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It’s well past midnight when Sam wakes up. Frodo is gone.
But the rumpled bedding is still warm when he grasps for the dip in the mattress next to him, and besides, Sam’s near certain it was the door snicking shut which woke him in the first place. So he rolls to his back and starts counting heartbeats, which are thumping away loud enough they’re probably keeping people awake all the way back in Minas Tirith
He makes it to five hundred before he sighs and gets up, fumbling for his trousers in the dark. There’s no sense in just lying in bed wide awake, waiting.
There isn’t a soul about as Sam slips through Rivendell’s arched hallways, soft and quiet as a shadow. Dappling moonlight and a rising mist coming off the river casts a hazy unreality over everything, and the barrier between dreaming and waking feels thin as paper as Sam creeps down winding staircases and through open air courtyards, letting his body guide him while his mind wanders far and away. He’s halfway to forgetting what he’s searching for when he turns a corner and then, finally, he sees him.
Frodo is tucked in an alcove at the end of a long hallway, knees drawn up tightly to his chest. A wide and west facing window is set into the wall there, and Frodo is halfway to leaning out of it, face tilted up towards the stars. His hands are clasped together over his heart as if in supplication, and perhaps Sam’s eyes are playing tricks on him, but he could swear that faint light is emanating from within Frodo’s grasp, casting his profile in a silvery glow.
Maybe it’s the stillness, or the lateness of the hours, or the image of Frodo plucking a star from the night sky to cradle in his palm, but Sam cannot, does not go to him. He has the strangest notion that if he stirs or makes a sound the whole picture will dissolve, and Frodo will go along with it. So Sam remains rooted in the shadows, gawking like a spell-bound fool as Frodo sways slightly back and forth in the moonlight, lips moving in a steady low murmur Sam can neither make out nor understand.
He can’t say how long he stands there, just staring. It’s only when Frodo suddenly slumps forward and gives out a little choking noise which can only be described as a sob that the spell shatters. Sam shakes himself, and is about to break out in a run before a faint swishing and the sound of a footfall stops him in his tracks. Gandalf is there, emerging as if out of thin air from some other recess hitherto unnoticed by Sam. He’s wearing the new white robes Sam still hasn’t gotten used to. And Frodo is in his white night shirt, so when Gandalf wraps an arm around Frodo and Frodo crumples into his embrace, they resemble nothing so much as a pair of spirits: unearthly and untouchable. Sam takes a step back, and then turns on his heel, rounds the corner, climbs up the stairs, slips through the hallways, goes back into their bedroom, takes his trousers off, climbs back into bed, and starts counting heartbeats again.
-
“Sam?”
Sam looks up from the remains of his eggs and soggy toast to find Merry peering at him expectantly. He’s probably repeated himself a few times now, if the quickly masked flash of concern is anything to go off of. Sam doesn’t know what to make of Meriadoc Brandybuck being concerned about him.
“Eh, beg pardon Mr. Merry,” he replies, “my head was off somewhere else.”
“It’s alright,” says Merry, nabbing a slice of toast and buttering it with a business-like precision, pulling the butter equally to each corner, “I only asked if you had any plans for the day. Once Pippin finishes nursing his hangover, we’re going to hike up to that pine grove and see if we can catch any trout.”
“Bleh.” Pippin is less than enthused by these plans, if the way he’s cradling his head like it might fall off and scowling at Merry is anything to go by. “I hate trout.”
“No you don’t,” says Merry. “It was your idea, anyway. I’m just holding you to it.”
“I hate trout when I feel like this. Honest Merry, if I even get a whiff of fish, I’ll be sick, and I’ll be sick in your lap, thank you very much.”
“Just try it and see what happens!” says Merry severely, “I’ll toss you in the river first.” Having no response for this, Pippin sticks out his tongue in a decidedly unflattering fashion, and in turn, Merry flicks a blueberry in his direction.
War heroes, thinks Sam, and waits for the squabbling to die down before answering Merry’s initial question. “Thank you Mr. Merry, but I think I’ll stay in today. I’m a bit tired, is all.”
“How,” grouches Pippin, his full ire now focused on Sam, “could you possibly be tired when you and Frodo went to bed right after supper like a pair of old gaffers? Leaving me to fend for myself in a drinking contest against a bunch of elves!”
“A contest you initiated,” chides Merry. “But,” he adds, turning back to Sam. “Where is Frodo? Still sleeping?”
“Yes,” says Sam, which is true as far as he knows. He doesn’t recall falling back asleep after last night’s episode, but he must’ve, for when he woke again, it was to sunlight and Frodo’s soft, wheezing breaths. Sam had leaned over his master’s sleeping face, searching for any hints of distress. There’d been none to speak of, none beyond the new lines of care beginning to creep around Frodo’s eyes and mouth. But these he’d grown used to, and they no longer posed a cause for any alarm. Once Sam had gazed his fill, he’d tucked blankets firmly around Frodo’s shoulders and snuck out to breakfast alone.
