elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2010-08-31 10:11 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2010-08-31 10:11 pm
Lo! A new Shire Morns fic!
Just because.
Title: First Frost
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 8315
Summary: Shire Morns, first year. With the first turn of the seasons, Sam finds he is still not entirely sure of himself, and the summer's turn of events. But pumpkin pickle manages to redeem all.
Sam worked on doggedly with his hoe, although the midday sun was uncomfortably strong. It was one of those days, late autumn, when summer seemed to be unaccountably returning without the benefit of winter first. Most of the summer crops were long since harvested, and for that matter, consumed, but at this time of year, there was still the odd straggling squash here and there, the tomato bush that would not cease production until the first deep frost, and of course, the last of the pumpkins. So it would not do to ignore gardening chores, nearly winter or no, and for that, Sam was thankful.
It still had been only a matter of months since he had moved into Bag End, and as much as he dearly loved Frodo, which he did with all his heart, he had to secretly admit to himself that life had been, over this past summer, frequently awkward. His father and his sisters seemed to have become accepting of his current situation, in varying degrees, and he was infinitely grateful for that. Frodo’s family situation was undoubtedly far less complex, for Bilbo was irrefutably gone, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin were, he fervently hoped, inclined to think of him as a sort of live-in servant, and nothing more. But he knew his Frodo.
Frodo had tentatively mentioned Yule now at least thrice, and he knew all too well that Frodo generally spent Yule at one of his cousins’ smials. He also knew Frodo would never consent to his staying behind and spending Yule alone, and truth to tell, he found that idea appalling himself. So it was either the both of them stayed here at Bag End, which opened up the field for all sorts of questions, or it was that they both went to either Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, and he had a sinking feeling that it had been Brandy Hall’s turn. And his hope that he and Frodo could maintain a master-servant fiction regarding their true relationship was, he had to admit, not a strong one.
What was it, he asked himself sternly, as he savagely uprooted a most unassuming row of weeds, that he found so fearful about Meriadoc Brandybuck (and he had to admit that it was far more Merry with whom he was concerned than Pippin) finding out how matters actually stood between Frodo and himself? Surely he did not think that Merry’s opinion, whatever it might be, would cause Frodo to think any less of him. No, the strength of Frodo’s feelings for him was one consideration regarding which he had no doubts whatsoever, he had to admit as he unconsciously wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. Frodo had, after all, faced up to the gaffer, not to mention all of Hobbiton, and no further proof was needed as far as Sam was concerned.
No, it was that it would be another case of the look of disdain, the cutting side comment, the politely concealed sneer, all of which had all started to wear at him over this last summer. He wished that he could ignore them, as Frodo did, but on the other hand, all of these expressions had been far more directed toward himself than Frodo, and perhaps Frodo wasn’t aware as to how bad the situation had really become. And quite honestly? He really wasn’t used to it himself, not at all. That, if he had to admit it, was really the crux of it all. With a final fierce jab of the hoe, and ferocious twist of his wrist, he had to admit to himself that that was, indeed, it.
There were those, he had come to realize, who enjoyed one’s so-called disgrace all the more when it was unanticipated. Indeed, some of the lads with whom he had grown up, and with whom he’d been the best of playmates, now seemed to revel in the gossip. He’d even heard more than one assert that there had alus been something off about that Gamgee lad, now that they come t’think on it. Fortunately, the Cotton lads had stood by Frodo and himself, along with his own family, and not to mention the occasional unexpected ally, such as Ned Proudfoot. Still, it had been a shrinking circle of friends, all and all, and he could not deny that it pained him to know that.
However all of that would eventually, in the course of time, smooth itself out; he had no doubt of it. But now there was another fear that nagged at his heart, a deeper and darker dread that he did not want to examine at all. As surely as winter followed summer, this new fear had been growing in his mind as he watched each day shorten, no matter that it was still warm, and harvest season. He had come to Bag End at the start of the summer, and by necessity, had spent most of each day away in either Frodo’s garden or his father’s. Frodo had also been absent during the day a good deal of the time, on business, as the new head of the Baggins’ landholdings. Especially since it was his first growing season in this unaccustomed role, he had felt particularly compelled to make contact with all those who farmed the various holdings, and had come back to Bag End fretful and anxious and eager to get Sam’s perspective on matters more than once. So the days had flowed smoothly from Midsummer’s Day through the Harvest Festival in their own rhythm, but that season had come and passed, and soon all of that would change.
It was the thought of the long winter months ahead, he had to reluctantly admit, that caused Sam’s deepest anxiety. When they were forced to spend all day together, in the close quarters of Bag End, what would he find to say to Frodo? Wouldn’t Frodo, loving him as he undeniably did, still find him rather a dull fellow, all in all? Winters in his old smial had been spent tending to the inexhaustible pile of chores that the gaffer, not to mention Daisy, always seemed to have stored up for him, but Frodo was not one to think of that sort of thing in the least. And he still did not feel it to be his place to take over the care of Bag End, so to speak.
It would take no time at all, he glumly concluded, as he gave the last weed a particularly vicious yank, before he would be exposed as the great ninnyhammer that he was and had always been, and Frodo would start to rethink his impetuous love affair. After all, he had never been Frodo’s first, and it was impossible, the more he thought on it, to imagine that he would be Frodo’s last.
&&&&&
It was generally the night when he felt the most sure of himself. The air was chilly now, once the sun was down, and a fire in their bedroom was nearly always welcome. Some nights they would leisurely explore the length and depth of each other, and other nights they would fall asleep almost immediately, and yet there was always a point at which they were nestled side by side. Sam would feel Frodo’s warmth then, in the smooth skin pressed up against his side, and he would hum happily and turn to him, and bury himself against him, and fling his arm across this beloved body at his side. And a sleepy Frodo would laugh warmly, and wrap his own strong arms around Sam, and Sam’s cheek would find that cherished place, where it fit so very well, on Frodo’s chest and right under his chin. Sleep always found them then, as the fire gradually died out and the moon rose in the dark sky. There was never any doubt in Sam’s heart, during those cherished hours, for any choice he had ever made.
&&&&&
The next morning Sam awoke early, as was his custom, but the room was darker than it ought to be. Rain, he thought glumly, as he cracked an eye open and gave a quiet sigh. No more growing weather, not this year, and he’d have to be taking the last of the pumpkins and squash and tomatoes as they were. Autumn had come in earnest, with winter hard on its heels, and there’d be no more hot days and warm nights now, not for the rest of the year.
Carefully, he tried to extract himself from a sleeping Frodo’s embrace. It made no sense to him that Frodo should have to wake when he did, but invariably Frodo was so tightly wrapped about him that, try as he might, he could not manage to slip out from their bed without Frodo sleepily stirring, and rolling over to him, tightening his grasp about Sam, and sleepily muttering something along the lines of, “Not yet, Sam, just stay a little longer.”
That was an invitation that Sam found terribly hard to refuse, and especially on a morning when gardening priorities seemed suddenly to be at an end, so he abandoned the attempt, and pulled a sleepy Frodo against him, and tucked his hands between Frodo’s warm backside and the sheet beneath them. “Mmm,” Frodo breathed happily, his eyes never opening, and pressed himself more closely against Sam. “Plenty of time, love,” he mumbled, and was, in a matter of moments, fast asleep again.
Well, then, Sam thought happily, his heart suddenly at peace, Frodo was entirely right. Plenty of time, indeed, and in an instant, his breathing had matched Frodo’s, and they were both, once again, soundly asleep.
&&&&&
The next time Sam awoke, it was to an empty bed and the unmistakable sound of a hard rain being driven against the round bedroom window. But there was also the distinctively comforting aroma of sizzling bacon, the muted clatter of pans, and most unusual of all, fleeting traces of song floating down the hallway from the general vicinity of the kitchen. Sam stared up at the ceiling of the Bag End master bedroom, a delighted smile beginning to play across his face. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he had heard Frodo sing, especially as unselfconsciously as he was doing so now. It was a light voice, but it held a tune quite well, Sam had to admit. Closing his eyes once again, he luxuriated in the comfort of the feather bed, the warmth of the room (Frodo had obviously started a welcome fire before he had left), and the all-encompassing sense of sheer happiness that had suddenly seized him. At least until the unexpected harsh clang of pans, and abrupt halt of song and muttered curses instead, met his ears. With a wry chuckle, he rose from bed. It seemed as if Frodo had need of his assistance after all.
Indeed was the case. The eggs had unaccountably scorched, the bacon had burnt, and Frodo’s previous good humor had most unmistakably vanished. “Sam, I don’t know what has possessed this kitchen this morning,” he gave Sam a quick disgruntled glance as he quietly entered the kitchen. ‘Things were going so well and then they weren’t.”
“Aye, some days are like that, Frodo-love,” Sam murmured imperturbably, stepping up behind Frodo and snatching the frying pan up before the damage could get worse. “The tea smells lovely though, on a cold morning such as this, and the bits of bacon on the sides came out nicely enough. If you wouldn’t mind slicing up some of the bread to toast, we’d be set up right nicely.”
Frodo fell to his appointed task with a sigh of relief, and first breakfast was soon on the table. “It’s a wet day, out of doors,” Frodo ventured, somewhat hesitantly, after the first edge of their hunger had been appeased.
“Aye,” Sam bent his head down and bit into another piece of buttered toast.
“Is there anything that still needs to be harvested?” Frodo continued, after a bit of a pause.
Sam gave an unmistakably gloomy sigh as he bit savagely into the last of his toast. “Plenty of tomatoes left, not to mention the squash and pumpkins. ‘Tis usually bit of a warning, when summer’d be over, but not this year, seemingly.”
“I could help,” came very quietly from the other side of the table, as Sam looked up sharply, and bit his tongue before the automatic decline could be uttered. “That would be right nice, Frodo love,” he murmured, and quickly closed his mind to what the gaffer would have said. Sometimes, what was proper was noways what was right, as he had come to find out this last summer, and the sudden answering smile on Frodo’s face was gift enough that he didn’t give propriety another thought.
