elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2003-08-03 08:31 am
elderberrywine) wrote2003-08-03 08:31 am
New Fic 7/24/03, revised 8/03/03 - The Veracity of Dreams
Thanks to Shadow for her push in this direction, and of course, my wonderful beta, Tinewen
Summary: An AU start to the quest - prophecy or warning?
Rating: NC-17
Title: The Veracity of Dreams
Author: Elderberry Wine
Summary: An AU start to the quest - prophecy or warning?
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: F/S
The Veracity of Dreams
It was late afternoon on a midsummer’s day as Frodo Baggins walked slowly down Bagshot Row towards his home. The road was dusty as there had not been any rain for the last several days, and the bees were humming in the poppies that blossomed scarlet amid the grass at the side of the road. The shade of the tall yew planted alongside the road was welcome, even this late in the day, but Frodo’s mind was still occupied with the dilemma that he had been wrestling with for the last several hours, so he noticed not the flowers nor the bees. As he passed the familiar sight of Number 3, Bagshot Row, though, he looked up and ahead, as if by instinct, and saw Sam waiting, arms folded over the gate to Bag End, and gave a tired smile.
“Well, and there you are,” Sam smiled in return as Frodo entered the gate. “Come along now and not a word from you until you’ve had a bit of a rest.”
Throwing an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, he drew him around to the side of the smial. There was a bench in the side garden, near the kitchen door, with cushions and a shady arbor of rambling roses built over the top. Here Sam left Frodo, who dropped himself gratefully down, and then entered the kitchen. He returned in a moment with a glass of cool water and a dish of sugar dusted berries.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo sighed with a smile, “that’s perfect.”
Closing his eyes and leaning back against the soft cushions, he slowly drank the water, and popped a few berries in his mouth. Sam sat down on the bench next to Frodo, holding the dish for Frodo, and waited patiently.
Soon Frodo opened his eyes again and gave Sam another wry smile. “Well, I suppose you’re waiting to hear how it all turned out,” he messaged his temples slightly.
“Not all that well, I’m thinkin’,” Sam replied, watching him fondly.
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Frodo gave a small sigh. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
“Right enough,” Sam arose, lightly laying his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Rest a bit more then, I’ll be off for a bath. The stew’s on the fire and there’s naught to do for awhile.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Frodo replied gratefully, and drawing his legs up on the bench, laid back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Frodo awoke to find the sun was sinking lower in an orange and pink sky, and a light blanket had been laid over him as he slept. He swung his legs around off the bench and stretched slowly. For all he still looked as if he’d barely come of age, he had begun to feel his true age when he arose off of a hard bed. Yawning, and throwing the blanket over his shoulders, he entered the kitchen in search of Sam.
Sam, curls still damp from his bath, was humming lightly to himself as he stirred the stew. He turned as Frodo, entering the kitchen, yawned once more.
“Sam, you shouldn’t let me nod off like that.” Frodo complained affectionately, walking over to Sam as he stirred, and giving him a hug. “An old hobbit like myself stiffens up so fast on a hard bench.”
Sam continued to stir, but gave Frodo a quick kiss on the cheek. “Old hobbit,” he snorted. “That’ll be the day. You still look as though you’re bare out o’your tweens. I’ll be looking’ like the gaffer afore you look t’be forty.”
“Looks are one thing,” Frodo retorted, walking over and sitting down at the kitchen table. “My back’s another. All right, Sam, what do you have for me to do?”
“The peas, if you don’t mind,” Sam indicated with a wave of his hand a large bowl and a pile of pea pods on the kitchen table.
“Of course.” Frodo placed the bowl in his lap and deftly began to split the pods and strip the peas into the earthenware bowl. “Did you get all the blackberries today? I’ll give you a hand tomorrow if there’s still some left.”
“No need, only a bush or two left.” Sam scooped up a spoonful of the stew and tasted it thoughtfully. “Ah, that’ll do.”
“Enough peas, Sam?” Frodo held up the bowl for Sam’s inspection.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d thought I’d spare a few for the gaffer o’the morrow,” Sam inspected Frodo’s output.
Frodo resumed his shelling. “So, Marigold still hasn’t convinced him to move in with her and her family?” he asked, reminded of an earlier topic of conversation.
“Ah, looks as not,” Sam continued to stir, staring out the kitchen window at the darkening sky.
“Well, you know, Sam, as I said before,” Frodo waved a pea pod vaguely in the air, “this smial is certainly large enough to…”
But before he could finish, Sam, chuckling, turned to smile at him fondly. “For all he thinks I’m over my station, Frodo…”
Frodo rose at that, placing the bowl on table, and crossing over to Sam, wrapped his arms around him and kissed a willing Sam soundly under the ear. “Your station is right here, Sam,” he spoke softly, resting his forehead against the back of Sam’s head. “I hope I’ve finally convinced you of that.”
“Aye, that you have, love,” Sam replied, twisting his head to kiss him lightly again. “But I’m afraid the gaffer is an entirely different matter.”
“Your gaffer is, and ever has been, a hobbit of firm principles,” Frodo laughed affectionately. “As are you, my dear Sam. And I believe one of those is beer, not wine, with coney stew. Would that be right, now?” he teasingly nibbled Sam’s neck.
Sam made as if to swing around entirely at that, with a playful growl, but Frodo laughed and quickly moved away. “All right, to the back cellar I go. And beer it shall be.”
Dinner was quickly laid out on the kitchen table, and Frodo placed two mugs of cool brew next to the plates. Both hobbits savored their dinner in companionable silence, other than an appreciative remark from Frodo. “Rosemary?” he inquired of Sam, after a few spoonfuls.
“Aye,” Sam chuckled. “You’re developin’ a rare taste for herbs, Frodo.”
“Just trying to keep up with you, Sam dear,” Frodo smiled affectionately. “Quite tasty, too. An excellent idea.”
After the bowls and plates were scraped quite clean, Frodo pushed back his chair with a contented sigh. “It’s a lovely evening, Sam,” he got up from his chair, stretching. “Let’s go out for a bit.”
“Why don’t you refill the mugs, and I’ll rinse off the dishes first,” Sam suggested, rising as well.
Mourning doves were cooing in the back hedge and a few last swallows soared up in the twilight sky for a evening meal as the two hobbits returned to the arbor in the kitchen garden. The secluded cushioned bench was one of their favorite resting spots on a warm summer’s evening. Mugs in hand, they easily settled into their customary positions, Sam with his legs stretched out ahead of him, resting them after a long day of bending and crouching, and Frodo curled next to him, head resting against Sam’s shoulder.
“So what was the fuss between Branberry and Barleybuck about this time?” Sam prompted after they had watched the settling birds for awhile.
“Well, I don’t think even Bilbo could convince those two to make peace,” Frodo sighed, “let alone someone they both still appear to consider an upstart and an outsider.”
Sam huffed with indignation. “And who else would have a right t’settle it?” he grumbled. “That’d be Baggins land they’d be farmin’. Mayhap they like to settle the matter with Lobelia instead.”
