In The Grey Twilight
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I feel quite spoiled!
The biggest thanks are due to my partner, Michiru, who gave me the idea for the first section of this chapter, and helped me see how to deal with Rosie.
Inkstain: I think we'd better create a twelve-step program to leading a spoiler-free life, or else we'll never make it to December. :)
Teasel: I hadn't thought about that aspect of story (that the lovers' obstacles come from their virtues). Now it seems even harder to remove those obstacles! But it's giving me something to think about, certainly.
oselle: I absolutely adore everything you've posted thus far, so your opinion means a lot to me. Thanks!
St.CatherineEvangelineWoodsorel: I know it's a long wait for the "real" slash to appear. I hope the small moments & hints in this chapter can tide you over.
Marauder: M/P is growing on you? That's fantastic! I myself have mixed feelings about Merry and Pippin's marriage in this story. By the story's end I'd like to show how the marriage came about, and make it more believable.
*
"He says he's well, but I don't believe it."
Rosie looked up where her husband stood in the doorway, his face full of thought and no intention of lying down with her, though the hour was late. She had been waiting, her back sore and her legs tired, propped uncomfortably on pillows and knitting a tiny sleeper for the unborn babe. It was March thirteenth and the little one was due any day now, according to the healer.
"Come to bed, Sam," she said, trying to keep her voice light but failing. "Come to bed, and just for a moment, pretend it's just you and I here in our own smial as a hobbit-family ought to be.
Sam came as far as the foot of the bed, touching the quilt absently. "I don't feel as like I can sleep."
"Then talk to me, and tell me what you have been doing all day. We can think on a name for the little one."
Finally he sat on the bed, massaging her foot in his capable hands. He seemed a million miles away and Rosie wanted to pull him near, make his eyes see nothing but her. "I've no head for maid-child names," he said, "but if it were a boy, I suppose there's plenty we could name him after. My Gaffer, for one, or your pa, or maybe Mr. Bilbo. Though I think our babe will grow up very brave and wise, and by the way it kicks I'd say he'll be an adventurer. So mayhaps we ought to name him after Mr. Frodo, to give him the best start."
No, she wanted to shout, and all the while she tried to tell herself there was no harm in a name, but tears still stung her eyes. She could not stop the bitter words that flew past her lips. "But you're the only one who would think so. When Shirefolk talk of bravery, they spare no words for Mr. Frodo."
His hands went still, her foot cold between them. "They'd give thanks to him if I had my way," he said, his voice held steady only by effort. "But they don't know."
"Perhaps they know enough. They look at him and see a sorry and strange lad, who wouldn't fight in the Battle of Bywater, and gave up being Mayor. You say he's a hero, but there's so little left of him--is that any legacy for our first-born?"
Her heart was racing now, and though she saw the hurt on Sam's face, she could not stop. Tears overflowed her eyes, hot streams down her cheeks. It was far too late to stop the flood of words and thoughts she'd kept hidden. She began to struggle to her feet, throwing aside Sam's arm when he tried to help. "You've had no time for me, not enough as you should. You worry over him like there's naught else in the world. And I don't know what's behind your eyes anymore, Sam..."
Her head whirled and dimly she was aware of getting dressed as Sam stood behind her, motionless in shock.
"You shouldn't get up," he finally mumbled, seeming to know his protests were futile. "The healer said you need rest and quiet."
Somehow she managed to get dressed and wound a cloak about her, but her tears now ran too thick to argue. "I'm going for a walk," she said, choking.
"You oughtn't to, Rosie, please--"
"I'll go to my parents' for the night. Don't wait for me." And collecting a few things into a basket she fled, relieved at last that he didn't try to follow her.
The chill air was a welcome shock on her damp face and neck. She marched as fast as her sore and burdened body could take, propelled by fear and fury. Images filled her mind, of Sam being unhappy and her unable to do anything about it; then Sam leaving for Crickhollow and those terrible three days when she worried he might not come back; then Sam walking through the door of Bag End, beaming again as he used to, with Mr. Frodo at his side.
