Sam awoke as the first hint of daylight began to dilute the darkness. He lay for a moment in the gloom, wondering where he was and feeling like he had forgotten something important, looking up at the branches of the huge tree, black against the late night sky. They looked like a great tangled net. The moment he began to recall the events of the last few days it was as if he had never slept at all, and he sighed. He turned his head to the side, and saw that Frodo was deep asleep, with his blanket pulled up to his chin. All Sam could make out in the late-night shadow under the tree was the contrast between the pale, almost luminous skin and the dark, feathery eyelashes, still as the wings of a sleeping moth. He was breathing slowly and steadily, oblivious to everything, to the sorrow past and the fear ahead and the coming morning. Sam felt as if he was a million miles away from him. He sighed. He wanted everything to be as it had been before, with no suspicions and no secrets and no heartache. He wanted to be back in the Shire, safe and out of trouble. None of this would ever have happened if I had only stayed at home, Sam thought, turning his face towards the sky again. But of course, he would have chosen to go with Mr Frodo - even if he had known what was coming. Wouldn't he? Yes. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for his current predicament. It was of his own making, after all. 'It is not as if anyone forced me. I went and put my foot in it all by myself,' he thought after a few minutes. 'If I had seen what I seen in the Shire, it wouldn't have made no difference. It's not the place that matters, it's what's on the inside.' But his inside didn't feel all that different from how it had always been. He might be a little wiser in map-reading, and he had met the elves, and he was possibly a few pounds lighter, but at heart he was still the same. 'I suppose I was bound to do it, and to feel like that,' he pondered. 'After all, he is as he is, and I guess that means I am as I am, too, for better or for worse. Whatever I did I brought with me, as it were. All this way, it were just waiting to happen.' Sam, he thought, you're walking around the matter like a cat around a pot of hot porridge. He sighed again and closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do. There was really only one way, one chance, to set all this right, and who was he fooling? He shouldn't have any secrets, it wasn't right. He had known it ever since that first miserable night, when his first instinct had been to wake Frodo and beg for forgiveness right there and then. That chance had to be taken. He must tell Frodo. If his master never spoke to him again, he would just have to bear it. His eyes prickled at the thought. Any road he didn't deserve any less, and unless he became rid of it, the secret would just grow and grow until there would be room for nothing else in Sam. And that wasn't why he had come on this journey. He opened his eyes and looked up at the tree branches again. Now he could see the sky beyond them, gold and pink and pale blue as the dawn of Lorien broke. Frodo was wise and kind, the best among masters and friends, he thought, and for a moment Sam knew once more the deep and unshakeable trust that had held up his entire life so far, but which had lately left him to his own devices. He slowly turned his head and looked at Frodo again, and seeing that he was still asleep, Sam gently rolled over on his side, very quietly coming face to face with him. In the pale unearthly light of dawn he could make out each beloved feature clearly. Frodo's fair skin was dewy, luminous as if no hand had ever touched it. The lips were slightly open, and the tip of an ear was visible among the dark curls. The sight stirred a strange intensity in Sam. He's just so... he thought incoherently, so very... So tenacious and determined, this dark-haired soft-spoken hobbit, but it was impossible to think of his strength without also thinking of his gentleness. Or, for Sam, who had seen it a thousand times; of his defencelessness in sleep, his face unguarded and open, his hand lying half uncurled on the ground not half a foot from Sam. The idea that anything would ever hurt or threaten Frodo was unbearable. If anyone ever so much as lays a finger on you, Mr Frodo, I'll be there, he thought, I'll shield you with my own arms and legs, I'll warm you if you're ever cold, I'll hold you... Sam was suddenly aware that he could feel his own heart beating. He shook his head slightly, clearing it. This would not do at all. And yet he could not take his eyes off Frodo's sleeping face. He listened to the quiet regular breathing, matching it, breathing in as Frodo breathed out, and gradually, his body relaxed and his heart felt like his own again. Sam lay there looking at Frodo's closed eyelids and at the slight flush in his cheeks, aware of a sense of stillness and peace, until he heard the others stir and begin to rise, and he had to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep.
