ANOTHER WAY BACK AGAIN

Pairing:   Frodo and Sam.
Rating: NC17
Author: Starlightsongs aka J. Rowanberry
Email: starlightsongs@aol.com or starlightsong@hotmail.com
Livejournal username: starlightsongs
.
Summary: This follows on from ‘Across the Seas and through the
Years’ and ‘Always home to each other.’ But it is easy to follow
without having read them. Post quest, Frodo and Sam share a home on
Tol Eressea. They are surrounded by the love and beauty of the
Elves but misadventure can still strike. Angst, hurt and comfort.
Author comment:  I want to express my heartfelt thanks to Valerie,
who spent a lot of   time giving this the beta-reading which it so
thoroughly needed and helping me with editing it. Needless to say,
any mistakes, typos etc.are all my own.              

PART ONE

The twilight sky appeared as hard as slate, and just as dark grey,
when the first snowflakes of winter began to blow across Tol
Eresseä. Appeared heavy and dark against the small flakes that
began to tumble, spiralling and chaotic, down through the gathering
dusk. Frodo smiled as he watched it. He stood, gazing out through
the kitchen window and across the hills, which were being rapidly
clothed in white even as he watched from the warmth of the little
house that he shared with his dearest friend.

Sam was always right about the weather on the Isle now, though it
did take him a while to get used to it at first. Gathering wood
with Frodo that morning Sam had stood still, nodded slowly, and
declared that the east wind had the smell of snow on it and no
mistake. And now that snow had arrived.

Frodo smiled to himself again. Perhaps the east wind would chase
the snow into huge drifts, like stormwaves, frozen solid just as
they began to lash at their home. Perhaps. 

Winter.... winter was here to stay now. Though of course, by Shire
Reckoning, which they still kept between themselves, winter had
arrived some time ago. Still, the first snow was the true herald of
winter, so Frodo  always found himself thinking as it fell.

All of his life Frodo had adored the first snow and the promises
that it brought with it. Walks and childhood games in an
enchantingly beautiful, frozen world or long stories by the fire,
sitting curled next to his mother. Primula had often told him how
much she treasured him, how much she relished spending time with
him. Almost as if some part of her knew. As if she meant for him
never to forget the happiness that he had brought to her, so often
did she speak of it to him. Of course Drogo had been just as
generous in his gestures of affection to his son, extravagant with
hugs and stories and long rambling walks whose sole aim was to
wander until they were lost. Not an easy feat, for two hobbits in
the Shire, and father and son would often arrive home in the small
hours.

Frodo sighed with contentment as he remembered his parents then.
Laughing and playing in the snow as it lay thick around their
little home, just the three of them. Frodo knew now that his
parents had shared such a deep and passionate love that they could
not possibly have been lost, one to the other. And so, he believed,
they went away together, sharing that love to their last mortal
breath. He could understand that now. Understand that fate had,
perhaps, on seeing such a love, gifted them, just a little gift.
Perhaps with the one gift that they could not have managed without,
in the end. To go together, never to be parted from one another. 

Frodo could understand that, now that he and Sam had spoken for
each other. Now that he and Sam had spoken for each other, Frodo
could understand and even feel completely at peace with his
childhood bereavement. Another small blessing, another wound healed
here.

It had been on a midwinter's night that he had magically and
irrevocably changed his life forever. Forever and ever.

Frodo turned from the widow and crossed to a large wooden dressers
opposite the stove. From this he took one of the long beeswax and
twine tapers which he had made the previous summer and then he went
to the stove, took a cloth to open the door, and bent to light the
taper from the flames, the sudden heat fierce on his cheeks. The
darkness was gathering rapidly outside and Frodo loved the lamp-
lighting ritual on such a night. Lighting the lamps, closing the
shutters, tending to their treasured home. Tending to each other.

Three years since Frodo had somehow done the unthinkable and leaned
to his best friend one winter night and kissed him, briefly
brushing his lips to Sam's. Three years of loving each other. Of
touching and holding and expressing that love for each other. Three
years of so much wonder and joy that Frodo's throat still tightened
with a grateful tear now as he thought of it.

His redemption, his unexpected and long abandoned happy ending.
Gratitude had become as a touchstone to Frodo there on the blessed
Isle and this night was no exception.

Sam turned and looked up from his book as Frodo walked into their
bedroom. He was sitting reading on their low green couch by the
fire, even though it was really too dark now. Frodo stood still,
the taper smouldering in his left hand, and met Sam's gaze with
undisguised adoration. 

For a long moment neither of them moved, though each perceived what
lay in the other's heart. Finally Frodo let out a soft sigh.

"It's snowing, love," he said simply, before crossing the room to
light two copper and blown glass oil lamps which were bracketed to
an oak bookcase.

Sam went to the window to peer out briefly.

"Yes," he said, with evident satisfaction. "You can always trust
the wind, as Gaffer used to say, and that is as true here as it was
back there, eh Fro?"

"It certainly is, Sam,"  said  Frodo, laughing as he spoke. "It
certainly is."

He finished lighting the second lamp and extinguished the taper,
which he left then on a shelf before crossing to stand next to Sam
by the window. Sam stood just slightly behind him and, as Frodo
watched the snow again, he felt firm, strong arms slowly encircling
his waist. He leaned back against Sam, relishing being held. Felt
soft, warm breath on the back of his neck, then small, light
kisses. Heard Sam's voice, whispering now.

"Another blanket for us tonight, I reckon." More kisses, eliciting
a small shiver of pleasure from Frodo. "Another blanket and my arms
to warm you, sweetstuff."

Sam spoke the familiar nickname slowly and Frodo swayed slightly at
the wave of pleasure that flooded through him. He leaned his head a
little to one side, exposing more of his neck to Sam, who slowly
trailed his tongue towards Frodo's ear.

The snowflakes were larger now and falling slowly. Frodo closed his
eyes and he gasped softly as Sam's mouth found his ear and he
surrendered himself to his lover's embrace. His legs, which had
nearly buckled, now snapped taut with a much deeper wave of
pleasure which seemed to travel down through him and into the very
earth beneath their floor. Frodo moaned, low and soft, as desire
coursed through him. His hands found Sam's and he clasped them,
fingers curling around his, before suddenly releasing them and
turning in Sam's arms to face him. 

Frodo was as beautiful as ever, seeming untouched by all his years
there. His face shone, radiant with delight then, as he quietly
regarded his lover, and Sam smiled broadly at him.

Frodo raised his hands to cup Sam's chin. His stare had a slight
urgency about it, as if he were about to say something important.
Instead he leaned to Sam and kissed him, pressing his lips to
Sam's, then to search and caress Sam's mouth with his tongue
slowly, tentatively, as if unsure of himself. To slowly become a
little more sure. Long, lingering kisses, Sam's arms around him,
his fingers now in Sam's hair, gently but swiftly playing through
his curls. Finally they paused and gazed at each other, faces
inches apart. Frodo spoke, soft and slightly breathless.

"You are everything to me Sam.... everything. The sun and the moon
and the stars. You are the ocean to me, love, and you are birdsong
and starsong to me. The first winter snows and the first spring
flowers and the rainfall and the morning dew. Everything, Sam.
Always."

Sam's bottom lip trembled at this. The words rang in his mind, the
truth of them shining from Frodo's eyes. Sam spoke then without
thinking.

"I want you, Fro," he breathed. "I want you so much. I want to....
to be everything to you. The sun and the rain on your skin and the
morning dew on your lips, Fro. I want to hold you and love you
and....  and be the ocean, rocking you in my arms."

The endearments hung between them as Frodo carried on twirling a
tendril of Sam's hair between two fingers, his other hand resting
at Sam's throat. Sam swallowed.

There they stood, still and quiet for a moment, each savouring the
way that their love danced inside them. Sam had recently stoked the
fire and the room was warm. Gentle shadows played across the pale
cream walls while outside the wind whipped the snow around as it
danced on its journey down from the skies.
     
Frodo had never looked more beautiful, standing there by the
window. He wore a deep blue muslin shift and over that a finely
woven woollen shirt, of the same colour. His eyes were the same
deep clear blue and his hair tumbled as thick and wild as it had
when Sam first set eyes upon him. Still so beautiful.

Frodo smiled at him.

"I want you, too, Sam. I want you to warm me inside. I want that
special feeling when you make love to me like that." 

Frodo lowered his hands to hold Sam and to press himself close to
him. He continued quietly and Sam tilted his head to hear him.

"When you enter me.... that special feeling that comes from you
being deep inside me."

And they were kissing again, deep and passionate, hands touching
skin, Frodo moaning as Sam's fingers brushed his chest.

"That special way that you love me... oh, my dearest Sam, I want
that too... so much... so much...  I want you to so much."

Frodo's words were enough to melt Sam inside, to arouse him so
deeply that he already ached to enter Frodo. And Frodo felt that
arousal, even as he smiled into his beloved's eyes. Yet still he
spoke.

"That special way that you move inside me, my beautiful Sam. The
way that you push against me, slowly at first, and then..."

The colour had risen to Sam's cheeks and, to Frodo's delight, he
slowly licked his lips. Frodo continued, his voice wavering only
slightly.

"And then a little faster and then I.... I tighten myself around
you."

Sam's heart was racing now. He stood transfixed. Would Frodo speak
to him like this until he tipped over, there and then where he
stood? 

Frodo smiled then, almost mischievously, as if he had read Sam's
thoughts. He took Sam's hand and led him to their bed. Then Frodo
got in under the blankets, still dressed, pulling Sam in with him.

"My dearest love."  

Frodo was running his fingers through Sam's hair as he spoke to him
now, the raw edge to his voice making Sam's stomach knot even
further. 

"My dear Sam. Here we are, the first snows are here again. And I am
here with you, blessed beyond imagining." Here Frodo paused and
blinked, slowly, and his hands found Sam's under the blankets.
"Making love with you is like being inside a poem. Like being
inside the most beautiful poem ever, Sam. Making love with you, I
am complete. The joy is overwhelming and I feel so whole and
complete. More than at any other time, ever."

Frodo's fingers were at his shirt buttons now, grazing softly
against Sam's chest as he undid them. Sam swallowed,

"I love you, Fro, so much."

But he was silent, then, as Frodo's fingers reached the last
button. The two hobbits were still and quiet, both lost in each
other for a moment, before Sam suddenly seemed thrown into action,
and he undid Frodo's shirt with swift urgency, his mouth falling
upon Frodo's chest as if he had hungered for him unbearably. 

Frodo clasped Sam to him and closed his eyes as the pleasure and
longing grew in him. Sam's kisses dancing across his skin now.
Sam's kisses on his chest, Sam's tongue lapping at his nipple, now
briefly chilled as the air played across the saliva there. Frodo
shuddered with pleasure. His fingers seemed to fly, almost unbidden
by him, to find Sam's.  And, as Sam's fingers undid his waistband,
Frodo felt the familiar hardening between his own legs. He moaned
softly, then gasped as he felt Sam's fingers touching him there,
through the cloth. Frodo wriggled to help him before they carried
on, each undressing the other under the blankets to lie naked
together. 

Frodo dipped his head, parted his lips, and pressed his mouth to
Sam's shoulder, kissing and licking the smooth, warm skin there.
Sam sighed with pleasure as Frodo's fingers danced across his face
and down his neck. Then Frodo was above him, dipping to kiss his
chest and to run his fingers down one arm. Frodo delighted in him.
Explored him like some wandering mapmaker, his fingers trailing
contour lines, back and forth, in curves and ridges.

Outside it was almost totally dark already and still the snow was
falling. Frodo spoke softly in the warm gloom.

"Like being inside a poem with you. Sacred, we make a sacred union,
Sam, every time, you know that. Every single time that we hold each
other like this, every time. You took me with you, sweet. And..."
Frodo paused here and his voice lowered as if already overcome with
desire. "You take me with you." 

His fingers trailed now to brush Sam's neck lightly as he looked
deeply into his eyes. Frodo's mouth opened slightly, his lips moist
as they parted. His words came to Sam throaty and raw.

"Inside me, sweetheart? I want that so much. I love wanting that
and seeing you like this.... all... all hard, wanting me.....
seeing you all hard with wanting me."

He seemed to say these last words somehow shyly, even as he slowly
stretched his legs apart while Sam watched him.

"Now Sam?" Frodo breathed, "Warm me?"

Sam could barely speak. He stared at Frodo, transfixed, his mouth
slack, before nodding slightly and turning to reach for the small
earthenware jar on the table by their bed. He poured a little of
the oil it contained into his palm and turned back to look at
Frodo. For a moment the two gazed into each other's eyes, both lost
together in a pool of adoration. Of desire and yearning, but, for
each of the hobbits, more than anything else of wanting to love and
nourish the other. To make love, make each touch so exquisite that
the other should feel it forever.

Sam watched Frodo, watched as he opened his legs a little more.
Watched as the tiny hole there opened to him.

"You know how sweet it is, wanting you. It's so sweet, Sam. It's so
sweet..."

Frodo gasped as Sam's fingers fluttered over his skin as he gently
smeared the amber coloured oil around Frodo's opening. As he did so
Sam's stomach knotted inside with the sight of his beloved and he
felt almost as if he were falling, his limbs suddenly heavy with
the pleasure coursing through them.

Frodo shivered then at his touch, and he took the edge of the sheet
and twisted it in his fingers. So beautiful, his Samwise, touching
him with such concentration. Almost frowning now, bathed in
lamplight, as he slowly pressed and probed.

Frodo groaned quietly as Sam's finger penetrated him and he opened
his legs wider, flexing his knees. 

"Oh, Sam, I want you so much. You know I... want my Sam. My Sam...
so much."

"I know, my beautiful one, I know that." 

He spoke slowly and he felt Frodo tighten around his finger as he
did so. Then Sam withdrew his finger and lifted Frodo's legs
slightly as Frodo wriggled down the bed a little to tilt up to him.
Sam lifted his legs a little more as he leaned towards Frodo,
taking his own weight carefully.

"Frodo, my dearest," was all that he said.

Frodo breathed out slowly. As he did so he relaxed the muscles
there and felt himself stretching as Sam entered him. He held Sam's
gaze, as he always did at this moment, and Sam smiled to see him
concentrating. Then Sam was all inside him. Filling him, loving
him, melting him inside. And Frodo clasped himself to him, clinging
to him for a few moments and breathing deeply. Then he bit his
lower lip as he clenched around Sam.

"Love, it's so sweet. It's so sweet."

Frodo thrust forwards slightly to be swept away. Swept away on
great, crashing waves of pleasure, just as he knew that he would
be. Still, the moment, when it came for Frodo, was unique and
precious. Every time.

Frodo felt Sam rub against the special place inside him and
immediately a pulse of pleasure rippled through his whole body, his
legs made rigid, his heart swooning, his very breath engulfed by
it. Sam began to move, back and forth, slowly inside him, and the
feeling of fulfilment swept through Frodo like wildfire. He
squeezed his eyes shut and let himself be overcome by the pleasure.
Let himself be swept away by it. Sam moving inside him now, back
and forth in a small, exquisite arc inside him. And as Sam reached
that deepest place within him, so, with each thrust, did Frodo
squeeze himself around him. Each squeeze, to Frodo, a jolt of pure
pleasure, a stab of starlight bursting inside him, to burn out and
be followed by another.

Sam did not take his eyes off him. Frodo, beautiful and
dishevelled, arching and writhing as he made love to him. His Frodo
lost in such pleasure and joy that their little home could tumble
away around them and neither would break their embrace; Sam was
sure of it. Neither of them would stop making love for one moment. 

Frodo was still squeezing the edge of the sheet between his
fingers. Sam... pressing against that spot inside him where the
most exquisite pleasure that he had ever felt began. That one
place, over and over, tightening around Sam, over and over.

Now Frodo opened his eyes and stared at Sam and his body was rigid
again. Frodo's eyes were as blue as twilight cornflowers, deepening
in the dusk.  Long limbed, graceful, his skin still so pale and
smooth.

Frodo knew that if Sam were to touch his arousal he would tip over;
the very moment that Sam touched him there. But Sam was moving
faster in him now and clenching his jaw slightly. Sam was close, he
was so close. From being inside him, from caressing Frodo inside
like that. So close just from Frodo holding him inside his body.

Frodo's spirit soared then and his body buckled to Sam and Sam's
face was all of his focus, was all that he saw. Was everything to
him as his very soul was engulfed in the overwhelming contentment
pulsing through him. He leaned towards Sam and frowned, losing
himself completely as he felt his chest made wet, his own milky
libation warm on his skin. Such a powerful, quivering release.

Sam bent to kiss and lick the precious drops from Frodo's skin. 

"Beautiful," he murmured, his tongue lapping slowly.

Sam lived in him. Sam moved in him. Sam danced in him. Liquid
starlight flooding into him, wet and hot, his Sam flooding into him
now, crying out, letting go. His Sam, filling him with wave upon
wave of fulfilment. Frodo wrapped his arms around Sam to pull him
close and there were no words, nothing to say between them. No
words to articulate their abandonment, each to the other, to even
begin to describe the feelings that they shared.

They lay quiet and tangled in each other's arms. Frodo felt his
body shudder with pleasure again. Open and soft and flowing, as if
Sam's lovemaking had rendered his body somehow warm and liquid,
just like the oil that Sam had rubbed into him.

