Here is a special delivery for Lynx212...
Title: Apples & Days
Fandom: LotR
Recipient: Lynx212
Sam set his hatchet down and leaned on the fence, wiping a trickle of sweat from just in front of his ears. “There, now,” he murmured to himself, “That’s half done, at least.”
He heard the soft step behind him just in time to not be startled when the words came. “Will it live, do you think?” Frodo asked, his pale and tender hands bracing against the other side of the stile.
“Don’t know yet,” Sam admitted. “It’s a tough old one - survived the brush fire twenty years ago - but they meant to take her down, they did.”
Frodo nodded and bent down to pick up one of the dead twigs. “It’s a shame,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine why Saruman would have wanted a perfectly good apple tree cut down.”
“He didn’t, or at least not him in particular,” Sam grumbled sourly. “One of his ruffians just didn’t like it here. Too close to the road, or its branches were too wide, or it bloomed too much.” His own hand, broad and callused, brushed the axe wound in the side of the tree; the bark to either side flaked away from the dead wood.
“The sap still rose this year,” Frodo noted. “I remember the petals blowing into the garden a month ago. And the west side of the tree has leaves enough.”
“Oh, enough, all right,” Sam agreed. “If it doesn’t die of the gash, there’s plenty of living wood left to bear fruit for years yet.” He returned his attention to the ragged cut and the dead branches above it, twisted and grey against the blue sky of early summer. “It’s just a matter of keeping the rot from spreading. That wasn’t a clean axe they used.”
Frodo blinked against the sunlight. “It was Tolman who caught them at it, wasn’t it? I don’t remember who was leading the band around this side.”
Sam shook his head. “It was Pippin. Said the rogue dropped his axe as soon as he saw their arrowheads. He knew better, knew he was supposed to be fighting. Instead, he was spoiling something just for the sake of it.” He poked among the tools laid out on oilcloth beside the fence and chose a small saw on a short pole. “Wanted us to not have it, maybe.”
“Perhaps.” Frodo peered up into the tree, as if he were looking for fruit already. The tiny apples were barely larger than cherries, green and hard and too few. “Remember how this tree got here, Sam?” He smiled.
“I do, sir.” Sam looked less pleased by the memory, but something warm stirred in his middle.
---
“Hey, hey!” Budge Fernfuller careened through the crossroads, his prizes in both hands. “Look out, there!”
Sam and Folfer Mudgin raced after him, dust flying under their feet. The tools stuck in Sam’s belt clanked as he cornered. “No fair,” Folfer shouted, “you said you’d share!”
Budge juked left, off the road. “I said I’d share if you helped me get me a pair of his prize apples!” He crammed one handful into his pockets. “These are windfall. Nothing close to the best that orchard has to offer!” He planted one now-empty hand on the edge of the stile and vaulted over; one toe caught on the rough edge of a plank, and, flailing, he went down.
Sam and Folfer veered off the path and clambered over the fence. “Serves you right,” Sam puffed, grabbing him by one arm. “If I’d know you were going to steal them -”
“Oh, save it for your Gaffer,” Budge growled. “Now look - you made me lose one.”
“I’m sure,” Folfer grumbled, panting, “that you got his cider apples instead of his eating apples, anyway.”
Budge looked startled. “What? You can’t be serious.” Frowning, he shook his head. “Only one way to find out.” He tugged his remaining prize from his pocket and bit in, with a tremendous crunch. The other two watched him as he chewed thoughtfully. Slowly, he took a second bite, then a third. “You might be right,” he answered around a mouthful of fruit. “Or this might not be quite ripe.” He took a few more bites. “ ‘S not bad, though. No worms, at least.”
Folfer sat down and began running his hands through the grass. “Where’s the one you dropped?”
“Don’t know,” Budge replied, shrugging. He took two more bites, then hauled back and threw the apple core - right into Sam’s face.
