Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first was pulled from the earth.

That was how the story went. The first hobbit had dirt in their hair and roots caught between their teeth. Nobody remembered what their flower had been anymore.

“Some- some things just won’t sprout.” The Gaffer’s voice had been shaking, trembling like anticipating leaves in the wind, and it was not like him to be so overcome, subtle as it was. Graciously, it went unremarked upon.

Like eggs that never hatch. Babes put to bed that never wake up again. The start of life was always the most fragile. Frodo listened through the door, and pretended he wasn’t. In the corner of his eye he saw Uncle Bilbo prod into the room, stopping there at the other side. The slim distance of the parlor between them felt mountainous. A small part of Frodo wished Bilbo would cross the distance. He was glad the older hobbit didn’t.

“Are you having a nice vacation, Frodo?” Bilbo asked, his eyes kind and pained. Patient and sorrow-filled. His voice was quiet, but Frodo heard. He always did.

Frodo felt detached. Distant. “Yes, Bilbo,” he said hollowly, “It’s been lovely.”

On the mantle, the flowers were dying. Pretty red laceleaf turning into a withered paper.

“Yes, the marigold patch is coming along well. It’s just the- the bluebells that… that aren’t…”

Bluebells. Loyalty, humility… constancy. Those were all nice things. They could have used a hobbit like that. Frodo would have liked to know a hobbit like that.

Frodo was getting tired of death. Food had become tasteless to him, the feel of the earth beneath him distant and unattached. He was no longer sure if he was real or alive, much less a hobbit. Sometimes he thought he might be dead, a wraith. Surely no hobbit was meant to feel as he did. Surely they were not meant to contain this enormity of bitter emptiness. 

“I’m glad.” Bilbo smiled wanly. Could he hear The Gaffer too? He must not have been able to - hobbits were so careful around Frodo these days, as though he were something due to shatter any minute. Nobody talked about these sorrows around him, not where they thought he could hear.

(But then again, Bilbo had always had a spark to his eye, something clever and cunning. Were you planning this, Bilbo? Frodo wondered often.)

“I’m fine, thank-ee,” The Gaffer said to the other, inaudible voice. “It’s just the reality of these things.”

It seemed selfish.

What was there within the dark, damp earth that could not be found above? What warmth could its embrace hold that could not be found in the arms of two loving parents?

.

.

“You’re selfish,” Frodo said.

It was nighttime. The frogs were croaking a song, the cicadas buzzing an encore. The stars watched impassively from above, their pale eyes twinkling with curious light. They watched and did nothing.

(In Bilbo’s coat pocket, a gold ring was gleaming without light to strike it.

Such a pretty thing. Such a benign and simple thing.

Such a precious, helpful little thing.)

“Do you know what I would give to have parents like that?”

(The river was bubbling. A thin worm inched slowly across Drogo’s sightless eye.)

They didn’t have funerals for babies that were never born. But they did have them for mothers and fathers who never should have died.

“My parents wanted to be alive,” Frodo hissed, bitter and hurt. “They didn’t want to die. You have a choice, and you’re choosing wrong .”

Frodo was born from the speedwells, and that was supposed to mean kindness. But Frodo didn’t know how to be kind, not anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever knew, or if he forgot. He only knew the second meaning - travel. Frodo felt like a traveler through life. Unmoored, unable to settle. Impermanent.

Bluebells were sometimes used to mean gratitude. Bouquets made of sunny agrimony and pink hydrangeas coupled with the gentle bluebell. This hobbit didn’t seem thankful at all, not to Frodo.

Frodo kicked at the ground. The earth didn’t seem like a comfortable bed to him. It seemed cold and loveless. He wouldn’t want to stay beneath its covers - even if he did feel like hiding from everything very often.

“Your parents are still alive.” Frodo hissed through his teeth. “They’re still alive, and they want you to be too. They want- they…”

He tried to breathe in, but it turned into a haggard noise, something sorrowful and wheezing. “I don’t get it.”

There was a wetness on his cheeks, and he scrubbed angrily at his face,  suddenly feeling small and weak. Above him, the sky was clear, so clear, every single star in stark and poignant focus. This was the kind of night poems were writ about.

“I don’t get it. I- I don’t-” He snapped his mouth shut so forcefully his teeth audibly clicked.

He breathed in. Breathed out. Squared his shoulders and glared with wet eyes at the mound of dirt at his feet, wreathed in tens and tens of bluebells. Without a word he turned his back and stepped away.

It was useless, to fight with death. The earth gave no reply, headstone or nursery, it never mattered.

…

“I keep having dreams.” A tiny voice whispered, barely audible against the backdrop of the night.

Frodo snapped back around, the world spinning with his sudden energy. It couldn’t be, and yet it was. A voice, coming out of loose dirt.

“Fields of nasturtium and goldenrod. But I don’t want to be a hero, and I don’t know what I need to be encouraged or warned about.” The little voice fell quiet. “I keep getting speedwells stuck in my foot hair in the dreams. …I like speedwells.”

“Speedwells are my birth-flower.” Frodo said, too shocked to say anything else. He was staring with wide eyes at the small slope of dirt.

The mound of earth shifted. Two thoughtful hazel eyes blinked, and peered up at Frodo from dirty orange hair tangled with blue petals and green stems.

It took a moment for Frodo to realize he was gaping like a fish. He closed his mouth.

“Travel.” The little hobbit murmured thoughtfully. “Kindness. Loyalty.” The eyes watched Frodo carefully. A tiny hand slowly crept out of the earth and reached for Frodo like a question. “…protection?”

Frodo stumbled over on shaking legs. He felt as though the world had suddenly tilted underneath him, leaving dazed and dizzy.

“…yeah,” He whispered back, dropping to his knees before the faunt with a soft thump.

That little hand was so small, compared to Frodo’s. He took it in one of his own, wrapping his fingers around it. Just one of his own hands encompassed it entirely. It must be cold out, he thought, for a little hobbit who had never been out of the earth before. And little things got colder faster.

(Especially hobbits. Bilbo told him so.)

“Hullo, speedwell-hobbit,” The little one said. “I’mma bluebell-hobbit.”

“Loyalty, humility, constancy, gratitude,” Frodo said in a hush. “Yes, that fits.” It felt true now.

The barely visible, warm skin of the little bluebell-hobbit flushed. “Nu-uh. I’m just me.”

“Humility,” Frodo reminded. Somehow, he was smiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Wiping at his face again, he was surprised to find it drying.

Bluebell-hobbit’s head just shook stubbornly, shifting the dirt.

“Why don’t you come out?” Frodo said gently, raising his palm in a silent offer. Bluebell-hobbit looked at those hands consideringly, tiny brow creased in a furrow.

“You woke me up earlier. You were mad at me.” The little voice was not angry or upset, only thoughtful. “But you’ll be kind now, speedwell-hobbit?”

“I… I was only angry before because I thought you were being unkind,” Frodo said, feeling a little ashamed of his past self. How quickly that anger had cooled. The earth was suddenly beneath him once more, and the sky above, that gray and dismal haze of meaninglessness turning into nothing but a dream, fading under the sharp light of the stars reflected in hazel eyes.

Bluebell-hobbit hummed, as though this was perfectly understandable. “That makes sense.”

Frodo looked at those hazel eyes, still peering at his open palm. “I’ll protect you,” Frodo promised.

“Don’t hafta,” Bluebell-hobbit said dismissively, small brow furrowed in thought, not looking up. Then, falling into a hush, the little hobbit blinked, sweeping hazel eyes up to meet Frodo’s pale blue. There was a faint worry there, in those younger eyes. “Is it scary?”

Frodo hummed inquisitively.

“Being… out there.”

“Oh.” Frodo breathed. His fingers twisted around nothing. He bit into his tongue. The sound of rushing water filled his ears and then-

He closed his eyes.

“Sometimes… yes,” He said slowly. “There is pain… and grief.” He opened his eyes. “But it is worth it.”

Bluebell-hobbit hummed. For a moment, both were silent.

“Pain. Grief. Jealousy. Cruelty,” Bluebell-hobbit whispered, as though telling a secret. “That’s what marigold-hobbit’s flowers mean.”

“Marigold-hobbit?” Frodo echoed, slightly thrown by the sudden shift in topic.

“My sister,” Bluebell-hobbit said, as though it should be obvious. “Those are her flowers; she’s growing in that patch over there, see? She’ll need lots more time yet. Marigolds are her flowers, and they only mean sad things, like I told ya. But she’s a good hobbit.”

