He heard it coming from Mister Bilbo's end of the smials.  Something.  Some indistinct sound.

Sam peered back down the corridor, turning the lamp down even more.  Now that he looked closer, there was more dim light spilling into the passage from beyond the kitchen.  Again, he heard the faintest of sounds, and it was coming from there -- from where the light was -- either Mister Bilbo's study or his bedroom a ways beyond it.  

Taking one more look at Frodo’s room, still unable to believe what he was seeing, Sam moved stealthily back down the corridor, turning the lamp completely down.  The sound solidified into noises in a rhythm that sounded like talking.  He could only catch small snatches, not even words, but the voice was unmistakably Frodo's -- hoarse and scratchy, but it was Frodo.

Sam almost sank to his knees in relief at hearing that beloved voice, but something kept him on his feet.  Something in the tone kept him moving forward, inexorably, toward the door into Mister Bilbo's bedroom.  It was only Frodo’s voice.  No one was answering him.  Was Frodo talking to himself?

Unless...unless Mister Bilbo had snuck back!  He was back and he was hiding away in here.  He had fooled them all!  That was who Mister Frodo was talking to.  Sam felt his heart lift with joy. 

Sam stopped next to the door and carefully peeked around the doorframe into the room.   

Frodo was on his knees in front of Bilbo's wardrobe.  The doors were open and a multicoloured assortment of waistcoats surrounded him on the floor.  A huge trunk stood open behind him, half full of clothing and a candle flickered dimly from the top of another.  Frodo was clutching one particular waistcoat, a rather brightly coloured one, to his chest.

“If I left now, I might find you.  I can hike faster and further than you in a day, but which way, Bilbo?  Which way?” 

He couldn't see Frodo's face, but Sam felt his heart clutch in his chest at the tremor in that voice.  Frodo was missing Mister Bilbo something fierce, from the sound of it.  Even though he had promised himself that he would just make sure Frodo was all right and sneak back out, Sam knew that couldn't do that now, because Frodo wasn’t all right.  He watched as Frodo lowered his face into the waistcoat and breathed deeply as if of some wonderful scent.  It seemed to him that Frodo was grieving, and worse -- Frodo was packing, and he seemed seriously set on following Mister Bilbo.  It was one thing for Frodo to go off to visit his kin; it was another thing for Frodo to be on the road and for Sam not to know where, not to know how to find him.  Sam suddenly felt as if he couldn’t breathe and his skin went clammy.  The lamp slipped the tiniest bit in his grip, barely making a noise, and he looked down to steady it, then he heard the gasp from across the room and realized Frodo had heard it too. 

“SAM!!”

Sam looked up in time to see Frodo scramble to his feet, tripping over the waistcoats and knocking over the candle in the process.   The candle upended onto the stone floor, the holder hit the floor with a clatter, and the room plunged into darkness.  For a long moment, there was just the sound of their breathing -- Frodo’s sounding strained and harsh, but Sam’s no less laboured.  The tiny flame in Sam’s lamp shuddered with every breath.
 
“What are you doing in here?  How did you get in here?”  Frodo croaked from the darkness on the other side of the room. 

Sam turned up the flame in the lamp.  Frodo was standing at an odd angle, swiping at his face with one hand, the waistcoat still clutched in the other, his expression hidden in the shadows.

“I...I’m sorry Mister Frodo.  I got worried an' I thought I ought to make sure everything was all right in here an' I--”

“Go home, Sam.” Frodo turned away from him. “Just go home.  Bag End is fine.”  The voice was shaking.

“I wasn’t worried about Bag End.” Sam took a step toward him. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Sam.  Just go home, please?” came the hoarse response.

Sam moved a little closer, turning the lamp up all the way, and Frodo suddenly headed for the wardrobe. “I just have things I need to do -- alone.”

“Like leaving?”

The dark head turned slightly toward him. “Leaving?”

