A New Road and Secret Gate by Gwendelyn Lee

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Story notes: Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a beautiful piece of Artwork by Trillah, entitled Window Kiss

Feedback is always appreciated! However, all flames will be read, laughed at, and used to cook myself some yummy pasta.
I was doing it again. I've told myself I need to stop more times than I can count, and then I find myself in the act again. I'll be sitting, reading or writing, facing a window. I'll look up, for no reason or every reason, and see Sam. And commence in doing what I have sworn I will not. Stare at him.

It won't matter what he's doing; standing, sitting, walking, or weeding. My eyes will be fixed and only with the greatest effort of willpower will I be able to pull them away. Luckily, he never notices.

I remember the first time it happened. Sam had been barely a tween, twenty-one to be precise. I was about to come of age. Uncle Bilbo had sent me to ask Sam a question, and I'd leaned out the window to do just that, when I froze. He'd been clipping away at a fruit tree, trimming it back carefully. I could do nothing but stare.

I must've for quite some time, because the next thing I knew, Uncle Bilbo had come bustling in, wanting an answer. He saw what I was doing immediately, and dragged me off by my ear, telling me I'd have to wait until Sam was older. I hadn't understood at first, but I slowly began to realize.

I began to realize why he was all I thought of, from the time I woke to the time I drifted to sleep. Why no one could make me smile the way he could. Why I could not be happy if he was upset. And I also began to realize Sam had grown.

I remember the first time I met Sam. I was twenty-one then, and he was just nine. Barely a little Sam-child, if you will, all rosy and bright eyed. I had just come to live with Uncle Bilbo then, and was coming up the path to meet the Gaffer's youngest son, the gardener who'd be looking after me if I chose to stay in Bag End.

He did not see me until I was nearly upon him, so absorbed he was already in some small growing thing. I said hello, and introduced myself. He stood up quickly, flustered, bowing. I chuckled, and told him no, if anything he would not bow.

We were quickly fast friends, dashing all over the Hobbiton, and I felt like I could tell him anything. Other hobbits of my age laughed, thinking Sam much to young and I much to old for our companionship to amount to much. But Uncle Bilbo understood. He said our friendship was something to be treasured, especially if I was to keep on in Bag End permanently, under the care of my Samwise Gamgee.

I laugh now, at how even then I'd called Sam mine. As if he was something I could own. But I note, in that laughter, a certain sense of remorse. A realization that I do, in a way, own my poor Sam. That he takes such good care of me; he would do anything for me if he felt I would be happier for it. Therefore, I cannot mention it to him. I will not put him through that. I may pay Sam's wages, but he is not my slave.

I think of how long I have spent watching him. Nearly nine years now. Far too long, really, to watch someone without something happening. Without some confirmation or denial of one's deepest, most desired hopes. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when it happened.




His eyes were on my back; I could feel them. I could always feel them. Yet something in me told me not to do anything. Not to turn, not to let on that I knew. So I didn't. I never did. I first felt his eyes years ago, too many years really. And still he thinks he is secret, sly. He never has been very aware of himself.

It never ceases to amaze me, that he realizes so little about himself. He has yet to notice, for example, just how beautiful he is. I imagine he looks a bit like the Elves would, pale and fair, all sharp lines and soft skin. But perhaps the Elves would be a bit taller. The contrast caused by his midnight black curls falling onto his forehead is enough to take my breath away. He doesn't see the way all the lasses look at him, neither, all full of longing and wonder. But none of them can look him in the eye.

It's his eyes, really, that make him so beautiful. The way the blue radiates out of them, and you can't look for too long, for fear of falling and drowning. He is a rare thing in the Shire, all pale skin, dark hair, and light eyes. Most unusual for a hobbit. And he doesn't seem to realize.

When I first met him, I was so young. He'd seemed so big then, even if he only had twenty-one years to his name. It was twelve more than I, and he seemed far too old to take any interest in me. So when he first walked up the path that morning, I ignored him, thinking he'd just walk right past me to my Gaffer.

I was more than surprised when his shadow fell across me, and did not move. I looked up, right into those deep blue eyes, and realized he had not thrown his shadow over me at all. The sun had merely been outshone. It was then that I first loved him, even if I had been too small to understand what I felt. As I grew, so did my feelings for Mr. Frodo, and I soon realized there was no one else I could ever love as much as him.

But if there was one lesson my Gaffer had pounded into me as a child, it was to never forget my place. To remember that while Mr. Frodo and I were friends, I was still first and fore most his servant. And I knew quite clearly that acting on what I felt for him would be overstepping my station. So never, ever, did I say anything.

Besides, Mr. Frodo didn't exactly seem interested in romance. He never talked about lasses; nor for that matter, about lads. He did nothing but roll his eyes and chuckle softly that day he walked in on little Merry and Pippin, behaving quite indecently and unashamedly on my poor master's couch.

