In The Grey Twilight

I'm dreadfully sorry it's taken so long to post this chapter. It might help you to know that my habit is to write sections at different points in the story-line, and then put them into order later. For instance, I have written about 20 pages of material for later chapters, including the ending. ^_^

Great thanks to all the reviewers! Inkstain, I'm glad to have you back. Thanks as always for your careful insights. Shirebound and A Elbereth, thanks for being loyal supporters and for writing such great stories of your own! Haeharmaiel, Reishin, Isildae and KJS, I'm gratified to hear you appreciate how I've tried to portray Rosie. Your encouragement helped me out!

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Samwise Gamgee felt his heart stop. He stood before the Took-Brandybuck smial, away in the snow-covered garden, where no one noticed him. His eyes bore strange witness, just as his nerves quaked unsteadily and often his hand sought his sword-hilt, only to be anxiously reminded of its absence. Indeed it had taken all his wits to convince him to leave his sword behind, untouched in the dusty chest in which it lay. Unarmed, crouching and tense, he watched as visions of orcs streamed before his eyes. There was a small crowd of them, set at a march for the gate, and Frodo was secured in the thick of it, seen only in glimpses. Sam inched forward and clung to a tree-stump, kneeling in the snow as if it were grass.   

A few heartbeats, then the horde disappeared, and Frodo with them. Sam cursed but did not despair. Before him lay a closed gate and then an impenetrable door, and beyond that was a dark mystery, but Sam would go on until he found his master, or was defeated. He rose cautiously and moved hurriedly through the hushed snow, pushing open the gate all at once.

"I'm coming, Mr. Frodo!" he called, making a mad dash for the door, even as a terrible weight on his neck dragged him down. There, standing on the little stoop before the great round door, he held his breath, and pounded upon it. Then he waited, and from within he heard noises that chilled his spine. There was yelling and shouting, so loud that perhaps none would hear his knock. But his will did not waver and he brought out Galadriel's phial from his breast, and throwing his weight upon the door until it gave, he toppled into the fire-lit foyer. Shadows crowded the walls and cries met his ears. When the shock cleared he caught a soul-wrenching sound: a voice, so like his master's, faintly singing.

He ran, holding out his light before him, coming through tunnels and chasing his master's voice. The corridor opened to a room, and he halted hard. He thrust the phial back into his bosom and gave himself a count of three, and then he charged. 

The room was dark but for the red fire, and seemingly empty. Sam turned about in desperation, and then he saw a shadow sitting upon the bed, holding a piece of paper in his hand. It was Frodo.

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear! It's Sam, I've come!" He flew to the side of the bed and took Frodo up in his arms, nearly blinded by tears.

"Sam?" Frodo said, startled. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me, I'm here." The panic and fear drained out of his blood and left him shaking like a child awoken from a nightmare. But Frodo was in his arms, safe and alive, and suddenly a weight of darkness seemed to topple from his shoulders, and a black mist cleared before his eyes. Confusion rocked him back and forth slowly as does the tide of the sea. Yes, he was safe, and wasn't everything all right? He had come. His mind worked furiously. It was Merry and Pippin's New Year's party, and the smial was full of guests...it seemed he had been living out a dream, thinking he was in that terrible tower again. Imagining the Ring hanging at his breast, and of Frodo in the hands of the orcs. Hastily he blinked away his tears and tried to comprehend the strangeness that had come over him. 

"Sam, what, what are you doing here?" Frodo pulled back enough to look at him, wondering at his face. 

"Don't mind," Sam stuttered, "don't mind me, Mr. Frodo. I'm here is all."

"But what's the matter? You're sweating."

"It was hard-going travel all the way from Hobbiton." He took a steadying breath and anchored himself in Frodo's eyes, assuring himself of this reality, and letting the nightmare fade. I've been dreaming of that awful time all month, seemingly. He reached inside his vest and took out Frodo's star-light, holding it in offering. "You left it behind, Mr. Frodo, and I felt sore about it. I thought you'd want it."

"Sam..." Frodo said as he took up the phial. "Thank you. But to come all this way, alone in the winter, and Rosie--what is it, what's happened, what has she said?" His tone changed suddenly and his eyes were at once fierce and afraid.

