A Frodo by Any Other Name

by Marla F. Fair

ONE

“Mr. Frodo?  ...Mr. Frodo?”

The wind was whistling through the trees.  The sun was setting and evening’s shadows were just beginning to creep across the lawn outside his window, seeking to overtake what remained of the light.  Frodo put down the map he had been studying and looked out the round window beyond Bilbo’s table.  A tousled blond head was just visible above the sill.  Frodo smiled and shook his head.  Taking a few steps he rounded the table and called out, “Still hard at work, Sam?”

            “Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo.”  Samwise Gamgee ducked his head and smiled sheepishly.  “I stayed overlong at the tavern last night.”  As Frodo’s brows lifted and his face lit with amusement, his friend and gardener added, “Rosie was tending the bar and I lost track of time.”

            “Did you now?”  Frodo crossed his arms in mock anger.  “Tsk, tsk, Sam.  You must learn to pay more attention.  What would I do if the grasses grew so tall that they topped the window and reached in and carried me away?”

            Sam blinked.  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but do you really think they could do that?  I mean, did Mr. Gandalf charm them while he was here?”

            Frodo didn’t laugh though he was sorely tempted.  Sam was a simple soul.  The opposite of the wizard he spoke of.  Gandalf’s last visit, on the day of Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, had been a very complicated affair he wasn’t sure he still understood.  He glanced at the trunk where Bilbo’s ring lay sealed in a parchment envelope and frowned.  He had been meaning to take it out and look at it. 

            “Mr. Frodo?”

            He turned back.  “Eh?”

            “Is something wrong?”

            Frodo shook himself.  “No.”  Then he did laugh.  “And yes, the grass could do that.  Gandalf put a spell on it in case my gardener got lazy.  But it won’t come after me.  It will come after you.”

            Sam swallowed.  “Really?”

            Frodo looked very serious.  “Yes.  Really.”

            Samwise Gamgee stood up and hesitated a moment.  Then he eyed the grass with suspicion and favored it with a short bow.  “Begging your pardon, mister...er...missus grasses....”

            “Oh, Sam!”  Frodo leaned on the sill and reached out to his friend.  “I am only teasing.  Gandalf probably doesn’t even know I have grass under my window.  You are quite safe.  Safe as the Shire.”

            Sam frowned.  “That ain’t right, Mr. Frodo.  Pulling a Hobbit’s leg like that.”

            “Sam.”  Frodo sounded stern.

            “What, Mr. Frodo?”

            “That.  That is the very thing.”  His hands went to his hips.  “Stop it.”

            “Stop what, Mr. Frodo?”

            “Stop ‘Mr. Frodo’-ing me.  You and I are of an age, Sam.  You make me feel...well....  ancient as the dwarve’s halls under the misty mountains when you call me that.  You must call me Frodo.”

            “But, Mr. Frodo....”  Sam stopped.  He wiped his hands on his breeches.  It was obvious he was ill-at-ease.

            “But what?”

            “It wouldn’t be right.  Calling you Frodo...like we were friends.”

            “But we are friends.”  Frodo straightened up and frowned.  “Aren’t we?”

            Sam’s blue eyes blinked.  He didn’t say anything.

            “Sam, what has the Gaffer told you?”  Sam’s father had worked for Bilbo before Sam himself and was set in his ways.  He believed in the old rules for servant and master.  “Tell me.” 

            As if that was an order he could not refuse, Sam blurted out, “ ‘Them that works shouldn’t hobnob with them that they works for.’ ”   The works were spoken with the solemnity of a creed.  Then he scuffed his feet and looked at the ground.  “It just wouldn’t be right.”

            Frodo sat on the sill and swung his legs over the edge and dropped down to the ground.  He walked toward Sam and put his hand on his shoulder.  “Samwise Gamgee, you are the best and truest friend I have.  I can always count on you.  You are always the same, as unchanging as the Shire itself.  Solid as the earth we dig our holes from.”

            Sam’s cheeks blushed pink.  “I’m just a simple gardener.”

            Frodo smiled.  “That’s what I mean.”

            His friend’s head came up.  “Huh?”

            He lifted his hand.  “It’s late, Sam.  If we don’t hurry to the tavern, Rosie will have gone home and you’ll miss seeing her tonight.”

            “But, I’m not finished here.”

