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Yuletide In Buckland
Frodo had insisted on it. Although he had often spent the Yuletide in Buckland
before Bilbo had left, this year he had asked, actually a little more than that,
was quite firm, about bringing his gardener, Samwise Gamgee, along as well. Pip
and Merry were a little puzzled by that, since this was not the time of year Sam
could normally be expected to be picking up tips from the Brandy Hall gardeners,
the grounds being rather firmly under snow, but it did seem to be important to
Frodo. And even besides all that, he had very carefully told Merry that he
wished to bring him as a friend, and what that meant was a mystery to his two
cousins.
But then Frodo had been getting a little odd, to their minds, ever since Bilbo’s
inexplicable disappearance, over a year ago now. “Perhaps,” ventured Pippin, as
the two hobbits sat in front of a warm fireside in Merry’s room, depleted tea
tray in front of them, “Frodo has taken on Sam as a sort of improvement
project.”
“What?” snorted Merry, stuffing a last scone into his mouth. “Sam is hardly a
back trellis, or anything of that sort.”
“No, what I mean to say,’ Pippin added hastily, snatching up the last tea cake
before Merry could, “is that he was teaching Sam to read and write last summer,
wasn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s been at that for years,” Merry waved his hand airily. “It must be
awfully boring cooped up in that hole all by himself.” Both paused briefly to
contemplate the notion of living in a smial totally alone, and quickly dismissed
it as quite impossible.
“I suppose Sam would start looking like a friend after a bit,” Pippin mused.
“Well, if he has, then it’s about time Frodo spent some time around his own
lot,” Merry stated firmly. “After all, Sam’s a fine enough lad, but hardly a
suitable companion for a Baggins.”
“Is your Mum putting Sam up in the servant’s hall then?” asked Pippin curiously.
“You know Mum,” Merry laughed, luxuriously stretching out his toes towards the
welcome warmth of the hearth. “Where else?”
“Hmm,” commented Pippin as he drew his lanky legs up and wrapped his arms around
them. “I wouldn’t think that’s where a friend would stay.”
Merry smiled at his cousin’s words and, in his best impression of his mother’s
firm voice, declared, ”Each to his own place, young Pip. The world runs better
so.”
Sam felt his footsteps dragging as they neared Brandy Hall. He wasn’t at all
sure about this, no, not by halves. On one hand, he had missed Frodo wildly last
Yuletide, cooped up in Number Three Bagshot Row, without even the garden to
distract him, but on the other hand… Sam had rather the sinking feeling of
falling into a bank of powdery snow, and the more he tried to resist, the more
deeply entrenched he was becoming. But Frodo seemed to have no doubts about this
plan whatsoever, at least none that he was letting Sam see.
When Frodo had invited him to the Brandybuck festivities, he had initially felt
excitement over the prospect of actually seeing the legendary great smial. It
was only the casual comment of Frodo’s to the effect of, “After all, they’re
always after me to bring along a friend,” that had begun to give him a rather
uncomfortable feeling about the pit of his stomach. There was no point in
mentioning his reservations to Frodo, that he knew, and he was hoping that
Frodo’s cousins would prove sufficiently distracting that he could quietly slip
into the role of servant while they were there. Merry and Pippin had proven
themselves quite reliable in that regard in past visits to Bag End.
Last night, well, last night had worked out far better than Sam had expected.
The inn at Little Frogmorton, the traditional stopping point between Hobbiton
and Brandy Hall, had been that crowded with holiday travelers that the
proprietor had been forced to offer Frodo and Sam the last remaining small room.
Of course, not only did neither mind it a bit, but they both found great delight
in being rather inventive on how to share the narrow bed. Frodo found his
reputation as an unusually easy-going and accommodating gentle-hobbit further
sealed by the time they left the next morning. They couldn’t expect to have that
good fortune at Brandy Hall, Sam thought glumly as they trudged through the
slush melting from yesterday’s snowfall.
Both of them heard the commotion before they saw the cause. A large sturdy pony,
breath steaming up in great clouds, clomped around the bend in the road, pulling
a small cart behind him. “Hoy, cousin,” a very recognizable voice came from
behind the driver and Merry Brandybuck poked his head around, grinning
cheerfully. “I thought you’d be freezing your toes off by now, so we came to
greet you.”
The other party to the “we” peered around from behind Merry as the cart driver
pulled up the pony. “Hullo, Frodo. Hullo, Sam,” Pippin added happily to Merry’s
greeting.
Frodo stopped, regarding his cousins with a broad smile. “What, Fatty and his
lot haven’t arrived yet? The two of you must be desperately bored to be
searching for us in this chill.”
“I must admit, we were becoming desperate for a new face to stare at, and yours
is the first we’ve seen,“ Merry laughed, “so climb on up before Mum notices that
we’ve borrowed Ned and the pony.”
“Not much room,” Frodo eyed the cart dubiously.
“I don’t mind walking, Mr. Frodo,” Sam, who had stepped back behind Frodo as the
cart had pulled up, spoke up hastily.
“Nonsense, Sam,” Frodo said decisively. “You don’t need to find your way to
Brandy Hall on your own.”
“We could all move over a bit,” Pippin piped up helpfully, still peering around
Merry.
“Well, of course,” Merry admitted, and reached out a hand to pull Frodo up. Sam
climbed up afterwards, with an awkward nod of acknowledgement to the driver,
recognizing him as a Proudfoot cousin. Somehow, room was found for all, as well
as the packs, and they were soon arriving at the entrance to Brandy Hall.
Frodo smiled at Sam’s round-eyed gaze as the younger hobbit took in the great
smial, built into the side of a large hill, but rising as much up out of it as
tunneled under it. At the far end, there were actually two floors above ground,
faced with stone and beams and a great thatched roof over all. Round glass
windows twinkled in the wintry late afternoon sun, and all about was the bustle
of a large landholding. The paths to the barns and stable were being cleared of
the remaining slush and sanded, so they wouldn’t ice over during the night.
Armloads of kindling, grand wooden casks, and all other manner of provisions
were entering the side door to the kitchen, and even now, smoke was rising from
the kitchen chimneys as the cooks of Brandy Hall prepared the evening’s meals.
