"So Da’s not hurt, you're not hurt, and work at Miz Lobelia’s en’t finished yet, but here you're come home at mid-day looking pale as new milk. Are you sick then, boy?" Daisy Gamgee stood, hands on her hips, honey-coloured hair a halo around her sweaty face, frizzy tendrils sticking to her neck -- the baskets of wet laundry stacked in the hall telling the tale of her own frustration with the sudden downpour. "Well?" Sam stood in the kitchen, dripping wet and shaking. He was only partially aware of his eldest sister standing in front of him, ranting away pretty much as usual. His heart was slamming against his ribs as if he had run for leagues through the rain, not the short distance up from the Water, and his head was whirling trying to find the proper words to wrap around his feelings, to respond to whatever the Gaffer might have to say. Instead, he had to push away the image of Frodo’s face, jaw rigid with control, as he stood there on the road. Frodo was afraid for him, for them. "Samwise!" It was Daisy’s irritated voice, followed by the sound of the front door rattling in the wind. "Daz, stop your caterwaulin' will you?" came a plaintive voice from the parlour. "May has stacks of sewin’ and she’s got one of her headaches again," Daisy hissed. Then she pinched her nose. "And I think I’m gettin’ one as well and you are not helpin’ Samwise Gamgee, trackin' mud all over my clean floor!" Sam gazed at the mud on his feet and then back up at his sister’s broad face. "Sorry Daz," he said dully. She peered at him closely. "You are sick en’t you? Pouring rain, no food in the smial, you sick, May sick, and Da’s bones’ll be aching somethin’ fierce with this storm--" Daisy was powerful good at litanies of woe and Sam hated to cut her short, but he wasn’t of a mood to listen today. "I’m not sick." "You-- what?" "I’m not sick. Da told me to come home, so here I am." Daisy looked him up and down and walked around him. "Not sick, all of one piece far as I can tell." She was back in his face again. "What did you do, Samwise Gamgee? Where is Da?" "Up at Bag End," he answered quietly. "In the gardens? But today is Miz Lobelia’s." Daisy was not going to be put off. She never was. "No. He’s puttin' the tools in the shed. The S-Bs is off in Hardbottle anyways. We can catch up after this blows through." "Da never let a storm stop him afore now. I’ve seen him wait out worse blows than this. And this’ll make more work for sure." She put her hands on her hips and took her ‘motherly’ stance. Sam saw May’s pale, pinched face peering at him from the doorway. "What happened Samwise? What did you--" Daisy’s eyes widened. "Oh! He found out. He found out didn't he?" Sam frowned at her then glanced at the doorway. Daisy spun around. "May, you go on back in there and get to work. No one tellin' you to stop is there?" "I don’t see anyone else in this hole workin’ today, so why do I need ta? Anyway, my head aches somethin’ fierce with this storm an' all," May whined. "Well go on back in there and rest then, but don’t be sneakin’ around things that’re not your business," retorted Daisy. "Hmmpf! As if anyone livin’ in this hole who has ears don’t know this piece of business!" May retorted, but headed back to the parlour. "I knew it," Daisy hissed when May had gone out of earshot. "Da is no fool. He figured what was going on between you and Mister Frodo, didn't he?" The wind punctuated Daisy’s comment with another gust that slapped against the walls and rattled the shutters. The Gaffer had no idea what was really going on between him and Frodo. That was the problem. And Sam knew he should’ve told him long afore now. Now it had become this. Whatever this was. He knew what was between him and Frodo was out of step with the Gaffer’s view of the world, just because Mister Frodo was who he was. And now-- Now it was worse, because the Gaffer had been surprised by it -- because, like as not, the Gaffer might ken that Sam’s sisters knew before he did, because he might feel a fool for not seeing what was in front of his face. And all because Sam hadn’t been brave enough to tell the Gaffer the truth. "Samwise?" Daisy’s query sliced painfully into his thoughts. "Well, and that’s what you wanted en’t it, Daz?" Sam ground out in a deceptively quiet voice. "The Gaffer knows now. And now you know for sure what you been guessin’ all along. And likely May and even Mari and every other hobbit in hearing of this hole knows." Daisy’s eyes widened at his words, but