&&&&&
They worked steadily through the morning, as the rain came down harder and harder, and by noon had managed to salvage anything that was left which appeared to be edible. Frodo’s cheerful mood from earlier that morning had returned, and even though his dark curls were quite plastered against his face, and the rain streamed rather steadily off of his sharp nose, he had many a quip for Sam, and before long, Sam had forgotten his misgivings of the day before. He laughed easily, and was readily prompted by a grinning Frodo into revealing quite a few merry tales featuring his relations both near and remote. It wasn’t until Frodo’s stomach gave a pronounced growl that they realized they had worked through both second breakfast and elevenses. Fortunately, the end of the row of beans was in sight, and the kitchen garden was now looking most decidedly bare.
“Well, that will be it for this season, leastways as far as I can see,” Sam pronounced with satisfaction, hefting the bag with the most of the produce over his shoulder.
“And a good thing too,” Frodo gave a wry chuckle, straightening his back with concealed relief and picking up the pail with the last of the tomatoes. “I would have minded the eggs a bit more carefully had I known they were to last me all morning.”
“Regrets never mended naught, as the gaffer’d say,” Sam responded serenely. “We’ll just make up the difference at lunch.” Squelching through the mud, they made their way through the rivulets that had mysteriously taken the place of the garden paths, but then abruptly came to a halt at the kitchen door.
“We can’t do much about lunch in this state,” Frodo glanced over to Sam, who had obviously just come to the same conclusion. “Besides, I’d rather not spend the afternoon mopping out the kitchen afterwards. Not to mention my personal opinion that a hot bath is very much more to the point at this moment than even a meal.”
“I’d not argue that point with you at all, me dear,” Sam nodded emphatically, dropping the sack just inside the kitchen door.
“Then here’s what we shall do, Sam-love,” Frodo turned to him with a determined look and the most adorable curls plastered on his sharp cheeks, which had the unconscious effect of entirely distracting Sam from following Frodo’s words at all. “We may be undeniably muddy, but our clothing is likewise, and there’s no need that both should have to make the trip to the bath. We should just shed the whole lot at the door, and then you start the kettle, my dear, and I’ll go fetch the towels. There’ll be muddy footprints to be dealing with later, but that should be the extent of it.”
“Of course, dearie,” mumbled Sam, having fortunately caught the bit about the kettle even though the rest had rather escaped him. He took Frodo’s pail from him and circumspectly watched as Frodo shed his garments in the doorway and made his way through the kitchen, darkened from the storm clouds without.
“You have to put it over the fire, you know,” Frodo threw over his shoulder just before he entered the hallway, with an unmistakably tickled smile. “It’s the only way to get the water hot.”
Sam’s face immediately flushed with red, but he gave a sheepish grin at being so well and truly caught. “Aye, that’d be the truth o’it,” he muttered, striding over to the fire to do just that.
Conscientiously attending to matters, he set the kettle to boil, and headed back out to the pump with the two buckets that waited outside the door expressly for this purpose. He made his way to the pump that was just outside the kitchen door, but it was a very close thing as to whether he should just let the buckets sit for a few moments out in the rain, or pump the water, and he settled for the former. Letting the rain pour down off his face, as he lifted it to the darkened sky overhead, he let his worries drain from him, just as surely as did the rain down his cheeks. Frodo was waiting for him. Frodo loved him, truly and without reserve. All of his absurd concerns and cares were trifling and without cause. Frodo loved him, and that was all he needed to know.
&&&&&
The rain continued unabated the next day as Sam awoke, at his normal time, and contemplated the day ahead. The early morning light was dim, but he could see that Frodo was still peacefully sleeping, curled at his side. He carefully sat up, so as not to disturb him, and reviewed mentally the list of chores for the day in his mind. It was not a very long list.
Last autumn, when the rains had come, he had been back at his old smial, worrying about Mr. Frodo all alone and far too quiet, up here at Bag End. But then Daisy or the gaffer would send him on an errand or give him a chore that needed doing, and his thoughts would, perforce, be sent elsewhere. Now, though, here he was and there was no need to be fretting about the resident of the smial under the hill. And that left himself, at sixes and sevens.
It was a quiet voice that suddenly broke into his brooding thoughts. “And now what, Sam?”
He glanced back with a start to see Frodo’s gaze on him, with a slight understanding smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve always had the garden to tend to, since you’ve lived here with me. But it seems as though the garden has no more need of tending, at least for now.”
Sam couldn’t help a rueful smile back, as he fell back onto the pillow with a slight sigh. “Usually, come autumn, I never have a chance t’be thinkin’ on it,” he admitted with a bit of hesitation. “There’d never be any lack o’chores t’be done, and the days go by, somehow, ‘til it is spring again. Of course, there was always you to visit, and that took all my thinking, seemingly. ‘Twas just a matter of keeping my hands busy.”
Frodo’s smile deepened as he rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow and, reaching out, ran a tender touch down the side of Sam’s cheek. “Think about me all you like, dearest, and it won’t be nearly as often as I think of you. But there must be ways to keep you busy here as well. What sort of chores, Sam?”
“Well,” Sam considered carefully, “there’d be the day-to-day matters, like helping Daisy w’the laundry and kneading some of the dough to give her a bit of a rest. Feeding the pig and the chickens, since the rain bothers the gaffer’s joints something fierce when it gets cold. And then the tasks that alus seem t’go better on a rainy day, like candling, and mending.”
There was silence for a moment before Frodo murmured in a low voice, “They must miss you terribly at home, Sam. I’m sorry I never really quite thought of it like that. That was horribly selfish of me, I’m afraid.”
Sam’s head immediately turned around at Frodo’s confession, and throwing a strong arm around his shoulders, brought him down for a resounding kiss. “ ‘Tis the way of growing up, Frodo-love,” he whispered, giving Frodo very nearly a stern look, as they broke apart. “They’d be missing Marigold likewise. ‘Tis just ill luck that they lost us both nearly at once.”
“But Daisy and your father have always been close to the Cottons; I doubt that they feel quite the same about her absence. I do wish, Sam, that somehow, I didn’t feel as though I had upended everyone’s life as much as I did by what I did.”
“Hear now,” Sam sat up abruptly, looking down at Frodo with his brows drawn into a furrow. “We’ll be havin’ none o’that. They’d be comin’ around, Frodo, you know that as well as I. ‘Tis a matter of time, but there might be more than one way to help that along, I’d be thinkin’. And one thing’d be by putting up what’s left of the fruits.”
“What do you mean, Sam?” Frodo gazed up at him, clearly a bit bewildered by the change of topic.
“Well, then, there’d be all manner of ways,” Sam stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Apple jelly, apple preserves, apple butter, applesauce, and that’s just the apples. Then there’d be the plums and pears, and the last of the tomatoes likewise. Not to mention the pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin?” Frodo’s eyes grew wider. “I never heard of a pumpkin preserve.”
“Now, there’s pumpkin butter, to be sure, but I’ve always fancied a nice pumpkin pickle. Not that gentlehobbits have a taste for that sort of thing, as I understand,” he continued to muse, watching the tracks of water the rain was leaving on the bedroom window.
But an unsuppressed gasp caused him to turn around and discover Frodo was eying him as one who had just made the most miraculous of discoveries. “Pumpkin pickle,” he whispered, in reverential tones. And then with a laugh, he sat up beside Sam. “A certain gentlehobbit might not have cared for it, perhaps. I know Bilbo wasn’t at all fond of it. But my mother used to make the very best. I haven’t had it in years.”
And with a decided bound, he sprang from bed. “Very well, then, Sam, here’s what we shall do. We have this lovely big kitchen, and it isn’t used half as much as it ought to be. Would Daisy and Marigold mind putting up, as you say, over here?” And with that question, there was suddenly a shy and yet hopeful expression on his face that unexpectedly caught at Sam’s throat. “Do you think, Sam?”
“ ‘Tis the best kitchen for such a purpose,” Sam declared stoutly, firmly quelling any doubts as to the possible reception of this proposition. He swung his legs over the other side of the bed and walked over to the chair on which his clothes lay neatly folded. “I’ll stop by directly after first breakfast. And I believe you’ll find your vest atop the wardrobe, Frodo,” he added with a chuckle, neatly finishing off his buttons and heading out the door.
“Dear me,” Frodo turned rather rosy as he glanced up and saw that Sam was right. “How did it ever end up there? I don’t think I can possibly remember.”
“Oh, you’ll remember, Frodo, me dearie,” came a complacent voice from the hallway, and with a more decided blush, Frodo realized that Sam was right.
&&&&&
Sam left for Number Three immediately after a hasty first breakfast, and it did not take too much persuasion for Daisy to see the merits of the plan, especially since Sam reassured her that he would be inviting Marigold as well. The gaffer’s decision to tag along, if Tolman Cotton agreed to come as well, came as a bit of a shock to Sam, but he was not inclined to demur. It was rare enough that his father set foot in Bag End, or indeed ever had, but if there was one room in which the elder Gamgee felt at least a trifle at home, it would be the kitchen, and Sam gulped and agreed, and fervently hoped that this turned out to be the promising idea that he had first thought it to be.
Tom and Marigold’s smial was next, with that of the Cottons following, if Marigold agreed. She did at once, with a bit of a squeal of delight, which caused her husband to give her a startled look, and immediately discovered that he had something of importance to be doing along with his brothers. He hadn’t quite determined what it was to be, but that didn’t matter as Marigold thrust a bushel of pears promptly into Sam’s befuddled grasp, and snatched up her cloak and a bag of late apples that had been sitting on the kitchen table. “This will do for starters,” she gaily announced, and tied the cloak under her chin, throwing the hood over her honey curls. “I expect I’ll be home about tea time, but if I’m not, then just head up to Mother Cottons’, there’s a love, Tom.”
