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Lover's Knot
It was when Sam came in for luncheon that Frodo first noticed it; a
rather grimy piece of twine wrapped about one of Sam’s fingers. The day had
turned out to be almost insufferable, warm and muggy, with thunderheads
looming on the horizon, but sullenly refusing to release their healing rain.
That made as near to no difference to Sam, in the usual course of matters,
but the hay in the Cottons’ back field did want mowing, before the coming
rain slicked it to the ground and made it impossible to cut. Frodo hadn’t
seen Sam since first breakfast, but he knew that if the work went well, and
matters were not urgent, Sam liked to come back to Bag End for the midday
meal, and have a bit of rest before working through the afternoon.
Matters did seem to be well in hand, for Sam stepped through the kitchen
door promptly at noon, cheerfully whistling some ancient tune that he had
picked up from his gaffer, no doubt.
Frodo hid a wince. This sort of oppressiveness in the atmosphere nearly
always made him irritable, causing him to feel sweaty and as if he was
sticking to his clothing, and generally irascible toward any creature that
did not seem to be as bothered by it as he was. He thought, on the whole,
however, that he hid this fact from Sam rather well.
Earlier, he had been planning on baking Sam a nice cheese pie for luncheon
(he‘d become quite proud of his improved technique over the past several
years), but the pastry stuck insufferably to his fingers, and absolutely
refused to be rolled out, and he had, in a lamentable fit of temper, pitched
the whole mess out. He felt somewhat guilty about it, since Sam really did
deserve something substantial in his stomach to get him through the rest of
the afternoon, but his mind, somewhat to his alarm, had gone blank and
devoid of ideas, and he had, at last in desperation, set out a plate of the
last of Marigold’s brown bread, a rind of Cheddar with a rather largish
piece left on it, and a jar of picked cauliflower of a dubious age. At least
there were some nice plums to add, and since he couldn’t bear the thought of
anything requiring a fire, a large pitcher of water from the springhouse,
rather than the expected tea.
Sam gave the table a glance, and subduing a raised eyebrow in the matter of
an instant, crossed over to dry his hands on the dishtowel, having given
them and his face a quick wash from the pump before entering the smial. He
made no comment regarding the less than substantial meal, but sat in his
accustomed chair with a sigh of relief, and picking up a fat plum, bit
hungrily into it.
“There’s a bit of string on your finger,” Frodo noticed, although it was
actually the sweet sticky juice of the plum running down Sam’s strong
fingers that was attracting his attention. The thought of swiftly leaning
across the table to take care of that matter for Sam did flit through his
mind, but the heat had caused in him a pronounced sluggishness that kept him
fixed in his seat a moment too long, and then it was too late. Sam, giving
the process a great deal of studied attention, licked the juice off of his
fingers himself, giving Frodo a steady glance over the pit of the plum, and
then looked down at his hand, as if just recollecting Frodo’s comment.
“Aye,” he noted, staring at the twine for just a moment. “Had to knot it,
too, it’d be wantin’ to slip off.”
Frodo bit his tongue to refrain from asking the obvious question. It was all
too apparent that Sam was waiting for him to ask why, and in the heat of the
smial, with the noonday sun high overhead, he cantankerously refused to do
so.
Sam seemed not to be nonplussed by the lack of further questions however,
and after making short work of such food as there was before him, and
setting the questionable jar aside with a frown, washed the food down with a
long drink of water, and then rose to his feet. “I’ve a bit of time before I
must be back,” he mentioned mildly, “and a nap sounds like just the thing.
‘Tis rather warm within, t’my taste, so I’ll just be findin’ a patch o’shade
in the back garden then.”
He turned, hand on the doorknob, as Frodo watched him leave, concealing his
disgruntlement rather well, he thought. “If we work with a will, I’ll be
home by teatime, me dear. An’ have ye never heard of a string t’remember
by?”
“Remember what, Sam?” Frodo couldn’t help but asking rather crossly.
