They had come to the desolation that lay before Mordor: the lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing...
--The Two Towers, "The Passage of the Marshes"
The water was not deep; it would barely have covered the hobbits' feet had they walked in it. The small pool was very nearly still; it glittered faintly in the moonlight and there was a slight film of dust visible on the surface. It trickled with amazing slowness from beneath an ugly pile of stones and seemed to go nowhere, forming a roughly oval-shaped pool that swirled almost imperceptibly. In the Shire, Frodo and Sam would hardly have given the water a second glance, and would never have considered drinking from it. But here, none of that was important. It was water, and that was all that mattered.
Gollum, who had been wandering ahead of the hobbits, was already sitting beside the pool. Having drunk his fill, he contentedly rubbed his shrunken stomach. "Good Smeagol! Helps nice hobbits. Found water, yes, Smeagol found water for the thirsty hobbitses."
Sam quickly dropped his pack and ran forward with a cry of surprise and delight. Frodo followed more slowly; he was as weary as he had ever been, and even though the day was not done, he did not feel like he could continue on without rest. Sam dropped to his knees next to the pool and reached his hands forward to bring some water to his parched throat. "Careful, Sam!" Frodo called hoarsely. "It could be tainted. Just touch it to your tongue first."
Sam cupped water in his hands, and carefully brought near his face, sniffing it a bit. He then dipped the tip of his tongue into the water once, twice. Satisfied, his cracked lips formed a smile for his master. "I think it's just fine, Mr. Frodo. Tastes better than those Elvish drinks we had in Rivendell, even." He dipped his cupped hands into the water once again, and this time he drank deeply.
Frodo knelt beside Sam and took a cautious sip of the lukewarm water before drinking of it. It seemed nothing had ever felt so good. He quickly brought more water to his mouth, gulping it down with desperation, feeling it in his parched throat. Again. And again. His thirst seemed unquenchable.
Frodo's stomach was seized with sudden cramps. With a gasp of pain, he spilled the water from his hands and wrapped his arms around his waist, bending so far that his forehead almost touched the ground. Sam turned quickly at Frodo's indrawn breath. Seeing his master in pain, he cried out in alarm. "Master! What is it?"
Frodo couldn't answer. His face contorted with pain, he barely managed to turn away from the pool before he retched. Sam rushed to support him, one hand bracing Frodo's forehead, the other arm wrapped around his waist. Worry was evident in his voice. "Frodo, Frodo, me dear. It's all right. Your Sam's got you."
Frodo's stomach finally stopped seizing, and he collapsed back in Sam's gentle arms. "I'm sorry, Sam."
"What for, Mr. Frodo?" Sam's face was etched with fear. He stroked Frodo's brow, which was slick with sweat. "What happened? The water isn't bad, is it?"
"No, no; it's fine. I just drank too quickly. I haven't had anything on my stomach for some time now, and it was just too much. I'm all right, really. Just a bit tired."
"Tired, yes, the hobbitses are tired." Gollum had been watching the hobbits from his hooded eyes, but now he rose, casting a glance at the barren landscape. "Smeagol is tired, yes, precious, but Smeagol is hungry, too. Must find something to eat. No fishes here, but maybe somewhere else. Yes. Perhaps."
"Perhaps, Smeagol," Frodo spoke without trying to raise his head from Sam's lap; his voice was barely audible. "You are welcome to what we have, you know, but I daresay you won't take it."
"No, no, poor Smeagol cannot eat the hobbitses' food. Must find something else." Without another word, Gollum padded off, his flapping feet making no sound on the hard ground.
Sam stared after the creature. "And I hope he takes a good long while searching," he muttered, not talking to Frodo so much as to himself. He then turned back to his master, stroking a gentle hand through his curls. "Just you rest, Mr. Frodo. I'm going to fix you up." Sam carefully lifted Frodo in his arms and laid him down at a safe distance from the water, using his cloak as a pillow for his master's head. "It has been too long between meals at that, and while you can't have a decent meal here in these dark lands, I'll see to it that you eat what you can. And drink a bit of the water, too. Not too much, or too sudden like, though. I won't have you getting sick again, and that's final."
