tolkien: frodo left for the grey havens after only one year in the shire

me: i can't read suddenly i don't know

"It's just our luck, Mr. Frodo," Sam grumbled as he fastened the buttons on his waistcoat. "That's all it is: miserable luck. I don't expect anything good'll come of it at all."

The particular miserable luck to which Sam referred was this: on the day before the Gamgees were to go on their annual trip to visit the Cottons, both Elanor and little Frodo happened to come down with wretched colds. Dear Rose was too anxious to move them from Bag End, but it was too late to cancel the trip. Sam had been fretting about the whole ordeal from the beginning of it to that moment in the living room, and it was useless to try to comfort him.

That would not stop Frodo from trying, however. He handed Sam his cloak and smiled. "You've had enough of mountains without making them out of molehills, Sam," he said gently.

On overhearing the conversation, Merry (who had agreed to help Frodo take care of the little ones) entered the drawing room with little Elanor on his hip and said, "Listen to Frodo, Sam. There's nothing you've got to worry about that he and I don't have taken care of."

Elanor looked with curiosity at the scene unfolding before her, and must have recognized that her father was leaving. She reached out with her chubby hands and sweetly asked, "Cad I go?" Her poor, little nose was stuffed again.

Sam's face grew soft, and he reached out to gently tug one of his little girl's curls. "Not this time, love, but I'll be back as soon as I can manage," he promised, and turned to Merry. "She'll start crying if she sees us leave without her."

Merry gave a curt nod and made Elanor face him. "What do you say, Miss Ellie, that you and I wander into the kitchen and see if we can't find ourselves a bite to eat?"

Elanor's eyes glittered at the mention of food, and she nodded eagerly. So, the two friends did as they planned.

"I won't lie, Mr. Frodo," Sam sighed. "I'm awful nervous about leavin' her and the baby all alone."

Frodo grabbed Sam's arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "They won't be alone. I have watched them before, if you'll remember."

"Oh, I know. But beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but it's not you I'm doubtin'," he answered, with a pointed nod in the direction of the kitchen.

At that moment, Merry's voice sounded. "Oh, that? That's pipeweed, lass, but you're not to touch one leaf 'til you're at least ten years old."

After heaving a deep sigh, Sam charged into the kitchen, yelling, "If you're to be smokin' Mr. Merry, I'd prefer you didn't do it in my kitchen!"

Alone in the drawing room, Frodo listened as Sam carefully explained that smoking in the kitchen (among other places) was strictly forbidden and smiled. It had been three years since Sam had moved into Bag End, and after all that time it was still a wonderful thing to know that he was nearby. Yet, there were times when–as much as it pained him–he could not have Sam around. A twinge of pain shot through his shoulder even as he thought of it, and the smile faded.

Sam returned from the kitchen, though he seemed no less anxious than before. "Well," he said, glancing backwards. "This is it I suppose. Rosie's already waitin' outside."

Frodo nodded and embraced Sam. Parting was always the most difficult thing to get past, but he could sleep better knowing Sam remained oblivious to everything that went on during the anniversary of Weathertop.

Sam left Bag End, ever looking behind him until he could be seen no more.

With a sigh, Frodo turned back into the house. In the kitchen, Elanor absently nibbled a biscuit as she listened to Merry recount the tale of wonderful Treebeard and the great Entmoot. This was Elanor's favorite tale - mainly due to the different voices Merry would employ while telling it.

"'Hoom, hmm! Come now! Not so hasty!'" Merry was saying now in a deep, wheezy voice. "'You call yourselves hobbits? But you should not go telling just anybody. You'll be letting out your own right names if you're not careful.'"

And whether or not she understood the story, Elanor leaned back in her chair and laughed with her eyes squeezed shut.

Frodo smiled at the scene and moved deeper into the house to the nursery where the baby lay asleep in his cradle. The poor thing was having trouble breathing, and it was important to check every now and again that he hadn't rolled over onto his stomach. Luckily, he hadn't, and seemed to be at peace for the time being.

It was strange to think that Little Frodo was already three months old. He remembered Little Frodo's first morning like it was yesterday. Sam had stood in the middle of the sitting room, giggling as he counted and re-counted each of the baby's fingers and toes just as he had when Elanor was born.

