HAPPY BIRTHDAY PEARL!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR pearlette I hope you're having a wonderful time in Norfolk and I trust it's not blowing a gale like it is here. I have visions of you all being swept off to sea. Here's hoping there's some slick curled mermen ready to toss you back to land ... or whip you off to their undersea castles ... whichever you'd prefer... ;)

FIC: Chapter Three - As The Crow Flies

FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Three - As The Crow Flies AUTHOR: IgrainePAIRING: F/S F/OCRATING: NC-17 - This part is boringly PG-13DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Tolkien. I borrow them because I love them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories. I'm so glad I've finished this - the name thing has been driving me crazy this week! I've also had to make the difficult decision to shift to Frodo's pov from time to time in this and subsequent chapters.So here we go ... in this chapter, Frodo has plenty of time to himself to reflect on the previous night's revelations and is taken by surprise by some late night company he wasn't expecting.I really hope you enjoy! Chapter Three – As the Crow FliesFrodo was running, running so fast he could feel the power of the air striking his face, roaring in his ears, tearing at his throat, making him want to scream and yell and choke. It was wonderful…and in his hands, soft and slippery with wet earth were the pale white wonders themselves, so many that they tumbled to the ground like marbles. He hadn’t time to pick them up – no, he must leap the far hedge fast – the dogs were mad with the chase – larger than he remembered – always a surprise – how fast they caught the trail. He could hear the shouts of his friends, leaning over the hedge, holding out their hands, urging him on, calling … “Frodo! Frodo! Hurry!” He could outrun them all, by sheer force of will and the joy of the chase that sent him flying, fleeing, jumping the hedge. Oh, the thrill, the running, the danger! Always lurking on the borders of all that was civilised and safe.Frodo looked down at what he had drawn – a maze of concentric circles winding one into the other, claustrophobic on the cream paper, flat, square and formal with his address printed in the left hand corner. He took it in his hand and screwed it up - watching the crumpled folds trying to open once again. He sat up, stretched and yawned, looking up at the clock on the mantel piece absently, as if he hadn’t looked there a thousand times already during the past hour. The hand slid slowly across the number six, bringing in its wake, a shiver of disquiet. Frodo took several slow turns around the room, like a partner-less dancer in some kind of reel, moving in and out of the patterns of firelight, watching where his feet trod, avoiding the shadows, moving only in the light spaces on the patterned rug, side stepping the green. When he had driven himself to distraction – he threw another log onto the fire and left the room and its infernal ticking silence.Blast! But he was cold. He had been working through some dry documents concerning land rights and property, trying to stifle his mind into submission, like cramming down dry toast. But his pen had stilled and left an opening – letting in those thoughts he had been holding at bay. Once through they gleefully flooded his mind and drained him utterly. He hadn’t even moved to tend the fire or make his own dinner. Sam isn’t here. Sam hasn’t come.He wandered into the kitchen - the fire had burned low and the room was dark and cold. Frodo bent to open the stove and pushed in several more cherry logs. They sizzled and snapped into life as he sat, crouched, thawing his fingers and rubbing them back to life. It was in moments like these that he felt the weight of the old place. He sensed the darkness of the empty rooms stretching out one into the other, down the passage and under his feet, in cellars and larders, all unoccupied and empty – little dark places. And encompassing all was the silence. So intense, it burned his ears, heightening his senses until they were keen enough to hear the settling snow on the hilltop, weighting him further down into the smial. His home. The kettle wailed and he made a pot of tea. After a quick forage in the pantry, he found a tin of gingerbread that Sam had made two days previously, still moist with all the black treacle he had spooned in. Frodo had watched him slyly licking the spoon when he had thought Frodo wasn’t looking. Sam wasn’t very good at deviousness – unlike Frodo – he was an open book. When he was guilty, his eyes told the tale and when he was sad – it was in the droop of his mouth and when he was happy … well it shone from him and couldn’t be misunderstood. Frodo stirred honey into his tea. Too much, it would be cloying but it didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t taste it, his thoughts were running too fast. He took some gingerbread and broke it in half between his fingers, crumbling it, rich and dark and spiced. What was I thinking? Had I been thinking at all? No, not really - just feeling, sensing, enjoying, playing games. But I wasn’t alone. I shared with Sam. I touched Sam! Sam was complicit in it – the danger, the thrill – the chase. And afterwards, he walked away innocent and I was left undone. My body aches to see him again – to see him in the light of this – of what we have awoken. Will he be the same? Will he speak of it – want to play again? And if we do, can I bear it? Can I face the emptiness and the long, silent hours? Wouldn’t it be better to forget? Keep Sam safe – keep him innocent.Fingers clasped each other around the belly of the mug, warm and trembling. A small heap of crumbs lay beside his elbow. He used to sit with Bilbo in the evenings – a book between them – their eyes straying from tea to text – unravelling sentences piece by piece until late into the night, when their concentration would slacken and both would begin to yawn.“Bed beckons!” Bilbo would say, standing up and patting his waistcoat with a smile. Frodo would rub his eyes and close the book, bidding his uncle good night. He would go to his bed, but his mind would not still. He would lie, restlessly shifting through the vivid images that paraded through his mind, tossing and turning until he had to press his face into his pillow to make it all stop. There was always too much to quieten and nowhere for it all to go. Often he would resort to the comfort of his own hand, a quick release and a slow breath – drawn out, shaking the darkness. Sweet, yet forbidden - the love that would find no other release. It could not – would not be expressed - except as play; a tumble in the grass, a mud fight, a rough game of chase in the roaring woods of his youth – running against the legs of another lad – pulling him to the ground – his heart pounding. Guilt raked his fingernails along his teeth, biting and pulling, until he could feel the nip of pain that sent tremors along his spine. Sam is like a flower, so easy and willing to open under my hand. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s rolling in the grass, he’s grinning like a lad who’s smudged his nose in the ball field or risen from the river soaked to the skin. He has no idea. And afterwards, I couldn’t even look him in the eye because I didn’t want him to notice how I was trembling. I didn’t want him to see what his touch had stirred in me. Frodo’s skin shivered with sensation at the remembrance of what had been the finest hour of his life. He stood up and drained his mug in the sink, honey still clinging to the bottom in a glistening pool. The moment has passed. Now it might as well be encased in glass – for it could never be retrieved. ~~~~~The walk up the hill seemed the longest of Sam’s life and as he lead the four hobbits through the swinging gate – he felt a shadow passing over his soul and had to stop for a moment to catch his breath and settle the agitated beating of his heart. The hour was growing late and from the smial there were no visible signs of life – only a thin trail of smoke drifted from the chimney and no lamps were lit in the hall. Sam berated himself silently, resentfully - he should have been there to clear away the snow, light the fires and cook his master’s meal, but instead he was bringing strangers to Frodo’s door. He turned and watched them walking up to the bend in the road, like a flock of ravens, bearing their burden between them as it were a sheaf of harvest wheat brought home as an offering. Their faces were grave and unreadable and they spoke only in whispers and only to each other.Sam hadn’t even managed to discover their names. He walked on ahead, shovelling where the snow was deepest, hoping that he might have a moment alone to explain to Frodo why he had sent them here. He cleared the drift away from the doorstep, noting how it was untouched since the previous night, and steeled himself to knock. But as he stood at the front door, the knocker raised in his hand, he felt uncertain. Sam had trusted Mari. Mari always seemed to know the right way to go about things and a combination of her practical mind and no nonsense pig headedness had sent Sam straight back to his guests with the news that Mr Baggins of Bag End would be the best person to approach - as he had room to spare and water on tap. As the knocker fell heavily against the wood, the words seemed to echo ominously in his mind as though they were in some way a betrayal. The knocker fell for the second time and Sam could sense the sound falling dead in the quiet air of the hallway. Sam’s mind wandered empty rooms and passages – seeking his master – calling to him – panicking for a moment, wondering if Frodo had frozen in his study and could not call for him, only wait for one who had not come – senseless to all things.But there came a soft muffled sound behind the door and the little round window was suddenly illuminated with light. Sam took a step back and drew in a breath. This is the first time I have looked at those lips and known the taste of them. How will I be able to look and not think of that? There was a soft click as the door was unlatched and Sam’s breath drifted out of him in a soft “o”. Frodo stood in the open doorway with an oil lamp raised in one hand. He was dressed casually in dark blue breeches and a cream shirt that seemed to have been hastily donned, for its tails flapped free of his waistband and some of the buttons were done up awry. His curls looked tangled and mussed and his eyes bleary and blinking into the darkness. “Sam?” Frodo stepped back into the hall to let Sam pass through. He looked startled as Sam strode purposefully into the smial, shaking the snow from his feet hurriedly before stepping onto the rug. “It’s late…” Frodo stammered, looking down at his hands.