In the Grey Twilight
Three cheers for the reviewers! I'm glad you're enjoying this. And I want to let you know...hope remains. Even though it doesn't look like it. ^_^
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Sam didn't see much of Merry and Pippin during the next week; he was out late every evening and as disciplined as the two hobbit-soldiers might have become, they could never seem to make it to breakfast. He spent most of his home time making sure that Frodo didn't get too lost in his writing, and also there was now the matter of preparing for the baby. But one day a fast turn of weather brought him home earlier than usual.
Sam came home soaked as a summer storm blew in, already beating angrily against the windows when he reached the smial door. He ducked in and took off his drenched cloak, dripping onto the floor. Then he went to the sitting-room to light a fire and drive the dampness out. He toasted his wet feet for a moment before lighting candles through the darkened hallways and entered the kitchen, where he had a mind to get some tea going. There was a bit of cornbread on the table that he munched absently while the kettle whistled. He took up a tray, steeped strong tea and laid a few biscuits out with fresh butter and honey, adding strawberries and cream on impulse. Then he bustled to Frodo's study, where the door stood slightly open.
Frodo sat at his desk, but his head was propped up on his hands and he was watching the water pour down the window-pane. Sam called to him softly.
"Here, eat up Mr. Frodo. It's a right fine storm out there, and I find it's nice to have something warm in the belly, you know, against the cold and the wet. My but it's dark in here! Let me get some light going, elsewise you'll be blinded from your writing."
Frodo only turned and seemed to sigh as Sam busied about the room. When he'd finished with the candles, Sam pulled up a little stool next to the desk and sat upon it, setting a cup of tea in his lap and munching a strawberry. Sam smiled brightly and Frodo gave in, as if waking from a dark sleep. He took a biscuit and ate it, obviously realizing his own hunger for the first time.
"Rosie went to visit her parents," Frodo reported. "When she left she said she'd be back after dinner."
"With the storm maybe she'll stay the night there. What have Merry and Pippin been up to?"
"Storytelling at the Green Dragon I think. They're home now and probably planning to raid the pantry." He shivered as thunder rolled distantly and sipped his tea.
"Why don't I draw you a hot bath? I'll make up some supper and then we can have our pipes, all cozy enough. I think you've written enough today and you look tired."
Sam searched Frodo's face and was relieved when his master's eyes grew soft and warm again. Frodo nodded and smiled, and whatever shadows had crossed his mind seemed to disappear. "All right, Sam. But what about you? You haven't even changed--you're damp. I can't let you catch a cold."
Sam ran a hand through his sodden curls and shrugged. "I'll towel off a bit while I'm getting the tub ready for you."
"You'll take a hot bath first, Samwise Gamgee! You should think of yourself once in a while."
Sam did as he was told, and soon he was sitting before the fire listening to soft splashes from the washroom. Eventually his mind wandered to thoughts of supper, and he thought a bit of stew would go well on a night such as this. He rummaged in the kitchen and after setting a pot of water to boil, he decided to see what Merry and Pippin had to say about the matter.
The two younger hobbits were staying in the best guest room the smial had to offer. Frodo had long since taken up Bilbo's old room, and Sam and Rosie had the room which was once Frodo's. It was certainly nothing like the old days Sam was fond of remembering. Absently he thought again about the coming baby. Frodo would be as great an uncle as Bilbo had been, for sure. Sam smiled to think of the stories his master would tell. Frodo had seemed to want a big family to fill the smial; maybe lots of little ones running around would be good for his spirits.
Sam knocked on Merry and Pippin's door, and since his mind was running like the Brandywine, he simply walked right in.
The room was dark but for the burnished light of flickering candles. Lightning invaded in blinding flashes, obscuring rather than revealing; and it was warm in here, though the fire was dying down to embers. The bed stood before him, dark cherry wood and laden with white sheets that looked grey and yellow in the dimness--colours shifting as the sheets moved, for beneath them two hobbits lay entwined, two curly heads pressed close and the noise of breathing filled the air--
Sam was frozen in shock, watching as a hand emerged from under the sheets and reached out and grasped the back of his partner's head. There was more moving, and there in the candlelight Sam could see the faces of his friends: mouths open, locking together in an instant as they kissed--they were kissing--and soft noises issued forth like the rain. Hands clawed in each other's hair as if they were drowning, as if terrified to let go.
"Merry," Pippin's hoarse voice pleaded, and Sam thought they'd finally seen him. He stumbled, hands scrambling for the door.
"I'm sorry," he stammered, nearly slamming the door behind him. He felt as if he were tumbling somersault-style down a long hill as he fled to the sanctuary of his own room. His mind churned fruitlessly and he sat down in front of the fireplace, on the floor, hands on his knees. But his face was burning and the warmth of the fire was uncomfortable on his skin, so he stood again and began to pace the length of the floor.
