elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2003-12-31 02:23 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2003-12-31 02:23 pm
Moonlight Over Jasmine, Part Two
Never had Sam looked to work for solace as he did now. There was a peace in doing a job to the best of his abilities, and the garden never asked him a question that he couldn’t answer. That was why, when the stone wall at the far end of the oat field needed to be rebuilt, he had determined to do the job alone, rather than with some of the other lads, as was customary. The fact that a spring rain had begun to fall that morning did not change his plans in the least, and he lost himself in the arduous task of lifting the heavy boulders, fitting them together in the proper way for endurance, and stuffing the cracks with handfuls of moss. Rock upon rock he lifted, his mind emptied to everything but the rhythm of the work, and until a quiet voice said, “Sam,” he had no idea of Frodo’s presence.
“Frodo!” he cried, startled, and dropped the stone that he had just picked up. ”What would you be doin’ out in this wet?”
“You’re out in it, as well,” Frodo pointed out, reasonably enough. He had a cloak over his clothing, but his head was bare, dark curls plastered around his face, and the rain dripped from his nose. Looking at him in the grey half-light, Sam fleetingly thought he had rarely seen him look lovelier, but quickly returned to the question of Frodo’s appearance.
“Is there summat amiss?” he asked, worried and puzzled, standing in the mud with drenched clothing. “Surely ‘tisn’t tea-time yet?”
“No, not yet,” Frodo walked over to the carefully piled stones. “Is this not a job for more than one, Sam?”
“Aye, well,” Sam shrugged. “I hate t’bother the other lads.”
“Hmm,” Frodo responded, his eyes so startlingly blue against his pale face, considering Sam carefully. As if not finding the answer that he expected, he looked down and ran a hand along the rough wet stone. “You’ve been working hard as of late, Sam,” he murmured, not looking up.
“Oh, well, not all o’that,” Sam dismissed Frodo’s comment with a shrug of his shoulder.
“Here, and down on the Row.” Frodo glanced quickly up again. “Trying to spend more time with your family. And with me. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”
Sam remained silent, not knowing what to say.
“And I understand your sister’s getting married as well,” Frodo continued steadily, moving over to Sam’s side. “Everyone seems to want a piece of you, my dear Sam.”
Sam sat heavily down on the completed portion on the wall. As the rain continued to pour down, he wearily ran his hands down the sides of his face. It seemed to him as though he forever wasn’t doing as he ought by those he loved, that he ought to be able to give a little more. He never noticed Frodo sitting beside him until he felt a strong arm around his shoulder, and instinctively, he turned for comfort from the one he loved so. Frodo’s arm was tight about him, and he heard Frodo’s low voice in his ear, saying, ”Tell me what you want, my dearest Sam. You never really have, you know.”
And in the rain that afternoon, Sam gave way and confessed his most closely held dreams to Frodo. “I want to sleep with you every night, Frodo-love,” he whispered, and if there were tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain, none could have known. “I want to wake up next to you every morning, and get up and make you breakfast. It’s not much, but I’ll be blessed if I know how it could ever happen.” Turning towards Frodo, he buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder, and clutched tightly to the drenched cloak. “It’s not all that much, but it’s all I could ever ask for.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was low and husky with emotion as he wrapped both arms around Sam and embraced him tightly. “I wish, oh, how I wish…” but then he stopped, and said no more, but held Sam all the more closely.
Then Frodo resolutely drew back and, holding Sam’s shoulders firmly, looked searchingly into Sam’s reddened eyes. “You’re not yet of age, Sam.” he said gently. “Your father would be well within his rights to send you off, if he cared to. The risk of your being taken away, well..” he stopped, unable to continue, and Sam realized that there were tears on Frodo’s face as well as rain. “It would be so hard to bear, Sam, I don’t know..” and Frodo’s voice broke off and he swallowed hard.
“I know it’s early,” Frodo stood up suddenly, “but surely in all this rain, no-one could expect… Come with me, Sam”
Holding tightly to Frodo’s hand, Sam followed.
It was a week later when the early morning racket at his front door brought a bleary-eyed Frodo down the front hall. There was only one possible explanation for such a fuss and there they stood, beaming, on the doorstep. ‘Merry, Pippin,” Frodo exclaimed, rubbing his eyes, “Lads, why is it never the afternoon…” but further words were cut off by the onslaught of enthusiastic hugs from both of his cousins.