“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, sir. I know it must be getting late and you ready for bed, an’ all…” he tried not to stare at the creamy skin exposed between the folds of Frodo’s shirt and blushed as he stammered for the words he so eagerly sought. “It’s just that there’s been an accident on the Water. A lad’s injured – he fell through the ice and he’s hurt – taken a chill and scared hi’self half to death. I took him home but my da’s not well and Mari she said ‘why not ask Mr Frodo if he would take him in?’ just for the night, you understand, no longer than that and I thought…”But time had run out. Frodo’s eyes drifted from Sam’s anxious face to the doorway, where four dark figures were waiting, their forms blocking out the brightness of the moon. “Oh…” Frodo’s eyes widened and he looked from Sam to the door in astonishment. Then suddenly, out of the concealing dark, one of the hobbits moved forwards onto the doorstep, where his face was illuminated. He wore a black hat and he took it from his head respectfully as he nodded before Frodo and lowered his eyes. “Sorry to disturb you on such a night as this,” he said, his voice low and lilting. Frodo stared. “Will you come in?” Frodo replied, his voice sounding thin and uncertain. “I’m afraid it’s not much warmer in here, but I’m sure Sam will soon remedy that.” Frodo turned to Sam and laid a hand lightly on his shoulder, for re-assurance it seemed to Sam, as much as affirmation. Sam nodded and gave Frodo a warm smile, delighting in the brief, sweet touch that made Sam’s head swim with a flood of beautiful memory. “Please – do come in,” Frodo urged, stepping back to allow room for the strangers to enter. They looked uncomfortable as they stood upon the hall rug and unclasped their cloaks, exchanging furtive glances. “Where shall we lay him down?” the hobbit replied as they carried the patient into the passage, now cosily lit with lamps burning brightly from their sconces. He looked older than the other three - his body broader and his face showing signs of age in the creases around his eyes and mouth but still he retained a fierce beauty, which was echoed in the faces of his companions. “I think the parlour would be best,” Frodo said, guiding them along the passage, “and I’ll ask Sam to make up a bed in one of the guest rooms. The couch is comfortable and there’s a small fire – it only needs a little kindling. I’ll fetch blankets and pillows – bring him through.” They followed Frodo into the parlour and Sam watched for a moment from the doorway as they laid the lad down on the couch and covered him with a cloak. Then he turned and hurried away down the passage to fetch the wood, anxious to be as quick as he possibly could – he didn’t want to leave Frodo alone for longer than was needful. “Sam?” Sam straightened up, a load of firewood slipping in his arms. “Yes, Mr Frodo?” he said, alarmed and all at once alert at the sight of Frodo’s eyes wide with concern.“Will you run for the healer? I know it’s late, but the lad seems to be delirious and he has no warmth in his skin.”Sam dropped the wood back into the basket and began to fasten his cloak. “Perhaps I should ‘a let him be, the cold can’t have helped, I’m sure…”“Don’t Sam – you’ve done a fine job bringing him here. Just hurry … please.” Frodo looked pale and drawn and Sam felt such a rush of love that he had to restrain himself from taking Frodo into his arms then and there and gentling him with kisses. He turned back at the entrance to the hall. “You’ll be all right, Mr Frodo?” he said, reluctant to leave.“Of course, Sam. Be as quick as you can.”Sam nodded and smiled briefly, despite his fears. “I will, Sir. I shan’t be long!” Frodo returned the smile and then bent to the retrieve the firewood from the basket, stacking it into his arms so high he had to rest his chin on the top of it to keep it steady. Sam watched for a moment in admiration before dashing off down the passage and out of the front door, bracing his body against the icy blast as the night enveloped him and shut out the warmth of the smial. ~~~~~~ Frodo entered the parlour feeling uneasy. The strangers seemed to fill the small parlour, looking about themselves at the fine paintings on the walls and the little collection of mathoms that sat upon the mantel piece and along the numerous bookshelves, keeping company with finely bound volumes of poetry. They were talking together, two hobbits who looked close as twins and an older one – their voices quick and soft and difficult to discern despite the quietness of the smial. Frodo carried the wood over to the fire and piled it on top, noting how the voices had hushed and settled to soft noises of agreement as he rose and dusted off his hands on the seat of his breeches.“May I introduce myself?” Frodo said, offering his hand as a way of breaking the ice. “Frodo Baggins, ain’t it?” The older man took the proffered hand and clasped it within his own great palms, Frodo’s fine bones cracking a little in the fierce grip. “That’s right,” Frodo said, wincing slightly. The hobbit didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let him go. “And you?” Frodo probed. The hobbit looked back at his companions who were still lingering beside the bookshelves, trailing curious fingers along the gilt bindings. They smiled crookedly, baring uneven teeth. “Our name is Yarrow. I’m Kern – that there’s Sol and Carr and him over there,” he nodded towards the huddled figure on the couch, “that there is Asher.” Frodo turned and looked down at the lad, whose face he had not yet managed to discern, entangled as it was with blankets and straggling locks of ink black hair. He lay so still – surely it couldn’t be right that he should be so still? Frodo crouched down beside the couch and searched for the face yet veiled from view. He raised a hand to stroke away the web of dark hair. “Don’t touch ‘im.” Frodo looked up in surprise, his hand still slightly raised. The older hobbit shook his head slowly, his dark eyes twinkling. Sol and Carr laughed under their breath and moved closer to the fireside, drawn in by the warmth. Frodo moved away, shivering a little despite the blazing fire. Individually these hobbits would be dangerous enough, but as a group they were formidable. Kern turned to the corner table and eyed the decanter set upon it – filled with a dark plum brandy. “Would you like a drink?” Frodo asked, nervous and yet deeply intrigued, watching every move they made, wondering if he might come a little closer, find out a little more.“Aye – that would be most pleasant, thank you Mr Baggins,” Kern replied, with a mirthless smile upon his face, watching Frodo’s back as he bent to retrieve the glasses from the cupboard beneath. “I’m sorry, I should have offered. I’m afraid I’ve not been the proper host this evening, you’ve caught me rather off guard, you see and of course, I’ve been concerned about your friend – ”“Brother.”“I’m sorry?” Frodo stammered, feeling foolish as the glasses clinked together in his trembling hands.“He’s our brother,” Kern replied. Frodo poured the dark sweet liquid into four glasses. “Are you all brothers?” he inquired, balancing the glasses in his hands and carrying them across to the hearthside.“You’re a very curious fellow, Mr Baggins.” Kern took a glass and downed the contents in one gulp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…” Sol and Carr took theirs silently, smirking and looking him up and down in such a way that Frodo began to feel uncomfortable. “You may pry – you may pry. It’s our good fortune we found you and your …who is that fellow?”“Sam?”“Aye – Samwise – is he your?…”“Gardener,” Frodo said, whilst sipping at the burning brandy.“Gardener.” Kern agreed, holding out his glass. Frodo took it and refilled it once more. “Many thanks.” Kern swigged it back and sighed heavily. “Ahhh! That’s better,” he said. “More than ready to face what may meet us on the road – there are strange things on the byways these days, Mr Baggins. You have to be prepared – prepared for the worst.”“You’re leaving?” Frodo said, in surprise and alarm. “But you can’t move him – not with him like this! I’ve sent for the healer, she’ll be here any minute, surely you can wait a little longer?”“Time and tide waits for no-one,” he said, clapping his great hands together and fixing Frodo with a sharp black eye. “He’s in your charge. I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Remember that? Aye – I’m trusting you.”Frodo shook his head. “He can’t stay here.”Kern raised a heavy dark brow. “We’ll be back in two weeks time with the wagons.”“Where are you going?” Frodo asked, anxiety creasing his brow and bringing his nails up to his mouth. Kern walked up to him, shadowing him with his great height and pulled Frodo’s hand slowly down within his own, which was warm and steady and strong, where Frodo’s felt cold and weak. “A nasty habit,” Kern said quietly, shaking his head. Frodo took a step backwards and waited for them to leave, his heart thudding in his ears. “We will be passing through, Mr Baggins, straight as the crow flies. We’ll take ‘im then.”“I will take care of him.” Frodo resolved, trying to hold onto his dignity, even as his knees weakened with fear. “You will.” Kern agreed, winking at his brothers to follow. “We’ll be seeing you ‘fore Yule – ‘til then - good health to you, sir!”Frodo nodded his head, his feet rooted to the spot as he watched the three brothers walking out of the room, noting as they went everything that shone or glistened gold or silver in the firelight. When he heard the soft click of the latch, Frodo collapsed onto the rug beside the couch, trembling and holding his head in his hands. Eventually he gathered himself enough to recall the other who remained, breathing so softly he hardly seemed present. Frodo regarded him with exhausted half- shuttered eyes, laying his head upon the couch and raising his hand, watching it move lazily as if of its own volition. Touching the hot skin he flinched a little but allowed his fingers to gently pull the blanket away from the lad’s face and peel back the thick curtain of curling hair. Frodo’s fingers froze and the breath stopped dead in his throat, closing it in a soft choke. The hobbit that lay before him was as beautiful as an elf. The firelight playing over the strong jaw, the high curving cheekbones and delicate almond shaped eyes - embroidered with gold, skin that would shine brown beneath the sun. Frodo’s hand trembled and he tried to draw away but found himself entranced and unable to move. Fascinated and appalled with himself, he passed light fingers over the soft cheek and felt his heart lurching with excitement. He looked young, just out of his tweens, it appeared, and yet there was a mysteriousness that enveloped him – a presence such as pervades a place of great antiquity. This is some kind of sign, Frodo thought to himself, his hand straying to stroke back the wild curls. This is the way I must go – my destiny has fallen at my feet. Even as the words fell into his mind, his heart protested, yearning for the warmth and security of his beloved Sam. “I’m trusting you, Mr Baggins. Aye – remember that. I’m trusting you.” But could he trust himself? TBC...

FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Two - Black Ice

Here you go - finished on time! I hope you enjoy part two - there's hotness, snow and a little angsting. More to follow, soon! :)FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Two - Black IceAUTHOR: IgrainePAIRING: F/S F/OCRATING: NC-17 - this part is mild R (sorry folks, you'll have to be patient!)TIMELINE: Pre-quest.SUMMARY: Frodo is drawn onto a dangerous path but can Sam protect what isn't his?DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Tolkien. I merely borrow them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories.Chapter Two – Black IceIf Sam had possessed the power to stop time – he would have chosen that moment and frozen it – so that he might look at it again and again, reliving and reviving. Frodo pressed so close against him, he could feel the sharp bones of his shoulder digging into his skin, through the fabric of his shirt. Sam’s heart thudded and his eyes dared not stray from their fixed point – the carved rose in the ceiling, burgeoning and blossoming, entwined by thorns. When he breathed in, shallow and shuddering, he breathed in his Frodo – the sweet skin beneath the dusty cotton, the ink and leather stained fingers, the winter herbs with their powerful fragrances still lingering on his lips and his tongue. All of this and more that could not be caught. Frodo laughed lightly, his foot still curled around Sam’s calf, stroking in a slow, leisurely manner. “It’s all right, Sam, you needn’t look so frightened – I won’t tell.” Sam dragged his eyes away from the flickering shadowed rose, golden and shining, awakening in the darkness, like the promise of love - and he looked at Frodo and saw lightness and laughter shining within bright, eager eyes. There was no terror there, no tenuous flame – only amusement and a little nervous anticipation. “Well?” he said, stroking Sam slowly with his toe, seeming amused by Sam’s discomfiture.Sam shuffled a little more upright and turned his head to the window, where the snow had already begun to settle and two inches of darkness covered the bottom of the glass. He spoke quietly, his voice half shaken. “Once, when everyone was asleep, I walked naked in the snow.” He knew what this meant. He knew the decision he was making and the seal he had put on it by his choice of revelation. He was setting out on a dangerous and forbidden path, one from which he might never return. His eyes fell to his lap, where the evidence of his desire swelled the front panel of his breeches, his hands ineffectually trying to hide and disguise, but only drawing Frodo’s eyes down. “Wasn’t it cold?” Frodo asked quietly, the smooth strokes of his toes slowing a little.“Yes, it was freezing, my fingers turned blue.”“But you knew that, of course, you just wanted to feel how it felt.”Sam nodded and twisted his hands awkwardly, heat rising and falling as if the hearth was inside him and all the light and burning in the room emanated from him. Frodo was silent for a while, all movement ceased and stilled. Frodo was unreadable sometimes, and Sam loved him for his thoughtfulness, but now it was troubling. “Was it worth it – was it good?” Frodo asked, turning his gaze full upon him, flaring the love in Sam, catching it bright and leaping.Sam opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes were fixed on Frodo’s full, curving mouth, so like a flower opening and closing. He longed to run his tongue along the measure of it until it closed around him and welcomed him within. “Was it good?” Frodo repeated, watching Sam intently.“It was cold,” he replied, tilting his head, drawn in. Frodo’s eyes flickered closed and the breath he exhaled shuddered across Sam’s mouth as it rested over his. Frodo twisted his body so that he lay half across Sam’s lap, his arms rising up to tangle in the curls that grew soft in the nape of Sam’s neck.Sam was drowning, his eyes shut tight, as their tongues moved together in a slow rhythm, deeper and deeper. Sam moaned and Frodo tightened his grip, moving his knees to either side of Sam’s sturdy hips, and pulling him closer. Sam’s body pressed up instinctively and Frodo rubbed his hips slowly, up and down. Sam could taste the ale and the rosemary in Frodo’s mouth and he knew that Frodo would taste the same in his. Only when the kiss finally softened to light sucks and bites and Frodo tried to draw away a little, holding Sam’s face between his hands, did Sam remember to breathe. He raised a hand and touched his fingers against Frodo’s swollen lips, pink and half parted. Frodo closed his eyes, dark lashes fanning over pale skin, and slid Sam’s finger inside his mouth, sucking tightly, until both cheeks were hollows of darkness. Sam gasped and his other hand raked through Frodo’s silken hair, grasping and smoothing restlessly. When Frodo released the finger, pushing it out with the tip of his tongue, he sighed deeply and fell against Sam, his face pressed into his chest, right where Sam’s heart was hammering. Sam embraced Frodo with a burning possessiveness and waited, feeling the hope inside him stretching as thin and perilous as a tightrope. Once he had stood at the mantel piece in his work clothes, holding the hourglass, and hoping the last grain of sand might leap up and begin the hour all over again. Wanting the time to belong to him only so he might follow the urges of his heart. That was what made him take off all his clothes and walk in the snow. The silence of the night and the dead of winter, with no one to dictate, only him, making his own choices. “Frodo…” he whispered, more a breath than real words spoken, his mouth seeking, hands travelling down Frodo’s back, cupping and cradling. Frodo moaned softly from deep within his throat, and suddenly his hips began to move in quick, startled thrusts, hardness grinding repeatedly against Sam’s own sensitive flesh. Sam gasped at the sudden burning pleasure that trod so close to pain. He gripped his fingers tightly around fragile shoulders, his mouth moving on pale, cool skin that tasted so good, he wanted to devour it. Sam moaned aloud, his tongue moving in restless circles upon what he could reach, the soft white skin which the curls had laid bare on Frodo’s neck, a place untouched by the sun and soft as a babe. He grasped Frodo’s hips and urged him on, despite the agony of the cloth chafing between them, cruel and insensitive. He longed to feel Frodo’s skin against his own, but he could do nothing but bite down blindly as the orgasm took him too soon and Frodo sobbed, loud in the quiet room and sagged against him once more, breathing heavily. Frodo sat up and brushed the hair out of heavy lidded eyes, his breathing ragged and his cheeks flushed. Sam wanted to speak. He wanted to raise his hand and pull Frodo back into a lover’s kiss, but he did neither – only lolled against the settee, his legs splayed on the rug like an unstrung marionette - watching, dumbstruck and amazed. He raised his eyes as Frodo staggered to his feet, lurching a little and holding onto the mantel piece for support, his eyes drawn to the flames. The sand had drained to the bottom of the glass. There was a sparkling garden within it now – glittering silver like a frosty night. But the time was done and Sam would go home. He stood, his legs trembling beneath him. He waited until there seemed no more sense in waiting. “Same time tomorrow then, sir?” he said, uncomfortably aware of his sodden and crumpled breeches.Frodo didn’t move. “Five o’clock,” he said softly, “in your own time.”“Aye,” Sam sighed, looking around for his coat and hat. “In the kitchen,” Frodo offered, still as a statue, his profile bathed in gold. “Right then,” Sam mumbled, “Night, sir.”“Sleep well, Sam.”Sam inclined his head and left the room. Wandering into the dark kitchen, he found his discarded hat and coat and pulled them on, his body still throbbing as he pushed open the door and latched it from the inside. The icy air struck him and scorched his warm cheeks as he strode out into the bright, new world laid out before him, still and pensive, awaiting the tread of his feet and the bloom of his hot breath on the unbroken air. If only he had turned back then – spoken to Frodo one word of love. But he was entranced and drunk, walking out into the white world thinking himself blessed, blissfully unaware that the fragile thread of his dream was already breaking in the warm room he had abandoned. ~~~Sam was woken early the next morning, dragged from a dreamless sleep that weighted him so deeply, it was difficult to rise, despite the Gaffer’s hard words and insistent barking cough that rent the air.“Mari – fetch the bucket!” Daisy shouted from the kitchen.“Get up, you slug-a-bed – you’d be sleeping whilst other folk’s are freezing from the cold.” Sam felt a cold splash of water on his cheek and he sleepily brushed it off with the back of his hand, frowning. “Samwise Gamgee – you should be ‘shamed of yourself!” Another cold splash and a trickle raced down his neck, bringing him round to cold consciousness and a pounding head. “Drinking on a work night, dad’s in a thunder, Sam. I’d be on my feet if I were you.”Sam dragged his body from the bed and he felt a net of butterflies rising in his stomach. Another splash of water. “All right, all right,” he grumbled, “You can put the bucket down now, Mari, I’m up.”Mari smiled and shook her head, looking too bright for such a dark and early hour on a cold morning, but she put the bucket down. “The ice has froze the water, Sam and half of Hobbiton needs digging out.”Sam shivered in the cold room and pulled on a woollen shirt from the chest at the foot of his bed. Then he found an overcoat of soft green fleece and the hat made by his mother’s hands and put them on also. On his way through the kitchen, he grabbed a hunk of bread and a mug of strong tea, which he consumed standing. He downed the tea in three long gulps, which seared his throat and swallowed down his bread without tasting it.