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Sweet Cider, Part Two
Pippin and Merry had left by the next day. Looking back on their visit, as they
ambled back to Buckland, the reason for their departure rather escaped them.
They did not pursue the topic aloud, however, and it was an unusually quiet and
meditative trip home.
Summer thunderclouds were on the horizon as Sam looked to the west when he
walked out of Bag End’s kitchen door after lunch. He had planned on weeding the
small Gamgee plot that afternoon, but the threat of rain changed his plans.
“Frodo,” he turned back, re-entering the kitchen and causing Frodo, who was
seated at the kitchen table with the remnants of his lunch being ignored in
favor of the book in his hand, to look up.
“I’d best be goin’ up to the Cottons,” he said, with a frown. “They’d be cuttin’
the oats today, as Daisy told me, an’ w’that rain as is comin’, they’d be needin’
some help.”
Frodo stood up at that, and joining Sam at the door, peered out at the ominous
clouds as well. “Yes, that storm is coming in fast,” he agreed, concerned as
well. “And it will be a task to get it under cover in time.” For a moment he was
silent, and then, casting an almost shy look at Sam, he continued uncertainly,
“If you could use an extra hand, you know…”
“Ah, Frodo, dear,” Sam exclaimed, smiling fondly and swiftly brushing his cheek
with a kiss, “oats are that tricky to cut, now. ‘Tis not like wheat nor hay.”
For a moment, he looked as though he would say something more, but then, with
another quick kiss on Frodo’s lips, he left with a murmured, “ ‘Til tonight,
Frodo-love.”
Frodo watched him leave, feeling oddly melancholy.
Sam’s surmise had been correct. He was eagerly greeted by the Cottons when he
arrived at the oat field. “Hoy, Sam, ‘tis that glad I am t’see you, lad,” Tom
hurried over with a broad grin. “We’ll be gettin’ this in on time, now.”
Turning, he called out to his younger two brothers, “Nick! Nibs! The both o’ye
start loadin’ the cart then! Jolly, and Sam, here, and me, we’ll finish the
cuttin’.”
Jolly had come up by then as well, with a welcoming smile. “I was thinkin’ as we
might be seein’ you,” he greeted Sam as well. “Marigold and Rosie‘d be in the
barn, helpin’ Da spread it out to dry. But we’d best be to work now, we’d not be
havin’ long.”
Sam quickly nodded assent, grateful to avoid the subject of Rosie for the time
being, but as the three hobbits spread out in a row, wielding their scythes with
speed and accuracy, his mind kept returning to that dilemma.
He knew Daisy was right, that it was cruel to allow Rosie to continue to hope
for a future with him. Yet how to tell her? If there had been another lass to
win his favor, it would have been easy enough. The eyes of Hobbiton were quick
to notice a lad and lass spending a bit of time together, and even quicker to
calculate the chances of it leading to a wedding. He was all too aware that the
fact Rosie fancied him was no secret, and all it would take is a dance or two
with Rosie and the good folk of Hobbiton would be shaking out their best weskits
and smoothing out their ribbons, and laughing about another Gamgee-Cotton
wedding.
All Sam could think of to do was wait. Wait until the fact of his living at Bag
End became accepted and no longer even noticed by Hobbiton. Wait until no-one
would see him dancing with a lass and think of weddings. Wait until he was no
longer thought of as marriageable material, but rather that odd Gamgee chap as
never found the right lass. But putting Rosie through that would never be fair.
Vainly trying to shake these thoughts out of his head, he scythed row after row,
as the clouds approached, and the first droplets of rain were borne in on the
gusts of wind.
The rain soon started in earnest, and the harvesting had to cease. “Come along,
lads, that’ll be it for the day,” Tom called out to Sam and Jolly, wiping the
rain off of his face. “The lasses have already gone in t’turn tea out for us.
Come along, Sam, you’ve earned a bit of rest a’fore ye head back.”
“I’ll put up the scythes, then, you run along, the both a’ye,” Jolly
good-naturedly collected up the tools and turned towards the barn.
“I’ll give ye a bit of a hand,” Sam exclaimed hastily, following Jolly before
Tom could call him again. Of all the Cottons, the one he’d always felt the most
comfortable with was the younger Jolly. Despite the fact that Sam was the same
age as Tom, he found Jolly’s rather dreamy tendencies far more congenial than
Tom’s matter-of-fact hobbit sense. If there was any hobbit that loved Mr. Bilbo
and Mr. Frodo’s stories nearly as much as he did, it would be Jolly, who never
heard them but second-hand, from Sam. If there’d be anyone who could understand
and help him now, Sam thought desperately, it’d be Jolly.
Silently, he helped Jolly dry and oil the scythes, hanging them on the wall. But
as Jolly turned back to the open barn door, peering through the rain in
preparation for the run to the well-lit smial up the hill, Sam clumsily caught
at his wet sleeve. “Jolly…” he began, and then realized that he had no idea what
to say.
Jolly turned toward him in the half-light of the dark rainy afternoon, and
looked at him questioningly. But years of friendship with Sam quickly told him
that something was wrong. “Sam, lad, what would this be about, then?” he asked,
quietly, clasping Sam’s shoulder.