“Sometimes, flowers don’t mean anything,” Frodo said slowly, not quite certain what to say. What was needed.

Other than a vague noise of confusion and dismissal, bluebell-hobbit didn’t respond to that.

“I love marigold-hobbit,” Bluebell-hobbit said at last, as though it was easy. Maybe it was. “So I think I hafta love those things too. So she won’t be sad.”

Frodo swallowed, and gave a thin, uneasy smile. “Easier said than done,” He said gently. “But… maybe you’re right. Things have to be sad, in order for happiness to mean anything.” The words surprised him a little. He didn’t think himself capable of such a thought; moreover, he was surprised to find that he actually believed it.

Bluebell-hobbit stared up at him, unblinking and contemplative-

-and without fanfare placed two hands on the earth, heaved up and out , grasping Frodo’s hands and using them to make the last stretch. Frodo quickly unbuttoned his coat and wrapped it around the smaller hobbit’s shoulders.

As though it were simple, or obvious, the little faunt awkwardly clambered into lap.

“Thanks, speedwell-hobbit.” Bluebell-hobbit said, snuggling into Frodo’s side, little face still so serious. Frodo swallowed again, smiled earnestly, scrubbing at his suddenly once again wet eyes, and returned the embrace, holding the small hobbit like a babe to his now aching chest. He wasn’t sure how much of the pain there was happiness or grief.

.

.

Frodo walked lightly, practically pranced, about the garden.

He was here. Living with Bilbo, for as long as he’d like, the old hobbit said. Frodo would like for that to be forever.

He could see it so clearly in his mind. Every evening for the rest of his days, spent with his feet up, side-by-side with his dear ‘uncle’, eating scones and laughing by the fireplace. Bilbo telling stories, taking him on adventures to amazing places. They’d drink tea side by side in the mornings and stroll through the market-place together. They’d take their dinners in and look up at the stars, which always seemed the most beautiful above Bag End.

Part of him ached to be parted with dear little Merry, but he knew the lad would be alright. He had his parents to look out for him. And now Frodo had Bilbo to look out for him, and Frodo swore by everything he could to look out for the delightful, silly old hobbit in return.

(“I’m not gone forever. You’ll still see me; I’ll come over to visit very often.” Frodo lightly pinched Merry’s nose - it was their little thing, ever since Merry had been a wee faunt, so tiny, ruddy and muddy, swaddled in those soft yellow blankets. And just like Merry had back then, he brightened, just a little. “Just remember your flowers, and it’ll be smooth sailing.” The mention of boats had long ceased to bother Frodo. The bubbling river held first memories of shouts and laughter, and picturing it, he thought first of Buckland, and those younger years when Merry was learning to swim. His parents’ memory was only a dull ache, flaring in much subtler ways. 

“Coriander, hidden merit,” Merry recited dutifully, his smile shaky. “But, Fro, I’m-”

“Shh.” Frodo smiled at him kindly. “I’m not gone forever, yeah? It’s not like I’m leaving you.”

Merry bit his lip and looked away.)

Under this bright sunlight, filling the sky with heavenly white light, Frodo almost felt as though there could exist in his life nothing to ever dampen his spirits again.

Here, with Bilbo, living in Bag End.

And if sometimes his thoughts occasionally turned to a small hobbit with mousy orange hair, with eyes of hazel and a dirty face, well. No one could blame him for wondering what became of the little hobbit after being returned to the (rather shocked (and relieved, and overjoyed, too much it had been too much-)) Gaffer.

But Frodo also never asked.

“Frodo!” Being able to recognize that somewhat chirpy, older voice anywhere, Frodo turned to smile at Bilbo as the older hobbit trotted to his side. Only twenty-one, and Frodo was already at least a head taller than the senior. Frodo had grown upwards, like a lean and long sapling, branching out with slender and pale limbers and a head of dark hair. Bilbo was much prettier, by hobbit standards - hair like honey-chestnut dashed with streaks of pepper, with a round face and body (which belied a strength no hobbit should possess, with eyes that gleamed strangely sometimes, as though outlined by a ring of molten gold-)

-but Bilbo still looked at him as though Frodo was something remarkably impressive. Something to be proud of.

“How are you finding it, my boy?” Bilbo asked.

“Amazing.” The truth was light and easy. Frodo felt as though he was weightless, and he found himself grinning broadly. Pleased, Bilbo returned the smile.

“Very good,” said Bilbo, straightening his waistcoat. “It’s been too long since Bag End has seen more than just one inhabitant. It was made for at least a dozen or two, you know.”

“I remember.” Frodo watched a small yellow butterfly flutter over the lush garden, dancing with the wind over the bed of yellow blooms. “Is The Gaffer still your gardener?”

“You shouldn’t call him that. It’s a family nickname.”

“You call him that.” Frodo raised an eyebrow, grin unfaltering.

“Hmph.” Bilbo only huffed and shook his head, as Frodo snorted softly and rolled his eyes. “Hamfast is still my gardener, yes.” Eyes widening, Bilbo then took up a characteristic knowingness and slyness enunciated by his charmed mischief, the coy old codger. Frodo squinted at him suspiciously. “Though he might be unseated soon.”

“What does that mean-?”

“Sam-lad!” A yell shot through the air. 

Frodo did not squeak, because dignified Bagginses do no such thing. And he certainly did not physically jump backwards and have to be saved from slipping on the paved garden stones and cracking his head open by Bilbo quickly grabbing his arm and keeping him on his two fluffy feet. None of these things happened.

Bilbo, cheeky bastard, shushed him.

“What did I tell ya about followin’ me into work?” The gardener’s gruff voice, now sharp with exasperation, was easily recognizable even to Frodo. Suddenly, Frodo found his breath a little short, and his thoughts a’whirl. Who-

“I’mma gardener.” A young voice harrumphed and- oh. Frodo could see Bilbo smile knowingly at him out of the corner of his eye, as Frodo strained to catch a glimpse of the ginger hair or hazel eyes that would confirm his suspicions-

“You are nine.” The Gaffer retorted without sympathy. Yes, Frodo thought quickly, that math works, but- “And you are distractin’ me from my gardening. How am I supposed to get anything done if I have to keep dragging you back home?”

There was shuffling noise. Frodo watched, silent and shifting from foot to anxious foot, as the Gaffer emerged from behind the hedge and walked towards the smial, holding in his large and rough hand a small arm, attached to-

- oh, Frodo thought. It is Bluebell.

 No, Frodo realized just as suddenly, a feeling of coldness plunging him. Not Bluebell. Not anymore.

  The Gaffer wasn’t looking at them, calling out over his shoulder; “Master Baggins, beggin’ your pardon, it seems I’ve forgotten my spade at home, I’ll be right back-”

“Very well, but leave the little stowaway, will you?” Bilbo called back cheerily.

 It took every lesson of respectability from Frodo’s two decades and one year of life not to collapse into peals of laughter at the way the stout, gruff gardener of Bag End snapped around with wide eyes, spluttering and coughing. “Master Baggins, I thought ya’d be inside-”

 “I’m not,” Bilbo said smarmily, grinning in his excessively pleased manner.

 “I can see that!” The Gaffer said highly, forgetting himself. Then, he blinked, and his face increasingly becoming more and more the likeness of one of Bilbo’s prized tomatoes. Frodo’s own face was starting to hurt. “Ah, not that’s there anything wrong with- I mean, beggin’ your pardon, sir-”

“It’s you!” A tiny voice silenced them all. Three pairs of eyes drifted down a little hobbit with hazel eyes, and mousy orange hair.

His face was still just as dirty as the day he Sprouted, Frodo noticed. Maybe even more so.

“Hello,” Frodo said quietly. His smile had become softer. It was hard to be anxious when his heart felt so light, and when Bilbo squeezed his arm softly in silent recognition.

The little, yet not so little, face scrunched up in unhappiness, and Frodo’s heart pattered painfully. Had he done something-? “You didn’t come to my birthday party.”

Frodo blinked. Then blinked again. “…I didn’t get an invitation.”

The hobbit - Sam? - kicked at the ground. “Shame I ain’t, uhm, lit-er-it,” He muttered in strangely pointed dejection, not looking up.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, also strangely pointed. “What a shame.”

The Gaffer made a vague, curmudgeonly noise of dismissal. Frodo was very lost.

