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Chapter Text

Frodo rolled reflexively towards Sam from the cool edge of the bed, and once again felt a rush of gratitude for his presence. Initially, it had been hard for Frodo, who had never slept with anyone before, not to continue to wake through the night and reassure himself that it was indeed Sam next to him, and that he didn't have to awaken him and urge him to leave, to go back home. They had lain next to each other somewhat awkwardly at first, holding hands, but unsure of how to fit together in sleep. Sam, who had learned restraint as a child when sharing a bed with his brothers, tended to remain in one place, but Frodo, used to the freedom of an entire bed to himself, had a tendency to roll about, and occasionally fling an arm or leg out in his sleep.

More than once, Sam had been startled awake by a hand thrown across his chest, or the sudden jab of a knee in his side. But he had quickly realized that the best way to address that problem was to wrap himself around Frodo, and bury his nose in the crook of Frodo's neck, just under the ear, and kiss him. Instinctively, Frodo, whether awake or still asleep, would murmur Sam's name, and curl his back against Sam, and hold Sam's hand tightly to his chest. And Sam had learned that that was a very pleasurable position indeed.

But this morning, it was Frodo who lay awake, listening to Sam's steady breathing, and wondering why he had never noticed how empty his bed had been before, and how much Sam had improved it. It wasn't until they got out of bed that complications arose.

Summer was flourishing now, and Sam had become accustomed to rising early without disturbing Frodo as much as he could help. Although Frodo awoke frequently through the night, he usually fell into heavy slumber in the early morning hours. At first, he had been disappointed that Sam was gone when he finally awoke, but Sam gently pointed out to him that the early mornings were the best times for the heavier gardening chores in the summer, when the air still had a bit of coolness about it. There was time for Sam to hastily dress and eat a first breakfast as he worked, and then get back, as the sun rose higher, and became warmer, to prepare a more luxurious breakfast for Frodo when he rose later. Frodo had felt initially as if he was imposing on Sam, who had never cooked meals regularly for him before, but soon realized that Sam was adamant about doing this for Frodo. Realizing the pleasure it gave Sam, he quickly ceased his protestations and began to enjoy the improved quality of his breakfasts.

Sam reserved the later afternoon hours for his chores back at Number Three Bagshot Row. This gave the gaffer the opportunity to be elsewhere, which was where he generally chose to be. Sam and his father had not exchanged more than a bare minimum of words in the month since Marigold's wedding. Sam had stopped by, the next morning, to bundle up what clothes he had, but the gaffer had not been about then, either. But Sam had been determined not to be found lacking in attention to his family, and made sure that any gardening or household chores were attended to promptly.

He had tried once, in the first few weeks of his residence at Bag End, to question Daisy about it, but she had halted her spreading of the wet laundry on the hedge, and eyed Sam without comment for several moments, making him feel like a young lad caught sneaking a extra piece of bread-and-butter again. Then she shook her head, and went back to the shirt she was spreading out. "Leave it be, Sam" she stated flatly. Glancing back over at him, she softened somewhat at his expression, but nonetheless continued firmly, "He'd not be a'that angry w'ye, but he hasn't the words to talk w'ye yet. Just leave it be." And Sam had.

In addition, there was Rosie. Rosie Cotton had come to stay with the older Gamgee girls, giving up her room at home to the newly-weds to use until their own smial was dug out. May had been delighted, since she had always been fond of Rosie, and in addition, the Cottons knew all the best families around Hobbiton. Daisy was grateful May still had someone else about to chatter to. Sam, however, found visits home all the more awkward.

Evenings, though, Sam quickly decided, evenings were glorious. With the lengthened days, and what with summer being the busy season it was for Sam, he scarcely saw Frodo at all during daylight. Tea-time had become a more hurried affair, and frequently there was a task or two yet to be done before Sam could stop for the day. But the evenings more than compensated. To sit with Frodo in the study after dinner (and Sam had insisted on preparing that, as well - Frodo had been in the habit of polishing off the tea leftovers which, to Sam's mind, were in no way a proper meal for a hobbit) was pure bliss for Sam. Frodo took delight in reading and explaining what he had worked on during the day, and found Sam to be a responsive audience. Other evenings, they would simply watch the flames, side by side on the settle, content with idle conversation. And other nights, especially when the moon was silvery full, they would walk out in the garden, hands clasped, and Sam would be minded of the trip through the ice-storm, and how he had felt that night.

But there would come the time, every night, when Frodo would turn to him with that look, and no more need be said. The fires would be banked, the candles snuffed, and Sam would follow Frodo down the Bag End hall, his heart singing. And once more, in Frodo's arms, he knew, with no doubt, that he was loved and that he was home.

Frodo was helping Sam clear off the lunch things when he noticed that the shoulder seam of Sam's work shirt was beginning to separate. "Sam," he pointed out, "this is starting to give. Perhaps I should have another made for you."

Sam shook his head at that, and continued rinse the dishes in the soapy water. "No need," he answered, rather tersely. "It'll still mend." Turning around as he finished and drying his hands on the kitchen cloth, he added by way of explanation, "It's always been Daisy as sews my shirts."

Turning to the kitchen door to return to the cucumber bed he'd been weeding out, he added softly, more to himself, "She can't be knowin' as I need a new one."

Frodo felt a pang of guilt as he watched him leave.

May was leaning towards the pink, but the green did bring out the highlights in her auburn hair so very nicely. "Oh, I can't be wearin' both, now, can I?" she appealed to Rosie, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in their room. The Cottons were to hold a party for the newly-wed couple in three nights, to formally welcome them into Hobbiton society, and the question of the dress was beginning to become urgent. She had questioned Rosie almost daily concerning the guest list, and the list seemed very promising indeed. It had been a dreadful shock to May, although she was sure that she had hidden it well, to find that her younger sister had married before her. She was determined to remedy that situation before the summer was out.

The finer points of this selection were an enthralling new concept to Rosie. She had grown up the only lass in a household of lads, and her closest friend among the Gamgee lasses had been Marigold, only a year older than she. But Marigold had always worn whatever had been passed down from her sisters and had never thought twice as to whether the color would bring out her eyes or not. May, though, was quite different, and Rosie had begun to see how remiss she had been about her own looks. Perhaps that was why Sam, on the rare occasions she saw him nowadays, treated her with kindness, but no more than her brothers did. She was determined to learn from May, for she had seen how the eyes of the lads always followed her with admiration.

She had used to probe Marigold regarding Sam, but the youngest Gamgee had suddenly become curiously silent on the subject of Sam's doings, right before her wedding. Rosie had decided that her timing must have needed improving, and was patiently waiting for the new bride to settle in. But here was another authority on not only Sam, but lads in general, and Rosie seized the opportunity.

"Sam's been that busy of late, I hav'na seen a bit of him about," she suddenly pointed out, with an ineffective show of nonchalance.

But May was distracted by the sight of her reflection in the treasured small bit of silvered glass the Gamgee lasses used as a mirror. "Oh, aye," she answered absent-mindedly, "he's been that busy up on the Hill."

"Mr. Frodo must be right pleased to have someone as helpful as Sam about that place o'his," Rosie continued, bravely sticking to the subject. "I hear tell it's got rooms as no-one uses, it's all that big."

"Too big for the likes of one hobbit, be he gentlefolk or no," May sniffed. "Now, if Bag End were mine, I'd turn it out proper, I would…"

But the rest of her plans were not revealed as Daisy chose that moment to call the younger two out to assist her in beating the mats on the line in the back garden. And with the dust flying, and the giggling as they made up rhymes by which to beat the worn floor mats, Rosie's questions were quite forgotten.

That same afternoon, Frodo and Sam were returning from the back hill with pails of hard-won blackberries. Sam's prophecy had been correct, and it was a splendid year for berries. Sam was pleased to find that there had been more than enough for Frodo's use, and that he'd be able, with Frodo's consent of course, to offer a few pails to the Cottons as a gift for the newly-weds. But blackberries were never to be gained without cost, and he was weary, dirty, well-scratched, and stained with berry juice. Frodo was in a similar state, having offered his help, despite Sam's misgivings.

"I never remember," Frodo laughed as they rested on the grass for a moment before climbing back down the hill, "ever getting quite this scratched before. Of course, I was smaller the last time I went berrying, I suppose, and that would account for it. It certainly is good to be out of that thicket though. The breeze out here feels wonderful." Closing his eyes, he turned to face the light breeze, letting his dark hair be lifted from his face.

Sam watched him with a smile. How a hobbit that sweaty, dirty, and well-pricked had any right to still look as beautiful as Frodo did just then was a mystery that he knew he could never solve. He lay back on his elbows, still watching the breeze lifting and tangling Frodo's dark curls, and felt serenely happy.

Some time must have gone by when he felt Frodo gently shaking his shoulder, for the sky was already beginning to darken. "No, don't be tellin' me as I nodded off!" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes and sitting up a trifle stiffly.

Frodo chuckled at his surprised expression. "You certainly did, Sam. You looked as if you could use a nap, and I let you take one. It was far too lovely an afternoon to do anything productive, anyway."

"Aye, well, you should never ha'let a great lazy noddy as myself lay about like that," Sam grumbled softly as they got to their feet, collecting the pails of berries.

"Lazy?" Frodo quirked up an eyebrow at that. "Really, Sam, you do drive yourself a little hard at times." But then with a smile, and a quick kiss to Sam's cheek, he added, "I expect that's the lack of something in your stomach that's speaking. We did miss lunch, after all, and we are in great danger of missing tea as well. Goodness knows we can't have that!"

Sam said no more.

When they got back, in the dusk, to Bag End, Sam emptied the pails into a large earthenware bowl, and headed back out to the pump for bathwater. The kitchen fire was urged into life, and the kettle put on. He filled the tub in the cozy bathing room half-way with the cold water, and lit the candles. Soon the hot water was ready as well, and it was added to the tub, steaming up at just the proper temperature. Towels and a cake of soap were set on a small stool near by, and all was ready. He returned to the kitchen, where he had left Frodo sipping a quick cup of tea. "All ready, Frodo," he announced, with brisk efficiency.

Frodo stood up, stretching a bit. "Ah, thank you, Sam, a hot bath is exactly what I need just now, even more than food. It will be wonderful to get this grime off." But as he started to leave the kitchen, he turned around to look back at Sam. "You're looking a little ragged yourself, Sam," he observed softly.

"Oh, aye," Sam shrugged. "I suppose I'd best be havin' a bath too, when you're through."

Frodo, though, continued to look at him for a minute more, and then, with a small movement of his shoulders as if coming to a decision, he reached for Sam's hand. "Come along, Samwise," he murmured, and led a surprised Sam down the hall.

Entering the bathing room, Sam's hand still firmly in his, he eyed the tub. "Yes, I believe it's big enough," he stated firmly, and then turned to Sam, added softly, "No need to wait, Sam."

Sam immediately felt his face redden as he took in Frodo's meaning. "Both of us?" he asked, feeling an odd combination of awkwardness and excitement.

"I don't see why not," Frodo responded resolutely, the only sign of uncertainty his reddened ear tip peeking out from his curls.

Sam glanced over at the bath again. Yes, it probably was large enough, although they would fit in rather closely. Swallowing, he turned back to Frodo, but the sight of the expression on Frodo's face, of eagerness overcoming embarrassment, suddenly made his heart lurch, and he whispered, "Well then. We'd best be gettin' in afore the water cools."

Although Sam was used enough to undressing in front of Frodo by now, and to seeing Frodo undressed as well, it was normally in the bedroom, by the light of the fire, or perhaps moonlight from the window. This was something entirely different. He rapidly shed his dirty clothing, and turned to find Frodo, also undressed, slipping into the steaming water. The sight of the candlelight playing on Frodo's slim, pale form was so breathtaking that for a moment, he stopped, and watched, his breath catching at the sight. And then Frodo looked up at him, and with a sudden smile, held out his arms. "Sam," he murmured, and Sam found he could move again.

Prompted by Frodo's gentle guidance, he sank into the hot water, sitting against Frodo, his back to Frodo's chest. Frodo's arms closed quickly about him, and he raised his hands to hold them tight for a moment. Then Frodo reached for the soap, and held it down in the water briefly. The scent of lavender was noticeable in the steamy air as he raised the bar and began to lather Sam's back.

Sam felt as if he should protest, surely it was he who should be attending to Frodo first, but it was so evident that Frodo wished to do this that he choked it back, and let himself relax. Frodo's fingers were strong and skilful, and Sam felt knots of tightened muscles that he didn't know he possessed being eased and soothed by that sure touch. Dimly he realized that Frodo was humming under his breath, some faint tune that Sam did not recognize, but surely never came from the Shire.

"Now your hair, Sam," he heard Frodo's quiet voice, close to his ear, along with the briefest of kisses. Fearlessly, closing his eyes, he let himself fall back, into Frodo's arms, allowing his head to float in the warm water. Frodo had resumed his humming, and that caressing touch was now lifting his wet, tangled curls, soaping them carefully, heedful of keeping the suds from his eyes, and gently rinsing them. And in between, there were soft touches to his face, that had nothing to do with the task at hand, and then the soft brush of a kiss on his forehead. At that, he opened his eyes to see Frodo tenderly smiling down at him, his blue eyes dark in the flickering of the candlelight. And how could Frodo do that? How could Frodo pierce his heart so until he didn't know if it was pain or joy that he was feeling, or perhaps some of both?

"Oh, me dear," Sam sighed, turning to throw his arms around Frodo's neck and the soap bar was quickly cast aside. And there was room, after all, for them to embrace, and slide into the water together.

Daisy frowned, examining the back tool shed with concern. The snows of the past winter had been hard on it, and the tilt to one side was beginning to be apparent. But the gaffer's tools needed to be kept covered, and Sam had left some of his there as well. "They may as well be kept in the front room," she thought in resignation, "for all the use we have of it."

Rosie would be leaving soon enough, Tom and Marigold's smial was nearly complete. And Daisy fully expected to be attending another sister's wedding by fall, although to whom was not yet clear. Which left her and the gaffer.

Going back to her task of cleaning out the chicken coop, she shooed the three red hens out into the yard and permitted herself a sigh but no more. "What cannot be changed, must be borne," she told herself sternly, "and this task needs must be completed." After all, Marigold's party was on the morrow, and there'd be no time then.

May eyed the sky that morning with trepidation. Rain would be disastrous. Her cloak had barely made in through the last winter, and was looking decidedly shabby. Rosie followed her out of the smial and studied the clouds on the horizon with her. "No," she finally determined, turning to May with a laugh. "Too much of a breeze. And look, May, they'd be the fluffy white sort. Not a drop in those."

May's brow smoothed out again. The lass was right. "Well, then," she sighed in relief, linking arms with May, and walking out into the orchard, "we're to be there at lunch, now?"

"A bit earlier," Rosie reminded her. "Ma's looking to us to help be settin' up. Jolly's there, but the two little'uns aren't much of a use." Pausing for a moment, she added wistfully, "Jolly would na mind a bit of help from Sam. You'd know when he might be comin'?"

"Oh, there's no tellin', now that he's so fine, livin' up on the Hill," May waved her hand in dismissal.

"He'd be comin' now, won't he?" Rosie suddenly stopped, her eyes wide. "He'd be knowin' about today?"

"Sam's reliable enough if there's a fine feast to be had," May laughed at Rosie's fears. "Don't you worrit, now. He'd not be missin' his sister's party."

Sam eyed his reflection in Frodo's looking glass nervously, the late morning light streaming through the bedroom window. He was still not accustomed to the sight, even if he appeared to himself to be an unremarkable enough hobbit. His nervousness, however, was not on behalf of his appearance.

He ran his hand through his hair and turned to go. Frodo was standing in the bedroom doorway, watching him. "The last time you were wearing that weskit was at the wedding," he observed, his gaze on Sam intent.

"Aye, sure enough. It'd be my good one," Sam shrugged.

Frodo paused and then mentioned quietly, "That was the night I thought I wouldn't see you again."

"Oh, Frodo," Sam was over to him in a moment, holding him tightly, nestling his head reflexively on Frodo's shoulder. "I would have come back to you, even if it ha'been years."

"I know you would have, Sam," Frodo held him closely, "but they would have been such lonely years. And now, now I can't even imagine…" He closed his eyes, and then kissed the side of Sam's face.

"Well, I expect your family is waiting for you," Frodo straightened up suddenly and held Sam at an arm's length. "Give Tom and your sister my best wishes. Tell me all about it tonight."

Sam turned to leave and then looked back. "I wish you could be comin' too," he said wistfully.

Frodo laughed slightly and shook his head. "I imagine I'd be rather a damper on the whole occasion," he stated dryly. "Not to worry, Sam. I'll keep myself occupied."

It was well into the afternoon when Sam found an opportunity to talk to Daisy. Jolly had been glad enough to see him, and had quickly taken him in charge. There were casks to be hauled, a dance field to be set up, and several benches and tables to be set in place. His younger brothers, Nick and Nibs, were willing enough, but still a little on the reedy side for this sort of work, and he couldn't very well ask Tom. "Why, I'm that sorry, Jolly," Sam gasped regretfully, as they made their way down the back path, each with the end of a heavy table in their grasp. "I should ha'thought you'd be needin' a bit o'help." Gratefully they both let go, the table in its proper place. Sam flexed his hands and rubbed them against his trouser leg. "Why didn't ye just come haul me down in the Hill? I could've been here sooner."

"Ah, well," Jolly shook his head, shaking his hands out as well, "I don'like to be botherin' Mr. Frodo now."

"He would na'mind," Sam answered quietly, but Jolly said no more, and they headed back to the smial for the benches.

The other guests had begun to arrive at that point, and Sam looked up from a cask that he had just laid down to see the gaffer enter the back garden gate, accompanied by Daisy. May and Rosie were right behind, May giggling and glancing quickly about at the other guests, and Rosie was laughing too. But she caught sight of Sam straightaway, nodding her head slightly, her face flushing suddenly. Sam, with a sinking heart, returned the nod, and gratefully watched May swoop towards a knot of lads near the food, Rosie firmly in tow.

He turned back to the gaffer, but he had seated himself in the corner along with Tolman Cotton. As the fathers of the happy couple, guests kept making their way to them to pay their respects, and Sam realized that there would be no chance of a private word with the gaffer until late in the day, if at all. He had received a nod from his father, but that was all, and he could not read the mood behind that nod.

So he found Marigold, giving his sister a hug that made her give a faint squeal. "Well, Mistress Cotton, if you don't look that beautiful today," he exclaimed fondly, and truly she did, fair glowing with happiness.

"Ah, Sam, I've missed you," she laughed affectionately, "and you must be our very first guest after we've moved into our new home, and then I'll be Mistress Cotton indeed." But she was quickly swept away at that point by May at her most commanding, in dire need of certain introductions.

Sam walked out to the trees at the back of the field, finding there, as he had expected, Daisy sitting on the trunk of a fallen pine, watching the proceedings from afar. He sat down beside her without a word, and was rewarded with a faint smile from Daisy. For a time, they viewed the festivities in a companionable silence, and then Daisy turned to him thoughtfully.

"You should be dancing, Sam," she told him, with a slight hint of reproach in her voice. "There'd be one as has been waitin' for you."

"Rosie," Sam sighed, looking down at his hands.

"Aye," Daisy answered crisply. "An' what will ye be tellin' that lass, now?"

"But it was never me as said anything at all," Sam clasped his hands together and continued to stare at them.

Daisy chuckled briefly at that, and reaching over, gave Sam's clasped hands a brief pat. "Samwise, you can't have grown with three lasses about, and not be knowin' the way a lass can build a palace out of a look, whether it be meant as such, or no?" Turning back to watch the dancers again, she added, "And that lass has built herself a fair one, I daresay. You be careful how you go about knockin' it down."

At that, Sam gathered up all his courage, and asked his sister what he should have a month ago. "Tell me, Daisy, who'd be knowin'?" And as she looked quickly back at him, he added, in a quiet voice, "About me and Mr. Frodo?"

She stared at him for a moment without answering. Then she said slowly, "Anyone as saw him say goodbye to you that night. But I reckon that'd be me, Da, and Tolman Cotton. And I'm sure Marigold had it worked out likewise." Turning her attention back to the dancers, she smiled briefly, "I'd not be knowin' about May. That lass has had her attention elsewhere as of late." Her expression became serious again as she turned back to Sam. "The both o'ye have scarcely poked your noses out o'Bag End for the last month, Sam. That can't be lastin', and so tales will spread. You best be ready for it."

Sam gave her a regretful glance. "I know," he answered softly.

Frodo got up from his desk with a gesture of impatience. The study suddenly seemed closed in and confining, too reminiscent of the long days when he had lived in Bag End alone. He was feeling oddly anxious, as the afternoon wore on, with an edginess that was only increasing as he tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he stalked down the hallways of the smial and out the round front door, irritated with himself and eager for fresh air.

There was still light for several hours more, this close to mid-summer, and the air was still warm and fragrant with the honeysuckle that grew around the doorway of Bag End. There was no-one about, of course, as he stared down the Row. Then the thought came to him as to how long it had been since he had visited the Green Dragon. Surely, there would be someone about the place with whom he could lift a mug or two, and, he realized with undeniable relief, he would not be running into Gaffer Gamgee nor, likely enough, any of his cronies. He reached inside the doorway for the jacket that usually hung there, and, humming to himself, set off down the Row.

