When Frodo woke up from his cry and his nap, he dearly wished that someone had come along to strangle him in his sleep.

He was alone – Marigold had gone, and the sun glowed velvet through the eaves.

Sam seeing him that way was one thing, but Marigold? It was beyond the pale.

He groaned as he buried his face into his pillow, which was still wet – and considered, quite seriously, the prospect of never leaving his room again.

But the darkness could not allay his shame, so by-and-by he extracted himself from the bed, and walked, slightly swaying, to the door. His legs felt weak, but the muscles of his frame were loose now, and he supposed he ought to have been grateful. But he still did not know where to look when he emerged into the parlor and saw Marigold seated in the rocking chair by the window. She faced away from him, looking out, and her profile was cast in gold by the afternoon light. She was occupied with the mending, a basket of clothes by her side.

She turned, and gave a smile.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Frodo. Did you want those blackberries?"

The features of her heart-shaped face were lovely and open. She put aside her needle and thread, and he could have knelt and kissed the ground at her feet for her discretion.

He nodded.

"Yes, Marigold. I would, very much. I'm suddenly hungry. Thank you."

It wasn't, strictly speaking, true – but it was not untrue, for his stomach felt merely calm and not in pain. But he did not wish to alarm her any further by refusing. And, true to form, upon hearing the glad news, Marigold's smile bloomed into an expression of exquisite delight, and she swept up from her chair and beckoned him into the kitchen with a "Well, Lor' bless me, that's wonderful, Mr. Frodo! Let me show you what else I've got — you can't live on berries alone!"

And Frodo followed gladly. He might have followed her anywhere, right then, if it meant carrying him away from the humiliating river of tears, and toward the warm, sweet succor of everyday things.

But, oddly enough, after that day their back rubs continued. They did not speak of it – not before, during, or after – but whenever, despite his best efforts, he felt compelled to retire to his room, Marigold would appear on his doorstep without fail, and, with a polite knock, would cross the threshold and come sit by his bed. And he would then give a nod, if he felt so inclined, and she would start rubbing – long, sweeping strokes up and down his back, coupled with smaller, circular ones by turns, like rings spreading out over the surface of a pool.

Neither of them told Sam about it, and so some days Frodo would get two rub-downs instead of one. But he was only too glad of it. The Gamgees had excellent hands, both of them, and together they tended him like a garden, turning his body's hard, scorched, inhospitable earth. Even if it was not enough to bring him back when his ears filled with cotton and his vision grew dim, it made his body a kinder place to come back to.

Frodo's birthday that year was a small affair, with only his closest friends in attendance. Merry and Pippin arrived jocund as always, bearing smiles, casseroles, and firm, brotherly hugs. Fatty Bolger came too, having regained some of his girth, and exchanged a significant look with Marigold, who had taken his coat and hat – their mutual time in the Lockholes short-circuiting any need for a long acquaintance. He then questioned her thoroughly about the goings-on of the neighborhood and about her health, until a very mulish-looking Sam arrived and took him gingerly by the elbow into the sitting-room.

All pretense had been dropped, by then, of Sam being just the help, and when the party dined, he sat at the place of honor by Frodo's side while Marigold served – though she, too, eventually joined the festivities. Fatty had been the first to bring it up, and a slightly in-his-cups Pippin insisted that they needed someone to beautify the proceedings. Frodo then observed, matter-of-factly, that she had never not been invited, so she took a seat closest to the door and ate very un-hobbitlike amounts, and said even less. Still, it was quite the merry gathering, though the ribald jokes were kept to a minimum on account of the lady, and Frodo contented himself with just the one cup of wine. Merry and Pippin, for their part, did well in abiding by Sam's private admonition: that they should speak only of the present – and only of the good – unless Frodo himself did otherwise. Instead, they excelled at their usual routine of goading and facemaking, until there wasn't a soul in the house whose cheeks did not ache with the smiling.

Before everyone left, which was well after sundown, Fatty exchanged a few more words with Marigold outside the door, and Sam, watching from a distance, thought he saw his sister shake her head, and then Fatty handed her a piece of paper.

As the two of them walked back to the Row, he waited until they were out of earshot of Bag End to ask her about it.

"Oh," Marigold shrugged, making a brave show of nonchalance. "He just asked me for a walk."

