Title: After the Passing
Author: Nienna Calaquendi (nienna_calaquendi@yahoo.com)
Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Archiving: List yes, others please ask
Summary: A chance encounter, a story about elves, a cold night, and
warm hobbits.
Author's Notes: Written in response to the new scene "The Passing of
the Elves" on the FoTR extended DVD. I was horribly disappointed at the
lack of Frodo/Sam interaction after that lovely shot of them peeking
out at the elves. PJ didn't even let them snuggle together. <pout> 
This is my remedy for that situation.
Disclaimer: I acknowledge that someone other than myself holds the
copyright to these characters. No profit has been made from this story.



A haunting, otherworldly melody like the chiming of tiny bells drifted
faintly through the dense woods. Frodo, nestled snugly in the crotch of
an ancient oak, looked up from his book, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Sam--wood elves!" he exclaimed.

"Elves?" Sam echoed, looking up from his cooking, a small clay pipe
held fast between his teeth.
Frodo slid quickly from his perch. "Come on!"

Thoughts of dinner suddenly forgotten, they scrambled downhill, through
the thickest part of the old forest and toward the little-used West
road. Although once a main trade thoroughfare, it had dwindled to
nothing more than a faint dirt track. Now, however, the area around the
road glowed with reflected light in the dusk, though no torches were to
be seen. A company of elves, some mounted on white horses, some afoot,
slowly made their way west, singing as they went. They carried brightly
decorated banners bearing symbols Frodo recognized from Bilbo's books
of lore.

Sam caught Frodo's arm and pulled him to the mossy ground, sheltering
behind a fallen tree. 
"They're going to the harbor beyond the White Towers, to the Grey
Havens," Frodo said quietly. 
Sam crouched, transfixed, wonderment etched on his face. "They're
leavin' Middle-earth," he murmured, a trace of a question in his voice.
Frodo nodded, "Never to return."

One of the passing elves suddenly looked up as if he had heard their
voices, his sharp eyes scanning the forest's edge. His steps slowed,
then he paused. The two hobbits ducked down behind the log, unafraid
but not wishing to be caught spying. The elf raised one graceful hand
in greeting, then smiled softly and continued on his way.

"I don't know why...it makes me sad," Sam said thoughtfully once the
company had passed. Finding that he still held his pipe, Sam re-lit it,
drew a deep puff, and offered it shyly to Frodo. "Knowin' that they're
leaving forever," he explained, sounding regretful. "That one day there
won't be no more elves in Middle-earth. And if that ain't sad, I don't
know what is." 

Frodo accepted the pipe and drew on it in silence. "You do know the
story of why they go over the sea, don't you, Sam?"

"I reckon I've heard bits and pieces of it enough times, from you and
from Mr. Bilbo, but I don't know that I rightly understand the 'why' of
it, if you follow."

Frodo smiled, handing back the pipe. "In that case, I suggest a story
by the fire--but *after* dinner, since that tale is a long one." He
rose and extended a hand to help Sam up. After the briefest hesitation,
Sam wrapped his larger, callused hand around Frodo's and scrambled to
his feet.


"Many, many years ago, too many even to count, the first elves awoke
under the stars in Middle-earth, in the land of Beleriand that now lies
under the waves," Frodo began in his storytelling voice. Dusk had
rapidly turned to nightfall and the merrily crackling fire was welcome
against the growing autumn chill. He sat cross-legged while Sam
stretched out nearby on his blankets, pipe close at hand, settling in
for the tale with a rapt look on his face.

"Across the sea was Aman, home of the Valar, the high powers of good
that watch over all life. But the elves did not have Middle-earth all
to themselves, for a dark force was already at work here. Melkor, who
had been counted with the Valar before he rebelled, desired power for
himself. He began to capture and torment the elves and spread fear
among them.

"The Valar took counsel and decided that they must protect the elves
from Melkor. Their forces assaulted his stronghold and captured and
imprisoned him. Then they decreed that all the elves should cross the
sea to dwell in the Blessed Realm where no further danger could
threaten them. Of the various clans of the elves, some agreed to do
this right away, and some refused altogether, and some started the
journey to the sea but never reached it."

Frodo paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "You know, Sam, I've always
wanted to see the Undying Lands, from the first time Bilbo told me
stories about the elder days. It's not just a myth, he'd say, but a
real place where only elves can go." He smiled. "How lovely, to be
surrounded by peace and beauty and contentment until the unmaking of
the world."