Then Sam - definitely Sam, and didn’t that fit so well, yet not at all? - looked up again, gazing straight into Frodo’s eyes with startlingly serious intensity, for one so small. It seemed something to be a look frequent upon the lad. There was something in those eyes, something that was trying to be said, without speaking. Frodo swallowed.

‘I remember you.’ Sam mouthed.

‘I remember you too.’ Frodo answered in kind.

“Mister Frodo.” The Gaffer started, pulling Frodo’s focus back again. Hamfast’s eyes were hazel too, Frodo noted, that same earth-and-amber, and they were wrinkled and serious. “I hear you’s the new heir.”

Frodo nodded. “Ah, yes.” He still wasn’t used to it, himself. Bilbo’s heir - now that was a loaded title.

Pulling his hat down and holding it to his chest, The Gaffer gave a stiff bow of the head. “Congrats to ya.” He paused, seemingly hesitating. “And thank you, for what you did back then. I know I didn’t say it so well.” He grimaced. “If you hadn’t done anything…” Hamfast looked down at his son, who returned his gaze with wide-eyed incomprehension. “Well.” He cleared his throat, shaking his head. It seemed then that he remembered his hat was still in his hands, so he placed it back on top of his head, holding himself proudly. “Thank you, Mister Frodo.”

“It’s nothing.”

Hamfast raised an eyebrow. “It really ain’t, Mister Frodo, beggin’ your pardon.”

Frodo grimaced. “Don’t mention it.”

“Mister Frodo, I must insist.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“Frodo, just take the compliment,” Bilbo groused, effectively cutting the whole back and forth off entirely. “He’s just thanking you, for goodness sake.”

Frodo flushed. “Right. You’re… welcome.”

The Gaffer nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I wanted, Mister Frodo. I won’t bring it up no more. And you won’t either, lad, you hear?”

This last part was directed to Sam, who blinked owlishly. “Why not?”

“Because Mister Frodo don’t want you to. And we do what our betters ask.”

“But why?”

“Just do as yer told, Sam.”

Sam cast a glance to Frodo. “Listen to your father, Mister Gamgee.” There was an unpleasant feeling in Frodo’s chest, but this was for the best of everyone.

Because one day, Sam would be his tenet. His subordinate, his gardener. It was easy, when they were young, penniless and rankless. When they were only a hobbit of speedwells and a hobbit of bluebells, knowing only endings and beginnings, cradles and coffins. But they were Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee now. The heir to the name of Baggins and Bag End, and the son of his gardener. They weren’t the same hobbits who’d met under the same stars, that night.

They were hobbits of the Shire now. Doomed to norms and expectations, saddled with respectability and propriety. This was the real world, and this was for their own good.

One day, Sam would understand. One day, he’d thank Frodo for this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bilbo’s searching look. Breathing shallowly, Frodo ignored it. He kept his face stern, looking down at Hamfast Gamgee’s son, the heir of the gardener; the hobbit that was once, a long time ago, hidden in a bed of bluebells.

Clearly unhappy, Sam nodded. “Yes sir, Mister Frodo,” he recited sullenly, looking away.

“Right.” Hamfast straightened, taking Sam’s arm again. Displeased, Sam let him without a fight. “Terribly sorry for the interruption, sirs. We’ll be going.”

“You did a good thing, you know,” Bilbo said conversationally as they watched the two Gamgees walk away. Frodo made an inquisitive noise, only half-listening. “Hamfast may not show it, but that boy is his pride and joy. Bell and the others love him dearly. He’s really quite a sweet lad.” Bilbo paused. “I don’t mind him much myself, truth be told.”

“Like I said,” Frodo wasn’t looking at him, his jaw set and his eyes steady on the disappearing forms growing farther and farther away. “Don’t mention it.”

Bilbo huffed. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he groused, but even so, he never did speak of it again.

Frodo moved the last of his bags into Bag End by mid-morning, at which point Bilbo was eager to bustle them both inside for some much needed and appreciated second breakfast. Bilbo made his favorite without even having to ask.

“Whipped cream!” Frodo cried with delight, staring down at his crepes in ardor. “Where-?”

Bilbo only waved his hand, smiling. “I have my ways. Dig in, my boy. It’s a special day, after all.”

.

.

 “They’ve named him Peregrin, but I think he looks more like a Pippin.” 

 The tiny faunt gurgled and giggled, squeezing Frodo’s finger tightly in his own ruddy hands. His eyes were as green as Tookland’s rolling hills, and his face was a starmap of freckles and moles, with hair like wheat. 

 Frodo could see why Merry liked him so.

 “I think,” Frodo said carefully, “That he’s going to need an older brother. On account of having all those sisters of his.” And on account of the fact that he was the smallest hobbit Frodo had ever seen, who shivered when the wind blew too hard and clung to Merry like a plant to earth.

 Merry’s eyes were shining. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. Ever since-” Merry stopped suddenly, looking away.

 “Merry?” Worry creased Frodo’s brow and colored his tone. But Merry didn’t return his gaze.

 “He really is cute, huh?” Merry said suddenly, keeping his eyes carefully trained on Pippin, who was wiggling in his arms. 

 Frodo frowned. Something ill-content and grieving settled in his chest. 

 Merry used to tell him everything. But it seemed that even Frodo’s dear little Merry grew in unfamiliar ways, branching in unfamiliar directions. Frodo would always love Merry, always remember him as something like the closest Frodo had ever had to a baby sibling, but it was different for Merry, surely. He was young. He’d grown past Frodo. 

 “Yes,” Frodo said at last. “He is, isn’t he? Probably the cutest faunt I’ve ever seen.” 

 Somehow, that didn’t seem like quite the right thing to say. Merry’s smile was shaky. “Yeah, you’ve seen a lot of those, huh? Well, I bet Pippin’s a first for even you, Frodo. He’s undercooked.”

 Frodo snorted in surprise. “Merry!”

 “It’s true! I heard Pippin’s pa, Uncle Paladin, telling Auntie Rosa so.” Frodo looked down into the squirming faunt’s eyes, worried. Pippin stared back with happy incomprehension, as though not fully cognizant of his surroundings. “Do you think he was eager to meet me, Frodo?”

 “I… you know? Maybe you’re right.” Merry beamed, and Pippin cooed happily up at him, clearly happy to see Merry happy. 

 “I knew it!” Merry cheered. “We’re best friends already, aren’t we Pippin?”

 “Merr. Merr!”

 Merry giggled. “You’re so weird, Pip.” He stooped to kiss Pippin’s forehead, and something in Frodo’s chest bloomed. “Don’t worry, I still love you.”

.

.

 The gallow trees of the Old Forest glared down at them, wind rattling thin branches like the clink of bone. There was a line, it seemed, between Buckland and forest, and they stood upon its precipice, on one side looking in. Sam shifted in his saddle. 

 “Are the ponies really necessary?” Sam asked. “I prefer my two feet on the ground, beggin’ your pardon.” 

 “‘Course you do,” Merry muttered. Frodo looked at him oddly, but his Bucklander cousin paid him no heed, gray-blue eyes trained with a frown on the malevolent beyond. 

 “I don’t overmuch like the forest either,” Sam added. 

 “We won’t be traveling through it long,” Frodo said. Sam dipped his head, abashed. 

 “If you think it’s best, sir, then it is.” 

 Merry straightened. “I’ve been in, maybe once or twice before. It’s true what they say. It’s like the forest is alive, and it doesn’t like visitors. But we should be fine, so long as we don’t go towards the Withywindle.”

 “Ain’t all forests alive?” Sam frowned. He ineptly spurred his pony forward, stopping them just before the tree line, so that he could reach out and grasp one of the thin branches, looking curiously at its leaves. 

 “Not like this one is.” The branch slid out of Sam’s hand, leaning up and away. Sam watched it with a furrow in his brow, and Frodo’s eyes traced its upwards path. It was higher than it was before, as though holding itself up. 

 “Calm down, Sam,” Pippin smiled. Frodo didn’t miss the tone in his voice, nor the way that Sam narrowed his eyes but said nothing about it. “We’ve got Merry, don’t we? He knows what he’s doing.” 

 Sam didn’t respond. He was gazing down at the ground unhappily, and Frodo recognized the sentiment. He shared it. 

 “Some say there’s spirits in there,” Frodo ventured. Sam looked up. 

