The Charming of the Hare (Part 1 of 2)
Title: The Charming of the Hare (Part 1 of 2)
Author: AlienSoulDream
Challenge: Waymeet Hijinks
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10268
Warnings: Violence
Summary: A old saying gives Frodo an idea
***
Frodo stepped out of the round front door of Bag End and pulled it shut behind him with a satisfying click. The freshness of the Spring morning was evident in the lush green grass of his garden and the washed blue sky above. He stood for a moment, enjoying the shy warmth of the sunshine and the cheeriness of the nodding yellow dillydaffs along the bright border. A thrush was singing its heart out in a nearby bilberry bush and he smiled to hear it. Sing on, brother, he thought and laughed at himself. He struck out along the path with a buoyant heart, glad to have no particular destination in view. It was a fine thing, just to be able to follow one's nose. But that saying reminded him of Bilbo, gone a year last Halimath, and his mind skipped sideways, like a skittish lamb, to brighter thoughts. The fields and smials of Hobbiton lay spread out before him bathed in friendly sunlight and he sallied forth to greet them, filling his lungs with good Shire air and letting the cobwebs stream away from him on the pleasant morning breeze.
He was just rounding the curve that led past Bagshot Row when he spotted Sam coming along the path, and his heart swelled with mingled pleasure and anxiety. He gathered his courage and prepared to master his shyness.
'Hullo, Sam!' he called out, waving. Sam had seen him but Frodo did not miss the way the lad's eyes dipped and fumbled before rising to meet his again. It both quickened and mocked a cherished hope and a warm flush ran lightly over his skin.
'Morning, Sam!' he smiled, as they neared one another. 'Splendid day, isn't it?'
'Aye, grand. Tis going to be a rare Spring.' Sam wore no jacket, impervious to the slight breeze that ruffled his tawny locks. As well as his knapsack, he carried a wicker basket slung over his shoulder on a rope. It was filled to the brim with russet apples streaked with gold.
'What's this?' said Frodo. 'Last of the Red Crofters? My, don't they look delicious!' Without waiting for an invitation, he cheekily lifted out one of the apples, tossed and caught it, then took a bite from it. He twinkled at Sam provokingly, hoping for a jesting rebuke.
'They're for the Widow Rumble,' said Sam. 'Missus Cotton sent them over.'
Frodo stopped, embarrassed. He swallowed the half-chewed lump of apple with difficulty. 'Oh.' He felt suddenly like a sneak thief caught raiding the Widow's pantry.
A dimple slowly grew in the middle of Sam's ruddy cheek and his eyes kindled. 'S'alright. Reckon she won't miss one.'
They looked at each other a moment before being seized with a short burst of giggles. Before Frodo could exult in the feeling of sharing a small moment with him, however absurd, Sam quickly sobered and gave him a steady look.
'I'd best be off then. Plenty of chores to see to. Enjoy your walk, Mister Frodo.' He nodded pleasantly, sidestepped Frodo and continued on his way.
'Um ... yes, thank you! Have a nice day, Sam!' Frodo called after his retreating back, feeling deflated.
He turned away with a sigh and continued down the Hill more soberly, crunching the delicious apple as he went. It was mellow and nutty-flavoured, having waited out the weeks of winter in Farmer Cotton's apple store, where all its acidity had turned to sweetness. It felt like a small consolation to taste something that had briefly been part of Sam's existence, touched by his hands, perhaps. That thought should have made him blush but he was too accustomed by now to other thoughts like it, and worse.
Sam was as inevitable as the coming of Spring, as the warming of the soil and the green buds on the trees. He was woven as closely around Frodo's existence as the welcoming burrows of Bag End, as comforting as the firelight shadows around the inglenook where Frodo read his books of an evening. That he should fall for Sam came as no surprise to Frodo. A strapping handsome lad, always about the place, capable and sweet-natured - it would have been a wonder if he hadn't. But it was more than that. More than just the sap rising in his veins, the stirring of Spring in his loins reminding him that he was just as entitled to a fair dalliance as anyone else. There were deeper yearnings than lust in his heart, yearnings that had been dormant these many years, since the ill-judged experiments of his reckless youth had tamed his expectations of the world. He'd almost become convinced that solitude was better than to wreck one's heart forever upon hope. And then, Sam.
Sam had to grow up, didn't he? Right under Frodo's very nose. Oh, he had been the first to withdraw, he knew, during those stripling years, when Sam seemed daily to shoot upwards in height, to fill out his clothes in an almost indecent manner that would turn the eyes of every female visitor to Bag End and every maid and farmer's lass that passed him in the village. He'd drawn level with Frodo's shoulder, then his ear, then suddenly they were eye-to-eye. And Frodo gradually withdrew, becoming less available to help the eager boy with his lessons, pleading himself too busy for games, or jaunts to town or the strolls and picnics they'd so enjoyed. Even their former endless chats had been shorn to friendly courtesies. He'd never fully reckoned the hurt to Sam but even if guilt had swayed him he would have deemed it a disguise for selfishness. Sam was altogether too tempting. A luscious, wide-eyed youth with naked admiration glowing from puppy-dog eyes. Frodo would only have had to reach out his hand and Sam would have fallen. He wondered that he had been the only one to see it.
It had been less a sacrifice than an inescapable duty. A burden of trust he shouldered gladly, for Sam's sake. He had hoped the cooling of their ways would break his interest completely. He busied himself with other friends, other people, and tried hard to fall in love. He didn't.
The years passed and while his attention was fiercely elsewhere, Sam grew to maturity. He'd noticed it sometimes and suppressed the noticing, until one day - was it only last Autumn? - Sam had come into the living room at Bag End with a basket of firewood to stack the woodbin. Frodo had glanced up from his writing and helplessly watched his easy, efficient movements as he stacked the split logs. He'd straightened and turned, and Frodo could feel the faint aura of the crisp day he'd brought inside with him, almost see his cold breath, yet Sam seemed immune to it, his own inner flame, fanned by exertion, heating his body and spirit.
'Would there be anything else you'd be needing?' he'd asked. And Frodo had noticed that the flesh of his face had hardened into becoming planes, that his brow had grown broader and fairer and that his eyes were filled with a calm surety and the self-possession of a full-grown hobbit who owed his soul to no-one.
'Yes?' Frodo's voice was a whisper.
Sam's eyes changed expression but he did not repeat himself.
Overcome, Frodo shook his head. 'I ... no, that's fine. Thank you, Sam.' Only when had Sam had left and the room had quite faded to darkness around the fireglow had he realised he'd fallen in love. He'd wept for joy.
