Sam's Courtship by Eykar

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Story notes: Warnings: Bisexuality. OTCs. Bisexual OTCs. Angst of varying kinds and degrees. Happy ending.

Violation of Tolkien's timeline: Frodo moves back to Bag End in February of 1420.

Feedback: Please, including critical (except of bisexuality) to holdfast2004@yahoo.com

Inspired by "Wedding Night" by Molly. Thanks to Bill the Pony, Daisy Gamgee and Mary Borsellino, whose sagas of sometimes happy hobbit love make the following possible.
There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

-- Robert Hunter (The Grateful Dead)

The winter of 1420 was almost ready to slide into spring when Samwise Gamgee finally started courting Rosie Cotton. Even though he had lived since fall in her father's house, during those months work left little time for courting: There were many Big People's houses tear down, many hobbit homes to restore, dikes to rebuild, walls and terraces to renew, gardens and forests to replant, disputes to settle and hoarded stores to share out. Sam was relieved to lay down his sword and get back to the business of living.

While Rosie's three brothers were out working on their family land, Rosie took charge of reopening the Green Dragon in Bywater, which she'd pretty much used to run before the Big People ruffians came to the Shire. With the Big People driven off at last, the Green Dragon was needed: After even the longest, coldest, bitterest day, hobbits repaired there for food and ale, warmth and fellowship, and Rosie made sure that all could be found in some measure, now as before. For Sam she always saved a few extra dainties, and fed him with her most tempting smile.

Sam had always known Rosie was pretty, and lively, and clever but now he was fair in awe of her. The previous autumn, not long after the fighting was done, he had gone with a party to survey Bywater, having been chosen to write down the damage. There he saw the old tavern much worse for the weather, windows broken, furniture gone, dirt drifted inside, storehouses empty. How could one lass put all that to rights?

Rosie did. She traded where she could, bargained where she could, promised future payment where she had to, and found ways to feed a whole crowd of young hobbits in exchange for their help. Folk pitched in willingly, for the tavern was their place to relax, and also the scene of many a meeting, where work was planned and arguments aired.

When Mr. Frodo, who was Deputy Mayor, had any mayoring to do the Green Dragon was the most likely place for it, being public, comfortable, and not far from Farmer Cotton's where Frodo, too, stayed that winter. It was only proper to put extra business Rosie's way as a way of paying back the Cottons' hospitality.

Not long after Yule, Sam moved from Farmer Cotton's house to 3 New Row with his arthritic old Gaffer and his unmarried sister May. Once their old dad was comfortable, May went back to work at the Dragon, where she was Rosie's second pair of hands. With his family seen to, all Sam's mind was bent to fixing up Bag End or to his public responsibilities. It wasn't till later that he reckoned unseen hands were pushing him all the time towards Rosie.




Sam no longer needed much of a push. Two years earlier, before his journey, before the Wars of the Ring, he'd been getting close to speaking his mind to the young widow. Once Rosie put off her mourning she had turned a newly encouraging eye on him. Well, the quest had put an end to those plans. As soon as Mr. Frodo said he would leave the Shire, Sam decided to hold his tongue. No sense trying to bind the lass to a promise that likely would come to nought.

After the Travelers' return, when all four were staying in Rosie's father's large farmhouse, she and he had been thrown together, so to speak, in a natural way. There was no quiet corner to often share. Still, Sam learned that he and she moved well together in the kitchen, that Rosie held her own with her brothers when all hands were needed for heavy lifting, and that no matter how late Sam dragged in at night, one drumstick would always be remaining from an otherwise ravaged fowl. He saw her come pink and damp-curled from the bath, and caught her more than once looking at him.

It took awhile, for one reason and another, before he took her in his arms and kissed her. More than once, before openly looking at her, he cast his eyes about lest Mr. Frodo might be watching. That would have made him feel faithless, even though they'd promised each other nothing. Even though the quest had left Frodo too cold and pale and faded for loving. But how could he not mind? In his place, Sam would have minded indeed!

With all the work and crowding and carefulness, Sam never spoke his mind to Rosie until the eve of his leaving her father's house. Once they kissed, he found her mouth was as sweet as her voice, and as clever as her hands. From there it was only weeks until they set the date of their wedding.

Those were weeks in which much unexpected occurred.




For Rosie, having her shy suitor under her father's roof was a chance she'd been waiting for, the first bit of real luck to come her way after three discouraging years.

Not that folk ever saw her long down-heartedness! For it had begun years before the war, as had the habit of keeping it to herself. The young barmaid of the Green Dragon possessed what she needed, a firm but cheerful disposition. Working always did get her mind off even the worst troubles. Even after her husband died and her love left her, it was only during the lonely night hours that she'd catch herself sighing when she locked up to go home.

How different, how happy, her grown-up life had started, with Vergie Boffin behind the barn during Overlithe of 1405. They'd both been newly in their tweens, and supposed to have been dancing with the lads, but the ale was strong and the fiddle sang high, and Rosie caught Vergie looking right back at her. How red her curls, how bright her eye, and how neat her step in each following dance. Rosie made sure they brushed by each other at each change of partners. By the time the musicians broke into the Shire Reel, which was always a test to see who could keep up, it was only natural to stumble laughing together and forfeit their places in the dance.

It was only natural to clasp hands and agree that both needed a breath of air – and to snatch up their shawls lest the night air turn chill – and to walk out under the fragrant trees, already heavy with hard young fruit, where silver moonlight gilded the soft curve of Vergie's cheek. Only natural to have gone by the crowded food tables to snatch up a basket of berries and laughingly feed them to each other, painting each others' lips with their fingers. And only natural to lick the juice off fingers, off lips . . .

For the first time her arms pressed another girl's waist, for the first time she tasted another girl's skin, for the first time she gasped in delight at their bellies pressing together through their party frocks, and all thought of the boys left both of their minds. So they'd remained for the next few years.

Before that, Rosie hardly knew Vergie, the Boffins being minor kin of the Bagginses and therefore somewhat above the Cottons. But Rosie's dad, ambitious to better himself, encouraged the friendship all he could and if he suspected it was more, neither he nor her brothers seemed to mind.