she was not one to be faced down easily. "Well, you knew better than to set your sights on the Master's heir. He's near of age, and his like don't tween with--" "Daz, stop talking of things you don't know nothin' about," he whispered. Daisy wasn’t paying proper attention; if she was, she might have noticed the glint of steel in her younger brother’s eye despite his quiet voice, but then not much could stop Daisy Gamgee once she got going. She set her chin and leaned forward. "I’ll say what I like, Samwise Gamgee. I told you what would happen. I told you not to be messing about with your betters. Learning letters and actin’ all la-de-da like he does. Climbing in and outta windows when you shoulda been paying attention to the flowers under 'em." She glanced at the doorway. Flowers. She shouldn’t have mentioned Frodo’s flowers. Sam stepped forward, fear pounding at his temples. "Stop! Just stop now, Daisy. He may be heir to half the Westfarthing, and more besides, but you know he's not like that. You know he's never put on airs nor looked down his nose at any of us and I don't understand why you keep sayin' that. Like that makes it true. Well, it don't. And I'll have no more of it. Do you hear me?" Sam was only a breath from Daisy’s nose, so close that he saw her nostrils flare in response, just as another blast of wind shook the smial and he heard the front door hit the wall. "If’n she don’t, it’s sure the rest of the Row can," the Gaffer growled. "Get outta your sister’s face, Samwise." It was a reflection of Sam’s state of mind that the Gaffer’s voice didn’t even make him flinch. Sam stood there, still leaning close to Daisy, gazing into the wide grey eyes in that suddenly pale face. He thought that he saw something strange flit through her expression, but just as quickly it was gone. She whacked his ear with the flat of her hand, but it was oddly gentle for Daisy. "Idjit," she whispered as she swung away from him. "I have laundry to dry-- somehow in this damp weather," she said loudly. "The kettle’s full and the pot’s ready if anyone has a mind for some tea. I put somethin’ to dry on by the door there. May Gamgee! I see you lurkin' around in the shadows. Go rest your eyes you twit!" Sam didn’t turn to meet the Gaffer’s gaze as his sister sashayed off down the hall still talking to herself under her breath. He didn’t want to know yet. He didn’t want to see the look on his father’s face. "I’ll fix some tea," he said quickly, moving to get the kettle, listening to the muted roar of the torrent outside their snug hole. "Hmmpf," the Gaffer responded, apparently muffled by the drying towel. Sam thought it was strange, but his hands weren’t shaking at all as he poured the boiling water into the pot. He found the milk jug covered with a wet cloth on the floor just inside the cellar door. His father was still standing next to the door of the smial rubbing a bit fruitlessly at his hair. He met Sam’s gaze as Sam set the milk crock on the table. "Here, boy. You’re soaked." He held out the towel. "Thank you, sir." Sam avoided meeting his father’s eyes. He took the towel gratefully. Patting at his face with the towel and rubbing briefly at his hair, he turned to search for his father’s special cup and his own. Hanging the towel carefully over the rag line, he spotted the Gaffer’s cup and his sitting on the sideboard. Hearing a chair scrape and his father’s groan as he eased down into it, Sam thought that the weather must surely be making the Gaffer’s joints ache awful. "Do you want me to brew you a cup of willow bark tea, sir?" Sam asked softly. "Mebbe later," came the Gaffer’s brusque response. "Come on, son. Sit down." "Let me get the sugar, then." "Certain, go ahead." Sam set the mug and cup down next to the teapot and went to retrieve the bowl of sugar and a spoon. He set them down as well and poured his father’s cup, which was a slightly larger cup with a lovely blue glaze that the Gaffer had used for tea since Sam could remember. Then he poured his own. "Settle, Samwise," the Gaffer fussed. "I can pour my own tea." Sam set the teapot down and sat quickly. He watched as his father put milk in his tea, just a touch, hardly enough to change the colour, but so it had always been since he could remember -- barely any milk and no sugar. Sam liked his tea milky and with lots of sugar. A sudden flash of memory made him blink. He remembered his mother teaching him how his da liked his tea at this very table, as she