“I’ll be off then, dad,” he said, bracing himself against the icy air that drifted in through the doorframe. “You’ll be going nowhere without a good breakfast inside of you!” Mari said firmly, ladling thick porridge into four wooden bowls. “Where you off to in such a rush, anyway?” His dad raised his grey eyes from the mug of tea he was stirring sugar into and fixed his son with a stare. “Bag End – where else?” Mari said, passing the bowls around the table and giving Sam a sly and amused glance. “Well Mr Frodo ain’t the only hobbit we should be serving today, Sam,” his dad continued. “There’s plenty more in need of a strong hand. Bag End will do well enough, there’s water on tap there and storerooms stocked up to the roof – himself won’t freeze nor starve.” He started scooping porridge into his mouth, grey it looked and unappetising. “Eat.” He indicated the empty chair and, for Sam, the world suddenly condensed back into orders and commands, subservience and duty, his dad would brook no arguments in his home. Sam sank into the empty chair and began to eat. ~~~The fierce cold bit into Sam’s hands, even through the thick leather gloves he wore, lifting the snow away from the Widow’s door, block by block, the whiteness blinding him as he blinked in the stark light. The sun, having reached its full height now began to fall in the pale red sky. The black snow clouds were re-gathering their strength and still there was so much snow to clear, Sam was beginning to despair. He had been left to finish the job – his dad’s cough having worsened during the morning. By lunch time he had been doubled over and shivering fit to jolt the teeth from his head – so Sam had sent him home and promised to finish the work himself, shovelling and scraping a path for the Widow to tread, from her front door to the road beyond. His dad had been reluctant to give in to what he saw as weakness, but Sam had managed to sound firm and competent enough to re-assure him and he had walked home without a second glance. The widow watched Sam’s progress from the window, all wrapped in spidery shawls, pointing at the snow as if she might dispel it with sheer impatience. Sam tried not to give in to the angry frustration that he felt churning inside and turned with another heap of snow loaded in the barrow, pushing it unsteadily down the icy little track he had cleared and piling it onto the drifted bank outside the garden wall. When he straightened, he clapped his hands to dislodge the snow from them and looked down the hill to the Water. Frozen overnight, it reflected the sky – red swallowing red – with skittering black shapes moving over it – small as ants – slowly sliding from one bank to the other. Sam shook his head; some have nowt better to do.A soft flake of snow settled on the tip of his nose as he watched a small black shape sliding across the ice on one foot, like a black crow circling an arc in a wintry sky. Halfway across, he lost his balance and fell - the ice creasing beneath him in a thousand tiny wrinkles - thin and dangerously close to breaking. Sam frowned, the water would be cold enough to still the blood and the ice was groaning audibly in the still air, it’s lilting sighs reaching Sam’s ears and sparking alarm. He started to walk down the hill, leaving his barrow on the path, still brushing snow from his hands, even as his feet began to run. More snowflakes were falling now, deceptively soft and whispering against his ears, cold searing his skin. What time is it? Will it soon be dark? Has the hour passed already? The voice in his head ran on as he closed the distance to the water, his feet skidding and sliding.He will be in the study now, listening to the time passing, feeling the cold stiffening of his fingers as they flex around his pen, drained of ink, a white mountain of papers at his elbow. The cold will be intensifying, the hearth grey and dead – waiting to be lit. As the snow clouds gather, the light will fade until he can hardly make out the words he writes, blinking and rubbing tired eyes, as if the fault is his own and not the snow that enfolds him, closing him in the smial alone. I will come to you, Frodo, soon, he promises. There are cries on the air, shouts and wails and confusion as the snowflakes fall thick and fast upon the drifted fields, over the ice, forming patterns like lace. “Hoy! Hoy there!” There were shouts even before Sam reached the bank. He ploughed on, grasping a rope from someone’s hands, bracing his feet on the slippery bank, calling out to grab, snow filling his mouth. The hobbits behind him were heaving with all their strength and the ice, hidden in a blizzard, creaked, snapped and groaned, broken plates moving and sliding down, opening into blackness and oblivion. A crowd had gathered on the bank – gawping and gasping – as if this were some great entertainment put on for their amusement and the hobbit in the water, perfecting a conjuring trick, as he emerged from the ice, blue and dripping – his body a crumpled, stiff doll lying on the snowbank. A matron ran forwards, her arms full of blankets and wrapped the doll up tightly, tutting and shaking her head. Having done her duty, she shuffled away with the crowd, back to her warm smial, taking her daughter’s arm and walking, head down and whispering out of the corner of her mouth. Many more moved off; the spectacle over, all were anxious to return to their cosy firesides and a warm drink of cider to thaw the chill. Soon all that were left were Sam and those that had risked their lives upon the ice. The snow was easing off, the heavy flakes giving way to exhausted tiny fragments of wet ice that slivered down his neck and into his ears. Sam looked at his companions, observing them clearly for the first time. Two stood close together, muttering and watching the marks their footprints made in the snow, scuffing and dirtying the pristine white, their heads bowed close. They looked like brothers. The hair on the heads of these hobbits was as black as the ice at the bottom of the water and grew long and twisted about their necks. One of the hobbits had braided his in places with the brightly coloured rags his sisters sometimes used to create ringlets. But there was nothing feminine about the faces of these two strangers – they had black eyes and strong, fierce countenances, long full mouths and high, sharp cheeks. Their clothes were rough and mended, around their necks were brightly patterned scarves and on their feet - long boots that reached their knees. Sam stared openly at the boots, for it wasn’t often seen and affirmed Sam’s belief that these were travellers, passing through on their way to the Yule Fair at Michel Delving in two weeks time, probably hoping for a bit of work along the way to keep the wolf from the door. They were often seen passing through Hobbiton in the folds of the year – at Yuletide and Lithe. They were tolerated but not welcomed by the small minded folk who were always suspicious of those who kept different ways. But Sam had a more generous view – for he had worked with many, in the fields and orchards and found them to be, in the main, hardworking and generous as long as you minded their privacy. They were good storytellers too and fond of music. Sam had spent many a long evening beside them listening to the pipe or hearkening to the tales and had felt, within his soul, a kinship and acceptance that he had long been craving. When they moved on he would feel their loss and the world would seem quieter and duller – as if a single, bright colour had been drained from his life. He looked down at the hobbit crouching over his friend who lay shivering in his arms.“Can he walk, or shall I give you a hand carrying him back? My place is near; we’ll warm him up and give him some broth. He needs to be warmed up quick as possible – a bath would be best – except we haven’t the water – we’re heating up ice and it takes a long while to warm.” The hobbit raised his head, cool grey eyes meeting his in deep mistrust. “He can walk,” he said.~~~Together they managed to raise the shaking body to its feet and Sam bent his head to look into a face half shielded with black hair, waves of which clung to pale lips and half closed eyes the colour of shadow. They rolled upwards and pierced him, as if they were prying into his soul. Sam shivered and turned away. “Here, I’ll lift him from this side, you take the other arm,” he spoke quickly, briskly taking control, even as the strangers exchanged dark glances with each other and, regarding him with obvious suspicion, formed an impenetrable circle around their companion.“Do you want your friend to live?” he asked, and watched them share a second look before circling and lifting, one beneath the other arm, the other two hefting from behind, supporting and lifting the half drowned hobbit and carrying him up the road, striding over the icy ridges left by the scraping shovels. Sam slipped and gritted his teeth as he climbed, but the boots served the strangers well and they didn’t falter once upon the hill. They reached Number Three, still thankfully accessible from without. “Bring him through!” Sam urged. The others paused, lingering on the doorstep, sharing unsettled glances, urgent and meaningful as if they were communicating through thought. Bring him through, Sam had said. Bring him through. Bring him into the warm…They carried him into the small, cramped kitchen of Number Three. They were large for hobbits and seemed to fill the little space, as if there wasn’t room for them and their shadows that spilled across the homely table, set for dinner. Daisy was at the stove, stirring the evening meal in the pot. She paused as they entered; the wooden spoon half raised to her mouth, ready to taste. Her eyes widened and her mouth stilled, slightly open. “Here, Daisy, give us a hand!” Sam grunted, urging the others forwards and settling the trembling body into his Gaffer’s comfortable chair beside the fire – now roaring with fresh logs donated by the Cottons. Once he was set down – the hobbit’s head fell back and he seemed to fall into a swoon, cold convulsions making his full lips clench and then flex over and again. His cheeks were flushed and his dark eyes roved behind wet tendrils of curling hair. Despite his instinct to seek remedies and blankets, Sam stilled for a moment and stared. The hobbit looked young, younger than he had first thought and frailer than the other three, who were standing over him like black guardians, frowning and shuffling their booted feet on the wooden floor. Daisy stared, frowning down at their feet. “Sam?” she hissed, pulling him aside. “Sam? Why’ve you brought them here?” He grabbed Daisy by the shoulder and pulled her against the hearth, feeling his own unease stirring at the sight of his sister’s anxious eyes and wringing hands, twining within his own. “Sam! You’re half frozen, yourself. Here…” she ladled him some broth into a mug and passed it into his stiff, red hands. “What else could I do? Sit and watch a hobbit die beside the Water? Do nowt?”“You’re too good, Sam, you’ll get you’self into trouble one of these days…”Sam attempted a smile as he walked over to the group of hobbits huddled over the fire, their hands outstretched. He passed the mug to the hobbit in the chair, who had sat up a little and was leaning over towards the blaze, his face illuminated in all of its mysterious angles and planes. It was a young face, but a worldly one and Sam was as uneasy as he was enthralled. Sam offered him the mug and he reached out trembling hands to take it from him. After taking a deep sip, he looked up and rewarded Sam with a look – eye to eye. “Thanks,” he said, in an accent that Sam couldn’t place. The hobbit took two more sips, then his head fell back once more and he closed his eyes. “Sam?” Mari stood in the doorway to the bedrooms, her eyes starting from her head. “What?”The strangers turned to look and Sam moved forwards, pushing Mari back into the dark corridor that separated one bedroom from the other. “I found him in the Water, half drowned. They’d been walking on the ice,” he muttered, briefly, already wanting this to be over – wishing and regretting – his mind full of Frodo. “Walking on the ice – idiots! Well, they deserve all they get, if you ask me. Well, we can’t look after him here, Sam.”“Mari, be generous. They live in wagons - there’ll hardly be warmth enough there to keep him alive!” Mari shook her head and folded her arms, looking the image of his Ma. “Dad’s taken bad, we’ve enough to do with keeping him comfy. There’s no hot water – and no spare bed and – well – look at ‘em - really Sam, what were you thinking?”Sam shook his head. “So I shall turn them out, then? Have you been out, Mari? It’s freezing, there’s black ice on the roads.”Mari sighed deeply and took Sam by the scruffy curls on the top of his head, twisting and shaking gently. “The answer’s staring you in the face – numbskull!” Sam blinked and looked Mari in the eye as she gentled her hand and ran a light caress across his cheek. “Take him up the Hill,” she said.To be continued...

