CHAPTER 21: FACING LOSS

As the winter dragged towards spring, Sam’s anxiety for Frodo increased. The Summer of 1420 seemed a long way away. Frodo was pitifully thin again, despite all Rosie’s efforts, and walks together were a distant memory, as distant as remembered passion.

Sam held and caressed Frodo at every opportunity, and tried to give him some interest in the goings on around him. Some days, Frodo would hardly speak. Often he would shut himself in his study to write, but when Sam looked, the work done was minimal. Sam felt as though the winter would never end, but there was one constant that kept him going, and that was Frodo’s love. Frodo might struggle against the mental fog and the physical disability, but his love and concern for Sam were never far away.

Solmath was particularly cold, with late snow and ice in the middle of the month, and Sam slithered on the path on his way to the Party Field. The stable was warm and sweet-smelling, a good place to be on such a morning. He talked to the ponies as he mucked out their stalls and filled their mangers with hay.

‘I’ll take you out for some exercise, soon as the ice goes,’ he promised. He patted Strider, and rubbed his palm over the velvet-soft nostrils. Strider blew warm breath over his hand and shifted his weight from one back leg to the other.

‘I know, I know,’ said Sam, ‘you’re standing around too much. But I don’t think you’ll have a rider when we do go out. I don’t think he’s up to wanting to go riding. Mind you, he was managing well enough one-handed; that’s thanks to you being so well behaved an’ all. It’d do him good, I’m thinking, to come riding again.’

He broke the ice in the water bucket and carried on with his one-sided conversation. ‘He ain’t up to walking, anyway. He don’t think his Sam notices, but he’s tripping more, and he’s wasting away in front of my eyes.’ He turned to lean against Bill’s flank, blinking back tears, and Bill bent his neck to nuzzle at Sam’s hair.

‘Well, this ain’t going to get the rest of the chores done, my lads,’ Sam said at last, pushing away from Bill, and wiping his eyes. ‘I’ll be back down to see you again later.’ He piled the soiled straw and manure outside, ready to be barrowed to his compost heap, and headed back to the smial, blowing on his hands and stamping his feet to try and get some heat circulating into them. Small mounds in the snow were all that was to be seen of the snowdrops that had begun to flower, but the dull, grey cloud cover was beginning to break, and all the signs were that the weather would improve. If the sun came out, the garden would look beautiful in its covering of snow.

If the weather was hard on hobbits, it was much harder on some of the other inhabitants of The Hill. Rosie had done what she could, putting food out for the birds, and making sure they had water kept clear of ice. Two bluetits were hanging upside down on a lump of lard, tilting their heads back and forth to keep an eye out for danger. The biggest danger they faced was the cold.

As Sam came up to the kitchen door, a heap of feathers, lifting in the breeze, caught his eye. He wasn’t sure why he gave it a second glance, but as he did so he gave a cry of distress. He lifted the small scrap of skin and bones into the palm of his hand and carried it gently up to the kitchen.

Rosie was working over the stove, cooking a substantial second breakfast to help keep out the cold. ‘There’s some warm water in the foot bath, if you want to thaw out,’ she said, and then caught sight of his face. ‘What’s the matter, Sam? What have you got there? Oh, it’s a robin!’

She held out her hand, and he placed the cold, limp form in her palm. ‘It’s the one with a white feather in its tail,’ he said.

Rosie held the little bird close, over her swollen belly. ‘He’s alive, but only just,’ she said. One-handed, she reached for some wool from her spinning basket and tucked it around the robin. ‘Most likely he’s just very old, and this weather’s all as was needed to finish him off. Give him a drop of that milk that’s heating, and then I’ll try and warm him up. I doubt he’ll survive; I don’t think we can save him.’

Sam dipped a finger in the milk pan and let a drop fall onto the bird’s beak. The tiny creature made a swallowing motion, and beneath its closed lids they saw its eye roll. ‘Well, that’s hopeful,’ said Rosie, but the bird did not take the second drop Sam proffered. By the time he had found a small basket in the cupboard to lay his garden friend in, the robin was dead.

Sam looked at Rosie, misery for Frodo filling his world, and Rosie’s words echoed mournfully in his head. ‘I doubt he’ll survive,’ he said dully. ‘I don’t think we can save him.’ The tears that had come in the stable were back in full measure.

‘Sam?’ Rosie set the little body aside, still wrapped up in sheep’s wool, and put her arm around her husband. ‘You mean Frodo, don’t you?’ He nodded, not able to say more as his body shook with sobs. She held him close, having to stand a little sideways so that her belly didn’t get in the way, and he bent his head to rest it against hers. His tears wet her hair.

‘Sam, listen to me. He ain’t got any worse this last fortnight, leastways I don’t think so. I’m hopeful he’ll start to improve with the finer weather. That sunny day we had last week, I thought he seemed a little brighter. He came and sat in the kitchen wi’ me for a bit, instead of shutting himself away.’

‘You may be right, lass,’ Sam said with difficulty. ‘Seems like last year, his worse times followed the pattern of our journey, if you see what I mean. But I can’t see him getting back as good as he was in the summer gone. And it’s in Win'filth he’s gone down, twice now, and this time worse than the first. If he survives through to the summer, I’m thinking another Win’filth’ll finish him off.’

Rosie guided him to the table and sat him down. She pulled up a chair next to him and took his hand, rubbing down his back with her other hand. ‘I don’t know as I can say anything to that, Sam,’ she said, and her voice was unsteady now, as well. ‘I think you’re probably right, though I don’t doubt you’d rather me not say it.’

‘I’m sorry to come and cry over you,’ mumbled Sam, staring down at the table. ‘It ain’t very fair on you, to keep having to put up with me grieving over Frodo.’

‘Samwise Gamgee! Don’t be giving me that load o’ pig swill! I would hope you’d always come and cry on my shoulder, given the need.’ She brought her hand to his chin and turned his face to hers. There were tears running freely down her cheeks. ‘And you’re forgetting... I love him, too.’