That's why I'll never know why I did what I did just then. He was still watching me, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I let my guard get much too far down. I had finished the task at hand and stood, brushing the dirt from my trousers, and turned. Almost before I realized what was happening, I had turned around completely, locking eyes with Mr. Frodo. There were unbearably blue, even from clear across the garden.

It took him a moment to understand that I had seen him, but when it sunk in, his face turned as ripe as a fresh tomato, and he looked back to his book quickly, eyes wide. I felt my feet carrying me to his window, even as I told myself to go back the other way. He seemed to grow more and more flustered as I approached.

"Mr. Frodo?" I heard myself ask weakly.




When he looked up at me, it took a moment for it to register that I actually shouldn't have been watching. I looked back to my book, which had lain, forgotten, on my lap. My face felt much too hot. Then he spoke. His voice was unsure, tentative.

"Mr. Frodo?" he asked me.

I sighed, composing myself, then stood up. "Yes, Sam?" I answered.

"Was I," he paused, insecure, "Was I doing something wrong, sir?"

"Wrong? Oh no, not at all. You were doing beautifully," I knew I was red then, I hadn't meant to say that at all. I tried to look casual, leaning my forearms on the windowsill. "You were doing very well," I continued, struggling to sound natural.

He blushed a little. I stood a little straighter. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo," he said to me, his voice wavering slightly. I couldn't help but wonder what had gotten into my Sam.

"Sam," I questioned, concerned, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, sir," he said too quickly, his eyes searching the ground.

"Now Samwise," I said, amazed that my voice was so solid, "It's no good telling me that, I know you far too well. What's the matter? And don't say nothing."

He suddenly seemed very interested in the way the grass grew under his feet. "'Twas nothing, sir," he repeated, "Just..."

He trailed off. I eyed him critically, "Just what?"

"I was just noticing that you looked beautiful today," he said all in a whoosh. Then his eyes grew wide as saucers, his face flushed, and he began to back away.




I don't know why I said it. And as soon as I had, I wished I hadn't. He was staring at me, wide eyed. I wondered what he was thinking. More than likely, this would be the last time I ever saw Frodo Baggins. But then, knowing him, he'd probably still keep me on as a gardener; I just wouldn't be invited to any more afternoon walks or suppers.

At the realization of what I'd let slip (and only because his questioning had fluttered my nerves, mind you) I began to back away. But he was having none of that.

"What did you say, Samwise?" his voice was breathless, his cheeks colored slightly.

A very strange little bubble of courage rose in me, and my voice was stronger when I repeated, "I said you look very beautiful today."

I wondered what he'd do. Would he yell in anger, snort in disgust? Perhaps he'd just calmly ask I leave. Maybe he'd laugh at my foolishness.

"I thought you had," his voice was low and soft. Here it came, and I braced myself for whatever reaction he would give me. A small light seemed to flicker on behind his eyes. He looked up, and said the last thing I had expected him to say. "Did you mean that?" he asked.

Ridiculous Mr. Frodo, of course I had! "Well, yes."

And if I had thought his question was the least expected thing he could have done, I was very quickly proved wrong.




My head was spinning. Sam thought I was beautiful. Sam, who, with his skin tan from work and eyes the color of honey, was the picture of perfection in all things Hobbit, thought I, the skinny, pale Hobbit, was beautiful! And from the way he was looking at me, I didn't think him untruthful.

I felt my arm reach out, deftly acquiring a hold on the front of his work shirt. I pulled him near quickly, leaning my head out of the round window. He was suddenly very, very close. I could feel his breath, coming in unsteady gasps, puffing warmly against my cheek.

I heard a voice say, "No, you're that beautiful one, Sam," and realized it was mine.

Now he was even nearer, his nose practically touching mine. It sent little thrills up and down my spine, each one in time to Sam's heartbeat. The gap between us shut gently, and his lips were soft on mine, featherlike and timid.




I couldn't believe it! I wondered if perhaps I hadn't fallen asleep in the garden, and all this was naught but a dream. It certainly was a good one. Without thinking, I reached up, my fingers worrying the curls on either side of his neck. He leaned into me more as I did this, our eyes sliding shut of their own accord, the lightness of the kiss replaced by a solidity no dream could fabricate.

We must have stood there for several minutes, out lips moving slowly, hands fixed, until we slowly pulled apart, gasping and flushed. A nervous smile spread over Mr. Frodo's face.

"I'm very glad you said that, Sam," he whispered to me, and his voice was pitched slightly lower than I could remember ever having heard it before.

"So am I," I heard myself say, the same warm grin spread over my own features, I'm sure. In that moment, with his cheeks pink, and his lips slightly swollen, a light dancing in the wells of blue he had the audacity to call eyes, he looked more beautiful than ever. And, upon deciding hesitation could be a very bad thing, I told him just that.



Finis.
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