New Fic: Sweet Cider, Finale

[elderberrywine]

Well, here it is. The end of the longest thing I ever wrote.

Title: Sweet Cider, Part Four
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Love is always worth the issues.



Sweet Cider
Part 4


Sam awoke very early the next morning. Only the faintest streaks of light could be seen through the cloudy sky as he carefully slid out of Frodo’s arms. When he had finally gotten Frodo to the bedroom the night before, it was only by promising to return, and soon, that he was able to stealthily travel down the hall, to see what had become of their visitors. But by the rather pronounced dual snoring issuing from the study, he quickly realized that it was safe enough to peep inside.

Sure enough, Merry and Pippin had completed their slide down to the carpet, and had melded into one somewhat noisy mound of sleeping hobbit. Carefully, Sam plucked a couple of blankets out of a chest in the corner, and gingerly draped them over the slumberers. Happily, they took no notice of Sam’s ministrations, and, relieved, Sam quickly returned to Frodo.

By the time Sam returned to their bedroom, Frodo had changed into a nightshirt, and was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head held in his hands. He raised his head when Sam entered, but said nothing. Sam smiled at him, and softly said, “They’d be sleepin’ it off. I covered them, they’ll be fine enough ‘til morn.”

Frodo gave a brief answering smile, but then sighed. “I feel three times a fool, Sam,” he muttered, giving Sam a clearly embarrassed look. “I really must be showing my age if I can’t handle my wine any better than that.”

“ ‘Twasn’t just the wine, dear,” Sam said quietly, walking over to him, and lightly stroking the side of Frodo’s cheek. “But you needn’t be frettin’ about that as would never happen. Us Gamgees are a stubborn lot. You’d not be shakin’ me off easily.”

Stepping away for a moment, Sam quickly shed his clothing and then raised Frodo’s nightshirt up and over a willing Frodo’s head. “I want to feel you next to me, Frodo-love,” he murmured before turning back the bed-clothes and drawing Frodo back into bed.

“And Merry and Pippin?” Frodo asked, his hand lightly on Sam’s arm as Sam reached over to pinch out the candle.

“Are not here.” Sam smiled tenderly in the dark as he gathered Frodo up in his arms. “You best be gettin’ t’sleep, me dear, you’ll be feelin’ this one come tomorrow.”



Three hobbits sat around the kitchen table dubiously eying the murky liquid in the mugs set before them. It was time for second breakfast, but only Sam had had the stomach for first. “You say your gaffer swears by this?” Merry was giving his mug a distinctly unfriendly glare.

“Aye, that he does,” Sam chuckled, slicing bread for toast. “And he’s been around for a bit. I’d be drinkin’ it down right fast, so as not to be tastin’ it much,” he added as Frodo bravely held the mug up to his mouth. Giving Sam a quick smile, Frodo rapidly downed the potion and thumped the mug back on the table.

The other two stared at Frodo as if expecting some sort of entertaining reaction, but Frodo merely looked thoughtfully back into his empty mug.

“All right then,” Merry muttered, “I need to have a clear head today, after all.” He lifted his mug, emptying it quickly, but immediately dropped it back on the table and sprang to his feet. “Eru! That is the foulest..” he sputtered, shaking his head in disgust.

Frodo broke into peals of laughter as Merry glared at him.

“Must of caught a bit of the taste o’it,” Sam observed mildly from near the sink.

Pippin looked at Merry wide-eyed and then with dread into his mug. “I believe I’m feeling much better,” he quickly pointed out.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Pippin Took, I’m not going to be listening to you going on about your head,” Merry turned sternly on him. “Down with it, lad.”

Pippin turned helplessly from Merry to Frodo, who was still laughing, to Sam. Taking pity on the young hobbit, Sam smiled at him. “Just toss it back and swallow right quick, Mr. Pippin,” he said encouragingly. “ ‘Tisn’t a’that bad that way. And your head will feel much the better for it.”

Pippin nodded thankfully, and quickly followed his instructions. With a rather satisfied toss of his head, he proudly set his mug down. “ Not all that bad, Merry,” he repeated. “At least, not so bad that some toast with some of that blackberry jam of yours, Sam, wouldn’t put it straight to rights.”

Sam chuckled at that. “Looks as it’s cured you that fast, Mr. Pippin,” he placed the jam jar and plate of toast on the table. “Maybe the others will feel like a bite soon enough themselves.” Which they did.



The breakfast dishes were nearly empty, when Frodo suddenly looked up from his bacon-and-mushrooms. “Your gifts!” he exclaimed. “I was going to give them to you last night, but…” and he hastily got up at that, leaving the sentence unfinished, and quickly left the kitchen. He soon returned, with several cloth-wrapped bundles in his hands.

“For you, Merry,” he handed him a flat parcel. “And you, Pippin,” he added, giving Pippin a long narrow one.

Merry unwrapped his first, producing a leather pipeweed pouch, beautifully embossed with a border of leaves and vines. “Thank you, Frodo,” he exclaimed, with a pleased smile, “This is very nice indeed. So much nicer than that cloth pouch I’ve been making do with.”

Pippin, in the meantime, had been unwrapping his gift as well, and delightedly produced a small whistle pipe. “Oh, Frodo!” he cried in delight, “I’ve always wanted to learn to play one of these!”

Merry gave Frodo a rather exasperated look, and sighed at that. “All the way home, I suppose,” he muttered, but Frodo laughed at his expression of gloom.

“The lad has a talent for music, Merry,” he said fondly, “it won’t take him long to produce a recognizable tune.”

Then he turned to Sam, and handed the last parcel to him. “For you, Sam,” he said softly, and Sam took it from him, struggling to keep from reddening under Frodo’s gaze.

But when he unwrapped it, he forgot all else. “Oh, Frodo,” he breathed, completely forgetting that there was anyone else in the room. In his hands lay a volume bound in the finest and softest red leather that Sam had ever felt. Reverently, he opened it to find only creamy blank pages. Wonderingly, he looked back up at Frodo.

“For you to complete, Sam,” Frodo’s eyes held him fast. “With whatever pleases you the most.”