Sam took a deep breath, looking meaningfully at the trunks, then back at Frodo.  “You’re packin’.” 

Frodo gazed into the wardrobe sightlessly.  His hands twisted the fabric of the waistcoat as he stood there. 

“I am.  I...I’m packing Bilbo’s...” his voice seemed to break then, but he went on, “things away in storage.”  Frodo finished in a quiet voice.  “He left so much.  He left so many things.”

There was a long silence as Frodo stood in front of the wardrobe.  Sam moved closer, trying hard to see if Frodo was really as pale as he appeared in the dim light. 

“I didn’t think he’d do it.  I didn’t think he would really leave.  I know he only stayed here all this time…for me."  Frodo spoke as if Sam wasn't there, talking to himself in an odd tone.  "But I…I suppose I hoped he wouldn't do it.  Not when it came to actually leaving.”

Sam watched as Frodo bent his head and swayed on his feet.  Unable to hold himself back, Sam moved then, tentatively gripping Frodo's shoulder.  He was immensely relieved when Frodo turned willingly into his arms.

“I miss him, Sam,” Frodo buried his face in Sam's shirt and Sam held on silently.
 
“I’ll never know if he’s all right,” the shaky voice went on.   “As long as he’s happy, wherever he is, I could bear it.  If I could just see him, one more time and know--”

“Then we’ll just go find him.”  Sam said quickly, rubbing his hand in slow circles on the damp linen of Frodo's shirt.  “We’ll just close up Bag End and go find him.”

Frodo stiffened in his arms, then pulled back to look at him. “You'd do that, Sam? You'd leave everything and go with me?”

“Frodo, don't you know?  I’d follow you to--” Sam broke off, staring at Frodo's pale face intently. 

At first Sam thought it was a trick of the dim light and shadows, then, when he realized what he was looking at, he felt every muscle in his body suddenly tense and his gut go icy cold.   A dark purple bruise coloured the left side of Frodo's face and it was clear that crying was not the only thing that had swollen his left eye.  

“Mister Frodo, what happened to your face?”  He tried to keep his voice calm, but he knew it was shaking. 

Frodo's eyes widened and he quickly lowered his face back into Sam's shoulder.  “I...I had a bit too much Old Winyards and I ran into the kitchen door,” came the muffled voice. 

Sam looked around the room.  No bottle.  No glass.  Only a teacup sat on the bedside table.  His hand, hidden behind Frodo's back, clenched into a fist and he took a deep breath.   

“That's good.  Well, leastways, better than the rumours.” Sam managed a controlled tone.  “Rumours are Lotho got the best of you and you’re hiding out up here lickin’ your wounds.”

“He did not!”  Frodo pulled away, his blue eyes burning.  “I sent him home limping and bleeding!” He said furiously, the dark, swollen bruise along the side of his face making him look even more fierce.

“Limping and bleeding?  Really?” Sam's mouth quirked only slightly. 

“Very much so,” Frodo's back straightened and he swiped at his face with his shirtsleeve.  Sam noted that shirtsleeve appeared to have seen much of the same use recently.  “Lotho was unable to walk very well when he left and probably won't enjoy...uh...well, he won't be having any fun with Delphinium any time soon.  And his lip was split open,” he finished proudly.

“Really?” Sam managed a smile at that.

Frodo stared at him.  Then he smiled as well.  A tremulous smile, like a grey tinged morning after a dark stormy night. “Really.”
 
“I'm glad,” Sam retorted. “Because you...well, I'm sorry Mister Frodo, but you look awful.”

Frodo's smile grew a bit stronger.  “I know.  I thought the bruise would have faded more by now--”

Sam stared at Frodo's hair.  “And, begging your pardon, but what happened to your hair?” 

Frodo's hand reached up to a ragged gap in his curls at the front.  “You don't want to know.”

“It looks like you let Master Pippin cut it.”

“Not quite, but close.” Frodo demurred.