She had gone a fair way down the road, knowing all along that she couldn't go to her parents, not for this. She didn't want to hear their sharp words, their criticism, their constant offers to build a hole for Rosie and Sam alone. She just wanted to walk and let the wet air envelop her. So walk she did, praying to be unseen, to let her thoughts drift out like clouds over the moon. How lonely she felt, and how familiar the distant stars seemed, as she considered her place in Bag End. She was misunderstood by her family and she did not understand her husband. It was a frightening, empty middle ground to keep.
After a time she came to a bench by Sam's mallorn tree, and rested upon it. Would it change with the baby, she thought for the thousandth time? Would Sam be grounded by the immediacy of life here-and-now, or would he still gaze out windows and worry if Mr. Frodo were unhappy?
It was long into the night, perhaps even closer to morning, when she slipped silently into Bag End, hoping Sam had gone to bed. Too stiff and cold to sleep, she went to the kitchen to warm herself with tea. But she saw the glow of candlelight and peeked her head in, not ready to confront Sam yet.
"Mr. Frodo," she nearly gasped. "Goodness, what are you doing up?"
"I couldn't sleep," he replied, and as he looked at her the candlelight haunted his features, accenting the dark circles under his eyes and his unhealthy pallor. He had wrapped a blanket around himself and gripped a teacup with his right hand; his left was cradled in his lap.
"You don't look at all well," Rosie said.
"I'm fine. You don't look well yourself."
"No, I suppose not." She sat down heavily, her seat at the kitchen table being thickly cushioned, and poured out some tea from the pot. "Is Sam asleep?"
"Yes."
She took a deep breath, but could not steady herself. "I've been so frightened," she whispered.
Frodo looked at her carefully. "You should talk to Sam. You should tell him."
"I have no one I can tell, no one who can tell me what it means..." She surreptitiously dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Did you know Sam had been ill? When you went away?"
"Ill? How do you mean?"
"I don't know. Nobody could tell me...I couldn't even explain it to anyone. But he was ill, up all night and restless with nightmares. He'd say terrible things. Then he came back with you and he was well again. I couldn't make him better; I couldn't do a single thing. But you could."
She stared him down, searching his dark eyes. He sighed, seeming unsettled. "Rose," he began, then stopped, turning the teacup around in his hand. Watching him, Rosie noticed that his hand was shaking.
"Mr. Frodo?" she asked softly.
"I would do anything for you to forget what I said, that time in October."
I love you Sam, I love you.
She held her breath, not wanting even to acknowledge his words, as she herself had desperately tried to forget them. "I just don't want to see Sam so stricken again."
Frodo nodded, and perhaps he took her meaning differently, but she felt it didn't matter.
"He needs you," she said simply. "And I don't know what I'm to do. My pa wants Sam and I to set up a smial of our own, but I see that we can't do that. And how am I to explain it? I don't even understand what it is that hurts Sam so, what he dreamt about that wounds his spirit. What happened on your Journey that has bound you together? What fills his mind with so much worry that he can't come to me and be at ease?"
She wept a little, and was surprised to feel Frodo's hand fold over hers. "The last thing he wants is to hurt you," he said.
"I know, I know. His heart is pure sunlight."
"He deserves so much," Frodo added, and closed his eyes. A shudder seemed to pass over him.
"Mr. Frodo?" She wanted to reach out to him, resentment melting away slowly like ice on a March morning. "Sam said you're not well."
"He shouldn't have to worry over me. You're right, and I wish... He oughtn't to have such a burden as me. I'm sorry, Rosie. Very truly, I'm sorry for what I've done, and what I've taken."
"Well," she said, feeling awkward. "It's not as like you're taking anything he's not trying to give."
They looked upon each other, eyes full of hurt still unresolved but now less heavy. "I should go to bed, I think," she said. "And you should try to sleep at least." She squeezed his hand before standing and blew out some of the candles.
Frodo moved to rise, pushing himself up with his right arm. But as soon as he let go of the table he swayed and his legs buckled, his hand reaching out blindly for a stronghold. Before Rosie could react, he fell to the floor like a dead thing.
