In the Grey Twilight
Once again, thank you for the reviews. I'm trying to make this a believable slash story that engages the canon and captures the characters for what they truly are. Comments and suggestions to that effect are especially helpful.
Inkstain, your thoughtful comments were very valuable to me--I wrote you an e-mail in response, but the address on your author page doesn't work. It's always nice to touch base with a like-minded author!
And Trilliah, I hope you don't mind all the sadness. I tend to think the most beautiful things in the world are layered in sadness...so there's more to come, but I try to strike a balance too.
*
Sam kissed Rosie softly and then let her go, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and clapping Merry and Pippin on their backs. "Where's Mr. Frodo gone?"
"He's only taking a walk," Merry said. "He'll be back soon."
Rosie took his hand, pulling him toward the tent. "Come, Sam, they're giving us a toast!"
There was cheering and much ale to be had, and Sam was drawn into the crowd while his flickering thoughts of Frodo remained like fireflies in the silhouetted sky. A dance broke out around them and they joined in, Sam holding Rosie very gently about her waist, turning, moving, while everyone laughed and sang. So full of joy these days were, like a clear vessel with pure light shining through. But that was what he felt when he looked at Mr. Frodo. How could Frodo's eyes bring Sam so much bright joy, when the shadows lay seemingly immovable on his master's brave spirit? Where was he, why did he leave?
"Excuse me, son, but I reckon as I ought to have a dance with the young mother," Farmer Cotton said, kissing Rosie's hand.
Sam smiled, blushing a little at Rosie's father. "Well sure thing sir!" But he hesitated and touched Rosie's belly softly. "Now take care of that, and don't dance too fast or too long, like."
The music started up again and Sam weaved through the crowd, accepting congratulations as he peered beyond the tent. He was almost running, feeling something awful settle in the pit of his stomach. He grabbed young Tom Cotton's arm. "Have you seen Mr. Frodo hereabouts?"
Tom shook his head and Sam was off; he stopped short when he caught sight of his master standing by one of the merchant carts.
He was standing still and pale as death, one hand slowly rising as if pulled by an invisible force, a tremor running through it. Sam was at his side in a heartbeat but was almost afraid to touch him. His master's eyes were very dark and wide; there was sweat on his brow. Before him was a display of strange shiny black rocks, and the peddler was speaking almost hypnotically:
"...'tis black volcanic glass, a fine thing indeed, and rare too. For it has been traded from the South, and there is a tale of yonder parts, of a mighty, dark mountain--Mount Doom, they call it--that by some magic split apart, shaking to the very earth in flame and flowing lava. And that's what this rock is, sir, the remains of that faraway Mount Doom."
Sam gave a gasp of shock, recoiling as if burned, but Frodo was reaching out to touch the compelling surface of the glittering stone. Sam got hold of him and pulled him roughly away. He couldn't give a reason, but he knew inside that he must not let his master even brush his fair fingertips on that terrible thing. Not caring about onlookers, Sam brought him to the Green Dragon and shook him, trying to break the spell that had settled over his face.
"Mr. Frodo? Here now! You've got your speech to make soon!"
Slowly the darkness drained from his eyes, and Frodo clasped two strong hands on Sam's forearms. He grew insistent. "Do you suppose there's a bit of It, melted and hidden, in all those rocks?"
Sam's chest felt tight and a cold shiver overtook him. He knew all too well what Frodo meant. "No," he said firmly, despite his uncertainty. "It's gone. It's gone."
The spell passed as swift-moving clouds, and after a moment Frodo let go and seemed himself again. "Yes, of course," he breathed. "I'm sorry, Sam, I have to go prepare...my speech, you know..."
Sam nodded dumbly.
"And...congratulations, Sam." He exhaled heavily, as if pushing his very soul out of his lungs. "I do mean it. I couldn't have wished for anything better. It's wonderful."
* * * *
He climbed onto the podium slowly, his stomach churning, clutching a bit of paper to his chest. In his troubled script he'd wrote stilted phrases...well-wishing and promises for the future, as if he were already planning for next year's Fair; which was a lie. Merry and Pippin were watching him from below with concern but he couldn't look at them. He stared instead at the horizon, feeling a sharpness in the air: a dying-down eternity, a forever-sunset; a breath never fully exhaled. And he was thinking of the Sea. He could lose himself in the steady noise, as a companion that would never forsake him. Like Sam... He needed forgetfulness, and numbness; a Sea without memory, without time, without beginning or ending.
Paper crumpled in his fist, and all his careful words were cast aside. Maybe once he thought he could fill himself with ordinary cares and ordinary duties, but it was folly. He was empty: a seed-husk in the desert.
"We've all worked hard to make this the Fair of all Fairs," Frodo began, and was greeted by boisterous applause.
He forced his eyes down at the faces of his friends and found breathing difficult. He swallowed a few times before he continued. "We've much to celebrate. We've won the Shire..." he trailed off and the crowd took this as a reason for more cheering.
