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The Veracity Of Dreams
It was late afternoon on a midsummer’s day as Frodo Baggins walked slowly down
Bagshot Row towards his home. The road was dusty as there had not been any rain
for the last several days, and the bees were humming in the poppies that
blossomed scarlet amid the grass at the side of the road. The shade of the tall
yew planted alongside the road was welcome, even this late in the day, but
Frodo’s mind was still occupied with the dilemma that he had been wrestling with
for the last several hours, so he noticed not the flowers nor the bees. As he
passed the familiar sight of Number 3, Bagshot Row, though, he looked up and
ahead, as if by instinct, and saw Sam waiting, arms folded over the gate to Bag
End, and gave a tired smile.
“Well, and there you are,” Sam smiled in return as Frodo entered the gate. “Come
along now and not a word from you until you’ve had a bit of a rest.”
Throwing an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, he drew him around to the side of the
smial. There was a bench in the side garden, near the kitchen door, with
cushions and a shady arbor of rambling roses built over the top. Here Sam left
Frodo, who dropped himself gratefully down, and then entered the kitchen. He
returned in a moment with a glass of cool water and a dish of sugar dusted
berries.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo sighed with a smile, “that’s perfect.”
Closing his eyes and leaning back against the soft cushions, he slowly drank the
water, and popped a few berries in his mouth. Sam sat down on the bench next to
Frodo, holding the dish for Frodo, and waited patiently.
Soon Frodo opened his eyes again and gave Sam another wry smile. “Well, I
suppose you’re waiting to hear how it all turned out,” he messaged his temples
slightly.
“Not all that well, I’m thinkin’,” Sam replied, watching him fondly.
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Frodo gave a small sigh. “I’ll tell you
all about it at dinner.”
“Right enough,” Sam arose, lightly laying his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Rest a
bit more then, I’ll be off for a bath. The stew’s on the fire and there’s naught
to do for awhile.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Frodo replied gratefully, and drawing his legs up on the bench,
laid back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Frodo awoke to find the sun was sinking lower in an orange and pink sky, and a
light blanket had been laid over him as he slept. He swung his legs around off
the bench and stretched slowly. For all he still looked as if he’d barely come
of age, he had begun to feel his true age when he arose off of a hard bed.
Yawning, and throwing the blanket over his shoulders, he entered the kitchen in
search of Sam.
Sam, curls still damp from his bath, was humming lightly to himself as he
stirred the stew. He turned as Frodo, entering the kitchen, yawned once more.
“Sam, you shouldn’t let me nod off like that.” Frodo complained affectionately,
walking over to Sam as he stirred, and giving him a hug. “An old hobbit like
myself stiffens up so fast on a hard bench.”
Sam continued to stir, but gave Frodo a quick kiss on the cheek. “Old hobbit,”
he snorted. “That’ll be the day. You still look as though you’re bare out o’your
tweens. I’ll be looking’ like the gaffer afore you look t’be forty.”
“Looks are one thing,” Frodo retorted, walking over and sitting down at the
kitchen table. “My back’s another. All right, Sam, what do you have for me to
do?”
“The peas, if you don’t mind,” Sam indicated with a wave of his hand a large
bowl and a pile of pea pods on the kitchen table.
“Of course.” Frodo placed the bowl in his lap and deftly began to split the pods
and strip the peas into the earthenware bowl. “Did you get all the blackberries
today? I’ll give you a hand tomorrow if there’s still some left.”
“No need, only a bush or two left.” Sam scooped up a spoonful of the stew and
tasted it thoughtfully. “Ah, that’ll do.”
“Enough peas, Sam?” Frodo held up the bowl for Sam’s inspection.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d thought I’d spare a few for the gaffer o’the
morrow,” Sam inspected Frodo’s output.
Frodo resumed his shelling. “So, Marigold still hasn’t convinced him to move in
with her and her family?” he asked, reminded of an earlier topic of
conversation.
“Ah, looks as not,” Sam continued to stir, staring out the kitchen window at the
darkening sky.