"And elves, sir. Surrounded by elves, too." 	

Frodo couldn't help but smile at Sam's enthusiasm. "Of course,
especially elves. Well, eventually, many of the clans settled in Aman
and more countless years passed. Then two things happened that changed
the course of the world forever. First, Melkor was freed by the Valar,
who believed him to be repentant, but he had not changed. He set about
spreading lies and rumors to turn the elves against one another and
encouraged them to rebel against the Valar. Then Feanor, one of the
greatest craftsmen ever known amongst the Firstborn, created three
priceless jewels known as the Silmarils. They were such a great
treasure that Melkor wanted to possess them at any cost. He stole the
Silmarils and escaped back to Middle-earth. Feanor and his sons swore
an oath of revenge and led many of their people in pursuit of
Melkor--who became known from that time on as Morgoth, the Black
Enemy--against the express command of the Valar."

He took a sip from his water bottle, his face growing solemn. A brisk
breeze stirred the treetops as Sam stacked a few more branches onto the
fire. "That oath caused a great deal of trouble in its keeping. Feanor
and his followers murdered some of their kin in their rage and were
banished from Aman. They became exiles, and when they met up with the
elves that had never left Middle-earth, there was more strife and
conflict."

Frodo stopped to spread his bedroll and stretched out on his stomach,
cradling his chin in his hand. He glanced over at Sam who was watching
him intently, his brow furrowed. 

"I really am getting to why the elves go over the sea, Sam. You see,
throughout the First Age, the elves fought against Morgoth and his
servants--Sauron among them--and Feanor's sons continued to seek the
Silmarils. There was open war off and on, and great, devastating
battles. Men came into the world, and some befriended the elves and
some stood with the Enemy. Finally, when it seemed that Morgoth would
prevail at last, the Valar interceded once again on behalf of the
elves. In that last war, the War of Wrath, the Valar defeated Morgoth
and he was cast into the Void forever. At that time, too, Beleriand was
broken and covered by the waters until only Lindon remained.

"In the years following the war, great fleets of ships carried many of
the elves, both the exiles and the others, west to Aman, though some
still resisted leaving Middle-earth. It is said that those who stayed
were unwilling to forsake the lands for which they had fought and
suffered so long. But to this day, those elves who grow weary of these
shores are allowed to cross the seas to the Blessed Realm and find
peace at last." 

He fell silent, staring absently out into the deep blackness of the
woods. Encountering the elves, and the story-telling after, had
provided a much-needed respite from fear and worry. For a few stolen
minutes he had completely forgotten about the Ring and the dangerous
road ahead of them. But with the story over, the ominous reality of
their situation flooded back into his mind. 

"See, I said before that it was sad, and so it is," Sam declared,
rolling onto his side to face Frodo.

Frodo shook his head, dark ringlets spilling forward to frame his face.
"But it isn't, not really," he replied. "Not when you think of it as if
they're going *home,* after long difficult years here in Middle-earth.
Leaving all the sorrows of the mortal world behind." 

Frodo could almost hear Sam thinking; his stubborn conviction seemed to
waver and ebb as he considered the idea. When he finally spoke, it was
with a touch of grudging agreement. "Well, I reckon I ain't never
looked at it that way before, sir."

"But you're not altogether wrong, either, Sam. I just don't know if sad
is the right word for the elves now... bittersweet, perhaps," he mused.
"Feeling neither complete joy at what lies before them nor complete
sadness about what they leave behind."

"Sounds like what Mr. Bilbo would call a bad case of mixed feelin's," 

Frodo shot him a surprised look. "Yes, indeed. And he'd also say that
sometimes mixed feelings are the worst kind."

Sam felt his face redden and was grateful for the darkness and the
short distance that separated them. For once he was caught speechless,
the chance remark hitting a little too close to home. 

"With the elves, I think they began to look at things differently, as
the years passed in Middle-earth," Frodo said slowly. "And I would
think changing one's mind would be a much longer process for them than
for hobbits, for instance."

Sam chuckled at that. "Some hobbits I know change their minds like the
weather."

"And some never change their minds at all," Frodo smiled as if at a
fond memory. "Again, it comes down to seeing things differently, and
that, I think, can be a frightening thing." His brow wrinkled, and when
he spoke again it was almost to himself. "A little shift in perspective
can transform everything around you."

