A/N: This is movie-verse, since nowhere in the book does it say that Sam knew what kingsfoil was (yes, I looked! :p). But I also shamelessly threw in book-canon (and altered it a bit), so consider it a mix of everything. ;) I intended for each part to be a drabble (and it started out in only two parts), but the last bit refused to be any less than 150 words...
_Kingsfoil_
"An' 'ere's another weed." The Gaffer pointed to the small plant. "Don't grow too quick, but it can be hard t' git all the roots."
Young Sam looked at the unassuming plant in curiosity. Somehow pulling it didn't seem quite right. "What's it called?"
"Kingsfoil, but don't none know why."
"Mr. Bilbo might."
The Gaffer humphed. "'Tis still a weed. Now pull it."
Sam reluctantly found the base and gently tugged, pulling the clinging roots from the soil. He half hoped he'd left some behind so the plant would return.
The Gaffer nodded in approval and pointed once again. "Now..."
"Kingsfoil? Aye, it's a weed."
"It may help to slow the poison. Hurry!"
Sam pushed through the bushes, searching frantically for a half-remembered weed he'd seen only once or twice. Unable to spot the elusive plant, he returned to camp in time to see a mysterious figure crouching over Frodo. Strider knelt beside her, bearing a handful of the small leaves, dropping most of them as he turned his attention to Frodo.
The bundle lay forgotten until Sam almost stepped on it as they left the camp. He thoughtfully pocketed the wilting greenery; it might be useful later on.
The coneys lay beside him as he dug through his pack. As he pulled out the salt, some dried leaves came too. He stared in puzzlement for a moment before recognizing it as that bit of kingsfoil. He hadn't realized it was still in his pack.
While waiting for Gollum to bring the water, he looked sorrowfully at Frodo. 'Much too thin and drawn,' he decided, and then was struck with an idea.
Sam watched with satisfaction as Frodo ate his coney stew, oblivious to the kingsfoil floating amongst the herbs. It may do naught, but at least he'd tried.
Slowly waking, his first impression was that something smelled familiar, and not like the reek of that foul place. His second impression was disbelief. He felt rested, no longer plagued by many worries and pains.
All that happened seemed but a dream until he opened his eyes and saw Frodo's hand. It wasn't a dream, then. And that scent was coming from... him? Had they used that kingsfoil on him? He felt unworthy of such royal treatment. He was only a simple gardener; it was Frodo who ought to receive such care. And from the looks of it, he had.
As Sam watched Frodo retreat into himself, he felt that something in his master was missing, but could not pin words to his vague anxiety. Frodo was not himself in October, so Sam watched carefully for any recurrence. It came in March, and though Frodo was trying to hide it, Sam knew what to look for. He wanted to aid him, but knew Frodo would insist he was fine.
He wondered if some of that kingsfoil would help, but it seemed more for ailments of the body, and this... seemed an ailment of the mind.
And he hadn't any, anyhow.
It was late afternoon when he came to the last flowerbed. He'd put this one off as long as possible, but now he had to face the memories. "You cannot be always torn in two," Frodo had said; Sam wondered gloomily how long it would take to be 'whole' if just looking at the study window brought tears.
His hands knew their work despite blurred sight, and in short order he'd weeded all but the back of the plot. Reaching into one corner, he felt a familiar plant behind the nasturtians. Pushing aside the trailing vines, he stared, a hint of a smile on his face. The gardener freed the plant and held it carefully, the wholesome scent banishing some of his sorrow. "Mr. Frodo wouldn't have believed this," he wryly murmured to himself as he went in search of a pot.
Weed or no, this kingsfoil would be cherished.