With Frodo resting quietly, Sam quickly filled his water bottle, and retrieved a whole wafer of lembas from his pack. These he brought to Frodo. "Master, let's rest for the night next to these rocks. They look to provide as good a shelter as anything around here, and you can't go on without a bit of sleep, and something to eat besides." Frodo rose unsteadily to his feet, and with Sam's support, he walked the few steps to the rock pile that Sam indicated, and sat down again, resting his back against the largest. Sam sat beside him and gently pressed him to eat and drink. Holding the water bottle against Frodo's cracked lips, he carefully tipped it back so that Frodo could drink slowly. "Easy does it, now. You'll be fine if you don't get in too much of a hurry, I'll warrant."
Frodo was too weak to protest; he did as Sam bade, eating the wafer and taking small sips of water until he had consumed both. Sam was so concerned that his master not become ill again, he did not take any food for himself; all his concentration was on Frodo, making sure that his master paused between every bite and sup. Sam turned out to be right; Frodo was able to hold the food and water down, and he did feel better. His eyes no longer seemed clouded, and he smiled weakly at Sam. "Thank you, dear Sam."
Sam smiled back, every passing thought of food and drink for himself evaporating as he studied his master's face. "Did you good, it did. I knew it would."
The hobbits gazed at each other for a moment, silence falling between them. Then Sam rose, taking the water bottles to the pool. "I'll just fill these up, Mr. Frodo, and if you want some more water while we rest, you won't have to move at all." He knelt next to the small pool and submerged both water bottles, recapping them carefully. But instead of getting up again, he swirled one brown hand in the water, looking thoughtful. "Mr. Frodo, this water here is not too cold, and we've been quite a long spell between baths. Not that we could get a proper bath here—no fittin' tub, this pool—but I've a mind to see if I can scrub some of this grime off myself, if you don't mind."
Frodo favored Sam with another small smile. "That sounds like a fine idea, Sam. Do you have anything in your pack that might serve as a washcloth?"
"I might, at that." Sam rose and began to rummage through his pack. "Let's see...I brought along a couple of rags that I thought would serve to bind up wounds, not hoping to need them, you understand, but you just never know when you go treading in the wild....Here! This will do, and look what else I've found!" Triumphantly, he held aloft two small rags that would suffice, and a small yellow ball that he promptly brought to Frodo.
Frodo's smile widened. He held the slightly grimy ball of soap to his nose and inhaled its fresh scent. "Sam, I don't believe it. Has this been in your pack all along?"
"Yes, sir, although I never knew we'd use it so little, or I wouldn't have bothered. I surely didn't think we would need it here in this awful land, but it seems we may make use of it after all. Not that we shouldn't be a bit cautious; this water isn't cold, but it's not what I'd call warm, neither, and I won't have you catching a chill. We'll just have to scrub a bit at a time, and leave the rest covered, if you take my meaning." Sam's cheeks colored a little as he spoke.
"I agree. And we'd best get at it, too. The sun will be up soon, and we need to do our best to hide." With these words, Frodo pushed himself upright against the rock, and started to walk the few steps to the pool. He swayed as he stood, though, and his face blanched. He reached out to brace himself against the rock.
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam was at Frodo's side in a moment, easing him back down.
Frodo shook his head, as Sam gently rested him against the rock. "I'm sorry, Sam. I do feel better, but I am still very tired. Too tired, perhaps, to bother with a bath."
Sam bit his lip with concern. "Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo. It wouldn't have been much of a bath, anyway. You rest, and let your Sam keep watch." Sam sat himself down next to Frodo, their shoulders touching. "You just go to sleep, now, and let me take care of you."
Sam started to ease Frodo's head onto his lap, but Frodo resisted. "Sam, I'm all right. I just felt a bit dizzy when I stood. You go on and have a bath, and maybe after I rest a bit I can wash as well. You'll be able to see me the whole time, and I can certainly stay awake that long."
