Summer was ripening, and Frodo could smell it in the air, always thick with a threatening storm- though most days, those thunderclouds would roll over the valley with so much drama and not a raindrop, and by evening the sky would clear and boast ten thousand stars. Frodo, in the gardens again long before sunrise, could smell that thunderous crackle in the air even amid the dew and fragrant sighing of the flowers in the morning. There would be lightning on the horizon, tonight.

Three weeks had passed since Sam arrived, and every night was like last night- sleepless, a wealth of anxiety. Every moment he wasn't there, Frodo doubted his coming at all- every moment he was, well… so many more anxieties mounted. He wasn't sleeping and he knew Sam wasn't, either. They seemed to only be able to sleep when they were exhausted at high noon, and finding refuge together from the sun under the shade of the willow, or under the pines if they ventured that way.

Frodo struggled with a corner of particularly deep weeds encroaching on the basil with thick, clawing roots- even pulling with his full strength, he could not budge them, not without risking the basil too. Sam would know how to uproot them! Finally, Frodo gave up. Catching a glimpse of the sunrise, he wondered again if Gandalf might show up today. He had written to Alalminórë when Sam arrived, to let the wizard know. He missed Gandalf's wisdom mightily these days.

Frodo leaned back from his work and, knees still in the mud, listened carefully for sounds within the smial. Sam would surely be up soon. He would come outside, gently take the trowel from Frodo's hands… if Frodo was lucky, their fingers would touch… and then he'd turn to the weeds, giving advice in his gentle, earthy voice… and maybe if Frodo could pull an ounce of wit out of himself, he could say something that would make Sam laugh, or smile, or at the very least, Frodo would see a tug at the corner of his old lover's mouth, and Frodo could hold onto that for the whole day.

Their fingers, touching…

Abruptly, Frodo stood, taking off his gardening gloves and throwing them on the ground as though they were cold like a Nazgul blade. He pushed the gate open and headed down the road, north into the valley, breaking into a run until he was out of sight of the smial. He'd meander for an hour or two, until Bilbo woke up, and then he wouldn't have to face Sam alone.

Frodo went much deeper into the valley than he expected he would. It did only take half a day to walk the valley floor from the Rorywinyard bridge all the way to Northwood Hall, so Frodo shouldn't have been surprised- but he was deep in his thoughts, walking all the way to Mapmaker's before noticing where he was. It was only a horse's snort that alerted him to the fact that he was passing the tavern. He looked up, and stared at the horse for a full minute, wondering who might be at the tavern at this hour, if not a traveler, and the horse stared at him too, whinnying as if to say, "At your service, little friend?"

Presently, Gandalf strode out of the tavern, carrying a bundle to be fastened to his traveling companion.

"Gandalf…" Frodo breathed in surprise, and though the sound was small, Gandalf turned toward him immediately.

"You're early…"

Gandalf peered at him from the shadows of his wide-brimmed hat.

"A wizard is never early, Frodo Baggins," Gandalf said in feigned sternness, until they both erupted in laughter. Frodo ran to him, and jumped up for an embrace, and the wizard hugged him tightly, lifting him off the ground.

"Tell me- what news from Alalminórë?"

By this time, the sun was rising nice and strong, and the birds were singing, and the chickens were wandering out of their coop and clucking up noise as they waddled among the grass outside the tavern door.

Gandalf lifted Frodo onto his horse and together they headed back towards the smial, Gandalf walking beside him.

"Ah, Alalminórë…" Gandalf started. "Well, to tell you the truth, I meant to return early from the City, but was waylaid at Eastwood Hall… you know the Elves there have a new quarrel with the Northwood Elves that they don't want you and Bilbo to know about?"

Frodo laughed as Gandalf launched into a story about one of the many rivalries between the Elvish settlements in the valley. While Bilbo was technically the Mayor of the Valley, and Frodo the Deputy Mayor, the juicier disputes that so often took place only came to the hobbits by rumor and gossip, as the elves preferred duels, spars and contests as a way of resolving conflicts, rather than the more dignified mediations at Town Hall.

Gandalf proceeded to regale Frodo with a tale of two shepherds from the rival settlements straying too close to the Not Lonely Mountain, and some numbers of both flocks disappearing, and the ensuing arguments and confrontations. Frodo gave a hearty laugh.

"And if there be a true menace near the mountain, eating their livestock, what then? Will a drinking contest and a brawl find out their villain?"

"These Mirkwood elves are spoiled, here in the West. Let them spend their energies in competitions, and be glad they are no longer among fiercer enemies!"

Frodo nodded in both agreement and alarm. "Should we investigate the mountain for predators?"

