As they walked back, Frodo striding more slowly now, Marigold thought of the poppies. The image of a whole host of them covering a hill, their red bonnets "blowing" in the wind as men of a faraway kingdom slept their eternal sleep… Whatever she had said about living even as the dead could not, the vision was a calming one, and something about it encouraged one to step away from the river of life for a spell, and she wondered if that was what had drawn Frodo to it.

She watched his profile as he walked – again lost in thought and looking ahead as if he could see for miles, his brows a delicate bow, and the tracing of his nose, lips and chin an idyllic harmony that was only made more beautiful by the stamp of sadness upon it.

She had certainly told him much – from the shame of her struggles with reading, to the story of the Lockholes, and even about her bum leg, which in itself was hardly much, except that it added to the long list of failings and imperfections that was her person. He, for his part, had told her less, at least as far as the workings of his own mind went, but he had shown her plenty. Indeed, every day she had felt grateful to be allowed to see parts of him that none other saw – and that he trusted her to bear witness to his pain.

And in fact, the allowing – that part was Frodo through and through. When she had told him things, he responded with only sincere offers of help, but made no effort to change how she felt: there were no ham-handed attempts at cheering her up like her girlfriends did, no dismissal of her feelings as "not worth the tears" as was the custom with her sisters, no walking on eggshells as various neighbors did when she had quit midwifery, and no overindulgent coddling and cosseting, as her brothers were wont to do.

There was only allowing and witnessing, from someone who knew pain all too well, and knew that feelings were meant to be felt.

In fact, as they rounded a coppice, the smokestacks of Hobbiton coming into view, she felt a strange urge to speak to him about the Other thing, however great his burdens already were. It was a selfish desire, to be sure, but something told her that if she did not speak of it then, she never would – to anyone.

As they came into town, she shifted her basket so she was carrying it directly in front of her – to conceal the grass stains as best she could, and chatted to Frodo pleasantly to lift her own spirits. He remained a trifle subdued, but by-and-by responded to her queries and comments in kind – for as she had noticed on every one of their walks, the more he walked, the more it breathed life into him.

When they returned to Bag End, she pulled up the eaves in the parlor – for the afternoon light was waning, replaced by a blue-gray tinge like a wash over the world. Outside, the branches of the apple tree swayed, their fruit now safe in jars in the larder.

Frodo did not protest – merely offered to help put away the picnicware, but she shook her head, drawstring from the eaves in hand.

"No, Mr. Frodo, I can do that later," she said. "Just let it be. I – I wanted to talk to you about something."

He placed his basket on a credenza near the entryway, and took the knapsack with the rolled-up blanket off his back.

"That is, if you're not too tired," she added hastily. "I know today was hard – don't say anythin', Mr. Frodo, I know it was, and not just from the walkin'."

He shook his head.

"No, Marigold," he countered, reassuringly. "I would very much like to hear what you have to say. I always do."

He lowered himself onto the red upholstered chair before the fireplace, and leaned forward slightly. His muscles were sore, but no longer in a pleasant way – it was now the hot-and-cold, splintery sort of soreness that preceded a fever. His breath was shallow in his chest.

He needed, desperately, to find something else to think of. It was already October the fifth. He nodded at the couch across from him.

"Go on, Mari. Have a seat."

"Shall I make a fire?"

He shook his head. "Not unless you want to. I am perfectly comfortable."

"Did you want tea?"

"No, not for me, thank you."

Marigold looked around – her courage flagging.

But Frodo looked at her quite steadily from beneath his bow-shaped brows, and the curls framing his face made him look like a painting.

She could have looked at him for ages.

But no – it would not do. It would not do to keep delaying. So she crossed the room instead, and sat at the edge of the couch.

She glanced at his face – then squarely down at her hands again.

"I wanted to tell you –" she began tentatively. "I wanted to tell you, Mr. Frodo… About the reason I quit midwifery. That is, if you care to hear about it."

The first and most important words now manifestly out of her mouth, she paused, and waited for his reaction.

