Sam watched Frodo stride away with the girl. It occurred to him he should be upset, jealous, or worried about his future. He was none of these things, and that bothered him. Weird divergences in behavior were becoming far too ordinary. Coping was something of a sport with Sam; the more he did it, the better he got. Sam took a deep breath and then started to go over what he actually knew about Frodo Baggins.

How did other people see him? Polite, mysterious, vague. There was something very attractive about someone you couldn’t quite figure out. In seeking familiarity, you often caught little flashes of yourself. Some part of Frodo intuited this, enhanced it, until all that was left was a lovely mirror that everybody liked. Sam wasn’t everybody; he knew Frodo. Frodo was not beautiful. He didn’t have that sunshiny glow most hobbits carried effortlessly, as if the earth were a grand pasture and they were all flowers. He lived almost entirely inside his head.

And it hurt him to be outside of his head where the rest of the flowers went on without thinking about much of anything. This was why he was sad at times. The longer Frodo was away from privacy, the more he realized the world wasn’t quite like he thought it was, and that the world really didn’t know what to make of him, either.

Sam looked back over the past week until he found a name, Edlyn Took. She was the girl in Buckland. The Master’s wife probably thought she had done Frodo a favor by finding someone to pair him off with so early, before he knew who he wanted, or if he wanted anyone at all. The injustice was galling. No one stopped it. Sam quickly coughed and shuffled before anyone caught on to his thoughts. The women were watching him, and he didn’t trust them to let things be.

He opened his eyes. Frodo looked back at him as he walked away. ‘Let me do this, let me find out what went wrong’. Sam curled his lip. Frodo would stick his head into a dragon’s maw to check if it’s teeth were sharp. He couldn’t seem to learn things any other way. Selfish tosser, toff git with an over-enthusiastic sense of melodrama. Why? Sam groaned and bit his knuckles. He knew why. Frodo didn’t trust himself, thought all trouble began and ended with him. He was trapped inside his own mirror.

Now he was stopped and the girl was tugging at his shirt, persuading him to hurry on. Frodo leveled his gaze. ‘Tell me now, and I will quit.’ Sam considered turning his back. This wasn’t just wrong, it was stupid. If he did nothing, sometime later, maybe years from now, Frodo would certainly end up doing this with someone else. Sam made a decision. He locked onto Frodo’s eyes. Anger twisted with consent: ‘Be my fucking guest’.

Diamond knew her way around the field. She didn’t look down when she walked, not even when the light failed completely and only flickers of scattered flame lit the way. Her hand was wrapped tightly around Frodo’s. She was guiding him, and he thought that was strange. At dances in Buckland, he was the one who led. In Hobbiton, structure remained some odd idea that never caught on. Southfarthing ladies must lead, then. He made a note of this so he wouldn’t embarrass himself later.

The music started and she still hadn’t spoken. The other girls looked daggers at her, and she took it like this was the nature of her life. People didn’t like her. Frodo found this an attractive quality. It took courage to be different in a world filled with conformists. He smirked, and then chastised himself for being dull. He didn’t know any of these people, barely understood their words. Diamond ignored them, or appeared to. She did not allow petty things to annoy her. Focused. She turned lovely eyes to his. Diamond wanted to dance.

They swept into a breathless waltz: effortless movement, floating with a dreamlike quality derived from years of careful practice. She was wind in his arms, her waist tiny, and very warm beneath his hands. She smiled, and he sailed over the moon. Everyone was watching. They had no idea who he was. The freedom was intoxicating. Diamond laughed, and then permitted him to lead.

A cloud of smoke settled over Samwise. The stuff didn’t taste nearly as bad as it smelled. The stars looked a little bleary, and Petunia was laughing with Violet as the parade of girls drew closer. Acron had drifted off. The sky was strangely open and full of crystal dots of light. Stars. Frodo said the elves sang songs to souls that drifted in the stars. Fantastic. Sam pulled on the pipe, held the smoke in, then let it trail slowly out of his nose. He was a halfling. Half of what? Half elf? Half man? Half tall? Who bloody knew? Gandalf. Sam crinkled his nose. What sort of fanny that one was after was likely disturbing, legendary, or distressingly weird. Did Wizards care to sample the gentle arts? Sam barked laughter and snorted until Petunia pounded his back.

