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Hollow Darkness
Sam kept his eye on Frodo’s back, ahead of him. He had become
unaware of the rhythm of Bill beneath him, an easy rocking to which his body
adjusted without thought, so very different from his awkward, stiff position
when he had first attempted to ride rather than lead the pony. The others had
all agreed that Bill must be his mount, but he would far rather have seen Frodo
on the dependable animal. However it was not for him to oppose the other three,
and the wizard besides. So he rode at the end of the procession, and uneasily
watched Frodo. He wished he could catch a glimpse of his face, now and then, for
he had not liked what he had seen in Frodo’s eyes that morning, as they left
Rivendell. The tall wizard strode alongside Frodo, and the other two on their
horses led the way. He resigned himself to minding Frodo from behind, warily
watching that straight back, alert to any slump, any sign that perhaps he should
call out, pretend that Bill’s packs were slipping, or claim a need to adjust the
load.
He couldn’t say exactly what it was that he had seen. After all, Frodo had made
the decision himself that it was time to turn to the Shire at last. For all he
wished to see the gaffer again, Sam had felt strangely reluctant to set forth on
that final portion of road. After all this time being gone, it seemed a bit odd
that in a matter of a couple of weeks, they would be back in the sleepy Shire,
and folks’d scratch their heads as they rode by, and call out to him, “Well,
there you are, Samwise Gamgee. An’ about time you get yourself home and give
your old gaffer a hand, with winter just a’coming on.” And then there would be
choices to be made. Sam unconsciously shook himself at that. No sense in
borrowing tomorrow’s troubles, today had plenty enough to be thinking about. And
that look in Frodo’s eyes was one of them.
Merry and Pippin, on their fine horses, were now picking their way through the
loose rock and shale that littered the path, this close to the River. The path
was steep, and required concentration, so there was little conversation and no
laughter from the pair of them. Frodo sat silently on his pony, and the wizard
kept a careful hand on the pony’s flank, walking close to its side.
Occasionally, he would turn toward Frodo, and murmur something, but Sam could
not catch the words over the sound of the rushing water below, and Frodo never
answered. Sam rode behind, the road entirely new to him. He had never seen an
inch of it when they had arrived at Rivendell late last autumn.
Back at Minas Tirith, his hopes had been high. Frodo had steadily filled out
again, to something more like the proper form of a hobbit, and if his cheeks
were still a little pale, well, they always had been, hadn’t they. There was
naught to be done about his poor hand, of course, but it healed up nice and
proper, with no ragged scars. He was never so happy that Frodo’s cousins had
tagged along as then, for even with all the pain and grief they had suffered as
well, there was no quenching their spirits. They had made it their personal
mission to draw Frodo out, with never a word as to what he and Sam had
undergone, but plenty about Aragorn’s doings, and merry, if somewhat
questionable, stories regarding Legolas and Gimli. And Frodo had responded, with
a smile that was rather forced to begin with, but soon enough was genuine. Sam
had stayed in the background, with an eye always as to what he could do for
Frodo. At the beginning, he could not help feeling some concern that his
presence was a reminder to Frodo of painful days, but then every now and again,
Frodo would turn to him with a quiet smile that was for him alone, and his eyes
would gaze directly, without guard, into Sam’s, and Sam would be at peace.
So the days had gone until Aragorn’s wedding to Arwen. Sam knew that Frodo had
been disappointed not to see Bilbo arrive with Elrond’s folk, and so he was not
surprised that it was not long after that Frodo and Gandalf made plans to travel
with the elves to Rivendell. But their days there had now ended, and it was time
to return to the Shire before winter snowfall.
The River was as it had been, before Glorfindel had called upon it, rather
shallow and not yet swollen with the early winter rain. Merry and Pippin had
halted their horses, and dismounted, waiting on the stony shore for the rest of
the party. Sam rode up behind Frodo and saw, with a sinking heart, that Gandalf
was looking at Frodo with concern. That did it for Sam, and off Bill he came,
leading him over to the other two hobbits, to ask whether they’d be breaking for
lunch before or after they’d crossed, but more to unobtrusively get a better
glimpse at Frodo.
What he saw was not heartening. Frodo’s face was partially hidden by the hood of
his cloak, but his eyes were cast down, and it was clear that he was taking no
notice of what was about him. Sam recognized the look all too well. Frodo was in
pain, or ill, and had withdrawn within himself, looking for the strength to
continue on, as he had so often during this nightmarish journey.
Catching the wizard’s eye, Sam spoke up, stretching himself as though saddle
weary already. “May as well be havin’ a bite before we cross over that. We’ll be
needin’ our wits about us, no mistake, and it always helps not t‘have your
stomach talkin’ back. Missed elevensies already, seemingly, and I know Bill
wouldn’t mind a bit of grass.”