FIC: Hourglass - Chapter 1 - The Amazing Flying Donkey

This is the first chapter of my latest fic that I hope to post in chapter by chapter installments. I want to update regularly, but this will, of course, depend on me being disciplined - so don't hold me to that. But I have made a start and the plot bunnies are bouncing - so here goes with chapter one ... FIC: HourglassCHAPTER ONE : The Amazing Flying DonkeyAUTHOR: IgrainePAIRING: F/S F/OCRATING: NC-17 probably, but this part is PG-13SUMMARY: Frodo is drawn onto a dangerous path but can Sam hold on to what is out of his reach?DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I promise to return them unharmed. I make no money from these stories. The HourglassChapter One – The Amazing Flying DonkeyIt had started so slowly. Small interruptions, like rents in silk cloth, barely noticeable to those who didn’t look closely, and yet Sam saw it, a slow unravelling of his happiness. And then this afternoon, his duties in the kitchen done, he had walked to the study and knocking lightly, ritualistically, on the door, as he pushed it open, coming in for his five o’clock tea and talk with Frodo, he had stopped and stared. Over the cluttered desktop, still littered with letters and books, tenderly marked with the wilted sprays of lavender and jasmine that Sam brought with him and arranged in tiny, fragile vases, they were bent and coiled together. Frodo’s fingers were splayed and running through the wet ink on a sheet of parchment, drawing three hesitant black lines down the page. His mouth was buried and unseen, but his slender pale throat was exposed and arching under the hand that lay there. The back of the other was towards him and his mouth was filled with his master’s kisses. Sam had blinked and stared and a cold horror had stretched and stirred. He turned slowly and left the room, walking along the polished hallway, staring straight ahead, not bearing to look at a single thing. Everything had been altered in that one moment and nothing would ever be the same again. Sam returned to his work, burying his hands deep into the soil, like a repentant lover. ~~~In Frodo’s study, on the mantelpiece there is an hourglass that once belonged to his mother. Sometimes, on a late summer afternoon, the light spills through the glass and glitters on every tiny grain of sand. Often he has held it gently and turned it in his hands. Frodo showed Sam first when he was very young, warning him to be careful – it was so fragile. He told him that it measured an hour in perfect proportion. When the last grain of sand slipped through, that hour was over and another begun. Sam watched the sand with open fascination; the slipping of measured time in a brilliant sliding silver stream. When it was nearly over, Sam would hold his breath as if he imagined his life might cease the minute the last grain settled. But, inevitably there would be another breath as there would be another minute and the hourglass would sit, innocent and patient on the shelf, holding within its belly a full minute of wonder and fulfilment. Frodo would look down at him and smile, “You’d better be off, Sam, your dad will be wondering where you’ve got to,” he’d say, pleasant yet firmly dismissive. Sam would leave reluctantly, longing to spend just a few more precious moments in the quiet study, just watching the dancing sand and listening to the slow, throbbing heartbeat of the mantel clock. Everything was warm and safe in that room, and yet the very air was like a tinderbox, waiting to be struck. When he returned to the garden, his heart would be full as the hourglass, sparkling and safe, the knowledge of his love caught up in that one minute. Things changed so suddenly and without sense nor reason. Bilbo had gone, no one knew why or where, but he had most undisputedly gone and Frodo had retreated to his study, with heaps of paperwork to organise and a sadness that wrapped him in a solitude that was hard to penetrate, and those that knew him and loved him well were afraid for him but didn’t know how to tell it. Bag End was a quieter place than it had been and Mr Frodo kept himself to himself. Sometimes his cousins would come to call, but even they didn’t linger long – the atmosphere being so stuffy of late - and his master remote and cheerless. Frodo worked long, late into the night and Sam would call in last thing and check that all was well, popping his head around the study door peering into the dimly lit room. Frodo would be slumped over the desk reading through manuscripts or writing in a ledger, an oil lamp smoking at his elbow, the mantel clock ticking slowly, ponderously, marking the time. “Anything you need, sir?” Sam’s usual query - bright and sunny and utterly predictable. Mr Frodo wouldn’t even bother to raise his head. “No, thank you, Sam,” he’d reply, a slight furrow between his brows as he peered at his papers in the dismal light.“Right you are then,” said Sam. Before he closed the door, Sam would steal a quick look at the hourglass standing on the mantel shelf – it’s hollow form, burnished gold in the lamplight as if it was filled up with flame – the only brilliant, shining thing in that dark, cheerless place. Sam would look at it longingly before he closed fast the door. ~~~This long, dead time lasted for many months, but one afternoon, deep in the month of Blotmath, Frodo had wondered out into the garden, his eyes lonely and beseeching. Sam had been securing the tender plants against the forthcoming frosts that threatened to strike them down when Frodo had walked softly down the garden, wrapped in a thin coat, a cup of steaming tea clasped in his hands. Sam hadn’t even noticed him; he was so absorbed in his work. “Tea, Sam?” Frodo spoke softly, hesitantly and Sam whirled round on his heels, in surprise. Frodo smiled nervously, billows of steam half concealing his face as he held the cup out to Sam. A cup it was – not a rough mug – a fine thing that belonged in the top cupboard. Sam looked at it in vague puzzlement and at the pale vision of his master shivering in the cold afternoon, framed by winter branches, gemmed with scarlet berries. “Aye, thank you, sir,” Sam said, reaching out, after deciding it was the only polite thing to do. He took a sip of tea and nodded at Frodo as he felt the warmth sliding down into his belly. Frodo sighed and swung on his heels, blowing his breath out in great dragon’s puffs. After several turns about the vegetable patch, running his hands through hectic dark curls, he came to an abrupt halt beside Sam and looked him full in the face. “Sam,” he said, “I’m bored rigid.”Sam took another sip of tea and tried to still his trembling hands. Frodo paced up and down the stony path, poking at insolent weeds with his toes. “Is there a lot to do? There can’t be that much – not at this time of the year, surely?” “Well, there’s these here younglings to protect and some repair work to be done over on the south wall, it’s crumbling away on the right side against the plum tree and I’ve been meaning to have a go at it before the weather gets too hard.”“Could the wall wait?” Frodo crouched down beside Sam and raised one hand to brush Sam’s cold cheek. “I’ve missed our talks,” he said, softly.Sam looked up from his cup of tea and into the curiosity of his master’s irises, which bent his mind senselessly sideways. His fingers rattled against fine porcelain and he tightened them to still the motion. Frodo laid his fingers over Sam’s. “Come inside?”Sam took in a deep, silent breath. “Aye, sir. I’ll just finish up here.”That was how it had started. Being more. “Can you cook, Sam?” Frodo had asked, when Sam trotted into Bag End, painfully conscious of the dirt caked beneath his nails. Sam blushed and twisted his soft green felt hat between his hands. He had never liked it, despite it being one of the last things his ma had made for him, but now it comforted him and drew the words calmly from between his lips. “Aye,” he said. “A little.”He had done whatever was required to secure his master’s comfort and happiness and had delighted in it. Frodo needed him – he admitted to Sam that he hadn’t had a decent meal since Bilbo had gone and was constantly hungry. So Sam raided his memory for the recipe of every good and nourishing meal that had ever passed his lips and he worked at them until they surpassed even his sister’s skills and watched with satisfaction as Frodo ate his food with eager pleasure.After dinner they would retire to the parlour and Frodo would read to Sam as he had done when Sam was young. When the darkness fell, earlier and earlier every day, Sam would move around the room, lighting the lamps and drawing the curtains against the night. That was the time he enjoyed the most, the intimacy of the panelled room, burnished to honey in the warm glow of the lamplight and sweetly scented with apple wood and old leather. Frodo’s soft voice lulling him as he curled into the wide leather chair, looking into the flames, listening to the tales his master read from the great heavy books, leafing through the pages with light fingers. Sometimes Sam would lose himself in the stories and find it hard to surface when the mantle clock chimed nine and the time had passed and gone.He would rise at last, bleary and love struck and bid his master goodnight. “Same time tomorrow, Sam?” Frodo would ask, raising a sleepy, anxious face.“Five o’clock, sir,” he said, donning his hat and nodding a brief farewell. When he walked out of the door and out into the chill air, Sam had to suppress a great whoop of joy and force his feet to walk in a sensible line, when all they wanted to do was dance. ~~~Sometimes they would play games together, enjoying the freedom of the empty rooms and passages, skating up and down polished floors, their feet skidding on the polish that would be applied every Astron in big, sweet honeyed pots and lasted all the year, gleaming golden in the swirling figuring of the cherry wood. Sam laughed as he slid up against the side of a forbidding, over-sized dresser that stood in the hallway, its two great doors, bursting with the pressure of thirty black umbrellas. Frodo watched, delighted, giggles bursting from beneath the clasped hands that covered his mouth as Sam shook his head, blushing – amazed and appalled at the same time.