Title: Spring after Winter (and other such miracles)
Sequel to: The Absence of Reason and For I can no longer call you lover
Author: Missy Samwise
Archived? I'm trying to archive it myself, but I'm having a few troubles...
Rating: R
Pairing: F/S
Category: angst, h/c, happy ending
Summery: The last part in my first Frodo/Sam series, in which relief is found and reunions are wept over.
Feedback: PLEASE!!!
_________________________________________________________________________________
Frodo tossed restlessly in his soft feather bed that felt to him like a block of cement. The silky bed sheets against his fevered skin were light blue, matching the thick carpet which was also blue, the whole rest of the room covered wall to wall in beautifully coordinated hues of one color; lavender, sky, sea, midnight.
The soft, unobtrusive way the moonlight sighed across the floor seemed unbearable for Frodo to look at; it reminded him that he was living through another night in a peaceful, quiet, empty Hell.
When he first set foot in the amazing land of the Havens, it looked to live up to it's title. Everywhere were the light colors of spring, the air smelled of life and peace and rest, the grass under him was wet with the dew of a seemingly eternal dawn.
But even the Havens had its own personal night.
As the days went on, the lands became less and less of a Haven and more and more of a burden. At nights he dreamed, terrible, dark, guilt ridden dreams that clutched at him mercilessly. And they always centered around Sam.
IN his dreams Sam was covered in blood, and Frodo knew it was his own fault. Sam reached up a hand desperately but he did not return his. Sam cried out for help but he turned his back.
Tonight he had had the worst dream of all. He saw Sam turn the knife inward upon himself, Frodo watching and knowing it was his fault, and could not sleep for the dreadful image inside his mind.
In an attempt to calm himself he tried to call up images of his beloved from better days. Sam, kneeling on the soft earth, giving such tender care to his roses and daisies and carrots. Those few dark weeks after the War of the Ring, when he had midnight visions and nightmares of rings of fire and silent, invisible beings....Sam would hold him close and remind him he was home and safe...
And he was right; Frodo *was* at home in his Sam's understanding, forgiving arms. He belonged there.
Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. Sam was the only real haven from the world he had ever known.
*****
Frodo was not alone in his suffering; back in BagEnd insomnia also gripped Sam. No longer able to bring himseld to sleep next to Rosie, he lay silently on the narrow couch in the living area, staring morbidly at the wall.
Rosie had found out about his cutting that morning, getting an accidental peek at the white bandages on his arm. She bothered him for hours to get some help, to tell someone, to see someone, to *talk* to her but he would have none of it and finally retreated to one of the bathrooms where he locked the door and swallowed just enough sleeping pills to put him out for a day or so.
He didn't dream....
When he woke up on the cold tiled floor, his head was still heavy and groggy, it was 11 PM and Rosie had went to bed. Looking in he saw that her face was still puffy from crying. He had decided (if not entirely of his own accord) to sleep on the couch tonight...
Looking away from the wall, Sam glanced longingly toward the open door of the bathroom and the bottle of sleeping pills.. Familiar feelings of shame welled up inside him but he kept his eyes glued, sinful thoughts fluttering though his head aimlessly.
Rose was ashamed of him, he knew it. How could anyone possibly not be, him being so horrible and unworthy of even the slightest affectionate glance or touch.
He had no desire to cut...surprisingly. When he usually made it to this highly coveted level of pain his arm would take over again and he would bleed it out of himself. But this time...at this point he was beyond pain and had passed into the elation of the damned who have finally found the way out of Hell. Now to just go through with it....
He got up from the couch.
There was a certain peace in knowing he would soon rest, the weights on his chest and heart would soon be lifted and the slippery wetness of his brain that kept him from finding a mental foothold would evaporate.
He went into the bathroom.
His very thoughts themselves would evaporate into a place where nothing could harm them.
He opened the medicine cabinet.