Merry gave Sam a grateful glance, and casually added, “Not a bad idea, Sam.
You’d think we were still traveling with Strider. He may have turned out to be a
king, and all of that, but he never did seem to grasp the importance of proper
mealtimes.”
Pippin laughed, and handing the reins of his horse to Merry, added, “I saw some
dry wood over there, in that cove, when we got here. Come on, Sam; give me a
hand. It wouldn’t hurt to warm up a bit before we go wading through that wet.”
He strode off, and Sam, after leading Bill over to a promising patch of grass,
followed, trying to keep up with Pippin’s long stride. When he reached the pile
of driftwood, Pippin was already sorting through it, as if looking for the drier
pieces. “You’re worried about Frodo too, aren’t you,” Pippin spoke in a low
voice, giving Sam a quick discerning glance.
“Aye, that I am,” Sam admitted, gathering the wood Pippin handed him in his
arms. “We shouldn’t be on the road like this, if he’s ill. There’s no need to be
all in a rush, anyways.”
“Yet he was the one who was in such a hurry to leave Rivendell,” Pippin gave Sam
a serious look. “Why, if he wasn’t well?” With that, he shook his head nearly
imperceptibly, and added, as he handed the last log to Sam, “Stay close to him,
Sam. You know him better than any of the rest of us by now.”
Sam nodded, but of course there was never any reason for Pippin to be telling
him that.
Merry and Pippin ended up crossing the River with Frodo and Sam sitting on their
horses, behind them. The animals moved forward steadily through the swirling
water, high enough that only the feet of the hobbits dangled in the chill
stream. Sam cast a fearful glance down, as his clutch around Pippin’s waist
unconsciously tightened. “Oof, Sam,” the tween huffed, turning around to grin at
him, which of course made Sam tighten his grip even more, “I won’t let you fall
now, really.”
Sam loosened his hold only slightly, bringing his eyes up with an effort from
the white foaming water below. He couldn’t help the memories of the Anduin, and
that miserable day when Frodo had tried to leave him behind. Frodo’s pale blue
eyes had been empty that day, as well. “I’ve already found out I’m hopeless at
swimmin’,” he grunted. “If I’m fallin’ in, I’m takin’ someone w’me as knows
how.”
Pippin chuckled at that, and glanced back at Gandalf, who was serenely bringing
up the rear, guiding the ponies along with him. “Look,” he noted, pointing to
the smaller of the ponies, who was calmly wading through the water with his head
held high, “I think Bill takes to this better than you.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at that. “Some of us ha’ more imagination, Mr. Pippin,” he
retorted with mock severity, and Pippin turned around again with a wry shake of
his head.
They made camp not far from the River, for it was becoming ever more clear that
Frodo was not well. Merry and Pippin started the campfire in a sheltered grove
off the main road, and Sam laid out all their spare blankets and cloaks into a
soft pile in a nook protected from the winds by a low thick hedge of gorse.
“Here you go, now, Mr. Frodo,” he murmured, leading the unresisting Frodo over
to it. “Just you have a lie down, now, and I’ll be makin’ you some tea just as
soon as we can get that fire goin’.” Frodo said nothing, but nodded, as one in a
dream, and laying himself down, immediately curled up and covered himself with
his cloak. Sam stared at him for a moment, and then turned to find the wizard.
Gandalf was standing in a clearing, a little ways from the camp, lighting his
pipe, when Sam walked up to him. “Mr. Gandalf, Mr. Frodo’s not well,” Sam began,
with no preamble. “Shouldn’t we be goin’ back to the elves? Mayhap they can do
him some good.”
“No, Sam,” the wizard sighed, drawing on his pipe. Glancing thoughtfully over to
the sturdy hobbit, who stood before him with his arms crossed tightly over his
chest, he asked gently, “Do you know what day it is, Sam?”
Sam blinked at that. “Why, ‘tis October, but I’d not be knowin’ the day, on the
dot.”
“October the fifth, Sam. It was exactly a year ago tomorrow,” and he gazed
north, where dark clouds had already shut out most of the lowering sun.
Sam felt the blood drain from his face. “The Witch King,” he breathed, dread in
his voice.
“Yes.” Gandalf turned to him with utmost seriousness. “Frodo’s wound has never
healed, Sam. It may be forgotten for a time, but it will always return. He may
be worse, tomorrow, before he is better again.”
“But,” Sam whispered, “the Shire, Gandalf. Surely it will heal there? If given
enough time?”