To Sam’s horrified embarrassment, instead of finding the words for which he was
so futilely searching, a great sob welled up within himself, and burst out, and
Jolly stood there staring at him, shocked and dismayed. Then he felt Jolly’s arm
around his shoulders, and he was being led over to the hayloft ladder. “Come on
up,” Jolly whispered, “we can have a bit of a chat then.”
The hayloft had always been their retreat. The gaffer and the older Gamgee lads
had customarily assisted Tolman Cotton, come harvest time, for it was Baggins
land that the Cottons farmed. And as the younger lads came of an age to be
useful in the field, Tom, Sam, and Jolly were put to work as well. But when the
work was done, Tom preferred to follow the older hobbits into the smial, while
Sam and Jolly would climb the ladder that hung down from the loft, rest
themselves on the piles of hay, gaze through the large square hay-loft window
out over the Shire, and exchange gossip, tales, and foolish dreams. There had
not been time for much of that as of late, however.
They climbed up in silence. Jolly lifted up the great wooden door that normally
covered the loft opening, and fastened the leather thong about a peg to keep it
open. Grey light streamed in, and Jolly drew Sam to the piles of hay near the
back and quickly fashioned two comfortable depressions for the both of them.
“Sit, Sam,” he said quietly, following his own advice, and gently pulling Sam
down as well. “I’d not be seein’ much o’you as of late. Even at the wedding, I
hardly seen you. But when I do see you, it seems as you’re holdin’ summat inside
o’ye. What’d it be, Sam?”
Sam plucked at the straw next to him, unable to look at Jolly, as he gathered up
his courage. Finally, with a gulp, he muttered, “ ‘Tis about Rosie..” and still
did not dare to look at Jolly.
Jolly watched him steadily for a few moments, and when it became obvious that
Sam could not go on, he quietly said, “ Sam.”
Sam finally raised his head at that, looking up at his childhood friend. His
friend’s face, with the fair hair and dark brown eyes so characteristic of the
Cottons, was more familiar to him than his own, and even in the dim light, he
could see the compassion in Jolly’s expression. “You’d not want to be marryin’
Rosie,” Jolly said softly.
Sam nodded slowly, not trusting his voice to say more.
“Ah, I thought as much,” Jolly sighed, his head turning to gaze unseeing on the
water trickling down off of the barn eaves and the wet fields beyond.
“Everyone’s always paired the two a’ye up,’ he continued thoughtfully. “My Da
and my Mam, your Gaffer, Tom n’Mari, even Rosie herse’f. An’ even though you’d
never come a’courtin’, they’d say, ‘Ah, he’s a shy lad, that ‘un,’ an’ laugh,
an’ see it as all settled-like anyways.” He turned to watch Sam intently. “But I
never hear you as say her name, Sam,” he noted gently.
Sam gulped, and began in a shaky voice,“ ‘Tis not as she’d be as fine a lass as
ever could be wished for, but…”
And when he didn’t seem likely to continue, Jolly finished with a rueful smile,
“But she’d not be the lass you’d be in love with.”
“Aye,” Sam breathed gratefully.
Jolly stared back out at the sodden landscape for a few more minutes, but then
turned curiously back to Sam. “But I’d not be seein’ you w’any other lass, Sam.”
It took all of Sam’s courage to answer this, and his voice was barely audible
when, staring blindly at his hand resting in the hay, he murmured, “ ‘Tis na
lass.”
There was silence between the two of them. Fat raindrops could be heard striking
the barn roof, and the shifting of the cows below in their stalls, but not a
sound from Jolly, until Sam finally lifted his head to meet his eyes. “ ‘Twould
be Mr. Frodo, then,” Jolly finally said flatly.
Sam nodded silently, but lifted his chin up. His courage was coming back, now
that it had been said. He waited.
“Ah, Sam,” Jolly rose and walked over to the loft opening, leaning against the
side of it and staring out unseeingly to the wet green fields below. “You’ve
always been fair over your head about him.” And there was no condemnation in his
voice, as he glanced back at Sam and continued, “But what’d all this be about
now? Even if he’s taken you in his bed, you can’t be buildin’ a life about
that.” He turned again, leaning with his back to the loft wall, and, watching
Sam, added softly, “We didn’t, did we, Sam? ‘Twas just a bit o’fun, no more than
that.”
“ ‘Tis a different thing when you’re in love,” Sam answered honestly.
A look Sam did not understand quickly passed across Jolly’s face but he said
nothing and turned to look back out over the fields. “So who’d be knowin’?” he
asked suddenly, in a brisk sort of way, continuing to gaze out.
Sam took a deep breath, and then told him, “Well, now, me sisters. At least
Daisy and Marigold. I’d not be knowin’ about May. An’ if Mari said summat to
Tom. An‘..” he paused and then added slowly, “the gaffer an’ your Da.”
Jolly didn’t say anything at that, but looked back at Sam, his eyebrows raised
in surprise.
“Aye,” Sam muttered, “they haven’t said naught since I moved up to the Hill. I
know they’d be thinkin’ as I’ll grow out of it.”
