As far back as Sam Gamgee could remember, he'd always been a much-welcomed presence at Bag End. He had started as a mere apprentice to his Gaffer, helping out when he could, and as much as his Gaffer would allow him. And, when his old Dad's joints began to creak and groan with age, he took on the bulk of the work in the garden, although the Gaffer, as sturdy and stubborn as ever, would not relinquish the lily patch in the far eastern corner. Finally, when Bilbo disappeared (what seemed like forever and an age ago to Sam), the Gaffer had stopped even pretending to work at all. He took instead to tending his own small vegetable patch at New Row Number 3, and visiting with the Widow Rumble.

The times had changed. As Mr. Frodo became the one and only Master Baggins of Bag End, it only seemed fit that Samwise Gamgee became his official gardener. His Gaffer encouraged him to take the job once and for all, assuring his son: "I'll not be getting any younger, Sam, nor my joints any better at that. You listen to your Old Dad and take that job."

It wasn't as if Sam had needed any encouraging. He had looked with barely-restrained awe on Mr. Frodo, as he had always called him, since he had been but a young lad. Frodo had always been the refined, kindly, intelligent gentlehobbit that Sam secretly wished to be himself. He could not remember a day when he had not admired his master, not since the day he had met him. And it had been a long time.

Now, times had changed again. His dear Mr. Frodo, who he had come to love as well as admire, was now 'Frodo the Nine-Fingered'--a figure of near-legend, and a hero to be sure--now known far and wide across King Elessar's vast kingdom. 'Far and wide,' thought Sam, 'But not at home, where he ought to be admired most of all.' Frodo had gotten a name for himself in his homeland of the Shire merely for being one of the four mysterious 'Travelers'. Few knew the true tale behind the Travelers, and fewer still wanted to know anything past that they had ventured out of the Shire to have adventures. 'And none can ever understand,' thought Sam wistfully. He had been pleased when Frodo had been chosen to act as deputy Mayor while Will Whitfoot was recovering, but so far Frodo had done nothing but reduce the number of Shirriffs, and ordered most of the gates put up by Sharkey's men to be taken down immediately. Other than that, he had mostly holed himself up in his most cherished Bag End and begun planning.

Sam almost regretted allowing Frodo to take over the organization of his wedding. Almost. Sam loved to visit Frodo, and the whole 'arrangement of the wedding' bit was the perfect excuse to visit more often. Frodo had offered Sam as many days off as he could possibly hope for, and when he had gently protested, Frodo had exclaimed: "I don't care if the peas and the violets run wild together in that garden, Sam Gamgee. You shan't be working until this whole affair is done and over with, and after you've had a little time to settle-in with Rosie."

Sam missed the gardening bit at Bag End, but he wasn't at all deprived of gardening in itself. He tended the trees that he had planted around the Shire with great care, especially the quickly-growing mallorn sapling, which was to be the new Party Tree. Sam hoped against hope that it would blossom that very spring, maybe even in time for the wedding.

Thinking of the wedding got Sam thinking of Mr. Frodo again as he bustled out the door of New Row Number 3. He poured over ever possible detail with his master, wanting to spend as much time with him as was possible without being impolite. Sam feared he was becoming quite a nuisance. He found himself quarreling and debating with his master over details which seemed trivial. Sam had never quarreled with Frodo at length, and it now was beginning to be an everyday affair; one Sam disliked very much. But he couldn't go without seeing Frodo-- without making sure he was all right-- even if it meant he would have to squabble with him every day until the wedding.

Sam shifted his thoughts to Rosie. Of course, he wanted to make Rosie happy too, and he tried to keep in mind her likes and dislikes when discussing the details of the ceremony with Frodo, as if trying to assure his master, and himself alike, that he actually had a reason to be there besides just being with Frodo.

Of course, Sam could never stop worrying about his dear master. The hobbit seemed more fragile and spent than ever. Lines were creasing themselves into his delicately fair skin; wrinkles they were, and they had begun to bear testament to Frodo's true age, as well as the troubles he had borne. Frodo seemed empty, and that frightened Sam most of all. For the life of him, the gardener couldn't rightly explain why he got that sense, or what the emptiness was, but he felt it all the same. It was as if Frodo was in a constant state of day-dreaming, his thoughts always resting somewhere else. The only way Sam could bring his master back to life was to talk about the wedding. Frodo dedicated and poured all of himself into it; Sam was afraid it might even be developing into an obsession. 'And what happens when it's over?' he thought to himself. 'Does he go back to being empty then?'

Mulling over these questions and more, Sam made his way steadily up the Hill. Presently he came across something (or rather, someone) who surprised him. Meriadoc Brandybuck was walking on the road from the opposite direction, and he waved at Sam cheerily.

