Bells on Bobtails Ring
Tuesday before Yule 1408 (morning)
Frodo Baggins took great pleasure, during his first waking moments each day, in pondering how agreeable life had
been since Bilbo had taken him in. As he stretched languorously on this late December morning, kicking aside the
bedclothes and arching his back in happy reminiscence of Sam's nimble fingers and clever tongue, he decided that
apart from a few minor hindrances along the way there were definite advantages to being the sole Master of Bag End.
Shire-folk understood only too well that certain private arrangements were never spoken of by a gentlehobbit beyond the
confines of his circle of intimate friends, and, perhaps more importantly, that many things were to remain unspoken in
his presence by those outside this circle. If anyone in Hobbiton chose to remark on the fact that Gaffer Gamgee's
youngest lad had been spending an unwarranted amount of time nurturing the garden at Bag End -- which was neither
so very large nor so very elaborate that it required care and attention at all hours of the day and night -- then they did it
behind Mr. Baggins' back. Indeed, had there been a throng of naked pleasure-boys crowding the door of his smial, nary
a shred of disapproving gossip would have reached Frodo's ears.
As it was, Gammer Bunce might lean across to share a word or two with Mistress Cotton in the Market Square along with
a sample of her fine treacle toffee, or the landlord of The Ivy Bush would occasionally let slip a sly remark to his regular
customers about 'rum doings on The Hill', but Frodo and Sam were rarely if ever made to feel uneasy about their special
"arrangement". No doubt the villagers believed that Frodo was simply exercising his privileges as Sam's master, and
would eventually send the poor lad back to the arms of Rosie Cotton, slightly shop-soiled but otherwise none the worse
for wear.
In point of fact, Frodo knew in his heart that no one, whether in his bed or out of it, could ever discern and satisfy his
needs so effortlessly as his stalwart gardener. If Frodo was often troubled by his inability to speak of deeper feelings,
nevertheless he trusted that Sam understood all those things that went without saying. In time the village would come to
understand them, too, and Mistress Cotton would set her cap for another hobbit of her station. Sam could finally become
Bag End's gardener-in-residence without a single villager batting an eyelid, and the Gaffer would be pensioned off with
the title deed to Number 3.
And thus it was that, on the Tuesday morning of Yule week, Frodo slipped from his bed, and wandered over to the
window for a breath of fresh air and the day's first glimpse of his lover.
Frodo had slowly realised, in the months since they had become bed-mates, that his gardener deliberately made work
for himself in the flower borders nearest the smial until Frodo had exchanged a few words of greeting with him, thereby
reassuring Sam that all was well for another day. On reflection, it seemed likely that Sam had been nurturing this habit
for some time and Frodo hadn't noticed before. There was no other way to explain why Sam had always been
conveniently within earshot whenever Frodo chanced to look outside.
Frodo couldn't begin to imagine what fears or uncertainties gripped Sam's mind during those first solitary hours in the
garden. What, after all, could have disturbed Frodo's rest since Sam had risen at dawn to begin his daily rounds? The
bedroom still smelled of well-warmed goose down, beeswax candles and something sharply tangy and unavoidably
arousing. There was a rumpled hollow in the feather mattress where Sam had lain, and a second pillow next to Frodo's
own. Sam's protective presence was felt even here, or most especially here.
Frodo flung open the window and leaned on the painted sill, blinking at the sudden rush of frosty air against his cheeks.
It would be a fine day for a ramble to the village, he thought -- the lane dry and hard-packed underfoot, the witchhazel
fragrant and startlingly yellow in the hedgerows alongside holly bushes and winter flowering hawthorn. He would post
his letters and Yuletide cards, then buy a thick slice of pork pie from Nan Mugwort's Pie Shop to have with his nuncheon,
despite Sam's stubborn refusal to explain his sinister warnings concerning the quality of the meat.
And speaking of Sam, there he was, his golden hair a flaming beacon in the shadowed garden. He was kneeling
amongst the winter pansies, his feet curled under him, heels leaving dirty streaks on the seat of his breeches each time
he sat back to inspect his work. Frodo felt a painful twinge at the sight, a clenching flush of heat behind his breast-bone
that tightened his throat. He swallowed and it was gone, thankfully. It wouldn't do to become sentimental at his age.
He'd recently celebrated his fortieth birthday, and the years of living alone since Bilbo's disappearance had made him
both sturdily independent and disinclined to maudlin expressions of whatever sort. Still….
"Hullo, Sam. You were up early."
Sam twisted around and nodded.
"Soon as I've deadheaded these pansies, there's a full day's work waiting in the kitchen garden. I reckon there'll be
snow this Yuletide, and if I don't finish lifting the carrots and turnips afore week's end, the Gaffer will want to know why.
Very fussy about his roots, is my old Dad. Did you need summat?"
"No, not really. I'm going to open some windows to air the smial for a few hours and then I believe I'll change the bed
linens and have a bath. We were making rather merry last night."
Sam's brows drew together and he leaned on his bucket for balance, examining Frodo with an admiring if somewhat
amused expression.
"Well, me dear, you might want to throw a dressing-gown over your shoulders first. Stopping in front of that window with
no clothes on, and at your time of life -- " Sam pursed his lips and shook his head. "'Tis a chancy business, as my old
Gran would say, even if it does make a pretty sight to gladden a hobbit's heart. Look at all that lily-white skin a-glinting in
the morning sun! It's a wonderment."
Frodo glanced down. He was exceptionally pale for a hobbit, wasn't he? Aside from that one matchless part of him
currently basking in the glow of Sam's attention, he was unusually fair. He stroked his fingers lightly across the head of
his cock, watching it twitch in his hand. Sam found it quite beautiful; he had admired it several times in the course of the
night, though not in so many words -- or with any words at all for that matter. Frodo would need to see to its needs
sooner rather than later. Waste not, want not, as Sam was always telling him; Sam, who was up so unconscionably
early in the morning that older and less active hobbits were left wanting in their beds.
It was fortunate the window ledge was high enough that nothing of interest could be seen from the lane should anyone
wander past. Doubtless village discretion had its limits.
Sam had apparently read his mind.
"What Marigold would say, if she were to happen by for the laundry and see you looking at yourself like that, I dread to
think. She'd have questions for me that I wouldn't care to answer, if you take my meaning. She's that nosey, is our
Marigold."
Frodo could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
"You have a maggot in your brain when it comes to Marigold. She has a way of popping her head up whenever you've a
mind to chastise me. Yesterday morning you couldn't stop complaining about the mess on the sheets, though it was
scarcely my fault that the chocolate spilled while you were filling the cups."
He smiled contentedly at the memory of Sam, naked and bending over to pour the hot chocolate. It had been worth the
quarrel afterwards to see Sam's skin redden where he'd been pinched and then to spend several minutes kissing the
spot better. How could a few dribbles of chocolate on the bedding weigh in the balance?
"You're an even prettier sight when you blush, but don't mind me." Sam turned back to the garden and threw a few
shrivelled blossoms into his bucket.
"You make me sound like a lass."
Sam chuckled.
"You'd be the first lass I ever saw with a root on her like a --"
Frodo coughed.
"Yes, Sam, thank you for the reassurance. Let's tell the entire village, shall we? I suppose it would be one way to stop
the speculation. At least there'd be no more embarrassing questions from Marigold."
He paused and gazed thoughtfully at his gardener. "I think I do have something here that needs attending to, now that
you've brought it to my notice. If you'd like to come inside for a cup of tea, we could --"
"Feeling a mite cockish, are we? I don't have time for indoor work, Mr. Frodo. I was tending you last night and now I've
garden chores as need seeing to. Besides, it sounds to me like you're coming down with a cough from the excitement
and the winter air. Best go and cover up, afore you catch summat. I filled the copper after breakfast and the water should
be hot enough for a good long soak in the bath. You'll find ways of dealing with that other problem, or I'm a tinker."
Frodo sighed heavily. There was clearly no point in trying to lure Sam inside, and, in any case, it was most unfair to be
enticing him from his work. Frodo also had chores to do, but half an hour in the bath first with some of that new oil from
the herbalist wouldn't go amiss.
"Sing hey for the bath at break of day, that washes a hobbit's cares away," he sang cheerfully, as he went across to the
clothes-press to put on his dressing gown, before heading out the door with the bottle of oil sitting snugly in his pocket.
------------
Frodo had fetched the caddy of his finest tea leaves from the pantry and was about to warm the silver pot, knowing that
Sam would relish a cup of milky tea with his cheese and onion pasty, when there was a sudden loud thumping at the
front door followed by the sound of cheerful voices wafting through the kitchen window. He glanced at the clock on the
mantel and was surprised to see that it was almost half ten. The posthobbit was a good thirty minutes later than his
usual time. Frodo couldn't imagine why Clovis saw fit to knock when it was common practice to pop any letters or
parcels onto the hall table to be collected at the master's convenience. In all probability, Clovis was anticipating a
Yuletide gratuity, but if that were the case then he would have to wait until another day. There hadn't been time to
prepare the Yuletide hampers for the deserving poor or the envelopes of money for random tradespeople. There had
been many other, more pressing matters to attend to, such as that lovely pile of books that Frodo had brought back from
Tuckburrow in the spring and still hadn't been able to examine properly, or his recent discovery, in a dusty corner of
Bilbo's library, of a fragmentary elvish work titled "A Thousand and One Youths: or, Plaint of the Lovelorn". Translating
the latter would no doubt entail a great deal of research. Unfortunately, he'd been spending his evenings in more
distracting pursuits and the books had been sadly neglected. As for the gifts and gratuities, they would have to wait until
Yule Eve.
He set the kettle on the hob and waited a moment or two, listening to the voices from the garden become louder and
less cheerful in tone. Obviously Sam was giving Clovis a piece of his mind; Sam could be delightfully pithy when roused,
as Frodo knew to his cost. Perhaps it would be wise to rescue the messenger before aspersions were cast on the
postal service and blows exchanged. It wouldn't do to have Clovis upset; he'd be spreading tales in the village about
Sam.
Frodo hurried down the passage only to find the door already swinging open and Clovis wheezing breathlessly in the
hall with his bag of letters over one shoulder and a box in his hand. Sam had stopped work altogether and was hovering
nearby, glaring at Clovis with a baleful eye. The messenger's face lit up when he saw Frodo.
"Oh, sir, I wanted to give you a shout, but your fellow here said you mustn't be disturbed. This is the second time I've had
to climb the hill with your parcel. It's going to be the death of me."
Frodo stared at his red face and then at the parcel.
"It's a very small parcel to be the death of anyone. Couldn't you have left it on the hall table or by the kitchen door? It
would have been perfectly safe there and Sam could have brought it into the smial later in the day."
Clovis shook his head.
"Oh no, sir. What if word of my indiscretion had filtered back to the Postmaster himself?" The messenger paused to
glare at Sam. "It's a special item and must be signed for by the head of the household. We wouldn't want it to fall into
the wrong hands, now would we."
He held out the packet anxiously. It was by no means impressive or remarkable, wrapped in common-or-garden brown
paper, sealed at both ends with paste and tied with coarse string. Frodo didn't take it from him.
"It can't be mine. I haven't placed any special orders in recent weeks, not since my usual quarterly shipment of
Gentlehobbit's Relish that I have sent by cart from Michel Delving. I'm positive there have been no orders from this
address requiring a signature. Next you'll be telling me that there's money owing for postage." Frodo folded his arms
and tapped his foot impatiently.
The posthobbit squinted and glanced at his record book.
"Are you Mr. -- F. Baggins?"
"Oh, Clovis, you know I am."
"Then it's for you, sir, and no mistake. It says so right here --" he pointed at the plain paper wrapping and then at the
page of his book. "And here."
"It's from Gotobed's," he continued, with what Frodo could have sworn was a furtive wink. "I'll say no more in front of the
servants, if you catch my drift."
His eyes slid meaningfully towards Sam and he placed a stubby finger alongside his nose.
"Mum's the word," he whispered.
Sam snorted with contempt and retreated back into the depths of the carrot rows. He was soon lost to sight behind the
rosemary bush and Frodo was left alone with Clovis.
Frodo threw up his hands.
"Oh, very well, but if I find that it's wrongly addressed, it will be going straight back with you on the morrow. I have enough
of Cousin Bilbo's old mathoms cluttering the loft without more of the same. Bag End is a gentlehobbit's residence, not a
storage barn."
Clovis handed Frodo a pencil and watched as Frodo scrawled his initials in the book.
"Don't you worry yourself about that, sir. Rumour has it that Gotobed's Yuletide gift baskets are especially favoured by
single gentlehobbits. But I'm sure you know that already, Mr. Baggins."
He smiled and shut his book with a snap, sticking the pencil into his breast pocket.
"I'll be on my way then. I know you're keen to open your present and have a peek, and I can't say as I blame you. No, not
one bit. Good day to you, sir."
Once Clovis was safely out of earshot, Frodo walked over to the kitchen garden. Sam had temporarily abandoned the
carrots and was checking the sprouts with a practised eye.
"I'm sorry, Sam; that was entirely uncalled for. He ought to know better."
Sam dismissed the matter with a shrug.
"It's the way of the world I reckon. Clovis the Post always did have notions above his station in life, and him but a Grubb
on the distaff side. I've got a sight too much real work to do without worriting over trifles."
"Even so…." Frodo trailed off, more and more distracted by the box in his hands. He shook it and tugged at the cord.
"It's rather early for Yule gifts. Should I open it now, do you suppose?"
"I couldn't say, me dear. You do whatever you like, as you always do. Gamgees don't give Yuletide gifts, aside from a
wreath of bay to put on the door or a plum pudding."
