Archive of Our Own

“Be careful,” Frodo warned, staring wide-eyed at Sam who was balanced rather precariously on an old ladder as he attempted to arrange a large ribbon around Bag End’s front door. The violent red of the ribbon clashed spectacularly with the door’s green paint (still unfaded after its fresh coat following the Troubles).

“I’ve got this, sir,” Sam said stoutly, “but Rosie’ll have my hide if I don’t get this arranged before everyone arrives.”

Yes, Frodo could never remember Bag End looking quite this festive. Bilbo was not opposed to festivities, not at all, but he focused most of his energies on their shared birthday party. Other holidays seemed to sneak up on him. He would scurry about in a frenzy in the preceding days and only manage to complete about half the preparations he intended.

Rosie was much more deliberate about such things.

“Da, be careful!” Elanor repeated in a childlike echo of Frodo’s serious tone. She was perched on Frodo’s shoulders with her chubby hands buried in Frodo’s curls for balance—an incentive for him to stand quite still and give her plenty of warning before he should he try to move.

“Don’t worry, lass,” Frodo told her. “Your Da’s survived much worse danger than a rickety ladder.”

“You told ’im to be careful,” she pointed out astutely.

Frodo smiled, even as he kept a watchful eye on Sam. “Ah, well, that’s my job.”

Sam twisted to throw him an amused look over his shoulder. “You’ve got that backwards, sir.”

But the twisting caused the ladder to wobble, then start to tip. Sam let out a yelp, Elanor tried to scramble away, and Frodo had to pick one of them to save. He reached up and grabbed Elanor firmly, bringing the small child down to clutch against his hip. Sam, meanwhile, fell splat on his back into a mound of snow.

“I’m all right!” he grunted, sitting up and shaking his head to send flakes flying everywhere.

“Da!” Elanor yelled, still wriggling fiercely.

Frodo, fast losing his grip, set her down. She dashed to Sam’s side immediately. Sam assured her he was fine, but he wasn’t getting up yet, and Frodo recognized the note of pain buried in his voice.

So Frodo came up, crouched down, and wrapped his arms around Elanor from behind. “Lass,” he murmured in her ear, “why don’t you go inside and ask your Ma for one of your Da’s favorite treats, to make him feel better about his fall?”

This seemed a great idea to Elanor, who promptly took his advice and vanished inside the smial.

Sam groaned loudly. “Now you’ve done it, Mr. Frodo. Now Rosie’ll know I fell.”

“You’ll be hard-pressed hiding it, with your backside covered in snow.” Frodo got a better look at his friend. “And I don’t believe you’re entirely all right, whatever you may say.”

“I—ugh.” Sam pulled one leg in as if to stand up, but the other he left straightened. “It’s me ankle, that’s all. It hurts.”

“Oh, Sam…” Frodo knelt in the snow to see that Sam’s right ankle was indeed already somewhat swollen and red, even surrounded as it currently was by snow. “Let’s get you inside, and ask Rosie for some—”

“No!” Sam bit out.

Frodo blinked. “Sorry?”

Sam flushed. “It’s just…I’m all right. I don’t need no one fussing.”

Frodo’s eyebrows shot up. “It looks bad already, Sam. It’s probably sprained.”

“Right, well…I can manage. And Rosie’s got enough to do without worryin’ about me, especially today.”

“I think she might notice you can’t put any weight on one foot,” Frodo said gently. “At least, unless you plan on spending the Yule celebrations hiding from her somewhere.”

Sam’s mouth twisted in something that looked remarkably like a pout. “I can’t do that, sir.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it.”

“You don’t understand, beggin’ your pardon.” A note of desperation entered Sam’s voice. “My Rosie spends all her time seein’ to everyone else. I’m s’posed to be a help to her, not another burden.”

“I don’t really think—”

Sam’s eyes suddenly lit up. “You can help me!”

“…How?” Frodo asked suspiciously.

“Nothing too troublesome, of course. But all I’ve got to do is stay sitting down most of the time. If you wouldn’t mind helping me just to do that…”

Sam normally was quite active during Yule, keeping almost as busy as Rosie in order to facilitate the celebrations. Frodo was rather doubtful as to his ability to carry out Sam’s role. “Will you let me recruit Merry and Pippin, at least?”

