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rabidsamfanHoliday ficlet
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mordelhin asked for something from Frodo's first Yule after Bilbo adopted him.
They'd spent the whole week baking and brewing and cooking and stewing, as if there were going to be a feast at Bag End for fifty hobbits instead of just for two and Frodo was beginning to worry. "I'm still growing," he told his Cousin-Uncle, as he mixed the dough for another rack of pies. "But not that fast."
But Bilbo only laughed. "You'll see," he said, popping a cooky which had come out of the oven with its candy face askew into young Sam Gamgee's mouth before the gardener's lad could say anything. "Tomorrow will come soon enough."
Sam blushed and giggled around the cooky, his brown eyes bright with the shared secret as he set aside the mortar and pestle long enough to pay proper attention to the unexpected treat. For such a little fellow he'd been a great help with the preparations – at least with the parts like cracking nuts and grinding herbs that someone else had measured out. The other Gamgee children were busy with their own Yuletide preparations, but Sam had continued to come to Bag End each morning and help in the kitchen while his father replenished the stocks of wood and water and saw to the other unavoidable chores. Bilbo seemed to take the child's presence as a given; so much so that Frodo sometimes felt a little left out. They got along so easily! After two months of living at Bag End all the time instead of just visiting he was still finding out things about his new guardian, but Sam seemed to know all the old gentlehobbit's ways already.
He bent over the dough and concentrated on it, trying not to feel jealous when Bilbo and Sam poured the fresh-ground spices into the mincemeat together and Bilbo helped Sam maneuver the wooden spoon around the heavy bowl. His father had stood behind him like that when he was small and helped him stir too. He was too big for Bilbo to help him like that. Too big to get his hair scruffled, or have a fingerful of flour painted teasingly onto the end of his nose. Too big for casual hugs for no reason at all.
Not too big to feel like crying, though. "Excuse me," he said, "I'll be back," and fled for the privacy of the privy before Bilbo could notice anything.
Eventually he got to the point where he could wash his face and go back, but when he stepped into the hall he found Sam waiting for him, crouched against the opposite wall. "Are you all right now?" the lad asked.
Frodo was surprised, but Sam was looking so solemn he didn't want to be mean to him. "Yes. I guess so," he answered. "I just… was thinking about something."
"Me too," Sam sighed, resting his chin in his hands.
He wasn't that much bigger than Merry back at ho… at the Hall, come to think of it. And Merry had every adult in the place wrapped around his little finger. It must just be the way that little lads were, really and not Sam's fault if Uncle Bilbo was as soft a touch as the rest of the grown-ups. Frodo sat down beside the youngster, wondering what was making him concentrate so fiercely. "What are you thinking about, Sam?"
"I'm thinking," Sam said carefully, "that Mr. Bilbo's right. It should be your turn this year. You're all big and everything and you won't drop any pies. And I had a turn last year. And the year before that." He wrinkled his nose and sighed again. "And the year before that too." He admitted reluctantly. "Three turns is lots of turns, isn't it?"
Frodo met the serious brown eyes and reminded himself not to smile. "Three turns doing what?"
"Helping," Sam said. "I didn't know they were turns," he explained. "I thought it was 'cause the magic chooseded me and it was always going to be me every year but Mr. Bilbo says that it was turns so it must have been that there wasn't anybody else who wanted a turn after the first time. But now that you're Mr. Bilbo's own lad then it ought to be your turn all the time until you don't want it any more."
"The magic?" Frodo repeated.
Sam nodded eagerly. "You wake up and you've got green clothes on your bed and then you know you got chooseded … chosed…"
"Chosen," Frodo prompted, beginning to see the light. The Yulefather's helpers wore green as they distributed small presents and food to children and poor families. In Buckland, those roles were always taken by a grown hobbit, but they did a lot of things strangely in Hobbiton. And he'd never heard anyone say that the helpers were chosen by magic. But whether that was Sam's invention or Bilbo's he wasn't sure.
"Yes, and then you go and help and carry and hold the pony's nose and it's fun because you get to give them treats and see their faces," Sam's enthusiasm was dampened suddenly, but he shrugged with studied nonchalance. "Mr. Bilbo says I've already helped a lot this year." It wasn't much consolation, judging from the slump of Sam's shoulders, but he was trying to be good about it.
Frodo turned so he could put an arm around Sam. "If it's magic that chooses, then maybe Uncle Bilbo doesn't know for sure yet," he offered, although he was fairly certain that Bilbo did. He didn't own a green outfit – not yet anyway, and he was suddenly sure that this was the surprise that Bilbo had been chuckling over all week.
"But Mr. Bilbo gets chosened every year," Sam objected. "Always and always, as long as I can remember. He's got the most beautiful green clothes of anybody." He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with distress. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that!" he wailed, tears brimming up.
