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Starspray
“Sam, you’d best be givin’ Da a hand w’it. He can’t make it out,
noways,” Marigold Cotton informed her brother firmly, as she delivered a couple
of brown loaves, nicely wrapped in homespun kitchen linen and still warm from
the morning’s baking. “Stars above, it promises to be a hot ‘un today. Glad to
have the baking out of the way, at the least.”
“You’re a dear,” Sam gave her a hug and resounding kiss on the cheek as he
gratefully accepted the bread. “You know I’ve time for nobbut the gardenin’
these days. There’s that as needs plantin’, and that as needs pluckin’, and
somedays it’s that hard t’tell which is first. With this heat, you just can’t
put anything off for a day. Not to mention how thirsty the ground is.”
“Aye, a good rain would be wonderful, to be sure,” Marigold agreed, surveying
the Bag End kitchen garden with the knowledgeable eyes of a gardener’s daughter.
“Cracks in the ground such as this are never a sign of aught good. But this
contraption as that noddy of a brother of ours sent down to him has had the
gaffer in such a fuss, I’m not sure if he’s payin’ any mind to his own garden.”
Her glance turned back to Sam for a moment. “There was a note w’it; Daisy read
it to him. Some nonsense as to how there’d been tales as reached his ear about
you, and how the gaffer needs to be talkin’ sense into you, and not allow you to
be shaming the family. There’s more, if you’ve a mind to see it, but I thought
it was a matter as you should know about.” Her voice was distinctly scornful as
she quoted their older brother Hamson. He had left for North Farthing when she
was still quite young, and anyone who dared to criticize her beloved youngest
brother found a fierce foe in her.
Sam felt the familiar sinking in his heart at Marigold’s sympathetic warning. It
had been over a year since he had moved into Bag End with Frodo, and there were
days he felt as if his personal life would be a matter of discussion by friends,
family, and strangers alike, for the rest of his life. No one in Hobbiton would
dare raise the matter with Frodo Baggins, save perhaps his distant cousin
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her son, but it was not difficult to avoid her.
Frodo had been doing exactly that for years, as had Bilbo before him. No, it was
Sam, the upstart young opportunist, if one believed gossip, who was the one to
set tongues to wagging. And now here was his own brother, whom he had only seen
a scant few times since their mother’s death years ago, with his own verdict on
how Sam ought to live his life. ‘Twas enough to almost make him envy Frodo’s
lack of close relatives, he decided grumpily. Almost, that was to say, with the
exception of Marigold, his youngest sister, who had always found his
relationship wildly romantic and had unfailingly supported him, even in the face
of the gaffer’s initial disapproval.
Marigold had seen the quickly hidden pain in his eyes, however, and gave him a
compassionate hug. “Don’t you worret about it, Sam, dearie,” she reassured him
quickly. “You should have heard the gaffer fussin’ about folks as think they
know how to run a body’s life, and go a-pokin’ their noses where they don’t
belong, no ways. Come along to tea this afternoon, if you can, and let Da show
you this mystifying device. ‘Twill take his mind off the rest o’it, and the hot
weather, likewise.”
“Well, that I will, if I can stake those beans in time,” Sam reassured her.
“Frodo was going to take a walk to town, this afternoon, anyroad.”
“Why, you know we would love to have the Master of the Hill to tea as well,”
Marigold assured him, her eyes sparkling with a bit of mischief.
Sam gave her a wry grin. “Aye, he and the gaffer can sit about our kitchen
table, an’ chat about the chances of the barley crop comin’ up short this year,
on account of the weather. I’m thinkin’ that might be just a bit awkward.”
“Why, you never do know, now,” Marigold gave him a direct look, as she started
walking to the kitchen garden gate. “The gaffer thinks better of the pair o’you
than you know, Samwise. Stranger things could happen.”
&&&&&
“Ah,” sighed Sam, gratefully. “You’ve a rare touch, you have, me dearie.”
“So you’ve told me before,” came the amused voice from behind him. “It’s rather
nice that there is at least one thing that I can do well, in the way of skilled
handiwork.”
Sam’s eyes flickered open then, and he smiled at the reflection in the bedroom
mirror that glinted in the golden candlelight. Frodo was seated behind him on
their bed, one leg tucked between them, and the other dangling over the edge.
Both limbs were quite bare, of course, as was the rest of him, for that matter.
Sam was equally as unclad, since it was the warm night that invariably followed
the hot day. But at the moment, he really was unaware of anything else other
than Frodo’s strong fingers, coaxing the knots and kinks out of his shoulders,
and causing them to tingle in the most delicious of ways. That was not all that
tingled, of course, but the night was long and there was plenty of time ahead to
resolve those other throbbings and urges.
“None of that, now,” he replied, with an attempt at sternness. “There’s a world
of things you do that well, me dear, but right now, I’m in no shape t’be
rememberin’ the rest of them. Mayhap you could be remindin’ me in a moment or
two. But right now, I’d just as lief have you a-doin’ this all night long.”