Frodo chuckled at that thought. “I’d enjoy watching that, I would,” he admitted. “But it’s the same matter they’ve been arguing about ever since that heavy rain last winter widened the stream that runs between their farms. And now that they both have lost a bit of land, both equally mind you, they each think they’re entitled to that new island that sits in the middle of the stream. Tell me, Sam, does anything ever please those two?”
“Naught I’ve ever heard tell of,” Sam answered with a frown, and then added musingly, “unless it be…” He took another sip of his beer, and then continued thoughtfully, “I hear tell they’re both uncommonly fond of a bit of trout.”
“Yes,” Frodo prompted him, with curiosity, “and…”
“Well, trout likes it all shady-like,” Sam went on, staring up at the first stars that were just beginning to show in the violet sky. “And there’s naught in the way of shady spots near their farms. Unless they make it so,” he concluded.
“You mean the island?” Frodo questioned him with interest.
“Aye,” Sam smiled over at him. “It’s naught but a bit of land, too small to farm, but if they planted it o’er with bushes, it’d give the trout a good place to hide. Then each could fish their side of the stream and be done with this silly quarrel.”
“Sam, you’re a marvel,” Frodo said with admiration, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek. “That’s perfect. I’ll propose it tomorrow. You really should be the one handling these matters,” he slid his head down to rest in Sam’s lap. “You’re so much more of a diplomat than I am.”
Sam placed Frodo’s empty mug on the ground at the side of the bench and affectionately cupped Frodo’s face in his hand. “The only job I’d ever want is what I have, me dear. Just your gardener, that’d be it.”
“It’s been a long time since that’s all you were to me, Sam love,” Frodo murmured, running his hand through Sam’s curls and drawing him down for a lingering kiss.
They had been together long enough now, nearly ten years, to develop a settled and comfortable pattern of domesticity. It was a rare evening that left a trail of strewn clothing down the hall to the bedroom, although it did still occasionally occur thus, especially when Frodo had been away on one of his business trips or rare visits to his relatives without Sam. The more usual scenario called for a quiet evening, usually either with Frodo reading to Sam as he caught up on mending and other assorted household tasks, or with Sam reading to Frodo as the latter restored and repaired his quills or pipes. And on a lovely summer’s eve such as this one, Frodo felt there was nothing finer than listening to Sam read from his own store of favorite poems and tales that Sam himself had carefully lettered into a worn leather journal. Frodo would watch the glowing fireflies lace themselves in and out of the white moonflowers, listening contently to Sam’s melodious voice, as long as the last bit of light remained. And then they would go in.
In no time at all, they would be once again in the large feather bed in the master bedroom of Bag End, and Sam would gaze down at Frodo’s pale delicate features in the moonlight and wonder how he had come to have everything in the world he wanted right here in his arms every night. And Frodo would lift his arms up and twine them around Sam’s neck and know without a shade of doubt that he had finally found the home he had sought all his life, here in Sam’s loving embrace.
They would begin to move then, in the rhythm that pleased them best, pausing always for endearments, and kisses that became deeper, and lasted longer, until they were both caught up in the touch, the push, the firm hold, the sure stroking, the arching need to be even closer, and the inevitable final thrusting of love. And when their passion had finally flowed from them in blissful abandon, they would lay together, still tightly wrapped, caressing each other’s faces and softly murmuring each other’s names, as there were no dearer sounds in all the world that those. Then eventually, as they were cooled by the evening air that softly rustled the bedroom curtains, Sam would reach over to a small stack of towels kept near the bed, and ready them both for sleep. It always found them quickly, nestled together.
&&&&&&&&&
Frodo found himself standing on the streets of a city which he had never seen. Tall gleaming white spires and battlements soared into the grey sky, but the streets were empty. This was not a city ever made by hobbits, but by which other race, he knew not.
He did not know why he was here, nor what he had to do, and there was a chill to the air that had penetrated him so that he could feel it close around his heart. Frodo began to walk the silent streets alone, searching for answers, or at least companions, but found neither.
All he heard was the strange cries of unseen birds, and he realized that he knew the pain of irretrievable loss.
&&&&&&&&&
Sam awoke early the next morning with a troubled heart. His sleep had been restless, and his dreams had filled him with foreboding, but he could remember nothing of them.
Shrugging off his mood as best he could, he arose carefully, trying not to awaken Frodo. Frodo lay at his side, twisted and bound by the sheets, with his face down and away from Sam. Sam gave him a rueful smile, as he himself quietly dressed in the clothes that he had laid out the night before. It looked as though Frodo’s sleep had been not much more restful than his own. “Mayhap the rosemary was a bit overmuch,” he reflected as he headed down the hall to the kitchen. It seemed right enough the night before, though.
Through the breakfast preparations, Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy air that seemed to have gripped him this morning. He burned his thumb on the hot skillet, and the cream seemed off as well, though it wasn’t at all curdled. He carried the hot water into the bathroom for Frodo’s bath, but Frodo was still not up. Not wishing Frodo’s breakfast to become cold, he returned to the bedroom to check on him.
Frodo was even more twisted in the sheets, still asleep, but with a troubled expression on his face. Sam bent over him, gently shaking his shoulder and calling his name. Frodo awoke with a start and for a brief moment, stared at Sam as though he was a total stranger. But even as the impression hit Sam, it was quickly erased with a warm smile and yawn from Frodo.
Sam shook off his mood deliberately, and said, “Bath or breakfast first, Frodo? One or t’other, I’m afraid one’ll be cold.”
“The breakfast, then” Frodo laughed. “The bath will be easier to remedy.”
Frodo left Bag End at mid-morning to mediate once more between the quarrelling farmers, and Sam set to his chores in the garden. But the tools all seemed to suddenly want oiling, the seedlings were not growing as they should, and Sam was feeling a vague oppressiveness in the air, as though a summer thunderstorm lurked on the horizon. All the world felt sedated and stifled, and when Tom Cotton stopped by mid-afternoon, Sam was more than glad for a bit of change. Frodo was not due back until the evening, and he was grateful for a chance to take a break at the Green Dragon with some congenial company to distract himself from his troubled thoughts.
He and Tom entered the cool, dim room to be greeted cheerily by the publican, who inquired politely after Mr. Frodo’s health before handing the two of them foaming mugs of the Green Dragon’s finest. They found the corner table where the gaffer was comfortably situated with a crony, old Marley Proudfoot, for the afternoon’s customary.
“Well, Da, and how be it w’ye?” Sam greeted his father.
“Naught different from this morn,” the gaffer returned peaceably, drawing his pipe from his weskit pocket. “And Himself?”
“Still trying t’settle that hash between Branberry and Barleybuck,” Sam shook his head, taking a long draught of his beer.
“Ah, there’s a pair o’blockheads for ye,” Marley let out a low rumbling chuckle. “If they didn’t have t’other to bother, they’d be no point to living for that pair, I’d wager.”
“Aye,” the gaffer agreed with a snort and a long draw on his pipe. “”Tis a waste to have to spoil Mr. Frodo’s day with that lot o’foolishness.”
Tom swung his legs around and settled down next to Sam. “Cousin o’mine just came up from Tookland way,” he remarked, hands clasped around his mug. “Some strange doin’s in those parts.”