made him tea in that very same blue cup. He could still see her hands, like butterflies hovering over the pot, measuring the tea, then over the cup showing him exactly how much milk to put in. She had lovely slender hands, his mum. Even though they might have been red with harsh use, they had never been rough against his skin. A fierce blast of wind rattled the shutters and made the lamps gutter and dip. "Boy, are you listenin’ ta me at all?" "Sir?" Sam snapped back to the present and found washed-out hazel eyes glaring at him over the rim of the blue glazed cup. The past and present seemed to echo briefly over the worn wooden surface. Sam glanced back down at the table. "I said, we should'a had this talk a ways back, I think." Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t know what talk they were having, yet. "I’d been hearin’ things, but I don’t pay much never mind to what Lotho Sackville-Baggins says, nor that Sandyman neither. I figured it fer what it’s always been since Mister Bilbo’s heir arrived, just more of the same claptrap. But, I am not a fool, boy. I have eyes in my head. I’ve seen things, I just figured you’d tell me if it were somethin’ I should know about afore the rest of Hobbiton." Sam heard the disappointment in his father’s voice, and the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I told Mister Bilbo more’n once that I didn’t think it proper for ya to be getting so friendly and all with his heir. But he was dead set on it, and--" The Gaffer stopped and took a gulp of the tea, rubbing his elbow wearily as he did, as if it pained him to lift the cup. "And yer mum, she wanted you to have your letters. I couldn’t see no real harm that would come of it. But if I take what I saw on the road for what it seemed, and I think I must, for I am not as much of a fool as my son appears to think I am, then Mister Lotho weren’t far off from the truth." Sam looked up questioningly. The Gaffer’s face reddened, ever so slightly, and he leaned forward. "I need to hear ya say what it is you were doin’ out there in the woods with Mister Frodo Baggins, boy. What is this between you and him? You told me it was runnin’ an errand fer him and I find ya--" the Gaffer lowered his voice, "I find ya standin’ in the road, for anyone to spy, with him--" "It weren’t what you think. Mister Frodo’s been tryin’ to teach me dancin'," Sam began. "And I’m sorry I weren’t truthful about--" "I’ll get to that in a bit," the Gaffer cut him off. "But I've eyes in my head, boy. There was more there than Mister Frodo teachin’ ya to dance. It appeared to me that he was teaching ya to kiss as well, and there is those in town willin’ to talk of it." Sam felt his face go hot under his father’s intent gaze. If there was anything the Gaffer could not abide, it was being the subject of idle gossip. "There is those as say that yer providin’ other work asides gardenin’. Tell me the Master’s heir en’t expecting you ta--" The Gaffer’s voice was almost inaudible beneath the roar of the rain outside the hole. "Service him--" All the air rushed out of Sam’s lungs at that. "NO!" "Don’t raise yer voice to me, boy." The Gaffer looked towards the doorway into the hall. "I en’t yellin’ at you, am I?" Sam took a deep breath and stared into his tea. "No, sir." "So what is it, then?" "It en’t him expecting me to do anything," Sam responded. "That’s not what I ask you, boy. I know what yer sayin' it en’t. What is it? What is this between you and the Master’s heir?" ‘It.’ ‘This.’ They were harsh words for what he felt for Frodo. Sam looked up and met his father’s gaze. How could he say in a few words something it had taken so many words and kisses and touches to make plain between he and Frodo? So many words. He thought of all the words that he had carefully put together in his head that night when he had thought that Frodo was going to leave. And now here he was again, with just words between him and losing Frodo. Just words. "Samwise?" the Gaffer said in a firm tone, brooking no further delay. "I-- I love him, sir." Just words. Words he hadn’t ever said to Frodo. Not once in all those pretty words he had strung together had he said ‘love’. And he knew, as sure as he knew his da, that now he might never get the chance. "Love him." The Gaffer repeated the words as if they tasted dry and foreign in his mouth. A particularly hard gust of wind rattled the shutters and whistled down the chimney, blowing glowing embers and ash onto the floor. "Love