"No, neither do we." Frodo answered absently. "Bilbo liked to exchange remembrances between close friends and
relations, but nothing elaborate. I can't imagine…. Ah well, I'll unwrap it right away, since you think I ought to. I don't care
for mysteries; unexpected gifts tend to be full of nasty surprises in my experience."
Sam grunted and picked up his pruning shears, clearly having lost interest in the vagaries of the postal service. He was
eyeing the gooseberry bushes with intent, and unsolicited parcels were of small moment to him.
Frodo headed back to his smial to examine the strange parcel over a nice, hot cup of tea and a biscuit. However, he
made it no further than the front hall before having to stop and inspect the package more closely.
He hadn't noticed it before, but there was a letter, neatly addressed and sealed with a blob of crimson wax, tucked
beneath the string. He pulled it out and quickly separated wax from parchment. Inside was a square of thick card with
ragged edges and, at the top, a raised border of pink flower buds. Below the border, printed in blurred purple ink, were
the words "Burfoot's for Quality" followed by a brief message.
Does the Ink flow sluggishly from your Quill's tip as the chill blasts of Winter descend like ravening Wolves from the
north? Does the ink well feel icy beneath numbed fingers? Fear not! A Remedy is at hand!
Burfoot's Shire-renowned Fur Muffs for the discerning Hobbit are The Best. Suited to all Sizes and Shapes. We are the
largest Maker in the Shire, known from Michel Delving to The Marish. Always ask for Burfoot's. Accept no substitute.
Write for our free Gift List. This and many other Delights are to be had from Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium. Please
come and visit us in Whitfurrows, No 5 Behind The Market Place. Open all daylight hours.
At the bottom of the card was a shabby drawing of a curiously shaped inkwell and what appeared to be a tubular object
of some sort in a recumbent posture next to it.
Frodo set the card to one side and unfolded the sheet of parchment beneath.
Dear Mr. Baggins, Master of Bag End and all lands pertaining thereto, Sir,
One of our most valued customers has tendered your name to us as a gentlehobbit of fine taste and long lineage, a
gentlehobbit who might wish to partake of the extensive range of unusual items which we provide to a select few.
Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium is therefore pleased to offer you, as an introductory gift, one of our exclusive Coney
Fur Muffs, hand stitched in Buckland by skilled craftshobbits in the direct employ of the Brandybuck family itself.
(Testimonials available upon request). Should the item not give full satisfaction, we will replace it at no cost (shipping
and handling included).
We hope that you will graciously consent to be a proud member of the Gotobed family. A copy of our fully illustrated
catalogue awaits your kind acceptance of our offer. On the other hand, should you choose to decline this offer, the Muff is
yours to keep, enjoy and use in good health.
(Signed)
Your humble servant,
Rollo Gotobed (Purveyor of books to the Gentry)
Frodo scowled and read the letter a second time. He had been living at Bag End for nearly twenty years and was,
perhaps, less familiar with the Buckland merchants than he had been in his restless youth. Nonetheless, he thought it
queer that the name of Rollo Gotobed was entirely unknown to him. He had, at the very least, a casual acquaintance
with every reputable bookseller in the Shire and for some leagues beyond. It was unlikely that any "purveyor of books to
the gentry" could have escaped his notice altogether. Burfoot's, on the other hand --.
He shook his head. No, it was no use trying to force the memory; it would come to him by and by. In the meantime, he
was desperately curious as to who had entered his name in Gotobed's customer register, and what was in the dratted
box that Clovis had been making such a fuss over.
Frodo carried the parcel into his study and picked up the pen knife from his work table. The string came away with a flick
of the blade, and he slit the brown paper down one side and tore it off. The box was disappointingly plain, with a
decorative label glued to the end on which the words "Fur Muff Size H" were written in a cursive hand. He lifted the lid
and removed the booklet that lay inside, then folded back the lilac tissue.
His eyebrows lifted. Goodness, it was a fur muff after all, but one which appeared more suited to adorn a young lady's
dressing table or a child's doll. Try as he might he failed to see how it could ever be a practical addition to an aging
hobbit's winter attire, even that of a hobbit who already possessed a fine set of furs of precisely this shade. It was the
colour of Sam's hair, silkier of course, but a beautiful dark honey-gold, and warmly brown at the roots. It was also, as
the accompanying letter had boldly asserted, made from good Shire coney fur of a luxurious length. He couldn't
suppress the urge to run his fingers through it repeatedly, his head full of visions -- of Sam lying back against crisp white
sheets writhing under his touch, of Sam's mouth on him in the willow arbour this past summer, while Lobelia knocked at
the kitchen door loudly enough to drown out the moan that escaped Frodo's lips as he came.
Drat, he was hard again. This would have to stop; he was too old to be so coltish. He paused for a few seconds to
gather his wayward thoughts.
As far as he could see, the main problem with the 'muff' as a potential winter garment was its unnaturally long, narrow
shape and the fact that it was sewn tightly shut at one end, making it useless as a hand warmer. The open end flaunted
a ridiculous pair of fur bobbles dangling from taffeta ribbons, and nestled in each bobble was a single silver bell. He
shook the muff gingerly. The bells were tiny, but functional nonetheless, with a pleasing light jingle. He noticed, as he
replaced the muff in its box, that the fur lining was a deep gentian blue. How odd.
He glanced again at the printed card and the drawing of the ink well. He'd never seen an ink well so tall and bulbous,
although Sourgum the Stationer's did occasionally have a few novelty items that looked not unlike it. However, now that
he'd examined the muff itself, he was forced to conclude that the card held the key to the mystery. This gift was just what
it purported to be -- an extravagant but no doubt effective way of keeping one's ink warm.
With any luck, the printed booklet would provide further illumination as to the muff's precise use. He flipped back the
colourful if crudely printed cover, and glanced at the first page.
Instructions for Care: Avoid washing fur or leather items. Fur may be cleansed occasionally with warm, soapy water, but
such treatment will shorten the lifespan of the garment. To take out stubborn stains, allow spilled liquids to dry
thoroughly, then brush away flaky residue with a soft-bristled brush.
All muffs are completely reversible; however, we suggest that owners use only one side. Replacement liners are
available for the sum of two silver pennies.
"Burfoot's are the very best,
Just take your ease, we'll do the rest."
He turned the leaf.
Not recommended for those suffering from wasting sickness, sleeplessness, cankers, or the stone. For more information
please contact the makers.
At the bottom of the page was a woodblock print of an emaciated hobbit lying in bed with a cloth covering his forehead
and the blankets drawn up to his chin. How intriguing! Granted, it was a poorly made pamphlet, but they had obviously
bound the wrong pages together. A hobbit with wasting sickness would be just as liable to want his ink well-warmed as
any other hobbit, unless of course he was too ill to send letters. Presumably this page belonged with some other gift
item -- a wooden puzzle perhaps, or a taxing outdoor game.
Frodo popped the muff over his ink well and stood back to admire the effect. Somehow the result wasn't as impressive
as he'd hoped it would be or as the makers had intended. In fact, if the muff had been designed as an ink well cover it
was ill-suited for the purpose. It was too tall, for a start, poking a good four inches above the stopper, and the bobbles
and bells were peculiar additions to an object with an everyday function. All in all, it was an impractical bit of frippery, and
if he chose to use it regularly then he would need to be more than usually careful about keeping the glass stopper
clean. It was unlikely that spilled ink would brush out of the fur as easily as the pamphlet had implied. He had vast
experience with stains, and ink was possibly the very worst.
That being the case, it might be best to have the gaudy blue fur outermost, and thus further from the inky bottle top. He
prodded at the muff until it was inside-out and lowered it into position. Cock and pie, that was ghastly. Whatever had
Gotobed's been thinking of to send him such a thing, and why should he be tempted to write for their catalogue on the
strength of it, a catalogue of equally useless items to clutter his study? And who in Middle-earth had given his name to
Gotobed's in the first place? He removed the muff and placed it next to the blotting pad.
He sat down at his desk, set a clean sheet of paper in front of him, and thought for a few moments while he sharpened
his quill. Then he tossed the muff to one side, dipped the quill tip carefully into the ink well and began to write.
Dear Cousin Merry: Greetings and Salutations,
I trust this letter finds you in your usual state of good health -- and your family, too, of course. Please give my fondest
regards to all of them.
While gadding around the Eastfarthing, have you ever come upon a fellow by the name of Rollo Gotobed? He's the
proprietor of "Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium" in Whitfurrows. An unknown someone has suggested that I might be
an appropriate customer for his goods and on the strength of that reference Gotobed has sent me one of Burfoot's "Fur
Muffs" as an introductory gift. I admit to being totally dumbfounded. It has no useful purpose as far as I can tell, even
though Gotobed's letter gives the distinct impression that the muff is intended as an ink well protector. I ask you, whoever
heard of ink well protectors?
Let me know your thoughts by return of post, if possible. I don't like to see the name of Baggins being bandied about by
persons unknown to me, and when I find out who has given my name to Gotobed, flaying will be too good for him. I hope
you take my meaning.
Your aggravated cousin,
F. Baggins
He read the letter through with no small satisfaction at the thought of having caught Merry out in one of his less amusing
tricks, sealed the sheet and settled back in his chair to ponder whether or not he should write to Fatty and Folco as well.
On further reflection it appeared likely that if Merry didn't provide the solution to this puzzle, no one else would dare to.
Merry had altogether too much time on his hands and was generally the source of whatever plots and schemes might be
brewing amongst Frodo's kin.
Frodo chewed the end of his quill, gazing broodingly at the unwelcome furry intruder.
It lay stiffly on its back, the dark blue fur an eye-catching contrast to the fawn bobbles. He was unable to resist picking it
up and jingling the bells again. How extraordinary, he thought, and plunked it back over the ink well, where it drooped,
baggy and woebegone, bobbles splayed to either side. Wretched muff. In spite of Clovis' assurance, the muff was
destined to become another mathom stored from sight in one of the more out of the way broom closets, and eventually
shoved into a dark, forgotten, mildewed corner of the loft. He would certainly not be writing for the catalogue.
He threw his wool cloak on and gathered together the Yule greetings he'd written the previous day. A brisk walk to the
village would be precisely what he needed to clear his head of cobwebs, sufficiently, at least, to allow him to give some
further thought to the origins of the muff. What if there were no such shop as 'Gotobed's' and the entire thing was an
elaborate Yuletide joke on the part of his pawky-humoured Brandybuck cousin? The letter looked authentic enough, but
he knew that a hobbit with nothing better to do could get up to any amount of clever mischief entirely unaided.
He plucked his best walking stick from the umbrella stand in the hall, shut the door, and stepped onto the front path just
as Sam came round the corner from the compost heap with bucket in hand.
"I'm off to the post office. I should be back in time for luncheon, but in case I'm not, there's a pasty in the cold cupboard
for you. I imagine I'll be waylaid by the Widow Rumble. She seems to spring from nowhere whenever I walk past her
garden. Surely she can't be pruning the crab apple every single day, can she?"
"I expect she wants my help with her fruit trees, and doesn't like to ask now that -- well, you know."
"No, I don't know."
"She thinks you have the ordering of me, and she won't ask me outright, nor you neither it seems."
"Oh, for goodness' sake. I suppose I'll have to offer your services if I see her. Well, thank you for telling me. I should
have asked you before…." Frodo trailed off.
Sam was casting an assessing eye over his figure and sucking in his bottom lip. Frodo looked down nervously, but
everything seemed to be in good order, from his neatly groomed foot hair to his new combed-wool breeches, his
favourite brocaded waistcoat with Bilbo's dwarven watch in its usual pocket, and his old jacket with the patched elbows.
He frowned and then glared at Sam.
"What?"
"You ought to wear your fur-lined hood, sir. The wind has swung round to the north since the sun rose and it's numbing
my fingers already. It's a shame we can't use muffs as the lasses do, though a pair of fur-lined gloves would do nigh as
well."
Frodo started.
"Muffs?"
Sam squatted by the winter flower border, setting the bucket ready to hand and peering into the greenery as if seeking
inspiration.
"Oh, I know it's a daft notion, but what's good for a lass ought to be good for a lad, don't you think?"
"I believe that's exactly what I said when I seduced you in the kitchen last summer, so I'd have to agree with you there."
Frodo wasn't sure if Sam blushed or if it was the nippy air making his cheeks redden. In either case it reminded Frodo
sharply of those moments on the dining room table the previous evening, though whether Sam's heightened colour on
that occasion had been caused by the firelight, their frenzied coupling or the fact that Frodo had been forced to sweep the
cutlery off the table to make room for Sam remained unclear. He had thought at the time that Sam had mumbled
something along the lines of "mind the kettle, sir, and take care with that bowl of peaches", but it could just as easily
have been "you're in fine fettle, sir; please tear off my old breeches". Surely Sam wouldn't have been that careless with
his clothing? Nevertheless, the breeches had come off shortly thereafter.
Frodo glowered.
"Why do you mention muffs, Sam?" he asked in an icy tone of voice.
"No reason at all, me dear. Happen you could start a new fashion in the village. You'd look right fetching with a fur muff."
Frodo eyed Sam askance and continued on towards the gate with the bundle of letters stuck under his arm. Sam was
engrossed in removing old leaves from the hellebores, whistling a tune under his breath as he did so that sounded
suspiciously like "ho ho ho to the bottle I go". Perhaps Sam had been into the mead on an empty stomach; it wouldn't be
the first time. That might explain his highly whimsical suggestion that Frodo would look dashing with a muff. Then
again, it might not. What if….
Frodo stopped outside the gate and swung around on his heels, suspicion raging in his heart.
It was difficult to imagine Sam as a valued patron of any establishments beyond the seed supplier's in the village or the
ironmonger's in Bywater. On the other hand, Sam had been taking a fair bit of interest lately in the contents of Bilbo's
library, and might well have decided to spend his hard-earned pennies on a few special volumes of his own, to be read
in the privacy of his bed at Number 3 when he wasn't warming Frodo's. Undoubtedly Gotobed's did a roaring under-the-
counter trade in rare works as most booksellers did.
