Chapter 8: COMFORT AND KISSES

Merry and Pippin left early the next day for Crickhollow, calling in at South Farm on the way, to make sure Frodo had recovered. Frodo and Sam set off the day after, and arrived at Crickhollow in the late afternoon of the following day, having stopped overnight at the Floating Log in Frogmorton.

Frodo had not told Sam, but the incident at The Green Dragon had shaken him badly. He had felt as though he were really back in the hateful tower, and that everything that had happened between was just another cruel dream, devised for his further torment. That his mind could play such a trick on him, with no more excuse than the sound of a whip lash, was a source of fear. There had been no warning, and he did not know when, or where, it might happen again.

The weather was cold, a damp coldness that chilled him and made his shoulder and arm ache more, with a dull throbbing pain. On the journey, it increased to a point where it set his teeth on edge and made him restless. His anxiety, combined with the pain, added to the fatigue of the journey, and by the time they reached Buckland, he was exhausted.

The house was still furnished with all Frodo’s furniture from Bag End; his pictures and family portraits were on the walls, his books lined the shelves, and well-loved possessions were scattered throughout the house. It was just as they had left it when they set out for the Old Forest. Candles were lit throughout, and welcoming fires burnt in every grate. Pippin went to help Sam with the ponies, while Merry held Frodo tight and then ushered him into the house.

Frodo entered the hall way, carrying his backpack in his hand. He gave a small cry, and the pack dropped, unheeded, to the floor. Leaning against the wall, he put his hand up to his mouth.

‘Frodo?’ said Merry, his voice full of concern.

‘I had forgotten,’ said Frodo, ‘forgotten how this house reminded me of Bilbo.’ He walked from room to room, running his hands over furniture, touching keepsakes, breathing deeply to savour the smell of old books. He closed his eyes, then opened them again and sighed. He felt as though he was greeting old friends, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by a sense of loss. He saw Merry’s anxious face and smiled at him.

‘It’s delightful,’ he said.

Merry’s face lightened with relief. ‘That’s what you said last time.’

‘Did I? Well it is. I feel as though I’m in my own home.’

‘You are.’

‘You know what I mean, Merry. I’ve only ever slept here for one night before, it’s you who have made it seem so homely.’

A commotion in the hallway announced that Sam and Pippin had finished looking to Strider and Bill. Pippin came running in, and almost lifted Frodo from his feet as he hugged him.

‘I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked you,’ he said, ‘for letting us use this house. It’s about time you came to make sure it’s not been wrecked by our drunken orgies.’

Frodo raised an eyebrow and looked at Merry quickly.

‘It was just a small party,’ said Pippin, with a grin, seeing the look. ‘And we only got a little bit drunk.’

Merry hurriedly changed the subject. ‘Would you like something to eat and drink, first?’ he asked. ‘Or a bath to freshen up? There’s lots of hot water ready, but you might want to come to the kitchen first. If you like, I can make a cup of tea, and bring it to the bathroom. You can drink it while you soak in hot water.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ said Frodo. He looked at Sam, who was standing in the doorway holding both of their packs in his hand. Sam answered the look with a nod and a slow smile of pleasure, and Frodo almost laughed out loud at the entire conversation that had passed between them. Admittedly the exchange, on Sam’s part, had been monosyllabic, involving unspoken words such as ‘mmmm, you, bath, now.’

There was indeed plenty of hot water, but Sam insisted on washing Frodo’s hair first, in case the supply ran out before all the rinsing was finished. Frodo lay back in the warm water and idly thought of protesting. He was quite capable of washing his own hair, but that was a chore. To have Sam wash it was a pleasure that would do far more than warm water to ease the nagging pain. There was no point worrying that he was taking advantage of Sam’s good nature, Sam so obviously enjoyed doing these menial tasks for him. He slid down in the tub to wet his hair, and wondered how Merry had come by not one, but three, such extravagant baths. The last time he had bathed at Crickhollow, he had other matters on his mind and never asked.

