elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2008-02-03 12:19 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2008-02-03 12:19 pm
Repost Month fic
Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frodosweetstuff for suggesting this and coming up with this wonderful banner. FSS, you are definitely one of the most creative forces in this fandom - a wonderful way to brighten up a dreary February!
One of my earliest fics, for which I still hold a special fondness. Predates Shire Morns, and is angsty, but with (I think!) a happy ending.
Title: Blossoms and Memories
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Adult
Summary:
Once, all dreams were worth keeping,
I was with you.
Once, when our hearts were singing,
I was with you.
Fallen Embers, Enya
It was usually only a day or so between. Once it was a whole week, but that was when Rosie was sick after Goldie was born. But then the westerly breeze would blow through the fragrant honeysuckle again, or the sunlight would shine down just so through the leaves of the apple orchard, and Sam would think of Frodo. And sometimes it was just a quick thought, and one of the children would run up to him with news about a field mouse’s nest, or Rosie would call out to him from the kitchen for tea, or someone would tramp up with Bagshot Row with business for the Mayor, and it would be gone.
Then at other times, the memories would wrap about him like mist from the Brandywine, and he would have to hide himself away in a remote corner of Bag End, for he never wanted them to know. No, this was his secret, the only thing he had ever kept hidden from his wife. He never had wanted to cause her pain, it wasn’t a matter she ever need know about. So when the scent of lavender blew through the summer fields, when the fragrance of a traveler’s campfire along one of the Shire’s back roads brought back memories that were too strong for him to easily subdue, he would find a place to be alone, until he could regain the will to continue on.
For that’s what it took, day in and day out. Frodo had set him to a task, before he had left, and Sam had never yet failed Frodo. Though the pain tore at his resolve, he would not give in to weakness, he would not let down the master who had taken his heart so long ago.
Autumn, a clear crisp morning, with a slight chill in the air. The apples were ready for harvesting, and Tom Cotton and his brothers had stopped by to give Sam and his sons a hand. The girls had the baskets out ready for them, and had retreated to the kitchen to help their mother, for Rosie believed in starting the jamming up as soon as the apples were plucked from the tree. “They set up easier if they’re a bit green still,” she advised them, and the girls helped her prepare the kettle and the jars.
Sam had helped Frodo, Merry and Pippin set the ladders out and the younger lads, Hamfast and Bilbo, were busy picking up the windfall apples already on the ground as Tom and his brothers drove up with their cart and wagon.
“Good morning to you, Mayor,” Tom called out jovially, but Sam gave a dismissive wave.
“We’re not in Hobbiton, it’s just plain Sam here, as well you know, Tom,” Sam shook his head, but with a smile. Tom had never quite gotten over the fact that a boyhood friend of his had turned out to be Mayor. That the quiet, shy Gaffer’s youngest had turned out so fine was a source of pleasure and pride to all of Sam’s family and friends, as much as Sam just saw the job as doing his duty by the Shire.
But that was neither here nor there on such a lovely autumn day as the lads and older hobbits spread out blankets in the warm grass under the trees and steadied the ladders against the taller ones. There was much laughter and teasing, and Merry and Pippin delighted in climbing well into the larger trees and vigorous shaking down apples on those below quite as much as their namesakes would have in years past.
Sam wandered back into the orchard, eyeing the older trees’ production, to determine which might need replacing. Laying a hand on the rough bark of a tree well back towards the hill, he looked up into the branches and froze.
“Sam,” came a young laughing voice, “however did you find me back here?’
Sam had stared up, at the thin young tweenager well up in the branches with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a book in the other. He had been too shy to say a word, but stood alongside the tree on one leg, the other foot absently scratching it, and felt his ear tips growing red, as they so often did in Mr. Frodo’s presence.
“I expect Bilbo wants me,” Frodo had sighed then, looking ruefully at the page he’d been reading, “but I’d really rather finish this than have elevensies, or lunch, or whatever time it is now.”
“Elevensies,” Sam had squeaked out, feeling compelled to say something.
“Oh well, then, that’s not so late,” Frodo had smiled in relief, his sun-dappled face clearing again. “Come on up, Sam, and we’ll just say it took you a while to find me,” he grinned down at the small hobbit lad conspiratorially.
“Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, I’ll just wait for a bit if you like,” Sam eyed the tree dubiously. Mr. Frodo seemed so very far up, nearly lost in the leaves.
“No, that won’t do,” Frodo had looked down decisively. “There’s plenty of apples up here, and there are stories in this book that I know you haven’t heard yet.” He stretched out from the branch, an arm reaching down.
This enticement was far more than Sam could resist, so he firmly placed his gaffer’s voice out of his mind, and reached up towards the hand offered to him.
Frodo tugged him up, and Sam had scrambled the best he could, and somehow they had managed to sort themselves out where Frodo had been sitting, with no room to spare. “Well, now,” Frodo had laughed merrily, when he was quite sure Sam was comfortable and secure, “you are a sturdy lad, aren’t you? As well as hungry, I’ll warrant.” Looking carefully about, he plucked an apple from the branch above. “This looks ripe, but taste it first,” he warned, handing it to Sam, “I wouldn’t want to be answering to Mrs. Gamgee if I give you the stomach-ache.”
Sam had smiled back at the thought of his mother, hands on hips, chastising Mr. Frodo with his dark head hung down, and decided that was totally impossible. The warm afternoon had eventually lulled them to sleep nestled amid the rustling branches of the old apple tree, and they had not returned to Bag End until late toward dusk.
No, Sam decided, quickly brushing the tears from his eyes and pulling himself from the tree, that tree would stay even if it never blossomed again.
Summer, a hot, close, muggy day. Great thunderclouds were piling up over the ridge, but Sam was determined to finish weeding the long beans before the rains came. The weeds would only grow all the faster then, he thought to himself, no sense in waiting. Rosie had taken the girls with her to Tom and Marigold’s smial with all the mending of their large family. Work like that was always best done with some tea and a bit of a chat. The older lads were away in Buckland for the week, helping the Master of Brandy Hall with the haying, and little Bilbo had been left with the younger children.
Great rumbles of thunder were growling overhead as Sam worked all the faster, followed by the beginning of heavy raindrops. The rain increased rapidly, borne in by gusts from the west, as Sam triumphantly finished the last row and, snatching up the pail and gardening fork, quickly ran to the gardening shed.
Thunder boomed again overhead as he entered the cool musty darkness, and a sudden blaze of lightning was startling through the small glazed window. The eerie light had illuminated Frodo’s face briefly as he leaned back against the shed’s timbered wall, water streaming from his clothing. “Oh, Sam,” he had moaned, pulling an equally sodden Sam towards him, arms twined around Sam’s neck, and the look on his face, oh the look on his face was more than Sam had ever been able to resist.
“Oh, I didn’t think I could stand it,” Frodo had gasped, fervently kissing down the side of Sam’s neck. “It just kept pouring out, and Bilbo wanted me to sort his papers, and I couldn’t see you anywhere,” he was now working his way down Sam’s throat as Sam leaned into him, firmly clutching his waist. “And we don’t have much time,” Frodo mumbled, tongue trailing down Sam’s wet chest as Frodo frantically pulled his shirt open, “because Bilbo won’t know why I’ve gone out in the rain to look for you, and ah!”
Sam had just got a hand under Frodo’s shirt, desperately tugging it from his trousers. Frodo moaned again at his touch, throwing his head back against the wood. “Hurry, Sam, please hurry,” he begged, eyes closed, clutching Sam’s hips tightly.
