Barmaid

I don't own Lord of the Rings and all that jazz, because I am no Tolkien. Also, this is based entirely on the movies. I haven't finished Return of the King yet, so I don't really know how they got together and whatnot. I have to go on what the movie says. And the movie? Is quality. So there. Enjoy.

-The Author

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"Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?"

"No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I'm... naked in the dark. There's... there's nothing. No veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him... with my waking eyes."

"Then let us be rid of it, once and for all. Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."

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On her first day of work, Rosie wore green. It seemed fitting at the time; she was going to work for the Green Dragon, after all. And, she found, the name was appropriate; for its customers, green-faced, and for its love matches, green-eyed or green-hearted, all fierce as a dragon.

Her uncle Will was great friends with an Olo Toadfoot, whose wife Autumn was a barmistress for the Green Dragon. When Olo mentioned that they needed some help down there at that old inn, her uncle Will mentioned that he happened to have a little farmgirl niece in her late tweens who was never able to leave the house much.

"I do worry," said Will. "Such a pretty lass and no one to show it off to."

Fortunately Olo connected the dots, rather than thought Will was talking about his family's own small set of misfortunes. "Really? Is she a hardworking lass?"

"Hardest working I've seen," said Will. "Strong, too." He flexed his fingers to demonstrate.

So Olo mentioned the idea to his wife Autumn that afternoon, and Autumn suggested it to the pub's proprietor, Drogo Millstone, during work, and Millstone brought it up with Farmer Cotton that night, who proposed the idea to Rosie over dinner, who went down with her father the very next day to interview. Millstone was impressed with Rosie's easy grace and entranced by her smile. She started the very next day.

Grace, ease, and pretty smiles were some help with the customers. The hard part, it turned out, were the customers themselves. They were a rowdy bunch, always singing their songs at the top of their lungs while hapless new barmaids tried to listen to drink orders. Autumn was some help. She kept an eye on Rosie, and encouraged her.

"You're doing great, lass," she said. "Some of the boys just need a bit of getting used to is all." Two groups called for ale now; a loud, singsongy group led by cousins Pippin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck, and another group that had just walked in the door: The Miller and his son, Ted; and the Gaffer and his son, Sam. "I'll take that ruckus by the fire," she said. "You see to the Gaffer and his friends. They're a quieter lot. Find out who that red-haired boy is; I've never seen him."

"That's Sam Gamgee," Rosie said. "I've known him for ages."

"Must be his first drink," Autumn said. "Wish him a happy birthday, hmm?"

It was tradition that a boy be given his first drink by his father (or closest male relative) on the night of his coming-of-age. Rosie remembered being invited to his birthday party for that very afternoon. Her brothers had gone, but she had not. She had had her first day of work.

"Rose Cotton!" said the Gaffer.

"Hello, boys!" She had never called men "boys" before but it seemed to be the easiest bar lingo to pick up.

Said the Miller, "I didn't know you were working here."

"Missed Sam's birthday to be," said the Gaffer, patting his son's back.

"Hi, Miss Rosie," Sam mumbled, his eyes on the table.

Rosie liked the whole Gamgee relations, she really did, but Sam had always bothered her. On the one hand, he seemed to be a proper hobbit, minding his own and following his father's footsteps, like any good hobbit, and also smart and knowing his letters; on the other hand, he always seemed too quiet, which was very unhobbitlike, always thinking about things no one else seemed to think. What was worse, he never seemed to actually look at Rosie. She hadn't noticed at first, until a few summers ago, when they had passed each other on the road and, in the midst of the necessary small talk, saw that he seemed to be asking the right questions and answering the right answers to her, but in reality was addressing her left foot. What on Earth she had done to offend him so that he'd rather talk to her foot than her face, she didn't know, so she always stepped lightly around him, and took care to hide her feet.

"Well, I'm glad you came to see me, Sam," said Rosie. "What'll it be?"

The table all looked at Sam, waiting for him to order the first round of his life.

"Um," he said.

All waited. Rosie found herself smiling at him. He finally lifted his eyes, and smiled back at her.

"A round for the table, please," he said.

His Gaffer and the Miller and his son laughed and patted his back and complimented him on his fine ordering skills, "Even going so far as to say 'please,'" noted the Miller, and Rosie said, "Right away," and left to go pour Sam's round.

The hard part of the drinks was opening the lever just right, so that the brew would pour out of the barrel just right, with little foam, but also not too quickly, to knock the mug out of a barmaid's hands, or splash right out of the mug. Then came the walk back to the customer. It was filled with men, jumping, throwing their hands in the air, dancing, running, or stumbling about drunk. They hardly noticed the barmaids running around with their brew, unless they had ordered it. Indeed, one older hobbit actually knocked right into Rosie as she crossed the course to Sam's table. Brew spilled – not a whole lot, but enough to make her right hand lose its grip. Someone caught the two mugs in the hand before they fell everywhere.

Strong hands, she noticed, and covered with earth, and he smelled like work and heaven all wrapped together. She looked up, and realized it was Sam Gamgee now holding her right mugs. He was looking right back at her, for once.

"I got 'em," he said.

Rosie let go of the mugs in her right hand. His dirty, but drier, hands held on to the mugs. She took the moment to wipe her hand on her apron.

"Thank you," she said.

"It was no problem, Miss Rosie," he told her feet. "I saw him coming right towards you, and I thought there might be a, uh, situation."

She thought, my, he smells nice.

She said, "We'd better get these to your table, hm?"

"Right," he said.

It was several steps to the table. She felt an urge to say something, anything, and she scoured her mind and finally came up with something.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday party," she said.

They were now at the table.

"Right," he said. "Thank you, Miss Rosie."

"Thank you, Sam," Rosie said. She set her two remaining mugs on the table, and Sam followed suit. She smiled at him. Incredibly, he smiled back. "Call me if you need me," she said.

Then she walked away. Another customer was calling. But she suddenly felt hot – fever? she wondered, and she suddenly felt like turning around and looking at him again. His hair was reddish, like trees in the fall. She wondered if it was soft. The bar smelled like sweat and beer, but her nose was filled with the smell of Sam Gamgee. The smell of work – what a strange fancy, work didn't smell like anything, and he also had a mystery smell, the most pleasant scent of all.

What a pity he didn't like her enough to look her in the face when he spoke. If it weren't for that, he might have been perfect.

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