“Hey!” Sam spluttered as Budge guffawed and took off running again. He groped at his feet for the apple core and flung it back; it missed, describing a high, wide arc back to the road -
* And bounced off of Mr. Baggins’s left foot.
Budge yelped and kept running. Folfer threw himself flat onto the ground, trying to hide in the tall grass. Sam looked around wildly, but there wasn’t any quick getaway.
“Well, well,” Bilbo chuckled, “what do we have here?” He picked up the core and glanced at the blossom end. “Looks like someone’s been sneaking into the cider apples.”
“I told him,” Folfer whispered from dandelion height.
“Not yours, Mr. Baggins,” Sam said, truthfully. They’d snuck over the fence into Farmer Proudfoot’s orchard.
“No, not one of mine,” Bilbo agreed. “You’re Hamfast’s son, aren’t you? Samwise, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Sam agreed, his face reddening as he imagined precisely what sort of talking to he was in for.
Bilbo gestured behind him. “Come along, Frodo,” he called. A lanky hobbit in his early tweens turned the corner at the crossroads and ambled towards them, looking vaguely anxious. “Frodo, this is Samwise, my gardner’s boy. And who’s your friend swimming in the grass?”
“I’m Folfer,” said the other boy, scrambling to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Frodo.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sam breathed, remembering his manners. Frodo moved like someone not quite sure of himself, but Sam had never seen anyone so fine of feature in his life.
“How do you do?” Frodo clasped both their hands in turn, smiling shyly. “I’m new here, I suppose you’d say.”
Bilbo rested one hand gently on Frodo’s shoulder. “He’s moving in at Bag End with me.” His eyes twinkled. “So you and your father will need to plant extra kale and turnips, don’t forget.” He glanced back at the apple core. “And now, what to do with this, hmm? Wouldn’t do to let the pips from a good cider apple fall in the road, would it now?”
Sam’s hand fell to the trowel tucked in his belt. “I could -”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bilbo nodded. He pointed at two spots on either side of the stile. “Half there and half there, do you think?”
“Should be all right.” Sam carefully broke the core in half and dug into the earth, softer than he’d expect given the foot traffic. He made quick work of the pair of little holes, and dropped the two halves of the apple core in, checking to make sure they each had a few seeds. The apple hadn’t been green after all - the pips were dark and polished-looking.
Frodo watched Sam’s hands as he filled the holes back in. “If the father’s as good as the child,” he noted, “then the gardens must be well-kept indeed.”
“Oh, they are,” Sam and Bilbo said together. Sam stopped, one hand pressed to his mouth; Bilbo laughed gently. “Now,” said the older hobbit, taking Frodo’s hand, “let’s get back to talking about dinner, and let the apples grow if they will.”
---
“The other one never grew,” Sam admitted.
Frodo chucked lightly. “Didn’t you once tell me apples don’t come true from the seeds? If it had, we wouldn’t have recognized them as sister-trees.”
“No, they don’t,” Sam agreed. “If you want a full orchard of the same sort of cider-apple, for instance, you have to take cuttings and graft them.”
“I see.” Frodo edged around the living side of the tree as Samwise raised the saw and began trimming off the dead branches. “So the Brandywine Redcheeks in Bilbo’s old garden - those are from trimmings off of the ancient one in Merry’s back yard?”
“Or they’re both descended from the same older tree, more like.” Separating living wood from dead was all too simple; the bark turned grey wherever the rot had reached it. Sam was trimming into the live wood more often than he’d like, just to make sure he’d removed all the poison.
Frodo let go of the branch he’d tugged down. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, and left as quietly as he’d arrived.
---
The sun was low; the orange light lit up his hair in copper as Sam wiped down each tool and set it in its proper place in the shed. “The worst of it is,” he muttered to himself, “there’s no way of knowing whether it’s done any good until after winter.”
