Sam knew it was easy to lie to oneself. If you live with a lie long enough, it becomes a personal truth. He figured that was what he'd been doing all those many years in Mr. Frodo's garden.

There were many reasons, true and untrue, that explained why he looked not further than Bag End for friendship and comfort, why that bright green door seemed preferable to any other place. The reasons had little to do with love and more to do with things more easily explained to self and others.

It was hard work to keep up the gardens and that was why he'd begun to stay so often at Bag End, not going down to the Inn for a beer after work, because, well, it was tiring labor. It was easier to let Mr. Frodo sit him down and serve him tea, and even beer, while they let the evening deeper and quiet steal over them. That was the beginning of the lie.

It was only natural that he should continue his reading and learning with the nephew, which had begun with Mr. Bilbo. He spent long hours listening to Mr. Frodo's soft voice recite the latest bit of writing, or help with researching this or that bit of information.

He was shy with strangers, and yes that was true, and doubly shy with girls, which was truer. He was easier in other company, or among his plants than with people who expected things of him. Mr. Frodo was always so free and easy, never asking for too much, always that same quiet presence that loved the gardens just as much as Sam, who didn't think him strange for wanting to walk under the stars or speak of old stories.

He supposed he never did lie to himself, in one regard; he had always loved Mr. Frodo, ever since the older hobbit had come up the Hill to live with his uncle. Sam remembered thinking there was an Elf-child at the gate; even as a child he has loved Mr. Bilbo's stories, and there was this older hobbit, in his tweens, but slender and nimble-footed, with great blue eyes and a gentle smile, too handsome, smooth and perfect to be a REAL hobbit. Childish fancies aside, he had loved Mr. Frodo, despite his strangeness, or maybe because of it. He had never deluded himself about that.

But he had told himself the greatest lie of all when he qualified that love as a servant for his master, or a friend to a friend, although humility and reality informed him that it was not the friendship of equals.

He had been living with this lie for so long, that it was a shock one day when he realized that he was the only one who truly believed it anymore.

It was a frosty winter afternoon and he had finished chopping wood for the fire, both for Bag End and his father's hole, when his dad called him in and sat him down at the table. "Look here, Samwise Gamgee," the gaffer began. "It's time ye start settling in. Winter's the time all the hobbits are courting; the harvest was mighty generous and we're wading through taters and ale. There's a maid waiting on ye, and ye're shuffling yer feet!"

Sam knew which maid this was, and he scratched his head, trying to think on why it was he had no energy for courting. Dad was right; there was little to be done until the spring. Finally he admitted: "I'm not for it, Dad. I don't know why."

"Don't ye?" Piercing eyes studied him. "Don't ye, now? Well, half o' Hobbiton knows why ye're not courting Rose Cotton, boy. Own up to it, Samwise, it's time you settled on him, or find someone else."

With that, the gaffer hobbled to his bed, muttering about the slow ways of some young hobbits. Sam sat a while staring into the fire. He knew exactly who the "him" was but was shocked that his dad had come to such a strange conclusion. Half of Hobbiton? That was definitely an exaggeration!

By and by, he put on his coat and muffler and went to fetch the cart. One way or another, Bag End was where he needed to go.

Mr. Frodo was waiting for him, or leastways for the firewood, and let him in, directing him to the nearly empty bin.

"Later than usual, Sam," he said in that soft voice, that even when it criticized seemed to be so kind. "A long dinner, was it?"

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo. Dad had a few words and I had a long think on them. Should I put the rest at the side door?"

"Certainly." He did not ask the subject of the Gamgees' conversation; as always he was polite in regards to private matters, which could not be said for half of Hobbiton, apparently. "Care for a beer, Sam? And there are cakes brought up from Bywater."

"That's good of you, Mr. Frodo." He'd had the best meals at Bag End than anywhere in the Shire, and served to him in such an offhand manner as to make him feel more like family than a guest or servant.

He supposed there'd be an end to that, one way or the other.

