-Title: Firelight
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 1/?)
Winter was Frodo's least favourite season. It was cold and harsh and hostile. Children ran in the sparse scattering of the Shire's snow for hours, returning with frostbitten pink faces. And Bag End was drafty; streams of icy air shoved their way through the hallways, passing by the warmth of fire-lit rooms. And these were the save haven for Frodo. The three most comfortable rooms in the house were his bedroom, located far back in the smial, Bilbo's master bedroom, the kitchen, and the parlour (when properly heated).
All of this might have been enough to justify Frodo's persistent hate of the cold weather. But-and Frodo only recognized this subconsciously, unless something forced him to sweep out the dark corners of his mind (which wasn't uncommon when he was lost in the winter months)-the most despicable aspect of the thing was the loneliness. Up in the large house where Frodo now lived, the sense of isolation was penetrating. Thin, chilly winter air seemed to magnify this.
Now, Frodo was not completely alone: Bilbo and he would eat dinner together, go over old tales . . . spend time together, but Bilbo seemed a part of Bag End, and therefore, didn't count as company. He was family. And rather aloof himself, at that.
Frodo didn't think that anything could change his contempt toward the winter.
---
It was the middle of Afteryule and Frodo was in a most glum mood. The lengthy tale of Turin was stretched out before him on a glossy, dark brown desk in the study. It was rather difficult to follow, too, for it consisted of musty old Elvish books with pages lost, a variety of leaflets- either newly written scraps made by himself and Bilbo, or brittle yellowed parchments. All of it quite disorganized and confusing. Why couldn't Turin have kept a diary, really?
Frodo sighed. Part of the clump of overcast sky must have fallen back, revealing the sun, and she thrust a bland white light through a layered lace curtain on the circular window. A harsh white light.
Whenever Frodo neared even the slightest relief from the cold, edged a fraction toward contentment, the weather seemed to remind him that it *was* still winter, and that he had what seemed like Ages to endure it. Taunting him.
He tried to concentrate on Turin for the present, but began to fail miserably when an obscure craving for tea made itself known. Specifically, lemon and honey tea. From the cupboard to the right of the stove. Behind the spices. Where Sam had stowed them for some unknown reason.
Strange, how things tended to preoccupy Frodo. Preventing him from tying together the loose ends in an Elvish translation, or what have you. And now the *tea* was tempting him as well.
---
He had made his way into the glowing kitchen. Just outside it, in the hall, a rich aroma flooded past his nostrils and through his soul. Something delicious. And warm. He peered through the round doorway before sliding into the room. He was met with a pile of dough on one of the counters, a half set table, and a stout black pot bubbling on the stove. Full of that steaming . . . something.
He took an inquisitive step nearer. Urged some of the steam to him with a tentative hand and inhaled the scent. But before any recognition could register, a hand fell onto his shoulder lightly.
"Mind you don't burn yourself, Mr. Frodo."
*Sam*? Samwise Gamgee was cooking for them? Well, that certainly settled that: it *was* something delicious. Frodo thought to ask exactly what, but failure to respond to Sam's warning could mean a conversation passed by. Frodo was bored, and a bit starved for company, even if he wouldn't acknowledge that. And besides, he liked Sam. He liked talking to him. Despite all of their differences, Sam never failed to amaze him with his seemingly perfect understanding of Frodo. It could've been Frodo's imagination of course; that had taken to overreacting at this time of year. Winter.
"I won't," he replied.
Sam shifted his weight and regarded Frodo reproachfully. He sighed. "You still shouldn't be hanging about the stove, and all, sir. Not sayin' that you're clumsy or anythin', but-"
Frodo cut him off: "What is it you're making, anyway?"
"A stew. Just a plain stew. Mum insisted it was a family recipe, but I have my doubts, seeing as I've had it at the Dragon, and at parties and the like."
Frodo laughed. "Well, is it good?"
"Why would I be making it for you if it weren't?"
