Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: R

Summary: Life gets more complicated for Sam.

Moonlight Over Jasmine

Sam contemplatively rolled the cherry in his mouth, as he rested in the meadow, leaning back on his elbows. Then suddenly, denuded of all flesh, the pip shot through his pursed lips and flew out into the spring grass.

Frodo sat beside him, lost in admiration. It was not the least of Sam’s many talents, as he had recently discovered. “How do you do that, Sam?” he asked, in great appreciation of Sam’s skill.

Sam turned to him, not entirely sure what Frodo was referring to.

“The cherry,” Frodo elaborated, seeing Sam’s puzzled look.

“Oh, aye, nothing at all to it,” Sam chuckled then, popping another into his mouth from the basket lying beside them. “All in the tongue, Frodo,” he mumbled, rather indistinctly, the aforementioned tongue obviously hard at work. The second pip shot a good foot past the first, and was just as bare.

“Ah, the tongue,” Frodo breathed.

It had been nearly three months since that first, and thus far only, treasured night they had spent together. Ever since, Frodo had made sure that Sam returned home to Number Three Bagshot Row in time for supper, but their tea-time had become inviolate, even if tea often consisted of a hasty cup of tea sipped by Sam as he left, and a scone to quickly munch on the way home. Their lives, however, had become centered around late afternoons spent in Frodo’s bed.

Sam was always conscientious about completing all tasks for which he was accountable, be they for the gaffer or the master of Bag End. But in the late afternoon sun of the lengthening days, he always found his way to the kitchen door of Bag End, and the hobbit who impatiently awaited him there. And then it was only the wait of a heartbeat to be in each other’s arms, kissing hungrily. They would walk then down the hall of the smial, arms tight around each other’s waist. Then perhaps they would pause to kiss each other again, for there was always time enough for that, always enough time for Frodo to wrap an arm around Sam’s broad back, and another behind Sam’s sunburned neck, and for Sam to cup Frodo’s face in his work-roughened hands, and tilt his head to find Frodo’s mouth, and give those kisses that stole Frodo’s breath away. But then Frodo would break away with a laugh, and tug Sam impatiently down the hall.

And always, Sam’s heart would beat the faster as he entered Frodo’s bedroom, and always his fingers would seem all of a muddle as Frodo would rapidly strip off his own clothing and turn to Sam with eager fingers, and more kisses. And as Frodo would impatiently cast Sam’s coarse work shirt over his own fine linen one lying on the floor, and then, with a sigh, eagerly run his hands over Sam’s chest, Sam would cling to Frodo, and, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, would throatily whisper, “Frodo. Oh, Frodo,” as Frodo would unfasten Sam’s trousers and let them fall.

Then neither would be of a mind to delay any longer, but they would fall into Frodo’s bed, and rolling, straining, pushing, striving against one another, they would ignite each other’s passion until nothing in all the world mattered but mouth against mouth, bodies held tightly together, urgently rocking, hands stroking and caressing, until the final result could be held in check no longer.

But then there was time for them both to lay in a tangle, in the patch of late afternoon sun that slanted across the bed, trying to catch their breath again. And then Frodo would sigh contently and stretch like a cat whose fur had just been stroked in exactly the proper way, and Sam would chuckle fondly at that, and rearrange himself strategically against Frodo, so that he could watch the lowering sun gild Frodo’s fair skin, and make him blink sleepily when it reached his eyes. But Frodo always made sure that Sam was gone before the sun had fully set.

This afternoon, however, the heady scent of the roses’ first bloom had filled the air, and the daffodils near the green front door of Bag End had burst into the most glorious bloom, and the air was warm with only the slightest hint of coolness. Frodo had had a basket packed when Sam arrived, and taking his hand, had led him up to the field above and behind Bag End. Sam seldom chanced here, for whatever grew in this meadow did so of its own accord. Yet the grass was lush and dotted with golden dandelions, and when Sam looked about, his eyes lit with appreciation for its beauty. Frodo watched him tenderly, smiling at Sam’s obvious enjoyment.

“Ah, windflower,” Sam exclaimed with approval, noting a purple drift near the old yew. “I thought as we’d be seein’ a bit of that this year, what with all the snow. And a fine lot o’blossom on those bushes,” he nodded further back up the hill. “Berryin’ll be good, come summer.”

Frodo glanced about him, noting all the details his untrained eye had missed. He had simply remembered the spot as secluded and out of view of the road, which is why he had thought of bringing Sam up here, but now that he looked about, the loveliness of the meadow impressed him as well. He flung out the worn rug that he had been carrying in the crook of one arm, and dropped the basket beside it.

“Hmm,” Sam hummed appreciatively, his gaze turning to Frodo standing beside him. “You’ve been shut up behind those walls a bit too long, I’d be thinkin’.” Winding an arm around Frodo’s waist, he pulled the older hobbit closely to him. “Can’t say as I’m hungry, yet,” he declared with a smile, running a gentle but firm hand through Frodo’s dark curls.

“Or perhaps just not for what’s in the basket,” Frodo teased him, planting a light kiss just under Sam’s ear and then flicking the lobe lightly with his tongue.

“Ah,” Sam inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping shut. Frodo gave a low chuckle. That particular spot was infallible. And it was not the only. Slowly he sank down on his knees on the rug, pulling Sam willingly down with him. Shirts were quickly shed in the warmth of the late spring afternoon, and Frodo soon found himself kneeling beside a smiling Sam, who was lying out on the old rug with his hands clasped behind his head, and his warm hazel eyes affectionately considering Frodo. And once more, Frodo felt the miraculous untwisting of a knot that had lain hidden so deep in his heart for so long. There was a time, not too long ago, when he had once again vowed that he would never expose his heart to the loss and pain he had felt more than once. And it was a vow that he had meant to keep. Yet somehow, his heart had been wiser than he knew, and here he was, gazing down on the one he had found he could love, trust and hold to, above all others. With a rush of sudden gratitude, he bent down to nuzzle Sam’s throat, his chest. Ah, the heady smell of Sam, the slightly salty intoxicating taste of him, after his hard day of work. Sam used to feel that he had ought to wash up before coming up to Bag End, but Frodo insisted that he not, and Sam had good-naturedly agreed. And there was another spot that never failed, there. Right at the base of the throat.

