IV: Blue
If Bilbo noticed the puffed circles under Frodo's eyes the next morning or heard any of his broken weeping late in the night, when he at last returned, he made no indication of such. Frodo found he had nothing much to say to him at perfunctory meals which he picked over. To Frodo, each day from then on was like an arduous trek across a vast empty field, lost and meaningless and exhausting. It frustrated him and confounded him to no end to learn that within the brightness of love also dwelt the dark pain of longing and loneliness. The more he had of Sam, the more miserable his life in the long days without him had become.
He was not able to abide the separation for long. Even passing by Sam in the garden to catch his eyes for but a moment's wishing no longer filled Frodo's heart with hope, but twisted it with anguish. Sam was kept busy day after day and not even once were they able to meet beyond the reach of the Gaffer. Even Bilbo, often careless in his supervision of Frodo, had become more attentive and watchful of him, asking where he was going in the long afternoons and when he intended to come back, often requesting that he be timely in joining him for luncheon and dinner.
When each Highday came, Frodo would set off early in the morning, walking alone through the backwash of the pools, hoping that perhaps this week Sam would come here to see his friends and that they might meet and slip off into the long grasses, unnoticed. In the mornings, the pools were smooth and quiet. No one came for weeks and Frodo would sit listening to the sparrows in the trees and the frogs in the marsh and knew himself to be very alone.
One day, Frodo got to the pools later than usual--due to Bilbo's insistence in a lengthy morning tea. As he made his way through the reeds, he could hear voices echoing across the water. Some lads were splashing about on the far shore, but near, upon the old dock, sat two hobbits side by side, their fishing lines dropped into the water. The jovial chime of laughter rang in the air between them. It was Sam and Tom, sitting in the sun, happy as larks with their ankles locked together as they swung their feet over the water. Tom rubbed the glee from his eyes and leaned in to nuzzle Sam's temple.
Frodo felt as if his heart had been crushed by a suffocating weight. He turned away, hurt and betrayal colouring all his thoughts. He wanted to flee back into some hidden place far from these muddy pools where he might never show his face again. Fool, stupid fool! Why did you think Sam would spend his days alone? He's no cause to. You've seen him before, free as a sparrow in summer.
He wanted to run and told his legs to do so, but they would not. Hiding is what he had done before when he was ashamed, when he had believed himself to be a cruel twist of nature no proper society would abide. Frodo had gained something he'd not thought the books would give him; he'd learned to esteem himself. So he stood up and parted the reeds before him as he stepped into the sunlight.
Frodo said nothing until he was all of a yard behind the pair upon the short dock. Tom heard the creaking on the old boards and turned about.
"Well, good afternoon, Mr. Frodo!"
Sam's jump and startled eyes told all.
"Am I no better than a cowherd, Sam?" Frodo said to him, without emotion.
Sam dropped his pole in the water and stumbled to his feet, wiping his hands on his dirty trousers. "FrMr. Frodo. I'd not expected you out this way today!"
"No, it would seem not," he said passively, giving Tom a look that made the lad scramble to gain his legs just as fast. "Quite unexpected."
"We'd just been doin' a bit o' fishing this afternoon," Tom said, pulling off his cap and nodding his head.
"Would you like to stay a spell, Mr. Frodo?" Sam said even more awkwardly.
Frodo backed away from the two of them with a dismissive shake of his head. Who knew what he might have missed earlier in the day: Tom with his crude fish-smelling hands upon Sam, his Sam! Or worse, Sam returning the favour, fondling this farmer's son with the same hands and lips that had brought him to such abandon in the fine linens of Bag End.
"Has he shown you everything, Tom?" Frodo said without thought as his feet gained land again. "What about the trick with the hand soap? Has he managed that?"
It was Tom's turn to take a step back, clearly befuddled and not a little frightened. He looked to Sam as if to plead for him to somehow remedy the situation. Sam opened his mouth to try and speak, but instead marched forward to take Frodo by the elbow, a look of disapproval upon his face. "Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon, but you're not well."
Frodo shook him off and turned about, walking briskly away. "Leave me alone, Sam! Stick to your own kind!" He broke into a run and made for the thickest part of the marsh, but the wet earth and reeds slowed him and he floundered, falling upon his side. Sam was upon him, lifting him up out of the muck. "Steady now, Frodo. Here, let me"
Frodo refound his legs and shrugged him off. "You will address me properly!" he shouted.
Away from Tom's sight, Sam's face had crumpled into a confusion of misery and hurt. "What's wrong, Mr. Frodo? What did I do? Please tell me."
Frodo did not run, but stood his ground before Sam, brushing his mud-splattered sleeve. "I asked you, in plain words, did you or did you not come to the pools."
"Aye! And I said I did!" Sam said, a mist gathering in his eyes. "'tweren't no lie, 'cause here I am. And if you thought there was some foolin' going on betwixt Tom and me, you couldn't be more wrong. 'cause there's nothing like that! I told you so. I haven'tnot since we...not since you. I couldn't imagine it."
Frodo searched Sam's eyes for the truth, his crushed heart threatening to beat right through his chest. "Then tell me what I saw, Sam, because I don't know what I'm supposed to think anymore."
Sam glanced quickly over his shoulder, back towards the water. "What? That? Fishing?"