When he came back in, Frodo was setting the table, a bottle of wine for himself and a tankard of beer for Sam who preferred hops to grapes. There were cakes, cheese, and some candied fruits on the board. There were lamps and candles lit, and Sam found himself marveling how Frodo could be years his senior and still be so young, so beautiful, and entirely unaware of it, golden in the candle's glow.

"And how have you been keeping, Mr. Frodo?" he asked as he sat. "Not too cold for you?"

"You know me. I never remember to keep the fire up unless you're here to remind me. I'll be so deep in a book that I lose track of breakfasts and tea, then I come to and I'm cold and hungry. All my fault entirely, but I miss you in the garden, reminding me of the time, Sam."

He didn't answer and took a gulp of beer instead. He ate the cakes but he did not taste them, aware of Frodo watching him. Not much got by Mr. Frodo.

"Looks like you've got something on your mind," Frodo said at last.

"Yes, sir, begging your pardon. I might as well come clean with you about it."

"Ah?" Those blue eyes held no expectation, only kindly regard.

"Well Dad's of the mind that I get to courting, since I'm not getting any younger and there's little work this time of year."

Frodo sipped his wine, silent.

"The thing is, sir, there's no girl I want to be courting."

The master of Bag End put his cup down, regarding it thoughtfully. "But, Sam, what of Rosie Cotton? There's not a prettier girl, and she's sweet on you."

"Well, sir, not to insult her, but Rosie's not the one for me. I know she's sweet on me, or leastways sweet on my position here as gardener and the stability it gives, but well, she's not into books much, sir, nor her letters. She can't do more than write her name, and she doesn't want more than that. I don't see spending my life with a girl like that."

He had Frodo's attention now. There was a curious sort of painful expression stealing across his master's face. "Oh, Sam, forgive me," he said. "You may lay the fault of that at my door entirely, mine and Bilbo's."

"Oh, no sir. I liked Mr. Bilbo's stories of my own accord, and wanted to learn because it pleased me. But, well, and here's where I'm confused, Mr. Frodo, you and my dad lay the blame the same, but not for the same reasons."

"How so?"

"Well, sir, he says half of Hobbiton knows why I'm not courting Rosie, and the expectation is that it's because I've settled elsewhere and not owning up to it."

Frodo blinked. Then he did a curious thing. He stood and paced over to the fireplace, crossing and tucking his hands against his sides, head bent. It was not the common thing for Frodo to do in the middle of conversation and food, and Sam stood up as well, confused.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"Well, Sam," said the master, not turning his head. "Is it true, then?"

"I suppose it is, sir, though I didn't know it until today. I had a long think on it, as I said, and I've figured it out a bit, but it's still so confusing."

No answer. Now Sam was concerned. "Mr. Frodo, is anything the matter? Don't you feel well?"

"I suppose I don't, Sam," and the voice was hushed, as if breathless. "Please excuse me." Ducking, Frodo turned and left for the backrooms, never once showing Sam his face.

Sam found himself sitting somewhat abruptly, mouth open in shock. Never in a thousand years would he think Mr. Frodo would leave him in the middle of such a conversation! He had no allusions. Frodo was not at all ill.

He let himself out, heart heavy, and walked down Bagshot Row. Coming to his door, he could not bring himself to go in, and finally turned back and made his way down into the village. All the while, his thoughts spun around, never quite resting long enough to let him think. Why, was as the primary question. Why had Frodo acted so strangely?

Of course that answer was as clear as it was painful. Frodo must have known Sam was about to declare himself, and fled. Frodo didn't, after all, feel the same. Sam was only a gardener, and not as handsome or accomplished to earn the love of such a gentlehobbit as Mr. Frodo.

He had more than half a mind to find the nearest alehouse and drown himself in it, but as he passed into the lane, he found his aching heart hardening. It wasn't quite anger; it was heartbreak so deep he could not abide it, resenting it and hating every place that contained a memory of Frodo's face, his kind laughter, or the touch of his hand. He found himself crying silently, for the first time in a long while, because he knew there was no escaping it. He'd work that garden for the rest of his life, but he dare not enter Bag End again.

He finally wended his way home, crept in silent into his bed. The next day was rest day, and he meant to sleep in and let the world pass him by, but he could not sleep and lay, open eyed and chest aching until dawn when he finally drifted off.