“Aye, I’ve been hearin’ a bit o’that meself,” Marley commented with interest. “Tell, Tom, what’d be his news?”
“Well, you know as they’ve always had those Elves passing through that bit of the Shire. But Ged, he says they’re comin’ through more and more often like.”
“As if they’re all leavin’ us,” said Sam softly, staring sightlessly into his mug.
“And what of it?” the gaffer retorted a trifle sharply. “It’s naught they’ve ever done for the likes o’us, I say.”
Sam sighed noiselessly and said no more. He’d had this out with his gaffer too many times. There was no point in trying to convince him that there was value in beauty alone.
“That’s not all of it,” Marley continued intently, not noticing Sam and his gaffer’s exchange. “I hear tell Rangers have been seen up north.”
“Rangers?” Tom let out a low whistle. “I thought as they were naught but old tales for the little ones.”
“Ah, no, them Rangers are real enough,” Marley lowered his voice. “And it’s always a sign that summat is up when you hear tell o’them.”
“Then what manner o’folk be they?” Tom asked with curiosity, leaning forward on the bench.
“Great Men, from a long forgotten house,” Sam answered slowly, and the others swung around to stare at him.
“How be you knowin’ that?” the gaffer asked sharply. “That be out of Mr. Frodo’s tales?”
“Aye,” Sam admitted, glancing back down at the table. “It’s said that they stand guard about the Shire and only appear if there’s trouble about.”
The gaffer gave a derisive snort. “We hobbits can take care of ourselves, no mistake,” he declared derisively.
“No, the lad has heard a’right.” Unexpectedly, Marley supported Sam. “That’s the tale I’ve always heard.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked Tom, who had been following the conversation intently.
“No knowin’,” Marley responded mysteriously, “but then trouble always arrives soon enough.”
Sam walked back to Bag End that afternoon haunted by the feeling that there was something important that he was not remembering, and it had to do with Frodo. As he approached the front door of the smial, he saw with surprise and dismay that it stood ajar and open. How long had it stood open? He himself had not used it that morning but had come and gone through the kitchen door, as was his usual habit. He suddenly thought of Bilbo. Could it be that he had returned after all these years? He entered hesitantly, closing the door behind, and slowly walked from room to room, but there was no trace of anyone in the smial other than himself.
“Frodo just must not have closed it tight behind,” he thought to himself uneasily, after checking the last room. “What a pother about naught, Sam Gamgee,” he told himself severely, but that did nothing to erase the growing unrest that had held him all day. He wandered to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations and found himself staring sightlessly out of the kitchen window down dusty Bagshot Row. Shaking himself once more out of his daze, he picked up the potatoes and carrots that he’d left out earlier, and sitting down to the table, began to pare them for the evening meal.
Frodo came home late, with a closed and preoccupied look about him that Sam recognized all too well. He greeted Frodo as he walked around in through the kitchen door with a brief touch to the shoulder and no more. When Frodo was in this mood, it was best to let him be for awhile. Sam set out a bottle of wine from the cellar and served up dinner. Frodo ate but sparingly, and soon retreated to the garden, with the bottle and a glass in hand. Sam busied himself with cleaning up, and only then joined Frodo.
Frodo was seated on the bench, knees drawn up, with a half-full glass in hand. He said nothing as Sam sat down beside him, but stared off unseeingly at the oaks that crowned the ridge past Bag End. Sam waited patiently, knowing that Frodo needed time to work through whatever was troubling him.
The twilight sky was beginning to darken to dark violet when Frodo finally gave a sigh and turned to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said ruefully. “I haven’t been much company tonight, I’m afraid.”
“No need to trouble yourself,” Sam replied affectionately. “There was summat on your mind, I knew that.”
“I suppose,” Frodo answered moodily, staring off towards the hill once again, “though I couldn’t tell you what it was.” He sighed again, burying his chin on his knees.
Sam stared up into the sky as well, watching the evening stars faintly start to appear in the darkening sky.
“Are you happy, Sam?” Frodo asked suddenly, not looking at him.
Sam turned quickly with a sudden start. The dread that he had felt all day instantly returned with a heart-stopping jolt.
“What would all this be about?” he asked warily.
Giving an almost imperceptible start, Frodo contritely reached over and took Sam’s hand in his. “I’m not making any sense tonight, Sam. That matter about the island wore me out.”
“They didn’t agree?” Sam asked cautiously, gripping Frodo’s hand lightly.
“No, it wasn’t that,” Frodo admitted, threading his fingers through Sam’s. “They finally agreed in the end, after haggling the whole day. But I just felt as though I wanted to be far away.”
He paused and then continued slowly. “I don’t think I want to do this for the rest of my life, Sam, solving farmer‘s quarrels. I know it‘s my duty, as Master of Bag End, but sometimes it just seems so unimportant and useless.” He halted for a moment and then continued, staring at their intertwined hands. “There’s more to this world than that, and I…” he broke off suddenly at that and said no more.
Sam’s rough fingers tightened instinctively around Frodo’s nervous nail-bitten ones as the dream he had kept out of his thoughts all day long came back to him with heart-wrenching suddenness.
&&&&&&&&&
He was standing on a low sandy hill. Around him were hillocks of coarse grass, and there was a strange tang in the air. Ahead of him was water, coldly grey, with white foam, and though he’d never seen it, Sam knew it must be the Sea. Large white birds called out harsh cries as they wheeled overhead, and the winds blew chill and unforgiving about him. Something white was far off on the horizon, and he knew he had to watch it as it vanished slowly from sight.
There was no doubt in his heart whatsoever. Frodo was on that far-off white ship and Frodo had left him forever. Where he was going, Sam knew not, nor why, but the conviction was unshakable in his heart that Frodo had left him. He was utterly numb, with grief that was beyond any expression, and could only watch as all his happiness and hope disappeared forever.
&&&&&&&&&
When they went into their bedroom that night, Sam crossed over to the window and paused. He was not at all sleepy, but seized with a strange anxiety and restlessness. Frodo silently sat on the edge of their bed, watching Sam.
With a sudden resolve, Sam turned around and looked intently at Frodo, whose features were only partially lit by the one candle that was burning next to the bed. And even though the answer might tell Sam more than he wished to know, he could not stop the question. “Tell me, Frodo,” he asked carefully, “when you dream, where are you?”
Frodo said nothing for a moment, returning Sam’s look as though considering his answer. Then, looking down with his dark lashes casting deep shadows across his face, he quietly admitted, “The Sea.”
Sam’s heart lurched in him even though he had expected that. With a low moan, he knelt before Frodo at the side of the bed, flinging his arms around Frodo’s legs and burying his face on Frodo’s knees.
“Sam, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was gentle as he lifted Sam’s tear-streaked face up with both hands. “It’s only a dream, Sam love.”
But Sam was not comforted. The presentiment of loss in his heart was as strong as ever, and he covered Frodo’s hands with his own. “I could never bear it,” he sobbed, “’twould be the end of me.”
