Author Notes: Hee, hee, hee. Made you wait another day! Well, not intentionally. We had houseguests. Anyway, I'm back! To my reviewers – PerK Asahikawa – cool! You picture Sam this way too? And I thought I stood alone… I really hope he doesn't remind you of Gollum *frowns* Maybe I should rephrase what he says… Liete – I'm glad you like it! It's apparently not the way most people pictured it, but it's my way. O_O tiggivon – aww, thanks! I'm glad it moved you. ^_^ Trilliah – you give the absolute best reviews, hands down. *showers praise, flowers, kisses, and confetti upon you*. IloveSam - g So do I, could you tell? I'm so glad you like it! LilyBaggins – thanks, I was working on that! Morodiel – well, you're a veteran reader now g. Here's another chapter for you to cogitate upon. shirebound – actually, I've seen it spelled both ways. If it really bugs you, I can edit it so it's spelled 'Elbereth'. I wouldn't mind ^_^ As for saving the best for last – my darling Butterfly. Thank you so much for reviewing all my stuff and being my friend! You are the greatest! Je t'aime! Okay, as for this chapter, it's longer (much longer) than most of the others, but please bear with me. I stole Sam's thoughts in Ithilien and put them into Frodo's mind (bit of shameless Sam worship, and yet I wonder… There is indeed more to that boy than meets the untrained eye. Besides, I'm sick of Frodo getting all the credit for everything. He's probably sick of it, too. I mean, the guy loves Sam, so naturally he would like Sam to get some praise. So for my sake and Frodo's, Sam is getting some time in the sun. Go Sam!) Onward and upward, mes amis!
Tick, tick, tick, tick. The clock on the mantelpiece clicked incessantly. Bilbo tapped his pen against the table in time to the sound. Tick, tick, tick, tick. He sighed, and looked out the window again. Three hours had passed since Frodo stormed out of the house, and Bilbo had seen no sign of him. His original idea was to let Frodo cool off and come back on his own. Then he, Bilbo, would apologize and express his extreme regret that he had ever lost his temper like that, that he hadn't meant any of the things he'd said, and that he promised never to say them again. I love the boy, he thought. I was just worried for him. Silly way to express worry – by getting angry. And I'm so sorry I got angry. I wonder if he'll want to come back now ? Probably not, Bilbo thought glumly. The things I said and the look he gave me… He'll probably want to go back to Brandy Hall. He felt miserable at the very thought. It's too quiet without him here, too lonely. I've … gotten used to him. Oh, Father, let him come back ! I love him dearly. I don't want him to leave.
He sighed, and turned back to his book. He had been attempting to write the account of his stay in Rivendell, but when he got to the rather necessary part of describing the Elves, he found that all he could think of were Frodo and Samwise. The gardener's boy had known Bilbo all his short life, and many an afternoon he had spent seated on Bilbo's lap, his eyes glassy and distant while Bilbo told him tales of Dwarves and dragons and Men and war. But, true to his Fallohide blood, his favorite stories of all were those of the Elves. Being – to Bilbo's mind – more than a bit Elvish himself, he had consigned to memory a pretty fair bit of Elvish myth and legend at the tender age of four. He had a powerful desire to meet the Elves, and an almost Tookish wanderlust. Though at four years old, it is hard to determine exactly what one's life will be like, Bilbo was fairly certain that Sam would have adventures. This opinion was solidly backed by Gandalf, who refused to say anything but « That boy's too curious not to. »
Frodo, too, had an Elvish air – strange, quiet. Distant. As though his mind was somewhere else, and any recall to reality was a rude interruption. He liked Bilbo's stories well enough, but he much preferred thinking about them afterwards than the actual reading of them. He would dream up fantastical endings to them terrible shadow-creatures, epic battles, great heroes, bloody death, victories glorious and hollow, and most of all, the tragic sacrifice of love. To die for love was, in Frodo's mind, the noblest way to die. He daydreamed about it often, and his blue eyes were dark and distant.
So as Bilbo sat there, trying to come up with words to describe the beauty of Rivendell and its inhabitants, he saw only the two boys he had come to love so well. The Elves of Rivendell are green-eyed – no, blue-eyed - no ! … their soft dark hair is – no, golden locks are – oh, I give up. He sighed heavily in frustration and pushed the book away. Looking out the window again, he saw the blue-black clouds advancing swiftly on the horizon. The double-anvils on the thunderheads did not bode well for the afternoon's weather. Oh, dear. As if I didn't have enough to worry about. Frodo-lad, come home before the storm breaks ! I don't know where to look for you.
