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Spring Thaw
Frodo stared morosely at the bookshelves. None of the dusty volumes piqued his
interest in the slightest. Wandering over to the study fireplace, he poked at
the burning logs. The logs crackled merrily, the flames burned a little
brighter, but Frodo was not impressed. Sighing, he turned toward the study
window. Resting his elbows on the sill and his chin in his hands, he stared out
into the dark November night. It had been two months now since Bilbo had left,
and the emptiness of his departure still echoed throughout Bag End.
He had never imagined that he would miss the old hobbit so. It had seemed that
they had drifted through the days together, yet each in their own world. They
had met at mealtimes, but like as not, there was a book in hand, a manuscript to
peruse. It was only really in the evenings, after dinner, that they would settle
together in the study, fireplace ablaze, and pipes in hand. Then Bilbo would
spin his wondrous tales, never repeating a one. And Frodo would gaze dreamily
into the flames, imagining the great world beyond the Shire. But now Bilbo had
finally left, as Frodo had known for so long that he eventually would, and Frodo
had been left alone in Bag End, with Bilbo’s tales in his memories, and his own
dreams in his heart.
He settled on the bench, drawing a blanket about him, and stared unseeingly at
the flames.
It was there that Sam found him the next morning. Frodo was curled awkwardly on
the bench, half buried in the blanket. Sam frowned worriedly at the sight. He
was used enough to the sight of Mr. Frodo asleep across his desk, quill in hand,
and blotched manuscript under his cheek. Or half propped up in his bed, head at
an awkward angle, and a book still in his hands. But this. Sam was troubled.
“Mr. Frodo,” he called softly, gently touching the blanket-wrapped shoulder
closest to him.
Frodo awoke slowly and reluctantly. He seemed to be always tired nowadays, and
there was nothing he’d really rather do than lose himself in dreamless, heavy
sleep. But here was Sam, with a soft touch, and a voice full of unspoken
concern.
“Sam,” he replied blearily, and tried to rise.
But Sam saw the sway, the missed step. He was quickly at Frodo’s side,
supporting his elbow for just an instant, before stepping back with no visible
sign of anxiety. “Daisy was baking this morn,” he mentioned quietly, “and she
thought you might like a bit of fresh bread for breakfast.”
Frodo hastily sought to shake off his lethargy. “How kind of her, Sam,” he tried
to force more energy into his voice than he actually felt this morning. “Please
thank her for thinking of me.”
Sam walked over to the hearth and inspected the burnt-out fire to allow Frodo a
bit more time to collect himself. “Firewood’s summat low,” he mentioned,
examining the stack at hand. “Mayhap I’ll fetch some up the hill this morning to
store.” Glancing out the window, he frowned with a worried expression. “There’s
a fierce winter storm a’brewin’, if I’m not mistaken. You don’t want your pile
to be agoin’ low now.”
Frodo felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for Sam’s thoughtful solicitude. Bilbo
had always taken care of that sort of matter, and Frodo had never given any
thought as to why there was always firewood at the ready, food in the pantry,
and pipeweed in the battered canister. Planning ahead was not something he did
especially well, but it seemed as though it was a skill he now needed to learn.
“Would you like me to haul the water up for a bath before I go?” Sam turned
around, eyeing his master uncertainly.
“Ah, you’re saying I’m not looking at my best,” Frodo chuckled affectionately.
“No, no,” he cut off Sam’s immediate protestations, “You are quite right about
that, but I’m sure I can manage a few pails of water. You’re also right about
that storm, it looks to break very soon, and I don’t want you caught in it.”
It was late that evening when Sam finally returned to Bagshot Row. He had spent
the day collecting and stacking the firewood for Frodo, as well as the Widow
Rumble, and helping Tom Cotton and his brothers bed down the winter vegetables
in preparation for the ensuing heavy winter rains. In addition, there were his
sisters’ baking supplies and the gaffer’s store of pipeweed to replenish,
necessitating a quick trip into Hobbiton. He was exhausted when he finally
trudged into Number Three and more than ready for his supper. The rain had held
off through most of the day, but had finally begun to fall about an hour ago,
paired with a chill wind.
“Sam, hold yourself where you be,” Marigold Gamgee called out when she heard her
brother enter the small smial. “I just cleaned up after Da,” she scolded him
lightly, bustling from the kitchen with a rag in her hand. “Here,” she
instructed, handing the rag to Sam. “Just look at yourself, now. I’ll not be
cleanin’ the kitchen one more time tonight.”
Sam meekly wiped his muddy feet, as his sister stood firmly before him, hands on
hips and a fair imitation, had she known it, of her late mother. “Glad t’hear
Da’s in,” he mentioned. “It’s fair drippin’ summat fierce tonight.”
“Aye, ‘tis a’that,” the gaffer grumbled from the kitchen, seated in front of the
fire well-bundled in a worn blanket as Sam entered the cozy room. “An’ whatever
possessed that young Master of yours to find his way to the Green Dragon on a
night like this, I’ll never know.”
“Mr. Frodo was there?” Sam exclaimed in dismay. “ Was he there when you’d left?”
“That he was,” the gaffer stated firmly. “I’d be guessin’ he’d not be lookin’
forward to that trip home, as cold and wet as it’d be this night.”
All thoughts of a warm meal and bit of a stretch in front of the fire were
instantly gone for Sam. He turned around and resolutely grabbed his cloak from
the peg by the door where it had just been placed. “I’d best be after him,” he
called over his shoulder as he opened the door to the stormy night, closing it
on the gaffer’s exasperation and his sister‘s concern.
It was at the far end of Bagshot Row that he spotted the cloaked figure. In the
dark night, he nearly passed Frodo, huddled against a tree by the lane, but a
sudden gust of wind whipped the corner of the cloak out, and Sam hurried towards
the slight shape with a cry of dismay.
“Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed, his voice sharpened with distress and worry. “ ‘Tis
not a night to be out in, no ways!”
“And yet here you are as well,” Frodo answered, his voice muffled in the wind.
As Sam watched in concern, he walked towards Sam with a slightly unsteady gait,
but whether caused by the elements or the Green Dragon’s brew, Sam could not
tell until Frodo drew closer. And then seemingly, it was the effects of the wet
and chill night, and that conclusion caused Sam’s concern to mount. A chill was
harder to get over than a mug too many, any day.
Without a wasted word, he clasped Frodo’s arm and urged him silently up the
lane. Frodo followed mutely, leaning against Sam, until they reached the door of
Bag End. Frodo silently opened the round green door. Sam followed him inside
and, making his way down the dark halls to the study, quickly and dexterously
kindled a warming fire. Turning as Frodo entered the small room, Sam handed him
a blanket from the bench where he had found Frodo asleep that morning and, in a
firm voice that brooked no opposition, declared, “You’ll be needin’ some tea,
Mr. Frodo. I’ll put a pot on. And whilst I’m about it, you can be takin’ the
chill off in here.”
Frodo sank thankfully down on the settle, blanket wrapped around wet clothes,
and stretched his chilled feet out to the fire. “You’re far too good to me,” he
murmured gratefully, but Sam had already left the room.
Sam returned before too long. “The tea’s steepin’, Mr. Frodo, and there’s a pot
of water on the fire heatin’ up for a bath. And I’d be thinkin’ that your bed
would feel better tonight than that hard bench,” he added with a meaningful
look.
Frodo chuckled ruefully, and rose. “Yes, I felt that most the morning.” He
paused a moment, and then added softly, “I’m sorry to put you to all this
bother, Sam. It’s just that I was in here all day, and I..” he motioned briefly
at the room and felt silent.
“Felt like a bit of company?” Sam hazarded a guess, with an understanding smile.
