In the Grey Twilight
I want to thank all the wonderful people who have been reading and reviewing and sticking with me on this journey!
inkstain: as always, thanks for the good cheer and hugs and encouragement whenever I need it, and for dropping by my livejournal with Frodo in tow ^_~
She Wants To Riot: don't worry, you're not the first to complain of missing this story, and I'm glad you found it! It makes me wonder if I should write a better summary, though...
Luthien: don't give up hope.
Isildae: you're such a dear, I appreciate your kind reviews. As for officially loving Rosie...I was a staunch Rosie-hater once myself, and it's been an interesting change of heart.
Oselle: it meant so much to me when you said, "you make me believe this is how it really happened." That's been my goal, my challenge and purpose in writing. Thank you, thank you. And I must add that I've been hoping you'll post a new story soon... ^_^
*
How had this fleeting day passed? Sam thought it slipped like a dream, as his sweat-slick reins might escape his grip. Surely only a dream could spin such grievous beauty as he had felt today. Chewing his pipe-stem before their humble campfire, lying together with Frodo, he tried to catch hold of the day's dear memories before they both tumbled into sleep. It had felt like one long sunset...
Perhaps it was because the sun reached its peak soon after they set off, with the light drawing out at such an angle it seemed half-and-half with the shadows. The trees looked aflame, flickering in the wind, and the Travellers were quiet all this bright and dark afternoon. Sam had wanted to sing if he broke the silence at all, but there were no songs for these hours. He felt as though he'd swallowed a stone. The road was so beautiful and the going so pleasant that he wanted to play at being young again, as he and Frodo used to laugh and let their voices ring clear. But the letter was a bird fluttering at his chest, threatening to sail away. His hand strayed often to where it lay concealed at his breast.
More often still his eyes strayed to Frodo. He was so graceful in the saddle, looking more rested than he had in many months. Some trick of the autumn air put colour in his cheeks and his eyes were like a calm, clear pond. He was beautiful, but there was a kind of transparency about him, as if he were already gone and Sam were merely dreaming.
One day soon I'll wake up and he won't be there. One day I'll look for him and he'll be too far to find.
So it was at times that Sam's head was bowed, his knuckles white upon the reins, urgency beating in his blood. Anxiety lay heavy in his stomach even as his eyes saw peace. If only they could ride with clear hearts, with nothing to think of but the sky and stars and each other, just riding on together forever!
Again and again his eyes came to Frodo, tracing him deliberately and with the ardour of one whose future liberties were uncertain. He took him in bit by bit, first noticing the line of his pale neck peeking from under wind-swept hair. It was elegant as a swan's, delicate-seeming but strong enough to bear the Ring on its chain and Shelob's swift bite. So too was the curve of his slender shoulders, reminding him of an elven-bow, and the lean flow of his arms that had many times wrapped around him tightly with a perfect mix of strength and softness.
His innocence had fled and he knew it. In his eyes Frodo was far more than fair, he was ethereal and comely, such that all Sam's senses were rendered captive. The straight sweep of Frodo's back and the gentle slip of his hips needed to be touched just as open fields needed to be ran through. He blushed with the thought, but it did not colour his face so very fiercely and still he looked on, examining the bit of bare flesh at the back of Frodo's knees as his breeches rode up his thighs, his rounded calves turning to delicate ankles above hardened feet.
Feelings uncurled within him like so many snails in the garden, his mind humming I love you, I love you Frodo... The thoughts were as familiar as his own heartbeat. He had merely named them, and it was like coming home again, it felt right. It was more powerful than seeing all Bilbo's tales, that he'd dreamed upon throughout his youth, come true before his eyes. His hand reached again to press the letter and he longed to read its words anew. Frodo loved him, somehow, Frodo loved him, and they loved each other, and they should not have to ride out to their end.
Such were his thoughts the whole day, rhythmic as the falling of hooves. By and by they stopped for a bite, and while Sam set a temporary camp he found his concentration lacking. There was a stream Frodo had wandered to, and he knelt now and plunged his arms up to the elbows. Frodo looked down and deeper into the water, his back a gentle curve, his hair just touching the surface.