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Sam didn't talk much, Frodo discovered. Even now, when they were friends. He sat in Frodo's lap, his arms around Frodo's neck, and seemed perfectly content just to sit there and listen. He was a very good listener, Frodo learned quiet, attentive, polite, but above all, understanding. Without saying a word, he managed to convey perfect empathy, and Frodo found himself pouring out his sorrows to the child in his lap. Everything came out – the accident, the aftershock, the terrible uncertainty, the nightmares, the loneliness, the grief. How he loved Bilbo, and loved Sam's family how he hated being questioned or pitied how much the whispers behind his back hurt him, and how he wanted just to stop them all from talking about him.
All of it just tumbled from his lips, words tripping over one another in their haste to be spoken, and his Elf-child listened. He hadn't asked, but Frodo was answering, and so he listened patiently. Sam sensed that Frodo was explaining things more to himself than he was to Sam, and he didn't interrupt the rapid flow of words as Frodo told him of how he had found the meadow, and the many times he had come there, and why he came each time. Frodo talked and talked, and things he had been previously unaware of thinking or feeling rose from the dark corners of his soul and spoke themselves. And all this while, Sam listened.
Finally, Frodo reached an end. He had talked himself empty, and had no more words so he sat there, rather breathless and completely speechless. Sam took his arm from Frodo's neck and laid a small hand on Frodo's cheek. Startled, Frodo looked at him, and the simple compassion he found in that young face almost reduced him to tears. There was no pity in Sam's glance, only sorrow, and a deep understanding that far surpassed his years. It seemed to Frodo that, in that instant, all the wisdom of the world shone in those dark green eyes. He stared at Samwise wonderingly, and almost afraid.
« Little one ? » he said warily, taking Sam's hand from his cheek and holding it between his own. Sam blinked and smiled. The moment passed, and he was a four year-old boy again, seated in his best friend's lap listening to him talk.
« Nothing, » he said, and got up, pulling Frodo after him.
« Are we going somewhere ? » Frodo asked. Sam nodded, but said nothing. Frodo followed curiously as Sam led him out of the meadow and into the trees. They walked a ways, Sam never hesitating as they made various twists and turns, ducking under branches and skirting the ever-thickening brambles.
« Sam ? Where are we going ? » Frodo asked again.
« You'll see, » Sam said, smiling secretly.
« Sam ! Where ? » he asked. The teasing silvery giggle met his ears, but Sam said nothing. He grasped Frodo's hand tighter in his little one, and walked on. The long grass was tough and knotted in the clearings, and the trees grew closer and closer together.
« Ah ! » Frodo cried softly. A thin line of blood welled up on the back of his hand where a rather vicious-looking thorn had scratched him. Sam whirled round at the sound of his voice, and looked alarmed at the sight of blood, before realizing it was only a scratch. He gave Frodo a sidelong glance that bordered on amusement, and Frodo felt rather ridiculous. It's only a scratch. Get over it.
« Well ? » he asked irritably.
« We're almost there, » Sam said patiently. For a moment, Frodo considered being short-tempered and refusing to go any further. Then he looked down at the boy, who looked back up at him expectantly. Frodo relented, smiled, and gestured that they should continue. Still, the briars grew thicker and the trees, closer. Just when Frodo was absolutely certain they should have to turn back, Sam stopped.
« This way, » he whispered, and disappeared round a corner. Frodo followed, more curious than ever, and saw Sam climb a slender yew. What on earth… ? Sam stood carefully and walked along a branch overhanging the brambles. Frodo held his breath. Ilbereth ! He's going to fall, he's going to fall, I just know it, to fall and land in those thorns… he bit his lip and watched anxiously.
Sam's cat-like grace never faltered as he walked lightly across the branch. He knelt, and gripped the end of the branch, pausing a moment to raise his hand and gesture that Frodo should follow. Then he swung down and disappeared behind the high wall of thorns. Frodo hesitated, very unwilling to climb any tree that stood so close to such long thorns. But I have to follow him. He might get hurt if he's alone, and I don't want him hurt. He screwed up his courage and climbed the tree.
Unlike Sam, he neither stood nor walked. He gripped the branch tightly, barely daring to open his eyes, and crept along inch by inch. Open your eyes, you idiot, or you'll creep right off and land in the briars. He followed his advice, and opened his eyes to the sight of extremely long thorns a few feet below. He immediately closed them again, and clinging to the branch for dear life, crept another foot with eyes completely closed. Open your eyes ! he screamed mentally to himself. He swallowed hard, and opened them. Now there was grass beneath him instead of thorns, and a few inches further he saw a smooth patch, worn into the bark through years of gripping. Carefully, he moved forward until his hands were gripping the patch. Then he swung himself down to earth as easily – if not as gracefully – as his Elf-child.
