Chapter Text
Week after week, that grim fell winter continued, unrelenting. There was no indication that spring would ever come again, and in my heart, I felt that entirely fitting. My love was gone, taken from me heartbreakingly too soon, and my life had closed in on me, centering around my profession, and if it hadn't been for that, I should not like to think what might have become of me.
I rode out at all hours, called upon to assist those in the throes of winter fever, and gave no thought whatsoever to myself. My days were spent in toil and my nights in tears, and indeed, if I had met my own fate in trying to assist others, it really would have not concerned me at all. It was truly fortunate that I did not fall victim to my own hopelessness and despair. There was, in fact, to be a reawakening of life and hope to follow this desolate winter, but at this time, I had no inkling of what was to come.
It was nearly three weeks after I had returned to Bag End that I heard the knock, late on a stormy night, on the front door. Widow Rumble soon after gave a polite knock on the study door, where I was wearily pulling on my jacket in preparation for the inevitable professional call. "Mister Samwise," she gave me a resigned but sympathetic smile, " 'tis a young'un for you. But it is," she added, crossing her arms over her chest, and looking at me quite directly, "a poor evening to be out, for any body. We can put the lad up for the night, and there's time enough, come morning, to be doin' what you can. Nothing will change, Samwise," she added softly, "by worryin' yourself into an early grave."
I couldn't help but gulp back my tears at her concern, but nodded wordlessly.
She smiled sadly, and left the room, returning shortly with a young lad who was entirely unfamiliar to me. Sodden and dripping on the study floor, the shy fauntling whispered, wringing his hands in front of him, "I'm bidden to ask you to follow me."
"What is it, lad?" I asked him gently. "Is some one in your family ill? Who sent you here?"
He shook his head stubbornly, and repeated, "I'm to ask you to follow me. 'Tain't no more."
I could not help but be curious at this odd request. "It's late at night, my lad, and quite wet besides, to be going after you and not knowing the reason why. Can you not tell me any more?"
He shook his head obstinately and said no more, but watched me carefully.
There was no reason I should have ever listened to the lad, no reason I should ever have followed him, and yet there was something in my heart that had awoken and would not be quelled by the voice of reason. Confused, I tried to tell myself that it was my professional duty to follow this fey lad. "Very well," I exclaimed, with more asperity than I truly felt. "If you won't be telling me anything more, I suppose I must come with you." And throwing a traveling cloak over myself, we were off into the tempestuous night, much to Widow Rumble's consternation.
Storm clouds chased themselves past the full moon, and the light was intermittent as we made our way along the rarely used road that ran into the hills behind Bag End, but the young lad walked as quickly and surely down the pathway as if it were the sunniest of summer mornings. I had no chance to ask any more questions of him, for he was lithe and swift and clearly in no mood to tell me more. So I settled myself to follow on this fool's errand, and concentrated all my attention, as indeed I hastily found necessary to do, on watching my feet as I pursued my guide over increasingly rough terrain. The rain continued to pour down, and after what seemed like a couple of hours of this, I had just about decided that my discomfort and impatience were beginning to outweigh my curiosity, when my guide suddenly stopped short.
"That way. Round yonder hill," he pointed, his odd sharp face once again revealed by moonlight. " 'Tis there where I'm bid t'bring you."
And before I could ask a single question, he was gone, vanished into the high brush that grew at the side of the faint track we had been following, and I was left alone in the night.
I must admit that both annoyance and fear were causing my heart to beat rather fast, for I was still baffled as to why I had been brought here, and I also was, I now realized, quite thoroughly lost. But there was no point in not following this adventure to its conclusion, so I waited for a few moments, until the silver light glimmered out once more from behind the cloud screen, and continued cautiously in the direction in which the lad had pointed, a low laying hill covered with gorse.
The path seemed to end rather abruptly, half up the hill, and it wasn't until I sat on my heels, and patiently waited in the rain for more light, that I finally saw it. The gorse had been obviously cleared around the end of the path, and I realized that a few of the bushes had been laid carefully in place against the hill, serving as a screen. Warily pulling them aside, I saw a small wooden door. It was, apparently, a smial, in the most unlikely of places.
I nearly gave a shaky laugh at the sight. Perhaps my imagination had been over-stimulated by the stormy night and my odd visitor, and here was some poor soul waiting for my assistance. I couldn't have been that far from Hobbiton, after all, and with all due modesty, I had to admit I had somewhat of a reputation about the area.