He therefore missed Frodo's visit in the afternoon, but by dusk his dad had had enough. "Mr. Frodo came by to say sorry, Samwise," he scolded. "Sorry for what, I asks him, but he doesn't say, only shrugs. What went on last night? Have you shamed us, Son?"

"Oh, Dad, nothing was done. Nothing was said. He wouldn't let me say it."

There was a long silence, then the gaffer nodded. "Well then, Son, I guess you deserve your rest. I'm sorry, too."

He dreaded the next day, and almost talked himself into being sick, but one hard glance from his dad got him out the door and up the hill. He got out the ax and finished up the firewood for the week, piled it properly outside and breathed a sigh when the door never opened, although he thought he saw a curtain twitch aside while he was chopping.

He tended his own garden and his dad's stiffening joints for the rest of the week, taking ale down in the village, or going out to smoke at his own door. There was no word from Bag End.

The second week he went up to do the chopping and felt his stomach drop as he heard the door open behind him. He slowly put the axe down and turned, thinking to bow his head and get back to work, but his eyes fell on his master's face, and all thoughts flew away.

Frodo looked unhealthily pale, unearthly pale. He had bundled up to step outside, and the gray light through the cloudy skies made of him a ghost, even to his lips. His eyes were huge and dull.

"Hello, Sam."

"Mr. Frodo." Sam did not look him in the eyes; he dared not.

"Will you be wanting some cider? It's very cold."

"No thank you, Mr. Frodo. My dad's not feeling so well with the weather and all, so I need to be with him."

"I'll send down some ointment for him, then."

"That's kind of you sir, but he'd think it charity."

Silence. Then finally Frodo said, "I see," in such a soft voice that Sam could barely hear. "Sorry to take up your time, then."

There was such a lump in his throat, he could not speak. He bowed his head instead, and set back to chopping, listening for the footsteps and the door before wiping at his eyes.

Mr. Frodo was unfailingly kind, and the offers of food, drink and hospitality continued for a month before they stopped altogether, shattered on Sam's unending refusals and coolness. He had recovered some of his color back, and Sam let that assure him that he needn't worry for Mr. Frodo's health.

On his side, he was losing weight fast, his stomach clenching when it was time to eat. He missed Frodo dreadfully, and it was taking its toll. Nothing seemed to cheer him, and reading always brought him to tears before the end. Finally, there was just work and his dad, and maybe a trip to the pub once in a while in an attempt to be social.

But it was all empty, and he knew why.

Things might have progressed in this way but for a pair of visitors from Buckland, who rode their ponies up to Bag End. The gaffer saw them pass, and over dinner Sam learned the Merry and Pippin were visiting. He felt some happiness for Mr. Frodo to have his friends near, and thought no more on it until a few days later when he went up again to chop firewood and clean up the garden, making sure the beds were clear for spring. He was not an hour at it when Pippin came out the door.

"Hullo, Sam!" he cried. "Won't you come inside? We're having a regular feast with everything we've brought up from Buckland."

"Sorry, no sir, I have to keep on at this."

Pippin's eyebrows went up. "Really, now? And not even time to talk with Frodo or us? We expected to see you sooner at any rate, but I hear you're busy in other quarters these days."

"My dad's not feeling so well, true, Mr. Pippin." Sam's heavy expression seemed to surprise Pippin.

"Is it as bad as all that? But I heard you're out courting, but I can hardly believe it. Who's the lucky girl?"

Sam stared back at him, perplexed. "None that I know of, Sir. I think your sources are wrong, whoever they are."

"Frodo's wrong? That's bizarre. He seemed quite sure you must have been spending your time doing something of that nature. He said you'd told him you found someone, or something like it. Ah, well! If you're busy...still we'll insist soon, Sam. You're too long at work, and looking far too thin."

But Sam was staring so hard at Pippin that the other stopped and asked; "Why such the strange look?"

"Sir, I think Mr. Frodo is playing with you. He knows I'm not courting Rosie Cotton."