"Mr. Frodo! What's the matter?" She went to him and felt his forehead, recoiling at the icy touch.
"Sam?" Frodo cried out weakly. "Sam?"
She needed to get him warm and comfortable, but in her condition she couldn't carry him to bed. So she put the teacup to his lips, wanting to get something warm inside him, as he curled up and shivered.
"We can't drink now," he mumbled. "We have to save it, Sam. There's hardly any water left..."
"There's plenty," Rosie told him, a sick feeling in her stomach. She did the only thing she could think of: she took him into her arms and held him tightly.
"O Sam, I'm glad you're with me." For a moment he was quiet, as if eased in her arms, but soon his face twisted in fear. "But are we hidden? Are we safe? The wraiths are getting closer...I hear them flying above us now..."
"We're safe," she murmured. "Hush, Mr. Frodo, you're just dreaming..." She stroked his hair, desperate to calm him, because she knew of nothing else to help him. He caught one of her hands in his, gripping hard. He wept quietly now, nearly lifeless in her arms.
"O Sam, let's just rest a while longer. Just a moment, then I'll crawl."
She gently wiped his tears away, feeling her own spill over. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo. You're safe and I'll look after you."
"You can't carry me all the way up the mountain," he said wearily. "We'll die together."
Rosie was startled and relieved as Sam rushed into the kitchen, falling to his knees beside them. "Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo?" he whispered, trying to assess the situation. Sam touched him so gently, so delicately, easing him with quiet words.
"He's having another turn," Rosie said needlessly, clinging to Sam's arm. "We were talking and he just collapsed."
"I need to get him to bed. Could you get some hot water bottles ready?"
Rosie went to her task, her heart in her mouth. She had a vision of two tiny dark forms, alone and clinging together on a little hill surrounded by fire. It came from the stories that Sam told her in sparse snatches, leaving out whole chapters which became all the more vicious and terrible for their silence. She hadn't thought much of it all at first, but the untold tales were bent on hunting her down, and painted blood upon what little she knew.
When she brought the bottles to Frodo's room, Sam had already settled him down, his face still drawn and pain-stricken, but resting quietly. Rosie sank into Sam's arms, pressing her face to his neck. "Can you help him?"
"It's all right now," he whispered. "It will pass."
"He's quiet now, but these turns aren't getting any gentler. He needs you, Sam."
"I know."
Then Sam placed his hand over her stomach, and Rosie closed her eyes, concentrating only on the little babe inside her. Frodo-lad, you won't feel such sadness, adventures or no. No, Frodo-lad, you won't be sad for a moment.
* * * *
It was an ageless night of drifting, cool March air. Bag End was peaceful and still as the last of the supper dishes were stacked away and the comforting familiarity of pipe-smoke eased Frodo's mind. He sat beside an open window and a closed book, clutching his white gem in his hand, and his thoughts sought Westward. Bilbo would leave one day, to take what peace he earned, and when he did, upon which side of the shore would Frodo stand?
He began to feel a chill, but so revelled in the sensation of air on his face that he merely pulled a shawl close round his shoulders. Earlier in the month he would not have been able to endure even the slightest breeze, he knew sorrowfully. Earlier in the month he had felt the return of a pain so sharp it seemed completely afresh, instead of a memory of an older wounding. Indeed it had left him paler than usual, even this night, and he was under no illusion that these spells would fade. It was this plain fact that turned his mind to Bilbo, and his decision grew into certainty as the day grew into night.
It was no flippant choice. He could not be a shadow on Sam's happiness forever. Nor could he stand between him and Rosie, though Sam seemed oblivious to the tension that lingered and twisted between them. Nor could he sit out his days until at last he faded completely, and could no longer see the hopeful light of stars. There was some duty also in his mind to follow Bilbo, as his heart broke to think of the elder hobbit going off on his own, without any of his kin. When he thought of what tied him to the Shire, he thought only of Sam, and even that was a painful bond in the face of his own selfishness.
