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Author: Elderberry Wine
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The Shadow on the Wall
Many years from now, the winter Frodo Baggins and I fell in love will be remembered by the Shire as an exceptional one, I expect. The snow started early this year, and has continued to fall until it seems as though spring will never come again. But it isn’t so much the snow, really, as the dark dank fog that has settled in on those days when it does not snow, day after dreary day, until the recollection of a golden sun in a sparkling blue sky is a fading remembrance. However, in my memories and dreams, I’m afraid Baggins and I never gave the matter quite the consideration that such a strange winter deserved. We managed to spend days on end going from bedroom to study, and back to bedroom again, with no sense of time save for the punctually served meals left cautiously in the study, and the vague sense that there was alternating darkness and semi-darkness without the windows of Bag End. What preoccupied us so? Looking back on those heady treasured days, it’s rather difficult to recollect all the particulars. Certainly there was the newly discovered physical aspect of things, but there was conversation as well in the form of the exchange of confidences both trusting and enlightening, not to mention frequently quite entertaining. And there were other moments when not a word was exchanged, but only loving touches, prolonged kisses, ecstatic gasps, and the contented sigh. Really, it must have been at least a couple of weeks before we noticed that the world out of doors had turned a little odd.
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The day came, however, when there was a preemptive pounding on the front door of Bag End, and a desperate cry for my assistance. Winter fever, along with the damp unhealthful air, had returned to the Shire, and I was quickly plunged back into my chosen calling. Nearly every smialhold, in the greater Hobbiton area, did not go unscathed, and even though my powers against that dreaded scourge were but limited, I was the only hope most of these poor souls had. So I did what I could, tramping the cold icy roads, brewing batch after batch of the tincture as my mam had taught me, to reduce the heating somewhat, and when I was at last back at Bag End, throwing myself into bed exhausted late in the night with quite nearly no thought of who was occupying it with me. But Baggins bore it all in quite good stead. Indeed, entirely unlike his usual querulousness regarding having his routine disturbed, he assisted me when I was too tired to brew one more batch, arranged to have a pony and cart at my command without my mentioning the matter, and was a constant source of comfort and concern on those long weary nights. Indeed, the good folk of Hobbiton soon got used to seeing his tall spare figure accompanying me on my rounds, and many a hobbit was heard to mutter as they “never would’ve believed it if they hadn’t ‘uv seen it for themselves”. It was not more than a week into these rounds, however, when a letter arrived from Meriadoc Brandybuck, with a most urgent plea. Meriadoc, more commonly known as Merry, was another of Baggins’ cousins, and might I mention that it always struck me as odd, and more than a little amusing, that such a determinedly singular and solitary creature as Baggins could nonetheless be closely connected with all the best Shire families. Although he holed up in the remote village of Hobbiton, he was yet constantly in touch with all the various gentlehobbit clans with whom he was related, be they Brandybucks, Tooks, or the more far-flung Baggins. Indeed, I‘m quite sure that you could add Boffins and Bolgers to that list as well. Of course, I always suspected that Hobbiton’s secluded and humble nature was its greatest attraction for him as it had been for his cousin Bilbo Baggins before him. Extended families are wont to be trying, at times, and in my general experience, gentlehobbit families are the worst. It’s harder to nurse a grudge when one must pull together to keep bread on the table, I suspect. But I digress. To return to Merry Brandybuck’s letter, he informed us that the fever had hit Buckland exceptionally hard, and the east bank of the Brandywine in particular. Fever did often seem to spread out from the environs of water, so that was not unusual, but the desperate plea in Brandybuck’s letter was. There were other healers at Brandy Hall, to be sure, but they had lost the eldest to the effects of a long and very well-lived life the previous winter, and it appeared that inexperience was becoming evident. There was more to the letter, however, than a simple plea for a healer’s assistance. “Frodo, you really must come as well, if at all possible,” the letter concluded. “There are matters which cannot be put to paper, and I must admit that I am greatly perplexed and disturbed. If the both of you could see your way to arriving at Brandy Hall as soon as possible, both I and my family would be most appreciative. Please, Frodo, please come!” That was the sort of thing that could not be dismissed, even in our current state of bliss, and so it was that we found ourselves arriving, courtesy of a stout pony and cart, at the Brandybuck estate, on the hind end of a dark and clammy afternoon not two days later.
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Merry Brandybuck was indeed happy to see us, and gave his cousin a long and grateful hug almost as soon as he descended from the cart. I might add that Brandybuck was, in addition to Pippin Took, one of the only two living souls from whom I had ever seen Baggins tolerate close contact, prior to the happy change in our own circumstances of course, and he showed no sign of annoyance at Brandybuck’s prolonged embrace but held him firmly and quietly until Brandybuck at last drew back. “Oh, Frodo, I can’t tell you how good it is to have you here,” he murmured, his voice uncertain, as he dashed a quick hand across his eyes, and then added somewhat guiltily, “And you too, of course, Gamgee.” “Of course we’re here, my dear Merry,” Baggins gave him a rare quick smile, one arm still firmly around the younger hobbit’s shoulders. “And since it is a nasty afternoon, and I’m not quite sure that I can feel my toes, I think the best thing to do would be to find someplace in this grand smial of yours where we could thaw out in front of a nice fire, and have some hot tea. I certainly would not say no to a spot of brandy in mine, and I have no doubt that Gamgee feels much the same. And then you can let us know what it is that bothers you so.” Brandybuck nodded, starting to look a bit brighter all ready, and immediately called out some orders to a couple of serving hobbits who were standing back discreetly at the elaborate entrance to Brandy Hall. In no time, our pony and cart had been whisked off to the stables, and our bits of baggage had disappeared into the smial. We followed Brandybuck into the grand hallway, and through the complicated maze of rooms until we reached a small sitting room that was clearly his own. There was a cozy fire already cheerfully burning, and the room was welcomingly snug and warm. Several well-stuffed armchairs, several with padded footstools, were facing the fire, as well as a couple of handy small tables, and a thick braided rug was underfoot. On a sturdy table near the wall was a jumble of old volumes and rolled parchments, with what appeared to be, at a quick glance, an ancient map unscrolled and held open with the help of a few of the books. I could see Baggins’ curious glance land upon the contents of the table, but he made no comment as we sank gratefully into the chairs and rubbed our warming hands in the heat of the fire. A couple of serving lasses politely knocked, no more than few minutes later, and quickly laid out a handsome tea on the small tables, with plates as well of bread and butter, round pots of jam, and cheese and dried fruits, with the addition of, I was amused to see, a small flask of what was presumably brandy. All in all, a most welcome sight. The lasses left, and for the next few moments, Baggins and I set to warming our insides as well as our outsides, and Brandybuck poured himself a cup, laced with brandy as well, and patiently waited. Finally Baggins put down his cup and gave Brandybuck a direct look. “Trouble from without the border wall, then?” he asked quietly. “How bad is it, Merry?” Brandybuck gave a distinct start, and began, “But how could you have possibly… oh.” He smiled wryly as he followed Baggins’ glance and added, a trifle sheepishly, “Those old maps, I suppose. I do forget, sometimes, how you notice every little thing. But yes, trouble indeed. The very worst kind. And now that Father has been gone for nearly a week, I don’t mind admitting that I am worried no end. Mother is as well, although she tries to put a brave face on it, and told me I was ridiculous to call for you, and that Father has just run into a bit of bad weather. ‘As if anyone would dream of touching the Master of Brandy Hall’, she says, but considering what has already happened, I can’t believe they would hesitate to do just that.” “And what exactly has happened, Merry?” asked Baggins quietly, when the tween’s explanation ran suddenly aground. “Murder, Frodo, just as surely as I’m sitting here!” “Indeed,” Baggins sucked in his breath sharply, and I’m quite sure my jaw must have dropped open at the word. Murder? In our peaceful Shire? That simply wasn’t heard of. But Baggins instantly collected himself, and reaching into his jacket pocket, removed his pipe pouch and rose to light it from the fire. “It would be best if you started from the very beginning, my dear cousin, and do try to tell me that has happened, no matter whether you think it pertains or not,” he remarked conversationally, giving the pipe a few puffs to start it. He cast a quick glance in my direction, and I could see how intrigued he was by the glitter in his eyes. “Gamgee, do me the favor of taking a few notes, won’t you?” he added, and I hastily dug about in my own pocket for a scrap of paper, as Brandybuck handed me the pen that had lain on the table. “All set, then? Very well, Merry, tell us everything.”
