The Master of Bag End

A series of drabbles in the POVs of Sam’s children. Their ages at the time of writing are undetermined, but I believe most of them are in their tweens or early adult years. Primrose’s seems to be from her teen years, and Robin’s might be from the time after Sam sailed over the Sea.
 
 

Elanor

When I look at my father, I see his love for his family and his joy in his homeland. I see the wisdom of his actions, his solid practicality, his thoroughness and diligence. I see his confidence by the way he can walk into a room and take command with a soft word and a gentle smile. I see the reflection of his courage and sacrifices in the depths of his eyes, mingled with a sadness and longing that pull him ever toward the Sea. I see a whisper of golden light illuminating him from within. I see hope unquenchable.
 

Frodo

My father does everything with ease and calm. He can do more things in a day than most people can accomplish in a week. He can trim the hedgerows, cut the grass, attend a wedding banquet, preside over a meeting between family heads, take Tom to the healer for more asthma medication on his way into town to do the marketing and pick up Ruby and Primrose from Aunt Marigold’s, and still have dinner on the table on time. Anything he puts his hand to, he can master almost instantly without having to think. But he can’t say my name.
 

Rose

Dad can fix anything with just a kiss and a laugh. He once stopped Bilbo from crying by kissing his scraped knees and palms, and giving him a tickle. When Hamfast and Goldilocks were arguing, he told them funny stories until they made up, and when Pippin found a hurt coney, he kissed Pippin’s forehead and told him everything would be fine. By the next morning, the coney was hopping around the pantry, munching on lettuce and celery leaves. But when Timmy Sandheaver broke my heart, Dad hugged me while I cried and somehow that made me feel better too.
 

Merry

Once a season, my dad takes Sting from its display plaque on the study wall to polish it. He buffs the blade gingerly, taking special care with the runes, a far off look in his eyes. He tells us how Mr. Bilbo found the sword in the Troll Shaws, how he gave it to Mr. Frodo, who gave it to Dad in Shelob’s lair. He lets me touch it today and it feels like liquid silk, and he says it even sings when you draw it from its scabbard. Then he says he never wants to hear it sing again.
 

Pippin

“Dad? Do you and Ma fight?”

“Occasionally.”

“Who wins?”

“We both do.”

“How is that? Ma concedes to you, or vice versa?”

“Sometimes. Most times we compromise. We find a solution that makes us both happy.”

“How can you do that if you disagree?”

“We both agree to give up something we want for ourselves in place of something we both want together.”

“And if you can’t compromise?”

“Then someone has to give up everything, but it shouldn’t always be the same someone. The same goes for you children. You have a voice, Pippin. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
 

Goldilocks

Master Meriadoc and Thain Peregrin say that my father has the patience of the Valar. Mr. Frodo said in the Red Book that Dad would become a wizard or a warrior, and that by the end, he became a bit of both. Ellie says he glows sometimes, like a candle but softer, harder to see if you’re not looking the right way. Mom says Dad is the best hobbit in all Shire, and the best Mayor, and lots of other folk say that too. Dad says he’s a gardener. “Everything takes root and blossoms if you give it enough care.”
 

Hamfast

I watch from my perch on the other side of the hedgerow as my dad weeds the garden and plants the annuals. Frodo usually does this now, but Dad still likes to get his hands dirty from time to time. He handles the seedlings with the same care as he did the youngest children when they were bairns, how he handled us all. As I watch, I begin to understand. The garden is his gift to us, and we are his gift to the garden, for we’ll tend it long after he’s gone and it will remind us of him.
 

Daisy

Being the Mayor’s daughter can be arduous. People expect to see a certain amount of pedigree I do not possess. Working hobbits call me Miss, and I don’t fit in with the gentlehobbits either. I’m torn in two, a Gamgee curse it seems. I ask my dad how he managed it all those years, before the War, being neither here nor there. “It wasn’t as bad for me,” he says. “I was just the gardener’s lad, too big for my breeches. And I was Mr. Frodo’s lad, right where I belonged. Find out where you belong, and naught else matters.”
 

Primrose

“Who am I named after?”

“Well, in part you’re named after your mother, and in part, you’re also named for Mr. Frodo’s mother.”

“Mistress Primula?”

“Aye. Primula means primrose. Mostly you’re named so because as soon as your Ma and I saw you, we couldn’t imagine living without you, and that’s what primrose stands for.”

“Then who is Ruby named for?”

“When Ruby was first born, she was pink-skinned, and the birthmark on her ankle was bright red.”

“The mark is brown now.”

“Aye, but it still turns red when she’s angry.”

“That’s how we know to run away.”
 

Bilbo

It’s hard to be noticed in a family of fifteen. Most times, everyone forgets I’m here and I’ll wind up off by myself, digging in a corner of the garden or sitting on Mr. Frodo’s reading bench listening to my other siblings playing. Then Dad’ll come and he’ll show me a dandelion he just uprooted and tell me everything about it, like when they sprout and what healers use them for. He’ll take me to where he and Frodo are working and show me how to tend the roses, telling me why each and every one reminds him of Ma.
 

Ruby

Dad is the kindest, gentlest, most generous hobbit there ever was. Don’t believe his name though; he’s no fool and the look he wears now proves it: cunning and evaluating, a level watchfulness that misses nothing, not even the minutest detail. It’s a look I’ve seen many times before, aimed at Merry or Hamfast when they are foolish enough to lie to him about something they’ve done. They thought I could get away with it, that he’d be easier on me because I’m a lass. They were wrong, and I never want to see that look directed at me again.
 

Robin

In my earliest remembrances of my dad, he was already greying and wrinkled, his back slightly bent with years of garden work, his hearing beginning to fade, a hard thing for a former spy. My older siblings tell stories of him from their youth, how he used to toss them high into the air and spin them around until they were both dizzy. What I remember most is how he’d sit us youngest ones down and give us hints on how to outsmart our older siblings. Sometimes, he’d sing Elvish ballads or read poems that he’d written just for us.
 

Tom

Dad loves to tell the story of my birth, how he and Ma found out she was pregnant again when they reached Rohan, how the dignitaries of Rohan and Gondor had showered gifts on them both, how they had turned my name-giving into a grand party for all of Minas Tirith. He’ll sit by the hearth in Bag End, his eyes shimmering with firelight, the orange glow making him look both older and regal as he spins his tale. He’ll look at me and wink, and say how the dwarves had it wrong all along. Thirteen is a lucky number.
 
 
 
 

GF 5/31/06