"Nothing, Mr. Frodo, nothing. Everything is all right now." And indeed as he said it he felt a great lightness of his heart, and a quickening of joy. He held Frodo's hand tightly and he wanted to kiss it, but held back.

"Am I dreaming?" Frodo asked in earnest, though he too began to smile. "You look like an elf-warrior."

Sam blushed, casting his eyes down on himself. He wore his elven cloak and broach, and a brown and gold sweater Rosie had knit for him, complete with a swirling elven design she had copied from a picture in one of Frodo's books. He couldn't say why he'd wanted to wear such things any more than he could say why he'd been so compelled to bring his sword. 

"I'd say we should hope we're awake, because it's a fair sight better than the alternative," he said shyly. Now that he was here, he was hard put to restrain himself from scrutinizing Frodo head to toe, as if to read upon him what the past month had brought. He felt he could stand forever in that warm room with Frodo's hand firm in his, and so long as they were both safe nothing else mattered. "Glory and trumpets," he murmured softly.

He didn't know what else to say, but the silence begged for words and he wanted to know how Frodo was feeling, and what he had been doing in Crickhollow. Instead he picked up the paper Frodo had dropped.

"What's this?"

"A song I wrote for Merry and Pippin, in honour of the occasion. You'll find this is no ordinary party--they're trying to prove themselves to their families. We've been cooking for two days straight, and they bought almost all the mushrooms Farmer Maggot had in his stores."

"And I bet Pervinca will eat them all!" Pippin cried cheerily, bursting in with Merry behind him.

They just barely heard Merry whisper fiercely, "Out, Pip! Leave them be!" But Pippin paid him no mind.

"You frightened her terribly, Sam, she thought you were some intruder. Shame on you, sneaking around the smial like that!"

"Are you all right, Sam?" Merry asked seriously and somewhat apologetically. "How was the trip from Hobbiton?"

Frodo's hand tightened on Sam's, then let go, raising his eyebrows at his cousins. "You conspirators have been at it again, I see," he said shrewdly.

"You leave us little choice, Frodo Baggins!" Pippin said. "But don't you blame old Sam, he wasn't our chief investigator this time. We just sent him an invitation in the mail."

"How am I ever to trust you?" Frodo accused, but Sam could see he was close to laughing.

"O, we're not to be trusted, that's for sure. Sam, since you left the door open and warmed up half of Crickhollow, you can help me get some more firewood."

The moment broken, Sam looked back on Frodo as if to make sure he knew his face perfectly, then went along with Pippin. The smial had become so warm and now that he was out in the cold air he felt completely refreshed. There was something to praise also in the heavy swing of the axe and the reassuring split of the wood, the motion being something his muscles were familiar with. Moreover, the work outdoors helped to clear his mind which had grown quite thick with questions, and all that mattered now was that he was happy, and things were almost perfect.

Once they'd set out a sufficient pile of wood, Sam and Pippin watched the fall of evening appreciatively. "We're very glad you came," Pippin said sincerely.

"I'm thankful to be here, for sure, but why didn't you tell Mr. Frodo I was coming?" Sam asked carefully.

Pippin sighed melodramatically. "He's as stubborn a Baggins as they come. But he needs you, and he can't admit it."

"He doesn't want to be a burden," Sam murmured.

"He doesn't want you torn in two, Sam."

"But I told him...when I married Rose...we moved in with him because..."

Pippin waited patiently, but Sam clamped his mouth shut, not trusting himself. He didn't know why it had to be so difficult. Sometimes life seemed much simpler when it was just him and Frodo and the long road ahead of them. He'd left Rosie to stay with the Cottonses, and she had been unhappy at his taking the trip to Crickhollow. These days it seemed he didn't know what she was thinking, and painfully he found it hard to understand Mr. Frodo too.  

"Has Mr. Frodo been well?" Sam asked abruptly, unable to hold it in any longer. "He never answered my letters, and I was right worried, even though you said you were looking after him."

"He's been all right, nothing out of the ordinary. He's been working hard at his book, and he's let us read some parts to test how accurately he's setting out the tale, but I bet he's just hoping for approval and applause. It's been a quiet month, mostly."