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It had started in the autumn. As soon as the leaves had commenced to turn, and the chill winds had begun to gust come afternoon, reports had arrived from the lands east of the Brandywine, the section of Buckland that bordered the great wall that lay between the Shire and the Old Forest. There were tales of strange sinister animals, barely glimpsed in the dark night, with burning eyes. Hobbits huddled in their smials, not daring to go out after dark, but attempting to reassure themselves with explanations such as unusually large foxes, or perhaps a badger from the north. But come morning, no matter how closely they had thought them guarded, there was all too often a dead lamb, or calf, in the pasture. The worst of it was, although this was rarely mentioned, that they did not appear to have been killed for their meat, but rather lay in the wet grass with their throats bloodied and worried and otherwise untouched, as if they had been killed purely for the sport of it. Of course the folk of far East Farthing had come to the Master of Brandy Hall with their concerns, and he had sent out a stout troop of his hobbits, well armed with staff and blade, to guard the boundaries, but it proved to be of no use. The killings continued, and the guards saw nothing. Indeed, tales began to grow of wraiths that moved about in the dark, tall living shadows that could kill when they so chose, and all manner of other unnatural creatures. Saradoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, steadfastly refused to believe these uncanny explanations, however, and directed that his hobbits set traps to capture these beasts. But they never caught a thing. About a month ago, matters changed. Besides the occasional dead livestock, the inhabitants of the area began to find more amiss when daylight came. Barns and granaries were depleted, sheds were pillaged, and the last of the year’s crops seemed to vanish from the fields during the foggy nights. Yet the means by which this was being accomplished was an utter mystery. And just in the last couple of weeks had come the worst news of all from the embattled region. Three hobbit farmers who lived alone, in widely spread locations from Newbury to the north to Haysend in the south, had been found murdered. One had been found in his barn, the other in the back field, and the last, most chillingly of all, had been found slain in his very own bed. The method of their death was not immediately known, for their bodies were bloody and battered, and none could bear to look at them for long. In addition, the winter had settled in grimly cold and unremittingly damp. Winter fever was rampant, and even prosperous Buckland was being stretched to its last resources. Famine was starting to appear alarmingly possible, and every goodwife felt the thrill of fear at the sound of the least cough from a fauntling. Saradoc, desperate for some practical plan to combat the horrors of the seemingly endless winter, had decided to join the patrol on the border himself, and had left a week ago. But he had only expected to be gone a few days, and there had been no word from him since. Merry gulped back tears when he related the last bit of his story, and Baggins abruptly stood up. “Grim times, my dear Merry, without a doubt,” he made room for himself on the settle where Merry sat, his head buried in his hands, and gave him a firm clasp about the shoulders. “But we are here, cousin, and we’ll see this through all together. There’s a logical explanation for all of this. There always is, and we’ll find it, and your father too. You did the right thing, Merry dear, to bring us here, and in the morning, Gamgee and I will be off to investigate these matters.” “I’m coming with the both of you,” Merry looked up suddenly, his face still streaked with tears, but his expression set stubbornly as if he expected resistance. Baggins studied him carefully for a moment without comment. And then, laying a gentle hand at the side of his cousin’s face, he quietly said, “Of course you are. After all, until we find your father, you are the acting Master of Brandy Hall. I would expect nothing less from you.”
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Later that night we lay in bed, coiled closely together. I was still unsettled by Merry’s tale, and was glad beyond all words for Frodo’s comforting and reassuring embrace. I clung quite close to him, uncharacteristically I suppose, and only began to relax when he started to stroke my back soothingly. “There’s always a logical explanation, Sam, my dearest. It’s just a matter of examining the facts,” he murmured, and lightly kissed my forehead. “Of course, Frodo,” I responded, probably not sounding terribly convinced, so he found my mouth and kissed me more emphatically this time. “Trust me, my love,” he insisted, as our mouths parted, and I could hear the warm smile in his voice as he wrapped his arms more closely about me. “I always have, Frodo my beloved,” I breathed, burying my face into that intoxicating caress. “I always will.” And it was thus that sleep finally found me.
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We left in the cold grey dawn, on sturdy shaggy ponies, and with enough provisions stuffed in our saddle bags for a couple of weeks. Merry’s mother had not been pleased to see him go, but the combination of the look of resolve on the young hobbit’s face, and her anxiety regarding her husband’s disappearance, was sufficient to convince her that there really was no alternative. We rode silently out from the stables and down through the stubbled wheat fields, that surrounded Brandy Hall, lying dappled with piles of snow, and the only sound was the huff of the ponies, their breath clouding in the chill air, and the occasional harsh caw of a crow alighting on a fence post and watching us curiously. There was something uncanny about these glossy dark birds, and I could see Baggins giving them a thoughtful look, but he said nothing, and neither did Brandybuck nor I as we rode into the misty morning. We had decided to head towards Crickhollow, a small hamlet near the midpoint of Buckland but not far from the wall. It was here that the hobbit who lay murdered in his own bed had been found. Crickhollow had also been one of the locations hit particularly hard by winter fever, as well, and so it was decided that Baggins should appear in the character of my assistant. He had found that he learned more by observation than interviews, he informed us, and by assuming this humble personage, he assured that attention would be focused on Brandybuck and myself, leaving him free to investigate. I immediately assented, for it was clear from the reports that Crickhollow was truly in need of my services, and I would probably be in need of his assistance in truth. Our journey was tediously slow, for the misty morning light was frequently swallowed by swirling thick fog, and none of us knew the way to Crickhollow that well. As it turned out, the only one who knew it at all, actually, was Baggins himself, for I was startled to find, from a casual comment made by Brandybuck, that Baggins had lived in the vicinity as a young lad. “More near the river, I’m afraid,” he shrugged. “Not actually in Crickhollow, or any sort of village, you know. Much more out of the way.” “But I always thought you grew up at Brandy Hall,” I exclaimed without thinking. “Didn’t you come from there to Bag End?” In all of our intimate conversations, his past, prior to arriving at Bag End, had never come up, I now realized with a bit of surprise. Baggins gave a quick glance behind us, to where Brandybuck rode a few paces back, his head down and obviously lost in his own unhappy thoughts. “I suppose I must now tell you all the particulars of my unusual past,” he murmured with the glimmer of a quick smile. “But not at the moment, I think. Young Merry is in need of company, and more to the point, in need of food. It must nearly be eleven, although it’s nearly impossible to tell in this murk. Let’s find a place to stop for a break and