She suddenly looked very interested in the sky.

"Ah." Sam sucked his teeth. "Another one."

The two were silent for a spell. Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"And what did you say?"

She shrugged again.

"What I always do," she replied. "I didn't say yes, I didn't say no. I said that I had my hands full here, but that I'd think about it. So he gave me his address and told me to write, if I wanted to." She took a piece of paper from her pocket and thrust it in front of his face. "See? I do have occasion to write letters."

"And are you going to write?"

"I don't know." She returned the paper to her pocket. "I don't think so. I think he's only takin' an interest in me because we were both in the Lockholes. He sees me as a fellow traveler of sorts."

Sam ho-hummed, and chewed the inside of his lip. The gate to Number 3 was visible in the distance, the lantern outside still lit to signal that the household was yet awake.

Sam found himself wishing that his pants were more capacious. He had eaten too much, again. Too much bread, and too much chicken, and too many potatoes – to say nothing of the pies.

Marigold regarded him, side-eyed, but chose not to comment on his apparent discomfort.

She knew full well that she ought to have been flattered. Fatty, for his part, was closer in station to Frodo than to the Gamgees, and so a fine catch compared to her prior suitors – for there had indeed been some, though not the trove that Sam liked to talk about. And yet, who was she to dissemble? If before she had been so engrossed in her work that only an extraordinary affection might have enticed her away, by this point her mind was so full of Frodo that, despite the desperate impossibility of it all, it would have been unfair to give hope to another, and even if she remained in Frodo's service for the rest of her days, the prospect did not seem like a bad one.

"I would not underestimate bein' a fellow traveler, though, Mari," Sam suddenly stopped short, interrupting her thoughts.

They were only paces away from the bend in the road that would bring them to their doorstep.

"Maybe you ought to give it some thought after all – more than you have done in the past, I mean."

Marigold stopped short as well and regarded her brother. His brow was furrowed, his lips pursed.

"You've never encouraged me before."

She punched him lightly on the arm, for he had not yet forgiven her for the towel incident.

Sam thrust his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Well, there hasn't been no one that I trusted before, not with you," he replied. "But Fatty – well, he's a good sort. I mean, lookin' back, he might have had the most dangerous job of all, what with stayin' back and holdin' off the Black Riders. That is," – he gave a sideways smile – "Unless there's someone else that I don't know about."

Marigold squared her jaw, and looked back, equally squarely, at her brother.

"No." She shook her head. "There is no one else. Not unless you count my dedi-cation to bein' an old maid."

Sam raised an eyebrow, and gave her a searching look – as if she was a particularly interesting shrub that had appeared out of season.

"Are you sure?"

She tried to repel his gaze – but to no avail.

"Don't stare at me like that, Samwise Gamgee!"

She nearly stamped her foot, but was able to refrain from at least that show of petulance.

Instead, she took her hand from her pocket, and balled it into a more serious fist this time – though the effect was rather dampened, for it was the same hand that was clutching Fatty's missive, now crumpled.

Sam took a step back, half in fear and half in amusement.

"What do you mean? Stare at you like what?" He chuckled.

"Oh, never mind," Marigold huffed.

She stuffed her fist – and Fatty's message – back into her pocket.

"Just… don't stare, alright? I know you don't mean no harm, but I'm no youngling anymore. I don't need my brother followin' my every move."

Sam took a breath, and said nothing, only puffed out his cheeks.

Marigold turned on her heel, and marched toward the house.

She did not unball her fist until she had reached the gate of Number 3.

Marigold did end up going for a walk, but it was not with Fatty, and it was not quite a Walk.

When they had started walking to the market together, Frodo had made good on their promise to go farther every time. The heat had abated, and the crispness of fall was only a thin hint in the air, but it was still enough to make the bellows of his lungs more willing, and the burden of his limbs grew lighter, by slow degrees, the longer he walked.

Of course, it was still wearisome, rotten work, slow as a slog through the Dead Marshes. Each step he took made him feel like he wasn't just squeezing the blood back and forth with his limbs, but melting a dense metal with the fires of a dwarf-forge. His heart needed to relearn to beat to the right ends, his senses to train on the present and not the past…

And yet, even as his birthday passed and there were no more boring gifts to carry, they walked side by side every day, partway to the market and back, and soon he was not content with only that. Something would propel him forward each time, farther and farther each day, and by turns his usual torpor was replaced by a restlessness and a yearning, neither of which he could quite place.

