The sun shone thinly down on a cool, blustery mid-morning. The sky was clear blue, the autumn colors crisp and vivid, but a pall lay over Frodo's senses. The world felt dull and far away, as if he saw it from the bottom of a deep well. After a sudden, brief but violent illness, Bell Gamgee had passed away during the night, and it felt like the entire row was in a state of shock.
There was no sound of voices, no sign of the usual workday bustle. Frodo hung close at Uncle Bilbo's side but half a pace back, reluctant at heart. Bilbo understood, looked at him sadly and said he seemed unwell, said he needn't go if it troubled him so much. Frodo nodded his understanding, but said he wanted to. He knew he wasn't socially obligated. He was only an occasional visitor. But he'd spent enough time at Bag End to have become well acquainted with the Gamgees. It was a different kind of obligation he felt.
A chill gust whipped around them, dry leaves swirling over the cobbles and crunching under their feet. Down at the end of the lane, old Bob was leading a pony and cart into the stable. Otherwise, the only activity was at Number Three itself, where the Mistresses Noakes and Twofoot were coming out as they arrived, one quietly weeping as the other supported her. Bilbo offered them kind and sympathetic words, but Frodo only stood there, feeling like a heavy weight sat on his chest. He deeply dreaded stepping through that door into what must be a sea of grief.
Bilbo laid a hand on his arm. The ladies were speaking to him, saying how sad it was for him to come at such a time. He said the polite things he knew to say, but had to squeeze his voice past a great lump in his throat to do it. Mistress Twofoot buried her face in her handkerchief, weeping again as the two of them went on their way. Bilbo's hand slid to Frodo's shoulder and gently patted it, as the door opened again. Hamson, the eldest Gamgee son, saw who was there and simply stepped aside to let them in, ducking his head and then hurrying out and closing the door after him.
Frodo had expected a chaotic scene, had expected to be assailed with raw emotion, but it was quiet, almost calm. The mood in the little smial felt more melancholy than anguished, and he was thankfully spared the panic he often struggled with when confronted by the aftermath of death. What he felt instead was a deep and heartfelt sorrow. Master Hamfast seemed to have aged twenty years in only a few days. He wearily rose from his chair as if he meant to greet them, but only stood there looking bewildered, his mind somewhere else.
Uncle Bilbo immediately took Master Gamgee in hand and settled him in front of the hearthfire, then took a silver flask from a pocket of his coat and poured them each a small measure of amber brandy. He talked softly as he put a mug into the stooped hobbit's gnarled hands. The place was shuttered up tight and dimly lit. The fire shed a wan light that pooled in a circle around the two simply hewn chairs placed there, flickering over the hard edges of the hearthstones, and the softer lines of an old quilt folded over a warming rack. Bilbo offered Frodo an encouraging glance, then laid a hand on Master Gamgee's shoulder, bending close with words meant only for him.
Frodo had to force himself to step away from the center of the floor. Halfred stood against the wall with his arms limp at his sides, a fireplace poker dangling from one hand. They were near the same age, had talked and joked together on earlier visits. There was nothing in this Hal of the laughing, carefree lad Frodo had come to know. Their eyes met and Frodo felt succinctly that he wasn't wanted, that their pain was private and Hal didn't want him to see it. He said he was sorry, but knew how inadequate that was. Halfred only nodded a little and said nothing.
Hamson came in from outside with an armload of kindling for the wood box and looked at the two of them uneasily. Frodo said again that he was sorry. He meant it, and it was all he could really say that wouldn't sound trite and empty. Hamson answered him with pointed propriety, never meeting his eyes, called him Sir and finally excused himself and his brother with much apology, saying they had something that needed seeing to. He took the poker from his brother's hand and laid it on the hearth step, then draped an arm across his shoulders and took him away down the shadowy hall into the back rooms of the hole.
Frodo felt a helpless urge to leave. Uncle Bilbo was talking to Master Gamgee still, in low soothing tones. Bilbo knew what to say and do, while Frodo felt painfully useless. He didn't want to be in the way, didn't want them to think he was only there out of duty, and didn't want above all to make it harder for them. But he wanted badly to help, somehow. Though it would be easiest to just walk away, he felt compelled to stay.
In the lamplit kitchen, Daisy silently bustled here and there with baby Marigold on her hip, tending to several tasks at once, it seemed, and apparently lost in her own world. Little May was nowhere to be seen, and Samwise, Samwise sat on his stool in the corner all alone, gripping the edges of the seat under him and staring at the floor between his feet. For a harrowing few moments, Frodo felt such a longing for someone to take the lad in their arms and comfort him, it nearly broke his heart all over again. Little Sam was old enough to know his mother was gone, but surely too young to understand why. Frodo hadn't understood it. Deep down, he still didn't.
