A darkness seemed to have fallen softly on Bag End, unnoticed by the small figure sitting huddled under an old tree that spread its boughs protectively over him, wrapping him in what sympathy its stout, gnarled trunk and bare branches could give. The figure's knees were drawn up to his chest as if to fend off an attack; his face was buried, invisible, in the rough, unyielding serge of his sleeve. A pale scarf, forgotten, glimmering in the feeble moonlight, whipped about his head in the chill breeze, gently stroking through the brown curls in an expression of cold alliance.
Sam stood at the bottom of the sloping bank like a wraith in the blackness, staring up with puckered eyes at the hobbit crouched like one mortally wounded under the tree. He watched anxiously the small, delicate hand trailing absently through the damp grass, a vague swirling sea of shadow in the velvet darkness, and pressed his lips together decisively.
It seemed to take a tremendous effort to step out onto the slope and reveal himself; it was as if he were a stranger, an invader in the familiar garden -an invader in Frodo's misery. However, he hardened his resolve and proceeded upwards, his small feet slipping on the moist ground, repressing sharp breaths in a sudden desire to be unseen in his passage towards the summit.
Had he imagined that his master, ever keen of hearing, would detect his presence from afar, he was wrong. He stood for a moment awkwardly beside the curled form, and Frodo did not look up, did not even move; and yet still the hand swept relentlessly through the unbroken shimmering lake of rain-slick grass, its owner seemingly far detached from the world.
For once at a loss as to what he ought to do, Sam coughed forcibly and peered down at the dark, huddled shape in the gloom, awaiting a response; any response, but none came. A wave of despondency swept over him as the cool wind ruffled his hair; he felt suddenly that it would perhaps be the best thing if he, too, were to throw himself down into the grass and detach himself from this mundane existence, if only to lend Frodo some company in his sorrow. It occurred to him, for a fleeting moment, that perhaps there was nothing, after all, that he could do; he was a child, the son of a gardener, where Frodo was a gentlehobbit and had been, for the past four days, full-grown.
He dismissed the thought as a cruel whim and seated himself beside his master. Tentatively he reached out a small hand towards Frodo's shoulder, and saw to his surprise and consternation that it was trembling. By sheer strength of will he steadied it. He mused that there probably was no worse place for Frodo at this moment than the garden. It whistled and shrieked of Bilbo. The flowers, now hiding their elegant faces from the cool night air, whispered of the loving visits Bilbo had paid them several times a week since his return from the great adventure. The vegetable patch conjured images of Bilbo in his ancient 'gardening' tweeds, determined to uproot the first potato of the year under the supervision of the Gaffer. But then, if the garden was heavy with memories, the house itself was saturated.
Sam glanced up at it, its round, darkened windows gazing steadfastly back like so many blind, black eyes, shining in the moonlight, entrances to a home of ghosts. Bilbo in the kitchen, singing Shire walking- songs as he made the first cup of tea of the day; Bilbo in his study, puffing on his pipe like a steam engine in exasperation as he attempted to impress the finer points of Elvish upon Frodo and Sam; even Bilbo in the sitting-room, poring over his beloved maps and toasting crumpets lazily over the crackling fire.
Sam patted Frodo's shoulder gently. "Mr Frodo."
The figure stirred, turned its head; Sam could just perceive the familiar blue eyes glinting ghostly silver in a stray spattering of reflected half-light that hung over both the young hobbits. The shadows beneath them were emphasised by the blackness into deep, yawning cavities, as if something malicious and desperate had been relentlessly chiselling away at Frodo's face; it seemed to Sam as if this more than anything was the outward sign of the great hurt that was chiselling at Frodo's heart.
"What are you doing here, Sam?" The voice was cracked, unused. "What time is it?"
Sam shrugged, but the gesture was muffled by the gloam into only a vague and unrecognisable movement. "I don't know, sir. Not too late, I think."
There was a silence. Then Frodo muttered, half to himself, "I can't believe he's gone. I know he said he was going to, but - I didn't believe him." Sam said nothing, but only held his silence and waited for Frodo to say what he wanted to. He had known him long enough to understand his moods and he anticipated that Frodo would feel a little less miserable if he could only confide to Sam the depth of the problem.
Frodo groped like a blind man for Sam's other hand, and Sam was quick to aid him, placing his small brown paw into Frodo's larger, smoother one and gripping it reassuringly. At length Frodo drew a juddering breath.
"I am all alone, Sam," he said quietly, as if he could not muster the strenght to speak the words. "I felt a little like this, I think, when my mother and father died, but - at least then I was too small to understand. And then I went to live at Brandy Hall with the Brandybucks and I was just one more child out of many, so I suppose I should be used to having only a very small share of whatever love there is among everybody, but -" he broke off. "Then I went to live with Bilbo, and I am afraid I became too accustomed to there being somebody who loved me as much as anybody else, if not more than anybody else." He paused. "And now I am all alone and nobody loves me." The last sentence came out more highly-pitched than the rest, trembling, on an incongruously careless tone, and Sam knew that Frodo, grown hobbit or not, was choking back tears.