Aunt Esmeralda was in front of the elaborately craved round wooden door as they
all clambered out of the cart. “Merry, I wish you’d mention it before you take
off,” she said, rather sharply. “Well, Frodo, it’s always good to see you again,
and this,” she eyed Sam critically, pausing for only a moment, “must be one of
the Gamgee lads.”
Sam blushed and quickly nodded, as Frodo began, “Aunt Esme..” but was
immediately interrupted by the mistress of the Hall quickly turning towards her
son. “Merry, go up the lane a bit with the cart and see if you can find that
Bolger lad. He should have been here by now, and it will soon be dark. Pippin,
go show cousin Frodo his room, it’s the one next to yours this year. I’ll find
someone to show young Gamgee where he’ll be staying. Follow me,” she eyed Sam
imperiously, and with only a quick glance at Frodo, he picked up his pack and
disappeared behind her into the smial. Merry had already left.
Pippin and Frodo were left standing in the frosty early evening air. “Rather a
force of nature, isn’t she?” Pippin commented, with a raised eyebrow. “Well,
let’s go find your room, and we can look for Sam later.” Frodo sighed and picked
up his pack. This was going to be more difficult than he had expected, but then,
he should have expected that.
When circumstance had first flung him headfirst into the great Brandybuck
household, Frodo had been nervous, shy, and feeling very much like an
obligation. His Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda had given him a room, and fed
and clothed him, but otherwise had left him to his own devices. If it had not
been for the company of his cousin Merry, it would have been a bit rough for a
lone and lonely Baggins in the midst of the Brandybuck clan. Even the years of
being pampered and spoiled by his old cousin Bilbo, as well as the last year on
his own, did not prevent Frodo from feeling, as he usually did upon facing Aunt
Esmeralda after an extended absence, that he was a shiftless, useless tweenager
who unaccountably preferred to spend his days in a musty library rather than in
Useful Endeavors. He had meant to firmly put his foot down about Sam right from
the start, but his foot, as well as Sam himself, had been decisively swept away
by the tides of Respectability and Propriety, and Frodo found himself trudging
behind Pippin up to his room, feeling quite alone. He tried to stifle a
heartfelt sigh. He and Sam probably should have stayed home this year.
Pippin had heard the sigh. Once they reached the room, he reached for Frodo’s
pack. “Let me help you with this,” he offered, and started to assist Frodo in
putting his few spare garments in the wardrobe. “We can go to the servant’s hall
for tea,” he placed a hand soothingly on Frodo’s shoulder after they had
finished. “Either Sam will be there, or someone who knows where they’ve put him
up.”
Frodo gave him a somewhat weary, but grateful smile. He had been so looking
forward to a quick nap and a warm snuggle, but that was not to be, and the
prospects for a cozy evening’s retreat were beginning to appear alarmingly
barren as well. As he followed Pippin back down the hallway, he suddenly
wondered when this young cousin of his had become so astute. What had he seen
and what did he know? But Pippin, seemingly the very picture of an innocent
tweenager, gave no sign of what he might have guessed.
But there was to be no trip to the servant’s hall that evening. Aunt Esmeralda
swooped down upon Frodo and Pippin as they entered the bustling kitchen, and
bore them off, quietly grumbling, to the Great Hall, where a vast array of both
familiar and only vaguely remembered relatives were awaiting their company.
Frodo found himself repeating the tale of Bilbo’s birthday party, in ever more
condensed versions, for all the Brandybucks, Tooks, Bolgers, Boffins, Burrows,
and Bracegirdles who had somehow managed to miss the occasion and had deeply
regretted it ever since. A succession of meals ebbed and flowed through the
great room, clusters of cousins both near and distant came and went, casks of
fine wine were emptied, pipes smoked, the blazing fires burned far into the
night, and Frodo realized that he had never found Sam. Late in the dark still
hours of the night, he finally followed Pippin up to their rooms, and fell,
still fully clothed and with a dizzy head, onto his cold empty bed. It had been
awhile since he had felt this lonely, and sleep came slowly, despite his
exhaustion.
Frodo awoke the next morning, feeling distinctly at a loss. The comfortable
shoulder, the strong arms, the sturdy body radiating warmth, even the beloved
light snore; none of it was there. Instead there were uncomfortable clothes
still on him, stiff limbs, and a general chill. This trip had decidedly not been
a good idea. A soft knock on the door interrupted his irritable reflections, and
he opened it with a yawn, expecting it to be one of the Brandybuck minions
announcing the status of his bath. It was not. It was Sam.
“Sam!” he exclaimed with delight, mixed with not a small amount of guilt.
Grabbing Sam’s arm, he yanked the young hobbit inside, hastily kicking the door
closed with one foot, and threw his arms around him. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped
between kisses, ”the relatives trapped me last night…mmm, Sam…I never did find
you…oh, Sam. I missed you last night, you know.”
Sam, who had been clearly enjoying Frodo’s apology, stopped at this and pulled
back, his hands still in Frodo’s hair. “Naught to fuss about,” he replied softly
with a soft smile. “It’d be your family after all, Frodo. But I can’t say as I
didn’t feel that my bed was that cold last night, m’self.”
“Yes, but I asked you here as a friend, not a servant,” Frodo tried to explain,
still feeling as though he had betrayed Sam somehow, his brow furrowed as he
searched Sam‘s face for the smallest hint of hurt.
“And what else would you be?” Sam replied gently, lightly tracing Frodo’s cheek
with a soothing touch. “There’d be naught this great place could do t’change
that, now would there. Don’t you worrit now, me dear,” he leaned forward to
continue to enjoy Frodo’s kisses.
But just at that moment, there were footsteps and a clatter in the hall, and a
pre-emptory knock, and Merry burst through the door. “Oh, Sam, there you are.
Pippin has been worrying me to death about you, but I see you found Frodo all on
your own.” He turned to Frodo, who had been hastily pulling certain garments to
rights behind Merry’s back during this soliloquy, and continued towards the door
again as he spoke, “just came to warn you…Mum’s in a fine fit today….something
about the pudding not setting right…and she has me playing fetch and carry with
that lot from the Far Farthings…Pip too, she says they’re more than half
Took…and I’m afraid you’re on your own this morning…sorry, can’t talk now…look
for you at elevensies…” and he was out through the door. It took a moment for
Frodo and Sam to absorb that torrent of words, but slowly a matching smile
appeared on both of their faces and they started to move back towards each
other.