“All right, all right,” Frodo laughed, borne back into the hall in their arms. “Ah, it is good to see the both of you, I’ll not deny it.”
“Of course,” Merry grinned, thumping Frodo‘s back with fervor. “Living as you do in this frightful backwater, our company must seem as the very breath of life itself.”
“And we are gifting you with a week,” Pippin added cheerily. “The parents have let loose the leash for that long, at least.”
“Well, I wonder who is actually receiving a gift, here,” Frodo chuckled, cheerfully mussing Pippin’s auburn curls. “Since you’ve roused me from bed, let’s go find some breakfast, shall we? I’m not sure if there are many scones left, but I believe there’s at least some toast and sausage to start with.”
When Sam stopped by later that morning with a loaf that May had just baked, he was startled by the sound of animated conversation coming from the Bag End parlor. Curious, he walked down the hall, and recognized, as he drew nearer, the distinctive Took burr and the Buckland drawl of Frodo’s cousins. Politely, he knocked on the open door and stood quietly in the doorway. Pippin broke off a rather involved, if animated, story, and exclaimed happily, “Why look! It’s Sam!”
Both Merry and Frodo quickly glanced over to him, Merry’s expression friendly enough, but Frodo gave him a look of mingled affection and discomfort that Sam did not understand. “Good timing, my lad,” Merry laughed. “Why, weren’t you just mentioning, Frodo, that you were a little low on supplies? And here is the very lad to run off to retrieve them for us.”
Frodo gazed helplessly at Sam for the briefest of moments, but then, rising up quickly, walked over to Sam. “I’ll be right back,” he turned back to his cousins for a moment. “Sam and I will look about the pantry and see what we might need.” Grasping Sam’s arm lightly, he quickly led him down the hall without a word and into the darkened storage room.
“Oh, Sam,“ was all Sam heard before he was wrapped in Frodo’s arms, pushed against the wall, and Frodo’s lips were on his. Sam’s mouth opened gratefully to Frodo’s hungry insistence, and he immediately lost himself in the dark to that avid need, the tongue so eager against his, the strong arms clasping him, straining to bring him all the closer.
“Oh, me dear, me dear,” Sam gasped as Frodo’s lips finally left his, but his arms never moved from around Frodo’s neck.
“It isn’t right,” he heard Frodo mutter, as he laid his cheek against Sam’s. “To order you about… Oh, Sam, my dear Sam…,”
“No, Frodo,” Sam replied gently, unerringly lifting his hand in the dark to the side of Frodo’s face. “Don’t you mind now, Frodo-love. It don’t bother me none, truly it don’t. I know your heart, me dear, and nothing else could ever matter to me.”
Frodo made no answer to that, but buried his face at the side of Sam’s neck and remained silent for several minutes. Then, reluctantly pulling himself away, he said, in a rather unsteady voice, “Well, I suppose we’d better actually check the supplies while we’re here. Those young rascals always eat so..”
Sam moved to the door to retrieve a candle, but his hand reached out as he walked past Frodo, and caught his shoulder. One last time, he turned back and kissed Frodo again, quickly but passionately.
“I love you, Frodo, me dear. Never forget,” he whispered, and was gone.
It was past eight days now, and Frodo could feel himself becoming more restless and anxious. Much as he had always enjoyed his cousins’ visits, there was no denying that on this occasion, he was having difficulty hiding his fretfulness, his desperate wish to return to his treasured afternoons with Sam. For they had had little chance to be alone, but had had to make do with only the occasional unguarded glance, the slight not-so-accidental brush, the quiet word here and there, and only rarely, the stolen kiss in a darkened hallway.
It was a warm sunny spring day when Frodo decided that he could hold out no longer. That morning, he had found a fleeting opportunity to speak to Sam, as the gardener was weeding the Bag End kitchen plot. “Sam,” he crouched down beside Sam, who was on his knees, bent over the lettuce seedlings. “would you be able to be in the upper field come midday?”
Sam glanced quickly over at him, the warm look in his eyes and sweet curve of his mouth more than answer enough for Frodo. “Aye, Mr. Frodo,” he replied softly, “I’d be there.”
