The weather was fine and spring-like that early March. Every day the sun shone brightly, and the crocuses and snowdrops sent up green shoots from the earth. The trees, believing winter to be over at last, swelled with buds. Birds sat and sang amidst the ripening branches, and children's voices could be heard out-of-doors until long after dusk.

The warm weather was making Rose Gamgee restless. She was nine months along and had a terrible case of spring fever. As yet another day dawned bright and warm, Rose was suddenly taken with the idea of visiting her family.

Sam was not pleased. "You'll be having that baby any minute now, and you want to go traipsing off to Bywater? I don't think that's a good idea, Rose-lass."

"Nonsense," she said cheerfully. "I'm weeks away from having this baby, I can tell. If I spend another minute cooped up while it's so beautiful out, you'll be wishing I had gone. And it's only ten miles or so…what's the harm?"

"The harm is…" Sam thought for a moment. "The harm is you never can tell about weather this time of year. We could have a blizzard all of sudden and then you'd be stuck out there. And you could have the baby, whether you think it's weeks away or not, and it might be days before I could come and fetch the both of you back. That's the harm."

Rose looked out the window, at the bright spring sun lying over the greening fields of the Shire. "Sam, really…a blizzard? Why, it's practically summertime!"

Sam had to agree: he had never seen an earlier or warmer spring, and it looked every bit as though 1421 was going to be as pleasant and bountiful as 1420 had been. He relented at last, and drove Rose to Bywater in the cart.

"I'll be back in three days, Rose-lass," he said from the cart's high seat. "Have a good time."

He tugged on the pony's reins and set off down the lane. Just before he went round the bend, he turned and waved to his wife. Rose stood in the doorway of the Cotton farmhouse and waved back cheerfully in the fresh spring sunshine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Sam returned to Bag End, grey clouds had begun to streak across the sky and Sam felt a damp breeze blowing in from the East. He almost turned the cart right back around to fetch Rose from Bywater, then thought better of it. Most likely, it was just a rainshower, not surprising after all the warm weather they had been having. Nevertheless, Sam spent the rest of the day checking the sky and testing the wind.

Frodo found him standing in the middle of the kitchen garden, his hands in his pockets, staring uneasily at the murky sky.

"I don't like it, Mr. Frodo. I shouldn't have let her go."

Frodo glanced upwards. Unlike Sam, he had never had a talent for reading the weather. "It doesn't look like much of anything to me, Sam, but if it makes you feel better, perhaps you should go back to Bywater and bring Rose home."

"I'm not sure about driving the cart twenty miles there and back, what with night coming on." Sam thought for a moment and then laughed, "And then there'll be nothing but a bit of a rainstorm, and tomorrow morning will be another fine day, and Rose will be in quite the state at being jostled all the way home in the dark for nothing!"

Frodo laughed. "That she will! Why don't you wait until morning? If it still looks threatening, you can at least go to Bywater by the light of day."

"I suppose that will have to do, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied. He cast a final glance at the sky, and went inside to have supper with Frodo.

Frodo went to bed early after supper, saying that the sudden change in the weather had tired him. Sam stayed up a bit later. Before he went to bed, he stood on Bag End's porch one last time and sniffed the air. The wind seemed stronger now, and Sam was certain he smelled snow upon it. He went to bed with a troubled mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the dark, early hours of the twelfth, March decided to have one last dalliance with winter, after all.

The snow began around midnight with a few sparkling flakes. By one in the morning the snow had thickened to a steady fall. By two o'clock, the wind had begun to shriek, and the snow fell with such fury that anyone peering out would have thought that a white curtain had been hung outside of their window.

Sam awoke shortly after dawn to pale lavender light at the window. He was aware of two things at once: that Rose's place next to him was empty, and that the colour of the morning could only mean snow. He rose swiftly and went to the window and groaned at the January-white world that lay before him. All of Hobbiton lay beneath shapeless drifts, and the snow was still falling.

"Practically summertime, indeed!" Sam said.