Frodo looked at him scornfully. "Is that what you call it? It seemed much dearer than that. Do you fish with your brothers this way?"
Sam's face sank, his cheeks reddening as he tried to come up with an explanation. "Mr. Frodo, you've got to understand. Tom and me, we were raised together, since we were bairns. Tom's been my best mate all my life. Just that. There's aught I wouldn't share with him. But I don't play about with him as I did. He's wanted to know why and I told him I'd fallen for someone and it didn't seem right no more. I kept it dark as to who. He thinks I have an eye for his sister and I didn't correct him."
"Why not tell him, Sam? Are you ashamed of me?"
"No, sir! Nothing of the kindit's just" Sam stammered and could not look at him.
"It's what, Sam? What is it? Look at me! Why do you hide from me? What is it about what you do with me that shames you so, when you've had no second thought of coupling lads in full sight of half of Bywater for years?"
Sam shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "These are my mates, sir"
"But I don't want mates, Sam. I want a lover who would die for me. I wanted him to be you."
Sam head came up sharply at this, mouth parted in astonishment, and if Frodo wasn't mistaken, a glimmer of hope shown behind the tears. "But I haven't any claim to you," he said. "I'm no great elf warrior, sir. Just a hobbit, the Gaffer's youngest son. I've no cause to hope for such grand things. Thoughif I ever lost you, I wouldn't think nothing of taking up a sword, 'cause it would feel like that anyways, like a blade gone right through me. There's naught else I know of that's mattered to me as much, and I don't want there to be."
Frodo's hurt faded in an instant. He gasped in wonder, witnessing Sam's heart cut open and bleeding before him. He took a gentle step forward. "Who's told you this, Sam? Who's told you that you have no claim to me?"
Sam kept his eyes to the ground. "It's the way of things, sir. We can't go changing them. You are gentry, sir, and I am just plain folk. They will not let us be, make no mistake."
Frodo held out a hand to raise Sam's shaken face. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I didn't understand. It's all so confusing." He gathered Sam into his arms and kissed his hair. "Forgive me, Sam. Please, can you forgive me?"
Sam hugged him back as if the ground might fall away beneath them if he didn't hold on tight. Sam held him until his roughened hands found Frodo's face and he answered him with a kiss.
***
"Mr. Frodo, I think someone's coming," Sam said, fearfully, breaking their embrace to raise his head and peer through the grass and reeds.
Frodo knew it was foolish to deny Sam's warning, but he was too far gone to care or have any sense of anything other than Sam need not rise from him, not yet. "ShhSam, it's the lads, don'tplease, here"
He pulled Sam close again, desperate to continue what was so close to completion, trousers about their ankles and Sam's body writhing against his, warm and beautiful, bellies slick with their exertions. How could he stop when all the emotions of the day and the long waiting had brought them to this, fallen in the grass together, seeking to ease the confusion and ache the only way they knew how.
Sam had found his release quite suddenly and explosively before they'd hardly begun, Frodo whispering to him all the while, "I love you, Sam. I love you" He needed to find that relief so badly for himself, to lose all the hurt and doubt in a rush of sweet oblivion. "Shh, Sam, here"
The blood was roaring through his ears when the first crack of the whip fell, followed by a cry from some unknown voice, harsh and angry, "Samwise Gamgee, if I'dn't given you a lick afore this!"
Sam cried out and threw himself over Frodo in protection. The second blow came down all the same and Frodo felt a slap across his face like a burning brand. Blood filled his mouth as he struggled to unbury himself. He sat up, an arm held high to stop the third rear of the whip, tails splaying in the sun, that suddenly dropped and fell into the grass. A wail of fear followed, like none he'd ever heard, sounding through the grasses and the back pools.
***
They sat in the parlour, a pot of tea hastily made and cooling untouched upon the table. Frodo sat sullen on the hearthstones, dressed in a clean set of clothes and dabbing his seeping lip with an unctuous compress. Old Noakes sat in his dirty britches upon the best chair in Bag End across from Bilbo who occupied the long bench, still flushed from all the to-do. The Gaffer had taken Sam home by the ear to have Bell dress his wounds.
"I don' know what I 'ken say to 'pologize rightly to 'ee, sir. I sure weren't lookin' to find your lad out there with the swineherds and plowboys. I near lost my life seein' that boy come up out o' th' grass." The farmer was shaking terribly and wrung his bag-like hat between his dirty knuckles over and over, only daring to glance upon Frodo's disfigured lip in an occasional furtive shudder. Frodo looked daggers at him, not giving him a second's peace as he pressed the linen bundle to his throbbing wound. The cat-o-nine-tails had caught him up the inside of his chin and across his lower lip, splitting it open. The rest had fallen across his shoulder and the back of Sam's neck. The first lash had hit Sam squarely across the buttocks.
"I daresay you should of thought of that before you took up your whip," Frodo grumbled from the hearth.
"Be silent, Frodo," Bilbo said tersely, his eyes intent on the farmer's wrung cap. "You have done enough damage today as-is. Let Noakes speak."
The beleaguered farmer had been babbling and apologising and asking the "lor' to bless him" since their ride back from Bywater in his rickety ox-wagon. Bilbo had come running down Bag End's steps all pale when he saw the blood on Frodo's face and Sam lying upon his side against a potato sack, wincing, trousers blotched in red. "What in heaven's name has happened here?"
