In the Grey Twilight

The first part of this chapter is from Rosie's POV. I understand the abundance of slash readers, myself included, don't really care for Rosie--in fact, my partner wishes I would turn her into a goat. But I think it is necessary to portray her sympathetically.  We can't wish her away; she demands to be dealt with. And she's a force to be reckoned with: I find she's the biggest challenge in F/S. Without her, it wouldn't matter if Frodo and Sam ever spoke of their feelings; if they were together alone, there would be no need for them to think about the depth of their bond. But Rosie's presence complicates things.

I also want to add that the next chapter will have some welcome optimism!  I hope everyone can hold out!

*

Rose Cotton set the last dish back in the cupboard and wiped her hands on her apron, staring out the window. The sky was grey and sunless above, and the trees were barren; Sam's garden was a mere skeleton of trellises and snow-capped yellow stalks. Still, if she looked far across the field she could see bright banners flying and the small warm glow of many lanterns, for it was Yule's eve. She wished Bag End were more bright and festive, not frozen in furtive waiting, and wondered why she was at such a loss to bring light to her husband's eyes.

Sam was sitting before the fire, and Rosie heard a soft singing voice drift through the hole like smoke from Sam's evening pipe.

"Here at journey's end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Stars for ever dwell:

I will not say the day is done,

nor bid the day farewell."

She could not bring herself to go to him, not just yet, feeling haunted by ghosts whose names she would never know. It was unusual for her to be so unsettled by a simple, beautiful song, but somehow she guessed a horde of secrets lay locked in those towers strong and high. Wistfully she threw a glance at her sewing basket, where her present for Sam waited nearly finished, but she could not bear to sit alone in silence and work on it. She would busy herself with baking, until the hole smelled warm and honeyed with the coming celebrations, and then Sam would come to her for a slow embrace and it would be all right.

From the window she saw a small figure coming up the path and she stopped breathing. She knew it would be Mr. Frodo, and the evening would tumble out of her hands with Sam drawn away from her as a moth to a candle-flame. Unwilling to lose him just yet, she went lightly to the door and opened it.   

"Nibs!" she cried, seeing only her youngest brother, shovel in hand. "Get on home! I'm sure pa has enough work for you there."

He shrugged unhappily. "But I've got an arrangement. Mr. Frodo gave me a job, he did."

"I'm sure he wouldn't expect you to work today, Nibs, it's just that he's still not back yet. But come in and have some tea and warm up, would you?"

The lad made his way into the smial, looking apologetically at the snow he'd tracked over Frodo's floor. Rosie smiled overzealously, trying to set him at ease, for she hated the way her family avoided visiting and how uncomfortable they looked when she persuaded them to come for dinner. Because it was Mr. Frodo's smial, and his fine things were alien to hobbits used to homemade earthenware and wooden cutlery. They had grown to love and respect Frodo when he lived at their smial while Bag End was being repaired, but the span of class distinctions simply couldn't be crossed.

"Pa wishes you'd come home for Yule," Nibs said, looking dubiously at the fine teacup Rosie set on the table before him. "He don't understand why you'd want to have supper all alone up here."

"Well I told him he could bring the family to Bag End, but that was out of the question." She swatted the ridiculous hat off his head. "Sup your tea while it's hot or you won't get any cake."  

"I wish you'd come too. Why'd you have to stay holed up here?"

"We can't leave Mr. Frodo all alone, can we?" she said with a lightness that edged on sarcasm. 

"But ain't he still in Crickhollow? He's been gone a month now."

Just then Sam came into the kitchen and Rosie bit back her retort, watching as he stared at Nibs and made his way to the window. He leaned against it but there was nothing casual in his manner; indeed his entire body was tense and he peered out anxiously. 

"He said he'd be home for Yule," Sam murmured in disbelief. Tiredness had made its home in his shoulders, though his garden was under two feet of snow and he didn't have any planting to do over the fields. He seemed ill, yet there were no symptoms she could take to a healer, and seemingly naught that she could do, though keeping the scent of kingsfoil in the smial eased his sleep. 

Seeing his pale face and feeling sorry, Rosie reached out to him, her touch on his bowed back fluttering as if she feared being burned. "It's a bit of a rough journey during the winter, Sam, but I'm sure he'll come along as soon as he can. Will you have something to eat?"

"I just don't understand," Sam replied, seeming to speak to himself. "He belongs at Bag End."

Nibs shifted, distinctly uncomfortable. Rosie wondered how much of this would reach her parents' ears, and said calmly, "Maybe he's found himself a nice lass."

"Not from what I've heard," Nibs muttered under his breath.

Rosie sat down hard at the table, her knees simply giving out from under her, causing tea to spill over and stain the pristine tablecloth a sickly, aged yellow.

