elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2005-12-05 10:55 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2005-12-05 10:55 pm
New fic, new community!
Hi, there, y'all.
My first fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
waymeet is here.
Author: Elderberry Wine
Title: Black Dog
Challenge: Foreyule Challenge
Rating: PG 13
Pairing/Characters: F/S
Warnings: Slash implied, angst
Summary: First story in post-quest series, Grey Hills and Green, which follows Shire Morns and Far From Home. Based on old English folk superstition.
Sam eyed Frodo’s back with concern. As usual, it was straight and showed no sign, to others, of weariness, but Sam read his shoulders, and knew that Frodo had pushed himself too far. Sam drooped his head, sighing quietly to himself. There was no point in discussing the matter, since Frodo would simply deny it, and his gaze would wander past Sam again, and Sam could not bear that, not anymore.
So he followed as always, and heartily wished that the South Farthing could manage to take care of its own business. Especially since it was nearing the end of the first week of October.
&&&&&
It had been several days since they had left Bag End. The business at hand, as trivial as it seemed to Sam, had been deemed of a level of importance to demand the presence of the mayor of Hobbiton, and Frodo had obliged. Thus it was that they found themselves in the small grey town of Cottonbottom, to the south and not far from the hills that led to the western reaches of Middle Earth, but far indeed from the comfortable environs of Hobbiton. There was only a small inn, with but one room, and a couple of beds, to be occupied by such travelers who managed to find themselves in that forsaken hamlet. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they found themselves, that damp night, the only overnight patrons.
Wearily, they caught a quick bite to eat, and a rapidly downed mug, before accepting a candle and making their way to the small room burrowed into the hill. It did seem clean, at least, to Sam’s fastidious eye, and the blankets were heaped on both wide beds in a reassuringly orderly and neatly arranged fashion. The jackets and weskits came off, and the trousers as well, but a public room such as this, even though unpopulated by any other travelers other than themselves, still demanded a certain amount of propriety. The bed was hard and faintly fragrant, to be sure, but both of them had certainly known less desirable accommodations.
Pinching out the candle, Sam crawled into the bed beside Frodo with a sigh. He was deeply tired, with a strange lethargy, and couldn’t help pushing closer to Frodo, yearning for his touch. And as always, Frodo understood. He felt Frodo’s strong, but all too thin, arms close around him, and felt Frodo’s light kiss on his forehead.
“Sleep well, Sam dearest,” he heard Frodo’s low tender murmur. “Tomorrow will be a long day, I’m afraid, and we both need to rest well.”
So he tucked his head into that irresistible junction at the base of Frodo’s neck, breathed in the essence that was Frodo’s alone, and felt Frodo’s embrace soothe him once more, warm, secure and protective around his tense shoulders, until his breathing slowed and his heart calmed, and he drifted off to sleep.
&&&&&
The following day was, as expected, long and tedious. Cottonbottom was, apparently, still feeling affronted by virtue of being, most undeniably, abandoned to its own devices during that black and bleak year of the Troubles. So as recovery had begun in the more prosperous regions of the Shire, the testy demand for assistance had become more difficult to ignore, until at last Frodo, by virtue of being the Mayor of Hobbiton, had been compelled to travel to the bleak region and pledge the support of the folk of Hobbiton to the less prosperous farthing. It was a wearisome process however, with the seeming need for several evenings of speeches and dreary dinners, until finally, with only a few evenings yet remaining, Sam looked forward to the opportunity of a quiet night to themselves with a fervent anticipation.
&&&&&
It was dank that night, with a dampness that bit into the bones, and a fog that crept through the narrow streets at knee level. Sam turned toward their inn, an arm firmly linked with Frodo’s elbow, and glanced warily through the swirling mist, lit only occasionally by the dull gleam of a shuttered window. But it was not their surroundings that alarmed him nearly as much as the slight tremor he could feel in Frodo’s arm, joined so closely together with his. Only a few more nights of this, he reminded himself grimly, and we can leave. And Cottonbottom can mind its own affairs once again, and not be fretting us. After all, that same October date was approaching again, the one that had alarmed him so the previous year.