Frodo’s eyes met his, the returning smile somewhat pensive. “You wouldn’t be
able to stay and warm up for a bit?” he asked wistfully.
Regret was clear on Sam’s face. “My sisters will be all in a fret ‘til I get
back,” he declined reluctantly.
“Then tea tomorrow perhaps?” Frodo persisted and was unaccountably relieved when
Sam’s face cleared with a smile at that.
“Aye, that I will,” he promised, and was gone out into the dark night.
Sam did not appear the next morning. Frodo rose late, as he usually did on these
cold grey mornings, but the kitchen fireplace was lifeless, and there was no
water heated for tea. Sam usually stopped by, of a morning, but apparently not
this one. Frodo quelled his disappointment sternly. “And why should he run all
the way up the Row just to start my tea and stoke the fire?” he chided himself.
“I’m surely not as useless as all that.”
But the bleak morning stretched interminably before him. There was no chance of
Sam coming up the Hill to work in the garden, the rain pounded outside
mercilessly. Frodo finished a bit of cold breakfast, and retired back in his
bed, a volume in hand. It dropped more than once from his hand, however, and he
found himself staring blankly at the sheets of water hitting the window.
Collecting himself up again, he sighed, and tried to find some consolation in
the fact that Sam must be holed up in the Gamgee smial, tending to the chores of
his own family. “I shouldn’t take up so much of his time,” he thought guiltily,
but that didn’t stop him from looking ahead yearningly to Sam’s promised
appearance at tea-time.
Tea-time came and went and there was no Sam. By now, Frodo was truly beginning
to become concerned. He could not remember the last time Sam had not appeared
when promised. Finally his anxiety had risen to the point that he strode to the
front door and wrapped himself in his cloak, despite the dark and cold and
continued rain. There was no need however. Just as he was pulling the hood over
his head in preparation for departure, there was a rap upon the front door of
Bag End, “Sam,” he sighed in relief, never stopping to think that Sam no longer
knocked, but entered through the kitchen door without any further ceremony.
There was a Gamgee on the doorstep when he opened the front door quickly, but it
wasn’t Sam. Daisy Gamgee’s ginger curls had been plastered to her face under the
hood of her cloak by the driving rain, and her tall, spare frame shivered as she
stood, ever polite, as were all the gaffer’s offspring, in Frodo’s doorway. “Mr.
Frodo, Sam wanted me to tell you …,” she started, but Frodo quickly drew her
inside before she could finish.
“Tell me inside, Daisy,” he urged, and then seeing how drenched she was, took
her hand and led a surprised Daisy down the darkened hall to the warm kitchen.
“There’s no fire in the parlor,” he poured a mug of tea out for her as he spoke.
“This is probably the warmest room… Oh, I should take that for you,” he turned
around with the mug and motioned towards her wet cloak.
“Oh, sir, there’s no need,” she finally found her voice, but Frodo was paying no
heed.
“One way or the other, it will be dripping on the floor, it may as well be off
you,” he stated firmly. So Daisy found herself seated in Mr. Frodo’s kitchen,
warm mug in hand, and her cloak hung before the kitchen fire.
“Now,” Frodo finally sat at the table across from her. “What was your news?” His
apprehension at Daisy’s unexpected visit was only revealed in his tightly
clasped hands that he kept hidden under the table.
“Our Sam, he’s been that worried,” she began, staring down into her mug. “He
knew as you were expectin’ him, and he’s been frettin’ so..” her voice trailed
off uncertainly.
“What’s wrong with Sam, Daisy?” Frodo asked anxiously.
“Well, he did catch such a chill last night,” Daisy looked back up at him with
trepidation clear in the wide hazel eyes that were so like Sam’s. “He’s been
abed all day, and I can’t remember the last time…” her voice died away, and she
took a nervous sip of her tea. Daisy was a quiet lass, with a reputation as
being skilled in the arts of healing and herb lore. But she hadn’t been able to
save her mother, and there was yet a haunted look to her eyes, despite still
being four years away from her coming-of-age.
“He just kept sayin’ that you were awaitin’ on him, and so as to give him some
peace, I told him I’d come up and let you know,” she finished, and took another
swallow. “But I’d best be gettin’ back, Mr. Frodo, waitin’ always seems longer
when you’re feelin’ sickly, and it’ll put his mind at rest a bit.”
She stood up quickly and crossed over to the sink to clean the mug before she
left. “Leave it, Daisy, I’ll wash it later,” Frodo said in an abstracted voice
and held out her cloak for her to put on.
Blushingly, she slipped the wet garment back on her shoulders. “Thank you, Mr.
Frodo,” she murmured.
“Do you think I should send for some herbs?” he asked her with concern as they
stood in the doorway again, Daisy preparing to enter back into the storm. “Would
you like me to walk back with you?
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Frodo, but there‘s no need. for aught,” but she smiled
thankfully at him anyway.
“Well, I’ll not be bothering your family this late at night, but I will stop by
tomorrow and check on Sam, if you think he wouldn’t mind,” Frodo answered
uncertainly.
“He’d be right pleased,” she returned, with another brief smile, and was gone
into the night.
The rain still continued the next morning, as Frodo made his way down the muddy
lane that was Bagshot Row. There had been a time when he had been a more
frequent visitor to Number Three, when he was still recently arrived from Brandy
Hall. The slumberous quiet of Bag End had initially unnerved him at times, being
used to the clamour and bustle that was the home of the Brandybucks, and he had
taken occasional refuge with the Gamgee family. Sam’s mother had managed to
always make him feel warmly welcome, without offending the gaffer’s firm sense
of propriety. But now Sam’s mother was gone, and he was the young Master, and it
had been at least a year since he had been this way.
It was Marigold who came to the door, and her freckled face lit up upon seeing
Frodo. “Ah, ‘tis you after all, Mr. Frodo,” she exclaimed in relief. “It will
make Sam that happy to see you.” She closed the door swiftly behind him,
shutting out the rain. “Da and May, they took the cart to the Widow, she’d be
runnin’ low of provisions,” her honey-colored braids shone in the dim light as
she held out her hands for his cloak. “Sam’d be in the kitchen, as is the
warmest room.” she continued, motioning him to follow.
Frodo followed her through the cold and seldom-used front room to the kitchen,
the heart of the Gamgee household. Daisy, who had been seated by the hearth,
patching a worn jacket sleeve of her father’s, rose quickly, with a happy
exclamation. “Why, Sam, Mr. Frodo has come, now wasn’t I a’tellin’ you so?”
A straw mattress had been brought in for the invalid, and Sam lay propped up on
it, in the fire’s warmth, well tucked about in blankets. Frodo felt his heart
tighten for a moment at the sight of him. Sam’s cheeks and forehead were flushed
and damp, and his breathing was clearly labored. “Sam, how are you, my lad?” he
exclaimed anxiously, dropping to his knees on the floor at Sam’s bedside.
“Just a chill, naught to it, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said weakly, before being
interrupted by a coughing fit.
Daisy immediately crouched down at Frodo’s side and slipping a hand behind Sam’s
back, easily lifted him upright and handed him a chipped mug filled with a dark
brew, that had been by the side of the mattress.
“I don’t care what you’d be thinkin’ o’the taste of it, Sam Gamgee, you drink
this down right aways.”
Sam, with a small smile towards Frodo, meekly obeyed his sister.
“Now,” she stated flatly, carefully laying his head back to rest on the folded
blankets, “that ought to be givin’ you a bit of rest right soon. Mayhap, Mr.
Frodo will be givin’ you some company until then. Come, Mari,” she spoke firmly
to her sister, who had been hovering anxiously on the side of the mattress,
“that laundry in the washroom ain’t going t’be washin’ itself.”