“That would suit fine,” Sam said as he began to shiver. “And then, if I do got to get up, maybe you can just keep Rosie’s attention elsewhere, or else stand between me and her while I’m moving.”

Frodo could not see this ending well, but nor could he say no to Sam after everything they had been through together. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. “Come on, now. Let’s get you out of this snow.”

~

Rosie was certainly concerned when Sam shuffled into Bag End, dripping with melting snow. He leaned heavily on Frodo, though they did their best to make it appear like nothing more than an attempt to keep warm. Fortunately, Sam’s shivering provided the perfect excuse for Frodo to sit Sam down in Bilbo’s favorite armchair in the living room, wrapped in a thick blanket that quite hid his swollen ankle.

“I thought you were supposed to keep it raised?” Frodo whispered when Rosie was in the kitchen getting Sam a cup of hot tea. He was hardly more knowledgeable than Sam about injuries, but could not see Sam making any attempt to follow what he thought was well-known advice. Perhaps there was something about this particular injury that rendered the normal rules inapplicable?

“It’ll be all right for a bit,” Sam said stoutly.

Or perhaps Sam was simply stubborn.

“Sam,” Frodo said.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said right back.

Frodo rolled his eyes and went to fetch a padded footstool. It did not provide nearly enough elevation, but he hoped it would help a little, and at least it did not make the injury obvious. When Rosie returned with a mug of hot tea, she said not a word about it.

“Da, come play,” Elanor begged, hovering around Sam’s armchair like a moth circling a lit candle.

Sam cast Frodo a despairing look. Elanor had mastered a plaintive expression that Rosie alone could resist.

Frodo was thankful Elanor was not directing that look at him, but he had no idea how to rescue Sam from this predicament. “Er…”

They were both saved by a sudden loud, insistent ringing on the front door-bell.

Frodo turned Elanor in a circle and gave her a little nudge. “Quickly, lass! Go and let our guests in!”

She scampered off in delighted anticipation. The front hall was soon filled with shrieks as Elanor met Merry and Estella, who was expecting their first child.

Frodo raised his eyebrows at Sam. “You know, if our positions were reversed, you’d be telling me to accept help.”

“I am accepting help,” Sam countered. “Your help. And Mr. Merry’s, if he’s willing.”

“If our positions were reversed, you’d also be telling me to be honest about what’s going on.”

Sam sighed, and cast a furtive glance at the hallway. “You’re right, and I know it. It’s just that my Rosie’s got so much on her plate already, tryin’ so hard to make this a good holiday for all of us. I don’t want to add to her worries.”

Affection welled up in Frodo’s heart. “And that is exactly the sort of thinking that has kept me from sharing my burdens with you.”

Sam pulled the blanket guiltily up to his chin. “I’ll tell her tonight. Will that do?”

“I suppose it’ll have to. Let me see if I can pull Merry away long enough to recruit him.”

This was easy enough. Merry merely laughed and said, “Another conspiracy?” and promised to help however he could.

Pippin was looped in as well when he arrived with Diamond. (The two were not yet officially an item, but all the Shire was gossiping about them, a fact which evidently greatly pleased them both. Frodo more than half suspected they would continue allowing people to gossip and speculate right up until the wedding.)

More guests arrived, various relations to the Gamgees and the Cottons, each of them dressed in brilliant shades of red, gold, and green. The old hobbit hole was never so full. In all the chaos, it was not too difficult for Sam to whisper reminders and instructions so Frodo, Merry, and Pippin could carry out his normal tasks. Of course, Sam seemed frightfully uncomfortable to give anything like instructions to the other three, but Frodo was simply amused. It was in no way awkward to him, and as for the awkwardness Sam felt…well, he had brought that on himself by his own stubbornness.

About two hours into the evening, the festivities settled somewhat into something more manageable. Sufficient food and drink were laid out to keep the guests happy, the younger hobbits were playing in various rooms (and a few of them out in the snow), the tweens were gossiping and giggling, and those of age were talking quietly (or not so quietly) about numerous topics. Even Rosie slowed down long enough to catch her breath and have a few bites of honeyed cake. She sat on the couch next to Sam’s chair, and gave no sign of having noticed that anything was amiss.

