Mary

(East of the Sun)

"Don't fidget," Rosie said again, pushing Elanor's shoulders straight again as Rosie braided the seven-year-old's golden curls into some semblance of tidiness. "You have to look your nicest."

"But I always look nice, don't I?" Elanor smiled cheekily. "That's what you usually say."

"Face front," was Rosie's only reply, securing the end of the braid with a length of cornsilk ribbon.

"Do you think Frodo of the Ring knows that we have a party for his birthday, Mum?" Elanor's voice was musing. "With cake and mathoms and all?"

"I'd say he wouldn't be surprised that your Dad insists on it, yes." Rosie gave her eldest one last glance over and nodded to herself. The mid-morning sun came through the kitchen windows and painted the pair of them gold.

Elanor twisted the end of the ribbon between two slim fingers. "Is he giving presents to all the folk around him, then? Since he can't give them to us?"

"He gave us Bag End, didn't he? And that book you're always begging Dad to read from. Don't bite your ribbon!"

"But my gums are achy," complained Elanor, who currently only had one front tooth.

"A ribbon's not going to fix that, lass. Only time."

"Stupid time," Elanor grumbled, sitting down on a kitchen chair and tapping her fingers on the wood of the table. Then she stopped, and looked up at her mother guiltily. "Sorry. I expect you hate it even more than I do."

Rosie looked puzzled. "Why on earth would I hate time, El?"

"Because... it makes things go away," Elanor trailed off.

"It makes new things come, too." Rosie patted her plump stomach with a gentle smile. "Don't look at me like I'm cracked, girl, I know a slight more about things like this than you're aware of yet. Sometimes love is like... well, it's like that plait you're biting at. The three bits all twist around each other as it goes on. First it was me who was the one apart from the other two pieces, when your Dad and Mr Frodo went off on their journey. Then we all came back together, just like in plaiting, and then another had to be the one alone. We didn't want it, of course," Rosie blinked a few times and Elanor decided that the kitchen was terribly smoky and needed a good airing. "But he's happy where he is, and we're happy where we are, and that's more than enough for all of us, for now."

"But how do you know he's happy?" Elanor could never let a mystery rest. She was gaining quite the local reputation for trouble. Her mother just gave one of those infuriating 'you're-still-a-baby-and-this-is-not-a-baby-lesson' smiles that were mostly shut up in a person's eyes. "And what's 'for now' mean?"

"Well, the plait's not ready for a ribbon yet. I know it scares small ones to hear it, but some day I, or your Dad, will finish doing the living we've got ahead of us. And then there will be one left apart here, and they'll go find Frodo again. Then it will be two together and one apart, more of the plait. And then, after that, the two that are together will set out on another journey and find the third, and none of us will be apart again."

Hope

"Now how many times have I told you 'never throw something away when it can be used for something else'?" Rosie asked smugly, adjusting her grip on Frodo's wrists. Frodo's answer was slightly unintelligable, consisting mainly of a whimper that died somewhere behind his teeth and emerged instead as a hiss. "Hold still," Rosie commanded.

Sam lifted his head and licked his lips. "You know," he said thoughtfully, fingers playing idly in the dip of Frodo's navel, "jam is much sweeter after it's been cooked."

"M--m--marmalade!" Frodo blurted, once again descending into writhing incoherence.

"Not much difference in the taste-- mmm..." Sam mumbled against the smooth skin of Frodo's belly, and Rosie laughed breathlessly.

"You know, Frodo, I'm beginning to get a little suspicious of your motivations for constantly insisting on cooking marmalade roll . . . though I use the term 'cooking' very loosely. You think you would have learned by now - from the lingering smell of smoke in the kitchen if nothing else - that however long you cook it is *too* long."

"Yes," Frodo gasped, opening his eyes to look up at her, the squeeze them tight again as Sam's tongue swiped particularly low. "You think I would have."

Mary

He sleeps with one eye open, always has. At least, that's what his aunts in Brandy Hall used to say, because it seemed that nothing ever escaped his notice. Now it's as true as a statement like that can actually be.

There's an ithildin bracelet on the bedside table, a gift from Queen Arwen along with her necklace. It keeps the room from ever losing light entirely, even after all the lamps and candles go out. There's always a crack in the curtains for the moonbeams to sneak through.

His eyelashes look like cracks, when his eyes are almost closed and they mesh together in a black criss-cross. Cracks in the world. And when his eyes are closed, the world ends entirely.

He sleeps with one eye open, looks up at the sun at midday until purple spots dance across his vision and the darkness is almost, almost burnt away.

Then there's a touch to his hand, skin on skin, and Sam's whispered voice in his ear carried on hot breath. Close your eyes, Sam whispers. It's all right. Trust me.

And Frodo does.

Hope

Once Rosie took the children - all five, and another on the way - down to Bywater to visit their grandparents, leaving Frodo and Sam alone in the smial with a stern command of "Behave" and a quick kiss for each.