With a sharp bang, the door flew open again, and Merry popped his disheveled
head in once more. “Oh, and I’ve asked Betta to send someone up to air out the
room. Never got done yesterday.” And he was gone once again.
“Bother!” muttered Frodo sharply, in addition to something rather more colorful.
Next Yule would definitely be spent at Bag End.
The air in the Great Hall was heavy with anticipation that morning. The last of
the guests were arriving during the rest of that day, and the grand Yule Feast
was on the morrow. After a hasty breakfast, Frodo was allowed to leave, since
most of his entertainment value had been gleaned the night before. Sam ate
quickly as well, farther down the table, but was invisible in the eyes of the
gentle-hobbits at their first breakfast, who surrounded Frodo. Frodo rose as
soon as he could, and pocketing an extra pear, made for the doorway to the side
yard. Sam followed.
The side yard was crowded on this bone-chilling morning, not only with the folk
of Brandy Hall, but the holiday guests as well as their numerous servants and
general hangers-on. The air was thick and white with unfallen snow, and
swallowed up voices, giving the morning a strangely muffled feeling. Frodo
walked quickly through the crowd, grasping, unnoticed, Sam’s hand. Sam clasped
his hand tightly in return, but said not a word as they had made their way
through the yard and to the fields that lay between Brandy Hall and the
Brandywine. Frodo stopped and thought for an instant, and gazing around the
snow-drifted fields, got his bearings and set off determinedly off on a path
that led from Brandy Hall to the farthest orchards. Sam followed, still without
a word, his hand warm and strong in Frodo’s.
It was a place he remembered from his childhood here, a storage shed on the far
side of the Brandybucks’ extensive orchards, where apples and other fall fruit
were stored in the winter, bedded down with hay. It was only a small crude
out-building, windowless and door-less, but he and Merry had spent many an
autumn day holed up there, munching as many apples as they pleased, and Merry’s
mother had never caught them. It was there he dragged Sam, never letting Sam
pause to examine the pear nor the plum, nor the vast variety of apple trees in
this impressive orchard. There was only one thing that he craved now, that which
Merry had interrupted earlier. It was the feel of Sam’s arms around him and
Sam’s mouth on his, and he was positive that the trees would still be there
later when they had to return to the Hall. When Sam saw where Frodo had led
them, his mouth quirked up in that sweet smile that always made Frodo’s heart
stop for an instant, and glancing at Frodo, gave a nod of approval. Then they
were under the shelter of the shed and before Frodo could say a word, Sam’s arms
were tight around him, and his mouth was on Frodo’s, and Frodo gave himself
happily up to Sam’s embrace, the whole of Brandy Hall fading suddenly into
insignificance. This was real, this was Sam, this was everything.
Sam’s mouth opened to Frodo, and the familiar sweet caress of his tongue against
Frodo’s was, as always, inflaming to Frodo’s senses. Frodo’s eyes closed and he
gave himself over completely to Sam’s mouth on his, Sam’s arms securely wrapped
around him. Suddenly he was hungry for the feel of Sam himself, and quickly
pulling Sam’s shirt from his trousers, slid a hand up Sam’s sturdy chest.
Sam gave a sudden choked squawk, and leapt backwards against a straw-covered
cask of apples. Clumsily, he lost his footing and slid down to land in a sitting
position on the floor, staring up at Frodo with chagrin. Frodo looked down at
him with astonishment. “Bless you,” Sam explained rather breathlessly, beginning
to turn a rather rosy shade, “but your hand is that cold, Frodo!”
Frodo stared at the offending digits in surprise, and noticed vaguely that they
did seem a little bluish. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he chuckled ruefully, kneeling down
beside him, “I suppose I should have warned you.”
“Ah, you’d just be needin’ a bit o’warmth,” Sam replied confidently, reaching
out to cradle Frodo’s hands in his own. He blew on them gently, to warm them
with his breath, and chafed them lightly within his own hands. Frodo felt the
touch of those hands that he would have recognized, sight unseen, anywhere, with
those roughened fingertips and calloused palms, and the loving caress that he
always felt right down to his bones. He slowly pulled his hands from Sam’s and,
leaning forward, tenderly cradled Sam’s face within them.
“Better?” he asked Sam softly with a smile, and Sam’s eyes lit up again with a
fond response. It was all the answer Frodo needed. Sam was still seated on the
ground, back against the wooden apple barrel, and Frodo leaned in against him on
the straw-strewn ground next to him, wrapping one arm around Sam’s neck and
sliding the other up under Sam’s shirt again, this time without an undue
reaction. Sam’s hands began undoing the buttons of Frodo’s weskit and shirt with
dexterity and practice, never breaking his kiss once.
“Oh, Frodo, I did miss you that much last night,” Sam finally pulled away to
murmur, continuing to dot Frodo’s face with light kisses as he pulled Frodo’s
upper garments off. Sam’s hand trailed down Frodo’s side, and then up in front
between them.
“Ah,” breathed out Frodo, his eyes flickering closed in delight, and pushed
himself reflexively into Sam’s hand. The frosty air was chill against his bare
shoulders and chest, but that didn’t really seem to matter when compared to that
wonderful hand, holding him exactly where he needed it the most. “Sam, oh, Sam,”
he sighed, quickly unbuttoning Sam’s shirt, and still leaning into Sam’s hand,
began to launch a series of light bites down Sam’s neck and chest, pausing to
give special attention to the most sensitive areas. Sam groaned at that, and
Frodo’s exploring hand found Sam as ready as he was himself.
Slowly, Frodo lay back onto the ground, pulling the dear familiar weight of Sam
over him and, still kissing him intently, started to tug at Sam’s trousers. But
then Frodo froze suddenly, and emitted a rather peculiar sound from under Sam’s
mouth. Abruptly pushing Sam to the side, he quickly sat up again, and began
trying ineffectually to brush at his back. It was then Sam realized that those
sounds were helpless giggles. “Tickles!” Frodo was able to finally gasp in
explanation, and Sam looked down at the straw-strewn ground upon which Frodo had
been lying.
