FIC: No Fears

I wrote this fic tonight, after having the urge to write some F/S (when I'm supposed to be writing het!)
I just couldn't resist - it's unabashed smut - but I hope you will enjoy! :-)
TITLE: No Fears
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S
RATING: NC-17 (probably E - not sure!)
SUMMARY: A restless night at Crickhollow. Frodo and Sam learn a way to keep their fears at bay.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories.

NO FEARS

Frodo couldn’t sleep. No matter how long he lay in the warm, soft cavern of his bed, closing his eyes and breathing light and slow, his mind gave him no release. It seemed to grip him in open consciousness, tenacious and unrelenting. The evening’s revelations ran through his head, in the form of broken fragments of conversation jostling with the striking memory of Sam’s clear brown eyes shining and Merry determined face, set and stern, more earnest than he’d ever seen it before. When the memories ran their natural course, the fears began. He was plagued by the black vision of pale, screaming spectres with cold, sightless eyes, stooping and searching – sensing their prey, drawing close, touching him with the tail of their sliding shadows.
Frodo stared blindly around the darkened room, studying the strange juxtaposition of familiar objects retrieved from Bag End, which seemed both comforting and disquieting. When he felt the sweat cooling on his brow and the agitation in his body rising to fever, he sat up and, shivering, swung himself out of bed and pulled on his light dressing robe, placed conveniently close on the bedside chair. Then he walked out of the room and turned down the hallway, moving in and out of the veils of darkness cast by the overhanging beams. He felt light headed with sleeplessness and knew that he must be ready to rise early in the dawn, but he couldn’t face the bed and it’s demon bed fellows. He needed a cup of water and perhaps a breath of air.
He walked uncertainly into the kitchen, feeling his way by the pale moonlight that filtered through the shutters. It lay across the kitchen table and fell upon a wide bowl of apples that sat upon it, frosting them and making them mysterious. He walked up to the table and put out a hand to touch, as though he half expected them to vanish beneath the warm life of his hand, but he felt only coolness and moisture, waxy as lilies.
"I’m surprised you’ve room left, sir."
Frodo’s blood turned cold and he spun round wildly, his eyes wide with alarm.
"I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fright…"
Sam moved out of the well of shadow close against the dull, red embers of the dying hearth. He was still wearing his travelling clothes - a homespun linen shirt and a pair of dark green breeches - but his waistcoat lay on the back of a chair and his braces hung loose around his hips. At his feet lay a crumpled heap of discarded blankets.
"Sam? Haven’t you somewhere more comfortable to rest?" Frodo asked, horrified that he had been stretched out in soft luxury whilst Sam was curled, cramped and stiff in an easy chair. "This might be our last night of comfort for some time – I don’t want you to spend a night in misery. Please, take my bed, I won’t be sleeping tonight."
Sam stared, absorbing his master’s pale, anxious face and darkly dilated eyes. "I don’t think I can sleep, neither, sir, if it’s all the same."
"Well, that’s no wonder, sleeping all squashed in that chair – please, go ahead, I’ve warmed it for you," Frodo replied, wandering over to the window and looking out over the moonlit waves of grass.
"It ain’t that, sir," Sam stammered, approaching Frodo from behind, a little tentatively. Frodo stood still and calm as a piece of shaped stone and Sam felt unsure and lingered in the darkness, running his fingers along the grain of the oak table.
"Go on, Sam. I am listening," Frodo said, softly, his back still turned towards him.
"To tell the truth, it’s the forest, sir. It makes me afeared. I’ve been having night terrors and I can’t seem to keep them at bay!"
The words poured out all in a rush and to hear them spoken aloud in the quiet, homely room, they seemed to Sam more terrible still, as though by speaking their names, he had called forth their spirits.
Frodo shivered visibly. "You too?" he whispered and turned to Sam, his face seeming soft and young and vulnerable.
"Aye," Sam replied, "It was seeing how Mr Fredegar’s face went white as ash – it scared me good and proper that did."
Frodo walked over to Sam and laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam looked up and for a moment, he allowed himself to fall into his master’s eyes.
"I know what it is you are doing for me, Sam, and I am profoundly grateful – but I will not have you sleeping in that chair and suffering for it tomorrow. Will you come to bed? It’s plenty big enough for two."
Sam’s mouth fell open and then he turned away, wiping his hands across his face as if he wanted to swipe away the doubt and fear that flickered over it. Frodo stood still and quiet, his expression soft and quizzical. "Sam?" he questioned, lifting the drooping curls out of Sam’s hidden gaze. Sam seemed to flinch at the touch and turned his face away.
"Sorry, so sorry…" Frodo started and recoiled, horrified and amazed at once.
Sam shook his head. "T’wouldn’t be right, sir," he whispered, almost inaudible.
Frodo watched Sam back away to his chair and slump down into it as if the effort of keeping on his feet was proving too much. Frodo’s heart was racing now and his breath quickened. Surely he had known what he was doing? Something in his mind had recalled where Sam could be found and had sought him out. Suddenly he felt the duel dragons of fear and desire battling for supremacy, holding him in the moment, running time slowly, weighting the silence with menace and thick, dark suspense. Sam was holding his head in his hands and looked as though he might be weeping and at the sight of him, something in Frodo’s heart shattered and melted. It could almost have been a shard of ice, or a cold, cold blade, but whatever it was, it had been released and it was all that Frodo could do not to whimper with the joy that had risen in its wake.
Frodo walked to Sam and, kneeling before him, laid the palms of his hands over the soft, golden feet squarely planted on the floor before him. Frodo ran his fingers up and down, over fine bones and long, strong toes, in a slow, intimate caress, his eyes urgently seeking approval from the shadowed mess of dark bronze curls that hung heavy over clouded eyes. Sam made a soft broken sound and Frodo threaded his fingers under the arches of Sam’s feet, smoothing circles with the lightest of touches, easing and coercing Sam into low groans until eventually, he threw his head back and cried, loud in the thick silence of the room. Then Frodo rose and raised Sam from the chair with a brief touch to his cheek, drawing him in as a moth to flame.
"Come to my bed," Frodo said and the dark wanting in his eyes stopped Sam’s heart and turned his legs to water.

***********************************************************************************

The bed was cool now, the sheets thrown back and the pillows chilled. As Frodo lay back, his black hair spilled over the glowing white linen and he watched Sam undressing slowly, taking his time. Frodo had already cast away his robe and lay in his best night shirt, cream cotton embroidered at the cuffs and along the neck, a fine thing that once belonged to his father. It lay soft over his body like a whisper of silk and clung provocatively to his rising flesh. Sam glanced across at Frodo as he tugged off his breeches and folded them neatly to place on the chair. When he had finished and sat clothed only in his under linens, he turned towards Frodo and looked at him with questioning eyes as though awaiting instruction. Frodo smiled encouragingly and held out his hands. Sam took a deep breath and then climbed onto the bed and settled himself in the crook of his master’s arm. At once he was enveloped in the sweet, forbidden fragrance of his master – old parchment and honey and the rosemary with which he had washed his hair. Sam rubbed his nose against the warmth of Frodo’s chest and the arm about him tightened.
"I’m glad you’re here, Sam," Frodo said, quietly and Sam crooked his neck to look up at him. The tender possession that he could see, written stark upon his master’s face, sent the low throbbing spark of flame that had been kindling deep inside his belly, into a sudden rush of fire that flared through hardened desire.
"Mr Frodo – what do you want me to do?" he whispered, his face pressed against the warm curve of Frodo’s shoulder, where his night shirt had slipped a little, revealing milk white skin, unflawed and silken, hot under his lips.
Frodo cupped Sam’s face in his hands and lifted it to meet his, until their faces were just a tremor apart.
"Just this, Sam," he said, "Just this…." And he covered Sam’s mouth with his own, shockingly warm and moving sweetly, cleverly, rocking a curled tongue against untrained lips until they yielded and parted, letting him slip within and stir Sam’s own tongue into response, tentatively at first, and then eager and strong, butting and raking against his own until their lips were wet and swollen and their teeth nudged together with a shock like sparks from flint. When they drew apart they were gasping and their eyes were locked, hands clutched in curls.
"Was that it?" Sam asked, "Is that how it should be?"
Frodo trailed a finger along Sam’s lips and Sam pulled it in and held it there, stroking it with his tongue.
"Yes, that’s it," Frodo said, his voice trembling and dark.
Sam closed his eyes and pulled Frodo closer against his body, thrilling to feel the hard promise against the softness of his thigh. He was glad of the darkness that enclosed them and he felt in a way that they had triumphed over it and dispelled all of its fear. Perhaps they could drive all the darkness out of the world. Sam pushed against Frodo and Frodo pushed back in response, harder and more deliberately, making Sam catch his breath.
"Yes, that’s it," Frodo murmured. "You do that…"
Sam tried again, but missed clumsily and butted against Frodo’s thigh. Then Frodo deftly raised his hips from the bed and drew off his night shirt, tugging it up slowly and revealing inch by inch, the beautiful, slender form that lay hidden beneath. Sam sat back on his heels and watched him breathlessly, suddenly conscious of his own, rounder form, not near so fine as this delicate, ethereal creature now spread before him like a feast for the senses. Once more, he was glad of the darkness as he tugged off his linens and crouched naked as the day he was born.
"My, sir, you’re beautiful!" he cried as he laid his eyes on the splendour of his lovely master.
Frodo lay back on the pillows, softly relaxed - his legs gently parted and his hands fallen at his sides, loose and lazy. A slow smile played about his lips and his bright eyes danced. He seemed to be waiting for Sam to make a move, but Sam was frozen, gazing in awe and unable to move an inch. Frodo looked at the boldness of him, his sturdy calves clenched, knees covering his belly, broad chest and strong, firm shoulders, all sun warmed and smelling of the grass and the secret earth, tensed and apprehensive, waiting for a command.
"Come here," Frodo said, his voice low. Sam shuffled forwards and knelt beside him, his eyes like saucers. Frodo watched Sam’s face as Frodo reached out a hand and took hold of him, running his fingers up and along warm, firm skin that strained beneath his touch. Sam jolted and his knees trembled beneath him, parting and sinking down onto the bed, until he was leaning into the touch, urging it to continue. Frodo did continue, more firmly now, rubbing with his thumb and then teasing him with caresses; whisper soft as the wind trembling over the meadow grass. Sam was so sensitive, the slightest touch made him quiver and spring to life. He seemed to be brimming over with it. Frodo delighted to watch the waves of painful joy moving restlessly across Sam’s face, crumpled and open mouthed, feeling Sam’s climax rising to the soft ministrations of his hand. When he felt that Sam would not last much longer, he eased slowly to a stop, still stroking lightly, but urging Sam back to lie with him, speaking gentle words and drawing him in with kisses and soft bites until he was lying beneath him and twisting his heart with the most honest expression of open love that Frodo had ever seen.
"I don’t want you to come with me on this journey, Sam," Frodo said, suddenly, his voice quavering a little but with firm resolution beneath. "I won’t lead you into darkness."
Sam’s eyes shone with tears. "I’m coming, sir, whether you want me or no, I couldn’t leave you now!"
"Because of this?" Frodo asked, his body shaking as he raised his weight on his elbows and looked down at him.
"No," Sam replied. "Because of how my life is serving you and loving you and wanting to do right by you and there is nowt else but that!"
Frodo laid his lips lightly across Sam’s and kissed the ghosts of the words that had passed. "Then I shall treasure you," Frodo replied, "and think myself truly blessed."
"And you will let me come?" Sam asked, broken and yearning.
"I will," Frodo conceded, even though it tore his heart to let them pass.
Sam sobbed and reached up to clasp his hands behind Frodo’s neck and pull him into a deep, searching kiss that was filled with tenderness, fear and devotion and within it was the taint of tears. After a while, they grew restless once more and hands sought out soft hollows and rough curls and the ache of hard flesh that pressed between. Sam tugged Frodo down so that they lay pressed face to face and he kissed every inch of flesh that was in reach of his mouth with rough excitement, whilst Frodo closed his eyes and strained to cleave their bodies together, slick with the heat of passion. Sam panted Frodo’s name against his shoulder and Frodo’s eyes flickered open.
"Mr Frodo," he stammered, "Should I be…I mean…is this…I don’t know!"
"Sam," Frodo gasped, "this is…fine, this is…"
"It’s just that I’ve heard things and I don’t know if I ought to be…"
"There are no rules, Sam, do what feels good, please, don’t stop…."
So Sam bent his head once more and suckled Frodo’s throat, making Frodo squirm and feeling his groan reverberating in the muscles beneath his lips. Encouraged, he lifted Frodo and tasted the smooth, slightly salty skin of his chest, dipping his tongue into soft crevices and over hard nubs, trailing a line of fire down his belly, inching down the bed until he came nose to nose with soft, downy hair, curling dark around flushed, aching skin. Although unpracticed and uncertain, he allowed his tongue to softly taste and then circle until he felt the quiver in Frodo’s belly and the rising of his flesh. He closed his eyes and drew him in slowly, easing a little, testing, making Frodo buck and cry out. Then he began in earnest, putting all of his devotion into the task until the doing of it nearly sent him over the edge as he felt Frodo’s feet brushing against him softly, teasingly, making him lose concentration and tip over onto his side.
Frodo sat up, gasping and pulled Sam into his lap, astride his thighs, kissing him deep and hard, whilst raking his hands along hard sinew and over rounded buttocks, easing them apart as he ran the tip of his tongue over the sensitive inner side of Sam’s top lip. Sam shivered and thrust against him once more, holding tighter, as Frodo ran moist fingers down and between, rubbing and softening, seeking. Sam moaned and thrust again, in acceptance and as Frodo slipped between, he closed his eyes and keened, thrusting blindly until something erupted inside him and shook him to the core, bringing Frodo with him, who froze and trembled, pulling Sam tighter against himself as he gasped his love into the crown of Sam’s hair.