He continued to mutter reproachfully under his breath as he got dressed. He knew it would be senseless to try to reach Bywater this morning. In fact, if the snow kept up like this, it would be at least two days before he would be able to make it to the Cotton farm, and even then only if the blizzard was followed by a quick spring thaw.

Sam walked out of his room and was surprised to see that Frodo's bedroom door was open, for he usually slept later than Sam. He poked his head into the room, but found it empty. The curtains were still drawn over the window, and the blankets lay in a tangle upon the bed. Sam went down the hall to the kitchen, stopping to knock on the door of the study to ask Frodo what he wanted for breakfast. It was unusual, but not out of the question, for Frodo to start working as soon as he rose.

Sam did not hear a sound from the study, not even a rustle of paper. He knocked again, and again, only silence answered him. Sam put his hand on the brass knob and opened the door.

The study was cold and gloomy. No fire burned, and it seemed that Frodo had not been in the room at all that morning. His things were arranged upon the desk in neat, undisturbed stacks, and a doleful wintry light fell upon them. Sam paused for a moment, looking at the old desk, the same one that had always stood in that corner under the window. The desk had been one of the few pieces of furniture that Frodo had sent ahead to Crickhollow, for he had not wanted Lobelia to have it. "She would probably use it for firewood, anyway," Frodo had said with a laugh.

Frodo had, however, left Lobelia the awful oliphaunt-leg footstool.

The oliphaunt-leg was long gone, but the desk had come back, and Sam had been happy to see it return to its place below the study's round window. It had somehow made Bag End feel familiar, and safe again. Yet now as he looked at the desk, with its neat little piles of paper and books, it seemed forlorn. In the pale light it appeared almost ghostly, as if Sam looked upon a faded image of the room as it had been so many years before, when Bilbo had still been master of Bag End. The apparition was so compelling that Sam glanced above the desk, almost expecting to see Bilbo's pencil portrait of Frodo hanging in its old place upon the wall.

Sam realized he was daydreaming, and he shook himself and rubbed his arms against the chill in the room. He thought about starting a fire in the study, if only to chase away the gloom, then decided that he should get breakfast going instead. Frodo was probably in the kitchen, building up the fire.

But the kitchen was empty as well. Sam heard only snow at the window and the faint crackle of last night's embers upon the hearth. "Mr. Frodo?" he called out, and his voice sounded small, and almost frightened. No one answered.

"Mr. Frodo?" he called, a little louder, and now the silence was palpable, and baleful.

Suddenly Bag End seemed too quiet and Sam was certain that he was alone. A strange unease began to grow in his mind. He stepped into the hall and thought, his hand cupped beneath his chin. He can't have gone out…perhaps he's in one of the pantries…but wouldn't I hear him, if he was? Sam glanced distractedly at the pegs by the front door. He noticed then that Frodo's grey cloak was missing.

Quickly, Sam went to the front hall and put on his cloak. He opened the door and icy wind struck him. After shutting the door with some difficulty, he began to make his way down the path.

Sam walked with his head down, the snow blowing into his face. He wound his cloak tightly about himself and waded through snow that came to his hips. In little time, his teeth were chattering.

This is ridiculous! Sam thought. Frodo can't possibly be out here! He was about to turn and head back inside, when he spotted him.

Frodo had made it past the gate, and he stood at the edge of the low rise that looked out over Party Field. He was atop a snowdrift, and his back was to Sam. Frodo seemed to fade in and out of Sam's sight. The grey cloak of Lórien and the swirling snow rendered him almost invisible.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam called, but the wind took his voice and Frodo did not turn around.

Sam struggled closer to Frodo. He could not imagine how Frodo had made it to the edge of the hill, or climbed on top of the snow in such a storm. Sam suddenly thought of Legolas, and how lightly the Elf had walked over the snows of Caradhras.