“It does, at that,” he chuckled in quick comprehension. “Let me have a look.”
Frodo twisted around, and Sam rapidly brushed the last bits of straw off of
Frodo’s smooth pale back. But when Frodo turned back around again, some last
wisps of straw still caught up in the dark curls, a mischievous smile still
hovering on his face, and his blue eyes all the brighter in the white fogged
morning, Sam was undone.
”Oh, me dear,” he breathed in wonder at the great good fortune that a creature
as beautiful as this had fallen in love with such an ordinary soul such as
himself. He lay back where Frodo had been and gently pulled Frodo down against
him, and cared not if there was straw, nor a cold graveled floor beneath him.
Naught mattered to Sam but Frodo slipping a hand tenderly through his curls,
Frodo kissing him hungrily, Frodo’s hand against his bare chest, sliding
impatiently down, under the waistband of his trousers, until it found what it
was eagerly seeking. And now it was Sam’s turn to moan, Sam’s turn to thrust his
hips up into that teasing hand. Frodo laughed lightly again, but this was a
laugh that Sam knew oh so well, a throaty, satisfied chuckle.
Now Frodo was in his arms, all grace and quicksilver light, his trousers off by
now and Sam‘s open, how, Sam neither knew nor cared naught. And every bit of
Frodo’s skin, from his tender lips to that wondrous bit of flesh, as soft and
velvet as the petal of a rose, yet hard as well, hard and needing, was open to
Sam’s touch. There was no way Sam could keep from stroking it, caressing it, his
other hand holding Frodo tightly to him, a beauty so rare it seemed as if it
would vanish as a dream and leave him alone with only his own hand for
consolation. But Frodo never did vanish, no, he was still there, always there,
sighing Sam’s name and speaking broken bits of Elvish as he thrust himself
against Sam, faster and harder, breath gone to a ragged, uneven gasping, his
hand demanding on Sam as well, until finally Frodo could hover at the brink no
more, but calling Sam’s name, as always, he flung his dark head up and back, and
arched up, and spilled into Sam’s ardent hand. And Sam followed, as he always
would, thrusting himself up with a final push into Frodo’s patient hand, and
clutched tightly to Frodo as he gasped out Frodo’s name, all the beauty and
splendor and grace in the world, all his, and all in his arms.
It was the aroma of apple that struck Frodo as he awoke slowly, warmly cocooned
against Sam and covered with a jacket that was not his, a winy sweet fragrance
that hung in the cold air. Slowly, he opened his eyes and glanced around him.
Sam was on his side, curled around Frodo, peacefully asleep with a smile on his
face. Beyond his blond curls, in the doorway, Frodo could see that the
snowflakes had finally begun to fall. They were floating softly down outside the
shed, covering the patches of brown earth that had been there earlier. Frodo lay
there, feeling blissful and content. Soon he would have to move, awaken Sam, and
return to Brandy Hall and all the others, but not yet. He drifted off again,
lulled by Sam’s steady breathing.
Voices, not far off, and the sound of footsteps crunching through high snow,
startled them both awake. Aware of their situation in an instant, Frodo sprang
up, covered only with Sam’s jacket. Motioning to Sam, who immediately nodded
understanding, he grabbed up his own clothing and disappeared to the dark
shadows at the back of the shed.
Sam, fortunately still mostly dressed, hastily fastened that which needed
fastening, and stepped to the doorway of the shed. “Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin,” he
greeted Frodo’s cousins calmly as they entered the shed, shaking the caked snow
from their furred feet.
“Well, there you are, Sam,” Merry exclaimed impatiently, “so I suspect Frodo
must be about somewhere. By the stars, what are the both of you doing in this
cold shed?”
“Mr. Frodo was showing me about the orchards,” Sam replied tranquilly. “I
haven’t ever seen aught finer.”
“In this chill?” Merry eyed him incredulously. “So there you are, Frodo,” he
shook his head as Frodo ambled up behind Sam. “Wasn’t there anything you could
think of showing Sam indoors in weather such as this? You certainly led poor Pip
and I on a merry chase. It’s nearly tea-time, you know. And if I’m sneezing into
my cups tonight, there’s no one but you to blame.”
“Nearly tea-time? Where did the time go,” Frodo mused blandly. “Well, a bit of
tea sounds rather nice. We’ll just follow you back then. Oh, and thanks, Sam,
for lending me your jacket as well,” he added, handing the article back to Sam.
“I’ll have to show you about the trees in the spring as well,” he added with a
quick side-glance and smile at Sam, as they followed the other two hobbits back
to Brandy Hall.
“That’d be right fine, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, the corners of his mouth
quirking upwards, not daring to glance at Frodo. “I would enjoy that indeed.”
“Oh, and I nearly forgot,” Frodo added, pulling out the pear from his pocket
where it had somehow contrived to survive intact. “For you,” he handed it to
Sam. And if their fingers met a little longer than was truly necessary, the two
hobbits lurching through the drifting snow ahead of them never noticed.
Late that evening, the three cousins, as well as Fatty Bolger and Folco Boffin,
were comfortably distributed about on the hearthrug in front of the cozy fire
crackling in Frodo’s room. After an extended teatime that had managed to
transform itself into dinner, the five young hobbits had, armed with a least a
half dozen bottles of the Brandy Hall vineyards’ best, escaped the older
generation. Sam‘s presence, to Frodo’s dismay, had been requested by some
new-found acquaintances of his, and he had not been seen since. However, it had
been awhile since Frodo had been in the company of his friends, and he had found
their banter and laughter, not to mention the nearly empty bottle at his side,
quite soothing, for awhile. But the evening had wore on, and his thoughts had
begun to drift off.
It was Merry’s faint drawl that brought him back from his hazy contemplation of
the question of Sam’s faint dimple, and why it sometimes appeared when he
smiled, but not always. “Well, Frodo’s managed,” he heard, and the eyes of the
other four were suddenly on him. “Haven’t you, Frodo,” Merry persisted. “You’ve
managed to live all on your own, in that fine home of yours, with no-one else
about.”