He wished that he could consider it the merest fantasy, yet he couldn’t forget the October before that, when he had helplessly watched Frodo bravely stand against unutterable evil, and suffer the foul weapon’s bite into his flesh. This past year, Frodo had had a couple of bad days towards the end of the first week of October, and Sam longed to call it merely a coincidence, but at the bottom of his heart, there was a deep and gnawing fear that he could not exactly name, and that he did not wish to pursue. But now he wished heartily that he had stood more firm against this trip, especially during this desolate time of year, and that both he and Frodo were back home at Bag End.
“ ‘Tis no good wishin’ for the stream to run backwards,” he heard his gaffer’s voice in his head, and what was done was done. He gave a thankful sigh, however, and an encouraging wordless murmur to Frodo, as the faded swinging sign of their inn came into view. Soon enough, then, they could be seated by a snug fire, with a mug in hand and a bit of a pipe, perhaps, and then if the stars continued to look favorably down upon them, they would not have any company once more in the common room in which they had been sleeping. Not that Sam had any particular plans, but he would be that grateful for some peace in Frodo’s arms, and the lack of any other guests.
It was just then that the black glistening shape quickly passed them, and faded into the shadows before Sam had a chance to register any other impression other than a fleeting sense of an animal, wild and powerful. But the eyes of the small lad, who had been holding the inn door open for them, widened in fear, and he immediately shrank against the side of the round doorway. “Barghest,” he hissed, and he looked apprehensively up to the two travelers with terror still in his eyes.
Frodo seemed not to hear, and wearily entered the shabby inn, throwing himself in a seat near the fire and closing his eyes. But Sam hung back, watching the innkeeper’s son with trepidation. “What did you say now, lad?” he asked, with foreboding.
The child swallowed nervously, but firmly met his gaze. “Barghest,” he whispered once again. “The black dog.”
“’Tis but a baseless superstition,” Sam replied, watching the young face intently. “’Twas only a mongrel, that managed to find a stream hereabouts.”
“’Tain’t no stream here,” the young hobbit spoke in a low but earnest tone, with something very close to pity in his eyes. “Nor no pond, noways. It’d be the black dog, right enough, sir.”
Sam quickly stifled the rising sense of panic. ‘Twas but an old grammer’s tale, naught to be worret about. There were many a dog, in these out of the way parts, and some would be black, sure enough. And it was hard to imagine that they wouldn’t occasionally find themselves wet. So why he should feel that it was an omen of death was beyond his understanding, but those tales of his childhood were hard to shake off, and the child’s expression, that of fear and pity mixed in an innocent but convincing blend, refused to be disregarded.
Without any words that night, he kissed Frodo over and over, nearly frantic, and they lay close together in the strange bed, and Frodo, with infinite patience, returned his kisses lovingly, and murmured reassurances in a low voice, and stroked Sam’s back soothingly, holding him quite close, until Sam was finally able to fall into sleep.
&&&&&
It was late the next day, as well, as they returned once more to the inn, and the clammy mist swirled around them once again in the fading light, as Sam glanced fearfully about. It was sheer nonsense, he chided himself fiercely, the tale of a child, and the mere coincidence of a stray mongrel, but when the dark shape appeared in the nearby alley, it was all Sam could do to keep from breaking into a run and dragging a weary but unsuspecting Frodo along with him. He resolutely had refused to gaze in its direction, but the barest glimpse of glistening slick black fur, and glowing yellow eyes, were impossible for him to put out of his mind.
Gruffly, he tried to put the matter in proper perspective as they entered the inn, and gave a knowing nod to the innkeeper. “Plagued with stray dogs, be you? There’s be a nasty lookin’ black one a’followin’ us these past few nights.”
He was completely unprepared for the way the innkeeper’s face drained of color, as he leant heavily against the stout wooden bar. “Black, says you?” the innkeeper whispered, sorrow written visibly across his face. “Mayhap it’d be time to be settin’ off for home, good sirs.”