Frodo nodded.

He remembered there had been a certain hullabaloo about it – though he had never learned the details. Of course, what was more surprising was that Sam had no notion of the details either, but at the time, Frodo's mind had lacked the gumption to wonder.

"Of course." He nodded again. "I would very much like to hear it, if you wish to share it."

His voice was even and calm. No excess anticipation, no morbid curiosity. Just the acceptance she had hoped for.

She took a breath, emboldened, and went on.

"Now, you are the first person I am telling this to, and maybe the last," she said, looking up – her eyes serious. "So what I say, I say in confi-dence, because –" She licked her lips, which were going dry. "Because – to tell you the truth, there are some parts of it that are so queer, I hardly know what to make of them myself. That's why I thought you'd understand, having – you know – also seen things that are queer. And, well –" She paused – "And if you don't want to hear it – please – please just tell me now."

Frodo appraised her. She sat stiffly, elbows close by her sides, hands clutching her knees like a child made to recite a lesson.

"Go on, Marigold." He made his voice as kind as possible. "Just tell me as best you can. I promise, you have my absolute discretion."

He made a motion like the turning of a key next to his lips, with the smallest hint at a smile – a silly thing, he knew, but a calculated effort to put her at ease.

It seemed to have worked.

"Alright," she said.

She glanced down, licking her lips again, and took a breath.

For all the world like she was reciting a lesson.

"I was assisting at the birth of Laurel Smallburrow's youngest," she began. "This must have been –" She counted hurriedly on her fingers. "A year ago. Yes, about a year. It was a difficult birth."

Frodo fixed his eyes on her face, even as he searched his mind.

Smallburrow, Smallburrow… He struggled to put the name to a face. Ah, yes. The family ran a farm near Bywater, and their provenance was dairy. He had seen Laurel at the market at times, selling their wares. A plain, quiet lass with mousy hair and a dimple in her cheek, but kind. He had not seen her for some time, and had assumed she was a casualty of the war.

"It was a difficult birth," Marigold repeated, nodding her head. "I'll spare you the details, Mr. Frodo – you don't need to know all these things, bein' a gentlehobbit and all – but the baby was breech, meaning facing the wrong way round, and that always makes things hard. Try as we might, we couldn't make him turn. Mrs. Bracegirdle and Dr. Boffin and I were at it for two days, sleeping in shifts. They say the sun shouldn't rise more than once on a laborin' hobbit, but this was two, I remember it clearly."

She paused, closing her eyes. Her voice was starting to sound like an incantation.

"In the end, the baby died," she went on, "And then she died, too, three days later, and of course the husband and the little ones were – well, to say they were gutted would have been sayin' nothin' at all."

She paused again.

"And of course we all cried about it, Mr. Frodo, and no one blamed anybody else – that there is the thing. Even old Mrs. Bracegirdle, battleax though she is, sat me down and gave me a speech about how this happens to every midwife, and how it was better now than ten years down the line, because the hobbits are a hardy lot, and thank the lucky stars that it doesn't happen often. We went over and over what we did, and con-cluded that there was nothing for it: all that could've been done had been done, and I didn't blame myself, I really didn't. I knew I was just the apprentice, doin' what I was told. I couldn't have known any better, even if there was aught to know better. And nobody blamed Mrs. Bracegirdle and Dr. Boffin for it either – that there, too, is the thing."

She took another breath – this one catching in her throat – and when she spoke again, her words began to come out faster, rising up like a swell.

