Rivendell was beautiful, but Sam couldn't focus on any of it. The elegant wooden arches and delicately curving trees, the graceful fall of sunlight dappling the earth, the statues carven of such smooth stone they almost seemed alive- it was all a blur before his eyes. Even the sweet smells of that mysterious autumn barely caught his attention.

Merry and Pippin were in better spirits than he. It was a relief for them, he figured, to be settled into such luscious warm beds, feel the light of what seemed like a permanent late afternoon on their faces. The brightness of their enjoyment was too much for him- but it wasn't that Sam didn't want them to be happy. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to relish the taste of the aromatic elven wine, and the unimaginably light fruits and pastries they were served. He wanted to look out in awe at the beautiful elven lords and ladies, watch them talk of high and mysterious secrets amongst themselves and wonder at what they said- but never ask. He wanted to have a carefree heart.

No- that wasn't just it. He was clumsy, trying to think through his feelings, since they sat not before his eyes but within them, where clear shapes were elusive. But he could tell this much- it wasn't just that Sam wanted to be happy, but rather that he wanted everyone to be happy, and if that wasn't the case he couldn't be happy in the slightest.

Poor Mr. Frodo, after all, couldn't enjoy those wines and fruits and soft light where it fell through deadening leaves. He couldn't possibly be enjoying anything- he still had yet to wake from the faint put upon him that night at Weathertop.

Sam shuddered to even think of that.

As a boy, of course, he had been afraid of the dark. He remembered waking up sometimes in his old burrow and, seeing how the moonlight from one round window distorted a coat rack in the corner, becoming unimaginably afraid. Too afraid to even poke his head out from under his blankets, as though they were the only shield against the faceless horror that could not be described- the thing that wasn't there. But that night in Weathertop had been worse than any of those fearful ones of childhood. Worse by far. The distant memory of those hellish shrieks- the sounds of violent hoof beats encroaching ever closer- the dark and the terrible death-smell that seemed to radiate from beneath the hoods… it was difficult to bear, and so he forced himself to stop thinking of it.

Old Bilbo's quest hadn't been this terrible- or had it? His tellings of it- the spirited dwarves, foolish trolls, the clever and magnificent dragon- had always been with an edge of humour. Never had his words suggested at that dark kind of terror, that unnatural pressure that hung in the air. It had been more than the approach of death that had scared Sam so. It had been the instinctive knowledge that all creatures possessed...that night had been the first time in his entire life that he had come face to face with true evil.

It didn't do any good to dwell on it. Unhealthy things like that were no good for anyone- but Frodo had yet to wake up. So Sam didn't go out to enjoy Rivendell.

First he waited outside the room where Frodo was kept, seeing the strange white light come from beneath the door, listening in anxiety to the indecipherable elven speech, until the magic was done and he was allowed inside. Then he stayed by Frodo's side, in the softly lit bedroom with its silky white pillows and sheets, blind to the beautiful wooden carvings around the windows, senseless to the sweet breeze that came through them. He did not eat much, and did not sleep at all, instead just sitting in the chair by the bed, leaving only to relieve himself in the marvellous elven bathroom down the hall. But he made sure not to do that much. He didn't want to leave Frodo. As far as Sam was concerned, the only important thing- the only important thing in the entire world- was his Mr. Frodo, and nothing could convince him otherwise.

In truth, seeing Frodo in such a state was worse than that horrible night itself had been. It wasn't natural, what was happening to him. It wasn't right. In fact, it was a little like blasphemy, to Sam's heart at least.

This thought Sam had always been shy to share, but to him Frodo was so beautiful he could have been part elf himself. It was his fair skin- so white, like the very softest snowfalls that came about in the early winters of the Shire. Just like that snow was in the infant morning hours, when like a fluffy pillow it settled over all the fields and roads and burrows, unspoiled by time or wandering feet. Exactly that kind of white, and just as flawless. And his eyes- such a pure and piercing blue, that kind of colour was surely uncommon anywhere in Middle Earth! They were like rare sapphires set on fire in a dragon's hoard. Sam was sure those kinds of eyes were the ones people wrote poems about. Yes, Frodo's beauty was something worthy of a song.