Frodo dared not watch him much longer. “I’m telling my cousins that I have business affairs to take care of in Hobbiton,” he murmured quietly, and then rose, with the briefest of clasps of Sam’s shoulder. “Looking for second breakfast, I’d wager?” his voice was light and unconcerned, as he greeted Merry, who had just wandered into the garden.
“I know the importance of proper mealtimes is a vague concept to you, cousin Frodo,” Merry laughed, stretching luxuriously in the welcome sun, “but breakfast must have been at least an hour ago. Oh, hullo, Sam.”
“Mornin’, sir,” Sam nodded with a smile and went back to the weeding.
“Well, I should be able to find you something before I go,” Frodo put in hastily, joining up with Merry and leading him back up the path to the kitchen. “Bit of business in Hobbiton,” Sam heard him explaining smoothly as they entered the smial.
Sam’s smile grew as he returned to his work with a light heart. Frodo was not alone in missing their afternoons.
Frodo, his bare skin cooled by the hint of a breeze, lay on his stomach on the old rug in the grass of the secluded field, with his elbows propped up and his chin resting in his hands. Sam, equally bare, was sitting cross-legged next to him, munching on a piece of bread-and-cheese. The sweat was beginning to dry from their brows, and the scent of the lilac was strong from the hedge shielding the field from the view of the Row below. Sam looked about with a happy smile, and murmured, “Ah, this is nice. ‘Tis that lovely up here.”
Frodo agreed absentmindedly, his eyes on Sam. This afternoon, Sam seemed free of the worries that had clouded those gentle hazel eyes as of late, and Frodo found himself taken anew by Sam’s unassuming beauty. The sunlight glinted in his dark golden curls, as though borrowed from Sam’s own light, and Sam‘s lovely mouth held a carefree smile as he savored the glorious afternoon. “Ah, and look,” Sam exclaimed, turning towards Frodo with a quick grin, triumphantly drawing a cloth from the basket, which he had had the foresight to bring with them. “The last of the spring cherries. I managed to hide them from Mr. Pippin, or there would have been naught for you ‘til next spring.”
“Oh, Sam, thank you! You must be a clever hobbit indeed to have been able to hide such a prize from that young scamp,” Frodo laughed. “ But we will share them, then.”
Sam did not object too heartily, for he dearly loved the fruit as well. So Frodo chewed around the pits of his and watched Sam serenely strip them with his tongue and launch the pits far afield. And then he was very glad that he was still lying on his stomach, for the thought that had nearly crept into his mind on the previous occasion had returned.
He had been young, though not quite as young as Sam. And he had felt awkward, incompetent, scared. It seemed to be assumed that he had knowledge that he did not possess, skills that he did not have, and a desire that he had not felt. He had always assumed that his loss was due to his faults, his lacks. Although he had thought himself in love at the time, it soon had become clear that someone more accomplished had been desired, and he had been left with regrets that had taken several years to bury. But now, as he watched Sam, he felt the desire flame through him that had never seized him with the other. It was worth the risk, he decided suddenly. If Sam didn’t feel the same, surely he would forgive. And if he did…
“Sam,” he murmured, stretching a hand toward him, and at the tone in his voice, Sam immediately turned to him.
“Frodo,” he breathed, quickly casting aside the basket and, moving next to Frodo on the rug, slowly drew a gentle hand down Frodo’s back. Frodo closed his eyes, shivering lightly at the delicious touch, and then, rolling to his back, pulled Sam down into his arms. Sam was there at once, one arm wrapping under Frodo’s neck as Frodo lifted his head to kiss Sam, and his other hand slowly running down the side of Frodo’s face, down his shoulder.
Frodo flung his head back at that, inviting Sam’s kiss on his throat, on the base of his neck. And as Sam lowered his head, tasting Frodo as if he were the rarest of delicacies, Frodo sighed and stroked Sam’s back encouragingly. Emboldened, Sam continued down to Frodo’s chest, stopping to lavish special attention on those sensitive dark circles. With a low moan, Frodo felt his focus starting to slip, and his desire grow. Oh, surely, Sam must know.