some hot tea.” The matter was taken out of our hands, however, when the ponies suddenly lifted their heads with a soft huff, and even we could unexpectedly smell the welcome aroma of a burning log. Apparently, there was a smial not far off, and letting the ponies follow their noses, and ourselves likewise, we soon found it in the fog. The sound of three ponies stamping impatiently before the round door, not to mention Brandybuck’s loud halloo, brought the occupants to the entrance, and three pairs of wary eyes were to be seen peering from behind the half-opened door. Brandybuck was recognized nearly immediately, and I suppose both Baggins and I appeared harmless, for the door was quickly opened, and the residents of the smial welcomed us in with a confusion of words and smiles. “Ah, Master Merry, ‘tis good indeed t’be seein’ you,” the older hobbit exclaimed, and his goodwife behind him nodded bashfully but enthusiastically. “An’ ain’t you just grown something fierce, but then you’d ‘uv been nobbut more’n a fauntling the last I seen o’you, come w’your dad to us river folk.” “Umm, well, yes, thank you,” Brandybuck was clearly a trifle disconcerted at this unexpected greeting, but quickly recovered his equilibrium. “Would you happen to know if he’s been this way recently?” “Aye, barely a week ago,” replied the third hobbit, a rather gawky stripling, who kept alternating standing on one leg and then the other, much like a homespun-clad stork. The effort of speech, however, caused him to go into a coughing spasm, and the attention of the other two residents immediately turned back to him with concern. “Hi, now, Dobby, an’ why aren’t you wrapped in that quilt by the fire, just as I told ye?” the good wife scolded him, leading him lovingly but firmly back to the designated location. “You may be on the mend, m’lad, but I’ll not have my sister sayin’ we let you take ill all over again.” “I’m a healer,” I offered, without any other introduction. “Would you mind me having a look at the lad?” “Oh, we’d be ever that grateful,” she exclaimed with an expression of relief, turning from where she had tucked the young hobbit into a nest of blankets laid on a straw mattress that had been drawn up close to the hearth in the small smial. “My sister lives down i’the valley, and has her hands that full with sick fauntlings, that we offered to take in her oldest to gi’her a bit of breather, as we’ve none ourselves, you know, but this nasty cough just won’t be goin’ and it has me fair worret, I don’t mind a-tellin’ you, good sirs.” Her husband had by now started to stoke the fire under the kettle for tea, and was entertaining Brandybuck with an amazingly complete account of the last time he had seen him, despite the fact it appeared to be at least a dozen years ago. Baggins, as yet not introduced, had followed me, so I mentioned that we were friends of Master Merry, and that not only was I a healer, but that my companion was learning a bit of the art himself. What with Baggins’ surprise announcement that he had been raised in the area, and being well-aware of his inclination to want to remain inconspicuous, I felt it more prudent not to mention names. I was rewarded by a quick but warm glance from him, and felt foolishly gratified that I had read his intentions right. Especially since her husband seemed to have a particularly tenacious memory, based on the volume of detail with which he was regaling a bemused Brandybuck regarding precisely what his young self had done and said on that long-ago momentous occasion. My attention was abruptly drawn, however, back to my young patient as he gave a particularly prolonged and rattling cough. “Here, there, lad, let’s us just have a look at that,” I gave him an encouraging smile and sat on the mattress beside him, “Just raise up your shirt for a moment, that’s right, and give us another good one.” He did, and I listen closely, keeping a gentle hand on his thin back to judge the congestion. It was significant, to be sure, but not alarmingly so. Although he did appear to be recovering, I judged that a tisane of mint would speed the process, so I turned to Baggins, who was standing quietly by the patient’s anxious aunt. “If you wouldn’t mind,” and I then nearly stuttered as his name almost slipped out, “Ah, erm, there a parcel in my bags…” “Certainly,” he quickly responded, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I don’t believe we introduced ourselves,” he smoothly added, picking up my bag from where I had dropped it next to the mattress, and giving both the mistress of the smial and her nephew a polite nod. “This is my friend, Mr. Gamgee, and I am Mr. Underhill.” “Yes, exactly,” I hastily muttered, “and there’s a small packet, in that dark pouch, yes, in that, marked in green, ah, thank you. That’s it. And now, my good lady, if you have any sort of jar or small box?” She hurried to the cupboard, and thereby attracted her husband’s attention, much to Brandybuck’s relief. Taking advantage of the interruption, he joined us, with a quick roll of his eyes that only we, and the nephew, saw. The young patient exchanged conspiratorial grins with the three of us, but the goodwife came bustling back just then, a small earthenware cup in her hand, and her husband in tow. I carefully shook a bit of dried herb from the packet into her cup, and handed it back to her. “Mint,” I explained. “Just add a pinch to a bowl of hot steaming water, and breathe it in. Be sure to cover your head though, so as to not let the steam escape. Before bed would be the best time, I should think, and it will give you a good night’s sleep. But I wouldn’t worry, my lad, you are on your way to recovery. This’ll just make you a bit more comfortable” The older couple were most voluble in their thanks, as Baggins calmly added, “I expect your mother will be glad enough to see a sturdy helpful extra pair of hands coming home soon, won’t she my lad?” “Yes, indeed, sir,” he quickly answered, his grin broadening a bit despite his aunt’s protestations that he shouldn’t be a-headin’ anywhere in all this damp until he was completely over it. “Ah, don’t you take on so, Auntie,” he added fondly, giving her a hearty kiss on the cheek. “I’ll still be checkin’ on the pair o’ye most every day. An’ mam’ll be that grateful you helped us out by a-takin’ me in for a bit, no mistake.” Since tears did not seem far from the surface, we accepted a quick cup of tea and made ready to be on our way. “Oh, and did my father happen to mention where he was on his way to, when he left here?” Brandybuck added, as nearly an afterthought as we made our way out the rough door into the chill bleak white morning. “I’m trying to catch up with him, you see. A most important message, you know…” But the older hobbit shook his head. “Not a word on’it, Master Merry,” he replied reluctantly “Toward the river or away from it, do you think?” Baggins suddenly questioned, with a nearly indifferent glance out into the mist. “Was he riding, or on foot?” “A fine pony, and now that I think a bit, the pony’s legs were wet, as I was wondering if there’d been rain. But the Master was dry enough, so he must have been climbing out of the water, I warrant. In that case, he probably was heading in Crickhollow direction, and you might want t’be checkin’ w’the proprietor of the New Inn. Nearly all folk who end up in Crickhollow stop by there. Fine brew. You know, Mr. Underhill, I can’t help but notice you look a bit familiar. You won’t be havin’ family in these parts, now, would you?” “None that I’m aware of,” Baggins shook his head politely and speedily mounted his pony. “But then I’m always being mistaken for someone else. Good day to you, and you might want to look to the latch on the stable door.” “Stars above!” came the startled cry from the old hobbit as we mounted up as well. “ ‘Twas fine enough the day before, and look at it now!” And indeed, the stout iron latch could be seen to be hanging from a sole remaining screw. “Probably just a pony bumping against the door, but it is well to take care,” Baggins responded mildly, and with that, we left.