Tom gave Sam a broad grin, and a wink and shake of his head as Marigold took matters into her own hands and prodded her brother out the door. “Well, if the gaffer’d be coming, you best be fetching Father Cotton, Samwise,” she nudged him in the direction of the Cottons’ smial, barely to be seen in the sheets of rain. “I’ll be heading over to Number Three. Bring him by, if he has a mind to, and we’ll follow you up the Hill.”
Sam soon found that, indeed, Master Tolman would very much enjoy the company of the gaffer on this soggy day, and if he were to find it at Bag End, all the better. So it was just about an hour later, in fact, and just about time for second breakfast, that Frodo peered through the kitchen window to find quite a party arriving at the back kitchen door of Bag End.
&&&&&
Frodo had not been remiss in the interim, and had reasoned that the best start to the project would be a hearty meal, so as to get one’s strength up for the task. So he had prepared a substantial one, and the visitors found plates of fluffy eggs (properly done this time), fried potatoes and bacon, sautéed mushrooms, and a small mountain of buttered toast, with honey, all ready for their enjoyment, along with the largest teapot Frodo possessed, steaming under its cozy. On such a cold and wet morning, the hot meal was more than appreciated, and there was very little conversation until the plates had been well cleaned.
Then it was a matter of deciding on the plan of attack, and all conceded to Daisy’s expertise in these affairs. However, Sam felt it prudent to mention the matter of pumpkin pickle right off, for one of the very few things he remembered about its preparation was that it was a task that involved several days.
“Pumpkin pickle!” exclaimed the gaffer at once, startled out of his normal studied silence when at Bag End. With a dreamy smile, he felt in his jacket pocket for his pipe, filling it and getting up and walked over to the fire for a spark to light it without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye, ‘tis been many a year, no mistake, but damme if my Belle didn’t make a fine pumpkin pickle.”
Tolman immediately verified this judgment. “You certainly have the right of that, my friend,” he confirmed, with a warm clasp of the gaffer’s shoulder. Searching for his pipe as well, he added, “My Lily, why she just made it the once, right after we was married, but she had tasted your Belle’s, and she said that that was the last time she’d be a’doin’ that. Too much work, she said, but what was worse, it just couldn’t compare. Belle did give you the receipt, didn’t she, lass?” He gave Daisy a sudden penetrating glance. “Can’t be gettin’ all our hopes up here, and have naught to satisfy them with, now!”
Daisy, who had been desperately trying to remember just that very thing, murmured a halting affirmation, but Marigold unexpectedly came to her assistance. “Well, if she don’t remember, I certainly do,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “ ‘Twas my favorite, too, and I watched her very carefully, to be sure. I’d have put up some myself already, but Tom ain’t the pumpkin pickle sort, and a pumpkin does make a great deal of pickle when you’re eating it all by yourself.”
“Looks like there’d be no danger of that happening now, don’t it?” Sam grinned, grateful that Frodo’s suggestion had been seized upon so readily. “Well, then, Mari, what is it as needs doin’ first?”
“Pumpkin rind,” she pronounced authoritatively. “Two will make a very good amount of pickle. They must be well-scraped and cut up. Then we’ll need a brine, and a crock. They must sit two days, and be stirred up every now and then. Then ‘twill be time to be pickling them.”
“There are two of your best pumpkins, Sam, in the larder right now,” Frodo laughed, “and I can’t think of a better purpose for them. Give me a hand, then, and let’s have them out right now. Then Mistress Cotton can judge if they will meet her standards.”
Sam rose, with a grin, and headed towards the hall directly behind Frodo. They waited, until they reached the larder, to say anything, but immediately upon entering, Sam was not surprised to find himself pressed against the wall and in Frodo’s arms. “See, there, this will go off well after all, my love,” Frodo whispered warmly after their sustained and enthusiastic kiss had finally ended.
“Of course it will, me dearie,” Sam gave Frodo’s eartip an extra nibble to emphasize his point. “Pure inspiration on your part, that pickle thing.”
Frodo gave a delighted giggle, still not entirely accustomed to that sensation. “We must be getting back, dearest,” he added ruefully, after another quick kiss. “But it certainly is a good thing we’ve each a pumpkin to carry in front of ourselves. I may not be setting mine down for a very long while.”
&&&&&
There was no doubt, as more than one judiciously eyed the skies, that they were in for a few days of sustained rain, so there was time to plan and marshal their resources appropriately. It was decided, that after the pumpkin was properly on its way to becoming pickle, that the pears would come next, since Marigold had brought a bushel with her, and Sam had a couple of basketsfull in the larder himself.
So the day flew pleasantly by, with the gaffer and Tolman set to the peeling and coring and chopping, and Daisy and Marigold and Frodo (upon his most determined insistence) stirring the kettles and filling the jars. Sam was sent on various errands, for it was immediately discovered that Bag End did not possess nearly enough jars and lids. Fortunately, he first stopped by the Cotton’s smial, and Lily Cotton was so impressed by the volume of putting up that appeared to be occurring at Bag End, and so grateful that she did not have to be involved, that she offered to prepare any meals that the workers might require. Thus Sam made several trips, in the steady downpour, in the Cottons’ cart, bringing boxes of empty jars, and well-covered kettles of fragrant stew. Since another trip brought some tightly wrapped freshly baked bread, and a lovely wheel of cheese, not to mention three kegs of perfectly fermented apple cider, there was nothing the party at Bag End could possibly be lacking in the way of nourishment, especially when Sam triumphantly produced a ginger cake that he had set aside for some auspicious occasion. This certainly qualified, and was an immense success, especially since the cider had been quite drained.
It wasn’t until fairly late in the evening that the guests had left, all with a great quantity of still warmly fragrant jars, as well as their firm assurance that they would be back on the morrow, right about second breakfast.
&&&&&
“That went off rather well, don’t you think?” Frodo looked up, with a weary but triumphant smile as he sank into his favorite seat on the corner settle in the study. In his hand was a half-full mug, as they were polishing off the last of the excellent apple cider Mistress Cotton had sent their way. He took a deep sip and stretched his toes a little closer to the cheerful and most welcome fire.
“Aye, it did after all,” Sam murmured as he curled up on the rug at Frodo’s feet and leaned comfortably against his knees, sipping from his own mug. “And a good thing too, seeing as they’ll all be back on the morrow.”
“Just as well, I suppose, since the rain also seems determined to last at least that long. I do hope an early arrival is not part of the plan though.”
“Not likely,” Sam chuckled. “ ‘Tis well-known that gentlehobbits aren’t generally up and about much before second breakfast.”
“I’d resent that remark if it wasn’t so very true,” Frodo laughed, his free hand reaching down to run through Sam’s conveniently nearby curls.
“I’d thought you’d not be denying that one,” Sam leaned back into Frodo’s touch, his eyes dreamily closing.
There was a short silence as the fire continued to crackle, and Frodo’s hand continued to cause Sam to keep his eyes blissfully closed. And then, from seemingly far away, he heard Frodo’s soft question. “What bothered you so, this morning, Sam? And for the past few days, for that matter? You’ve seemed so far away and lost in your thoughts at times.”
Sam’s eyes flickered open. Lying to Frodo was out of the question, of course, but there was no way of explaining himself without feeling like an absolute ninny-hammer. “I need summat t’be doing,” he murmured at last, haltingly.
“We all do,” Frodo’s voice was still very quiet and his fingers had not stopped their soothing motion. “But why would that be different than the year before?”
Sam ducked his head down then, and searched his confused thoughts. Perhaps it was the amount of cider that he had sipped, but he could not help the words that slipped out of his mouth. “I thought as you’d be bored with me, all shut up as we’ll be this winter.”
Frodo’s hand stopped its movement abruptly. “Did you really think that?” his voice was still very quiet, but Sam heard an unmistakable catch in it, and he reached up without thinking to grasp Frodo’s hand. There was a brief silence, then, as Sam clung to it, and could not make himself look at Frodo, and wished, with all his heart, that last remark back. But there was no undoing what had been spoken, and his only consolation was that Frodo’s hand still returned his grip.
“What do you think my last autumn was like, Sam?” he finally heard Frodo speak, still so very softly, and with such sadness that Sam could not help but quickly look up at him. Frodo’s eyes were closed and the pain that washed across his face was terrible for Sam to see.
“I’ve been used to being alone, but I’d gotten out of practice, I suppose. And it was so very sudden. But I can’t tell you how often I wandered these halls, and wished I was anywhere but here. I may have my interests and hobbies, but they don’t fill the day, not by any means. The weather shut me in, and there was no one to talk to, nowhere to turn. But then there was you. And I began to think that perhaps I might still have a friend here, and then, well, then I began to harbor an irrational hope that it could be more than that. Do you know what it meant to me when I realized at last that you returned my feelings? It was the sun breaking through the clouds that had shrouded me, and a joy and lightness in my heart that I had never known before. Bore me, Sam? How could you ever do that, when I treasure the sound of you in this lonely smial, cherish the sight of your dear face whenever I am beginning to feel forlorn, and long for the feel of you next to me every night and at my side every day. Nothing about you could ever bore me, Sam. I only wish I could convince you of that.”
“Frodo!” Sam cried out then, unable to keep silent any longer, and found himself with Frodo suddenly in his arms on the hearth rug. Words had never been enough, so he found Frodo’s mouth and kissed him long and thoroughly. It was only after that that he could murmur in Frodo’s ear, “You must forgive your fool of a Sam, dearie. I never dreamed of such as you, Frodo-love, and ‘tis still hard for me t’believe ‘tis not a wild fancy, after all.”
“I know, my dear, but you must believe that what I feel for you is every bit as real and true as what you feel for me.” Frodo’s eyes bore into his, wet with unshed tears, and Sam felt tears trickle unbidden down his face as well. “You are not merely my fancy, Sam, and never could be but that. No, I love you, dearest, with all my heart. I will never feel otherwise, my beloved. I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I do know that, Frodo, I do. It’d just be, at times, I’d feel like a duck in a swan’s nest, and not know what t’be doin’ with myself.”
