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The ax went through the wood with a pleasant thunk. The new method they’d used to keep the wood dry worked well. A relief after last years soggy mess, that left the hobbit hole smokey enough they left every window they could open whenever the temperatures were warm enough.
Bilbo even offered to go back to the firewood sellers he’d used before he’d gone on his adventure. Trying to couch it gently enough Bofur wouldn’t get his back up. Bilbo was getting better about that. Knowing where other people’s sharp edges laid in wait, just beneath the surface.
Sometimes Bofur wondered how different their journey would have been. If this version of his lover had made it instead of his younger, hotter-headed version. But that was a thought for dark nights when the nightmares woke him, Bilbo’s heavy head on his chest grounding him back to the present.
Not for a day like this. When the night snow was still clean and white underfoot. Sparkling like the brightest diamonds from the bright sun overhead. Warm air licking at his bare arms and despite the sharp bite of frost in his lungs.
“Good day for it, Mister Bofur!”
Bofur appreciated Gaffer waiting to call out until he’d gotten the ax deep into the wood. “Aye.”
Gaffer’s feet shushed through the gathered snow. A quieter shushing quick behind. It wasn’t a surprise when he turned to see a tiny faunt staring out from behind his father’s leg. Even these years on, Bofur couldn’t stop the instinctive flinch at seeing bare feet out in this snow. Particularly when it came to little ones. The fact that, except for the feet, Sam was wrapped up like a little dumpling. Only his big eyes and blond fringe clear between his conical hat and wide scarf.
“How about you two, what has you out this early?"
“The wife is making pies for the party, and someone kept trying to get their fingers into the fruit preserves.”
“Was cherries, Da.”
“Oh Aye, your favorite.” Gaffer’s smile was large, all crinkled eyes and smile lines. “And a shame your Ma wants to share that with the whole of Hobbiton. Instead of feeding you so full we’d have to roll you down the hill.”
Bofur suspected there was an impressive pout going on under all of Sam’s wrappings.
“So we came out for a morning walk. I heard the ax going and thought I’d stop to check with you about the garden. Know you tend to head out after the Lovers Festival most years.”
“As long as we don’t get another hard freeze, I’ll be off next week.” The trip to the Blue Mountains took a couple of weeks. Even with his family's new lands being towards the outer edge. He should get back when the spring fresh growth started. Land soft enough they could start work on the mine again.
Gaffer nodded. “Mister Bilbo gave me the seeds you brought for that new breed of turnip. He’s got part of the back garden that’s been running wild. Will be good to break through the soil. Get it ready for other plantings.”
Bofur pulled the ax out of the log, putting it up where little fauntlings wouldn’t be able to reach. Worked his fingers into the crack and yanked the wood the rest of the way apart with his arm strength. “Sounds good. I’m not much for planting myself.”
“You and Mister Bilbo both. He said to plant the whole lot. You brought enough seeds to feed a good chunk of the Shire for winter.”
“I was planning to take the rest back home.” He usually did with as many preserves as Bilbo could have grown spare in the good Shire soil. So much more fertile than the thin mountain soil.
Gaffer squinted at him and then at the sky. “I’m not wanting to speak out of turn.”
“You know I’m not a man to tell an expert how to do his job. Tell me.”
“They’re root vegetables, sir. Good for putting up in the cellar to eat over the first part of the winter. With proper straw and luck, you could probably eat into February. But you wouldn’t want to be trying to carry them on the road back. Nothing but rot and mush.”
“Bilbo was thinking we’d can them.” Dwarves ate a lot of fermented food for a reason.
Gaffer’s mouth quirked a bit, eyes crinkling. Too polite to clearly state his amusement at Bilbo’s lack of hobbitish knowledge. “Aye, thought he might be thinking that. But they don’t can. Not enough acid. You’d need to pickle them.”
Except for knowing one was sour and the other not, he didn’t much know the difference.
“You’d be wanting beets for that. Enough to mix with the turnips. And vinegar, too.”
Ah, that meant more money for seeds and then arranging for Bilbo to either make vinegar from some of the grain wine over the summer. Or buying it from one of the other farms in the fall. Both of which required coin. “I’ll let Bilbo know. He’ll likely have an opinion on what beets you use, but we’ll trust you know best.”
“Thank you, Mister Bofur.”