“Ah, well, if you’d not be rememberin’ likewise, well there ain’t much point
to me rememberin’ on me own,” Sam declared, with a chuckle, and was gone.
&&&&&
Frodo sat in the stuffy kitchen and pondered Sam’s words. Apparently, there
was something he was expected to remember here as well, but nothing at all
came to mind. In an irritable mood, he rose, and dunking the dishes in the
tepid water left in the dishpan from elevensies, gave them a hasty swipe. He
laid them on the counter, clanking them thoughtlessly together, and the
small chip thereby produced on the bottom one did not improve his mood at
all. Really, it was quite annoying of Sam to produce a puzzle like this on
such an insufferably stifling day. With a distinct aggravated huff, he
snatched up the pan, and flinging open the kitchen door, heaved the water
into the drain, not much caring if he splattered the petunias or not.
Sheltering his eyes from the sun, he stared off in the distance, glaring at
the high billowing clouds that were stubbornly halted over the farthest
ridge. He turned back to the door, but in doing so, his eye caught on a very
familiar shape lying in the grass under the poplar that shaded the path up
to the hill beyond Bag End.
It was Sam, of course, lying on his side and breathing peacefully, oblivious
to Frodo’s gaze, and fast asleep. For just a moment, the thought came to
Frodo of how pleasant it would be to be lying next to him, spooned against
that familiar body, with that strong arm wrapped firmly around him, and
perhaps a few sleepy kisses directed against that spot right behind his ear
that Sam had long ago discovered, and made extremely good use of ever since.
But no. It was far too hot for that, and besides, he was provoked with Sam
for being so very inexplicable. Banishing the mystery from his head for the
time being, he made his way back through the stifling smial to the study,
where he had been wrestling with a particularly thorny translation all
morning. It was a pointless struggle, though. The words would not come to
him, but teased and tantalized him by lying just out of reach, and his hand
stuck horribly to the paper as he tried to write, and when the ink
inevitably blotted across the word he was writing, entirely spoiling the
whole page, he snatched it up, crumpled it angrily, and with a vehement
expression that he was fairly sure he had never uttered in front of Sam, let
it fly across the room in frustration.
Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he stalked out of the study in a
state, by now, of deep wrath. What possessed Sam, anyway, claiming that
there should be something that he should be remembering? Was there something
that he was supposed to have picked up in Hobbiton today? But nothing came
to mind as being needed; there was plenty of food in the larder, he just
wasn’t in much of a mood to be cooking it, that was all. Was he supposed to
go pick up the laundry from Daisy? Was he supposed to meet someone at the
Green Dragon? Blast if he could remember, and if it had been something of
the sort, why hadn’t Sam simply said so?
Before he realized it, he found himself out of the smial and in the back
yard again. Sam was no longer under the tree, back off to the Cottons’, no
doubt, but the imprint of his body still remained in the grass. For no
particular reason, Frodo walked over to the shady tree and seated himself in
the grass where Sam had been, his hand unconsciously stealing out to feel
the indentation of the now absent form. The heat of the afternoon stole over
him again, although it was in truth much more pleasant out of doors in the
shade, and this bit of a hill did rather seem to catch a slight breeze; how
did Sam manage to know these things? And before he quite realized it, he had
leaned back against the tree trunk and had fallen quite asleep himself.
&&&&&
A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him awake, and he raised himself up
on his elbow, blinking sleepily. Sam was crouched in front of him with a
rather grimy countenance, and a small smile. “Tea,” he mentioned, in a quiet
voice. “We’d not be through, not just yet, but I did say I’d be back for
teatime. I made a pot and thought you might be wantin’ a cup, while it’s
still hot.”
Frodo sat up straighter then, and looked around, a bit surprised. Had it
really gotten that late? It must have, for the shadows in the garden had
lengthened, and the sun was no longer overhead. It was still quite warm, to
be sure, but the slightest of breezes had now picked up, and there was, at
last, a hint of coolness in the air. He must have slept through the
afternoon, he realized, rather guiltily, and hadn’t even got anything out
for Sam to eat, although, if lunch had been anything to go by, perhaps Sam
was better off foraging through the pantry on his own.
