A/n: Any of you who are, or used to be, X-files fans may recognize a theme from One Breath; no copyright infringement was intended, but it seemed the best way for the 'white shores' analogy to fit in.
I feel I should also make a note about slash. I've mentioned this in my profile before, but none of the stories I post under this name are written as slash. I am not opposed to slash at all—quite the opposite—but for my own reasons I do not post slash under this penname. See my bio for more information.
I do, however, believe in a deep emotional bond between Frodo and Sam; a bond of friendship, trust, loyalty and above all, love. Yes, the 'L' word. And my stories—both gen and slash—have displays of physical affection between the two. If this bothers you, I'm sorry for you, but I make no apologies for the work itself. Take it as you will, but don't bother telling me my hobbits hug too much. I'm not likely to listen. : )
* * *
Aragorn shuddered, his head bowed as his body shook with silent grief. He reached out and laid one badly trembling hand across Sam's brow, whispering, "Be at peace, my brave friend."
Just then a clatter outside the hut made him look up. A familiar voice cried out, "Sam!" and moments later Frodo's curly head appeared in the doorway as the hobbit scrambled up into the enclosure. He stood, panting, his breath creating clouds of mist in the pre-dawn light, and his wide eyes settled on the pale, still body of his gardener. He released a choked noise, and moaned, "Oh, Sam!"
Aragorn's eyes filled with fresh tears. "I'm sorry, Frodo," he whispered.
Frodo, who had started across the floor towards Sam's cot, froze and turned to look at Aragorn, disbelief lining his face. "He's…he's gone?" came the pained whisper.
Aragorn met his gaze sadly. "I'm so sorry."
Frodo stared at him, then back at Sam, and for a long moment he didn't move, or even breathe. Then, so quietly that Aragorn almost didn't hear him, he said, "No."
The ranger frowned, and said, "Frodo?"
But Frodo was shaking his head, his face deadly calm. "No," he repeated, and he strode forward, kneeling before the low cot and taking Sam's limp, cool hand between his own.
"Sam," he said, clearly and steadily. "My Sam, do you hear me? It's your Frodo calling. Come back to me, Sam."
Aragorn's heart shattered with pity and sorrow. He stood, and took a step forward.
"Frodo," he whispered. "It's no use, Frodo. You can't help him now."
"No," Frodo repeated, louder and firmer than before. He stood, without even glancing at Aragorn, and slid onto the cot next to Sam. He pulled the limp body against him, cradling Sam's head in against his chest, tucked beneath his chin, and continued to speak to him, though Aragorn could not make out the words.
He took another step forward and placed a gentle hand on Frodo's shoulder, but Frodo merely tensed and whispered, "Leave me."
Aragorn lifted his hand, hesitated, then obeyed, stepping out of the room and jumping lightly down into the golden carpet of leaves below. There, he dropped slowly to his knees, buried his face in his weathered hands, and wept.
* * *
Silence, stillness.
They were the first things Sam became aware of, the first things he knew in the strange place he found himself in.
Silence. Stillness.
Then, as he spiraled slowly upwards out of the darkness, not so silent. And not so still. There was the sound of water, lapping gently against wood. And fainter, the quiet wash of waves upon a shore.
Sam opened his eyes.
Before him, wood, carved and polished and curving upwards. And beneath him, wood; an unsteady ground that rocked to and fro, gently.
A boat. Barely large enough for one hobbit to lie in comfortably, as Sam was apparently doing now.
What…?
Sam sat up quickly, then gasped as the motion made the boat rock harder. He froze, and waited for it to still, then blinked and tried to rein in his panic. His pulse was racing, and his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts that misted in front of his face.
Where…?
He swallowed, then dared to lean—slowly—to look over the edge of the boat.
Not six inches below, water lapped gently along the length of the wood, dark and impenetrable.
Sam shuddered, and sat up straight again in the middle, trying to keep still as he took in the rest of his surroundings.
Fog. All around him, surrounding him, clinging to his clothing in droplets of dew. He couldn't see further than three feet in either direction, he realized; he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. Again he had to swallow his panic.
"Easy, now, Sam Gamgee," he muttered, and though his voice fell muted and was swallowed instantly by the mists, he felt comforted by the sound. He spoke again. "No sense in getting yerself worked up, not afore you know what's what. Now, where's the last place you can remember being?"
He cast his mind backwards, but found only darkness. He frowned. Something wasn't right. There was something he should know, something he should remember…and he had an uneasy suspicion that whatever it was, it wasn't good.
What…?
Then memory struck like a kick in his gut, and he doubled over, gasping. *Frodo.*
Frodo. Frodo was dead, wasn't he.
Sam remembered it now; remembered the quest, the fellowship, the horrid ring. The mines; the orcs. The spear…
Sam heard a low, unearthly moan of pain and was only half-surprised to realize it had come from him. Frodo. His master was dead.
