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It was a lovely summer’s day today. The temperature had cooled from Egg-Frying Sidewalk to a nice Egg-Warming Sidewalk. This was a proven fact, as one of the residents had a tendency to throw eggs onto the sidewalks.
Sam was humming softly to himself as he trimmed the crabapple trees next to the main house at Bag End. Sam always took extra care in pruning the gardens here, for Bilbo would occasionally get into a mood and become very particular about the state of the plant-life, so being one step ahead of him was a must. Nearly impossible, Sam thought as he gathered the snipped branches, but I ought to try anyhow.
Looking back, he realized that a few branches were getting awfully close to the window there.
That won’t do one bit. Sam grabbed his stepladder and moved closer to the house. Mr. Bilbo had a right conniption the last time petals fell into the kitchen. Baked ‘em into a quiche, he did. Poor sir was spittin’ flowers for days. Or, so he says.
Sam was reaching for the first branch when he was made vaguely aware of voices coming in through the cracked window.
Frodo must still be here, then. I haven’t seen him all day… Sam expertly snipped a few twigs. But, hold on–
That ain’t Mr. Frodo’s voice, though. I s’pose Old Bilbo has a guest. Hopefully it ain’t another tenant complainin’ about the coffee makers. He gently moved a silkworm to another branch so as to not accidentally hurt it. Ain’t never seen such fine coffee makers– or are they espresso machines? Whatever you call them, they make tea taste like bathwater, that’s for sure.
A particularly thick branch was now in the way, and as Sam fought to cut it loose, his mind drifted back to hear the conversation happening inside.
“I’ve told you one too many times,” Bilbo was saying, “I want nothing to do with it. I’ll gladly sit to discuss our past endeavors, but to bring that thing here?” He scoffed. “That’s a HIPAA violation if I ever saw one.”
Sam found himself leaning in.
“Surely you do not want me passing this off to one of the Thirteen.” Another man cleared his throat. “Ten, I mean.”
“I want you to throw it out!” Bilbo snapped, and a panic overtook his voice. “No no! Not like that! Not like that!”
Scuffling could be heard inside.
Eventually, Bilbo seemed to have calmed. “Look, you’re welcome to stay here, of course. As long as you’d like. But if you try any more of this nonsense– especially with him wandering about– I won’t be responsible for whatever happens. The police are well aware of your antics by now.”
As the conversation faded, Sam found that his shears had not moved in quite a few minutes. He shook his head and went back to finding the overgrown branches.
Suddenly, a hand seized the back of his shirt and hauled him through the window and onto the table. Sam landed hard with an oof!
A large elderly man was leaning over him with a frantic look in his eyes. His long, matted grey hair was flying everywhere. “A German spy!” He roared. “Snooping and eavesdropping!”
“I ain’t been droppin’ no eaves, sir!” Sam cried, holding the shears as a weapon in front of him. The man slapped them from his hands.
“He’ll spill our secrets!” The stranger yelled.
At the same time Bilbo was shouting, “He’s not German, he’s a redneck!”
Despite his smaller stature, Bilbo was able to pull the man back away from Sam. All three of them were breathing hard and frantic.
“I’m sorry, sirs!” Sam clutched his heart– which was beatin’ much, much too fast– “I didn’t mean no harm, Mr. Bilbo! I was just prunin’ your crabapples!”
“Hush, Samwise.” Bilbo snapped, not unkindly. He looked at the taller man, very unkindly. “Gandalf, this is our gardener. Sam Gamgee. You met his father the last few times you were here.”
“Porky.” Gandalf said.
“Hamfast.” Bilbo corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
Bilbo shook his head, displeased.
Sam sat there on the table, pondering if he should stay there and try not to move or quietly climb back out the window. He rubbed his throat, which had gotten a might sore after the stranger– Gandalf– had yanked the nape of his shirt.
The bickering between the two seniors seemed to have calmed, and Bilbo finally turned to Sam.
“Sam, you ought to have heard of Gandalf.”
Worriedly, Sam nodded.
“We served in the same Squad back in the War. Us and the Thirteen.”
“Yessir.” Sam said. “I know him from your war stories.”
“You’ve spoken of the War to a child of his size?” Gandalf questioned.
Sam opened his mouth at this, then decided better of it.
“Preposterous! Telling young lads of the blood and death and bombings and diseases and the trenches and the fires– oh, the fires…” Gandalf’s eyes glazed. “The skies wreathed in flames, the roaring of the engines, the piercing of shrapnel through your– Oh! That reminds me!”
“No, no no no, Gandalf!” Bilbo started.
Gandalf paid him no heed and pulled something from his pocket and presented it to Sam. “Perhaps a young man such as yourself could appreciate such memorabilia as this!”
Sam gawked. In his hand was a glistening, polished, shining grenade.