Nor did Vergie's parents object to having Rosie in their hole, for her parents had taught her proper manners which she made a point of showing them. They more than once said, seeming pleased with themselves, that a motherless girl living in a home full of lads needed female society.

Rosie didn't lack other girlfriends, but Vergie was the finest and bravest. She didn't fear to come down to the tavern during Rosie's shift, and scandalize the male patrons by leaning on the counter and ordering beer; or to run in the snow with her skirts tucked up and come home with snow packed into her footfur; or to linger together around a bonfire, where most lasses came only with a suitor, watching sparks twirl up into the night air and singing until all voices went soft. She'd a ready wit and a light dancing foot and a listening ear for all Rosie's troubles, which she wouldn't share with just anybody. Rosie could think of no finer companion.

Their other friends accepted them, Vergie's taking the lead from her parents, and Rosie's were happy enough to make friends with both Vergie and her eligible brothers. Rosie and Vergie themselves had enough private brother jokes to last them a lifetime, as seemed might be needed with their friends and their brothers all courting around them.

Of course it had been youngsters' courting, subject to their parents approval, and mostly for fun. Some headstrong young hobbits did marry in their tweens, but most waited to come of age.

With a household of brothers to cook for and clean after, her busy evenings at the family business, and a ripening love to take up her free time, Rosie found the days blending into years. She and Vergie, after the first flush wore off, vowed to stay together for ever. They would marry each other's brothers and be family for life with no need to explain or excuse their special closeness. They'd live near each other, and raise their young ones together, as they'd seen done in other families.

On market days, Rosie saw how some best friends or sisters-in-law shared secret looks, how tenderly they took each other's hands, how their babies called "Mam!" and both went running. Since none of these married ladies often set foot in the Green Dragon, Rosie used market mornings to seek them out as friends. Vergie, with less work to do, spent even more time with some of them.

One winter day Rosie came to the Boffins' and Vergie wouldn't meet her eyes. Rosie didn't dare ask why before Vergie's family. She invited Vergie out instead, making up some fool excuse about fetching supplies for the Dragon, and took Vergie's hand quickly before any brothers could offer to help.

They were but two steps down the path before she demanded, "What's wrong? Why won't you look at me?"

Vergie shrugged and looked out over the snow. Guilty.

"You've wronged me, and now you're freezing me out for it," Rosie rapped out, her face hot in the cold air. "Who was it?"

"If you must know," Vergie snapped back, squaring her shoulders, "it was Honey Smallburrow and Verbena Rumble!"

Rosie stopped and gaped. Honey and Verbena were two married ladies and best friends for years. Not likely to try to steal Vergie from her – but -Rosie had never for one moment thought of more than two together. She went hot, cold and nervous and forgot her anger briefly before snatching it back. But now it had changed and gentled and a something like a laugh trickled through it. "Well then, why wouldn't you speak to me? Don't you want to share them with me?"

At that Vergie gaped, and her guilt departed, and she laughed out loud, hugging Rosie. "Would you?" she squeaked?

Rosie hugged her back, "What, do you think I'd be afraid?"

They fell laughing into a snowdrift, and ended up brushing each off, the excuse of fetching supplies forgotten.

Later, under tented covers, Vergie explained to a wide-eyed Rosie that Honey, Verbena and both their husbands sometimes slept in two big beds pushed together and did ever so much more than sleeping. Yesterday morning, hearing of it, Vergie had kept asking what and how until they satisfied her curiosity.

But later they regretted what they called "taking advantage" and wouldn't have any more to do with Vergie or with Rosie either.




The Green Dragon had belonged to Rosie's mam, who died in the Fire of 1393 when Rosie was only a child. Farmer Cotton never needed to manage the place himself, since their third cousin Happy Rammage had been in charge as long as anyone could remember, and Happy's nine daughters all served as evening barmaid, one after the other, until each married.

Rosie was just 18 when Happy's youngest left with her husband, and then the job was Rosie's whether she wished it or no. Her dad had always said he meant her to have it and had let her spend time there as a lass, learning.

In truth Rosie didn't mind. She liked the liveliness, keeping up with news, spending time with so many kinds of people. Further, she got to keep part of her tips.

Her dresses were brighter and better once she started buying the fabrics herself. She dressed to bring out the gold glints in her hair, with sleeves that showed off her round arms, and darts to make much of her fine slim waist. She wanted to look fine for her Vergie.

As Rosie's tweens passed, and her oldest brother married and moved out, her dad put the profits from the Green Dragon into buying up more and more land, even rocky hillsides. He aimed to have a good farm to give each son for a wedding present. The Dragon itself would go to Rosie.

He'd been building himself up steadily as far back as anyone could remember, even more so after Rosie's mam died, when Rosie was only nine. It was a tale she still hated to hear, how her own mam had rushed right into Peony Talbred's burning house and died trying to save Peony's youngest. Like she didn't have young ones of her own!

Folk spoke admiringly of Lily Cotton's bravery, but Rosie held a hurt inside that her own mam died for other children, leaving her and her brothers alone.

It was only now, loving Vergie, that Rosie began to see it different. What if it was her Vergie's house burning, her Vergie laying on the ground, smoke-black and coughing, clutching a toddler, listening to her youngest child's screams? Wouldn't Rosie do the same, do anything, to spare her beloved that pain?

She still couldn't quite forgive her mam, but she felt now she might know her heart better.




Happy Rammage got old. His rheumatics pained him something awful, he said. Once he saw that Rosie knew her job, he started asking her help with bits of his. She didn't think of telling him no. That would be terrible disrespect, and besides she was eager to learn something new.

Rosie found herself putting in more and more time at the tavern, learning figures and bargaining, planning and stocking; she kept busy counting, cooking, mopping and locking up. She had already learned who to serve, who to gently coax into leaving, and who to have put out. And for all her love of a good time, she knew how to defend her reputation – all this while remaining good natured.

After some months of observing all this, with considerable oaths of secrecy, Happy started to teach her brewing.

The next year, he quietly let it be known that he was ready to retire and that Rosie could take over his job. He hired an evening barmaid, the first of many, for Rosie to train.

One night locking up Rosie realized, I could find myself work anywhere in the Shire that there's a tavern. It was good to know that she could if she had to, but she never wanted leave Bywater. It was time to see to the rest of her life, the part where she'd be raising children.