"Rose?" Sam turned at last, taking her shoulders. But she shrugged him off and stood too quickly, righting the tea cups and yanking the tablecloth fiercely from the table. She threw it into the sink and doused it with cold water. 

"Rose, sit Rose," Sam pleaded. Finally she surrendered, nearly falling into Sam's arms, feeling his gentle strength. Still she trembled, unable to stop, fear rushing through her. Sam's skin was cold against her cheek. Cold like the windows where the frost crept up. Cold like October. I love you Sam, I love you...

"O Sam," she said softly as he lowered her back into the chair. She grasped his cold hands, hopeless to warm them, until she placed them on her swollen abdomen. 

"Can you feel the baby kick, Sam, can you?"

Slowly he smiled. Colour seemed to blossom on his face, and his hands grew a little warmer. "Hard to believe it's real, if you follow me."

Nibs was fidgeting, glancing nervously between Sam and Rosie. "I'm sure pa could use my hand at something, as you said, so I'd best be off. Happy Yule." He was out the door within seconds with a piece of cake under his arm and a cold draft gusted through the hall. 

Rosie wanted to wrap herself around Sam to drive away his shivering. Though it was not late, it was dark already, and she thought they could climb into bed and he would be warm at last under the heavy quilts.

"I forgot how dark it gets these days, right around supper time," Sam murmured as he stroked her stomach. "Makes you think the days'll get shorter and shorter until the sun just quits, and stays buried under the hills."

Again she heard malicious whisperings of some ancient ghost. She let her head fall back onto his breast, and looked up into his eyes. "Please, Sam, let's go to bed. You're cold."

"It's heavy," he said, his face pained.

"What? O, tell me."

He placed his hand at the centre of his chest. "It's heavy, and I remember it now, though at the time I didn't hardly think of it. I lost him once, Rose." His voice thickened and he paused, looking down at her as if making a desperate appeal. "But I had to leave him, and it was so heavy then. It's heavy now. He can still feel it around his neck, and I think I can feel it too."

Rosie swallowed, shaking her head. It rushed at her like galloping horses, a thousand irreconcilable emotions all at once, and she realized she could not bear to hear that which she so desperately needed to hear. "Please. Don't. Please let's go to bed."

He sat back on his heels, and she twisted in the chair, trying ineffectually to pull him to his feet. He escaped her grip to stand on his own, and went to the sink where the tablecloth lay soaking. "I've some things I ought to do for Yule...I wanted the Gaffer to come, but since he's not, I better bring some things for the family."

Rosie looked away, a long silent sigh issuing from her trembling lips. "Yes," she whispered. "I've some things to do too." Quickly she kissed him on the cheek, thinking she might break down in front of him if she lingered. "Goodnight, Sam."

She brought her sewing basket into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, pulling a blanket around her. Still her mind quaked like the dying sobs of a cried-out child. Sam had asked her if there was anything in particular she wanted for Yule, and she'd feigned to think on it. But if she could have one thing in the world, like casting a wish into a well, she'd want to turn time back to Sam's return from his journey. They never had a proper courting. There was never that flush of anticipation or discovery; they had never learned the stories of each other's lives. Sam had tossed in his sleep last night, murmuring words she couldn't understand, of tales he never told her. Shelob, he'd said. What did it mean?  

Tears traced down her face unbidden. She was afraid to know. Sam was far away in that tower strong and high, hidden where she could not reach him. And, she knew painfully, he was searching for Frodo.

* * * *

Peregrin Took swung his sword like a stave, letting his cloak stream behind him despite the piercing December air that crept up his chest and struck at his arms. Jauntily he walked, and it seemed more an afternoon stroll than the quiet four o'clock in the morning retreat to his smial, after the raucous and wonderful Party that had left Brandy Hall in veritable shambles. Yet someone who knew him well might see he was a spring ready to snap, and what with his shining mail he looked like a tin soldier wound too tightly. In a fury he dipped and smacked between his palms a ball of snow, whirling as he had danced all night long to lob it smartly at his cousin.

It rapped Meriadoc soundly between the shoulders, merely an insult to his hauberk, but he was not prepared and it knocked him off balance. He landed with a strong oath on his backside in the soft snow.

Pippin marched back to his lover and offered his hand, and after glaring for a moment, Merry took it. The wind stirred around them, sending a spray of glittering snowflake jewels, and Pippin's eyes sought southward, standing bold with his sword firm in his hand. Merry rubbed his bleary eyes, standing a pace behind and not seeing much of anything.