He emerged from the water and pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes. Sam was kneeling by the tub, a towel wrapped round his waist. He looked so happy, just to be there, that Frodo reached up to hook a hand around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. Water dripped off him and runneled down his face as Sam reached under his shoulders to pull him into a more comfortable position. The familiar taste of Sam mingled on his tongue with the coppery taste of the bath water. Despite the fire in the room, Sam’s naked skin felt cool to his touch, and he hastily released him.

‘You’re getting cold, dear one,’ he said, feeling guilty that he was keeping Sam kneeling by his bath, instead of allowing him to enjoy his own.

Sam simply placed his fingers on Frodo’s lips and smiled at him. He reached for the soap and started washing Frodo’s hair, and Frodo let himself slowly drift into a state of somnolence. He was buoyed up and cocooned by the warm water, while Sam’s fingers kneaded his scalp with gentle pressure, working up from the base of his neck. He sighed, making a little hum of pleasure as his shoulders relaxed and he merged with the strong hands that supported him. The pain was almost forgotten, and there was just a warm fuzziness, punctuated by the crackle of the fire, the smell of wood-smoke and soap, and the taste of Sam that lingered on his lips.

It was with regret that he felt Sam carefully let his head rest back against the rim of the tub, and he opened his eyes in a sleepy daze. Sam kissed him, a light touch on his lips.

‘I’m sorry, love, but I need to rinse the soap out.’

Sam was just reaching for the jug to fill with a mix of hot and cold water when there was a knock at the door. Frodo watched him, not fully focusing, so that Sam was blurred around the edges in the candle light. He’d told Sam so many times that he was beautiful, and yet Sam still did not believe him, or thought love made him blind. But he’d always thought Sam beautiful, even when Sam was a child. His only blindness, as the child had grown into manhood, was in not seeing Sam’s place in his world. He watched Sam take two mugs from Merry, and sighed for lost opportunities.

Sam set the mugs of tea down on a low stool, filled the jug, and carefully rinsed Frodo’s hair. He reached for a towel to dry Frodo’s face and wring out his dripping curls, and then, still kneeling, leant his arms on the side of the tub. Frodo smiled into the warmth of his brown eyes, and realised how much more at ease Sam seemed. He hadn’t looked this relaxed since... when? Rivendell? He reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Sam’s ear. It was a gesture comforting in its familiarity since Sam’s unruly hair refused to be tamed, making it an oft-repeated action on Frodo’s part. Sam laid his chin on his arms, and smiled back as his hair flopped over his eyes again.

‘Happy?’ asked Frodo. It was a question only because it disconcerted Sam to be told how he was feeling.

‘Mmmm, there’s something about you and water, Frodo Baggins. I’ve only one complaint, and that’s as fine as these tubs are, there’s not room for the both of us in one. Would you like me to wash the rest of you, or do you want to soak and drink your tea?’

Frodo thought there was far more to Sam’s relaxed guard than gazing at him in a tub of water. They should have come for a visit to Crickhollow before. Sam wasn’t worrying about him , at least not in the sense of worrying about not being there for him if he was needed. Three or four days of companionship stretched before them, and they were, in one sense, home. Surrounded by Frodo’s belongings, they were not the guests here, and they could do as they pleased. It would be all one to Merry and Pippin if they stayed in bed all day, or wandered around in night-shirts, sat up far into the night talking, or walked under the stars.

‘Frodo?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, soak and drink my tea, and see you in a tub before all the water is cold,’ said Frodo, sitting up higher to be able to drink more easily. The water in the tub slopped back and forth, and splashed over Sam’s towel.

Sam kissed Frodo again, another light kiss, and stood up. The wet towel clung to his legs, and he untied it and let it drop to his feet. He didn’t bother to get another one from the pile, but handed Frodo his tea, and then caught up the bucket to fill his bath. Frodo watched over the rim of his tea cup. Did Sam realise how ambivalent he was feeling about physical intimacy? He longed for Sam’s arms around him, but dreaded a recurrence of the misery and envy that had swept him after bringing his love to climax, the last time they slept together. Sam had made no murmur about taking his own bath instead of running soapy hands over Frodo’s body, and his kisses had been light and undemanding. Would he mind if Frodo wanted only to hold and be held, or was he looking forward to something more?