"But, Master..."
"No 'buts', Sam. You go ahead."
Sam started to argue further, but the determined look in Frodo's eyes stayed his words. He picked up the washcloth and the soap, returned to the edge of the pool, and quickly began to bathe.
Frodo gazed at his friend in the pale moonlight. Sam had removed his weskit and shirt, and was hastily washing his arms and chest. He couldn't make out the details of Sam's body, even at this short distance, but he could see the heartbreaking slimness in his friend's once-sturdy frame. Frodo felt like weeping; so much misery this quest had wrought, and not only to himself, but to those dearest to him. And none were dearer to him than Sam. It pained him to see Sam's body so deprived.
Sam had finished washing his upper body, and removed his breeches only after he'd donned his shirt again. The air was chill, and Sam was wasting no time; indeed, he was hardly being thorough in his haste to return to Frodo's side. Frodo averted his gaze as Sam bared his lower body, not wanting to embarrass his friend, but as he heard the splashing of water again, he risked a peek. Sam had his back turned to Frodo and was bending over, rubbing his washcloth along his legs. Frodo stared at his friend's strong legs and backside, feeling a warm tingle in his stomach and groin. The weight loss was not as readily apparent in Sam's lower body, perhaps due to the muscles that months of walking had built up. He knew that Sam thought himself plain, but Frodo had long thought him to be a fine-looking hobbit, strong and beautiful. He still was, in spite of the weight he had lost. Frodo's eyes stung as he watched his friend, and he thought that Sam would always be beautiful to him, no matter what ravages this journey wrought on his fine body.
Sam finished washing and rinsed quickly. Only when he had pulled on his breeches again did he turn to face Frodo, offering a small smile. "Well, that weren't much of a bath, but I may smell a mite better, anyway." Lifting his cloak off the ground, Sam turned to his backpack. Frodo expected him to tuck away the ball of soap, but instead he drew out his cooking pot.
Frodo was puzzled. "Sam, what are you doing? We can't risk a fire here, and besides, we have nothing to cook."
"I've an idea, Mr. Frodo. You may not feel up to a bath, but it surely would make you feel better, if you had one. It did me. Seeing as how you are a bit weak when you stand, I'll just bring the bath to you, if you don't mind." As he spoke, Sam knelt by the pool and filled the pot with water. He carefully carried the pot, along with his cloak, the unused rag, and the ball of soap, to where Frodo sat. He deposited his burdens, and knelt next to Frodo. "Now, you just be still, and let me look after you. It will do you good."
Sam dipped the rag into the pot, and after wringing out the excess water, he brought it to his lips. Forming a small O with his mouth, he breathed on the rag, warming it. Only then did Frodo realize that Sam intended to bathe him. As Sam reached toward him with the rag, Frodo stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Sam...Sam, you don't need to do this."
"No. I don't need to. But I want to." Their eyes met, and Frodo saw the longing in Sam's eyes. Sam did want to do this for him. It wasn't a burden or a chore to him, but an act of love. "Will you let me?"
Frodo dropped his hand from Sam's wrist, and laid his head back, wordlessly giving Sam permission to do as he wished. He relaxed in the knowledge of Sam's love, allowing his friend to take care of him.
Sam warmed the cloth with his breath again and reached forward to clean his master's face and neck. Frodo's eyes closed as Sam gently wiped dirt and grime from his neck and ears, and after rinsing the cloth and rubbing it a bit with the soap, began to wash his face. Sam reached his free hand forward to cup Frodo's chin gently as he wiped his master's brow. Frodo savored the wonderful contrast between the cool cloth and Sam's warm hand moving gently against him. As Sam cleaned each portion of his master's face, he would move his hand to cover the spot, gently warming it.