For his part, Frodo found a chair in a corner for himself. It offered him the perfect vantage point from which to observe the rest of the festivities.

He’d never been part of a Yule celebration with so many hobbits until Sam and Rosie moved in. Before the Quest, he and Bilbo might pop in to visit the Brandybucks or the Tooks or the Gamgees, but they never hosted anything extravagant.

Frankly, Frodo missed the quieter days. Just him and Bilbo, not various Gamgee relations asking him questions he knew they didn’t really care to have answered. He missed the days when he could look back on the previous year and count more moments of joy than grief—or emptiness. He missed when song and laughter came more easily.

No…it was not the quieter days he missed.

He missed himself.

Suddenly, Rosie’s voice interrupted, bringing him out of his thoughts too late. “Help me light the candles, will you, Sam?” she asked, gesturing to the candles waiting at points around the room. They would be lit one at a time as hobbits shared memories corresponding to each candle. She and Sam always lit them together.

And Pippin was on the opposite side of the room, evidently entirely distracted by Diamond, who was whispering in his ear. And Merry was not even present—in the kitchen or the pantries or the cellar, no doubt.

Sam shot Frodo a panicked look. “Erm…”

There was nothing for it. “I’ll take care of it for you, Rosie,” Frodo said in his best helpful tone, which he knew would do nothing to douse her suspicions, and rose from his chair.

Rosie held up a hand with a royal air. “Just a moment if you please, Mr. Baggins.”

Her tone coupled with her use of his surname stopped Frodo in his tracks.

Sam was now giving Frodo a look of distinct betrayal.

“I’d like to have just one thing made clear,” Rosie said in that same tone, eyes fixed on her Sam. “Why is it you en’t helping me with all the normal duties?”

Sam squirmed in his seat, and the other hobbits in the room were beginning to notice something was awry.

“And why is it you’ve roped Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin into doin’ ’em for you?”

Sam reddened.

“And why is it,” she asked, “you all thought I somehow wouldn’t notice?”

“That’s three things,” Frodo mumbled, “and I’m sure I can only make the first one clear.”

Rosie came close enough to touch Sam’s forehead with the back of her hand. “What happened, Sam-love?” she asked more softly.

Now for the moment of truth.

But Sam’s eyes were firmly on his knees. He would not look up under the weight of the stares of all the other hobbits.

Blessedly, it was at this moment that Merry returned to the room, holding a plate that was overflowing with a giant slice of pie. He took one look at the tableau, at Rosie looming over a blushing Sam, at Frodo standing helplessly behind her, at the other hobbits staring, and promptly raised his voice.

“Hi now, hobbits!” he cried. “There’s more food to be had in the kitchen!”

Slowly at first, then more quickly as they got swept up in this new activity, the other hobbits got up and shuffled out of the room. Whether they actually wanted more food or simply could understand a social cue when it hit them in the face by the likes of Merry, Frodo was not certain.

Merry caught Frodo’s eye and jerked his head questioningly towards the kitchen.

Were the positions reversed, Frodo knew Sam would steadfastly refuse to leave his side. But…this was a conversation Sam needed to have with his wife. Besides, he didn’t want the awkwardness of class distinctions interfering. Sam and Frodo could each give the same explanation, but if the words came from Frodo’s mouth, Rosie would take it differently.

(She was becoming less and less confined by station the longer she lived at Bag End, and the longer she watched Sam and Frodo interact, but some habits went too deep.)

So with an apologetic duck of his head, Frodo slunk into the kitchen with Merry.

“He’ll be all right,” Frodo said fretfully once the door closed behind them.

Merry clapped his shoulder. “Yes, I wouldn’t worry. Rosie’s bark is worse than her bite.”

“And he was just trying to help her.”

“Exactly. She’ll see that, of course.”

“And he was going to tell her eventually, after all, once the party finished.”

Merry raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back in there and speak for him?”

