“...and I heard that he found that treasure of the Baggins and went off to Michel Delving to get some coin for it.  That's why we en't seen him for a bit.”

“Nah.  He's just gone back to those queer Bucklanders is all.  I knew he wouldn't last a fortnight alone in that big old place.”

“My Iris says he's took sick up there all by hisself.  Always been too pale and skinny to be healthy, that boy, my Iris says.”

Sam slumped further over his ale, torn between leaving behind a half-full tankard or enduring more of the same whispered rumours and wild gossip that had been going on ever since Bilbo's abrupt departure three days ago.  

It was getting worse because Frodo hadn't set foot off the Hill since the party.  And it was making Sam feel angry and frightened at the same time, because he was beginning to worry that some of that wild speculation might be true.

He scowled into his drink.

“Pay no mind to em, boy,” the Gaffer declared gruffly.  “I told you, it'll all die down soon enough.  It'd die down a tad sooner than later if Mister Baggins'd come down the Hill.  But that's his right.  It's his hill, he is the Master of Bag End, and he can do as he pleases, if'n you ask me!”  Ending his tirade in a loud tone, the Gaffer banged his tankard down on the table.  The babble of voices in the Green Dragon lulled suddenly as guilty glances were thrown in their direction. 

Not discouraged from their favourite pursuit for long, the patrons of the Green Dragon began to chatter again and the volume escalated once more. “But he's can’t be eatin’ right, Da,” Sam whispered.  “I checked the stores right after Mister Merry and the rest left and there weren’t much then.” 

“None of our business what he ets or don't et, boy,” the Gaffer hissed in a low tone.

“But we haven't seen him at all for two whole days,” Sam protested, his stomach going sour with fears he didn’t want to name. 

“And there've been days when Mister Bilbo Baggins was holed up in there for longer than that, an' you know it.  They’re a lot alike, those two.”

Sam shook his head, “It’s not like Mister Frodo to do that, Da.”

“Boy, you don’t know nothing about what Mister Frodo’ll do,” the Gaffer growled back. “You can’t predict their ways any more than you can predict your sister’s moods.  They’re one kind and we’re another.  And the sooner you--”

“Remember that the better off I’ll be.  I know, Da.  I know.”  Sam was still amazed at the Gaffer’s ability to ignore what he did not want to accept and to forget anything that did not support his long-held beliefs.  But he was still the Gaffer, and Sam would still be the respectful youngest son. 

The Gaffer hurrumped and took a long pull on his ale. 

Sam felt the tension in the back of his neck creeping up into his head yet again.  He had nursed an aching head for two days.  The first day he could blame on too much Old Winyards with Frodo and his kin the day after Mister Bilbo disappeared. 

It had been one of the hardest things Sam had ever done, watching what had gone on that day.  Frodo and his cousins and friends had spent hours fending off greedy relatives who were after their share of the infamous Baggins’ treasure.  As the hours had ticked by, Frodo had grown quieter and quieter and paler and paler, until he practically locked himself in Mister Bilbo's study.  And then Gandalf had left suddenly and Frodo’s barely maintained composure had seemed to go with him.

Worst of all, Sam had to leave as well, just as dawn greyed the sky, because the Gaffer would not be delayed yet another day by the excuse of ‘cleaning up after the party’.  And when Sam had left, Frodo had still been awake and listlessly wandering through Bag End, although Mister Merry had been snoring comfortably, or perhaps uncomfortably, on the floor in the parlour.  Sam had tried to get Frodo to go to bed, but Frodo would have none of it. 

The first day’s headache had slid into the second day’s headache that evening when Sam finally managed to get away from the Sackville-Bagginses and the Gaffer only to find Bag End closed up tight as a drum, doors locked and windows firmly shuttered.  He had circled the hill and pounded on the doors to no avail, then returned the morning in the grey light of dawn to find the smials still closed up tight, and no smoke from the chimneys.  Granted, it was still mild autumn weather, but there was always a fire going somewhere in the damp, cool smials. 

Now, sitting in the Dragon after yet another long day at the S.-B.’s, Sam itched for the Gaffer to finish his ale so they could go on home and he could check again.  If there was still no sign, then he would send a message to Buckland.  Perhaps Frodo had changed his mind and taken Mister Merry up on his invitation to stay with his Brandybuck kin for a while.  Or perhaps he had hied off to Tuckborough to visit the Tooks. 