And then Sam had his hand under Frodo’s waistband, and oh there he was, warm and silken smooth in Sam’s eager hand. “Sam!” Frodo had cried out again, hips tilting up, back propped against the wall, one leg lifting to wrap tightly around Sam. And Sam hadn’t even stopped to undo his own clothing, but drove himself crushingly against Frodo’s hip, his hand still circling Frodo, stroking firmly, and then felt Frodo, with a wordless cry, release into his hand, following himself immediately after.
They stood still for a few minutes then, chests heaving, fighting to catch their breath. And then Frodo had given a rueful chuckle, looking down at the state of their clothing. “I suppose we should walk about in the rain for a bit before we go in,” he grinned at Sam, hardly visible in the gloom of the shed.
“Aye,” Sam had agreed, drawing him to the open doorway, but before they had left, he had gathered a willing Frodo in his arms, and had given him a long and tender kiss. “Love you, me dear,” he had whispered, and Frodo’s clear eyes had brightened at his words.
“Love you always, my Sam,” he had whispered in return, and it had been several minutes more before they had left the shed to step into the rain.
Sam leaned against the wall of the shed, his sobs taking him, as they so often did, unawares. He stifled them, out of long practice, even though the children inside Bag End would never have heard.
Winter, and snow was banked heavily against the walls of Bag End. Sam walked the halls of Bag End, never minding the chill air, unable to sleep. And as he did so often on nights such as this, he checked each doorway. Every child was asleep. The four older boys, Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast, were sprawled across their beds in their small room, turning restlessly in their sleep. Elanor was tucked into her small alcove, burnt out candle on the shelf beside her, book still in her hand as she slept soundly. The other older girls, Rose, Goldie, Daisy and Primrose, were bundled into the two large beds in their own room, which was bedecked with such early flowers as they could find in late winter. The youngest, Bilbo, Ruby and Robin, were in the nursery next to the master bedroom in a great heap in the large crib, and he had left little Tom sleeping peacefully in his cradle beside Rosie.
Sam knew he had everything in his life that ever a hobbit could wish for, but it didn’t stop him from turning his feet towards the study, as they so often did on sleepless nights.
The study had remained unchanged from Frodo’s time. Sam had explained to Rosie about the value of the rare texts and manuscripts that Frodo and Bilbo before him had kept here, so she carefully made sure the children did not use the room, and trusted Sam to do such housekeeping as was necessary. Only Elanor, with her love of reading, found any charm to the room, and she often kept Sam company there as he worked on his paperwork, draped across the bench and lost in Frodo’s old Elvish tales, a leg swinging dreamily over the arm of the wooden bench.
Late in the night though, Sam would return to the study, and with just a couple of candles lit, and a blanket thrown over his shoulders his only protection against the frigid night air, would seek through the ancient tomes once more. Word of Valinor was what he sought, but naught but the occasional mention could he find. Sam sighed, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. His eyesight was not what it had been. Discouraged, he laid his head down on his folded arms, resting on Bilbo’s desk.
The long fingers that covered his were always stained about the index finger, and the nails were generally bitten to the quick, but Sam thought them infinitely lovely. “That’s not too far off,” came a gentle, encouraging voice from behind where he sat at Bilbo’s desk, small legs dangling off of the floor, “but if you hold the quill a little more to the… Now there you are! Isn’t that a bit better?”
And sure enough, the next letter came out looking far more like the one that he was copying from Mr. Bilbo’s large leather-bound book.
“There you are, lad,” smiled Mr. Bilbo from across the study by the fire, looking up from his reading, wreaths of pipe smoke circling his head. “I knew Frodo would put you to rights. Born teacher, he is.”
“No more than you, uncle,” came Frodo’s laughing voice from behind again, “for who was it who taught me, now?” Sam sat very still and watched the long clever fingers still grasping his own.
Sam rose suddenly, and closing up the book and blowing out the candles, made his way back down the hall to the bed he and Rosie shared. Sleep would again not come to him this night.
Late autumn, a grey cold day. Sam was walking back from Michael Delving, his head lost in boundary disputes and arguments about water rights. He insisted on not using the mayor’s official equipage as he traveled between Bag End and the rest of the Shire, saying that he needed the time to think over matters and check on how the trees were growing. Truth be told, he relished the time alone. That did not come easily in a large household such as his had become.
He scuffed his feet through the autumn leaves. The clouds had been heavy overhead all morning, but now, late in the afternoon, the sun was making an attempt to break through. As he rounded the bend, coming into view of Bag End, he happened to glance up at the stand of maples on the high bank of the road.
They had been stubbornly holding onto their leaves for the last several weeks, and the late afternoon rays of sun suddenly broke through the clouds and illuminated them. Deep burnished gold, rich deep red. Those were the highlights in those dark curls of his, when the sun hit them just right. Sam had never understood how that dark brown could spark so in the light.
Quickly swallowing, Sam trudged on, forcibly moving the image to the back of his mind.
Early spring, a cloudless bright morning. It was time to set out the seeds for the summer’s blossoms, and Sam, with Daisy, Primrose, and Bilbo following, stood in the middle of the front gardens, deciding where each was to be planted. “Daisies and salvia,” he determined, looking at the planting bed along the front walk, “and foxglove and delphinium for the back.”
“And creeping jenny, Da?” asked Primrose hopefully. For some reason, she and Daisy found the name irresistible, and they both immediately fell into a fit of the giggles. Bilbo raised his eyes in exasperation, but Sam beamed at his daughters fondly.
“All the creeping jenny you wish, me dears,” he smiled at them. “That would be the small white bag with the bit of twine around it.”
“I don’t understand,” Bilbo grumbled good-naturedly as they worked, throwing his jacket off on the ground nearby in the warming sunshine. “Why all this bother for some posies? We can’t eat them, can we?” he added, sounding for all the world like his mother.
“Well, now, this world would be a sorry place if all we had to look upon were cabbages and carrots, wouldn’t it?” Sam answered, smiling, as he dug out trenches for the seeds. “Not that they aren’t pretty enough in their own way,” he added, thoughtfully, “but it’s up to us to give a bit of beauty to this world, whenever there’s the chance.” Daisy took the opportunity, as her father stared at the ground, preoccupied, to stick her tongue quickly out at her brother. She and her sister were quite fond of flowers. Bilbo glared back at her, but knew it was a fool’s errand to complain to his father, who was every bit as fond of flowers as were they.
Sam glanced up at the field above that covered the smial. No need to plant aught up there, the wildflowers bloomed on their own every year. Mostly dandelions and poppies over Bag End itself, but other blooms grew on the back field behind the ridge. That field was secluded, unused for many years, and the wild flowers grew in profusion there.
The children were busy now. Well-taught by their father, they knew just what to do. Sam straightened up and glanced at the top of the smial. May as well take a look, he thought, see if a few odd seeds here and there might not prove useful. He slowly climbed up to the top of the smial, and realized that he had not been up here since last spring. The grass was brilliantly green already and the sky was so very blue. He kept on walking. It had been many years since he had been in this field behind Bag End, but he knew it well.
Blue skies, blue cornflowers popping through the tall grass, but nothing in all the world as blue as Frodo’s eyes, shining up at him with love. He lay back in the spring grass, in nothing but his own beautiful skin, and all the world was as fresh and clear as the day it was made. Sam sat next to him in the grass, his own skin a rich golden brown next to Frodo, their abandoned clothes in a heap to the side of them along with what was left from their lunch. Sam held the last of the strawberries in his red-stained hands, holding it tantalizingly just out of Frodo’s reach.
“Ah, cruel Sam,” exclaimed Frodo, laughing and his eyes sparkling. “What must I do for that last berry?” He was laying back in the grass, his arms clasped behind his head.