Frodo did not ask his meaning, but rising, drew Sam up too, embracing him with one hand tenderly running through Sam’s tousled curls. “What is all this, Sam love,” he asked quietly. “You’re all of an edge tonight. What makes you think a dream like that would ever come true?”
“Because I’ve had the same dream,” Sam continued raggedly, still unable to control his hiccupping sobs. “I’ve been to the Sea too, and you leave me, Frodo, you sail away, and I know you’ll never be back.”
Frodo drew back a moment at that, and gazed at Sam with an unreadable expression. His eyes were dark in the moonlit shadows, but the hand that caressed Sam’s wet cheek was tender and loving. “Do all dreams have to come true, Sam,” he whispered, studying Sam as if his answer meant everything. “Do we have naught to say about it?”
Sam shook his head, fighting for words. “I see how you watch the road, Frodo,” he gripped Frodo’s shoulders as he spoke, unable to keep the fears he had buried so deeply, hidden any longer. “It’s as if you don’t belong with the rest of us in the Shire, you never have, no ways. And then, I think on Bilbo, and…” and he stopped, struggling, his voice cracking in despair as he revealed his greatest fear. “One morning I’ll wake and find you gone.”
Then suddenly Sam found himself tightly held in Frodo’s arms, and Frodo’s mouth was on his, insistent and demanding. Sam yielded to his kiss eagerly, opening his mouth under Frodo’s, imploring, begging, matching Frodo’s passion with his own. As they kissed, Frodo’s quick hand was tugging Sam’s shirt from his pants, and was under it, running up his chest, hungry for the touch of him. Sam moaned helplessly, inflamed, as always, by that touch. One of his hands slipped from Frodo’s shoulder and, with practiced ease, rapidly undid the buttons of Frodo’s fine-spun shirt, desperate for the feel of that beloved flesh hidden underneath it. Shrugging his shirt gracefully from his shoulders, Frodo allowed Sam to strip it from him, never breaking off his fierce kiss.
Finally though, he broke away, breathing heavily and staring at Sam with almost an angry look, his slender hands firmly framing Sam’s face. “How can you say that, Sam? How can you think that?” he whispered intently. “Don’t you understand yet what you mean to me?” Frodo looked down for a moment, and when he looked up again, Sam was stunned to see tears beginning to slide from those lovely blue eyes. “All the joy I’ve ever known in my life, Sam, has come from being loved by you. How could you think that I would ever want to leave you?” Slender fingers gently stroked Sam’s cheeks, his lips. “But what if I was forced to leave you, Sam, what then?”
Sam felt his heart clench at Frodo’s words. He closed his eyes, leaning into Frodo’s touch and whispered, “I would follow you, Frodo-love. To the ends of the world. For all the rest of my days.” And suddenly he could no longer wait for the feel of Frodo in his arms. Quickly he loosened Frodo’s trousers and slid them off Frodo’s narrow torso. But Frodo was just as eager. He pulled at Sam’s shirt, not even pausing for all the buttons, but ripping some of them off in his haste. He quickly grabbed at Sam’s trousers and pulled them down and off, reaching in with an impatient hand to cup Sam.
At the feel of his touch, Sam, already unbearably hard and hurting, let out an inarticulate wail, and buried his face at the side of Frodo’s neck. “Oh, Frodo,” he gasped, and moaned again as Frodo strengthened his caressing hold. Frodo’s other hand held him tightly around the waist, and he could feel Frodo hard against his thigh. With a great effort, Sam lifted his head and found that Frodo’s eyes were fixed on his but tears were still sliding down his pale cheeks. “Frodo, oh Frodo, I need you tonight,” he begged, and Frodo understood.
He let go of Sam and pushed him back until Sam’s legs hit against the bed, and then Sam fell back, pulling Frodo on top of him. Frodo looked down at Sam, his dark curls framing his face and his expression both tender and intense. With deep passion he declared as he gazed into Sam’s eyes, “Never anyone but you in my bed, Sam. Never anyone but you in my arms.”
Bending over Sam, he kissed him passionately again, one hand around Sam’s neck and the other running down Sam’s chest, over his taut stomach muscles, until it reached the center of Sam’s being. Sam bucked up into Frodo’s hand, breaking away from Frodo’s mouth with another wail that he was no more able to stop than his breath, arching desperately up, so hungry, so wanting, already moistening in anticipation, and covered Frodo’s hand with both of his own, pushing hard as he could against Frodo’s hand. “Frodo, Frodo,” he cried out, his voice rising to nearly a keen, unable to stop his tears.
Nothing mattered to Sam any longer but the beloved presence over him, holding him, caressing him, stroking him. Blindly, he clutched at Frodo’s shoulders, his back, trying to press himself up into Frodo, to meld with him, to never more be apart. He felt Frodo’s hand move lower, sliding between his legs, and he lifted up his hips, allowing Frodo’s fingers access. And when they entered him, he cried out again in desperate need. Drawing Frodo’s hand frantically aside, he grasped Frodo’s hips, and drew and guided Frodo deep into himself, with no mind for the momentary pain. And there Frodo was, throbbing and pulsing within him, and the world fell away for Sam.
Wildly, he thrust himself up again and again, but Frodo answered with a steady intentness of his own, holding fast to Sam with that wiry strength of his that usually lay so well concealed, and driving both of them into a wildly intoxicating rhythm, until Sam dimly realized Frodo was repeating the words “Love you, Sam, love you,” as they moved, bound together, and he felt his heart suddenly shatter forever. He arched up with an inarticulate cry and spilled into Frodo’s hand, clutching Frodo’s shoulders so tightly that he was able to see the marks the next morning, though he knew it not now. With a final shuddering cry from Frodo, Sam opened his eyes to see Frodo fling his head back, arch up, stiffen, and then drop heavily down on him.
Collapsing at Sam’s side, Frodo pulled Sam’s head to his chest and gently stroked his face until Sam’s ragged gasps began to subside. He kissed Sam again and again on the forehead and held him close as Sam began to drift into an exhausted sleep. “I can’t imagine life without you, my dearest Sam,” Sam heard Frodo murmur tenderly over his head as he faded away. “Sleep now, my love.”
&&&&&&&&&
Gandalf arrived at Bag End the next morning. And as Sam sat in the parlor, at Frodo’s insistence, and listened to the wizard tell of the old ring of Bilbo’s, and what must be done with it, he watched Frodo’s face, lit by the early sun from the morning glory-wreathed parlor window. Frodo’s beautiful features showed a mixture of alarm and trepidation, but as Sam realized with growing dread, also anticipation.
He felt himself becoming numb and cold, and it seemed to him as if there were the harsh cries of birds in the distance that no-one but he could hear.
Summary: An AU start to the quest - prophecy or warning?
Rating: NC-17
Title: The Veracity of Dreams
Author: Elderberry Wine
Summary: An AU start to the quest - prophecy or warning?