Sam kissed her. ‘I’m still sorry about burdening you with this, lass. But if Frodo sees me upset, he gets worse, so it helps to have a cry wi’ you.’

‘He never stops worriting about you, Sam. I sees it all the time. And if he’s worse ‘cause you’re upset, you get more upset, until I don’t know what to do with the pair o’ you.’ She wiped her face with her apron and stood up. ‘Now, breakfast won’t be long,’ she said. ‘So sit yourself here a minute and drink some sweet tea to warm you through, and then you’d best go and wake Frodo.’

Sam drank the proffered tea, while Rosie chatted to him, distracting him from his pain. He looked at her proudly. She was looking very fine: large, but not ungainly. She was restless at night, sometimes with heartburn or cramp, but the pregnancy had given her very little trouble. Sam was glad. He didn’t think he could cope if Frodo and Rosie were both unwell. It was Rosie’s quiet support that saw him through. Things might not always go right, but Rosie never made a drama out of a crisis, as the saying went. She was capable, and she just got on and did what was needed. He stood up and hugged her.

‘I love you, lass,’ he said.

She took his hand and laid it over her belly, and he smiled at her as he felt the vigorous kicks. ‘He’s a lively lad, our small Frodo,’ said Rosie. ‘Now, get on with you, and let me cook this breakfast.’

Sam poured more tea for himself and some for Frodo, and carried the two mugs to Frodo’s bedroom. Sometimes the tea got drunk, but sometimes it took a long time to get Frodo to stir. Then the tea was cold and unappealing, and was thrown away untasted.

Sam set the tea down and opened the curtains. There was no doubt now that the cloud cover was breaking, and the snow was sparkling bright in the sun. He laid another log on the fire he had lit earlier and slipped off his clothes; Frodo, for all his impotence, still enjoyed Sam’s warm skin against his. At least the delay in the kitchen had warmed up Sam’s feet and hands. He lifted the sheets to slide in against Frodo’s back and ran his hand up Frodo’s thigh, rucking up his night-shirt. He sighed gently as he folded his fingers around Frodo’s early morning erection, and the tension eased from his body.

Frodo murmured his pleasure that Sam was close and pressed back against him. The exchange was innocent of any thought of sex; Sam simply found this a comforting position. Frodo understood this and found it comforting as well. He turned his face, and Sam raised his head to kiss him.

‘It’s very light, Sam. Have you let me sleep on?’

‘No, love. It’s snowed in the night, and now the sun’s shining on it.’

Frodo looked up to where the light shimmered across the ceiling. ‘How much?’ he asked. ‘Enough for sledging?’

‘Hand’s depth, more in places,’ said Sam, unable to keep surprise from his voice. It seemed so unlikely that Frodo would want to sledge, and the old Bag End sleigh was long gone.

Frodo laughed and turned fully to face Sam. Sam shifted to give him room to turn and slid his hand to cup Frodo’s backside and press him close.

‘It’s all right, Sam. I have no inclination to get cold and wet.’ He reached up and tucked Sam’s hair back, then laid his palm against Sam’s face. ‘But if the west side of the Hill has a good covering on it, there’s a Bag End tradition to keep up.’

Sam smiled in delight and kissed Frodo again. It amazed him that Frodo could be so afflicted, and yet always be thinking of others. ‘How can I have forgotten?’ he asked. ‘I’ll go and put the word out, soon as we’ve had breakfast. They’ll probably be hovering round the gate with a motley collection of tea trays, waiting for me to appear. And talking of breakfast: it’s nearly ready. Will you get up?’ This was by no means a given. Frodo sometimes preferred to stay in bed, but Sam was hopeful. Frodo wasn’t listless, for one thing. The snow had given him an interest.

‘Yes, I’ll get up, but it’s very cosy, to lie here in your warmth, and know it’s so cold out.’

‘No need for you to go out at all. And the fires are all lit, so the smial is warm.’

‘Maybe, but it’s not the same as this, my dear Sam.’

Frodo struggled a little to sit up. His weak arm was under him and not helping at all. Sam aided him with an arm under his shoulder, and then slipped from the bed first, to give Frodo some support as he stood. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, or late at night when Frodo was tired, his left leg had a tendency to let him down. Sam had watched him closely through the days as well, and noticed the left foot would sometimes drag a little. It was the reason, he was certain, that Frodo was so prone to stumbling.

Standing near the fire for the greatest warmth, Sam helped him pull off his night-shirt, and they embraced for the pleasure of being naked together. They moved in easy familiarity as Sam helped Frodo get dressed. This was routine now, and Sam knew exactly where help was most needed, and the best way to give it. He fastened the fiddly buttons of Frodo’s shirt, helped him on with his waistcoat and stood back while Frodo buttoned these fastenings himself, one-handed. Sam pulled his own clothes on and searched through Frodo’s wardrobe for his warmest woollen jacket.

Rosie jumped up when they entered the kitchen, and Frodo gave her a good morning kiss on the cheek. ‘Did you sleep better last night?’ he asked, and Rosie nodded. She broke eggs into the frying pan, and left them frying as she dished out the rest of breakfast. As well as the eggs from their chickens, there were sausages and bacon from South Farm, mushrooms grown in the cellar, and leftover potato from the previous night’s supper, sliced and fried.

Rosie gave Sam a large helping and had trouble finding room to slide two eggs onto his plate. She gave Frodo a smaller plate and put very little on it. There was an art to getting Frodo to eat, and not overwhelming him with large portions was part of it. Sam knew Frodo would probably only eat half of what he had been given, anyway. With the minimum of fuss, Rosie cut up the sausage and bacon, and set the plate on the table along with more tea.

When it was obvious that Frodo had eaten as much as he was likely to, Rosie played her next trick, if it could be called that. They all knew it for a device to encourage Frodo to eat more.