Business at the Dragon was fairly light that evening, the Cotton party having siphoned off a rather considerable amount of business, so the proprietor greeted him heartily. Ned Proudfoot called out a greeting as he turned around, full mug in hand, and he found a place quickly made for him at the table Ned and his friends were occupying.

Time went by, in a congenial manner, until Frodo noticed that it was past dinnertime, and that Sam might be returning back to Bag End sometime soon. But before he could get up and pay his farewells, someone he recognized all too well strode through the Dragon's entrance.

"Well, if it isn't the Master on the Hill," drawled Lotho Sackville-Baggins, stopping in front of the table where Frodo sat.

"Lotho," Frodo acknowledged his cousin in clipped tones, briefly nodding his head.

"It's been awhile since you've made time for us peasants now, hasn't it," Lotho continued on, causing Ted Sandyman, following in his wake as usual, to snigger unpleasantly.

Frodo's table companions leveled unfriendly looks at the newcomers, and Ned set down his mug in a business-like way.

But Lotho continued, undeterred. "Oh, that's right, you have that young lad living on the hill with you as well now. Let me see, the name escapes me, one of the gardener's brats, I believe?" Tapping the side of his nose with a mock warning gesture, he added in a loud whisper, "Best be counting the spoons, Cousin Frodo."

Frodo rose, facing Lotho and Ted, and the entire inn suddenly hushed with palpable interest. "No need," he answered coolly and clearly. "Although Cousin Bilbo used to have to count them rather regularly, as I remember. But then your mother hasn't paid a visit since Bilbo left. My best to her, Lotho." Turning, he nodded to his companions, "Evening, gentle-hobbits," and walked out into the night, leaving behind Lotho with his face red and his fists clenched.

The exchange quickly passed into Green Dragon lore.

Sam was slowly surfacing up from the deepest of sleeps. There was something trying to draw itself to his attention, but he was very reluctant to acknowledge the intrusion. Frodo was wrapped most thoroughly around him, one arm across his chest, nose tucked well into the side of Sam's neck, and legs entwined in the most complex way with his own. He heard Frodo give a sleepy growl and let himself drift back off again. They had been awake well into the night, after all. Sam, particularly, had not wanted to talk about the party, but rather had held on to Frodo with tenacity and fervor, and Frodo had been more than willing to let actions speak louder than words. But the morning sun was strong through the east-ward facing window, and then the noise repeated itself.

With a start, Sam realized that the sound was that of a loud thumping on Bag End's front door. "The door, Frodo," he hissed, shaking Frodo awake, "the door!"

Frodo sat up suddenly at that, and narrowed his eyes. "Merry and Pippin," he declared with resignation. "Those two can never manage to arrive at a reasonable hour."

"Were you expectin' them?" Sam, sitting up as well, asked, startled.

"Never am," Frodo answered flatly. "All part of the fun for them, you know." He got out of bed, hastily throwing on whatever clothing he could find.

"But what about.." Sam stopped short, staring at Frodo.

"Us?" Frodo answered softly. Sitting back on the side of the bed, he bent over and kissed Sam most thoroughly. "Think about it, Sam," he murmured, standing up again as the attack on the front door recommenced. "We'll have to decide, won't we."

A short while later, the visitors were seated in the kitchen, watching Sam quickly frying sausage-and-onions, while Frodo sliced the bread, and started the tea steeping.

"So you're staying with Frodo, now, Sam?" asked Pippin cheerily.

Sam studied the frying pan carefully as Frodo quickly answered for him. "As a matter of fact, he's taken on some of the household chores, as well as the gardening," he said smoothly, bringing over the teapot and cups. "Bilbo was such a wonderful cook, he quite spoiled me. Sam has been kind enough to step in, I'm horribly hopeless at that sort of thing." Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo caught Sam's quick grateful smile.

It wasn't until after lunch that Frodo was able to find Sam alone. Sam had been digging trenches around the tomatoes when Frodo came out of the Bag End kitchen door and walked over to him. "They've nodded off, the both of them," he exclaimed with relief, sitting down on the path next to where Sam was kneeling.

Sam sat back on his heels and gave Frodo a steady look. "What now, Frodo?" he asked softly.

Frodo gazed steadily back at him. "It's up to you, Sam," he said quietly. "I'll tell them as much as you wish me to."

Sam bent his glance back down to the spade in his hand at that. He remained silent for a moment, and then gave a slight sigh. "I'd not want them knowin', not yet," he looked back to Frodo, uncertainly. And suddenly, Frodo was reminded of how young Sam was, as he saw Sam's vulnerable expression. "I would na know how t'act, I would na know my place…"

"Sam," Frodo breathed at that, moving to enclose Sam in his arms. "Your place is in my heart. Always, Sam."

"I'd never doubt you, me dear," Sam laid his head on Frodo's encircling arm, his voice muffled. "But 'tis not my place in the world. You and your cousins, you'd be gentle-folk, I could never be." Raising his head, he looked back pleadingly to Frodo. "I'll stay in the back room. It'd not be forever."

Frodo lifted his hands, enclosing Sam's face. "If you wish, love," he said soberly. "But I promise you, those two may not know it yet, but this promises to be a very short visit." Bending forward, he kissed Sam slowly and emphatically, and all the world could have seen for all that he cared. And Sam's arms held him tightly.

"Quite good, Sam, really quite good," Merry rose from the dinner table, stretching luxuriously.

Sam, collecting the well-scraped dishes, glanced quickly over at Merry, who was sticking his thumbs in the pockets of his yellow brocade weskit in a rather satisfied manner.

Pippin, also rising, nodded his head. "Quite as good as Cook," he added, with the air of one bestowing the ultimate accolade.

Sam gave a slight smile at that. " 'Twas my mam as showed me," he murmured. "Thank'ee, Mr. Pippin." Arms full, he left for the kitchen.

Frodo's eyes had followed Sam, but he was quickly reminded of present company by Merry. "Frodo, my lad, you look as if you are somewhere else entirely. Should have had a bit of a rest with us after lunch. you know."

"I know, let's have a smoke," Pippin spoke up happily. "I've just got my first long pipe, you know."

Frodo laughed fondly at that, and rising up as well, giving Pippin's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Then we shall delay no longer. To the study then, lad, and show us how it's done."

He saw Sam no more that evening.

"Here's some shirts I'd not be seein' afore," Daisy raised her eyebrows as Sam brought the laundry bundle down to her a couple days later.

"Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin," Sam explained. He stopped short and stared at the tool shed in the back garden of the Gamgee smial. "That wants proppin'" he stated in surprise. "Why were you not tellin' me, Daisy?"

"Because they'd only be so much as you can do in a day, Samwise," she answered crisply. "An' what would they be thinkin', you livin' so fine on the Hill with Mr. Frodo an' all?" she continued, not to be deterred from her original subject.

"Oh, they just think I'm there to be givin' him a bit of help," he answered carefully. Pointing to the base of the shed, he added, "We'd be needin' a bit more wood there. Snow rot, I'm thinkin'."

"So Mr. Frodo would want to keep it quiet-like," she sighed, bundling the shirts up again in a sheet.

"No, that'd not be it at all," Sam quickly turned around to face her, distress clear on his face. "It's just that, well, Mr. Merry now, he'd be the Master of Buckland. An' even Mr. Pippin, someday he's to be the Thain. Me, I'm naught but a gardener."

"Mr. Frodo seems to find you more that that," Daisy watched her younger brother steadily.

Sam swallowed. "Aye, that he does," he said softly, and turned to go.

Sam lay in the narrow bed and stared up into the darkness. The back room had been meant for servants of visitors to Bag End, and thus had no window. The room was snug enough, with no drafts such as his old room back at Number Three had had, but it was still cool, nonetheless. The last few days had seemed endless to him, and, as much as it was good to see Frodo enjoying the time with his cousins, he fervently wished they would go. How quickly had his life with Frodo seemed to be all that there ever was, and he dully wished he had the courage to stand up to the scorn of Frodo's cousins to reclaim it. He could never imagine them seeing him with Frodo and not thinking that Frodo should have been able to do better.

Then he noticed the soft sound of footsteps down the hall, and the slow careful creak of the door of his room being opened as stealthily as possible.

His heart leapt up as he heard that beloved voice whisper, "Sam?"

"Frodo!" he gasped, sitting up at once.

"Sam, where are you? I have no idea where anything is in this room."

"Here, Frodo, I'm here." Quickly springing from the bed, he headed for where he knew the door to be, and found an outstretched hand.

In an instant, he was in Frodo's arms, and Frodo was holding him tightly indeed. "I thought I would go mad if I had to hear 'Mr. Frodo' one more time," Frodo explained tersely, feverishly kissing the side of Sam's face.

"Ah, Frodo, I'm that sorry," Sam groaned, his hands running up Frodo's back, discovering nothing but a light nightshirt on him. Finding Frodo's face in the dark with his hands, he met Frodo's lips with his own, and opened his mouth to him desperately. Breaking away for only a moment, Sam breathed, "Come to bed with me, Frodo-love."

"Yes, dearest," Frodo mumbled, trailing kisses unerringly down Sam's throat, "just show me where it is."

Sam backed up to where he knew the bed to be, unwilling to break contact with Frodo, not even for a moment. As he felt the back of his legs hit the side of the bed, he grabbed the nightshirt Frodo was wearing and yanked it hurriedly up.

"Ah, careful, Sam dear, give me a bit of warning," Frodo laughed breathlessly, but stopped his assault on Sam's throat long enough to rapidly pull it over his head and cast it into the darkness. And then Sam's hands were on him and it was deliciously Frodo under his touch, that body that Sam knew so very well. The slender chest, the flat stomach with the delightful swelling of hipbones on either side and there in the center, ah yes, he knew that too.

At Sam's eager but caressing touch, Frodo groaned deep in his throat, his hands pausing to grip Sam's shoulders, the strong fingers unknowingly digging in, as he leaned, yes, leaned and pushed into Sam's grasp.

Then quickly, as if recalling himself, he pulled away, choking out, "No! You too, Sam, you too…"

Sam had also been wearing a nightshirt, but Frodo hastily pulled it up and off, and if Sam heard it tear as it came off him, he couldn't have cared less. And then Frodo's hands were on him as well, and Sam fell back on the bed, holding Frodo tightly to him as he cried, "Frodo! Oh, Frodo!"

Sam felt strong hands lifting his legs onto the bed and then there was Frodo's mouth on his, Frodo's body on his, and there was nothing else ever for him but that. He felt Frodo's tongue in his mouth and he answered back joyously with his own. He felt Frodo's hand running down his side and then on him, holding him, stroking him, and he answered in kind. And then there was no more time for hands, there was Frodo clutching him tightly and grinding gloriously against him, and he answered with his whole being, lifting himself up against Frodo again and again, with incoherent cries of love and ecstasy, until finally he felt Frodo shudder and groan in release, and he answered that as well.

Frodo lay limply over him for a few moments, the both of them gasping and struggling to regain their breath. Then Frodo rolled over next to him and stroked the side of Sam's face. It mattered not to Sam that he couldn't see Frodo's expression just then, for Frodo's touch said everything. "I'd better go, then," Frodo finally said, with clear regret. He smoothed Sam's hair back with a loving touch and, finding his mouth once more in the dark, gave Sam a last lingering kiss. "Oh, Sam," he sighed quietly then, his hand still gentle on Sam's face. "I love you so."

Sam covered Frodo's hand with his own, but did not trust his voice to say anything.

He heard Frodo one last time as he reached the door. "I have no idea where my shirt went, Sam dear."

Pippin thought he heard quiet footsteps in the hall pass by the room where he and Merry generally stayed. Curious, he opened the door a bit and thought he saw a glimpse of Frodo entering his room, next to theirs. "Odd," he thought to himself, "it's not that warm tonight." He went back to bed, but had unusual dreams that night.

Chapter Text

Pippin and Merry had left by the next day. Looking back on their visit, as they ambled back to Buckland, the reason for their departure rather escaped them. They did not pursue the topic aloud, however, and it was an unusually quiet and meditative trip home.

Summer thunderclouds were on the horizon as Sam looked to the west when he walked out of Bag End's kitchen door after lunch. He had planned on weeding the small Gamgee plot that afternoon, but the threat of rain changed his plans.

"Frodo," he turned back, re-entering the kitchen and causing Frodo, who was seated at the kitchen table with the remnants of his lunch being ignored in favor of the book in his hand, to look up.

"I'd best be goin' up to the Cottons," he said, with a frown. "They'd be cuttin' the oats today, as Daisy told me, an' w'that rain as is comin', they'd be needin' some help."

Frodo stood up at that, and joining Sam at the door, peered out at the ominous clouds as well. "Yes, that storm is coming in fast," he agreed, concerned as well. "And it will be a task to get it under cover in time." For a moment he was silent, and then, casting an almost shy look at Sam, he continued uncertainly, "If you could use an extra hand, you know…"

"Ah, Frodo, dear," Sam exclaimed, smiling fondly and swiftly brushing his cheek with a kiss, "oats are that tricky to cut, now. 'Tis not like wheat nor hay." For a moment, he looked as though he would say something more, but then, with another quick kiss on Frodo's lips, he left with a murmured, " 'Til tonight, Frodo-love."

Frodo watched him leave, feeling oddly melancholy.

Sam's surmise had been correct. He was eagerly greeted by the Cottons when he arrived at the oat field. "Hoy, Sam, 'tis that glad I am t'see you, lad," Tom hurried over with a broad grin. "We'll be gettin' this in on time, now." Turning, he called out to his younger two brothers, "Nick! Nibs! The both o'ye start loadin' the cart then! Jolly, and Sam, here, and me, we'll finish the cuttin'."

Jolly had come up by then as well, with a welcoming smile. "I was thinkin' as we might be seein' you," he greeted Sam as well. "Marigold and Rosie'd be in the barn, helpin' Da spread it out to dry. But we'd best be to work now, we'd not be havin' long."

Sam quickly nodded assent, grateful to avoid the subject of Rosie for the time being, but as the three hobbits spread out in a row, wielding their scythes with speed and accuracy, his mind kept returning to that dilemma.

He knew Daisy was right, that it was cruel to allow Rosie to continue to hope for a future with him. Yet how to tell her? If there had been another lass to win his favor, it would have been easy enough. The eyes of Hobbiton were quick to notice a lad and lass spending a bit of time together, and even quicker to calculate the chances of it leading to a wedding. He was all too aware that the fact Rosie fancied him was no secret, and all it would take is a dance or two with Rosie and the good folk of Hobbiton would be shaking out their best weskits and smoothing out their ribbons, and laughing about another Gamgee-Cotton wedding.

All Sam could think of to do was wait. Wait until the fact of his living at Bag End became accepted and no longer even noticed by Hobbiton. Wait until no-one would see him dancing with a lass and think of weddings. Wait until he was no longer thought of as marriageable material, but rather that odd Gamgee chap as never found the right lass. But putting Rosie through that would never be fair.

Vainly trying to shake these thoughts out of his head, he scythed row after row, as the clouds approached, and the first droplets of rain were borne in on the gusts of wind.

The rain soon started in earnest, and the harvesting had to cease. "Come along, lads, that'll be it for the day," Tom called out to Sam and Jolly, wiping the rain off of his face. "The lasses have already gone in t'turn tea out for us. Come along, Sam, you've earned a bit of rest a'fore ye head back."

"I'll put up the scythes, then, you run along, the both a'ye," Jolly good-naturedly collected up the tools and turned towards the barn.

"I'll give ye a bit of a hand," Sam exclaimed hastily, following Jolly before Tom could call him again. Of all the Cottons, the one he'd always felt the most comfortable with was the younger Jolly. Despite the fact that Sam was the same age as Tom, he found Jolly's rather dreamy tendencies far more congenial than Tom's matter-of-fact hobbit sense. If there was any hobbit that loved Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo's stories nearly as much as he did, it would be Jolly, who never heard them but second-hand, from Sam. If there'd be anyone who could understand and help him now, Sam thought desperately, it'd be Jolly.

Silently, he helped Jolly dry and oil the scythes, hanging them on the wall. But as Jolly turned back to the open barn door, peering through the rain in preparation for the run to the well-lit smial up the hill, Sam clumsily caught at his wet sleeve. "Jolly…" he began, and then realized that he had no idea what to say.

Jolly turned toward him in the half-light of the dark rainy afternoon, and looked at him questioningly. But years of friendship with Sam quickly told him that something was wrong. "Sam, lad, what would this be about, then?" he asked, quietly, clasping Sam's shoulder.

To Sam's horrified embarrassment, instead of finding the words for which he was so futilely searching, a great sob welled up within himself, and burst out, and Jolly stood there staring at him, shocked and dismayed. Then he felt Jolly's arm around his shoulders, and he was being led over to the hayloft ladder. "Come on up," Jolly whispered, "we can have a bit of a chat then."

The hayloft had always been their retreat. The gaffer and the older Gamgee lads had customarily assisted Tolman Cotton, come harvest time, for it was Baggins land that the Cottons farmed. And as the younger lads came of an age to be useful in the field, Tom, Sam, and Jolly were put to work as well. But when the work was done, Tom preferred to follow the older hobbits into the smial, while Sam and Jolly would climb the ladder that hung down from the loft, rest themselves on the piles of hay, gaze through the large square hay-loft window out over the Shire, and exchange gossip, tales, and foolish dreams. There had not been time for much of that as of late, however.

They climbed up in silence. Jolly lifted up the great wooden door that normally covered the loft opening, and fastened the leather thong about a peg to keep it open. Grey light streamed in, and Jolly drew Sam to the piles of hay near the back and quickly fashioned two comfortable depressions for the both of them. "Sit, Sam," he said quietly, following his own advice, and gently pulling Sam down as well. "I'd not be seein' much o'you as of late. Even at the wedding, I hardly seen you. But when I do see you, it seems as you're holdin' summat inside o'ye. What'd it be, Sam?"

Sam plucked at the straw next to him, unable to look at Jolly, as he gathered up his courage. Finally, with a gulp, he muttered, " 'Tis about Rosie.." and still did not dare to look at Jolly.

Jolly watched him steadily for a few moments, and when it became obvious that Sam could not go on, he quietly said, " Sam."

Sam finally raised his head at that, looking up at his childhood friend. His friend's face, with the fair hair and dark brown eyes so characteristic of the Cottons, was more familiar to him than his own, and even in the dim light, he could see the compassion in Jolly's expression. "You'd not want to be marryin' Rosie," Jolly said softly.

Sam nodded slowly, not trusting his voice to say more.

"Ah, I thought as much," Jolly sighed, his head turning to gaze unseeing on the water trickling down off of the barn eaves and the wet fields beyond.

"Everyone's always paired the two a'ye up,' he continued thoughtfully. "My Da and my Mam, your Gaffer, Tom n'Mari, even Rosie herse'f. An' even though you'd never come a'courtin', they'd say, 'Ah, he's a shy lad, that 'un,' an' laugh, an' see it as all settled-like anyways." He turned to watch Sam intently. "But I never hear you as say her name, Sam," he noted gently.

Sam gulped, and began in a shaky voice," 'Tis not as she'd be as fine a lass as ever could be wished for, but…"

And when he didn't seem likely to continue, Jolly finished with a rueful smile, "But she'd not be the lass you'd be in love with."

"Aye," Sam breathed gratefully.

Jolly stared back out at the sodden landscape for a few more minutes, but then turned curiously back to Sam. "But I'd not be seein' you w'any other lass, Sam."

It took all of Sam's courage to answer this, and his voice was barely audible when, staring blindly at his hand resting in the hay, he murmured, " 'Tis na lass."

There was silence between the two of them. Fat raindrops could be heard striking the barn roof, and the shifting of the cows below in their stalls, but not a sound from Jolly, until Sam finally lifted his head to meet his eyes. " 'Twould be Mr. Frodo, then," Jolly finally said flatly.

Sam nodded silently, but lifted his chin up. His courage was coming back, now that it had been said. He waited.

"Ah, Sam," Jolly rose and walked over to the loft opening, leaning against the side of it and staring out unseeingly to the wet green fields below. "You've always been fair over your head about him." And there was no condemnation in his voice, as he glanced back at Sam and continued, "But what'd all this be about now? Even if he's taken you in his bed, you can't be buildin' a life about that." He turned again, leaning with his back to the loft wall, and, watching Sam, added softly, "We didn't, did we, Sam? 'Twas just a bit o'fun, no more than that."

" 'Tis a different thing when you're in love," Sam answered honestly.

A look Sam did not understand quickly passed across Jolly's face but he said nothing and turned to look back out over the fields. "So who'd be knowin'?" he asked suddenly, in a brisk sort of way, continuing to gaze out.

Sam took a deep breath, and then told him, "Well, now, me sisters. At least Daisy and Marigold. I'd not be knowin' about May. An' if Mari said summat to Tom. An'.." he paused and then added slowly, "the gaffer an' your Da."