Not alone, he thought, sudden pictures of Sam filling his mind, oh, not at all
alone. And then strangely enough, Pippin’s voice came through to him, echoing
this in its light lilting way. “I can’t imagine Frodo feeling alone with Sam
about,” he heard him speak up stoutly.
“I don’t mean just having a body about the place,” Merry retorted, slightly
scornfully, “I mean a real friend, one of your own sort.”
Frodo’s heart felt a sudden clench at that, and the words came from his mouth
unbidden and unchecked. “Do you mean someone I can share my thoughts with?” he
spoke up in a quiet but very careful voice. The other four were quickly very
still, their faces half-hidden from Frodo in the flickering of the firelight.
“That I have. Do you mean someone I can share..” but at that point there was a
soft knock at the door, and Frodo, leaving his sentence unfinished, instantly
rose up and opened it.
Sam stood there, glancing around uncertainly at the five faces that were staring
intently at him. “Pardon me, Mr. Frodo, I just thought I’d stop by and see if
you needed aught,” he murmured to Frodo, already ducking away from the door.
Without a word to the others, or a glance back, Frodo walked out of the room,
closing the door behind him.
Sam backed down the darkened hallway slightly, lit only by the candle he had
been carrying. “Frodo?” he asked tentatively, uncertain as to Frodo’s intent.
Frodo moved closer to him and carefully took the candle in its holder from Sam’s
hand. Holding it out from his side with one hand, he wrapped his other arm
tightly around Sam. Instinctively, both of Sam’s arms wrapped around Frodo‘s
familiar lean torso, and Sam’s mouth instinctively joined with Frodo’s, willing
and hungry.
Finally Frodo broke away, reluctantly, from the kiss, knowing that he needed to
return to his friends waiting for him in his room. “Yule Night is on the
morrow,” he murmured softly, running his free hand caressingly over Sam’s cheek
and down onto his shoulder. “I want to spend it with you, Sam.”
Sam’s face lit up with a shy smile. “Naught could make me happier, me dear,” he
answered, his arms around Frodo still.
Frodo bent forward and quickly kissed him once more. “Sleep well, Sam, my love,”
he smiled wistfully.
Sam carefully took the candle back, and lovingly ran his hand down Frodo’s arm
with a tender look. “The sweetest of dreams t’ye as well, me darling.” And he
was gone.
Frodo watched him go, and then, taking a deep breath, re-entered his room and
looked defiantly upon the expectant faces turned to him within. “I don’t live
alone,” he stated flatly. “I’ve been very fortunate. I share my life, as well as
my heart, with Sam.”
There was a frozen moment’s silence, and then Pippin arose, a broad smile of
genuine happiness on his face, not unmixed with a bit of triumph, and gave
Frodo, standing rigidly in front of the door, a quick but sincere hug. “That’s
wonderful, Frodo,” he stated joyfully. “I’m so happy for the both of you.”
Fatty and Folco got up in Pippin’s wake, and murmured their congratulations as
well, in tones that were sincere if a trifle awkward. Only Merry hung back, as
the others reached the door. He searched Frodo’s face intently, his brow knit in
a frown. He then left with the rest, without a word.
Pippin crept out early from his room the next morning in search of Merry.
Frodo’s announcement of the night before had only been initially a surprise to
him. Thinking back to his last visit to Bag End, he realized that he had
suspected as much, but, assuming Merry had seen as much as he, he had said
nothing to Merry about it then. Merry’s face last night, for just a moment, had
revealed emotions that Pippin was not sure how to interpret. And Merry had left
abruptly, once they were in the hallway. Pippin knew his cousin too well to
follow him then. Now in the cold dim light of early morning, Pippin wanted some
answers from him though, and he noiselessly passed Frodo’s door, setting off for
Merry’s large room well back in Brandy Hall, in the family’s tunnel.
The elaborately carven door to Merry’s room was ajar, and Pippin cautiously
pushed it open. Merry was not there. Glancing at Merry’s bed, Pippin realized
that it had not been slept in. Frowning, he glanced around the room for any clue
as to where Merry might have gone, but saw none. Sighing, Pippin left the room
as quietly as he had come, and tried to remember all the places he and Merry had
hidden, on occasion, from the Mistress of Brandy Hall.
It was mid-morning when he finally found Merry. The snow had been softly falling
all morning, and when he made his way through the drifts out to the stable,
there had been no sign of any other footprints. Not even the stable hands had
made their way there on Yule morn. They had left the ponies to shift for
themselves that morning, giving them extra hay the night before.
Pippin had almost turned to leave when he noticed the hay in one of the empty
stalls move slightly. It proved, upon further examination, to be Merry at last,
with only his curls peeping out on the hay from under the rough blanket pulled
about him.
“Hoy,” Pippin said softly, sitting on the hay next to the bundled figure.
“Good-Yule to you.”
The curls withdrew under the blanket, but there was no other response.
Pippin sat quietly for a moment. “Missed first and second breakfast, you know,”
he said conversationally. “Brought something for you, in case you were hungry.”
There was continued silence from the blanket, but after a moment or two, a hand
emerged.
Pippin placed an apple into it, and then waited patiently as the apple
disappeared and the sound of munching came from beneath the wool.
After another moment’s silence, Merry grudgingly pushed the blanket aside and
sat up, looking most decidedly not at his best. Pippin gazed about the stable
with interest, examining the bridles and other trappings hung about on the walls
with particular attention. Finally, Merry, realizing Pippin was going nowhere,
swatted the straw out of his hair, and muttered, “Well?”
Pippin glanced over at him, quickly judged his mood, and decided that it was not
going to improve. “May as well tell me about it, cousin,” he mentioned casually.
“I have all morning, myself, but they are looking for you, you know.”
Merry growled incoherently at that thought, and did not seem inclined to
continue.
Pippin took no heed of this opening though. “Frodo?” he prompted Merry gently.
Merry quickly hoisted himself up at this and began angrily to brush the straw
off his clothes. “I just can’t believe this gardener is the best Frodo can do,”
he snarled. “Surely Hobbiton isn’t so bereft of gentle-hobbits that he needs
resort to this.”