Sam carefully rinsed the cloth again, and wiped any remaining soap from Frodo's face. Then he gently, almost tentatively, reached to remove the dirty orcish tunic that Frodo wore. Frodo moved his hand to help Sam unfasten it, but Sam stopped him with a touch. "Let me, Master," he said in a near whisper. Frodo complied, surrendering himself completely to Sam's care. Sam slipped the tunic easily off Frodo's slight frame, and he removed the mithril coat next. His hands reached to caress his master's body, careful to avoid the Ring glinting on its chain. Sam had seen Frodo unclothed when he bathed in the pools of Lothlorien, but he had grown even more gaunt since then. Sam's eyes stung as he ran his hands along Frodo's ribs, as he touched his master's sunken belly. "Oh...Frodo..." His voice was a broken whisper.
Frodo felt almost embarrassed; Sam's reaction made him painfully aware of how he seemed to be withering away day by day. Sam's body was still so lovely, in spite of the toll the journey was taking on it. Frodo felt ashamed of his own wasted form; indeed, he had always been somewhat odd-looking to most hobbits, but this was the first time he felt that Sam perceived him as ugly. He tried a smile, but there was no happiness in it. "Much more of this, and you'll think Gollum has returned quicker than we expected."
"No, Mr. Frodo!" Sam retorted with surprising heat. "Don't say that; never say that!" His strong hands left Frodo's sides and cupped his face, prompting Frodo's eyes to meet his own. His voice gentled. "You are nothing like that wretched creature--nothing."
Frodo's lip trembled as he gazed at Sam. Tears he hadn't realized he could still shed sprang to his eyes. "I am not as different as you would believe, dear Sam; sometimes I hardly know who I am anymore." His pale hand reached to grasp the Ring at his breast. "This is becoming all that I am; I am losing myself a little each day, each moment, to It. And I fear what I am becoming. Even to you, Sam. Even to you."
The words tore at Sam's heart, and for a moment he did not reply. His hands steadied Frodo's face as he leaned in close, trying to find a way to show Frodo how he felt without words. He kissed his master's brow, then planted gentle kisses on each of his eyes before he drew back. His own eyes swam with tears, but his voice was now strong and sure. "You are Frodo Baggins. You are my master and my dearest friend. And you are so very beautiful to me. There's naught the Ring can do to change that."
The tenderness in Sam's words and gestures tore at Frodo's heart; he trembled in reaction. Sam hands still cupped his master's face, and he felt the tremor. "Oh, but you're cold! And here I sit doing nothing." Sam hastily wrapped his elven cloak around Frodo's thin shoulders, protecting him from the cool air; he seemed almost relieved to return to the business of caring for his master's physical needs. "There, now; that should help. Do you want me to go on, Mr. Frodo? Or are you too chilled?"
"I am not too cold, Sam," Frodo murmured. "And you don't have to continue if you don't want, though I expect it would feel good to be clean for a change."
"Well, cleaner anyway. There's not much we can do proper in this land, least of all a bath, like I said. You just hold that cloak around you, Mr. Frodo, and tell me if you get too cold. I can just work my way around it, so to speak." With that, Sam once again dipped the cloth into the water, and breathed on it before touching it to Frodo's body. He gently parted the cloak, and reached inside to withdraw Frodo's right arm. Frodo tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he felt the touch of the cloth against his skin. Sam tenderly cleaned Frodo's hands and arms, following the cool cloth with his warm hand. Frodo felt Sam's touch like life against his skin, leaving a trail of warmth wherever he touched.
Sam's movements were a bit more tentative as he began to wash Frodo's chest. He carefully avoided the Ring, concentrating at first on the area around Frodo's collarbones and shoulders. His touch was so exquisitely gentle that Frodo found himself craving more. There was love embedded in Sam's every movement, as he warmed the cloth, rubbed it against Frodo's cool skin, and then rested his free hand against the damp spot. For the first time in long days of travel, Frodo felt more like himself and less like merely the Ringbearer—a title he had never wished to possess. Sam's touch had always brought him joy and comfort, and the farther they journeyed from home, the more important that touch seemed to become. Whenever Sam touched him, the almost unbearable weight of the Ring seemed to lift. It was as if Sam's hands on his skin could part the clouds in his mind, and give him a glimpse of the person he once had been.