“No,” Sam murmured stubbornly, shaking his head with a frown. “ ‘Tis but a stray, and naught mysterious about it at all, and that’s a fact.”
“Folks’d not be havin’ dogs in these parts; there’d be no need,” the innkeeper, his expression not changing, mentioned gently. “It’d be a long road home for you, good sirs, I’d be thinkin’.”
“But he’s all right, really, just that tired, still,” Sam whispered then, the fears that had been churning inside of him for months suddenly rising unbidden to the surface. “He’s just tired,” he repeated brokenly, unconsciously reaching a hand out to the stranger for what reassurance he could find.
But there was none to be found. “Take him home,” the weathered face of the innkeeper watched him carefully, his harsh voice strangely gentle. “Mayhap, it’s best so, good sir. There’s weariness and pain aplenty, in this world o’ours, and the black dog, he’s not always unwelcome.”
“No,” Sam gasped, fighting desperately to keep his composure. “It’s not like that, not at all. He just needs a bit of rest.”
The innkeeper’s face shut at Sam‘s words. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. You’d be knowin’ best, to be sure.”
Sam turned then, anxious to find Frodo, but he was no longer in the common room.
&&&&&
It had taken long hours for Frodo to fall asleep, for the stress of their mission, and increasing pain that was beginning to wrack him once again, had both conspired to keep sleep from him. Late in the night, it finally found him, long after an exhausted and saddened Sam, the unexplained tears dried upon his face, had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped about Frodo.
Frodo drifted off at last, then, and dreamed of Bag End. There were blue morning glories wound about the windows, and the smell of bread baking, and Sam greeted him at the kitchen door. He was smiling at Frodo, with that sweet smile that had never failed to melt Frodo’s heart, and Frodo reached out for him, and knew that he held love in his arms.
My first fic for
waymeet is here.Author: Elderberry Wine
Title: Black Dog
Challenge: Foreyule Challenge
Rating: PG 13
Pairing/Characters: F/S
Warnings: Slash implied, angst
Summary: First story in post-quest series, Grey Hills and Green, which follows Shire Morns and Far From Home. Based on old English folk superstition.
Sam eyed Frodo’s back with concern. As usual, it was straight and showed no sign, to others, of weariness, but Sam read his shoulders, and knew that Frodo had pushed himself too far. Sam drooped his head, sighing quietly to himself. There was no point in discussing the matter, since Frodo would simply deny it, and his gaze would wander past Sam again, and Sam could not bear that, not anymore.
So he followed as always, and heartily wished that the South Farthing could manage to take care of its own business. Especially since it was nearing the end of the first week of October.
&&&&&
It had been several days since they had left Bag End. The business at hand, as trivial as it seemed to Sam, had been deemed of a level of importance to demand the presence of the mayor of Hobbiton, and Frodo had obliged. Thus it was that they found themselves in the small grey town of Cottonbottom, to the south and not far from the hills that led to the western reaches of Middle Earth, but far indeed from the comfortable environs of Hobbiton. There was only a small inn, with but one room, and a couple of beds, to be occupied by such travelers who managed to find themselves in that forsaken hamlet. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they found themselves, that damp night, the only overnight patrons.
Wearily, they caught a quick bite to eat, and a rapidly downed mug, before accepting a candle and making their way to the small room burrowed into the hill. It did seem clean, at least, to Sam’s fastidious eye, and the blankets were heaped on both wide beds in a reassuringly orderly and neatly arranged fashion. The jackets and weskits came off, and the trousers as well, but a public room such as this, even though unpopulated by any other travelers other than themselves, still demanded a certain amount of propriety. The bed was hard and faintly fragrant, to be sure, but both of them had certainly known less desirable accommodations.