“Why, Sam!” Frodo laughed and bending forward, gave him a nuzzle on the back of
his neck. “So you’ll be having none of this, then,” he murmured, and Sam had to
twist around at that invitation.
“Ho, now, I don’t believe I said that, no ways,” he muttered, just before
finding Frodo’s mouth with his own. There was very little need for words after
that, as Frodo fell back against the pillows, with a very willing Sam firmly in
his embrace. If there were any further kinks left in his shoulders, Sam decided,
rather preoccupied at this point, they would just have to manage to work
themselves out on their own, for Frodo had now raised the other leg up from the
side of the bed and was drawing it along his side in the most tempting fashion.
With a groan of want, he stretched himself out over Frodo, but Frodo was in a
perverse mood this evening, and flipped him over before he knew it.
“Ah, no, my Sam,” he whispered, his eyes glinting in the flickering light with
mischief. “You’ve worked hard this long day. Just you lie back, dearest, and let
me continue to take your mind off of your stiff shoulders. I suspect anything
else in that condition will soon take care of itself.”
“Stars above, Frodo, how you do go on at times,” muttered Sam, with good-natured
exasperation, as he thrust his hips meaningfully up into Frodo’s and arched his
back just the slightest, and all the while running his hands down Frodo’s smooth
torso, wrapping them around that delectable backside.
“Never been one to be reticent about what you want, have you, my darling?” Frodo
laughed merrily, but quickly silenced himself by finding Sam’s waiting mouth
once more. This kiss was longer, their tongues meeting and their breathing
quickened. Sam’s rhythm under Frodo’s body was becoming more pronounced, and it
was with a sharp gasp that their mouths parted this time.
“Oh, Frodo, oh!” Sam moaned, his eyes tightly closing as Frodo’s hand reached
between the both of them. “Oh, don’t stop, no, never!”
“Never will, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was husky with emotion as he drove himself
against his beloved, with Sam’s hands tightening about his shoulders, holding
him implausibly close. “You’re all I want, my own, my dearest. Always you.
Forever you.”
With an incoherent cry, Sam threw himself up a final time into Frodo’s embrace,
responding to his words as much as his touch, and with an uncontrollable
shudder, found himself released. Frodo followed nearly immediately, and they let
themselves lay limp, coiled extraordinarily tightly together, streaked with
sweat and panting for air.
It was Frodo who reluctantly untangled himself first, and found towels for the
both of them. “Did that take care of your shoulders, Sam?” he laughed as Sam
struggled up into a sitting position.
“Shoulders? Can’t rightly say as I have such an item,” Sam grinned, as he
applied the towel judiciously. “Ain’t feeling them, anyroad.”
“Then it seems as though the treatment was successful,” Frodo chuckled, climbing
back into the bed and curling himself on his side around Sam. “What got you in
such knots, anyway?”
“Well, ‘twas toting that infernal watering can most of the day. The garden is
that dry. What I wouldn’t give for just a quick rain shower.” Sam leaned
contently back against the propped-up pillows.
“And?” Frodo prompted, when Sam fell silent. “Sounds as though there was a bit
more to it than that, Sam-love.”
“ ‘Twas a package sent down from Hamson, up North. Seems as he sent the gaffer
some sort of contraption that he can’t figure out, no ways,” Sam continued
rather reluctantly, his memory immediately recalling the last time he saw his
brother, on the night of Marigold’s wedding. That was also the night he thought
he was seeing the last of Frodo, at least for years and years.
“Ah, your older brother,” Frodo replied softly, with the same memories flooding
his mind as well. Reflectively, he ran his hand lightly down the side of Sam’s
bare leg. “And is that what has you in knots, my dear?”
“He sent a note w’it,” Sam answered shortly. “It’us Daisy as read it to the
gaffer.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo breathed, his hand stopped, but his eyes still on it. “I
suppose I can guess what sort of note it was.”
“Don’t you pay it no mind, Frodo, none at all,” Sam’s voice was suddenly sharp
and he reached out to turn Frodo’s face towards him. “Hamson can say as he
likes, do as he likes. I’ve naught t’do with him, not any more. I never did know
him that well, and he has no call t’be tellin’ me what I’m t’do with my life. He
is far away, anyroad, and if I’ve never t’see him again, I won’t be cryin’ no
tears.”
“Don’t say that, Sam,” Frodo responded sadly, covering Sam’s hand on his cheek
with his own. “He’s your brother after all, and probably thinks he’s only
looking out for your welfare.”
“Oh, no, that ain’t what has him in all of a pother,” Sam’s face showed a rare
expression of scorn. “On the lookout for the Gamgee family honor, he is. Takin’
it as a personal insult. Ain’t got anything t’do with my welfare, no ways.”
“And what did the gaffer make of it?” Frodo’s question was soft and nearly
reluctant.
A small wry grin crept across Sam’s face at Frodo’s question. “Marigold said as
how he didn’t care much for it. Something t’do with a nose being where it don’t
belong.”
