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