“Whatever you wish to do, dear. I hope, Sam, oh, how I hope that you will feel that this is your home as much as mine. Anything that you think needs to be done, my darling, is yours to do. Anything you’d like to change is yours to change. Anyone you’d wish to invite here is more than welcome. Bag End is now yours as much as it is mine, and as soon as you come of age, it will be on paper too. All this I promise you, Sam-love. So whatever you would have done about your smial last winter, I hope you’d do here. As long as you share my life, Sam, that is all I ask.”
“How could I not wish that!” Sam cried out passionately, pulling Frodo over him, as he lay on the hearth rug. “Oh, me dearie, how could I not wish that with all my heart?” His hungry hands tugged at Frodo’s shirt, straining to pull it up to gain access to the touch of his skin that he craved so.
“Ah, Sam!” Frodo groaned, closing his eyes and pushing himself against the beloved form under his. Bending over him, his mouth found that luscious indentation at the base of Sam’s throat that he loved so well.
Sam’s growl of response was incoherent, but his hands were busy at the fastenings of their clothing, and the benefit of practice was obvious as he made very short work of them. Words became immaterial at this point, as Sam’s hands sought and found that which he craved, and Frodo ground them together in a perfect frenzy of love. There was no other sound in the study then but the crackle of the flames, their gasps and moans of passion, and their final cries of bliss and gratification. Frodo, rolling off of Sam at last in a wonderfully sticky but satisfied state, happen to glance under the settle.
“I don’t believe this study has been well-swept in years, Sam, my dear,” he gasped, in between the sharp breaths required to recapture his wind again, eying the balls of dust under the aforementioned furniture.
Sam stretched luxuriously before turning his gaze in that direction. He very nearly automatically offered to take care of the matter, before thinking twice, and murmuring mildly, “Well then, you best be taking care of that on the morrow, m’dear.”
Frodo laughed with delight at his response, and rising up on his elbows, leaned over Sam and kissed him very thoroughly indeed. “Perfectly done, my dear. You are a quick learner, but then I always knew that. But it is getting very late, is it not? And I happen to think a warm bath might be just the thing before bed. I’ll get the kettle started if you fetch the water.”
“That I will,” Sam smoothed the curls from Frodo’s forehead with a grin. “But the getting to bed bit might be a ways off, I’d be thinking.”
“Such a very clever hobbit you are, my dearest.” Frodo gave his eartip a nibble for emphasis. “But then it is quite a long time until second breakfast, isn’t it? I plan on us using it very productively.”
Sam laughed happily, and found that he had no objections to Frodo’s proposed course of action whatsoever.
&&&&&
Fortunately Sam’s assumption was correct, and there were no guests on the doorstep until discreetly after second breakfast. Despite the gloomy skies and stolidly dripping rain, it was a merry party at the kitchen door. Daisy and Marigold were there, of course, with their cheeks bright pink in the chill, and their woolen capes pulled well over their curls, as well as the gaffer and Tolman Cotton, both looking as if they had not had so much fun in years, and both declaring themselves entirely at the lasses’ disposal, for whatever menial tasks they might see fit to assign to them.
Frodo and Sam had, of course, not been derelict in their duty as hosts, and there was a sumptuous spread available for all who might be feeling a mite peckish, in the course of the morning’s duties. One could very nearly almost miss the signs of their extremely late bedtime the previous night.
The pumpkin pickle was examined first off, of course, and declared to be in precisely the right stage of pickling. And then it was the apples’ and the plums’ turns this day. Plum preserves were promptly set to boil, and the gaffer, Master Cotton, and Frodo himself were assigned the task of peeling, coring, and chopping the seemingly endless mountain of apples. Sam was reserved for cleanup duty, and faced an astonishing number of jars that the Gamgee lasses had managed to scavenge and bring with them. Up to his elbows in hot sudsy water, he was soon envying Frodo and his father, but the chat, of which he was catching a bit, was worth any chapped red hands later.
The topic of the day was, of course, Bilbo Baggins, as it was so often when Hamfast Gamgee and Tolman Cotton found their tongues loosened and wagging. Both of them had known him nearly all their lives, and both had an immense store of tales that Frodo certainly, and even Sam, Daisy, and Marigold, had never heard told. There was the incident of his encounter with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins on the main street of Hobbiton, on the eve of Frodo’s arrival at Bag End, that caused Frodo to drop his knife in astonishment. There was also Bilbo Baggins’ coming of age party, an occasion that was more than memorable for both Hamfast and Tolman, despite being quite young lads at the time. Indeed, the tales flew thick and fast, and Frodo, Sam and the two lasses could hardly keep up with the two elder hobbits’ merrily wagging tongues.
It was well into the afternoon when, the days’ tasks nearly done, Tolman Cotton and Hamfast Gamgee, along with Daisy, took advantage of a break in the weather, and made their ways, in the murky light, back home. Marigold stayed, bustling about and cleaning up the kitchen, and was rewarded with Tom’s arrival, along with a wagon especially produced to tote the plunder home. He might not be a fan of pumpkin pickle, but there was plenty else that he found to his liking. It did not take much persuasion to convince him to stay, along with Marigold, to dinner with Sam and Frodo. But eventually Tom and Marigold made their farewells and thank yous, and set off for their smial, leaving a very exhausted Frodo and Sam with a mountain of dishes and pots to be cleaned for tomorrow.
“Oh, Sam, surely we could do this in the morning,” Frodo groaned, followed by an emphatic yawn.
“Not likely,” Sam eyed the pile gloomily. “ ‘Twill only end up stuck beyond all hope. Naught for it but to do it. But you go along, m’dear, and I’ll follow as soon as may be.”
“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, suddenly looking far more awake and unmistakably affronted. “That will never do at all. Start up the kettle, then, and let us have at it. This pumpkin pickle is coming at a price; that is quite clear. Never mind though, Sam-love, we will have this task done in no time.”
“No mistake, m’dear,” Sam laughed. “Although I’d be thinkin’ we’d be sleeping soundly tonight.”
“I suspect you are quite right on that account,” Frodo grinned, picking up a pail in each hand. “But as long as we’re sleeping soundly together, I’ve no complaint to make on the matter.”
&&&&&
The pumpkin pickle was completed and nicely put away on the following day, as well as the quince jelly, the quince preserves, the green tomato relish, the pumpkin butter, and the preserved kumquats. If there was anything left to stew, preserve, jam or jelly, Sam was quite sure he did not know what it was. But the hoard of delicious treats tucked away for the long winter made his and all the others’ hearts swell with the quiet joy of accomplishment, and it wasn’t until quite late in the evening that he realized that he and Frodo were finally, and at last, very much alone. Since the rain had continued intermittently throughout the day, he looked forward to a much-anticipated leisurely morning in bed. And a very good thing too, as he staggered to their bedroom, sleepily following Frodo and scarcely able to keep his eyes open. At least until Frodo suddenly caught his arm and murmured, “Oh, Sam. Look at that, my love.”
Sam blinked drowsily, and then saw what Frodo saw; the harvest moon breaking through the clouds, full and gilded and so beautiful that it near took his breath away.
“ ‘Golden harvest moon, true love will find you soon,’ “ he dreamily quoted the old wives’ couplet.
“No need for the moon’s assistance,” Frodo breathed with a sudden smile, tucking a firm arm about Sam’s waist. “I’ve already found that.”
Sam let his head rest on Frodo’s shoulder in answer, and his arm found Frodo’s waist as well.
“Let’s take a quick turn out of doors, my dear,” Frodo murmured, and who was Sam to say him no?
The night air was chill and damp, but vibrant with the odor of wet leaves and the smell of wood fires. The clouds had scuttled off from the sky, and the moon was a deep burnished gold as it rested on the horizon, amazingly bright. Sam turned to Frodo and saw the moonlit shadow of his lashes on the sharp plane of his cheeks, and felt the sudden familiar catch in his heart, the realization of how impossibly much he loved the hobbit that stood at his side.
“Look at that moon, Sam dear,” Frodo’s voice was hushed, but his hand was still tucked into the waist of Sam’s trousers. “You’ve seen it before, just like this, haven’t you? But could you ever tire of that beautiful sight? I certainly never could.”
“Some things, my dear, are so beautiful and precious that no amount of familiarity could ever take from their value,” his eyes, dark in the moonlight, were suddenly on Sam. “That is what you are to me. No amount of time, no amount of familiarity, will ever be enough to cause me not to find you enchanting and dear beyond all words. No matter the years, my Sam, I will always love you as I do now. With all my heart, and never anything less than that.”
“I believe you, me dearie,” Sam whispered, tucking his head against Frodo’s shoulder once again. “Never think I don’t.”
Frodo leaned over and lightly kissed him on the forehead. “But it has been a long day, has it not, dearest? I think we will both find our bed welcome tonight.”
Sam tightened his grip about Frodo just a bit in response, not trusting to his voice, and they both turned and began to head back to the kitchen door. And Sam saw the welcoming light from the cozy kitchen window, the cheerfully painted kitchen door, and smelt the wet herbs planted along the garden walkway so as to be close at hand. Fragrant smoke drifted up into the suddenly clear night sky and the stars were brilliant overhead.
Suddenly he felt a rush of pure happiness and peace fill his heart. He was home, and there would never be any other for him than at Frodo’s side. His life lay before him in an array of endless joy and delights, and he had been a fool indeed to question what he had been granted.
Turning to Frodo, he abruptly threw responsibility and all his careful upbringing to the wild winds of impetuous passion. “Let’s leave the dishes for the morrow, then,” he murmured, and Frodo gaily laughed in perfect agreement.
Title: First Frost
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 8315
Summary: Shire Morns, first year. With the first turn of the seasons, Sam finds he is still not entirely sure of himself, and the summer's turn of events. But pumpkin pickle manages to redeem all.
Sam worked on doggedly with his hoe, although the midday sun was uncomfortably strong. It was one of those days, late autumn, when summer seemed to be unaccountably returning without the benefit of winter first. Most of the summer crops were long since harvested, and for that matter, consumed, but at this time of year, there was still the odd straggling squash here and there, the tomato bush that would not cease production until the first deep frost, and of course, the last of the pumpkins. So it would not do to ignore gardening chores, nearly winter or no, and for that, Sam was thankful.