“Still in bed?” Pippin’s smirk takes a dangerous turn, general misery evidently forgotten. “He must’ve been worn out. So you two did stay up late then?”
“Something like that,” Sam mutters as Merry unsubtly kicks Pippin under the table. He excuses himself to the sideboard under the pretense of putting together a plate for Frodo, and if it just so happens to be a convenient way to hide his quickly reddening face, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own, is it?
The altered nature of his and Frodo’s relationship was a subject Sam never fully broached with Frodo’s cousins, and he had no current plans to. He knew Frodo had spoken to them shortly after their arrival in Minas Tirith, and that he’d been met with nothing but understanding and affection, but still, it wasn’t something Samwise Gamgee was comfortable discussing over breakfast.
Even so, thinks Sam as he examines the proffered spread of breakfast fare, it’s far better to let Merry and Pippin think what they will than getting into last night’s affair. He still isn’t convinced the whole thing wasn’t a dream, but when he slants his eyes down the verandah to where Gandalf is smoking and speaking in low tones to Lord Elrond, he finds the wizard is already looking at him. Sam scoffs, and begins loading up a tray. Gandalf more than likely knew he’d been there the whole time, but if he can’t be bothered to speak to Sam on the matter, well, Sam isn’t going to bother either. He finishes the plate and says his farewells to Merry and Pippin, passing by Gandalf and Elrond on his way out.
“Good morning to you Samwise,” says Gandalf as goes by.
“Good morning Mr. Gandalf,” says Sam, looking straight ahead.
-
Frodo is still asleep when Sam returns, though at some point he’s shifted, rolling over to Sam’s side of the bed. His face is buried in Sam’s pillow.
A rising tide of emotion threatens to choke Sam, and he has to take several steadying breaths before he can unload the tray without shaking hands. He arranges the dishes carefully - two soft boiled eggs over a thick slice of toast, a bowl of porridge doctored with a generous pat of butter and a heaping spoonful of the rich, molasses flavored sugar Frodo is partial to. Along with it is a plate loaded with a few rashers of bacon, slices of apple and pear, and a mug of sugary, milky tea. He arranges the napkin and the fork, then crosses the room to open the curtains, letting the mid morning sun fall across the bed.
Frodo shifts a little in his sleep, smacking his lips. Sam freezes, watching, but Frodo only sighs before settling down once more. Sam looks from the bed, to the tray, then back to the bed again, dithering. It would be a shame to let breakfast go cold. But then again, Sam has no idea when Frodo returned last night. It could’ve been mere minutes before Sam got up for the second time, for all he knows. And Frodo’s been so unsettled of late…
He comes to a decision. Rest is just the thing a body needs when it’s been through a trial, especially with the many miles they’ve still to go before they reach home, sleeping in the rough and all. He leaves Frodo be, pressing a feather light kiss to his brow before letting himself out.
-
Sam spends the rest of the morning puttering. He’s always had a unique talent for it, and despite begging off from the fishing trip, he really does need something to do.
The first order of business is visiting the ponies. Sam hauls a basket of the first autumn apples down to the stables as an apology gift for not stopping by sooner. The ponies, after a brief conference, deem this an acceptable offering. Sam feeds them the fruit one at a time, and then spends the rest of the visit stroking their velvety noses and catching them up on the latest goings on, which they seem to appreciate.
He’d been crestfallen the first night they arrived in Rivendell and Bill hadn’t been there. But Gandalf had assured him that the pony was well, and Frodo had agreed, so Sam let the subject drop for the present. The ponies they’d been travelling were a nice enough lot, but none of them held a candle to old Bill. Not that Sam would ever let them in on that tidbit of information - it would only hurt their feelings.
Sam bids farewell to the ponies, and treks back up to the house, making a brief stop at the kitchen for an elevenses of bread and cheese before truly hitting his stride. He conducts a thorough inspection of the hobbits' travelling packs, printing a list of supplies they’ll need for the journey home in neat block lettering. This he leaves on the desk in Merry and Pippin’s quarters for Mr. Merry’s stamp of approval when he returns. While he’s in there, he mends the rips in Pippin’s travelling cloak (got too enthusiastic with a blackberry bush), and does some tidying (something Merry and Pippin swear up and down isn’t necessary, but they never seem to get any neater, and besides, Sam doesn’t mind doing it). From there he goes to collect the washing. It gives him a little thrill to see his homespun shirts mixed together with Frodo’s silken tunics, and so he whistles as he carts the clean clothes back to their room, idly wondering if his master is awake yet.