“Well, you know, Sam, as I said before,” Frodo waved a pea pod vaguely in the
air, “this smial is certainly large enough to…”
But before he could finish, Sam, chuckling, turned to smile at him fondly. “For
all he thinks I’m over my station, Frodo…”
Frodo rose at that, placing the bowl on table, and crossing over to Sam, wrapped
his arms around him and kissed a willing Sam soundly under the ear. “Your
station is right here, Sam,” he spoke softly, resting his forehead against the
back of Sam’s head. “I hope I’ve finally convinced you of that.”
“Aye, that you have, love,” Sam replied, twisting his head to kiss him lightly
again. “But I’m afraid the gaffer is an entirely different matter.”
“Your gaffer is, and ever has been, a hobbit of firm principles,” Frodo laughed
affectionately. “As are you, my dear Sam. And I believe one of those is beer,
not wine, with coney stew. Would that be right, now?” he teasingly nibbled Sam’s
neck.
Sam made as if to swing around entirely at that, with a playful growl, but Frodo
laughed and quickly moved away. “All right, to the back cellar I go. And beer it
shall be.”
Dinner was quickly laid out on the kitchen table, and Frodo placed two mugs of
cool brew next to the plates. Both hobbits savored their dinner in companionable
silence, other than an appreciative remark from Frodo. “Rosemary?” he inquired
of Sam, after a few spoonfuls.
“Aye,” Sam chuckled. “You’re developin’ a rare taste for herbs, Frodo.”
“Just trying to keep up with you, Sam dear,” Frodo smiled affectionately. “Quite
tasty, too. An excellent idea.”
After the bowls and plates were scraped quite clean, Frodo pushed back his chair
with a contented sigh. “It’s a lovely evening, Sam,” he got up from his chair,
stretching. “Let’s go out for a bit.”
“Why don’t you refill the mugs, and I’ll rinse off the dishes first,” Sam
suggested, rising as well.
Mourning doves were cooing in the back hedge and a few last swallows soared up
in the twilight sky for a evening meal as the two hobbits returned to the arbor
in the kitchen garden. The secluded cushioned bench was one of their favorite
resting spots on a warm summer’s evening. Mugs in hand, they easily settled into
their customary positions, Sam with his legs stretched out ahead of him, resting
them after a long day of bending and crouching, and Frodo curled next to him,
head resting against Sam’s shoulder.
“So what was the fuss between Branberry and Barleybuck about this time?” Sam
prompted after they had watched the settling birds for awhile.
“Well, I don’t think even Bilbo could convince those two to make peace,” Frodo
sighed, “let alone someone they both still appear to consider an upstart and an
outsider.”
Sam huffed with indignation. “And who else would have a right t’settle it?” he
grumbled. “That’d be Baggins land they’d be farmin’. Mayhap they like to settle
the matter with Lobelia instead.”
Frodo chuckled at that thought. “I’d enjoy watching that, I would,” he admitted.
“But it’s the same matter they’ve been arguing about ever since that heavy rain
last winter widened the stream that runs between their farms. And now that they
both have lost a bit of land, both equally mind you, they each think they’re
entitled to that new island that sits in the middle of the stream. Tell me, Sam,
does anything ever please those two?”
“Naught I’ve ever heard tell of,” Sam answered with a frown, and then added
musingly, “unless it be…” He took another sip of his beer, and then continued
thoughtfully, “I hear tell they’re both uncommonly fond of a bit of trout.”
“Yes,” Frodo prompted him, with curiosity, “and…”
“Well, trout likes it all shady-like,” Sam went on, staring up at the first
stars that were just beginning to show in the violet sky. “And there’s naught in
the way of shady spots near their farms. Unless they make it so,” he concluded.
“You mean the island?” Frodo questioned him with interest.
“Aye,” Sam smiled over at him. “It’s naught but a bit of land, too small to
farm, but if they planted it o’er with bushes, it’d give the trout a good place
to hide. Then each could fish their side of the stream and be done with this
silly quarrel.”
“Sam, you’re a marvel,” Frodo said with admiration, giving him a swift kiss on
the cheek. “That’s perfect. I’ll propose it tomorrow. You really should be the
one handling these matters,” he slid his head down to rest in Sam’s lap. “You’re
so much more of a diplomat than I am.”