“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Frodo said, catching his breath, “Somehow I just never felt I could – it wasn’t as if Bilbo was a staid old stick or anything – he just wouldn’t have wanted the disturbance – he did like his routine, you see, despite his other … errr inclinations…”Sam beamed, nodding and trying to wipe his sniggers away with the back of his sleeve, blushing and horrified with himself. “Come on, Sam, let’s do it again!” Oh, he could be so easily persuaded, sliding behind his master, all the way under the arch, reaching out as his feet flailed beneath him. He grabbed hold of the back of his master’s breeches as they both tumbled and fell, their legs crumpled and waving in the air like broken craneflies. They were children again and Sam indulged him in everything, enjoying the delightful glimpses offered to him of a Frodo he had never known. One afternoon, Frodo persuaded Sam to join him in a grand exploration of Bag End’s winding honeycomb of cellars, pulling him down the dark stairs, all prepared with lamps and sturdy hats to defy the cobwebs. Mr Frodo had donned a soft black hat that framed his face, perfectly. Sam tried not to pay attention to the way his heart nearly burst with appreciation. The dark and musty air stifled them as they wound their way through room after room of unidentifiable history, piled on shelves and heaped in corners – bottles and books, old chests and barrels, dusty jars and pudding bowls littered with needles and pins, wire and string and tarnished spoons. Mr Frodo lifted a book off the top of a teetering pile, releasing a plume of dust from its ochre cover. A small, pale moth fluttered out and ventured upwards into the vaulted ceiling. Sam looked up and felt dizzy with happiness. They had found no treasure, only three broken little books that Frodo felt held some promise after translation and a bottle of something that Sam recognised as Flying Donkey Ale – a rare and dangerous draught. These they carried back with them and set out upon the kitchen table as though they were marvels. Sam looked out at the sky that was fading to dusk in streaks of scarlet and rose. Frodo turned up the wick of the lamp he carried. “What time is it? I hadn’t realised we’d been down there that long!” he said, frowning at the gloomy, cheerless kitchen. The fire had burned down to darkly glowing embers and the rest of the room was in shadow. “It’s late,” said Sam, gathering wood from the log basket to re-kindle the fire, “near seven, I shouldn’t wonder - you’ve missed dinner, sir!”“I was enjoying myself too much, Sam, I quite forgot such simple necessities. Don’t bother yourself with dinner – we’ll eat cold.”“No Mr Frodo, it’s chill enough without something warm in your belly. I’ll cook something up in no time, don’t you fret!” And Sam set to – rifling through the store cupboard for vegetables and the cupboards for some barley and bread. He soon had a big cauldron of stew bubbling richly over the hearth and a pot of steaming tea to pour into his master’s cup. Frodo sat at the table watching him and chatting away as he flicked through the musty pages of his newest treasures. Sam coughed when he approached - the old, decaying parchment making him screw up his nose. Frodo smiled and inhaled deeply.“Don’t you like it, Sam?” he said, holding the book close to his face. “I love this smell. It reminds me of my secret forays into the Brandy Hall library for forbidden books to read under the covers. It’s the smell of excitement and anticipation – of pleasure yet to be revealed.”“Yes, well, it gets up me nose, Sir, and no mistake,” said Sam, rubbing it with the back of his hand as he retreated to the hearth to stir the simmering stew. He tossed in a few winter herbs, a little salt and laid a tray with bread and softened butter in a small white dish. “I thought you might like to eat in the parlour, it’s warmer there.”“Very well, Sam,” Frodo sighed and opened his mouth in a cavernous yawn that, to Sam’s disbelief, left his master’s face softened and more beautiful yet, his eyes drowsy. “But only if you’ll join me,” Frodo added. ~~~They ate together that night, informally, side by side in the warm parlour, on the rug close against the hearth. Sam had poured the stew into wide bowls that they balanced on their knees and they tore off bread, as they needed it, sopping up the juices as common folk do. Sam felt put at ease by this simple gesture and his reserve dropped a little more, so that he could enjoy his meal and the company, without worrying that he had overstepped his place. It was the best that Sam had ever tasted and he felt only warm companionship as he sat chewing and listening to the soft pattering of snow against the windowpanes. When they had finished their meal, Frodo went to the kitchen to fetch his books and Sam uncorked the bottle of Flying Donkey. It was indeed, a most potent brew and Frodo nearly choked on his first sip, unprepared for the full force of the punch.“Careful now, sir,” said Sam, raising an eyebrow, “It ain’t for the faint hearted.”“And who says my heart is faint?” Frodo replied, taking another sip and battling down the resulting spasm. Sam grinned and took a long draught then settled back against the settee, his head resting against the soft cushions, his feet poking towards the fire, which nicely warmed his toes.“Show off!” Frodo said, prodding Sam with a toe.Sam jumped at the contact and looked his master in the eye. There was nothing reflected in Frodo’s but merriment and teasing. “Flying Donkey?” Frodo said, slowly drawling the name across his tongue, as if he was tasting it or testing it for warmth.“Aye, that’s the name,” Sam replied. “You’ve heard of the grand display, I suppose, Mr Frodo? The fifteenth of Astron in the age of my great grandda it was – the trick was tried by many after that date – but none came out of it all in one piece as Filbert Goatriddle did.”“Filbert Goatriddle?” Mr Frodo had the sniggers again.“Aye,” said Sam, his mouth quirking, “He was a travelling showman, sir, all about the Shire he pedalled his shows of spectacle and courageous ingenuity. He could do anything, they said. He could fall off a mountain and land on his feet with gold in his pocket and a riddle on his lips. A small man he were, and bearded, so folk say he came from Bree – but it ain’t really known – for he was a stranger and a magician and so he came from somewhere up in the clouds as far as most folks were concerned. There were tales that his ma had been encouraging the attentions of dwarf folk – but I trust that is just cheek and slander and nowt to do with the truth, so I won’t go into that if you don’t mind, sir.” Frodo shook his head and nudged Sam to continue with a flick of his toe.“Well then, where was I? Oh yes, well one summer, hot it was and cool by the Water, Old Goatriddle comes by on his cart, all loaded up with tricks and feats ready for the amazement of those who lingered by the banks, splashing their feet. A lot of hobbits were sitting on the bridge idle, for it was a holiday and a day for relaxing and taking your ease. All of them turned and shouted to Filbert – ‘Show us a trick! Show us a trick we ain’t never seen!’ So old Filbert, he jumps down from his wagon, pulling his beard and stamping his feet, ‘Aye, I will at that!’ he shouts. He had a little voice, despite his great reputation and had to holler to make folk hear. ‘Just you watch this, lads and lassies, just you watch!’ So he proceeds to pull out of his wagon a length of rope, thick and strong, ell ‘pon ell, unravelling into his hands, the longest rope there ever was. But that wasn’t the trick, sir; no, that was just the start of it, see? Old Filbert, he threw one end of the rope to a lad who’s sitting on the bridge. ‘Take this end,’ he shouts, ‘and tie it to the top of yon mill!’ He had to repeat this several times, for he had a little voice for a big trickster and the lad was a little addle pated with ale, truth be told. But eventually, after a little encouragement from his friends, he ran to the mill, raced up to the top and tied up the rope to the sails, which weren’t going round, as it were a holiday and the miller was up to his chin in ale down the Dragon.Old Filbert, he looked around for another high summit and it dawned on him that there was nowt taller roundabouts than the Party Tree, so’s he threw the other end to a lad who was waiting on the riverbank and sent him off to tie the other end to the top of yon tree. So it was done and then a grand crowd gathered to see this rope stretched so taut and high across the water. When the folks were all assembled and gawping, Old Filbert cracked his knuckles and released the ass that stood at the wagon’s head. ‘This here, ass!’ he shouts, grand as you like. ‘This here ass will perform a trick of such death defying magnificence as to leave you gasping with astonishment. Now attend, as we ascend!’ And so he takes the donkey up to the mill and they climb up, up, up to the very top and the crowd below, whispers and gasps and waits for them to appear. When they finally emerge, there is a great shouting and a shushing as the poor beast is eased out onto the rope, clad in shoes of heavy lead, a great weight they were, or else the beast would come clattering to a halt. No-one dares to breathe, as Old Filbert, clambers out of the window and onto the back of the dangerously swaying ass that is straddling the rope and braying fit to burst.‘Attend!’ he shouts, his voice nearly lost amidst the excited babble that fills the air, ‘As we descend!’ and lo, both hobbit and donkey are propelled forwards and whiz down the rope like it were buttered and slippery as grease. Old Filbert cheers and whistles and waves his hands as he flies over the heads of the hobbits below. T’was a grand success and the cheers were deafening as he skimmed the head of the astonished miller, who had just returned from his afternoon at the alehouse. Never had such a feat been seen in the Shire since or shall ever be seen again, most likely.” Sam shut his mouth and turned to Frodo, who was looking into the fire, with a small, agitated furrow between his brows, which meant that he was troubling over something.“But what happened to the donkey?” he said, after a moment.“Oh, he crashed head first into the Party Tree and stunned himself good and proper. Old Filbert flew off and landed on the folks lookin’ up from below. Luckily he didn’t weigh much … unlike the donkey…”“Oh,” said Frodo, wincing. “Exactly,” said Sam, taking another sip of ale and realising, with amazement, that he had drained his mug dry. They sat for a time, in quiet contentment. The pattering against the windows had quickened now and both sat up to watch the white flakes hitting the glass and sliding down in wet trails. Frodo sighed and stretched out, so that their feet were nearly touching. They both knew that time was passing and soon Sam would have to go home.“Do you know?” Frodo said. “When Merry and I were living at Brandy Hall, we used to have secret parties at night. Other lads used to sneak into our rooms and we’d scare each other witless with ghost stories and eat cakes stolen from the pantries. They were some of the happiest times of my life.”“Did you ever get caught?” Sam asked, his eartips glowing red in the warmth of the fire.“No-one ever found out, Sam, we were very devious. Or if they did, they never said. We had a lot of freedom in that way. Brandy Hall was big and we could get lost in it and no one would ever find out. It feels good to be naughty now and again, don’t you think, Sam?”“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Sam replied, smiling softly.“You’ve never done anything wrong, anything wicked?” Frodo probed, his toe creeping inch by inch up Sam’s shin. Sam watched its slow progress and shivered.To be continued...