“Oh,” Sam breathed in deeply, his eyes closing once again. But at that last tease, Frodo suddenly found strong arms wrapped around him, and somehow Sam’s mouth was under his, and Frodo surrendered to the irresistibly sweet sensation of being tenderly kissed, being lovingly held, and being caressed everywhere, oh, everywhere, by the one who held his heart. And now the tables were turned, as Sam rolled over with Frodo in his arms, and it was Sam who knew just the spots to nuzzle, just the places that made Frodo gasp and squirm, for surely they were equal in their knowledge of each other’s pleasure. So as Sam brushed his curls back and kissed his exposed temple, Frodo sighed deeply, and ran his hands up Sam’s chest slowly. But as they reached the most sensitive zone, Sam caught his breath, and bowed his head, touching his forehead to Frodo’s.

“Oh, Frodo, I love you, I do,” he whispered, his voice catching just a bit on the words. There was no other reply Frodo could possibly make to that, as his heart welled up within, than to grab Sam by the shoulders forcefully, urgently, kissing him ardently, with the need to show him what he had no words for.

Once more they were in each other’s arms, but now they lay side by side and there was no time to be wasted in ridding themselves of the rest of their clothing. Quickly the trousers were cast aside, and then they lay against each other, bare and at full length, as their hungry hands held to and embraced the other, and aching flesh was caressed fiercely, and everything else was lost to the need to just connect, to give, and to take in return.

It was long they lay in each other’s arms afterwards, the air still warm about them, the heavy buzz of the bees passing over to the distant lavender, and the heady perfume of late spring bloom in the slight breeze. There were no words that needed to be spoken, when kisses would suffice, and a loving and tender touch said so much. At last, though, Sam’s stomach gave a distinct rumble, and Frodo chuckled at Sam’s rueful face. “No, my dearest Sam, you need your tea,” he exclaimed fondly, sitting up and reaching for the forgotten basket. “You’ve been working hard all day, what with the trellis to mend, and the gaffer’s vegetable plot to prepare. I should have fed you first.”

“Food don’t matter a bit, when you look at me the way you’d do,” Sam protested, also sitting up, with a gentle smile, “but I guess I could do with a bit about now.”

And as they ate, and lightly spoke of what struck their fancy, and laughed, the sun sank slowly in the skies, and Sam reluctantly dressed and headed home to Bagshot Row.

The last pink streaks of the sunset had faded into the cool blue of evening by the time Sam reached the front door of Number Three Bagshot Row. His thoughts were lost elsewhere as he entered, and he did not see the significant looks his sisters gave each other. The gaffer was still at the Green Dragon, as was his custom these days, and his sisters sat about the kitchen fire, mending in their hands, and a pot of stew waiting on the fire.

“Later every day, Samwise,” May sniffed, as she stood up to dish out dinner.

“Aye, well, there’d be much to do this time o’year,” Sam said hastily, sitting down with his steaming plate in his hands. “Did I miss Da?”

“You’d not be here for him to talk to, Sam,” Daisy mentioned quietly from her corner. “He‘d be at the Dragon.”

Sam guiltily lowered his head and ate without answering. The meal was a quiet one.

May and Marigold had already gone to bed when the gaffer came home late that night. Slowly he had walked through the smial with no greeting to either Sam nor Daisy, and had sat heavily on his accustomed seat in the kitchen without a word, staring into the fire as if lost in a trance. Daisy frowned at this, and taking up the kettle, asked briskly, “Tea, Da?”

For a moment, he gave no sign of hearing her, but then, without a glance at her, shortly replied, “Aye.“

Sam stood uncertainly by the fireside. Hesitantly, he looked over to Daisy, but her face was shadowed as she handed a mug to her father. “Any news from the Dragon, Da?” he asked tentatively, to break the silence that had grown thick in the quiet kitchen.

There was no answer from the old hobbit as he sat staring sightlessly into the flames, the forgotten mug at his feet.

Daisy, with a sudden sharp movement of her head, strode without a word to the small round window that faced out to the kitchen garden. The shutter was still open, for the bit of slight chill was welcome in the well-heated room, and Daisy folded her arms on the sill and bowed her forehead on them.

Sam followed her, but when she did not turn around, he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Daisy,” he whispered, “please, Daisy, tell me.”

Daisy remained motionless a moment more, but when she did turn around, Sam was shocked to see the traces of tears on her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head fiercely, and nodded to the smial’s entrance.

It was over at the side of the smial, in the sheltered nook where the seedlings were potted, that Daisy stopped. She whirled around, still a bit taller than Sam, for all they were now full-grown. “You don’t see, now, do you, Sam,” her voice was tight and at the edge of a sob.

Sam stopped, and grasped her hand with both of his, as he had as a child when he had been entrusted to her keeping. “What is it I’d not be seein’?” he asked with foreboding.

“Why, look at Da!” she exclaimed, tears starting down her face again. “He walks about as if in a dream. He doesn’t do aught but sit about, silent as a log. Even when he’d be at the Dragon, I hear he’s not doing aught there, likewise. Ever since Mam… And how many years’d that be now, Sam? Aye, he never did talk to us lasses that much, but you, Sam… But it seems as now you’re never here, but always up hill, with, with that,” with a look at Sam’s shocked face, she sat heavily on the garden bench and covered her face with her shawl.

Sam sat slowly beside her, not knowing what to say. It had always been Daisy to whom he had looked for counsel, ever since their mother had died, Daisy on whom he had felt he could always rely for understanding. But now… He stared unseeing at his hands in his lap.

Daisy stifled her tears before too very long, a habit in which she had had much practice. She leaned her head wearily against the wall of the smial and looked over at Sam. “I know you’d be head-over-heels, Samwise Gamgee,” she said at last, in resignation. “But you’d need to be thinkin’ o’the rest of us.” She watched him for a few minutes more, his head bowed down and face hidden from her. “There’s no life for you there, Sam. And there’s those here as needs you.”