            Frodo took the shears from him and placed them on the sill.  “Yes, you are.”  He drew himself up to his full height and placed his thumbs behind his suspenders.  “Consider that an order from ‘them that you works for.’  Now come on.”  He held his hand out and indicated that Sam should lead the way to the Green Dragon.  “After you.”

            Sam ran a hand through his blond hair and shook his head.  “No, Mr. Frodo. After you.”

                                                                                                        ##

            Sometime later, after seeing Sam off home, Frodo found himself sitting in the Hobbit hole he had inherited from Bilbo.  He was smoking his pipe and reading a volume that Gandalf had loaned him about the ancient kings of men.  He found it somewhat disturbing.  It seemed odd that men could not be content with what they had.  Somehow it seemed they always wanted more.  More power.  More money.  More things.  And yet men were counted wiser than Hobbits.  Putting the volume down he decided it was something he would never understand.  He had no such need.  No desire to be or have anything other than what he possessed right now, a home and hearth and peace of mind. 

            Even as that thought flitted through Frodo's consciousness, a strong breeze blew through his Hobbit Hole stirring a sense of restiveness within him as it tousled his deep brown hair.  It seemed to whisper in his ear, reminding him that he had wanted to take another look at the ring Bilbo had left behind. -- the one Gandalf had sealed so quickly in the envelope with wax, warning him to keep it both secret and safe.  Lately it had been on his mind.  He wouldn’t say it was calling to him, but recently he had become keenly aware of its presence in his home.  He walked over to the trunk and stood before it.  Why had the wizard ordered him to keep it hidden?  Bilbo had carried it.  He had used it that last night at his party.  Nothing had happened to him.  And it was such a pretty thing.  Smooth and golden.  Frodo remembered how in the beginning, when Bilbo had told him the story of how he had found it deep in Gollum’s cave and made off with it, it had troubled him.  It had seemed somehow that his uncle had stolen it.  But then, as he grew used to seeing it and knowing it was in the Hole, he had come to understand.  It belonged here.  It belonged to Bilbo.  Not to Gollum.   And now it belonged to him.  And not to Gandalf. 

            So what right had the wizard to order him to leave it be?

            As he placed his hand on the trunk and knelt to open it, Frodo hesitated.  Gandalf was wise in things he had no knowledge of.  Should he be doing this?  He lifted the lid slowly and stared at the trunk’s contents.  Then, with a sigh, he began to rummage through the various items stored there only to stop when his fingers encountered the heavy envelope.  With great care he lifted it from the trunk and rose to his feet.  Frodo stared at it a moment and then walked to the fire and held it out.  The ring was there, tucked safely in the bottom right hand corner.  He gasped as it seemed to catch the fire’s light, glinting even deep within its vellum cage.  Raising his hand, he placed one trembling finger beneath the flap and started to open it.

            “Mr. Frodo?”

            Frodo started guiltily and swung around.  Sam was standing outside the window looking in.  Almost without thinking, he hid the envelope behind his back.  “What is it?  What do you want?”

            He saw Sam frown at his harsh tone.  “I was going mushroom hunting, Mr. Frodo.  I was wondering if you would like to go along?”

            Frodo realized he was breathing heavily.  He blinked several times.  “Mushrooms?”

            “Aye.  Rosie’s mother was wanting to cook up some stew and I told her I would find the biggest and best mushrooms in  whole of the Shire for her.”  He grinned.  “And those are the ones you find at night.”

            “Rosie’s mother....” 

            “Well, Rosie asked so nicely for her.”  The grin broadened into a smile.  “And she gave me a peck on the cheek.”  Sam's fingers caressed the cheek and he seemed to melt.  “Right here.”

            Frodo turned the envelope over in his fingers.  He felt a need to be alone and yet at the same time was almost afraid to be.  “Let me get my coat,” he said at last, his voice hoarse.  “I’ll come.”

            “I’ll meet you by the gate then.”

            Frodo nodded and as Sam disappeared turned back to the fire and held up the envelope.  With almost super-Hobbit willpower, he forced his hand away from it.  He turned then toward the trunk, but hesitated.  For some reason he was reluctant to consign it to the dark.  Instead, he folded the envelope and tucked it into the front pocket of his velvet vest as he had often seen Bilbo do.  Then he patted it. 

            “There,” he thought.  “Gandalf would be happy.  It is both secret and safe.”

            Quickly Frodo crossed the room and put on his coat, and at the last minute grabbed a sack to gather his own mushrooms in.  After all, there was nothing as satisfying to a Hobbit so a good helping of freshly steamed mushrooms and a strong cup of full-bodied tea.

