"Hullo, Marigold. Didn't expect to see you again so quick." Sam greeted his sister, ushering her inside. His cheeks were red from the effort of lifting and carrying, he'd been shifting furniture around in one of the bedrooms to make it nice for Elanor, when she was old enough to want a space of her own.

The little girl liked more light than most hobbits did when it came to indoors, so Sam had put a window box on the sill and planted all the bright flowers he could think of, snapdragons and sunflowers and nasturtiums, to make the room seem airier.

"Where's everyone else?" Marigold asked, pulling her bonnet off and fluffing her hair out. When they'd been children, Marigold had taunted Rosie with that hair, for Marigold's was warm earth colours all through and springy and thick, fat brown ringlets on her cheeks, while Rosie's had tended towards unruly waves and coils that had to be roped back into place with ribbons, and frizzed up when the weather was dry. 'My ears are prettier than hers, though,' Rosie had sniffed more than once, and that much was true. Elanor had inherited Rosie's ears, but her red-gold curls were unlike any hobbit before her.

"Let's see... Rosie and Elly have gone over to see Bella Grubb's new baby, a boy complected almost as pale as my Elanor from what I hear. And Mr Frodo's in with his writing as usual."

"I still don't know why you married her, when so many better lasses would have had you. I once saw her spit at Billy Ferny's feet when he asked for a dance, without saying so much as 'no thankyou' first. Sally Birchwood wanted you to speak for her, you know she did, and she's to have her Dad's farm when she weds."

"Bag End's twice the place the Birchwood farm's ever going to be, and that Sally's a flighty little complainer who couldn't cook water if it heated itself up. I'm not going to tolerate you coming into my home and saying things about my Rose, Marigold, and if -"

"It's not your home!" Marigold interrupted with a shout. "And from the talk I hear and what I've seen with my own two eyes she ain't you Rose, neither. Don't tell me you're too half-wise to see it, Sam. Mr Baggins has you living here because he's bedding your ugly little wife. I always said that Rosie Cotton was a hus-"

"Now see here." Sam's red cheeks were white with rage. "I've never raised my hand to you or Daisy or May, but that don't mean I won't if it's warranted, and if you finish that word it will be. Rosie's a Gamgee now, and you'll respect her as your sister-in-law. I thought you better than a gossiper, Marigold."

Marigold's jaw was clenched tight, one eyebrow raised with cool anger. "I don't need gossip to see the truth, not when it's clear as water. Mr Frodo had flowers through his hair when Tom and I visited, like a tween fresh from a roll in the fields. Don't even try to lie and say that weren't her work. And he changed Elanor when she was soiled, which leads me to thinking maybe her strange looks have a simple reason to them. Why else would he care, unless she's his?"

Suddenly Sam laughed, a sad and sharp sound.

"Your life must be such a grey place for you to hate love so. Rosie is my wife, Elly my daughter, and I don't reckon there's a word yet for how I feel about Frodo but, whatever it is, he's that. And if Rose were Frodo's wife and Elly his daughter I'd love them just as I do as things are."

It took a second for the blow to sting after Marigold slapped his cheek. Her eyes welled with tears.

"What happened to you, Sam? I don't know you at all anymore." Her gaze flicked over to the study door behind Sam and she glared.

"I think you'd better go." Frodo said in his most polite, even voice.

"Come with me." Marigold begged her brother. "Leave them to their life and have a proper one yourself."

Sam didn't reply, and Marigold finally nodded and walked away. Frodo hugged Sam, stroking his hands through his hair and kissing gently where a livid handprint was rising on the skin.

"I'm sorry." Frodo whispered. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry."

"No." Sam shook his head. "Stop it with the sorries, for we've nothing to be sorry for, and saying it makes it seem that we do. Marigold don't mean half of it, at any rate, she only says it because she's unhappy in her own life."

Frodo nodded. "I know. Come sit with me for a while? I'm going to drown in words if I keep at it for any longer, revising's even harder than the writing was."

Dust danced on the sunlight in the air as they sat together, blowing lazy smoke rings and talking about nothing much.

"There's talk of having bonfire night early this year, the trees grew so green in summer that there's more leaves on the ground now than folk have room for. I've heard people say they want it close as this coming Sunday."

Frodo shook his head in amazement.

"Time does get on, doesn't it? Seems like only yesterday we got home, and the day before that we left."

"Yet at the same time it's as if we've been here, living with Rosie, forever. I feel like there's a pair of Sam Gamgees, one and adventurer, and one just a plain ordinary hobbit."

"Yes." Frodo smiled, lapsing into thoughtful silence. Then, with a small nod to himself, as if some decision had been reached, he spoke again. "It will be Bilbo's birthday on Thursday, Sam, and he will pass the Old Took. He will be a hundred and thirty-one!"

Sam remembered Bilbo's party twenty years before, how Rosie had kissed him on the cheek and then run away, her own cheeks pink with blushing. She still had the silver bangle he'd given her that night, kept stored away for Elanor to wear in time, Rosie's own wrist too grown for it now.

"So he will!" Sam laughed to think of Bilbo growing so old when he'd always been so young at heart. "He's a marvel! And your birthday, too, don't think we'd forget that. Rosie will want to make it a party to remember."

"Well, Sam, I want you to see Rose and find out if she can spare you," Frodo pulled a pile of old maps out of one of the bookshelves. "So that you and I can go off together. You can't go far or for a long time now, of course." His voice sounded a little sad, wistful.

"Well, not very well, Mr Frodo." Sam agreed. "Nor can you, with your health being what it is, though I suppose a spell in Rivendell will do more good than harm, and we'll muddle through until you come back. Elly and Rosie can't be left on their own for too long, though, otherwise I wouldn't dream of leaving you."

"Of course not. But never mind." Frodo grinned, holding Sam's hand in a way meant to be comforting, the gesture slightly marred by the scarred nature of his own hand. "You can see me on my way. Tell Rose that you won't be away very long, not more than a fortnight, and you'll come back quite safe. And she's not to fret about me, either, for I'll be happy and safe myself, though I'll miss my little family."

Frodo blinked a few times, as if the smoke had clouded his eyes, and squeezed Sam's fingers.

"I wish I could go all the way with you to Rivendell, Mr Frodo, and see Mr Bilbo... and yet the only place I really want to be in is here. I am that torn in two."

"Poor Sam." Frodo smiled, eyes still overbright from the smoky air and the light of the fire. "It will feel like that, I am afraid. But you will be healed - you were meant to be solid and whole, and you will be."

"I reckon my healing's all bound up in your own, though. So when you come back to us happy and strong, both the Sam Gamgees in my head, hobbit and journeyer alike, will be complete as anything."

"Don't say that." Frodo shook his head. "Take the words back, Sam. It might be that day never comes, and you deserve a joy not tied to a wounded old cobweb like me."

"They're not wounds anymore, they're scars." Sam corrected, skating his fingertips over the stump where Frodo's hand became a knot of tissue. "And I love them as I love the rest of you. Don't dwell on old things that can't be changed with wishing, look ahead to what comes next in our story. We've still got an inkwell or two's worth of tales between us."

Frodo rested his head on Sam's shoulder, watching the fire burn down to embers, thinking about stories, and happily ever afters.

~

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