***********************************************************************************

"Do you think they heard anything?" Sam asked, as he lay in Frodo’s arms, gently stroking and kissing Frodo’s chest, which had settled now into quiet breaths.
"I sincerely doubt it – Fatty was done in and Merry and Pippin have probably talked themselves into a stupor – no I don’t think we shall have any worries on that score."
"Good," said Sam, "for I wouldn’t like there to be any gossiping."
"No," Frodo agreed, kissing Sam lightly on the brow, "that wouldn’t do at all!"
"No fears!" said Sam.
"No fears," Frodo replied and curling around Sam he finally found the rest that he had been seeking.
Gradually his dreams returned but they were different dreams and held no terror. They unfolded slowly, a vision of pure light, shored by the distant rhythm of the long, white waves of the sea. It held a secret at its heart, like a pearl in the oyster’s shell but no matter how hard he tried, Frodo could not hear the answer to the riddle it contained.
Never mind, he thought, it can wait.

THE END

Stupid Hobbit Names!

Ariel was posting recently about the sad lack of Het Romance fics circulating recently. I haven't been reading or writing het for a year now - but some of my favourite stories do belong to this genre, so I thought I'd have a shot at writing a full length story with F/OC. I've written two chapters but might have to change some details as I think I've been pasting together bits of other fics again (I hate it when that happens - they seem to hide in my memory and then pretend to be original - Grrr!) but my main problem is coming up with convincing new hobbit names. I've never read anyone else's fic that contained a stupid and unconvincing hobbit name - but try as I might pretty much all my attempts are laughable. Anyone got any tips?

(Slightly Less) Paniced Post!

Well things are improving...I have been to the doctor's - having first checked out a really helpful website that Elenya (hugs!) put me on to about Cognitive Behaviour Therapy - which focused my thoughts and gave me hope that this wasn't just me but a condition that many suffer from. After discovering that I was pretty much a typical case and ticking all but one of the symptom's boxes - I went to the doctor feeling informed but very, very nervous. Luckily I managed to find a really nice woman doctor (I'd never seen her before, so it was a bit of a lucky chance!) I found her really easy to talk to and she seemed very understanding and talked with me about possible causes. She made some suggestions about how I could change my lifestyle and take some of the pressure off myself. She asked me what I did to relax and I had to hedge a bit (not being likely to confess to writing Hobbit Porn!:0) She told me that I seemed very level headed and thought it positive that I had accepted and tried to understand what was wrong. She mentioned councelling - and we decided to wait and discuss it at the next appointment. For the time being she prescribed some very mild anti-depressents and I didn't feel uncomfortable about taking them. I think it's what I need to get me through this rough patch - hopefully they will lift my mood enough that I can find the confidence to make a few changes and get myself back on my feet. Just talking to someone and knowing people care seems to have helped enormously.Good things are happening. My closet friend came over this morning and, although it took some nerve, I confided in her and she was very sympathetic and understanding - suggesting we meet up more regularly. Later, another friend asked me over and we talked whilst our children raided and wrecked her living room. And for once I didn't wonder what she was thinking of me - nor how long I should stay - nor whether I was talking too little. I felt comfortable and relaxed. Yay!I hope this can last and that this is me and not the drugs talking.

Paniced Post

I swore I wasn't going to use my journal like this - but I just don't know where else to turn at the moment.I've had a bad month, really, and the depression that started in January just doesn't seem to be lifting. I was putting the kids to bed tonight and I just felt so paniced that it was as if a great weight was sitting on my chest and I couldn't breathe. It really frightened me and left me shaken. I've spoken to my family about how I feel and they must know - I keep breaking down in tears often enough - but I think they'd rather pretend it wasn't happening because they have so many other things to worry about at the moment. They can't understand why I'm feeling like this and nor can I. I feel I should be happy, I have had sadness in the past, but now my life is stable and I have a loving family. I know that, compared to many of my friends, I have no reason to feel anxious or afraid. My hubby can't cope with my problems on top of his own, so I've been trying to overcome them on my own. But it just feels as if they're getting the better of me at the moment and I'm wondering what to do and where to turn. I don't like the idea of getting medical help and I'm hoping that there is some other way. I can't bear the thought of the children having two parents on anti-depressants. Not sure what else is out there or how to cope when it all gets too much. I don't know what I'm asking of anyone - I think I just wanted to clear my mind. I'll probably regret this later...

NEW FIC: Of Yellow Leaves and Gossamer

TITLE: Of Yellow Leaves and Gossamer
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S
RATING: R
SUMMARY: It is the year 1421, Frodo and Sam walk to the Woody End. Neither expects to find the gift that awaits them there.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them and make no money from these stories.

This fic is as yet un-beta'd - so I'd like to apologise for any mistakes. I thought I would post it here and, hopefully, get a little feedback on it before I finish it off. It was meant to be light hearted, but it ended up a bit melancholy. Sorry!

Of Yellow Leaves and Gossamer
Walking through the wet leaves, Sam felt cool droplets falling upon his skin and trailing down his neck. There had been barely a glimpse of the sun, only the sheltering darkness of the leaves shining with rain and beneath, soft sliding mud that fooled his footsteps and send him sliding. The heavy pack on his back was bending him nearly double and he would have felt miserable, if it weren’t for the presence of his master following close behind. Frodo carried no burden - Sam would not allow it. He walked untroubled by any baggage, stroking the trembling raindrops that laced the leaves as he passed, and watching the cool water slide along his fingers. It was as though he was scoring them in his memory, attempting to capture and retain, even as they eluded him. Sam stopped walking every now and again and turned back to Frodo and watched him. He studied Frodo’s face for any trace of fatigue or misery, but found none, only concentration and remoteness, a result of his pains for which Sam had found no cure.
"Here, Sam, look!" Frodo called brightly, stopping Sam in his tracks.
"What is it, Mr. Frodo?" he said, hurrying back to where Frodo stood, his hands full of something dark and glistening.
"Blackberries!" Frodo handed some to Sam and he caught them gracelessly, noticing how the juice had stained Frodo’s fair skin. Frodo popped some of the fruit into his mouth and gathered a few more to load his pockets. That silk lining will stain, Sam thought to himself, then instantly berated himself for his ridiculous petty concerns. It didn’t matter anymore.
"Sam, won’t you let me carry something, you must be tired?" Frodo said, catching up with Sam and laying a cool hand against the back of his neck. Sam shook his head stubbornly.
"No, sir, I won’t have you wearing yourself out. I can manage. It ain’t far now, anyway."
Frodo sighed, "I’ll be the death of you," he said, shaking the damp curls from his eyes. "Troubling you with my whims."
"I’m happy to do it," Sam replied, his jaw set like stone as he looked straight ahead, his heart suddenly tight and heavy in his breast, as if petrified.
"I never know whether to believe you, Samwise Gamgee. Sometimes it seems to me you’ve never once told me the truth, only protected me by telling me what I wanted to hear."
Frodo looked down at the ground as he kicked through piles of leaves, a fragrant carpet of gold and flame that was just beginning to decay and release an intoxicating sweetness. Frodo breathed deeply and felt the good earth entering his soul. Nothing mattered now, only to taste and to breathe and to walk side by side with Sam under the waning trees.
"I’ve never lied to you, sir, only tried to help, best I could," Sam muttered, shifting the weight of the pack on his back.
"Above and beyond," Frodo said.
Sam opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped down on his tongue. All words seemed small and weightless. They had no place here, in the singing silence of the woods.
"When I’m under the trees, I always feel close to the elves, even though I know they’re gone," Sam said, looking around at the kingly beech trees that stood in the splendour of their own scattered gold.
"Something remains, Sam," Frodo answered, stepping forwards to walk around a mighty beech, touching the rough bark and gazing upwards at the shivering dance of the branches as they were tossed by the wind.
Sam watched and his eyes welled with tears of inexpressible love.
Aye, it remains in you, in your soft hands and your bright eyes and the love you have for the things of the earth and the air that no one else can heed. It lingers in the low music of your voice and the words that you scribe on the empty page. It dwells in my love, in the cavern of my heart, which can hardly contain it.
How could this beauty that broke inside him like a cry, be bottled up forever until the day he lay down on the earth and drew no more of life’s breath? Then it would be wasted, of no more use than the skeleton leaf beneath his heel - no substance, fleshless and empty - open to the air.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam’s voice broke on the words, there was so much bursting out beneath them.
Frodo turned and looked at Sam, his eyes gleaming bright as jewels in the dusky light of the dying day. "Sam?"
Sam stared mutely, noting how the shadows were deepening in the well of his master’s throat. Then he spoke - his voice sounding shrill on the still air. "Shall we stop here, sit and rest awhile? It looks as good a spot as any, the ground’s soft enough."
In a sheltered place, Sam put down his pack and spread the soft blanket wide on top of the leaves. Frodo settled beside him and watched as Sam brought forth the provisions he had packed for them that morning. Sam had been in a hurry, unprepared for Frodo’s surprise decision, to pack up and walk to the Woody End. There had been little to eat in the larder. With Rosie away, visiting her family, some of the duties had been slipping under Sam’s care and all that he could find to eat were apples and cheese and a soft, rich fruit cake tucked away in a tin at the back of the pantry. Frodo didn’t seem to mind. He packed his warm cloak and his pipe and stood at the back door of the smial, his bag at his feet, watching Sam fussing and scurrying about. As he watched, his eyes roved about the old place and a small, sad smile hovered about the corners of his mouth. Sam was pleased that Frodo wanted to go out and get some fresh air and exercise. It seemed to him a sign that Frodo was getting better, feeling the pull of the woods and hills once more urging him out. Perhaps this would mean that change was in the air. Sam shivered and tried not to dwell on his fears. Rosie would be back next week, and Elanor with her. Frodo might be thinking of moving on.