"Oh, Sam, don't pay us much mind; I'm sure I got my facts wrong. Anyway, he said it was someone else other than Rose, though we had to drag it out of him. He's not much of a talker these days. Do come by tomorrow, though, or we might have to drag you up the Hill."

Sam watched him as he went back through the door, waving before he shut it, and still it made not sense. Frodo wasn't one for exaggeration, so why would he tell his best friends a deliberate lie? Frodo knew very well that...

He couldn't remember exactly how he'd said it, but he thought he'd been clear enough, but now as he recalled, Frodo had never let him finish. What had Frodo really understood? He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

A message came down from the Hill that evening, so the next day he got out his best weskit and coat and reluctantly trudged up the hill. Merry met him at the door and threw an arm over his shoulders.

"Now we really are intrigued," he said. "I was sure it was Rosie Cotton or no one."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather not rehash it all."

"Sam," Merry said into his ear, stopping him from entering further. "What's with you and Frodo? It seems you never come around anymore. It's obvious he misses you although he keeps saying it's for the best, that you're getting pressure to settle in and choose a girl."

"I'd rather not, Mr. Merry," Sam said quietly, further mystified. "We've had a falling out is all, and I've other things to take up my time. Bag End isn't the world."

"No indeed it is not," the Bucklander said, a question in his tone. "Though once you might have said it was all the mattered."


The painful reminder was almost a physical jolt and he breathed in to suppress it. "Well, one grows up, Mr. Merry."

"Sadly," Merry said, and dropped the subject, taking him into the dining room. "Here's our missing fourth! Have we got everything on the table?"

Pippin laughed. "Indeed. Frodo! Sam's here!"

Out from the back came Mr. Frodo. He nodded politely to Sam, his hands in his pockets, and took the head of the table while the others settled in. With some misgivings Sam found himself on his right.

"You're both too thin," Merry said as they began to pass the bread and butter around. "I can understand it in you, Frodo, because everyone knows you forget to eat, though I can't imagine. But you, Sam! I know your dad keeps a bountiful table and believes the only hobbit is a fat one."

"Dad's feeling the winter these days, and not much in for cooking. I keep him fed but haven't much appetite for my own."

"Hm." Merry looked from Frodo to Sam, then back to Frodo again. The look of calculation made Sam's heart race. "Well, the reason we've brought you here, Sam, is that Pippin and I have some rather good news."

Frodo dropped his fork with a clatter. Sam forgot himself and stared, then looked away. The master looked upset, almost angry. "I thought Pippin already told him the other day."

"Oh, with this and that, it slipped my mind," Pippin said cheerfully. "I was too busy grilling Sam about his woefully lacking lovelife to promote my own."

Sam put down his own fork, now certain of the news. "Ah," he said. "Are you two...?"

"Yes, finally! I had to follow him around begging and pleading..."

"It was pitiful," Merry interjected with a sly grin.

".. .but I finally got Merry to say yes," Pippin exclaimed. "We'll be exchanging rings in the spring."

Sam nodded and tried to smile, but he was sure it looked strangely forced. "Congratulations! How are the families taking it?"

"It was a hard haul at first," Merry said. "They were hoping for little hobbits on both sides, but we both have too many cousins for it to be an issue."

"And we've been friends forever, so it wasn't much of a shock," Pippin added. "I think half of Buckland knew before we did."

Half of Buckland...half of Hobbiton. Sam couldn't help it. His throat seized up, and he found himself staring straight at Frodo with such a look of pain on his face that the master's blue eyes rounded in surprised alarm.

"Sam, what is ...?" he cried but Sam was already up and leaving.

"Sam!" Merry shouted. "What on earth...Frodo? Frodo, what is going on?"

Pippin caught him at the door, and Sam found himself back against it. "Now, Sam, what is this? What's gotten into you?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pippin," he said. "I can't stay."

"Of course you can! We were having a fine meal and a talk... you're being awfully impolite. Frodo's not in good health as it is."

Sam put a hand over his mouth but this time couldn't stop himself; with a great gasping cry, he let his knees buckle and slid to the floor. He had to cover his eyes before he embarrassed himself.

