In The Grey Twilight
Does anyone object to shorter-but-more-frequent updates? ^_^ I think that's how I'll be doing this from now on. And don't worry, this chapter is still relatively long. I've put an A/N about my use of canon at the end, give it a skim if you would be so kind!
And now, back to my regularly scheduled gratitude.
Inkstain: I'm so indebted to you for your continuous support as I navigate through this difficult time. You're the best, I hope you know that! Would you like to be the honourary owner of this story? It needs to be dedicated to someone!
Teasel: Your feedback is special to me because I've such respect and adoration for your powerful, artful writing. I can't stress that enough, and I look forward to your next creation, whatever it may be.
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September came, and it happened that Frodo Baggins began to speak of Bilbo's birthday, for the hobbit would be turning one hundred and thirty-one, this being a most significant age because he would surpass the Old Took. Frodo did little more than drop hints about his plans, as if he were testing out his feelings on the matter, and in fact his mind was churning. For he alone knew the truth: if he wished to see Bilbo again, he should look to the woods of the Shire, now as the leaves were gold.
He walked out beneath the mallorn tree, watching the first leaves rain about him. He could hear Sam's work-hearty voice singing from up on the hill as he cleared the garden, interrupted from time to time by little Elanor, who at six months could win her father's attention by giggling or grabbing at passing grasshoppers. Suddenly Frodo felt old, feeling the coming of autumn even more strongly than Sam did with his gardener's sense. He took up a few fallen leaves in his hands as he slowly circled the silver bark of the tree trunk, thinking, it's as if their colour became so brilliant in a last, desperate affirmation of the life they'll soon lose. He wanted to throw them upon the wind and let them be caught up forever, their scarlet and saffron hues never fading nor crumbling.
Frodo felt cold fear in the pit of his belly. His book was finally finished.
For an instant he saw the future hurtle upon him, pale and blurred as if he were wearing the Ring: he saw a million sunsets over the Shire, while his shining cousins went galloping over the hills and were lost beyond the horizon; and there stood grand stone cities, whose streets the King walked down in escort, his face proud and compassionate; and by his side the fair Queen glided, lovely and laughing; and there was a great fire roaring in a cozy smial, where Sam sat surrounded by beautiful ruddy-cheeked children, a babe in his lap, calling them each by name and ruffling their hair as they brought him a large book to read from. But as for himself, Frodo saw nothing. He heard only wind, arising from a deep, ageless unknown.
He was tired, very deeply tired, and already he felt a thousand miles away. He looked upon the Shire as if at a great distance, and though he saw the sun strong in the sky, he couldn't feel it on his skin. He knew what he must do, but it meant walking forth into mystery, for the Western realm he could not imagine, nor could anyone tell him what it would mean for a halfling to pass into the Undying Lands.
The wind picked up and drew through his hair. The air was sweetened by ripe apples, which were being gathered by the barrel-full and peeled, cored, and baked in sugar for thick rich pies. Applesauce and apple muffins and apple butter and apple-concoctions Frodo had never imagined weighed down every table in the Shire. But every now and then Frodo would feel coolness on his face and the apple-aroma was replaced with a sharp salty tang. He soon realized that no one else could smell it and he stopped asking, though at times he still gazed out as if he expected the sea to roar forth from the hills.
The bright flicker of emblems and the ringing of mail and the steady pounding of hooves snapped him suddenly from his thoughts, sounds which were forever a herald's cry for his cousins' approach. He dropped the leaves in his hands as if guilty of theft, wishing he could escape this moment and all that it would bring. Inevitably his fair cousins appeared, and he saw them as if in a dream, finally comprehending the full truth that he would not see them again. He felt struck by an arrow; he felt as though he bled. Stumbling towards them blindly, he meant to lay his hands upon them and know their presence one last time.
"Hullo, cousin! We've come unannounced, but look! We brought gifts to make up for it." Pippin dismounted gracefully and gestured to the ponies, which were heavily laden indeed.