“Well, there, now.” Relief was evident in Frodo’s voice as his hand recommenced
stroking Sam’s leg. “I don’t care much for it, either, but it’s a long ways to
Hardbottle. Let him think what he wishes, Sam, dearest, I think your father
entirely has the right of it. Look how your poor shoulders are stiffening up
again. Let me be taking care of them, love.”
“Shoulders, is it? Well, I suppose them too,” Sam chuckled, his former mood
vanishing entirely as he responded happily to where Frodo’s hand had now
strayed. “But you just go on and take care of any little thing you like, dearie.
‘Tain’t a thing in the world as can make me fret when you touch me like that.”
The great white moon had nearly set by the time they at last fell asleep.
&&&&&
Sam stood in his vegetable garden with a resigned expression. Wanted watering
again, no doubt about it. With a rueful glance at the sun, already climbing high
into the sky, he realized that he had already lost most of the early morning
coolness, and that he had best get about it as soon as possible. The fact that
he had, most reluctantly, just left a slightly snoring Frodo still in bed,
sprawled out on his stomach with the bed clothes in a pile at the side of the
bed, was of course the cause of his late start, and not for the first time he
wished that his calling in life involved a later start in the mornings. But it
did not, and the time he frittered away staring at the dry ground and wishing
otherwise was time he would regret wasting when the sun reached the top of the
sky. With an unenthusiastic sigh, he set to work.
&&&&&
Frodo set his book down, realizing that he had read that last sentence half a
score times, and still had no idea what it meant. The sun was at its peak, and
it was clearly time for lunch, but there was no reassuring clatter of pans in
the kitchen. Sam had not been home for elevensies, and Frodo had assumed that
his chores had taken him to the back fields, but it was unlike Sam to miss two
meals in a row without letting Frodo know where he would be. Casually dropping
the book to the floor, Frodo left the study and wandered to the kitchen.
He certainly was capable to preparing his own meal, if it came to that, but he
would have liked to have something ready for Sam likewise, in case he returned.
Well, unquestionably, it was not a day to be cooking the mid-day meal, so Frodo
set off for the larder to see what sort of cold luncheon he could prepare. He
took it out to the grape arbor, where he could sit in the shade, and also where
he could better watch for Sam’s return.
But the sun soon began its slow climb down in the brilliantly blue sky, and
there was still no sign of Sam.
&&&&&
Frodo was awakened by a kiss on his forehead and an amused murmur, “Ain’t no day
t’be inside a smial, close as it is inside, this hot afternoon. Thought I’d be
findin’ you hereabouts.”
“Oh, Sam, there you are,” he blinked sleepily, stirring himself from where he
must have curled up to nap, though he didn’t quite remember doing so.
“Ah, no, don’t you be rousin’ yourself up. You look that comfy there, and ‘tis
plenty of room for me at the end,” Sam insisted, as he picked up the plate that
Frodo had left covered with a fine cloth for him, and the flask of lemonade at
its side. With a weary grunt, he sat and stretched his legs out, picking up a
slice of cold ham on buttered bread from the plate, with one elbow resting
companionably on Frodo’s rump, which was still curled on its side next to him.
“Plenty of room,” he chuckled again, as Frodo snuggled slightly closer. “See how
nicely we fit, now, me dearie?”
“You’re a lovely fit in so many ways, Sam-love, I can’t even count them all,”
Frodo murmured, with a fond smile. “There must have been far more watering to be
done than I imagined.”
“Well, an’ that too,” Sam took a deep draught from the leather-covered flask.
“Right thirsty work, an’ no mistake. But that wasn’t the reason I was gone so
long. I stopped by Number Three, to have a look at what my brother sent my da,
and I’d must be admitting that I can’t make it out either, no ways.”
“Well, what is it like?” Frodo sat up, his curiosity piqued. “Is it a machine of
some sort?"
“Ho, now, you needn’t be getting’ up like that.” Sam mildly protested the loss
of his agreeable arm-rest. But contenting himself to continue onto the cherries,
he shook his head. “Not a machine, not quite,” he mused in a slightly muffled
tone, and then expertly spit a cherry seed into the boxwood border.
Frodo watched with amusement. “Sure you want a cherry tree there, Sam? So if it
isn’t a machine, then what is it?”
“Not to worry, the birds will take it elsewhere. I left a bit o’cherry on it,”
Sam replied confidently. “I don’t rightly know. ‘Tis metal, and has something
arm-like, as whirls around. The gaffer seems to think it has sommat t’do with
waterin’, as much as he can tell from Hamson’s message, and there are tiny holes
it it, where water could come out, I suppose, but how it gets in there, and why
it is any better’n a watering can, is a mystery t’me, and the gaffer likewise.”
“It certainly does sound mysterious,” Frodo had to agree. “Would it be dwarvish,
perhaps? Coming from the North and all.”