Since then, his life had been a series of frustrations. All his attempts to rekindle their former friendship had been met with polite obtuseness. Step inside for a cup of tea? Just had a drink at the well. A bite of lunch? No thanks, just had some. Pop in and take a look at this new book? Perhaps, when I've finished planting out these taters - which took all day and the book forgotten. Fancy a Highday tramp to Frogmorton? Grand, if only it weren't for all those chores at home. Care to accompany him to Waymeet for the Spring Races? Thankee kindly, but I promised the Cottons, like. No matter what Frodo suggested, Sam evaded him, always in a pleasant and respectful manner. If Frodo could have seen a hint of petulance, of hurt, in these refusals, he might have taken some comfort in it. As it was, he had to believe that Sam had simply outgrown him.
He had persisted to the point of embarrassment, against his own feverish council, hoping to make amends for his earlier desertion by proving constant. Only the thought that Sam might now be repulsed by his intentions had the power to freeze his heart and stop his lips. When that thought visited, Frodo withdrew into his study for days at a time. But hope was a hardy creature, and the foolishness of love boundless, as Frodo had cause to know. And after all, why shouldn't he befriend Sam, now the lad was grown? Let anyone make of it what they would, he would be as cordial as he chose, and if his only reward was to coax a winsome smile now and then, well, so be it! Thus he tempted his heart back into the open, as nervous as a dormouse emerging from a winter's nest.
He finished his apple and tossed the core over a hedgerow that bloomed beside the path, where some bird or creature would be glad of it. Sam was a tantalising puzzle that often accompanied him on his walks but that didn't shut out the love and interest he bore for the beloved countryside he saw all around him, for the little rolling hills and tidy homesteads, each with their wisp of smoke from a well-tended chimney which spoke comfortingly of the life within. It fed his hopes, for he hungered more than ever for a contented home life for himself.
He strolled aimlessly through the village and onto the stone bridge which spanned the Water. Resting his arms on the parapet, he looked out over Hobbiton and beyond. He had often dreamed of a world far from here, of excitement and adventures to be found in strange places. And yet, he'd felt tied to his home by more than sentiment, like a tree with very deep roots. He wondered now whether it had been his destiny to remain here until love unexpectedly appeared on his doorstep. It was a beguiling thought. No doubt he'd scared Sam away with his coldness, and he was proving a tough nut to crack. But to win him back again, now that was a challenge fit for a Baggins.
*
Frodo woke suddenly that night, with a inward gasp and the sensation of seeing the last of an extraordinary dream fleeing into the shadows of the room. His body relaxed slowly from a state of tension, but he still felt rattled and uneasy.
Moonlight spilled from the window where he'd forgotten to pull the curtains. It cast a silvery puddle on his bed coverlet which spilled onto the floor. Flickering shadows of tree branches quivered on the walls and ceiling of his bedroom, but the familiar reassurance of his surroundings failed to soothe him. Feeling restless, he sat up and swung his legs out of bed, pulled the coverlet around his shoulders and wandered over to the window which looked out into his front garden and across to the fields beyond. His sleep-heavy eyes opened wide at what he saw.
Out on the smooth silvery grass of the Party Field, hares were gambolling in the moonlight. Even from this distance, Frodo could see they were hares, for they were much bigger than rabbits and their ears were longer. A few were in small scattered clusters, intently grazing, while some pairs were fighting, rearing back and pummelling at each other in short desperate battles, which ended when one of them leaped back suddenly and bounded away in retreat. Individuals would suddenly pounce at others, setting a wild swerving dance in motion, weaving crazily around the field until the chaser gave up. It looked comical and endearing, yet seemed deadly serious to the creatures. Whatever was happening out there, it was no game.
Frodo stood captivated by this strange spectacle. Hares were not a very common sight around Bag End and he had never seen their antics under the moon before. He loved watching wild things, it made him feel close to the true nature of the Shire, and almost to the hidden things of Faery, for which he possessed a deep and secret longing.
When he had watched in pleasure for a while, he suddenly remembered there was a passage about hares in one of Bilbo's old books. He quickly pulled on a pair of breeches and a warm weskit over his nightshirt, as it was cool. He lit a wick lamp and carried it down the passageway into Bilbo's library, searching along a particular row until he found the volume he was looking for. Tucking it under his arm, he carried it into the front room, set both book and lamp on the desk and sat down comfortably to read. The large volume was bound in brown leather and the worn title etched on the cover read 'The Compendium of Beasts'. Frodo opened it and carefully leafed through page after page of old parchment until he found the one he was looking for, which was titled 'The Elusive Hare'. He eagerly read the flowing script beneath, imagining Bilbo's voice reading to him aloud, as he often did to comfort himself.
The fickle Hare is a beast of mystery and magic. Quick and cunning, this larger cousin of the Rabbit is most often seen in the hours before dawn. They prefer to eat grasses and tender roots and are often solitary and shy, except during the Spring months, when they pursue their courtships. Then they reproduce at a most prodigious rate, being among the most virile of creatures. A female Hare may begat four dozen hares in a month.
Frodo stared at this line, whistled softly and read on.
During this Spring fever, Hares may be seen by day as well as night, chasing each other around meadows and engaging in boxing contests, in which they adopt a most peculiar stance, balancing upright on their long back legs and beating at each other with their forelegs like prize-fighters. For long ages, it was thought that boxing hares were shape-shifting witches, dancing their rituals in the moonlight, and that they multiplied by magic, or laid eggs, that they were male during the waxing of the Moon and female in the waning. In truth, many of their dances are courtship rituals, and battles often result from the spurning of amorous approaches and from challenges between lusty young males.
The Hare has thus become a symbol of speed and fertility, bravery and abundance. The strong meat is delicious in a stew, the feet are highly prized as good luck charms, and the brains are thought to impart cunning and long life. The testes of the Hare, stewed with thyme, is an excellent physick against impotence..
Frodo's eyebrows rose at this, and he quickly turned the page.
No one has ever been known to catch a Hare on foot. He is the fleetest of all fleet-footed beasts and can outrun hunting hounds or even a wolfpack. Even a skilled archer is seldom a match for his swiftness. This has given rise to the popular saying - "They must charm, who chase the Hare." Only a well-laid trap baited with fresh carrots will catch a Hare. But beware, he has strong teeth and sharp claws, and many a hare-catcher has the scars to prove it.
It is very good luck when a Hare crosses your path, as you will be blessed by the White Lady in love and prosperity. And if you look up on the night of the full Moon, you may see the Shadow of the Hare in the Moon, which is said to watch over its wild brethren and bless their fecundity.