Frodo stuck his hands in his pockets, found a loose thread in his right pocket, and fidgeted with it. “Right. No. That wouldn’t help anything.”

“Come on, then.” Merry dragged him into the kitchen and thrust a large amount of food into his hands.

All the better that Merry was so effective at distracting him, or else Frodo might well have lingered at the door with one ear pressed to the wood. But it would do no good to go bursting in on Sam and Rosie’s conversation. So instead, he tried to focus on the conversation Merry had started up with Redegard and Primrose Boffin. If his eyes kept straying to the closed door, no one said anything.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before the door finally opened. Rosie was there, smiling brightly at her guests and ushering everyone back inside. She gave no sign of what had transpired. The hobbits, now laden with more food, filed obediently back into the room to resume the festivities.

Frodo hesitated only a moment before following them, although he hung back to wait for Rosie by the doorway. His eyes followed her around the room, watching as she checked in with a few of the guests, answering questions and brushing away concerns.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Erm…Rosie?”

She turned with a gleam in her eye and approached. “Yes, sir?”

He couldn’t quite discern whether her use of sir was perhaps just slightly mocking in this instance. He fidgeted with the loose thread in his pocket again. “I…I wanted to apologize. I never wanted to keep any secrets from you.”

Rosie just stared back at him. Propriety apparently forbade her from pointing out that he had kept secrets from her, even if he had not wanted to.

“Right. Well.” He cleared his throat again. “I should have handled things differently.”

“You were trying to do right by him,” she said.

“I was…trying…to do right by both of you. You already take on so much. He didn’t want to give you something else to worry about.”

She let out a long sigh. “Aye, and now I’ll worry more about all the things he might not be tellin’ me on any given day. Same as he worries about you with all the things you don’t say.”

“I—” Guilt snatched the words from Frodo’s mouth.

Her cheeks reddened as she realized what she’d said—and to whom she’d said it. “Begging your pardon, sir. That wasn’t my place.”

“No, no…” He rubbed awkwardly behind one ear. “It’s your place to look out for Sam, and if I’ve been…” He shook his head. Was he really causing Sam more worry by keeping so much to himself? But that had been his approach since…since the very beginning of the Quest! He coughed. “I apologize.”

The look she gave him said plainly that she didn’t think it was her he ought to be apologizing to.

“Well, thank you,” Frodo mumbled, and with a quick bow of his head, he hurried away before she could ask him to clarify what, exactly, he was thanking her for.

He could see Sam still seated in the same chair…though now Frodo noted that his injured ankle was raised not only on a footstool, but also on a small, lovingly-made tower of cushions. Frodo threaded his way through the sea of hobbits to stand beside him.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“Rosie fair chewed my ears off,” Sam complained.

Frodo touched the artful tower of cushions. “And yet.”

Sam huffed. “We could’ve pulled it off, too. But trust you to get lost in your head at just the wrong moment, and no mistake,” he grumbled.

“I’ll have you know—” Frodo began, only to realize that he quite lacked a rebuttal. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to.”

Sam softened. “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo. She didn’t took it too hard.”

Frodo smiled. “Dare I even say it might be nice to have her care and assistance?”

“You can say it, but it’s not as if you’re any better, and you know it, begging your pardon.”

Frodo squeezed Sam’s hand. “Yes, I suppose that’s been true.” He shifted on his feet. “And that’s something else I need to apologize for.”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“You’ve given up so much to help me already. I can’t bear to cause you more pain or worry. But, as was rather precisely pointed out to me, it seems that’s exactly what I manage to accomplish when I keep things to myself.”

Sam slowly grinned. “Rosie, eh?”

“Rosie,” Frodo confirmed. “And so, well…” His fingers found that well-worn piece of thread again. “It’s going to be different now. I…I know I need help,” he went on more quietly. “A lot of it. Too much of it. But I think…now…I think I might actually be able to accept it. Or even to know how to ask for it in the first place.”

Sam beamed. “Well, it’s about time, if you don’t mind my saying it.”

Laughing, Frodo leaned against Sam’s chair. Presently, Rosie brought them both fresh glasses of wine. As Frodo sipped his drink, his eyes fell on the window, looking out towards the West.