“I do not know.” Gandalf’s eyes lowered, and Sam knew that he had said all that
he would on the matter. Then looking back up in a kindly manner at the stricken
hobbit, the wizard added, encouragingly, “Perhaps your master would like some
tea.”
Sam turned to go, but before he could leave, the wizard placed a large hand
sympathetically on his shoulder. “Do not despair, Sam,” he said quietly. “Hope
may come in the unlikeliest of ways, to those who trust in it.”
The wind had not stopped with the setting of the sun, and it was evident that
the night would be a chilly one. Leaves scattered by with a constant rustle and
flurry, and the damp seemed quick to settle into their bones. Gandalf,
imperturbable as always, had informed the hobbits that he would watch the
campfire that night, and they all might as well get some rest. It had been a
quiet evening, and no one had felt like eating much, so there were no complaints
on that score. Frodo had sat up, at last, and taken a small portion of stew, but
his face had been drawn and wan, and it wasn’t long before he softly said that
he thought he would turn in early. Sam busied himself with the clean-up and the
seeing to the care of the horses and ponies for the night, and tried his best
not to let his mind wander back into the past. But finally all was done, and it
was time for him to sleep as well.
Merry and Pippin had already dozed off, each wrapped in a blanket near the fire.
Head to head they lay, but Sam knew well enough that by morning light, they
would somehow have migrated into one lump of melded hobbit, since they seemed
always to seek each other out in their sleep. He knew Gandalf was not far off,
close enough to be keeping an eye on the fire, and far enough to be allowing the
hobbits some privacy. And that left Frodo and himself.
Checking on his master, huddled in his cloak, one last time before settling
himself down somewhere within reach, he was startled to find that Frodo’s eyes
were open. “Mr. Frodo?” he whispered in concern, reaching a careful hand out for
his shoulder. “Is it your shoulder again?”
Frodo’s eyes closed briefly, and there was obvious pain in them when he reopened
them. “So cold,” he murmured. “Cold and dark, always dark.”
That made Sam’s mind up, and he really didn’t care what the others might think,
come morning. Laying himself down next to Frodo, he threw his cloak over the
both of them, and wrapped an arm lightly around Frodo, drawing Frodo’s back
against himself, cradling Frodo’s body with his own. So many nights through
Mordor they had lain thus, when they had at last given up the caution of one
holding watch while the other slept. The warmth that they had shared was the
only memory of their past life in that cold and dreary country, their last
connection to all they had left behind.
He could feel Frodo’s hand move up to clasp his, cold over his warm one, still
awkward with its loss. But then Frodo turned, as he never had in Mordor, turned
toward him, and lay facing him. “You’re so warm, Sam” he whispered, and the
moonlight breaking through the clouds overhead was reflected in his eyes.
“Always so warm.” And for a moment, it seemed to Sam as though there was
something else that he might say, but he gave a faint smile instead, and closing
his eyes then, tucked his head down against Sam’s shoulder, still firmly holding
Sam’s one hand. Sam wrapped his other arm around him, and lay still, his blood
pounding strangely in his ears, and tried vainly not to think of how his heart
had just been seized by so fierce a joy such as he had never felt with Rosie
Cotton back in the Shire. He stared sightlessly into the smoldering campfire,
and wondered about Gandalf’s words.
Sam awoke early, on the grey edges of daybreak. Frodo had fallen into a fever,
and was shivering, despite Sam’s attempts to keep him warm. He said nothing, not
even to Sam’s worried questions, and had withdrawn deep within himself. His hand
no longer held Sam’s, and he clutched his shoulder, under his clothing, instead.
Merry and Pippin were still both asleep, one tightly wrapped lump, as Sam had
known they’d be, but he found Gandalf on the edge of the clearing, sitting on a
rocky shelf, and looking much as if he had not moved once all night. He looked
up quickly though, as Sam approached, and asked in a low voice, “How is he this
morning, Sam?”
“Ah, he’s burnin’ with the fever, and shaking that bad, too,” Sam answered,
unconsciously wringing his hands in his distress. “”It’d be like that cut’s gone
infected, but after all this time, I can’t see how that might be.”
“Not infected, no, but I had been afraid that this might happen,” Gandalf rose
with a sigh. “Well, Sam, some athelas might help, if there is still some about
here.”
Grateful for a task, Sam gladly nodded, and began to leave, before he glanced
toward the other sleeping hobbits doubtfully. “Maybe I should be makin’ tea for
him, first?” he asked, turning hesitantly back to the wizard.
“Hmph,” Gandalf gave a soft snort. “There’s a couple of others here that can see
to breakfast, and they can just as easily make tea as well.”
