Title: ALWAYS HOME TO EACH OTHER.
Author: J. Rowanberry.
Email: starlightsong@hotmail.com
Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
Rating: NC17
Summary: This is a sequel to 'Across The Seas And Through The Years.' But I think 
it's easy to follow without having read that first. Sam and Frodo are reunited in the 
Blessed West. TTT & ROTK spoiler warning!!!
Disclaimer: I have the utmost affection and respect for Professor J.R.R Tolkien, 
whose characters and settings these are. I just like writing; don't make any money 
from it, don't want to. 
Warning: This fic includes a description of rape. Also angst, hurt and comfort.
Author Comment: This story is dedicated to Amanda, author of the enchanting 
'Histories Asunder' series, who has given me so much support and encouragement in 
writing it, and who gave it such a thorough beta reading. A considerable task! 
Needless to say, the typos, strange words, and punctuation mistakes that are still there 
are all my own...
Feedback: Yes please, I really appreciate it.

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


PART ONE.

The ocean appeared calm and still as a morning dewpond on that long ago May eve. 
Appeared almost silver in the twilight, frozen, as if in fact it were some ancient ocean 
now stilled forever.  As if, standing there together on the beach, Frodo and Sam could 
have set off on foot, to arrive back in Middle Earth one day and then to their beloved 
Shire. 

Frodo shivered in Sam's arms.  The sky was still turquoise behind them but above it 
was already darkening and scattered with a few early stars.  The hobbits stood in the 
deepening twilight a moment longer, both of them adored watching the ocean.  Then 
they turned together slowly, arm in arm, to walk along the seashore towards the track 
which twisted and turned up from the beach, through the familiar deeply wooded 
valley and, forking left, narrowed to lead to the small wooden house which Frodo and 
Sam shared.  The home that they shared together, so dear to them, nestling in a 
clearing with the wood and the ocean away behind it, and looking westwards across 
woods and hills to blue mountains in the distance.

It was only when their home was in sight that Frodo and Sam noticed anything at all 
unusual.  They had walked up from the beach slowly, hand in hand, pausing to stand 
and kiss each other under the starlit trees, there to disappear into deep grey and green 
shadows. Just another still silhouette, though their soft murmurs and sighs gave them 
away to the woodland creatures around them. When they finally reached the last turn 
of the path to their home, the hobbits stopped still and stared, Sam's mouth dropping 
open slightly.

The way before them twinkled with small copper lanterns, strewn as if they had 
landed where they'd fallen; rich, jewel coloured glass glittering among the leaves and 
branches to either side of the little path.

"Elves," said Sam slowly.

"Yes Sam," and Sam heard the laughter in Frodo's voice as he spoke, "I think that you 
are right love, Elves," he finished softly, matching Sam's slightly solemn tone and 
raising a smile from him. He turned to Frodo, his face a picture of delight. 

"It's beautiful. I shan't forget it lit up like this. The place looks....  looks enchanted. 
Like all of today has been, Fro." Frodo smiled at him, and leaning to him he kissed 
Sam, dipping his tongue to find Sam's for a few moments before inching away and 
smiling at him again.

"Come on, let's go home Sam."

"I'd like that love. Home with you, what a blessing.  I admit I'm still fair taken with 
the beauty and shock of it all sometimes, if you understand me."  Frodo nodded at him 
then, and his eyes shone.

"Yes, I think that I know exactly what you mean. I feel it too. I find myself still... 
sometimes still so surprised to find us able to say even simple things to each other. 
Things like let's go home. I do not think that I shall ever take that for granted." 

And Frodo closed his eyes and sighed then, momentarily, before he felt a soft kiss on 
his brow. The two held each other close, the sky deepening quickly around them and 
the earliest stars now joined by countless others.  When Frodo shivered again Sam 
lifted his cloak to wrap him up warm and he kept his arm around him as they walked 
down the jewel strewn path to their home.

Frodo and Sam had both grown very fond of the little wooden house. It had three 
rooms to it and a small privy at the back. The largest room had their bed in the 
furthest corner from the door, and next to it there was a small window with a wide 
ledge.  The wall was thick on that side and was packed tightly with straw before being 
wattle and daubed on the inside. Opposite the bed was the fireplace, with a low pale 
green sofa and an armchair in front of it by a small oak table. There was also an oak 
dresser in the room, and Frodo's wicker chest full of blankets. 

The smallest room was the study, lined with books and therefore very easily kept cosy 
by the little round woodburning stove in one corner. The kitchen had a large range in 
it with racks above for drying herbs or clothes. They often ate at the table by the 
window there, which looked towards the mountains, or they might sit and peel 
vegetables together. Frodo liked to sit and sketch the ever changing light as it played 
across the valleys and mountains, so fair to look upon in all weathers.

When the hobbits arrived home that night they found small branches of apple blossom 
decorating the rooms inside, all candlelit and warmed by stoves recently stoked and a 
roaring fire in the grate. On their freshly made bed they found two new nightshirts of 
deepest midnight blue linen, with tiny flat buttons made of copper. In their kitchen a 
hot bath had been freshly drawn in the large copper tub and a jug and towels left ready 
for them. There was also a deep blue bottle, labelled simply 'For Bathing' and a green 
one labelled 'For Bathing - Soporific'. Frodo recognised Bilbo's flowing script. His 
uncle had become something of an apothecary as well as an historian on the Blessed 
Isle.

The kitchen was lit by small candles, each in its own coloured glass jar. Frodo put his 
hands to his lips momentarily before speaking.

"I cannot believe it. It is so beautiful. They must have only just left, Sam. I suppose 
that they heard us at the gate and went back through the woods."

Sam stood by his side and looked at the steaming tub. The water was an opaque, 
milky white and the rising steam smelt of honeysuckle flowers and, somehow, 
applewood smoke. Then Sam looked at Frodo, who was blinking and seeming to 
sway slightly where he stood. It had been a long day.

"Come on Frodo, be a shame to let it get cold. I'll wash your hair for you before I get 
in, eh, sweetstuff?"  To which Frodo sighed contentedly.

"That is kind of you Sam. Thank you. It will be good to get all the sand off me." And 
he took Sam's hands in his. "What a beautiful day. What an unimaginably beautiful, 
wonderful day". 

At the same moment they leaned, each towards the other, and they kissed long and 
lingering, exploring each other's mouths tentatively, almost as if for the first time.

Sam carefully slipped Frodo's fine white waistcoat, with it's slightly battered 
buttonhole of flowers, from his tired shoulders. Then he leaned to him a little as he 
began to unbutton Frodo's shirt. The warm steam seemed to curl around the hobbits 
and to caress them in its sweetness as Sam slipped the shirt from Frodo's shoulders. 
He kissed his left shoulder, and rested his hand there for a moment, before dropping 
the shirt on top of Frodo's waistcoat on the wicker chair by the stove.

Sam's hands went to Frodo's waistband to undo the buttons there now, all the while 
watching Frodo, who trembled then slightly under his touch. Frodo pressed himself to 
Sam, kissing his neck and pulling the edge of his shirt back to run his tongue, slowly, 
along Sam's collarbone, smiling to himself as he heard a hushed moan. Each moment 
one to treasure.

Sam felt Frodo's fingers at his shirt buttons. Felt his shirt being pulled open and 
Frodo's kisses on his chest as he felt Frodo's arms around his waist. Naked against 
him. Still, despite Sam's efforts, so pale and slight. Limbs as slender as young silver 
birch in moonlight. Sam held his breath and held onto Frodo, who writhed gently 
against him.

Frodo had closed his eyes and lost himself for long moments in the heady scent of the 
steam around them and the feel of Samwise, clothed, against his skin. Sam's voice 
came in a soft, rich whisper to him as he felt Sam's lips brushing his ear.

"I've got you my love, my sweet, sweet love." Another contented sigh from his Frodo 
and a shudder as Sam caressed the tip of his ear with his tongue.

"Get in while it's warm, Fro." Sam continued to kiss his ear as he spoke and Frodo 
smiled to himself.  

"You are right Sam," he said simply and he turned slowly and stepped into the 
steaming copper.  Whoever had done so had filled it deeply, and Frodo sighed with 
pleasure as he sank into the fragrant water. He leaned back against the high end and 
closed his eyes. Like a string of jewels, each moment one after the other...

Sam watched him and smiled to see him resting. That afternoon they had made love in 
the little cave by the beach which he always thought of as Frodo's cave.  Frodo had 
kissed Sam's fingers, had clasped their left hands together, fingers entwined so that 
their rings were together, the slender silver leaf shaped bands touching each other. 
Then Frodo had pressed his lips to their fingers for a long moment before looking up 
at Sam, eyes shining. Sam kissed their fingers then and they had both just looked into 
each other's eyes wordlessly, smiling.

Frodo had kissed Sam's body fiercely, as if claiming it. Caressing Sam and then 
holding still, over and over, almost as if he thought that he might never make love to 
Sam again. Frodo had drawn Sam's pleasure out of him; sometimes he seemed to 
thirst for Sam's pleasure.  Finally he'd wrapped his arms around Sam and looked, 
almost beseeching, into his eyes as he'd shuddered and moaned and called over and 
over. Loud, even against the waves crashing on the shore in front of them. Then Frodo 
had lain, breathing shallow, his body utterly still in Sam's arms.

Now Frodo was peaceful and still in the water, hands resting on the edge of the tub, 
the ring which Sam had so joyfully slipped onto his finger glinting in the candlelight.

The small ceremony had been beautiful. Sam could still see it all in his mind's eye 
and a soft smile spread across his face as the memories came to him, fair as the 
blossom which had tumbled all around them. Frodo smiling at him, eyes shining and 
swallowing hard as Sam recited his poem to him. Bilbo, briefly and quietly crying 
into a linen handkerchief and leaning heavily against Gandalf. 

Galadriel had smiled at Sam just as if he were her own son. They always spoke of her 
as they had first known her, Lady of Lorien, Lady of the Galadhrim.  But Sam now 
only ever addressed her as 'My Lady', and each time that he had said those words to 
her had been more sublime to him than the last, if such a thing were possible.

Frodo, hand steady, his lip trembling slightly as Sam slipped the ring onto his finger. 
The shivers that had run through Sam as Frodo's lips had brushed his ear when they 
whispered their blessing to each other.

Sam heard the soft splash of water then as Frodo moved in the tub beside him.

"Here Fro, let me wash your hair for you love, get all the sand out good and proper."

Frodo looked tired as he smiled and nodded at Sam, and he held the sides of the tub 
and leaned his head back while Sam rolled up his sleeves. Sam filled the jug and 
poured the water slowly over Frodo's hair, dark and wild. One more jug full and 
Frodo sat up and let the water run down his face. Then he opened his eyes to smile at 
Sam, who briefly mopped at his curls with the towel.

Sam poured a rich liquid from one of their carefully stored bottles. The herbalists and 
perfumers on the Isle knew secrets and recipes long since forgotten anywhere else. 
The scent hit Sam immediately; roses, sweet as a summer evening after rainfall.

Sam ran his hands through Frodo's hair and began to rub, gently making bubbles. Ran 
his fingers through Frodo's curls and across his scalp. The room seemed to grow still 
and quiet, and Sam felt Frodo relax into a shudder beneath his fingers. Felt his hands 
heavy with the pleasure of doing this, his fingers circling slowly through Frodo's 
curls, over and over again.

He knew that Frodo would not speak.  He also knew, because Frodo had told him, that 
it was very special to him when Sam did this. Privately Sam believed that this was 
because the last time that anybody had really cared for Frodo in that way had been 
when his mother was still alive. Oh, Bilbo had meant well, had been very kind to him 
and showed the child where everything was.  And Frodo had learned quickly.

Frodo had not spoken of his mother very often. But he'd told Sam, long ago, that she 
had been warm and loving to her only child, and that at least Frodo could comfort 
himself because he would always know that his parents had loved him, and had been 
the best mother and father that he could have wished for. Then Sam had watched 
helplessly as, once again, the quiet sobs claimed him.

Now Frodo sighed once more as Sam ran his fingers over his scalp and Sam 
wondered briefly about just dipping to kiss his shoulder.... but it might startle him 
momentarily, and Sam would not risk that.

"I'll rinse the bubbles off, love," he said slowly and Frodo screwed his eyes tightly 
shut as the water cascaded over him. Only Sam would understand how much that 
meant to him, the pleasure and peace to be found in gentle hands rubbing bubbles 
carefully through his curls, only Sam would understand that.

Now Sam was rubbing oily bubbles across his back. Pale and spare, shoulder blades 
sharp in the candlelight, small scars, some longer ones, helped by Elvish ointments 
but.... Sam rubbed Frodo's back gently, silently. Sam knew that his eyes would be 
closed, and he felt Frodo shudder under his hands as they glided over him. Thin as 
ever really, perhaps a little less so than when Sam and he had first been reunited, but 
nothing to speak of.

Beautiful. Breathtaking.  Sam let his hands stroke a little firmer at Frodo's shoulders 
but not too much.  Sam would come in sometimes, perhaps from some over-
enthusiastic mucking out; well it was worth more than gold for growing food and any 
fool knew that. Then Frodo would lie him down and rub his shoulders and his back, 
knead him like he did the bread dough really, and Sam would feel his muscles deep 
inside unknotting and stretching as Frodo leaned onto him. He'd a healing touch 
alright... just not for himself. His Frodo on the other hand, now his Fro did not like his 
body to be rubbed hard at all. Long gliding strokes down his back, rolling one after 
the other, a rhythm like the waves on the seashore Sam always thought.

Sam loved to do that. He'd make sure that Frodo was really warm and that their room 
was, too. A little of the hazelnut oil pressed last autumn and Frodo would lie on 
blankets stretched in front of the fire, sighing occasionally, while Sam's hands made 
gentle waves break on his back.

The bubbles glittered now on Frodo's skin and he trembled slightly as he slowly 
stretched up to turn and clasp one of Sam's soapy hands.

"Thank you Sam. That felt lovely." 

Sam beamed at him. A smile like the morning sun, bright and whole.

"You're welcome, my Frodo," he said as he put the jug down and stood up to 
unbutton his shirt.

Frodo watched him. Cream linen, soft against his skin. Skin the colour, Frodo always 
thought, of the palest part of a fresh autumn hazelnut, just before it turns milky at the 
base. Later, in the summer, to deepen, just as hazelnuts did in the autumn.  Sam did 
not hurry with the buttons. Fingers steady and sure, in this as in most things, already 
taking up a rhythm just for the act of undressing.

Sam had beautiful hands. Strong and gentle, skin roughened hard and smooth as 
polished wood.  Now his fingers had completed their task and he slipped his shirt off 
and folded it carefully on top of Frodo's clothes on the chair.

Frodo realised that his body had tensed slightly, felt his breathing quicken as he 
watched Sam undo his waistband and then bend to pick up the last of his clothes and 
drop them on the chair before stepping slowly into the tub to sit down opposite Frodo, 
raising the water almost to the edge.

"Mmm, this scent is powerful.  Those Elves do know a thing or two about scents and 
stuff, don't they Fro?" 

As he spoke Sam closed his eyes and sank back to lie still for a moment. Then he 
quickly and methodically washed his hair, lathering until he looked like a snowball, as 
Frodo laughingly told him. Sam dipped under the water to rinse and he was done.

Frodo knew that Sam would not want his help. It was one of the many little 
differences between them that they took for granted now, that had become part of the 
warp and weft of their lives there on the Blessed Isle together.

The water was deep now and the hobbits were careful not to move quickly, lest they 
soak the floor.

"Want to lie back, sweetstuff?" Sam asked softly. Frodo nodded. He turned around 
slowly, as Sam leaned against the end of the tub, then gratefully sank back into his 
arms.  

Frodo felt Sam's kisses on the top of his head and sighed softly. Felt Sam's arms 
around him, their bodies disappearing in the milky water, its heady scent softening 
now to remind Frodo of the smell of fresh summer hay, lying just cut and stacked in 
the field. Felt Sam's hands stroking his arms under the water, then to slip under either 
side of his body, supporting him. Felt Sam stroke his chest under the water, palm 
rubbing and gliding softly.  He groaned with contentment and pleasure and Sam 
smiled to himself and kissed Frodo's wet curls again.

Frodo and Sam lay still and quiet together, lost in a world of fragrant warmth and 
candlelight. Neither of them knew it but there were some rare and unusual plants in 
the blend that had been carefully poured into the filled copper just before they had 
arrived home. Frodo's breathing slowed and it seemed to him, hazily, that Sam's 
hands, stroking him, slowed too in time with his breaths. Slowed but did not still. 
Small circles on his chest and he was held there, floating in Sam's arms, strong and 
broad. Warm and safe, their little home positively hot throughout, thanks to their 
unseen visitors.

Frodo smiled, the heat seemed to radiate through his body and he knew that he would 
not ache for a long while. He let himself drift, Sam's words to him in the orchard 
earlier running singsong through his thoughts. Loved him so much, Sam loved him so 
much that he'd shone with it, glowed with it. Lit up brighter even than any Elvish 
glow.  Frodo knew what it was that had started Bilbo's tears; the unequivocal 
evidence there, shining bright for all to see.  Though Frodo would have laid odds 
against it; he had indeed found someone who loved and cherished and adored him, 
body and soul.

Throughout the simple ceremony, Sam had not taken his eyes from Frodo, except at 
the beginning to acknowledge the others gathered there.  Sam had beamed at him, 
overjoyed, so obviously and deliriously overjoyed, that nothing else spoken there 
matched the eloquence of the lovelight in his eyes.  A tremor ran through Frodo's 
body as he remembered it.

Sam was woken from his own reverie by Frodo shivering in his arms.

"Let's get you out and warm now, Fro," he said softly, kissing his curls again. 

He felt Frodo nod slightly against him. And Frodo, leaning forward, turned slowly in 
his arms, twisting, slender as an otter, to kiss Sam gently; their lips just touching 
above the water, soft, damp butterfly kisses. Again the giddy feeling, as if time 
slowed to a still as their kisses lingered.  Nothing else at all, nothing in all the worlds 
for that one long moment, nothing but the two of them and their kisses.

Frodo drew a few inches away from Sam, sitting up slightly, and his voice cracked as 
he spoke, suddenly sounded dry as old leaves. Eyes wide and unblinking.

"I adore you Samwise son of Hamfast Gamgee.  I adore you and.... and I do not know 
if I have ever really properly told you Sam, but I... I want to thank you so much for 
coming here to be with me.  There is nothing anywhere that could have brought me 
more joy than to see you for one moment more.  I used to dream of just a moment 
with you, if I.... if I could have been granted just one wish, like in the old tales, 
remember? It would have been to see you, just to see you again for one last time." 

He put his hand to Sam's cheek, the water rippling silently as he moved.

"I used to ache so badly for you Sam. I used to... I cannot bear to think of it now, 
sometimes I would just miss you so badly.  That night when you arrived here, 
standing at my door and I fainted; I just could not, I just could not have borne it I 
think, if I had come round and you'd not been there, if it had not been real and... " 

Then Frodo stopped and blinked back a sudden tear, which seemed to surprise him.

"Hey now, Frodo I..." 

Frodo's words had touched him and Sam swallowed before he continued. 

"Frodo I... me too love," he said quietly. "I missed you sometimes with a pain that 
nothing could give me any help for.  Over the years. Me too, Fro. Come on now, let's 
get you dry and warm, you know I can't bear to see you cold."

The hobbits got out of the tub, Frodo first, slowly and gracefully. Then Samwise, 
scattering water droplets everywhere which hissed when they landed on the stove; 
hurrying to pull warm towels from the racks above it down for Frodo. Soon he had 
him wrapped in soft cream coloured towels, which, being made by Elves, were large 
enough to cover him from top to toe. Only then did Sam dry himself, to stand, 
wrapped in a towel of darkest green, opposite Frodo by the stove.

"This is the night of our betrothing."

Frodo spoke solemnly then but his eyes seemed to be smiling, sparkling brightly. He 
placed his left hand to Sam's so that their rings touched, each to the other.  His stare 
was suddenly so deep that Sam felt he could drown in it. Guileless.  Frodo would do 
this so suddenly, lay himself bare to Sam; bare to his very soul and all in the way that 
he looked at him.  Letting Sam see layer upon layer of feeling while Sam was still and 
did not take his eyes from Frodo, standing there before him, arms pale against the 
towel around his body.

"And now we are together in our home. You and I.  Safe and warm and blessed to 
dwell here with each other. You... you came here with no idea really of what to 
expect. You saw the hurt in me. You made me believe that you wanted to hear about 
it.  And you Sam..." Frodo paused then to step closer to him. 

"You, your love, the way that I feel when I am with you, you have led me to a delight 
and a pleasure in my body that I did not know existed. Your touch, the way that you 
love me...." Another pause, the colour rising slightly to his cheeks. 

"So gentle, and wanting only that... that it be right between us.  Since that night in the 
winter when I... I had not planned to at all Sam.  And you were so loving and careful 
with me.  When I kissed you so suddenly.  I can hardly believe that it was only a few 
months ago."

Frodo was still then. Fragility and strength, complicated and yet somehow, on 
occasion, still as innocent as when Sam had first met him. Innocent and world weary 
all at once. And loving.  So passionate and loving.  Sam moved closer to him.

"That kiss took my breath away Fro. And you, when I kissed you back, you kissed me 
as if... as if you'd always known that we would. I did not expect it mind. Any of it. I'd 
never been so wonderful shocked in all my life really." 

Sam stood still, found himself transfixed as he watched a drop of water gliding down 
Frodo's shoulder. Then he fetched their new nightshirts, gifted to them in their 
absence, and a thick brown blanket from their bed. 

As Frodo lowered his towel Sam's thoughts were lost to him and he found his gaze 
drawn to Frodo's body.  Frodo's arms, damp and slender, his chest scattered here and 
there with a few small brown moles.  His nipples, beautiful, dark like copper coins 
against the milkiness of his skin.  Frodo's curls, damp against his brow.

Frodo slipped the nightshirt on over his head and wrapped the blanket around his 
shoulders. Then he sat, curled in the old wicker chair next to the stove, while Sam 
dried himself.  Frodo smiled to himself as he watched him. The muscles in Sam's 
arms stretching then contracting. Beautiful, broad, must move like that sometimes 
when he was touching Frodo, when Sam was making love to him. Frodo loved the 
phrase. Sam wanted him. Wanted to touch him and kiss him. Wanted to kiss his body. 
All of him... even where... Sam wanted to make love to him.

Frodo did not believe for one moment that anyone else had ever wanted any such 
thing of him. No one else had ever looked at him, would ever touch him like that. 
Long ago now they had... they had wanted to hurt him and use him, and that was all. 
No one in all the worlds had ever thought of loving him like that but Sam.

Frodo had memorised the way that Sam looked at him sometimes. Love, tenderness 
and desire; passionate wave upon wave of desire. Sam lost in it, just as surely as he 
would lose himself in the poetic melodies weaving all around them in the Great Hall, 
on an enchanted evening of Elvish celebration.  Frodo was forever convinced that no 
one anywhere but Sam could ever have shared this with him, could ever have known 
that Frodo had such passion within him to share.

The indigo of Frodo's nightshirt seemed to deepen the blue in his eyes; the rich brown 
of the blanket was the exact shade of his hair. Knees drawn up in front of him as he 
sat there, a soft smile for Sam. Frodo sitting there before him smiling and at peace 
with himself.  And, as if Sam had painted himself a portrait, there and then in his 
memory, that scene, such beauty and happiness, was one that he kept within himself 
and treasured to the end of his days.

"I love you Frodo. With all my heart I do," he said simply and was gone to their 
room.

Frodo smiled to himself again. Then he got up to close the dampener down on the 
stove and extinguish the candles, all the while keeping the blanket around his 
shoulders. The house was so warm, delicious heat, his body always felt somehow less 
battered and vulnerable when he was warm.