him? What do ya mean, boy?" Sam just looked at the Gaffer in dismay. How could he have done that? How could he have said those words so easily to the Gaffer that way and never have spoken them aloud to Frodo? Not once. "Hmmmpf." The Gaffer shook his head and took a sip of his tea, setting the cup down firmly. "You don’t even know what love is. How can you know that’s what you’re feelin'? I did’na think you would be one to confuse what yer body is hungry for with ‘love’. You know better’n that." "It’s not just that," Sam managed. "Well, then, what else is it? You think the heir to Bag End and half the Westfarthing is still just tweening then -- and with such as you?" "Not just--" "Exactly." "I mean, no, he told me--" "Told you? Like as not what you wanted to hear. It's certain that Brandybuck en't got his heart all mixed up with his private parts. He's long past tweenin' age. Likely testin' his limits. When he's the Master--" "No sir. It en’t like that between us." The Gaffer shook his head. "Yer thinking with those bits of you that don’t think well at all, boy. You can’t build a future on those bits." "I’m not! If you’d listen for--" "I won’t take no lip from ya, Samwise Gamgee, so don’t try to give me none," the Gaffer gritted out, his fist clenched on the tabletop as he leaned forward. "I’m not givin' you any, sir. If you’d--" "I know well enough what’s goin’ on here, and I en’t gonna allow it!" The angry gloom outside had swallowed up the sun entire and Sam felt an icy darkness creeping into the corners of the smial and slithering into his heart, just because he couldn’t manage to find the right words. "Nothin’ agin em, but those Bagginses got tongues on 'em that could charm the birds outta the trees." The Gaffer leaned forward. "And the breeches right off of halfwits who can’t tell their hearts from their tail feathers." Sam’s fingers tightened around his cup as wind lashed at the door and whistled in the chimney. He had his chance now to say words the Gaffer would understand, words that would make him realise that what he felt for Frodo -- what he knew Frodo felt for him -- couldn’t be ‘allowed’ or ‘not allowed’. It just ‘was’. "But sir--" "Yer mum, she wanted you to have your letters. That’s what started all this nonsense. You gettin’ it in your head that you could be one of them," the Gaffer muttered. "For all that Bell and the Baggins wanted ta make you into somethin' yer not, yer still just a half-wise fool gardener. There en’t no magic like in them books of his that’ll turn you into somethin’ yer not." "I ne'er thought--" "And that’s the problem there. You ne’er thought. Now look where it’s got you. Lyin' ta me about these ‘errands’ of Mister Frodo’s. What else have ya lied about? Eh? Are ya lyin' now when you say he ain't forcin' hisself on ya? What can I trust now that comes outta that gob of your'n? Nothin', I’m sayin’." The Gaffer shook his head and swilled down the rest of his tea. "I’ve half a mind to take the strap to ya, but I’m hurtin’ too bad for that." The fact that it was delivered in such a defeated tone hurt much worse than any beating ever could. Sam lowered his head and stared at the tabletop, only partially aware of the wind whipping around the front of the smial and the rain lashing at the door and the window. "This would'na set with yer mum -- bless her. She thought you were going to be the one who-- Well, who was different. Who was special." The greying head moved in negation. "I don’t see anythin’ special about you lettin' that Brandybuck cast-off satisfy hisself on ya." Sam cringed. And how could something that made his heart sing and his limbs tremble so be twisted around and appear so different when seen through the eyes of his da? And the Gaffer hadn't referred to Frodo as ‘that Brandybuck cast-off’ for years. "I’m not a half-wit, boy. I know how that itch in yer private parts can steal every thought outta your head when yer a young un. But it's one thing to play tweener games with your own kind, playing ‘em with those as are our betters, that’s playing with fire, that is." "It’s not a game--" "Boy, that strap en’t that far from my hand and I’ll figure how to wield it if you keep talkin’ back to me," the Gaffer growled. Sam gave up any pretence of drinking his tea at that. His hands were shaking too much and his stomach had gone sour. He knew what was coming next and nothing he could say would stop it. He would never get his da to listen at all. Not about this. Not