Sam nodded thankfully. “Mr. Strider said as he found it south of the Road,” he
mentioned before turning to leave, tucking his hands under his arms in the chill
grey morning air. “So it might be awhile. But I’ll find it, no question.”
Quietly departing the camp, he paused to check on Frodo once more. Carefully, he
tucked his own cloak once more around Frodo’s shivering form, and with a gentle
hand, brushed the sweat-dampened curls from his forehead. “Rest you easy, Mr.
Frodo,” he murmured. “I’m goin’ to look about for some of that athelas as helped
you last time. Don’t you worry none, now.”
But Frodo’s eyes were tightly shut, and he did not answer.
It was well past noon when Sam finally returned to the camp, though with the
grey clouds that had settled overhead, it was hard to tell. The athelas had
proved to be difficult to find, and for a desperate while, Sam was afraid that
he had not the skill to find it. He finally discovered it, growing deep within a
thorny thicket, and had the cuts and scratches to prove how difficult the search
had been. He arrived in the clearing, puffing somewhat from jogging back, as the
other hobbits were tidying up after lunch. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen.
“Sam!” exclaimed Pippin in surprise, on seeing Sam’s disheveled and out of
breath figure bursting in through the bushes that surrounding the clearing. “You
didn’t go all the way back to Rivendell for that, now, did you?”
Merry gave him a warm smile and handed him a waterskin with a thankful clasp of
his shoulder. “That’s quite good of you, Sam, but look, Frodo’s doing much
better now.”
And indeed, Frodo was sitting up, well wrapped in both his cloak and Sam’s, and
propped against an oak trunk. “Yes, here I am,” he added, faintly smiling as
well. “Such a fuss about me, too. Don’t worry, Sam, I’m sure I’ll be ready to go
on by tomorrow.”
But Sam took only a quick drink from the proffered skin, and then knelt down
next to Frodo and silently studied his face. It was obvious to him that Frodo
was still in pain. The smile on his face never reached his eyes, and he was
still shivering almost imperceptibly, trying not to let the others know. Sam
rose with a rather stern expression and his arms akimbo. “You’ll not be foolin’
me, Mr. Frodo. That shoulder is still hurting you something fierce. You lay
yourself down again, and I’ll have this ready in no time at all.”
Both Merry and Pippin gave Sam a startled look, surprised to see him so flatly
contradict Frodo. But Frodo’s smile deepened, becoming genuine at Sam’s words,
and he meekly leaned back against the tree. “If you think it best, Sam,” he
murmured, and Sam, casting another stern glance toward the other two hobbits,
sat next to Frodo and began to chew and mash the leaves into a paste, as Aragorn
had taught him to do.
Frodo had dozed back to sleep again, and his breathing seemed a little easier to
Sam, as the athelas poultice took effect. Easily falling into his old habit from
their days alone, he had gradually slid down Sam’s side, and had finally fallen
asleep with his head in Sam’s lap, one of Sam’s hands protectively over him. If
either Pippin or Merry had thought this odd, they had made no comment regarding
it to Sam. Instead, they quietly told Sam of the conversation they had had that
morning with Gandalf, who had still not returned.
“Gandalf is saying there’s something amiss in the Shire,” Merry had informed
Sam, sitting on a fallen log nearby Frodo and him, and idly twirling a spear of
grass in his long fingers. There was a frown on his face as he spoke, and Pippin
perched on the ground near him, his face unusually serious as well. “It’s got me
worried, I don’t mind telling you. Ever since we found those barrels of
Longbottom in Orthanc, well, I’ve had my doubts. Not much we could do from
there, so I let it go, but I have a feeling we’re going to find changes in the
Shire, and we’re not going to be liking some of them much.”
Sam looked at Merry’s worried face, and felt long-stifled fear start to rise in
him as well. He’d never forgotten the vision he had seen in Galadrial’s basin,
although he could hardly credit that something like that could come true. “Where
did Gandalf go, anyways?” he asked quietly.
“He said something about scouting ahead, just having a look around,” Pippin
spoke up. Giving Frodo a concerned glance, he looked back up to Sam and asked,
“Is Frodo going back to Crickhollow, Sam? Has he told you anything of his
plans?”
Sam nodded. “Not at first,” he explained, “he said the first thing as we should
do is check with my old gaffer.” Unconsciously, his hand closed gently around
Frodo. “He knows I’ve been that worried.” With a small sigh, he looked down at
Frodo again. “I wish he could have Bag End back, I know he’s going to miss it
so, once we’re back. But it ain’t too likely those Sackville-Baggins will be
feelin’ like giving it up.”