Even his ears were a little elvish, Sam fancied, looking at him lying there now. Something about the shape was more delicate, finer than hobbit ears often were. Finer than his old Gaffer's by far. And the slight upward turn of his nose...the shapely curve of the archer's bow in his lips...so much like some of these elven flowers, and so pretty!

In his sleep, Frodo suddenly shifted, a pained little gasp escaping his throat. Sam sat up quickly, and took Frodo's hand where it clutched at the blankets- a fine hand, so white, without worker's callouses- but it was for nothing. Frodo wasn't waking up.

Yes, Frodo was always beautiful, but that beauty was terribly diminished here. The glow of his white skin had faded to pallour, and under his eyes there gathered black stains like stormclouds. His lips, which usually looked so soft, were cracked and dry. His hair was slicked to his forehead, damp with a sweat that covered his entire body. Underneath bandages Sam could not see, there was a terrible wound in his shoulder. A poison wound, from which spoilt darkness drew into his veins, turning that perfect skin black and purple like a bruise.

And he didn't sleep well. Sam would have loved to watch Frodo sleep well, but that wasn't this. He shivered and strained, arching his back and baring his shapely white throat, eyes darting back and forth between closed lids. At times, it would seem he exhausted himself, and for a few moments he would collapse into stillness- save his rapid, tortured breathing. Each time Sam would hope that it was ending- that Frodo would drift away now into some proper, very well deserved rest- and each time the feverish shifting would start up again.

It was a cold fever, Sam had found. Frodo's hands were like ice, and his forehead hardly warmer. Terribly, Sam discovered, even his breath had the frozen quality of a snowless winter wind- but no amount of stoking the fire or tucking in his blankets or rubbing his hands would change it. It just wasn't natural, like he'd thought. The wonderful lady-elf from before, with the handsome white horse, she had said it was a curse. She had said that everything that could be done for Frodo had been done, and now it was but a matter of time…

Sam had hated hearing that. Time, time for what? Time until Frodo got better, or...time until the unimaginable happened. But Sam couldn't let himself think about that, it was too terrible.

The sun had set on Rivendell outside, and the only light now was from the fire in the hearth, and a faint glow from the stars. Frodo had curled onto his side, out of breath like he had been running, still he looked like he was in so much pain. But he had turned away from Sam now, putting the pressure on his good shoulder, and Sam could no longer see his face or hold his hand.

The room was warm, because Sam despite knowing better insisted on keeping it warm, and last night he had not slept at all- indeed, he hadn't slept properly in ages, being not much the type for lying about on roots and rocks and mud puddles. The consequence of this mix was that soon Sam began to feel his eyes slipping closed, weights settling in his chest, his thoughts moving slower. But he didn't want to fall asleep, what if Frodo woke up- or got worse? And though elven chairs were mighty comfy, they were still chairs, not beds, and it wasn't nice falling asleep sitting up.

For another hour or so- or maybe longer, it felt longer- Sam tried to ward off the sleepy feeling, intent on keeping his watch, even if it meant he would be sick from not sleeping at all. He had promised he wouldn't let Frodo out of his sight! And if his eyes were closed, then that promise was broken in a sense, right? He pinched himself a few times, and walked around the room, eventually settling to stand on the other side of the bed, because from there he could see Frodo's face. His eyebrows were all bunched, the sheets drawn up to his chin, still shivering. The bed was too big, elf sized, Sam couldn't reach out to comfort him from over here. It was a bit of a dilemma. And he was still so sleepy...his brain felt like it was trying to beat the inside of his skull with a cudgel. Trying to get him to fall asleep. But…

Well, Sam reasoned to himself, if he made himself sick with exhaustion he wouldn't be much good to anyone, least of all Mr. Frodo. The elves might even give him his own bed in a separate room, and that was the last thing he wanted- to be separated! He would be much better help with a bit of shut-eye. Gandalf, wherever he was, would probably agree. And it needn't be much- just a little- a few hours. He would sit in that chair, and scootch it over real close so that if anything happened he would hear. Yes, he could do that. Or…

Another idea came to Sam's mind, and it caused his heart to start beating so quickly he was practically awake again, and he had to take a step back. Oh, my. He was probably blushing up a storm just thinking about that, but now that he was he knew he was going to. The idea filled him with such wonderful feelings, to deny himself that now would be too awful.