Frodo watched Sam’s body move with easy grace, carrying the heavy bucket and emptying hot and cold water into his bath. Frodo smiled as steam swirled in the air, once again blurring his view of Sam. Sam checked the water with his hand, and then carefully stepped in and lowered himself slowly down. Frodo saw him close his eyes and let out a long sigh. He could trust Sam. Sam had said he wanted no more than to hold Frodo close. Frodo had realised at the time it was not true, but he also recognised what Sam had meant: he wanted no more than Frodo could offer, and if holding was all Frodo could give, then he would be content with that.

He finished his tea and lay back. Sap was bubbling deep in a log, making a faint singing noise as the steam escaped, and Frodo’s eyes slowly closed as drowsiness turned to sleep.

He was awoken slowly by Sam’s rough hand stroking his brow. The water was still warm, so he hadn’t been asleep long, but he had a crick in his neck.

‘Frodo, wake up. I know you’re tired, love, but this isn’t the place to sleep,’ said Sam quietly. Frodo had noticed before how Sam tried to avoid startling him. When he fell asleep in the parlour at South Farm, he was usually awoken suddenly by a loud cheerful Cotton voice, or a shake to his shoulder, or frequently both. Such an abrupt transition set his heart racing, even after he was fully awake to know where he was. Sam’s gentle way left him feeling calm and rested. He opened his eyes to show Sam that he was indeed awake.

‘Would you like me to give you a quick wash, or do you want to wash yourself?’ Sam asked, when he was sure Frodo was aware. He had wrapped another towel around his waist, and his hair was wet and tousled.

Frodo was quick to recognise the nuance of what Sam was saying. The word “quick” spoke volumes. There had been nothing quick about Sam’s washing him in the past, it had been a delightful foreplay where soap provided the slickness of oil, and one thing had lead to another. Now Sam was telling him that, if he would like to be washed, nothing more was expected at the end of it than a clean Frodo. He could indeed trust Sam. There was no need to answer with words, he just stood up in the tub to make it easy for Sam, and Sam reached for the soap.

Sam used the jug to sluice off the soap with hot water, and Frodo climbed out, into the embrace of a warm towel held ready in Sam’s arms. As towel and arms folded around him, he rested his damp hair against Sam’s shoulder, smelling the fresh scent of clean Sam.

‘I love you,’ he said. It was his way of thanking Sam for his consideration. Sam’s deep sigh, and the tightening of his arms around Frodo, were answer enough.


At supper, Merry, Pippin and Sam carried on a spirited conversation, helped by a generous supply of wine. Frodo occasionally joined in, but enjoyed just sitting and listening. With all four of them present, he did not feel he was letting any one down by not talking himself. He sipped his wine, ate what he could, and smiled at the jokes. After a while, his eyes started to close, and he twice jerked his head up as sleep started to take him. The second time it happened, Sam pushed back his chair and put his arm around Frodo.

‘You need to go to bed,’ he said, and Frodo had no wish to argue.

When he awoke the next morning, he could barely recall getting undressed or sliding under the covers. He was curled, naked, against Sam’s chest, and the smell of soap still overlay the more familiar musky smell of his love. He slid his hand under his pillow and felt the cold star-gem. Sam had evidently placed it there, since Frodo had no memory of doing so. He never wore it when sleeping with Sam, it tangled between them and was a distraction to feeling the solid warmth of his love, but he liked to know it was close by.

The pain in his shoulder was back, although not as bad as on the journey, and the memory of a dark dream lingered on the edge of his awareness. The room was just beginning to come alive, with a faint easing of the night-time darkness that mirrored his dream-memory. The difference was that sunlight never fully banished his dreams, and the bad taste of them lingered through the day, even when he could not remember clearly what they had been about. He felt tired and unrested, but was comforted by Sam’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of his chest and the light snoring that accompanied it.