He could live out his days yet a little more here in Bag End, but when his book was finished, his path would lead him to the Sea. He knew this in his heart as he longed to hear the crash of its waves and smell its fragrance, to see its vastness and know its power. It came to him in dreams and he welcomed it, however fleeting.
He was drifting, nodding in a gentle sleep and lulled by clear visions of wind and water when Sam came blustering in. "It's Rosie," he said in a panic. "She's--she's going to--she's having the baby!"
Frodo bolted out of his chair and tried to calm down the frightened hobbit. He offered to run down to fetch the midwife, but instantly Sam was off towards the door to do it himself, and when Frodo yelled after him that he would try to help Rosie in the meantime, Sam whirled around and made a dash for the bedroom where Rosie lay. Realizing Sam was in a poor state, he took his cloak and left for the midwife's smial before Sam could change his mind again. Thankfully the midwife was quick and all business, sternly removing Sam from the birthing-room as soon as she arrived. Frodo settled down for what would likely be a long night's wait.
They sat together upon a bench in the hall, though Sam could barely sit still. He jumped up to make tea, or tend the fire, or to pace again the length of the corridor. Presently he sat with his head in his hands. Frodo wished he knew how to calm him, but felt it wasn't right to try to distract him with much talk or small errands, so he hoped his presence and reassurances alone could help.
"Just think, tomorrow Bag End will be packed with visitors. There's so much to be done!"
Frodo laughed kindly. "You've done everything already, Sam."
"Poor Rosie, like as not she'll just want to rest. And the little one, too. I wish we could just keep everyone out."
"I'll guard the door myself until Merry and Pippin get here, then they can take over. And if that's not enough," Frodo smiled, "they can send for horses from the King's stables. They'll be big enough to ride them one of these days."
"That's no lie, they'll be giants next to the baby."
"I'd say we could send for the King himself," Frodo teased, "but seeing as today is New Year in Gondor, he's probably too busy."
Sam nodded, and Frodo wanted to say so much more--New Year, he'd breathed, but those words were sterile and bore no tangible reference to that single cataclysmal moment on Sammath Naur. He wanted to say, look where we are Sam, where beauty and innocence are born, and how far you've walked from the brink of the Cracks of Doom...
"I saw those things you put in the nursery for the baby," Sam said, "they're wonderful fine, all of them. But where did you find that little wooden Oliphaunt, if I may ask?"
Frodo smiled. He couldn't tell him the truth, that he'd wanted to give the small figure to him, because Sam loved them so. "I drew a little sketch and had a craftsman carve it for me. I thought the little one would enjoy it."
"You'll have to tell the baby all about the Oliphaunts. You'll tell the baby stories, won't you Mr. Frodo, as soon as it can listen? I mean, beg your pardon, there's so much you can teach the little one, just like Mr. Bilbo used to teach me."
Frodo stared out down the hall, his heart torn, knowing with terrible certainty that he would not see the babe's first birthday. His book was steadily reaching its end, and Sam's child would not have an Uncle Frodo to its memory.
"Of course I will," Frodo replied very softly, in this season of lies. How many times had he uttered falsehoods to Sam this month, just so he would not be a burden? I'm fine Sam, don't worry about me...I'm right as rain, it's just a little cold in here...
Suddenly a wailing cry came from the birthing-room and Sam stood up fearfully, staring at the door. "What do you suppose is taking so long?"
Frodo stood with him, meaning only to stay close as he paced, but his hand strayed. He reached for Sam's shoulders and squeezed, massaging with that devastating combination of tenderness and strength. He could not help himself, for it was all he could do not to embrace him and stroke his hair to comfort the panic and fear from his eyes. He spoke softly in Sam's ear. "The baby is stubborn, like most Gamgees I know."
"I hope not. There's so much I don't know about bringing up hobbit-children. I reckon the Gaffer knows a fair piece, and Rosie's parents too, but I won't know what to do at all!"