"He doesn't sleep real good, you know, and he forgets to eat if no one's there to remind him..."

"We know, Sam. Merry and I wouldn't let you down."

"It's just that he was barely recovered from that bout when he went, and all. He never did say why he was leaving. I've been thinking all sorts."

Pippin smiled sympathetically and Sam felt unaccountably embarrassed.  "Here I am jabbering when there's things to do," he muttered, and moved to pick up the axe, but Pippin stayed his hand.

"Sam? How have you been doing?"

"I don't rightly know," Sam honestly and plainly replied. "It seems as I've been sick, though not something as you'd call a healer about."

He looked off into the sky, dark and clear and unspoiled, and then closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, he could still see it, and feel its beauty all the way through his skin. There was no dread, nothing that might creep over him and make his hackles rise. He opened his eyes again and he wanted to go back to the smial and sit by Frodo's side. He'd long stopped wishing to have things back as they used to be, before Bilbo left and the Ring made its presence known, but just a moment of contentment on his master's face was a good second-best.     

"There was this uneasiness, and strange dreams, and bad memories...of that monster Shelob, and the tower, and the Ring. But now it's disappeared like pipe-smoke and I feel like jumping. I've never seen such a beautiful winter night. It's almost as like everything got turned new with the change of the year."

Pippin's eyes were understanding, which Sam hadn't expected. "He might go back with you," he said quietly. 

Sam swallowed. He kicked at the snow, keeping his face down, a swarm of feelings upon him like hornets. A hot blush crept up his cheeks, and he thought about giving up talking altogether, but words bolted from his lips: "I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't."

He hadn't meant to say it, he hadn't even heard the thought before it was out of his mouth. And now it floated in the very air between them, visible like their frosted breath.  

Pippin was brisk. "Forget about that for now. You're at a party, and it's a very good party, in my opinion. We want you to enjoy yourself."

Sam nodded, because he knew how to hold onto a moment and make it last. He knew how to look past the storm; he knew where to find that last patch of clear sky. He was more alive than he had felt in ages.

He told Pippin he would take care of the wood, mostly because he wanted a second alone, here where it was beautiful and the air was cool and his spirit flew. He collected the wood into his arms and thought about Mr. Frodo. He knew he had been out of his head when he got here; visions of orcs had pulled him into some dark place. But the joy of finding him had been real...and just as it had been the first time, it was not enough merely to find him. He would have to take Frodo home.

He took the wood into the smial, then thought he'd feed the fire in the sitting-room. Most of the guests were gathered there, relatives of Merry and Pippin and Frodo whom Sam didn't know, all of them laughing in boisterous conversations. Sam received a few odd looks and he wondered shamefully just who had seen him running through the smial like a mad thing. Frodo was not in the room, but he spied him near the kitchen, which steamed gloriously and almost dripped with its rich fragrances.  

Sam hesitated when he saw Frodo talking to an older lady. He supposed he ought to turn away and quit eavesdropping, but he was too good at being quiet and unnoticed: he was a natural spy, and his spying seemed to happen without him ever intending it. Mostly, anyway, for he occasionally prided himself on being a good chief investigator. This time he merely leaned against the wall and tried to watch without staring, captivated as it were, and perhaps feeling protective. For the lady had tears in her eyes and she looked sadly down at Frodo's right hand. Frodo quickly hid it in his pocket, trying to smile and stand straighter.

"I've thought of you often," the lady was saying. "I'm so glad to see you again. I know you've looked out for Merry, and I want to thank you for that."

Frodo seemed awkward. "I cannot say I looked after him very well, Esmeralda," he said, "but he came through on his own. Are you not very proud of him?"

"O yes, oh yes.  But Frodo, what's...what's become of you?" She closed her eyes and seemed to regret her words, but carefully she took Frodo's right elbow and eased his hand into view, and clasped it. "There's nothing I can do to help anymore, is there? Nothing so simple as a tweenager's nightmare." She had an astute gaze and a compassion that reminded Sam of his own mother.

"You're very dear to me," Frodo replied softly.

"My dear, you've been here all month and you haven't seen us."

