Frodo mournfully. "I’m not the favorite anymore. They’ll want no more story-telling from me, I’m sure."

Sam patted his master’s hand and busied himself with arranging the empty plates and saucers on the tray. "’Tisn’t so bad, Mr. Frodo," he said optimistically. "At least Jessi still remembers you—Hazel’s right, I can’t ever recall her makin’ tarts for no one else."

Frodo allowed a small half-smile to turn up the corners of his mouth. "Yes, that’s something, at least," he agreed. "I hope those tarts will be done soon—they smell delicious." He paused, the smile frozen for a moment, then said abruptly, "I’m going to get dressed, Sam, and surprise Jessimine when she brings the tarts." His blue eyes were suddenly bright and determined.

Sam stared. "What, get dressed today, sir!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Why, you can scarcely sit up on your own, much less do all the movin’ an’ bendin’ it takes to get dressed." He shook his head, setting the tray on the bedside table, and watching with dismay as Frodo’s dark brows drew down a little and his mouth set stubbornly.

"Sam, I’ve been bedridden for nearly three days—"

"Hurt an’ feverish an’ fightin’ that infection!" Sam interjected.

"—and I am recovered enough to dress myself," Frodo went on, ignoring the interruption. "With a little help, perhaps. Either way, I want to be standing on my own by the time Faramond and Gavin leave."

Sam’s eyes grew wide. "Why, sir!" he cried. "Just yesterday you were scarce through the last bout of Wolf Bite, an’ shiverin’ with those chills!" He shook his head again, vehemently, and then his expression softened and he added anxiously, "You can’t push yourself too hard, Mr. Frodo. You’ll have a relapse an’ be worse than you started out."

Frodo sighed. "Sam, I cannot bear to be helpless another day. All I do is lie here in bed, idle, while you are all working so hard for me." Impulsively he reached out and clasped Sam’s hand. "I must do something, and if the only thing I can do is lighten your spirits by getting well quickly, then that’s what I’ll do."

Sam looked at him closely; after their long friendship reaching back into his childhood, he’d thought he knew Frodo completely. Yet somehow his master had surprised him yet again—his determination to dress and stand up unaided was not simply to prove to himself that he could do so; it was to bring cheer to Sam and the others to ease their sadness at the Rangers’ parting. Sam felt warmth welling up in his heart—did his master ever think of himself first? He doubted it.

"Very well, Mr. Frodo," he said at last, looking down at the slender white fingers entwined with his own sturdy brown ones and then up to Frodo’s face. "If that’s what you want, I’ll help you all I can."

Frodo’s expression lightened with relief. "Thank you, Sam," he breathed, and his eyes held a gratitude beyond those simple words that assured Sam that he had done right.

Sam squeezed his hand in response, and then stood up. "Well, if you’re to get dressed before Jessi comes in with those tarts of hers, we’d best get started!"

Jessimine hummed to herself as she set the tray of fresh raspberry tarts out to cool. As Hazel had remarked, she did not often make such treats and she hoped that they would help to brighten the mood of the household, which she knew would be gloomy after Faramond and Gavin left.

She paused for a moment at the thought. Peeking through the round kitchen window above the sink she could see the Men readying for their departure outside. That lad, Gavin, seemed to be purposely taking as long as possible to pack, and Jessimine could not help but smile. How fond they had all become of each other! She would miss both of them very much indeed.

Shaking gloomy thoughts away with a toss of her head, Jessimine returned to her work. She took out a small, neatly stitched knapsack (already filled with a small loaf of bread) and after wrapping a large handful of the tarts in a clean cloth, she put these into the sack and pulled the drawstring closed. Examining it carefully for a moment, she nodded, satisfied, and set it aside.

There were now about ten tarts left, and of these she took two more and set them on a plate for Frodo and Sam. Wiping her hands on her apron, she picked up the plate and went down the hall toward the guest room, pausing for a moment to peek inside.

Jessimine’s hazel eyes grew wide at what she saw—Frodo, sitting up in bed, atop the blankets, fully clothed and buttoning up his shirt! Sam was fussing around him, one hand partially stretched out to support him, although for the moment Frodo did not seem to need it.

Jessimine planted her free hand on her hip as an angry flush rose on her face—what could Frodo be thinking of, dressing himself only the day after the last bout of Wolf Bite! And why in all the Shire had Sam let him?

Stepping unnoticed into the room, Jessimine set the tray down on a chest of drawers before clearing her throat to announce her presence. Both lads jumped at the sound and this upset Frodo’s balance; his arms gave out and Sam just barely caught him before he hit the pillows. Once Frodo was propped up against them, both of them turned reluctantly to look at the indignant hobbit-lady.

