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the Faery Child 2994 Two years before, on a warm autumn evening, Bell Gamgee passed away. Samwise had not been home at the time, as usual he had spent the evening having dinner at Bag End with Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, after a long day of reviewing the weeks lessons. Bell had been ill yes, but then she had been ill before, and as he kissed his mother that morning, Sam could not make out any difference from the times before. Then again, many things did not appear to be on the surface what they really were. In truth she had not been well since the birth of Marigold nine years earlier, and the sicknesses became progressively worse as the years had passed. So it was that Samwise returned home that evening to his sisters; Daisy, May and Marigold were weeping together by the hearth, and to his father; seated in his favorite chair, with a stern and anguished face. Hamfast Gamgees face remained so from that day on, for as long as Sam could recall, it was as if all his happiness had fled that afternoon, and even his love for his children could never really bring it back. Two years ago, but to Sam it seemed a lifetime had passed. He sat with a bunch of wildflowers, perched beside the resting place of his mother, and the tears rolled down unchecked as he placed the flowers on her grave. His sisters had come and gone, and the Gaffer never came, but Sam liked to sit there and imagine that she had never left him and at times like these that she spoke to his heart, and she told him all the things she did not find the time to say while she had lived. He breathed deeply as the wind spoke to him with the voice of his mother, whispering in his ear. She told him about when she gave birth to him; how it was a moment unlike any she had known before. The birth itself was nothing new, Sam was her fifth child. She was accustomed to the pain and rewards of childbirth, but it was not the experience that was different, it was the child. For Samwise possessed from the very start a strength and wisdom that Bell had not felt before in any hobbit, and she was struck with awe at the son she held in her arms. Love for him flooded over her then, even as she felt in her soul that this small child, her flesh, did not belong to her at all. No, he was meant for another, marked from his birth, and although he was equal parts Ham and Bell, he belonged to neither of them, he was never owned by their hearts as the others had been. Perhaps Ham Gamgee knew as well that this son of his, although the only one out of three to follow his path through the gardens of Bag End, would not live a life that would in any way resemble his own, nor would Sams thoughts follow his fathers at all. 'A faery child.' Ham would remark to his wife when he was particularly struck with Sams uniqueness, especially Sams enthusiasm for anything of Elvish origin. 'He is my flesh, that much is certain, but his heart, that's his own, and I'll never understand it, if I tried for an age.' Bell would smile at her husband, understanding his hurt and bewilderment, for she too felt that Sams heart belonged elsewhere, from the day he was born, and every moment of his life. 'Where then, does his heart belong?' she would wonder to herself, watching her youngest son in the garden, working beside his father, as the sun glints off his golden hair, so unusual a shade for hobbitkind. Rare indeed was a fair headed child in the Shire, but Sams curls could never be called anything darker than a pale brown, truth be told they were blond, and in the sunlight they gleamed golden, struck through with shocks of red. A faery child then, meant for more than his humble beginnings, and belonging not to his parents, but to another soul, kindred to his own. It was not until the year of her death that Bell Gamgee understood, and it was in that newfound clarity that her mind and heart found peace at last, and she was able to let go. For Samwise Gamgee was born, not only in the year, but on the very same day that Drogo and Primula Baggins were drowned so suddenly in the fast moving waters of the Brandywine. Sam sighed as he pushed himself up off the ground and gazed down to where the brightly colored flowers were strewn over the gravesite of Bell Gamgee. With one last look back he trudged off down the hill towards the road that would take him back to Bagshot Row. He gathered together all the strength in his body and heart, mustering it to face his father in the hole. The Gaffer had never been overly affectionate with Sam, but since Bell had died he seemed to go out of his way to push Sam into the mold he wished for him. That is, to be the most well-behaved, hardest working and strongest hobbit in the Shire. But in the eyes of Ham Gamgee, it was never enough. Physically no one could deny that Samwise Gamgee was not a very strong lad, at 14 he already possessed a stocky build and broad strong shoulders, his skin tanned as gold as his hair, sun kissed during the hours of laboring in the gardens of Hobbiton, his muscles heavy from the long days and the hard work. The Gaffer saw too much weakness in Sam. Sam had always been a quiet child, so unlike his rowdy and boisterous brothers. He would rather sit in a quiet shady spot and read after his days work than head to the Green Dragon for an ale and gossip, as Ham liked to. The Gaffers opinion of him was also influenced by the tendency of Sam's eyes to tear up at the slightest provocation. As much as he loved the work of tending the extensive gardens at Bag End with his father, his eagerness for the lessons taught him by its owner had no end. All this contributed to the Gaffers view that Sam was weak, and he must be made strong, or he would fall. When Bell passed away, so did the tempering of the Gaffers frustration and Sam bore the brunt of it more often than not. Now Bilbo Baggins was a strange hobbit in anyones estimation, he had a mite too much of the Took blood, or so the inhabitants of Hobbiton and Bywater were wont to remark. When he had left Bag End that day all those years ago, off on his grand adventure, he was forever labeled 'Mad Baggins' and seemed content with the moniker. After all, it was not undeserved, and Bilbo had long abandoned the any pretense of normalcy. The summer Sam had turned eight Bilbo had invited him up to the study at Bag End after his chores, to hear tales of the world outside, of Bilbos adventures, and to learn his letters. The Gaffer was none too pleased with this turn of events, but Bell insisted that Sam be allowed to go, as often as Bilbo invited him. "He'll learn things that we could never teach him, about the wide world, and being able to read can't help but be useful in his life." Bell would say when the Gaffer was taken with a mood towards the daily lessons in Bilbos study. 'Thats just what Im afraid of." Ham would reply tersely. Once, when he was 10, Sam's father had forbade him to go, saying that there was too much work to be done, and that Sam was getting too uppity for his own good, wishing for things that were above his station. After Sam had ran off into the woods with tears streaming down his face, and sobs racking his small body Bell turned on her husband, and gave him a look that he would never forget, not for one moment after. "Well, thats just fine." She started. "He's sure to get plenty of work down out there, crying his little heart out in the woods." Ham grumbled his reply, "That boy cries altogether too much Bell, and he's becoming more dreamy eyed everyday. Its time he stopped all this lollygagging around and got down to a real days work!" Bell stared at her husband, amazed. "You should know better, Hamfast Gamgee! That boy doesn't have the heart you have, you know that as well as I. You also know that he is meant for things that we cannot imagine. His is a path that we cannot begin to see down. Who are you to say that those lessons will not serve him well where his life will take him? And you work him too hard as it is; he is only a boy of 10, not in his twenties, like Hamson and Hal. He's a lad yet, and I won't have you working him until his back breaks trying to make him into something he's not. I won't have it Hamfast!" Bell's eyes were blazing now, for all that Sam was unlike she had ever imagined, he was her son, and she loved him more than her own life. At this Ham started to protest, but another look from Bell silenced him. "No. I will not allow you to forbid him this boon. He needs those lessons with Bilbo, I know it. I feel it from the hair on my head to the hair on my toes, and you do too, if you'd open up and admit it! Tomorrow he goes, and everyday after that he is welcome!" With that she turned and left for the kitchen, and Sam's