It was the sound of Pippin’s voice that jolted Sam back to his senses. “So you can write, too, Sam?” he asked with interest, looking up from his new pipe, which he had been carefully examining.

Frodo answered for Sam, who bent his head, disconcerted by the attention. “And not only Common Speech, but Quenya, as well,” Frodo stated proudly, smiling at Sam.

“Aye, well, naught a bit as well as you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam mumbled at that, his face reddening once more, but he held the book firmly to his chest.

“Even a bit of Quenya would be that much more than I could manage,” Pippin laughed.

Merry had been silently watching the other three, but rose at this point, and stretched his arms out lazily. “It’s time to be going, then,” he remarked in a languid tone, “and if this fellow with the cows doesn’t keep me over long, we should be able to make the Toad and Whistle by evening. Remember their brew, Pip?”

“Oh, yes,” Pippin nodded happily. “I suppose we had better be off, then.” But he stopped as they started to leave Sam in the kitchen, and turning, gave him a impulsive hug. “Nasty tasting stuff, that, Sam,” he, grinning, informed a flustered Sam, “but rather effective. If your gaffer wouldn‘t mind you telling family secrets, my father would be eternally grateful.” He left the kitchen then, along with Merry and Frodo, leaving Sam with a rather dazed vision of the gaffer and the Thain sitting down to exchange morning-after recipes.



Number Three, Bagshot Row, was bustling with activity about a week later. May had arrived for one of her now relatively rare visits, and Marigold and Rosie had come especially for luncheon, and more particularly, the news. Since the afternoon was fine, they had spread the food out on a table in the garden, but the gaffer, after one look at the group assembled there, grabbed a few portable items and, muttering something about a fine afternoon for a walk, left with a spryness remarkable for a hobbit of his years. Daisy thought she caught the words “babbling females” as he passed by.

But all attention was drawn to May as inevitably as iron filings to a lodestone, for not only was she dressed in a becoming frock with an inordinate number of pink frills, but there was an entirely different air about the way she walked and the way she spoke that indicated her stay in Hobbiton had proved quite educational. Marigold, however, was in no mood for generalities and, after the edge of her hunger had been satisfied, came directly to the point, the usual privilege of younger sisters.

“So, May,” she spoke up, slicing off another piece of cheese, “have you got’im yet?”

“Why, Marigold,” May exclaimed with a pretty little frown. “That was a trifle blunt, now. But,” she added, with a sly smile, “that I did.”

“May!” Marigold cried in glee, forgetting the cheese entirely, “tell us, lass!”

So May did, from the “accidental” meetings on the street, to the parties arranged by her friends at the smials of mutual acquaintances, to the strolls through the quiet outskirts of Hobbiton, and at last, to that special evening that had led to an understanding between the two of them.

“And he really is a lovely lad,” she added, with a slightly defensive tone, “especially if you can get him away from his friends, like that Lotho, and Sandyman’s son.”

Marigold and Rosie exchanged glances that clearly revealed their feelings about that pair.

“I know, I know,” May sighed. “But it seems as though we’ll be living up near his family anyway, so that shouldn’t matter all that much. We’ll be pledging at the Harvest Festival, and that’d give me that much time for the arrangements for the wedding come spring.” Her hand was nervously playing with the plaits of her dress as she spoke, though. “Mayhap his family’d be comin’ down for the Festival.”

“And what would you be knowin’ of them, May?” Daisy asked soberly, giving May a steady look. “You’d be gettin’ a little deep t’be backin’ out if you don’t like the looks of what you’d be seein’ there. And what if his parents not be likin’ the idea of their lad marryin’ the lass of a gardener?”

May lifted her chin defiantly. “As long as Anston’d be wanting me, they’ll have to make the best of it,” she declared proudly. “I’ll show them I can make him as fine a wife as any.”



That same day, Frodo had persuaded Sam to take their lunch up to the hill behind Bag End, not a difficult task, actually. The rainy summer seemed long ago and far away on such a warm, golden afternoon as this one. The red poppies, randomly sprinkled through the grass, shone brightly midst the lush green, and only the few golden leaves displayed by the oak indicated that autumn was at hand. Lunch had not taken long to be disposed of, and Frodo was lying back on the rug they always brought with them, feeling mellow indeed. “I wonder if Pippin annoyed Merry with that pipe whistle all the way back to Buckland?” he mused dreamily, staring up at the puffy white clouds floating by high overhead.

Sam, sitting cross-legged next to him, gave a slight snort. “Mr. Merry’d appear t’annoy summat easy, seems like, if I might be so bold.”

Frodo looked over at him with a grin. “Say what you like, Sam, it’s only me. But you might be right about that.” Looking back up again, he continued, “It’s the weight of Brandy Hall on his shoulders that does that to him.”

“Mr. Pippin don’t seem to feel the weight o’the Tooks all that much,” Sam pointed out. “Wouldn’t that be just as bad, then?”

“Not really,” Frodo rolled over on his side and lay there facing Sam. “The Tooks may be an ancient and important family, but the Brandybucks own that whole part of the Shire. Being the Master of Brandy Hall is an enormous responsibility. Merry’s still younger than you are, you know.”

“No, I’d not be knowin’ that,” replied Sam, surprised.

Frodo nodded with a smile, “Yes, two years younger. Well, at least he has Pippin around most of the time.”

“That lad’ll keep him lively, ‘tis for sure,” chuckled Sam.

“Oh, you have no idea,” laughed Frodo. And he continued on, telling Sam tales of the young Took’s more memorable escapades. And together, their laughter rang out into the peaceful afternoon.

Hamfast Gamgee was leaving the Row even then, seeking a small hill that gave him his favorite view of the valley towards Hobbiton. He heard the laughter from behind Bag End. He recognized Frodo’s light laugh immediately, but it took him a minute to realize that the carefree laughter blending with Frodo’s was indeed that of his son. He had not heard Sam laugh like that since he was a child. Quickly, he walked up the hill, away from Bag End, but though he sat in his accustomed spot, he really never saw the view at all that afternoon.