Below this text was a marvellous pen-and-ink illustration of a hare, lovingly rendered in the finest detail, down to its claws and whiskers. Frodo sat looking at it awhile, admiring the skill of the artist, and considering the curiousness of the creature. The words he had read tugged and teased at his thoughts like a riddle.
'Charm the hare ... charm the hare ... yes, but how?'
He shook his head. Perhaps he was losing his mind, seeking for answers to his own problems in such things. Yet the sight of the hares had seemed like an omen and he felt that there was a lesson here that he might grasp if he would. As he pondered awhile, he felt sleepiness creep over him again and closed the book. He rose and went over to the window. The moon had almost set and the dawn had not yet risen. The fields were shrouded in thick grey mist and he could no longer see anything of the hares but hints of moving shadows.
'Very well,' he murmured to the night. 'No more the hound - I shall become the hare, and see what luck that brings me.'
He paused a moment, then groaned softly. The idea of ceasing to pay any attentions to Sam at all was almost painful and he suspected might be beyond his self-control. There was always the option of taking a long trip or disappearing off to Buckland for a few weeks but he wasn't at all convinced that Sam's heart would grow fonder in his absence. He might even lose him to some local lass or lad. He felt sure Sam had had his dalliances - the assured look in his eyes told him as much. But he felt equally sure that no one had ensnared his heart as yet. Unless hope was blinding him.
He buried his face in his hands. 'O Bilbo! You would tell me not to do this, though you love me!'
He felt lost and alone, and it took more than a minute for his courage and calm to return. When it did, he looked out once more and thought of Sam, sleeping somewhere below the Hill, and he knew that the empty longing in his breast could be filled only with Sam's smile, his gentleness and quiet strength, and he knew what he had to do.
*
Frodo felt very much like a hunted creature as he walked into the Green Dragon next evening. He paused to survey the room and exchange nods with a few patrons who glanced his way. The wooden tables and benches lining the long low room were all but filled by most of the males of Hobbiton who were neither too old nor too young to gather there for their weekly Highday drinking and merriment. A fiddler played on a stool in a corner, the jaunty tune weaving just below the level of the noisy conversations. The fire was unlit now that the Spring weather had taken the chill from the evenings but the room was still warm with the press of bodies and the air was softly blurred by the faint blue haze of pipesmoke. The varied smells of ales and cooking assaulted the nose but it was a homely and comforting mixture. Frodo's heart quickened as his eyes found Sam, sitting in the top-right corner along with the Cotton lads. Sam saw him at almost exactly the same moment and slowly removed the pipe from his mouth. Frodo did not wait to see more but made for the bar to cover his confusion.
Hopgood, the cheery landlord, greeted him with delight. 'Well, good evening, Mister Frodo! We've not seen you in here in quite a spell. Just past Yule, weren't it, when you had them young cousins of yours staying over from Buckland?'
'That's right,' said Frodo, embarrassed and wishing Hopgood had a less reliable memory. He had been hoping to slip in without too much fuss. 'They enjoyed themselves here very much. Always mention it in their letters.'
'Do they now?' Hopgood seemed highly satisfied. 'Well, we don't serve the best ales in the Westfarthing for nothing! Can I recommend you a jar of Botherton's Best Bitter?'
'Splendid. And have one for yourself.' Frodo pushed a coin across the counter, enough for the two ales and to spare.
'Most kind, sir! Don't mind if I do.'
Fine ales were not the only reason the Green Dragon was a popular haunt. Another reason was Hopgood's two comely daughters, who served behind the bar and were the only females in the place. One of them smiled at Frodo until she caught her father's eye upon her and skittered off to serve another customer. A mug brimful of golden brew was placed before Frodo and he lifted it to his lips and drained a third of it, hoping it would give him courage. He turned, smacking his lips over the bitter taste. This was the worst moment of all, the dread that had made his stomach clench in knots all day and he'd best get it over with as quickly as he could.
He sauntered slowly around the room, pausing for a word or two with some familiar faces, farmers that Frodo often saw at the local markets and festivals, and the craftsmen whose shops he sometimes visited. All were friendly. Some teasingly asked whether it was a special occasion but he passed it off with a joke and a smile. As he neared the top-right corner, his heart was pounding. Sam looked up attentively at his approach, the other lads following his gaze. Their looks were curious and welcoming but Sam's face was unreadable. Frodo painted on a beneficent smile.
'Good evening, lads!' he greeted them, and passed by their table.
'Good evening ... Mister Frodo!' He heard a confused chorus of voices echoing behind him but not whether Sam's was among them. It twisted his heart to pass by in such a fashion and tortured his curiosity to know how Sam was reacting. He imagined the other lads all looking at Sam, and Sam shrugging in bewilderment. He hoped they would not taunt him too fiercely. After all, why should they expect his employer to sit with him? Frodo never entered this establishment except in company with others of his own class. He had his own wine cellar and little taste for beer. His appearance here would cause comment but few would wonder much that 'the Baggins' had suddenly discovered a wish for company. It was lonely up there on the Hill, they would say, and many miles to his nearest kin. Do him good to spend some time among plain honest folk.
But who to sit with? That was the problem. No one would refuse him if he asked and some were likely shy of issuing an invitation. But few would really welcome his presence, feeling spied on, forced to restrain their language and perhaps even their drinking. It was a tricky business altogether.
He moved as slowly as he dared until he spotted Bill Codfast, Falco Bolgers's estate manager, with whom he was on friendly terms. Bill hailed him and issued him a ready invitation as he approached, which Frodo accepted, choosing to sit at a spot that would allow him a peek at Sam once his courage had rallied. He was quickly introduced around the table and only took in about half the names - Sandy Crupper, a groomsman, Dick Dunn, a farmhand and brothers Ned and Pete Dingle, who had a tool-mending business, along with a few others he didn't catch. Frodo exerted himself to be pleasant and lively and in no time at all the conversation was just as loud and free as though he had been a natural part of the group. He downed his ale and when a barmaid came to their table ordered a round for everyone, which earned him general acceptance. Amid the confusion of being served, he let his eyes drift up to where Sam was but Jolly Cotton appeared to have just told a joke and Sam was laughing heartily along with everyone else.
For two more hours, Frodo fought his nature and appeared to lap up the tall tales and frothy gossip of feuds and dalliances until his head spun. Or perhaps it was the ale making his head spin, as he'd had six jugs of it and had visited the privy more times than he'd thought possible in one evening. He was bearing up quite well, considering, and only had to hold onto the privy stall because it was built at such a queer angle. They could have used a few more candles, too, in the inn as it grew darker, and the murk meant that he was obliged to steady himself on a few shoulders on his way back to his seat. It also made it more difficult to see Sam, although when he did see him through the throng, the warm candleglow made his face look terribly appealing.
