These characters are not my own, they belong to JRR Tolkien.
His eyes fluttered open then winced as the membranes fell back into their sockets, shutting the lids to block the light. Reluctantly, he commanded the body to roll on its side and right off the bed he landed on his knees while his eyes remained closed. The remaining members of his body checked in sturdy and strong as he rose to his feet. It was inside of the brain, the balance nerve center, where the pain originated. Carrying his head in his hands and barely able to keep it straight up over his shoulders, Merry shuffled following the voices meandering through the hallways. He managed quite successfully to bump his way along and in to the kitchen.
Hardly any notice was given to Merry's sickened state when he entered. Frodo was prepping ingredients on a space near the sink unaware of his cousin's presence. And finishing the last of their eats, Bilbo and Saradoc called off the day's events in store for them upon arrival in Michel Delving, however, the will was not at all mentioned. As Merry took his seat, the two older hobbits rose up and headed to the parlor, taking count of the items to bring on their short journey.
"Frodo," Bilbo called to his nephew from the coat hooks, "Master Saradoc is slated to stay another day or two, but I will return in plenty of spare time for supper this evening. Should I run late feed Merry and yourself straight away," he instructed, buttoning the last hole of his waist coat.
Frodo appeared in his view popping his head out from behind the kitchen barrier, finally noticing Merry's figure. "Oh, don't worry. You can be certain we will start without you even if you were one minute behind schedule," he joked.
"Then I only worry you won't save me a crumb!" Bilbo retorted with a smirk.
"Merry… Merry? Merry!" His father repeated in succeeding tones. Half awake though truly mostly asleep, the young hobbit stirred at the loudest holler of his name. His neck unable to function a turn he shifted his body length in the seat and supported his cheek with one hand. Saradoc provided him only one word, "Behave," he said as if pleading.
A click sounded as the door shut behind the two. Their muffled voices continued in their list checking, calling out an article and the other responding, check!
Frodo skillfully cracked the eggs with one hand, dropping them in to the perfect the sunny-side-up shape. As a wall was separating he and Merry, he spoke over his shoulder, "After our breakfasts what would you like to do first? Keep in mind, I must go to town today."
A loud bang replied. The mounting weight in Merry's head dropped it to the table. Subtly alarmed, Frodo's head glanced over his shoulder, his lips pressed in a 'mmmm…' as he leaned backward to look beyond the divider. He discovered Merry slouched forward on to the table, snoring into the crook of his arm.
Needless to say, Frodo ate breakfast alone, following it with a light snack. He tidied up the kitchen and parlor; sweeping the hearth and discarding the soot appropriately outside near the back tunnel. With the cleaning chores completed he rewarded himself by polishing off several chapters in his book of the moment, as he was an avid reader by his uncle's design. Bilbo's sure stock of fresh materials were piled in the study; should both hobbits find themselves snowed in at Bag End there were more than plenty to last for an age.
The clock struck eleven when Frodo's eyes strained from reading. Merry was still unmoved from the table, lightly purring as he breathed. Odd, Frodo thought of his late sleep. The time came again to prepare for the next meal and he wondered what to fix for lunch. Into the pantry and cellar he ventured to attain culinary inspiration. The survey in the cellar came up two bottles short of ale. A puzzled frown came to Frodo's lips. He pondered the images clearly: from the Green Dragon Inn Bilbo returned with him eight bottles of their brew to be enjoyed when the Buckland guests arrived. Four we used to toast dinner last night. This morning the difference is only two. I wonder where the other two could be?
That's when it hit him: "Merry, you fiend," he declared speaking aloud as if solving some great mystery.
***
After finishing his lunch it took a great deal of strength to heave Merry off the bench seat and on to the lofty chair near the fireplace. Merry hadn't acquired full height but he must put the food somewhere to be this heavy, Frodo thought struggling to move him. Merry appeared more comfortable snuggling within the folds of woven a blanket rather than twisted upon the wooden seat. Frodo sighed and opted now to do more chores while Merry slept off the ale.