He would be free. Not from the world, but form the one person and the truth he could not face; he was alone. In mind, body and essence, he was utterly alone. As he reached for the pills a cold hand rested on his shoulder blade. Bonelessly he fell to the floor, a gray mist fogging his vision before blackness conquered him.
He was briefly aware of spontaneous time of Awakeness where Black would be chased away by the slightly lighter state of Gray. He had the feeling he was floating, like someone was rocking him back and forth slowly, and relaxed. He *did* notice a surface underneath him, which in reality was hard wood planks. Above him he occasionally spotted stars, piercing through the Gray with all the splendor and joy of heaven and filling him with a peace so he thought he might already be dead.
When his head finally cleared enough for his eyes to stand the dawn without protesting, the first sight that filled them paralleled the sun so closely that his heart contracted with the beauty of it.
"Sam...." Frodo said gently." Your awake..."
******
What else could he say? What else was he worthy of saying?
Sam had been sleeping in his bed since his arrival, cared for the infamous Gandalf himself, recovering from the Sleep that must befall all mortals who cross over to the Havens. Every night Frodo would climb silently in bed beside him and gather the unresponsive body close. When he first say the still angry red scars on Sam's right arm, grief almost overcame him as he realized his nightmares had been true.
In those days and nights when Sam lay sleeping, Frodo's pride died, replaced with such horrible guilt and terrible love that his own tears started to frighten him, as well as their source.
Finally, this blessed morning, (conveniently right before he would have gone quite mad,) dark, chocolate brown eyes opened for him, looked his way, and *focused* on him.
*****
Sam raised a shaking hand slowly, afraid that this vision would cease to exist if he acknowledged it too deeply. If he jinxed it.
"F-F-" Why wouldn't his throat work correctly? Every muscle in his body was painfully stiff, as if he had lain in the same position for ages. Frodo caught his hand and gently laid it back down against his chest and kept his won warm hands atop Sam's.
"Don't try to talk, this is normal. You're just sleepy in the bones still, and you'll be back to your old self in no time, I promise."
If Sam could have laughed at that statement, he would have.
*****
Seeing Sam laying there, with a horribly lost and shattered look in his eyes broke his heart. Sam's lips were trembling, from the effort to talk or whatever else, and he looked as if he were going to cry. Again.
"Oh Sammy..." He leaned down and covered the soft skin with his own to calm both of them. But Sam continued to tremble till Frodo cautiously licked his lips...
"F-Frodo..." he croaked out pitifully, "Frodo my dear...if you're real....do that again."
****
Fist the vision of the Sun and now the touch. The touch of warmth....that was not nearly satisfying enough for him. Frustrated and scared that he was still dreaming, he begged to feel that warmth again and soon enough (however hesitant) it came again. The inside of his mouth was scorched inch by inch by the very heat of the Sun and the familiar love and tenderness his body and soul had missed so long. Everywhere the Sun touched, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his hips, (did the Sun seem a little needy in its touches?) his stiff body came back to life. The Sun took his head in its hands and caressed its fingers down his neck so he involuntarily made a sound that was between a moan of pleasure and a scream of pain.
****
Frodo fell back, startled at the strange sound Sam made.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"
Sam shook his head feverishly, his eyes closing again as he sighed,
"Do that again. Touch me, let me know your real."
A soft, reverent kiss was placed on Sam's cheek as Frodo whispered,
"I'm here."
Tears mingled and sluiced down the white pillows, grief and relief mixed into a stream of bitter water that tasted like the past, but oh the present was so much sweeter....
Clothes were shed as gasps and moans became one sound. Skin to skin, fingers tangled and tongues dueled till Frodo and Sam could no longer tell the difference..
"I'm sorry..." Frodo breathed and Sam shushed him.
"Don't Frodo. Don't." Frodo hid his head in Sam's shoulder, fighting back tears, and Sam stroked his head. "Outside that window, the suns coming up, my dear...." He said this just for the sake of saying it, for the sake of noticing the world blooming around them, like spring after winter....
The branch of a small tree could be seen stretching across the length of the open window, a green bud opening at the tip.