"And you don't mind much, do you Mr. Frodo?" he sat out loud, though the sleeper gave him no response. "It's a very big bed, after all. And like this, I'll know real quick if anything goes wrong. So don't you worry…"

Sam still felt shy clambering up into the too-tall elven bed, shyer still pulling back its silky covers. Frodo, curled like a baby around his own tremors, showed no indication that he realized Sam was there. And it was his terrible expression that soothed Sam's nerves- he was suffering so much. The urge to comfort him- hold him close and soothe him like he was a little white kitten or ruffle-feathered dove- surpassed his shy concern for propriety by far. The huge elven bed was a lonely place for only one hobbit, after all.

The pillow beneath Sam's head was unimaginably soft. The kind of soft that was dreamt of, not felt. What wonders the elves really did have! And the sheets were so smooth, the bed so perfectly warm...every part of Sam, save his mind, relaxed instantly in the embrace.

But still he worked his way over to the other side of the bed, until he and Frodo were lying face to face, heads resting on the same massive pillow. Close enough that Sam could see everything- flecks of tears caught in Frodo's eyelashes, a touch of blood on the corner of his lip where the skin had split, the way his complexion had become unhealthily translucent, betraying the thick blue line in his throat. Sam could even see his collarbones shifting under that white skin, struggling like they wanted to be free of it. Unable to help himself, Sam reached out and took one of Frodo's hands again, feeling the terrible cold and wishing it away.

"It's alright, Mr. Frodo," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "You'll be alright. Your Sam's here. I'm here…"

And, like this, he finally closed his eyes and fell asleep.

It felt like little more than a blink, but when Sam opened his eyes all the light was different. The fire had settled to but a few dim red coals, and it was now the proud white moon shining through the window that illuminated the room. It was Frodo's thrashing that had awoken him. Sam's drowsiness dissipated instantly at this realization, his heart high in his throat. Had he slept too long? What was happening?

Frodo arched his back, a strained noise slipping past his lips- perhaps it would have been a scream, were he not too weak for that. But astonishingly, his eyes were open- though they didn't look right. The blue had been replaced by a sickly white- like a film of moonshine had settled over his irises. The expression on his face was one of pure distress. For a moment he reached out in the air before him, fingers scrabbling at nothing, and then Sam caught his hands and brought them together again.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Sam said, because he didn't know what else to say. He had no conception of what kind of pain Frodo was in, he could only watch, and for him that was terribly painful on its own.

"No-!" Frodo gasped, milky eyes darting back and forth- not looking at Sam, probably not looking at anything that was really there at all. Still, his hands practically burned with that unnatural cold.

It was all overwhelming. Sam wanted desperately to help, but he didn't know how. He wished this hadn't happened. He wished he was home- in his own bed, even if it was rougher than this incredible elvish one, even if he was alone. He would be asleep and dreaming of simple things, knowing that tomorrow he would be back in Mr. Frodo's lovely garden in Bag End, tending to the flowers...and even more preciously, knowing that if he did see Mr. Frodo, he would be in only the best of health, as bright and glowing and lovely as a rare waterlily.

But Sam wasn't there, he was here, so he had to do the best he could.

Frodo was shivering again, his lips moving uncertainly like he was going to speak, but didn't know what to say. Sam, heart practically broken by this display, pulled him into a close embrace. The iciness of Frodo's body seemed to suck the warmth from Sam's, but he didn't let go.

"I don't- I won't- oh, please…" These tiny words escaped Frodo and bled into Sam's ears. Were the hooded monsters still before his eyes? Perhaps that was what he saw, behind the clouds that sat in his irises.

"Hush," Sam replied, and he needed barely more than whisper to drown out Frodo's feeble protests. "I've got you, Mr. Frodo. You're gonna be just fine."