Frodo moved slowly through the now darkened kitchen and into their bedroom, 
closing the wooden door behind him and latching it carefully. Sam was sitting up in 
their bed, the fire just tended and one lamp burning low on the small bedside table. 
Frodo usually slept on the side next to the wall and the little window with its deep 
ledge. Just a habit they had grown into, but Sam always thought to himself that Frodo 
liked to keep Sam between himself and the door. That he still needed to feel safe and 
protected, to be able to wander in peace in the land of dreams.  

They both loved to lie together, propped up on pillows, or with Frodo lying in Sam's 
arms and thus to watch the stars or the weather through the little bedside window. Felt 
so sheltered there gazing out at such beauty.

It seemed to Sam then that Frodo almost glided across the room to him, so light-
footed was he in the gloom. Nearer and nearer and then dipping to be enfolded in 
Sam's arms. And Sam could smell him, could kiss his curls soft and damp, could taste 
his lips, could touch the tip of his tongue to Frodo's and then part and gaze and drown 
in that delicious warmth.

It had been a long day. The two hobbits lay, still then, in each other's arms, both 
clothed in deepest blue.  Outside the night was still fair and warm, the wind more 
gentle now, rustling through young emerald green beech leaves, the trees already 
sighing softly as they do when clothed thus.

Frodo stretched and then rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, Sam could see that. And 
elated, he knew his Frodo well enough to see that too. Elated and yearning, his quiet 
desire prodding at his limbs to waken them, Sam could see that too.  Desire and 
exhaustion.  Sam coughed, softly, and let his hand rest on the top button of Frodo's 
nightshirt.  Only slightly quizzical and hesitant.  Spoke quietly to him.

"Let me love you, Frodo. Lie still now and just enjoy my touching you, I shan't care 
what happens, sweetstuff.  For me Fro?  A little present for your Sam?"  His eyes 
mischievous, twinkling, sparkling soft and rich with love for him.

"Sam! That's not fair. It is.... it is so beautiful though. I shall treasure it always."

Sam thought then that he literally could feel his heart swell with pride.  Frodo had 
smiled, his eyes shining wet, immediately upon opening Sam's carefully wrapped 
present to him that morning. 

The likeness was unmistakable; Sam had made him a small wooden carving of the 
injured young deer that Sam had rescued two winters ago, even to the pale patch on 
his forehead, shaped like a crescent moon.  Frodo had taken to the injured deer, had 
stroked him and talked to him as Sam treated the wound. Had choked with tears when 
his strength appeared to fade.  Now the fawn was probably full-grown, out there in the 
woods somewhere, enjoying another spring which had once seemed so unlikely for 
him. 

"Well now Fro, and being as you know I'd only want to if you wanted me to, but 
now, if you did have that kind of, kind of desire at all Frodo."  Was Frodo shivering 
with cold? Excitement?  "As your present to me."  And Sam finished, satisfied now. 
Frodo's eyes were wide.

"That would, I should love to let you.  To let you love me as you say." 

And Frodo closed his eyes and his hand found Sam's and he brought it to his lips to 
kiss it, grazing his lips and his tongue across Sam's fingers and sucking his fingertips 
softly, one by one.

Frodo felt Sam's hands at the buttons of his nightshirt, undoing them, slow and 
steady. He kept his eyes closed and let all his senses dwell on the feeling of Sam's 
hands on his skin. Sam's fingers inching slowly across his chest. The feeling as Sam 
parted his nightshirt, gliding the cloth across his chest and making him gasp and arch 
his back slightly to feel the air cool on his skin. Sam's hands pulling the shirt open to 
his stomach now, resting there lightly, holding the indigo cloth.

Frodo moaned softly and opened his eyes to see Sam smiling tenderly at him. Then 
Sam leaned down to kiss his neck, lips brushing Frodo as soft as those new beech 
leaves and Frodo stretching his head back, eyes closed again and shuddering with 
pleasure. Sam nuzzling at him, his throat trembling beneath Sam's lips.

Frodo's sigh was as quiet and dry as a twilight breeze in summer. And then sounding 
suddenly more throaty as Sam pulled back his nightshirt and held one of his nipples 
between thumb and forefinger. Frodo lay utterly still as Sam rubbed it in his fingers 
and then bent to kiss it, now standing proud of his chest. Frodo's hands were in his 
hair, Sam could feel his fingers, hear him moaning, feel him writhing.

"Lovely.... it's lovely, it's lovely Sam...." Words... whispers... sighs... flowing back 
and forth, sing song between them in the quiet of their home. 

It seemed to Frodo that Sam kissed his chest for hours, so lost was he in the pleasure 
of it. Frodo let himself arch and squirm as Sam sucked at him, let himself sigh and 
moan over and over. When Frodo felt Sam move, trailing his tongue down his 
stomach, he was surprised and thrilled. Then Sam sat up, one hand still stroking his 
chest, and he parted Frodo's legs slightly, murmuring and stroking his thighs. Then to 
dip his head and kiss the inner side of Frodo's knee. 

Frodo groaned again and arched. Unexpected jolts coursing through him. Sam's 
tongue trailing circles as he used his hands on Frodo's other thigh to slowly inch his 
legs further apart. Then he sat up a little further before bending again to kiss the inside 
of Frodo's thigh, a few inches above his knee. In the lamplight Sam's freshly washed 
hair was spun gold against the blue of his nightshirt. Frodo felt the cloth, soft against 
his thigh, as he watched while Sam kissed him there. Then he let his head drop back 
onto the pillows whilst he ran his fingers gently through Sam's hair.

Sam licked at his skin. Smooth and pale as milk. Frodo's leg stretching taut now as 
Sam's kisses inched up his thigh. Sam paused to look at Frodo's flesh there, so 
beautiful, before making small laps with his tongue. Then he felt Frodo's thigh quiver 
under his mouth and Frodo's groan was softer now, but he remained still beneath 
Sam's kisses.

Sam trailed his tongue up slowly, took his time, made Frodo's leg quiver again before 
finally nuzzling the curls between Frodo's legs, still damp and warm from the bath. 
Slid his tongue across and heard Frodo suck in his breath as he took the soft sac in his 
mouth, rolling it like two gooseberries gently against his tongue.  He heard Frodo's 
moan catching in his throat as he felt Frodo's fingers twisting through his curls.

Now this was something that had never occurred to Frodo, and he remained utterly 
still, but for his throat moaning soft gasps of surprised pleasure as Sam held the sac 
carefully in his mouth and probed and stroked with his tongue. Frodo felt the now 
familiar sensation of loosing himself in wave after wave of pleasure. Although this 
particular way for Sam to give such pleasure was new to him and although these 
particular sensations were new, the loosing himself was not. The delicious pinpointing 
of all of his awareness on one part of his body, or more precisely on one part of Sam's 
body.

Sam's mouth now, Sam's mouth here. Every single thing that Frodo ever had been, or 
would be, spiralling out in a little whirlpool of lights from the place where Sam's 
mouth touched him.  Frodo shuddering and sighing with obvious delight, knowing 
that at any moment Sam would... he would.... he was kissing the tip of him now, 
licking at him. Frodo, lying still, lifted his head to watch Sam, ran his fingers through 
Sam's curls while he kissed him there, even as Frodo pressed his teeth to his lip and 
sucked his breath in sharply with the pleasure of it.

Sam ran his mouth down Frodo, held his lips tight around him and listened to Frodo's 
groaning as he glided his mouth up and down. They both knew that it would not be 
very long now, even though really Sam had only just began and could have kissed 
him for ages longer. Still Frodo watched him, watched his Sam as he kissed him and 
licked at him, giving himself to Frodo so completely.

"Sweetheart," Frodo moaned, "Sweetheart." 

Then Sam reached up and took Frodo's hand, entwining their fingers, and they rocked 
together slowly as Sam felt Frodo stretch in his mouth, there to throb against him 
gently. Sam closed his eyes. Doing this felt so lovely and special to him. Every time. 
Cherishing, loving and trusting. He felt Frodo's juices hot against the back of his 
throat and he held still before swallowing.

Sam slowly laid himself back down beside Frodo who was turning for him, eyes 
searching then to fix on his, hands flying to his shoulders, holding his face near to 
Sam's. A familiar gesture to Sam who smiled openly at Frodo and nodded slightly. 
Frodo spoke then, lilting softly, dreamily.

"I shall never forget anything about today. I shall treasure it always."

Sam found himself then, his own hands stroking himself and he felt so near and Frodo 
hadn't even... then Frodo was rocking against him and bending to suck his nipple, 
while his hands rested on Sam's as he touched himself, and the two writhed quietly 
together, soon to lie spent in each other's arms.

Eventually Frodo raised himself to lean over Sam and touch his cheek, resting his 
chin on his other hand and smiling at Sam. Drunk on tiredness and loving and 
happiness. His Fro, looming above him in the soft light, smiling radiantly at him.

Sam had travelled all that way and he'd not had his uncle and the wizard for company 
mind; and here was Frodo, glowing with an innocent joy which Sam now believed in 
his heart would not have been his, even here, without the two of them being reunited.

Sam had notched up many varied and certainly unexpected achievements in his life. 
But Frodo; Fro had lived through horrors which Sam could not bear to imagine. Every 
time that he touched Frodo, that he made love to him, he saw the small pale marks.

And Sam had made himself learn not to somehow feel reproached, not to let himself 
be suddenly tortured by imagining, made himself learn to stay there, to stay there 
making love in that moment with his Frodo and just to love him and love him for all 
he was worth, not to let one moment of that time be lost to them.

Of course sometimes when he was alone, perhaps when Frodo had gone off walking, 
Sam would let his nerve fail him and then he would be engulfed by the pain of it still. 
Sometimes to hold one of Frodo's shirts close and to rock back and forth, soaking it 
with his tears. Sometimes just to sink to the floor but always to weep and weep tears 
which brought him no comfort at all.

Frodo moved nearer to him then to kiss him softly. Lips brushing his, eyes swimming 
in front of him, blurring in his vision. A kiss as soft and brief as the first that they had 
ever shared, sitting together on their bed in the midwinter.

"I love you Sam. You.... the way that you... kiss me, make love to me like that. I feel 
loved and adored and it feels so wonderful. I did not ever used to think that I would 
feel like this." Frodo blinked slowly and Sam smiled.

"I love you too Fro, so much. Sweetstuff, you're falling asleep eh? Sleep now my love 
or you'll not be fit for tomorrow".

Sam was right and Frodo's smile was weary. He dropped down slowly to lie with his 
head against Sam's shoulder and Sam's arm cradling him. He smiled again sleepily to 
himself. An expedition, just the two of them. Strangely it had been Bilbo's idea again, 
something about making a proper long walk, or why not a small journey for a few 
days? Do them both good to have a change and, anyway, the invitation had arrived not 
long afterwards.

Sam had packed already, of course. They would stroll off together, just the two of 
them, without a care in the world. And Frodo, still smiling slightly in Sam's arms, fell 
easily then into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

Frodo woke before Sam did. He stretched slowly and turned to watch him blearily for 
a few moments. Sam, sleeping well and contentedly. The sun was just peeping 
through the trees behind their home having risen out at sea, always seeming to Frodo 
to have risen far away above the homeland that was now lost to him forever. Still 
homes could be made anew. Sam, so beautiful, snoring softly now beside him. 

So often Frodo had woken alone. No nightmares even. Just alone, early in the 
morning, to wonder, before he could stop himself, to wonder on Samwise. What 
would the day bring to his friend far away in the land of their births? Frodo would 
smile softly to himself as he'd make his own small blessings and wishes and quietly 
send them across the sea to Sam.  For Sam.  For Sam and his family and his 
happiness. Then to miss him, to ache a little, to wonder, perhaps to shed just a few 
tears. 

And now to wake beside him. Not like before, no fear, no one hunting them down 
endlessly.  To wake knowing that they need do nothing at all but love each other. His 
beautiful brave Sam. Sam wanting to protect him, to hold him. Strong. Strong enough, 
still, to carry him if he fainted.  Gentle and passionate enough to draw Frodo's own 
passion from him.

No one in all the worlds like his Samwise to him. Travelling across the ocean to him, 
the most unexpected and wonderful blessing of all. How that would have comforted 
him if he could have known it back then. If they could have said it to each other. 'One 
day we shall lie in each other's arms in the land of blessings and joy. One day we 
shall promise ourselves, each to the other. And we shall spend the long golden days of 
our lives together nurturing, sheltering and loving each other.' The most unexpected 
and wonderful blessing of all. Ever.

Frodo snuggled closer to Sam under the blankets and rested his right hand gently on 
Sam's chest. He closed his eyes and began to feel himself drifting to sleep again, 
letting his thoughts drift with him.... Sam looking up at him, shuddering with the 
pleasure that he so obviously felt at holding Frodo inside of himself. Calling his name, 
contracting around Frodo and holding him close, opening his legs wide to him, tilting 
himself up to Frodo on pillows, smiling at him, murmuring Frodo's name softly. 
Murmuring over and over and over again.

The two hobbits woke together late that morning. Sam scooped Frodo into his arms in 
his delight. Extravagant morning kisses, running his hands through Frodo's curls as he 
kissed his brow. Voice liquid warm. Smiling.

"Yesterday was perfect Frodo." More kisses. Warm, soft, damp morning kisses. Sam 
bleary-eyed still. Frodo smiling at him.

"Yes it was. And that homecoming, that was so kind of them, so dear. And Bilbo. He 
really is fond of you Sam.  I think that he truly does understand.  The bond that we 
share I mean."

Sam kissed him more firmly then, dipping his tongue between Frodo's lips as he felt 
Frodo's hand clasp his under the blankets. Then Frodo spoke softly to him, with only 
slight hesitation, and Sam found his pulse quickening suddenly.

"Sam I... I want to ask you something. I'd... what does it feel like love, when I am... 
when we make love and when I am inside you? I know... I know that it is what you 
want, that it is sweet to you but I do not know what it feels like.... for you I mean." He 
finished in a rush, blushing as he spoke.

Sam swallowed.  Frodo's stare was bright, open and just slightly fearful somehow, or 
was it hopeful?  'Well get to it, he's asking you see, now don't make him wait.'

Sam spoke slowly, a soft frown playing across his face. But he held Frodo's gaze for a 
moment before lowering his eyes to watch the edge of the blanket that he was 
carefully running between his fingers.

"Well it's, it's strange at first, a bit of a hot stretching feeling, almost not too pleasant 
you might say but then.... then the hot feeling is inside, different from anything else 
because you're inside me. Sort of tense at first and then nice, lovely, suddenly like 
you're filling me up. Then I feel you against me, somewhere deep and... and the 
pleasure just, just buckles up inside me and then it's running down through my legs 
and it feels so strong Fro."

Sam raised his eyes to meet Frodo's again and Frodo, eyes wide, swallowed as he 
held his gaze. Sam's voice was soft.

"Such a strong pleasure deep inside.  I had no idea it would be so deep and strong 
flowing through me, waves of it one after the other, from that one place where you 
are... where you are rubbing against me, or as you might say I am rubbing against 
you, Frodo." Sam's blush deepened and he dropped his gaze, momentarily, before 
looking up at Frodo again, to speak then without thinking.

"You think maybe you'd like that someday, Fro?" 

Sam instantly regretted asking him this. Was already chastising himself mentally for 
putting his foot in it now, as Gaffer would have said, when Frodo spoke to him, at 
once typically guileless and painfully honest.  The play of feelings across his face 
seeming transparent to Sam; desire mixed with confusion and fear.

"I do not know Sam.  I think that I should like to... for you to love me like that but I 
think that... that perhaps I have been hurt there, too much." And Frodo finished and 
stared fixedly down.

Sam swallowed. The horror of what had been done to him. Another fragile delicate 
moment between them, another lesson in hunting for the right words. His beautiful 
Frodo so forthright with him. Sam's hand still held Frodo's under the blankets and he 
shifted now to use the other hand to gently tilt Frodo's chin up until he met his gaze. 
Definitely, Frodo definitely looked fearful now.

"Fro.... my Frodo. I think that, I am sure that you will have healed there love."

 A pause, Frodo's jaw clenched tight as he nodded slightly.  Sam continued.  
Suddenly he could not bear to leave Frodo to wait like that in silence for even a 
moment longer.

"I know they hurt you badly love, and that you.... must have been injured there, Fro 
but..." 

Couldn't they stop now? Couldn't he just scoop Frodo into his arms and make it all 
vanish?  He'd give anything, anything just to.... the pain then in Frodo's eyes, the 
hoping and wanting to believe him, suddenly Sam wanted to scream, would have 
squeezed the life out of each of them with his bare hands if only he could get hold of 
them.  He swallowed again, and when he spoke his voice was warm and carefully 
steady.

"But I am sure that you will have healed there now, love. I think... maybe it might be 
lovely for you one day.  I don't know... it's... it is lovely for me, truly." 

Frodo was quietly watching him as he spoke and now Sam could not read his 
expression. Always careful, gentle with each other, hunting for words for his brave 
friend. 

"But Frodo I don't need.... need anything from you like that. You understand me? I'm 
telling you what I think sweetstuff; I do not need anything from you. You know that 
Frodo?" 

Sam looked so full of love, waiting. Frodo managed to nod then slowly, holding his 
gaze. Nothing but slightly solemn. Sam would not leave him alone with any desire 
that he might have; Frodo deserved better than that. He kept his voice steady.

"I... I mean if you ever wanted to... wanted me to.  I mean, well then I could, we 
could.... if you wanted me to Frodo, just... I could... just with my finger maybe." Sam 
dropped his gaze then as Frodo's mouth fell open slightly and Sam continued, looking 
down.

"Gentle like. Slowly. Maybe just a glass of wine first if you... if you'd like. See if it 
felt nice to you Fro I'd... I could put some hazelnut oil on my finger and...." 

But Sam's words trailed off then and it was Frodo's turn to tilt Sam's chin up until 
Sam could see him staring, wide eyed with a hesitant yearning.

"I'd... I should like that, maybe one day I think, if you'd..." Now it was Frodo who 
was too tongue tied to continue. Sam nodded slowly.

"If you... when it feels right, Fro. One time when we're loving each other. Sweetstuff, 
you'll know if you want me to and it would... it would always be something special to 
me.  Slowly Fro... we'd go slowly love and if it did not feel good to you that would be 
alright, you know that. Whatever happens." Sam finished this last part hurriedly.  
He'd not quite managed to say all that he wanted to but it would have to do for now.

Frodo was still then, and quiet, breathing steadily.  He looked grave somehow.  Well, 
Sam would have said grave if he were pushed but that was not quite it.

"Special." Said Frodo finally. "Something special. Like every touch with you, every 
kiss." And then Frodo's face brightened suddenly and he seemed to shrug slightly.

"You are right Sam, I'm sure you're right and.... well anyway we'd better get up soon 
I suppose. We've a journey to make."

Sam ached with love for him then. Tried to avoid pity but sometimes; Frodo smiling 
brightly at him, Frodo wondering whether he'd healed enough to be loved as he might 
want to be, Frodo so consciously trying to comfort Sam after his heart wrenching 
enquiry, still trying to protect him, to reassure Sam that he was fine, just fine. And he 
was, he was much better and they both rejoiced in that.  Still, his Frodo lived with it 
and still he made himself speak of it even when it was obviously difficult and delicate 
for him to do so.  Trusting, seeming to need so much to trust. 

Sam kissed him then softly and Frodo smiled shyly and snuggled closer to him. Sam 
felt Frodo tremble slightly and looked at him. Frodo's voice was quiet.

"No one else has ever wanted me. No one else has ever wanted me like this. Like you 
do, Sam."

Sam could not disguise his feelings from Frodo's gaze.  His shocked realization that 
the lump had risen to his throat because he believed Frodo.  Believed that what he 
said was the truth.  All those years and no one to love him at all, no one to touch him 
and hold him like he deserved.  All those years, and no one even to share one of his 
beautiful melting kisses.

"No one else shall ever touch me like you do Sam, just you." 

Sam nodded slowly.

"Just me Frodo." Frodo smiling at him now.

"The only one ever to touch me lovingly like that."  He paused just as Sam noticed his 
careful choice of words.

"Yesterday, last night, you here with me. There are no words, Sam, I have no words 
for how cherished and loved and whole I feel.  How lucky.  And I..." Frodo brought 
their entwined hands up to rest under his chin for a moment, looking at Sam.

"And I know it is not... I do not expect that you have ever needed to speak of any such 
thing before and I have not either and, well, I know that it's not easy. I just, I cannot.... 
anyway I am very glad that we can, that I can speak of it to you Sam." A pause as 
Frodo quickly brought Sam's hand to his lips to kiss it once, softly, then to look back 
to Sam.

"I think that I should go mad if I could not. I think now, looking back, that I hurt 
myself to the quick by speaking of it to no one. And I do not know, I'll never know if 
I would ever have told a living soul really, but for you arriving here, love."

Sam could not bear this and pulled him close.

"You would have Frodo, I know you would have love. You've got some courage 
about you, see, and some strength in you..." Kissing Frodo, rocking him close, Frodo 
brightening again in his arms.

"Well we are both here. And we love each other. And we are both loved and respected 
here; they showed us that again yesterday. Come on Sam. A breakfast of yesterday's 
poached trout with bubble and squeak, love?  That will set us up for today and it was 
a fine big trout." Sam's proud smile lit his face up.

"Yes I was pleased with him. A fine catch he was and he'll make us a fine breakfast 
now, love, you're right."

And Frodo and Sam began their day with, as Sam said after, a delicious feast of a 
celebration breakfast.

In fact they did not set off from their little home until late in the afternoon. They both 
wanted to visit Bilbo to thank him for all of his presents to them. Thanking him, of 
course, involved taking along a good sized lunch to share with him and with Orophin 
and Lindir, who, as it turned out, were also visiting with the old hobbit. 

Lunch became a drawn out affair.  Sam was very pleased and satisfied that he had 
insisted on taking so much food with them to lunch on. Frodo, in particular, enjoyed 
Sam's proud beaming each time that the Elves complimented some morsel or other, 
which they did frequently. Elves had a sense of humour indeed, albeit a rather dry 
one. And they were infinitely kind, so that they could enjoy sincerely complementing 
Sam whilst smiling at his obvious pride.

Frodo smiled a lot throughout that lunch. His dear friends, his dear Bilbo and his 
adored Sam. There were moments then, sunlight streaming through Bilbo's window 
to fall on books, papers, food and loved ones alike; when Frodo found the scene 
before him slowing slightly, frozen for a moment as if in a golden light, the only thing 
still to move the dust which danced forever in the sunbeams.

Just a tiny moment, Frodo smiling in the warmth and beauty of it. Everything 
hesitating as if to just give him long enough to feel his heart flooded with love and 
gratitude and relief to have found such peace. Such dear beloved friends. The moment 
like a keepsake for him, forever held in his heart now. As if time itself had paused to 
say 'There Frodo, count your blessings, could anything be more beautiful than such a 
moment of contentment as this?'

Of course no one else in that room felt any such dropped beat in time's rhythm. But 
each of them there forever after remembered that particular lunch in Bilbo's sitting 
room as one of the warmest, most enjoyable and joy filled meals that they had ever 
eaten, on either side of the seas.


PART TWO.

So it was that Frodo and Sam set off, both well rested and well nourished, each taking 
delight in the thought of making a short journey together. The hobbits travelled north 
from the harbour settlement, walking the ancient coastal trackway that wound along 
the eastern edge of the Isle. Their way at first took them across cliff top grasslands 
strewn with sedges and small pink restharrow flowers. Here and there were clumps of 
milkwort plants, their pale blue flowers peeping through the grasses to them. These 
Sam would pause to collect, a few from each patch, to carefully wrap and store away, 
in case they should ever have a calf in need of extra milk from its mother.

It was a beautiful warm afternoon. White clouds scudding slowly above them from 
across the sea, glittering away to their right. Where the sea met the sky the hobbits 
could see low silver-grey clouds sitting, as if resting, on the edge of the ocean, and 
billowing up into the sky like giant swathes of frozen smoke. It would rain later.

