Phew... It has been a while! I'm sorry that this took so long.. I took a break from anything fanfiction related. Not sure why, but I haven't even ventured into the world of fanfiction since my last update. But I went back and read this, and I decided that I would really like to finish it because I like the story. So, bear with me, and hopefully someday I will finish it.

Part 3

While each day stretched into a miniature eternity, weeks passed in a measured rush. Frodo, in his free time, managed to watch the winter weather increase in intensity, and with each day Sam seemed more distant. He was developing some sort of sickness from the cold. His nose was always running and he was always shivering. Even though Frodo went through everything he could to keep Sam warm, he wouldn't have anything to do with Frodo's efforts.

Everything Frodo did, Sam politely declined or found some excuse to stay out in the garden. Frodo was becoming even more worried about his friend, but could not even begin to figure out what was causing Sam's strange attitude. There was nothing he could imagine that would cause it, but it must be something heavy that weighed on his soul.

Frodo looked out the window and paced, for he could see in the clouds that a storm was coming. Their grey blanket covered the sky, and threatened to open up and douse the world with a wintry storm. He wondered if Sam would insist that he be outside even then.

Time seemed to creep through his mind, and before he knew it, it was mid afternoon, and he heard a knock on his door. He slowly got up, and walked through Bag End to the door. Upon his arrival he noticed to his delight that it was Sam; hopefully he was telling his Master that a storm was coming, and that he best be getting home. Frodo was glad to see that Sam's sense had come back to him.

"Hello, Sam!" said Frodo in a pleasant greeting. He smiled at his friend who looked absolutely chilled by the cold and the storm's presence.

"Mr. Frodo," he replied in a half hearted hello. "I won't be staying long," he paused, "but I just thought I'd stop by and tell you..."

"Why of course you can, Sam! Look at the sky. A storm is brewing, and I wouldn't want anyone out in that kind of unpredictable weather. If you want, I'll even walk you home." Sam's eyes hovered, and Frodo began to feel slightly uncomfortable in the silence.

"Well, you see sir," he began, "I was goin' to ask your permission to go out and chop you some more firewood, as you seem to be low, if I'm not mistaken." He fidgeted, and Frodo sighed, heart dropping.

"Sam, I know that nothing I can say will stop you from venturing out there, but at least listen to me." Sam began to cough, and even in the heat of Bag End, he shivered. Frodo had been watching his health, which was slowly deteriorating; he had a cold at least, and with his work habits he wouldn't be getting better soon, judging by Sam's stubbornness of late.

"It's cold, Sam," continued Frodo, "and I have a feeling deep inside that is warning me against this; I don't feel right about it, and I would never want anything to happen to you."

"That I know for sure, Mr. Frodo. And I'm sure I'll be fine." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I think I know how about weather in the Shire, being that I've lived here all my life," he joked, and Frodo tried his best to smile. He managed a crooked half-grin.

"And I'm sure I know myself just as good by now. And you can trust me." Sam's words caught in Frodo's mind. I can trust him. I have trusted him, always will, but how can I trust him when I know that what he's doing is wrong?

"Well," he began shakily, "I have no choice but to trust you." Sam's face hardened. "I don't feel right, but if this is what you want, I know you will make the right decision." But he knew in his heart that he wouldn't; Sam's mind was already made up.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be back soon, with more firewood to keep you warm." And with that he flashed Frodo a warm smile, before receding back into the cold.

Frodo sadly watched as his friend walk back out through the crisp air, fetch his wheelbarrow, and roll it down the path. The wheel squeaked, and Sam's face, which was cheery and smiling a mere second ago, was dark and hardened, and most definitely cold.

And as if on cue, the sky seemed to split, and a single snowflake fell through the air and landed on the lonely path leading away from Frodo and his home. More followed, but the snowfall was light, and simple enough to be called beautiful.