Jolly didn't say anything at that, but looked back at Sam, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Aye," Sam muttered, "they haven't said naught since I moved up to the Hill. I know they'd be thinkin' as I'll grow out of it."

"An' how d'you know they ain't right about that?" Jolly asked softly.

Sam stared at his hands. "Imagine," he said finally, in a subdued voice, "that there'd be the most beautiful windflowers as you've ever seen up on the top of the hill. An' you've never seen aught as lovely, blue as the deepest night, just as the stars'd be comin' out. An' you look on them, and know as you could never grow anything like that."

He paused, and then slowly continued, "But one morning, you find them growin' in your own bit o'earth. An' folk would be tellin' you to pull them up, an' grow taters there as you aught. You'd never know as how they got there, but you do know there's not a thing you wouldn't do, just to see those blooms stay right there. An' as long as they do, well, those taters, they don' matter that much, no, not at all."

Jolly lowered his head and said nothing for a few moments. But when he looked up again and spoke, his voice was still soft, but curiously harsh as well. "An' your Mr. Frodo, now. Would he be knowin' any o'all this? Does he feel the same about you, Sam?"

"Aye," Sam replied slowly, with a touch of wonder, "that he does." He rose and walked over to Jolly. " 'Tis only you I can tell this to,' he watched Jolly's face carefully, waiting.

"I know, Sam," Jolly sighed in resignation, throwing his arm around Sam's shoulders. Side by side they stood in front of the loft opening, watching the rain collecting into small streams in the muddy path below, and the hills in the far side of the field become enshrouded in white mist. Finally, Jolly straightened himself, and gave Sam a warning glance. "You'd best be tellin' Rosie soon, then," he frowned. " 'Tis always someone who'll be willin' to tell her, and not care if she gets hurt in the hearin'."

"I will, Jolly," Sam promised him quietly. "At least as much as I need to." He paused for a moment, and then slowly repeated, "If there was anyone as I could tell, I knew 'twould be you."

Jolly gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and then, slightly clearing his throat, headed over to the ladder down to the barn below. "We'd best be off, Sam," he called over his shoulder, "or they'd be sendin' Nibs out after us."

Only the last streaks of pink were still in the sky when Sam returned to Bag End. The rain had ended over an hour ago, and the air still had that clean, freshly washed scent to it. Sam was surprised to find Frodo outside, strolling about the kitchen garden, studying the cabbages. "I've always wondered, Sam," he glanced up with a smile as Sam entered the gate. "Why are there marigolds midst the cabbage? Seems as if it would be harder to weed that way."

Sam walked up to him in the dusk and flung his arms around Frodo's neck and bent towards him, so that their foreheads touched. "Because the snails would not be likin' the taste o'marigold," he said softly.

"Ah," Frodo breathed, quickly reaching up to clasp Sam's shoulders. Tenderly, he kissed Sam, and then brushed the side of his face with a gentle hand, watching his expression sympathetically. "That would account for it, then." He paused for a moment, and asked quietly, "Are you hungry?"

Sam mutely shook his head.

"Well, then," Frodo murmured, "let us have a walk."

Frodo's arm was warm and firm around Sam's shoulders as they slowly walked down the path to the back garden and the fields beyond. No word was spoken as they made their way by the silvery light of the waning moon, but Sam's arm found its way around Frodo's waist and held on securely. It wasn't until they were under the beeches that crowned the hill that they stopped. Frodo leaned back against the smooth bark and, taking Sam's hands in his own, waited.

" 'Twas Jolly I spoke to," Sam finally said, staring at their hands, hardly audible. " 'Tis Rosie as I still need to speak to."

"Oh, Sam," Frodo murmured sympathetically. "I'd give anything not to have this so hard for you."

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked up into Frodo's. "Hard, aye, 'tis that," he answered firmly. "But, as my mam used to say, when 'tis bought with pain, 'tis all the dearer." He paused for a moment, and even in the moonlight, Frodo could see the flicker of sorrow cross his face. "The gaffer, he'd never know that one, but my mam, she did."

Frodo raised up Sam's hands at that and kissed them lightly. "There should never be pain for you, Sam dearest," he said then, his voice husky with emotion.

"None of us'd be escapin' that, Frodo," Sam whispered, and suddenly he was in Frodo's arms, and his hands held Frodo's face. "But there's that as is well worth it." Then his mouth was on Frodo's, and his arms wrapped around Frodo to hold him tightly. Sam's kiss was deep, lingering, and Frodo found himself being swept away by Sam's intensity.

"Oh, Sam," he whispered shakily, when at last Sam broke away from his mouth and began trailing kisses down his throat.

Sam looked up at that, his dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears in the moonlight. "You're worth any price, you are," he breathed.

Frodo bowed his head, closing his eyes.

As is so often true, that day's rain was followed by a week in which, day after day, sultry clouds built up on the horizon by mid-day, but had passed on by evening without releasing rain. It was the midst of summer now, and the air was thick with heat. Farmers in the fields were eying their grains dubiously, preferring a little more rain. The Summer Market was approaching, and it was important that the crop samples they brought to display were at their best.

Summer Market was a long-standing Hobbiton tradition. Farmers from all about the Shire would bring sheaves of wheat and hay, and samples of barley and oats, and the millers and brewers, among others, would bid for the crop come harvest. In addition, of course, it was a festive affair, in the middle of the Shire's busiest season, and a welcome excuse for dancing and feasting. A large field, near the center of Hobbiton, was given over to dancing in the evenings, and tents stood along the perimeter with a continuous feast available, with all local farmers contributing and vying for the honor of their produce being judged superior to all the rest, and plenty of Hobbiton cooks eager to demonstrate their skills as well.

In addition, Summer Market was an event eagerly awaited by the younger hobbits for reasons that had very little to do with the quality of barley. After all, was it not said, "Met by Market, pledged by Harvest"? Shire winters could be long and isolating.

Sam had a bucket in his hand as he opened the Bag End kitchen door in the early morning, but instead of immediately heading towards to pump, he stopped and looked westwards, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't until two familiar arms wrapped themselves around his waist, and there was a light kiss at the back of his neck that he knew Frodo was there.

"Ah," he laughed, letting the pail drop on the path and swinging around in Frodo's arms, "what'd be this now? Why, 'tis the Master of Bag End himself, an'up afore first breakfast!"

Frodo laughed back at Sam's gentle tease. "I thought I may as well join my impudent young gardener for breakfast, rather than lay abed and wonder why I can't sleep in this heat," he growled in mock severity, and then entirely ruined the effect by setting to work nibbling Sam's closest ear tip.

Sam gave a small sigh as the invariable shiver ran through him. "Breakfast might be that late, if you be a'doin' that," he tried to respond sternly, the desired result being completely upset by his hands running slowly up Frodo's arms.

"I understand breakfast is entirely overrated,' Frodo murmured in his ear, while continuing to tease it with his tongue.

"Really, now.. Oh Frodo!" Sam gasped involuntarily. His hands had now managed to burrow their way under the light shirt Frodo was wearing, and were continuing down Frodo's backside, underneath his trousers. Gamely, Sam continued on, "Breakfast'd be the most… Oh! Ah!.. most important meal… Oh, me dear! as I 'us told.. Oh Frodo oh!"

Frodo stopped his exploration of the whorls of Sam's ear, his own hands busy under Sam's shirt, and whispered, "Well, I suppose we could continue this at a later…" but the rest of the sentence was suddenly lost in a sudden inhalation, as Sam's strong hands unexpectedly tightened their grip.

"Or now might do very nicely," Frodo gulped.

Sam made no verbal response, but the manner in which he was enthusiastically nuzzling the base of Frodo's throat seemed to indicate a general agreement with Frodo's proposal.

"So I suppose… Sam! that if it's too hot to… Oh, yes! Oh, Sam! sleep… Blast! That bed's entirely too far away!"

"Agreed," Sam mumbled, his mouth now busy at work on the side of Frodo's neck, his hands having moved to Frodo's sides, now lovingly cradling his hips, drawing him closer.

"This is not a good location," Frodo groaned, and then attacked Sam's other ear, and pressed himself very tightly indeed to Sam, both hands firmly gripping Sam's waist.

" 'Twas you as picked it," Sam quickly pointed out, reasonably enough, before covering Frodo's mouth with his own, forestalling any possible verbal response. And now Sam's hands had slid around to the front and it was clear that any further argument was rapidly about to become entirely extraneous.

"Unghaahh," Frodo mentioned succinctly, his mouth still covered by Sam's.

"Aye, true enough," Sam whispered, grabbing Frodo by the waist and pulling him down behind the hedge that ran along the side of the garden closest to the Row.

It was then that the sound of a pony and cart could be heard, slowly picking their way up the Row. Frodo and Sam froze for only the barest of seconds, but hobbits are capable of silence under the most demanding of circumstances, and that characteristic was abruptly put to test.

Frodo had fallen in the carrot bed, with Sam pulled forcefully on top of him. With absolute silence, he moved under Sam, eyes closing and head thrust back in the midst of the lacy green carrot tops. The sound of the pony's steadily clopping steps grew closer as Sam rapidly undid both his and Frodo's trousers and thrust his hand inside. Desperately praying that no-one was delivering anything to Mr. Frodo this morning, he could not stop his instinctive, frenzied rocking on top of Frodo, and from the looks of Frodo's flushed face, stifled breathing, and answering movements, nothing could have been further from Frodo's wishes as well.

The cart was near now, and Sam held on desperately, willing the animal and rider to not stop with all his heart. When at last the pony's steps began to recede, he felt relief and ecstasy mixed together and he came, opening his eyes just in time to see his response mirrored by Frodo, with a final urgent push upwards, his breathing a frantic silent gasp.

They lay together then in a mutely panting heap, long after the sound of the pony and rider had receded into the distance. It was only then that Frodo began to laugh. "I'm so glad carrots grow underground," he gasped finally, blowing a ferny stem from his face, "or I know I'd never hear the end of this."

Sam laughed as well, happily curling up around Frodo. "Ah, me dear," he sighed contentedly, peacefully stroking Frodo's face, "you don't know how glad I'd be, that that 'twas not the postman."

Tea was being held out of doors, in the Gamgee garden, this afternoon, for the interior of the smial was far too stifling. Marigold was there as well, since Rosie was to be returning back to her home the next day, the newly-weds having moved into their own smial at last. Marigold had promised to help Rosie collect up her belongings, since May was spending a few days with friends in Hobbiton. Daisy poured, and the three lasses sat in the shade of the grape trellis, companionably munching biscuits that Marigold had brought with her. The topic of the new smial had been exhausted, in addition to speculation on May's doings, as well as the possibility of her returning with an announcement of some sort or another. The late afternoon air hung heavy with heat and the shimmering of cicada, when Sam appeared at the side gate.

"Well, there'd you'd be," declared Daisy, somewhat sharply. Glancing meaningfully at her brother, she stood up. "I'll be getting' you a cup, then, Sam."

"No need, Daisy, thank'ee," Sam replied hastily, his face beginning to redden. "I'd summat already." He stood there awkwardly, caught by the eyes of the three, until, with a visible swallow, he looked directly at Rosie, and almost inaudibly, stammered, "Might I be havin' a word w'ye, Rosie?"

Rosie was suddenly aware of the guarded expressions of the Gamgee sisters and she rose without a word to them, her eyes on Sam almost helplessly, as if she were a bird caught fluttering in a snare with only the faintest of hope. Sam ducked his head down, and then hesitantly motioned to the grove that grew on the other side of the Row. Rosie followed him through the gate in silence. Back in the garden, the sisters exchanged saddened glances.

This was what Rosie had been dreaming of, to be walking with Sam under the apple and cherry trees, deep green with the summer's growth. But it was with apprehension that she glanced at Sam, walking ahead of her. His expression was troubled, and foreboding was gripping her heart. Yet if he had naught to say to her, why would he ask her to walk out with him? She clasped her hands tightly together, in vain hopes of stilling their trembling, and tried to still her heart as well.

Sam had stopped at the back of the orchard and, leaning against the rail fence that lay between the fruit trees and the pasture beyond, stared hard at the grassy ground, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. With her mind full of trepidation, Rosie could still see that whatever Sam had to say, this moment was as difficult for him as it was for her.

Finally, visibly gathering his courage, Sam looked up at her, as she stood in front of him. "Rosie," he began, in an uneven voice, and then swallowed, and began again, "Rosie. There's summat as you need to know."

Rosie stood her ground, waiting. Inexperienced as she was in the ways of lads, she still knew that there'd be hurt in whatever Sam had to say.

Sam had pulled his hands from his pockets by now and had tightly crossed his arms in front of his chest. Taking a deep breath, he continued on. "I'd not be gettin' married. Not ever. Not even to you, Rosie, even if there'd ever have been a lass as I could've married, it would have been you." The last statement was so quiet Rosie could scarcely hear, and Sam was staring at her imploringly, as if willing her to understand what his words were failing to say.

Rosie stared at Sam, this gentle lad she'd known all her life, and tried to comprehend. Then slowly, images came to her, and suddenly she knew.

"Mr. Frodo," she whispered, and she knew immediately by the look on Sam's face that he was the explanation for all that she had not been able to understand.

The color drained from her cheeks as she continued to stare at him, all of her dreams collapsing about her. There was no anger in her heart, she knew well enough that Sam had never meant for her to create these dreams, and through the wreckage, she sought for any hope still left to her. Finally, she said, in a very low voice, never looking away, "I wouldna mind, Sam."

At that, Sam closed his eyes in pain, and turned his head away. "No!" he responded tightly, gripping the rail behind him. "No!" He bit his lip, fighting for words that had never come easily to him, and then looked back at Rosie imploringly. "You are so lovely, Rosie. To watch you dance, aye, there's naught like it, no ways. You'd have made me the best wife as ever was."

He continued softly then, knowing that he must, despite the tears beginning to run down her cheeks. "But that's not the way it turned out t'be for the both o'us. An' you deserve to be havin' a lad as would love you like no other. That canna be me."

Rosie gave a choked sound that cut to Sam's heart, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to ease this for her. Silently, he stepped forward, took her arm, and guided her back, without resistance, to the garden where he knew his sisters awaited her.

Leaving her without a word, he headed back to the wild fields beyond the orchard, and heedlessly walked on, until darkness had descended around him and his tears were all spent and dried on his face.

When Sam walked through the Bag End kitchen garden, he did not see Frodo until he arose from the bench that sat by the kitchen door. Only a sliver of the moon was still left in the sky, and even though Sam's eyes were adjusted to the dark by now, he had not seen him sitting in the shadows. Silently, he stopped before Frodo, his head bowed.

Frodo considered him in silence, and then, with a gentle touch to his arm, murmured, "Wait here, Sam." Sam numbly watched him enter the darkened smial, and did not question for what, or why.

Frodo was soon out, with the rug they used for picnics over an arm. "It's far too warm to be indoors tonight. Come," he said quietly, and running his fingers through Sam's unresisting ones, he led Sam down the back path to the fields and country beyond Bag End. Even though the dark was nearly absolute, it was clear that Frodo knew the way well.

There was a small grassy hollow, past Bag End, set upon a hill that faced northwards towards the wild country. Here Frodo stopped, and bending down, spread the rug out. "Here, Sam," he said as he sat down on the rug, and gently pulled at Sam's arm.

Sam had been following Frodo as if in a daze, and dropped to his knees at Frodo's side. It wasn't until Frodo wrapped an arm around him that Sam finally grabbed one of Frodo's hands and held it tightly, still not looking directly, even in the dark, at Frodo.

"Rosie," Frodo whispered, and Sam nodded numbly. And then he was suddenly in Frodo's arms, craving his touch, his comfort, the ache too great for tears.

"Ah, Sam," Frodo sighed, holding him closely and kissing the top of Sam's head, as Sam burrowed into his arms. "There, love, there, dearest."

Slowly, he fell back onto the rug, drawing Sam with him. He stared up into the clear night sky, looking at the bright stars without seeing them, and tenderly stroking Sam's back and whispering to him softly. Slowly, he felt Sam ease in his arms, and his breathing relax. Sam rolled over then, and lay next to Frodo's side, still clasping his hand tightly, and looked up into the sky as well. Frodo waited.

Finally Sam spoke, his voice still choked with grief. "I've hurt so many as I dearly love. I should have been knowin' better," and his voice trailed off with a stifled sob.

Frodo turned towards Sam at that, and raising himself up on an elbow, lovingly stroked the side of Sam's face. "You've done the best that could be done, Sam," he said softly. "I don't think I could have been nearly as brave as you have been."

Sam turned his face into Frodo's touch and sighed. "I'd not be knowin' about bein' brave, no ways. I've bungled this right enough, I have."

"No, Sam, you haven't at all," Frodo responded firmly. "It's just that," and he paused for a moment, and smoothed Sam's curls back from his forehead. "It's just that there are so many who love you, Sam," he continued hesitantly, "and they do not want you to be hurt."

Sam lay silent for a moment. "I could've been havin' the life they'd want for me," he then said slowly, "and 'twould ha'been that easy. But then I never'd be knowin' what I feel when I'd be with you, when my heart feels as if it'd be on fire, and I can't touch you enough, and there'd be nothing as I wouldn't do for you. An' it's not easy, an' I don't figure as it ever will be, but there'll never be a day that I'd be sorry for that."

"Oh, Sam," Frodo choked at that, dropping down to Sam's side and holding him tightly in his arms, "my sweet Sam." Dimly, he felt Sam's arms encircle him, and together, they rolled on their sides, face to face. Raising his hand to the side of Sam's face, Frodo kissed him fiercely. "Always yours, Sam," he breathed, finally breaking away from Sam's mouth with reluctance, his hand still gently cupping Sam's cheek, Sam clutching him closely, "everything I am, everything I have to give, it'll always be yours."

The gentle drops on Frodo's face awoke him in the early grey hours of the morning. The air was finally cool again, and the light rain had only begun to fall. Carefully, so as not to awaken Sam, who was curled tightly against him, Frodo lifted himself up and reached for the rug on the other side of Sam. Deftly, he drew it over Sam, sheltering his face. Sam sighed in his sleep, tightened his grip on Frodo for the moment, and nestled back again, never waking. Frodo let the rain fall unheeded on his own face, and soon fell asleep again as well.

The Green Dragon was far more crowded than usual, and the air hazy with the smoke of pipeweed, as Jolly and Sam made their way inside. It was the day before the Summer Market, and they had just delivered their samples of the Cotton grains for the buyers tomorrow. Jolly had wished for a bit of brew before starting back, and the idea did not sound amiss to Sam either. Besides, it was still just past mid-day, likely enough the gaffer would not be here as of yet.

The trip to Hobbiton had started off rather quietly. Sam had been reluctant to even go, until Frodo had urged him to. He had met Jolly in the lane, and the younger hobbit had uncharacteristically had very little to say. Sam had wished to ask about Rosie, but could think of no way to casually introduce the subject. So they walked side-by-side down the dusty lane, carrying the baskets containing the small sacks of grain and the tightly bound sheaves, in silence. A cart coming unexpectedly around the corner though, caused them to quickly leap aside, Jolly stumbling to the ground, and it was only through Sam's deft hands that he prevented the contents of Jolly's basket from being strewn into the wagon ruts left by last week's rain.

""Aye, Sam, an' it's a good thing that you'd be that quick," Jolly exclaimed breathlessly as Sam helped him to his feet.

"Well, now, that Barrows lad needs be lookin' out a bit more past his nose," Sam replied with some heat. "There's no call to be a'tramplin' around the corners like that w'that great pony and all. You'd be all right, then, Jolly?"

"Ah, sure, I'd be fine enough," Jolly laughed with a little embarrassment, and they paused to take inventory on the side of the lane after the cart had passed.

"All right then, nothing lost." Jolly sighed in relief. The incident had, however, loosened their tongues, and conversation on the rest of the trip returned almost to normal.

But it had been thirsty work, and the Green Dragon's brew was particularly inviting.

"Jolly Cotton! Sam Gamgee!" came a shout out from a back corner as they picked up their mugs, and the both of them turned to see Ned Proudfoot raising a mug in a back corner of the inn. With some difficulty, the two hobbits threaded their way through the throng of patrons until they reached his table. "Have a seat, lads," Ned called out jovially, "we ain't been seein' the pair o'ye for the longest time. So, Sam," he made room for the both of them at the crowded table, "I hear tell as you been helpin' out Mr. Frodo at Bag End these days."

"Aye, I have," Sam answered carefully, his heart suddenly constricting with apprehension. He could feel Jolly close beside him, in support, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards the younger lad.

"Why, an' I'm sure he'd be grateful for that," Ned responded kindly, clapping an arm around Sam's shoulder. "Bag End'll be all that big for a hobbit on his own."

"I'd be thinking that that's not all he's grateful for," cut in a familiar drawl.

Ted Sandyman, Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and a newcomer Sam did not recognize, were jammed together around a small table on the other side of the back room. With an insinuating tone that carried clearly, even through the jumble of conversations in the crowded inn, Ted responded to Lotho's comment, sniggering, "Aye, you got it about right, Mr. Lotho. Right handy, our Samwise is, to be sure."