Three Thing Meme Thing

It's my (gasp!) sixth wedding anniversary today. R managed to forget (as usual) despite my very unsubtle hinting yesterday. He felt bad enough to get me breakfast in bed this morning - with primroses in a Tweenies eggcup - so I won't be too hard on him and ... he's had a bath! Wonders will never cease ... anyway, I have a bit of spare time on my hands before I have to put N to bed, so I thought I'd do this quick three things Meme thing - gacked from semyaza THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:1) Igraine2) Aisling3) ?THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:Isn't this the same thing? (Not a good start, maybe I shouldn't do this...)THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF: (EEK!)1) Eyes2) Hair's alright3) EarsTHREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF: (Why is this so much easier?)1) Legs2) Nose3) Cleavage (the lack of)THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:1) Irish2) Exmoor-ish3) Portsmouth-ishTHREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:1) Loud, ignorant people2) High balconies3) SpidersTHREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:1) Babybelle cheeses (Tigger food)2) Baby wipes3) Hobbit pornTHREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:1) Glittery scarf (with holes)2) Pink top (with, on closer inspection, a moth hole)3) Socks that ought to be ashamed of themselvesTHREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE MUSICAL BANDS OR ARTISTS:1) REM2) Kate Rusby3) Kate BushTHREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE SONGS:1) Nightswimming - REM2) Hallelujah - Leonard Coen3) Annan Waters - Kate Rusby (Trad.)THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:1) Honesty2) Forebearance3) Scruffy hairTHREE THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:1) Big beautiful eyes2) Soft voices3) Scruffy hairTHREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBIES:1) Writing2) Fiddle playing3) GardeningTHREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:1) Eat my Indian takeaway2) Change my socks3) Stop time - so I can finish this meme thing before I need to bath NTHREE CAREERS YOU'VE CONSIDERED / ARE CONSIDERING:1) Writing (sigh...)2) Art therapy3) Can't think of another - not my best subjectTHREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:1) Devon 2) Florence3) TuscanyTHREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:1) Sing in a folk session (I'm such a wuss)2) Dye my hair pink again3) Publish something ... anything...THREE WAYS YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:1) Hate shopping2) Have three pairs of (old) shoes3) Like sitting, gossiping down the pubTHREE WAYS YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:1) Have girly hair / girly clothes2) Swoon a lot - in a literal sense3) Love having babiesTHREE CELEB CRUSHES:1) Elijah Wood2) Johnny Depp3) The others are too embarrasing to mention... That was slightly edited, I hadn't time to answer all the questions - probably a good thing!

FIC: FALLING

This is the partner fic to "Rising" - a short vignette, focusing on Frodo's pov. :)TITLE: FallingAUTHOR: IgrainePAIRING: F/SRATING: RSUMMARY: Frodo waits for Sam on Tol Eressea. Hope, patience and a little persuasion are needed to find release. DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien - I merely borrow them and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money. WARNING: Gratuitous foot fetishing ... ;-)FALLINGIn my mind there was a light. It came to me the day that I moved through the glass and the world tipped over into wonder and strangeness and beauty so perilous I was afraid to set down my feet on the shifting sand. At first it was just a glimpse, like a slender white line beneath my bedroom door. But the door was closed and there was no way of passing through. I would lie in bed and stare at the light and wonder if behind it there would be a green garden. When the daylight faded the memory of it remained, somehow, for the hope persisted, nonetheless. As the years passed it grew brighter, nearly engulfing the darkness and I knew that time was running fast and either I would pass out of life or he would be coming soon. I sat on the shore and I waited and nothing broke the thin white horizon until the sun sank her gold into the sea. I wanted to walk over the waves and push the door open. I sat and I waited until the birds were silent and the stars put me to sleep. I sank my head on the sand and the waves soothed and troubled me with their insistent promises. But if I stopped the sound of them, I thought that I might close the door and the green garden would all wither away in the darkness. That last night I didn’t sleep on the shore. The sand curled around my feet, rooting me to the inky horizon, but I would not stay. I turned away and walked back to the house, the soft welcoming light of lanterns flickering above my head and the trees swaying back and forth as if they were rejoicing. I looked at them but I didn’t dare to hope. I slept and slowly, inch by inch, the light was greater than the darkness that engulfed it and I found that I could rise and push it wide. I was trembling more than he, even as he twisted his hands in his coat pockets and stared as if I were a thing conjured from his dreams. I touched him hesitantly on the arm and he flinched and bowed his head. I laid my mouth upon his soft remembered curls and breathed in the green air of the garden. I took great gasps of him and I held him in my arms and as I did so, he fell against me and wept until he could barely take a breath. But I could only smile. I was falling too, but it felt light and soft and gradual, like tumbling from a gentle height into the welcoming grass. I took him to bed and I sat him down and took his clothes off slowly, running my hands over his skin and confusing him with elvish words of love and possession. I unbuttoned his shirt and with each unfastening, I voiced a new expression of devotion that only sent his heart racing like an animal, sensing yet uncomprehending. When I had laid aside his shirt, I sat at his feet and I caressed them between my hands and remembered how these feet had carried us to the very edge of doom. I bent my head and kissed them softly. He jumped a little and I looked up to see him looking down at me in surprise, a tentative smile playing about his lips. I raised my eyes, half drunk with exaltation yet reigning myself in, holding back the fire that raced through my veins. I asked him if he would lie with me and hold me as once we had done in the black lands and he smiled and pulled me to my feet. It had been the only time - there in that place of death. Huddled together for warmth and comfort, we had touched and sought out words of desperate love that fell into our open, searching mouths, like food. We tried to forget ourselves, even as the weight of It nearly burned our cleaving skin and sought to wrench us apart, angry, thwarted and screaming. Afterwards, we hung our heads and It tried to teach us the nature of shame. I want to believe that this is what he wanted. I want to see that he is happy, but his eyes are lost and he touches me so gently, it seems he fears that I will dissolve under the weight of his hand. The broad planes of his body fascinate me and I explore them again and again until I begin to rediscover the land I left behind. He is a vessel of secrets. I enclose him softly in my mouth and I try to learn them as he bows beneath me and clutches me as if he is holding me on the precipice, but he doesn’t know that I am already falling. “Are you happy?” I wrap my legs around his hips and speak softly into his ear, first in Sindarin, then in the common tongue, the strange words sounding like riddles to my ears. He smiles and pushes against me and I would grab him and tickle him like a merciless child to hear him speak a work. I am pushing him too fast, too far, he is standing on the brink and I am launching him into the unknown. I lower my lashes provocatively, and I know it. I trace his dumbstruck lips with the tip of my tongue.“Are you happy?”He opens his mouth to speak, but all that he can voice is my old name, again and again, struggling in whispers. I saw him wed. I saw the pride shining out of him as he carried Rose Cotton over the threshold and my heart was filled with pride, even as the pain seared me. He looked at me and I saw the resolution and the confusion in his mind but I smiled encouragingly and I tossed the white flowers over the doorstep, the doorstep to my home. My feet, when they passed over, later that night, were silent as a ghost’s and I remained that way – a spirit walking in the shadows of my old life. Lifeless and a prey to the past. But when I passed through the veil, the passion that filled my body took my breath away and I had to hold back a wail of ecstasy, it was so strong. “Let it go, my love, it will pass…”He is afraid of the future, as I was once afraid of letting in the past. He fears the door is closing once again, but I know that we are holding it open.We lie in bed, tangled in soft white sheets under the stars and he teaches me the words I had forgotten. It is like being a child again and I hear Bilbo in his voice and deeper still, echoes of my mother with the golden hair and the whispering love that ran through me like a breeze in the weeping willow trees. I repeat the words and every time I remember a little more of the life I loved. We share the taste of strawberries and the oak and honey ale; we share the growing year and the library with all of its secret pleasures. He holds me and sometimes he moves in me and neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins. Sometimes it seems it has always been so. We were falling and now we have come to rest.THE END

Happy, Happy Birthday Ellin Estel!

Wishing you joy and happiness today and every day. Eat, drink and be merry - you deserve it! :)((((HUGS)))))

Shiny, Happy Post! :-)

Orperhaps I shouldcall it - post in haste - repent at leisure.
I was thinking yesterday how many times I've posted really negative thoughts on my lj and how I seem to be using it only in my very worst moments, when half of whatIwriteis utter nonsense.This can hardly be very entertaining or uplifting for my poor flisters and friends. It doesn't represent me very well, either - I'm pretty chirpy most of the time - despite the evidence of this journal. So I thought I'd test myself and make an effort to post something cheery, bouncy and positive.
This will either give you the warm fuzzies or make you want to heave - but I thought it would be quite therapautic.
1) I've slept! Again! That's two nights running and N's enjoying her little treat in the morning for being a good girl and stopping in her room. I feel tons better already and haven't lost my temper at all today!
2) I took N into school yesterday afternoon. I'd been worrying how she'd like it - but I needn't have feared because there was a big pool of glitter and penguins and it won her over completely. She demanded an apron and rolled up her sleeves and got stuck in. I had to drag her away. I think she'd going to love it!
3) N and T are getting on - even playing together - racing round the kitchen table in hysterics. They walked home from mother and baby - hand in hand. It brought tears to my eyes, they looked so beautiful. N is starting to treat T as not merely a thing that gets in her way - but as a potential friend. She says she's going to marry him when she grows up.
4) It's party month! I have three parties to organise. N's 4th, mum's and hubbys. I spent a fortune on sparkly tiaras, balloons, streamers, bunting and other stuff. I haven't enjoyed myself so much in ages! R's birthday is on Mayday so we're having a grown up's only party in the woods. A yearly do now - a midsummer, anniversary and birthday celebration in one. Can't wait - must start making laterns ... oh yes, and we're getting a full night away - god, it feels naughty! ;)
5) I've become good friends with a very cool lady who lives at the bottom of my hill. Haven't spoken much before, but we have kids the same age and N is very friendly with her daughter. We talked and clicked immediately. She's asked me over for lunch next week. My village is small and it's great to find a new friend to call on.
6) We have flocks of goldfinches visiting the garden and we also seem to have adopted a very small wild rabbit that sits on the lawn chewing the grass. I love him - don't care what devestation he wreaks on the garden - he's beautiful.
7) I made a cake!
8) We've been paid - at last ....I can't tell you what a relief that is...
9) Mechtild and Ellin - because their wonderful discussion over on fanfiction - KD is just so enjoyable and keeping my brain alive.
10) Having a delete option on journal entries - to consign those crappy posts to their doom.
(((Hugs flist))))

Desperately Seeking Sanity....