‘I’ve got some soup left from yesterday,’ she said. ‘Would you like some now?’ As usual, Frodo accepted the offer, more to please Rosie, Sam suspected, than because he really wanted it.

‘Are you making more today?’ asked Frodo, as he sipped the chicken soup from a mug. ‘I think we might have some visitors later.’

Rosie looked surprised, and Sam nodded towards the window. ‘The snow,’ he said, in explanation.

She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, of course! I’ll make some biscuits as well. That’s what I remember, Frodo. You, or Mr. Bilbo, taking biscuits fresh from the oven, and we’d eat them right here, in the Bag End kitchen. I’ve no idea how word used to get round, but we always knowed when there were sledging on the Hill. I don’t suppose you noticed who we was, but me and my brothers, we was always here with the Hobbiton children.’

Frodo laughed and looked at Sam. ‘I think Sam used to run all the way to Bywater to tell Tom,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’d noticed Tom’s pretty little sister, then. You wore red ribbons in your hair, and you and Jolly were inseparable.’

Rosie looked at him in amazement. ‘Fancy you remembering,’ she said. ‘Did you know how special it were to us? It were one o’ those things that marked the passing seasons. Like Yuletide, or the first lamb.’

Sam pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be going to see how the Gaffer’s faring, and make sure he’s got enough logs handy,’ he said. ‘I’ll let the children know they’re still welcome. They’d best be quick. If the sun keeps shining, the snow’ll be gone again in no time.’

As he had predicted, there were several small hobbits in the lane, clutching trays hopefully. He looked at them severely. ‘Now what are you scamps up to?’ he asked. They shuffled their feet and looked at one another, until one plucked up the courage to speak.

‘Please, Master Gard’ner, sir, we was wondering if we could sledge down the Hill. But we mustn’t be a nuisance, sir. And Ma says we must take no for an answer.’

‘Well, seems like you’re in luck,’ said Sam, with a smile. ‘Because Mr. Baggins asked me to give you his compliments and tell you he very much hopes you’ll find a use for the snow in his garden.’ There were whoops of joy, and then Sam was standing alone in the road, remembering when he was a small lad, racing up the Hill.

Later, Frodo expressed a wish to watch them for a while, and Sam made sure he was well wrapped up. If Frodo got chilled, the pain in his shoulder increased and spread down his arm. Sam handed Frodo a staff, and supported him on his left side. The last thing he wanted was for Frodo to slip on the ice. Frodo accepted the help with good grace. He was getting better at accepting his limitations, and anyway, it was the perfect excuse to walk around leaning against Sam.

Despite the blue sky, the day was crisp and cold. Their breath condensed on the air in front of them, and the snow creaked slightly as they trod on it. The trees and bushes were outlined in white, showing which way the wind had been blowing the flakes in the night. Now, there was almost no wind, and the shrieks and cries hung on the clear air.

The Hill, on the west side, sloped down to the kissing gate, and already the snow was well-compacted into a fast run. Sam averted his eyes from the bare shrubby growth off to the left of the Hill. In the summer, the bushes and trees had been dense with leaves, concealing and shading a hollow where memories were painful in their beauty.

There were not enough trays for all the lads and lasses, so they took turns. A snowball fight started, and the face of the combatant, who threw the well-packed ball that caught Frodo in the face, was comical to see. The small lad’s eyes and mouth formed large horrified O’s. Sam brushed the snow out of Frodo’s collar before it could melt, and their laughter seemed to reassure the culprit.

Frodo sighed, as the lad ran away to lose himself in the mass of arms and legs that the snowball fight had deteriorated into. ‘I used to know who they all were,’ he said, ‘but I can hardly recognise any of them now.’

‘I think we’d better see if there’s soup ready to offer them,’ said Sam, ‘while the fight’s still good-natured.’ He also thought it was time Frodo came back into the warm.

In the kitchen, Frodo sat in his armchair, while Rosie and Sam found an assortment of bowls and mugs to put the soup in. The children crowded into the warmth and perched on all available spaces. Sam was about to go in search of a stool for one small lass who had nowhere to sit, but she took matters into her own hands and clambered up on Frodo’s lap. She regarded him solemnly.

‘My name’s Molly,’ she said.

‘That’s a nice name,’ said Frodo. ‘My name’s Frodo.’ He looked at Sam.

‘Widow Rumble’s youngest grandchild,’ said Sam promptly.

‘Well, Molly,’ said Frodo. ‘If you move back a bit, I won’t be worrying you might knock my mug of hot soup over yourself.’ Molly wriggled backwards, into the crook of his right arm, and Rosie handed her a cup of soup, with a little cold water added. With her free hand, the little lass pulled a ragged stuffed toy from her pocket and showed it to Frodo.

‘That’s a very nice...’ he looked at it doubtfully, ‘erm, dog.’

‘You c’n hold him if you like.’

‘You can sit him on my lap, and then he can see what’s going on.’

‘He likes to be held,’ she insisted, and the thumb of her hand still holding the toy disappeared into her mouth.

‘And I’d like to hold him, but my arm doesn’t work very well.’

The thumb came out with a faint ‘pop’. ‘Oh. I’ve got new ribbons.’

‘Yes, I can see. They’re very pretty.’

Molly sat back satisfied with this, her toy dangling by one ear, and drank her soup noisily. Frodo smiled at Sam over her beribboned curls. Sam managed to smile back, but past memories and lost dreams of the future had come together to bring him to tears. With a meagre excuse, he escaped from the kitchen.