“Oh, it ain’t such a great price t’pay,” Sam teased him, laughing in return. “Naught but a kiss, now.” He brushed Frodo’s lips with the berry and then drew it away again. “But no hands. They must stay as they are.”
“Mmm,” Frodo fairly purred, stretching in the sun. “That doesn’t sound that difficult.”
Sam gave a short wicked chuckle, then, with the berry grasped between his teeth, leaned over Frodo’s mouth. Frodo opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to capture the berry, but Sam continued to hold on to it firmly.
And then it was crushed between their lips and fell unheeded to the side, as their mouths were stained with the red sticky juice. And Frodo’s mouth opened welcomingly to Sam’s, his tongue darting cleverly in every crevice of Sam’s mouth as Sam reeled with the sweet sensation and deepened his kiss, rolling over the top of Frodo. When they at last broke apart, gasping for air, Frodo’s arms were firmly around Sam, eagerly and invitingly stroking his back.
But Sam was not yet through. He returned his attention to Frodo’s neck, gently kissing and nuzzling it, humming with pleasure and soft cries of “Frodo, ah, Frodo.” And as Frodo stretched and gently pushed up beneath him, with wordless moans of delight, Sam slowly continued downwards. The hollows of the shoulder blades, those demanded careful exploration with his tongue and lips. And further down, those small dark nubs against the pale chest. How Frodo cried out and squirmed at that, but his arms continued to hold Sam tight, and his upward pushes became more pronounced. Then there was the flat stomach, so taut, and Frodo’s cries growing ever more urgent, until finally his mouth closed softly around Frodo’s essence, slightly musty, slightly salty, and oh, so very sweet. And there he licked and lapped and suckled while Frodo’s fingers clutched convulsively in his curls, until with a final thin cry of “Oh, Sam!” Frodo bucked up and froze, filling Sam’s mouth, and his heart with fervent joy.
Then it had been Sam’s turn, and as he watched Frodo’s beautiful face rise over him afterwards, he felt that there was no such bliss in all the world such as this, and that the glorious sky behind Frodo would always pale against his dearest Frodo’s eyes.
Sam fell to his knees in the field, the convulsive sobs wracking his body, and struggled, as always, to stay as silent as he could. It was a long time before he could go down to the gardens again, and then he had to complain about the sun giving him a fearsome headache, and rub his eyes.
Late summer, with all the world green and golden. Bag End was officially Frodo Gardener’s now, but that didn’t stop Sam from having the final word when he cared to. He was standing in the path that ran by the bedroom windows, inspecting the flowerbeds. “You’d be needin’ to put in some more seeds here,” he informed Frodo, who was standing next to him, holding his youngest son on his hip. “Those hollyhocks can take a couple of years to bloom proper, and you’re likely to have a bare patch here next year.”
Frodo considered the spot thoughtfully. “Hollyhocks again, Da?” he asked with a slight frown. “I’m not sure as this window’s getting enough sun any more. Mayhap ivy would serve better.”
“No, no,” Sam was suddenly insistent on the matter. Reaching for his grandson, he stared at the frilled pink blooms, opening in the morning sun, about the window. “Hollyhocks,” he stated firmly.
It had been Frodo’s bedroom that he had peered guiltily into, for reasons that he could not explain, no more than he could explain the strange dreams that had kept him twisted in the coverlet ever since reaching his tweenage years. He had been trying to weed the flowerbed outside the window as quietly as possible, knowing that Frodo was probably still asleep, but had straightened up to stretch out his back. Frodo was sitting on the edge of his bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and obviously still more than half asleep, when he had happened to look up and into Sam’s eyes. Sam blushed immediately, caught spying on the young master, but Frodo had held his gaze.
But then to Sam’s amazement, Frodo had also blushed, and gave Sam a shy, sweet smile. They had held each other’s gaze in a timeless moment, as Sam’s heart suddenly soared and opened up to astonishing possibilities. It wasn’t until he heard the gaffer’s footsteps approaching on the graveled walk that he was able to move again.
Sam turned away, his grandson still firmly in his arms, and was thankful that old age excused occasional tears in one’s eyes.
Mid-summer, and the fields shimmered in the afternoon sun. Sam had finally become accustomed to the Took and Thain stopping by Bag End, accustomed to the fact that it was Pippin Took who held that lofty position, and even accustomed to the fact that one of his daughters had married the Took and Thain’s only son. But it was still a surprise to see Pippin casually seated on the bench in the kitchen garden as he trudged home from Michael Delving one evening. Sam had passed by well over ninety years somehow, but still insisted on walking about on his own. “A hobbit as can’t walk on his own two stumps may as well pack it in,” he would grumble when his sons offer to drive him about. “Don’t you be frettin’ about your old Da, I ain’t to that stage yet.”
Pippin stood up, a little stiffly, but with all his unexpected height, as Sam hurried up to him with an exclamation of pleasure, and embraced him warmly. “Why, Mr. Mayor,” Pippin chuckled fondly, “you would be looking younger every time I set eyes on you.”
“Ah, you’ve always had a glib tongue, Pippin Took,” Sam smiled affectionately up at him, an arm still around Pippin’s back “but t’is good to see you anyways. And how would my Goldie be?”
“Making the Great Smials a brighter place,” Pippin replied with a fond laugh. “I’ll never know how the Tooks managed without a Gamgee about the place up to now.”
“Aye, she’d be puttin’ the place to rights,” Sam chuckled. “There’s a good deal of Rosie about my Goldie.”
“Exactly what my Faramir was needing,” Pippin agreed, drawing his arm through Sam’s. “But there is something I wanted to mention to you before we go in.”
The heat of the day was fading as the two old comrades slowly walked down the shaded path that ran to the Hobbiton road. Pippin stopped as they lost sight of Bag End and leaned against an old pine at the side of the road, unthinkingly scuffing the fragrant pine-needles with his foot. “Merry and I will be leaving soon,” he said at last, still staring at the ground.
“To Gondor?” Sam guessed, resting against the rail fence that ran alongside the road. He watched Pippin carefully, knowing there was more to Pippin’s news than this. Pippin and Merry had made occasional trips to King Elessar’s lands before, both together and on their own.
Pippin silently nodded, gazing absently down the dusty road. Then he looked sharply up at Sam, and added simply, “We won’t be back.”
Sam gripped the rail behind him tightly. One more tie, one more link to what he treasured, would be gone. Numbly he stared at Pippin, seeing once more those same sharp Took features that he saw on another face in his dreams.
Pippin gave Sam a small apologetic smile, reaching out an affectionate hand to Sam’s shoulder. “I suppose I should have been more diplomatic about that. I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam found voice enough at that to whisper out the question, “When?”
“Well, not right away,” Pippin said reassuringly. “Merry has a lot to wrap up, and I’d rather like to get a look at my first grandchild, though I wouldn’t be surprised if I get the chance before too very long. It’s just that, well, we just didn’t want to surprise you with it,” he finished haltingly.
“Of course,” Sam’s voice strengthened as he pulled his scattered wits back together. Was this truly a surprise? Or had he always half expected… He turned facing the road, staring ahead unseeingly.
“And you, Sam,” came Pippin’s quiet voice behind him. “What of you?”
Sam remained silent and unmoving.
“What did he ever say to you, Sam?” Pippin’s question was hesitant. “I never asked.”
Sam’s eyes closed painfully at that, unbidden tears beginning to slide down his weathered cheeks.
“Oh, forgive me, Sam, I never should have said anything,” Pippin voice was filled with self-reproach as he caught Sam up in his arms.