That particular May was the wettest and warmest that the Isle had enjoyed for some 
considerable time. A combination which made for a very fine quality of hay indeed 
later that summer, as Sam delighted in remarking to all and sundry, right until long 
after midsummer; when he happily took a second cut, just as lush and sweet as the 
first, from their small front field. They would certainly not run out of hay the 
following winter, no matter if it snowed fair till March. 

In fact the long dry summer spell finally arrived late that year, to continue through 
until the end of September so that Frodo, unusually, swam in the sea shallows on his 
birthday. Splashing and laughing with Sam before rejoining Bilbo and the others at 
their now traditional Grand Birthday Picnic on the beach.

Journeying now, with Sam, Frodo found himself elated beyond measure. 'Carefree 
and cared for,' as he had told Sam earlier. They were to visit with their old friend 
Galdor. Galdor of the Havens, as they still thought of him. The title by which they had 
first been introduced to him, long ago in Rivendell where he had travelled from the 
Havens, to join the council there; his kind grey eyes seeming to cloud with pity for 
them, even back then when he had first met them.

Galdor lived up the coast by a tiny inlet harbour used only by fishing boats and the 
occasional visitor from the North. The invitation to visit had been delivered to the 
hobbits one day in mid April and being hobbits, Frodo and Sam had no hesitation in 
being delighted to accept.

Sam had packed carefully; indeed his pack had been stowed ready by the door for 
days. They both knew that he would carry most of their bedding and supplies though 
they would not need much for two days journey; as Sam had admitted in the end, in 
answer to Frodo, who had taken to reeling off long lists of completely unnecessary 
supplies to him, whilst giggling delightedly at Sam's typically thorough preparations.

The grasslands now slowly began to climb upwards and the track bent away gently to 
their left and thus towards the looming forest, which stood, deepening from greens to 
greys and blacks in the low light of the late afternoon sun.

Frodo and Sam had visited the ancient pine forest before. The old trees were huge, 
open and spreading at the top to form dense canopies, and not many were conical in 
shape, as younger pines are. When the forest was nearer to them and they could make 
out the shapes of individual trees, Frodo stopped on the old track and pulled Sam 
towards him. 

The wind ruffled Frodo's deep brown curls as he stood then with his back to the sea, 
smiling at Sam and suddenly looking as bright and strong as he had on one of their 
long ago rambles around the Shire. Sam slipped his pack from his shoulders and his 
face lit up as he looked at Frodo.

"Put your bag down then a moment Fro. Time for a little smoke and a view out to sea 
eh?" Sam loved any 'view out to sea,' one of his favourite phrases since travelling to 
live on the Blessed Isle.

Frodo slipped his bag off and drew close to take Sam in his arms and stand kissing 
him deeply, almost fiercely, his hands cradling either side of Sam's head. The only 
sounds that they could hear then were the wind blowing through grasses and the 
skylarks singing overhead and, soft in the background, the roar of the ocean greeting 
the land.

The sun was sinking low by the time the track took the hobbits through the first 
smaller trees and into the forest, which spread westwards inland, across hills and 
valleys and away to the blue green mountains in the distance; the richly forested 
realm, now, of a great many of the Galadhrim. The Elves of the Grey Havens dwelt, 
for the most part, around the harbour near Frodo and Sam's home.

The air changed as they walked deeper in amongst old trees. Warm and dry and 
almost honey scented along with the pine. The forest was littered with small clearings 
and also with densely wooded patches of new and fallen pines and ferns and ivy all 
tangling together. The track was fair, however, and obviously well used. Small 
streams ran to tumble into little mossy pools, to the delight of the hobbits, while here 
and there; an Elven tradition all over the Isle, were boxes, looking like large stone 
trunks, carefully placed and literally carved from stone with cast iron hinges bolted 
onto their lids.

In these could always be found essential provisions for any travellers who found 
themselves in need. Jars of honey, some variation on Lembas, of course, dry tinder 
and flints, two oil lamps and oil, a small knife, even a blanket. To all this was added 
whatever local delicacies and provisions were regularly replaced by those who dwelt 
thereabouts. It was just one of the many sensible kindnesses that made living and 
travelling on the Isle such a joy.

The path ran now around the side of a fairly steep hill so that that to their right the 
forest sloped upwards above them, the trees seeming thus even taller. A little way 
ahead to their left the pines thinned to a clearing, sloping away down to the little 
wooded valley floor below, and it was here that Frodo and Sam decided to make their 
fire.

Sam found two fallen logs quickly enough for them to sit on or to lean against. Soon 
he had lifted and carefully preserved a small piece of turf, to replace later, and had 
easily found enough wood for their evening fire; which he sited at the top end of the 
clearing, with views across it to an endless sea of green dipping away before them.

The wind had dropped and the woodsmoke curled up slowly, as straight as the trees 
around it. The air was still warm and a little humid now and Frodo walked uphill and 
towards the track, to find a small level area among the trees and there to lay out their 
thin mattress and the four blankets which Sam had insisted on bringing. Then he 
covered the little bed with a linen bedspread which had been treated, to the Elven 
recipe, with oils and beeswax and which would keep them dry, should any rain reach 
them through the trees that spread, dense and deepest green above them.

That evening the rainclouds which Sam and Frodo had seen earlier, away out east, 
finally arrived at the coast and soon began to wash gently over the forest. Warm and 
misty, yet seeming to deepen and brighten all the many greens with its touch and to 
draw out each forest scent so that the air, fresh and wet, was a perfumed balm of pine 
and rain and flower and leaf mingled together; a balm to all that lived within.

Sam found himself content. The rain had held off, in the end, until after they had 
finished their evening meal. It even waited until they had both enjoyed a smoke of 
'nearly pipeweed' as they called it, amiably quiet together in the dusk beginning to 
gather around them as they sat by their small fire.

The rain began tentatively, soft and gentle, hissing as it hit the fire. Frodo stood, and 
gathering their uneaten bread and ham and cheeses, he packed them into a leather bag 
and walked up the hill to stow it, hanging from a branch by their makeshift bed, and 
to light the lantern which he had hung there earlier.

Sam smiled as he watched Frodo disappear into the trees. His dear Frodo. So 
vibrantly, wildly happy. So obviously rejoicing in the intimacy that they shared. Sam 
left his seat by the fire and went to stand under the nearest pine to watch the weather.

Sometimes he would watch Frodo, quietly, and suddenly find himself wanting him so 
much; there and then to just go to him and kiss him and see him shocked and pleased. 
Sam remembered the squeals of delight from his Rose when the moment took him, 
chasing each other around their home, playing rough and tumble. His relationship 
with Rose had been loving, committed, treasured. Conventional, Sam thought, in 
every sense. His love with Frodo had never and would never be any such thing.

With all that, with all that and anything more he would not trade a moment with 
Frodo for anything else anywhere at all. And yet... and yet there were sometimes still, 
quiet minutes when Sam found himself in a moment of reverie thinking about making 
love to his Frodo in a world where none of that... that evil had ever happened. 
Carefree... abandoned... Frodo with no fear, no small scars, no bad dreams.

Ah, then Sam would have loved him fiercely, would not have been able to keep his 
hands off him sometimes. Would have surprised him, made him feel a desire that had 
not been there a moment before. They would have run after each other in the woods 
chasing... laughing and pinning each other down. But Sam's brief imaginings did not 
usually go much further.

Frodo was who he was; and though Sam would have given his own life to have spared 
him his ordeal, he would not ever feel ungrateful for everything that Frodo had so 
willingly shared with him. Should Frodo find himself unable ever to be intimate with 
him again Sam knew undoubtedly that, although bereft, he would love Frodo just as 
deeply and forever. Nothing could or would change that.

The fact that they shared so much more between them was truly miraculous. Sam 
loved that word. He would lie by Frodo and he'd think it to himself, enjoying it, 
savouring it. A life full of miracles together and an intimacy as beautiful and bright as 
any miracle that he had ever heard of.

Sam looked up then from his reveries to see Frodo, standing still, in the bracken by 
the trees a few yards up the hill from him. He held a fairly large bundle of sticks in his 
arms, which he left under a tree behind him, before turning to walk towards Sam then 
to stand still a few yards from him. 

The rain quickly made a net of fine droplets on Frodo's hair. The light was fading fast 
and Frodo looked pale, Elvish, eyes looming large, a slight smile playing on his lips 
as the greens and greys slowly deepened all around him.

Sam was about to speak; they should perhaps dry themselves, though the rain did feel 
somehow so warm and gentle, the light deep silver grey and the air as sultry as before 
any midsummer storm. Still they could do with...

And then slowly, holding Sam's gaze and lips parting slightly, Frodo began to 
unbutton his shirt.

Sam's mouth was suddenly dry as straw and he swallowed quickly, eyes fixed on 
Frodo's hands as they fluttered over the small buttons to pull his shirt open.

Frodo. Pale in the twilight rain, fair and graceful as willow. Drops of water running 
slowly on his hair and face, down his neck, from his collarbone. His nipples hard, 
puckering, and his chest rising and falling quickly with his breath.

Frodo let his shirt fall behind him and then his hands went to his waistband and he 
tilted his head to one side momentarily, almost questioning, before he was undoing 
the buttons, to stand there still and naked in front of Sam. 

He had what Sam often thought of as his otherworldly stare about him, as if he were 
seeing through you, or within perhaps, or maybe it was just that he was seeing 
something else at the same moment as staring at you. Sam knew that on occasion, and 
certainly if Frodo wanted them to, folk could find that stare quite unnerving.

But Frodo had always been like that, ever since Sam had first begun to know him. 
And Sam, still a child then, had simply taken it as Frodo's way of sensing things, so to 
speak, of quietly getting the measure of whatever held his gaze. Fro had been thin 
back then, even compared to now. Slight as a sparrow, so Sam's mother had called 
Frodo as she made him stop for some soup. Bell Goodchild's family had always kept 
a welcoming hearth for waifs and strays and she'd not changed that just because she 
had married Hamfast.

Sam found himself drinking in Frodo's beauty, immersed all of his senses in Frodo in 
that moment. In the rain caressing Frodo's skin, tiny drops wandering down his body, 
some to rest on the dark curls between his legs. Sam breathed in sharply, he had 
momentarily forgotten to. He felt very slightly dizzy.

"You're so beautiful Frodo, by all the stars you are. You're so beautiful, the rain 
running down you. I could not take my eyes off of you. Even if Gandalf set off all his 
best fireworks ever, I swear I could not take my eyes off you, Frodo."

Then Frodo took a few steps through the bracken towards him, and stood leaning into 
him and pressing Sam back against the moss covered pine tree. Frodo undid Sam's 
shirt buttons then and writhed slowly against him, naked in the rain, while Sam 
instinctively wrapped the edges of his shirt around him.

Sam felt Frodo's hands on his, pulling Sam's hand to him and pressing it between his 
legs, all hard now where only a moment before....  just from pressing against Sam.... 
Sam's voice was thick and low as he brushed Frodo's ear with his lips and whispered 
slowly to him.

"You want me to, Fro?" Touching him, "You want that?" And Sam felt the movement 
against his lips as Frodo nodded before leaning to bite down on his collar.

There they stood against the great pine tree at the top of the clearing, seeming 
motionless. Quiet and still in the softly falling rain, which had now strewn tatters of 
mist through the valley. Sam saw the mist, vaguely thought of how beautiful it 
looked, before kissing the top of Frodo's head and clasping Frodo to himself as he felt 
him faster and faster and faster, then buckling and thrusting to him, spilling into 
Sam's hands and gasping, sagging into his arms so that Sam just let them both sink 
down slowly, to sit curled around each other, almost hidden by the low bracken at the 
bottom of the tree.

After a while Frodo sat up slightly and Sam felt his fingers brushing him as Frodo 
undid his waistband and slipped his hands inside, eliciting a low groan as Sam pressed 
back into the soft moss behind him.

Frodo's hair was wet, thick curls clinging to his head like rat's tails, as Bell used to 
call them, before insisting on drying Frodo by their stove. Always kind to the quiet 
orphan who seemed so intent on sharing with her youngest son at least some of the 
delight that he evidently took in walking out in all weathers. 

Frodo looked up and smiled at Sam, fingers touching, stroking, fluttering on him. 
Frodo's fingers. Frodo of the nine fingers they had called him. Sam groaned again, 
louder this time. Frodo of the nine fingers. Ah, but Sam knew, Frodo of the nine 
passionate, delicate, loving fingers touching him, stroking him, cupping him.

Frodo of the gifted fingers that knew exactly how to touch him and all the different 
ways that he.... that he and each time just which way, each time his fingers knew. 
Frodo of the... of the..... even as his mouth was speaking soft endearments to Sam and 
his eyes were dancing like starlight his fingers still... they still.... Frodo of the... 
beautiful fingers, beautiful Frodo, loving him.

Just as Sam's hips arched forward slightly so Frodo dipped his head and, fingers 
stroking him still, took him slowly into his mouth.

Now Sam did not groan. Without even deciding to he stayed still and his jaw clenched 
slightly and he watched Frodo, wet curls the colour of the richest, most precious soil 
imaginable. And then Sam was lost, closed his eyes, felt Frodo taking him in until 
Frodo's lips met his own fingers holding Sam there. Frodo stayed still for a long 
moment and neither of them moved, but for Sam making a small soft moan and Frodo 
moving his tongue.

It had nearly stopped raining. The evening was still warm and the grey clouds hung 
dark and low now, seemed to be almost resting on the tops of the trees.

Frodo, slowly and gently, began to rock back and forth on Sam, mouth and fingers, 
his maimed right hand encircling Sam as firmly as his lips did. Slowly, steadily, 
taking all the time in the world. Sam tasting delicious to him, smelling of woodsmoke. 
His Samwise buckling with him, keeping time with him, now still for a moment as 
Frodo licked him. Nearly... nearly and then Frodo suddenly slowing, small soft kisses, 
taking his time, making Sam take his time.

Such a lovely feeling to know that his cherished Sam was yearning and waiting with 
delight beneath him. A rhythm building again, like waves on the shore and then faster 
like sudden rainfall. Then Sam's voice came to him, soft yet with a note of urgency 
which momentarily startled Frodo.

"Frodo now. Oh love, you've got me, take me I've..."

But Sam's words were lost to groans as Frodo felt Sam respond to his mouth, now 
firmer and faster, and Frodo was shuddering with the pleasure of this. With making 
love to Sam like this, steady and sure. Feeling Sam's hand squeezing his, tightly now, 
fingers entwined, knowing that at any moment he would taste him. Wet and warm and 
sweet. Summer fields, he always tasted like summer fields to Frodo. Sweet, so sweet, 
lying in the grass a day or so before it was cut. Frodo drank and swallowed and still 
thought of it as a libation. Fields strewn with chamomile, dried dusty earth, grass 
ready to toast slowly to hay under the sun.

Sam was stroking his head and Frodo looked up at him to see his smile radiant and his 
eyes shining. 

"All my heart and all my love, Fro. Lovely you are to me, my sweetheart, too much 
for words, much too much for words Frodo."

After spending a while there, curled in each other's arms, Frodo and Sam got up and 
walked together through the trees, towards the lantern which Frodo had set by their 
bed in the now darkening forest. Frodo seemed to glide in front of Sam, naked. There 
to dry himself quickly and slip his warmest nightshirt on to curl up under the blankets 
while Sam undressed.

The forest was quiet and damp around them; beginning to chill now as the night 
deepened. Frodo and Sam held each other close and, whispering an intermittent litany 
of endearments to each other, they drifted slowly to sleep under the old trees. Away in 
the hills to their west the beginnings of a thunderstorm were in the making, though the 
hobbits did not hear any thunder as they softly kissed and whispered each other to 
sleep.

Voices, laughter, roaring in his ears. Somehow he was managing to stand up for a 
moment like they had told him to. Could not walk though.

"Well? Did you enjoy that?"

Frodo looked up at him unsteadily. He did not think that he could speak, the pain was 
still too strong, made him nauseous, but he must not rouse any more anger.

"I do not understand" he managed. His voice sounded strange, far away to him.

"You do not understand? We raped you, that's what we did, raping you. Now I'm 
asking you if you enjoyed it."

Frodo felt shame burning in him, swallowed some of the blood that kept pooling 
slowly in his mouth. He stared weakly at his captor.

"No.....  no I did not." 

And his eyes, betraying him, filled with tears. Still shaking, it seemed that he was 
unable to stop that either.

"Still, you'll thank them now."

"What?" He should not have spoken but he had not understood. Again.

"You will thank each of them now. You've learned the word, scum. Now, get on your 
knees."

He did not understand but he knelt down, blinking through his tears. The floor of the 
cell was bare earth, bitterly cold. Frodo raised his eyes to them. Please let this be what 
he'd meant.

"Thank you." Quiet, his voice was too quiet.

"Thank you." Managed it louder. Laughter from them.

"What for, little filth? What are you thanking us for?"

He had not heard the word before, hazily realized that he was shocked that there even 
was a word for it. 

"You liked it then, pretty?"

"No!  No.... I did not mean that. I did not..."

"Shut up, don't start you dirty little wretch. You're nothing but dirty filth, what are 
you?"

Shaking, cold. Try to do what they want. Frodo's voice was thin, his eyes downcast.  

"I'm dirty filth." Too quiet again.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Frodo immediately looked up at him.  

"That's better. Again! Now, what are you?" 

"Filth. I'm dirty filth."

"And a filthy wretch, aren't you? Dirty little scum?"

"Yes. I'm a filthy wretch. I'm dirty little scum."

"You know I'm going to hurt you again, don't you? I said don't you?"

Frodo did not know what to say. What should he say? He swallowed.

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"Yes. Yes I know.... that."

"That's better. That's right. Now, what do you know?"

Why did he.... try and do what they want.

"I.... that you're going to hurt me again."

"I didn't say you could look at the floor."

This from the tall one, who walked towards Frodo kneeling there, and hit him, 
sending him suddenly reeling. Darkness for a moment. Lights again. What were they 
doing?

They had hold of Sam, they were hurting him and Sam was screaming at him, 'Run 
Frodo! Run Frodo run!' But he could not move. He would not let them hurt Sam. He 
would fight them. And Sam's screaming was louder now, more desperate, 'Run 
Frodo! Run now Frodo, run!' And then he was running and crying and they were on 
his heels, catching up with him, and as he turned and looked one of them struck him 
hard and everything went black.

Stars, lights, he was lying on the floor. Pain throbbing through him, hands tied behind 
his back. Why was it so dark? Something over his eyes, a blindfold? Hands then in his 
hair, round his neck, shoving his head up, pulling him to his knees. Hands running 
across his chest, fingers everywhere.

"Please don't. Please just stop. No.... I can't see, I'm frightened. I can't see, take the 
blindfold off me please."

"Shut up filth. It's wasted on me."

Hands on his neck, fingers forcing his lips apart, fingers pushing their way into his 
mouth. Feeling sick. Head bent backwards, fingers in his mouth, on his neck.

"I've got you now, little pretty. You're mine, understand? Save this just for me, don't 
I?"

A hand on his chest and the fingers were pinching him, twisting and pulling his nipple 
till the pain turned his stomach and he retched as he cried out. Then, silently, to 
himself now, 'No, please no.' Then fingers on his lips again, something cold on his 
throat.

"You'll do it good, use your mouth good on me or I'll cut you, understand?"

"No please, you can't mean.... you can't.... I can't.... I can't... no... no no no I can't"

Frodo felt his mouth stretched open by the fingers and then it was true, that was what 
he had meant and Frodo was gagging, trying desperately not to be sick. The hands 
rocking his head back and forth. He would choke and die like this. He was going to be 
sick and die like this, if only he could pass out and stop retching while they...

Frodo woke up choking, straight into Sam's arms. Immediately awake with the 
images now disentangling, over, its over, its over.

"Sam I feel sick I'm going to be... " 

But Frodo was already crawling away from him to kneel and retch and gasp for 
breath. Sam followed him through the trees to crouch beside him. Put one hand on his 
back while using the other to stroke his hair back from his face as the spasms took 
him. Frodo's first nightmare since the winter. The thunderstorm was rumbling low 
now in the hills to their west. But it was no longer raining and moonlight played 
through the pines to dapple the forest floor all around them.

Sam's pity caught in his throat and threatened tears then. Frodo seemed so frail and 
broken, his whole body shaking with what they had done to him. Sometimes Frodo 
had bad dreams, dreams even of that hideous Ring, but from these he would wake 
usually quiet and mourning. Frodo's nightmares were made from the degrading 
torments he'd suffered in Cirith Ungol. Sam steadied his voice as he spoke, still 
stroking Frodo's back.

"There now Frodo, I know love. I know. It's alright love, I've got you. I know, I won't 
let go of you Frodo. I've got you, it's alright love, oh Frodo sweetheart." And Sam 
stopped to swallow his own tears as Frodo's gasps turned slowly to sobs beside him. 
He was shaking, spasms still taking him, suddenly forcing strangled words out.

"I'm sorry.... I'm sorry Sam, I'm sorry"

"No love, it's alright. It's alright. I know what they did; they hurt you badly Fro. 
There's nothing to be sorry for. There's nothing, there's nothing sweetheart, you 
know that. You know that Frodo. I've got you and I'll not let go of you my love, I 
promise. I promise Frodo, I'll not let go of you. I've got you, my Frodo, and you're 
safe now. You're safe love."

The spasms slowed but Frodo's shaking did not. Sam put both hands on Frodo's 
shoulders now.

"Come on Frodo, come and sit by the fire with me sweetstuff, it's still glowing; soon 
have you nice and warm Fro."

They both knew that Frodo would not go to sleep again for a while now. Frodo 
nodded slightly to Sam in the moonlight. He did not speak.

"Let me carry you love?" Sam asked him gently. Frodo's reply was as dry as a rasp.

"I need... I need to clean my face."

"Of course love, I'll fetch a cloth and the water, Fro." 

And Sam was gone, taking the few moments that it took him to walk to their little 
makeshift bed to let some tears of his own fall, and to dig his fingernails into his palm 
as he walked.

Sam returned quickly to the small figure kneeling there shivering in the gloom. As he 
knelt beside Frodo he wrapped him in the blankets that he had brought with him and 
then gave him the cloth, which he had already soaked in their water. Frodo took it 
gratefully and carefully wiped his face. Then Sam took him gently in his arms and 
carried him to sit beside the glowing embers of their little fire.

Sam built the fire up with fresh kindling and with thin logs, which they had carefully 
piled under the trees earlier; and then he knelt low beside it to blow across the embers. 
Thin flames flickered into life as he carried on taking deep breaths to blow steadily 
through the fire.

Then he insisted that Frodo drink a little water, before he sat propped against one of 
the logs and held Frodo lying in his arms, shaking only occasionally. Sam drew his 
cloak, hastily collected from their bed, around his shoulders and wrapped Frodo's 
cloak around the blankets which already covered him.

"I shan't let go of you; I've got you sweetheart."

Frodo lay back in Sam's arms then and looked up at him. Frodo's face looked ashen 
and painwrought in the firelight. He looked open and careworn but not wide eyed 
terrified as Sam had so often seen him in the night.

Frodo looked up at Sam. Samwise... lit by starlight, surrounded by the vast, starstrewn 
sky behind him. Frodo was lying in his arms and the stars were watching them both. 
A warm, May night in the arms of his love; the summer would be the first that he had 
ever spent with... with someone he could truly say he belonged to, body and soul. 
Someone who really, truly wanted to know everything about him. Frodo spoke then, 
his voice soft and dry.

"I was dreaming about when one of them... when he forced himself into my mouth." 
Simple, direct.

Sam was shocked; this part of it was something that Frodo had never spoken of again 
since that night when Sam had first arrived on the Isle. Arrived to find that Frodo 
suffered nightmares as he slept beside him and to listen as Frodo told him some of 
what he had endured. Now Sam spoke quietly to him. 