"It's all right," Frodo said, hastily. "Truly. With all that food I ought to have guessed anyway." He dug out his handkerchief and used the least damp corner of it on Sam. "How many people does Uncle Bilbo visit on Yule anyway? I think we've made enough pies for everyone in Hobbiton."
Sam sniffled and started counting on his fingers. "There's the Twofoots, and the Noakeses, and the Sandhills, and the Tunnellys…" As he recited names Frodo became aware that Bilbo was standing in the shadows at the far end of the corridor, watching with a troubled look on his face.
He knows that choosing me instead of Sam will hurt Sam's feelings, Frodo realized. I'll bet he meant to bring us both along until he saw how I felt. It was a terrible temptation to accept what Bilbo was offering – a chance to be the center of attention – a chance to show his Uncle that he'd chosen a proper heir in Frodo. But still…
"That's all of Hobbiton and half of Bywater," Frodo said, as Sam finished his list. "It sounds like a lot of work to me."
"You have to get up really early," Sam agreed. "But it's the best part of Yule, giving folks what they really need. That's what Mr. Bilbo says."
What they really need…
"I expect he's right about that," Frodo said, carefully not looking in his uncle's direction. "But it still sounds like work enough for three hobbits to me. So don't stay up too late, Sam. We might need you in the morning."
"Do you think so?" Sam asked hopefully.
Frodo nodded and made himself grin. "Yes. And I know we need you now, or those pies are never going to be ready in time." He boosted the smaller lad to his feet and sent him toward the kitchen with a light swat on the rear.
Bilbo met Sam by the kitchen door and sent him down to the cellar after a basket of potatoes, so by the time Frodo reached him there was no one there to see when Bilbo pulled Frodo into a sudden hug. "A proper Baggins you are," the old hobbit said gruffly, and Frodo felt a rush of happiness coming up from his toes.
"Really?" he asked, pulling back to arms length.
"Really." Bilbo affirmed, reaching out to scruffle his hair affectionately. He made a surprised, happy noise when Frodo hugged him back as hard as he could, and then wrapped his arms tight around.
"Is that what you needed for Yule, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo asked, breathing deep of the floury, pipeweedy, peppermint smell of his uncle's weskit.
"I have what I truly need," Bilbo said, picking him up off his feet and twirling him around once as if he were a much smaller hobbit. "Happy Yule, Frodo my lad. Happy Yule."
mordelhin asked for something from Frodo's first Yule after Bilbo adopted him.They'd spent the whole week baking and brewing and cooking and stewing, as if there were going to be a feast at Bag End for fifty hobbits instead of just for two and Frodo was beginning to worry. "I'm still growing," he told his Cousin-Uncle, as he mixed the dough for another rack of pies. "But not that fast."
But Bilbo only laughed. "You'll see," he said, popping a cooky which had come out of the oven with its candy face askew into young Sam Gamgee's mouth before the gardener's lad could say anything. "Tomorrow will come soon enough."
Sam blushed and giggled around the cooky, his brown eyes bright with the shared secret as he set aside the mortar and pestle long enough to pay proper attention to the unexpected treat. For such a little fellow he'd been a great help with the preparations – at least with the parts like cracking nuts and grinding herbs that someone else had measured out. The other Gamgee children were busy with their own Yuletide preparations, but Sam had continued to come to Bag End each morning and help in the kitchen while his father replenished the stocks of wood and water and saw to the other unavoidable chores. Bilbo seemed to take the child's presence as a given; so much so that Frodo sometimes felt a little left out. They got along so easily! After two months of living at Bag End all the time instead of just visiting he was still finding out things about his new guardian, but Sam seemed to know all the old gentlehobbit's ways already.
He bent over the dough and concentrated on it, trying not to feel jealous when Bilbo and Sam poured the fresh-ground spices into the mincemeat together and Bilbo helped Sam maneuver the wooden spoon around the heavy bowl. His father had stood behind him like that when he was small and helped him stir too. He was too big for Bilbo to help him like that. Too big to get his hair scruffled, or have a fingerful of flour painted teasingly onto the end of his nose. Too big for casual hugs for no reason at all.
Not too big to feel like crying, though. "Excuse me," he said, "I'll be back," and fled for the privacy of the privy before Bilbo could notice anything.
Eventually he got to the point where he could wash his face and go back, but when he stepped into the hall he found Sam waiting for him, crouched against the opposite wall. "Are you all right now?" the lad asked.
Frodo was surprised, but Sam was looking so solemn he didn't want to be mean to him. "Yes. I guess so," he answered. "I just… was thinking about something."
"Me too," Sam sighed, resting his chin in his hands.