“An’ how d’you know they ain’t right about that?” Jolly asked softly.
Sam stared at his hands. “Imagine,” he said finally, in a subdued voice, “that
there’d be the most beautiful windflowers as you’ve ever seen up on the top of
the hill. An’ you’ve never seen aught as lovely, blue as the deepest night, just
as the stars’d be comin’ out. An’ you look on them, and know as you could never
grow anything like that.”
He paused, and then slowly continued, “But one morning, you find them growin’ in
your own bit o’earth. An’ folk would be tellin’ you to pull them up, an’ grow
taters there as you aught. You’d never know as how they got there, but you do
know there’s not a thing you wouldn’t do, just to see those blooms stay right
there. An’ as long as they do, well, those taters, they don’ matter that much,
no, not at all.”
Jolly lowered his head and said nothing for a few moments. But when he looked up
again and spoke, his voice was still soft, but curiously harsh as well. “An’
your Mr. Frodo, now. Would he be knowin’ any o’all this? Does he feel the same
about you, Sam?”
“Aye,” Sam replied slowly, with a touch of wonder, “that he does.” He rose and
walked over to Jolly. “ ‘Tis only you I can tell this to,’ he watched Jolly’s
face carefully, waiting.
“I know, Sam,” Jolly sighed in resignation, throwing his arm around Sam’s
shoulders. Side by side they stood in front of the loft opening, watching the
rain collecting into small streams in the muddy path below, and the hills in the
far side of the field become enshrouded in white mist. Finally, Jolly
straightened himself, and gave Sam a warning glance. “You’d best be tellin’
Rosie soon, then,” he frowned. “ ‘Tis always someone who’ll be willin’ to tell
her, and not care if she gets hurt in the hearin’.”
“I will, Jolly,” Sam promised him quietly. “At least as much as I need to.” He
paused for a moment, and then slowly repeated, “If there was anyone as I could
tell, I knew ‘twould be you.”
Jolly gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and then, slightly clearing his
throat, headed over to the ladder down to the barn below. “We’d best be off,
Sam,” he called over his shoulder, “or they’d be sendin’ Nibs out after us.”
Only the last streaks of pink were still in the sky when Sam returned to Bag
End. The rain had ended over an hour ago, and the air still had that clean,
freshly washed scent to it. Sam was surprised to find Frodo outside, strolling
about the kitchen garden, studying the cabbages. “I’ve always wondered, Sam,” he
glanced up with a smile as Sam entered the gate. “Why are there marigolds midst
the cabbage? Seems as if it would be harder to weed that way.”
Sam walked up to him in the dusk and flung his arms around Frodo’s neck and bent
towards him, so that their foreheads touched. “Because the snails would not be
likin’ the taste o’marigold,” he said softly.
“Ah,” Frodo breathed, quickly reaching up to clasp Sam’s shoulders. Tenderly, he
kissed Sam, and then brushed the side of his face with a gentle hand, watching
his expression sympathetically. “That would account for it, then.” He paused for
a moment, and asked quietly, ”Are you hungry?”
Sam mutely shook his head.
“Well, then,” Frodo murmured, “let us have a walk.”
Frodo’s arm was warm and firm around Sam’s shoulders as they slowly walked down
the path to the back garden and the fields beyond. No word was spoken as they
made their way by the silvery light of the waning moon, but Sam’s arm found its
way around Frodo’s waist and held on securely. It wasn’t until they were under
the beeches that crowned the hill that they stopped. Frodo leaned back against
the smooth bark and, taking Sam’s hands in his own, waited.
“ ‘Twas Jolly I spoke to,” Sam finally said, staring at their hands, hardly
audible. “ ‘Tis Rosie as I still need to speak to.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo murmured sympathetically. “I’d give anything not to have this
so hard for you.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked up into Frodo’s. “Hard, aye,
‘tis that,” he answered firmly. “But, as my mam used to say, when ‘tis bought
with pain, ‘tis all the dearer.” He paused for a moment, and even in the
moonlight, Frodo could see the flicker of sorrow cross his face. “The gaffer,
he’d never know that one, but my mam, she did.”
Frodo raised up Sam’s hands at that and kissed them lightly. “There should never
be pain for you, Sam dearest,” he said then, his voice husky with emotion.
“None of us’d be escapin’ that, Frodo,” Sam whispered, and suddenly he was in
Frodo’s arms, and his hands held Frodo’s face. “But there’s that as is well
worth it.” Then his mouth was on Frodo’s, and his arms wrapped around Frodo to
hold him tightly. Sam’s kiss was deep, lingering, and Frodo found himself being
swept away by Sam’s intensity.
“Oh, Sam,” he whispered shakily, when at last Sam broke away from his mouth and
began trailing kisses down his throat.
Sam looked up at that, his dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears in the
moonlight. “You’re worth any price, you are,” he breathed.
Frodo bowed his head, closing his eyes.
As is so often true, that day’s rain was followed by a week in which, day after
day, sultry clouds built up on the horizon by mid-day, but had passed on by
evening without releasing rain. It was the midst of summer now, and the air was
thick with heat. Farmers in the fields were eying their grains dubiously,
preferring a little more rain. The Summer Market was approaching, and it was
important that the crop samples they brought to display were at their best.