Jolly shot a warning glance to Sam, but it was too late. Sam had already risen to his feet, glaring at the trio. "If you've aught to say to me, mayhap you should be sayin' it t'my face," his voice rose angrily above the din.

Ted laughed unpleasantly and said no more, but as Sam swung back around to sit down again, he caught sight of the corner table. Hamfast Gamgee was sitting near the center, his eyes fixed on Sam, and his face stone.

Sam met his eyes for only a moment, and then suddenly started to push his way through tables and hobbits, oblivious to all around him, only faintly hearing Jolly's voice calling out his name. He finally gained the door, ran down the road from the Dragon and behind some bushes, and there retched until his stomach was empty.

Panting and feeling dizzy, he knelt, his mind emptied as well, until he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

"Come along, Sam," Jolly said sadly, "let's be goin' home."

Frodo was up early Market morning. Sam awoke to find the bed empty next to him, and Frodo standing before the window, gazing out at the first tints of dawn as he buttoned up his best weskit. "Frodo?" Sam questioned sleepily, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

"Oh, sorry, Sam, I didn't want to wake you yet," Frodo smiled ruefully, turning back to Sam. "I just couldn't sleep any more." He sighed and, sitting next to Sam on the side of the bed, reached for his hand. "It's just that this is the first year without Bilbo, and I… I just don't think I'll ever get used to these Master of Bag End duties. They always make me nervous."

Sam's eyes widened a bit at the thought. "There'd be no-one as could be guessin' that," he answered with a bit of disbelief.

"But it's true," Frodo said softly, gazing at Sam's hand and carefully enclosing it in his own. "I'd so much rather stay here at Bag End with you, than to have all of Hobbiton staring at me, judging me, speculating…" his voice trailed off and he continued to stare at Sam's warm hand in his own.

"But they'd be those as don't know you," Sam pointed out, reasonably, watching Frodo's quick, nail-bitten fingers twining through his own. "There'd be many as who admire you, likewise."

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that. Still," Frodo sighed, "there are times when ending up as a tagger-on at Brandy Hall doesn't seem like the worst of fates. But of course," he smiled suddenly then at Sam, and Sam caught his breath, "then I wouldn't be here, now, would I. And, I suppose, neither would you."

"Aye, that be right enough," Sam laughed. His hand closed around Frodo's at that, and gave a gentle tug.

"Sam!" exclaimed Frodo with a throaty chuckle, falling towards Sam on the bed, "you wouldn't be trying to distract me, now, would you?"

"Why, Mr. Frodo!" Sam tried his best for wounded dignity as he wrapped an arm around Frodo's shoulders. "You'd know me better than that, now! An' on such an important day an' all…" Falling back on the pillow, he brought Frodo down along with him.

"Umm. I believe I do know you, Sam," Frodo happily found himself lying on top of Sam, who was grinning wickedly underneath him. "You know, if I miss the mayor's … Mmm, Sam," with effort, he broke his mouth away from Sam's. "As I was saying, Mayor Whitfoot would really take it amiss if I… Oh, yes, Sam…" His eyes closed as Sam's mouth found his throat. "You know, perhaps it's still a bit early to be dressing…" as Sam's dexterous fingers were busily working on the weskit.

"Aye," grunted Sam, busy at work on Frodo's shirt by now, "the less I'd be seein' on you, Frodo Baggins, the better I'd be likin' it."

"Why, Sam," Frodo laughed, his eyes shining happily, "What about my lofty position in Hobbiton society?" Pausing for only a moment, he quickly undid his trouser fastening. "I can't very well show up like this, now, can I." With a quick, practiced movement, both the shirt and the trousers were quickly on the floor beside the bed.

"You do have a point, me dear," the bed-clothing quickly joined Frodo's clothes on the floor, and Sam lay under Frodo, holding him closely and running greedy hands up Frodo's sides. "So it'd seem as you'd have t'be stayin' in bed after all," and with a sudden flip, Sam had rolled Frodo onto his back with his legs pinned under one of Sam's.

"Well, I suppose I can't be frightening the good folk of Hobbiton with my wanton ways, then," Frodo sighed with mock resignation, his hand disappearing between the two of them. "So it looks as though I'll have to stay…"

"Frodo!" came Sam's suddenly choked voice as Frodo's hand unerringly reached its intended target. He groaned involuntarily, eyes closing, and shifted his position slightly on top of Frodo.

Frodo's smile widened at this response and, with his hand still busy, and with a lick of Sam's ear-tip so conveniently close at hand, he whispered, "I believe you were asking for this, Sam love."

"Oh, aye, I was a'that," came Sam's somewhat incoherent reply, as he clutched Frodo's shoulders tightly.

"Ah, good," Frodo's voice was now silkily close to Sam's ear. "Because it's always good to get what you want, isn't it, Sam?" And before Sam could realize it, he was under Frodo again, but as long as Frodo's hand did not leave off what it was doing, that mattered very little to him.

Now Frodo's mouth was on his, opening hungrily, and Sam responded without inhibition. Blindly gripping Frodo, and pushing instinctively into that clever hand, Sam let his own hands slide down Frodo's backside, cupping those delectable mounds. Frodo made an indistinguishable noise deep in his throat at that, and Sam dimly became aware that Frodo's heated response was pushing eagerly into his hip.

But then Frodo's mouth broke away from his, leaving Sam gasping and beyond words, and started to travel down his throat, kissing and tasting, and then down his chest until he was nibbling and licking at those dark tips, Frodo's hand still between them, caressing and cajoling. And now Sam's hands were in Frodo's hair, raking through those dark curls, but always, despite his need, gentle.

In a haze of fierce craving and desire, Sam suddenly realized that if he didn't act at once, it would quickly be too late, and he slipped his hands under Frodo's shoulders and tried to tug him up. But Frodo removed his mouth just long enough to give a quick shake and murmur, "Not this morning, Sam. This morning, it's what you want," and Sam cried out wildly as Frodo's mouth found him and he realized that this was indeed exactly what he did want. And it was nothing like he had ever felt, for he had never allowed himself to be the recipient before, Frodo's mouth warm and wet around him, Frodo's tongue teasing and stroking up the length of him. Sam flung his arms up, grabbing at the pillow under his head, desperately willing not to let this stop, to hold this moment as long as he possibly could, but it was not, it could not be, nearly long enough. Crying out Frodo's name harshly, he had to surrender, and give himself up to Frodo.

Dimly, as he lay there, gulping in air, he heard Frodo next to him give a low groan and shudder. Looking down, he found Frodo was raised on his elbows, gazing back up at him, those clear eyes warm with love and a hint of awe. "Oh, Sam," he whispered tenderly, "you are so beautiful."

Once again dressed, Frodo stood in the kitchen next to the sink, a hastily prepared cup of tea in one hand and a scone in the other. Sam, also dressed in his finest, was banking the fire and rinsing out the few dishes they'd used.

"No time for a proper breakfast, then," Sam sighed, snatching a small sack from a peg on the wall and hastily stuffing some peaches from a bowl on the table and a small loaf into it, "but I wager we could be eatin' this along the way."

Frodo hastily swallowed the tea, and with the scone in one hand, opened the kitchen door, Sam following behind.

It was a lovely morning, and although the promise of afternoon heat was in the air, the scent of the summer lilies and petunia was fragrant in the mild breeze. But before Sam could close the door behind them, Frodo had turned to him and gave him a quick kiss. "I think I was wrong about today," he smiled warmly at Sam, reaching then for his hand. "Today seems to be turning out very nicely, after all."

Chapter Text

The sun was high in the sky, the afternoon quite warm, and there were somnolent clusters of hobbits lying in the shade of the ash trees about the perimeter of the Summer Market field. The contributing cooks had been in fine form this year, and fortunately enough, there would still be a few hours until it would be cool enough to begin the dancing.

Petunia and Iris Burrows, with whom May had been visiting, were encamped under a tree near the food tents, along with the Gamgee lasses and Rosie Cotton. It was a strategic position, with an excellent view of the flow in and out of the tents. The lasses were sitting cross-legged about the trunk of the tree, except for Marigold and Rosie, who were stretched out on a blanket that Marigold had brought with her.

"There he is," May announced suddenly, discreetly nodding her head towards a rather tall, fair-haired hobbit walking from the tent towards the upper section of the field where the buyers and sellers had congregated.

"Why, who would that be?" Marigold sat up quickly, watching the hobbit with great curiosity. "I'd not be seein' him before."

"Anston Bracegirdle," Iris Burrows turned to inform her. "Lives out East Farthing way."

"His family owns quite a bit of it," Petunia added. Turning back to watch him, she gave his back view a decidedly measuring glance. "Rather nice, isn't he."

"Yes," May stated in a decisive way, adding after a moment's consideration, "that'd be the one."

Her sisters and friends turned towards her as one, astonished. "Why, May, has the lad even met you yet?" Daisy couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice.

"Well, I've seen him about," May declared, rising to her feet and shaking out her skirts. "I'm sure as he's been seein' me as well."

"May!" Marigold gasped, sitting up straight. "Sure an' you not bein' serious. Why, you'd not even know him yet."

"Family owns quite a bit of land, no brothers, parents rather old, and not a bit spoken for," May listed crisply, carefully adjusting her curls and retying the ribbons.

"But, May," Rosie sat up next to Marigold and stared at May with a troubled expression. "You don't even love him."

"Not yet, mayhap," May replied, with such a glint in her eye that none of the others dared say more. "But I will." And she left them, making her way to the upper field.

Sam was under a tree on the far side of the field, lying in the shade, in the company of Jolly and his younger brothers Nick and Nibs, as well as Hob and Will Brown, cousins of the Cottons, who had been visiting from the North Farthing. Sam had been sitting against the tree trunk, but as the afternoon sun rose higher in the brilliantly blue sky, he found himself beginning to slide down the smooth trunk until eventually he was lying in the tall grass and feeling more than comfortable. The buzz of talk about him, the warm air fragrant with the aromas drifting up field from the food tents, and the delayed effect of his early awakening that morning had contributed to his current dozing state. He paid little heed to the subject at hand until the sound of his name caught his attention.

"You'd be helpin' us then?" Will Brown was looking at him hopefully.

"Aye, you'd be the oldest, now," declared Hob, Will's older brother, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You'd be knowin' all the lasses."

Sleepy as he was, Sam was beginning to get an idea as to what they were expecting from him, and blinking, he sat up and quickly glanced at Jolly in consternation. Jolly said nothing, but there was an amused look on his face as he waited for Sam's response.

"Sure, Rosie's always sayin' what a wonderful dancer Sam'd be," Nick piped up helpfully, and the two Brown lads nodded together as five sets of eyes fixed upon Sam. But Jolly had seen the brief pain on Sam's face at the mention of his sister, and turning towards the others, laughingly said, "Well ye can't be believin' Rosie on that one. This lad has trod on the feet of more lovely lasses than you could ever know. Why, they haven't let him near the dancin' for years now."

"Aye, 'tis true," Sam shot a grateful look at Jolly and tried his best to appear properly abashed. "It'd be Jolly here, as'd be the one you should be lookin' at to help you out." Jolly grinned back at Sam, but his two younger brothers cast dubious glances at each other.

Frodo tried to restrain a weary sigh as he sat on a bench on the upper field. The trading area was thick with dignitaries, but there was no-one here who he really cared to spend much time with. How had Bilbo ever managed to get through all this, he wondered glumly. He understood such matters as grain yield per square foot, really he did, but his interest in the matter was breathtakingly small. Guiltily, he tried to absorb more of the conversation around him, for Bilbo had also taught him that those that farmed Baggins land depended on him to drive home the best bargain for their crops.

Halfway through the tiring afternoon, he spotted Ned Proudfoot returning from a quick pick-me-up in the food tent. Glad of a face that he knew, he made his way through the crowd, and was greeted cheerfully by Ned. "First Summer Market on your own, is it not?" Ned asked, giving him a canny look. "Well, follow me, lad, and tell me how it goes," he added kindly, leading Frodo to a side bench away from the center of the dealing.

Frodo followed him gratefully. Ned Proudfoot was several years older than he was, yet still fairly young to be the head of a landholding family, his father having died early from the summer fever some years back. The Proudfoot family did not have much land, but they took pride in being one of the few farming families about Hobbiton as did not farm Baggins land. Nevertheless, Frodo had found Ned to be helpful and scrupulously fair in all his dealings.

"What price have ye for wheat, then?" Ned asked, dropping down heavily on the bench, for he was a hobbit who thoroughly enjoyed his meals. Frodo told him, including the last bargain he had made with Old Sandyman the miller, Ted's father.

"Old Sandyman gave ye that price, now, did he?" grunted Ned, pulling out and filling his pipe. "I'll be back." He rose and went over to the cook fires in the food tent to light it, and slowly ambled back and settled down on the bench again, leaning heavily against the back slat of the bench.

"Yes, he did," Frodo replied, nervously, rubbing his hands unconsciously over his knees.

"Well then," Ned gave a short laugh, drawing greedily on the pipe and carefully blowing a ring of smoke towards the others, "you'd be lucky, I'd say. That'd be a fair enough price, and from Old Sandyman, too."

"It pays to be careful w'that 'un," he continued, smiling as Frodo gave a visible sigh of relief, "but he's always been a hobbit of his word." Glancing back over at the others in the upper field, he added with a sour tone, "That lad of his, though, he'd be a useless a git as ever there was one."

Following Ned's gaze, Frodo saw Ted Sandyman standing with Lotho Sackville-Baggins and another hobbit whom he did not recognize. They were laughing loudly, mugs of beer in hand, and commenting on the lasses who were beginning set out the preparations for tea in front of the food tents. Some of the lasses did not care for the remarks, and turned away with frowns, but not all.

"And that Lotho Sackville-Baggins," snorted Ned, still watching them. "Beggin' your pardon, Frodo, seein' as how he's your cousin and all, but that 'un is good for naught but causin' trouble. There'd be no reason for him to be up there, since all he has to be doin' is runnin' errands for his mam, but he'd like to make the lasses think otherwise."

"Distant cousin," Frodo replied crisply, "and I would not disagree with you. But who is that with them?"

Ned peered at the newcomer for a moment and then nodded. "Anston Bracegirdle, Lotho's cousin on his mother's side, family lives out East Farthing way," he announced, giving Frodo the necessary information. "The Market that way would na be for a couple weeks more. Probably getting an idea of the prices. But he'd best be finding a better lot to be around than that pair."

"Well, Frodo," he rose heavily to his feet then, giving the younger hobbit a congenial pat on the shoulder. "Sounds as if you did a'right for yourself, lad. Let's be havin' a look at the strawberry tarts down there. I hear as Widow Muddle did herself fair proud this year."

The moon, a silver sliver amongst the stars, was already well up when Frodo and Sam set off for home. The roads out of Hobbiton were thick with families on their way to the outlying farms, for the morning chores would be there come dawn, and there would be extra work to pay for this day's pleasure. Carts and ponies rumbled past them, full of festive hobbits, usually with the most sober of the lot steering the pony through the throng. Most of the inhabitants of Hobbiton, however, were still dancing and eating back on the field, and beer and ale still flowed freely, for they had not as far to go.

Sam and Frodo walked unnoticed, for the most part, down the road towards Bag End. But when they reached the fields on the outskirts of Hobbiton, Frodo stopped by the side of the lane. "Let's take the old road back to Bag End," he said quietly to Sam. "It might be longer, but I'd rather not have these ponies breathing down my neck."

"Aye," Sam agreed gratefully, "I could surely do with a bit o'quiet."

There was a old dirt path that left the main road, climbing up the embankment, and into the woods that still lay between Hobbiton and Bag End. It was a road for the most part forgotten, initially created by herders to summer pastures on the far side of the hill. There were greener fields, nearer Hobbiton now, and so the road had little usage. But it had been one of Bilbo's favorite routes back from town, and Frodo knew the way well. Grasping Sam's hand, he led him up the embankment, under the spreading oak, and the noise of the main road was soon gone.

With few travelers upon it, the path had become overgrown with soft grasses, and the fragrance of the woods was deep and rich in the warm summer's night air. Frodo and Sam walked along wordlessly for quite a ways, hands clasped together, until Frodo stopped in front of an old lightning-blasted stump of an ancient cedar tree. It was broad and smoothly weathered over time, with ample room on it for two hobbits to have a seat, and a bit of trunk left for a back rest.

"Ah," Frodo laughed, "I thought I should find it here, even in this dark. One of Bilbo's favorite rests. Let's sit for awhile, Sam, this night is too lovely, at least out here, to hurry back to Bag End."

Sam gladly agreed, and they were quickly settled on the remains of the cedar, Frodo's arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, and Sam's hand on Frodo's knee.

They sat companionably in silence for some time, but then Frodo said softly, "I didn't see you dancing, Sam."

"Aye, well," Sam sighed, "That'd be a problem. I can't be dancin' w'Rosie now, but it 'd hurt her that much to see me dancin' w'another lass. So, it'd be best if I just leave off dancin' altogether for a bit."

"You are such a good dancer, Sam," Frodo commented quietly.
"Not to worry, there'll be plenty more dancin'," Sam smiled in the dark and gave Frodo's knee a reassuring squeeze. Frodo said no more, but not long after, rose up from the stump, and, with Sam's hand still in his, pulled him off as well, and Sam followed him back to the path.

The thin sliver of moon was high above, and the stars brilliant about it, when they reached the old abandoned pasture near the top of the hill, encircled with what remained of a rail fence. Leaving the path, Frodo released Sam's hand and walked slowly out into the tall grass of the old pasture, stopping mid-field with his arms crossed over his chest, and his back to Sam. Sam followed behind, and then settled against a portion of the fence nearby. It was clear to him that Frodo had something to say, and he waited.

"Sometimes it seems to me that I've only managed to turn your life all about." Sam heard Frodo's words only faintly ahead of him, as Frodo stood with his back to him and his dark head down. "What did you ever find in me anyway, Sam?"

Sam watched him in silence for a few moments, and then walked up behind Frodo and, loosely wrapping his arms around Frodo's waist, rested his forehead on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo inhaled, closing his eyes, at Sam's embrace, and covered Sam's arms with his own.

"When you first came t'Bag End," Sam said slowly, with his head still against Frodo's shoulder, "you'd not be like anyone as I'd ever seen, and when you'd be out in the garden, I'd stop and just stare at you. But the gaffer, he'd gi' me a cuff, and let me know as you'd be a gentle hobbit, an' I'd not be pesterin' you w'me foolish ways. But if that were all, I'd like enough ha' gotten past that."

"No," tightening his grasp slightly, Sam continued softly on. "That really weren't it. It was you talkin' to me then, findin' me in the garden when the gaffer weren't about, and just talkin' to me, askin' me questions as you'd really want to know my answers. And you didn't care none about my place or yours, nor that I'd just be the gardener's son, born to dig in the dirt just like his da."

"An' what questions they'd be," Sam smiled at the memories, giving Frodo a light kiss on the back of his neck. "Not as to whether I thought the cabbage'd be comin' in good this year, oh, no. It was as whether the lily on the hill wou'be the deepest gold as I'd ever seen, an' why the bullfrog in the pond'd be preferin' the water reeds o'er the lily pads, an' if seeds blew in on the west wind, did I think if they'd be a'blowin' from elven lands? An' though I'd just be a fauntling, you truly cared what it was I'd be thinkin'. Not even to mention Mr. Bilbo's lessons, for I know, Frodo, as you'd a hand i'that all along."

Sam turned an unresisting Frodo gently around in his arms then, and holding his shoulders, looked intently into his eyes. "You changed me, Frodo," he murmured, "I'm not the same hobbit that I would ha'been if you'd never come to Bag End. But it was never takin' me to your bed as what changed me. It was everything as you ever did. An' there was nothing you ever did, that I didna wish for, w'all my heart. None could ever had more luck than I'd be havin' the first time I ever lay my eyes on you."

"Not as much luck as I have had, though you'll never believe me," Frodo raised a hand to Sam's cheek.

Sam smiled again, and gently turned his face into Frodo's hand, kissing his palm lightly. "Mayhap not, me dear," he murmured, "but it makes my heart glad t'hear you sayin' so."

"Then I suppose we both must agree that we've been fortunate," Frodo laughed tenderly, wrapping an arm firmly around Sam's back, and with the other hand still against Sam's face, drew Sam's mouth to his.

"Aye, love, that we are," Sam breathed, his hands now around Frodo's waist, holding him closely indeed.

And then there was time for no more words, as they hungrily opened their mouths to each other, as no more words needed to be said. Only the joining of lips, tongues, and breath mattered. All the responsibilities of the day fell away from Frodo, and all that he now knew was the summer night's pale light, the fragrant grass below, and the hobbit that he loved so very dearly in his arms.

When they had had their fill of kisses, at least for the moment, Frodo held Sam closely and looked up at the stars as Sam lay his head on Frodo's shoulder. Without even knowing that he did so, Frodo began to softly hum a tune from that evening's dancing, a slow and achingly beautiful air, and Sam tightened his grasp about Frodo. "There was only one as I wished to dance with," he said then, raising his head and looking into Frodo's eyes, dark in the moonlight. "Dance with me now, me love." And they did, lost in their own melody, until they at last lay down together in the grass. They did not return to Bag End until dawn.