"I don't think that's true, Sam." Frodo caught his hand and held it splayed between his own. "The King is not the only one with hands of healing. Maybe you think your mind doesn't know how to care for a little one, but your hands do. They can make anything grow out of the bare earth, and they restored the Shire. And me, Sam. Your hands...kept me, like something that ought not to be lost, and brought me home. Now your hands are going to hold and protect and nourish a little one of your very own. That babe will be blessed."
It took Sam a moment before he could speak, and Frodo admired the colour of emotion on his face. "Mighty kind of you to say so," Sam blushed.
Hand in hand they sat for some time, until within the birthing-room a scream broke into a gasp and was followed by a tiny little cry. Sam's hand crushed Frodo's, clearly restraining himself from bursting right into the room, but shortly the midwife emerged smiling. "It's a girl," she said.
Sam stood up too fast and it took Frodo's supportive arm to keep him on his feet. "A girl!" Sam cried and suddenly Frodo was being embraced heartily. "A girl, can you believe it!"
"You can go in now," the midwife said, "but only for a few minutes, mind. Your Rose needs rest."
Sam hugged Frodo again, a kiss lost in his hair, and then he went with tears in his eyes into the room where his wife and baby lay waiting for him. Frodo was left standing alone in the hall. He felt his heart would burst. It would be cruel punishment to fall in love with Sam's newborn, to look upon her little face and trace the features that sought to mimic her father's. But he could not keep himself from loving her; no, these last few months he would again bear the ache of a futile passion. He meant to set down some roots again, that when he left the parting would tear and wound him, so he might not depart from his once-rich life in numbness.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam said a few minutes later, his face wet but amazed and proud. "O, she's beautiful."
"Of course she is," Frodo said, and kissed his hand.
* * * *
Bag End, in a short order of months, became a rather sleepless hole. While the infant hobbit was content as they come, still she needed to be fed at all hours of the day, and this was a considerable effort on Rosie's part. Sam, never one to sleep while others were up, awoke with her diligently through the night and did for Rosie and the baby as best as he could, and even if he wasn't needed then he could still pad down to Frodo's bedroom or his study, since Frodo wasn't sleeping either.
Frodo had given thought to offering his help with the baby, but he felt clumsy and unskilled in handling such a small and delicate being, just as he had never offered to help Sam in the garden. So he came to decide that the best thing he could do was stay out of the way, keep to his writing and make his own meals whenever he remembered. He filled the leaves of his book until finally he brought his history to a devastating height, and then he threw down his pen and for days sat motionless in thought. From the rise of the sun till the setting of the moon he stared down his memory as one watches a funeral pyre.
It was Cirith Ungol and it had to be written, for he could not toss aside Sam's astonishing deeds. But how he was to write it he didn't know, and he became more and more certain that he never would. He could accept his failing and throw down some words, careless and quick, but that seemed somehow more horrific than not writing it at all. So in the end he did nothing while the thoughts and dreams of it began to mount upon him.
It was a promising, bright morning in early May, and Sam was tending to his gardening tools and yawning all the while. Frodo watched him through heavy-lidded eyes while nursing a mug of strong tea. Rosie and the little lass were both sleeping, leaving the sun-warmed smial very quiet and peaceful, which was something of a rarity. Frodo and Sam looked at each other and shared another yawn.
"'Tis a walk we need," Sam muttered. "Something as will shake the sleep right off us. I think you're in need of wide-open spaces, Mr. Frodo, and the fresh air will do us both wonders."
Absently rubbing his stiff neck, Frodo sighed and discovered in himself a thirst for May breezes. There was hope, suddenly, that he could chase off the gathering shadows and feel young under the fledgling blue sky, as if there were some virtue in the very air which he could catch up between his hands. And in that thought was an aching hint of times gone by, when he and Sam could spend an entire day under the sun without a care entering their heads.
"I think you're right, Sam. I need you to remind me sometimes that there is a real world over the threshold, before I start thinking that the view from my window is but a painting."
Sam shook his head, admonishing him with a soft tutting noise. "I see I've been letting you keep to the dust for too long. I've a mind to prove to you that the Shire's no painting, so take a little luncheon and we'll be off."
