The Field of Cormallen

Like coming up from drowning, Frodo awoke with a gasp, and found himself in darkness.

Above him, slender birch trees splayed a gentle canopy across the night sky, dappling the moonlight. A calm wind rustled the leaves overhead, so that they fluttered like moth wings, black against indigo. A sound that had been lost to Frodo's memory for some time. In fact, he couldn't remember much at all, and his mind worked hard to place where he was.

Frodo tried to peer through the darkness around him. He was alone, and that realization caused alarm to surge through him.

Sam… Where was Sam?

He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his body. He must be back in the Tower, his rescue must have been a dream!

"...Sam!" he whispered into the dark. He dare not call out.

Fighting the pain, Frodo brought himself to his elbows. The sky and trees remained, so he couldn't be in the Tower. Where was he, then? And where was Sam? A campfire crackled nearby, and in the glow it cast, he could make out a dark form close to him, in a bed pushed up right against his.

"Sam…"

Was he alive? Another stab of panic. Frodo crawled the short distance to him, laid a hand on his forehead. He was warm, and breathing steadily. Frodo collapsed in relief next to him, took his hand. It was warm, and strength seemed to flow through it, even as he slept. Sam was alive, that was all that mattered. Frodo was too weak to make any escape for them, and so had to simply trust they were safe for the moment.

Slowly- slowly, memories came back to him like the drip of water down rain-soaked leaves. An odd peace seemed to blanket his mind, protecting him for the moment from any vividness. Only when he remembered his last moments with Sam, on the ashen hill, did the fullness of memory rush through him. He remembered his last waking thought- he had thought it was his last living thought:

All this time we've had, and I never told him.

The wind continued on, cool against Frodo's face and threading through his hair, and the moonlight moved in soft beams across Sam's sleeping face as Frodo watched on. The fire was dying. Sounds of music and celebration from some distance seemed to ride now and again on the wind. The battle must have been won, against the orcs that had marched out of Mordor. Frodo closed his eyes against the memories of his and Sam's march through the night among the company of orcs that discovered them: hours of terror and torment, in constant fear of being discovered. The Men must have won, Frodo thought, trying to distract himself. This place seemed to be one of many encampments, though nobody was close by. Frodo thought he could see a tall figure far at the edge of the shadows, pacing among the distant trees. The figure could almost have been… but no. It couldn't be. Gandalf had fallen in Moria, what felt like an age ago.

The fire fluttered low when Sam finally started to wake.

"Frodo-" he mumbled, twisting away from nightmares. Frodo held him steady, hushed away the visions softly. It made him smile, to think that at least in his sleep, Sam dropped the Mister.

"Shh, Sam, I'm here."

Sam's eyes snapped open, dark and fathomless in the firelight.

"Mr. Frodo- where are we?" He kept his voice low, untrusting.

"We're safe. Do not worry. I think we're in Ithilien. Can you smell the sagebrush?"

Sam nodded but did not seem to register. "How much longer should we wait here? It seems we're out in the open, and we'll be out of water soon, what with your water bottle slashed up and all. But there's no hope for it, sir, we should make our escape while we have our chance. Can you walk?"

Slashed up water bottle… Did Sam also wake thinking they were in the Tower, still?

"Sam…" Frodo said it in the gentlest of whispers, reaching out to touch his arm. "Try to remember. We escaped the tower, can you recall?"

Sam stared off, searching through his memories, but came up with nothing. He looked back at Frodo, searched his face. Then, something came over him, something clicked open in his mind like a lock on a hidden moonlit door.

"I remember the mountain. We made it to the mountain."

Frodo nodded encouragingly.

"I remember… I held you in my arms… and you were trapped in a nightmare, and I couldn't wake you up from it. I wanted to- I wanted to-" He looked at Frodo with an intensity and naked sorrow that Frodo had never seen in him before.

"...Sam?"

The firelight was casting Sam's face half in shadow, and Frodo still had his hand on Sam's arm. Sam was struggling with something- tears were in his eyes, and there was an undertone of panic in his next words.

"I always, always hoped so much for you, Mr. Frodo."

Alarm ran through Frodo at these words. What did he mean? Wherever Sam was in his memories, whatever was flashing before his eyes, Frodo could not let him remain there. Hope was always Sam's strength- but these words had despair in them.