Frodo always had been good with children. He talked to them; not through them with one eye on the audience of adults standing by. Merry and Pippin, as well as himself, had loved Frodo since they were small in a way that they had not loved anyone else. He had made them all feel important, as though what they said and thought mattered. Seeing him talk to Molly, Sam was reminded of his first meeting with Frodo in the Bag End garden. He had shyly hidden behind his father, and Frodo had taken the trouble to squat down and talk to him. Just the next day Sam had fallen and cut his knee, and it had been Frodo who picked him up and cleaned the wound, and stopped his tears with a story. Sam had loved Frodo ever since. Time had simply matured that love into something more.

Mingled in with these memories was the thought that had come to him at Hamson’s: the image of Frodo telling stories to Sam’s children, teaching them to read and write, working his magic with them. That image had been shattered by Frodo’s re-emergent illness, and Sam’s fear that he would die. He sat down on the floor, leaning back against his bed, and covering his face with his hands, he wept.

He heard the click of the door latch lifting and knew, without looking up, that it was Frodo, not Rosie, who had entered. There was no way, in or out of the Shire, he could halt his grief, and he kept his face buried.

The fingers that drew his hands from his face were gentle, but insistent. The left side of his face was stroked, and then Frodo’s arm was pulling him close. Sam opened his eyes and gazed into sorrow. Frodo was kneeling in front of him, and Sam could almost fancy he could see the sadness emanating from him. His vision blurred with more tears.

‘Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘Oh, Sam. I’m so sorry that I give you so much heartache.’

Sam clung to him. ‘You’re kneeling in a draught,’ he mumbled, his words muffled by Frodo’s hair.

‘Only because you’re sitting in it. Will you get up? I need some help doing so, I think.’

Sam pushed himself up and wiped his face with his palm. He slipped his hands under Frodo’s armpits to lift and support him, while Frodo pulled himself up with his right hand grasping Sam’s arm. As soon as Frodo was on his feet, he slipped his arm around Sam, and pressed him close.

‘I’m alive, Sam,’ he said.

That Frodo was repeating Sam’s words from the summer was not lost on Sam. Looking back to that walk, it now seemed a wasted opportunity to make love to Frodo. The thought added to his pain, and he couldn’t bring himself to reply, as Frodo had done: “I know”. What did he know? That Frodo might be alive now, although without the joy and passion for life that he’d had? That this time next year he might be only a memory? He choked, and clung to Frodo, weeping freely.

Frodo steered him to the bed and lay down with him, part covering Sam’s body with his own. Sam could feel the pressure of Frodo’s leg hooked over his thighs, and his arm bent across his chest. He was aware of his face being stroked and tears wiped away, but it was Frodo’s eyes, never leaving Sam’s, that held his attention.

I am alive, Sam,’ Frodo insisted quietly. ‘Please don’t grieve before there is cause to.’

‘I can’t bear the thought of losing you, Frodo.’

‘Hush, love. Hush. You know I can’t bear the thought of losing you either, but if you had the choice, to lose me to death or to lose me because I had to go from your side to stay alive, which would you choose?’

‘Well, that’s the daftest choice I ever heard,’ said Sam, his voice hitching over his tears. ‘I’d take the choice that meant you were still alive, and hope you’d come back to me.’ He thought about what Frodo was saying, and added, ‘As long as it didn’t mean you were dragging on in pain, just so’s I could feel better about you not being dead.’ He covered Frodo’s hand with his own and searched his eyes. ‘Are you telling me that is a choice?’

‘It may be, Sam. It may be that I will have to leave you. But not now.’

‘I’ll come with you, Frodo. Can’t I come with you?’ The panic and pleading were all too evident in his voice.

‘No. I think that will be the choice, to stay together so you can hold me at the end, or let me go into the future that waits for me.’

Frodo’s calm voice was having its effect on Sam. ‘Go where, Frodo?’ he asked, just as if he wouldn’t die, whichever way he lost his love.

‘To the Elves. But not now.’

‘I wish... I wish the Ring had never been found; I wish the burden hadn’t fallen to you.’

‘Hush, love. I know. I have wished that so many times, but I cannot wish away all that we have shared. I think we must be thankful for the gift we have been given, and use the time we do have together well. Not ruin it in grief for what may come.’

‘Frodo, I love you.’

‘I love you, my Sam. Let your fears go; sleep here with me.’ Sam was so drained by his emotion that he was glad to obey. He closed his eyes, and felt Frodo settle against him. He let go and welcomed the oblivion of sleep.


When Frodo awoke, he found they had been covered with a light blanket, and the fire had been lit. Rosie was sitting dozing in the chair, but her head jerked up as soon as he raised his own head. Sam was snoring lightly beneath him.

‘I’m sorry, Frodo,’ she said softly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming in. I were worried about you both.’

‘Rosie, this is your room,’ protested Frodo in a whisper. ‘Of course you can come in. It’s I who should apologise, for being in your bed.’

Rosie made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Sam needed you, not me,’ she said. ‘No, don’t apologise for that an’ all. There’s times he needs me, and times he needs you. It’s been a bad day, all day, for him, and he needed you. Now, if you’re all right, I’m going to get on wi’ supper. I’ll put the kettle on for a hot drink, and there’s some biscuits waiting.’ She came and kissed him, and was gone.

Frodo lay waiting for Sam to wake. He had been worried about Sam, right from the moment he woke in his arms, that morning. He wasn’t sure he had done the right thing now, but it seemed preferable to Sam being in such a state, imagining his death. He untangled his arm and leg from Sam’s body and rolled to his side. Sam stirred immediately and clutched at him, only half awake.

‘Sam,’ he said gently. ‘My love.’

Sam opened his eyes, still red and swollen from crying. He took a long hitching breath and let it out slowly. Frodo could feel his shock and disbelief surfacing as he awoke fully, but for himself it was hard to fight out of his feelings of unreality to respond.