Daisy was in the back garden laying freshly washed clothes out on the hedge the next morning as Sam arrived, to take care of such chores as needed his doing around Number Three. Drawing Sam to the bench, she sat him down, and told him of May’s news. “This Anston Bracegirdle’d be Lotho Sackville-Baggin’s cousin then?” Sam frowned upon hearing the news. “Well, I canna be sayin’ as that’d be much of a recommendation.”

“As would be Mr. Frodo,” Daisy pointed out succinctly, “an’ I’d not be seein’ you holdin’ that against him.”

“Ah, well,” Sam couldn’t help but chuckle, “you’d be right enough about that.”

“I’d not the chance t’thank ye,” Daisy said quietly, staring at the tidy garden around her, after they had sat silently for a few moments, “but both Mr. Frodo and yourself were that kind t’me when I was sick, puttin’ me up and all at Bag End.”

“Why, what else, Daisy?” Sam turned to her in surprise, “you’d be my sister, after all.”

Daisy said nothing, her eyes closing, and then, very softly, almost under her breath, she added, “You seemed that much at home.”

Sam studied her for a moment in silence, and then took her hand in his. “ ‘Tis my home, now,” he said quietly.

Daisy opened her eyes again at that, and stared into Sam’s hazel eyes, so like his late mother’s. “Would you be happy then, Sam?” she whispered.

His smile was answer enough, but he spoke anyway. “More than I could ever tell you, Daisy dear.”



It was harvest time for the wheat, these days, and Sam was usually gone all day, helping not only the Cottons, but all the other near-by farmers in the closely knit Hobbiton community. Frodo walked the halls of Bag End, on this particular afternoon, remembering back a year ago, when the highlight of his day was tea with Sam. And now? There were traces of Sam’s presence throughout Bag End. The flourishing row of herb pots in the sunny kitchen window. The neatened study (growing up in a small crowded smial had made Sam, as Frodo had found, incurably tidy). His worn jacket hung on a peg alongside of Frodo’s finer one in the hall near the front door. The small orderly pile of his clothes next to Frodo’s in the wardrobe of their bedroom. Frodo stood in the doorway of their bedroom, in the warm light of the late afternoon sun, staring at their neatly made bed. And then, for no particular reason at all, he felt the weight of years of doubt and well-concealed grief slide from him. Sam loved him. Sam was here with him. He could let his heart love in return, without fear, for it would not be broken again. Thankful, he closed his eyes, at peace with himself.



Sam almost passed May by without recognizing her in the streets of Hobbiton. He and Frodo had made a trip into town, and Frodo, of course, was at the bookseller’s. Sam was to replenish their supplies and meet him at the Green Dragon, as was their custom. May had been leaving the yardage shop in the company of Pansy Burrows, when she looked up to see Sam across the main thoroughfare of Hobbiton. Her eyes flicked from Sam back to the window of the shop, and for a few moments, Sam wasn’t sure if she was going to acknowledge him, or fasten her attention on the window as if she had never noticed him.

But then, with a quick word to Pansy, who glanced over at Sam in surprise, she left her companion, and crossed the dusty street over to Sam. “ ‘Tis awhile since I’d be seein’ you, May,” Sam observed mildly, as May thrust her arm through his and drew him over to a quiet leafy corner at the side of the shop. “You’d be lookin’ pretty as can be.”

May gave an unwilling small smile at that, but then studied Sam’s face carefully. “You’ve heard my news, then, haven’t you, Sam?” she asked him intently.

“Why, aye, I have at that, and best of wishes t’ye, May,” Sam replied gravely. Of all his sisters, May had always been the one to be most likely at odds with him, as they had grown up, and his mother had always put that to their being the closest in age of her offspring, as well as the two of them having the most of what she would refer fondly as, when the gaffer wasn’t about, “that Gamgee pigheadedness”.

But whatever Sam might have thought of May’s choice, he certainly wasn’t going to reveal it on a busy Hobbiton high street. And, he realized reluctantly, she might have thought the same of his choices of late.

“Thank you, Sam,” May replied, a trifle formally. “There’s only one thing I’d be askin’ you.” She paused, as if considering her words carefully, “This is all that important to me, Sam. Please, whatever you can do…”

Sam stared back at her. “I willna lie for you, May,” he said at last, slowly. “But I’ll do what I can.”

May, with a quick nod, curtly answered, “Fair enough,” and left to rejoin Pansy.



Frodo left the bookseller’s that afternoon, parcel under his arm, and feeling rather pleased with himself. All too often, he had left poor Sam waiting at the Green Dragon as he lost himself in the bookseller’s hoard, but this time he had actually left of his own initiative, and with time to spare as well.

He was absently eyeing the contents of his parcel as he made his way through the back street of Hobbiton, towards the outskirts of the village, where the Green Dragon was situated, and it was thus that he never saw the heavy fist that sent him flying into a mud puddle at the side of the road. Stunned, he raised his head to see Lotho standing over him, laughing.

“Why, Cousin Frodo,” he snickered, “you had a point, didn’t you. The element of surprise does work rather well. But let’s see what other Brandy Hall tricks you have that can help you now.”

Frodo had been nursing his temple, with a sinking feeling that there certainly would be a mark there to show for this, but Lotho’s taunts had, as usual, their customary effect. With a low growl that would have amazed most of his acquaintances, he rose from the ground and with one sudden blur of motion, leaped straight onto Lotho, his momentum carrying the heavier hobbit straight to the ground. With all his strength, he held Lotho pinned to the ground, and hissed, “I am sick of this, cousin. Kindly treat me civilly or avoid me altogether, I really could care less which.”

It was only the fleeting movement of Lotho’s eyes that gave Frodo any warning, but it was enough that he had started to roll off of Lotho when Ted Sandyman’s foot connected solidly with his ribs. For a moment, Frodo crouched in the dirt, gasping for breath, and that was all the time Lotho needed. Lurching up to his feet, he gave Frodo a sudden vicious shove that sent him sprawling.

