Chapter Text
It had been a long, hot summer in the shire - the hottest since Frodo had come to join his uncle at Bag End. All of the doors and windows were propped permanently open and Frodo had spent most of the day lying despondently on the cool tiles of the pantry, thinking longingly of the shallow banks of the Brandywine where his cousins would no doubt be splashing at this very moment.
This was where Sam found him, as the afternoon stretched on and the strength of the midday sun waned slightly, the air outside becoming more breathable. Despite the heat, the hobbit was grinning widely, excitement burning in his eyes. Pausing at the threshold he knocked awkwardly on the wide open door, to which Frodo groaned dramatically and wiggled around until he could look up at him.
“Sam, you fool, don’t waste precious energy knocking - come and lie on these blessedly cool tiles and lament the cruel and unrelenting sun with me.”
“They won’t be cool now after you’ve been lying on them all day” Sam said sensibly. “Anyway, there’s no time for that - I’ve got something to show you, Mr Frodo. And I promise you it will be worth it.”
The swelteringly hot walk to Sam’s secret, which took them to the outskirts of Bindbole Wood, did not put Frodo in better spirits, although the same could not be said for the company of Sam Gamgee. Walking with him was not a chance Frodo would have missed for all the world, sun or no sun.
As soon as they entered the treeline the heat grew markedly less oppressive, the air fresh and green around them. Frodo felt his chest loosening as Sam led him through the trees and then stopped, cheeks already pink from the walk glowing even brighter as he picked at a loose thread in his shirt for a moment.
“Alright, we’re here. Close your eyes Mr Frodo - I won’t let you fall.”
Frodo shut his eyes and his breath caught in his throat as Sam’s hands came up to catch his arms, guiding him gently but firmly forward a few steps, over tangled tree roots. Then the hands disappeared, and somehow in the sweltering heat Frodo felt cold.
“All right - you can open them now.” Frodo opened his eyes straight into Sam’s chestnut brown ones, shining proudly and maybe slightly shyly. For a single, piercing moment his heart felt as though it would break out of his chest. Then, with a start, he looked down at Sam’s hands which were cupped secretively around something. With infinite gentleness the gardener took Frodo’s hand in his own and gently tipped his prize into the waiting palm.
Frodo looked down at the cluster of tiny, jewelled berries that lay nestled there. Sam had moved back, carefully, and was tugging him deeper into the dappled glade that he could now see was filled with the deep green trefoiled leaves and small red fruits of wild strawberry plants, a rare sight in the shire and deeply prized when stumbled upon.
“I found it earlier this summer and I’ve been waiting for the berries to ripen - Marigold has been on at me about jams and I know Mrs Bracegirdle wants some for her milk puddings but I wanted to show you first, when the berries were perfect. I thought it could be our place - at least, I mean - I haven’t shown anyone else, is what I mean.”
Sam’s upturned eyes glowed in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the leaves and, for a moment, Frodo was put in mind of the daisies in the orchard turning their faces skyward in spring. Then the sun slipped behind a cloud and the moment passed just as quickly. He shook off the thought. In front of him was plain old Sam, who would no doubt be horrified if he had heard Frodo’s silly fancies. Sam, who was still looking up at him with a soft, shy smile.
Frodo smiled back.
“There’s a word for somewhere like this in elvish I think - a wild strawberry place,” Frodo said, half to himself, but Sam’s face lit up instantly.
“In elvish! What is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Frodo hesitated and could feel a blush creeping up his neck as his head caught up with his heart. “Well - I don’t know that I could pronounce it quite right after all.”
“We can ask Mr Bilbo when get home maybe -”
“No,” Frodo cut in quickly, cheeks burning at the thought of mentioning it to his uncle - his uncle who knew the significance of the phrase in elvish society, and who already watched Frodo with knowing eyes whenever the gardener’s lad passed the window with a smudge of dirt on his cheek, cheerfully whistling a dancing tune. Watched as Frodo invariably lost his place and stumbled uncharacteristically through the rest of their translation session.
“No,” he said again, sharper than he’d intended to cover the panic fluttering in his stomach, and Sam ducked his head.
“Of course not sir - sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest - I know such things are all a bit beyond me, Mr Frodo.” He reached out for the basket and started brushing himself off, face still averted. “Well, I’d best be getting back with these, Marigold will be wanting some for her jams, I’m sure.”
Shame lay hot and heavy as a stone in Frodo’s stomach as he watched the moment slip from his grasp and shatter into pieces. And all because he could never find the right words around Master Samwise, not when it mattered most.
“Sam, wait!” He caught the other hobbit’s sleeve and tugged him down.
“I’m sorry Sam, I didn’t mean to snap - I’m simply ashamed I can’t remember, truth be told.” He smiled ruefully, and Sam let himself be pulled back to the grass.
“Don’t be silly, sir,” he said stoutly, mouth set in a frown at the perceived slight to his master, even one made by Frodo himself. “There’s no one who’s learned their letters better between here and Buckland - other than Mr Bilbo himself, of course.”
The heaviness in Frodo’s stomach lifted at the earnestness in Sam’s gaze, burned away like mist in the morning light. He reached out and plucked another berry from the nearest cluster and, catching hold of Sam’s hand, placed it in his palm.
“There will be plenty for the jam jars, Sam - take some for yourself first.”
He turned back with renewed purpose, stepping gently between the trailing stems, intent on finding the ripest and roundest berries to carry back carefully to his friend. So intent on his task was he that he missed the look Sam gave him, face cracking open for only a moment and something long-buried shining through.
“Oh!” He misjudged the final leap back in his excitement and went careening into Sam, knocking both of them backwards but still cradling the precious cargo in his hands.
“Sorry my dear.” Frodo grinned at him from where the two of them had landed, legs tangled together, too flush with victory to think about the endearment that had slipped past his lips.
"I remembered the name! Caradydion - wild strawberry place. You must only show - well -” he flustered for a moment “tradition says you must only show one to people you care for.”
Sam’s face lit up. “Caradydion.” He stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar syllables, then repeated it more confidently. “My first foreign word.”
“I’m sure Bilbo would teach you more, you know” Frodo said offhand, most of his attention fixed on the ground where he was diligently splitting his bounty between them.
Sam’s eyes were round as saucers.
“Don’t tease, Mr Frodo. Imagine, me learning my letters - and elvish, to be sure!”
“I’m not teasing you, Sam! Bilbo would be overjoyed to have another victim to talk at, and you’d pick it up in no time, I know you would.” He laughed, “the only one who would need convincing is your gaffer, and if we could get Bilbo to raise it with him I’m sure he could be persuaded.”
Sam’s expression made it clear he was too overwhelmed for words, and Frodo took the opportunity to direct his attention back to his spoils, now carefully shared between them.
The heatwave broke that very evening, long-awaited rain lashing against Frodo’s windows while he lay in bed, the taste of berries still sweet on his lips, warm like the summer sun itself. Marigold had enough berries to make her famous strawberry jam that year, but only just. And no amount of asking would prevail upon Sam to reveal where he had found them.
Sam started lessons with Bilbo that same winter, when the harvest was in and even the Gaffer had to concede that garden-work had dwindled and it would be good for a growing lad to have something to keep him busy during the long evenings.
But, hard as Sam worked, they never reached caradydion. The book it was mentioned in seemed to have vanished from shelves in the study. Bilbo, who was a firm believer that young hobbits were entitled to their privacy from nosey old uncles, did not mention the migration of what had in fact been one of the rarer elvish tomes from his bookshelves to the cavity under a loose floorboard in his nephew’s room.