Chapter 14 - The Treachery of Bag End
Astron 3
The Ring had been waiting for many countless centuries at the bottom of the Great River, looking for any opportunity to get out of Its watery cage. It hated the River, hated all bodies of water, so imbued they were with Ulmo’s power. The water weakened It, subdued It. It could feel Its power being slowly stifled, and so It rested and waited.
The passage of time meant nothing to It, but It could sense the changing of the seasons, an ever constant and meaningless cycle of death and rebirth. It knew when Winter’s deadly chill was upon the land, when Spring brought forth new life, when Summer nurtured the grains for harvest, and when Autumn prepared the world for slumber. Over and again, for time immeasurable, It felt the changes of the Earth, and It waited.
An age of the world passed, and another age was growing old before the Ring was rescued at last by a wayward fisherman. It could sense the heart of Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Orcs. It liked Orcs best, for they were greedy and deceitful and easily swayed, but It could turn the heart of any creature who possessed It long enough, and It knew Its long awaited opportunity had come at last.
This creature’s heart was pure and simple, but there was another nearby, equally simple but full of greed and malicious deeds. It gathered all of Its reserved strength, luring the Pure One to Itself and soon found Itself out of the suffocating water. Its power was freed in an instant, and It lashed out violently, focusing all Its power on the one full of greed, reveling in the chaotic fight and triumphant murder that resulted.
The Greedy One took It, and It soon found that this was no Orc, but a creature previously unknown to It. The creature was selfish and malicious, and used It to create even more chaos among his fellow creatures. These deeds were petty and trite, a gross misuse of the Ring’s powers. It could do so much more, yet for all Its whisperings and suggestions, the creature did not obey It or even listen. This creature was a slave to no one but himself and he kept It for his own purposes.
Soon, It found them both at the bottom of a wet, dark cave deep beneath the mountains, hidden once more, surrounded by water again. There was no passing of the seasons here, only dark and more dark. It discovered though as the creature grew hungry and went hunting that goblins lived higher up in the caves. Goblins were good; they knew and feared Its master, unlike this stupid creature. So It waited, until such a time It could slip from the creature unnoticed, to be picked up by a goblin and taken at last to Its master who waited for It to return.
At length, It acted – and was foiled. It was picked up, not by a goblin but by a creature similar to what the Greedy One used to be, but this creature was pure, kind and not the least bit selfish. There was not a speck of greed or ambition for It to lash onto, nothing by which It could entrap this happy creature who, of all inconceivabilities, did good deeds with It! But It went to work on the Happy One all the same, wearing him down slowly through the passage of years, encroaching Itself ever more into his very soul. It was finally making progress, It could feel the Happy One growing thin, It was close to enslaving him completely.
Then the Happy One gave It away.
Yet in this unimaginable development, It realized potential immediately. This new creature was kind, pure, gentle and unselfish, all the annoying things that made a creature so difficult to ensnare. But he was also… sad and lonely, and he had a secret desire, to be with the Happy One again. He kept It far from him, locked away in a chest, and the sad moments were few and far between. It could always sense when his mood turned to melancholy and used those moments to lure the Lonely One to It.
In just this sort of fashion, It discovered a new target. The Happy One and the Lonely One both did not like a fellow creature, and It could feel the jealousy and contempt pouring out of this one they called Lotho. It searched Lotho’s heart whenever he was nearby and It discovered a secret that could work very well to Its advantage. The Angry One knew Men, dishonorable and inherently weak Men, who could easily be lured into going to Mordor. If only It could find a way into the Angry One’s hand, the Ring knew It would not be long before It was finally returned home.
So It waited. It learned the Lonely One’s routines and the routines of those around him. Better yet, It learned that the Angry One could sense It when he was nearby, even though he knew not what he was sensing.
It waited, until the Lonely One was going away. It could feel a great storm brewing in the skies above, and It knew the Lonely One would be far away. It made Its move, slipping from Its velvety prison, and It waited. It used all Its power to seek out and lure the Angry One to It. Instead, It was picked up by the Simple One and taken to the study, placed out of the way but not hidden.
