2 September, 3017

The Old Gaffer had learned a thing or two in his time and one of those things was when to push and another was when to shove. And this was a time for both.

"Mr. Frodo asked you quite nicely, my lad, and you answered you was willin'. So don't you be changin' your mind at the last minute, like some lad as wasn't raised by me." Gaffer nodded towards the hat and jacket hanging from the door peg. "You put your things on and get up that path like you know what you're supposed to do. It's about time you was back up there anyways." He snorted and picked up the breakfast plates. "And don't let me see you back here for the rest of the day, Sam Gamgee!"

When confronted with that particular tone of voice, Sam knew there was no use in arguing. Slowly, without a single word, he pulled on jacket and hat and slipped out the door.

Now the old Gaffer might have been up in years, but he was nobody's fool. "Never saw any two people so bunched up in all my life." Dishes clattered among the soapsuds in the little washbasin. "Don't know as I see any better than other folks, but it's as plain as the nose on my face." He peered through the little window, watching Sam trudge slowly up the lane. "That old wizard may be a queer sort, but damned if he ain't right about this."

With a rusty chuckle, the old Gaffer rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands among the plates, cups and spoons. There was work to be done in his own garden and time was definitely wasting. Softly whistling a coloful old tune, he ran the scrubber over the first plate.

---

Everyone in Hobbiton knew exactly where Frodo Baggins lived. As a matter of fact, practically everyone for miles around could point the way to Bag End.

Once upon a time, this remarkable gentlehobbit had been considered the most eligible batchelor in all of the Shire. Indeed, all through his bewildering teens and far into his daring tweens, there were many who waited with keen anticipation to see where young Baggins would set his eye. Not even his adoption by old Bilbo could dissuade the older generation that he was meant for greater and more sensible things.

And in the early days, before Frodo quite knew how to express what he wished and to do what he wanted, it seemed that all of the hopes of his numerous and more distant relatives would come to pass. What with his (apparently) untold wealth, his outstanding appearance (rudely denied by the Sackville-Baggins), and his notions of friendly camaraderie ("Oh, he associates with all sorts, I'm told!"), Frodo Baggins should have quickly secured a round happy wife and a house full of children.

Or at the least, a suitable lad to share the rest of his life.

During the joyful and exhilarating time before his coming of age, even after he'd moved into Bad End, Frodo sought companionship with the large group of hobbits he'd grown up with in Brandy Hall: pretty lasses and cheerful lads, all eager for his company, his stories, his quiet good nature. (And in the case of one or two of the cruder sort, his generous pockets.) Frodo never doubted he would find someone to share the rest of his life with, someone to whom he would mean the Moon and the Stars.

Twice, he thought he'd fallen in love.

Hyacinth Took, old Adelard's youngest daughter, was as pretty a lass as could be found in the Shire. Frodo was so very sure that she returned his love, but she merely let him dance around her for three whole weeks before setting her eye on a young hobbit from out near Whitfurrows.

Frodo was only twenty-nine, but still, that was old enough to think his heart was broken.

With Roliman, everything seemed so simple and wonderful, for Roli was a quiet lad, prone to collecting old writings and producing his own journals of life in the Shire. But it so happened that Gandalf chose this time to pay one of his more loquacious visits to Bag End and it wasn't long before Frodo had to explain to a disdainful Roliman that the old wizard was as much a part of his life as anyone who shared his heart would be.

That good-bye was painful, for Frodo had grown used to the warmth of close companionship. But for all of his scholarly bent, Roliman Burrows could not see beyond the Shire in front of his nose.

And so it had eventually proven with the other young folk who might have made Frodo Baggins the happiest of hobbits. None of them ever understood his pleasure in the strange company that could often be found of an evening up The Hill. None of them was willing to see beyond their own noses, their own front gardens, their own ideas of who he was.

And as for Frodo himself, to be asked to give up Gandalf and dwarves and elves and even, perhaps, strange and wondrous adventures, was just not possible.