The air had grown chill, but Frodo was not cold at all. The intimacy of the bath was having a physical effect on him, and he wondered how he could hide this from Sam. Sam's hands had finally descended to the middle of his chest, and Frodo felt the first touch of the cloth against his nipple, already peaked by the cool air. He let the cloak slip from his shoulders; it fell unheeded to the ground. The feel of the rough cloth against his skin quickly followed by Sam's warm hand coaxed a small sound from Frodo's throat, and Sam drew back.
"All right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam's voice was a husky whisper, making Frodo wonder about his friend's thoughts.
The darkness was almost total now, and even though Sam was mere inches from Frodo, he could not see him clearly. Perhaps it was the darkness that gave Frodo courage, or perhaps it was just the deep need for a touch born of love and not of fear. Frodo reached out, and taking Sam's hand placed it upon his chest. With his other hand, Frodo slid the Ring upon Its chain over his shoulder, so that it fell to rest against his back. "All right, Sam." His own voice shook a bit on the words.
Sam's trembling sigh cast a shiver through Frodo's body. When he reached for his friend again, his touch was decidedly less hesitant. Sam abandoned the cloth, instead rubbing a bit of soap between his damp palms, and massaged his hands against Frodo's chest and belly. The touch of Sam's rough fingers against his nipples once again drew a soft moan from Frodo, and he shifted a bit under Sam's easy touch. This time Sam did not draw back; instead, he continued the soothing massage, now using his fingers to gently rub and caress the sensitive flesh. Frodo's head tilted back against the cold rock, his breath coming in soft hitches. Sam's hands, slick with soap and water, traveled down to Frodo's belly, rubbing and easing the muscles there before sliding around his waist and caressing his back. It brought them closer together, and Frodo could feel Sam's breath against his face as warm, rough hands stroked his back.
The feel of Sam's warm breath was too much. Frodo closed the distance between them and pressed a gentle kiss against Sam's mouth. Sam groaned softly, his own desire unmistakable in the sound. He leaned into Frodo, deepening the kiss as his wet hands traveled further up Frodo's back, loving his master's body as Frodo wrapped his own arms around him.
Unexpectedly, Sam's hands brushed against the Ring that now rested against Frodo's back. Frodo's reaction was immediate. He uttered an inarticulate cry, his gentle hands turning to claws against Sam's chest. Sam pulled back quickly, his eyes flashing with alarm as he realized what his wandering hands had encountered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo!" he cried, fear at his master's reaction cascading through him.
Frodo's hands shoved Sam further away, a voice that seemed not his own coming from his lips. "How dare you! How dare you touch It!" he seethed, spitting the words out.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I just forgot about It, is all," Sam's apology tumbled out in a rush.
Frodo's anger stilled at Sam's words; as quickly as it had come, it was replaced with something akin to wonder. "You.... you.... forgot about It?" His voice trembled; such a thing seemed unfathomable.
"Yes, sir, seemingly. I guess I was just thinking about...other things." Sam's voice betrayed his embarrassment.
"Oh, Sam. Oh, I'm sorry. It's just...I didn't mean to. How many times...oh, Sam. How I hate It!" Frodo's voice broke over the last words; he buried his face in his hands and cried.
The sound of Frodo's sobs brought Sam quickly back to his side. "It's all right. No harm done, now. I know it weren't you talking, not truly. It's naught to cry about, Mr. Frodo. Please, don't cry—you'll just get me started, and then where will we be?" Sam reached out to cautiously place a hand against the back of Frodo's neck, nestled in dark curls.
Frodo managed to halt his sobs, but his face remained buried in his hands. He was grateful that Sam's hand remained on his neck, gently massaging there, and Frodo found that he was reluctant to do anything that might disturb his friend's touch. His mouth still tingled from the kiss, and he ached to realize that he had hurt Sam yet again; the hesitation in Sam's touch now seemed to hurt all the more because of the shared intimacy of the kiss.