Soon enough the emptiness and silence of the place drove them out, lazily circling the new party tree (which was just coming into flower again) like honey-heavy bees then making their way further afield, towards the small copse of trees that marked the end of Baggins lands.

Frodo had picked up a stick somewhere along the way - he always seemed to have to carry something when he walked - smooth and straight, it fit into his hand perfectly; he swung it idly before him as he walked. The acorns dropped last season were sprouting underfoot; brilliant green unfurling like fragile baby-hands, a miniature forest of them covering the mulchy floor of the copse.

There came upon a clearing, and Frodo smiled at the memory of the place, throwing his head back and turning in a circle in the center; the now slightly-overgrown fairy-ring still recognisable. He thought he might even be able to point out the very tree that had had served as such a good back rest for a day's reading and reclining, long and lazy, the sun's last rays shafting through tree trunks, letting him know it was time to go home when Bilbo's calls never penetrated.

"Sam, *look*--!" Voice a reverent whisper, he beckoned Sam over without taking his gaze off the branch that dipped at eye level (though he could remember weeks of trying to leap up and swing from it). Sam's steady footsteps padded up behind him, warm presence at his back.

A bulging drip of whiteness seemed to be hanging by a thread from the branch, and, as they watched with held breaths, it shivered, swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side. The bottom of the cocoon was breached; a fragile leg emerging, feeling around, then was gradually followed by another, then a limp body and wretchedly wrinkled rag-like wings, folded uselessly against it.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo breathed. The light of the setting sun breathed through the interlacing trunks behind them, casting his hair a rich russet, skin painted gold and orange. Motes of light danced around him and Sam couldn't breathe when Frodo turned to look at him. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes."

Mary

Sometimes - not often, but often enough to notice - there is a flinty flatness to Frodo's quiet stare. Like flint, it sparks, but instead of hearths and bonfires it makes Sam think of dark places and searing heat inside old mountains. Frodo's soft, kissable mouth twists up at the corners, a wider smile than his usual amused grin but not as welcoming.

It's not that he ain't himself when he's in these moods. It's still Frodo, still buried in a book or watching the flicker of the fire. But this is a Frodo whose fingers aren't gentle in their touches, whose private words for Sam and Rosie's ears aren't pleas so much as they are orders. Harder. Faster. More.

This mouth doesn't lap the tongue onto candle-lit skin, it nips with even white teeth and draws bruises up in the soft hollows of throat and wrist. Frodo watches them, watches Sam kiss Rosie's breasts, and Frodo's expression is as still as a predator's.

Later, when he comes back to himself, Frodo always seems a little frightened of himself, but Rosie and Sam do their best to keep the worries at bay. They'd never say it to him, for it's not a thing he'd like to hear, but their hearts beat a little faster on those nights when their lover's eyes are cold.

Hope

It was somewhat of a shock when Elanor went out into the city with her father and found that men bowed before them. Men, women; wearing fine silk and velvet, or the city's emblem on burnished breatplates, or simple homespun. Sam-dad always bowed back, which posed a problem -- it took them at least three times as long as it ought to have to get from the east gardens back to the tower, which left Elanor equal parts frustrated and proud.

"Mum," she said later, after King Elessar had excused himself to see to 'matters of state' (Elanor just thought he'd had enough of Rosie's interrogation with regards to healing herbs). "Why didn't Uncle Frodo come to Minas Tirith?"

Rosie was silent for a moment, not breaking her leisurely pace, head high and eyes thoughtful as they drifted through the thick grass beside the gravel path. Elanor half-expected the 'you're too young for the truth' answer of *"*Someone* had to stay and take care of the others."* Sam was further ahead of them, not on the path either but rather with his toes dug into the rich, dark soil, fingers carefully cupped around a white rose; they could see the glowing colour of it from that far away.

"Remember that time when you and Frodo-lad were playing hide-and-seek, and Fro decided to hide in the party tree?"

Elanor frowned a little, nodding. "And I could never find him, until I came out to yell for him at dinner and he fell out." She shivered at the memory, so clear; little Frodo pale against the gold trunk of the tree; white bone splintering out and stained with red.

Rosie hooked an arm into hers. "It healed quickly enough, as broken bones are wont to do, but you know how it is, when winter comes."

Elanor nodded thoughtfully, remembering with a slight quirk in her lips her brother's proud proclamations of "rain's coming" as he rubbed his forearm knowingly. They were closer to Sam now, Elanor could catch snatches of a familiar tune hummed under his breath.

"Old wounds can heal, but sometimes they never go away," Rosie murmured. "It isn't always winter that brings up old pains." The city rose above them, snow-white and gleaming so bright it almost hurt her eyes.

"But it can't be summer forever," Elanor retorted, not quite knowing what she was arguing about.

Rosie's arm tightened for a moment, a brief squeeze before she withdrew. "But you can make sure you're rugged up for the cold," she grinned; her face transforming almost startlingly into something similar to what Elanor saw in the looking glass every morning, then gone just as quick as Rosie turned and ran the short distance further, laughter rising with the fresh scent of roses in the garden as Sam caught her and held her fast.

