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…