Summer Market was a long-standing Hobbiton tradition. Farmers from all about the
Shire would bring sheaves of wheat and hay, and samples of barley and oats, and
the millers and brewers, among others, would bid for the crop come harvest. In
addition, of course, it was a festive affair, in the middle of the Shire’s
busiest season, and a welcome excuse for dancing and feasting. A large field,
near the center of Hobbiton, was given over to dancing in the evenings, and
tents stood along the perimeter with a continuous feast available, with all
local farmers contributing and vying for the honor of their produce being judged
superior to all the rest, and plenty of Hobbiton cooks eager to demonstrate
their skills as well.
In addition, Summer Market was an event eagerly awaited by the younger hobbits
for reasons that had very little to do with the quality of barley. After all,
was it not said, “Met by Market, pledged by Harvest”? Shire winters could be
long and isolating.
Sam had a bucket in his hand as he opened the Bag End kitchen door in the early
morning, but instead of immediately heading towards to pump, he stopped and
looked westwards, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn‘t until two familiar arms
wrapped themselves around his waist, and there was a light kiss at the back of
his neck that he knew Frodo was there.
“Ah,” he laughed, letting the pail drop on the path and swinging around in
Frodo’s arms, “what’d be this now? Why, ‘tis the Master of Bag End himself,
an’up afore first breakfast!”
Frodo laughed back at Sam’s gentle tease. “I thought I may as well join my
impudent young gardener for breakfast, rather than lay abed and wonder why I
can’t sleep in this heat,” he growled in mock severity, and then entirely ruined
the effect by setting to work nibbling Sam’s closest ear tip.
Sam gave a small sigh as the invariable shiver ran through him. “Breakfast might
be that late, if you be a’doin’ that,” he tried to respond sternly, the desired
result being completely upset by his hands running slowly up Frodo’s arms.
“I understand breakfast is entirely overrated,’ Frodo murmured in his ear, while
continuing to tease it with his tongue.
“Really, now.. Oh Frodo!” Sam gasped involuntarily. His hands had now managed to
burrow their way under the light shirt Frodo was wearing, and were continuing
down Frodo’s backside, underneath his trousers. Gamely, Sam continued on,
“Breakfast’d be the most… Oh! Ah!.. most important meal… Oh, me dear! as I ’us
told.. Oh Frodo oh!”
Frodo stopped his exploration of the whorls of Sam’s ear, his own hands busy
under Sam’s shirt, and whispered, “Well, I suppose we could continue this at a
later…” but the rest of the sentence was suddenly lost in a sudden inhalation,
as Sam’s strong hands unexpectedly tightened their grip.
“Or now might do very nicely,” Frodo gulped.
Sam made no verbal response, but the manner in which he was enthusiastically
nuzzling the base of Frodo’s throat seemed to indicate a general agreement with
Frodo’s proposal.
“So I suppose… Sam! that if it’s too hot to… Oh, yes! Oh, Sam! sleep… Blast!
That bed’s entirely too far away!”
“Agreed,” Sam mumbled, his mouth now busy at work on the side of Frodo’s neck,
his hands having moved to Frodo’s sides, now lovingly cradling his hips, drawing
him closer.
“This is not a good location,” Frodo groaned, and then attacked Sam’s other ear,
and pressed himself very tightly indeed to Sam, both hands firmly gripping Sam’s
waist.
“ ’Twas you as picked it,” Sam quickly pointed out, reasonably enough, before
covering Frodo’s mouth with his own, forestalling any possible verbal response.
And now Sam’s hands had slid around to the front and it was clear that any
further argument was rapidly about to become entirely extraneous.
“Unghaahh,” Frodo mentioned succinctly, his mouth still covered by Sam’s.
“Aye, true enough,” Sam whispered, grabbing Frodo by the waist and pulling him
down behind the hedge that ran along the side of the garden closest to the Row.
It was then that the sound of a pony and cart could be heard, slowly picking
their way up the Row. Frodo and Sam froze for only the barest of seconds, but
hobbits are capable of silence under the most demanding of circumstances, and
that characteristic was abruptly put to test.
Frodo had fallen in the carrot bed, with Sam pulled forcefully on top of him.
With absolute silence, he moved under Sam, eyes closing and head thrust back in
the midst of the lacy green carrot tops. The sound of the pony’s steadily
clopping steps grew closer as Sam rapidly undid both his and Frodo’s trousers
and thrust his hand inside. Desperately praying that no-one was delivering
anything to Mr. Frodo this morning, he could not stop his instinctive, frenzied
rocking on top of Frodo, and from the looks of Frodo’s flushed face, stifled
breathing, and answering movements, nothing could have been further from Frodo’s
wishes as well.
The cart was near now, and Sam held on desperately, willing the animal and rider
to not stop with all his heart. When at last the pony’s steps began to recede,
he felt relief and ecstasy mixed together and he came, opening his eyes just in
time to see his response mirrored by Frodo, with a final urgent push upwards,
his breathing a frantic silent gasp.