But then…where was *he*? He looked around, trying to peer through the mists and the sheen of tears that now obscured his vision, but it was no use; all he could see was more of the same swirling grey. He turned and looked behind him, towards the back of the boat, then frowned.
A tether, stretching taut from the stern of the boat into the mists. He turned, carefully, until he was facing the back of the boat, then reached forward and gripped the tether a few inches out from where it was tied and gave it a tug.
It held fast, tied to…what? Something obscured by the mists, lost in the fog. But Sam had no doubt he was tied securely to the shore. He pulled a little harder, wondering if he could use the tether to drag himself ashore, but while the boat rocked a little harder in response to his efforts, it otherwise stayed put.
"All right, then," he muttered. "Wherever it is I've ended up, I'm stuck, for the moment."
He turned back around, and faced the opposite direction. He couldn't hear waves from that direction the way he could from behind him, so he figured he was closer to the shore behind than ahead.
Sam shivered, drawing his cloak closer around his shoulders and hugging his knees to his chest. His eyes burned with fresh tears; fear, loneliness, and above all, grief. He was lost, stuck in this desolate place, and Frodo was dead. He had never felt more alone in all his life.
Then, suddenly, another memory struck Sam, and he jerked with a gasp and stared down at his side. The knife! He'd been stabbed, hadn't he? The orc had thrown the dagger at him, in Moria. Sam had blacked out, and awoken here, in this strange place. But there was no mark on him now; his shirt was intact, no knife rip in its fabric and no blood stains marring its white surface.
"Am I dead?" he wondered aloud.
But no…even as he said it, he knew, somehow, that it wasn't so. At least…not yet. Suddenly he understood. He was alive still, somehow—but his spirit was lingering here in this place, tied to the mortal shores by the tether behind him, unable to move on. He didn't know how he understood all of this, but he felt certain he'd found his answer. He was trapped—unable to move on, but unwilling to stay. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Yes…unwilling, if Frodo wasn't there. He couldn't go back and face life without him. He *wouldn't.*
He looked up again, out into the quiet of the mists before him.
He would go on, then. He would find a way to get that tether lose, and he would leave, drift forward to the distant shore and find his master again. Sam closed his eyes and smiled, imagining the mists parting to reveal glittering white shores and sunshine and green grasses. And Frodo. Frodo would be there, standing on the shores, a smile on his face, the weight of his burden and the cares of the world gone. He would open his arms, and welcome Sam into them warmly, and they would be together again.
Sam smiled, a tear trickling down his face at the thought, then turned and looked at the tether. It was stout, but he narrowed his eyes determinedly. It would not keep him from his master, not if he had anything to say about it.
He turned around again, and leaned forward, trying to work at the knot. It was thick; the tether was at least as wide as all of his fingers put together, and the knot was sturdy. It had accumulated the dew of the fog and was slippery as well; Sam's fingers slid again and again as he tried unsuccessfully to get a hold of it. He frowned, biting his lip in concentration, and continued to work.
After a long time—how much, he could not tell, though he felt it must have been hours at least—he slumped back into the center of the boat, defeated. He turned again, facing the silence of the distant shore he could not reach, and stared into the mists.
"Frodo," he murmured, and his voice choked with tears. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, then buried his face in his arms and began to weep.
Then, much to his surprise, he felt the boat lurch forward. He gasped, and turned to look behind him. The tether was gone!
He scrambled back and looked over the stern. No, not gone, he realized; it was still tied to the boat. But now, instead of holding him, it dangled uselessly in the water. Whatever it had been secured to, it had either snapped or come untied. And now the boat was drifting slowly, steadily, towards the distant shore.
Sam turned back around and leaned over the bow, an eager smile on his face. As he drifted, he suddenly realized he could hear singing. It was faint, at first, but it grew stronger as he drew nearer; blessed voices raised in joyous song. He gasped at the sound—it was beyond anything he had ever hoped to hear, and it touched his heart deeply and moved him to tears. He closed his eyes and let them fall, a smile on his face. Soon, he would be there; soon he would see the face of his master, would feel the warmth of his arms and be at peace. Soon…
But then he hesitated. Something else caught his ear, something that made his whole being straighten attentively. It was quieter than the singing, but it was nearer, and somehow, it caught at Sam's heart more deeply than the music. He paused, and listened.
"Sam…My Sam…" the voice drifted through the mists, so faint he could barely make it out, but it surrounded his heart and claimed his soul. He released a sob. Frodo! Frodo was calling to him, beckoning him. And Sam would obey that call as he always had.
"I'm coming, master," he whispered, leaning forward. "I'm almost there."