And Sam did seem to understand, for now his hands had slipped down behind Frodo’s back and his mouth was lower, ah, lower, to his stomach, and those irresistible hollows of his hipbones. Frodo felt all rational thought leave him as Sam’s tongue, oh, that glorious tongue, lap at his skin, probe at the concavities, and kiss and caress him as nothing he had ever felt before in his life. And he yearned, yes, craved, the feel of that gifted tongue. “Sam,” he gasped, unknowingly, fingertips lightly on Sam’s shoulders, “Oh, Sam, oh, please…”
Suddenly there was a moment when all the world seemed still, and then it seemed to Frodo as if the song of the lark suddenly rang out high above, and, even though he had closed his eyes, there was a burst of glorious light, and Sam’s mouth closed around him. And then he was swept away by the want, the wild and splendid craving, the overwhelming need, as he flung his hips up in a primal rhythm, and moaned Sam’s name without thought. The rhythm carried him along, faster, more urgently, until…
“Sam!,” he rasped, stopping his motion with the greatest of difficulty, “Sam, I’m going to..”
He felt Sam’s mouth leave him, and with an immense effort, cast his glance downwards. And there was Sam staring back up at him, those gold-green eyes alight with passionate love and intent. Without a word, Sam bent his head back down, and Frodo arched his back in the incandescent flame of a love that knew no boundaries, no limits. His heart was suddenly released of all the constraints it had ever known, and he gave himself to Sam, once and forever.
Bagshot Row was abustle with preparations, for the wedding of Marigold Gamgee and Tom Cotton was on the morrow. Sam, as well as Tom and Jolly Cotton, had been chased from the kitchen where the Gamgee and Cotton lasses were in a baking frenzy. Ovens were full, and even Marigold had left the last bit of work on her dress aside for the moment to frantically peel a mountain of potatoes and carrots. It had been meant to be a simple luncheon, but somehow May had taken it into her head that no guest should be able to even feebly consider food for the next several days, and had feverishly begun one dish after another, leaving the other lasses to complete them, which they were not at all unwilling to do. After all, as an excuse for a fine feast, nothing could surpass a wedding.
The gaffer had taken off early on to the Green Dragon, where he was awaiting his two older sons, Hamson and Halfred, who had met up the day previous and were traveling together. Neither had made a visit from the Northfarthing for several years now, but the marriage of their youngest sister, especially to such a fine family as the Cottons, was an occasion not to be missed.
Sam, Tom and Jolly sat on the benches under the great tree in the Party Field where the wedding was to take place the next day. The tables were already out, the benches set up, and the casks of ale and beer were waiting, covered, in the shade. There was naught else to do until the next day, when Sam planned on covering the wedding arch with flowers. The days were becoming rather warm, and it was of no use to put them up too early only to see them wilt.
“So we’d be seein’ your brothers,” remarked Tom, taking out his pipe, and knocking it lightly against the bench.
“Why, I can hardly remember those two lads,” Jolly laid back in the grass with his arms crossed behind his head, chewing on a blade of grass.
“ ‘Tis been awhile,” Sam admitted, leaning back in the bench and stretching his legs before him. “They used to come down this way a bit more, but since they’d be married, not as much.”
“Now which one’d be the roper?” Tom asked curiously, turning his attention from the pipe he was lighting.
“Ah, that’d be Hamson,” Sam thought carefully before answering. “Truth be told, the both o’them left when I was still a wee lad, and I’d still be confusin’ them meself, from time to time.”
“ ‘Tis odd they both left before you were full-grown,” Jolly mused innocently.
“Well, I wouldn’t be knowin’ the particulars,” Sam returned thoughtfully, “but it seems to me that they and the gaffer didn’t always agree. Mam always said that when a Gamgee dug his foot in, there was no shaking him, no how.”
“And glad I am that you’re a reasonable fellow, Sam,” Tom laughed, drawing on his pipe. “For you’d not be like that at all.”
Sam chuckled at that. “No, I’d guess not. But then, I can always let the carrots and taters know what I think o’matters, and they never answers back sharp.”
It was late afternoon when the gaffer arrived back at the smial with Sam’s brothers. Sam was still at home, for Frodo had urged him to stay with his family this day. Frodo was, of course, expected at the festivities tomorrow, as the Master of Bag End, and Sam had to be content to wait until then to see him.