Frodo turned to him slightly and they held each other's gaze as
Sam, all spent and softening again, withdrew from inside him. They
always held each other's gaze then, too. Just as, after they had
made love, they always spent time holding each other close. Time
during which, as Sam said once, they were still making love, so
tender and open were their hearts to each other, so sensitive were
their bodies still. Neither of them could bear to separate from the
other for a while after they had shared such passion. 

Sam never underestimated the trust that Frodo placed in him to
share such intimacy and he always made sure that Frodo had 'come
back down to earth,' as he put it, before breaking their embrace.
His Frodo. His fiercely passionate Frodo. Miraculous beyond words
that they should share such a love, that Frodo should seek out such
intimacy after all that had happened. But he did. He seemed to want
to explore and chart their intimacy, all of its contours, its
farthest reaches, to map it all completely.

As if, Sam thought hazily, he were indeed a travelling mapmaker. As
if their lovemaking were the most hidden island in some faraway
uncharted ocean and he and Frodo were the only ones ever to set
foot there. In fact Frodo seemed to relish each and every
exploration, as if, having found such an island, he wanted to be
sure that he mapped every enchanted inch of the place.

There to walk, hand in hand. Though, in fact, it was Frodo who
plotted their route it was Sam who took his hand and led the way.
Over the years it just seemed to be like that between them. Over
the years. Ever since Frodo had planted that first quick kiss.

Sam leaned to Frodo and touched his nose to his. 

"So special." And Sam coughed, his voice low, "So special to me,
love. There are no words in all the worlds for this, Frodo. I can't
believe how it feels sometimes. The two of us, it's... it's such a
special place."

Frodo's gaze was luminous, otherworldly, then as he spoke.

"Where the ocean meets the stars."

He was still, as if transfixed by something that Sam could not see.
Then Frodo blinked slowly and smiled at Sam.

"That's beautiful," said Sam. "That's... beautiful, that is, love."

And Sam touched his nose to Frodo's again, a slight lump in his
throat as he did so. 

There they lay, arm in arm. Sam pulled the bedclothes up around
them. And there, after a while spent drifting in each other's arms,
there they fell asleep, curled together until morning. 

The first thing that Sam saw, upon waking, was that the snow was
falling once more, or had it carried on all night? Sam smiled to
himself as his gaze then fell upon Frodo, sleeping quietly, head
tucked into the crook of Sam's arm. Frodo. Asleep and peaceful, his
cherished Frodo. Asleep, peaceful, beautiful. Another slow smile
spread across Sam's face.

Three years.... it would be three years this midwinter since Frodo
had sat next to him, in this very bed. Had told Sam how safe and
blessed he felt to be there beside him. Three years since Frodo
held his gaze, leaned to him slowly, and kissed him. Kissed him,
all of a sudden, so briefly. All of a sudden and yet as if.... as
if they had spent their whole lives waiting for just that kiss.
Somehow as if they had always been going to kiss each other like
that one day.

Of course Frodo had immediately apologised for pressing his lips so
briefly to Sam's. Sam could see it all, in his mind's eye, as if it
were yesterday. Frodo, his hands folded in his lap, staring at them
intently while he quietly apologised to Sam for the most beautiful,
melting, briefest of kisses.

It had seemed to Sam, back then, suddenly profane to let his best
friend apologise to him and begin to promise him that there would
never be another such kiss between them. Three years since Sam had
pressed his fingers to Frodo's lips to stifle that promise and
then, hardly believing himself, had leaned to him, heart already
bursting with joy, and gently kissed Frodo back; pressing his lips
to Frodo's just as he had pressed his fingers to them a moment
before.

Kisses, sighs, holding each other the whole night long. His
Frodo... his Frodo, after all that time. Sam loved to remember that
night. Had relived it, so often, in his mind. So gentle and
tentative with each other and yet.... and yet beneath that,
somewhere within them both, such an unshakable trust in each other.
Such a vivid and enduring love between them. Just as if they always
would have. Of course they would have, in the end. Just a matter of
time, really.

Just as if they were always going to kiss like that. Gentle, soft
kisses. Frodo's gasps of delight when Sam kissed his neck, touching
him, stroking him. Kissing and touching Frodo, something that Sam
loved to do. Something special beyond measure.

Lying still, pressing close to each other. His hand resting on
Frodo's arm. Smiling and whispering and saying those words to each
other. Sam could still hear Frodo's voice as he had spoken them,
shyly... tentative despite their kisses. Or perhaps it was their
kisses that had tinged Frodo's voice with such a raw softness as he
spoke. 'I love you, Sam, I've always loved you. I love you so
much.' 
 
And Sam's reply to him that midwinter night brought a brief sigh to
his lips now, as he remembered it. 'Me too,' he'd said simply, 'Me
too... you know...' was all that he had managed, before a sudden
sob caught in his throat and Frodo took him in his arms and held
him tightly.

And now they were here. Here in their little house on a winter
morning with the snow raging outside. Frodo sighed then, quietly,
his eyes still closed, and Sam chided himself. He had not meant to
sigh out loud at his memories. Frodo was still a light sleeper and
it was unusual for Sam to wake before him like this. Frodo sighed
again, though he seemed still asleep, and his lips moved and
brushed Sam's skin before another small moan escaped them.

"Fro-Fro," murmured Sam. "My Fro-Fro."

"Mmmm..." 

And Frodo, eyes still closed and half-asleep, pressed his mouth to
the side of Sam's chest. He did not kiss Sam. Rather he seemed to
just rest his mouth against him, lips open, Sam's skin wet where
the tip of Frodo's tongue touched him.

They lay still for a while. Sam lying on his side and Frodo curled
to him, cast back into a peaceful sleep by the warmth of Sam's skin
against his lips as he lay there. Sam gazed once more out of their
little window at the snow, falling slower now, the flakes larger. A
beautiful white blanket stretching across Tol Eressëa, their second
home. Their home together.

Frodo nestled close to him then in his sleep as Sam pulled the
blankets over his shoulder. So beautiful, his mouth pressed both to
Sam and to his own fingers, spread on Sam's chest. Sam let himself
drift... the warmth overtaking him with visions of snowflakes
whirling around Frodo, who was smiling, dancing, tumbling with him
in the snow. Visions which cast him a beautiful and blessed sleep.

Sam woke again slowly, hazily, as if he had drunk cider at
lunchtime and then fallen asleep in the afternoon sun. What? 

Frodo was lapping at him, wet kisses on his chest, Frodo's tongue
gliding slowly back and forth and he nuzzled against Sam, unmoving
but for his tongue.

In fact Frodo seemed still asleep; perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps
he was kissing his beloved in both lands at once. Sam groaned with
pleasure as Frodo continued to press his mouth to him. Frodo's
voice was low and quiet and he did not move.

"Mmm Sam.... I.... I was kissing you."

And Frodo was awake, still nuzzling Sam's chest, wet from his
kisses. Sam felt Frodo's lips gently scrape against his skin as he
moved slowly. Then Frodo was wriggling up to face him, looking at
him, all bleary-eyed smiles. Searching for him.

"Did you sleep well, my love?"

Frodo beamed at him and nodded as he leaned closer into Sam's
embrace. Frodo seemed half asleep still, blinking slowly as he
spoke.

"I was dreaming of you. I was kissing you. Then I woke up kissing
you."

Frodo closed his eyes for a moment. He felt suddenly heavy with it,
as if they really had been making love and had stopped, mid
embrace. He pressed close to Sam and spoke slowly, almost as if in
a dream.

"Such a special day, I never get used to it. To this time of
year... to being here with you, surrounded by the first snows. A
gift beyond anything."

Sam's smile was warm and full as sunlight on corn then. 

"Frodo, sometimes it seems like everything is a gift here," he
said.

"Do you remember the first time that you made love to me, that you
touched me?"

"Yes, of course I do, Frodo. Of course. The morning after your
dream. You dreamt that we made love and you told me about the dream
and..."

"And you kissed me."

Frodo bought Sam's fingers to his mouth to kiss them before
continuing.

"You kissed my body. Then you let your hands rest on my hips. And
then you bought your hands together and you touched me. I shall
never forget that moment, never. It was all that I could do not to
cry out with joy. Your bringing your hands together so slowly,
touching me. Sam, your touch, your lovemaking... no one else in all
the worlds could ever have given me as much pleasure as you have
given me, no one."

Sam leaned to him and briefly rubbed his nose to Frodo's.

"I shan't ever stop treasuring you, Frodo, not ever. I remember
that morning, too. I remember how you gasped when my hands met."

"It was so special, Sam. You were so gentle and careful with me, so
loving."

Sam beamed at him

"Just as you deserve, Frodo," he said.

And with that they curled each into the other's arms and,
intermittently nuzzling and kissing, first Frodo and then Sam fell
asleep again, neither to wake until gone noon.

That night found the hobbits wrapping up in their warmest clothes
to make the short journey from their home to a large clearing in
the woods. For on this night, the first to that the settled snows
of winter blanketed the Isle, there would be a celebration. The
Elves of the eastern harbour community of Tol Eressëa kept many
ageless customs and the night of the first snowfall was marked by
special songs, out under the stars, in the newly bejewelled
landscape. 

Throughout the year, at certain times, there would be other
gatherings that marked the passing of the seasons, or the arrival
of different stars to the skies. Frodo and Sam always adored such
nights and their hearts were light and their voices merry as they
arrived at the edge of the grove. It was a beautiful night. The sky
was clear and deepest inky blue and the snow glittered all around
them. Tol Eressëa, their home together, was once more covered in
its winter mantle.

Frodo and Sam sat beside one another on a covered log though there
were many carved seats around the edge of the clearing. Bilbo sat
in one of these and he smiled deeply at the younger hobbits as the
Elves, gathered in small groups around the grove, began their
ancient winter song.

Sam clasped Frodo's hand as the song rose above the clearing. Frodo
felt his gaze drawn upwards to the stars, as if his eyes were drawn
by the soaring voices all around him. The happiness and completion
that he felt seemed to surge into him from the very skies above. 

Starlight song: each time that Frodo heard it felt as though it
were the first time, all over again. He had never heard anything so
beautiful in his entire life. Impossibly beautiful. A deep and
sublime perfection, stretching out all around him. A moment out of
time, when all that mattered, all that existed, was the glittering
snow covered world and the vast canopy of stars above.

There were many small fires around the clearing, all held clear of
the ground by large wrought copper dishes resting on thick tripods
of the same metal. The hobbits would stay here for many hours.

After the singing there would be feasting and, of course,
storytelling; both favourites of Frodo and Sam's.

And so they spent another mid-winter together on the Isle. A winter
full of warmth and light which dwelled in even the darkest of days.
A beautiful snow-bound winter, full of laughter and song and warm
stoves. A winter so perfect that, looking back, it could hardly
have been in starker contrast to what was to follow. 


PART TWO

One morning in March found Frodo lying with his back curled to Sam,
in their low feather bed. Frodo kept his body pressed to Sam, as he
had in his sleep. Now he was curled still against his ever faithful
and loving friend.

When Sam woke he was aware of two things straight away. The first
was that it was raining steadily and heavily; it would continue all
morning.

The second was that it was the thirteenth of March.

Sam took a few moments to realise that Frodo was already awake. Had
already begun his journey through these days, as he did each year.

March 13th, 1419, by Shire reckoning. That was the day that Sam had
not understood. The day the day that Sam had left him to his fate.
The day that Frodo had been dragged away, his Frodo, dragged to a
torment more vile than either of them could possibly have imagined.  

But Sam knew of it now. Sam knew just what had befallen his friend
all those years ago. And, for these few days every year, Sam would
be beside him every step, would hardly leave his side.

This was a time of year when the memories and pain floated around
Frodo like a mist. Like a ghost. When Frodo took refuge and solace
in Sam, in their love. When Frodo walked or simply sat somewhere in
the countryside near their home, alone with his thoughts.

Frodo always felt blessed and relieved that Sam knew of it. That he
knew all of it. That, whatever troubled him, Sam was unflinching in
his desire to understand, to be with him if he wished it.

Another March thirteenth and the rain was falling softly in grey
veils across the Isle as if the very skies wept for the gentle
hobbit from the Shire.

Sam dipped his head to kiss Frodo's curls, so soft against his
lips. As he did so he inhaled and momentarily lost himself in the
beauty of kissing Frodo there, of pressing to Frodo's scalp and
inhaling the familiar scent of his hair.

Sam felt Frodo press himself backwards against his chest and his
hands found Frodo's as he encircled the smaller hobbit in his arms.
Each year during these days they seemed to spend a lot of time
holding one another. 

Sometimes it seemed to Sam that there were two Frodos, really.
Sometimes. Hardly ever now, usually, but for this time of year. The
first was his Frodo. His beloved, here with him now on Tol Eressëa.
Vibrant, confident, loving, witty, clever... his Frodo.

Then there was the second Frodo. The quiet, tentative Frodo. Hurt,
damaged, unsure of himself. Plagued by self-doubt. The Frodo who
sometimes, by his own admission, still felt appalled and revolted
and helplessly tainted by what had been done to him. And sometimes
this second Frodo would be there in front of Sam, eyes wide,
flinching from the memories, his mind ragged and hurt.

Sam loved them both. Wanted to love all of Frodo, every scrap,
every part of him. Even the parts that he kept most hidden, that he
could not bear for anyone to see. Sam wanted him to share even
that.  For what meaning was there in love if it shy away from any
of the beloved's burdens? 

Sam wanted Frodo to share even that part of himself. More than
anything, Sam wanted to be allowed, to be trusted enough, to know
and love all of him. 

The rain was getting heavier. Sam watched it for a mome
their bedside window as it fell in front of the trees in soft grey
sheets, like finest cobweb veils. After a long while he felt Frodo
shudder. Then stillness again.

"I love you, sweetsuff," murmured Sam before dipping to kiss his
curls once more. "Come what may, I love you. Whatever you are going
through, however bad it gets. I love all of you and I want all of
you. Even the hurt part of you, the sad part. All of you, Frodo. I
want to be allowed to love all of you. When you can, for me,
love," he finished, suddenly.

Frodo did not reply but Sam felt the movement as he nodded his
head. Then Sam closed his eyes and he stayed still and he held
Frodo for a long time. And neither hobbit spoke.

Finally Sam spoke again, his voice seeming to match the solemn
sound of the rain against their window and on their roof.

"You did not give up. You should be so proud you did not lose your
mind or lose yourself. All that pain and fear and shock but you
held fast to your spirit and your dignity, Fro. Yes you did. You
did."

Another small shudder and Frodo's voice finally came to him, soft
and quiet.

"It was you, Sam. I kept thinking of you. I could hear your voice
sometimes, when they'd left me for a moment. Though I could not see
you in my mind's eye. I was sure beyond doubt that I'd never see
you again. But at least I knew that you would not see my corpse.
That you would not see me like that. You would not know what they'd
done to me or how I had died. I thought of your voice, how warm it
was whenever you'd spoken my name. I took comfort knowing that you
would not find my body after they'd finished with me and..."

Here Frodo's voice trailed off and he raised one hand to his mouth
to quietly bite a nail. Still, he did not turn to look at Sam.

"And your body is so special and beautiful and sacred," said Sam.
"So beautiful and pure and handsome and whole. You are so special,
Frodo. They, everything that they did, all of it, Frodo, you are
not tainted by it in any way. You are not, love. So... so I just
wanted to say that a little to you, Fro. And I know I've said it
before but that doesn't mean it's not true because it is, see, and
I wanted to say it to you again, that's all."

Frodo sighed and shifted slightly in Sam's arms.

"Thank you. I... you know how it is for me." A long pause but
somehow Sam knew that Frodo had not finished speaking. A small, sad
sigh in Sam's arms before Frodo's voice came to him, low and
forlorn. "Tell it to me again? That is, I try to hold onto it
but..."

"I know, you don't need to explain that to me. I know that, Frodo."

It was true. He did.  Sam saw, he understood. The memories jumped
onto Frodo like sudden twilight bats, swooping, diving, clinging
onto him in gathering gloom. 

The memories, sharp and sudden, the awful jolts. Swallowed by them,
engulfed by them, consumed by them, whichever words Sam would use,
their meaning was but one. He had seen Frodo, quietly slipped away
somewhere to suffer alone but followed by Sam, nonetheless. He had
seen when the ghosts and all their sounds and sights and smell
lived to Frodo's senses again, as if summoned through time itself.

Sam shuddered. Sometimes it would be Frodo's hearing, or perhaps
his taste, even his ability to breathe, different symptoms at
different times. As if, Sam thought privately, there were different
ghosts visiting him, each with their own particular torment to
inflict.

The memories, the pain, the fear. They all floated around Frodo
like invisible spectres at this time of year. Sam would watch his
friend and see straight away when they were taunting him. His body,
his voice, everything about him spoke to Sam then of his anguish.

"I love you, Fro. And I love to hold you close. You feel it, badly
now, but it's not true. You are clean and whole. And loving you...
loving you brings me so much happiness. I love to touch you and I
cherish that. Your body is as beautiful and pure as it was when
your mother first held you in her arms, Frodo. That is true, Frodo
Baggins, whether you believe it or not. That is true, it's just how
it is. Just what Primula and Drogo would say now if they were here.
They would hold you and comfort their own sweet son, wouldn't they,
eh? You know that's true too, don't you, love?"

Sam knew that Frodo was crying now in his arms. Sam carried on. He
would, as he had thought before at such times, speak all day if it
might help his Frodo. He would speak forever if it were of any help
at all to his friend, bereft, grieving, frightened.