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It was very nearly the end of the day when we finally found Crickhollow, despite the fact it should have been a mere couple of hours’ ride from the ferry. I had thought to try to stop by young Dobby’s home along the way, but the fog and lack of directions did not make that feasible. Baggins, though, gave a slight smile and noted that the presence of a healer of my caliber was certain to be immediately noticed in a village as small as Crickhollow, and as Brandybuck quickly agreed to that comment, I couldn’t help feeling a bit of, I hope, justifiable pride. Of course, on Brandybuck’s end, it might have been a ruse to get us to the New Inn all the faster, for he certainly seemed glad when it appeared in the dark grey light just around the hill from the first smials of the hamlet. The New Inn, so named, of course, since it was anything but, and any older inn was long ago lost to the memory of even the oldest of hobbits, was a weathered, half-timbered burrow, with a pair of gnarled old oak and a fine walnut tree sheltering the entrance and the small stable at its side. There were benches out front, with some faint remnants of red paint still to be seen on them, where customers could gather out of doors in finer weather. They were quite empty this evening, to be sure, and there was a stillness about the place that did not promise much more company inside. Indeed, I think we quite startled the sole pair of customers seated at a small table near the fire, and I believe we even awoke the innkeeper, since he was seated in a comfortable chair behind the counter, with a white cloth draped over his face. If we did awaken him, however, he took it kindly enough, and sprang up with a smile, ready to dispense hospitality. All the more so, as soon as he recognized Brandybuck, once again from some excursion he had made her with his father years ago. I was beginning to suspect Brandybuck had been a memorable sort of youth, the family connections not withstanding, for he certainly had made an impression on the hobbits of the area. “Hie, Willie, come gi’the Master’s son a hand!” he roared, and a smaller copy of himself, with flaming hair and wearing a wide grin, came scrambling from a back door, wiping his hands on his well-used apron. “Willie here’ll take your ponies to the stable and set them up fine, don’t you worret, good sirs,” he continued, as Willie nodded enthusiastically and disappeared. “He’s been fixin’ me and the lads over there a bit of supper, and you’re all most welcome t’it, if you’d not mind something plain.” The lads, both of whom appeared to have seen at least four score years gone by, nodded amiably, and we accepted the offer with gratitude. Brandybuck introduced Baggins and myself, and when he mentioned my profession, the lads perked up considerably. “An’ if it’d not be that much of a bother, Master Gamgee, I do wish you’d have a look at my knee. It pains me sommat fierce on these damp days, and seemingly, that’s about all we’d be havin’ as of late,” one immediately took advantage of the opening, as we seated ourselves at their table. “Hush, now, ya dolt, let the gentlehobbits have a mug first, leastways, afore you go complainin’ about your aches and pains,” the other scolded his friend, with a quick glance in my direction. “And would you good sirs be staying the night, then?” asked the innkeeper hopefully, coming up behind us and giving the first speaker a quick glare as he set three well-filled mugs down on the table. “Indeed, if you have the room,” Brandybuck replied, taking a deep sip from his mug with a sigh of gratitude. “Oh, of course,” quickly replied the innkeeper, ignoring the sudden alarmed murmurs from the other two guests. “There’s two rooms, and three beds, so it works out nicely enough, don’t it? These two lads won’t mind sleepin’ on the hearth for a night or two.” “I’m sure we can arrange something satisfactory to all of us,” Baggins fluently interposed, speaking up for the first time, “but what was the delicious aroma I smelled as we entered? I think we can all agree that filling our stomachs would be the first order of business. And I must say, I am somewhat surprised to see so few customers in such a fine establishment as yours. Is it the weather that has diminished your trade, or the fever? Or perhaps something else?” The innkeeper’s face suddenly darkened, and he pulled over a chair and sat down heavily. “I don’t mind sayin’,” and he gave a quick look around, “an’ I don’t say much so as my son can hear, but I ain’t never seen the like o’this winter in all my born days. Cold weather and damp, we’ve had that before, an’ surely we’ll have it again. Winter fever, well, now, that comes w’it, like as not. But there’s more than that out there, and that’s why folk are stayin’ tight in their holes.” “Didn’t help old Barleycorn much, a-stayin’ in his hole,” muttered one of the lads, nodding his white head grimly. “Wasn’t a robbery, now, was it?” Baggins pursued the subject with an air of mild curiosity. The innkeeper gave his head a decisive shake. “”Never had much, Barleycorn, and that smial was alus bare as could be. Nothing touched, so I hear, but his pony gone missing. But they say as his bit of shed where he kept it was such a flimsy business that the pony like as not nosed his way out, once he caught on that there wasna food comin’ regular-like.” “So I assume that it was a matter of a few days before his body was discovered?” Baggins gave his brew another sip. “Would likely ha’been longer, but the posthobbit went on in a-lookin’ for him. Can’t remember the last time Barleycorn got a letter, and I never would ha’guessed he knew to read.” “Did anyone happen to hold on to that letter?” “Hmm. Never thought o’that,” the innkeeper frowned. “Can’t say as if I know. Ah, but here comes Willie, so not a word more of this for the time being, if you gentlehobbits wouldn’t mind. There’s just me and him, these days, and he does fret so sometimes.”
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Arrangements for the night were concluded to the satisfaction of the others and to my own surprise, for Baggins suggested that the lads keep the room they’d been using, immediately earning himself their fervent gratitude, and that Brandybuck have the small room with the single bed. As for us, he proposed that we spend the night in the shed so as to keep a closer eye on the ponies. I had my doubts as to this arrangement, but knew better than to express them, at least until I had a better idea as to Baggins’ intentions. There was a logical reason for this, of that I was quite sure, so I voiced no complaint, and tried to give the impression that spending my night in a drafty shed along with the livestock was, without a doubt, just what I had been hoping for. I suppose my mind did not look quite so far ahead as that of my companion, since that turned out to be precisely the case, for as soon as we entered the small shed, lantern in Baggins’ hand, that he wrapped me in a tight embrace and found my mouth almost immediately. “Well, now I see,” I murmured a trifle shakily as we parted, his arms still around me. “Is that really why you wanted us out here, Frodo?” He gave a soft amused bark at my expression. “Not the only reason, my dear Sam, but certainly one of the better. In truth,” he continued, with sudden seriousness, “I suspect this is where we may need to be this night. Surely you have noticed a common thread in these events, Samwise? The shed of the smial at which we stopped earlier this morning had a loose clasp on its door. The same was apparently the case with Barleycorn, and look.” He pointed to the door where, with an uncanny similarity, the ancient iron clasp hung by a loosened screw. “Has it been done deliberately, Frodo?” I asked, unable to hide a sudden thrill of fear. “Possibly,” he murmured, drawing me closer, “but I suspect that nothing will happen amiss this night. I have my suspicions as to why, but that is a matter for the light of morning, such as it is these days. If I were to be entirely honest, my dear Sam, the consideration