Sam made it to the gate and leaned against it, panting. "Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo turned around then to look at Sam, and Sam shivered with more than cold. Frodo's face was grim and set. Two bright spots of wind-burned red stood out on his cheeks, but he was otherwise pale. His eyes glittered blue, as icy as the snow, and they were very wide, yet distant. His dark hair was frosted with snow, and it tossed about his face. He held something chest-high between his two hands, and at first, Sam thought it was an umbrella. He peered through the snow, and realized with some alarm that Frodo was holding Sting, unsheathed, its blade pointed down, the hilt against his breast.

"What are you doing, Mr. Frodo?" Sam called against the wind.

Frodo stared at Sam, his grim, wide-eyed expression never changing. Sam waded closer to him, and he could see that Frodo was shivering, and that his mouth trembled in the cold. At length, Frodo answered. "I am keeping watch," he said, and his voice was high and eerie in the storm.

Sam stopped where he stood. "Against what, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo did not answer him. He turned his face away and once again looked out into the blowing snow.

Suddenly, Sam remembered the date. It was March the twelfth, the day before Frodo was poisoned by the spider and taken captive by the enemy. Sam instantly recalled how he had found Frodo in a daze last October the sixth, and he realized that what he had come to think of as "the old troubles" had come back, yet again.

Sam took a few floundering steps and came to the foot of the snowdrift. He did not dare to climb up next to Frodo, for fear that the drift would collapse and bury them both. He reached up and touched Frodo's arm.

"Come inside, Mr. Frodo. This is no weather to be out in."

Frodo continued to look out, as if he had not heard Sam at all. Sam saw now that Frodo's expression was neither grim nor set. Frodo looked terrified, exhausted, and lost. It had been long since Sam had seen his master in such a state, and his heart ached with pity.

He climbed up onto the edge of the drift, as closely as he dared. Leaning forward, he wrapped an arm around Frodo's waist.

"Come along, Mr. Frodo," he said, as gently as he could while making his voice heard above the wind. "There's no need to keep watch. Come inside before you catch your death."

Frodo looked down at Sam, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Suddenly, he shook his head and his face seemed to clear, as if he had awakened from a bad dream.

"Well of course, Sam," he said, and began to climb down from the drift. "What on earth am I doing out here?" He looked at Sting in his hands. "And whyever did I bring this with me?" He laughed a little, as if he found the whole situation terribly silly.

"I don't know, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Let's just get inside now."

"Of course, Sam, of course."

Sam and Frodo struggled through the snow, their arms about each other. Frodo used Sting like a staff to prop himself up against the wind. At last they made it back to Bag End.

Sam closed the door and leaned against it. "Not fit for man or beast out there," he said, puffing from the exertion.

"No, it certainly isn't," Frodo said. He shook snow from his hair. He was about to take off his cloak when he looked down at Sting, still in his hand. For a moment, a shadow of uncertainty seemed to pass over his face, and Sam looked at him with concern. Then Frodo smiled and shook his head and dropped the elven sword casually into the umbrella stand.

"Not much good in a snowstorm, is it, Sam?" he asked with a smile.

Sam smiled back, feeling greatly relieved by Frodo's apparent recovery. "No, Mr. Frodo. Not much use at all."

They went into the kitchen together. Sam built up a roaring fire and they had their breakfast sitting before it, slowly feeling the icy chill leave them.

Neither Sam nor Frodo mentioned that morning's odd events for the rest of the day. The snow tapered off around three in the afternoon, and the Shire lay quietly under its white weight. Frodo spent most of the day in his study, and Sam saw little of him.

After supper, Frodo sat by the fire with his tea. He seemed lost in thought as the firelight flickered in his eyes and shadows played upon his face. Sam smoked his pipe and looked at him for a long moment.

At last, he said softly, "Mr. Frodo, are you all right?"

Frodo did not look at Sam, but a half-smile formed upon his lips. "Of course I am, Sam."

"Is tomorrow worrying you, sir?"

"Tomorrow?" Frodo asked. Sam thought he saw something pass over Frodo's features. Then it was gone. "No, Sam. I am not worried about tomorrow." He put his cup down and rose. "But I am tired. I think I will go to bed early. Good night, Sam."