"Oh Sam, I was right, wasn't I? Frodo's been saying all along you're out courting, but you really aren't, are you? Why haven't you just told him, Sam? You must know he loves and misses you desperately!"

Sam shook his head, gasping. "No, Mr. Pippin! I tried to tell him...I tried, but he wouldn't let me."

"What? Are you saying he rejected you?"

But Sam shook his head. "He left the room when I was going to tell him; so you're wrong."

"Sam, Sam," Pippin chided, although his voice sounded teary. "Is that what all of this is about? Frodo's told us that you were telling him you'd found someone, and well, it upset him naturally, and he couldn't hear the rest."

Sam wiped at his eyes and looked up.

"Sam, he's been telling me he loved you for years now. It was to him that I went when I wasn't sure of Merry, and we had a heart-to-heart back then, about how hard it was to say anything. He's so much older than you, Sam. He felt horrible about it and was sure you couldn't feel the same."

Sam merely stared at him, dumbfounded. It wasn't possible. Was this some sort of...?

But then a soft voice made him catch his breath and froze Pippin's expression. "Pippin, leave this to me, will you? Merry's waiting for you in the kitchen."

Pippin straightened and nodded, with a look of pity for Sam before he retreated. Sam got to his feet, and made a hash of trying to straighten his clothes, in an attempt to not look at Frodo directly. However, silence stretched, and he was forced to raise his eyes.

Frodo was, as ever, pale, and his face was almost perfectly dispassionate, and suddenly Sam knew that to be a mask that overlaid what was underneath. For years? Not possible! It was not possible!

"Sam, are you happy with the ways things are?" he asked. "You must know that I am not."

Sam shook his head. "No, Mr. Frodo. I'm not happy at all. I'm miserable."

"What were you trying to say that night, Sam? I made a mess of it, didn't I? I was so sure that you couldn't possibly ..."

"I was ...going to say that ... half of Hobbiton knew who I was in love with, but me...I was a little slower on the uptake. I'd just figured it out that night, Frodo, and I was half sure you'd say me no, but I had to say it...but you left...and I couldn't bear to be near you again and feel...that way..."

"Sam...oh, Sam..." Frodo shook his head, and the mask left his face, revealing his own distress. "I've been so miserable, and for nothing! I thought you had found someone else, and suddenly I couldn't pretend that it didn't matter anymore."

Sam couldn't quite believe it. All this suffering from one misunderstanding? "Then...?" he breathed hopefully. "Then, Mr. Frodo...?"

"Would you hole up with me, dearest Sam, and tend my garden permanently? It's all I've ever wanted but never dare ask."

"All?" Sam wondered aloud, and looked at Frodo half-suspiciously. "Am I to garden and sleep here? How is that different from any in-house servant, Mr. Frodo? I think that would be taking advantage of a hard, honest worker just to keep your garden the best in Hobbiton."

But Frodo laughed, and his eyes were so bright they were incandescent. "Oh, Sam. There will be benefits, you can be sure."

"Benefits?" Sam looked at him, hiding a grin. "What sort of benefits?"

He shivered as Frodo stood close to him. "For one thing, you'll be sleeping in a feather bed."

"Mm? Is it very soft?"

"Oh, very soft." Frodo's fingers traced his cheek and Sam could feel himself blush to his ears. "And I'll be there with you."

"Mm." Sam carefully reached out and pulled Frodo against his side, ever so slowly. "A feather bed and you...that's much more tempting."

"And I've got deep cellars, as you know," the master of Bag End continued in a whisper.

"Beer, a feather bed and you. Will you read to me, in bed? I'd like that."

"Anything you want, Sam." So soft that voice, but the frame held against his was harder than it ought to be, and Sam thought, and rightly, that he could make it harder still.

"I don't have no ring, Frodo," he said regretfully. "I'm not much of a find, to tell the truth."

"You have no ideas how much of a treasure you are," Frodo murmured. "I can watch you in the garden all day, how your hair gets golden in the summer, how strong you are..." Frodo's fingers were in his hair, turning his face. "I don't need a ring, Sam, as long as you're here. As long as you love me."