Slowly she rose. “I’ll bank the fire,” she added quietly, and was gone.

It was a somber Sam that entered the Bag End kitchen the next afternoon. All day, as he had repaired the chicken coop at Number Three, and hoed the spring vegetables in Bag End’s garden, he had thought of what Daisy had said the night before. He well knew that he had always been his father’s favorite, the one son Hamfast Gamgee had counted on to follow after him, and the thought that his father would feel as if he had been let down was painful indeed. At the same time, though, the thought of letting go of Frodo was impossible for him to imagine. A life without Frodo’s touch, without his kisses, was the most empty and barren future that he could think of. By the end of the afternoon, he longed for the comfort of Frodo’s arms, the peace that he found nowhere else but in Frodo’s embrace.

It only took a glance for Frodo to know that there was something amiss. Without a word, he took Sam by the hand and gently led him down to his bedroom. The unpredictable spring weather had become chill again this afternoon, and the warmth of the fire that Frodo had lit in the room was welcome. Leading Sam over to the bed, they lay down together on the coverlet, still without a word, and Frodo held Sam close, as the younger hobbit buried his face in Frodo’s shirt.

It was a long while before Frodo felt the tension in Sam’s shoulders begin to ease, and letting go of Sam, he propped himself up on his elbow next to him. “What’s all this, my dear Sam?” he studied Sam carefully.

Sam rubbed his reddened eyes wearily. “It’s just naught but family matters,” he muttered. “No need to botherin’ you, Frodo.”

“I would help you if I could, Sam,” Frodo replied hesitantly. The thought that he could possibly be the cause of a rift between Sam and his family was a cause of anxiety that he had kept hidden from Sam. The gaffer’s opinion of his relationship with Sam would be, he was certain, not at all favorable.

“Aye, me dear, that I know,” Sam smiled warmly at that, his hand reaching up to gently touch Frodo’s face. “It’s just that the gaffer’d be needin’ more of my time. I’d best not be stayin’ as late as I’ve been. But I wish…” and his voice trailed off softly.

“What do you wish, Sam?” Frodo breathed quietly, held by the look in Sam’s eyes.

Sam glanced away at that, the expression Frodo had thought he had seen was gone. “For naught but what I have,” he replied, his eyes returning to Frodo’s, with a warm smile. “Not to fret, me dear. I’ll be fine,” and he pulled Frodo down into a warm kiss.

Sam accompanied the gaffer to the Dragon that evening, and realized, from the warm greetings he received there, that it had indeed been awhile. He sat in a secluded corner, pipe in hand and watched the gaffer, more sprightly than he had been in many a month, chat up his cronies. And it was impossible to avoid too, from the others’ appreciative glances, how much of this was because of his presence. As the evening wore on, he sat in the shadows, putting in a word or smile when the gaffer turned towards him, but with a heart that was heavy with regret and longing.

When he returned to Number Three the next evening, Marigold was at the gate, watching for him to come down the hill. “Ah, Sam, I’d thought you’d never be puttin’ a foot this way,” she exclaimed, with barely suppressed excitement. Running out to him, she grasped his elbow and tugged him into the apple trees growing to the side of the path down from Bag End.

“Mari, what’s all the bother now?” he asked in bewilderment. “It’s naught with Da, now, is it?” he continued with sudden apprehension.

“Not Da!” Marigold shook her head with a giggle. “ ’Tis about me…and Tom.”

Sam’s eyes widened at that, and a delighted smile broke across his face. “Why, Marigold Gamgee!” he cried out joyfully, and catching her around the waist, swung her about as Marigold leaned back and laughed happily, her honey colored braids coming undone about her face.

“Or ‘tis Mistress Marigold Cotton, as I should be callin’ you soon,” Sam nodded with mock solemnity, as he set Marigold on her feet again.

“Aye, it has a pretty sound about it, does it not?” Marigold’s face was glowing in the late sun as she clasped his hands and drew him farther into the grove.

“And the others, what do they say?” he asked, still smiling at her obvious joy.

“I haven’t told them,” she replied with a giggle. “You’d be the first, Sam.”

“Well, I can’t imagine Da’d be sayin’ no, for all you’re a tweenager,” Sam shrugged. “He’s always thought Tom was a fine lad, and he’s nearly of age.”

“So are you, Sam,” Marigold’s brown eyes were on him thoughtfully as they continued to walk in the grove under the trees still heavy with white blossom. “It’s not too soon for you to be thinkin’ o’the same.”

Sam stopped suddenly at that, and withdrawing his hand from Marigold’s and shoving it in his pocket, he stared uneasily at the grassy ground. “ ‘Tis not as easy as all o’that,” he replied shortly.

“Yes, it is,” Marigold faced him with determination. “Rosie Cotton would be yours in a moment, if you’d but ask, Sam. She thinks you’d be the finest as ever was.”

“And she is a lovely lass, to be sure,” Sam answered awkwardly, “but…”

Marigold sighed, and laid her hands on Sam’s arms. “Sam,” she said somberly, staring intently into his adverted eyes. “What goes on between you and Mr. Frodo?”

Sam started at that unexpected question, but then squared his shoulders and returned her gaze steadily. “He means that much to me. I’ll not be marryin’ Rosie Cotton, Mari,” he stated firmly. But then the look in his eyes softened, and he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No worries, Mari. I’d be fine. You’d be the one with all the news. And would I not be right in thinkin’ this will put May in the greatest fuss, you marryin’ first?”

Marigold could not help laughing at that. “Ah, Sam, I love my sister, but you know us too well, now.”

“I thought as much,” Sam chuckled. “ ‘Tis time to go and stir up the rest of the Gamgees.”

They walked back, arm in arm, through the deepening dusk, but just before they reached the smial, Sam leaned over and gave Marigold a light kiss on her cheek. “I’m very happy for you, my Mari dear, I truly am,” he murmured with an affectionate smile

“I know, Sam,” she answered, her eyes shining.