“I’m that sorry I wasn’t able to come by yesterday,” Sam whispered weakly as his
sisters left the room. “You wouldn’t be runnin’ low on wood, now, would you?”
Frodo’s mouth tightened as he carefully smoothed back the dampened curls from
Sam’s forehead. He was warm, but not dangerously so, Frodo decided in relief. He
kept his hand there though, as Sam’s eyes began to blink sleepily, Daisy’s
potion starting to take effect. “I’m fine. When are you going to learn to care
for yourself, Sam?” he muttered, his voice tight. “You always think of everyone
else but yourself.”
“Naught to worry about, Mr. Frodo,” Sam murmured drowsily, with a smile. “I’ll
be right enough in no time, you see if I ain’t.”
Frodo bowed his head as Sam’s eyes slid shut and his breathing steadied itself.
It was several moments before he rose, and went to find Sam’s sisters.
Sam was back to work within a few days. The rains had ceased for the time being,
and Sam had his hands full with tending to the paths and plants that had been
choked with mud. Frodo insisted, however, that he only work for short periods of
time, and take plenty of rest. Taking tea with Frodo had thus become a daily
occurrence, and more and more often, it was late into the evening when Sam would
return home. Day by day, in the congenial kitchen of Bag End, they planned
changes for spring to the Bag End garden, discussed the doings of Hobbiton
through the bits of news gathered by Sam’s sisters, worked out thorny patches in
Frodo’s translations (Sam’s reliable ear was proving itself invaluable to
Frodo), or else just sat and sipped their tea in comfortable silence. And
gradually, as the darkness of evening came sooner and sooner, and the leaves of
autumn had been all quite swept away, Frodo felt the pattern of his life being
mended. Bilbo’s departure still caught his heart unawares at times, when he
found a particularly interesting passage and yearned to show it to Bilbo for his
opinion, or when the setting winter sun struck a frozen puddle and glowed gold
and verdant for a moment. But now, more and more, it was Sam to whom he would
attempt to describe the beauty of the light, or his fascination in the words of
those that had lived long before him.
He also discovered that there was much about this quiet hobbit that he had not
known. He had not known that Sam’s memory was so sharp and sure, and ranged back
to some of Bilbo’s tales that he could scarcely remember himself. He had not
known that Sam’s store of plant lore came not only from the gaffer, but dusty
old volumes that Bilbo had lent to him. Sam had carefully and methodically
translated them, and remembered every detail that could apply to Bag End’s
garden. He had not known that Sam had the eye of an artist. He had known that
Sam was fond of planting flowers amidst the more necessary vegetables, but never
realized that it was so wherever Frodo glanced in the garden, his gaze would be
pleased with a piquant pink here, or a deep blue there.
Before Frodo had quite realized what had happened, he found that his days had
become wrapped around the shy gardener, that his mornings were spent in
anticipation, his afternoons in contentment, and his evenings in remembrance.
The carefully written invitation to Brandy Hall arrived, as always, a week
before Yule. Although there was no doubt that Frodo would spend the holiday with
his cousins, as he normally did, the Mistress of Brandy Hall was one to uphold
the customs. The driver and his cart spent the night at the Green Dragon, and by
noon the next day, Frodo was gone. Sam wandered through the empty halls of Bag
End that afternoon feeling unsettled and lonely.
It had been two days since the Yule as Sam inspected the back pantry of Bag End.
Although he did not expect Frodo back for at least another week, there was no
harm in preparing the smial for his master’s return, Sam thought.
There had been some snow a few days back, but mostly the weather continued chill
and grey. He had taken care of the few chores in the garden that he could think
of, to escape the cramped quarters of Number Three, but there was little to do
this time of the year. He had visited the Green Dragon with his Da on several
evenings, but the company was always the same, and it seemed as though he had
heard all those stories before. He had gone with his sisters when they went to
the Cottons, but the lasses were full of giggles and silly stories as they sat
together stitching, and he sat moodily with the Cotton lads as they oiled the
tools and straps, and spoke idly of the prospects of the new year’s grain, and
how many piglets they should be keeping to rear come spring.
He had escaped to empty Bag End on the pretence of doing a bit of cleaning
before Mr. Frodo returned. In truth, there was naught to be done, since Daisy
and Marigold had gone through the smial soon after Frodo’s departure and had
given it a proper turning out (May had been visiting the Cottons again). But Sam
found enough odd chores to do to keep himself occupied. He shivered slightly in
the cold pantry and decided that there was adequate tea and pipeweed for Frodo’s
return, and that the root vegetables were sufficiently bedded with straw.
He slowly walked up the hall to the study, to see if it needed a bit of dusting,
and paused in the doorway. Of all the rooms in Bag End, this was the one that
spoke most clearly to him of Frodo. Once it had been Mr. Bilbo’s study, and Sam
had many memories of lessons in this room as he was growing up, especially of a
winter’s afternoon, just as this one, when there was naught to do about the
garden. The cozy room was always warm, and there were ever so many candles
about, as he did not have in his own smial, since Mr. Bilbo always took care not
to strain his eyes. And then, there was tea, and a special treat to eat, like as
not, and the most wonderful stories from Mr. Bilbo. His nephew would be there as
well, enjoying the tales as much as Sam, his mobile features staring dreamily
into the flames, or smiling warmly back at Sam with shared enjoyment of Bilbo’s
more dramatic flourishes. They were some of the most treasured memories of Sam’s
childhood, and had been a comfort to him through hard times. He knew he was
fortunate indeed to have such memories, as his brothers and sisters had never
had.
But now he had new memories as well, those of the afternoons he and Frodo had
been spending here as of late. It was a marvel to him, as he thought back on it,
as to how easy it had become to sit with Mr. Frodo, and listen to him speak of
this or that, even, on occasion, to hear his full-throated chuckle to some
observation or comment that he, Sam, had made. Those were the days he returned
home full of happiness, and gave no heed to any sharp comments the gaffer or his
sisters might make. Sighing, he walked through the room in the dim afternoon
light, and dusted what he could, leaving everything in the room precisely as Mr.
Frodo had left it.
And suddenly there was a noise at the door, and his heart leapt up.
Frodo piled his bags and boxes at the door of Bag End, and thankfully opened the
round green door. Fond as he was of his cousins, his heart and thoughts had been
far away on this holiday, and once Yule had passed, he had not been able to wait
any longer. All he had wanted was to return to the life that he had suddenly
found for himself here.
And here was Sam, running from the back of Bag End, crying out , “Mr. Frodo!,
You’re back!”
At the sight of Sam’s joyful face and cry of delight, Frodo, without a moment’s
thought, strode forward and threw his arms around Sam. There was only the
hesitation of an instant on Sam’s part, and then Sam’s arms were tight around
Frodo, warm and sure, and Frodo heard Sam give an indefinable hum of happiness.
Closing his eyes tightly, he held Sam in his arms for long moments, and felt the
beating of Sam’s heart, so close to his.
At first, there was only bliss in holding Sam like this, but then cold
uncertainty began to creep into his heart. What must Sam be thinking? To be
sure, Frodo customarily greeted his cousins with an embrace, but never Sam,
never before. Hesitantly, he slowly pulled himself from Sam, and with
apprehension, glanced at Sam’s face. But Sam’s face was lit with pure happiness,
and there was no embarrassment, no awkwardness in that honest face.
“I never thought t’see you this soon,” Sam murmured, his hands still on Frodo’s
shoulders.
“Yes, well,” Frodo struggled to gain his composure. He took a step back, shoving
his hands in his pockets. “It was rather dull this year, I guess, and the
weather seemed right for travel..”