lessons were never called into question again, even after she had passed. Ham remembered her words always, and hard as it seemed to him, he learned to accept that Sam belonged more at Bag End than at #3 Bagshot Row. Sam remembered that day clearly, and the one that followed it. He had returned to the hole that evening spent, worn out from tears and heartache, his stomach empty and his head throbbing. He was not at all hungry though, in fact the thought of food turned his stomach. He trudged off to bed with no more than a nod at his mother and slept a sleep of utter exhaustion. When he awoke the next day, he felt the reality of the previous day fall on him, and his stomach lurched at the thought of it. No more lessons. No more afternoons spent in the study with Bilbo and Frodo, reading tales of Elves and adventures, or listening to Bilbo tell them a tale. No more Fridays spent at the table in the kitchen at Bag End, sitting beside Frodo and laughing as he and Bilbo discussed the antics of their many cousins and family members. He felt ill, and wished he could just lie there in bed until he died, but there was no help for it. If he didn't get up now, the Gaffer would get him up, and at that thought he pulled himself out from under the covers and into the kitchen. As he padded down the hall, the smell of fresh baked muffins wafted out of the kitchen, and his stomach lurched again. "Morning Sam!" his sisters chorused as he sat at the table, lowering his head onto his folded arms. "Would you like some muffins before your eggs today Sam?" asked the gentle voice of his mother in his ear, and he grunted a reply. Bell smiled, at 10 he was already quite the little man, following his fathers example with his grunted answer. "Hhmmmm... " Bell said almost to herself. "You must eat something; after all, I cannot in good conscience send you off to Bag End without so much as a morsel, why Mr. Baggins would think that we could not afford to feed you!" At that Sam's head snapped up off the table and he stared incomprehensively at his mother, as his sisters giggled beside him. "Come Sam, Bilbo is expecting you for a full day today, as you missed yesterdays lesson, and he said you needed to catch up on what he and Frodo had covered without you." Sam's mouth dropped open, and Bell laughed at the sight of her son at a loss for words, his utter despair turned in a moment into overwhelming joy. "But...but...." Sam managed to get out before his mother swept him into a bone crunching hug, and then placed a full plate of food before him. "You didn't think your father was serious, did you Sam? He was just in a mood, and we talked it over, and we decided that it would be best if you continued your lessons as long as Mr. Bilbo wishes to teach you. Come now, eat your breakfast, Bilbo is expecting you soon." Sam smiled brilliantly at his mother, he knew to whom he owed this boon, and he tore into his breakfast like he had not eaten for weeks, his stomach suddenly settled. Indeed there was soon a knock on the door, and Mari opened it to a striking young hobbit, all blue eyes and pale skin. "Hi there Mari, my but you look pretty today.' Frodo said with a grin, and patted her head. Mari giggled and bellowed Sam's name, her voice at odds with her small child's frame. Sam had the second shock of his very short day when he entered the room and saw Frodo waiting for him. "Morning Sam. I thought I'd see if you were up and about today, and to make sure you can make it. Your mother told Bilbo last night that you were ill, and I wanted to see for myself. How are you feeling today? " "Just fine Mr. Frodo, much better, thank you." Sam replied with a broad grin. With that he kissed his mother goodbye, and taking Frodo's hand, they walked up the hill together, through the morning mist. As the sun set behind the hill, Frodo sat outside behind Bag End, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. He had spent a lazy Sunday with Bilbo, sorting through some of the older hobbits vast collection of books, finding several he hadn't seen before. He had been living at Bag End for 5 years now, and it seemed to Frodo that he belonged there more than he had in any other place. The bustle of Brandy Hall had proven too much for the quiet youth, and his memories of the time before were faded and blurry, it seemed that he was viewing them through water, and it darkened the memories as it tried to sweep them away from him. The ever flowing current that had taken his parents away also seemed to be sweeping Frodo's memories of them down stream, to a place he could not follow. He had learned to let them go, it was less painful that way and anyhow, he still kept the feelings he had when he thought about his parents, the warmth and security , the knowledge that he was loved, and those feelings the river could never take from him. This peace of mind that had stolen over him had come rather suddenly with his arrival at Bag End. Frodo had tried many times to decipher exactly why the peace had settled on him at that moment, but no matter how hard he thought, he mind only led him in one direction. It was years later when Frodo made the connection, because this train of thought always led him to Sam, but then again, most of his thoughts led him to Sam. The peace had settled on him when he moved to Bag End yes, but it had also been the occasion of his first meeting with Sam. He had been weary and exhausted the afternoon he and Bilbo drove up the Hill towards Bag End. The journey was certainly tiring, but not enough so to cause such lethargy in Frodo. The truth was he had not healed from his loss, and Brandy Hall had been no help. He had found contentment in the company of his young cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was scarcely a year old when he left. He had watched Merry grow from an infant into a toddler during his stay there, but even Merry's cheerful baby eagerness could not ease Frodos wounded soul. So when they arrived Bilbo called for his gardener, one Ham Gamgee to help him unload, and he then encouraged Frodo to have a walk in the garden before tea. And so it was that Frodo found himself sitting in the midst of a sunflower patch, sobbing out his anguish to the tall stalks growing around him. They seemed to feel his pain and the round sunny heads drooped down to enclose him in their golden warmth. As he was sitting there, he thought he had felt a small hand on his shoulder, but in his despair he mistook it for a leaf stirring in the wind. He soon realized his mistake however, as a small hobbit child , as golden as the flowers above, climbed into is lap and wrapped his small arms around Frodo. The child clung to Frodo, as he sobbed out his grief, and Frodo clung to him like a life raft. Frodo felt a peace settle on him as his sobs lessened. They sat like that for a long while, quiet in each others arms. For the first time in his short life, Frodo felt himself completely comfortable, and he remembered how it felt to be home. After what seemed like an hour, the child drew back and looked up at Frodo, and as his eyes met with earnest hazel, Frodo felt the peace settle firmly onto his soul, and he knew in this moment that his grief was spent; he could begin to live again. They stared at each other for several long moments until they were shaken aware by the sounds of Bilbo moving through the sunflowers. Bilbo smiled when he saw them, then he called over his shoulder 'He's here Ham, with Frodo'. Holding his hand out he said, 'Come along Samwise, your da is looking for you.' With that the child, Samwise apparently, stood and with one last hug for Frodo, skipped off, taking Bilbo's hand. Frodo sat for a moment in the patch, smiling to himself. He had made a friend today, and as he got to his feet to make his way in for tea he felt lighter than he could remember feeling. It was as if young Samwise had taken upon himself the burden of Frodo's grief and fear, and in its place left Frodo with a new found peace of heart and mind. Hope. Samwise seemed to carry it around on his strong shoulders, dispensing it to those in need as he went along his way. His cheerful smile and energetic step never failed to leave Frodo feeling as if he had entered into a dream, but one more real and vivid even than real life. Frodo glanced again at the book in his lap, and a smile crept across his face as he thought of Sam's reaction to the newly rediscovered stories in this latest treasure. Tomorrow he would surprise Sam with the book, perhaps the gift would lighten the load that clung to his young shoulders. To this day it seemed to Frodo that whenever he saw Sam. His worries were lifted and replaced with that same peace he had experienced amongst the sunflowers. Sam had been nine years