Frodo knew there was no use in asking Sam how the name of Frodo Baggins came to be on the customer rolls at
Gotobed's. Sam could be surprisingly secretive when the need was on him. Asking him would be a last resort, when
and if the threat of imminent bodily harm failed to squeeze an answer from Cousin Merry.
Frodo sighed inwardly. Sam looked so guileless, crouched among the bedding plants, his shirt-tails untucked and a
few dried seed pods clinging to his foot hair. He didn't seem like the sort of hobbit who would go behind his lover's back
in any way or conspire with his lover's friends to cause a truly unwarranted amount of anguish and upset.
One could never tell, though. Sam had an impish sense of humour and a little encouragement from Merry at the
birthday party this past September might well have led to something of this sort. It seemed harmless enough fun,
unless it had a deeper purpose that would be revealed sooner or later, no doubt in the most embarrassing possible
fashion. Yuletide was intended to be a time of merriment and feasting, not of anxiety and suffering. Life was very unfair.
"However fine I might look with a muff, Sam, I feel I have enough of a reputation in the village already," he said briefly, as
he shut the gate and stepped out into the lane.
If he hadn't known better he might have thought he heard Sam mutter "or in naught but a muff". He couldn't have done, of
course, because Sam had scarcely ever shown any curiosity about the more unusual bedsports, certainly nothing
beyond the occasional blindfold or feather on the…. No, he most definitely couldn't have.
Interval: Wednesday Morning before Yule (shortly after midnight)
"You never did tell me what was in that box Clovis had himself in a lather about."
Frodo wiggled his bottom and craned his neck, but it was impossible to tell from this angle whether Sam was
concealing his part in a conspiracy of vast proportions or merely making a polite inquiry. It was an odd time for such a
question.
"It was a mere trifle -- a device to stop my ink from freezing. I buy frost-proof ink from Speedwell's, so I don't have much
use for a preventative."
"Your ink's flowing pretty smoothly now, me dear."
"Yes, isn't it." Frodo gasped as Sam curled his finger and rubbed gently. "Sam, could we please stop having this
conversation. I can't think when you do that. I'll show you the ink well cover this afternoon if you're curious."
Sam's mouth was busy and he didn't answer for several moments.
"I'm sorry, sir. I won't be able to come back to Bag End this afternoon, or stay the night. Marigold and Daisy want my help
with the decorations -- the holly wreath for the door and the trimmings for the mantels. I'll need to walk half way to
Bywater afore I find a holly tree that suits their purpose. Then there'll be the puddings to deliver round the village and
wine to collect from The Ivy Bush, and the Yule log to be brought in. I'll be knackered by day's end, with no breath to
spare for lollygagging around in bed with you all night." Sam paused and licked his lips thoughtfully. "If you don't mind
my saying so."
"I do mind. I mind dreadfully. You have all day Thursday to --"
"Begging your pardon, but Thursday is for baking mince tarts and roasting ham and making custard and doing all
manner of things. The lasses won't let me hang the boughs on my own, not while they're busy in the kitchen."
Frodo straightened his legs and tried to sit up, which proved impossible with his wrists tied securely to the bedposts.
"Drat and blast. If you can tie me to the headboard you can be trusted to hang the evergreens by yourself."
"That may well be, but you won't catch me using that argument within earshot of Marigold. What she doesn't hear of our
doings in bed won't hurt her one whit."
"I didn't mean that, Sam, and you know it."
Sam knelt back on his heels and frowned at Frodo.
"Happen I did. Happen I can't do anything about the way things are. I'll be with you on Thursday night and for all of Yule if
you want me and I can't say fairer than that. Now spread your legs and no more nonsense."
Frodo glared as fiercely as he could in the semi-darkness. He was almost certain that Sam had started this
conversation, but it was difficult to focus now that Sam's tongue was doing such interesting things to that tender, secret
part of him. It was impossible to open his mouth for anything louder than a nearly breathless gasp as Sam covered him
and held him down and filled him so perfectly. If he couldn't have Sam on Wednesday night he was most definitely going
to make the most of him tonight. Sam would be worn out long before he stumbled back to Bagshot Row in the morning.
Frodo smiled and thought of sugar-plums, sticky and spicy with the bright red cherry hidden from sight in the middle;
candied oranges whose insides coated his lips with their thick syrup; sugared almonds, crunchy and sweet; mulled
wine hot in his throat. He wrapped his legs around his lover and kissed him and took him in.
Late Thursday evening (Yule Eve)
Frodo sat by the study fire, reading over the letter he'd received from Merry that morning and trying to decide if his cousin
was dissembling as he often did, or was genuinely innocent of all wrong-doing in the matter of the muff. His response
to Frodo's letter was puzzling to say the least.
Dear Old Frodo,
What larks! Mysterious gifts and unknown benefactors. No, I can't say that I know the fellow. I've been kicking my heels
here for the past several months and haven't wandered any further west than Stock. Gotobed -- it's a Breeish name or I'm
off my mark. If any Breelanders had moved into the district I'm certain I would have known. I'll ask father. Burfoot's
though; that rings a vague bell. Hair tonic? Foot oil? Something like that. Sorry I can't be of use. When are you coming
to visit? We're mad to see you. Mother says you owe her another game of "Noughts and Crosses".
Yours etc,
Merry
Oh yes -- that Fur Muff sounds intriguing. Tell me if it does the trick and I'll buy father one for my birthday. I'm not sure if
Mother would appreciate it, but one never knows. Flaying alive? You wouldn't!
That was a strange way of putting it. Why would Esmeralda not appreciate her husband having a means to keep his ink
well warm? Frodo had an uneasy suspicion that Merry knew more about fur muffs than he was prepared to say in
writing. As for Sam --
Sam would be here in a moment with the tea. It wouldn't do for him to know that Frodo had been threatening Cousin
Merry with bloodshed. Secrecy and misdirection were clearly the order of the day at this stage of the game. Hear all,
see all, and say nothing. He shoved the letter in a drawer and tidied the desk.
When Sam arrived, Frodo was leaning gracefully on the mantel-piece, warming his toes at the blaze.
Sam cleared a space on the desk and set down the tray. He was reaching for the plate of mincemeat tarts when his
hand froze and he swallowed loudly.
"Glory and trumpets, I haven't seen one of those since the last time I was upstairs at The…." He bit his lip and looked
sideways at Frodo with an abashed air, then fiddled with his pocket flap nervously. In a few seconds, unless Frodo
intervened, he would be checking the inside of the pocket for lint.
"At The…?"
"The Green Dragon, sir." He placed the cups and saucers on the desk, arranged the bowl of sugar lumps and the jug of
cream to one side, and lined the spoons up neatly like rows of pikestaves in the Mathom House. Frodo stared hard, but
Sam refused to look his way.
"Ah, I see. I believe you let that slip once before, when I was in too much pain to pursue it. I've been meaning to pay a
visit there -- to see what all the fuss is about, you understand."
He paused as if mulling over the likelihood of a midnight ramble in search of amusement. As expected, Sam started
round with a horrified expression on his face. Frodo smirked triumphantly.
"One of what, Sam?"
Frodo ran his eyes over the items on the desk: scissors, brass seal, stick of red wax, pen knife, quills, blotting pad, book
stand, a few flakes of pastry, ink bottle, blue fluffy....
"Sam! You wouldn't happen to know what that is, would you?" He pointed at the object in question where it sat
disconsolately next to the letter opener. "I sent a message to Buckland two days ago and only received Merry's answer
this morning; he won't admit to knowing anything of Gotobed's Shop in Whitfurrows or Burfoot's muffs. It's most unlike
him to be so ignorant. I don't care what the pamphlet says, that -- thing -- is entirely useless as an ink well cover, and
why my ink would need warming I couldn't…say…." His eyes widened.
Sam hastily plunked the teapot by the cream jug and stepped away from the desk, clutching the empty tray to his chest,
the lace doily hanging below like the frill on a lass's apron.
"I've never heard of Gotobed's or Burfoot's. Goldie Bellflower had a muff. She'd -- well -- " Sam shook his head
vigorously. "I'm sorry, sir, it's no use. I can't speak of it. I'd best go and see to the taters. They need peeling, or
scrubbing. Either way, I must go, afore I put both feet in my mouth."
Sam never made it to the passage. Frodo grabbed him by his jacket collar, spun him around and pushed him into a
chair by the fireplace.
"You will remain here until you've told me all about Goldie and her fur muff, and you will do it before you peel another
potato, Samwise Gamgee. I can't believe you're still a prude at your age."
Sam sat on the edge of his chair, looking desperately nervous and ready to bolt at any second. Frodo touched Sam's
shoulder lightly.
"Who is this Goldie Bellflower? I've never heard the name."
"You wouldn't have, Mr. Frodo. Upstairs at The Dragon isn't for gentlehobbits such as yourself; it's for those of us who
have nowhere else to be private, if you see what I mean. Bellflower won't be her real name and I can't say where she
comes from. You don't ask that sort of question at The Green Dragon. 'T'ain't polite."
"In other words, you keep your mouth shut and your purse wide open."
"Aye, summat like that, though it only costs a penny or two to --" He winced. "She's a light o' love, that's all. The poor
lass has seen better days, but she has a bag of tricks to make a grown hobbit blush." Sam looked green about the gills
at the memory.
Frodo picked up the muff and stroked it idly, watching the bobbles sway to and fro, then he slipped his fingers inside and
held his hand back to judge the effect. On the whole, he preferred the blue fur, even if it was a trifle garish.
"You know, my dear," he said wistfully, "all those months that I was as hard as a whetstone every time I saw you in the
garden, I thought -- no, I daren't approach him; Sam is too shy and innocent; he won't understand. Whereas in reality
you were spending your days at Bag End tilling my soil, and your nights at The Green Dragon, besporting yourself with a
lass called 'Goldie'. And I lay here in my lonely bed pining for your favours."
Sam put his head down and sighed.
"That's hardly fair, Frodo. If I'd ever thought--"
"What?" Frodo asked softly.
"You know what lads are. The Gaffer didn't seem to mind; mayhap he encouraged it. A bit of experience is the best
teacher, he's always told me, and who else was I to learn from?" Sam's eyes were sad. "So when Tom dared me to go
upstairs at The Dragon and have a taste of what was on offer, I did. More than once. That's how I met Goldie."
"And the muff?" Frodo shook it at Sam and the bells jingled.
"It wasn't near such a pretty muff as yours. It hadn't any bobbles or bells, but the fur was that soft. You couldn't keep
yourself from touching it." Sam tenderly placed his fingers on Frodo's muff. "Then you started to think about other parts
that might want to touch it, too -- the inside of it that is, if you understand me."
"I believe I do, for once. Do you mean to say that my ink well cover is actually a --. Gracious, I don't have a name for it. I
suppose 'muff' is as accurate as any."
"Goldie called it a cock-chafer. It doesn't chafe, though, not one bit. It…." Sam's eyes became dreamy, then he shook
himself and continued. "She had a wooden chest for her special toys. One night last winter, she brought out the muff.
She told me it was for keeping a hobbit's parts warm on cold days. As I wasn't wearing any clothes at the time and might
have need of it, or so she said, she slipped it on me. I nearly came right there, I was that overwrought."
Frodo leaned forward slightly.
"And?"
"Well, I didn't of course, as I was saving it for her. I'm not so young that I can't control myself. But --"
Frodo's arm dropped to his side, and the muff fell with a clink onto the oak floor.
"I'm very glad, Sam, that you found fulfilment before you came to my bed, truly I am. I'm just not sure that I want to know
the intimate details. You'll be mentioning Rosie Cotton next."
"No, Frodo, I didn't -- that is to say, you asked about the muff and I'm telling you as best I can. Mayhap you'd rather I
showed you."
Sam appeared mildly exasperated, which Frodo found puzzling as it was clear that Sam had been the one to lead a
carefree, roguish life prior to filling his current position in Frodo's bed. Frodo, on the other hand, had been languishing
for years in the solitude of Bag End, dreaming of a day when he would lie sated in his gardener's arms.
Frodo sniffed.
"No, Sam, I wouldn't. I have no desire to be stark naked except for a fuzzy blue muff over my cock, and it wouldn't stay on
unless I was -- well, you know."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sir, if you don't mind me --"
Frodo normally found it endearing when Sam lapsed into his old habits, suddenly uttering an "oh, please, sir" at crucial
moments, but in this particular instance it served to aggravate his temper to fever pitch. He wished Sam would get to
the point.
"What? What are you trying to tell me?" Frodo asked a trifle sharply.
"That you'd have no trouble keeping it on. There's not a hobbit born who would, to my way of thinking. Once the fur
touches your privates, you're as hot and hard as you ever thought you could be, Goldie or no Goldie. That fur muff was
enough to set me off, all on its own." Sam stared at his hands where they clutched the knees of his wool breeches. "I
wasn't going to say aught of The Green Dragon if you hadn't pressed me. It's water under the bridge, and naught to do
with you and me. Just so you know."
Frodo had thought that, after countless years spent studying arcane lore, collecting rare volumes, and indulging in the
occasional adventure during his many walks abroad, nothing could surprise or fluster him greatly, yet the notion of Sam
with a column of fur sprouting at his loins made him feel most peculiar. He didn't think that he fancied trying it himself; it
was undignified. But on Sam….
He bit his lip and wondered if the unexpected gift was more of a boon than he had originally thought it would be. At the
very least, Sam would end his day with a better sense of the proper use of fur muffs, and no lingering memories of
Goldie.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I wouldn't have bothered you about it only the muff has been distracting me for the past two days. Every
time I sit at my desk, it's there in front of me." He plucked the muff from the floor and dusted it off. "Well, if you had no part
in the business, it must be Merry's fault after all, for I can't think who else to blame."