But then Frodo’s smile broadened once more with anticipation. “Oh, and I brought
something for you, Sam.” Swiftly, he turned back to the pile of parcels and bags
strewn by the door in his initial haste, and turned again, holding out a
dirt-streaked cloth bundle. “I’ve a bet riding on you, Sam-lad, a dozen of Old
Winyard’s finest. So don’t be letting me down, now.”
Sam held out his hands for the bundle, and examined it curiously. “A cutting?”
he hazarded a guess, glancing up at Frodo.
“From Brandy Hall’s vineyards,” Frodo answered, smiling broadly. “Saradoc
Brandybuck has wagered me that this vintage cannot be grown this far west. I
answered his challenge, saying that I knew one who could do it. Much rides on
this, Sam, but I know that you will not fail me.”
“All a matter of the right place, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied with a confident grin.
“They’d be naught of the Old Winyards a’goin’ to Brandy Hall, rest you easy on
that.”
Frodo laughed, and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I suspected as much. And
now, Sam, what about helping me get some fires lit? It certainly is dreadfully
cool this evening.”
Frodo sat on his bed that night, lost in thought. Returning home had been all he
had thought of, the last several days. Sighing, he snuffed out the candle with a
quick pinch. There was no doubt. Somehow, when, he knew not, Samwise Gamgee had
become the center of his life. The memory of those strong arms around him, the
pleased murmur in his ear, these were the memories that he savored alone that
night. Gradually, the cold bed warmed around him, and he fell asleep to dream of
welcome summer sun, fields of undulating green grass, and warm hazel eyes.
Sam shivered in his unheated room, on the cold hard straw mattress of the bed
that was his alone since his brothers had left, but his thoughts were far away,
and his heart was light. Mr. Frodo was back, and Sam felt himself whole once
again.
The winter continued on cold and wet. Clear days were rare, and the morning’s
rain shower often turned to sleet by the evening. Frodo had been postponing the
trip into Hobbiton, waiting for more favorable weather, but a fortnight after
his return, it could be postponed no longer. His store of ink was dangerously
low, and the supply of foolscap had nearly vanished. In addition, Sam had
mentioned to Frodo that Frodo’s shelves were beginning to look rather bare.
Frodo paid little heed to what was in the pantry when he prepared his own
supper, preferring simple foods such as bread and cheese, but he did like to
offer something nice to Sam at teatime. Sam had offered to accompany Frodo, to
Frodo’s secret delight. “The lasses are plannin’ t’dip candles on the morrow,
and there’ll be naught but string and tallow strung about the kitchen. They’ll
not be missin’ me and my clumsy ways at all,” he informed Frodo, and they
planned an early start for the next day.
The sky was a cold white, and ominous darkening on the horizon boded worse than
rain as the two hobbits set off for Hobbiton the next morning, but neither paid
the weather any heed. Frodo regaled Sam with tales of his visit to Brandy Hall
as they walked, and Sam, more than once, was laughing so hard that he had to
lean against the bare trees along the way to catch his breath.
“Oh, Mr. Frodo, he never did!” he exclaimed, wiping the tears of merriment from
his eyes at Frodo’s wry story of Pippin’s current fall from grace with Merry’s
mother. “Lor’ if that lad ain’t a handful!”
“To be sure, Sam,” Frodo chuckled wickedly. “I’m sure there’s a good reason his
own mother lets him spend so much time with the Brandybucks. At least he’s good
company for Merry.”
They were now walking past the small smials on the outskirts of Hobbiton. Carts
rumbled past them laden with goods for the marketplace, and the town’s
inhabitants were stepping around icy puddles in the muddy road, leading the
cattle out past the two travelers to the neighboring fields for a quick graze on
such vegetation as was left, before the approaching storm forced them back in
again. As they reached the center of town, they parted ways, as was their habit,
Sam heading towards the marketplace, and Frodo to the bookseller’s.
Frodo had meant to meet Sam at the Golden Perch at midday, but there was a box
of volumes newly arrived from an estate out Bree-way, and it was late in the
afternoon when Frodo heard the familiar voice uncertainly asking, “Mr. Frodo?”
as he sat in a comfortable chair by the window, lost in the musty volume at
hand.
“Oh, Sam,” he startled up, hastily closing the book and jumping up to his feet,
“what time is it anyway?”
“Late enough, Mr. Frodo. We’d best be off lest we lose all the light.”
“Oh, we should have started sooner,” Frodo sighed, hastily paying for the book
and sliding it along with his other purchases in his pack. “You weren’t waiting
for me too long at the Perch, were you, Sam?” he guiltily glanced at Sam,
striding beside him with two heavily laden sacks slung over his back.
“No worries, Mr. Frodo,” Sam smiled at him. “Seems as if there’s always a body
about that I haven’t seen for a bit, to have a nice chat with. But I don’t think
we’ll be outrunnin’ this storm.” He frowned at the sun, setting opalescent in
the cloudbank, and already swirls of thinly blown snow were gusting around their
legs. And as night fell, the snow was driven harder, and became wetter, until
the two hobbits found themselves trudging through a biting ice-storm, wind-blown
sheets of hard pellets of hail. They had soon left the last small farms
clustered around Hobbiton behind, and the night grew ever blacker, the stars and
the moon hidden behind thick blankets of clouds.
Sam trudged alongside Frodo, although Frodo could not see him in the gloom, but
suddenly stopped short. “Mr. Frodo,” he suddenly called out to Frodo in the howl
of the wind. “We should probably put up with the Cottons for the night. They’d
not be mindin’.”
Frodo knew that this was a sensible suggestion, but felt reluctant to agree to
it. It was all very well for Sam to show up unannounced on the doorstep, but if
he did the same, the reaction would be far different. The Cottons’ smial was not
much larger than that of the Gamgees, and there would be a fuss and a bother,
and someone would insist on giving up his bed to Frodo. He felt that he should
tell Sam to stay there as he continued on, but knew that he needed Sam’s sure
sense of direction and intimate knowledge of the roads around Bag End to get
home.
Sighing unheard in the wind, he shook his head. “I’d really rather get back to
Bag End, Sam,” he shouted towards Sam. Abruptly, he suddenly felt quite alone.
He hesitantly extended out his hand, searching for the familiar form of Sam.
And there was Sam, first his sturdy shoulder under a sodden cloak, and then
Sam’s strong hand, clasped firmly over his. “Right enough, Mr. Frodo,” he heard
Sam’s shout, “we’d best not be wasting any time, then.”
Frodo remembered that night quite clearly for many years. The fierce winds,
driving the numbingly sharp bits of ice into his legs and face, the utter
darkness that surrounded them, forcing them to find their way back by only their
memories and the feel of the road under their chilled feet, and the feel of
Sam’s hand firmly clasping his, warm despite the chill that had crept into
Frodo’s very bones, and comforting beyond all imagination. He felt no fear
through that long night, for Sam was with him. Cold and horrific as that journey
was, his heart still sang within him, and he knew finally that he was in love.
They reached Bag End finally long after midnight. There was no question but that
Sam would stay the rest of the night. “Like as not, they’ll think we’re with the
Cottons, or that we’ve stopped in town,” Sam answered Frodo’s query as they
slowly made their way to the smial.