Sam was determined to cheer him up. He did not have to think too hard to produce some words which, so he thought in his childish naivety, would banish the tears. "I love you, Mr Frodo," he said with the innocent frankness of a lad of such tender years.
To his surprise and dismay the effect of his attempt at consoling his master produced an audible choking sound. In horror Sam hurriedly sought a sympathetic phrase; his head seemed emptier even than usual but he managed to stammer, "You'll still be my friend, Mr Frodo, even though you're come of age, you know."
Frodo steadied himself and glanced up at Sam's perfectly solemn face. "What's that, Sam?" he queried in something closer to his usual voice.
"I was just tellin' you, sir," Sam continued gravely, "that if you're thinking I won't be your friend any more you needn't fret. I don't mind that you're a grown up, Mr Frodo. Even if it ain't nice to be one."
To his surprise Sam found himself hauled off his feet and dragged into Frodo's lap. Panic-stricken for a moment, Sam wondered whether his grim reminder that Frodo could no longer be a carefree hobbit-lad had been the final straw to manic depression, but even as he travelled through the sultry air he heard the ever-welcome sound of Frodo's laughter.
"Come here, you," he heard him say, suddenly quite himself again, and then felt himself tugged into a somewhat rough hug. Sam smiled to himself. Evidently Mr Frodo had been pleased to be informed that Sam was willing, in this special case, to stretch his social circle into the realms of the grown hobbits for the sake of a long friendship. Sam came to the conclusion that, on top of all his other worries about Bilbo, the ambiguity of their future had been too much to bear. He congratulated himself on having set Frodo back on the right track to a blissful euphoria.
Frodo grinned through his tears in the darkness and held the small, familiar body to himself with a roughness that belied the warm surge of love Sam's naive little reassurance had evoked. Perhaps the lad would never know how much his master depended upon his innocently inappropriate but always beautifully expressed and well-intended comments to lift him out of his darkest moods.
He felt Sam press a childish kiss onto his forehead as he tugged away, rubbing his nose, which had been bumped somewhat in the process. He could just see the outline of the little figure sharpening from a vague fuzziness to a more defined black line as Sam moved away from him to peer down at Bag End.
"Grass is cold, Mr Frodo, and so's the wind. I reckon if it ain't right for turnips it ain't good for you, sir."
Frodo laughed at that, and stood up. Glancing down at the house it seemed to him as if the bleakest, blackest feelings he had sensed within it had come not from its materials but from within himself. It was entirely up to him to decide how he would interpret the memories of Bilbo that flooded the familiar rooms and corridors. They were all of them pleasant remembrances; perhaps there was nothing wrong, after all, in thinking of Bilbo. He felt the heavy, constricting pressure of tears pushing into his throat from the back, but now there was no urge to throw himself down to drown in a sea of his own melancholy sobs. He clutched Sam's small hand tightly in his own.
Sam evidently saw the gleam of tears on Frodo's face up above him, for he asked in some concern, "What's the matter, Mr Frodo? You're crying."
Frodo smiled softly, the stinging ache in his jaw almost a pleasure, and allowed the tears to come, releasing them from within him along with all the dark, miserable emotions that had previously been suppressed in his lungs. His voice quavered with a mixture of sobs and laughter as he glanced down at Sam. "Yes, Sam. I'm crying." He laughed aloud. "One day, Sam, we shall go and see Bilbo, together, and until them we shall just quietly remember him together."
"Yes, Mr Frodo," Sam agreed readily. Frodo clutched his fingers tighter; the circulation was finding it difficult to continue its allotted job but Sam didn't care. They set off down the hill together, and for a moment it seemed as if they were floating on the elvish golden tinges of Bilbo's maps and his spidery handwriting, his waistcoat buttons and pipeweed and laughter. Frodo laughed again and looked at Sam and they picked up speed and he began to sing, exultantly, his voice juddering with the motion and the tears combined.
"The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began..." His momentum carried him down over the flat patch of land towards the round green door, and as Sam began to lag behind, short legs unable to keep up, Frodo swung him up roughly but lovingly, spun him around in the air and then set him down again, his eyes gleaming. He did not intend to allow the road to sweep him anywhere now except through his own front door and into the pantry.
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Story notes: You'll be sick of this ages thing. But still I multiply hobbit age by 7/11 to find relative age. Therefore picture Frodo as just turned 21 and Sam as about 11 and a half. Note that appendices D and C contradict each other as to whether Sam is 12 or 15 years the younger. I use 15.
