by Sally Gardens
Chapter Three: Many Happy Returns
"Well, Sam Gamgee," declared Frodo as he and Sam entered the study. "I must say that you are thriving beyond my wildest hopes. I am happy for you."
Sam blushed. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo. Though it's 'Gardner,' now," he added. "Gardner of the Hill. A silly affectation, as may be—Rosie thought so, to be sure—but it had a nice sound to it, and seemed fit, somehow. A new name for a new life."
A lump rose in Frodo's throat. "And a fit name it is, dear Sam," he answered thickly, "for the greatest gardener in all of history."
"Ah." Sam grunted, shrugging.
"Now don't you be giving me any of your 'ah' talk," Frodo stoutly retorted. "I have never seen gardens so fair and restful to the eye and heart."
Sam's eyes rolled up to fix upon Frodo's. "Not even—?" He looked out the window.
Frodo lay his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I missed your gardens, Sam."
The other Hobbit's lip trembled, and as soon as his eyes met Frodo's again, the tears began. "Oh, there I go again," he muttered, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes.
"It is quite all right, Sam," assured Frodo, laughing gently as he hugged Sam. "As Gandalf said, not all tears are an evil."
"He did. And I remember when he said it."
"Oh, Sam."
For several moments they remained still, Sam leaning on Frodo, Frodo clinging to Sam.
"I never thought to see you again," murmured Sam. "Least not this side of the Sea. But." Sam's voice brightened as he smiled up at Frodo. "All's well as ends better, and here you are: safe and sound and healed of your every hurt."
Frodo drew a sharp breath. "No, Sam," he said. "I wasn't healed, even there."
The smile fell away.
"It wasn't all for naught," Frodo quickly strove to assure Sam. "I had peace. For a while. Until missing you, missing home, pained me more than my wounds. But my wounds have not gone away, nor do I think they ever shall."
Sam stared at him, wondering. Then he eased back a bit from Frodo, clapping him heartily on his good arm. "You're back," he declared. "That's all as really matters, now—except—" He frowned. "I thought it weren't allowed for you to come back, once passed over."
"It's not."
"Then—how—?"
Frodo smiled wistfully, shaking his head slightly, searching for an answer, and finding:
"Grace."
They sat in the study, chatting nonstop over lit pipes of the finest leaf in Sam's considerable stock. Yes, Sam confirmed, he had indeed become Mayor of the Shire, just last year at the Fair, and no, Frodo insisted, he had no intention of allowing Sam to return Bag End and all its sundry properties to him, and he would hear no more talk of that.
"Supper," said Rose, popping her head into the doorway before bustling down the hall.
"I'll be needing to wash," said Frodo, rising. "I'm covered head to toe with the dust of road and field."
Sam followed Frodo, continuing his meandering narrative of his life since Frodo's departure, until Frodo, looking into the mirror above the basin, startled at the sight of his reflection.
"How old am I?" he burst out, overriding Sam.
Sam thought a moment. "Sixty," he said, eyebrows rising. "Today."
"Seven years." Frodo gazed distantly at his own reflection. "Seven years, to the day, since we set out from Bag End..." He shook himself, putting on a smile. "Well. That explains the gray hair."
Sam nodded cheerfully, but inwardly he sobered as he took a long look at Frodo. Elvenhome or no, age had indeed caught up with Frodo: Strands of gray streaked his nut-brown curls, and though the strain of his Quest was long past, the lines on his yet lean face would ever bear testimony to the hard road he had once walked. Six months, thought Sam. Scarcely six months, it was, and yet it was a lifetime, and then some. He dared not look into the mirror.
Rose was just setting out bowls of steaming turnips and greens and other hearty fare for a cool autumn night when Sam and Frodo came to the table. Sam continued to regale Frodo with as much news of the past seven years as he could fit into each breathless sentence.
"Oh, and Merry's back in Brandy Hall, now, tending to his dad, who's not as hale as he used to be. Crickhollow's empty again, since Pippin got married just last year—though you'd scarcely know it from the way he carries on. Spends all his time wandering about from tavern to inn, from Michel Delving to Bree, wherever he can find a pint and an audience."
"Sam." Rose's voice was quiet, but the warning look in her eyes was plain.
"Oh. You're right, Rosie," Sam answered, with a sheepish glance around the table. "You children never mind what I just said, hear?"
Rose sighed. "And you know that'll just seal it in their minds."
"Ah. They're too young. Be forgotten by bedtime. Besides," his voice went up cheerfully, "we are celebrating the birthday of Mr. Frodo, here, who is all of sixty years old, and likely to get even older—"
"Sam," protested Rose and Frodo in unison.
"—and for good children such as finish the good supper that Mother Rose has set on the table, there will be a mag-nif-i-cent birthday cake and crackers and maybe a present or two." Sam winked, and beamed to see the young ones hanging wide-eyed on his every word.
"Sam," Frodo quietly objected, leaning next to his ear. "You know very well I haven't got anything with me but the clothes on my back."
"I took the liberty of sending a neighbor lad to town to do a bit of shopping," Sam murmured back, waving his hand in dismissal. "Now sit back and enjoy your birthday dinner."
"But, Sam, that's not right. I'm the one who's supposed to do the buying, not you."
Sam shrugged and speared a chunk of turnip with his fork. "All I have was given by you," he reasoned, "so reckon you're still doing the buying, if it pleases you." He stuffed the turnip into his mouth, glancing sidelong at Frodo with a crafty gleam in his eye.
Frodo laughed and threw up his hands. "You win, Sam," he said, taking up his fork.
"Ah, and now that the children are all in bed—" Sam, with Frodo and Rose, stood in the parlor amidst a carpet of confetti and streamers and scraps of colored wrap from birthday presents. "Half a moment." He stepped out into the hall and returned momentarily, bearing a bottle of wine. "Been saving this for a special occasion," he said, handing the bottle to Frodo. "Can't think of an occasion like to be more special than this."
"Well, Sam!" Unabashed delight spread across Frodo's face as he read the label. "An excellent vintage, indeed. I am humbled by your generosity." He handed the bottle back to Sam, who opened it while Rose retrieved three glasses from a cabinet.
"To Mr. Frodo," declared Sam, raising his glass high above his head. "Health and long life."
"Hear, hear," Rose chimed in, letting her glass ping against the others.
Frodo smiled wryly. "Saruman said I would have neither."
Sam looked unflinchingly into Frodo's eyes. "Saruman lied."