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Gossamer Strands
The small creature froze suddenly, as she sensed
movement and light. This had once been a quiet corner, but as of
late her modest activities had been disturbed more often. The broken
windowpane had been repaired, although she did not know it, and her
supply of food had thus dwindled. Still, it was enough, and the
great lumbering fly, slowly buzzing through its last day, had been
trapped with little trouble, and would be a plentiful feast for
several days.
The larger creature who came and went had no mind to search her out,
however, and the small room in which a spider’s web would have been
previously immediately noticeable, was no longer in such an
immaculate state. The earthen walls had begun to crumble with
neglect, and the carefully laid wooden floor had not been scrubbed
in many a month, but had had to make do with only an occasional
hasty sweep. The fireplace was sooty, and tended to smoke if the
fire was not laid exactly right, indicating, without a doubt, the
presence of birds’ nests. It was the sort of room, at the moment, in
which a small web could linger near the window, overlooked and
undisturbed.
The fire was started quickly this evening, for it was the time of
the shortest days of the year, and there was no reserve of warmth in
the chilled room, no lingering sense of coziness that comes from a
well-tended comfortable blaze every morning to take the chill off,
and another generally begun about teatime, precisely just before it
becomes a necessity. One candle had been placed on the hearth,
actually quite near her domain, but she was still not noticed. The
other was placed on the nightstand near the bed.
The bed had been a source of concern for Sam. He and Frodo had
certainly had to make do with many an uncomfortable spot in which to
lie for the night, and it seemed unreasonably finicky to eye any
actual bed askance, yet Sam could not help but think of who might
have occupied that bed since he and Frodo had last made this bedroom
their own. “May as well as had orcs stayin’ here, from the looks of
the filth they left behind,” he had grumbled to himself, and that
was a thought he did not care to pursue any further, at least when
it came to the bed.
So he had taken the now matted and stained feather bed outside and
up to the back hill, slitting it open to let the feathers stir and
then loft up into the early winter winds, scattering where they
would. At least the birds, come spring, might find them in the odd
place or two, and use them in their own nests. The cloth cover he
dragged back to Bag End, and stowed it in the farthermost cellar.
There was no sense in waste, for there was waste aplenty, all about
him, seemingly. When he had a moment to spare, it could be boiled,
to give it a good cleaning, and cut up for rags. There was always a
need for a sturdy rag or two. But there was much more that needed
doing before he’d have the time for that chore.
The bed itself he had wiped down thoroughly with hot sudsy water and
a towel, and there was even some walnut oil that he had found in the
garden shed. The previous residents of Bag End had obviously had no
horticultural leanings, and the garden shed had remained largely
undisturbed. He had rubbed the smooth cherry wood bedstead again and
again with the oil, until the aged wood gleamed once again, and then
turned, in his mind, to the matter of the mattress. Straw would not
do at all, he had decided firmly. Bad enough that the Master of Bag
End had to make shrift with a poor mattress such as that for the
time being, but he was determined that Frodo’s world should be put
to rights again, and it would start with a proper bed.
Unfortunately, feather beds started with geese, and there was a
noticeable shortage of any common fowl about. Daisy and the gaffer
had managed to secret a small hen in Number Three, since the Gamgee
smial had only been raided once, and then given up as having no loot
worth the mention. The small speckled fowl, having free range of the
kitchen, seemed content enough and donated eggs as compensation.
Finding sufficient feathers however, from either chicken or duck or
goose, to accumulate for a feather bed, did not appear to be likely
in the near future.
Sam sighed, and slumped against the bed frame. He had not let Frodo
come into Bag End yet, since the initial horrific glance through the
familiar round green door, but he was determined that they should
spend Yule Eve, this very night, here. The gaffer and Daisy were
more than generous in providing them with a room of their own at
Number Three, with the gaffer taking his bed into the kitchen and
Daisy braving the chilly and barren front room, but Sam yearned to
be back in his own home, and that, no matter the shape it was in
these days, was Bag End.
Well, there were, at least, blankets to be had, and he had spread
the thick woolen coverlets, which Daisy had washed for him,
throughout the smial to dry. It nearly broke his heart to enter some
of the rooms; the study, with Bilbo’s painstakingly collected
library vandalized and mutilated, or his own kitchen, nearly
unrecognizable as the midden that it had been made into, but he had
resolved to start with the bedroom, so he turned a blind eye to all
else and refused to be distracted. Frodo had the affairs of the
Shire to be attending to, right now, but Sam had the restoration of
Bag End as his first priority, and that could only be done room by
room, seemingly.