With a polite rap on the door, I waited for admittance. After several moments, though, there was no answer, and realizing that perhaps my patient was too ill to come to the door, I decided to find my own way in. It was, in fact, a crude smial, with an earthen floor and a short hallway that opened up into a dark room. There was a small lantern, with a weakly flickering flame hung on a peg on the wall where the hallway widened into the room, and I peered curiously about for any sign of the inhabitants of this queer place. A rough wooden table and chair were near the light, and a rusted stove was also nearby, with a pipe that must have gone up to the top of the hill. There was no sign of a fire, or fireplace, and the hole was chill and clammy, a thoroughly uncomfortable place.
"Hoy there!" I called out uncertainly, still not seeing anyone about. There was a rustle behind me then, and I whirled around abruptly to find myself staring at the smiling face of Frodo Baggins. I must have cried out something, quite probably his name, but everything seemed to grow suddenly dark, and to my great chagrin, it seems as if for the first and only time in my life, I fainted.
I found myself lying, as I came to, on a makeshift bed of some sort, and found Baggins peering at me in the darkened room with unmistakable concern, as he wiped my forehead with some sort of wet cloth. But there was nothing in my mind other than this was Frodo and he was somehow impossibly, inexplicably, miraculously alive. I breathed his name, still fearful that all this would vanish into another futile dream, and reached for his face. But it was a warm living being whom I touched, not some figment of my desperate imagination, and I could feel tears begin to slide down my face at the sensation of his warm skin under my hand.
"Frodo, oh, Frodo, my dearest, it is you," my voice faltered even as I gulped back a sob.
"Sam, please forgive me, Sam, I wanted to let you know but I couldn't…" and I touched his lips with my shaking hand.
"No," I whispered. "Not yet. Tell me everything later, but not yet. Right now, nothing else matters. Just you, Frodo, my love."
A sharp look nearly of pain, crossed his face for a moment, and he bowed his head. When he raised it again, I could see that tears had begun to fall down his face as well, and some corner of my mind realized that I had never before seen Frodo Baggins shed a tear. But that was a thought for much later, for now all that mattered was to throw my arms around his neck, to feel his mouth suddenly fierce on mine, to arch myself desperately against him as he lay himself down at my side, and to cling to him greedily and to pray for this moment to never end.
He was as hungry for me as I for him, however, and we tore each other's clothing off in a passion, both of us desperately needing to touch the other, to feel our hearts racing against our hands, to lie entwined together breathing no word but each other's name, as we united with wild kisses and frenzied caresses until our joining brought us together to that point of ecstasy that I had never thought to know again.
As we rested together, our pulses still racing, he made another attempt to explain to me what had happened, but I silenced him with a tender kiss. I knew that he had been through some hardship, for I could feel that his body, which I held tightly against mine, was thinner than it had been, and even in this weak and uncertain light, his face was gaunt and pale, but that was a tale for the morning to come. All that I needed or wanted to know, at this point, was that I was holding a very real Frodo in my arms, and that I could caress him, kiss him, whisper his name and confess my love for him over and over. It was thus we finally fell asleep, and even in my fitful dreams, I was filled with joy and peace.
I awoke, uncharacteristically, the next morning before he did. I knew it was day from the grey light that made its way through a grubby window that I had not noticed the night before. It was covered, probably with the same gorse as the front door had been, but some weak rays managed to shine through nevertheless, and I sat up on the bed and looked about.
There was not much to see, as far as the smial was concerned. It was the rudest sort of shelter; a one-room smial, crudely dug out, and obviously little used, judging from the thick dust that lay about everywhere. Indeed, the only evidence that anyone had been in residence was a small pile of sticks and twigs near the cold stove, and a small crude jug and cup on the table. That was all I saw, though, before my gaze turned back to Frodo.
He was still asleep, on his side facing where I had been, with one bare arm lying on top of the rough blankets that had covered us. It was only now that I could clearly see the evidence that his health had suffered considerably since I last had seen him. He was much thinner, and his face was drawn, with an unhealthy pallor so unlike his normally fair skin, and there were dark smudges under his closed eyes. There was much he had to tell me, that was clear, and yet I could not help my jubilant heart as I watched him sleep. Whatever had happened could be undone, could be remedied, I was certain. He was restored to me, and I would never let him go that lightly again.