These last few weeks together had been precious to Sam. Alone once more, they had been living happily in quiet contentment, doing what they both enjoyed the most. Frodo had been steadily reading his way through the books that he had never had time to read. Old tomes of Bilbo’s, some so heavy that Frodo’s wrists looked tortured under the strain. Frodo read fast, flicking through the pages, his eyes alighting here and there on a fragment of verse or a beautiful woodcut illustration that would hold his attention for a while, before moving on, impatient and eager for more. He would call to Sam and Sam would hear his voice through the open window, carrying to where he worked, half buried by the rampant summer growth. Sam would hurry back into the smial and sit on the library chair and listen whilst Frodo told him all that he had read, filling Sam’s mind with his own. Sam sat back and let the books enter his head, drifting into the neglected wilderness of his imagination, stirring him back to life. When Frodo had finished he would take a breath, smile and ask Sam for the next book, his cheeks flushed. Sam hadn’t seen his master so animated since the dark days and it would have brought him ease, if it weren’t for the fevered agitation in his master’s slight frame, which spoke to him of restlessness.
Now the gentle summer days were gone and autumn had come too soon to the Shire. Frodo seemed to walk with his ear to the earth, listening to the rhythm as it began to ebb and slow.
Sam watched Frodo draw the blackberries from his pocket. They were soft and overripe, crushed to a pulp in his hands. He held them out and looked at them for a moment, before bending his head and drawing them into his mouth with one smooth sweep of his tongue. When he lifted his head, Sam could see that Frodo’s lips were stained purple. Sam touched his fingers to his own lips, instinctively; mirroring his master’s every thought, a shiver rippling through him.
"Sometimes it seems it’s possible to forget what sweetness lies beneath your nose," Frodo said, his eyes bright and keen, making Sam blink.
Frodo cocked his head, as if listening and then smiled to himself.
"What are you listening for?" Sam said, his words falling cold and heavy as pebbles into water.
"Echoes," Frodo replied. "They’re here, in this place, Sam, it’s full of them." Frodo stood up, drawing his dark blue cloak tightly around his body. "Do you see how this glade is still light, whilst the deeper trees stand in shadow?"
Sam stood up and, sure enough, the surrounding woods were already dark, the trees mere pencil lines against the slate grey sky, pinpointed with tiny stars. But the round glade in which they stood was still lit with a light that seemed to emanate from the trees themselves, as if they had wrapped themselves in the remembered light of Lothlorien.
"It’s an elf light, isn’t it, sir?" Sam said, with reverence.
"It is, Sam. I didn’t expect to find it here, so soon."
Sam turned to Frodo and tried to read his thoughts but found nothing but stillness and reflected beauty that glimmered on his fair skin. Sam reached out and before he could stop himself he had touched Frodo’s cheek, gentle as a snowflake. Frodo smiled and seemed to lean into the caress, almost as if he had been expecting it.
"Here, Sam, come here…" Frodo gently guided Sam deeper into the trees, their feet treading lightly upon the stirring gold.
In the middle of the glade, at its heart, the light was strong and outspread between two trees was what looked like a hammock made of silver strands as fine as the most delicate of gossamer thread. Interwoven with the gauze were green garlands entwined with moon daisies and foxgloves and other sweet memories of summer and from the trees above, long trailing vines of clematis and honeysuckle formed a sheltering bower. Sam blinked in astonishment and then moved nearer to inspect it more closely. At his touch, the hammock swung gently, making the air ripple and sing.
"What is it?" Sam asked as Frodo approached behind him.
"I think it is a gift." Frodo looked up, enraptured, as the bower swayed and glimmered in the soft, golden light.
"What kind of gift is this?" Sam asked, touching the flowers in disbelief. "They feel real enough, although I’m sure it must be trickery."
"It’s real enough," Frodo smiled. "But you may take it for a dream, if you prefer."
Sam turned and watched Frodo carefully lifting himself up. He seemed as light as a feather as he stretched out his body, the silvery threads easing around him gently, moulding to his form. It swayed a little less now Frodo had laid himself within the cradle of it and rested his head on a cushion of bright poppies, their scarlet petals startling against the paleness of his skin.
"Come on, Sam, it’s quite safe!" Frodo called and Sam stood dumbstruck for a moment before he could reply.
"Mr Frodo I can’t – it wouldn’t stand my weight!"
"Sam, it is elvish made, it can withstand two hobbits, we weigh as little as one elf maid!"
The very idea of lying down with his master in an arbour clearly made for love, made Sam’s heart race and his body tremble. He stared upwards and tried to read messages of encouragement in the sky, but there was nothing, only the dancing trees and the night clouded sky, so distant, it seemed but a mirage of itself.
"Sam?" Frodo’s voice sounded uncertain. "Really, please come, but only if you want to…"
"Oh I want to sir, I do!" Sam said, his voice tangling with the tears in his throat as he dived for the swaying bower and caught himself up in it with one swift leap. Frodo laughed lightly as Sam bounced onto his back beside him. The swing moved slightly from left to right and the wind sang in the treetops. Frodo sighed and wriggled his toes in the daisies.
Sam lay still, rocked like a babe in a cradle. He was aware of every breath that Frodo drew and every small flicker of laughter that rippled through Frodo’s body, as if it were his own. Indeed, after a time, it was quite difficult for either to tell who was laughing. The air was so warm and somnolent that both were soon drowsy and a little intoxicated.
"Are you happy, Sam?" Frodo asked, after a time.
"Aye. This is a wonder, isn’t it, sir?" Sam smiled, feeling utterly content.
"Yes, it is, it seems we’ve been granted a special honour." Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, relaxing his body into the gentle rhythmic rocking.
"Or we’re having a dream or some kind of hallucination," Sam said, cautiously.
"Always the sceptic, Sam?" Frodo nudged him with his elbow and Sam yelped, shoving him back, playfully. A small corner of Sam stood appalled at such familiarity, but it didn’t seemed to have any bearing here and was soon forgotten.
"I feel like I’m floating on air," Sam sighed, trying to let go.
"Mmmm," Frodo murmured, like a contented cat and stretched out his arms over his head, filling them with flowers.
Sam felt something tickling his head. "Mr Frodo?" he said, his eyes closed in bliss. "What’s that?"
"Can’t you tell?" Frodo asked, twining something cold and ticklish behind Sam’s ear.
"Aye well, if I told you what I thought you were doing, you’d call me a ninnyhammer and no mistake!" Sam said, giggling like a tween.
"Why not? You look beautiful, Sam," Frodo replied, and his voice didn’t carry a note of sarcasm. Suddenly, the weight in the bower shifted and Sam sensed the loss of Frodo’s warm breath beside his cheek. Slowly, he opened his eyes and as he did so, he beheld the most astonishing sight. Frodo was sitting up on his heels, balanced in between two silver cords, his hair a tangle of green, like a rustic crown, such as the festival king might wear on Lithe days and Harvest, only with bright red petals caught up in it. The ruby red set against that dark hair and snowy skin, made for a picture fairer than any Sam had ever seen.
Sam sighed and, sitting up, raised a hand to pluck a petal that drifted around Frodo’s cheek. The petal was soft and silken in his hand. As he caressed it slowly with his thumb, Frodo watched, enthralled, his lips parted as if in deep concentration. Sam shuddered and closed his eyes once more, unable to stem the flow of unspoken desires that came, unbidden, to his lips, biting back cries which would sound ferocious should they ever surface. But Sam realised that the fight itself was futile, when he felt the soft, moist brush of lips against his own. Sam moaned low in his throat and opened to Frodo like a flower, tangling his fingers in Frodo’s hair and drawing him deeper so that their tongues wound together like entangling vines.
Sam was nearly weeping when Frodo pulled away and stared down at Sam as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t form the words. Sam touched Frodo’s lips, swollen now with kisses and wondered if Frodo was surprised by the depths of love he had unearthed, or if he had known of it and only kept distant for the sake of propriety. Perhaps it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was the awakened love between them that had lain quiet for year, hiding its head as if in shame, sleeping until it was called.
"You know that I’ll love you even if you ain’t lying in my bed. You know that, don’t you?" Sam asked. "Wherever you might be, my love is with you and it ain’t just the love of a help for his master – it’s more than that…"
"I know Sam, we moved beyond that a long time ago. But the time was never right for us, nor ever will be, perhaps." Frodo’s face betrayed a flicker of sadness, which soon passed like a cloud over a meadow on a sunny day. Sometimes he was like that – shadow chasing shadow - but Sam knew that a burst of sunlight would soon follow, his master’s moods seeming as familiar as his own.
"Frodo?" he said, drawing loving caresses down Frodo’s cheek.
"Yes, Sam, love?" Frodo replied, his eyes blazing with renewed joy.
"May I kiss you again?"
"You may," Frodo smiled eagerly and pulled Sam up against him, kissing him playfully with his tongue and teeth until both were pulling at buttons and ties in an effort to free themselves of all that kept them apart. Sam laughed as half of his buttons burst off in the process and fell to the forest floor. Despite the season, it was warm in the elf light and both felt the radiance bathing their skin.
"May I touch you?" Sam asked, looking at the strange woodland creature that sat before him, otherworldly and fey, more beautiful than he had a right to. But Frodo nodded and Sam could not resist stroking down that smooth, moonlit skin, watching how Frodo quivered and sighed like a reed beneath the light sweep of his hand. He curled his hand around Frodo and stroked gently, in rhythm with the breeze, feeling the sensations that coursed through Frodo’s body shooting through his hand and into his heart. He opened his mouth, but no sound would come out, only the open gasp of settling amazement. Frodo threw back his head, revealing his unmarked throat, tense with captive bliss. Sam took him roughly and pressed searing kisses there, as if determined to place upon it the warm brand of his love. He felt Frodo’s breath coming hard in short, ecstatic gasps as Sam’s hand moved more quickly with the lurching of the swing, drawing forth moisture and renting holes in the thickening silence of the air.
Frodo was panting, but still seemed restless, for he wrestled at Sam, trying to ease his hands free to explore his captor, who had successfully pinned him to the bed of flowers, his mouth half tearing at the poppies, his fingers raking through a soft bed of fragrant camomile. But Sam, his body half senseless with delight, sensed only the pleasure that he was giving and thought nothing of his own desire, that seemed satisfied only to serve.
"Sam!" Frodo gasped, as Sam flicked his hand lightly and sent sparks of near fatal pleasure shooting through Frodo’s head. This time Sam seemed to hear, for he stilled and hesitated, his hands trembling and his heart pumping against Frodo’s own. "Please, Sam, let us be equal in this," Frodo pleaded and his eyes were so earnest, that Sam could not bring himself to deny him. Sam lowered his body onto Frodo’s and felt a jolt of heat as their arousals brushed together. Frodo smiled and moved his hips so that his slighter frame rose up against Sam’s broad hips, fitting together perfectly as if they were two pieces of a puzzle. Sam paused and stared down at his love, lying so pretty and calm amongst the flowers.
"I wish I could keep you there, like that and never let you go," Sam whispered, pushing down gently with his hips. Frodo made a broken sound and closed his eyes, his lashes fanning dark along his cheeks.
"Then you know…" Frodo whispered.
"I know I’d as likely keep the wild hare in the woodshed, as hole you up forever in that smial. I’ll not tether you, Frodo, if you’d be wanting to go." Sam bent his head and tasted the warm skin beneath his lips, drawing it into his mouth in the most intimate of kisses. Frodo sobbed and grasped a handful of Sam’s hair, his body swaying from left to right, sending a searing note of music into the air, shredding the stillness. His tears were concealed from Sam where he lay, smiling against the curve of Frodo’s neck.
"I love you, Sam," Frodo said, softly.
Sam didn’t reply, but trailed earnest caresses along Frodo’s body, until he reached Frodo’s outstretched hands, imprisoned by green vines. He watched how they wove and clung to him as if they intended to hold him there. But Frodo did not fight them.
"Don’t you go worrying about it now, me dear. There’s time enough for that," Sam said entwining his fingers with those of his love.
Not enough…Frodo bit his trembling lip and gave himself up to Sam’s hungry mouth as it roved down his body, rising beneath like a wave of flame.
Time…Sam closed his mouth around Frodo and all thought fled from Frodo's mind, before the sweetness of it, sharp and burning, drawing forth such cries, loud enough to wake the enchanted as they slept.
I love you, love you, oh, my love.
Sam heard nothing, but sensed Frodo's restlessness as he cried out and twisted and turned to break free from the restraining vines. As if upon command, the green leaves at once wilted away and Frodo managed to raise himself to his elbows and look down at Sam. Sam raised his own eyes and they locked with his master's, now darkly dilated and heavy with desire. Sam held his gaze until Frodo could no longer stay upright and fell, half swooning amongst the flowers. As Sam pulled Frodo deep, one more time, his body began to tremble and it seemed as if he were spinning upwards, a small, bright star, all energy and life glimmering in this one, shining orb. And then he was shattering, breaking into thousands of tiny shards of light. He fell upon Frodo, feeling his need hard and warm, as he strung his legs around his love and held tightly to him, arching against Frodo's eager thrusts, which sent them both swaying perilously, back and forth, secured only by the ropes of glimmering gossamer that bound them together. Sam begged himself to hold back, to let the moment last. He closed his eyes tightly, swaying, clinging, willing that this might not be a dream, but the movement of the lurching swing and the tight intimacy of their embrace, could not be denied and he soon found himself clutching Frodo's face and drowning in it as he peaked again and again. When Frodo stilled and cleaved to him, his body pulsing warmth, it was all Sam could do not to fall into the empty air.
They lay together in silence for a time with only the beating of their hearts and the harsh catching of their quickened breaths disturbing the stillness there. Sam realised that Frodo was weeping. He reached out a hand and held it against Frodo’s cheek, finding wetness there. He tasted the salt upon his tongue as he leant in for a kiss.
"I’m sorry, Mr Frodo…" Sam started, instinctively.
"No Sam – don’t say it!" and Frodo sounded so agonised that Sam quieted immediately.
Sam forced himself into silence and tenderly gentled Frodo in his arms as the binding leaves softly wilted away. "If it helps, may I just say I’m truly happy," Sam said, speaking softly as he brushed back Frodo’s hair, picking out stray, curling petals of daisy and forget me not.
"And so am I Sam – remember this, won’t you, remember me?" he said, his voice barely a whisper now on the darkening air.
"I’ll not forget, I promise," said Sam.
But even as the words passed his lips, the trees began to moan and the wind took on new and steely possession of the trees, driving them wildly one against the other. Even as he settled Frodo more closely against him, he began to feel the cool autumn air settling upon his skin, already enclosing him in the promised sweet delusion of sleep, and with it, the balm of forgetting.
THE END