And finally, that was the truth. Sam could see it in that dear face, glowing and painfully beautiful. He breathed in, trembling, and dipped his head to kiss his Frodo resolutely on the mouth, and was immediately distracted by the too-thin frame against his and an eager mouth more experienced than his. Frodo took his hesitant kiss and changed it into something both more tender and hot, from kiss of avowal to a kiss of a lover.

His body reacted fiercely, helplessly. His thoughts focused on the softness of a feather bed, and Frodo languid in it, and he broke the kiss desperately. But Frodo held him close as they both breathed heavily. "Frodo," he murmured.

"Sam, I'm horribly old-fashioned, and I wish I wasn't, for if I wasn't..."

Sam closed his eyes, his forehead against Frodo's. "When do they leave?"

"End of the week. But if you don't want to wait..."

"No, Mr. Frodo, we'll do it proper, in your bed, with no one listening in. There's nothing worse than rushing a job 'cause you're afraid of discovery."

"Can the beer and book wait?" Frodo asked, laughing a little.

"We can wait on that...but not too long, mind you."

"Sam, I love you," he cried softly. "How did I manage without you?"

"You didn't, Mr. Frodo. They'll say I moved in to put you out of your misery, and they'd be right." He kissed that smooth high cheek. "Or maybe it's you putting me out of mine. Don't matter, really."

There was a sudden clatter in the other room.

"I think your guests are tired of waiting on us," Sam guessed.

"Well, let's to the table, then. Suddenly, I'm famished."

Sam realized he was, too.

Merry and Pippin looked at them keenly as they sat back down, and by the relief on their faces, Sam knew they could see the change and were happy with it.

Talk ranged over too many subjects that day, and it was dusk when they finally pulled out pipes and settled about the fire.

"So," impetuous Pippin inquired, "what finally set you off, Sam? We reckoned you'd never figure it out for yourself."

Sam didn't know if he should be indignant or amused. "Well, sir, it was my dad."

"Ah, Master Hamfast."

"Yes, sir. He says to me, 'Sam, half of Hobbiton knows why you're not courting Rosie, so settle on him.'"

"Oh, that sly old gaffer!" Pippin exclaimed.

"'Half' of Hobbiton," Merry added. "I see, now."

"Well, I thought he was crazy, but then I sat myself down and thought on it, and suddenly it was like my mind was cleared up. I knew I loved him, and that's no lie, but ..." He glanced at Frodo who was watching him with a smile. "...I never let myself think on it further than that."

"I know how that is," Merry said with feeling, and Pippin giggled. "We've lived together, slept in the same beds, tramped over half the Shire together, and I didn't see it, not really, not until..." He glanced at his lover. "Well, Pippin insisted that I see. He's very persistent."

"I suppose that's the 'begging and pleading' part," Frodo laughed.

Merry, unaccountably, blushed. Sam hooted and slapped the Brandybuck on the shoulder, imagining he knew what form 'begging and pleading' took to win over Merry. "Well, you may laugh, but I believed my own lie for so long, it took a lot of effort on his part to knock some sense into me."

"'Lie'?" echoed Sam, startled.

"YOU know...'he's just a good friend,' and 'I don't get on with girls'...those sorts of lies."

Sam winced sympathetically. "I know those, all right," he said and felt Frodo's hand curl over his own, callused by writing in the way that only a gentlehobbit's could be, and soft at the same time.

"Now Frodo had a different hurdle," Pippin exclaimed. "He thought he was too old for you, and didn't dare say anything, afraid you'd agree because he was the master and rich. I kept telling him you wouldn't mind that, but..."

"It's different for you two," Sam argued in his master's defense. "You're friends and equals, though Merry's richer and bit more titled. I'm sure income or status never entered into it."

"You're right there, Sam," Merry agreed. "We didn't have to deal with that; quite the opposite, in fact. Familiarity, Sam, is a tough enough hurdle. How do you see your best friend, who you've known since early childhood, as a lover?"

"Evidently, by being 'persistent'," Frodo commented in a dry tone, eyeing Pippin sidelong. The younger hobbit grinned cheerfully.

"You would think Frodo has nothing to do with it," Pippin exclaimed, "but it was he who advised me in my strategy, you know."