"It must have been horrific Frodo."

Frodo nodded very slightly. And then he quietly went on to tell Sam all about it. The 
fear, the fingers, even the part where he was so scared and hurt that he had lost control 
of himself and made water, there and then where he was tied up. They had punished 
him for that, making him say what he had done over and over again while they 
punished him and he still felt deeply ashamed as he remembered it.

He turned to bury his face against Sam's chest. Sam leaned to kiss his head and wrap 
his arms around him. He could hear small stifled sobs. He spoke as softly as he could.

"You were scared love. You were frightened and hurt and there's no shame in that, 
Fro.  You were scared like I would have been. There is no shame in that sweetheart, it 
could have been anyone that happened to. There's no shame Fro, you were scared 
that's all. My poor love. What they did was horrible love. My sweet, precious Frodo, 
you've no need to feel ashamed. No need at all, and I know that won't make no 
difference, sometimes you just do. And I can understand that Fro. It's alright, I do 
understand that. Frodo I love you so much, and that's all you deserve is love. You're 
not dirty, you're not dirty love. Frodo you're not. What they did to you. Not you. 
Frodo, not you love. I'll say it all night long, I don't mind. You're not, Frodo love. 
My special love. You're my Frodo and I'm so proud to be beside you."

A long silence, and then Frodo began to speak quietly to him, held safe in his arms. 
Sometimes to pause and cry a little or to look to Sam for some form of reassurance. It 
was a warm night. Occasionally Sam put another log on the fire. Still Frodo spoke.

Frodo told Sam every single thing that came to his mind and he did not censure 
himself. He told Sam all of it that night in the forest, every single thing that he could 
remember. Everything that they had done. Everything that they had said to him. 
Everything that they had made him do. Everything that they had made him say to 
them.

Frodo lay in Sam's arms looking at his friend, looking at the stars, looking at the fire. 
Speaking the truth and holding not one scrap back from his beloved Sam, whom he 
knew, he somehow just knew, would have it no other way. The woods seemed to hush 
and warm around them, and the smoke from their little fire rose once more in a steady 
plume. 

First light had begun to creep across the sky when Frodo finally finished and a light 
dew had settled around them. Sam leaned down to kiss Frodo's forehead and spoke, 
solemnly and slowly.

"I am so glad that you told me Frodo, that you told me all of it; that was brave, love, 
and I'm glad that you did."

It was true, he was. Sam, though reeling from the pain, finally felt that he understood 
all of the evil of what they had done, as well as all of the miracle that his love and care 
had brought to Frodo's life. Sam kissed his face, kissed his hands. Frodo's voice had 
been so flat as he'd repeated the ghastly rantings that he'd endured, the horrific 
delight that they'd taken in hurting him.

Sam felt numbed inside, and empty, but at least he knew all of it. He knew now, and 
he felt somehow so close to Frodo and so touched that Frodo had been able to trust 
him enough to tell him all of it. It had taken him a long while in the telling. Frodo, 
gently encouraged by Sam, had been scrupulous, methodical, almost as if he were 
detailing someone else's list of misfortunes. Sometimes to pause and drink a little, or 
to be held tighter for a few moments, to be kissed softly or just to turn in Sam's arms.

Frodo had not met Sam's gaze very often while he was speaking of it. When he had 
paused, then he would look up at Sam hesitantly, eyes wide, tentative but trusting him 
still. So pale in the early light.

Sam took Frodo's hand, entwining their fingers.

"It's awful Frodo. I could not have imagined all that. But I truly am glad that you told 
me. All of it I mean. I just feel sort of relieved like... it's like sometimes you were out 
there. Somewhere cold where I couldn't reach you, still wandering alone," and Sam 
swallowed.  

"Alone with the worst of it. That night you told me, when I first came here. I was so 
shocked Fro, felt almost destroyed with it. But grateful, Frodo, that you trusted me 
enough to; lore knows that must have been hard. And to speak of it all now, and you 
saw what it did to me then without my knowing... knowing the half of it really. And 
now... now if you are hurting, Frodo, I can be right beside you and you'll know that. 
You'll have to believe there's nothing anyone could say, or do, that would even come 
near to beginning to touch how I feel about you, all the ways that I know and love 
you. It's as if you've stopped and turned, and waited for me to catch up with you, 
waited for me to be with you so we can face it together." 

Sam's voice shook a little on this last sentence. Both of them tired. Frodo smiled up at 
him. A beautiful smile washed through with such relief. Unexpected.

"I think that it was the vows that we made, Sam. And the blessing that we spoke. 
Those words live in us now, live in me like magic. I did not decide to speak of it all, 
like that. I just lay back in your arms and looked at you, the nightsky and all the stars 
around you... and I just could. As if... as if some key had been quietly turned in a lock 
inside me somewhere and I... I had not even known about the key or I would have 
hunted for it. Suddenly lying there in your arms on such a night I could speak of it. 
Maybe the blessing... the magic of this place... definitely your love for me, all the 
ways that you love me Sam. No more secrets, nothing else, not one single word of 
theirs do I carry alone inside me now."

He closed his eyes and his voice sounded tired and thin.

"Though I know it hurt you to hear the details, I know that Sam. It must hurt. I do not 
know how I would bear it, if it had been you."

Frodo honest, so direct when he wanted to be. No lies between them, no protecting 
each other with their silence. Sam sighed.

"Yes... yes it hurts, of course it does sweetstuff. I just wanted to scream sometimes, 
been wringing the edge of my cloak. Same as when you first told me. Hurt me then to 
the quick. But it would have hurt me more, in the end, if you'd kept quiet about it I 
reckon, Fro. You might never have been able to make yourself tell me. Took some 
courage that and I don't think, if you'd have never told me, well I think maybe you'd 
have never kissed me either."

They looked at each other. Both believed that Sam would never have been the first to 
kiss Frodo, they had said as much to each other, so the implications of this last train of 
thought were painful to Frodo and Sam. Frodo shivered and snuggled deeper into 
Sam's arms.

"I think that's true Sam. I would have felt too deceitful... too tainted. Now you know 
all of it and I do not feel like filth.  I feel... I do feel exposed to you, sort of vulnerable 
but not... looking up at you now I see love in your gaze, not revulsion."

Sam leaned down to kiss his nose briefly.

"I'm in love with you, Fro. And this... all this just makes me determined to cherish 
you all the more. To make the most of every moment here with you. You are so.... so 
passionate Frodo. So deeply loving and passionate."

They kissed then, soft kisses lingering, before Frodo lay back again in Sam's arms 
and eventually he closed his eyes and his breathing slowed as Sam stared into the fire 
in front of them. Then, a surprise to Sam, Frodo drifted slowly into a dreamless sleep, 
there in his arms.

Sam felt nowhere near sleep. He found himself remembering. The sight of Frodo 
when Sam had found him, naked and unconscious, in Cirith Ungol. Black he'd been, 
covered in grime and filth and cuts and bruises. Sam remembered. Not able to walk 
very well, despite his claims. Sam had left him practising while he went to find 
clothes. Had that been blood on his legs? But Sam had been fixed on one thing. Must 
get him away from there, desperate to get him away from there. Selfish really, it 
wasn't the Ring. Just desperate to keep him from them, just to keep him.

Pale and bruised, seemed dazed, as if at any moment he might wander off. Then he'd 
seemed to steel himself; still his nerve and set his resolve to carry on, to see it through 
to its inevitably bitter end. Had Sam had any idea? Had he literally not wanted to 
know back then?

Frodo had certainly not wanted to tell him. Had clothed himself in their filth. Must 
have reminded him over and over. And Sam, had he been all too ready to accept 
Frodo's brief explanation of his time there, of why his legs ached so much, of why he 
could hardly sleep?

Even at the end after Gollum had.... fallen. Even then, with the hateful Ring gone, 
Frodo had been so ready to die, almost wishing it on them. Had that been relief in his 
voice?  'Well this is the end Sam.' How he must have hoped, if he could just have 
hung on until then. Never would have thought that he'd have to live with it all. Have 
to somehow learn to live with it all these years.

Afterwards. Rescue, reunited. All the talk had been of the Ring, the battles, the quest, 
Frodo's lost finger. Frodo had been tired and quiet and pale as ice. And, looking back, 
he'd been very keen to maintain his privacy, suddenly not undressing in front of Sam 
anymore. Sam had rashly assured Frodo that they'd soon have him feeling better, had 
assumed that Frodo wanted to spare him the pain of seeing him so bruised and thin. 
Now Sam knew better. Now he knew much better than that.

Frodo had, in fact, looked haunted during the day and slept terribly at night. Everyone 
blamed the Ring. Frodo's hands, slowly less stiff. One bound in bandages where 
Gollum had..... had done what he did and the other weak and scarred and suddenly 
shaking a little. Frodo had quietly mentioned something about when they'd tied him 
up. Everyone expected that he'd be traumatised, had helped him. Amazed that he was 
still alive, coherent, could still walk, even if slowly.

No, Sam could see it all clearly for what it was back then now. Frodo had not told 
anybody, had simply not spoken of it. Because no one had ever asked him. Nobody, 
and Sam harshly included himself in this, nobody had wanted to know.

No wonder that it had taken Frodo such a painfully long time to tell anyone. And now, 
having made their vows to each other to share everything together, Frodo, true to his 
word, had told Sam every single detail. And Sam had wanted to know all of it. No 
longer protected by Frodo's silence. Nothing between them now.

Frodo turned slightly then and sighed in Sam's arms. Dawn light was all around them 
and Frodo still looked pale as morning mist and with the same fragile, ephemeral 
beauty. Cheeks gaunt and spare, his fingers pressed to his lips as he slept. As Sam 
watched him, breathing steadily, Frodo's eyes fluttered and then opened and he stared 
up at Sam. Soft purple crescents deep now under his eyes.

"I think I fell asleep for a moment Sam."

Sam stroked his cheek gently and saw the look of relief wash through Frodo's tired 
features.

"Yes you did love, not for long though."

Frodo shuddered then, his face still ashen and drawn, and he looked momentarily 
frightened. Sam's voice was steady as he spoke to him.

"I've got you. My Frodo it's alright now love, I promise.  I've got you, Frodo."

And then Sam seemed to realize that he was babbling. Frodo's stare was soft, open, 
vulnerable. Nothing left to hide.

"You are so protective of me Sam, you always were. I know that I would not have 
managed any of it without you. The love that you gave me back then, you... you gave 
me the strength to keep going." Sam shook his head and was about to speak when 
Frodo carried on.

"And now, now I can feel your protectiveness of me. And it is special to me." Frodo 
smiled thinly at him then. "There is part of me that just wants to curl up and let go. 
Just to lie and feel safe in your arms. You are so beautiful Sam. You are strong 
and...." 

Then he paused and his eyes had a faraway look for a moment before he snuggled 
closer to Sam. Then, looking up at him, Frodo swallowed and his lip trembled 
slightly.

"You are strong, and when you hold me in your arms I feel so safe and protected, and 
sometimes I just want to let go and lie with you, and I want you to keep me safe and 
hidden for ages, just to listen to you telling me that it's all alright. I do not know why. 
I know that I am safe here, it's not that. It's just...."

But here, frowning again, Frodo seemed to run out of words. Sam leaned down so that 
his face was near to Frodo's.

"Frodo I understand. I understand that. Let me hold you and soothe you, Fro. You just 
curl up with me, it's alright I understand sweetheart. You're safe with me here; no one 
can hurt you sweetstuff. I'll keep you safe forever. You don't have to be strong with 
me; you don't have to be strong with me, Frodo."

And, sitting there in the early morning light, Sam continued his soft, low, lullaby to 
Frodo, who lost himself in Sam's soothings and let his body go limp in Sam's arms. 
His breathing slowed, and Sam rocked him and spoke all the while to him about how 
safe and loved and special he was. That it was alright to let go, no need to try and hold 
it all down. And Frodo wept then, quietly, while Sam continued to soothe him, slowly 
running his fingers through Frodo's curls.

"I've got you, sweetheart, and I'm never going to let go of you my sweet love. You're 
safe with your Sam, you're safe here in my arms, it's alright my dearest Frodo. You 
don't have to be strong, or brave love, you don't have to be; you just let go of it. You 
are so easy to love Frodo, so lovable. Sweet and safe in my arms, no one can find you. 
I'll not let go of you. I'll hold you forever my Fro, my treasured Frodo. Forever and 
ever and ever. Just you and me love, curled up safe together. I've got you sweetstuff, 
I've got you, safe in my arms where you belong and I love to hold you close Frodo, 
it's lovely for me. It's alright now, I promise love, you're safe now Frodo. No one is 
ever going to hurt you again, I promise. I promise love, nobodies ever going to hurt 
you again, sweetest. It's over and you're safe love. It's over. I promise you Fro, they 
can't hurt you now. It's over."

And he carried on while Frodo kept his eyes shut and let himself drift in Sam's arms. 
Delicious to feel so protected and cherished and safe. To listen to Sam's words, full of 
comfort and love for him. A cloak of comfort and love around him, keeping him 
warm and safe forever. 

In fact, from that night on, and just as if he always knew when Frodo needed it, Sam 
would sometimes hold him and soothe him like that for hours on end curled up 
somewhere warm, speaking to him and holding him. It became part of their lives 
together; something not really frequent but treasured by both of them. Frodo would 
always marvel at how Sam seemed to know just when he needed to lie in Sam's arms 
and listen to his soothing words. Only Sam would understand what it meant to him. 
Only Sam would understand that.

For his part, as Sam told him, being able to comfort Frodo was special to him, special 
and treasured. If Sam could not have protected him back then, at least to be able to 
soothe Frodo so intimately now, to stroke his curls and hold him and comfort him; 
that also comforted Sam beyond measure. Seemed to make the past a little more 
bearable for him. For both of them.

At least now Sam was not left to imagine the worst of it, or rather to try not to. Left 
alone with his thoughts and nagging self-reproach. Better to soothe his love and to 
protect him and hold him close; then, still so slight and vulnerable seeming in his 
arms. Trembling or limp and quiet. Yet Frodo was stronger than anyone else he had 
ever met.

Finally Sam felt Frodo turn in his arms to question him, his voice still dry and thin.

"Is it alright if I...." 

Then Frodo opened Sam's cloak and undid the first few buttons of his nightshirt, to 
press his face against Sam's chest. Sam held him still like that, hazily aware that the 
earliest rays of sunlight were shining through the trees up the hill behind them. He 
wrapped his cloak back around them both, and felt his skin warm where Frodo's 
cheek was pressed to him.

"I just want to kiss you and to touch you Sam, I do not...." But Sam interrupted him.

"I know Frodo. I know that. Sshhh, I know sweetstuff. That would be lovely, to just 
hold and kiss by the fire."

Sam leaned down close to him as he spoke, and Frodo tilted his head back for Sam to 
kiss his cheeks, then to stroke Frodo's face gently. Frodo closed his eyes, felt Sam's 
fingers brushing his cheek. Stroking his throat softly. Soft as honey. So it was, kissing 
each other still, that Frodo and Sam lay down side by side, wrapped in blankets and 
their cloaks. 

All around them the early morning chorus of birdsong was steadily swelling, as the 
forest cast off its night-time cloak of blacks and greys, to wear once more the deep 
greens of the pines and the emerald shades of ferns and moss below. Then, each 
undoing the other's nightshirt to press themselves close, kissing and pressing their 
bodies as close as they could to one another, Frodo and Sam drifted slowly into a 
tranquil and undisturbed sleep together.

The hobbits finally set off from their little camp shortly after noon having enjoyed a 
delicious hot meal, cooked, at his own insistence, entirely by Sam. As Frodo sat 
watching, Sam had built up their fire and then, ever prepared with his small, light, 
Elven travelling tools, he'd dug a hole beside it. 

Into this hole Sam had eventually pushed the entire fire, embers and all, then laid 
stones, collected from the stream, on top of the fire. He and Frodo wrapped their ham 
and vegetables in fern leaves and put them on the stones. Lastly, Sam had stood a 
thick stick upright in the centre to make a chimney; filled the hole in with packed 
earth, removed the stick, and two hours later they were enjoying a fine roasted ham 
and vegetables.

A slight colour had gradually returned to Frodo's cheeks and they found themselves 
singing together as they set off again on their little journey. The day was warm and 
fine and trails of steam rose, here and there, from the forest floor. Both Frodo and 
Sam took delight, still, in the warmth after such a long winter.

The forest floor was strewn with clumps of creeping, white, bell shaped flowers, 
which drooped, two flowers to each single stem, surrounded by low fine green leaves. 
Frodo bent to pick one and threaded it through Sam's buttonhole.

"These flowers only grow in pinewoods. The Elvish name for them means 
'twinflowers,' because there are always two flowers to each stem. They grow 
together, just as we have twinned our hearts together."

Frodo rubbed his nose to Sam's and then kissed him, running his tongue over Sam's 
lips before dipping between them to touch to the tip of his tongue. Lips pressing softly 
now, lingering, melting into each other.

"Thank you Frodo," said Sam solemnly when they drew apart. "It's a beautiful 
flower. It is our special flower, I reckon."

 And, beaming, he bent to take another of the delicate blooms to thread carefully 
through Frodo's buttonhole. Frodo giggled, light and merry.

"We are soft on each other aren't we, Sam? Gone daft on each other, as Bilbo would 
say. Do you remember when we'd come home late, from walking out, because I 
would always insist that we go farther than we'd said we were going to; and supper 
would be long cold? He'd mutter about us being such a daft pair of good for nothings. 
He would always be smiling in the end though, even when he was cross with me."

"Yes I remember, Fro. I seem to remember he smiled a lot more at you than he did at 
me then though, love."

And with that they continued walking, their song and laughter echoing through the 
trees; to eventually arrive, the pines thinning slowly, at the northern edge of the strip 
of forest, which rolled away eastwards towards the coast.

The path now climbed steadily and turned in a long sweep to their right and thus 
nearer to the ocean. The land either side of them cleared soon to become a vast, bleak 
plane, densely covered with heather and the occasional gorse bush. The wind was 
wild and strong up here and any trees that grew were small and stunted, their branches 
stretching windwards from the coast towards the mountains like ancient, tattered 
signposts. 

Sam and Frodo found that the great, windswept plane was crisscrossed with tiny 
shallow streams and scattered with small pools, hidden among the heather. These 
were encircled by the brightest emerald green moss that either of them had ever seen.

Frodo enjoyed walking the old track across the rolling plane. Enjoyed the wind 
whistling around them so that they could lean into it, laughing, almost resting against 
it. They giggled and joked as they walked and soon enough the sun was looming low 
in the sky. They would sleep warm tonight, sheltered down among the heather from 
the ocean winds.

They were looking forward to Galdor's hospitality. He had visited with friends at the 
main harbour on occasion and had always sought out the hobbits to pay his respects to 
them. Bilbo, in particular, loved to question him about his life at the Grey Havens; of 
which Bilbo was writing a history, fascinated as he was by the world of seafaring.

For his part Galdor was fond of the hobbits, of course, and quietly impressed by their 
not inconsiderable part in the victory of the Free Peoples. But more than that, Galdor 
would never forget that day long ago in Imladris when he had first met Frodo, who 
had already sustained a grave wound to get thus far. The hobbit had seemed so young 
and he had borne himself with such a grave dignity. And Galdor had watched them 
leaving, his heart full of misgivings and bright blessings for the young Ringbearer and 
his clearly devoted friend.

Of course all of the companions had pledged their devotion to the Ringbearer. But 
something had told Galdor, even then, that it would certainly be the fierce love of 
young Master Samwise Gamgee that Frodo would have to rely upon, if he were to 
have any hope of preserving his body, let alone his spirit, from the deadly ravages of 
such a quest.

The stars were already glittering above them by the time that Sam and Frodo had 
finished their supper of bread with cheese and ham and even a fruitcake for afters, 
which Sam had managed to bring. They had not had to look far to find a gap, in 
among the heather bushes, just large enough for the two of them to lie in comfortably 
and which sheltered them well, yet was only a few yards from the track.

The wind moaned and sighed all around them. Yet the moment that they lay down 
together it was as if they had gone straight inside and shut the door against the gales. 
The heather was quiet and still around them and the winds seemed to just skim above 
it, rushing over their heads like a warm sigh from among the stars.

There were two worlds side by side really then. The first was the height of warmth 
and quiet built by the heather in which they sheltered. The second was the world of 
the vast, roaming, windswept plane above them, wild and bleak and somehow 
wistfully beautiful.

Frodo and Sam lay together, fed and warm and looking up at the stars. They spoke 
long into the night. Frodo told Sam some of the Elvish legends of the stars above 
them, which he had learned on Tol Eressėa. Sam, in turn, told Frodo the story of how 
the song first came to Singing Harbour. A tale of the Sea Elves of long, long ago, 
which Lindir had told to him when they'd been building a wooden cow shed together.

It was a long and haunting tale that Frodo had not heard before, and Sam told it softly 
and lyrically, just for him. It was the most perfect place to hear such a tale, as Frodo 
told him, there watching the stars and listening to ocean winds rolling above them. 
His Sam speaking so eloquently beside him.

Sam had always done this. He would use plain speech day to day, for weeks on end if 
there were no call for anything else and those who did not know him well enough 
could decide, all too quickly, that plain speech was all there was to him. And nothing 
wrong with that either, as Sam would have been the first to remark.

Yet all who really knew Sam knew that when, as he said, the occasion called for it, he 
was possessed of as fine a turn of phrase as most of the fair folk. Equally he was 
possessed of a quick memory for any songs or tales which took his fancy. It was one 
of the very many things that Frodo loved about Sam, and he smiled to himself then as 
he clasped Sam's hand.

"That was a beautiful tale Sam. You told it so well just for me, thank you. It reminded 
me of that line in the poem that you spoke in the orchard for me, 'You and I have 
travelled an ocean to each other.' Such a beautiful poem, words cannot say how much 
it touched me. You've so many talents, Sam, and I am honoured that you wrote it just 
for me."

Frodo dipped his head to kiss Sam's hand, clasped in his, and Sam felt him tremble 
slightly. Sam was blushing deeply now beside him, though Frodo could not see it. He 
heard Sam cough a little.

"Yes, well Frodo, talents as maybe. I don't reckon it was quite like that. To be honest 
it just came to me all of a sudden. It was after we'd been listening to all those songs 
and tales one night, you know, and then going back home with you, the words just 
started coming to me as we walked. The both of us walking that beautiful track home 
together. After all those years."

 Sam wriggled to turn to Frodo and wrap his arms around him.

"I don't know, Fro. I can't explain. Like one of those Elves was whispering it to me, it 
was, and when we got home I just had to write it down quick, before I forgot it, and 
the words fair tumbled out of my head." More unseen blushes.

"Anyway it was you Frodo. You gave it to me. It's a love poem, about you. But I 
would say I heard it, or something like it only much more lovely, and that is what I 
wrote down after."

Frodo sought Sam's mouth and kissed him, curling his tongue against Sam's, dipping 
and wriggling closer to him. They were both tired. Frodo closed his eyes, felt Sam's 
fingers brushing his cheek. His voice came to Sam then as he turned to lick and suck 
on Sam's fingers, something that he loved to do.

"Tell it to me again Sam?" His tongue gentle and soft, "That is.... I mean.... if 
you'd..." Sucking on his fingers now, Frodo smiled to himself inwardly to hear the 
note of pride in Sam's reply to him.

"I should like that Frodo, its your poem love, it belongs to you, sweetstuff."

And with that Sam composed himself and Frodo folded his hands round Sam's wet 
fingers. Sam cleared his throat and spoke the lines to Frodo which had, unbeknown to 
Sam, prompted such a flurry of tears in Bilbo when he had heard them in the little 
orchard glade near their home. And as he spoke them that night to Frodo, out under 
the stars, Sam again felt as if he were hearing them, or something very like, whispered 
to him now on the wind which skimmed above them. His voice as he spoke was rich 
and low and he turned his mouth close to Frodo's ear.