Sam's expression changed to one of baffled hurt, and Frodo flinched inwardly.
"You thought I sent it, sir? Whatever would I be doing in Whitfurrows?"
"Nothing, Sam," Frodo answered in a chastened tone of voice. "I'll trust you in future, never fear."
Sam's face warmed, and Frodo hoped they could now put aside their awkwardness and play with the muff for awhile. He
had just climbed onto Sam's lap to explain in greater detail how truly sorry he was, when there was a sudden clamour of
voices from the front garden and what sounded like several fists knocking on the door.
"What in Middle-earth…?"
Sam straightened his clothes, adjusting his breeches more comfortably and buttoning his waistcoat.
"I expect it's the wassailers, come to bless the household. It's nigh on midnight."
"Is it? Then I think we should both go to the door; it's as much your smial as it is mine."
Sam blushed and took Frodo's hand briefly.
"Thank you, me dear."
Frodo opened the green door to find a noisy crowd of young hobbits jostling each other on the path and vying for space
nearest the step. Two of the older lads carried a wooden vessel festooned with fruit and ribbons and a solitary cedar
bough. When they saw Frodo, they brought the bowl forward, smiling shyly as they proffered it.
"Please, Master. It's your wassail and it's our wassail. Its joy be to you and your smial, and a jolly wassail, too."
Frodo didn't recognise some of the children and teens; no doubt many had come to Hobbiton for the Yuletide season
from outlying hamlets and farms. But he noticed that Sam's sisters were among the wassailers, and the Cotton lads,
and old Daddy Twofoot's great-nephews and nieces. There were several Burrows' offshoots as well, their carrot-red hair
positively aflame in the lamp-light, matching their red cheeks.
Frodo glanced into the bowl and shook his head.
"Your wassail bowl seems to be empty. Didn't the Widow Rumble give you a drink before you came here?"
"She did," said the youngest Burrows, who wasn't big enough yet to be hoisting his own tankard. "And Daddy Twofoot,
and the Gaffer. But there are twenty of us and only one bowl. "
"It's a long climb up the lane. We need to wet our whistles again," added Jolly Cotton. Tom poked him in the ribs and
Jolly giggled and tugged his hat off in apology.
Frodo smiled at them. "Then I'd best get a pitcher of cider for you. Would that do?"
"Oh, aye, " said Tom, and the others nodded heartily, their faces shining.
"Perhaps you could keep Samwise amused while I go and fetch the cider. I understand that he's been terribly busy
these past two days and a song might serve to raise his spirits."
May Gamgee put her arm through Sam's and kissed him on the cheek.
"He's a good brother and we're proud of him."
As he hurried down the passage to the first pantry, Frodo could hear Sam's bashful mumble and May's laughing reply.
He found a clean pitcher on the shelf and filled it with hard cider made from his own apples. If Bag End was the last
house on their way, then the wassailers were already more than a little tipsy; his cider would see them back to Hobbiton
with roses on their cheeks and a warm glow in their stomachs. It was just as well that the lasses weren't allowed near
their spinning wheels during Yule week; the drinking and feasting that went on continuously for six days and nights
would make for poor yarn.
As he checked his jacket pockets for coins to give to the children, his hand touched something unexpected and he
laughed. There was one other thing he would need from the pantry in that case, a small thing, but entirely necessary.
When Frodo returned to the hall, Sam and May, who had seemingly been walking together on the path, came up behind
the others and waited for the filling of the bowl.
Frodo stepped outside, wishing for warmer clothes and a muffler; this Yule Eve night had turned bitterly cold.
"A merry wassail to you," Frodo said, pouring the golden liquid into the ashwood bowl and handing round a few silver
pennies. Each singer thanked him and then drank a portion of cider until the bowl was empty.
"A pleasant Yuletide, good Master," answered Sam's sister, Daisy, when she had wiped her mouth.
"To you as well, Samwise," Marigold added saucily and winked at Sam.
Frodo cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, but Sam spoke not a word as the group gathered themselves wearily
together for the return journey. As the children tramped out into the lane, they began to sing the final verse of their
wassail song.
"Call up the master of this house,
Put on his golden ring;
Let him bring us a glass of beer,
And better we shall sing."
The music faded little by little as the wassailers made their way towards the village and the shared bowl of sweet, spicy
ale thickened with cream that waited for them at The Ivy Bush. Frodo remained on the step for a few moments, watching
the candles bob and sway in the distance, shimmering a deep red-orange against the moonlit trees and hedgerows.
They soon disappeared past the brow of the hill and the song was silenced.
Sam turned to speak to him, eyes flashing green in the light from the hall, but before the words could be more than a
taste on his lips, Frodo grasped him by the ears and took his mouth lovingly, felt the cold breath melt into his own, Sam's
hair fresh and achingly alive under his fingertips.
"Come inside, Sam. I hung a sprig of mistletoe in the hall while you were with your family this morning and I need you to
tell me if it's correctly positioned."
He held Sam by the hand and pulled him inside, kicking the heavy door shut with a resounding thump. He pointed
upwards, to where the mistletoe was tied to the hall lantern.
Sam laughed.
"You don't need an excuse to kiss me, me dear. You never did."
"I didn't know that, did I? You never told me," Frodo murmured. He bent his head and licked Sam's throat, the fluttering
pulse points, the whorls of his ears, and the fragile pointed ear tips that were so deliciously sensitive. Then he pinned
Sam tightly to the green door and began to loosen Sam's clothing.
Sam groaned and tried to draw away.
"Here? It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a -- "
Frodo grinned and held up the muff.
"I dropped it into my pocket when the knock came at the door. It seems we might be able to make use of it. What do you
think?"
"I think I'm going into the sitting room where it's warm. My rump's still sore from the dining room table t'other day. Right
hard, that was. What's wrong with a nice soft chair and a roaring fire?"
"Nothing's wrong with them. I merely thought this would be a fine place to test the merits of Burfoot's muffs. I'd like to
know if they truly are the best."
He rubbed the heel of his hand down the front of Sam's breeches, but the mere mention of the muff had done its work
and further encouragement wasn't necessary. In spite of the draft from beneath the door tickling their feet, and the frigid
blast pouring through the keyhole, Sam was warming up nicely.
"You see," Frodo continued, "that letter from Gotobed's is very clear about the suitability of Burfoot's muffs for all shapes
and sizes." He undid Sam's buttons one by one, first the left side, then the right.
"Moreover, I would say, from my close examination of the product, that it's fairly commodious inside, definitely -- " He
reached into Sam's drawers and took hold of what he found there, hard and silken and thrusting urgently into his hand."
-- well-adapted for use by hobbits in all walks of life, and not only gentlehobbits, as they imply."
He dragged Sam's drawers and breeches down to his knees, and slipped the muff into position. Sam let out a squeak,
and his head jerked back and hit the door.
"I did wonder whether or not the bobbles served a useful purpose but I can see that they do; the ribbons are exactly the
right length, and the bells are suitably festive. I might set the muff aside as a special Yuletide treat for you each year.
What do you think?"
Sam let out a deep wordless moan. Frodo nodded.
"That's what I thought. It would be more interesting, however, if you turned around and leaned your hands against the
door. Yes, like that. We'll see if I can do something for you that Goldie couldn't. You don't need to worry about 'saving it'
for me either. I have full instructions on how to clean the fur afterwards, and a soft-bristled brush to do it with. You know
the one, I think."
Frodo unfastened his own breeches with dispatch; they were binding him dreadfully.
"Feel free to do whatever you like with the muff while I'm busy back here, but try not to lose your balance."
He brought out the pot of salve that he'd taken from the pantry -- it never hurt to plan ahead and the front hall was possibly
the one room where he and Sam hadn't enjoyed each others' company -- and smoothed a generous amount on his
rising flesh. It had been two days since he and Sam had taken turns, and right now there was only one place that he
wished to be.
Sam, who was generally shy about such things, was nevertheless giving the muff's merits a fairly thorough going-over.
"The blue doesn't suit you as well as the brown," Frodo muttered as he positioned himself, "but whoever chose it
understood a hobbit's love of bright colours. I wish I could have a closer look but I need to --"
Sam groaned and stuck his bottom out.
"You need to shut up and get to it, sir, if you don't mind me saying so."
"Not at all, my dear, I simply have to find my direction and then -- " he gasped and Sam pushed back, taking him in
willynilly.
It was fortunate, Frodo decided, that Bilbo had been a believer in good, solid joinery, because the door was taking a
pounding. Hopefully there would be no more visitors to the smial. It would be a neverending shame to the name of
Baggins if the shirriff was called because a passing hobbit with too much ale in him thought that Bag End had been
burgled by ruffians.
As it happened, the only breaking and entering this Yule night was currently being committed on the willing body of
Samwise Gamgee, and Frodo was hoping that he wouldn't need to explain this to the authorities; it would be too painful.
Frodo hadn't the faintest notion why the prospect of pleasuring Sam up against the green door had so taken hold of his
mind as he'd poured the cider. It may have been the fault of the cider itself, as golden as Sam's hair or the skin on his
lovely firm bottom -- moving now in time with Frodo's thrusts -- or the slightly darker hair between his legs. Fur muffs
were convenient for those who had nothing better, but there was no denying that the delights of Sam's body, hot and tight
and wanting him, surpassed any sort of device however well-constructed.
The muff was evidently performing in a satisfactory manner, however, and Frodo put his hand below Sam's to feel the
sleek fur gliding smoothly over Sam's cock. My, but that was an interesting sensation. Perhaps he would try it on
himself one day, when Sam was too busy to take care of him.
"The muff is standing up well," Frodo observed, gripping Sam's hip with his other hand. He licked and sucked the pale
flesh of Sam's neck where it peeked out above the shirt collar, then bit down and pressed more forcefully into his lover,
feeling his own balls pull up in readiness.
"That's more than I'll be doing in a tick. I didn't think I'd last this long only -- "
If anyone had been weaving muzzily down the lane at precisely that moment, they would have heard, or thought they
heard, the sound of two hobbit voices crying out in harmony, overcome, as hobbits tended to be, by the joy and
merriment of the Yuletide festivities. And this tired hobbit, pausing to listen, would have wished the two well and passed
on his way again.
"You've had practice. Yes, I know, Sam," Frodo mumbled, from their prone position on the tiles. "I'd as soon we didn't talk
about that."
He lay on Sam's breast, thinking of the smoke from countless Yule logs in households from Bag End to Bywater bringing
good fortune to their hearths and those who sheltered by them. An unaccountable sadness settled in his heart. He
wished Bilbo were here; he wished the new year did not bring with it the fear that he might be alone again in years to
come.
He looked solemnly at his lover, finding his own uncertainty mirrored in Sam's face.
"I never did," Sam said quietly. He looked bashful, and chastened and a little uneasy. Frodo slipped his arms about
Sam's round, comfortable belly, warming his icy hands beneath the layers of woollen cloth. Sam shivered and Frodo
held him close.
"You never did what?" he whispered.
"I never had dealings with Rosie Cotton. By the time she had her eye on me, my heart was given. Truth to tell, it was
given long ago, only I didn't know it."
"Shh." Frodo kissed him, tasting salt on Sam's lips. "I love you, Sam. I wish I could have told you sooner but I'm not
used to --"
His words were stifled as Sam returned the kiss, their tongues touching and parting, softer than any coney fur muff and
far more satisfying.
The light streaming down on them from the hall window was sharply bright and cold where it fell on the tiled floor. Frodo
gazed up at the glass, frosted around the edges with a ruffle of white.
"It's snowing."
Sam smiled.
"I reckon it is. It's past time we went to bed. If I don't get up early to shovel the path, no one will come to our door for their
Yuletide cheer."
Frodo tried to read Sam's expression in the near darkness.
"Our door, Sam?"
Sam watched the snowflakes spatter silently against the window, his face gentle.
"Yes, me dear. Our door. It's near midnight and I reckon it's safe to tell you. I won't be going home again. Not as long
as you'll have me, that is. I told the family this morning."
There was a trace of shyness in Sam's voice, and a whole world full of hope and caring. Frodo shuddered.
"We should carry the Yule log into the sitting room first, don't you think? Before it's covered with snow and we can't find
it?"
Sam laced his fingers through Frodo's.
"Yes. It's a fine, stout log and 'twill burn brightly as long as it's needed; it won't go out afore its time comes. We'll set it on
the fire together."
Frodo smiled and held on for dear life.
"So we shall."
Epilogue: One week later
Dear Cousin Frodo,
I may have solved your mystery. I rode to Whitfurrows yesterday with Farmer Sourgrass, and found the Book and Art
Emporium. I needn't tell you what sort of shop it is; you're a smart fellow and I'm sure you and that lad of yours have
worked it out between you. Let me just say that it's well off the Market Square and easily missed unless you're searching
for it. I buttonholed Gotobed immediately and demanded to know how your name came to be on his client list (for in
spite of what I know you've been thinking, old chap, I didn't put it there). It took me awhile to squeeze it out of him. He
kept muttering about confidentiality and so forth until I explained who I was and why I must know the answer to my
question. He wouldn't give a name, but he described the 'gentleman' and said he'd been certain it was someone known
to you or he would never have etc. The gentleman was tall, with a grey beard and a battered hat. Older than his usual
run of customers, but hale and hearty for his age, or he wouldn't have patronised their shop in the first place. Sound
familiar?
Yr innocent cousin,
Merry
Frodo laughed and placed the letter in the front of his account book where he wouldn't lose it. Wizards were dreadful
meddlers, as Bilbo had told him many times. He might not be so keen, in future, to answer his door when one came
calling.