“I think you’ve done a great deal of good already,” Frodo noted, stepping away from the back door with a pitcher cradled in his arms. “For one thing, when the summer storms come, the winds won’t rip what’s left of the poor tree apart.”
“That’s true enough,” Sam agreed. “What’s that?”
Frodo smiled sheepishly. “I thought you might teach me how to graft a cutting.”
“Now?” Sam looked into the pitcher. A fresh trimming from the old apple tree sat in clear water, its bark a thin but healthy brown.
“There are a few saplings growing from the Redcheeks’ windfall,” Frodo explained. “This way, even if the old tree doesn’t survive the poison, there’ll still be a piece of it growing in the Shire.”
Sam looked up at his master’s face. The curls that had once been dark were speckled with grey, and Frodo’s eyes were lined and shadowed. Sam swallowed, and nodded. “Sure. Let me get a good sharp knife to score the bark, and clean cloth to bind it.”
Frodo laughed gently. “It’s foolish, I know,” he said, “but it pleases me to know that death and decay can be cheated, at least for a little while.”
“Not cheated,” Sam said, hunting for his whetstone. “Without decay, we’d have no mulch to keep the roots protected. But - unnatural decay, yes.” His eyes flickered to Frodo’s hair and away again.
“I know,” Frodo said, slipping one arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Too much elf-lore, I suppose. For us, death is supposed to happen; for them, it - isn’t, really.”
“And this,” Sam whispered, daring to stroke Frodo’s greying curls, “wasn’t supposed to happen, neither.”
“No. A great many things,” Frodo breathed, “that weren’t supposed to happen, did.” One hand found the corner of Sam’s jaw and cupped it. “But some didn’t.”
“No, some didn’t, because they were made not to.” By you, Sam added silently.
And you, said Frodo’s eyes. So quickly he thought he might have imagined it, Frodo pressed a kiss to Sam’s cheek. Then he picked up the pitcher again. “So,” he said quietly, “shall we preserve one more thing for posterity?”
“I suppose we shall,” Sam agreed, and followed Frodo out into the nearly setting sun.
Fandom: LotR
Recipient: Lynx212
Sam set his hatchet down and leaned on the fence, wiping a trickle of sweat from just in front of his ears. “There, now,” he murmured to himself, “That’s half done, at least.”
He heard the soft step behind him just in time to not be startled when the words came. “Will it live, do you think?” Frodo asked, his pale and tender hands bracing against the other side of the stile.
“Don’t know yet,” Sam admitted. “It’s a tough old one - survived the brush fire twenty years ago - but they meant to take her down, they did.”
Frodo nodded and bent down to pick up one of the dead twigs. “It’s a shame,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine why Saruman would have wanted a perfectly good apple tree cut down.”
“He didn’t, or at least not him in particular,” Sam grumbled sourly. “One of his ruffians just didn’t like it here. Too close to the road, or its branches were too wide, or it bloomed too much.” His own hand, broad and callused, brushed the axe wound in the side of the tree; the bark to either side flaked away from the dead wood.
“The sap still rose this year,” Frodo noted. “I remember the petals blowing into the garden a month ago. And the west side of the tree has leaves enough.”
“Oh, enough, all right,” Sam agreed. “If it doesn’t die of the gash, there’s plenty of living wood left to bear fruit for years yet.” He returned his attention to the ragged cut and the dead branches above it, twisted and grey against the blue sky of early summer. “It’s just a matter of keeping the rot from spreading. That wasn’t a clean axe they used.”
Frodo blinked against the sunlight. “It was Tolman who caught them at it, wasn’t it? I don’t remember who was leading the band around this side.”
Sam shook his head. “It was Pippin. Said the rogue dropped his axe as soon as he saw their arrowheads. He knew better, knew he was supposed to be fighting. Instead, he was spoiling something just for the sake of it.” He poked among the tools laid out on oilcloth beside the fence and chose a small saw on a short pole. “Wanted us to not have it, maybe.”