of obtaining a bit of privacy was quite compelling, especially since we are unlikely to find much of it in the coming days.” “That does not sound at all encouraging, Frodo my dear,” I could not help but sigh. “This case of yours really has come at a most inconvenient time, but I suppose you could not say no to your own cousin.” “You are entirely right about the timing,” he answered in a low voice, drawing a gentle hand to the side of my face. “There is still so much. . . But that’s for another time. Now we need to prepare our accommodations. I noticed that this shed had a steep cast to the roof, and assumed that there was a storage loft, which, indeed, there appears to be.” He swung the light of the lantern high and I could see exactly that over our heads. After a brief search, we found that there was a rough wooden ladder nailed into the side of the wall slats for access. So we left our ponies below, already settling for the night in the company of the resident elderly pony, and clambered up to the loft. It was filled with, besides a fair amount of neatly stacked hay, various odds and ends that evidently had been used in the inn which included, to our great good fortune, a sizeable stack of thick woolen blankets. That was fortunate indeed, for the night was beginning to turn frosty and the dark sky could be seen through the cracks between the warped and weathered slats that made up the roof. I set to work immediately, while Baggins held the lantern, to hollowing out a bit of the straw, spreading some of the blankets over the top, and laying several to the side to cover us. And in no time, blowing out the lantern, we lay curled together, well-nestled in a surprisingly comfortable bed, and the night suddenly seemed not nearly as drear. Improbably enough, the thick fog and clouds seemed to have dissipated for the time being, and the frosty white light of the stars above shone through the cracks of the roof, and Baggins’ pale face seemed lit with a pale glow from within. “Not at all bad,” I murmured, unable to resist the temptation of reaching out and trailing a caressing finger down the side of his face, causing him to smile and turn to me. “Rather more in the way of wool and linen between us than I care for, but I’m afraid that is to be expected.” “Do you really think so, Samwise?” his smile deepened. “Is that a purely professional opinion? I understand physical activity can warm up cold blood quite efficiently.” I had to laugh in delight at this suggestion. “Why, my dearest Frodo, I believe we’ve found some compelling evidence to support that theory, in the last several weeks.” And truth to tell, the cold night was rapidly becoming less of a consideration as I felt myself warming under the blankets, twined together as my legs were around his. “Exactly,” his voice was low and throaty and his hands had found the fastenings of my jacket, as mine eagerly followed suit. But then his hand found my bare torso, and I had to give an involuntary gasp at its icy state. A deep chuckle was heard in my ear, at my reaction, and to my unmistakable astonishment, a distinct nibble was quickly felt on my eartip. Of all characteristics that I had discovered that Baggins possessed, in the last few weeks, playfulness was the least expected, and quite possibly the most enticing. “Frodo,” I growled, in mock consternation, “a bit of warning would be useful, I think. You might notice that a sudden shock does not have the desired effect on certain other areas.” “Ah, that would indeed be unfortunate,” he laughed again, entirely unrepentant. “However, I believe there is a remedy for that condition.” He showed no sign of withdrawing his hand, to my not at all secret delight, but instead, my trouser fastenings were rapidly and dexterously undone, and the hand in question traveled a bit further down, to undeniably warmer regions. Well, I couldn’t help but gasp again at that move, but not due to the temperature of those digits, you may be sure. No, instead they were the cause of a suddenly racing pulse, a thrill that ran abruptly through every one of my limbs, and my hasty tug, one arm about his waist, drawing him over me. “Oh, Frodo,” I moaned helplessly, stretching myself under him with aching want. “I can’t believe I ever thought to live without you, without this.” “Sam, my dearest Sam,” came his response, broken with emotion, in my ear. And now these was no more fabric between us, and we moved tightly together, our hands assisting each other, hungry and craving so very much more. Oh, Frodo, my very own Frodo. You aroused the fire within my staid self that I never knew I was capable of feeling; that consumed and burned and drove me wild for the touch of you on my skin. And the words of love you whispered in my ear, as we twisted ourselves together in our passion, well, there wasn’t a one that didn’t sear itself onto my heart, caught forever and cherished more than life itself. There never was your like, Frodo my beloved, and never will be, not for all the days I shall see under this sun. It was far into the night when we at last fell asleep in each other’s arms, but my dreams were peaceful and filled with sunshine and the brightest of blue eyes.
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Possibly it was the draft at my side that awoke me the next morning, for it certainly wasn’t sunlight. The fog had returned, and it was by the grey early morning light that I saw him standing near the railing that ran along that side of the loft, looking out through one of the cracks between the slats, but his expression contemplative and lost in thought. I must have made the straw beneath the blankets rustle, as I moved my arm back under the covers again, and he glanced my way and gave me a warm smile. “I’m sure you have no idea how delightfully mussed you look just now,” he murmured and then laughed as my blush confirmed that fact. Quickly returning to my side, he caught me up in a tight embrace, and our kiss was leisurely and thorough. It was with a reluctant sigh that he broke from me at last. “We must join the others, I’m afraid, Sam, my love. Merry is nothing if not curious, and I don’t think first breakfast will delay him all that long. And having him pop in just now would never do, I’m sure you would agree.” That was certainly incentive, so I found myself up and appropriate clad in a matter of moments, folding the blankets, and endeavoring to leave the loft as we had found it. And then a thought struck me. “The ponies, Frodo. Are they all right, then?” “Oh, yes,” he answered, starting down the wooden ladder. “As you can see,” he indicated, as I joined him below. “No, I do not expect them to be disturbed at this time. We will be needing them, for I am expecting a message of sorts quite soon.” “But where are we going then?” I asked curiously, standing at his side in the stable doorway and gazing out into the chilly morning. There was not a body in sight on the streets of the small town, and even the inn next to us seemed abnormally silent, nearly as if deserted. “Where we are meant to go, of course,” he gave me a sharp glance. “Barleycorn’s smial.” “Do you still hope to find evidence there?” “Not a good deal, considering the length of time since the crime was committed, but then we are not necessarily attempting to solve that particular puzzle. It is Saradoc Brandybuck for whom we are searching, after all.” “But you believe these events to be connected,” I pursued the point. “Precisely, Sam,” he drew me back into the shadows of the shed for a moment, embracing me and resting his forehead against mine. “These are dangerous waters indeed, my dear, and we must use the greatest of care. You and Merry should probably have stayed back at the Hall, but it’s useless to wish what’s done to change.” “I would not have stayed behind, Frodo,” I whispered, and his arms tightened about me. “I know, my love.” His voice was soft and touched by an unmistakable note of sadness. But the side door of the inn then opened with a scrape and creak and young Willie came out with a pail for water. It was time to present ourselves for breakfast.