One day, he had paused to rest at a signpost along the path, and played a game squinting into the distance, trying to discern if the women coming down the road were Marigold or not. The laundry was hanging out to dry in a nearby yard, and people were calling out to each other in a communal field like large, sociable birds. They were sitting among the patches, pulling out tubers and shaking them out, talking and laughing. Several women walked paces apart down the road, just far enough beyond his sight that he could barely make them out. The first one, Frodo thought, looked rather like Marigold in that she wore a pink dress. But no, too fat – he realized, as she approached closer – and the next one was too tall… and each of them, in fact, had something about her, whether it was her walk or her shape, or the things she carried – one had a garden hoe that took some moments to discern, and another a large basket – that made him realize that it was not Marigold, though each kept him hoping and squinting, in turn, until it was abundantly clear that it was not her.

In time, growing ill at ease, his feet began to carry him again, heavy though they were, and before he knew it, he was paces away from the old stone bridge, and beyond it was the market, together with the dense clustering of smials that comprised the center of Hobbiton.

He stopped, and suddenly felt the urge to sit down – but there was nowhere to do so.

In the afternoon light, the Water glistened like broken glass. The sounds of the market were strangely absent for how close it was.

If there was no place to sit, perhaps he could lean on the parapet of the bridge?

That might have been a fine thing. But he had not made up his mind when his feet began to carry him again. They moved as if on their own accord – as if they had their own wants, their own memories and plans.

He got to the parapet and leaned with his elbows on the large, mossy stones. His muscles ached in the not-unpleasant way they had once done after a long day of tramping.

The Water ran leisurely past, the sun dancing on its surface. Away, ever on and on it went, until it reached the Brandywine off to the east, and joined the other river's fuller swell.

The Brandywine!

Memories of his summers in Buckland flowed through his mind – days rich with berries and peaches and plums, mucking about by the side of the river, learning to swim, and pieces of his aunts' pies, wrapped in wax cloth in his pockets…

"Mr. Frodo?"

He had leaned farther over the parapet, his head in his hands. He had not seen anyone approach, so he started.

"Mr. Frodo, what are you doing here? We were going to meet at the sign-post, weren't we?"

It was Marigold. Her curls were pulled back, but the short, wispy strands that framed her brow were flaxen and pale in the sunlight. She looked anxious, and her right shoulder was pulled down by the weight of her bag.

"I–" He looked at her, looked at the market, looked at the blue sky above. The sounds were coming back – the gay swell of voices, the lowing and braying of animals.

"Mr. Frodo, let's get you home – I don't want you over-exertin' yourself." She gently touched the middle of his back.

"I'm – I'm not overexerting myself."

But she prodded him on, insistently, in the direction of Bag End. He was about to protest, but his feet were again acting on their own accord, matching her stride.

"I'm – I'm actually quite well now," he tried to counter, lamely. "I wanted to come this far…"

He reached to take her bag, but she kept it firmly at her side.

The two of them walked along in silence for a spell, but Marigold looked up at him, shyly, from time to time, as if expecting an explanation.

And so he gave it.

"I wanted to walk on," he repeated at last, as the sounds of the market receded into the distance, replaced by the trilling of birds. "It was like my feet wanted to walk, if you understand. In fact –"

She was looking at him more resolutely now, seemingly satisfied by the firmness in his step and the sparkle in his eye. He noticed, for the first time, that she had a sheen of freckles across her nose.

"In fact," he went on, "My feet – they miss the Shire. Perhaps…" She was listening more intently now, too, like she did during their lessons. "Perhaps – we could go on a picnic, while the weather is still warm?"

"A picnic?!" Her eyes grew wide. "But Mr. Frodo –"

"Yes, a picnic." He nodded firmly. "We could go toward Bingbole Wood – there are many nice hills that way. They're gentle, and not too steep, and lonely besides – not many people live there. I would dearly love to see that part of the Shire again."

Marigold looked down at her feet, suddenly sheepish once more.

"But Mr. Frodo, are you sure? It won't be too soon?"