They were both subdued and listless as they got up, and neither of them spoke. Sam supported Frodo as he stood, but he seemed to be in a world of his own, and walked on ahead to the kitchen with head bowed. Frodo felt as weak as he had after his long sleep the year before, and he walked very slowly after Sam. He concentrated on placing his feet carefully, and took short steps to compensate for his unsteadiness. There was a flatness to everything around him, and his mind felt too numb and fogbound to think or care what he should do next. The day had not been a bad one, right up to the point he stupidly told Sam he was going. It couldn’t be unsaid.

He came to a halt; not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t summon the willpower to continue forward. Sam had reached the kitchen, and had still not noticed he had left Frodo behind. Oh, this is stupid, thought Frodo. How can I not walk?

He had experienced the separation of his will from his body before, but that had been the Ring’s doing. Mostly the problem had been his body acting against his will, reaching for the Ring. Now, his will wished him to walk forward, and his body made no move. It was not as frightening as finding he could not breathe, but panic was lying in wait.

Voices were raised in greeting in the kitchen, and he heard Sam exclaim. There was at least one visitor. That decided him against calling out, assuming he could. From the inflection of Rosie’s voice, she was asking a question, and suddenly Sam came running, his face full of concern.

‘Frodo?’

Frodo leant against him, as Sam put his arm around his shoulders and searched his face. ‘Help me, Sam,’ whispered Frodo, glad to find he could speak. ‘I... I can’t walk.’

‘Can’t walk? Is your leg hurting you? Can you manage if I help take your weight?’

‘No. I mean: I want to walk, but I can’t.’

‘What!’ Sam’s arm tightened around him. ‘It’s all right, I’m here. Calm down, my love.’

‘I... I am calm.’

‘No, you’re just pretending to be.’

‘So are you.’

Sam made no answer but picked him up as easily as he had lifted hobbit children to sit on the table’s edge earlier in the day, and gazed at him with concern. ‘Where do you want me to take you?’ he asked. Frodo could feel he was trembling, but it wasn’t from the effort of carrying him.

‘Who’s here?’

‘It’s just Jolly,’ said Sam, and he bent his head to Frodo’s, to kiss him. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. I can guess why he’s come. What’s the news?’

Sam suddenly stopped looking worried, and smiled. ‘It’s a boy,’ he said. ‘Holman, they’re calling him, and Mari is fine.’

Frodo smiled back. ‘Can we go to the sitting room? Is the fire lit? We could have tea there.’ He had no wish to be carried into the kitchen, to cries of consternation from Rosie, and pity from Jolly.

Sam carried him into the sitting room and set him down in an armchair. The fire had burnt low, but Sam placed more logs on the glowing embers, and flames licked around them. The room was warm, despite the fact the fire needed a little waking up; the chimney breast had retained the heat of the earlier fire, and was now giving it out to the room.

‘Just you sit there,’ said Sam, ‘and we’ll come to join you with some tea. Smells like Rosie’s been baking.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Frodo, dryly.

Sam’s mouth twitched. He leant down, and Frodo tilted his head up to meet and respond to the kiss. He was glad to find he could still ask his right hand to cup around the back of Sam’s head.

‘If you’re making jokes,’ said Sam, as they parted, ‘I can start to believe you’re all right.’

‘This isn’t like in Win’filth, Sam,’ said Frodo, wanting to reassure himself, as much as Sam.

‘Maybe not, but that don’t make it good, neither. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Left to himself, Frodo tried to turn his mind from the rising tide of self-pity at the thought of being an invalid. Weeping on Sam’s shoulder was not an option until their visitor had gone. He should have gone to his room, but it was too late to think of that now; there were voices in the hallway, and Sam entered carrying a tray with teapot and mugs. He was followed by Rosie and Jolly. Rosie was holding a plate of biscuits.

Rosie looked at Frodo, and he could see she was puzzled. It was unlikely that Sam would have said anything in front of his brother-in-law, but they usually had tea in the kitchen, and didn’t stand on ceremony when the Cottons visited.

‘Are you all right, Frodo?’ she asked.

‘I’m fine,’said Frodo, in flagrant contradiction of the facts. ‘Jolly! How good to see you, and to hear the news from South Farm.’

Rosie took the hint and didn’t press him. Instead, she offered him a biscuit from the plate she was holding. ‘The children’ve all gone now,’ she said. ‘I took them the first batch of biscuits and sent them home. Molly were very upset she didn’t get to say goodbye to you. I think you’ve got a new friend, there. She asked for me to give you this.’ Rosie leant over and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and her eyes searched his, seeking some reassurance he was all right.

Frodo smiled. ‘She’s a poppet,’ he said.

Jolly stayed just long enough to drink his tea, enjoy his twin’s baking, and share all the news of Holman’s birth. He stood up and dusted crumbs from his breeches into the hearth.

‘If you’ll be excusing me, I must be getting back,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to give you the news as soon as were possible.’

They chorused their thanks. Sam and Rosie saw him away, but Sam was quick to return. He sat on the arm of Frodo’s chair and put his arm around him. Frodo leaned gratefully into his solid body. Rosie was not far behind; she stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other.

‘So, are you going to tell me what’s to do?’ she asked. ‘Fine you ain’t, so don’t tell me otherwise.’

Frodo looked at Sam, and closed his eyes. Tears were not far away, and he was angry with himself, for giving way to such self-pity.

Sam rubbed Frodo’s face with the back of his hand. It’s all right, I’m here. ’He couldn’t walk,’ he said, answering for Frodo. Frodo found the past tense comforting, as though he would get up, and all would be well. He felt Rosie take his right hand, and when he opened his eyes, she was kneeling in front of him.

‘Do you mean paralysed?’ she asked. The cadence of her soft voice and the expression on her face showed her concern.

‘No,’ said Frodo. ‘No!’ The memory of crumpling into a heap and the panic of not being able to breathe set his heart racing. He had not realised how deeply that incident had wound itself into his mind. Although he had not collapsed this time, it was not so very different. Then his will had been unable to draw breath into his body, now it was his legs that refused to obey. Rosie was still looking at him with eyebrows raised.