NEW FIC : MOONSHINE

Title: Moonshine
Author: Igraine
Rating: R
Warning: Pre-quest romantic Yuletide fluff - some blatant silliness.
Pairing: F/S
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. These charcters regrettably do not belong to me but to JRR Tolkien. I promise to return them unharmed.
Summary: Sam is determined to uncover an age old mystery but is waylaid along the way into uncovering something more mysterious still.
A/N : A big thank you to my beta, Ghyste, without whom I would be one big Grammatical mistake!


Moonshine


There are some things that are worth believing in, even if they ain’t true. So I have been told of the happenings around the turn in the year, afore Yule night when the stars are said to still in the sky and the beasts loosen their tongues to speak. I have heard utter of this from the ancient farmers and crones whose ears are closer to the earth than any. There are jeers and there is talk of moonshine, but I choose to hope. I have always held that it’s better not to laugh at things that you have no notion of. They’ve always called me soft, because I’m prone to shiver at the sight of mist over the water or a sunset red as blood. I watch the stars and they say my eyes will burn in my head and I’ll be no good for working with a twisted neck from too much moongazing. But I don’t listen to their prattle, I still look and I still keep a hope in my heart that one day my suspicions will come right and a great beauty will be revealed to me.
"Sam! Give us a hand, lad!"
Sam looked up from his paper scrawled with cramped, uneven script. There is little peace to write, but Sam takes his opportunities when they are offered, having slipped away during the bustle of dinner preparations and an argument over a comb. With a sense of relief, he had taken up his pen, given to him by Frodo on his last birthday, and set it awkward and trembling, first to the tiny inkpot and then to the parchment, a scrap of stuff already half covered with fragments of unfinished verse. His hand was hesitant and drifted to the left, but at least it allowed him to put down things that would otherwise distract his head. Often it was foolish stuff, coarse when laid next to the fine verse that Mr Frodo would read aloud and often he would write a few lines and then immediately cross them out, frustrated. But now and again, it helped just to clear his head. When he was done, he would wipe the ink stains from his hands, fold the creased parchment six times then secrete it beneath the wardrobe.
"Coming!" Sam called. He rose unsteadily from the table; folded the parchment into a tiny square and, kneeling down, hid it out of sight.
After the chaos of dinner was over, the argument over the comb resolved and all the dinner plates stacked away, the Gaffer rose from his hearthside seat and stretched.
"Will ye be joining me tonight, Sam lad?" he asked, as was his habit.
"Aye, I will," Sam replied, as usual, taking his coat from the peg and shrugging it on.
"Well, don’t you twos be rolling in late, mind!" Belle replied, smiling as she broke thread between her teeth.
"Ah, come on lass, it’s the day ‘fore Yule, t’aint as if there’s work to be done on the morrow," said the Gaffer, giving his wife a swift kiss on the cheek.
"Hmm, well, just don’t you two be waking us all up with your clomping. We’ll all be abed. There’s no holiday for us lasses, that’s for sure," Belle said, pushing him away.
Hamfast sighed dramatically and threw on his heavy coat. Belle shook her head as the Gaffer sloped off towards the door as if he might just manage to slip away unnoticed.
"Just you make sure he gets up to no mischief now, Sam, I’m countin’ on you!"
"Ma!" Mari shook her head and stared at Daisy and May, in mock horror and disbelief.
"That I will," Sam smiled, whilst his Gaffer was gesticulating slyly over Belle’s shoulder.
"Come on then, Samwise, let’s leave these lasses to their bickering and gossiping and we’ll go and set the world to rights."
Hamfast hurried out into the night, grabbing a stick on the way, for his hip was troubling him and it was a fair walk to the Dragon.
"It’s funny how fast da can move when there’s an ale calling," May said as Sam turned at the door to bid his family goodnight. He watched his mother and sisters laughing together in the warm intimacy of the room and for a moment he felt regretful that he might not stay and be a part of it. But he knew it weren’t his place - da was waiting for him on the road, his stick striking the stones, impatient to be off.
"Night all," Sam said, smiling as he closed the door.
It was a long, cold walk to the Green Dragon and Sam slowed his pace to allow his Gaffer a little ease. The air was sharp and cold and the stars were very bright and clear. Even his Gaffer braved a couple of glances overhead and sighed at the magnificence there outspread.
"Now Mr. Frodo he’d likely know the names of them there stars," the Gaffer said, after a time. "I only know the old names I were taught as a bairn - the barrow, the dog, the cauldron."
Sam’s ears pricked up at the sound of Frodo’s name. There was always a strange, tantalising pleasure when heard spoken aloud on another’s tongue. The speaker unaware of the power of it, alike to looking at the stars and knowing nothing of the mystery of what they see: only the shadow of it, as glimpsed through glass.
"He told me their names once, I have them written down…" Sam began.
"Who’s he - the cat’s mother?" his da said sharply, striding on ahead, with a sudden display of strength. "You call him by his proper title, lad, and don’t you forget it. It ain’t no difference who you’re speakin’ to, it’s Mr Frodo to you!"
"Sorry, da," Sam said, lengthening his strides. "I won’t forget."
Hamfast muttered to himself and then twisted his head to speak over his shoulder to his son. "I don’t much care for this book learnin’ neither. I’ve seen you scribblin’ over that table and I think it will come to no good in the end. We’ve no use for such things, son, we’ve our eyes on the ground, not looking up t’ skies. There’s nowt for us up there."
Sam said nothing, but continued walking and reciting the names of the constellations in his mind like a mantra. He could see Frodo in his mind, leaning against the old oak on the top of the hill, his face drawn up to the stars, transfixed, speaking softly to Sam, weaving a path through the web of light. Sam’s head had started to spin and sometimes he would lose his way and have to be guided back. But the names stayed in his mind, or at least a sense of their beauty and his master’s combined, a secret pleasure and delight.
The Gaffer shook his head, chuckling softly, "You’ve always been a funny one, you. Any daft story anyone told you, you’d take it to heart. I remember you looking out at the snow - you must’ve been knee high to a grasshopper, at the time. I asked you what you were looking for an’ you said, "I’m looking for them white geese!" It puzzled me right well, that did. Your ma knew of course, being a soft lass, like you, she’d told you that an old woman were plucking the white geese up in the sky and you’d remembered that and took it serious. Dead set on it you were – there weren’t no arguing!" The Gaffer laughed low under his breath. "You ain’t changed much, except it’s elves and dragons now, ‘stead of geese!"
Sam said nothing, but followed close behind his Gaffer’s heels, thinking how his da was once again hitting closer to the truth than was comfortable. Indeed sometimes, Sam was under the distinct impression that his Gaffer could read his mind with one swift, assessing sweep of his eye, making him feel suddenly small and defeated, as if half of his soul had shrank away to nothing.
Suddenly subdued, the laughter having died upon his tongue, his da halted abruptly and turned to him, fixing him with troubled rain washed eyes. "Sometimes I think it’d been easier on you if you’d been born a lass, at least then no one would think nothing of it, lasses being how they are."
Sam had heard this thought before, usually from behind the thin concealment of a door or a dividing wall. He tried hard to ignore it, despite the sharp ensuing twinge of pain that locked around his heart. He could never hope to please his da, only pray that he might prove useful and steadily gain his respect that way.
They were nearing the turn in the Bywater road, and the lights of the alehouse were brightening the road ahead. If his da only knew of the ridiculous thoughts that were dancing around his head at this very moment, he’d probably take him swiftly home and lock him in his room.
"But you’re a good lad, Sam, all things considered," Hamfast conceded.
Sam smiled, coming from his da, this was rich praise indeed. "Here we are," he said, as was customary.
"Here we are!" said the Gaffer, lengthening his strides as he approached the inn. Sam slowed down a little and drew in long, sweet breaths of the crisp night air, pausing a moment to look at the moon. The Gaffer had already reached the porch and had turned to hold the door open for his son, when he noticed Sam, still dawdling on the road, his face lit by silver moonlight, staring as if he were looking for the man in the moon.
"Samwise!"
"Coming da!" he said.
¨
Frodo sank into a dream. On his lap rested a weighty volume of elvish poetry that was slipping slowly to the floor. It had arrived this morning with four other equally heavy tomes. Eagerly awaited for months, Frodo had planned a quiet evening with no distractions, reading and slowly toasting in front of a good fire. But having settled himself several hours ago, with an uncorked bottle at his elbow and an optimistic bowl of sweet chestnuts ready for roasting, he had struggled to concentrate from the outset. Although the words were clearly comprehensible, their meanings struggled to connect within Frodo’s mind. It was as though he was being dazzled by bright light and could see only the brilliant Distraction, that withered all clear and conscious thought and stood before it, hands on hips, brazen and bright. Frodo scowled at the gorgeous flowing text and read the elusive paragraph once more. This was hopeless. He reached for the bottle of the last that remained of Bilbo’s Yuletide Winyards – a fine, heady drink that, once consumed, left an undeniable impression upon the mind and the senses. Frodo sighed and sank into the deep cushions, resting his head against the back of the chair, feeling the heat of the blazing fire scorching his cheek.
Frodo closed his eyes and the Poetry of the Second Age slipped slowly to the floor. Scenes from the Great Battles seared through his mind, beautiful warriors, pale and slender with brilliant eyes of agate, drew back their bows. Frodo watched the play of their long fingers on the fierce silver arrows, pausing and withholding, trembling with anticipation. He was looking at the nearest elf, standing on the precipice of battle, observing how his stature had seemed at once to swell and shrink, his hair to lighten, his voice to thicken like cream. There was a smear of mud upon his cheek. Frodo moved to wipe it away. He raised his fingers, then hesitated. The elf turned and smiled before rubbing another smear across the bridge of his nose. Frodo stood, impressed, as the youth charges courageously into the thick of battle. For one so young and small and besmirched, he was truly mighty. Frodo shifted in his chair, curling up his feet for the fire was growing rather hot. He smiled at the pleasing turn his vision had taken and prepared to follow a well-trodden path, loosening his buttons, for they had all at once grown rather too constricting. Although he knew such things could only lead to a bad end – there could be no denying that fantasies were taking over his life.
Sam… Frodo smiled and wriggled into a small cat-like ball of contentment.
Now, where was I?
"Right! Form two lines. Choose a partner – a lady if possible! Yes! Over here, Frodo, with the other gentlehobbits! Stand straight - that’s it! Now think of an animal, any animal, but don’t tell anyone what it is!"
Frodo groaned and shook himself awake. Esmerelda and her party games. There was no escape. Every year, as if in a hideous repetitive dream, he would find himself safely ensconced in the Brandy Hall grand ballroom, whereupon the yearly Yuletide ritual of humiliation and shame would be enacted to the lively frolics of Great Aunt Wisteria’s harpsichord. Great Aunt Wisteria was an integral part of the proceedings although no one knew where she came from, nor who’s aunt she really was, but she arrived without fail on the first day of Yule, a stout bag and a roll of frivolous music tucked beneath her arm.
He would be leaving tomorrow, at the crack of dawn. He shut his eyes, trying to recapture the blissful escapism of his fantasy, but it was to no avail, dull trivialities were beginning to encroach. He hadn’t packed. There would be no time in the morning, getting up early would be difficult enough, without the added complication of organising his trunk. There were gifts to find, wrap and label and not to mention the Gamgee’s hamper still sitting on the kitchen table. Sam was supposed to have picked it up this afternoon before he left for home. But Frodo had managed to miss Sam’s last duties, and the pleasure of their farewell ritual of tea, in the general Yuletide confusion. The delivery of books had arrived at a very ill moment and although Frodo had called out for Sam to stay and take tea, Sam had called back that he had a hundred and one things to do at home and daren’t linger, for fear of his Gaffer’s tongue. So he had let him go, signing for the books with a heavy heart, the delight of them dulled by disappointment. He had forgotten to mention the hamper.
Sighing, he rose from his comfortable chair and wandered into the kitchen. There it stood, on the table, wrapped in red ribbons, with a sprig of holly poking through the centre. Sam must have known it was his, but he wouldn’t have liked to ask, let alone take it. Sam never expected things he mightn’t deserve, nor have a right to. His father had instilled that in him from birth. Always keep within your station – wasn’t that it? Since Bilbo left, Hamfast hadn’t been so keen on Sam reading from the Bag End library and Frodo knew that Sam’s coming of age present – a fine quality pen, of the best craftsmanship – was a small act of defiance. Hamfast kept Sam busy all day and always created additional duties at home - that would keep him from lingering at the smial, after hours, so to speak. Frodo would keep him talking, drawing the time out for as long as he dared, but Sam was always visibly conscious of his da, tapping his stick at the gate. Provoking Sam to talk about poetry or dragons, or other far fetched things delighted Frodo and made Sam’s face brighten with a small, hopeful longing. It was like kissing him. Frodo smiled at the vision that sparked, and leaned back against the kitchen table, his hand smoothing down his rumpled clothes, feeling the ache of regret.
Frodo shook his head and tried to think about the list he should have made. But somehow, instead of heading to the bedroom, he veered back into the parlour and poured himself another glass of the rich, fruity wine. Pacing backwards and forwards across the hearthrug, he thought about whether taking Sam in his arms would be a disastrous imposition or a blessing for both of them. It was a risk, certainly - to lose Sam would be heartbreaking and to cause pain or offence and put him in disgrace with his father didn’t bear thinking about. But that was only one version of Sam, the conventional one that most hobbits saw. The simple youth, clever with his hands, faithful to his betters, an optimistic catch for a maid. One such maid, young Rose Cotton, had been bartering his name about of late, with a mind for marriage, but Sam had never spoken of it when Frodo had probed tenderly to inquire. Sam would shake his head and deny that any lass had turned his head. So there might be encouragement there. Frodo took another gulp of wine, feeling the intoxication flooding to his head, pounding to the solid beat of his heart. He need only rouse the sleeping passion that Frodo could sense coursing through Sam’s veins and he might waken to the call, charging into the fray, with wild curses on his lips, his heart bursting with exhilaration. Might he be setting Sam free by daring to capture that which his heart desired?
Making a swift and reckless resolution he sauntered out into the hall, shrugged on his warm overcoat, clasped his thick woollen cape and after taking one last slug straight from the bottle, strode out the door and into the breathless chill of the night.
¨