Daisy was there suddenly, apologizing for no reason, asking if he'd like a cup of tea or a bite to eat. Her eyes were dry but there were dark smudges under them against her pale, drawn face. Frodo found his voice and managed to say no and thank you, and to ask impulsively if he could do something for her. She looked as if she might burst into tears, but she only dropped her eyes and said he was too kind, and that everything was in hand. Some things clearly were. The table was set with pies and cakes and dishes of vegetables prepared in enticing ways, ready to be served up to mourners stopping by to pay their respects. Frodo hated to think she might have done it all herself, but surely much of it had been left by early visitors. Frodo dearly hoped friends and neighbors wouldn't leave her to cope with this on her own. She was only a child herself, competent as she seemed.
Of course, the poor lass was doing as Hal was, as all of them were, holding it in and keeping their grief to themselves. It was clear the strain she was under when a look of exasperation came over her face and she called out to Samwise in a hushed voice that trembled with fatigue and distress.
Frodo looked around to see the lad darting out into the front hall. There was a sound of the door opening and closing. Daisy was already after him, the baby clinging to her beginning to fuss. Frodo stepped into her way, almost pleading, offering to go and look after little Sam for her. She didn't want him to, didn't want him to be bothered, and said so plainly. He said to her plainly back that he wanted to. She gave in, thankfully, and took down a small coat from a peg by the door, asking him to please make Sam put it on, if he would, and thanking him profusely.
Outside, he could breathe again, and some of the fog cleared from Frodo's mind. The day had grown colder, the sun offering too little warmth against the biting wind. He stuffed Sam's coat inside his own to warm it up a bit, and went looking for the lad. He wasn't difficult to find, was in the garden, down on his knees pulling weeds out of the frost bitten, dying flowers along the border, making a pile of them on the path at his side, no doubt as he'd been taught to do.
Frodo stopped a few paces back and got a grip on the ache in his heart. He'd been there and knew what it felt like from the inside. How he'd grasped for any normal thing he could do, when there was nothing left of his life as he'd known it. When he could bring himself to speak, he chose his words oh so carefully. "May I help you with your weeding, Sam?"
The lad looked up at him with shining eyes, his round, baby face a picture of confusion and need, with a fixed determination not to cry. Sniffling, he swallowed it all down and then wiped his nose on the back of his dirty hand. "You can't weed, Mister Frodo. My Da says that's Gamgees work."
Frodo let out the breath he'd been holding, afraid he'd be turned away, because he'd done that himself so many times. He dropped to his knees on the packed earth of the path. "You can show me the right way to do it. I bet your Dad won't even notice."
Sam agreed readily enough, after glancing cautiously behind him toward the smial. "But won't you get inta trouble if you get your best breeks all muddy?"
Frodo managed an honest smile at that. "They'll wash, Sam. It's all right." He took out the lad's coat and didn't have to ask him to put it on.
"Thankee, Mister Frodo." He tugged it around him and got down to business. "Them's the ones you don't pull. They don't look so good but I gave 'em water so maybe they'll get better. Da says I'm to tell him when summat don't look right, but Daisy says I'm not to make a fuss 'cause Da's tired and he don't need me making it worse."
Frodo steadied a shaking hand and set to pulling the little weedlets peeking through the blighted leaves of the flowers. "You know, Sam, I think they're supposed to look like this. Winter is coming. I'm pretty sure they'll come back next spring."
Sam's big, brown eyes welled up again, but he kept on with his task. "I know. But I told Da I'd take care of 'em." Frodo felt tears come to his own eyes but stoically blinked them back.
They worked quietly for a while, side by side with their fingers in the cold, damp ground, until Sam came to it on his own and finally said in a small voice, "Mum went to sleep and Daisy says she won't be waking no more."
Frodo had to swallow a hard, hurting lump in his throat. "I know, Sam. It's frightening, isn't it?"
Those tears in the lad's eyes came close but still refused to fall. He raised his smudged face with a disbelieving look, maybe wondering how Frodo could know what he felt. But Frodo knew all too well.
"My Mum and Dad died when I was just a lad."
Sam's eyes became saucers filled to the brink. "Both of 'em?"
Frodo only nodded, too near breaking down himself to trust his voice, but apparently he wasn't hiding anything from little Samwise. The lad stumbled up and wrapped both arms around his neck, and cried, racking, body-shaking sobs. Frodo hugged him close and cried along with him, as he'd cried only one other time, when he and Uncle Bilbo had talked about it.
By the time they'd both exhausted the need, they were a sodden mess, but they were warm, enfolded together in Frodo's coat, and the pain seemed less sharp. Sam hiccoughed, burying his face in the damp front of Frodo's shirt. Frodo gently rubbed his back. "It won't always feel so bad, Sam. If a time comes when you don't remember every minute to think of your Mum, she'll still be with you, watching over you. That's how mothers are, you know."
Sam seemed to think about that, and finally whispered, "Is your Mum watching over you still, Mister Frodo?"
Frodo wouldn't let himself doubt it. "I believe she is, Sam."
Sam leaned back a little and peered up at him from inside his coat, face streaked and muddied. "Maybe my Mum and your Mum can watch over us together, so they don't have to be alone. Do you think they might, Mister Frodo?"
Frodo smiled and nodded, wiping a thumb across the lad's rosy cheek. "I think they might indeed, Sam."