They lay together then in a mutely panting heap, long after the sound of the
pony and rider had receded into the distance. It was only then that Frodo began
to laugh. “I’m so glad carrots grow underground,” he gasped finally, blowing a
ferny stem from his face, “or I know I’d never hear the end of this.”
Sam laughed as well, happily curling up around Frodo. “Ah, me dear,” he sighed
contentedly, peacefully stroking Frodo‘s face, “you don’t know how glad I‘d be,
that that ’twas not the postman.”
Tea was being held out of doors, in the Gamgee garden, this afternoon, for the
interior of the smial was far too stifling. Marigold was there as well, since
Rosie was to be returning back to her home the next day, the newly-weds having
moved into their own smial at last. Marigold had promised to help Rosie collect
up her belongings, since May was spending a few days with friends in Hobbiton.
Daisy poured, and the three lasses sat in the shade of the grape trellis,
companionably munching biscuits that Marigold had brought with her. The topic of
the new smial had been exhausted, in addition to speculation on May’s doings, as
well as the possibility of her returning with an announcement of some sort or
another. The late afternoon air hung heavy with heat and the shimmering of
cicada, when Sam appeared at the side gate.
“Well, there’d you’d be,” declared Daisy, somewhat sharply. Glancing
meaningfully at her brother, she stood up. “I’ll be getting’ you a cup, then,
Sam.”
“No need, Daisy, thank’ee,” Sam replied hastily, his face beginning to redden.
“I’d summat already.” He stood there awkwardly, caught by the eyes of the three,
until, with a visible swallow, he looked directly at Rosie, and almost
inaudibly, stammered, “Might I be havin’ a word w’ye, Rosie?”
Rosie was suddenly aware of the guarded expressions of the Gamgee sisters and
she rose without a word to them, her eyes on Sam almost helplessly, as if she
were a bird caught fluttering in a snare with only the faintest of hope. Sam
ducked his head down, and then hesitantly motioned to the grove that grew on the
other side of the Row. Rosie followed him through the gate in silence. Back in
the garden, the sisters exchanged saddened glances.
This was what Rosie had been dreaming of, to be walking with Sam under the apple
and cherry trees, deep green with the summer’s growth. But it was with
apprehension that she glanced at Sam, walking ahead of her. His expression was
troubled, and foreboding was gripping her heart. Yet if he had naught to say to
her, why would he ask her to walk out with him? She clasped her hands tightly
together, in vain hopes of stilling their trembling, and tried to still her
heart as well.
Sam had stopped at the back of the orchard and, leaning against the rail fence
that lay between the fruit trees and the pasture beyond, stared hard at the
grassy ground, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. With her mind full of
trepidation, Rosie could still see that whatever Sam had to say, this moment was
as difficult for him as it was for her.
Finally, visibly gathering his courage, Sam looked up at her, as she stood in
front of him. “Rosie,” he began, in an uneven voice, and then swallowed, and
began again, “Rosie. There’s summat as you need to know.”
Rosie stood her ground, waiting. Inexperienced as she was in the ways of lads,
she still knew that there’d be hurt in whatever Sam had to say.
Sam had pulled his hands from his pockets by now and had tightly crossed his
arms in front of his chest. Taking a deep breath, he continued on. “I’d not be
gettin’ married. Not ever. Not even to you, Rosie, even if there‘d ever have
been a lass as I could‘ve married, it would have been you.” The last statement
was so quiet Rosie could scarcely hear, and Sam was staring at her imploringly,
as if willing her to understand what his words were failing to say.
Rosie stared at Sam, this gentle lad she’d known all her life, and tried to
comprehend. Then slowly, images came to her, and suddenly she knew.
“Mr. Frodo,” she whispered, and she knew immediately by the look on Sam’s face
that he was the explanation for all that she had not been able to understand.
The color drained from her cheeks as she continued to stare at him, all of her
dreams collapsing about her. There was no anger in her heart, she knew well
enough that Sam had never meant for her to create these dreams, and through the
wreckage, she sought for any hope still left to her. Finally, she said, in a
very low voice, never looking away, “I wouldna mind, Sam.”
At that, Sam closed his eyes in pain, and turned his head away. “No!” he
responded tightly, gripping the rail behind him. “No!” He bit his lip, fighting
for words that had never come easily to him, and then looked back at Rosie
imploringly. “You are so lovely, Rosie. To watch you dance, aye, there’s naught
like it, no ways. You’d have made me the best wife as ever was.“
He continued softly then, knowing that he must, despite the tears beginning to
run down her cheeks. “But that’s not the way it turned out t’be for the both
o’us. An’ you deserve to be havin’ a lad as would love you like no other. That
canna be me.”
Rosie gave a choked sound that cut to Sam’s heart, but he knew that there was
nothing he could do to ease this for her. Silently, he stepped forward, took her
arm, and guided her back, without resistance, to the garden where he knew his
sisters awaited her.
Leaving her without a word, he headed back to the wild fields beyond the
orchard, and heedlessly walked on, until darkness had descended around him and
his tears were all spent and dried on his face.