 “That so?” A tone careful, practiced almost, yet still some of Sam’s true depth of interest peeked through nonetheless. 

 You’re playing a dangerous game, Baggins, Frodo told himself, one that you might not be able to come back from. 

 Like stepping a toe into water. One might never know how fast the water truly goes, how quickly it could sweep even the most prepared, most cautious away. How deep it could really be. 

 Foolish Baggins, he thought, for of course you’re going to do it anyway.

 “Yes,” Frodo said. “If you like, I could tell the tales as we ride?”

 Sam smiled slightly, and Frodo tried to tell himself that the feeling in his chest, the feeling of something unfurling, meant nothing. “If it doesn’t bother?”

.

.

 Rivendell was such a splendid place. Not only for the company of Bilbo, who had been dearly missed, nor the cherished safety and healing provided - but it was also beautiful, with weaving pathways of white stones winding through lush, exuberant gardens, flowers of every color, shape and size. Frodo found himself most often in the sprawling, expansive libraries, or with his cousins - but today he was standing in the garden, looking at the flowers.

 Sam would be out here, somewhere.

 Being here, in relative peace, suddenly put everything that happened during their journey, everything that slowly, inexorably shifted in its foundations as the earth slowly moved beneath their feet, into focus. 

 Something had changed in his cousins, and in Sam most of all. 

 Sam, Frodo thought, what has become of us? You aren’t the same hobbit Gandalf pressured into taking this quest, but neither are you the bluebell-hobbit I met so long ago. Frodo swallowed. And I am not the speedwell-hobbit you met either. 

  Weathertop had changed both of them. Frodo’s shoulder remained chill and cold, aching with a bygone, phantom pain. But then, he remembered, perhaps the second they ventured out of the Shire they had been changed. 

 There was a rustle behind him. Frodo turned around quickly, finding his breath short. 

 “Mister Frodo,” Sam said his name like it was an apology, “I was tryin’ not to startle you, sir, but you were very deep in your thoughts. What are you thinking of? If you don’t mind me asking.” Pleasantries and formalities, so commonplace between the two of them, had begun to feel unfitting, awkward and strange, tacked upon their sentences as afterthoughts to an old muscle memory. How had this happened?

 Frodo grimaced. “It’s fine. I’m- about the future. About what is to come.”

 Sam nodded. “I’ll follow you, of course. It’s my duty to.” When did duty stop sounding like a reason, and start to sound more like a rationalization? When had ‘Gandalf’s orders’ stopped being the undercurrent? “But you’ve got a much bigger job than that. You’ve actually got to carry the thing.” 

 Everyone, even Sam, seemed to fear calling it the ring. (Benign, simple, helpful, precious-) Seemed to fear giving the evil a face, a name to answer to.

 “Yes,” Frodo said. He resisted the urge to take out the ring, to look upon its gentle golden curve himself. It was still there, he reminded himself, around his neck where it ought to be. “But-” he hesitated. Did he really want Sam to know what was on his mind?

 He pursed his lips and looked away. 

 Sam gazed at him as though he was a tragedy. It was such a familiar face, gazing at him through so many different hobbits. Frodo had never wanted the bluebell-hobbit to become one of them.

 “Lovely flowers, Mister Frodo.” Sam spoke in his stead. Sam looked away so that Frodo could look without guilt. “I quite like wolfsbane meself.” 

 “Yes,” Frodo said unsteadily. “They are very nice.”

 “Chivalry; knightly wanderings.” Sam had always spoken as though they were as natural as language, these meanings. Translated by instinct. 

 “Misanthropy,” Frodo reminded him. 

 “Aye, but my two fit better, given our circumstances. Beggin’ your pardon.”

 Frodo tipped his head and glanced away. “Maybe.”

 It took him a moment to realize Sam was looking at him, wariness and thoughtfulness sharing space there in his hazel eyes. They’d grown darker with age - turned to an earthen brown, dotted with amber and green. 

 “Mister Frodo, can I ask you something?”

 Frodo frowned slightly. “You may.”

 Sam stared at him, face pursed with discomfort, yet there was something bold there. Sam was always being brave, even when it didn’t matter. “Why didn’t we ever talk about it?”

 Frodo inhaled sharply. 

 Something had changed.

 Sam never would have asked that before. Respectability, proprietary, formality - they would have stayed his tongue. Kept questions locked behind tight lips. Kept them to fester like ugly wounds, like weeds. 

 “I… I didn’t want it to hang over us,” Frodo said at last. The half-truth was sour on his tongue, staining his teeth. 

 Sam looked at him as if he was a mystery locked behind black curls and propriety. Sam frowned at him like he could taste the bitter half-lie too.

 This wasn’t even the half of it, they both knew. 

 “...you know best, Mister Frodo,” Sam said eventually. By the narrow of his eyes and the angle of his downturned mouth, Frodo could read dissatisfaction, the unhappiness lying listless. 

 This was supposed to be for the better. Frodo wondered if Sam would’ve done the same, before discarding the thought. Sam was braver than that. More foolish.

 More honest.

 There was a patter of hobbitish footsteps, and they both looked up. 

 It happened in but a moment. A briefest instance.

 Frodo’s hand drifted up to the ring, bound by the chain on his neck, and, acting a foreign impulse, he stepped behind a small marble pillar, pressing his back to it. The ring was warm in his hand.

 “Sir?” Sam’s puzzled voice followed him.

 “Sam?” Pippin’s light voice rang clearly in the soft chitter of the garden. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

 Sam made a noise of surprise. “...That so?” Frodo swallowed back the sudden burst of dread. Oh, Pippin, he thought, I know you think you’re being helpful, but-

 Pippin hummed, speaking cheerily, “Merry found a keg in one of the storerooms, completely untouched. Up for a rendezvous, just the three of us?”

 “No Mister Frodo?”

 Pippin’s voice dulled somewhat. He sounded almost regretful. “No. Merry thinks we ought to allow him his rest.”

 “That’s probably for the best, sir, beggin’ your pardon. I doubt he’s got the energy to keep up with you two, what with his injuries and all.” Frodo grimaced. 

 Pippin snickered. “Yes, that’s what Merry said too. I suppose you’re both right.”

 Sam hummed. 

 Pippin sighed. “Poor Frodo,” he mumbled, barely audible to Frodo’s ears. Frodo felt as though he’d swallowed something bitter, and tried to make himself put an end to the ruse altogether, step out from the pillar and reveal himself. But he couldn’t. Of all things, he wanted to think, not be dragged along for drinks by his younger cousins. He wanted-

 (And a tiny, sickened part of himself whispered to listen. Hear them scheme against you. They want to take it, they want-)

 He shut his eyes forcefully. 

 “Aye, well, he’s getting better,” Sam responded stoutly. “Mister Frodo’s strong.”

 Doesn’t he remember I’m listening? Frodo thought, before recognizing the thought and feeling ill for it. Of course he did. But Sam could keep a secret better than he let on, Frodo had learned. And Sam’s loyalty seemed to act in strange ways. 

 “He is, isn’t he?” Frodo could almost hear Pippin brighten with the words, but the light was fast to fade again, merely a weak flash. “Everyone keeps talking about him as though he’s some tragedy, but I don’t get it. He’s up, alive and on his two feet! Why shouldn’t we celebrate?” Pippin’s voice became thin with frustration. “All everyone wants to do is to scowl and make grim predictions about his fate.”

 “I reckon it’s a Big People thing, sir,” Sam said. “With how tall they are, their heads are too far from the ground. Makes ‘em aloof and gloomy.”

 Pippin snickered. “Let’s drink to that, Sam.”

 As he listened to them walk away, Frodo wondered which it was - had they changed, or had he? Was it for the better?

 By the sour taste in his mouth and the warm metal in his hand, he knew it must be for the worse. 

.

.

The ring was whispering. The chain was weighing him down. An indent in his mind and deepening gash in the back of his neck. Gold, golden. Everything.

Frodo couldn’t remember the Shire. Frodo couldn’t remember the smials, the rivers, the gardens, the flowers-

 Sam’s mouth was moving, trying to call to an unfamiliar name. Sam? If Frodo looked away, if he closed his eyes, he would not be able to picture Sam’s round face. Wouldn’t be able to picture those wide hazel eyes peering up at him from a heavy blanket of earth. Those things were so far away, blurry against a red and black horizon.