After a few time stopping-minutes of watching the shimmering snowflakes fall across the receding light, and landing on the ground only to melt and disappear forever, Frodo decided that he needed to do something to occupy himself.

As if from hobbit nature, his feet carried him to the pantry. He arrived at the door, wondering why he even decided to walk there, and his grumbling stomach reminded him that he was indeed hungry. What better way to pass the time than to cook something for himself and Sam to enjoy upon his return?

Frodo enjoyed cooking well enough, but did not do so as much as he would have liked; Sam did the cooking at Bag End for the most part. He opened the creaking door to the pantry and was suddenly immersed in the warm smells of spice and musty foods. He took a deep breath of the flavored air, savoring the smells that wound through it.

It always reminded Frodo on his days down at Brandy Hall with his parents before they died. He didn't remember very much, but he always remembered the distinctive smells of uncooked food. They made Frodo smile, and all he could think about was the smell of the spices, or the onions, or all the biscuits Sam had baked the day before, which were being stored in the haven of the pantry.

Frodo then was having trouble deciding what to make; there was such a large variety of ingredients and recipes. He wanted to make something warm, something easy on the stomach, something that would make him and Sam smile.

He looked through the shelves of flour, sugars, cinnamon, and other ingredients that he could use in baking something for Sam. He was pacing back and forth, thinking about his favorite meals when he noticed something on the shelf, between jars of oats that he had bought earlier that year on a special trip to the market.

Reaching carefully between the two glass jars, he pulled out a tattered slip of paper. At first he thought it was a recipe, and was excited to see what secret delights Sam was planning for in the kitchen. The paper was dirty, smeared with dirt or perhaps age, so Frodo was careful when unfolding it.

When the full page was in his view, he had to squint in the dim light to determine what it said. He leaned on the shelf and hunched over the page. Frodo recognized the script as Sam's, tilted and shaky. Although Sam's handwriting was never perfect, Frodo was always able to translate what he wrote into readable script. But it seemed that this note was not meant to be understood. Wherever there was script, there was ink scraped over it, crossing out the words.

It was rendered unreadable, and Frodo was utterly confused. Why would Sam cross out a recipe? Or maybe it wasn't a recipe. It had to be something else, but Frodo had no idea what it could be. He squinted again, but was only met with scratched out words forming unrecognizable sentences. Why would Sam leave something like this in my pantry?

Frodo turned to move and get a better look at the page, flipping it over to see if there was anything on the other side that he could possibly read. He shifted slightly, brushing against the contents on the shelf. And before he had a chance to react, he was met with the crash of glass as one of the oatmeal jars fell from the shelf to the ground.

Frodo uttered a small curse, and stuffed the note on the next shelf, forgotten. He then rushed out of the pantry to grab a broom to clean up the glass and the spoiled oats. Feet cold on the ground, he returned to the pantry with a broom in hand.

"How could I be so foolish to spoil perfectly good food? I've been so preoccupied lately..." Frodo mumbled to himself, dissatisfied with his actions. "I had two jars of these oats; I could've made oatmeal. Oh! That's it! I'll make oatmeal! I'm sure Sam would love that." Why didn't I think of that sooner before I ruined other jar?

But at least this idea motivated Frodo to clean up the pantry quickly, and get to work boiling water over his warm fire in the kitchen. He carried remaining jar of oats in one hand, happily humming to himself and looking forward to making Sam happy with a warm belly.

Thin streams of fragrance wafted out from the kitchen of Bag End in waves. The hint of autumn leaves in the oats, the soft spice of cinnamon strong enough to recognize but not overwhelm the other scents, as well as other assorted flavors mixed into a solution that smelt of warmth; one whiff was enough to make any hobbit's stomach growl. Frodo looked smiled, looking out across the table. The dining room was just east of the kitchen in Bad End. It wasn't a small room; it was large enough to fit a dozen grumbling hungry hobbits at once, but empty it was almost depressing. So much room, so little company.

