Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate.
Author's Note: Just pure hobbit fluff. Feedback is welcomed.
A Gardener and His Rose
Rosie hurries into the Green Dragon, out of breath, late for work. A quick glance reveals the pub to be crowded – more than usual. Shrugging off her knitted shawl, she hangs it up before moving behind the counter.
Her appearance is greeted with exclamations of relief from Marigold, Polly, and Lily.
"We are running around like chickens with their heads cut off," huffs Polly, balancing a tray heavily laid down with mugs on her shoulder as she squeezes past the girls.
Marigold laughs. "But we are saved, now that you are here," she addresses Rosie.
Rosie nods while putting on her apron and immediately begins filling orders, allowing Lily to help serve the patrons.
Time flies by in a whirl; Rosie barely has time to chat with her friends with the pub being so busy. But perhaps it is better being so busy like this. Tonight she does not have time to become lost in her thoughts. Nor does she have time really to be upset by how cheerful everyone is.
When orders lapse for a moment, Rosie begins washing the mugs. Drying one, she takes time to study tonight's patrons. A frown settles on her brow as she realizes the table on the left, second from the front, is occupied. Four hobbits are there, if she has counted correctly. She can only see the tops of their heads. A strange lump forms in her throat. So now even the final reminder of their absence is gone. Rosie swallows thickly.
Putting away the dried mug, she takes up another, her attention on the four hobbits. She leans a little to the left, hoping to have better view. One of the dark-haired hobbits with his back to her lowers his head for a moment, allowing Rosie a glimpse of his companion across the table.
Her fingers go numb, and the mug slips through her fingers. She regains her senses in time to catch it. When she glances toward the table, the tops of heads are in her view once more. She shakes her head wonderingly. In that brief glance she was certain she was looking at Pippin Took.
Did I only imagine it? she wonders. Her heart quickens with frightened hope.
She moves further down the counter to where Mr. Proudfoot is nursing a mug of ale against the wall. Catching her eye, he smiles warmly and leans over the counter.
"It is wonderful to see 'em back, is it not?" he says with a deep chuckle.
"Who, sir?" Rosie asks with suppressed interest.
He looks at her blankly for a moment. "Why Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Samwise Gamgee, and Pippin Took! Everyone has been talking about it. Didn't you know they have finally returned?" He motions with his hand towards the table.
Rosie stares at him, shocked. She tries without success to form a reply.
"I saw them myself. There they were riding ponies I had never seen the like of in all my years," Proudfoot goes on. "They were dressed in strange, fancy, looking clothes. They were a sight to behold."
Rosie listens carefully. They're back! The thought seems so strange to the girl. So many times she had dreamed of them coming back, but always it turned out to be a figment of her imagination. But now this is reality – or a dream of a dream.
Slowly, half-fearfully, she returns her gaze to the four hobbits. Her new position gives her a much better view of their table, and now there is no denying it is they. She has a clear view of Pippin Took. And next to him…is Sam.
His hair is longer, a little wild-looking for a hobbit. He seems thinner. And his face is grave. She watches him glance about as though to become familiar again with the place.
He is different, she muses to herself. Her heart goes out to him.
She watches him take part in a silent toast with his friends; Sam raises his mug to his lips. A wistful sigh escapes Rosie's lips. I wish I were that mug. She gives herself a mental slap for having such a thought, blushing slightly. She is about to move back down the counter when Sam lowers his mug; she is startled to discover him looking straight at her.
She catches her breath, and her heart leaps into her throat. She is surprised that he does not blush and look away as he did countless times before. Instead, he holds her gaze, his eyes soft. Rosie forgets everything and everyone around her except for those deep blue eyes, holding her own captive.
"…Won't they, lass?" Mr. Proudfoot's voice breaks the spell.
Rosie nearly jumps and tears her gaze from Sam's with difficulty. She resumes drying the mug in her hand with a new quick energy. "I'm sorry, sir?" She turns her attention to the older hobbit.
"I said," the hobbit repeats himself patiently, "those hobbits will have to tell all about their foolishness going off for so long." He laughs heartily.
"Yes, indeed," Rosie agrees with a half smile. It slips as she sneaks a glance back to Sam. His eyes lock on hers instantly, as though he had been waiting for her to look towards him again. Slowly the corners of his mouth turn up in an almost nonexistent smile. She returns the gesture with a small smile of her own. Oh, Sam, what have you all been through? she wonders.
"Rosie!" Lily's call draws her away from her watching.
She does not have time to observe Sam and the others as the dishes need to be washed and closing time has come. She doesn't listen to Lily and Marigold's conversation. Instead, her thoughts are in a whirl. She spots Frodo out of the corner of her eye leaving and assumes the others are not far behind – if they are not already gone. Perhaps tomorrow she will be able to see Sam and…
Soon the dishes are done. She is ready to help clean the tables but is stopped by Proudfoot.
"Lily is closing tonight. You can go on home, Rosie."
"Oh, thank you, sir. I shall be here early tomorrow."