Without looking at Sam, Frodo left the room. Sam listened as his footsteps went down the hall, and his bedroom door closed with a soft click.

Sam sighed. He drew on his pipe and wished deeply that Rose had stayed home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo's door was still closed when Sam rose in the morning. He put on his dressing gown and knocked at the door. When no answer came, he took a deep breath and went in.

The room was dim; it was yet early, and the curtains were shut tightly against the dawn. It was also stifling, and Sam could see from the great mound of ashes in the hearth that Frodo had built a fire much too large for the small room, as if he had been terribly cold in the night. Frodo was in bed, with the covers drawn up so high that Sam could see only a bit of his dark curls against the pillow.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam said quietly. He laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder and felt him shivering beneath the many layers of quilt and blanket. Frodo did not respond.

Gently, Sam folded the blankets down so that he could see Frodo's face. He knelt down beside the bed and stroked his master's hair from his brow. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he whispered.

Frodo was curled on his side, so tightly that his knees were almost touching his chest. His hands were clasped together under his chin. His face was ashen, save for the redness that yesterday's windburn had printed on his cheeks, and he shone with perspiration, even though his teeth chattered. His brows were drawn together over tightly shut eyes, and his mouth moved soundlessly as if he tried to speak. He was in pain, Sam could see, and wandering in his mind.

"It's all right," Mr. Frodo, Sam said, and kissed his cold cheek. "It's all right. I'm here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam could do little for Frodo all that day. At times Frodo passed into an uneasy sleep, at others, he managed to rise to a feverish awareness, and Sam was able to sit him up and give him some cool tea with honey. But for most of the day, he was delirious: he tossed restlessly and carried on rambling conversations, of which Sam could make out but a few words, and none that seemed to make any sense. Several times he cried out, and once he wept, as desperately as a child lost in the woods who has given up all hope of ever finding his way home. The sound of it smote at Sam's heart, and he put his arms about his master and held him, although whether Frodo took any comfort from it, Sam could not tell.

At dusk, Sam went into Frodo's room to light the lamps and put more wood on the fire. He felt the need to keep the room bright, as if this would help lead Frodo out of his darkness. Frodo had fallen into a thin sleep, and he seemed to be almost at rest for the first time that long day.

Sam stood by the window, trimming a lamp-wick. Outside, the Shire was still and silent, enshrouded in snow. The purple shadows of evening lay over the snow-covered fields, and a few light flurries had begun to fall again.

"I'm sorry," Sam heard Frodo whisper faintly.

Sam set the lamp on the little table by the window and went to Frodo's side. "Mr. Frodo? Are you awake, sir?" Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and saw that Frodo's eyes were still closed. He was dreaming, or slipping into delirium again.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said again, and then sighed wearily.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Mr. Frodo," Sam said comfortingly, although he doubted that Frodo even knew he was there.

Frodo took a deep breath and his hand sought his neck, but he did not touch the white jewel that lay there. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I didn't know…what have I done? What have I done?"

Sam saw tears begin to glisten underneath Frodo's eyelashes. He passed his hand through Frodo's hair and murmured, "Shh, shh," but Frodo turned his head away from Sam's touch.

"All has gone with it," he said, and shuddered. "I see. I see. Oh…I am sorry. I did not know. Oh, bring it back. Bring it back." He wept.

Sam looked on and did not know what to say, or even to think. He comforted his master as best as he could, while his own tears flowed freely down his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was after midnight, and Sam had just begun to doze. The sound of Frodo's voice awakened him.

"Sam, are you there?"

Sam leaned forward from the chair he had placed beside Frodo's bed. Frodo's eyes were open, and clear, and he lay on his side with his hand outstretched. Sam took Frodo's hand between his own and said, "Yes, Mr. Frodo. I'm here."

"Why is it so dark? Will the day never come?"

Sam smiled. "The day has come and gone, sir. It's tomorrow already."

"Tomorrow…" Frodo said. "Then I have been sick, and worse than ever. I have never lost a whole day before."