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: F/S
The Veracity of Dreams
It was late afternoon on a midsummer’s day as Frodo Baggins walked slowly down Bagshot Row towards his home. The road was dusty as there had not been any rain for the last several days, and the bees were humming in the poppies that blossomed scarlet amid the grass at the side of the road. The shade of the tall yew planted alongside the road was welcome, even this late in the day, but Frodo’s mind was still occupied with the dilemma that he had been wrestling with for the last several hours, so he noticed not the flowers nor the bees. As he passed the familiar sight of Number 3, Bagshot Row, though, he looked up and ahead, as if by instinct, and saw Sam waiting, arms folded over the gate to Bag End, and gave a tired smile.
“Well, and there you are,” Sam smiled in return as Frodo entered the gate. “Come along now and not a word from you until you’ve had a bit of a rest.”
Throwing an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, he drew him around to the side of the smial. There was a bench in the side garden, near the kitchen door, with cushions and a shady arbor of rambling roses built over the top. Here Sam left Frodo, who dropped himself gratefully down, and then entered the kitchen. He returned in a moment with a glass of cool water and a dish of sugar dusted berries.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo sighed with a smile, “that’s perfect.”
Closing his eyes and leaning back against the soft cushions, he slowly drank the water, and popped a few berries in his mouth. Sam sat down on the bench next to Frodo, holding the dish for Frodo, and waited patiently.
Soon Frodo opened his eyes again and gave Sam another wry smile. “Well, I suppose you’re waiting to hear how it all turned out,” he messaged his temples slightly.
“Not all that well, I’m thinkin’,” Sam replied, watching him fondly.
“I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Frodo gave a small sigh. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
“Right enough,” Sam arose, lightly laying his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Rest a bit more then, I’ll be off for a bath. The stew’s on the fire and there’s naught to do for awhile.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Frodo replied gratefully, and drawing his legs up on the bench, laid back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Frodo awoke to find the sun was sinking lower in an orange and pink sky, and a light blanket had been laid over him as he slept. He swung his legs around off the bench and stretched slowly. For all he still looked as if he’d barely come of age, he had begun to feel his true age when he arose off of a hard bed. Yawning, and throwing the blanket over his shoulders, he entered the kitchen in search of Sam.
Sam, curls still damp from his bath, was humming lightly to himself as he stirred the stew. He turned as Frodo, entering the kitchen, yawned once more.
“Sam, you shouldn’t let me nod off like that.” Frodo complained affectionately, walking over to Sam as he stirred, and giving him a hug. “An old hobbit like myself stiffens up so fast on a hard bench.”
Sam continued to stir, but gave Frodo a quick kiss on the cheek. “Old hobbit,” he snorted. “That’ll be the day. You still look as though you’re bare out o’your tweens. I’ll be looking’ like the gaffer afore you look t’be forty.”
“Looks are one thing,” Frodo retorted, walking over and sitting down at the kitchen table. “My back’s another. All right, Sam, what do you have for me to do?”
“The peas, if you don’t mind,” Sam indicated with a wave of his hand a large bowl and a pile of pea pods on the kitchen table.
“Of course.” Frodo placed the bowl in his lap and deftly began to split the pods and strip the peas into the earthenware bowl. “Did you get all the blackberries today? I’ll give you a hand tomorrow if there’s still some left.”
“No need, only a bush or two left.” Sam scooped up a spoonful of the stew and tasted it thoughtfully. “Ah, that’ll do.”
“Enough peas, Sam?” Frodo held up the bowl for Sam’s inspection.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d thought I’d spare a few for the gaffer o’the morrow,” Sam inspected Frodo’s output.
Frodo resumed his shelling. “So, Marigold still hasn’t convinced him to move in with her and her family?” he asked, reminded of an earlier topic of conversation.
“Ah, looks as not,” Sam continued to stir, staring out the kitchen window at the darkening sky.
“Well, you know, Sam, as I said before,” Frodo waved a pea pod vaguely in the air, “this smial is certainly large enough to…”
But before he could finish, Sam, chuckling, turned to smile at him fondly. “For all he thinks I’m over my station, Frodo…”
Frodo rose at that, placing the bowl on table, and crossing over to Sam, wrapped his arms around him and kissed a willing Sam soundly under the ear. “Your station is right here, Sam,” he spoke softly, resting his forehead against the back of Sam’s head. “I hope I’ve finally convinced you of that.”
“Aye, that you have, love,” Sam replied, twisting his head to kiss him lightly again. “But I’m afraid the gaffer is an entirely different matter.”
“Your gaffer is, and ever has been, a hobbit of firm principles,” Frodo laughed affectionately. “As are you, my dear Sam. And I believe one of those is beer, not wine, with coney stew. Would that be right, now?” he teasingly nibbled Sam’s neck.
Sam made as if to swing around entirely at that, with a playful growl, but Frodo laughed and quickly moved away. “All right, to the back cellar I go. And beer it shall be.”
Dinner was quickly laid out on the kitchen table, and Frodo placed two mugs of cool brew next to the plates. Both hobbits savored their dinner in companionable silence, other than an appreciative remark from Frodo. “Rosemary?” he inquired of Sam, after a few spoonfuls.
“Aye,” Sam chuckled. “You’re developin’ a rare taste for herbs, Frodo.”
“Just trying to keep up with you, Sam dear,” Frodo smiled affectionately. “Quite tasty, too. An excellent idea.”
After the bowls and plates were scraped quite clean, Frodo pushed back his chair with a contented sigh. “It’s a lovely evening, Sam,” he got up from his chair, stretching. “Let’s go out for a bit.”
“Why don’t you refill the mugs, and I’ll rinse off the dishes first,” Sam suggested, rising as well.
Mourning doves were cooing in the back hedge and a few last swallows soared up in the twilight sky for a evening meal as the two hobbits returned to the arbor in the kitchen garden. The secluded cushioned bench was one of their favorite resting spots on a warm summer’s evening. Mugs in hand, they easily settled into their customary positions, Sam with his legs stretched out ahead of him, resting them after a long day of bending and crouching, and Frodo curled next to him, head resting against Sam’s shoulder.
“So what was the fuss between Branberry and Barleybuck about this time?” Sam prompted after they had watched the settling birds for awhile.
“Well, I don’t think even Bilbo could convince those two to make peace,” Frodo sighed, “let alone someone they both still appear to consider an upstart and an outsider.”
Sam huffed with indignation. “And who else would have a right t’settle it?” he grumbled. “That’d be Baggins land they’d be farmin’. Mayhap they like to settle the matter with Lobelia instead.”
Frodo chuckled at that thought. “I’d enjoy watching that, I would,” he admitted. “But it’s the same matter they’ve been arguing about ever since that heavy rain last winter widened the stream that runs between their farms. And now that they both have lost a bit of land, both equally mind you, they each think they’re entitled to that new island that sits in the middle of the stream. Tell me, Sam, does anything ever please those two?”
“Naught I’ve ever heard tell of,” Sam answered with a frown, and then added musingly, “unless it be…” He took another sip of his beer, and then continued thoughtfully, “I hear tell they’re both uncommonly fond of a bit of trout.”
“Yes,” Frodo prompted him, with curiosity, “and…”
“Well, trout likes it all shady-like,” Sam went on, staring up at the first stars that were just beginning to show in the violet sky. “And there’s naught in the way of shady spots near their farms. Unless they make it so,” he concluded.