He winks at her and moves. Though puzzled by the wink, she shrugs it off. Quickly she takes off her apron and comes out from behind counter and hurries to get her shawl.
"Hello, Rose-lass."
Her hand freezes midway to her shawl. Slowly she turns to find herself facing one Samwise Gamgee. A moment's silence passes between them as they look at each other.
"Hello, Sam," she replies in a near whisper, trying to smile, speechless. "I…"
"May I walk you home?" he requests quietly.
Rosie gapes at him. The Samwise she remembers never had such boldness before. She swallows nervously.
"Aye," she finally finds her voice. "You may."
The corners of Sam's mouth tug up in a nervous smile. Rosie quickly retrieves her shawl and drapes it over her shoulders.
A thick silence hangs over them as they leave the Green Dragon and walk under the star-filled sky. Rosie searches her mind for words without success.
"It is wonderful to be back," Sam says softly. "Nothing seems to have changed."
"No, hardly anything has changed," Rosie agrees. Pausing a moment, she says, "Many thought you would not return. Yet many of them did not remain troubled about it."
In the dark, she is unaware of the thoughtful, sidelong glance Sam gives her.
"Sometimes it is good when things do not change, but other times it isn't," she adds, almost to herself.
"My Gaffer told me how your family looked after him," Sam's voice sounds husky.
"It was the least we could do," she quickly replied.
"I thank you for it, Rosie." Sam reaches for her hand and squeezes it. "And thank you for believing we would return."
She blushes lightly. She longs to ask about the journey. To ask what happened to cause such a change in him and his companions. But she only says with a smile, "I…we are happy you have returned." Her hand is pressed again, and they continue on in silence.
Too soon, in Rosie's opinion, they are before her family's hobbit hole. When Sam remains silent, simply looking at her, she offers him a small smile.
"Thank you, for walking me home. I enjoyed your company," she says quietly.
"It was my pleasure, dear."
The "dear" is breathed rather than spoken, and Rosie wonders if she only imagines hearing it. Slowly, reluctantly, she frees her hand from Sam's warm grasp.
"Good night, Sam." Impulsively, she leans up and kisses his cheek gently. She inhales the scents around him, which tickles her nose in a pleasant, familiar way.
She begins to pull back when she feels Sam's fingers dancing lightly over her skin as he cups her cheek. Their eyes lock, their heartbeats quickening.
"Rosie," his warm breath caresses her face before his lips find hers.
Her body tenses in surprise. Sam's lips are a light feather touch against her own, filling her with gentle warmth all the way down to her toes. His kiss is just as sweet and just as soft as she imagined.
One of her hands drift up to touch his hair. Suddenly Sam's arms wrap around her, drawing her closer, his kiss changing from shy and gentle to needing and firm.
Rosie clings to him. A cold fear washes over her that this is somehow yet nothing more than another beautiful dream. Countless times she has imagined this moment; of being in his embrace with his lips against her own. Her mind spins.
The need for air causes the two to part. Sam gently rests his forehead against Rosie's, breathing deeply, feeling warm in the cool night air. Her hands leave his hair and float down towards her sides; Sam catches them in his own. Rosie keeps her eyes on the ground, trying to catch her breath.
"I'm afraid that's only half the job," Sam's voice is a soft sigh.
A confused frown settles on Rosie's face. "Wh–"
"I love you."
She blinks, startled. Never has she heard those words in her fantasies; she only saw it in his eyes. Disbelieving, she raises her gaze up to Sam's.
"I love you, Rosie Cotton," he echoes softly, his eyes tender, "For a terribly long time."
The world tilts then steadies. Tears begin to well up in her eyes, and her mouth forms words with difficulty.
"You-u-u love me? Truly?" she asks in a trembling voice.
"Aye, I do," he replies in a bare whisper.
Rosie draws in a shaky breath as she lowers her head and her cheeks become wet from her tears. She chokes on a sob. She feels Sam press her hands tightly. He really does love her! She raises her head and gazes into his uncertainty-filled face. She laughs and smiles, freeing her hands and wrapping her arms around Sam.
"And I love you, Samwise Gamgee!" she says in his ear.
She feels him stiffen. Before she can question his reaction, his strong arms wrap around her slender form, and he swirls them both around in several circles. Their joyous laughter mixes together in the night air.
Sam sets a glowing Rosie down on her feet.
"Oh, Sam," she breathes, resting her head on his chest.
"Rosie," he draws her back so he can see her face, "You are so caring and sweet and compassionate and encouraging and…so beautiful." His face turns a faint pink, and she smiles. "I do not have much to offer you except a humble home and a heart that shall always be yours. Please, would you take this gardener and make me the happiest of hobbits by becoming my wife?"
A huge smile spreads over Rosie's face, and she begins shedding tears of joy again. Pressing Sam's hands to her heart she exclaims, "My gardener… Yes, of course, I'll marry you, Sam!"
Sam kisses her forehead, tears of joy filling his own eyes as he stares into the deep brown pools of the lass before him. "My Rose," he sighs. Finally, he is home.
Their promise of marriage is sealed with a kiss with the stars above standing as witnesses.
THE END