about anything. He shoved his hands into his lap and clasped them tightly to stop the shaking. The Gaffer was leaning forward, spots of colour on his pale cheeks. "Yer sisters," he said in a low tone, just loud enough to carry over the wind. "Would ya want them thinkin’ this is the way you serve? Would ya want May there raising her skirts just because her betters willed it? Or Daisy soiling the sheets as well as washing ‘em because she felt she had ta?" Sam blinked, trying to blot those images out of his mind. How could what he and Frodo had be compared to something so ugly? "It stops now, boy. No more of this-- this, whatever it is that you think yer doing with Mister Frodo. It all stops." Wind howled down the chimney with a loud squeal of sound sending smoke billowing into the room, but Sam barely heard the quickly choked off squeak as a shutter slammed open and began to bang at the other side of the smial. The Gaffer seemed not to notice the storm outside or inside. "Yer a gardener, boy, that’s all. Mebbe someday, if you forget all this foolishness and act a proper gardener, you’ll marry right and gain some land of your own to till in the bargain. But you’ll be a proper gardener." He counted out on his tortured, crooked fingers, "No more talking to the heir as if you were something more to him than what you are. No more hiking off around the countryside for days on end as if you had nothin’ better to do than be his shadow. No more carting around those books of theirs as if you had half an idea what was in 'em. You know enough of your letters to scratch out your name and that’s more than's needed." He leaned even closer, if that was possible, bending his own index finger as if to break it. "No more lookin' and touchin', boy. None of it. If you say more’n ‘yessir’ or ‘nosir’ to him, I better be by. And no more sneakin’ and lyin’." Sam felt that the whole of the Shire, the whole world had shrunk down to this one moment, this table, the Gaffer’s haggard face hanging over it. He closed his eyes to it all. It was like one of those tales Mister Frodo told, where the fate of the world rested in one decision, one word. But he found it hard to even draw breath into his lungs. And he knew that, without those things his da had just ticked off on his fingers, he wouldn’t be living at all. He would just be breathing his way through dark, empty days. "Samwise Gamgee! Look at me when I’m talking at ya." Sam’s eyes snapped open at the tone in his father’s voice. "I’ll not have you defy me, boy," he hissed. "If you can’t stay away from him, then you en't a part of this family. If I catch you at any of it, if I catch you even lookin’ wrong at him, you can go find a place to live with them, since you think yer one of ‘em. Let them feed ya, and clothe ya, and put a roof o’er yer head and nurse ya when yer ill. But you’ll not be a Gamgee. I won’t claim ya. And you won’t have no sisters to make yer clothes for you, nor wash ‘em, nor mend ‘em--" "Like I don’t have brothers?" Sam immediately regretted the whispered question when he heard an audible gasp from the hallway and his father’s eyes went dark. Even against the thundering downpour, the noise of the Gaffer’s chair scraping across the stone floor was loud in the room. The Gaffer lurched to his feet and leaned over with his hands pressed on the table on either side of the blue glazed cup, his face crimson under the greying fringe of hair. "I can surely use my strap, boy. Ya en’t too big for it and I en’t hurtin’ so much that I’ll put up with ya back-talking me." He turned slightly towards the door into the hall. "And there are others in this hole that’ll feel my strap if’n they don’t stop nosing in business not theirs," he growled loudly. There was a slight noise of dissent in the hall, quickly shushed, then the swish of skirts retreating back into the smials. The strap was no longer a threat. Losing his family, that was the true threat here. The Gaffer kept his promises. When he cut you off, you were cut off. There was no middle ground with him. Hamson and Halfred had made their choices and they had all lived with what that meant. Sam looked up at his father’s face, suddenly numb. He didn’t know how to respond. He knew he couldn’t do what his da was asking. He couldn’t be around Frodo and not talk to him or touch him or be with him. That would be a lie as well. No matter what he did, it would be a lie. He couldn’t put a lie to what he felt, to what he knew would happen