Frodo had been silent with the farmer during their ride, enjoying his terror and discomfort. Townsfolk on the road had gasped in shock at them and Frodo let everyone see exactly what harm he had come to. But somehow this had not moved Bilbo, who had called for the Gaffer, back in the garden, to come right quick and help him collect Sam from the wagon bed.
Once he and Sam were pronounced bloody, but sound, Bilbo sent Sam and his father off home and walked calmly into Bag End to prepare Frodo's compress and start tea. Ever since their return, Frodo had been anxiously awaiting the moment his uncle would take some of that silent anger he saw heating about his ears and tear into the irresponsible cur. But no such reprimands had been forthcoming and the farmer had been instead served by his better and offered the plush parlour chair to place his filthy arse upon.
"Be silent? I will not be silent! This peasant whipped me! Or can't you see that?"
"Frodo, go to your room," he said sternly, reaching for the teapot.
Frodo couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hadn't been asked to go to his room since he was a mid-tween. "Excuse me?"
Bilbo straightened in his seat and turned to him with an expression that told Frodo all at once those bright red ears were for him. Him! "I will not ask you twice," he said in a voice so calm and even it made Frodo tremble. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, throwing the compress to the floor and making for his bedroom door, which he slammed hard behind him.
***
From his bedroom, Frodo could hear the elders talking--Bilbo in a soft calm voice and the farmer in a gradually less distressed one. After half an hour of clinking teacups, the Gaffer returned and the talk continued. Old Noakes left soon after. Bilbo and Sam's father spoke for some time after that--to what end, Frodo could not guess.
It was quiet afterwards. Frodo lay sulking upon his coverlet, where he eventually fell into a light sleep despite the throbbing in his lip. He was awakened by a rap upon his door.
"Frodo, I will speak with you now."
Frodo did not answer.
"Frodo-lad, open the door," said Bilbo with a sadness in his voice that made Frodo raise his head.
"I am sorry that I did not come to you sooner on this matter. It is as much my fault as yours. Now please, be a good lad and open the door."
Frodo got up and unhooked the bolt, leaving the door closed as he fell back upon the bed, facing away as it opened.
Bilbo came in and stood beside the bed with a heavy sigh. "You are angry with me, I know. I am very sorry you were hurt, but listen. There are going to be some changes. You will not understand them, but I am hoping with time you will come to see why I made them. Sam is going to Northfarthing to live with his uncle."
Frodo spun about, lashed with a pain no whip could have delivered. "What!?"
Bilbo held up his hand. "Until the winter season has passed. Master Hamfast thinks it best and I agree."
Frodo felt panic, hot and white, burn through him. "Why?"
"Because, Frodo, it will be best for Sam."
"How can you say that? Sam belongs here, with us!"
"With you, I think you mean. No matter, it is best you are apart sometime until things settle."
"What things? We did nothing wrong! Old Noakes is mad, going about whipping lads as he sees fit."
"Do not lie to me, Frodo," Bilbo said, sternly. "I am not half the fool you take me for. I may not agree with Noakes' methods of discipline, but you are far from innocent."
"What are you talking about?" Frodo said indignantly.
"I've seen how Samwise looks at you, like you're the rising moon itself, and you're no better at hiding your heart, either. You think I don't know what's gotten into the two of you? I may be old, Frodo, but I'm not blind."
"And what of it?" Frodo said, hiding his shame and embarrassment under a sharp tongue. "I'm quite old enough to make my own decisions about these things."
"But, the Bywater tributaries, Frodo?" Bilbo said, aghast. "Have you any idea what sort of reputation that part of the Shire has? The garden is one thing, but to go frolicking about on working lands, indeed. I thought you'd have more sense."
"If you and the Gaffer hadn't made things so difficult for us, then I would not have gone so far to find a little privacy!"
Bilbo nodded at him. "I see my error now. I felt all you two needed was a half-week to work through this spirited folly, let off the worst of the steam. I had thought sacrificing my favourite stash of leaf might do the trick. But it only seemed to make the situation worse. You were getting careless, Frodo. We had to put some reins on you both before half the Shire heard you splashing about under the footbridge."
He knew, all along, and yet he said nothing to me! How dare he!
"You've kept many secrets from me, Uncle. I had not thought you would cheat me this way. How else was I to work though this "folly," as you call it, when no one would ever speak a word about it to me? I had to find my way by sneaking off to muddle through obscure books written in foreign tongues to get the first hint that who I was, how I was born, was anything less than an abomination! I know what's true now, and I won't let some serf from back Bywater judge me!"
Bilbo stood in shock for a moment at what Frodo had just said, the heat from his ears rushing to his cheeks. "Listen to me Frodo," he said firmly. "Do you really believe, because you are half of what little gentry this country has north of Tuckbourough and west of Buckland, that you can order the townsfolk about to suit your whims? I saw how you scowled upon the farmer, and not just for snapping your head out of the clouds, which it was in sore need of. Is this your attitude, Frodo Baggins? Because you did not learn it from me. These people have bled upon this land and sweated over these hearths ages before my father set spade to the Hill. We have a duty to them, Frodo, not the other way around!"