Frodo Baggins took great pleasure, during his first waking moments each day, in pondering how agreeable life had
been since Bilbo had taken him in. As he stretched languorously on this late December morning, kicking aside the
bedclothes and arching his back in happy reminiscence of Sam's nimble fingers and clever tongue, he decided that
apart from a few minor hindrances along the way there were definite advantages to being the sole Master of Bag End.
Shire-folk understood only too well that certain private arrangements were never spoken of by a gentlehobbit beyond the
confines of his circle of intimate friends, and, perhaps more importantly, that many things were to remain unspoken in
his presence by those outside this circle. If anyone in Hobbiton chose to remark on the fact that Gaffer Gamgee's
youngest lad had been spending an unwarranted amount of time nurturing the garden at Bag End -- which was neither
so very large nor so very elaborate that it required care and attention at all hours of the day and night -- then they did it
behind Mr. Baggins' back. Indeed, had there been a throng of naked pleasure-boys crowding the door of his smial, nary
a shred of disapproving gossip would have reached Frodo's ears.
As it was, Gammer Bunce might lean across to share a word or two with Mistress Cotton in the Market Square along with
a sample of her fine treacle toffee, or the landlord of The Ivy Bush would occasionally let slip a sly remark to his regular
customers about 'rum doings on The Hill', but Frodo and Sam were rarely if ever made to feel uneasy about their special
"arrangement". No doubt the villagers believed that Frodo was simply exercising his privileges as Sam's master, and
would eventually send the poor lad back to the arms of Rosie Cotton, slightly shop-soiled but otherwise none the worse
for wear.
In point of fact, Frodo knew in his heart that no one, whether in his bed or out of it, could ever discern and satisfy his
needs so effortlessly as his stalwart gardener. If Frodo was often troubled by his inability to speak of deeper feelings,
nevertheless he trusted that Sam understood all those things that went without saying. In time the village would come to
understand them, too, and Mistress Cotton would set her cap for another hobbit of her station. Sam could finally become
Bag End's gardener-in-residence without a single villager batting an eyelid, and the Gaffer would be pensioned off with
the title deed to Number 3.
And thus it was that, on the Tuesday morning of Yule week, Frodo slipped from his bed, and wandered over to the
window for a breath of fresh air and the day's first glimpse of his lover.
Frodo had slowly realised, in the months since they had become bed-mates, that his gardener deliberately made work
for himself in the flower borders nearest the smial until Frodo had exchanged a few words of greeting with him, thereby
reassuring Sam that all was well for another day. On reflection, it seemed likely that Sam had been nurturing this habit
for some time and Frodo hadn't noticed before. There was no other way to explain why Sam had always been
conveniently within earshot whenever Frodo chanced to look outside.
Frodo couldn't begin to imagine what fears or uncertainties gripped Sam's mind during those first solitary hours in the
garden. What, after all, could have disturbed Frodo's rest since Sam had risen at dawn to begin his daily rounds? The
bedroom still smelled of well-warmed goose down, beeswax candles and something sharply tangy and unavoidably
arousing. There was a rumpled hollow in the feather mattress where Sam had lain, and a second pillow next to Frodo's
own. Sam's protective presence was felt even here, or most especially here.
Frodo flung open the window and leaned on the painted sill, blinking at the sudden rush of frosty air against his cheeks.
It would be a fine day for a ramble to the village, he thought -- the lane dry and hard-packed underfoot, the witchhazel
fragrant and startlingly yellow in the hedgerows alongside holly bushes and winter flowering hawthorn. He would post
his letters and Yuletide cards, then buy a thick slice of pork pie from Nan Mugwort's Pie Shop to have with his nuncheon,
despite Sam's stubborn refusal to explain his sinister warnings concerning the quality of the meat.
And speaking of Sam, there he was, his golden hair a flaming beacon in the shadowed garden. He was kneeling
amongst the winter pansies, his feet curled under him, heels leaving dirty streaks on the seat of his breeches each time
he sat back to inspect his work. Frodo felt a painful twinge at the sight, a clenching flush of heat behind his breast-bone
that tightened his throat. He swallowed and it was gone, thankfully. It wouldn't do to become sentimental at his age.
He'd recently celebrated his fortieth birthday, and the years of living alone since Bilbo's disappearance had made him
both sturdily independent and disinclined to maudlin expressions of whatever sort. Still….
"Hullo, Sam. You were up early."
Sam twisted around and nodded.
"Soon as I've deadheaded these pansies, there's a full day's work waiting in the kitchen garden. I reckon there'll be
snow this Yuletide, and if I don't finish lifting the carrots and turnips afore week's end, the Gaffer will want to know why.
Very fussy about his roots, is my old Dad. Did you need summat?"
"No, not really. I'm going to open some windows to air the smial for a few hours and then I believe I'll change the bed
linens and have a bath. We were making rather merry last night."
Sam's brows drew together and he leaned on his bucket for balance, examining Frodo with an admiring if somewhat
amused expression.
"Well, me dear, you might want to throw a dressing-gown over your shoulders first. Stopping in front of that window with
no clothes on, and at your time of life -- " Sam pursed his lips and shook his head. "'Tis a chancy business, as my old
Gran would say, even if it does make a pretty sight to gladden a hobbit's heart. Look at all that lily-white skin a-glinting in
the morning sun! It's a wonderment."
Frodo glanced down. He was exceptionally pale for a hobbit, wasn't he? Aside from that one matchless part of him
currently basking in the glow of Sam's attention, he was unusually fair. He stroked his fingers lightly across the head of
his cock, watching it twitch in his hand. Sam found it quite beautiful; he had admired it several times in the course of the
night, though not in so many words -- or with any words at all for that matter. Frodo would need to see to its needs
sooner rather than later. Waste not, want not, as Sam was always telling him; Sam, who was up so unconscionably
early in the morning that older and less active hobbits were left wanting in their beds.
It was fortunate the window ledge was high enough that nothing of interest could be seen from the lane should anyone
wander past. Doubtless village discretion had its limits.
Sam had apparently read his mind.
"What Marigold would say, if she were to happen by for the laundry and see you looking at yourself like that, I dread to
think. She'd have questions for me that I wouldn't care to answer, if you take my meaning. She's that nosey, is our
Marigold."
Frodo could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
"You have a maggot in your brain when it comes to Marigold. She has a way of popping her head up whenever you've a
mind to chastise me. Yesterday morning you couldn't stop complaining about the mess on the sheets, though it was
scarcely my fault that the chocolate spilled while you were filling the cups."
He smiled contentedly at the memory of Sam, naked and bending over to pour the hot chocolate. It had been worth the
quarrel afterwards to see Sam's skin redden where he'd been pinched and then to spend several minutes kissing the
spot better. How could a few dribbles of chocolate on the bedding weigh in the balance?
"You're an even prettier sight when you blush, but don't mind me." Sam turned back to the garden and threw a few
shrivelled blossoms into his bucket.
"You make me sound like a lass."
Sam chuckled.
"You'd be the first lass I ever saw with a root on her like a --"
Frodo coughed.
"Yes, Sam, thank you for the reassurance. Let's tell the entire village, shall we? I suppose it would be one way to stop
the speculation. At least there'd be no more embarrassing questions from Marigold."
He paused and gazed thoughtfully at his gardener. "I think I do have something here that needs attending to, now that
you've brought it to my notice. If you'd like to come inside for a cup of tea, we could --"
"Feeling a mite cockish, are we? I don't have time for indoor work, Mr. Frodo. I was tending you last night and now I've
garden chores as need seeing to. Besides, it sounds to me like you're coming down with a cough from the excitement
and the winter air. Best go and cover up, afore you catch summat. I filled the copper after breakfast and the water should
be hot enough for a good long soak in the bath. You'll find ways of dealing with that other problem, or I'm a tinker."
Frodo sighed heavily. There was clearly no point in trying to lure Sam inside, and, in any case, it was most unfair to be
enticing him from his work. Frodo also had chores to do, but half an hour in the bath first with some of that new oil from
the herbalist wouldn't go amiss.
"Sing hey for the bath at break of day, that washes a hobbit's cares away," he sang cheerfully, as he went across to the
clothes-press to put on his dressing gown, before heading out the door with the bottle of oil sitting snugly in his pocket.
------------
Frodo had fetched the caddy of his finest tea leaves from the pantry and was about to warm the silver pot, knowing that
Sam would relish a cup of milky tea with his cheese and onion pasty, when there was a sudden loud thumping at the
front door followed by the sound of cheerful voices wafting through the kitchen window. He glanced at the clock on the
mantel and was surprised to see that it was almost half ten. The posthobbit was a good thirty minutes later than his
usual time. Frodo couldn't imagine why Clovis saw fit to knock when it was common practice to pop any letters or
parcels onto the hall table to be collected at the master's convenience. In all probability, Clovis was anticipating a
Yuletide gratuity, but if that were the case then he would have to wait until another day. There hadn't been time to
prepare the Yuletide hampers for the deserving poor or the envelopes of money for random tradespeople. There had
been many other, more pressing matters to attend to, such as that lovely pile of books that Frodo had brought back from
Tuckburrow in the spring and still hadn't been able to examine properly, or his recent discovery, in a dusty corner of
Bilbo's library, of a fragmentary elvish work titled "A Thousand and One Youths: or, Plaint of the Lovelorn". Translating
the latter would no doubt entail a great deal of research. Unfortunately, he'd been spending his evenings in more
distracting pursuits and the books had been sadly neglected. As for the gifts and gratuities, they would have to wait until
Yule Eve.
He set the kettle on the hob and waited a moment or two, listening to the voices from the garden become louder and
less cheerful in tone. Obviously Sam was giving Clovis a piece of his mind; Sam could be delightfully pithy when roused,
as Frodo knew to his cost. Perhaps it would be wise to rescue the messenger before aspersions were cast on the
postal service and blows exchanged. It wouldn't do to have Clovis upset; he'd be spreading tales in the village about
Sam.
Frodo hurried down the passage only to find the door already swinging open and Clovis wheezing breathlessly in the
hall with his bag of letters over one shoulder and a box in his hand. Sam had stopped work altogether and was hovering
nearby, glaring at Clovis with a baleful eye. The messenger's face lit up when he saw Frodo.
"Oh, sir, I wanted to give you a shout, but your fellow here said you mustn't be disturbed. This is the second time I've had
to climb the hill with your parcel. It's going to be the death of me."
Frodo stared at his red face and then at the parcel.
"It's a very small parcel to be the death of anyone. Couldn't you have left it on the hall table or by the kitchen door? It
would have been perfectly safe there and Sam could have brought it into the smial later in the day."
Clovis shook his head.
"Oh no, sir. What if word of my indiscretion had filtered back to the Postmaster himself?" The messenger paused to
glare at Sam. "It's a special item and must be signed for by the head of the household. We wouldn't want it to fall into
the wrong hands, now would we."
He held out the packet anxiously. It was by no means impressive or remarkable, wrapped in common-or-garden brown
paper, sealed at both ends with paste and tied with coarse string. Frodo didn't take it from him.
"It can't be mine. I haven't placed any special orders in recent weeks, not since my usual quarterly shipment of
Gentlehobbit's Relish that I have sent by cart from Michel Delving. I'm positive there have been no orders from this
address requiring a signature. Next you'll be telling me that there's money owing for postage." Frodo folded his arms
and tapped his foot impatiently.
The posthobbit squinted and glanced at his record book.
"Are you Mr. -- F. Baggins?"
"Oh, Clovis, you know I am."
"Then it's for you, sir, and no mistake. It says so right here --" he pointed at the plain paper wrapping and then at the
page of his book. "And here."
"It's from Gotobed's," he continued, with what Frodo could have sworn was a furtive wink. "I'll say no more in front of the
servants, if you catch my drift."
His eyes slid meaningfully towards Sam and he placed a stubby finger alongside his nose.
"Mum's the word," he whispered.
Sam snorted with contempt and retreated back into the depths of the carrot rows. He was soon lost to sight behind the
rosemary bush and Frodo was left alone with Clovis.
Frodo threw up his hands.
"Oh, very well, but if I find that it's wrongly addressed, it will be going straight back with you on the morrow. I have enough
of Cousin Bilbo's old mathoms cluttering the loft without more of the same. Bag End is a gentlehobbit's residence, not a
storage barn."
Clovis handed Frodo a pencil and watched as Frodo scrawled his initials in the book.
"Don't you worry yourself about that, sir. Rumour has it that Gotobed's Yuletide gift baskets are especially favoured by
single gentlehobbits. But I'm sure you know that already, Mr. Baggins."
He smiled and shut his book with a snap, sticking the pencil into his breast pocket.
"I'll be on my way then. I know you're keen to open your present and have a peek, and I can't say as I blame you. No, not
one bit. Good day to you, sir."
Once Clovis was safely out of earshot, Frodo walked over to the kitchen garden. Sam had temporarily abandoned the
carrots and was checking the sprouts with a practised eye.
"I'm sorry, Sam; that was entirely uncalled for. He ought to know better."
Sam dismissed the matter with a shrug.
"It's the way of the world I reckon. Clovis the Post always did have notions above his station in life, and him but a Grubb
on the distaff side. I've got a sight too much real work to do without worriting over trifles."
"Even so…." Frodo trailed off, more and more distracted by the box in his hands. He shook it and tugged at the cord.
"It's rather early for Yule gifts. Should I open it now, do you suppose?"
"I couldn't say, me dear. You do whatever you like, as you always do. Gamgees don't give Yuletide gifts, aside from a
wreath of bay to put on the door or a plum pudding."
"No, neither do we." Frodo answered absently. "Bilbo liked to exchange remembrances between close friends and
relations, but nothing elaborate. I can't imagine…. Ah well, I'll unwrap it right away, since you think I ought to. I don't care
for mysteries; unexpected gifts tend to be full of nasty surprises in my experience."