Sam's words tumbled over and over in his mind: I just forgot about It, is all. What a wondrous, incredible thing—that holding Frodo, that kissing him, could make Sam forget the Ring. For a few brief moments in Sam's arms, the Ring had even ceased to dominate his own thoughts. Sam's tender touches had somehow managed to lift that weight from his mind, and until Sam had inadvertently touched It, Frodo's senses had been filled only with love and desire. The knowledge that Sam could do such a thing to him stirred the first feeling of hope that he had felt in many long days.
As Frodo lifted his head to meet his friend's eyes, Sam's hand drifted from Frodo's neck to his shoulder, and encountered a film of drying soap. "Oh, this won't do! I never even got the soap off you, Mr. Frodo. That can't feel good. I'm sorry about that, sir."
Frodo managed a wistful smile that he didn't really feel, hoping that Sam could see it in the darkness. "No need to be sorry, dear Sam; I hadn't even noticed. I'm the one who is sorry, remember?"
"Now, Master, there's naught to be sorry for, as I said. You just let your Sam finish getting you cleaned up, and I'll be more careful this time." Sam started to rise, but before he did, he let his hand slide up to rest against the side of Frodo's face. Frodo leaned into the touch, feeling the rekindling of a desire he thought had fled. He reached up to cup Sam's hand with his own for a moment, trying to tell him without words that his touch was welcome. Sam smiled then; Frodo could barely discern his features in the darkness, but he could see it in the lightening of his eyes. After a few moments Sam gently pulled away, and said, "Let me get some fresh water, and I'll get you fixed right up." He took the cooking pot over to the pool, and Frodo could hear the soft splashing as Sam emptied the soapy water and refilled the pot. This he quickly brought back to Frodo's side, and resumed his position facing his master.
Once more, Sam's sure hands again moved over Frodo's body. Frodo rested his head against the rock again, closing his eyes in surrender. True to his word, Sam's hands ventured nowhere near the Ring, which had slipped around to rest against Frodo's breast. Sam moved deftly in the chill air, and he then wrapped his own cloak tightly around Frodo's body, his hands lingering in a gentle caress before drawing back. "Thank you, Sam," Frodo whispered. "That felt wonderful."
"You're welcome, Master." Sam's voice seemed a bit unsure. "Should I..." His voice trailed off, the question incomplete.
Frodo lifted his head and opened his eyes. He felt the loss of Sam's hands on his body like a wound. He knew that Sam would deny him nothing, but he did not feel it was within his right to ask him to continue. He answered Sam's unspoken question gently, allowing the decision to rest with his companion. "You may, Sam, but only if you want. It will be dawn soon; perhaps the rest of the bath could wait."
Sam paused thoughtfully before he spoke. "I should finish tonight, I think, Mr. Frodo, if you feel up to it, that is. I think perhaps you will rest a bit better afterward." Sam's words showed his intent, but still he hesitated to reach for his master.
Frodo felt Sam's doubt; their earlier actions turned the necessity of removing Frodo's breeches into something quite intimate, and he knew that Sam was uncertain what to do next. Frodo was unsure as well, but he knew that he longed for Sam's touch, for the only thing that could lift his burden, could make him feel again. Frodo started to reach for the ties at the top of his breeches, but by then Sam had decided on a different course of action and didn't notice. Without a word, Sam slid himself and the pot of water next to Frodo's dirt-caked feet. He dipped the cloth in the water and soaped it, and began to wash Frodo's tired feet and calves.
When Sam's strong hands returned to his skin, Frodo felt the lessening of the weight against his chest. His feet were sore and bruised, and Sam's touch was achingly gentle, almost—but not quite—reverent. He washed the worst of the dirt away, and his deft gardener's fingers returned to massage away some of the soreness. A small gasp escaped Frodo as Sam kneaded a particularly tender spot on the ball of his foot. Sam looked up quickly. "Am I hurting you, Master?" His features weren't visible, but his soft voice betrayed his concern.