There was a fine drizzle falling as Sam sat at the tea table with Tom and Marigold in their new smial a few weeks after Summer Market. Tom was stirring what was left of his tea with a preoccupied air. "First 'tis not enough rain, and now'd be that much. Third day now we'd be havin' this wet," he grumbled. "Can't be puttin' off that hay harvest much longer now. There'd still be the wheat as well. An' after that freezin' winter as we last had, everyone needs be restockin' their hay."

Sam raised his mug and drained it. "You know as you can be countin' on me, now," he reminded Tom. "And your cousins, they'd still be here, wouldn't they?"

"They leave as of the end of the week, they'd be needed back home." Tom's frown grew. "If we had only had a few days of sun this week, it could've been done by now."

He stood up and stretched. "Well, I best be off. Da is waitin' for me back in the barn." With a quick smile, he clasped Sam's shoulder and added, "But 'tis good to see you, lad. Harvest or no, don't be a stranger t'us."

Marigold rose as well, and giving her husband a quick kiss, watched him walk out into the light rain. "Ah," she sighed, turning back to Sam, "he's been that worried. He'd been countin' on a good harvest year to be helpin' w'all this," and she motioned around her, to the neat, although sparsely furnished smial.

"We'll be havin' some sun yet, don't you fret, Mari, dear," Sam smiled fondly at his sister as he got up from the table. "But at least the fruit'd be likin' their toes all damp." He turned to a bag that he had left by the door. "Peaches, grapes, and a few of the early plums," he announced, placing the bag on the table. "An' any extra bit as you wish to bake w'these, I'd be that glad to take off your hands, for you've always been the best Gamgee baker. Just don't tell our sisters as I said that," he added in mock warning.

Marigold laughed. "They'd be sayin' 'tis you, Sam," she teased back, giving him a hug.

"Well, I know Tom'd be agreeing w'me," Sam said with a grin. "I'd best be off myself."

She walked with him to the door. "Married life's agreein' right well with you, Mari, dear," Sam said with a warm smile as he turned to leave. "I've never seen you lookin' so happy."

" 'Tis that wonderful," Marigold said quietly, with Sam's hand still in hers. "To know you'd be bound to one as thinks you'd be that special, and be feelin' the same about him."

" 'Tis wonderful, isn't it," Sam responded quietly.

"Samwise!" Marigold tried for a stern look, but couldn't manage it, and broke out in a merry laugh. "Ah, we'd be a besotted pair o'Gamgees, now, wouldn't we. And glad I am of it."

Besides the difficulties with the harvesting, there was another danger that came with the wet summers. Rumors were soon confirmed. The summer fever was once again bringing strong, healthy hobbits to their beds. Some, usually those who had survived a case of it in their childhood, shook it off easily enough, or were entirely unaffected. For others, it was devastating, and all too often, deadly. And none could be without concern, for sometimes even those who had escaped its effects many times before were suddenly brought low. "As uncertain as the fever" was a common enough expression in the Shire, and all too true.

The first cases were in town, but soon there were reports of illness and an occasional death in the outlying farms as well. Daisy's skills were once again called upon, and it was a weary healer that came to the Burrows smial in Hobbiton in search of her sister. May had remained in town after the Summer Market, saying only to Daisy that she had reasons to stay, but now Daisy had need of her at home.

But it was May herself who answered the knock, and her face was pale and drawn. "Both lasses and their father," she sighed, beckoning Daisy into the vacant front room of the rather grand smial. Daisy followed and the two sisters sat on a bench before the cold and empty hearth.

"It's just Mistress Burrows and myself to care for them," May threw her head back against the backrest and stretched her legs out before her. "How'd the rest be doing?" she turned her head, giving Daisy a worried look.

"Oh, they'd all be right enough," Daisy quickly said in a reassuring voice, taking up May's hand and giving it an affectionate pat. "It's just that, well, Marigold an' Sam wou'be gone now, and I'm gone myself most the day, and I'd just not like t'be leavin' Da alone. But I wouldn't want t'be takin' you from those as need you here."

"So many of us in that tiny bit of a smial," May mused quietly, staring unseeingly at the fine rugs spread before the empty fireplace. "An' now it'd be just you and Da." Then her expression hardened. "I'll not be comin' back to it, Daisy. Always crammed together, no room t'yourself. Never enough t'eat, naught as is ever your very own. Naught as isn't useful, no trinket just for the beauty of it."

Defiantly, she stared back into Daisy's saddened face. "I'll be Mistress Bracegirdle soon enough, Daisy. See if I ain't. I won't be goin' back."

There had been three days without rain, but Tom Cotton was not thinking of the hay harvest that was so overdue. He was in bed, and Marigold was near frantic, trying to keep the cool cloths on his forehead as he pulled them off in his delirium. Daisy was there as well, brewing one of her special herbal teas to help keep his temperature down. There was no cure for summer fever, but there were some potions that, in some cases, helped. Daisy knew them all, and would methodically try one after another. This was her second attempt to help Tom, and she was trying to hide her concern from Marigold.

Jolly had been restlessly going from one smial to another, for his father was sick as well, in the Cotton smial at the top of the hill. Troubled with his worries, he found himself staring at the hay, but with just himself and his two younger brothers, there was no hope of bringing it in. Marigold had found him outside, staring at the fields, when she went out to pump some more water for the invalid.

"There'd be naught I can do," Jolly murmured brokenly, as she sympathetically touched his arm. "Hob and Will'd be gone, and Nick and Nibs do what they can, but…"

"There's Sam," Marigold replied sturdily. "Don't you go forgettin' him, now."

"No," Jolly gave a reluctant smile, "I've been hearin' plenty from him about not callin' him when we were cuttin' oats. But even so…" he sighed, staring back out at the fields again. "Well 'tis all I can do, and I must try my best. This harvest is that important to us."

It was mid-morning when there was a knock on Bag End's round front door. Frodo had been in the study, engrossed in a particularly difficult translation, and it had been several moments before he realized that the sounds that he was dimly hearing were knocks on the door. Curious, he walked down the hall. It was certainly not Merry or Pippin, for the knocking was polite and hesitant.

Opening the door, he was surprised to find Jolly Cotton standing before him, face rosy, and clearly intimidated to be in this position. "Why, Jolly," Frodo exclaimed, with a warm smile, "how good it is to see you." Graciously, he motioned Jolly inside into the cool front doorway.

"I'd be here for Sam, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo," Jolly stammered out, his face becoming redder yet. "If I might be havin' a word w'him, sir…" he trailed off, thoroughly embarrassed about putting the Master of Bag End in the position of a messenger.

"Of course, Jolly," Frodo said quickly, trying to put the young hobbit at his ease. "I believe he's in the back garden. Would you like to follow me?"

Jolly gulped, and nodded wordlessly. The quickest route to the garden was through the smial and out the kitchen door, which was the way Frodo took him, but Jolly's eyes betrayed his nervousness as he followed Frodo. He had never seen the interior of the legendary Bag End before.

Sam looked up in surprise from the tomato beds that he was staking when Frodo walked up to him, a painfully anxious Jolly in tow. "Sam," Frodo said, formally, the amusement on his face only visible by Sam, "Jolly Cotton would like to have a word with you, if you don't mind."

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo, and if it isn't that good t'be seein' ye, Jolly," Sam exclaimed warmly, rising up and brushing the dirt off of his knees. "Would there be summat wrong?" his tone quickly changed to concern as he had an opportunity to get a better look at Jolly. Frodo, who had been heading back to the kitchen door, turned at that, and pausing, gave Jolly a closer look as well.

"Aye," Jolly gulped, and Sam quickly saw that he was on the edge of crumbling.

"Now then, Jolly, you need to be havin' a seat and tell me about it," he was instantly at Jolly's side, wrapping a firm arm around him, and leading him to the kitchen door, giving Frodo a worried glance that Jolly did not catch.

Frodo quickly went ahead, opening the door for them, and picked up the kettle as Sam and Jolly settled at the kitchen table, Sam sitting close by Jolly, his arm still embracing him. "Tea?" Frodo asked Sam quietly, and Sam nodded in silent agreement.

Frodo placed the kettle back on the hook, and stirred the remains of the kitchen fire under it until the flames leapt up again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam watching Jolly with growing concern, his arm still firmly around the younger hobbit. Jolly was obviously trying the collect himself up enough to speak, too distraught to even be appalled that the Master of Bag End was making tea especially for him.

Finally, with a deep breath, Jolly stammered out, " 'Tis da and Tom. The both o'them, w'the fever. Three days now. And the hay, it wants cuttin'. An' there'd just be me and the two lads. An' how can I be gettin' help when 'tis the same everywhere? The rain, it'll be back, I know. An' we'll be losin' it to the mildew, sure enough. I just, I just…" and with a gulp, he could say no more, but put his hands to his face and tried to keep the sobs back.

"Ah, now, don't you be a'worryin' about what can't be helped, Jolly dear," Sam's arm around Jolly tightened. "Daisy'd be with your da an' Tom, right? She'd be the best as is, you know that full well." Sam's voice was calm and soothing, and he produced his pocket handkerchief, which Jolly gratefully accepted. "And as for that hay, well, you know I'll be there with you. We'll just have to do as much as we can, afore the rain returns. The two of us can cut, and the lads stack. We'll be managin' somehow, don't you be frettin' so."

It was then that Sam looked up to see Frodo standing by the table, tea pot in hand, watching them. "The three of us could cut more," Frodo stated very quietly, setting the pot on the table. Sam automatically started to protest, but then caught the look in Frodo's eye. Only Sam could have seen it for what it was, a silent plea.

"The three of us might just be enough," he answered Frodo slowly, his eyes never leaving Frodo's, and Frodo's warm smile in return was gift enough.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, you can't be doin' that!" Jolly stared at Frodo in dismay, suddenly realizing what he had offered.

"Nonsense, Jolly," Frodo was immediately all business. Placing the mugs out and pouring the tea, he continued, "I'm not totally useless, you know." Taking pity on Jolly's horrified splutters, he continued with a laugh, "I was taught to make myself useful at Brandy Hall, before I came here. It may have been awhile, but I do know my way around a scythe."

Slowly and methodically, the three hobbits worked their way down row after row of the thick green grass. Nick and Nibs kept up as best they could, gathering and bundling the fallen hay, but were soon left farther and farther behind. It wasn't until the three reached the corner of the field at the far fence that Jolly straightened up with an effort, and wiped off the sweat running down his face. Frodo, giving a few last swings, straightened up as well and, letting the scythe drop at his feet, flexed his hands gratefully.

"Well, that wasn't that bad, now," Sam joined the other two, and looked back with a grin at the swath left behind them.

"Hoy! Nick, Nibs!" Jolly called out to his brothers, who gladly stopped their bundling and hurried down the field to join them. Jolly turned to pick up a water skin that he had left under a tree nearby earlier. "We could all be usin' a bit of this," he gave a wry laugh. " 'Tis that warm today, I don't know why I was worrying about the rain."

He began to lift it to his mouth, but then recollected himself, and handed it to Frodo first. Frodo took the offered skin, after only a moment's reluctance to be the first, and lifted it up.

"Now, don't you be drinkin' too much," Sam was watching him with a worried look, "or…"

"Or you'll be getting the cramps," Frodo finished Sam's sentence with a merry laugh, after only swallowing a mouthful. "Really, Sam, I have done this before," he teased him lightly, handing the skin back to Jolly.

"Aye, well," Sam muttered, but couldn't help a smile at Frodo's expression of fond exasperation.

"So, Jolly," Frodo gazed out at the rest of the field as the water was passed about. "Any chance of us finishing this lot today?"

Jolly grinned at his two younger brothers as they gave him woeful looks. "The cuttin', likely enough. I'd not be knowin about the bundlin', though."

"Well, as long as the cuttin' be done, I can give a hand tomorrow with the bundlin', if needs be," Sam smiled at the two younger Cottons. "Or mayhap, there'd be the both of us to help," he added with a laugh, catching a look from Frodo. "Cheer up lads, 'tis only one more day of good weather as we'd be needin'.

"Then we need to be starting," Frodo announced briskly as the water skin finished its rounds, picking up his scythe again and walking towards the beginning of the uncut row of hay. " 'Twon't be cut by wishin' it so."

Sam picked up his scythe as well and walked, chuckling, past a startled Jolly.

Frodo leaned forward, his dark curls dripping into the warm bathwater. Sam was seated behind him in the tub, gently messaging Frodo's shoulders and neck. "Mmm," Frodo murmured. "Oh, Sam, I can't tell you how good that feels."

"Hmmpf," Sam gave a short grunt in response, "you'll be feelin' right sore for a few days, I'll warrant." His hands kneaded carefully at the tightened muscles in Frodo's back. "You were at it all afternoon. 'Tis the price you'd be payin', I'm afraid."

He took a cloth from the stool at the side of the tub and, wetting it in the warm water, carefully draped it around Frodo's shoulders. Frodo sighed, let himself fall back against Sam, whose arms quickly enfolded him.

" 'Tis the why of it as I'd not be understanding," Sam went on, resting his cheek against Frodo's wet curls.

"Because I hate to feel useless," Frodo answered, staring into the flame of the candle on the shelf of the bath room's wall. "And it's rare that I get a chance to feel otherwise."

"Ah, Frodo," Sam sighed, lovingly stroking his hands up Frodo's arms, " 'Tis like sayin' that the roses over the garden gate'd be useless, likewise."

"Then what is their use, Sam?" Frodo asked quietly.

"Why Frodo-love, don't you know?" Sam bent and gently kissed the side of Frodo's throat. "They make my heart that glad, every time I'd be seein' them. I wouldn't say as that is useless, no, not at all."

"Oh, Sam," Frodo responded, leaning back his head into Sam's shoulder and staring up at him, "I need to be more than that."

"An' that you are, me dear," Sam smiled down at him, his hazel eyes dark gold in the candlelight, "far more. The day'll come, when you know what 'tis as you're meant to do in this world, rest you easy about that. You were meant for a purpose, to be sure."

"And what do you think you're meant for, Sam?" Frodo asked quietly, reaching up to cup the side of Sam's face.

"Me? No more than what I'd be doin', me dear. 'Tis my place in this world, and glad I am of it," Sam murmured lovingly, and bent down to kiss him.

Frodo was coming out of Sandyman's mill on the outskirts of Hobbiton the next afternoon, with a pack on his back and a sack of flour over his arm, as Lotho and Anston came down the road into the village, Ted in tow, heading for the Green Dragon as usual. To Frodo's dismay, he had been unable to help with the bundling of the hay that day, due to the blisters he had received from the previous day's work. So to make amends, he had volunteered to make the trip into Hobbiton to pick up needed provisions for the Cottons, while the others finished up the harvest. Frodo acknowledged his cousin and his companions with a curt nod as he walked past them, but Lotho had a bit more sport in mind.

The other two walked ahead, but Lotho paused. "Why, Cousin Frodo," he greeted him with a snicker, "Ted tells me that he saw you working in the Cottons' field yesterday, just like any common harvest hand. Surely, he must have been mistaken. I can't imagine the Master of Bag End falling to such lowly labor as that."

Frodo glared at him, but continued past Lotho without a word.

"Oh, but that's right," Lotho turned and then strode along with him down the road out of Hobbiton, "there's that boy you have about these days. Sounds as if you're getting to be quite as common as he is. He must be good at teaching you a trick or two, isn't that right, Master Baggins?"

But no sooner had the words been said than Lotho found himself with his face being firmly impressed into a tree at the side of the road, and his arm pinned behind his back in a decidedly uncomfortable manner.

"I have had rather enough of this, dear cousin," Frodo hissed into his ear, thankful once again for the rough and tumble ways of Brandy Hall. "I would request that you not use your foul mouth on myself, my friends or indeed, on any other respectable hobbit, again. However, I'm perfectly willing to make an exception for your friends."

Lotho tried, after the first moment's amazement, to free himself from Frodo's iron grip, but that only caused his arm to be raised to a more painful level.

"Are we quite clear about that?" Frodo's voice was now sounding slightly amused at Lotho's predicament.

"Quite," Lotho spat out, and Frodo released him, stepping warily back.

"Still have a few more tricks, don't you, Mr. Baggins?" Backing away, Lotho rubbed his arm. "Best be watching your back," he added darkly.

"Yes. Well, if you've nothing further to add," and slinging the sack over his shoulder again, Frodo deliberately turned his back on Lotho and started back to Bag End.

The rains had returned, and it was a damp night again, as Frodo helped Sam by clearing off the supper dishes. Hands in the hot soapy water, Sam suddenly lifted his head. "Would that be the door, now?" he asked Frodo, cocking his head to hear more clearly.

Frodo listened carefully. "I believe so," he put the dishes down and started to the door. "Not very loud, but I'll go have a look," he said over his shoulder to Sam, leaving the kitchen.

Sam was wiping his hands on the cloth when he heard Frodo calling his name. Worried at the tone he heard in Frodo's voice, he immediately hurried down the halls, but was not prepared for what he saw at the door.

His father was standing there in the rain, supporting a drenched and barely-standing Daisy. "Sam," she gasped, at the sight of him, "I'd be needin' a bit of help," but it was then that her eyes slid shut and she started to slip from her father's grasp.

Immediately, both Sam and Frodo moved forward, Sam quickly catching Daisy as she started to fall, and Frodo gently grasping Hamfast Gamgee's arm and quietly urging him inside out of the rain. Frodo closed the door at that, and with a fleeting look over at Sam, swiftly said, "The study," and hurried ahead down the corridor.

Sam lifted up his unconscious sister in his arms, and with a hasty glance over his shoulder to his father, followed Frodo. Hamfast followed behind, still without a word.

Before long, Daisy was lying on the pillowed bench in the study, well wrapped in blankets, and the study fire was blazing, warming the room against the wet evening's chill. Frodo had fetched a stack of cloths, and a basin of water, and Sam was wiping off Daisy's fevered brow, as she turned her head from side to side, unawares, under his touch. "How long, Da?" he asked, looking up at his father with apprehension.

The elder Gamgee finally found his voice at that. "Three days," he muttered gruffly. "She'd not wanted to be botherin' anybody. But I can't find the herbs as she needs," he continued, his voice sinking, and he stared at his daughter, suddenly lost.

"Oh, Da, why were you not telling' me this?" Sam murmured tightly in anguish, his gentle hand never stopping its soothing motion on Daisy's brow.

At that, Daisy stirred and slowly opened her eyes, staring at Sam for a few moments in confusion. Then, as if remembering what had brought her here in the rain, she tightly grabbed his hand and, in barely more than a croak, whispered, "Sunsword, Sam. Mugwort, too. Three o'the first to two o'the last. Steep three hours."

"Aye, Daisy dear," soothed Sam, who had been listening closely. "Rest you quiet, now." Quickly, he looked up to his father and Frodo, who was standing quietly by the fire. "I'm going, then. I'd know where there might be a bit o'mugwort, but the sunsword won't be a'that easy to find." With a quick grasp of his father's shoulder, and an intent glance at Frodo, he was gone.

Frodo and the gaffer were left behind in the quiet room. Daisy had slid into unconsciousness again, and was breathing roughly, her face damp with the fever. "She should not be out of doors again tonight," Frodo said suddenly, watching Daisy closely. "I'll go prepare a room for her."

He turned to leave, but was halted by the gaffer's sudden murmur of "No, Mr. Frodo, we couldna possibly…" but his voice trailed off in confusion, and he stared at his eldest daughter with no words left in him.

Frodo turned back to the old hobbit and gently grasped his shoulder. Hamfast stared slowly up at him, his face stricken with grief and bewilderment. "It's no trouble at all, Mr. Gamgee," said Frodo then, in a kindly tone. "There is plenty of room at Bag End for her to stay until it's safe for her to be moved again. Sam will be returning as soon as he can. Let me prepare a room for her," and he was gone.

Not very long after, he returned to the study to find that Hamfast had scarcely moved while he was gone, and Daisy still tossed restlessly in her fever. "I've a bed prepared for her," he said gently, as Hamfast looked up. "Would you like to carry her down the hall, or should I?"

Hamfast looked at him for a moment, and then said grimly, "It's best as you do that, Mr. Frodo. These auld bones would be droppin' her, as like as not."

Frodo nodded wordlessly, and gently picking Daisy up, carried her down the hall to the back bedroom that Sam had occupied when Merry and Pippin had visited. He had considered the main guest room, but had quickly decided that Daisy would feel more at home in the unassuming back room. Hamfast followed, familiar with the layout of Bag End from his many years of service with Bilbo. Frodo carefully laid Daisy on the narrow bed, and moved over then to the newly-lit fire, ensuring with the poker that the just kindled flames had well caught the logs.

Hamfast pulled a stool over to the fire and sat wearily down. Frodo watched him carefully for a moment, and then laid down the poker and walked to the door. "I've a mind for some tea," he mentioned casually, glancing back over his shoulder at Sam's father, "would you care for a cup as well, Mr. Gamgee?"

"You shouldna be puttin' yourself to any trouble on my account, Mr. Frodo," the old hobbit replied, somewhat gruffly, looking up from the fire, "but if you'd be makin' it anyways…"

Frodo smiled, nodded briefly, and left.