"Frodo?" Sam said gently. He was aware of his omission and normally would have corrected himself in a hurry--Mr. Frodo, I mean, beg pardon--but he kept silent. The name was warm in his mouth. He wanted to speak it again and again, a whispered litany of his dreams.
Frodo turned and looked up at him, his hands wet and his face full of mystery, and spoke naught of Sam's lapse. Earnestly he wondered aloud if the Shire-streams were so singular that one should never see their like elsewhere. Sam heard the real question clearly and saw it in his face: will there be a taste of home for me afar? Sam was hopeless to answer.
Frodo me dear, I have found home wherever you are...
They ate together, wanting for nothing. Thoughts of their Quest came and went, Sam contemplating how alone they were then and now. Though without reason for fear they stayed close, and Sam wanted not to be anxious but to feel some of the repose that glowed in Frodo. After a while they started on again and their manner was more like idle sunset-gazers after a picnic.
But I have so little time.
Sam thought they were lingering, he imagined Frodo tarrying as his destination loomed large before them. While the shadows lengthened his mind hummed, what shall I do, what shall I do? But soon the horizon was burning and they shared in the stillness of thoughts like a cornfield with the crows rushed away. The sky was deepening to purple and they went on over the hills, side by side now and slow. Sam realized that he did not want to reach the end, but nor did he want to stop, for the feeling of togetherness was perfect.
"Shall we ride on yet longer, Sam?"
He understood. Without a word but fair teeming with meaning they rode under the jewelled sky. Finally, their pace slackened completely and their heads were thrown skywards, staring at the stars so long Sam thought they were waiting for them to fall or fade. Eventually it became such a stillness that it wasn't like waiting either. Then a star came sweeping across the sky like a silver river bursting free, and Sam gasped but Frodo was undisturbed beside him, as a quiet pond that merely reflects the glimmer above.
Frodo turned to him after a moment, smiling. "Do you remember how shooting stars used to frighten you, Sam, when you were a young lad? And you would stay out for hours, hoping to chance upon one, only to cover your eyes and tremble when it came."
It was true but he didn't cover his eyes anymore, he could watch unafraid even as it made his heart beat fast.
Taking their cue from the sky they slipped sleepily from their ponies. Though tired the cool air gave them a feeling of health and it was a joy to stretch and tend to camp-chores. Their meal was good and they spoke lightly, mere hints of tales rather than fully-fledged stories. And maybe looking upon the pitch black wild Frodo was a bit nervous, or maybe not, but Sam drew near to chase those thoughts away, and it was natural to sit with their hands just touching.
So came they to lie side by side and the day had been so well and fully spent Sam thought not of their troubles. He wanted to remember what the day had been, not what it hadn't, and with a smile his eyes closed.
* * * *
Frodo woke blinking at the black sky, with Sam's name on his lips, jolted from some dream born of the peace-enthralled day. The warm body of his friend was lying against his side snoring peacefully but Frodo was uneasy. His eyes scanned their camp, lit red and orange by the fire, his ears sharp to the noise of crickets and leaves rustling in the rising wind. On alert and untrusting, he sat up, not liking to awaken at night in the wild, and somewhat uncertain of where reality lay. Were they still under the shadow of the Mountain, on their hard quest? The Ring! Did he have it still?
His hands snuck into his shirt-front and the folds of his jacket, searching, while conscious of the futility of the act. There was nothing. Slowly he relaxed, slumping back with a sigh as he was assured that the Ring was not with him. We are away from the Black Lands, see! And I am partly away from Middle-earth too; for some shadow of me has already passed over the Sea. He returned his gaze to Sam, sliding his hand into his breeches-pocket like one who has stopped crying but cannot yet quit the final spasms.
His fingers touched cool metal.
The Ring was in his pocket.
He froze, caught between the two abysses of terror and desire, with a scream stuck hard in his throat. He desperately wanted to rouse Sam but he could not, as the world was spinning, blurring dreams of peace into nightmares into reality. His mind tried to make sense of it: they must still be on the road, still burdened with the task, and he had only been dreaming of freedom and rest. He had but fallen asleep again...
They were going to take it to the Cracks of Doom and destroy it.
No, no! It is mine again, I shan't lose it!