Both thirst and the need to urinate pushed him from the warm bed. He shivered in the sudden cold of the room, and reached for his night-shirt and robe. He couldn’t see where Sam had put the tinderbox, and so the candle by his bedside was useless, but the greyness of dawn was growing, and he could see enough to avoid falling over the furniture. The corridor was darker, but he knew there was no furniture to trip him, and he groped his way to the bathroom first, to make use of one of the chamber pots; it was far too cold to go to the outside privy. He was in luck here, a tinderbox was lying by a candle, on a shelf just inside the doorway. He struck the flint until it sparked, bright in the gloomy room, and on the second attempt the wick caught and burnt up into a bright yellow flame. His urine steamed in the flickering light, and he shivered again.

He took the candle with him to the kitchen, not sure how easy it would be to find a glass. He had no idea where anything was kept. As he hunted through the cupboards, the door to the corridor creaked open.

‘Frodo?’ It was Pippin, looking sleepy and befuddled, his hair spiked in all directions. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just trying to find a glass, Pip. Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’

‘No, I was awake anyway, and I heard you. The glasses are here, and there’s water in the jug.’ Pippin placed two glasses on the table and poured the water, even as he spoke. He sat down and pushed one toward Frodo. Frodo desperately wanted to get back to bed, but he wasn’t going to hurt Pippin’s feelings. He sat down opposite, and ran his hand over the Bag End kitchen table. It was a little too large for the kitchen at Crickhollow and filled the room.

Pippin sipped his water, and placed his glass carefully on the table. ‘Do you have bad dreams, Frodo?’ he asked.

Frodo looked at him quickly, and then let his eyes follow his finger as it traced the grain of the wood. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, but he didn’t offer any details.

‘I keep dreaming the same dream,’ said Pippin, quietly. ‘I keep seeing Denethor in the Tombs as he thrusts the torch into the pyre, the terrible roaring and the smell of burning flesh.’

Frodo jerked his head up; Pippin was looking as though he might be sick. He hastily pushed his chair back, not heeding that it toppled sideways, and was at Pippin’s side with an arm around his shoulder. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said, gently. ‘I know the facts, but tell me what you saw. I thought you were at Faramir’s side.’

‘I followed Gandalf back in. Denethor was my Lord, I had sworn allegiance to him.’

Frodo nodded to show he understood. Pippin’s hand on the table was shaking. Frodo took it in his. It was icy cold.

‘We’re both cold, Pip. Why don’t we go back to your room?’ From the way Pippin hugged him, it seemed that the suggestion was a good one.

They huddled together under the blankets, and with some prompting from Frodo, Pippin told his tale. He wept when he’d finished, and Frodo comforted him, talking quietly to him and rubbing his back. No wonder Pippin’s face had taken on such a livid hue in the kitchen.

‘Are you going to tell me your dreams?’ asked Pippin, suddenly.

‘No, not now. I mostly don’t remember them anyway. They lurk just out of memory.’

‘This is just like at Bag End,’ said Pippin, sleepily. ‘When I used to come to your bed after I dreamt about goblins in the cupboard. Does Sam have bad dreams?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, he does.’

He knew what Sam dreamt about, although Sam never said. But Frodo listened to him, as he lay awake at night, and knew, beyond any doubt, that Sam’s fear, haunting him in his dreams, was death. Not Sam’s own death, but his; a legacy of Cirith Ungol. He pulled the covers closer around him and hoped Sam did not wake and worry about him. At least he would soon know if that happened. He smiled to himself; Sam would not search for him quietly, but he would be happier if he could return to their bed before Sam woke.

He waited until Pippin’s even breathing told of dream-free sleep, and then made his way back to Sam. The light was growing, but Sam was still asleep, his arm flung across Frodo’s empty pillow. His eyebrows were pulled together in a frown, and he muttered Frodo’s name. Even in sleep, it seemed, Sam missed him. He eased under Sam’s arm, and Sam curled around him, without waking.

