Second Sunrise
A gentle wind passed like a breath through the long windows of Minuial Tirn, carrying the scent of ever-summer and a hint of salt. Warm fingers of sunlight touched the sleeping face of Samwise Gamgee, stirring his peaceful dreams with flickers of gold. He awoke suddenly, opening his eyes to the radiance of a new morning.
For a moment, dazzled and sleep-mazed, everything was unfamiliar to him. Something heavy lay across his body and he heard, sweet and soft, the sound of familiar breathing.
Rose?
No. Rose is dead.
And he felt, as he had every day since her death, a lurch of grief. But there was warmth beneath his hands, and a sudden realisation of where he was flooded through him hotter and brighter than the sunlight through the window. He looked down at the body in his arms and it was Frodo – Frodo with his legs entwined between his own – Frodo with his dark head resting on Sam's chest and the scarred hand lying over his heart. And he remembered – last night we –
And Sam was suddenly struggling to contain a sobbing that came shuddering up from the depths of him, because it was too much – too much like the dreams he'd had after Frodo sailed West. Happy dreams they had been (providing some respite from the night terrors that would wake him gasping and crying in Rosie's arms), and he had welcomed them and ached for them, and in each dream Frodo had held him and promised with both words and touch this is forever… But those dreams had been worse than the nightmares, for they ended always the same way – a cold wind, a harsh cry, a turning away… and he would wake and hear in his ears the moaning of the tide against the empty shore.
Let it be real this time, he prayed. Please let it be real. But it was too beautiful, too glorious to last. Any moment now the sunlight would shatter around him and he would be grasping at mist. Not yet, please not yet. He clutched at the body in his arms and felt Frodo stir against him, felt the living weight shift against his chest, the shoulder muscles sliding over bone under his fingers… And details of the night returned to him –
hsssst
did I hurt you –
no no
He remembered the flushed mark, like a red star on Frodo's shoulder.
your scar –
it doesn't hurt anymore – it's just – sensitive
I'm sorry –
no, please, you can touch it
Sam
I want you to touch it
He remembered the feel of it – hot and tender beneath his fingertips – remembered the way Frodo had shivered and sighed at the touch – so different from when he had last seen that scar – a pale cold wound, hard to the touch. So different from when, after the Quest, Frodo had lain inert beneath his hands, and all Sam had had to offer – fingers, lips and tongue - had not sufficed to halt the chill, the spreading numbness in his master's flesh.
it's warm –
yes
– how –
ask me tomorrow
He remembered Frodo's hand seizing his own, pressing it more firmly to the red scar. How Frodo had shuddered and gasped, and with his other hand grasped the back of Sam's neck and pulled him forward, until their foreheads were pressed together. Frodo's eyes – so wide and black, fixed on him. Frodo's body, trembling violently. And he had wondered –
when you say sensitive, do you mean –
A delightful choke of laughter from Frodo, rippling through Sam's limbs.
tsssh not that way Sam – at least not exactly
then – I mean if it's not pain neither –
it's more like a – a vulnerability
every touch there I feel it on my heart
yes, like this
And Sam had drawn back a little - afraid of hurting Frodo – of touching his heart too roughly.
but what if I –
And fluttering, the feel of Frodo's lips on his…
shhhhhhh I trust you
At the recollection, Sam suddenly clenched his left hand, driving the nails into the skin of his palm. I have to know, I have to know right now if this is real. And he never knew a sweeter pain as when the nails pierced the skin of his hand, and the hot sting of it stabbed up his arm – and the sunlight did not waver.
No dream then. No dream. This was awakening.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. The light turned to liquid gold and the room swam before him. He blinked furiously at the tears that suddenly filled his eyes. An urge to laugh wildly for joy warred within him with the urge to cry. With an effort he stilled himself. Don't wake him yet. There is time enough. There will be time enough. For everything. For now, this was enough – this moment of utter completion, holding his Frodo. Turning his head, he buried his face in that mass of dark hair, inhaling deeply. The scent reminded him of autumn leaves after rain, and new-mown hay drying in hot sunlight. Memories of the Shire swept over him vividly, almost painfully. All that I had… all that I lived. He pressed his lips to the top of Frodo's head; held them there as he breathed. All you gave me. His life in the Shire. Rose. The children. Oh my love. All that you gave up, so that I could have all this.