“I expect you’re right about that,” Merry gave a wry smile. “Not particularly
known for their generosity, more’s the pity.” Glancing up in surprise, as a drop
of rain suddenly hit his nose, he sighed. “Oh, lovely. Now that’s just what we
need. Rain.”
Sam glanced up to the sky in dismay. “That’s going to settle in, right quick,”
he muttered. “We need to find a dry spot, if we can.”
“You stay there, Sam,” Pippin offered quickly, jumping to his feet, “Merry and I
will have a look around.”
The rain drops had begun to fall in earnest when Sam heard first a rustling
crash from the underbrush behind him, and then a cry of triumph from Pippin.
Merry hastened to him, and they were both out of sight for awhile, as Sam waited
impatiently, trying to hold the edge of the cloak over Frodo’s head. It might be
keeping the rain off of his face, but it was letting the chill at him, and Frodo
was beginning to shiver in his sleep again.
Finally, the other two returned. “It’s perfect, an animal’s den of some sort in
the gorse,” Merry explained. “But it hasn’t been used in quite awhile, there was
a bank of leaves in front of the entrance that haven’t been touched at least
since summer. Pip never would have found it if he hadn’t tripped.”
Pippin beamed at his side. “It’s quite dry. Big enough for two, I should think,”
he added cheerfully.
Merry nodded. “You and Frodo can have that. There was an overhanging rock ledge
not far off that has plenty of room for Pip and me. We can get a fire going
under it, and bring you both some supper in a bit.”
Sam immediately agreed, and carefully brushing the hair from Frodo’s forehead,
leaned over him and spoke to him gently. “Mr. Frodo, we need to be gettin’ you
out of this wet. Mr. Pippin found us a nice dry spot, and I just need t‘have you
stand up so as we can get you there.”
Frodo stirred at that, and blinked his eyes. Silently, he rose to his feet with
obvious difficulty, clutching the athelas to his shoulder still, his face
drained with the effort. Sam supported him with care, still trying to keep the
cloaks wrapped about him, and gave Pippin a sharp inquiring glance.
Merry moved quickly over to Sam to assist him, but Sam shook his head briefly.
“I’ve got him, Mr. Merry. Just you lead on, now.” So Merry joined Pippin in
clearing out the opening in the bushes, and preparing the shelter for the other
two.
It had been made, evidently, by a rather large animal, in a thick gorse hedge
that grew under the trees in a small grove of oak. The back of the den was
against a rock ledge, and the opening had been so well hidden that it never
would have been found by sight alone. There was no trace of its former
inhabitant, but the leaves that littered the floor were quite dry, and it was
obvious that it would take a powerful storm indeed to penetrate the thick growth
that served as walls and roof of the shelter.
Grateful for such a find, Sam turned Frodo over for the moment to Merry’s care,
and quickly smoothed out the leaves on the ground, using them as cushioning for
the blanket Frodo had been sleeping on. When it was prepared, he turned to
Merry, who was supporting Frodo near the opening. “Come along then, Mr. Frodo,”
he called out encouragingly, giving Merry a grateful glance and holding his arms
out to receive Frodo. “This’ll be much more comfortable, now. It looks right dry
in here.”
Frodo attempted to straighten himself up and spoke apologetically, but with
obvious effort, to Sam within and his cousins, who were watching him with
undisguised concern. “Thank you, so much, all of you. I do hate to be putting
everyone to such a bother. We really should be on our way to Bree by tomorrow.
Today was just a rather bad day for me, I’m afraid.” With the last of his waning
energy, he knelt down to crawl into the shelter. Sam quickly drew him inside,
and helped him lay out on the makeshift bed, carefully tucking the cloaks back
about him again. Frodo gave a weary sigh, and closed his eyes, as Sam crept back
out the opening to join the other two.
But Merry, rain streaming down his face, and his dark blonde curls matted to the
side of his face, shook his head firmly. “Nonsense, Sam,” he spoke, in a voice
that would not accept opposition. “You need to stay here with Frodo. We’ll
manage, and bring you something warm as soon as we can. Don’t you think about
letting him catch a chill, on top of everything else.”
Sam realized the wisdom of this, and meekly withdrew back into the den. ” ‘Tis
going to be hard enough,” he began doubtfully, and then, as he glanced around in
the fading light, had a thought. “Mr. Pippin,” he exclaimed, shedding his jacket
and gathering up some of the dry leaves and small sticks that were in the den.
He wrapped the jacket lightly around them and handed it out to Pippin, who
received it with a curious look. “For the fire,” Sam gestured with his hand.
“Dry kindling. Best be off before it gets as soaked as you.”