“You mean the island?” Frodo questioned him with interest.
“Aye,” Sam smiled over at him. “It’s naught but a bit of land, too small to farm, but if they planted it o’er with bushes, it’d give the trout a good place to hide. Then each could fish their side of the stream and be done with this silly quarrel.”
“Sam, you’re a marvel,” Frodo said with admiration, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek. “That’s perfect. I’ll propose it tomorrow. You really should be the one handling these matters,” he slid his head down to rest in Sam’s lap. “You’re so much more of a diplomat than I am.”
Sam placed Frodo’s empty mug on the ground at the side of the bench and affectionately cupped Frodo’s face in his hand. “The only job I’d ever want is what I have, me dear. Just your gardener, that’d be it.”
“It’s been a long time since that’s all you were to me, Sam love,” Frodo murmured, running his hand through Sam’s curls and drawing him down for a lingering kiss.
They had been together long enough now, nearly ten years, to develop a settled and comfortable pattern of domesticity. It was a rare evening that left a trail of strewn clothing down the hall to the bedroom, although it did still occasionally occur thus, especially when Frodo had been away on one of his business trips or rare visits to his relatives without Sam. The more usual scenario called for a quiet evening, usually either with Frodo reading to Sam as he caught up on mending and other assorted household tasks, or with Sam reading to Frodo as the latter restored and repaired his quills or pipes. And on a lovely summer’s eve such as this one, Frodo felt there was nothing finer than listening to Sam read from his own store of favorite poems and tales that Sam himself had carefully lettered into a worn leather journal. Frodo would watch the glowing fireflies lace themselves in and out of the white moonflowers, listening contently to Sam’s melodious voice, as long as the last bit of light remained. And then they would go in.
In no time at all, they would be once again in the large feather bed in the master bedroom of Bag End, and Sam would gaze down at Frodo’s pale delicate features in the moonlight and wonder how he had come to have everything in the world he wanted right here in his arms every night. And Frodo would lift his arms up and twine them around Sam’s neck and know without a shade of doubt that he had finally found the home he had sought all his life, here in Sam’s loving embrace.
They would begin to move then, in the rhythm that pleased them best, pausing always for endearments, and kisses that became deeper, and lasted longer, until they were both caught up in the touch, the push, the firm hold, the sure stroking, the arching need to be even closer, and the inevitable final thrusting of love. And when their passion had finally flowed from them in blissful abandon, they would lay together, still tightly wrapped, caressing each other’s faces and softly murmuring each other’s names, as there were no dearer sounds in all the world that those. Then eventually, as they were cooled by the evening air that softly rustled the bedroom curtains, Sam would reach over to a small stack of towels kept near the bed, and ready them both for sleep. It always found them quickly, nestled together.
&&&&&&&&&
Frodo found himself standing on the streets of a city which he had never seen. Tall gleaming white spires and battlements soared into the grey sky, but the streets were empty. This was not a city ever made by hobbits, but by which other race, he knew not.
He did not know why he was here, nor what he had to do, and there was a chill to the air that had penetrated him so that he could feel it close around his heart. Frodo began to walk the silent streets alone, searching for answers, or at least companions, but found neither.
All he heard was the strange cries of unseen birds, and he realized that he knew the pain of irretrievable loss.
&&&&&&&&&
Sam awoke early the next morning with a troubled heart. His sleep had been restless, and his dreams had filled him with foreboding, but he could remember nothing of them.
Shrugging off his mood as best he could, he arose carefully, trying not to awaken Frodo. Frodo lay at his side, twisted and bound by the sheets, with his face down and away from Sam. Sam gave him a rueful smile, as he himself quietly dressed in the clothes that he had laid out the night before. It looked as though Frodo’s sleep had been not much more restful than his own. “Mayhap the rosemary was a bit overmuch,” he reflected as he headed down the hall to the kitchen. It seemed right enough the night before, though.
Through the breakfast preparations, Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy air that seemed to have gripped him this morning. He burned his thumb on the hot skillet, and the cream seemed off as well, though it wasn’t at all curdled. He carried the hot water into the bathroom for Frodo’s bath, but Frodo was still not up. Not wishing Frodo’s breakfast to become cold, he returned to the bedroom to check on him.
Frodo was even more twisted in the sheets, still asleep, but with a troubled expression on his face. Sam bent over him, gently shaking his shoulder and calling his name. Frodo awoke with a start and for a brief moment, stared at Sam as though he was a total stranger. But even as the impression hit Sam, it was quickly erased with a warm smile and yawn from Frodo.
Sam shook off his mood deliberately, and said, “Bath or breakfast first, Frodo? One or t’other, I’m afraid one’ll be cold.”
“The breakfast, then” Frodo laughed. “The bath will be easier to remedy.”
Frodo left Bag End at mid-morning to mediate once more between the quarrelling farmers, and Sam set to his chores in the garden. But the tools all seemed to suddenly want oiling, the seedlings were not growing as they should, and Sam was feeling a vague oppressiveness in the air, as though a summer thunderstorm lurked on the horizon. All the world felt sedated and stifled, and when Tom Cotton stopped by mid-afternoon, Sam was more than glad for a bit of change. Frodo was not due back until the evening, and he was grateful for a chance to take a break at the Green Dragon with some congenial company to distract himself from his troubled thoughts.
He and Tom entered the cool, dim room to be greeted cheerily by the publican, who inquired politely after Mr. Frodo’s health before handing the two of them foaming mugs of the Green Dragon’s finest. They found the corner table where the gaffer was comfortably situated with a crony, old Marley Proudfoot, for the afternoon’s customary.
“Well, Da, and how be it w’ye?” Sam greeted his father.
“Naught different from this morn,” the gaffer returned peaceably, drawing his pipe from his weskit pocket. “And Himself?”
“Still trying t’settle that hash between Branberry and Barleybuck,” Sam shook his head, taking a long draught of his beer.
“Ah, there’s a pair o’blockheads for ye,” Marley let out a low rumbling chuckle. “If they didn’t have t’other to bother, they’d be no point to living for that pair, I’d wager.”
“Aye,” the gaffer agreed with a snort and a long draw on his pipe. “”Tis a waste to have to spoil Mr. Frodo’s day with that lot o’foolishness.”
Tom swung his legs around and settled down next to Sam. “Cousin o’mine just came up from Tookland way,” he remarked, hands clasped around his mug. “Some strange doin’s in those parts.”
“Aye, I’ve been hearin’ a bit o’that meself,” Marley commented with interest. “Tell, Tom, what’d be his news?”
“Well, you know as they’ve always had those Elves passing through that bit of the Shire. But Ged, he says they’re comin’ through more and more often like.”
“As if they’re all leavin’ us,” said Sam softly, staring sightlessly into his mug.
“And what of it?” the gaffer retorted a trifle sharply. “It’s naught they’ve ever done for the likes o’us, I say.”
Sam sighed noiselessly and said no more. He’d had this out with his gaffer too many times. There was no point in trying to convince him that there was value in beauty alone.