Frodo took Pippin's hand, hoping his cousin did not notice how it trembled. Merry joined them, looking at him queerly, and then Frodo knew the bitter taste of secrets. Shaking himself, he forced a smile and laughed exuberantly, clapping Merry on the back. "Now what brings you here? Don't think I'll take you in every time you want a holiday!"
Merry grinned, seemingly put at ease by Frodo's mirth. "We were recalled to duty and charged to go to Bree, where many packages were waiting under guard. The King has seen fit to send tribute to you, for your birthday, and to Sam as well, belatedly, for Elanor."
"I'm going up to ask Sam for a few lumps of sugar," Pippin announced as his pony butted him gently in the back. "We can have everything unpacked as quick as lightning and you'll see how terribly you've been spoiled!"
Frodo and Merry made no move to follow him as he went happily up the hill, humming to himself. Frodo's face had fallen into a grimace, unaware, for the last thing he wanted now was tribute from the King. He would always be claimed by words and memories, forcing upon himself a grace he had not the strength to uphold forever.
"The ride was beautiful, Frodo. You should come along tomorrow, and see how wonderful everything is." Merry's eyes leisurely tracked the hills.
I shall see it soon enough. I shall never forget it.
"We could have a Party," Frodo said with energetic desperation. "A huge Party, just like when Bilbo left. There's enough time, and I've got more than enough mathoms, from the look of the King's packages. You could stay and celebrate, and ring Bilbo's name all over Hobbiton, and give everyone something to remember."
"What's this all of a sudden? And you can't give away the King's gifts before you've even seen them yourself!" Merry's tone was sharp and his eyes were quizzical.
"You'd be wanting a party if you broke the Old Took's record. It's only proper."
"But Bilbo's not coming, is he?"
"That's never stopped me before. This time I think I won't attend either. I rather like the idea of not being there, it's poetic."
Frodo tried to laugh, but his forced humour fast grew heavy, weakening under the swell of agony it attempted to hold back. Then something was wrenched from him, and as his strength failed he fell against Merry, at last beginning to weep the full weight of his sorrow. For long moments his tears soaked through his cousin's weskit, all the while his mind repeated, farewell.
"Frodo?" Merry said softly, rubbing his back. "What's wrong?
After a time Frodo pulled away, wiped his face and wrapped his arms around his own chest. He meant not to answer but Merry was not going to be denied: dear Merry, his trusted cousin and confidant. "My book," he said. "I've finished it."
"You mean you're going to Rivendell," Merry said without judgement, paled by pity and sadness and hope.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Within the week. I haven't told Sam yet." Frodo's will weakened and again he wept. "I don't know if I can do this."
Merry took his hands, confusion and earnestness mixed in his face. "Frodo, it's not so bad as all that. Find your peace, as you deserve. And Rivendell isn't so very far away, you know."
Unable to hold himself up, Frodo sat upon the ground, choking on his grief. But I am going farther than dreams can take you. When he had composed himself a little he said, "I am torn, Merry, rent so badly I cannot tell where the better part of me lies. Sam...Sam is all I have."
Merry knelt with him, his own eyes bright and pained. "Can you truly not bear to stay?"
He sobbed quietly. Had he not asked the same question of himself everyday, always hearing the same answer in the thick of his heart? "I can't. O Merry, I've tried so hard..."
"It's all right. Talk about it, if you can. You know you can trust me."
The manner was of ancient times, at Brandy Hall when he and Merry would hold conspiring meetings of mischief and small secrets. When did one stop revealing one's heart to a trusted friend? For Frodo had never once explained about Sam. He sniffled, thinking there was a chance Merry had felt the same impossible longing that starved his own heart. After all, Pippin had been a little young and rash, and Merry must have had a moment when he was afraid to reach out to him.
