Frodo was awakened quite suddenly by a sharp rapping at his door.
"Frodo-lad, up with you now!" came Bilbo's voice from the hall. "Our guests will be arriving soon, best you be ready!"
Groggily Frodo sat up, wondering why there was a distinctly unsettled feeling in his stomach; he felt vaguely as though he'd taken a swig of too much blackberry cordial. Then the events of the previous day came crashing down on him, and he flopped back onto the mattress with a moan.
The Boffins. Right.
Bilbo heard him, and knocked again. "Come on, lad, none of that!" he said, his voice a touch sterner. "We don't want to keep them waiting. Up with you!"
"I'm coming, Uncle," he called. "Half a moment!"
He heard Bilbo mutter something under his breath but turn and walk back towards the kitchen. He stretched for a moment, then kicked off his coverlet, sitting up again. "Well," he mumbled to himself, "might as well get this over with."
With that he stood and went to go wash up.
~ ~ ~
Sam woke from his fitful sleep at the first peeking of the sun from behind his curtains. He sat up quickly. Frodo! If he came--*when* he came, Sam corrected himself angrily—Sam wanted to be ready. He leapt from his bed and hurried to the washroom.
*Oh, please…*
~ ~ ~
A sharp rap at Bag End's door startled Frodo from his breakfast.
"Well, that'll be them, then!" Bilbo said jovially, standing and hurrying towards the door. Frodo closed his eyes.
~ ~ ~
Sam hurriedly filled a basin with water and grabbed a wash clout, working a ball of lye soap over it hastily. He then scrubbed his face, neck, even behind his ears, as quickly as he'd ever done in his life. Drying hastily he practically sprinted to the kitchen, where his mother was just beginning to prepare first breakfast.
"Sam, lad!" she cried as he dashed around her and grabbed a piece of bread off the counter. "What on earth is the hurry?"
"Sorry Mum!" he called as he started to head back out, biting into his bread as he ran.
"Samwise Gamgee!" she cried, and he stopped, looking back at her guiltily. "You just sit down, then, and eat at the table! I've raised you better than that, lad."
Sam ducked his head and scurried back to the table. Pulling himself up quickly, he once again tore into his meager breakfast, nearly choking in his haste.
"Chew, lad," Hamfast Gamgee said as he came up behind the coughing child, patting him firmly on the back. "That's what you got teeth for."
Sam mumbled a vague apology around his mouthful, but did not slow down. Within minutes he sprang up again, clapping his hands together to rid them of the crumbs. "Bye, Mum, Da!" he called as he sprinted down the hall again.
Hamfast shook his head wearily. Bell sighed and walked up behind him, resting her head on his arm. "He'll know, soon enough," she whispered, kissing his shoulder. "Then we'll be here for him."
Hamfast nodded, but for some reason found it difficult to speak.
~ ~ ~
Bilbo swung the door open with a flourish. "Griffo!" he exclaimed. "Lovely to see you again. Ah, yes, yes, he's all ready—Frodo, lad! Here, now, and don't be slow about it!"
Frodo slid from his chair and shuffled reluctantly towards the door.
"-bit shy," Bilbo was saying, "but he's a delightful boy, make no mistake. Ah, Frodo!" He clapped his hand on his nephew's shoulder and drew him to the doorway. Frodo, who'd been staring at his feet since he stood up, hesitantly raised his eyes. He found a gruff-looking hobbit about Bilbo's age gazing back at him, a faint smile twinkling in his brown eyes.
"Good day, there, lad," the hobbit said, extending a weathered hand.
Frodo shook it a bit clumsily. "Sir," he said, nodding as he let go.
Griffo's weathered old face broke into a toothy grin. "Well, then, lad, let's be off!" he turned towards the gate, where Frodo saw a small pony-drawn cart standing in wait. Three lads sat in the back, chewing on stalks of hay and gazing at Frodo in a slightly contemptuous manner. One other lad, quite obviously a deal older than the rest, sat in the seat next to the driver's, and didn't even glance in Frodo's direction.
The gnawing apprehension that had plagued him since the previous evening fluttered a little higher in Frodo's stomach as he followed Griffo Boffin towards the cart. Suddenly the old hobbit slapped a hand to his head and stopped walking; Frodo barely avoided walking straight into him. The lads in the cart snickered a little.
"Dear me, but I almost forgot!" he cried, turning to Frodo. "Lad, these're my boys! That there's me oldest, Mungo." The hobbit in the front of the cart finally glanced downward, his hazel eyes flickering over Frodo quickly before he nodded once and returned his stony gaze to the horizon.