old when they met, still very young, but there was an innate wisdom in his face that had grown with the passing years. Now having arrived at his 14th birthday, Samwise showed promise of a fine young hobbit, respectful, intelligent, hard working, and in possession of a boundless energy that left Frodo breathless in its wake. Frodo was also noticing, much to his chagrin, what a fine looking hobbit Sam was turning out to be. He stopped himself every time his thoughts turned in that direction, but he couldnt deny it. Had he allowed such thoughts to continue, Frodo would have been amazed at how, having just turned 14, Sam was already one of, if not the best looking hobbit lad in Hobbiton, or Bywater for that matter. Frodo shook his mind free of such thoughts and turned his attention to the book in his lap, and his anticipation of Sam's reaction to it tomorrow. He looked forward to helping to ease the burden of grief that clung to Sam, he understood better than anyone the anguish of losing a parent, and in Sam's case it was almost worse, losing his mother, but still having one parent. Worse, because the parent he had never understood Sam at all, truly the Gaffer had never even tried to see Sam for what he was, not what he should be. Ham had always been distant with his youngest son, and the gap between them had only increased since the loss of Bell. Frodo had lost both his parents in one swift go, but Sam had not. His motherwas taken just as suddenly, but the loss of his father was stretched out every day, as time took Sam further from the Gaffers understanding, so that eventually the distance between them would be too far so reach across. Frodo remembered the day the bridge between them burned. As if it was yesterday. As if it had been his heart broken that night, and not Sam's. It was a Friday and Sam had been at Bag End all afternoon, he and Frodo had spent the day reviewing what Sam had learned that week while Bilbo prepared dinner. Sam usually stayed to dinner on Fridays, both he and Frodo looked forward to it all week. That night Bilbo and Frodo had talked about their young cousin, Peregrin Took, who would be two in a couple of weeks. They planned a trip to Tookburough to celebrate the event. Bilbo declared that he would send of a reply to their invitation tomorrow and with that he set about clearing the dishes. He refused Frodo and Sam's offer of help, and sent them outside to enjoy the evening. Frodo had turned 24 earlier that year, and Bilbo had marked the occasion by giving Frodo a marvelous pipe carved out of one piece of cherry oak. He had taken to sitting in the evenings after dinner and having a smoke. Sometimes Bilbo joined him, but on Friday's Sam sat with him. Frodo thought that these times were the best of his life, sitting above Bag End with his back to the tree that grew there with Sam snuggled up beside him and a bowl full of Old Toby. Sam had left him that night as the sun set behind the Hill. The next morning the Gaffer came up early to talk to Bilbo and when he left Frodo noticed the considerable stoop to his shoulders; it seemed to Frodo that it had not been there the day before. He understood it when Bilbo came outside and told Frodo the news. Bilbo had decided to spend the day at #3, doing what he could and offering himself to help the Gamgees get through. 'I'll come too,' Frodo said. 'Sam must be heartbroken.' So, after second breakfast the two made their way down the road to Bagshot Row. They arrived to a quiet household, the Gaffer was with the undertaker making the necessary arrangements; Daisy and May were in the kitchen, baking everything they could think of to keep their minds occupied and little Marigold was wandering from room to room at a loss as to how she should deal with her grief. Sam was nowhere to be found. Bilbo picked Mari up and took her into the sitting room, waving at Frodo vaguely, but the gesture was unnecessary, Frodo was already listing in his mind the possible places where Sam might be. After searching through every place on his list, Frodo was struck with inspiration, and in a moment he knew where he would find Sam. Frodo strode back up the Hill, and made his way through the garden of Bag End until he came to the sunflower patch. To the naked eye not a hobbit could be seen but in his heart Frodo knew Sam was there. He made his way quietly through the tall flowers, and then he spotted Sam; sitting on the ground, silent tears rolling down his face, his shoulders shaking with the agony hew was feeling. Frodo walked to him without a word and pulled Sam into his lap. They sat there, crying together, the tears flowing freely from Frodo's eyes as Sam poured his heart out through his weeping eyes onto Frodo's chest. After a long while his body quieted, easing from wracking sobs into small shivers, his eyes drying slowly. He looked up at Frodo then, and as their eyes met Frodo knew for certain that they needed each other. Theirs was a shared grief, a bond which held them together, united in their loss. Sam sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve causing Frodo to smile wryly at the childish gesture. He tended to forget just how young Sam was; Sam's easy confident manner and maturity gave the impression of his being older than his 12 short years. They sat there for a long while, not speaking, but sharing all they needed to without words, Frodos hand rubbed up and down Sam's back in an instinctively comforting gesture, and slowly Sam loosened his death grip on Frodo's tear soaked weskit. Sam drew in a few shaky breaths, and he seemed to calm, to come back to himself. He looked up at Frodo again, and Frodo saw in Sam's eyes what must have been in his own the first time their eyes met, here in this very spot. They stared for several more minutes, sharing the strength and hope between them, vowing in the silence to never let go of each other. It was in that moment that Sam realized what his mother had earlier that year; that he belonged to and with Frodo for every day of his life. That he loved Frodo more than he did any other person, and if all the others slipped away, he would be fine if Frodo was there. Slowly they stood and walked hand in hand towards Bag End and the teapot, to share their comfort over tea. Sam didn't cry again until the following year, on the anniversary of this day. Sam still missed his mother immensely, and he visited her grave often, but he only ever cried once a year for her. Frodo smiled again, and pushed himself up from the bench he had sat on that night, shaking out his pipe and stretching before making his way inside. Tomorrow he would give the book to Sam, and they would devour the stories in it, sharing their views and ideas as they always did. A good day Frodo decided. It would be the best yet.
Eye of the Beholder �They had come to the desolation that lay before Mordor: the lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing�� -The Two Towers, �The Passage of the Marshes� The water was not deep; it would barely have covered the hobbits� feet had they walked in it. The small pool was very nearly still; it glittered faintly in the moonlight and there was a slight film of dust visible on the surface. It trickled with amazing slowness from beneath an ugly pile of stones and seemed to go nowhere, forming a roughly oval-shaped pool that swirled almost imperceptibly. In the Shire, Frodo and Sam would hardly have given the water a second glance, and would never have considered drinking from it. But here, none of that was important. It was *water*, and that was all that mattered. Gollum, who had been wandering ahead of the hobbits, was already sitting beside the pool. Having drunk his fill, he contentedly rubbed his shrunken stomach. �Good Smeagol! Helps nice hobbits. Found water, yes, Smeagol found water for the thirsty hobbitses.� Sam quickly dropped his pack and ran forward with a cry of surprise and delight. Frodo followed more slowly; he was as weary as he had ever been, and even though the day was not done, he did not feel like he could continue on without rest. Sam dropped to his knees next to the pool and reached his hands forward to bring some water to his parched throat. �Careful, Sam!� Frodo called hoarsely. �It could be tainted. Just touch it to your tongue first.� Sam cupped water in his hands, and carefully brought near his face, sniffing it a bit. He then dipped the tip of his tongue into the water once, twice. Satisfied, his cracked lips formed a smile for his master. �I think it�s just fine, Mr. Frodo. Tastes better than those Elvish drinks we had in Rivendell, even.