Title: Marigold (1/1)
Author: Baylor
E-mail:
Rating: G
Characters: Marigold Gamgee, Sam, Frodo, Bilbo
Category(s): General.
Archiving: Anywhere, just let me know
Summary: Marigold and Sam Gamgee stay at Bag End while their mother is ill. Inspired by the Resting Places drabbles by Marigold (the writer and beta among betas), which can be found here on as Marigold Cotton.
Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns them. I just borrowed them, and I promise to put them back.
Note: Many thanks to Marigold for the beta, and for putting these ideas in my head.

Marigold

The morning that a terse, frightened May woke and dressed Marigold in the dim light before dawn and then hustled her and Sam up the Hill to Bag End was the first time in her life Marigold entered that grand old smial by the front door. What little part of her mind that was not taken up with the image of her mother's face, tight with pain, and her mother's eyes, warm with love, was taken up with the image of that formidable green door swinging inward to reveal polished floors and rich rugs.

She and Sam waited quietly by that green door, standing instead of sitting on the nearby bench, after Mr. Baggins, still in his dressing gown with his grey hair all askew, let them in and ushered May into his study. When they returned, it was only to have May dash back out into the dim morning light.

Be good, May said, her face young and very frightened. Someone will come get you soon. Take care of each other. And then without so much as a kiss to their cheeks, she dashed outside, the green door shutting them firmly alone, inside this strange place so unlike home.

Sam and Marigold turned their heads back from watching May leave and regarded Mr. Baggins solemnly. Well, children, he said. Well, then. So you're to stay with Frodo and me for a spell, if that suits. I don't suppose you've had breakfast, have you? Let's do something about that.

And he led them to the kitchen.



The food at Bag End, Marigold could tell, was of better quality than the simple fare she was used to on Bagshot Row. Mr. Baggins gave her a room all of her own that was bigger than the one she shared at home with Daisy and May, and the feather mattress was softer than anything Marigold had ever laid down on. Mr. Baggins never asked her to do anything more than to help with the washing up and make up her bed, and hours that she was used to filling with chores stretched out before her, quiet and empty.

The delicious food often stuck in her throat, and she slept uneasily in that luxurious bed. She spent her days either trailing after Sam, who insisted on keeping the garden up as best he could in his father's absence, or with her face pressed up against the glass window in the parlor, watching the path up from Bagshot Row for approaching figures.

Mr. Baggins and Master Frodo were gentle and kind with her in a way no one in her own family ever was. At home, her da growled at her if she was too loud, and then her mum snapped him with a tea towel and said the sound of children laughing could never be too loud, and then May would primly say that a lady never laughed like that, all in her belly so she felt it all over, and then Sam would say how would May know any road, she'd never known a real lady in her life. Then Daisy would laugh with the two of them, laughing all in their bellies, while Da smiled ever-so-little around his pipe and Mum's eyes twinkled with amusement.

At Bag End, Master Frodo politely offered Marigold the gravy at dinner, passing it carefully to her, while back at home, hungry hands all grabbed for it at once while Mum affectionately slapped at their snatching hands, crying, Manners, manners, manners! At Bag End, Mr. Baggins kindly asked Marigold if she would prefer bacon or sausage or both with breakfast, while back at home, Mum simply put a plate down in front of her, and if she moaned, Potatoes again? Da would say, Be grateful for that food in your belly, lassie, or we'll give it to someone hungrier than you. At Bag End, Master Frodo showed her his chest of old toys and invited her to play with anything she'd like, while at home, May shrieked and cried and carried on if Marigold dared to pick up her old doll that May didn't even want anymore.

Marigold missed Bagshot Row with every hair on her head and every bit of her skin, and couldn't imagine that she had once looked wistfully up at the green door that now separated her from her family with the thought that living in such splendor must be grand.

After she had moped about the smial for a week, Master Frodo took her into the study and showed her the vast array of books. Marigold did not know how a hobbit could read all those books, even in a lifetime. You're welcome to them, Marigold, Frodo said, and pulled one off the shelf, opening it so Marigold could see the lovely picture of a bird on a random page he flipped to. You needn't ask permission.

She ran a finger along the script opposite the picture, and looked again at the bird.

Can you read, Marigold? Frodo asked softly.

No, sir, she answered. She did not add that her da said it was nonsense enough that Sammie had taken on airs and learned to read, right here at Bag End from Mr. Baggins when he was younger.

Then I shall teach you, Frodo said, and sounded like he quite looked forward to the task. If you'd like, that is.

Daisy came to visit Sam and Marigold every evening, bringing news of their mother. Marigold was not certain what was wrong with her mother, but she had been tired ever since last winter, and sometimes when they were out walking she had to stop and rest, a hand pressed to her chest and a look of pain on her face. Marigold knew that right now, her mother was very ill, indeed, and needed rest and quiet, which was why she had been sent away.

Her da had not been to visit Bag End once. Every evening when Daisy left, she gave Marigold and Sam each a kiss first on one cheek, saying, That's from me, and then on the other, saying, And that's from Mum, but never had she delivered a kiss or embrace from their da.

she told Frodo, I would like that very much.



Spring turned to summer, and now Marigold and Sam were allowed to visit their mother once a week, for an hour at most. Her face was grey and weary, and her voice a whisper of its old vibrancy, but her keen eyes still looked at her children with love and delight, and if her hands trembled while they stroked Marigold's hair, they were still the hands that had braided and untangled and put ribbons in that hair so many times.

Reading was difficult, but difficult in a good way. Writing was even more difficult, and in not such a good way, as Marigold kept blotching the ink and getting it all over her fingers, and then all over the lovely pieces of parchment Master Frodo kept giving her. He would laugh when she despaired over the craft and the ruined papers.