When Sam walked through the Bag End kitchen garden, he did not see Frodo until
he arose from the bench that sat by the kitchen door. Only a sliver of the moon
was still left in the sky, and even though Sam’s eyes were adjusted to the dark
by now, he had not seen him sitting in the shadows. Silently, he stopped before
Frodo, his head bowed.
Frodo considered him in silence, and then, with a gentle touch to his arm,
murmured, “Wait here, Sam.” Sam numbly watched him enter the darkened smial, and
did not question for what, or why.
Frodo was soon out, with the rug they used for picnics over an arm. “It’s far
too warm to be indoors tonight. Come,” he said quietly, and running his fingers
through Sam’s unresisting ones, he led Sam down the back path to the fields and
country beyond Bag End. Even though the dark was nearly absolute, it was clear
that Frodo knew the way well.
There was a small grassy hollow, past Bag End, set upon a hill that faced
northwards towards the wild country. Here Frodo stopped, and bending down,
spread the rug out. “Here, Sam,” he said as he sat down on the rug, and gently
pulled at Sam’s arm.
Sam had been following Frodo as if in a daze, and dropped to his knees at
Frodo’s side. It wasn’t until Frodo wrapped an arm around him that Sam finally
grabbed one of Frodo’s hands and held it tightly, still not looking directly,
even in the dark, at Frodo.
“Rosie,” Frodo whispered, and Sam nodded numbly. And then he was suddenly in
Frodo’s arms, craving his touch, his comfort, the ache too great for tears.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo sighed, holding him closely and kissing the top of Sam’s head,
as Sam burrowed into his arms. “There, love, there, dearest.”
Slowly, he fell back onto the rug, drawing Sam with him. He stared up into the
clear night sky, looking at the bright stars without seeing them, and tenderly
stroking Sam’s back and whispering to him softly. Slowly, he felt Sam ease in
his arms, and his breathing relax. Sam rolled over then, and lay next to Frodo’s
side, still clasping his hand tightly, and looked up into the sky as well. Frodo
waited.
Finally Sam spoke, his voice still choked with grief. “I’ve hurt so many as I
dearly love. I should have been knowin’ better,” and his voice trailed off with
a stifled sob.
Frodo turned towards Sam at that, and raising himself up on an elbow, lovingly
stroked the side of Sam’s face. “You’ve done the best that could be done, Sam,”
he said softly. “I don’t think I could have been nearly as brave as you have
been.”
Sam turned his face into Frodo’s touch and sighed. “I’d not be knowin’ about
bein’ brave, no ways. I’ve bungled this right enough, I have.”
“No, Sam, you haven’t at all,” Frodo responded firmly. “It’s just that,” and he
paused for a moment, and smoothed Sam’s curls back from his forehead. “It’s just
that there are so many who love you, Sam,” he continued hesitantly, “and they do
not want you to be hurt.”
Sam lay silent for a moment. “I could’ve been havin’ the life they’d want for
me,” he then said slowly, “and ‘twould ha’been that easy. But then I never’d be
knowin’ what I feel when I’d be with you, when my heart feels as if it’d be on
fire, and I can’t touch you enough, and there’d be nothing as I wouldn’t do for
you. An’ it’s not easy, an’ I don’t figure as it ever will be, but there’ll
never be a day that I’d be sorry for that.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo choked at that, dropping down to Sam’s side and holding him
tightly in his arms, “my sweet Sam.” Dimly, he felt Sam’s arms encircle him, and
together, they rolled on their sides, face to face. Raising his hand to the side
of Sam’s face, Frodo kissed him fiercely. “Always yours, Sam,” he breathed,
finally breaking away from Sam’s mouth with reluctance, his hand still gently
cupping Sam’s cheek, Sam clutching him closely, “everything I am, everything I
have to give, it‘ll always be yours.”
The gentle drops on Frodo’s face awoke him in the early grey hours of the
morning. The air was finally cool again, and the light rain had only begun to
fall. Carefully, so as not to awaken Sam, who was curled tightly against him,
Frodo lifted himself up and reached for the rug on the other side of Sam.
Deftly, he drew it over Sam, sheltering his face. Sam sighed in his sleep,
tightened his grip on Frodo for the moment, and nestled back again, never
waking. Frodo let the rain fall unheeded on his own face, and soon fell asleep
again as well.
The Green Dragon was far more crowded than usual, and the air hazy with the
smoke of pipeweed, as Jolly and Sam made their way inside. It was the day before
the Summer Market, and they had just delivered their samples of the Cotton
grains for the buyers tomorrow. Jolly had wished for a bit of brew before
starting back, and the idea did not sound amiss to Sam either. Besides, it was
still just past mid-day, likely enough the gaffer would not be here as of yet.
The trip to Hobbiton had started off rather quietly. Sam had been reluctant to
even go, until Frodo had urged him to. He had met Jolly in the lane, and the
younger hobbit had uncharacteristically had very little to say. Sam had wished
to ask about Rosie, but could think of no way to casually introduce the subject.
So they walked side-by-side down the dusty lane, carrying the baskets containing
the small sacks of grain and the tightly bound sheaves, in silence. A cart
coming unexpectedly around the corner though, caused them to quickly leap aside,
Jolly stumbling to the ground, and it was only through Sam’s deft hands that he
prevented the contents of Jolly’s basket from being strewn into the wagon ruts
left by last week’s rain.