Mary

"Go on, Sam, ask Rosie for a dance."

Frodo can't stop the laugh bubbling up from inside him, somewhere low and warm in his belly. They're shiningly, achingly lovely together, Sam's nervous and shy grin and the flirtatious arch of Rosie's neck.

There's something of an odd layering to how Frodo feels when he watches the two cheerful tweens together. Envy is perhaps part of it, because it was never in his nature to be young and social and it looks like it might have been fun. Genuine mirth, too, because Sam is such an earnest lad and acts wise well beyond his years. It's lovely to see him like this, to push him into the hurly-burly of the springle ring and watch the seriousness fall away like summer rain.

Desire, yes, desire for comfort. Some day, together in all likelihood, Rosie and Sam shall be parents. They'll have laughing daughters and brave sons, and kiss the nightmares of these children into mist and smoke. Frodo loves Bilbo, who is friendly and jolly and knows lots of stories, but Bilbo can be stiff and uncomfortable in the face of too much affection. Probably, Frodo muses, this is why his uncle has never married.

And maybe, buried so deep he hardly has to admit that it's there inside himself, there is another sort of desire that stirs and stretches at the sight of Sam and Rosie's dance.

He likes being alone, and hardly ever calls it lonely. He likes his space, and his quiet.

But all that seems a little, well, empty somehow. Frodo's hands open and close as if wanting for the waistband of a dress or the sleeve of a jacket to cling to.

It should make him sad, this realisation of solitude. It should make jealousy flare to watch the way that Rosie and Sam wander over to the cakes and fruit and drinks together, talking about something unimportant and amusing.

Instead, Frodo's laugh bubbles up again, full of a joy he hardly understands or knows the name for.

Hope

(East of the Sun)

Elanor lived by the sea. Well, not *right* by the sea, but close enough that sometimes she woke in the night to the sound of crashing waves; dissolving on waking to Fastred's steady breathing beside her. Sometimes, if the weather was fair enough and the wind not too strong, she'd take the children with her; babe cradled close in her arms and another one or two with fierce fists in her skirt. In the summer, when the water was calm enough, she'd teach them to swim as the towers kept watch behind them: no child of hers was going to lose its life to these salty depths.

Sometimes her parents came to visit. Rosie always refused - politely enough, but still refused - to come with her to the water; complaining of joints aching with the wet, instead sitting for a smoke and a yarn with Fastred. Sam-dad came with her, but only as far as the uneasy line where the tufts of blade-grass met the expanse of sand, dwindling out like freckles, where he'd sit with arms curled loosely about his knees, watching the children splash in the shallows.

Once the young ones were old enough that Elanor didn't have to be mere steps away from them as they swam, she sat with her father on the sandy carpet of grass, mimicking his posture and glancing at him thoughtfully from time to time. He wasn't so much watching the children, she realised now, as staring out past them to where the horizon blended into sky, glowing hazily with the promise of something *beyond*. She told him about hearing the waves in her sleep once, and he gave her a queer smile, turning away from the sea to look at her - but only for a moment.

Mary

"Raspberry tea tastes like old shirts dipped in sugar," complained Goldy, screwing her nose up and taking the barest of sips from the lip of the cup.

"It's good for infection, though, and that cut on your forehead's not healing as I'd like it to," Rosie retorted. "Now, where have Daisy and Sammie gotten to? I told them to get a start on this washing up."

"We did get a start on it, Mum." Daisy bounded through the doorway with one of the high bunches she wore her hair in coming loose. "But then we saw a duck outside, right in the garden, and we thought it looked like it wanted to have a friendly visit with us. It had walked an awful long way, we couldn't make it wait."

"No, of course not." Rosie's voice was dry but not really scolding. "Where's your brother now?"

"Which one? Merry and Fro and Pip are all off mucking about with that pony Dad let them take charge of. And Ham's learning his sums down by the Party Tree, and Bilbo's helping Dad with the taters. I've got a lot of brothers, Mum, you'll have to be more specific."

"You know very well which brother I was talking about, my girl, and don't think I didn't notice that you left him out of the roll-call."

Daisy's conversational tone switched to one of helpful attendance. "Want me to start on that washing up then, Mum?"

"Daisy." There was a warning in the tone. Goldy hid a self-satisfied smile behind her cup of tea. Rosie didn't play favourites with her children, not at all, but for all Daisy's wicked behaviour it was Goldy who caused the most exasperation in her mother. To not be the one in trouble made a nice change.

"He's reading with Uncle," Daisy admitted regretfully. "Don't be cross, Mum, it wasn't Uncle's idea. Sammie begged and begged."

"I'm not cross, Daisy-duck. The washing's still going to be there when they're done with their strange words. I just like to keep a vague idea of where my brood's causing trouble at a given moment."

"Oh, all right." With a surprised grin, Daisy turned to return to her garden and her new duck friend.

