elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2008-08-22 10:10 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2008-08-22 10:10 pm
Now revealed! Fic on Waymeet.
All has now been revealed as to the latest challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
waymeet!
Many thanks for the endlessly inventive mods, without whose delightfully inventive prompts, this story would never have been written.
Title: Hair
Author: Elderberrywine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2326
Summary: Sam tries to find his footing again. Angst alert. Part of the Grey Hills and Green post-quest series.
Odd thing about hair, Sam mused. ‘Twas a growing, living thing when it was on one’s head. But cut it off, and seemingly, it would last forever, blowing in the wind, landing haphazardly anywhere, dark or light, curly or straight, just as if it had been cut only the moment before. Leastways, that’s how it seemed to him. Leaning heavily on his ax, he stared up into the tree, in the fading light, just a little longer.
Marigold, her honey curls arbitrarily pinned up out of the way, had started out to the back fields, with exasperation and concern struggling for priority in her breast, a covered basket on one arm and a flask in its holder looped over her shoulder. No elevenses, no lunch, and, she was quite sure, there would have been no tea but for her intervention. Whatever had happened to her brother had certainly thrown his good hobbit sense topsy-turvy in his head. There was a time when their father might have called him a ninnyhammer, but no more. Never that. There were far too many times, though, when he was lost in his thoughts, and neither the sun high over head nor the moon rising pale and full on the horizon meant anything to him. Well, that was what family was for. The day had held a bit of chill, which was just as well, for no stately shade trees lined this path any more. With a small involuntary shiver, she adjusted the threadbare shawl about her shoulders, and trudged on.
Jolly stopped in the middle of chopping the downed trunk and gave his friend a quick glance of concern. Wandering off in his mind again, from the look on his face, and that waren’t no good at all. Too many dark thoughts and painful memories. Jolly knew the feeling all too well, even though his own and Sam’s could never have been the same. Still, truth of the matter was that there weren’t nothing so good as hard work for pushing them back, and there certainly was no shortage of the need for that. It was with relief that he saw Sam’s sister approaching, and he reached out, giving Sam’s shoulder a firm clasp to catch his attention.
It had been his mother’s habit and Sam had picked it up, much to Frodo’s amusement. The first time he had trimmed Sam’s curls, he was surprised to see Sam carefully sweep up the leavings off of the tidy floor of Bag End’s kitchen flagstones, and almost ceremoniously take them out to the hedge that grew at the back of the kitchen garden. Lightly, he blew them off the dustpan toward the thick hedge, where they wafted casually on the breeze, settling with a glint of gold among the dark green leaves. “For the birds,” he explained, with a bit of embarrassment to Frodo, who had followed him out and was staring at him with an eyebrow raised questioningly. “Makes it easier for them to get at, than on the rubbish heap, ‘tis what my mam would say. I’ve no more use for it, so they may as well have it.”
“But what would they want with it?” Frodo had asked, genuinely bewildered.
“Well, mostly it’s the finch,” Sam had explained, growing pink with the notion that he was possessed of knowledge that Frodo did not have. “They’d be makin’ their nests out of all manner of oddments, they say, and they’re that fond of hair.”
“Ah,” Frodo had responded thoughtfully, peering into the foliage. “Well, as you say, we’ve certainly no further use for it, so it makes sense, I suppose, to offer it to them. I would never really have thought of it, though.”
And as the years had gone by, bits of dark curls and golden ones had been tossed on the hedge, without any further formalities.
Marigold gave the supply of split logs an approving glance as she met up with the other two hobbits. “ ’Twill do nicely for us, for a day or two, leastways. There’s so much t’be done, but a warm smial t’do it in is a rare treat these days, no mistake.” She gave the sky above a critical glance as she silently handed her brother the sack and flask. “Tom thinks mayhap tomorrow will be right t’begin plantin’. Hoping for three crops of wheat this year, he is. A warm spring this year would be a blessing, t’be sure.”
With a wistful sigh, she lay a affectionate hand on her brother’s arm. “Don’t you be forgettin’ to come back with Jolly now, for supper,” she added, in a stern tone that did not travel as far as her eyes. “Don’t make me send Da after you, for you surely know I will.”
Sam smiled slightly, and patted her hand reassuringly. “I’m all right, Mari, don’t you fret none.”
And it wasn’t until half way back to her smial that Marigold realized that Sam had not really answered her.
