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...