"And I'm so proud and pleased to be beside you. I'm so proud that
you are my companion. Anyone would be proud of that, Frodo, anyone.
And your parents would be proud of you too, you know they would
be."

Frodo let out a low sob at this and then he wept as Sam held him
and Sam remembered words spoken to him long ago on his first visit
to The Grey Havens. Such wise words, such a kind smile.

'I will not say do not weep. For not all tears are an evil.'  

Frodo, of course, would berate himself when he succumbed to these
episodes, even though for the vast majority of his days here he was
healed in every way. Most of the time he and Sam gave no thought at
all to his captivity at Cirith Ungol. Then suddenly, seeming from
nowhere, he might be snatched back there in his mind, even as he
stood firmly on Tol Eressëa.

Frodo would be left, finally, shaken and vulnerable. Sometimes
alone, sometimes with Sam or with someone else. Always, Sam knew,
Frodo would try to fight it. Would try and somehow tear himself
away, banish the roaring in his ears, the ghastly images in his
mind, the racing heart, dry mouth, the cold and the fear.

Frodo turned in Sam's arms and looked into his friend's eyes for
the first time that morning. Warm and safe, his Sam holding him.
Holding him, stroking his head softly, just a slight movement of
his hands, so gentle. Frodo swallowed.

"You know that I'm... sometimes I still... my skin still crawls
with it. I feel that I'll gag on it. Twisted and ugly inside."

Sam's hand, stroking him still. Frodo thought, suddenly, of some
far-away windswept cliff top at night. Cold and dark and the wind
roaring as it sweeps all away before it.

"Mmm," was all that Sam said.

"Nothing, nothing. Horrible and vile.... and vile, Sam."

"And that's how you feel, now."

But it was a statement, not a question, and Frodo made no reply.

"You know what they did. How they made me..."

Already, it seemed, these words were more than Frodo could manage
and he dropped his gaze and remained silent.

Sam took his time before replying and when he did he spoke as in as
warm and soothing tones as he were able to.

"Yes, I know what they did. I know what they did and that you
feel... that your skin crawls with it sometimes. But at least it's
not like when the ghosts would come and take you. You're not caught
terrified like you used to be, Fro. It's just that you have these
really horrible hurtful feelings, especially now, and I'm sure I'd
still... if it had happened to me, well, I'm sure I'd still feel
like that if I'd been through it all."

This was a familiar feeling to Sam, that of not quite having said
what he meant to say and of certainly not using the right words to
say it. But Sam had learned long ago that sometimes even words that
were not quite right were far better than none at all.

Frodo looked up at him.

"You know that I still wash myself over and over, sometimes, don't
you, Sam?"

"Yes, sweetstuff. I know that, Fro. I've seen that, love."

"Not often, but sometimes."

"No, not often. Just sometimes, I know."

"My mouth feels so dry and I remember the feeling as I was being
thrown around and hurt and I remember them spitting on me and their
voices speaking vileness. They made me... they covered me in it and
sometimes I still feel..."

Silence.

"You can tell me, love. I know it's so hard to tell me but you can,
really. Just how you're feeling. Just what you're feeling right
now. You can tell me, Fro, I promise."

Frodo turned suddenly away from him then and moved across the bed
so that they were no longer touching.

"Like I'm falling. I cannot open my eyes and I will fall forever
into it and I'll never be able to look anyone in the eye again.
I... I want to make myself vanish. I just want to hide my face,
even from you, Sam. I am tainting you as you hold me. I am made so
filthy that I'll never be clean. All those things they did. Even
here, I'll never be clean again."

Frodo looked up at him then. His stare was cold, hard. His eyes
were glittering almost as if he expected Sam to strike him, as if
that was what he deserved.

"Truthfully, Sam? Even though you have told me over and over a
thousand times it's not true... truthfully?"

"Yes, Fro. Yes, I... truthfully yes, I want to know. If you can
tell me then I want you to tell me, however bad it is."

"I can't bear my own reflection. Foul and crawling with it. The
fear and shame sticks in my throat and you... you know. You saw me
there. Back there with their... you saw me. Did you smell them on
me? You must have... you must have known."

Sam reeled from Frodo's stare and gathered himself. He would be
strong, once more, he would be.

"No, Fro. No of course not. I.. no, love, honestly. I am not going
to tell you that you mustn't feel like this. That it makes no sense
to feel like this. What happened to you made no sense and you do
feel like this and I know you feel like all the soap in the world
would never clean them off you..."

Frodo winced at this but he nodded at Sam and looked, Sam thought,
almost grateful. Sam continued, carefully.

"I just wonder if... I know you feel dreadful now but I wonder if I
could still hold you and be with you. I could just hold you again,
maybe, if you let me, for a moment. See whether that felt alright,
Frodo. Just for me?"

Frodo looked at him suspiciously for what seemed an age, then he
nodded slowly. He looked so tired. Sam knew, without asking, that
he had not slept well the night before. It was as if the Frodo who
made love with such abandon, who relished their bodies and their
kisses, that Frodo had vanished.  As if, as he'd told Sam once, he
was recovering from some accident, his body felt so battered and
vulnerable.

Then Frodo nodded once more before he was in Sam's arms.

"I want to... to wash myself, Sam," he said, simply and Sam nodded
as he held him. 

"I'll stoke the stove up; I banked it right up last night. Then
I'll draw you a nice hot bath, love, eh?"

"I... thank you," was all that Frodo managed in reply.

 Sam went to the kitchen and began to fill the tub from the tank
which he and Frodo had made. The tank now sat behind the range and,
kept carefully topped up by the hobbits, meant that they always had
some hot water when the stove was lit. Now Sam opened the small tap
on the side of the tank to fill their copper tub. Then he pumped
some cold water up into a large bucket and, after a few journeys,
he soon had a deep, warm bath ready for his cherished Frodo.

Next Sam lit some of the kitchen candles before cramming another
log into the stove. Lastly he added a generous measure of one of
Bilbo's bathing potions to the tub. The room was now as warm and
fragrant and beautiful as it could be.

Sam turned from the scented and now steaming tub to find Frodo,
standing quietly watching him. Sam smiled. Frodo could still move
as silently as ever. He did it without even trying to, mostly.
Another one of the many differences between the two hobbits.

"Thank you, Sam. That is kind of you, drawing my bath."

Frodo crossed the room to him then and stood still and clasped
Sam's hand.

"Your caring, my knowing that you know. And still, how much you
love me, having your love with me, your understanding, Sam. You do
know that you help me beyond measure. You do know that, Sam, don't
you?"

Frodo squeezed his hand, frowning slightly.

"Frodo, I want to. That's all I want, this time of year I... that's
all I want to do, is to help. Help in any way that I can."

The two hobbits stood like that, each fighting sudden tears, before
they both leaned to the other and kissed, clinging together as
though storm battered. They were still, though, and quiet together
for a long moment before Frodo turned, undressed silently, and
stepped into the steaming copper.

Sam busied himself at the sink with the previous night's supper
dishes. He did not want to be intrusive, neither did he want to
leave Frodo alone in their kitchen at such a time and the dishes
seemed the best way of being near to Frodo whilst still labouring
at a useful chore.

Frodo did not lie back then to let the water soothe him as he so
often did. Instead he set about washing himself methodically. He
stood up, took the soap from the chair beside the tub and soaped
himself all over, carefully and thoroughly.

Then, having rinsed himself, he stood up in the tub again to wash
with more soap and a flannel. And Sam, from the corner of his eye,
realised that Frodo was almost scouring himself with it, so intent
was he on his washing.

Sam felt a lump in his throat and his sadness rooted him to the
spot. He understood, he knew that Frodo had been like this before
but, unlike previously, Sam now decided to take a small risk.

Sam put down his dishcloth and crossed the kitchen to Frodo, who
was now sitting again and rinsing himself.  He looked up at Sam
then, did he look guilty? Sam tried to smile a reassuring smile but
he was not at all sure that it had any effect. He kept his voice
steady as he held Frodo's gaze.

"Would you like me to... to wash you, love? With the bath oil,
maybe? Your skin will be dry from all that soap and I could... that
is, only if you'd like that. I'd quite understand if... if you
wouldn't, Frodo."

Sam said this last clumsily, he felt. He was concerned that Frodo
might interpret him as implying that he was still somehow not clean
enough.

Frodo's mouth fell open slightly and he stared at Sam. Then he
seemed to shake himself.

"Yes I... yes, thank you. All your gentleness and all those careful
words, Sam. Each touch, each word tells me of your feelings for me.
Tells me that I do not have to pretend that I am alright. That you
want to be with me, just as I am. Just as I am right now."

Frodo stood up in the tub up then, slowly and solemnly, there to
stand still as Sam reached for the large dark blue glass bottle on
the shelf beside them. Sam poured the thick yellow liquid into his
hands and begun to rub Frodo's body carefully. Frodo let his eyes
close but he held himself utterly still and quiet.

"You are clean all the time, Fro. Clean as the day you were born.
But I know that you have to take care of yourself right now. Have
to take care of your body's feelings, too, I know that."

Frodo made no reply and Sam rubbed the oily liquid across his chest
and then his stomach. He paused as his hands reached Frodo's hips.

"Do you want me to stop?" 

Frodo opened his eyes and shook his head slightly and the profound
trust and gratitude in his eyes made Sam's heart ache. Sam began to
wash him again, slowly, and Frodo parted his legs a little for him
to smooth the fragrant liquid between them.

Sam let his hands glide over Frodo's sac, all bubbly, before
carrying on down his legs. Then Frodo turned and Sam washed his
back, his hands making spirals of small bubbles across Frodo's
skin. Sam bit his lip for a moment, stealing himself against the
thought of Frodo's fragile beauty surrounded by the evil of Cirith
Ungol. He did not allow himself any hesitation, though, as he
washed Frodo's buttocks and the backs of his thighs. Frodo trusted
him. Frodo loved him. Sam would not let his own sadness get the
better of him now.

 Finally Frodo sat down once more and let himself sink to his neck
in the warm water.

"It was lovely. Thank you, Sam. It was.... that is... I..."

But his voice trailed off and it seemed that he would say no more. 

Sam looked at him.

"Frodo, I love you more than I can put into words, you know that.
And I adore to be near you, too. My heart fills with joy to be near
you, it is so special. So, Frodo, sweetstuff, if you want me to
wash you again, love, then don't... I mean if that's what you'd
like then... then I would too. To care for you like that, I mean."

There, he'd said it. Now he just hoped that he'd second-guessed
Frodo correctly.

Frodo gazed up at Sam, blinking as small drops of water fell from
his curls to his brow. His expression was unreadable and his voice
as he spoke sounded both nervous and relieved.

"Thank you, Sam, that is kind of you." A pause the, a stillness,
and Sam was sure that for a few long moments nothing at all
stirred, not even the air around them. "Yes, I would like that.
Once more? Your doing that is very special. Very tender and
special."

Frodo's heart was filled with a kind of happiness then. Sam
understood and he loved Frodo, truly loved him, all the same. Loved
him for who he was, not for who he might have been.

Frodo stood up in the tub.

"Thank you, Sam, thank you for understanding me so well. And for
not despising what you understand."

"Now, Frodo, you know there's never any need to thank me for that.
Not ever. I want to understand you, all of you. I want to spend the
rest of my days loving you and understanding you and being with
you. Every step, Fro. Every step of the way."

With that Sam begun washing him again and, once more, Frodo let his
eyes close. Safe, warm, fragrant water. Warmth, gentle hands
touching his body, cleansing him. Cleansing his skin and warming
his bones.

Sam was here with him and he was warm and safe and far away from
them. Far away from the vicious ghosts. Far away across the seas,
from any of it, somewhere safe and beautiful and undreamt of.
Somewhere, which held him now, safe and whole, wrapping itself
around him like a fortress made from green hills and deep forests.
Somewhere beyond the mortal seas and beyond all the circles of the
worlds.

All of this now, the water, the warmth, the love of his home, the
loving touch of his friend- all conspired to pull him away from the
ghosts. To scoop him away from them and to send them screeching on
the winds, empty-handed, with no rest from their wandering and no
pain from the living to succour them.

Frodo felt Sam's hands gliding over his stomach, gliding downwards.
Once again he parted his legs as Sam washed between them. 

Sam found himself having to fight back tears then as he washed
Frodo so intimately. Having to fight back his memories of what
Frodo told him they had done to him. He knew that if he let himself
think like that he would be lost, would see their cruel hands
there, hurting the same flesh which he now cared for so tenderly.
And that way, Sam knew, that way lay anguish and pain and a
helpless madness which he still struggled with sometimes, even
after all these years. A madness made of sorrow and of revulsion
and of the desperate hatred that he felt. 

Next would come thoughts of killing them. The futile nagging rage,
the overwhelming, impossible desire to kill them all for what they
had done to his brave and gentle friend. But Sam was stronger than
they were and he knew that Frodo was too. They would get through
these dark days. Somehow, as they always did, they would get
through this.

Sam felt a small shudder as he slid his hand between Frodo's legs.
Frodo's beautiful legs. His beautiful body, warmed and wet and
soapy. Clean, clean, Frodo had always been clean to Sam. Had never
been anything else, but it was no use trying to explain that,
really. Sometimes words were of no use at all, Sam knew that. But a
touch, he thought, sometimes a touch could say more than words ever
might.

Frodo opened his eyes then and watched his friend. Sam's eyes were
cast downwards and he was frowning slightly, intent on his task, on
gently washing him. Frodo watched Sam's hands just as the younger
hobbit let them glide downwards to soap the curls between his legs.

Frodo sighed deeply as he felt Sam's hand slide underneath his sac,
fingers probing gently. His Sam, his cherished love, who would do
anything for him, was now gently, intimately washing him. Sam
understood his hurt and confusion and doubt. Understood him.
Understood and loved him. Frodo shuddered again and, washing him
still, Sam felt him harden just a little.

Sam's touch slowed and he met Frodo's gaze. Stroking him now, so
tenderly, his words were only slightly hesitant.

"Fro, you... that feels good, sweetheart?"

Frodo met his gaze and his eyes seemed to search Sam's for a
moment. Wide-eyed, as vulnerable looking as if he had never been
touched there before in his life.

"Yes," was all that he said.

Slightly harder again then in Sam's hands, warm and wet. Sam's deep
brown eyes shone brightly as he smiled at Frodo.

"I love touching you," he said.

"You're so gentle," replied Frodo before gasping and leaning to
him.

"Just like you deserve. Just as you deserve, a gentle loving touch,
my sweet Frodo."

Sam hesitated then, suddenly feeling very unsure of himself.
Looking back, he knew that he would have hesitated for a very long
time, but for Frodo's quietly waiting and then beginning to shiver.
Sam's voice was a rasp when he spoke.

"Would you like to go back to bed?"

Frodo's gaze was unreadable.

"Yes... yes," was all he managed before sitting to rinse himself.

Sam helped him out of the bath, carefully wrapped him in a long
thick towel, patting at his body through the cloth, and then led
him to their bed. They got in and each turned to face the other,
Frodo still naked whilst Sam wore his long fawn nightshirt. Sam bit
his lip.

"You know that, if it was what you wanted, I mean, that I'd like to
touch you some more, Fro. You know that?"

Frodo nodded at this and wriggled closer to Sam. Then he took Sam's
hand in his and placed it between his legs. He was not pulsing with
love and desire as he so often was at other times of the year. But
he was not soft, either, and Sam cupped him gently and just a
little more firmly.

It was as if they had never made love before, Sam thought hazily,
as if Frodo had never before been touched. But Sam was patient. In
fact, at that moment, he wanted nothing but to visit gentleness and
pleasure on his friend. And Frodo obviously felt some wanting of
him, a miracle considering what he was going through.  Considering
how it usually was between them during this time. Usually Frodo
would be affectionate with Sam. Little gestures, a curl brushed
from his forehead, a sudden hug. But never anything more. 

Sam understood. It was, as Frodo had once told him, nothing to do
with how his feelings for Sam. It was as though Frodo could not
bear to live in his body at this time. As if his body might betray
him, might bring the past crashing back to him. As if even his
nakedness might make him feel tainted and Frodo would not risk
that. Would not risk feeling ashamed of his love, of his wants, of
his passions.

But now here they were and Frodo was staring at him, the same
beguiling stare that he'd had on a winter's night years ago when
they had first kissed each other. Quiet, waiting, innocent. Waiting
on his Samwise, trusting him so completely, as if Sam would know,
Sam would always know. As if, even doubting everything else, Frodo
would never doubt that.

Sam understood. Never had there been a moment more delicate between
them. It was not the touch, or the desire even, the steadily
growing hardness. It was the trust. Sam understood that. The vast,
endless ocean of trust which Frodo had cast them upon, once again.
Frodo had, somehow, looked at the charts and set their course and
now all Sam had to do was to hold them steadily to that course. To
let go of doubt and worry and to let the gentle tides and soft
west-wind guide them home.

Sam's smile to Frodo then was only slight, but warm, before he
dipped his mouth to his fingers to make them wet. To make Frodo
wet. Then he held Frodo's gaze and he let his fingers stroke him,
touch him, wrap around him. Frodo let out a small sigh.

"Oh."