Frodo was happy to do as he was told. Through the hills they went, Sam guiding him easily as if he could have made the trip blindfolded, which doubtless was true. Every now and then Sam would stop, looking at a particular bush or flower with a knowledgeable eye and a gentle hand, and Frodo was heart-warmed that his care extended so far, so deep and so beneficial. They ate as they went, sometimes sitting in the grass and among the flowers, neither one of them suggesting that it was time to turn back. It was growing on evening when they finally crested the highest grassy hill, and stood looking breathless into the valley.
Below, thousands of tall strong trees swayed gently as far as their eyes could see. They were thick with leaves, closely spaced, straight and beautiful. Frodo felt his legs weaken and he trembled before the sheer vastness of Sam's work.
"It is like a dream. This is your doing," he breathed, "These are your forests." Frodo's spirit wept that Sam, stout-hearted but small, had raised this massive wood with his own bare hands.
"They didn't ought to get that tall in so short a space of time," Sam said decisively, feigning an indignant expression over his pride and wonder. "I reckon it is some work of magic...I planted them with a bit of earth from the Lady's box, each and every one of them."
"They are your forests all the same," Frodo said decisively. "Look, Sam, look at what you have done!"
They began to descend into the forest's foot, and as they did the trees came to tower over them. Frodo felt at once very small in their midst but also sheltered and secure, simply because each giant tree was Sam's. And though his eyes were fixed on the trees he was more drawn to his friend than ever, for it seemed his admiration could grow no greater, and would burst him apart. There was so much to love about Sam.
"It's amazing, Sam," Frodo said, and regretted that he had no better words. More quietly he added, "You're becoming a legend in the Shire."
But Sam did not hear him. He walked forward into the thick of the trees, seeking out a bright patch of yellow, and gave a muffled cry. Frodo was fast behind him, and he stopped short when he was close enough to see what it was.
Sam was near on weeping as he beheld the elven star flowers that blanketed the forest floor. He slowly dropped to his knees and brushed the elanor petals with his hands, shaking his head all the while. "How can it be, Mr. Frodo?" he asked in wonderment, for these flowers had never been seen outside the grass of Lothlorien.
"I don't know," Frodo answered and he too shivered, as unexpected magic would always stir one's soul. "But if I had to guess, I might say it was the will of the Lady."
"Do you think she heard you, somehow, when you named my Elanor?"
"I think she'd turn the trees into gold, if that's what you wanted," Frodo whispered, but his words were lost in the rustling of wind and leaves.
"They're so lovely. I'd like as to fill the nursery with them, but I won't uproot them, not a one. Perhaps folk will come to the forest to see them, and see how rightly my Elanor is called."
"Even the elves would think she's beautiful," Frodo assured him. "Come to mind, you were a beautiful child too, Sam. Though you must think me silly to say so. You were only six when I came to Bag End."
"I remember," Sam replied softly.
"Bag End seemed so empty after Brandy Hall--it was all I could do not to scoop you up and feed you sugar cookies and tickle you until the whole Shire was filled with your laughter."
Smiling, Sam lay back on the grass, careful not to disturb any of the flowers. "And you did, too, as I recall."
Frodo lay down beside him and felt that moment of frozen time, when the sun hovers on the horizon. The image of little Sam, golden and rosy and full of smiles, was one of the dearest things he had left. Bilbo and the Gaffer and probably every other hobbit in the Shire thought it odd that a tweenager, a well-to-do and educated tweenager for that matter, would take up with a six-year-old gardener's son. But Frodo had been shy and lonely and Sam's sweet innocence was irresistible.
"I followed you 'round till the Gaffer narked on my ear for being such a bother," Sam said. "Sometimes you'd take me over the Shire and teach me things. And then Mr. Bilbo found us looking at his books in the library and he said he'd learn me my letters. You were so happy--or leastaways it seemed to me."
"I was. You never thought me odd for wanting to go on adventures and do unexpected things like Bilbo did."