Stifled remorse made his tone rather sharp as he rose, brushing off the
grass that had somehow plastered itself to his cheek and clothing while he
had slept, and said, “Sam, you should have woken me up a bit sooner. It’s
ridiculous that you should have to make the tea as well, when you’ve been
working all day besides.”
Sam, however, merely watched in fond amusement as Frodo went about setting
his clothing to rights, tugging garments into place that had shifted, in
unaccountable ways, most uncomfortably as he had been sleeping. “And why
would I be botherin’ you for that?” he answered cheerfully. “I’m already all
of a sweat, there’d be no need for you t’be goin’ back in that stifling
kitchen for that and be gettin’ hot likewise.” Motioning back to the kitchen
garden, he added, “I brought it out. We could sit under the vines, if you
like.”
Sam had, a few years back, built a wide trellis for the grapes that Frodo
had brought back from Buckland for him. They had flourished, despite Saradoc
Brandybuck’s skepticism, and now grew in leafy profusion over the trellis,
creating a shady nook just the right size for a small table and a pair of
comfortable chairs. It was here that they frequently ate, during the warmer
months, and following Sam, Frodo found the table had already been set with
the teapot and accompanying cups, not to mention the honey pot, and a basket
of sugar-dusted muffins.
“Marigold was bakin’ and so I brought a few back with me,” Sam explained,
reaching up and twisting off a cluster of dark plump grapes with an
experienced gesture. “The bread wasn’t all done when I left, but I’ll be
bringin’ a pair o’loaves home tonight.”
“How can she bear to face a hot oven on a day such as this?” Frodo shook his
head, as he sat down in his usual chair, gratefully inhaling the mixed scent
of tea and the damp earthy moisture that was always present under the vines.
“There’s no point in frettin’ about it, when there’s work as needs doing,”
Sam shrugged, philosophical as usual, sitting down as well and pouring out
the tea. “Not that I’d be lookin’ for that sort of chore on purpose, on a
day such as this, mind you, but sometimes there’s just no gettin’ around
it.”
Frodo fell silent then, hungrily eating the muffins as he realized, in a
vague sort of way, that he had, after all, not had much lunch. He stopped
mid-bite though, as he caught sight of Sam’s left hand. “That string around
your finger. It’s still there,” he pointed out, somewhat gratuitously.
“Aye,” Sam nodded his head, popping a fat grape into his mouth and chewing
it in a meditative manner. “Day’d not be over yet,” he added when he was
able, giving Frodo an unreadable smile.
“Look here, Sam, I have no idea what you are going on about,” Frodo was
suddenly quite frustrated with all this unnecessary mysteriousness. “I have
absolutely no idea what I should be remembering, so string or no string,
this isn’t doing me any good at all. Is it something I’m supposed to do, or
get? Don’t expect it, if so, if you won’t be telling me what it is.”
Sam lifted the cup to his mouth to drain the last of the tea, but Frodo
could have sworn that he saw reflected in those eyes, dark green in the
shade, a look of definite amusement, before Sam lowered the cup and stood up
with a perfectly solemn face. “I’d be needin’ to get back, Frodo-love,” he
declared calmly. “And ‘tis not a thing, me dear, ‘tis a day. But if you
ain’t rememberin’, ‘tis no point, as I said before, to me rememberin’.” And
with that cryptic remark, he was gone.
&&&&&
Frodo sat in the bathwater, which had only been tepid to begin with, and
which was now quite cool, as he pondered, once again, what Sam could
possibly have meant by his last remark. A day that needed remembering. That
was an alarming possibility, for Sam was very good at remembering not only
the birthdays, anniversaries, and any other momentous day of his immediate
family, but those of all his nieces and nephews likewise, not even to
mention the Cottons, as well. Even the Widow Rumble was not forgotten, and
always found a large bouquet of the season’s finest blossoms on her doorstep
for her birthday each and every year. In addition, he seemed to have, with
no effort at all, absorbed the birthdays of all of Frodo’s friends and
relatives, and was an invaluable source of information in that regard. Frodo
had long since let the rather confused list that he used to attempt to keep
up to date go by the wayside.