The ring would be so much lighter, on his finger. It wouldn’t be a burden. So simple. So pretty. Slip it on, slip away, slip under-

“…Speedwell-hobbit?”

Everything stuttered to a halt. The ring’s sick whispers shocked into silence.

Frodo breathed in. Breathed out. Closed his eyes.

He could almost smell the fresh earth, hear the cicadas and the crickets. 

“Bluebell-hobbit,” He whispered. His tongue was dry and heavy in mouth. Smiling felt like pulling heavy leather. He couldn’t help but do it anyway, wry and ironic, yet still somehow also genuine.

“That’s right. That’s me.” Frodo felt a strong, familiar hand gently grab his chin. “Your bluebell-hobbit, here to make sure his master has a nice drink.”

Master. The ring returned to mind. Its soft singing of master. The weight returned, and Frodo hissed. “Don’t call me that.”

A pause. “I forget.” Sam’s voice was soft. Pained. “A speedwell can’t be a master or a mister, huh? Forgive this foolish hobbit. He forgets.” Sam pressed his thumb below Frodo’s lip, soft and insistent. “Drink now, speedwell-hobbit.”

Obligingly, Frodo parted his lips, and allowed Sam to press the waterskin to his mouth. As soon as the water touched his tongue, Frodo remembered himself; he gulped down his water in an instant like a dying thing, assured by the steady, guiding hand Sam had left remain on it.

“Sam?” Frodo whispered, when the water was gone and Sam had pulled the skin away again.

“Didya know, speedwell-hobbit, that those Rangers like mister Strider say that carryin’ speedwells around is good luck for a long journey? They say that they help traveler’s find their way home.” Sam said. “You’re good luck.”

Frodo only hummed. He remembered he had closed his eyes, and opened them again.

Sam sat in front of him. Face stained with ash and dirt, thin and wan. Had he always had so many open cuts and scrapes on his face? Frodo couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t.

But then, he realized with a jolt, he did. He remembered the wide expansive twinkling stars above, the hazel eyes peering up at him below. The tiny hand reaching out for his own.

“Speedwell.” Sam’s voice brought him back to the present. He was holding out a wafer of bread. “It’s time to eat.”

Frodo took it. The lembas was dry but filling, and Sam was more than happy to give him as much as he would eat.

And when he was done, Sam gathered up their cloaks and laid them out on the harsh ground, creating something of a bed for the both of them. For all their fine, light weaving, the elven cloaks were remarkably soft to the touch, almost like a silken blanket. It was not good enough for Frodo to pretend it was anything more than it was, so he did not try, but it was still better than nothing. He laid down and closed his eyes, and felt Sam do the same beside him.

 “Sam,” Frodo whispered into the silence, “who are we now?” It was such a frightening question. Even asking it made him sweat, skin cold in the encroaching heat. But something had changed; he dearly wanted Sam’s answer, in all its blunt, stout truth. 

 Sam was quiet, and for a moment Frodo wondered if he hadn’t been heard. If he was asleep. It wouldn’t be so unlikely - they’d been lying in silence for what must have been hours, or at least what felt like hours. 

 Foolish thought. Sam never allowed himself sleep until Frodo himself was slumbering. Not anymore. (When had that changed?)

 When Sam spoke, it was just as soft, gentled and thoughtful. “I reckon we’re ourselves now, and not anythin’ else, if that makes any sense. Like all the fire and spooks burned all the fluff and fat away, and now we’re standing around bare.”

 “Or the ring has ripped it all away,” Frodo muttered. His hand inched towards his chest, before he remembered himself and wrenched away.

 There was a shuffling noise. “I’ve changed too, Speedwell, and I only held that nasty thing for a little while. It ain’t just you.”

 Frodo sighed. “I’ve not changed into anything good, Sam. The ring has made me wicked.”

 Sam huffed softly. “If you’re wicked, then I’m Morgoth.”

 “Sam, I’m serious,” Frodo whispered despairingly. 

 “And I am too,” Sam’s responding whisper was harshly intent. “Maybe you ain’t all polite respectability now, but maybe nona’ that was real anyhow. Fluff and fat, like I said.”

 “The hobbits that we were are long gone now.” Frodo breathed out. 

 (Part of him missed Merry and Pippin very much. Another part of him was very, very glad his younger cousins could not see him now. Could not see the vile thing their dear older cousin had become. If he could even claim to be that hobbit any longer.)

 “I figure we’re like gardens. Always growin’ and changing. You remember the hydrangeas, Frodo? They’d change dependin’ on what kind of soil you’d put ‘em in.”

 “They would?”

 “Mhm. That’s why they grew in their own plot, you know; so that they could have their special dirt, to be the color you like.” 

 Frodo blinked. He felt his eyes growing wet, and he breathed out shakily. He hadn’t known Sam had been doing that for him. “Sam, I must tell you something.”

 “Mm?”

 “If we ever get back to the Shire- if we ever get the chance…” Frodo breathed shakily. Foolish thoughts. They’d never make it out of here alive. For Sam, he reminded himself. It’s the sentiment that matters. They both know it's an impossibility, so they pretend; make believe what could have been. “I want to give you a bouquet.”

 There was another shuffle. This time, without having to look, Frodo knew Sam had rolled over to look at him. “What’d be in it?” Sam asked. 

 “Bluebells, of course. They’re perfect. And… wallflowers, for faith under adversity. Lionsheart, edelweiss if I can find it, ivy, pear blossoms, yellow roses, pink and purple hydrangeas, purple and blue hyacinths, camellias…”

 Frodo heard a distinct sniffle. He froze. “Mister Frodo, I-” Sam breathed shakily. “Those… that’s a lot of blue tones, sir.” He choked out.

 “The message was more the point,” Frodo said hesitantly. 

 Another stifled sniffle. “Frodo, I… th-thank you, sir.” Sam’s voice was so quiet and raw, so choked with emotion, and Frodo quivered where lay, as though he could feel it too, passing through Sam and into him. 

 “Of course, Sam. I meant it. Every meaning.” Frodo chewed the inside of his cheek, noting absently how dry it felt. “Well, almost all of them.” 

 Sam laughed shakily. “Almost frightened me there, sir. I’d hope I’ve not severely betrayed you, or broken your heart.”

 “Yellow roses have too many meanings.” Frodo sighed. 

 “Would you like me to make you a bouquet, Frodo? It won’t be as long as yours, but-”

 “I’d love it if you did, Sam.” Frodo interjected softly. “If you want to.”

 “Well, I’d have to give speedwells, of course. And… chamomiles, love-in-a-mist, the flowers from elderberries - lovely white flowers, Frodo, you’d like them very much - white chrysanthemums, blue orchids, and irises. Oh - and yellow roses, with purple hydrangeas, but those don’t match so well with the rest.”

 “Dear Sam,” Frodo breathed, smiling, “You already understand me. Whatever are the purple hydrangeas for?”

 “Could ask you the same thing, sir.” 

 Frodo gave in. He rolled over.

 Sam’s face was wet, and he was smiling like he couldn’t believe he still remembered how to. Hazel eyes shone as he wiped at dirt-streaked cheeks with a soot-and-scar-covered hand. 

 “No more ‘sirs’ and ‘misters’, Sam.” Frodo demanded softly. “We aren’t those hobbits anymore.”

 He almost expected Sam to argue. To tell him that one day, they’d return to the Shire, and they’d have to start being Frodo Baggins of Bag End and Samwise Gamgee the gardener again, give up the small, scared Sam and Frodo that shivered together underneath the shadow of the burning mountain. But he didn’t. He nodded as though making solemn promises, and took Frodo’s hand like it was an oath. 

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered, “Sam-love.”

“It ain’t nothin’,” his Sam whispered back. “Good night, dear Frodo.”

As Frodo drifted into sleep, he could feel Sam’s hand around his own, stroking over his knobby knuckles. It took the edge off the whispers, and despite its coarseness, its calluses and its cuts, the other hobbit’s hand felt to Frodo’s as soft as a flower’s petal.

“Good night,” He said in a hush, and he meant it.

.

.

 The sky was burning, and the ring was gone.

 “It’s over, Sam, it’s over,” Frodo kept saying, the words dripping like blood from his mouth, and the heat is unbearable until it’s not - suddenly he can’t feel it anymore. There’s a breeze on his face, and he can hear the wind rustling through the grass, the distant buzz and drone of crickets and katydids humming in his ears. This is the kind of night poems are written about.