"Hm." Frodo withdrew to the aforementioned cupboard and began digging through it for the tea. Sam produced a thin wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. A languid silence descended onto the kitchen.
"It's lovely in here," remarked Frodo. "Warm. I hate winter."
"I know, sir. I do too. Can't be out and about in the garden what with all the frosts," said Sam.
"Yes, that too. But it's mostly. . ." he trailed off. "Well, never mind, Sam. I'm sorry you have to endure it as well." Frodo rummaged through another cupboard. "Why did you come up?"
"Well, to cook for you, Mr. Frodo."
"You didn't have to. It's freezing out; you could've stayed home with your family, in the cozy living room I'm sure you have."
Sam didn't answer, and Frodo finally gave up on conversation. Finding that locating tea really was-as he was discovering-a challenge.
"I think it's ready," said Sam, half to himself.
"Shall I set the table? Or something?"
"No, that's all right, sir. Just keep looking for . . . er, whatever you're looking for. Sure you don't need some help?" he offered.
"No, no. I'll find it." Frodo closed the current cupboard firmly as if punishing it and moved on to the next one. "Tea, by the way," he added.
"Oh, the kind you put honey in. And lemon. I've rearranged the teas, they're all in this one, over here." He pulled open a cabinet on the other side of the room, then turned his attention to the dough waiting on a counter.
"Thank you," said Frodo. He reached his hand inside the cabinet and found the tea instantly, which was mildly annoying. He put a kettle on the spot formerly housing Sam's wonderful-smelling stew.
"Frodo! Oh, where *have* you gotten to? Frodo? Ah! Hullo, Sam." Bilbo strode into the kitchen, wearing a rather urgent expression.
"What's wrong, Uncle?"
"Nothing-nothing, really. I've got a pressing errand in Tookland. I'll have to be setting off as soon as possible. You'll be all right for a few days?"
"Oh. All right . . . why is this, again?" asked a dazed Frodo. Bilbo was prone to shoving off at odd moments, and suddenly, but not necessarily without a little planning, at least. Or some warning.
"I think someone's been born, or has died, been married . . . something of that nature, but Paladin was quite pressing in his letter."
"Shouldn't I come alone?"
"You weren't invited. So, you don't have to go. Seize the opportunity, my boy! You know as well as I do that distant relations are usually a bore."
Frodo smiled. "Well, I can at least help you pack?"
---
In all of twenty minutes Bilbo was gone, on his way to Tookland. And he was certainly correct in saying that Frodo did not want to spend time with his prodding family. Especially when they managed to form large groups of themselves. He'd quite gotten his fill in Brandy Hall.
Now he and Sam were left alone with a well-sized dinner to tuck in. Dusk was falling, and was very welcome: the glare of the sun was snuffed and the darkness would eventually become so complete, that only the temperature paraded the standing fact that it was still winter.
"I'll be going then, sir," said Sam, wiping his hands on dishtowel and walking toward the door.
"Sam?"
"Yes, Mr. Frodo?"
"How do you expect me to eat all of this-assuredly wonderful-food by myself? You should at least stay and eat with me. I don't think I can finish it all, either. It'd be a waste."
"Well, if you're sure, Mr. Frodo," said Sam reluctantly. He gradually made his way back into the kitchen and took a seat at the table.
"Mhmm." Frodo replaced a burned-out candle by the doorway, then ended up lighting and relighting them in the hallway, too. He lit a fire in the parlour: reasoning that he could probably convince Sam to stay after dinner as well, if properly bribed with Elf-stories. Frodo was in a sensitive mood; he needed *someone* in Bag End with him. It seemed empty with even two people, but far emptier with just one. And a vague sense of distrust in the smial. Everything must have been teaming up against him, he thought.
Ah well. He'd dine with someone who wasn't Bilbo and be content in the warmth of the kitchen for now. The warmth of Sam's smile, too.
---
-To be continued . . . (*tune in next time, same bat-time, same bat-channel . . .*)
-Like? Hate? Drop me a note. Ready? Set? "Go!"