� He dipped his cupped hands into the water once again, and this time he drank deeply. Frodo knelt beside Sam and took a cautious sip of the lukewarm water before drinking of it. It seemed nothing had ever felt so good. He quickly brought more water to his mouth, gulping it down with desperation, feeling it in his parched throat. Again. And again. His thirst seemed unquenchable. Frodo�s stomach was seized with sudden cramps. With a gasp of pain, he spilled the water from his hands and wrapped his arms around his waist, bending so far that his forehead almost touched the ground. Sam turned quickly at Frodo�s indrawn breath. Seeing his master in pain, he cried out in alarm. �Master! What is it?� Frodo couldn�t answer. His face contorted with pain, he barely managed to turn away from the pool before he retched. Sam rushed to support him, one hand bracing Frodo�s forehead, the other arm wrapped around his waist. Worry was evident in his voice. �Frodo, Frodo, me dear. It�s all right. Your Sam�s got you.� Frodo�s stomach finally stopped seizing, and he collapsed back in Sam�s gentle arms. �I�m sorry, Sam.� �What for, Mr. Frodo?� Sam�s face was etched with fear. He stroked Frodo�s brow, which was slick with sweat. �What happened? The water isn�t bad, is it?� �No, no; it�s fine. I just drank too quickly. I haven�t had anything on my stomach for some time now, and it was just too much. I�m all right, really. Just a bit tired.� �Tired, yes, the hobbitses are tired.� Gollum had been watching the hobbits from his hooded eyes, but now he rose, casting a glance at the barren landscape. �Smeagol is tired, yes, precious, but Smeagol is hungry, too. Must find something to eat. No fishes here, but maybe somewhere else. Yes. Perhaps.� �Perhaps, Smeagol,� Frodo spoke without trying to raise his head from Sam�s lap; his voice was barely audible. �You are welcome to what we have, you know, but I daresay you won�t take it.� �No, no, poor Smeagol cannot eat the hobbitses� food. Must find something else.� Without another word, Gollum padded off, his flapping feet making no sound on the hard ground. Sam stared after the creature. �And I hope he takes a good long while searching,� he muttered, not talking to Frodo so much as to himself. He then turned back to his master, stroking a gentle hand through his curls. �Just you rest, Mr. Frodo. I�m going to fix you up.� Sam carefully lifted Frodo in his arms and laid him down at a safe distance from the water, using his cloak as a pillow for his master�s head. �It has been too long between meals at that, and while you can�t have a decent meal here in these dark lands, I�ll see to it that you eat what you can. And drink a bit of the water, too. Not too much, or too sudden like, though. I won�t have you getting sick again, and that�s final.� With Frodo resting quietly, Sam quickly filled his water bottle, and retrieved a whole wafer of lembas from his pack. These he brought to Frodo. �Master, let�s rest for the night next to these rocks. They look to provide as good a shelter as anything around here, and you can�t go on without a bit of sleep, and something to eat besides.� Frodo rose unsteadily to his feet, and with Sam�s support, he walked the few steps to the rock pile that Sam indicated, and sat down again, resting his back against the largest. Sam sat beside him and gently pressed him to eat and drink. Holding the water bottle against Frodo�s cracked lips, he carefully tipped it back so that Frodo could drink slowly. �Easy does it, now. You�ll be fine if you don�t get in too much of a hurry, I�ll warrant.� Frodo was too weak to protest; he did as Sam bade, eating the wafer and taking small sips of water until he had consumed both. Sam was so concerned that his master not become ill again, he did not take any food for himself; all his concentration was on Frodo, making sure that his master paused between every bite and sup. Sam turned out to be right; Frodo was able to hold the food and water down, and he did feel better. His eyes no longer seemed clouded, and he smiled weakly at Sam. �Thank you, dear Sam.� Sam smiled back, every passing thought of food and drink for himself evaporating as he studied his master�s face. �Did you good, it did. I knew it would.� The hobbits gazed at each other for a moment, silence falling between them. Then Sam rose, taking the water bottles to the pool. �I�ll just fill these up, Mr. Frodo, and if you want some more water while we rest, you won�t have to move at all.� He knelt next to the small pool and submerged both water bottles, recapping them carefully. But instead of getting up again, he swirled one brown hand in the water, looking thoughtful. �Mr. Frodo, this water here is not too cold, and we�ve been quite a long spell between baths. Not that we could get a proper bath here�no fittin� tub, this pool�but I�ve a mind to see if I can scrub some of this grime off myself, if you don�t mind.� Frodo favored Sam with another small smile. �That sounds like a fine idea, Sam. Do you have anything in your pack that might serve as a washcloth?� �I might, at that.� Sam rose and began to rummage through his pack. �Let�s see�I brought along a couple of rags that I thought would serve to bind up wounds, not hoping to need them, you understand, but you just never know when you go treading in the wild�.Here! This will do, and look what else I�ve found!� Triumphantly, he held aloft two small rags that would suffice, and a small yellow ball that he promptly brought to Frodo. Frodo�s smile widened. He held the slightly grimy ball of soap to his nose and inhaled its fresh scent. �Sam, I don�t believe it. Has this been in your pack all along?� �Yes, sir, although I never knew we�d use it so little, or I wouldn�t have bothered. I surely didn�t think we would need it here in this awful land, but it seems we may make use of it after all. Not that we shouldn�t be a bit cautious; this water isn�t cold, but it�s not what I�d call warm, neither, and I won�t have you catching a chill. We�ll just have to scrub a bit at a time, and leave the rest covered, if you take my meaning.� Sam�s cheeks colored a little as he spoke. �I agree. And we�d best get at it, too. The sun will be up soon, and we need to do our best to hide.� With these words, Frodo pushed himself upright against the rock, and started to walk the few steps to the pool. He swayed as he stood, though, and his face blanched. He reached out to brace himself against the rock. �Mr. Frodo!� Sam was at Frodo�s side in a moment, easing him back down. Frodo shook his head, as Sam gently rested him against the rock. �I�m sorry, Sam. I do feel better, but I am still very tired. Too tired, perhaps, to bother with a bath.� Sam bit his lip with concern. �Don�t you worry, Mr. Frodo. It wouldn�t have been much of a bath, anyway. You rest, and let your Sam keep watch.� Sam sat himself down next to Frodo, their shoulders touching. �You just go to sleep, now, and let me take care of you.� Sam started to ease Frodo�s head onto his lap, but Frodo resisted. �Sam, I�m all right. I just felt a bit dizzy when I stood. You go on and have a bath, and maybe after I rest a bit I can wash as well. You�ll be able to see me the whole time, and I can certainly stay awake that long.� �But, Master�� �No �buts�, Sam. You go ahead.� Sam started to argue further, but the determined look in Frodo�s eyes stayed his words. He picked up the washcloth and the soap, returned to the edge of the pool, and quickly began to bathe. Frodo gazed at his friend in the pale moonlight. Sam had removed his weskit and shirt, and was hastily washing his arms and chest. He couldn�t make out the details of Sam�s body, even at this short distance, but he could see the heartbreaking slimness in his friend�s once-sturdy frame. Frodo felt like weeping; so much misery this quest had wrought, and not only to himself, but to those dearest to him. And none were dearer to him than Sam. It pained him to see Sam�s body so deprived. Sam had finished washing his upper body, and removed his breeches only after he'd donned his shirt again. The air was chill, and Sam was wasting no time; indeed, he was hardly being thorough in his haste to return to Frodo�s side. Frodo averted his gaze as Sam bared his lower body, not wanting to embarrass his friend, but as he heard the splashing of water again, he risked a peek. Sam had his back turned to Frodo and was bending over, rubbing his washcloth along his legs. Frodo stared at his friend�s strong legs and backside, feeling a warm tingle in his stomach and groin. The weight loss was not as readily apparent in Sam�s lower body, perhaps due to the muscles that months of walking had built up. He knew that Sam thought himself plain, but Frodo had long thought him to be a fine-looking hobbit, strong and beautiful. He still was, in spite of the weight he had lost. Frodo�s eyes stung as he watched his friend, and he thought that Sam would always be beautiful to him, no matter what ravages this journey wrought on his fine body. Sam finished washing and rinsed quickly. Only when he had pulled on his breeches again did he turn to face Frodo, offering a small smile. �Well, that weren�t much of a bath, but I may smell a mite better, anyway.