You should have seen me learning to do this, he told her. I would come back from lessons with my face so covered in ink that Auntie would not know who I was.

Master Frodo was patient and kind with his student, and those quiet hours were the ones Marigold loved best. She had never been the sole focus of anyone's attention before, not even her mother, not with five children before her. It was a strange, exciting feeling, and one she would not recall again until a night during that horrible, horrible year, the worst night of all when they were turned out of Bagshot Row and shown that horrible little shack that was now their home, and Rose Cotton drove up in her cart with her brother Tom and he picked her up as though she weighed nothing and set her on the seat before climbing up beside.

Not in there, you're not staying, Tom said. I'm taking you home to Mother. And he nearly left behind poor Rose, still arguing with the Gaffer about him not coming with them, because he simply had forgotten there was anyone in the world other than Marigold Gamgee.

Despite Frodo's kindness, Marigold missed Bagshot Row, the noise and confusion, the familiar endless chores, her father's constant grumbling and dire warnings, being tucked snug and safe and warm into bed in between Daisy and May. Every week during their visit, she asked when she and Sam might come home, and every week her father replied, Soon, lass, when the healer says.

She was especially good during these weeks, minding her manners as never before, doing anything Mr. Baggins and Master Frodo would allow her to do to help out at Bag End. If she was good enough, and helpful enough, she thought to herself, surely she would be allowed to go home soon, and help take care of her mother, help her get better.



Master Frodo woke her in the deep of night, a candle in his hand. Marigold, wake up, he urged. You need to get dressed.

She stumbled about and scrambled into clothes while Frodo waited in the corridor. When she came out of her room, she saw her father standing in the entryway to Bag End. She blinked in confusion, for this was something she had never seen before. Her father used the kitchen door, and only the kitchen door, to the grand smial.

Sam was standing before him, and he was crying, and suddenly Marigold understood.



She gave her mother one last kiss, and that gentle hand touched her hair one last time. My own dear lassie, Mum said, but her voice was more of a gasp, and that was all she could get out.
Mr. Baggins had come down from the Hill with them, but would not come inside their home. He waited outside until Daisy sent Sam and Marigold away again, back to Bag End, away from home. As they left, Marigold could hear May crying from the bedroom she had once shared with her sisters.

Back at Bag End, Mr. Baggins sent them both to rest, but Marigold sat on her bed and stared at the wall instead. She wondered if she would ever be able to go home again, after this. She wondered what it would be like, not having a mother. The thought did not make her sad, and instead filled her with a strange, cold emptiness.

Sam came in and sat down on the bed beside her. His eyes were red and swollen. Why do you not cry, Marigold? he asks. Don't you understand what's happening?

Are we ever going home, Sammie? she asked. Do we have a home anymore?

Oh, Marigold-love, Sam said, and took her hand in his. You'll always have a home, if I have anything to say about it. Don't you forget that.

And when he drew her to his chest, the sadness suddenly washed over her, and she clung to him and cried.



They would lay their mother to rest, Mr. Baggins told her, in a spot behind Bag End that she had loved, a spot once barren and bleak that over the years her father had brought to life with flowers and bushes and herbs. The next day, Daisy came up in the Hill in her nicest dress, all neat and clean and grown-up. She pulled Marigold's nicest dress out of the cupboard and laid it on the bed, saying, Here, let's get you ready.

Marigold submitted to Daisy helping her wash, and to dress, but when Daisy picked up the comb to fix Marigold's hair, she flatly refused. When Daisy handed her the comb to do it herself, she tossed the comb across the room in a sudden, wild fury that came from nowhere. While Daisy was retrieving the comb, Marigold crawled underneath the bed and refused to come out, no matter how Daisy pleaded.

She wouldn't come out for Sam, either, nor even for Mr. Baggins when he crouched down and entreated. She couldn't explain to them but she knew if she let someone fix her hair up and followed them outside to that beautiful little spot her father had created, that the world would end. She was only protecting all of them.

They finally all left, and she thought they must have gone on without her. She let her small hands unclench and her body relax. It was dusty under the bed, and she sneezed.

A shadow crossed in front of the bed, and Marigold tensed again. Master Frodo's face appeared, kindly concerned. Staying under there, are you? he asked.

There was a great bubble inside Marigold's chest, and when she heard his kind voice, it burst out of her.

My mother is dead, she said, and her voice sounded strange and wild to her own ears. She had not said those words aloud before.

I know, Frodo said, and to her everlasting amazement, he dropped down onto his belly and slithered under the bed with her, in his fine suit and everything.

Under the bed, he took her clenched hand gently in his own.

The first birthday I had after my parents died, I hid in my cupboard and one of my older cousins had to drag me out, fighting him every inch of the way, Frodo said.

You did? Marigold asked, surprised for a moment out of her grief. She could not picture this kind, gentle, well-mannered hobbit doing such a thing.

I did, Frodo said. I wanted the entire world to go away, so there would just be me and my grief, alone in the dark. But the world would not go away, no matter what I did. It just goes right on, not taking much note of us.

Marigold wanted to tell Frodo that she was certain if she went and watched her mother be buried in the cold ground the world would end, but it seems too great a thing to tell him. Frodo, she recalled, had to watch someone put both his parents into the ground, when he was just one year younger than she.

They lay under the bed, holding hands and listening to one another breathe, until Marigold's hands unclenched again and her heart did not pound so wildly in her chest.

Are you ready to go outside now? Frodo asked softly.

Marigold said, and let her help him out from under the bed. He dusted them both off, and then picked up the comb and brushed out her tangled curls. Then he took her by the hand and led her out into the world.