Moving quietly, I eased myself from the bed, and dug out my traveling cloak, from the pile of clothing on the floor, to wrap about myself as I addressed the first problem, the frosty temperature of the smial. I studied the stove for a moment, and then loaded it with a full batch of the kindling that lay next to it, and dug through my pack for my flint. The branches took the spark nicely, and closing the metal door, I next gave the jug on the table a dubious sniff. As I had hoped, it proved to be clean water, so withdrawing the small pot that was part of my traveling gear, I poured some of the water into it and set it on the stove. Needless to mention, I had a packet of tea with my gear, and had even thrown a small loaf and a wheel of cheese in as well before I had left. The life of a healer on the road is full of uncertainty, and it had always proved prudent to be able to feed myself, if needs be.
So it was that when at last Frodo opened his eyes, the small smial was beginning to become tolerably warm, and there was some tea brewing, not to mention a bite to eat. Not that any of that was of consequence, of course, once Frodo sat up and smiled at me again. I found myself rushing to his side, babbling like a veritable ninnyhammer, and finding tears falling down my face all the while as I caught his hands up in my own and kissed them over and over.
"Oh, Sam, my Sam-love," his voice was thick with emotion as he caught me up in a fierce embrace, "I've missed you so very much, dearest. More than I can ever tell you. But here you are again, and nothing will ever be hopeless as long as you are with me, my beloved Sam." First giving his eyes a quick, furtive swipe, he smiled rather sheepishly at me as he gently pulled away, his grasp strong on my arms. "But I must tell you, dearest, what happened to me. Oh, Sam," he broke away suddenly, looking past me with amazement. "That can't possibly be tea that I smell?"
"Indeed it is, Frodo, and a bit of first breakfast besides," I grinned happily, mustering up as much sternness as I could manage. "And before you tell me a thing, I'll have you know I expect you to eat every bite." My subsequent kiss possibly alloyed the sternness to a certain extent, but the best of healers always know precisely what is required, and my patient's prompt response promised complete compliance, at least on that score.
"I still have not entirely solved this puzzle," Baggins began, once we were both dressed and had finished off the breakfast, such as it was. "Indeed, I believe that I am somehow involved in a plot… Oh, I say, is there any more tea, Sam? It's been far too long since I've had a decent cup."
I poured him the rest, and added, mildly, "I could make more if you like, Frodo. After all, it isn't that far to go to fetch more, if I need to."
"Yes, about that…" his voice trailed off as he gave me a peculiar look. "Not as easy as you might suppose, actually. However, I am getting ahead of myself. Let me present the facts, as I know them, and we will consider a plan of action afterwards. What I wouldn't give for a pipe just now. It stimulates the intellectual process so very nicely."
"Oh, well, if you would like a bit of a smoke," I rummaged in my pack, and produced my pipe. "Here, I don't mind."
He took it from me with a grateful smile, and added, "Very thoughtful of you, Samwise. And your pipeweed would certainly do in a pinch."
"Ah, but I have a bit of yours as well." I produced a well-wrapped pouch from my pack as well, feeling oddly embarrassed. "Must have been left over from our last trip." That wasn't it at all, of course. I had clung desperately to anything that brought back memories of him, and from the loving and understanding look he gave me as he took it, I suspected that he guessed as much.
"I can't imagine the pain I must have cost you, my dear," he said quietly, attending to his pipe and allowing me a moment to collect myself. "However, there were circumstances… But let me start from when we were last together."
"You may remember," he drew greedily on his pipe, leaning back against a pile of blankets on the bed, "Lotho's attempt to draw me into some sort of scheme involving curtailing the Elves' passage through the Shire; utter nonsense, really. I found it quite odd, however, that Lotho would have been selected as the contact for the Shire by this, I believe he called them, alliance. My cousin has always had a rather deluded sense of his own importance, and if this group had truly been looking for a persuasive spokesperson, well, they really couldn't have selected a worse hobbit for the purpose. The point that struck me, however, was the concentrated effort involved to bring me into this affair."