His fist closed hard upon the Ring and slowly, automatically, drew it forth. His hand was clenched so tight it shook, and the metal bit painfully into his flesh. Finally, in sick agony, he uncurled his stiff fingers and stared into his palm.
It lay there, benign and warmed by his grip, a band of gold both familiar and unfamiliar. It was Sam's wedding ring.
A gasp broke from him as if he'd been knocked in the chest and his eyes darted to Sam, who still lay in peaceful sleep. His left hand was visible above the blanket and his ring was missing. Trembling, Frodo gently touched the gold in his hand, a confused caress, and wanted to weep until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. Why?
Why has this come to me?
Overwhelmed, tears came to his eyes as he tried to solve this impenetrable riddle. Had he stolen it from him? Here was Sam's ring in his hand, a mark of his terrible temptation, taunting the desires he sought to deny. Fleetingly he thought that Sam might have put it there and his face grew hot with blood, but he shut the idea away.
Bringing the ring close to his face, he pressed it against his cheek. It was real, it was warm, it was Sam's.
It began to rain, though he did not truly notice. He knew he ought to give the ring back, either in secret or openly if he could be so bold, but he was afraid, for he did not know what Sam would think. He should just put it in his pack and wait until the right moment came. But he could not even put it away. A feeling of sickness drifted over him and he could do nothing but stare into his palm, despairing in this proof that he could not let Sam go. He had tried to be noble, but was he not still desiring him, grasping him in his mind just as he had grasped the One Ring?
The rain fell steadily, and the fire sputtered injuriously. Smoke and mist curled round in the air while Frodo's hair was dampened down and water flowed down his neck, pooling in his open hand. When the fire finally died altogether he was left blind in the thick darkness, chilled and numb, thinking of the warmth of Sam's gentle embrace. He put the ring reluctantly in his pocket and lay down on the ground beside him, their bodies lightly touching.
* * * *
It is raining in the Barrow-downs. Water and fog slither round him like spirits, tattered and cold. He is alone, so dreadfully alone, and he feels as if his breath is struck dead as soon as he exhales. Amidst the mist he begins to see an endless stretch of shadowed mounds all around him, everywhere he looks, and he wonders in a near panic of the waylaid travellers that have gone before him... For he is trapped, sure as anything, no longer knowing what direction he came from.
He turns round and round in circles, his eyes wide with fear. Imagining a host of dreadful wights pursuing him, his legs set to running and he dodges things that seem to erupt from the very ground he stands upon.
It is useless, useless! He will be dragged down below! He stumbles to his knees and thinks the earth is crawling beneath him, but he looks up, up to the top of the barrow before him, to keep the fear away.
There is a figure standing on top of the barrow, clothed in a white robe that hangs from nearly fleshless limbs. He discerns a gold circlet glinting round its head, and upon its breast a ring burns as a bonfire.
"Frodo!" he tries to scream, but his voice is robbed.
He staggers to his feet and claws his way up the slope, until he falls before Frodo, who stands immobile and wretched. He sees with horror that Frodo's feet and calves are buried in the ground--he is sinking.
"I've got you, Frodo, I've got you," Sam murmurs desperately as is hands dig in the dirt. A single tear falls from Frodo's eye and slides like a worm into the barrow. "Frodo, Frodo..."
The ground is slow to yield to him, but yield it does. Frodo's cold foot is in his hands. He caresses it and warms it, even kissing it dirty as it is, his strong hands massaging up the calf. Then he takes the other foot and does the same.
Finally he stands to take Frodo fully in his arms, pulling away the circlet that is numbing Frodo's brow. He is so cold, his robe slimy and his skin pale beneath the chill flame of the Ring! Sam presses kisses to his hands and rejoices in the warmth that is still visible in his eyes.
The air shifts; a wind collects and the fog rolls off in great billows. Sam looks out over the land and finds the view is clearing. And from this tall barrow he sees a wondrous thing: a distant patch of green.
"We're going home," Sam promises, holding Frodo tenderly. "Can you walk?"
Frodo shuffles forward, reaching out for the refuge beyond. He can walk, but he looks down upon the barrow sorrowfully, then looks back at Sam, wordlessly conveying his meaning. He does not think he is supposed to leave.