"Frodo Baggins, what do you think you’re doing?" Jessimine fumed after a moment of silently staring them down. "You’re going to undo all the work Faramond did for you if you push yourself too hard!" She rounded on the other hobbit, who was staring fixedly at the rug. "And you, Samwise Gamgee, how could you let him do that? Why didn’t you talk some sense into him!"

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Frodo summoned up his courage and ventured, "Look, Jessi—"

"You’d best have a good excuse!" she warned sharply. She wasn’t angry at all anymore, really, but it was amusing to watch both of them fidget like guilty schoolboys and she wondered if silver-tongued Mr. Frodo would be able to come up with a convincing justification.

"All right, all right," Frodo tried again, exchanging a grimace with Sam. "Jessi, I am simply tired of laying uselessly in bed. I wanted to sit up on my own and get dressed, at least, and as you can see I was able to do so and I do not feel a relapse coming." For a moment he met Jessimine’s glare with a stubborn one of his own. "And it’s not Sam’s fault—he tried to talk me out of it, but I… well, I sort of bullied him into letting me."

Jessimine nearly snorted at the thought of Frodo bullying anyone into anything—especially Sam! But she held her composure and kept up her façade of displeasure. "Sam had no right to let himself be bullied," she retorted firmly.

Sam was looking extremely uncomfortable by now, his face beet red as he examined the threads of the floor-rug with interest. But at last he raised his head and, with a gulp, met Jessimine’s unforgiving stare. "I weren’t bullied," he said at last, with an effort. How was it that Jessimine managed to render him utterly immobile and almost mute with just that look of hers? "Mr. Frodo asked me to, and I said yes."

Frodo shot a look of protest at Sam, and started to open his mouth, but suddenly Jessimine could not keep up her act any longer and doubled over with laughter. Frodo and Sam’s eyes widened and they looked at each other before staring incredulously at the hobbit-lady who a moment before had all but paralyzed them with her fury, and was now shaking with mirth.

When she had breath enough, Jessimine managed to gasp, "Oh, lads, you should see your faces! You look like twelve-year-olds caught stealing cookies from the jar!"

The two hobbits continued to stare at her with disbelief, but slowly, with another exchanged glance, the corners of their mouths began to lift slightly, and they allowed themselves small, embarrassed grins.

At last, Jessimine straightened herself up and caught her breath. "Not that I’m excusing either of you," she said sternly, picking up the plate, and watching with satisfaction as their eyes immediately lit on its contents. "But I can only say, Mr. Frodo, that I couldn’t be happier to see you recoverin’ so well!" She paused, then added severely, "But if either of you ever attempt something like that again without tellin’ me, I won’t be so forgiving."

Relenting, Jessimine brought over the plate and handed them each a tart. Setting the plate down on the empty tray that sat on the bedside table, she bent over Frodo and pressed her lips to his forehead, feeling the temperature. She felt him jump and give a little yelp of surprise at the unexpected contact. Straightening, she could not help but smile impishly as she saw his cheeks turn red again and his eyes widen. "Aye, you’re recoverin’!" she said approvingly. "Not a bit o’ fever. ’Long as you don’t go pushin’ yourself too far, you should be on your feet in no time at all!"

"Er, speaking of—" Frodo began, recovering himself slightly.

Jessimine’s groan interrupted him. "Oh, Frodo!" she exclaimed in dismay. "You’re not!"

At last, Frodo was able to smile a bit mischievously. "Well…"

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

"Frodo Baggins, you cannot—Sam, help me talk some sense into him!"

"Jessi! I tell you, I am perfectly capable… Sam, help me!"

"Er… I—I really think you oughtn’t to, Mr. Frodo…"

"Aha!"

Faramond entered the guest room just in time to see Frodo - fully dressed save for his usual waistcoat and sitting up on the bed, roll his eyes - give a reproachful cry of "Sam!", and fall back against the pillows with a dejected thump. Jessimine was standing nearby, her arms crossed and a triumphant smile on her face.

Sam, red-faced and staring intently at the rug once more, seemed to be trying to shrink into the wall by the bedside.

All three turned at Faramond’s entrance, since he hadn’t made any effort to be silent. Fighting very hard against the smile of amusement that threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth, he said in as level a voice as he could muster, "Have I interrupted something here?"