 “What’ll become of us?” Frodo asked as Sam led them both, stumbling and shaking, from the spitting maw of the mountain. The roar and the heat are gone, but he can still feel the sweat on his face and the blood oozing from his hand. “The fire will turn us into nothing. We won’t even return to the earth.” He shuddered. “There won’t be anything left, Sam.”

 Sam squeezed his hand. “Ashes are used plenty to make the soil better,” he said stoutly. “Keep walking, Frodo. Almost there.”

 For once, it was Frodo following Sam. Frodo wished they could have had more time - he would have spent every day trying to prove that Sam’s loyalty, his dedication, was shared. But he only had this one moment, and he knew that it would have to be enough.

 “I reckon this place could use a bit of hobbit for re-growing once the fire is out, if it comes to that,” Sam said, and Frodo could tell he was trying to be brave, but his hands were shaking. 

 “You think it’ll grow back?” Frodo asked, his throat dry.

 Sam’s face held nothing short of utter certainty. “I’ve never met a land that couldn’t. Nature's stubborn, Frodo, just like us hobbits. Now come on, just a few more steps.”

.

.

 New End, Hobbiton, Shire Reckoning 1427

 Around midnight, a figure was seen quickly moving down New Row. Minutes later, there was a sudden flurry of knocking upon the door of New End, also known as the Restored Bag End. Elanor Gardner, six years old and eldest of Sam Gardner and Rosie Gardner, opened the door.

 “Uncle Merry!” She whisper-yelled in excitement. “Are you here to see the new baby?” She looked around him. He had come alone. “Where’s Uncle Pippin?” 

 “Uh.” Merry coughed. He was swaying slightly. “Yeah, hi sweetie - uhm, is Sam home?”

 “He’s in the parlor. Do you want me to go get him?” 

 “Yeah. Please.” Merry shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as Elanor quickly darted back into the smial. 

 Leaning against the arch of the doorway, Merry twisted his head to peer back over his shoulder, up at the shimmering lights above, partially hidden by patches of dark cloud blending into the black sky of the night. Beyond and below lights fluttered in windows like stars, surrounded by shadowed, unseen hills. Somewhere, an owl was hooting.

 The door creaked open again, and Sam Gardner stood there in his nightshirt and night pants, blinking blearily. “Mister Merry? Why, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

 “Just Merry, Sam.” Merry pushed off the arch. “Uh. Can we talk?”

 Sam narrowed his eyes. “...are you drunk?”

 “Nooo.” Merry laughed weakly. “Well. Maybe a little. Can’t say no to the Green Dragon. Are you busy?”

 Sam rubbed his eyes, looking around the dark beyond his door warily. “I suppose not.” He huffed. “Well, come on in then, sir.” 

 Merry stumbled in and awkwardly shrugged off his coat, hanging it up on the coat rack, and Sam closed the door behind him with a distinct air of caution.

 “Go to bed, Elanor,” Sam called to his daughter, and reluctantly she did, slinking away into the hall. Sam shook his head, crossing his arms. “What is it you wanted to talk on, sir- oof!”

 Merry had thrown his arms around Sam, completely falling into the other hobbit. Sam spluttered, but held him up all the same. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

 “Eh?”

 “I’ve thought poorly of you.”

 Sam looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “...sir, I reckon you need to sit down.”

 “I’m not that drunk.” Merry huffed. “Sam… even before we started our quest, I thought ill of you. From the beginning, I’ve- I’ve thought such nasty things. For… for the longest time. Before I even met you, Sam. That you were stupid, and arrogant, and, and…”

 Swallowing, Merry shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I thought some of the lowest things about you. And I continued to. It was only after everything- I mean, that I realized. I ne’er told anyone. Not even Pippin. I guess I stopped once we’d been on the journey awhile, sometime before Rivendell, but, I never really thought about it. I...”

 “Look, Mister Merry,” Sam interjected, sighing tensely, “You don’t need to tell me all that. I already know.”

 “You do?” Merry blinked owlishly. 

 “Aye. I might not be the sharpest trowel in the kit, but I caught how you’d look at me from time to time. I figured it would be better to let it lie; it weren’t doin’ me any harm, anyhow.” 

 Merry’s eyes watered. He sniffled loudly and tightened his grip on the back of Sam’s shirt. “Sam, I was wrong . You aren’t any of those things at all. Not the way I thought them. You’re much more- I… I’ve been such a horrible friend, Sam. I know now that Frodo didn’t-” Merry abruptly cut off, heaving as though about to retch. It was not from the alcohol. 

 “Now, that’s enough of that, Mister Merry.” Sam grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him up, taking Merry’s arm and throwing it over his own sturdy shoulders. He began to walk them both towards the living room. “That’s all the alcohol talkin’, sir. You just sit down and let old Sam brew you up a tea, so that your head ain’t hurtin’ tomorrow.”

 “It’s not the alcohol,” Merry protested, “I mean it, Sam.”

 “I’m sure you do.” Sam sighed. “Look, Mister Merry, I appreciate it, I do. But I don’t need you to apologize, see? You haven’t acted that way in a long time, sir. You’re working yourself up over nothing.”

 Merry shook his head. “Not nothing. It’s- I was… I was jealous, Sam.” He stared at nothing for a moment, eyes wide and unseeing. “Maybe I still am, a little.”

 “Jealous?” Sam echoed, one eyebrow raising. “What for?”

 Merry swallowed. “You and Frodo.” 

 Sam went quiet. When he spoke, his voice was a low mutter: “...Mordor ain’t something to be jealous of, Merry.”

 Merry shivered. “I know. It’s not that. It’s just…” He trailed off into nothing. Blinking, Merry rested his cheek against Sam’s shoulder, seemingly without thought to the action. His eyes were still trained on nothing, as though peering at the face of something far away, blank and unfocused. Sam, undaunted, only looked down at him with half-lidded eyes, mouth pursed in thought. 

 “...I don’t wish I was at Mordor, Sam. I really don’t. But- I… I wish I understood him. Like you understood him.”

 Sam shook his head, looking away. “Well. It wasn’t enough, was it?”

 Abruptly, Merry lurched, ripping himself from Sam’s side with such sudden fervor that Sam tensed in surprise. Merry stood before Sam, grabbing Sam’s shoulders tightly, his knuckles white and his eyes frenzied. “It’s not your fault, Sam! You don’t think that, do you?”

 Sam blinked in shock. “Mister Merry?”

 Merry was breathing quickly. Sam reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Lost, but still refusing to quail. 

 “It wasn’t your fault. Frodo leaving wasn’t your fault.” Merry repeated, like a mantra. Like a desperation. “You’re the one who kept him here for as long as he could, Sam. You’re the reason he saw the Shire at all.” 

 Merry crumbled. Slowly, Sam sank to the ground beside him, the smooth grain of the floorboards digging into both of their knees, but for once Sam did not try to move them. He wrapped his arms around Merry and stroked the other hobbit’s back. “There, there, Mister Merry, it’s all right.” 

 “You know that, don’t you? Sam?” 

 “I know, I know.” Sam sighed. Merry leaned forward, and Sam adjusted his hold so that Merry could hide his face against him. For a moment, there was silence, only the distant buzz of the night and the sound of their breathing, and Merry’s hiccuping sniffles. At last, Sam sighed. “Frodo told me the same. But it’s hard to remember, see? It feels like a failure, even though it ain’t.” Sam’s voice was undercut with frustration. “Can’t get it through my thick skull.”

 A shaky hand reached up and gently tapped on Sam’s head. “...doesn’t sound all that thick to me.” Merry laughed, wet and weak, and lowered his hand again, breathing easier now with Sam’s hand moving in a steady up and down over his curved back. Merry swallowed loudly. “I love you, Sam,” mumbled Merry, hunching his shoulders. 

 Sam patted his back lightly, and huffed. “I love you too, Mister Merry.” Then, he sighed once more, placing his chin atop Merry’s head. “Sir, what’s it you’re really here for?”

 Merry froze. “What?”

 “I know you feel poorly about all those things from before, but they were years ago, sir. You came here for some other reason, didn’t you? Out with it.” Sam’s voice was not quite kind, for he had a gruff manner of speaking (especially when emotional), but it was patient. 

 “I…” Merry shuddered. “...he’s really not coming back, is he?”

 Sam swallowed, and blinked furiously, a sudden shininess came to his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was shaking. “I- I reckon not, sir.”