� Lifting his cloak off the ground, Sam turned to his backpack. Frodo expected him to tuck away the ball of soap, but instead he drew out his cooking pot. Frodo was puzzled. �Sam, what are you doing? We can�t risk a fire here, and besides, we have nothing to cook.� �I�ve an idea, Mr. Frodo. You may not feel up to a bath, but it surely would make you feel better, if you had one. It did me. Seeing as how you are a bit weak when you stand, I�ll just bring the bath to you, if you don�t mind.� As he spoke, Sam knelt by the pool and filled the pot with water. He carefully carried the pot, along with his cloak, the unused rag, and the ball of soap, to where Frodo sat. He deposited his burdens, and knelt next to Frodo. �Now, you just be still, and let me look after you. It will do you good.� Sam dipped the rag into the pot, and after wringing out the excess water, he brought it to his lips. Forming a small O with his mouth, he breathed on the rag, warming it. Only then did Frodo realize that Sam intended to bathe him. As Sam reached toward him with the rag, Frodo stopped him with a hand on his wrist. �Sam�Sam, you don�t need to do this.� �No. I don�t need to. But I want to.� Their eyes met, and Frodo saw the longing in Sam�s eyes. Sam *did* want to do this for him. It wasn�t a burden or a chore to him, but an act of love. �Will you let me?� Frodo dropped his hand from Sam�s wrist, and laid his head back, wordlessly giving Sam permission to do as he wished. He relaxed in the knowledge of Sam�s love, allowing his friend to take care of him. Sam warmed the cloth with his breath again and reached forward to clean his master�s face and neck. Frodo�s eyes closed as Sam gently wiped dirt and grime from his neck and ears, and after rinsing the cloth and rubbing it a bit with the soap, began to wash his face. Sam reached his free hand forward to cup Frodo�s chin gently as he wiped his master�s brow. Frodo savored the wonderful contrast between the cool cloth and Sam�s warm hand moving gently against him. As Sam cleaned each portion of his master�s face, he would move his hand to cover the spot, gently warming it. Sam carefully rinsed the cloth again, and wiped any remaining soap from Frodo�s face. Then he gently, almost tentatively, reached to remove the dirty orcish tunic that Frodo wore. Frodo moved his hand to help Sam unfasten it, but Sam stopped him with a touch. �Let me, Master,� he said in a near whisper. Frodo complied, surrendering himself completely to Sam�s care. Sam slipped the tunic easily off Frodo�s slight frame, and he removed the mithril coat next. His hands reached to caress his master�s body, careful to avoid the Ring glinting on its chain. Sam had seen Frodo unclothed when he bathed in the pools of Lothlorien, but he had grown even more gaunt since then. Sam�s eyes stung as he ran his hands along Frodo�s ribs, as he touched his master�s sunken belly. �Oh�Frodo�� His voice was a broken whisper. Frodo felt almost embarrassed; Sam�s reaction made him painfully aware of how he seemed to be withering away day by day. Sam�s body was still so lovely, in spite of the toll the journey was taking on it. Frodo felt ashamed of his own wasted form; indeed, he had always been somewhat odd-looking to most hobbits, but this was the first time he felt that Sam perceived him as ugly. He tried a smile, but there was no happiness in it. �Much more of this, and you�ll think Gollum has returned quicker than we expected.� �No, Mr. Frodo!� Sam retorted with surprising heat. �Don�t say that; *never* say that!� His strong hands left Frodo�s sides and cupped his face, prompting Frodo�s eyes to meet his own. His voice gentled. �You are *nothing* like that wretched creature--*nothing*.� Frodo�s lip trembled as he gazed at Sam. Tears he hadn�t realized he could still shed sprang to his eyes. �I am not as different as you would believe, dear Sam; sometimes I hardly know who I am anymore.� His pale hand reached to grasp the Ring at his breast. �*This* is becoming all that I am; I am losing myself a little each day, each moment, to It. And I fear what I am becoming. Even to you, Sam. Even to you.� The words tore at Sam�s heart, and for a moment he did not reply. His hands steadied Frodo�s face as he leaned in close, trying to find a way to show Frodo how he felt without words. He kissed his master�s brow, then planted gentle kisses on each of his eyes before he drew back. His own eyes swam with tears, but his voice was now strong and sure. �You are Frodo Baggins. You are my master and my dearest friend. And you are so very beautiful to me. There�s naught the Ring can do to change that.� The tenderness in Sam�s words and gestures tore at Frodo�s heart; he trembled in reaction. Sam hands still cupped his master�s face, and he felt the tremor. �Oh, but you�re cold! And here I sit doing nothing.� Sam hastily wrapped his elven cloak around Frodo�s thin shoulders, protecting him from the cool air; he seemed almost relieved to return to the business of caring for his master�s physical needs. �There, now; that should help. Do you want me to go on, Mr. Frodo? Or are you too chilled?� �I am not too cold, Sam,� Frodo murmured. �And you don�t have to continue if you don�t want, though I expect it would feel good to be clean for a change.� �Well, *cleaner* anyway. There�s not much we can do proper in this land, least of all a bath, like I said. You just hold that cloak around you, Mr. Frodo, and tell me if you get too cold. I can just work my way around it, so to speak.� With that, Sam once again dipped the cloth into the water, and breathed on it before touching it to Frodo�s body. He gently parted the cloak, and reached inside to withdraw Frodo�s right arm. Frodo tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he felt the touch of the cloth against his skin. Sam tenderly cleaned Frodo�s hands and arms, following the cool cloth with his warm hand. Frodo felt Sam�s touch like *life* against his skin, leaving a trail of warmth wherever he touched. Sam�s movements were a bit more tentative as he began to wash Frodo�s chest. He carefully avoided the Ring, concentrating at first on the area around Frodo�s collarbones and shoulders. His touch was so exquisitely gentle that Frodo found himself craving more. There was love embedded in Sam�s every movement, as he warmed the cloth, rubbed it against Frodo�s cool skin, and then rested his free hand against the damp spot. For the first time in long days of travel, Frodo felt more like *himself* and less like merely the Ringbearer�a title he had never wished to possess. Sam�s touch had always brought him joy and comfort, and the farther they journeyed from home, the more important that touch seemed to become. Whenever Sam touched him, the almost unbearable weight of the Ring seemed to lift. It was as if Sam�s hands on his skin could part the clouds in his mind, and give him a glimpse of the person he once had been. The air had grown chill, but Frodo was not cold at all. The intimacy of the bath was having a physical effect on him, and he wondered how he could hide this from Sam. Sam�s hands had finally descended to the middle of his chest, and Frodo felt the first touch of the cloth against his nipple, already peaked by the cool air. He let the cloak slip from his shoulders; it fell unheeded to the ground. The feel of the rough cloth against his skin quickly followed by Sam�s warm hand coaxed a small sound from Frodo�s throat, and Sam drew back. �All right, Mr. Frodo?� Sam�s voice was a husky whisper, making Frodo wonder about his friend�s thoughts. The darkness was almost total now, and even though Sam was mere inches from Frodo, he could not see him clearly. Perhaps it was the darkness that gave Frodo courage, or perhaps it was just the deep need for a touch born of love and not of fear. Frodo reached out, and taking Sam�s hand placed it upon his chest. With his other hand, Frodo slid the Ring upon Its chain over his shoulder, so that it fell to rest against his back. �All right, Sam.