Pinching out the candle, Sam crawled into the bed beside Frodo with a sigh. He was deeply tired, with a strange lethargy, and couldn’t help pushing closer to Frodo, yearning for his touch. And as always, Frodo understood. He felt Frodo’s strong, but all too thin, arms close around him, and felt Frodo’s light kiss on his forehead.
“Sleep well, Sam dearest,” he heard Frodo’s low tender murmur. “Tomorrow will be a long day, I’m afraid, and we both need to rest well.”
So he tucked his head into that irresistible junction at the base of Frodo’s neck, breathed in the essence that was Frodo’s alone, and felt Frodo’s embrace soothe him once more, warm, secure and protective around his tense shoulders, until his breathing slowed and his heart calmed, and he drifted off to sleep.
&&&&&
The following day was, as expected, long and tedious. Cottonbottom was, apparently, still feeling affronted by virtue of being, most undeniably, abandoned to its own devices during that black and bleak year of the Troubles. So as recovery had begun in the more prosperous regions of the Shire, the testy demand for assistance had become more difficult to ignore, until at last Frodo, by virtue of being the Mayor of Hobbiton, had been compelled to travel to the bleak region and pledge the support of the folk of Hobbiton to the less prosperous farthing. It was a wearisome process however, with the seeming need for several evenings of speeches and dreary dinners, until finally, with only a few evenings yet remaining, Sam looked forward to the opportunity of a quiet night to themselves with a fervent anticipation.
&&&&&
It was dank that night, with a dampness that bit into the bones, and a fog that crept through the narrow streets at knee level. Sam turned toward their inn, an arm firmly linked with Frodo’s elbow, and glanced warily through the swirling mist, lit only occasionally by the dull gleam of a shuttered window. But it was not their surroundings that alarmed him nearly as much as the slight tremor he could feel in Frodo’s arm, joined so closely together with his. Only a few more nights of this, he reminded himself grimly, and we can leave. And Cottonbottom can mind its own affairs once again, and not be fretting us. After all, that same October date was approaching again, the one that had alarmed him so the previous year.
He wished that he could consider it the merest fantasy, yet he couldn’t forget the October before that, when he had helplessly watched Frodo bravely stand against unutterable evil, and suffer the foul weapon’s bite into his flesh. This past year, Frodo had had a couple of bad days towards the end of the first week of October, and Sam longed to call it merely a coincidence, but at the bottom of his heart, there was a deep and gnawing fear that he could not exactly name, and that he did not wish to pursue. But now he wished heartily that he had stood more firm against this trip, especially during this desolate time of year, and that both he and Frodo were back home at Bag End.
“ ‘Tis no good wishin’ for the stream to run backwards,” he heard his gaffer’s voice in his head, and what was done was done. He gave a thankful sigh, however, and an encouraging wordless murmur to Frodo, as the faded swinging sign of their inn came into view. Soon enough, then, they could be seated by a snug fire, with a mug in hand and a bit of a pipe, perhaps, and then if the stars continued to look favorably down upon them, they would not have any company once more in the common room in which they had been sleeping. Not that Sam had any particular plans, but he would be that grateful for some peace in Frodo’s arms, and the lack of any other guests.
It was just then that the black glistening shape quickly passed them, and faded into the shadows before Sam had a chance to register any other impression other than a fleeting sense of an animal, wild and powerful. But the eyes of the small lad, who had been holding the inn door open for them, widened in fear, and he immediately shrank against the side of the round doorway. “Barghest,” he hissed, and he looked apprehensively up to the two travelers with terror still in his eyes.
Frodo seemed not to hear, and wearily entered the shabby inn, throwing himself in a seat near the fire and closing his eyes. But Sam hung back, watching the innkeeper’s son with trepidation. “What did you say now, lad?” he asked, with foreboding.
The child swallowed nervously, but firmly met his gaze. “Barghest,” he whispered once again. “The black dog.”
“’Tis but a baseless superstition,” Sam replied, watching the young face intently. “’Twas only a mongrel, that managed to find a stream hereabouts.”