But this did not seem, somehow, to be a birthday, he reflected, wiggling his
toes absently out of the water, and letting the water trickle off of his
dark foot hair and back into the bath. The room was rather shadowy, for
since the smial was still uncomfortably warm and stuffy, he had only lit the
smallest of candles for light. Sam usually enjoyed a good soak after a day
in the fields, before he was ready for dinner, but Frodo, as a rule,
preferred his bath later at night, or in the morning. This evening, however,
he was still at a loss for something to do, and besides, the tub was always
a rather productive environment in which to contemplate complex questions
such as the current one.
So it would seem to be more in the line of an anniversary, he mused, sinking
a little further down in the water and drawing his knees up. An anniversary
that Sam thought he should remember. Well, there were, of course, those days
back when he and Sam had first fallen in love, which would always remain
indelible in his memory. There was the night of the ice storm, when he and
Sam had fought their way back to Bag End from the Dragon, in the freezing
hail, and he had clung to Sam’s hand through all the ferocity of the storm,
and knew, all of a sudden, that he was irrevocably in love. And then the
day, not long after that, when he had unexpectedly heard his name uttered by
Sam, just his name, and realized that Sam returned his love, and he had
kissed him for the very first time. There was an unconscious smile on his
face now, and the pictures that he was seeing in the shadows, which the
guttering candle was throwing against the wall of the small room, were vivid
precious memories. Last, of course, there was the evening after the great
snowstorm, when a worried Sam had finally made his way back to Bag End, and
he had been so desperately hungry to see him and hold him that he had
gathered the courage to ask him to spend the night. He had never seen Sam’s
dear face look lovelier than when he had shyly smiled assent.
Frodo roused himself from these dreams with a start, abruptly standing up
and grabbing a towel to dry himself off. That had all happened at the end of
the winter, and the beginning of spring, not on a hot late summer’s day such
as this one. It couldn’t have been that that Sam meant. He was being a
romantic old fool, Sam wasn’t thinking of anything of the sort. There must
be a more reasonable explanation.
The weather had been warmer, he remembered, as he dropped the towel behind
in the bath room and walked down the hall to the bedroom where he had left
his clean clothing on the bed, on the night when he had thought that he had
lost Sam. But Sam had rebelled, even though Frodo had never asked or even
dreamed that he would, and had defied the gaffer, leaving Number Three
Bagshot Row for good in exchange for Bag End. That had been the night that
their futures had been irreversibly joined, and Frodo had known, with a
grateful certainty, that their hearts had chosen true. That had also been
the night of Marigold Gamgee and Tom Cotton’s wedding, though, and that date
was one of the few that Frodo never forgot. It wasn’t, however, this day.
The smial was yet uncomfortable and warm, but Frodo strode into the kitchen,
once dressed, with renewed determination. Sam would have a cheese pastry for
dinner; he would see to that. Briskly, he started to work grating the
cheese, and then set out the board on which to roll the dough. Tossing the
flour and a bit of salt together on it, he reached first for the butter, and
then glanced thoughtfully at the small covered jar in which Sam collected
bacon grease. It did make the flakiest pastry, after all.
&&&&&
The clouds were at last starting to cover the sky as Sam walked up the Row
from the direction of the Cottons’ farm. Dark grey parapets of promised
rain, they were underlit with the rose of sunset, and the deep rich
accompanying smell of oncoming moisture spoke of a wet evening. Frodo,
waiting on the bench outside of the smial as he puffed on his pipe, saw
Sam’s bowed head and slow footsteps, both indications of a wearying day, but
when he raised his head and glanced up at Frodo, there was nothing but warm
pleasure at that sight in his sudden smile.