Too many sleepless nights and I'm beginning to feel the strain. My daughter's been waking up at one in the morning and coming into our bedroom - appearing like an appirition at the beside saying "I can't sleep" and I march her off back to bed, sitting and singing songs until I'm half slumped on the floor - settle her - creep off back to bed and five minutes later - creek, thump, thump, thump and ... she's back. This generally ends up with her getting in our bed. Which is fine. But she lies there awake - her eyes blinking at me in the dark until I can't settle myself and end up going into child number two's room - which is fine, until he wakes up and starts to chant and rock the cot up against the wall as he starts his mid-nightly excersizes - bouncing and chortling and rocking about until I can't stand any more and have to resort to the living room sofa. By then, the birds have started to sing and the dawn is just creeping through the crack in the curtains. This has happened three nights running - if it happens again I will go off my head! Heavy day today - stuck in, apart from a walk to the park and then onto the moors - we were having a lovely time until daughter waded onto a large, dry patch of mud that turned out to be quicksand in disguise - she sank up to her knees and screamed for me. I had to wade in and tug her out!Not much else going on really. I'd love to be writing some delicious hobbit smut but I can hardly stifle my screams of RL frustration and hubby is avoiding me - believe this or not - he's out in the garden trying to make fire with two pieces of wood - a bet between friends, apparantly.Will I ever find peace...and sanity?

FIC: RISING

This is a short fic - just fragments of thoughts and memories that mighthave passed through Sam's mind during his first night on Tol Eressea. It'sa Sam pov - something I've wanted to try for a while. It's a little bit....experimental. I hope it's not too stuck inairee fairee land and has some truth about it.:O
TITLE: Rising
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S
RATING: PG-13 (Yes, I've restrained myself - would you believe it? ;))
SUMMARY: Sam is re-united with Frodo on Tol Eressea, but to able to accept the present, he must first let go of the past.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I borrow them with affection and promise to return them unharmed. I make no money.


RISING

When I hold him, it feels like I am cradling cloud. He is weightless in my arms, as if he has grown insubstantial over the long years when for me; he was nowt but the remembrance of a dream. It is as if he has been absorbed by the dream and is moving in a different stream of air. He’s shifting in my arms and he rests cool lips against my throat - I touch him gently as if a strong touch will bruise his satin skin. His lips are glass, his hands feathers, his hair is made of rain cloud. He is a thing of the air and the sea – it moves him in strange rhythms and I try to meet them, but I’m so clumsy and heavy in this place where everything seems made of light and airless beauty. My feet sink into the earth here, my steps are slow, and above, my head spins with disbelief as I hold his hand, openly, ‘neath the sun.
Struggling to catch him in my arms as he weaves in and out of my arms is like fishing without a rod and a reel, stooping in the river, grappling and chasing as the silvery darts chase through my fingers. He laughs and it reminds me of the porpoises in the blue sea that popped their heads out of the water to greet me when I sailed in. He dives his head down below the sheets and I just lie there, spread-eagled, bewildered, consumed by a fathomless joy.
"Are you happy?" he asks me, again and again. I nod and smile but I find it hard to speak. He rends me dumb and the soft Sindarin he speaks slips from his tongue so sweetly he sometimes forgets to translate and I’ve grown accustomed to those gentle sounds, breaking slowly in my mind like the long waves on the shore.
When he sleeps at last, his body sheened and glistening in the moonlight, I return to Middle Earth and hide there, curled up in the grass as I did as a boy, listening for hares. The green earth holds me and I am cradled in the hollow of the dark, fertile earth, soil under my hands. It wants to hold me there – in memory and security and I’m frightened that if I fall asleep there - I will never be free.

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

"Are you happy?"
I look down at him; half-asleep in my arms, the light of an exhausted resignation in his half-closed eyes. He reaches up to touch my face and the sight of his maimed hand, makes me want to wail and curse, but he is so peaceful, I can’t bear to show my anger and my pain. I am glad that thing has gone – that monster. I touch his hand to my lips and when I pull it away, I see that it is wet with tears. The heat of the fire drives most thought from my head, but what is left, is still battling.
"It has gone," his voice is a cracked whisper. I shiver, despite the terrible heat, for I saw the shadow of fear that crossed his face. I saw it, even as he smiled and tried to be at peace. I saw that it would always leave a ghost of itself lodged where once it lay.
I trail my fingers over his breast, softly contoured with many years of swimming under the surf. He stretches out beneath me, unveiling his defiant beauty. His breathing is light and shallow. I lay my palm against the mark, where once the scar lay round as a brand. There is warmth there now and the reckless pulse of life. He marks where my hand lies and he turns his face to me.
"Do you doubt that I am healed?" he says, his eyes ennobled with a perilous beauty.
"Has it gone, then, all that emptiness – that loss?" I ask, my heart thundering.
He seeks my lips. "I have watched it walk away, day by day, changing and receding. Now it has sailed beyond my memory and is out of reach."
"And you’re not sad?" I ask, tentatively stroking his ears, with the lightest brush of my rough fingers.
"No, my Sam, I’m not sad anymore…"
My love swells. It is warm and struggling like an infant is when placed on it’s mother’s belly. Little, disbelieving cries shattering the shocked silence of the candlelit room. Rosie cried, she did, after every birthing and not for love alone. It was the loss, as well, that would come with it, sure as night follows day.
"You still have your little ones," I would say. "They are just changed that’s all, they’re still your babes."
Rosie would shake her head and call herself every foolish name under the sun, her hand stroking the soft, scarred skin of her belly, hopelessly, quiet unnamed tears falling down her cheeks.
"It’s alright – we can have another."
The smile that followed wavered across her face, hopeful and innocent. I would never deny her some more of that joy even though I knew that it came with the burden of sorrow.
I take Frodo in my arms and I hold him, tears starting to my eyes. The joy is mine and the pain and both binds us as sure as those babes were tangled up with the love of her.
The time we have seems endless and yet, it is not infinite.
"I know what you are thinking, Sam."
I start and sink down into the feather mattress, as if with the weight of shame. "You heard?"
"I’m sorry," he says, but he doesn’t look away, even as I draw my hands over my eyes.
"Nay, don’t you say it, please, it’s me, I’m a fool!" I groan out beneath the dark enclosing memories.
And I’m reminded once more of Rosie and her empty belly craving fulfilment. I could give her that joy over and over but there always followed a winter that no warmth could penetrate.
"Frodo – I’m sorry, I feel dirty, greedy. It’s enough, it’s enough that I have you, It’s just…I’ve been feeling so old and so empty for so many years."
"Don’t be sorry for it, Sam. It passes."
He lays his hands over mine and peels my fingers away one by one, kissing them and laying them over his heart. I feel the light pulsing under my hands, as if there is nothing between us but a thin veil of time.

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

The green grass shudders under my feet and the wind raises the hairs on the back of my neck. A lark soars higher and higher in the white sky until it is a single bright note against the scorching sun. Then I see it – the breathless magic of the hare leaping in the pasture. It frees me, breaking a cord that sends me reeling back into my lover’s arms.
He tastes of the sea. He tastes of joy.
I leap into reality as eager as the rainbow trout seeks the cool shadow of the stream as it evades the clutching hands. I break the water and I taste life under my tongue.
When I rise again, I am singing.
THE END

OMG - You look like a Parisian Whore!

Ahhhh!!!!I've just been to the most awful party!It was the birthday party of one of my husband's old friends, whom I don't know very well. We were *told* that it was to be a 1940's party, so, as I love any excuse to dress up in fancy clothes, I went to town and rifled through my drawers until I could find something suitably theatrical. I found a low-ish cut black dress that looked a bit vintage and some fishnet stockings, little black velvet hat, elbow length silk gloves and some high heeled shoes, curled my hair, put on some sparkly jewelery and hey! I'm a Parision Whore - or so they exclaimed when I walked in and found - to my horror - that no-one else had bothered to dress up! What made it even worse was I didn't know anyone there, couldn't even break the ice with anyone and bit by bit sank lower into the chair until I (almost) disappeared. (Grimaces)My hubby hadn't made quite such an effort but I did manage to force him into a cravat - I gave him a few lessons in tying, although I think there's definitely room for improvement. Cravet-tying being an art in itself.We made a furtive early exit and sidled off to the pub, shedding articles of costumery along the way :0