Sam placed Frodo’s empty mug on the ground at the side of the bench and
affectionately cupped Frodo’s face in his hand. “The only job I’d ever want is
what I have, me dear. Just your gardener, that’d be it.”
“It’s been a long time since that’s all you were to me, Sam love,” Frodo
murmured, running his hand through Sam’s curls and drawing him down for a
lingering kiss.
They had been together long enough now, nearly ten years, to develop a settled
and comfortable pattern of domesticity. It was a rare evening that left a trail
of strewn clothing down the hall to the bedroom, although it did still
occasionally occur thus, especially when Frodo had been away on one of his
business trips or rare visits to his relatives without Sam. The more usual
scenario called for a quiet evening, usually either with Frodo reading to Sam as
he caught up on mending and other assorted household tasks, or with Sam reading
to Frodo as the latter restored and repaired his quills or pipes. And on a
lovely summer’s eve such as this one, Frodo felt there was nothing finer than
listening to Sam read from his own store of favorite poems and tales that Sam
himself had carefully lettered into a worn leather journal. Frodo would watch
the glowing fireflies lace themselves in and out of the white moonflowers,
listening contently to Sam’s melodious voice, as long as the last bit of light
remained. And then they would go in.
In no time at all, they would be once again in the large feather bed in the
master bedroom of Bag End, and Sam would gaze down at Frodo’s pale delicate
features in the moonlight and wonder how he had come to have everything in the
world he wanted right here in his arms every night. And Frodo would lift his
arms up and twine them around Sam’s neck and know without a shade of doubt that
he had finally found the home he had sought all his life, here in Sam’s loving
embrace.
They would begin to move then, in the rhythm that pleased them best, pausing
always for endearments, and kisses that became deeper, and lasted longer, until
they were both caught up in the touch, the push, the firm hold, the sure
stroking, the arching need to be even closer, and the inevitable final thrusting
of love. And when their passion had finally flowed from them in blissful
abandon, they would lay together, still tightly wrapped, caressing each other’s
faces and softly murmuring each other’s names, as there were no dearer sounds in
all the world that those. Then eventually, as they were cooled by the evening
air that softly rustled the bedroom curtains, Sam would reach over to a small
stack of towels kept near the bed, and ready them both for sleep. It always
found them quickly, nestled together.
&&&&&&&&&
Frodo found himself standing on the streets of a city which he had never seen.
Tall gleaming white spires and battlements soared into the grey sky, but the
streets were empty. This was not a city ever made by hobbits, but by which other
race, he knew not.
He did not know why he was here, nor what he had to do, and there was a chill to
the air that had penetrated him so that he could feel it close around his heart.
Frodo began to walk the silent streets alone, searching for answers, or at least
companions, but found neither.
All he heard was the strange cries of unseen birds, and he realized that he knew
the pain of irretrievable loss.
&&&&&&&&&
Sam awoke early the next morning with a troubled heart. His sleep had been
restless, and his dreams had filled him with foreboding, but he could remember
nothing of them.
Shrugging off his mood as best he could, he arose carefully, trying not to
awaken Frodo. Frodo lay at his side, twisted and bound by the sheets, with his
face down and away from Sam. Sam gave him a rueful smile, as he himself quietly
dressed in the clothes that he had laid out the night before. It looked as
though Frodo’s sleep had been not much more restful than his own. “Mayhap the
rosemary was a bit overmuch,” he reflected as he headed down the hall to the
kitchen. It seemed right enough the night before, though.
Through the breakfast preparations, Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy air that
seemed to have gripped him this morning. He burned his thumb on the hot skillet,
and the cream seemed off as well, though it wasn’t at all curdled. He carried
the hot water into the bathroom for Frodo’s bath, but Frodo was still not up.
Not wishing Frodo’s breakfast to become cold, he returned to the bedroom to
check on him.