"You and I
Have travelled a strange road together,
And many a long road too.
You and I
Have sheltered through storms and foul weather,
And many a long night too.

And you've taught me lessons of courage,
And we've both learned lessons of friendship.
And you've taught me lessons of waiting
And of hoping and of never giving up.

For you to me are a summer night's walking.
And you are a waterfall tumbling
And you are autumn leaves dancing
And you are starlight song
On a winter's evening.

You and I
Have travelled an ocean to each other,
And down through the long years too.
You and I
Have walked paths to a life together,
And a love that is honest and true.

For you show me the depths of your courage,
And we learn still the lessons of trusting.
For we hold close the lessons of friendship
And of believing and never giving up."  

Frodo kissed Sam's hand again. There were soft tears in his eyes, unseen by Sam.

"It's so beautiful Sam. Thank you my dearest, I treasure it, I do not have the words for 
what it means to me. Thank you with all my heart."

Sam's voice caught in his throat then, though he had not faltered before, and he 
coughed and spoke quickly.

"You're welcome sweetstuff, you know that."

They held each other close, soft tired kisses, and there they fell asleep together with 
the wind much softer now, nothing more than a quiet sigh above them.

When Frodo woke it was still dark and Sam was snoring quietly, one arm flung across 
Frodo's body. He smiled to himself and wriggled, turning to gaze at the stars which 
had wheeled across the sky above him, as if on a long, slow, nightly dance, endlessly 
making the same steps. 

Frodo had been dreaming. Hazily fragmenting now, but they had been warm and 
delicious dreams full of Sam kissing him. Touching him. Frodo touching Sam. Frodo 
inside Sam, melting together, Sam's cries of pleasure seeming to echo through his 
memory, even as his dreams scattered on the wind.

Frodo's body was languid and soft yet full of yearning to him then. Yearning for Sam. 
Wanting, wanting him so much. Frodo shivered slightly but he was not cold. 
Sometimes he felt still as if his body was slowly waking up. As if, somehow, the more 
that Sam loved him the more pleasure that Frodo was able to feel in that love. And yet 
the first time had been.... had been indescribable to him, so that was not quite it. As if 
he was slowly waking up to his body, perhaps.

And now... now lying in the heather by Sam, Frodo found his thoughts trailing over 
what it might be like for him if Sam.... if he... if Sam were to enter him, slowly inside 
of him. If Sam were to be inside of him like that. Sometimes nowadays he would 
make love to Sam like that, inside him. Sometimes. Together, special. Each time that 
they made love was sacred. Sometimes they were playful, giggling, even talkative. 
Each time a sacred sharing between them. A gift and a blessing.

Frodo sighed and shivered again. He knew that Sam would be careful with him, he 
would be very careful. But would it hurt him? Did he only imagine that he wanted 
Sam to do this, were his body and mind playing tricks on him? 

Would the reality feel anything like... like the last time that he had been touched there, 
inside? Held down, his clothes torn from him, legs forced wide apart and hips 
suddenly lifted, pulled up and backwards off the ground and then.... and then burning 
pain tearing through him. Tearing into him. Tearing him.

The memories took just a few seconds to flash through Frodo's mind, his thoughts 
catching up slowly. Just a few seconds and a wincing frown momentarily crossing his 
features. Safe here. Just him and Sam and the sky. Surrounded by heather, hidden and 
warm and safe on the Blessed Isle with Sam. Beautiful, gentle, kindness itself Sam 
Gamgee.

Frodo moved a little nearer to Sam, under their blankets. As to his body and his 
desires, Frodo was unsure, was aware of a small knot of fear which tumbled through 
him. Frodo could not bear the thought of the look on Sam's face, should his 
lovemaking hurt Frodo. Sam shared the secrets of his body. Sam had brought 
undreamt of pleasure to his life. Pleasure and yearning.

Frodo made a decision. He let his hand wander to the hem of his nightshirt to pull the 
material up his thighs as he lay there. Then he parted his legs, turning slightly, and 
tentatively placed his finger against the opening there.

Perhaps there were some secrets his body held that he should learn by himself. Or 
some impossible traumas. Frodo shifted slightly, Sam was still cast deep in sleep 
beside him. His beautiful, treasured, passionate Sam.

Frodo lifted his finger to his mouth and licked it, twirling his tongue slowly and 
making as much saliva as he could. Then, raising the blankets with his other hand and 
curling up a little, he reached down and pressed to his opening. Briefly thought about 
trying to relax. Felt his own desire threaded still with a strand of fear, then pushed into 
himself as gently as he could.

Frodo gasped softly, eyes widening in the dark and his jaw clenching. A small 
burning, a small tearing feeling. His skin was not tearing, he knew that. He knew the 
pain of that. But just the feeling of being stretched again. Tears stung at his eyes and 
he held his finger still, did not notice that he was gritting his teeth. He had been right 
to do this alone.

Then Sam's face, smiling softly, seemed to swim before his eyes and, without 
deciding to, Frodo slackened his jaw and his body softened a little and he held onto 
the thought of Sam. It was Sam touching him now, pushing a little further into him. It 
was Sam loving him, only ever Sam for him. 

The tearing feeling passed and Frodo was utterly still then. It was Sam, gentle and 
loving, pushing slowly deeper. Frodo felt full and warm and almost as if he wanted to, 
almost as if, were Sam really touching him there now, he'd just... he'd just... but he 
was not exactly sure of what it was that he would do.

Frodo lay still for a while then listening to the wind sighing and the small scurrying 
sounds of night-time creatures in the heather. A beautiful warm night. He withdrew 
his finger slowly, and though the feeling as he did so made him grit his teeth for a 
second he no longer felt afraid. He smiled wryly to himself. Frodo had learned long 
ago that his circumstances sometimes demanded strange things of himself and others.

He turned under the blankets, pulling his nightshirt down, to wriggle into Sam's arms. 
Loved by him, Frodo knew that he was so deeply loved by him. In fact both of them 
were loved by a great many of those who dwelt around the harbour.

Since his painstaking account to them, the previous winter, of his time in Cirith 
Ungol, the Elves had been typically graceful in their expressions of care and 
sympathy for Frodo. A hand lightly placed on his arm, an embrace should he shiver. 
Lindir often put his arm around Frodo's shoulders when they walked together. This 
filled Frodo with delight. And, although he did not dwell on it, he knew also that he 
was relieved. Yes relieved, stupidly, senselessly relieved that he was still considered 
touchable. That Lindir wanted to put his arm round him. They knew, they all knew. 
He was not filth. He was Frodo of The Shire and he was beloved of the Elves, beloved 
of Samwise.  

Once, when Sam and he had fallen asleep together in the Great Hall a week or so after 
he had told them, Frodo had woken in the night breathing fast. He had been making 
soft mewing noises, rising in pitch and sounding breathless. He had not been loud 
enough to wake Sam though, aided on his way to the land of dreams as he had been, 
that night, by plenty of Bilbo's Elderflower wine. 

When Frodo finally opened his eyes it had been because one of the Elves, Frodo knew 
him by sight, had gently placed his hand to Frodo's cheek to rouse him and was 
looking at him with such a grave compassion, as Frodo woke, that he did not try to 
fight his tears back at all. And the Elf opened his arms in gesture then and Frodo had 
leaned to him wordlessly, to be wrapped up with him in a large grey blanket. 

Then Frodo was held close, his head stroked gently, until he fell asleep again to soft 
murmurs of ancient Elvish poetry in which, he had realised sleepily, he could hear his 
own name being spoken, along with some sort of blessing; all in a dialect which was 
strange yet fair to him.

Frodo had woken later at first light, twisting in his benefactor's arms, smiling up at 
him and blinking in the early sunlight. The Elf had smiled back and nodded silently, 
then lifted Frodo and placed him gently back down beside Sam. Then he smiled again 
and bent to kiss Frodo's brow before turning and walking silently across the Great 
Hall; leaving Frodo, still wrapped in the soft grey blanket, to curl against Sam, who at 
once flung his arm around him protectively in his sleep. Frodo soon fell asleep again. 
Always loved and cherished here. They both were. Safe and loved on the Blessed Isle. 
No need to be alone with his fears, ever again.

Now, lying in the heather, Frodo smiled as he drifted towards the land of dreams, 
lines from Sam's poem mingling with the soft smiles and merry laughter of the Elves, 
tumbling singsong through his mind. And, running through all, the call of the winds 
still blowing, mournful sounding now, from somewhere far away across the sea.

The hobbits reached the northern edge of the great plain which rolled down towards 
Singing Harbour early the following evening. The day had been fine and warm and 
they had both enjoyed crossing the plane underneath such a vast blue sky. 

The evening was warm and fair, the sky tinged pink where the sun had set in the west; 
when they saw, from the top ridge of the plane, the lights of Galdor's house twinkling 
away below them and, away out to sea, the lights of the reef lanterns so carefully 
tended by him. In the gathering twilight the lanterns bobbed and twinkled like tiny 
orange boats, strung out in a line at sea. These were the means by which the small 
craft from across the sea and from the north of the island could navigate their way 
safely into the little harbour.

Frodo and Sam held each other close in the gathering twilight. It would not take them 
long to walk downhill to the harbour. Low wisps of mist played across the valleys in 
front of them and the coastal track swept away through these valleys to curl on around 
the eastern shore of the Isle.  The path down to the harbour was broad and obviously 
well used, and Galdor's house looked homely and inviting, softly lit and nestled by 
the edge of the sea. 

And then they heard it, faint on the wind but unmistakable. The tide must be high. For 
the hobbits could hear the high moaning and whistling sounds, like some song from 
another world, made by the caves of that bay as the water crashed into them, forcing 
air out through the various nooks and crannies that these old caves had. 

Sam had told Frodo the legend that went with the unearthly yet beautiful sounds. A 
legend of true love lost, of long separation by the sundering seas, and of the assurance 
of a final and everlasting end to that separation, though the price be hard and the faith 
needed unshakable. Now he pulled Frodo to him quickly, the wind had got up and the 
sea mist was rolling in, up the valleys. Frodo and Sam turned and, singing softly 
together, they walked sure-footedly off the coastal track and down the path that led, 
twisting and turning, to Galdor's harbourside home.

 
PART THREE.

The Elf had prepared a warm welcome for Frodo and Sam; mugs of hot tea for them 
on their arrival and then plenty of warm water to wash in. Followed by a very fine 
spread of a supper indeed, as Sam was pleased to remark more than once that evening. 
Galdor was good company; the hobbits enjoyed listening to his tales of travellers 
come to him on the tides and of some of the strange things that washed up on the 
small beach there. These included, just that last week, two small wooden bowls, 
battered but beautifully carved and intact.  

Sam guessed, rightly, that the bowls were made from alder wood, given their rich 
shade of deepest and their survival in the sea. He was fascinated by them, 
immediately imagining that moment, dusk falling fast and everybody well fed, when 
whoever was washing them, crouching on the beach in the shallows, had misjudged 
the waves and lost them; and they had set off, somehow to stay together, bobbing out 
on their long journey across the seas. Frodo and Galdor stared at Sam then; both had 
been imagining some much more mundane and local explanation. The Elf did not 
hesitate in gifting them the bowls there and then, and he would brook no argument 
from them, saying simply that the bowls were just right for hobbit sized meals, though 
Sam had already demonstrated that this was not strictly true.

Galdor's low wooden house was full of treasures from the sea. A beautiful collection 
of seashells was spread on shelves throughout the simply furnished rooms. Pieces of 
driftwood lying here and there, stones tumbled by the relentless sea into soft curves. 
There was even part of the frame of some small old boat; upturned against the kitchen 
wall and now used to hang herbs and strips of drying seaweed from its ancient nails. 
Frodo and Sam were enchanted by the place, for neither of them had ever stayed 
anywhere quite like it.

Galdor smiled at their obvious delight in his home. He always kept rooms made up for 
guests, many travellers stayed with him whilst waiting for tides or for a fair wind. He 
was pleased that the hobbits were to spend a few days here to wander and to rest by 
the harbour that he so loved. 

But he had another purpose in inviting them there and, after they had eaten well and 
explored his home, he sat down with them in his warm little kitchen as Frodo and 
Sam smoked their long stemmed pipes and Sam explained his plans for the various 
small crops which they were raising back home. Galdor smiled easily and often with 
his guests. He was tall and sturdily graceful; his features weather and sea roughened, 
yet he was fair and kindly looking and his long dark hair belied the number of his 
years.

During a lull in their conversation the Elf fixed his gaze on Frodo and spoke as gently 
as he could.

"Gandalf visited with me when the snows melted. He told me Frodo. All about your 
captivity in Cirith Ungol, about your speaking of it in the Great Hall. And about your 
nearly being lost to the snow."

Frodo visibly blanched at this and his eyes flared briefly. He tilted his chin up, 
unrealising, in a gesture of defiance and met Galdor's gaze. Sam looked from one to 
the other. Frodo's jaw was clenched and his knuckles showed white. Galdor spoke 
softly.

"I was very deeply saddened to hear of it, Frodo. And shocked at such hideous 
cruelty." 

Galdor was still and quiet, and he appeared to watch Frodo carefully then.

"Yes," said Frodo, looking uncertain, "Yes I.... thank you for your kind words." Then 
Frodo visibly relaxed and Sam let out a low sigh.

Galdor had noticed that Sam had not taken his eyes from Frodo since the mention of 
his ordeal. Sam Gamgee, though he did but know it, was in fact held in the highest 
regard by Galdor of the Grey Havens, who had taken the measure of him long ago in 
Imladris, just as Sam's hopes of an imminent return to Hobbiton had finally been laid 
to rest.

"Gandalf thought that both of you would enjoy staying here. He also thought that I 
might be able to help you Frodo." 

Frodo's mouth fell open slightly at this and he glanced at Sam, whose expression was 
wary. 

"I am possessed of what you would call the healing touch. It is powerful in me Frodo, 
but it can only be received by one who is able to hide nothing, none of their hurts, 
from the healer. That is why, my dear Frodo, it would not have been possible before. 
It would have hurt your mind to try. It is important that you understand that Frodo. 
You had good reasons to behave as you did." Galdor smiled at both of them, their 
faces still pinched with uncertainty, despite their natural trust of all things Elvish.

"I do not mean that you need to speak of your ordeal to me." Another smile for them, 
Frodo looking very slightly relieved? Galdor continued, speaking softly.

"It seems that you told Sam what was troubling you on the very night that he arrived 
here. And that speaks to me of something that was meant to be. You were not ready 
before, and I do know that you missed him, terribly, sometimes. You took the first 
opportunity to reach out, just as he took the first opportunity to ask you to reach to 
him. When the kind and blessed tides brought your dearest one to you, only then was 
the telling possible for you."

Frodo nodded slowly. Galdor's words had touched him. The Elf's grey eyes, at once 
soft with deep compassion and sharp with wisdom, stirred a grateful trust inside him. 
Silence for a moment. Galdor watching him. Frodo wide eyed, solemn, trusting. Still 
somehow managing to find those reservoirs of trust which he held within him.

"Then I am honoured to accept your kind offer, Galdor. I am very grateful that you 
should think to bestow that on me."

Frodo's face was grave and he looked suddenly exhausted. The Elf smiled at him. 
Frodo had remained courteous despite his sudden vulnerability, whilst Sam had been 
very obviously full of anxiety for him. Galdor's smile at Sam, then, was full of 
warmth and Sam found his worries eased by it.

"Tomorrow is the night of the full moon.  When you are rested after supper, that 
would be a good time to do this, Frodo. And Sam shall stay with you if you would 
like him to." Relieved smiles from Sam and a slight nod from Frodo.

"You are both tired after your journey. Come my young friends, I shall show you to 
your room."

And with that he took them to the far end of the wooden house. The hobbits realized 
that it must be built in an 'L' shape to hug against the cliffs behind it, which meant 
that their room, at the farthest end of the house, was also the one nearest to the sea. 

The room was small and cosily furnished, and Galdor had already lit the round 
woodstove that nestled in one corner. On the large bed was a thick, rich, velvet spread 
of deepest ruby red and there were other jewel-coloured velvet drapes around the 
room. These seemed to belong in some small, intimate, royal chamber and the room 
was a contrast to the rest of Galdor's home.

Frodo and Sam looked up at him in gratitude and delight. Both looked exhausted. 
They were soon tucked up in their bed together and drifting to sleep in each other's 
arms, the sounds of the sea calling close now to them in their dreams.

They spent the next morning exploring the little bay. The inlet was small and the 
harbour was formed by a strange, twisting, stone wall; wide and low, built to curve 
from the shore out into the sea, like some long flat-backed grey sea serpent forming 
the farther side of the bay. It was at the serpent's head, graceful in the water, that 
small ships would dock and be fastened by the great chains attached to the wall; 
which, itself, was broader than any road back in Hobbiton.

Galdor kept many beehives dotted on the heather covered slopes behind his home. 
These took up much of his time, along with tending to his boats and the reef lanterns, 
and Frodo and Sam did not see him until he found them lying on the small beach in 
the afternoon sun. He coughed as he approached them and they sat up. Galdor was 
pleased to see them looking carefree and rested.

"We've had a lovely day," said Frodo as Galdor sat down beside them on the sand. "I 
did not expect the sea here to be so warm on my feet."

And Frodo smiled broadly, the wind ruffling his hair and his cheeks flushed. In fact 
the hobbits were both glowing, compared with yesterday. This bay often worked its 
magic quickly.

"Both of you shall always be welcome here." Galdor was pleased to see that Sam also 
nodded at this. 

"It is time now for me to take the boat out and light the lanterns. I wonder, Frodo, if 
you would like to accompany me? There is a beautiful light today and the winds are 
calm. The harbour can be seen at its fairest, I believe, from the reef."

This last sparked Frodo's innate curiosity, as well as his delight in land and seascapes. 
If an Elf ever remarked that something was beautiful, well it was usually and typically 
an understatement.

Sam, however, was alarmed. But he saw the look of delighted curiosity on Frodo's 
face as he stared at the lanterns, bobbing on the waves. Bobbing some distance away 
indeed, as it now seemed to Sam, sitting there on the shore beside the one that he 
loved.

"I should like that very much," said Frodo, smiling; the sea looked almost as calm as a 
lake. 

He turned to Sam, taking his hands and smiling at him, and his tone was just like the 
one that Sam used to use when he was calming one of his children's night-time fears.

"It will be fine Sam. Don't worry, you can sit here and watch us, and we shall all have 
supper together when we get back, my love. Truly Sam, it will be fine." 

Frodo embraced him and Sam felt sudden, irrational tears threaten. He was being 
ridiculous and he knew it. Grown hobbit. It was only a boat. As they drew apart he 
smiled at Frodo's eager expression. 

"You'll enjoy it, sweetstuff. And if a nice big mackerel jumps in the boat mind you 
grab him tight and we'll have him for supper."

And Sam's lip did not tremble at all, not until he was watching Frodo and Galdor 
walk away from him. Galdor had put his hand to Sam's shoulder before they left.

"I shall bring him back to you, Sam, safe and sound. You have my word on it."

And with that they had turned and walked away, the sky darkening slowly above 
them. Sam watched them untying the boat from the near end of the wall and then 
walking carefully down the stone steps and into the now frail looking craft, which was 
in fact much like a broad rowing boat, pointed upwards slightly at one end and with a 
small mast and sail.

Sam sat on the sand then and fixed his gaze on his beloved Frodo, who turned slowly, 
stood up in the boat and waved to him, the white sleeve of his shirt seeming to sway 
and soar for a moment like the sea gulls whirling all around them. Sam blinked as he 
watched. Frodo's voice came faint to him then as he waved but Sam could not make 
out Frodo's words to him.

Frodo would love this, he would tell Bilbo about it excitedly on their return home. 
And they would return. Both of them. He had the word of an Elf on that. Galdor had 
given his word; he'd given his word. Sam blinked again but he did not cry. Instead he 
sat watching them and running the soft sand through his fingers. 

Over the years since Frodo had told him about Cirith Ungol Sam had suffered from 
his own thankfully rare nightmares. Always the same. Always. Darkness... Frodo 
lying there while they hurt him. Frodo screaming and screaming Sam's name. His 
voice rising thin and high with the pain of what they were doing to him. Sam calling 
back, screaming at them to stop hurting him, lunging at them with his sword.

But they never heard him, never felt him. It was as if he was not really there at all. As 
if no one could see him but Frodo. Frodo lying there uncomprehending, distraught 
that Sam was not helping him. Sam screaming soundlessly, over and over again. 
Unable to move. Sam failing over and over again to protect him, failing to help him at 
all.

Then they'd be stripping Frodo's clothes from him as he struggled. Sam would see the 
fear on Frodo's face. Could hear him whimpering and crying when one of them 
produced a knife. No longer struggling and screaming as they held it to his face. They 
would hurt him and use him. They would kill him, if they wanted to, and there was 
nothing that Sam could do but listen to his helpless cries and know that Frodo would 
scream and cry forever and ever and ever.

Then Sam would wake. Immediately to remember where he was, to lie still and hope 
not to wake Frodo. To blink back tears, alone in the night, and to watch Frodo, lying 
warm and breathing soft in sleep beside him. His Frodo who loved him so 
passionately, who'd been through all that and not just in dreams. Who lay beside him, 
beautiful in sleep. Who cried sometimes when Sam made love to him, happy tears as 
he called them. Who still shook sometimes so badly you'd think his teeth would fall 
out. Who lay with Sam in the woods, touching him. Touching and kissing Sam's body 
for hours and hours and hours. Who was out there now on the water, far away in a 
tiny boat, with the wind rising suddenly and, as if from nowhere, the waves beginning 
to peak white tipped.

In his nightmare Sam could never help Frodo. Only ever two choices, to keep 
hopelessly trying, while staring in horror, or to turn and flee. No choice at all then.  
Just as, if the unthinkable should happen now, he would be able to do nothing at all to 
help Frodo escape his final doom and drown, just like his parents had done.

Of course Sam would try, he would run and hurl himself, wading desperately ever 
deeper as the boat floundered. And then to do what exactly? Drown? Watch, horror 
struck, and listen to Frodo's cries as he tried to struggle through the water? It would 
be just like in his nightmare but this time the sea would claim Frodo, would sweep 
him away from Sam forever. All of that, survived all of that, just to be lost here... just 
to be lost here and to die wearing Sam's ring. The tears felt cold on his cheeks, then, 
in the east wind that had risen so quickly. Galdor had given his word; he would risk 
no harm to Frodo. Why then was Sam's mind tormenting him like this?

Sam shivered as the first of the lanterns twinkled into life in the grey blue sealight. 
The boat looked tiny now, though he could make out the white of Frodo's shirt almost 
as if the light made it bright as a dash of moon light, shimmering precariously above 
the waves. He would believe. Soon they would be eating and talking and laughing 
together, three of Sam's favourite activities. And until then he'd the long stem of his 
pipe for company and the word of an Elf for comfort.

So it was that Samwise, after supper that night, found himself still sparkling with 
gratitude that his solemn, teeth clenching faith had been rewarded and that he now 
held Frodo close, standing by the woodstove in their little room, shutters fastened 
tightly, warm and safe. 

Frodo's cheeks were still flushed from his small voyage and Sam had enjoyed holding 
him close, as he'd spoken so excitedly, while Galdor had moored the little boat. Sam, 
looking over Frodo's shoulder, had met Galdor's fair, grey eyes then; his own were 
already tear filled. And the Elf had nodded slowly, his gaze radiating an utterly tender 
compassion in response to Sam's tearful smile. 