“Coolin’ off at last,” he pointed out quietly, as he closed the gate behind
him and walked up the path to where Frodo had stood up.
“You knew it would, didn’t you,” Frodo returned his smile, reaching out a
hand for him.
“Alus does,” Sam’s smile broadened, just before Frodo pulled him closer and
gave him a lingering kiss.
One of Tom Cotton’s brothers, who had been walking homeward behind Sam, gave
a polite sort of throat-clearing sound in the Row, as the crunch of gravel
indicated that he was walking by the smial’s kitchen garden, but neither Sam
nor Frodo turned to see who it was. Instead, Frodo, with a laugh, broke away
from Sam, and tugged him into the kitchen.
“Ah, look there now, a cheese pie!” Sam’s eyes lit up at the treat displayed
on the worn kitchen table, with a bottle of Old Winyards and a salad of
lettuces and radish next to it. “And you do that so well, me dear!”
“Then you best be taking that bath of yours in a hurry, Sam, love,” Frodo
teased him, his eyes sparkling in the shadowed light of the kitchen.
“Especially since it’s all ready for you.”
Sam needed no more invitation than that, and was soon soaked and scrubbed,
with clean clothes and wet curls plastered behind his ears, and sitting down
to eat with Frodo. The food had just disappeared, a matter that took no time
at all, with Sam heartily praising the flakiness of the pastry between
bites, when Frodo rose, grabbing what was left of the bottle up in one hand
and the two glasses in the other. “It hasn’t started to rain, yet, Sam,” he
gave a merry cry, “and this smial seems to take forever to cool off. Let’s
finish this outside.”
Sam chuckled agreement and followed him to one of their favorite benches up
on the back hill under the pine, but as he reached up to grasp the glass,
into which Frodo had just poured the last of the wine, Frodo caught sight of
the mysterious adornment on Sam’s finger once again.
“Sam, you must forgive me, but you are simply going to have to tell me what
today is the anniversary of,” he murmured repentantly, reaching out with the
hand that was free of the wineglass and catching hold of Sam’s. “You know
how utterly awful I am with remembering these sorts of things, but I can’t
think of anything specific that happened this time of year.”
“Not a’that surprising,” Sam stated in a low voice, finishing his drink with
a swallow, and laying the glass down in the grass next to the bench. “ ‘Twas
a very long time ago, to be sure.”
“Was it now?” Frodo’s words were subdued as he was struck by the look in
Sam’s eyes, and laying down his glass as well, he caught up Sam’s hand with
both of his own.
“Aye, half my life ago, and half of that again,” Sam’s other hand closed
around his, warm and secure.
“That’s a very long time ago,” Frodo looked into Sam’s eyes, shining, even
in the dim twilight, with happiness. “You would have been just a faunt.”
“And so I was,” Sam gave a slight nod, “but that doesn’t mean I’d not be
rememberin’ it, no ways. And it was right down there, just under that
larch.”
“What happened under the larch, Sam, all those years ago?” Frodo whispered,
grasping Sam’s hand tighter, and sure, all of a sudden, that he knew the
answer after all.
“I saw you, me dear, an’ heard Mr. Bilbo a-tellin’ the gaffer as you’d moved
to Bag End for good, and faunt I was, but I knew that nothing’d ever be the
same, for you were the prettiest thing ever, Frodo, and I dreamed about you
that very night. And not for the last time, no, no ways at all for the last
time.” Sam’s voice was husky and caressing, and Frodo suddenly found he had
to blink to clear his eyes. “ ‘Tis two dozens of years now gone by, love,
but I still remember runnin’ home t’tell me mam, and her smilin’ at me. Why,
he must be as lovely as all the Shire in spring then, she said t’me and
laughed, but you were. And still are.”
Frodo gave a choked gasp, and hastily withdrew a hand from Sam’s to wipe his
face, but before he could respond, the sky was illuminated with light and
the simultaneous crash of thunder caused them both to look up in
astonishment. The rain, that had been thus far withheld, began to pour from
the clouds in great fat pelting drops, and another streak of lightening rent
the sky with an acrid sharp crack.