"But I don't know what happened, Mr. Frodo, save something very queer came about not long after that. I kept goin' to work, but after a while my feet wouldn't carry me. It was like they were weighted down by something heavy, like lead. Like yours probably were when you were just startin' out with your walkin' – 'cept it didn't get any better like it did for you. It only got worse. And when I was there, I did everything right, I worked just as hard, but I wasn't really there, if you get my meaning. Sometimes I felt like there were two of me – one doin' the work, and one watchin' from the corner, and everything would be movin' ever so slowly, if you understand. And sometimes my heart would pound, too, like I was a'feared of something, but I didn't know what. And then I started to see Laurel's baby in strange places – in the stew pot at home, in the basin at work, at the bottom of a well. That's when I knew somethin' – unnat'ral going on. And that's when I thought that maybe I shouldn't be doin' the work I did, that it wasn't right. Six months after that I stayed on, but every day it got harder…"

Marigold suddenly stopped – as if the urgency of her words had been spent. Her hands had wrung the side of her apron into a tight horn, and she looked away, clenching her jaw. Frodo, for his part, had been listening intently without a word, though the keen observer would have discerned the occasional nod, a rare chewing of a lip.

The shadows stretched long across the room, and the grandfather clock in the corner was tick-ticking softly.

It was comfortable and restful, sitting close to her like that – the subject of their conversation notwithstanding.

But having finished twisting her apron – for she could twist no more – she was now looking everywhere but at him – at Belladonna Took's doilies, at the decorative plates on the shelf, at the map of Bilbo's favorite walks over the mantel that had replaced his sword…

"It's not unnatural, Marigold," Frodo finally said, getting up with a sigh. He sat on the pouf close beside her, and placed his hand on hers, giving it a squeeze.

"Frightened, that's what you were. And your mind was trying to protect you. To keep you from feeling that again."

She was still looking around, but the turning of her head and the darting of her eyes grew slower by degrees.

"But it's not unnatural," he reiterated. "Just hard. Very hard. And it pains me to hear that this happened to you."

Good girls did not cry.

Good girls stayed quiet for their put-upon parents, for their older sisters who wanted to talk of lads and make flower crowns instead of minding their younger charges. Good girls were reliable, useful, thorough and, well, good, but never inconvenient, never a bother…

But it was certainly inconvenient, and certainly quite the bother, the way her face began to twist just then, and the way her throat felt like she was choking – like she was drowning, pushed to the bottom of a well. She stood up with a start, but Frodo held her hand firmly.

She calculated how quickly she could run – where she could run… But the hand, never mind the missing finger, held onto hers tight.

"Marigold."

Her throat, her chest, her – everything heaved hard, and she broke into sobs. Ugly, wracking sobs that shook her whole body.

Her legs began to turn to jelly, and she made to lower herself to keep from falling, but Frodo caught her in his arms and held her close.

She sobbed.

Sobbed into his shirt, smelling of sun and oatmeal soap and soft, mossy earth.

She felt the shirt growing damp, wet with her own tears.

Her frame felt the strength of his arms, wrapped tight around her like they had been that day long ago.

The moments, and then the minutes passed, measured out by the methodical grandfather clock.

He held her still.

They did not look at each other. Her stature was just tall enough to rest her cheek on his upper chest — and she did not want to see him. She only wanted to feel him. The decisiveness of his grasp, his firm chest and arms – made lean by his illness but still surprisingly strong, when the need arose.

She slumped against him, her limbs growing weak, and the inside of her head sloshed like a bucket of water. The world grew black – but there was no pain.

Frodo held her close for a long while, though his strength had been spent on the day's walk, and he dearly wished he could have gone to bed.

But the girl in his arms needed him – needed him so much that it felt wrong to simply rest her on the couch and let her weep her fill. She needed him the way he had needed Sam and others, many times before – and so he did not let her go, not even when her sobs gave way to whimpers, and not even when she grew quiet and her frame grew limp. And it would have been a lie to say that he did not like holding her – for what hobbit wouldn't? Her body was soft, laced up in a corset though it was, and she was real and round and, yes, shapely and lovely in her form, and she smelled of everything nice about a lass: of freshly-pounded corn meal, and berries, and the flower-water used for hair. And when it came down to it, he had not had occasion to hold a lass in a very long time…

His heart beat fast, but not in the frantic rabbit way it had once done. He felt it in his chest, between his lungs, and echoing through his entire body. He felt his heart in his fingers as they held the insensate, soft-skinned lass, and he felt her heart's slower, measured response. It didn't use words – hearts needed no vernacular – but it said that this was a remarkable girl. A listener, a healer, a hobbit who did all she could to not abandon a good thing.