"I'm sorry." His master's eyes glittered and his voice broke. He shook his head as if to express futility, but he caught sight of Sam instead. Frodo gave him a small smile before looking back at Esmeralda.

The lady looked like she wanted to embrace him, but settled for running her free hand over his hair and down his cheek. "Just remember, dear, I care for you as I did years ago, before Bilbo adopted you. I care for you as my own Merry. And I think...maybe Bilbo should never have left you."

Frodo's face and voice were strained. "But he had to go, he couldn't stay. It was too much for him. Has Merry told you nothing?"

"He's said a lot," she admitted, with a helpless look about her. "He's said so much, I can't tell the beginning from the end. Horror stories..."

"O, never mind that. Never mind." 

"I can't. I've always wanted the best for you. Ever since that horrible accident that took your parents, I  wanted fate to somehow intervene. And now I look into your eyes and I'm afraid. What's happened? What's this secret, this riddle, this thing that's robbed you?"

"You can't know, Esmeralda. You weren't meant to. As much as Merry drives you mad with stories that must seem like fantasies to your ears, we were fighting so that the Shire might never know what black things had happened in the world beyond it. Even Bilbo doesn't seem to understand anymore, and I'd hoped he would. But don't think I've been alone," he said. "I have Sam. Come, meet him." He led her by the hand and startled Sam by coming upon him, and Frodo wiped his eyes and laughed. "Samwise, my Sam, he has a knack for making my business his. Sam, this is Esmeralda Brandybuck. She's my elder cousin, like Bilbo--my aunt at Brandy Hall."

"I remember that much from your stories," Sam stammered, fighting down his own emotion. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

The lady gazed thoughtfully upon them both. "Perhaps I can tell you some stories you haven't heard, Sam, of Frodo when he was very young. But for now we're due for supper, and these things must wait."   

Esmeralda squeezed Sam's hand warmly, gratitude in her eyes mixed with the lingering tears. "Thank you, Sam," she added quietly.

Sam couldn't manage a reply, but he bowed his head respectfully. At his side Frodo was chuckling delicately, chasing some childhood memory, and Sam felt strangely peaceful. It was as like things weren't perfect, but they were good enough, and all sorrows could be sent away by being grateful for what they had left.

The dining hall was exquisitely impressive to any hobbit's senses. Sam wanted to hang back, observe from a distance, and perhaps take a role he was familiar with, of serving and working and being useful. Laughter exploded around him after Merry's stern-faced father said something to Pippin, some kind of family joke that Sam didn't understand. Someone started up a song as they sought out their seats and Sam didn't know the words, but Frodo embraced his shoulders supportively.

"We'll have to keep each other company tonight, I imagine. I hope you don't mind. It's Merry and Pippin's night, after all, and we're here mainly to cheer them on."

"I'm looking forward to hearing your song, Mr. Frodo. Shall I clear the table so you can stand on it?" Sam teased. 

"Come along!" Merry said suddenly, forcing himself between them and linking arms with them both. "You're sitting up at the front of the table, with Pippin and I. Set a good example and sit quietly so we can start supper before the sun rises."  He left them just as quickly, herding in a small group of younger cousins and maintaining authority at the same time to properly greet late-coming elder guests. Sam noted that Pippin, also absorbed in his duties as host, appeared to be a handful of years older than he was--and by the pride in his face, Pippin seemed well aware of this. 

As they were settling into their seats an older hobbit strode up beside Frodo, a glass of ale in his hand and a look of business on his face. He plunked the ale down on the table and spoke as soon as Frodo glanced up at him.

"Well there, Frodo Baggins. I must say I'm glad to finally have words with you. I've a few things on my mind, that mayhaps you can help me sort out."

"I'd be happy to hear you out, Paladin," Frodo said, and Sam thought his words were guarded. With good reason, probably, for the gentlehobbit's manner was dark and stern.

"Indeed? Well we'll see. But who's this lad who's been running after you?" Paladin indicated Sam with a dismissive gesture.

"This is Samwise Gamgee, and he is my friend. Sam, this is Pippin's father, Paladin Took."

Paladin did not waste time for pleasantries. "Your friend, eh? Maybe you can answer me something, Samwise Gamgee. Do you think, or am I mistaken, that a lad in his tweens ought to keep close to home and do his father's bidding?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I don't suppose my opinion matters very much," he said finally.