“Mayhap,” Sam considered this possibility. “Though I’d be thinkin’ that dwarves
ain’t much of a folk for gardening, leastways, not as far as I’ve ever heard
tell.”
“Well, you certainly are right about that,” Frodo had to admit. Plucking a
cherry from Sam’s plate, he chewed it meditatively, and let the seed fly
himself. “However do you get it to fly so far, Sam?” he asked with a bit of
disappointment, as his did not quite make it to the border but landed forlornly
on the edge of the graveled path.
“Years of practicing,” Sam answered serenely. “ ‘Twas my sister May as taught
me. Though she’d not ever admit to it these days.”
“Really?” Frodo laughed. “I never would have suspected. Well, I wish I could see
this device for myself.”
“Would you want t’come t’tea at Number Three, then?” Sam asked abruptly, shyness
in making the request suddenly evident on his face.
“Why, of course, if you think that would be all right by the gaffer,” Frodo
replied with hesitation. He had not been a guest at Number Three since Sam had
moved up to the Hill, and the appearances of the gaffer at Bag End had been
exceedingly few, as well.
Sam gave him an uncertain smile. “Mari seems t’think that it would be. An’ there
would certainly be sommat t’talk about. I need t’go back again this afternoon
an’ give him a hand in the garden there. ‘Tis that much t’do these days, but
mayhap you could meet us there at tea time.”
“Thank you, Sam, I will.” Frodo gave him a warm smile, and a resounding kiss,
hiding quite successfully, or so he thought, his apprehension. It was bound to
be an interesting afternoon.
&&&&&
Something to bring, Frodo thought to himself, there must be something suitable
that he could present, as a guest to the Gamgee smial. There had been a time, of
course, when he had popped in and out of Number Three without another thought,
never considered by himself nor any other as a guest, but that had been when he
was much younger, and not yet Master of the Hill. Not even to mention the rather
complicated relationship that he now held with the other members of the Gamgee
family – employer and yet not, nearly family member and yet not. He still had
fleeting moments when he wished that he could go to Bilbo for advice, as he
always had in the past. But Bilbo was far away and, much as he hated to admit
it, not likely to return. And besides, he was not at all sure as to what Bilbo
would have thought of the new state of affairs at Bag End. Bilbo had had his
eccentricities, to be sure, but he had always been undeniably a gentlehobbit of
considerable stature in Hobbiton. And in that regard, Frodo didn’t really know
where he stood any more.
Well, he had enough to be frettin’ about without considering the rest of
Hobbiton, he told himself firmly, as Sam would say, and with relief, his gaze
landed on a strawberry plant very nearly hidden under the border hedge. There
were still a couple of handfuls of plump red berries left on it, so he plucked
them, hurried back to the kitchen and dusted them with a bit of sugar as a
special treat, and then, placing them in a white porcelain bowl and covering
them with a bit of homespun, set off down the Row before he could talk himself
into any more confusion and awkwardness.
It was Sam who answered his tentative knock on the round unpainted door, to his
great relief, and he took the occasion, after a quick peek behind him to ensure
that they were, for the moment, alone to plant a hasty but firm kiss on Sam’s
willing lips.
“Don’t you be workin’ yourself into a state, m’dear, or I’ll never be managin’
this likewise,” Sam murmured in Frodo’s ear as they quickly broke apart, at the
sound of other voices at the back of the smial.
“We’ll get through it, Sam-love, and don’t you forget we’ll be together tonight,
one way or the other,” Frodo smiled at him, feeling his nervousness begin to
dissipate in commiseration with the look of anxiety on Sam’s face.
“Aye, ‘tis always that,” Sam closed his eyes for an instant, and clasped Frodo’s
hand in both of his tightly to his chest. “Well, they’re all in the back garden.
‘Tis too hot to be takin’ tea in the smial this day. Follow me, dearie.”
Frodo followed Sam along the pebbled path that ran around the side of the small
smial, behind the lattice that served as a screen from the Row, and which was
already lushly grown over with pea vines and long beans. The garden was smaller
than that of Bag End, despite feeding more mouths, but efficiently used and
carefully maintained, from the humble henhouse set in the shade under the cherry
and apple trees to the small sty in the back corner for the pair of pigs that
would eventually serve as holiday dinner come harvest and Yule. The ground near
the kitchen entrance, shaded by a gnarled chestnut tree, had been also pebbled
under the pump and nearby the grass had been allowed to grow undisturbed to
provide a carpet for a small table and several weather-beaten chairs. It was at
this table that the Gamgee lasses normally performed the kitchen chores, when
the weather was fair, and it was here that the family was now gathered for tea.
May, with perhaps a nicer sense of the courtesies due Frodo’s station, rose at
their entrance, and for a horrified moment, Frodo almost thought that she was
going to give him a curtsy. But a swift side glance at her father quelled that
impulse, and she sought to cover it up with a breathless, “Oh, how lovely to see
you again, Mr. Frodo! Here, let me take that from you.”