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Brandybuck was sitting alone at a table, as we entered, hunched up against the wall in the corner, and dunking his scone in the teacup in a forlorn sort of way. The other resident guests were nowhere to be seen as he glanced up at us. “I was nearly on my way out to check on the both of you. I thought you must have both frozen solid out there last night. Surely it was cold enough to do so,” he muttered, sitting up a little straighter as we joined him at the table. “No need to worry, really,” Baggins sat down at his side, and reached for the teapot as Brandybuck passed a still-warm platter of bacon and fried toast in our direction. “A little brisk, I suppose, but not that bad, was it, Gamgee?” “I must have been too tired to notice,” I sat next to him, deliberately yawning behind a polite hand, trying to not notice the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth. “This bouncing about on ponies is not the way a hobbit was meant to travel, in my opinion. Quite takes it out of a fellow.” “Where should we look for my father now, Frodo?” Well, that rather brought me around with a jolt, for I had nearly forgotten what had brought us here in the first place. But Baggins had obviously been considering the matter, and he rose from his barely begun breakfast. Laying a gently reassuring hand on Brandybuck’s shoulder as he stood up, he signaled to the innkeeper, who was just entering the hall with a tray in hand to clear off the used dishes, and see what else we might like in particular. “Look here, my good fellow,” he began, motioning to him to join us. “Oh, I’m quite sorry; I don’t believe I caught your name last night?” “Wills,” responded the innkeeper immediately. “On account of Willie being the younger, you see.” “Of course, I should have guessed,” Baggins smoothly continued. “We’ll be needing the ponies saddled up this morning, as soon as possible, and some supplies as well, if you don’t mind. But it was that reference of yours as to there being more than cold weather involved that strikes me as curious. You couldn’t possibly explain that a bit, now, could you? After all, with the Master’s son being involved, it is best to be cautious, wouldn’t you agree?” “T’be sure,” warily responded Wills, giving a quick glance to ensure that his son was nowhere about. In a low voice, he continued, “I know you’ll shake your heads, good sirs, when I say as I’ve heard tales that Men are all mixed up in this. But I’ve been to Bree; indeed, I have a cousin there as I used to visit often enough, so I’ve seen Men. And I’m here to t’tell you, as sure as I’m standin’ here, as it ain’t Men who are creepin’ about these parts these days. Leastways, not just Men.” “Why do you say that, Wills?” Baggins asked quietly, his face impassive. “I’ve seen a shadow on the wall, and it were never hobbit, nor human, neither,” Wills’ face betrayed his fear, and his voice gave a nearly imperceptible quaver. “Tall as a Man, it was, but misshapen something dreadful. It was on a back street of Crickhollow where I saw it, late at night, just past the light of the lantern I was holding. I made my way back to the inn as fast as my legs would bring me, sure enough, and I don’t allow Willie out at night no more, neither. And I know I ain’t the only one who has seen such a thing.” “Do you remember exactly when this was?” “Less an’ a fortnight, just as those fogs started to get really thick of a night.” “And Mr. Barleycorn met his end when?” “ ‘Tis three days past. At least, that’s when he was found by the posthobbit. Didn’t have many visitors, old Barleycorn, so can’t be all that certain o’it.” “And how long has it been since the crops started going missing, Wills?” Brandybuck spoke up suddenly, as both Wills and Baggins gave him a startled glance. “My father came this way about five days ago. Did you see him?” Wills scratched his head. “Well, those crops, must ha’been about a month now, I suppose. An’ I never saw the Master, noways. He alus stops by for a pint, too, so I must say as I was that surprised when you said, last night, you’d come this way a’lookin’ for him.” “Very well,” Baggins interposed decisively. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Wills, and I do believe another hot pot of tea, and some fried mushrooms if you have such an item, would not go amiss.” Wills gave a nod and hurried off, as Brandybuck gave the both of us a troubled look. “You don’t think these two matters are mixed together, do you, Frodo?” “Undoubtedly, although precisely how is still uncertain. However, I suspect Barleycorn’s smial may hold some answers.” “What are you looking for, Baggins?” I couldn’t help but ask. “I never look for anything in particular, Gamgee,” he responded, with a raised eyebrow. “I merely examine the evidence that presents itself.” But as I continued to give him a skeptical look, he couldn’t help but give a slight smile and admit, “Very well, you have me. I must admit I am quite curious as to why a letter to be delivered by post was the cause of his body’s discovery, when by all accounts Barleycorn could not read. That would suggest the sender had a different audience in mind, and that, I must concede, has me quite curious indeed.”
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We reached Barleycorn’s smial an hour later. Barleycorn was, of course, no longer in residence, but there was every indication of his exit being an untimely one. The smial itself, probably not tidy under the best of circumstances, was quite decidedly in shambles. The door was half off its hinges, and windblown leaves and debris had been blown within. Furniture was overturned and tossed about, mud tracks covered the worn wooden floors, and there was an unmistakable stain on the bedroom floor that could have been caused by nothing other than blood. Baggins gave a regretful look about the room, and murmured, nearly to himself, “If only I could have seen this sooner.” “Nothing to be gained from this, Baggins?” I asked sympathetically. “Very little,” he sighed. “Other than the fact that his assailants knew of his drinking habit, and chose the opportune moment in which to strike.” He indicated an empty wine bottle on the other side of the bed, which I had not noticed until now. “You’ll notice that Barleycorn did not bother with the niceties of a glass. The bed is stripped, so there is no information to be gained there, but the bloodstain suggests that his body must have been hanging over the side of the bed and dripping on the floor below. I’m referring to the exceptionally regular shape of the stain, of course. That would indicate not much of a struggle, since there are no signs of blood elsewhere, adding to the hypothesis that he was most likely taken unaware.” Brandybuck appeared slightly pale as Baggins looked thoughtfully about the room, and I must admit I did not care much for the images he was conjuring up in my mind, either. “That’s all very good, but now where is it?” he muttered, leaving the bedroom, and re-entering the ruin of a front room, both Brandybuck and I in tow. Then, giving a curt bark of triumph, he dove into a pile of debris in the corner, producing a scrap of dirty paper. “Exactly,” he pronounced, quickly scanning the message and, with a curious expression, handing it over to me. Eagerly, I read it out loud to Brandybuck. “If the reader of this message is who I expect it will be,” the hasty scrawl read, “you will be seeking word of Saradoc Brandybuck. At the moment, he is unharmed, but a week from this date, that may no longer be the case. That would be regrettable, but he would have, at that point, no more value. If you wish further information, find the smial nearest the Wall. I am but seeking one. No one else need be concerned in this matter.” “What does that mean, Baggins?” I asked, mystified, as Brandybuck clutched the note tightly in his hand and reread it with alarm. “The message is meant for me,” Baggins replied softly, giving me an odd look. “And there is only one who could have written it.” “When was Barleycorn killed, again, Frodo?” Brandybuck looked up abruptly, stricken with fear. “No more than four days ago, Merry,” Frodo immediately wrapped his arm around the young hobbit. “Don’t worry, my dear, they’re not likely to hurt him. I very much doubt if it would suit their purposes to have all of Buckland rise up against them, as would undeniably happen if the Master were injured in any way. Empty threats, my dear lad, but it would be best if we did not delay in seeking them out, anyway.” His voice was assured and reassuring, but the glance he gave me over the top of Brandybuck’s head was concerned.