"Well Sam Gamgee, it's best to let it be," he said to himself, the Gaffer's homegrown wisdom running through his head. "Ain't none of my business, no how."
He knew what it meant for lads to be in love, of course; not that it happened often or was much talked about. And it didn't bother him, though in truth he didn't give it much thought. He knew the touch of a friend could be very dear, when all you wanted to do was to protect him and hold him and comfort him for eternity.
Walking back and forth under the assault of lightning from the window, Sam's memory flashed to a dark night on Mount Doom when his master was cold and shivering, and he had naught to warm Frodo but his own limbs. The image was so vivid he could all but taste it, like the taste in his mouth of good earth as he tilled it, but its suddenness shook him and left him confused.
Merry and Pippin. They were kissing...
He had halted motionless in the shadows when a knock came softly at the doorframe, and Merry appeared before him. He was wearing a bathrobe and his hair was wet.
"Are you all right, Sam?"
Sam couldn't think of anything to say and restlessly tried to escape, heading towards the gold tunnel of light that was the corridor. "I've got water boiling for some stew," he mumbled.
"It can wait. Please, Sam, don't be upset. Didn't Frodo tell you...?"
Head bowed, Sam shrugged helplessly. "He said you were married. He said you were in love."
"Aye, that's right." Merry looked into Sam's face, his eyes brave and proud. "Can you understand?"
Sam drew himself together, even chanced to meet Merry's gaze squarely. Why did his stomach flutter so? "I don't think it's wrong. There isn't nothing wrong about loving someone."
"We got so close, Sam," Merry said simply. "We didn't know where friendship was supposed to leave off, when it seemed natural to let it keep going. One day we realized we didn't want to have limits, or locked doors between us, and then we knew we loved each other."
Sam was struck by the same feeling he got when walking home in the day's last moment of fierce light, seeing his fields stretched out forever all around him, completely unbounded. That's what it must be like for them, Sam thought.
"I'd say you're lucky," Sam dared. "But Rosie won't take to it none. Already she'd been saying as Bag End isn't a proper hole for a child to grow up in. She's not being fair to Mr. Frodo, but it's not her fault. She doesn't understand about the War."
"Would you ever move? What about Bilbo's Smaug vintage? I imagine he gave you enough to be comfortable, in proper hobbit-style."
"I'm not one like as to have much to my name," Sam shrugged, "so keeping it around felt mighty queer. Now Rosie, she had her eye on rings for her and for me--something plain but pretty, mind--and I remembered Mr. Bilbo saying as the gold could be handy if I got married, so it seemed the right thing to do." He paused for a moment, trying to hear if Frodo was still in the bath. "But I could never leave Bag End and Mr. Frodo. He needs looking-after."
Merry looked thoughtful. "Everyone would keep an eye on him. You're not really in his service anymore, Sam, you've found your own life."
"I wouldn't leave Mr. Frodo," he repeated slowly. His heart was pounding again. "How could I do that? He's my friend, and my master--"
"He's been asking you to quit calling him Mr. Frodo for ages now. If you really thought he was your master, you'd obey quick enough."
"Well maybe he's not!" Sam cried. "But he was Mr. Frodo when we were lads, and he was Mr. Frodo when he came of age, and he was Mr. Frodo in Rivendell and he was Mr. Frodo in Mordor. And he's Mr. Frodo now, if only because I don't like to think the Quest changed him so much as that."
Sam found himself surprisingly near tears. Biting his lip he turned away, but Merry stopped him from bolting.
"Sam! Don't be upset. You're right. Frodo wouldn't want you to leave anyway--we all know he'd be lost without you. Just listen. Pippin and I care about Frodo, but we care about you too and we want you to be happy. So if you're staying just for his sake--"
Sam wiped his eyes a bit savagely. "I'm not. And I'm happy so long as Mr. Frodo is."
"Yes, that's what I thought," Merry sighed.
Another soft knock and a swish of robes and a padding of feet came as Pippin poked his head into the room. "Hi, is everything all right?"
"I was just going to make supper," Sam said shortly. He didn't know why he felt so strange, but when he moved to pass Pippin he saw worry in the younger hobbit's eyes and he knew he ought to say something. "I never did give you my congratulations," he offered clumsily. "I guess some hobbits are just right for each other and there's no stopping it."
This made Pippin smile. "I tell you, I've some dreadful memories of trying to get him alone and pull him behind haystacks when I was just a teenager. You know? Just looking all the time, not even old enough to know what the feelings meant."
Sam blushed a little and gave a half-shrug while Merry shot Pippin a queer look. Then he made his way to the kitchen and wondered if Frodo was out of the tub yet. They'd have supper and pipes and a fire, and drive away the rain. They used to have songs for nights such as this. And if he couldn't persuade Mr. Frodo to sing them, as he had before the War, then Sam would sing them for him. It was a small thing but it might keep his spirit warm.