This broke Frodo. He had thought Bilbo's disapproval was for his choice of lover, but that appeared to not be so, not so at all. "But, I love him, Uncle," Frodo said desperately, for now ignoring the truth in Bilbo's words that would shame him. "I love him more than anything in this world! And he loves me. I won't let you take him from me."
"You cannot just have things in this world simply because you desire them, Frodo. Do not doubt it," Bilbo said more quietly, straightening his waistcoat. "You are not as grown-up as you would like to think."
Frodo felt a sob take him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks now and biting the wound on his swollen lip. He licked it painfully with a quivering tongue. He'd run out of words to say, and no longer had the ire to argue with his uncle. Oh, Sam. What have I done? He bowed his head and wept bitterly into his hands as Bilbo left the room to pack him another compress and pour him a cold cup of tea.
***
Sam left two days later in a loaded cart bound for Tighfield. Sam sat next to the Gaffer upon a pillow, still smarting from his wounds that he'd feel upon every bump on every league from here to Northfarthing--no doubt part of the punishment his father had decreed for him. They had not been allowed to speak to one another since that day in Bywater, and Sam looked morosely upon Frodo's scabbed lip like the pain of it hurt him twice as much.
Frodo wanted to tell him it was not his fault. None of this was, but the Gaffer started them off and all Frodo could do was raise a hand in farewell from the gate, Bilbo at his side, a hand gentle upon his shoulder.
If Frodo had found the end of that fall long, the winter was even longer. Cold and grey, Frodo spent his days indoors with Bilbo reading, but discussing none of it. He was civil enough to him, but blamed every lonely beat of his heart to his uncle's decision to drive Sam away and would not forgive him. He missed Sam terribly and wished for no other visitors but to be alone in his misery. He even turned down Bilbo's offer to take him to Buckland for Yule.
As it turned out, talk had gotten around, and were it not for Sam's removal, more than idle chatter would have come of it. For Frodo had been so visible during their ride home in the Ox-wagon, there was not a pointed ear between here and the three farthing stone that had not heard of the whippings. But the townsfolk, who Frodo held in such little regard, were gentle with it. "It would not do to talk of the heir of Bag End in such ways," they said, but neither was Old Noakes blamed or met with a sour word. This seemed to be largely due to Bilbo's efforts to keep the old hobbit in tea and honey, as they say.
Cold dreary evenings turned one after another and Frodo cursed his luck that he should have to serve out the winter confined to a smial with the one person he most wanted to escape. He was angry with Bilbo like he'd never been before. He'd been punished before this, been ordered to stay home until he 'straightened up.' He'd been sullen and stubborn about it of course, until his defiance waned and he would lower his pride enough to begin to see Bilbo's wisdom and experience in whatever matter had gotten Frodo into trouble in the first place. But those occasions had been rare and would end with a good talk and plenty of hugs and encouragement and Frodo would recognise the discipline as constructive and all a part of Bilbo's great care and love for him.
This was different. Frodo did not see the error in his ways, for how could there be error in loving another? Bilbo had tried to open the talk earlier in the process than Frodo was prepared for, for it seemed Bilbo was more concerned than usual to resolve this rift between them. Frodo would close up on him and refuse to speak about Sam at all, or the scabbing on his lip that took weeks to heal, painfully breaking open over and over.
The lip did heal slowly, until all that was left was a pale scar that would disappear over time. His lip was well on the mend when Bilbo came to him one quiet evening after supper and rested his hand upon Frodo's shoulder. He didn't speak at first and for once Frodo didn't move away. There was a heaviness in his touch, a regret perhaps that made Frodo's closed heart open just a fraction.
"Frodo-lad, why don't you send Samwise a letter? I'm sure he'd like to hear from you. He doesn't know many people up in Northfarthing."
Frodo looked up from his book. "Are you serious?"
Bilbo looked sheepish. "Of course, I'm serious. Sam is your friend, after all. No need to not stay in touch."
Frodo jumped up from under Bilbo's hand and raced to the study, shutting the door behind him. He uncapped the ink, spilling some of it down the blotter and upon his foot in his haste to put pen to paper. He spread out the curled sheets and wrote briskly, voluminously, not giving much thought to what he said, only that he might begin to share some of his frustrations and heartache over the situation and to apologise for being the cause of it all.
He wrote page after page, denouncing Bilbo and the weather and the endless boredom. That covered, he opened his heart and wrote more slowly about how nothing had changed in his mind and that he loved Sam just as deeply and painfully as ever and could only hope to endure the long bleak winter until he might see him once again. He kept it plain, though, realising some of Sam's nosy elder brothers might come upon it. After some hours, he let the pages dry, then folded them and sealed them with wax.
***
Frodo never received a reply to his letter, nor any of the rest that followed, week after week, until Frodo stopped writing altogether. He knew he had no certainty that Sam was actually getting the letters. Weather was poor up north and it was probable that Sam's relatives had been apprised of the situation and had let the letters slip into the fire. But then Frodo's anxious heart would burn him with the notion that perhaps Sam had received them, but had chosen not to reply. Perhaps he had decided their affair was not for the best and had moved on.
Although it felt as if the season would never end, warmer weather did return in preparation for a Shire spring. Rethe was growing nigh when Bilbo came to Frodo to let him know Sam was expected to return in time for the Planting Festival in Bywater.
"And may I see him, Uncle?" Frodo asked.
