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Apple Blossom Time
There is no such thing as privacy in a tent. First Merry, and then Pippin,
exited theirs, and went down to the stream to refresh themselves. They stood
under the willow, in the moonlight, moodily digging their toes into the soft
muddy bank. Finally Pippin turned to Merry, and in the tone of one who, quite
frankly, wishes to be enlightened, asked, “What do you suppose Sam could be
doing to him?”
Merry looked over at his cousin, and shrugged his shoulders with a candidly
bewildered air. “The imagination does rather fall short,” he admitted. But the
attention of both of the hobbits was quickly snapped back to the tent due to
Frodo’s rather enthusiastic vocalizing, issuing once again from the darkened
tent. Sam’s voice could be heard on occasion as well, but primarily consisted of
muttered words that were impossible to catch, and the sporadic low, throaty
chuckle.
“Sam is rather deceptive, isn’t he,” Pippin mentioned rather thoughtfully. “One
wouldn’t really think, would one.”
“No.” Merry had to admit. “One would think that he would be rather more prone to
the, erm, basics.”
“So either we’re quite wrong about Sam,” Pippin pursued this line of thought
meditatively, “or Frodo is rather easily pleased.”
Merry considered this point. “I think we must be wrong about Sam,” he finally
judged. “He must not be the simple hobbit of the earth that we thought him to
be.”
A final ringing cadenza, ending on quite an emphatic note, seemed to underlie
Merry’s judgment rather nicely. “I suppose not,” Pippin agreed with a grin.
After a few moments of quiet murmuring from the tent, followed by silence, he
added, “Well, I suppose that’d be it for the night. I guess we can go back now.”
“Unless they’re just catching their breath,” Merry added darkly, as he followed
Pippin back to their tent.
*****
It had been Pippin’s idea. He had had fond memories of the trip that he, Frodo,
and Sam had made to Buckland Hall, a few years’ prior. The winter had been
glumly cold and wet, and even Frodo and Sam had felt a trifle stifled, shut up
in Bag End that snowy winter, not that that situation didn’t have its own set of
peculiar charms. And Merry, trapped at Brandy Hall, had been all too eager to
escape into the back country with his cousins. So here they were, mid-spring,
tramping the farthest reaches of Binbale Wood. And really, it would have been an
ideal trip except for the fact that Merry and Pippin were finding it difficult
to get a full night’s sleep.
*****
Merry and Pippin were eying Sam from the open flap of their own tent. Although
the morning was yet early and quite cool, Sam was already busily engrossed in
starting the morning campfire and doing something about breakfast. And since Sam
never stinted in that area, the two onlookers fully expected to be setting down
to mountains of potatoes, rashers of bacon, piles of scrambled eggs, and plates
of toast and tomatoes, with a large kettle of tea at hand to wash it down, all
in no time at all. But at the moment, their attention was for once not fixed
upon the food, but rather upon the cook.
There was no sign of Frodo, but Sam was looking tidy, as usual, and his normal,
unassuming self. “One would never guess, would one,” mused Merry, staring at the
busy hobbit meditatively.
“Absolutely not,” agreed Pippin, at his shoulder and also peering out the tent.
“I don’t suppose we could ask him?” he asked suddenly, turning to Merry
hopefully.
Merry’s head spun around suddenly at that, horror writ large upon his face. “No,
I suppose not,” Pippin sighed in reply, looking crestfallen.
Frodo issued from the other tent at that moment, quite surprising the onlookers.
Usually Frodo was the last to rise, and often required a couple of well-aimed
kicks through the tent wall to encourage him to do so. Yet here he was, yawning,
and serenely stretching, with a cheerful air, and a warm smile towards Sam.
“Wonderful morning,” he announced, with great satisfaction.
“Sleep well, me dear?” Sam returned the smile, but kept working steadily
toasting the bread.
“Nothing like the scent of pine,” Frodo grinned, and then headed down to the
stream to wash up.
Seeing that there would be no further information forthcoming, the other two
blearily staggered from their tent and headed to the stream as well, with a
grunted greeting to Sam. Breakfast was a rather silent one on the part of the
younger two hobbits, but Frodo and Sam nattered on cheerily about nothing in
particular as they managed to consume most of the breakfast.