"Sam glows, he's pure and perfect and no hobbit will ever match his quality. He's like a rare blossom that is so cherished one wants to shelter it, and keep vigil against weeds, all the while afraid of causing it to wither."
You will corrupt him. He will wither.
His throat was on fire and tears still flooded his cheeks, dripping off his chin. "I said we're so close it's painful, and that's true, but I want so badly to touch his face."
Merry tried to soothe him, patient and trying not to cry himself. "It's not wrong, Frodo. You love him and there's nothing wrong with that. You love him."
"I love him, O, I love him." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "But it's a dream, another wound to pain me. I have to tear him out of me, like this." He held up his right hand, the missing finger suddenly an overwhelming absence.
"Surely it doesn't have to be this way. If you leave without talking to him, and telling him what you've just told me, you are committing a grave crime against yourself!"
"But I've no right to these thoughts. I've no right to what's hidden here," and his fist thumped against his heart. "These feelings can't be so pure as is worthy of Sam. It can't be the same kind of love as between you and Pippin. Because I wanted the Ring, Merry. I loved it. And what if that's the same way I love Sam? I've seen something in Bilbo that I never wanted to see, when I wore the Ring around my neck and he wished he could have it for himself again. It was a horrible monstrous thing, it wasn't Bilbo at all, it was just pain and need and torture. What if, what if I go to Sam and I tell him that I love him and I've wanted him for myself, and that is what he sees?"
Extinguished, he felt the ground tilt beneath him, as if rejecting his right to stand upon it. Merry had him by the arms, his face reflecting horror, and Frodo cringed away.
"No," Merry breathed unsteadily.
"Mr. Frodo?" It was Sam's voice, cheerful and polite, calling out as he tramped down from the hill. "There's a letter from the King, and it's addressed to both of us."
Frodo spun around, feeling nauseous. Sam's smile trembled and collapsed with concern as he took in Frodo's tear-streaked face, and Frodo panicked, searching for a single word that would halt the disintegration of his world.
"I should check on Pip," Merry said, already retreating. "He's probably piled everything right in your foyer."
As soon as Merry was out of sight, Sam came to him, looking torn between embracing Frodo and wiping away his tears. Clumsily he tried to do both while Frodo stood motionless.
"You can tell your Sam what it is," he whispered, fretting.
"It was just a passing thing. It's gone now." Frodo paused, breathing and feeling Sam's hands on his arms. "You said we had a letter?"
"Aye, and you ought to come and see all the marvellous things that came with it! Not a one would fit among ordinary hobbit-stuff...it's all as like your mithril coat. But don't let me prattle on so! Come up and see."
"Wait, Sam," Frodo said suddenly, stopping him. "I've a bit of news." Go on, get it over with. Make it so there's no turning back. "I'm going to Rivendell. It's Bilbo's birthday on Thursday and I want to be with him. He must be very lonely, Sam."
Sam was thoughtful and pain was in his eyes, but it was not so different from how he looked at the sky, when the sun at last set. "I reckon he is. Well, you said we'd go someday, Mr. Frodo, and I suppose now is as good a time as any."
"I know you can't go very far or for a long time. But I was hoping you could see me off, if Rosie would spare you."
Sam cast his attention up at the leaves of the mallorn tree, seeming to gaze through thin air and see nothing. "You mean to stay for a long spell, do you?" he asked faintly.
"Yes, Sam. I'll be leaving Bag End to you, along with all that I have and might have had. That means the Red Book too."
"You've finished your book?"
He nodded. "The last pages are for you."
Something escaped Sam's lips, something very like a gasp, and tears stood in his eyes. In a blur he enfolded Frodo in his arms, a soft grace of his lips against Frodo's cheek. After a moment Frodo hugged him back, fierce and trembling. Sobbing met his ears and he was stunned to feel Sam's shoulders shake so hard, alarmed that Sam was breaking down completely.
"Sam, Sam," Frodo whispered. "Don't take on so."
