Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.
Of Truth and Linen
"Why did you follow me?"
The words hang in the warm evening air just outside the window, somewhere between the houses and balconies of the tiers below and the first stars just appearing above the pink and orange horizon to the west.
The voice that spoke them is soft; rough though not with intention, but rather due to a throat and lungs long abused by ash and dust. The words hold no bitterness, no remorse; they are simple and curious, and once they are out of his mouth Frodo wonders if he meant to speak them at all. But they are said.
There is a long pause and Frodo leans against the too-high sill, the man-sized, absurdly large chamber just barely allowing one of his height to cautiously glance down towards the soldiers changing shifts on the white streets below. Then he hears the rustle of linen from across the room behind him, the sharp snap of fabric that denotes the slow, dreamlike settling of bed-sheets. Just when the silence has gone on long enough to make him think the words have passed unnoticed, he gets an answer:
"You wonder about that?"
Perhaps not much of an answer. But then, he isn't sure he should have asked the question in the first place. He supposes it's a silly one, really, and that any number of people who knew them both could tell him. And yet, he somehow doesn't want them to. Not them. He suddenly finds himself craving surety, fact come straight from the source, because he can be sure of complete honesty, there. There has been so little surety for so very long now.
An intake of breath, a blend of unfamiliar scents in this grand city so unlike the quiet, simple place he once knew. Dusty stone and horses, foreign spices and rusted armor. No hills of emerald grass. No freshly-turned soil or new-blooming lavender or russet apples dipped in honey to sell at market.
An abrupt sense of wrongness clouds his mind, a feeling that is nothing compared to the Wrong that has been these past few months, yet just enough to add a bite of sourness to his next words.
"Duty? Being bound to my service?"
He feels a pang of guilt flare in his chest the moment the bitterly spat suggestion leaves his lips, but he merely clenches his jaw and glares out at the inoffensive pinpricks of light growing brighter in the western sky as the last traces of sunset fade.
A few delicate moments pass, then:
"...Yes."
A breathy, mirthless laugh escapes him as he shifts his position restlessly against the sill. But the reply was not blunt; the tone was such as to make it a concession, not a final response. So he falls silent, and waits, staring out over the charred Pelennor Fields just beginning to recover their growth.
He thinks Sam might be folding their laundry; there is definitely a soft susurration of fabric behind him that has been going on for some time now. For a sudden, wild moment he doesn't know whether to snort with impatience or laughter, frustrated that Sam could be calmly smoothing out the creases in weskits while he himself desperately seeks answers, yet knowing his companion's unfailingly practical, down-to-earth nature was what had gotten them through so many dangers. And so he resists the urge to turn around and just waits, because he knows something more is coming, and the shame coiling in his gut is telling him he owes it to Sam to be patient, owes him this and a thousand things more. Now is where and how to begin.
The rustling stops. Then, the murmur of a long, thoughtful intake of air, a slow, soft sigh outward.
"I made a promise to look after you, no mistake. I couldn't break that. It was my job. My ol' Dad always used to be telling me, Don't ever be shirkin' your duty, Samwise, 'cause no Gamgee's ever done so and there's naught more important. So I tried to hold true to that, no matter what. Only I reckon now...
"In that Spider's lair, after I thought you gone...I knew it was my duty to carry on, to take the Ring and bear it as far as I could afore I dropped. But I remember thinking then, 'What's the good of duty if your heart's not in it?' How do you find the courage and strength to get the job done right, when your heart's been as good as torn out and left behind in the shadows of a far-away pass?"
Stillness falls gently, and a brief wind breezes in from the west, stirring the curtains against the solitary figure standing at the window.
And Frodo cannot help but turn around then, because he realizes he's been a fool in looking for the truth this entire time- and, sure enough, shining in Sam's deep, steady hazel gaze are all the answers he could ever ask for.
Frodo does not speak, for it occurs to him now that words, though neat and graceful as they flow across the pages of a beloved tale of lore, or low and smooth as they rise upon the notes of a soaring song...
Words, though useful in many ways, are not always needed to speak the truths of the heart.
The long silence between them is not uncomfortable, for it is filled, filled with knowing and acceptance and blessed, unshakable surety.
And then the tips of Frodo's lips curl upward ever-so slightly, and he turns and looks out the window, to watch as a last ray of sunlight disappears behind the mountains. The stars will blaze now, confident and free, as the sun journeys on to extinguish beyond the horizon of the sea.
On the bedside table Sam has formed a neat stack of soft linen nightshirts, each meticulously folded. Frodo shakes his head when he spots them, wry smile firmly in place.
"Sam. The soldiers bring them to us already folded."
"Aye, and it seems for all their talents in battle, they've no skill for combatin' wrinkles, if you follow me."
A smirk quickly evolves into a mirthful laugh, and when Frodo quiets and looks up again, his eyes are dark and clear.
"I always follow you, Sam."
The right side of Sam's mouth quirks in a slow, lop-sided grin. But the reply comes softly, with no hint of laughter:
"Just returning the favor, Mr. Frodo."