* * * *
Summer passed to autumn, but it was cold, too cold for the newborn October. Indeed this was a different kind of cold, as if it started from inside and began to freeze within. And there was darkness, like the dark, deep waters where Frodo's parents drowned so long ago. Darkness like the cold filthy mires of the Dead Marshes; darkness like the sunless day. A cave. A lair... Such a heavy weight bowed his back and twisted his shoulders. Then there was a circle of stones and black shadows whipped around him with gleaming fell swords. And with that came pain, piercing terrible icy pain...
Frodo struggled against the shadows but he was finding his left arm almost useless. He was being dragged down, unable to fight; the Eye peered down and fixed him in its deadly glare; cold slimey boney fingers scratched his chest, seeking the Ring; all would fall to ill, all would be lost.
But then softness touched his face and with a small cry he sought it out, clinging to this merciful and soothing sensation just as a fair scent caught his nostrils. Lavender...a scent of home and safety...nothing as could be found in the foul Black Land... Warmth enveloped him all at once. Sweet warmth drifted all the way up to his neck, slowly killing the frozen pain in his shoulder.
"Why does he take on so, Sam?"
"He's waking up...."
He blinked and tried to clear the dark cloud from his vision, and slowly yellow candlelight streamed in. A comforting hand passed over his head again and again, gently bringing him back to safety. Frodo opened his eyes and looked up to see Sam's concerned face close to his. He tried to move and realized he was in the bathtub, full of hot fragrant water. It was October sixth.
"Sam," he murmured.
"I'm right here, Mr. Frodo. You were awful cold just now and you wouldn't wake up. How do you feel?"
"Better," Frodo said hoarsely, though he was not certain it was true.
"Just like in March," Rosie said thoughtfully, and Frodo suddenly saw her standing behind her husband. "I'll put on some tea," she murmured and left.
Frodo lay in the water, not ready to move, but he avoided Sam's anxious gaze. Sam shouldn't have to see him like this. His eyes searched out the window, but it was dark and comfortless outside. A deep night where things seemed to move in the shadows; and eyes, like lanterns…muttering, choking, gollum… He wished Sam would close the drapes. He could almost hear the keening now, that shrill cry he knew he would never forget. And looking down: his face reflected in the water, dark from the window, flickering in and out with the cold shimmer of the candle. His own dead face with a tricksy light at the bottom of a mire. His shiver grew to a shudder.
Sam lay a heated cloth over the scar on his master's shoulder, then gently poured bathwater from his cupped hands through Frodo's hair. Frodo could not keep his right hand from fluttering at his chest, seeking what was not there. Without a moment's thought, Sam settled Frodo's neck-chain with the white stone over his master's head. Frodo's fingers closed around the gem and were at once quiescent.
"Don't worry over me," Frodo said. "It is just this emptiness..." Already the steaming water was beginning to feel cold.
"Hush now."
Sam. His strong golden arms clasped around Frodo's chest, securely, protectively, and lifted him out of the tub. Cold air stabbed his flesh and water dripped from his hair down to the floor. Sam whispered something soft to him and wrapped him up in a big towel. His hands rubbed him down through the cloth, drying him and warming him and soothing his shoulder, and Frodo sighed. It felt too good. Momentarily the dark mist evaporated before his eyes, and both of his hands clutched Sam's arms.
"You've done too much," he whispered, battered by guilt and shame and his ungrateful longing for more.
The reply was simple, plain, a bruised honesty. "I'll never want to quit caring after you. I can't care too much, as like I can take on too much sun."
And then Sam was holding him, gently and lovingly, and he felt a flush of heat wash through his body. Sam's hands drifted in slow circles over his back, causing Frodo's thoughts to stop short and his knees to weaken but the pain in his shoulder melted away. Why did Sam care so much, when he had his own life and his own love? He doesn't love her…
Sam was taking the towel from him, but he was warmer now from emotion and Sam's comfort, and he felt a blush rise through him as he stood there tired and damp and naked. Sam's hand came to rest for a moment on his left arm, which was still cold and numb, then stroked upward to the reawakened morgul wound. Frodo turned his head and lowered his eyes, but Sam caught his chin and stared at him intensely, his scrutiny breaking only when he mistook Frodo's slight trembling for a shiver. Frodo tried to abate his pounding heartbeat as Sam took up Frodo's robe and a thick blanket and bundled him in both, hesitating now and returning his gaze to Frodo's eyes. "Shall I tuck you into bed?"
He said it so simply, so innocently, and yet the words awoke in Frodo something else entirely. He thought Sam would unabashedly crawl into bed with him and hold him if Frodo only asked...but such comforts were improper now. And there was nothing for him--it is gone, gone, and all is dark and empty--he was left alone in the Black Lands, naked to the deadly keen aim of the Eye. Lost, useless and wounded he lay as carrion for Sauron's gloating capture, drawing evil to him and all those near.