‘I could stand, but I couldn’t walk,’ he explained.

Sam kissed him on the forehead. ‘Are you willing to try again?’ he asked. Frodo nodded. There didn’t seem much point in putting it off. He wasn’t very optimistic, but once up, he found that whatever had afflicted him was past. He clung to Sam and laughed in his relief, but not knowing why it had happened, he was still anxious it might recur.

That night Frodo put up a token resistance to Sam's staying with him, but it was half-hearted. He desperately wanted some time alone with Sam. Sam ignored his protests, and Rosie tossed her head.

‘Why you think I wants that great lump along o’ me, I’ve no idea,’ she said.

Sam put his arms around her, and she nestled in against him. ‘Have I told you I love you?’ he asked.

‘Not since this morning,’ she answered. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and wished them both a good night.

‘I’m glad you have Rosie, Sam,’ said Frodo after she had gone, ‘and the babe to look forward to.’

‘And don’t that seem closer, for Mari’s son being born,’ said Sam, standing in front of him. Frodo nodded, and the colours seemed brighter in the room, and his surroundings had more depth to them. They both raised a hand to the other’s face, and smiled at the harmony of their movements

‘You were far too easy to carry, Frodo,’ said Sam, suddenly, his smile fading to nothing. ‘You’re wasting away before my eyes.’

Frodo hung his head. He wished he could eat more, to please Sam, but food didn’t taste of much.

Sam made a small sound of distress. ‘Oh, love, no! I don’t blame you, don’t think that. I wish it weren’t so, with all my heart. An’ I’m sorry I was so wrapped in my own cares earlier, and didn’t notice you were in trouble. It wasn’t ‘til Rosie asked where you were, that I realised you weren’t shadowing me.’ He drew Frodo into a close embrace, and they stood in silence, taking comfort from each other’s presence. It was Sam who finally spoke again.

‘Time you were in bed,’ he said, ‘and time I was there with you.’

They found that Rosie had placed warming pans in the bed, and stone hot water bottles at the foot, wrapped in towels. Sam moved the pans to the hearth, and they settled into the warmth.

‘I’m sorry I told you, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘Told you about leaving the Shire. I didn’t mean to, not yet.’

‘I still don’t understand, Frodo... why you say I have to let you go. Why can’t I come with you?’

‘Your place is here in the Shire, Sam. With your family.’

‘My place is with you; my family can be whevever you are. Rivendell, Lothlorien, wherever.’

‘I don’t think that’s true, Sam. Even if it were, it’s certainly not possible.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Sam whispered, and closed his eyes on his tears. Frodo could feel his pain, as sharp as the knife thrust of a morgul blade.

‘Sam,’ he said gently. ‘Sam, look at me.’ Sam opened his eyes again, and Frodo ran his hand slowly down the side of the dear face. His own tears had been shed so many times at the thought of leaving Sam, but now he was dry-eyed, his emotion muffled by the fog of his melancholy. At least he knew now what he should do.

‘Sam, I promise that if you do not understand, when the time comes, then I will stay. If you do not believe, in your heart, that you have to let me go, then I will stay with you.’

‘And die?’ whispered Sam.

‘Yes, Sam. To die in your arms would be my dearest wish.’

‘Then there’s no choice, as I can see,’ said Sam, and his faced cleared. He wiped his tears away. ‘Don’t be sorry you told me, nîn meleth. I’d rather have the hope that you might live, always providing you weren’t just going to drag on in misery, and me not there to hold you. One day you might come back to me.’ His lips pressed gentle kisses over Frodo’s face: forehead and temples, eyelids and cheeks. Frodo turned his head to capture Sam’s mouth with his own, and they let the flow of their lips and tongues speak of their devotion. Slowly and gently they conveyed their love everlasting.

As they parted, Sam drew breath in a series of hitching sobs, and his eyes filled with tears again. ‘Oh, Frodo,’ he cried, ‘I love you, Frodo.’

‘My love, my love,’ murmured Frodo. All the pain inside was Sam’s pain; he felt empty and cold, numb to his own grief. Unable to cry, he held Sam close. Long after his love had drifted into the sanctuary of sleep, Frodo lay awake, stroking Sam’s back. Still he was deceiving Sam. Sam did not know of Arwen’s offer; he did not know of Elrond’s parting words. He imagined Frodo could return, and Frodo knew that he could not.

Frodo tried not to think about what it would be like for himself. Bilbo had lived in Rivendell, without hobbit company, for eighteen years. He seemed contented: pleased to see his young relatives, and his old gardener’s son, and sad to see them go, but evidently not wishing to be anywhere else. Could Frodo hope for that? Could he hope to survive his separation from Sam? Did he even want to?

Lying there, warmed by Sam’s presence, he had to remind himself that leaving was for Sam’s sake, not for his. He knew, who better, the loss of loved ones who were the central point of his life, around whom the sun rose and set. His grief at the loss of his parents had filled his world, with no edge to look beyond. He had not believed any change was possible, had been aghast the first time he laughed again. How could he laugh? Yet gradually, the seasons had come and gone, and time had wrought a healing.

This is what he wanted for Sam, and he was going so that Sam might have the healing, not himself. Still, within, was a wish; the wish that he might be absolved of all his wounds and weariness. The time had nearly come, when he would have to finally decide if he had the courage to take the gift of Arwen Evenstar. The Elves had delayed their departure a year on his account; further delay would remove the choice forever. Go, or die. Even Sam, his ever-hopeful Sam, had recognised this stark truth.

He lay awake through the night, and still he could not weep.

By the time Sam woke, what Frodo wanted more than anything was the intimacy of touching his love. He had offered, by his actions, on several occasions, to bring Sam to climax, but it seemed Sam did not need or want this from him. Now it was Frodo who needed this affirmation of their love. He slid his hand down Sam’s body and worked it between them.