Frodo was even more twisted in the sheets, still asleep, but with a troubled
expression on his face. Sam bent over him, gently shaking his shoulder and
calling his name. Frodo awoke with a start and for a brief moment, stared at Sam
as though he was a total stranger. But even as the impression hit Sam, it was
quickly erased with a warm smile and yawn from Frodo.
Sam shook off his mood deliberately, and said, “Bath or breakfast first, Frodo?
One or t’other, I’m afraid one’ll be cold.”
“The breakfast, then” Frodo laughed. “The bath will be easier to remedy.”
Frodo left Bag End at mid-morning to mediate once more between the quarrelling
farmers, and Sam set to his chores in the garden. But the tools all seemed to
suddenly want oiling, the seedlings were not growing as they should, and Sam was
feeling a vague oppressiveness in the air, as though a summer thunderstorm
lurked on the horizon. All the world felt sedated and stifled, and when Tom
Cotton stopped by mid-afternoon, Sam was more than glad for a bit of change.
Frodo was not due back until the evening, and he was grateful for a chance to
take a break at the Green Dragon with some congenial company to distract himself
from his troubled thoughts.
He and Tom entered the cool, dim room to be greeted cheerily by the publican,
who inquired politely after Mr. Frodo’s health before handing the two of them
foaming mugs of the Green Dragon’s finest. They found the corner table where the
gaffer was comfortably situated with a crony, old Marley Proudfoot, for the
afternoon’s customary.
“Well, Da, and how be it w’ye?” Sam greeted his father.
“Naught different from this morn,” the gaffer returned peaceably, drawing his
pipe from his weskit pocket. “And Himself?”
“Still trying t’settle that hash between Branberry and Barleybuck,” Sam shook
his head, taking a long draught of his beer.
“Ah, there’s a pair o’blockheads for ye,” Marley let out a low rumbling chuckle.
“If they didn’t have t’other to bother, they’d be no point to living for that
pair, I’d wager.”
“Aye,” the gaffer agreed with a snort and a long draw on his pipe. “”Tis a waste
to have to spoil Mr. Frodo’s day with that lot o’foolishness.”
Tom swung his legs around and settled down next to Sam. “Cousin o’mine just came
up from Tookland way,” he remarked, hands clasped around his mug. “Some strange
doin’s in those parts.”
“Aye, I’ve been hearin’ a bit o’that meself,” Marley commented with interest.
“Tell, Tom, what’d be his news?”
“Well, you know as they’ve always had those Elves passing through that bit of
the Shire. But Ged, he says they’re comin’ through more and more often like.”
“As if they’re all leavin’ us,” said Sam softly, staring sightlessly into his
mug.
“And what of it?” the gaffer retorted a trifle sharply. “It’s naught they’ve
ever done for the likes o’us, I say.”
Sam sighed noiselessly and said no more. He’d had this out with his gaffer too
many times. There was no point in trying to convince him that there was value in
beauty alone.
“That’s not all of it,” Marley continued intently, not noticing Sam and his
gaffer’s exchange. “I hear tell Rangers have been seen up north.”
“Rangers?” Tom let out a low whistle. “I thought as they were naught but old
tales for the little ones.”
“Ah, no, them Rangers are real enough,” Marley lowered his voice. “And it’s
always a sign that summat is up when you hear tell o’them.”
“Then what manner o’folk be they?” Tom asked with curiosity, leaning forward on
the bench.
“Great Men, from a long forgotten house,” Sam answered slowly, and the others
swung around to stare at him.
“How be you knowin’ that?” the gaffer asked sharply. “That be out of Mr. Frodo’s
tales?”
“Aye,” Sam admitted, glancing back down at the table. “It’s said that they stand
guard about the Shire and only appear if there’s trouble about.”
The gaffer gave a derisive snort. “We hobbits can take care of ourselves, no
mistake,” he declared derisively.
“No, the lad has heard a’right.” Unexpectedly, Marley supported Sam. “That’s the
tale I’ve always heard.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked Tom, who had been following the conversation
intently.
“No knowin’,” Marley responded mysteriously, “but then trouble always arrives
soon enough.”