Pippin looked quizzically at his cousin. “You know, Merry, we don’t know Sam
very well,” he pointed out mildly.
“What do we not know?” Merry snapped, glaring at Pippin. “Of course he wants to
be taken in by the Master of Bag End. And there’s Frodo, lonely and all alone.
An easy enough job for Sam.”
“I don’t think we know Sam very well,” Pippin repeated, a little more
insistently this time. “You know, Merry, that Sam can read Elvish texts, as well
as speak some of it.”
“Well, what of it?” Merry retorted sharply. “Frodo’s been teaching him. Of
course he would learn what pleases his master.”
Pippin looked at Merry, and a hint of exasperation began to creep into his
voice. “We don’t read or speak it, now, do we?” Merry frowned unhappily, but
didn’t reply. “And quite honestly, Merry, you know as well as I that we probably
never could.”
Merry turned away at that, and walked to the door of the stable, his head down
and his hands stuffed in his pockets. “All I’m saying,” Pippin continued to
Merry’s back, “is that Frodo knows what he’s about. Now let’s go, Merry.” He
walked determinedly over to his cousin and, grabbing his sleeve, began to pull
him from the stable. “We’ll miss elevensies as well, and that would really be
more than worrying about Frodo’s worth.”
The snow continued to fall heavily all morning, and by the time Merry and Pippin
had returned to Brandy Hall, their jackets and trousers were soaked through.
“Come on up to my room for a moment,” Pippin urged Merry. “Starving as I am, if
we sit around to eat in this sodden state, every old aunt here will tell us the
tale of the Great Winters when they were but lasses, and of every blessed hobbit
that expired of the sniffles. I, myself, would go to untold lengths to avoid
Aunt Petunia‘s horrid story once more. Her descriptions are entirely too
realistic. I think she especially enjoys the sound effects.”
Merry gave a reluctant snort of agreement. He, too, had been exposed to the
tales, more times than he could count, and understood Pippin’s aversion to
hearing them once again. As they ascended to the upper floor, where Brandy
Hall’s guest rooms were located, they passed a small window facing a side
courtyard. It had accidentally been left ajar, despite the frigid air outside,
and as they passed, Merry suddenly stopped short in front of it. A very familiar
voice was floating up from down below, and Merry found himself irresistibly
drawn to the opening.
Frodo and Sam were in the corner of the side courtyard, alone and unnoticed in
the general bustle of Yule Feast preparations. Through some unforeseen trick of
the Hall, their voices, though soft, carried quite clearly up to the two hobbits
by the window above.
“…no time,” Frodo’s voice carried hints of annoyance and unhappiness.
Sam answered at this point, but his voice was soft, and did not carry to the
listeners above.
They both peered out, without a word, of the small round window, all rules of
decorum quickly and casually set aside. As they looked down cautiously, Sam and
Frodo were to be seen below, almost directly below the window.
“..council of the Families,” Frodo was shaking his head, clearly unhappy. “All
morning, Sam. And no matter that Bag End is hardly a great estate, and that I
certainly have no family with which to be concerned.”
Sam murmured something reassuringly at this point, still unintelligible to the
audience above, and comfortingly laid a hand on Frodo’s arm.
“I probably won’t see you until the Feast tonight, and even then… Oh, Sam, how I
wish you could sit next to me,” and reaching forth, Frodo briefly and gently
touched Sam’s cheek.
Sam’s smile at that was apparent, even from above, and now Sam’s low voice
floated clearly up to them. “No matter, me dear. This’d be your family, after
all, and what’d be served by that? T’would only fluster them, and to no purpose.
No, me dear,” he continued, as Frodo closed his eyes, and leaned into Sam, as if
finding shelter there, “I’m best where I am, as long as we’re here.” And then
his voice dropped even lower, and, as his hands closed around Frodo’s, he
continued, “And right proud I am of you, me dear, to see you lookin’ so fine at
the top of the table. Naught can match you, Frodo-love, no, never at all.
Watchin‘ you, now, is all I could ever want.”
The two watchers above started back at that, having been drawn into witnessing
an exchange that was clearly not meant for their ears. Merry did not look at
Pippin. “I suppose I’d better change as well,” he said abruptly. “I’ll see you
downstairs.” And Pippin was alone.
He was like a wild swan amidst a flock of common ducks, Sam decided dreamily,
watching Frodo from much further down the long trestle table. The extended Yule
Feast was finally winding down to the afters, and Sam had had more than his
normal portion of wine to honor the festivities. He had lost track of the
conversation of his table companions long ago, and quietly sat, nursing a fine
goblet of Brandy Hall’s best offering, and enjoyed the sight of Frodo amongst
his kin. Saradoc Brandybuck, the grand Master of Brandy Hall, sat at the head of
the table, with Mistress Esmerelda at one side and Master Merry at the other.
Master Pippin Took, the future Took and Thrain, sat at the other side of Mr.
Merry, and at the next seat was Mr. Frodo Baggins, of Bag End.
All about him were hobbits of importance, yet Mr. Frodo (and secretly in his
heart, no matter how much it displeased Frodo, he was still sometimes to Sam his
Mr. Frodo) seemed as serene and unimpressed as though sitting at his favorite
corner in the Green Dragon. He laughed easily, and spoke with confidence, and
Sam, remembering the shy tweenager he had first known when Frodo had been fresh
from Brandy Hall, blessed Mr. Bilbo for the change. But though he acted as one
of them, as Sam watched affectionately, his grace and elegance still marked him
as a creature apart. The tall pillared candles on the table lit up Frodo’s dark
curls with glints of russet and gold, and the dark blue velvet jacket he wore
made his bright eyes seem all the darker blue, a darker and truer blue than the
deepest dusk of any summer‘s eve.
A sudden impatience surged through Sam to be through with this great Feast and
be with Frodo, as Frodo had promised. Brandy Hall had been fine, no doubt, and
the hobbits in the servant’s hall had treated him kindly enough, no mistake, but
he was beginning to feel an intense longing to be back with Frodo in their cozy
smial, just the two of them.