It waited until the storm was brewing. It focused all Its power on the Lonely One far away, until It felt him panic and flee, until It felt him no more. It would have all the time It needed now. Or so It thought. The Lonely One soon resurfaced, weak but alive, and he had help. It needed to move quickly now. It sought out the Angry One and found him in a tormented rage. It saw the Angry One’s heart, saw his hatred for the Lonely One and seized upon that hate until he heeded Its call.
He was coming.
Ted entered the parlor late in the morning, yawning widely. He needed to start a fire and see to first – he glanced at the clock – no, second breakfast. He placed logs in the hearth and soon had a fire lit, then went into the kitchen.
“About time you wake up,” a sardonic voice said from the table.
“Mr. Lotho,” Ted said with a hint of surprise. “I thought you weren’t coming up for another few days.”
“Changed my mind,” Lotho said. “Couldn’t take any more of Mother’s constant nagging and fretting.”
“But the funeral’s tomorrow,” Ted said, somewhat dismayed.
Ted had hoped that attending the funeral would finally allow Lotho to cry and grieve as he needed to, but he didn’t see how that would be possible if Lotho avoided the whole affair. Lotho had been avoiding many things since his father’s death, most precisely the death itself. He even refused to sleep because of the nightmares it brought, and the stress of it was causing his friend to act irrationally. Ted knew Lotho couldn’t continue like this for much longer, but there seemed to be nothing he could do to help.
Lotho made no reply, but he pointed to the stove, where remainders from second breakfast waited to be warmed. Ted nodded his thanks, stoked the fire in the oven, then sat at the table across from Lotho as he waited for the food to warm. After a weary silence, Lotho said, “How’s your eye?”
“Just like new,” Ted replied sarcastically. “Thanks for asking.”
“I said I was sorry,” Lotho whispered meekly and stared with dull eyes out the window, where Ted could see his father working to repair the mill wheel for what must be hundredth time. The wheel itself worked, but a couple of the spokes had been damaged in the storm and needed replacing.
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have said those things about your father,” Ted replied, his voice gentle now, sympathetic. “It was improper of me and I’m sorry. You didn’t need to be hearing all that, and I should have kept them to myself.”
“They were true though,” Lotho said softly, almost to himself. Then he shook his head forcibly and turned his attention back to Ted. “You’re up late,” he repeated.
“That’s because I was out late.”
“Hitting the inns already are you?” Lotho asked. “Getting drunk off that poison? Despicable. They should close those inns.”
“Aye, but then I never would have learned some very interesting news about that whiny little cousin of yours,” Ted said with an innocent smile. If he couldn’t help his friend, at least he could cheer him up. “Want to hear it?”
Everywhere he went, he heard the same story. Frodo had dashed out into the storm in a mad rage and had fallen into the River and been swept away. A few hobbits even whispered in his ear that they heard Frodo did it on purpose, that he hadn’t fallen but jumped. Even stuffy old Ponto Baggins confirmed Frodo’s passing. Lotho stayed in The Ivy Bush until the luncheon crowd returned to their work and shopping. By then, he had heard all he needed to know. Now he wanted to see it for himself.
He left the inn, walked over the Hobbiton Bridge and up the Hill to Bag End. He walked through the gate and scanned the gardens critically. They were as tidy and flourishing as ever, which meant that pesky gardener must be around here somewhere. He strolled through the gardens with ravishing eyes, soaking in the colorful blooms and their sweet fragrances, but did not see the gardener anywhere.
He walked back to the front of the smial and found the round, green door standing wide open, beckoning him to enter. He was fairly certain it had not been open before. So that gardener was about, and he apparently thought he owned the place, going into Bag End as he pleased, leaving the front door open, as if this were nothing more than that run-down rut of a hole he lived in.
Lotho walked up the garden path and into the entryway. He paused to listen but heard nothing or no one moving inside. He was utterly alone. The door must have opened on its own.