It still had been only a matter of months since he had moved into Bag End, and as much as he dearly loved Frodo, which he did with all his heart, he had to secretly admit to himself that life had been, over this past summer, frequently awkward. His father and his sisters seemed to have become accepting of his current situation, in varying degrees, and he was infinitely grateful for that. Frodo’s family situation was undoubtedly far less complex, for Bilbo was irrefutably gone, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin were, he fervently hoped, inclined to think of him as a sort of live-in servant, and nothing more. But he knew his Frodo.
Frodo had tentatively mentioned Yule now at least thrice, and he knew all too well that Frodo generally spent Yule at one of his cousins’ smials. He also knew Frodo would never consent to his staying behind and spending Yule alone, and truth to tell, he found that idea appalling himself. So it was either the both of them stayed here at Bag End, which opened up the field for all sorts of questions, or it was that they both went to either Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, and he had a sinking feeling that it had been Brandy Hall’s turn. And his hope that he and Frodo could maintain a master-servant fiction regarding their true relationship was, he had to admit, not a strong one.
What was it, he asked himself sternly, as he savagely uprooted a most unassuming row of weeds, that he found so fearful about Meriadoc Brandybuck (and he had to admit that it was far more Merry with whom he was concerned than Pippin) finding out how matters actually stood between Frodo and himself? Surely he did not think that Merry’s opinion, whatever it might be, would cause Frodo to think any less of him. No, the strength of Frodo’s feelings for him was one consideration regarding which he had no doubts whatsoever, he had to admit as he unconsciously wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. Frodo had, after all, faced up to the gaffer, not to mention all of Hobbiton, and no further proof was needed as far as Sam was concerned.
No, it was that it would be another case of the look of disdain, the cutting side comment, the politely concealed sneer, all of which had all started to wear at him over this last summer. He wished that he could ignore them, as Frodo did, but on the other hand, all of these expressions had been far more directed toward himself than Frodo, and perhaps Frodo wasn’t aware as to how bad the situation had really become. And quite honestly? He really wasn’t used to it himself, not at all. That, if he had to admit it, was really the crux of it all. With a final fierce jab of the hoe, and ferocious twist of his wrist, he had to admit to himself that that was, indeed, it.
There were those, he had come to realize, who enjoyed one’s so-called disgrace all the more when it was unanticipated. Indeed, some of the lads with whom he had grown up, and with whom he’d been the best of playmates, now seemed to revel in the gossip. He’d even heard more than one assert that there had alus been something off about that Gamgee lad, now that they come t’think on it. Fortunately, the Cotton lads had stood by Frodo and himself, along with his own family, and not to mention the occasional unexpected ally, such as Ned Proudfoot. Still, it had been a shrinking circle of friends, all and all, and he could not deny that it pained him to know that.
However all of that would eventually, in the course of time, smooth itself out; he had no doubt of it. But now there was another fear that nagged at his heart, a deeper and darker dread that he did not want to examine at all. As surely as winter followed summer, this new fear had been growing in his mind as he watched each day shorten, no matter that it was still warm, and harvest season. He had come to Bag End at the start of the summer, and by necessity, had spent most of each day away in either Frodo’s garden or his father’s. Frodo had also been absent during the day a good deal of the time, on business, as the new head of the Baggins’ landholdings. Especially since it was his first growing season in this unaccustomed role, he had felt particularly compelled to make contact with all those who farmed the various holdings, and had come back to Bag End fretful and anxious and eager to get Sam’s perspective on matters more than once. So the days had flowed smoothly from Midsummer’s Day through the Harvest Festival in their own rhythm, but that season had come and passed, and soon all of that would change.
It was the thought of the long winter months ahead, he had to reluctantly admit, that caused Sam’s deepest anxiety. When they were forced to spend all day together, in the close quarters of Bag End, what would he find to say to Frodo? Wouldn’t Frodo, loving him as he undeniably did, still find him rather a dull fellow, all in all? Winters in his old smial had been spent tending to the inexhaustible pile of chores that the gaffer, not to mention Daisy, always seemed to have stored up for him, but Frodo was not one to think of that sort of thing in the least. And he still did not feel it to be his place to take over the care of Bag End, so to speak.
It would take no time at all, he glumly concluded, as he gave the last weed a particularly vicious yank, before he would be exposed as the great ninnyhammer that he was and had always been, and Frodo would start to rethink his impetuous love affair. After all, he had never been Frodo’s first, and it was impossible, the more he thought on it, to imagine that he would be Frodo’s last.
It was generally the night when he felt the most sure of himself. The air was chilly now, once the sun was down, and a fire in their bedroom was nearly always welcome. Some nights they would leisurely explore the length and depth of each other, and other nights they would fall asleep almost immediately, and yet there was always a point at which they were nestled side by side. Sam would feel Frodo’s warmth then, in the smooth skin pressed up against his side, and he would hum happily and turn to him, and bury himself against him, and fling his arm across this beloved body at his side. And a sleepy Frodo would laugh warmly, and wrap his own strong arms around Sam, and Sam’s cheek would find that cherished place, where it fit so very well, on Frodo’s chest and right under his chin. Sleep always found them then, as the fire gradually died out and the moon rose in the dark sky. There was never any doubt in Sam’s heart, during those cherished hours, for any choice he had ever made.
The next morning Sam awoke early, as was his custom, but the room was darker than it ought to be. Rain, he thought glumly, as he cracked an eye open and gave a quiet sigh. No more growing weather, not this year, and he’d have to be taking the last of the pumpkins and squash and tomatoes as they were. Autumn had come in earnest, with winter hard on its heels, and there’d be no more hot days and warm nights now, not for the rest of the year.
Carefully, he tried to extract himself from a sleeping Frodo’s embrace. It made no sense to him that Frodo should have to wake when he did, but invariably Frodo was so tightly wrapped about him that, try as he might, he could not manage to slip out from their bed without Frodo sleepily stirring, and rolling over to him, tightening his grasp about Sam, and sleepily muttering something along the lines of, “Not yet, Sam, just stay a little longer.”
That was an invitation that Sam found terribly hard to refuse, and especially on a morning when gardening priorities seemed suddenly to be at an end, so he abandoned the attempt, and pulled a sleepy Frodo against him, and tucked his hands between Frodo’s warm backside and the sheet beneath them. “Mmm,” Frodo breathed happily, his eyes never opening, and pressed himself more closely against Sam. “Plenty of time, love,” he mumbled, and was, in a matter of moments, fast asleep again.
Well, then, Sam thought happily, his heart suddenly at peace, Frodo was entirely right. Plenty of time, indeed, and in an instant, his breathing had matched Frodo’s, and they were both, once again, soundly asleep.
The next time Sam awoke, it was to an empty bed and the unmistakable sound of a hard rain being driven against the round bedroom window. But there was also the distinctively comforting aroma of sizzling bacon, the muted clatter of pans, and most unusual of all, fleeting traces of song floating down the hallway from the general vicinity of the kitchen. Sam stared up at the ceiling of the Bag End master bedroom, a delighted smile beginning to play across his face. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he had heard Frodo sing, especially as unselfconsciously as he was doing so now. It was a light voice, but it held a tune quite well, Sam had to admit. Closing his eyes once again, he luxuriated in the comfort of the feather bed, the warmth of the room (Frodo had obviously started a welcome fire before he had left), and the all-encompassing sense of sheer happiness that had suddenly seized him. At least until the unexpected harsh clang of pans, and abrupt halt of song and muttered curses instead, met his ears. With a wry chuckle, he rose from bed. It seemed as if Frodo had need of his assistance after all.
Indeed was the case. The eggs had unaccountably scorched, the bacon had burnt, and Frodo’s previous good humor had most unmistakably vanished. “Sam, I don’t know what has possessed this kitchen this morning,” he gave Sam a quick disgruntled glance as he quietly entered the kitchen. ‘Things were going so well and then they weren’t.”
“Aye, some days are like that, Frodo-love,” Sam murmured imperturbably, stepping up behind Frodo and snatching the frying pan up before the damage could get worse. “The tea smells lovely though, on a cold morning such as this, and the bits of bacon on the sides came out nicely enough. If you wouldn’t mind slicing up some of the bread to toast, we’d be set up right nicely.”
Frodo fell to his appointed task with a sigh of relief, and first breakfast was soon on the table. “It’s a wet day, out of doors,” Frodo ventured, somewhat hesitantly, after the first edge of their hunger had been appeased.
“Aye,” Sam bent his head down and bit into another piece of buttered toast.
“Is there anything that still needs to be harvested?” Frodo continued, after a bit of a pause.
Sam gave an unmistakably gloomy sigh as he bit savagely into the last of his toast. “Plenty of tomatoes left, not to mention the squash and pumpkins. ‘Tis usually bit of a warning, when summer’d be over, but not this year, seemingly.”
“I could help,” came very quietly from the other side of the table, as Sam looked up sharply, and bit his tongue before the automatic decline could be uttered. “That would be right nice, Frodo love,” he murmured, and quickly closed his mind to what the gaffer would have said. Sometimes, what was proper was noways what was right, as he had come to find out this last summer, and the sudden answering smile on Frodo’s face was gift enough that he didn’t give propriety another thought.
They worked steadily through the morning, as the rain came down harder and harder, and by noon had managed to salvage anything that was left which appeared to be edible. Frodo’s cheerful mood from earlier that morning had returned, and even though his dark curls were quite plastered against his face, and the rain streamed rather steadily off of his sharp nose, he had many a quip for Sam, and before long, Sam had forgotten his misgivings of the day before. He laughed easily, and was readily prompted by a grinning Frodo into revealing quite a few merry tales featuring his relations both near and remote. It wasn’t until Frodo’s stomach gave a pronounced growl that they realized they had worked through both second breakfast and elevenses. Fortunately, the end of the row of beans was in sight, and the kitchen garden was now looking most decidedly bare.