Frodo handed the bowl of strawberries to her with a polite nod, and murmured,
“May, Daisy, Mr. Gamgee. So very kind of you to invite me.”
Daisy, who held a large earthenware bowl in her lap, was busy shelling peas, but
gave him a friendly nod, and Frodo was quite sure that he detected amusement in
her tone when she responded, “You shouldn’t be such a stranger to Number Three,
Mr. Frodo. ‘Twas not so when I was a fauntling, as I recollect.”
“Your mother was very kind to me,” Frodo said quietly. “I thought the world of
her.” And it was only then that he dared glance toward the gaffer.
Hamfast Gamgee was sitting near the table, puffing leisurely on his pipe, and
taking occasional sips of his tea. “ ‘Twas no body who didn’t,” he responded, a
trifle gruffly at Frodo’s comment. “Belle was a right fine lass, and they ain’t
as common as one might think. But now see here, Mr. Frodo. Samwise here tells me
as how you might have some idea as to what this device is,” he continued
brusquely, suddenly producing something metallic from nearby his chair. “Can’t
say as how I can make anything out of it, no ways, unless that lad of mine just
sent it to devil me with.”
“Da!” May exclaimed, slightly shocked. “Mr. Frodo ain’t had tea yet and already
you’re going to worret him with that?”
“First off, I don’t believe he’s even had a chance to sit down,” added Daisy, no
longer trying to hide her amusement. “Sam, do find your Mr. Frodo a chair, and
pour him a bit of tea before Da starts pestering him about that metal mystery.”
Sam, who had been standing silently behind Frodo through all of this, suddenly
sprang into action at Daisy’s words. He drew two chairs to the table, opposite
his father, and Frodo sank with relief into one of them. The business of
dispensing tea was quickly conducted, with Sam taking over, as he knew Frodo’s
preferences without asking. A fat slice of seedcake made its appearance, with
some of the strawberries that Frodo had brought along side, as well as a slice
from the large round of cheese that lay at the center of the table, and the next
few minutes were occupied with quiet munching by all parties seated about the
rough wooden table. Then, feeling a bit of equilibrium returning as his stomach
began to be nicely filled up, Frodo hazarded a glance at the object in question.
It was curious indeed, and he had never seen its like before. With a polite nod
to the gaffer, who sat still puffing on his pipe and favoring Frodo with an
intent but unfathomable look, Frodo examined the item with great care. The
implication that it was meant to sprinkle water, somehow, made a great deal of
sense, since Frodo could see the pinholes along the metallic arms, which would
properly keep the spray rather fine. In addition, there was a fairly large hole
on one side of the base, through which he presumed the water entered. The arms
were mounted on a rotating base, and he could see where any pressure from the
water would twirl them around rather nicely. But the water would have to enter
with a certain amount of force, and for the life of him, he could not see how
that would occur.
“A nozzle!” Sam exclaimed suddenly, as he also studied the object in Frodo’s
hands. “Bless me, I don’t know why I’d not see it before, but ‘tis a nozzle,
sure enough,” he continued, pointing to the opening on the side.
“Aye, ‘tis at that,” Hamfast grunted, removing the pipe from his mouth. “Tubing,
that’ud be what’s needed, then. Old Marley, as brews for the Green Dragon, he
could give us a bit of rubber tubing, no mistake.”
“But,” mentioned Frodo, hesitantly, as he idly twirled the arms around, “even if
we can get the water in, what’s the point of that? It would just dribble out of
the holes. I can’t see where that is any improvement over a watering can.”
Sam stared at the device a minute more, and then giving a hum of assent, began
to prepare another cup of tea for both himself and Frodo. The gaffer leaned back
in his chair again, and returned his pipe to his mouth with what could be
considered a cluck of agreement. May and Daisy were demurely watching the
proceedings, Daisy still shelling peas, and May returning to a bit of needlework
that had been in her lap, but Frodo was sure he had caught the tail end of an
amused look passing between the two lasses.
Slightly embarrassed over having put an unwitting damper to the conversation, he
returned to his study of the object in his hand. A certain amount of force
behind the water, and the arms would definitely spin about satisfactorily. But
how could that be accomplished? Water could be forceful indeed – no hobbit could
have grown up near the banks of the Brandywine without knowing that. How did
that occur? And he suddenly had the image of a series of small rills and falls,
part of the Brandywine near his childhood smial, where he had delighted in
squishing his toes in the soft underwater mud as a fauntling. Of course. It was
so very simple. Water has power when it falls. And looking up, he realized that
he had spoken aloud.
Sam was looking at him with a slow smile beginning to spread across his face.
And Sam’s father, wonder of all wonders, had very much the same expression on
his. “A goodly pail of water. Up high enough,” Sam nodded with satisfaction.
“Aye, that’d do the trick. And you could leave it alone, and it’d water the
field all alone likewise, now, wouldn’t it?”