"You may," Bilbo conceded. "But understand, Frodo, you must not behave as you did before. Myself and Master Hamfest will not turn a blind eye this time. Sam has a reputation to keep and a duty to honour his father and his apprenticeship. Any mischief between you two and all the tongues 'tween here and Green Hill will be wagging. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, uncle," Frodo said, and at the time he meant it. He only longed to see Sam and to know that all was well between them, and that they were still friends despite all the trouble he'd caused them.
***
The Festival was held from dawn 'till dusk in the old oak forest on the south shore of the Bywater pool. Tables and ribbons were set up between the trees and it snowed food and rained drink as long as the light and the weather held. That 4th of Rethe was a splendid day, bright and airy with new warmth. The snow had melted and the dead marshy grass had dried out and blown away. Minstrels were playing and hobbits young and old from leagues around had come out for the long day, the lasses wearing the first spring lilies in their skirts and hair.
Frodo loved this time of renewal and had thought it a fitting occasion to renew his friendship with Sam, which had been sundered in silence and miles now for five long months. His eyes flitted between the smiles and laughter and dancing, looking for the familiar face of his friend. It was nearing the fourth hour when Frodo spotted the Gamgees' cart coming up the road. Bell and the Gaffer and their three youngest stopped and hitched their sack-leaden cart to an oak. The two girls, dressed in bright colours, hopped out the back to run and join the festivities. Sam got out slowly and stuck to his father's side, helping him unload their many carefully labelled burlap sacks for the traditional seed exchange taking place later that afternoon.
Frodo's heart beat feverishly at the sight of him; older he seemed, more tentative in his movements. There was a palpable heaviness surrounding him that made Frodo want to run right up and wrap him in his arms and welcome him home and swear to him that all would be well again. Frodo knew he could not do this openly, too many eyes were staring, and instead had to hold back and wait until Sam had moved away from his father in the crowd.
Frodo met him some time later at the edge of the ale pavilion, refilling his father's tankard.
"Hullo, Sam."
Sam looked up, spilling beer on his toes. He shut off the tap and nodded in polite greeting, licking his foamy thumb. "Hullo, Mr. Frodo. How are you, sir?"
Frodo was taken aback at Sam's distancing tone. He was being addressed as a better, not as a friend, or lover.
"I'm doing fine, Sam," he lied. "How was your trip?"
"Long," Sam said, glancing nervously beyond Frodo to the tables where his parents sat waiting.
Frodo stepped into his line of sight. "Sam, can I speak with you someplace plainly?"
Sam looked nervous. "I don't know if I ought"
"I must speak with you, Sam, alone. I know they don't want you to, but perhaps you could keep your father in ale for a few hours and get away. Just for a moment." Frodo hadn't wanted to sound so desperate, but the pleading in his voice seemed to bring Sam out of his imposed formality. His eyes met Frodo's with a guarded longing that warmed Frodo clear through.
"There's a silo and barn not far from here off the return road, to the south," Sam whispered quickly, as if he had just decided to disregard whatever impossible promises he had made to his father. "No one's used it for years. Can you meet me there an hour before sundown?"
"Yes, Sam. I will."
Sam nodded and hid a smile as he hurried off to deliver the tankard.
***
The barn was old and the planks that kept its walls up were losing their hold on the turning of years. The space was filled with the golden light of the waning day, casting shadows down from the loft where pigeons had taken up residence in the rafters. Frodo found it beautiful, filled with the simple grace he had come to love about the country. The birds stirred and clucked sleepily at his arrival as Frodo walked the straw-covered floor and sat upon an old broken plough and waited for Sam to come.
Some long minutes passed before he heard rustling outside and Sam ran in, heaving and sweating from his jog down the road.
"I did it!" he said, doubling over, trying to catch his breath. "I got him to roll right out under an oak to sleep it off a spell. And my mum, she's driving the girls home while I look after him! Except I'm not!"
Frodo laughed and came over to pat Sam's back as he coughed and struggled to breathe.
"Easy, Sam. Come over here and sit with me."
Sam cast himself in the straw with a huge sigh and looked up at the bared roof beams. "Oi! I missed this place--all of it. The trees, the fields." he glanced at Frodo who stretched out next to him, "everything."
Frodo didn't know what to say; he was already overcome by the sound of Sam's voice, the way the light of the setting sun cast such a glow in his curls and the soft green-brown of his eyes. The buttons of his weskit were undone and his collar splayed, revealing silky curls. His mouth was full and damp from where he'd licked the beads of sweat from his lip. How could he help himself when Sam was the most beautiful sight in the world to him?
"How was Northfarthing, Sam? Did you get my letters?"
Sam looked bashful for a moment. "I did. But I had to hide them right fast. They didn't have no ink or quill at my uncle's for replying, seeing as I was the only one of them who could make use of such things. But that still wouldn't have stopped one of my brothers from spying the Baggins' seal."
"They didn't want you to hear from me," Frodo said, understanding.
Sam looked at him solemnly and nodded his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't want it to be like this."
"Neither did I," Frodo said softly, so relieved to hear that Sam had not ignored his letters by choice. "I missed you terribly."
"I missed you, too," Sam said, the ache of five long months in his voice as he reached for Frodo's hand, rubbing his palm gently with his thumb.