“Well, that will be it for this season, leastways as far as I can see,” Sam pronounced with satisfaction, hefting the bag with the most of the produce over his shoulder.
“And a good thing too,” Frodo gave a wry chuckle, straightening his back with concealed relief and picking up the pail with the last of the tomatoes. “I would have minded the eggs a bit more carefully had I known they were to last me all morning.”
“Regrets never mended naught, as the gaffer’d say,” Sam responded serenely. “We’ll just make up the difference at lunch.” Squelching through the mud, they made their way through the rivulets that had mysteriously taken the place of the garden paths, but then abruptly came to a halt at the kitchen door.
“We can’t do much about lunch in this state,” Frodo glanced over to Sam, who had obviously just come to the same conclusion. “Besides, I’d rather not spend the afternoon mopping out the kitchen afterwards. Not to mention my personal opinion that a hot bath is very much more to the point at this moment than even a meal.”
“I’d not argue that point with you at all, me dear,” Sam nodded emphatically, dropping the sack just inside the kitchen door.
“Then here’s what we shall do, Sam-love,” Frodo turned to him with a determined look and the most adorable curls plastered on his sharp cheeks, which had the unconscious effect of entirely distracting Sam from following Frodo’s words at all. “We may be undeniably muddy, but our clothing is likewise, and there’s no need that both should have to make the trip to the bath. We should just shed the whole lot at the door, and then you start the kettle, my dear, and I’ll go fetch the towels. There’ll be muddy footprints to be dealing with later, but that should be the extent of it.”
“Of course, dearie,” mumbled Sam, having fortunately caught the bit about the kettle even though the rest had rather escaped him. He took Frodo’s pail from him and circumspectly watched as Frodo shed his garments in the doorway and made his way through the kitchen, darkened from the storm clouds without.
“You have to put it over the fire, you know,” Frodo threw over his shoulder just before he entered the hallway, with an unmistakably tickled smile. “It’s the only way to get the water hot.”
Sam’s face immediately flushed with red, but he gave a sheepish grin at being so well and truly caught. “Aye, that’d be the truth o’it,” he muttered, striding over to the fire to do just that.
Conscientiously attending to matters, he set the kettle to boil, and headed back out to the pump with the two buckets that waited outside the door expressly for this purpose. He made his way to the pump that was just outside the kitchen door, but it was a very close thing as to whether he should just let the buckets sit for a few moments out in the rain, or pump the water, and he settled for the former. Letting the rain pour down off his face, as he lifted it to the darkened sky overhead, he let his worries drain from him, just as surely as did the rain down his cheeks. Frodo was waiting for him. Frodo loved him, truly and without reserve. All of his absurd concerns and cares were trifling and without cause. Frodo loved him, and that was all he needed to know.
The rain continued unabated the next day as Sam awoke, at his normal time, and contemplated the day ahead. The early morning light was dim, but he could see that Frodo was still peacefully sleeping, curled at his side. He carefully sat up, so as not to disturb him, and reviewed mentally the list of chores for the day in his mind. It was not a very long list.
Last autumn, when the rains had come, he had been back at his old smial, worrying about Mr. Frodo all alone and far too quiet, up here at Bag End. But then Daisy or the gaffer would send him on an errand or give him a chore that needed doing, and his thoughts would, perforce, be sent elsewhere. Now, though, here he was and there was no need to be fretting about the resident of the smial under the hill. And that left himself, at sixes and sevens.
It was a quiet voice that suddenly broke into his brooding thoughts. “And now what, Sam?”
He glanced back with a start to see Frodo’s gaze on him, with a slight understanding smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve always had the garden to tend to, since you’ve lived here with me. But it seems as though the garden has no more need of tending, at least for now.”
Sam couldn’t help a rueful smile back, as he fell back onto the pillow with a slight sigh. “Usually, come autumn, I never have a chance t’be thinkin’ on it,” he admitted with a bit of hesitation. “There’d never be any lack o’chores t’be done, and the days go by, somehow, ‘til it is spring again. Of course, there was always you to visit, and that took all my thinking, seemingly. ‘Twas just a matter of keeping my hands busy.”
Frodo’s smile deepened as he rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow and, reaching out, ran a tender touch down the side of Sam’s cheek. “Think about me all you like, dearest, and it won’t be nearly as often as I think of you. But there must be ways to keep you busy here as well. What sort of chores, Sam?”
“Well,” Sam considered carefully, “there’d be the day-to-day matters, like helping Daisy w’the laundry and kneading some of the dough to give her a bit of a rest. Feeding the pig and the chickens, since the rain bothers the gaffer’s joints something fierce when it gets cold. And then the tasks that alus seem t’go better on a rainy day, like candling, and mending.”
There was silence for a moment before Frodo murmured in a low voice, “They must miss you terribly at home, Sam. I’m sorry I never really quite thought of it like that. That was horribly selfish of me, I’m afraid.”
Sam’s head immediately turned around at Frodo’s confession, and throwing a strong arm around his shoulders, brought him down for a resounding kiss. “ ‘Tis the way of growing up, Frodo-love,” he whispered, giving Frodo very nearly a stern look, as they broke apart. “They’d be missing Marigold likewise. ‘Tis just ill luck that they lost us both nearly at once.”
“But Daisy and your father have always been close to the Cottons; I doubt that they feel quite the same about her absence. I do wish, Sam, that somehow, I didn’t feel as though I had upended everyone’s life as much as I did by what I did.”
“Hear now,” Sam sat up abruptly, looking down at Frodo with his brows drawn into a furrow. “We’ll be havin’ none o’that. They’d be comin’ around, Frodo, you know that as well as I. ‘Tis a matter of time, but there might be more than one way to help that along, I’d be thinkin’. And one thing’d be by putting up what’s left of the fruits.”
“What do you mean, Sam?” Frodo gazed up at him, clearly a bit bewildered by the change of topic.
“Well, then, there’d be all manner of ways,” Sam stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Apple jelly, apple preserves, apple butter, applesauce, and that’s just the apples. Then there’d be the plums and pears, and the last of the tomatoes likewise. Not to mention the pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin?” Frodo’s eyes grew wider. “I never heard of a pumpkin preserve.”
“Now, there’s pumpkin butter, to be sure, but I’ve always fancied a nice pumpkin pickle. Not that gentlehobbits have a taste for that sort of thing, as I understand,” he continued to muse, watching the tracks of water the rain was leaving on the bedroom window.
But an unsuppressed gasp caused him to turn around and discover Frodo was eying him as one who had just made the most miraculous of discoveries. “Pumpkin pickle,” he whispered, in reverential tones. And then with a laugh, he sat up beside Sam. “A certain gentlehobbit might not have cared for it, perhaps. I know Bilbo wasn’t at all fond of it. But my mother used to make the very best. I haven’t had it in years.”
And with a decided bound, he sprang from bed. “Very well, then, Sam, here’s what we shall do. We have this lovely big kitchen, and it isn’t used half as much as it ought to be. Would Daisy and Marigold mind putting up, as you say, over here?” And with that question, there was suddenly a shy and yet hopeful expression on his face that unexpectedly caught at Sam’s throat. “Do you think, Sam?”
“ ‘Tis the best kitchen for such a purpose,” Sam declared stoutly, firmly quelling any doubts as to the possible reception of this proposition. He swung his legs over the other side of the bed and walked over to the chair on which his clothes lay neatly folded. “I’ll stop by directly after first breakfast. And I believe you’ll find your vest atop the wardrobe, Frodo,” he added with a chuckle, neatly finishing off his buttons and heading out the door.
“Dear me,” Frodo turned rather rosy as he glanced up and saw that Sam was right. “How did it ever end up there? I don’t think I can possibly remember.”
“Oh, you’ll remember, Frodo, me dearie,” came a complacent voice from the hallway, and with a more decided blush, Frodo realized that Sam was right.
Sam left for Number Three immediately after a hasty first breakfast, and it did not take too much persuasion for Daisy to see the merits of the plan, especially since Sam reassured her that he would be inviting Marigold as well. The gaffer’s decision to tag along, if Tolman Cotton agreed to come as well, came as a bit of a shock to Sam, but he was not inclined to demur. It was rare enough that his father set foot in Bag End, or indeed ever had, but if there was one room in which the elder Gamgee felt at least a trifle at home, it would be the kitchen, and Sam gulped and agreed, and fervently hoped that this turned out to be the promising idea that he had first thought it to be.
Tom and Marigold’s smial was next, with that of the Cottons following, if Marigold agreed. She did at once, with a bit of a squeal of delight, which caused her husband to give her a startled look, and immediately discovered that he had something of importance to be doing along with his brothers. He hadn’t quite determined what it was to be, but that didn’t matter as Marigold thrust a bushel of pears promptly into Sam’s befuddled grasp, and snatched up her cloak and a bag of late apples that had been sitting on the kitchen table. “This will do for starters,” she gaily announced, and tied the cloak under her chin, throwing the hood over her honey curls. “I expect I’ll be home about tea time, but if I’m not, then just head up to Mother Cottons’, there’s a love, Tom.”
Tom gave Sam a broad grin, and a wink and shake of his head as Marigold took matters into her own hands and prodded her brother out the door. “Well, if the gaffer’d be coming, you best be fetching Father Cotton, Samwise,” she nudged him in the direction of the Cottons’ smial, barely to be seen in the sheets of rain. “I’ll be heading over to Number Three. Bring him by, if he has a mind to, and we’ll follow you up the Hill.”
Sam soon found that, indeed, Master Tolman would very much enjoy the company of the gaffer on this soggy day, and if he were to find it at Bag End, all the better. So it was just about an hour later, in fact, and just about time for second breakfast, that Frodo peered through the kitchen window to find quite a party arriving at the back kitchen door of Bag End.