But the Bagginses had always left the Gamgees with detailed plans for their trips and instructions on caring for Bag End in their absence, along with the extra key.  At least, it had been that way before Mister Bilbo left.  Perhaps now things had changed.  Perhaps Mister Bilbo’s leaving so sudden-like had changed things. 

And that made Sam’s head ache even more.  Perhaps things between he and Frodo would change now.  Only a week ago they had talked long and late about Frodo coming of age and how Frodo was determined that it wouldn’t change their relationship.  They had even talked about Frodo becoming Master of Bag End at some point, and how, even though that might complicate things a bit, it wouldn’t change anything either.  But they hadn’t talked about Mister Bilbo leaving.  Certainly Mister Bilbo had talked about it.  But he had talked about it so often that no one around him, including Frodo, believed he would ever do it.  And then he had gone and vanished.  And so had Frodo, seemingly, without a word to Sam. 

“Boy, are you listenin’ to me?” came the Gaffer’s voice over the rumble of conversation around them.

“I’m sorry, Da.  What?”

“Miz Lobelia wants them bulbs pulled up and stored tomorrow, and she plans to count ‘em.”

“And what am I supposed to do if some critter got at a few of ‘em?” Sam gritted back.

“Boy, don’t give me lip!”

“I’m not, Da,” Sam responded quickly. “But I’d like to give her some.  The way she acted toward Mister Frodo after Mister Bilbo left was--”

“None of our concern, boy!” the Gaffer growled, “I’ve told you, yer gettin’ too far above yerself messin’ about with their like.”   He shook his white head.  “You’ll only come to grief.”

Sam rubbed at his neck wearily.  It was getting late.  Tonight he would do something besides lay in bed worrying -- maybe breaking a shutter or bending that vent in the bathing room and squeezing through--

“...well, I heard Otho bragging that boy of his got him good.   Paid him back just a bit of what he owed him for stealing his inheritance...”

“Yeah, left him black and blue and he’s hidin’ out up there, waitin’ till them bruises heal up.”

Sam sat up straight, his ears instantly tuned to the low conversation behind them.

“I don’t hold with that, though I heard they was quite put out about it all.  Got nothin’ after all that waitin’ but some spoon or...”

“...too much for old Lobelia I'd say.  Scalded her tail right good.  And that boy of hers has a mean streak almost as bad as his mum.”

“And him wrapped around her thumb.  I wouldn't put it past him...”

Sam pushed back and stood hastily.  “I’m goin’ up and check on Bag End, then,” he choked out.  “Just make sure everything’s all right up there.”

He was out of the Dragon before the Gaffer could even blink in response, then he ran, focusing on catching sight of the tree on the Hill over Bag End.  Sam hadn’t done it often, but when it was necessary, he could cover the distance from the Dragon to the Hill at a right fast clip.  When he finally did catch sight of the Hill tree, it looked to him as if it was a great distance off at the end of a long grey tunnel. 

Why had he waited and not just broken through a shutter last night?  He had left Frodo alone to face that lumbering bully Lotho.  He had left Frodo alone.

Sam thought of every curse he knew, including the one in dwarvish that Frodo had taught him not long ago.  He dumped all of them on his own thick head as he ran.

The Hill Road had never seemed so long or so steep before.  His chest was heaving when he skidded to a stop in front of the green door of Bag End, but he didn't even take time to breathe.  His fist slammed into the door, hard. 

“FRODO!!!”

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained and frightened. Taking harsh gulping breaths, Sam slammed his hand against the door again in frustration.  Then he looked around anxiously and saw it. 

Half-buried in mulch by the side of the door was a piece of parchment that had obviously been there for a few days.  Grabbing it up, he saw that there was a nail hole in it, but it had torn loose, it seemed.  It was in Frodo’s hand and it was dated three days back. 