*****
The next night was even worse. Frodo and Sam had retired somewhat early, but all
had been peaceful and calm within the darkened tent, and the other two
gratefully retired as well, hoping for a full night’s rest. But Pippin was
awakened in the deep of the night by the now alarmingly familiar sound. Bolting
upright out of his blankets, he could see, by the moonlight streaming into their
tent opening, that Merry was awake as well.
As if there were any alternative. “Ah! Ah! Ah!” Frodo was yodeling in an
especially rhythmic manner. Once again, Sam’s voice was not heard as much as his
rich, deep chuckle. With a hearty groan of his own, Merry flopped back onto the
blankets, but the other tent was oblivious to anything outside its walls.
A corner of Pippin’s mind had to admire the never-repeating variations which
Frodo could interject into that short syllable, but the rest of him was becoming
extremely distracted. Turning to Merry, he realized that his companion had
resorted to his own hand, and with a groan of his own, he gave in to this
argument as well. And as Frodo’s aria ended with a fine flourish, the other two
came to some rather gasped finales of their own. All was quiet under the pines
once again.
*****
Merry and Pippin had lagged behind their companions through most of the
morning’s walk, and by the time they had halted for lunch, they both plopped
themselves down next to the broad fragrant trunk of a cedar, and refused to
budge. Frodo eyed them both a bit sharply, but assisted Sam in preparing the
meal without further comment.
After lunch had been enthusiastically polished off by Frodo and Sam, and picked
at by the other two, Frodo proposed to Sam that they pick up some dry wood to
take along for the evening. “This early in the spring,” he noted, “dry wood
isn’t always easy to come by.” Sam gravely nodded in agreement, and as soon as
the pans and pots had been scoured out and packed away, he followed Frodo back
up the trail from whence they had earlier come.
The other two leaned against the cedar in tranquil relaxation, warmed by the
midday sun, lulled by the chatter of the birds building nests in the trees about
them, until suddenly Merry sat up straight, with a strained look on his face.
Nothing needed to be said. Pippin sat up as well, and listened judiciously. “I
rather think that was Sam,” he mentioned thoughtfully, after a slight pause.
Merry grimaced, stuffing his fingers in his ears, and sliding down the trunk.
“Don’t those two ever stop?” he asked desperately, of no one in particular.
Pippin stared up through the leafy canopy above him meditatively. “They’ve been
together, how long now?” he asked suddenly, turning toward Merry.
“Three, four years,” Merry replied, rather distractedly. “I don’t know. And
anyway, I really should have thought Frodo was a bit more mature than this.”
Pippin eyed him skeptically. “This would be our cousin who still persists in
dropping toads on my sisters, whenever he comes by, purely to hear them shriek.”
“Only because he knows how you enjoy it, Pip,” Merry replied, a little testily.
“And you know, that really only works on Pim. Pearl’s no fun at all; she’s just
as liable to throw them right back at you.”
“Good point,” Pippin had to agree. He raised up his head at that. “It’s all
quiet now,” he whispered. “I’m going to go have a look.”
“Pip!” Merry gasped, horrified, but Pip glanced back at him with a distinct
smirk.
“It wouldn’t be the first time, you know,” he grinned impishly, and stealthily
crept forward, as Merry tried to feel shocked at this, and failed, and followed
Pippin.
It took awhile to find the errant hobbits, as silence had befallen the woods
once again. The other two were as soundless as possible, but that really didn’t
matter, as they eventually discovered.
Frodo and Sam were found in a glade not far off from the trail, and the only
evidence of any recent activity was the fact that their clothing, although on
them, had managed to come all undone. It was their positions, however, that most
struck the onlookers. Sam was sitting in the grass with his back against a stout
oak tree, and Frodo was lying on the ground, curled up next to him, with his
head in Sam’s lap, turned away from them, obvious fast asleep. Sam, also asleep,
had one careful hand protectively around Frodo’s shoulder, and the other was
gently wound through Frodo’s dark curls. His head was back against the bark,
dappled with light, and he was somehow managing to smile and snore lightly at
the same time.
Without another word, the other two returned quietly to their campground.
******
That evening, once in their tents again, Merry rummaged around at the bottom of
his pack and triumphantly pulled out the rather grubby stub of an old candle
while the mystified Pippin looked on. “Wax,” Merry grinned, over at him, in the
waning light of the campfire slowly dying outside their tent flap.