"Perhaps after Midsummer- more productive, I think, would be to investigate the Midsummer feasts, for which hall in the valley serves the most mutton."

Frodo could not tell if Gandalf was joking.

They talked the whole way of the Elves in the valley, as well as some news from Alalminórë (yes, Gandalf was able to procure some more special-made harp strings; no, not one of Bilbo's linguistic theories was considered grounded). Frodo breathed a sigh of relief to put aside his own troubles for a while and hear the comings and goings of other parts. But finally, they arrived at the gate of Bag End, and Sam was in the garden, in the very spot where Frodo had been, uprooting the weeds away from the basil with ease, as he expertly lifted the roots with a twisting motion of the trowel. He glanced up at Frodo and Gandalf.

"Oy, what's this? Gandalf!" Tears were flying from his eyes as he ran to the old wizard. "Gandalf! It's been a mighty long time, sir!"

"Samwise Gamgee, what a pleasure to see you," Gandalf went to his knees to give the hobbit a proper hug. While Sam's arms were closed around him, he gave Frodo a significant look.

"Will you stay with us by the way, Gandalf?" Frodo said. "We could set you in the Big People's guest room and keep you comfortable, since it's a few days yet before we leave for the City."

"That would be lovely- but I think you mean to arrive a few days before the festival- so we should leave sooner."

In an earlier life, Frodo might have reeled in surprise at the Wizard's foresight- but now he was used to it, and merely bowed his head and laughed.

They spent the rest of the morning all together, joined by Bilbo as well, and Sam was bid by Gandalf to tell many tales of his own life these past sixty years, as well as whatever he knew of the tidings of Middle Earth in general. Frodo listened again to many tales of happenings in the Shire- but was surprised again that Sam spoke so little of Elanor, even to Gandalf. He tucked away the ache in his heart, realizing he would have to confront Sam about it, sooner or later.

By afternoon, they broke off from gossip:

"Gandalf, I've been teaching Sam the Elvish dances- especially the ones I think will be played at this festival. What do you think, how well a job have I done?"

Frodo bid Bilbo take up one of the songs, and he and Sam began the dance to match Bilbo's time. It was a somber number, but Bilbo couldn't hide the humor in his voice as he sang, and Gandalf laughed to see them practice so diligently. After many more such dances, Bilbo declared, "All this singing is making me thirsty, and I imagine our visitor is too, from laughing at our tomfoolery!" He bid Sam go with him to bring out refreshments. Gandalf turned toward the two disappearing into the smial, and watching the darkness of the hallway for another moment, turned to Frodo.

"So, my dear Frodo," He said, with a grim knowing in his voice. "And how are you faring, these fine summer days?"

Frodo, too, had been watching the now empty hall, and finally tore his gaze away.

"It's like putting on the Ring- what's real and beautiful becomes shadow and wind. All my heart's desires are being promised to me, but I cannot trust it. And all of it is stained by the guilt in my heart. How can he not hate me, for what I've done to him?"

"What you've done? You speak as though you had a choice."

"I could have chosen to stay. I could have chosen never to tell him my feelings, at all. I could have chosen to keep it from him, that he could come here. I could have kept him away from the Quest, and he could have led a life totally innocent of me."

"And how do you think Sam would feel about any of those choices?"

Frodo bowed his head. Gandalf brought a hand to his chin and lifted Frodo's face.

"Do not doubt his heart. He could have stayed with his children and grandchildren, and yet he chose to follow you here, to the end of all things."

Frodo swallowed. "Samwise Gamgee does not break promises. He promised to follow me wherever I go."

"What about his promise to Rose? He was willing to break that quick enough for you." Gandalf tilted his head, studying Frodo with compassion. "You weren't expecting it to be this hard."

"I wasn't expecting it at all… I was expecting to, when all hope of his living had passed, to mourn him for the rest of my days, into all Eternity. I was prepared to do that, Gandalf… Grief and I are old friends now, and walk side-by-side through these sunlit days, and it's no matter. But this… I've kept so long to the loss of him, I'm at a loss to the keeping of him."

Gandalf nodded, regarding Frodo softly.

"Give it time. Your other wounds needed time, after all. This one will, too."