"Daisy." Rosie stopped her. "The washing, please?"

"But you said -"

"Leave half for your brother, and get yours done now. And no grumbling!"

Rosie walked down the hallway as quiet as a hobbit could be, still light on her feet after all these years of chasing after naughty babies and scrubbing at fingerprint-marked windows. Sammie and Frodo were sitting side by side at the desk, a blank book open before them to copy letters into.

"Yes, that's it, wilwarin. You're very quick with these," Frodo said, patting Sammie on the shoulder. The little boy beamed at the praise.

"And what's that mean?" Rosie asked, rapping her knuckles lightly against the open door by way of knocking.

"That's butterfly, Mum!" Sammie informed her. "And laisi is baby, and lindele is music."

"Well, my little laisi, go and help your sister with the washing now. More lessons after supper, all right?"

Sammie nodded and climbed off his chair, running off to teach Daisy all the new words he knew.

"He's a clever lad." Rosie came over and rubbed at Frodo's shoulders. He leaned back into her touch with a sigh. "Though that's hardly surprising."

"With a mother like you, perhaps not." Frodo smiled with his eyes shut.

"Oh, so it's flattery now is it, Mister Baggins? I've never trusted flatterers," teased Rosie.

"Really? I've found they're the most rewarding people to trust. They never let the truth get in the way of a compliment."

"Oh, there are enough compliments in the truth to keep you warm for all your days, Frodo."

"Flatterer."

Hope

He'd visited Bilbo once, before that memory of his mother's lips blue and ribbons clinging wet to the side of her face, come alone because he was a Big Boy Now, old enough that he didn't need parents. Didn't need parents to accompany him across the Shire, at least, for a visit to his favourite cousin's grand smial - all hidden tunnels and gardens you could have Adventures in. Uncle Bilbo talked a lot about Adventures, and he thought he might like to go on one of his own one day, to see the elves and dwarves and mountains, Frodo, mountains, which Bilbo seemed to think were awfully exciting, but Frodo didn't really see their appeal. Mountains. It was awfully hot that day he'd visited, though he recalled it had been snowing the night before, which didn't make sense, or maybe it was the month before because he seemed to remember his shouler being awfully cold; maybe it had been left poking out of the blankets one night and he hadn't noticed? His mothers lips were blue, she must have been awfully cold, but he couldn't remember her even drawing the blanket up over his face when he was that cold; though, they were adults, they knew what was best. Ribbon wet against her face, he wanted to peel it off and brush her hair back, in her mouth like that. He'd wanted to go on an adventure, find treasures of his own and Bilbo had smiled, too many teeth in his mouth, and Frodo reached for his breast because no, he couldn't... have it, it's--, Bilbo had smiled, and clasped a hand on his shoulder, warm, so warm, and said "Come on, my lad, I'll show you where you can find real treasures," and had led him out, with a finger to his lips (blue) and eyes sparkling (mine, you can't--) down the Hill, but not far, on that day it was so hot, and why was it so difficult to walk down hill? It never had been before, Frodo was sure of it, though perhaps they were going up... down the hill, but not far, to a smaller garden, smaller door, flowers black and red and black and sharp and (no, I-- can't, I--) Bilbo's hand, knocking lightly and echoing in Frodo's skull so that it hurt Bilbo's hand, knocking lightly until Ham Gamgee poked his head around from the back garden with a mouthful of surprised greetings; and then Frodo had mouthfuls of dust, and ashes and then Frodo had mouthfuls of sweet cakes, marmalade roll and pumpkin pie, and when his belly was full enough and something was was heavy, so heavy that -- and when his belly was full enough, a soft look from the Gammer and a wink from the Gaffer had led him into a small room, smaller, tinier than his own (such a little thing) even his own at Brandy Hall, smelling of warm milk and something else, something that got stronger as Bell Gamgee placed something small in his arms, (smoke) something small and wriggling, something that wrapped tiny fingers around his thumb and made a startlingly loud noise "He likes you, Master Frodo, see how he just told you?" and oh, he had never so much before wanted . . .

"I have come," he said. "But I do not choose now what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

Mary

"I won't."

Elanor's jaw was set, a rapid pulse ticking in her throat below her chin and eyes blazing.

"He's calling for you, El," pleaded Rose in a hushed voice, sitting beside her older sister in the hallway.

"So? He doesn't want me, in another minute he'll be asking for someone else, somebody who can't possibly go in like his Mam or Gandalf. Snakes and adders, I don't care if he screams all night."

Rose rolled her eyes. Elanor had the stubborness of both her parents in her blood, and the contraryness of her uncle learnt into her as well. Mum and Dad were having a holiday because they'd been ten years married, and Rose had leapt on the chance to play head of the house to her brothers and sisters, even if really Uncle Frodo was still in charge. El didn't have the knack of bossing folk like Rose did, which made Rose feel rather nice.