But Sam couldn’t stop himself. He suddenly felt the need to reveal what he had told no-one in all these long years. “He said not yet. He said my time may come,” he whispered, the tears still tracking down his cheeks. “But he never said when.” He pulled away from Pippin, wrapping his arms around himself in misery, all his careful defenses suddenly in tatters.
Pippin stared at him for a moment, and then stated with quiet conviction, “Then your time will come. Frodo never would have said that to you otherwise.”
“But it’s been so long.” Sam raised a shaking hand to wipe his face and looking up at Pippin pleadingly.
“I’m sure it’s been just as long for him, elves or no,” Pippin smiled gently at him. “I never saw any hobbit as much in love as Frodo was with you, my dear Sam.”
Sam managed a shaky smile in return at that. “So I’m guessing you’d know how I felt about him?”
Pippin chuckled lightly. “Merry and I assumed you were rather fond of him as well,” he gently teased Sam. “And don’t worry,” he added affectionately, offering Sam his arm again, “you’ll know when. You weren’t elected Mayor seven times on the basis of your charm and good-looks alone, Sam Gamgee.”
It was Frodo’s birthday morn when Sam awoke before dawn and knew the time had at last come. His cherished Rosie was now gone. His children were all grown and no longer needed their old Da. There was no doubt whatsoever in his heart as to where the path before him lay.
He gathered what he would need for the final short journey and left silently before first daylight, leaving a note behind. Farmers were starting out to the fields and herders were bringing in the cows as he trudged down the road from Hobbiton west. Many raised their hands to greet old Mayor Gardener, a familiar and much-loved figure about the Shire.
Cordially, he raised his hand in response, but never stopped, a small weather-beaten figure, his curls now gleaming white in the early morning sun. At the top of the ridge of Hobbiton Valley though, he paused for a moment and looked behind him.
Neat fields covered the vale, lit all green and gold in the late summer morning. Great avenues of stately trees guarded the byways, and even from here he could see the mallorn tree glimmering far off in the Party Field. There were no longer any traces of the damage that he and his fellow travelers had seen upon their return to the Shire so long ago. He gave a last look about him with quiet pride. Frodo had been right after all. He had had a lot to give the Shire, and he had given it all.
He turned to go, and suddenly remembered Frodo all those years ago, as they left the Shire the first time. He had been frozen to the spot in that field, afraid to leave the land he knew, but Frodo had laughed and taken his hand. And despite all the danger that surrounded them and the uncertainty they faced, Frodo’s eyes were sparkling in the morning light, and he had pulled Sam close to him. “It’s a dangerous business, setting your feet outside your door,” he had quoted Bilbo merrily. And Sam had stepped forward and followed him to the ends of the world and back. Now it was time to follow him again.
Sam never looked back.
frodosweetstuff for suggesting this and coming up with this wonderful banner. FSS, you are definitely one of the most creative forces in this fandom - a wonderful way to brighten up a dreary February!
One of my earliest fics, for which I still hold a special fondness. Predates Shire Morns, and is angsty, but with (I think!) a happy ending.
Title: Blossoms and Memories
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Adult
Summary:
Once, all dreams were worth keeping,
I was with you.
Once, when our hearts were singing,
I was with you.
Fallen Embers, Enya
It was usually only a day or so between. Once it was a whole week, but that was when Rosie was sick after Goldie was born. But then the westerly breeze would blow through the fragrant honeysuckle again, or the sunlight would shine down just so through the leaves of the apple orchard, and Sam would think of Frodo. And sometimes it was just a quick thought, and one of the children would run up to him with news about a field mouse’s nest, or Rosie would call out to him from the kitchen for tea, or someone would tramp up with Bagshot Row with business for the Mayor, and it would be gone.
Then at other times, the memories would wrap about him like mist from the Brandywine, and he would have to hide himself away in a remote corner of Bag End, for he never wanted them to know. No, this was his secret, the only thing he had ever kept hidden from his wife. He never had wanted to cause her pain, it wasn’t a matter she ever need know about. So when the scent of lavender blew through the summer fields, when the fragrance of a traveler’s campfire along one of the Shire’s back roads brought back memories that were too strong for him to easily subdue, he would find a place to be alone, until he could regain the will to continue on.
For that’s what it took, day in and day out. Frodo had set him to a task, before he had left, and Sam had never yet failed Frodo. Though the pain tore at his resolve, he would not give in to weakness, he would not let down the master who had taken his heart so long ago.
Autumn, a clear crisp morning, with a slight chill in the air. The apples were ready for harvesting, and Tom Cotton and his brothers had stopped by to give Sam and his sons a hand. The girls had the baskets out ready for them, and had retreated to the kitchen to help their mother, for Rosie believed in starting the jamming up as soon as the apples were plucked from the tree. “They set up easier if they’re a bit green still,” she advised them, and the girls helped her prepare the kettle and the jars.
Sam had helped Frodo, Merry and Pippin set the ladders out and the younger lads, Hamfast and Bilbo, were busy picking up the windfall apples already on the ground as Tom and his brothers drove up with their cart and wagon.
“Good morning to you, Mayor,” Tom called out jovially, but Sam gave a dismissive wave.
“We’re not in Hobbiton, it’s just plain Sam here, as well you know, Tom,” Sam shook his head, but with a smile. Tom had never quite gotten over the fact that a boyhood friend of his had turned out to be Mayor. That the quiet, shy Gaffer’s youngest had turned out so fine was a source of pleasure and pride to all of Sam’s family and friends, as much as Sam just saw the job as doing his duty by the Shire.
But that was neither here nor there on such a lovely autumn day as the lads and older hobbits spread out blankets in the warm grass under the trees and steadied the ladders against the taller ones. There was much laughter and teasing, and Merry and Pippin delighted in climbing well into the larger trees and vigorous shaking down apples on those below quite as much as their namesakes would have in years past.
Sam wandered back into the orchard, eyeing the older trees’ production, to determine which might need replacing. Laying a hand on the rough bark of a tree well back towards the hill, he looked up into the branches and froze.
“Sam,” came a young laughing voice, “however did you find me back here?’
Sam had stared up, at the thin young tweenager well up in the branches with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a book in the other. He had been too shy to say a word, but stood alongside the tree on one leg, the other foot absently scratching it, and felt his ear tips growing red, as they so often did in Mr. Frodo’s presence.
“I expect Bilbo wants me,” Frodo had sighed then, looking ruefully at the page he’d been reading, “but I’d really rather finish this than have elevensies, or lunch, or whatever time it is now.”
“Elevensies,” Sam had squeaked out, feeling compelled to say something.
“Oh well, then, that’s not so late,” Frodo had smiled in relief, his sun-dappled face clearing again. “Come on up, Sam, and we’ll just say it took you a while to find me,” he grinned down at the small hobbit lad conspiratorially.
“Oh, no, Mr. Frodo, I’ll just wait for a bit if you like,” Sam eyed the tree dubiously. Mr. Frodo seemed so very far up, nearly lost in the leaves.
“No, that won’t do,” Frodo had looked down decisively. “There’s plenty of apples up here, and there are stories in this book that I know you haven’t heard yet.” He stretched out from the branch, an arm reaching down.
This enticement was far more than Sam could resist, so he firmly placed his gaffer’s voice out of his mind, and reached up towards the hand offered to him.
Frodo tugged him up, and Sam had scrambled the best he could, and somehow they had managed to sort themselves out where Frodo had been sitting, with no room to spare. “Well, now,” Frodo had laughed merrily, when he was quite sure Sam was comfortable and secure, “you are a sturdy lad, aren’t you? As well as hungry, I’ll warrant.” Looking carefully about, he plucked an apple from the branch above. “This looks ripe, but taste it first,” he warned, handing it to Sam, “I wouldn’t want to be answering to Mrs. Gamgee if I give you the stomach-ache.”