            His fingers went involuntarily to his pocket.

            Nothing that was, unless it be the feel of the nearness of the ring.

                                                                                                             ##

            “There.  Don’t you see their white faces, Mr. Frodo?  Looking at the moon?”

            “Sam.”  Frodo tried to look stern.  “What did I tell you?”

            Samwise Gamgee turned toward him.  He winced and swallowed hard before a strangled, “Er...Frodo,” managed to work its way out of his mouth.

            Frodo laughed.  “There.  That’s a start anyhow.”

            Sam shook his head.  “It don’t seem right somehow.”

            “It is right.  As right as that great big mushroom is going to look on my table.”  Frodo had been crouching, scanning the thick grass.  Now he stood and began to walk forward.  At the edge of a shadowed area near a brace of trees, he paused.  Somehow the darkness seemed to be calling out to him.  He glanced back at his friend.  “Sam, do you feel it?”

            “Feel what?”  Sam came to his side.  “What is it Mr. Frodo?”

            “There’s a chill in the air, Sam.”  He shivered and drew his coat close. 

            “It’s a warm night.  Are you sure you’re feeling all right?  Perhaps you’ve caught cold.”

            “No, I’m fine.  I’ll just go get those mushrooms.”  Frodo began to move again, but when he came to the mushrooms he passed them by and continued forward, heading straight for the shadows beneath the trees. 

            Sam called out from behind him.  “Mr. Frodo, mind where you are going!  You’ve missed them.  I know that bit of forest.  There’s nothing there.”

            “There is tonight, Sam,” Frodo answered, his voice curiously empty.  “And it’s calling me.”

            “Calling you?”  Sam’s voice choked.  “What kind of talk is that?”

            Frodo stopped just beneath the trees.  He shook himself and laughed.  Then he turned to face his friend.  “I sound like Bilbo, don’t I?  Almost as if I were part of an adventure.”

            Sam frowned and shook his head.  “You sound like Gandalf.  All worry and wisdom  that plain-folk don’t rightly understand or want any part of.  Come away, Mr. Frodo.  Let’s get the mushrooms and go home.”  Sam glanced at the sky.  Frodo did the same.  Dark clouds had rolled in, eclipsing the moon’s shining light.  “Look.  A storm is coming," his friend added quietly.

            Frodo’s hand caressed the worn velvet of his pocket.  Yes, he could sense it. 

            “A storm,” Frodo whispered, “I wonder what it portends?”  And with that he began to move forward again.

                                                                                                             ##

            Samwise Gamgee frowned.  His master was walking toward the dark trees as if in a trance.  He had never seen Frodo act in such a way.  It reminded him of old Mr. Bilbo in the last days before he disappeared from Hobbiton.  Some had said he was ‘cracked’.  The same said Frodo was ‘cracking’.  Sam watched the other Hobbit’s retreating back with concern.  Frodo had always been different, more ‘Elvish’ than the average Hobbit; interested in the ‘finer’ things like ancient poetry and songs.  He was also prone to the odd habit of deep-thinking and took long silent walks under the stars during which he indulged himself, often coming back wide-eyed and unable to explain what he had experienced.

            Sam sighed.  Maybe they were right.  Maybe Frodo was 'cracking', but if he was, it only served to endear him deeper in his heart.

As he shook his head and bent to pick up his sack, one of the pans Sam had brought with him --  just in case he and Mr. Frodo happened to be out all night and in need of breakfast the next morning -- slipped out of its mooring and fell to the ground.  Sam caught it by the handle and returned it to its place, taking a second to anchor it properly.  Then he stood up and looked for his master.  

            Frodo was gone.

                                                                                                             ##

            “Mr. Frodo?  Frodo?”  Sam wrinkled his nose and sniffed.  He had followed his wayward master and was now standing in the middle of the dark wood.  Somewhere nearby something was burning, or had been burned recently.  “Mr. Frodo, answer me.  Where are you?  Are you all right?” he called.  Sam stood still.  The night had grown black as a shuttered room with no candle, and a strong wind had arisen out of the East.  It lifted his blond curls and tossed them in his eyes.  He struck the hair away and called again.  “Mr. Frodo!  Now don’t you going playing a joke on your Sam.  He’s not quick-thinking enough to know what you’re about.  You’ll only scare him!” 

