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The others, they claimed her for their own before he was old enough; wise enough, and in the end, there was little left to choose from.
Hamson grabbed the evening with his quick discerning hands, and sitting before the spitting, hissing fire he would regale her with stories new and old; stories true and hallowed by big and even bigger fish. He told her all his secrets (and everyone else's as well). They still haven't forgiven him. And always she would listen, nodding and rubbing the back of his neck, and urging him on with smiles that reached lips and eyes and even the tips of soft fingertips.
He's the story teller now, though his wayward litter think his tales are not as thrilling as dear Uncle Sam's could be, if only Uncle Sam would take the time to tell them now and then. If only Uncle Sam would quit his puttering about the patch of earth that winds itself about his home and falls against the banks of a stream both swift and slow. If only.
Halfred chose lunch-time, when the smell of frying onions sticking to the old pan drove the others away, and there he learned to cook and to broil and to bake. She would take his hands within her own and guide them from pot to pan and back again until he could make his way about the kitchen on his own. He liked her amused laughter best, and often dove into the barrels of flour only to emerge when she least expected it. The fun grew old, but her laughter never did.
He still can be found by the ovens, and his loaves are round and pert, giving off an aroma of yesteryear, and the others have whispers of jealousy throughout them, though they stiffly claim otherwise.
Daisy preferred to know her by the roses in the early morning, walking beside her as she touched the leaves, and watching her as she clipped the buds neatly with sheers straight and sharp. Daisy was the only one who saw the blossoms shake off their burdens of dew each morn; the only one who kissed both stalk and petal. Daisy was soft and silent, and Daisy's smiles were a secret and the rush of innocence before the arch of young maidenhood; only Daisy never turned over the leaf of time. Daisy liked the scent of flowers new and young, and oft wove them through her hair when the others weren't looking. She still does, that sweet Daisy Gamgee, and her brother Sam still brings her daisies each and every morning.
May crept in 'fore nap-time, and sidled in beside her before she could escape the child's tender clutches. She would sing little May a lullaby to hasten the oncoming patterns of sleep, smiling tiredly all the while. Then May grew and the lullabies were put away for another child, and she learnt what it really meant to give birth to a daughter: all the glory; all the woeful agony (and the secret, masked laughter as well). Now May has daughters of her own, and they crawl into bed beside their dear mam after tea-time and whisper to her their heart's trembling. It's her turn now to try not to smile; it's her turn to feel old, like the passing breath of the seasons, or the withered leaves of tea found floating in a piece of thin, cracked china.
And Sam, well, Sam discovered the afternoon, when the sun was too high and too sordid for the others, and he found her in the garden, kneeling in the yielding dirt, with her hands embedded in the soil and her smile thoughtful, distant; warm. She did not pick the blossoms then, but only worked amidst the roots, gathering and discarding patiently. She cared for the forgotten things, and Sam knew that this was the key to gardening, and eventually, he learned that it was the key to wider, deeper spaces as well.
And the soil was his with time, more so then the Gaffer's even, for he knew its secrets and it knew his as well, just as she knew his and all of him.
Amidst the marigolds one day, she told him of the waiting future. He watched the faces of the flowers swing back in the breeze, and thought for some reason of the fiddleheads growing wild about the banks of the stream. He'd never cared for them then, thinking them to be too wild and strange. Uncouth, they were, those hazy weeds not meant for bloomin' and uncurlin' within gardens hemmed in by quaint rock walls and wholesome tilled earth. Rowdy weeds of forests primal and fading, those fiddleheads were. But she was looking at him expectantly that day, and so he patted the back of her hand and squinted in the light, catching at a bit of sunlight with the tip of his tongue (it melted gold against his lips) before speaking.
"Marigold is a pretty name," was what he said at last, watching the flowers bend in their beds; watching her catch the petals within a cupped pink hand.
In time, Marigold came, and her cries filled the hobbit hole in the way only the youngest's ever can. And the afternoons were turned over to the babe; 'twas his gift to the little one, and he never asked for it back. But by then he'd learned how to burrow in by the water; there his fiddleheads grew. And there he planted his own marigolds, thinking of her all the while, and of her arms ending at the wrists, hands deep within the earth, resting.
But this all happened long ago, and Sam is now bent with age, and even he cannot fully recall those sunny afternoons and the feel of light and shadow against his back and across his face. So when Marigold questions him about her name (for like all hobbits she is a curious, inquisitive creature), he merely shrugs his shoulders, and says he does not know its rightful origin. But he thinks of the fiddleheads at such moments, and of the marigolds resting beside them, and the memory is bright and he sees her once again. But then it fades, for Master Samwise has other flowers to tend to, and there are other thoughts to dwell upon.
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