He wanted to hold this beautiful-hearted girl, who had suffered so, and yet had worried that her pain might burden him. And so he did. Held her as the clock's ticking slowed and disappeared. For a moment – how long, he could not say – he was in a waking dream.

But then, he heard a footstep and a creak at the door.

"Mr. Frodo? Mari?"

The sounds of Sam dusting off, muttering, and shuffling his feet in the entryway were unmistakable, and jolted him out of his reverie.

Frodo quickly lowered Marigold to the couch, so that when Sam came in, the only thing he saw was Frodo straightening up from putting her down.

"Marigold isn't well," Frodo said, by way of greeting.

Success.

Sam was at his sister's side like a shot, any other thoughts in his head quite forgotten. He fell to his knees.

"Mari, what's wrong?!"

But Marigold was too deep in a swoon to answer, or indeed be aware of him. Her chest rose and fell, and Sam clasped her hands.

Frodo squatted down beside him.

"She fainted," he explained. "But it's nothing that ails her body – I can tell you more later."

Sam looked up and nodded soberly – he was certainly no stranger to ailments that went beyond the physical – but did not release his sister's hands. The skin around her eyes, raw and red, had not escaped his notice.

"We should let her rest," Frodo said. "Perhaps put her in a guest-room. She needs time, that's all. In the meantime, we can talk here."

Frodo sensed that something was welling up in Sam, so he treaded lightly. For Sam was wearing the sort of countenance that would have sent any other hobbit within ten paces of Marigold sprawling against the nearest wall. But Frodo was Frodo, and Sam was Sam – and, in due course, Sam bit back his emotion and, after a deliberate breath, turned trustingly to him.

"Alright, Mr. Frodo, if you say so," he replied, pushing his palms against his knees as he got up. "I can carry her — you just hold the door. You ought to rest too, you know, if you don't mind me sayin'. Truth be told, I was a might surprised that it wasna you lyin' on the couch in a faint when I came in —"

He gave a small chuckle, glancing down and pursing his lips in the familiar Gamgee way.

"In fact," he went on, "I knew you wouldna-have collapsed on the road — a war-horse can still trot around the barn with a lame leg, beggin' your pardon — but I'd be lying if I said that I weren't a trifle afeared of what might happen after…"

Frodo looked up at the ceiling, in an earnestly theatrical expression of Oh, Valar – but stood up just the same, and Sam looked him over from head to toe, aiming to ascertain that he was in no danger of collapsing in a swoon of his own.

But Frodo looked about as fit as he always did, if a trifle pale, though he had a wet spot by his shoulder – which cast Marigold's tears in a different light, and made Sam relieved that he had not drawn any hasty conclusions.

Of course, the spot did foment a new and eager curiosity, but he forced himself to avert his eyes, and instead took a step toward the couch and hoisted his sister up, one arm under her back and the other under her knees.

Even as he did so, her head lolled back, and she drew a gasping inhale, but did not wake up. Frodo nodded at him, and together, they made their way to the nearest guest-room, and laid her down on the filigreed bedspread. Frodo retrieved a quilt and covered her, and then the two of them tiptoed out, leaving the door open a crack.

Sam then took to building the fires in the kitchen and the parlor, and Frodo set about making tea. Sam tried to get his master to sit down, but Frodo parried his admonitions with an "I'm not such an invalid as all that, Sam," and a, "Mari always lets me make the tea," – the latter proving quite effective.

The Nazgûl kettle did bother him still, but Frodo had discovered that with Sam and Marigold close at hand, and both treating him so kindly, the chances of the whistle sending him into a panic were marginally less. But by this point, too, he was also taking pride in making the tea, just as he was taking pride in helping Marigold learn, and in carrying the shopping, and in sitting outside and conversing with Sam on a sunny afternoon.