"Sure as can be." He nodded, placing his hands in his pockets. He looked up at the sky – which was a brilliant blue. "It's been far too long," he mused. "And I've been missing the places beyond Hobbiton. I think it is high time. Let's go on a picnic."

Marigold had packed plenty of food for the trip – they were to be gone for an afternoon's time – but more importantly, she had packed her box of essentials, which contained her herbs, gauzes, salves, and various other accouterments of the healing trade. Sam had made an ironclad excuse not to go – and she was still put out with him for that – for what if Frodo collapsed? Was she then to carry him all alone?

But her fears had been unfounded, for she was forced to concede that Sam had not been uncaring – he simply knew his master far better than she did. He also seemed to carry a torch for her and Frodo – impossible though any union between them was – and she had to admit that she thought it kind: for despite the hand-hold, despite the lessons and the loaned books and the too-handsome birthday gift that sat in her drawer unused, she herself would never have confessed to any such wishes.

"Mr. Frodo, wait!"

She scrambled up the hill. She was a fair walker on even ground, but when it came to so-called "tramping" on rougher terrain, she was not used to it, and somewhat slower.

But Frodo, for his part, was anything but that, even in his weakened state. As soon as they left behind the rolling roofs of Hobbiton, he seemed to have grown wings on his feet – at least compared to his usual, more languorous progress. Even with the sizable basket he carried (they each carried one), and with the blanket strapped onto his back, his step was sure and true, and with the aid of his walking stick he stood up straighter: his shoulders more square, his limbs more free. He seemed to commune with nature at every step – a dream-like, knowing look in his eye, as if he saw specters where she only saw bushes and hedgerows. Dream-like, yes, but it was hardly the haunted, circumspect look that she had observed on their earlier walks, for without a doubt Frodo was drinking it all in with those keen eyes of his – eyes that were certainly a gift from the fairy-wife that one of his Tookish ancestors had taken.

Eventually, they broke from the main road, and walked past several farms. They walked past fields thick with golden wheat, and verdant lawns with grazing sheep, on and on to the northwest until they reached the last hill – which Frodo promised would command a breathtaking view, and so it likely did, except –

"Oof!"

Marigold's foot, the one that never listened to her as well as the other, got caught on a loose rock with a wet patch of earth underneath, and before she knew it, she had lost her footing, and landed on her hands and knees.

Frodo was at her side in a moment.

"Oh dear… Marigold…"

And before she knew what was what, she was being lifted bodily upward and deposited on her feet, and her skirt was being dusted off for her, and her hand was clasped securely in his.

His hand… which was so unlike the hands of most hobbits she knew. Small, hardly bigger than her own, and smooth as a petal, with pillowy pads and short nails. Nails that he bit, she knew by now, whenever he thought nobody was looking.

She had tried not to think of that hand ever since the incident at the gate.

"I'm sorry, it's the dress and the corset, isn't it?" Frodo inquired anxiously, peering into her face. "I'm sorry, I ought to have walked slower… sometimes I forget there's no need for haste anymore."

And, in spite of her fluster, she might have laughed.

"Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, my goodness, no!" – she exclaimed. "It's not the dress – I could climb trees in this thing!"

But it was, in fact, the dress, but in another way: there was now a pair of large, blooming grass stains where her knees were – and sure as the sun shone, if she returned to Hobbiton in that state with Mr. Frodo, and from the direction of the wooded county no less, it would set every evil tongue in the town to wagging.

But there was nothing for it now, she knew. She had already assumed as much when she had agreed to take something like A Walk with Mr. Frodo, and when Sam had insisted that he had urgent business to take care of – business which, he swore, had erupted that very morning.

She had always detested rumors, and they were the reason for much of her painful shyness. But if it meant helping Mr. Frodo in a way only she could – after all, he had brought up going on a picnic with her, and Sam joining in had only been an afterthought – then she would clench her teeth and make do, whatever it took.

She shook her head, emphatically.

"No, it's quite alright, really… I just" – she forced a chuckle – "I have the tiniest bit of a bum leg, that's all. From the time I fell out of that tree."

She glanced away out of habit, expecting to blush, but the warmth never came. Her lips had formed the words without much resistance – without much thought…

"The time you fell out of the tree?"