What's so special about this place ? Frodo wondered. The long, tough grass grew here, as on the other side of the brambles, and the trees were as close. We could've seen the same by staying on the other side and I wouldn't have had to climb that tree. Where's Sam ? He looked around, but Samwise was nowhere to be found. « Sam ? » he called. Botheration. He's disappeared. Well, I can't go back, so might as well go forward. He pushed through the long grass and edged around the trees. « Sam ? » he called again. « Sam, where are y – »
Frodo broke off as he stepped into a clearing. It wasn't terribly large – about as large as the meadow – but it seemed to be a universe unto itself. The branches of the taller trees were interwoven, forming a canopy over the glen. The shade of the trees had been close and dark, but now the sun gleamed strongly through the leaves, diffusing their darkness into a veil of golden-green light. Strange mosses hung from the branches, and little pale blue flowers grew at their feet.
In the center of the clearing was a large, almost perfectly circular pond, whose dark green waters lay smooth as glass. At the far side of the pond stood a white upthrust of quartz, stretching up and out over the water. There stood his Elf-child, looking more Elven than ever standing on the edge of the rock, looking upwards so slender a child, clad in white, and in the strange light his eyes gleamed emerald. He stood perfectly still, his eyes upraised as though in prayer, and everywhere there was a perfect, unbroken silence.
Frodo felt as though he had intruded on something secret, and holy. He stood beneath the trees at the edge of the glen, watching, not daring to break the silence lest it break the spell of this strange, timeless place. It's like I've walked in on an Elven song, he thought. Suddenly, Sam turned to him and smiled not the mischievous smile of a four year-old boy, but the gracious smile of a prince in his domain. Then, just as suddenly, the smile changed, and he was little Samwise again, pleased to show his best friend something pretty. Frodo, however, never forgot the look on his face as he had stood there in the silence, and felt very strange. This child is not what he seems to be, and yet he is what he is. There is no guile in him he isn't the kind to deceive. But it's like – like he only shows part of himself most of the time. And then sometimes, he just – shines through. Like light dancing through the leaves overhead, he just – shines. Oh, Father, how I love him…
« Frodo ? » came the soft call. Sam had gotten off his rock and was walking towards him.
« S-Sam, » Frodo stammered, and the boy ran over. Frodo quickly dropped to one knee and held out his arms, almost falling over with the impact. « Careful, little one, » he whispered as he hefted Sam up, settling his slight weight on his hip. Sam put his arms round Frodo's neck again.
« Sam, what is this place ? » Sam smiled and shrugged.
« I don't know as it has a proper name. It's just the glen, the way the meadow's just the meadow. It don't need a name. 'Sides, I'm the only one who comes here. »
« Really ? » Frodo asked. Sam nodded.
« Mhm. It's my place. I never seen no one else come, anyway. D'you like it ? It's a pretty place, 'specially on days like this when the sun shines so bright. Makes everything gold-green. Why're we whispering ? » he whispered. Frodo paused a moment before answering.
« Because – because it seems right » he whispered back. « It would be – well, disrespectful not to, I think. » Sam considered this, and nodded.
« It's a better place for singing, though, » he said. « So quiet an' beautiful. It's like being in a story. » Frodo nodded his agreement.
« Yes, it does seem a place for singing, » he said. « If one could find the words. » Sam looked at him expectantly, and he smiled. « How about this ? » he asked, and, after humming a tune to sing to, raised his voice.
The starlight shines on forest pools
that lie among the trees,
the rivers glitter in the night,
flowing towards the Sea.
On empty roads and lonely fields
the moonshine softly falls,
and silver light gleams strong and bright
on ancient tower walls.
Thither, thither, will I go,
and wander far from home
to climb the tower walls, to feel
the cold and age-worn stone.
On ruined stairs and crumbling halls
the starlight casts its sheen,
the whispers of the wind are heard
like voices in a dream.
Thither, thither, will I go,
and mount the ruined stair,
to weave myself a crown of stars
and set it in my hair.
