TITLE: A BIT OF GARDEN
AUTHOR: Telcontar
CHARACTERS: Frodo/Sam
RATING: NC-17
SUMMARY: It is a time of renewal in the Shire, and Sam is in a giving mood.
DISCLAIMER: Middle Earth, its inhabitants, & sub-creation et al: JRR
Tolkien's. Story: Product of my most unnatural curiousity.
*Doing this is payment enough!*
FEEDBACK: always hungry: feed me! It's greatly appreciated!
EMAIL: az_tel@hotmail.com
Check out my website at http://cormari.sinfree.net/tel/ & log on to my LJ,
too!

A BIT OF GARDEN

"...'What did you blush for, Sam?' said Pippin. ...Answered Sam,'..I felt as
if I hadn't anything on...She seemed to be looking inside me and asking me
what I would do if she gave me the chance of flying back home to the Shire
to a nice little hole with-with a bit of garden of my own..."
                         The Mirror of Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring, LOTR.

"...The little silver nut he planted in the Party Field where the tree had
once been; he wondered what would become of it. All through the winter he
remained patient as he could, and tried to restrain himself from going round
constantly to see if anything was happening..."
                        The Grey Havens, The Return of the King, LOTR


{BAG END, THE SHIRE, 5 April, 1420.}


Frodo Baggins stood at the round doorway of Bag End, the bright green door
propped open to catch the April breezes. He was watching the sunset off to
the left, over the flower gardens where Sam was finishing his work. Even
now, Sam insisted on mantaining the gardens at Bag End. Since he had
returned after weeks of replanting trees, he had spent more time in the
gardens than out of them. But after the weeks of Sam's coaxings, Bag End was
bursting in a riot of colors. Frodo drew in a deep breath, inhaling the
scent of early flowers. A sudden peace stole across Frodo, a settling
feeling that had been aluding him for some time.

With a tenderness that belied his round form, Sam placed a small seedling
into the flowerbed, gently spreading the roots and cupping the tender shoot
in his brown hand. With the other hand he filled in the spot with soil,
smoothing it down and patting it expertly. "There, then. That's the last of
them," he said, straightening and brushing his hands together to shake off
the dirt. He reached for the watering can. "Should have done this in the
morning, but a bit of water now won't harm them, I think." Sam gave a small
chuckle, smiling. "I daresay there's nothing that could harm 'em, or any
plant in the Shire. I've never seen things grow like this in all my time
gardenin', and the Gaffer says the same for him."

"Well, you can take some credit for that, Sam. The Lady's gift has been
well-used." It was true; the whole Shire, which had appeared so desolate
when they had first returned from their journeys abroad, was now a
shimmering jewel of new growth. It seemed the grass had never been greener,
or the flowers smell as sweet, or the crops so plentiful. And the trees had
re-appeared, planted by Sam as he rode the length and breath of the Shire,
replacing those uprooted by the Ruffians and Saruman's vengeful destruction.
How the trees had grown! It certainly was Elven magic at work, for no tree
grew so quickly. Below, in the grassy area in front of Bag End, Frodo could
make out the faint pale sight of a silver sapling, its crown a pale leafy
green mass of flower buds. Sam had planted it there to replace the Party
tree, the massive oak tree that had been wontonly hacked down. It was a
mallorn tree, from the forest of Lothlorien, and it seemed to reach toward
the sky as if eager to embrace the Stars.

Bands of color washed over the sky, and the Sun blushed a sleepy orange as
it set. Sam's curls glinted and Frodo's skin shone like gold in the fading
warm light. "It was lovely seeing Merry and Pippin again," Frodo remarked,
strolling up the garden path after Sam, who was making his way toward the
kitchen garden for a last look before going inside. The orderly rows were
tidy and well-rooted, and the tender vegetables and first berries were
already ripening. Sam nodded, satisfied. There's always work for a gardener
in Spring and Summer, and his efforts were being well-rewarded. "It was nice
having us all together again for a time," he agreed. "We've been so busy
lately, what with repairing the Shire's hurts and all, it was good to have
some time for enjoying it. Bad End is looking well."

"Quite well," said Frodo, smiling. "With the place cleaned out and all the
things from Crickhollow in place, it seems like home again. You know, it was
kind of Lobelia to give back Bag End." Frodo laughed. "I never thought I'd
say that! But it seemed she was quite changed at the end. I'm glad to see
that feud finished."