“’Tain’t no stream here,” the young hobbit spoke in a low but earnest tone, with something very close to pity in his eyes. “Nor no pond, noways. It’d be the black dog, right enough, sir.”
Sam quickly stifled the rising sense of panic. ‘Twas but an old grammer’s tale, naught to be worret about. There were many a dog, in these out of the way parts, and some would be black, sure enough. And it was hard to imagine that they wouldn’t occasionally find themselves wet. So why he should feel that it was an omen of death was beyond his understanding, but those tales of his childhood were hard to shake off, and the child’s expression, that of fear and pity mixed in an innocent but convincing blend, refused to be disregarded.
Without any words that night, he kissed Frodo over and over, nearly frantic, and they lay close together in the strange bed, and Frodo, with infinite patience, returned his kisses lovingly, and murmured reassurances in a low voice, and stroked Sam’s back soothingly, holding him quite close, until Sam was finally able to fall into sleep.
&&&&&
It was late the next day, as well, as they returned once more to the inn, and the clammy mist swirled around them once again in the fading light, as Sam glanced fearfully about. It was sheer nonsense, he chided himself fiercely, the tale of a child, and the mere coincidence of a stray mongrel, but when the dark shape appeared in the nearby alley, it was all Sam could do to keep from breaking into a run and dragging a weary but unsuspecting Frodo along with him. He resolutely had refused to gaze in its direction, but the barest glimpse of glistening slick black fur, and glowing yellow eyes, were impossible for him to put out of his mind.
Gruffly, he tried to put the matter in proper perspective as they entered the inn, and gave a knowing nod to the innkeeper. “Plagued with stray dogs, be you? There’s be a nasty lookin’ black one a’followin’ us these past few nights.”
He was completely unprepared for the way the innkeeper’s face drained of color, as he leant heavily against the stout wooden bar. “Black, says you?” the innkeeper whispered, sorrow written visibly across his face. “Mayhap it’d be time to be settin’ off for home, good sirs.”
“No,” Sam murmured stubbornly, shaking his head with a frown. “ ‘Tis but a stray, and naught mysterious about it at all, and that’s a fact.”
“Folks’d not be havin’ dogs in these parts; there’d be no need,” the innkeeper, his expression not changing, mentioned gently. “It’d be a long road home for you, good sirs, I’d be thinkin’.”
“But he’s all right, really, just that tired, still,” Sam whispered then, the fears that had been churning inside of him for months suddenly rising unbidden to the surface. “He’s just tired,” he repeated brokenly, unconsciously reaching a hand out to the stranger for what reassurance he could find.
But there was none to be found. “Take him home,” the weathered face of the innkeeper watched him carefully, his harsh voice strangely gentle. “Mayhap, it’s best so, good sir. There’s weariness and pain aplenty, in this world o’ours, and the black dog, he’s not always unwelcome.”
“No,” Sam gasped, fighting desperately to keep his composure. “It’s not like that, not at all. He just needs a bit of rest.”
The innkeeper’s face shut at Sam‘s words. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. You’d be knowin’ best, to be sure.”
Sam turned then, anxious to find Frodo, but he was no longer in the common room.
&&&&&
It had taken long hours for Frodo to fall asleep, for the stress of their mission, and increasing pain that was beginning to wrack him once again, had both conspired to keep sleep from him. Late in the night, it finally found him, long after an exhausted and saddened Sam, the unexplained tears dried upon his face, had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped about Frodo.
Frodo drifted off at last, then, and dreamed of Bag End. There were blue morning glories wound about the windows, and the smell of bread baking, and Sam greeted him at the kitchen door. He was smiling at Frodo, with that sweet smile that had never failed to melt Frodo’s heart, and Frodo reached out for him, and knew that he held love in his arms.
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You are indeed gifted, and your glorious art gives all of us writers out here inspiration. Thank you so much (and for all that work with the LOTR screencaps!) and have a wonderful holidays.
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*hugs*
~Lyra
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But a joyous Christmas, and wonderful year to come to you too, my dear!
*hugs back*
EBW