Somehow those simple words went straight to Frodo's heart. His voice broke on the reply. "No, Sam, you could never hurt me." Regret and shame gnawed at him; how many times have I hurt you?
Sam heard the pain in Frodo's reply. "Master, it weren't you," he said again. "You could never hurt me."
Frodo was helpless to stop the sobs that once again wracked his body. "Sam...Sam..." He tried to speak, to somehow give voice to the feelings of regret and love and unworthiness intermingled inside him, but found no words.
Sam moved to gather Frodo in his arms. Frodo came willingly, burying his head against Sam's warm shoulder. Sam murmured nonsensical words of comfort to his master as he stroked his back with one hand and held his head with the other. His own tears fell into Frodo's dark curls. They stayed like that for long minutes, Frodo's slight frame shaking against him.
When Frodo's trembling finally stopped, Sam gently lifted his master's head from his shoulder and gazed into his red-rimmed blue eyes. "Frodo." Tears streaked his own face, but his voice was quiet and sure. "Frodo, it weren't you. You've no call for feeling bad about anything. This..." his hand waved in a vague indication of the object at Frodo's chest, "this is the cause of it all. You've done nothing—nothing save to bear this wretched thing further than anyone ought. You are still you, Mr. Frodo. Don't forget that. Don't let It make you believe otherwise. It can't make you become something you aren't. I won't let It." Sam uttered the last words with surprising force; his hands remained gentle against his master's face, but his eyes blazed with hatred for the Ring and for what it had done to Frodo.
Frodo looked into his dear Sam's tear-streaked face and heard his earlier words again: I just forgot about It, is all. He felt an aching need to forget, if only for a few precious moments. He lifted his mouth to Sam's cheeks and tenderly kissed away the tears that still lingered there. He spoke then with naked emotion, letting Sam see in his eyes all that he usually kept hidden. "You hold me here, dearest Sam. You are my love and my strength. Without you, I would long ago have been within Its grasp." With those words, Frodo pressed his lips once again to Sam's mouth.
Sam's body trembled in Frodo's embrace, and he gently pressed back, tenderly touching Frodo's lips with his tongue. Frodo easily parted his lips to allow Sam's tongue to slip inside, and soft sounds came from his throat as Sam explored his mouth. He gently slid his own tongue inside Sam's mouth, answering his body's need to be even closer. He felt as though something in his heart might burst.
They were both breathless when the kiss finally broke. Frodo searched Sam's eyes, and saw his own desire reflected there. Still, he had to ask. "Sam...was that...all right?"
Sam groaned low in his throat. "More than all right, I'd daresay. Much more." With that, Sam leaned in and kissed Frodo softly again. This kiss didn't linger as long as the last one, however. Sam's hands, which had been caressing Frodo's back, soon found their way to the fastenings of his master's breeches. "Let me just finish getting you cleaned up, now," his voice rasped over the words as he fumbled to remove the breeches. When Frodo moved to help him, Sam gently but firmly stayed his hands. "Let me. Please."
Sam carefully bared his master's lower body. "Oh..." His gaze swept over Frodo from his curly head to his feet, and the beginning of dawn in the sky revealed his master's beauty. "So beautiful," Sam whispered, unaware that he had spoken aloud. He took up the washcloth once again, and began to stroke Frodo's pale thighs. Frodo tilted his head back against the stone, exposing his neck. Sam leaned forward and gently kissed the hollow of Frodo's throat as he continued to rub his master's legs with the washcloth and his free hand.
Frodo felt the warm touch of Sam's tongue at his throat and moaned softly. The desire in that sound caused Sam to toss the washcloth aside, now using only his hands to stroke his master's thighs. Sam's mouth traced a path up Frodo's throat to his lips even as his hands caressed ever upward along sensitive skin, until finally Sam clasped that hard silken need firmly in his damp hand. There he stilled, desperately wanting to give his master pleasure, but needing some sign of his welcome there. "Frodo?" he whispered against his friend's lips.