“Perhaps.” Frodo peered up into the tree, as if he were looking for fruit already. The tiny apples were barely larger than cherries, green and hard and too few. “Remember how this tree got here, Sam?” He smiled.
“I do, sir.” Sam looked less pleased by the memory, but something warm stirred in his middle.
---
“Hey, hey!” Budge Fernfuller careened through the crossroads, his prizes in both hands. “Look out, there!”
Sam and Folfer Mudgin raced after him, dust flying under their feet. The tools stuck in Sam’s belt clanked as he cornered. “No fair,” Folfer shouted, “you said you’d share!”
Budge juked left, off the road. “I said I’d share if you helped me get me a pair of his prize apples!” He crammed one handful into his pockets. “These are windfall. Nothing close to the best that orchard has to offer!” He planted one now-empty hand on the edge of the stile and vaulted over; one toe caught on the rough edge of a plank, and, flailing, he went down.
Sam and Folfer veered off the path and clambered over the fence. “Serves you right,” Sam puffed, grabbing him by one arm. “If I’d know you were going to steal them -”
“Oh, save it for your Gaffer,” Budge growled. “Now look - you made me lose one.”
“I’m sure,” Folfer grumbled, panting, “that you got his cider apples instead of his eating apples, anyway.”
Budge looked startled. “What? You can’t be serious.” Frowning, he shook his head. “Only one way to find out.” He tugged his remaining prize from his pocket and bit in, with a tremendous crunch. The other two watched him as he chewed thoughtfully. Slowly, he took a second bite, then a third. “You might be right,” he answered around a mouthful of fruit. “Or this might not be quite ripe.” He took a few more bites. “ ‘S not bad, though. No worms, at least.”
Folfer sat down and began running his hands through the grass. “Where’s the one you dropped?”
“Don’t know,” Budge replied, shrugging. He took two more bites, then hauled back and threw the apple core - right into Sam’s face.
“Hey!” Sam spluttered as Budge guffawed and took off running again. He groped at his feet for the apple core and flung it back; it missed, describing a high, wide arc back to the road -
* And bounced off of Mr. Baggins’s left foot.
Budge yelped and kept running. Folfer threw himself flat onto the ground, trying to hide in the tall grass. Sam looked around wildly, but there wasn’t any quick getaway.
“Well, well,” Bilbo chuckled, “what do we have here?” He picked up the core and glanced at the blossom end. “Looks like someone’s been sneaking into the cider apples.”
“I told him,” Folfer whispered from dandelion height.
“Not yours, Mr. Baggins,” Sam said, truthfully. They’d snuck over the fence into Farmer Proudfoot’s orchard.
“No, not one of mine,” Bilbo agreed. “You’re Hamfast’s son, aren’t you? Samwise, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Sam agreed, his face reddening as he imagined precisely what sort of talking to he was in for.
Bilbo gestured behind him. “Come along, Frodo,” he called. A lanky hobbit in his early tweens turned the corner at the crossroads and ambled towards them, looking vaguely anxious. “Frodo, this is Samwise, my gardner’s boy. And who’s your friend swimming in the grass?”
“I’m Folfer,” said the other boy, scrambling to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Frodo.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sam breathed, remembering his manners. Frodo moved like someone not quite sure of himself, but Sam had never seen anyone so fine of feature in his life.
“How do you do?” Frodo clasped both their hands in turn, smiling shyly. “I’m new here, I suppose you’d say.”
Bilbo rested one hand gently on Frodo’s shoulder. “He’s moving in at Bag End with me.” His eyes twinkled. “So you and your father will need to plant extra kale and turnips, don’t forget.” He glanced back at the apple core. “And now, what to do with this, hmm? Wouldn’t do to let the pips from a good cider apple fall in the road, would it now?”
Sam’s hand fell to the trowel tucked in his belt. “I could -”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bilbo nodded. He pointed at two spots on either side of the stile. “Half there and half there, do you think?”