In the morning, he nursed a sense of determination, fending off nervousness and guilt. He felt a little better, but it was one thing making a decision, and quite another acting on it. How would he get Frodo on his own, so he could talk to him properly? He cast around for a plan, but Sam had already spent his life's allowance of talent for clandestine operations, in one reckless and disastrous investment, and his imagination was not cooperating. As the day wore on, his head felt heavy and he had no ideas. He looked at them all. Merry and Pippin were laying out a meal on a cloth in the grass, trying to make tall, elegant goblets balance on the cloth-covered ground. Gimli watched them both, shaking his head. A little bit away, Boromir was sharpening his sword. Frodo was sitting with his back against a tree, biting his nails and looking absentminded, and Legolas was off somewhere - spending time with the Lorien elves in a tree somewhere, Sam supposed. Strider had not been seen since the morning. Seeing nothing but obstacles, Sam suddenly felt sick. Surreptitiously he got up and stole away, snapping up a piece of a loaf stuffed with fruits and seeds as he left. He just wanted to be alone for a while, to gather his thoughts and his resolve. But then he heard footsteps in the grass behind him, and when he turned around, to his surprise he saw Frodo coming running after him. His heart began to beat faster at once. Was it possible to be so undeservedly fortunate, just when you least expected it? 'Where are you going, Sam?' Sam tried to keep his voice normal and to smile. 'I was just going for a little walk, Mr Frodo.' 'May I go with you?' 'Of course, Mr Frodo, why shouldn't you.' They walked in silence for a minute. Sam was trying to think of a way to broach the subject, but found it suddenly an impossible thought. How was he supposed to go and blurt something like that when Mr Frodo was acting all normal and cheerful? 'This is a lovely place, so it is, Mr Frodo. Prettiest land I ever saw.' He felt sheepish. The gaffer would say you are good with the bloomin' obvious, Sam, he thought. 'Not that I haven't a soft spot for the old garden at home,' he added. Not much better. He bit his lip. 'It doesn't lift my spirits, Sam,' Frodo said after a moment's hesitation. 'Pretty though it is.' Sam felt a lump in his throat and wasn't sure if it was nerves or sympathy that put it there. 'I know, Mr Frodo. We all miss Mr Gandalf and no mistake. It was a grievous blow and a hard piece of misfortune.' He looked at Frodo, who was looking at the grass, walking slowly. His brows were tight and there was an expression on his face that made Sam hurt just to look at it. 'I can't talk about it, Sam, not just now.' 'Tis all right, Mr Frodo, I understand,' Sam said quickly, reassuringly. They shared some of the bread Sam had brought, but Frodo ate no more than a few bites, Sam noticed. After a while walking in silence, Frodo spoke again. 'This was a fine idea, Sam.' He looked up at the canopy of branches above them. Sam was reminded of how they had used to go for rambles in the woods around Hobbiton, on Sundays, after lunch. Sometimes Merry or Pippin or Fatty had come along, but sometimes it had been just him and Mr Frodo. How long ago was that? 'Remember that huge bramble on the way to Overhill, Mr Frodo? And how the dog roses used to bloom up there in June?' 'Yes... that was almost exactly what I was thinking. How did you know that?' He looked at Sam, smiling, but then he spotted something ahead. 'Look, think we're coming to a ravine or something. I don't remember anyone mentioning that there was one around here.' The land had been rising for some time, becoming less lush and gentle, and the pines and other confers, some familiar and some strange, had gradually taken over from the more graceful deciduous trees of the camp site area. Between the straight trunks, Sam could see that Frodo was right - the trees came to a sudden stop, and beyond there was nothing but daylight. It was not a very deep gorge, but it was wide, and there was a strange silence in it. Sam expected to see a grassy valley or stony tumble of boulders at the bottom, but instead there was a flat pebbly bareness between larger rocks and boulders, almost like a road. 'It's a river bed,' Frodo said. 'It looks as if there was a dam up there... the elves must have dammed the river for some reason, and then the dam broke.' Sam followed his gaze and spotted something like a breached battlement, roughly tumbled rocks and remains of thick walls and buttresses. 'Yes... See over there,' Sam said, pointing below them, 'it looks like there was a dock, or something, there. Clean ripped off its moorings.' The two hobbits stood for a minute looking over the edge. A quiet, cool breeze rose out of the gorge and into their faces, before continuing through the trees behind them, whispering and mumbling. 'Come, let's sit for a minute,' Frodo said. 'I don't want to go back just yet.' He patted the ground next to him and Sam sat down too, five or six feet from the cliff edge. It was not unpleasant - the sun was warm, and the rock, under its thin cover of brown pine needles, was no harder than anywhere else. Sam made his back comfortable against a tree. They sat in silence for a few minutes, looking over to the opposite bank. 'How do you like this place, Sam? Not this exact place, I mean, but this land.' Sam hesitated for a moment. 'Like I said, it's as pretty as they come. Beautiful.' 'But?' 