It was then Frodo rose, with a laughing aside to those about him. He started
down the length of the room, stopping to exchange amused words with others
seated down the table, and as he passed Sam, he glanced at him for the briefest
of moments, and smiled. Sam’s heart caught in his throat. Others about him were
beginning to leave, to prepare their masters’ rooms for the evening, and Sam
silently slipped out without a word.
Sam only needed to tap once lightly on Frodo’s door, and Frodo opened it
quickly. And before he could even breathe, Frodo’s arms were around him and that
sweet mouth was on his. Then Frodo broke away, and pulled Sam by the hand to the
fire that had been lit earlier that evening. Frodo had already thrown blankets
down on the hearthrug, and there was another bottle of wine and a couple of
glasses by a stack of pillows. Sam was suddenly aware that Frodo must have
arranged this before he went down to dinner. While Sam was still standing there,
Frodo darted to the side of the room, and quickly shoved a bulky side table to
in front of the door. “No locks,” he explained merrily, returning to Sam, “and
my cousins are definitely not to be trusted. This should at least give us some
warning.”
Stepping over to the pillows, Frodo turned and held his hands out to Sam. As Sam
gladly took them, Frodo gently pulled Sam down beside him on the rug. Reaching
for the opened bottle beside him on the floor, he carefully poured out two
glasses of wine and held one out, with a warm smile but without a word, to Sam.
As Sam accepted it, Frodo touched his glass lightly to Sam’s and then raised his
own. “Good-Yule, Sam-love,” he murmured softly, his eyes warmly searching Sam’s.
Sam raised his glass at that. “Good-Yule, me dearest,” he returned the customary
greeting, and drank a sip.
Frodo quickly swallowed the wine in his delicate glass down, and set it
unthinkingly aside. Sam set his half-finished glass aside as well, and it was
but the matter of a moment before they were in each other’s arms, lying on the
pillows before the golden flames. “Oh, Sam,” Frodo sighed, tucking his face in
against Sam’s neck and kissing him lightly, “this trip was such a mistake. We’d
been all the better for staying home and celebrating our own Yule.”
“Hmm,” Sam returned thoughtfully, stroking Frodo’s back in an absently soothing
manner while staring into the flames. “Tell me, Frodo, what passed between you
and your cousins last night?”
“Ah,” Frodo stilled suddenly in Sam’s arms, still keeping his face hidden. “I’m
afraid they know how I feel about you now, Sam.”
“Aye, t’would explain much,” Sam said slowly, his hands never ceasing their
caressing touch. “And now they’re feelin’ as you could be doin’ better than the
gardener’s lad.”
“I care naught for what they, or anyone else, might think,” Frodo said, suddenly
fierce. He sat up abruptly, and, drawing Sam up as well, grasped his shoulders
tightly, staring searchingly into Sam’s eyes, shining golden in the firelight.
“It’s you I love, Sam, with all my heart. And as long as you believe me, I care
not at all for any other opinion.”
“I do believe you, Frodo, truly I do,” Sam replied hesitantly, crossing his arms
and laying his hands over Frodo’s. “I still understand naught of the why of it,
but I know you do.”
Frodo ducked his head down for a moment, his grip still tight on Sam’s arms, and
when he raised his head again, there was the hint of tears in his eyes. “How is
it that you still think so little of yourself?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
“How have I failed to show you how very essential you are to me?” Biting his
lip, he lowered his head for a moment, searching for the words that had always
thus far failed him.
“You have a gift, Sam,” he said suddenly, raising his head back up and speaking
with passionate intensity. “A gift of looking into the heart of things. You can
look at an sickly plant and know immediately what ails it. You can listen to the
most complex tale and know directly what lies at the core of it. And you looked
into my heart years ago.” Lifting a hand to Sam’s face, he delicately brushed
the curls back from Sam’s forehead, and loving traced his hand down Sam’s cheek.
“You know me truly, Sam. You know me with all my strengths and all my
weaknesses. I trust you above anyone. And I have given you my heart, my dearest
Sam. It belongs to you, and you alone, and always shall.”
Sam gave an incoherent cry at Frodo’s words, and giving the only response that
he was capable of, he threw his arms around Frodo, kissing him passionately.
Frodo sank back once more against the pillows, returning Sam’s kisses with equal
fervor.
“Sam, oh, Sam” Frodo gasped imploringly when at last they broke apart, “I could
never live without you, dearest.”
“Then you never shall,“ Sam breathed, his hands urgently undoing the buttons of
Frodo’s fine velvet weskit and the cambric shirt beneath. “Never, Frodo-love,
never. All the stars could fall from the sky, but I’ll still be lovin’ you, me
dearest.” And now he raised Frodo slightly, pulling the shirt and weskit away
before laying him back on the blanket. “Ah, Frodo, you are that beautiful,” he
breathed in awe, entranced as always by the glistening of the firelight on
Frodo’s pale skin, and fair face.
“As are you, Sam, no more than you are,” Frodo insisted, pulling determinedly at
Sam’s shirt. And now it was free, and the buttons were quickly undone, and there
was the feel of Sam, gloriously warm and strong. Sam flung his shirt off without
thought, and lying down again alongside of Frodo, lightly and caressingly
stroked his hands up Frodo’s chest, followed with his tongue, his mouth finding
and lovingly suckling the most sensitive areas.
Frodo arched up into Sam’s hands and mouth with an inarticulate cry and joy in
his heart. The familiar weight of Sam over him that he so craved, the loving
touch of Sam’s hands, Sam’s sweet kisses, all of these filled Frodo’s heart with
such bliss and ecstasy to a point that was almost unbearable. “Sam,” he gasped
again, running his hand down Sam’s back, under the waistband of the sensible
trousers.
Sam understood immediately and, lifting himself slightly off of Frodo, reached
down and undid Frodo’s own trousers, once again lifting him slightly, and
carefully pulling them down and off. Then, continuing his trail down Frodo’s
chest, he lovingly nibbled down Frodo’s flat stomach, into the slope of the
hipbones arching delicately and most un-hobbit like upwards, and into the
creases between Frodo’s torso and legs, all the while lightly cradling Frodo’s
hips with his strong hands. Frodo could not help moaning with pleasure, not
unmixed with impatience, at Sam’s methodical journey downwards. And then, oh,
then, Sam’s mouth was around him and all other thoughts fled at the
indescribable sensation, and it was Sam on him, Sam’s hands embracing him, Sam’s
love enfolding him.
