Just a schnibble
Aug. 22nd, 2004 10:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfan[working title: Goodbye Mr. Bilbo]
That summer Sam grew four inches and it seemed to him that his elbows had doubled in size, and if it hadn’t been for old Mr. Bilbo sneaking him honeycakes he’d have felt hollow all the time and not just most of it. It was Mr. Bilbo too, who had assured him that the rest of him would catch up to his feet someday, and who turned the stumble that toppled half the party bunting onto the visiting Brandybucks into a grand joke, though the Gaffer hadn’t been amused, and neither had the Brandybucks.
But then he’d gone. Vanished in a flash of light, said the folk who’d been in the family dinner party, and when Sam finally finished washing dishes and carting home drunken hobbits and got a chance to go up to Bag End it was pushing towards dawn. He found the Dwarves’ ponies gone too. Sam had known Bilbo would go – after helping label all those presents and line them up in the smial, he’d have been blind not to understand – but he’d hoped for a chance to say goodbye to the old hobbit.
Tears blurred the moonlight, and he found himself standing outside Bilbo’s bedroom window, wondering if he dared toss a pebble at it the way he did at the Cotton’s when he and Jolly wanted to go fishing in the early morning. Just in case Bilbo were still there. Gandalf’s cart hadn’t gone yet. There was a chance.
“He’s gone,” said a voice, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin, coming down wrong and falling against the rose arbor with a clatter and a shout as the thorns scored his hands.
“Shh. Quiet.” Merry Brandybuck jumped down from the top of the smial and helped Sam extricate himself from the rosebushes. “Can’t you ever manage to keep from falling over your own feet? I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The younger lad deftly plucked away the barbed stems, evading any damage with a compact neatness Sam could only envy.
“You didn’t,” Sam said gruffly, smearing his tearstreaked face with the back of his hand. “Just surprised me is all.” His ankle hurt, and there was going to be a new bruise on his knee to go with the others by the feel of it, but the sting of the thorns was the worst.
“I just didn’t want you to wake up Frodo,” Merry explained, not very contritely as he tugged Sam upright. “Or Gandalf.”
“It’s too late for Frodo,” that worthy said, his head appearing in Bilbo’s window. “Who’s out there, Merry?”
“It’s Sam Gamgee, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said for himself, blushing in the darkness. “I didn’t mean to bother no one. It’s just… he’s truly gone then? Without saying goodbye?”
“You know Bilbo, he’s not very much on ceremonies. But he left something for you.” Frodo vanished back behind the window for a moment and then reappeared with something in his hands. “Here.”
Sam limped to the window and breathed in the pipeweed and peppermint smell that lingered from Mr. Bilbo’s long tenancy of that room for a moment before looking to see what Frodo had brought out. “It’s a book!” he exclaimed, feeling the size and shape of it through the cloth wrapping.
“Of course it is,” Frodo laughed. “Go on, open it. It’s yours.”
“My hands are dirty,” Sam objected; though he wanted nothing more than to unwrap the gift he could feel the slickness of blood from the rosethorns on his palms and see dark smears forming on the cloth. “You keep it safe, Mr. Frodo, until I’ve got an hour to spare for reading.”
“Nonsense. Come in and wash and you can take it tonight. And read the day away, for all I care. You’ve been working as hard as anyone.” Frodo put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’d like that, Sam, you know he would.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m meant to help clear the Field come morning,” he said reluctantly. “The Gaffer won’t stand for me bein’ idle while others work.”
“Well, I’m the Master of Bag End,” Frodo said. “And I say that you’ve earned a day for yourself.”
Sam shrugged. If he weren’t working at the Field, he’d be working at Bagshot Row, but Mr. Frodo didn’t have old Mr. Bilbo’s practice at getting around the Gaffer. “If you say so, Sir.”
“No, that won’t work will it,” Frodo’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “What do you think then… berry picking? Isn’t that how Bilbo usually manages to keep you in the woods all day?”