"You just slept, mostly, Mr. Frodo. 'Tweren't so bad as all that. How do you feel now?"

Frodo closed his eyes for a moment. "Tired. Very tired. And thirsty."

"I have some nice tea, here, sir. Let me sit you up so you can drink it." Sam raised Frodo to a sitting position, and Frodo winced a little, as if being moved pained him.

"Are you in pain, sir?"

"No, Sam. Just dizzy."

Sam meant to rest Frodo against the pillows, but Frodo leaned back into Sam's arms and laid his head on Sam's shoulder with a sigh. Sam let him rest there while he drank.

"Sam," he said after a while. "I am not getting better."

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, this weren't nothing but a little spell. You'll be your old self in the morning."

"No, Sam. I am getting worse. I feel it now, and not just on these anniversaries. I am getting worse, a little, every day."

"If that's true, sir, we'll have the doctor take a look at you."

"What doctor in the Shire could help me? I wouldn't even know how to explain my illness."

"Then we'll ask the Elves…or Gandalf. They'll understand. They'll know what to do."

"Yes," Frodo said. "The Elves. But they cannot help me here. They have faded."

Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully. "All right, Mr. Frodo," he said after a moment. "We'll go to Rivendell. Or Lórien…'twill be good to see the Lady again."

"Lórien is empty, or soon will be. They are all passing away. The Wood will be silent."

"Now, Mr. Frodo. You don't know what you're saying. Lórien, empty! If we don't go to Lórien, where shall we go? Just tell me. I'll go with you, wherever you must."

But Frodo did not answer. The empty cup fell from his hands into his lap, and his head was heavy upon Sam's shoulder. He was asleep.

Sam laid Frodo down gently and tucked the blankets around him, pleased to see him at rest. He held Frodo's hand and pondered what Frodo had said. It seemed to make little sense to Sam, and he thought that Frodo must have been half-asleep, or still feeling the effects of his illness when he spoke.

At the window, sparkling snow flurries fell like stardust. In one of Sam's favourite tales from the long-ago days in Bilbo's study, Elbereth fashioned the stars from silver dew and set them in the heavens. Sam had always pictured a great queen, robed in white, scattering stars as a sower will scatter seeds on the rich earth, and the fall of those stars was as the fall of snow, white and brilliant and silent. As signs in the heavens of Arda she set them, Frodo would read, and Sam would wonder what was meant by those signs, what they might forebode. Mr. Frodo will know, he would think with the unfaltering faith of childhood. For certain Mr. Frodo will know.

Sam kissed Frodo's hand then laid it down on the coverlet. He rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes, wearied by the long day. He dozed, and then slept.

He dreamt that he was in the study at Bag End, and he was little, so little that his legs dangled from Bilbo's tall chair. Sam looked at Bilbo's desk and saw not the usual clutter, but only a single leather satchel, bound with a black ribbon. It seemed mysterious and frightening to little Sam, and he did not want to touch it. Upon the desk, one candle burned, and dark night was at the round window. Sam turned his head and saw Frodo sitting next to him, in the flower of his youth, unbroken, untouched by evil, more fair than any Elf who had ever walked the earth. The candle cast strange shadows upon his face as he rose. Where are you going, Mr. Frodo? Sam asked, in his high child's voice. Don't you want to read about the queen, and the stars? Frodo looked down and smiled. I am going to look for dragons, Sam, as we have always said we would. He walked to the door and when he opened it, the hall outside was as black as midnight. Stay here, Mr. Frodo! This is the safe place! Sam cried. Frodo looked over his shoulder and laughed brightly, but his eyes were filled with tears. They glittered in the candle's flame. Samwise, don't be silly, he said. There is no safe place. He turned and disappeared into the darkness. Little Sam ran to the door, and when he passed through it he was no longer little, and he found himself on the west bank of the Anduin, upon the green lawn that sloped down from Amon Hen. Frodo was missing, and he and Merry and Pippin had set off to find him, scattering amongst the trees. Sam could hear their clear voices calling Frodo! Frodo! and Sam found the voices sad, as if they belonged to wandering spirits. Merry and Pippin's calls drifted farther and farther away, until Sam could not hear them at all. It became very dark in the forest, the trees seeming to press in on all sides, and still Sam could not find Frodo. Oh, I have lost him! Sam thought, with the sluggish panic of dreams. He called for him, Frodo! Frodo! but his only answer was the wind, sighing through the dark trees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo was sleeping quietly when Sam woke. Sam tiptoed out of the room, so not to disturb him, but left the door open so that he would be able to hear if Frodo woke and called for him.