Sam walked back to Bag End that afternoon haunted by the feeling that there was
something important that he was not remembering, and it had to do with Frodo. As
he approached the front door of the smial, he saw with surprise and dismay that
it stood ajar and open. How long had it stood open? He himself had not used it
that morning but had come and gone through the kitchen door, as was his usual
habit. He suddenly thought of Bilbo. Could it be that he had returned after all
these years? He entered hesitantly, closing the door behind, and slowly walked
from room to room, but there was no trace of anyone in the smial other than
himself.
“Frodo just must not have closed it tight behind,” he thought to himself
uneasily, after checking the last room. “What a pother about naught, Sam
Gamgee,” he told himself severely, but that did nothing to erase the growing
unrest that had held him all day. He wandered to the kitchen to begin dinner
preparations and found himself staring sightlessly out of the kitchen window
down dusty Bagshot Row. Shaking himself once more out of his daze, he picked up
the potatoes and carrots that he’d left out earlier, and sitting down to the
table, began to pare them for the evening meal.
Frodo came home late, with a closed and preoccupied look about him that Sam
recognized all too well. He greeted Frodo as he walked around in through the
kitchen door with a brief touch to the shoulder and no more. When Frodo was in
this mood, it was best to let him be for awhile. Sam set out a bottle of wine
from the cellar and served up dinner. Frodo ate but sparingly, and soon
retreated to the garden, with the bottle and a glass in hand. Sam busied himself
with cleaning up, and only then joined Frodo.
Frodo was seated on the bench, knees drawn up, with a half-full glass in hand.
He said nothing as Sam sat down beside him, but stared off unseeingly at the
oaks that crowned the ridge past Bag End. Sam waited patiently, knowing that
Frodo needed time to work through whatever was troubling him.
The twilight sky was beginning to darken to dark violet when Frodo finally gave
a sigh and turned to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said ruefully. “I haven’t been
much company tonight, I’m afraid.”
“No need to trouble yourself,” Sam replied affectionately. “There was summat on
your mind, I knew that.”
“I suppose,” Frodo answered moodily, staring off towards the hill once again,
“though I couldn’t tell you what it was.” He sighed again, burying his chin on
his knees.
Sam stared up into the sky as well, watching the evening stars faintly start to
appear in the darkening sky.
“Are you happy, Sam?” Frodo asked suddenly, not looking at him.
Sam turned quickly with a sudden start. The dread that he had felt all day
instantly returned with a heart-stopping jolt.
“What would all this be about?” he asked warily.
Giving an almost imperceptible start, Frodo contritely reached over and took
Sam’s hand in his. “I’m not making any sense tonight, Sam. That matter about the
island wore me out.”
“They didn’t agree?” Sam asked cautiously, gripping Frodo’s hand lightly.
“No, it wasn’t that,” Frodo admitted, threading his fingers through Sam’s. “They
finally agreed in the end, after haggling the whole day. But I just felt as
though I wanted to be far away.”
He paused and then continued slowly. “I don’t think I want to do this for the
rest of my life, Sam, solving farmer‘s quarrels. I know it‘s my duty, as Master
of Bag End, but sometimes it just seems so unimportant and useless.” He halted
for a moment and then continued, staring at their intertwined hands. “There’s
more to this world than that, and I…” he broke off suddenly at that and said no
more.
Sam’s rough fingers tightened instinctively around Frodo’s nervous nail-bitten
ones as the dream he had kept out of his thoughts all day long came back to him
with heart-wrenching suddenness.
&&&&&&&&&
He was standing on a low sandy hill. Around him were hillocks of coarse grass,
and there was a strange tang in the air. Ahead of him was water, coldly grey,
with white foam, and though he’d never seen it, Sam knew it must be the Sea.
Large white birds called out harsh cries as they wheeled overhead, and the winds
blew chill and unforgiving about him. Something white was far off on the
horizon, and he knew he had to watch it as it vanished slowly from sight.
There was no doubt in his heart whatsoever. Frodo was on that far-off white ship
and Frodo had left him forever. Where he was going, Sam knew not, nor why, but
the conviction was unshakable in his heart that Frodo had left him. He was
utterly numb, with grief that was beyond any expression, and could only watch as
all his happiness and hope disappeared forever.