Griffo didn't seem to notice. "In the back there, that's Odo. And next to 'im, that's Rufus—and there in the back is their friend, Tolman Bracegirdle. Go on then, lad, hop up! We'd best be going if we're to get these things to market and set up in time! The lads'll have to help me for a bit, but then Mungo and I'll run the stand and you can run about as you please."
He turned to Bilbo and waved. "I'll have 'im back before sunset, eh Bilbo?"
Bilbo nodded, a smile on his face. "Right, then, Griffo. Have a good time, Frodo!"
With that, he turned and walked back into Bag End, whistling cheerfully to himself. Frodo watched him disappear, feeling a desperate to sprint after him and beg him not to make him go, but he steadied himself. Turning, he climbed onto the cart, sitting as close to the back as he could. The hobbit lads watched him, stonily silent, and Frodo found himself staring at his feet and wishing with all his might he was with Sam instead.
~ ~ ~
Sam reached the back of the smial and threw the door open, causing it to bang against the wall on its rusty hinges in his haste. He winced, hoping his father hadn't heard—he got in trouble often enough for doing that—but didn't stop to find out. Heart pounding, he raced to the small gate and shoved it open, sprinting out into the road and staring up the hill towards Bag End—
--just in time to see a cart rounding the opposite side of the hill, headed towards the market. Squinting, he saw four figures on the back of the cart—three burly lads, and there, towards the back: a dark-haired, slight figure, arms curled around his knees, his cheek resting against them—
Frodo.
*No.*
Sam stood frozen for a long moment, unable to think, unable to breathe. The figure on the cart turned his head slightly, and for a moment, even at this distance, Sam could tell Frodo'd seen him. Then the cart was gone, disappeared over the crest of the hill.
*No!*
Sam suddenly remembered to breathe: a great heaving gasp as he dropped in disbelief to his knees, right in the middle of the road.
*Frodo had gone…abandoned him…his Gaffer was right, he didn't care, he wasn't…*
"No!"
And then Sam was sobbing, tears streaming down his red cheeks as he gasped desperately for air. He leaned forward, arms curling around his belly as though he might stop the pain that seemed to well from so deep within him.
*Frodo didn't care about him…*
A few moments later Sam heard the rusty hinges of the gate swing open; heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Wordlessly, he was picked up, settled onto his father's strong arm while his head was drawn down to his shoulder. Sam was too distraught to even protest, curling willingly into his father's embrace, the sobs still tearing through him.
"There, lad," Hamfast whispered after a moment, rubbing his back. Sam hiccoughed, then raised his tear-streaked face to meet his father's gaze.
"Da…he didn't come," he whispered, his chin trembling as fresh tears swam in his wide brown eyes.
"I know, lad," Hamfast whispered, finding no other words of comfort to give his son.
Sam gulped. "But Da, why? What did I do wrong? I thought he…"
"'Tweren't your fault, lad," Hamfast said with a sigh. "Folk like you and me, we just weren't meant to go befriending our betters. 'Twas best you learnt that now, anyway. You jest serve him as best you can, and he'll be a fine master to you one day, but lad…that's all. That's all."
Sam whimpered, burying his face in his father's work shirt and trembling violently, but he didn't cry anymore.
He would not cry over this again, he promised himself. He mightn't understand, but if this was how it had to be, then so be it. No sense in blubbering like a baby. With that resolve, a sense of calm started to build itself within him, creating a wall around his wounded young heart.
'I guess I weren't meant for friends, anyhow,' he thought to himself. 'It hurts too bad to lose them. I'm better off with none at all.' As he thought that, a calm numbness rose to take the place of the pain. He sighed a little, feeling the previous day's joy drowning with the sorrow, but allowed the blessed oblivion to swell within him. 'Better this than the pain,' he reasoned.
He sniffed once more, then leaned back again to meet his father's gaze. "You can put me down now, Da," he said softly.
Hamfast complied, gazing at his son a trifle worriedly. "Sam-lad, do you want to talk about it?"
Sam shook his head, his golden curls bouncing in the early morning sun. "No, sir. It's like you said. Him 'n me can't be friends nohow, so no use in worrying over it."
Hamfast patted his son on the shoulder. "Good lad," he said, though it held little conviction; in truth, he was quite concerned at the lad's sudden detachment.
Sam gave him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If it's okay, I'm going to go start my chores now."
Hamfast nodded, returning the smile with a tinge of concern. "Aye…go do that, then, Sam," he said, ruffling his son's curls. Sam nodded once respectfully and turned away, quickly vanishing around the house towards the gardens.
Hamfast watched him go, a nameless fear and guilt gnawing unexpectedly at his heart.
*Oh, Lady…what have I done?* he wondered.