Sam appreciated his family’s concern, more than he had words to tell them, but this night was a night to spend alone, at Bag End. Some nights were better than others, and on those he didn’t mind a bit of company, but on those others there was no use troubling those he loved with his grief. So he declined Jolly’s solicitous invitation, and made his way alone back to the cold and dark smial on the hill.
The gaffer rapped on the kitchen door, just as Marigold had promised, not more than an hour later. But Sam leaned heavily in the kitchen doorway, and shook his head with a weary smile at his father’s invitation. “Tomorrow, Da, I’d be right glad to have a mug w’you. Tonight, though, I’m just that tired. You tell Mari not to fret none; I’ll be fine enough.”
“You know how the lasses get worret,” his father responded gruffly, with a quick search of his son’s eyes and a rough clasp of his shoulder. “Well, you know your mind, Sam-lad. I’ll let you be.”
“Thanks, Da,” Sam breathed, but the gaffer had already turned away and was trudging back to Number Three.
Sam lay back in the tub, his eyes closed, and tears sliding heedlessly down his cheeks. It was in the bath, for some reason that Sam never quite understood, that Frodo preferred to have his own curls trimmed. Maybe it was that the damp air caused them to curl tightly, or mayhap it was just the manner in which he could relax against the back of the tub while Sam sat on a stool behind him. Sam had taken pride in his work, for it would never do to let the Master of Bag End be seen with ragged locks, so he generally held conversation to a minimum, and took to humming a tune instead, just to let Frodo know that he was still at work. Frodo didn’t mind, for surely there was time enough for conversation in their peaceful daily life, so he would lie back in the warm sudsy water, and trail his fingers through the bubbles, or idly wiggle his toes, and drowsily enjoy Sam’s wordless assortment of airs he had learned from his mother. But eventually, he would hear the stool scrape back, and a cluck of satisfaction from Sam, and he knew that the job had been done. Sam was always careful to sweep up the dark curls immediately, for Frodo could be counted on to show his appreciation, and the resulting splashes frequently caused the floor to be very damp, before they both finally realized that the water had gone quite cool indeed, and made their way to their bedroom.
He had tried his best to fit back into the daily life of the Shire, for if there was anything that would help him to find his way through the empty life into which he had inexplicably fallen, it would be the necessity for planting, nurturing, and harvesting that he had known all his life long. The spring wheat needs must be sown, and it cared not if his heart was as blithe and free as a lark as he did so, or irreparably shattered beyond all mending. But as hard as he drove himself in the daylight, it was the nights that were the most bleak.
He made his way through the chilly and dimly lit smial without the assistance of a candle, for surely he did not need that flickering light to find his way to the bed that had been his for more than twenty years now gone by. The moon was full and brilliantly white this night, however, and almost unwillingly, he found himself at the carved chest beneath the bedroom window, opening it and withdrawing the small simple cedar box that lay buried at the bottom under blankets, and as far from his daily gaze as he could manage.
Yet its contents were entirely impossible to forget. And he lifted up the box and opened it, despite the pain he knew the sight would bring, for he could no more stop himself than cause his heart to stop beating, and held it open, exposed to the white pitiless moonlight. There was not much inside; only a lock of dark hair tied tightly with a simple string. But Sam held it up to the silvered radiance, touching the sable curl with a loving reverence, and knew that he possessed no treasure more dear to his heart than this.
The moon had long set before he was able to fall into an exhausted sleep.
When he had cut Frodo’s hair, six months ago, they both had known it was for the last time. Frodo had kept his hair longer, since their return, since it tended to hide the gauntness about his jaw, and Sam had not had to trim it often. Indeed, Sam suspected that it was more for his sake, rather than Frodo’s own, that he had asked Sam to tidy it up a bit. But Sam had done his best, as always, and had lovingly followed the curl of each lock, cutting it at an angle so as to let it fall more gracefully, keeping his mind solely on what his hands were doing. He had accepted this as the way to keep, as best he was able, the yawning pit of grief and pain that he knew awaited him at bay. So he cut slowly and deliberately, and when he could find no more to be done, leaned over and kissed Frodo’s forehead.
Frodo had been quiet and still in the warm water, his eyes closed, but as he felt Sam’s lips, he had looked up and found Sam’s eyes with his. No words needed to be said that had not been said so many times before, but they both searched each other’s faces, without any pretence that they were not storing memories that must suffice in the dark time ahead. Sam couldn’t help the sobbing moan that escaped from him, at last, and Frodo wordlessly held open his arms. Sam was still clothed, but that didn’t matter in the least as he let himself fall into the water, fall into Frodo’s embrace, and force everything but the feel of Frodo in his arms, against his cheek, against his heart, from his mind.