"It's all right. I'll help you," Sam says, with worry and pity. He casts off the terrible robe and puts his cloak round him instead. The Ring he does not dare to touch, but he leans in to kiss his throat, his shoulders, his cheek, and to his amazement watches the Ring crumble to ashes.
Softly, softly, they touch. Sam whispers to him, lips touching his skin. Softly, softly, they move forward, warm-entangled, heading for that patch of green.
It takes hours, perhaps days. But the world suddenly opens to them and they are free, standing in warm sunlight surrounded by grass and flowers. Tired, they tumble down and hold each other, now free from cares. But Frodo, slumped in Sam's arms, has so little strength, so little joy even at their victory.
"We shall get home, yet," Sam ventures, stroking his hair.
"Let me rest, dear Sam."
"Yes, rest now, poor dear! But isn't your heart fit to burst, now that we're away from that terrible thing? When you wake we'll laugh and jump, and the butterflies will fly up from their flowers as like one of Gandalf's magic tricks."
Frodo looks down at his hands wearily. There is dirt under his fingernails. "I never dreamed to find peace again. Even emptiness is a relief, for it is like falling asleep. I want nothing else."
It is not enough; Sam can't bear it. "Let me want more for you," he pleads softly. "Let me hope for you and make a wish for you. Let me wish, one last time, and call out for the Lady's grace."
Frodo presses his hand, a silent assent before closing his eyes.
Sam lays his hand upon Frodo's breast and whispers, his voice soft but urgent and fierce with concentration. "If somehow the Lady could hear me now, I'd give her any promise my heart could hold. And mayhaps I am undeserving, as we've been delivered here to safety, but I would wish for hands of healing, so that I could hold him and touch him and give back to him all that was taken away."
With that he kisses Frodo's brow, slow and sweet, and lies down with him on the grass.
* * * *
Sam awoke to a damp chill, and saw with dismay that a sharp rain was upon them. It had already extinguished the fire and was now soaking their clothes to the skin. In utter darkness he was disoriented but he could feel where Frodo lay and he moved to rouse him. He shook Frodo's shoulder gently, leaning over him to shield his face from the cold rain, sitting him up awake or no to draw the hood of his cloak over his head. "Come, Mr. Frodo, we can't spend the night in the cold and the wet."
"Sam? It's too dark to see anything."
"Do you have the Lady's glass? I think there's an old fir tree near that will be as cozy as you can want, unless I miss my guess."
A flash of white light grew before him, and he saw Frodo's wet face gleaming palely. He held the starlight with a trembling hand, its light revealing the thick rain and mist that blanketed them. Sam peered quickly at the trees and saw what he was after.
"Wrap up your bedroll and hold it close under your cloak," Sam advised, noting that Frodo remained huddled and motionless, his eyes unfocussed. Shortly Sam got them both to their feet and led the way to a fir whose branches bent down to the ground, and the two hobbits crawled underneath into a small nest of soft needles and dirt. It was for the most part dry and as Sam would have it, as good a home as a hobbit could want away from his hole.
Sputtering a bit as rainwater ran in rivulets from their curls, they laid out their bedrolls and cloaks and found the star-glass began to dim, and in but a moment it was again pitch black. The darkness hid them from each other but Sam did not need his eyes to take note of Frodo. In their small burrow the warmth of Frodo's body was palpable, almost as a candle-flame, and his breath whispered secrets. Sam could tell he was shivering. And, it seemed, it was not completely from the cold.
"We ought to peel these wet things off," Sam said.
"I don't know." Sam noticed how sharply he inhaled, as if he'd been startled. Carefully Sam moved so he was kneeling in front of him.
"You'll catch your death if you stay like that," he reasoned, trying to keep his tone light. When Frodo did not move, he set his mind to it: this was one of those times when his own judgement ought to overrule the elder hobbit's. With a touch that was controlled but not guarded, he slid his hand beneath Frodo's brace, slow enough not to shock him, and drew it off his shoulder. Then Sam picked up his wrist and pulled it through the loop of his brace. Repeating the motions with Frodo's other arm, he noticed fleetingly how his face and neck were warmed by Frodo's breath and body as he bent close. Frodo's wet hair dripped on his ear.