"Look at the facts, my dear Gamgee," he leaned forward, his face alight with fascination with this mystery, as he unconsciously fell back into his old means of address. "Saradoc Brandybuck, quite possibly the most influential hobbit in the entire Shire, is kidnapped. I don't believe it was any surprise at all to his captors that his son immediately sought me out for assistance; indeed, I believe they had planned on that happening. And then soon as we arrive upon the scene, Saradoc and his son are let go, and it is I whom Lotho attempts to talk into assisting his partners. What possible influence could I have over the Shire? I must admit there has always been bad blood, as they say, between Lotho and myself, but it certainly seemed to be an unnecessarily convoluted means of obtaining revenge against me."
"All of that, I must confess, was going through my mind as we rode out the second time to meet Lotho at the smial by the river, and I don't mind admitting that I was terribly concerned about your safety, Sam. I was beginning to realize that Lotho was far more dangerous than I had ever given him credit for being, previously, and I was extremely worried that he was beginning to see you as a most inconvenient witness. I knew that the call for you to return was staged, but I also knew that you would not leave my side unless you believed it to be a true call of distress. So I let you go back, Sam, fully planning to return to the inn as soon as possible, and tell you of my suspicions. Lotho was waiting for me a little on, and very kindly let me write you a short note. I very much hoped that you never needed to read that, dear Sam, but that was not to be."
I lowered my head at that, fighting my emotions, for those words were still fresh in my memory, and indeed, the letter itself was still folded in my jacket pocket, next to my heart, where I always kept it.
"I meant every word of it, Sam," he whispered, reaching out his hand for mine, when he saw my face. "There's nothing in that letter that I would ever deny, my dearest." I nodded, unable to speak, as he drew my hand to his cheek and silently held it there for a moment.
"But I must go on. The next few hours are still not terribly clear to me, I'm afraid," he gave me a rueful smile over his pipe, as he settled back on the bed again. "I believe I was hit over the head at that point, but in light of what happened afterwards, I'm not terribly sure. At any rate, I came to with my head covered with something, most likely a bag of some sort, my hands tied roughly behind my back, and a spirited argument going on next to me. It was not common speech, but a variant of it that is more commonly spoken in the south, by those who have doings with Men. My head was rather ringing at this point, but I tried my best to decipher it, and soon was able to pick out sufficient words to get the gist of it. Apparently, it was an argument as to whether I was the Baggins or not, whatever that meant. Lotho seemed to have convinced them, on the basis of his kinship to me, that I was, but there seemed to be disagreement on that point. I did not hear Lotho's voice, and it certainly seemed he was no longer in favor with my captors. The conclusion, however, was that I was no longer of use, since I did not appear to be as easily persuadable as Lotho, and it was questionable whether I would help them recover something they seemed to be searching for. What that was, I really have no idea, for none of the words they used are familiar to me."
"At last the argument grew quite heated, and before I realized what was happening, I was bodily lifted off the ground, and rapidly carried off by what must have been a Man, judging from the distance I was raised above the ground. I did not have much time to analyze the creature any further, however, since I was almost immediately roughly cast over what was, I quickly concluded, the ravine down through which the river runs, deep and swift. Fortunately, I had been working on the rope that bound my hands ever since I had regained consciousness, and I was able to break free as I fell. I hit the rocks a few times on my way down, but managed to tear the covering from my face before I landed in the water, which saved me, I believe. I don't remember much more, other than fighting to catch my breath as the river tossed me downstream, but I do remember ending up in a pool near the shore before I must have fainted."
"I came to in the smial of some kindly river-hobbits, who found me and took me in, but the next couple of weeks are quite a jumble in my mind, as it seems I had caught the winter fever myself. I owe those good folk an immense debt, however, since they treated me as if I was one of their own, and eventually, I recovered sufficiently to begin my journey back. I stopped by the inn at Frogmorton, first, in the disguise of a traveling peddler, and certainly I've rarely had less difficulty in disguising myself. Our fellow residents were more than glad to regale me with tales of the dramatic doings that had occurred not that long ago, and it was then that I realized that you must have found my letter and supposed the worst. But I also discovered that Lotho was still not only alive, but quite interested in any further news of me. In fact, he had offered both of our two friends, as well as the innkeeper and his son, a considerable quantity of gold for any news of my whereabouts, a reward they did not seem at all willing to claim, I must add. Their opinion of Lotho, I was gratified to learn, was quite severe, and they had thought quite highly of you, especially, and my own self as well. But that did let me know that Lotho and, I am assuming, his associates, were not at all certain of my demise."