But now the coverlets were piled to their best advantage on the bed
and laid over with a crisp and clean sheet. There was another sheet
and a couple more blankets for warmth in the frosty night carefully
laid on top, the garbage that Starkey’s men had left behind was
gone, and the room was, at least, presentable. Sam gave a weary last
look about. It was not as he wished it to be, it was not as he
remembered it in his longing dreams, but it would do.
“Now,” Sam said softly, drawing Frodo into the room with a firm hand
about his waist. “Now you can open your eyes.” There had been no
chance for much in the way of Yule decorations, but Sam had found a
bit of holly to place on the hearth, and he had brought a basket
with a modest loaf of bread along with a small tub of butter, a bit
of cheese as well as sausage, and some dried apples, thoughtfully
packed by Daisy, with him. Sam was well aware that this constituted
a feast, these days, in the Shire. He had added a couple of small
mugs, for he had found, forgotten in the farthest corner of the
cellar, a last dusty bottle of Old Winyards. Bag End had seen many a
festive Yuletide dinner, but probably none more indispensable than
this one.
Frodo slowly opened his eyes at Sam’s soft murmur, and gazed at his
old room once more. It was barer than it had been, and undeniably
rather shabby, but it was clean, and familiar, and unspeakably dear
to him. And as he stood in the warm, inviting heart of his old smial
again, Sam’s hand still around him, he felt something within him, a
barrier he had not known was there, slowly begin to fall. Perhaps
they could find their quiet life together again, he thought
suddenly, not realizing that until just now that he had been denying
himself that hope. Perhaps they could come back again, after all.
“It’s beautiful, Sam,” he whispered, unaware that tears had begun to
slowly run down his face.
“Of course it is,” Sam gave a tender smile as he lovingly reached up
and gently turned Frodo’s face toward his own. “It’s home.”
“As is anywhere with you, Sam,” Frodo breathed, meeting Sam’s mouth
with his own. Their kiss was sustained and thorough, and Frodo felt
the stirring of something he had not felt in far too long, the
tremor of desire suddenly awakening to his quickening senses. Oh,
could it be? Could he ever regain the joy and peace that he had
known here with Sam? It was Yule-Eve, after all, and a night on
which extraordinary things had been known to happen.
As always, Sam had sensed the change in his mood, and drew Frodo
closer. One of his hands had slipped lower and curved itself
lovingly around Frodo, and Frodo broke breathlessly away from the
kiss, softly groaning with the craving for those beloved,
experienced hands. “Oh, Sam,” he gasped, curling further into Sam’s
embrace. “I don’t think I’ve been very good, lately, about telling
you how desperately I love you.”
He could hear Sam’s warm breath, brushing by the tip of his ear, as
he gave a short laugh. “Not to worry, me darling, I’d not be
forgettin’ that, but ‘tis always that lovely to hear.” But there
were Sam’s hands, now running up his back, between his jacket and
shirt, and he felt his knees weaken at the sensation. He tugged
quickly at Sam’s shirt, hungry for the touch of Sam’s skin, as his
hand, so altered these days, readily found it. No matter, for that
particular change made no difference at all, since there was Sam’s
warm delectable skin under his craving touch, the very same as it
had always been before. And even though Sam had been changed as
well, not having nearly the desirable hobbit roundness he had once
had, still Frodo could dream of nothing more wonderful than what his
hand found, and he ran it lightly, under the shirt, up Sam’s chest,
and felt nearly faint from the glorious bliss of the caress.
Sam had given a slight whimper at the touch, a low, very nearly
mewling cry, and closed his eyes as Frodo, by the candlelight, saw
that there were silent tears running down his cheeks as well. That
was almost more than he could bear then, and with a rush of
passionate love, tinged with more than a hint of sorrow, he swept
his other arm back around Sam’s shoulders and, running his hand now
ardently up Sam’s chest, found his mouth again, and kissed him
fiercely. He could feel Sam’s knees start to buckle under the press
of his embrace, and pushed his willing lover back against the bed,
falling heavily over him. Sam’s eyes were tightly closed now, but
his fingers wrapped themselves desperately around Frodo’s shoulders
and his mouth opened eagerly to Frodo’s, and their tongues met and
joined in a way they had not for long dreary months. It was, very
nearly, as if it had never happened before; this careful yet nearly
frantic exploration and enticing seduction of mouth and breath, or
if it had happened, it was in a distant memory and to someone who
was not the same at all.
Sam’s eyes finally flickered open and, even though Frodo could still
see the lashes wet and glittering in the wavering candlelight, his
eyes were gleaming golden with happiness. “I believe we’ve forgotten
summat, Frodo me love,” he whispered, his mouth curving in a smile
as he drew a caressing hand down from the side of Frodo’s face to
his shoulder, and plucked lightly at his sleeve. “We naught be
needin’ this, now, would we?”