He glanced up to find Sam watching him closely, and for a drawn-out
moment he returned the searching look. Then Sam lowered his eyes,
embarrassed and suddenly anxious to fill the weighty silence. "This has
been a most surprisin' week," he remarked, "Takin' off with you at a
minute's notice, goin' farther away from home than I ever been before,
and then *elves,* sir. You know how much I wanted to see elves." 

"Yes, more than anything, you said."

"And 'twas true when we set out. But now that I've seen 'em..." he
stopped, considering. "Well, I reckon I didn't expect to find them so
soon. Or to feel so sad about them, seemingly. See, there I go changin'
my mind, too."

Frodo nodded, picking distractedly at his shirt's cuff. "Since your
wish has come true already, do you still want to come with me to Bree?"

"I haven't changed my mind about that!" Sam sounded surprised and a
little hurt. "I'm here to help you and look after you, and Mr. Gandalf
would have my hide if I let you go on alone." He turned his face away.
"And besides, if I did that, I couldn't live with myself nohow."

"Sam," Frodo said softly, "Look at me." He did not continue until Sam
raised diffident eyes to his. "I hope that you're here because you want
to be, not because of Gandalf or anything else."  

Sam swallowed hard before he replied, "That I am."

"I can't tell you..." Frodo made an effort to steady his voice before
continuing. "I can't tell you how happy I am that you've come with me."

Sam nodded. Neither moved nor spoke for another thoughtful moment. "I
suppose we should get some rest," Sam finally said, hesitantly.

"Yes, I suppose," Frodo agreed, quiet-voiced, dropping his eyes to
study the weave of his blanket with great interest. 

Sam rolled over onto his back and began shifting around on his
blankets, while Frodo turned away and curled up on his side, attempting
to sort out his suddenly jumbled thoughts. Minutes later Sam was still
squirming.

"Everywhere I lie there's a dirty, great root stickin' into my back,"
he muttered fretfully. 

"Just shut your eyes and imagine you're back in your own bed, with a
soft mattress and a lovely feather pillow," Frodo murmured in a
soothing voice, eyes closed, wishing he could take his own advice. 

Sam continued to fidget. "It's not working, Mr. Frodo. I'm never going
to be able to sleep out here," he sighed.

"Me neither, Sam." A cricket chirped close by, punctuating the waiting
hush. Frodo's eyes flew open on a wishful thought, a small comfort
against fear and cold, if only... He drew a deep, shaky breath before
asking, "Would you come over here next to me?"

Sam abruptly became so still and silent that Frodo almost could believe
he had fallen asleep after all. Although he had tried to keep his voice
level and neutral, the request had come out sounding like somewhat more
than just an invitation to find a softer spot on which to sleep.
Inwardly he cringed, wishing he could call back the impulsive words
that had all too easily revealed his inner longing.

"Sam?" 

"Sir?" 

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

"Did you mean it?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then don't be sorry, sir, beggin' your pardon." Frodo turned over at
the sound of rustling movement to find Sam gathering his bedroll. With
a look on his face that reflected something akin to hope tinged with
fear, he crossed the short distance to where Frodo lay, but then seemed
at a loss.

"Here, Sam," Frodo said gently, "Spread your blanket right here and lie
down," and gestured to the ground just next to him. Sam knelt, seeming
unwilling to meet Frodo's eyes, but did as he was told. When he had
stretched out comfortably, Frodo shifted toward him slightly and
extended the edge of his top blanket. "We'll be warmer if we share," he
offered.

"Oh, aye," Sam sounded a little flustered, but moved closer and then
spread his own blanket over the top. "That's better."

"No tree roots there?" Frodo asked with a hint of a smile in his voice,
though his face remained serious.

"No sir, no roots here."

"That's good, then."

They settled down with less than an arm's reach between them, nestled
cozily against the night's growing chill. Frodo searched Sam's face for
his response to what should have seemed a strange request, but found
only the usual gentle acceptance there--along with an edge of keen
interest as he waited for Frodo to speak. Certainly he didn't look
ready to fall asleep, not now.