Frodo had not been remiss in the interim, and had reasoned that the best start to the project would be a hearty meal, so as to get one’s strength up for the task. So he had prepared a substantial one, and the visitors found plates of fluffy eggs (properly done this time), fried potatoes and bacon, sautéed mushrooms, and a small mountain of buttered toast, with honey, all ready for their enjoyment, along with the largest teapot Frodo possessed, steaming under its cozy. On such a cold and wet morning, the hot meal was more than appreciated, and there was very little conversation until the plates had been well cleaned.
Then it was a matter of deciding on the plan of attack, and all conceded to Daisy’s expertise in these affairs. However, Sam felt it prudent to mention the matter of pumpkin pickle right off, for one of the very few things he remembered about its preparation was that it was a task that involved several days.
“Pumpkin pickle!” exclaimed the gaffer at once, startled out of his normal studied silence when at Bag End. With a dreamy smile, he felt in his jacket pocket for his pipe, filling it and getting up and walked over to the fire for a spark to light it without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye, ‘tis been many a year, no mistake, but damme if my Belle didn’t make a fine pumpkin pickle.”
Tolman immediately verified this judgment. “You certainly have the right of that, my friend,” he confirmed, with a warm clasp of the gaffer’s shoulder. Searching for his pipe as well, he added, “My Lily, why she just made it the once, right after we was married, but she had tasted your Belle’s, and she said that that was the last time she’d be a’doin’ that. Too much work, she said, but what was worse, it just couldn’t compare. Belle did give you the receipt, didn’t she, lass?” He gave Daisy a sudden penetrating glance. “Can’t be gettin’ all our hopes up here, and have naught to satisfy them with, now!”
Daisy, who had been desperately trying to remember just that very thing, murmured a halting affirmation, but Marigold unexpectedly came to her assistance. “Well, if she don’t remember, I certainly do,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “ ‘Twas my favorite, too, and I watched her very carefully, to be sure. I’d have put up some myself already, but Tom ain’t the pumpkin pickle sort, and a pumpkin does make a great deal of pickle when you’re eating it all by yourself.”
“Looks like there’d be no danger of that happening now, don’t it?” Sam grinned, grateful that Frodo’s suggestion had been seized upon so readily. “Well, then, Mari, what is it as needs doin’ first?”
“Pumpkin rind,” she pronounced authoritatively. “Two will make a very good amount of pickle. They must be well-scraped and cut up. Then we’ll need a brine, and a crock. They must sit two days, and be stirred up every now and then. Then ‘twill be time to be pickling them.”
“There are two of your best pumpkins, Sam, in the larder right now,” Frodo laughed, “and I can’t think of a better purpose for them. Give me a hand, then, and let’s have them out right now. Then Mistress Cotton can judge if they will meet her standards.”
Sam rose, with a grin, and headed towards the hall directly behind Frodo. They waited, until they reached the larder, to say anything, but immediately upon entering, Sam was not surprised to find himself pressed against the wall and in Frodo’s arms. “See, there, this will go off well after all, my love,” Frodo whispered warmly after their sustained and enthusiastic kiss had finally ended.
“Of course it will, me dearie,” Sam gave Frodo’s eartip an extra nibble to emphasize his point. “Pure inspiration on your part, that pickle thing.”
Frodo gave a delighted giggle, still not entirely accustomed to that sensation. “We must be getting back, dearest,” he added ruefully, after another quick kiss. “But it certainly is a good thing we’ve each a pumpkin to carry in front of ourselves. I may not be setting mine down for a very long while.”
There was no doubt, as more than one judiciously eyed the skies, that they were in for a few days of sustained rain, so there was time to plan and marshal their resources appropriately. It was decided, that after the pumpkin was properly on its way to becoming pickle, that the pears would come next, since Marigold had brought a bushel with her, and Sam had a couple of basketsfull in the larder himself.
So the day flew pleasantly by, with the gaffer and Tolman set to the peeling and coring and chopping, and Daisy and Marigold and Frodo (upon his most determined insistence) stirring the kettles and filling the jars. Sam was sent on various errands, for it was immediately discovered that Bag End did not possess nearly enough jars and lids. Fortunately, he first stopped by the Cotton’s smial, and Lily Cotton was so impressed by the volume of putting up that appeared to be occurring at Bag End, and so grateful that she did not have to be involved, that she offered to prepare any meals that the workers might require. Thus Sam made several trips, in the steady downpour, in the Cottons’ cart, bringing boxes of empty jars, and well-covered kettles of fragrant stew. Since another trip brought some tightly wrapped freshly baked bread, and a lovely wheel of cheese, not to mention three kegs of perfectly fermented apple cider, there was nothing the party at Bag End could possibly be lacking in the way of nourishment, especially when Sam triumphantly produced a ginger cake that he had set aside for some auspicious occasion. This certainly qualified, and was an immense success, especially since the cider had been quite drained.
It wasn’t until fairly late in the evening that the guests had left, all with a great quantity of still warmly fragrant jars, as well as their firm assurance that they would be back on the morrow, right about second breakfast.
“That went off rather well, don’t you think?” Frodo looked up, with a weary but triumphant smile as he sank into his favorite seat on the corner settle in the study. In his hand was a half-full mug, as they were polishing off the last of the excellent apple cider Mistress Cotton had sent their way. He took a deep sip and stretched his toes a little closer to the cheerful and most welcome fire.
“Aye, it did after all,” Sam murmured as he curled up on the rug at Frodo’s feet and leaned comfortably against his knees, sipping from his own mug. “And a good thing too, seeing as they’ll all be back on the morrow.”
“Just as well, I suppose, since the rain also seems determined to last at least that long. I do hope an early arrival is not part of the plan though.”
“Not likely,” Sam chuckled. “ ‘Tis well-known that gentlehobbits aren’t generally up and about much before second breakfast.”
“I’d resent that remark if it wasn’t so very true,” Frodo laughed, his free hand reaching down to run through Sam’s conveniently nearby curls.
“I’d thought you’d not be denying that one,” Sam leaned back into Frodo’s touch, his eyes dreamily closing.
There was a short silence as the fire continued to crackle, and Frodo’s hand continued to cause Sam to keep his eyes blissfully closed. And then, from seemingly far away, he heard Frodo’s soft question. “What bothered you so, this morning, Sam? And for the past few days, for that matter? You’ve seemed so far away and lost in your thoughts at times.”
Sam’s eyes flickered open. Lying to Frodo was out of the question, of course, but there was no way of explaining himself without feeling like an absolute ninny-hammer. “I need summat t’be doing,” he murmured at last, haltingly.
“We all do,” Frodo’s voice was still very quiet and his fingers had not stopped their soothing motion. “But why would that be different than the year before?”
Sam ducked his head down then, and searched his confused thoughts. Perhaps it was the amount of cider that he had sipped, but he could not help the words that slipped out of his mouth. “I thought as you’d be bored with me, all shut up as we’ll be this winter.”
Frodo’s hand stopped its movement abruptly. “Did you really think that?” his voice was still very quiet, but Sam heard an unmistakable catch in it, and he reached up without thinking to grasp Frodo’s hand. There was a brief silence, then, as Sam clung to it, and could not make himself look at Frodo, and wished, with all his heart, that last remark back. But there was no undoing what had been spoken, and his only consolation was that Frodo’s hand still returned his grip.
“What do you think my last autumn was like, Sam?” he finally heard Frodo speak, still so very softly, and with such sadness that Sam could not help but quickly look up at him. Frodo’s eyes were closed and the pain that washed across his face was terrible for Sam to see.
“I’ve been used to being alone, but I’d gotten out of practice, I suppose. And it was so very sudden. But I can’t tell you how often I wandered these halls, and wished I was anywhere but here. I may have my interests and hobbies, but they don’t fill the day, not by any means. The weather shut me in, and there was no one to talk to, nowhere to turn. But then there was you. And I began to think that perhaps I might still have a friend here, and then, well, then I began to harbor an irrational hope that it could be more than that. Do you know what it meant to me when I realized at last that you returned my feelings? It was the sun breaking through the clouds that had shrouded me, and a joy and lightness in my heart that I had never known before. Bore me, Sam? How could you ever do that, when I treasure the sound of you in this lonely smial, cherish the sight of your dear face whenever I am beginning to feel forlorn, and long for the feel of you next to me every night and at my side every day. Nothing about you could ever bore me, Sam. I only wish I could convince you of that.”
“Frodo!” Sam cried out then, unable to keep silent any longer, and found himself with Frodo suddenly in his arms on the hearth rug. Words had never been enough, so he found Frodo’s mouth and kissed him long and thoroughly. It was only after that that he could murmur in Frodo’s ear, “You must forgive your fool of a Sam, dearie. I never dreamed of such as you, Frodo-love, and ‘tis still hard for me t’believe ‘tis not a wild fancy, after all.”
“I know, my dear, but you must believe that what I feel for you is every bit as real and true as what you feel for me.” Frodo’s eyes bore into his, wet with unshed tears, and Sam felt tears trickle unbidden down his face as well. “You are not merely my fancy, Sam, and never could be but that. No, I love you, dearest, with all my heart. I will never feel otherwise, my beloved. I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I do know that, Frodo, I do. It’d just be, at times, I’d feel like a duck in a swan’s nest, and not know what t’be doin’ with myself.”
“Whatever you wish to do, dear. I hope, Sam, oh, how I hope that you will feel that this is your home as much as mine. Anything that you think needs to be done, my darling, is yours to do. Anything you’d like to change is yours to change. Anyone you’d wish to invite here is more than welcome. Bag End is now yours as much as it is mine, and as soon as you come of age, it will be on paper too. All this I promise you, Sam-love. So whatever you would have done about your smial last winter, I hope you’d do here. As long as you share my life, Sam, that is all I ask.”
“How could I not wish that!” Sam cried out passionately, pulling Frodo over him, as he lay on the hearth rug. “Oh, me dearie, how could I not wish that with all my heart?” His hungry hands tugged at Frodo’s shirt, straining to pull it up to gain access to the touch of his skin that he craved so.
“Ah, Sam!” Frodo groaned, closing his eyes and pushing himself against the beloved form under his. Bending over him, his mouth found that luscious indentation at the base of Sam’s throat that he loved so well.