It was barely a whisper, but Frodo's voice was filled with such a
quiet delight that Sam's heart sang. His touch quickened, his hand
gliding smoothly, relishing Frodo, firm and hard in his grasp. Then
Frodo was trembling, eyes wide, as he caught his bottom lip with
his teeth and he leaned to Sam, shuddering again, to kiss Sam's
shoulder and his voice came to Sam, gasping heavily against his
skin.

"Your hands, your hands are so lovely to me. So loving and special
and blessing me. Blessing me each time you... each time, Sam
you.... oh sweet, each time you. It's, oh, Sam, I know you won't
stop, I know you won't, you won't, you won't ever stop loving me."

Then Frodo flooded slowly into his fingers, the spurts of his
juices seeming almost tentative as though, even in that moment, his
body did not quite forget.

Sam knew. He had never washed Frodo as he had done that morning and
now Frodo, clean, cared for, understood, now Frodo had taken the
next step. Had left the ghosts shrieking far, far behind them.

Sam held him close, held him still. And Frodo closed his eyes and
nestled warm next to his lover and no words were needed between
them, no gestures. Sam knew and all was well. Sam knew, understood
and blessed him with that understanding. Held him close now, wanted
nothing but to hold him quiet and peaceful and to watch the rain,
still streaming steadily against their little window. And that is
just what he did for a long while before following Frodo into a
light but peaceful slumber. 

The two hobbits rose late, by which time Sam was ravenous, though
Frodo hardly ate any lunch at all. Frodo had just finished washing
and drying the dishes when there was a knock at the door.

It was Bilbo. Frodo led him to the couch by the fire whilst Sam
brewed a fresh pot of tea before making his excuses, something
about chopping wood and mucking out pigs.

Frodo busied himself pouring tea and arranging unwanted biscuits to
accompany it. 

"How are you, Frodo?"

Bilbo's voice had a low, gravel edge to it as he spoke.

"I'm alright. I... you know."

"I know that this is a difficult time for you, my lad. I know
that."

Unexpected tears sprang to Frodo's eyes at this but instead of
hiding his face he went to Bilbo and sat beside him on the couch.
His uncle looked at him for a moment and then embraced him and
Frodo sank gratefully into his arms. For a long time nothing
stirred in the room but the flames crackling in the grate.

Finally Frodo curled up next to Bilbo and the two sat watching the
fire for a while before Frodo cleared his throat.

"Do you remember when I first came to live with you? I was so
griefstruck still.
And you... you'd really no idea what to say, had you? About my
parents, I mean."

Bilbo's face clouded.

"No... no, you're right, Frodo, I hadn't. Trust you to have
realised that, even back then."

"But you would beckon me to sit next to you on the couch by the
fire at Bag-end and I would lie against you like we are now and
we'd sit quietly for a while and then... then you would tell me
stories." 

Frodo's voice warmed on this last phrase.

"Stories about all your adventures. Or stories that you'd heard
along the way. Or long poems. And I would lose myself in those
stories, in your voice. I would see pictures in the firelight, all
the things that you were telling me about, I would see them in the
flames. All your tales of the heroes and kings of long ago and of
dragons and treasure and... and those stories helped me so much.
After a while I found when I was playing in the woods that those
stories would shape my games. Then I'd tell them to the others and
we'd all play them. I don't think that any of their parents told
stories as exciting as yours were. Those stories helped me so much,
looking back. I know that you wished you could have found words to
make sense of the accident. But in the old tales and poems there is
bravery and grief and loss and beauty all at once and I think, now,
that lying curled up with you listening to them was the best
medicine that I could have had."

Frodo turned then to see tears in Bilbo's eyes.

"You seemed so frail when you came to me. You were always a
thoughtful child but after the accident you seemed so... so lost. I
just wanted to try and make it better in some tiny way. I remember
so desperately wanting to find the right words to say to you. I
never did find them."

"Yes you did... Bilbo, you did. You... you showed me that you loved
me and cared for me very much. Every day you spoke words of
kindness to me. I do not think that there are any other right
words. But you must have spoken thousands to me as we sat together
all those long winter afternoons and they were the right words,
they were, each and every one of them."

Frodo leaned against Bilbo then, resting his head gently on the old
hobbit's shoulder.

"You would still weep alone, though Frodo, each night in your room,
after I had tucked you in. The whole of that first year I'd hear
you crying by yourself when you thought that I was asleep. I could
have comforted you. You didn't have to hide away like that."

"But I needed to do that. The grief felt overwhelming.  I needed to
be able to cry and not stop. If I'd have wept in your arms like
that I'd have broken your heart and I knew that. I would have
stopped myself and dried my tears to spare you, Bilbo. But I... I
just needed to weep and weep and not wonder when I'd stop. I knew
that you were there, though. I always knew that."

"And is that why you did not tell me about what happened to you
when you were held prisoner? Not because you thought I'd think
badly of you?"

"No! No... no, of course not. I just, I couldn't bear the thought
of your pain if you knew what had happened. I couldn't let them do
that to you. I was trying to protect you. At all costs I wanted to
spare you. But never because I thought that you'd be ashamed of me,
never." 

Frodo looked up at him, eyes wide. The fire suddenly spat and
crackled.

"I never, ever thought that of you, Bilbo. I thought... in some
hurt, injured, damaged way I did fear it, yes. But not with my real
Frodo Baggins mind. I just wanted it to stop. Almost as if by
telling anybody I would make it worse. As if I'd make it somehow
bigger for myself, let it intrude into more of my life, into the
lives of my loved ones. I just could not bear to see you suffer
because of what they did when there was no changing any of it. Then
the years began to pass and I... I just carried on keeping it to
myself."

Frodo shook visibly then and Bilbo immediately pulled the blanket
from the back of the couch around them.

"Alone with it," said Bilbo, forlornly, and he shook his head. "I
still bless the day the Gaffer bought his youngest to work in our
garden."

Frodo smiled to himself as he followed Bilbo's line of thought.

"Sam," he said aloud and the relief was evident in his voice. "He
heard me that first night. A nightmare. And I think that I was so
shocked at seeing him again that somehow I managed to... to not
stop myself. It is like that. I did try to tell you, to make myself
tell you what had happened. Well, I resolved to anyway once here
when I thought that I could not go on alone with it anymore. But I
stopped myself. It's as if there is a part of me that always stops
me jumping..."

Here Frodo's voice trailed off into silence and he stared fixedly
into the flames, a slight frown playing across his features. Bilbo
did not speak. But he quietly watched Frodo from the corner of his
eye.

The same frown he'd had as a child. The same piercing stare. The
same self-searching honesty. The little room was quiet and the
light from the windows dimmed as twilight began to gather outside.
Frodo spoke as if he had only paused for a second, but quietly, as
if he were speaking to himself.

"But that night with Sam, I finally spoke of it and he was so
patient and gentle and he knew... he knew. He'd seen me back there
and I think he knew that there might be something else, something
awful." 

Frodo swallowed and looked at his hands before raising his eyes to
Bilbo's.

"It is not that I think you or Sam might be ashamed of me, though I
thought that at first when I finally told him. But sometimes... and
these few days sometimes it's... it's me who still feels tainted
and ashamed. It's nothing to do with anyone else. It's nothing,
really, it's silly. It is just a bit sad and tiring. But most of
the time, otherwise, I hardly ever think of it at all."

This last was true and Frodo sighed deeply.

"I'm glad that you have Sam," said Bilbo.

"Yes. He is everything to me. And I'm... I feel safe with him. Safe
and happy and loved. So you've no need to worry about me, Bilbo. No
need at all..."

Frodo smiled then and, patting Bilbo's hand, curled to lie against
him. And that is how Sam found them later, both fast asleep.
Whereupon he put several warm blankets on them and closed the
shutters, smiling to himself.

That evening Bilbo enjoyed a simple but plentiful supper with Frodo
and Sam. Then he left them to go back to his rooms near the great
hall for, as he put it, a nice early night on a full stomach. The
old hobbit seemed to have gained renewed vigour living on the
Blessed Isle and, with the earlier rain now long blown over, he
would enjoy the walk home, leaning only slightly on his favourite
walking-stick.

Frodo and Sam retired early to their bed, too. Sam could see that
Frodo was exhausted and he urged him to 'turn in nice and early.'

Frodo fell asleep quickly, which pleased Sam, who followed him to
the land of dreams soon enough. But midnight found Frodo sitting
alone in the low light of a single candle at the kitchen table. The
nightmares did not last as long now. He was getting better at
waking up and at immediately realising, on waking, that it was no
more than a dream. Still, the memories floated around him, hissed
into his ears, burned inside him like living flame.

'Squeeze its neck now and it faints then we can bring it back round
and do it again, see? Watch the fear in its eyes when it can't
breathe and then it falls and you kick it or drench it and that
wakes it up good and we can do it again. Dirty shire-rat, aren't
you? I know you want that, I know. Oh yes. You want my hand there,
don't you, you vermin? You want this, filth, I know that. Say
please, then. Tell me how much you want it. Beg me for it, go on.
You beg me for it on your knees, little shire-rat'

Frodo had done as he was told to, had tried to say and do what they
wanted. Would have done anything, really, he knew then, as he sat
there shivering in kitchen, cold despite having rekindled the
stove. 

Frodo had slipped silently out of bed, leaving Sam snoring gently
beside him. Nightmares were rare now, but for this time of year,
and he was good at managing them by himself, though Sam would have
wanted to help if he could have. 

Still, it took him a while after such a dream to recover himself.
He felt raw, vulnerable, overwhelmed.  As if his torment then had
only just ended, so vivid was it all in his mind. Now he drew the
comfort of their familiar kitchen around him, almost like a
protecting cloak, slowly to drive the cold shadows of the past from
him.

Anything that they had told him to do. He knew that he would have
done it, if it had meant an end to his torments. Anything at all.
Betrayed the quest, betrayed the Fellowship, betrayed even Sam, if
he could have saved himself.

Oh, he would have struggled against it, would have refused any such
thing at first. But for how long? How long would he have held out
against it? How long would he have held out against the pain and
fear and exhaustion? A few days, a week, maybe?

No, not a week, not that long. Not there in the shivering-cold-fear
place, in the place of pain and despair and loathing. Not a week,
no.

Look at how he had succumbed, almost triumphant in his despair,
when he had claimed the Ring for his own. Pathetic, indeed. No, he
knew they were right, he would not have lasted long. But for Sam's
rescue of him he would have betrayed them all, sooner or later. He
knew that and it was true no matter what anyone else thought.

But Sam... his Samwise, Sam would remain forever bright and whole.
Sam would never loathe and despise himself like this and for that
Frodo was glad and grateful. And, of course, Sam would not have
faltered. Sam would never have betrayed him. Whatever they might
have done to him Sam would have resisted, would have remained loyal
and steadfast to his grave. Though there would not have been any
graves for either of them, back then, not even that, in the end.

Nonetheless Sam would have remained steadfast until the end, Frodo
was sure of it. Sam would never, never, never have... or would he?
Even Sam? In that place? If he had... if they had...

The tears coursed down Frodo's cheeks then and he folded his arms
around himself, clutching tight with aching fingers.

Pain and fear. Pain and fear beyond imagining. Still, sometimes,
the memories defeated him. Yet he was much better now than he had
been. There was no question of his ever casting himself away in the
midwinter snows one desperate night. He knew that he was healing,
that his life was bright and whole here and only sometimes touched
by the cruel fate that had befallen him in Middle-earth.

Though his mind was ragged and wounded and desperately in need of
help that night, his spirit was somehow stronger. Day by day, year
by year, his spirit mended, there on the blessed Isle. His spirit,
that bright, shining core of self-belief, was somehow being
rendered whole again. 

But his mind, still tormented by memories, his mind still collapsed
in on itself sometimes and then there was nothing but pain. Pain
and ghosts. He fought not to see them, not to hear them, to banish
them from him. But they were all around him, as if they had somehow
got through from the nightmare, despite his having woken. They were
here, dragging him back to that time in captivity just as surely as
if it had happened yesterday, as if it were still happening.

As one of them had began to squeeze his neck again so Frodo felt
another of them begin to claw between his legs, pinching and
twisting. Then he was suddenly permitted a few gasps of air, acrid
and sharp.  As his head was pulled up and back so the face of his
tormentor loomed above him, filling all of his vision.

'What about two of us at once, eh, shire-rat? Would you like that?'

Frodo had not understood what he meant but still he desperately
sought the right words.

'Please don't. Please, no... don't hurt me anymore.'

'Oh, you'll get used to it, little scum. Think I'll have your mouth
now and someone else can have your little hole, can't they? Like a
roasting pig on a spit, you'll be, oh yes, you filth. Saves us
time, see? Two of us can have you at once then. Gets us more use
out of you, don't it?'

Then Frodo understood. He began to retch, shaking violently, and to
try, uselessly, to shrink away from his captors. He could not help
but begin to frantically plead with them, though some part of his
mind already knew that it would not save him.

'No! Please, no. Please don't, I...'

But the hands closed around his throat again, cutting off his
words.

'You're going to do it just how I like it, nice and slow at first.
And you're going to get another pounding, too, so you'd better be
ready for that. Any trouble and I'll slit you open, understand?'

Only then was Frodo finally allowed another breath and he fell to
the floor, choking and sobbing. If only they would finish it and
kill him. Each time that he was strangled he thought it was the
end. They would tell him that it was. But then the game would start
again. The game would go on and on for them.

'The scum wants it again. Look at it! It can't stop shaking. It
wants me to.'

'No... no... please, I don't. Please don't, I can't, please...'

'Quiet! Quiet now, filth. I'm going to anyway so you might as well
enjoy it. Once you've seen Lugburz you'll wish you could have
stayed here forever. Oh, yes, you'll plead to come back here and
have me in your mouth again. Doesn't hurt too bad, does it? No, not
too bad, pretty mouth. Who knows, perhaps one day I'll have your
bones to play with, eh? Boil up what's left of you and then play
dice with your bones, little scum. Oh yes, that'd be a fine end for
you, eh?'

Frodo did not hear Sam enter the kitchen. But he felt him now,
close by, was even able to clasp his hand without flinching at all
as he sat down at the table.

"Frodo... Fro, love, I'm here. I'm here if you want to talk. Or to
hold or... I'm here, Frodo, sweetheart." Sam's voice was dry, soft,
only cracking a little with pain. "My beautiful Frodo. My brave
one. Stay here with me now, eh? Don't let them hurt you anymore.
You don't deserve that, really you don't, and you're safe now. Safe
now, love."

Frodo stared at him before nodding slightly, one last tear running
down his cheek.

"They're dead now, Frodo. They're all dead and gone, thanks to you.
You killed them when you got the Ring to Sammath Naur. You did
that, Frodo. Because you were brave and strong, nobody else could
have got it that far, nobody. Just you, love. Even after what they
did you.... you carried on. Even when I found you, all alone and
hurt, even then you were brave, you somehow forced yourself to get
up and carry on. I'll never forget that."

"Oh, Sam, it was not... they had given me something. They had
cleaned me and given me some draught to restore me. They made me
drink it, though I kept choking. It was like drinking burning oil.
But it did revive me and cast away my pain, it worked. How else
should I have been singing back then, eh? How else, Sam? You do not
think that I found some miraculous strength, then, do you? Their
draught and the Ring, Sam, not me."

Here Frodo sighed before Sam reached to take his hand and to stroke
it tenderly. However long it would take, whatever it would take,
Sam would never, ever give up on him. They both knew that. Sam
would never, for one moment, leave the brave, haunted, beautiful
hobbit who he had come to know and to love so deeply.

"I had to beg him to touch me," said Frodo suddenly, his voice
sharp and cold as he stared at Sam in the gloom. "He said that he
knew I wanted him to and to beg him for that and I...I didn't want
it. It was horrible, it was all so..."

"I know, Frodo. I know that. You didn't want any of it, of course I
know that."

Sam stopped speaking as he suddenly realised that he had
interrupted Frodo.

Frodo's voice was icy.

"But I did beg him to touch me, I said anything that he wanted me
to. I did beg, over and over."

Sam sighed.

"Just like I would have. Like any of us would have in that place.
I'd have said anything, I know that..."

"Do you?" Frodo snapped, coldly. "Do you know that, Sam? Do you
really know that you.... you... that you..." He paused, trembling,
before his face crumpled."Sam, help me. I can't... I'm not thinking
straight. Please, Sam, please just help me."

And with that the rigidity left Frodo's body and he was himself
once more. Frodo, sad and bereft, but Frodo still. Frodo Baggins of
the Shire. Just one small hobbit. But the one who, of all the
Fellowship, had paid the highest price. Some things, Sam believed,
might very well be worse than a sudden and quick death. Frodo's
words came to him then, quiet and tentative.

"He was angry that I did not... that I could not... he was angry
that I could not become hard, not at all. He kept touching me,
saying that he'd make me. He asked me if I ever had, and I said
no... that I couldn't,  but he kept... and I tried, I really tried
to. I just wanted it to stop. I just want you to understand, when
we... when we hold each other. I'm not like you, Sam. I'm not whole
and clean, I'm... I just want you to know that and then, if you
don't want to anymore, you know I'd understand. If you don't want
to hold me anymore, I mean, Sam."

Please let him stop now. Where were the words? How could Sam stop
him? Sam's mind raced, pain rising, as he tried to find the words
to stop Frodo's awful confessing. Sam had promised himself long ago
that he would always listen, always want to hear. Would not flinch,
would not leave Frodo alone with his ghosts. But this... how could
Sam make him understand that he did not need to confess like this?
That he owed Sam nothing? That nothing, nothing that had happened
back then could ever diminish Sam's love for him?