Sam had chided himself, of course, for being so foolish. Frodo and he spent plenty of 
time apart at home and he had only gone a mile out to sea. Sam had lost Frodo before 
though. That icy cold feeling, once that had got hold of him, it had suddenly seemed 
all too possible. Even, for one horrific moment, somehow inevitable. As if, yes as if it 
could not last. Even here. Their joy, their grace, Frodo's happiness. Real, true, 
untainted happiness. As if it would be, must be snatched from them, even here. A 
stupid accident, a sudden unexplained wave, no one's fault, just the fates, once more, 
treating Frodo with unexplainable contempt.

The room was hot, Sam had made sure of that and there were lots of blankets under 
the thick velvet spread on their bed. Holding Frodo. Holding Frodo, who had his arms 
around Sam's waist. Holding Frodo, warm and safe. Sam felt Frodo's lips brush his 
ear softly as he heard him speak.

"You knew that I'd come back to you, didn't you Sam? Didn't you?"

Frodo turned then, to look into his eyes as Sam swallowed.

"Well I.... well yes, I did know that, Frodo." Sam shifted his feet slightly, "I did know 
that. But I didn't.... didn't feel it Fro. I was a bit churned up, to be honest." Here Sam 
cast his gaze down and his voice came quietly to Frodo.

"I know about Elves and their seacraft and all, but accidents.... well accidents do 
happen Frodo, and I would have rather have felt like I could have helped you; or at 
least tried to if... if anything untoward..." 

But his voice trailed off and he was silent. Felt Frodo's hand tilting his chin up, to see 
Frodo's eyes, soft with love for him.

"Sam." His name spoken to him like a brief, low blessing. Frodo's eyes shinning.

"We did not speak very much when we were out there on the ocean. It was quiet there 
and full of sound at the same time, only all in a rhythm, more like music really." 
Frodo dropped his hand from Sam's chin to embrace him again.

"But Galdor did speak to me about you and I, Sam. He told me that he sometimes has 
the Elven sight, suddenly and keenly, especially here on this side of the sea. He told 
me that he had seen it clearly, that we would not be parted again, my love. Not like 
that. That nothing here would ever take us from each other."

Sam's reaction to his words took Frodo completely by surprise. He sobbed, loud and 
deep, before letting go of Frodo and sinking to the floor, there to sob as Frodo had 
never heard him do before. Frodo knelt and cradled him in his arms. All of Sam's 
strength appeared to have left him, so that he could not have stood up and he leaned 
into Frodo's arms as the sobs wracked him until, after a long while, they stopped 
suddenly and he looked up at Frodo. blinking. Sam's face was in need of a clean.

"That's the best thing I ever heard." Was all he said and Frodo nodded, smiling, as 
Sam finally smiled too. Then they held each other for a long while, curled together 
there on the floor in front of the woodstove, and Frodo stroked Sam's face, gently 
soothing his tears away.

Later, after they had both bathed, there was a knock at their door and, after waiting for 
their reply, Galdor came into the room. He smiled warmly at Frodo and Sam and 
stood still for a long moment.

Both hobbits looked as anxious as each other. As if Galdor might somehow be 
planning, not to trick them, they both shared that trust in all things Elvish, even 
though for Samwise it had obviously been sorely tested today. Rather, it was as if he 
had come to administer some fearsome but necessary test or trial on them. Alert, 
ready at any moment to spring to each other's defence. Even here. Even after all this 
time. 

And obviously, very obviously in love with each other. Galdor had noted the slender 
design of their rings immediately. By tradition these were wrought only for those 
whose love had been tested and proved through long endurance of the sternest trials. 
Trials which destiny has always seemed to reserve for the purest and deepest loves; 
somehow seeking them out, down through the ages. For each winter a leaf may seem 
to be lost forever; yet it still nourishes the earth where it finally rests, then to nourish 
the trees that grow there and so, eventually, to become leaf once more and to signal 
another returning spring, in some other far away year. 

The two hobbits were obviously devoted to each other. So alike in many ways, and 
yet so different from one another. Samwise, sitting up on the bed, broad and full 
faced, hair threaded golden by the candlelight, holding his beloved Frodo. When Sam 
smiled his face shone like the sun.

Frodo's face was spare, chin gently pointed, huge luminous eyes and dark curls 
tumbling against his pale, shadowy beauty. Like the sun and the moon they were to 
each other.... Galdor noticed Frodo, then, clasp hold of Sam's hand to kiss it softly; 
Frodo leaning back on him, and Sam up propped against the pillows.

Galdor smiled again at them and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed beside 
them. Then he put one hand on Frodo's arm for a moment and spoke slowly.

"You shall feel warmth, perhaps a tingling sensation, flowing into you from my 
hands. It will help your body to heal itself of these aches and pains and it will soothe 
your mind too, as you let it." 

He paused and sighed. Outside the night was still and warm, the full moon low in the 
sky. Later, after they had slept, Frodo and Sam would slip away to splash and walk in 
the starlit surf, laughing and kissing on the shore as the night ended and the sky began 
to pale slowly. Galdor spoke Frodo's name gently, full of warmth.

"Frodo, for me to give some healing to your hurts it would be helpful, if you were 
able, for me to see them."

A brief silence. Sam regarding him openly now. Trusting him, despite his own 
concern for Frodo.

"Oh," said Frodo, understanding then, and sitting up. "Yes, of course."

And he lifted his nightshirt up and over his head in one movement to fold it in his lap; 
momentarily wide eyed with a sudden lunge of carefully suppressed anxiety. He 
looked so slight, even though Galdor had expected it. They all knew just what he had 
carried, seeming so impossible, to the doom of the enemy. And Frodo could not 
suppress a small shudder then before lying back against Sam. He was brave, but 
Galdor already knew that. He spoke gently.

"Try and relax and let your body receive this healing, now, Frodo. Your Sam is 
holding you, remember that. What was done to you was terrifying and your body does 
not forget that. You know in your heart that I am both worthy of your trust and 
capable of helping you."

Galdor sat still and a silence hung in the room before Frodo spoke, his voice sounding 
only slightly wary.

"Thank you Galdor," he said simply. "Please forgive me my fears, they are surely no 
measure of my trust and respect for you. I am indebted to you for your kindness."

Frodo looked at him for a moment then. Sadness. Not all consuming, the hobbit knew 
grace when it was granted him, but a brief, still, sadness. Bereft and alone, out of 
reach to all aid. They both knew that the only choice was to learn to live with such 
moments of sadness, holding fast to some faith in their eventual passing, and to some 
gratitude for graces granted. 

Then Frodo closed his eyes, lying back in Sam's arms and wriggling down the bed a 
little. Galdor nodded slightly to Sam. He spoke a few quiet lines of Elvish then, 
apparently to his hands, before laying them gently on Frodo and closing his eyes.

The room seemed immediately to grow darker and, at the same time, more warm and 
peaceful to Sam then. Frodo let out a low sigh. He had felt the tingling warmth that 
Galdor described the moment that the Elf touched him. He felt Sam kissing his head, 
softly. Supporting his body. 

Galdor's hands on his neck. Frodo briefly remembered the knife, cold there, small 
images, one after the other in his minds eye. But far away, as if he were looking at 
little pictures held far away in his hands, little pictures from long ago; small faint 
glimpses of memories. Galdor stroking gently, where, long ago, they had squeezed the 
air from him and laughed as he panicked in his desperation to breathe, to live. Sam 
kissing his head, warmth, tumbling, falling, run jump, they were falling together, he 
and Sam, they would never stop falling with each other.

Sam watched as Galdor raised his hands from Frodo's neck and shook them, as if 
flinging water off them for a few moments. Sam almost fancied that he could see the 
droplets, slowly flying from his hands, before the Elf resumed his small stroking 
movements. Sam watched as Galdor's hands travelled across Frodo's shoulders, 
lingering, infinitely slowly, both hobbits lost now to the world of time passing. Sam 
watching as Galdor's hands began stroking Frodo's chest, Galdor pausing 
occasionally to shake his hands as he had done before. Frodo sometimes sighing, or 
opening his eyes to meet Galdor's. Some sort of understanding seeming to pass 
between them.

Then Frodo would close his eyes, squeezing Sam's hand in his Galdor's hands looked 
huge on Frodo's body and Sam could see that the Elf was infinitely gentle with him. 
In the end Sam found the sight of Galdor's hands gliding across his Frodo, across his 
battered body, to be somehow soothing. Someone else was helping Fro, was caring 
for him and comforting him. Just as he deserved. Healing him, or rather helping him 
to heal as much as he was able to. Sam looked at the Elf and caught Galdor's eye and 
smiled at him with a deep and trusting gratitude then.  A smile as wide and warm as 
the midsummer sun.

For his part Galdor found treating Frodo to be both demanding and painful.  The 
hobbit obviously was able to let his guard down very well when he wanted to. Galdor 
already knew that he had traces of the sight within him. And Frodo had clearly 
decided to try and do nothing now, other than to trust to Galdor's healing as much as 
he was able.  Which was very much, seeming, having once made such a decision, to 
relentlessly let down all the carefully maintained guards that he kept within himself as 
well as any remaining between him and his companions.  Elves had the ability to do 
this. And hobbits too, it seemed, on occasion.  One of them at least, anyway. When he 
was held in the arms of someone he loved beyond question.  Frodo's story, as with so 
many things, had a timing to it that could not have been hastened. 

The images poured into Galdor's mind as he worked. Disjointed, incoherent.  Pain 
and terror and despair. And then sudden coherent passages, among the foul curses and 
thankfully indecipherable rantings. 

'Keeps trying to breathe, thinks it's dying stupid filth. Don't let it mind. You know 
what happens and they want it when it's a bit broken. Don't let it bang its head too 
hard when it falls and don't let it bleed too much. Small cuts only remember, or it'll 
be no use. No more now. Play with it again later.'

Sam watched Galdor as he shuddered. The colour drained from his normally wind 
reddened features, but he carried on with his task and Frodo, lying still, felt a soft 
warmth rolling through him in waves. Only briefly did he open his eyes, to turn and 
lie on his front, with Sam beside him. As he did so, he looked at Galdor with an 
expression softly unreadable, somewhere between a weary relief and deep 
compassion. Galdor smiled slightly at him. The following day he would remind Frodo 
that he had been doing this work, on occasion, for a very long time now and that he 
would not be doing it without the ability to protect and heal himself. That would be 
foolish and ruinous, indeed, for all involved, and no Elf would participate in such a 
thing. 

After a while Frodo, keeping his eyes shut, began to weep quietly to himself. Sam 
stroked his head then, and Galdor's hands felt warm, softening his body, pouring like 
a river running through him. Warmth, tumbling with the current, letting himself be 
carried seawards. Pain and fear pooling, swirling in the water, disentangling like 
seaweed in the current, long ribbons trailing through the water in front of him.

Finally Galdor's hands rested on Frodo's hip. Frodo knew that the thin mark where 
they had hurt him trailed downwards, his hip still hurt him in the cold sometimes. 
Putting his hand behind him, in answer to the Elf's unspoken question, he pulled the 
blanket down to his knees. Then he gripped Sam's hand again and screwed his eyes 
tightly shut. Warmth flooding through him again. Healing and love, a warm pool 
whose very waters adored him. Sam murmuring to him softly, his voice sounding far 
away. Waves holding him, rolling through him. Safe in their little boat, surrounded by 
a net of lights.

Galdor had been right in his optimism for Frodo. By the time another year had passed 
Frodo's life in the Blessed West had brought a deep and abiding comfort to him, and a 
gratitude that he would feel, amazed and relieved, for the rest of his days. 

Frodo of the nine fingers. Nine fingers Frodo could live with. He had been engulfed 
by the madness, had finally sealed his own fate. Loosing a finger to be freed of it; and 
looking back Frodo was sure, beyond doubt, that Gollum's teeth had provided the 
only possible way out, loosing a finger like that had a reason and a purpose to it. 
Gollum had rescued Frodo from it in the last moments of his life and he had taken 
Frodo's finger with him as his payment. And left the stump as a reminder, Frodo 
thought privately, as if to call back to them, 'Do not forget, hobbitses, in the end you 
were no better than I was.'

But Cirith Ungol; they had violated him because they enjoyed it and because they 
could do. No other reason, their knives alone would have been enough to leave him a 
bit broken, as their orders had required. Frodo could spend the rest of his life 
tormenting himself, endlessly looking for answers. Why to him? Over the years he 
had learned the only possible answer to that question, simple really. Why not him? 
Why somebody else? He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing 
more. And there was comfort in that. Comfort and sanity. 

Frodo slept deeply and well in Sam's arms that night, after Galdor had left them. 
Their next few days at Singing Harbour were filled with walks and with lying on the 
beach together in the sunshine. Frodo and Sam adored sitting on the beach, on a warm 
night under the stars, whilst Galdor told ancient sea stories to them. The two of them 
would listen, sitting arm in arm, beside a little fire of driftwood to cook their supper 
on and to lull them with it's dancing flames.

On their last evening there they helped Galdor with the honey, watching as he placed 
the combs, in their wooden frames, into what looked like a large upended copper 
barrel. This Galdor then began to turn, by means of a handle, so that it rotated like a 
spinning top, throwing the honey to fall down the inside and to trickle steadily from 
the small tap at the bottom. Then to be poured from the jug into brown earthenware 
pots, and tightly sealed with beeswax and wooden stoppers, each one belonging to its 
own pot. Sam and Frodo had carefully cleaned and scalded all the pots with boiling 
water whilst Galdor was at the hives.

The whole house reeked of honey. By the time that they had finished, their clothes, 
their hair, the very air that they breathed was saturated with its intoxicating sweetness. 
There were now around fifty pots, all lidded and boxed neatly by Sam, and with a 
label on each lid written by Frodo, detailing the date and the most abundant flowers of 
the area. Frodo enjoyed writing, which, as Sam thought, was just as well.

Frodo and Sam relished the honey-drenched atmosphere in the kitchen that night. 
Somehow the very air seemed to pulse and dance with a golden energy. With life 
itself, precious and sweet.

It was on that last night of their stay that Frodo decided it was as fair a night as any 
ever would be; and on which Sam, once again, found himself surprised and delighted 
by his quicksilver best friend. It was late by the time that they tumbled into bed, to 
immediately kiss one another. Sam felt himself enraptured kissing Frodo. Kissing 
Frodo's face, his neck. Frodo's shirt smelled of honey and Sam pulled at it in his 
hurry to undo the buttons.

Writhing and groaning, so much pleasure just from pushing against each other's 
bodies, hands in each other's hair, tongues in each other's mouths. Sam was overcome 
then by his desire to kiss Frodo's chest, rising and falling, the place where his heart 
was beating, beautiful and breathtaking as ever. Sam's entire body seemed to pulse 
with it, his mouth yearning and yearning with a desire felt more keenly than any 
thirst, he was sure of it. Any thirst that he had ever felt. And Frodo arched his neck 
back, groaning, when Sam's fingers found both his nipples already hard.

Sam's mouth felt so hot on him. Hot and wet, pressing hard. Frodo's chest rising and 
falling, breathing deeper, pupils flaring, fingers stretching out taut. Hot and wet on his 
chest, sucking him, Sam was sucking on him fiercely. And Frodo arched his back, 
offering himself to Sam's mouth, exquisite, arching up to feel Sam's teeth grazing 
against his nipple and then holding it taut.

Frodo's moan came to his lips unexpected by him, a long, low groan as his hands flew 
to hold Sam's head, pressing down slightly. Then Frodo's moans came rapidly, to 
Sam's delight; Frodo's breath in gasps. Groaning and moaning his pleasure, quietly, 
over and over and over again. They were together; they were starlit, lit by reef 
lanterns, rolling and swaying with the blessed tides, the ocean taking them where it 
would. Who knew the ways of all the winds, of all the currents that could claim them? 
Who knew how many enchantments might befall them in their perfect little boat?

Slowly Sam realised that Frodo was shivering, his skin covered in goosebumps even 
as he whispered his pleasure. The briefest stab of bitter memory, Sam loathed to see 
Frodo cold. Frodo who, strangely, had not even felt his own chill, felt Sam's kisses 
stop, and Sam was already off the bed.

"You're frozen sweetheart, I'll shut the window."

And he turned to look at Frodo, had he left him too suddenly? Frodo sat up then, 
smiling at him. His curls were a dark, dishevelled, tumbling mass, the wind through 
the open window lifting them slightly, as if invisible fingers were playing through 
Frodo's hair. 

Sam would have felt jealous of the wind then. He smiled to himself as he walked 
swiftly to the window. At first the thought had dismayed him. The only one, he was 
the only one ever to properly make love with Frodo. Now Sam knew the truth. He was 
cherished and blessed. Simply blessed beyond belief. He closed the window, latched 
the shutters and returned, still smiling, to their bed.

Now Frodo, shirt spread open, chest still wet from Sam's kisses, now Frodo turned 
and leaned to the small wooden cabinet beside their bed, to fumble there for a few 
moments before turning back to look at Sam. 

Sam's stomach lurched a little and he shivered quickly. Frodo was regarding him 
shyly and suddenly looking as vulnerable and hollow cheeked as he had done years 
ago. He was holding a small, blue, glass bottle of hazelnut oil, labelled in his own fair 
script. Sam's eyes widened and he instinctively reached out to brush Frodo's cheek 
with his fingers, briefly, before he spoke.

"My sweetheart," and as Frodo noticed the deeply warm and loving gaze that fell on 
him then, so Sam noticed the slight look of relief begin to wash through Frodo's 
tightly drawn features. 

"Frodo, if you're sure love, remember just as much as you'd like, Fro, if you want to 
stop that's fine, it's fine sweetheart, promise me Fro, you know I shan't feel hurt and I 
don't..." Frodo's other hand to his lips, a familiar gesture.

"I know Sam. I know. What we have is special and we have spoken for one another 
and now I want, when you...." 

Frodo stopped then. He had not run out of words, did not find himself unable to carry 
on. Instead he looked at Sam squarely and once more he let Sam see straight into the 
very depths of his soul. Let his guard down so completely that everything about him 
then; his expression, his mouth, the pools of longing in his eyes, every single thing 
about him spoke to Sam of his desire.

Sam took the bottle from him wordlessly and Frodo swallowed as their hands 
brushed. Sam understood, he would understand; desire could be stronger than fears.

"I love you so much, Sam," said Frodo simply. He leaned forward to rub his nose to 
Sam's and kiss him, just brushing his lips, before lying back against the pillows. Sam 
tucked the little bottle up against the pillows and leaned down beside Frodo. This 
moment, nothing but this moment, both delicate and beautiful.

"My Fro, my sweetstuff, my dearest, dearest love, I love you too." Almost solemnly.

Frodo pulled Sam to him and sought his mouth, hands cupping his face, Frodo's 
tongue running over his teeth. Kisses, both languid and urgent, melting together, 
Sam's fingers brushing Frodo's nipples again. Frodo instantly to moan softly, 
writhing as he had done when Sam had been kissing his chest before. Sam felt just a 
tremor of the same yearning in his mouth then before he dipped to suck again at him. 
Felt Frodo's body snap taut beneath his mouth on one nipple and his fingers on the 
other. Felt Frodo's hips arch up suddenly towards him as he felt Frodo's fingers 
against his.  Heard Frodo's voice, breathless, and his words, ragged.

"Touch me. Sam.... touch me my sweet..." Hips buckling up to him already. And he 
hadn't even...

"Sam touch me there love, I want you to so much, sweet, I want you to."  Frodo's 
stare was luminous, body stilled, waiting.

Again almost solemnly, Sam sat up to open the bottle and pour a little of the golden 
brown oil into his cupped palm. He reached up to put the bottle on the narrow oak 
shelf by his side of their bed, and then rubbed the fingers of his other hand in the little 
pool in his palm. As Frodo watched him so he sat up, a little, and parted his thighs.

Then Sam trailed both hands between Frodo's legs and Frodo felt his palm and then 
his fingers there, barely touching him. Frodo moaned quietly and opened his legs 
wider, felt the soft touch of the sheets against his calves.

Sam's hands were still. Close he was close. Frodo's skin delicate and thin and 
stretched there and Sam's fingers resting, gently and still. Frodo swallowed hard, and 
his gaze was open.

"Sam I... will you keep your eyes open? I want to.... I'd like to see you."

"Of course Fro. I'd like that, sweetheart. I love looking into your eyes as we make 
love. The way that you look at me when I touch you Frodo, you are so beautiful. So 
beautiful, to see you close to me."

Sam held his fingers there still. Felt Frodo's fingers fluttering on his hand. Sam 
pressed his index finger to Frodo's opening, pausing to lean and kiss him softly, and 
he touched the delicate pink skin there, watching Frodo, watching the most intimate 
part of his body. He pressed his finger against Frodo and bent to suck deeply on his 
nipple again.

Frodo groaned and writhed, his body taut as Sam's mouth caressed him, and still Sam 
pressed his finger there gently. Frodo raised his hips up slightly.

"Please Sam," he said simply, and Sam felt Frodo's hands on his as he slipped his 
finger into him.

Frodo held himself still, staring into Sam's eyes. Then he smiled, as if to reassure 
him, and tilted his chin slightly to Sam before frowning in that way he had, his face 
scrunching, and peering at him as Sam felt a small squeeze around his finger. And 
Frodo's lips parted in a soft moan, tentatively squeezing as he moved his hips just a 
fraction.

Then Frodo moaned again; quieter this time, and a little lower as Sam, watching him, 
pressed gently inside him. Another small gasp and Frodo's voice came to him, raspy 
and low and seemingly unexpected to Frodo himself.

"Oh.... Sam.... Sam I want.... I want...."

Frodo held still again and shut his eyes momentarily. Sam's voice, liquid warmth; 
melting, melting, they were melting together.

"What is it Frodo?" Sam's lips brushing his cheek briefly, soft as feathers.

"What is it that you want? Do you want me to stop Fro?"

Frodo opened his eyes, staring, and his lip trembled.

"No, Sam I.... not yet?" 

A question, his stare almost beseeching. Sam's voice was low.

"What would you like me to do, Frodo?"

Now Frodo looked as wide eyed as if he were staring at the most beautiful summer 
lightening storm ever, out on some open heath. Absorbed by the beauty, and aware 
that at any moment he could be struck from the skies. Sam held his gaze, kept his 
features soft. Was Frodo searching for words? Just a little anxious? Frodo's stare was 
luminous, moonlit despite the shutters.

"I... want for you to move.... inside me..... slowly Sam?"

A warm smile from Sam and Frodo vaguely noting that he looked somehow relieved. 
Frodo did not close his eyes this time. As Sam moved his finger, so he felt Frodo 
squeeze around him, almost in a slow rhythm. Sam leaned and rubbed his nose to 
Frodo's and spoke softly.

"I've got you, sweetstuff. You're beautiful Fro, you know that. And you're so special 
to me, love; you're so special to me sweetheart. Is it good Frodo? Is it good 
sweetheart?"  

To which Frodo made no reply save a slight nod. Then he clenched his jaw and closed 
his eyes and pulled Sam to him; as if to touch as much of their bodies, each to the 
other, as possible. A small dry whisper against Sam's ear.

"Don't stop love," a moan, Frodo's hands on his back, "Don't let go of me."

"Never Fro, you've got me.... you want me to?"

Still moving, slowly, Sam pushed a little deeper, and Frodo sucked his breath in 
sharply to moan then and rock against him. Only a whisper but still urgent 
nonetheless.

"Yes... I do want.... that, you touching me... you're touching me..."

Then the fingertips of Sam's free hand trailed, gentle tiny circles, through the dark 
curls between Frodo's legs, playing there, stroking softly as if to disentangle them. As 
if his fingers were the wind. Sam' fingers now cupping him and wrapping round him, 
wet where he had bent to lick them. 

Then Frodo, eyes shut, held still just a moment and his body was speaking to itself 
inside, little jolts, little lines back and forth. Speaking back and forth through Sam's 
fingers, little jolts. Like jumping inside, like little jumps and Sam's hands were on 
him, steady and sure. Inside him, inside Frodo, like tiny lights flickering to each other, 
over and over. Lit by lanterns.... the jolts slower, deepening, did Sam know how.... 
this felt over and over? Then briefly rigid, taut and still, before tipping wild with the 
pleasure, still not used to it like a sudden release sometimes; but best of all that taut 
pulsing. Frodo knew a pleasure then, and a love, deeper than most can ever hope to 
find.