As a gesture of reassurance, Sam kissed the top of Frodo's head, the way Sam's own mother had his as a small child. Only after he had done that did he feel himself flush- foolish Samwise, that was a little much for a gardener- but for a moment Frodo seemed to still in his arms. It was just a moment, though, almost as soon as it had stopped the pathetic writhing started up again.

"Please settle down, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, hardly aware anymore of how intimate the embrace had become. "You're going to reopen that awful wound of yours…"

Frodo seemed to be trying to see something through the fog in his eyes, his breathing becoming even more distressed- his frigid hands had curled into the ties of Sam's undershirt, making little kneading gestures like a cat. Almost on instinct, Sam kissed him again- on the forehead this time, which was even bolder- and immediately Frodo relaxed with a tiny sigh, eyelids fluttering to half mast.

"You see?" Sam continued, finding the thumb of one hand comfortingly stroking the nape of Frodo's neck, the other holding him close about the waist. "You're safe. Just breathe easy…"

With the way the moonlight came in the elvish windows, Frodo suddenly looked unbearably pretty. His dark curls were well-defined against the bed, reminding Sam of a hilltop in the wind, or the elegant whorls that appeared in the flesh of an oak tree. Even though he was crying and his skin shone with sweat, he was beautiful.

Sam kissed him again- on the forehead, on the left cheek, and then the right. Frodo was still shuddering, his chest rising and falling with effort, but he had stilled- and didn't try to pull away. But Sam was barely noticing any of this. All of his feelings had been drawn up to the surface, and now he couldn't help but let them out, transforming them into a flood of warm kisses all over Frodo's lovely face...and down his perfect throat, and over those elfish ears, and finally on his lips.

After that, Sam stopped, suddenly frozen like he had found himself at the head of a staring crowd. His face was burning. His everything was burning. That, he felt, had been a crossing of boundaries he didn't even know how to describe. It didn't matter that he had always dreamed of doing something like it- it was still too much.

But was it his imagination, or had some of the clouds in Frodo's eyes begun to clear? And he had relaxed completely in Sam's arms, the tremors in his fingertips where they had found Sam's chest more like those of relief than pain. Over his own heartbeat, Sam heard Frodo hum, a sound with hardly any voice in it at all.

"Sam," Frodo whispered, and if that wasn't enough already to have Sam blushing up into his ears, the unimaginable happened- Frodo closed the minute distance between their faces and kissed him back.

That was enough to break the dam again, for all that Sam had to construct it were excuses and fears as feeble as rotten wood. The next kiss lasted longer. Sam had to close his eyes so he could feel it- because Frodo's skin was still so soft, softer than anything Sam could have imagined, just like those elven pillows, and underneath the strange scents of their travels he still smelled like Bag End...like fresh-cut paper and ink and the sweetest wildflowers.

And for some reason, the sickly cold didn't seem to intrude so much, anymore.

When Sam had to breathe he looked down on Frodo's face, and was delighted to see his eyes slipping fully closed, a very faint touch of pink having appeared on his lips. He nuzzled close to Sam's chest, breathing becoming soft and steady, looking as comfortable as though he had fallen asleep there on purpose. As though nothing was wrong. The sight filled Sam's heart with joy until he felt it might burst. Had he ever felt this happy before? He wanted to kiss Frodo again, over and over, that seemed the only way he could free these feelings from his chest…

Just then, the door to the bedroom opened, and the air was flooded with brilliant yellow lantern light that rendered the moon pale and useless. In the contrast Sam had to blink a few times until the spots before his eyes vanished, and then what he saw filled him with relief, for it was a familiar figure.

"And how does he fare now?" said Gandalf, in the low and ponderous and wizardly way he spoke. He said this to the elven Lord of Rivendell- Elrond- who waited in the doorway, but he looked only at Frodo, who was now sleeping peacefully in Sam's arms. The realization of what that looked like made Sam blush again, and so he let go and scootched away, doing up the buttons on his undershirt because even though it was the middle of the night both Gandalf and Lord Elrond were fully dressed, while Sam wasn't. His departure, though, caused Frodo to let out a very tiny noise- a little sigh, accompanied by a slight worried furrow of his eyebrows, though this soon faded.

"We did everything in our power," Elrond replied. "But such a wound has power of its own."