Sleep eluded him. His eyes felt tired, but the tug and swirl of his thoughts held him awake like a current holding a body against a pier of the Brandywine Bridge. He groaned. As if all his other memories and hurts were not enough. He supposed thinking about death, combined with a return to Buckland, had raised that spectre from the past. The Ring had promised him his parent’s return, all he had to do was command it. He closed his eyes in misery.

All thoughts led to the Ring eventually. With his guard brought down by painful childhood memories, he had allowed the festering sore to open and bleed without a fight. He remembered seeing an injured fox once, dying from a foul wound that crawled with maggots. The white horrors had seethed in and out of the wound, burying themselves deep into the living flesh. Frodo had retched at the stench, while Sam had cut the animal’s throat and put it out of its misery.

The wound left by the Ring was like that. It had spawned its own maggots to torment him. If he held It now, the urge to search and search for it, for ever if necessary, would disappear in an instant. If he only held it, he could do anything, be anything. He slid his hand under the pillow, and his fingers closed on the white star-gem. His breathing slowed, and a calmness flowed through him. It was all lies and tricks. He could resist it, all he needed was to bring his thoughts back under his control.

His restlessness had disturbed Sam, and the grip around him tightened, accompanied by incoherent mutterings. The star-gem was his talisman, but Sam was his lodestar, leading him home; home to a place where he was Frodo. He searched for a memory to hold to, and his thoughts went back to Minas Tirith.

He was half aware of kisses pressed against his eyelids. His lids fluttered under the touch that was as gentle as a butterfly, but it was too much effort to open them. He wanted to stay asleep, with Sam in his arms. There was a heavy pressure over his thighs, and Sam’s naked body was pressed against his.

‘Frodo,’ Sam’s voice whispered, nuzzling softly against his ear and nipping gently. Frodo made a soft hum of pleasure deep in his throat and turned his head towards the warmth of Sam’s breath on his cheek.

‘Frodo!’ Sam repeated, a little more insistently, kissing his way down to the corner of Frodo’s lips. Eyes still closed, trying to hold to sleep despite Sam’s efforts, Frodo could not prevent his lips curling up into a sleepy smile at this gentle progress across his face. If he had to be woken, this was the most delightful way he could imagine. He parted his lips hopefully, and Sam’s mouth closed obligingly over them. He made no effort to respond at first, but let Sam do all the work, licking and coaxing, until he was awake enough for more. He opened to Sam’s exploring tongue, and came alive beneath his touch.

Frodo still did not want to be awake, and the kiss - although deep and long - remained a loving wake-up, rather than a prelude to passion. He opened his eyes and met Sam’s gaze. They smiled together.

‘It’s early, Sam. Why are you waking me?’ he asked as he saw the long shadows cast by the morning light.

‘You’re forgetting what day it is,’ answered Sam, kissing his forehead, and suddenly Frodo was wide awake.

‘Oh, yes. The wedding. Why didn’t you wake me earlier?’

‘There’s plenty of time...’

‘Oh, well in that case...’ said Frodo. He ran his hand down Sam’s body and between their close-pressed hips. He was awake now, and the kiss had left him in the mood for love. Loving Sam was so easy. Loving Sam was like breathing.

‘...if we get up now,’ finished Sam, and Frodo made a soft protest and pouted at him.

Sam laughed. ‘Have you seen your hair?’ he asked, running his fingers into Frodo’s locks. ‘You need a wash and a trim to make you look respectable.’

Frodo cried out in pain as Sam’s fingers snagged on an obdurate tangle. ‘Ow!’

‘You see? Let’s go to the bath house. It’s too much to hope it will be empty, though, not today of all days.’ Sam levered himself up, and his erect shaft brushed against Frodo’s hand. Almost lazily, Frodo lightly stroked his fingers along the length to the velvety tip and down the other side. He slid his hand between Sam’s legs, hot and sweaty from their contact together in the night, and stroked the sensitive inner thighs. Sam groaned and bit his lip as his hips responded, involuntarily, to the touch. He didn’t pull away though, Frodo noticed.

‘Frodo, you know I’d love you to continue, but I really don’t think there’s time.’

Frodo sighed. Sam was tense and would not enjoy the lovemaking in this mood of hurry.