"Or do you think he ought to run off to danger and be among strange folk for a year, without even giving word to his family?"

Though he was never one to get into a disagreement and he rarely trusted himself with words, being of the opinion that talking could solve nothing, Sam now rose up in defense of his friends. "Whether or not it ought to have happened, I can't say, sir. But I do know that the danger sort of reached out and caught us all, and I think 'twas no one's fault that your son was taken up with it, as it were."

Paladin Took looked heated, and a lady--Pippin's mother, Sam guessed--took his shoulder and tried to ease him.

"Come now, Paladin, let it be," she said. "Look at our son. He's a fine lad, and he's returned to us all the better for his travels."

"He's been changed. Wherever he and Meriadoc go, they'll be stared at and shunned for the unnatural vice that has made them grow so tall."

"Please, Paladin, don't make this difficult. Let him be happy, and trust him."

"Peregrin!" Paladin suddenly shouted above the rest of the roar in the dining hall. All chatter submitted to his will. "Can I trust you to produce an heir?"

"Yes," Pippin stated from across the room, brave and firm. "Just as Bilbo Baggins did."

Paladin crumpled in his chair. He gulped his ale with a shaky hand. "He's too young to make such decisions about his life. He's so young, Eglantine."

"Maybe not," Eglantine replied. "He and Merry have done well, they run a good household. What's more, they are respected. That's all that should matter."

Paladin lifted his eyes to Sam. "What say you, lad? Would you want to live a life such as theirs?"

It was an odd question for sure, and he thought slowly, wondering how to answer. A life such as theirs? "Do you mean a life of companionship and caring, and two people loving each other, and everything that grows out of that? Theirs is as good as any."

Paladin sighed but became quiet, his head bowed and his nerves seeming to steady. Around them, conversations started again, and the mood was light as if a summer storm had passed and the sun shone out.  Sam felt Frodo's gentle hand squeeze his for the barest of moments, almost a dream before it was gone and they turned to each other for easy talk. 

At last Merry and Pippin stood at the front of the table, hands clasped, and raised their glasses. "Let us begin our meal with a toast," Merry said.

This suggestion was well-received, because, like as not, it meant they should soon enjoy the feast. Sam, however, gave due thought to the toast and wondered what words he might offer on such an evening. Images tumbled through his head and he felt silly, making serious what should be light, but his mind persisted. To finding again what I'd left behind... To a light in dark places... Then he looked up at Mr. Frodo. His face was flushed and his eyes bright, and he was smiling softly, looking very beautiful and simply happy. Everyone held their glasses up but no one spoke.   

Finally Merry cleared his throat. "To wealth that cannot be stolen, to treasures that cannot be spoiled. To friends, indeed, and loving company."

Sam bowed his head and then tipped the brandy down his throat. May you lie safe in the arms of love.

* * * *

Laughing, Frodo nearly tumbled from the table-top, and drank down another ale, fairly collapsing into his chair. Sam took the glass from his hand and made a mental resolution to keep Mr. Frodo from having any more, though he realized it was a bit too late. He was enjoying himself, simply. Frodo's attention was like sun on the flowers, and Sam was leaning in, edging closer with the abandon of one who thinks he can never be burned. It was freedom he felt on his skin, a glorious, endless promise of running through fields as carelessly as does a child who sees nothing but openness around him. Sam wondered at this sense of triumph without reason, surprised that one could have such strong feelings without understanding where they came from or what they meant. Then he remembered what Gandalf had said when he awoke on the fields of Cormallen, that he and Frodo had been lifted up and rescued by the great wings of the eagles. Sam had deeply regretted not remembering something so thrilling, but now he thought he knew exactly what it would feel like.

Pippin bowed and then stood tall, reciting a song in his clear, fine voice. Sam soon realized Pippin was singing about Merry's great deeds in the War, and he leaned forward, captivated. Everyone was silent and Merry was blushing as the tale unfolded.  When it was done Sam applauded with everyone else, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Frodo slowly sliding down in his chair, his chin pressed against his chest, fast asleep.