He struck a flame to one of the candles sitting in the nook by the door and held it aloft. He fingered the grand map that hung there, a detailed map of the Shire that Bilbo had marked in red ink with his favorite hiking routes. That old fool had loved his hikes, would even take Frodo with him on occasion. The two of them made mockeries of themselves with their little ‘adventures.’ Lotho had spied them a couple of times far off in the fields, singing around a cozy campfire like it was the most natural thing. That map would be the first thing to go.
He stepped into the main tunnel and followed it, room by room, to the very back of the hole. The first room on the east side was the first bathing room. He lit all the candles in here and fingered the large alabaster tub, big enough for a hobbit to lie in comfortably and still have room to move in. Next to the tub there was a shelf of bathing soaps and oils; he picked one up and pulled the stopper. It smelled of sandalwood. Beneath the tub ran a drain, no need to tip the tub over even if you could. A small hearth was in the room, to heat the water so that it didn’t need to be carried in from the kitchen, less risk of burning oneself. A gilded mirror hung over a brass ewer, and towels of finest linen hung along the wall, embroidered with the Baggins monogram.
He went next into the first of the guest rooms. One had been converted into a library, as Frodo had far too many books. He scanned the titles on the covers, some of them in languages he couldn’t even read. Worthless books, terrible waste of space and money. Another room was now a storage room, stuffed with more mathoms than one hobbit could possibly ever need. He picked up one mathom, a flute carved from ivory, and blew into it. The sound was high and filled the room, echoing mutely. He put the flute down and picked up a jewelry box of polished cherry wood, the lid of which was hand-painted with a fox in a meadow.
The next rooms were the pantries, three in all. They were stocked full with food of every kind: sweets, fruits, cheeses, bread, whatever one could possibly think of or wish for. No fear of going hungry in this hole. Behind the middle pantry was the higher cellar, where the wine racks were kept. Numerous bottles of Old Winnyard and other fine wines lined the walls. Behind the largest pantry was a staircase that led down to the lower cellar. This cellar was deep in the Hill and naturally cold. A block of ice sat near the back wall, and in a thick-walled steel chest were frozen meats of every sort. Lotho stared at the ice and thought how lovely it would be to have a nice, cold drink on a hot summer’s day. It was a luxury not even the richest hobbits could enjoy very often.
Lotho climbed out of the cellar and left the pantry. The next five rooms were ready to be filled with guests, the beds made with fresh sheets, the wardrobes polished and clean, the rugs washed spotless. Lotho lit the candles in all the rooms, and investigated the chests in each one. He found in them only spare blankets, sheets and pillows. He walked around the rooms, stomping on the floor with his feet, knocking along the walls, searching for a hollow thud and finding none. Yet Frodo had to have kept his fortune around here somewhere close at hand. He got on his knees and looked under the beds, four-posters all of them. He looked behind the wardrobes and under the desks. In the room he knew to have been Frodo’s before the imp inherited the hole, he searched every single square inch, finding nothing but the finest handcrafted furniture polished to a pristine shine.
The last two guest rooms at the very end of the tunnel had been converted into large wardrobes, just to house all of Bilbo’s custom-made suits of silk, fine wool and even the rare overcoat of cashmere. Lotho counted them all, nearly one for every day of the year. That was far more clothes than any hobbit could ever require, and several of them he had never seen before, proving his point. Another waste of space and money.
Next to the wardrobes was the back door leading out to the kitchen garden and next to that was the second bathing room. This was much the same as the first one, but for the window, as it was located on the west side of the Hill, and the piping. When had Bilbo put the piping in? Lotho stared at the pump or whatever the contraption was called, not sure how to use it or if it even worked. Yet it must work, for the bathing room was obviously used and he couldn’t imagine his spoiled cousin carting water into it when there was no need. He looked out the window at the garden and spotted the well not far away. So the crazy old fool had run pipes to the well and got his water here that way. Lotho shook his head in amazement and backed out of the room.
Next to the bathing room was the best guest room. It had all the trappings of the other guest rooms, plus a window, a chandelier, and the four-poster bed was enshrouded with embroidered lace. The gilded mirror was etched with roses along the edges, and the linen chest and wardrobe were carved from pine, a rare wood for the Shire. Lotho realized it must have been ordered by one of Bilbo’s many odd friends from Outside, as no doubt were so many other items in this smial. Lotho opened the curtains here to let in the late afternoon sun while it lasted and lit the candles. He built a fire in the hearth and let the warmth of the flames melt away the last of his chill from the cellar.