Outside the back tunnel Frodo grabbed a lidded basket and trotted round the smial to the road winding down to the gate, then turned down the hillside heading into Hobbiton for dealing. Packed half-full was the last of their backyard summer apples, carefully collected by Samwise Gamgee who tended the Baggins' gardens. Preoccupied with what to have for dinner Frodo wandered to the butcher's market where he negotiated a smaller price for the fresh meat with his apples. The post-office had no letters for Baggins when he checked in and at the bakery the bakers shook their heads 'no' when asked if any bread was still available. So up the rise of the Hill to Bag End he retreated.
At the foot of it were the Gamgee's, Hamfast and Samwise. Sam held steady a wheelbarrow in which Hamfast (better known as the Gaffer), was shoveling in to it.
"A fine day to you, Mr. Gaffer, and to you, Sam." Frodo tipped his head. Suddenly a foul smell hit him like flat board to his nose. He realized in the nick of time that droppings from the Brandybuck's ponies were piled in his footpath. Halting immediately he avoided a true catastrophe. Trying to remain polite and equally trying hard to hide that the smell offended him, he breathed in shallow breaths to filter out the odor.
Unknowingly adding to Frodo's discomfort on many levels the Gaffer discussed the topic of what he shoveled. "It may not look it, but this dung heap is all but magic to plants and grasses and vegetables, too!" Frodo held his breath and didn't allow the thought that this stuff may be used on vegetables they would be eating. "All's we need is addin' some straw and fallen leaves to mix it all up. Gives it a thicker feel, it does, and better to manage in spreading 'round gardens. Less sticky, if you can follow me."
"Fascinating," Frodo managed to say genuinely.
The old Gaffer placed both hands on his back and arched himself to stretch out, a creak or two sounded from the motion. "Dad," Sam said, "go up and rest. I can finish then haul the barrow up."
"Awe, you're a good son, you are. Always lookin' out for others at the expense of yourself. Well, I won't take to arguing with you especially if I make good out if it," he chuckled. The Gaffer stuck the spade into the dirt and stepped a foot on it to secure it upright. He said a farewell to Frodo and passed a proud look to his son.
Frodo, who had now been standing next to the pile for some time, was no longer bothered by the smell, it was still there of course, but his nose had acclimated and he returned to breathing normally. Their small talk was shortly interrupted as closer to them came the clip clop sounds of a pony. Before turning to see who approached, a loud obnoxious voice yakked at them:
Diggers and scoopers is all you be,
Bending to the dirt so dreadfully
Uncovering treasures not hard to find
Falling from a horse behind!
"Lotho Sackville-Baggins! Good heavens above! Act your age, you're older than I." Frodo cried angrily. It was the infamous son of Otho and Lobelia, a chip off the old pig-headed blocks.
"Act your place, Frodo Baggins. Indeed! To befriend the odd fellows and the low fellows of Bagshot Row while they wallow in manure." He said with his nose way up high in the air. "You give Baggins a tainted name. You and Bilbo are--".
But he was cut short. Sam prevented him from ending the sentence, he was sure it would end with something nasty, thus inspiring him to do what he did. With an off swing of his shovel a sling of manure splattered on Lotho's face getting into his eyes, a little in between his lips, Sam even accomplished perfect trajectory to enter some of the matter up his snobby flat nose.
Frodo's mouth gaped in utter shock at the sight, standing dumbfounded in silence. As the fading cry galloped away, Frodo turned to Sam who was already snickering. At eye contact both of them bellowed and grabbed in their stomachs. The muscles holding in their torsos tightened, aching from their asudden, intense use. Frodo utter though nearly unable to annunciate, "Finally, a meal to match his words!" The laughs lengthened hysterically and eventually they induced no sound except for the much needed gasps of air.
It was quite a length before they could maintain their uncontrolled giggles and regain audible speech. But when order was restored and their laughing tears wiped away, Sam sincerely he looked at Frodo and gallantly said, "My old Gaffer repeats to all that you and Master Bilbo are right folk and I agree he's right by all accounts. And I'll let no one put out a mean word about you or the Master. They don't know nothing of what they say."
"Sam, I hold your opinion of me highly. Just don't go getting yourself in trouble. My thanks to you." Frodo reached out to pat Sam's shoulder and smiled humbly. Stepping over the dung heap he whistled a tune on his lips and returned up the Hill to his home.