“Oh!” Pippin exclaimed with a grin, the raindrops beginning to fall fairly
steadily now off of his sharp nose. “Good thinking, Sam. We’ll be back in no
time.” And the two younger hobbits were lost in the damp gloom.
Sam lay back next to Frodo, between him and the entrance, and wrapped himself
around him as he had the night before. Frodo was still shivering, and Sam gently
stroked his back, and murmured something with no words that made any sense.
Frodo understood however, and gradually drifted off to sleep.
He must have fallen asleep as well, for he was awakened by a rustle in the wet
leaves outside the opening on the den. For just a moment, he started, clutching
tightly to Frodo, trying to get his bearings in the near dark. But then he heard
Merry’s voice. “Sam, grab your jacket, would you?” and there was Merry, kneeling
outside with something in his hands, and Sam’s jacket carefully draped over the
top. Sam cautiously snatched his jacket off, revealing two steaming mugs
underneath.
“Ah, bless you now, Mr. Merry,” cried Sam gratefully, carefully taking the mugs
from him, “but don’t that look fine.”
“And,” Merry added, grinning and quickly withdrawing an object from under his
jacket, and just as quickly thrusting it at Sam, that fine flourish only
slightly dampened by the rivulets of rain streaming down his face, “dinner as
well.” It was a loaf of bread, cut in half, with cheese and bacon and tomatoes
tucked inside to protect them from the elements.
“Well, look at that, now,” cried Sam in an even more appreciative voice, as he
began to realize quite how hungry he was. Frodo was struggling to sit up as
well, and he gave Merry a weak smile of thanks.
“That was quite good of you, Merry. The tea smells wonderful.”
Merry gave a cheerful nod, turning to go, and then turning back, added with a
chuckle. “Almost forgot. And then Pip would have to send me back out in this
again.” And producing a couple of apples from his pockets, he handed them to Sam
as well. “Eat something, while you can still see what you’re doing,” he shook a
finger at Frodo in mock sternness. “And we’ll have none of this tomorrow. Sam, I
leave him to you.” And he left, heading toward the light of the fire that Sam
could see through the trees on the other side of the grove.
Sam was gratified to see Frodo sipping on some tea in the near gloom of the
shelter and hopefully offered him some bread as well. But Frodo only dutifully
ate a small piece, and handed the rest back to Sam. “I’m just not terribly
hungry today, Sam. I expect I’ll be starving tomorrow.” He paused, and then
said, very quietly, “It was a year ago today. There’s no curing some wounds, it
would seem.”
Sam’s appetite instantly vanished as well, at Frodo’s words, and he
unobtrusively set aside the food. “Let me see your shoulder, Mr. Frodo, while
there’s a bit of light left,” he said gently, and pulled back Frodo’s cloak from
his shoulder. Patiently, Frodo sat, with bowed head, as Sam drew back first
Frodo’s jacket, his shirt, and then the scarf that had been tightly wrapped
around his neck all day. But with that he stopped, frozen. There was a chain
about Frodo’s neck.
There must have been a sound from his throat, because Frodo looked up at him,
almost guiltily. “Lady Arwen gave it to me,” he spoke, so softly that Sam could
scarcely hear him. He withdrew the pendant from under his shirt, and it shone
with the same pitiless cold white light as Galadrial’s phial.
But Sam felt as though his world was spinning away from him, and he could not
take his eyes from the gem. It was fair, as what had once been there had been
foul, but it was just as terrifying in Sam’s eyes. Now he understood that cold
lump of fear he had carried for so long now in his stomach, that fear that he
had tried his best not to give in to, not to acknowledge. The fear that he was
still losing Frodo.
“But Mr. Frodo,” he whispered, in a shaking voice, hardly able to express his
dread. “You’re still just a hobbit.”
Frodo lowered the pendent and let it hang against his chest. His eyes were
downcast, reluctant to look at Sam. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I really don’t
know what I am, anymore. But what was in me, what made me who I was, an ordinary
hobbit of the Shire, all that’s gone now. And there’s nothing in its place. I’m
just empty, Sam.”
“But I know who you are,” Sam cried out, seizing Frodo by the shoulders, with no
care as to his wounds at all, desperately trying to see his features in the
gloom. “You are Frodo Baggins, of Bag End. A hobbit of the Shire, and no elf.
And the sooner I can be gettin’ you back there, the sooner you’ll be rememberin’
that.”
“But what am I going back to, Sam?” and Frodo’s voice had an edge to it that Sam
had never heard before, such a hopeless and lost sound that broke Sam’s heart to
hear. “What will I find again in the Shire?”