The gaiety increased through the evening, as fellows took to the floor to tell stories, sing songs and caper jigs, often all at the same time. Frodo found himself laughing in a way he hadn't in years, till the tears streamed down his face, and he wondered why he hadn't made a habit of this sooner. So much more fun than those stuffed shirts at Buckland!
Finally, with a spontaneous re-enactment, involving half the patrons, of Gaffer Barnston's pig escaping and the subsequent disaster-strewn chase through the village, hilarity crested amid a deafening riot of laughter and insults, before eventually subsiding, leaving them all with aching sides. Frodo judged it time to effect a retreat and rose carefully to take his leave. His hand was wrung firmly and sweatily by everyone at the table and they urged him with face-splitting grins to come again soon, which he promised to do.
He'd been looking forward all evening to passing Sam's table and bidding him goodnight, so that he could gauge his reaction. He intended speaking but Sam appeared deep in conversation. He approached, hopeful and beaming, although for a moment he thought Sam didn't see him at all, but then Sam lifted his eyes and directed a brief nod at him. Frodo felt curbed and returned the nod, his mouth closing on words unspoken, but Sam's attention had already turned back to Nibs. Frodo swallowed and went out the door, after bidding Hopgood a hearty good night.
As soon as he was in the open, he drew his first truly relaxed breath of the evening. It had gone very much as he'd expected. He walked to the end of the village feeling hazy and very light on his feet. The night seemed uncommonly warm, even for Spring. He'd forgotten to empty his bladder before leaving the inn and was obliged to go behind a wall to relieve himself, which made him giggle. It wasn't until he reached the last smial before the Hill that he began to feel odd. Odder than odd. Distinctly unwell, in fact. He clutched a fence post as his stomach roiled and a wave of sickly heat came over him, followed by a trembling chill. Something told him that it was an extremely bad idea to sit down, as dizzy as he was, for fear of passing out and being found there by Sam. He simply needed to get home and get to his bed.
The Hill had never seemed so dreadfully steep and difficult to climb before. The unconstant path seemed to dip and weave below his steps. Several times he had to stop and clutch his stomach, feeling sure he would be sick in the hedgerow. By a supreme effort of will he managed to avoid it. By the time he'd reached the path to Bag End, his lungs were on fire and the stars seemed to be swirling overhead as if blown by the North wind.
He fumbled and dropped his key twice and when he finally managed to get inside, he could only stumble towards his bedroom as the floor rolled away from him. He crashed onto his bed fully clothed and gasped as the room kept turning, over and over in a sickly tilt that never seemed to come full circle. He closed his eyes and plunged headlong into terrifying dreams where he was boxing a giant hare, four feet high. Then suddenly the hare had Sam's face and leapt far away from him, bounding away into the shadows as he ran and ran in pursuit.
Next morning, his eyes slitted open abruptly, smarting and weeping like they'd been squirted with onion juice. His head felt the size of a pumpkin and pounded inside like a smithy. He groaned and rolled over, dragging the comforter over himself, and determinedly buried himself in sleep.
When next he woke, the light outside told him it was almost noon. He caught sight of the window with its curtains undrawn and cursed himself, hoping that Sam had possessed too much decency to look inside. Carefully, he sat up, taking inventory of the damage. His bladder was protesting urgently. His head seemed like it might topple off with little encouragement and his mouth felt as if something disgusting had crawled into it and died in the night. He held his temples and whimpered softly. This all brought back embarrassing memories of Curly Bracegirdle's coming-of-age party, when he'd been still too young to know his limits and been arrested for urinating in the public fountain at Michel Delving. Bilbo had been terribly decent about it but the legendary hangover that followed had been quite punishment enough.
Frodo sighed and got up, drew the curtains, and headed for the privy. Business done, he made for the kitchen, grateful that his cleaner, Missus Featherstall, wasn't due today. He lit the kindling already laid in the grate and drew a kettle of water from the barrel and set it to boil. Then he drank down a glass of cold water followed by a glass of brandywine, Bilbo's remedy, which steadied him marvellously as he collected clean clothes and linens and brushed his teeth with peppermint paste until he felt he must exude the smell of mint from ten paces. As soon as the kettle boiled he warmed the water in the basin and stripped down, soaping and scrubbing himself from head to foot. By the time he had dressed he felt almost like a hobbit again. He washed his hair and towelled it dry near the warm grate. By then the head-pounding had subsided to a pernicious headache. He'd soaked some willowbark tea and drank a mugful with honey. The thought of a proper breakfast was repugnant but he managed to nibble some toast with bramble jelly while he considered whether to venture outdoors and speak to Sam. After wrestling with himself for under a minute, he decided he would.
When he felt strong enough, he went to check himself in the mirror and was surprised to find little trace of his adventure aside from a slight pinking of the eyes. He refilled his mug of tea and went out of the kitchen door and into the back garden. It was a lovely day, although the sunlight made him squint a bit. He wandered about for a while, pretending to be enjoying the garden and drinking his tea, then casually strolled over to where Sam was tying up rose bushes against some rods.
'Good morning, Sam! How are you this morning?'
Sam shot a look up at the sun which was obviously past its highpoint, then glanced shrewdly at Frodo. 'Better than some as can't say otherwise, I suppose.'
Even clear-headed, Frodo sometimes had trouble with Sam's jumbled way of speaking. But he was confident there was implied criticism in there and he was encouraged by it, and plunged on.
'Good sport in the Dragon last night, eh?'
Sam stopped to wipe his chin with the back of his hand and considered. 'Aye, it's a jolly place,' he conceded, 'even if they do water their ale.'
Frodo laughed, which set his temples throbbing. 'Well, I fancy I might spend a bit more time there in future anyway. The company more than makes up for it.'
Sam fixed him with a curious look. 'I would've thought the Ivy Bush might be a bit more in your style. Calmer, like.'
Frodo pulled a face of amused scorn. 'What? Sit around with a bunch of old Gaffers talking corn prices and playing skittles?' He winked. 'You don't know me very well, Samwise.'
As he turned and walked away, Frodo could have bitten through his tongue. Samwise! Where had that come from? He never used that name. He felt a pang of misgiving, and wondered whether this was all a foolish mistake and they would end up further apart than ever. He wished so much to know whether Sam was still watching him. For comfort, he imagined it was so until he reached the smial when the weariness hit him full force and he had to go lie down.
As he drifted into a weary nap, he decided he couldn't stop now. This was the most reaction he'd provoked from Sam in ages. He'd captured his attention, and from there it must be possible to reawaken his interest. The chase, he hoped, was finally on.