And now to be here, holding him, after so long… I have lost nothing. I am blessed.
By slow degrees, Sam shifted himself, tilting his head sideways until he had a view of Frodo's face. And stopped – unable to move – scarce able to breathe. That face… he could look at that face forever. The familiar, fine-boned features, relaxed into an expression of peace and contentment. The skin glowing softly in the sunlight. No longer tight with fear or marred by lines of pain. No longer cold as porcelain. And was that – yes – the corners of Frodo's lips were curving gently, even in sleep.
Sam's neck cramped as he held the awkward position, but he did not move. With his eyes he traced and retraced the outlines of that beloved face. Healed at last, he thought. There'd been a time, years before, when he had refused to believe that Frodo's decision to leave Middle Earth had been necessary – clinging to the belief that healing might have been possible if Sam had only tried harder – seen more – given more. As time passed, his children grew and the grey ship took shape, by slow degrees, under his hands, he had grown somewhat reconciled with himself and with Frodo's choice. But not until he had seen his master shining in the light of Valinor, on the pier of Avallonë, had he truly understood the necessity of what Frodo had done.
Frodo's words last night returned to him. You understand, don't you Sam, why I had to leave? It wasn't because I didn't – because I didn't care…
Of course that hadn't been the reason. I never doubted that. But there had been times – many times – that he had wondered what he'd done or not done to make Frodo think that his only hope of healing lay across the Sundering Seas. And he had thought I failed you. I was not there enough. Now he saw what Frodo had known long before - that nothing on Middle Earth – nothing Sam could have done would have brought back the light and warmth to Frodo's heart, for the chill there was not a matter of will or choice, nor was it a thing of nature or of life – rather a darkness from beyond the world, which only the grace of the divine might wash away.
He felt the red scar warm against his breast – remembered Frodo's strange words again. Every touch there, I feel it on my heart. What did it mean, really? I wonder what they did to you. Perhaps today he would hear the story. Forgive me, he thought, for not understanding.
Gently he raised his hand and stroked the dark curls. Time has been kind to you, he thought, seeing no trace of silver in his master's hair. Then he caught himself, remembering… Even in the Blessed Realm there is no shield against loneliness. Frodo's eyes, dark with desolation, staring into nothingness… No, time is not kind. Even he himself, whom time had treated better than most – sparing his body the ravages of age, and blessing him with days on days filled with joy and love – had felt the heavy burden of the years of separation. But I had my family, my home, my life. I had your promise. What surety did I give to you, before you left? Did you ever doubt that I would come and find you?
Well, to hoard regrets and wishes was to tend a crop of thornbushes. He couldn't change the past. He was here now, and that was what mattered. I'm not going to let you go again, and that's my promise, Mr Frodo.
The scarred hand twitched suddenly, and Frodo's eyelids flickered. Sam realised he must have spoken his last thought aloud. Awareness stirred in his master's body. As Frodo slowly surfaced from his dreams, Sam gathered him closer and laid a lingering kiss upon his lips. Frodo made a small noise and opened his mouth – falling into warmth and into wakefulness. Slowly, the blue eyes opened – fixed on Sam. And Sam was fair blinded by their brilliancy. For the joy that flared in Frodo's eyes was brighter than the sky and sea and sunrise all combined. Several long moments passed thus, with Frodo poised above his lover, drinking him in. Then suddenly a smile broke across his face, and he laughed – a pure-hearted laugh such as Sam had not heard in over sixty years. Frodo pushed himself up and leapt from the bed to stand in the sunlight, staring at Sam. And as he laughed, the tears poured from his eyes, and he covered his mouth with his hand, trembling in wild amazement.
"Sam – Sam…" he whispered. "It's too much – it's too beautiful…" And he flung out his arms to the light and wept in joy and gratitude.
But Sam was lost and speechless at the sight of Frodo – naked with the sun behind him, bathed in radiance, his head tossed back and skin all white and gold. The red scar blazing on his shoulder.
"Look at you," he breathed.
But Frodo raised his head and looked at Sam, and he smiled – a tremulous, disbelieving smile. With both hands he reached out – and Sam arose and came to stand with him in the sunlight, skin to skin, until – dazzled – neither could tell where the one ended and the other began.
"Look at us," said Frodo. "Oh Sam – look at us…"