Sequel to: The Absence of Reason and For I can no longer call you lover
Author: Missy Samwise
Archived? I'm trying to archive it myself, but I'm having a few troubles...
Rating: R
Pairing: F/S
Category: angst, h/c, happy ending
Summery: The last part in my first Frodo/Sam series, in which relief is found and reunions are wept over.
Feedback: PLEASE!!!
_________________________________________________________________________________
Frodo tossed restlessly in his soft feather bed that felt to him like a block of cement. The silky bed sheets against his fevered skin were light blue, matching the thick carpet which was also blue, the whole rest of the room covered wall to wall in beautifully coordinated hues of one color; lavender, sky, sea, midnight.
The soft, unobtrusive way the moonlight sighed across the floor seemed unbearable for Frodo to look at; it reminded him that he was living through another night in a peaceful, quiet, empty Hell.
When he first set foot in the amazing land of the Havens, it looked to live up to it's title. Everywhere were the light colors of spring, the air smelled of life and peace and rest, the grass under him was wet with the dew of a seemingly eternal dawn.
But even the Havens had its own personal night.
As the days went on, the lands became less and less of a Haven and more and more of a burden. At nights he dreamed, terrible, dark, guilt ridden dreams that clutched at him mercilessly. And they always centered around Sam.
IN his dreams Sam was covered in blood, and Frodo knew it was his own fault. Sam reached up a hand desperately but he did not return his. Sam cried out for help but he turned his back.
Tonight he had had the worst dream of all. He saw Sam turn the knife inward upon himself, Frodo watching and knowing it was his fault, and could not sleep for the dreadful image inside his mind.
In an attempt to calm himself he tried to call up images of his beloved from better days. Sam, kneeling on the soft earth, giving such tender care to his roses and daisies and carrots. Those few dark weeks after the War of the Ring, when he had midnight visions and nightmares of rings of fire and silent, invisible beings....Sam would hold him close and remind him he was home and safe...
And he was right; Frodo *was* at home in his Sam's understanding, forgiving arms. He belonged there.
Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. Sam was the only real haven from the world he had ever known.
*****
Frodo was not alone in his suffering; back in BagEnd insomnia also gripped Sam. No longer able to bring himseld to sleep next to Rosie, he lay silently on the narrow couch in the living area, staring morbidly at the wall.
Rosie had found out about his cutting that morning, getting an accidental peek at the white bandages on his arm. She bothered him for hours to get some help, to tell someone, to see someone, to *talk* to her but he would have none of it and finally retreated to one of the bathrooms where he locked the door and swallowed just enough sleeping pills to put him out for a day or so.
He didn't dream....
When he woke up on the cold tiled floor, his head was still heavy and groggy, it was 11 PM and Rosie had went to bed. Looking in he saw that her face was still puffy from crying. He had decided (if not entirely of his own accord) to sleep on the couch tonight...
Looking away from the wall, Sam glanced longingly toward the open door of the bathroom and the bottle of sleeping pills.. Familiar feelings of shame welled up inside him but he kept his eyes glued, sinful thoughts fluttering though his head aimlessly.
Rose was ashamed of him, he knew it. How could anyone possibly not be, him being so horrible and unworthy of even the slightest affectionate glance or touch.
He had no desire to cut...surprisingly. When he usually made it to this highly coveted level of pain his arm would take over again and he would bleed it out of himself. But this time...at this point he was beyond pain and had passed into the elation of the damned who have finally found the way out of Hell. Now to just go through with it....
He got up from the couch.
There was a certain peace in knowing he would soon rest, the weights on his chest and heart would soon be lifted and the slippery wetness of his brain that kept him from finding a mental foothold would evaporate.
He went into the bathroom.
His very thoughts themselves would evaporate into a place where nothing could harm them.
He opened the medicine cabinet.
He would be free. Not from the world, but form the one person and the truth he could not face; he was alone. In mind, body and essence, he was utterly alone. As he reached for the pills a cold hand rested on his shoulder blade. Bonelessly he fell to the floor, a gray mist fogging his vision before blackness conquered him.