Frodo is awake. He must be, for both the bed and room are empty when Sam lets himself in. Slippery as an eel, that one. Sam shoves the clothes in the dresser and goes on the prowl.
-
He doesn’t have long to search, thank heavens. The library is empty, but Mr. Bilbo’s quarters aren’t.
“Oh, look who found us!”
Frodo is on the floor, wreathed in by piles and piles of notepaper like snow drifts. Mr. Bilbo snores in an armchair nearby.
He’s shrunk in on himself during their time away, has Mr. Bilbo. His hair's all but gone, save for a few snowy wisps, his eyes milky and wandering. It’s hard to believe that this wrinkled creature dozing his days away is the same Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the one who went toe to toe with a dragon and disappeared from the Shire with a flash of light. These days they’re lucky if Bilbo remembers who Sam, Merry, and Pippin are, though he always knows Frodo, even if he sometimes speaks to him like he’s still a little lad.
He doesn’t allow himself dwell on it overmuch, but spending too much time around Mr. Bilbo leaves Sam feeling unbalanced, even a little panicky. There’s something unmooring in seeing the dazzling Mr. Baggins, who cast so great a shadow over his childhood, suddenly sunk into dotage, his seemingly inexhaustible vigour snuffed out like a candle.
But if it’s difficult for Sam, how much worse must it be for Frodo? It’s not a conversation Sam feels comfortable initiating and Frodo hasn’t come to him about it yet. It’s all conjecture on Sam’s part, but he thinks Frodo is still reeling from the blow of his uncle’s rapid decline, something which he disguises through excessive coddling and a timorous kind of affection which Sam has never before seen from him.
At the present moment however, Frodo appears to be perfectly comfortable, sat cross-legged on a cushion. His hair is wet from the bath, uncombed and dripping on to a grey Gondorian-style tunic.
Frodo’s entire wardrobe now consists of these neutral colored, loose-fitting garments, all of his clothes from home having been destroyed or lost on the quest. Aragorn had offered the services of the royal tailor many times over, if Frodo happened to find himself wanting something in a more familiar style. The offers had been continually rebuffed with polite disinterest. The tailor’s services were never requested.
Once, over his third ale of the night, Merry had confided his dismay over his cousin’s apathy to Sam.
“He used to be such a dandy, do you remember?” he’d asked wistfully. Sam watched the beads of condensation roll down his glass and nodded. “He could spend the whole afternoon in Tully’s, perusing the fabrics and latest fashions from Michel Delving. And how he’d fuss over his hair, my stars! He was worse than Pervinca in that way. Wouldn’t leave the smial till it was just so,” Merry laughed sadly. “Such an old vanity. It must seem so trivial to him now.”
Sam had hummed non-committedly and discreetly passed Merry a kerchief to dab at his watery eyes. Personally, Sam is of the belief that it’s not a lack of self-consciousness influencing Frodo’s preference for these garments, but rather, it's source - they’re a terribly convenient way for Frodo to disguise his figure. The way he habitually tucks his maimed hand away in their billowy folds also hasn’t escaped Sam’s notice.
“Did you have a nice bath, me dear?” asks Sam, stepping gingerly over the loose papers to crouch by Frodo’s side. “Mmm, you smell good.”
“Come now, none of that!” laughs Frodo, ducking Sam’s caress. Sam doesn’t take it personally. The laugh was what he was after. “My uncle is right there, if you haven’t noticed!”
“He’s asleep,” Sam says dismissively, but rises and starts straightening up the unmade bed all the same.
“He fakes it nearly half the time,” says Frodo, attention already drifting back to the notes. “So he can listen in on conversations. He’s a cunning one, our Bilbo.”
“That must be where you get it from then,” says Sam. “Interesting, how some family traits get passed along.”
“I beg your pardon!” Frodo exclaims, laughing again. Sam plumps a pillow to hide his smirk. “I find that very rich coming from you, Mr. Chief Conspirator!”
“I’ll give you that one, dearie.” Sam nods to the mess on the floor. “How’s it all coming along?”
“Eh,” Frodo sighs. “Confusingly, to be honest. Dear old Bilbo never got into the habit of dating his papers, so I have no way of knowing what should go where, or what’s a draft and what’s finished. And his handwriting was never very good in the best of times, and now, well…” He squints at one of the offending papers like it’ll offer up its secrets if he just looks hard enough. “But I shouldn’t complain. It’s nice to do something useful after sleeping half the morning away.”
“And how did you sleep?”
It’s not the question Sam wants to ask, but Frodo hears it all the same. He does a half-way decent job of smoothing the alarm from his features. Anyone but Sam might have missed it.