“I am a halfling, and a damn sexy beast,” Sam declared. Acron whistled salaciously. “Were that a compliment, Master Hornblower?”

“Absolutely.”

Sam nodded. “Right, then.”

Someone stuck two flowers in his garter. Sam stared at them. “Hello, hello?”

Twins. Both pleasingly round and swimming with bouncy laughter. Sam felt like growling and showing them his teeth. He liked fat bottoms, especially if they matched.

Mrs. Wainright was talking. “Pansy, Goldie Bell!”

“That Split-Toe piece just went and cut the line like that…”

“…and so we just had to.”

“Momma, don’t be mad.”

“Everyone started doing it, just everyone!”

Sam had no idea which was which and didn’t care. “There’s enough Samwise Gamgee to go around. No need to fuss.”

“Then whatever are you waiting for?” Acron needled.

“Go get yerself lined up quick-like o’ else the rest will be takin’ all the best spots by the players.” Petunia took the pipe out of his mouth.

Soft fingers threaded into his, and then Sam was off in a swirl of honeysuckle giggles.

Diamond was talking. Frodo enjoyed watching her mouth move. Syllables slipped away with a gently slurred cadence that reminded him of song. He liked to sing. Maybe she would sing with him later?

“Whatever are you looking at?” she said, but she knew. She tilted her head then looked over his shoulder at someone else. She smiled and lifted her skirts a fraction higher. The breeze slipped beneath gauzy frills and threw them into the air. Frodo felt a number of eyes fix on her. Diamond laughed, and he spun her around to hear the music wind around him in a circle.

“Where are you from? I mean, originally. You dance beautifully.” It was essential not to stare. He grew nervous when anyone looked at him directly for too long. Diamond appeared to love it.

“Sam Ford,” she said, and eased into a gentler rhythm. “My daddy owns a bourbon distillery down by the great mud. You all do drink bourbon up in there in Hobbiton?”

“Oh yes, it’s marvelous. Your family is quite talented.” There was something special about Sam Ford. Ah, the ranger station! Men lived on the border of the great marshes, keeping fell creatures away from the southernmost reaches of the Shire. The swamps were filled with secrets, lost cities, and strange birds. That part of the Shire was isolated and by most accounts, a little crude. The hobbits there liked to ride and hunt, take the hides of the animals they killed and stuff them. Frodo vaguely remembered a picture in one of Bilbo’s atlases of a deer head suspended over a mantle.

“Do you ride?” Frodo asked. “For sport?”

“Ride and jump! Not sidesaddle, either.”

Frodo didn’t know what that was. There was something else he wanted to know. Diamond was quite tall for a hobbit. Even as they danced, he felt she was better than a head taller than he was. “Steeple chases,” he said, as his mind worked over the puzzle.

Diamond appeared surprised. “Why, yes. My daddy owns the best racers this side of Bree. There’s a mighty fine track set up down there. My brothers raise hunters – blue tick hounds that are sharper than arrows and fly like eagles after foxes, raccoons, swamp hens, pheasant; we take in all sorts of game.” She fluttered her lashes. “I didn’t think they were many hunters in the north.”

“There aren’t. Some of my relations are Tooks, and they enjoy hunting.”

“Tookland.” She said it as if it were a place she’d enjoy going. “There may be hope for the North, after all.”

Velvet crushing against lace. By the mother’s dangly teat, there were hundreds of them. Was this dancing? Sam guessed so. More like the biggest, scariest dab party in the whole of the world. There weren’t enough males. When he saw one, he would reach out in a desperate attempt to gain understanding. What gives? The eyes that met his were usually filled with terror.

Pansy and Goldie Bell were ruthless. They wanted to show him off to every girl they’d ever met. They insisted he dance with both of them at the same time. He could handle that. Back in Hobbiton, at Yule, when everyone got a little trashed, dances frequently turned into free-for-all’s with hobbits stumbling around in piles. Somewhere in the histories – some idiot in Michel Delving or one of the Tooks would know - hobbits must have roamed in herds. Hobbits had a herd mentality, walked around hugging each other, and never grew out of it. Left alone, hobbits would go on all fours, bark to each other from inside holes in the ground, sniff the air for signs of trouble. Some did. No one talked about it. Hobbits were vehemently in denial of anything that tied them to the slightest suggestion of a base nature. Sam wasn’t. Pansy and Goldie bell did not appear to be, either, and that suited him just fine.