"And there's more party to be had, as we're filling up at the corners--so I'll keep this short." The hobbits cheered loudest at this. "But a few more words, if you please. My part is done. I've been honoured to fill such a celebrated job as old Will Whitfoot's, but tonight...I...I hereby resign my office as mayor."
He stepped down and hobbits stumbled out of his way, though already his friends were coming for him. It was done. He ignored the whispers and murmurs that began to seep out of the shocked silence, and soon felt Sam's hesitant hand brushing on his arm. Frodo kept his eyes up into the distance, but he knew Sam signalled Merry and Pippin to stay behind, and Sam was strong and determined beside him, sheltering him from the all-too-audible barbs that floated through the air:
"--that Baggins is cracked--"
"--he was always a queer one, but there's something wrong with him besides--"
Samwise Gamgee's hands clenched hard and his arms stiffened as if to fend off accusations as they walked on, and when they reached the gate outside Bag End Frodo found himself enfolded in Sam's embrace. Sam pulled him into a protective hug, saying into his ear, "Let's go watch the fireworks from out in the field."
Frodo looked into his face, overwhelmed by gratitude and fierce yearning. It was painful in this moment, seeing Sam's devotion proved so simply; Sam offered himself endlessly and yet Frodo could not take what he truly wanted. Yes, we'll go up yonder and watch the fireworks. Yes, come as the tides and pool around me with your care. But Samwise Gamgee, you're mine no longer--once and for all, I can lay no claim to you.
* * * *
They set out softly and settled against some bales of hay, far enough from the fairgrounds that the noise was a shapeless din like crickets chirping. They were alone and for a long time silent. Sam felt uneasy, sitting with a head full of shattered questions that pressed him sharply, yet he could not make himself voice them. So it was Frodo who spoke first, a long sigh breaking the twilight quiet.
"What are your plans, Sam? I mean, do you ever think about your life?"
"I have a mind to my duties, Mr. Frodo. And a big family I'm sure to have...that's my place. The Gaffer set Rosie out for me and your Mr. Bilbo set the Red Book out for you."
Frodo raised his eyebrows. "Hamfast 'set Rosie out' for you?"
"Well--" and Sam blushed, "it weren't no formal betrothal, as the Gaffer didn't hold with that. He said a lad should know for himself where to find a family, if you take my meaning. But I never gave it much thought until I came of age. At my party--maybe you remember, begging my pardon--he took me aside and sat me down and we had a pipeful of some right fine leaf. The Gaffer gives as much advice as he does smoke, and this time I got a double helping. Well, he says to me, is there any maid I've got my eye on? And I shake my head, and he leans in close like he's got a secret treasure in his hands. Says there's a lass who has her eye on me, and all's I have to do is lift my head out of the dirt if I have a mind to courting."
Sam cast a quick look at Frodo, suddenly realizing he'd been drawing out a long tale and afraid of boring his master. Seeing Frodo patiently waiting for him to continue, he said softly, "But I never much cared for courting. My heart wasn't in it. A time passed and the Gaffer pressed me hard for being such a fool. He talked to Farmer Cotton, like as not, and everyone was waiting on me, seemingly..." Sam paused and ran his hands through the grass, feeling awkward. Again he searched out Frodo's eyes, and found gentle encouragement there. He cleared his throat. "Hamson and Halfred and May all had little ones. I soon saw what a half-wit I was--living up to my namesake, if you follow me. So before we left I was going to..." Sam swallowed and shrugged. "But it had to wait, and things took care of themselves when we got back."
"And
now you'll have a child as sweet as you could want," Frodo said kindly,
ducking his head to try to catch Sam's downcast eyes.
"Yes, there's naught truer than that." The soft-spoken words barely
carried on the perfumed air, and Sam wondered what this feeling was that seemed
to suffocate him, as if he couldn't exhale. Something was imprisoned inside
him, hot and thick like the molten lava of Mount Doom...frightened, he sat up
straight and wondered for the first time where Rosie was. It never occurred to
him to tell her where he'd be, as the fireworks gilded the sky and music
laughed through the trees.
"Sam? Is something wrong?"
Frodo's voice caught him, holding him safely in the present moment. As he fought back the volcanic upheaval in his chest, he felt Frodo's cool white hand on his arm, and something fluttered inside him like great soft wings--he was perilously close to being swept away. To where? And at that moment, Frodo's wide blue eyes reminded him of the last patch of clear sky, far on the horizon of the destruction of the world.
"I've gotten almost all my wishes. As the Gaffer would say, I had a handful of right good seeds, blooming into first-place flowers. And--well, I'm grateful, sure as the sun rises, but--it's not fair."
Frodo squeezed his arm very tightly. "What do you mean?" he whispered.
"It's not fair. What about your wishes? Mr. Frodo...I know you're not happy."