Sam was soft and flaccid as he folded his fingers around him, but the response was almost instant. As the flesh beneath his fingers hardened and lengthened, Sam sleepily protested.

‘You don’t need to do that, no need, my love,’ he murmured.

Frodo laid his forehead against Sam’s and moved his hand with lazy slowness, feeling his pleasure meet Sam’s pleasure in this familiar rhythm. ‘Yes, I do need to,’ he murmured back. ‘The need is mine.’ Sam’s hand was there in a heartbeat, to touch and caress him in the same way.

‘No, not that need, my love. Just the need to feel you move beneath my touch. I miss your seed spilling in my hand.’

Sam sighed. ‘You know me. Always one to hope,’ he whispered.

To Frodo’s relief, Sam did not refuse him, and this was no hurried gratification. The pace was slow, building in tune with Sam’s response. Frodo watched his expression and smiled as the release within his hand was mirrored in a release of tension in Sam’s face. He felt love flood through him, and at last his tears came. Sam reacted instantly.

‘Frodo! Oh, Frodo,’ he cried, folding around him, and rocking him in his arms. ‘Oh, no! I shouldn’t have let you! I’m sorry, Frodo. I’m sorry.’ They clung together and wept, heedless of Sam’s effusion, wet between them.

Frodo was shaking too much, weeping too much, to explain. Sam’s lips and hands were roaming lightly over his face and body, but all Frodo could do was weep himself into a state of calm, where his voice was once more his own.

‘Sam,’ he managed at last. ‘I love you.’

‘Frodo, I know,’ murmured Sam, still rocking him. ‘I know you love me, you don’t have to do this for me, to show me. You don’t have to do this for me, and cause yourself such pain.’

‘Sam, no. I felt... I feel so much love, where I’ve been so empty.’ He hesitated, frustrated by his inability to explain. ‘Oh, that sounds like I’d stopped loving you!’

‘Never,’ said Sam. ‘Never. I know you’ve never stopped.’

‘No, never. But I couldn’t cry, at the thought of leaving you, of causing you such pain.’

‘And now you can?’

‘Yes. Now I can. I hate it when I feel so detached. And when you came, it was as though I was released. I felt so much love, it hurt.’ He touched his lips to Sam’s, and Sam responded with great tenderness.

‘Last year you were always iller after you’d done this for me, with nothing for yourself,’ said Sam sadly, as they parted. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice, ‘cause I did.’

‘So that’s why you wouldn’t let me...‘ Frodo sighed. ‘I didn’t know, I never noticed that was happening. Mostly I only want to hold you, you know that, but occasionally I need to love you like this.’

‘You thought I didn’t want what you could give me?’ asked Sam, incredulously. ‘You did, didn’t you?’ he added as Frodo stayed silent. ‘Oh, nîn melethron, do you know how wonderful that was just now?’ He kissed Frodo gently and hooked the now cold hot-water bottle towards him with his foot, until he could reach the towel wrapped around it and rub them both dry.

Frodo closed his eyes with a sigh as Sam once more enfolded him in his arms. He curled in against the wide chest and felt a kiss pressed against his forehead. Sam continued to gently rock him, and at last he slept in the safe haven of Sam’s arms.


On any other morning Sam would have eased away from Frodo’s sleeping form to rise, and he would have returned at intervals through the morning to see if Frodo had woken. Now he felt as though he never wanted to let go of him; but not to let go was to accept the reality of his death. Frodo’s thinness was a stark reminder of how ill he was. Sam could feel the ribs beneath his arms, and the blade of a shoulder pressing sharply against his hand. He could see the gauntness in the beloved face. Beneath the warm covers Frodo’s hands were curled at Sam’s chest, but Sam didn’t need to see them to know how wasted they were. Frodo was as fragile as the robin.

Frodo’s leaving was a terrible thought, but it paled into insignificance next to the thought of Frodo dead and buried in the Hobbiton graveyard. He knew just what it felt like to believe Frodo dead; letting him go was easy next to that.

Carefully, so as not to wake Frodo, he lifted his hand from under the covers and brushed back the hair that had fallen over the sleeping face. There was always the hope that Frodo would return like Mr. Bilbo when least expected. There were many times when they journeyed together that he had trusted Frodo, and he had been justified. He often hadn’t understood, just as in the present case, but his trust had been implicit. He would trust Frodo now. His eyes filled with tears again. The morning was lightening, but the glow from Frodo was strong enough to hold its own. Sam laid his hand against Frodo’s face, and the light welled between his fingers and shimmered in the distortion of his tears. He closed his eyes. Could he even imagine a time without Frodo? When he tried, it was as though he was buried in the dark, a great blackness pressing down upon him, suffocating him.

Frodo moved restlessly against him and cried out in distress. Sam’s eyes snapped open, but Frodo was asleep and dreaming, his eyelids moving as his eyes darted back and forth. Sam drew his hand back under the bedcovers and clasped Frodo in his arms once more. The dark shadows beneath his love’s eyes made him think that not much of the night had been spent in sleep.

The morning was well on, and Frodo had settled into a deeper sleep, when Sam was driven from their bed by the need to urinate. He carefully tucked the covers around Frodo and pulled on his night-shirt; now he was up, he would reassure Rosie.

As he suspected, Rosie had been worried by his nonappearance for first or second breakfast.

‘I didn’t like to come knocking,’ she said, as she let him go from her good-morning hug. ‘Though I would’ve if there were still no sign of you at lunch.’

Sam was too full of Frodo’s confession to make any sort of preamble. His kiss to Rosie had been perfunctory, and he looked down at her dully.

‘He’s leaving, Rosie,’

‘He told you that?’ Her eyes searched his, and her arms tightened around him again.

‘Yes, he told me.’

‘Did he say where he were going?’

‘No, but I can make a guess. Rivendell, most likely.’