Jessimine was the first to recover herself. "Why, no, Faramond, sir," she answered primly, with a sharp glance at Frodo. "We had just resolved a little—"

"—a little… ahh… debate," Frodo interjected, sitting up again. "But it is most certainly not resolved!" he added vehemently, crossing his arms.

"—a little discussion," Jessimine finished firmly. "And it is resolved."

"It appeared to be rather more of an argument to me," Faramond remarked mildly. "What was it about?"

"This dreadfully, ridiculously, foolishly stubborn hobbit here is trying to push himself too far," explained Jessimine, gesturing towards Frodo. "Look how much he’s done already—he’ll kill himself if he don’t…"

"I’m more likely to die of uselessness if I stay in bed much longer," Frodo retorted. "If boredom doesn’t finish me off first."

Jessimine rolled her eyes expressively, and Faramond had to fight doubly hard to keep from chuckling. "What is it you are trying to do, Frodo?" he asked reasonably.

"All I wish to do," said Frodo, "is to stand up on my own two feet when you and Gavin leave. I know that my right leg is still healing and won’t be able to bear my weight, but if I had a support it could." He sighed in frustration. "I am not trying to do anything drastic—I won’t try to walk, I only want to stand. Even for a moment. Is that so unreasonable?"

Jessimine blew out her breath in exasperation but did not say anything.

Faramond considered for a minute, studying Frodo closely. His face was still pale, but his cheeks were rosy—although perhaps at the moment that was from annoyance more than anything else—and the only sign of fatigue was the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. He seemed to be recovering more quickly than even Faramond had supposed.

"I do not have any objections to allowing you to make the attempt," he said at last. "So long as you do not over-exert yourself. You are not tired?"

"No," said Frodo quickly, lighting up with pleasure. "And I have eaten breakfast, if that was your next question."

Faramond finally allowed himself to smile as Jessimine groaned in disbelief. "Very well, then, I give you permission to try, at least. Do not try too hard, and if you tire, rest a while before trying again. Do not be disheartened if you cannot do it today—you have a long road to full recovery yet to travel."

Frodo nodded obediently, his delighted smile unwavering, and Faramond’s heart was warmed to have been able to give him such joy. He nodded to Jessimine, who stood silently fuming, and said, "I will leave you in Sam’s care now. Gavin and I are still readying our packs. I only came in seeking you, Mistress Jessimine." He smiled with satisfaction when some of her fury faded and she turned to him in surprise. "I wondered if perhaps you would like me to leave a few herbs for your use?"

Argument forgotten, Jessimine clasped her hands excitedly. "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "I’d clean forgot. Here, come into the kitchen with me—that’s where I keep all my herbs."

Jessimine eagerly led the way to the door, pausing briefly to shake her head disapprovingly at Frodo, who merely grinned at her. Then with a toss of her curls she led an amused Faramond out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen.

Only when she was gone did Sam allow himself to breathe again. "You were right lucky, Mr. Frodo," he said. "I didn’t think Faramond would say yes."

"Neither did I," Frodo admitted. Then he paused, and turned to Sam, his blue eyes narrowing. "But little help from you! How could you side with Jessimine?"

Sam’s face turned red. "I—I were only…" He stammered incoherently for a moment before he realized that Frodo was smiling at him in amusement. "Er… I’ll just clean off this tray, sir," he said hurriedly, "and then I can help you try to stand up—you’ll be needin’ a support, after all, like you said…"

At last, the goodbyes could no longer be delayed. The Gamgees—all save Sam, of course, who would not leave his master’s side—went outside to say farewell and see the Rangers off.

While Faramond finished up sorting and packing away the herbs that Jessimine had given to him, Gavin went into the guest room to make his farewell to Frodo and Sam privately, putting off the hardest one as long as possible.

But he found that taking leave of these two was nearly as difficult. When he entered the room, he found with astonishment Frodo, dressed and standing, if a little unsteadily, using Sam’s arm for support.

Frodo, by now beginning to feel the results of his exertion, and a heavy heart at the farewells besides, nevertheless managed a smile for Gavin that nearly undid the Man then and there. "I’ve been trying all morning to do this," he said simply. He paused as he noticed that Gavin seemed to be holding something behind his back. "What have you got there?"

Gavin was painfully aware that his face was flushed with discomfiture, but he licked his lips and forced a smile in return. "A gift for you, Frodo," he said, a little hesitantly, unsure of how it would be received. "Although with Sam by your side, you scarcely seem to need it…"

Frodo’s eyes widened with surprise when Gavin revealed his gift: a finely crafted walking-stick, smoothly sanded and complete with a leather handgrip for comfort.