“Should be all right.” Sam carefully broke the core in half and dug into the earth, softer than he’d expect given the foot traffic. He made quick work of the pair of little holes, and dropped the two halves of the apple core in, checking to make sure they each had a few seeds. The apple hadn’t been green after all - the pips were dark and polished-looking.
Frodo watched Sam’s hands as he filled the holes back in. “If the father’s as good as the child,” he noted, “then the gardens must be well-kept indeed.”
“Oh, they are,” Sam and Bilbo said together. Sam stopped, one hand pressed to his mouth; Bilbo laughed gently. “Now,” said the older hobbit, taking Frodo’s hand, “let’s get back to talking about dinner, and let the apples grow if they will.”
---
“The other one never grew,” Sam admitted.
Frodo chucked lightly. “Didn’t you once tell me apples don’t come true from the seeds? If it had, we wouldn’t have recognized them as sister-trees.”
“No, they don’t,” Sam agreed. “If you want a full orchard of the same sort of cider-apple, for instance, you have to take cuttings and graft them.”
“I see.” Frodo edged around the living side of the tree as Samwise raised the saw and began trimming off the dead branches. “So the Brandywine Redcheeks in Bilbo’s old garden - those are from trimmings off of the ancient one in Merry’s back yard?”
“Or they’re both descended from the same older tree, more like.” Separating living wood from dead was all too simple; the bark turned grey wherever the rot had reached it. Sam was trimming into the live wood more often than he’d like, just to make sure he’d removed all the poison.
Frodo let go of the branch he’d tugged down. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, and left as quietly as he’d arrived.
---
The sun was low; the orange light lit up his hair in copper as Sam wiped down each tool and set it in its proper place in the shed. “The worst of it is,” he muttered to himself, “there’s no way of knowing whether it’s done any good until after winter.”
“I think you’ve done a great deal of good already,” Frodo noted, stepping away from the back door with a pitcher cradled in his arms. “For one thing, when the summer storms come, the winds won’t rip what’s left of the poor tree apart.”
“That’s true enough,” Sam agreed. “What’s that?”
Frodo smiled sheepishly. “I thought you might teach me how to graft a cutting.”
“Now?” Sam looked into the pitcher. A fresh trimming from the old apple tree sat in clear water, its bark a thin but healthy brown.
“There are a few saplings growing from the Redcheeks’ windfall,” Frodo explained. “This way, even if the old tree doesn’t survive the poison, there’ll still be a piece of it growing in the Shire.”
Sam looked up at his master’s face. The curls that had once been dark were speckled with grey, and Frodo’s eyes were lined and shadowed. Sam swallowed, and nodded. “Sure. Let me get a good sharp knife to score the bark, and clean cloth to bind it.”
Frodo laughed gently. “It’s foolish, I know,” he said, “but it pleases me to know that death and decay can be cheated, at least for a little while.”
“Not cheated,” Sam said, hunting for his whetstone. “Without decay, we’d have no mulch to keep the roots protected. But - unnatural decay, yes.” His eyes flickered to Frodo’s hair and away again.
“I know,” Frodo said, slipping one arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Too much elf-lore, I suppose. For us, death is supposed to happen; for them, it - isn’t, really.”
“And this,” Sam whispered, daring to stroke Frodo’s greying curls, “wasn’t supposed to happen, neither.”
“No. A great many things,” Frodo breathed, “that weren’t supposed to happen, did.” One hand found the corner of Sam’s jaw and cupped it. “But some didn’t.”
“No, some didn’t, because they were made not to.” By you, Sam added silently.
And you, said Frodo’s eyes. So quickly he thought he might have imagined it, Frodo pressed a kiss to Sam’s cheek. Then he picked up the pitcher again. “So,” he said quietly, “shall we preserve one more thing for posterity?”
“I suppose we shall,” Sam agreed, and followed Frodo out into the nearly setting sun.