“”Aye, Sam, an’ it’s a good thing that you’d be that quick,” Jolly exclaimed
breathlessly as Sam helped him to his feet.
“Well, now, that Barrows lad needs be lookin’ out a bit more past his nose,” Sam
replied with some heat. “There’s no call to be a’tramplin’ around the corners
like that w’that great pony and all. You’d be all right, then, Jolly?“
“Ah, sure, I’d be fine enough,“ Jolly laughed with a little embarrassment, and
they paused to take inventory on the side of the lane after the cart had passed.
“All right then, nothing lost.” Jolly sighed in relief. The incident had,
however, loosened their tongues, and conversation on the rest of the trip
returned almost to normal.
But it had been thirsty work, and the Green Dragon’s brew was particularly
inviting.
“Jolly Cotton! Sam Gamgee!” came a shout out from a back corner as they picked
up their mugs, and the both of them turned to see Ned Proudfoot raising a mug in
a back corner of the inn. With some difficulty, the two hobbits threaded their
way through the throng of patrons until they reached his table. “Have a seat,
lads,” Ned called out jovially, “we ain’t been seein’ the pair o’ye for the
longest time. So, Sam,” he made room for the both of them at the crowded table,
“I hear tell as you been helpin’ out Mr. Frodo at Bag End these days.”
“Aye, I have,” Sam answered carefully, his heart suddenly constricting with
apprehension. He could feel Jolly close beside him, in support, and felt a
sudden rush of gratitude towards the younger lad.
“Why, an’ I’m sure he’d be grateful for that,” Ned responded kindly, clapping an
arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Bag End’ll be all that big for a hobbit on his own.”
“I’d be thinking that that’s not all he’s grateful for,” cut in a familiar
drawl.
Ted Sandyman, Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and a newcomer Sam did not recognize,
were jammed together around a small table on the other side of the back room.
With an insinuating tone that carried clearly, even through the jumble of
conversations in the crowded inn, Ted responded to Lotho’s comment, sniggering,
“Aye, you got it about right, Mr. Lotho. Right handy, our Samwise is, to be
sure.”
Jolly shot a warning glance to Sam, but it was too late. Sam had already risen
to his feet, glaring at the trio. “If you’ve aught to say to me, mayhap you
should be sayin’ it t’my face,” his voice rose angrily above the din.
Ted laughed unpleasantly and said no more, but as Sam swung back around to sit
down again, he caught sight of the corner table. Hamfast Gamgee was sitting near
the center, his eyes fixed on Sam, and his face stone.
Sam met his eyes for only a moment, and then suddenly started to push his way
through tables and hobbits, oblivious to all around him, only faintly hearing
Jolly’s voice calling out his name. He finally gained the door, ran down the
road from the Dragon and behind some bushes, and there retched until his stomach
was empty.
Panting and feeling dizzy, he knelt, his mind emptied as well, until he felt a
gentle touch on his shoulder.
“Come along, Sam,” Jolly said sadly, “let’s be goin’ home.”
Frodo was up early Market morning. Sam awoke to find the bed empty next to him,
and Frodo standing before the window, gazing out at the first tints of dawn as
he buttoned up his best weskit. “Frodo?” Sam questioned sleepily, rubbing his
eyes and sitting up.
“Oh, sorry, Sam, I didn’t want to wake you yet,” Frodo smiled ruefully, turning
back to Sam. “I just couldn’t sleep any more.” He sighed and, sitting next to
Sam on the side of the bed, reached for his hand. “It’s just that this is the
first year without Bilbo, and I… I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to these
Master of Bag End duties. They always make me nervous.”
Sam’s eyes widened a bit at the thought. “There’d be no-one as could be guessin’
that,” he answered with a bit of disbelief.
“But it’s true,” Frodo said softly, gazing at Sam’s hand and carefully enclosing
it in his own. “I’d so much rather stay here at Bag End with you, than to have
all of Hobbiton staring at me, judging me, speculating…” his voice trailed off
and he continued to stare at Sam’s warm hand in his own.
“But they’d be those as don’t know you,” Sam pointed out, reasonably, watching
Frodo’s quick, nail-bitten fingers twining through his own. “There’d be many as
who admire you, likewise.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. Still,” Frodo sighed, “there are times when
ending up as a tagger-on at Brandy Hall doesn’t seem like the worst of fates.
But of course,” he smiled suddenly then at Sam, and Sam caught his breath, “then
I wouldn’t be here, now, would I. And, I suppose, neither would you.”
“Aye, that be right enough,” Sam laughed. His hand closed around Frodo’s at
that, and gave a gentle tug.
“Sam!” exclaimed Frodo with a throaty chuckle, falling towards Sam on the bed,
“you wouldn’t be trying to distract me, now, would you?”
“Why, Mr. Frodo!” Sam tried his best for wounded dignity as he wrapped an arm
around Frodo’s shoulders. “You’d know me better than that, now! An’ on such an
important day an’ all…” Falling back on the pillow, he brought Frodo down along
with him.