It was as if some silent taboo were broken; despite how hard Frodo fought through his days, and how diligently Sam looked after him, they had tried to pretend that all was well and that happiness had been gifted instantly with the coming of Peace. They both burst into speech:
"No, no, that's not true. You make me happier than--"
"I'd give everything up to see you--"
And they were shocked to silence by the biggest, brightest, loudest firecracker known to wizards. They hadn't even seen it coming, and now tiny silver jewels fell from the sky like rain, landing on their hair and cloaks and the soft grass. Sam swallowed hard, his heart pounding strangely in his chest--and not from surprise, either. No, this was something else: as if he'd been tossed off a cliff, as if he were falling out of a tree, the wind buzzing in his ears and panic gripping his chest and a cry trying to burst forth from his mouth. He needed to scream, but it wasn't just sound or volume: there was something he needed to say...
"I have something for you," Frodo murmured.
Sam felt his heart flip. "I've got something for you, too."
Frodo exhaled slowly and drew something out of his pocket. Sam watched breathlessly as Frodo extended his maimed hand, placing a small cool object into his palm. Frodo's hand stayed put for a moment, and Sam's heart knocked against his ribs: Sam gave Frodo's hand a gentle squeeze, then held it firmly, the object pressing between their palms. Time held its breath: the fireworks stalled, floating up and dropping down as lazily as feathers in the breeze. Finally Frodo stirred, squeezing softly and opening his hand. Sam looked down and saw a shining silver timepiece, the finest thing he'd ever laid eyes upon. He found his jaw would not work to express his gratitude and protest against the dearness of such a present; nor would his hands keep steady enough to open it. Smiling, Frodo's slender fingers worked the tiny clasp, and it popped open. The clock-face was opal and the delicate hands were gold--such small intricate work! It must have been an Elven-craft gifted to Bilbo some age ago. But Sam's eyes lingered on the inscription, which, obviously, was new.
May your road go ever on and on,
through the twilight Peace;
May you lie safe in the arms of Love
as your arms saved me, and carried me home.
Hot tears blinded him and stole his breath. "You didn't ought to," he stammered in a whisper.
"Shhh," Frodo hushed him urgently. "It's just a thing. It's not what I'd give you, if I were the Lady and could grant wishes."
Sam nodded and wiped his eyes. He revealed a small bundle wrapped in cloth, and holding it out he said, "Then I will make a wish in the name of the Lady." He closed his eyes and wanted to think of something special, but found his mind was stuttering. Something was still clawing at the back of his throat, trying to get out... He swallowed hard, almost choking on the mass of unnamed secrets and uncharted emotion. May you lie safe in the arms of Love...
His hands were trembling when he untied the bundle and presented to Frodo a queer looking fountain pen. "I made it special," Sam explained. "The grip is soft and a little ways bigger than ordinary, see. I know you want your book to be perfect, and I was hoping to make things easier for your poor hand."
Frodo tried it out, his mouth falling open with a soft sound, almost a surrender. The remaining fingers of his right hand clasped firmly and moved the pen fluidly. "I thought I'd just have to learn," he said with emotion thickening his voice. He kept his eyes down, watching his hand form his signature in the air. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam knew he was shy about his crippled hand; he never mentioned it, almost as though he were ashamed of it. Had Sam intruded, somehow? He didn't know what to say and his hands twisted his cloak nervously.
"This book seems to eat at me, Sam," Frodo said after a time. "I must write it, but it's a painfully slow business. As much as the memories push to get out, something holds them from me. And I've been wondering if anyone other than myself will be able to read it. At least I can stop worrying about that." He smiled a bit, an expression of both pain and happiness. "How is it you always know how to help?"
"I don't, not enough," Sam said gruffly under his breath. "Well, I guess as you'll have a lot more time for writing now."
"Yes."
Sam chewed on his lip and turned his attention back to the sky-spectacle. He wanted to ask him why, why was he giving up on a job so suited to him? But maybe the answer was obvious. His master had done enough already. He had done the only thing that mattered, he had done all there was to do. Being Mayor was just a charade after all that, it was just an expense of time.
"Folks here don't understand right. They ought to sing thanks to you, elsewise there'd be no Shire, no Fair to speak of. They don't honour you."
"You do. I don't care what the others say."
They shared a look, and then Frodo closed his eyes, tilting his head back to the sky to let the breeze float over his face. He looked peaceful and beautiful, Sam thought, battling an anxious feeling. Sam thought hard over what he ought to do, and then he set his jaw with determination.
"Come here and have a rest," Sam said, holding his cloak out. Frodo seemed to think on it, then wriggled over and settled against Sam's chest with a yawn. Sam tucked his cloak around him and held him close in his arms, leaning his head back against the warm hay. He thought Frodo slept instantly, and soon he drifted too.
And that was how Rosie found them, hours later, among the deserted tents and bits of discarded ribbon and paper. The Free Fair was over and everyone left the mess for the morning, off in search of much-needed sleep. Rosie shook her head and sighed, going home to the darkness of Bag End alone.
*
TBC. Feedback is greatly appreciated. The next chapter may take some timeā¦I'm doing some thinking, soul-searching, all that jazz. ^_^