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Baggins led his pony at a rapid pace through the foggy forest that lay on the other side of Crickhollow as if he knew exactly where he was going. Brandybuck and I kept our own ponies close at his heels, for there was no question that matters were beginning to slip from our comprehension. There was a battle of wills being set into play, and it had nothing to do, in the end, with either of us. Brandybuck was, of course, deeply concerned about his father, and I was beginning to realize that the dangerous waters to which Baggins had earlier referred were far more treacherous than I had ever dreamed. Both of us, though, understood that this was not a time for questions, and let him lead us on through white mist and tall grim pines over an almost unperceivable road. There was a muted roar in the background as we rode through increasingly rocky terrain, and I recalled from the maps of the Shire that hung in Baggins’ study that the Withywindle, out of the Old Forest, joined with the Brandywine somewhere in the vicinity. After traveling what seemed like days without count, the sound of rushing water was thundering quite close at hand as a thickly wooded hill arose before us, and Baggins halted his mount. “The smial before the Wall,” he murmured to us. “Use caution, both of you. These are desperate foes we now face. Do not,” he turned around on his pony, giving me a stern glance of unmistakable warning, “dismiss them lightly.” And without another word, he dismounted, tying the pony quickly to a low branch, and walked purposefully toward the seemingly abandoned smial’s entrance. We followed, of course, without a word. The smial, at first glance, appeared empty and derelict. But Baggins just glanced down at the floor, and then even I could see the marks of footprints, as well as something being dragged, in the deep dust. They led into a dark hallway, which Baggins warily entered. There was a doorway, at the end, with a half-opened door, and as I followed him, I could see that we had come to the right place after all. Saradoc Brandybuck sat on a wooden chair, bound tightly to it, and his head drooped forward on his chest. Behind me, I could hear his son give a stifled gasp of pain, and both of us rushed forward with no other thought as to who else might be in the room. Merry rapidly pulled a small knife from his pocket and set about cutting through the cords as I withdrew a flask of water from my pack and moistened his lips with it. The victim had obviously been suffering from a lack of food and drink, and I found it hard to reconcile my memory of a handsome and imposing Master of Buckland, with the emaciated creature that was before me now. It wasn’t until Saradoc gave a weak cough and began to groggily lift his head that I heard a perfunctory clearing of the throat and spun around to see who else was in the room with us. Lotho Sackville-Baggins was standing slouched against the back wall of the room, an unmistakable smirk on his face. “Touching,” he drawled sarcastically. “Extremely touching. And entirely predicable.” “Lotho Pimple-Face,” I gasped in shock, without thinking. “It would be well, Gamgee, to retire that nickname,” he snarled, and I remembered, perhaps a little too late, Baggins’ warning. Fortunately, I was not the object of his interest at this moment and he turned to Baggins, who had been standing silently behind us up until now. “For such a vaunted intelligence, dear cousin,” and the malice in his voice was unmistakable, “you certainly are easily manipulated.” “When I choose to be,” Baggins replied softly, with no change of expression. “Very well, Lotho, you’ve drawn me here. What is it that you wish to accomplish by that? What benefit have you told your associates that I will provide? I really can’t imagine that we have much to discuss, after all.” “Then perhaps I have suppose you to have a better imagination than you actually possess,” Lotho sneered, a condescending smirk on his face. “I suppose you think you have worked out who my, as you call them, associates are?” “Renegade Men, from without the wall,” Baggins calmly stated. “Controlled, as are you, by a power that wishes the Shire ill. In addition, of course, to some sort of fell creatures that I suppose they have brought with them for their own purposes. The same lot you were connected with the last time I saw you in Frogmorton. That was an unpleasant affair, to be sure,” he added, with a cold gleam in his eye, “And it seems as though you have not yet learned your lesson. But then, cousin, intellectual affairs have never been your strength, I believe.” “My, aren’t we arrogant for someone in such a poor strategic position,” Lotho sneered, his deep anger only revealed by the whitened knuckles that were clutching a sturdy cudgel, which until now he had hidden behind his back. “Pretty words for one whose companions are entirely reliant on my good will at the present. But I don’t think you’ve seen the entire picture, cousin. Let me present it to you.” I noticed, with a quick glance, that Saradoc Brandybuck had lifted his head, and despite his unhealthy appearance, was following this conversation intently. Merry Brandybuck, while still ostensibly caring for his father, was also listening. But if Baggins was aware of this interest, he gave no indication, treating his cousin as if they were having an inconsequential dispute in the drawing room before tea. “Do as you wish, Lotho,” he sighed, glancing down as he brushed imaginary dust from his jacket. “Just make it concise, I beg of you. It’s a bit of a ride back to Crickhollow if we are to make tea.” “I suppose you think it’s all about the pipeweed, don’t you, Frodo,” Lotho hissed, obviously irritated by Baggins’ calm manner. “But then you never have been one to think strategically, have you? You’ve never considered, I suppose, the Shire’s location as the Elves’ exit from Middle Earth? Surely you know they are in the process of leaving, abandoning this world for some supposed Western Home. And I very much doubt if you’ve ever considered what clout it would give the Shire to control this passage, rather than let them run as they wish over our land. But others have, Frodo, indeed they have. And hobbits with a certain amount of intelligence and ambition may find it prudent to align themselves with those interests. The pipeweed? Merely a favor, a gift. There’s far more value in other contributions, I can assure you.” “You traitor!” I could not help myself, and Frodo quickly gave me a second glance of warning. “Are you not concerned that you may have over-emphasized your importance in the Shire to your new clients, Lotho?” he calmly mentioned, unobtrusively moving himself between Lotho and the other three of us. “That might be rather dangerous to your continued good health, I should think.” Lotho gave him a look of pure hatred at that question. “You may be a thrall of the Brandybucks and Tooks, dear cousin,” he spat out with venom, “but I’ll not be their toady. You may be perfectly content to see the once-proud name of Baggins dragged through the mud, associating with those decayed families and that half-wit gardener of yours, but I am of a rather more progressive turn of mind. Times change, cousin, and those who change with them prosper. I plan on being one of them. This is your one warning and one chance to leave well enough alone, Frodo. It will not be offered to you again.” “Very well. And if you are quite through, I believe I did mention that tea really will not wait. The ride was quite invigorating, and I believe we are all just a bit famished. And if you, Merry, and Gamgee likewise, will give the Master a hand, I believe we will be taking him along as well.”
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I left the inn, to rejoin Frodo in the shed, quite late that night. He had left Saradoc’s sickroom early on, and I knew that he needed time to think. But my attention, at this time, needed to be with my patient. Saradoc Brandybuck really was not in good condition at all, and that cough of his had me bothered, although I tried my best not to let on to that fact with Merry about. However, winter fever is insidious and has a way of coming over those in a weakened condition rapidly, and often with dire results. I enlisted the support of young Willie, to round up any needed ingredients that I had not thought to bring, and the two lads as well. Quite fortunately, they had a store of medical lore locked away in their extensive memories, since it seemed that their respective states of health had been a focus of their attention for many years now. They cheerfully set to work grinding herbs, bringing water to just the proper temperature, and were, in general, pleased as could be to be assisting the renowned healer (I suppose that was me) in helping the Master of Buckland recover from his horrible accident. Rather than give the full particulars out, we had decided to imply that Saradoc had met with a fall, and had been trapped in a remote location, until we had so providentially happened to hear his voice. Fortunately for our tale, the Master was known to be fond of riding out on his own. Merry, of course, refused to be separated from his father, and sat with him through the cautious cleaning off of dried blood and the careful examination, the administering of salves, and the bandaging. Even after Saradoc, only having managed a small bite of food, lay wearily back against the rough but clean sheets and fell into an exhausted sleep, Merry still had his hand closely held in both of his own. The lads took all the bowls and cloths off to be cleaned, and I gave the young hobbit a careful look. “He’s had a bit of a rough time, but he’s sturdy enough. He’ll come around, Merry,” I said quietly, trying to make myself sound more assured than I actually felt. “You need to be getting some sleep as well. He’ll be needing you to be strong for him.” Merry gave a weary yawn, and rubbed his eyes with the hand that was not in his father’s. “I know, Sam,” he murmured in exhaustion. “I’ll be all right. This bed is large enough; I’ll just take up a corner of it. That way I can be here if he needs anything. But you go find Frodo now. The both of you will have to decide what’s to be done about Lotho, I’m afraid. I’ll be needing to get my father home.” I nodded, and helped him swing his legs up onto the bed. Placing a warm blanket over the both of them, I snuffed out the candle and left the room. Merry was already asleep.