Never had Sam looked to work for solace as he did now. There was a peace in doing a job to the best of his abilities, and the garden never asked him a question that he couldn’t answer. That was why, when the stone wall at the far end of the oat field needed to be rebuilt, he had determined to do the job alone, rather than with some of the other lads, as was customary. The fact that a spring rain had begun to fall that morning did not change his plans in the least, and he lost himself in the arduous task of lifting the heavy boulders, fitting them together in the proper way for endurance, and stuffing the cracks with handfuls of moss. Rock upon rock he lifted, his mind emptied to everything but the rhythm of the work, and until a quiet voice said, “Sam,” he had no idea of Frodo’s presence.

“Frodo!” he cried, startled, and dropped the stone that he had just picked up. ”What would you be doin’ out in this wet?”

“You’re out in it, as well,” Frodo pointed out, reasonably enough. He had a cloak over his clothing, but his head was bare, dark curls plastered around his face, and the rain dripped from his nose. Looking at him in the grey half-light, Sam fleetingly thought he had rarely seen him look lovelier, but quickly returned to the question of Frodo’s appearance.

“Is there summat amiss?” he asked, worried and puzzled, standing in the mud with drenched clothing. “Surely ‘tisn’t tea-time yet?”

“No, not yet,” Frodo walked over to the carefully piled stones. “Is this not a job for more than one, Sam?”

“Aye, well,” Sam shrugged. “I hate t’bother the other lads.”

“Hmm,” Frodo responded, his eyes so startlingly blue against his pale face, considering Sam carefully. As if not finding the answer that he expected, he looked down and ran a hand along the rough wet stone. “You’ve been working hard as of late, Sam,” he murmured, not looking up.

“Oh, well, not all o’that,” Sam dismissed Frodo’s comment with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Here, and down on the Row.” Frodo glanced quickly up again. “Trying to spend more time with your family. And with me. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”

Sam remained silent, not knowing what to say.

“And I understand your sister’s getting married as well,” Frodo continued steadily, moving over to Sam’s side. “Everyone seems to want a piece of you, my dear Sam.”

Sam sat heavily down on the completed portion on the wall. As the rain continued to pour down, he wearily ran his hands down the sides of his face. It seemed to him as though he forever wasn’t doing as he ought by those he loved, that he ought to be able to give a little more. He never noticed Frodo sitting beside him until he felt a strong arm around his shoulder, and instinctively, he turned for comfort from the one he loved so. Frodo’s arm was tight about him, and he heard Frodo’s low voice in his ear, saying, ”Tell me what you want, my dearest Sam. You never really have, you know.”

And in the rain that afternoon, Sam gave way and confessed his most closely held dreams to Frodo. “I want to sleep with you every night, Frodo-love,” he whispered, and if there were tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain, none could have known. “I want to wake up next to you every morning, and get up and make you breakfast. It’s not much, but I’ll be blessed if I know how it could ever happen.” Turning towards Frodo, he buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder, and clutched tightly to the drenched cloak. “It’s not all that much, but it’s all I could ever ask for.”

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was low and husky with emotion as he wrapped both arms around Sam and embraced him tightly. “I wish, oh, how I wish…” but then he stopped, and said no more, but held Sam all the more closely.

Then Frodo resolutely drew back and, holding Sam’s shoulders firmly, looked searchingly into Sam’s reddened eyes. “You’re not yet of age, Sam.” he said gently. “Your father would be well within his rights to send you off, if he cared to. The risk of your being taken away, well…” he stopped, unable to continue, and Sam realized that there were tears on Frodo’s face as well as rain. “It would be so hard to bear, Sam, I don’t know…” and Frodo’s voice broke off and he swallowed hard.

“I know it’s early,” Frodo stood up suddenly, “but surely in all this rain, no-one could expect… Come with me, Sam”

Holding tightly to Frodo’s hand, Sam followed.

It was a week later when the early morning racket at his front door brought a bleary-eyed Frodo down the front hall. There was only one possible explanation for such a fuss and there they stood, beaming, on the doorstep. ‘Merry, Pippin,” Frodo exclaimed, rubbing his eyes, “Lads, why is it never the afternoon…” but further words were cut off by the onslaught of enthusiastic hugs from both of his cousins.

“All right, all right,” Frodo laughed, borne back into the hall in their arms. “Ah, it is good to see the both of you, I’ll not deny it.”

“Of course,” Merry grinned, thumping Frodo‘s back with fervor. “Living as you do in this frightful backwater, our company must seem as the very breath of life itself.”

“And we are gifting you with a week,” Pippin added cheerily. “The parents have let loose the leash for that long, at least.”

“Well, I wonder who is actually receiving a gift, here,” Frodo chuckled, cheerfully mussing Pippin’s auburn curls. “Since you’ve roused me from bed, let’s go find some breakfast, shall we? I’m not sure if there are many scones left, but I believe there’s at least some toast and sausage to start with.”

When Sam stopped by later that morning with a loaf that May had just baked, he was startled by the sound of animated conversation coming from the Bag End parlor. Curious, he walked down the hall, and recognized, as he drew nearer, the distinctive Took burr and the Buckland drawl of Frodo’s cousins. Politely, he knocked on the open door and stood quietly in the doorway. Pippin broke off a rather involved, if animated, story, and exclaimed happily, “Why look! It’s Sam!”

Both Merry and Frodo quickly glanced over to him, Merry’s expression friendly enough, but Frodo gave him a look of mingled affection and discomfort that Sam did not understand. “Good timing, my lad,” Merry laughed. “Why, weren’t you just mentioning, Frodo, that you were a little low on supplies? And here is the very lad to run off to retrieve them for us.”

Frodo gazed helplessly at Sam for the briefest of moments, but then, rising up quickly, walked over to Sam. “I’ll be right back,” he turned back to his cousins for a moment. “Sam and I will look about the pantry and see what we might need.” Grasping Sam’s arm lightly, he quickly led him down the hall without a word and into the darkened storage room.