Sam was in the kitchen making breakfast when he was startled by a voice behind him.

"Good morning, Sam."

Frodo stood in the doorway in his dressing gown. His hair was tousled and he had faint shadows beneath his eyes, but he looked surprisingly recovered.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam said happily. "I didn't expect to see you up so soon!"

Frodo sat down at the table, his back to the fire. "I think I've spent enough time in bed, don't you?" he asked with a smile. "And I'm starving. What's for breakfast?"

Sam made Frodo a hearty breakfast of poached eggs and ham, and was delighted to see him eat it. Frodo had nearly finished when he set his fork down and looked at Sam.

"Sam, please don't tell Rose that I was sick. Don't even mention it."

Sam looked at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say. "I think she'd want to know, sir. I think she'd want to know if there was anything she could do to help."

"Rose has other things to think about. And so do you, Sam. I am better now, so please, don't give it any more thought."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo, but…well…last night, you said you thought you were getting worse. And if that's so, we need to think of a way to help you get better."

Frodo looked at Sam, his eyes wide, as if startled by what Sam had said. He blinked and looked away. "I was tired last night, and sick. I didn't know what I was saying. Please, don't worry about anything I might have said. I am quite well."

"Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo looked back at Sam and favoured him with a sunny smile. "Absolutely sure!" he said. "Have you ever seen a sick hobbit eat like this?"

Sam smiled back at Frodo, but their eyes met and the truth passed between them, though neither one would give it voice.

Frodo spent the morning in his study, and when it was time for elevenses, Sam made up a tray of tea and biscuits and jam. Sam pushed the half-closed study door open with his shoulder.

"I thought you wouldn't want to get up, so I've brought you…" Sam stopped, his eyes on Frodo at the desk. "Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo was sitting at the desk, his left arm resting in his lap. With his right hand, he idly fingered the jewel around his neck. He gazed out of the window, a far-away look in his eyes. Nothing on the desk had been touched.

"It is so good to be back in the Shire, Sam," Frodo said in a dreamlike voice. "It was all I ever wanted, to come home again."

"Well, and now you are home, sir," Sam answered, trying to keep his voice light.

"I am looking forward to spending this summer in the Shire."

"If it's anything like last year, 'twill be a fine one." Frodo did not respond, nor did he turn his head. "I've brought you some elevenses, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo turned then, and smiled at Sam. A shaft of pale snow-light came through the window and fell across his face. His skin was the colour of pearl, and his eyes were as heartbreakingly blue as winter sky. He smiled, but his eyes and mouth were etched with sadness, and Sam felt himself suddenly eight years old again, filled with wonder at the face before him. Only now, Sam understood whence came the great sorrow that had seemed to go by upon the wind, and he knew that it had not passed, but had found Frodo, and himself, after all. But his mind did not dwell upon these things. Sam felt only the fullness of his own heart as he looked upon his friend, and loved him.

"When summer is over, Sam, I think I should like to go to Rivendell for a while," Frodo said softly. "Perhaps you will come with me, at least part of the way."

"Aye, Mr. Frodo, I'll go with you. All the way, if I can."

"We'll see, Sam. We have a long time to think about it."

"That we do, sir. A long time," Sam answered, but in his heart he knew the time was short. Although it was only March, Sam knew that summer would pass as quickly as a shooting star, and that autumn would soon be upon them.