This was enough to spark some of Sam's worries again. And he could see now that Gandalf himself seemed to be in rather poor shape- his beard had a ragged look to it, and his robe was wet like he'd been rained on, and was that blood in his long gray hair? It was either that, or the night was running away with Sam's eyes. But he hadn't met them in the Prancing Pony like he'd said he would. What could have happened to him?

Sam didn't ask. He was too intent on watching, and still felt shy about his state of undress- shy because Gandalf had almost walked in on him kissing, and now he could feel bright heat in his face again, just thinking about that.

Gandalf put his hand on Frodo's forehead, which made Frodo look very small, frowning to himself. Frodo did not wake, though his eyelashes fluttered slightly, and he only sighed in his sleep when Gandalf next moved to clasp his hand over the wound.

"Samwise," Gandalf said, and Sam jumped where he sat. "Were you with him all night?"

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, and Gandalf gave him a contemplative look, the kind of wizardly look that Sam couldn't understand the meaning of in the slightest.

"And Frodo's condition...has it improved?" Gandalf asked.

"Well, I think so, yes," Sam said, nervous still, looking back and forth from Frodo's face to Gandalf's, for fear that one of them might change. "Earlier, he wasn't sleeping any good, and he was mighty cold. He was...he was in a lot of pain I think, sir, but now…"

"The darkest hour of the night has just passed," Elrond said mysteriously from the doorway. "During that time, such a curse would have been strongest."

"But you helped him through it, didn't you, Samwise?" Gandalf said, and now there was a terribly knowing twinkle in his eyes as he looked at Sam, that was just the look he gave old Merry and Pip when he knew they were up to trouble. Sam feared the honesty on his own face, but couldn't control it.

"He is much better, now," Gandalf continued, when Sam couldn't find the strength to say anything. "The Nazgul have lost their hold on him. He should sleep well until morning."

This news was relief enough for Sam to forget his embarrassment, and he let out a huge breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Oh, thank you Mr. Gandalf!" he said. "You have no idea how good that is to hear."

"Rather, we should be thanking you," Gandalf replied, that satisfied light still sparkling in his eyes. "You did well, not leaving his side in the night."

"I couldn'ta done too much," Sam said, looking down at the covers, as if that could hide the redness he felt blooming so brightly on his face.

"I think you did more than you realize," Gandalf said softly, and then he stood, suddenly becoming the steady and good-humoured figure Sam recognized from so many days in the Shire- the Gandalf that was Gandalf when all was right in the world.

"Well, no sense in disturbing your rest any more," he continued. "It's the middle of the night, and you've come a long way! So take your rest, you've earned it."

With one more smile Gandalf and Elrond left the room, taking the yellow lantern with them, so the room faded to a blurry but comfortable darkness. Sam hovered on the bed a moment more, before deciding there was nothing for it, and wiggling back down under the covers next to Frodo, who by now was sleeping very deeply indeed.

"You see, Mr. Frodo?" Sam said softly. "I told you it would be alright."

And then, before his courage failed him, Sam pressed one last quick, chaste kiss to Frodo's lips- a goodnight kiss, he told himself, that was all. Because it was a good night, now.

With these thoughts and a much lighter heart, Sam let himself drift off to sleep again.

It was partway through the next day when Frodo awoke for real. Gandalf had sent Sam to breakfast, and Sam had only agreed because of the healthy gleam that had returned Frodo's skin (and because he had been, at this point, very hungry). And when he came back he had been met with the charming sight of Frodo sitting up in bed, eyes wide and clear and blue, and with the brilliance of the sunlight and the sweetness in the air and the splendour of Rivendell, all had been made right again with the world.

"Packed already?" Frodo said to Sam when the sun had made its way over halfway to the Western horizon. For a moment he was surprised- but he was fiddling with the bags. He just hadn't realized he was so obvious.

"No harm in being prepared," Sam replied, a little shyly. Frodo certainly did look much better, and that was a relief. The consequence was that he was prettier, too.

"I thought you wanted to see the elves- more than anything," Frodo said, and Sam could only shrug. He wasn't sure how to explain the restless feelings he had in his heart either.