“Stay with me, Sam,” Frodo murmured in exhaustion as he leaned against the front
door, one hand still tightly grasped in Sam’s. Sam nodded, too tired for any
other response, and allowed himself to be dragged into Bag End. They made their
way down the dark corridors, and Frodo opened the door of his bedroom. Sam made
a feeble remonstrance, but Frodo was too weary, too thoroughly drained, to pay
it any mind. Unfastening his sopping traveling cloak and dropping it on the
floor, he quickly helped Sam do the same. Then, still with Sam’s hand firmly in
his, he staggered to his bed and, pulling Sam with him, fell into the soft
mattress, still fully clothed, and immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Sam awoke with the dawn’s first pale grey light. It was a moment or two’s work
for him to place himself. What he was sleeping on was far softer than he was
accustomed to, and he was warmer than usual due to a down-filled coverlet draped
over him. These luxuries were partially offset by the fact that his clothes had
apparently dried on him while he slept, and were now twisted around and dug into
him in a rather uncomfortable manner. It didn’t take that long to puzzle out
where he was, and he sat up suddenly, taking care, however, not to disturb the
coverlet. Yes, it was unmistakably Frodo’s bed room, and Frodo’s bed in which he
found himself, and there was Frodo, still asleep, beside him. It was difficult
to see much in the pale light other than the crown of dark curls, and Frodo’s
fair face under them against the white-clad pillow. Although he, too, was
covered by the same coverlet, Sam could see by the bit of collar showing around
Frodo’s neck that he still must be dressed as well.
Sam carefully crept out of bed, so as not to disturb the sleeper, and
noiselessly made his way through the dark smial to the kitchen. He lit the
kitchen fire and, as he waited for the kindling to alight, absentmindedly pulled
at and smoothed out his clothing. His mind was far from these matters though, as
he stared into the growing flames. How had he found himself in Frodo’s bed, and
what did Frodo mean by that? “Ah, now you’re bein’ daft,” he chided himself
fiercely. “We were both just that tired last night that the both o’us weren’t
thinking at all. It was nowt but that.” Still a small sigh escaped him at the
memory of waking up so warm and comfortable, and Frodo beside him. The thought
of Frodo’s hand in his, through that long night‘s journey, came back to him as
well, and how wonderful it had seemed to be holding it. “Useless dreams,” he
told himself sternly, as he picked up a couple of buckets to take to the water
pump outside the kitchen door. “You’re meant for a sensible hobbit-lass
somewhere, Samwise Gamgee, and naught but that. There’d be no use throwin’ your
heart at the stars.”
As he opened the kitchen door, he could see that the ice from the night before
had changed back to rain again, and the clouds were beginning to break up in the
west. The storm was nearly over.
Daisy, Marigold, and May sat about the kitchen fire in the late afternoon’s
fading light. Sam was up the Hill, as usual at tea-time, and the gaffer had
taken advantage of the clear weather to visit the Green Dragon. Daisy was bent
over the shirtsleeve that she was stitching for Sam, and Marigold was knitting a
scarf with homespun. Who it was for, she would not tell, but her sisters
suspected that it was for Tom Cotton. May sat with some kitchen towels that she
had been hemming in her lap, but they lay forgotten as she was busily licking
every drop of honey she could off of the old battered spoon that they had shared
for their tea. “I think it’s that hard,” she finally declared petulantly, “that
we cannot be havin’ more than the one spoonful. Now, if we had some hives of our
own, we could be havin’ as much as we pleased.”
Daisy looked up from her stitching, eyeing her sister levelly. “And it’d be you
that’d be tendin’ those bees, May Gamgee?” she queried, with a slight smile.
“Why, what else would we be havin’ a brother for?” May tossed her curls with the
dexterity of long practice, pausing to once more admire the effect as they
settled into place. “Of course,” she snorted, her wistful gaze on the spoon once
more, “if it’d been Mr. Frodo as wished for honey, Sam’d be the first to be
pluckin’ the clover just for those bees.”
“May, you know I’ll not be havin’ you say a bad word about Mr. Frodo,” Daisy set
back to work, but the look on her face was stern. “You know as well as I that it
could have been Mistress Lobelia up on the Hill.”
“And that nasty piece o’work of a son of hers,” Marigold popped out, glancing up
from her knitting and making a face. “Hoy! There’s a face I’d not like to be
seein’ every day.” The other two girls nodded at that sentiment. There was no
question in the Gamgee household but that it had been a great day the day Mr.
Bilbo brought Mr. Frodo to stay at Bag End.
“All the same,” May continued, stretching out her toes luxuriously towards the
fire, and admiring the effect of the light on her russet hair, “poor Rose’ll be
waitin’ forever as long as our Sam is payin’ court to Mr. Frodo.”
“ ‘Tis what I’m afraid of,” Marigold sighed, giving her yarn a small yank.
“Tom’n I, we’d hoped..” but then she stopped, her face faintly rosy. “My! But
this yarn knots so!” And grabbing the ball into her lap, she busily proceeded to
unwind and wind it up again. Both sisters had been staring at her hopefully,
but, as it seemed that no announcement was to be made, they returned to their
previous thoughts.
“And what of you, May?” spoke up Marigold suddenly, determined to shift the
general topic of conversation to her sister. “Which o’the lads would you be
thinkin’ of now?”
“Oh, ‘tis a worrisome puzzle,” returned May, delighted to discuss her dilemma.
“That Ned, now, he’d be a fine lad, and he has three cattle, mind, but Hob, why
he already has a smial all of his own, and that’d be fine.” Sighing prettily,
she thought a bit more. “And Johun, why, he certainly is a pretty lad, and
well-spoken too, but with four brothers older that he, well…” she shrugged her
shoulders, and her sisters knew that Johun’s chances were not good.
“But don’t you love any o’the lads, May?” Marigold burst out. “After all, that’s
what matters.”
“Oh, you have your Tom, so it’s easy for you to say,” May tossed her head with a
laugh. “But I, I say ‘tis the best bargain as makes the best husband. After all,
a lass must look for herself.”
“And what of you, Daisy?” Marigold turned to her older sister. “What would you
be sayin’ on the matter?”
“Oh, she’d be thinkin’ like you,” May retorted before Daisy could speak, “for
didn’t she just turn down that Jem Bayberry, now, as has been widowed these two
years? And wouldn’t he and those four bairns just be needin’ a lass about the
place? They’d be sayin’ that he’d have five cattle soon enough, and no end of a
fine flock of geese.”
“I’d not be marryin’ for cattle nor geese, nor bairns, for that matter,” Daisy
replied shortly, concentrating on her stitches.
“Then what?” asked Marigold curiously.
“They’d be only one reason t’marry,” Daisy looked over to her younger sister
intently. “You know that as well as I, Marigold Gamgee. There’d be worse than
ending your days livin’ alone.”
“And if he never comes?”
“Better he never come than he comes whilst you’re bespoken to one who you’d be
lovin’ not,” Daisy said firmly, carefully drawing the needle through the coarse
linen. “For there never’d be anything in all the world so dear, and t‘lose your
chance at it, well….”
Her sisters eyed her intently, but she said no more.
It was a bird’s nest. That was the conclusion
Frodo and Sam had reached. The front room chimney hadn’t been drawing well as of
late, and on the last occasion, had entirely smoked them out altogether. Yet
when Sam had peered down from above, on a rare clear day, there had appeared to
be no obstruction.
“A finch, right enough,” he declared to Frodo, pouring the steaming water into
the teapot as he prepared their tea.
“And how would you know that, Sam?” Frodo asked Sam curiously, as he stood
beside Sam in the kitchen of Bag End, slicing bread. The early evening dusk was
darkening the sky rapidly without, and the warmth of the fire was welcome. The
clouds had been building all day, and it was apparent that another snowstorm was
due that night.
“T’was some sticks as I saw,” Sam explained, turning back towards the fire with
the kettle, “They’d be the favorite…Oh! Frodo!” Frodo had turned around
precisely as Sam had turned back to the fire, and the hot kettle had just missed
Frodo’s outstretched arm. But Frodo’s eyes were not on the kettle, but rather on
Sam’s face.
Sam hesitated, struck by the look on Frodo’s face. “Frodo?” he asked
uncertainly, trying to interpret what he saw on that expressive face.