“A nice sprinkin’, t’be sure,” the gaffer chuckled. “An’ leave a body t’do what
else as needs doin’. It’d have to be tied up tight, the tubing, that is, but
Marley could be showin’ us how to go about that.”
“A fair size tub high enough to set it off on a good spin around would be just
the thing for this garden,” Sam turned around and judged the size with an
experienced eye. “Need a plug at the bottom o’it,” he added, turning back to his
father.
“Aye, an’ a bit of an edge to fasten the tubing to,” Hamfast mused, stoking his
chin in a meditative manner, with his pipe beginning to puff in an accelerated
sort of way. “But it wouldn’t surprise me none if Marley didn’t have just that
sort o’barrel on hand.”
“I’ll go down an’ have a look tomorrow morning,” Sam promised with a grin. “I
surely wouldn’t mind borrowing it for Bag End, I don’t mind sayin’. Too much
t’be doin’ to be lugging that watering can likewise.”
The gaffer waived his pipe dismissively at Sam’s comment. “Och, I was a-thinkin’
of Bag End anyways. This garden ain’t big enough t’be worryin’ about suchlike,
but Bag End now, ‘tis a different matter entirely. An’ why wait until tomorrow,
son? Doesn’t a hot day make the best evening there is for a bit of brew? If Mr.
Frodo wouldn’t mind obligin’ us, we could pay a visit to Marley Proudfoot this
very evening.”
“Erm, why, of course, that would be delightful,” Frodo blinked in surprise.
Events seemed to moving along rather smartly, but it did seem to him as if Sam’s
father had just invited him to the Green Dragon for a beer. That was an outcome
which had never crossed his mind on his way over to Number Three, earlier that
afternoon, but Sam’s cheerful smile, and his quick clasp of Frodo’s thigh under
the cover of the wooden table, seemed to confirm it.
“Then you lot would best be off,” Daisy stood up and gave the bowl of peas a
satisfied shake. “It will be dark enough soon. Come along, May, ‘twill give us a
chance to spread a bit of laundry about.” And the two lasses very nearly made it
into the smial before they erupted into a fit of the giggles.
&&&&&
The moon was already beginning to set by the time Frodo and Sam got back to Bag
End. They had left an unmistakably bemused gaffer on the doorstep of Number
Three, humming tiddly pom pom under his breath, and had trusted Daisy to answer
the knock on the door and collect him up. Their own progress up the hill had
been none too steady, and had involved several stops during which the both of
them had glanced at each other and had broken into fits of silly laughter, with
no actual justification other than they simply couldn’t help it.
But at last, the garden gate of Bag End had been reached and they had weaved
their way, arms closely entwined about each other’s waists, through the kitchen,
down the hallway, and into the bedroom. Falling together in a heap upon the bed,
they lay contently knotted together, with an occasional hummed phrase of the
gaffer’s song, not to mention the intermittent hearty yawn.
It wasn’t until Sam dimly realized that Frodo’s arm must surely be falling
asleep under his weight, that he stirred himself reluctantly up with a “Bed
time, me dearie, or we’ll both be payin’ for it on the morrow.”
“I suspect that we will anyway, Sam-love,” Frodo chuckled, stretching himself
out luxuriously, as Sam rose from the bed. “I never realized that your father
knew that many drinking songs.”
“I don’t think he did, no ways,” Sam snorted, as he unfastened Frodo’s trousers,
and gently tugged them off. “He was makin’ them up as he went along, no
mistake.”
“Well, there certainly were a great many I had never heard before, and Bilbo had
a rather impressive repertoire when he was in his cups. Oh, Sam, the room is
decidedly not staying put. How can you be up and doing this sort of thing?”
Frodo mumbled, closing his eyes as Sam hoisted him to a sitting position and
rapidly removed his weskit and shirt.
Sam chuckled. “Didn’t have as much as you did, me dear. Someone had t’be seein’
the pair o’ye home.” Giving Frodo’s clothing a shake, he neatly folded it over
the back of a chair, and poured a tumbler of water from the covered pitcher on
the dresser. “Here, m’dear, you need t’be drinkin’ some water now, or ‘twill be
the worse for you tomorrow.”
“Drinking anything doesn’t sound any too appealing right now, but I suppose
you’re right, Sam. You always are.” He drained the glass quickly, and fell back
against the pillows with a groan. “Possibly should have had a bit more in my
stomach.”
“Didn’t eat that much at tea,” Sam commented, as he recovered the glass and then
quickly undressed himself as well.
“Nervous, don’t you know?” Frodo muttered, with an arm flung across his face.
“Aye, I was too,” Sam admitted, flinging back the light bed clothes, and
wrapping himself around Frodo in his accustomed position. “Guess we didn’t need
t’be.”
“Mmm, I suppose not, but I’m certainly glad it’s over and I’m back here with you
again,” Frodo sleepily turned on his side and gathered Sam close to him. “But
you are worth anything and everything, Sam-love, even the possibly fearsome
wrath of the gaffer. Don’t wake up too very early, dearest, and I’ll give you a
hand in the garden tomorrow.”