Then, Sam had walked to where Frodo sat in the corner of the room, placed the newborn gently in his arms, and knelt next to the chair-resting his chin on the arm of it. "Look Mr. Frodo," he had said, reaching over to caress the top of Little Frodo's respectably curly head. "His hair's black as raven feathers; there's no mistakin' it! It's plain as plain he didn't get it from me or Rosie. He must've somehow known who we were naming him for."

Frodo had smiled down at the little bundle and said,"He's wonderful, Sam." That much was true. From the top of his head to the tips of his hairless toes, Little Frodo was a wonder and a miracle, and that's what proved he was a Gamgee through and through. Well, that and the fact that he was definitely going to wind up with Sam's nose and probably his ears, too.

Frodo had looked over to Sam for a proper comparison, and saw tears on his face accompanied by the brightest of smiles. How wonderful it had been to see tears of joy after once crawling in a dry land on a desolate mountain where all tears seemed an evil. How wonderful it had been to see such a moment after a time where hope had once seemed lost. Frodo kissed the top of Sam's head and, grinning, turned back to the baby.

It was easy to lose oneself in memory, but a sudden, sharp pang in Frodo's shoulder sent him crashing down to reality. He cried aloud, and gripped his shoulder. The image of an old and hollow face flashed before his eyes, and the Eye that had been gone for years pushed its way into rememberance.

Then it was over, and Little Frodo was awake and crying. "Oh dear," Frodo sighed, and lifted the baby out of his cradle-ignoring the strain it put on his wound. "I've woken you, haven't I? Shh, shh..."

Merry was at the door. "Frodo, what's wrong?"

"Where's Elanor?" Frodo asked, expertly dodging the question.

"I've left her in the kitchen for a moment," Merry answered, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "She won't get into trouble too quickly."

The corner of Frodo's mouth twitched upward as he lowered himself onto the rocking chair. "She may surprise you, Merry. I'm afraid she's overfond of opening the front door."

Merry glanced anxiously over his shoulder, as though he could picture the little girl opening the door and wandering right onto the road-laughing all the way. "Well, I suppose I'll go check on her..." With that, he turned back to the kitchen.

"Bring her in here," Frodo called after him. "She has plenty of toys to keep her occupied."

It wasn't long before Elanor skipped into the nursery with Merry behind her. By this time, Little Frodo's cries had turned to pitiful whimpers, and Elanor could sense her brother's distress like a pony could sense fear. She bounded straight to where Frodo sat, laid her hand on the baby's forehead, and looked Frodo seriously in the eye. "He's sick," she told Frodo matter-of-factly.

"And so are you," Frodo reminded her, resting his hand on her forehead in turn.

Elanor shrugged as though the fact didn't affect her much and turned to Merry. "Merry!" she called and ran to take his hand and drag him to her dollhouse in the corner of the room.

As Elanor busied herself with instructing Merry on just how a proper doll behaves, Little Frodo's eyes began to blink shut, and soon he was asleep. With the children at peace and Merry keeping a watchful eye on both, Frodo laid the baby back in his cradle and slipped quietly away into his room.

It was only the evening of the fifth of October, yet the long anniversary of Weathertop had begun. Frodo often found it difficult to prepare for it every year, always hoping against hope that the day would pass over without incident. He withdrew the white gem the Lady Arwen had given him, slipped its chain over his head, and gripped it until his knuckles were white in turn. There was no question that this year would be one of the worst years, if only for the reason that miserable luck never went away.

He sat on his bed, taking deep breaths in and out. If he could only postpone the pain and the delirium for a few hours more... Yet, it was no use. Unable to fight it any longer, he slipped easily from consciousness into frightening visions of times past.

The searing pain in his shoulder was only the precursor to the suffering Frodo experienced. His throat was dry, his heart pounded in his chest with merciless ferocity, and his mind was infiltrated by the haunting image of the Great Eye.

But were they even memories at all? It seemed that it was the Shire that was far away, and the memory of it was growing dimmer by the second. All was fear and darkness that not the brightest light could penetrate. He reached out for Sam. Sam should be there. Sam was always there.

Then he remembered. "Go home, Sam," he had said. His own cold words rung in his ears. Sam had been crying.

Why had he sent Sam home?

He needed Sam.

The white-hot pain in his shoulder contrasted the rest of him, frozen stiff from head to toe. The agony grew unbearable. He clutched the chain around his neck. He could use the Ring, wield its power, make it stop. He could bring Sam back. The world would forgive him just this once. All he needed was the Ring.