if he saw Frodo again, if he was within reach of him again. If he was within reach. "Are ya plannin' to defy me, boy?" came the gruff whisper. Sam was shaking with the cold dark that was sinking into his bones. At this point nothing mattered but these words, hovering in the air over the well-worn table top, over the blue glazed cup, with the fury of the storm raging outside. "No sir," he whispered. *** The sturdy table had been scrubbed clean for breakfast and the blue glazed cup gleamed from its special spot in the cupboard. Outside the storm had not slackened as day changed into night with no noticeable deepening of the dark. There were odd sounds now and again, as something was blown about outside, and rain still rattled the window. Inside, in contrast, the storm had subsided into a charged silence. A single candle flickered in the kitchen, throwing imperfect light over a piece of parchment and the wobbly writing on it. The quill made much too much noise as it scratched over the paper, but Sam gamely wrote on, now that he had found the words that came close to saying what needed to be said. His eyes stung, and he blinked trying to see the letters clearly in the dim light. Satisfied, or at least not able to do any better in the time he had, he signed his name slowly. The quill nib seemed to shriek across the paper in the silence, but he finished at last and blotted what he had written. "Samwise Gamgee, have you lost what’s left of yer wits?" Daisy whispered from the hall. "I thought after-- When you didn’t come to supper, I thought you was all in for the night. What’re--?" He jumped and rubbed his sleeve over his wet face quickly, then folded the parchment hurriedly before turning to his sister. She stood in the doorway in her nightgown, a lantern in one hand, gazing at the bulging pack on the floor beside him, her face white and her eyes wide and dark in the flickering yellow light. "You’re not going to him are you? You said you wouldn’t go against da. You promised, Samwise," she hissed as she approached the table. "I said I wouldn’t defy him, and I’m not," Sam responded in a hoarse whisper as he turned to firmly stopper the inkwell and carefully wipe the ink off the quill. He stood up, careful not to move the chair. "Can you put these away safe for me? In my room, in the wooden box under my bed?" "Where’r you going?" she whispered anxiously, looking closely at him before he turned to pick his pack up off the floor and set it on the chair. He went to the hooks next to the door and took down his cloak. It was the fine wool one with a hood that Mister Bilbo had given him on his 108th birthday for his jaunts with Frodo. "Tighfield," he whispered in response as he shrugged into it and fastened it carefully. "Tigh-- And you’d be leaving da to handle all the gardens alone then? Just walking away into the dark and thinkin’ that’s the answer? That Hamson’ll take you in?" "I can’t stay here. You heard what he said. I won’t lie to him. I won’t defy him to his face," he responded woodenly. He had thought it through enough so the words came out with no effort now, even though his voice was hoarse and rough. "You mean you can’t give that up? He's not--" He grasped her arm firmly just above the elbow. He saw her take a breath to squeal in protest, but then clamp her mouth tightly shut over the sound as Sam brought his face close to hers. "I told you. I won't put up with no one talking bad about him. He's the bestest hobbit in the Shire, no mistake. He don't deserve it and I won't listen to it." The grey eyes widened. "You-- you really feel that strong about him then?" she whispered in disbelief. "Strong enough to leave us, to leave your own da without help? Knowing how bad his bones are? How much it pains him to work as it is?" Sam’s voice was soft, though his fingers still gripped her elbow hard. "Da didn’t give me no choice, Daz. You heard him. You was listening. You know what he said." He let go of her, turning to grab his walking stick from the corner. "Oh, he gave ya a choice, Samwise Gamgee," she whispered. "But it weren’t much of one, I’ll give you that." Sam grunted as he pulled his pack up and onto his back. Daisy walked quietly to stand in front of him. "You do feel something for him then," she stated softly, "but does he feel the same for you I wonder? Would he walk away from the Hill, walk away from the Baggins and leave it all behind, just fer--" "I think it wouldn’t happen like that to him, would it