"Do you never tire, Pippin?" Merry wondered. "This was the longest Yule yet, if only because I can remember it all. A curse on soberness, I abstain for naught but to worry. I'm tired, Pip. What are you staring at? Are you listening? We have to figure out what to do for Frodo."

Pippin watched stars glimmer off his blade, the edge frosted white. In his mind's eye he beheld the White Tower, banners blazing from it as if flame, and gilded by a noble trumpet's cry. Horses rode in, horses he would ride or be trampled in trying. 

"Have some wine and go to bed, Mer. I'll look in on him."

"Will you not come to bed with me?" Merry tried to smile. "There's yet one more Yule present I can give you."  

Pippin stopped before the gate and plucked icicles from the fence beam, breaking them with a sharp crack and letting them fall as deadly arrows. Soon his hands were wet and slick and numb...like Merry's slow, sweat-soaked palm as he tried to hold it tonight. So! Merry! his drunken father had shouted, clapping him hard on the back. We know you're fond of young Peregrin, but if you're to be Master then you'd better take up a lass. And you mind they won't wait forever--at your age you've got a late start. There had been some cheering at that, and Merry bowed, non-committal, wrestling out of Pippin's grip. It was madness. They were all blind but to that which they wanted to see, mistaking Pippin even in his armour for just a young lad. Worse still, they saw the two cousins building a life together and dismissed it for a temporary matter of convenience.

"The King said he would recall us to duty one day," Pippin murmured. "I wish it were sooner rather than later."

Merry's hands closed in on his shoulders, his squeezing futile against the mail beneath his cloak. His hands slipped down and under instead, rubbing at Pippin's soft belly. "We've enough to keep us happy in the Shire, don't you think? I feel no need for Men and barracks and sentinel-duty."

Pippin was silent, frozen and serious under the ink-black starscape. When he felt Merry's hands fold around his own cold ones, the warmth shocking him like sparks from a hearth, he let himself lean back against him. He knew Merry did not understand his restlessness, wanting to find peace and easiness and never let it go. He turned a bit and kissed his lover lightly on the neck.

"Let's get in. I'm putting you to bed with a glass of wine and a backrub. And maybe a kiss or two."

"We shouldn't have stayed so late," Merry said, walking up the round front door. "Him not wanting to go to Yule and all. I don't understand it. Missing Yule. He's torturing himself here."

"We ought to take him back to Bag End," Pippin suggested. 

"That's no way to treat him."

"We'll talk about it in the morning, Mer." 

As promised, Pippin steered Merry into the bedroom and began to help him out of his mail, his nimble, all-too-sober fingers making quick work of the fastenings. Soon it fell loose and rippled to the floor like a silver flood breaking through a dike, a lovely laughing noise. Merry followed suit and they stood admiring each other, bare-chested and hushed. A kiss followed, brief but tender and over-ripe with pain, but when Merry sighed Pippin pummelled him, throwing him down on the bed and sitting on his hips.

"Let's get some horses," he said, threatening to tickle him. "No one would think I was so young if I could ride circles round them on a big steed."

Merry smiled sympathetically. "We'll talk about it in the morning, Pip."

Cuffing him playfully, Pippin jumped off the bed with a look that warned Merry to stay put. Yule-songs buzzed in his ears as he padded down the corridor to the wine-cellar. Passing the pantry, he saw a tempting plate of holiday-themed sugar cookies and thought about making off with them, but then he had a better idea. He poured out a small mug of ale and took it along with the cookie platter down to Frodo's room. He was careful to open the door quietly so as not to disturb his cousin, but he felt sad that Frodo had missed out on such a grand feast, and part of him wanted to wake him up and throw a Party right in his bedroom.

He tiptoed in, met by a frenzy of torn and crumpled paper strewn about the room, but his cousin was safely tucked in bed, curled up facing the window. Pippin put the plate and the mug down on his nightstand. Perhaps Frodo would awake before morning rose, and he would find his treasure there. Pippin's mother used to do that when he was young and prone to nightmares after too many of Bilbo's scary tales, and although Pippin knew Frodo came to Crickhollow hoping he could look after himself, Frodo seemed to need more than either Merry or Pippin could give. Turning away from Frodo, he stared out at the battlefield of a bedroom.

He crouched there on the floor, his hand stealing among scraps of paper. Some of the ink was splotched and glittering, freshly laid, and smudged thickly across his fingers cursing him for spying on his cousin. He had experienced much and knew curiosity could be sharply punished; it happened that he was loath to snatch stones that might roll by in offering. Yes, he would never again place a rock beneath a sleeping wizard's elbow, but he could not drag himself away from his sleeping cousin's bedroom. His blackened fingers rustled a page and held it up almost to his nose, trying in the dimness to decipher handwriting which scrawled out and diminished like a gull wheeling in the wind.