“Unfortunately, Frodo, I live here, and it’s rather hard to avoid you and that brat that has so captivated you,” Lotho spat out. He gave a quick gesture to Ted, who had been watching Frodo with a satisfied grin, and Frodo quickly found himself being hauled to his feet, with his arms pinned behind his back, by the miller’s son. Twisting desperately to break out of Ted’s grasp, he delivered a swift kick to Ted’s knee. The burly hobbit yelled out in pain at that, but before Frodo could complete his escape, Lotho stepped forward, and with brute force, punched Frodo squarely in his stomach.

Frodo felt tears coming unwillingly to his eyes with the force of that blow, and he fought urgently to hide them as he knelt before Lotho, doubled up in pain. He heard Lotho’s triumphant laugh as Ted’s rough grasp rudely hauled him to his feet again. “I believe I’ve made my point quite clear,” Lotho jeered as his face swam back into Frodo’s blurred vision. “You and that bedmate of yours are to stay out of this town altogether, understood?” But if Lotho had thought that this would be an effective approach, he was mistaken. With all the breath he had left, Frodo said not a word, but spat as hard as he could toward Lotho.

Furiously, Lotho roared at this, and Frodo tensed his body for the blow that would surely come. But it never did. There was an incoherent cry that came from somewhere behind Frodo, and suddenly, Lotho was gone from view. Frantically, Frodo twisted in Ted’s suddenly slack grip and broke loose. There, standing over a Lotho who was flat on his back in the middle of the road with his hand to his jaw, stood Sam, breathing hard and his fists clenched.

Lotho dragged himself up and got to his feet. “You miserable peasant,” he sneered at Sam, “you touch me again, and I’ll ruin you and your whole mangy family.”

But Sam was more furious than Frodo had ever seen him. “Try it, you filth,” he snarled. “But if you touch him again, you’ll be sorrier for it than you’d ever dream you could be.”

With a yell of rage, Lotho swung at the shorter, younger hobbit with a still powerful fist. But before Frodo could come to Sam’s assistance, Sam drew his own fist back and then, with all his strength, connected with Lotho Sackville-Baggins’ nose. There was the sound of a distinct crack, and Lotho screamed loudly. Ted, who had been watching in fright from the side, stepped forward at that, grabbing Lotho by the arm, and pulling the older hobbit, with blood streaming from the broken nose, away.

Sam didn’t watch them go, but immediately turned to Frodo, his face taunt with concern. “Are you all right, me dear?” he murmured, sliding an arm under Frodo’s for support.

“Right enough, Sam,” Frodo breathed, with a grimace, gingerly touching his side. “But it’s going to be a long walk home. We’d best forego the Green Dragon’s brew this afternoon.”



It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that Frodo was finally able to lay thankfully on the bed at Bag End. The walk home had seemed interminable, not for the least of reasons because Frodo had insisted on taking the back road over the hill. “I just really rather not have to go over it with everyone, right now,” he had said firmly, when Sam had tried to persuade him that the quickest road home would be the best, regardless of who they might meet along the way.

So Sam sighed, and acquiesced, and kept a firm supporting arm around Frodo all the way back.

“Here now,” he said as Frodo sat heavily on the side of the bed, “let’s have a look at that side of yours.” Carefully, he peeled off the jacket and shirt, and then gave a low cry of dismay at the ugly purple and black marring Frodo’s pale skin.

“As bad as that,” Frodo muttered, closing his eyes, not even bothering to look.

“Well,” said Sam, trying for a light tone, so as to keep his anger out of his voice, “I must ha’seen worse, but where, I can’t recollect right now. And let me be looking’ at this, likewise,” he carefully pushed back the dark curls from Frodo’s forehead, exposing another dark bruise across his temple.

“Those ruffians,” he muttered darkly at that, forgetting his resolution.

“Nothing new, really,” Frodo gave Sam a wry smile, “he’s just gotten bolder as of late now that Bilbo’s gone. Bilbo always seemed somehow to manage to get his parents to keep him in line, I just wish I knew how. And then, he seems to think there are more that will sympathize with him lately.”

“Because o’us,” Sam’s flat statement was not a question. Gently, he let Frodo’s curls fall back forward, and helped Frodo lie back. “Lay you here quiet,” he said softly, “I’ll be back as soon as might be.” Covering Frodo with a light quilt, he left the room.



Frodo knew that he must have slept for awhile, for when he awoke, the room was dark, lit only by candles. “I’m that sorry t’be wakin’ you, Frodo-love,” he heard Sam’s soft voice, “but you’ll be feelin’ better come morn if we do this now.”

He lifted his eyes open slowly, still feeling groggy and disoriented. But there was Sam’s face before him, candlelight on those glinting curls, golden lights in his eyes, and the sweet smile that he loved so well on Sam’s lips. He could hear the quiet slosh of liquid next to him, and slowly, and with great effort, he turned his head.

“Ah, no, dear, don’t you be movin’ about like that, love,” Sam’s soft voice caressed him. “Just you lie easy now, dearest.”

The coverlet was carefully drawn back and Frodo shivered slightly, involuntarily, in the sudden chill. “Aye, I know,” came Sam’s chuckle, “but ‘tis warmed up, me dear.”

Then Frodo closed his eyes as he felt Sam’s careful touch at his side, the warm wet cloth cautiously laving his side, the rough fingertips gently following after, smoothing, soothing. Frodo gradually realized that Sam had begun to hum unknowingly under his breath, in what Frodo had learned by now was Sam’s instinctive reaction when called upon to calm, to comfort.

And now there was a salve that Sam was massaging ever so gently into the tender flesh. It smelled of lavender, and honey, and scents that Frodo could not begin to recognize, and he felt himself fading away, warm and cherished.

It was much later that night when he briefly awoke. The room was dark, but he could feel Sam’s arms carefully encircling him, Sam’s body curled around his, and Sam’s sleeping breath warming his shoulder. With a peaceful heart, he quickly fell back to sleep.



“Broke his nose, that’s what they’d be sayin’,” Jolly couldn’t help the note of triumph in his voice as he sat next to the hearth the next evening in Tom and Marigold Cotton’s smial.