Sam grunted and picked up his pruning shears, clearly having lost interest in the vagaries of the postal service. He was
eyeing the gooseberry bushes with intent, and unsolicited parcels were of small moment to him.
Frodo headed back to his smial to examine the strange parcel over a nice, hot cup of tea and a biscuit. However, he
made it no further than the front hall before having to stop and inspect the package more closely.
He hadn't noticed it before, but there was a letter, neatly addressed and sealed with a blob of crimson wax, tucked
beneath the string. He pulled it out and quickly separated wax from parchment. Inside was a square of thick card with
ragged edges and, at the top, a raised border of pink flower buds. Below the border, printed in blurred purple ink, were
the words "Burfoot's for Quality" followed by a brief message.
Does the Ink flow sluggishly from your Quill's tip as the chill blasts of Winter descend like ravening Wolves from the
north? Does the ink well feel icy beneath numbed fingers? Fear not! A Remedy is at hand!
Burfoot's Shire-renowned Fur Muffs for the discerning Hobbit are The Best. Suited to all Sizes and Shapes. We are the
largest Maker in the Shire, known from Michel Delving to The Marish. Always ask for Burfoot's. Accept no substitute.
Write for our free Gift List. This and many other Delights are to be had from Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium. Please
come and visit us in Whitfurrows, No 5 Behind The Market Place. Open all daylight hours.
At the bottom of the card was a shabby drawing of a curiously shaped inkwell and what appeared to be a tubular object
of some sort in a recumbent posture next to it.
Frodo set the card to one side and unfolded the sheet of parchment beneath.
Dear Mr. Baggins, Master of Bag End and all lands pertaining thereto, Sir,
One of our most valued customers has tendered your name to us as a gentlehobbit of fine taste and long lineage, a
gentlehobbit who might wish to partake of the extensive range of unusual items which we provide to a select few.
Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium is therefore pleased to offer you, as an introductory gift, one of our exclusive Coney
Fur Muffs, hand stitched in Buckland by skilled craftshobbits in the direct employ of the Brandybuck family itself.
(Testimonials available upon request). Should the item not give full satisfaction, we will replace it at no cost (shipping
and handling included).
We hope that you will graciously consent to be a proud member of the Gotobed family. A copy of our fully illustrated
catalogue awaits your kind acceptance of our offer. On the other hand, should you choose to decline this offer, the Muff is
yours to keep, enjoy and use in good health.
(Signed)
Your humble servant,
Rollo Gotobed (Purveyor of books to the Gentry)
Frodo scowled and read the letter a second time. He had been living at Bag End for nearly twenty years and was,
perhaps, less familiar with the Buckland merchants than he had been in his restless youth. Nonetheless, he thought it
queer that the name of Rollo Gotobed was entirely unknown to him. He had, at the very least, a casual acquaintance
with every reputable bookseller in the Shire and for some leagues beyond. It was unlikely that any "purveyor of books to
the gentry" could have escaped his notice altogether. Burfoot's, on the other hand --.
He shook his head. No, it was no use trying to force the memory; it would come to him by and by. In the meantime, he
was desperately curious as to who had entered his name in Gotobed's customer register, and what was in the dratted
box that Clovis had been making such a fuss over.
Frodo carried the parcel into his study and picked up the pen knife from his work table. The string came away with a flick
of the blade, and he slit the brown paper down one side and tore it off. The box was disappointingly plain, with a
decorative label glued to the end on which the words "Fur Muff Size H" were written in a cursive hand. He lifted the lid
and removed the booklet that lay inside, then folded back the lilac tissue.
His eyebrows lifted. Goodness, it was a fur muff after all, but one which appeared more suited to adorn a young lady's
dressing table or a child's doll. Try as he might he failed to see how it could ever be a practical addition to an aging
hobbit's winter attire, even that of a hobbit who already possessed a fine set of furs of precisely this shade. It was the
colour of Sam's hair, silkier of course, but a beautiful dark honey-gold, and warmly brown at the roots. It was also, as
the accompanying letter had boldly asserted, made from good Shire coney fur of a luxurious length. He couldn't
suppress the urge to run his fingers through it repeatedly, his head full of visions -- of Sam lying back against crisp white
sheets writhing under his touch, of Sam's mouth on him in the willow arbour this past summer, while Lobelia knocked at
the kitchen door loudly enough to drown out the moan that escaped Frodo's lips as he came.
Drat, he was hard again. This would have to stop; he was too old to be so coltish. He paused for a few seconds to
gather his wayward thoughts.
As far as he could see, the main problem with the 'muff' as a potential winter garment was its unnaturally long, narrow
shape and the fact that it was sewn tightly shut at one end, making it useless as a hand warmer. The open end flaunted
a ridiculous pair of fur bobbles dangling from taffeta ribbons, and nestled in each bobble was a single silver bell. He
shook the muff gingerly. The bells were tiny, but functional nonetheless, with a pleasing light jingle. He noticed, as he
replaced the muff in its box, that the fur lining was a deep gentian blue. How odd.
He glanced again at the printed card and the drawing of the ink well. He'd never seen an ink well so tall and bulbous,
although Sourgum the Stationer's did occasionally have a few novelty items that looked not unlike it. However, now that
he'd examined the muff itself, he was forced to conclude that the card held the key to the mystery. This gift was just what
it purported to be -- an extravagant but no doubt effective way of keeping one's ink warm.
With any luck, the printed booklet would provide further illumination as to the muff's precise use. He flipped back the
colourful if crudely printed cover, and glanced at the first page.
Instructions for Care: Avoid washing fur or leather items. Fur may be cleansed occasionally with warm, soapy water, but
such treatment will shorten the lifespan of the garment. To take out stubborn stains, allow spilled liquids to dry
thoroughly, then brush away flaky residue with a soft-bristled brush.
All muffs are completely reversible; however, we suggest that owners use only one side. Replacement liners are
available for the sum of two silver pennies.
"Burfoot's are the very best,
Just take your ease, we'll do the rest."
He turned the leaf.
Not recommended for those suffering from wasting sickness, sleeplessness, cankers, or the stone. For more information
please contact the makers.
At the bottom of the page was a woodblock print of an emaciated hobbit lying in bed with a cloth covering his forehead
and the blankets drawn up to his chin. How intriguing! Granted, it was a poorly made pamphlet, but they had obviously
bound the wrong pages together. A hobbit with wasting sickness would be just as liable to want his ink well-warmed as
any other hobbit, unless of course he was too ill to send letters. Presumably this page belonged with some other gift
item -- a wooden puzzle perhaps, or a taxing outdoor game.
Frodo popped the muff over his ink well and stood back to admire the effect. Somehow the result wasn't as impressive
as he'd hoped it would be or as the makers had intended. In fact, if the muff had been designed as an ink well cover it
was ill-suited for the purpose. It was too tall, for a start, poking a good four inches above the stopper, and the bobbles
and bells were peculiar additions to an object with an everyday function. All in all, it was an impractical bit of frippery, and
if he chose to use it regularly then he would need to be more than usually careful about keeping the glass stopper
clean. It was unlikely that spilled ink would brush out of the fur as easily as the pamphlet had implied. He had vast
experience with stains, and ink was possibly the very worst.
That being the case, it might be best to have the gaudy blue fur outermost, and thus further from the inky bottle top. He
prodded at the muff until it was inside-out and lowered it into position. Cock and pie, that was ghastly. Whatever had
Gotobed's been thinking of to send him such a thing, and why should he be tempted to write for their catalogue on the
strength of it, a catalogue of equally useless items to clutter his study? And who in Middle-earth had given his name to
Gotobed's in the first place? He removed the muff and placed it next to the blotting pad.
He sat down at his desk, set a clean sheet of paper in front of him, and thought for a few moments while he sharpened
his quill. Then he tossed the muff to one side, dipped the quill tip carefully into the ink well and began to write.
Dear Cousin Merry: Greetings and Salutations,
I trust this letter finds you in your usual state of good health -- and your family, too, of course. Please give my fondest
regards to all of them.
While gadding around the Eastfarthing, have you ever come upon a fellow by the name of Rollo Gotobed? He's the
proprietor of "Gotobed's Book and Art Emporium" in Whitfurrows. An unknown someone has suggested that I might be
an appropriate customer for his goods and on the strength of that reference Gotobed has sent me one of Burfoot's "Fur
Muffs" as an introductory gift. I admit to being totally dumbfounded. It has no useful purpose as far as I can tell, even
though Gotobed's letter gives the distinct impression that the muff is intended as an ink well protector. I ask you, whoever
heard of ink well protectors?
Let me know your thoughts by return of post, if possible. I don't like to see the name of Baggins being bandied about by
persons unknown to me, and when I find out who has given my name to Gotobed, flaying will be too good for him. I hope
you take my meaning.
Your aggravated cousin,
F. Baggins
He read the letter through with no small satisfaction at the thought of having caught Merry out in one of his less amusing
tricks, sealed the sheet and settled back in his chair to ponder whether or not he should write to Fatty and Folco as well.
On further reflection it appeared likely that if Merry didn't provide the solution to this puzzle, no one else would dare to.
Merry had altogether too much time on his hands and was generally the source of whatever plots and schemes might be
brewing amongst Frodo's kin.
Frodo chewed the end of his quill, gazing broodingly at the unwelcome furry intruder.
It lay stiffly on its back, the dark blue fur an eye-catching contrast to the fawn bobbles. He was unable to resist picking it
up and jingling the bells again. How extraordinary, he thought, and plunked it back over the ink well, where it drooped,
baggy and woebegone, bobbles splayed to either side. Wretched muff. In spite of Clovis' assurance, the muff was
destined to become another mathom stored from sight in one of the more out of the way broom closets, and eventually
shoved into a dark, forgotten, mildewed corner of the loft. He would certainly not be writing for the catalogue.
He threw his wool cloak on and gathered together the Yule greetings he'd written the previous day. A brisk walk to the
village would be precisely what he needed to clear his head of cobwebs, sufficiently, at least, to allow him to give some
further thought to the origins of the muff. What if there were no such shop as 'Gotobed's' and the entire thing was an
elaborate Yuletide joke on the part of his pawky-humoured Brandybuck cousin? The letter looked authentic enough, but
he knew that a hobbit with nothing better to do could get up to any amount of clever mischief entirely unaided.
He plucked his best walking stick from the umbrella stand in the hall, shut the door, and stepped onto the front path just
as Sam came round the corner from the compost heap with bucket in hand.
"I'm off to the post office. I should be back in time for luncheon, but in case I'm not, there's a pasty in the cold cupboard
for you. I imagine I'll be waylaid by the Widow Rumble. She seems to spring from nowhere whenever I walk past her
garden. Surely she can't be pruning the crab apple every single day, can she?"
"I expect she wants my help with her fruit trees, and doesn't like to ask now that -- well, you know."
"No, I don't know."
"She thinks you have the ordering of me, and she won't ask me outright, nor you neither it seems."
"Oh, for goodness' sake. I suppose I'll have to offer your services if I see her. Well, thank you for telling me. I should
have asked you before…." Frodo trailed off.
Sam was casting an assessing eye over his figure and sucking in his bottom lip. Frodo looked down nervously, but
everything seemed to be in good order, from his neatly groomed foot hair to his new combed-wool breeches, his
favourite brocaded waistcoat with Bilbo's dwarven watch in its usual pocket, and his old jacket with the patched elbows.
He frowned and then glared at Sam.
"What?"
"You ought to wear your fur-lined hood, sir. The wind has swung round to the north since the sun rose and it's numbing
my fingers already. It's a shame we can't use muffs as the lasses do, though a pair of fur-lined gloves would do nigh as
well."
Frodo started.
"Muffs?"
Sam squatted by the winter flower border, setting the bucket ready to hand and peering into the greenery as if seeking
inspiration.
"Oh, I know it's a daft notion, but what's good for a lass ought to be good for a lad, don't you think?"
"I believe that's exactly what I said when I seduced you in the kitchen last summer, so I'd have to agree with you there."
Frodo wasn't sure if Sam blushed or if it was the nippy air making his cheeks redden. In either case it reminded Frodo
sharply of those moments on the dining room table the previous evening, though whether Sam's heightened colour on
that occasion had been caused by the firelight, their frenzied coupling or the fact that Frodo had been forced to sweep the
cutlery off the table to make room for Sam remained unclear. He had thought at the time that Sam had mumbled
something along the lines of "mind the kettle, sir, and take care with that bowl of peaches", but it could just as easily
have been "you're in fine fettle, sir; please tear off my old breeches". Surely Sam wouldn't have been that careless with
his clothing? Nevertheless, the breeches had come off shortly thereafter.
Frodo glowered.
"Why do you mention muffs, Sam?" he asked in an icy tone of voice.
"No reason at all, me dear. Happen you could start a new fashion in the village. You'd look right fetching with a fur muff."
Frodo eyed Sam askance and continued on towards the gate with the bundle of letters stuck under his arm. Sam was
engrossed in removing old leaves from the hellebores, whistling a tune under his breath as he did so that sounded
suspiciously like "ho ho ho to the bottle I go". Perhaps Sam had been into the mead on an empty stomach; it wouldn't be
the first time. That might explain his highly whimsical suggestion that Frodo would look dashing with a muff. Then
again, it might not. What if….
Frodo stopped outside the gate and swung around on his heels, suspicion raging in his heart.
It was difficult to imagine Sam as a valued patron of any establishments beyond the seed supplier's in the village or the
ironmonger's in Bywater. On the other hand, Sam had been taking a fair bit of interest lately in the contents of Bilbo's
library, and might well have decided to spend his hard-earned pennies on a few special volumes of his own, to be read
in the privacy of his bed at Number 3 when he wasn't warming Frodo's. Undoubtedly Gotobed's did a roaring under-the-
counter trade in rare works as most booksellers did.