Frodo's body shook almost violently with need and desire. "Please," he moaned into Sam's hot mouth, that single word sending a jolt of arousal through Sam that he could feel down to his toes.
Sam needed no further encouragement. While his own erection strained desperately against his breeches, he began to stroke his master with gentle sureness. Frodo pressed upward against Sam's strong hand, making small sounds that Sam caught in his own mouth. His eyes were closed tightly, and Sam could feel the thrumming of his heart even through the cloak that was still wrapped around his chest. His master's pleasure was so dear to him that Sam felt the sensations almost as if they were his own, and he could not suppress a groan from deep within his throat.
Frodo's hand lay clenched against Sam's side, but at that needy sound he slid his hand down to Sam's groin, pressing against the hardness there with surprising strength. Frodo's other hand tightened almost painfully in the curls that lay against Sam's neck, and the slight movement of his hips caused Sam to increase the rhythm of his strokes.
Frodo soon surged upward into Sam's touch with a gasp, his body shaking in release. The feel of his master's warm pleasure against his hand urged Sam over the edge, and he pushed strongly against Frodo's hand as his body shook with his own release.
Frodo slid further down the rocks, carrying Sam with him, until they lay prone together, arms wrapped around each other and legs entangled. They remained this way for long moments, wordlessly kissing and caressing each other as they waited for their hearts to slow. It was Sam who first found his voice. "Well, Mr. Frodo, it looks as if I might be needing another bath," he whispered wryly.
He could feel Frodo's answering smile against his mouth. "Me, too, Sam. Though I don't regret it."
"Oh, I can't say as I regret it either, Master. Not at all, in fact." Sam paused, brushing Frodo's curls gently back from his fair face. "You are so beautiful to me," he whispered, his voice soft as a caress and his eyes filled with wonder and amazement at what had happened.
"And you to me," Frodo answered in the same tone.
Sam pressed his lips tenderly against his master for a moment, and with a sigh of regret disentangled and sat up. "Well, tempting as it is not to move for the rest of the day, I've found that cleaning up don't often get done unless someone does it," he muttered, reaching for the washcloth. Rising, he took the washcloth back to the pool and rinsed it. Returning to his master's side, he gently cleaned Frodo's groin and belly, and then hastily—and with a little embarrassment—untied his own breeches and cleaned himself.
Sam then retrieved the blankets from his pack and sat down next to Frodo, intending to cover him with them. Instead, his eyes widened in surprise as he discovered Frodo's fingers at the buttons of his shirt. "Here, Sam, I've an idea," Frodo said softly, as he removed the shirt. Frodo bundled both Sam's and his own shirt up into makeshift pillows, then unrolled one blanket and, gently moving Sam aside, laid it on the rough ground. He lay back on top of the blanket and reached his arms out to Sam. "No watch today, Sam. Gollum will no doubt be gone for some time, and even if he returns, he will not harm us. We take our chances together." Sam was instantly in his arms, their bare chests pressed together as he encircled Frodo with his own arms. Frodo reached for the blanket, and with some shifting managed to wrap them both in it. His face was buried in the crook of Sam's neck, and he kissed Sam gently along his jaw. "Thank you, Sam. For everything."
"You are welcome. For everything." Sam pressed a tender kiss against Frodo's curls and sighed contentedly. "Rest well, Mr. Frodo."
"And you, love."
"Love..." Sam repeated the word thoughtfully, his heart soaring. "Yes. That's it. Rest well, love." He tightened his arms around his dear master.
They fell asleep wrapped in each other, warm and content in this dark land, and between their bodies the Ring hung on its silver chain, forgotten.
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Eye of the Beholder by Crazyx4
Story notes: The inspiration for this comes from Victoria Bitter's wonderful story "Clean." While "Clean" went from fluff to angst, I have tried to do the reverse here. If you have not read "Clean," you should do so posthaste, even though it has nothing to do with this vignette, save for inspiration. It's just that good.