Rosie Cotton was there as well, and her face shone pink in the firelight with excitement. “Did he ever, now?” she exclaimed in delight. “Tell us all, Jolly!”

“Well, I was with some lads at the Green Dragon,” Jolly began, with obvious delight at being the bearer of such news, “and I saw Sam come in. He was lookin’ about, but before I could call out to him, there’s a couple o’lads near the door as told him that Mr. Lotho and that Ted Sandyman had just gone out the door, and they was sayin’ summat about Mr. Frodo. Well, as soon as he’d be hearin’ that, our Sam was gone. But there’s a couple of lads that were down the road as come in later as saw it all.”

He took a swig from his mug and then continued. “Now you all know as that Mr. Lotho has had it in for Mr. Frodo ever since Mr. Bilbo took him in, and this time he and that Ted had decided as they didn’t want t’be seein’ Mr. Frodo about Hobbiton no more. Mr. Frodo was givin’ a pretty good account of himself, too, for a piece, but ‘twas two of them next to his one, an’ they being bulky lads an’ all, likewise. So they finally managed t’get him all pinned down, but Sam surprised them, he did, and hauled off and gave that Lotho such a hit as clean broke his nose.”

“And more than time, too,” Rosie declared with spirit. “That Mr. Lotho, he’s always been a meddlesome troublemaker.”

“I just can’t believe that about Sam,” Tom declared, pulling his pipe out of his mouth in surprise. “He’s always been that much of a peaceable lad.”

“Aye, that may be,” Jolly shook his head in agreement, “but you know how he gets when he thinks as summat’s not fair. And then t’be Mr. Frodo an’all…”

“Well, I just don’t know how he thought t’come up with that,” Marigold added, shaking her head in wonder. “Sam’s never been that much for fightin’.”

“Now, that I know,” Jolly declared triumphantly. “’Twas your gaffer. Sam told me once, when there was these lads as were botherin’ me, that his gaffer told him there was one sure way to end a fight when needs be. ‘Aim for their nose, son,’ he said the gaffer told ‘im, ‘as it makes one mortal mess. ‘Tis no-body as can be fightin’ then.’ An’ that’s just what our Sam did!” he concluded proudly.

Marigold sighed again. “ ‘Tis all very good,” she told the others sternly, “an’ I’m sure that no-one will be sheddin’ tears for Mr. Lotho, but ‘tis trouble ne’ertheless. What about May?”

And that brought the conversation suddenly to a thoughtful silence.



As Bilbo could have told Sam, Frodo, for all his fragile looks, was actually fairly sturdy, and quick to heal. He was up and about by the next day, and, with the help of Sam’s potions, the bruises soon began to fade. More worrisome, however, was the approaching Harvest Festival. The Master of Bag End, of course, was expected to be there, and also of course, every other leading family in Hobbiton would be there likewise. Already there was talk about the village of what this anticipated meeting of Frodo and his cousin meant to the Festival in the form of expected entertainment, the like of which rarely occurred in this sleepy community. There was a faction that was appalled at the idea of a young upstart like Sam Gamgee, and one of questionable character at that, lifting a hand against a gentle-hobbit of impeachable family such as Lotho Sackville-Baggins. There was another group of hobbits however, not quite as outspoken perhaps, but somewhat more sizable, that felt strongly that Lotho had well deserved everything he had received, and they would not be loath to see him obtain another helping of the same. In fact, most young hobbit lads about town were secretly worshipping Samwise Gamgee, and his bold stand for justice.



At this moment, though, matters such as these held very little interest for either Sam or Frodo on this late clear autumn morning. It had taken time, but Frodo had finally convinced Sam that not every morning was created to be greeted in the early dawn hours; in fact, there were mornings that were expressly created in order to stay luxuriously in bed, and watch the sunlight from the window stretch slowly across the floor until it reached the coverlets, among other activities, or at least until empty stomachs could no longer be ignored. This was just such a morning.

Sam had, with no reluctance whatsoever, given up any thought of being productive out of doors this morning, but was currently engaged instead in being highly productive in his ongoing research of exactly where the most sensitive spot on Frodo’s torso was. A number of options had already been tested, and he was, at the moment, leaning towards Frodo’s side, right at his waist, because Sam had found that if he nibbled it right… there, and then bit it every so slightly, that Frodo would bolt straight upwards with the most unusual combination of a shriek and a giggle that Sam had ever heard him utter. With a wicked smile, Sam decided that this option clearly needed further testing, but Frodo read that look in an instant, and laughingly, squirmed rapidly out of Sam’s grasp.

“Very well, then, Master Samwise,” Frodo playfully rolled quickly over Sam to reverse positions, “let me just show you… “ And then Sam did not struggle very hard to escape Frodo, for was not Frodo’s mouth then so very close to where it could, certainly in Sam’s opinion, do the most good? If he could only manage to twist ever so quickly downwards, then it was inevitable that Frodo’s mouth…

But he had no time to complete the thought, for as he twisted with a laugh, and Frodo was mischievously grappling with him to regain his previous position, Frodo’s hand encountered a part of Sam’s anatomy that it had not before, and Sam gave a sudden gasp and froze.

Realizing what he had done at once, Frodo immediately withdrew his hand, and stammered, “Oh, Sam, I didn’t mean…”

But Sam was staring at him with a most unusual expression. “Hmm,” he murmured, and Frodo could see, with almost a shock, interest and speculation in Sam’s eyes.

Frodo gulped at that. “Sam, I’ve never… ” he began shakily.

“No more have I,” Sam quickly interrupted him. “But I’ve heard tell. And,” he added slowly, still watching Frodo carefully, “it didn’t feel bad. No, not at all.”

Frodo lay back with his knees up, propped up on his elbows, next to Sam, and studying him closely, felt curiosity beginning to take hold. “Really, Sam?” he asked in just the manner most likely to convince Sam that he needed a further explanation, or better yet, a demonstration.

Sam chuckled at that, having become adept at reading Frodo’s moods in bed. “Aye, I thought you’d be a bit interested, Frodo-love,” he said fondly, “an’ I suppose you’d be wantin’ your Sam to be showin’ you what he means.”