“Oh, Sam,“ was all Sam heard before he was wrapped in Frodo’s arms, pushed against the wall, and Frodo’s lips were on his. Sam’s mouth opened gratefully to Frodo’s hungry insistence, and he immediately lost himself in the dark to that avid need, the tongue so eager against his, the strong arms clasping him, straining to bring him all the closer.

“Oh, me dear, me dear,” Sam gasped as Frodo’s lips finally left his, but his arms never moved from around Frodo’s neck.

“It isn’t right,” he heard Frodo mutter, as he laid his cheek against Sam’s. “To order you about… Oh, Sam, my dear Sam…,”

“No, Frodo,” Sam replied gently, unerringly lifting his hand in the dark to the side of Frodo’s face. “Don’t you mind now, Frodo-love. It don’t bother me none, truly it don’t. I know your heart, me dear, and nothing else could ever matter to me.”

Frodo made no answer to that, but buried his face at the side of Sam’s neck and remained silent for several minutes. Then, reluctantly pulling himself away, he said, in a rather unsteady voice, “Well, I suppose we’d better actually check the supplies while we’re here. Those young rascals always eat so.”

Sam moved to the door to retrieve a candle, but his hand reached out as he walked past Frodo, and caught his shoulder. One last time, he turned back and kissed Frodo again, quickly but passionately.

“I love you, Frodo, me dear. Never forget,” he whispered, and was gone.

It was past eight days now, and Frodo could feel himself becoming more restless and anxious. Much as he had always enjoyed his cousins’ visits, there was no denying that on this occasion, he was having difficulty hiding his fretfulness, his desperate wish to return to his treasured afternoons with Sam. For they had had little chance to be alone, but had had to make do with only the occasional unguarded glance, the slight not-so-accidental brush, the quiet word here and there, and only rarely, the stolen kiss in a darkened hallway.

It was a warm sunny spring day when Frodo decided that he could hold out no longer. That morning, he had found a fleeting opportunity to speak to Sam, as the gardener was weeding the Bag End kitchen plot. “Sam,” he crouched down beside Sam, who was on his knees, bent over the lettuce seedlings. “Would you be able to be in the upper field come midday?”

Sam glanced quickly over at him, the warm look in his eyes and sweet curve of his mouth more than answer enough for Frodo. “Aye, Mr. Frodo,” he replied softly, “I’d be there.”

Frodo dared not watch him much longer. “I’m telling my cousins that I have business affairs to take care of in Hobbiton,” he murmured quietly, and then rose, with the briefest of clasps of Sam’s shoulder. “Looking for second breakfast, I’d wager?” his voice was light and unconcerned, as he greeted Merry, who had just wandered into the garden.

“I know the importance of proper mealtimes is a vague concept to you, cousin Frodo,” Merry laughed, stretching luxuriously in the welcome sun, “but breakfast must have been at least an hour ago. Oh, hullo, Sam.”

“Mornin’, sir,” Sam nodded with a smile and went back to the weeding.

“Well, I should be able to find you something before I go,” Frodo put in hastily, joining up with Merry and leading him back up the path to the kitchen. “Bit of business in Hobbiton,” Sam heard him explaining smoothly as they entered the smial.

Sam’s smile grew as he returned to his work with a light heart. Frodo was not alone in missing their afternoons.

Frodo, his bare skin cooled by the hint of a breeze, lay on his stomach on the old rug in the grass of the secluded field, with his elbows propped up and his chin resting in his hands. Sam, equally bare, was sitting cross-legged next to him, munching on a piece of bread-and-cheese. The sweat was beginning to dry from their brows, and the scent of the lilac was strong from the hedge shielding the field from the view of the Row below. Sam looked about with a happy smile, and murmured, “Ah, this is nice. ‘Tis that lovely up here.”

Frodo agreed absentmindedly, his eyes on Sam. This afternoon, Sam seemed free of the worries that had clouded those gentle hazel eyes as of late, and Frodo found himself taken anew by Sam’s unassuming beauty. The sunlight glinted in his dark golden curls, as though borrowed from Sam’s own light, and Sam‘s lovely mouth held a carefree smile as he savored the glorious afternoon. “Ah, and look,” Sam exclaimed, turning towards Frodo with a quick grin, triumphantly drawing a cloth from the basket, which he had had the foresight to bring with them. “The last of the spring cherries. I managed to hide them from Mr. Pippin, or there would have been naught for you ‘til next spring.”

“Oh, Sam, thank you! You must be a clever hobbit indeed to have been able to hide such a prize from that young scamp,” Frodo laughed. “ But we will share them, then.”

Sam did not object too heartily, for he dearly loved the fruit as well. So Frodo chewed around the pits of his and watched Sam serenely strip them with his tongue and launch the pits far afield. And then he was very glad that he was still lying on his stomach, for the thought that had nearly crept into his mind on the previous occasion had returned.

He had been young, though not quite as young as Sam. And he had felt awkward, incompetent, scared. It seemed to be assumed that he had knowledge that he did not possess, skills that he did not have, and a desire that he had not felt. He had always assumed that his loss was due to his faults, his lacks. Although he had thought himself in love at the time, it soon had become clear that someone more accomplished had been desired, and he had been left with regrets that had taken several years to bury. But now, as he watched Sam, he felt the desire flame through him that had never seized him with the other. It was worth the risk, he decided suddenly. If Sam didn’t feel the same, surely he would forgive. And if he did…

“Sam,” he murmured, stretching a hand toward him, and at the tone in his voice, Sam immediately turned to him.

“Frodo,” he breathed, quickly casting aside the basket and, moving next to Frodo on the rug, slowly drew a gentle hand down Frodo’s back. Frodo closed his eyes, shivering lightly at the delicious touch, and then, rolling to his back, pulled Sam down into his arms. Sam was there at once, one arm wrapping under Frodo’s neck as Frodo lifted his head to kiss Sam, and his other hand slowly running down the side of Frodo’s face, down his shoulder.