“Oh, Sam!” he cried out, unable to remain silent as the blood ran hot and
searing in his veins, and Sam’s tongue was firm against him, stroking him,
holding him, caressing him, until he thought he would go mad with the urgency,
the need, the wanting. He vaguely knew that he should be giving something back
to Sam, but it was hopeless to try to break away from Sam’s rhythm and his own
desperate response. Sam had taken him over, and he surrendered to Sam’s devotion
and skill. And now the waves of pleasure grew stronger and more rapid, until
finally he could hold it back no longer. With a final cry of submission, he
arched up into Sam’s mouth, Sam’s hands, giving himself totally and completely
to him.
Hazily, he lay gasping for breath under Sam and slowly realized that Sam was
still moving against him. “Oh, my dear Sam,” he cried out then, instantly
penitent, and tried to turn Sam over.
“No!” Sam cried breathlessly, “no, Frodo! Just,.. just hold me, love…”
And Frodo did, and stroked Sam’s face, and whispered all the words of love he
knew, until Sam moaned, and closed his eyes, and became rigid, and then fell
limply against Frodo.
It was early the next morning when Sam left Frodo’s room. Yule was over, and
there was nowhere either he nor Frodo would rather be than back at Bag End. “A
short visit,” Frodo had said with determination that morning, ”but best under
the circumstances,” and Sam couldn’t help but agree.
He was helping the cooks pack up some food for the trip back when Merry found
him. “A word with you, Sam,” the heir to Buckland had said in a pre-emptory
manner, motioning Sam to the door of the court-yard. Sam followed him, with a
sinking feeling.
The snowstorms of the past two days had gone, and this morning had dawned a
crisp and glorious blue. There were drifts of snow still about the courtyard
though, but they were beginning to melt. Sam trailed behind Merry, picking his
way through the slush. Finally Merry turned and motioned to Sam to go ahead. It
was a small kitchen garden, isolated and still snowbound. Sam entered through
the gate and turned to face Merry.
Merry’s face was impassive, closed off, but there was a storm brewing behind
those cold grey-blue eyes. “I understand my cousin thinks he’s in love with
you,” he stated flatly.
Sam felt his heart suddenly leap in his chest, but he stood his ground and said
not a word.
“I can quite understand it,” Merry spoke crisply, walking away from Sam with his
hands clasped tightly behind his back. “There’s no-one else about, and you’re a
likely enough lad..”
Sam continued to watch him silently and warily.
“So what do you expect out of this, Sam?” Merry suddenly said sharply, whirling
around and staring intently at Sam. “A nice little purse when you come of age
and are expected to marry? A nice little income too, I suppose? You’re a
practical lad, Sam, I’m sure you’ve thought this through.”
Sam stepped back at the bitterness in Merry’s voice. “There’s naught I expect,”
he answered cautiously, still continuing to watch Merry closely.
“Then if you expect nothing, what do you want?” Merry persisted. “Everyone wants
something. What do you want, Sam?”
Sam walked away from Merry at that, seemingly examining the bare lattices
against the brick walls. “Only that Mr. Frodo feels as he’d loved,” he said,
after a long pause. “Only that he knows that there’s someone as cares more for
him than aught else, and that is there for him, come what may.”
“Are you that person, Sam?” Merry asked quietly, staring at Sam’s back.
“That I am, Mr. Merry,” Sam suddenly said fiercely, turning around abruptly.
“And as long as I am that to him, I’d not be leavin’ him, not for all you , nor
the gaffer, nor any one might say. He’s been left before, as well you know, Mr.
Merry, but it won’t never be me as leaves him. So if you’d be thinkin’ I’m not
good enough for the likes o’him, I’d say you certainly have the right of it. But
as long as he sees fit to love me, I’m counting my days as blessed, and I’ll
treasure each and every one of them.”
Merry said nothing, but lowered his head, as Sam left.
Most of the folk and guests of Brandy Hall were yet asleep, the great Feast of
the previous night having taken its toll, when Frodo and Sam departed. Frodo had
resisted Merry’s offer of a cart for their return trip, and he and Sam were
ready, with their light packs slung over their shoulders, and only Merry and
Pippin to see them off. The sky had become a glorious, if frosty, blue, and
promised to continue fair for their return journey.
Frodo hugged each of his cousins fondly, as Sam stood a little apart. “Shake
this lot,” he exclaimed with a smile, “and come to Bag End as soon as you can.
Then we can have ourselves a proper visit.”
Pippin laughed happily at this idea. “No aunts. Perfect bliss, Frodo. We shall
be there soon, we promise you.” And stepping quickly behind Frodo, he gave a
surprised Sam a firm hug and a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Keep him well for
us, Sam. And yourself as well, of course.”
Sam immediately became rather rosy and muttered something unintelligible.
Then Merry turned to Frodo. “I’m very happy for you, Frodo,” he said haltingly,
and then threw his arms around his cousin. Frodo held him tightly, with his eyes
closed, and whispered words into Merry’s ear. Then Merry pulled himself away
from Frodo and approached Sam, holding out his hand. “Frodo’s very lucky, Sam, “
he looked Sam in the eyes, his cheeks slightly reddened. “No hobbit could ever
ask for more.”
Sam hesitantly took Merry’s offered hand, but his smile was glowing. “Thank you,
Mr. Merry,” he answered softly.
Frodo watched the exchange curiously, but asked no questions, and he and Sam
were soon walking down the road from the Hall. “Well, it’s good to get out and
about, Sam,” Frodo admitted in a conversational tone after a few miles of brisk
walking, as they avoided the soft snow falling from the tall pines in great
dollops, “but family can be rather trying.”
Stopping short in the middle of the snowy lane, he gathered Sam in his arms and
kissed him heartily. “Do me a favor,” he muttered, nibbling at a happy Sam’s
ear-tip, “the next time I want to leave Bag End, talk me out of it.”
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