“Ah,” Pippin smiled, comprehending. He watched Merry rolling the candle
forcefully between his hands until the beeswax became malleable. Then tearing it
into four pieces, he handed two over to Pippin.
Working his pieces so that they were vaguely plug-shaped, he glanced over to
Pippin, who was doing the same. “Worth a try, at any rate.”
Pippin nodded his head emphatically, but then suddenly looked thoughtful. “Well,
there was this afternoon,” he mentioned, glancing over at Merry questioningly.
“Maybe we wouldn’t really need these tonight?”
Merry arched his eyebrow skeptically, and stuck the plugs in his ears, then
settled down in his blankets with a grunt.
“Right. Probably will,” Pippin sighed, and followed suit.
Frodo and Sam found that Pippin and Merry were decidedly more chipper the next
morning.
*****
At this point in their journey, they had reached the fork where the Great Road
from the north met up with the path from the Binbale Wood, and turned back south
again. But it wasn’t long before the path that they were following split off
from the Great Road again, and began to run through deserted farmland. This part
of the Shire had once been more populated, but as time went by, the outlying
farmers found that they preferred to be closer to the towns of the Shire, and
gradually, these farms had fallen fallow and wild.
They had stopped for lunch beside one of the streams that ran south toward the
Water and, to his great delight, Pippin found that this section of the stream
spread out in a wide pool, and was inhabited by a collection of very large, and
very vocal, toads. Pippin, being a tremendous advocate of all creatures
amphibian, was entranced.
“Look, Merry,” he exclaimed in delight, closely examining the back of a great
toad as he squatted in the mud at the creek bank, “watch this!”
Touching the toad’s head lightly with a leaf produced a full, indignant harumph,
and a second touch caused a reluctant, begrudging hop into a leafier and more
remote section of the creek side. Turning to Merry, Pippin’s eyes were
sparkling. “Have you ever seen such an enormous toad, Merry?” he laughed in
delight. “And they are nearly tame!”
“Don’t you even think what I think you’re thinking, Pippin Took,” cautioned
Merry with a grin. “You leave them where they be.”
“But, Merry,” Pippin was laughingly protesting, as Frodo shook his head with a
chuckle, and reaching out for Sam’s hand, walked further on with him, leaving
the other two behind.
They walked through the high grass and scattered trees of a deserted farm, with
nothing but the high breeze above, and the rustle of leafy branches to be heard,
until Sam suddenly stopped short. “Oh, Frodo!” he gasped, with pleasure, his
trained eye catching what Frodo did not yet see. With Frodo still firmly in
hand, he rushed forward through the tall grass, stopping short and tightening
his grip on Frodo’s hand. Frodo stopped as well, and gazed around, his face lit
with enchantment and wonder.
It was an apple orchard they gazed upon, but not just any orchard. It must have
been magnificent in its day, an orchard to match the best of Buckland’s, but it
had been many years since it had been tended. But the trees were swirled all
over with white blossom, as ethereal as spun sugar, as fragrant as the finest
clover honey. Row upon row they were, and the grass grew deep underfoot, nearly
half as tall as the trunks to the lowest branches. They were patriarchs, mighty
and well-grown, yet still enormously fruitful. And Sam looked upon them in
amazement, knowing that there were varieties here that had been lost to the more
tame orchards to the south. “Oh, Frodo!” Sam exclaimed again, in delight, “Just
look, now!”
Frodo did. And then, called by vaguely-remembered memories from the past, he
walked forward with Sam into the grove and, looking up at a particularly
glorious specimen, he smiled, his face aglow with remembrance.
“I used to escape to the back orchard at Bag End to read, Sam, remember?” he
asked softly, still staring up into the branches. “And you would be sent to come
and find me,” he added, with a warm smile toward Sam.
“Aye, that I was,” Sam’s face lit up at the recollection. “But I didn’t always
come back right away,” he added, almost shyly, glancing at Frodo.
Frodo laughed happily. “No, you didn’t,” he replied, tenderly. Turning again to
the tree, he quickly shed the pack on his back, and grabbing at the lowest
branches, tested the rough trunk with his toes.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” chuckled Sam at that, his eyes lighting up. “I’d be the one
up first these days.” And suiting action to his words, he also let his heavier
pack drop and lightly catching hold of the branch, sprang up, past Frodo, and
was soon lost to sight in the foliage and blossom. “Here you are, me dear,” his
voice quickly floated down, “this’d be a fine one, it would.”