The women were growing vicious. Feminine competition drove them to madness. There was no way in all the Shire Pansy or Goldie Bell were going to let him go. His hands were trapped in lacquered claws, his feet were sore from dancing, and somewhere behind him, the caller was babbling like a prophet, crying out unnatural rhythms that encouraged a crazed frenzy.

Something powerful stirred in Sam. The call of his ancestors beat madly through his blood. Pansy and Goldie Bell started to lift their knees and shriek in that bizarre, Southern way. He bellowed back, grabbed up a set of healthy flanks under each arm, and spun them around until they both screamed in his ears. Someone grabbed his ass. Samwise threw back his head and shouted triumph into the night, while the girls fairly ripped the straps off his chest. He didn’t care. They could tear his clothes away, pull them into rags, strip him naked while they fought and tussled, tore out each other’s hair, snatched off that bothersome, scratchy lace, slashed their bodices to ribbons and snarled like feral cats. Once reduced to naked hunger, Samwise would tame the wild herd, service all of them to a lass, to ensure the survival of hobbit-kind.

“Buck up, m’lad! There’s work to be done!” He called out to a startled male about to take to his heels. “They won’t quick on their own, and that’s a fact!”

Pansy and Goldie Bell were jubilant. They cooed and struggled meekly against his chest, made circlets with their fingers in his hair. “Samwise Gamgee!” They sang out his name and rocked their heavy thighs against his. They took turns kissing the top of his head, his nose, the corners of his mouth. Goldie Bell, being the more aggressive, locked her delicate hands on both his ears then kissed the breath right out of him. He sister then performed likewise.

Sam’s head caved in.

Frodo and Diamond found their way to the edges of the gathering. The noise and smells were quieter there. Above, the stars circled around the moon in little clusters, their bright light piercing and so very remote. Frodo sighed. Diamond moved closer. She was quicksilver running through his arms – rich, gardenia scented, and smooth as fine satin. He ran his fingers beneath her damp locks, felt the pulse skip up in her throat. He smiled warmly, let his eyes spark blue fire as she pressed her cheek against his and felt the laughter building there. Oh yes, she was lovely, and ever so eager to lay with him in the soft grass. He wanted to. Every pinprick that skidded across his flesh begged him to do it.

She kissed him, and he murmured pleasantly. Southern ladies were quite direct. Frodo got the distinct impression Diamond traveled these fields quite often. Marvelous. He’d be spared stumbling around like an idiot looking for a spot not filled with mud, hobbits, or both. He cupped her breast, felt the high, proud flesh slip beneath his hands, tight rounded peaks roll between his fingers. It was years since he’d touched a girl this way, and he hoped he wasn’t too rough, forward, or a thousand other things that plagued him in the company of women. Diamond relaxed, looked up from under her thick lashes. She pulled his shirt away from his breeches. The air was cool on his sweaty back, and her hands were sure and light. No, this wasn’t a problem at all. She found him attractive; he could smell her scent rising past the whisper of gardenias. Pride danced in Frodo’s eyes as he began that slow, smooth glide up tender flanks that moved so gently beneath his touch. Her eyes were slick, green jewels.

“Gethsemane,” Frodo said, because this was how he made love.

Diamond pulled her head back. “What?”

“It was a garden in Almaren, the ancient home of the Valar.” Words spilled from thought, “A place of ‘splitting’. Melkor turned against his brethren there, then swore to destroy all they created.”

“Split?” Her voice was hard. “I’m not ‘split’. What do you mean?”

Truth shattered his mood. Diamond was bereft of complexity, and did not wish to understand. She existed only in the now, as did the trees and fields around her. Mystery was meaningless to her. She found everything she wanted in herself, just as a pond found no admiration for the fish that swam through it. There was nothing more to Diamond; there didn’t need to be. She was quite beautiful on her own, and sought only to involve herself in those things she found beautiful in order to compliment herself. Puzzle pieces flew together in Frodo’s brain, and before he could stop himself, he said, “You are half-caste. Daughter of man, and hobbit.”