Frodo expected that his turmoil and conflicting emotions showed all too
clearly in his expressive eyes as he groped to find the right words for
what he needed to say. "Sam." He drew a deep breath. "You've been my
best friend for as long as I can remember. And I appreciate you more
than you know, truly..." He paused to let a shiver of nervousness pass
before continuing. "Do you remember what I said a little while ago,
about looking at things differently?"

Sam nodded wordlessly, his warm hazel eyes fixed attentively on
Frodo's.

"That has been happening to me ever since we started this journey. I
realize that I've taken far too much for granted. Things I never would
have questioned a week ago are all changed now." He had to look away,
gazing off into blackness rather than meeting Sam's unwavering eyes any
longer.

"Aye, Mr. Frodo," Sam spoke softly into the lengthening silence. "Go
on."

Frodo knotted his fingers distractedly in the woolen blanket. "I think
about Bag End, simple little everyday things, and how far away it seems
already. Bilbo in his study, scratching away at his writings, and you,
Sam, you would be in the gardens, whistling or singing perhaps," he
said with a little wistful smile. "I realize now, looking back, that I
always knew exactly where you worked. And... sometimes I would watch
you."  Sam's face did not show even a flicker of surprise at this
revelation, he noted.

Frodo paused, weighing his nervously quickening pulse against his need
to explain the enormity of the transformation at work in him. "I never
expected those things to change, but they have. *Everything* has. Bilbo
is gone, and I don't know if I shall ever see him again." His voice
constricted around the sudden lump in his throat and he feared for a
moment that he couldn't go on. "And you...you've come with me on this
fool's errand, in the face of who knows what dangers, and I wonder at
your reasons, and I know that over these past few days I've begun to
see you differently, too," he finished in a breathless rush. There, it
was out. Frodo sighed, oddly relieved to find that he no longer felt as
if he were concealing a guilty secret. 

Sam looked thoughtful, remaining quiet for a long moment as he studied
Frodo's face, a bright spot in the darkness. When he finally spoke, he
chose his words with great care. "I would *never* have let you do this
thing alone, sir," he said slowly. "Per'aps Gandalf knew that--who
knows what a wizard sees--but if he hadn't chose me to come with you, I
would have followed you just the same. Whether you wanted me to or no."

Frodo felt suddenly as if he stood poised at the edge of a great cliff,
compelled to step off despite his fear. "And why would you do such a
foolish thing, Samwise Gamgee?" he asked in an unsteady voice,
anticipating but almost afraid of the answer.

"Cause home wouldn't be home without you there, sir." 

Sam looked away as if the words were a painful confession, and Frodo
became suddenly, intensely aware of the depth of feelings his friend
struggled to conceal. His own emotions surged as well, tenderness and
hopeless wishing and a wild flutter of irrational hope. Frodo let his
eyes fall shut, hoping to collect himself. When he managed to speak,
the words came out as the barest of whispers: "Come closer."

He did not dare open his eyes, so he missed the range of emotions
playing out on his friend's face: surprise, but not for long, followed
by resolve to do exactly as asked and as quickly as possible. Frodo's
heart skipped a beat at the instant of silence before Sam moved, but
then his lips curved into a small smile. Gentle fingers touched his
cheek and he looked up to find that dear, familiar face just inches
from his. 

Frodo seemed to have suddenly lost his capacity for speech altogether,
but when Sam held out his arms he remembered how to move,
instinctively, snuggling close and dropping his head to Sam's shoulder
with a sigh. Strong arms enveloped him and pulled him close with gentle
protectiveness.

Frodo found it hard to breathe--perhaps it was due to the hammering of
his heart--and he buried his face in Sam's neck, weaving his fingers in
unruly blond curls with a sigh. His companion smelled of soap and
pipeweed, tangible reminders of home, his broad chest warm and
comforting. He whispered against the tender curve of Sam's throat, "I'm
such a fool, Sam. I didn't realize... until now..."

The feel of soft lips brushing feather-light against Sam's neck sent
wave after wave of shivers coursing over his skin, and the dark,
curly-haired head tucked up against his shoulder felt so right it
brought tears unexpectedly to his eyes. He stroked the silky ringlets
with an unsteady hand, and brushed a light kiss against Frodo's
forehead as he murmured, "I never thought, sir, never..." 

All Frodo's fear and inner conflict and wordless inertia were melting
away, dissolved by Sam's solid, reliable presence, and he looked up,
searching those hazel eyes that were now so much closer than usual. "I
can't tell you..."