"All right," he murmured. It might have been a warning. His fingers set on the buttons of Frodo's shirt, undoing them as if they melted under his hands. Frodo's shirt parted, Sam's fingers brushing faintly against his smooth chest. Frodo's breath came deep and fast. It was hard to tell even at such close range, but Sam thought his eyes were closed.
"Easy now." He slid both his hands under Frodo's shirt at the shoulders, lingering to trace out his collarbone and the vulnerable hollows there. Then he caught his collar with his thumbs and brought the shirt off Frodo's shoulders, drawing his hands down Frodo's back so that the shirt gathered around both their arms. It was almost an embrace, their chests were nearly touching and Frodo's was bare, rising and falling. Sam could feel it. His hands rested now on Frodo's hips. If he just let his hands move, slightly, he would be undone forever. It would be terribly easy: just the shyest flicker would announce his intentions. And as Frodo trembled it seemed cruel not to comfort him with his fledgling caress.
His mouth. It would be even easier just to lean forward and share together the sweetest breath known. He knew Frodo's scent; he could guess his taste and he wanted to know it too. He thought of pressing their lips together, soft and wet and gentle. Perhaps the first touch would be at the corner of his mouth: a temptation.
Suddenly he wanted to weep. How long had he wanted to touch him this way?
It was like watching the coming of winter and their flowers had been too slow to bloom. Even he could not make a garden blossom in an instant or save it from the frost. His throat tightened and his tears could not be stopped, and he was cross at himself but too overwhelmed to help it. Looking over their vast field of lost chances, he knew this moment wasn't as perfect as they needed it to be, for Frodo was unsettled and it would do no good to confuse him more. I ought only to draw him near, as innocent as on the quest, and comfort him. Taking away his hands, he busied himself with the blankets.
"My bedroll is dry enough," he said, "but yours makes a better bath-tub. We'll have to make do with just the one."
"It'll be warmer, anyhow," Frodo said, his voice sounding forced but smoothed with reason. He was coming back to himself, seemingly.
They would lie down together as they had a thousand times before, no different. Quickly they undressed and Sam spread out the bedroll, made lumpy by the thick knot of roots beneath it, and they shivered together in naught but their smallclothes. Hidden in the darkness, Sam let his mind be gentled, thinking of that falling star that seemed to split the sky right open.
* * * *
It was hard to say how he came to be lying in Sam's arms, damp skin against damp skin. Sam made better shelter than any fir tree burrow, and it felt far too good to be real, but lately so much seemed like dreams he was confused and tired.
Was Sam asleep? Could he ask him one of the forty thousand questions spinning in his head?
Sam's left hand was soft upon his neck, and still without his ring. Sam's breath was soft upon his face, warm and intimate as a kiss. He revelled in it even as tears stung his eyes. For he realized that they would never have such a moment again, and forever now he would feel the painful lack of Sam's breath and touch and smile and voice. How many times in eternity would he dream of this moment and wake to find himself alone?
He wanted just to sleep, to forget and go forth unknowing, because he knew his decisions were the right and noble ones, but for himself he had come to wish only for numbness. For he realized that to have true peace now would mean being cured of Sam, and he could not let go the only part of himself he valued at all. He stifled a sigh, cringing.
Sam's hand swept into his hair. "What's troubling you so?" Sam whispered, breaking the silence for the first time since they lay down.
Frodo went still and pretended to be asleep. Sam stroked his fingers featherlight across his brow, and Frodo thought he wouldn't have to pretend much longer. He found himself relaxing, this time unable to hold back his sigh. A quiver ran through him and another few tears escaped.
"Frodo me dear, where have your thoughts been?"
"Sam," he could not help but whisper, as involuntary as breathing.
"Let your Sam help you."
Frodo pressed closer against Sam's chest, burying his face and smothering all the things he would say. Sam stroked the back of his head now, his skilled fingers drawing down the back of his skull and his neck, and Frodo felt sleep catch him as he plummeted.
"Let me make a wish for you."
*
TBC. Comments and thoughts are welcome as always.