And so, in all too short a time, Frodo acquired as singular a reputation for oddity as his cousin Bilbo, which left the gossips with a great deal to discuss and himself bereft of suitors, male or female, from soon after he'd come of age until the present time.

As the days had passed and his own dreams had died, Frodo had eventually realized, before he'd ever reached his fortieth birthday, that he would be living the rest of his life alone at Bag End.

---

The sharp-edged shadows from the morning sun were just coming clear as Sam slipped off his old bag of a hat, stepped up to the front door of Bag End and knocked.

"Maybe he won't be home, maybe he's gone walking somewhere." Sam ran shaky fingers through his hair, one part of him wishing very hard to be somewhere else and the other still wishing he might yet be asked to stay at Bag End forever. "Perhaps he's down the cellar or back in the pantry and won't hear me. I could just tell Dad nobody answered." He stared at the door, so round and green and beautiful. He'd painted it himself not four months ago, putting much of his heart and soul into it. "Guess I'd best move on, see who else might need..."

But the round green door opened wide and Frodo stepped out from the dim light of the hall.

"Good morning, Sam." Blinking wearily, Frodo leaned his shoulder against the edge of the door. The morning air felt icy against his hot skin and he was dizzy, but perhaps that was just because his heart was whirling around in his chest like a leaf blown in the stiff Autumn breeze. "Thank you for coming."

Sam opened his mouth, tried to say something, anything... and felt his eyes fill. In despair, he turned his face toward the garden, toward the green growing things that spoke to him with love and gratitude. Not now, he wasn't going to cry, not here, not now.

"Sam?" Frodo's breath caught. "Is this a bad time? Were you needed elsewhere today?" The bile crawling up the back of his throat threatened to gag him. "Please don't feel you need to stay, if someone's expecting you..." Damn. He was babbling, but the words just came, willy nilly.

Sam shook his head. "No, sir. Nobody's..." His fingers jerked, almost losing the hat. "Nobody's waiting for me." Stepping quickly back off the stoop, Sam drew a sharp, deep breath before looking up, the old hat clenched tight again in his fingers. "I'll just get the clippers and set to work, if that's all right with you?"

Frodo stood frozen, blind panic filling his mind, freezing his tongue and his breath. But there was noplace to run.

"Frodo?" Sam was dead certain his old Dad had been wrong to make him come. But here he was and he would do his job. And then, sure as Old Gnarl's fancy privy needed propping, he would take that path home and promise himself never to set foot here again.

"Frodo!" Rougher than he'd meant, but that wasn't to be helped now.

"Yes." Frodo lowered his eyes and shivered as the heat race through his body. His throat was almost too tight to speak. "Yes, Sam. You go on, take care of things, like you've always done. I'll just see about... I think I need... I don't think I've had breakfast yet." With his eyes locked on his feet, Frodo heard Sam walk up the side path toward the little tool shed at the back of the garden. But he didn't need to look anywhere to see that face, the lines and planes of it, the sun-browned tan under the thatch of curly hair, the clear brown eyes - it was seared in his memory. And, quite suddenly, Frodo understood just how beautiful Sam was, how beautiful he'd always been. But it was too late now...

"Sam." The word was barely a whisper, snatched away by the wind. Heartsick and shaking, Frodo lowered himself to sit on the edge of the step, wrapping both arms around his chest. All around him, the air rang with cheerful birdsong. Perhaps he would listen for just a while and then see about breakfast.

Sam almost ran in his hurry to get away before the tears fell, but he was back in control by the time he reached the tool shed. The weathered old door creaked a little as Sam entered the musty warmth and for long moments, he simply stood there, looking around at the familiar tools, the shelves filled with the clutter collected over so many years. Brushing the fresh tears from his cheeks, he crossed to the back corner where a little shelf leaned at an angle against the wall.