“I was a little restless,” is what Frodo settles on. “I got up to stretch my legs at one point, did you notice? But I was perfectly fine afterwards. The beds here do marvels for my back.” Frodo smooths some imaginary wrinkles from the sheet he’s holding. “Thank you for breakfast, by the way. You’re too good to me.”
“Did you eat it all?” Sam can’t help himself.
“I got enough, thank you darling.”
From experience, this can mean anything from nearly half of it, to a few, picked over bites. Sam suspects it’s the latter, and is still deciding how far to press the matter when Frodo is abruptly rescued from what is sure to be an awkward interrogation via a noisily waking Bilbo.
“Eh, ah, what’s that? Something about breakfast?”
“You already had yours, uncle,” Frodo says gently, moving to Bilbo’s side and placing a grounding hand on his knee. “It’s nearly time for luncheon.”
“Oh, well. Very good lad, very good. Who’s this?” Bilbo jabs a knobbly finger in Sam’s direction. “Hamfast? How are your children?”
“I’m Samwise, Mr. Bilbo sir,” answers Sam. “Hamfast’s second to youngest.”
“So you are, so you are. My!” Bilbo waggles his eyebrows at Frodo. “He’s filled out nicely, hasn’t he?”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Sam blushes like a tween.
“Bilbo,” says Frodo, getting to his feet and waving off Sam’s proffered hand. “Will you be alright if I leave you this afternoon? I haven’t had a chance to take a ramble in the woods since we’ve been here. Would you like that, Sam? I’ll just need to fetch my walking stick.”
No , is what Sam wants to say. I wouldn’t like that . Because you haven’t had your lunch and you barely had any breakfast. And your hair is still wet and it’s cold out, and I know you won’t wear a coat unless I ask you to. This may be your idea of a peace offering, but it’s a pretty poor one, begging your pardon. Strain is the very last thing you need. Rest is what you need.
Luckily, Sam is spared from deciding how much (if any) of this he should actually voice out loud. It’s his turn to be rescued, as, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, Bilbo ratchets himself out of the arm chair and stands, tottering but upright. With a familiar gleam in his eye, he wags a finger right in Frodo’s astonished face.
“More walking?” gripes Bilbo. “Bless me, but I would’ve thought you’d had your fill of it by now. Why, you must’ve trudged over half of Middle Earth! And,” he adds, waving vaguely in Sam’s direction, “I’ll bet my best hat that young master Gamgee has spent the morning scurrying all over Lord Elrond’s halls while all you’ve managed to accomplish is take a bath and laze away with your old cousin! And you were going to force the poor lad on a ramble. I thought better of you Frodo!”
“Well, I,” splutters Frodo, looking bemused, and Sam is almost certain Bilbo winks at him. “I hadn’t thought of it-”
“Will I be alright on my own? On my own indeed! I’ve managed to keep my own fat out of the fire since before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye, my boy! Now here’s an idea: go take this handsome young fellow down to the kitchen for some lunch. Then I won’t have to listen to that infernal stomach rumbling while I clean up the mess you’ve made of my notes. Now go on, and find something better to do than harassing elderly hobbits!”
A few moments later, Frodo and Sam find themselves shunted without ceremony into the hallway, the door slamming shut on their heels. They blink at each other, then burst into peals of laughter. Frodo links his arm with Sam’s.
“Well, I did warn you about the faking.”
-
Frodo has the sense not to suggest a ramble again, but they do take a turn around the garden grounds after lunch (a hearty beef and vegetable stew. While Frodo freshens up in the washroom beforehand, Sam transfers the choicest, fattiest bits of meat from his bowl to Frodo’s, and adds an extra tablespoon of butter to his bread).
“Isn’t it odd,” says Frodo, bending over to inspect a newly opened camellia, “that it hasn’t even been a year since we last stayed in Rivendell?”
Sam whistles. “When you put it like that! Why, I feel as though I’ve lived a whole lifetime, and then some! And to think I’ve only had one birthday since then.”
“And we only just fit mine in.”
“Close call, that one.”
“Indeed.”
Frodo turns down the gently curving slope towards the ornamental pond where the circling golden fish live. Sam follows.
“Now you’ve gone and got me thinking about it, you want to know something really odd?”
“Tell me.”
“Well,” says Sam, “this time last year, the king of Gondor was milling about in a common roadside inn, dressed like a vagrant, lying in wait for you!”
Frodo shakes his head fondly. “Dear old Strider! He put up with quite a lot of nonsense from us, didn’t he?”
“Us? I don’t know about any us! Unless my memory has gone, I do believe you were the only one dancing and singing and falling off tables.”
“I have no earthly idea what you could be referring to Samwise,” says Frodo sharply. “You must have confused me for someone else. I would never do anything like that. I’ve always been a placid, sensible sort of fellow.”