� His own voice shook a bit on the words. Sam�s trembling sigh cast a shiver through Frodo�s body. When he reached for his friend again, his touch was decidedly less hesitant. Sam abandoned the cloth, instead rubbing a bit of soap between his damp palms, and massaged his hands against Frodo�s chest and belly. The touch of Sam�s rough fingers against his nipples once again drew a soft moan from Frodo, and he shifted a bit under Sam�s easy touch. This time Sam did not draw back; instead, he continued the soothing massage, now using his fingers to gently rub and caress the sensitive flesh. Frodo�s head tilted back against the cold rock, his breath coming in soft hitches. Sam�s hands, slick with soap and water, traveled down to Frodo�s belly, rubbing and easing the muscles there before sliding around his waist and caressing his back. It brought them closer together, and Frodo could feel Sam�s breath against his face as warm, rough hands stroked his back. The feel of Sam�s warm breath was too much. Frodo closed the distance between them and pressed a gentle kiss against Sam�s mouth. Sam groaned softly, his own desire unmistakable in the sound. He leaned into Frodo, deepening the kiss as his wet hands traveled further up Frodo�s back, loving his master�s body as Frodo wrapped his own arms around him. Unexpectedly, Sam�s hands brushed against the Ring that now rested against Frodo�s back. Frodo�s reaction was immediate. He uttered an inarticulate cry, his gentle hands turning to claws against Sam�s chest. Sam pulled back quickly, his eyes flashing with alarm as he realized what his wandering hands had encountered. �I�m sorry, Mr. Frodo!� he cried, fear at his master�s reaction cascading through him. Frodo�s hands shoved Sam further away, a voice that seemed not his own coming from his lips. �How dare you! How dare you touch It!� he seethed, spitting the words out. �I�m sorry, I�m sorry, I didn�t mean to, I just forgot about It, is all,� Sam�s apology tumbled out in a rush. Frodo�s anger stilled at Sam�s words; as quickly as it had come, it was replaced with something akin to wonder. �You�. you�. *forgot* about It?� His voice trembled; such a thing seemed unfathomable. �Yes, sir, seemingly. I guess I was just thinking about�other things.� Sam�s voice betrayed his embarrassment. �Oh, Sam. Oh, I�m sorry. It�s just�I didn�t mean to. How many times�oh, Sam. How I hate It!� Frodo�s voice broke over the last words; he buried his face in his hands and cried. The sound of Frodo�s sobs brought Sam quickly back to his side. �It�s all right. No harm done, now. I know it weren�t you talking, not truly. It�s naught to cry about, Mr. Frodo. Please, don�t cry�you�ll just get me started, and then where will we be?� Sam reached out to cautiously place a hand against the back of Frodo�s neck, nestled in dark curls. Frodo managed to halt his sobs, but his face remained buried in his hands. He was grateful that Sam�s hand remained on his neck, gently massaging there, and Frodo found that he was reluctant to do anything that might disturb his friend�s touch. His mouth still tingled from the kiss, and he ached to realize that he had hurt Sam yet again; the hesitation in Sam�s touch now seemed to hurt all the more because of the shared intimacy of the kiss. Sam�s words tumbled over and over in his mind: *I just forgot about It, is all*. What a wondrous, incredible thing�that holding Frodo, that kissing him, could make Sam forget the Ring. For a few brief moments in Sam�s arms, the Ring had even ceased to dominate his own thoughts. Sam�s tender touches had somehow managed to lift that weight from his mind, and until Sam had inadvertently touched It, Frodo�s senses had been filled only with love and desire. The knowledge that Sam could do such a thing to him stirred the first feeling of hope that he had felt in many long days. As Frodo lifted his head to meet his friend�s eyes, Sam�s hand drifted from Frodo�s neck to his shoulder, and encountered a film of drying soap. �Oh, this won�t do! I never even got the soap off you, Mr. Frodo. That can�t feel good. I�m sorry about that, sir.� Frodo managed a wistful smile that he didn�t really feel, hoping that Sam could see it in the darkness. �No need to be sorry, dear Sam; I hadn�t even noticed. I�m the one who is sorry, remember?� �Now, Master, there�s naught to be sorry for, as I said. You just let your Sam finish getting you cleaned up, and I�ll be more careful this time.� Sam started to rise, but before he did, he let his hand slide up to rest against the side of Frodo�s face. Frodo leaned into the touch, feeling the rekindling of a desire he thought had fled. He reached up to cup Sam�s hand with his own for a moment, trying to tell him without words that his touch was welcome. Sam smiled then; Frodo could barely discern his features in the darkness, but he could see it in the lightening of his eyes. After a few moments Sam gently pulled away, and said, �Let me get some fresh water, and I�ll get you fixed right up.� He took the cooking pot over to the pool, and Frodo could hear the soft splashing as Sam emptied the soapy water and refilled the pot. This he quickly brought back to Frodo�s side, and resumed his position facing his master. Once more, Sam�s sure hands again moved over Frodo�s body. Frodo rested his head against the rock again, closing his eyes in surrender. True to his word, Sam�s hands ventured nowhere near the Ring, which had slipped around to rest against Frodo�s breast. Sam moved deftly in the chill air, and he then wrapped his own cloak tightly around Frodo�s body, his hands lingering in a gentle caress before drawing back. �Thank you, Sam,� Frodo whispered. �That felt wonderful.� �You�re welcome, Master.� Sam�s voice seemed a bit unsure. �Should I�� His voice trailed off, the question incomplete. Frodo lifted his head and opened his eyes. He felt the loss of Sam�s hands on his body like a wound. He knew that Sam would deny him nothing, but he did not feel it was within his right to ask him to continue. He answered Sam�s unspoken question gently, allowing the decision to rest with his companion. �You may, Sam, but only if you want. It will be dawn soon; perhaps the rest of the bath could wait.� Sam paused thoughtfully before he spoke. �I should finish tonight, I think, Mr. Frodo, if you feel up to it, that is. I think perhaps you will rest a bit better afterward.� Sam�s words showed his intent, but still he hesitated to reach for his master. Frodo felt Sam�s doubt; their earlier actions turned the necessity of removing Frodo�s breeches into something quite intimate, and he knew that Sam was uncertain what to do next. Frodo was unsure as well, but he knew that he longed for Sam�s touch, for the only thing that could lift his burden, could make him *feel* again. Frodo started to reach for the ties at the top of his breeches, but by then Sam had decided on a different course of action and didn�t notice. Without a word, Sam slid himself and the pot of water next to Frodo�s dirt-caked feet. He dipped the cloth in the water and soaped it, and began to wash Frodo�s tired feet and calves. When Sam�s strong hands returned to his skin, Frodo felt the lessening of the weight against his chest. His feet were sore and bruised, and Sam�s touch was achingly gentle, almost�but not quite�reverent. He washed the worst of the dirt away, and his deft gardener�s fingers returned to massage away some of the soreness. A small gasp escaped Frodo as Sam kneaded a particularly tender spot on the ball of his foot. Sam looked up quickly. �Am I hurting you, Master?� His features weren�t visible, but his soft voice betrayed his concern. Somehow those simple words went straight to Frodo�s heart. His voice broke on the reply. �No, Sam, you could never hurt *me.*� Regret and shame gnawed at him; *how many times have I hurt* *you*? Sam heard the pain in Frodo�s reply. �Master, it weren�t you,� he said again. �You could never hurt me.� Frodo was helpless to stop the sobs that once again wracked his body. �Sam�Sam�� He tried to speak, to somehow give voice to the feelings of regret and love and unworthiness intermingled inside him, but found no words. Sam moved to gather Frodo in his arms. Frodo came willingly, burying his head against Sam�s warm shoulder. Sam murmured nonsensical words of comfort to his master as he stroked his back with one hand and held his head with the other. His own tears fell into Frodo�s dark curls. They stayed like that for long minutes, Frodo�s slight frame shaking against him. When Frodo�s trembling finally stopped, Sam gently lifted his master�s head from his shoulder and gazed into his red-rimmed blue eyes. �Frodo.� Tears streaked his own face, but his voice was quiet and sure. �Frodo, *it weren�t you.* You�ve no call for feeling bad about anything. *This*�� his hand waved in a vague indication of the object at Frodo�s chest, �this is the cause of it all. You�ve done nothing�nothing save to bear this wretched thing further than anyone ought. You are still you, Mr. Frodo. Don�t forget that. Don�t let It make you believe otherwise. It can�t make you become something you aren�t. *I won�t let It.