“What–” Sam stuttered.
“Absolutely not!” Bilbo grabbed it and ran to the living room. “There will be no bestowing of active grenades, not in this house, not on my property!” He shoved it into a locked drawer and put the key in his pocket.
Gandalf frowned and started rustling through the kitchen cabinets. “A spoil-sport, that’s what you are, Bilbo. No respect for priceless artifacts, clearly. I’ll be wanting that back before I leave.” He examined a bottle of oregano. “How would you smoke this?”
Sam eased himself off the table and inched away from the kitchen.
“I really didn’t mean to intrude on you like this, Mr. Bilbo.” He whispered. “Would I be able to get my shears back before leavin’? He stuck ‘em in his pocket I think, and beggin’ your pardon, but I’d rather not ask for them back myself, if you understand.”
Bilbo patted his shoulder. “I’ll get your shears, lad. Why don’t you take a lunch break and help yourself to the fridge? To pay you back for the trouble he’s caused.”
“Oh, no sir, I couldn’t–”
“Nonsense!” Bilbo interrupted. “Don’t you start arguing with me, too. And after you’ve grabbed a bite, maybe you could go see Frodo for a moment. I imagine he’s still rather cross with me.”
“Frodo’s here?”
“Yes, yes. You see, Frodo and Gandalf get along quite well. Too well, in fact.” Bilbo snuck a glare at the old veteran, who was shoving multiple bagels into one toaster slit. “Gandalf has a tendency to thrust things of… dangerous magnitude… into the hands of whoever he encounters. As you’ve so observed.” Sam nodded. “And Frodo listens to too many of his tales, I’m afraid. The boy starts to think he could take on the world. And Gandalf is much too encouraging of that, the old fool.”
Sam blinked in sympathy.
“Well, I meant to put a stop to that as soon as I could. Frodo was doing his own bit of eavesdropping when Gandalf first arrived, so I sent him up to the roof.”
“... the roof.”
“Yes, he should still be up there now. Oh! Why don’t you take him up a slice of casserole? It just got out of the oven an hour ago.”
A few minutes later, Sam found himself walking up the stairs to Frodo’s suite with two plates of casserole in his hands.True to what Bilbo said as he had cut the casserole, Frodo’s door was unlocked and the window open. Sam cursed himself for tracking dirt across the lush carpet and peeked outside.
“Mr. Frodo?”
“Sam?”
Frodo’s voice did in fact come from above him. His head soon peered out from the roof’s edge.
“What brings you up here, Sam?”
“What– What in tarnation are you doing on the roof?”
Frodo shrugged. “It’s Bilbo’s new favorite spot for me when he wants privacy. Is that a casserole you have there?”
Sam nodded weakly.
“Lovely! It’s past lunch, care to join me?”
“... on the roof?”
“Where else? Here, you can crawl out the window, it’s just above the flat part there, and then it’s an easy climb up.”
Oh, what would the Gaffer say if he saw me now… Sam thought as he glanced at the ground, which was much too far down for his liking. He winced. Actually, I’d know exactly what he’d say, and I’d dare not even think it right now, lest I lose my nerve.
After a deep breath, Sam slowly, carefully edged onto the roof. Which was indeed flat, and not too much of a trouble to stand on. He’d feel much better if his legs weren’t shaking, though.
However, Frodo was up on the top, which was a great deal more slanted. Sam stood there, not sure if this was what he wanted to risk his life on. He had to pick Mari up from Drama Club later that afternoon, and he couldn’t very well do that if he was dead.
Noticing his hesitance, Frodo started to climb down. “How about I just join you there, then?”
Frodo took a plate and they both sat down on the roof. The flat roof, thankfully. Frodo swung his legs over the side. Sam did not.
It was a good half hour that they stayed there, sharing stories and enjoying the casserole. Sam was almost disappointed when he said he’d need to get back to the garden.
Frodo helped him up and back to the window.
“Before you leave, Sam,” Frodo nudged him, “did Gandalf say, or show, anything while you were down there?”
Sam studied his face. There was a spark of hope in his eyes. Hope and… something more.
“There– there was, Mr. Frodo.” Sam spoke slowly. “Mr. Bilbo didn’t seem too keen on havin’ it out, though.” He weighed this next decision carefully. “He decided it’d be safe and sound in the locked drawer in the livin’ room. No pryin’ eyes there.”
Joy split across Frodo’s face and he assisted Sam through the window.
“You’re a dear friend, Sam Gamgee.” Frodo clasped his shoulder. “I owe you a great many drinks for this.”
“Always eager to be a conspirator, I am.” Sam sighed, mournfully. “Have a good day, sir.”
Frodo waved him off as Sam turned back to the stairs.
Hopefully nothing too terrible would come from this.