“The cow jumped over the moon!”
“And that’s quite enough from your corner, thank you very much! I’ve never heard that song before in my whole life. And besides,” he adds, “you were much more trouble than I was. You were the one who kept drawing their sword whenever Strider so much as twitched in the wrong direction.”
Sam sniffs. “Those were a chancy few weeks, if you remember. Better safe than sorry. And I wasn’t going to take any risks with you.”
Frodo slows until they’re side by side, and catches Sam’s hand in his own. Sam runs his thumb over the ridge of Frodo’s knuckles. The skin is cracked and dry.
“My dear Sam,” says Frodo sweetly. “Always looking out for me.”
Sam’s face goes all hot and prickly. Thinking can be difficult when Frodo’s gaze is full on him. His eyes are very blue. “It’s what I’m here for.”
“Hm,” says Frodo, dropping his hand and turning his attention towards the pond. “I wonder.”
The fish pond is ringed in by a semi circle of wide, flat river stones. The ring is intersected by a babbling little creek which falls from the hills up above the main house. Down the cliff sides it tumbles, filtering through the pond before swirling out again, coursing down the valley to meet up with the river somewhere in the dell below. Frodo clears this stream with ease, and hops, light footed, from one boulder to the next, until he’s reached the broadest one on the far end of the pool.
Sam watches him from the other side of the stream as a cool unease trickles down his spine. He’s reminded of another pool, another waterfall, another pale creature crouched over the water. Glittering arrowheads and hooded men. Frodo’s face, drawn, dirty, and frightened. Sam’s breath starts coming in rapid puffs. He closes his eyes and counts heartbeats again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
“Sam!” Sam opens his eyes and wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. “Come sit with me.”
He takes his time crossing the stream and picking his way over the rocks. By the time he reaches where Frodo is perched, cross-legged, he’s mostly calmed.
“I’m sorry,” says Frodo apologetically as Sam gingerly takes a seat next to him. “Does the water make you nervous? We can go somewhere else.”
Sam waves him off. “No need, me dear. I’m only a bit out of breath.”
Frodo is wearing his you aren’t fooling me expression, but blessedly doesn’t push the matter. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the scenery. The golden fish skirt the edges of the pond, circling around and around and around.
“It is strange, though,” says Frodo at length. It’s so quiet that Sam isn’t sure it was meant for him.
“What’s strange?” he asks after a few seconds have passed.
Frodo skims his fingers just below the surface of the water. “Being back here, I suppose,” he says, still in a soft, low tone. “I never thought….well, the last time we were here, it was beautiful, of course. But there was this dreadful business always looming over me. It never left my mind, not once. So I never got the chance to settle in and truly enjoy this place, not in the way Bilbo does. I had hoped, before, that if I did get the opportunity to come back things would be different. But it's…” he trails off. His hand hangs limply in the water. “It’s strange.”
Sam doesn’t know what to say. He stays silent for a moment, recalling his own first arrival in Rivendell. He remembers down to the bone weariness and frantic worry. He remembers trotting after Strider through candlelit halls, eyes fixed on the dripping wet bundle in his arms. He remembers the smell of the sickroom and blood on white linen and concerned whispers in a language he didn’t understand. He remembers carding his fingers through dirty brown curls and begging please, please. Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me.
He clutches Frodo’s wrist and drags his hand from the water, and doesn’t even register the startled expression on his master’s face. “Let’s go back up to the house.”
-
If Sam sits here for much longer, he’ll almost certainly fall asleep.
Merry and Pippin are at the far end of the Hall of Fire, regaling a group of delighted looking elves with the tale of their fishing trip. Sam watches them through half-lidded eyes from where he’s curled alone on the end of a plush couch, toes towards the fire, gratifyingly full from supper.
“It was a beast of a creature!” crows Pippin. “It was as long as my leg!”
“Longer, even!” Merry adds. “As long as Lord Elrond’s leg!”
The trout in question, which had managed to best both Merry and Pippin in a game of fishing rod tug of war, gained about half a foot of length with each retelling. At this rate, the elves of Rivendell will have a new local legend to incorporate into their mythology, if they feel so inclined.
Just a few minutes more, and Sam will get up. Frodo’s already turned in for the night, having gone up to Bilbo’s room a few minutes earlier to say his goodnights, and Sam has a mind to follow him. Just as soon as he gathers the will to stand up.
Merry’s just reached the part of the story where Pippin goes head-first into the stream when Sam is startled out of his pleasant drifting by someone taking the spot directly next to him. He looks up in surprise, and is met with Mr. Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows raised in his direction.
“And a good evening to you, Master Samwise.” The wizard gestures meaningfully with his tinder box. “Care for a smoke?”