Rosie picked the best-looking of Vergie's brothers, Fergast, who might almost have been Vergie herself made broader and thicker-muscled, and began to flirt with him when he came round the Dragon of an evening. She could see he'd make a fine father, and found she liked his kisses, too. She laughed at how sudden they had to break off. "Rosie, love," he'd mutter, "if we don't stop now, I won't be able to." That always made her want not to stop, but with a lad there might be babies, so one really ought to wait for marriage.

As this was to be no simple marriage, there had best be some talking first. The older couples all agreed that a husband would find out sooner or later, making it best not to marry unless he understood. Rosie and Vergie decided to talk with Ferg together, after Mr. Baggins' birthday party, when all would be well-fed and happy.

Being a very well-bred gentlehobbit, Mr. Baggins always invited folk from all around to his parties, but also being very private he didn't see so much to the planning but hired that out, except for the invitations and presents, to the satisfaction of the local merchants. This party of 1412 was to be a special occasion, old Mr. Bilbo Baggins' hundred-and-twenty-tooth. Young Mr. Baggins always insisted on celebrating Old Mr. Baggins' birthday as if he were still around, even though half the Shire had (or claimed to have) seen him vanish into thin air but eleven years before. Well, there was no accounting for anything that went on at Bag End, and a party was both a good time for all and good money for the Green Dragon.

Unlike some she had overheard all too often, Rosie bore the Bagginses no ill will for being strange. It somewhat reassured her to know there was more than one kind of strangeness in the world and to see how folk got along when they weren't quite as others thought they should be.

The party wound down late in the autumn evening. Trouser laces were loosened to make room for full stomachs, streamers drooped, and the musicians drove hard those who were still up to dancing. Rosie was finally able to slip out back with Vergie and Ferg.

Rosie felt right proud of herself: Mr. Baggins had complimented the table she set, and even approved her scrubbed-up younger brothers' efforts to keep the food and ale coming. While of course he would always say the right thing, Rosie could tell that he meant it, and that made her sure of herself.

Rosie, Vergie and Ferg strolled together, from the Party Tree down towards the Road, with Rosie in the middle, holding hands with each, arms lazily swinging. Without waiting to find a quiet spot, she spoke as the mood took her, "Fergast, love, we'll be settling soon on our wedding day."

"That we will," he said shyly, squeezing her hand. Not nearly as bold as his sister!

"You know how I dream it, Ferg? I see us standing together, almost as we are now, only all dressed up fine in gold and white, and wreaths of white flowers on our heads, and you know what, Ferg? I see ALL of us." She squeezed his hand and Vergie's too.

Fergast stopped, pulling the lasses to a halt with him. "Wait, Rosie. What you talking about?" His face was screwed up puzzled.

Wasn't it plain what Rosie meant? She wanted to hold him and shake some sense into him. She dropped Vergie's hand and took both his shoulders, smiling up as sweetly as she knew how. "Fergast, I love you. And I love Vergie. And she loves me."

"Rosie!" He jerked away from her. "You mean you're wishing to marry my sister?"

This wasn't going well at all. Rosie felt her face fall. She tried to speak calmly, biting back anger. "I'm wishing to marry you both, Fergast dear. You're the two finest hobbits I know and I don't want to do without either of you." Now she was blinking back tears.

"Well," he sputtered, sounding near tears himself, "You'll have to. It's her or me, Rose. I can't have my wife courting my own sister! That's - that's incest, that is." He broke loose and started to stalk away.

"Fergast," Vergie broke in, through her teeth, "Don't be a nitwit. You know how me and Rosie are. All she's saying is, once you're married nothing will change."

"Nothing!" he cried, leaning in to face Vergie. "But marrying changes everything. If it didn't, there'd be no reason to do it!"

"Let me tell you a few things about marriage –"

With sister and brother bristling into each other's faces, Rosie suddenly felt invisible, like an unquiet ghost. No word she said could move these two. She sat down on the road and started to sob.

That was how Samwise Gamgee and his three sisters found them.

Tongues were quickly bitten. Vergie and Ferg backed off from each other. Rosie stood, wiping tears with her fist.

"Um, good evening," Sam said after a pause.

The deep breath Rosie took to answer him cleared her head a little. "Good evening, Sam, Daisy, May, Marigold."

"It's been a fine party," Daisy ventured.

They traded soothing meaningless words awhile, and that pause likely saved Rosie's marriage. By the time the Gamgees moved on, albeit with curious backward glances, Vergie and Fergast were somewhat calmed down. They fought no further that night.

Rosie slept little, and that restlessly. She and Vergie had meant to marry together and help raise each other's children. Now, with her brothers uninterested in Vergie, and Fergast angry at them both, she wondered glumly whether either would even succeed in marrying.

The next morning Fergast came to call, while Rosie was getting breakfast for her brothers. Restraining the question that leapt to her lips, whether they were still to be married or no, she gingerly served him tea at the kitchen table.

He wrapped both hands around the cup and spoke slowly and solemnly, looking down at his hands. "I'm sorry I made you cry last night, Rosie. I mean, I thought I was the one you loved." He stopped, gulped scalding tea, and started over. "But I love you still, even if I ain't."

Hope stirred in her breast, but so did distress. She loved him. Why wasn't that what mattered? She stirred the porridge hard.

"Rose Cotton," he said again. "I ask you again to marry me. And nothing between you and Vergie changed."

She turned to him, ready to cry with relief. He was looking up hopeful. "Oh, Fergast, yes, dearest. Yes, yes, yes!" Now she was crying, her fists were balled, and the bacon was sizzling and " – oh, Fergast, yes!"

He took her hands and met her eyes, still shy, but determined, and with a smile starting on his square face. But then his expression pinched in again. "I'll only ask you for one thing, love. That you and my sister don't meet in our house."

"Did you and Vergie talk about it?" she asked without thinking.

His face pinched a little more. "We did."

"Then I promise, Fergast," she said, pressing his palms. "Our bed will be ours and ours alone."

She felt herself smiling a little sadly as his face lit up and the bacon burned. By the time she had rescued it, her brothers were all pushing past each other into the kitchen. She smiled at her husband-to-be, wiped her nose, and started serving.