"It seems I've need of you, old friends." Picking up the clippers and a roll of twine, Sam looked around, throat tight. "I've need of all of you, but I'll not see you again after today. Your old Sam's going to leave and not come back, so you've just..." He shut his eyes a moment, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "You've just got to remember to work your best for whoever comes after me. That's just the way it is." Clutching the clippers to his chest, Sam headed for the door.

From his seat on the step, Frodo watched as Sam set up the guides and began working his way down the hedge, his movements slow and thorough. And the sun rose ever higher in a sky of brightest blue, but still Frodo sat, breakfast forgotten, listening to the sharp, clean sound of the clippers, the crack and swish of the twigs and branches as they fell to the ground, ready for binding and carting away. And as he sat, something pushed at Frodo's memory, something that begged to be heard, if he cared to listen.

Frodo smiled a little, but it was bitter. Images of years gone by filled the darkness in his head, images of his youth, his simple joys, his first loves, his carelessly given heart. He'd shut those voices out long ago, afraid to listen, afraid to remember the empty words, the silly excuses, the meaningless reasons.

Was it just yesterday he'd stood here with Gandalf? He of the meddling ways, the pushing and prying words, the nosy questions - certainly just like a wizard.

Frodo looked once more across the little yard and his eyes met Sam's for a fraction of a second, but it was enough and the sound of Gandalf's words rang suddenly clear in Frodo's memory: "... look around you. Must we walk Bag End inside and out and observe the rest? Love is shouting at you from all sides. Open up your heart and listen to it."

Damn all meddling wizards. Very well, it was a waste of time but because he had nothing better to do with the rest of his life, Frodo shut his eyes...and listened.

He listened for a long, long time: to the wind sighing through the late crops and the nearby trees, to the bright song of tiny birds, to the cascading thrums of a myriad insects buried in the bushes and grass all around. It was nothing new, these were sounds he'd heard every day he'd lived at Bag End. Common and loved, yes, but surely Gandalf hadn't meant these things.

So once more, he listened, long enough for the sun to reach noon, and then, in spite of himself and perhaps because the guard around his heart had grown weary, Frodo heard something different. Yet, familiar. And what he heard was silence, loud and deep and clear. And it was all around him.

Despite the birds, the wind, the insects, it was far too quiet. Closing his eyes, he remembered how it used to be. The Sam he loved always whistled as he worked. There were even days when he'd fling snatches of songs at whatever chore he was busy with, his voice clear as a bell, ringing sweet in the clean air. And when he wasn't whistling or singing, he'd talk to the grass, the shrubs, the weeds, even the door and shutters when he painted and the woodwork inside when he polished and the kitchen things when he...

The sound of the clippers was sharp and white in the distance. But deep inside and all around him, Frodo heard the silence, loud and clear. Head bowed, he shut his eyes tight around the sudden hope rising in his breast, the hope that he was hearing right. But it was almost too much; he could hardly breathe. Heart lurching, he looked back at Sam, hearing again the silence: of emptiness, of abandonment. The silence of a wizard's insistent warning.

Dear Sam. Was it all done out of love?

Frodo stood up slowly and with wide, heavy eyes took in everything he saw, from the garden, to the path, to the big house behind him snugged deeply into The Hill. And trembling with fear and hope, he made a decision.

When Sam saw Frodo go inside, it was almost a relief, yet the rest of the day still passed in a dim haze. And without the twine to guide his clippers, the hedge would have been ruined. His hands shook with the need to dash madly into Bag End, fall to his knees and beg the answers he so desperately needed.

So the job that should have taken an hour or two at most took Sam well into the afternoon and the sun was going down before the last load of clippings was dumped, the tools were put away and it was time to leave. It was a weary, miserable hobbit that trudged up the path and knocked once more on the open front door.

"Come in, Sam. I'm in the kitchen."