When he returned, with a hot mug in each hand, Hamfast had not moved, nor had Daisy awakened. Frodo handed one of the mugs to Hamfast, who accepted it without further ado, and then stood by the fire He was glad to see some warmth and color returning to the old hobbit's furrowed cheeks as he sipped the tea. For awhile, there was silence in the room. Only the crackle of the flames, and an occasional low moan from the patient were to be heard.

But then, Hamfast, with a motion of his shoulders so familiar to Frodo, the same one that Sam would use when he was preparing to speak his mind, cleared his throat, and abruptly said, "So would Sam be havin' one o'these back rooms as well?"

Frodo stared at him, surprised, and trying to understand what was really being asked of him. "No," he answered gently, "he does not."

Hamfast grunted, and stared down at the mug in his hand, and Frodo suddenly realized that Hamfast was still not wanting to accept what he knew to be true, that he was still holding fast to the hope that there was some sort of reasonable explanation for Sam's situation that did not involve any sort of emotional entanglement with the Master of Bag End.

Frodo took a quick breath. If Sam had been brave enough to confront his father, then he could do no less. There was no use in the both of them in this room not speaking of Sam, not acknowledging what he meant to each of them.

"Sam shares my room," Frodo stated quietly.

The gaffer said nothing to that, not even looking at Frodo, for several moments, but when he did look up, Frodo was dismayed to see that there were tears in his eyes.

"My boy ne'er did anything w'half a heart," Hamfast whispered. " 'Twill be what hurts him in the last, I know it."

Frodo looked down at him, and felt the old hobbit's grief for his son tear at his own heart. "Mr. Gamgee," he said softly, dropping on a knee next to him. "your son means everything to me." Willing Hamfast to look up at him, he intently continued. "Neither of us ever planned for this to happen, but it did. And there isn't a thing that I wouldn't do for him."

Hamfast did look up at that, and locked his eyes on Frodo's. "Then let him go."

Frodo's jaw tightened at that. "No," he answered quietly. "That's the one thing I could never do. It would break his heart. And mine. Don't ask that of us."

When Sam returned, he found his father and Frodo, silently sipping tea before the fire, as Daisy lay in bed in the back bedroom. He checked on Daisy quickly, finding that her condition had not changed, and then hurried to the kitchen to prepare the herbal concoction for steeping. Despite his concern for Daisy, a corner of his mind found the silence in that bedroom rather alarming.

Returning to the bedroom, with a quick glance at Frodo, he hesitantly asked his father, "Da? Would you be wantin' a bed as well? The potion won't be ready for a good while. 'Twouldn't be no trouble."

Hamfast rose at that, giving his son a searching look. "Nay, I'd be goin' then. She'd be best off in your hands, Samwise, but you don't be needin' me about as well." Walking to the door, he turned and added, with a curt nod, "My thanks for your kindness, Mr. Frodo. I'll find my way out, if you'd not mind," and left.

Sam gave Frodo a questioning look, but Frodo shook his head. "Later, Sam," he said quietly, and then walked over to Daisy. "What can I do to help?"

Sam followed him over to the bed and stared at his sister in concern. "She'd be better off out of those wet things as she has on," he murmured, frowning.

"I'll look for a nightshirt for her then," Frodo looked up, giving Sam a wry smile, "and I would suspect that she'd rather have your help with that than mine."

Sam gave him a small answering smile. "You know I'd never be hearin' the end of it otherwise," he admitted.

It was quite late into the night when Frodo and Sam were finally in bed themselves. Daisy had been awakened enough to administer the tea, and was sleeping easier. Holding Sam closely to him in their bed, Frodo told him, only then, of the words he and Hamfast had exchanged.

"Ah, Frodo dear, 'tis that hard for him to understand, I know," Sam sighed, as they lay on their sides together. He lovingly caressed Frodo's cheek and, finding his mouth in the dark, kissed him slowly. "But don't you be listenin' to his words, m'dear," he whispered, breaking away from Frodo for a moment. "Don't you ever think of givin' me up."

"Too late for that, Sam dearest," Frodo smiled, his head settling to rest in just that place on Sam's shoulder where it fit so well. "I'd sooner give up breathing. You're rather stuck with me, I'm afraid."

And Sam's response to that was entirely satisfactory.

It was three days before Daisy could leave, but the gaffer did not return to Bag End. Sam went to see him daily, to eat second breakfast with him, and to make sure that the rest of his meals were accounted for. They discussed the rainy summer, and how it would be affecting the gardens, and the doings up at the Cottons'. Tom and his father had recovered from the fever as well, and Marigold visited her father daily as well as Daisy at Bag End. And slowly, the fever left the Shire, and the rains ceased, and life returned to the way it had been, for most folk.

The mornings were beginning to feel crisp, and the tulip trees, always the first to turn, were starting to show brilliantly golden leaves among the green, when once again, there was a knocking on the front door of Bag End. Sam and Frodo were eating second breakfast, and Frodo, pausing halfway through buttering a thick slice of bread, listened with the air of a connoisseur. "Merry and Pippin," he announced to Sam with a smile, "but they've learned from the last time. Not nearly as early. Good lads."

The smile quickly vanished though when he caught the expression on Sam's face. "Sam," he asked quietly, "do you want me to say anything this time?" Rising from the table, and ignoring the renewed assault, he walked over to Sam, who had also stood up, his hands full of dishes. "Whatever you wish, Sam-love," Frodo touched the side of Sam's cheek softly.

Words had failed Sam, but he shook his head slowly, and Frodo could see the apprehension, and even a little fear, in his eyes. "That's all right, never you mind, love," Frodo whispered, and kissed him tenderly. "We'll sort it all out somehow, but not until you are ready."

With a sigh, he left Sam to start the dishes, put the kettle back on, and collect himself.

Soon Merry's rather deep voice, Pippin's more excited burr, and the occasional comment from Frodo could be heard coming down the hall. "Hullo, Sam!" Pippin greeted him enthusiastically, bursting into the kitchen first. "And you already have a kettle on for us? You're the best, Sam, you really are. And ooh! Look, Merry, it's those cream scones that Sam does so well," he added enthusiastically, catching sight of the leftover second breakfast on the kitchen table.

"Excellent, very good," Merry mumbled distractedly, casting a brief glance at Sam as well as the food, and then returned to the primary topic of conversation. "As I was saying, Frodo, seeing as it's your birthday tomorrow, and seeing as last year's celebration was rather, well, dramatic, I had a feeling that you were going to let it slip by this year without any festivities whatsoever. Isn't that right, Sam?" he suddenly called over to Sam, who was busy with the teapot.

Sam looked up quickly, over to Frodo, who was still standing in the doorway, staring at Merry with a odd expression on his face. He raised his eyes at that, meeting Sam's, and Sam saw a look of amusement there, but also a brief wash of pain. Sam knew the reason. Frodo's birthday was Bilbo's as well, but most of all, it was the day that Bilbo had left him. He stood frozen, not knowing how to answer Merry's question, but Frodo read his confusion, and briskly replied, "Since I couldn't begin to match Uncle Bilbo's talent for party-giving, I hadn't actually planned on one, Merry dear."

"I thought as not," Merry gave a satisfied nod, as he plopped upon a chair at the table. "So you are indeed in luck, my dear cousin, for Pippin and I have come for expressly that purpose. After all, you did come of age last year, but there was never really a chance of celebrating it properly. But don't you worry, my lad, we'll make up for it this year, even if it's just the three of us."

Frodo caught up with Sam later that evening in the guest bedroom that Merry and Pippin usually used. He had finished airing out the beds and laying on blankets, and had already started a small fire to warm up the room for the night. It was as he was getting ready to leave the room, spare blanket over his arm, that Frodo walked in. "The back bedroom again?" Frodo asked wistfully.

Sam nodded, embarrassed, and feeling cowardly.

"That's all right," Frodo said softly, going over to him, and placing his hands on Sam's shoulders. "I understand, Sam-love. And it won't be as long this time, Merry has already informed me that he needs to leave the day after tomorrow. An errand for his father, I believe, with a cattleman in North Farthing. And where Merry goes, so does Pippin. Don't you fret, dear, it won't always be like this."

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes and trying to blink back the tears. And then Frodo's arms were around him, and Sam held tightly to him, hearing Frodo's voice murmuring in his ear, "One step at a time, Sam-love. One family at a time. We must be patient."

Sam opened his eyes at that, grateful for Frodo's understanding. He nodded, still not trusting himself to say anything.

Frodo lifted his chin with a hand and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. "Come into the study tonight, dearest. You don't have to say anything, I just want them to get to know you a bit." He stared into Sam's eyes then, as if willing courage to him. "I know you don't think so, Sam," he continued slowly, "but you are so very much more…" His voice trailed off at that, and he kissed Sam again.

Sam nodded then, helpless, as always, to resist Frodo. "I'd be there then," he whispered, and they left the room.

It wasn't until after he had thoroughly cleaned the kitchen that evening, that Sam finally found the strength to walk down the hall to the study to join the three, but Frodo's loving smile, upon seeing him, warmed Sam's heart and gave him the necessary courage to sit down with them. "Only two nights," he reassured himself, "only two nights."

Merry and Pippin had helped Frodo celebrate his birthday, the next day, by taking him to the Green Dragon, where the inhabitants of Hobbiton present were more than glad to join in rounds of the Dragon's finest, purchased by Merry, and in drinking to the Master of Bag End's health and happiness. Sam had spent the afternoon preparing a special meal of all of Frodo's favorite dishes, and the birthday dinner back at Bag End had been particularly lengthy and festive. Frodo had brought out a couple of the most esteemed year of the Old Winyards' vintage, and even Sam, upon being persuaded to taste it, had to allow as it beat any beer he had ever tasted, hands down.

Once again, they had retired to the study, and Merry poured glasses all round for the four of them.

"A toast!" he cleared his throat, in a rather self-important way. Raising his glass for a moment, he paused, and then proclaimed, " To the finest elder cousin I've have ever had!" He lowered his glass then and stared wistfully at Frodo. "And Brandy Hall has been much that much emptier without you."

Frodo raised his glass in response, and quietly added, "Thank you, Merry."

It was then Pippin's turn. He raised his glass, only half-filled, at Merry's insistence and Pippin's annoyance, and added cheerily, "To my special cousin Frodo, who is ever so much fun, and sweet and dear besides." And finding that words were insufficient, he rose from the settle, where he had nested with Merry, and gave Frodo a rather sloppy kiss on his cheek.

"Why, Pippin," laughed Frodo affectionately, giving him a firm hug in return, "that is very kind of you."

And then it was Sam's turn. He raised his glass, wanting so much to say something, but fearful of saying too much. "To the best master as I could ever have," he said hesitantly. And then, greatly daring, he added, "Thank you, melyanna."

Merry and Pippin both turned to look curiously at him at that, but the look in Frodo's eyes was worth it.

"That was Elvish, wasn't it," asked Merry with a slight frown. "However did you pick that up, Sam?"

"From me, of course," Frodo answered, his eyes still on Sam, and his smile for Sam alone.

"Hmm," said Merry, but asked no more. Glancing about the study and stretching luxuriantly, he turned to Frodo then and casually said, "So how does it feel to be master and all of that? It's been a year now, do you suppose the old boy will ever be back?"

"Well he was gone rather a long while when he went off with Gandalf the last time, right?" Pippin asked, quickly pouring himself another glass before Merry could object. "But then all of that was before any of us were born, even you, Frodo," he added sagely with a lift of his glass in Frodo's general direction.

Sam had been listening to this topic of conversation in dismay. Did they really have no idea how Frodo felt about Bilbo's departure? Casting an uneasy glance at Frodo, he saw that Frodo's eyes were downcast and his attention was not on any of them.

Merry was now beginning to distinctly slump in the settle and drift down in the general direction of the carpet, Pippin slowly following him as well. "Oh, well, I suppose he'll pop up when least expected with another trunk of dragon gold or something of the sort."

"I think not," Sam heard Frodo say very quietly before he rose to his feet. "That bottle appears about finished, and it wouldn't do at all to run dry tonight. No, not at all," he announced, rather unsteadily, to his cousins. "I'll be back." With a careful gait, he left the room.

Sam sat quietly for a moment, completely unnoticed by the other two hobbits, who were now beginning to toast Bilbo and his return complete with increasingly unlikely plunder. But his anxiety about Frodo was growing, and finally, without a word to the other two, he left the study as well.

He found Frodo in the wine cellar, as he thought he would, but what he did not expect was to find Frodo curled up, seated on the floor and sobbing loudly. "Ah, Frodo, there now," he crooned softly as he hurried over to him and, kneeling beside him on the cold stone floor, tried to pick him up in his arms. But Frodo was very reluctant to acknowledge him, very set on being thoroughly miserable, and, Sam quickly realized, very drunk.

Now Sam was alarmed indeed, for he had never seen Frodo in this condition before. "Frodo-love, let me be gettin' you to bed, then," he gently laid his hand on Frodo's back, but Frodo turned from him, still hiding his face in his hands.

"No, Sam," he heard Frodo gasp between sobs, "I should be alone, all alone."

Sam stopped for a minute, not understanding what he was hearing. "You'd not be alone," he then said reassuringly, stroking Frodo's back lightly, "Your Sam's here, he'd not be goin' nowhere."

"But it can't last, it never lasts," Frodo gasped between sobs. "And then you'll go away too, and … and I won't have any heart left. It hurts so, it always does, but this time will be the worst."

It was the insecurity that Frodo usually hid so well, and Sam had never dreamed how strong it still was. "Ah, no, there you'd be wrong, Frodo-love," he whispered, his arms tightening around Frodo. "Because that won't be happenin', no ways." He felt Frodo's taunt shoulders begin to relax slightly, and took the opportunity to gently turn Frodo around so he could face him. He pulled his pocket handkerchief out and tenderly wiped the tears from Frodo's cheeks even as new tears still coursed down them.

"Sam," Frodo whispered, blinking and slowly raising a hand to Sam's face.

"Still here, m'dear," Sam smiled lovingly at him, trying to keep back his own tears. "Not goin' nowheres."

"Hold me, then, Sam," Frodo's eyes were looking deep into his, in the light of the one candle that lit the storeroom. "Hold me. I never have to think when you hold me."

Sitting on the stone next to Frodo, Sam needed no further urging. Wrapping one arm around Frodo's back, he held the back of Frodo's head with the other, and met Frodo's open mouth with his. There was the taste of wine, and Frodo moaned as he met Sam's tongue with his own. Eagerly, Frodo sought those hidden areas of Sam's mouth, probing and tasting, and Sam gently met Frodo's every touch with his own. He could feel Frodo's hands tightly grasping his shoulders and drawing him closer, and he closed his eyes, feeling his own blood unmistakably begin to stir with desire.

"Frodo," he gasped, breaking away from Frodo's mouth with a great reluctance, "your cousins…"

"Are not here." Frodo finished firmly. He pulled slightly back, and even in the dim light, Sam thought that he had never seen him look more beautiful. His face was flushed, his hair a mass of disheveled dark curls, and his eyes glittered with still unshed tears. "Sam," he lifted a still unsteady hand to Sam's face, "I need to have you hold me. I need your touch, Sam. I'm never afraid or lonely then."

Sam had no thought of refusing him. Resolutely, he cast any notion of Frodo's cousins from his mind, for here was Frodo, and the rest had never really mattered. There was only one last rational impression in his mind that perhaps the cold stone floor of the wine cellar was not the best of places to be at this moment, and he briefly thought of trying to get Frodo back to his bedroom, but that was quickly erased by the sudden sensation of Frodo's hand having managed to find his skin under his shirt, and the heat of it sliding up his chest.

"Cover me, dearest," Frodo suddenly breathed, quickly laying back on the floor and tugging Sam over him. "I need to have you on me, Sam, oh, Sam. Hold me down, love, don't let me go."

"Never," Sam groaned at that, his heart twisting with sympathy and desire. He spread himself over Frodo's body, raising himself up over Frodo with his elbows on the sides of Frodo's chest.

"Oh, Sam, please, love," Frodo's eyes were now closed and both of his hands were on Sam's chest, stroking and urging Sam ever closer. Sam could feel Frodo start to move rhythmically under him, pushing upward against his hips. He fell into the rhythm as well, the slow sensuous grinding, the thrust of heat against heat, even through the layers of their clothing. Briefly he considered attempting to remove some of their garments, but the last thing he wanted to do at this moment was to pull away from Frodo for any reason.

Bending over Frodo's face, he began to kiss him lightly but fervently. Frodo's pace had quickened now, and he was gasping as he drove himself up against Sam. "Harder, Sam, please," he begged, his head arching back, eyes still tightly closed. "Harder, love, don't ever let me go."

And Sam could no longer hold back. He ground down on Frodo with all of his strength, over and over, answering Frodo's cries of need with his own answering moans mingled with Frodo's name. It wasn't until he felt Frodo thrust himself up with a final wild cry and his eyes snap open, that he felt the answering surge himself, and he collapsed onto Frodo, numbly feeling the wetness spreading between them.

Sam rolled to his side as soon as he could, and lay there facing Frodo. He felt Frodo's hand lift then, and search for his own. Wondering, he felt Frodo grasp it tightly and draw it to his mouth, tenderly kissing it. "Frodo," he whispered, but Frodo looked back at him silently, his dark blue eyes fathomless in the candlelight.

Chapter Text

Sam awoke very early the next morning. Only the faintest streaks of light could be seen through the cloudy sky as he carefully slid out of Frodo's arms. When he had finally gotten Frodo to the bedroom the night before, it was only by promising to return, and soon, that he was able to stealthily travel down the hall, to see what had become of their visitors. But by the rather pronounced dual snoring issuing from the study, he quickly realized that it was safe enough to peep inside.

Sure enough, Merry and Pippin had completed their slide down to the carpet, and had melded into one somewhat noisy mound of sleeping hobbit. Carefully, Sam plucked a couple of blankets out of a chest in the corner, and gingerly draped them over the slumberers. Happily, they took no notice of Sam's ministrations, and, relieved, Sam quickly returned to Frodo.

By the time Sam returned to their bedroom, Frodo had changed into a nightshirt, and was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head held in his hands. He raised his head when Sam entered, but said nothing. Sam smiled at him, and softly said, "They'd be sleepin' it off. I covered them, they'll be fine enough 'til morn."

Frodo gave a brief answering smile, but then sighed. "I feel three times a fool, Sam," he muttered, giving Sam a clearly embarrassed look. "I really must be showing my age if I can't handle my wine any better than that."

" 'Twasn't just the wine, dear," Sam said quietly, walking over to him, and lightly stroking the side of Frodo's cheek. "But you needn't be frettin' about that as would never happen. Us Gamgees are a stubborn lot. You'd not be shakin' me off easily."

Stepping away for a moment, Sam quickly shed his clothing and then raised Frodo's nightshirt up and over a willing Frodo's head. "I want to feel you next to me, Frodo-love," he murmured before turning back the bed-clothes and drawing Frodo back into bed.

"And Merry and Pippin?" Frodo asked, his hand lightly on Sam's arm as Sam reached over to pinch out the candle.

"Are not here." Sam smiled tenderly in the dark as he gathered Frodo up in his arms. "You best be gettin' t'sleep, me dear, you'll be feelin' this one come tomorrow."

Three hobbits sat around the kitchen table dubiously eying the murky liquid in the mugs set before them. It was time for second breakfast, but only Sam had had the stomach for first. "You say your gaffer swears by this?" Merry was giving his mug a distinctly unfriendly glare.

"Aye, that he does," Sam chuckled, slicing bread for toast. "And he's been around for a bit. I'd be drinkin' it down right fast, so as not to be tastin' it much," he added as Frodo bravely held the mug up to his mouth. Giving Sam a quick smile, Frodo rapidly downed the potion and thumped the mug back on the table.

The other two stared at Frodo as if expecting some sort of entertaining reaction, but Frodo merely looked thoughtfully back into his empty mug.

"All right then," Merry muttered, "I need to have a clear head today, after all." He lifted his mug, emptying it quickly, but immediately dropped it back on the table and sprang to his feet. "Eru! That is the foulest.." he sputtered, shaking his head in disgust.

Frodo broke into peals of laughter as Merry glared at him.

"Must of caught a bit of the taste o'it," Sam observed mildly from near the sink.

Pippin looked at Merry wide-eyed and then with dread into his mug. "I believe I'm feeling much better," he quickly pointed out.

"Oh, no, you don't, Pippin Took, I'm not going to be listening to you going on about your head," Merry turned sternly on him. "Down with it, lad."

Pippin turned helplessly from Merry to Frodo, who was still laughing, to Sam. Taking pity on the young hobbit, Sam smiled at him. "Just toss it back and swallow right quick, Mr. Pippin," he said encouragingly. " 'Tisn't a'that bad that way. And your head will feel much the better for it."

Pippin nodded thankfully, and quickly followed his instructions. With a rather satisfied toss of his head, he proudly set his mug down. " Not all that bad, Merry," he repeated. "At least, not so bad that some toast with some of that blackberry jam of yours, Sam, wouldn't put it straight to rights."