Frodo flushed at his touch and smiled, lost in the amazement that Sam was here now, again with him, his warm hand squeezing his. He could smell him, feel the pull of his skin calling to him and he longed for nothing else but to fall into Sam's arms and kiss him senseless. "What did you do in Tighfield?"
Sam shrugged. "There wasn't much to do. It's awful plain up there and terribly cold. Not much grows but grass for miles aroundI learned to tie a lot of knots," he said with an odd grin. Their eyes met and held and Frodo knew not a minute had been lost between them all these long months.
"Do you think you could show me?" he asked, as his breath quickened and the space between them closed to naught.
***
The rope they scrambled around the barn to find had never before been used to bind fair-skinned wrists, nor had the old plough or its yoke been used to brace and hold sweating, straining limbs. Naked and twined, Frodo lay back on the plough beam, knees up with his cloak folded under him. His arms were secured over his head and tied to a milking rung on the wall as Sam sank deep within his flesh--gently as first, so gentle, then later, thrusting, probing, driving him mad with a lust that threatened to break his mind. Sam had learned many things in Tighfield, it would seem, where ropers' lads have even more idle hours to sit about and brag of their conquests. Sam had listened long and came prepared to share every inch of their insight with Frodo as they hungrily mashed lips and tongues together, too long starved of each other.
Sam had playfully, and much to Frodo's insistence, bound him up with what he called a double reverse half-hitch, very good for holding down sheep for shearing. Frodo had laughed, but the tremble in his throat told of his mounting excitement as the rope wrapped firm about his wrists and the remainder of his clothes were stripped from his thighs and legs. The oil was cold at first and made them both yelp and twitch, warming under Sam's hands into moans on the hard arousal built between them and their long, searing kisses. Clothes and buttons and braces became lost in the straw as Sam lifted him, tied him and readied him with careful fingers and a warm gripping fist--swirling, delving sensations that Frodo never knew he'd respond to so fiercely, begging him in. They both made enough unholy noise at their joining to scare the rest of the brooding birds from their nests in a cast of feathers as the old ironworks creaked under their undulating bodies.
Frodo squirmed and moaned, pleading with Sam to not let go, not let go, until he could feel the rising surge in his groin, coupled with the hot deep melding of their audible smacking flesh. Sam could not bear it long, thrust so deep in his tight warmth, and would pull back, gasping, just long enough to relax and suckle Frodo deep in his mouth to the edge of release, only to return to him, deep and slow, rebuilding thrust by thrust until a final shattering climax took them both under, spilling over, collapsing and breaking the frayed rope, dropping them both off the plough and into the sheltering straw, voiceless and trembling, holding each other in a sweet exhaustion.
***
Frodo had woken with Sam lying heavy on his chest and straw in his mouth. He spit it out and blinked into the near-darkness of the barn. The moon was up. It was some hours after nightfall.
Frodo cursed and pushed himself to his knees, startling Sam into a shared panic of straw-stuck curls and sticky thighs and bellies.
"What happened? What time is it?"
"I don't know," Frodo said, already on the edge of upset. It was late--he knew that.
They dressed hurriedly and brushed one another off as best they could, but the slippery evidence of their new discovery was hard to wipe away. They dressed and ran in a frightened rush to the barn gate where Frodo grabbed Sam by the arm.
"Wait, Sam. Wait!"
Sam stopped, his panicked eyes white in the moonlight. "What?"
"Whatever happens, I love you, Sam. Please, remember this."
Sam grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. "I have to go!" he said and was off into the darkness, running for the party grove.
Frodo took a longer route home by way of the flow of the stream so he could undress and wash himself more carefully. But the scent of their love was hard to rub away in the cold flow of the stream and he had to settle for at least picking the last of the straw from his trousers and hair.
He crossed the fields to the backside of Bag End just as the moon reached the height of the trees behind him. Through the windows Frodo could see Bilbo had lit a fire in the parlour and at the back door, the Gaffer had hung his bag-like cap.
No! No, no, no.
Frodo froze on the garden path, not wanting to face this. Not wanting to believe that he had been so thoughtlessly foolish once again. He cursed the Gaffer and Bilbo for bringing them to this. But mostly he chastised himself for having lost all shred of any measure of control and propriety that had once come so easily to him. Where was the lad who had grown up under the cane of Buckland's moral standard? What had taken him from a well-respected heir to an oil-slicked libertine tied to a cow-stay?
Whatever was waiting for him inside that lit doorway was only what he had brought upon himself. So Frodo gathered himself, stilled his shaking hands, and opened the door and went in.
Bilbo and the Gaffer were having tea at the kitchen table.
"Evening, Uncle, Gaffer," Frodo said as he tried to pass through nonchalantly.
Bilbo set his teacup down and folded his hands as he turned to him. "Where is Samwise, Frodo?"
"Sam?" Frodo said innocently. "I have not seen him."
Bilbo slammed his palm down upon the table, rattling the serving ware and scaring Frodo half to death. "Frodo Baggins, do not lie to me!"
Frodo gasped, trying to regain his breath. He'd never known Bilbo to use such a tone with him before. "What? What do you want me to say?"
"Samwise, Frodo. Where is he?"
Frodo raised his trembling chin and crossed his arms over his chest, staring them both down. If he could not hide his doings, he would defend them. "He is home now, I imagine."