Sam approached, and when he reached Merry, he took notice of the dark circles around the other hobbit's eyes, and the way he was slumping, despite the fact that it was almost mid-day.

"Why, good-morning to you, Mr. Merry," Sam greeted, nodding his head respectfully. Merry returned the nod and smiled wanly, blinking at the brightness of the day.

"And good-morning to you, Master Samwise. Now where might you be off to this morning?" Merry asked. Sam gestured up the Hill at Bag End.

"Oh, I was just on my way to see Mr. Frodo about the wedding is all," he replied, trying not to appear anxious to be on his way, which he was. Merry frowned and squinted suddenly at Sam, but then smiled again and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, Sam, it seems to me like the Old Hobbit wants some peace and quiet. Why, I've just come all the way back from Crickhollow, and he's even kicked me out! I don't suppose you'd be up for a little drink over at The Green Dragon, would you?" he offered nonchalantly. Sam stared past Merry's shoulder for a moment, wondering what could possibly be wrong with Mr. Frodo that he wouldn't even welcome his Sam.

"Is Mr. Frodo sick by any chance, Mr. Merry?" Sam asked concernedly. "Because if he is, I'd say he needs me, whether he wants me or no." Merry grinned, shaking his head.

"He's not sick, Sam. He just wants a little time to himself to plan. Don't go taking it personally, but a hobbit's got to have his privacy once in a while, hasn't he?" Merry asked, gesturing down the Hill, "Now, how about that drink?" Sam gave one last glance back toward Bag End, and then looked up at the sky.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but isn't it a wee bit early to be downing any ales? And I really ought to be checking on my trees sometime today." Merry laughed despite his weariness; the rich sound rang out in the clear daylight and at that moment, any fool might have guessed his nickname.

"It's never too early for a Brandybuck to have a good beer or five, and you're always bragging about this Green Dragon of yours over at Bywater. We won't stay too long; I know how much those trees need tending."

---

Upon entering the bar, Sam had more second thoughts. It really was a beautiful day, and a shame to be holed up in any inn, however familiar and bright it may be. He noticed immediately how empty the place was; it was spring, after all, and every lad and his gaffer were working, and wouldn't be coming in for a drink for a good few hours yet. Nonetheless, Merry whistled as cheerfully as a hobbit who hadn't slept for more than a day could, and made his way to the front counter.

"Come on, Sam. Just a few. I'm in sore need of it," Merry encouraged, when he saw that Sam was looking rather reluctant and uncomfortable. Sam nodded and took a stool next to Merry at the counter, looking up sharply as the door from the kitchen swung open. A rosy-cheeked hobbit with a grin as wide as his girth bustled into the Common Room, taking in his first customers of the day with an amused glance.

"In early, are we lads?" he asked, giving Sam a good-natured wink.

"I just thought I'd see what all the fuss about this place was," answered Merry, as he watched the barman go around the other side of the counter. "Sam tells me the brew here is a thing to behold."

"Heh!" chortled the barman. "It's naught to behold; it's the taste as gets me the customers." He filled two mugs to the brim, sliding one to Merry and the other to Sam. "I don't think I've seen you round here before." Merry shook his head.

"No, I usually stick to The Golden Perch. It's closer to home," he answered.

"Home, eh? So you're a Took then? Or a Brandybuck, mayhap?"

"The latter, to be sure!" Merry laughed, raising a toast. "Here's to a drink away from home, then! And to this brew that you claim is at least a taste to behold, Mr., uh--"

"Burrows. Bungo Burrows, and right pleased to meet you, Mr. Brandybuck, sir. I've heard a tale or two about you and our Sam, here... That's if you're that Brandybuck."

"Indeed, I am," Merry admitted, taking a tentative sip of his ale. It tasted superb. "A toast to you and your brew, Mr. Burrows!" Barman Burrows disappeared back into the kitchen laughing. Meanwhile, Sam had not touched his ale. "Aren't you going to drink, Sam? It really is wonderful. You were right about this place!" Obediently, Sam brought his mug to his lips and swallowed.

"You're looking a mite worn-out, Mr. Merry, if I may be so bold as to say it," he said. Merry regarded him seriously, taking another drink before answering.

"You may certainly be so bold, Sam. I didn't sleep this last night, nor much the night before that, either," he answered, hoping this admission would satisfy Sam's curiosity. It didn't, of course.

"Now, why might that be, Mr. Merry?" Sam asked. "There ain't nothing troubling you, is there?" Sam feared that he had gone too far in his questioning when Merry didn't answer for a time. Finally, taking one last slurp of his beer, Merry exhaled noisily, and leaned on the counter.

"I suppose things between Pip and I haven't been all well," he said. Inwardly, Merry sighed as he felt a great pressure lift itself from his conscience. He had been lying ever since he'd realized his own feelings for his Pippin, and to finally tell the truth, or a bit of it at least, felt rather good. Sam eyed him with a queer look of understanding, and Merry felt panic replace relief. Had Sam guessed? 'Am I really that easy to read?' thought Merry nervously, meeting his friend's compassionate gaze. Sam didn't speak.