After her wedding, Rosie started training Fergast to run the Green Dragon, which came more natural to him than farming. Although neither was yet of age, Farmer Cotton stood behind Rosie's decisions. He was biding his time about trusting Ferg, him being so new to the business.

Rosie was happy with Fergast. But for all her urging, Vergie made no move to find any suitor.

All three would go dancing together, and they shared any number of meals, but it wasn't at all as Rosie had planned, hoping for four in a bed. She and Vergie might slip out in the moonlight, but the bed was only for her and Fergast.

"It'll be better when we're both married," Rose promised.

"It'd be better if you'd quit your stinking job!" Vergie sulked, kicking a rock hard out into the road. It was a ripe golden afternoon, perfect for dalliance. They had slipped away for a magical hour but Ferg was at Frogmorton market all day, the customers would be pouring in soon, and Rosie had to be back at work.

Vergie twisted her hands into her skirt, frowning as if the hour just past had never been. "You're with Fergast all the time. You go shopping early and do cleaning late, and have just about all your meals at the tavern. You don't have time to be anyone's sweetheart! Give Fergast the job and come back to me!"

"He's not ready," Rosie protested. "My dad doesn't trust him yet. I couldn't just quit on my dad, Vergie, not unless I was having a baby."

Vergie asked near despair, "Don't you think I'm worth it?"

"Oh, Vergie," Rose answered desperately, "please get married."

Vergie left angry and disappeared for a long month or two, sending no word. Her brothers said she was visiting kin and would add no more. Gossip placed her in Frogmorton, close enough to easily write, but no letters came. Rosie's unease grew, along with a helpless, sinking feeling.

Finally, on a warm afternoon, Vergie appeared, not at Rosie's home but at the Dragon. She planted herself at the bar with a strange young hobbit who she introduced as her future husband, Nordo Langleaf from Frogmorton.

Rosie stayed steady in front of the patrons. She sized Nordo up and served him a beer. But inside she shook: What of their vow to marry together? What of raising their children together? What of their love?

It was the next day before she got Vergie alone, to demand what had happened to all their promises. Vergie wouldn't say anything but, "I love him and he wants only me." She said it with a fierce hard look that Rosie slowly recognized: jealousy.

Her heart broke. She saw it now: Vergie had never wanted to share her any more than Fergast did. Rosie had tried to believe in the three of them – the more fool she, to believe alone. And deceivers they, however well-meaning!

Too proud to start crying, she drew herself up and said as coldly as Mr. Baggins himself might, "Then I wish you every happiness, and I hope you'll be more true to him than to me."

Later on, when Fergast saw how long she hurt over Vergie, he said he was sorry for his part in driving his sister away. He wished that he could been more generous, but he couldn't and he had wanted Rosie so. She forgave him, since he'd at least been honest that first night when he told her she couldn't have both. It was she who'd insisted on her dream, and he who had loved her enough to try. Forgiving him, she loved him more.

Rosie didn't see Vergie much after that, except at Boffin family occasions. Of course she heard of the births of her children, one just about every year. Rosie, after 5 married years, still had none.

By 1417, when the new fever swept the Shire, she and Fergast had accepted their childlessness and let it be known that they had a place for any orphans from either of their large families.

Then Fergast sickened.

The local midwife Pansy Burrowes sent to Hyacinthe Mercam from Tuckborough for help, but neither seemed able to do very much. Dozens died.

With people afraid of crowds and bad air, Rosie closed down the Green Dragon. That gave her time to tend to Fergast, uselessly putting cold cloths on his brow and trying to get him to keep down fever tea. After a couple of days, she knew she was only easing his dying. She tried not to weaken him further by crying but couldn't help herself. Neither her tears nor her arms held him back.

When she found he wasn't breathing, her shout of "No!" was so loud that some of the neighbors forgot and came running, despite their fear of contagion.

No healer could ever really explain why the fever took some and not others. Right then Rosie wouldn't have cared if she'd died, but all her family rallied around. Even Vergie sent to ask if she might visit. Rosie let her, as a friend.

Rosie sold her house and moved back under her father's roof. Thus all her young hopes had come to nought.




For a year she worked in dull black and brown dresses. May Gamgee took the evening barmaid's job, leaving Rosie to her solitude. She only came out to manage the customers when one or more was beyond May's powers. Since May was older and steadier than the girls who had come before her, the need came seldom.

At last Rosie finished mourning and put the ribbons back in her hair. Vergie came back, one babe in tow and one on her hip, to visit and encourage. The shapeless guilts between them were old. Both ignored them.

"Don't pine all your life for my poor dead brother," Vergie said, taking Rosie's hand, and smiling in her old sweet flirting way. Rosie was sure that was just habit, but still her heart twinged. She quietly pulled her hand away.

"There's Samwise Gamgee," Vergie went on, more subdued, "a good, hardworking hobbit, who looks at you like you were finest thing ever born."

"And speaks not a word!" Rosie retorted. "I can't do the speaking for us both."

Vergie shrugged and picked up her beer, balancing her youngest on one knee. The silence between them gave as close as they were likely to have to peace.

Harvest of 1418 came with its sweat and its celebrations. Sam Gamgee still had done no more than look at Rosie shyly. Ted Sandyman the miller came around bothering her, and she could see Sam's jealousy, but still he didn't declare himself. It seemed he needed a push to even be convinced to dance with her. And then he went traipsing off to Crickhollow, as he claimed, with Mr. Baggins. Rosie always suspected more afoot, and was not surprised to hear later that they had in fact left the Shire together.

A few girls gave Rosie the eye, as well, which was tempting, but flirting with girls, she knew now, could be treacherous. She had to know her own mind first, how to weigh a sweet lass against a distant silent suitor, how to sound out another's heart. That was all much harder than running a tavern.


The way folk gossiped in the Shire, Rosie knew there were some who stayed away from her, thinking she'd acted scandalously, or that she had wronged either Vergie or Fergast. She couldn't argue that she hadn't.

But now she was finally of age, with no need to stay under her father's roof. With all that she knew, she could talk her way into a position in any inn the Shire – or even in Bree. Hobbits lived there, too, at least so she had heard, among the Big People. Since few traveled from the Shire to Bree, they must have different gossip of their own, none of it about Rosie Cotton Boffin Cotton-again. She liked Bree more the more she considered it.