Frodo laughed lightly, and began to slowly proceed, button by
button, down the front of Sam’s shirt, pausing for a kiss between
every one.
Sam sighed with pleasure again, concentrating on the sensation of
Frodo’s painstaking undoing of each button. He shut his mind to all
else, all the fears and doubts and regrets, for this was their own
home, and this was his own beloved Frodo, whose hands touched and
teased and aroused him, and whose breath quickened in his ear, and
this was Yule Eve. Slowly he let his own hand drift down Frodo’s
arm, and under his jacket, feeling the finely woven shirt and the
wiry strength underneath it. His legs were still over the side of
the bed, pinned there by Frodo’s weight, but he pulled out one knee
and drew it up, curving it against Frodo’s back and holding Frodo
close to him.
Then Frodo was finished, and his shirt was swept to either side as
Frodo’s dark curls bent over his chest. Sam gave a short harsh gasp,
throwing his head back, as Frodo found those exquisitely sensitive
nubs. Nearly without thinking, he slipped his hand between their
bodies, finding the fastening to Frodo’s trousers. With a dexterous
twist, they were undone, and Sam impatiently pushed the fabric down
with just one hand, the other still tightly clutching the shoulder
of Frodo’s jacket, and nearly instantly found flesh and warmth and
all that he could possibly desire.
The other unnoticed occupant of the room had paused at the rustling
of clothing, and the whispered intermittent exchanges and gasps, but
soon came to the conclusion that there was nothing here to fear.
Painstakingly, she spun her silk in the chill near the window of the
darkened room, and prepared another concentric ring about her web.
The stars were sharp and fiercely bright in the darkened sky on the
other side of the round window this Yule Eve, but the spider gave
them no heed either as she worked steadily above the flickering
candle. It wasn’t long before there was a sharp cry, soon answered,
from the other side of the room, and then all was quiet save for the
crackle and snap of the burning logs.
The candle was beginning to gutter low as the two celebrants
finished their Yule Eve dinner. Swept away by their emotions though
they had been, they were still too close to the memories of those
horrible weeks of starvation and deprivation to let a mealtime go by
them. Instead, nestled tightly together, they ate their meal
gratefully, and savored every precious last drop of good Shire wine.
When the food and drink were gone was the time for more whispered
exchanges, and slow kisses, and tender loving touches. It was only
when the remnants of the dinner had finally been tucked neatly back
in the basket, and Sam had reluctantly left the bed in order to
snuff out the candle on the hearth, that he happened to look up to
the top of the window, and gave an involuntary sharp intake of
breath. There, stretched across the wooden window pane, it
glittered. Lacy and seemingly fragile, spun of the sheerest of
threads and catching the candlelight from within and the starlight
from without, both impossibly beautiful and hauntingly reminiscent
of great pain and anguish, the spider’s web glistened. Frodo lifted
his head up at the impulsive sound Sam had made, and saw it too.
Rising out of bed as well, he joined Sam at the window and threw an
arm around his shoulders, drawing him close.
“It’s a Shire spider, Sam,” he murmured softly.
“Aye,” Sam agreed, slightly grudgingly, but more than a little
distracted by the warm body next to his. “But I’d not be carin’ to
share our smial with it.”
Frodo laughed softly. “I suspect she has plenty of company in the
rest of the smial, which you have not let me see yet. But look how
lovely her web is, my dear. We’ll not be needing to open this window
for months yet, and she’ll be gone come spring.” He paused for a
moment, and then added, in a lower murmur, “ ‘Tis Yule Eve, after
all, Sam, and a season for us all to give what we can to each other,
however meager though it be.”
“Oh, Frodo,” Sam replied, with a slight catch in his voice, as he
turned towards his companion, catching him up in his arms and
burying his head in the crook of Frodo’s neck. “Never too little, me
darling, never that. Always all I could ever have dreamed of,
Frodo-love.”
Though Sam’s face was turned from him, Frodo smiled wistfully and
gently stroked the dark blond curls with one hand, still holding Sam
tightly to him with the other. “It’s always been all my heart, Sam,
at least it’s never been anything less than that. But look, my
dearest, the snow has begun.”
And so it had. As Sam turned to see, blinking back the tears that he
refused to let dampen his spirits this night, he saw, past the
gleaming web, the soft white flakes beginning to silently and
gracefully float past their window.
“Seems to me you’ve misplaced the mistletoe,” Frodo’s eyes gleamed
as well with a rare peace, “but let’s just us pretend it’s there. A
merry Yule Eve to you, my own dear Sam.”
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