Sam chuckled at that. "Looks as it's cured you that fast, Mr. Pippin," he placed the jam jar and plate of toast on the table. "Maybe the others will feel like a bite soon enough themselves." Which they did.

The breakfast dishes were nearly empty, when Frodo suddenly looked up from his bacon-and-mushrooms. "Your gifts!" he exclaimed. "I was going to give them to you last night, but…" and he hastily got up at that, leaving the sentence unfinished, and quickly left the kitchen. He soon returned, with several cloth-wrapped bundles in his hands.

"For you, Merry," he handed him a flat parcel. "And you, Pippin," he added, giving Pippin a long narrow one.

Merry unwrapped his first, producing a leather pipeweed pouch, beautifully embossed with a border of leaves and vines. "Thank you, Frodo," he exclaimed, with a pleased smile, "This is very nice indeed. So much nicer than that cloth pouch I've been making do with."

Pippin, in the meantime, had been unwrapping his gift as well, and delightedly produced a small whistle pipe. "Oh, Frodo!" he cried in delight, "I've always wanted to learn to play one of these!"

Merry gave Frodo a rather exasperated look, and sighed at that. "All the way home, I suppose," he muttered, but Frodo laughed at his expression of gloom.

"The lad has a talent for music, Merry," he said fondly, "it won't take him long to produce a recognizable tune."

Then he turned to Sam, and handed the last parcel to him. "For you, Sam," he said softly, and Sam took it from him, struggling to keep from reddening under Frodo's gaze.

But when he unwrapped it, he forgot all else. "Oh, Frodo," he breathed, completely forgetting that there was anyone else in the room. In his hands lay a volume bound in the finest and softest red leather that Sam had ever felt. Reverently, he opened it to find only creamy blank pages. Wonderingly, he looked back up at Frodo.

"For you to complete, Sam," Frodo's eyes held him fast. "With whatever pleases you the most."

It was the sound of Pippin's voice that jolted Sam back to his senses. "So you can write, too, Sam?" he asked with interest, looking up from his new pipe, which he had been carefully examining.

Frodo answered for Sam, who bent his head, disconcerted by the attention. "And not only Common Speech, but Quenya, as well," Frodo stated proudly, smiling at Sam.

"Aye, well, naught a bit as well as you, Mr. Frodo," Sam mumbled at that, his face reddening once more, but he held the book firmly to his chest.

"Even a bit of Quenya would be that much more than I could manage," Pippin laughed.

Merry had been silently watching the other three, but rose at this point, and stretched his arms out lazily. "It's time to be going, then," he remarked in a languid tone, "and if this fellow with the cows doesn't keep me over long, we should be able to make the Toad and Whistle by evening. Remember their brew, Pip?"

"Oh, yes," Pippin nodded happily. "I suppose we had better be off, then." But he stopped as they started to leave Sam in the kitchen, and turning, gave him a impulsive hug. "Nasty tasting stuff, that, Sam," he, grinning, informed a flustered Sam, "but rather effective. If your gaffer wouldn't mind you telling family secrets, my father would be eternally grateful." He left the kitchen then, along with Merry and Frodo, leaving Sam with a rather dazed vision of the gaffer and the Thain sitting down to exchange morning-after recipes.

Number Three, Bagshot Row, was bustling with activity about a week later. May had arrived for one of her now relatively rare visits, and Marigold and Rosie had come especially for luncheon, and more particularly, the news. Since the afternoon was fine, they had spread the food out on a table in the garden, but the gaffer, after one look at the group assembled there, grabbed a few portable items and, muttering something about a fine afternoon for a walk, left with a spryness remarkable for a hobbit of his years. Daisy thought she caught the words "babbling females" as he passed by.

But all attention was drawn to May as inevitably as iron filings to a lodestone, for not only was she dressed in a becoming frock with an inordinate number of pink frills, but there was an entirely different air about the way she walked and the way she spoke that indicated her stay in Hobbiton had proved quite educational. Marigold, however, was in no mood for generalities and, after the edge of her hunger had been satisfied, came directly to the point, the usual privilege of younger sisters.

"So, May," she spoke up, slicing off another piece of cheese, "have you got'im yet?"

"Why, Marigold," May exclaimed with a pretty little frown. "That was a trifle blunt, now. But," she added, with a sly smile, "that I did."

"May!" Marigold cried in glee, forgetting the cheese entirely, "tell us, lass!"

So May did, from the "accidental" meetings on the street, to the parties arranged by her friends at the smials of mutual acquaintances, to the strolls through the quiet outskirts of Hobbiton, and at last, to that special evening that had led to an understanding between the two of them.

"And he really is a lovely lad," she added, with a slightly defensive tone, "especially if you can get him away from his friends, like that Lotho, and Sandyman's son."

Marigold and Rosie exchanged glances that clearly revealed their feelings about that pair.

"I know, I know," May sighed. "But it seems as though we'll be living up near his family anyway, so that shouldn't matter all that much. We'll be pledging at the Harvest Festival, and that'd give me that much time for the arrangements for the wedding come spring." Her hand was nervously playing with the plaits of her dress as she spoke, though. "Mayhap his family'd be comin' down for the Festival."

"And what would you be knowin' of them, May?" Daisy asked soberly, giving May a steady look. "You'd be gettin' a little deep t'be backin' out if you don't like the looks of what you'd be seein' there. And what if his parents not be likin' the idea of their lad marryin' the lass of a gardener?"

May lifted her chin defiantly. "As long as Anston'd be wanting me, they'll have to make the best of it," she declared proudly. "I'll show them I can make him as fine a wife as any."

That same day, Frodo had persuaded Sam to take their lunch up to the hill behind Bag End, not a difficult task, actually. The rainy summer seemed long ago and far away on such a warm, golden afternoon as this one. The red poppies, randomly sprinkled through the grass, shone brightly midst the lush green, and only the few golden leaves displayed by the oak indicated that autumn was at hand. Lunch had not taken long to be disposed of, and Frodo was lying back on the rug they always brought with them, feeling mellow indeed. "I wonder if Pippin annoyed Merry with that pipe whistle all the way back to Buckland?" he mused dreamily, staring up at the puffy white clouds floating by high overhead.

Sam, sitting cross-legged next to him, gave a slight snort. "Mr. Merry'd appear t'annoy summat easy, seems like, if I might be so bold."

Frodo looked over at him with a grin. "Say what you like, Sam, it's only me. But you might be right about that." Looking back up again, he continued, "It's the weight of Brandy Hall on his shoulders that does that to him."

"Mr. Pippin don't seem to feel the weight o'the Tooks all that much," Sam pointed out. "Wouldn't that be just as bad, then?"

"Not really," Frodo rolled over on his side and lay there facing Sam. "The Tooks may be an ancient and important family, but the Brandybucks own that whole part of the Shire. Being the Master of Brandy Hall is an enormous responsibility. Merry's still younger than you are, you know."

"No, I'd not be knowin' that," replied Sam, surprised.

Frodo nodded with a smile, "Yes, two years younger. Well, at least he has Pippin around most of the time."

"That lad'll keep him lively, 'tis for sure," chuckled Sam.

"Oh, you have no idea," laughed Frodo. And he continued on, telling Sam tales of the young Took's more memorable escapades. And together, their laughter rang out into the peaceful afternoon.

Hamfast Gamgee was leaving the Row even then, seeking a small hill that gave him his favorite view of the valley towards Hobbiton. He heard the laughter from behind Bag End. He recognized Frodo's light laugh immediately, but it took him a minute to realize that the carefree laughter blending with Frodo's was indeed that of his son. He had not heard Sam laugh like that since he was a child. Quickly, he walked up the hill, away from Bag End, but though he sat in his accustomed spot, he really never saw the view at all that afternoon.

Daisy was in the back garden laying freshly washed clothes out on the hedge the next morning as Sam arrived, to take care of such chores as needed his doing around Number Three. Drawing Sam to the bench, she sat him down, and told him of May's news. "This Anston Bracegirdle'd be Lotho Sackville-Baggin's cousin then?" Sam frowned upon hearing the news. "Well, I canna be sayin' as that'd be much of a recommendation."

"As would be Mr. Frodo," Daisy pointed out succinctly, "an' I'd not be seein' you holdin' that against him."

"Ah, well," Sam couldn't help but chuckle, "you'd be right enough about that."

"I'd not the chance t'thank ye," Daisy said quietly, staring at the tidy garden around her, after they had sat silently for a few moments, "but both Mr. Frodo and yourself were that kind t'me when I was sick, puttin' me up and all at Bag End."

"Why, what else, Daisy?" Sam turned to her in surprise, "you'd be my sister, after all."

Daisy said nothing, her eyes closing, and then, very softly, almost under her breath, she added, "You seemed that much at home."

Sam studied her for a moment in silence, and then took her hand in his. " 'Tis my home, now," he said quietly.

Daisy opened her eyes again at that, and stared into Sam's hazel eyes, so like his late mother's. "Would you be happy then, Sam?" she whispered.

His smile was answer enough, but he spoke anyway. "More than I could ever tell you, Daisy dear."

It was harvest time for the wheat, these days, and Sam was usually gone all day, helping not only the Cottons, but all the other near-by farmers in the closely knit Hobbiton community. Frodo walked the halls of Bag End, on this particular afternoon, remembering back a year ago, when the highlight of his day was tea with Sam. And now? There were traces of Sam's presence throughout Bag End. The flourishing row of herb pots in the sunny kitchen window. The neatened study (growing up in a small crowded smial had made Sam, as Frodo had found, incurably tidy). His worn jacket hung on a peg alongside of Frodo's finer one in the hall near the front door. The small orderly pile of his clothes next to Frodo's in the wardrobe of their bedroom. Frodo stood in the doorway of their bedroom, in the warm light of the late afternoon sun, staring at their neatly made bed. And then, for no particular reason at all, he felt the weight of years of doubt and well-concealed grief slide from him. Sam loved him. Sam was here with him. He could let his heart love in return, without fear, for it would not be broken again. Thankful, he closed his eyes, at peace with himself.

Sam almost passed May by without recognizing her in the streets of Hobbiton. He and Frodo had made a trip into town, and Frodo, of course, was at the bookseller's. Sam was to replenish their supplies and meet him at the Green Dragon, as was their custom. May had been leaving the yardage shop in the company of Pansy Burrows, when she looked up to see Sam across the main thoroughfare of Hobbiton. Her eyes flicked from Sam back to the window of the shop, and for a few moments, Sam wasn't sure if she was going to acknowledge him, or fasten her attention on the window as if she had never noticed him.

But then, with a quick word to Pansy, who glanced over at Sam in surprise, she left her companion, and crossed the dusty street over to Sam. " 'Tis awhile since I'd be seein' you, May," Sam observed mildly, as May thrust her arm through his and drew him over to a quiet leafy corner at the side of the shop. "You'd be lookin' pretty as can be."

May gave an unwilling small smile at that, but then studied Sam's face carefully. "You've heard my news, then, haven't you, Sam?" she asked him intently.

"Why, aye, I have at that, and best of wishes t'ye, May," Sam replied gravely. Of all his sisters, May had always been the one to be most likely at odds with him, as they had grown up, and his mother had always put that to their being the closest in age of her offspring, as well as the two of them having the most of what she would refer fondly as, when the gaffer wasn't about, "that Gamgee pigheadedness".

But whatever Sam might have thought of May's choice, he certainly wasn't going to reveal it on a busy Hobbiton high street. And, he realized reluctantly, she might have thought the same of his choices of late.

"Thank you, Sam," May replied, a trifle formally. "There's only one thing I'd be askin' you." She paused, as if considering her words carefully, "This is all that important to me, Sam. Please, whatever you can do…"

Sam stared back at her. "I willna lie for you, May," he said at last, slowly. "But I'll do what I can."

May, with a quick nod, curtly answered, "Fair enough," and left to rejoin Pansy.

Frodo left the bookseller's that afternoon, parcel under his arm, and feeling rather pleased with himself. All too often, he had left poor Sam waiting at the Green Dragon as he lost himself in the bookseller's hoard, but this time he had actually left of his own initiative, and with time to spare as well.

He was absently eyeing the contents of his parcel as he made his way through the back street of Hobbiton, towards the outskirts of the village, where the Green Dragon was situated, and it was thus that he never saw the heavy fist that sent him flying into a mud puddle at the side of the road. Stunned, he raised his head to see Lotho standing over him, laughing.

"Why, Cousin Frodo," he snickered, "you had a point, didn't you. The element of surprise does work rather well. But let's see what other Brandy Hall tricks you have that can help you now."

Frodo had been nursing his temple, with a sinking feeling that there certainly would be a mark there to show for this, but Lotho's taunts had, as usual, their customary effect. With a low growl that would have amazed most of his acquaintances, he rose from the ground and with one sudden blur of motion, leaped straight onto Lotho, his momentum carrying the heavier hobbit straight to the ground. With all his strength, he held Lotho pinned to the ground, and hissed, "I am sick of this, cousin. Kindly treat me civilly or avoid me altogether, I really could care less which."

It was only the fleeting movement of Lotho's eyes that gave Frodo any warning, but it was enough that he had started to roll off of Lotho when Ted Sandyman's foot connected solidly with his ribs. For a moment, Frodo crouched in the dirt, gasping for breath, and that was all the time Lotho needed. Lurching up to his feet, he gave Frodo a sudden vicious shove that sent him sprawling.

"Unfortunately, Frodo, I live here, and it's rather hard to avoid you and that brat that has so captivated you," Lotho spat out. He gave a quick gesture to Ted, who had been watching Frodo with a satisfied grin, and Frodo quickly found himself being hauled to his feet, with his arms pinned behind his back, by the miller's son. Twisting desperately to break out of Ted's grasp, he delivered a swift kick to Ted's knee. The burly hobbit yelled out in pain at that, but before Frodo could complete his escape, Lotho stepped forward, and with brute force, punched Frodo squarely in his stomach.

Frodo felt tears coming unwillingly to his eyes with the force of that blow, and he fought urgently to hide them as he knelt before Lotho, doubled up in pain. He heard Lotho's triumphant laugh as Ted's rough grasp rudely hauled him to his feet again. "I believe I've made my point quite clear," Lotho jeered as his face swam back into Frodo's blurred vision. "You and that bedmate of yours are to stay out of this town altogether, understood?" But if Lotho had thought that this would be an effective approach, he was mistaken. With all the breath he had left, Frodo said not a word, but spat as hard as he could toward Lotho.

Furiously, Lotho roared at this, and Frodo tensed his body for the blow that would surely come. But it never did. There was an incoherent cry that came from somewhere behind Frodo, and suddenly, Lotho was gone from view. Frantically, Frodo twisted in Ted's suddenly slack grip and broke loose. There, standing over a Lotho who was flat on his back in the middle of the road with his hand to his jaw, stood Sam, breathing hard and his fists clenched.

Lotho dragged himself up and got to his feet. "You miserable peasant," he sneered at Sam, "you touch me again, and I'll ruin you and your whole mangy family."

But Sam was more furious than Frodo had ever seen him. "Try it, you filth," he snarled. "But if you touch him again, you'll be sorrier for it than you'd ever dream you could be."

With a yell of rage, Lotho swung at the shorter, younger hobbit with a still powerful fist. But before Frodo could come to Sam's assistance, Sam drew his own fist back and then, with all his strength, connected with Lotho Sackville-Baggins' nose. There was the sound of a distinct crack, and Lotho screamed loudly. Ted, who had been watching in fright from the side, stepped forward at that, grabbing Lotho by the arm, and pulling the older hobbit, with blood streaming from the broken nose, away.

Sam didn't watch them go, but immediately turned to Frodo, his face taunt with concern. "Are you all right, me dear?" he murmured, sliding an arm under Frodo's for support.

"Right enough, Sam," Frodo breathed, with a grimace, gingerly touching his side. "But it's going to be a long walk home. We'd best forego the Green Dragon's brew this afternoon."

It wasn't until late in the afternoon that Frodo was finally able to lay thankfully on the bed at Bag End. The walk home had seemed interminable, not for the least of reasons because Frodo had insisted on taking the back road over the hill. "I just really rather not have to go over it with everyone, right now," he had said firmly, when Sam had tried to persuade him that the quickest road home would be the best, regardless of who they might meet along the way.

So Sam sighed, and acquiesced, and kept a firm supporting arm around Frodo all the way back.

"Here now," he said as Frodo sat heavily on the side of the bed, "let's have a look at that side of yours." Carefully, he peeled off the jacket and shirt, and then gave a low cry of dismay at the ugly purple and black marring Frodo's pale skin.

"As bad as that," Frodo muttered, closing his eyes, not even bothering to look.

"Well," said Sam, trying for a light tone, so as to keep his anger out of his voice, "I must ha'seen worse, but where, I can't recollect right now. And let me be looking' at this, likewise," he carefully pushed back the dark curls from Frodo's forehead, exposing another dark bruise across his temple.

"Those ruffians," he muttered darkly at that, forgetting his resolution.

"Nothing new, really," Frodo gave Sam a wry smile, "he's just gotten bolder as of late now that Bilbo's gone. Bilbo always seemed somehow to manage to get his parents to keep him in line, I just wish I knew how. And then, he seems to think there are more that will sympathize with him lately."

"Because o'us," Sam's flat statement was not a question. Gently, he let Frodo's curls fall back forward, and helped Frodo lie back. "Lay you here quiet," he said softly, "I'll be back as soon as might be." Covering Frodo with a light quilt, he left the room.

Frodo knew that he must have slept for awhile, for when he awoke, the room was dark, lit only by candles. "I'm that sorry t'be wakin' you, Frodo-love," he heard Sam's soft voice, "but you'll be feelin' better come morn if we do this now."

He lifted his eyes open slowly, still feeling groggy and disoriented. But there was Sam's face before him, candlelight on those glinting curls, golden lights in his eyes, and the sweet smile that he loved so well on Sam's lips. He could hear the quiet slosh of liquid next to him, and slowly, and with great effort, he turned his head.

"Ah, no, dear, don't you be movin' about like that, love," Sam's soft voice caressed him. "Just you lie easy now, dearest."

The coverlet was carefully drawn back and Frodo shivered slightly, involuntarily, in the sudden chill. "Aye, I know," came Sam's chuckle, "but 'tis warmed up, me dear."

Then Frodo closed his eyes as he felt Sam's careful touch at his side, the warm wet cloth cautiously laving his side, the rough fingertips gently following after, smoothing, soothing. Frodo gradually realized that Sam had begun to hum unknowingly under his breath, in what Frodo had learned by now was Sam's instinctive reaction when called upon to calm, to comfort.

And now there was a salve that Sam was massaging ever so gently into the tender flesh. It smelled of lavender, and honey, and scents that Frodo could not begin to recognize, and he felt himself fading away, warm and cherished.

It was much later that night when he briefly awoke. The room was dark, but he could feel Sam's arms carefully encircling him, Sam's body curled around his, and Sam's sleeping breath warming his shoulder. With a peaceful heart, he quickly fell back to sleep.

"Broke his nose, that's what they'd be sayin'," Jolly couldn't help the note of triumph in his voice as he sat next to the hearth the next evening in Tom and Marigold Cotton's smial.

Rosie Cotton was there as well, and her face shone pink in the firelight with excitement. "Did he ever, now?" she exclaimed in delight. "Tell us all, Jolly!"

"Well, I was with some lads at the Green Dragon," Jolly began, with obvious delight at being the bearer of such news, "and I saw Sam come in. He was lookin' about, but before I could call out to him, there's a couple o'lads near the door as told him that Mr. Lotho and that Ted Sandyman had just gone out the door, and they was sayin' summat about Mr. Frodo. Well, as soon as he'd be hearin' that, our Sam was gone. But there's a couple of lads that were down the road as come in later as saw it all."

He took a swig from his mug and then continued. "Now you all know as that Mr. Lotho has had it in for Mr. Frodo ever since Mr. Bilbo took him in, and this time he and that Ted had decided as they didn't want t'be seein' Mr. Frodo about Hobbiton no more. Mr. Frodo was givin' a pretty good account of himself, too, for a piece, but 'twas two of them next to his one, an' they being bulky lads an' all, likewise. So they finally managed t'get him all pinned down, but Sam surprised them, he did, and hauled off and gave that Lotho such a hit as clean broke his nose."

"And more than time, too," Rosie declared with spirit. "That Mr. Lotho, he's always been a meddlesome troublemaker."

"I just can't believe that about Sam," Tom declared, pulling his pipe out of his mouth in surprise. "He's always been that much of a peaceable lad."

"Aye, that may be," Jolly shook his head in agreement, "but you know how he gets when he thinks as summat's not fair. And then t'be Mr. Frodo an'all…"

"Well, I just don't know how he thought t'come up with that," Marigold added, shaking her head in wonder. "Sam's never been that much for fightin'."

"Now, that I know," Jolly declared triumphantly. "'Twas your gaffer. Sam told me once, when there was these lads as were botherin' me, that his gaffer told him there was one sure way to end a fight when needs be. 'Aim for their nose, son,' he said the gaffer told 'im, 'as it makes one mortal mess. 'Tis no-body as can be fightin' then.' An' that's just what our Sam did!" he concluded proudly.