“The tree, ‘twill draw it,” Sam shouted against the accompanying roll of
thunder, looking up in alarm at the tall pine over their heads.
Frodo blinked in the rain which was being swept against his face, and then
pointed to the tool shed, not far off. “There, Sam, it’s closer than the
smial,” he yelled in Sam’s ear, and Sam gave a brief nod. Grasping Sam’s
hand, he made a wild dash for it, just as another lighting bolt seemed to
miss the pine by only inches.
&&&&&
The tool shed was dry and a welcoming shelter, with the aroma of potting
soil and linseed oil for the tools, but it was not large, and quite dark
inside. The occasional flashes would momentarily light up the interior, and
somewhere a window must have been left partially open, for the air was fresh
inside, but none of these details were anywhere near the forefront of
Frodo’s mind at the moment. Far more of importance was the warm body he had
tugged inside after him, with his wet homespun shirt plastered against his
chest, and the hand that was not still in Frodo’s was finding its way,
blindly but sure, up the side of his face, curving back and under his wet
hair, and then there was Sam’s mouth against his, and he opened his own,
eager, to it. It was the wine that he tasted, and perhaps cheese and rain,
mixed together somehow, but it was mostly Sam, and how could it have been
this many years, and yet how could it still be a taste he never tired of,
but rather always craved all the more? There was Sam’s tongue, probing and
knowledgeable, and he met it, fervent, with his own, joining and stroking,
tasting and suckling.
Impatiently, he pressed against Sam, pushing him back against the rough
wooden wall, and Sam’s other hand now broke free of his own and swept around
his waist, encircling him firmly, and urging him ever closer. “Sam, my
dearest Sam,” his voice was ragged as he at last had to draw his mouth away
from Sam’s, his breathing heavy. He could not see the face of the one he
loved so, but Sam was in his arms and his hands were wrapped about that
strong back and shoulders, and held him as tight as he could. He really
needed no light, for there wasn’t an inch of this body that he hadn’t known
and ardently touched and caressed, and had kissed with passion. He could
feel his chest meeting Sam’s, their hips pushing and grinding closer
together, and Sam’s desire answering his own.
“I never thought, that day, so long ago, I never dreamed, me darling,” he
could hear Sam whispering in his ear, and the words were rough with emotion.
“Oh, but I’m so glad, Sam, I can’t begin to tell you, love, how very glad,”
he gave a fierce mutter in the darkness, and unerringly found Sam’s mouth
once more.
There wasn’t room, a rational corner of his mind realized, not nearly enough
room to lie on the floor of the shed, but he suddenly was desperate for Sam
now, and waiting for the storm to lessen in order to return to Bag End was
absolutely unthinkable. It was abruptly clear that Sam felt the same, for
he, all of a sudden, loosened his hold on Frodo and let him go, and Frodo
could feel his hands lowering and grabbing for his own trousers, unfastening
them and frantically tugging them downwards with a rapid motion. They were
beginning to slide slowly down the side of the shed now, and Sam ended up
sitting on the wooden floor, with his trousers pushed past his up-drawn
knees, reaching up and pulling Frodo into his lap. “Please, Frodo-love,” his
voice was thick with want and yearning, “please, me darling.”
It was only then that Frodo remembered, with a sudden start of gratitude,
the small jar that he had earlier slipped into his pocket. He had had plans,
for later that evening, but there was no postponing now the inexorable need
for Sam, the absolute compulsion of feeling Sam surrounding him and in him.
With no hesitation, he stepped aside, and rid himself of his own trousers,
withdrawing the jar as he did so, and then knelt beside Sam.