Frodo opened his eyes, sought Sam's face in the blur, found him smiling, and then 
buckled against him. Sam smiled again, kissed his ear, whispered to him, Frodo 
buckling slowly, the familiar wetness on Sam's fingers. Then suddenly quiet and still. 

Frodo held his gaze and smiled back at him, finally, and Sam released him from his 
hand and kept his finger still inside him.

"Wait.... Sam a little?" Frodo asked, before closing his eyes and leaning close to him. 

Sam... warm, Frodo could smell him, Frodo could taste him. A little like feeling 
dizzy, a little like feeling drunk. Finally, when his body felt still and ready, Frodo 
opened his eyes to see Sam's eyes, soft pools of love for him.

"I... it's alright now Sam; it's alright for you to..."

Sam nodded and watched Frodo, who looked briefly anxious. As Sam withdrew his 
finger he felt Frodo's entire body tense and then immediately relax once it was over. 
A smile from Frodo, a sigh, and he snuggled close into Sam's arms as Sam pulled the 
covers up around them both. Warm and dark under the blankets.

Frodo wriggled down to press his face to Sam's chest. Sam pulled the blankets up 
over their heads. Suddenly in a little dark cave together, like bears at the start of 
winter, about to begin on their long sleep. Sam thought vaguely that bears would 
certainly make love one last time, before curling around each other in the long 
darkness, and he bent and nuzzled Frodo's head. They had all the time in the world 
and Sam was in no hurry. Frodo would be tired. Had curled up still. Small kisses on 
Sam's chest then. Sam adoring that Frodo could just let himself, quiet and innocent, 
floating in the pleasure that Sam had visited upon him. Best of all that he trusted that 
Sam needed nothing in return. There never had been any returns between them. Their 
lovemaking would never, ever have any taint of obligation about it and they both 
knew that. Sam took pride in it. More small kisses, then Frodo's voice.

"My dearest, sweetest love, you made it so special for me; so tender and loving and it 
felt so good love. You felt so sweet inside me, you moved so sweetly Sam."

"And for me, my Frodo. Very special for me. You sleep good now love, and dream 
sweet." Sam replied quietly, kissing his head again.

Warm and dark there to drift off together for the winter. And Frodo was asleep before 
Sam finally pulled the blankets down from over their heads. How had he fallen asleep 
so quickly, it was surely too stifling under the blankets? But he had, did not even 
wake when Sam moved, just made a small sigh. Sam smiled to himself. A cave, safe 
and warm and dry. Hidden away, just the two of them, still smelling of honey.

Walking quietly, and extinguishing the lamps in the house that night, Galdor too had 
smiled to himself when he heard soft moans coming from the hobbits' room.

Frodo would heal. Galdor's grey eyes shone as he turned and walked away down the 
hall. He remembered Cirdan's smile to him, some time ago now, as he had suggested 
that Galdor make that journey to Imladris. Galdor was not the only Elf of the Havens 
who was gifted with the sight, keenly, on occasion.

Frodo would not become unmarked. That was what bodies did; they kept the story of 
the years, and even the bodies of Elves did that. He might still suffer nightmares on 
occasion. But his mind and spirit would heal very well, given time, Galdor was sure 
of that. And time was one thing that Frodo and Sam had in abundance. Given time 
and love and patience. Galdor knew that Sam, of anyone that he had ever met, Sam 
did not lack for patience or for love. It was apparent to all who saw them together that 
Sam cherished him and that, lost and hurt as he still seemed sometimes, Frodo would 
not want for love or happiness in his life again.


PART FOUR.

That summer Frodo found himself enjoying working, with Sam, to gather and store 
their small harvest. Seeming to enjoy some newfound strength too, as many on the 
Blessed Isle noticed. Eressėa. Neither Frodo or Sam could ever again think of it as 
lonely. The Isle of Blessings, moored now forever outside the circles of the worlds. 
Their home, their second chance together.

Frodo loved to help Sam with getting the hay in. This had always been a major event 
in the Shire, with neighbour helping neighbour against the stern timekeeping of 
rainclouds and ill winds. Then it was that all local discussion had been of the weather, 
and of just who had cut their hay when, and who had theirs stacked, reports flying 
around and the Green Dragon taking on the air of a headquarters for those interested 
and knowledgeable, yet otherwise engaged than in actually harvesting their own land. 
Then it was too, every summer in the Shire, that all offers of help, of any kind, 
however slow, yes even from Frodo Baggins, all offers of help were gratefully 
accepted and handsomely rewarded with ale and supper and song.

For without hay their livestock would starve in winter. Sam, surprising himself, had 
taken up Frodo's habit of eating more fish than meat so that their pigs were now really 
kept just for their muck, worth more than gold to grow good food, as Sam never tired 
of pointing out to his beloved Frodo.

And so, at the far end of summer, Sam and Frodo were to be found working together 
to take a second cut from the small field which Sam had fenced in front of their home. 
Sam was rightly proud of the quality of their hay. Even though they had cut the field 
only seven weeks earlier it was tall, ripe, and dry, ready to cut again. Sweet and good. 
And although Frodo took more brief rests and was much slower than Sam he worked 
hard, letting the muscles in his arms stretch and warm as he swung the scythe which 
Sam had given him, having first carefully bound the handle in softest leather to 
protect Frodo's hands as he worked.

Ever since their visit to Galdor he had felt a little stronger. Ached less. Hardly ached 
at all now. Scythed much more hay than the summer before. Frodo knew that he 
would always be slight, frail even, perhaps, it was of no matter to him. But to be free 
of some of it, to be free and whole like this, every day he had moments when he just 
wanted to cry out in surprise and joy at the beauty of his life here. Every day.

Sam noticed it too as he watched Frodo swinging his scythe gracefully, the muscles 
and sinews in his arms tightening with the strength that he called on. He really was 
mending a little, growing stronger. Others had remarked on it to Sam and he always 
beamed with pleasure when they did. He would just have to give up on him being any 
less slender though. Although his skin, where the sun had touched it, was now toasted 
hazel, he was still like a sapling, nothing to him at all really. And everything to him. 
The grace to sway and lean with the winds where sturdier trees might fall down.

Sam would watch Frodo, vibrant, alive, working in the dusty summer sun. Laughing 
and joking with Lindir and Orophin, both of whom enjoyed helping the hobbits with 
their farming as well as sharing and learning each other's weather and plant lore. 
Frodo would rest with them, eat and drink a little and then return to his scythe again. 
Or, towards the end of the day, he would work with the strong Elven twine to make 
small conical haystacks; low and wide to withstand the winds and carefully thatched, 
with more hay, to run any rain off the stack, then left to dry slowly, with luck and a 
fair wind, straggling out across the field and looking like little huts.

One evening found them only just getting the dried hay from their last few stacks into 
their small barn in time, with a warm low summer mist now floating up from the 
valleys across their half cut little field and a touch of rain promised later on the wind. 
Sam was pleased, the rest could wait to be cut now, but getting in the beautifully 
toasted hay from the stacks; now that was the thing and the weather had turned 
suddenly, after Lindir and Orophin had gone back to their homes laughing and 
beginning to break into song as they went.

Sam, ever thrifty, had taken his pitchfork and a large woven sack to collect up the 
stray clumps of hay that had fallen, here and there, along the track between the field 
and the barn. He had left Frodo in the barn with another pitchfork, clearing loose hay 
from the floor and stacking it, equally thrifty, in the copper hay feeders ready for the 
cows when they came into their part of the barn, separated by the feeders from the 
stacked hay, to dwell there cosy and warm for the winter.

When Sam returned the floor of the barn was tidy and he smiled. Frodo, stripped to 
the waist as he had been all afternoon, was sitting on some sacks of barley in the 
corner and wiping his brow with a dusty looking green handkerchief.

"You've cleared that hay away quickly, Fro. You worked hard today."

Frodo smiled broadly at Sam and looked so pleased that Sam rushed to him and took 
him in his arms. Frodo, laughing suddenly, leaned slowly backwards to take Sam with 
him until they were lying back on the sacks. Happy, Frodo's infectious happiness, the 
delighted joy that he could take in being alive. It was one of the many things that Sam 
loved about him.

They kissed, touching their noses each to the other. Then Frodo, sighing, arched his 
neck and stretched his arms back above his head and clasped his hands together. The 
stretching felt good in his tired shoulders. Sam smiled and leaned over him to kiss him 
again and, holding onto Frodo's clasped hands, he pressed down slightly as they 
kissed. Then Sam, face inches from Frodo's, spoke softly to him.

"I've got you, Fro."

And Sam felt Frodo brace his body against him. Of course. Sam immediately 
reproached himself, he'd effectively pinned Frodo beneath him, and was holding his 
arms down and stretched back above his head. Sam loosened his grip to move off 
Frodo, but as he did so Frodo spoke to him.

"No, do not let go of me Sam? Not yet?" 

His voice was quiet and his eyes full of longing as he looked up at Sam.

"Hold me like this Sam I.... I like being stretched out under you like this. You're...." 

High patches of colour rose in Frodo's cheeks. Then he stared liquid soft at Sam and 
pushed slightly against him.

"You've got me Sam. I am yours. I am yours and I belong with you and I want to 
belong with you."

Sam smiled at him then. Understanding. Smiled lovingly at Frodo as he gently held 
him down. Then he leaned towards Frodo and spoke low.

"Yes, you belong with me sweetstuff, and I've got you. I've got you and I'll not let go. 
I've got you Fro."

Then Sam kissed him, pushing his tongue slowly between Frodo's lips. Frodo closed 
his eyes and tilted his head back, a little, as he opened his mouth to be explored by 
Sam and he found himself thrilling and shivering with pleasure to feel himself Sam's, 
belonging to Samwise as well as with him. Nothing else. Nothing else but the two of 
them and this moment. And in this moment Frodo felt the oblivious abandon of giving 
himself up, of arching under Sam and being explored and loved by him. Of 
surrendering himself completely to him.

Arching and sighing, Sam's kisses on his neck, on his arms. Sam's tongue on his 
wrists, still holding them. Sam's kisses. Frodo sighed and stretched, bracing against 
him.

"I belong with you." A little breathless, staring up at him.

"Yes you do, Fro. You belong here with me." Smiling, gentle, strong.

"I'm yours and you'll never let go of me, will you?" Bracing, pushing against Sam. 
Frodo. Half naked, pushing against him.

"No I won't Frodo; I'll never let go. You're mine to love and I've got you. I've got 
you, love."

"And you'll keep me and hold me and kiss me, as much as you want to."

"Yes, I'll hold you and kiss you as much as I want to, and I want to very much 
Frodo."

Kisses, Frodo moaning, curling his fingers around Sam's where he held onto Frodo's 
wrists, thrusting under him. Sam kissing his neck again, long, slow, wet kisses. The 
barn growing slowly darker around them in the late summer twilight. Dusty warm, the 
hay smelling so fresh and sweet all around them. Frodo, eyes closed, sighing and 
moaning softly. Sam's voice rich and warm.

"I want to very much. I'm going to love you and hold you here as long as you want 
me to."

"Sam I want you to forever."

Then Sam's mouth was on Frodo's chest, almost biting as he felt Frodo shudder 
beneath him and then biting, his teeth squeezing and tugging gently at Frodo's nipple 
and Frodo was groaning deep, grinding beneath Sam. Frodo sounded quietly delirious, 
his body thrashing as he spoke and Sam sucking hard on him.

"And you are going to love me because you want to. Because I love you, Sam, and I 
am yours and that's what you want to. You want to.... you want to love me, you want 
to hold me and love me....  and love me and not stop. You've got me.... you've got me 
now and you know, oh Sam please don't stop... you know what I, don't stop that's.... 
you know how to love.... you know how to love me Sam I'm going to, I don't, Sam 
you've got me... you've got me."

Frodo was delirious with it now. Body arching as Sam bit gently and sucked on him. 
Sam released his wrists. Then, slowly licking his fingers first, he trailed his hand 
between Frodo's legs. Took him in his hand, gliding back and forth as Frodo's voice 
cracked and Frodo was calling, thin and high and wild, his hands in Sam's hair.

"You've got me, you took me and I love you and I love you and I'm yours Sam. I'm 
yours because you love me. You love me and you want me.... you want me; I want 
you to, you're.... Sam... Sam sweetheart."

But Frodo said no more. And Sam, filled with a glowing delight, closed his eyes as he 
felt his hand made warm and wet by his lover. Lying now, half across Frodo and half 
on the sacks of last year's barley, kissing Frodo's head as Frodo's hips rocked slowly 
against him, finally beginning to still.

Lying together quietly in the deepening gloom. Then to feel Frodo's kisses on his 
neck. Frodo sitting up now and beginning to twist from under him. What.... Frodo 
turning to lean over him, eyes as deep as charcoal in the gathering dusk, peering at 
him.

Slowly, deliberately, Frodo raised himself to lie back down on top of Sam. Moving 
across him, laughing softly, then to push his hands down against Sam's arms.

"I've got you now, Samwise." Frodo kissing him, pressing hard to his mouth.

Sam's response surprised both himself and Frodo. He swallowed down into his 
stomach and his eyes widened and a low groan escaped his lips. His cheeks 
reddening, liquid warmth spreading through him. His voice low and slightly hoarse. 
Suddenly close, realising what this felt like.

"Yes Frodo, you've got me," and he pressed up slightly against Frodo's hands holding 
each of his arms.

They both knew that it was not true. Frodo felt as light as a feather to Sam as he lay 
upon him; Sam could throw him off in a moment. Frodo smiled at Sam, holding his 
face near to him, and pushed down harder onto his arms. And Sam flushed further and 
spoke quietly again as Frodo leaned towards him. 

"And I'm yours Frodo, body and soul I'm yours. To be loved by you and to give my 
love to you, and you've got me and you won't let go of me." 

His voice trailed off, eyes deeper than Frodo had ever seen them, pools of longing. 
His Sam held beneath him. Frodo nodded as he stretched himself on Sam.

"No, I won't let go. I won't let go of you. My Sam, all beautiful lying under me. I 
won't ever let go of you, my love."

Then Frodo leaned down and kissed Sam hard and slowly, pressing his mouth to him, 
ardent and confident. Careful not to press too hard despite Sam's obvious desire and 
his pushing his mouth up against him. Finally Frodo drew back from Sam a little and 
they looked at each other. Frodo pushed down harder against his arms momentarily 
before he spoke.

"Stay still now for me Sam. I want to."

It was nearly dark in the barn, which had only tiny high windows for air. Dark and 
warm and safe. Frodo moved slowly above Sam to slide down him and rest his head 
by Sam's waistband. His fingers deftly undid the buttons. As Frodo tugged the cloth 
down so Sam wriggled, helping him.

"Frodo, sweetheart." 

It was all the words that Sam could manage as Frodo took him in his mouth, licking 
and kissing him, taking so much pleasure in it. Making love to Sam. Frodo knew that 
they would never tire of making love with each other. Oh, they might not make love, 
sometimes not for a little while, but their passion for each other, ignited long ago and 
able to burn bright here, their passion was wrought through them like sap through a 
tree. Their passion could wax and wane and pull them like the tides here. They 
breathed it, they lived it. Journeyed away from each other sometimes, even spent 
nights apart. Each to fall asleep knowing that the other lay still, somewhere not far 
away, lost in passionate thoughts of his treasured love.

Frodo's mouth. Frodo's beautiful mouth kissing him. Felt like Frodo was kissing him 
so reverently. Frodo had the most beautiful lips.  Sensual, passionate beautiful lips. 
Beautiful Frodo, sucking at him in the dark. Sam's hands, now released, running 
through his lover's curls as Frodo took him.

"Frodo you can feel that, you know I'm going to... you know I'm going to Fro."

But Frodo did know that already and he did not care. He would simply drink of him. 
Still, Sam always let him know. Always.

Frodo and Bilbo's birthday was unusually warm that autumn. One of those late 
September days that seems to last longer than they should do and to be filled with a 
soft, end of the summer golden light.

The now traditional Baggins' birthday picnic on the beach was attended by a record 
number of well wishers. A record number of Elven children entering in the usual kite 
flying contest, which really was a contest in name only, being more like a dance, 
greens and greys, blues and silvers, whirling high on the ocean winds. 

There were a record number of songs too. And games. And as for the food and drink, 
well, as Bilbo often pointed out afterwards, the question really was how, in the name 
of goodness, how had those Elves got it all down onto the beach and spread out like 
that so quickly? And by early evening the revellers began to trail, straggling, back up 
the hill to their homes. Everyone having enjoyed, as even Bilbo and Sam had been 
forced to admit, more than enough food and drink for one day.

The late evening found Frodo and Sam in the oak woods which covered the slopes 
behind their house. Sitting together, by a huge tree, at the top of the wooded 
escarpment which sprawled down in front of them to level out and cradle their little 
home below. Frodo loved this place, loved sitting at the top edge of the hill 
surrounded by the oak trees, all here together but each with plenty of room to spread, 
leaving big gaps between them on the woodland floor. Huge old trees, branches flung 
outwards as if they were dancing. Dancing so slowly that they were still. Still to 
mortal eyes at least.

His birthday had been special, as each one had been since Sam and he were reunited. 
But on this one, more than any before, Frodo had felt especially gifted with the peace 
and tranquillity that seemed to dwell within him now, that seemed to pervade his life 
with Sam. So many things that only Sam would understand. 

The boat had been difficult for him, Frodo knew that. He still remembered Sam's 
desperately relieved sobs that night. Frodo had caused that fear in him. And yet, this 
morning, Sam had presented him with a small birthday gift. Like all of Sam's gifts to 
him it was carefully wrapped, this one in deep crimson linen. Inside Frodo had found 
a slender carving, beautifully wrought and finely detailed, another of Sam's 
miraculous likenesses. This one was of Galdor's little Elven boat, the one that they 
had sailed to light the reef lanterns in. Only Sam would understand that.

Frodo had pressed the little boat to his lips and kissed it, the wood smooth where Sam 
had carefully rubbed it with his blend of beeswax and oils. Then Frodo had kissed 
him, pulling him back into their bed, kissing him and claiming him. Making his usual 
private birthday wish, to keep him forever. They were not to be torn apart again, 
Galdor had said, however long they had together. Kissing him, claiming him, loving 
him, how could it be otherwise? Only Sam, only ever Sam for him. And, again as 
usual, Frodo had given silent thanks that his previous birthday wish had been granted 
to him once more.

Now Sam and Frodo sat beside each other in the woods, leaning back against the 
mossy trunk of an ancient oak. Twilight was falling fast. But the wood was warm, 
slightly damp, smelling richly of moss and bark and green growing things. The nights, 
as Sam had earlier remarked, really were drawing in. Frodo sat up and stretched, 
sighing slowly. He turned to Sam then and his gaze was solemn.

"Sam...." And Sam felt suddenly concerned.

"Yes Fro?"

"I bet you can't catch me."

And with that he was up in a thrice and running down the hill.

For a moment Sam did not move, though his mouth fell open slightly. Then he 
seemed to shake himself.

"So... it's like that is it?" He spoke aloud to himself before tearing off after Frodo, 
who appeared to be weaving through the trees in wild circles and spirals, his laughter 
and shouting trailing behind him in the woods.

Sam was laughing too as he ran downhill. He came to a stop by an old fallen tree and 
turned around, peering into the gloom.

"Frodo?" Then, only a little louder, "Frodo?"

Giggles in the dark, something landing on Sam's head. An acorn?

"Frodo Baggins, just you wait!"

Then Sam was laughing, running after him again. Frodo gliding in front of him, 
almost dancing, nearer now, was he slowing down? Then turning suddenly uphill, 
almost doubling back above him and then Sam caught him, both falling and the 
ground meeting them. Autumn leaves pale in Frodo's curls.  Frodo using the slope, 
flipping and rolling, and Sam rolling with him. Finally tumbling to a rest. Frodo 
bright eyed and breathless, looking up at him. Sam careful to take his own weight, not 
to crush him too much.

"Now Sam, remember it's my birthday," Frodo was laughing as Sam tickled him.

"I've got you, birthday or no, Frodo Baggins."

Shrieks of laughter echoed through the woods then. Could even be heard by the young 
tawny owl, just hatched that spring, perched now in the rowan trees at Ragged Gap 
where Frodo had quietly laid himself down in the snow. Nearly to be parted forever, 
so much to be thankful for this birthday. And Frodo, still laughing and kissing Sam, 
Frodo did not want for gratitude then. He celebrated his birthday that year long into 
the night, running through the woods with his best friend before they finally wandered 
home, still laughing and kissing along the way.

Even right at the end, with midnight approaching fast, even then Frodo's birthday that 
year had another little gift in store for him. Of course, finally tumbling into their bed, 
now piled with thick blankets once again, of course they had made love ardently. 
Each as passionate as the other, each wanting, so much, to touch and kiss and love the 
other.

Frodo had not disguised his yearning to Sam, a familiar gesture in the low lamplight. 
He took Sam's hand, brought it to his lips, and ran his tongue all across Sam's fingers, 
wetting them. Then he guided Sam's hand gently downwards, all the while holding 
his gaze. Then Frodo turned to find the little blue glass bottle, smiling at Sam as he 
handed it to him. 

Sam held his finger still inside him as Frodo writhed against him, softly gasping his 
name. Then he moved it slowly, in that way that Frodo liked, and listened as he 
moaned, squeezing around Sam's finger. Sam watched him, so beautiful. The pleasure 
taking him, his face tightening with it as Sam moved his finger in him, warm, held 
there inside him. Frodo's voice came low to him.

"More Sam.... more?"

"More Fro.... I don't.... you mean another finger?"

They looked deeply into each other's eyes. Frodo's eyes were dark pools of longing 
then as he nodded slightly.

"Yes Sam, I.... slowly?" 

Then they kissed each other, breathless, and as Frodo writhed against him Sam 
touched his middle finger to Frodo's opening, probing gently. Frodo breathed out 
slowly, relaxing himself. Then to clench his jaw as he felt himself stretch to let Sam's 
middle finger join his index finger inside him. Sam went as slowly and gently as he 
could, then he was still. Mouths close, sharing the same breath. Frodo's face was 
inches from Sam's, every flicker of emotion and pleasure transparent across his 
features. His eyes widened as Sam felt him push down around his fingers and then 
buckle against him.

"Oh Frodo, my sweetheart... is it alright? Am I hurting you love?"

To which Frodo only shook his head and smiled slightly as the pleasure took him.

Frodo was careful in his pleasure, still tentative. Taking his time, arms wrapped 
around Sam, then to hold still again. It felt strange at first, and when he rocked against 
Sam he bit his lip softly, though it was pleasure that he felt. Knew that he did not want 
this to stop. His fingers... Sam's fingers, pressed tight together, inside him. Frodo's 
name spoken softly to him. Over and over again. Sam licking his ear, trailing his 
tongue up and down the edge, touching him, fingers brushing Frodo's nipple, fingers 
moving gentle inside him, gentle passionate Sam, loving him.

"It... is good... Sam. Is it? Do you..... is it alright for you?"

"Of course, my love. Of course this is lovely for me, Frodo. Oh, sweetstuff, you...."

Sam's words were lost to him then as Frodo wriggled down to plant small kisses on 
his nipples, rubbing his face against Sam's chest, moving faster now and groaning 
with pleasure. Frodo's hands on him now. Wet, steady and sure. Frodo always knew, 
he always knew that. Sam's two fingers were inside his lover, his other hand caressing 
Frodo who buckled to him suddenly, wetting his fingers and groaning, still moving 
his hands on Sam, his rhythm steady and sure.