Sam touched the paper reverently, caressing those last words with his fingertips.  Only a few days back Frodo had taught him what those elvish words meant and, for a moment, just a moment, Sam could breath again.  Gulping in air, he leaned over with his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.  Frodo was safe at Brandy Hall.  No one had left him black and blue.  The rumours about Lotho were just rumours.  Looking at the note one more time to reassure himself it was real, he started to turn away from the door.

Then he remembered the end of that awful day, when, over yet another glass of Old Winyards, Mister Merry had begged Frodo to come to Brandy Hall for a visit, just to get away.  And Frodo had been firm about how, after all that had happened, he couldn’t just disappear -- not on the heels of Bilbo’s vanishing act.  Why, they might just make off with Bag End in his absence, as they had nearly done the first time Bilbo left.  He hadn’t even smiled when he said that, but instead he had looked sad and told Mister Merry it would be too traumatic for their tenants and everyone who depended on Bag End for their livelihood if he left too, even briefly.

And Frodo wouldn’t leave without even a word or a touch, not after everything that had happened between them, not with everything they meant to each other -- Frodo wouldn’t leave just a piece of paper, would he?  Sam studied the note again, confused.  Then spotted something strange -- the way the letters wavered just slightly on the page, not Mister Frodo’s clear, precise script at all.  The parchment began to shake in his trembling hands.  Gripping it tightly, he folded it and tucked it into his trouser pocket, gazing at the chipped green paint on the door.  Sam knew Frodo hadn’t gone anywhere -- Frodo had shut himself up in Bag End, without a decent fire, nor even food enough for a day, much less two, pretending, to Sam and everyone else, that he was gone.

Sam wondered, only briefly, if he should just go out behind the hill and sit next to the privy.  Frodo had to come out there sometime.  Perhaps that would be best, just to go out there and wait.  But then he thought about the shaky script and what might have caused Frodo’s hand to shake like that.  Frodo might have taken sick, be lying somewhere in Bag End, hurt, or even worse.  Sam couldn’t just sit and wait. 

Then again, Frodo wouldn't have gone to all that trouble, leaving a note and locking everything up so tight and all, unless he had a good reason.  If there were just some way that he could go in and make sure Frodo was all right and then leave before Frodo even knew he was there.  Sam had done that before, checked on Frodo when he was worried for his safety, but the door had mostly been unlocked then, and Frodo had eventually found out about those times.  Sam would’ve blushed at *that* memory, if he weren’t so worried. 

One last time while it was still light enough, Sam checked all the possible ways into the smials, clambering around the Hill, testing each shutter and door, until finally he realized the only possible way he could get into Bag End was through Mister Bilbo’s secret door. Although he wasn’t certain exactly how it worked, Sam knew precisely where it was.  He scrambled on up the Hill and onto the roof, more sure-footed on this ground than any other place in the world. 

Straight to the spot he went, knowing it as well as he did.  He himself cultivated the shrubs and plants around it to look natural and wild, but behind and beneath their branches, there was another vent that was bigger and broader than the one in the bathing room a few paces away -- a vent that wasn't a vent at all.   Sam could feel his heart pounding so hard that it seemed to vibrate down through his feet into the very soil covering Bag End. 

What would he find if he did manage to get in?  And why didn't Frodo trust him enough to tell him what was wrong?  What if Frodo had gone to Brandy Hall after all?  And how could Frodo go off leaving only a written note for his Sam?  What if Frodo had really locked himself into Bag End?  Why would he have done that? 

Sam’s fingers scrabbled at the metal in the dim light, feeling desperately around the edges of the vent for anything at all.  It was a cunningly crafted thing, probably made by the dwarves for Mister Bilbo.  No one else had vents like these.  And certainly no one had vents that hid secret entrances.  He searched furiously for a latch, a catch, anything at all, but found only smooth metal and nothing else.

On the second pass, Sam felt something odd and misshapen on the metal, then slid past before it registered.  Gingerly, he felt his way back to it.  There it was, and no mistake.  He grappled with it in the dim light, frustration and fear slickening his fingers with sweat.

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “Please open.  Please?”  There was a soft click and the vent swung out in his hands.  Peering into the darkness below, he saw small steps receding into blackness.  Without stopping to think, he slipped down onto those steps, pulling the vent closed behind him and feeling his way in the dark.

The dark.

Sam had forgotten how much he hated the dark. 

***

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