A/N: Thank you to those who've reviewed!
I am now beginning the last week of my semester at college. Which means, in short, that after Saturday, I will not be on the internet nearly as often. I am going to attempt to post everything I've written so far on this by then, but I cannot make any guarantees. If I'm not successful with that, don't worry, I *will* try my hardest to update fairly often until it's done.
Chapter 6
Sam sat happily in the back of the cart with his sisters. It was the day after Yule, and his family was headed home to Hobbiton from Needlehole, where they had visited his mother's relatives for the holiday. Daisy and May were chattering like magpies, mostly about girl stuff Sam didn't care for, like the gossip they'd heard from their cousins and elder female relations. Sam was content to sit quietly and drink in the scenery, occasionally catching snatches of his parents' murmured conversation up front. It had not snowed at their relatives' hole, but as they drove nearer to familiar parts, a light blanket of snow shrouded the landmarks with an air of mystery and adventure. He wondered idly what Elves did when it snowed. Did they have to wear warm clothes and thick cloaks too?
As he was pondering this thought, Marigold stirred and asked him where they were. She was curled up next to him and apparently had fallen asleep, so he answered, "Just outside Hobbiton, I think." Sure enough, soon they were driving through the empty streets of the town. It was nearing dinnertime, so most hobbits were at home or at the Green Dragon Inn, which appeared fairly busy, as usual. As the cart came toward Bagshot Row, Sam turned his gaze in the direction of Bag End, hoping that Mr. Frodo had a good holiday with his family in Buckland. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, thinking he had discerned a faint wisp of smoke against the dusky sky. But that was impossible-Mr. Frodo wasn't due home until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. It had dissipated by his next glance, and he tried in vain to convince himself he was just imagining things, the smoke hadn't really been there.
As the cart pulled up in front of Bagshot Row Number 3, Sam leaned forward and tapped his gaffer on the shoulder. "Is't alright if I go check on Bag End?"
The Gaffer gave him a dubious look over his shoulder. "What for? We'll be headin' over tomorra afore the Master gits back."
Sam tried to figure out how to explain what was bothering him, but his mother stepped in. "Come along, Hamfast. Let the boy run on over 'n check. Better that than him whinin' and worryin' all evenin'."
Hamfast considered this and assented. "All right, but hurry on back."
"Yes, sir," Sam replied as he climbed out of the cart and hurried along the lane. He still wasn't sure exactly what was bothering him, but he could sense something wasn't right.
The snow lay in an undisturbed blanket over the hibernating garden; Sam left the first footprints up the path from the fence gate to the round green door. He clasped the knob and opened the door, realizing after he did so that the door should've been locked. The hallway was dim and chill.
Sam carefully closed the door behind him and stepped further into the hole, looking for something out of place that would give merit to his growing unease. He found it when he suddenly tripped, catching his foot on something that shouldn't have been in the hallway. It was Frodo's pack, he realized from his sprawl on the floor next to it, and Frodo's cloak was draped haphazardly across it.
Quickly getting back on his feet, Sam looked for the owner of the pack and cloak: if they were here, he was here. 'Did he get back early? No, wait . . . I made the first tracks in the snow,' Sam realized. 'The snow started . . . three days ago, my Gaffer said to Ma earlier, so he would've gotten back the day before Yule . . . but that doesn't make sense. Did he ever leave? He was going to, and he never turns down an opportunity to travel . . . something must've happened . . .' With a growing sense of panic, Sam hurried towards Frodo's room. He'd already checked the living room and kitchen; a few things were out of place, but nothing to indicate the catastrophe he was fearing.
Frodo's room was also empty, though there were signs that Frodo had been there. Bedclothes half on the floor, pitcher on the table beside the bed, ashes in the fireplace. Sam went over to the bed to make sure he wasn't accidentally overlooking the object of his search. But it was deserted, though it appeared Frodo had thrown up in it.
'So he's sick . . . but where has he gotten to? Oh, I hope he didn't try to go anyway.' The abandoned cloak and pack came unbidden to Sam's mind followed by an image of an ill Frodo wandering about the Shire with naught but his normal clothes between him and hypothermia. The image made his unease tighten into a large knot of concern. If that was indeed the case, Frodo could be dead by now.
'Sam, you ninnyhammer, stop thinking those things! You haven't even looked everywhere yet. For all you know he's just moved to one of the other bedrooms since his was dirty.' Sam scolded himself as he continued his search. He left the master bedroom and went to check the guest rooms, softly calling "Mr. Frodo?" If he was still sick, there was no sense in barging in like a herd of oliphaunts and scaring him half to death.
To Sam's frustration, all the other bedrooms were empty as well. That left the bathroom, the study, and the pantry. He padded back down the hall, wasn't in the bathroom. Next door was the study, and Sam was certain that if Frodo was still in the smial, he would be there. He eased the door open and poked his head in.