This wasn't one of Uncle Frodo's turns, Rose had seen a few of those and they were horrible but this was just the usual mutters and cries in his sleep. When Mum and Dad were home, they quietened him with kisses and cuddles, but now he was all shut up and alone in that big draughty room. Rose knew that not a single puff of air could infiltrate Bag End's bedrooms unless it was wanted, but somehow it seemed appropriate for cold wind to be creeping in.

"Why didn't he go with Mummy-Rose and Sam-Dad, anyway?" Elanor muttered, face draining colour as her uncle whimpered again. She wouldn't go in. She wouldn't.

"He likes them to have holidays from looking after him, though he'd never say so," explained Rose in a matter-of-fact voice. "You know that, El. Please stop being such a ninny and go in to him, he's crying for you."

"He's crying for a baby that's a grown up now. I'm not going in there," Elanor snapped. "He wouldn't know me from a troll at any rate, not when he's half-asleep like this." Standing, looked over at the closed door for a long pause and then shook her head. "No. I love him, Rose, you know I do. He's Fo. But he's not Fo right now, and he wouldn't care if I was El or not."

Elanor walked back to her bedroom, shoulders slumped in something between exhaustion and defeat. Rose sat by herself for a little while, until she heard another whimper from inside. Then she reached up for the doorknob (she was still too small to turn in with one hand, but she was shooting up like beans and corn and would be a big girl eventually) and padded inside.

"El?" Uncle Frodo asked in a fevery sort of voice.

"No, it's me, Rose," Rose felt a terrible wish to run away as she stepped closer to the bed. The room looked so looming and dark at night-time, and she wanted her own snug little blanket and felt oliphaunt toy and the sounds of her brothers and sisters asleep around her.

"Oh, Rose, I didn't mean to wake everyone up." Frodo sounded so apologetic, and Rose knew that Elly was wrong. He was Uncle Frodo, but he was an Uncle Frodo who was lost and needed a friend. Rose was a friendly sort of little girl, so everything would be all right now.

"You didn't, just me." It wasn't really a lie, because Elanor would be back to dreaming about Elves and wizards and sugar cookies by now.

"I just get confused, when your parents aren't here," he admitted in a sleepy ashamed voice. Rose clambered up onto the big chilly bed and burrowed down under the tangled covers.

"It's all right, I'm here now," she said in her best impression of her mother's comforting tone. "No need to worry," she told him with a pat on his cheek. Her palm felt the wet of salty tears, and Rose was very glad that she had been brave enough to come in.

Uncle Frodo chuckled, and planted a kiss on her cheek with lips that were as icy as Yule snow. Holding her shiver in, Rose threw her small chubby arms around his neck and kissed him back.

"Goodnight Uncle Frodo."

"Goodnight, sweet Rose."

Hope

"Come on Fastred, you're yellower than a baby chicken!"

"I am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not! Mam said we weren't to go into the river without an adult there to watch us."

"What are you, afraid of a little water? Is little baby Fastred afraid of getting his foot-hair wet? Hey --! Don't ... shove...me!"

"Don't shove me! You heard what she said as well as I did, that we'd both get a hiding if we came back with so much as our toes dripping."

"Well it looks like raining soon, so I don't see how that can be avoided; besides, we're going boating, not swimming. How much danger could it be?"

Fastred frowned.

"And besides, think of how grateful Mam will be for bringing her home some fish to cook up for dinner."

Fastred frowned again, wavering; the water looked smooth like rock, grey-slate with layered ripples that seemed almost to be floating upstream rather than down. The boat looked like the carcass of some giant creature washed up on the shore; something from Mr Baggins' tales -- old and hoary, dried river-weeds stuck to the worn belly of it like green-grey foot hair.

"Come on, then," Jacky grinned, sliding his fingers under the lip at one end. Fastred frowned one last time -- nothing good would come of this, except perhaps a few fish, if they were lucky -- and helped his brother heave it over.

Slipstream

There had been thirteen of them for a while, but people had begun to whisper things about unlucky numbers and trouble coming in thirteen, giving disapproving glares to the unheard of amount of Gardner hooligans. Of course Rosie couldn’t stand to have that sort of nonsense and shortly thereafter Tolman had been born.

“But what’ll we do now?” whined young Hamfast while his older siblings cooed over the new babe. “We aren’t a baker’s dozen anymore. Whenever we go to market one of us’ll always be left without a cookie.”

Bilbo looked alarmed. “I’m not giving up *my* cookie!”

Robin gurgled in agreement. She wanted to keep her cookie, too.

“Whoever invented how many pastries go in one box?” mulled Hamfast, who liked his pastries very much. “Who decided that twelve, or even thirteen, was a normal dozen?”

Daisy swept into the conversation, bringing Sam-lad and Primrose with her. “Well, have you ever heard of a baker with more than thirteen children? Doesn’t seem very practical, does it?”

Primrose pouted, absently picking up Ruby. “We’re practical. We’ve always been practical. And we can be practical with fourteen, too.”

Bilbo sat deep in thought, wiggling his toes in concentration. “But if we’re not a normal dozen, and we’re not a baker’s dozen, then what are we, then?”