Diamond punched him so hard, he felt his nose snap.

“Split that, you short bastard,” she said, and walked away.

Sam was awash in a sea of soft lips, wet delights, shaky giggles and purring promises. Sam cried out, sure that his soul was in terrific peril. His mind plunged into a rush of shadows, dark laughter and hidden ways. Temptresses willed the seed from his body, witches whispered peons to fey goddesses. “Yes!” he cried between kisses as he grabbed a juicy behind, and then another. The firelight danced a wicked rhythm in his eyes, in their hair, across the tops of a hundred heads, spraying orange fury high into the satin sky. “Feast on me, ye lovelies, take all ye wish an’ more!” he said, and it was everything Sam could do not to throw both girls down and tear that blasted itchy crinoline off with his teeth.

From across the gathering, at the edge of the firelight, a set of eyes rested on his cheek. Sam looked up, worried. If he got anywhere near these women, they would pull the meat from his bones, make parasols from his flesh, use his tendons to hold together their corsets. They would use his hair to stuff their pillows, use his eyes for scrying, his fingers to hold open mysterious tomes. They were dangerous and caught in a fever of lust. They would disappear in the morning, like ghosts.

“That’s quite the orgy you’ve got there!” came the call across the field.

Yes, it was. Why, even now, Pansy was nipping at his throat, while Goldie Bell was twisting apart the lacings on his breeks. The moment of his disgrace was nearing. They were going to flay him alive, drink off his vital essences, twist his tender flesh into ruins. Heaps of sweaty lace gathered against his bones, and all across the valley, primal voices sang bright hymnals of courage. Sam had to think fast. Twins?

“Aye! Are you free, then?” Sam couldn’t see the other girl. No matter. Her coven lay all around him. She would rise from among them, tear his heart out with shiny nails, then feed what was left to a cat.

“Quite free, and liking to stay that way, if that’s fine with you, mate.”

Sam thought he saw him rub at his face. Poor bugger. They’d marked him a heretic. Sam’s heart grew heavy. He brushed aside his anger. Gently, he set both Pansy and Goldie Bell down on their pretty toes. “I regret to inform you that I must attend to duty,” he said seriously. Both girls pewled miserably. “Come now, that’s not befitting of such fine women as yourselves. Carry on, now. Carry on.”

Goldie bell snatched off one of his garters. “We’ll carry on, sugar, you just bet.”

Pansy snatched away the other. “We’ll just keep these, for now. You know where they are, if you want them later.”

“Goodbye, Samwise Gamgee.” Goldie Bell pouted, then took her sisters hand. They both walked away into the firelight.

Sam felt gravely disappointed.

“I’m a short bastard,” Frodo declared. He was smoking Acron’s weed. Sam thought he must have circled back around to the table. One of his eyes was swollen half-shut, and there were drops of red on his shirt. There was a big lump in the middle of his face where his nose used to be. He looked happy.

“So bein’ a confirmed shirt-lifter didn’t factor in?” Sam took the pipe out of Frodo’s fingers, and smoked. “A bit off our mark?”

“Rather outmatched. Things that are so … obvious to most, escape me.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you going to hit me? Everyone seems to enjoy hitting me.”

“I might.” Sam pulled deeply on the pipe, considering.

“I thought you’d understand?” Frodo, to his credit, appeared contrite.

Sam laughed. “Sorry, mate. That’s gone a bit stale on me.”

Frodo changed the subject. “You have enjoyed yourself this merry evening?”

“Wicked. Demented. Daft as a box of frogs. A bit mean, truth be told. T’were a challenge.”

“Fun, don’t you think?” His voice was nasally. Sam handed him a handkerchief. “I dare say the hitting part is over-rated. Best to get it over with and move on.”

Sam agreed. “’Tis a thing to beggar lesser hobbits.”

“Quite a lot of beggaring going on in the bushes.” Frodo chuckled. “Have you noticed yourself, lately?”

Sam looked down, then quickly pulled his laces together. His braces were somewhere over his shoulder; the special shirt, in crisis. Sweat was draining from every pore, and he thought he might stink. Frodo caught a whiff, and grinned.