"I don't know why anybody'd think you queer. I used to watch you reading under the trees and wished I could know all the things that you knew. Sometimes...walking at dusk, you know, you looked like an Elf, and I thought you might grow up to be like Mr. Bilbo and you'd go away to Rivendell all by yourself. It made me feel happy but very sad at the same time."
Frodo felt his throat tighten, and was surprised by the suddenness of his own emotion. "I would have asked you to come with me."
"Honest, Mr. Frodo?"
He nodded, swallowing and forcing his eyes up at the sky, picking out the softly emerging stars. Would you follow me forever, Sam, if given a chance? And could I let you, somehow, could I claim my greatest wish even as it was handed to me?
Sam seemed to shift even closer, their very breath mingling in the cooling air of the settling twilight. "We could yet go someday."
It was too much, and Frodo's heart slammed inside his chest. He couldn't read Sam's eyes; he couldn't tell the intent of the hand that reached to touch his arm. A single tear betrayed him, slipping down his cheek.
It seemed an eternity they lay thus, away from the rest of the world, just as they had been on the journey. Frodo barely breathed. It was a moment where the scope of possibility lay open, as a field of fruit to be picked. Anything could happen, if one or the other merely leaned a few inches closer. And this too was how it had been. Frodo remembered how their bodies had pressed close each night, how simple and yet how complicated. He still didn't know what it meant.
Sam leaned in, his face beautiful and glowing in the dying light. His fingertips softly brushed against Frodo's face, stroking away his tear. "You don't never have to be alone."
Frodo tried to reply, but his breath hitched and his lips parted soundlessly. This closeness and tenderness was too intimate for the safety of the Shire. In Mordor it had been mere survival, but this, this ached of a love too great to name. Could he kiss Sam on the forehead and claim it was only for comfort, or if he kissed him now would he cross the line forever? Frodo was torn and neither of them moved for long moments.
"What's troubled your writing so much lately?" Sam asked finally, his voice gentle yet insistent.
Frodo did not want to speak of it, because the day had been so blissful and this moment was so precious, but he could not lie or pull away from Sam. He did not let his eyes waver. "I fear the memory will engulf me," he murmured.
"Maybe you ought to take your pen-and-paper outside. Sometimes the sky and flowers can lighten what's fixing to be dark, or so I've found."
"Sometimes I wish I never had to write it. When will I be able to forget?"
Sam looked upon him with sadness, and Frodo regretted having spoken. He tried to sit up but Sam stopped him.
"I suppose it's different for me," Sam said thoughtfully. "I don't never want to forget the moment when I found you."
Frodo closed his eyes against tears. He thought he could stand no more, but Sam kept talking. "To be sure, I never had a darker moment in my life as when that foul thing took you and I thought you were gone. But then I got you back, and I never had such a beautiful moment neither. I came so close to never seeing your living eyes again. If it weren't for the Ring I should never have moved from your side, Mr. Frodo, the world had turned so bleak. And that's the stuff of nightmares for sure, but it was like a miracle when I found out you still lived, and everything had changed and there was hope still! I can't explain it rightly and perhaps you think I'm foolish, but my heart nearly swelled out of my chest, if you get my meaning. Then I fought and ran and it was like I was holding my breath the whole time, until finally I got to the top and saw you. And then you were alive and in my arms for real. That was the greatest moment of all."
Frodo shuddered but the feeling had changed, and he was enthralled by a sense of freedom that made him want to leap to his feet. The darkness of his memory shifted, the shadows flickering and fading under the fierce light of Sam's words. He and Sam stood then, and felt the stirring of wind on their bodies, and Frodo thought he was flying with the fast-sailing clouds. The indigo horizon glowed and Frodo wanted to head towards it forever, the brink unreachable, blissful to run with Sam at his side.
They faced one another and smiled clumsily through tears. It was sheer beauty that Frodo tasted then, letting his heart fill with the one thing he wanted: a life with Sam, away from memory and time. In this moment it didn't matter whether he was dreaming a fool's dream. He only felt love, and possibility.
*
TBC. Comments are very welcome!