Brushing the last of the leaves from his trousers, Sam crossed the hall, jacket and cap in hand, to stop just inside the kitchen door. Frodo sat at the table, looking down at one of Bilbo's old teacups resting between his hands. Sam tried to memorize his face. "Everything's put away the way you like. I've put the leavin's in the burn pile out back. So, unless you need... If that's all, I'll just be goin' home now."


"Sam, wait." Frodo put down the cup and sat back in his chair, rubbing his palms against his thighs. Oh, what if he was wrong? Suppose he'd been listening to all the wrong things? Suppose Sam didn't really... No, he would trust the old wizard. Clasping his fingers together, he placed then carefully on the table. "I've been thinking about taking a rather long hike, out into the West Farthing, before the cold sets in..." Gandalf seemed to look across the miles, straight into his eyes. "...and I'd like some company, if you'd care to come along?"

Sam blinked, waited for his vision to clear. The surge of heat flushing through his body left him suddenly trembling; he pressed a palm against the doorjamb to steady himself. "Yes." He clenched his teeth hard to stop the chattering. "Yes, Frodo, I'd like that." And even though it was surely wrong, Sam felt a little thrill. "I'd like that real well. When are you wishin' to go?"

"Tomorrow, as early as possible." Frodo was proud of himself - his voice only trembled a little. "Can you be ready an hour past dawn?"

Sam nodded, one hand still gripping the edge of the door. "I'm always up before dawn. I'll be ready."

Frodo turned his head carefully to look at the young hobbit standing in the doorway, filling his heart. "Then I'll see you tomorrow morning. Sleep well, Sam."

Sam nodded again, pulled his hand from the door, and turned back up the hall to the path and home.

Back in the kitchen, the lamp was almost out before Frodo finally rose from the table to see to his own pack. And although he was so tired he ached, it was long before he could sleep and longer still before, waking suddenly in the deep of the night, he realized that Sam had not once said Mr. Frodo.

---

The West Farthing stretched a good twenty-four leagues, more or less, from the North Farthing Stone to its outer border, but Frodo meant to angle a bit north of west and catch the road that trailed to the village of Little Delving. From there, he planned to head for Nobottle and Needlehole, before turning back southwards through Bindbale Wood. At this time of year, the trees of Bindbale often wore the most spectacular finery in the North Farthing.

Frodo shifted his pack a little higher. He'd not slept well, knowing that the days ahead might prove the mistake of his decision. And he was frightened, but it was far past time to take care of this. Foolish, he'd often been called and foolish now, he might just well be.

And here came Sam, marching up the lane from Bagshot Row. The bulging pack set high on his shoulders teetered a little as he turned at the corner and Frodo had to smile. A part of him still wanted to run away, but Gandalf's face had haunted his dreams last night, the glint in the old wizard's eyes all but demanding that Frodo see this story to the end. Frodo briefly closed his eyes. May your beard fall out overnight if you're wrong, my friend.

It was time.

"Good morning, Sam."

Sam puffed out his breath, swaying a little under the weight of his pack. "Mornin'." His grin was brief, but sincere. "Bit chilly." With the ease of long practice, he bit back the rest of what he'd like to say: How far away are we going, I can't stand this any more, you look so tired, I love you. No doubt that would put a right crimp in things.

For just an instant, Frodo felt a wild urge to push Sam's pack off his shoulders, grab his hands and explain how easily two could live as one in the huge expanse that was Bag End. But that would surely send this gentle young hobbit racing back the way he'd come, with some wild story of an old hobbit's advances. Frodo shook his head - what a tale that would make and not just for months, but for years. Stifling the bitter laugh deep in his throat, he forced a smile. "Well then, if you're all set, let's be off."

Sam nodded and fell in step behind Frodo as they took the path round the side of Bag End.

The air was crisp with the early morning chill and their breath puffed in little clouds as they made their way down the western side of The Hill and down the cart path, passing the Harvest Barn on their left before jumping the first hedge. It seemed not a soul but themselves was stirring for miles around.