Sam-lad, who had been silent, gave a slight smile and goosed his younger brother on the cheek. “Silly. We number fourteen. That means we’re a Gardner dozen.”

Mary

"What's caught your daydreams now, then?"

Rosie Cotton looked up at her mother and shrugged, scratching at a mosquito bite on one shoulder idly as she watched the night sky's reflection ripple on the water.

"Nothing in particular."

"I would have thought you'd be over with Tolman and his Marigold at her cousin's midsummer party," confessed her mother, sitting down on the soft grass and twisting a stray leaf of clover between her fingers. Rosie snorted.

"Marigold and I aren't what you'd call friendly, as a general way of things. I can't see her inviting me as a third leg on her trysts with our Tom, and I wasn't going to turn up without a reason. April Goodchild doesn't make a mouthful more than her family and their guests can eat, and none of them would appreciate sharing."

"Oh, I think one or two of them wouldn't mind so much," Lily Cotton teased her only daughter. Rosie just smiled to herself and gazed down at the river at the bottom of the hill. "Don't try and tell me you're not sweet on him, lass, I see the way you find excuses to trip up the hill to Bag End and sit there in the garden. As if you'd any interest in learning your letters, my sensible little Rose? I'd sooner expect to find you learning how to build a tower."

Rosie's expression couldn't be deciphered as her mother kept talking. "Still, it was a clever way to play it. All those afternoons in the shade with Mr Baggins teaching you to spell things out, you must have gotten a good long look at little Sam."

"He's not so little, Mum, twenty-five's quite grown." Rosie's voice was soft, and she still had her head down. Her hair fell in a soil-dark curtain in the last light of the day, brushed into ordered curls, and Lily felt proud that her daughter was growing into a right pretty thing.

"I suppose not. All the little ones grow up so fast," sighed Lily. "That's the way of it, though." She stood. "Anyway, must get back in and see about dinner. Don't stay out here too long, girl, the midges will bite you red and blue."

Lily walked back through the gently sloping paddock to the house, turning at the door to make out the shadowed silhouette of Rosie with a smile.

"I like being able to read," Rosie said when she was alone. Only the stars, the clover and the river heard the confession. "I like knowing the stories and the histories, even if Mum doesn't see the sense in it. I think I'd like my own babies to learn their words under that tree with Mr Baggins some day, he's a good teacher." Rosie's young mouth curled up in a smile at the memory of her mother's teasing. "I expect Sam would agree with me, too."

Slipstream

One day while it was storming outside and Rosie was napping, Sam was making his way down the main hall of Bag end when he spotted Frodo standing utterly still in the parlor doorway, his hands lightly gripping the golden wood of the frame. There was something about the stiff line in his back that rang familiar warning bells and made Sam pause in his journey to the kitchen. Careful to make enough noise so as not to startle him, he approached Frodo from behind, wrapping one tan arm around thin shoulders and using the other to similarly grip the door frame while he nuzzled the hair at the back of his neck.

“What’re you looking at?” he whispered, bringing his head up to peek over one shoulder and into the room.

Outside of mealtimes, it wasn’t very often that all fourteen children gathered together in one place long enough for anyone to realize just how many fourteen was. When the rain had forced them indoors, the children had, out of necessity, converged together in the largest room in the big smial, and even then they nearly filled it to the corners. Elanor and a grumbling Rose were sitting on the sofa with a basket of colored wool thread between them, winding it into balls. At their feet Primrose has stolen a loop of it and is patiently showing Ruby the beginnings of a Cat’s Cradle. Merry and Pippin were enjoying a rather loud and crude game involving a lot of spitting and the hot embers of the fire, and Frodo-lad looked up from his letter to Meli and Molly to smile at their laughter. Goldilocks sat in a dainty backed chair practicing her posture, sighing contentedly over one of her many suitors and brushing the ringlets of her hair. Sam-lad had been gazing glumly at the raindrops sticking to the window until a vibrant Daisy had roughly whirled him away into a game of tag-and-seek with Bilbo and Robin. Tolman, now Tom, who had recently learned to speak, was busy making squealing toddler responses to the light tickles and squashed faces Hamfast was making.

Frodo had been quiet so long, and Sam so caught in observing the little scene, that when he did speak it came as a hushed surprise. “The babes are near grown up, Sam…”

There was a little quiver in his voice and a shiver to his shoulders, and Sam pulled him back into the darkness of the hallway for comfort. But when Frodo turned to look at him, he saw that yes, those blue eyes were rimmed in red and yes, there were streaks of warm saltwater down his cheeks, but the smile curling subtly at the corners of his mouth and the shimmering sparkle of his eyes told Sam that these were happy tears.

