Old Winyards

Chapter: Three
Pairing: Frodo/Sam (still almost...)
Authors: Catherine and Thuri
Rating: U
Warning: A heaping helping of angst, a fair bit of h/c
Summary: Sam and Frodo attempt to inspect the Estate.


Sam drove the cart as close as he could to the door of Bag End. Thanks to the torrential rains that had beset the area over the past month, he had been kept unusually busy by a spate of injuries sustained by several of the Estate's employees. His own Gaffer had sprained his knee two days ago when a patch of ground in one of the terraced plantings had given way underneath him. This had occupied Sam from the moment he had returned to his family's cottage just up the drive from the main house. He had been so busy that day that he had forgotten to peek in through the bedroom window to check on Frodo. Trying to calm his worry, he knocked on the door.

Frodo groaned, hearing the knock, and turned over. He didn't want to get up, to see anyone. He was so tired...

Sam worried when Frodo didn't appear at the door. Frowning, he knocked again, louder. "Mr. Frodo?" he called.

Frodo groaned again. "Coming, Sam," he called. And didn't move right away. But finally managed to slide down off the couch, and stumble to the front door. "I'm sorry, I'm running late. Mind waiting while I use the bathroom?"

"Not at all, sir, of course not!" said Sam, trying to hide his alarm at Frodo's five-o'clock shadow and the fact that he had obviously not changed clothes since last he had seen him. He planted himself by the door, pretending to look at the picture on the side wall while he kept an eye on Frodo in case he started to fall over in a dead faint, or a drunken stupor, depending on what was causing his current state.

Frodo retreated to the bedroom and changed, hurriedly. He saw his reflection and winced before shaving, too, glad he had an electric razor and so wasn't likely to nick himself. Finally, after finishing and splashing his face with water, he felt human enough to head out and talk to Sam again. "What can I do for you?"

Sam turned to him, unable to disguise his dismay altogether. "Had you forgotten, sir? We'd planned to walk the grounds today. If this is a bad time, though, I could –"

Frodo tried to hide his surprise, and failed. "Oh! Of course, I'm sorry; I... thought that was tomorrow. Been too many things in my head..."

"Oh, I do understand that, sir!" said Sam. "There've been quite the goings-on 'round the whole Estate, what with Fatty's arm broken and the Gaffer's knee, an' all. It's a wonder I remembered me own name, this morning!"

"Fatty broke his arm?" Frodo frowned, rubbing his forehead. "Well, no help for it, I suppose. Shall we?"

"Yes, sir. The cart's just outside, and I brought food and drink for the day." Sam settled himself into the driver's seat, re-adjusting the cooler in the back.

Frodo pulled himself up, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea the sight of the cooler gave him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and certainly didn't want to think about food now. "Thank you, Sam." He shifted a little, and blushed. "Um. Where should we start? I know the land, but as for inspecting it..." He shrugged, at a complete loss.

"Well, we'll just start from here and make a loop of the place. We can do most of this in the cart, but there's a bit that we'll have to see on foot. That's at the far end, though, so we can work into it, like." Sam had noticed Frodo's greenish tinge while he was fussing at the cooler. "There's some nice, cold bottled water in there, if you'd like me to get you some before we start, sir."

Frodo shook his head. "No, thank you. And I'll trust your lead in this, Sam. I'm afraid I'm not nearly as skilled in running this place as Bilbo was."

"Don't you worry none, Mr. Frodo," said Sam with a knowing smile. "Me old Gaffer has a tale or two to tell about Mr. Bilbo's earlier days running the place, and no mistake! He only got good at it cause he'd been doing it for longer than you've even been alive, and he had those blasted, pumped-up Sackville-Bagginses always breathing down his neck wanting the place for their own. Why, you'll be settled in no time, I'm sure."

Frodo smiled softly. "I hope so. Until then, I'm glad I have you and your father to help. Lobelia is enough to turn anyone's stomach."

Sam laughed and guided the cart into a wide path between a terraced hill planted with young vines and a large field of older ones. "Now these here on the right are the Merlot vines we planted five years ago; the ones on the left are the Cabernet Sauvignon we planted ten years ago. They're doing very well, of course, this being the best sun and soil on the Estate. They've been giving us a right good harvest over the past few years."

Frodo nodded. And, increasingly, just nodded again and again, hoping Sam wouldn't expect him to offer his own opinions or remember what had been said. It seemed all he could do not to curl up and fall asleep again.

Sam glanced at Frodo, concerned about his glassy-eyed demeanour through the morning. "Mr. Frodo, we're about at the point where we need to leave the cart behind and take a bit of a walk, but I'm a mite thirsty and hungry. Would you mind if we just sat in the shade down there and had something to drink before we walk this part in earnest?"