*� Sam uttered the last words with surprising force; his hands remained gentle against his master�s face, but his eyes blazed with hatred for the Ring and for what it had done to Frodo. Frodo looked into his dear Sam�s tear-streaked face and heard his earlier words again: *I just forgot about It, is all.* He felt an aching need to forget, if only for a few precious moments. He lifted his mouth to Sam�s cheeks and tenderly kissed away the tears that still lingered there. He spoke then with naked emotion, letting Sam see in his eyes all that he usually kept hidden. �You hold me here, dearest Sam. You are my love and my strength. Without you, I would long ago have been within Its grasp.� With those words, Frodo pressed his lips once again to Sam�s mouth. Sam�s body trembled in Frodo�s embrace, and he gently pressed back, tenderly touching Frodo�s lips with his tongue. Frodo easily parted his lips to allow Sam�s tongue to slip inside, and soft sounds came from his throat as Sam explored his mouth. He gently slid his own tongue inside Sam�s mouth, answering his body�s need to be even closer. He felt as though something in his heart might burst. They were both breathless when the kiss finally broke. Frodo searched Sam�s eyes, and saw his own desire reflected there. Still, he had to ask. �Sam�was that�all right?� Sam groaned low in his throat. �*More* than all right, I�d daresay. Much more.� With that, Sam leaned in and kissed Frodo softly again. This kiss didn�t linger as long as the last one, however. Sam�s hands, which had been caressing Frodo�s back, soon found their way to the fastenings of his master�s breeches. �Let me just finish getting you cleaned up, now,� his voice rasped over the words as he fumbled to remove the breeches. When Frodo moved to help him, Sam gently but firmly stayed his hands. �Let me. Please.� Sam carefully bared his master�s lower body. �Oh�� His gaze swept over Frodo from his curly head to his feet, and the beginning of dawn in the sky revealed his master�s beauty. �So beautiful,� Sam whispered, unaware that he had spoken aloud. He took up the washcloth once again, and began to stroke Frodo�s pale thighs. Frodo tilted his head back against the stone, exposing his neck. Sam leaned forward and gently kissed the hollow of Frodo�s throat as he continued to rub his master�s legs with the washcloth and his free hand. Frodo felt the warm touch of Sam�s tongue at his throat and moaned softly. The desire in that sound caused Sam to toss the washcloth aside, now using only his hands to stroke his master�s thighs. Sam�s mouth traced a path up Frodo�s throat to his lips even as his hands caressed ever upward along sensitive skin, until finally Sam clasped that hard silken need firmly in his damp hand. There he stilled, desperately wanting to give his master pleasure, but needing some sign of his welcome there. �Frodo?� he whispered against his friend�s lips. Frodo�s body shook almost violently with need and desire. �*Please,*� he moaned into Sam�s hot mouth, that single word sending a jolt of arousal through Sam that he could feel down to his toes. Sam needed no further encouragement. While his own erection strained desperately against his breeches, he began to stroke his master with gentle sureness. Frodo pressed upward against Sam�s strong hand, making small sounds that Sam caught in his own mouth. His eyes were closed tightly, and Sam could feel the thrumming of his heart even through the cloak that was still wrapped around his chest. His master�s pleasure was so dear to him that Sam felt the sensations almost as if they were his own, and he could not suppress a groan from deep within his throat. Frodo�s hand lay clenched against Sam�s side, but at that needy sound he slid his hand down to Sam�s groin, pressing against the hardness there with surprising strength. Frodo�s other hand tightened almost painfully in the curls that lay against Sam�s neck, and the slight movement of his hips caused Sam to increase the rhythm of his strokes. Frodo soon surged upward into Sam�s touch with a gasp, his body shaking in release. The feel of his master�s warm pleasure against his hand urged Sam over the edge, and he pushed strongly against Frodo�s hand as his body shook with his own release. Frodo slid further down the rocks, carrying Sam with him, until they lay prone together, arms wrapped around each other and legs entangled. They remained this way for long moments, wordlessly kissing and caressing each other as they waited for their hearts to slow. It was Sam who first found his voice. �Well, Mr. Frodo, it looks as if I might be needing another bath,� he whispered wryly. He could feel Frodo�s answering smile against his mouth. �Me, too, Sam. Though I don�t regret it.� �Oh, I can�t say as I regret it either, Master. Not at all, in fact.� Sam paused, brushing Frodo�s curls gently back from his fair face. �You are so beautiful to me,� he whispered, his voice soft as a caress and his eyes filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened. �And you to me,� Frodo answered in the same tone. Sam pressed his lips tenderly against his master for a moment, and with a sigh of regret disentangled and sat up. �Well, tempting as it is not to move for the rest of the day, I�ve found that cleaning up don�t often get done unless someone does it,� he muttered, reaching for the washcloth. Rising, he took the washcloth back to the pool and rinsed it. Returning to his master�s side, he gently cleaned Frodo�s groin and belly, and then hastily�and with a little embarrassment�untied his own breeches and cleaned himself. Sam then retrieved the blankets from his pack and sat down next to Frodo, intending to cover him with them. Instead, his eyes widened in surprise as he discovered Frodo�s fingers at the buttons of his shirt. �Here, Sam, I�ve an idea,� Frodo said softly, as he removed the shirt. Frodo bundled both Sam�s and his own shirt up into makeshift pillows, then unrolled one blanket and, gently moving Sam aside, laid it on the rough ground. He lay back on top of the blanket and reached his arms out to Sam. �No watch today, Sam. Gollum will no doubt be gone for some time, and even if he returns, he will not harm us. We take our chances together.� Sam was instantly in his arms, their bare chests pressed together as he encircled Frodo with his own arms. Frodo reached for the blanket, and with some shifting managed to wrap them both in it. His face was buried in the crook of Sam�s neck, and he kissed Sam gently along his jaw. �Thank you, Sam. For everything.� �You are welcome. For everything.� Sam pressed a tender kiss against Frodo�s curls and sighed contentedly. �Rest well, Mr. Frodo.� �And you, love.� �Love�� Sam repeated the word thoughtfully, his heart soaring. �Yes. That�s it. Rest well, love.� He tightened his arms around his dear master. They fell asleep wrapped in each other, warm and content in this dark land, and between their bodies the Ring hung on its silver chain, forgotten.
The Way Home Their orcish guards soon fell back to watching the action, aside from muttered words to each other, and what sounded like the beginning of an argument. Pippin huddled close to Merry, and Merry to him, and they found words were still possible, if they spoke only a fraction louder than they breathed. "Listen, listen... We're not entirely helpless. I've..." "If you've some devise, don't show it now," replied Merry, glancing at the guards. There had been a moment earlier, when he'd drifted back and forth between consciousness, where he'd remembered nothing of the Shire, and there had been nothing but death before him, and he'd thought her face kind. All lost, all lost, something had sang at him - stop - leave - let it be. If they lived through this, he might one day tell Pippin how sweet the song had sounded, absurd as that was. If he did tell him (and that seemed a dreamlike remote possibility now, when his body felt half-dead), he would perhaps find some way to tell Pippin what had made the song fade. "Thank you, Pip." Pippin's lips curved up slightly, he could see it even in the gloom, and the shadows shifting around Pippin's eyes as they crinkled. "What was that for?" "I'll tell you when we're safe again." The grass and fern felt so nice and soft and he felt fed and almost clean. Heaven, he was sure, felt like this grass and smelled like these scents, green life and rotting life all mixed together in a hum, for once as sweet as the song of death. He felt pleasantly sleepy, and turned on his side, curling against Pippin and impulsively hugging his cousin close. "I never want to move again," he declared happily. He glanced up to see a wide grin spread on his cousin's face, even as Pippin's eyes stayed closed. "Me neither, Merry dear," he said, but