The Green Dragon was crowded; a hot fug of pipesmoke, ale and close pressed bodies enveloped Samwise and his father as they came in through the door. The inn was heaving with merry workers enjoying a heavy night of drinking with the promise of a lie-in on the morrow. The bar was decorated with boughs of holly and yew that pervaded the air with the dark fragrance of evergreen. The serving lass had to bend her head to see her customers on the other side of the bower. Sam ordered a drink for himself and his da and carried them carefully to the booth where Hamfast had seated himself with his old drinking companions, who would likely jaw the night away quite content with a pipe a piece. Sam sat beside them and sipped his ale, his ears buzzing with the thick noise of many raised and raucous voices.
"You looking forward to your rest day, Samwise? You’ll be drinking your fill tonight, no doubt, perhaps there’s someone who might be catching your eye?"
The Hobbit who was addressing him, a blacksmith from Bywater, was leering at Sam with an unpleasant insinuation upon his lips.
The Gaffer leaned forwards and spoke loudly across the table. "Nay, Snith, there’s not a lass in all the Shire who’s good enough for our Samwise, here."
"Is that so?" said Snith, smirking and tapping his pipe. Sam took a deep drink and drained his mug. He attempted to rise. "Avoiding the issue are you, lad?" A hand snaked out and rested on his sleeve.
"Anyone want another?" Sam asked, shaking his arm free.
"Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lad blush a’fore!" Snith laughed, sparking a light.
Hamfast stared at Sam thoughtfully. "Aye son, I’ll have another," he replied.
Sam nodded and fought his way back to the bar, stopping every now and then as acquaintances caught him in passing to wish him and his family a merry Yule, their breath clouded with the scent of ale. Sam would nod and share the greeting, moving through the crowd with his mind set on escape.
Sam ordered more ale, passing the empty mugs across the bar to be refilled. Hobbits moved about him where he stood, lurching and laughing, singing and shouting. Sam’s ears rang. He looked towards the door that swung open and closed as drinkers thronged out onto the inn steps to sit and sup beneath the stars. A cool, crisp draught of air would raise his spirits briefly only to be extinguished by a heavy hand or foot. As he waited for the serving lass, who was pre-occupied with evading the bunch of mistletoe that hovered above her head, along with the close attentions of the expectant tweens, Sam thought about his beloved. He would be alone in Bag End, preparing for the journey to Brandy Hall on the morrow, probably packing his trunk with fine linens for the grand company - the waistcoat with the golden lining, the silk coat with silver thread, soft green velvet breeches. There wouldn’t be a finer Hobbit within those halls. How he had kept the marriage makers off his back for all these years Sam had no idea, surely it couldn’t be for want of trying. Frodo was admired by all for his refined graces and substantial inheritance, and had been the subject of local gossips for many a year. Only recently had they begun to bore, when Frodo had provided them with absolutely no morsels on which to feed. Likewise, Sam himself had been the butt of many a lewd joke himself, for he had recently come of age and yet showed no sign of settling on any lass. Folk said that he would be reeled in come Rethe, but Sam didn’t heed them, he knew where his love lay.
Outside the inn, Yule night was passing and the full moon was carving its swinging arc high into the sky, balanced between the two years, as if on outstretched wings. Soon it would be too late to try. The moment of magic would be over and would not return again in such perfect balance. His heart hammered even as he berated himself for his foolishness. But it wasn’t as if anyone would see, no one need know, it would just be a little whimsy on his part and would do no harm. But how was he to get away? He paid the lass his coin and took the ale mugs in his hands. The Gaffer was waving his hand at him above the milling bodies, a disembodied thing with an impatience of its own. Sam attempted to barge his way through but it was near impossible without treading on toes and that brought with it the risk of a smack on the nose, so he hovered, undecided on the fringe, looking at the hand dancing like a leaf in the wind.
"Sam?"
Sam gasped, his ale mugs clashing and spilling half their contents over his feet as he span round and gaped with barely disguised astonishment.
"I do venture out from time to time, Sam, it’s not that unheard of!" Frodo laughed, as he watched Sam trying to re-gather his wits. "Here, let me take those, perhaps I’ll have more luck."
Frodo reached out and took the ale mugs from Sam’s hands, advancing forwards with a loud "excuse me" which parted the crowd like a knife through butter. Sam followed in his wake, the throng closing up behind him. When Frodo reached the booth where Hamfast and his friends were busy smoking and loudly disparaging current dubious farming practices, he placed the heavy mugs down upon the table with a loud and resplendent thud, sloshing a little more of the drink as he did so.
Hamfast was so caught up with his argument on fertiliser, that he didn’t look up and see whose hand had delivered his long awaited ale.
"Well, it’s about time an’ all," he grumbled, "Where ‘ave you been for it – Bree? And don’t go wastin’ any more, I can tell it’s only quarter full by the weight of it an’ it don’t come cheap, neither!"
"Sorry Master Hamfast, shall I buy you another?"
Hamfast, in the middle of his first long gulp, nearly choked on the amber nectar and made a sound like a throttled hen. His neighbour patted him enthusiastically on the back and waited for his eyes to stop watering.
"Shall I ask for some water?" Frodo said, turning to Sam and looking a little alarmed.
Gaffer Gamgee coughed and shook his head fiercely, rising to prevent Frodo from even attempting such a thing. "No, no, I’m alright…" he choked, hoarse as an old dog. He took another sip of ale, coughed violently and sat back down, his cheeks flaming with humiliation and shame. "Please accept my apologies, sir, I didn’t know it was your good self or else I’d never ‘ave…"