Frodo nodded. "Um. Sure. That sounds fine, Sam." He winced a bit at the sudden brightness of the sun as they burst from the all-too-brief patch of shade on the road.

Sam parked the cart just off the road and made his way a few yards down the slope to the shade of a large acacia. He spread the plain blanket he'd used to cover the cooler on the ground, giving them both enough room to sit without staining their clothes. Noting Frodo’s greenish hue, he set out bottles of water and pieces of fruit and bread, keeping the cheeses and lunchmeats firmly stowed for the moment. As Frodo joined him (tilting ever so slightly, Sam noticed), he kept himself between his employer and the steeper incline that awaited them.

Frodo downed an entire water bottle, but didn't touch the food. He merely sat, waiting for Sam to finish, picking apart a hunk of bread. A few crumbs were tossed to birds, and a squirrel, but none passed his lips.

Sam noted Frodo's sleight of hand with the bread, hiding his worry as he packed up and fetched two water bottles to take with them. "Right. Now, we need to go down this hill here to get to the back acres, Mr. Frodo. Mind your footing, now; it's pretty steep and a bit slippery from all the rain we’ve had."

Frodo nodded, not really hearing Sam. "All right." They were halfway down, when a sudden dizzy spell – like so many he'd been getting recently – hit him at just the wrong moment. His foot stepped wrong, and he crumpled to the ground, out cold.

"Mr. Frodo!" cried Sam, throwing himself between Frodo and the slope. "Mr. Frodo?" He shook his shoulder, hesitantly.

Frodo made no move or sound.

"Mr. Frodo, sir?" he called, shaking him harder. "Mr. Frodo!"

There was still no response, and Sam reached for his mobile. Instinctively dialling 911, he didn't even bother to check for service in the area, and when he got the rude squawk in his ear, he looked in disbelief at the phone, resisting with difficulty the urge to hurl it down the slope. He turned every which way he could, climbing back up to the road and then further down the hill, looking for reception. He found none. Trembling, he went back to Frodo and knelt again.

"Mr. Frodo? Sir, you have to wake up. Please, Mr. Frodo! Wake up!" He looked up the hill at the cart and slapped his hand hard against his head. "Sam, you bloody ninnyhammer!" he cursed, and he raced up the hill to start the cart.

The cart did not start. Sam had not checked to see that the battery had been recharged before he left, and he shouted curses at himself for having been so careless. He returned, blushing at his own disappointment that Frodo had not recovered from his stupor.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, this is a fine pickle, and no mistake!" he moaned. "I shouldn’t have brought you out here when you were so weak. And now I can't call for help, and I didn't check the bloody battery. Stupid git, I am. And here you are, in such a state!" Sam began to recognize that he was no longer shaking Frodo, but stroking his arm. "Please wake up, Mr. Frodo. Oh, please wake up!" Sam closed his eyes, squeezing Frodo's shoulder hard as he fought to calm himself.

Frodo groaned, softly, writhing.

"Frodo!" cried Sam at the noise. "Mr. Frodo, wake up, please!” He touched Frodo’s face, tentatively. “Oh, Lord, please...” Sam took Frodo’s hand, squeezing it, remembering how Frodo had caught his hand and held it two days before. His eyes swam and he blinked hard to clear them as Frodo quieted. “Well, where there's life, there's hope. But we can't very well leave you out here, now, can we?" Sam looked around him, a memory pricking at his mind more faintly than it should. Then he spotted it.

About a quarter of a mile down the hill, almost hidden in the shade of an oak, there was a stone cottage. Originally meant to house migrant workers, it had become so decoratively overgrown and hidden away that the hands had dubbed it 'the honeymoon cottage' for its popularity with those who wanted a little clandestine nookie on a hot afternoon. Sam winced and smirked at the same time. "Come on, Mr. Frodo. There's nothing for it but to get you there, somehow, even if I have to carry you."

He looked down at Frodo, who was no closer to consciousness than before. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," he murmured. "I'd never've had it this way, but I don't have a choice." Sam picked up Frodo, as respectfully as he could, and slung him over his shoulders in a fireman's hold. He trudged off toward the cottage.

It was a hard slog, but he reached it in one go. He pushed on the door, sighing with relief when he found it open and the cottage empty, and laid Frodo on the couch, unable to carry him further without a break. He sat down on the floor next to it, panting and trembling.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, what on earth is wrong?" He put his hands over his face, trying to calm his body and his racing mind. "You can't move, and I don't want to leave you, but I've got to take a look round and see what's here and what isn't, if you follow, so I'll just be doing that right now... after I've had a bit of a breather."