Frodo said nothing in response, but his expression left no doubt that Sam was correct.

“Ah, come here, me dear,” Sam growled playfully at that, and rolling over, covered Frodo, who collapsed, laughing, under him. Then Sam cupped a hand around Frodo’s cheek and met his mouth hungrily, and Frodo, forgetting, as always, all else, threw his arms around Sam’s broad shoulders, and met his kiss enthusiastically, and so forgot all about Sam’s other hand until…

“Hmmmpf!” Frodo’s body jerked up and his eyes flew open wide, his mouth still covered by Sam’s. Sam drew back at that, with a grin, and lay on an elbow next to Frodo. Frodo looked over at him, and swallowed. “You’re right, Sam,” he said, only a little shakily, “not that bad at all.”

“Well then,” Sam whispered at that, leaning towards Frodo and managing to just barely brush the tip of his ear with his tongue, “let’s see how this works.” And with that, he lay back down, drawing Frodo over the top of him.

“No, Sam,” Frodo announced firmly at that, planting a hand on the bed at either side of Sam’s chest, “don’t you have to be digging out the Widow Rumble’s potatoes this afternoon?”

“Aye, but,” Sam muttered with a frown, clearly confused, “it ain’t so late as all that.”

“Not quite what I meant,” Frodo rolled the two of them over so their positions were reversed. “I just think it would be a little more prudent if it were this way.”

“Oh, but Frodo, now,” Sam’s concerned look was increasing as he realized what Frodo meant. “I’d be that worried… “

Frodo reached up and lightly kissed him. “Sam, I’m really not breakable,” he lay back with a smile, as well as a fond sigh. “I’ll mention it if anything hurts, really I will.”

Sam looked dubiously down at him, but knew that Frodo’s argument had some merit. “Well,’ he began, but Frodo’s eyes widened as another thought struck him.

“What ‘tis it?” Sam questioned, somewhat apprehensively.

“Umm,” Frodo cleared his throat, reddening slightly, “I’ve heard that it helps to, erm,…”

Sam’s mouth crooked up at that, reading Frodo’s thoughts. “Well, there ought t’be summat slippery in the kitchen as we can use.” He sat up, chewing on his lip thoughtfully, and then, muttering to himself, “Mayhap… ” he left the bedroom.

Sam returned quickly, not giving Frodo too much time to reconsider, should he have wanted to, but stopped in the doorway, giving Frodo a rueful look. “Frodo, me dear,” he muttered, “if I didn’t love you so, I’d be feelin’ the greatest fool as ever was.”

Frodo took in the sight of the sturdy young hobbit standing naked in the sunlit doorway with a small dish of butter held in front of him, and couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing so merrily that Sam could not help but eventually join in.

“Oh, Sam,” he finally gasped, trying to catch his breath, “if you are, then I’m an even greater one, for I’ve never seen you look more beautiful than you do right now.”

Sam’s sudden smile at that went straight to Frodo’s heart, and holding open his arms, Frodo murmured, “Come here, my love,” and Sam was in his arms in an instant.

And then Sam was over him again, wonderfully warm and strong, and Frodo wrapped his arms tightly around him, and lifted up his knees on either side of Sam’s waist. This time, when Sam’s hand found him, it wasn’t so unexpected, and Frodo closed his eyes and pushed himself forward.

“Oh,” he sighed, eyes still closed, but when Sam made a motion to remove his finger, he shook his head and opened his eyes again. There was Sam’s face before him, expectant but concerned, and Frodo smiled warmly at him. “Sam,” he said softly, “you feel glorious there.” Sam smiled shyly in return, at that, and leaned down to nuzzle Frodo’s throat.

Frodo felt himself begin to relax, and move more deliberately against Sam. “Ah, Sam,” he moaned, “more, love.” Sam’s hand withdrew for a moment and then returned, now with more than one finger. “Oh, Sam!” Frodo sucked in his breath, pushing himself up and against Sam’s hand harder than ever. He could hear Sam’s breath quickening in his ear, and Sam’s movements against him starting to become more rhythmic. He felt himself hardening, thrusting up against Sam’s belly, and now there was one thing he wanted more than anything else; Sam inside of him.

“Now, Sam, now!” he gasped, and Sam understood. The hand was withdrawn, and for a moment, Frodo lay with his eyes shut tight, his knees quivering at Sam’s sides, and his whole body taut with anticipation. Then he could feel Sam entering him, slowly, carefully. And it hurt, but Frodo couldn’t have cared less for that, as he was consumed with the need for Sam, the inalterable craving to feel Sam deep within him, down to his center, down to his heart.

He pushed down against Sam, and heard his gasp, and felt Sam pull away only slightly, and press back again, this time a little more forcefully. “Sam!” Frodo flung his head back, fighting for air, and, clutching Sam’s shoulders desperately, thrust himself back onto Sam again. And then he felt Sam’s hand coming between them, holding him, and how had Sam known that that was what he most urgently needed right then, as he pushed himself down against Sam again and again. In his ear, he could hear Sam crying out his name, over and over, in a low moaning keen, as Sam bore down on him, and he felt himself pulsing in Sam’s warm and knowing hand.

He knew then that he wasn’t going to last long, that there was no way of stopping himself, when he heard Sam cry out his name one last time, and stiffen, and Sam’s warmth flow suddenly into him, and he then felt himself release into Sam’s hand, and he grabbed Sam tightly to him, feeling his heart leaping in his throat.

It was several minutes before Sam, still breathing jaggedly, was able to roll off Frodo, and brush the damp curls gently away from his forehead. “Sam,” Frodo whispered, smiling blissfully at him, and lifting a hand, traced lightly down the side of that beloved face, and looked deep into those warm green-gold eyes. “Sam. I adore you.”



They were nearing Hobbiton, the day of the Harvest Festival, and Sam’s anxiety was obvious. “May ‘twould never be forgivin’ me,” he muttered, unconsciously adjusting the cuffs of his new jacket. “It would ha’ been best had I stayed a’home, Frodo.”