Sam considers, then pulls out his own pipe and lets Gandalf fill and light it. They smoke together in silence, listening to Merry and Pippin hold on to their captive audience for as long as possible. Gandalf blows three smoke rings, then turns to Sam.
“Frodo is worried about you.”
Sam can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. “Worried about me?” and then laughs again. “What’s he worried about me for?”
“He was under the impression he had upset you.”
Sam taps out his own pipe and avoids Gandalf’s gaze, quashing down a wayward flash of anger that Frodo would sic Gandalf on him like this. “I’m not upset.”
Gandalf says nothing. Two can play at that game, thinks Sam, and lasts a whole three minutes before silence gets to be too much for him. “Well, perhaps I am.”
The wizard only raises an eyebrow, but Sam can tell he’s in one of his patient, inquiring sorts of moods, so he takes his time to gather his thoughts together before venturing on.
“It’s just,” he starts haltingly. “What’s wrong with my master? Why doesn’t he get well? It’s been months and months since that awful thing was destroyed. You, and Strider, and Mr. Elrond all got a look at him, you all said he was healing. But he’s not! He doesn’t sleep - and don’t go suggesting sleeping draughts, because I’ve tried that. They don’t work. They only trap him in those horrid nightmares, and then he’s all out of sorts for the rest of the day. And he’s not putting any weight back on - matter of fact, he’d probably be losing it if I wasn’t practically forcing the food down his throat. He’s so - he’s so tired. And nothing I do makes it any better.”
And here Sam stops. Because if he doesn’t stop, he’ll choke on the hot rush of tears burning in his eyes and throat, and it will cause a scene. And Merry and Pippin and all the elves will look over at the silly hobbit who can’t manage to keep a hold of himself, and it will be horribly embarrassing.
Gandalf squeezes his shoulder, but mercifully makes no comment on the tears. He sits quietly, for all intents and purposes entirely engrossed by the trout story and his pipe till Sam settles enough to surreptitiously wipe his eyes on his sleeves and take a few deep breaths.
“I have always been of the opinion,” Gandalf intones at length, “that the love you have for your master is among some of the most powerful forces at work in this world.”
“Alright Mr. Gandalf,” says Sam, his voice still teary-gravelly. “Laying it on thick, are you?”
Gandalf chuckles. “Wizards have no need for flattery. Especially not when contending with such a keen eared interlocutor. But lest my point is missed: without your intervention and care, the ring bearer would have been discovered and the ring recovered by the Dark Lord many times over. Your devotion aided Frodo and eased his burden in a way that no other member of the fellowship, or indeed, in Middle Earth could’ve accomplished. Yes Samwise, your love is a powerful thing.” And here Gandalf pauses, forcing Sam to meet his gaze. “But it is not all powerful.
“Frodo’s healing will not hinge on your actions. For indeed, there are some wounds that never heal. It is a path he has still to tread, whether you will it or no.”
“So I oughta let him wither away and die then?” snaps Sam, “Is that what you’re saying?” and then doesn’t get to see Gandalf’s reaction, on account of having to screw his eyes shut against the tears again.
“You’ll find that is not what I said.” Gandalf tucks his pipe away and stands, offering Sam a hand as he does so. “I could never stand a chance of convincing you of that, even if I did think it wise, which I do not.” He leads Sam out into the empty antechamber before kneeling, looking Sam straight in the eye.
“Frodo’s healing is his own. It will not be dependent upon anything which you do or do not do. Taking such a burden upon yourself will lead to sorrow. Your love will not heal Frodo. But it can comfort him, and help him. Will that suffice, Master Samwise?”
Speech is beyond Sam. He needs to get outside, away from these smoky, fire-warmed halls into the clean evening air. He needs to have a think. But Gandalf seems satisfied with the jerky nod he gets in response, and so releases Sam with a kindly smile.
“And one more thing,” he adds just as Sam is about to duck down the stairs to the courtyard. “Perhaps you’ll find that love will comfort and help you , hmm? And then I won’t have to wile away precious hours serving as an intermediary for hobbit courtship rituals.”
Always has to have the last word, that Mr. Gandalf Sam thinks as he bounds down the stairs two at a time.
-
“There you are! I was starting to think I’d have to organize a search party.”
Frodo is still awake and sitting up in bed when Sam returns from his walk over an hour later. A single candle on the bedside table flickers away, illuminating Frodo’s concerned face with a ruddy glow.
It’s a warm light, warm and healthy and yellow, so very different from the silvery, otherworldly radiance from the previous night. And Frodo looks so dear as he sits propped up against the pillows, anxiously fidgeting with the lacy collar of his nightshirt. His clean hair curls softly around his face, and his lips curve down into the slightest pout at the indignity of being left waiting. None but the hardest-hearted and coldest-blooded of hobbits could remain unmoved when greeted with such a sweet picture.