For ages it seemed, the nightmares lasted until, slowly, he once more became aware of himself. He was lying on a bed. There was a soft glow coming from the fireplace. This was his own room. His own home. Bag End. The anniversary of Weathertop was over.

"Mr. Baggins?" a voice called. He knew that voice. It was Rose. "Mr. Baggins, are you alright?"

Frodo opened his eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of Rose. There were no more illusions. "I'll be alright in one moment, Rose," he sighed.

"What happened?" she questioned.

He couldn't avoid answering that question much longer. Yet, all he said was, "Where's Sam?"

"Just outside, talking to the children. You gave them a real fright, Mr. Baggins. Mr. Brandybuck sent word as soon as he found you in that state. He told Sam you were asking for him, and he's been worried sick. Should I send him in?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, I think you ought to." There was no more concealing his struggle from Sam, though he wished he could have put it off revealing it a while longer.

Rosie left to do as she was bid, and shorty afterwards, Sam walked in slowly by himself. He wouldn't meet Frodo's eyes. It was some time before he spoke. "I don't suppose I need to ask what happened," he said. "I feel like a fool, really, not realizin' what day it was."

"You haven't done anything wrong, Sam," Frodo assured him. "I always made sure you were gone around this time."

At this, Sam did meet Frodo's eyes. His own were watering, and his eyebrows were furrowed to create creases in his forehead. "But why'd you keep it from me, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Why wouldn't you tell me all this time?"

"Please, don't be angry, Sam," Frodo whispered.

"How can I not be angry?" Sam questioned as he walked to Frodo's bedside and took hold of his hand. "You've saved the whole world, Mr. Frodo, and yet you suffer more than anyone ever ought to. I'm angry near every day that you haven't got everything you've rightly deserved."

Frodo shook his head. "I've got you Sam. You're more than I deserve."

"If you really think that, then you don't know your own worth," Sam said. "But why would you keep me away, then?"

Frodo skimmed his thumb across the back of Sam's hand. "I didn't want to burden you with it, I suppose," he answered. "You have just the sort of happy life we left the Shire to save. This... wound of mine is a shadow of a darker time that you should not have to remember."

"And you should?" Sam questioned. He took a deep breath before continuing, tears beginning to spill onto his cheeks. "I don't want to forget everything we did, Mr. Frodo. Mordor was a wasteland, sure enough. It was hot and uncomfortable, and it had an unnatural way of crushing hope you didn't even know you had. We suffered all the time, and you most of all. But what I choose to remember of it was bein' close to you, and holding your hand just like I am now, and dreamin' of the world we'd come back to when all was said and done. I remember, it was seein' you keepin' on that told me to I had to take another step forward even when I felt like turnin' back. You saved the whole world, Mr. Frodo, and you saved me right along with it. And now the only thing I want in the world is to help you. That was what we agreed when I first started livin' here. We help each other, and you've been hurting all this time without letting your Sam help you."

Now, it was Frodo whose voice cracked. "Oh, Sam..." he choked.

For a moment, all they could manage was to stay exactly where they were and let the tears fall. With eyes squeezed shut, Sam held their clasped hands against his cheek as if the whole world was crumbling around them once more.

When, finally, the crying subsided, he looked up at Frodo and asked, "Does it always hurt? Your shoulder, I mean."

"Most always," Frodo sighed with a nod. "Lord Elrond told me that it would never heal completely. I imagine I'll always have days like this one."

"That's just morbid thinking, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "Lord Elrond is a great deal wiser in the ways of Elvish medicine than I could ever dream of being, for sure and certain, but I reckon I'd have him if we were to go head-to-head over Shire medicine. Now, I can't make any promises, but I might be able to help the pain a little. And if you'll tell me when it starts to get bad, we may even be able to make the Weathertop anniversary more tolerable than its been."

Frodo smiled. "You may certainly try, Sam," he allowed.

With a nod, Sam rose to his feet and kissed the top of Frodo's head. "I'll go see what kind of herbs I can pull together."

That said, Sam left the room, leaving Frodo alone with his thoughts. His heart ached for Sam's optimism. He took a deep breath of air - Shire air - and wished once more that it could settle in his lungs like it once had: cool, clean, and filled with the promise of peaceful life. Yet, deep in his heart, he was beginning to understand that there was no more ignoring the truth. The Shire was no longer his home.

A/N: Hey! Hope you enjoyed! There will be only one or two more oneshots in this series, and yeah they're gonna hurt.