Sam was awake before dawn the next day, and made his way out, at the first light, to where he and Jolly had been chopping wood the previous afternoon. He had his suspicions as to what he might find there, but he wanted to find it alone. The lofty plane tree had just started to unfurl its new leaves, and it was difficult to locate what he thought he had seen the day before amongst all the bright spring foliage, but he found it at last. Not a large nest at all, and made up with an odd random assortment of twigs, dead leaves, scraps of paper, and most unmistakably, dark brown hair.
So a finch did actually use it, Sam thought with a rare smile, as he gazed up at the nest high above his head, glinted gold by the rising sun, but that was not the case. For the bird that roused itself and flew up into the morning light was no finch at all, but blue as the sky itself and with a rosy patch on its breast. With a cheerful liquid trill, it circled about and then landed on a branch near the nest, cocking its head and staring back down at Sam. Sam found his breath caught in his throat until the small creature, with a satisfied chirp, bobbed his head once more and then flew up into the dawn, until it was lost from sight.
A small breeze rustled through the leaves, and it suddenly seemed to Sam as if it whispered the word “trust” in his ear. He found himself leaning against the rough bark of the trunk and something that had been ajar, somehow, in his heart managed to resolve itself. His love was gone from him, but was not lost to him. There would come a day, perhaps some bright spring morning, or perhaps some brisk autumn afternoon, when the time would come to find his way back to Frodo. That was not for him to decide. His task was to trust that it would happen, and as long as he did so, their love would not be forever lost.
Sam glanced back up to the nest with a rush of thankfulness, and then straightened up his jacket a bit. It was early enough to make first breakfast at Marigold and Tom’s smial, and it would never do to appear as if he had dressed himself in the dark, even if he had. And as he set off purposely through the damp green grass, the sun rose high in a golden morning.
waymeet! Many thanks for the endlessly inventive mods, without whose delightfully inventive prompts, this story would never have been written.
Title: Hair
Author: Elderberrywine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2326
Summary: Sam tries to find his footing again. Angst alert. Part of the Grey Hills and Green post-quest series.
Odd thing about hair, Sam mused. ‘Twas a growing, living thing when it was on one’s head. But cut it off, and seemingly, it would last forever, blowing in the wind, landing haphazardly anywhere, dark or light, curly or straight, just as if it had been cut only the moment before. Leastways, that’s how it seemed to him. Leaning heavily on his ax, he stared up into the tree, in the fading light, just a little longer.
Marigold, her honey curls arbitrarily pinned up out of the way, had started out to the back fields, with exasperation and concern struggling for priority in her breast, a covered basket on one arm and a flask in its holder looped over her shoulder. No elevenses, no lunch, and, she was quite sure, there would have been no tea but for her intervention. Whatever had happened to her brother had certainly thrown his good hobbit sense topsy-turvy in his head. There was a time when their father might have called him a ninnyhammer, but no more. Never that. There were far too many times, though, when he was lost in his thoughts, and neither the sun high over head nor the moon rising pale and full on the horizon meant anything to him. Well, that was what family was for. The day had held a bit of chill, which was just as well, for no stately shade trees lined this path any more. With a small involuntary shiver, she adjusted the threadbare shawl about her shoulders, and trudged on.
Jolly stopped in the middle of chopping the downed trunk and gave his friend a quick glance of concern. Wandering off in his mind again, from the look on his face, and that waren’t no good at all. Too many dark thoughts and painful memories. Jolly knew the feeling all too well, even though his own and Sam’s could never have been the same. Still, truth of the matter was that there weren’t nothing so good as hard work for pushing them back, and there certainly was no shortage of the need for that. It was with relief that he saw Sam’s sister approaching, and he reached out, giving Sam’s shoulder a firm clasp to catch his attention.
It had been his mother’s habit and Sam had picked it up, much to Frodo’s amusement. The first time he had trimmed Sam’s curls, he was surprised to see Sam carefully sweep up the leavings off of the tidy floor of Bag End’s kitchen flagstones, and almost ceremoniously take them out to the hedge that grew at the back of the kitchen garden. Lightly, he blew them off the dustpan toward the thick hedge, where they wafted casually on the breeze, settling with a glint of gold among the dark green leaves. “For the birds,” he explained, with a bit of embarrassment to Frodo, who had followed him out and was staring at him with an eyebrow raised questioningly. “Makes it easier for them to get at, than on the rubbish heap, ‘tis what my mam would say. I’ve no more use for it, so they may as well have it.”