Luckily for Frodo, Sam is neither of those things. With a little hop he scrambles on the mattress and slinks his way up, up, to collapse into Frodo’s waiting arms. He presses his cheek into the gap in Frodo’s nightshirt, reveling in the sensation of the soft, cool skin against his own.
“You smell of outdoors,” says Frodo, burying his nose in Sam’s hair. “And smoke.”
“Mm. Shall I pop off for a wash then?”
“No, indeed not! Stay here with me,” says Frodo petulantly, and tilts Sam’s chin up with two fingers. His gaze on Sam’s face is thoughtful, and a little crinkle forms between his brows. With a thumb, Sam reaches out to smooth it away, then follows it up with his lips. He kisses between Frodo’s brow, his cheek, and finally covers his master’s sweetly pouting mouth.
It’s a gentle, chaste thing, the kiss. A goodnight token, and an apology for being so long away. But when Sam moves to pull away, Frodo grasps the nape of his neck and brings him back in.
“Here,” he breathes, and this second kiss takes on a decidedly different color from the first. This one has an intention behind it. But only when the kiss moves away to his jaw and then down his neck, hot and wet, does Sam understand precisely what Frodo’s intention is.
“Wait,” he says, propping himself up on an elbow. Frodo blinks up at him, eyes already gone a bit hazy. “Really?”
The crinkle returns. “Unless you don’t?”
“Oh,” Sam says, leaning down till they’re nose to nose, “I do.”
“Excellent,” murmurs Frodo, and begins thumbing Sam’s shirt buttons open.
It’s been a long time. Too long, if you ask Sam, but it couldn’t really be helped. They hadn’t had the privacy nor energy for it on the road, and since Frodo had nixed any chance for a fumble in Edoras (he’d felt it disrespectful, what with the funeral and all) their last encounter had taken place back in Minas Tirith.
All of this to say, as Frodo shifts their positions and kisses lower and lower, is that Sam finds himself growing really quite eager - almost embarrassingly so. This seems to amuse Frodo, as his mouth lingers teasingly over where it’s most wanted, hot and aching.
“Guh,” Sam groans, and lets his head fall back heavily on the pillow.
Frodo looks up and does one of his wicked smirks. “Still with me, Sam-dear?”
Too overcome for Baggins cheek, Sam grips Frodo’s curls and gives them a quick tug. Frodo takes this as his cue, and with a pleased hum, gets to work in earnest.
Though his instinct is to let his eyes drift shut, Sam fights against it tooth and nail. He keeps them cracked, watching Frodo at work through his lashes, letting his hand roam over his head, caressing his cheek. It’s too much to hope that Frodo will allow him to reciprocate these attentions, at least not in the way Sam wants to. Even back in Minas Tirith, never once did Frodo permit Sam to undress him fully, to hold him with naught between them. To this day, the one and only time Sam has been allowed that pleasure was their first tentative encounter on the eve of their departure from Lothlorien. In fact, if Sam’s memory serves, the last time he’s seen Frodo naked was in the tower of Cirith Ungol, and this is a memory he is more than happy to never revisit.
It doesn’t matter though. If this is all Frodo can gift him, Sam doesn’t mind, not really. For it is a gift, Sam thinks, that he gets to hold Frodo and feel his pulse beating under his skin. It’s a gift that Frodo is here and alive, that his heart still beats and that his lungs still draw breath. He’ll drink up whatever Frodo gives him as thoughtlessly and eagerly as a man dying of thirst.
As though he can hear Sam’s thoughts, Frodo redoubles his efforts, making desperate little whimpers. It doesn’t take long before Sam loses it, arching his back and yelling. Frodo pulls away and wipes his mouth, looking like nothing so much as the cat that got caught in the cream.
“Pleased with yourself, are you?” Sam growls and hauls Frodo on top of him, ignoring his yelp of surprise, licks his palm and gropes blindly under his nightshirt until his fist closes around what he’s been searching for.
“Oh, Sam,” moans Frodo, and hides his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. It only takes a minute or two until he’s gasping and bucking, coming apart in Sam’s grasp.
“I have you,” Sam whispers throughout, “I have you.”
They lay entwined, with Sam running his hands up and down Frodo’s flank, gentling him, until the candle starts gutter and threaten to go out. Sam is having some vague thoughts of getting up for a wash cloth and bed clothes, when it suddenly dawns on him that too much time has passed for Frodo still to be trembling so.
“Frodo?” he whispers, craning his neck for a glimpse of his master’s face. Frodo doesn’t respond, just keeps his face pressed against Sam’s chest.
“Frodo?” he repeats, as too-familiar alarm bells start going off in his head. “What’s the matter?”