'But it isn't home.' Frodo nodded. They were silent for a bit. Eventually Frodo broke the silence with a sigh, and said: 'Won't you tell a story, Sam? Or sing a song? Something from home. It would cheer me up no end.' Frodo looked at Sam and smiled a little, but it was a pale, drawn smile, nothing like the radiant, mischievous smiles Sam remembered from old times in the Shire. Sam would have liked nothing better than to do whatever it took to bring one of those smiles back, but he wasn't sure he had it in him. There was too much else in the way, and none of it was likely to make anyone smile. Cry, more likely, he thought grimly. 'I don't know if I could sing right now, Mr Frodo...' 'Then a story. Please?' Sam looked at his master, who was smiling despite the sadness that still lingered on his face, and at the expectation in his eyes. Some story I could tell you, Mr Frodo, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to heap such rocks on an already heavy burden, not with Mr Frodo looking at him like that. With an effort, he searched his mind for a cheerful story. 'All right, how about the one about the old hobbit who had a golden kettle?' Frodo's smile grew broader. His whole face looked brighter all at once, and affection and guilt fought in Sam. 'All right. Once upon a time there was an old gaffer,' Sam began. 'He had a son, who was handsome, and three daughters, who were pretty, but no money at all.' 'A fortunate man. What were the children's names?' Frodo asked. 'Hmmm... They were called Primrose, Primula, Pretty-foot and Handfast. And they all lived with their father - whose name the story does not mention - in a hobbit-hole not far from Bywater.' Frodo suddenly grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it. Sam tried not to stare at him. 'Sam, you're the best.' Frodo smiled, before letting go and giving Sam an almost playful little prod with his hand instead. 'Go on.' Sam couldn't remember when he had last seen such an easy smile on his master's face, and he felt a fresh pinch of blackest guilt. 'Did it have a garden? What was it like?' Frodo asked. Sam stole a look at Frodo, touched and ashamed in equal measure. He was aware that Frodo knew of his fondness for descriptions of flowers and trees and shrubs, and that any story he told was likely to be overflowing with horticultural detail, but he couldn't concentrate. He had no business sitting here all a-peaceful like, as if he had nothing to be ashamed of in the world, with Mr Frodo smiling and squeezing his hand, just like that, as if he wouldn't run a mile from his touch if he really knew what Sam had done. 'Come on, I want to hear about the garden.' Frodo plucked a long grass stalk from somewhere behind him and started fiddling with it. Sam took a deep breath and made an effort. 'Well, there were borders all about the house, with stock roses and zinnias and maiden's-blush, and big pink and yellow climbing roses near the...' he faltered. 'Near where?' Frodo prompted. Sam looked away, feeling all cut up inside. He just couldn't see it, not like he usually could. All he could see was that easy, beautiful smile changing to disgust and loathing. He sighed. 'I'm sorry, Mr Frodo, my heart isn't in it. I can't.' Frodo looked up, and frowned. 'What's the matter, Sam?' 'Oh, it's nothing, Mr Frodo. It's just... we're here, in this strange place, and all that seems so far away.' 'Are you sure that's all? You look all pale.' Sam met his concerned eyes for a second but found he absolutely could not endure to hold the gaze. 'Homesickness gettin' to me, is all,' he said, trying to make the words ring light but true. Frodo sat up. 'I know what you mean... The elves have a wonderful gift for making anyone feel at home in their dwellings - remember how it was at Rivendell? - but somehow it isn't working this time. Not for me, at least. Some things here are familiar enough, the grass and the sun and such things, but it's not enough to make me feel at home.' He got up and walked to the cliff edge again. 'Take that tree down there, now. At a pinch I'd say it was some kind of willow, but it doesn't look quite right - I just don't know. It means nothing to me. That,' Frodo frowned. 'is not helpful. It makes me feel lost,' he said pensively. Sam couldn't see his face. 'Of course,' Frodo continued, in a more practical tone, 'it's dead, so it's hard to tell, but I doubt that it's familiar to you either, dead or alive.' Sam got up and joined him. He looked where Frodo was pointing and saw a twisted and broken tree trunk, on a shelf in the bank slightly off to the left. It was not visible from anywhere but the very edge of the cliff. His heart beat faster in incredulous recognition. 'Bless you, Mr Frodo,' he said, almost in a whisper. 'That is indeed familiar, but I've never seen one before.' Frodo gave him a puzzled look. 'I've read about it, I mean. Oh, I can't believe it,' and he reached out to grab Frodo's arm in sheer delight. 'Can we climb down, Mr Frodo, just for a minute? I always wanted to see one.' Frodo followed, somewhat baffled but curious, and they found a place where they could pick their way down to the outcrop on which the tree stood. Sam reached it first, a bit breathless. He put his hand on the dry, cracked bark almost reverently. 