Sam had smiled back at the thought of his mother, hands on hips, chastising Mr. Frodo with his dark head hung down, and decided that was totally impossible. The warm afternoon had eventually lulled them to sleep nestled amid the rustling branches of the old apple tree, and they had not returned to Bag End until late toward dusk.
No, Sam decided, quickly brushing the tears from his eyes and pulling himself from the tree, that tree would stay even if it never blossomed again.
Summer, a hot, close, muggy day. Great thunderclouds were piling up over the ridge, but Sam was determined to finish weeding the long beans before the rains came. The weeds would only grow all the faster then, he thought to himself, no sense in waiting. Rosie had taken the girls with her to Tom and Marigold’s smial with all the mending of their large family. Work like that was always best done with some tea and a bit of a chat. The older lads were away in Buckland for the week, helping the Master of Brandy Hall with the haying, and little Bilbo had been left with the younger children.
Great rumbles of thunder were growling overhead as Sam worked all the faster, followed by the beginning of heavy raindrops. The rain increased rapidly, borne in by gusts from the west, as Sam triumphantly finished the last row and, snatching up the pail and gardening fork, quickly ran to the gardening shed.
Thunder boomed again overhead as he entered the cool musty darkness, and a sudden blaze of lightning was startling through the small glazed window. The eerie light had illuminated Frodo’s face briefly as he leaned back against the shed’s timbered wall, water streaming from his clothing. “Oh, Sam,” he had moaned, pulling an equally sodden Sam towards him, arms twined around Sam’s neck, and the look on his face, oh the look on his face was more than Sam had ever been able to resist.
“Oh, I didn’t think I could stand it,” Frodo had gasped, fervently kissing down the side of Sam’s neck. “It just kept pouring out, and Bilbo wanted me to sort his papers, and I couldn’t see you anywhere,” he was now working his way down Sam’s throat as Sam leaned into him, firmly clutching his waist. “And we don’t have much time,” Frodo mumbled, tongue trailing down Sam’s wet chest as Frodo frantically pulled his shirt open, “because Bilbo won’t know why I’ve gone out in the rain to look for you, and ah!”
Sam had just got a hand under Frodo’s shirt, desperately tugging it from his trousers. Frodo moaned again at his touch, throwing his head back against the wood. “Hurry, Sam, please hurry,” he begged, eyes closed, clutching Sam’s hips tightly.
And then Sam had his hand under Frodo’s waistband, and oh there he was, warm and silken smooth in Sam’s eager hand. “Sam!” Frodo had cried out again, hips tilting up, back propped against the wall, one leg lifting to wrap tightly around Sam. And Sam hadn’t even stopped to undo his own clothing, but drove himself crushingly against Frodo’s hip, his hand still circling Frodo, stroking firmly, and then felt Frodo, with a wordless cry, release into his hand, following himself immediately after.
They stood still for a few minutes then, chests heaving, fighting to catch their breath. And then Frodo had given a rueful chuckle, looking down at the state of their clothing. “I suppose we should walk about in the rain for a bit before we go in,” he grinned at Sam, hardly visible in the gloom of the shed.
“Aye,” Sam had agreed, drawing him to the open doorway, but before they had left, he had gathered a willing Frodo in his arms, and had given him a long and tender kiss. “Love you, me dear,” he had whispered, and Frodo’s clear eyes had brightened at his words.
“Love you always, my Sam,” he had whispered in return, and it had been several minutes more before they had left the shed to step into the rain.
Sam leaned against the wall of the shed, his sobs taking him, as they so often did, unawares. He stifled them, out of long practice, even though the children inside Bag End would never have heard.
Winter, and snow was banked heavily against the walls of Bag End. Sam walked the halls of Bag End, never minding the chill air, unable to sleep. And as he did so often on nights such as this, he checked each doorway. Every child was asleep. The four older boys, Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Hamfast, were sprawled across their beds in their small room, turning restlessly in their sleep. Elanor was tucked into her small alcove, burnt out candle on the shelf beside her, book still in her hand as she slept soundly. The other older girls, Rose, Goldie, Daisy and Primrose, were bundled into the two large beds in their own room, which was bedecked with such early flowers as they could find in late winter. The youngest, Bilbo, Ruby and Robin, were in the nursery next to the master bedroom in a great heap in the large crib, and he had left little Tom sleeping peacefully in his cradle beside Rosie.
Sam knew he had everything in his life that ever a hobbit could wish for, but it didn’t stop him from turning his feet towards the study, as they so often did on sleepless nights.
The study had remained unchanged from Frodo’s time. Sam had explained to Rosie about the value of the rare texts and manuscripts that Frodo and Bilbo before him had kept here, so she carefully made sure the children did not use the room, and trusted Sam to do such housekeeping as was necessary. Only Elanor, with her love of reading, found any charm to the room, and she often kept Sam company there as he worked on his paperwork, draped across the bench and lost in Frodo’s old Elvish tales, a leg swinging dreamily over the arm of the wooden bench.
Late in the night though, Sam would return to the study, and with just a couple of candles lit, and a blanket thrown over his shoulders his only protection against the frigid night air, would seek through the ancient tomes once more. Word of Valinor was what he sought, but naught but the occasional mention could he find. Sam sighed, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. His eyesight was not what it had been. Discouraged, he laid his head down on his folded arms, resting on Bilbo’s desk.
The long fingers that covered his were always stained about the index finger, and the nails were generally bitten to the quick, but Sam thought them infinitely lovely. “That’s not too far off,” came a gentle, encouraging voice from behind where he sat at Bilbo’s desk, small legs dangling off of the floor, “but if you hold the quill a little more to the… Now there you are! Isn’t that a bit better?”
And sure enough, the next letter came out looking far more like the one that he was copying from Mr. Bilbo’s large leather-bound book.
“There you are, lad,” smiled Mr. Bilbo from across the study by the fire, looking up from his reading, wreaths of pipe smoke circling his head. “I knew Frodo would put you to rights. Born teacher, he is.”
“No more than you, uncle,” came Frodo’s laughing voice from behind again, “for who was it who taught me, now?” Sam sat very still and watched the long clever fingers still grasping his own.
Sam rose suddenly, and closing up the book and blowing out the candles, made his way back down the hall to the bed he and Rosie shared. Sleep would again not come to him this night.
Late autumn, a grey cold day. Sam was walking back from Michael Delving, his head lost in boundary disputes and arguments about water rights. He insisted on not using the mayor’s official equipage as he traveled between Bag End and the rest of the Shire, saying that he needed the time to think over matters and check on how the trees were growing. Truth be told, he relished the time alone. That did not come easily in a large household such as his had become.
He scuffed his feet through the autumn leaves. The clouds had been heavy overhead all morning, but now, late in the afternoon, the sun was making an attempt to break through. As he rounded the bend, coming into view of Bag End, he happened to glance up at the stand of maples on the high bank of the road.
They had been stubbornly holding onto their leaves for the last several weeks, and the late afternoon rays of sun suddenly broke through the clouds and illuminated them. Deep burnished gold, rich deep red. Those were the highlights in those dark curls of his, when the sun hit them just right. Sam had never understood how that dark brown could spark so in the light.
Quickly swallowing, Sam trudged on, forcibly moving the image to the back of his mind.
Early spring, a cloudless bright morning. It was time to set out the seeds for the summer’s blossoms, and Sam, with Daisy, Primrose, and Bilbo following, stood in the middle of the front gardens, deciding where each was to be planted. “Daisies and salvia,” he determined, looking at the planting bed along the front walk, “and foxglove and delphinium for the back.”