He left the grand guest room and went into the master bedroom. This room he checked thoroughly as well, finding nothing but more of the same finely crafted and painstakingly decorated furniture. He lay down on the bed and stared up at the canopy as he sank into the softness of the mattress. The feather pillow enveloped his head perfectly and if he closed his eyes, he could easily have drifted off to sleep. But he mustn’t sleep. He got up, fighting off his fatigue, and went through the wardrobes. In here, Frodo kept his everyday attire, which could hardly be considered casual, even by Lotho’s standards.
Next to the master bedroom was the formal dining room. Lotho lit the candles here and fingered the gold candleholders and sconces in which they sat. A silk tablecloth, woven to resemble a landscape, decorated the long, grand oak table. The chairs were equally as grand, the backs and seats of each one hand-painted to match the tablecloth. A crystal vase sat in the middle of the table, reflecting the candlelight with dazzling little rainbows all about the room.
He went next to the kitchen, opening the curtains there and looking through the cupboards. There were glasses of all sorts, silverware of various styles, one set of utensils even made of gold. Frodo had been left with several sets of fine china; he could probably entertain a handful of guests every day of the week and never use the same dishes. Yet how often did he entertain? Hardly ever. He didn’t even utilize the gifts he had been given.
Off of the main kitchen was a smaller kitchen, with just a stove for keeping things warm. This would be used when company was over and several dishes would have to be prepared for a single meal. The kitchenette ran into the breakfast nook, which was used for casual dining or even by servants resting from their work. This led into the second parlor, or the sitting room. Lotho went through all these rooms without stopping. He had seen the second parlor in particular several times on previous visits, as that was were Frodo, and Bilbo before him, would entertain their unimportant guests. He couldn’t imagine they would keep anything of importance there.
He entered the main parlor and threw open the curtains. He set his candle on the mantle and quickly built a fire in the hearth. When the fire was roaring, he sat in the old blue rocking chair and stared into the dancing flames. He looked around the room, taking in the settees, the other stuffed chairs, the ornamental rug, the stenciled mirror, the grandfather clock, the chandelier and the portraits that hung above the mantle and all along the walls.
He breathed in deeply the scent of the smial and let his breath out with a great, contented sigh, and in that moment, he knew with absolute certainty that Frodo Baggins was gone for good. No longer could that nuisance’s presence be felt here and the smial itself seemed to be sighing with relief along with him. It craved a new master now, and as he became entranced by the dance of the flames, the smial seemed to enfold him in a tender embrace. He was the Master now. The smial and everything that came with it was his at last; he had only to claim it and he would not waste it as Frodo had.
The sun set without him noticing and soon the smial was in shadow. His stomach grumbled with hunger and figuring he may as well start making himself at home, he picked up his candle and went back to the hall with every intention of going to the pantry. His progress was stopped when he realized that he had yet one more room to inspect on his tour: the study. Of course, the study was Bilbo’s and Frodo’s most favored room. If any gold or jewels were to be found, it would be in there. Lotho felt foolish for not realizing that sooner, but no matter. He had plenty of time to go through every inch of it.
He stepped into the doorway of the study and found the curtains already drawn back. A slimmer of quickly-fading light fell across the desk and as he looked upon it, a brief yet blinding flash of purest gold caught his eye. He squinted at the desk, searching. There! Next to the quills and paper. ‘So, that Brandybrat has so much of it, he leaves it lying about in his study, does he?’ Lotho thought. He held the candle higher, and the gold caught the flame, dancing triumphantly in its gentle glow, so bright, so beautiful, so…
“Precious.”
Yes, precious. A wonderful, beautiful, precious present. A well-deserved present for all his years of patient waiting.
He took a step into the study, his heart racing excitedly at the thought of touching that perfect band of gold. But suddenly he was ripped violently from his intoxicating yearning by a harsh, raspy shout from behind him.