“But what would they want with it?” Frodo had asked, genuinely bewildered.
“Well, mostly it’s the finch,” Sam had explained, growing pink with the notion that he was possessed of knowledge that Frodo did not have. “They’d be makin’ their nests out of all manner of oddments, they say, and they’re that fond of hair.”
“Ah,” Frodo had responded thoughtfully, peering into the foliage. “Well, as you say, we’ve certainly no further use for it, so it makes sense, I suppose, to offer it to them. I would never really have thought of it, though.”
And as the years had gone by, bits of dark curls and golden ones had been tossed on the hedge, without any further formalities.
Marigold gave the supply of split logs an approving glance as she met up with the other two hobbits. “ ’Twill do nicely for us, for a day or two, leastways. There’s so much t’be done, but a warm smial t’do it in is a rare treat these days, no mistake.” She gave the sky above a critical glance as she silently handed her brother the sack and flask. “Tom thinks mayhap tomorrow will be right t’begin plantin’. Hoping for three crops of wheat this year, he is. A warm spring this year would be a blessing, t’be sure.”
With a wistful sigh, she lay a affectionate hand on her brother’s arm. “Don’t you be forgettin’ to come back with Jolly now, for supper,” she added, in a stern tone that did not travel as far as her eyes. “Don’t make me send Da after you, for you surely know I will.”
Sam smiled slightly, and patted her hand reassuringly. “I’m all right, Mari, don’t you fret none.”
And it wasn’t until half way back to her smial that Marigold realized that Sam had not really answered her.
Sam appreciated his family’s concern, more than he had words to tell them, but this night was a night to spend alone, at Bag End. Some nights were better than others, and on those he didn’t mind a bit of company, but on those others there was no use troubling those he loved with his grief. So he declined Jolly’s solicitous invitation, and made his way alone back to the cold and dark smial on the hill.
The gaffer rapped on the kitchen door, just as Marigold had promised, not more than an hour later. But Sam leaned heavily in the kitchen doorway, and shook his head with a weary smile at his father’s invitation. “Tomorrow, Da, I’d be right glad to have a mug w’you. Tonight, though, I’m just that tired. You tell Mari not to fret none; I’ll be fine enough.”
“You know how the lasses get worret,” his father responded gruffly, with a quick search of his son’s eyes and a rough clasp of his shoulder. “Well, you know your mind, Sam-lad. I’ll let you be.”
“Thanks, Da,” Sam breathed, but the gaffer had already turned away and was trudging back to Number Three.
Sam lay back in the tub, his eyes closed, and tears sliding heedlessly down his cheeks. It was in the bath, for some reason that Sam never quite understood, that Frodo preferred to have his own curls trimmed. Maybe it was that the damp air caused them to curl tightly, or mayhap it was just the manner in which he could relax against the back of the tub while Sam sat on a stool behind him. Sam had taken pride in his work, for it would never do to let the Master of Bag End be seen with ragged locks, so he generally held conversation to a minimum, and took to humming a tune instead, just to let Frodo know that he was still at work. Frodo didn’t mind, for surely there was time enough for conversation in their peaceful daily life, so he would lie back in the warm sudsy water, and trail his fingers through the bubbles, or idly wiggle his toes, and drowsily enjoy Sam’s wordless assortment of airs he had learned from his mother. But eventually, he would hear the stool scrape back, and a cluck of satisfaction from Sam, and he knew that the job had been done. Sam was always careful to sweep up the dark curls immediately, for Frodo could be counted on to show his appreciation, and the resulting splashes frequently caused the floor to be very damp, before they both finally realized that the water had gone quite cool indeed, and made their way to their bedroom.
He had tried his best to fit back into the daily life of the Shire, for if there was anything that would help him to find his way through the empty life into which he had inexplicably fallen, it would be the necessity for planting, nurturing, and harvesting that he had known all his life long. The spring wheat needs must be sown, and it cared not if his heart was as blithe and free as a lark as he did so, or irreparably shattered beyond all mending. But as hard as he drove himself in the daylight, it was the nights that were the most bleak.
He made his way through the chilly and dimly lit smial without the assistance of a candle, for surely he did not need that flickering light to find his way to the bed that had been his for more than twenty years now gone by. The moon was full and brilliantly white this night, however, and almost unwillingly, he found himself at the carved chest beneath the bedroom window, opening it and withdrawing the small simple cedar box that lay buried at the bottom under blankets, and as far from his daily gaze as he could manage.