Finally, they were still. Tangled in each other and almost beginning to drift toward the 
land of dreams. Sam spoke to Frodo as he stroked his fingers, so beautiful.

"It.... it was exciting to me Frodo, when you told me how you wanted me to make 
love to you."

"It was?"

"Yes, it was lovely. You were so honest, and that's not easy sometimes, even when 
you do love someone. But hearing you tell me what you wanted was lovely. And.... 
and exciting."

Frodo looked at Sam, whose eyes were shinning in the dim light. Frodo leaned to him 
to kiss him slowly then before moving inches away from him, smiling.

"I shall ask you what you want, one time then, love. Will you tell me?"

Teasing, playful, delicate.

"Yes I shall," said Sam earnestly, "Though every single way that you've ever touched 
me has been.... has been..... oh Frodo you know how it is for me you must do I.... I 
don't hide it from you."

"Sam. That is one of the many blessings of loving you. I do not think that you hide 
very much from me. Except perhaps your own hurt sometimes."

Frodo said this last softly and tenderly, with no reproach in his voice, and Sam smiled 
and sighed.

"Yes... well, that's fair enough. Sometimes I do Frodo. Not always love, just 
sometimes."

"I know Sam. It's alright, I do not mind. It's only that I wish..." 

But Frodo's voice seemed to catch in his throat suddenly and he dropped his gaze. 
Sam knew all the signs well enough by now and his instincts would have told him 
anyway. 

"What is it love? What do you wish?"

Frodo seemed to be sighing, even as he spoke quietly.

"I wish that you did know that I can be strong for you too, Sam. That I.... if you ever 
needed me like I need you... that I could be there for you. I mean I'm glad that you 
don't.... I don't mean that.... it's just that sometimes I wish you knew that I was strong 
enough for you to lean on me, too." 

This line of thought had not occurred to Sam and he took a few moments to 
contemplate what Frodo was saying to him. Of course Frodo was strong, of course he 
was. Sam had been there; Sam had seen it close up every day. That will, hard as stone. 
That endless, gut wrenching determination, despite everything.

Frodo making to crawl, to crawl mind, up that hideous mountain to his own doom and 
maybe, just maybe, that of the Ring. And why? A twist of fate, nothing more, could 
have been anyone but it was his Frodo whom the fates had treated so unjustly, so 
harshly as to render themselves unworthy of any respect at all in Sam's opinion.

Of course he was strong. It was witnessing that grinding, humbling strength back then 
that made Sam so yearn to see him never need to call on it again. To cast it off, let it 
go, that fierce strength that left him seeming so careless of himself.

Sam's mind whirled slightly. He would explain all this carefully to Frodo, in his own 
words, in his own time, but not now. Now he would hold him and kiss him and 
murmur to him softly about how he knew that Frodo was always there for him and 
how that knowledge enveloped him in a light and a warmth that shone always now, 
through all of his days and nights.

In fact Sam's making love to his dear Frodo with fingers nearly crossed inside him, as 
he had done that night, became part of the warp and weft of their lovemaking. But 
only when Frodo asked him to. So it became one of the many different ways that they 
made love with each other, as the days began to darken, gradually, and winter slowly 
returned to the Blessed Isle. 

That midwinter found Frodo and Sam living quietly for a few weeks. The Isle was 
once again blanketed in snow. Once again the two were happy to be tucked away in 
their little home. Frodo, much encouraged by Sam, spent whole midwinter days in his 
nightshirt and his faded, old, deep red dressing gown; which was long and warm and 
only slightly too big for him. Whole days to write and to paint, or to play his harp. 
Whole days to sit and read and to cook meals with Sam.

Frodo and Sam had plenty of food stored for the winter. Frodo had made cheeses most 
weeks during the summer months, to store them in the special wooden cupboard, dark 
and cool, next to the pantry. They had pickles and preserves, jars of vegetables in oil 
or vinegar, and stores of root vegetables and apple rings which Frodo had strung out 
to dry, like little lanterns, above the stove in their kitchen.

Earlier in the year Frodo had prepared jars of vegetables from the gluts, as Sam called 
them. They would lie in bed together in the mornings planning their activities. How 
Sam would pull the glut, perhaps of onions, and Frodo would preserve them, some 
roasted in oil and others raw in vinegar. Although of course, baked onions, as Sam 
would point out, now you could never have too many baked onions. Or potatoes, for 
that matter. To say nothing of parsnips.

Frodo regularly took walks by himself, often taking a small notebook or a sketchbook 
with him. In fact he had spent some of those so-called walks that year in one of 
Bilbo's rooms, painting a beautifully coloured and finely detailed portrait of his 
cherished Sam. A likeness so accurate that Sam's mouth had dropped open when 
Frodo first gave him the painting. 

In Frodo's painting Sam was standing in a clearing in the woods, in the snow. Away 
behind him, just about to turn and disappear into the trees, stood the foundling deer 
that he had rescued and tended with Frodo. The deer stood, as if it had just paused to 
turn and look at Sam, before stepping lightly away amongst the trees. And Sam, 
looking out of the picture, Sam looked at once fearless and gently loving, an 
expression so familiar to Frodo.

Often during these midwinter weeks the two would return to their bed in the 
afternoons, to lie together arm in arm reading and talking. Or kissing and holding, 
whispering each other's names. Quietly kissing each other's hands. Frodo's hands were 
much better that winter; so was his shoulder and they both rejoiced in that. 

On their second visit to his home, to Frodo's surprise and delight, Galdor had 
presented him with a large earthenware jar of thick, dark honey in which was steeped 
many different herbs and barks. The Elf had carefully explained to him how to use the 
balm. He had also explained which plants, roots and even seaweeds had called to him, 
as he walked the hills and woods, in the days following their first visit to him. 

The effect on Frodo's shoulder, and on his hands, had been beyond anything that he 
had hoped for. Each warm poultice seemed to literally pour its soothing into his body, 
there to stay. Back at their home Sam continued to take great satisfaction in making a 
poultice up and in hearing Frodo's contented sighs as it soothed him. 

Galdor had smiled with such affection at both of them as he had showed them the best 
way to warm the balm and to make up the poultices. Both of them smiling brightly up 
at him. Both of them grateful and quietly excited. Of course they would have a 
constant supply of the balm now, he would see to that. Then the three of them had 
hugged, standing quietly beside the stove in Galdor's kitchen, with their arms around 
each other.

As Frodo first began to feel the warmed honey soothing him, he thought of that 
moment, long ago with the Fellowship, when they were first departing from 
Lothlorien and they had been gifted so kindly by the Galadhrim. Gifted with cloaks 
and hoods, each made especially for them. It was as if the words spoken then echoed 
down through the years to him in Galdor's little home as the Elven poultice warmed 
his shoulder. He could still see the soft smile that had accompanied a typically 
enigmatic reply to the question of whether the cloaks were magic.  'We put the 
thought of all that we love into all that we make.' *  

Frodo always thought that midwinter was a time for stillness. For dreaming and for 
walking, of course. And, since the previous winter when they had first touched each 
other, shy and overcome with wonder; a time for the two of them to retreat together to 
their little home by the trees under the blessed skies of Tol Eressėa.

The entire Isle also seemed to still during the midwinter. Though there were nights of 
special celebration in the Great Hall, as well as in the large woodland clearing nearby. 
Midwinter songs that must be sung under starlight, the snow bejewelled all around 
them. 

Elves and hobbits alike took delight in the crisp, cold beauty of the forest glen. Frodo 
was even kept warm by the thick Elven cloak of deepest green that he had been given, 
long ago, when he had been seen so often to shiver where he stood. Frodo and Sam 
adored such nights of song under the midwinter stars.

They made regular outings here and there into the silent, white world. Visits with 
friends, gatherings in the Great Hall. Frodo's voice, and his songs, were more 
beautiful than ever this winter. So Sam believed, anyway, and none that heard Frodo 
singing, his delicate powerful melodies rippling through the hall, none who heard him 
that midwinter would have argued otherwise.

One night found Frodo and Sam in the Great Hall, and Frodo's singing enchanting 
everyone. More love songs this year to augment the midwinter celebrations. Sitting 
there enraptured, watching him, Sam was suddenly reminded of the words spoken to 
him, long ago, by his eldest daughter as she had fixed him with a stare every bit as 
penetrating as one of Frodo's. Sam fancied that he could hear her words again then, 
soft and slightly sad, just as she had spoken them to him back then.

'For your treasure went too. I am glad Frodo of the Ring saw me, but I wish I could 
remember seeing him.' ** 

He smiled ruefully, then, as he remembered how he had turned quickly from her for a 
moment. Well, it had been Elanor's birthday and she would not have understood his 
sudden tears. Or perhaps she would have. Elanorellė, such a beautiful name. It had 
always seemed to suit his firstborn, so Elvish from the start. And Sam's eyes shone as 
he heard Frodo's haunting song coming to him in the Great Hall. His treasure. His 
treasure.... there now singing, just for him. Frodo. So beautiful. Iorhail, just as 
beautiful in Elvish. But he would always be Frodo to his Samwise. Always.

And now they were home. Had tumbled into bed, Frodo pulling Sam to him urgently, 
whispering his name over and over again. Sam looked around him. Their little room 
was warm, the firelight making shadows play on the walls. Their home, so dear to 
them. It was a special night. Briefly then he remembered that night in the spring when 
they had returned home together to find that secret visitors had left gifts for them. 
Gifts and the most beautifully scented bath imaginable. It was a special night. A year, 
in fact, since Frodo had first kissed him so unexpectedly.

His Frodo was lying before him now, white linen nightshirt undone and pulled open, 
eyes full of languid, soft longing. Considering all this and second-guessing Frodo, 
Sam decided then that there would probably be no better moment. His smile was full 
of warmth and love, his voice as soft as honey.

"What is it, sweetstuff, what is it that you'd like?"

Had that slight tinge to Frodo's cheeks been there a moment ago? His gaze was steady 
as he spoke to Sam, his stare seeming to deepen and his voice did not waver.

"I want to feel you, and to hold you inside of me Sam. I want you inside me."

No hesitation, eyes hastily cast downwards. Just two small patches of colour and 
Frodo lying absolutely still, expression unreadable as he held Sam's gaze.

Now it was Sam whose cheeks reddened, and his voice had a slight tremor to it.

"Frodo I... I should love to be... be inside you. If it felt, if it felt good for you, Fro. 
Gentle, you know love I'll be gentle and..." Sam felt his heart thumping as he spoke, 
"And I would not need anything from you Frodo. You understand me love? If.... if it 
did not feel right to you. Anytime that you..."

Frodo did not hesitate to interrupt Sam during what he knew to be one of his pauses.

"I know my dearest Sam, I know that. Can you not see how much I want you Sam? 
And remember the vows that we made? I would never, ever do anything that I did 
not..... I would stop Sam. Surely you can trust me to do that? I would never do 
anything that I did not want to, it would hurt us, it would be wrong. I love you Sam, 
please. Please love."

Sam's reaction to his words surprised him. He threw his arms around Frodo, kissing 
his cheek and trailing his tongue slowly to Frodo's ear to kiss it softly and to lick the 
tip. He knew that this brought shivers of pleasure for his Frodo, whose fingers were 
gliding on his cheek now, his ear damp. Sam ran his tongue along the edge again, 
curling and licking towards the tip once more as Frodo squirmed quietly. Then Sam 
whispered to him, his breath hot on Frodo's ear now, so beautiful. 

"My Frodo, my beautiful Fro. Each time, each time we make love it is so special. You 
are so beautiful my love, and making love with you is so dear to me. You are so dear 
to me, sweetstuff."

Sam smiled to himself as Frodo arched his neck under more kisses. Earlier, in the 
Great Hall with Bilbo, they had both enjoyed a little hot potato wine to warm them for 
the journey home. Cold and starlit, snow glittering, still pausing to kiss each other on 
the path.

Frodo's whole body was languid and soft. Skin almost as pale as moonlight against 
his dark curls, wild and tangled. Sam adored him. Adored him more than words could 
ever say. Useless to try really, but he still enjoyed to sometimes.

Kissing Frodo's throat, slowly trailing kisses all over his throat, Sam decided that he 
would not stop until he had kissed every inch. Felt Frodo's fingers in his hair, stroking 
his scalp, gentle small circles. Sam knew that Frodo did this when the pleasure was 
exquisite for him. Just as he knew the moans that accompanied Frodo's fingers as 
they ran through his hair.

Now Sam's fingers circled across Frodo's chest while his kisses trailed towards his 
nipple. He felt Frodo's body tauten beneath him with the realisation. Frodo wanted 
him so much. Sam's mouth found his nipple and he circled it with his tongue, slowly 
spiralling nearer and nearer as it hardened, and then, as he began to suck and nibble 
on him, Frodo cried out softly.

"You know Sam.... you always know.... you take me with you and you always know."

Sam felt Frodo wriggling under his mouth, arching, and he kissed and sucked at him 
until Frodo's writhing lulled a little, before stopping to look deep into Frodo's eyes. 
Seemed to be searching for a moment. Frodo looked luminous, almost on fire with 
yearning for him.

"Wait here Fro, I'll be a moment love."

And he was gone. Frodo watched as Sam went to their carved oak dresser and 
returned with a small glass bottle of deepest green. Frodo seemed transfixed, sighing 
quietly as Sam climbed back into bed and over him to sit beside the little window.

Then Sam took the bottle and poured some of the oil into his palm and, placing the 
bottle on the window ledge behind him, he let his hands stray between his legs to rub 
himself with the oil, all the while smiling into Frodo's eyes.

Sam paused, hands by his sides and he looked at Frodo.  Frodo could not read his 
expression and found himself wondering if he should somehow.... he did not know 
what but he felt such a yearning and longing then that his hips, unbidden, buckled 
upwards slightly off the bed and he opened his legs a little. The sight of Sam there, his 
deep blue nightshirt pulled open, touching himself, rubbing himself with hands all 
slippery..... and Frodo's hips arched again as he watched him.

Sam reached for the bottle again and, pouring a small pool in his palm, he used his 
index finger to rub it gently where Frodo was opening to him. Frodo watched him 
intently before closing his eyes as he felt Sam's fingers circling him. The feeling was 
sublime to him. Felt Sam's hands on him, stroking him, slipping and gliding, and 
Frodo thrust onto his hands, arching up from the bed.

Then Sam's hands were gone and when he opened his eyes Sam was reaching across 
him to take two pillows which he held for a moment, kneeling now between Frodo's 
legs and smiling at him. Sam slid one hand under Frodo's hips and Frodo, 
understanding, lifted himself to let Sam fold the soft feather pillows under his hips 
and to make sure that Frodo was comfortable. Kissing him, Frodo's eyes bright with 
longing, opening his legs further as Sam knelt up between them.

A little more oil on him and Sam leaned towards him until the tip of him brushed 
Frodo's opening. Frodo breathed out in long ragged breaths now whilst his inward 
breaths came in short gasps. His body taut and yearning, he found himself pushing up 
towards Sam and wanting, wanting so much that it made him giddy, just for Sam to 
enter him. Frodo rocked his hips towards Sam again, biting his lip.

"Sam...."

"Wait Fro." Sam's voice was low as he leaned over him to bring his face close to 
Frodo's.

"Not yet. Wait. Wait still."

And Frodo lost himself in deep brown eyes so full of adoration for him and he nodded 
slightly as he stretched underneath Sam. Then he let himself sink into that warm, 
strong and instinctive trust that he had always felt for Sam. Frodo closed his eyes then 
and relished in letting go. The only thing in the world to lie there and to stretch and to 
feel so open. To arch his neck back and let his lips part and be open to life, to dreams, 
to Sam. To the feel of Sam against him, how was there ever such a sweet feeling as 
this? And to know... and to know that... that Sam would....

Frodo opened his eyes to see Sam watching him.

"I've got you Fro," he said softly before raising himself on his arms and looking deep 
into Frodo's eyes. Frodo nodded slightly before, as slowly and carefully as he possibly 
could, Sam pushed himself a little way into his beloved.

Frodo had waited so long since Sam had first poured the oil. Waited a lifetime, he 
thought briefly, almost deliriously. He held still, held his breath, held Sam's gaze. 
Sam's beautiful loving gaze. It felt strange inside, delicate, definitely as if all he had to 
do was stay still, could not imagine moving either forwards or backwards.

Still and open and lost to thoughts or words then. Felt Sam move again into him 
slowly, so slowly. Closed his eyes and felt his body slacken slightly and took deep 
breaths, one after the other one, following each other just like the waves.... Sam a little 
deeper within him, a slow buckling in his stomach and Frodo realised that he was 
pressing his hands into Sam's back. A shudder, a gulp, a shiver and Sam was all inside 
him, holding still but for a slight tremor. There in him, held still. Inside him.

Frodo felt no hesitation at all, quite the opposite, and he slowly began to writhe onto 
Sam who closed his eyes and bit his lip and sang inside with joy. Frodo, watching 
him, leaned back on his elbows to move against him. Holding him, loving him, only 
Sam would ever know what this meant. 

Frodo did not build up a steady rhythm. Rather he would pause and, pushing back into 
the pillows, he would hold Sam just by the tip for a moment then to push up slowly or 
thrust or rock against him for a while. 

'Experimenting,' thought Sam hazily, 'He's.... he's experimenting and he's in love with 
me... he's crackling with it... jumps off him like fever light.... he's thrusting up and 
sighing and gritting his teeth.... he's so close already and he's fighting that, slowing 
himself down, he's actually taking his time to.'

Sam was overcome then and suddenly had to concentrate hard, both on not spilling 
over yet and on not crying hot tears, happy tears as Frodo called them. Sam's arms 
were strong and so was his will. Frodo could take all the time that he wanted to. Then 
Frodo did begin to slow into a rhythm, was gripping him tightly now. Had closed his 
eyes the better to feel it all.

Frodo plunged himself around Sam and then, from nowhere, from somewhere inside 
him, came a sudden, deep buckling pulse of pleasure that convulsed him. Took him 
and swept him into the depths and he clenched himself around Sam as tightly as he 
could. The pulse rolled out through him, and his legs quivered and his knees and even 
his ankles locked, toes curling, his whole body now rigid and flickering with the 
pleasure of it, teeth clenched, hips making small rhythmic thrusts. Frodo's eyes wide 
open, momentarily unblinking, staring into Sam's.

Frodo swallowed and looked at Sam with such a knowing and obviously deep 
pleasure then that Sam thrust himself, still gently but not too slowly, inside his 
cherished Frodo. And Frodo felt it again, just as it had lulled slightly he felt it again 
and his hips and legs snapped taut and his face lurched towards Sam's and he looked 
drunk on it and groaned then so long and low before yelling, grabbing the blanket, 
twisted and disarrayed beside them, and biting onto it hard, sharp teeth making small 
holes in the weave. 

Just by moving like that then, such a little twisting pushing. Sam's eyes, so full of love 
for him. Frodo's words came to him ragged, breathless.

"It's so lovely when it..... when I feel that..." Gasping then to pause, a wave rippling 
quickly, clasping himself around Sam. 

"Can you feel it, Sam, when I... can you feel that?"

"Yes Fro, yes I can feel it love, it's making me so close. It's so special to me to be like 
this with you.... to feel myself there, Frodo. It's so special that it feels good for you, 
my sweet beautiful love."

Then Frodo was lost in the best way imaginable and he thrust and buckled over and 
over and Sam leaned into him, resting on his elbows now, kisses, moans, fingers 
clenched, knuckles white on the sheets. Frodo did not begin to still. He was shocked, 
so shocked that he could keep feeling them, vaguely hoped that Sam would not touch 
him yet. 

Thoughts scattering in his mind, tumbling in the pleasure, 'I don't want it to end I...' 
Again and again. Nearly exhausted with it, drunk on it, over and over, lost in the mist. 
Lost far away with Sam in the mist, his Sam was leading him and they were... lost and 
he was... he was with Sam, and Sam was taking them, getting both of them lost in the 
best way imaginable. 'Here it comes again and he is loving me, inside of me there, so 
good... so good he is.... I'm going to. We're so close... we're so close....'

Then Frodo finally, deliberately, leaned into Sam's belly and rubbed himself between 
their bodies, tilting himself upwards and then Sam's hand was on him and they were 
letting go together. He was letting himself just fall and fall and fall, hips buckling, 
thrusting, was that his own voice? Finally quieting but still rocking back and forth 
only slower now, catching some breath, body finally liquid soft, floating, still.

Sam's fingers in his hair. Sam smiling, kissing him. Words. His name, words... 
beautiful... special.... ever and ever. Sam's fingers stroking his cheek. Sam's eyes 
misted soft but happy, so happy, had Frodo ever seen him quite this happy? The day 
they made their vows of course, but this was the deepest, happiest passion ever. 
Blossom tumbling everywhere around them. They had found petals still weeks later, 
dotted around their house where they had landed. Like tiny love letters.

Frodo had not realised that his jaw was still clenched until he found it suddenly 
slackening, found himself sighing so deeply, finally felt how wet his stomach was. 
Kisses on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his mouth. Frodo finally wanting and able to 
move his lips again and then kissing Sam back, fiercely. Mouths open to each other. 
Tongues greeting like long lost friends.

Then Frodo drew away momentarily and brought his right hand to press all three 
fingers firmly to Sam's lips and spoke, almost solemn.

"Thank you." 

He said it slowly and deliberately, fixing Sam with his gaze. Sam understood then 
why Frodo had silenced him. Frodo was right. Knew him so well. Sam would have 
protested. Not him, it was both of them.... but Frodo's hand was firm against his 
mouth.

"Thank you, Sam." 

And, the last thing that Sam had expected, Frodo's tears fell quietly as if from 
nowhere then and Sam kissed Frodo's fingers before he withdrew them. Frodo blinked 
and smiled whilst Sam, nodding, found his own eyes misting. They held each other 
before Sam made slowly to move away from his Fro, a small shudder, Sam hauling 
the blankets over them, then to lie in each others arms, tangled, drifting. Out together 
across the waves. Drifting towards the land of dreams to wander together. Sam never 
forgot the last words that he heard that night, Frodo's voice, a soft echo, almost as if 
he had arrived there first and was calling softly to Sam from the shore ahead.

"All of my heart and all of my love, Sam. Forever."

Warm and starlit, there to wander peacefully.

So it was, as these pages tell, that in the end Frodo son of Drogo did find healing, far 
away outside the circles of the world, far away in the Blessed West.

Whether it was the power of that place alone.... some would argue so, perhaps. The 
wisdom of the Elves, the love of his uncle and his friends, the beauty and 
enchantment all around him, certainly all of these played a part.

Samwise son of Hamfast, he would say that it was obvious. Betrayed foolishness to 
ask it really. It was Frodo's own bright spirit that led him there. That and his courage. 
And his truthfulness. And, though Sam would probably add this last part silently, and 
his searing, wild, passionate beauty. Of course he must be healed. Of course.

And Frodo himself? Frodo would have said, he would certainly say it still, were he to 
be asked now; Frodo would say simply that, though many things helped him on the 
long path which he travelled, there is no real question at all, there never was. It was 
the love of his best friend, of course it was, that took him to a healing, and a rest, as 
complete as any ever dreamt of in the dreams of mortals on either side of the endless 
seas. A healing and a rest enjoyed there by him still. Still to wander there with his 
beloved Sam. Still to sing and laugh and love together, somewhere far, far away. 
Somewhere forever safe. 


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


* 'The Fellowship Of The Ring.' Book 2, chapter 8, 'Farewell To Lorien.'
** 'The Second Version Of The Epilogue,' (to LoTR) from 'Sauron Defeated- The 
History Of The Lord Of The Rings, Part Four.' Edited by Christopher Tolkien.

'Wonderful how completely everything in wild nature fits into us, as if truly part and 
parent of us. The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past but through 
us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fibre and cell of the substance of our bodies, 
making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as 
well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the 
rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.'                                                                            
                           -John Muir. (c. 1878)