"That's right. The linden tree, the time you rescued me. But it usually doesn't show, and most days I can get along just fine –"

She was still looking away, and did not see Frodo as he bent down and picked up her basket.

"Oh, well – then let me help you, even so."

Her hand was still clasped in his, and he guided her up the final few steps. At the crest of the hill, his own basket lay atop a mound of grass, and the famous vista opened up before them.

Marigold tried to calm the pitter-patter of her heart, and indeed the warmth that had settled over every place that Frodo had touched. She trained her eyes on the view, even as he finally let go and set to work unrolling the blanket.

Alright, Marigold, alright – she said to herself, trying to avoid the sight of him for the time being – no need to get too excited. He's merely a gentleman hobbit who did the gentlemanly hobbit thing, and guided you up the hill after you fell…

They had walked only a mile or two from Hobbiton – for Frodo was not fit enough to harbor any greater ambitions – yet the country here was quite different. The hobbit holes were fewer and farther between, and the land was criss-crossed with hedges. Across the nearest field lay the edge of a forest, and its growth was dark and deep and mossy-green.

A flock of geese flew overhead, their cries harsh and thrilling.

And besides, she placated herself further, If Mr. Frodo had any serious intentions – which she very much doubted, for she was a Gamgee and he was still so ill that taking a wife was surely the last thing on his mind – then he would certainly make it known in so many words. The Mr. Frodo she knew was not the sort to lead others around by the nose, so until and unless he did speak, she resolved to think of his acts as nothing more than kindness – as the acts of a close, intimate friend.

Yes, friend.

Lasses and lads could be friends, whatever her sisters' opinions on the matter.

Frodo looked up, seemingly content with his work, and beckoned her over to the blanket. She carefully stepped on top of it, and knelt down to smooth it, unnecessarily, all the while maintaining a bright, lively smile.

"Well, speaking of your fall out of the linden tree," Frodo said matter-of-factly, as he folded back the linen covering one of the baskets, "That's Bingbole Wood over across the way. That's where it happened, isn't it? We've made a pilgrimage to a historic site."

Marigold pursed her lips, glancing away, but could not suppress a chuckle.

"Why, that's hardly historic, Mr. Frodo." She bit her lip.

"Oh, but it is." Frodo began to extract the boons of their kitchen from the wickerwork box. The first to see the light of day was the chicken and vegetable pie (Frodo's stomach was still too delicate for the Shire-favorite that was steak and kidney pie), and then the seed-cake, neatly wrapped in gauze mesh, and then the sausages.

"As I recall it was the year 2994 of the Third Age, or 1394 by Shire-Reckoning," he went on. "Young Marigold Gamgee was doing battle with two foes at once: a tall linden tree, and the force that pulls us all inexorably toward the ground. She fought bravely indeed, but regrettably, she emerged the worse for wear. As luck would have it, a passing traveler found her, and she returned safely to her family, ready to fight another day. About three hundred paces, it had to be, from the place where we now sit, and it was late summer just on the cusp of autumn –"

"You remember the season?!"

Frodo paused, a block of cheese in his hand – carefully wrapped in a waxed cloth.

"I remember many things." He gave a sad smile. "At times too much, it would seem."

Marigold let her shoulders relax.

If she wasn't sure before, she certainly knew now – Frodo was making fun, which was always a good sign. He smiled only sadly still, and his humor was still dry and bookish, but when things were light between them like this, she got a feeling that all could be well in the world, even if some things were left unsaid.

She reached for the other basket and unpacked the plates, laying each set, complete with silverware and napkins out in front of them. She then unpacked the cold cuts and the sandwiches, the mushrooms and cream, and the boiled potatoes. They began to eat – her with gusto after much anticipation, for the walk had put a fire in her belly, and him with delicate, pecking, un-hobbitlike bites. But he still was eating more than before, and it made her heart smile. The mushrooms, she noted privately, were a particular success, for he had finished nearly the entire portion.

When their meal was finished and the dishes put away, they sat, quietly, looking out over the fields. The sun had hidden away behind the clouds, and the rims of their heavy purple billows were traced with gold. The green of the meadows had grown deeper as the shadows stretched across them. The nearest field, Marigold noticed, had been allowed to lay fallow, and was covered in a mass of flowers – blue ones, likely cornflowers – for they bloomed in autumn, and were known for replenishing the earth.