"Sweetheart, it's alright. Frodo, you don't need to tell me this.
Not for my sake, I mean. Not because... not because you think I
might turn from you. Please, love, not that. Let me help you like
you said, Fro. Let me try and make you believe. They... what they
did was wrong and evil and twisted. I'd have tried to do what they
wanted, too, love. I would have tried and I know it, yes. I know
you think I'd have borne the pain but you're wrong, Frodo. I know I
would have done anything and said anything to try and make them
stop. Anything, Frodo. I do know that, really and truly I do."

Frodo sighed slowly and frowned, staring fixedly at the table for a
moment.

"Sam, my dear Sam, I'm sorry. You are right, of course, I
apologise. I'm sorry for saying that about you not wanting to hold
me anymore. Forgive me, Sam, I don't know what gets into me
sometimes. I'm sorry for all of it. For you being up in the middle
of the night, again. For saying those vile things to you, for
dragging you into this... this squalor."

"But I want to help you, of course I do. I want to help in any way
I can. Of course. Don't you even understand that yet, Frodo? Even
if it was day and night, even if... if..."

But Sam ran out of words then as Frodo sat looking at him blankly.
Even in the low light Sam could see that he was struggling.
Struggling, even with accepting that basic assertion of Sam's love?

Sam began to feel his own anger flickering then, somewhere deep
inside him. He looked at Frodo sitting there with his shoulders
hunched. His best friend. Ringbearer, honoured by kings. Frodo,
sitting despising his own frailty, again.

Finally, Sam could bear this no longer. His stare was luminous with
pity before he spoke, gently at first.

"There is something I want you to do for me, Frodo. You owe me this
much. You owe me this. You are my friend and you will do this for
me."

Frodo only nodded slightly at this, a shock to Sam, who carried on
hurriedly.

"Frodo, you look at me now and you listen to me. I want you to
think of me, to picture me in your mind's eye. Now, Frodo, think of
me, your Sam. You know how much I love you. Here I am in front of
you. Gentle and loving and good, Fro, that's what you said I was.
You close your eyes now, love."

To Sam's surprise Frodo let his eyelids fall.

"And you think of me. You can see me now in your mind's eye, Frodo.
You keep your eyes shut for me; you do this for me."

Sam realised that his body was tensing in anticipation of what he
was about to say. Sam was bigger and stronger than Frodo and, with
a sadness that he would not allow to tip into despair, he resolved
there and then that he would not allow Frodo to bolt, should he try
to. Again he gazed at his dear friend, again with love and pity.
Frodo's eyes were still closed and there was a soft half-smile
playing on his lips. Frodo was indeed thinking of him.

Pity, love, horror, all of these were overridden then in Sam's mind
by his determination to help Frodo, now, in this moment. Though Sam
would have been the first to admit to the uncertainty and brutality
of his suddenly formulated plan. He cleared his throat. 

"Thinking of me, of who I am, Frodo. Now, I want you to imagine me,
love, to picture me. I'm lying down, Frodo, without all my clothes
on."

A smile played across Frodo's mouth at these last words followed by
a soft sigh. Sam coughed awkwardly before determination drove him
to continue.

"Me, Sam, your Sam. I'm lying down and they've got me. They're
hurting me."

Frodo's eyes had already snapped open.

"They're violating me," said Sam.

"No..."

"They're forcing me and spitting..."

"Sam, no!"

Frodo's face was white, his mouth slack. He looked as if Sam had
slapped him. And it was only just beginning.

"No, you'll listen to me, Frodo. You will."

Sam's voice was rising slightly as he spoke.

"You'll listen to me now, like I do to you."

Frodo winced at this and Sam knew that neither of them would ever
forget this moment. 

"You can see me. They are violating me. I'm pleading with them to
stop but they only enjoy that. I can't stand the pain. Your Sam.
I'm alone there. I'm sure I'll die there. They take turns to
violate me, call me names..."

But he was silenced then by a shrill cry.

"No! Stop it! Stop it, Sam!"

"I won't, Frodo. Not 'till you imagine it for me. You picture it in
your mind for me."

"No, I can't, no.."

"They are hurting me so badly. So badly, the pain is unbearable and
I know I'll never see you again. They keep telling me how filthy
and disgusting I am, and it goes on and on."

Here Sam paused to wipe a tear from his eye, unnoticed by Frodo who
was sitting now with his head bowed and his hands clasped. Sam
longed to hold him close but it was not enough yet.

"Years later we are reunited and I tell you what they did to me. I
finally tell you. Not because I choose to, no. Because, of course,
I am still hurt from it. Still tortured by them sometimes, my mind
has been hurt. You can't begin to imagine it, if it hasn't happened
to you. But I tell you. Your Sam. They did that to your treasured
friend, who still has nightmares sometimes. They did that to me."

Sam paused again he realised that Frodo was shaking slightly. Frodo
had considered his words then, had imagined him in that awful
despairing place. Sam spoke again, his voice softened.

"Wouldn't you want to be able to help me? Wouldn't you feel so
distraught with pain to think that I might not tell you if there
was ever anything at all you could do to help me? To comfort me?
Even years later, after they'd tormented me and beat me and..."

"No, Sam, please. No more."

Frodo's voice had a note of desperation to it. Or was it fear? His
blue eyes blazed as they met Sam's and he looked to be fighting
back tears. Or perhaps it was fury?

"I'll stop if you... you did see me there, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. Please, Sam, I can't bear it"

"Sshhh Fro, it's alright. I just wanted you to imagine if you had
been the one to come here and you'd found me hurt and in pain. I
know how much you love me, my dearest Frodo. I just need this. You
owe me this. You ask yourself here and now. Even if I woke
screaming every night, you... you would desperately want to comfort
me in any way you could. Admit it. You'd yearn with all your heart
to be there for me. To try and soothe me, maybe hold me, whatever
might help. Even if it was every night. Anything at all, you'd
yearn to help your Sam. You'd want to kill them, of course you
would but you can't do that. Now, you look me in the eye and tell
me that's not how you'd feel, Frodo, and I'll let you keep quiet
and put up with you still hesitating to ask for the comfort and
love you deserve. But you have to look me in the eye and say that,
Frodo. Look at me."

Frodo looked up instantly at this command.

"I... I understand. You don't need to say anymore. Really, I
understand."

He looked utterly defeated, as if he had hardly any breath left in
him. He sat still and quiet, almost as though he expected some
anger from Sam. Sam's heart was still thumping from making his
heartfelt speech but it had never been anger that he'd felt towards
his friend.

"I'm sorry, Frodo. I didn't want to make it all worse for you. I
just wanted to try and make you understand how it is for me. How
much I want you not to hesitate to ask me if there's ever anything
I can do. I know you do stop yourself, sometimes. But today, today
was so special, being with you like that. After you washed, I mean.
And, anyway, well, it's been years now and I just want it to change
and you to come to me if there's ever anything, whatever it is,
anything I can do. I know there's times when you want to be alone
with your thoughts, Fro. But not like this. Not tonight, like this.
Not after what happened today."

Frodo nodded again but remained silent, as if he expected Sam to
continue anyway. Which, momentarily, he did.

"I just want to be allowed to help. Just like you would want to if
it was you, Frodo. On nights like this. Now you... you look done
in, love. Maybe it's time to come back to bed?"

Frodo nodded again, blinking, before getting up quickly and closing
down the stove again for the night. Then he turned and walked
through the doorway to their bedroom. Still he did not speak.

Sam sighed. He was not at all sure whether his words had had their
desired effect, or whether they had been both too hasty and too
brutal. Frodo seemed subdued; perhaps he had only gone back to bed
to please Sam. To try and do what Sam wanted him to do, with no
hope yet of sleeping again.

But Frodo turned to him as he climbed into their bed.

"You are right, Sam. I have told you what happened to me. I have
shared that burden and you are right, I would be desperate to help
you if any such thing had happened to you. You are right about
that. I knew that, really. But sometimes I find that there is a gap
between knowing something and keeping faith in it, trusting to it
always, not doubting it even when I..."

"Even in the middle of the night?" asked Sam, stubbornly.

"Yes, even in the middle of the night."

"I want you to promise me, now, mind."

A deep slow sigh and Frodo's fingers found Sam's hands under the
blankets.

"I promise. Honestly, though I know it will be hard. I'll remind
myself how much I would want to help you, if it had been you, Sam.
You have my word that I'll try my best. I promise, here and now, in
our home here near the sea, I promise you, Sam."

"Well then, thank you for your promise. I love you, Frodo, always.
Always and forever."

"I know that, Sam. You have never given me cause to doubt that.
It's just that sometimes... sometimes it still hurts in a way that
makes it hard for me to think straight. It's like an old battle-
wound, still hurting years later if it gets cold or wet. A bit like
that, I suppose."

Frodo drew closer to Sam then, dipping to kiss his hands.

"Your knowing what happened to me helps me in so many ways. You
know the details and I... I can let you see me. I do not need to
pretend. You know, so you understand without my needing to explain
if I want to keep the lamp lit one night or if I want to clean
myself again or if I hurt myself, have an accident. Remember the
time when my cloak caught on that tree and I tripped and choked for
a moment? You knew, you understood. You did not think that I was
pathetic when I was catching my breath and suddenly remembering a
flash of being choked by them. You understood."

Sam seemed to ponder this for a moment before nodding, slowly.

"There must have been moments before when no one knew. When things
happened to you. If you hurt yourself accidentally it can bring it
straight back to you, can't it? The pain and hurt now can take you
back there? So there must have been moments, when nobody knew, if
you had an accident or something, when no one would understand
enough to care for you properly."

"Yes, yes, there were. But not many, Sam, honestly."

Sam's eyes filled with tears though as he thought on this. All
those years alone with it here and not just nightmares, not only
memories. Alone during such moments when it must have briefly
overwhelmed him, the pain and fear and awfulness must have engulfed
his mind in torment even here. To bear it alone, really, even here.
A sudden little accident, a cut finger chopping carrots, or a fall.
To live alone with the memories for all that time while Sam was far
away in the Shire. Sam shivered at the thought of it.

"I wish I could have come here with you in the first place. You
should never have been by yourself with it all that time, never.
And don't you tell me that you had Bilbo. You know as well as I do
you'd never have gone to him for help. I should have been here from
the start."

"No, Sam, no. Really, your place was back there and..."

"But you'd have told me, I know you would. You shouldn't have been
alone with it."

Frodo sighed again then.

"Galadriel once told me that to be a Ringbearer was to be alone. I
did not understand, back then, but I think that, in some ways, she
meant alone forever. Or maybe even then she already knew that, by
her grace really, one day I'd have you by my side again. The dust
of Lorien meant that you've not aged much more than I have, after
all, Sam, so we have ended up still close in years as well as in so
many other ways. I shall keep my promise and I shall accept that
sometimes I will feel hurt or afraid or just sad and when I feel
like that I shan't think I've failed. I'll just know that's how I'm
feeling then and I'll know why. And if I need to I'll reach out to
you and lean on you until it has passed."

Frodo slipped his arms round Sam's waist then and the two held each
other close, silently, for a long time. Finally they fell asleep
like that to spend an undisturbed night together. Long afterwards
those days each year in March were sometimes still difficult to
endure. But, steadily, they did become easier, due to the promise
which Frodo had made that night and which he kept to for the rest
of his days. 


PART THREE

The months that followed were a happy time for Frodo and Sam. The
spring was particularly beautiful that year with clear, balmy days
and warm, rain soaked nights which left the bluebell woods by their
home more vibrant and rich in shimmering blues and purples than
either had seen before. 

The summer was just perfect, too, as Sam often remarked that year.
The long golden days filled with walks and lovemaking and
beachcombing seemed, for Frodo especially, to bring a new sense of
vitality and peace. One night, late that summer, however, that
peace was brought to an abrupt and disastrous end.

Frodo and Sam had been staying with their friend, Galdor, in his
home on the coast some miles north of their own home. They never
tired of visiting with the Elf, who always made them welcome and
seemed to delight in their company. Nor did they  tire of walking
or sitting by the ocean, something neither of them had ever done in
Middle-earth.

One afternoon the hobbits found that they had walked further along
the coast than ever before. Frodo swam a little in the shallows,
watched by Sam. Then they finally decided to eat their picnic on a
little beach before discovering a small cave at the far end of
some headland. The cave was warm and sandy, almost a beachside
hobbit hole, as Sam remarked. It was Frodo who pulled him down onto
the sand, kissing him fiercely.

Outside the sun was already setting and, unbeknown to the hobbits,
a cold easterly wind began to rise, ruffling the tips of the waves
into an opaque, almost phosphorus white in the slowly gathering
gloom.

Frodo looked up at Sam, unblinking. The August moon would be rise
early in the evening and be nearly full when it rose. It would cast
a fair light for the walk home. 

Frodo slowly raised his arms up and back behind his head then and
he dug his fingers into the sand.

The gesture fixated Sam, whose stare was full of warmth and
delight. He leaned his arm across Frodo's, holding him down gently.
Frodo continued to stare at him for just a moment longer before
dropping his gaze.

" I want to be yours," he said, before looking up at Sam once more.

"And I want to love you for ages and ages, Frodo."

Frodo shivered in delight at this. The phrases and gestures were
like a private signal between them and he knew exactly what Sam
meant.  Sam was going to make love to him.  A few words, a gesture,
a melting stare. All enough to leave Frodo lying completely still
but completely alert, languishing in delicious anticipation.

Sam's gift to him, the beautiful simplicity of it, Sam gave him his
time. They would often make love entwined with each other, engulfed
in each other but this was different. This was something that they
did less frequently, though it was undoubtedly something that Sam
relished doing. Sam was going to take his time and make love to
Frodo. To trail his touch on him, using his body and his voice and
his mouth to visit as much pleasure on Frodo as he could.

And Frodo? They both knew what the signals meant, the little pact
that they had made. Sometimes their places would be reversed and
Frodo would arch above Sam. Frodo adored to lavish his attentions
on Sam. But for the moment they both knew that Frodo's fingers,
clasped now as his arms remained stretched back behind his head,
Frodo's fingers would soon be quietly clawing at the sand as the
pleasure took him.

Sam trailed fluttering butterfly kisses up and down Frodo's neck.
Frodo groaned, soft and low, at this. As Sam's lips brushed his
throat he closed his eyes, arching his neck back even further as
his nerves were pinpointed under Sam's mouth. To lie this prone,
enraptured, held by Sam, brought to him a unique shivering delight.

Long ago Frodo had quietly despaired of ever sharing such intimate
pleasure with anyone. Too long had he lived, he now knew, with the
shadow of that loneliness.

He had fought and been hurt and paid the price. It was over. It had
begun to be over for him only once he had made his final journey to
arrive at these shores. He had spent that journey overwhelmed by
feelings both of hope at journeying to the Blessed Isle and of
unremitting grief at losing touch with Sam.

Now, lying still under Sam's caresses, Frodo had a fleeting memory,
sudden and keen, of that long-ago journey. He saw himself, standing
near the prow of the ship, his hood raised against a fine grey
rain. The ocean was changing; even the rain was getting warmer.

The sea, always the sea. Frodo had soon found his sea legs, though
Bilbo had taken longer. So it was that Frodo had stood looking
ahead at the ocean ever streaming towards him, so it was that had
beheld the curtain of grey rain parting before them as though to
beckon them forwards. Frodo's tears then had been both tinged with
joy and yet full of a numb sadness that seemed to rise on the wind
in the huge white sails billowing behind him.

Never, in all the years between his arrival there and Sam's had
Frodo imagined that one day he would lie on this shore and be
caressed and kissed and whispered to and held like this. Sam even
understood if, as now, Frodo might shed a few tears as he was
touched. Sam did not stop in his caressing, did not question the
older hobbit.

Rather he drew Frodo to him and held him and stroked him and then
dipped his head to kiss his shoulder, warming the place where he'd
been cut by the enemy's blade and which sometimes troubled him
still.

Frodo sighed deeply and then shuddered as Sam's fingers ranged over
his chest. Sam knew that Frodo would lie, still and quiet, and let
himself be bathed in the layers of pleasure sweeping through his
body. Frodo would lie still and lose himself to Sam, to Sam's
fingers, to Sam's mouth. To his Sam, who knew him so well.

Frodo had explained his feelings to Sam. Carefully, tentatively,
his frowns betraying his vulnerability, Frodo had explained how he
ad
himself offered up, belonging to Sam.

Frodo would stretch his arms, would sigh and startle sometimes,
catching his breath at a particular caress. Then he'd simply let
go. He would let go of everything except the sensations in his
body. He would allow himself to be consumed utterly by the
pleasure, allow everything else to be obliterated by it, subsuming
himself to it, lying passive and pliant for Sam, open and carefree
to all the ways in which Sam chose to touch him. Relishing, as he
said, the thought of being possessed by him.

Frodo stretched out now under Sam's kisses and sighed deeply when
Sam's mouth finally found his nipple. The anticipation, the
delicious sensations as Sam's mouth had ranged across his chest,
the waiting, breathless, as Sam's tongue had so slowly trailed
across his skin before finding his nipple; all had sent Frodo into
that swooning pleasure that sometimes seemed the very life-force
itself.