At last, the two of them settled in before the fire – Sam on the couch and Frodo in his chair, and the tea and a plate of scones between them. They began to talk of this and that: of the harvest, and how many trees had been planted, and how many people had been rehoused, and who among their acquaintances was most recently wed or handfast. Then the conversation fell into a lull as Sam finished off the last of the scones, crumbs and all, and Frodo gazed into the fire.

"I expect you'd want to know about Marigold," he said at last.

Sam straightened up, and put his cup down – for he was indeed most anxious to know, though with Frodo it was not his custom to hurry the plot. He raised his eyebrows.

"Well, first things first," Frodo said. "The grass stains on her skirt are from her walking up a hill and falling, nothing more, nothing less – but you had best hide them if you carry her back to the Row. She seemed rather self-conscious about them."

He paused, taking a deep breath. The fire filled the room with the crackling echo of the forest, its warmth chasing back the ache that was working its way steadily through his bones.

"She told me she has a bad leg from falling out of that tree many years ago – that much I did not know, in fact," he added.

Sam nodded soberly. "That she does, Mr. Frodo, that she does," he replied. "Though of course she hides it well. She doesn't like people knowin'."

"And there are other things she hides well and doesn't like people knowing." Frodo cocked an eyebrow.

Sam sat up straighter, and took up his cup, drawing a deliberate sip.

"Like why she quit midwifery, for one," Frodo said.

Sam's eyes grew big as apples.

"Lor' bless me, Mr. Frodo! She – she – told you?!"

Frodo, in his turn, sat back, and gave a small smile.

"Yes, Sam, she told me," he returned gently. "But she took me into her confidence, so I am not to say anything more about it, except that even telling it took such a toll that she collapsed like you saw."

Sam looked around him in distress – at a loss, momentarily, where to even put his teacup, despite the tray right in front of him. Another mannerism, Frodo noted, that he shared with his sister.

"So you best not press her about it when you get home – or at all, in fact," Frodo continued. "And I cannot say how long it will take for her to heal from it – the reason she left midwifery, I mean – so I have no words of comfort for you there. But suffice it to say, I understand her reasons – both for doing it and for not speaking about it to anyone all this time. I might have done the same, if it were me."

Sam put his teacup down at last, and interlocked his fingers.

Frodo's mouth was set in the thin line – an expression, Sam knew, that foreclosed any further discussion. So he did his best to temper his curiosity, and the sting: for Marigold was known in their family as a "locked box," but when it came to confidants, Sam had always been among the privileged.

"Mr. Frodo" – he sighed at last, electing, for the moment, a different approach – "May I speak plainly?"

He looked, earnestly, at Frodo, and Frodo blinked his eyes.

"Of course, my dear Sam."

"What is your opinion of Marigold?"

There was a pause.

Frodo looked askance at the fire, and the light from the flames danced on the surface of his eyes.

"She's very good," he replied at last.

Sam readjusted his seat.

"She's… Good?"

"Meaning she is everything I hoped she would be. It was a fine choice to have her come work for me."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"And… is that all, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo drew his gaze away from the fire.

"Well, no, not quite all," he conceded. "But I am grateful to you, Sam. Marigold and I – we take care of each other. Much the same as you do for me, and I do for you. Though of course it goes rather more in one direction, much of the time."

Sam drew a sigh, and settled back into the couch, puffing his lips out with his breath. Frodo regarded him with the placid, gently amused, yet stoic expression he reserved for his best friend – the expression that spoke, in confidence, of things left unsaid and feelings that, if they were to be given voice, would wilt in the telling.

But Frodo was also a diplomat, to be sure, and so Sam knew that when it came to Marigold there would be no further revelations that night. And, come to think of it, he was glad, though he had not expected to be, for it meant that Marigold's heart was in safe hands.

Instead, he found himself wishing for another thing – and that was for Frodo to sit by his side again, instead of directly opposite. Just the same way that he had sat many times before as they had lived, dined, traveled and slept together over the course of that fateful year.

Frodo looked away again, and fixed his eyes on the fire.