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 1/?)
Winter was Frodo's least favourite season. It was cold and harsh and hostile. Children ran in the sparse scattering of the Shire's snow for hours, returning with frostbitten pink faces. And Bag End was drafty; streams of icy air shoved their way through the hallways, passing by the warmth of fire-lit rooms. And these were the save haven for Frodo. The three most comfortable rooms in the house were his bedroom, located far back in the smial, Bilbo's master bedroom, the kitchen, and the parlour (when properly heated).
All of this might have been enough to justify Frodo's persistent hate of the cold weather. But-and Frodo only recognized this subconsciously, unless something forced him to sweep out the dark corners of his mind (which wasn't uncommon when he was lost in the winter months)-the most despicable aspect of the thing was the loneliness. Up in the large house where Frodo now lived, the sense of isolation was penetrating. Thin, chilly winter air seemed to magnify this.
Now, Frodo was not completely alone: Bilbo and he would eat dinner together, go over old tales . . . spend time together, but Bilbo seemed a part of Bag End, and therefore, didn't count as company. He was family. And rather aloof himself, at that.
Frodo didn't think that anything could change his contempt toward the winter.
---
It was the middle of Afteryule and Frodo was in a most glum mood. The lengthy tale of Turin was stretched out before him on a glossy, dark brown desk in the study. It was rather difficult to follow, too, for it consisted of musty old Elvish books with pages lost, a variety of leaflets- either newly written scraps made by himself and Bilbo, or brittle yellowed parchments. All of it quite disorganized and confusing. Why couldn't Turin have kept a diary, really?
Frodo sighed. Part of the clump of overcast sky must have fallen back, revealing the sun, and she thrust a bland white light through a layered lace curtain on the circular window. A harsh white light.
Whenever Frodo neared even the slightest relief from the cold, edged a fraction toward contentment, the weather seemed to remind him that it *was* still winter, and that he had what seemed like Ages to endure it. Taunting him.
He tried to concentrate on Turin for the present, but began to fail miserably when an obscure craving for tea made itself known. Specifically, lemon and honey tea. From the cupboard to the right of the stove. Behind the spices. Where Sam had stowed them for some unknown reason.
Strange, how things tended to preoccupy Frodo. Preventing him from tying together the loose ends in an Elvish translation, or what have you. And now the *tea* was tempting him as well.
---
He had made his way into the glowing kitchen. Just outside it, in the hall, a rich aroma flooded past his nostrils and through his soul. Something delicious. And warm. He peered through the round doorway before sliding into the room. He was met with a pile of dough on one of the counters, a half set table, and a stout black pot bubbling on the stove. Full of that steaming . . . something.
He took an inquisitive step nearer. Urged some of the steam to him with a tentative hand and inhaled the scent. But before any recognition could register, a hand fell onto his shoulder lightly.
"Mind you don't burn yourself, Mr. Frodo."
*Sam*? Samwise Gamgee was cooking for them? Well, that certainly settled that: it *was* something delicious. Frodo thought to ask exactly what, but failure to respond to Sam's warning could mean a conversation passed by. Frodo was bored, and a bit starved for company, even if he wouldn't acknowledge that. And besides, he liked Sam. He liked talking to him. Despite all of their differences, Sam never failed to amaze him with his seemingly perfect understanding of Frodo. It could've been Frodo's imagination of course; that had taken to overreacting at this time of year. Winter.
"I won't," he replied.
Sam shifted his weight and regarded Frodo reproachfully. He sighed. "You still shouldn't be hanging about the stove, and all, sir. Not sayin' that you're clumsy or anythin', but-"
Frodo cut him off: "What is it you're making, anyway?"
"A stew. Just a plain stew. Mum insisted it was a family recipe, but I have my doubts, seeing as I've had it at the Dragon, and at parties and the like."
Frodo laughed. "Well, is it good?"
"Why would I be making it for you if it weren't?"