"I do- I did! It's just...we did what Gandalf wanted, didn't we? We got that ring this far, and so I thought- seeing how you're on the mend- we'd be off soon. Back home."

That quieted Frodo for a moment. Briefly an indecipherable look crept into his eyes, and then it melted into warmth. The kind of look that made Sam's heart flutter.

"You're right, Sam," he said with a sweet little smile, "We've done what we set out to do. The Ring will be safe here. And I am ready to go home."

And if that wasn't just the nicest thought, Sam didn't know a turnip from a daisy. It was a relief, that's what it was. For some reason, hearing that undid a knot in Sam's chest that he hadn't even realized was there. Suddenly, everything seemed brighter and better, and even the sight of wonderful Rivendell over the balcony where they stood became more picturesque. In the moment of quiet that followed these declarations, Sam was as relaxed and happy as he had ever been.

"I don't remember much from after Weathertop," Frodo said softly. He was perched on tiptoe now, so he could rest his chin on the lip of the balcony, and he had fixed Sam with a very bright blue stare. "There was quite a lot of shadow, and then quite a lot of light. I had nightmares worse than I've ever had before. But…"

Now he stepped down from the balcony, and made his way very delicately over to where Sam stood by the bags, frozen like a rabbit caught in the eyes of a fox.

"...I do remember one other thing."

Frodo didn't seem nervous at all, his eyes were so clear, and that didn't seem fair because Sam's heart was beating so hard it jumped up his throat with every pulse. Did he always make a fool of himself like this? He must- but he could barely think straight enough to be properly embarrassed, for how busy he was being captivated by Frodo's perfect face, which got closer and closer until Sam thought he might disappear in his eyes; like they were the fabled ocean, which he had never seen.

The kiss was barely more than a brush, the softest feather-light touch of lips against his. Sam held his breath, afraid of deepening it at all, fixated on the slight presence of Frodo's body heat against his skin. His own must be overwhelming; once more, all the blood in his body had gone to his head, he was dizzy with it and the skin on his face burned.

Frodo laughed softly- so softly the sound almost couldn't be heard, and then pulled away. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright with his amusement- sometimes, he could look a bit like Gandalf himself, with those mysteriously knowing gazes.

"Do with that what you'd like, my dear Sam," Frodo said (because Sam was having trouble saying anything). "I must attend the meeting Elrond is holding about the fate of the Ring- and when I return, I don't doubt we'll be free to go."

Sam nodded, head light from lack of breath, and then with only one more lingering look Frodo was gone.

The air on the balcony, which had been until now perfectly pleasant and cool, was now far too hot, and Sam didn't want to jump for joy because this was an elven place and that didn't seem appropriate at all- nor did singing some uncouth hobbit song, which in his voice would have probably sounded ugly amidst such finery. So all of the emotions that would have been expressed that way Sam experienced in full, and they felt very much like an explosion of Gandalf's colourful fireworks.

Only after a few moments of this could he breathe easily again. But once he could he resumed packing with even brighter cheer. He was already looking forward to the journey back. Without that ring, the terrible black riders wouldn't be following them, and they could make their way through the Shire with ease. It would be like a vacation. Surely the sun would light their every footstep, and flowers would bloom along the path! And when they returned what else would be waiting for Sam, other than his wonderful garden? And there it would be quiet and the soil would have that familiar smell and there would be nothing but the flowers blooming and his lovely Mr. Frodo, who may as well be a flower himself.

He would like to have a picnic, Sam decided suddenly, standing there in the elven sunlight. While the warmth of late summer lasted, he would like to have a picnic in the garden- and it could be just him and Mr. Frodo, with the last of blackberries and the first of the apples, and he could say everything he had thought but never said, about how beautiful Frodo was and how dear he was to Sam's heart...yes, he would like to do something like that.

And he could. That was the magic of it. There was nothing holding him back, nothing in the way- the quest was over, the adventure complete. Soon it would all be memory, something to laugh about over tea, and to tell the children at parties. Soon, everything would be just the way it was supposed to be again.

And for this, Sam was purely and overwhelmingly happy!

…

(But of course, it was not meant to be.)