"Leave me, Sam," Frodo insisted painfully. "Don't let this corruption touch you."
Sam took his arm firmly and calmly. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I sure as can't leave you. I'm not sure what you mean, but rest easy and your Sam will drive this foul thing away."
Sam supported him under his shoulders as he swayed weakly, and together they moved slowly through the corridor with Rosie soon accosting them, having been busy with tea and soup and blankets. Soon Frodo was settled comfortably in bed with a fire burning high in the grate, having hot mushroom soup pressed upon him by a determined Sam. He ate as much as he could and felt himself fall back into an exhausted doze, his eyelids dropping shut.
Rosie's voice drifted through the buzzing in his ears. "Sam, oughtn't we send for the healer?"
"There's nothing as can be done by medicines and herb-lore," Sam sighed regretfully. "Mr. Gandalf said so."
"What is this sickness, that we can do nothing to heal? It happened in March, though you weren't here, and he gave us all a terrible scare. We'd forgotten about it."
"It's the work of the enemy," Sam whispered, his voice blurring as if Frodo were being sucked underwater.
"You said he was so strong that naught could overcome him, and that he saved the Shire. When will you tell me what really happened?"
O, Sam... He tried to clutch at Sam's arm, but he couldn't even open his eyes, and the world seemed to melt away from him.
He was in a dark passageway thick with cobwebs and throbbing with evil. All around him were noises of breathing and rustling as if hundreds of foul creatures lay in wait, but there was no escape, with only Sam's hand clasped in his for protection. He could not even see him, for it was pitch black and they stumbled not knowing if their next step would send them into a chasm. Frodo felt the terror slowly lose its edge, as if he were resigning himself to darkness and dread--he stopped and held Sam back. He felt like he was falling already...
"Must we go on, dear Sam?"
But he couldn't hear Sam's reply, and he was frightened. He pulled him close in his arms so he could feel him, smell him, and know he was there. He listened for Sam's breath, he whispered into his ear.
"Sam, I don't want to go on. Sam, I love you. Let us stay here, and forget it all."
Still Sam did not reply. He was heavy and motionless in Frodo's arms. Frodo pressed his lips down on Sam's mouth, but no breath issued there. No heartbeat rocked his broad chest. His head fell limp upon Frodo's breast.
"No Sam, no...wake up, oh please wake up! I love you, Sam."
"Sam? Don't leave me..." He struggled to open his eyes. Morning sunlight warmed his face and there were hot water bottles all about his cold left side. A hand rubbed his shoulder and wiped a damp cloth over his brow. "O, Sam," Frodo whispered. "I can't bear it. I love you Sam, I love you."
"Sam's gone outside, Mr. Frodo," Rosie's voice came to him. "He's looking for some kingsfoil, as he said it may do you good."
He met reality with panic. I love you Sam, I love you. He had let out his secret. He tried to sit up, wanting to get away but also needing to see Rosie's face. "I was dreaming," he explained weakly. "Nightmares, brought on by this darkness--"
"Don't speak, you need to rest." Rosie's expression was unreadable. She stood back a bit, not touching him. How heavily did she weigh Frodo's words? For a long time, or so it seemed to Frodo, they simply stared at each other.
"Sam won't tell me what happened," she said finally. "Not everything, anyhow. But I'm no fool. Others may not care, or notice, but I know my Sam isn't the same, and maybe he won't never be. And Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin." She took a deep breath and resettled the coverlet over Frodo. "Folks whisper about them a great deal, and I reckon most of what they say is true, although I keep my mouth shut about it. What is it about your Journey that has turned all of you inwards, so's you can't seem to love anyone but each other?" These last words were spoken in a gasp, and Rosie began to scramble away with shining eyes.
Frodo had not the strength to follow after her, but still he tried to get out of the bed. "Please, Rose! Forget what I said. I was just dreaming."
She was almost weeping now, but for her fierce stubbornness. "I know I'm losing him, Mr. Frodo. It's not only you. He has dark memories too sometimes, and he won't tell me..."
Frodo was at a loss, still in shock, wondering if Sam was as blind as he had been to the peril of his marriage. Eventually he found his voice. "It was Sam who was strong, Rosie," Frodo said. "I was nothing without him. By the end, I could do nothing for myself. Please don't be angry with him for keeping the dark tales to himself."
She did not reply, for Sam had come in the front door. By the time he arrived in Frodo's room, they had both composed themselves as if nothing had happened. Sam passed a handful of athelas to Rosie and told her to steep it in hot water.
"Better now?" Sam asked softly.
Frodo closed his eyes, for once in his life hoping Sam might leave him alone. Instead, a chaste kiss caressed his hand, mocking him for all that he could not have.
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TBC. I continue to appreciate all your comments!