He opened his eyes and looked at Frodo. His face was pale and sweaty, his breathing shallow. "Lord, you do look poorly," he said, taking Frodo's hand in his own. He stroked it gently. "I know things've been hard for you, and meaning no disrespect, but you ain't been taking care of yourself, and that ain't no way to treat so fine a person." He swallowed. "You're very important to all of us, Mr. Frodo.” He pressed Frodo's hand. "I couldn't hope to know a better man. I just wish I could help." He reached out to brush damp curls back from Frodo's forehead, stroking his fingers along the silky divide between ebony and alabaster. "You're a sight too hot! I'm going to find something to help cool you down, some."

He stood and began to explore the cottage, listening for the slightest sound from Frodo. There was a small kitchen, which seemed at first glance to be equipped with the essentials. He turned down the short hallway, and discovered three more rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom and a room he assumed must once have been a bedroom, but which now housed what appeared to be every piece of paperwork on the Estate. It was stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes, filing cabinets and folders, and strewn with odd papers in various states of messiness and decay. "Why on earth would they bung all this in here?" he said. Despite his curiosity, he couldn't countenance the thick plumes of dust that would be released into the cottage if he started looking through this room; filthy air would do neither of them any good. He shut the door carefully, coughing at the small dust cloud that escaped and followed him.

There was a small linen cupboard in the hallway between the bathroom and the room he had just left, and he was delighted to find that it contained bedclothes and towels of various sizes, and that they appeared to be clean. He blessed Bilbo's generous nature and the thought that he paid to his employees, both permanent and seasonal. There was a reason, he reflected, that the turnover at Old Winyards was the lowest in Sonoma County.

He wandered into the bedroom and smirked. No wonder this place is called the honeymoon cottage! he thought. The room was so quaint and welcoming that it could have been used as an ad for one of the region's better Bed and Breakfast establishments, with a minimum of rearranging. There was a full-sized bed (all made up and clean, noted Sam) which had been pushed against one wall, complete with a nightstand and bedside lamp, a small wing chair, an old chest of drawers and a small bookcase. Sam wouldn't have been all that surprised to find a Gideon Bible in one of the drawers, and barely managed to contain his mischievous urge to look for one.

The window afforded a view of the Pinot Noir in the vale below, and the next range of hills across it. It was breathtaking. It also helped to explain why there was no signal for his mobile. "Well, if we have to be stuck, there's worse places, I suppose," he muttered. "I just wish there was food, or a phone." Just then, he heard a noise from the front room.

He snatched a washcloth from the linen cupboard, wet it in cool water from the tap and hurried back to Frodo, to find him stirring uncomfortably and moaning in his sleep, sweat now trickling down his face. "There now, Mr. Frodo," said Sam as he perched on the edge of the couch. He touched the cloth carefully to Frodo's forehead, dabbing it to accustom him to the temperature and then smoothing more of it onto the heated face. "There now, I'm here. I ain't going nowhere."

Frodo began to shiver. Sam remembered something that Daisy had said to him once, that shivering indicated an increase in the fever, and fought back the urge to panic. He also remembered the trick of running cold water over his wrists to cool himself on a hot day. He wrapped the damp cloth around Frodo's left wrist, which had the immediate effect of wrenching a gasp from Frodo as his eyes snapped open and he stared straight ahead, straight at Sam, unseeing. "Hush, now, Frodo," said Sam, caressing his brow. "I’m just trying to cool you down. I ain't going to let nothing happen to you." Sam made every effort to believe his own words. Worried and out of his depth, he knew had to get help, but he couldn't leave Frodo alone in this state, not even for a moment.

Frodo's breathing calmed and his eyes closed again. Sam transferred the cloth to the right wrist, relieved to note that this time, his breathing returned to normal far more quickly. "That's right, Mr. Frodo, nice and quiet, now." He released a long-trapped breath when Frodo calmed. "Now, I'm just going to go rinse this out, and then I think I should put you to bed. You might fall off o' that thing."

Sam rinsed the washcloth in the kitchen, and then filled a pot with cool water. Retrieving a towel from the linen cupboard, he set the lot in the bedroom before going back to the front room to collect Frodo.

He lifted Frodo in his arms and carried him the short distance to the bedroom. He laid him on the bed and removed his shoes. Frodo lay insensate. When Sam felt his forehead, he found the fever unchanged. What troubled Sam more was that Frodo's skin suddenly felt drier than it should have. "Think, Samwise," he muttered. He doubted very much that Frodo had eaten or drunk much more than the one bottle of water in at least two days.