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Frodo was standing much where I had seen him this morning, when I had first opened my eyes in the grey dawn, but now he was looking out into darkness, with only the weakly flickering light of a lantern at his feet. There wasn’t anything that he could possibly have seen, in that inky night, but he was apparently lost in thought, as I climbed up the ladder, and it was nearly a moment before he blinked suddenly and turned to me with a private smile, acknowledging my presence. “What is your prognosis, Healer Gamgee, for the Master and his son?” “Saradoc Brandybuck needs to rest quietly for at least a day or two,” I wearily leaned against the railing, suddenly feeling all energy drained from me. “He has been severely weakened, and I do not like the sound of that cough. If he is fortunate though, a few days will be sufficient, and as long as all is well then, he can slowly make his way back to Brandy Hall without undue consequence.” “Merry will see to it,” Frodo murmured. “His part in this, at least, is now done.” “And what of yours, Frodo?” I could not help but ask, watching him and feeling utterly spent. “Not over yet, my dear Samwise; indeed, how could it be?” he responded somberly, moving over to where I stood. “Have a care, my dear, you are going to collapse in your tracks, and over the railing if you are not more cautious.” Catching me up in his arms, I felt myself very nearly collapse against him, all fear, worry, and dread suddenly being more than I could bear. “There, now, my dear,” I heard him whisper in my ear, “that is all for tomorrow. Come, lay in my arms now, Sam, for tonight we have each other.” And he reached down and snuffed out the lantern. There was no hesitation this night in shedding our garments, for I was starved for the feel of him against me, a desire that was obviously mutual. We shivered involuntarily together for a little while, but soon were able to relax into each other’s embrace, and the frosty night faded from our awareness. “How could he turn to such evil, Frodo?” I at last murmured, still filled with the day’s events. “I cannot fathom it. He’s had every advantage. There’s no justification at all for this treachery.” Frodo stroked my back as I lay wrapped in his arms. “There has been a lack in his life, I suppose; of love, more specifically,” he quietly answered at last. “And it’s odd, I have found, what a lack of love will do. That is not a logical reason, but it is undeniably true that the heart is frequently illogical.” I could not help but smile at this statement. “I don’t believe I have ever heard love equated with logic, Frodo. In fact, I have found it rather frequently defies it entirely.” “Ah, my dear, are we not living proof of that?” his voice, near my ear, was warm and tender, and yet it seemed to me I detected a note of sadness in it as well. “But does that lessen our love?” I lifted a hand and gently stroked the side of his face, unseen in the gloom, but so dear and so familiar under my hand. “Nothing ever could, my beloved,” he breathed fervently, and with that, he rolled me to my back and found my mouth with his. His kiss was passionate and unsparing, and I found myself tightening my grip about him, pushing myself toward him, yearning and craving him as if we had never met in love before. Oh, the feel of him over me, the pure want for the sensation of his touch, the all-consuming need to join myself to him in every way possible. In no time, I could not have told you where I was, nor the reasons we were in this rustic shelter rather than our own bed back in Bag End, for it did not matter, none of it, in the least. All I knew, all I wished to know, was that I had never known this joy before I found my way into his heart, by some great miracle, and there never had been any happiness in my life that had ever compared to this. I do not know what he knew that night, for he kept his fears and concerns from me, but he was more tender, more giving, than he had ever been before. If only I had asked, had wondered a bit more, but I did not. I accepted and returned his caresses, his whispered professions of love, and never knew how soon I would ache, with all my heart, to hear those words but once again.
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The rest of this tale is difficult to tell, but I must put it to paper while I am still able to do so. I left with him early the next morning to return to the smial by the Wall, after having first checked in on my patient. Saradoc Brandybuck seemed to be recovering, but I was still wary, and instructed Merry to on no account leave his father, instructions that were actually quite unnecessary, and also instructed him to send word if anything appeared to be going amiss. I knew that Frodo was planning to meet with Lotho Sackville-Baggins again, but for what purpose, I could not have said. Nevertheless, my place was at his side, and I rode with him without hesitation. The roar of the Withywindle once more was to be heard, as we approached the seemingly deserted smial, and Baggins pulled his pony to a halt. He turned to me, as if to say something, but just then there was a shout on the trail from which we had come, and I could see a small figure with bright red hair running toward us. “The Master!” he shouted out, barely heard against the rushing water. “He’s been took ill! Come quick!” I turned to Baggins with alarm, and cried out, “I was afraid of this! I need to go, Frodo. Come back with me now; the rest of this can wait.” With a sad smile, he gave me a searching glance. “Yes, you do need to go back, Sam,” he replied softly. “But I need to go on. I’ll return to the inn as soon as I can.” And unexpectedly reaching out, he touched my face softly. “Take care of them, Sam, my love, and yourself,” he whispered, and then with a sudden heel into his pony’s side, was gone. I stared after him, for a moment, in confusion, but then turned my own pony about and hastened back to Crickhollow. There was something wrong about all of this, it seemed to me, but it wasn’t until I reached the inn at Crickhollow, and young Willie stared at me in confusion, that I realized I had been tricked. With a howl of anguish, I whipped my pony about, and kicked his side heedlessly, urging him back to where I had left Frodo. But it was too late. There was no sign of anyone outside the smial, and as I desperately ran through it, inside either. There was a trail behind the smial, and I ran down it, not knowing what else to do, and heedlessly calling out Frodo’s name. The thundering of water grew louder as I ran, and quite suddenly, nearly before I could stop, the ground gave away before me, falling into a yawning precipice as the river spilled, from where I had halted on its banks, to a pool far below, dashing itself upon jagged rocks with a great spray and din, almost enough that nothing else could be heard but its watery commotion. But I heard, just barely, the sound of a harsh cry, and just out of the corner of my eye, glimpsed the sight of dark curls far below me before they vanished into the mist. I know I called out his name, over and over, and that it was a matter of hours before I finally moved away from that ghastly sight. It was only then that I caught a glimpse of white paper fluttering under a rock, at the top on the chasm, and unthinkingly made my way to it. With trembling hands, I picked it up, and read, through the veil of my tears, a final message to myself.
“Dearest Sam,” it read. “If you are reading this, then it has not gone well for me. Lotho is quite considerately waiting, whilst I write this, and he has agreed, upon his honor as a Baggins, that you are not, come what may, to be harmed in any way. I do believe that I may, at least, rely on his word on this point. So I must bid you good-bye, Sam, my dearest love. Do not grieve over long for me, beloved, for I’ve had perfect happiness in my life, and none of us can wish for more than that. You were meant to love and be loved, Sam, my own, and I wish, with all my heart, that you will have cause to be happy again. Remember me in years to come, dear one, and know that there was once a hobbit who loved you with all his heart; who thought you were the most beautiful lad he had ever seen, who was utterly grateful for all you gave him, and knew you were beyond all compare. Do well and be well, my most beloved Samwise, and let love back into your heart. No one has ever deserved it more than you. Yours forever, your Frodo.”
It wasn’t until Merry found me, the next day, that I left the side of the river.
&&&&&
It is my calling that has saved me, I suppose. There was Saradoc Brandybuck to be considered, and it was several days before he was fit, with Merry’s assistance, to make his way back to Brandy Hall. I declined their very kind invitation to continue on with them, and started back to Hobbiton alone, but found myself in the smial of that kindly couple who had offered us tea, on the chilly morning that seemed like such a very long time ago. I stayed here for a week or so, for the need for a healer in this area was undeniably great. And possibly, I was awaiting news; that there had been a mix-up, a blunder, that I had not interpreted events correctly. Yet no such news came my way, and at last I returned to Hobbiton, and Bag End. It is mine, of course, and yet I very nearly can not bear to stay here. But how could I leave when every room still bears his impression. It is as if I only have to raise my head, in the evening in the study, and he will be there in his corner chair, smoking that infernal pipe of his, and giving me a warm and intimate smile as he looks up over the top of some tattered volume. It is as if I could start a kettle for tea, in the homely kitchen on the Widow’s night off, and he will wander in, and remind me that he would like three spoons of honey, not two, and give that delighted bark of a laugh of his when I playfully warn him that that much honey will make him stout in no time. And every night, when I lie alone in our cold bed, it is as if I only need to roll to the side, and he will catch me up in his arms, and give me a lingering kiss on my throat and murmur my name, and I will close my eyes and sigh with delight and desire, and let myself be swept away to where every want is mine, every request is granted to me, and every dream I ever had is gloriously fulfilled. But my bed is barren, and the night is cold. I do not know, Frodo my beloved, how I shall ever endure this.
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