'I wish I could remember the name,' he said, looking up and following the lines of the branches with his eyes. 'I never had a mind for foreign words, not even Elvish ones.' 'I'm afraid that my scant Elvish doesn't stretch to such things,' Frodo said. 'What is it? Why does it grow in such a strange place? It doesn't look as if the water ever came this high up - the high water mark is at least twelve feet below. Look.' 'Ah, see that's the thing, Mr Frodo.' He could not keep his excitement out of his voice. 'This tree only ever grows near rivers, and it only ever puts out leaves or flowers after a flood. Even if it's fifty years from one flood to another. And in between-times, it looks like this, like a dead thing. There's only a handful left in Middle-Earth.' Sam let his hand caress the dry, cracked bark. When he closed his eyes briefly, he imagined he could feel the life in it, slow and deep, like a tingle in his fingertips. He looked at Frodo. 'I wish you had seen the book, Mr Frodo.' Mr Bilbo's translation had been on loose sheets, but next to Sam as he read had been the original book, an Elven flora more than a foot tall, with creamy smooth pages filled with drawings of such delicacy and elegance it had made Sam's mouth fall open. 'I can't describe it like it should be, but I thought it was fair wonderful, and I still remember it,' he continued. 'The leaves were slender like willow leaves but not so dark green, and growing in bunches, almost like tassels, and the flowers, Mr Frodo, there were drawings of the flowers as well, and they must be a sight to see for real. The palest cream and pink, delicate little trumpets with deep yellow at the bottom. They're scented, too, sweet as can be.' Frodo smiled at him. 'Seems your heart is back into it, Sam.' 'Well, that's what the book said,' Sam replied, embarrassed. It was true, though - this was a dream come true, and he wanted dearly to share his enthusiasm with his master, to lighten his heart, whether it was by means of a story or by means of botany. Frodo met Sam's eyes with a little smile. Then he turned and looked up at the ruined dam again. 'Strange... usually one thinks of a flood as a disastrous thing,' Frodo said pensively, with his back to Sam. 'Like what it did to the landing stage over there. It's nice to think that it could have pleasant consequences as well as bad.' Sam made a noise in agreement, his attention fixed on the tree. 'Sam...' There was a hesitance in Frodo's voice that made Sam look up. Frodo was peering at the other shore. 'You're not going to believe this. I may not have your expertise in these matters, but isn't that another one over there?' Sam looked where he was pointing. His heart skipped a beat as he made out another dark, steeply leaning and lifeless-looking tree on the farther shore. This one grew, apparently, on top of a huge boulder that must once have sat a fair way into the water. It took him a second to find his voice. 'So it is,' he said wonderingly. 'Well, if that doesn't beat it all then I don't know. Not one, but two in the same place.' He turned to smile at Frodo, but in the very turn of his head his eye was caught again, by another unmistakable shape, further up the opposite bank, and he gasped. Frodo followed his gaze and made a little noise of surprise. And as they both began to scan the shores eagerly, twisted, gnarled, cracked shapes became apparent everywhere, on both sides, on shelves and boulders and in crevices in the rocky, steep banks, one here, one there, everywhere. Sam was speechless. He tried to count and came to two dozen for certain. 'Sam, the dam...' Frodo was again staring up at the once-blocked gorge. 'The trees must have been planted, by the elves. Long ago. They cultivated them, Sam.' Amazement was making Frodo's voice waver. Sam looked at the dam, and at the gorge, and the magnitude of this glorious scheme dawned on him. 'They could flood this gorge whenever they wanted, with the dam,' Sam said, in awe. 'Oh, but that is mighty clever, like nothing I've ever heard of. Isn't it wonderful, Mr Frodo.' 'Wonderful indeed. Trust the elves to find a way to cultivate something so rare and beautiful and so demanding,' Frodo said, smiling. 'This valley... just picture it, Mr Frodo. It must have been a sight, with all these trees in bloom,' Sam said. 'Oh, how I wish I could see it.' For a sweet half minute, Sam was absorbed in a vision of this harsh, grey, rocky place made gentle by pink and white blossom, all along the banks above the swirling, rushing water, leaves whispering, blooms falling and drifting and being carried away, scent and petals both floating away to other lands. He was struck by a sudden thought. 'I wonder,' he said, taking out his pocket knife. 'What?' Frodo turned around. 'If I remember right, branches that break off in the flood can sometimes take root further downstream, after a good soaking. I reckon I could dunk it in water in the greenhouse at home and make it think there's been a flood.' Sam chose a sturdy looking limb and cut, very gently against the pad of his thumb, four inches off the end. 'I know we've got far to go, Mr Frodo, and that I can't be dragging bits of wood with me, but wouldn't it be fair lovely if one of these would take root at home?' Frodo smiled a little. 