He was weary. Weary from digging over the vegetable plots round the east side of the garden. Weary from turning the compost heap over onto a new spot. Weary from planting the winter cabbages. He pushed open the pale green door, stumbling over the threshold, the last of his whispy breath left outside in the frosty sunset. The garden, Bagshot row and beyond hushed in December's sombre hibernation. Not a living leaf on anything. Although he kept telling himself that the earth was simply resting, waiting for the warmth of spring to call it awake, his green-fingered eyes saw only dead stumps and stripped branches.

As he took off his work boots to make for the kitchen, he knew that he hated winter. It hadn't always been that way. As a youngster, he had loved seeing his breath in the crisp sharp air, always been amazed at the ice on the Water that bore his weight right through from the first frosts to first planting, always been out in the thick of a snowball fight lasting from one end of the village to the other.... But that was a long time ago. It felt like a lifetime.

He walked through the kitchen door, the warmth of the snug room sending a glow through his cheeks. On the table was a good slice of cheese and ham pie, a hearty jug of cider next to a place set for him and two large golden taters steaming on the range top. His eyes crinkled at the corners, matching the slight smile on his lips. Ahhh, Rosie. He could hear the odd cry and bubble of laughter coming from the bathroom. Little Eleanor did love her bath time.

Sam knew he shouldn't, even knew that he ought to be able to say 'couldn't', but that didn't stop it being so. He felt bleak and lost. It hurt him in his bones to admit it as he did now and again. He had no right. None whatsoever. With a beautiful wise wife, the fairest child that life could bestow, a Hobbit hole the envy of the wider area.... but it wasn't enough. Something was missing. Master 'd only been gone two months. And warm and homely though he and Rosie had made Bag End, yet again, he felt cold and empty.

Suddenly, he didn't feel hungry any more. Sharply, he turned to walk back out of the kitchen, down the hall. He didn't have anywhere special in mind to go, but knew where his feet would take him. Already he could feel the furrow in his brow. There it was before him, the study door. No, it was still his master's study. A room he daren't visit more than necessary. But this evening he was so weary, so cold....

He gasped as he pushed open the door. As ever, there was a lit lamp on the writing desk. The lamp that Rosie made sure was always ready for Sam, should he need it's light. Even now, after living here for a year and a half he found himself creeping into the room as if.... Sam walked a little faster. He sat in the chair, still feeling wrong for doing so. But it was his chair now. His study. His home. But it didn't feel like his. Not since.... not since.... When had it lost that quality? Sam tried not to put his finger on it. He felt so weary.... so tired....

Absently he picked up a piece of parchment from the scattered pile on the desk, running a hand through his flaxen locks and began reading.

He felt a tear leave his eye, lightly tickling his cheek as it fell. His eyes moved down the page, following the firm flowing script. His brow furrowed more and he did not feel it. His mouth started to tremble. His eyes began to screw up making the words before him dance and twinkle in the lamp light. He blinked, warm drops falling unnoticed on his hand. His breath strained at his tight throat to escape. He curled forward where he sat, lungs forcing against his shut throat and clenched teeth.

As he reached the end of the verse, the page shook in his hand. Breath hissed in through his teeth. In his chest he felt burning hurt that rang out through him. A sinking numb of lonely space in his head, his body folding around his shrinking heart.

Not now.... not again...!

His shaking mouth opened in a still cry of agony, no air passing his lips. He lost his balance, falling off the edge of the chair. Clumsily, he put out his free hand to steady his fall, landing heavily on his behind.

Supported against that beloved stinging writing desk, he blinked away fresh tears, reading again, opening up the despair streaming through his soul. Again and again he rocked back and forth, silent screams of love lost tightening his chest as his heart wretched with emotion.

There are no answers. Master has gone away. I cannot follow. He left me here, where all I can ever see is him. In every leaf. In every happy ignorant face....

---

Rosie came out from Eleanor's room, looking for Sam. He normally came in to say goodnight to his treasured bundle of joy if he was working late. She stood frowning slightly. Where had he got to? Then from down the hall, she heard a gasp. After a pause she was about to walk toward the study where it came from, calling for her husband. But then it came again. She stayed still, listening. After another pause it came again. Not a gasp, more a strangled breath. Her frown pinched into concern. She knew that sound. And at each desperate gasp she could see her beloved Sam, as clear as if he was before her, eyes screwed closed, trembling mouth open in silent cries, salt water dripping from his chin.

He made no sound for her. Trying his best to keep from upsetting her. She knew why he cried, but wished to herself that he would share it with her too. What had they pledged to each other...? 'For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part'. Lord knew she loved Sam, but what could she do? He didn't want to let her into that part of himself, so she had no right to try and gain entry. With a soft sigh Rosie turned, walking silently to the kitchen, taking the taters off the hob and putting the cider and pie back in the pantry.

---

In the study Sam sat numb against the desk, the odd hitching sob rasping from his ragged throat. He felt a little better. Calmer. Rosie hadn't come looking for him, and he must have been in here a good while. So she knew what he was about. It was just something he couldn't share with her, nor anyone else. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had asked him with concern if he ever missed his master, and, "Did he share it with anyone?... Rosie, perhaps...." So Sam knew she had talked with them about his private moments of weakness. Wearily, he rubbed his heavy eyes. They ached gently from shedding tears, but that couldn't be helped. He got slowly up, carefully putting the parchment back on the desk. With a wistful look at the writing on it, he stroked the page with tender fingers, as if feeling for something else than smooth paper. Then he turned to the door, breathing deeply before opening it and stepping into the hallway.

"Rosie?" he called. "Is dinner ready, I feel half starved!"

A soft chuckle came from the kitchen. "Yes, my love. Just as I'd not long put everything away again, now you've found your hunger back".

He smiled, shutting the study door behind him, walking down the hall. "Well, anything you give me, that's good enough for my belly", he laughed, opening the kitchen door, beaming with simple happiness at his loving wife stood by the well-set table. He could be happy with what he had. And for how ever long that may be, mostly, it was enough.

---

In the study, the parchment was still, sat on the table. On it was casually written....