- continued in Part 2
-
Author: AlienSoulDream
Challenge: Waymeet Hijinks
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10268
Warnings: Violence
Summary: A old saying gives Frodo an idea
***
Frodo stepped out of the round front door of Bag End and pulled it shut behind him with a satisfying click. The freshness of the Spring morning was evident in the lush green grass of his garden and the washed blue sky above. He stood for a moment, enjoying the shy warmth of the sunshine and the cheeriness of the nodding yellow dillydaffs along the bright border. A thrush was singing its heart out in a nearby bilberry bush and he smiled to hear it. Sing on, brother, he thought and laughed at himself. He struck out along the path with a buoyant heart, glad to have no particular destination in view. It was a fine thing, just to be able to follow one's nose. But that saying reminded him of Bilbo, gone a year last Halimath, and his mind skipped sideways, like a skittish lamb, to brighter thoughts. The fields and smials of Hobbiton lay spread out before him bathed in friendly sunlight and he sallied forth to greet them, filling his lungs with good Shire air and letting the cobwebs stream away from him on the pleasant morning breeze.
He was just rounding the curve that led past Bagshot Row when he spotted Sam coming along the path, and his heart swelled with mingled pleasure and anxiety. He gathered his courage and prepared to master his shyness.
'Hullo, Sam!' he called out, waving. Sam had seen him but Frodo did not miss the way the lad's eyes dipped and fumbled before rising to meet his again. It both quickened and mocked a cherished hope and a warm flush ran lightly over his skin.
'Morning, Sam!' he smiled, as they neared one another. 'Splendid day, isn't it?'
'Aye, grand. Tis going to be a rare Spring.' Sam wore no jacket, impervious to the slight breeze that ruffled his tawny locks. As well as his knapsack, he carried a wicker basket slung over his shoulder on a rope. It was filled to the brim with russet apples streaked with gold.
'What's this?' said Frodo. 'Last of the Red Crofters? My, don't they look delicious!' Without waiting for an invitation, he cheekily lifted out one of the apples, tossed and caught it, then took a bite from it. He twinkled at Sam provokingly, hoping for a jesting rebuke.
'They're for the Widow Rumble,' said Sam. 'Missus Cotton sent them over.'
Frodo stopped, embarrassed. He swallowed the half-chewed lump of apple with difficulty. 'Oh.' He felt suddenly like a sneak thief caught raiding the Widow's pantry.
A dimple slowly grew in the middle of Sam's ruddy cheek and his eyes kindled. 'S'alright. Reckon she won't miss one.'
They looked at each other a moment before being seized with a short burst of giggles. Before Frodo could exult in the feeling of sharing a small moment with him, however absurd, Sam quickly sobered and gave him a steady look.
'I'd best be off then. Plenty of chores to see to. Enjoy your walk, Mister Frodo.' He nodded pleasantly, sidestepped Frodo and continued on his way.
'Um ... yes, thank you! Have a nice day, Sam!' Frodo called after his retreating back, feeling deflated.
He turned away with a sigh and continued down the Hill more soberly, crunching the delicious apple as he went. It was mellow and nutty-flavoured, having waited out the weeks of winter in Farmer Cotton's apple store, where all its acidity had turned to sweetness. It felt like a small consolation to taste something that had briefly been part of Sam's existence, touched by his hands, perhaps. That thought should have made him blush but he was too accustomed by now to other thoughts like it, and worse.
Sam was as inevitable as the coming of Spring, as the warming of the soil and the green buds on the trees. He was woven as closely around Frodo's existence as the welcoming burrows of Bag End, as comforting as the firelight shadows around the inglenook where Frodo read his books of an evening. That he should fall for Sam came as no surprise to Frodo. A strapping handsome lad, always about the place, capable and sweet-natured - it would have been a wonder if he hadn't. But it was more than that. More than just the sap rising in his veins, the stirring of Spring in his loins reminding him that he was just as entitled to a fair dalliance as anyone else. There were deeper yearnings than lust in his heart, yearnings that had been dormant these many years, since the ill-judged experiments of his reckless youth had tamed his expectations of the world. He'd almost become convinced that solitude was better than to wreck one's heart forever upon hope. And then, Sam.
Sam had to grow up, didn't he? Right under Frodo's very nose. Oh, he had been the first to withdraw, he knew, during those stripling years, when Sam seemed daily to shoot upwards in height, to fill out his clothes in an almost indecent manner that would turn the eyes of every female visitor to Bag End and every maid and farmer's lass that passed him in the village. He'd drawn level with Frodo's shoulder, then his ear, then suddenly they were eye-to-eye. And Frodo gradually withdrew, becoming less available to help the eager boy with his lessons, pleading himself too busy for games, or jaunts to town or the strolls and picnics they'd so enjoyed. Even their former endless chats had been shorn to friendly courtesies. He'd never fully reckoned the hurt to Sam but even if guilt had swayed him he would have deemed it a disguise for selfishness. Sam was altogether too tempting. A luscious, wide-eyed youth with naked admiration glowing from puppy-dog eyes. Frodo would only have had to reach out his hand and Sam would have fallen. He wondered that he had been the only one to see it.
It had been less a sacrifice than an inescapable duty. A burden of trust he shouldered gladly, for Sam's sake. He had hoped the cooling of their ways would break his interest completely. He busied himself with other friends, other people, and tried hard to fall in love. He didn't.
The years passed and while his attention was fiercely elsewhere, Sam grew to maturity. He'd noticed it sometimes and suppressed the noticing, until one day - was it only last Autumn? - Sam had come into the living room at Bag End with a basket of firewood to stack the woodbin. Frodo had glanced up from his writing and helplessly watched his easy, efficient movements as he stacked the split logs. He'd straightened and turned, and Frodo could feel the faint aura of the crisp day he'd brought inside with him, almost see his cold breath, yet Sam seemed immune to it, his own inner flame, fanned by exertion, heating his body and spirit.
'Would there be anything else you'd be needing?' he'd asked. And Frodo had noticed that the flesh of his face had hardened into becoming planes, that his brow had grown broader and fairer and that his eyes were filled with a calm surety and the self-possession of a full-grown hobbit who owed his soul to no-one.
'Yes?' Frodo's voice was a whisper.
Sam's eyes changed expression but he did not repeat himself.
Overcome, Frodo shook his head. 'I ... no, that's fine. Thank you, Sam.' Only when had Sam had left and the room had quite faded to darkness around the fireglow had he realised he'd fallen in love. He'd wept for joy.