Frodo remained silent, lest Gandalf become suspicious of his plans. Time is the one thing I don't have…

The four travelers arrived in Avallonë on June 20th, two days shy of Midsummer, just at sunset. On their ponies, at the pace of a slow walk, Gandalf and Bilbo ahead and Frodo and Sam behind, their path from the north led them on a grand bridge over a river that to the east, far off in the sparkle of a rising moon, met the sea in an estuary of fair tidal marshlands. Ahead, the city rose glowing in the light of perhaps a thousand Midsummer bonfires. Sam looked at Frodo anxiously- did he see the sea of flame, as he described so often from his dreams, those anxious months on the road back to the Shire? But Frodo's face was serene, the glow of the soft fires reflected in his eyes, a compliment to the glow that came out of him. Sam sighed for his heart's ease, and looked back to the city. It reminded him of one of Elanor's poems about Minas Tirith: Fair, your stone faces even in that fell light- O Gondor, High Protector- no Shadow could dissuade you…

Sam clucked his tongue. The rest of the poem wasn't coming to him. He'd have to read it again, in the book of her poetry that he brought. He closed his eyes against a swell of heartache.

"...Sam?"

The sound of Frodo's voice was like coming up for air, and his look of worry cut Sam through to the core. If it were up to him, he would never have Frodo worry on his account- he would take all worries from his brow, if only, if only he could have. But then Frodo smiled, his gaze searching and beautiful. Even the clouds, blushing with sunset's glow, seemed to lean in, watching him. Sam's breath hitched in his throat.

"Sam… are you ok?"

Sam shook himself. "Yes, yes, I'm right ok, sir!"

Frodo laughed at that. Sam thought to look around. Gandalf and Bilbo were far ahead of them, disappearing off into the winding alleys at the far end of the bridge. Sam reached for a tighter hold on his pony's reins, ready to quicken the pace.

"Should we catch up to them?"

But Frodo was smiling deeply at him, and merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I know the way."

When they reached the end of the bridge, they slipped off their ponies and continued on by foot, winding slowly through narrow stone alleys, bridges over canals, garden squares with fountains and marble statues: figures reaching gracefully upward, figures hailing from afar, figures dancing, figures staring aloof. The gardens were scattered with ponds cut across with stepping stones and edged with white lilies, and Sam and Frodo's exploring was barred neither by hedge nor fence. Finally, though, they came to a street lined on one side by a high wall, covered in ivy, and with a wrought iron gate as well, though the ivy was so thick twisting around it, nothing could be seen through the gate.

"What's behind this wall, d'you reckon?" Sam asked as they walked by. It stood out, so hidden, when all other beauties were in the open.

"There's a house within that Gandalf would often go to, especially at first, when I was very sick," Frodo said, his soft gaze seeming to see through the wall. "He refused to tell me what this place was- finally I gave it my own name: the Secret House. Gandalf always denied that he came here, but I could see him, from my window, just there." He nodded south, to a tall building just beyond.

"Those are the Halls of Healing, and that was my room." Frodo pointed, and Sam saw the high room with windows and a balcony, stony and silent and looming there in that strange great structure.

"Those must have been lonely months…" Sam muttered. He blushed, realizing the painful topic he was bringing up. He tried to think of something to change the subject.

"Years, actually," Frodo said after a moment, a touch apologetic. "Eight years."

Sam's heart seemed to stop altogether. "Eight years… Oh, I'm sorry- I'm sorry-"

"Hush-" Frodo whispered, coming closer. "Don't be sorry-" He was just barely touching the edge of Sam's sleeve. Overhead, the first stars were appearing, seeming to flicker their acceptance, even of Sam's foibles. Sam could feel his master stepping closer, though he daren't look back at him. He was close enough that their hair touched, and if the night were cold, he could have seen their breath intermingle. "Sam… don't… don't feel sad on my account… I have fared well, after all. Come… let's leave behind this sad place."

Sam chanced one more look up to the room that housed his dying master for so long. A wild rose of some sort seemed to climb the wall there. Sam could see Frodo's life for eight years flash before his eyes, standing on that balcony, breathing in the scent of those roses mingled with the gentle salt of the sea, fighting every day to reconcile his will with his body.

"I should have gone with you," Sam couldn't help but say.

"No, Sam. I couldn't bear it." Frodo's voice was achingly soft. "It was a great comfort to me, knowing you were in the Shire, close to Rose and Elanor and your other children."

Frodo's answer only pained Sam more. "You're too generous…." He fought back tears. "You still can't take anything for yourself, can you?"

"Sam…" Frodo seemed to want to reach for his hand, but held back.

"Come on… let's not tarry here. I'll be just a day or two in the Library, and then the festival will start, and we should celebrate how far we've come, and what we have." He beckoned Sam onward to Gandalf's house- but the smile was gone from his face, and some worry or grief like a shadow paled his features, and Sam thought he could hear in Frodo's words the unspoken finish to his thought.

Let's celebrate what we have, while we have it… because we won't have it for long.