Frodo flung his head back at that, inviting Sam’s kiss on his throat, on the base of his neck. And as Sam lowered his head, tasting Frodo as if he were the rarest of delicacies, Frodo sighed and stroked Sam’s back encouragingly. Emboldened, Sam continued down to Frodo’s chest, stopping to lavish special attention on those sensitive dark circles. With a low moan, Frodo felt his focus starting to slip, and his desire grow. Oh, surely, Sam must know.

And Sam did seem to understand, for now his hands had slipped down behind Frodo’s back and his mouth was lower, ah, lower, to his stomach, and those irresistible hollows of his hipbones. Frodo felt all rational thought leave him as Sam’s tongue, oh, that glorious tongue, lapped at his skin, probed at the concavities, and kissed and caressed him as nothing he had ever felt before in his life. And he yearned, yes, craved, the feel of that gifted tongue. “Sam,” he gasped, unknowingly, fingertips light on Sam’s shoulders, “Oh, Sam, oh, please…”

Suddenly there was a moment when all the world seemed still, and then it seemed to Frodo as if the song of the lark suddenly rang out high above, and, even though he had closed his eyes, there was a burst of glorious light, and Sam’s mouth closed around him. And then he was swept away by the want, the wild and splendid craving, the overwhelming need, as he flung his hips up in a primal rhythm, and moaned Sam’s name without thought. The rhythm carried him along, faster, more urgently, until…

“Sam!” he rasped, stopping his motion with the greatest of difficulty, “Sam, I’m going to…”

He felt Sam’s mouth leave him, and with an immense effort, cast his glance downwards. And there was Sam staring back up at him, those gold-green eyes alight with passionate love and intent. Without a word, Sam bent his head back down, and Frodo arched his back in the incandescent flame of a love that knew no boundaries, no limits. His heart was suddenly released of all the constraints it had ever known, and he gave himself to Sam, once and forever.

Bagshot Row was abustle with preparations, for the wedding of Marigold Gamgee and Tom Cotton was on the morrow. Sam, as well as Tom and Jolly Cotton, had been chased from the kitchen where the Gamgee and Cotton lasses were in a baking frenzy. Ovens were full, and even Marigold had left the last bit of work on her dress aside for the moment to frantically peel a mountain of potatoes and carrots. It had been meant to be a simple luncheon, but somehow May had taken it into her head that no guest should be able to even feebly consider food for the next several days, and had feverishly begun one dish after another, leaving the other lasses to complete them, which they were not at all unwilling to do. After all, as an excuse for a fine feast, nothing could surpass a wedding.

The gaffer had taken off early on to the Green Dragon, where he was awaiting his two older sons, Hamson and Halfred, who had met up the day previous and were traveling together. Neither had made a visit from the Northfarthing for several years now, but the marriage of their youngest sister, especially to such a fine family as the Cottons, was an occasion not to be missed.

Sam, Tom and Jolly sat on the benches under the great tree in the Party Field where the wedding was to take place the next day. The tables were already out, the benches set up, and the casks of ale and beer were waiting, covered, in the shade. There was naught else to do until the next day, when Sam planned on covering the wedding arch with flowers. The days were becoming rather warm, and it was of no use to put them up too early only to see them wilt.

“So we’d be seein’ your brothers,” remarked Tom, taking out his pipe, and knocking it lightly against the bench.

“Why, I can hardly remember those two lads,” Jolly laid back in the grass with his arms crossed behind his head, chewing on a blade of grass.

“ ‘It’s been awhile,” Sam admitted, leaning back in the bench and stretching his legs before him. “They used to come down this way a bit more, but since they’d be married, not as much.”

“Now which one’d be the roper?” Tom asked curiously, turning his attention from the pipe he was lighting.

“Ah, that’d be Hamson,” Sam thought carefully before answering. “Truth be told, the both o’them left when I was still a wee lad, and I’d still be confusin’ them meself, from time to time.”

“ ‘Tis odd they both left before you were full-grown,” Jolly mused innocently.

“Well, I wouldn’t be knowin’ the particulars,” Sam returned thoughtfully, “but it seems to me that they and the gaffer didn’t always agree. Mam always said that when a Gamgee dug his foot in, there was no shaking him, no how.”

“And glad I am that you’re a reasonable fellow, Sam,” Tom laughed, drawing on his pipe. “For you’d not be like that at all.”

Sam chuckled at that. “No, I’d guess not. But then, I can always let the carrots and taters know what I think o’matters, and they never answers back sharp.”

It was late afternoon when the gaffer arrived back at the smial with Sam’s brothers. Sam was still at home, for Frodo had urged him to stay with his family this day. Frodo was, of course, expected at the festivities tomorrow, as the Master of Bag End, and Sam had to be content to wait until then to see him.

Daisy and May were happy to greet their brothers, having more memories of them than either Sam or Marigold did, and much was made of Marigold. Their wives were both unable to make the journey with their husbands, since Hamson’s was expecting a new child within the fortnight, and Halfred’s was still recovering from a winter fever. But both had sent some small useful gifts, as well as their best wishes.

Sam was clapped heartily on the back by his brothers (both still taller than he), and told what a fine lad he was growing up to be. Hamson, in particular, held his shoulder and gave him a keen look, but Sam soon thought no more of it.

The girls had retired to their room to adjust and admire their dresses for the next day, and Hamson and Halfred had hungrily tucked into tea in the one remaining corner of the kitchen not dedicated to the delicacies for tomorrow, when Hamfast motioned his youngest son to the door. Curious, Sam followed his father to the back kitchen garden, where the gaffer sat down heavily on the potting bench. Drawing out his pipe, he set to work silently on it, carefully knocking the old ashes out, and slowly filling it from the contents of an old battered cloth pouch that he always had at hand.

Sam crouched on the ground in front of his father, patiently waiting. He knew that the gaffer had something of importance on his mind, and it always took a bit of time for him to get his mouth around it just so. So Sam rested quietly, observing the garden in the twilight, and thinking that it might be time to be raising the long beans up on the trellis. The meadowlark that lived in the elder near the road swooped overhead, catching up the insects that had flown up in the evening air, and the morning glory that ran wild across the back wall was already closing up for the night.