Daisy and May were happy to greet their brothers, having more memories of the them than either Sam or Marigold did, and much was made of Marigold. Their wives were both unable to make the journey with their husbands, since Hamson’s was expecting a new child within the fortnight, and Halfred’s was still recovering from a winter fever. But both had sent some small useful gifts, as well as their best wishes.
Sam was clapped heartily on the back by his brothers (both still taller than he), and told what a fine lad he was growing up to be. Hamson, in particular, held his shoulder and gave him a keen look, but Sam soon thought no more of it.
The girls had retired to their room to adjust and admire their dresses for the next day, and Hamson and Halfred had hungrily tucked into tea in the one remaining corner of the kitchen not dedicated to the delicacies for tomorrow, when Hamfast motioned his youngest son to the door. Curious, Sam followed his father to the back kitchen garden, where the gaffer sat down heavily on the potting bench. Drawing out his pipe, he set to work silently on it, carefully knocking the old ashes out, and slowly filling it from the contents of an old battered cloth pouch that he always had at hand.
Sam crouched on the ground in front of his father, patiently waiting. He knew that the gaffer had something of importance on his mind, and it always took a bit of time for him to get his mouth around it just so. So Sam rested quietly, observing the garden in the twilight, and thinking that it might be time to be raising the long beans up on the trellis. The meadowlark that lived in the elder near the road swooped overhead, catching up the insects that had flown up in the evening air, and the morning glory that ran wild across the back wall was already closing up for the night.
Finally, his father finished his preparations, and took a long draw on the pipe. “Hamson is needin’ some help,” he stated abruptly, staring over at the neat vegetable plot. “You’ll be goin’ back with him. You‘ll be apprenticing with him for a few years.”
Sam sat heavily on the ground, his heart stopping in his throat. “But, Mr. Frodo’s garden!” he exclaimed, stunned.
His father looked sharply at him, but his face was unreadable in the dusk. “I had a chat with Tolman Cotton. Jolly will be helpin’ me, if it suits Mr. Frodo.”
“And if it don’t?” Sam whispered.
“Then he’ll have to be lookin’ for a new gardener,” Hamfast stated sternly.
“Why are you doin’ this, Da?” Sam asked raggedly, struggling to maintain his self-control.
Hamfast Gamgee rose at that. “I expect you’d be knowin’ that, son,” he answered flatly, and started to walk back to the smial.
There was one last question Sam had to ask, and it took every bit of strength he possessed. “Have you told Mr. Frodo yet?”
The gaffer turned at that and regarded his son silently for a moment. “No,” he answered slowly. “I’d let you be doin’ that.” He began to walk back to the front of the smial, and then turned once more. “Your sister’s wedding is on the morrow,” he added impassively. “I expect you’d do naught to be spoilin’ her day, Samwise. You’d best be back for supper.”
Frodo had been in the back garden when Sam arrived at Bag End that evening. Surprised that Sam had come up the hill, he looked up with a smile on his face. “Well, Sam, is all going well?” he asked, getting up from the bench, under the jasmine, on which he had been sitting, and placing the wineglass from which he had been sipping on the gravel path. The sweet scent of the vine was permeating the warm evening air.
But even in the dusk, the look on Sam’s face was enough to stop his breath. “Sam,” he whispered, reaching out to him instinctively.
Sam grabbed Frodo’s arms, hard, and stared at him, his eyes dark in the light of the full moon that was just beginning to rise over the horizon. His face was tearless, but his voice was hoarse with anguish. “He’s sending me away, Frodo.”
Frodo suddenly felt his world spinning away from him, his heart clenched by dread of the danger he had always known they had faced. “Tell me, Sam,” he forced the words out. He gripped Sam‘s shoulders tightly, but he could feel Sam starting to shake uncontrollably.
“My Da,” Sam was choking the words out. “Sendin‘ me with Hamson. He and Jolly, to do for you. It’ll be years…” and at that, there was no holding back any longer. With a wild cry of grief, Sam, sobbing, laid his head on Frodo’s shoulder and held onto Frodo as if his very life depended upon Frodo’s embrace.
Unconscious of what he did, Frodo sank down on the bench with Sam still fast in his arms. “Sam-love, my sweetest Sam,” he murmured, staring sightlessly over the top of Sam’s head, lovingly stroking Sam’s back.