A brief flash of lightning just then revealed Sam, his head flung back
against the wall, his eyes closed and his mouth open, and his hands on
himself. Frodo swiftly unscrewed the lid, and dipped his hand in the soft
grease, and then his hand joined Sam’s, and Sam cried out in startled
gratification. Stroking and enticing, Frodo’s hand was sure and practiced,
and Sam pressed upward against it, with soft moans of abandon. His hand left
himself, and unerringly found Frodo, and Frodo gave a gasp at that warm,
slightly rough palm, pushing in such a knowing way up against himself, and
knew he did not want to wait any longer.
Placing a quick hand on Sam’s shoulder, the better to judge the distance, he
straddled Sam, and then slowly, skillfully, lowered himself down on Sam. Sam
cried out at the sensation, his grasp around Frodo’s waist immediate.
Leaning forward on his knees, Frodo found Sam’s mouth once more, bruisingly
kissing it as he drew himself up and forward, and then slid back again with
a grunt of gratification. Sam’s hands dug into the flesh of his hips as he
leaned back again, and moaned, “Oh, oh, Frodo!”
Achingly slow at first, Frodo rocked himself up and back down, and Sam’s
hands clutched lower, smoothing and then gripping those smooth, rounded
curves, as the breathing from both of them became heavier and more rough.
Frodo leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, and
everything other than the glorious sensation of Sam, full and throbbing
within him, was of no matter at all, as his downward movements became
harsher and more rapid. But it was only when a final flash lit up Sam’s
face, and he caught a glimpse of his expression, that he had to cry out,
“Sam, oh, Sam, quick!” Sam understood and in an instant had Frodo held firm
within his hands just in time for a final downward thrust. Quivering with
the release, Frodo froze, spilling into Sam’s hands and feeling Sam’s
release within him.
With a gasp, he collapsed into Sam’s embrace, and lay there in the dark,
feeling delicious lassitude flood his limbs, and nuzzling his face into
Sam’s still-wet shirt. He could feel strong arms encircle him, and Sam bent
his head down against him, hiding his face in Frodo’s curls, and murmuring
his name in a tender chant of love.
&&&&&
It was much later that night when they at last found themselves in the great
bed in Bag End’s master bedroom. Frodo lay propped up on his elbow, watching
Sam by the light of the single candle still burning in the holder by their
bed, and lightly brushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead. The rain still
pelted without, but the thunder and lightning had both faded away into the
distance. Sam lay peaceably on his back, obviously tired from the long day,
but with a gentle hand on Frodo’s knee, bent on the bed next to him.
“Now, Sam, answer me true,” Frodo spoke suddenly, in a quiet voice, with the
trace of a smile on his face. “I know you have a wonderful memory for this
sort of thing, but is this really the day I came to Bag End?”
Sam gave a sleepy chuckle, turning his face toward him and tightening his
grip on Frodo’s knee slightly. “Well, me dearest, it was exactly that many
years ago, that’d be no lie. And ‘twas this time of the year, that’d be sure
enough, likewise. But the actual day? I thought it’d be close enough.”
Frodo laughed, and picked up Sam’s hand, examining it with an expression of
contentment. “That string’s still there, dearest.”
“Aye,” Sam gave it an amused look. “Tied that knot that well, it seems,
you’d best be cutting it off me tomorrow.”
“But, whatever made you think up this anniversary for us, Sam, love?” Frodo
was turning to reach out for the candle, but paused to give Sam a last
curious look.
Sam raised his hand, and brought it down the side of Frodo’s face with a
slow, loving motion. “I know how this heat bothers you, m’dear, and thought
a bit of a puzzle’d take your mind off of it. Twas naught but that.”
Frodo smiled tenderly down at him, and turning his face into Sam’s hand,
kissed his palm with love. “In another couple dozen years, Sam my love, feel
free to puzzle me all over again, for I am sure the date will escape my mind
once again. But I will be every bit as hungry for you, dearest, I can
promise you that. Nothing at all could change that, for I do love you so
very thoroughly.”
He pinched the candle out, and took Sam up in his arms. The rain continued
to strike the ground above Bag End, but the two hobbits within soon heard it
not.
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