then?" He met her gaze with reddened eyes. "But I think he would, if'n it come to that." She gazed at his face, her expression softening, "You always were one to feel things deeper and harder than others did. You always had a soft spot for the foundlings. Whether it be a struggling seedling or a stranded tadpole. Or some cast off, orphaned hobbitlad." Sam couldn’t manage a response. He wondered when he would see her again. He thought about how long it had been since he had seen Hamson. He thought about not seeing Frodo for more than a few hours and his heart stuttered in his chest. Her fingers touched his face. "Yer already cold and it pouring rain out. Can’t you wait till daylight at least?" Sam shook his head fiercely. "If I see Frodo again-- I can’t promise-- I have ta go now, or I won’t go at all. And I can’t do that to the Gaffer, to us. I can’t-- I--" He couldn’t find breath or words for it. Something cold and terrifying had settled in his chest and stolen both. Daisy combed her fingers up through the damp gold locks. "I love you, my Samwise, though ya be a stubborn hobbitchild, I love you terrible. I hate seeing you suffer. I’ll worry after you in this storm." He reached out and pulled her to him, fiercely kissing her forehead, then holding her to him desperately, his tears further dampening her already frizzing hair. She pulled away, swiping at her own cheeks. "Now, can I deliver a message to this ‘bestest of all hobbits’ for you dear brother?" She looked meaningfully at the parchment folded on the table. "Or is that meant fer us as can’t read it?" "Could you take it to him? He’ll be on the Hill waitin’ for me. And I-- I told da I wouldn’t lie nor sneak. I-- I want to--" His voice shook and broke. He was shaking with the furious need to run up the Hill right now. Hoping against hope that Frodo would be there and that he could pull him into his arms once more. Just once more. But then he knew he could never leave. He knew he couldn’t walk away if he saw Frodo again, if he touched him again. He couldn’t. "Would you Daz? For me?" It was a hoarse whisper. She scooped the folded parchment off the table and tucked it into her nightgown. "And if he en’t on the Hill, then? Would that prove anything to you?" "He’ll be there," he whispered. "I’ll take it up there and see." The chin went up and a firm look of determination settled on her face. "Tonight?" Grey eyes met hazel. "Tonight." She laid her hand against his cheek once more. "I promise, brother mine. I just need to get dressed so I won’t catch my death, though that would be so romantic and all." He grimaced at her, placing his own hand over hers, rubbing his thumb across the skin reddened and chapped from the washing. She had always made fun of the songs and tales that Sam retold -- over and over again -- for Marigold, but he knew she had secretly soaked up every word whenever her workload allowed. "Be gentle with him, Daz. I know you--" Her fingers covered his lips. "You know nothin’, you half-wise idjit," she said softly. "Or at least little of what I think. I’ll be as gentle as is called for when it comes to me and mine." Her grey eyes were glimmering in the flickering light. "I heard enough to ken how you feel about him. I’m just gonna make sure he deserves you, is all." He kissed her fingertips and turned for the door. "It’s more the other way around," he whispered, more for himself than her. "You can’t mean to go out in that without a lantern?" "We only have the two." He flipped up his hood and opened the door. She planted herself in front of him once again and shoved a lantern into his hand. "This un is full and I’m sure the Baggins will loan us one while you’re gone, at least." She shivered when the wind whipped at her nightgown and icy rain splattered her arms. "Mercy, it’s turned chilly. What about da? What would you have me tell him?" He thought on that for a long moment, staring at the wet stone floor. "Tell him I’d rather leave than defy him." She gazed at him in disbelief, as if some strange creature had appeared out of the rain at her door. Then she laid her hand over the crackling parchment tucked at her breast. "Did you give him any hope for your return, then?" she asked, her voice quivering just a bit. "Hope is about all I have to give him." He gazed at her hand where it covered her heart -- and his -- then up into her eyes, and stepped into the blind dark without another word. ***
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