 Merry did not cry, but he did breathe deeply, carefully. “I… I wanted you to know- I wanted…” he swallowed, “We can’t replace him, Sam.” Merry said with a sudden stability. “But me, you, and Pippin- we’re family now. You’re our family. I didn’t want anything to… to…”

 “...to hang over us?” Sam’s voice was quiet and still. 

 “Yes. Something like that.” Merry laughed weakly. “Oh, I’m being foolish, aren’t I? I’ve interrupted your night to, to come cry on your floor…”

 Sam’s hands tightened on the back of Merry’s shirt. “Not interrupted,” Sam bit out, his voice choked. “Merry, thank you. It’s…” He breathed unsteadily. “You’re my family too.”

 Merry mumbled something in audible, and Sam loosened his grip on the other hobbit, taking a deep breath. 

 It was then that the front door creaked, and the quick patter of distinctly hobbitsh footsteps was heard. Merry hunched further, and Sam frowned, looking up in the direction of the entryway, not visible from where the two hobbits were sitting. 

 “Who is it?” Sam called softly, voice hard.

 “Sam?” It was Pippin, his voice fraught. “Has Merry come by this way?”

 Merry mumbled something into Sam’s chest, shaking his head. For a moment Sam did not respond, frowning in thought. At last he huffed and patted Merry on the back. “Over here, Pippin.”

 The patter of Pippin’s feet was fast approaching, halted when he turned the corner. His eyes were wide, his hair frazzled and his waistcoat buttoned improperly - but when his eyes fell upon Merry, he let out a breath, and without fanfare scrambled over and slid to his knees beside his friends, placing a freckled hand on Merry’s shoulder. “Merry, what’s gotten into you? You told me you were just going to have a few drinks!”

 “I did,” Merry mumbled.

 “Why are you here?”

 Merry shook his head. 

 Gently, Pippin touched his arm. “Has your sword arm been bothering you again?”

 At last Merry sighed, twisting his head to look tiredly up at Pippin. “A bit.” He shrugged, gaze flicking up to Sam. “I just wanted to talk to Sam.”

 Sam and Pippin exchanged glances, Pippin with his brow creased with worry and Sam with tired eyes. “You couldn’t have waited till tomorrow?” Merry shook his head. Pippin sighed with a frown, muttering, “You’re so drunk, Merry.” 

 “It’s alright,” Sam spoke up. “He didn’t wake me; I was already up.” 

 Pippin gave a small, genuine smile at that. “Guess that makes three of us, huh?” 

 “You were supposed to be asleep in our room, Pippin,” Merry mumbled unhappily. 

 Pippin smiled wanly and shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Can I get in there, Sam?”

 “Mm? Oh, sure.” Sam lifted an arm, and Pippin wiggled in beside them, throwing his arms over Merry and Sam.

 “That can’t be comfortable,” Merry said. 

 “Oh, it’s plenty comfortable,” Pippin said, and squeezed them lightly, as well as he could at the awkward angle. He angled his head toward Merry and asked, “Care to share how you got Sam to stop talking to us like we’re gentry?”

 “You are gentry, Pippin,” Sam grumbled. “‘sides, I only dropped the titles. I’ve been speakin’ my mind frankly to you since Weathertop, I reckon.”

 “We’re family, Pippin,” Merry said, voice subdued. He blinked muzzily.

 Sam tensed. “Oi! No fallin’ asleep on the floor!”

 “I’ll have to cart him back to the Green Dragon in a wheelbarrow,” Pippin snickered. He paused, voice going lower, a little more unsure, but no less warm, “When Merry said family…”

 “Yes, well,” Sam sniffed, “I reckon that the pair of you are alright.” His face went warm. “I love the both of you,” Sam added quietly. “And the faunts love their Uncle Merry and Uncle Pippin too.”

 Pippin’s eyes were watering, and his smile was broad. “Sam…”

 Sam huffed. “None of that, now. I won’t have anymore tears in my smial, not at this hour. Now up you get, the both of you. I have something to show you, if Merry can stay awake for it.”

 “I wasn’t goin’ to show you t’ill tomorrow, but I think I should now, if you don’t mind.” Sam mumbled, his hand resting on the door. Pippin and Merry stood behind him, charged with anticipation. “Don’t talk too loudly now. He’s still sleeping.”

 “He?” Merry echoed, as Sam pushed the door open with a creak, quiet yet so loud sounding in the otherwise near-silence. Pippin gasped softly, eyes shining. 

 There, in a small bed, was a sleeping faunt, little and red-faced.

 “Is this the byrding?” Pippin asked, though he already knew the answer. Merry’s eyes were wide, and he was silent with surprise. 

 “Aye,” Sam replied softly. “Little Merry-lad.” Merry made a choked, aborted sound. 

 “Merry Gardner?” He echoed, as though he couldn’t believe the words. 

 “Aye. He looks like you, don’t he?” 

 “He does,” Pippin agreed. 

 Merry breathed in and out carefully. “Can I go look at him?”

 Sam frowned slightly, but nodded. “Careful not to wake him now. He’s had a big day.”

 “I can imagine,” Pippin snickered lightly. “What’d you say this one’s birth-flower was again?”

 “Mint,” Sam whispered back. “We was thinkin’ that we might use that for a name too, if he were a lass. Rosie thinks it’s cute.”

 Merry walked carefully, one step at a time. On soft, cautious hobbit feet, he was silent as a ghost passing over the floorboards. He stopped just within a step away from the young lad, and knelt there, enraptured by the sight of the young face. Somehow, it seemed to share his nose. ‘Hello, Merry,’ he mouthed, testing the words. They tasted sweet and fresh to him.

 “We was gonna tell you about the name when you got here tomorrow, but I figure it might be better this way anyhow. Lets Merry adjust a little, which it seems he might need.” Sam whispered to Pippin.

 “Give him a minute,” Pippin murmured, smiling. “When will I get my own, Sam?” he teased, trying to mask a small sediment of anxiety shifting through him.

 “I can only have ‘em so fast,” Sam grumbled, and Pippin beamed. 

 “I will be honored,” Pippin said, somehow both solemn and gleeful. 

 “Aye, well,” Sam started, but did not finish, finding no words to say. In the end he only shook his head. “Well, I better set up beds for the pair of you tonight.”

.

.

 Frodo was breathless, standing at the dock, knuckles white as the sands, nine fingers taught and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

 “This is it?” 

 Gandalf smiled down at him. His beard was white, and his eyes were as soft and as sparking as Frodo had always remembered them to be. Frodo often forgot that he was a powerful Maia, a wizard - looking at him was like looking upon the face of Frodo’s childhood dreams of adventures, of Bilbo’s tales of magic and wonder. He was simply Gandalf. “This is it.” 

 One minute, he was waiting on the pier. The next minute he was wrapped in a pair of sturdy, tanned arms gone worn with age, and he was thinking oh. I didn’t know I could be this happy.  

 He hadn’t known he missed Sam like he missed the Shire, like he missed the home of his heart, until Sam was there, holding him, and Frodo was holding him too, both of them laughing, both of them with tears in their eyes and rolling down their cheeks. Smiling had never felt so easy.

 “Sam,” Frodo laughed, “Dear Sam.”

 “Frodo-love.” Sam responded in kind. His face was wetter than Frodo’s - Frodo’s smile was broader. They came together to make a larger picture, not one and whole, but a pair, equal and brighter together. None of this had ever felt so easy.

 “You’ll have to introduce me to Samwise Gardner the Brave, Hero of the Shire and Middle-Earth, longest running Mayor of the Shire to date, record-sharer for the most faunts born to one hobbit. I don’t think I know him too well.” Frodo said it all breathlessly. Like the words would leave him if he let them. Oh! He’d written so much - so much to share now with Sam, who’d always loved his stories and his words. 

 “They’ve told ya all that, did they? Well, you’re in luck, Frodo of The Nine Fingers, Elf-friend and Saviour of Middle-Earth, bravest and wisest hobbit ever to live, because Sam Gardner doesn’t intend to leave his Frodo’s side for a long while yet, he’s missed him so.” Sam laughed like he was sobbing. There was dirt under his fingernails, and this set a new wave of weepiness down upon Frodo. How he’d missed this gardener. 