contradicted himself immediately by turning to snuggle in even closer, his forehead against Merry's chest, a thin arm thrown over his side. "I wanted to..." Merry had just now remembered, but hesitated, not wanting to bring that night into this moment. "Mmm?" Pippin intoned sleepily. "Pip, I..." Pippin raised his head to look at Merry; something in his tone had caught his attention, and he was now looking at him with serious, beautiful eyes. Merry wasn't sure why he suddenly thought those familiar eyes beautiful, but it was a clear, sudden sensation. "I would have been lost without you, you know," he blurted. "I would have given up. I wanted to, Pip dear; but you never even thought of it, and so when I saw you I didn't either." This was probably the first time he had called his cousin dear, save for meaningless prattle like "my dear fellow" and "my dear cousin". These are subtle things, and by the shift of his eyebrows Merry could see the distinction slipping into Pippin's consciousness, and in return there was a wordless word, a further shift, and a closer embrace then they had ever had before. Body to body. Even with friends - especially with friends, Merry mused as he surrendered to the embrace and pressed his cheek against Pippin's somewhat unfresh hair - there were lines, borders, a whole dance of what to do and what not to do; little sidesteps that become second nature as the friendship grows older. Pip was so close. Merry felt something breaking and falling apart. Perhaps it was his childhood. Sometimes you had to make up your own steps. Merry touched Pippin's brow, and found it sweat-slick and cool, but not too cold. He sighed in relief, at least of his cousin's immediate health, but another kind of worry didn't ease. "How are you feeling?" he managed, words that were redundant and out of place, somehow. He didn't know how to address a thing like this. "Indisposed towards stealing magic stones, Merry dear," Pippin said with a wan smile, sitting up. "I don't need to be in bed, though." "Good thing we sleep on the ground, then," Merry joked lamely. Pippin looked over his shoulder, and Merry followed the gaze - Gandalf and Aragorn were talking, heads bent together. A word or two trickled to them on the night breeze - "secret" was repeated. Always secret. They sat quietly, until the shadow passed over them. Pippin gasped and pulled into himself, staring up at the sky with frightened eyes that hurt Merry more than the cold stark fear that flooded his own veins. He saw the shadow against the night, knew what it was, heard the others move and position themselves, but felt strangely detached. Death, I have seen you before, when you looked fairer. His gaze was drawn back to Pippin, instead, with a strange urgency. He watched him as the shadow passed, and Pippin's muscles relaxed, limbs slowly unwinding from the crouch of animal panic. He became aware, in a sudden crash, that he could be looking at Pippin for the last time. The young hobbit was pale, but very much awake and alert as he looked towards the others, listening to their voices. By sudden impulse, Merry reached a hand to press his thumb gently on Pippin's chin, and turned his face towards him. The young hobbit blinked at him, confused and surprised. "We'll find our way back to the Shire one day," he told him, "and buy a house perhaps, or a hole, and sleep on real beds every night. I don't think I'll ever feel quite at rest unless I know you're sleeping just a room away - not for years, anyway. You're making me prematurely grey as it is." Pippin smiled, the terror forgotten, and that was a sweet sight indeed. He slipped his fingers around Merry's wrist. "I never want to sleep without you next to me," he confessed, eyes as clear and open as always. "I want only one bed, in our little house." Merry gave him a lopsided smile. "Wouldn't the old gossips love to hear that?" He wasn't even sure Pippin would understand the reference, but to his surprise, Pippin remained perfectly serious. "I love you, Merry. The old gossips can say what they please." Merry eyed his young friend cautiously. Perhaps Pippin hadn't understood. But Pippin smiled then, old and sad - when had he grown old? - and brought Merry's hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles lightly. Their hands were tangled together when Gandalf walked briskly to where they sat, Merry's confusion still hanging unspoken in the air, only further deepened by Pippin's serenity. And before he knew, before he could speak, before he could figure out what they had promised, Pippin was gone, and all he could see was the back of Gandalf's white robe and white horse and white head, and the darkness all around their speeding form. A moment follows a moment, a touch follows a touch. When you travel, each new place is a new life, and when there is only one face before you, it becomes the only face in the world. You can forget without forgetting, because the one that does not remember, is not the same that remembers. So when Meriadoc Brandybuck came to know the dirtied face of Dernhelm, then �owyn of Rohan, with her bright blue eyes like polished gemstones in fluid ground, the other Merrys of his past slept in the back of his mind. She was easy to read if you looked at her the right way, and he found most didn't. He couldn't fathom why. She was like an attic to a child looking for adventure, a storeroom behind a great hall, where you find the secrets of the lords who only show one of their many faces in the torch light, in the hard cold halls. She looked at him across their little campfire, and he looked at her, and a smile ghosted over her lips. They recognised each other. And later, she began to talk - and talk - and he discovered the little treasures of her, those things no other knew - crows that came to her windowsill to be fed, for as a child she had loved the black birds best - the smell of stone and old fabric in the library of Edoras, wrestles with stable boys and a bright, harsh, steely love for an old man with rough grey hair. And she came to know him, as well - Merrys of old dangled on a string like pearls, and he picked memories from each, and shared them, and his warmth when night fell, and as she whispered against his ear he wanted her to have something very special, something that would be only theirs, something to make a moment last, make it solid, make it forever. Her body was hard, quivering muscles and her fingers sharp strength, and there seemed to be no end to her, and every inch was smoke and river and earth and woman. It was dark; the fire had burned out; tomorrow they would die. And he touched what he could reach, and she touched more of him, through the soft fabric, under it, fingers slipping against skin, and their breaths were the same, hobbit and woman and man and animal and god. He sat up bolt upright suddenly. He found himself staring at a wall on the inside of a house, blue-grey now in the dark. He blinked. He smelled clean, and the linen smelled clean, and he felt loose cotton cloth against his chest. He brought his hand up to it, and looked at the cloth - white, perhaps - he could not tell - everything was blue-grey and black. He looked around - the room was empty, except for two quiet forms on the two beds beside him, on his right, breathing softly. Somehow, through the shape of her hip, the shadows on her face, he knew who it was who lay beside him, and the memories flooded back. She had fallen - and the dark - and then a voice full of memories that seemed a lifetime ago - Oh, breathed the Merry who had lain thigh to thigh with Pippin amongst fern and grass, as he looked upon the sleeping form of another Merry's lover. Oh. He woke again, not knowing when he'd fallen back to sleep, his arm aching dully, and a low grumbling in his belly. There was sunlight on the pillow next to him, and before him, an empty bed. He rose up on his elbows, suddenly fully awake, and noticed an arm thrown over his waist. It was Pippin, tall and dressed in a black uniform, but still Pippin, now waking slowly with a yawn. He had lain himself fully clothed beside Merry on his man-sized sick-bed. He blinked and looked sleepily up at Merry, a smile on his face like a hundred post-nap smiles Merry could remember stretching back through years and years. Perhaps he said Pippin's name in a breaking voice, perhaps not. All Merry remembered was that suddenly he found himself tangled tightly with Pippin, his face buried in Pippin's shoulder, thigh against thigh once again, chest against chest. Pippin's hands were in his hair and on his back, soothing, a palm stroking his back in circles, and whispers in his ear, "Merry, my Merry." He soaked the uniform with tears, and didn't even know what he was crying for.