Frodo took the kettle from Sam, and turned his back, carefully placing the
kettle back on the hook. “I’ve never heard you call me that,” Sam heard him say,
very softly.
Sam stood still, finally realizing just what he had said.
“It’s been so long,” Frodo was continuing, still with his back to Sam, “ever
since Bilbo set off.” There was another pause, and then Frodo went on haltingly,
“There’s no-one left to call me by my name.”
“Oh, Frodo,” Sam responded, his heart moved by the tone of Frodo’s voice. “If
ever I can..” and slowly he reached out, lightly touching Frodo’s shoulder.
And at that contact, almost imperceptible though it was, Frodo turned back, and
his blue eyes intently searched Sam’s face. “I need a friend, Sam,” he stated
quietly.
“That you have,” Sam answered without hesitation, his hand still lightly on
Frodo’s shoulder. “That I am.”
It was the look in Sam’s eyes, shining golden in the flickering light, that look
of buried hope, that made Frodo dare to go on. “And if I need more than a
friend, Sam?” he whispered, and held his breath.
“Then that you have too,” Sam returned without any hesitation, and who was to
know who had moved the first as their lips brushed together in a hesitant kiss.
It was only for a moment, then each drew back, fearful that they had
misinterpreted the other. But it was clear, so very clear, the instant their
eyes met, that there had been no mistake. Frodo slowly drew a hand up to Sam’s
cheek, brushing it slightly with the back of his fingers, and Sam turned into
the touch without a word, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s.
And then they were in each other’s arms, clutching tightly to each other, as
their mouths met again hungrily. Sam was obviously inexperienced, but willing
and eager, holding tightly to Frodo as if not yet sure that Frodo would not
somehow vanish from his embrace like the fading of a sweet dream. And Frodo felt
the drought of so many years, the forced reticence and containment, being shed
from his heart, like an old carapace no longer needed. He felt love and joy
surge through his heart, and the feeling of Sam’s strong back beneath his
ravenous hands, and Sam’s fervent return of his kiss, sent the blood rushing
through his veins.
Sam slowly drew back then, gazing at Frodo as if in a daze, and spoke slowly, as
if unaware that he spoke the words aloud, “All my dreams, Frodo..”
“Mine, too, Sam-love,” Frodo whispered, his heart soaring at Sam’s words. “Mine,
too, dearest.”
It was late that evening when Sam finally made his way through the drifts of
newly-fallen snow, and he cared not what his face showed when he returned to
Number Three. He and Frodo had spent the last several hours curled together on
the settle in front of the study’s fire, and there had been revelations, shared
confidences, and numerous kisses exchanged. Sam’s heart was still soaring as he
entered the small smial, and he felt as though there were nothing in all the
world more that he could ever wish for than Frodo’s love. His gaffer was still
spending a late evening at the Green Dragon, but Daisy gave him a sharp look, as
he sought the privacy of his chilled room.
The next week fell into a blissful routine for Frodo and Sam. Sam would
dutifully take care of his chores about the Gamgee smial during the morning.
Much needed to be prepared for the spring planting season, as winter drew to a
close. And there was always the need for the assistance of a fine strong lad
such as Sam from their various neighbors. Sam gave his full attention to the job
at hand, as always, and none could fault his cheerful contributions to his
family and friends. If a path needed to be dug through the snow from the Widow’s
smial to her outbuilding, why, Sam was there at the door with a good-humored
smile and spade in hand. If the Cottons needed hay to be brought in from the
covered stacks buried under the snow in the fields, Sam was a willing
participant, with a chuckle and a merry word or two, to make the work that much
the lighter. And none of his sisters could complain that they lacked his
attention and devotion. Yet by late afternoon, every day, he was gone, and did
not return until supper-time.
He would let himself in the kitchen door of Bag End, as he had for several years
now, but there would be Frodo to greet him, and it would be the work of an
instant to be in each other’s arms, locked together in a passionate kiss. And
Frodo’s gentle hand would wind through Sam’s light brown locks, damp from the
snow or rain outside, and Sam’s hand would stray across Frodo’s back, as Sam
marveled at the feel of wire-tight muscle hidden under Frodo’s jacket. Then,
finally, as the kiss had to be broken, they would smile into each other’s eyes,
recognizing that the joy that each was enveloped within was mirrored in the
other’s face as well. Laughing at their great good fortune, they would turn to
the tea-table, that Frodo would have ready. He was conscientious about providing
Sam with a substantial tea, knowing how hard Sam labored, but was content
himself usually to sip a cup and eat only a slice or two of bread-and-butter,
some dried apples, and perhaps a few slices of cheese. Once Sam had finished,
chatting with Frodo all the while about the day’s doings and the latest
indications that spring was truly on the way, they would clean the dishes
together, and retire to the study.
Sam was sure that he had never imagined such bliss as he knew during these early
evenings. They had found that the two of them fit precisely together on the
settle in front of the fire with just enough room to spare for a soft blanket or
two. Sometimes Frodo would read the passages that he had been working on through
the morning, and sometimes they would discuss the latest Shire news and
speculate as to their fellow hobbits’ thoughts and plans. But often enough, it
was revelations of their own dreams and desires that were the topics of these
shared confidences. No matter the topic though, there was reason enough to seek
each other’s lips, and arms, and time for Sam to discover that to nibble on
Frodo’s ear-tip could cause Frodo to gasp and sigh and tighten his hold on Sam,
and for Frodo to determine that there was a spot on the side of Sam’s neck
where, if kissed just so, invariably provoked a groan from Sam, and his eyes
would slide shut, and he would clutch closely to Frodo as if to never let him
go.
But Frodo never took Sam too far, aware of how new it all was to him, and the
danger of letting Sam stay too long. But how he would ache, some nights, in his
room alone, after Sam had left.
There came a night, late in winter, when the snow fell all night. Sam had barely
been able to fight his way though the drifts that night, after he left Bag End,
and by morning, those drifts covered the windows and doors of Number Three. The
sky shone only faintly with the morning light, and it was clear that snow was
going to fall for the rest of the day. By late afternoon, Sam realized that he
would not be able to get to Bag End until this storm was over. All that night he
tried to act as if naught was amiss, but his sudden silences and guiltily
stifled sighs betrayed him to the one who chose to see. He retired to his room
early that evening, despite the lack of heat there.
The storm continued for two days more, and Sam felt as if he had been cut off
from all that was dear to him. It came to him suddenly as he shivered in his bed
that night that this is how he would feel if he ever lost Frodo from his life
and the thought terrified him. His dreams that night were all of searching and
of loss, and still haunted him the next day.
By the time Sam was able to make his way to Bag End on the fourth day, he was
near frantic with worry and desperate for the sight and touch of the master of
Bag End. The sky had cleared momentarily by afternoon, and although snow clouds
were still to be seen on the horizon, it seemed as though there would be a
respite on the storm for a few hours at least. Sam set off as soon as he had
eaten dinner, but it was long tedious work slogging his way through the snow
drifted higher than his head. It was not until well into the afternoon that he,
nearly exhausted, reached Bag End. Slowly he tramped his way to the kitchen
door. He could scarcely see the outline of the smial under the frosty banks,
gleaming pink with the afternoon sun, but he was heartened to see smoke rising
from the chimneys of the smial. His strength renewed, he set to work shoveling
the obstructing snow from about the door. And no sooner had he cleared out
enough, than the door was roughly shoved outward, and a strong arm reached from
within and hastily tugged him inside the smial. And then he had his arms full of
warm hobbit, and his lips too, and sweet mercy, what was Frodo doing with his
tongue?