Sam knew how to love him. He had made a study and an art of loving
Frodo for years now. Sam knew that Frodo wanted to go slowly, to
relish every touch, every stroke, to feel his whole body caressed
as he sighed and curled and stretched to his lover's touch.

It would be easy, even now, for Frodo to tip over and to spill his
seed in warmth and pleasure and wonderment. But Sam would take him
there more slowly than that, they both knew it. Sam would keep him
at the edge, would stroke him and hold him down and tease at his
flesh for ages yet.

Frodo shivered at the thought and a deep well of pleasure seemed to
open up in his stomach. 

"My Sam," he groaned, softly.

Sam smiled down at him, savouring the sight of him so glowing with
joy. He would touch and kiss Frodo for ages yet. Frodo's skin, his
sinews, his whole body- all would writhe and dance under his touch.

Frodo's sigh was a rasp then, breathless and slightly high as if he
had momentarily lost his voice. His eyes, as he stared up at Sam,
were wide and unblinking.

"The bluest cornflower," said Sam as he held Frodo's gaze. 

It was a phrase he was fond of using to describe Frodo's eyes,
especially when, as they did then, they seemed to suddenly deepen
as Frodo looked at him.

"Hold me like this forever, Sam, " he said, softly.

"Forever, Frodo?"

"You know how I adore it when you make love to me so slowly and
I... you keep me there."

Here Frodo paused, looking at Sam almost shyly.

"You keep me there, consumed by your touch. You know, you
understand. It's like a visit to paradise for me. And when you have
me there you touch me so gently, you go so slowly. And then... and
then less gently.  It is special beyond words."

"Yes," replied Sam. "Yes, love, it is. I mean it's special to me,
as well, you know that, when you are feeling like this. The way you
surrender to me, that is a prize beyond measure. And I want to take
all the time in the world, Frodo. I want to caress every inch of
you, every beautiful inch of your body for as long as you can bear
me to."

"Do you remember when I... when we used to make love and I... I
would always spill my seed so quickly?"

Frodo's question came suddenly, quickly just as they often did. Sam
frowned. Yes, he remembered. Frodo, a little jumpy, sometimes a
little nervous but, beyond that, so obviously filled with desire
and longing and passion. Sam remembered. Sometimes he would barely
need to touch Frodo. Often Frodo would cling to him, shuddering,
then to kiss him, quiet solemn kisses. Sometimes Frodo would cry
gently, his tears as well as his seed wetting Sam's skin.

Then Sam would hold him close. It seemed to Sam that Frodo, perhaps
because he'd spent so long never having made love, that Frodo's
body was somehow compensating for that by making the experience so
intense for him. Frodo's climaxes would sweep him away, would
transport him and yet render him wholly visible to Sam, every
nuance of pleasure and emotion expressed so openly. Sam would
always hold him afterwards, quiet and suddenly still in his arms.

Sometimes Frodo would murmur a little, often he'd be silent for a
while, nestled as close to Sam as he could be.  Floating, as he'd
once described it, on waves of pleasure. Held floating and
incoherent with joy and with the nourishment of being loved.

Frodo still took that time of stillness after the pleasure tipped
through him but now it might be quite a while before that happened.
This was a point of both pride and joy to Sam, another small
triumph for him to savour, for both of them to relish.

Finally Sam replied.

"Yes, Frodo, I remember, love. Almost as soon as I touched you,
sometimes. You've always been so beautiful in your wanting me,
wanting this. So beautiful. I've known you such a long time and to
finally see you wanting and loving and being held and it's.... it's
with me, I mean.  Even when it just took you a few moments until...
even then you took my breath away. The beauty of you making love.
And of you without your clothes on, Frodo. It makes me tingle all
through just to think of you sometimes. And when you show me your
wanting of me, then... then I'm in paradise, too."

Frodo stared at him.

"Without my clothes on," he said, smiling just a little.

"Yes," stammered Sam. "Breathtakingly beautiful. Fine and graceful
and long limbed and pale as moonlight and you're... you're my
Frodo. My Fro, who I've loved, part of me has loved, since the day
I first learned that I was going travelling with you. I remember it
clearly, what with old Gandalf going on and on. And I realised what
he was getting at and I looked across at you and I just knew,
Frodo. I just knew. I thought that I'd rather die with you than
have to live without you. I just knew that I wanted to be near you,
more than anything else in the whole world."

"And now you'll stay near me."

"Yes. Now I'll stay very near to you, Frodo."

"And you'll, you're going to..."

"I'm going to take as long as I want, loving you. I'm going to hold
you down and touch you and let my fingers and my mouth trace all
over you. And I'm going to keep you here with me and love you and
stretch you out and touch you and look at you and be filled with
wonder at you and your beauty. Because I'm the luckiest hobbit that
ever lived and being with you now is all that I want, Frodo. It's
all I want, just to be near to you."

Sam, seeming suddenly moved by his own words, leaned down over
Frodo to suck on his left nipple once more and to let his fingers
rub the right one.

Frodo's moans filled the cave and he plunged his fingers into the
sand as he writhed under Sam's touch.

Sam let his tongue flick across Frodo's nipple for a while before
he began to suck a bit harder. He had learned this from Frodo.
Slowly, as Frodo's pleasure increased, so too did the intensity
that he craved from Sam's mouth. At first Sam would gently lick and
tease his chest, no more than a flicker. But later Sam would find
himself sucking hard on Frodo and rubbing his nipple with his
teeth. And often Frodo would spill over there and then and he would
cling to Sam and Sam would smile and kiss him and hold him tightly.

Sam did take his time in making love to Frodo. He kissed Frodo and
licked him. He nuzzled him, covering his chest in kisses. He left a
small red mark on the inside of one thigh where he had kissed and
sucked at the flesh there. Then, slowly, Sam turned Frodo over and
began kissing his back, licking and softly biting at his shoulder
before trailing his tongue down.

Frodo sighed and shuddered, digging his fingers into the sand once
more. Now Sam trailed his tongue further down to kiss and nip
Frodo's buttocks. Then Sam paused for a moment, watching him, his
hand resting on the beautiful, pale mound of Frodo's bottom.
Frodo's skin tasted salty from his swim and Sam remembered the
sight of him, naked and splashing in the foaming water.

Yes, Sam would do what he wanted to, suddenly felt as though there
might never be another moment as perfect as this.

Sam dipped to kiss his buttocks again, licking and gliding and
listening to Frodo's sighs. Then he drew the middle finger of his
right hand lightly down the cleft between them before he dipped his
head once more and began to kiss and lick Frodo's opening.

Frodo's body immediately went rigid and he groaned deeply. Sam
paused.

"It's lovely," was all Sam said before bending to probe with his
tongue again. 

Frodo groaned once more, writhing. And then his voice came to Sam,
high and loud.

"Sam! You... you..."

But he managed no more and silenced himself, biting on the sleeve
of his discarded shirt. Sam's kisses seemed to burn and melt him to
shoot a liquid fire through his body, warm and wet. Frodo could
only moan then, could not form any words in his mind as his stomach
flipped and his legs stretched rigid and the fire danced through
him.

Sam nuzzled at his opening, licked and probed and kissed him and
Frodo was lost to all thought, to all sensation other than Sam's
tongue, so unexpected, so delicious. 

Then, finally, Sam rolled him over again until Frodo was lying on
his back and staring up at him, his eyes wide and bright and beads
of sweat glistening on his brow. Then Sam bent once more to kiss
his chest, trailing down across his stomach to his hips.

Now Frodo was gasping, quick, small gasps, and tugging at Sam's
curls as Sam trailed a line with his mouth to at last caress his
hardness. Sam paused to look at him for a moment.

"Your penis is so beautiful, Fro," he said, his eyes liquid warm
with obvious delight. "And I'm going to take it in my mouth now and
I'm going to kiss it and lick it and suck it and I'm not going to
stop 'till I've drunk every drop of your sweet juices."

Here Sam paused to observe the effect of these words. Frodo's mouth
was slightly open, his cheeks vividly flushed. He was naked.
Beautiful and fair, he arched his hips up to Sam just a fraction
then. His chest, too, was damp from Sam's kisses. Sam was
satisfied. He could stay there forever, happily drowning in the
vision of beauty before him. In the love and adoration and pleasure
that he felt.

Frodo smiled at him. His voice then seemed barely a whisper as he
spoke, breathless at first.

"And... and after you've taken me in your mouth you'll enter me?"

Sam shuddered a little at his words. He did not speak. Instead he
nodded slowly and dipped his head and began to do exactly as he'd
told Frodo he would.

Sam adored making love to Frodo. Frodo seemed to slowly unfurl,
like a flower at dawn sometimes, to relish layer upon layer of
touch, of kisses and caresses, of opening. Sam had never before
witnessed such  delight in going slowly as Frodo took and it was  a
revelation to him.

Frodo could spend hours giving and receiving pleasure with no
thought for any end or climax. Frodo would sigh and shiver and lose
himself in their passion, surely as if it were some enchanted mist
wrapping around them to spirit them away from the Lonely Isle to
another realm entirely. A realm of the most delicious tenderness
and sensuality, lost to everything but the exquisite dance of
nerve-endings and the deep, abiding love which made that dance
possible.

Sam had never in his whole life seen anyone abandon themselves over
to joyous exhilaration like Frodo did sometimes. This was
definitely one of those times and Sam was filled with a deep
satisfaction as he felt Frodo quivering inside  his mouth. He began
to lick and suck the tip, flicking and probing the tiny slit there
with his tongue. Soon he would taste Frodo. He would suck deeply,
would take as much of Frodo's sweetness as he could into his mouth,
would reel with the intoxication of drinking from him. Then he
would hold Frodo before, he knew, Frodo would touch him, coax him,
writhing and spreading his legs for Sam to enter him. Frodo would
hold him, would tighten around him as Sam thrust deeper to finally
spill into him, the most precious and beautiful moment that ever
existed, anywhere.

Sam's thoughts then were interrupted by Frodo's cries and by his
sudden jolting in Sam's mouth. His juices seemed to taste of the
ocean, somehow, and Sam drank happily, lit inside to his core with
joy and love and reverence. Then he held still, cupping his mouth
around Frodo and holding the pulsing hardness until, almost
imperceptibly, it began to soften.

Sam thought that he could just cry and laugh and dance and sing,
all at the same time, for the joy that he felt. Carefully, he
released Frodo from his mouth and then wriggled up to face him and
to take him in his arms. Then Sam held him close as Frodo murmured
and clung to him, holding him tightly, almost fiercely.

Frodo's eyes were closed. He rocked against Sam and kissed his
chest, nibbling and sighing and thanking him, his voice still but a
whisper.

There was no need for any thanks, as Sam gently whispered back to
him as he bent to kiss Frodo's brow and then his dark curls. Sam's
heart was on fire with rapture as he held Frodo then and the sound
of the waves on the shore seemed, he realised, somehow louder, as
if the very ocean itself crashed heavier with the pleasure which
they shared.

Frodo slowly disengaged from Sam's arms to look into his eyes.

"Be inside me now, my sweet Sam. That was so much... so wonderful,
so special I ache for you now, I want to hold you tight, want to
hold you close inside me now, Sam, now, sweet Sam."

He said this last as one, long sentence of breathless words,
trailing but heartfelt, as he drew back his ankles to his knees and
spread his legs open. Then Frodo licked his hands and began to rub
Sam between his legs, guiding him at the same time. 

Sam leaned over him, dipping his hand to spread some more of his
own saliva on Frodo. He entered him gently, very slowly, letting
Frodo's hand guide him even when he felt Frodo relax and manage to
open to him with no more than a warm stretching feeling to endure.

They were united now. Curled against one another, rocking and
moaning their delight, sighing and murmuring their love.

Frodo's mind was filled with images of Sam, his nerves inside
jumping to every touch. Sam was gliding into him now, so sweetly
and smoothly, over and over again. Frodo clenched around him on
every stroke, each pulse taking him deeper and deeper. His legs
were rigid with pleasure, tingling down through his thighs. His
hands were  clasped tightly again above his head. All he could see
was Sam, looming above him. He was aware that he could hear the
faint twilight calls of the seals out on the shore. But this
pleasure, this pleasure, surely there had never, since time began,
there had never existed such a deep, pulsing pleasure before? He
was filled, consumed, rocking deeper and deeper, held by Sam.
Consumed and blessed by Sam deeper and deeper on each stroke until
finally, as all crashed about him and within him, Frodo felt Sam's
seed spill, pulsing hot inside him. He murmured Sam's name then and
collapsed, tingling, to be held close and to hold his lover. Each
spent; each engulfed in the warm drowsiness of fulfilment.

And so they slept there in each other's arms. Though they had not
planned it, the two hobbits slept the deep, long sleep that such
lovemaking often brings to those who remain entwined.

By the time that Frodo finally stirred the moon was no longer
visible from inside the cave. But the waves were. Foaming,
relentless, crashing through the entrance. 

The floor of the cave sloped gently downwards toward the entrance
and Frodo realised instantly that they were cut off. Realised, as
he unconsciously gripped Sam's arm, that they were both in great
danger. 

Sam stirred beside him and opened his eyes. He gave Frodo a look of
wild terror before scrabbling to his feet. The sea was rising fast
now and would soon cover the entire floor of the little cave.

"We're going to drown! We're going to drown! Frodo, there's no way
out! I can't and... and there's no way out!"

Frodo had to yell sharply now to be heard above the horrible
gurglings and swishings of the rising water.

"Sam! Sam, no! I won't let you drown, I won't let you. Trust me
now, you have to trust me" Frodo took both Sam's hands in his,
squeezing hard. "You have to trust me and try and be calm. You have
to let me do this, Sam."

Even as he was speaking Frodo was weighing their chances. Slim,
perhaps, but each moment's delay worsened their odds. They had but
one chance and they both knew it.

Frodo went to the picnic basket at the back of the cave and
returned with the length of Elven rope, which Sam had wrapped
around their rolled blankets. It was longer than needed but Sam
would never cut such a good rope, merely wrapping it round and
round and tying it well. Frodo knew this and had been counting on
it. So far, so good.

Swiftly he tied one end of the rope around Sam's chest, under his
arms. It was then, as Frodo was tying the other end round his own
waist, that Sam finally understood his intention.

"No! No, Frodo, we can't. I'll drown you. I'll pull you down with
me, Frodo, no! You must go." Sam began to pull the rope from
Frodo's hands. "You must leave me and swim for it, now, Fro. It's
your only chance!"

Tears stung at Frodo's eyes, but still he held tightly to the rope.

"We don't have time for this, Sam! I'm not leaving you. If you die
here then I'm going to die with you, together in the sea. I'm not
being left alive again. I'm not leaving you. You can't ask me that
and you know it."

Sam said nothing. He simply stared at Frodo and nodded slightly,
though he was shaking violently as he did so. 

Frodo finished tying the rope. As he did so his mind was filled
with tumbling images of his mother, of her smile, her laugh. Of
Drogo too, and of that little green river far away in the Shire.
The river where his parents had drowned together, one night long
ago, very probably trying to save one another even as the water
took them. Was the same doom now upon him and Sam? Had this always
been his fate, ever since his parents had gone out on the
Brandywine when he was twelve years old?

Frodo's fingers shook as he finished tying the double knot. No more
memories, no more time. Just the two of them and the black water
rising quickly in seemingly ever bigger waves crashing in through
the mouth of the cave.

Frodo tried to sound calm

"We must swim for it now, Sam, or the tide will be too strong. It
can't be far. This will be the hardest part, I think, clearing the
cave. You have to trust me and try for me, Sam," here he swallowed.
"Now, love. We have to go now."

Sam froze. He knew that he must trust Frodo. He knew it was his
only chance, to push their bodies against the incoming tide. He had
even successfully floated in the shallows before on balmy summer
days.

Bur this, this was more than he could face.

"Sam!"

Frodo's call was a scream, the only sound then that would have made
Sam take those steps and follow him into the water which was
rushing towards them. 

Sam panicked before they were out of their depth, just as a huge
wave swept them both with it. With one scream he felt the water
slam over his head and pour into his lungs, burning him from
within. Frodo felt the rope tugging, dragging him backwards as both
hobbits were flung back towards the rocks. The water was churning
around them and Frodo could not see Sam. The rope held fast though
and he pulled hard on it. Suddenly the water broke over his head
again. And then, after a few seconds that seemed hours, Sam
surfaced too, immediately to vomit up seawater and to flail his
arms around wildly in the water.

It was hopeless. Frodo had no choice, he knew, but to undo the rope
and swim on alone, or to drown there and then with Sam. No choice
at all then. Was this the decision that his father had been faced
with in his final moments? Though both his parents could swim,
Primula had always been the weaker. Had Drogo felt this calm sense
of reasoning? Tried to speak to his love one last time with his
dying breath?

Frodo swam, as best he could, back towards Sam, who had taken
several more gulps of seawater and was now sobbing and retching at
the same time.

Finally Frodo reached him and somehow found his hands.

"You must go," sobbed Sam. "I can't Frodo, I can't. I'm..."

But here another wave crashed over them as Sam kicked and flailed.

No choice at all then.

"I love you Sam," called Frodo above the roar of the churning
water. "I'll always love you. Sam! You can do this for me! You must
do this for me. Still now, be still and hold my hand. Just be
still, that's it. I've got you."

Frodo stopped speaking and pulled Sam towards him.