Her older friends were doubtful. Of course they'd all done very well for themselves staying tied to their families. Few hobbits ever left the Shire, for the outside world teemed with unknown dangers, and Shire-folk preferred to keep them unknown. Crossing the border unaccompanied was unheard of for any hobbit lass. But once Rosie did it, she knew it would be heard of for years. Folk would repeat the story endlessly, and change it to be stranger and more shocking, just the way they always did.

She was steeling herself to break her old dad's heart with her plans when Mr. Lotho Baggins brought his Big People ruffians over the border, and danger became all too well-known. The Big People took what they liked, and beat or locked up anyone who protested. Closing down all the public places was the least of their crimes.

In such times, families needed to hang together. Rosie settled down to do what she could for hers.

The winter of 1418-19, life got worse and worse. The Big People threatened the Shirriffs into working for them, and recruited the meanest hobbits to build up the corps. Self-important one-feather Shirriffs now patrolled the roads, keeping anyone from going anywhere. Part of Farmer Cotton's land was confiscated "to share," along with most of the crops. Scraping up enough to eat took up most of everyone's time.

There were plenty who'd have liked to fight back save that hobbits knew so little of fighting. Those who talked back to Lotho's ruffians found themselves in the Lockholes, waiting for trials that never came.

The Cottons weren't even allowed to take in Gaffer Gamgee and May when Bagshot Row got dug up for a sandpit. The day the Gamgees were turned out, May threw herself weeping into Rosie's arms. Later she sneaked over to the Cottons' place more than once. With trees cut everywhere, but the wood all going to the mills, there was little enough for heating homes. May, looking for all the world like Sam, although she was older and a lass, snuggled up to Rosie in the dim, chill parlor and caught her in those warm brown eyes, leaning close enough to kiss.

Rosie gasped with relief and delight as her lips brushed May's, but then she snapped to her senses and pushed her away.

"I can't!" she cried.

May grasped both her arms. "Why not? Why not take our comfort where we can? The times are dark and you know we both need it." Her sweet broad face was warm with wanting.

Rosie squared her shoulders with difficulty. "I won't come between another brother and sister, May, ever, even though your brother's not here. Sam may come back, and if he does I think he'll ask me to marry him, and if he does that I intend to say yes."

"Do you love him?" May asked, open and honest.

"Perhaps not as I'd like, but he'll be a good husband. I won't lead you on and then break your heart, May dear. I care for you too much for that."

May opened her mouth, but Rose raised her hand.

"Don't tell me you won't fall in love with me; that's a promise no one can be sure of keeping." She sighed and steeled herself. "I'll help you find someone else. That I promise."

It wasn't an easy promise to keep, with meeting places all closed down and even the market dull and cheerless, but Rosie managed to put out the word, and sent May to do her courting elsewhere.

Vergie too came by, one night, with her family, the Langleafs having been turned out and ordered to relocate to Tuckborough. No reason was given. No reason was ever given for anything. They were under guard by a couple of one-feather Shirriffs who looked ill at least in the Cotton's cold parlor under Rosie's brothers' lowering gaze.

In the kitchen, Vergie quietly guessed that some two-feather Langleaf cousin had worked out a deal to send them away rather than throw Nordo in the Lockholes. A bitter smile twitched at her lips. She was proud of his risking showing his anger.

Vergie's face was thin and her eyes deep-shadowed. She gathered her little ones in arms that showed too much muscle and dry flaking elbows. Rosie's heart hurt for her.

They might not ever meet again, Rosie realized dully. The Big People hadn't killed anyone outright, but hunger and sickness killed just as surely. It suddenly no longer mattered that Vergie had once deceived and deserted Rosie; she was young at the time and knew no better. While ladling thin broth into bowls for the children, Rosie realized that this might be the last chance to apologize for her own part.

She put down the ladle and blurted, "Vergie, I'm sorry I broke your heart. I'm sorry I forced my dreams on you and made you second to your brother. If I'd truly known how you felt, I'd have run away with you to Bree before I started courting him."

Vergie looked ready to speak, yet was silent. Her weary eyes barely sparked. How hard must her present troubles be if they crowded all old ones from her mind. "You don't have to answer," Rose added quietly. "I only wanted you to know."

Vergie managed a smile and squeezed Rosie's shoulder once, in the midst of feeding the children.

By autumn of 1419 life was only an exercise in endurance. Then Mr. Baggins and the other Travelers returned, bringing pride and warriors' skills, and the Shire rose against the Big People. Within a few days their land was their own again. One of those Travelers was Samwise Gamgee.

Before the snow started melting, Rose and Sam had kissed, and begun to speak of marrying.

To Rosie, their first kiss seemed the one she had started with his sister May and then broken off all those hard months ago. It had ripened sweetly.

Rosie's feelings for Sam had changed. He was more now than a likely good husband. She would now choose him from a hundred, and not only for his strong arms and lovely kisses. He was toughened, both more grim and more wise, yet still with a kind and faithful heart – a heart she thought she was coming to know.

He knew that Rosie had kissed his sister, and then turned her away to protect her. She'd told him with tears about Fergast and then about Vergie, and he'd held her without trying to stop her crying. He spoke no word of anger or jealousy – and how could he, feeling the way she knew he did about the other one he silently loved?

Rosie had learned not to trust truths that dwelt in silence. She waited for the right time and place to try breaking Sam's.

Sam and May moved in with their old dad in New Row, but Rosie saw Sam nearly as much as before. Most nights that he could, he'd stay late at the Green Dragon, and help clean up without being asked, for Rosie wouldn't consider asking; then she and he and May would ride through the frosty night to Farmer Cotton's, where Sam said good night to her, and to Mr. Frodo if he were awake. (Oh, the tenderness of those goodnights!) Tired as she might be sometimes, Rosie cherished the ordinariness as she felt their lives twining together.

But this week May and her sweetheart Sherriss were away at Harbottle for one of Sherriss' cousins' birthday party, so it was just Rosie and Sam at the Dragon, wiping down tables and rinsing mugs. It put Rosie in mind of her marriage to Fergast -- the marriage with its lurking secret, the marriage not blessed with any children. It made her uncommon sad, and a bit fearful.