“And you Master Gaffer.” He crouched as low as he could. Still coming up to the Gaffer’s shoulder, but hopefully less intimidating anyway. “And to you, young Sam.”
-
The kitchen smelled heavily of yeast and mulled wine. Warm and steamy in a way that made his fingertips tingle after so long outside.
“Feel less antsy?” Bilbo's hands clutched at the dough, stretching and rolling it in a way that showed the strength in his forearms attractively. Where he’d rolled up his sleeves to keep them out of the flour.
“Yes. You’ll have enough wood to get you through any of the late-season storms.”
Bilbo looked up, already smiling. Only to get a proper look at him. Eyes going hungry as they roved over the sweat-dampened undershirt that clung to Bofur’s form after so long splitting wood. “You keep going out like that and you’ll have the hobbit ladies coming to stare over the wall again.”
“I’ll risk it. If it gets my husband to stare at me too.” He got into Bilbo’s space. Hands on his small waist and lips already going for the spot behind his pointed ears that drove him crazy.
“None of that now. I’ve got to finish with the dough. It needs to rise now if I’m going to get the loaves plated and baked for tomorrow.”
Bofur nipped the point of his ear, but let him go. “I feel like young Samwise now.”
“Oh?”
“His Ma sent him out of the house for stealing her cherry preserves. She’s baking for the festival too.”
"Well, you can hardly blame the lad. Missus Gamgee has the best cherry preserves. Won’t surprise me if we have a fistfight over her tarts tomorrow.”
Bofur spooned up a mug of the mulled wine that regularly bubbled away on the stove throughout the winter days. "Well, your hobbit faunts do get particularly excited about food.”
Bilbo snorted. “You said it would be the faunts. If the Old Took comes, he’ll use his cane to knock the heads of anybody who tries to get the plate away from him.”
“Are we expecting him?” The Old Took liked to come to as many of the festivals as he could. But Hobbiton was a long way to come from the Great Smail in the winter.
“As long as the ground stays firm enough, they can use the sledge. Primula and Frodo are supposed to ride in with him.”
Bofur spluttered around the sip of wine. “Bilbo! You didn’t tell me Frodo was coming!”
Bilbo’s smile was all mischief. “One of the bounders stopped by for a snack while you were out chopping wood.”
“And you didn’t call me in? You know I need to finish carving the scales on his dragon puppet!”
“I saw you working on it just last evening. All you have left is the tail. You’d be just as grumpy if I tried to call you in early. When you had too much energy to focus.”
Bofur grumbled, but didn’t have much of a leg to stand on there. The problem of having a partner that knew him so well. He went to get the puppet and his knives. Humming under his breath. He was already looking forward to an afternoon spent working on his craft while watching Bilbo do his baking.
And perhaps a break for an afternoon tumble while the bread rises.
-
Plenty of hobbits ringed the dance field. Far enough out from the Party tree’s spreading roots to avoid unexpected trips. Close enough that people could duck out of the dancing to grab a snack from the food tables, tucked up against the tree’s trunk. Always a high priority in a Hobbit party.
In colder years, every hobbit who could stand long enough took part in the first dance. Their feet working into the soil meant to call on Yavanna’s blessing for fertile fields. This had been a mild year, though. So Bilbo stayed tucked into his arms. Unobtrusive among the other elder bachelors. Only the fact he was in someone’s arms, a dwarves’ at that, made him stand out.
Even that was worth little gossip after years of Bofur’s presence at these festivals. The muttering only started when he took Bilbo’s hand and led him out onto the green with the other couples.
“Bofur, are you sure?” His eyes were big and concerned. Bofur tried not to take it personally that Bilbo looked so unsure.
He'd been trying the last few years to dance the simpler Hobbit jigs. Stumbling more often than was good for his pride. But in most Hobbit parties, the joy of movement was more important.
The ceremonial dances weren’t like that. Flubbing an important dance during a year when they didn't need everyone who could dance on the field, was enough to send every matron's tongue wagging. Hobbits from Hobbiton to the old forests would be muttering about that dwarf Master Baggins took up with.
“I’m sure. Just watch.”
That was enough to get one of Bilbo’s wicked little smiles. He did love a surprise and turning the traditionalists on their ears. Never forgiving them for the loss of his mother’s silver when they declared him dead while he was on his journey.