Blue…

She was tempted to make a comparison to Frodo's eyes, but no. It was a different sort of blue, more violet in fact, made cooler by the cloudy light.

They sat leaning slightly toward each other, their legs folded opposite. A respectful distance of a half-pace separated the two of them, and Frodo looked pensive. He again seemed to be seeing things that she did not, as he looked out over the fields with those fine eyes of his. Or rather eyes that had once simply been fine, and the stuff of jealousy and gossip among the lasses, but now were deep, somber pools of memory, a nameless disquiet agitating their depths.

He had grown quiet again halfway through their meal, looking time and again at the many and varied fields before them. One had been glowing golden with swaying wheat, now tawny-brown, another had been planted, row on row, with trees of some kind. Yet another had a lavender crop, and trees and houses and barns dotted the landscape.

She had to admit, though, that even though Frodo was not talking, and even though they were not doing much to speak of, it did not take long for her, in contravention to her custom, to stop wondering when it was that they would get going, and what, indeed, her next task was – and she was content to simply sit.

It was nice, in fact, to be sitting here with Frodo like this, watching the flowers and the grasses sway, his clean scent mindling with that of the greenery and the heady roadside dust.

A wind, like a light hand, swept over the expanse of cornflowers before them, and they obediently bowed their heads.

Frodo began to speak – low, under his breath, as if he was chanting.

She perked up her ears.

"In Pelennor the poppies blow

Between the gravestones, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the horns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Pelennor." (1)

"The poppies, Mr. Frodo?"

She could not help but break the silence that his words had left behind – and yet it took a moment for her words to reach him.

When they did, however, he did not start; he only turned slowly toward her, as if only just realizing she was there.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Marigold nodded, indulgently. It seemed he had had one of his "moments," as they now called them.

"The poppies," she repeated. "Is that –" There were no poppies in sight, of course, but she did not think it right to contradict him. "Er, I mean – is that a poem you wrote? It's lovely."

But Frodo shook his head. "No, this isn't one of mine. I heard it when I was in Gondor."

"In Gondor? Were there poppies there?"

"Yes, and they 'blew,' just like the flowers here –"

They… blew.

Blew…

Or was it 'blue'?

How were those two words spelled, again?

Marigold looked out at the cornflowers, their heads bobbing, like ripples on the surface of a pool. The wind was the thing that blew, but the flowers "blew" as well, because the wind was unseen. It took her breath away.

"That's… beautiful, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo nodded.

"I think so too. But I don't think anyone knows who wrote that poem – it was unsigned. One day, it just started to circulate, in the aftermath of the war, in the city of Minas Tirith."

"Is that… the White City?"

"It is. The city itself was half-destroyed, and there were so many dead, there was hardly any place to bury them. So they made a burial ground in the field of Pelennor, where one of the most important battles had been fought. And after that, this poem appeared – printed on loose sheets of paper, handed out in the streets, stuffed under people's doors. They did in fact plant a great number of poppies in Pelennor field, but it was only after the fact – after the poem became a sort of rallying cry for the rebuilding of the city."

"Because… poppies bring sleep, don't they?"

Marigold looked like the wheels in her head had been turning, a gradual comprehension dawning in her eyes.

"That's right."

"And the dead are asleep, but the living… I reckon those folks who died wouldn't have wanted them to be sad, leastwise not for long. They would have wanted them to keep living – to do the living for them. "

She looked suddenly pleased with herself, like she always did when she interpreted a poem. But there was also something more in her features: a profound understanding well beyond her years, and the same dogged courage that he had seen in Sam when the odds were at their worst.

He felt an urge to reach out and touch her hand – but no, he had already touched her too much. They had touched too much.

He dug his fingers into the blanket and sighed, nodding his head.

"That is true enough, Mari," he replied. "That is all very well said. But we really ought to get going."

He took one last look at the vista – the colors growing gray in the last of the afternoon light.

"We've eaten our picnic, after all," he said, "And I really need to move my legs again — they're starting to feel stiff."

(1) This poem is a repurposed version of "In Flanders Fields" by Johns McCrae, a poem written about World War I.