Sam’s tender kiss was a satisfactory answer, and they were both quickly asleep.
&&&&&
The sun was high overhead, and already quite warm, when Frodo cracked his eyes
open the next morning, Sam was, of course, already gone, and it suddenly
occurred to him that he could hear voices outside, not far from the bedroom
window. There was also some hammering and an occasional muffled boom, rather
like the sound a hollow cask makes when struck, as well as the intermittent,
hastily stifled exclamation. Frodo sat up quickly in bed, and immediately
regretted it. His throbbing head, and the rather nasty taste in his mouth left
no doubt as to the previous evening’s activities, and he fell back again onto
the pillows with a groan. He vaguely remembered, now, that the gaffer had
promised to stop by this morning to give Sam a hand in setting up the watering
device, and instantly felt guilty about not being up as well. It was all Sam’s
fault, really, he should have woken him up. Nonetheless, he had to admit to
himself that he would not have been of much use this morning, anyway. Burying
his head under the pillow, he gave up any notion of being responsible any time
before elevenses, and in no time at all, was once again soundly asleep.
&&&&&
It was at least noon when Frodo awoke again and, feeling even more guilty this
time around, managed to get himself to his feet and dressed in a haphazard sort
of way. There was no sound out of doors, but he made his way to the kitchen
garden anyway, with only a brief stop in the kitchen to snatch up anything
edible that might be lying about, as long as it promised to be easy on the
stomach. The heel of a loaf of bread that Sam probably had other uses for
answered the call nicely enough, and he was tearing off bits of it and chewing
them determinedly as he opened the kitchen door and gazed out at the garden.
The device was not only set up, but it had been sprung into action, and not too
long ago apparently, since it was set in the middle of the garden, whirling
rhythmically about, and imparting a lovely fine sprinkling over the whole area.
But as Frodo stood in the doorway, mindlessly nibbling on his heel of bread and
staring absentmindedly at the mist, some very peculiar notions began to strike
him. The droplets of water were flung up into the air in a lacelike pattern,
shimmering and catching bits of sunlight. Would they look just as lovely in
another type of light perhaps? And not just look lovely, but also…
His headache was quite gone as he gave a happy laugh at his enticing plan. It
would require a bit of advance planning perhaps, but he had no doubts that it
would not be entirely worth the effort. Those wheels, on the framework that
supported the tub, really had been an excellent addition. The first matter to be
attended to, however, was to study this miraculous sprinkler in action a little
longer, and so he found a seat on the garden bench and lost himself in the
intricate dance of the water.
&&&&&
It was really quite late when Sam returned home. He had spent the afternoon,
until nearly dusk, in thoroughly watering the garden at Number Three, toting
pail after pail of water from the well as recompense for the gift of the
sprinkler which he left doing the very same job at Bag End. And then there were
the cherries that had grown very high in the tree, far from the reach of his
sisters and certainly the gaffer, and the pigsty which had a loose board on one
side that wanted mending, not to mention the pumpkin vines, newly sprouted and
needing a bit of spacing out. It was a matter of grave deliberation, after all,
to study the bit of vine and flower and make the decision as to which promised
to produce the best pumpkin come autumn, and which needed to be plucked
ruthlessly out. The gaffer took his pumpkins quite seriously, and the discussion
bordered, at times, on being rather animated, as Sam and his father examined the
merits of each vegetable fledgling. Since Sam had suspected that Frodo probably
wouldn’t mind a lazy day alone, on this particular occasion, he did not hurry
his father, and thus it was well past dinner time when he finally returned to
Bag End.
However, Frodo was patiently waiting for him, and what was more, had prepared
the sort of dinner that he knew Sam was especially fond of. There was some cold
ham again, always refreshing on a hot day, and a fine lettuce salad. Buttered
bread and cheese, of course, and a beautiful summer pudding which Frodo was
quite pleased to have thought of early enough. The juice from the plump sweet
berries had been thoroughly permeating the finely sliced bread since midday, and
it was a luscious wonder to behold. With a bowl of freshly whipped cream at its
side, there really was no finer treat.
Sam stumped wearily in through the kitchen door, and stopped short, his eyes
widening with appreciation as he noticed the crimson treat set prominently out
on the kitchen table. Frodo entered from the hall a moment later, and halted in
the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest and
an amused look at Sam’s expression on his face. “Oh, now, that is fine indeed,
me dear,” Sam murmured, crossing over and catching him up in his arms in a
moment.
“I thought you’d enjoy that,” Frodo grinned, catching up Sam’s face in both
hands, and ceasing any further conversation by finding Sam’s mouth with his own.