The flames lapped and crackled, popped and danced – and the shadows wavered, in their turn, on the walls. Outside, it was growing dark, the sky pin-pricked with stars. The round walls of the hobbit hole were holding them close, safe in their embrace.

And yet, Frodo's eyes had a troubled air. He breathed, shallowly, and rubbed the tips of his fingers together, his elbow on the arm-rest. His hand, four-fingered, was silhouetted against the fire.

Short weeks ago, Sam had resolved not to bring up the past, but just then, it felt like a wound lay before him – healed at the surface, but festering no less within.

He did not have the heart to make it bleed, and yet had no heart to let it be.

"Mr. Frodo," he ventured tentatively at last, after the grandfather clock had measured out some minutes.

Frodo gave the smallest of starts. Having sat lost in thought and in the same attitude for some time, he seemed to have forgotten he was not alone.

"Yes, Sam?"

Sam rocked gently forward, and sat up straight again.

"Do you – do you think of it still?"

He looked, pointedly, at Frodo from beneath his brows.

Frodo blinked, and when he next opened his eyes, they were looking at Sam.

The eyes that, in the dark, were blue like evening.

"I do, Sam. Often."

He gathered his hand into a fist.

"And I still want it, too – can you imagine? Even though it took the heart of me, and I hate – hate – hate it for it."

"Mr. Frodo…"

But Frodo shook his head, and gave a rueful laugh.

Sam blinked, and felt that if he was not careful, his eyes would brim and overflow.

"But Mr. – Mr. Frodo," he tried again, furrowing his brow and scrunching up his nose against the sting. "Isn't – isn't there anything?... The elves, mayhaps… Gandalf?..."

His voice trailed off. He shook his head in turn.

Oh, Samwise, what a bloody fool you are. To think that a mere hobbit lass could fix this, even such a one as Mari. You must have been right-addled in the brain…

And yet he had almost dared to hope, those last few months, the way he had seen them together. The way he had seen Frodo look, from time to time: the way his good humor was coming back, the way he now wanted things, the way he tried.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam shook his head again, looking down. "I shouldna have – you know…"

"No, Sam, it's quite alright." Frodo learned forward toward him, a genial expression on his face.

The genial expression that, Sam knew, Frodo used to spare other people's feelings.

And so he sat, dejected, and did not respond as Frodo poured himself another cup of tea – first hot water from the pot, then a spot from the tea-kettle, the two liquids mingling together into a pale golden-brown.

"More tea?"

Sam shook his head.

He felt like he didn't want anything anymore. The thought of Frodo letting go of hope and, in the end, being lost to something that had already happened, already passed, cast a shadow on his mind, and his face must have shown it.

Frodo settled back into his arm-chair, and took a sip.

A small, delicate Frodo-sip with an extended fifth finger, which Sam had always thought looked ridiculous on any hobbit who wasn't him.

"Cheer up, Sam," Frodo said, smiling compunctiously. "I'm happy to write to the elves for advice – that is, if they will give it. And to Gandalf, too, if he can be found – seeing as he never seems to have a permanent address. But I've thought of something else I could try first."

Sam raised his eyebrows, warily.

"I plan to write," Frodo said, putting down his cup on its saucer with a clink. "Just write, that's all. Paper has more patience than any being, and I need to write an account of our travels in any case."

"An account of our travels?!"

Sam must have looked flummoxed – more so than he had intended, anyway – for Frodo looked at him quizzically. Still, Sam did not think it enough to deter him from saying his piece.

"But Mr. Frodo," he ventured, tempering his voice and assuming his most respectful expression, "I mean, you are a fine writer, begging your pardon, that is a fact, and if anybody were to write an account of our travels, it ought to be you, but don't you think it's too soon? I mean, meanin' no offense, if you can't even speak of lembas…"

But a look of determination was stirring in Frodo's eyes. He took another sip.

The warmth was welcome – he was beginning to feel chilled in earnest now.

He licked his lips.