The music swelled as they entered the circle. They were on the outer ring. Only the couples with a known skill were in the innermost ring. He could make out Primula’s head of dark curls. The middle ring was for the generally good dancers. With the outermost and simplest ring for those who were unskilled or unpracticed.
Still, there were a few looks from the other dancers. Until Misus Gamgee bustled her way around the curve, and bullied the others so she and Gaffer were the couple on Bofur’s off hand.
As the music swelled, Bofur focused on the drumbeat. Letting it lead his breath and heart like he’d practiced. These drummers were much more skilled than the Gamgee children. Though without some of the same wild passion for their instruments. He stepped forward with the other leaders. Hand out and back for Bilbo, in time for the first spin. Then to Missus Gamgee and back again.
Patterns came out from the center to the edge. Music trills warning for each change. He had a short period with the couple on Bilbo’s offside as someone in the center dragged the spin counterclockwise. Most of the dance, though, was a mix of holding Bilbo’s hand or holding him close against his chest.
Each rotation turned Bilbo’s curls into a wilder halo as his smile got bigger. Enjoying the energy and growing speed.
Until, with a final shout, the leaders raised their partners up to the sun to welcome it back. He'd only done this with Missus Gamgee during their lessons. A stout matron who didn’t care to have her feet far off the ground.
With Bilbo, he meant to lift him overhead. Like they were one of the young couples. Only he was lighter than expected and went flying into the air instead. Not so far Bofur couldn’t soften his fall with a quick grab of his waist. But enough to send Bilbo laughing at the surprise.
Once his feet were firmly on the ground, he pulled Bofur down for the traditional kiss. Before whispering. “Well aren’t you full of surprises today, Master Dwarf?”
-
Bilbo signed them up for their usual shift watching the fauntlings during the later part of the feast. After the wine came out.
He barely made it into the area fenced in for the younger children before Merry was upon him. Climbing him like he was a tree himself. All sharp elbows and tiny hands. “I saw you in the dance, Mister Bofur! Can you throw me like that? Pip too!”
Pip, who as always was on his cousin’s coat-tails, seemed less enthusiastic about the idea. Already late in the day for such a tiny faunt who’d likely been too excited by the sledge ride to get his afternoon nap. He’d claimed Bilbo for his own. Tucking his little head up underneath Bilbo’s chin. Tiny hands busy trying to pickpocket treats.
He didn’t have Bilbo’s skill, but being one of the youngest of the current crop of cousins had its benefits. As they all indulged him horribly.
“Toss me! Toss me!” Merry got so into his yelling that he almost flipped himself backward out of Bofur’s arms.
“Seems you aren’t the only one I need to practice my catching on, love.”
"Well, if you need the practice, you’d better start now. I expect you’ll have plenty of takers.” He looked over to the pile of pillows where the top of a black head of curls was inexpertly hidden. “Isn’t that right, Frodo my lad?”
Frodo grew again over the winter. Though still far smaller than Bofur expected from dwarves of similar levels of maturity. Now coming up somewhere between his knee and hip. A little blond shadow behind him. “Sam too?”
“Of course, lad. Can’t leave anyone out." Bofur kept up some mix of tussling and ‘flying’ lessons with the older fonts until it got full dark. The cold came back with the loss of the sun. Everyone was happy to pile into the cushion nest for story time with Bilbo and the younger faunts.
“Bofur, my love. Don’t you have a present for Frodo? I think we’ll be needing it for our next story.”
“Oh aye.” He went over to the tables set up on the other side of the fence. Where parents could leave their children's winter clothes and any toys they might need for sleep. He grabbed not only the wrapped puppet but various other cozies he recognized from previous years.
Bilbo’s arms were waving as he began the story of the mouse and the dragon. All the rhyming bits about sneaking into the big cold castle. Where the great dragon was hoarding all the sweets.
Frodo was happy to jump in and play the part of the dragon once he got his present unwrapped.
The longer and longer Bilbo went on with the various riddles needed to trick the dragon, the more faunts began to yawn and nod off.
Until it was just Bofur and Bilbo awake. A kitten pile of Merry, Pip, and Sam in Bilbo’s lap. With Frodo sandwiched against Bofur’s side. One hand tangled with Sam’s while the other held his dragon puppet tight against his side.
“A good memory to take on your journey?” Bilbo whispered.
“Always.”