Sam’s growl of response was incoherent, but his hands were busy at the fastenings of their clothing, and the benefit of practice was obvious as he made very short work of them. Words became immaterial at this point, as Sam’s hands sought and found that which he craved, and Frodo ground them together in a perfect frenzy of love. There was no other sound in the study then but the crackle of the flames, their gasps and moans of passion, and their final cries of bliss and gratification. Frodo, rolling off of Sam at last in a wonderfully sticky but satisfied state, happen to glance under the settle.
“I don’t believe this study has been well-swept in years, Sam, my dear,” he gasped, in between the sharp breaths required to recapture his wind again, eying the balls of dust under the aforementioned furniture.
Sam stretched luxuriously before turning his gaze in that direction. He very nearly automatically offered to take care of the matter, before thinking twice, and murmuring mildly, “Well then, you best be taking care of that on the morrow, m’dear.”
Frodo laughed with delight at his response, and rising up on his elbows, leaned over Sam and kissed him very thoroughly indeed. “Perfectly done, my dear. You are a quick learner, but then I always knew that. But it is getting very late, is it not? And I happen to think a warm bath might be just the thing before bed. I’ll get the kettle started if you fetch the water.”
“That I will,” Sam smoothed the curls from Frodo’s forehead with a grin. “But the getting to bed bit might be a ways off, I’d be thinking.”
“Such a very clever hobbit you are, my dearest.” Frodo gave his eartip a nibble for emphasis. “But then it is quite a long time until second breakfast, isn’t it? I plan on us using it very productively.”
Sam laughed happily, and found that he had no objections to Frodo’s proposed course of action whatsoever.
Fortunately Sam’s assumption was correct, and there were no guests on the doorstep until discreetly after second breakfast. Despite the gloomy skies and stolidly dripping rain, it was a merry party at the kitchen door. Daisy and Marigold were there, of course, with their cheeks bright pink in the chill, and their woolen capes pulled well over their curls, as well as the gaffer and Tolman Cotton, both looking as if they had not had so much fun in years, and both declaring themselves entirely at the lasses’ disposal, for whatever menial tasks they might see fit to assign to them.
Frodo and Sam had, of course, not been derelict in their duty as hosts, and there was a sumptuous spread available for all who might be feeling a mite peckish, in the course of the morning’s duties. One could very nearly almost miss the signs of their extremely late bedtime the previous night.
The pumpkin pickle was examined first off, of course, and declared to be in precisely the right stage of pickling. And then it was the apples’ and the plums’ turns this day. Plum preserves were promptly set to boil, and the gaffer, Master Cotton, and Frodo himself were assigned the task of peeling, coring, and chopping the seemingly endless mountain of apples. Sam was reserved for cleanup duty, and faced an astonishing number of jars that the Gamgee lasses had managed to scavenge and bring with them. Up to his elbows in hot sudsy water, he was soon envying Frodo and his father, but the chat, of which he was catching a bit, was worth any chapped red hands later.
The topic of the day was, of course, Bilbo Baggins, as it was so often when Hamfast Gamgee and Tolman Cotton found their tongues loosened and wagging. Both of them had known him nearly all their lives, and both had an immense store of tales that Frodo certainly, and even Sam, Daisy, and Marigold, had never heard told. There was the incident of his encounter with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins on the main street of Hobbiton, on the eve of Frodo’s arrival at Bag End, that caused Frodo to drop his knife in astonishment. There was also Bilbo Baggins’ coming of age party, an occasion that was more than memorable for both Hamfast and Tolman, despite being quite young lads at the time. Indeed, the tales flew thick and fast, and Frodo, Sam and the two lasses could hardly keep up with the two elder hobbits’ merrily wagging tongues.
It was well into the afternoon when, the days’ tasks nearly done, Tolman Cotton and Hamfast Gamgee, along with Daisy, took advantage of a break in the weather, and made their ways, in the murky light, back home. Marigold stayed, bustling about and cleaning up the kitchen, and was rewarded with Tom’s arrival, along with a wagon especially produced to tote the plunder home. He might not be a fan of pumpkin pickle, but there was plenty else that he found to his liking. It did not take much persuasion to convince him to stay, along with Marigold, to dinner with Sam and Frodo. But eventually Tom and Marigold made their farewells and thank yous, and set off for their smial, leaving a very exhausted Frodo and Sam with a mountain of dishes and pots to be cleaned for tomorrow.
“Oh, Sam, surely we could do this in the morning,” Frodo groaned, followed by an emphatic yawn.
“Not likely,” Sam eyed the pile gloomily. “ ‘Twill only end up stuck beyond all hope. Naught for it but to do it. But you go along, m’dear, and I’ll follow as soon as may be.”
“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed, suddenly looking far more awake and unmistakably affronted. “That will never do at all. Start up the kettle, then, and let us have at it. This pumpkin pickle is coming at a price; that is quite clear. Never mind though, Sam-love, we will have this task done in no time.”
“No mistake, m’dear,” Sam laughed. “Although I’d be thinkin’ we’d be sleeping soundly tonight.”
“I suspect you are quite right on that account,” Frodo grinned, picking up a pail in each hand. “But as long as we’re sleeping soundly together, I’ve no complaint to make on the matter.”
The pumpkin pickle was completed and nicely put away on the following day, as well as the quince jelly, the quince preserves, the green tomato relish, the pumpkin butter, and the preserved kumquats. If there was anything left to stew, preserve, jam or jelly, Sam was quite sure he did not know what it was. But the hoard of delicious treats tucked away for the long winter made his and all the others’ hearts swell with the quiet joy of accomplishment, and it wasn’t until quite late in the evening that he realized that he and Frodo were finally, and at last, very much alone. Since the rain had continued intermittently throughout the day, he looked forward to a much-anticipated leisurely morning in bed. And a very good thing too, as he staggered to their bedroom, sleepily following Frodo and scarcely able to keep his eyes open. At least until Frodo suddenly caught his arm and murmured, “Oh, Sam. Look at that, my love.”
Sam blinked drowsily, and then saw what Frodo saw; the harvest moon breaking through the clouds, full and gilded and so beautiful that it near took his breath away.
“ ‘Golden harvest moon, true love will find you soon,’ “ he dreamily quoted the old wives’ couplet.
“No need for the moon’s assistance,” Frodo breathed with a sudden smile, tucking a firm arm about Sam’s waist. “I’ve already found that.”
Sam let his head rest on Frodo’s shoulder in answer, and his arm found Frodo’s waist as well.
“Let’s take a quick turn out of doors, my dear,” Frodo murmured, and who was Sam to say him no?
The night air was chill and damp, but vibrant with the odor of wet leaves and the smell of wood fires. The clouds had scuttled off from the sky, and the moon was a deep burnished gold as it rested on the horizon, amazingly bright. Sam turned to Frodo and saw the moonlit shadow of his lashes on the sharp plane of his cheeks, and felt the sudden familiar catch in his heart, the realization of how impossibly much he loved the hobbit that stood at his side.
“Look at that moon, Sam dear,” Frodo’s voice was hushed, but his hand was still tucked into the waist of Sam’s trousers. “You’ve seen it before, just like this, haven’t you? But could you ever tire of that beautiful sight? I certainly never could.”
“Some things, my dear, are so beautiful and precious that no amount of familiarity could ever take from their value,” his eyes, dark in the moonlight, were suddenly on Sam. “That is what you are to me. No amount of time, no amount of familiarity, will ever be enough to cause me not to find you enchanting and dear beyond all words. No matter the years, my Sam, I will always love you as I do now. With all my heart, and never anything less than that.”
“I believe you, me dearie,” Sam whispered, tucking his head against Frodo’s shoulder once again. “Never think I don’t.”
Frodo leaned over and lightly kissed him on the forehead. “But it has been a long day, has it not, dearest? I think we will both find our bed welcome tonight.”
Sam tightened his grip about Frodo just a bit in response, not trusting to his voice, and they both turned and began to head back to the kitchen door. And Sam saw the welcoming light from the cozy kitchen window, the cheerfully painted kitchen door, and smelt the wet herbs planted along the garden walkway so as to be close at hand. Fragrant smoke drifted up into the suddenly clear night sky and the stars were brilliant overhead.
Suddenly he felt a rush of pure happiness and peace fill his heart. He was home, and there would never be any other for him than at Frodo’s side. His life lay before him in an array of endless joy and delights, and he had been a fool indeed to question what he had been granted.
Turning to Frodo, he abruptly threw responsibility and all his careful upbringing to the wild winds of impetuous passion. “Let’s leave the dishes for the morrow, then,” he murmured, and Frodo gaily laughed in perfect agreement.
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We had a bit of a chilly spell this last weekend, and that was exactly what I was feeling. Autumn is by far and away my favorite season. Most of this was written this past summer, but I can dream, can't I? :)
I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and wouldn't hobbit parties just be the best? There's just never any good ones around here, alas.
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Both Sam's concerns and Frodo's hurt were understandable, I'm happy they worked it out so well. *hugs them*
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the discussion they needed to have and the one Frodo had no idea they should be having. I have to remember, when I write early Shire Morns, how very young Sam still is. He always seems so responsible, it's hard for me (and Frodo!) to remember that. I'm so glad that it felt right to you.
Thank you so much! *hugs you too*
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Actually, I rather enjoy watermelon pickle - a southern thing and quite sweet - and figured if you can pickle watermelon rind, you ought to be able to pickle pumpkin rind! Plus, it sounded far more hobbitty.
Heh - the Yule/Buckland story has already been written - Yuletide in Buckland, my first actual Shire Morns story. That's the problem with writing them higgly-piggly the way I ended up doing - I have to fit new fics around what's already there. Let's just say continuity is not Shire Morns' strong point. :P
So very glad you enjoyed it, my dear!
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So very kind of you to say so!
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Things were going so well and then they weren’t
Loved that line, it happens so often.
Thanks so much hon; now what's gonna happen at Yule-time.