‘All right. As you wish,’ he said, disappointed. He pulled himself out from under Sam, and reached for his clothes. As he balanced precariously on one foot, pulling on his breeches, Sam’s arms wrapped around his body from behind.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, and Frodo laughed in reply, his breath quickening at Sam’s touch.

‘No , of course I don’t, there’ll be other opportunities. Maybe I’ll drag you under the table at the feast, but if you don’t want me to bend you over the bed right now, I suggest you stop holding me like that.’

Sam let go of him hurriedly, but Frodo had felt the swell in the breeches pressed against his back, and knew that Sam would like nothing better.

As it was so warm, and they would be changing into their best clothes after the bath, they left their room wearing just their breeches, towels draped round their necks. Glancing down at himself, and then at Sam, Frodo realised this had been a mistake. A tunic might have hidden the tell-tale signs. It was the mention of bending Sam over the bed that had left them both rather introspective and thoughtful - and their thoughts were similar it seemed, focused on the same part of their bodies. He looked around, trying to distract himself.

The city was beautiful in the early morning light, everywhere was touched with a rosy glow. Tall spires climbed into the blue sky and the word thrusting came to Frodo’s mind. No, that was not helpful.

The eagles were flying over the city and the light was so clear that Frodo could see each feathered primary gleam with reds, and browns and golds. Sam had found some feathers the other day and ...

He cleared his throat, looked at Sam instead, and was lost. Love flooded through him, and he couldn’t look away. Sam’s hair gleamed like gold itself, and the clarity of the light gave his features a startling newness, as though Frodo was seeing him for the first time. He tripped and cursed, and Sam steadied him with his hand.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Sam, looking at him with concern.

‘No, dammit! I’m not all right,’ hissed Frodo, conscious of the stares they were attracting. ‘I want to strip you naked and stand you here, in this light, and...’ He groaned. ‘I need a cold bath.’

He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘I want to stand in your arms, and tell you I love you, and kiss you until we don’t know who we are.’

He looked around at the streets. While not crowded, there were a fair number of people about. He sighed and made up his mind. He pulled Sam to face him and drew him into his arms. ‘I love you,’ he said softly. ‘You are everything to me.’ Words could not say it all. His mouth closed over Sam’s, and he let his heart speak.

Could he describe that kiss? Not in words. Apart from babbling nonsense about liquid gold and sunshine, summer days and wine-rich intoxication. It was a gift and a promise, given and received at the same time. Their bodies pressed together, and he could feel every contour of Sam, the warmth of his skin under his hand, the softness of his hair as he pressed him closer. He could feel Sam’s hand twinning into his own hair, and the other burning against his naked back.

As the kiss continued, the only sense left was touch. The sensation swelled until Frodo felt he was on fire, and then faded into oblivion as they merged into one another, boundaries blurring. There was no sense of contact between them, because there was no Frodo, no Sam.

When Frodo was a tweenager, soon after his adoption in fact, he had gazed into a mirror trying to decide who he was. He had gazed deep into his own eyes until all he could see were the flecked irises, and then even they had disappeared. He was falling into the black depths, losing himself forever. He had jerked away, heart racing, wondering what would have happened if he had let himself go. Would Bilbo have found him unconscious on the floor? Would he ever have found his way back? Now, standing in the sunshine, kissing Sam, he experienced the same feeling of losing himself. The journey was through touch not sight, but the end result was the same. There was no fear, and he gave himself up gladly into the loving warmth of Sam. By losing himself, he became something more. They were one.

And still they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the rhythmical movement of their union. They were heedless of the burghers giving them respectful room and sidelong glances as they hurried past.

All things must come to an end, and gradually Frodo’s awareness of his surroundings returned. Almost regretfully, he felt again the heat and fire of Sam’s touch, the moisture and warmth of his mouth, the sense that they were two individuals joined by their love, but not one.

Around them, the sounds of hurrying feet, and voices calling to one another, spoke of other people in this world they thought to inhabit alone, and at last the lovers parted. Too stunned to move, they stood breathing with ragged gasps in each other’s arms and leaning forehead to forehead.