Frodo knew there was no use in asking Sam how the name of Frodo Baggins came to be on the customer rolls at
Gotobed's. Sam could be surprisingly secretive when the need was on him. Asking him would be a last resort, when
and if the threat of imminent bodily harm failed to squeeze an answer from Cousin Merry.
Frodo sighed inwardly. Sam looked so guileless, crouched among the bedding plants, his shirt-tails untucked and a
few dried seed pods clinging to his foot hair. He didn't seem like the sort of hobbit who would go behind his lover's back
in any way or conspire with his lover's friends to cause a truly unwarranted amount of anguish and upset.
One could never tell, though. Sam had an impish sense of humour and a little encouragement from Merry at the
birthday party this past September might well have led to something of this sort. It seemed harmless enough fun,
unless it had a deeper purpose that would be revealed sooner or later, no doubt in the most embarrassing possible
fashion. Yuletide was intended to be a time of merriment and feasting, not of anxiety and suffering. Life was very unfair.
"However fine I might look with a muff, Sam, I feel I have enough of a reputation in the village already," he said briefly, as
he shut the gate and stepped out into the lane.
If he hadn't known better he might have thought he heard Sam mutter "or in naught but a muff". He couldn't have done, of
course, because Sam had scarcely ever shown any curiosity about the more unusual bedsports, certainly nothing
beyond the occasional blindfold or feather on the…. No, he most definitely couldn't have.
Interval: Wednesday Morning before Yule (shortly after midnight)
"You never did tell me what was in that box Clovis had himself in a lather about."
Frodo wiggled his bottom and craned his neck, but it was impossible to tell from this angle whether Sam was
concealing his part in a conspiracy of vast proportions or merely making a polite inquiry. It was an odd time for such a
question.
"It was a mere trifle -- a device to stop my ink from freezing. I buy frost-proof ink from Speedwell's, so I don't have much
use for a preventative."
"Your ink's flowing pretty smoothly now, me dear."
"Yes, isn't it." Frodo gasped as Sam curled his finger and rubbed gently. "Sam, could we please stop having this
conversation. I can't think when you do that. I'll show you the ink well cover this afternoon if you're curious."
Sam's mouth was busy and he didn't answer for several moments.
"I'm sorry, sir. I won't be able to come back to Bag End this afternoon, or stay the night. Marigold and Daisy want my help
with the decorations -- the holly wreath for the door and the trimmings for the mantels. I'll need to walk half way to
Bywater afore I find a holly tree that suits their purpose. Then there'll be the puddings to deliver round the village and
wine to collect from The Ivy Bush, and the Yule log to be brought in. I'll be knackered by day's end, with no breath to
spare for lollygagging around in bed with you all night." Sam paused and licked his lips thoughtfully. "If you don't mind
my saying so."
"I do mind. I mind dreadfully. You have all day Thursday to --"
"Begging your pardon, but Thursday is for baking mince tarts and roasting ham and making custard and doing all
manner of things. The lasses won't let me hang the boughs on my own, not while they're busy in the kitchen."
Frodo straightened his legs and tried to sit up, which proved impossible with his wrists tied securely to the bedposts.
"Drat and blast. If you can tie me to the headboard you can be trusted to hang the evergreens by yourself."
"That may well be, but you won't catch me using that argument within earshot of Marigold. What she doesn't hear of our
doings in bed won't hurt her one whit."
"I didn't mean that, Sam, and you know it."
Sam knelt back on his heels and frowned at Frodo.
"Happen I did. Happen I can't do anything about the way things are. I'll be with you on Thursday night and for all of Yule if
you want me and I can't say fairer than that. Now spread your legs and no more nonsense."
Frodo glared as fiercely as he could in the semi-darkness. He was almost certain that Sam had started this
conversation, but it was difficult to focus now that Sam's tongue was doing such interesting things to that tender, secret
part of him. It was impossible to open his mouth for anything louder than a nearly breathless gasp as Sam covered him
and held him down and filled him so perfectly. If he couldn't have Sam on Wednesday night he was most definitely going
to make the most of him tonight. Sam would be worn out long before he stumbled back to Bagshot Row in the morning.
Frodo smiled and thought of sugar-plums, sticky and spicy with the bright red cherry hidden from sight in the middle;
candied oranges whose insides coated his lips with their thick syrup; sugared almonds, crunchy and sweet; mulled
wine hot in his throat. He wrapped his legs around his lover and kissed him and took him in.
Late Thursday evening (Yule Eve)
Frodo sat by the study fire, reading over the letter he'd received from Merry that morning and trying to decide if his cousin
was dissembling as he often did, or was genuinely innocent of all wrong-doing in the matter of the muff. His response
to Frodo's letter was puzzling to say the least.
Dear Old Frodo,
What larks! Mysterious gifts and unknown benefactors. No, I can't say that I know the fellow. I've been kicking my heels
here for the past several months and haven't wandered any further west than Stock. Gotobed -- it's a Breeish name or I'm
off my mark. If any Breelanders had moved into the district I'm certain I would have known. I'll ask father. Burfoot's
though; that rings a vague bell. Hair tonic? Foot oil? Something like that. Sorry I can't be of use. When are you coming
to visit? We're mad to see you. Mother says you owe her another game of "Noughts and Crosses".
Yours etc,
Merry
Oh yes -- that Fur Muff sounds intriguing. Tell me if it does the trick and I'll buy father one for my birthday. I'm not sure if
Mother would appreciate it, but one never knows. Flaying alive? You wouldn't!
That was a strange way of putting it. Why would Esmeralda not appreciate her husband having a means to keep his ink
well warm? Frodo had an uneasy suspicion that Merry knew more about fur muffs than he was prepared to say in
writing. As for Sam --
Sam would be here in a moment with the tea. It wouldn't do for him to know that Frodo had been threatening Cousin
Merry with bloodshed. Secrecy and misdirection were clearly the order of the day at this stage of the game. Hear all,
see all, and say nothing. He shoved the letter in a drawer and tidied the desk.
When Sam arrived, Frodo was leaning gracefully on the mantel-piece, warming his toes at the blaze.
Sam cleared a space on the desk and set down the tray. He was reaching for the plate of mincemeat tarts when his
hand froze and he swallowed loudly.
"Glory and trumpets, I haven't seen one of those since the last time I was upstairs at The…." He bit his lip and looked
sideways at Frodo with an abashed air, then fiddled with his pocket flap nervously. In a few seconds, unless Frodo
intervened, he would be checking the inside of the pocket for lint.
"At The…?"
"The Green Dragon, sir." He placed the cups and saucers on the desk, arranged the bowl of sugar lumps and the jug of
cream to one side, and lined the spoons up neatly like rows of pikestaves in the Mathom House. Frodo stared hard, but
Sam refused to look his way.
"Ah, I see. I believe you let that slip once before, when I was in too much pain to pursue it. I've been meaning to pay a
visit there -- to see what all the fuss is about, you understand."
He paused as if mulling over the likelihood of a midnight ramble in search of amusement. As expected, Sam started
round with a horrified expression on his face. Frodo smirked triumphantly.
"One of what, Sam?"
Frodo ran his eyes over the items on the desk: scissors, brass seal, stick of red wax, pen knife, quills, blotting pad, book
stand, a few flakes of pastry, ink bottle, blue fluffy....
"Sam! You wouldn't happen to know what that is, would you?" He pointed at the object in question where it sat
disconsolately next to the letter opener. "I sent a message to Buckland two days ago and only received Merry's answer
this morning; he won't admit to knowing anything of Gotobed's Shop in Whitfurrows or Burfoot's muffs. It's most unlike
him to be so ignorant. I don't care what the pamphlet says, that -- thing -- is entirely useless as an ink well cover, and
why my ink would need warming I couldn't…say…." His eyes widened.
Sam hastily plunked the teapot by the cream jug and stepped away from the desk, clutching the empty tray to his chest,
the lace doily hanging below like the frill on a lass's apron.
"I've never heard of Gotobed's or Burfoot's. Goldie Bellflower had a muff. She'd -- well -- " Sam shook his head
vigorously. "I'm sorry, sir, it's no use. I can't speak of it. I'd best go and see to the taters. They need peeling, or
scrubbing. Either way, I must go, afore I put both feet in my mouth."
Sam never made it to the passage. Frodo grabbed him by his jacket collar, spun him around and pushed him into a
chair by the fireplace.
"You will remain here until you've told me all about Goldie and her fur muff, and you will do it before you peel another
potato, Samwise Gamgee. I can't believe you're still a prude at your age."
Sam sat on the edge of his chair, looking desperately nervous and ready to bolt at any second. Frodo touched Sam's
shoulder lightly.
"Who is this Goldie Bellflower? I've never heard the name."
"You wouldn't have, Mr. Frodo. Upstairs at The Dragon isn't for gentlehobbits such as yourself; it's for those of us who
have nowhere else to be private, if you see what I mean. Bellflower won't be her real name and I can't say where she
comes from. You don't ask that sort of question at The Green Dragon. 'T'ain't polite."
"In other words, you keep your mouth shut and your purse wide open."
"Aye, summat like that, though it only costs a penny or two to --" He winced. "She's a light o' love, that's all. The poor
lass has seen better days, but she has a bag of tricks to make a grown hobbit blush." Sam looked green about the gills
at the memory.
Frodo picked up the muff and stroked it idly, watching the bobbles sway to and fro, then he slipped his fingers inside and
held his hand back to judge the effect. On the whole, he preferred the blue fur, even if it was a trifle garish.
"You know, my dear," he said wistfully, "all those months that I was as hard as a whetstone every time I saw you in the
garden, I thought -- no, I daren't approach him; Sam is too shy and innocent; he won't understand. Whereas in reality
you were spending your days at Bag End tilling my soil, and your nights at The Green Dragon, besporting yourself with a
lass called 'Goldie'. And I lay here in my lonely bed pining for your favours."
Sam put his head down and sighed.
"That's hardly fair, Frodo. If I'd ever thought--"
"What?" Frodo asked softly.
"You know what lads are. The Gaffer didn't seem to mind; mayhap he encouraged it. A bit of experience is the best
teacher, he's always told me, and who else was I to learn from?" Sam's eyes were sad. "So when Tom dared me to go
upstairs at The Dragon and have a taste of what was on offer, I did. More than once. That's how I met Goldie."
"And the muff?" Frodo shook it at Sam and the bells jingled.
"It wasn't near such a pretty muff as yours. It hadn't any bobbles or bells, but the fur was that soft. You couldn't keep
yourself from touching it." Sam tenderly placed his fingers on Frodo's muff. "Then you started to think about other parts
that might want to touch it, too -- the inside of it that is, if you understand me."
"I believe I do, for once. Do you mean to say that my ink well cover is actually a --. Gracious, I don't have a name for it. I
suppose 'muff' is as accurate as any."
"Goldie called it a cock-chafer. It doesn't chafe, though, not one bit. It…." Sam's eyes became dreamy, then he shook
himself and continued. "She had a wooden chest for her special toys. One night last winter, she brought out the muff.
She told me it was for keeping a hobbit's parts warm on cold days. As I wasn't wearing any clothes at the time and might
have need of it, or so she said, she slipped it on me. I nearly came right there, I was that overwrought."
Frodo leaned forward slightly.
"And?"
"Well, I didn't of course, as I was saving it for her. I'm not so young that I can't control myself. But --"
Frodo's arm dropped to his side, and the muff fell with a clink onto the oak floor.
"I'm very glad, Sam, that you found fulfilment before you came to my bed, truly I am. I'm just not sure that I want to know
the intimate details. You'll be mentioning Rosie Cotton next."
"No, Frodo, I didn't -- that is to say, you asked about the muff and I'm telling you as best I can. Mayhap you'd rather I
showed you."
Sam appeared mildly exasperated, which Frodo found puzzling as it was clear that Sam had been the one to lead a
carefree, roguish life prior to filling his current position in Frodo's bed. Frodo, on the other hand, had been languishing
for years in the solitude of Bag End, dreaming of a day when he would lie sated in his gardener's arms.
Frodo sniffed.
"No, Sam, I wouldn't. I have no desire to be stark naked except for a fuzzy blue muff over my cock, and it wouldn't stay on
unless I was -- well, you know."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sir, if you don't mind me --"
Frodo normally found it endearing when Sam lapsed into his old habits, suddenly uttering an "oh, please, sir" at crucial
moments, but in this particular instance it served to aggravate his temper to fever pitch. He wished Sam would get to
the point.
"What? What are you trying to tell me?" Frodo asked a trifle sharply.
"That you'd have no trouble keeping it on. There's not a hobbit born who would, to my way of thinking. Once the fur
touches your privates, you're as hot and hard as you ever thought you could be, Goldie or no Goldie. That fur muff was
enough to set me off, all on its own." Sam stared at his hands where they clutched the knees of his wool breeches. "I
wasn't going to say aught of The Green Dragon if you hadn't pressed me. It's water under the bridge, and naught to do
with you and me. Just so you know."
Frodo had thought that, after countless years spent studying arcane lore, collecting rare volumes, and indulging in the
occasional adventure during his many walks abroad, nothing could surprise or fluster him greatly, yet the notion of Sam
with a column of fur sprouting at his loins made him feel most peculiar. He didn't think that he fancied trying it himself; it
was undignified. But on Sam….
He bit his lip and wondered if the unexpected gift was more of a boon than he had originally thought it would be. At the
very least, Sam would end his day with a better sense of the proper use of fur muffs, and no lingering memories of
Goldie.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I wouldn't have bothered you about it only the muff has been distracting me for the past two days. Every
time I sit at my desk, it's there in front of me." He plucked the muff from the floor and dusted it off. "Well, if you had no part
in the business, it must be Merry's fault after all, for I can't think who else to blame."