"Think nothing of it. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my leave of you sirs and bid you all a merry Yule. I shall sit outside; it’s a little hot in here tonight. Would you join me, Sam?"
Hamfast nearly began another bout of spluttering, but somehow managed to contain himself. "Well, thank you, sir, that’s right kind of you – I’m sure Samwise would be honoured. And might I wish you yourself the very best of Yuletide’s, sir?"
"Thank you, Hamfast," Frodo replied, turning with a smile and an apology to the assembled Hobbits who blocked his path to the door. Sam made to follow, brimming with happiness, but found his arm once more restrained. He turned to head back to his Gaffer, who leaned forwards and hissed in his ear. "Just you mind your manners now, son. Don’t you go letting me down!"
Frodo drew a long breath. "Phew, it’s good to get back out into the open air!"
Sam nodded his head, "Aye, that it is."
"Come on, Sam, have a seat," Frodo sat down on the edge of a broad stone step, his exhaled breaths ringing into the air like smoke. Sam sat down beside Frodo, cradling his ale in his hands, his eyes drifting irresistibly towards Frodo and then retreating back to his feet. On one such journey, his eyes happened to notice that Frodo’s hands were empty. "Sir! You haven’t got a drink! Why, you should have said! What are you drinking?" Sam leaped up and made to re-enter the inn.
"No, no, Sam, it’s alright. I wouldn’t have you fight for me!"
"But you’re not drinking!" Sam exclaimed, puzzled.
"No, I’m not," Frodo smiled, looking up at the stars with a strange and bewildering light in his eyes.
"Sir … is everything alright?" Sam asked, puzzling over his master’s odd mood.
"Perfect," Frodo replied, blowing out a long, white column of cloud.
Sam sat back down and drank his ale guiltily, watching Frodo over the brim of his mug and praying that he didn’t look as though he was enjoying it.
"Sam, are you watching me?" Frodo said, without taking his eyes off the stars.
"Sorry, sir," Sam mumbled, flushing redder than ever.
"That’s alright," Frodo said, quietly, "I don’t mind."
Sam’s heart soared for a moment, as if something within him was trying to take flight. But he managed to still it and keep it quiet by concentrating on the grime and ink stains on his fingers. He rubbed at them, frowning. When he raised his eyes, he saw that Frodo was watching. Leaning across, Frodo took Sam’s hands gently within his own, inspecting them curiously.
"I know these marks – ink stains, if I’m not mistaken – Sam you’ve been writing!"
Sam let his hands lie for a moment within Frodo’s, staring, struck by the sight of his two, rough palms cradled. Then he shook himself and pulled them away with a shrug.
"Aye, well, nothing to speak of…" Sam murmured.
"But you’ve found a use for it … I did wonder if it was a bad present, but then you’ve always taken such an interest in learning and to own a fine pen is a blessing in itself – or so I’ve always thought."
"Thank you, sir, it is a very fine pen."
"And it’s working its magic?"
"Well, I don’t know about that. It’s stuff and nonsense really."
"I’m sure it’s nothing of the kind," Frodo replied, brushing his hand very lightly through Sam’s curls; making him shiver.
"You’re cold!" Frodo exclaimed.
"No…no, sir," Sam stammered, turning to Frodo.
"I don’t want to keep you from the revels. You must be eager to get back to your friends, perhaps I should go?" Frodo made as if to rise, pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders.
"No!" Sam shouted, rather too forcefully. A group of hobbits sitting nearby turned and gawped in astonishment. "No, sir," he continued, softly, so that only one should hear. "I have no wish to go back in there."
"You’re father will be thinking I’ve spirited you away!" Frodo smiled, watching Sam fumbling with the fastening of his cloak.
"I was planning on leaving shortly anyway, as it happens."
"Oh yes?"
"I … thought I might take a walk, perhaps over the hill to the Cotton’s farm."
"Oh…" Frodo dropped his gaze and then stood up so abruptly, Sam nearly spilt his ale once again. "Then I will leave you to your plans. Happy Yule, Sam." The vulnerability in Frodo’s face was so marked Sam had to choke down a cry of distress.
"May I walk you home?" he asked.
Frodo barely spoke a word, but Sam didn’t mind, he was happy just to walk beside him, keeping step, his footsteps light and carefree on the quiet road. When they reached the river, Frodo stopped and leaned on the rough stone, hanging his head over to look down at the dark water glittering in the moonlight.
"It is almost as though it were possible to dip your hand in and pull out a handful of stars," Frodo said, his dark hair hanging over his eyes, concealing his beauty. Sam leaned down and, picking up a pebble from the road, flung it in a wide arc. It hit the water hard and shattered the stars into fragments. Both watched in silence as the ripples flung wide.
"Aye, I see that too, sir," Sam replied, watching the last arc quivering on the water.

Frodo raised his head and shook the hair from his eyes. "Is that what you write about, Sam?"
"Sorry, sir?"
"The things you see and feel but can’t speak of?" Frodo replied, his eyes shuttered beneath deep thoughts that Sam couldn’t penetrate. Sam hardly dared to answer, for he was sure that whatever came out of his mouth, it would be disloyal to his heart.
"Yes, I think so. I don’t know…"
As, indeed, it was.
The moment passed, Frodo shook himself and headed back up the road, nodding in greeting to a rowdy band of waits, carrying a bowl and a staff tied with coloured ribbons.
"I’m sorry to have missed them," Frodo called back to Sam.
"They’ll be doing the rounds again, don’t you worry, sir," said Sam, hurrying to catch up.
"So what are your plans?" Frodo asked.
"Plans, sir?" Sam asked, scuffing his feet on the road.
"For Yule?"
"Oh, the usual. Bringing in the log, trimming the goose, wrapping things I ain’t had time to wrap, drinking too much ale and probably falling asleep, feet up in front of the fire."
"That sounds delightful," and even as the words slipped through his lips, he thought them despicable and ingratiating.
"No it ain’t – it’s dull. The same every year," Sam replied with such a sullen intonation that Frodo was surprised into silence.
"It can’t be worse than Brandy Hall’s annual Yule dinner, with party games for Gentlehobbits of good fortune," Frodo offered, at last.
"That don’t sound too bad, at least you don’t have to do anything. I bet you could even slip away into your own private quarters and no one would be none the wiser."
"You don’t know Esmerelda. She’d know – there’d be a search party. The games are compulsory you see."
"Games are meant for fun, aren’t they?"
"Not these ones. These have ulterior motives behind them."
"Close your eyes and think of the Shire," Sam replied and Frodo stared in astonishment.
"Sam!" he laughed, "What would your Gaffer say?"
Frodo looked across the tops of the smials, over the hills to the far woods beyond. Sam followed his gaze. The Cotton farm lay just beyond sight, below the rise of the land.
"There lies your way and this way mine," Frodo nodded ahead to where the lighted smials of Hobbiton gathered beneath the Hill.
Sam stared out across the meadow and his heart quailed. "What time of night do you think it is, sir?"
Frodo looked up at the moon in its fullest glory. "I would imagine it must be close to midnight, Sam."
"Mr Frodo, I was going to do a foolish thing," Sam blurted out, surprising even himself.
"Well, Yule night is as good a time as any. I wish you luck," Frodo said, looking as if he’d just trod on a nail.
"Luck, sir?" said Sam, puzzled.
"Well, I’m sure you’ll have no need of it. Rose Cotton seems a sensible lass. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to turn you down."
"Rosie?" Sam’s mind was turning cartwheels trying to piece together what Frodo was thinking. "Bless you, no! I wasn’t going to call on Rosie, nor on any of the family. To tell the truth, it were the beasts I was more interested in."
"The Beasts?" Frodo said, stupefied.
"Aye, well, it’s an old tale I’ve heard. I was hoping it might prove true. Daft, really. I don’t know what I was thinking of!" Sam turned away in embarrassment, his face burning.
"Sam?" Frodo took a step towards him and brushed the thick hair back from his cheek. Sam felt the fleeting cold touch of Frodo’s fingertips and resisted the urge to draw them to his lips and warm them. "What is this foolishness, let me hear of it!"
Sam shook his head. "Come on, Sam, I like foolishness," Frodo persisted. "You’ve heard the moonshine I talk, come on, out with it!"
Sam turned his face towards Frodo’s and for a moment, their cold cheeks brushed together with a jolt of fierce possession. Sam caught his breath and then words spilled from his mouth. "It was one of the stories I had written of. It tells of the old days, before we crossed the river. We were closer to the beasts then, folk used to talk to them as though they understood. You know, the way I sometimes talk to the flowers, quiet and low, urging them to grow. Well, it was said that on Yule night when midnight fell, the Beasts would free their tongues and speak, quiet-like to each other only. But some might hear them, if they have lived close against the earth, and as I have spent most of my life with my arms deep in soil I thought I might be one of the lucky ones." Sam stopped talking and cleared his throat nervously, awaiting the resulting hilarity. "I warned you it was stupid but you would keep on asking, Mr Frodo."
"No, Sam," Frodo said gently. "I think that’s a wonderful idea."
"Now you’re being careful with me, for fear of hurting my feelings. I know what a good hobbit you are and how you’d hate to call me a ninnyhammer, even though you might be thinking it."
"Not at all, Sam," Frodo said, "I don’t think any such thing. I like the idea. It beats sitting alone with my dusty books, anyway. May I join you, or do you think I might break the spell? I don’t think I have the earth moving in my blood and bones the way you do."
"I’m sure you’d break no spell, Mr Frodo."
"Right then, Sam, I think we should hurry, it can’t be far off midnight."
The darkness thickened around them as they waded through tangled bracken and weeds, skirting the meadows and rounding the woods, startling the rooks from their roosts and the owl, who drifted overhead, a pale gliding ghost, screeched his warning cry. As Sam watched it disappearing into the clouds, he lost his footing and slipped on the rotting ground underfoot. Frodo flung out a hand to steady him.
"It’s alright, I’m alright, sir," he stammered, his head tingling with excitement.
Frodo let Sam’s fingers glide slowly from his own, then strode on ahead, disappearing into the trees like a fetch. "Hurry, Sam, hurry!" he called.
Sam slipped again as he stumbled after his master into the little copse that bordered the Cotton’s land. Frodo knew this land even better than Sam himself, having walked here many evenings, alone, beneath the stars. Folk thought it odd but Sam was fascinated and enthralled. It spoke to that part of him that lived cramped upon the parchment beneath his closet.
"Sam?" Frodo was calling him.
"Yes, sir, I’m here, I’m coming!"
They reached the first fields. The long, dark shapes of Cattle lay slumbering on the shadowed grass, their breath hot mist hanging low in the air.
"Well, here we are," Frodo said, patting the grassy slope that rose just outside the borders of the willow fence. "It’s a little damp, but I think we’ll survive." Frodo sat down, carefully ascertaining that his cloak was neatly spread before sinking down onto the grass.
"Here, sir, let me…" Sam unclasped his cloak and began to shrug it off.
"No, Sam! You’ll freeze. Please, put it back on!"
Sam obliged, reluctantly pinning it into place before sitting down beside Frodo on the hard ground.
"Do you think we’ve missed it?" Frodo whispered, eventually.
"I can’t say," Sam replied, staring hard into the night, looking for something that wasn’t there.
"Have we lost our reason?"
"Most probably," said Sam, a small smile hovering about his lips.
Frodo shivered dramatically and tugged his cloak closer about his shoulders.
"Are you sure?" Sam asked, making to unclasp once more.
"Sam, you seem determined to disrobe in front of me – perhaps I should let you!"
"Sorry, sir," Sam said hastily, drawing himself up tightly and staring at the nearest cow.
"No, I’m sorry. Forget that - I don’t know what I was thinking of!"
They sat and stared for long moments, their ears keen, hearkening to the wailing of the wind in the treetops, the stirring of the breath of the cattle, the racing of their own hearts. Sam turned to Frodo, when Frodo seemed dreamy and watchful, distant and safe. He allowed his eyes to linger on the sight of his love as one who has hungered long for the sight of food. Frodo appeared to tremble slightly as if troubled by the cold breeze that disrupted the stillness of the hour.
"Do you remember how we used to sit in the parlour with Bilbo and he would regale us with stories, whether we would hear them or not?" Frodo said, his eyes shifting beneath Sam’s warm regard.
Sam blinked, his eyes so full of wonderment, he felt tears pricking there. "Aye, sir, he was a one for stories, Mr Bilbo." Sam smiled fondly and then all at once found himself struck by a surprisingly strong ache of regret. "I miss him, sir."
"So do I, Sam. I miss those tales. Books are one thing, but there’s nothing like a good story spoken aloud. Sometimes, I hunger for them. For the sound of his voice, speaking words and drawing magic from them. You understand that, don’t you?"
Frodo turned his head and caught Sam breathless within the wide, fathomless beauty of his gaze; wherein lay the bright array of his intricate soul.
"Sir…" Sam began, but his thoughts were snapped off before they could begin.
"Would you sit by me, Sam?"
"Aye," he said.