Sam, nothing loathe to be employing this sort of response, answered back in
kind, and wrapped both hands tightly about Frodo’s waist. It soon became
apparent to both of them, however, that a new sort of urgency was rising that
summer pudding was not going to cover in the least. Breaking away reluctantly,
with a hand reaching up to gently cup Frodo’s cheek, Sam muttered, “Oy, Frodo,
you’ve me in all a pother already, and I’d be needin’ a bath in the worst way
first. ‘Tis hard and dirty work takin’ the place of a good rain, indeed it is.”
“Ah, I’d rather thought that might be the case, Sam-love,” Frodo replied, with
what could only be described as a wicked grin. “As a matter of fact, I was
rather counting on that.”
Sam’s breath caught in his throat at that sight, as it always did. He had seen
that expression before, and it always promised something delectably out of the
ordinary. What, he had no idea, but he immediately surmised that it involved
more than the summer pudding. “Why, were you now, Frodo-love?” he breathed, with
a smile beginning to match Frodo’s. “I certainly wouldn’t mind you explaining
that to me, now.”
“Oh, it’s such a fine night,” Frodo airily answered, catching up Sam’s hand in
his own and tugging him back toward the kitchen door. “The stars should be
lovely tonight, since there’s not a bit of cloud. Let’s just go out and take a
look.”
Shaking his head in puzzlement, but returning Frodo’s clasp tightly, Sam
followed Frodo out of Bag End without further question, and let himself be led
out through the kitchen garden and along the path that ran up the hill toward
the field that lay behind the smial. It was a wonderful night, without any
doubt, still luxuriously warm and fragrant, with the low buzz of the cicadas and
the flitting glow of fireflies in the bushes to the sides of the path. The moon
was beginning to wane, but the stars more than made up for that, and they had no
difficulty in finding their way along the familiar route. But it wasn’t until
they reached the crest of the hill that Sam realized what Frodo had done.
The watering apparatus had been pulled up onto the field, and stopping short in
his tracks, with a moment of astonishment, Sam realized that that could only
have been Frodo’s doing. “I thought the field up here could do with a bit of
watering,” Frodo laughed, obviously enjoying the look on Sam’s face. “And I
might add, whoever thought of adding wheels to this apparatus definitely
deserves the greatest of accolades, in my opinion. But you spoke of being a
trifle dusty, Sam. I suppose we could take care of both of these matters at the
same time, couldn’t we? As a matter of fact, I’m feeling a bit on the sticky
side, myself,”
“Frodo, you are a marvel indeed, me dearie,” Sam laughed in pure delight, and
catching him up again in his embrace, spun him around with glee.
“Oh, dearest, you are my inspiration,” Frodo twirled him closer to the framework
and with a hasty tug, pulled the plug to the elevated tub of water. With a
whoosh and a gurgle, the water flooded down through the tubing, and the
sprinkler sprang into action.
It was nearly simultaneously that they gave cries of joy as the cool water hit
their faces; gentle droplets that started to stream down their faces, started to
saturate their clothing, refreshing and renewing their spirits, and with a
sudden need, they wordlessly began to tug at their clothing, frantic to remove
it. The last year of practice came to their aid in this regard, however, as Sam
expertly and quickly unfastened the small buttons on Frodo’s fine linen shirt,
as Frodo was just as expertly relieving him of his own trousers. With a wordless
cry of want, Frodo felt Sam fall beneath him onto the wet grass, entirely bare,
and clutching him wordlessly and desperately. Wordlessly, they hungrily kissed
each other and instinctively and purposely rolled together in the water-slickened
grass; both stroking and caressing, fiercely and demandingly, with incoherent
cries and groans, until at last Sam, and then Frodo, stiffened and cried out one
last time, losing themselves in passion and white heat.
It seemed as if time eternal had gone by, to Frodo, when he at last opened his
eyes and saw, past Sam’s shoulder still rising and falling to the rhythm of
Sam’s ragged gasps, the droplets of water still floating unconcernedly down on
the both of them. They did glint and sparkle indeed, just as he had suspected
they would, by the light of the stars far overhead. “Look, my darling,” he
whispered, wrapping his arms about Sam’s neck and kissing him once again on the
cheek.
Sam rolled to the side then, and also stared up at what Frodo had seen only a
moment ago. “Oh, Frodo, ‘tis like pieces of stars falling down on us,” he
exclaimed, his arms tightening around Frodo. “And you, me dear, more beautiful
then any star ever fallen to the ground,” he added tenderly, nuzzling Frodo’s
neck, just below the ear, with adoration. “I love you so much, m’dearie; I can’t
begin t’tell you.”
At Sam’s words, Frodo felt joy leap in his heart, and unbidden tears flood his
eyes. He had never imagined that a love like this could ever be his. He had
never dreamed that a heart so true would love him just as he was, with all his
faults and weaknesses. He had never thought to be so perfectly matched, so
supported and comforted and utterly loved. He had no words to express his love,
and whatever he could say seemed to be completely inadequate. So he covered
Sam’s face with kisses as the sprinkler slowly came to a halt, and, with his
tears mingled with the water still streaming down his face, murmured into Sam’s
ear, “Now about that pudding, my love…”
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