“And creeping jenny, Da?” asked Primrose hopefully. For some reason, she and Daisy found the name irresistible, and they both immediately fell into a fit of the giggles. Bilbo raised his eyes in exasperation, but Sam beamed at his daughters fondly.
“All the creeping jenny you wish, me dears,” he smiled at them. “That would be the small white bag with the bit of twine around it.”
“I don’t understand,” Bilbo grumbled good-naturedly as they worked, throwing his jacket off on the ground nearby in the warming sunshine. “Why all this bother for some posies? We can’t eat them, can we?” he added, sounding for all the world like his mother.
“Well, now, this world would be a sorry place if all we had to look upon were cabbages and carrots, wouldn’t it?” Sam answered, smiling, as he dug out trenches for the seeds. “Not that they aren’t pretty enough in their own way,” he added, thoughtfully, “but it’s up to us to give a bit of beauty to this world, whenever there’s the chance.” Daisy took the opportunity, as her father stared at the ground, preoccupied, to stick her tongue quickly out at her brother. She and her sister were quite fond of flowers. Bilbo glared back at her, but knew it was a fool’s errand to complain to his father, who was every bit as fond of flowers as were they.
Sam glanced up at the field above that covered the smial. No need to plant aught up there, the wildflowers bloomed on their own every year. Mostly dandelions and poppies over Bag End itself, but other blooms grew on the back field behind the ridge. That field was secluded, unused for many years, and the wild flowers grew in profusion there.
The children were busy now. Well-taught by their father, they knew just what to do. Sam straightened up and glanced at the top of the smial. May as well take a look, he thought, see if a few odd seeds here and there might not prove useful. He slowly climbed up to the top of the smial, and realized that he had not been up here since last spring. The grass was brilliantly green already and the sky was so very blue. He kept on walking. It had been many years since he had been in this field behind Bag End, but he knew it well.
Blue skies, blue cornflowers popping through the tall grass, but nothing in all the world as blue as Frodo’s eyes, shining up at him with love. He lay back in the spring grass, in nothing but his own beautiful skin, and all the world was as fresh and clear as the day it was made. Sam sat next to him in the grass, his own skin a rich golden brown next to Frodo, their abandoned clothes in a heap to the side of them along with what was left from their lunch. Sam held the last of the strawberries in his red-stained hands, holding it tantalizingly just out of Frodo’s reach.
“Ah, cruel Sam,” exclaimed Frodo, laughing and his eyes sparkling. “What must I do for that last berry?” He was laying back in the grass, his arms clasped behind his head.
“Oh, it ain’t such a great price t’pay,” Sam teased him, laughing in return. “Naught but a kiss, now.” He brushed Frodo’s lips with the berry and then drew it away again. “But no hands. They must stay as they are.”
“Mmm,” Frodo fairly purred, stretching in the sun. “That doesn’t sound that difficult.”
Sam gave a short wicked chuckle, then, with the berry grasped between his teeth, leaned over Frodo’s mouth. Frodo opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to capture the berry, but Sam continued to hold on to it firmly.
And then it was crushed between their lips and fell unheeded to the side, as their mouths were stained with the red sticky juice. And Frodo’s mouth opened welcomingly to Sam’s, his tongue darting cleverly in every crevice of Sam’s mouth as Sam reeled with the sweet sensation and deepened his kiss, rolling over the top of Frodo. When they at last broke apart, gasping for air, Frodo’s arms were firmly around Sam, eagerly and invitingly stroking his back.
But Sam was not yet through. He returned his attention to Frodo’s neck, gently kissing and nuzzling it, humming with pleasure and soft cries of “Frodo, ah, Frodo.” And as Frodo stretched and gently pushed up beneath him, with wordless moans of delight, Sam slowly continued downwards. The hollows of the shoulder blades, those demanded careful exploration with his tongue and lips. And further down, those small dark nubs against the pale chest. How Frodo cried out and squirmed at that, but his arms continued to hold Sam tight, and his upward pushes became more pronounced. Then there was the flat stomach, so taut, and Frodo’s cries growing ever more urgent, until finally his mouth closed softly around Frodo’s essence, slightly musty, slightly salty, and oh, so very sweet. And there he licked and lapped and suckled while Frodo’s fingers clutched convulsively in his curls, until with a final thin cry of “Oh, Sam!” Frodo bucked up and froze, filling Sam’s mouth, and his heart with fervent joy.
Then it had been Sam’s turn, and as he watched Frodo’s beautiful face rise over him afterwards, he felt that there was no such bliss in all the world such as this, and that the glorious sky behind Frodo would always pale against his dearest Frodo’s eyes.
Sam fell to his knees in the field, the convulsive sobs wracking his body, and struggled, as always, to stay as silent as he could. It was a long time before he could go down to the gardens again, and then he had to complain about the sun giving him a fearsome headache, and rub his eyes.
Late summer, with all the world green and golden. Bag End was officially Frodo Gardener’s now, but that didn’t stop Sam from having the final word when he cared to. He was standing in the path that ran by the bedroom windows, inspecting the flowerbeds. “You’d be needin’ to put in some more seeds here,” he informed Frodo, who was standing next to him, holding his youngest son on his hip. “Those hollyhocks can take a couple of years to bloom proper, and you’re likely to have a bare patch here next year.”
Frodo considered the spot thoughtfully. “Hollyhocks again, Da?” he asked with a slight frown. “I’m not sure as this window’s getting enough sun any more. Mayhap ivy would serve better.”
“No, no,” Sam was suddenly insistent on the matter. Reaching for his grandson, he stared at the frilled pink blooms, opening in the morning sun, about the window. “Hollyhocks,” he stated firmly.
It had been Frodo’s bedroom that he had peered guiltily into, for reasons that he could not explain, no more than he could explain the strange dreams that had kept him twisted in the coverlet ever since reaching his tweenage years. He had been trying to weed the flowerbed outside the window as quietly as possible, knowing that Frodo was probably still asleep, but had straightened up to stretch out his back. Frodo was sitting on the edge of his bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and obviously still more than half asleep, when he had happened to look up and into Sam’s eyes. Sam blushed immediately, caught spying on the young master, but Frodo had held his gaze.
But then to Sam’s amazement, Frodo had also blushed, and gave Sam a shy, sweet smile. They had held each other’s gaze in a timeless moment, as Sam’s heart suddenly soared and opened up to astonishing possibilities. It wasn’t until he heard the gaffer’s footsteps approaching on the graveled walk that he was able to move again.
Sam turned away, his grandson still firmly in his arms, and was thankful that old age excused occasional tears in one’s eyes.
Mid-summer, and the fields shimmered in the afternoon sun. Sam had finally become accustomed to the Took and Thain stopping by Bag End, accustomed to the fact that it was Pippin Took who held that lofty position, and even accustomed to the fact that one of his daughters had married the Took and Thain’s only son. But it was still a surprise to see Pippin casually seated on the bench in the kitchen garden as he trudged home from Michael Delving one evening. Sam had passed by well over ninety years somehow, but still insisted on walking about on his own. “A hobbit as can’t walk on his own two stumps may as well pack it in,” he would grumble when his sons offer to drive him about. “Don’t you be frettin’ about your old Da, I ain’t to that stage yet.”
Pippin stood up, a little stiffly, but with all his unexpected height, as Sam hurried up to him with an exclamation of pleasure, and embraced him warmly. “Why, Mr. Mayor,” Pippin chuckled fondly, “you would be looking younger every time I set eyes on you.”