Bilbo sucked his teeth and looked to the Gaffer who got slowly to his feet. He tipped his greyed head to Frodo grimly and saw himself out the back door. Something in their brief exchange scared Frodo to the marrow. "Bilbo? What's going on?"
Bilbo did not answer. Instead, he got up, brushed his trousers and began to clear the dishes to be washed--as he always did.
Frodo made his way around the table, following him. "Uncle? What is the Gaffer going to do to Sam? Bilbo? What is he going to do? Because this is my fault, not his!"
Bilbo said nothing, but set the teacups in the basin with a delicate tink. He rolled up each sleeve one by one carefully, yet just as he prepared to dip his hands into the water to begin washing, he spoke. "You break my heart, Frodo."
Frodo backed away from him, too scared and furious and heart-broken to think clearly. He was crying already, and he slapped the wetness angrily from his face.
Frodo ran from the kitchen and into his bedroom. He bolted the door and threw open his wardrobe and began clawing through his shirts and trousers, flinging them aside until he found the books hidden in the back. He grabbed them up, one after the other, and took them over to his bedchamber's fireplace, throwing them onto the grate--green, red, blue--bindings falling open and pages crumpling. He tossed tinder and faggots upon them and reached for a candle Bilbo had left lit for him in his window, a beacon to call him home.
Frodo held the burning candle in his hand upon its side, long burnt down and ribboned with wax that dripped painfully on his fingers. He held it tightly and brought it out at arm's length over the hearth. Not quite as long a fall as from the bookshelf, but long enough to let fate decide the outcome. The wax smoked and curled into the air as Frodo let the candle drop.
***
Bilbo did not rap upon his door, not that evening nor the long day that followed. He'd gone out, taken his cloak and walking stick. Frodo did not know where, nor did he care. He sat in his room, staring at the hearth and thinking and feeling nothing--his mind and heart one great void, as quiet and empty as the breeze blowing lonely through Bag End's silent gardens.
Twilight came and Frodo had not moved from his bedroom. He still wore the clothes from the day before. He had not bathed and the scent of Sam was on him, hidden like a scar within the folds of his clothes. He got up, unbolted his door and went out for some time, wandering, running his hands along the tips of the grasses that grew wild between the many smials occupying the Hill below Bag End. In the distance he could see the lights coming on in the windows, hear the laughter of the children and the barking of the dogs and squealing of the pigs as families came home from a hard day in the fields to hug and kiss one another and give thanks for the meal of pottage and greens that graced their tables. Frodo stood alone in the grass between them and listened to every sound.
***
It was dark when Frodo came back home. Bilbo had returned who-knew-when and had lit the rooms up with light. The remains of a hearty pot of stew were bubbling on the hook as Frodo came in the back door. He wandered down the smial until he found Bilbo sitting at his writing desk, pouring over some papers. Frodo came in, tired and numb, and sat down in front of the fire at his feet. He was ready to talk.
"Frodo-lad, look to me now," Bilbo said gently, upon hearing his entrance.
Frodo raised his head but he could not bring himself to look directly at Bilbo--his disappointment in him.
"My translations, Frodo. Why did you burn them?"
Because you would not speak to me of them, Frodo thought, but answered, "I don't know. I'm sorry, Uncle."
"You did not create them, Frodo. They were not yours to destroy. I have trusted you with everything I have, everything you will have. Why did you choose to betray me this way?"
Frodo felt hot tears threatening. It had been so simple to let the candle drop. This was harder, so much harder. "Why did you let me read them?" he asked, bitterly.
Bilbo sighed and swivelled his chair around to face him, folding his hands in his well-pressed lap. "Because, Frodo, I felt you were wise enough to understand them, unlike most hobbits I have known. And, because they were meant to be read, by someone other than myself."
Frodo paused at this. He hadn't known he was the first to open the box. "You shouldn't have trusted me with them," Frodo said thickly. "I was not wise at all. I did not know they would wound me so. Why didn't you warn me?"
Bilbo shook his head, his eyes filled with sympathy. "At first I only wanted to keep you from ruining the delicate lock with your amateurish burglary skills. Frodo, did you not find the key I left for you?"
Frodo was baffled. "No?"
Bilbo waved a hand at him. "It was down under the side drawer of myoh, never mind. Blast. I thought it better to leave it unlocked for you as I should have done in the first place. I should have left them out upon my shelves all these years, told people about them, let them read and judge me as they wished. But never mind, those days have long since passed and you're all I have to concern me now."
"Why did you hide them?" Frodo asked. "If not from me?"
Bilbo chewed his lip and studied his hands. "I've not been well understood all my long years. I thought by hiding them I mightkeep you from doubting me, keep you safe from what others have thought of me and my life." He chuckled then and fiddled about in his pocket for his ring, which he took into his palm, his hand growing into a fist about it, like a cyst covers a hidden wound. "Mad Baggins, they call me, and will call me when I'm gone. I would not have them say the same of you," he said and looked Frodo solidly in the eye. "The translation wounded you, you say. Is this what began all your troubles with Samwise? Be honest now, lad."
"Yes, Uncle."
He nodded. "I feared so. But it was not the first time you'd felt such impulses."
"No." Frodo admitted and found it such a relief to say so. "The books legitimised it."
"And romanticised it, I'd imagine," Bilbo continued.