Sam put the broom in its corner as she placed the last clean mug on the shelf. As they turned towards each other she asked, "Sam, dearest, will it grieve your heart if we can have no children?"

"Not enough to make me give you up, Rose," Sam said. He reached their cloaks down from hooks, then faced her again to add with a shy smile, "Besides, Mr. Frodo thinks we'll have plenty."

Rosie had to laugh. "And how would he know?"

Sam wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. "He sees things, Rosie. He's – changed. You know that. And even if he's wrong, you're right for me."

Pulling on her gloves, she felt the moment right to ask, "What is there between you and Mr. Frodo, Sam?"

"There's nothing!" Sam insisted, looking stung and then away.

Protecting him again, whether he needs protecting or no. Rosie sighed to herself but took his arm. "I'm to be your wife, Samwise. Don't tell me you think you're marrying a fool."

"It's true, Rose," he said, slowly meeting her eyes. "There is nothing, only a might-have-been." The loss showed as fresh as if it were yesterday. Poor Sam.

She said softly, "A might-have-been you still grieve."

"Rose," he protested, drawing her closer, "It's nothing to do with my love for you. I was ready to ask you before - "

She hadn't the heart to push him more, nor would she let him think her jealous. When he'd finished, she said, "I'll accept you now, even more than before," and brushed a kiss onto his cheek before they went out the door together.

Rose felt better with even those few words spoken. She didn't fear losing Sam to Mr. Frodo, wouldn't have feared even if there were what Sam might call "something." She feared losing him to his own secrecy. It was always the hidden things that destroyed.




Sam was one of the party that broke open the Lockholes as soon as the Big People were driven out. Poor Mayor Whitfoot emerged starved down to skin and bones. Afterwards the Lockholes themselves were filled in and leveled and the land where they had been was planted. But during those first few weeks of freedom, the main job was taking care of the freed prisoners. Will Whitfoot needed time to recover and fatten up. So as to have some authority in place, the assembled citizens voted Mr. Frodo Deputy Mayor.

While Frodo's main official act was reduce the number and tasks of the Shirriffs, he also spent a fair amount of time sorting out property disputes. Under Lotho's and later Sharkey's rule, there had been so many confiscations, forced sales, evictions, and plain cheating that numbers of property lines were muddled, and demands flew every which way about responsibility for restoring this or that home or field or orchard or outbuilding.

In most cases, folk showed enough hobbit-sense to negotiate some sort of settlement. In a few difficult cases, testimony had to be taken about the circumstances of a sale, documents found (if they still existed) and a decision produced and enforced.

Sam, because he knew his letters, was much in demand. This was partly his own doing: He wouldn't have Mr. Frodo riding all over the Shire in search of some paper or another, especially when the only need for it was due to someone's plain stubbornness. He'd half a mind on more than one occasion to declare the evidence lost but his conscience stopped him.

It was on March 13, 1420, a chill early spring day, with the disputing parties lined up and fair straining at their leashes, that Sam went to Bag End, ready to ride with Mr. Frodo to Michel Delving, but found the place silent. Struck by more fears than he cared to name, he unlocked, threw the door open and ran in. He found Frodo in front of the parlor fire, fallen face down, one hand outstretched toward the fireplace. Sam checked for a pulse, found one, and realized he had been holding his breath.

Sam very carefully took Frodo's shoulder and turned him over. His pale skin was cold and sweaty. His eyes were open unseeing, his breath shallow and ragged. He smelt wrong.

Sam choked down panic, the court case driven clear out of his head, while he got Frodo up and into bed. Sun and Moon, how could they have been fools enough to plan anything for the middle of March? For magic wounds seemed not to heal but to wait for their time of year to strike again, and last March, Sam was sure it was March when they reached Cirith Ungol -

Frodo's eyes came half-focused, "Sam?"

Sam hugged him, remembering too many things and cursing himself for a fool. "It's your Sam, Mr. Frodo. I'm here." And I'm going to have to leave you. There's folk waiting for you to make a decision, and since you can't go to them I'll have to do it. You'd want me to if you remembered. But how can I?

He surely stayed too long and not long enough. Frodo was past understanding much, except maybe that there weren't any orcs present. Sam got him cleaned up, built up a fire, and tried to get some tea down him, but couldn't get him to swallow, and ended up cradling him wondering how to leave him alone a year to the day from the time Shelob had as good as killed him.

Finally Sam did what he'd done before, kissed him and said as cheerily as he could, "Come, let go, Mr. Frodo. I'll have to be leaving now, but I'll send some one round to see to you, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

It was some comfort that Frodo let go with a nod of assent and let himself be laid down.




Sam showed up flustered at Farmer Cotton's while Rosie was doing up the dishes before leaving to unlock the Dragon. She opened the door with soapy hands, brightened at seeing her husband-to-be, but then took in his face and the two ponies tethered outside, and said, "What's wrong?"

He twisted his hands together, in a helpless gesture not at all like him, and asked with a shyness she thought was long gone, whether she might go by Bag End when she had a moment. "Mr. Frodo's took bad and I can't stay. He won't eat nor drink nor keep up the fire, and I'm that worried, Rose."

She examined him hard, having seen it dozens of times over the last winter: Samwise worriting himself into knots over Mr. Frodo, who Rosie found perhaps sometimes weak and vague but able to take proper care of himself. But this was close to panic. Sam looked like Rosie had felt when Fergast was dying.

There was no reason that Mr. Frodo Baggins might not be took really sick on occasion.

And it wasn't easy for Sam to ask. He had come only to her. She solemnly accepted the key to Bag End.

"Will you call for Pansy?" she asked, putting the key into her apron pocket.

Sam shook his head with a sigh. "There's nought that her herbs could do for this. It's poison from one of Sauron's friends."

That would make some very old poison taking its own sweet time to act! But this was no time to argue with Sam.

He rode off by himself for his first act as Acting Deputy Mayor, for so the assembled disputants appointed him. His decision, however difficult to reach, was accepted. A few weeks later, with Frodo endorsing it in front of sufficient witnesses, it was to become entirely legal.

Rosie rode off to find Pansy Burrowes.

First she stopped at New Row and sent May ahead to unlock the Green Dragon, where working hobbits came all on and off all day for elevenses, luncheon, and tea. "Something's come up," she explained without explaining and rode on.