Sam's expression changed to one of baffled hurt, and Frodo flinched inwardly.
"You thought I sent it, sir? Whatever would I be doing in Whitfurrows?"
"Nothing, Sam," Frodo answered in a chastened tone of voice. "I'll trust you in future, never fear."
Sam's face warmed, and Frodo hoped they could now put aside their awkwardness and play with the muff for awhile. He
had just climbed onto Sam's lap to explain in greater detail how truly sorry he was, when there was a sudden clamour of
voices from the front garden and what sounded like several fists knocking on the door.
"What in Middle-earth…?"
Sam straightened his clothes, adjusting his breeches more comfortably and buttoning his waistcoat.
"I expect it's the wassailers, come to bless the household. It's nigh on midnight."
"Is it? Then I think we should both go to the door; it's as much your smial as it is mine."
Sam blushed and took Frodo's hand briefly.
"Thank you, me dear."
Frodo opened the green door to find a noisy crowd of young hobbits jostling each other on the path and vying for space
nearest the step. Two of the older lads carried a wooden vessel festooned with fruit and ribbons and a solitary cedar
bough. When they saw Frodo, they brought the bowl forward, smiling shyly as they proffered it.
"Please, Master. It's your wassail and it's our wassail. Its joy be to you and your smial, and a jolly wassail, too."
Frodo didn't recognise some of the children and teens; no doubt many had come to Hobbiton for the Yuletide season
from outlying hamlets and farms. But he noticed that Sam's sisters were among the wassailers, and the Cotton lads,
and old Daddy Twofoot's great-nephews and nieces. There were several Burrows' offshoots as well, their carrot-red hair
positively aflame in the lamp-light, matching their red cheeks.
Frodo glanced into the bowl and shook his head.
"Your wassail bowl seems to be empty. Didn't the Widow Rumble give you a drink before you came here?"
"She did," said the youngest Burrows, who wasn't big enough yet to be hoisting his own tankard. "And Daddy Twofoot,
and the Gaffer. But there are twenty of us and only one bowl. "
"It's a long climb up the lane. We need to wet our whistles again," added Jolly Cotton. Tom poked him in the ribs and
Jolly giggled and tugged his hat off in apology.
Frodo smiled at them. "Then I'd best get a pitcher of cider for you. Would that do?"
"Oh, aye, " said Tom, and the others nodded heartily, their faces shining.
"Perhaps you could keep Samwise amused while I go and fetch the cider. I understand that he's been terribly busy
these past two days and a song might serve to raise his spirits."
May Gamgee put her arm through Sam's and kissed him on the cheek.
"He's a good brother and we're proud of him."
As he hurried down the passage to the first pantry, Frodo could hear Sam's bashful mumble and May's laughing reply.
He found a clean pitcher on the shelf and filled it with hard cider made from his own apples. If Bag End was the last
house on their way, then the wassailers were already more than a little tipsy; his cider would see them back to Hobbiton
with roses on their cheeks and a warm glow in their stomachs. It was just as well that the lasses weren't allowed near
their spinning wheels during Yule week; the drinking and feasting that went on continuously for six days and nights
would make for poor yarn.
As he checked his jacket pockets for coins to give to the children, his hand touched something unexpected and he
laughed. There was one other thing he would need from the pantry in that case, a small thing, but entirely necessary.
When Frodo returned to the hall, Sam and May, who had seemingly been walking together on the path, came up behind
the others and waited for the filling of the bowl.
Frodo stepped outside, wishing for warmer clothes and a muffler; this Yule Eve night had turned bitterly cold.
"A merry wassail to you," Frodo said, pouring the golden liquid into the ashwood bowl and handing round a few silver
pennies. Each singer thanked him and then drank a portion of cider until the bowl was empty.
"A pleasant Yuletide, good Master," answered Sam's sister, Daisy, when she had wiped her mouth.
"To you as well, Samwise," Marigold added saucily and winked at Sam.
Frodo cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, but Sam spoke not a word as the group gathered themselves wearily
together for the return journey. As the children tramped out into the lane, they began to sing the final verse of their
wassail song.
"Call up the master of this house,
Put on his golden ring;
Let him bring us a glass of beer,
And better we shall sing."
The music faded little by little as the wassailers made their way towards the village and the shared bowl of sweet, spicy
ale thickened with cream that waited for them at The Ivy Bush. Frodo remained on the step for a few moments, watching
the candles bob and sway in the distance, shimmering a deep red-orange against the moonlit trees and hedgerows.
They soon disappeared past the brow of the hill and the song was silenced.
Sam turned to speak to him, eyes flashing green in the light from the hall, but before the words could be more than a
taste on his lips, Frodo grasped him by the ears and took his mouth lovingly, felt the cold breath melt into his own, Sam's
hair fresh and achingly alive under his fingertips.
"Come inside, Sam. I hung a sprig of mistletoe in the hall while you were with your family this morning and I need you to
tell me if it's correctly positioned."
He held Sam by the hand and pulled him inside, kicking the heavy door shut with a resounding thump. He pointed
upwards, to where the mistletoe was tied to the hall lantern.
Sam laughed.
"You don't need an excuse to kiss me, me dear. You never did."
"I didn't know that, did I? You never told me," Frodo murmured. He bent his head and licked Sam's throat, the fluttering
pulse points, the whorls of his ears, and the fragile pointed ear tips that were so deliciously sensitive. Then he pinned
Sam tightly to the green door and began to loosen Sam's clothing.
Sam groaned and tried to draw away.
"Here? It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a -- "
Frodo grinned and held up the muff.
"I dropped it into my pocket when the knock came at the door. It seems we might be able to make use of it. What do you
think?"
"I think I'm going into the sitting room where it's warm. My rump's still sore from the dining room table t'other day. Right
hard, that was. What's wrong with a nice soft chair and a roaring fire?"
"Nothing's wrong with them. I merely thought this would be a fine place to test the merits of Burfoot's muffs. I'd like to
know if they truly are the best."
He rubbed the heel of his hand down the front of Sam's breeches, but the mere mention of the muff had done its work
and further encouragement wasn't necessary. In spite of the draft from beneath the door tickling their feet, and the frigid
blast pouring through the keyhole, Sam was warming up nicely.
"You see," Frodo continued, "that letter from Gotobed's is very clear about the suitability of Burfoot's muffs for all shapes
and sizes." He undid Sam's buttons one by one, first the left side, then the right.
"Moreover, I would say, from my close examination of the product, that it's fairly commodious inside, definitely -- " He
reached into Sam's drawers and took hold of what he found there, hard and silken and thrusting urgently into his hand."
-- well-adapted for use by hobbits in all walks of life, and not only gentlehobbits, as they imply."
He dragged Sam's drawers and breeches down to his knees, and slipped the muff into position. Sam let out a squeak,
and his head jerked back and hit the door.
"I did wonder whether or not the bobbles served a useful purpose but I can see that they do; the ribbons are exactly the
right length, and the bells are suitably festive. I might set the muff aside as a special Yuletide treat for you each year.
What do you think?"
Sam let out a deep wordless moan. Frodo nodded.
"That's what I thought. It would be more interesting, however, if you turned around and leaned your hands against the
door. Yes, like that. We'll see if I can do something for you that Goldie couldn't. You don't need to worry about 'saving it'
for me either. I have full instructions on how to clean the fur afterwards, and a soft-bristled brush to do it with. You know
the one, I think."
Frodo unfastened his own breeches with dispatch; they were binding him dreadfully.
"Feel free to do whatever you like with the muff while I'm busy back here, but try not to lose your balance."
He brought out the pot of salve that he'd taken from the pantry -- it never hurt to plan ahead and the front hall was possibly
the one room where he and Sam hadn't enjoyed each others' company -- and smoothed a generous amount on his
rising flesh. It had been two days since he and Sam had taken turns, and right now there was only one place that he
wished to be.
Sam, who was generally shy about such things, was nevertheless giving the muff's merits a fairly thorough going-over.
"The blue doesn't suit you as well as the brown," Frodo muttered as he positioned himself, "but whoever chose it
understood a hobbit's love of bright colours. I wish I could have a closer look but I need to --"
Sam groaned and stuck his bottom out.
"You need to shut up and get to it, sir, if you don't mind me saying so."
"Not at all, my dear, I simply have to find my direction and then -- " he gasped and Sam pushed back, taking him in
willynilly.
It was fortunate, Frodo decided, that Bilbo had been a believer in good, solid joinery, because the door was taking a
pounding. Hopefully there would be no more visitors to the smial. It would be a neverending shame to the name of
Baggins if the shirriff was called because a passing hobbit with too much ale in him thought that Bag End had been
burgled by ruffians.
As it happened, the only breaking and entering this Yule night was currently being committed on the willing body of
Samwise Gamgee, and Frodo was hoping that he wouldn't need to explain this to the authorities; it would be too painful.
Frodo hadn't the faintest notion why the prospect of pleasuring Sam up against the green door had so taken hold of his
mind as he'd poured the cider. It may have been the fault of the cider itself, as golden as Sam's hair or the skin on his
lovely firm bottom -- moving now in time with Frodo's thrusts -- or the slightly darker hair between his legs. Fur muffs
were convenient for those who had nothing better, but there was no denying that the delights of Sam's body, hot and tight
and wanting him, surpassed any sort of device however well-constructed.
The muff was evidently performing in a satisfactory manner, however, and Frodo put his hand below Sam's to feel the
sleek fur gliding smoothly over Sam's cock. My, but that was an interesting sensation. Perhaps he would try it on
himself one day, when Sam was too busy to take care of him.
"The muff is standing up well," Frodo observed, gripping Sam's hip with his other hand. He licked and sucked the pale
flesh of Sam's neck where it peeked out above the shirt collar, then bit down and pressed more forcefully into his lover,
feeling his own balls pull up in readiness.
"That's more than I'll be doing in a tick. I didn't think I'd last this long only -- "
If anyone had been weaving muzzily down the lane at precisely that moment, they would have heard, or thought they
heard, the sound of two hobbit voices crying out in harmony, overcome, as hobbits tended to be, by the joy and
merriment of the Yuletide festivities. And this tired hobbit, pausing to listen, would have wished the two well and passed
on his way again.
"You've had practice. Yes, I know, Sam," Frodo mumbled, from their prone position on the tiles. "I'd as soon we didn't talk
about that."
He lay on Sam's breast, thinking of the smoke from countless Yule logs in households from Bag End to Bywater bringing
good fortune to their hearths and those who sheltered by them. An unaccountable sadness settled in his heart. He
wished Bilbo were here; he wished the new year did not bring with it the fear that he might be alone again in years to
come.
He looked solemnly at his lover, finding his own uncertainty mirrored in Sam's face.
"I never did," Sam said quietly. He looked bashful, and chastened and a little uneasy. Frodo slipped his arms about
Sam's round, comfortable belly, warming his icy hands beneath the layers of woollen cloth. Sam shivered and Frodo
held him close.
"You never did what?" he whispered.
"I never had dealings with Rosie Cotton. By the time she had her eye on me, my heart was given. Truth to tell, it was
given long ago, only I didn't know it."
"Shh." Frodo kissed him, tasting salt on Sam's lips. "I love you, Sam. I wish I could have told you sooner but I'm not
used to --"
His words were stifled as Sam returned the kiss, their tongues touching and parting, softer than any coney fur muff and
far more satisfying.
The light streaming down on them from the hall window was sharply bright and cold where it fell on the tiled floor. Frodo
gazed up at the glass, frosted around the edges with a ruffle of white.
"It's snowing."
Sam smiled.
"I reckon it is. It's past time we went to bed. If I don't get up early to shovel the path, no one will come to our door for their
Yuletide cheer."
Frodo tried to read Sam's expression in the near darkness.
"Our door, Sam?"
Sam watched the snowflakes spatter silently against the window, his face gentle.
"Yes, me dear. Our door. It's near midnight and I reckon it's safe to tell you. I won't be going home again. Not as long
as you'll have me, that is. I told the family this morning."
There was a trace of shyness in Sam's voice, and a whole world full of hope and caring. Frodo shuddered.
"We should carry the Yule log into the sitting room first, don't you think? Before it's covered with snow and we can't find
it?"
Sam laced his fingers through Frodo's.
"Yes. It's a fine, stout log and 'twill burn brightly as long as it's needed; it won't go out afore its time comes. We'll set it on
the fire together."
Frodo smiled and held on for dear life.
"So we shall."
Epilogue: One week later
Dear Cousin Frodo,
I may have solved your mystery. I rode to Whitfurrows yesterday with Farmer Sourgrass, and found the Book and Art
Emporium. I needn't tell you what sort of shop it is; you're a smart fellow and I'm sure you and that lad of yours have
worked it out between you. Let me just say that it's well off the Market Square and easily missed unless you're searching
for it. I buttonholed Gotobed immediately and demanded to know how your name came to be on his client list (for in
spite of what I know you've been thinking, old chap, I didn't put it there). It took me awhile to squeeze it out of him. He
kept muttering about confidentiality and so forth until I explained who I was and why I must know the answer to my
question. He wouldn't give a name, but he described the 'gentleman' and said he'd been certain it was someone known
to you or he would never have etc. The gentleman was tall, with a grey beard and a battered hat. Older than his usual
run of customers, but hale and hearty for his age, or he wouldn't have patronised their shop in the first place. Sound
familiar?
Yr innocent cousin,
Merry
Frodo laughed and placed the letter in the front of his account book where he wouldn't lose it. Wizards were dreadful
meddlers, as Bilbo had told him many times. He might not be so keen, in future, to answer his door when one came
calling.