“That’s not all of it,” Marley continued intently, not noticing Sam and his gaffer’s exchange. “I hear tell Rangers have been seen up north.”
“Rangers?” Tom let out a low whistle. “I thought as they were naught but old tales for the little ones.”
“Ah, no, them Rangers are real enough,” Marley lowered his voice. “And it’s always a sign that summat is up when you hear tell o’them.”
“Then what manner o’folk be they?” Tom asked with curiosity, leaning forward on the bench.
“Great Men, from a long forgotten house,” Sam answered slowly, and the others swung around to stare at him.
“How be you knowin’ that?” the gaffer asked sharply. “That be out of Mr. Frodo’s tales?”
“Aye,” Sam admitted, glancing back down at the table. “It’s said that they stand guard about the Shire and only appear if there’s trouble about.”
The gaffer gave a derisive snort. “We hobbits can take care of ourselves, no mistake,” he declared derisively.
“No, the lad has heard a’right.” Unexpectedly, Marley supported Sam. “That’s the tale I’ve always heard.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked Tom, who had been following the conversation intently.
“No knowin’,” Marley responded mysteriously, “but then trouble always arrives soon enough.”
Sam walked back to Bag End that afternoon haunted by the feeling that there was something important that he was not remembering, and it had to do with Frodo. As he approached the front door of the smial, he saw with surprise and dismay that it stood ajar and open. How long had it stood open? He himself had not used it that morning but had come and gone through the kitchen door, as was his usual habit. He suddenly thought of Bilbo. Could it be that he had returned after all these years? He entered hesitantly, closing the door behind, and slowly walked from room to room, but there was no trace of anyone in the smial other than himself.
“Frodo just must not have closed it tight behind,” he thought to himself uneasily, after checking the last room. “What a pother about naught, Sam Gamgee,” he told himself severely, but that did nothing to erase the growing unrest that had held him all day. He wandered to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations and found himself staring sightlessly out of the kitchen window down dusty Bagshot Row. Shaking himself once more out of his daze, he picked up the potatoes and carrots that he’d left out earlier, and sitting down to the table, began to pare them for the evening meal.
Frodo came home late, with a closed and preoccupied look about him that Sam recognized all too well. He greeted Frodo as he walked around in through the kitchen door with a brief touch to the shoulder and no more. When Frodo was in this mood, it was best to let him be for awhile. Sam set out a bottle of wine from the cellar and served up dinner. Frodo ate but sparingly, and soon retreated to the garden, with the bottle and a glass in hand. Sam busied himself with cleaning up, and only then joined Frodo.
Frodo was seated on the bench, knees drawn up, with a half-full glass in hand. He said nothing as Sam sat down beside him, but stared off unseeingly at the oaks that crowned the ridge past Bag End. Sam waited patiently, knowing that Frodo needed time to work through whatever was troubling him.
The twilight sky was beginning to darken to dark violet when Frodo finally gave a sigh and turned to Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said ruefully. “I haven’t been much company tonight, I’m afraid.”
“No need to trouble yourself,” Sam replied affectionately. “There was summat on your mind, I knew that.”
“I suppose,” Frodo answered moodily, staring off towards the hill once again, “though I couldn’t tell you what it was.” He sighed again, burying his chin on his knees.
Sam stared up into the sky as well, watching the evening stars faintly start to appear in the darkening sky.
“Are you happy, Sam?” Frodo asked suddenly, not looking at him.
Sam turned quickly with a sudden start. The dread that he had felt all day instantly returned with a heart-stopping jolt.
“What would all this be about?” he asked warily.
Giving an almost imperceptible start, Frodo contritely reached over and took Sam’s hand in his. “I’m not making any sense tonight, Sam. That matter about the island wore me out.”
“They didn’t agree?” Sam asked cautiously, gripping Frodo’s hand lightly.
“No, it wasn’t that,” Frodo admitted, threading his fingers through Sam’s. “They finally agreed in the end, after haggling the whole day. But I just felt as though I wanted to be far away.”
He paused and then continued slowly. “I don’t think I want to do this for the rest of my life, Sam, solving farmer‘s quarrels. I know it‘s my duty, as Master of Bag End, but sometimes it just seems so unimportant and useless.” He halted for a moment and then continued, staring at their intertwined hands. “There’s more to this world than that, and I…” he broke off suddenly at that and said no more.
Sam’s rough fingers tightened instinctively around Frodo’s nervous nail-bitten ones as the dream he had kept out of his thoughts all day long came back to him with heart-wrenching suddenness.
&&&&&&&&&
He was standing on a low sandy hill. Around him were hillocks of coarse grass, and there was a strange tang in the air. Ahead of him was water, coldly grey, with white foam, and though he’d never seen it, Sam knew it must be the Sea. Large white birds called out harsh cries as they wheeled overhead, and the winds blew chill and unforgiving about him. Something white was far off on the horizon, and he knew he had to watch it as it vanished slowly from sight.
There was no doubt in his heart whatsoever. Frodo was on that far-off white ship and Frodo had left him forever. Where he was going, Sam knew not, nor why, but the conviction was unshakable in his heart that Frodo had left him. He was utterly numb, with grief that was beyond any expression, and could only watch as all his happiness and hope disappeared forever.
&&&&&&&&&
When they went into their bedroom that night, Sam crossed over to the window and paused. He was not at all sleepy, but seized with a strange anxiety and restlessness. Frodo silently sat on the edge of their bed, watching Sam.
With a sudden resolve, Sam turned around and looked intently at Frodo, whose features were only partially lit by the one candle that was burning next to the bed. And even though the answer might tell Sam more than he wished to know, he could not stop the question. “Tell me, Frodo,” he asked carefully, “when you dream, where are you?”
Frodo said nothing for a moment, returning Sam’s look as though considering his answer. Then, looking down with his dark lashes casting deep shadows across his face, he quietly admitted, “The Sea.”
Sam’s heart lurched in him even though he had expected that. With a low moan, he knelt before Frodo at the side of the bed, flinging his arms around Frodo’s legs and burying his face on Frodo’s knees.
“Sam, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was gentle as he lifted Sam’s tear-streaked face up with both hands. “It’s only a dream, Sam love.”
But Sam was not comforted. The presentiment of loss in his heart was as strong as ever, and he covered Frodo’s hands with his own. “I could never bear it,” he sobbed, “’twould be the end of me.”
Frodo did not ask his meaning, but rising, drew Sam up too, embracing him with one hand tenderly running through Sam’s tousled curls. “What is all this, Sam love,” he asked quietly. “You’re all of an edge tonight. What makes you think a dream like that would ever come true?”
“Because I’ve had the same dream,” Sam continued raggedly, still unable to control his hiccupping sobs. “I’ve been to the Sea too, and you leave me, Frodo, you sail away, and I know you’ll never be back.”
Frodo drew back a moment at that, and gazed at Sam with an unreadable expression. His eyes were dark in the moonlit shadows, but the hand that caressed Sam’s wet cheek was tender and loving. “Do all dreams have to come true, Sam,” he whispered, studying Sam as if his answer meant everything. “Do we have naught to say about it?”