Frodo stopped, and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. They had come by way of the back road, and would be joining up with the main road to Hobbiton soon. “It’s only one day, Sam,” he murmured, looking into Sam’s eyes with a smile. “By tonight, we’ll be back in our bed, and I’ll have you in my arms again, and all of this will be over.”

“Well, that time can’t be comin’ any too soon,” Sam gave Frodo a wry smile.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Frodo said dryly. “Remember, Sam,” he added, reaching up to lightly touch the side of Sam’s face, “any time you think it’s best we go, just you let me know. I don’t care what anyone else might think.”

Sam nodded without a word, and leaning into Frodo’s embrace, gave him a long and lingering kiss. “ ‘Tis all that really matters, isn’t it, Frodo-love?” he asked wistfully as he slowly drew away from Frodo.

“Indeed it is,” Frodo agreed, with a smile, and kissed him once again.




The night was beginning to grow dark by the time the more prominent Hobbiton families began to gather in the main tent. Dancing had been continuing all afternoon, as well as the feasting, but there was another purpose to this evening other than simple thanks for the bountiful harvest, and those in the main tent were more than aware of it. The Bracegirdles, Anston’s parents as well as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ sister and brother-in-law, had expressly come from the East Farthing for this momentous occasion, the betrothing of their heir and only child. The Gamgee and Cotton families were seated in the back of the tent, a location far more conspicuous than they were normally accustomed to, while the Sackville-Baggins and Bracegirdles occupied the preponderance of the tables. Sam was sitting with Tom and Marigold Cotton, as well as Jolly, at a table towards the back, but Frodo had no place at this gathering. Instead, he was near a back opening, eager to watch, but not wishing to be seen. However, when Ned Proudfoot spotted him, he found himself being drawn by Ned into the tent unwillingly. He tried to make himself unobtrusive, but saw Lotho’s cold eye fall on him nonetheless. Lotho gave a sinister smile, and quietly murmured something to Anston Bracegirdle, sitting at his side. With a sinking feeling, Frodo noticed Anston eying him curiously. He had a sudden feeling that this did not bode well for this evening.

“Well then, this will do nicely,” proclaimed Ned, lowering himself at a table in front of the Bracegirdle contingent, along with the rest of the Proudfoot family. “Here, Frodo, here’s a chair for you, if you like,” he added, drawing up one next to him.

Looking over towards the Sackville-Baggins, Ned then gave a hearty chuckle. “Aye, that nose’d not be lookin’ pretty at all,” he laughed, viewing the still obvious damage on Lotho’s face. “I hear as your Sam did that. I also hear as he had plenty of cause,” he added, not caring who might hear. “That lad’s been askin’ for a thumpin’ like that for years, now.” There was a muttered chorus of agreement around the table, and Frodo dared look over to Sam at that.

Sam was sitting quietly between Marigold and Jolly, and even from Frodo’s vantage point, he could see Sam’s nervousness. Sam’s gaze had fallen on the Proudfoot family, when he suddenly noticed Frodo in their midst. Immediately, Frodo could see the light spring into Sam’s eyes, and the small, rueful, smile grace his face for just a moment. Frodo returned the look, and futilely wished once more that the burden of all of this had not fallen on Sam’s shoulders, but rather on his.



Mistress Bracegirdle had Daisy all to herself at the center table, and Daisy was not enjoying it at all. “And, my dear, the roses in East Farthing are so fine that time of the year… have you ever been up that way, my dear child? Oh, perhaps not, but they are lovely, really they are. And so we’ll have them grown all about the arbor, pink I think, for that will so complement your dear sister’s hair, and such a lovely shade of auburn, isn’t it, she must have gotten that from her dear mother, am I not right, child?

Daisy nodded her head in all the appropriate places and vainly looked about her for help. Her father was on the other side of her, and what the gaffer was thinking was, as usual, a mystery to her. May and Anston were across from her, but Anston was engaged in banter with Lotho, to his other side, and May was uncharacteristically silent.

Then it seemed that Anston’s mother was looking at her expectantly, so Daisy gave a scarcely detectable sigh and tried to pick up the thread of the older gentle-hobbit’s monologue again. ‘So there will be enough places to put you dear folk up, it being so very far away, and the inns, well, my dear, they might be fine enough for some folk, but I can never help think of all the commonest sort who might have been staying in, well, my dear, I’m sure you know what I mean, but we have the dearest little cottage just down the road from our smial that we use for visitors, and I know that you and your father will find it ever so precious…”

Daisy thought she heard a snort next to her at that, but she did not dare look in her father’s direction.

Fortunately, Mistress Bracegirdle’s attention had suddenly shifted to the bride-to-be. “Oh, and isn’t there another sister, dearest?” she called over the table in fluting tones toward May.

May gave a start, and looked about herself for a moment as if she had no idea why she would be sitting where she was. But then she smiled politely at Anston’s mother and called out courteously, “Why, yes, Mother Bracegirdle, I have a younger sister as well, Marigold. She and her husband, Tom Cotton, would be seated at the next table,” and she nodded in their direction.

“Why yes, I should have known that in an instant. And what a dear child she is too, so much like you, and with a fine husband already? Well, the wife can never be too young, that’s what I always say, and with all the more time then for the children. You’ll never know how heartbroken I was when we realized that our dear Anston would be our only child, but even though we…”

“Mother,” Anston suddenly put in warningly, his attention snapping instantly from Lotho to his mother’s prattling.

“Oh, goodness, listen to me,” she giggled, clearly pleased to have caught her son’s attention. “Now what was I… oh, yes. Your dear sister. Well there are two rooms in the cottage, so if you and your dear father don’t mind sharing, there should be sufficient...”

“There’s my brother, as well,” Daisy added casually.

“Oh, now, see here,” Lotho’s nasal voice came suddenly from the other side of the table. “I realize that he’s your brother and all, May,” he turned to the couple next to him, “but really, Anston, you can’t be seriously inviting Frodo Baggins’ catamite to your wedding, now, can you?”