“Ah, you’ve always had a glib tongue, Pippin Took,” Sam smiled affectionately up at him, an arm still around Pippin’s back “but t’is good to see you anyways. And how would my Goldie be?”
“Making the Great Smials a brighter place,” Pippin replied with a fond laugh. “I’ll never know how the Tooks managed without a Gamgee about the place up to now.”
“Aye, she’d be puttin’ the place to rights,” Sam chuckled. “There’s a good deal of Rosie about my Goldie.”
“Exactly what my Faramir was needing,” Pippin agreed, drawing his arm through Sam’s. “But there is something I wanted to mention to you before we go in.”
The heat of the day was fading as the two old comrades slowly walked down the shaded path that ran to the Hobbiton road. Pippin stopped as they lost sight of Bag End and leaned against an old pine at the side of the road, unthinkingly scuffing the fragrant pine-needles with his foot. “Merry and I will be leaving soon,” he said at last, still staring at the ground.
“To Gondor?” Sam guessed, resting against the rail fence that ran alongside the road. He watched Pippin carefully, knowing there was more to Pippin’s news than this. Pippin and Merry had made occasional trips to King Elessar’s lands before, both together and on their own.
Pippin silently nodded, gazing absently down the dusty road. Then he looked sharply up at Sam, and added simply, “We won’t be back.”
Sam gripped the rail behind him tightly. One more tie, one more link to what he treasured, would be gone. Numbly he stared at Pippin, seeing once more those same sharp Took features that he saw on another face in his dreams.
Pippin gave Sam a small apologetic smile, reaching out an affectionate hand to Sam’s shoulder. “I suppose I should have been more diplomatic about that. I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam found voice enough at that to whisper out the question, “When?”
“Well, not right away,” Pippin said reassuringly. “Merry has a lot to wrap up, and I’d rather like to get a look at my first grandchild, though I wouldn’t be surprised if I get the chance before too very long. It’s just that, well, we just didn’t want to surprise you with it,” he finished haltingly.
“Of course,” Sam’s voice strengthened as he pulled his scattered wits back together. Was this truly a surprise? Or had he always half expected… He turned facing the road, staring ahead unseeingly.
“And you, Sam,” came Pippin’s quiet voice behind him. “What of you?”
Sam remained silent and unmoving.
“What did he ever say to you, Sam?” Pippin’s question was hesitant. “I never asked.”
Sam’s eyes closed painfully at that, unbidden tears beginning to slide down his weathered cheeks.
“Oh, forgive me, Sam, I never should have said anything,” Pippin voice was filled with self-reproach as he caught Sam up in his arms.
But Sam couldn’t stop himself. He suddenly felt the need to reveal what he had told no-one in all these long years. “He said not yet. He said my time may come,” he whispered, the tears still tracking down his cheeks. “But he never said when.” He pulled away from Pippin, wrapping his arms around himself in misery, all his careful defenses suddenly in tatters.
Pippin stared at him for a moment, and then stated with quiet conviction, “Then your time will come. Frodo never would have said that to you otherwise.”
“But it’s been so long.” Sam raised a shaking hand to wipe his face and looking up at Pippin pleadingly.
“I’m sure it’s been just as long for him, elves or no,” Pippin smiled gently at him. “I never saw any hobbit as much in love as Frodo was with you, my dear Sam.”
Sam managed a shaky smile in return at that. “So I’m guessing you’d know how I felt about him?”
Pippin chuckled lightly. “Merry and I assumed you were rather fond of him as well,” he gently teased Sam. “And don’t worry,” he added affectionately, offering Sam his arm again, “you’ll know when. You weren’t elected Mayor seven times on the basis of your charm and good-looks alone, Sam Gamgee.”
It was Frodo’s birthday morn when Sam awoke before dawn and knew the time had at last come. His cherished Rosie was now gone. His children were all grown and no longer needed their old Da. There was no doubt whatsoever in his heart as to where the path before him lay.
He gathered what he would need for the final short journey and left silently before first daylight, leaving a note behind. Farmers were starting out to the fields and herders were bringing in the cows as he trudged down the road from Hobbiton west. Many raised their hands to greet old Mayor Gardener, a familiar and much-loved figure about the Shire.
Cordially, he raised his hand in response, but never stopped, a small weather-beaten figure, his curls now gleaming white in the early morning sun. At the top of the ridge of Hobbiton Valley though, he paused for a moment and looked behind him.
Neat fields covered the vale, lit all green and gold in the late summer morning. Great avenues of stately trees guarded the byways, and even from here he could see the mallorn tree glimmering far off in the Party Field. There were no longer any traces of the damage that he and his fellow travelers had seen upon their return to the Shire so long ago. He gave a last look about him with quiet pride. Frodo had been right after all. He had had a lot to give the Shire, and he had given it all.
He turned to go, and suddenly remembered Frodo all those years ago, as they left the Shire the first time. He had been frozen to the spot in that field, afraid to leave the land he knew, but Frodo had laughed and taken his hand. And despite all the danger that surrounded them and the uncertainty they faced, Frodo’s eyes were sparkling in the morning light, and he had pulled Sam close to him. “It’s a dangerous business, setting your feet outside your door,” he had quoted Bilbo merrily. And Sam had stepped forward and followed him to the ends of the world and back. Now it was time to follow him again.
Sam never looked back.
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Thank you, dear. I imagine that Sam's remembrances of his beloved Frodo would have wound throughout his life, in every season. And that it would take someone of Sam's capacity to love to maintain that hope for sixty long years.
But he finally did find him again, that we know, and so, a happy ending.
Thank you for re-reading!
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This fic certainly was that. I imagine that Sam had always remained torn in two a bit even with his family surrounding him. You never forget your first love and they shared so much. This was lovely.
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*hugs poor Sam tight*
But thank you, my dear, for reading, and I'm glad if it brightened your day, in the end, after all. :)
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Oh, and I love the image of Frodo and Sam falling asleep together, "nestled amid the rustling branches of the old apple tree". Enchanting! :)
Thank you so much for giving me a chance to read this again!
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That's something I've always pondered: whether the years seemed as long to Frodo as they must have for Sam, for time does not operate the same in immortal lands, one would think. Sixty years, can you imagine it? And all the longer for not even knowing if it might not be more. Someday soon, I might be brave enough to tackle the end of Shire Morns, which has been written in my head for a very long time. I'm not sure if I am quite that brave yet.
And I'm so glad you enjoyed the apple tree image - it always seemed to me that the transition from friends to lovers would have been a very slow and gradual one, very nearly inevitable. And it would have been these early innocent moments that set their eventual relationship in place.
Thank you for re-reading!
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Yes, indeed! There's a most intriguing scene in the verse Turin (in HoME 3), where Turin visits his friend Beleg's grave and calls for him. Then, in a dream-state, he receives an answer from Beleg whose soul has gone to Valinor. (I was going to post that to my LJ but haven't found the time for it yet.) So, obviously, some form of communication may be possible, despite the apparently huge distance.
That's something I've always pondered: whether the years seemed as long to Frodo as they must have for Sam, for time does not operate the same in immortal lands, one would think.
No, I'm sure the time would have felt quite different to Frodo. But what Sam tells Elanor about adopting an 'Elvish' sense of time in the Epilogue at least implies that his experience of time gradually changed as well. So perhaps those sixty years to him weren't quite the same as they'd be to us - although it's difficult to conceptualize the difference.
Someday soon, I might be brave enough to tackle the end of Shire Morns, which has been written in my head for a very long time. I'm not sure if I am quite that brave yet.
I do know what you mean... but stories of this kind usually 'happen' when they're ready - perhaps you won't find it so hard once you get there. (Reminds me that I do need to catch up on Shire Morns, too!)