“No!” cried Sam, in almost a wail, “Don‘t say that. Bag End will be yours again,
Frodo, somehow it will. And everything will be just the way it was. Don’t you be
thinkin’ that way, now.”
“Sometimes, Sam,” and Frodo’s voice was soft at that, and infinitely sad, and he
reached up and gently lay his hand on Sam’s shoulder, “sometimes there’s no
going back. There’s no picking up the pieces any more. You have your life
waiting for you, my dear Sam. You have a future to look forward to, and so many
waiting for you to return. And there’s Rosie, and soon there will be fauntlings
to follow, and gardens to tend, too. So much for you, Sam. And I must find
what’s waiting for me.”
But with that, Sam gave an incoherent moan, and threw his arms around Frodo,
burying his face against Frodo’s chest. “There’s naught waitin’ for me without
you,” he sobbed, clutching the back of Frodo’s jacket, “Naught at all, without
you.”
Frodo was still, frozen, and it seemed an eternity until Sam felt his arms
finally close around him. But they still held Sam at a distance, and Frodo’s
voice was in his ear, saying firmly, but with a note of hidden longing that
could not be disguised, “I can’t, Sam. I would poison you now; empty your heart,
too. I can’t stay, and you must.”
“Why must I?” Sam replied, almost angrily. He jerked his head up, and
desperately tried to read Frodo’s expression. But the light was just about gone
now, and he could only see the outline of Frodo’s face in the gloom. With a
trembling hand he reached forward, lightly touching Frodo’s face in the dusk,
tracing his fingers down the curve of the cheek, the angular jawbone so firmly
thrust forward. “If you cannot be stayin’, why can’t I still be followin’ you?”
He felt Frodo’s lashes brush against his fingers as his hand rose back up the
side of Frodo’s face, and knew Frodo had closed his eyes. “Don’t do this to
yourself, Sam,” Frodo whispered harshly. “I have nothing to give you. I don’t
have what you need.”
“An’ what do you think I’d be needin’?” Sam’s answer was low but fervent, as he
argued for what he had never really thought would be his. “I’d not be needin’
promises, Frodo. I’d not be needin’ a settled life. All I’d need, it’d just t’be
at your side.”
“No.” He felt Frodo’s head rise up, and now Frodo’s hand was lifted up, was on
the side of his face, was slipping behind his head, raking through his curls.
“No,” Frodo repeated, and there was an odd insistence in his voice. “You do need
something, Sam. But you don’t need this.”
And then Frodo’s mouth was on his, hard and meeting it without quarter. Sam’s
own mouth fell open in shock, and immediately Frodo’s tongue had angrily claimed
his, intense and desperate in its hunger. Sam gasped at the back of his throat,
but his hands fell down and clutched Frodo’s shoulders, the one still covered,
but the other bare, the knotted scars nearly alive in his grasp.
Just as suddenly, however, that mouth was torn away from his, and he could hear
Frodo’s gasping next to his ear, as he tried to catch his breath. “You don’t
need that, Sam,” the words came out with an effort. “It’s all I can give, and
you need more than that.”
“Don’t be tellin’ me what I need,” repeated Sam harshly, the anger suddenly
flaring up within him again, replacing the initial shock. “Give me what you can,
Frodo. Let me be tellin’ you it ain’t enough.” Seeking Frodo’s mouth again in
the dark, he felt a thrill like none he had ever known run through him as he
found it, and answered Frodo’s intensity back with his own. He could feel
Frodo’s hands close on his shoulders then, that oddly unbalanced grip. His heart
beating wildly, a small part of his mind was thinking with wonder that it had at
last come to this, and he slowly lay back in the darkness, pulling Frodo down on
top of him. And with a thrill, he felt Frodo against his leg, felt the hardness
there, and knew that he was not alone in his desire for more.
He was no innocent, and well he knew that Frodo was not either. In the first few
years after Bilbo’s departure, there had been frequent overnight guests at Bag
End, lasses and lads alike. There had been less as the years passed by, and it
was more often a lad, like as not, and Frodo remained resolutely unmarried. Sam
had passed his tween years in experimentation, as was common enough, but as he
had approached maturity, the case for marriage was made, and Rosie had seemed
the likely choice. But that had been then, and now it was as though that choice
had been a lifetime ago, before their journey together had shaped and altered
them in ways that they could never have foreseen.
“Sam,” and Frodo’s voice was ragged, close to tears in his ear, as Frodo drew
himself over Sam, stretching over him, his body tight against his. “Don’t ask
for this. I’ll only hurt you.”