“The babes are nearly grown,” Frodo whispered again, his quivering voice concealing awe and gratitude. “Oh Sam, I thought I wouldn’t live to see any of it…”

Mary

Being the first awake, the first out of bed, was a state of existence that Sam had come to accept as inevitable. Almost every morning it would be him who had to carefully navigate the dreaming tangle of warm bodies in his bed, to climb out without waking Frodo or Rosie. Sometimes one or the other of them would shift irritably, sensing his leaving with a small sound of unconscious protest. When this happened, Sam would pause and wait, still as midnight water, for the sleeper to return to sleep. Much as he disliked leaving the warmth and comfort of his bed, he preferred to be the first and only to rise in the early morning.

One morning, a bite of approaching autumn in the air and a fine mist hanging over horizon off Michel Delving way, Sam was surprised to find young Sammie sitting on the garden bench with a book on his lap.

"What are you doing out here, lad? All your brothers and sisters are still wrapped up snug as puppies in their blankets."

"Good morning, Dad. I know they're all still asleep, that's why I'm out here. I like to have a taste of what the day's like before it gets trodden on by everyone."

Sam grinned. "Why, I do believe that's the reason I like the mornings too, though I've never thought to put it like that. Come along with me now, we'll go help your auntie Marigold milk her cows."

"Really? Hurrah!" Sammie jumped to his feet and impulsively hugged Sam. "I like the mornings by myself, but I think I like them even better with you in them."

Slipstream

Big Folk doors were tall and narrow, remembers Sam, rectangles made of sharp edges and hard lines. They were heavy and hung on great hinges of iron, hard to swing open and closed. They were often barred shut, locked by great thrusts of wood or complicated mechanisms which rusted easily and needed a great deal of oil to be coaxed into moving again. Nothing like hobbit doors, great open circles made of light wood with quaint handles and cheery colors. Hobbit doors opened easily and merrily to visitors, often accompanied by the tingling of a door-bell. They were quaint and snug and brought images of home and welcome.

Frodo’s eyes had been like that, long ago before their quest. Warm, inviting circles of deepest blue with sparkling pupils that welcomed visitors. He opened up easily, laughing at small pranks and even stealing from pantries with his cousins on occasions, a past-time many considered childish for one who had entered his majority. Sam used to smile when those eyes said ‘Pass the butter’ and laugh when too much ale lit them with fiery sparks and feel something more when the irises caught the flickering of firelight and held his for long, quiet moments.

But that was then. Now the blue paint is faded and peeling, dull and flat, showing plainly the harsh signs of wear and storm-damage, the wood buckling beneath the weight of the years, the doorknob broken off and the hinges rusted shut. No one is invited or received into the dusty cobwebs of his master’s mind, no matter how insistently or loudly they knock.

Sam had thought that the happy things like Elanor and the coming of summer would be enough to give those eyes a fresh coat of paint. But the wood there has been dry and dusty for ages, and though it drinks in happiness as though dying of thirst, none of that blue cheerfulness has returned life to the depths of Frodo’s irises. Coat after coat Sam paints, and the wood drinks, but still you can see the long strips where the paint peeled off completely, revealing horrid knots and ugly twists in the grain.

Sam does not grow discouraged. He has fixed many doors in his life, the one at Bag End often. He knows how to clean hinges so that they swing clean, how to repair the intricate workings of the lock and polish the iron plate to a high sheen. And he knows that no wood, no matter how old and dry and stubborn, can withstand enough painting, and, given time and patience and the right mixture, the door will shine in the bright colors of its youth and become warm and inviting once again, swinging open to admit visitors and sunshine and clean spring air.

Sam and Rosie will keep giving Frodo fresh coats of paint, as long as it takes. Babies and summers and lazy mornings and tales told at the feet of rolling green country. They will paint and polish and tinker, and one day their Frodo will swing open with a tinkling of chimes and invite them in again.

Mary

"That one, there!" Daisy pointed one plump gloved finger at a small fir tree, pushing her scarf back over her shoulder distractedly. "That one, Dad!"

"You're right good at picking out the little ones, girl." Sam smiled, pushing his shovel into the frozen soil at the trunk's base. No Yule tree was ever cut down for the parlour at Bag End, they were dug up neat as pansies and then planted back where they'd come from when the season ended.

Daisy and Sammie were the only children to come on this year's adventure, an epidemic of sniffles and coughs keeping the rest snugly under their mother's eye. Daisy was wearing her new grey gloves and hat, not caring that they didn't match with her faded yellow jacket and not inclined to wait three days for the new coat she'd been promised as a present. Sammie had a baggy woolen cloak, a hand-down from Ham and Merry before him, around his shoulders and a pair of lambskin boots on his feet. Daisy felt terribly sorry for him, because he couldn't feel the lovely crunch of the snow between his toes, but she supposed it was better that his feet stay nice and warm. Sammie got coughs in his chest, awful wracky things that made their parents look worried.

Uncle Frodo wore shoes too, but his were made of tooled leather and came from far away. The four of them put the little tree into the wheelbarrow they'd brought with them and set off, plucking bright holly as decoration and chattering merrily about the fun they were having over the festive period.

"Look, mistletoe!" Sammie shouted. "Can we get some?"