"I began it some days ago, out of a sturdy little ash tree Faramond and I used for firewood one night," Gavin explained, trying to interpret Frodo’s expression. "I finished it and cut it down to hobbit-size while we stayed here." He studied Frodo’s face anxiously. "I fear I did not have time to—"

Suddenly Frodo swayed and almost fell. Sam, with a startled cry, tightened the grip on his arm and slipped his other one around his master’s waist, keeping him upright long enough for Gavin to cross the remaining distance between them and catch Frodo just as his knees buckled completely. He held him for a moment in a gentle embrace. "Frodo, you must be weary," he murmured between Sam’s similar admonishments. "Here, sit down on the bed. You should not be over-taxing yourself…"

Frodo sat on the edge of the bed with his head bowed and eyes closed for a moment, regaining his breath and waiting for the sudden bout of dizziness to go away. When the room had finally stopped tilting, he looked up to meet the equally-concerned gazes of Sam and Gavin, and managed an apologetic smile.

"I’m sorry," he said, "I got a bit dizzy. I’m all right now."

"Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam doubtfully.

"Yes, yes, I’m sure, Sam," Frodo maintained firmly. "I’m fine. Perhaps a bit more tired than I thought…" His eyes fell on Gavin’s walking-stick, lying on the floor where the Man had dropped it. "Oh, Gavin! Your gift!"

Sam hurried over to pick it up and set it carefully against the wall, while Gavin asked hesitantly, "Is it to your liking? I am no carpenter, so it is rough and a little crooked, but—"

"No!" Frodo breathed, smiling more brightly than Gavin had ever seen him. "No, it’s wonderful! Just what I needed. I don’t know how to thank you!"

Finally Gavin smiled in return, relieved at having his gift received so enthusiastically. "I have learned much while traveling with Faramond," he said. "But I think I have learned more here in the Shire than anywhere else in our journeyings. It is I who am grateful to you."

Gavin thought Frodo’s eyes were shining just a bit more brightly than usual, and noticed that his own eyes felt suspiciously moist as Frodo smiled and said, "I am sure that when next we meet you’ll be an expert Ranger, yourself, with your own apprentices to teach."

Gavin couldn’t help but laugh a little at the idea. "I’m not so sure of that," he said, returning the smile. "But I am sure that we shall meet again. And hopefully in happier times."

Frodo nodded, and Gavin was certain now that he was not the only one with tears in his eyes. A glance at Sam confirmed it, as, blinking a little too rapidly, he turned to the stocky hobbit.

"Well, Samwise," he began, unsure of himself again, "I—"

He was stopped midsentence as Sam suddenly threw his arms around the Man as well as he could and hugged him. "Thank you, sir," he said in a heartfelt whisper against Gavin’s tunic. "Thank you for helpin’ my master, an’ carin’ for Hazel. You won’t never know how much they both mean to me."

Gavin returned Sam’s embrace gently and lowered his face momentarily into the sandy curls to hide the tears that refused to be held back any longer. "I think I have an idea," he murmured. They pulled apart, but Gavin kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders. "I shall always count Hazel, and all of you, among my dearest friends," he said quietly. "It was truly an honor for me to have met you all. I have learned much."

Sam smiled a little shakily at him, running his sleeve across his eyes as Gavin released his shoulders and stood up. "I should be leaving," said the young Man reluctantly. "Faramond will wish to say goodbye to you both, and I have yet to take my leave of the others."

"Goodbye, sir," said Sam with genuine sadness. "Be safe."

"Farewell, Gavin," Frodo said. "And thank you. I’ll never forget you."

"Nor I," added Sam.

"Nor I you," replied Gavin sincerely, bowing low and then slipping out quickly, before his tears overcame him again. He leaned against the wall outside the room to compose himself for a moment. He had meant every word he said to them. He sighed, hearing Hazel’s piping voice from outside. He would never forget any of them.

Gavin straightened. Hazel was waiting outside for him, and he could no longer avoid the final goodbye. No, not the final goodbye, Gavin corrected himself with a small smile. And not goodbye, but farewell. They would meet again, he was sure of it.

Squaring his shoulders, Gavin went outside.

TBC...

Ack! I had every intention of making the goodbyes SHORT and sweet—and in the first half of the chapter!—and then moving on… But nooo, those darn Rangers refused to be got rid of. Gavin simply demanded a tearful, lengthy farewell to Frodo and Sam, but neither of us could bear one with Hazel. That would be too tearful and lengthy, knowing me. :-P