Slowly the tide of Sam's anguish rolled back, his breath hitching like the scrape of driftwood on rocks. "What's left for you to hold onto, when you're passing everything on?"
"Sam?" Frodo croaked in question.
"If you mean there'll be no more tales for yourself, then there's naught I could do that'll be worth telling either. I don't mean to do insult to your gift, and mayhaps I'm speaking out of turn, but I never thought you'd work so hard and long on your book only to pass it over."
The wind cooled the damp patch on his neck where Sam's tears had fallen. Dignity, that simple and final strength of mortals, gentled him and bade him speak softly, self-assured but without defence. He could have begged Sam to show him an alternative, having faith that a wise hobbit was burrowed beneath the layers of his humbleness and simple talk. But now he found calm, where just moments earlier he had been fraught with the terror of his decision, and his calm lay in the immediacy of his compassion for Sam. For he saw that Sam was afraid, not knowing what would become of his master and anxious that he might diminish, and these fears mirrored his own. Frodo felt Sam's tears and remembered what called him to the sea: peace, and peace alone could take him there, for he must have faith in peace above all else. His own fears seemed distant in his need to ease Sam's.
"I think our book is not so important now as it shall be in the future, when all memory of the great danger has passed. So I leave it to you, for I am finished now and my part is over, but you will see the Shire through its best years ahead, and your part in them needs to be recorded. For me rest has been but a distant thought until now, and rest is what I have a mind to do. I am going to keep company with Bilbo, and hear more elven-songs than I can ever write down, and I believe I shall be happy." He smiled, honest and true, and added, "I shall have hope, Sam, hope enough to hold onto."
As if he had been called, Frodo turned towards the smial, and when the silence between them grew long enough that he did not expect Sam's reply, he began to walk slowly over the cool grass.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam whispered after him, so quietly it was implicit that the words ought not to be said but felt instead. "What are those might-have-hads you've left me?"
Love came forth. In an instant it was the only thing that existed, just love alone. It thundered in the air and crashed through the trees, whipping through the grass and pounding in his blood. The whole sky was coloured with it, shining brightly on Sam's skin and glowing in his eyes. Frodo was overwhelmed by the sheer force of his insight, knowing that the sunset too would cry love and the shimmering stars would sing it. His hands twitched, empowered by the immensity of his emotion and suddenly feeling warm and strong and beautiful. He came to Sam and his hands reached out: they met with warm skin, they drew across Sam's face. It was a shattering caress, burning intensely but short-lived like a falling star as his fingers swept down from Sam's brow and over his cheek, sliding under his jaw and alighting on his neck, finally falling upon Sam's chest, where his hand lay still for several heartbeats.
This I leave to you. But there were no words.
He was about to retreat, forcing his hand away from the intimacy of Sam's breast, which quivered slightly with the pull of breath and the pulse of blood. Then Sam placed his own hand over Frodo's, pressing it to his chest where his heart thumped hard, and their eyes locked in some sort of incommunicable message.
Frodo could not see through Sam's eyes to the very swell of his thoughts, as Sam's hazel gaze yielded nothing but mystery, and he dared not break the beauty of the moment with questions and appeals. Yet soon he found that it was enough, for Sam's accepting and silent response brought a hope so pure it could hold him steadfast while he was yet East of the shore. And he came to know that there was a greater hope to be had, one that could hold him for eternity, if he could but tell Sam all the feelings of his heart and never let him answer.
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TBC. I hereby promise more frequent updates! And as always, feedback is very welcome.
A/N: I need to explain something about my use of canon. The premise of my story, from the start, has been "What if Tolkien made Frodo and Sam fall in love?" As such, the whole thing is kind of an A/U, because obviously it's not what Tolkien intended. And there have been some departures from canon: for instance, Merry and Pippin's marriage. I've used canon as much as possible, out of my love and respect for the books, but I don't want anyone to be surprised or disappointed if something unexpected were to happen. ^_^