---

After a few more ales served by the beaming Barman Burrows, and more than an hour (Merry was sure) of sitting and drinking without a word, he felt he ought to break the silence.

"Are you excited about your wedding, Sam?" It was not a particularly carefully thought-out question, but Merry could not think of anything else to say. To his surprise, Sam laughed bitterly, staring at the bottom of his fifth mug.

"As excited as I can be, I guess," he answered cryptically, staring at Merry again with those ever-comprehensive eyes of his. His gaze seemed to cloud over. "I think I must have said something wrong to Mr. Frodo. He's never kept me away before." The abrupt change of the subject of conversation caused Merry to become wary. Perhaps Sam had consumed a little too much mid-day ale for his own good.

"It's not your fault at all, Sam. I'm sure of it. I've already told you: he just needs a little time to himself. That isn't such a horrible thing, is it?" Sam looked at him miserably, and called the barman back to re-fill his mug. He waited silently until Mr. Burrows had once again gone back to his work in the kitchen.

"There's something strange behind this, and I want to know what it is. Forgive me a thousand times for saying so, Mr. Merry, but I think there is something you are not telling me." Merry had to hand it to Sam; he was a trusting and friendly hobbit, but it was difficult to pull the wool over his eyes.

"Well, Sam, if you really want to know-" he started. He closed his eyes. "I think Frodo's a bit fed up with all your badgering about the wedding. He just wants to get it planned, so that it will actually happen sometime this year." Opening his eyes, Merry was relieved to find that Sam didn't look upset. "Besides," he continued hesitantly, "I think he believes that you should be spending more time with Rose Cotton now than cooped up with him in Bag End, as it's her you'll be marrying. He didn't want to upset you."

"Rosie..." Sam mused thoughtfully, taking another gulp. He swallowed, and then his eyes did indeed mist over. "Yes. I suppose he's right," he answered coldly. Merry was concerned. This didn't sound like the bubbly talk one should here from a hobbit about to get married.

"Is there something-- wrong -- between you and Rosie, Sam?" Merry asked slowly. Again, an uncharacteristically bitter laugh gurgled out of Sam's chest between hurried swallows of Burrows' brew.

"One might call it wrong. I-" He shook his head, as if catching himself and blinked the tears from his eyes. "I think you know what I mean, Mr. Meriadoc Brandybuck." Now Merry was sure that Sam had downed one too many ales. Or perhaps two or three too many ales.

"No, Sam. I'm quite sure I don't," he answered, but in the back of his mind, he was coming to a horrified realization. "And I don't think that we should talk about this anymore, and I think that you've also had too much to drink," he added. Sam pushed his mug away.

"I can carry my ale as well as any other hobbit," Sam answered, and his words were only slightly slurred together. "What I'm meaning to say is this: I see how you look at Mr. Pippin, and I know what it feels like, and I'm sorry that naught good's come of it." Merry's head reeled. 'No,' he thought, 'Sam can't know. He just can't!' But, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The only person to understand his suppressed feelings, his secret whims and fancies, his inaudible confessions of unconditional love would have to be someone who was experiencing those same things. Now quite disturbed, Merry stared at Sam.

"Why are you marrying Rose, Sam? Why do that to yourself?" Sam shook his head.

"Because that's what's expected of me, Mr. Merry, and I've really got no other choice in the matter. Rosie's a fine lass, and I do love her. Perhaps not the way she wants me to, but I love her all the same. If I have to marry a lass, who else could I possibly choose?" That settled it then. Sam had his mind made up, and nothing Merry could say would change that, unless-

"Sam, I think there's something you ought to know about Frodo, before you go taking all of these drastic measures." Sam was silent, his eyes widening, his jaw dropping, as he finally began to understand.

"He..." Merry himself was beginning to understand it all now as well. Sam was the secret love that Frodo had been so guarded about that night that Merry discovered himself. Frodo didn't want to risk that Sam find out, either; not now--certainly not so close to the wedding. So, he was hiding. Hiding up there in Bag End, waiting for it all to be over and done with. Waiting until it wouldn't matter anymore. Waiting, perhaps, for Sam to make his decision.

"How do you know?" Sam asked quietly, glaring fiercely into Merry's eyes. "How could you possibly know?" Merry ducked his head, suddenly ashamed.

"It was nothing Sam. He's not in love with me, and I'm certainly not in love with him. Have pity on two lonely hobbits! You must know that there could never be anyone for him but you. I--I think I understand that now."

But Sam was already rushing madly to the exit of The Green Dragon, and Merry had a feeling that he knew where Sam was going.