Pansy looked up from turning the soil in her garden and hobbled to the gate. "What can I do for you this fine day, Rose dear?"

Rosie felt better just seeing Pansy - a warm, solid reliance that she thought other lasses might feel for their mothers. During Fergast's last illness, and after, Pansy had helped her, kept her steady, and encouraged her to keep going.

"I need your help, Pansy. I have to go see to someone who's sick, where I haven't the right to ask you in. Is there anything general you can give me, to use when I get there if I should need it? Say something for fever or chills or the stomach or – well, fear?"

Pansy tightened her mouth with a small thoughtful noise, leaning her elbows on the gate and considered a few moments. "It ain't the way I like to work. Can I trust you not to do anything foolish? Not all these herbs mix with each other, you know."

"I'll remember any instructions you give me."

Pansy finally nodded, unsmiling. "You did well enough at need before. Come on in." She opened the gate.




Rosie unlocked the round green door, and searched out the right room. It was her first time ever in Bag End, and she took great care not to disturb anything.

She found Mr. Frodo in his bed, somewhere between waking and sleeping, and realized that Sam was right this time.

Putting on a calm she didn't feel, she knelt by the bed and said softly, "Mr. Baggins?" At home she'd have called him Mr. Frodo, but this was his house, after all, and she wasn't even a proper guest.

His frightened eyes fixed on her. She held still, like she would for a wild animal. "It's Rose Cotton. Samwise sent me to look after you."

He subtly relaxed and managed a nod and a strangled sound that might have been "Thanks." At least that's what she'd expect from him, who had always a been a courteous guest in both tavern and home.

She felt his cold forehead with her wrist and went to make some warming tea. When it was done, she got her arm around him, decently separated by a sheet, and convinced him to slowly drink some. Halfway through the cup, he fell asleep on her shoulder. Real eyes-closed sleep. She let him stay there awhile before easing him back down.

He's dear to my Sam. She savored the paired words, true in a way they had not been before. My Sam. He'd entrusted to her what was dearest to him.

After some days, when Rosie felt sure of her welcome, she got Frodo up when she came by. It weren't healthy to linger all day in bed.

When Sam found out, it fretted him, but he had no good answer when Rosie stoutly asked him why shouldn't Mr. Frodo do what he could for himself? Well, she couldn't change Samwise, that was a fact, but she had Mr. Frodo down to the kitchen as often as she cooked anything for him.

Besides, getting him up gave her a chance to change the sour sheets.

She recoiled from the thought of putting a dirty hobbit into a clean bed. "Mr. Frodo," she offered, while taking up the dishes. "if I heat water, will you take a bath? I'll lay out a towel and a fresh nightshirt, but I draw the line at helping you wash." She spoke lightly, and he answered in kind.


In another few days, and she felt it proper to remind him when leaving, "You see to those dishes if you can. You don't want to leave Sam even more work to do."

Rose had seen enough of the over-careful way Sam treated Frodo, to know why her near-order made him grin. "Yes, Ma'am, Miss Rosie," he answered with a chuckle.

"Now we'll have none of your cheek, Mr. Frodo," she retorted, happily as she closed the door.

The next week, Rosie engaged May's sweetheart Sherriss as Bag End laundress. The lass could use the pay, Mr. Frodo said he would supply it, and someone needed to do the work. Rose was starting to feel right at home at Bag End.

Sam didn't need any bothering now, for his regular gardening work had reached far beyond Bag End; his reputation (which he claimed he didn't deserve) kept his knowledge much in demand. What with one thing and another, he often rode off for long days.

Rosie switched May to the twilight shift at the tavern, leaving her own evenings free for Sam. She made sure that he had hot meals and clean clothes waiting at Bag End, and no cause to be worrying over Frodo, who was quite himself again and mostly concerned with the book he was writing.

Finally Frodo thanked Sam for doing both their jobs so well, and resumed his own. Rose and Sam returned to their fathers' houses.




"In the Party Field, a beautiful young sapling leaped up; it had silver bark and long leaves and burst into golden flowers in April." So wrote J. R. R. Tolkien, and no one could have written it better. While folk stood around admiring it, with many Ooohs and Aaahs, Samwise drew Rosie aside and, taking her hands, formally asked her to marry him on the First of May.

"Oh, Sam dear, yes!" she cried, as her heart gave a triumphant leap. "I'll love you for all my days," she murmured against his neck, "and no one could make me half as happy."

It was to be a great marrying day, they later found, for Rose's widowed oldest brother was asking the same to Sam's youngest sister.

"There'll be little ones between our families one way or the other," Rosie said, once she and Sam were alone. She lay against his shoulder under a tree beside the Water, looking down at their twined fingers.

"Perhaps it will be both ways, love," he said contentedly, smoothing her hair.

He was strong that way, in staying hopeful whatever the odds. She knew where he was strong and where he wasn't, and she wanted him for life. But he'd be no help in clearing the one cloud from their horizon. That job was up to her.




The Cottons' and Gamgees' houses were full and busy. Sam wrote out the double invitations, which May and Marigold sealed and posted, while Rosie's and Sam's older brothers pulled together Sam's stag night. May's Sherris, who had a way with hair, started planning to make Rosie's beautiful. Rosie sewed her own gown. But the most important task still faced her.

The wedding was but two weeks away when she picked a day that Sam was away and strode up the path to Bag End. The day was high, clear and blue, the flowers were bright and fragrant, and the air itself rich with promise.

She knocked and Frodo let her in with a casual, "How are you, Miss Rosie?" As almost always, he managed to look as if he'd been idly expecting whoever came.

"Well, thanks," she said, and accepted his invitation in. Sitting before the open kitchen window, she said, "I haven't properly thanked you for paying for our wedding party."

She didn't listen to his answer, but watched, searching out any change in his stance, his hands, his eyes. Ah, there it was, the tiniest cloud.

He offered her refreshments, which was of course only good manners, and she accepted, adding very gently, "We have a few things to talk about before the wedding."

"Do we?" he asked with a false lightness, turning from her to put on the kettle.

At last he sat opposite her, face composed and serious, hands clasped. Forcing himself to meet her eyes levelly. Yes, the will in there was strong.