Finally, his father finished his preparations, and took a long draw on the pipe. “Hamson is needin’ some help,” he stated abruptly, staring over at the neat vegetable plot. “You’ll be goin’ back with him. You‘ll be apprenticing with him for a few years.”

Sam sat heavily on the ground, his heart stopping in his throat. “But, Mr. Frodo’s garden!” he exclaimed, stunned.

His father looked sharply at him, but his face was unreadable in the dusk. “I had a chat with Tolman Cotton. Jolly will be helpin’ me, if it suits Mr. Frodo.”

“And if it don’t?” Sam whispered.

“Then he’ll have to be lookin’ for a new gardener,” Hamfast stated sternly.

“Why are you doin’ this, Da?” Sam asked raggedly, struggling to maintain his self-control.

Hamfast Gamgee rose at that. “I expect you’d be knowin’ that, son,” he answered flatly, and started to walk back to the smial.

There was one last question Sam had to ask, and it took every bit of strength he possessed. “Have you told Mr. Frodo yet?”

The gaffer turned at that and regarded his son silently for a moment. “No,” he answered slowly. “I’d let you be doin’ that.” He began to walk back to the front of the smial, and then turned once more. “Your sister’s wedding is on the morrow,” he added impassively. “I expect you’d do naught to be spoilin’ her day, Samwise. You’d best be back for supper.”

Frodo had been in the back garden when Sam arrived at Bag End that evening. Surprised that Sam had come up the hill, he looked up with a smile on his face. “Well, Sam, is all going well?” he asked, getting up from the bench, under the jasmine, on which he had been sitting, and placing the wineglass from which he had been sipping on the gravel path. The sweet scent of the vine was permeating the warm evening air.

But even in the dusk, the look on Sam’s face was enough to stop his breath. “Sam,” he whispered, reaching out to him instinctively.

Sam grabbed Frodo’s arms, hard, and stared at him, his eyes dark in the light of the full moon that was just beginning to rise over the horizon. His face was tearless, but his voice was hoarse with anguish. “He’s sending me away, Frodo.”

Frodo suddenly felt his world spinning away from him, his heart clenched by dread of the danger he had always known they had faced. “Tell me, Sam,” he forced the words out. He gripped Sam‘s shoulders tightly, but he could feel Sam starting to shake uncontrollably.

“My Da,” Sam was choking the words out. “Sendin‘ me with Hamson. He and Jolly, to do for you. It’ll be years…” and at that, there was no holding back any longer. With a wild cry of grief, Sam, sobbing, laid his head on Frodo’s shoulder and held onto Frodo as if his very life depended upon Frodo’s embrace.

Unconscious of what he did, Frodo sank down on the bench with Sam still fast in his arms. “Sam-love, my sweetest Sam,” he murmured, staring sightlessly over the top of Sam’s head, lovingly stroking Sam’s back.

“I won’t do it!” Sam suddenly burst out breaking out of Frodo’s grasp, and clenching his fists, glared in the moonlight at Frodo. “He can’t be makin’ me! He can’t…” and then another sob tore out of him and he collapsed into Frodo’s arms once more.

Frodo closed his eyes, the tears beginning to run unheeded down his own face. “No dearest, no,” he cried softly, knowing that he could not allow this even though he felt his own heart breaking. “Sam, my love,” he lifted up Sam’s face, tears glistening in the moonlight, and whispered, “I can not do this to you. I can’t be the cause of coming between you and your father.” Swallowing hard, he stroked Sam’s wet cheek tenderly before continuing. “He means to do what he thinks is best for you, Sam.” He paused, and then continued haltingly, “I have no father, Sam. I can’t let you lose yours as well.”

“I’m so afraid,” Sam continued to sob, holding on to Frodo’s hand, hardly able to form the words. “It’s years, Frodo, so long… I should never be able to bear it. Our dreams, they‘ll never be…”

“Sam,” Frodo abruptly held Sam’s face in his hands, and even in the dim light, Sam could see the determination on that face he so loved. “It wouldn’t matter how many years. I’m in love with you, Samwise Gamgee, and will be, for all the rest of my life. There is nothing in all this world that could ever change that. I belong to you, and you alone, always. Never, never forget that.”

And even in the midst of Sam’s despair, he felt his heart wrenched by Frodo’s words, and throwing his arms around Frodo, poured all his love and passion into a kiss, willingly committing himself forevermore. And Frodo answered him with a silent promise that nothing could ever end.

The marriage of Marigold Gamgee and Tom Cotton was a glorious day, happily remembered all the rest of that year. It was a splendidly fair early summer’s afternoon, and the wedding arch had been covered with the most beautiful blossoms that Sam had been able to find. The feast was quite impressive, and prospective brides enviously eyed the spread and realized that they would be severely challenged to match it. Ale, beer, and even several bottles of Old Winyard (courtesy of the Master on the Hill) flowed in abundance, and the dancing continued, in a progressively more ragged manner, until late into the night. And everyone present cheerfully agreed that Marigold Gamgee was the loveliest bride ever, and Tom Cotton was the luckiest hobbit ever born.

Mr. Baggins was, of course, present, as befitted the owner of the Hill, and the Gamgees’ employer. The dark blue velvet of his jacket set off his dark hair beautifully, the lasses noticed, but he really did seem a trifle pale. “That one shuts himself up entirely too much,” Rose declared, and the other lasses couldn’t help but agree. He circulated, with a quiet and courteous word to all, and was the second (after Tom, of course) to dance with a joyful Marigold. Nor did he neglect to dance with Daisy, May, and Rose as well. But as evening fell, he quietly began to wish the guests farewell before returning to Bag End.