&&&&&&&&&
When they went into their bedroom that night, Sam crossed over to the window and
paused. He was not at all sleepy, but seized with a strange anxiety and
restlessness. Frodo silently sat on the edge of their bed, watching Sam.
With a sudden resolve, Sam turned around and looked intently at Frodo, whose
features were only partially lit by the one candle that was burning next to the
bed. And even though the answer might tell Sam more than he wished to know, he
could not stop the question. “Tell me, Frodo,” he asked carefully, “when you
dream, where are you?”
Frodo said nothing for a moment, returning Sam’s look as though considering his
answer. Then, looking down with his dark lashes casting deep shadows across his
face, he quietly admitted, “The Sea.”
Sam’s heart lurched in him even though he had expected that. With a low moan, he
knelt before Frodo at the side of the bed, flinging his arms around Frodo’s legs
and burying his face on Frodo’s knees.
“Sam, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was gentle as he lifted Sam’s tear-streaked face up
with both hands. “It’s only a dream, Sam love.”
But Sam was not comforted. The presentiment of loss in his heart was as strong
as ever, and he covered Frodo’s hands with his own. “I could never bear it,” he
sobbed, “’twould be the end of me.”
Frodo did not ask his meaning, but rising, drew Sam up too, embracing him with
one hand tenderly running through Sam’s tousled curls. “What is all this, Sam
love,” he asked quietly. “You’re all of an edge tonight. What makes you think a
dream like that would ever come true?”
“Because I’ve had the same dream,” Sam continued raggedly, still unable to
control his hiccupping sobs. “I’ve been to the Sea too, and you leave me, Frodo,
you sail away, and I know you’ll never be back.”
Frodo drew back a moment at that, and gazed at Sam with an unreadable
expression. His eyes were dark in the moonlit shadows, but the hand that
caressed Sam’s wet cheek was tender and loving. “Do all dreams have to come
true, Sam,” he whispered, studying Sam as if his answer meant everything. “Do we
have naught to say about it?”
Sam shook his head, fighting for words. “I see how you watch the road, Frodo,”
he gripped Frodo’s shoulders as he spoke, unable to keep the fears he had buried
so deeply, hidden any longer. “It’s as if you don’t belong with the rest of us
in the Shire, you never have, no ways. And then, I think on Bilbo, and…” and he
stopped, struggling, his voice cracking in despair as he revealed his greatest
fear. “One morning I’ll wake and find you gone.”
Then suddenly Sam found himself tightly held in Frodo’s arms, and Frodo’s mouth
was on his, insistent and demanding. Sam yielded to his kiss eagerly, opening
his mouth under Frodo’s, imploring, begging, matching Frodo’s passion with his
own. As they kissed, Frodo’s quick hand was tugging Sam’s shirt from his pants,
and was under it, running up his chest, hungry for the touch of him. Sam moaned
helplessly, inflamed, as always, by that touch. One of his hands slipped from
Frodo’s shoulder and, with practiced ease, rapidly undid the buttons of Frodo’s
fine-spun shirt, desperate for the feel of that beloved flesh hidden underneath
it. Shrugging his shirt gracefully from his shoulders, Frodo allowed Sam to
strip it from him, never breaking off his fierce kiss.
Finally though, he broke away, breathing heavily and staring at Sam with almost
an angry look, his slender hands firmly framing Sam’s face. “How can you say
that, Sam? How can you think that?” he whispered intently. “Don’t you understand
yet what you mean to me?” Frodo looked down for a moment, and when he looked up
again, Sam was stunned to see tears beginning to slide from those lovely blue
eyes. “All the joy I’ve ever known in my life, Sam, has come from being loved by
you. How could you think that I would ever want to leave you?” Slender fingers
gently stroked Sam’s cheeks, his lips. “But what if I was forced to leave you,
Sam, what then?”