There was a sudden silence at the table and Daisy could feel her father turning next to her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lotho,” came his deep raspy voice, “but I’d not be understandin’ what you just called my son.”

Lotho gave an impatient gesture. “Well, I wouldn’t think I’d have to spell it out, Mr. Gamgee, after all it certainly is common knowledge and I really haven’t seen the two of them trying to hide it.” Smiling graciously at Mistress Bracegirdle, he continued, “It wouldn’t be right to your family, my dear cousin, to invite someone like that to such a wonderful occasion without knowing… Well, I think I’ve said enough.”

The gaffer set his mug firmly down on the table at that. “If you won’t be havin’ me boy,” and his voice, though low, was stern and commanding, “then you won’t be havin’ me, no ways.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Gamgee,” Lotho laughed lightly, making a flourish with his pipe. “Surely such a respectable hobbit as yourself can’t be approving of all this? It’s a shame, really it is, but if he can ever get away from that so-called nephew of Mad Bilbo Baggins, he may grow out of it yet.”

With dismay, Daisy recognized the reddening of her father’s face and the square set of his shoulders. Quickly, she glanced at the next table to see if anyone had overheard the exchange, but it was immediately all too clear that they had. All eyes were on the center table and Sam was sitting stone still, all color draining from his face.

The gaffer rose to his feet with such authority that faces throughout the tent turned his way, and conversations died mid-sentence. “I’ve never cared a’that much for that name,” he growled, glaring at Lotho, “an’ most folks as’d be sittin’ in here would know the truth, that you’d have to look that far to find a kinder and more generous gentle-hobbit than Mr. Bilbo. But what I’d really not be carin’ much for, Lotho,” and he spat out the name in contempt,” is that you’d be sayin’ aught about my son. He’s taught me a lot about courage as o’late, and I couldn’t be any prouder o’him. I’m that glad he’d be my son.” He then turned to the stunned visitors, and made an awkward but courteous bow. “Sorry to be causin’ you distress, ma’m. But there were some things as needed t’be said.”

“May!“ As in a dream, May Gamgee turned to Anston’s hiss of shock. “May, your father, well, really. I have been very willing to overlook your background, very generous about that, I do think, but this behavior to my cousin, well…“

May rose at that and looked silently at those who surrounded her. Then she glanced over to her father, still on his feet and glaring defiantly. And then her eyes traveled over to Sam, sitting in shock at the other table, and it was on him her gaze rested when she finally spoke. “I, too, am very proud of my brother,” she said quietly but firmly. Her eyes met Sam’s as she continued, “He believes in what really matters. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone braver.”

Graciously, she turned to Mistress Bracegirdle, who was watching the events in amazement. “I’m so sorry that you had to make this trip to Hobbiton. Please forgive me for that.” She then held out her hand to Anston, who took it automatically, still stunned by what had just happened. “I tried, Anston, dear, I really did,” she said softly, “but you’ll be better off without me. And I will be rather better off without you.”



The events of that year’s Harvest Festival were discussed for quite awhile to come, at least until details of Folco Boffin’s rather unusual arrangement with Lily Berrywort were revealed, but eventually Hobbiton life settled back into its customary patterns. Anston and his parents returned to East Farthing and were not seen again in the vicinity of Hobbiton, and both Sam and Frodo noticed that there was always a hobbit about ready, in fact, eager, to stand them a half-pint when they would visit the Green Dragon. Lotho Sackville-Baggins, however, no longer frequented that particular establishment.



The wooden trestle tables had been laid over the carpet of fallen leaves in the Cotton orchards and the apple harvest participants were just dragging the last overflowing bushel baskets to the cider press on that glorious crisp autumn afternoon a week after the Harvest Festival. Laughing and chatting with each other, the Gamgee and Cotton lasses spread the bounteous feast out, while Mother Cotton looked on with approval. Even May was present, visiting her family, since she had continued to live with the Burrows in Hobbiton, and her sisters secretly thought that she had been looking much happier as of late, and planned on investigating certain rumors as soon as practical. Tolman Cotton and the gaffer were, as was their custom, enjoying their pipes, and allowing the younger hobbits the opportunity to refine their bottling skills, with the benefit, of course, of their sage advice. The youngest lads, Nick and Nibs, were still amongst the trees, taking advantage of the chance to collect and hide away the remaining windfall apples for future use.

Finally the feast was spread, and Tolman Cotton and his wife sat together at the head of the table, as was only right. The gaffer sat at Tolman’s side, and Frodo Baggins next to Lily Cotton. The rest of the Gamgee and Cotton offspring completed the party. It was a long and merry afternoon of feasting, to celebrate the apple crop made plentiful by the snows of the prior winter. There would be no shortage of apple pie, come winter, and the long row of waiting kegs attested to the abundant supply of cider that would be gleaned from the crop in the coming days.

One keg of sweet cider, however, had already been expressed, for it was unthinkable that the harvest would be celebrated without the toasts of thanks. Tolman and Lily Cotton raised their flasks first, deftly twined their arms together, and drained their cups as one. It was the age-old custom, and they had given thanks this way for many a year. “To health and love,” they spoke together, with a warm smile to each other, “and blossom come spring.”

A cheer rose from the table at that, and then all heads turned to Tom and Marigold Cotton, for this was the responsibility of every couple present. Blushing prettily, for this was their first toast together, Marigold carefully entwined her arm with Tom’s and they carefully drank together. In hardly audible tones, and not a few giggles, they repeated the words of the toast, and the cheer was repeated.

It was then that Marigold turned, laughing, to her brother. “An’ are we not forgetin’ another pair?” she smiled impishly. Sam’s eyes widened at that, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face, but the cry rang out and would not be denied. “Sam!”, “Our Sam!” and “Mr. Frodo!” Sam turned to Frodo at that, but Frodo’s eyes were dancing with pleasure and, with a warm smile, he murmured, “ ‘Twould be ill luck not to, Sam.”

So they twined their arms as well and drank, repeating the ancient toast, “To health and love, and blossom come spring,” and Sam laughed, feeling his heart as light as the crystal blue sky above.

The End