A callused finger came to rest against his lips, hushing him gently.
"You don't need to." Frodo covered Sam's hand with his own, kissing
each fingertip lightly, delighted to watch his eyes flutter closed at
the sensation. Then Frodo leaner closer still, until their lips were
but a breath apart. A soft brush, tentative, a wordless question for
the space of a heartbeat, answered with a sigh against his cheek. 

Ignoring the trembling of his hands, Frodo cupped Sam's face and
covered his lips fully, a gentle pressure that hardly dared ask for
more. He held himself motionless for what seemed an eternity until the
other hobbit moved diffidently to return the kiss, awkward at first
then quickly becoming more assured. Frodo remembered absently how very
long it had been since he had kissed *anyone*, but only an instant
later it seemed he had been kissing Sam forever; indeed, it seemed like
the most natural thing in the world. 

Sam's mouth parted under his eagerly, drawing him in, seeking more.
Frodo plunged his tongue deep inside, claiming and being claimed in
turn. *Like drowning,* he thought as he belatedly remembered to
breathe, *drowning in kisses*. Gradually they learned each other's
touch and taste, their first hesitant caresses discovering the
previously unknown places where a nibble or soft touch would draw a
gasp or a sigh.

At the back of his mind Frodo was vaguely aware that they should
proceed slowly, if at all, knowing that much was still uncertain and
unspoken, that much was at stake. But his own physical reaction was
undeniable--indeed, he knew that he didn't have the strength to resist
with his mind, for whatever sensible reasons, what he wanted so much
with his heart and body. The sheer intensity of his desire was quickly
sweeping away any lingering rational thought.

"Oh, *Sam*," he whispered breathlessly. "I didn't mean... do you
want...?"

"More'n anything." The reply was equally fervent, though somewhat
muffled by the fact that Sam's face was buried in the other's dark
curls.

Frodo snugged their bodies more closely together, impetuously yanking
his shirttail out of his breeches in an invitation to caress skin
rather than linen. The first touch raised intense, lingering shivers
all over his slender body, and Sam responded by stroking every inch of
skin that he could reach, from the sensitive nape of the other hobbit's
neck down to the barrier formed by the waist of his trousers.

The chill breeze suddenly gusted louder and Sam quickly tucked the
forgotten blanket around Frodo's shoulders. "Are you cold?" he managed
to whisper.

Rather than answering, Frodo shifted his weight to fit their hips
firmly together for the first time, shocking and thrilling them both.
Sam gasped, his eyes fluttering shut, and Frodo brushed moist lips
against his cheek. "I've quite forgotten about the cold, Sam. Haven't
you?"

He might have chuckled at his friend's spluttering inability to reply,
if he had not been so thoroughly distracted himself. The feel of Sam so
close and intimate, his obvious arousal mirroring Frodo's own, was
almost more than he could bear. He captured Sam's mouth again for a
deep, unrelenting kiss and pressed his hips insistently against him,
hard and eager.

Sam's response was quick and unambiguous as he curled a leg
possessively over the slighter hobbit. His hand paused at the small of
Frodo's back before gliding down to cup a firm, rounded cheek, kneading
and squeezing, starting a slow rhythm between them. Frodo moaned
softly, becoming helpless to do anything but kiss Sam desperately and
cling to him. Too soon he surrendered to the intensity of the moment,
tangling slim fingers in thick blond curls as he cried out in sudden,
shuddering release. 

Sam held him close until Frodo could think and breathe once more,
stroking his new lover's finely muscled back with gentle fingers. Quite
beyond words, Frodo buried his face in the other hobbit's neck and
slipped a hand between them, groping for trouser buttons. Sam started
to speak and thought better of it, instead guiding Frodo's hand to the
hard ridge in his breeches. Just a few quick, steady strokes through
the coarse cloth were enough to cause Sam to thrust hard once, twice,
then to bite his lip against the hoarse shout that accompanied his
climax.

The wind whistled through the tops of the trees. Nearby some small
creature rustled through the brush, oblivious. The campfire had died
away to a mere glow of embers, but its heat was no longer needed. Frodo
and Sam lay wrapped in each other's arms, silent, heedless of wet
trousers, hard ground or cold air as they fell into blissful, exhausted
sleep, together--and comfortable--at last. 

end