Sam felt his heart clench at Frodo’s words. He closed his eyes, leaning into
Frodo’s touch and whispered, “I would follow you, Frodo-love. To the ends of the
world. For all the rest of my days.” And suddenly he could no longer wait for
the feel of Frodo in his arms. Quickly he loosened Frodo’s trousers and slid
them off Frodo’s narrow torso. But Frodo was just as eager. He pulled at Sam’s
shirt, not even pausing for all the buttons, but ripping some of them off in his
haste. He quickly grabbed at Sam’s trousers and pulled them down and off,
reaching in with an impatient hand to cup Sam.
At the feel of his touch, Sam, already unbearably hard and hurting, let out an
inarticulate wail, and buried his face at the side of Frodo’s neck. “Oh, Frodo,”
he gasped, and moaned again as Frodo strengthened his caressing hold. Frodo’s
other hand held him tightly around the waist, and he could feel Frodo hard
against his thigh. With a great effort, Sam lifted his head and found that
Frodo’s eyes were fixed on his but tears were still sliding down his pale
cheeks. “Frodo, oh Frodo, I need you tonight,” he begged, and Frodo understood.
He let go of Sam and pushed him back until Sam’s legs hit against the bed, and
then Sam fell back, pulling Frodo on top of him. Frodo looked down at Sam, his
dark curls framing his face and his expression both tender and intense. With
deep passion he declared as he gazed into Sam’s eyes, “Never anyone but you in
my bed, Sam. Never anyone but you in my arms.”
Bending over Sam, he kissed him passionately again, one hand around Sam’s neck
and the other running down Sam’s chest, over his taut stomach muscles, until it
reached the center of Sam’s being. Sam bucked up into Frodo’s hand, breaking
away from Frodo’s mouth with another wail that he was no more able to stop than
his breath, arching desperately up, so hungry, so wanting, already moistening in
anticipation, and covered Frodo’s hand with both of his own, pushing hard as he
could against Frodo’s hand. “Frodo, Frodo,” he cried out, his voice rising to
nearly a keen, unable to stop his tears.
Nothing mattered to Sam any longer but the beloved presence over him, holding
him, caressing him, stroking him. Blindly, he clutched at Frodo’s shoulders, his
back, trying to press himself up into Frodo, to meld with him, to never more be
apart. He felt Frodo’s hand move lower, sliding between his legs, and he lifted
up his hips, allowing Frodo’s fingers access. And when they entered him, he
cried out again in desperate need. Drawing Frodo’s hand frantically aside, he
grasped Frodo’s hips, and drew and guided Frodo deep into himself, with no mind
for the momentary pain. And there Frodo was, throbbing and pulsing within him,
and the world fell away for Sam.
Wildly, he thrust himself up again and again, but Frodo answered with a steady
intentness of his own, holding fast to Sam with that wiry strength of his that
usually lay so well concealed, and driving both of them into a wildly
intoxicating rhythm, until Sam dimly realized Frodo was repeating the words
“Love you, Sam, love you,” as they moved, bound together, and he felt his heart
suddenly shatter forever. He arched up with an inarticulate cry and spilled into
Frodo’s hand, clutching Frodo’s shoulders so tightly that he was able to see the
marks the next morning, though he knew it not now. With a final shuddering cry
from Frodo, Sam opened his eyes to see Frodo fling his head back, arch up,
stiffen, and then drop heavily down on him.
Collapsing at Sam’s side, Frodo pulled Sam’s head to his chest and gently
stroked his face until Sam’s ragged gasps began to subside. He kissed Sam again
and again on the forehead and held him close as Sam began to drift into an
exhausted sleep. “I can’t imagine life without you, my dearest Sam,” Sam heard
Frodo murmur tenderly over his head as he faded away. “Sleep now, my love.”
&&&&&&&&&
Gandalf arrived at Bag End the next morning. And as Sam sat in the parlor, at
Frodo’s insistence, and listened to the wizard tell of the old ring of Bilbo’s,
and what must be done with it, he watched Frodo’s face, lit by the early sun
from the morning glory-wreathed parlor window. Frodo’s beautiful features showed
a mixture of alarm and trepidation, but as Sam realized with growing dread, also
anticipation.
He felt himself becoming numb and cold, and it seemed to him as if there were
the harsh cries of birds in the distance that no-one but he could hear.
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