And I'm so glad you enjoyed the apple tree image - it always seemed to me that the transition from friends to lovers would have been a very slow and gradual one, very nearly inevitable.
I totally agree with that. It really doesn't matter, I think, whether one imagines the transition before or during the quest: it must have come gradually, in a long process of many small shifts and changes.
And I'm glad to know that you liked White Shadow - thank you!
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I can definitely see Sam as coming to that sense, perhaps as an unconscious adjustment to his upcoming journey West.
That being said, time must have been in the ordinary sort of way for most of Sam's life, though, because there is nothing that focuses you quite so much on the day to day, and the year to year, as having children. Is that a tooth coming in? And is she really saying Dada or is that wishful thinking? And oh, little Frodo's up and walking now! Best be moving everything up a shelf or two. Oh, my, won't it be just wonderful not to always have a fauntling on your hip as you try to tidy up the smial! And somehow, I can't imagine Sam not being immersed in every little detail of his children's lives.
Time is relative then, I suppose, even in the life of us mere mortals. I probably wouldn't be quite as sensitive to this, quite honestly, if my older son hadn't just turned 21 yesterday. I thought he would never grow up, some days, and now it seems as if he was a young boy only just the other day. Relative time, once again, although in a very un-elvish way. Seems to spiral in great circles, but then contracts as if no time at all has passed.
Ah, well, for now I'm sticking with the Shire. And thanks again!
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Yes, I think something of that sort needed to happen for him to make that transition.
As for what you wrote about Sam being immersed in the countless daily changes of ordinary life and the growing-up of his children in particular, I think that's totally true. I think it would have been impossible for him to stay in the Shire for so long otherwise. So I rather imagine him experiencing time on two different levels - a bit like Legolas describes the Elvish perception of time as both slow and very quick and forward-moving, after they've left Lórien.
I thought he would never grow up, some days, and now it seems as if he was a young boy only just the other day. Relative time, once again, although in a very un-elvish way. Seems to spiral in great circles, but then contracts as if no time at all has passed.
Yes, I know what you mean! And it's easy to imagine Sam experiencing it in much the same way, especially as Elanor grew up. :)
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Thanks again for re-reading!
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Thank you very much for re-reading!
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That was epic. Honestly. At first the unheralded flashing back and forward through the years unsettled me but I grew to love it as I felt I was dream-melting into Sam's memories as unexpectedly and naturally as him. This has so much about it of the longing and tenderness for one 'departed'. All of the episodes, beautiful in themselves, were made so much more poignant for Sam's yearning and his long patient watch. The lump in my throat when he leaves the Shire for the last time, Frodo with him at every step!
*sniffles again*
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Why, thank you very much! I'm glad the time shifts did cause too much whiplash! I have always thought that the whole uncertainty of the "someday you may follow, too" thing must have been horrendously hard on Sam. Can you imagine? He might have thought that on the first anniversary - but no. Maybe on the second? The fifth? The tenth? And no news from the West. Harsh, man.
Maybe that's why Sam speaks so to us - the strength of that love - it had to be invincible.
Thank you very much for reading, and your lovely comments!
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Thank you so very much. I haven't been this moved by a fic in a long time. *hugs you tightly*
Thank you for taking part in this! And I'm not a creative force at all - merely a very obsessed F/s and S/E fan!!!! *hugs you some more*
btw, I know I still owe you fb for your latest Waymeet fic! It's not forgotten!
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Can you imagine how hard it must have been, all those long sixty years, to never really know? Sam must have been Hope Unquenchable indeed, to survive that. Can you imagine the years going by with no sign (as far as we know) ever? And yet to be ready when the call at last did finally come?
To me, that has always been the clearest indication that the relationship that existed between them was the deepest of loves, pure and simple. Nothing else could have endured that.
Thank you very much for your kind words on this fic - it's always meant a very great deal to me.
And I'm not a creative force at all - merely a very obsessed F/s and S/E fan!!!!
But in such the cleverest of ways! *gives you many hugs back*
and on the other, whenever you have time would be lovely - I certainly know what RL can be like - ;)
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I had 120 fics bookmarked when I caught up with flist, I'm down ot 80 now but it's slow going! But I'll get there!!! I'm really glad I thought of bookmarking - I used to have handwritten lists and then it took me ages to find the fics or I lost the list... now it's much easier!! :)
/organisational ramble ;-)
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It has always been a pet theory of mine that in addition to the Ringbearer thing, Frodo and Sam were allowed to eventually journey West due to the sacrifices they both made for the good of Middle Earth. Frodo's were obvious, and once the quest was over, he could no longer remain in the Shire. But I think that Sam's sacrifices were just as great, in their own way. It's only that they occurred, for the most part, after the quest. That he gave up Frodo to stay behind and heal the Shire, a task that apparently no other could accomplish. And it was only after that task was complete that he was allowed to finally rejoin Frodo.
And of the both, I think you might be hard pressed to decide which task was harder and more heartbreaking, in the end.
But then there is Gimli, who rather spoils my theory. Unless you consider that his journeying West proves that the elves have a sense of humor after all. ;)
Thank you very much for re-reading once again, my dear!
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And Sam and Pippin - what an amazing pair to end up as in-laws! I think they would have gotten along wonderfully.
Thank you very much, my dear - I'm glad it seemed to come out right, in the end, for you. :)
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Back soon ...
~Lyra
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But then the westerly breeze would blow through the fragrant honeysuckle again
Hee, I'm such a sucker for honeysuckle and have been known to walk quite a distance just to breathe in the fragrance ;-)
In one way it feels good that Sam is still there in the Shire with his family, and everything's all cosy & happy & familiar, and Sam himself is doing so well & the Shire is thriving. But yet, but yet ...
Sam fell to his knees in the field, the convulsive sobs wracking his body, and struggled, as always, to stay as silent as he could.
Poor Sam -- my heart aches for him so much. I've always felt one of the most difficult issues to deal with in RL is accepting that certain wonderful times or people have gone and we can never bring them back. We have to move on, and it's good to allow new people & experiences into our lives so that they too will perhaps end up meaning just as much to us.
But then again ... there is nothing like the Frodo/Sam love -- nothing can ever obliterate it or take its place. And there is this huge feeling of rightness in the idea that they are going to be together again one day. And I *so* love that feeling! :-)
Edited to add: I omitted to say that what I'll call the "strawberry fields forever" scenario was v-e-r-y hot! ;-)
~Lyra
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In one way it feels good that Sam is still there in the Shire with his family, and everything's all cosy & happy & familiar, and Sam himself is doing so well & the Shire is thriving.
I'm quite sure that's what Tolkien wanted us to feel, and after a certain period of, perhaps, regret, Sam settled down to his new situation, and never thought of Tol Eressea (OK, did I spell that right? Pah - always mix that one up!) until eventually, somehow out of the blue, he up and rejoined Frodo.
But you know, I've never bought that, not for one moment. It had to have left an aching hole in Sam's heart that no amount of kids would ever have filled, and I really can't imagine anything more cruel than to take away someone who, without any doubt, and no matter how you interpret LOTR, was someone Sam loved very dearly, and tell him, "Oh yes, someday you MAY be able to rejoin him", and then let him wait 60 YEARS for that slight possibility to come true.
Ahem. Not that I have strong feelings about that, you may have noticed. *cough*
And there is this huge feeling of rightness in the idea that they are going to be together again one day. And I *so* love that feeling! :-)
Amen, sister. Preach it.
And thanks for the "strawberry fields" thing! Heh - Straaawberry fields, foreeeever.