"I've got you, I promise. Sam, if you trust me... if you do as I
say... look into my eyes, Sam. Don't you look anywhere else, not at
the waves, just look at me. I promise if you do as I say we can get
through this. I promise you. I give my word. I won't let it end
like this, Sam, I promise."

Frodo realised that he was repeating himself but he also realised
that, as long as he kept speaking, Sam kept staring at him, almost
hypnotised by his voice.

"I know we can make it, Sam. We'll soon see the shore, but we have
to go now. You must kick with your legs a bit, like I showed you
last week. I've got you, I've got you. I can get us there if you'll
trust me. Sam, look at me. Just keep looking at me and breathe with
me. Breathe slower with me and try and stretch out. Let me take you
home, let me."

Finally Sam spoke, his voice hoarse and dry.

"Well, if I die there's nothing else I'd rather see than you, Fro.
There's..."

But another swirling wave broke over them against the back of the
cave and Sam said no more.

Somehow, miraculously, when they surfaced again they had been
thrown towards the mouth of the cave. Another miracle, the rope
still held.

Frodo turned. He was exhausted already but he began to swim slowly,
doggedly, out of the cave, dragging Sam with him, keeping him as
close as he could.

No choice at all, then.

Frodo swam on his back as much as he could. Painfully slowly but it
was the only way to keep Sam focusing on him and thus, if not to
calm him, at least to stop him thrashing around so much.

Somehow they emerged from the mouth of the cave like that, though
twice Sam found himself slammed back into the rocks. Finally Frodo
turned to see the shoreline, a lifetime away, a low silhouette of
cliffs blacking out the stars. He doubted that they would ever
reach it.

Frodo thought of many things as he swam. Their home, their animals,
the crops. The cold, it was so cold. He turned onto his back again
and pulled Sam, pale as frost, towards him once more.

"I won't let you go, I won't, love. Think of our home, our bed. Our
lovely warm bed, Sam. Let yourself float on the sea as if it's our
bed. Pretend, for me, Sam. Just let yourself float and I can get us
back there, back home. Trust me. I'm kissing you, I'm holding you
and the sea is holding us. Let yourself stretch out under my touch.
I want you to. Please? For me? For me, Sam, you must. That's it,
try and stretch your legs behind you and keep your head up, that's
it."

Somehow Sam did lie on his front then, keeping his head just clear
of the water. Somehow he managed to kick his feet out behind
himself and even to push with his arms, all the while encouraged by
Frodo.

And so the hobbits swam for their lives and, though the water and
the winds raged around them, Frodo briefly allowed himself the
smallest glimmer of hope.

And Sam? Sam knew nothing of their progress. Cared nothing for it.
Sam knew nothing but fear. Endless, gnawing, exhausting fear. It
was not fear of death itself that he felt but the instinctive fear
of water, which he'd had all his life. It was as if everything, all
those other times that he'd swallowed his fears, had been leading
to this moment. To this cold, empty, fear. He did not really
understand Frodo's words but he did his best to do what was wanted.
He would watch Frodo and he would keep watching him so that when he
finally died Frodo's beautiful face would be the last thing that he
would ever see.

At least they would die together. Frodo would not leave him, would
not, in the end, go where he could not follow. Back in that awful
tunnel long ago Sam had wanted for nothing more, when he'd believed
Frodo to be dead, than to die beside him. He had held Frodo close
as Shelob's poison chilled his lifeless body. Frodo's apparent
death had bought ever-lasting pain and despair to his world and his
only desire had been to leave Middle-earth forever with him. Now,
finally, they would die together. Only a matter of timing, really,
This was to be the end of their story then, of the love-story that
had consumed Sam for so long.

Sam understood, dimly, that Frodo was choosing now to fight the
inevitable, even to his last breath. Dear Frodo. Typical, really,
to anyone who knew him. He would not give up, not ever. His wide
eyes would flare with a mixture of anger and determination. No, he
would not give up. 

Sam found Frodo's voice almost lulling him even now, as Frodo
called to him across the pounding waves. In truth the younger
hobbit was now so exhausted with fear and panic that he might have
found thunder and lightening hypnotic. As it was he listened to
Frodo's voice and he stared up at the stars and Sam Gamgee prepared
for his own death, there amongst the waves, with the winds
whistling above him and the countless stars beyond seeming now
frozen, cold and un-blinking.

'As if the stars are crying for us,' thought Sam, vaguely. 'As if
everything has stopped to let the stars cry for us already.'

Sam's thoughts began to drift then, as his mind finally began to
succumb to its fate. Frodo's voice seemed far away and infrequent
as if he were calling him on towards some far distant shore, never
before walked by either of them. The white sands would feel warm
against their cold-numbed feet and they'd walk together hand in
hand. They were walking there now and watching the sun, rising
swiftly into a perfect clear blue sky. It was so quiet and
beautiful that they would walk forever.  Forever and ever and ever.

But Sam slipped away then, listening for Frodo's voice above the
waves to the last, before his eyes closed and he saw and thought no
more.


PART FOUR

The light began to hurt his eyes. Why was it getting brighter? Ah,
it must be Frodo, come back to take him...

"Where?" asked Sam, before suddenly coughing and clutching at his
neck.

"You're in Galdor's house," replied Frodo. "It's alright, Sam, I'm
here. You've been unconscious but it's alright now."

Sam blinked. Frodo loomed above him, his hand resting gently on
Sam's shoulder. Frodo's eyes were shining and his voice shook a
little. 

"You passed out in the sea last night, love. It's... it took a
while for you to come back to us. But you're here now, you're
safe."

Frodo swallowed slowly and was still then but for a small shudder.

"We... we were walking somewhere..." said Sam.

The words seemed forced through his lips, sounded harsh and thin.
Of course, his voice, all that screaming.

"We were walking but we slept, in that little cave, remember? Then
the sea came in and we were cut off...."

Sam tried to sit up at this, suddenly wide-eyed.

"No, it's alright, love. Try and stay calm, Sam. You've had a
shock. You've been unconscious all night and it is past noon now.
You must rest. I am here. Galdor has been here; he is in the
kitchen. He found us, on the beach. I had passed out, too, by then.
When we did not return he brought the ponies and tracked us and
found us both lying by the tidemark."

Sam's mind began to clear, only to fill with ghastly memories. He
tried to focus on Frodo and noticed that his cheek was cut.

"You're hurt, Frodo, I'll..."

"Stay still, I'm alright. Quiet down now and rest, love. I'll stay
beside you. Sam..." Frodo hesitated, biting his lip, his stare
grave. "Your ankle is broken, a bad break, Galdor says. He bound it
and set it while you were unconscious. You need to lie still.
You're in the best place here. But still, now Sam."

Frodo slipped from the bed and returned, before Sam could protest,
with a small copper pitcher and matching cup. He  poured a drink
for Sam and helped him to sit up against the pillows. 

"It's all over now," said Frodo, softly, as Sam drank a cool, clear
draft which tasted somewhere between spring water and weak cider.
"It's over and we are safe, Sam, I promise you. Our prayers were
answered, yours and mine. Our prayers were heard out there."

It was true then. They had survived. Later, much later, Sam tried
to explain to Frodo, about the white beach and the pale, beautiful
sun, rising swiftly through the mists as if dawn itself were
rushing to meet them. Frodo stared at him intently as he spoke,
nodding but once. Then, moving slowly but surprising Sam still, he
leaned to kiss him, brushing his lips briefly to Sam's.

"One day, my Sam, one day," was all that he said. 

Finally Sam drifted into a deep sleep, aided by the painkilling
decoctions that Galdor had given him. The Elf had also bound his
body with bandages and herbs for the two broken ribs which he'd
suffered. Throughout all this Frodo never left his side. Sam
writhed badly, even though he was only sometimes half conscious,
when Galdor had set his ankle. He did not find the bandages being
wrapped tightly around his chest and ribcage much easier to bear.
But eventually he was made comfortable enough to sleep and it was
only then, after much persuasion by Galdor, that Frodo finally went
to lie on the small couch in their room.

But sleep was not so kind to Frodo that night. In his dreams he
could not breathe. He was trapped, hurt, defenceless again. In his
dreams it was real. It was always so real.

The room was quiet, dark. Sam was snoring peacefully beside him.
Blinking awake, struggling and then... and then silence. He was
here, in Galdor's home on Tol Eressëa. The sea.... Sam's injury...
he was here, safe. Yet his heart pounded and his throat was dry as
dust. Had he stopped breathing then, in his sleep, just as he had
so long ago when they'd had their 'fun'?  He had dreamed of the
sea, of swallowing water, of choking and then, inevitably,
horribly, he had dreamed of his torture years ago.

He would not risk waking Sam. But Frodo could not lie there, heart
thumping, either. He got up and slipped silently, or so he thought,
from their room and into the kitchen. There to sit quietly at the
table and, once again, to calm himself.

Galdor had woken the moment that Frodo did. When Galdor opened the
kitchen door the hobbit visibly jumped and then stared at him, his
fear quite apparent even lit as he was by no more than moonlight
streaming through the window. Galdor crossed the room to sit beside
him.

"You had a nightmare," said the Elf, quietly.

Frodo nodded and cast his gaze down to study his hands, carefully
folded on the table in front of him. When he spoke his voice
wavered but a little.

"It is nothing. I am alright now."

"It is not your custom to be in the least dishonest, Frodo. Why
start now?"

There was no reproach in Galdor's voice, nothing but the same calm
affection with which he always addressed the hobbits.

Frodo felt his eyes mist and a lump rise in his throat. He looked
up at Galdor.

"I'm sorry..." he began, but the Elf interrupted him.

"Do not be, " he said, gently. "You owe me nothing. But I am your
friend and I would help you if I could, even if it be no more than
to listen to you."

Galdor placed one of his hands briefly on Frodo's, so small and
delicate beneath his, and he felt Frodo trembling.

"You thought that you were going to die. You are not weak. You
faced death, last night, and you fought it bravely. Just as you did
years ago, in Middle-earth. You protected Sam last night, just as
you did on the quest..."

"But I didn't..."

"Yes you did. I saw you both back then, in Rivendell, remember? You
wanted only to fulfil your obligations, as you saw it, and to
protect your friends. You even tried to leave the others behind,
later, and to journey on into Mordor alone. It seems to me, Frodo,
that you constantly tried to protect Sam from all peril back then
and that you succeeded. All of your decisions, from the moment that
the Ring became your burden, even back in Hobbiton, all were made
to protect those you loved, in the only ways available to you.
Sometimes physical strength is a poor shield when compared with
love and honour."

"Your words are too kind," said Frodo. "I did what anyone would
have done. Sam would have died for me. Pippin and Merry risked
their lives for me. Your words..."

"Are true, nonetheless," interrupted the Elf. "Tonight you dreamt
both of floundering in the sea and of being held under water when
you were captive, did you not?"

Frodo stared at him, dumbfounded. He managed to nod. 

"I know that you have these dreams but rarely now. You have been
through a great trial, Frodo and, once again, you have saved your
friend's life. Tell me, then, why do you feel shame that you wake
with night-terrors?"

"It was a long time ago and I should be over it by now. Galdor, I
would not inflict it on anyone but I have done, all the same. Last
night Sam and I nearly drowned. Surely it is time that I forgot the
past and remained just grateful to be alive?"

Here Frodo bit his lip and then remained silent. The Elf watched
him for a long time as Frodo sat frowning into the gloom. Finally
Galdor spoke.

"When you are next in the woods, Frodo, take some time to really
look at the trees surrounding you. Trees are like all other living
things. Each has its own story, each bears its own wounds, or even,
very rarely, no wounds at all. But each is marked, in some way, by
the long passing of the years. Each tree grows according to the
circumstances in which it finds itself. 

Consider that little rowan tree by the path down to this house. It
has grown bending in one direction, long blown like that by the
sea-winds. Or think on the marks on trees where they have lost
branches and the sap has healed them and left a warm space where an
owl may nest. Frodo, even a tree which seems to be dead may still
provide a home and a foundation for other life. Each is unique,
each survives and thrives to the benefit of all. But none, from the
slightest to the mightiest, none berate themselves for the marks
that they bear. The Galadhrim are named for the trees which they
honour, remember? A time will come when you are not troubled
anymore by what happened, I promise you. You are healing, Frodo,
truly. But it sometimes takes a long time, even here. And part of
that healing is in learning to accept yourself."

Frodo was touched by his words. He suddenly felt exhausted. He had
not escaped their battering in the ocean unscathed and he bore both
cuts and bruises from the same rocks which had injured Sam.

As if reading his thoughts Galdor took his hand again.

"You need to rest, Frodo. I shall make a tea of chamomile and
valerian for you and you can let yourself fall into a deep sleep.
It is over, it is done. You saved his life, Frodo. You do
understand that, don't you?"

"I should not have let us fall asleep there. I... I thought that we
were both going to drown. I lied to him, told him that I knew we'd
make it but... but it was lies. I knew that he would not doubt me,
that he would do whatever I told him to, in the end, no matter
what. And he did, bless him, he kept trying. But I lied to him out
there. I don't know what made me do it. I thought that we were
surely lost to the sea."

"You are made of sterner stuff than you know, Frodo. I should not
fear, were you at my side in some calamity, though I know you
cannot believe that. You have a spirit about you that I first saw
many, many years ago. It is more than courage, bravery. Even in
your terror and horror at the evil times in which you found
yourself you shone with it. It is as I spoke of earlier, it is your
love for those close to you that drives you even in times of great
peril. Your love for Sam would not allow you to give up trying to
save him. It seems to me that, like us, you love all that is good
and fair in the world and would save it, if you could. Even if that
meant that you must tell lies, Frodo, even then."

With that the Elf got up and lit lamps and brewed a strong-tasting
tea for Frodo before accompanying him back to lie on the couch.
Both moved silently enough not to disturb Sam. Galdor found more
blankets for Frodo and tucked them round him. Then he leaned to him
and kissed his brow.

"Goodnight, my dear Frodo. May your dreams now be peaceful and
blessed," he whispered softly, and was gone.

The days which followed were spent in resting and eating and
beginning to recover from their ordeal. Frodo insisted on tending
to Sam himself, whether it be washing him or changing his sheets or
taking his meals to him or just reading quietly to him as he
drifted in and out of sleep. 

Sam's lungs needed rest and quiet to heal from the invasion of sea
water and both hobbits knew sleep to be a powerful healer. Frodo
considered reading Sam to sleep to be a small triumph over his
pain, aided as always by  Galdor's medicines and salves.

Frodo found that the Elf sought him out when Sam was sleeping in
the evenings. Galdor would bring Frodo a mug of steaming and
fragrant tea and the two would sit and talk quietly as they watched
the fire.

Frodo found himself talking of many things. Somehow Galdor seemed
to say, or to not say, just enough to encourage Frodo to speak his
mind unguardedly. Frodo spoke of the past and of the ways that it
sometimes still troubled him. Galdor seemed to understand and,
unexpectedly, even to be able to suggest things that might help.
And in those days by the sea, having once again escaped death
together, Frodo and Sam both found healing, each according to their
need.

It was Sam who soon became desperate to return to their own home by
the woods. Galdor fashioned a pair of crutches for him from beech
wood, light but strong, which enabled Sam to hobble a little
without leaning on Frodo. 

Once Frodo understood that his cherished Samwise was homesick he
persuaded Galdor to take them, though the Elf advised against it.
He was concerned that Frodo needed to recover rather than to be
solely responsible for Sam. But Frodo would not relent, insisting
that he had plenty of help available to him at home, should he need
it. 

So it was that the hobbits finally found themselves in their own
home again, much to Sam's obvious delight. The trauma of their
ordeal at sea had shaken him to the core, leaving him feeling
fragile in every sense. 

Galdor had sent word ahead and the hobbits' home had been made
ready for them. The fires were lit and store cupboards stocked.
There was fresh stew on the stove and four large pies, wrapped in
waxed paper, were laid out on a marble slab in the pantry. Frodo
and Sam's bed had been made and turned down, all ready for Sam to
sit propped up on pillows, and to sigh, looking really reassured
for the first time in days.

Frodo smiled to see that. He had made the right decision then. Sam,
as he had been all his life, really was much happier and more at
ease in his own home. Hobbits were a  home-loving folk, after all,
not given to wandering far, as a rule. But, when they did wander,
even far, far away from their beloved homes, they had a great
capacity to settle and to love a land and to make it their own.

These walls, this hearth, the fields and woods around them, all
these were a sanctuary and a private haven for Frodo and Sam and
would remain so to the end of their days.

That night found Sam, tucked up in their own familiar bed, watching
Frodo as he went about the nightime ritual of closing the shutters
and putting out the lamps. Watching Frodo, Sam finally began to
relax. Frodo's white nightshirt seemed to shimmer as he walked and
the weave was so fine that it was almost transparent in the light.
It was a warm night. A beautiful summer's night which neither had
been sure that they would see. For the first time since their
ordeal they were home and at peace.

Finally Frodo finished his tasks and stood at the foot of their bed
and he paused, seemed to be watching Sam.

"How is your ankle now?" he asked. "Would you like any more
pillows?"

It took Sam a while to muster a reply to this. He felt almost
bewitched, he realised, by the outline of Frodo's body through his
nightshirt.

"No, it's fine. I mean you... you look so beautiful, standing
there, Frodo."

Frodo's smile lit up his whole face, suddenly carefree and radiant.
He made no reply. He seemed, once again, to study Sam intently for
a long moment. Then he walked to the side of the bed and, leaving
the lamp on the bedside table, he knelt on the bed beside Sam.