Sam blushed to the roots of his hair. “It’s the wrong season, sir,” he pointed out. “But mushrooms…”
“Mushrooms of course,” Frodo said. “Come to the kitchen and we’ll pack a basket for you. You’ll need some luncheon – and some breakfast and dinner too!”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last
That summer Sam grew four inches and it seemed to him that his elbows had doubled in size, and if it hadn’t been for old Mr. Bilbo sneaking him honeycakes he’d have felt hollow all the time and not just most of it. It was Mr. Bilbo too, who had assured him that the rest of him would catch up to his feet someday, and who turned the stumble that toppled half the party bunting onto the visiting Brandybucks into a grand joke, though the Gaffer hadn’t been amused, and neither had the Brandybucks.
But then he’d gone. Vanished in a flash of light, said the folk who’d been in the family dinner party, and when Sam finally finished washing dishes and carting home drunken hobbits and got a chance to go up to Bag End it was pushing towards dawn. He found the Dwarves’ ponies gone too. Sam had known Bilbo would go – after helping label all those presents and line them up in the smial, he’d have been blind not to understand – but he’d hoped for a chance to say goodbye to the old hobbit.
Tears blurred the moonlight, and he found himself standing outside Bilbo’s bedroom window, wondering if he dared toss a pebble at it the way he did at the Cotton’s when he and Jolly wanted to go fishing in the early morning. Just in case Bilbo were still there. Gandalf’s cart hadn’t gone yet. There was a chance.
“He’s gone,” said a voice, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin, coming down wrong and falling against the rose arbor with a clatter and a shout as the thorns scored his hands.
“Shh. Quiet.” Merry Brandybuck jumped down from the top of the smial and helped Sam extricate himself from the rosebushes. “Can’t you ever manage to keep from falling over your own feet? I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The younger lad deftly plucked away the barbed stems, evading any damage with a compact neatness Sam could only envy.
“You didn’t,” Sam said gruffly, smearing his tearstreaked face with the back of his hand. “Just surprised me is all.” His ankle hurt, and there was going to be a new bruise on his knee to go with the others by the feel of it, but the sting of the thorns was the worst.
“I just didn’t want you to wake up Frodo,” Merry explained, not very contritely as he tugged Sam upright. “Or Gandalf.”
“It’s too late for Frodo,” that worthy said, his head appearing in Bilbo’s window. “Who’s out there, Merry?”
“It’s Sam Gamgee, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said for himself, blushing in the darkness. “I didn’t mean to bother no one. It’s just… he’s truly gone then? Without saying goodbye?”
“You know Bilbo, he’s not very much on ceremonies. But he left something for you.” Frodo vanished back behind the window for a moment and then reappeared with something in his hands. “Here.”
Sam limped to the window and breathed in the pipeweed and peppermint smell that lingered from Mr. Bilbo’s long tenancy of that room for a moment before looking to see what Frodo had brought out. “It’s a book!” he exclaimed, feeling the size and shape of it through the cloth wrapping.
“Of course it is,” Frodo laughed. “Go on, open it. It’s yours.”
“My hands are dirty,” Sam objected; though he wanted nothing more than to unwrap the gift he could feel the slickness of blood from the rosethorns on his palms and see dark smears forming on the cloth. “You keep it safe, Mr. Frodo, until I’ve got an hour to spare for reading.”
“Nonsense. Come in and wash and you can take it tonight. And read the day away, for all I care. You’ve been working as hard as anyone.” Frodo put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’d like that, Sam, you know he would.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m meant to help clear the Field come morning,” he said reluctantly. “The Gaffer won’t stand for me bein’ idle while others work.”
“Well, I’m the Master of Bag End,” Frodo said. “And I say that you’ve earned a day for yourself.”
Sam shrugged. If he weren’t working at the Field, he’d be working at Bagshot Row, but Mr. Frodo didn’t have old Mr. Bilbo’s practice at getting around the Gaffer. “If you say so, Sir.”
“No, that won’t work will it,” Frodo’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “What do you think then… berry picking? Isn’t that how Bilbo usually manages to keep you in the woods all day?”
Sam blushed to the roots of his hair. “It’s the wrong season, sir,” he pointed out. “But mushrooms…”
“Mushrooms of course,” Frodo said. “Come to the kitchen and we’ll pack a basket for you. You’ll need some luncheon – and some breakfast and dinner too!”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last