"I've no doubt folks'll be calling you Magnificent," Saradoc was saying fondly to his son. "You watch his head doesn't grow too big, master Peregrin."

No one was paying attention to Frodo and Sam, so Sam thought it would be a good moment to put him to bed. He protectively gathered him in his arms, lifting him easily. Frodo did not stir as he carried him slowly down the hall and lowered him onto his bed.

At least I can make him more comfortable. Carefully Sam began to undress his master. Solemnly humming a tune from his ancient-seeming childhood, he drew Frodo's braces from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. How fair his skin was! Like fresh milk in the bucket on a crisp morn. He peered still deeper, seeking that pure glow of light from within his body, shimmering its secrets. It occurred to him that maybe no one else in the Shire could see it, even when, to Sam's eyes, it beat out the light of the moon. "I reckon hobbits would be coming from all over the Shire to be near you if they could see it," Sam said softly to his sleeping master. But now I've come, at least. And this time I'll not leave you again.   

He folded Frodo's shirt neatly and set it aside. Again he looked into Frodo's face to see how well he slept. His face was so delicate. Not only were his features carefully crafted, as if the workmanship of clever Elves, but his skin was almost transparent, especially his eyelids and at his temples and his ears. So beautiful he was, and yet he had no maid to love him. Sam knew his master would not marry, and that was sad. Frodo needed love more than anyone in Middle-earth, and it had been hardest for him when the Fellowship parted ways after the blessed reunion, as these seemed to be the only people who would ever love him or understand him. Aragorn and Gandalf both had protected and cared for Frodo in a way that was fatherly--what if they were here now? Would they have advice for Frodo and be able to help him better than Sam? Sam wrestled with the question but grudgingly admitted that if they thought they could help his master, they never would have left him. He sighed. Gandalf had no answers, no ancient words to heal Frodo's ills. There was nothing to be done.

Frodo looked very lonely lying on the bed.

I would hold him. I would protect him every night and every day. I would give him everything he wanted.  I would love him if he'd let me. I would kiss him... 

He went to the wardrobe and got out one of Frodo's fine nightshirts. He lay it on the bed beside him and leaned down close enough to feel Frodo's breath on his cheek. He felt he could mourn for the rest of his life, and yet also he could rejoice--he and his master were alive, and together, and wasn't there still some hope?    

His hands were shaking. He looked down at them; years of hard work had toughened them and naught in the depths of Mordor could make them tremble but now all it took was a simple thought. I would kiss him...

He swallowed. He felt terribly warm. Standing up straight, he took the silvery nightshirt in his hands and drew it over his master's head, lifting Frodo at the shoulders and carefully pulling his arms through the sleeves one at a time. Laying Frodo's head softly on the pillows, he tugged the nightshirt gently over his chest. Frodo was motionless but for soft breathing, fainter than the quiver of a flower petal greeted by a honeybee. Unconsciously Sam arranged his hands upon his breast, and then he reeled backwards, remembering...

Frodo, Mr. Frodo! Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo me dear, me dear. Wake up!

Anguished, he buried his face in his hands. Why did I let you go away? Why did I follow you to Mordor but let you slip away to Crickhollow? Tears trickled between his fingers. Then he straightened and lay his eyes again upon his master. O why did you leave? What did you need that I couldn't give you?

He could not reconcile this, his love and his failing. He could breathe love upon his master's flesh, he could cry love into his helpless hands, he could whisper love whilst Frodo slept. All of which could be scattered by the wind; his efforts dispersed like a dandelion puff. Yet over the fields he clove the good earth with his spade, he planted seeds deeply and immovably, and the land was healed and green again. How simple it was to love the dark earth that could never reject him. Frodo had left, and Sam was failing.

I'd love you if you'd let me... It seemed the only problem lay in the offering, and the taking.

Matter-of-factly, he unbuttoned Frodo's breeches, drew them off, and tucked him into the bed. Frodo stirred, his hand reaching out and clasping empty air. Sam gently stroked his knuckles, encouraging his still-sleeping master to hold onto his hand, a living anchor. "I'm taking you home, Mr. Frodo," he said softly, kissing his brow. "Again."

*

TBC. Your comments are appreciated, and thanks for sticking with me!