Sam moved close to Frodo and drew him beneath his cloak, his arm curling around Frodo’s shoulders. Frodo rested his head on Sam’s chest, his dark curls tickling Sam’s nose. Sam dipped his head and breathed in the scent of rosemary, nuzzling into soft warmth. Frodo murmured something inaudible against the wool of Sam’s waistcoat.
"Sorry?" said Sam, resting his cheek against Frodo’s crown. "What was that?"
"Nothing. I was just saying no wonder those cows are keeping quiet, your heart’s beating loud enough to wake the entire Shire." Frodo raised his head and looked into Sam’s face. "I’m sorry if I spoiled your night," he said, in earnest.
"You’ve spoiled nothing, sir. I’d glad of your company, to tell the truth."
"Better than the cows?"
Sam started to laugh, silently, his head shaking from side to side, his hand raised to cover his face.
"What?" Frodo said, laughing to see Sam so merry. "What?" Frodo drew Sam’s hand away and traced his laughing mouth. "Me?" Frodo whispered, "this?" Frodo cupped Sam’s face in his hands and touched his cool fingertips against Sam’s smile. As Sam struggled to regain control, Frodo pulled back and regarded him silently.
"Oh, sir…" Sam whispered.
"Sam!" Frodo paused, "Listen!"
Sam, breathing heavily, tried to pull himself back together. "I can’t hear anything, Mr Frodo – only the wind in the treetops."
"I thought I heard something speak your name … Saaaamm!"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but might that have more likely been a sheep?"
"Oh, yes, perhaps you’re right – wait a minute – there it is again!"
"Saaaamm!"
"That’s no sheep, sir, that’s my Gaffer out looking for me! Shall I shout back?" Sam asked, his face stricken with anxiety.
"No, keep quiet, we’ll make our way back to Bag End through the fields. He need never know."
"But, sir, he’ll be after my hide if I don’t walk back with him and trim that goose for Ma. It’s all awaiting me on the kitchen table, she’ll have it laid out."
"Well, if it’s laid out, it won’t be going anywhere in a hurry will it, Sam?"
"But, you don’t understand, sir, it’s something I always done, that and the Yule log. It’s a tradition…"
"And therefore, can’t be broken," Frodo replied.
Looking up, Frodo observed the moon beginning its long descent. The chill in the air was clearing the hot intoxication in his head and already, small, cautious stirrings of protectiveness and doubt were pressing him not to proceed. But it was too late - he had made his choice and the night held him to his word.
"You must come, Sam," Frodo said, pulling Sam to his feet. "I have a present for you waiting there. It will only take a moment to collect, then you may go home and prepare your goose, according to tradition."
"Aye, well, if you put it like that, perhaps we may, if we’re quick."
As the two hobbits disappeared into deeper darkness and the distant cries slowly died away, a slumberous beast raised her head.
"Ridiculous creatures!" she said and went back to sleep.

¨

Frodo hurried before Sam into the smial, turning up the lamps as he disappeared down the passage, turning left into the parlour.
"Come through, Sam, the parlour is warm, the fire’s still alight." Frodo bent over the hearth and shifted the logs so that they flared once more and crackled brightly. Sam hovered in the doorway, his face half shadowed, looking about himself as if lost.
"Sam? You look as if you’ve never been in here before – what is it?"
"Nothing, Mr Frodo." Sam shifted from one foot to the other, staring at Frodo, watching him moving gracefully about the quiet room, settling cushions, pulling curtains closed, lighting candles, lifting up a tall, slender wine bottle. Sam had dreamed of this for so long - lying alone, sleepless and tormented by a passion that cut through him, fierce and hopeless. It was magical to be in this fire lit room, standing on the threshold of his dream, pausing, half disbelieving as he saw Frodo turn to him and fix his blue black gaze upon him.
"Would you like a drink, Sam – some wine?" Frodo proffered the bottle he held within his hand.
"No thank you, sir."
"Please, come and sit down beside the fire. Stay a while."
Sam stepped forward, breaking the invisible cord stretched out before his feet. He settled into the soft red chair, cushions moulding to him as if they would hold him there, wondering in some far distant corner of his mind, quite what he thought he was doing, but paying it no heed.
Frodo stood still in the middle of the room, looking from left to right, picking things up nervously and toying with them, before putting them back.
"Will you join me, Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, watching him with fascination.
Frodo put down the book that he was flicking through and approached Sam as though he was afraid.
"What is it, sir, is something wrong?" Sam asked, as he saw the flicker of disquiet racing across Frodo’s troubled face.
"Sam … I was … I don’t know … why I’ve brought you here…" Frodo’s voice faltered.
Sam took a deep breath, firmed his resolve, and then stood before Frodo, reaching out and taking Frodo’s trembling hands within his own.
"You don’t have to pretend no more, sir. I already know." Sam’s rough thumbs stroked along Frodo’s slender fingers. Frodo looked up and stared. "I’ve seen it tonight as clear as that moon – clearer," Sam said.
Frodo loosened his hands, turned and watched the ghostly sphere showing her face from between the ragged clouds, peeking into the room where the two hobbits stood transfixed.
"She was hiding," Sam said, running a finger down Frodo’s neck. "That’s all."
Sam moved to embrace his love, his arms drawing Frodo close, enfolded, safe.
"I have dreamed of this," Sam whispered, "you only had to ask."
"I couldn’t ask this of you," Frodo replied, his body still as stone. "Nor anyone."
"Why, me dear?" Sam asked, his breath warm against the back of Frodo’s neck.
"I chose my life a long time ago," Frodo said, "and it is a solitary one."
"Nothing is certain," Sam said. "Look at me - I went out seeking one miracle and ended up with another."
Frodo’s head bowed like a heavy flower beneath Sam’s warm lips. Blissful relief surged through him, filling his eyes with tears. He hadn’t realised quite how much yearning was within him. It seemed all at once to be both the beginning and the end.
Sam held him tenderly, "Come to me, me dear", he said, "sit down beside the hearth - we will be warmer there."
Frodo followed Sam and sat down beside him upon the hearthrug. He looked at his Sam and he saw the strength and passion he had been seeking, burning bright upon Sam’s face, there for all to see who would.
Sam knelt before Frodo and, cupping Frodo’s face within his hands, he marvelled at his beauty with undisguised curiosity. "I used to believe that you were some kind of elf – I couldn’t believe that hobbits could grow so beautiful."
"And I was meant to be the one doing the seducing!" Frodo laughed, leaning in and clasping Sam’s shoulders, moving his face close against Sam’s.
"Aye, so that was your plan!" Sam said, smiling, his hazel eyes twinkling.

"And what was yours, Samwise Gamgee, if I may be so bold?" Frodo asked. "You don’t expect me to believe your moonshine, do you?"
"If I believe yours, then you should believe in mine, Mr Frodo."
"Indeed?" Frodo replied, nudging Sam’s nose with his own, playfully bringing their lips closer inch by inch. "And may we make some more, my friend, my love?"
Sam moaned softly in his throat as Frodo’s lips touched his own, lightly at first, with a brush as soft as a butterfly’s wing followed by a silken tongue sliding across his lips, tasting curiously, sending a shiver of pleasure through Sam’s skin.
"Good?" Frodo asked and Sam nodded mutely, quieted now by the reality of love.
Sam showed his assent by silently unbuttoning his own shirt and pulling it off over his head. Frodo drew in a breath, lowered his dark lashes and then bent his head low. Sam blinked several times, nervously, as Frodo touched his sun browned skin with tiny, lingering caresses of lips and tongue. When the sensations grew too much, Sam closed his eyes.
"Open your eyes," Frodo whispered as his mouth closed over a flat, dark nipple, cool flicks of his tongue bringing it to life. Sam cried out sharply and Frodo raised his fingers to Sam’s mouth, where they found warmth and darkness and sharp, needful bites. "Is it good? Talk to me Sam," Frodo whispered, "tell me if it’s alright."
Sam strained through gritted teeth, "I can’t, oh, please Frodo…yes!"
Frodo moved to unbutton Sam’s tight breeches, his fingers quick and impatient, scraping across the hardness beneath as they worked. "What do you want me to do, Sam?"
"Anything, oh, just…" Sam groaned and collapsed onto the rug, his fingers splayed upon the rich, patterned carpet, his head twisted aside, lips moving softly, with silent persuasion. Frodo tugged off Sam’s breeches and undergarments and then sat back on his heels. He looked at Sam, holding the sight of him in his mind, fearful that it might be the last time he would ever be granted such an honour. Leaning over, he stroked Sam’s thighs, lightly, watching them quiver and part under his caress. He leaned down and tickled Sam’s prick softly with his breath, watching how it jumped and swayed beneath the temptation of his mouth. Frodo leaned down and rippled his tongue across the skin his breath had brought to flame. Sam bucked and cried Frodo’s name, grabbing for purchase but finding nothing but air, thick with the scent of desire and sweetly bursting cherry wood.
"What do you want, my love, my Sam?"
"You … I want you…" Sam tried to raise himself from the floor, but his arms felt as weak as feathers and he fell back with a sigh, listening to the snapping of the logs and the rustle of cloth. He felt coolness on his heated skin where Frodo’s tongue had laid. He was so excited, so elated that his head was bursting and erupting with something like the bubbling laughter he sometimes felt when being chastised.
"Sam?" Frodo said as he slid his naked body over Sam’s, his silken hardness sliding across Sam’s as he raised himself on his elbows to look down into Sam’s face. "Are you laughing again?" Frodo smiled whilst pressing his hips down with intent, touching Sam’s curving lips with his tongue, catching his laughter and feeling it curling, infectious, tingling warm inside him.
"Why can’t we always be like this, why do we have to keep to our places?" Frodo asked, raking his hands through Sam’s sweat drenched curls.
Sam’s smile vanished as if it had never been. "I don’t know - it just seems to be that way," he replied.
And then Frodo knew at once that Sam would return things back to their rightful order when this night was over and he would travel to Buckland on the morrow and Sam would trim the goose and sleep and dream of his lover. Always the same rituals, the same dreams.
Sam lifted his hips and curled his legs around Frodo, rocking against him, slowly and with painful pleasure. Frodo slipped and grasped at Sam’s shoulders, holding on, hoping, sobbing with need as Sam gripped his smooth, round buttocks and drove against him, murmuring his name over and over, opening him, freeing him, bringing him back to life. It was as if he had been leading a shadowed life and Sam was filling him with living flame. When he felt the warm gush of Sam’s seed upon his belly, he quickened also, thrusting twice into the slickness and then bursting into the light.
When all was over, Frodo lay in the dark crimson light of the dying fire listening to the distant sound of footsteps drawing closer, seemingly up the garden path. Sam lay slumped across his thighs, touching his softness, stroking and kissing.
"He’s here," Frodo said.
"I know – I can hear him," Sam replied, enveloping Frodo in his mouth until he began to stiffen.
"Will you go?"
Sam raised his head. "Do you want me to?"
"No…" Frodo replied, "Of course not."
"Then I’ll stay. I just need to tell my Gaffer that I’m staying."
Frodo sat up. He took Sam’s face in his hands and leaned in close. "You don’t have to do this for me!"
"I do. I will. But you must promise me one thing – if I do this, you will send to Brandy Hall and tell Miz Esmerelda that you won’t be joining them this year."
"Sam!"
Sam shook his head and took Frodo’s lower lip within his mouth, suckling softly before letting it go. Frodo looked flushed and utterly ravishing, his pink cheeks startling against his dark hair. "Promise me!" Sam urged.
"Yes, Sam, I promise – anything! Just come here and kiss me!"
"But, Frodo, my Gaffer!" There came a loud, insistent knocking at the door.
"I’ll be right back!" Sam got up, threw on his breeches and, with his braces hanging around his sturdy, brave hips, he strode out to meet his fate.

THE END

Terrifying Toddlers

Well, this is as good a place as any to get things off my chest so I thought I'd vent my frustrations a little. I've had one of those "inadequate mum" days when everything I say to my wonderful, willfull daughter goes in one ear and out the other or gets transformed along the way into some kind of nonsensical act of reckless mischief. I am exhausted! I seem to have spent all day saying "No" and trying to calmly explain "why" - when inside I'm boiling over with frustration. She seems to get wilder by the day. I went to mum's and toddlers group this afternoon and she was pushing the other kids around and tipping them off toys that she wanted. Then she went and emptied the ball pit all over the floor so that I had scrabble round on my hands and knees for half an hour picking them all up, whilst the other mum's looked on as if in pity or disapproval. I spoke to my daughter, but it doesn't seem to have much effect. I don't do stern discipline, although I sometimes lose my rag. Hubby says it's good we're letting her be a child, unrestrained, expressing herself, but I hope I'm not in some way to blame for her naughtiness - I've always tried to teach her right from wrong. I suppose all parents must feel like this. Still, with the spectre of school looming in September - I do hope she'll settle down a little and start to listen to me! Saying that, she's brilliant - she can make my heart melt with love - I just wish I didn't feel so INADEQUATE! Still - good news, I finally managed to finish a fic last night! I was close to scrapping it, then I pulled it back together at the last minute. It was going to be restrained but ended up steamy again - why does that always happen? I'm so weak! I just need to get it beta-ed then I'll post it up!