They had a good laugh as Frodo flushed and made a show of knocking out his pipe and refilling it.

His father took a single look at Sam's glowing face as he came in that evening and 'hmphed' that it was about time.

"Don't know why ye were taking so long, Sam."

"'Cause I'm a village idiot, Dad," his son said. "I'm surprised I know my way to the dinner table."

Hamfast Gamgee guffawed heartily. "Don't rightly think anything's going to happen until he kicks those outlanders down the Hill, now." At his son's blush, he cackled. "Now, ain't that fine? My youngest set up proper at Bag End!"

"Dad..." Sam moaned. "If you start talking dowry, I'm sleeping somewhere else."

Hamfast's laughter was good-natured. "Well, won't be long 'til you'll be doing that permanent-like anyhow."

Sam sighed and found a haven in his own room. He knew it wasn't charitable, but he wished Merry and Pippin leagues away, and he and Frodo already making up for lost time.

And damn him, if he wasn't hungry again.

The end of the week crawled nearer. Sam looked to his chores and managed to keep those at Bag End company for dinner. He was happy to see that Frodo's appetite had returned as well, and his love and master was red-cheeked and filling out hobbit-fashion.

When Merry and Pippin would leave them alone and go walking or retreat to their guest room, Frodo and Sam would curl up together by the fire, talking contentedly of 'the day' soon, when Sam's things would be brought up the Hill. Already, Frodo told him, he was excavating out the connected suite to the master bedroom for Sam's use when he needed time to himself. He did not call it the "bride's chamber" although, architecturally, that was what it was. It was to be Sam's study.

"You'd think with all the gift-giving that went on, there would be less clutter since Bilbo left," Frodo murmured drowsily. "Too many mathoms, Sam, and so many things to go through. It's endless. There are rooms I never go into anymore; they're stuffed with books and papers, Bilbo's old things that I daren't toss out."

"Well, we can make a go of it, little by little," Sam reasoned. "Leastways, we can get things organized enough to know what's important and what can go for kindling."

Frodo laughed softly. "Oh, Sam. Do you know, I couldn't love you more if you offered me the stars."

"Mr. Frodo, I might be worn about the edges and a little rough, but I'm best for practical matters. If it's everyday wear you need, that's me. I won't be no good for finer things."

"You're fine the way you are," Frodo said with a smile in his voice. "You bring me down to earth, dear Sam. Even if you do still call me "Mister" Frodo."

Sam blushed, which resulted in teasing, which led to stolen kisses. That was fine indeed.

The fateful day finally arrived. Early in the afternoon, after a farewell breakfast with Sam and Frodo, Merry and Pippin saddled up their ponies in preparation for the long trip home. During the commotion of "what goes where" Merry took Sam aside.

"I know it's probably something you don't want to hear from me, Sam," he said solemnly, "but Frodo needs looking after in a serious way, and I reckon you're the one to do it."

"I know, sir," Sam agreed. "I'm up for the job."

Somehow this seemed to amuse Merry. "Good to know. He's lived a long time alone, so it might be difficult at first. And although there's some stories of kissing behind hay bales when he was in his tweens..." Sam raised his eyebrows at that. "...I really don't think he's been close to anyone like that since moving up to Bag End."

"I think I get you, sir," Sam assured him.

"He's always been in good hands with you, Samwise, and I'm glad there'll be no stop to that. You had us worried there for a while."

Then it was time for them to mount and be on their way. Sam and Frodo waited until they'd taken the turn around the Hill, cutting them off from view before looking at one another.

"As much as I love them dearly," Frodo sighed, "I never thought they'd leave."

Sam slid an arm about his shoulder and tugged him closer until Frodo leaned his head against him. The breeze was chilly, and Frodo's jacket was thin. He shivered.

"Come inside," Sam bade him. "As I remember, we've got things we've waited too long to do."

Frodo nodded, smiling, and slipped an arm about his waist as they turned toward Bag End.

They proceeded through the round door, painted a bright green. Sam thought that this was where and when their life together would begin, and it didn't begin with gardening, or books or friendly chats. It began with them, together.

And that was no lie.