He wasn't that much bigger than Merry back at ho… at the Hall, come to think of it. And Merry had every adult in the place wrapped around his little finger. It must just be the way that little lads were, really and not Sam's fault if Uncle Bilbo was as soft a touch as the rest of the grown-ups. Frodo sat down beside the youngster, wondering what was making him concentrate so fiercely. "What are you thinking about, Sam?"
"I'm thinking," Sam said carefully, "that Mr. Bilbo's right. It should be your turn this year. You're all big and everything and you won't drop any pies. And I had a turn last year. And the year before that." He wrinkled his nose and sighed again. "And the year before that too." He admitted reluctantly. "Three turns is lots of turns, isn't it?"
Frodo met the serious brown eyes and reminded himself not to smile. "Three turns doing what?"
"Helping," Sam said. "I didn't know they were turns," he explained. "I thought it was 'cause the magic chooseded me and it was always going to be me every year but Mr. Bilbo says that it was turns so it must have been that there wasn't anybody else who wanted a turn after the first time. But now that you're Mr. Bilbo's own lad then it ought to be your turn all the time until you don't want it any more."
"The magic?" Frodo repeated.
Sam nodded eagerly. "You wake up and you've got green clothes on your bed and then you know you got chooseded … chosed…"
"Chosen," Frodo prompted, beginning to see the light. The Yulefather's helpers wore green as they distributed small presents and food to children and poor families. In Buckland, those roles were always taken by a grown hobbit, but they did a lot of things strangely in Hobbiton. And he'd never heard anyone say that the helpers were chosen by magic. But whether that was Sam's invention or Bilbo's he wasn't sure.
"Yes, and then you go and help and carry and hold the pony's nose and it's fun because you get to give them treats and see their faces," Sam's enthusiasm was dampened suddenly, but he shrugged with studied nonchalance. "Mr. Bilbo says I've already helped a lot this year." It wasn't much consolation, judging from the slump of Sam's shoulders, but he was trying to be good about it.
Frodo turned so he could put an arm around Sam. "If it's magic that chooses, then maybe Uncle Bilbo doesn't know for sure yet," he offered, although he was fairly certain that Bilbo did. He didn't own a green outfit – not yet anyway, and he was suddenly sure that this was the surprise that Bilbo had been chuckling over all week.
"But Mr. Bilbo gets chosened every year," Sam objected. "Always and always, as long as I can remember. He's got the most beautiful green clothes of anybody." He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with distress. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that!" he wailed, tears brimming up.
"It's all right," Frodo said, hastily. "Truly. With all that food I ought to have guessed anyway." He dug out his handkerchief and used the least damp corner of it on Sam. "How many people does Uncle Bilbo visit on Yule anyway? I think we've made enough pies for everyone in Hobbiton."
Sam sniffled and started counting on his fingers. "There's the Twofoots, and the Noakeses, and the Sandhills, and the Tunnellys…" As he recited names Frodo became aware that Bilbo was standing in the shadows at the far end of the corridor, watching with a troubled look on his face.
He knows that choosing me instead of Sam will hurt Sam's feelings, Frodo realized. I'll bet he meant to bring us both along until he saw how I felt. It was a terrible temptation to accept what Bilbo was offering – a chance to be the center of attention – a chance to show his Uncle that he'd chosen a proper heir in Frodo. But still…
"That's all of Hobbiton and half of Bywater," Frodo said, as Sam finished his list. "It sounds like a lot of work to me."
"You have to get up really early," Sam agreed. "But it's the best part of Yule, giving folks what they really need. That's what Mr. Bilbo says."
What they really need…
"I expect he's right about that," Frodo said, carefully not looking in his uncle's direction. "But it still sounds like work enough for three hobbits to me. So don't stay up too late, Sam. We might need you in the morning."
"Do you think so?" Sam asked hopefully.
Frodo nodded and made himself grin. "Yes. And I know we need you now, or those pies are never going to be ready in time." He boosted the smaller lad to his feet and sent him toward the kitchen with a light swat on the rear.
Bilbo met Sam by the kitchen door and sent him down to the cellar after a basket of potatoes, so by the time Frodo reached him there was no one there to see when Bilbo pulled Frodo into a sudden hug. "A proper Baggins you are," the old hobbit said gruffly, and Frodo felt a rush of happiness coming up from his toes.
"Really?" he asked, pulling back to arms length.
"Really." Bilbo affirmed, reaching out to scruffle his hair affectionately. He made a surprised, happy noise when Frodo hugged him back as hard as he could, and then wrapped his arms tight around.
"Is that what you needed for Yule, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo asked, breathing deep of the floury, pipeweedy, peppermint smell of his uncle's weskit.
"I have what I truly need," Bilbo said, picking him up off his feet and twirling him around once as if he were a much smaller hobbit. "Happy Yule, Frodo my lad. Happy Yule."