            He should have said, ‘You’ll only scare him more’, for he was already scared.  Sam had lived in the Shire all of his life, had walked this very piece of land dozens of times, and played beneath these trees as a boy, but tonight....  Tonight, for some reason, it was not the same.  It was not the same land.  Not the same trees.

            Not the same Shire.

            Sam drew a deep breath and began to move forward again.  More trees were before him and beyond them, a hill.  And beyond the hill, a ravine.  At its bottom a little winding ribbon of water lay, now swelled with the recent rains.  He glanced at the angry sky again and knew it promised more.  As he pulled his coat close, he reassured himself that that was it.  That was all he was scared of.  He was afraid that a good soaking might make Mr. Frodo sick.  Sam stuck to that theory for a minute or two as he trudged along.  Then he shook his head.  He had never been very good at lying.  Even to himself.  It wasn’t that.  There was something else. 

Something sinister.

            As another line of trees rose up before him like dark-robed sentries seeking to bar his way, he paused and glanced back the way he had come.  Something shifted as he did and one of the myriad shadows that occupied the night briefly assumed the shape of a man.  Sam blinked and rubbed his eyes.  When he looked again, it was gone.  “Hello,” he called.  “Is someone there?”

            As he waited, he wondered who it might have been.  It had been too tall for even the tallest Hobbit, and yet men were not common in the Shire.  Their coming usually made for talk that lasted ten years or more.  And truth to tell, they were not welcome.  Even Gandalf’s rare appearances, familiar as he was to the Shire’s inhabitants, brought odd stares and unkind remarks.  Sam closed his eyes to see if he could recall any details.  There wasn’t much.  A lean, strong frame.  A dark cloak with a hood.

            Mud-stained boots.

            Opening his eyes, he called again, “Hello?”

            To his left the bushes rustled and the dark trees’ feathery branches dipped as if in reverence.  Sam frowned, at first puzzled, and then frightened as it dawned on him that -- whoever it was -- they had just passed by him and were hot on Frodo’s trail.

            “Here,” he called out as he began to run, “here!  You leave him alone, whoever you are, or by the Shire I’ll have you!”

            As Sam disappeared into the shifting shadows, lightning shot across the sky in a triumphant arch and it began to rain.

                                                                                                            ##

            Frodo stood alone at the top of the ravine, the rain pouring down on him, soaking him through.  In his hand was the envelope with the ring.  He stared at it unblinking as the rain ran into his eyes and reddened them.  Behind him on the rim of the hill the signs of a recent struggle darkened the Shire’s usually lush and verdant vegetation.  An acrid scent filled the air.  The little yellow flowers that dotted the green grass along the steep slope had been flattened and the trees at its edge, burned.  But Frodo didn’t notice.  He didn’t notice anything but the weight of the ring. 

Its weight in his hand.

            Its weight in his heart.

            He frowned as his finger found the metal band and traced its outline through the thick vellum skin of the envelope.  It was really quite a plain ring.  He remembered when Bilbo had first shown it to him.  He had wondered then what all the fuss was about.  Still, even he had to admit that he had seen signs of it being something more.  Of it having some odd power over his uncle.  Especially in those last few weeks before the dear old Hobbit had left the Shire. 

            Unexpectedly a voice spoke from close behind him.  “Why don’t you put it on?” it whispered, its tone soft and sinister. 

            Frodo didn’t move or answer. 

            “It belongs to you...doesn’t it?” the voice asked.

            He remained still a moment longer.  Then he nodded.  “Yes.  It is mine.”

            The bushes beside him rustled, revealing a dark figure masked by the shadows of the leaves and the driving rain -- two glowing eyes fixed on him.  “There will be others who will try to take it from you.  You know that, don’t you?  You don’t want that.  Do you?”

            “No.”  His fingers closed on the envelope, so hard he could fell the metal ring press into his palm.  “No!”

            The figure shifted and a foot appeared beneath the leaves.  “Take it from the envelope then.  Put it on.”

Frodo shook his head and struck the wet hair from his forehead.  “Gandalf wouldn’t want me to.”

“Of course not,” the soft voice replied, “and you know why.  You know the real reason the old wizard forbids it.”      

            Frodo frowned.  “Reason?  I know of nothing— ”

            “He wants it for his own.  Why else do you think he watched your uncle so carefully, and for so many years?”

            As his plain Hobbit sense reared its head, Frodo countered, “No.  Gandalf is Bilbo’s friend.  And mine.”