“Hmmmm?” Sam reached out and dug his fingers into the tense muscles of Frodo's shoulders and Frodo leaned into his ministrations with a sigh and then a long groan, his head bent forward nearly under Sam's chin.

“I was under Bilbo's desk trying to reach something and upended an open glue bottle onto my head,” came the muffled response.  “By the time I realized...well, it was pretty much hardened in glue.  I tried to get it out, but everything stuck to it.  So I just hacked it off.”  One hand went up to touch the shorn curls.

Sam continued to work silently on the tense muscles up and down Frodo's back.

“Sam.”

“Hmmmmm?” Sam responded.

“Do you think you could cut my hair so it doesn't show?”

“I think so.” Sam leaned back and studied the very ragged gap. “It’ll be a bit short though.”  He ran his fingers through it, pulling and checking.  There were still little chunks of some strange substance stuck in it.

“I wonder who will be cutting Bilbo's hair?” Frodo sighed and looked down at the waistcoat still in his hand.

Mister Bilbo had always cut Frodo's hair and Frodo had always cut Mister Bilbo's.  It was a longstanding Baggins' ritual.  Sam had witnessed it many times. 

Now Mister Bilbo was gone.  Sam blinked at the sudden tears in his eyes.  “Mister Bilbo'll find someone to take care of him.  You know how he is,” Sam stated as calmly as he could manage.

Frodo looked up, managing a smile.  “Yes.  Bilbo will find someone to take care of him.” 

“Well, I'm thinking I should build some fires and open some shutters, if you're of a mind to.  Bag End's a bit chilly and...musty, beggin’ your pardon.  At least it appears that way to me,” Sam said.

The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

“I was afraid of what...” Frodo reached up and cupped Sam's face with cold fingers. “I don't want you going after Lotho, Sam.  I don't want to risk the Gaffer-- Lobelia--"

Sam reached out with his own fingers and lightly skimmed the angry-looking bruise, then grasped Frodo's fingers in his own warm ones. 

Frodo was watching him closely.  "I just don’t want anyone else to be hurt because of Bilbo leaving.  Especially not you.”

“Lotho'll hurt himself plenty more than I could ever hurt him,” Sam managed finally.

Frodo looked at him searchingly and frowned.   

“Do you...do you want me to leave the shutters closed, then?” 

“No, although I really would rather not have to explain this.”  Frodo gestured to his face. “To anyone.”

“Well, you don't have to answer the door.  And I can go out and get anything you need,” Sam responded. 

Frodo smiled. “Then I believe you are right, Mister Gamgee.  It does seem a bit...rank in here.  And someone has let the fires go out.” 

“Can't have that," Sam tried hard to make his voice playful, but it was still hard while he was looking at that pale ravaged face.  "I need to go get some wood in and get this hole warmed up some I think.”

“Indeed,” Frodo responded. “And I'll open some shutters to air it out a bit.  And while I am at it, I think I need a bath.”

“Well, I wasn't going to say--”

Frodo swatted Sam's hand away.  “Samwise Gamgee, I am hard pressed to figure how you got into 'this hole', so you had best behave before I think on it too much.”

Sam grinned at that.  “I'll go down and set some coppers on for you and get the bath warmed up.  Then I'll see what's around for supper.” Sam watched as Frodo staggered slightly on his way toward the wardrobe, that bright-coloured waistcoat still clutched in his hand. "We can trim your hair after, if you're still awake, that is."

"I'm not tired, Sam."  Frodo responded in a hollow voice, folding the garment carefully and holding it to his chest. 

“Certain and you aren't," Sam muttered to himself as he looked around the room. "I wonder if Mister Bilbo left those scissors of his." 

“I'm sure he did Sam.  He didn't take much with him,” came Frodo's quiet response.

Sam glanced back at Frodo, still standing in front of the half-empty wardrobe.  Oh yes he did. He took quite a bit of you with him, I think.

***

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