"Yes." Frodo said, looking down again as if by reading them he had become some damn idiot fool, drunken and singing for his sweetheart upon the tables.
"Then it was good you found them. Though I fear my well-placed bookmark fell a yard shy of hitting its mark."
Frodo was confused again. "The bookmark?"
"When I released the lock I also reset the bookmark in the blue book. Did you not notice?"
"I noticed," Frodo acknowledged. "I did not understand it."
Bilbo sat back and let the ring slip from his hand and settle into the belly of his waistcoat pocket. He crossed his arms and worked his tongue about the inside of his mouth and began to recite from rote:
Tween lands of heartless night we've run
Across the fell mountains and wicked seas
Yea, in this wilderness of fate and fortune's game
I see the warnings written within the singing winds
Tis not our world to bend or sow nor call to comfort's need
Our hearts are not sworn to King or law but our memory shall ever be
"Do you understand this now, Frodo?"
Frodo sat silent and pondered the words. They had not meant much to him then, and it stung him deeply to realise their wisdom was now blown all to ash. Real tears ran down his face now as he spoke. "What can I ever do to mend things? How can I keep whom I love, yet protect him from me?"
"You must heed the warnings and obey the laws, Frodo. Or else your love for Samwise will wind up much like mine did, locked away in a silver box."
Frodo rose and knelt before his uncle, setting his hands upon his knees. "Please, Uncle. Please don't let the Gaffer take Sam away. Please. I'll do anything." Though even as he said this, he knew he had spoken these promises before and just as easily broken them.
Bilbo covered Frodo's hands with his own, dry and aged. "Hamfast is a good man, Frodo. I know you cannot see this now, but he has every best intention for his youngest son. He will not have him shamed, not even by you, though he loves you well."
"But, my intentions are good. I would never betray Sam, not in a hundred years."
"I don't doubt that, lad. But that is not the way of things in this land we call our home and Shire. Sam is an apprentice. Your affair endangers his chances of winning a post."
"But surely you mean to appoint him, Bilbo! The Gaffer does less than half the work now, I'd thought"
"Of course Samwise is capable, there's no doubt in my mind. But you know the ways of serfs and lords, Frodo. Sam is young; he cannot accept official post for some years yet. And then, only when Hamfast relinquishes his own can he take his father's place. I will not dishonour him, Frodo, by letting him go merely to allow you to indulge your desires for his son. No, the appointing of Bag End's succeeding gardener I will leave to you."
"What do you mean? Where are you going?"
Bilbo squeezed Frodo's hands within his own and looked upon them sadly. "You've known for sometime that I intend to leave, go back among the elves."
Frodo felt his heart skip painfully, but he held his tongue.
"Perhaps you thought I would take you as well. But I must be clear to you, Frodo; I mean to go alone."
"Why?"
"In three years time you will come of age. On September 22 of that year, you will inherit everything I own and all my servants will be released, by law. It is already written and witnessed. At that day and time, you may, Frodo, appoint any servant as you wish and can afford to keep. Sam will be fully apprenticed and ready for service should you choose to call him."
Frodo was momentarily confounded by this news and heartbroken as well. He had thought Bilbo would take him with him. "I will stay and be master of Bag End," he repeated soberly. "For how long?"
"For as long as are the years of your life, or until the long road calls you. And I do believe it will call you one day. You are, after all, a Baggins. But on that day if your love is as true as I believe you say it is, Sam will be at your side."
"Sam can be mine, by law," Frodo said, only now following Bilbo's train of reasoning to its point. "And no one can take him from me, not even his father?"
"No, certainly not. Not if he accepts willingly and if he is not called to another master before. And Frodo beware this, because if you cannot restrain yourself, you will force Hamfast's hand and Sam will be a roper in Northfarthing til the end of his days."
"But Sam is a gardener and a fine cook as well. He would wither in that life!"
"Ah, yes, then it is up to you to see that he does not wither thus. In his heart Hamfast wants Samwise to take on Bag End. It is his design to keep his favourite son close to home, though he knew long before now that he would lose him one day to you."
"And he would have no right to protest should Sam come live with me?"
"No, he would not. In fact, my lad, he would honour it. Don't look so surprised. All Ham wants is his son respectably bestowed. What happens within the walls of this smial are not his concern, provided it is fitting to the letter of the laws of the land. A master's wish is by all rights in this country, the very law itself. But you, Frodo, are not yet that master."
Frodo sat back upon his heels; all this coming to him at once was hard to settle in his mind. "Three years" he murmured. "Is a very long time."
"You are young, Frodo. I will not lie to you; it will seem very long, indeed. But it will be longer if you do not abide it."
Frodo sat back and drew up his knees. He rested his chin and stared into the burning grate for a long time, so long he thought Bilbo might have nodded off for as quiet as he had become. He found he had one more question to ask: "Was the story true, Bilbo?"
"What does your heart tell you?"
Frodo thought it over and realised he knew all along that truth or fiction mattered little in the ways of love. "I am very sorry I burned the books," he said at length. "There was much more I could have learned from them."
Bilbo got up and patted his shoulder. "There is much more you will learn, but not from books, and for that I believe they've served their purpose. Keep the box if you like. I'll have no more use for it." And with that he yawned and excused himself for bed, leaving Frodo to watch the fire sputter and die out.