-
“No letters again.” The dwarf who managed the package desk of the trading house gave him a sympathetic smile. She was a younger lass than had taken over for her father a few years before. So she likely remembered the packets of letters coming with every eastbound caravan. Since even before she reached her majority.
This would be the second one without. “Did they stop at the Green Dragon?”
“I asked. I thought it was odd for us dwarves to be asking about a mostly hobbit establishment. But they said they stopped there like usual. Best mead in that part of the road.”
That was about what he expected. Bilbo usually heard about the caravans well in advance through the Hobbit gossip network. But sometimes he'd miss them and go with his backup plan. He regularly visited the Green Dragon. Gathering stories and drinking. Spending enough coin the barkeep was happy to hold onto the letters until the next caravan came. Put it into their care with his own hands.
The last package of letters Bofur received, the second of the summer season, came care of the Gaffer, when both the usual plans failed. So there was no reason to think there was an issue with the transportation rather than the sender.
The last letter informed him of Primula and Drogo’s death. Apologizing that he had to cut their correspondence short. Since he was making his way to Tookborough for the funeral. Bofur sent back his condolences and a few carved memory stones to be given to Frodo.
There was little risk on that patch of road and the Old Took likely would send a bounder to escort his grandson, so soon after the loss of a great-grandchild. That didn’t stop the fear fluttering around in his chest. He knocked the package desk like it was stone to ward off bad luck.
“I’m sorry, but I need to see the next person." The lass did sound sorry, but also her eyes were over his shoulder.
“Of course. Three weeks until the next scheduled caravan?”
Her eyes flicked back to him. “That’s right. Though I hear the roads are muddy, so I’d expect them a day or two late.”
“Thank you.” Three weeks. If he pushed and kept the mule cart light, he could make it to the shire in four. His boots tapped against the floor, ready to walk that familiar path.
-
“Honestly, brother, you should just go.”
Bifur signed similar sentiment.
“We wanted to go deep enough this summer to hit the deeper vein of cassiterite by fall.” They needed to start pulling money out of the ground. Before they could hire extra hands and expand the venture. Make the mine something that could keep his cousins' children and grandchildren fed.
“Oh aye, you’re doing a lot of good stopping to sigh and look towards the Shire every few pick blows.” His cousin and current matron of their family did have a way of cutting right to the quick.
He scratched at his hair under his hat. Looked down at his mud-splattered boots, like a shy stripling of a dwarf still growing his whiskers.
Her tone gentled. “It’s not a mark of shame. If my husband disappeared with no word, I’d be likely to tear down the mountain with my own two hands.”
“And do a good job of it, too!” The husband in question called from where he was deeper in the pit. Shovel ringing against stone with enviable regularity.
“It’s still months yet until the cold season. I can’t leave you all to do my share of the work. Besides, his letters could already be on their way. I’d pass them on the road.” That was what he kept telling himself when his boots started dragging him down the mountain.
“If you wrote that one of us passed. What did he do?” Bifur signed. Face already in that annoying knowing expression that came from being a big brother.
“He’d have hired onto the next caravan to the Blue Mountains.” It had happened once, when an illness tore through caverns. They’d all quarantined to keep from spreading to the other settlements along the caravan’s path. He’d shown up a few weeks too late to nurse anyone back to health. But with a hired horse wagon full of food from the Shire. The Hobbit answer to any problem.
“Then it's only fair. You do the same.” His cousin patted him on the shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off his feet. “I don’t know what I did to get a stone-stubborn cousin.”
“I’ll be back by early fall to help.”
She shook her head. “We’ll be fine. Stay til the thaw if you need to.”
Bofur refused to think of what would have to happen for Bilbo to need him to stay for a full three seasons. “I’ll be back.”
-
He would have done well to listen to the lass at the package desk when it came to the mud. Every mile he traveled off the mountain and deeper into the lowlands required trekking through a mud pit.
Bofur never traveled towards the Shire in early summer and hoped he’d never need to do it again. Three weeks over the hard-packed dry earth. Became nearly a month until he reached Bywater. The barman at the Green Dragon took in his muddy form with aplomp. Before offering a bath and suggesting he spend the night. Rather than dealing with the expected evening storm.
Halfway to Hobbiton and soaked near to the bone, Bofur almost wished he’d listened. If his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest with every step. Calling for his partner. It felt worse, being so close and still not knowing if Bilbo was okay.
