Title:The Gift
Author:Kelllie
Characters:Frodo and Sam (and a character who shall remain unnamed)Rating:PG-13 (for mature themes)
Genre:Angst
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the Tolkien estate. I make no claims on the following.
Summary:A short, pre-quest, vignette wherein young Frodo learns a difficult lesson about love, and Sam -- sweetly wise and practical as ever -- helps out. It's a one-sided conversation of sorts – though we do get to hear Frodo's thoughts.
THE GIFT:
"Well, I must say that I am at a loss…"
The voice was measured and toneless, yet no less cutting, Frodo thought. The words, delivered with casual indifference, and slight impatience, lanced through him. Weapons of a kind. Painful shards of razored ice, piercing the bubbling warmth and light he had felt only a moment before.
"…Frodo…I didn't know… really… I would never have guessed…"
The voice moved from cold indifference to disbelief, and Frodo felt regret. A swooping, sinking feeling of chill evisceration.
"… this letter… your feelings…"
Frodo had written too much. Far too much. Like a fool, he had cast his heart out before him. In a panic, he thought to snatch the letter back and run... but it was too late. The secret was out.
The voice dropped to a whisper, as if fearing a scene in the crowded tavern.
"… Frodo…you… you never said anything…"
There would, of course, be no scene. Frodo would stay silent, as ever. He would not speak now, just as he had not spoken before. But there was so much he wanted to say… so much more he needed to say. However, the voice – once so full of warmth and interest and hunger -- had now grown cold and distant and unapproachable.
"…surely you didn't think…"
Yes… yes he did think. He thought with all of his mind, and all of his heart. Thought led to hope, and hope… to belief. And for once in his life, he did not feel the inevitable let-down after Yule, the familiar anti-climax after the fun and frolic of the season. He had been given a gift, unlike any before. A gift he could hold deep inside and gently open at will, releasing a flood of sensuous warmth and belonging. A rush of memory and lingering sensation…
And love… or so he thought.
"…I thought we were just having a bit of fun after the Yule Ball… that's all…"
Oh… but it was so much more. For a few stolen moments, he was able to lose himself. To move beyond the stricture of conscious thought and logic, into raw untempered emotion. It was real, and fierce, and substantial – a tangible, palpable joy. It was something he could feel and thus own -- wholly unto himself.
"… I thought you were…you see, I didn't… I didn't know you'd come of age…"
It took a moment for the words to register… and then the blow came. It fell softly. Was that all it had been? The thrill of the forbidden, the tasting of the proscribed?
"…You… you look so young, yet…"
Yes, young. But no longer so naive.
"…Oh come now. Don't look at me that way... "
How else was there to look, Frodo mused. He was practiced at hiding his emotions -- but these feelings, these sensations… they were new and unfamiliar, and had yet to be tamed.
"… here, you keep the gift. It would only become another mathom for me…"
A mathom. Unwanted. Kept out of a vague hope of future usefulness.
"…we should stay in touch, though. Perhaps I'll pay you a a visit next week."
Another mathom, of sorts.
And with that, the voice hurriedly stepped away. Not a moment later, Frodo heard it boisterously greet a lad, younger yet, across the crowded room.
And he numbly recognized the moment for what it was -- the first misstep on the path to knowing.
Yet…
Another voice tugged at him. This one familiar and welcome. He hadn't been aware of it before, hadn't felt the soft eyes trained on him the entire evening. He hadn't seen those eyes turn to flint as they gazed at the one with whom Frodo spoke.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Frodo?"
No… and yes. It was only the pain after joy, the darkness after light -- the union of opposites that was the way of things.
But Frodo gave no voice to these thoughts. He merely nodded, and walked on. Sam followed. No questions, no prodding, just unspoken understanding.
"There's something I'd like to show you, sir… if you're not in a hurry to be anywhere just now."
Frodo motioned for Sam to lead on, and followed him into the night. They walked over frozen fields and icy culverts, through gates and hedges and up, up, up to the top of the knoll behind the old Holman farm. Sam sat, and gently patted the ground beside him.
"On a full moon, Mr. Frodo, I reckon this is the finest sight in all of the Shire."
Frodo sat, and vacantly stared at the scene before him. The landscape was bleak, frozen and lifeless. Like his life at that moment, he thought ruefully. Cold, barren, bereft of warmth and light.
But then the clouds shifted, and the moon broke through. Instead of a frozen landscape, Frodo beheld a glorious sight. Fields of diamonds glittered before him, brilliant and dazzling in the moonlight. Snowcapped mounts sat seemingly suspended in silken mist. And above it all, stars. A multitude of glorious, sparkling pinpricks of fire.
With the shifting of the clouds, a shifting of his mind took place as well. Frodo began to see his life for what it was. Hidden under a sullen, shallow façade was a treasure-trove of beauty -- snow drops budding under oak trees, the shimmering splendor of frost laden evergreens, the bounty of a full home and ready hearth, and -- as he felt Sam's arm settle tenderly around his shoulders -- the warmth of a staunch friend sitting beside him in the enveloping comfort of silence.
And he saw the moment for what it truly was. It wasn't a misstep on the path to knowing, but a huge leap forward -- a leap over the rails and into the home stretch.
This… this was the true gift his heart had sought -- not hurried, impassioned moments and idealized, imagined love.
But real love – unwavering and solid.
A gift he could feel and hold forever.
THE END