"Hm." Frodo withdrew to the aforementioned cupboard and began digging through it for the tea. Sam produced a thin wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. A languid silence descended onto the kitchen.
"It's lovely in here," remarked Frodo. "Warm. I hate winter."
"I know, sir. I do too. Can't be out and about in the garden what with all the frosts," said Sam.
"Yes, that too. But it's mostly. . ." he trailed off. "Well, never mind, Sam. I'm sorry you have to endure it as well." Frodo rummaged through another cupboard. "Why did you come up?"
"Well, to cook for you, Mr. Frodo."
"You didn't have to. It's freezing out; you could've stayed home with your family, in the cozy living room I'm sure you have."
Sam didn't answer, and Frodo finally gave up on conversation. Finding that locating tea really was-as he was discovering-a challenge.
"I think it's ready," said Sam, half to himself.
"Shall I set the table? Or something?"
"No, that's all right, sir. Just keep looking for . . . er, whatever you're looking for. Sure you don't need some help?" he offered.
"No, no. I'll find it." Frodo closed the current cupboard firmly as if punishing it and moved on to the next one. "Tea, by the way," he added.
"Oh, the kind you put honey in. And lemon. I've rearranged the teas, they're all in this one, over here." He pulled open a cabinet on the other side of the room, then turned his attention to the dough waiting on a counter.
"Thank you," said Frodo. He reached his hand inside the cabinet and found the tea instantly, which was mildly annoying. He put a kettle on the spot formerly housing Sam's wonderful-smelling stew.
"Frodo! Oh, where *have* you gotten to? Frodo? Ah! Hullo, Sam." Bilbo strode into the kitchen, wearing a rather urgent expression.
"What's wrong, Uncle?"
"Nothing-nothing, really. I've got a pressing errand in Tookland. I'll have to be setting off as soon as possible. You'll be all right for a few days?"
"Oh. All right . . . why is this, again?" asked a dazed Frodo. Bilbo was prone to shoving off at odd moments, and suddenly, but not necessarily without a little planning, at least. Or some warning.
"I think someone's been born, or has died, been married . . . something of that nature, but Paladin was quite pressing in his letter."
"Shouldn't I come alone?"
"You weren't invited. So, you don't have to go. Seize the opportunity, my boy! You know as well as I do that distant relations are usually a bore."
Frodo smiled. "Well, I can at least help you pack?"
---
In all of twenty minutes Bilbo was gone, on his way to Tookland. And he was certainly correct in saying that Frodo did not want to spend time with his prodding family. Especially when they managed to form large groups of themselves. He'd quite gotten his fill in Brandy Hall.
Now he and Sam were left alone with a well-sized dinner to tuck in. Dusk was falling, and was very welcome: the glare of the sun was snuffed and the darkness would eventually become so complete, that only the temperature paraded the standing fact that it was still winter.
"I'll be going then, sir," said Sam, wiping his hands on dishtowel and walking toward the door.
"Sam?"
"Yes, Mr. Frodo?"
"How do you expect me to eat all of this-assuredly wonderful-food by myself? You should at least stay and eat with me. I don't think I can finish it all, either. It'd be a waste."
"Well, if you're sure, Mr. Frodo," said Sam reluctantly. He gradually made his way back into the kitchen and took a seat at the table.
"Mhmm." Frodo replaced a burned-out candle by the doorway, then ended up lighting and relighting them in the hallway, too. He lit a fire in the parlour: reasoning that he could probably convince Sam to stay after dinner as well, if properly bribed with Elf-stories. Frodo was in a sensitive mood; he needed *someone* in Bag End with him. It seemed empty with even two people, but far emptier with just one. And a vague sense of distrust in the smial. Everything must have been teaming up against him, he thought.
Ah well. He'd dine with someone who wasn't Bilbo and be content in the warmth of the kitchen for now. The warmth of Sam's smile, too.
---
-To be continued . . . (*tune in next time, same bat-time, same bat-channel . . .*)
-Like? Hate? Drop me a note. Ready? Set? "Go!"