"I made my way back to Hobbiton by the back roads, and have found that Bag End itself, and you, my dearest Sam, are under close scrutiny. Indeed, I believe the only reason that they have not yet ransacked Bag End is that they believe I will come back, eventually, to you, and are using you as bait."
"But that's preposterous, Frodo!" I could not help exclaiming at this point. "We must let the authorities know what is going on as soon as possible! It's ridiculous to let Lotho and his band of thieves abuse you in this manner. He ought to be sent to the jail at Michael Delving for a very long while, and that's a fact! And as for that rabble of scoundrels, why, I can't believe that a sturdy group of hobbits couldn't send them packing in no time, if the truth be known!"
He gave me a warm smile, and laid an affectionate hand on my shoulder at this outburst. "My dearest, impetuous Sam," he murmured. "How I wish we could do just that. But the fact remains that we still do not know why they are seeking me out, and what exactly it is that they search for. No, my dearest, there are answers we must yet find, or the risk that the Shire runs will be very great indeed. I regret to say, Sam, I cannot yet go back, and you must be very careful yourself. This, then, is what I propose."
I left him, not long after, with the greatest of reluctance. The morning fog was beginning to lift as I walked quickly back down the faint path, keeping a very close note of all landmarks as I did so. I planned to be back this way in as little time as possible, and I did not mean to miss my way. Our plan was to leave Bag End alone for a time, and see if our adversaries were thus tempted into making their move on it. I was to send word out that I was visiting my brothers to the north, and the Widow was to go on holiday, visiting her niece in Hobbiton. I had agreed with the greatest of reluctance to this scheme, still having the irrational fear of returning to find him gone. But he managed to assure me that the hill-folk, with whom he had earlier found refuge, would continue to guard over and provide for him until I returned. So I made my way back to Bag End, by a most circuitous route, determined that our separation should be as short as possible.
A visit to the Green Dragon was in order, that afternoon, for there was no better way of having the whole farthing know your business than by having a confidential word with the proprietor there. In addition, I invited Jolly Cotton, an old boyhood friend of mine, along, for it was essential that I sent word to Merry Brandybuck, and his father, by someone whom I could trust implicitly, but who would never be suspected of having business of such importance. Swearing him to secrecy, I outlined what had happened to Baggins and I, as we walked home from the inn far from prying eyes and ears. As I knew he would be, he was outraged that Pimple would dare treat Mr. Baggins so, and readily agreed to serve as our emissary. We fixed upon his riding down to Brandy Hall with a cartload of apples from winter storage, for the Cotton orchards are justifiably famed, far and wide, for their golden red apples, and it was not at all unreasonable that the Master of Buckland would send for such a thing.
Widow Rumble agreed quickly to my proposal of a holiday for, she had to confess, her heart was just not in her job these days; no affront to myself intended, of course. I had difficulty in resisting the impulse to confess all, but it was essential that she remain convinced that Baggins was gone, so I stayed silent on the matter. As for myself, I swiftly gathered clothing for the both of us, in addition to a goodly store of provisions and other items to take back with me, and most particularly, a couple of select volumes that Baggins had requested from his library. It was a good thing that my brothers lived quite far away, so that a heavy load would not seem out of place. By late afternoon, I was packed and ready, and both Jolly and the Widow were on their routes to their respective destinations, but I had to wait.
With great reluctance, I had agreed to Baggins' directive to leave on the following morning, for such a journey would normally commence in the broad daylight, and not at the tail end of the day's light. It was reasonable, without a doubt, but my heart was not being reasonable in the least, and I restlessly wandered the halls of Bag End, not knowing what to do with myself. True, my former deep despair was no longer with me, but my impatience was nearly without bounds, and the thought that Frodo was not that far from me, cold and alone in that dismal empty smial, was tortuous. Nothing suited me, nothing else mattered to me, and I prowled through the rooms in a perfect fury that I had to stay.
I don't think that any night was ever as long as that one was, and even when I flung myself on our empty bed, still fully clothed, sleep would not come no matter what I did, and I tossed fitfully against our pillows, rolling over and holding them to my face to catch any lingering scent of him that I could. I watched the dark night sky out our window, the rain that came and went, the occasional pale glimmers of moonlight, and finally, oh, at last, the gradual deepening into dark blue that signaled the arrival of the morning. I left Bag End before the dawn had quite broken across the far hills, and never looked back once.