Yet its contents were entirely impossible to forget. And he lifted up the box and opened it, despite the pain he knew the sight would bring, for he could no more stop himself than cause his heart to stop beating, and held it open, exposed to the white pitiless moonlight. There was not much inside; only a lock of dark hair tied tightly with a simple string. But Sam held it up to the silvered radiance, touching the sable curl with a loving reverence, and knew that he possessed no treasure more dear to his heart than this.
The moon had long set before he was able to fall into an exhausted sleep.
When he had cut Frodo’s hair, six months ago, they both had known it was for the last time. Frodo had kept his hair longer, since their return, since it tended to hide the gauntness about his jaw, and Sam had not had to trim it often. Indeed, Sam suspected that it was more for his sake, rather than Frodo’s own, that he had asked Sam to tidy it up a bit. But Sam had done his best, as always, and had lovingly followed the curl of each lock, cutting it at an angle so as to let it fall more gracefully, keeping his mind solely on what his hands were doing. He had accepted this as the way to keep, as best he was able, the yawning pit of grief and pain that he knew awaited him at bay. So he cut slowly and deliberately, and when he could find no more to be done, leaned over and kissed Frodo’s forehead.
Frodo had been quiet and still in the warm water, his eyes closed, but as he felt Sam’s lips, he had looked up and found Sam’s eyes with his. No words needed to be said that had not been said so many times before, but they both searched each other’s faces, without any pretence that they were not storing memories that must suffice in the dark time ahead. Sam couldn’t help the sobbing moan that escaped from him, at last, and Frodo wordlessly held open his arms. Sam was still clothed, but that didn’t matter in the least as he let himself fall into the water, fall into Frodo’s embrace, and force everything but the feel of Frodo in his arms, against his cheek, against his heart, from his mind.
Sam was awake before dawn the next day, and made his way out, at the first light, to where he and Jolly had been chopping wood the previous afternoon. He had his suspicions as to what he might find there, but he wanted to find it alone. The lofty plane tree had just started to unfurl its new leaves, and it was difficult to locate what he thought he had seen the day before amongst all the bright spring foliage, but he found it at last. Not a large nest at all, and made up with an odd random assortment of twigs, dead leaves, scraps of paper, and most unmistakably, dark brown hair.
So a finch did actually use it, Sam thought with a rare smile, as he gazed up at the nest high above his head, glinted gold by the rising sun, but that was not the case. For the bird that roused itself and flew up into the morning light was no finch at all, but blue as the sky itself and with a rosy patch on its breast. With a cheerful liquid trill, it circled about and then landed on a branch near the nest, cocking its head and staring back down at Sam. Sam found his breath caught in his throat until the small creature, with a satisfied chirp, bobbed his head once more and then flew up into the dawn, until it was lost from sight.
A small breeze rustled through the leaves, and it suddenly seemed to Sam as if it whispered the word “trust” in his ear. He found himself leaning against the rough bark of the trunk and something that had been ajar, somehow, in his heart managed to resolve itself. His love was gone from him, but was not lost to him. There would come a day, perhaps some bright spring morning, or perhaps some brisk autumn afternoon, when the time would come to find his way back to Frodo. That was not for him to decide. His task was to trust that it would happen, and as long as he did so, their love would not be forever lost.
Sam glanced back up to the nest with a rush of thankfulness, and then straightened up his jacket a bit. It was early enough to make first breakfast at Marigold and Tom’s smial, and it would never do to appear as if he had dressed himself in the dark, even if he had. And as he set off purposely through the damp green grass, the sun rose high in a golden morning.
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Something about the wonderful font of hippiedom that is the original was hard to shake.
Flow it, show it,
Long as God can grow it, my hair.
Hee. Good times, man, good times.
But there was this oddly nagging and insistent call to angst. Very glad you enjoyed it!
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Thank you very much for this, and also for mentioning it on your daily roundup. Which, by the way, I can't thank you enough for doing for all of us. RL is a bit tight right now, what with the new school year starting, but your post is a daily temptation. Someday I'll figure out a way to sneak a couple more hours in a day, and that will be a glorious day indeed.
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But then as somebody (Winnie the Pooh?) says, "A promise is a promise is a promise."
Thank you very much, my dear!
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*hugs*
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This week has been such a crazy one - I've hardly had time to poke my head in here at all. Thanks for watching my back, my dear.
*hugs again*
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*hugs*