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…