“Mr. Frodo!”
Lotho narrowed his eyes. He knew that voice. He forced his eyes away from that dazzling gold and turned abruptly on the intruder, whose eyes widened stupidly when he realized his foolish mistake.
“What are you doing here?” the gardener asked rudely.
“Claiming what’s mine,” Lotho said, smiling at the horror that flashed across that simple face. “And the question, I believe, is what are you doing here?”
Sam’s heart was breaking anew. For a few short moments, he had dared to dream, to hope beyond reason. His beloved master had returned and the dull, empty numbness that had become his life would finally be over. Everything would go back to the way it belonged and always should be. As the realization of Lotho standing before him, leering at him, sank in, he realized that he could no longer deny what everyone else had already accepted as the truth. Mr. Frodo was gone and there was no changing that.
“I asked you a question!” Lotho snapped.
Sam jumped and jerked back to attention. Lotho was staring at him with such open hostility it was all Sam could do to not shrink back into the wall. He forced himself to answer. “I saw the lights and I thought…” Only he was not able to finish. He didn’t need to.
“You thought it was Frodo, come back from the dead,” Lotho supplied. “And why would you think something so silly as that, when everyone knows he’s gone? There’s no coming back from where he is.” He cocked his head and stared at Sam, who openly stared back. Was there no end to this servant’s defiance? Lotho’s temper broiled and he spat out, “He’s gone, you hear me! And he isn’t coming back!”
Sam didn’t respond but looked down at the ground by Lotho’s feet. There was a joy and elation in Lotho’s voice, but there was a tightness also, a haunted grief and strangled anger that could not be ignored. The mixture was unnerving and Sam wondered if he should just leave. Only he couldn’t move. His feet seemed nailed to the floor and his legs were leaden, as if some other will were forcing him to remain. He had no choice but to stay.
Lotho glared at Sam. This gardener was another example of his spoiled cousin’s wasteful ways. Just like everything within the smial itself, Lotho could see no need for this servant. Yet Frodo kept him about the hole and for what? So he could leave the smial open to the elements and barge in as he pleased to defy those of higher authority than he?
That Brandybrat never deserved Bag End. In Lotho’s eyes, there was only one person who should have inherited the luxurious smial, and that person was now dead. His sneer deepened and he took a step towards Sam. It was time to teach this gardener a lesson.
When he spoke again, his voice was soft, nearly contemplative, almost as if he were explaining a simple sums problem to a small child. The hardness in his eyes remained however, and it gave him an eerie appearance, surrounded as he was by candlelight, with the study dark and cold behind him.
“You wait your whole life for something, something that by all rights should have been yours without question. You sit and you wait and you watch your life crawl by as that thing is constantly denied you, knowing that if you just had it, all your problems would go away. You hope and you dream, until you’re stumbling in the dark, falling, and with your last strength you reach out to find it already yanked just beyond your reach and all you can do is stare at it as it mocks you.
“All of this was supposed to be my father’s but instead it’s stolen away by that opportunistic little brat, blinding that old fool with his innocent face. My father spends his whole life watching that ungrateful brat live in his home, only to die in disappointment, his one desire left unfulfilled, and for what? For that Brandybrat to fling himself into a river two weeks later? He deprived my father that which he desired most, only to stay long enough to see him dead. How is that fair? Where is the justice in that?”
Sam raised his head sharply at this and stared unblinking into Lotho’s twisted, anguished face. “Mr. Frodo fell. It was an accident,” he said.
The sneer returned to Lotho’s face and he took another step towards Sam. “Ah, is Mr. Frodo’s servant going to defend his good name?” he mocked. “Why? When he neither knew nor cared to know how he was besmirching the family name. Now he’s caused a permanent defilement, taking his own life, just like the ungrateful, selfish, inconsiderate whelp that we always said he was. Only no one believed us. Well, they know now, don’t they?”
The calmness had melted away and Lotho began to pace back and forth as his agitation grew. His speech turned to ranting and he seemed to forget that Sam was even there.