Frodo had scrounged through all of the storage rooms and found some of his fanciest napkins, a soft cloth, hand-embroidered with Elvish characters, each depicting one line from a song. Sam loved the illustrations in many of the Elvish books they read together, so Frodo thought they were the perfect addition to Sam's perfect dinner. Two large candles were placed at either end of the large table, from which a light crisp glow emanated in a circular pattern across the walls. On each side of the table two places were set with the finest of dishes. But in the center was where many hobbits' eyes would fall first. There was a large kettle of fresh oatmeal, steam slithering out through any minute opening that could be found, becoming thin spirals to mix with the smoke from the candles up in the shadows.

Next to this was a thin plate covered with baked cinnamon apples, sliced in a thin pattern and arranged in a delicately constructed, meticulously crafted arrangement. Frodo let his eyes travel over the table, regarding each item in relation with the other. After his careful planning, everything fit, and it was certainly good enough to eat. Frodo could feel his stomach rumbling, and his nose taking deeper breaths of the scented air. His eyes fell closed. There was only one thing that could improve this picture.

Frodo walked happily with a spring in his step to the door, meaning to call Sam in from the cold. He was proud of himself, for it was not often that the master of Bag End made a delicious meal for his servant. But Sam was an exception; he always was. Frodo reached the entryway and abruptly stopped. He was expecting to find a setting sun disappearing behind thick clouds, the darkness seeping across the land like a scarf. He expected to see a few snowflakes falling in an irregular pattern down, melting as they hit the ground. He expected to see Sam trudging up the steps to his door.

Alas, none of Frodo's fantasies proved to be the truth. He peeked out the window, and could hardly see the garden from where he stood. The sun had set completely, leaving only black in its wake. And even if it was lighter out, he may not have been able to see the garden anyway. Large thik snowflakes fell, making another wall between inside and out, warm and cold, him and Sam. Sam...

And Frodo remembered. He must have been preoccupied with his cooking, making everything perfect for Sam when he got home. When he got home... He had forgotten. Sam went to get firewood from the forest. He left in this weather. Frodo didn't know how late it had gotten, but it must surely be past supper time. And worst of all, there was no sign of Sam. There were no footprints, no wheelbarrow tracks, nothing. An emptiness exploded in Frodo's heart as a wave crashes on rocks. What have I done?

There was only one thing Frodo could do. "How could I have abandoned my friend when he needed me the most? I let him go away even when I knew something bad would happen. I was selfish; I wasn't even thinking about Sam and his health. I have been the entire winter and now it may be too late. Oh, Sam..."

Frodo rushed to the closet and bundled up in warm clothes, grabbing extra layers to give Sam if he found him. When he found him. His head was spinning. He could not get this terrible picture out of his head: Sam was sitting on the forest floor near a tree, wearing hardly any clothes at all, with snow piling up over him. His wheelbarrow sat near, forgotten. Sam's eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and heavy. His face was a pale blue, his lips frozen. He was barely living...

That was enough. Frodo knew he was going out into the cold for his friend, as Sam would do for him. It may be rash, he thought, but this was something he would never get to redo. If Sam was out in the cold, as his heart told him, and he stayed home to wait for him... Frodo couldn't even begin to imagine the guilt that he would feel for the rest of his life. There would hardly be a will to live if he knew he had left his best friend to...

Frodo snapped out of his thoughts, and spent every ounce of control he had to focus on the task ahead of him. He rushed back towards the kitchen to get a candle to take with, hoping to illuminate a path in the impending darkness that appeared too thick to be broken. And as Frodo ran past, the soft, pleasant aromas drifted up his nostrils, the warmth mocking him and his problems, and most of all, mocking Sam. This was wrong. He could not be in here while his friend froze to death. Frodo grabbed the candle and snuffed it out with two fingers; it would be of no use in such a storm. He looked back at the table, the food calling to him. His stomach twisted in disgust.