They crossed the The Water by an old stone footbridge and with the sun rising at their backs, set a steady pace toward the nearest of the Downs. The sun had risen high enough to tease up a low layer of mist, which rose around their feet like earth-hugging clouds.

Before long, Frodo was caught up in the pleasure of setting out on the first day of a good long hike and memories of the times spent with Bilbo, gallivanting all over the Shire, rose in his head. And he could just picture a young Sam, no bigger than a pony colt, hopping along behind them, chanting an old walking rhyme no doubt passed on by the Gaffer. Frodo concentrated, trying to remember the words...

Over the fields, skipping I go. Never you mind the rake and the hoe. One and eleven and seven and ten. Out to the Mark and then back home again.

Frodo gave a start and caught himself before he tripped. No wonder the words came so clear: behind him, Sam was chanting under his breath, the battered little teapot high on his pack clattering in time with his steps.

The had tramped on past two hedges, a small stream and half a hay field before he realized he was whistling.


By midmorning, they'd passed through the last of the fields and the nearest of the Downs was in sight. With the sky a deep blue canopy above them, they stopped to remove caps and jackets and rest for few minutes under the spreading limbs of a small group of oaks. Clearing a spot in the thick layer of leaves and acorns, Frodo sat with his arms around his knees and breathed the fresh, cool air. Not more than a handful of words had passed between he and Sam since leaving Bag End, but this silence now seemed more familiar than uncomfortable and strangest of all, deep inside, where once he'd felt the coldest, a little warmth had begun to spread.

They didn't stop long and by midmorning were on their way again. And this time, from right behind Frodo came the soft humming of one of Bilbo's old marching songs.

With the sun just past noon, they met the road to Little Delving and stopped for lunch near the top of the highest of the Downs near the road. The air was so clear that Sam thought he could have seen all the way to the eastern edge of the Shire, if he could just go high enough. Gasping a little, he dropped his pack and turned to face Frodo. A question had been on the tip of his tongue all morning and now was as good a time as any. "Do you think we'll see Elves, like Mr. Bilbo used to tell about?"

Frodo stood facing into the wind, his eyes to the West, where the sea lay. There was something in the air, some tantalizing scent from off the faraway Downs that seemed to stir his heart. "I don't know, Sam. I wish I could say yes." He put the wind to his back and smiled. "But there's always a chance." Sam nodded and they sat down to share lunch on the top of the hill, settled once more into the familiar silence.


As the afternoon passed and their journey took them ever farther from Bag End, Sam felt his heart grow lighter and the cobwebs cleared away from his brain. It was good to get away, good to be tramping the hills and paths again. Good to be alone with Frodo, like they used to be. Of course, that was why he felt better, he knew that, the way he knew that going home would be so hard. But that was for another day and for now, he would pretend that nothing had ever gone wrong and that they had all the time in the world.

An hour before sunset, they set up camp not far from the road in a large, dense copse of ancient trees whose rough gnarly trunks bore the appearance of ragged old trolls. There was even a gentle hollow to sleep in, filled with the fragrant dried leaves of many long seasons. Frodo set out the cold chicken and Sam soon had a small fire going, with the little kettle of water tucked close to the side for tea. Before long, the air was filled with the aroma of toasted current bread and roasting potatoes. Walking miles and miles is guaranteed to produce an amazing appetite in all but the most unusual of hobbits and so they took their time, savoring every bite and topping it all off with crisp red apples from a small bag pulled like magic out of Sam's pack.

The sun was sinking behind the tops of the far hills when they had packed everything up, ready for an early start in the morning. Frodo sat with his back against the gnarliest of the oaks, eyes closed, thinking of little but how tired he was. They should turn in soon and there was still wood to gather. "Sam?" Sitting up, Frodo looked around through the trees. Sam was not in sight.

