The company had been riding for seven days. They were now only a day from the Grey Havens, but dusk fell early on these September days, and they had decided to stop for the night.

After supper, Sam and Frodo sat by the fire, listening to the others talk. Sam felt Frodo lean on him heavier and heavier, and when his head fell on Sam's shoulder he realized that Frodo was asleep. Sam was not surprised. He had noticed how weary Frodo became by the end of each day's ride, although their pace was not hard. Under the circumstances, Sam thought that his master would have been better off in his own warm bed at Bag End than out on the roofless downs. What are we doing out here, anyway? he sometimes asked himself. Ain't we had enough of this wandering business?

Sam roused Frodo enough to lay him down in his blankets. He felt Frodo shiver slightly.

"Are you cold, Mr. Frodo?"

"I'll warm up in just a bit, Sam," Frodo said drowsily.

"Does your shoulder hurt at all?" He had seen Frodo favouring his left side, and had caught him wincing once or twice today, when his pony had taken a hard step.

"A little. It's all right."

Sam rubbed Frodo's left shoulder and arm. He didn't quite believe Frodo when he said that his shoulder pained him only "a little."

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo murmured, and fell asleep.

Sam massaged Frodo's arm for a while longer, then sat back and lit his pipe. In the distance, Gandalf and the Elves were gathered around the fire, where they would talk far into the night. They were never weary, it seemed. They were fine folk, to be sure, but Sam wondered how Frodo would fare amongst them. He blew smoke rings into the twilight, and thought about Frodo, and Elves.

I should have made a list, he realized with dismay. Because how are they supposed to know that when Mr. Frodo doesn't feel well, he needs to be in bed, and that he likes to lie on his side, but not his left side because that's the side that hurts most? How will they know that they should rub that shoulder when it pains him so that it won't stiffen up too much? Oh, I should have made a list. So that they'll know that he likes a teaspoon of honey in his tea and just a little bit of cream. And so they'll know that sometimes he likes to be let alone, but other times they need to look in on him and sit up with him. Mr. Bilbo, now, he's been away so long, that he don't know all this. So if I don't, who will tell 'em that they should keep a fire going in his room and have plenty of warm blankets on his bed, even in the summertime? Or that now and then if his shoulder hurts him too much he may need some help getting dressed, especially with the buttons because he can't manage them so well with only one hand, and that with only four fingers on it? But maybe he'll be well over there, and they won't need to know any of that or do any of those things for him. Maybe. But if it's not like that…well…Sam sighed. I should have made a list

Sam put his pipe aside and was making ready to go to sleep himself, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Samwise, a word with you?" Bilbo whispered.

Sam looked up. "Of course, Mr. Bilbo."

"Come with me, lad."

Sam made sure that Frodo was secure in his blankets and then followed Bilbo to where his pony was tethered beneath a tree. He wondered with some anxiety what this could be about. Bilbo was often not his old self these days, and Sam sincerely hoped that Bilbo would not attempt to offer him anything odd, or, even worse, ask him about the Ring yet again.

Bilbo had taken something from his saddlebag. "I wanted you to have this, my boy," he said, and handed Sam a thick leather satchel.

"What is it, sir?"

"My things, from Rivendell, everything that I forgot to give to Frodo last year. These are my histories of Middle-earth. My notes. Songs of the Elves. All my years of study. And you thought I had not done much writing there, Sam," Bilbo chided gently.

Sam felt himself redden. "Oh, Mr. Bilbo, I couldn't…you shouldn't…"

"Oh, but you can. And I should! It makes no sense to take them with me, after all, and with the Elves departing…" Bilbo glanced over to the fire, around which the Fair Folk seemed to shimmer in the dusk. "The Elves are departing, Sam. Someone must be left to tell their tales, and the other stories of Middle-earth. I meant to give these things to Frodo, but…" His eyes looked past Sam, to Frodo's sleeping form. "Well, I cannot, you see. You understand."

"I do understand, Mr. Bilbo," Sam said. "But…but…shouldn't you give them to someone in Gondor? There are libraries there and scholars and…"

"Sam, I don't want to give them to some librarian in Gondor. I want you to have them. I know that you will take good care of them. You have always protected the things that I love." He laid his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I would have lost the greatest of my treasures, without you, dear Master Samwise."

Sam wrapped his arms around the satchel. He felt tears come to his eyes and he put his head down so Bilbo would not see.

"Sam? Sam, my boy?"

"But I am losing him, anyway," Sam whispered through his tears. "And he has already lost everything that he tried to save."

Bilbo was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Sam, you mustn't think that you are losing him. You're letting him go, to the peace that he has earned. And everything that he tried to save has been saved."

"Not for him, though, Mr. Bilbo. Maybe my mind just ain't high enough to understand it all. But it don't feel right to me, sir. It just don't feel fair." Sam looked back over his shoulder to where Frodo lay sleeping, then turned back to Bilbo. "Will you take care of him, Mr. Bilbo? Those Elves are wonderful folk, but it's not quite the same, if you follow me, sir. I know they honour him and all, but…I don't know if they love him, like we do."

"Of course I'll take care of him Sam. I hope I can do as good a job as you have."

"Thank you, Mr. Bilbo. It makes me feel better to know that he'll at least have a familiar face, over there. But still…Mr. Bilbo…" Sam put his head down and dropped his voice to a whisper. "I don't want him to go."

"I know, Sam," said Bilbo. "I know."

Bilbo pulled Sam into a quick embrace. Sam breathed in Bilbo's familiar, comfortable scent of wool and pipeweed. For just a moment, he was a child again, learning his letters in the study at Bag End. Bilbo was at his desk, Frodo was in the stuffed chair by the fireplace, his feet up on that dreadful oliphaunt-leg footstool, and sunlight was streaming in through the round window. A desperate longing came over Sam, and he knew that he would gladly give all that he had or ever would have to return to the contented peace of those days.

Sam put the satchel into his own pony's saddlebag and returned to Frodo's side. He spread out his blankets and lay down behind his master.

Frodo stirred and turned around halfway. "Is it morning, Sam? Is it time to go?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

Frodo settled back into his blankets with a sigh. "Good."

Sam put his hand on Frodo's arm. "I agree, Mr. Frodo," he said softly. Sam slipped into a favourite dream, in which he and Frodo woke up to find they had overslept, and the others had gone ahead and sailed without them, and they had no choice but to return to the Shire and live happily at Bag End, for years and years.