...and upon learning of this tale, most are stricken by curiosity about the Ring, to know its quality and its likeness, and indeed some are fascinated that I had it in my keeping for so long, foolishly begrudging my chance to touch it. Yet real men of strength and virtue know differently, and as one such fair warrior said to me, "Not if I found it on the highway would I take it."  Still it seems I have been made an expert on matters of the Ring and perhaps there is no question I cannot answer in its respect.

First I will describe its look, which was of richest unscathed gold. It bore an air of unwholesome perfection, as if its beauty were at once overwhelming and terrible to behold. It had power of its own to change size, and when I most wanted to put it on, it became very small and warm and delightful to touch. Most often it was bitterly cold and bore down upon me with a crushing weight. It grew heavier as I walked further into Mordor, and its power weakened me.  

To a great extent I was truly within the Ring's grasp. I was possessed by it; my thoughts turned endlessly upon it. So like a twisted love affair, a needy obsession, half-drunk and clawing through terrifying hallucinations. You see, the One Ring had me hard but my One Companion did too. Both golden, both powerful; one vile and dark, one pure and bright. I was caught between them both, this Ring-lust and my Samwise. It doesn't bear thinking about, for how could I befoul my dear Sam, how could I draw him into this wanting, which flowed out from the rotten mire of the Ring's power? I mean to say, the corruption of the Ring was a lasting taint, which diseased even the fairest of emotions and intentions. My Sam, I loved him, so I drew the fate of the world into my hands and walked forward; but didn't I love the Ring too, and didn't that make me forever unworthy?   

To lose the Ring was to lose all things, since it had taken them from me. It meant to come home, to the place I'd warmed in my mind with yearning, and feel myself a stranger. One thing I had left, for the Ring gave me one respite...but how quickly I lost him too, and sometimes now they seem one and the same... For despite everything it was a love that could not be, a love doomed to silence, and I was burdened by keen recognition of my defilement. I would not pollute him thus, nor would I steal from him his fortune, his family, simply because I have none of my own. 

Pippin put the paper down and did not reach for another, sitting back on his heels and feeling quietude overcome him, his thoughts dropping like stones. You saved the Shire that others might keep it. I never meant to be ungrateful, Frodo. Pippin looked upon him, saddened and remorseful, feeling like all the contentment of his life henceforth was stolen from his cousin. Could no one give him back what he lost? Could no one give him all that he deserved?

Frodo had reluctantly told them what had happened during his illness, and why he thought he couldn't return to Bag End so long as Rosie and Sam lived there. But Pippin thought, nay he knew that Sam loved Frodo, although the issue was thornier than a brier patch. And Frodo deserved Sam's love. He needs him, Pippin thought. It's crazy what he could have had. It was painful to think on what his life could have been, had fate been fonder to him. Bilbo and Gandalf used to say that Frodo was the best hobbit in the Shire.

Certainly Frodo had been hasty. Perhaps Rosie didn't grasp what he had accidentally revealed. Perhaps if Frodo spoke up, Sam could understand and make his own decisions. There were choices yet, and surely Frodo didn't have to remain hidden away in his self-imposed exile. Pippin shook his head, set firm in determination. What was to be done? Someone had to take action, and quickly.

Last night he heard Frodo and Merry talking.

"What will you do when your book is done? Pippin's been anxious to go South; maybe you could come for a spell. The King could read your book, and we're known throughout the City so you'd be comfortable there. They would honour you."

Frodo spoke slowly, as if tired beyond hope of sleep. "I have considered it, but Rivendell draws me. I keep thinking about how lonely Bilbo must be without any hobbits for companionship. He and I have an understanding beyond mere kinship...he knows he's lost something...I should go and stay with him. I owe him that much. No, don't say anything--I didn't mean to tell you this, but I'm resolved. As soon as I've finished my book, I shall leave, and leave alone."

What was to be done, what was to be done? Hadn't Sam's letters to Crickhollow, which Frodo pretended not to read, seemed thick with his own blood and pain? Perhaps Sam needed him too. 

Glancing at his cousin to see that he still slept soundly, he opened a desk-drawer and took out some stationary. The little card was purple and gold and silver with an inlay of thin tissue and upon this Pippin carefully scribed a song:

Come as you are or wear your best,

Come alone or bring a guest.

No matter how, just make your way

To Crickhollow for New Year's day!

He addressed the envelope to Samwise Gamgee, and stuck it safely in his pocket. Then he padded back to his room, where his lover lay softly snoring. He kissed him on the cheek and settled contentedly at his side, resting his head in the crook of Merry's neck. He knew there could be no better place for him.

He would tell Merry in the morning.

*

TBC. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Happy holidays, everyone!