“I won’t do it!” Sam suddenly burst out breaking out of Frodo’s grasp, and clenching his fists, glared in the moonlight at Frodo. “He can’t be makin’ me! He can’t…” and then another sob tore out of him and he collapsed into Frodo’s arms once more.
Frodo closed his eyes, the tears beginning to run unheeded down his own face. “No dearest, no,” he cried softly, knowing that he could not allow this even though he felt his own heart breaking. “Sam, my love,” he lifted up Sam’s face, tears glistening in the moonlight, and whispered, “I can not do this to you. I can’t be the cause of coming between you and your father.” Swallowing hard, he stoked Sam’s wet cheek tenderly before continuing. “He means to do what he thinks is best for you, Sam.” He paused, and then continued haltingly, “I have no father, Sam. I can’t let you lose yours as well.”
“I’m so afraid,” Sam continued to sob, holding on to Frodo’s hand, hardly able to form the words. “It’s years, Frodo, so long… I should never be able to bear it. Our dreams, they‘ll never be…”
“Sam,” Frodo abruptly held Sam’s face in his hands, and even in the dim light, Sam could see the determination on that face he so loved. “It wouldn’t matter how many years. I’m in love with you, Samwise Gamgee, and will be, for all the rest of my life. There is nothing in all this world that could ever change that. I belong to you, and you alone, always. Never, never forget that.”
And even in the midst of Sam’s despair, he felt his heart wrenched by Frodo’s words, and throwing his arms around Frodo, poured all his love and passion into a kiss, willingly committing himself forevermore. And Frodo answered him with a silent promise that nothing could ever end.
The marriage of Marigold Gamgee and Tom Cotton was a glorious day, happily remembered all the rest of that year. It was a splendidly fair early summer’s afternoon, and the wedding arch had been covered with the most beautiful blossoms that Sam had been able to find. The feast was quite impressive, and prospective brides enviously eyed the spread and realized that they would be severely challenged to match it. Ale, beer, and even several bottles of Old Winyard (courtesy of the Master on the Hill) flowed in abundance, and the dancing continued, in a progressively more ragged manner, until late into the night. And everyone present cheerfully agreed that Marigold Gamgee was the loveliest bride ever, and Tom Cotton was the luckiest hobbit ever born.
Mr. Baggins was, of course, present, as befitted the owner of the Hill, and the Gamgees’ employer. The dark blue velvet of his jacket set off his dark hair beautifully, the lasses noticed, but he really did seem a trifle pale. “That one shuts himself up entirely too much,” Rose declared, and the other lasses couldn’t help but agree. He circulated, with a quiet and courteous word to all, and was the second (after Tom, of course) to dance with a joyful Marigold. Nor did he neglect to dance with Daisy, May, and Rose as well. But as evening fell, he quietly began to wish the guests farewell before returning to Bag End.
Sam had not needed his father’s reminder. He loved his sister far too much to allow his own grief to mar this day for her. So he was back to supper in time the previous night. He lay sleepless all the night in the bed he once more shared with his brothers, but they were exhausted by their travels, and never knew. He rose early to find the flowers for Marigold’s arch, and thus missed breakfast. During the wedding itself, he remained in the background, and kept his eyes fixed on the tulip tree at the far end of the field. He was aware of Frodo’s presence, oh, so aware, but dared not glance his way, for fear of losing his desperately retained control. But the occasional glimpse of those dark curls, the gracefully dancing lithe figure, the fleeting sight of those expressive eyes, were costing him dearly, so when he heard Frodo wishing his sister and her new husband happiness, it was almost a relief. He would have time, after all, before his brother left, to spend with Frodo alone.
As Sam stood against the alder, unwatched in the early evening shadow, he saw Frodo making his way toward the gaffer, seated at the far end of the table with Tolman Cotton next to him. “A happy event, my good hobbits,” Frodo bowed slightly to the two of them, gracious as ever, “And thank you for your kind invitation.”
The gaffer, clearing his throat slightly, stood and returned the bow. “Right kind o’ye, Mr. Frodo,” he answered rather awkwardly. And then, visibly uncomfortable, he added, “Jolly and I will be up to see you tomorrow, if you don’t mind. My lads will be leavin’ early, Hamson’s wife would be close t’her time, and he needs be gettin’ back.”