Frodo stood and strolled to the edge of the copse, looking out at the bare hills all around. "Sam?" The silence of evening had crept into their campsite and it was only moments before he realized he could hear Sam's voice. Listening carefully, he followed the sound.

Some way off from the camp stood a huge lone fir, stately in it's grandeur, and there Sam had made his way. He'd had to go off, be by himself for a while. There was no way he could sleep yet, not that close to Frodo, and it was to this grand old tree that he turned for comfort. The sweet scent of the heavy branches was a balm to his heart. With a sigh, he opened his arms wide and hugged the huge trunk, his cheek pressed close against the rough bark.

"You're a fine old tree, you are. And I reckon you've been up here in these hills for some time and maybe you know a bit about life. Leastways, a lot more than I do." He turned his back to the tree and slid down to sit with his legs stretched in front of him, head back against the friendly trunk. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply of the wonderful scent that surrounded him. It seemed to ease the tightness around his heart.

"My old Dad says to me, it's high time I got married or leastways settled on the lad I'd like to spend my life with, only I hadn't given him hide nor hair of an idea who I'd be wantin', whether lad nor lass, stick nor stone. Unless it was that Mr. Baggins." Sam looked up into the waving branches. "That's what he said and how could I give him an answer? Me that's given my heart to him that don't want it." His throat squeezed shut and for a moment, he could hardly breathe.

"I learned a long time ago that there's things you can see, things you can touch with your hands, and all of them so real your heart could sing and dance. Only, one day, you find out you're just as wrong as you could be. And you can't touch. And you can't sing..."

The tears had started and Sam didn't care anymore. "Do you know, all these years I've been lettin' my eyes swallow him down in great big gulps. He's got the finest chin of any Baggins, Brandybuck or Took I ever saw and if you could see the color of his hair in the sun..." Sam looked up again, smiling a little. "...why, I think even you'd be jealous.

"And now just look at me, a fool twice over for comin' out here with him, in all this great wide space just full of him and me, and nowhere for a foolish lad to hide his face. Or his tears."

Sam drew his legs up and rested his head on his knees. "I'll let you in on a secret that's even more foolish, if you can believe it. Do you know, before Frodo sent me away, I thought I might try to be happy, livin' the rest of my life right down the path from that big green door. I could step behind it now and then, and dream of what it would be like to shut it from the inside, because I was home." Sam sat back against the tree and closed his eyes. "But I was stupid to think it and Frodo must have known, for why else did he send me away? And from the one place I so wish to be?"

Sam could hardly speak and the tears streamed freely down his face. "I'm just a fool, dreamin' a foolish dream."

Frodo stood as still as only a hobbit could, heart beating painfully in his chest. The last of the sunlight filtering through the branches of the great fir highlighted everything that was beautiful in Sam's face. With a soft cry, Frodo burst into the green sanctuary and staggered to a stop.

"Sam?"

Heart pounding, Sam jumped to his feet and stared.

"Sam?"

For agonizing seconds, Sam stood there, rooted to the spot, his chest grown too tight to breathe. If Frodo had heard everything, then this was the end. Clasping his fingers together behind his back, Sam desperately tried to stop shaking. He groaned silently - all the eggs were dumped in one pan now and they'd either fry or scramble, see if they didn't.

"Sam, what did you...?"

Sam shut his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "I'm thinkin' you heard all I said. About how I feel... about you..."

"Sam."

"No, please. I hadn't ever thought to tell you, that's right enough. Here you are, a grand gentlehobbit and all. And me, just Old Gaffer's youngest." The little smile came and went quickly through the tears streaming down Sam's cheeks. "There's folks would feel a great deal obliged to point out the folly in me even thinkin' twice about...about sayin' I love you ."

The wind stilled in the branches of the old fir long enough for the setting sun to cast its glow on the tear-streaked face.

Frodo smiled. "Sam, may I say something?"

Unlocking his fingers, Sam brushed the flood of tears from his cheeks and cleared his throat. There was a great hill pushing up through his chest and it hurt to swallow. "I'll just...I'll just stay out of your way."