'It would. If anyone could make that happen, it would be you. You've astonished me before,' Frodo said. Sam wasn't sure if he was teasing or not - there was a gentleness in his voice that said he was not. He felt his cheeks grow a little warmer. He pocketed the little twig and closed his knife. 'Well, at least you know what it is now, Mr Frodo,' he said. 'No need to feel lost.' He felt a bit foolish. 'I mean, if you ever meet one of these again, whether it's in a dark alleyway in Bree or at a fine dinner in Rivendell, you never need to be embarrassed.' Frodo chuckled, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder. 'That's invaluable knowledge. Thank you, Sam. If you see any other plant life you think I should be introduced to, don't hesitate.' They climbed back up the way they had come and started back. Frodo was in a good mood, Sam noticed gratefully, and they chatted lightly about strange things they saw - huge pine cones, an odd-looking vine with dark red berries that might or might not be a variety of honeysuckle, and once, a wonderful, large, silver-grey squirrel that looked very different from the little red squirrels in the Shire. But as they neared camp again, Frodo grew quieter. Sam felt quite exhausted himself, and so they completed the last several minutes of the walk in silence. It was dusk when they returned to the camp, and a meal was being prepared. Merry and Pippin didn't waste an opportunity to point out how Frodo had once again managed, in an almost uncanny way, to turn up just in time for a meal, and to expand noisily on their theories on what sixth sense might allow him to repeat this feat over and over again. Was it contagious, perchance? Sam had, after all, showed a similar fortunate timing more than once. The company was entertained, and Frodo smiled, reaching for a piece of bread, but said nothing. After dinner, sitting with his back against the camp tree, smoking a pipe, Sam took out the little piece of wood and turned it in his fingers. He still couldn't believe his luck in getting to see not just one, but probably nearly every remaining flood tree in Middle-Earth. The journey had been worth it for that alone. He would set up a bulb glass in the greenhouse, perhaps with a cloche, keep it warm and ventilated, and then plant it out, some balmy spring morning... Perhaps Mr Frodo could make a sign, in his beautiful hand, explaining the wonder to the Hobbiton crowds that would surely gather... but what would it say? What was the name of the tree? Sam looked up, intending to ask Legolas what its proper Elvish name was. But as he looked about, his eyes fell on Frodo, sitting near the cooling brazier, his nose a little red as if he was feeling cold. He looked as depressed and forlorn as Sam had ever seen him, as if he had never been happy in his life. And there was no way that Sam couldn't notice that Frodo's gaze was tied to someone else's face, like a desperately thin thread of pain and longing. Sam felt the blood drain from his face. He didn't have to turn his head to guess whom Frodo was looking at in that way. And he understood anew that Frodo hadn't been so keen to walk with Sam as to just get away from someone else. He had quite managed to forget about the awful triangle in which he made up one reluctant corner, but now the memory of what he had intended to accomplish on that walk hit him like a fist to the guts, and all ease and joy drained away at once. How could he have forgotten? Sam, you ninnyhammer, to let your head go all fogged up over a tree, faffing about with twigs and whatnot when Mr Frodo's so unhappy, and when everything is such an accursed mess. And when it's all your fault! Daft as a brush, that's what you are - you'd think you didn't have no more wit than a turnip. Sam could all but hear his Gaffer's reproachful voice. Sam almost cursed out loud in frustration and regret and self-reproach when he realised what a precious chance to get this weight off his chest had been lost. He had been lucky to get Frodo on his own once, but when would such a chance present itself again? It might be days. Sam groaned inwardly. He couldn't bear either to watch Frodo's silent distress or to think about his own wretched dilemma, and he went to bed very soon. Frodo soon followed, no doubt equally miserable, and Sam could hear him sigh as he settled down. He wondered what would happen - would Frodo stay in bed, where he belonged? Sam couldn't bear the thought that Frodo would go and put himself in harm's way again. He forced himself to stay awake, filling with dread every time there were sounds of movement, until he was certain that Frodo was deep asleep behind his back. Frodo whimpered and grumbled in his sleep several times that night, and Sam woke up at each slight noise. Frodo was never a tidy sleeper, but rarely did he tie himself and his blanket in such knots as this. In the morning, there were two cruel thumbprints of exhaustion and worry under Frodo's eyes and Sam felt bleary and irritable. After breakfast, he avoided Frodo, hoping it was not obvious. It just hurt too much, just to look at him hurting, and he felt farther than ever from finding a way to lay down the burden of the secret.
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