            “Perhaps the ring you hold is not even the one your uncle had.  The wizard was alone with it before he put it in your keeping.  Perhaps he has already taken it and substituted another.  Put it on.  You will know if you disappear that it is the same ring.   Will you not?”

            Frodo’s frown deepened.  He concentrated hard and finally managed to force his eyes from the envelope.  Warily he looked over his shoulder.  “Who are you?”

            A second foot appeared on the wet earth.  “Will you not put it on?”

            Frodo drew a deep breath and shook his head slowly from side to side.  “No.  I will not.”

            A moment of silence followed.  “A pity.  A dainty such as you would have amused the master.  As it is I will simply have to kill you and take the ring from the cold grasp of your corpse's fingers.”

            Frodo turned toward the bushes, frightened.  Then he stiffened as a man unexpectedly appeared several yards away.  He was shouting something he couldn’t understand.  As Frodo pivoted toward him, squinting to make him out through a sheet of rain, a huge snarling black form exploded from the underbrush.  Its slavering jaws caught his shoulder as it slammed into him and propelled him over the edge and into the ravine.

TWO

            “Mr. Frodo, no!”

            Sam screamed in terror as a great black wolf, all teeth and claws, burst out of the bushes and headed straight for his Frodo.  Through the driving rain he could just make out his master's face.  Frodo's blue eyes were wild.  But instead of raising his hands to protect himself, Frodo clutched them tightly to his chest, as if protecting whatever it was he held.  As Sam watched his master disappear over the edge of the steep bank, he gasped.  And even as he did the wolf -- which had managed not to tumble after Frodo -- turned back and fixed his eyes on him.  Then, as it took a step towards him, another figure appeared.  The man knelt briefly at the rim and then rose and called out sharply.  Sam looked and saw that it was the cloaked man he had seen earlier.  As Sam caught his eye, the stranger nodded and tossed him a short sword.  Then, without a word, the man jumped over the edge and began to slide down the hill after Frodo. 

            Sam caught the sword and frowned as he turned it around so its tip was pointed at the advancing animal.  The wolf’s eyes were large and crimson.  Its head pointed and unnaturally large.  And when it stopped, its dripping mouth opened to reveal several rows of sharp pointed teeth.  “What have we hear?  Fresh meat?” it asked as it took another step.

“You...you can talk?”  Sam stuttered, holding his ground in spite of his surprise.  “But you’re a beast!”

“And you can hold a sword...”, it growled.  “Who would have expected it of a Hobbit?  Should you not rather be cowering under the earth somewhere in a dark hole?”

            “No need to be insulting,” Sam chastened as he planted his feet.  “See here, if you want fresh meat, you’ll have to look to your own bones!”

            The evil creature laughed as it pawed the ground, its claws ripping up the wet grass.  “Mightier than you have tried and failed, Hobbit.”  It turned its body so its left side was exposed.  It was covered with deep jagged gashes.  “There are other far more worthy opponents in the wood this night than you.”  

            “More’s the pity they didn’t kill you then!” Sam spat as he tightened his grip.

            The wolf titled its head and raised its paw.  As it did there was a sound far below, as if someone had shouted.  Sam’s eyes flicked to the edge of the ravine.  He couldn’t tell if it had been Frodo.

“There will be little left for the Ranger to find at the bottom of the hill.  My brothers wait there.  Your friend’s flesh will fatten their frames.”

            Sam looked back.  “No,” he whispered.  “No!”

            “Yes.  What else are stupid, fat Hobbits good for?   Not for intrigue surely.”   The wolf seemed to shake its head.  “What was the wizard thinking?  Did he not reason we would be watching?  Did he not know that we would see?”

            “We?”  Sam hesitated as his heel encountered a large rock.  He had backed up almost to the edge of the trees.  He wanted to wipe the rain from his eyes again and take a look, as he didn’t like the idea of being trapped with this great beast before him.  Still, he didn’t dare.  It would have him in a second.  “What master?” he asked at last.  “And who, or what are you?”

            “Eyes and ears for another wizard.  One stronger and more able than yours.” Contempt dripped from its tongue as it used it to test the razor-sharp points of its teeth.  “He has given us the power of words so we may bear tidings back to him.”

            “Spies then,” Sam whispered.  But of who?  And for what?  He gripped the sword and brandished it, hoping he was putting up a brave front.  He hadn’t had much use for one before.  After all, what need had a gardener for martial skills?  Just then a horrific scream sounded through the night.  Sam paled and turned toward the ravine. “Mr. Frodo?”