“Servicing the herd?”

“The things you remember.” The stars reclaimed a fractured, drowsy tilt. Frodo made a noise. Sam winced. “Mate, that has to hurt…”

Frodo took one of his garters off. Gardenias tumbled to the ground. “In the morning, I shall likely have to shove my face into a bucket of Petunia’s ice. You’ll be there?” He took Sam’s hand.

“Yes,” Sam said as he watched Frodo tie the garter around his wrist, then loop it back over his own. “I don’t get a flower?”

“You want a flower?” Frodo snugged up the knot.

“Looks to be popular.”

“Sod popular, if you’ll forgive the expression.” Frodo took the last gardenia out of his remaining garter. A fey light glowed in his eyes that could mean the stars were on fire, the ground was about to crack open, or that elves were moving across the silver floor of the valley, singing praises to distant lights. Frodo stuffed the gardenia in his mouth, tore into it with his teeth. He rocked, snarled and ripped, sprayed flecks of white throughout the greasy tangle of his hair and down into the grass. Heaving, sweating, and swollen, Frodo uttered a high pitched, keening squeak that reminded Sam of a pine marten in full rut.

“Do you know what that sound is, m’dear?” Acron pointed across the field to where Sam and Frodo were kissing.

“Hobbits should not squeak so!” Mrs. Wainright admonished. “It’s not fitting.”

Petunia squinted, then made a filthy noise. “I’ve ears and eyes, Master Hornblower.”

“That’s the backrub yer owin’ me, Missus Hornblower, wi’ oil, and no bloomers,” Acron laughed. He kicked at the barrel by his side. “I tol’ you the day they showed, an’ I’m tellin’ you now, there’s no hope for them’s not willin’. Like as you may, they’ve only eyes for each other.” He pointed across the field with his chin. Frodo had sprung up and locked himself onto Sam’s chest. After a dicey moment, Sam got his balance, then rushed away past the edge of the clearing. Acron nodded approvingly. “See? I tol’ you so, Pet.”

“They’re so young.” Petunia sighed defeat. “I would’a hoped they’d play a bit a’fore settlin’ down to comfort. Yer only young once.”

Mrs. Wainright spied her daughters flashing by the players. “Speaking of sights, will you just look at that!” Each girl wore one green garter stuffed with flowers. A third girl danced between them.

“This is the third time now, eh?” Petunia said as the girls swept by. “You’ll not get those three out o’ the heather a’fore mornin’, make no mistake.”

“If they insist on wearing garters, they will wear ones that match their gowns. Those two will be the death of me yet! Two whole days I labored over matching sashes to ribbons, laces to petticoats, bonnets to bows, and this is how I am thanked!” Mrs. Wainright was incensed.

“I ‘ent never goin’ to get the blood stains outta that shirt.” Petunia patted her friend’s hand.

“Ye’ had to dye it wi’ leaf to get the damn thing one color after I wore it a time or two, missy. Ye’ can do it again.” Acron rubbed his jaw. “What is it about them Split-Toe women that makes for fightin’ so hard?”

“Men,” Petunia huffed. “’Tis a violence that comes not o’ high spirit, but from greed. All that’s their own, stays so, e’en pretty looks and ways. Trouble follows that blood as sure as worry.”

Mrs. Wainright made a sign of warding. “May it ever remain out of mind, and out of reach.”

“Enough o’ this now. Come now, Pet, let’s be away. Set some food out, let the lads find their own way home. Violet, we’ll be walkin’ you back to Fairy Dingle, then.” Acron blew out his cheeks and stood. “I’ll be sayin’ hello to Hanson, while we’re there.”

“You’ll be getting’ him on this leaf scheme o’ yours.” Petunia clucked her tongue. “No business, eh?”

“I’m knackered, and wantin’ me backrub. Nothin’ more.”

“If you’re too tired for that backrub, then sir, perhaps it can wait…” Petunia’s eyes crinkled up knowingly.

Acron chuckled, grabbed his wife by the hand, then spun her into his arms. “Whist, missy. There’s parts is tired an’ parts that ain’t never, an I aim to remind you o’ each.”