Sam had not needed his father’s reminder. He loved his sister far too much to allow his own grief to mar this day for her. So he was back to supper in time the previous night. He lay sleepless all the night in the bed he once more shared with his brothers, but they were exhausted by their travels, and never knew. He rose early to find the flowers for Marigold’s arch, and thus missed breakfast. During the wedding itself, he remained in the background, and kept his eyes fixed on the tulip tree at the far end of the field. He was aware of Frodo’s presence, oh, so aware, but dared not glance his way, for fear of losing his desperately retained control. But the occasional glimpse of those dark curls, the gracefully dancing lithe figure, the fleeting sight of those expressive eyes, were costing him dearly, so when he heard Frodo wishing his sister and her new husband happiness, it was almost a relief. He would have time, after all, before his brother left, to spend with Frodo alone.

As Sam stood against the alder, unwatched in the early evening shadow, he saw Frodo making his way toward the gaffer, seated at the far end of the table with Tolman Cotton next to him. “A happy event, my good hobbits,” Frodo bowed slightly to the two of them, gracious as ever, “And thank you for your kind invitation.”

The gaffer, clearing his throat slightly, stood and returned the bow. “Right kind o’ye, Mr. Frodo,” he answered rather awkwardly. And then, visibly uncomfortable, he added, “Jolly and I will be up to see you tomorrow, if you don’t mind. My lads will be leavin’ early, Hamson’s wife would be close t’her time, and he needs be gettin’ back.”

Frodo stood absolutely still, his expression in the dusk closed off. “Of course,” he finally murmured, so softly that it could scarcely be heard, and then looked over to where Sam stood in the shadows.

Deliberately, not caring who might see, he walked purposely over to him and folded Sam tightly in his arms, and Sam returned the embrace with all his strength. “Not forever,” Sam heard Frodo whisper in his ear, as Sam could no longer control the tears sliding down his face, “not forever, my beloved Sam. Never forget your dreams, for they are mine as well.” Slowly and gently, he kissed Sam tenderly on the cheek, and reluctantly releasing him, turned away and left without another look.

Sam never looked back at who might be watching, but quickly left the circle of lights, walking into the dark, tears streaming unheeded down his face. Through the field he stumbled, not caring where he was going, until at last he fell to his knees near the boxberry hedge on the far side of the field, and folded himself down in the grass in utter despair.

Time went by, but how long, Sam had no idea, nor did he care. The full moon had risen high in the night sky, though, when there came the sound of footsteps approaching. His tears had been all spent, but he cared not who was behind him as he lay on the ground in misery. After a few moments silence though, he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, and realized, with a desolate twist of his heart, that it was his father. Without movement, without hope, he awaited the gaffer’s sharp words.

But instead, his father was silent. Slowly, for indeed it was difficult for a hobbit of his age, he sat down in the grass next to his son, and said not a word. Sam glanced toward him at that, and found the gaffer holding his knees in his arms, and staring at the great silvery moon.

“You’re so young, lad,” the gaffer’s voice finally gruffly broke the silence. “I know you’d not be thankin’ me now, but mayhap some day…”

“Marigold’d be younger that I,” Sam rasped out in response. “Yet you trusted her to follow her heart.”

Hamfast sighed, and then turning to his son, regarded him sadly. “ ‘Tis not that uncommon, when lads are young…” he stopped, and turned his attention back to the moon. “But lad, you’d not be knowin’ what you’d be givin’ up.”

“That I would,” Sam closed his eyes in pain. “Don’t you think I hadn’t thought o’it, Da? ‘Twas never a light fancy, I’ve always known what it would mean.”

“Do ye, now?” the gaffer asked harshly, almost angrily. “For t’will be you that folks will talk of, Samwise, not Mr. Baggins. And they won’t be talkin’ kindly, neither. An’ when he takes it into his head to follow the road, as did his uncle, where does that leave you? For you know, ‘tis only a matter of the when.” The old hobbit rubbed his hands over his face then, and continued, more quietly, “And when Mari and Tom bring their little ‘uns by, what then, Samwise? For all the grief they can bring ye oftimes, there’s still no blessing like children.”

But as Sam listened to his father’s words, he could feel his heart suddenly digging in with Gamgee stubbornness. “Aye,” he lifted his head, almost proudly, staring at his father with determination. “I know that there’ll be those as’ll scorn me. I know that there’ll always be talk. And I know there’ll be times when I’ll wish something fierce for the children I’ll never have. But what I will have is what I’ve wanted more than anything, ever since I was a lad.”

He abruptly stood, and gazed down on his father’s white curls, shining in the silvery light. “I’m not going with Hamson, Da. Sendin’ me away would never change my heart. ‘Tis my life, and the choices must be mine.”

The gaffer sat in silence, staring at his hands. Then so quietly that Sam could scarcely hear, he murmured, “Then you best be leavin’, son.”

The windows of Bag End were dark as Sam approached. He let himself quietly into the kitchen, but it soon became clear that the smial was empty. It was once again in the back garden that he found Frodo. He was sitting on the gravel path, his face buried in his arms on the bench under the jasmine, and some small corner of Sam’s mind registered the fact that he had really never heard Frodo cry before. It had always been he who had looked up to Frodo for strength and comfort, and the idea that he, even unwillingly, had caused Frodo that hurt was more than he could bear.

He knelt behind Frodo, and tenderly wrapped his arms around him and closing his eyes, he let the dark curls touch his face Frodo stiffened for just a moment at the touch, and then clutched tightly to Sam’s hands, still not turning around. “I’d not be goin’ anywhere,” Sam whispered, as soon as he could trust his voice.

Frodo did turn at that, and with one hand, Sam gently brushed away a tear still clinging to Frodo’s dark lashes. “Your father,” Frodo breathed in disbelief, still holding Sam’s other hand close to his breast.

“Is na pleased,” Sam admitted, his hand continuing its gentle journey down the side of Frodo’s face. “But he knows now there’d be no point to it.” Slowly he rose, and pulled Frodo with him. Holding on to both of Frodo’s hands, he faced him under the bower of sweet white bloom. “I don’t want t’be livin’ my life in dreams, no more,” he murmured, watching Frodo intently, and then bent his head down, waiting.

“Then we will wait no more,” Frodo’s voice was a caress, and his arms were around Sam. “Share my heart, my home, Sam, my forever love.”

And Sam’s kiss was his answer and his promise.

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