            “I told you.  One of my brothers is having him for supper.”  The wolf advanced and placed its paws on a boulder beside him.  Then, slowly it began to right itself.  Soon it stood on two feet like a man, making them of a height.  “And you will be mine.”

            Sam froze.  Though he had looked at it, he hadn’t really met its burning eyes before.  The rain had half-blinded him.  Now the cloudburst was ending and for the first time their gazes locked.  Past the weird creature there was a malevolent mind empowering the wolf, he could sense it.  Sam began to tremble, but at the same moment he thought of Frodo wounded, maybe dead at the bottom of the hill.  As anger welled up in him, he cried out, “You leave me be, you devil!  Mr. Frodo as well!.  If you’ve harmed him....”

            Another scream of pain followed the first.

            “Ah, that would be the Ranger,” the wolf laughed as it moved closer.  “Not as tasty as a Hobbit.  Stringy, and older than it looks.”

            Sam could feet its breath on his face now.  It was hot and fetid.  He blinked his eyes slowly and realized the sword was now hanging limp by his side.  He swallowed as he realized what was happening.  The wolf was seeking to ensnare him as surely as if he was a fat coney.  Another moment and he would be held in thrall.  Prey awaiting the kill.

            The creature snarled softly and bared its fangs in a triumphant smile as Sam's face went slack and his eyes became glazed.  Then it lowered itself to all fours and crouched close to the ground, readying to leap. 

A moment later it did. 

Sam came back to life.  Even as it went for his throat, he stepped forward, not back and -- locking both hands on the sword -- thrust upward for all he was worth.  The wolf was impaled on his borrowed sword.  The impact of its hurtling form slammed Sam into the tree behind him and knocked the wind out of him.  He remained there, stunned for a moment, and then he found his feet and stumbled forward, dazed.  After a couple of steps Sam's hand went to his head and he tumbled to the ground, striking his cheek on a stone.  Even as his eyelids fluttered and unconsciousness sought to claim him, a face appeared above him.  Partially hidden by a hood was a bearded face, lined with concern.  Sam groaned as skilled hands quickly checked his stout frame, searching for serious injury.  A moment later the man seemed to visibly relax. 

            “You are very brave, little Hobbit,” he said softly. 

Sam frowned.  He blinked and turned his head toward the ravine.  Fighting the wave of blackness the action caused to wash before his eyes, he asked, “Frodo?”

            “Safe.  Have no fear.”

            “And you....,” he whispered even as the blackness took him.  “Who are you?”

            The man gently placed a hand on his chest and replied, “A friend.”

                                                                                                             ##

            “The wolves are dead.”

            The hooded man looked up.  Another of his kind had appeared on the rim of the ravine.  The Ranger bore in his strong arms the battered and bruised form of the other Hobbit.   “And Frodo?”

            “Alive.  The skin was not broken.  The cloth over it is thick.  It saved him from the poison in the wolf’s bite.”

            “And the envelope?”

            The other man laughed.  “Here as well.  Still in his hand.  I think he would have died rather than lose it.”

            The first Ranger frowned as he threw his hood back and shook his unkempt brown hair free.  His keen blue eyes settled on the small childlike form his companion bore.  He crossed to the pair and nodded slowly as he pushed Frodo’s dark hair back from his eyes and felt the strength in his unconscious grip.  “He would have died.”

            “Should I take it from him before laying him down?”

            “No!”  The lean Ranger hadn’t mean to shout.  He reached out to lay his hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “No.  Leave it be.  If it is too much for the wizard, then it is too much for the likes of me.”  He paused to run a hand over his bearded chin.  “Though, apparently, not too much for the likes of him.”  With a nod, he indicated Frodo.  “It does seem odd that Gandalf would entrust something so important to the keeping of one so small and seemingly helpless.”

            “Seemingly?”  The other ranger laughed.  “Where would they and their Shire be if not for those of us who watch without being seen?  First the black birds the other night --  the ones we killed and burned -- and now these wolves.”  He frowned and drew a slow breath.  “What treasure is it the Shire holds that so draws the interest of the Black Powers?  What is it they seek?”

            “That is not for us to know.  It is only for us to continue to watch and to protect until Gandalf’s return.”  The lean Ranger shook his head as he glanced back at Sam.  “Though this one did well enough without us, did he not?”

His companion smiled.  “A warrior, that one.”

The Ranger nodded.  “Did you remember the leaves?”