Suddenly the boat lurched again, and Sam fell forward onto his face with a startled yelp. He sat up quickly, looking around, and realized the boat had stopped. Frowning, he whipped his head around, and to his horror saw the tether was twitching, no longer dangling, but lifting from the water, a shower of droplets to raining from its length into the river. He sobbed, "No!" and lunged to the back of the canoe, working at the knot again with renewed fervor. "Frodo," he moaned. "Please, Frodo, I'm trying…LET ME GO!" The last he aimed behind him, at whoever—or whatever—was holding the rope, insisting he stay.
"Come back to me, Sam."
"I'm trying, Master," Sam sobbed, pulling desperately at the knot. It was working—it gave a little. "Please, help me," he whispered, and with one more tug he managed to work his thumb under the loop. "Yes!" He whispered triumphantly, tugging at the knot that grew looser and less determined every moment.
"Sam!"
Sam froze, his eyes widening with shock. The voice was clearer, now—and suddenly Sam realized it was not coming from the far shore at all.
"Frodo?" he whispered in disbelief.
"Sam, come back," Frodo called, and there was a trembling edge of grief in his voice, mingling with the desperation there. "Please, Sam, please."
"Frodo!" Sam lunged forward and grabbed the rope just as the rest of the knot worked free on its own. "Frodo, I'm here!"
"Help me, Sam," Frodo's voice pleaded. "Please, Sam, help. I can't hold it alone!"
Sam held tighter. "Frodo, I've got it," he cried. "I won't let go, Frodo. I won't!"
"Hold on," Frodo's voice, a mere whisper now, but Sam felt the boat begin to move slowly through the waters, this time in the opposite direction. The singing faded behind him, but he could not have cared less, for the mists were clearing now, and he could see a long wooden pier looming just ahead. And standing on the end of the pier, a dark figure holding tight to the other end of the tether, hauling it in arm over arm.
"Frodo," Sam whispered in awe.
In another moment, the boat was alongside the dock, and Sam could finally see his master clearly. Frodo's hand jutted down, palm up, and Sam gripped it tightly. Frodo hauled him bodily up onto the pier, then helped him scramble to his feet. They stood panting before one another, staring, then in the next instant Sam found himself crushed in a powerful embrace.
He returned it fiercely. "I knew I'd find you," he whispered into Frodo's shoulder. Frodo's only response was to tighten his arms and rock to and fro in a gentle rhythm, stroking Sam's back soothingly.
"Sam," he murmured.
"Frodo," Sam choked, still clinging to him. "I'm sorry. I tried…I thought…"
"I know, Sam," Frodo whispered. "But I couldn't let you go." Sam felt the warm wet of tears on his neck.
"Oh, Frodo," he whispered again.
After a long, long time, Frodo finally pulled away to look Sam in the face. His eyes were red, as though he'd been crying, but free now of tears, and shining with love. "My Sam," he whispered, reaching up to brush the curls back from Sam's brow.
Sam caught his hand and held it tight against his cheek for a moment, then released him and stepped back. "Mr. Frodo, where are we?" he said, looking around and shivering. "It's so quiet. How did you get here? And how do we get back?"
Frodo merely smiled, and shook his head. "You must find your own way back, Sam," he said. "I cannot do it for you."
Sam looked at him, frightened. "Wait, Mr. Frodo!" he cried. "Don't leave me here alone!"
Frodo leaned forward and kissed Sam's brow. "Follow the sound of my voice," he whispered into Sam's ear. Then he smiled again, and vanished, nothing but swirling mist left where he'd been standing.
"Frodo!" Sam cried, and for an instant he panicked;
then a soft, warm breeze lifted his cloak and swirled around him, and Frodo's filled his mind. "Don't be afraid," it said.
"Listen. Follow."
The breeze stilled, and the voice vanished, but as Sam listened he realized he *could* hear Frodo's voice, faintly, humming a haunting melody. He peered in the direction of the sound, and saw the faintest glimmer of light through the mist. He smiled, and followed.
* * *
Aragorn heard the slightest rustle of movement behind him, and he lifted his head to see Galadriel approaching, gazing out across the Anduin, where the morning sunshine was only starting to melt away the mists on its glittering surface. She stopped next to him, but did not speak.
He watched her, waiting; she had a distant look on her face, as though she was listening or watching for something. When she finally looked down at him, he was surprised to see a joyous smile on her lips.
"Not all those who wander are lost," she quoted softly, and inclined her head back towards the enclosure.
Frowning, Aragorn got to his feet and climbed back into the hut. He stood in the doorway, gazing at the bed, then blinked, and stepped closer, eyes going very wide.
Frodo was lying on his side, one arm curled tightly around Sam's back. The other was tucked under the gardener's head, and the fingers of that hand were combing lightly through the younger hobbit's curls. Frodo's face was streaked with tears, and as Aragorn watched, fresh ones dripped from beneath his closed eyelids; but his voice was steady as he hummed a low, soothing melody.
And curled tightly into the warm haven of Frodo's embrace, his own arms wrapped securely around Frodo's back, Sam slept peacefully.