 “Goodness.” Chuckling breathily and lightly, joyful more than humored. “Haven’t we become a lofty pair of hobbits? I think you share some of those titles too, though,” Frodo’s eyes crinkled, spectral blue turning into something undeniably soft. His chest felt warm and fuzzy. “I’ve missed you as well, dear Sam. More than you could know.”

 “I doubt that. I don’t believe anyone could’ve missed someone more than I missed you.” Sam smiled. Frodo had been foolish once again, to fear as he had before that things would be different, be awkward. Sam was steadfast, a sturdy constancy among erratic waves. Nothing, Frodo now knew, could change that. “Oh!” Sam reached for his pockets. “I have something for you, Frodo, I know it isn’t much, and it isn’t what I promised, all those years ago when we were in Mordor together, but-”

 Sam pushed a small handful of flowers into Frodo’s hands, like a faunt again. Frodo gasped with delight. They were speedwells. 

 “Now, I didn’t know what kinda seeds y’all have over here in this place, and while I know these elves know their stuff, I figured they won’t have a good, hobbit touch about them - no disrespect of course. So I brought some seeds with me - all the ones we talked about and more, Frodo. I thought I might do some gardening.” 

 “Sam,” Frodo laughed in pure delight, “You better not be propositioning me. I’m much too old for that.” 

 Sam huffed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Frodo-love, but you’ve spent too much time with Bilbo. Nay, these are bouquet flowers, if you’ll allow this old hobbit to grow you some.” 

 Frodo beamed. “Yes, I’ll allow it. But, I got something for you as well-” He reached for his own pockets.

 “Oh, my!” Sam laughed. “So the elves do grow bluebells here, at least!”

 “Among other things.” Frodo flushed and glanced away. “Sam,” he began hesitantly, noting how the other hobbit immediately perked at the tone. “Know you may live here as you like. You aren’t beholden to anyone. But I wanted to ask you, if you might be amenable, to stay with me?” 

 Sam blinked. “So long as there aren’t any of those stairs and extra levels involved, Frodo.” 

 Snorting softly, Frodo shook his head with a smile. “No, dear Sam. They’ve made me a smial, and I’d like to share it with you, if you’d be so kind.”

 “‘So kind’! Frodo-” Sam laughed breathlessly. “Frodo, contrary to what me Elanor thought, I didn’t sail out just ‘ta look at elves for all the rest of my days. ‘course I want to stay with you, if you’ll have me.” 

 “It was always my hope.” Frodo’s eyes crinkled with happiness. “How is little Elanor doing?”

 “She ain’t little no more; but her hair is just as fair and her laugh just the same as when you last saw her, I reckon. She’s moved with Fastred - her husband now, can you imagine that? - they moved out together to Undertowers, and Fastred is Warden of Westmarch now. She even pestered me to live there with them, once Rosie passed, but I knew I had to come to you, Frodo. I’ve left the Red Book to her, and there couldn’t be a better keeper for it, I think.”

 These words lifted a burden off of Frodo’s chest that he hadn’t known was there. “I can’t help but agree, Sam, even though I didn’t know young Elanor for very long. The Red Book belongs to the hobbits, I should think; men, elves and dwarves can tell their tales as they choose, but I want the Red Book to belong to us. And I know Bilbo would agree with me.”

 Sam nodded sagely, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Discontent, Frodo offered his own handkerchief - Sam took it with a smile, dabbing at his cheeks with the smooth cloth. “She’ll take good care of it for us, Frodo.” 

 It didn’t matter to them, that they were in plain sight of all - the elves were courteous enough to give them their thin bubble of pantomimed privacy. Feeling bold, Frodo took Sam’s hand in his, cradling it to his chest, warm with a heart beating joyful and alive. “I think I’ll pay her back the favor - someone will have to look after her father for her, if he’ll allow it.” 

 Sam smiled, reaching up to place his own hand atop Frodo’s and squeezing gently, in unknowing unison with the patter of Frodo’s heart. “Only if you allow me the same for yourself, Frodo. It’s a highly fought for thing, if you can believe it. I was practically beating Pippin and Merry away with a stick for years, they were so intent on gettin’ me up with them and King Strider in Gondor.” 

Chuckling, Frodo did not even attempt to school the expression of delight upon his face. He’d been waiting all his life for this, he realized - how had he not realized that sooner? “I don’t doubt it, and it makes me glad to hear you kept in company with them.”

 Sam scoffed. “‘Course I did. After everything, we’re practically family, or so they’re always telling me.”

 Frodo smiled widely. “I think I have to agree with them,” he said. “We best get going, Sam. I still need to show you our smial - it’s got plenty of room for gardening, should you like to use it.” 

 “I’d like nothing more. Only-” And Sam frowned, swallowing and looking away, seeming for the first time since his arrival to be ill-at-ease.

 “Sam? What’s wrong?” Frodo squeezed his hand, unable to keep the fright and the worry from his voice. 

 “It’s nothing, Frodo, only a worry of mine.”

 “Share it with me,” Frodo demanded softly.

 Gnawing on his lip, Sam seemed abruptly hesitant to meet Frodo’s eyes. The wharf and the elves milling around it was suddenly very interesting to him. “I know we’re living among elves now, and we’ll likely pick up some of their elvish ways - and that’s not too terrible a thing, you understand - it’s only, we ain’t elves, Frodo.” 

 Frodo furrowed his brow. “Yes? And?”

 Meeting his eyes again, there was a wariness clear within Sam. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard, and a seriousness was there as well - Frodo couldn’t help but remember that the exact face Sam made, the way Sam furrowed his brow and frowned slightly with a cautious look in his eye, had been there since the beginning. “We ain’t elves, Frodo. One day, we’ll die.”

 He said it with a marked uncertainty. Reaching out, Frodo placed his free hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Yes, we will.” He chewed the inside of his cheek.

 Sam took a deep breath. He looked relieved. “Frodo of the Nine Fingers, would ya share a grave plot with me?” He said in a rush, like he was scared the words would flee him if he allowed them but one second, one opportunity, to do so.

 Frodo blinked. The idea was completely queer. Bordering on impropriety. It was unheard of, unspoken of - hobbits were supposed to be laid down with family, side-by-side with their spouse. Sam was neither blood nor bride. Sam was of an entirely different class, from a clade unmingled with Frodo’s own. He was-

 A hero. A dearest friend. A steadfast companion at the end of things. A gardener.

 Frodo might have been a Baggins. But he was also a Baggins of Bag End, and Bilbo’s heir besides. In all truth, he had always thought himself heir of Bilbo , more than he had thought himself heir of Bag End, or heir to head of Baggins.

 And regardless, this was his Sam.

 Carefully, he raised Sam’s hand to his face and kissed his hand, just as Sam had done for him, and yet not at all. Sam had always bowed his head, bent his knee and neck to Frodo - but they were free of such practiced, perfunctory performances. They bent to no one.

 Frodo suspected that it may take some for Sam in particular to grow accustomed to suddenly being above everyone else, or at least perceived that way. It would not be the same as when he was mayor. The elves, at least, would not accept bows from neither Sam nor Frodo. They were honor and respect bound, in some ways more than even hobbits could be, and always very differently than the Little People. It would be an adjustment. 

 But they had plenty of time, and Frodo plenty of patience. 

 “You would do me the highest honor with that, Sam.” Frodo said, his eyes watering anew, and he held the back of Sam’s hand to his cheek. 

 Sam made a curmudgeonly noise and shrugged, his face turning rosey and flushed. “No it ain’t,” he grumbled.

 Saying this, Frodo began to lead Sam home by their hands, still joined. It wasn’t until later that Frodo realized that he had not once thought about his missing finger. 

 (The first hobbit came from the earth, and when he grew weary he returned to it; in his death it's said that forests blossomed from nothing, and flowers sprouted from shore to shore. It was said that one day, the earth will bring him back again, to walk among hobbits once more.

 Then, as time changes all story, it changed this one as well - and now hobbits will say that when the first returned to the earth, he branched out in little pieces of himself, as a plant has its shutes, so too did he - and in pieces he returned when he was most needed. When the Shire was corrupted, four hobbits of his own ichor returned to save her, in blood and dirt, battle and garden.

 When Sam and Frodo returned to the earth, hand in hand, all of Valinor was said to have bloomed. It’s said that the earth brings them back every day, in every sprout, and some say that when the stars are right, they dance together like only hobbits can. For the earth stretches for leagues beneath the sea, connecting island to island, life to life, and somewhere in the middle the famous Fellowship of the Ring meets still.)