Sam picked up the cloth from the pot, wringing it out just enough so that it wouldn't drip too much. “Can’t have you drying out, Mr. Frodo,” he muttered. Setting the towel next to Frodo's head, he positioned him carefully, and rubbed a small portion of the cloth against his mouth. To Sam's great relief, Frodo began licking at his lips. Sam squeezed the cloth, careful not too choke him. Frodo swallowed. Sam squeezed the cloth again, a little harder. Frodo swallowed again. Sam continued these ministrations until, over a little time, Frodo had swallowed what Sam estimated was the equivalent of a large glass of water. “That’s the way, Frodo.” Sam dried Frodo's face carefully with the towel.

He sat on the bed, looking down at Frodo. His breathing seemed a bit easier. Sam felt his skin again, cupping his forehead and then his cheek. He couldn't discern a temperature change, but the skin felt better, somehow. "Thank you!" he breathed into the air. He put his fingers on Frodo's throat, feeling a pulse a bit faster than he would like, but steady. Satisfied, he leaned down, murmuring into Frodo's ear, "Rest you quiet, now. I've got to go and get the food and the rest of our things from the cart, else we won't have nothing to tide us over till help gets here, which I hope it does, 'cause I'm that worried about you." He fought to steady his voice, swallowing hard. "Now, I'll be back as soon as may be, and I want you to stay here. Not that you look to be of a mind to go running around now, mind." He kissed Frodo's brow, then rose and left the room.

Sam reached the cart quickly on his own and gathered up the cooler and picnic basket. He had marched down the hill about 10 yards when he realized that he had forgotten something. He left the items where he'd stopped and went back to the cart. He fished the logbook and its pen from the utility compartment and wrote out a note in large, dark letters, filling the page. He stuck it on the driver's seat, anchoring it with a small rock from the side of the road. "Hope to heaven they find us before it rains," he muttered to himself. "Stupid design, this is. No roof, no windshield. Oh, well; can't be helped. Though I'll be suggesting some changes when we get back!"

He looked up at the sky and glared at the single, ominous cloud he found there. "Don't you be inviting your friends out here for a party, you!" He started back for his things, still looking up at the sky until an abrupt change of angle reminded him that he'd best keep his eyes on the ground. He picked up the supplies and trudged back to the cottage.

When he arrived, he threw the deadbolt and put things down in the kitchen, hurrying into the bedroom to check on Frodo. He felt his forehead quickly and checked his breathing. Nothing had changed, so he went back to the kitchen to put things away.

He took the cheeses and meats out first. The cooler had done its job well, Sam noted with relief. He opened the fridge and laughed to find that it had been stocked recently with various juices, sodas, wines and even milk. "All we need are some eggs, and I could make a passable omelette," he chuckled. Out of curiosity, he looked in the freezer and found some slightly used ice cream, enough ice to supply Frodo's next birthday party and various frozen snack foods suitable for quick heating in the microwave.

A tour of the cupboards revealed many varieties of crackers and chips, rice cakes, several flavours of microwave popcorn and jars of peanut butter, all in various states of consumption. Individual packets of ketchup, mustard and soy sauce were congregated in a corner of one cabinet, threatening to spill onto the next unfortunate soul who opened the door. A treasure-trove of sweets and biscuits greeted Sam at the next cupboard, and he laughed out loud. "Where's the weed, then?" he asked the kitchen. "If ever I was to consider using it, it'd be now." He shook his head and made a mental note to investigate the use of the cottage over the years, as well as the origins of its stash of snack foods.

Sam finished putting away the leftover food retrieved from the cart and went in to check on Frodo. He found his position unchanged, and he worried. Frodo had not moved on his own in hours. Sam went to the bed and took Frodo's hand. The fever had reduced a little, he thought, but he couldn't be too sure, and was worried that it might simply be because Frodo was somewhat better hydrated than he had been. His temperature could spike again. He felt his forehead, relieved to confirm a small reduction in temperature. He sighed on a shaky breath and ran his hand gently through Frodo's hair

"Oh, Mr. Frodo," he muttered, "you do worry a body so! I'll just be staying here with you until you wake up, or someone comes and finds us, which I hope happens soon. And forgive me for saying so, but I'm going to be pushing you to have phones put in these places. It'd be right handy when there's no bloody reception, begging your pardon."

Just then, Frodo stirred in his sleep, and Sam caught his breath. "Mr. Frodo?"

Nothing happened.

Sam's pang of disappointment caught him unawares, and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "Oh, God, Frodo, please, please wake up!" he murmured, his voice cracking. "This place can't manage without you, now that Mr. Bilbo's gone." He bowed his head over Frodo's hand. "I can't manage without you," he whispered. He kissed Frodo's hand, praying silently for his life and health.

He pulled the small chair over by the bed and sat down in it, reclaiming Frodo's hand. "I'll be right here, if you need me," he murmured. "And I'm only holding your hand so's you'll wake me if you move," he added, colouring. "I'm sorry, but I'm that tired, myself, and I can't keep my eyes open no more." With that, Sam closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly.