The weight of the darkening skies slammed down on the slanted rooftops, ahead and behind. Scratchy brambles waved in the wind as the clouds gathered in storm, ready to release their heavy burden. The roads of Bree seemed awfully angular and wet after the softly rolling hills of the Shire, and the cobblestone shone with a dark moisture in the dark. A few streetlights were lit, here and there, tiny flickering flames fighting against the wind and reflecting four times in their tiny glass panes as their smoke was swallowed up by the sky that seemed only to be biding its time before crashing down. The town was no longer bustling, but activity remained – shopkeepers locking up their flimsy doors with rusty keys, a young couple stealing a last kiss before breaking apart with a fretful look above, small hobbits piling into inns to wait out the rain and finally, in the centre of the road, two small hobbits taking a leisurely stroll before dinner.
Sam looked at his master in doubt. "I think maybe we'd best be headin' back, Mr. Frodo. That cloud seems downright heavy."
Frodo smiled worriedly, the blue eyes still darting around for the slightest whiff of Gandalf. "I can feel these things, Sam." His fingers slipped into his breastpocket and back out again before he clasped his hands, once more, behind his back. "We've got half an hour, at least. It's a very curious little dwelling."
"You've never been, either?"
"No. I saw always too young to go with Uncle Saradoc or Uncle Paladin when in their care, and Bilbo, well – Bilbo had greater travel ambitions, far too dangerous, according to him, for a tween." Frodo spoke of Bilbo with longing. He wondered if he'd get to see the old hobbit again. With a reassuring smile from Sam, his next comment was quieted by the chilly air.
"You know what'd be nice, Mr Frodo, if I may," Sam spoke tentatively, "A nice, proper dinner at Bag End, followed by a bit of rose prunin'. They're shaping up real nice this year – it'd be a right shame if they wilted down before I had the chance to see to 'em."
Frodo patted Sam's shoulder affectionately, earning a tiny blush from the gardener at this familiarity. "Don't fret, Sam. With all luck, we'll be back soon, and the roses won't even have had a chance to have missed you."
Sam sighed. "With all luck, Frodo, Mr Gandalf will be here soon, and we can get you rid of the blasted thing and go right back on home." The lines of worry were evident on Sam's round face. So worried was he, he had even forgotten to add the ever-pestering 'Mr' before Frodo's name. The older hobbit smiled, knowing better than to point it out and send Sam into a flutter of embarrassed apologies.
"I'll teach you to disrespect your betters, you rascal!"
Both turned at the same instant. The unlikely pair had found themselves on a quieter, teetering street, peppered with houses big and small in a terrible mismatch of sizes. They stood on the sidewalk, inches from a closely planted brown fence, separating them from one of the smaller houses. A hobbit-sized lot.
Both had been taught meticulously not to eavesdrop, but the hobbits in the yard were now making enough noise to be heard from where they were standing. There were muffled mutterings, shuffles of objects. Frodo had made up his mind that it had been likely a father disciplining a child, turning to Sam to continue on their journey, when they heard it.
The crack of a whip.
And the cry, not of a thin, child-like voice, but of an adult.
Both now stood outright dumbfounded, listening.
"You better remember your place!" Crack.
"I'll not have some ruddy servant tramping mud into my house!" Crack.
"You will not speak unless spoken to!" Crack.
"I'm sorry, Mr Mungo, I am!"
"That's Mr Grubband to you!" Crack. Crack. Scream.
Frodo stood there, listening almost in awed fascination. A master and servant – he understood now. A few memories still lingered in his mind – Rorimac Brandybuck whipping one of the cooks at Brandy Hall, some Took relation taking a cane to his letter-boy, a few mutterings around the Green Dragon… on some level, to Frodo, this scenario did not seem overly strange. Then Frodo turned, intending to carry on their walk, and saw that Sam had frozen in place.
The young Gamgee stood now, not right beside Frodo where he had been, but a good arm's reach away. His posture was stiff, and he stared at his feet. His toes were itching to smooth his unbrushed foot hair, but he didn't dare move. His hands were at his sides, holding on to the bottom of his waistcoat, which he suddenly felt was much too fine. He had tried to dress his best once he learned they were going to Bree. Worst of all, his face seemed drained of colour completely.
"Sam," Frodo called. When he did not respond, Frodo frowned and took a step forward. "Sam," He tried again.
At the second call, something seemed to awaken in Samwise and he lifted his head, suddenly out of breath although they had been merely walking. "I – I – sorry, Mr. Frodo, I didn't hear – "
Frodo's look of worry quickly morphed into one of genuine concern. "I thought maybe we should get going," He said, softly. He felt oddly as if an invisible wall had been placed between them, although exactly how he did not yet comprehend. "It might rain soon."
Sam nodded quickly – too quickly. "Right you are, Mr Frodo." And with that, they resumed their walk, Sam taking exquisite care to tread ever so slightly behind.
Frodo walked, casting glances behind him ever so often, making sure Sam had not fallen behind. Somehow, these looks seemed to make Sam only more agitated. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.
"Sam – "
"Yes, Mr Frodo."
"It's a beautiful day today, isn't it," He tried.
"Yes, Mr. Frodo." It had been raining all day.
"I daresay Pippin's been acting more than twice his age today."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo."
Now Frodo was truly concerned. One last attempt, he promised himself. "I'd quite like to wed Rosie Cotton, Sam, I think she's the prettiest lass in the Shire," He said, quietly.
"Y…Yes, Mr Frodo," was the shaky reply.
At this Frodo stopped, and turned on his heel, nearly bumping into his contrite-looking gardener.
"No! No, Sam, no!" Sam stepped back.
Frodo looked at him, properly, as if for the first time. His hands were shaking, and his eyes on the brim of – not tears, because Sam Gamgee rather cried, but – almost… fear. "Yes, Mr. Frodo," He whispered. "I'm sorry, Mr Frodo. It won't happen again." It seemed almost the gardener was learning to speak, saying sentences without any clue as to their meaning. Frodo's eyes softened. At last, three blocks later, he understood what he had so casually forgotten.
"Sam," He said, gently. He stepped forward, and the younger hobbit didn't draw back. "I am not going to hurt you."
Sam bit his lip. He had known, of course, he had heard that not all masters were kind, that they were very lucky to have such kind masters as Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo, but he had never truly seen or heard what that meant. Too easily, he saw himself behind that fence – worthless, meddlesome, making mistakes everywhere he went, calling his master by simply his first name on occasion, without even getting into questions of proper title…
"You could," He said, and it felt as if it were not him speaking. "You could, if you wanted. I most certainly give you reason enough."
Frodo sighed. "Sam. You could spend your life trying to anger me, destroy every last book in my house, ruin the entire garden and take Pippin on a boating ride down the Brandywine – make me angry, furious, livid – and still I would not raise my hand at you."
Sam's eyes returned to staring at the cobblestone under his feet. "But you're supposed to," He said, softly. "It's not my place, bein' how I am with you an' all, havin' tea and offerin' suggestions. It's my place to serve you, an' that's the way it is, Mr. Frodo. Just like my Gaffer said. It's my job to please you, and yours to be pleased and – and do with me as you please. I – I'm not anyone that should matter. You deserve proper companions, fairer gentlehobbit folk, and I'm not to talk to you unless ordered to."
Frodo, having always been a bit emotional for a hobbit lad, could no longer restrain tears. "Don't you see, Sam? You are pleasing me, you're doing exactly what I want, by forgetting all that. I don't need a servant, Sam, nor do I need a gardener so far away from a gardener. I need a friend." He sighed. "If you'd rather turn back and go back to Rosie, you're welcome to do so. I'm your employer, not the master of your fate. Please do not see me as such." He swallowed, approaching Sam and gently tilting his face upwards. "Don't make me a tyrant, Sam."
Sam looked up at last – and there was so much compassion, so much love, in those blue eyes, that he couldn't look down again. Suddenly, everything made sense again, and the heaviness lifted. Sam smiled a little, watching relief wash over Frodo's features.
"Let's go then, Mr. Frodo," He said quietly. "Let's go in and get warm. It's going to rain soon. It's going to rain for a while."