"I think we've enough greenery to fill the smial as it is, lad," Sam shook his head. Daisy scurried up beside her brother and planted a wet smack on his winter-red cheek. Sammie pulled a face and wiped at the kiss-soiled spot with the edge of his cloak.

"Yuck, germs."

"I don't have germs!" Daisy objected. Sammie kissed her back, and shoved a small handful of snow into her collar as he did so. The two ran about, giggling.

"Happy Yule, Sam," Frodo said, turning his eyes to look at the mistletoe and smirking.

"Happy Yule to you, too," Sam replied, giving him a decidedly non-wintery kiss.

Slipstream

The mud had been calling to young Pippin all day. Heavy rains had proceeded the fall holidays, turning the road in front of Bag End into a delightfully dark brown mush pit with puddles big enough for a hobbit lad or two or three to enjoy without over-crowding. The weather was perfect for mud-diving, cloudy so that the puddles wouldn’t dry up and cool enough that the slight warmth of the earth could be felt between squishing hobbit toes.

Pippin, known throughout Hobbiton as the Gardner child with the uniformly faded gray wardrobe, had been warned by his mother to not soil his new breeches and jacket. He had been tricked into putting on the red and green velvet monstrosity under the guise that the tailor was fitting them for a cousin of about the same size, and then he’d been swept off to sit in the parlor with Rose-mum and the other older children while relations visited. It was too formal and clean for the likes of Pippin, and his suspenders itched terribly. But these were relatives of his mother’s, so he had to sit there utterly still and help keep up the pretense that the Gardners were a normal, civilized hobbit family.

Uncle Frodo and Sam-dad had already escaped the harsh scrutiny of Rose-mum’s sister-in-laws by leave of a small hobbit child bringing Messages of Utmost Importance for the Mayor, Sir. Pippin scowled. He’d bet next week’s desserts that Uncle Fo had slipped the lad a penny-piece earlier as payment for their means of escape. It wasn’t fair. He wanted to be outside playing instead of inside growing cobwebs.

He was interrupted from his fantasy mud-ball fight by his mother’s polite inquiry for him to fetch the tea things. Here was his chance. It was a move which had to be executed carefully, or else his immediate absence would be noted. On his way to the kitchen, Pippin rushed to his room and quickly switched shirts. Feeling much better now that he was free of the starched wool, he buttoned the jacket back up again and returned to the parlor with the biscuit tin.

Thus, one by one, he switched his clothing between trips to the kitchen. Rose-lass, less absorbed in the conversation of the adults, noticed his plan and secretly envied him. She was the only one who saw that, when he brought out the teapot and cups, beneath the ornate jacket he wore a pair of threadbare breeches. Giving her a conspiratol wink and the mumbled excuse “Privy” to the rest of the room, Pippin dashed as fast as his furry feet would carry him out the back door.

Long minutes passed while the adults talked about the weather and new babes and hobbit life across the river and so forth. Rose-lass sat in her stiff backed chair, nibbling her biscuit, and was quite surprised when Pippin reappeared, sulking and again wearing his new clothes.

“Where were you?” she whispered while her mum poured the tea. “I thought you’d gone out to play in the mud puddles.”

Pippin harrumphed and slid lower in his chair, ignoring the looks his mother gave him. He jerked his head towards the smial door, beyond which the sounds of dirt-clods hitting skin and little peals of laughter could be heard.

“Uncle and Da got there first…”

Mary

"No, it's true, if you put honey on wounds then infection won't take hold."

Frodo coupled the argument with his most pitiful and wide-eyed stare and a slightly jutting lower lip, but Rosie was well accustomed, long immune and utterly unimpressed when it came to the persuasive powers of Frodo's pout.

"First of all, that cut's never infected, it's just turning rainbow-shaded because it's covered in ink, which is making it sore and red and causing your dramatics. Next, if I allow you to convince me that honey's a good cure for it, then you'll take every chance you can to think up ridiculous treatments in the future." Rosie ticked her reasons off on her fingers, her smile verging on a laugh with every word. "And you'll go back to your books, 'wounded' finger and all, and get honey all over, and then you'll be sticky for days."

Frodo nursed the finger in question, the skin broken by a long paper cut from knuckle to nail, and looked at Rosie reproachfully.

"You could lick it clean before I go back to work, then."

"If I lick it off, how will the honey do any good at fighting that infection you insist is there?"

Frodo paused, looking for a route around the solid and unmoving mountain of logic in Rosie's arguments. "It would make me feel better?" he hazarded, making sure he was out of range of any flicked tea towels. Rosie didn't appear to have anything at hand she could thwap out at him, but after ten years Frodo had learnt that there was always something nearby that would do in a pinch when Rosie felt he was being exasperating.

"You of all people should know what a hurt finger feels like, dear, and that's not a hurt finger." Rosie let her laughter fall freely, and gave the injured finger a soft kiss. "There, is that better? The little boys always feel properly repaired when I do that."

"Oh, I think I'll survive," Frodo said.

~

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