Frodo followed him up at that, and found Sam comfortably situated in the fork of
the trunk, extending a hand toward him. Gleefully, he draped a leg to each side
of Sam’s lap, and settled down comfortably. “Remember when you used to sit in my
lap and I’d read to you?” he murmured with a wicked grin.
“Aye, I’d never be forgettin’ that,” Sam answered, wrapping up Frodo in his
arms.
“Well, you were too young then, to be sure, but when you moved just so, ah,
Sam,” Frodo confided with a chuckle. “When you would wiggle sometimes, well, it
was rather hard for me to focus on the story, I must admit.”
Sam beamed at that. “Frodo! Why, I never! An’ me but a slip of a lad,” he
declared in mock admonition, settling himself even more comfortably under Frodo.
“A slip of a lad, to be sure,” Frodo whispered, leaning forward to kiss Sam
lightly, “but surely the most beautiful one I’d ever seen.”
“Frodo!” Sam exclaimed, his face flushing with disbelief mingled with pleasure.
“Mmm,” Frodo replied, his mouth now busy on Sam’s. “I tried my best not to think
about it,” he added, with a wry smile, “since I really didn’t want to startle
you.”
Sam lifted him up slightly and lowered him even more comfortably in his lap.
“It’d be a good thing I’d be all grown up, now, wouldn’t it,” he murmured,
moving ever so slightly under Frodo.
“Oh,” sighed Frodo, bending forward and resting his forehead against Sam’s
shoulder, “and ever so nicely, I must say.” Almost reflexively, he straightened
up, rubbing ever so slightly against Sam’s stomach.
“ ‘Tis just as well I never guessed,” Sam’s voice was beginning to sound rather
strained, as he slowly ran his hands firmly up Frodo’s sides. “Because, young as
I was…” his voice trailed off at that, and he reached around and firmly clutched
Frodo’s backside at that.
“Just as well,” Frodo gasped in agreement, slowly grinding himself into Sam’s
lap, where Sam’s trousers were already starting to become taut in unconscious
agreement.
“Would never have done,” Sam breathed, toes digging into the surrounding
branches as he forced himself upwards. “To have had Mr. Bilbo come out a’lookin’
for us.”
“No, never,” Frodo agreed, with a sharp intake of breath, reaching down to
rapidly undo the fastenings of his trousers. Once again, he leaned forward, his
mouth finding Sam’s again, and this time, his tongue was past Sam’s teeth and
met with Sam’s, and cleverly ran against it, around it, twining and seeking, as
Sam’s joined it eagerly and hungrily.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo gasped, finally breaking apart, and his hand upon himself now,
tightly holding and stroking.
“Come to me, love,” Sam’s voice was throaty and deep, and his hands plunged down
under Frodo’s trousers, peeling them back off of him.
Frodo quickly reached under himself and undid Sam’s own trousers with a
practiced move, releasing him as well. And now they were together, skin against
skin, heat against heat, tightly held to each other, in a slow movement as old
as time. “Ah, Sam,” Frodo panted, his head resting once again on Sam’s shoulder
as he drove himself down ever harder. And he felt, as always, enfolded in Sam,
as Sam’s arms clung tightly around him, Sam’s kisses burned his cheeks, his
face, his ears, and Sam drove himself upwards against him with all his strength.
“Ah!” he never heard himself call out wildly, “Ah! Sam!” And with a final
passionate groan, he came down on Sam with a last grinding motion and a choked
cry as he flowed into Sam’s lap, joining him.
For several moments, there was nothing to be heard but the laze of heavy bees in
the blossoms and the wild beating of their hearts. And then, from far below,
Merry’s tones floated up to them. “Oy! Frodo! Sam!” he called, with a note of
exasperated amusement. “Are the two of you at it again? Pip and I have been
looking all over for both of you.”
“Go away, Merry,” Frodo’s words, sounding both amused and sated, came drifting
down to them as they stood below the cloud of white petals. “The two of you go
find your own tree.”
But the hum of insects in the warm grass, and his very own breathing, suddenly
stopped short for Pippin as Merry slowly turned to him with a speculative look.
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