"No." The word was firm, but so soft that Sam almost didn't hear it. "No, Sam..." Frodo was still smiling. "My dear Sam. Yes. I heard everything you said."

Moving a closer, Frodo lifted one finger to catch a tear rolling down Sam's stricken face. "Gandalf was right. I've misunderstood so much. Oh, if only..." Frodo was shaking and the words came tumbling out of his mouth. "Sometime, somehow, you became as important to me as breathing, as important as my own life. You've woven a spell upon me, my dear Sam, a spell of such brightness and wonder, that I can no more think of living without you than I can of moving in with Otho and Lobelia. Oh, Sam." The laughter building in his chest felt wonderful. "I love you. I have loved you for a very long time."

Frodo moved one step closer and slid one hand into Sam's.

"I know now why the fire seemed to grow dim after you'd left the room, why the sun was so very much brighter when I could hear you whistling in the garden or talking to your favorite shrubs." And now he did laugh. The look on Sam's face was delightful. "Oh, yes. I've heard you many times, my friend. I kept expecting you to name them all. Do you hear me, Sam? I love you. Or shall I be more specific?" Frodo took hold of Sam's other hand and squeezed. "I. Love. You."


Sam wondered first if he was paralyzed. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or faint dead away. "You love me? Me? Your old Sam?" A shiver ran down his body, from head to foot.

"Yes, you great foolish hobbit. Yes." Frodo could taste his own tears.

"Well, then," Sam whispered, "I guess I have somethin' to say to you, as well, now don't I?" And he leaned in so close, Frodo could taste the sweet scent of his breath. "I love you so much, it nearly broke my heart." He pressed his forehead gently against Frodo's and smiled.

A flash like a giant firework swept through Frodo and if Sam hadn't grabbed his arms, he would have fallen to his knees. Shaking like an autumn leaf, he pulled Sam as close as he could and then they were both crying and laughing, holding each other up under the swaying branches of the sweet-scented fir.

Sam could have cried until sunup. With his arms full of Frodo, he stood and rocked and ached and waited as the last of the thick, sour coating around his heart cracked and melted away. "Oh, I never thought to see this day. I never did."

Frodo was beyond speech.

It was full dark and the moon was showing her face from behind the downs when Frodo drew Sam back to the snug hollow of the camp. "Do you remember that part about shutting the big green door behind you?" Sam blushed and nodded. "Well, it seems I have nothing more important to do and you have nowhere else you want to be. And I want you to stay, if you wish it, my dearest Sam, and live at Bag End, with me."

Sam's heart shone in his eyes. "Oh, that's what I'd most like to do." He blinked and a slow smile lit his face. "And when it comes time, I'd like just as well to lay with you, for maybe I could say things better that way and not stumble over words that seem to think my teeth ain't nothin' but fences."

Frodo's laugh rang through the trees and he placed one soft kiss on Sam's forehead, one on each cheek, and finally, one against his lips. Then he sat back and watched Sam blush around a smile that should have split his jaw.

Frodo felt so tired, he could hardly keep his eyes open, but there was one more thing he had to say. "Sam, will you share my blankets, now and forever, in feast or in famine, through adventures and Sackville-Baggins, through wrinkled old age and beyond?"

Sam fell forward with a breathless laugh and buried his face in Frodo's chest. "Yes! Yes, I will, forever and forever."

"Well, then, my dearest of hobbits, we shall spend our first night together under these sheltering trees and our bed shall be no less than this pile of fragrant leaves." Hugging Sam close with one hand, he reached for their blankets. "Mind you, you're only safe from me tonight..."

Shaking with laughter, relief and joy, they wrapped themselves up in all of the blankets, tucked as close together as they could get and, long before sleep came, words and warmth and kisses were shared, as well as the rest of the tears that had waited so long for release.

For now, it was more than enough.