AFTER ALL - Chapter One

This is my first attempt at anangst fic. It is horribly angsty and I was in two minds about posting it here but I know that some people have expressed an interest in reading it and I thought it would do no harm.... but don't let that put you off!

FIC: AFTER ALL
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S (Post quest)
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY Frodo flees from the Grey Havens with Sam. But their newly awakened love is overshadowed by a greater threat from which there is no escape.
Disclaimer - These character belong to JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them and promise to return them safe and sound. I make no money from these stories.

WARNINGS : MAJOR angst and character death. :O


CHAPTER ONE
Mine is the Choice of Luthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter.
Return of the King – Chapter six.
Frodo lay half sleeping across Bill’s sturdy back, his arms draped around the rough mane, legs dangling free. He couldn’t fall, for Sam sat behind, one arm supporting and cradling Frodo’s waist close against his body whilst the other held the reins. They were plodding slowly across open moorland, the salt breeze at their back, biting and roaring in their ears, moaning as if in an agony of loss. Frodo had closed his eyes but Sam looked ahead, his face set, pale and determined. As they made their way into the sheltering hills of purple and grey, the sun slowly sank in the west, staining the sky with indigo and flame as it spilt its last light into the inky sea.
As they moved beneath the cover of the first high hills, Sam relaxed a little and began to hum softly beneath his breath, looking about them at the strange, rocky land into which they had stumbled. Heather grew thickly upon every mound and the ground rose and swayed into small mountains and gorges which trickled with tiny cold streams, sometimes cutting through the sheer face of rocks and falling in thin silver trails to the sodden, swollen scrub beneath. But water was a good sign. It might even keep them alive, for a time anyway. The way through the hills was becoming difficult to navigate, rocky and water logged, Bill’s hooves slipped and tripped upon the pebbles, his legs scrambling and his breath white in the chill air. Sam breathed in; yes, it was still there, the smell and the distant heave of the great sea. He shuddered and pulled his cloak more tightly around them both, trying to draw Frodo closer even though his arm was aching with the strain. The path was narrowing until it was little more than a thin stream of glistening pebbles cutting through a high gorge. The light was fading fast. He knew he had to find somewhere to rest soon or else it would grow too dark to see even his hand in front of his face. Frodo was already falling asleep and Bill was steadily tiring with every pace. But it wasn’t easy, white trails of damp cloud were wrapping the tops of the hills and slowly descending, drawn to the water, weaving through the darkness like restless ghosts, filling his belly with a hollow howl of fear. But he drew a deep breath and set his heels in, holding on to the thought that they had certainly been through worse than this. The only danger that pursued them now lived in his heart.
At last, the pass was broadening and the ground was a little easier under Bill’s skittering hooves. Sam reassured him in low, lulling tones, "Hush, now, easy there…" he said, patting his drooping neck, beaded now with mist and wintry breaths of moisture. As he spoke the words, it was almost as if he spoke them to himself, "Hush, don’t fail me now," he whispered, his heart beginning to protest.
They emerged on the side of a steep hill, pocketed with hillocks of heather and rocky outcrops where scrawny sheep cropped the grass. They can’t find much to eat up here, poor beasts, Sam thought to himself. At the sound of hoof beats, the sheep stopped scavenging and turned their heads in frozen surprise. Then, crying out in alarm, they tore up the rocky slopes in desperate haste, their thin legs trembling and wild as they fled into the white veil of mist. Bill neighed wearily and Sam urged him on a few steps further to where the rocks had formed a hollow in the side of the hill. The turf grew thick and bushy on the ground and the rock walls kept the sharp cold winds at bay. "Good boy, good boy," Sam said. "Come now, master, let’s get you down from there before you catch your death."
Carefully, Sam caught Frodo up in his arms and lowered them both to the ground. Bill whinnied wearily and staggered across to where the water was spilling down from the high places to drink from the icy seam. Sam carried Frodo to the hollow and, after feeling the ground firmly with his feet to check for dampness, he laid him down and wrapped his cloak tightly about his body. Kneeling over him, he tenderly brushed Frodo’s curls back from his face and stroked his cold cheeks. Frowning, he unclasped his own cloak and pulled it off. Although the night struck chill through his woollen shirt, he threw it over his master and tucked it securely around him. After making certain that Frodo was safely swaddled, he called Bill to him once more. Bill looked up, water droplets hanging on his chin. Sam called his name again, and Bill shook his head and trotted reluctantly across the heath. Sam stroked and praised him as he unlaced the heavy packs from his flanks. When he had pulled them to the ground, he settled Bill under the shelter of the rocks, and handed him a handful of feed from a pocket in one of the packs. Bill munched gratefully and then settled himself down to rest, his breath white and hot in the darkness. "Thank you," Sam murmured as he retreated back to tend to Frodo.
Sam laid the packs close against where they had made their shelter. They offered small protection from the cold but he found, after long search, a large blanket that would serve to warm them this night. There was no time to make a fire and no tinder dry enough to catch, so Sam threw the blanket on the ground and spread it wide. Then he lifted Frodo once more and laid him down upon it, wrapping it over and around until no chill could creep in and steal his warmth away. What little there was left to steal. He rummaged in the pack and found some dry biscuit and fruit which he ate slowly and methodically, taking little pleasure from the food but knowing how important it was to sustain your body at these times. When Frodo woke he would urge him to eat too, but for now he would let him sleep and that was probably best for him. Even the three-mile journey from the white towers had made Frodo grow weary and chill, then sleep had taken him and it was all Sam had been able to do to stop him slipping to the ground. As he looked down at him, a tender love blossomed in his heart and sent straining shoots of terrible devotion trembling through every vein. Sometimes it seemed that his love was almost an agony.
Shivering, he opened the blanket and laid himself down, pressing his body close against Frodo’s and drawing the warmth around them both, tight and secure. His master was breathing low and sweet against his cheek and he gathered up and eased him into his embrace. Frodo stirred a little, mumbling something in his sleep. Sam thought that it might be a fragment of elvish, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think anymore, he’d done enough of that over the last few dreadful days. Now all he wanted was to hold his beloved Frodo and feel his presence bright as the desire that burned in his soul. He laid his hand over Frodo’s and grasped it tightly. Frodo’s eyes flickered and half-opened, the blue gaze beneath shadowy and lost as if it didn’t recognise Sam at all.
"Don’t you know me, Frodo?" he said, softly, stroking along his master’s cheek.
Frodo blinked twice and then fell back with a sigh, turning his face into Sam’s chest, close against the heavy pounding of his heart.
"I’m here. I’m not going to let you go." Sam rocked Frodo slowly like a child who has woken from a nightmare, watching the flickering of his eyes and the movement of his restless lips. He wanted to stay awake, to keep watch, but eventually the soothing rhythmic motion lulled him also into slumber and he soon fell into a sleep from which he felt sure he might never wake. Once more, somehow, it seemed like the ending of the world.
Frodo woke with a start and sat up, his eyes wide and wildly searching, panting into the dark and calling for Sam.
"It’s alright, I’m here. I’m here…" Sam woke at once and sat up beside Frodo, squinting at him through the shadows, which seemed slow to reveal their catch. "What is it, love?" he said, laying his arm around Frodo’s fragile shoulders. Frodo jumped a little at Sam’s touch and turned to stare at him as if in disbelief. "It’s me, it’s your Sam, come here, it’s all right," he murmured, easing Frodo into his arms once more and down beneath the shelter of the rocks. "It’s cold out there. Here, stay under this blanket. You must keep warm, you’re chilled to the bone."
Frodo sat rigid in Sam’s embrace, staring out into the darkness and breathing heavy and hard. "I saw it, Sam… the Undying Lands, the glory of Eressëa as it fell away from the sea. I dreamed of the elves on the harbour quay, watching and waiting, singing of welcome. But when the white ship came, their faces broke like glass and the song plummeted into grief. Gandalf was there. He told them that I had chosen the shadowed path and that he could see me no more. Then he raised his voice in the song and it spoke to me of guilt and sorrow and pain that has no resolution. The isle was so beautiful." Frodo stared as still as a block of stone.
"Well there’s no sense in that, Frodo, you’ve not chosen the shadowed path, you’ve chosen to walk a path you know to be safe." Sam stroked Frodo’s back gently, in rhythmic circles. "There is no safer way. It is still what you want, isn’t it, my love?"
Frodo nodded. "It is my choice," he said.
"You know that if you had chosen to board that ship, I would have let you go? You know that, don’t you?" Sam said.
"Yes, I know that. I made my choice and now that choice is over. It’s gone. It’s just, I didn’t expect to feel so changed."
"What do you mean, love?" Sam drew Frodo’s hesitant head down onto his shoulder and stroked the soft windblown curls with deep reverence.
"I felt the ship breaking the veil. I heard the sigh and the crack as it passed out of all knowledge. I felt the loss of Gandalf like a hole punched through my breast. Where there was comfort and guidance now lies emptiness and aching." Frodo paused and his hands moved to his breast. "I take comfort in the Queen’s jewel – her wisdom eases me."
"Oh, Frodo…" Sam grasped the curls tightly in his hand and rubbed his face into the smell of the salt wind.
"I feel the sea calling to me still. It is restless and unfulfilled. It longs to take me even now I am far away, it calls, yearning…"
Sam closed his eyes against the tears. "If it hadn’t been the sea yearning and breaking its heart, it would have been us and wouldn’t that have been worse?"
"It pounds against my heart!" Frodo cried out and buried his head against Sam once more, his breast heaving with terrible sobs.
"It’s alright, my love, it’s alright." Sam spoke softly and sang gentle childhood lullabies whilst his beloved succumbed to the grief that besieged him. Sam tried not to feel anger, but all his body and soul was secretly railing against the tyranny of fate. He could hear Gandalf’s voice, "What is meant to be, is meant to be, there is no turning it."
But what if you meddled with fate? What if you refused the gifts of the Ainur - would they ever allow him peace in this life before he travelled to the next? If only Gandalf were here. But Frodo had felt him pass beyond his sight and there would be no more words of wisdom.
"Come and lie down, my love, its late and we’ve travelled a long way," he said and settled Frodo once more upon the blanket. "There, that’s it, rest your head. In the morning we’ll talk about what’s to be done, but for now I’ll hold you through this long night and we’ll find the end of it together."
Frodo quieted and let the last of his tears run and splash onto Sam’s leather jerkin, which felt warm against his cheek and smelled comfortingly of pipe weed. Bag End…Home…
Sam knew that Frodo was dreaming of the sea. His body swayed as if with the movement of the waves and sometimes he would cry out joyfully at the sight of something miraculous and vivid. He looked pale, the star gem hanging loosely around his neck seeming to throb through his translucent skin. There was no doubting he was losing strength but Sam remained hopeful. Frodo had taken ill before and Sam and Rosie had nursed him back to health. Usually, the sickness came at marked times of the year, the anniversaries of great troubles, of blade, of sting, of fire. Sam would sit upon the bed and watch over him while he slept fitfully, calling to mind his own dark memories, walking through them alone and trembling in the gathering gloom. He had longed to climb into bed beside Frodo and curl up with him, so that they could tremble and weep together, but Rosie wouldn’t have understood. So he had sat and watched and waited, treading the dark remembered paths alone, knowing in his heart that if he hadn’t selfishly wed, he might have been free to heal Frodo’s wounds with the strength of his love. But it had seemed too late for that.
Perhaps, even now, it was all too late. The rains had come. It began at once heavy and insistent, thundering down on the rocks above their heads and dripping into the grass. Bill wandered to the hollow to take shelter and Sam tried to fix the blankets and cloaks over their heads to form a tent, but they offered little protection.

“It’s raining.” Frodo opened his eyes and huddled up against the rock. “I can taste the sea.”

Sam nodded but couldn’t speak.

“Will you hold me?” said Frodo, his eyes wide open and vulnerable.

Sam took him into his arms at once and clasped his thin body tightly, holding the dark head in his hand as it pressed against his neck, cool and damp. Frodo felt so light it made Sam weep as he trembled in Sam’s arms like a fragile leaf.

“I love you, Sam,” said Frodo, softly, his voice nearly lost beneath the thundering of the rain.


To be continued...