            “Yes.  They are in the pouch.”

            “Good.  Their healing smoke will be needed, as well as their power to make one forget the origin of the pain.  Lay Frodo by his strong guard, my friend.  I will follow in a moment.”  The Ranger stepped back then and watched as the other man carried the slender Hobbit the few feet to Samwise Gamgee’s side and placed him there.  Then he turned and looked out over the ravine, towards the east.  It had been close this time.  Too close.  Gandalf had entrusted the Shire to him, asking him to keep it and its small inhabitants safe until his return.  Now that return was overdue and the enemy’s spies were everywhere. 

            “Strider?”

            The lean man turned back.  “Yes?”

            “Would it not be better if they did remember?  Would they not be more wary?”

            Strider returned to the other man’s side and knelt to place a hand on each of the Hobbit’s chests.  Then he gazed into their faces, taking time to learn them well.  Finally he stirred and stood.  “No, for it they were, then they would not be Hobbits.  Let them have their innocence while there is yet time for such innocence in this world.”

                                                                                                             ##

            Frodo sat up and yawned.  He stretched his arms wide and winced as pain shot through his shoulder.  Placing his hand on it he pivoted and gazed at the ground.  There was no rock under him.  No briar or thick thorny plant.  The bed he laid upon was all soft green grass and matted leaves.  He reached out and patted it, a puzzled look on his face.  There was nothing there that could possibly have made him feel like he felt -- that was, as if he had taken a spill down a very steep, very bumpy hill.  He frowned and drew a deep breath.  Then he smiled.  Turning around he found a small fire had been kindled while he slept and over it there was a steaming pot of stew.  Sam Gamgee was just coming out of the woods, his fists full of herbs and wild carrots.

            “Sam!  Good morning.”

            Same knelt beside the pot and dumped the herbs into it.  “And morning to you too, Mr. Frodo.”

            “ ‘Mr.’ Frodo?  Sam,” he sighed as he settled back, “what did I tell you last night?”

            Sam picked up a stick and began to stir the bubbling mass with it.  “It’s no use, Mr. Frodo.  I told you.  You might as well ask a horse to give you milk.”  He tossed in a few more herbs and sampled the stew.  Then he looked up.  “I just can’t do it.”

            Frodo plucked a long blade of grass and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment.  Then he asked, “What are you cooking, Sam?”

            “Mushroom stew,” he answered with a grin.  “A right big batch.  Both our bags were full and I figured Rosie’s mother wouldn’t grudge sparing us a few....”  Sam hesitated.  He frowned and then began again, “You know it’s funny....”

            “What is?”

            “Well, I can’t rightly remember gathering them.”  Sam’s young face was puzzled.  “Can you?”

            “Of course, I can.”  Then he stopped.  “Well, now that you mention it, Sam -- no, I can’t.”

            “That’s as I thought.”  Sam left the simmering stew and came to his side.  He sat down heavily beside him.  “It just don’t make no sense, Mr. Frodo....”

            “Sam!”

            “What?”  He looked around wildly and started to rise.  “What is it?”

            Frodo caught his arm and held him down.  “Your cheek, Sam!  It’s bruised.  When did you do that?”

            “I know.  I rinsed it off in the stream a bit ago.  It’s all swollen under my eye.”

“How did it happen?  I don’t remember -- ”

Sam’s hazel eyes narrowed.  “Apparently it happened the same way that one you have did.”

            “What?”

            “Your forehead, Mr. Frodo.  It’s got a right nasty gash in it.  And your cheek’s all scraped.”

            Frodo’s fingers flew to his face.  He felt the cut.  It was partially healed.  “I don’t remember doing that.  Or having it tended.  Did you...?”

            “No.”  Sam shook his head and fell silent.  For a long time they sat side by side, not saying a word, pondering what it could mean.  Then Sam said softly, “I had a dream last night, Mr. Frodo.  Did you?”

            Frodo frowned.  He started to shake his head but then -- suddenly -- he did remember.  “Yes!  There were wolves.  Great black wolves that talked....”

            “Aye.”  Sam’s voice was hushed.  “And men?”

            Frodo turned to look at him.  He nodded slowly.  “Yes, men.  Sam...”

“Mr. Frodo?”

“Can two Hobbits share the same dream?”

Samwise Gamgee shrugged.  “Well, as it seems to me it can’t rightly have happened, I guess so.  Men and talking wolves, in the Shire?”  He paused.  “Unless you have another explanation....”