Sam shook his head, fighting for words. “I see how you watch the road, Frodo,” he gripped Frodo’s shoulders as he spoke, unable to keep the fears he had buried so deeply, hidden any longer. “It’s as if you don’t belong with the rest of us in the Shire, you never have, no ways. And then, I think on Bilbo, and…” and he stopped, struggling, his voice cracking in despair as he revealed his greatest fear. “One morning I’ll wake and find you gone.”
Then suddenly Sam found himself tightly held in Frodo’s arms, and Frodo’s mouth was on his, insistent and demanding. Sam yielded to his kiss eagerly, opening his mouth under Frodo’s, imploring, begging, matching Frodo’s passion with his own. As they kissed, Frodo’s quick hand was tugging Sam’s shirt from his pants, and was under it, running up his chest, hungry for the touch of him. Sam moaned helplessly, inflamed, as always, by that touch. One of his hands slipped from Frodo’s shoulder and, with practiced ease, rapidly undid the buttons of Frodo’s fine-spun shirt, desperate for the feel of that beloved flesh hidden underneath it. Shrugging his shirt gracefully from his shoulders, Frodo allowed Sam to strip it from him, never breaking off his fierce kiss.
Finally though, he broke away, breathing heavily and staring at Sam with almost an angry look, his slender hands firmly framing Sam’s face. “How can you say that, Sam? How can you think that?” he whispered intently. “Don’t you understand yet what you mean to me?” Frodo looked down for a moment, and when he looked up again, Sam was stunned to see tears beginning to slide from those lovely blue eyes. “All the joy I’ve ever known in my life, Sam, has come from being loved by you. How could you think that I would ever want to leave you?” Slender fingers gently stroked Sam’s cheeks, his lips. “But what if I was forced to leave you, Sam, what then?”
Sam felt his heart clench at Frodo’s words. He closed his eyes, leaning into Frodo’s touch and whispered, “I would follow you, Frodo-love. To the ends of the world. For all the rest of my days.” And suddenly he could no longer wait for the feel of Frodo in his arms. Quickly he loosened Frodo’s trousers and slid them off Frodo’s narrow torso. But Frodo was just as eager. He pulled at Sam’s shirt, not even pausing for all the buttons, but ripping some of them off in his haste. He quickly grabbed at Sam’s trousers and pulled them down and off, reaching in with an impatient hand to cup Sam.
At the feel of his touch, Sam, already unbearably hard and hurting, let out an inarticulate wail, and buried his face at the side of Frodo’s neck. “Oh, Frodo,” he gasped, and moaned again as Frodo strengthened his caressing hold. Frodo’s other hand held him tightly around the waist, and he could feel Frodo hard against his thigh. With a great effort, Sam lifted his head and found that Frodo’s eyes were fixed on his but tears were still sliding down his pale cheeks. “Frodo, oh Frodo, I need you tonight,” he begged, and Frodo understood.
He let go of Sam and pushed him back until Sam’s legs hit against the bed, and then Sam fell back, pulling Frodo on top of him. Frodo looked down at Sam, his dark curls framing his face and his expression both tender and intense. With deep passion he declared as he gazed into Sam’s eyes, “Never anyone but you in my bed, Sam. Never anyone but you in my arms.”
Bending over Sam, he kissed him passionately again, one hand around Sam’s neck and the other running down Sam’s chest, over his taut stomach muscles, until it reached the center of Sam’s being. Sam bucked up into Frodo’s hand, breaking away from Frodo’s mouth with another wail that he was no more able to stop than his breath, arching desperately up, so hungry, so wanting, already moistening in anticipation, and covered Frodo’s hand with both of his own, pushing hard as he could against Frodo’s hand. “Frodo, Frodo,” he cried out, his voice rising to nearly a keen, unable to stop his tears.
Nothing mattered to Sam any longer but the beloved presence over him, holding him, caressing him, stroking him. Blindly, he clutched at Frodo’s shoulders, his back, trying to press himself up into Frodo, to meld with him, to never more be apart. He felt Frodo’s hand move lower, sliding between his legs, and he lifted up his hips, allowing Frodo’s fingers access. And when they entered him, he cried out again in desperate need. Drawing Frodo’s hand frantically aside, he grasped Frodo’s hips, and drew and guided Frodo deep into himself, with no mind for the momentary pain. And there Frodo was, throbbing and pulsing within him, and the world fell away for Sam.
Wildly, he thrust himself up again and again, but Frodo answered with a steady intentness of his own, holding fast to Sam with that wiry strength of his that usually lay so well concealed, and driving both of them into a wildly intoxicating rhythm, until Sam dimly realized Frodo was repeating the words “Love you, Sam, love you,” as they moved, bound together, and he felt his heart suddenly shatter forever. He arched up with an inarticulate cry and spilled into Frodo’s hand, clutching Frodo’s shoulders so tightly that he was able to see the marks the next morning, though he knew it not now. With a final shuddering cry from Frodo, Sam opened his eyes to see Frodo fling his head back, arch up, stiffen, and then drop heavily down on him.
Collapsing at Sam’s side, Frodo pulled Sam’s head to his chest and gently stroked his face until Sam’s ragged gasps began to subside. He kissed Sam again and again on the forehead and held him close as Sam began to drift into an exhausted sleep. “I can’t imagine life without you, my dearest Sam,” Sam heard Frodo murmur tenderly over his head as he faded away. “Sleep now, my love.”
&&&&&&&&&
Gandalf arrived at Bag End the next morning. And as Sam sat in the parlor, at Frodo’s insistence, and listened to the wizard tell of the old ring of Bilbo’s, and what must be done with it, he watched Frodo’s face, lit by the early sun from the morning glory-wreathed parlor window. Frodo’s beautiful features showed a mixture of alarm and trepidation, but as Sam realized with growing dread, also anticipation.
He felt himself becoming numb and cold, and it seemed to him as if there were the harsh cries of birds in the distance that no-one but he could hear.
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Evil Grin
And it is getting easier. Is that a good thing? (Frodo is definately smirking now.)
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I love this little hobbit family in the first part, so familiar, so well-known.
And then … poor Sam *sigh* - you can FEEL his desperation and it hurts so much.
Heartbreaking, thrilling and so sad.
Brilliant, my dear, absolutely brilliant.
Your stories are always a pair of open arms- Thank you, sweetheart!
Another time you left me breathless …
*hugs and snuggles*
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It's probably the closest to my reaction to the end of LOTR - did it have to end that way? And poor Sam - how hard it must be to love a restless soul like Frodo.
Thank you once again for letting me look at these with new eyes.
*hugs you back*
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This was actually painful to read, after so many stories of sweet domesticity and (comparatively) small troubles. But it's almost time for Frodo and Sam to begin their quest, and this sets the mood most vividly. So much fear on Sam's part, and yet his vast love for Frodo leaves no room for doubt as to his place. And it is clear that Frodo is already half-gone from the Shire, although his love for Sam grounds him.
And there in the distance is the Sea, beckoning Frodo, menacing Sam. And the question of what will happen when they are at its shore...
Beautifully written, thank you!