‘You told me you’d leave, if he left,’ said Rosie quietly, and he could hear the shake in her voice, feel her trembling in his arms.

‘But it ain’t just you, is it, Rosie Posie?’ he said gently. ‘Seems like he ain’t giving me the choice. He says I can’t go. Makes no difference: I couldn’t walk out on you and our babe.’ He felt a surge of resentment, but that was unfair. There was no one to blame for this situation but himself.

‘When did he tell you? Last night?’

‘No, yesterday, afore Jolly came.’

‘That explains a lot,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s like you said. He gets worse when you’re upset.’

Sam stared down at her. ‘You think that’s why he couldn’t walk?’

‘I don’t rightly know, Sam. It were just a thought. What do you need now? Hot water to wash? Something to eat?’

‘I need to get back to Frodo.’

‘Then I’ll bring both for you.’

He kissed her. ‘Thank you, love. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

He was back in bed when Frodo woke, and they lay together for some time, quietly talking. They both avoided any mention of Frodo’s going; instead they spoke of the past. Do you remember when...? All the time their hands were busy, stroking and soothing, and they filled the pauses with their kisses. When Frodo finally got up, Sam couldn’t say either of them was exactly happy, but he was relieved of his fear of Frodo’s death, and Frodo seemed more relaxed for his confession.

The snow had all melted away, and over the next few days the weather turned mild again. Sam encouraged Frodo out into the garden to show him each new delight. The slight drag to his left foot was more noticeable, but there seemed no other ill effects from his attack of immobility. Snowdrops, crocuses and aconites were all in flower, and the hazel branches were covered in clusters of hanging catkins. A profusion of new shoots were pushing through the ground to greet the sun, letting it be known that spring and summer would be full of colour. Frodo and Sam stopped to inspect the honeysuckle, already showing a few tiny leaves, and almost jumped at the loud staccato noise that greeted them.

Sam laughed. ‘There he is,’ he said, pointing to where a wren tilted its tail up and watched them with a beady eye. ‘Who’d a’ thought such a tiny body could make so much noise. He’s warning us off one of his nesting sites. He’ll build a few round the place and see which one takes the fancy of his lady love.’

As for Sam’s own lady love, all was well until the year moved into Rethe. Sam had a tendency to take Rosie for granted while he worried and fussed around Frodo, and he was not prepared for a sharp reminder that he had two loves. As she became more tired, Sam made sure she got plenty of rest. He massaged her swollen ankles for her as she sat with her feet up in the evenings, but his thoughts were on Frodo. It was when she started complaining of headaches, and the tiredness seemed beyond the fatigue of carrying a heavy babe, that he sent for the midwife.

Mistress Banks had practised midwifery in Hobbiton and Bywater for nigh on thirty years. She was unmarried, but always called Mistress, as an honorific. The women respected and admired her, as a knowledgeable and sympathetic guide through the travails of birth. She had no time for the husbands, and treated them in an off-hand and patronising manner; they in turn were terrified of her.

It was not common for serious complications to occur, although breech babies could be expected to give trouble. Mistress Banks was good at calming a fraught situation, and that was often all that was needed to allow the birth to proceed. Sam and Frodo waited for her verdict, and she wasted no breath on social chitchat with them.

‘I’ve sent her to bed, and bed is where she stays, Master Gamgee,’ she said. It seemed that the habit of referring to Sam as Master Gard’ner, so prevalent in the Shire since the Mayor’s Free Fair speech, had passed her by. ‘I’m going to come in each day, and if I find you’ve let her get up for anything more than to have a pee, you’ll have me to reckon with.’

‘But what’s wrong?’ asked Sam. He had faced Shelob and a tower full of orcs, but Mistress Banks made him feel like a two-year-old who had just wet his pants. ‘It’s not serious, is it?’

‘Serious?’ spluttered the midwife. ‘Ain’t I telling you, she’s got to stay in bed. Or do you think I tells that to all my ladies?’

Frodo came to Sam’s help. ‘Sam will certainly make sure Rosie stays in bed, Mistress Banks,’ he said quietly. ‘Might we know what the danger is?’ If he thought that being the Master of Bag End would save him from her tongue, then he was mistaken.

‘We! What’s all this “we,” I’d like to know?’ she asked, but Frodo held his ground.

‘I don’t think it surprising that I should be concerned for my best friend’s wife, and someone I hold dear on her own account,’ said Frodo, and his quiet voice seemed to mollify the irascible midwife. Maybe the frailty of his appearance also played a part. Bullying burly husbands into taking proper care of their wives was one thing, browbeating the sick quite another.

‘If she don’t stay rested then she’s in danger of becoming very ill. I’ve tested her urine, and it’s not good news it’s telling me.’

‘Tested?’ asked Sam. She rubbed her fingers beneath his nose. ‘Like that! It’s slightly sticky, not all watery like what it should be.’

‘And that means?’ asked Frodo.

‘That if she gets worse you could lose more than the babe. I’ll be in again tomorrow. I suggest you get her ma down to help.’ She left without waiting for an answer.

Frodo and Sam looked at each other in horror. Sam turned and left the room without a word, and Frodo let him go. For his part Frodo went straight down to the main gate and found the usual hobbitlings playing in the road. He recognised several of them from the sledging. He charged one of them with delivering a message to South Farm, and watched as they rushed off in a pack towards Bywater.

Slowly he walked back to the smial, taking extra care not to trip, and checked the pantry. There was a roasted chicken that Rosie must have cooked that morning. He went through the sack of potatoes until he found three good-sized ones and washed off the loose soil clinging to them. Normally he would have slit the skins, but that was awkward one-handed; he pricked them with a fork instead and set them to bake. After a moment’s thought he added a fourth. He lit the candles and added more wood to the fire. That done, he sat down rather suddenly at the table and lifted his left arm onto the scrubbed surface. Exhausted, he laid his head on his arms and gave way to the horrors of his imagination.