Frodo started to reply but as he opened his mouth another image from the dream came back to torment him.  A tall man in muddied green and brown closing his gloved fingers about his hand while the envelope Gandalf had given him was still in it.  Frodo drew a sharp breath and began to panic.  “The envelope!  Sam, where is it?  I must find it.  I must....”

            “Easy, Mr. Frodo, easy,” Sam replied.  “It’s in your pocket.” 

Even as his fingers caressed the velvet, Frodo realized his friend spoke the truth.  He smiled and relaxed, surprised to find that he was breathing heavily.  “That’s good, Sam,” he whispered.  “Gandalf told me to keep it safe.”

Sam was looking at him sideways, his expression carefully neutral.  “It was in your hand when I woke and, begging your pardon, it seemed a good thing to put it away for safe-keeping.  There’s something in that envelope, isn’t there?  Something important?”

            “Yes, Sam.”  Without explaining what, Frodo went on, “Thanks for looking after it and after me.  What would I do without you?”

            “You’ll never have a need to know, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered solemnly as he rose to his feet and headed back toward the stewpot. 

“I’ll always be there for you.”

                                                                                                             ##

            Frodo lowered the lid on the trunk and backed away, glad to have the envelope with the ring confined to its dark recesses once again.  He stared at it a moment and then turned and walked to the window and looked out.  They had only just returned from their mushroom expedition a few hours before and Sam was already back in the garden working away.  Frodo smiled as he sat on the sill and swung his feet out over the side.  “Sam, you’re hopeless.  Shouldn’t you have stayed home for a while?”

            The blond head came up and he grinned.  “One is as one does, Mr. Frodo.  This is where I belong.”  He eyed him for a second and then returned to his gardening.  “And how are you?”

            Frodo hesitated only a moment.  “I’m fine, Sam.  And you?”

            “Right as roses.”

            Frodo laughed.  He sat silently for several minutes watching as Sam worked with loving care, moving a half dozen small plants from an area where the run-off threatened their survival to a safe haven closer to the wall.  “I know why you do it now,” he said at last.

            Sam wiped his chin, transferring the dirt from his fingers to it, and frowned.  “And what would that be, Mr. Frodo?”

            “Why you call me that.  ‘Mr.’ Frodo.”

            Sam stood and dusted off his knees.  “Do you now?”

            “Yes.”

            “And why would that be?”

            Frodo hesitated.  He knew if he spoke the truth it would embarrass his friend.  Sam called him ‘Mr.’ Frodo because, in a way, it granted them a special relationship.  Far from making Sam feel like a lowly servant as Frodo had feared, it made him feel as if he was something more. And rightly so.  He knew now that Samwise Gamgee had made Frodo Baggins’ comfort and safety his personal business. 

Sam was not only his gardener, but his protector and dearest friend.

            “Hobbit habit,” he declared, half-meaning it.  “You worked here at the Gaffer’s knee when you were little and he always called me ‘Mr.’ Frodo.”  He smiled.  “But if you remember, you just called me ‘Frodo’ then.”

            Sam paled at the memory.  “And got my backside rightly tanned for doing so!”

            “Aha!  So that’s it!”  Frodo laughed loud and long.  He pointed his finger at him.  “You’re afraid the Gaffer’ll take a switch to you again.”

            “No, I’m not!”

            “Yes, you are!”  Frodo leapt off the sill and danced past him to the path.  “Shall we test it?  I’ll go to the Gaffer and put on a scornful face and tell him how his son is not showing me the proper respect due my station in the Shire....”

            Sam looked horrified.  “You wouldn’t.”

            Frodo stifled another laugh.  “I might...if you don’t learn to call me just Frodo—at least part of the time.”

            He watched as Sam screwed his face up.  He sighed and then looked up at him.  “How about once a week?”

            “How about once a day?”

            “Mr. Frodo....”

            “No argument.”  One of Frodo’s dark brown brows arched.  “Well?”

“ ‘Well’ what?”

“Let’s hear for today then.  Sam?” 

            Sam drew a deep breath and squared his feet as if he were readying to face a fiery dragon.  “How about once a week....  Frodo?”

            Frodo stared at him a second and then he approached him and placed his arm about his shoulders.  “Well....”

Sam’s eyes were huge.  “Yes?”

“It can only improve with time.  Now, ‘Mr.’ Gamgee, how about we take those mushrooms to Rosie’s mother?”

- END-