I will proclaim myself a king
and, clothed in silver light,
of my kingdom I will sing -
of wild and lonely Night,
Of slumbering homes and empty roads,
of ruined stairs and halls,
of quiet fields and forest pools,
of ancient tower walls,
Of rivers and the Sea, I sing,
and clad in silver-fair,
barefoot in the night, I'll dance
With starlight in my hair.
His clear young voice chimed softly in the silence, and the sound of his singing lingered a long moment before the hush closed over them again. Sam watched him as he sang, his blue eyes strange and distant, as though his whole thought were focused on the singing. Father, save me, but he's beautiful, he thought. Like an Elf. Better than an Elf. I love him. He tightened his arms around Frodo's neck and pressed closer to him. Frodo felt him shifting and looked at him, broken out of his trance. « Well ? » he whispered.
« I think you're beautiful, » Sam whispered back, suddenly bold. I love him, I love him forever, an' I don't care if he thinks it strange to be called beautiful because he *is*. He's beautiful and I love him. Always. Frodo read all this in his dark green glance, and blushed.
« Well – thank you, » he murmured, and smiled, tightening his own arms around the child. He stood thus for a long moment, Samwise balanced on his hip as they overlooked the glen. A sudden darkening of the sky made them both look up, confused, but the canopy of branches obstructed their view of the sky. Then a loud 'crack !' of thunder stung their ears, and they realized why the sky had darkened.
« 'S that storm from the west, » Sam said. « The one that was building earlier. It's here. »
« I need to get you home, then, » Frodo said. « How do we get out of here ? Don't tell me we climb that tree again. » Sam smothered a laugh at Frodo's look of apprehension.
« No, » he reassured him. « There's a different way out. But you're going to have to put me down. »
Frodo reluctantly set Sam on his feet and followed the child out of the glen. They went across to the far side of the pond and entered the trees again. The thunder rumbled ominously overhead, and Sam picked up the pace, leading them out of the trees and through more thick, tussocky grass. It was hard to move quickly through the grass, and they stumbled. The briars enclosing the field went on and on, until suddenly, there was a break in them.
« Over here, » Sam said, pulling on Frodo's hand. They walked through some more of the long, knotted grass until it finally gave way to a shorter, softer species. They continued walking till they came to a small creek. Sam paused a moment before turning left, and they walked on. It was getting darker by the minute, and the clean blue of the sky now looked bruised, and blackened. A sudden blinding flash of light made them break into a run, Frodo still holding Sam's hand as they dodged through the trees. It felt strangely like their chase of the previous day, but their was nothing fun about this. Frodo was remembering every terrible story he'd ever heard about lightning. Lightning strikes near water – the creek. Lightning strikes near tall trees – they were surrounded by them. Oh, what about Lightning can kill you instantly ? There's a cheerful thought.
Sam tripped over something, almost pulling Frodo down with him, but he immediately got up again and they continued running. It's like being hunted, Frodo thought as a deafening clap of thunder sounded overhead. We have to get out of here, we have to get out – oh, no, he's limping ! Frodo paused and grabbed Sam up, before running on himself.
« Just go straight, » Sam instructed. Straight. Right. I can go straight… Another flash of lightening, and Frodo ran like the wind, heedless of stumbling, heedless of thunder, heedless of anything but the very real need to get Sam and himself away. Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, that they must surely die here in the trees, struck down by lightning, he burst into – the meadow. Our meadow ! Our meadow ! I can't believe it ! He ran to the center, far away from the trees, and sat down heavily, Sam still in his arms.
« Just need to catch my breath, » he said, and Sam nodded. « Let's take a look at your foot, » Frodo said, remembering his limp. « Which one was it ? » Sam winced and held up his small right foot, and Frodo's eyes widened in alarm. Sam had apparently sprained his ankle, which had swollen and was beginning to turn colors. To make matters worse, he had cut the bottom of his foot on a sharp rock, which was now embedded in the sole. When he raised his foot for Frodo's examination, blood spilled bright red down his leg and pooled in Frodo's hand. Oh no, oh no, this isn't good. He can't walk now, he's badly hurt, his ankle might be broken… He turned his gaze from the injured limb to the child in his lap. Sam had gone very pale when Frodo touched his ankle, and Frodo saw he was trying his hardest not to cry. Gently, he lowered Sam's leg into his lap again, and gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
« Don't worry, Sam, » he said bravely. « We'll put you to rights. » Oh, Father. I certainly hope we will. I hope we can. Again, the hot white light flashed in the sky, and a cold hard rain began to fall.
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A/N: Okay, so it was kind of a lot longer than most of my other chapters… Please – if you read it, review it! Thanks so much! Je vous aime toujours!