Marigold sighed again. " 'Tis all very good," she told the others sternly, "an' I'm sure that no-one will be sheddin' tears for Mr. Lotho, but 'tis trouble ne'ertheless. What about May?"

And that brought the conversation suddenly to a thoughtful silence.

As Bilbo could have told Sam, Frodo, for all his fragile looks, was actually fairly sturdy, and quick to heal. He was up and about by the next day, and, with the help of Sam's potions, the bruises soon began to fade. More worrisome, however, was the approaching Harvest Festival. The Master of Bag End, of course, was expected to be there, and also of course, every other leading family in Hobbiton would be there likewise. Already there was talk about the village of what this anticipated meeting of Frodo and his cousin meant to the Festival in the form of expected entertainment, the like of which rarely occurred in this sleepy community. There was a faction that was appalled at the idea of a young upstart like Sam Gamgee, and one of questionable character at that, lifting a hand against a gentle-hobbit of impeachable family such as Lotho Sackville-Baggins. There was another group of hobbits however, not quite as outspoken perhaps, but somewhat more sizable, that felt strongly that Lotho had well deserved everything he had received, and they would not be loath to see him obtain another helping of the same. In fact, most young hobbit lads about town were secretly worshipping Samwise Gamgee, and his bold stand for justice.

At this moment, though, matters such as these held very little interest for either Sam or Frodo on this late clear autumn morning. It had taken time, but Frodo had finally convinced Sam that not every morning was created to be greeted in the early dawn hours; in fact, there were mornings that were expressly created in order to stay luxuriously in bed, and watch the sunlight from the window stretch slowly across the floor until it reached the coverlets, among other activities, or at least until empty stomachs could no longer be ignored. This was just such a morning.

Sam had, with no reluctance whatsoever, given up any thought of being productive out of doors this morning, but was currently engaged instead in being highly productive in his ongoing research of exactly where the most sensitive spot on Frodo's torso was. A number of options had already been tested, and he was, at the moment, leaning towards Frodo's side, right at his waist, because Sam had found that if he nibbled it right… there, and then bit it every so slightly, that Frodo would bolt straight upwards with the most unusual combination of a shriek and a giggle that Sam had ever heard him utter. With a wicked smile, Sam decided that this option clearly needed further testing, but Frodo read that look in an instant, and laughingly, squirmed rapidly out of Sam's grasp.

"Very well, then, Master Samwise," Frodo playfully rolled quickly over Sam to reverse positions, "let me just show you… " And then Sam did not struggle very hard to escape Frodo, for was not Frodo's mouth then so very close to where it could, certainly in Sam's opinion, do the most good? If he could only manage to twist ever so quickly downwards, then it was inevitable that Frodo's mouth…

But he had no time to complete the thought, for as he twisted with a laugh, and Frodo was mischievously grappling with him to regain his previous position, Frodo's hand encountered a part of Sam's anatomy that it had not before, and Sam gave a sudden gasp and froze.

Realizing what he had done at once, Frodo immediately withdrew his hand, and stammered, "Oh, Sam, I didn't mean…"

But Sam was staring at him with a most unusual expression. "Hmm," he murmured, and Frodo could see, with almost a shock, interest and speculation in Sam's eyes.

Frodo gulped at that. "Sam, I've never… " he began shakily.

"No more have I," Sam quickly interrupted him. "But I've heard tell. And," he added slowly, still watching Frodo carefully, "it didn't feel bad. No, not at all."

Frodo lay back with his knees up, propped up on his elbows, next to Sam, and studying him closely, felt curiosity beginning to take hold. "Really, Sam?" he asked in just the manner most likely to convince Sam that he needed a further explanation, or better yet, a demonstration.

Sam chuckled at that, having become adept at reading Frodo's moods in bed. "Aye, I thought you'd be a bit interested, Frodo-love," he said fondly, "an' I suppose you'd be wantin' your Sam to be showin' you what he means."

Frodo said nothing in response, but his expression left no doubt that Sam was correct.

"Ah, come here, me dear," Sam growled playfully at that, and rolling over, covered Frodo, who collapsed, laughing, under him. Then Sam cupped a hand around Frodo's cheek and met his mouth hungrily, and Frodo, forgetting, as always, all else, threw his arms around Sam's broad shoulders, and met his kiss enthusiastically, and so forgot all about Sam's other hand until…

"Hmmmpf!" Frodo's body jerked up and his eyes flew open wide, his mouth still covered by Sam's. Sam drew back at that, with a grin, and lay on an elbow next to Frodo. Frodo looked over at him, and swallowed. "You're right, Sam," he said, only a little shakily, "not that bad at all."

"Well then," Sam whispered at that, leaning towards Frodo and managing to just barely brush the tip of his ear with his tongue, "let's see how this works." And with that, he lay back down, drawing Frodo over the top of him.

"No, Sam," Frodo announced firmly at that, planting a hand on the bed at either side of Sam's chest, "don't you have to be digging out the Widow Rumble's potatoes this afternoon?"

"Aye, but," Sam muttered with a frown, clearly confused, "it ain't so late as all that."

"Not quite what I meant," Frodo rolled the two of them over so their positions were reversed. "I just think it would be a little more prudent if it were this way."

"Oh, but Frodo, now," Sam's concerned look was increasing as he realized what Frodo meant. "I'd be that worried… "

Frodo reached up and lightly kissed him. "Sam, I'm really not breakable," he lay back with a smile, as well as a fond sigh. "I'll mention it if anything hurts, really I will."

Sam looked dubiously down at him, but knew that Frodo's argument had some merit. "Well,' he began, but Frodo's eyes widened as another thought struck him.

"What 'tis it?" Sam questioned, somewhat apprehensively.

"Umm," Frodo cleared his throat, reddening slightly, "I've heard that it helps to, erm,…"

Sam's mouth crooked up at that, reading Frodo's thoughts. "Well, there ought t'be summat slippery in the kitchen as we can use." He sat up, chewing on his lip thoughtfully, and then, muttering to himself, "Mayhap… " he left the bedroom.

Sam returned quickly, not giving Frodo too much time to reconsider, should he have wanted to, but stopped in the doorway, giving Frodo a rueful look. "Frodo, me dear," he muttered, "if I didn't love you so, I'd be feelin' the greatest fool as ever was."

Frodo took in the sight of the sturdy young hobbit standing naked in the sunlit doorway with a small dish of butter held in front of him, and couldn't help it. He burst out laughing so merrily that Sam could not help but eventually join in.

"Oh, Sam," he finally gasped, trying to catch his breath, "if you are, then I'm an even greater one, for I've never seen you look more beautiful than you do right now."

Sam's sudden smile at that went straight to Frodo's heart, and holding open his arms, Frodo murmured, "Come here, my love," and Sam was in his arms in an instant.

And then Sam was over him again, wonderfully warm and strong, and Frodo wrapped his arms tightly around him, and lifted up his knees on either side of Sam's waist. This time, when Sam's hand found him, it wasn't so unexpected, and Frodo closed his eyes and pushed himself forward.

"Oh," he sighed, eyes still closed, but when Sam made a motion to remove his finger, he shook his head and opened his eyes again. There was Sam's face before him, expectant but concerned, and Frodo smiled warmly at him. "Sam," he said softly, "you feel glorious there." Sam smiled shyly in return, at that, and leaned down to nuzzle Frodo's throat.

Frodo felt himself begin to relax, and move more deliberately against Sam. "Ah, Sam," he moaned, "more, love." Sam's hand withdrew for a moment and then returned, now with more than one finger. "Oh, Sam!" Frodo sucked in his breath, pushing himself up and against Sam's hand harder than ever. He could hear Sam's breath quickening in his ear, and Sam's movements against him starting to become more rhythmic. He felt himself hardening, thrusting up against Sam's belly, and now there was one thing he wanted more than anything else; Sam inside of him.

"Now, Sam, now!" he gasped, and Sam understood. The hand was withdrawn, and for a moment, Frodo lay with his eyes shut tight, his knees quivering at Sam's sides, and his whole body taut with anticipation. Then he could feel Sam entering him, slowly, carefully. And it hurt, but Frodo couldn't have cared less for that, as he was consumed with the need for Sam, the inalterable craving to feel Sam deep within him, down to his center, down to his heart.

He pushed down against Sam, and heard his gasp, and felt Sam pull away only slightly, and press back again, this time a little more forcefully. "Sam!" Frodo flung his head back, fighting for air, and, clutching Sam's shoulders desperately, thrust himself back onto Sam again. And then he felt Sam's hand coming between them, holding him, and how had Sam known that that was what he most urgently needed right then, as he pushed himself down against Sam again and again. In his ear, he could hear Sam crying out his name, over and over, in a low moaning keen, as Sam bore down on him, and he felt himself pulsing in Sam's warm and knowing hand.

He knew then that he wasn't going to last long, that there was no way of stopping himself, when he heard Sam cry out his name one last time, and stiffen, and Sam's warmth flow suddenly into him, and he then felt himself release into Sam's hand, and he grabbed Sam tightly to him, feeling his heart leaping in his throat.

It was several minutes before Sam, still breathing jaggedly, was able to roll off Frodo, and brush the damp curls gently away from his forehead. "Sam," Frodo whispered, smiling blissfully at him, and lifting a hand, traced lightly down the side of that beloved face, and looked deep into those warm green-gold eyes. "Sam. I adore you."

They were nearing Hobbiton, the day of the Harvest Festival, and Sam's anxiety was obvious. "May 'twould never be forgivin' me," he muttered, unconsciously adjusting the cuffs of his new jacket. "It would ha' been best had I stayed a'home, Frodo."

Frodo stopped, and placed his hands on Sam's shoulders. They had come by way of the back road, and would be joining up with the main road to Hobbiton soon. "It's only one day, Sam," he murmured, looking into Sam's eyes with a smile. "By tonight, we'll be back in our bed, and I'll have you in my arms again, and all of this will be over."

"Well, that time can't be comin' any too soon," Sam gave Frodo a wry smile.

"I couldn't agree more," Frodo said dryly. "Remember, Sam," he added, reaching up to lightly touch the side of Sam's face, "any time you think it's best we go, just you let me know. I don't care what anyone else might think."

Sam nodded without a word, and leaning into Frodo's embrace, gave him a long and lingering kiss. " 'Tis all that really matters, isn't it, Frodo-love?" he asked wistfully as he slowly drew away from Frodo.

"Indeed it is," Frodo agreed, with a smile, and kissed him once again.

The night was beginning to grow dark by the time the more prominent Hobbiton families began to gather in the main tent. Dancing had been continuing all afternoon, as well as the feasting, but there was another purpose to this evening other than simple thanks for the bountiful harvest, and those in the main tent were more than aware of it. The Bracegirdles, Anston's parents as well as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' sister and brother-in-law, had expressly come from the East Farthing for this momentous occasion, the betrothing of their heir and only child. The Gamgee and Cotton families were seated in the back of the tent, a location far more conspicuous than they were normally accustomed to, while the Sackville-Baggins and Bracegirdles occupied the preponderance of the tables. Sam was sitting with Tom and Marigold Cotton, as well as Jolly, at a table towards the back, but Frodo had no place at this gathering. Instead, he was near a back opening, eager to watch, but not wishing to be seen. However, when Ned Proudfoot spotted him, he found himself being drawn by Ned into the tent unwillingly. He tried to make himself unobtrusive, but saw Lotho's cold eye fall on him nonetheless. Lotho gave a sinister smile, and quietly murmured something to Anston Bracegirdle, sitting at his side. With a sinking feeling, Frodo noticed Anston eying him curiously. He had a sudden feeling that this did not bode well for this evening.

"Well then, this will do nicely," proclaimed Ned, lowering himself at a table in front of the Bracegirdle contingent, along with the rest of the Proudfoot family. "Here, Frodo, here's a chair for you, if you like," he added, drawing up one next to him.

Looking over towards the Sackville-Baggins, Ned then gave a hearty chuckle. "Aye, that nose'd not be lookin' pretty at all," he laughed, viewing the still obvious damage on Lotho's face. "I hear as your Sam did that. I also hear as he had plenty of cause," he added, not caring who might hear. "That lad's been askin' for a thumpin' like that for years, now." There was a muttered chorus of agreement around the table, and Frodo dared look over to Sam at that.

Sam was sitting quietly between Marigold and Jolly, and even from Frodo's vantage point, he could see Sam's nervousness. Sam's gaze had fallen on the Proudfoot family, when he suddenly noticed Frodo in their midst. Immediately, Frodo could see the light spring into Sam's eyes, and the small, rueful, smile grace his face for just a moment. Frodo returned the look, and futilely wished once more that the burden of all of this had not fallen on Sam's shoulders, but rather on his.

Mistress Bracegirdle had Daisy all to herself at the center table, and Daisy was not enjoying it at all. "And, my dear, the roses in East Farthing are so fine that time of the year… have you ever been up that way, my dear child? Oh, perhaps not, but they are lovely, really they are. And so we'll have them grown all about the arbor, pink I think, for that will so complement your dear sister's hair, and such a lovely shade of auburn, isn't it, she must have gotten that from her dear mother, am I not right, child?

Daisy nodded her head in all the appropriate places and vainly looked about her for help. Her father was on the other side of her, and what the gaffer was thinking was, as usual, a mystery to her. May and Anston were across from her, but Anston was engaged in banter with Lotho, to his other side, and May was uncharacteristically silent.

Then it seemed that Anston's mother was looking at her expectantly, so Daisy gave a scarcely detectable sigh and tried to pick up the thread of the older gentle-hobbit's monologue again. 'So there will be enough places to put you dear folk up, it being so very far away, and the inns, well, my dear, they might be fine enough for some folk, but I can never help think of all the commonest sort who might have been staying in, well, my dear, I'm sure you know what I mean, but we have the dearest little cottage just down the road from our smial that we use for visitors, and I know that you and your father will find it ever so precious…"

Daisy thought she heard a snort next to her at that, but she did not dare look in her father's direction.

Fortunately, Mistress Bracegirdle's attention had suddenly shifted to the bride-to-be. "Oh, and isn't there another sister, dearest?" she called over the table in fluting tones toward May.

May gave a start, and looked about herself for a moment as if she had no idea why she would be sitting where she was. But then she smiled politely at Anston's mother and called out courteously, "Why, yes, Mother Bracegirdle, I have a younger sister as well, Marigold. She and her husband, Tom Cotton, would be seated at the next table," and she nodded in their direction.

"Why yes, I should have known that in an instant. And what a dear child she is too, so much like you, and with a fine husband already? Well, the wife can never be too young, that's what I always say, and with all the more time then for the children. You'll never know how heartbroken I was when we realized that our dear Anston would be our only child, but even though we…"

"Mother," Anston suddenly put in warningly, his attention snapping instantly from Lotho to his mother's prattling.

"Oh, goodness, listen to me," she giggled, clearly pleased to have caught her son's attention. "Now what was I… oh, yes. Your dear sister. Well there are two rooms in the cottage, so if you and your dear father don't mind sharing, there should be sufficient..."

"There's my brother, as well," Daisy added casually.

"Oh, now, see here," Lotho's nasal voice came suddenly from the other side of the table. "I realize that he's your brother and all, May," he turned to the couple next to him, "but really, Anston, you can't be seriously inviting Frodo Baggins' catamite to your wedding, now, can you?"

There was a sudden silence at the table and Daisy could feel her father turning next to her. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lotho," came his deep raspy voice, "but I'd not be understandin' what you just called my son."

Lotho gave an impatient gesture. "Well, I wouldn't think I'd have to spell it out, Mr. Gamgee, after all it certainly is common knowledge and I really haven't seen the two of them trying to hide it." Smiling graciously at Mistress Bracegirdle, he continued, "It wouldn't be right to your family, my dear cousin, to invite someone like that to such a wonderful occasion without knowing… Well, I think I've said enough."

The gaffer set his mug firmly down on the table at that. "If you won't be havin' me boy," and his voice, though low, was stern and commanding, "then you won't be havin' me, no ways."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Gamgee," Lotho laughed lightly, making a flourish with his pipe. "Surely such a respectable hobbit as yourself can't be approving of all this? It's a shame, really it is, but if he can ever get away from that so-called nephew of Mad Bilbo Baggins, he may grow out of it yet."

With dismay, Daisy recognized the reddening of her father's face and the square set of his shoulders. Quickly, she glanced at the next table to see if anyone had overheard the exchange, but it was immediately all too clear that they had. All eyes were on the center table and Sam was sitting stone still, all color draining from his face.

The gaffer rose to his feet with such authority that faces throughout the tent turned his way, and conversations died mid-sentence. "I've never cared a'that much for that name," he growled, glaring at Lotho, "an' most folks as'd be sittin' in here would know the truth, that you'd have to look that far to find a kinder and more generous gentle-hobbit than Mr. Bilbo. But what I'd really not be carin' much for, Lotho," and he spat out the name in contempt," is that you'd be sayin' aught about my son. He's taught me a lot about courage as o'late, and I couldn't be any prouder o'him. I'm that glad he'd be my son." He then turned to the stunned visitors, and made an awkward but courteous bow. "Sorry to be causin' you distress, ma'm. But there were some things as needed t'be said."

"May!" As in a dream, May Gamgee turned to Anston's hiss of shock. "May, your father, well, really. I have been very willing to overlook your background, very generous about that, I do think, but this behavior to my cousin, well…"

May rose at that and looked silently at those who surrounded her. Then she glanced over to her father, still on his feet and glaring defiantly. And then her eyes traveled over to Sam, sitting in shock at the other table, and it was on him her gaze rested when she finally spoke. "I, too, am very proud of my brother," she said quietly but firmly. Her eyes met Sam's as she continued, "He believes in what really matters. I don't think I've ever known anyone braver."

Graciously, she turned to Mistress Bracegirdle, who was watching the events in amazement. "I'm so sorry that you had to make this trip to Hobbiton. Please forgive me for that." She then held out her hand to Anston, who took it automatically, still stunned by what had just happened. "I tried, Anston, dear, I really did," she said softly, "but you'll be better off without me. And I will be rather better off without you."

The events of that year's Harvest Festival were discussed for quite awhile to come, at least until details of Folco Boffin's rather unusual arrangement with Lily Berrywort were revealed, but eventually Hobbiton life settled back into its customary patterns. Anston and his parents returned to East Farthing and were not seen again in the vicinity of Hobbiton, and both Sam and Frodo noticed that there was always a hobbit about ready, in fact, eager, to stand them a half-pint when they would visit the Green Dragon. Lotho Sackville-Baggins, however, no longer frequented that particular establishment.

The wooden trestle tables had been laid over the carpet of fallen leaves in the Cotton orchards and the apple harvest participants were just dragging the last overflowing bushel baskets to the cider press on that glorious crisp autumn afternoon a week after the Harvest Festival. Laughing and chatting with each other, the Gamgee and Cotton lasses spread the bounteous feast out, while Mother Cotton looked on with approval. Even May was present, visiting her family, since she had continued to live with the Burrows in Hobbiton, and her sisters secretly thought that she had been looking much happier as of late, and planned on investigating certain rumors as soon as practical. Tolman Cotton and the gaffer were, as was their custom, enjoying their pipes, and allowing the younger hobbits the opportunity to refine their bottling skills, with the benefit, of course, of their sage advice. The youngest lads, Nick and Nibs, were still amongst the trees, taking advantage of the chance to collect and hide away the remaining windfall apples for future use.

Finally the feast was spread, and Tolman Cotton and his wife sat together at the head of the table, as was only right. The gaffer sat at Tolman's side, and Frodo Baggins next to Lily Cotton. The rest of the Gamgee and Cotton offspring completed the party. It was a long and merry afternoon of feasting, to celebrate the apple crop made plentiful by the snows of the prior winter. There would be no shortage of apple pie, come winter, and the long row of waiting kegs attested to the abundant supply of cider that would be gleaned from the crop in the coming days.

One keg of sweet cider, however, had already been expressed, for it was unthinkable that the harvest would be celebrated without the toasts of thanks. Tolman and Lily Cotton raised their flasks first, deftly twined their arms together, and drained their cups as one. It was the age-old custom, and they had given thanks this way for many a year. "To health and love," they spoke together, with a warm smile to each other, "and blossom come spring."

A cheer rose from the table at that, and then all heads turned to Tom and Marigold Cotton, for this was the responsibility of every couple present. Blushing prettily, for this was their first toast together, Marigold carefully entwined her arm with Tom's and they carefully drank together. In hardly audible tones, and not a few giggles, they repeated the words of the toast, and the cheer was repeated.

It was then that Marigold turned, laughing, to her brother. "An' are we not forgetin' another pair?" she smiled impishly. Sam's eyes widened at that, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face, but the cry rang out and would not be denied. "Sam!", "Our Sam!" and "Mr. Frodo!" Sam turned to Frodo at that, but Frodo's eyes were dancing with pleasure and, with a warm smile, he murmured, " 'Twould be ill luck not to, Sam."

So they twined their arms as well and drank, repeating the ancient toast, "To health and love, and blossom come spring," and Sam laughed, feeling his heart as light as the crystal blue sky above.