"Sam." Frodo took his hand off Sam's arm, and found his hand instead. And, carefully, so as not to shock, he brought Sam's hand to his heart, covering it with his right hand. Revealing, in the gentlest way possible, the gap of his missing finger- bandaged, well-tended, but there forevermore.

Sam saw, and inhaled sharply. Frodo could almost see the rest of his memories flooding before him.

Frodo let the silence fill the moment, and wind rose around them.

"You did always hope so much for me," He finally said. "But I couldn't fulfill those hopes. I'm sorry, Sam. I failed everyone, and you most of all. Only luck saved us, that Gollum fell into the fire with the Ring."

Sam looked aghast, pulled back by Frodo's words into the present moment. "What can you mean? What do you-" Sam stuttered, disbelieving. He looked around as though reaffirming their safety. Then Frodo's maimed hand caught his eye once more, and he understood. "You mean you failed because you didn't throw the Ring into the fire. Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that's no way to think on it! Look at where we are! The cool fresh air and the smell o' growing things on the wind, and you- you're here, alive-" and with that, he wrapped an arm around Frodo, pulling him close.

Frodo's heart raced. Sam's hand was still on his chest. Surely he could feel it. Frodo was exposed- he could not hide anywhere. But here, with Sam, in the safety and the quiet, he did not want to hide any longer.

"I almost lost you, but by the Lady, I found you again…"

"Sam, I-" His throat tightened, and tears were coming down his face.

That last moment on the mountain, before they collapsed on that island surrounded by lava, lived in Frodo still- the taste of the ash in his mouth, the scent of molten fumes. The bitter regret that he hadn't spoken, that Sam would die never knowing.

I love you, Sam. I love you.

He must say it. He must say it now, before fear set in again, and took away his chance.

But Sam spoke first.

"Now mayhaps I'm speaking out of turn, but you didn't fail, sir. The thing was done, and you brought it all the way there, and you saved all o' Middle Earth, and you didn't fail none. And when I said I'd always hoped for you, sir, I meant…" Sam's voice was shaking now, fingers trembling as he stroked Frodo's hair. "I didn't mean to say you'd disappointed me, sir… I meant… I meant…" He closed his eyes, gathering his courage.

"Sam… I-"

But Sam shook his head, took a quick breath.

"I love you!" The words tumbled out of him, quick and light. "I meant to say, I love you. I've always loved you, Frodo dear, and I hoped the whole world would love you, and celebrate you, and make songs about you, because I wanted the world to give you what I was afraid to give, but I'm not afraid anymore. I love you, and I would kiss every last teardrop from your eyes, until no more thought of our hard journey ever crossed your mind, and you never lost your hope again, and were filled with naught but happiness, like a song, 'cause that's what you deserve, to live as like inside a song, that's how beautiful you are."

Frodo was stunned, breathless. His heart pounded wildly away against Sam's hand. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You… love me." He repeated, shocked.

Sam nodded tightly. He couldn't speak anymore, and the two of them were like wild creatures, hiding, still and wide-eyed in the deep undergrowth.

"...You've always loved me."

Sam nodded again, blushing and unable to look Frodo in the eye.

I'm not afraid anymore, Sam had said. Courage was gathering in Frodo's heart too now, like dew on morning grass as the darkness departed in the dawn mist. He took a deep breath.

"And… you would kiss me."

Sam's gaze snapped up to meet Frodo's. Terror flared, but hope was stronger. He could see the smile growing on Frodo's face, and from that moment he did not hesitate. He closed the distance between them.

Frodo could not think. He could only breathe, breathe him in deep, feel the softness of his lips, and his hands, his arms drawing him in. It was like honey was pouring from Sam's heart into his, sweet and golden and flowing now through his veins, to his very marrow. The wind swirled around them; the fire hissed in protest.

It was more than Frodo ever, ever dared to hope. They breathed, breathed each other in, deep and deeper. They kissed until exhaustion, and collapsed against each other. And even then, they clung to each other, like two flames finally brought close.

This cannot be real… Frodo thought. I've strayed into a dream, like Beren meeting Lúthien…

It was real. But it would not be for long.