He was briefly aware of spontaneous time of Awakeness where Black would be chased away by the slightly lighter state of Gray. He had the feeling he was floating, like someone was rocking him back and forth slowly, and relaxed. He *did* notice a surface underneath him, which in reality was hard wood planks. Above him he occasionally spotted stars, piercing through the Gray with all the splendor and joy of heaven and filling him with a peace so he thought he might already be dead.
When his head finally cleared enough for his eyes to stand the dawn without protesting, the first sight that filled them paralleled the sun so closely that his heart contracted with the beauty of it.
"Sam...." Frodo said gently." Your awake..."
******
What else could he say? What else was he worthy of saying?
Sam had been sleeping in his bed since his arrival, cared for the infamous Gandalf himself, recovering from the Sleep that must befall all mortals who cross over to the Havens. Every night Frodo would climb silently in bed beside him and gather the unresponsive body close. When he first say the still angry red scars on Sam's right arm, grief almost overcame him as he realized his nightmares had been true.
In those days and nights when Sam lay sleeping, Frodo's pride died, replaced with such horrible guilt and terrible love that his own tears started to frighten him, as well as their source.
Finally, this blessed morning, (conveniently right before he would have gone quite mad,) dark, chocolate brown eyes opened for him, looked his way, and *focused* on him.
*****
Sam raised a shaking hand slowly, afraid that this vision would cease to exist if he acknowledged it too deeply. If he jinxed it.
"F-F-" Why wouldn't his throat work correctly? Every muscle in his body was painfully stiff, as if he had lain in the same position for ages. Frodo caught his hand and gently laid it back down against his chest and kept his won warm hands atop Sam's.
"Don't try to talk, this is normal. You're just sleepy in the bones still, and you'll be back to your old self in no time, I promise."
If Sam could have laughed at that statement, he would have.
*****
Seeing Sam laying there, with a horribly lost and shattered look in his eyes broke his heart. Sam's lips were trembling, from the effort to talk or whatever else, and he looked as if he were going to cry. Again.
"Oh Sammy..." He leaned down and covered the soft skin with his own to calm both of them. But Sam continued to tremble till Frodo cautiously licked his lips...
"F-Frodo..." he croaked out pitifully, "Frodo my dear...if you're real....do that again."
****
Fist the vision of the Sun and now the touch. The touch of warmth....that was not nearly satisfying enough for him. Frustrated and scared that he was still dreaming, he begged to feel that warmth again and soon enough (however hesitant) it came again. The inside of his mouth was scorched inch by inch by the very heat of the Sun and the familiar love and tenderness his body and soul had missed so long. Everywhere the Sun touched, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his hips, (did the Sun seem a little needy in its touches?) his stiff body came back to life. The Sun took his head in its hands and caressed its fingers down his neck so he involuntarily made a sound that was between a moan of pleasure and a scream of pain.
****
Frodo fell back, startled at the strange sound Sam made.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"
Sam shook his head feverishly, his eyes closing again as he sighed,
"Do that again. Touch me, let me know your real."
A soft, reverent kiss was placed on Sam's cheek as Frodo whispered,
"I'm here."
Tears mingled and sluiced down the white pillows, grief and relief mixed into a stream of bitter water that tasted like the past, but oh the present was so much sweeter....
Clothes were shed as gasps and moans became one sound. Skin to skin, fingers tangled and tongues dueled till Frodo and Sam could no longer tell the difference..
"I'm sorry..." Frodo breathed and Sam shushed him.
"Don't Frodo. Don't." Frodo hid his head in Sam's shoulder, fighting back tears, and Sam stroked his head. "Outside that window, the suns coming up, my dear...." He said this just for the sake of saying it, for the sake of noticing the world blooming around them, like spring after winter....
The branch of a small tree could be seen stretching across the length of the open window, a green bud opening at the tip.