She poured herself a cup of tea and said, "Mr. Frodo, Sam's told me enough in his hinting way, and I've seen the rest, that I can figure what you've been doing. You've been playing, haven't you, at being more sick than you are, just to make sure that Sam can't have you?"

He paled, and, she thought, looked at her with a new respect. She nibbled at a scone, giving him a chance to speak, but he stayed silent. "I've seen you sick," she reminded him, "and I've seen you as you usually are. I've also seen how you look at Sam when you think no one's looking and how you put on a whole new face if he looks at you.

"I've heard him talk about you enough, and I pretty well guess what you both are feeling." She sighed. It was difficult now for her to face him. She turned towards the sunlight. "You may know that I've been widowed. I also know what it's like to pledge myself and then both betray and be betrayed. I've loved both a lad and a lass, Mr. Frodo, and lost one to the grave and the other to a husband that she chose over me – although to be honest I lost her first to my own foolishness." She slowly let out another sigh, and felt lighter, relieved of the hard confession.

She turned to Frodo again. Only stillness. Well, she hadn't yet put a direct question to him, save the one he had answered with his eyes. She said softly, "The longing never quite lets you go -- does it? I know you pushed him towards me. But why did you push him away from you?"

"Am I so transparent?" he asked with a wry half-smile.

She had to smile, too. "Oh, not to most folk," she reassured. "They'll see only what they expect. And not to Sam, who trusts you for all that you've deceived him so long. But you still haven't answered my question."

"Oh, Rose," he began but stopped short, looking past her into some unguessable distance. His hands fell apart, and one twitched as if trying to grasp something fast and fleeting, then settled back down, open and empty. She sipped her cooling tea and let him think. Small birds jumped and twittered in the flowering vines around the window, Sam's loving handiwork.

At last he looked up. He seemed to grow before her eyes, and yet to be smaller, in need of protection. Luminous. He's – changed, Sam had said. Yes.

"You are half right, Rose," he said at last in a voice like the softest late-summer breeze. "I have pretended more weakness than I felt, yet it was not entirely a lie. I am weakening, not daily but steadily.

"The illness you saved me from," he said with a fleeting half-smile, "was only a mortal one. To another, it would have passed quickly. But I had no strength to fight it alone. The quest claimed much of me. It used up a lifetime's worth of strength. And the Ring took even more. Part of me perished with it. I often feel dark and empty within. It is only a matter of time until I fade entirely from this world."

She broke the silence to finish for him. "And you would not take Sam from the world with you."

His eyes met hers, full of both grief and hope. "Yes."

He's entrusting to me what's dearest to him, she repeated to herself and reached for him. Her five fingers curled over his four.

"I'll cherish him," she promised, and gently let go his hand. For much as she cared, in two different ways, for each, their love wasn't hers to be burdened with, nor their endless protecting of each other. "But what will you do while waiting?"

He gave a small shrug. "Finish my book, as I promised Bilbo. Wait for a ship to Valinor."

"To where?" she asked, startled. Sam had never hinted at Frodo leaving the Shire.

"The home of the Elves. It lies in the far west, past the Sea. The Undying Land, they call it in Elvish. For mortal beings like us –" She waited. He said, wistfully but almost happily, "I cannot say, but I long to know."

They sat silent awhile. How frail and yet strong he seemed to her. Whatever horrors he may have survived, he had survived. He was here now.

At last she nodded, her cold tea forgotten, and felt her cautious way. "You've done a fine thing for the one you love. But you have what you want, now. Sam's marrying me. Will you think of doing me a kindness?"

His brow creased, puzzled, but his voice was steady. "I'd consider any kindness you asked."

"Well, then think of my wedding night," she said, feeling only the faintest flush. He jerked minutely away from her, but neither interrupted nor dropped his eyes. She went on, more confident, "Do you think I want to spend it knowing that however much he wants me, my Sam's still yearning after you – and you the more tempting for being out of his reach? Now that you no longer need to fool him, will you keep on luring him away? Or will you honestly share him with me? Would you steal him from me while giving him to me?"

For the next few seconds she kept herself very calm, however many smiles twitched the corners of her mouth, until the same smile spread all over his face and he broke blushing into embarrassed laughter which mixed with the twittering birdsong outside.

"Oh, Rosie," he managed at last, getting control of himself. "You are a wonder and a treasure! But," he added suddenly serious, "I will have to confess to deceiving Sam."

Yes! Yes, you must and yes, you will, or the secret will ever shadow us all. No words had ever made Rosie more happy.

"Don't take it so hard, Frodo dear," she said, so naturally that she didn't quite notice until she heard herself: She now spoke to him as to a friend. Well, and why shouldn't she? They were friends now, she realized happily. "He'll forgive you, you know. He loves you as he loves me.

"Ask him to move into Bag End with you. Let it be your wedding present to us. Either you'll work it out with him yourself, or we'll all work it out together."




May, Sherriss, and Vergie all fussed around Rose, helping her into her blue wedding gown. It couldn't be white for a second marriage, but the gown was so fair and the fabric so fine that none of them could stop exclaiming.

Rosie loved the touch of their hands on her hair, at her waist, up her back as they smoothed and petted and arranged, playing with her like with a big doll. She smiled and let them.

She still wished a lover of her own sex. It wasn't a hope to give up lightly, but it was far from simple to fulfill, especially for the mistress of Bag End. If Rose were to have another lover, she would have to be right for Sam as well – and for Frodo for as long as they had him. For now she treasured her friends' tender touches.

Starting the walk to meet Sam for their hand-fasting, she glanced around the assembled crowd: Her dad and her brothers, all beaming, with Tom in the center looking proudly across the room at a flower-decked Marigold; her friends who were secret couples standing together amid the crowd, hands clasped; Frodo nervous (at least to her eye) but smiling beside her Sam, who fairly glowed when his eyes lit on Rose; May and Vergie at her side. How thankful she was for them all.

How thankful she was that she had learned how not to rush heedless through people's hearts. The need was always to tread carefully.

She knew now: The ways of the heart are hidden, uncertain and slippery. Not everyone can love the same way. Not everyone can share their love all the ways they might like.

But, she told herself, and felt the joy shining from her face, we three will do it for sure. We'll only do what we're already doing, what we've done the whole time we were courting.
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