‘Who am I?’ whispered Frodo.

‘You are mine.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am yours. I love you.’

Frodo sighed, and all the fears and griefs, the pain and worry that tormented him, drained away. ‘I am yours,’ he whispered to Sam, ‘I love you.’ He closed his eyes and slept.

All day he slept and woke, slept and woke. Each time he woke, Sam was there, laying next to him, or sitting in the bedside chair, ready with a smile and a kiss to welcome him back. He ate and drank as directed, and was aware that Merry and Pippin were sometimes in the room as well, but mostly he slept. Twice, Sam made him get up, and supported him while he used the chamber pot. The day turned to night again, and still, each time he woke, Sam kissed him or murmured, ‘I’m here, my love,’ as Frodo reached out to him.

Finally he woke to a new day and stretched slowly against Sam.

Sam opened his eyes and smiled.‘You look truly awake,’ he said. ‘Are you rested?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ said Frodo in surprise. ‘Thank you.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Sam, surprised in turn.

‘Staying with me, being here each time I woke.’

‘That was my pleasure to be able to do it. Merry’s right, we should come here more often. He was worried about you yesterday, wanted to send for the healer from Brandy Hall.’

‘But you didn’t let him.’ It was a statement.

‘No, point. He’d only come waking you and bothering you with a heap of questions. Course, if you hadn’t woken properly today, I’d have agreed. Pippin was in a bit of a taking. Said he’d kept you up in the night.’

‘No, I was up anyway. He found me in the kitchen, he’d had a bad dream.’

‘Well, he’ll be glad to see you today. Will you get up for some breakfast, or would you like me to bring you a tray in bed? It’s warmer in the kitchen at the moment, but I can soon light a fire in here again.’

Frodo came to the kitchen in his night shirt, and sat at the table drinking a welcome mug of tea, while the others bustled around him. He wished the kitchen was as large as Bag End’s, where there was room for an old armchair in the corner. The very armchair that was in his bedroom, he realised suddenly. He assured Pippin repeatedly that he had not been responsible for his long sleep.

Merry dished up a large breakfast to rival Mrs. Cotton’s, and Frodo ate a plateful of mushrooms and nibbled at some toast and marmalade. Under discussion was a visit by Sam to the worst sites of destruction in Buckland.

‘Are you going to come, Frodo?’ asked Sam. Frodo carefully put down his mug to hide the fact his hand was shaking at the thought of going out. It bothered him that his experience at the Green Dragon had such an effect.

‘No, I’ll stay here,’ he said.


The visit set the pattern for all the future visits to Crickhollow. Each time, Frodo arrived exhausted, slept all the first day, and never left the house. He seemed content to curl up in an armchair and read, or listen to the talk flowing around him. Back at South Farm, he also became more reclusive, walking to Bag End less and less.

Sam was busier with forestry work, using the Lady’s gift sparingly throughout the Shire, and spending less time at Bag End, which was nearly finished. It was easier for Frodo to hide his reluctance to go out, since there was no need to go to Bag End if Sam was not there. He hid what he could from Sam, not because he did not wish to share, nor even because he did not wish to worry him, but because Sam would never leave his side if he knew how Frodo depended on him to ease his sufferings.

And so the days drifted through into Solmath and Rethe. Frodo slept badly, and ate badly, and those were the only outwards signs he gave of his pain and sorrow. He hid how he felt from Sam so well that Sam made frequent trips away on his forestry work.

Work took Sam to the Northfarthing, and his brother, Hal, invited him to stay. Frodo was pleased, and worked hard to persuade Sam that he would be fine. Sam planned his trip so he would be back for the all important (or so he thought) twenty-fifth of the month, but failed to notice that there was another anniversary looming. In his own mind, he did not even know what the date had been as he held Frodo in his arms in a dark tower on the borders of Mordor. The journey had seemed like a lifetime from there to Mount Doom, and he was too busy to stop and think that in reality it had been less than two weeks.

So he was not at home in early Rethe, and did not know that Frodo had been ill.