“Umm. I believe I do know you, Sam,” Frodo happily found himself lying on top of
Sam, who was grinning wickedly underneath him. “You know, if I miss the mayor’s
… Mmm, Sam,” with effort, he broke his mouth away from Sam’s. “As I was saying,
Mayor Whitfoot would really take it amiss if I… Oh, yes, Sam…” His eyes closed
as Sam’s mouth found his throat. “You know, perhaps it’s still a bit early to be
dressing…” as Sam’s dexterous fingers were busily working on the weskit.
“Aye,” grunted Sam, busy at work on Frodo’s shirt by now, “the less I’d be seein’
on you, Frodo Baggins, the better I’d be likin’ it.”
“Why, Sam,” Frodo laughed, his eyes shining happily, “What about my lofty
position in Hobbiton society?” Pausing for only a moment, he quickly undid his
trouser fastening. “I can’t very well show up like this, now, can I.” With a
quick, practiced movement, both the shirt and the trousers were quickly on the
floor beside the bed.
“You do have a point, me dear,” the bed-clothing quickly joined Frodo’s clothes
on the floor, and Sam lay under Frodo, holding him closely and running greedy
hands up Frodo’s sides. “So it’d seem as you’d have t’be stayin’ in bed after
all,” and with a sudden flip, Sam had rolled Frodo onto his back with his legs
pinned under one of Sam’s.
“Well, I suppose I can’t be frightening the good folk of Hobbiton with my wanton
ways, then,” Frodo sighed with mock resignation, his hand disappearing between
the two of them. “So it looks as though I’ll have to stay…”
“Frodo!” came Sam’s suddenly choked voice as Frodo’s hand unerringly reached its
intended target. He groaned involuntarily, eyes closing, and shifted his
position slightly on top of Frodo.
Frodo’s smile widened at this response and, with his hand still busy, and with a
lick of Sam’s ear-tip so conveniently close at hand, he whispered, “I believe
you were asking for this, Sam love.”
“Oh, aye, I was a’that,” came Sam’s somewhat incoherent reply, as he clutched
Frodo’s shoulders tightly.
“Ah, good,” Frodo’s voice was now silkily close to Sam’s ear. “Because it’s
always good to get what you want, isn’t it, Sam?” And before Sam could realize
it, he was under Frodo again, but as long as Frodo’s hand did not leave off what
it was doing, that mattered very little to him.
Now Frodo’s mouth was on his, opening hungrily, and Sam responded without
inhibition. Blindly gripping Frodo, and pushing instinctively into that clever
hand, Sam let his own hands slide down Frodo’s backside, cupping those
delectable mounds. Frodo made an indistinguishable noise deep in his throat at
that, and Sam dimly became aware that Frodo’s heated response was pushing
eagerly into his hip.
But then Frodo’s mouth broke away from his, leaving Sam gasping and beyond
words, and started to travel down his throat, kissing and tasting, and then down
his chest until he was nibbling and licking at those dark tips, Frodo’s hand
still between them, caressing and cajoling. And now Sam’s hands were in Frodo’s
hair, raking through those dark curls, but always, despite his need, gentle.
In a haze of fierce craving and desire, Sam suddenly realized that if he didn’t
act at once, it would quickly be too late, and he slipped his hands under
Frodo’s shoulders and tried to tug him up. But Frodo removed his mouth just long
enough to give a quick shake and murmur, “Not this morning, Sam. This morning,
it’s what you want,” and Sam cried out wildly as Frodo’s mouth found him and he
realized that this was indeed exactly what he did want. And it was nothing like
he had ever felt, for he had never allowed himself to be the recipient before,
Frodo’s mouth warm and wet around him, Frodo’s tongue teasing and stroking up
the length of him. Sam flung his arms up, grabbing at the pillow under his head,
desperately willing not to let this stop, to hold this moment as long as he
possibly could, but it was not, it could not be, nearly long enough. Crying out
Frodo’s name harshly, he had to surrender, and give himself up to Frodo.
Dimly, as he lay there, gulping in air, he heard Frodo next to him give a low
groan and shudder. Looking down, he found Frodo was raised on his elbows, gazing
back up at him, those clear eyes warm with love and a hint of awe. “Oh, Sam,” he
whispered tenderly, “you are so beautiful.”
Once again dressed, Frodo stood in the kitchen next to the sink, a hastily
prepared cup of tea in one hand and a scone in the other. Sam, also dressed in
his finest, was banking the fire and rinsing out the few dishes they’d used.
“No time for a proper breakfast, then,” Sam sighed, snatching a small sack from
a peg on the wall and hastily stuffing some peaches from a bowl on the table and
a small loaf into it, “but I wager we could be eatin’ this along the way.”
Frodo hastily swallowed the tea, and with the scone in one hand, opened the
kitchen door, Sam following behind.
It was a lovely morning, and although the promise of afternoon heat was in the
air, the scent of the summer lilies and petunia was fragrant in the mild breeze.
But before Sam could close the door behind them, Frodo had turned to him and
gave him a quick kiss. “I think I was wrong about today,” he smiled warmly at
Sam, reaching then for his hand. “Today seems to be turning out very nicely,
after all.”
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