Frodo stood absolutely still, his expression in the dusk closed off. “Of course,” he finally murmured, so softly that it could scarcely be heard, and then looked over to where Sam stood in the shadows.
Deliberately, not caring who might see, he walked purposely over to him and folded Sam tightly in his arms, and Sam returned the embrace with all his strength. “Not forever,” Sam heard Frodo whisper in his ear, as Sam could no longer control the tears sliding down his face, “not forever, my beloved Sam. Never forget your dreams, for they are mine as well.” Slowly and gently, he kissed Sam tenderly on the cheek, and reluctantly releasing him, turned away and left without another look.
Sam never looked back at who might be watching, but quickly left the circle of lights, walking into the dark, tears streaming unheeded down his face. Through the field he stumbled, not caring where he was going, until at last he fell to his knees near the boxberry hedge on the far side of the field, and folded himself down in the grass in utter despair.
Time went by, but how long, Sam had no idea, nor did he care. The full moon had risen high in the night sky, though, when there came the sound of footsteps approaching. His tears had been all spent, but he cared not who was behind him as he lay on the ground in misery. After a few moments silence though, he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, and realized, with a desolate twist of his heart, that it was his father. Without movement, without hope, he awaited the gaffer’s sharp words.
But instead, his father was silent. Slowly, for indeed it was difficult for a hobbit of his age, he sat down in the grass next to his son, and said not a word. Sam glanced toward him at that, and found the gaffer holding his knees in his arms, and staring at the great silvery moon.
“You’re so young, lad,” the gaffer’s voice finally gruffly broke the silence. “I know you’d not be thankin’ me now, but mayhap some day…”
“Marigold’d be younger that I,” Sam rasped out in response. “Yet you trusted her to follow her heart.”
Hamfast sighed, and then turning to his son, regarded him sadly. “ ‘Tis not that uncommon, when lads are young…” he stopped, and turned his attention back to the moon. “But lad, you’d not be knowin’ what you’d be givin’ up.”
“That I would,” Sam closed his eyes in pain. “Don’t you think I hadn’t thought o’it, Da? ‘Twas never a light fancy, I’ve always known what it would mean.”
“Do ye, now?” the gaffer asked harshly, almost angrily. “For t’will be you that folks will talk of, Samwise, not Mr. Baggins. And they won’t be talkin’ kindly, neither. An’ when he takes it into his head to follow the road, as did his uncle, where does that leave you? For you know, ‘tis only a matter of the when.” The old hobbit rubbed his hands over his face then, and continued, more quietly, “And when Mari and Tom bring their little ‘uns by, what then, Samwise? For all the grief they can bring ye oftimes, there’s still no blessing like children.”
But as Sam listened to his father’s words, he could feel his heart suddenly digging in with Gamgee stubbornness. “Aye,” he lifted his head, almost proudly, staring at his father with determination. “I know that there’ll be those as’ll scorn me. I know that there’ll always be talk. And I know there’ll be times when I’ll wish something fierce for the children I’ll never have. But what I will have is what I’ve wanted more than anything, ever since I was a lad.”
He abruptly stood, and gazed down on his father’s white curls, shining in the silvery light. “I’m not going with Hamson, Da. Sendin’ me away would never change my heart. ‘Tis my life, and the choices must be mine.”
The gaffer sat in silence, staring at his hands. Then so quietly that Sam could scarcely hear, he murmured, “Then you best be leavin’, son.”
The windows of Bag End were dark as Sam approached. He let himself quietly into the kitchen, but it soon became clear that the smial was empty. It was once again in the back garden that he found Frodo. He was sitting on the gravel path, his face buried in his arms on the bench under the jasmine, and some small corner of Sam’s mind registered the fact that he had really never heard Frodo cry before. It had always been he who had looked up to Frodo for strength and comfort, and the idea that he, even unwillingly, had caused Frodo that hurt was more than he could bear.
He knelt behind Frodo, and tenderly wrapped his arms around him and closing his eyes, he let the dark curls touch his face Frodo stiffened for just a moment at the touch, and then clutched tightly to Sam’s hands, still not turning around. “I’d not be goin’ anywhere,” Sam whispered, as soon as he could trust his voice.