His mule was less driven to keep moving through the pouring rain than he was. Jumping and braying at every clap of thunder no matter how distant. Liquid brown eyes staring at him in approach as he took the bridle to guide her out of yet another puddle.
“A bit more, lass, and then Gaffer will get you some nice apple mash.”
Her bray didn’t sound convinced, but she kept moving. Loyal as anything. As they made it down the turn that led to Hobbiton proper, she sped up. Obviously recognizing where they were. Despite the different feel of the place. Drenched in growing green instead of the fall crisp of oranges and reds.
The last bit of the trip, it was him hurrying to keep up with her.
-
There was no answer to his pounding on Bag End’s green door. Or to the accompanying braying from the mule. That was practically unheard of. Proper manners got Bilbo to open the door to thirteen unexpected dwarves. Despite it being too late for receiving hours, and Bilbo already being in his dressing gown.
Bofur could imagine no good reason for Bilbo's hospitality to change tonight. He’d think the hobbit hole was empty. Except he could make out the soft glow of light from the kitchen windows. When he’d peeked through the crack where the large tree that sheltered Bilbo’s smoking bench bent away from the hill.
He pounded harder. Barely managing to pull his hand back in time when it swung open with a sudden snap.
“What!” The voice was straight out of the worst of their time at Erebor. When Thorin was deep in the gold madness. A hobbit stretched to his breaking point.
“Bilbo?” He kept his voice gentle, even as his eyes skittered over the dark hall behind Bilbo, looking for the threat. No sign of the big gray hat that meant Gandalf had come to stir him up. So distracted, he almost lost his footing when a small boulder rammed into his chest. Pushing him back a step until he was back away from what little shelter the eaves could offer.
“Bofur.” More breath than sound. Nothing like that original snap. Even if the arms clinging to him were still tight with desperation. Bringing back memories of those first few days after the Battle of the Five Armies. Where Bilbo couldn’t go further than arm's length from one of the surviving dwarves without panicking.
“I’m here, love. Breathe for me. We’ll fix it. Whatever has gone wrong.”
If it wasn’t rain wetting the front of Bofur’s shirt, he wasn’t going to call Bilbo out on it. Threaded his fingers into the knotted birds' nest of Bilbo’s curls and let him cry himself out. It wasn’t like he was going to get any wetter.
Bilbo let go of him long enough to get his rain cloak. Before he was glued back against Bofur’s side. Only seperating again long enough to go close the gate. After Bofur guided the mule through to get into the shelter of the stable.
It was tempting to try and rush his post-travel chores. With Bilbo there shivering beside him. Only he wasn’t so cruel as to make the lass wait with a damp coat. Or to roust The Gaffer or one of his children from their beds to do the work instead. “Do you have some oats and apples we can make a good mash for her?”
“I’ll cook it myself. She deserves it for bringing you back to me.”
“And maybe a pot of tea for us too. Could use warming up from all this damp. He eyed Bilbo while ostensibly brushing the mule down. He’d definitely lost weight. Cheeks sunken and deep purple bruises under his eyes, just begging for a kiss to soothe them. The paleness might just be from the cold. “Supper too, if you haven’t eaten that yet?”
“I-“ His eyebrows pinched together, “I’m not sure if I did.”
That was a warning sign, if nothing else, in a Hobbit. “What about dinner?”
“Maybe a bit of toast.”
That wouldn’t do at all. “We’ll have to have a big fry-up then. It’s been too long. Eating only campfire food. Some milk and eggs will do me good.
“Right.” Bilbo’s eyes remained distant. The nod was perfunctory.
When usually the idea that Bofur needed feeding would send him into a flurry of activity. Every bit of the month of swimming through mud was worth it. Being here to help address this before Bilbo got any sicker.
-
It took a few prompts, but Bilbo finished every bit of the food Bofur didn’t. Even though Bofur made it in his biggest frying pan. The one usually used for dinners, not late-night snacks. Habit brought them into the den after, the roaring fire finally enough to bake the damp out of Bofur’s bones.
They didn't fall into their usual habit of sitting side by side in their chairs. While Bilbo smoked or wrote and Bofur carved. Instead, Bilbo curled up in Bofur’s lap. Bofur carved the chair for both himself and to hold Bilbo’s occasional big person guests. So there was space, even if there were far too many elbows and knees in such a small space.