"But I don't have to speak about it, Sam – that's the beauty of it," he replied. "I can write at my own pace, and at my own pleasure, without anyone's questions or reception to concern myself with – at least not just then. It's not at all the same as a conversation."

Sam puffed out his cheeks and allowed himself to look skeptical, folding his arms around his middle, so Frodo went on to explain.

"Consider," he said, "And this is something I thought of when I was teaching Marigold, as it happens, and it came up again when I was thinking of what you had said, about the senses. When you write, there is nothing but you and the paper, and the movement of the quill, and the flow of the ink. Maybe the crackling of a fire at the hearth, too, and the rain at the window. But all of it is pleasant, comfortable. And that sort of comfort is good armor against the worse parts of memory, after all."

He shifted in his seat, turning his empty cup this way and that.

"And Sam, I don't think I can avoid thinking about the past," he went on. "If I don't write, it will come back anyhow, hiding in the shadows and haunting my dreams. I have to go back, by my own will or another's. And if I must, what better way to do it than by the motion of my own fingers and with the protection of the Shire?"

Sam watched his face. By degrees, it was growing more somber – but also, unmistakably, resolved. Frodo reached for the tea tray and put his cup back, arranging the teapot, the cups and the plate, empty of scones, in an orderly square.

"You're sure, then?" Sam asked. "You've made up your mind?"

"I have." Frodo nodded. "It's time to continue Bilbo's work. I will add to the Red Book, and tell the story of the Fellowship."

Sam sighed.

Frodo's words left no room for argument. In fact, he looked just the same as he did that day, when he resolved to go off to Mordor alone – but Sam was also beginning to understand. The writing – its immediacy, its solemnity – had always been to Frodo what his garden had been to Sam: a place requiring intimate knowledge and care, but also a sanctuary.

He nodded.

"Well, I wish you luck, Mr. Frodo, that's all I can say," he replied. "You know yourself best of course, and you know what you need, bein' you, better than anybody else. Besides" – he gave a half-smile, for he had not been lying: whatever Frodo wrote, he savored every word – "I would very much like to read it, when all is said and done."

Frodo sighed and got up.

He looked back at Sam, but did not answer, instead taking a moment to stretch his back with his hands on his hips. His muscles were truly sore now – the sitting had not helped – and the warmth and the cold were mingling within them in equal measure.

It had been vain to hope, after all, that this October the sixth would be any different.

He looked at Sam once more, and appraised his features – his warm, dark, tea-colored eyes, his blond hair in the firelight, the thoughtful expression that he now wore more often than not, for he was no longer in the habit of trusting the surface nature of things.

Whatever the date, however, Sam was always there – never far away, married or not, living with him or not – and he was warm and real and good, and knew Frodo in ways that none other did, and trusted him absolutely.

Frodo walked around the tea table, and sat beside his friend. He leaned against him and Sam, immediately, draped his arm around him. Frodo lay his head in the crook of his shoulder.

Just like old times.

They sat like that, for a long moment, their bodies folded into each other, like two hobbits in their sitting room, having just finished a spot of tea and having talked of many things, even as the night stretched her cloak over the world outside.

Before he knew it, Frodo's lips began to move in song:

" I sit beside the fire and think

of all that I have seen

of meadow-flowers and butterflies

in summers that have been "

It was, again, one of Bilbo's compositions, which Sam remembered, and joined in:

" Of yellow leaves and gossamer

in autumns that there were,

with morning mist and silver sun

and wind upon my hair. " (1)

They sang the song, softly, all the way through, and took turns with each stanza, finishing with "voices at my door." They then grew quiet, and Sam took Frodo's hands in his.

"Your hands are cold, Mr. Frodo."

He drew Frodo's hand – the fingerless one – to his lips, and kissed it.

The wood sighed in the eaves, settling – or perhaps moving with the earth as the wind rocked the branches of the great tree above. Down the hall in the bedroom, they heard a creak and a step. Marigold was stirring.

"I Sit Beside The Fire and Think" from Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.