Since then, his life had been a series of frustrations. All his attempts to rekindle their former friendship had been met with polite obtuseness. Step inside for a cup of tea? Just had a drink at the well. A bite of lunch? No thanks, just had some. Pop in and take a look at this new book? Perhaps, when I've finished planting out these taters - which took all day and the book forgotten. Fancy a Highday tramp to Frogmorton? Grand, if only it weren't for all those chores at home. Care to accompany him to Waymeet for the Spring Races? Thankee kindly, but I promised the Cottons, like. No matter what Frodo suggested, Sam evaded him, always in a pleasant and respectful manner. If Frodo could have seen a hint of petulance, of hurt, in these refusals, he might have taken some comfort in it. As it was, he had to believe that Sam had simply outgrown him.
He had persisted to the point of embarrassment, against his own feverish council, hoping to make amends for his earlier desertion by proving constant. Only the thought that Sam might now be repulsed by his intentions had the power to freeze his heart and stop his lips. When that thought visited, Frodo withdrew into his study for days at a time. But hope was a hardy creature, and the foolishness of love boundless, as Frodo had cause to know. And after all, why shouldn't he befriend Sam, now the lad was grown? Let anyone make of it what they would, he would be as cordial as he chose, and if his only reward was to coax a winsome smile now and then, well, so be it! Thus he tempted his heart back into the open, as nervous as a dormouse emerging from a winter's nest.
He finished his apple and tossed the core over a hedgerow that bloomed beside the path, where some bird or creature would be glad of it. Sam was a tantalising puzzle that often accompanied him on his walks but that didn't shut out the love and interest he bore for the beloved countryside he saw all around him, for the little rolling hills and tidy homesteads, each with their wisp of smoke from a well-tended chimney which spoke comfortingly of the life within. It fed his hopes, for he hungered more than ever for a contented home life for himself.
He strolled aimlessly through the village and onto the stone bridge which spanned the Water. Resting his arms on the parapet, he looked out over Hobbiton and beyond. He had often dreamed of a world far from here, of excitement and adventures to be found in strange places. And yet, he'd felt tied to his home by more than sentiment, like a tree with very deep roots. He wondered now whether it had been his destiny to remain here until love unexpectedly appeared on his doorstep. It was a beguiling thought. No doubt he'd scared Sam away with his coldness, and he was proving a tough nut to crack. But to win him back again, now that was a challenge fit for a Baggins.
*
Frodo woke suddenly that night, with a inward gasp and the sensation of seeing the last of an extraordinary dream fleeing into the shadows of the room. His body relaxed slowly from a state of tension, but he still felt rattled and uneasy.
Moonlight spilled from the window where he'd forgotten to pull the curtains. It cast a silvery puddle on his bed coverlet which spilled onto the floor. Flickering shadows of tree branches quivered on the walls and ceiling of his bedroom, but the familiar reassurance of his surroundings failed to soothe him. Feeling restless, he sat up and swung his legs out of bed, pulled the coverlet around his shoulders and wandered over to the window which looked out into his front garden and across to the fields beyond. His sleep-heavy eyes opened wide at what he saw.
Out on the smooth silvery grass of the Party Field, hares were gambolling in the moonlight. Even from this distance, Frodo could see they were hares, for they were much bigger than rabbits and their ears were longer. A few were in small scattered clusters, intently grazing, while some pairs were fighting, rearing back and pummelling at each other in short desperate battles, which ended when one of them leaped back suddenly and bounded away in retreat. Individuals would suddenly pounce at others, setting a wild swerving dance in motion, weaving crazily around the field until the chaser gave up. It looked comical and endearing, yet seemed deadly serious to the creatures. Whatever was happening out there, it was no game.
Frodo stood captivated by this strange spectacle. Hares were not a very common sight around Bag End and he had never seen their antics under the moon before. He loved watching wild things, it made him feel close to the true nature of the Shire, and almost to the hidden things of Faery, for which he possessed a deep and secret longing.
When he had watched in pleasure for a while, he suddenly remembered there was a passage about hares in one of Bilbo's old books. He quickly pulled on a pair of breeches and a warm weskit over his nightshirt, as it was cool. He lit a wick lamp and carried it down the passageway into Bilbo's library, searching along a particular row until he found the volume he was looking for. Tucking it under his arm, he carried it into the front room, set both book and lamp on the desk and sat down comfortably to read. The large volume was bound in brown leather and the worn title etched on the cover read 'The Compendium of Beasts'. Frodo opened it and carefully leafed through page after page of old parchment until he found the one he was looking for, which was titled 'The Elusive Hare'. He eagerly read the flowing script beneath, imagining Bilbo's voice reading to him aloud, as he often did to comfort himself.
The fickle Hare is a beast of mystery and magic. Quick and cunning, this larger cousin of the Rabbit is most often seen in the hours before dawn. They prefer to eat grasses and tender roots and are often solitary and shy, except during the Spring months, when they pursue their courtships. Then they reproduce at a most prodigious rate, being among the most virile of creatures. A female Hare may begat four dozen hares in a month.
Frodo stared at this line, whistled softly and read on.
During this Spring fever, Hares may be seen by day as well as night, chasing each other around meadows and engaging in boxing contests, in which they adopt a most peculiar stance, balancing upright on their long back legs and beating at each other with their forelegs like prize-fighters. For long ages, it was thought that boxing hares were shape-shifting witches, dancing their rituals in the moonlight, and that they multiplied by magic, or laid eggs, that they were male during the waxing of the Moon and female in the waning. In truth, many of their dances are courtship rituals, and battles often result from the spurning of amorous approaches and from challenges between lusty young males.
The Hare has thus become a symbol of speed and fertility, bravery and abundance. The strong meat is delicious in a stew, the feet are highly prized as good luck charms, and the brains are thought to impart cunning and long life. The testes of the Hare, stewed with thyme, is an excellent physick against impotence..
Frodo's eyebrows rose at this, and he quickly turned the page.
No one has ever been known to catch a Hare on foot. He is the fleetest of all fleet-footed beasts and can outrun hunting hounds or even a wolfpack. Even a skilled archer is seldom a match for his swiftness. This has given rise to the popular saying - "They must charm, who chase the Hare." Only a well-laid trap baited with fresh carrots will catch a Hare. But beware, he has strong teeth and sharp claws, and many a hare-catcher has the scars to prove it.
It is very good luck when a Hare crosses your path, as you will be blessed by the White Lady in love and prosperity. And if you look up on the night of the full Moon, you may see the Shadow of the Hare in the Moon, which is said to watch over its wild brethren and bless their fecundity.