Finally, Bilbo found a spot he liked. Ear to Bofur’s chest, head tucked under Bofur’s chin. His blond curls mixing with Bofur’s own dark whiskers. “I told you about the boating accident, right?”
Bofur pressed a kiss to his head before answering. Reminding himself that Bilbo was here and safe. Now wasn’t the time to get excited over the missing letters. "Yes, you said you were going to the funeral.”
“I meant to come home right after, but Old Took wasn’t himself. He always said Primula reminded him of my mother. Even if she was a Brandybuck.”
So he would have wanted the other grandchild who reminded him of Belladonna close.
“I thought it would only be for a few weeks while things settled. But you know how reserved Frodo can be.”
“Our little thinker.” In addition to his mother and Bilbo’s eye for mischief, Frodo had his father's knack for thinking his plans out in advance.
“With the whole pack of Took Cousins, he was being overrun. Especially as frail as he’s been since the accident. Looked like a little ghost standing graveside.”
Bofur remembered standing by his own parents' graves among the deep stone. Bilbo was likely haunted by similar memories of his own parents. It wasn’t a surprise what came next.
“I couldn’t leave him there like that. Particularly not once the summer storms started. Every time it starts to thunder, he’s terrified, remembering the squall that took his parents.”
They’d never discussed children. Bilbo a long-confirmed bachelor, and Bofur only staying through the cold months each year. Any dwarf child would be hopelessly out of the tunnel, dealing with hobbit culture so rarely. A hobbit child would never see him enough to consider him a proper Da.
But they’d already been acting as uncles to Frodo. Closer than with most of the Took cousins. Bofur long suspected Bilbo saw his mother in Primula and Frodo, just as the Old Took did.
“Of course you couldn’t leave him. We have plenty of room for a fauntling.”
Bilbo pulled away enough to bring him into a deep kiss.
-
Bilbo fell asleep in his lap soon after. The obvious exhaustion getting to him. Bofur let him rest there until the fire burnt itself down to coals. He had plenty of experience being an uncle to Bombur. Though that generally involved handing them back after a night or two of watching them when their parents needed a break.
Acting as a secondary caretaker would be different. Even if he only came down in the winters. Should he do the first weapon ritual? It was for blood kin, but it wasn’t as though the lad had any other dwarven kin. Hobbits didn’t have the ritual, Bilbo being the only one Bofur knew who carried a weapon. Even that coming as a gift from dwarves.
In that light, he should definitely handle the weapons. Perhaps reach out to the rest of the dwarves from the journey. Have it come from Bilbo’s brothers in blood rather than Bofur’s family itself. It would be hard on them to have a new nephew, after the loss of Fili and Kili, but there would be healing in the pain.
Scooping Bilbo up, he started for their room. The door was cracked in the bedroom closest to Bilbo’s room, the one that had once been his mother’s. Careful not to bump Bilbo’s head against the frame, Bofur eased it a little further open.
There were a number of changes. Toys and children’s books took the place of cosmetics on the vanity. A bright patchwork quilt covered the bed instead of the florals Bofur remembered. Most notably, there were two little heads nestled together on the pillow. Even in sleep, Frodo looked too thin and pale. Sam, his usual self, wrapped protectively around his friend. In a mirror of Bofur’s own hold on Bilbo.
Bofur’s cousins were going to be so smug. No way was he leaving the Shire until Frodo had a few seasons to get well settled. He’d ask Bilbo for coin in the morning, send it and a letter with the next caravan. Ask them to hire someone to help with his part of the digging.
-
Sam led Frodo out onto the party green and into the circle of dancers. Face all determination, as though Frodo would ever tell him no.
Bilbo might be too old to take part in the dance these days, but he still had his nose for mischief. He quirked one graying eyebrow, “Your doing?”
“Well sweeping you off your feet worked so well.”
Bilbo snorted. “Is that what you call falling on top of me as part of a pile of uninvited guests?”
“It worked, didn’t it?"
“You know Frodo wanted to invite him.”
“The lad has been pining since I was here last winter. Excuse me for wanting to see our nephew settled before I come back next year.”
The music swelled and Sam spun Frodo past them. All red cheeks, the besotted look was no better for having successfully caught Sam’s eye.
As the shout went up and the leaders lifted their partners to the son, Frodo soared higher than the rest. His joyful laugh was clear as a bell.