"Mr. Frodo?"
I am now beginning the last week of my semester at college. Which means, in short, that after Saturday, I will not be on the internet nearly as often. I am going to attempt to post everything I've written so far on this by then, but I cannot make any guarantees. If I'm not successful with that, don't worry, I *will* try my hardest to update fairly often until it's done.
Chapter 6
Sam sat happily in the back of the cart with his sisters. It was the day after Yule, and his family was headed home to Hobbiton from Needlehole, where they had visited his mother's relatives for the holiday. Daisy and May were chattering like magpies, mostly about girl stuff Sam didn't care for, like the gossip they'd heard from their cousins and elder female relations. Sam was content to sit quietly and drink in the scenery, occasionally catching snatches of his parents' murmured conversation up front. It had not snowed at their relatives' hole, but as they drove nearer to familiar parts, a light blanket of snow shrouded the landmarks with an air of mystery and adventure. He wondered idly what Elves did when it snowed. Did they have to wear warm clothes and thick cloaks too?
As he was pondering this thought, Marigold stirred and asked him where they were. She was curled up next to him and apparently had fallen asleep, so he answered, "Just outside Hobbiton, I think." Sure enough, soon they were driving through the empty streets of the town. It was nearing dinnertime, so most hobbits were at home or at the Green Dragon Inn, which appeared fairly busy, as usual. As the cart came toward Bagshot Row, Sam turned his gaze in the direction of Bag End, hoping that Mr. Frodo had a good holiday with his family in Buckland. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, thinking he had discerned a faint wisp of smoke against the dusky sky. But that was impossible-Mr. Frodo wasn't due home until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. It had dissipated by his next glance, and he tried in vain to convince himself he was just imagining things, the smoke hadn't really been there.
As the cart pulled up in front of Bagshot Row Number 3, Sam leaned forward and tapped his gaffer on the shoulder. "Is't alright if I go check on Bag End?"
The Gaffer gave him a dubious look over his shoulder. "What for? We'll be headin' over tomorra afore the Master gits back."
Sam tried to figure out how to explain what was bothering him, but his mother stepped in. "Come along, Hamfast. Let the boy run on over 'n check. Better that than him whinin' and worryin' all evenin'."
Hamfast considered this and assented. "All right, but hurry on back."
"Yes, sir," Sam replied as he climbed out of the cart and hurried along the lane. He still wasn't sure exactly what was bothering him, but he could sense something wasn't right.
The snow lay in an undisturbed blanket over the hibernating garden; Sam left the first footprints up the path from the fence gate to the round green door. He clasped the knob and opened the door, realizing after he did so that the door should've been locked. The hallway was dim and chill.
Sam carefully closed the door behind him and stepped further into the hole, looking for something out of place that would give merit to his growing unease. He found it when he suddenly tripped, catching his foot on something that shouldn't have been in the hallway. It was Frodo's pack, he realized from his sprawl on the floor next to it, and Frodo's cloak was draped haphazardly across it.
Quickly getting back on his feet, Sam looked for the owner of the pack and cloak: if they were here, he was here. 'Did he get back early? No, wait . . . I made the first tracks in the snow,' Sam realized. 'The snow started . . . three days ago, my Gaffer said to Ma earlier, so he would've gotten back the day before Yule . . . but that doesn't make sense. Did he ever leave? He was going to, and he never turns down an opportunity to travel . . . something must've happened . . .' With a growing sense of panic, Sam hurried towards Frodo's room. He'd already checked the living room and kitchen; a few things were out of place, but nothing to indicate the catastrophe he was fearing.
Frodo's room was also empty, though there were signs that Frodo had been there. Bedclothes half on the floor, pitcher on the table beside the bed, ashes in the fireplace. Sam went over to the bed to make sure he wasn't accidentally overlooking the object of his search. But it was deserted, though it appeared Frodo had thrown up in it.
'So he's sick . . . but where has he gotten to? Oh, I hope he didn't try to go anyway.' The abandoned cloak and pack came unbidden to Sam's mind followed by an image of an ill Frodo wandering about the Shire with naught but his normal clothes between him and hypothermia. The image made his unease tighten into a large knot of concern. If that was indeed the case, Frodo could be dead by now.
'Sam, you ninnyhammer, stop thinking those things! You haven't even looked everywhere yet. For all you know he's just moved to one of the other bedrooms since his was dirty.' Sam scolded himself as he continued his search. He left the master bedroom and went to check the guest rooms, softly calling "Mr. Frodo?" If he was still sick, there was no sense in barging in like a herd of oliphaunts and scaring him half to death.
To Sam's frustration, all the other bedrooms were empty as well. That left the bathroom, the study, and the pantry. He padded back down the hall, wasn't in the bathroom. Next door was the study, and Sam was certain that if Frodo was still in the smial, he would be there. He eased the door open and poked his head in.
"Mr. Frodo?"