“You defend him, even though he would smile and say nothing if people spoke ill of you and would actually join in and agree with them. You defend him still after he turned his back on you, left you without even so much as a farewell. You defend him, even though he cared nothing for those he left behind, even though he knew you would blame yourself for pushing him too far. He left, knowing it would be his final revenge, that you would have no hope of getting back at him without looking petty and cruel.
“You spend your life trying to make him happy, doing everything he asked, and it was never good enough. You sweated for him, bled for him. You were the one who went to market for him, who made the improvements to the smial, who negotiated for him to get him the things he wanted. You were the one who knew what he needed and got it before he asked, who took care of him all those years, who gave your life for him. Did you ever get any gratitude for it? Did he ever look at you with anything but contempt and scorn? And you know it’s silly to try, you know he’ll never approve of you, but you do it anyway because what else can you do?”
Lotho stopped his pacing and stared wretchedly at Sam. “You’re bound to him. And you failed him.”
Sam lowered his eyes again, but he could feel those conflicted, tortured eyes upon him still. He could feel when that gaze turn cold. He shivered involuntarily.
“He left you, knowing you would be duty-bound to serve the next Master of the Hill in whichever way he sees best. You’d better learn your place, boy. There’s no one to protect and coddle you now, because Frodo’s gone and everyone knows it. I won’t be so silly as my parents were, I won’t wait for what’s mine. Frodo took his own life; in death he proved what we were saying all along. He was incompetent to ever have been Bilbo’s heir. The Mayor will have no choice but to agree. His title as heir will stripped from him, his will invalidated. The ownership of Bag End will revert back to Bilbo’s next of kin, and guess who that is.
“Bag End and everything in it will be mine. You will be serving me. Your days of lazing about the hole are over, Sam-dumb. Now leave or you’re fired, and if I fire you, I will make certain no one else ever hires you again.”
Sam’s mind reeled. He was not as dumb as Lotho thought he was. He knew of whom Lotho was really speaking, even if Lotho himself did not. He would have known even if Ted hadn’t revealed it to him the night before. He felt sorry for Lotho suddenly, for having to be raised by such uncaring and selfish parents, yet that didn’t give him the right to slander Mr. Frodo’s name.
“Are you deaf, boy?” Lotho yelled and took another step toward Sam. “Leave. I will not tell you again.”
“No,” Sam heard himself say before he even made the decision to speak.
“What did you say?” Lotho asked.
“No,” Sam repeated purposefully. “This isn’t about Mr. Frodo. Don’t you dare try to make it about him. This is about you and Mr. Otho.”
Lotho stared at him with unmasked disdain and misery. “How dare you talk of my father? You know nothing about him.”
“No, I don’t,” Sam agreed. “I know how it is to lose someone close to you though. You asked how this is fair, you asked where the justice was. There is none. There never will be, and that makes it all the harder for you to bear when you know you could have stopped it, had you been brave enough to face your fears and just followed him as you knew you should have. And now it’s too late. You’re condemned to spend the rest of your life knowing it didn’t have to happen like this and knowing that it did happen all the same. You can’t go back, you can’t change it. The weight of that guilt will crush you just a little more each day, till you can hardly breathe or stand from the pain. It feels like your heart and soul were ripped from you and you’re hollow inside.”
“How do you make the pain stop?” Lotho asked, tears springing into his eyes. “How do you fill that void?”
“You don’t; you can’t. It’s too late,” Sam answered.
Lotho shook his head. “No. I can’t accept that. There has to be a way. Tell me the way,” he demanded.
“There is none,” Sam repeated.
“Do not defy me!”
“I’m not. You ask the impossible.”
“Then leave,” Lotho commanded. He pointed to the door and Sam saw that he was shaking with suppressed rage and sorrow. “Get out!”
Sam shook his head. “I’m not leaving until you do. Bag End isn’t yours yet and you’ve no right to be in Mr. Frodo’s home without leave.”