Frodo did turn at that, and with one hand, Sam gently brushed away a tear still clinging to Frodo’s dark lashes. “Your father,” Frodo breathed in disbelief, still holding Sam’s other hand close to his breast.
“Is na pleased,” Sam admitted, his hand continuing its gentle journey down the side of Frodo’s face. “But he knows now there’d be no point to it.” Slowly he rose, and pulled Frodo with him. Holding on to both of Frodo’s hands, he faced him under the bower of sweet white bloom. “I don’t want t’be livin’ my life in dreams, no more,” he murmured, watching Frodo intently, and then bent his head down, waiting.
“Then we will wait no more,” Frodo’s voice was a caress, and his arms were around Sam. “Share my heart, my home, Sam, my forever love.”
And Sam’s kiss was his answer and his promise.
So sensitive
Eagerly awaiting more -- a new tale by Elderberry Wine is always a treat!
Notabluemaia
Re: So sensitive
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Happy New Year!
Site stuff
And will do on the poke-thing.
Happy New Year too, and as always, thanks!
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Wonderful and heartwarming, Elderberry, and as always, a joy to read.
Common sense
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I really loved your Frodo--seems so many write Frodo so very fem and emotional, but to see him so strong and protective of Sam is just marvelous. I actually cried when Sam was telling him he'd be leaving--specifically at the "It'll be years..." Frodo's hug after the wedding, and then the image of him sitting alone on the gravel path in the moonlight and crying were both extraordinary sequences. I'm just moved beyond words!! I can't tell you how happy this made me!
Hoping there's more to this story! *hugs*
Frodo's strength
Yes, I've never thought that any hobbit who could agree to take on the Ring could be thought of as weak. And Frodo is, (both book! and movie! version) rather unemotional on the surface, for a hobbit.
Of course, I don't think that's he's actually without emotion, it's just that his background has made him rather closed off, except with those he trusts.
Anyhow, thanks again.
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I loved this:
It seemed to him as though he forever wasn’t doing as he ought by those he loved, that he ought to be able to give a little more. He never noticed Frodo sitting beside him until he felt a strong arm around his shoulder, and instinctively, he turned for comfort from the one he loved so.
Wonderful moment that encapsulates so much about your Sam and your Frodo: Sam wants to give and give and give, and Frodo is the one person who can both take (something Sam NEEDS) and give in return. Thank you so much for this lovely New Year's gift.
Family matters
And that give and take thing, so necessary with F & S too, because I think they have to be, in their own way, equals.
Thanks again!
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Frodo-control
Mucho thanks, and remember next week...
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I loved this part:
And there was Sam staring back up at him, those gold-green eyes alight with passionate love and intent. Without a word, Sam bent his head back down, and Frodo arched his back in the incandescent flame of a love that knew no boundaries, no limits. His heart was suddenly released of all the constraints it had ever known, and he gave himself to Sam, once and forever.
After reading this I had to pause for a while, it's such an emotional passage. Thank you!
Speaking of emotional...
And love your icon! Too bad Sam has to bend his head down. Damn.
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Love the voices, Sam's stubborness, Frodo's promise, the Gaffer's love for his son, and the ending - *sob!*
“Then we will wait no more,”...“Share my heart, my home, Sam, my forever love.”
So beautiful!
Vegetable metaphor ahoy
Many thanks!
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Disappearing posts
Re: Disappearing posts
thanks again!
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"He was sitting on the gravel path, his face buried in his arms on the bench under the jasmine, and some small corner of Sam’s mind registered the fact that he had really never heard Frodo cry before."
This nearly kills me ...
It feels so real, so it could have been, so it should have been.
Thank you again little one, it's stunning what you are doing.
You're a great writer, a wonderful person with a big heart and a very dear friend.
*blows a little kiss to you*
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In canon, Sam tends to cry far more easily than Frodo - in fact, off the top of my head, I can't think of when Frodo ever cries. So I thought it would really make an impact on Sam if he found Frodo doing just that. But of course, who can blame him, when he thinks his dearest Sam is being sent away for years?
But fear not, Frodo, Sam has just grown up a bit, and learned to decide for himself.
Thank you so much, my dear!