The shovel clanged to the flagstone kitchen floor, dropping unnoticed from Sam’s
hands as he swept them tightly around Frodo. Willing to follow Frodo’s lead
anywhere, he opened his mouth to the insistent pressure of Frodo’s tongue
against his teeth, and then, he lost thought of all else but the sweet taste of
Frodo, the exhilarating pressure of that clever tongue searching his mouth, the
heady sensation of tea and pipeweed and the essence of Frodo.
Finally, Frodo broke away, leaving a rather dazed Sam swaying slightly in
Frodo’s arms. “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry,” Frodo looked contrite, lovingly stroking
Sam’s arm. “After all that work to get here, too. It’s just that -”
Quickly turning, he reached for the kettle to pour some tea into a mug for Sam.
He had never meant… Had he pushed Sam too far? Apprehensively, he turned back
around with the mug for Sam.
But he never need have worried. Sam was gazing at him with such a look of wonder
and glowing happiness that it nearly broke Frodo’s heart to see. “Oh, Sam,
please stay for supper?” he asked impulsively, searching for any reason to keep
Sam longer this evening.
“Aye.” Sam gratefully took the mug from Frodo, and quickly swallowed the warm
liquid. “Then I’d best be off.”
Looking back up at Frodo’s puzzled expression, he explained, “I must needs tell
my sisters, lest they think their great noddy of a brother managed to lose his
way, and come to a bad end in a bank.” Turning around and picking up the shovel
once more, he resolutely headed for the door. “I’d best be making my way back
afore it comes down again and I have to beat out a new path.”
But as he reached the door, he turned again and looked steadily at Frodo.
“You’re not just inviting me for supper, are you now,” he stated softly, his
eyes searching Frodo’s face.
“No,” Frodo whispered, his heart suddenly lurching to a halt.
“Good,” Sam returned, with a quick sweet curve of his lips. “I’ll be back, never
fear,” and he was gone.
It was nearly night when Sam returned to the Gamgee smial, and Daisy was
awaiting him. Quickly intercepting him before he could enter the kitchen where
May, Marigold and the gaffer sat near the fire, she led him to the far corner of
the cold and dark front room. “Well, Sam?” she asked crisply.
Sam hesitated a moment, but then took a breath and replied, “I’ll be going back
up the Hill this evening. Mr. Frodo’ll be needin’ me t’dig him out come
morning.”
Daisy stared steadily at him, but Sam held his ground, although he colored a bit
at Daisy’s intense stare.
“Do you know what you’re about, Samwise?” she finally asked, her lips tight.
“Aye,” he breathed, watching his older sister steadily.
“And if you find all is not as you thought?” she continued. “What then,
Samwise?”
“Then I’ll take what I am given,” he quietly stated. “And I’ll have it for the
rest of my days, and no-one could never take that from me.”
“Oh, Sam, t’will break your heart,” she murmured gently, laying a hand on his
shoulder with infinite sadness.
“My heart’d be in his hands,” he slowly replied, searching her eyes for the
understanding that he had always found there before. “And I’d naught be havin’
it otherwise.”
She bowed her head at that, and said no more.
Frodo nervously surveyed the pantry. He dearly wished to have something special
to offer Sam, but the prospects of that, after a long winter, and especially the
last several snow-bound days, were rather dim. Well, it would have to be
potatoes, and fortunately there was still the heel of the loaf Frodo had been
saving for his breakfast, and perhaps some cheese… But surely he could offer a
bottle of Old Winyards. Frodo returned to the kitchen, and buried the potatoes
in the warm embers at the edge of the kitchen fire.
Walking slowly back down the dark hall, he then entered his bedroom. Staring
unseeingly about the familiar room, he tried to not think ahead, but he could
not stop his fears. Doubt and desire swirled together through his mind and would
not be denied. He knelt by the bedroom fire, lit it, and watched the kindling
suddenly set about by flame, and refused to envision the night before them.
Suddenly he was struck with the dangers of what lay ahead. “Don’t let me lose
him, Lady,” he breathed, closing his eyes and feeling cold apprehension seize
his heart. “Oh, please, don’t let me lose him.”
Then there was the sound of the kitchen door opening. Sam had returned. Frodo
felt frozen, all his former boldness dissolved into uncertainty. What could Sam
ever want with him? Sam was so young, so vital, such a gentle and loving spirit.
He was meant for more than the love of a solitary and lonely hobbit such as
himself. Yet the thought of Sam’s smile when he had left could not be forgotten,
and Frodo left the room to meet him, with a desperate hope in his heart.
Sam looked about the kitchen uncertainly. He noticed that there were potatoes in
the embers, and a bottle of Old Winyards on the table. Yet Frodo was not here.
Anxiously, he hung his wet cloak by the fire and sat at the kitchen table. But
when he looked up, there was Frodo in the doorway, and never had he seen Frodo
looking more beautiful than now, by the firelight. And how strange it was to
admit that he thought Frodo beautiful, but ah, he did. The firelight burnished
that fair skin, and those startlingly blue eyes had always seemed to Sam as
though they could read his every thought. Frodo’s fey features were like those
of no other hobbit Sam had ever known, and had always made him think of fair
elves, distant lands, and perilous journeys. And to have that same wonderful
creature look at him as Frodo was now looking at him, well, Sam knew that he was
well and truly captured.
Without thought, he rose and walked to Frodo. And then Sam’s arms were around
Frodo, and his lips were on Frodo’s, and as Frodo felt Sam’s touch, his caress,
all doubt fled Frodo. The joy came bubbling up from Frodo’s heart like sweet
laughter when he felt Sam’s tongue hesitantly pushing against his own teeth. The
lad certainly was a quick study. Eagerly, he welcomed Sam’s unskilled yet
heartfelt advances, embracing Sam closely all the while.
When at last they broke apart, breathing heavily, Frodo ran a loving hand
through Sam’s curls and down the side of his face. “Why, Sam,” he murmured with
a glowing smile, “you’re rather good at this.”
Sam immediately ducked his head down, and became quite rosy, but his radiant
expression betrayed his pleasure.
“Come, Sam,” Frodo whispered, slowly breaking apart from their embrace and
leading Sam by the hand down the darkened hallway. “Come with me, love.”
The one lit candle by the bed cast shadows on the walls, and the well-banked
fire glowed warmly in the hearth, as Sam found himself back once more in Frodo’s
bedroom. Once more, Frodo was holding his hand and pulling him towards his bed.
But this time, it was no act of sheer weariness. This time Frodo’s eyes were on
him, gazing at him as though he was fair beyond words. This time, Frodo held him
close, standing before the fire, and kissed him tenderly. This time, Frodo had
called him “love”. Sam felt that his heart would fair burst with bliss. And when
Frodo’s hand slipped inside his jacket, easily slipping it off, Sam knew not
what to do other than to clutch tightly to Frodo’s shoulders as soon as his arms
were free, and gasp, “Oh, Frodo!” in a rather shaky voice.
Frodo laughed tenderly at that, his eyes glowing, and replied, “Yes, Sam-love, I
know.”
And now those clever fingers of Frodo’s were working open the buttons of Sam’s
homespun shirt, one by one, and ah! The shirt was pulled out of Sam’s trousers,
and Frodo’s hands were on his skin, caressing, teasing, sweeping over his chest,
tingling wherever they touched. Sam moaned, frozen in place, still clutching
tightly to Frodo’s shoulders, unable to keep his eyes open through the flood of
sensation that was sweeping over him. Lovingly, Frodo grasped his hands and,
gently pulling them down, coaxed Sam’s shirt off.
Sam’s eyes opened again at that and he was helpless to do aught but stare into
Frodo’s eyes, luminous with passion. And then Frodo was again holding him so
closely, kissing him lightly on the mouth, the cheek, the side of the neck, and
further down, oh, sweet Lady! Sam moaned unconsciously, clutching Frodo tightly
once more, and when Frodo’s hand slid under Sam’s waistband and down, there was
no help for it. With an unintelligible cry, Sam snapped his eyes shut and bucked
uncontrollably into Frodo’s hand.