What happened next occurred too quickly and suddenly for Sam to comprehend or prevent. In a matter of seconds, Lotho closed the distance between them and caught Sam off-guard with a hefty punch, splitting his lip, followed closely by another to his temple, blinding him temporarily. “You insolent fool! How dare you defy me!” A fist slammed into Sam’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, doubling him over. An instant later, an elbow crashed into his spine, sending him sprawling to the floor. “How dare you command me!” A foot struck his side with a snap, the force rolling him onto his back. Lotho straddled him, pinning him to the floor, and grasped his neck in an iron tight grip, chocking out his life.
Sam gasped for breath that wouldn’t come and his vision began to spot with white specks. He tried to dislodge Lotho or pry his hands away, but it was no use. His hearing faded to distant echoes, his vision clouded until there was white all around, edged with black. Sam cast about the floor for some weapon to wield, to defend himself with, his hands finding nothing. He could hear nothing now, the black was collapsing around him. He returned his hands to Lotho’s and, with failing strength, he tried again to pry Lotho’s hands apart, but there was no hope. No hope, save one.
Lotho felt Sam’s body go limp beneath him. He stood up quickly and backed away, staring in horrified shock at what he had just done. He was shaking violently and he felt he would be sick, but something was whispering in his ear. Something was telling him everything was all right, that this meant nothing, that this was a trivial matter, beneath him really, he shouldn’t have lowered himself to dirty his hands so. He was meant for greater and grander things.
He turned away from the still form as if in a daze and looked into the darkness of the study, where the glint of gold once again caught his attention. He stepped over the mass on the floor and into the threshold. He stared at the ring, glowing impossibly in the blackness of the room. Transfixed, he held out his hand and took a step into the room.
Sam coughed. Lotho whirled around in disbelief. “You tricked me!”
“So it seems,” Sam said, gasping for breath. He coughed uncontrollably as his senses returned, then rolled over to lift himself into a sitting position. His head was throbbing and his ears were buzzing. His vision was blurred and spotted. His side hurt so badly every movement made him wince with pain, and it was then he noticed his lip was bleeding profusely as the blood splattered the floor beneath him.
Before he could begin to recover, an enraged Lotho was upon him again, fighting wildly, throwing fists that landed where they may: Sam’s back, neck, head, the back again. Without thinking, without even considering what he was doing, Sam rolled to his uninjured side and kicked up once, landing his foot square in Lotho’s abdomen. Lotho staggered backward and Sam took advantage of his imbalance. He sprang forward and grabbed Lotho by an ankle, yanking his foot out from under him. Lotho crashed to the ground, his head striking hard on the tile floor, dazing him momentarily. Sam moved quickly and pinned Lotho to the ground, holding his arms harmless above his head.
“No, Mr. Lotho,” he said. “You can’t keep fighting everyone. I know it hurts…”
“What do you know of it? You know nothing!” Lotho raged. “You wait your whole life for something and you never get it. You’ve never looked into your father’s eyes and known that he blamed you for his rotten life. You’ve never looked at him and seen nothing but hatred and loathing in return. You’ve never come home and found him dead and knew it was because of you that he did it. What do you know of that?” Tears sprang to his eyes and streamed down his face as he at last gave into his grief. Sam let him go and Lotho clung to him desperately, sobbing into his coat. “What do you know? You, the Gaffer’s favorite son. What do you know?”
Caught by surprise for the second time in less than a minute, Sam could only manage to get them into a sitting position. He held Lotho close and patted him on the back as he spent his long-held tears. Sam rocked him back and forth, until he felt Lotho’s sobbing slow and calm. Then Lotho stiffened, and he pushed Sam away from him and scrambled to his feet. He looked abashed and confused, and his eyes were bloodshot from his grief. Sam remained still and kept his eyes to the ground until Lotho began backing away.
“If you dare breathe a word of this to anyone…”
“No, never,” Sam quickly assured.
“Bag End will be mine,” Lotho uttered as he stepped outside the hole. “You’ll be working for me. I can be kind or I can be cruel. You just give me a reason, Gamgee. Just give me a reason.”
An instant later, he was gone.
Sam remained on the floor, barely noticing the passage of time. He was shaking and bleeding, and coughing still. His head pounded, his ribs ached and his throat burned. He stared numbly at the spot where Lotho last stood. What had just happened? And what was going to happen next?
To be continued…