"Thank you," said Frodo, and it took Sam a moment to work out what
he was being thanked for.

"Oh," he replied, blushing suddenly.

Frodo smiled again.

"Are you warm enough, Sam?" he asked.

But before Sam could reply Frodo began to peel back the sheet and
eiderdown just far enough to let him undo a button on Sam's
nightshirt and to kiss the exposed skin there. 

"Yes... yes, I am," came Sam's reply, finally.

And Frodo knew exactly what he meant.

"My dear, dear Sam," he said. "Lie still."

Then he pulled the covers farther down and carefully undid Sam's
nightshirt, pulling the material back to reveal his battered body.
With infinite care Frodo kissed his tummy before kneeling up and
taking his hand and kissing each finger, licking them and sucking
the tips.

Sam gasped. Frodo seemed surrounded by a golden light which
rendered his eyes the deepest blue that Sam had ever seen them, he
was sure. He knelt beside Sam, looking at him, kissing his hand,
murmuring his name. Then he dipped his head and began to make love
to Sam with his mouth, licking and kissing the sweet hardness
between Sam's legs and sighing to himself, quietly, as he felt Sam
shudder.

The room was quiet then. Frodo was intent on him, licking slowly up
and down his length, flicking his tongue across the tip, lapping at
him. Then sucking at him deeply before leaning across him,
carefully supporting his own weight, to angle his head so that he
could dip down and take Sam more fully into his mouth and throat
than he ever had done before.

This he began to do, holding tightly with his lips and moving up
and down slowly. Sam had never quite felt anything like this in his
life. He lay utterly still, making occasional little gasping
sounds, as Frodo began to move slightly faster.

Then Sam called his name softly and Frodo paused for a brief moment
and he felt Sam shudder, close already. Frodo knew, at that moment,
that all he wanted, more than anything, was to hold all of Sam in
his mouth. Somehow, the thought bought him a sense of utter joy.

Frodo was both light and delicate in his movements, kneeling over
Sam on the bed. Sam watched him then, nimble, beautiful, still with
the grace of a young sapling. But that was the last of Sam's
thoughts. He closed his eyes and let his head rest on the pillows
and, clenching his hands, he knew nothing more but Frodo's mouth
and Frodo's love and there was nothing else that he would ever need
to know, nothing at all.

As Frodo swallowed his juices, still swirling his tongue over Sam
as he did so, Sam's entire body went rigid and he moaned Frodo's
name once, long and low. Then he was silent and spent and, almost
before he knew it, Frodo finished his caresses and released Sam
from his mouth. Then he swiftly drew the covers over Sam again and
sat up against the pillows next to him, resting his hand on Sam's
shoulder.

Sam lay utterly still.

"Beautiful, Frodo," he murmured. "Beautiful."

Frodo smiled to himself.

"Sleep now, love," he said, softly. "Sleep well, my Sam."

But, after a little while, Sam became restless and Frodo got up to
brew some of the herbs which Galdor had left for him.

As he sat up, drinking the sweet tasting tea, a thought suddenly
struck Sam.

"Tell me what happened, Frodo. Tell me what happened out there in
the sea after I passed out. You have not spoken of it once. Tell
me, love."

Frodo sat next to him. For a long moment he did not speak. He held
himself still, his face seemed suddenly careworn and tired. 

"I thought that you were dead," he said, blinking. "I thought that
you must be dead, I kept trying to hear you breathe. Then all I
could do was try and swim. I could not let go of you, not ever;
dead or not, Sam."

"It must have been lonely out there."

"I was frightened, yes. But I'm not sure about lonely. To tell you
the truth everything seemed quite bright and close by, if you
understand me. As if all the most important times in my life were
suddenly vivid and fresh in my mind. I thought of my mother and
father and it was almost as if they were there, somehow, with me. I
thought of Gandalf and Aragorn and I thought of Boromir."

This last elicited a soft snort from Sam as he sipped his tea.
Boromir's attempt on the Ring had left Sam more than a little
unforgiving.

Frodo sighed.

"He died for us. For the quest, anyway. And I think now that seeing
him, seeing what the Ring made him become, I think that was what
made me try and leave you all behind."

Another 'humph' from Sam. He had found it hard enough to forgive
Frodo for that as it was. 

But Frodo persisted.

"He was brave, Sam. That night, out there, I hoped I might be. I
struggled and I swam and finally we made it to the shore. Then I
tried to rouse you, realised that you were breathing. Somehow I
crawled and dragged us up the beach, past the high-tide line where
all the seaweed is. That was hard, getting from the water. By the
time we got there I was incapable of anything else. I tried to warm
you, to hold you close. I put my shirt over your shoulders and then
I must have passed out."

Frodo was suddenly still and quiet and a deep sadness seemed to
settle on him for a moment. Then he looked up at Sam.

"If the Ring had done that to him then I realised that it would
only be a matter of time before... before... anyway I was not
thinking about that amongst the waves. Just that... just that, in
the end, Boromir died, bravely, fighting to the last. And that, if
I could do the same in some small way, if I could not give up, when
it came to it, if I could die fighting to the end, maybe I'd be
worthy of his... of what he... of it all, somehow. Maybe, even if
we aren't noble in life, sometimes, a noble death can bind us to
those who have gone before, who have led the way. And they are all
there. My mother and father, Merry, Pippin, the others... but
Boromir was the only one, of the Fellowship to..."

"The only one to have it worse than you," finished Sam.

"I... I just had to keep trying, anyway," replied Frodo, sighing,
and he snuggled down under the covers then while Sam finished his
tea.

The weeks passed and Frodo nursed Sam back to full health. Indeed
Sam was shocked at how easily Frodo seemed to take on the running
of their little farm as well as caring for him. Frodo politely
refused the help which was offered by Lindir and Orophin amongst
others,  insisting that he was quite capable, that he enjoyed the
work, that he needed no help. As the weeks passed by Sam had to
accept that this was evidently true.

Frodo collected and chopped wood. He cooked, cleaned, weeded the
onions, even scythed a small field of summer barley, albeit a bit
at a time. He very much enjoyed milking the cows, soon becoming
swift and sure at it, his hands not strained at all. He would talk
to the cows softly as he milked them, often arriving home after the
evening milking quite late, just as dusk gathered, carrying large
copper pails full of frothing milk.

Sam could only lie and watch. His lungs had been damaged, his ankle
was mending slowly and his ribs still ached. Despite the dust of
Lorien, gift of Galadriel the fair, Sam's body was not as strong as
it had been. Neither would Frodo countenance him trying to attempt
any chores other than peeling vegetables in a bowl at the table.

Frodo was there, too, at night for Sam whenever he suffered from
all too frequent nightmares. The terrors were always the same.
Always the sea. Frodo would hold him, soothe him, stroke his brow
until sleep took him again. Often, then, Sam would only find calm
and rest once more after assuring both himself and Frodo that they
need never, ever set foot in the ocean, ever again.

The summer slowly turned to autumn and, once again, the days drew
to Frodo and Bilbo's birthday. The day found Frodo and Bilbo and
Sam each more than usually grateful and reflective and filled with
a sense of celebration.

After the usual festivities, including an especially sumptuous
picnic and a breathtaking display of shimmering kites in the
evening light, the party settled in the great hall where candles
were lit and yet more food and drink spread out.

Such tales were told and songs sung that night. All the Elves ever
seen by Frodo and Sam on Tol Eressëa seemed to have gathered in the
hall. The hobbits were surrounded by warmth and love and beautiful
timelessness, as only the company of Elves can provide.

Frodo wore a jacket of rich dark brown velvet over a pale cream
silken shirt whilst Bilbo's deep green waistcoat was richly
embroidered with golden thread. The Elves, as always, had been
generous with their gifts.

Sam wore plainer clothes that night. But his heart was content
beyond measure to celebrate Frodo and Bilbo's birthday once again.
Frodo had given him a new walking stick with his name carved on it.
He had stayed close to Frodo all day, even at the beach, paddling
gingerly with him in the shallows. His own beautiful Frodo, who
seemed to get younger as the years passed by. Sam had consumed a
fair amount of ale that day and he leaned to Frodo as he sat next
to him and kissed his ear then, dragging his tongue slowly towards
the tip.

Frodo shivered in delight and slipped his arm round Sam's waist.
The couch that they shared was low and soft, just the right size
for the two of them, and they were bathed in gentle shadows cast by
candlelight. 

"Later," Sam whispered in between soft flicks with his tongue.
"Later, my Frodo."

Frodo shivered again at these words.

"Mmm... later, love," he murmured happily.

Just then a hush fell as Bilbo made his way to the slightly raised
platform in the middle of the hall. Once there he paused and
cleared his throat. Frodo and Sam smiled at each other. It was
clear that Bilbo was, in typical hobbit fashion, going to take
advantage of the fact that it was his birthday to make a speech.

"My dear friends," he began, his voice now rich and strong. "Today
is my birthday, as you know.  And I am extremely old indeed! Old
and yet young, as one gets here, so it seems. Younger, I think,
from spending the years amongst such wonderful and generous hosts."

Here Bilbo paused to sip from the glass he'd taken with him. Sam
sat back contentedly, holding Frodo's hand. Frodo snuggled close to
him. Bilbo's speeches could sometimes take a while, once he'd got
started. Bilbo continued, obviously savouring the moment. 

"Yes, I must admit that never, in my wildest dreams when I was
younger,  did I ever think that I might end my days here, in such a
wondrous and special place. Who would have thought it, eh? But this
summer, as you all know, this summer things nearly turned out very
differently for my two fellow hobbits."

Another pause and a low cough before Bilbo continued.

"Anyway, and to mark this special occasion, I have written a poem
for Frodo and Sam. It's called The Tale Of Iorhael And Perhael and
I ask your indulgence to recite it to you now."

Bilbo coughed again, clearing his throat. Then he smiled and began.

"The leaves were gold, the sky was grey,
The elderberries ripe and dark,
When resolute one autumn day
The brave companions did depart.

They left their home and all they loved,
To walk a perilous road together.
Each with the other he held dear,
In friendship wrought to last forever.

Through valley foul and forest fair
He bore the burden, dark and cold.
Through storm and snow, from deadly foe
To destroy an evil forged of old.

And each day that his torment grew
So did their friendship still endure;
A shelter and a strength to them,
To stay the shadows drawing near.

Then goodness triumphed finally,
Though bitter price be paid.
For Iorhael would find no rest
In the land he'd helped to save. 

Thus by the years and ocean wide,
The friends were sundered, east to west.
Iorhael in beauty to reside,
Evermore the Elven-blessed.

Years passed then 'til starlit foam
Bore his love to him across the sea.
No more in loneliness to roam,
Reunited, as was meant to be.

And so at last betrothed and true,
They wander autumn woods together.
The leaves are gold, the berries ripe,
And Iorhael's quest is over."

The hall was silent for a long moment as Bilbo stood still, smiling
again at Frodo and Sam. 

"So," he said, "I invite you, one and all, to raise your glasses to
Frodo and Sam. On my birthday, I have to say, there is nothing I
could want more than to see them both safe and well here." Here
Bilbo paused and chuckled. "Or who else would there be to indulge
an old hobbit when he rants about his exciting past, eh? To Frodo
and Sam!"

As one the assembled host raised their glasses and drank to the two
hobbits. Then Bilbo left the little platform to join them. Frodo
went to him, flinging his arms around him and holding him close.

"That was so beautiful. Thank you, Bilbo. thank you with all my
heart," he whispered.

"You're welcome, my lad, you know that," Bilbo replied. 

They stood motionless together for a moment before Bilbo finally
broke their embrace.

"Well now, the day has worn me out! I'm in need of refreshment, I
do believe."

Sam was there immediately, ushering Bilbo to his seat before
serving him some more birthday cake and a generous glass of cider.
Bilbo's speech had left Sam feeling both honoured and deeply
touched. 

Frodo, meanwhile, made his own way to the platform in the middle of
the hall. One good speech deserves  another, as Bilbo was often
fond of saying on such occasions.

"My dear friends," he began. "I'm afraid that I do not have the
eloquence to begin to do justice to my uncle Bilbo's magnificent
poem. All that I can hope to say is that I shall treasure it
always, of course, and that I am privileged beyond words to receive
such a gift. We both are."

Here Frodo paused and his gaze settled on Sam and Bilbo, who were
sitting next to each other sharing a plate with two large pieces of
cake on it. Frodo smiled.

"Some of you know that my uncle recorded his memoirs in a book
which he called There And Back Again. I recorded my own part in the
tale in that book as well. I used to think about that title...
There And Back Again, as I was writing and pondering all that had
happened. I used to think that title would not be right for my own
adventures because... because I never really did get back, not
properly. I could not make my home again, it was as if I had
travelled too far. Or been wounded too badly, so I feared believed
then, to ever feel at home anywhere again.

Now I know that there are many ways to rebuild a life. That,
finally, those shattered fragments which I thought could never be
whole again... well, I find here that they can be. And, even though
I have forever left the Shire, the only place that I thought to be
my home, I know that here, on this Isle, I finally am back again,
just like the title  of Bilbo's book. So I just wanted to say that,
were the book not resting somewhere far away across the waters, I
would add a postscript, knowing what I know now. I would take my
pen and write it, on my birthday, and I'd date it with today's date
and I'd leave a small record that it is not only broken swords
which can be forged anew."

Here Frodo paused, feeling his throat tighten suddenly and his eyes
begin to mist.

"Thank you, for that, all of you. Thank you for bringing me home."

Later, much later, when the moon had set and the hall was quiet,
Frodo and Sam made their way back along the lane to their little
home. The night was warm and grey and soft starlight settled like a
shroud over the land. It was turning out to be a particularly
beautiful autumn, as if the summer were still lingering all around
them.

The night was still and warm, despite it being late September. The
hobbits walked home slowly, amiably, hand in hand.

It was Frodo who led Sam from the path and through the trees, which
loomed at them, each a different grey. Soon they arrived, to stoop
under the branches of yew trees and to lie together beneath them. 

Frodo loved this place. As soon as Sam lay down beside him Frodo
began to undo his shirt, fingers flying, taking pride, it seemed,
in the swiftness with which he could pull Sam's shirt open.

As soon as Frodo began to stroke his body, Sam's own hands went to
the buttons of Frodo's shirt, pulling the white cloth across his
skin to reveal his chest, rising and falling softly with Frodo's
quickened breathing.

Sam's gaze was drawn to Frodo's nipples, dark as yew bark against
the pale skin around them. Sam wanted to roll one in his mouth, to
suck on the little nub, flicking it with his tongue. Instead he let
his hand trail across Frodo's collarbone, eliciting a shiver of
pleasure from him.

Sam smiled to himself as his fingers found Frodo's nipples and he
began to rub them, slowly teasing at them as they stiffened beneath
his fingers. Sam squeezed them, each in turn, gently at first,
gauging  the strength of his touch by Frodo's sighs and murmurs.
Then Frodo's sighs quietened as he felt Sam's teeth rubbing against
his flesh and he shuddered, his fingers ranging through Sam's hair.

As Frodo felt Sam's hands travel down his body to touch his
hardness through layers of clothes so Frodo reached for Sam there,
too. Fingers furrowing, quietly undoing buttons, each hobbit sighed
with a contended thrill as they took each other in their hands,
each cupping and stroking the other between his legs.

Sam had left small marks on Frodo's chest with his teeth. Now Frodo
leaned to Sam and slipped a finger inside him, slowly, all the
while rubbing at his erection with his other hand. 

Just one finger, slowly. Just one. Enough for Sam to clench around
and to bring him spasms of pleasure rippling from deep inside.

Sam knew that Frodo, too, was very close already. He paused in
kissing his chest to lean up to him, seeking his mouth. They kissed
then, long and deeply, lost in each other's mouths.

They flooded into each other's hands at almost exactly the same
moment. Frodo shuddered, writhing quietly, then was then
immediately still. He suddenly remembered the time that they had
spent under these trees one winter's night a while ago. They had
made love then, in fact, and had clung to each other just as they
did now, silent and spent.

As Sam nestled against him and Frodo drew their cloaks over them he
took a moment to silently give thanks for all that he and Sam
shared there. For their home, for their loved ones, for their very
lives. For all the starlit nights, just like this one. 

The very starlight seemed somehow healing here, as if its touch
were a balm. Perhaps it was. Certainly it always bought a sense of
joy and wonder and calm to them, if they paused to let it. And
perhaps, Frodo thought then, perhaps that is all that the deepest
healing is. Above them an old tawny owl hooted softly into the
night.

It was a while before Frodo spoke, his voice slightly muffled
against Sam's shoulder.

"Let's go home, Sam. It's been a long day, birthday or not."

The walk home seemed to take longer than usual, as if they drifted
somehow, when all they did was to stop and kiss or to look at the
stars. 

Finally they paused to stand by the gate into their rose-strewn
front garden and Frodo took Sam in his arms.

"It's you, Sam, it's all you," he whispered.

Before Sam could protest Frodo put his fingers to his lips to quiet
him.

"You came across the sea to find me. You saw me, you loved me, you
made me overjoyed just to be alive. And that, my dear Sam, is
something I did not think that I would ever really feel again."

Frodo laughed then, quietly, and he took Sam's arm and he led him
down the path and into their little home, nestled there by the
trees.


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