“I don’t care,” Sam breathed, and knew that he had never spoken his heart as he
did now. “I don’t care if you’ll never touch me again. I don’t care if you can’t
even look at me tomorrow. I don’t care if you break my heart.” His hands were
tight on Frodo now, under Frodo’s clothing, pressing greedily against Frodo’s
skin. “I’ll never be able to do without you, not any more. Just… whatever you
can, Frodo. Please, love.”
But with that, Frodo gave a wailing, choked cry, and fell to Sam’s side. With a
rapid gesture, Frodo’s hands flew down between them, to his own trousers, and
Sam could feel them being tugged down. Bitterly, Sam regretted the lack of
light, but it was Frodo’s face that he needed to see. Frodo grabbed Sam then,
and pulling him over himself, cried out in a desperate tone, “Take what you
need, Sam. I can’t give you any more than that.” And Sam felt his hands being
guided over Frodo’s flat stomach, the curves of his hips, the short coarse
curls, and what was seeking his touch with a reckless urgency.
“No,” Sam growled at that, pulling his hands away from Frodo’s and, wrapping
them around Frodo’s waist, flipping Frodo over on top of him once again. “No.
I’ll not be having charity, Frodo Baggins.” And in the dark, he found Frodo’s
mouth once again, and curled a hand around his head and held him tight. Frodo’s
moan was immediate, a strained mixture of both protest and desire and he felt
Frodo’s body heavy on his, that slim hand running slowly down his side, tugging
his shirt out from his trousers, finding his skin underneath.
And now Sam’s breath became ragged as he broke from Frodo, grasping a quick
breath, and his mind emptying of every coherent thought but the silent desperate
plea for Frodo, for his mouth, his hands, his body sweetly substantial on his
own, pressing hard against him. There was nothing at all he wanted to take, only
to be given. Rolling Frodo over to his side, he quickly undid his own trousers,
and yanking them frantically off, he thrust them under his backside, and pulled
Frodo back over him again.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo gasped in the dark, near his face, and he knew that his
intentions had not been misread. “I can’t, there’s nothing…”
But Sam realized that he could give Frodo no time to think, no time to let the
doubt back, or the only chance he would ever have could well be gone. Running
his hands through Frodo’s curls, he found that delicate ear tip next to his
mouth and took it in, suckling it with passion. “Oh yes, you can,” he muttered,
letting it go as Frodo gave a guttural cry and dug his fingers into Sam’s sides.
Frodo had arched his back up, and Sam could feel his erection grinding against
his own, but that was not enough, not nearly enough.
He opened up his legs under Frodo, knees sliding to either side of those slim
hips, and grabbed Frodo’s backside, guiding him. With a last sob of resistance,
Frodo pleaded “Sam!” but there was no stopping now for either of them and Sam
knew it. And yes, there were Frodo’s fingers, seeking and preparing, and his
heart leapt with the wild joy of it. He received Frodo’s thrust with full
acceptance, the pain ripping through him, but welcoming it, even savoring it. As
impossible as it seemed, it was Frodo in him, and he could not ask for more.
Reaching out, he bit down hard on Frodo’s cloak, as it brushed his face, bit as
hard as he could to keep from yelling out, but at the same time, his own body
had begun to move in rhythm with Frodo’s throbbing, driving pulse. He felt
himself ache with want, and wrapped a hand around himself, stroking for relief.
And there was suddenly another hand wrapped around his, and in the midst of it
all, kisses, oh such sweet kisses, were falling on his closed eyes, and his
heart sang up as free as any lark ever had. He felt Frodo come to a shuddering
halt, and felt himself burst with ecstasy in both his own and Frodo’s hand, and
he lay under Frodo’s sudden limp and heavy form, with shuddering breaths, and
felt his heart fill with peace.
The faint sound of raindrops finally caught his attention, and he slowly
recalled where they were. He felt Frodo fall to his side and sit up, next to
him, and realized that Frodo was no longer shivering, and his skin was no longer
fever-heated. Vaguely he started to feel drops of water hit his chest, and
wondered if the storm was finally penetrating their shelter before he thought to
lift his hand up and touch Frodo’s face.
“Ah, me dear,” he sighed tenderly, feeling the tracks of tears on Frodo’s
cheeks. Slowly and cautiously, he sat up next to Frodo, and wrapped his arms
around him. With a choked sob, Frodo sagged against Sam, clutching his shirt
tightly. “Hush now, me dearie, hush now. Your Sam’s got you.”
“Oh, Sam, I love you so,” Frodo admitted in tears, finally surrendering what he
had tried so long to hide.
“I know, Frodo-love, I know. Rest you easy now.” And he lay back with Frodo in
his arms.
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