Below this text was a marvellous pen-and-ink illustration of a hare, lovingly rendered in the finest detail, down to its claws and whiskers. Frodo sat looking at it awhile, admiring the skill of the artist, and considering the curiousness of the creature. The words he had read tugged and teased at his thoughts like a riddle.
'Charm the hare ... charm the hare ... yes, but how?'
He shook his head. Perhaps he was losing his mind, seeking for answers to his own problems in such things. Yet the sight of the hares had seemed like an omen and he felt that there was a lesson here that he might grasp if he would. As he pondered awhile, he felt sleepiness creep over him again and closed the book. He rose and went over to the window. The moon had almost set and the dawn had not yet risen. The fields were shrouded in thick grey mist and he could no longer see anything of the hares but hints of moving shadows.
'Very well,' he murmured to the night. 'No more the hound - I shall become the hare, and see what luck that brings me.'
He paused a moment, then groaned softly. The idea of ceasing to pay any attentions to Sam at all was almost painful and he suspected might be beyond his self-control. There was always the option of taking a long trip or disappearing off to Buckland for a few weeks but he wasn't at all convinced that Sam's heart would grow fonder in his absence. He might even lose him to some local lass or lad. He felt sure Sam had had his dalliances - the assured look in his eyes told him as much. But he felt equally sure that no one had ensnared his heart as yet. Unless hope was blinding him.
He buried his face in his hands. 'O Bilbo! You would tell me not to do this, though you love me!'
He felt lost and alone, and it took more than a minute for his courage and calm to return. When it did, he looked out once more and thought of Sam, sleeping somewhere below the Hill, and he knew that the empty longing in his breast could be filled only with Sam's smile, his gentleness and quiet strength, and he knew what he had to do.
*
Frodo felt very much like a hunted creature as he walked into the Green Dragon next evening. He paused to survey the room and exchange nods with a few patrons who glanced his way. The wooden tables and benches lining the long low room were all but filled by most of the males of Hobbiton who were neither too old nor too young to gather there for their weekly Highday drinking and merriment. A fiddler played on a stool in a corner, the jaunty tune weaving just below the level of the noisy conversations. The fire was unlit now that the Spring weather had taken the chill from the evenings but the room was still warm with the press of bodies and the air was softly blurred by the faint blue haze of pipesmoke. The varied smells of ales and cooking assaulted the nose but it was a homely and comforting mixture. Frodo's heart quickened as his eyes found Sam, sitting in the top-right corner along with the Cotton lads. Sam saw him at almost exactly the same moment and slowly removed the pipe from his mouth. Frodo did not wait to see more but made for the bar to cover his confusion.
Hopgood, the cheery landlord, greeted him with delight. 'Well, good evening, Mister Frodo! We've not seen you in here in quite a spell. Just past Yule, weren't it, when you had them young cousins of yours staying over from Buckland?'
'That's right,' said Frodo, embarrassed and wishing Hopgood had a less reliable memory. He had been hoping to slip in without too much fuss. 'They enjoyed themselves here very much. Always mention it in their letters.'
'Do they now?' Hopgood seemed highly satisfied. 'Well, we don't serve the best ales in the Westfarthing for nothing! Can I recommend you a jar of Botherton's Best Bitter?'
'Splendid. And have one for yourself.' Frodo pushed a coin across the counter, enough for the two ales and to spare.
'Most kind, sir! Don't mind if I do.'
Fine ales were not the only reason the Green Dragon was a popular haunt. Another reason was Hopgood's two comely daughters, who served behind the bar and were the only females in the place. One of them smiled at Frodo until she caught her father's eye upon her and skittered off to serve another customer. A mug brimful of golden brew was placed before Frodo and he lifted it to his lips and drained a third of it, hoping it would give him courage. He turned, smacking his lips over the bitter taste. This was the worst moment of all, the dread that had made his stomach clench in knots all day and he'd best get it over with as quickly as he could.
He sauntered slowly around the room, pausing for a word or two with some familiar faces, farmers that Frodo often saw at the local markets and festivals, and the craftsmen whose shops he sometimes visited. All were friendly. Some teasingly asked whether it was a special occasion but he passed it off with a joke and a smile. As he neared the top-right corner, his heart was pounding. Sam looked up attentively at his approach, the other lads following his gaze. Their looks were curious and welcoming but Sam's face was unreadable. Frodo painted on a beneficent smile.
'Good evening, lads!' he greeted them, and passed by their table.
'Good evening ... Mister Frodo!' He heard a confused chorus of voices echoing behind him but not whether Sam's was among them. It twisted his heart to pass by in such a fashion and tortured his curiosity to know how Sam was reacting. He imagined the other lads all looking at Sam, and Sam shrugging in bewilderment. He hoped they would not taunt him too fiercely. After all, why should they expect his employer to sit with him? Frodo never entered this establishment except in company with others of his own class. He had his own wine cellar and little taste for beer. His appearance here would cause comment but few would wonder much that 'the Baggins' had suddenly discovered a wish for company. It was lonely up there on the Hill, they would say, and many miles to his nearest kin. Do him good to spend some time among plain honest folk.
But who to sit with? That was the problem. No one would refuse him if he asked and some were likely shy of issuing an invitation. But few would really welcome his presence, feeling spied on, forced to restrain their language and perhaps even their drinking. It was a tricky business altogether.
He moved as slowly as he dared until he spotted Bill Codfast, Falco Bolgers's estate manager, with whom he was on friendly terms. Bill hailed him and issued him a ready invitation as he approached, which Frodo accepted, choosing to sit at a spot that would allow him a peek at Sam once his courage had rallied. He was quickly introduced around the table and only took in about half the names - Sandy Crupper, a groomsman, Dick Dunn, a farmhand and brothers Ned and Pete Dingle, who had a tool-mending business, along with a few others he didn't catch. Frodo exerted himself to be pleasant and lively and in no time at all the conversation was just as loud and free as though he had been a natural part of the group. He downed his ale and when a barmaid came to their table ordered a round for everyone, which earned him general acceptance. Amid the confusion of being served, he let his eyes drift up to where Sam was but Jolly Cotton appeared to have just told a joke and Sam was laughing heartily along with everyone else.
For two more hours, Frodo fought his nature and appeared to lap up the tall tales and frothy gossip of feuds and dalliances until his head spun. Or perhaps it was the ale making his head spin, as he'd had six jugs of it and had visited the privy more times than he'd thought possible in one evening. He was bearing up quite well, considering, and only had to hold onto the privy stall because it was built at such a queer angle. They could have used a few more candles, too, in the inn as it grew darker, and the murk meant that he was obliged to steady himself on a few shoulders on his way back to his seat. It also made it more difficult to see Sam, although when he did see him through the throng, the warm candleglow made his face look terribly appealing.