He pushes Frodo up to try and get a look at him, but Frodo is too quick. He slaps his hands over his face and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out wet and muffled. “Oh Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Sam is beginning to properly panic now. “Frodo-love, please look at me.”
Frodo shakes his head again, so Sam gives that up as a bad job. He pulls Frodo back into his embrace and clutches him close, trying to slow his own pounding heart.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
“Master,” Sam says after some time has passed. His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, but if he doesn’t muster the courage to say this now, who knows when he ever will? “Master, if you aren’t wanting to talk just now, I understand. But you ought to know-”
He has to pause for a moment. He’s getting choked up, but Frodo has seemingly calmed, and although he hasn’t made any move to peel his face from Sam’s chest, Sam can tell he’s listening.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion as to what’s going on in that head of yours. And I know you think you’re sparing me from harm by not telling me, but that’s just not the truth. When you leave me to guessing, I guess at just the worst sorts of things. And it’s hard master, cruel hard, when I see you suffering and I can’t do anything about it. It hurts me, you know. The thing I want most in the world is for you to be well, and it’s just about the one thing I can’t seem to have, no matter what I do. But if you could just tell me what’s going on in your head, even just a little bit. Just so I can understand. Or try to, at least. I can’t say I’ll do a very good job of it. But I do love you so.”
Sam trails off. It had been a struggle to get the words out, each and every syllable sticking to the walls of his throat. But now he’s managed it, he does oddly feel better. Lighter. Relieved from a weight he’s been dragging with him since Minas Tirith. Maybe even before.
The candle flickers one last time then goes out. Sam stares up at the dark ceiling with his palms flat against Frodo’s back, noting how his ribs expand and contract with every draw of breath. He’s tired now, from both the love-making and the strain of unburdening himself. He could fall asleep, and it would be alright that Frodo hasn’t said anything. For better or for worse, his master has always needed time to mull things over properly.
He’s just about decided to go without a wash and let himself drift off when Frodo surprises him by clearing his throat.
“I love you too,” he whispers. It’s a raspy, broken whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you. I hardly know my mind myself.” He laughs hollowly. “I don’t know how to put it into words yet.”
“That’s alright,” Sam whispers back. He traces patterns on Frodo’s back. “I’m not in any hurry.”
A few more minutes pass till Frodo speaks again.
“Everything is so far away,” he murmurs. “Or, I’m so far away. I don’t know. But it’s as though I can’t recognize anything, when I look around. Or when I look at myself. None of it feels real. I know it doesn’t make much sense. But I am trying Sam, really I am.”
Sam presses a kiss to Frodo’s forehead in lieu of a response. Frodo sighs and nestles closer.
“It’s better when I’m with you, I think. You help me remember. But it’s so dreadfully hard. And sometimes…” and here Frodo’s tone drops so low Sam has to strain to hear it, “sometimes I think it would’ve been better altogether if I never came back at all. Better for you. Better for everyone.”
Sam’s heart shatters. “Frodo,” he chokes. “Frodo, please don’t say such things. Please don’t ever say such things. I’d be broken without you. I’d be lost. There’d be nothing for me here without you, nothing at all. ”
“That’s not true,” spits Frodo with a sudden fervor which catches Sam off guard. “That’s not true at all Sam. You don’t say such things. The world has so much to offer you. Don’t ever say that.”
The last thing Sam wants is to upset Frodo further, so he doesn’t push back. But there’s no rhetorical turn Frodo could take, no method of persuasion that could convince Sam otherwise. There is no conceivable world in which he exists, and Frodo doesn’t. It’s unimaginable.
“I really am sorry,” Frodo says at length. “You do so much for me. I feel as though all I do is take from you.”
“I want to do it,” says Sam immediately. “I want to take care of you. You’ve never taken anything I didn’t want to give.”
Frodo sighs. “I know Sam. Forgive me.”
“There’s nought to forgive.” He does a little shuffling, keeping Frodo trapped in his arms as he pulls the blankets over both of them. “And if I’m being honest, it does all get to be too much for me sometimes too. Sometimes it’s like,” and here he has to swallow rapidly a few times, “sometimes, it’s like we never left that mountain. It’s like I’m still there, with the fear of it all. So I do understand, a little.”
Frodo says nothing, but takes Sam’s hand and squeezes it. I’m alive, it means. You’re alive too.
“I can’t say what’ll be like, back home,” whispers Sam. “But could that be alright? If we just try? I mean, we just go on taking it one step at a time. And I’ll tell you when I’m worrying on something. And you’ll tell me?”
Frodo tilts his head back and peers at Sam through the dark. The starlight through the open window glints off his hair. “Very well Sam,” he murmurs. “We’ll try.”