Moments passed, Sam knew not how long, and the shuddering had almost stopped but
he was not able to lift his shamed eyes to look at Frodo. How could he have let
Frodo down so? Gradually, though, he became aware that Frodo had been holding
him tenderly, stroking his back, and whispering words of comfort in his ear.
Sam squared his shoulders finally, and pulled himself up resolutely. “I’m sorry,
Mr. Frodo,” he murmured, tears that he could not control filling his eyes.
“No, Sam, no!” Frodo cried out at that. Softly, he took Sam’s face between his
hands and stared intently at the younger hobbit. “No, dearest Sam, never feel
like that. I am the one who should ask your forgiveness. I was too hasty with
you. Oh, my sweetest Sam, I should have known better.” He unfastened Sam’s
trousers, and let the damp garment slide to the ground. Leading Sam over to the
bed, he continued softly, “Here, Sam. Just lie down for a bit.”
Sam obeyed, murmuring, “Aye, Mr. Frodo,” and took the blanket Frodo offered him,
wrapping it all about himself.
“Sam…” Frodo said in a low voice, sitting beside him on the side of the bed and
then stopped, staring at his hands clasped before him. “Sam,” he then started
again, still not looking at Sam, “that’s not my name, you know.”
And even through Sam’s mortification, he heard the note of sorrow in Frodo’s
voice. “Oh, Frodo, I am sorry,” Sam replied immediately, at once only concerned
with erasing that hurt. Quickly, he sat up, the blanket falling around his
waist. “Pay no attention to such a noddy as I’d be,” he pleaded, gently stroking
Frodo’s arm.
“Only if you forgive me for forgetting how young you are,” Frodo answered
seriously. He stared at Sam for a moment longer, and then took a deep breath, as
if coming to a decision. “We can stop now, Sam, “ he said quietly. “I’m pushing
you too hard on this. It really is irresponsible of me, and not your fault at
all.”
“No.” Sam said at once, his tone suddenly quite firm. His grip on Frodo’s arm
had tightened. “I’m not too young for this, no ways. Me and one of the lads,” he
said slowly, before hesitating for a moment. Then making up his mind to go on,
he continued in a rush, “Me and one of the lads, we tried it out once, so to
speak. So as to be ready, you know. Some o’it worked better than other bits,” he
went on, turning a bit red, but resolutely watching Frodo’s face anyway. “But I
would never kiss him,” he finished decisively, “even when he says as I must.”
Frodo did not reply immediately, but, raising a hand slowly, carefully brushed
one of Sam’s curls from his forehead. “I, too, tried it out once,” he finally
responded softly. “But I did kiss him. You see, I thought I was in love with
him.”
Sam said nothing but watched Frodo carefully.
“I was about your age,” Frodo continued, still in a soft voice, his finger-tips
lightly caressing Sam’s temples, “and nothing else in all the world mattered to
me but him.”
“What happened?” Sam suddenly asked with apprehension.
“Well, I found that I really wanted to be in love more than to actually love,”
Frodo said, almost dreamily, still stroking Sam lightly. “He became bored with
me, and I found that my heart wasn’t really broken, after all.”
“That would never be a mistake I’d be makin’,” Sam stated suddenly, drawing
himself up straight.
“I would have said the same, when I was your age,” Frodo answered carefully, his
hand stilled.
“Perhaps so,” Sam responded, boldly lifting his hand to join Frodo’s. “But
mayhap, you weren’t awatchin’ this lad all your life. Mayhap, this lad weren’t
in your thoughts every day, and your dreams at night as well. Mayhap just t’have
him look at you and smile didn’t fill your heart fair to burstin’. And mayhap
you wouldn’t be thinkin’ that there was never anyone in all the world as you
could love near as well.”
“Are you that sure, Sam?” Frodo whispered.
“About how I’d be feelin’ about you? Aye, that I would.” Sam stated simply,
closing his hand gently around Frodo’s. “I love you, Frodo Baggins, that I do.
And I’m as sure o’that as that I’m sure that the sun will be in the sky come
morn. Naught in all this world will ever be changin‘ that.”
“And I would never ask it to change,” Frodo breathed, suddenly folding Sam into
his arms. Sam’s arms tightened possessively around Frodo’s back, and his mouth
opened instantly, invitingly, to Frodo’s exploration, and Sam’s hands, those
strong, sure hands, were unexpectedly at Frodo’s jacket, tugging it off his
shoulders. And then those lithe fingers were at the buttons of Frodo’s shirt,
tugging them, worrying them, until, at last, they were all free.
Once Frodo’s shirt had been opened and was off, Frodo somehow suddenly found
himself on his back on the bed. And there was Sam, kneeling beside him, with a
smoldering expression that Frodo, in all his life, never forgot. Then it was
Sam’s lips on him, caressing him, Sam exploring him with both his hands and his
mouth, kissing and tasting him wildly and passionately, moaning Frodo’s name all
the while. And then Sam’s eager hands moved towards Frodo’s trousers and pulled.
Frodo hastily undid the fastening, and between the two of them, the garment was
tugged off, and thrown to the floor.
There was not a bit of doubt left in Frodo’s mind at this point. Sam might be
young, but it was clear that he was very sure about what he wanted and Frodo was
of no mind to deny him anything. Quickly, he rolled over the both of them on the
bed, and kissing Sam again deeply, braced himself on one elbow, with his hand
behind Sam’s neck. The other hand he ran slowly down Sam’s side. Sam moaned,
even as he eagerly returned Frodo’s kiss, and with both hands firmly grasping
Frodo’s back, gradually lowered them. Frodo gasped free of Sam’s mouth at that,
undone by Sam’s firm hold on him, that curiously rough yet gentle touch of Sam’s
that he had thus far only felt on his hands. Oh, it had been so long, and yet he
had never felt this degree of intense craving, this yearning passion, before.
Sam was moving under him now, instinctively rocking against Frodo, clutching
Frodo tightly, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, his hands holding Frodo
fast to him. And now there was no more time for thought, as Frodo thrust himself
against Sam’s sturdy body, faster and faster, finding the certain spot, ah!
There! And as he cried out Sam’s name, his head flinging back, and even in the
midst of his passion‘s release, he knew. Never would he feel what he felt now
with anyone else. Sam was his heart, his life. There would never be anyone who
could move him, heart and soul, like this.
He found himself lying next to Sam then, his breathing only gradually returning
to normal. Sam was in a similar condition as his eyes slowly blinked open and,
turning his head towards Frodo, gazed at him with a rather dazed expression.
“Would that always be the way o’it?” Sam whispered, staring at Frodo.
And Frodo smiled lovingly at that, and tenderly caressed Sam’s face with a
gentle hand. “No,” he replied fondly. “Only when you are truly in love, my
dearest Sam.” He drew the coverlet over the both of them, and they fell asleep
in each other’s arms as the snow outside fell soundlessly against the window,
and the candle slowly guttered out.
The morning broke gloriously blue. The wind was from the west, and the scent of
spring was finally in the air. The icicles hanging from the eaves began to
slowly turn liquid, water dripping inexorably into the snow below, creating
ever-widening craters in the snow. Rabbits in their burrows stirred, restlessly,
and popped their heads out to survey the landscape. Unassuming crocus thrust up
through the loosening grip of frost. And everywhere, there was a change in the
air.
But inside the bedroom of Bag End, there were two hobbits unaware that the long
frozen winter had finally come to an end. Tight in each other’s arms, they held
each other fast. And nothing that spring had to offer would be as beautiful as
what they had found in each other’s hearts.
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