The gaiety increased through the evening, as fellows took to the floor to tell stories, sing songs and caper jigs, often all at the same time. Frodo found himself laughing in a way he hadn't in years, till the tears streamed down his face, and he wondered why he hadn't made a habit of this sooner. So much more fun than those stuffed shirts at Buckland!
Finally, with a spontaneous re-enactment, involving half the patrons, of Gaffer Barnston's pig escaping and the subsequent disaster-strewn chase through the village, hilarity crested amid a deafening riot of laughter and insults, before eventually subsiding, leaving them all with aching sides. Frodo judged it time to effect a retreat and rose carefully to take his leave. His hand was wrung firmly and sweatily by everyone at the table and they urged him with face-splitting grins to come again soon, which he promised to do.
He'd been looking forward all evening to passing Sam's table and bidding him goodnight, so that he could gauge his reaction. He intended speaking but Sam appeared deep in conversation. He approached, hopeful and beaming, although for a moment he thought Sam didn't see him at all, but then Sam lifted his eyes and directed a brief nod at him. Frodo felt curbed and returned the nod, his mouth closing on words unspoken, but Sam's attention had already turned back to Nibs. Frodo swallowed and went out the door, after bidding Hopgood a hearty good night.
As soon as he was in the open, he drew his first truly relaxed breath of the evening. It had gone very much as he'd expected. He walked to the end of the village feeling hazy and very light on his feet. The night seemed uncommonly warm, even for Spring. He'd forgotten to empty his bladder before leaving the inn and was obliged to go behind a wall to relieve himself, which made him giggle. It wasn't until he reached the last smial before the Hill that he began to feel odd. Odder than odd. Distinctly unwell, in fact. He clutched a fence post as his stomach roiled and a wave of sickly heat came over him, followed by a trembling chill. Something told him that it was an extremely bad idea to sit down, as dizzy as he was, for fear of passing out and being found there by Sam. He simply needed to get home and get to his bed.
The Hill had never seemed so dreadfully steep and difficult to climb before. The unconstant path seemed to dip and weave below his steps. Several times he had to stop and clutch his stomach, feeling sure he would be sick in the hedgerow. By a supreme effort of will he managed to avoid it. By the time he'd reached the path to Bag End, his lungs were on fire and the stars seemed to be swirling overhead as if blown by the North wind.
He fumbled and dropped his key twice and when he finally managed to get inside, he could only stumble towards his bedroom as the floor rolled away from him. He crashed onto his bed fully clothed and gasped as the room kept turning, over and over in a sickly tilt that never seemed to come full circle. He closed his eyes and plunged headlong into terrifying dreams where he was boxing a giant hare, four feet high. Then suddenly the hare had Sam's face and leapt far away from him, bounding away into the shadows as he ran and ran in pursuit.
Next morning, his eyes slitted open abruptly, smarting and weeping like they'd been squirted with onion juice. His head felt the size of a pumpkin and pounded inside like a smithy. He groaned and rolled over, dragging the comforter over himself, and determinedly buried himself in sleep.
When next he woke, the light outside told him it was almost noon. He caught sight of the window with its curtains undrawn and cursed himself, hoping that Sam had possessed too much decency to look inside. Carefully, he sat up, taking inventory of the damage. His bladder was protesting urgently. His head seemed like it might topple off with little encouragement and his mouth felt as if something disgusting had crawled into it and died in the night. He held his temples and whimpered softly. This all brought back embarrassing memories of Curly Bracegirdle's coming-of-age party, when he'd been still too young to know his limits and been arrested for urinating in the public fountain at Michel Delving. Bilbo had been terribly decent about it but the legendary hangover that followed had been quite punishment enough.
Frodo sighed and got up, drew the curtains, and headed for the privy. Business done, he made for the kitchen, grateful that his cleaner, Missus Featherstall, wasn't due today. He lit the kindling already laid in the grate and drew a kettle of water from the barrel and set it to boil. Then he drank down a glass of cold water followed by a glass of brandywine, Bilbo's remedy, which steadied him marvellously as he collected clean clothes and linens and brushed his teeth with peppermint paste until he felt he must exude the smell of mint from ten paces. As soon as the kettle boiled he warmed the water in the basin and stripped down, soaping and scrubbing himself from head to foot. By the time he had dressed he felt almost like a hobbit again. He washed his hair and towelled it dry near the warm grate. By then the head-pounding had subsided to a pernicious headache. He'd soaked some willowbark tea and drank a mugful with honey. The thought of a proper breakfast was repugnant but he managed to nibble some toast with bramble jelly while he considered whether to venture outdoors and speak to Sam. After wrestling with himself for under a minute, he decided he would.
When he felt strong enough, he went to check himself in the mirror and was surprised to find little trace of his adventure aside from a slight pinking of the eyes. He refilled his mug of tea and went out of the kitchen door and into the back garden. It was a lovely day, although the sunlight made him squint a bit. He wandered about for a while, pretending to be enjoying the garden and drinking his tea, then casually strolled over to where Sam was tying up rose bushes against some rods.
'Good morning, Sam! How are you this morning?'
Sam shot a look up at the sun which was obviously past its highpoint, then glanced shrewdly at Frodo. 'Better than some as can't say otherwise, I suppose.'
Even clear-headed, Frodo sometimes had trouble with Sam's jumbled way of speaking. But he was confident there was implied criticism in there and he was encouraged by it, and plunged on.
'Good sport in the Dragon last night, eh?'
Sam stopped to wipe his chin with the back of his hand and considered. 'Aye, it's a jolly place,' he conceded, 'even if they do water their ale.'
Frodo laughed, which set his temples throbbing. 'Well, I fancy I might spend a bit more time there in future anyway. The company more than makes up for it.'
Sam fixed him with a curious look. 'I would've thought the Ivy Bush might be a bit more in your style. Calmer, like.'
Frodo pulled a face of amused scorn. 'What? Sit around with a bunch of old Gaffers talking corn prices and playing skittles?' He winked. 'You don't know me very well, Samwise.'
As he turned and walked away, Frodo could have bitten through his tongue. Samwise! Where had that come from? He never used that name. He felt a pang of misgiving, and wondered whether this was all a foolish mistake and they would end up further apart than ever. He wished so much to know whether Sam was still watching him. For comfort, he imagined it was so until he reached the smial when the weariness hit him full force and he had to go lie down.
As he drifted into a weary nap, he decided he couldn't stop now. This was the most reaction he'd provoked from Sam in ages. He'd captured his attention, and from there it must be possible to reawaken his interest. The chase, he hoped, was finally on.
- continued in Part 2
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