"All's well as end's well, as the Gaffer says," put in Sam. "And Lobelia saw
what spite can do on a grander scale, if you understand me, and that's what
I say turned her sweet in the end. She never did get over Lotho, but at
least some good came out of it all. Everything's put back the way it was."

"Better than the way it was. I can't think of many ways to improve Bag End,
Sam, but the plumbing is a treasure." Bag End and the re-built Bagshot Row
had been re-lined with bricks from the Sherriff-houses, and as a special
gift, the eager residents of Hobbiton had set in water pipes. A shiny copper
vat had been set in the bricks behind the kitchen oven and linked to the
well in the pantry behind the wall. With a few draws on the pump and the
fire lit in the oven, they had water for bathing and washing, and hot water
at that. It had made the cleaning of Bag End much swifter and more pleasant,
and it was a blessing to soak away the labors of the day while the scent of
soup made its way along the hall. Merry and Pippin had been delighted, and
talked a great deal about installing something similar at Crickhollow.

Merry and Pippin had ridden up on the twenty-third of March with several
wagons loaded with Frodo's posessions from Crickhollow. Sam had come back
from his foresting two days later, and they had stayed up talking until
dawn. Looking at all of his friends laughing and joking in the firelight had
lighten Frodo's heart, and it had so needed it. It had been just a few days
before that one of his moods had overtaken him once again, but he was glad
that it had passed quickly, and he made Farmer Cotton promise not to mention
it to Sam. And there they were, like they had been in childhood, together
once more in Bag End. How much can change in so short a time! He was glad
that the Shire seemed not to mark the twenty-fifth with any formality; it
seemed more Hobbit-like not to, somehow; although he thought that there must
be quite a celebration in Gondor. Frodo's thoughts went to Minas Tirith, to
Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli, even to Faramir in Ithilien. He wondered
where Gandalf was, and wished with hope that it was in Rivendell with Bilbo.

Merry and Pippin had stayed a fortnight, and had ridden away the day before
back to Buckland and Crickhollow where they were living. It had been earlier
that morning that Frodo realised with a start that tomorrow would be Sam's
birthday. He wondered if Sam even remembered in all the rush. Frodo had
hidden away the cake and special food and wine he had purchased for a small
celebration in one of the pantries; no easy job it had been, too, and he had
hoped the day's weather would be just as perfect as today had been so they
could picnic.

Sam opened the door by the garden, carrying the empty watering can, Frodo
following him in. He sniffed. "You've been baking," he remarked to Frodo.

"Well, we needed more bread," Frodo replied. "And I wanted to have the water
hot. You first, Sam; you're caked in dirt."

"I'm not!" Sam protested, smiling. There was a long dirty smudge across his
right cheek, and all up his arms and legs. "And you're one to talk, covered
with flour and dust and all."

Frodo grinned. "Go on, then!" he said, leading Sam to the bath. "Go start.
I've got to mind the oven." Frodo went off down the hall to shut the front
door and finish the baking.

Sam had bathed, drained the bathwater and was re-filling the tub when Frodo
slipped into the room. Carelessly Frodo peeled off his clothes, dropping
them in an untidy mess in the willow basket by the basin. "Mind you don't
slip on the tiles," Sam warned. "They're still damp."

Frodo watched the curve of Sam's tanned back in the lamplight. "I will."

Sam straightened, giving the bath water a gentle swirl with his fingers.
"It's a marvel, having hot water when you want it." He glanced back at
Frodo, waving his hand over the tub. "Your turn," he said.

Frodo sighed with pleasure as he lowered himself into the water. How many
times on the road had he longed for a good bath? For a long moment he simply
sat, savoring the warmth of the water and the steam wafting from the surface
onto his skin. He felt rich.

"You just soak there a bit," Sam said, tightening the towel around his
middle. "I'm going for something to drink."

"Some for me, too," Frodo called. "Just bring it along in here!"

Frodo had already scrubbed and rinsed his hair clean when Sam returned with
two mugs. Sam drew up a stool and handed one of the mugs to Frodo. They both
drank deep, and Frodo gave a satisfied sigh. "This is what I long for, Sam;
moments like these; simple things. The smell of fresh baked bread, cool ale,
warm bath water..." Frodo looked up, his eyes a-glitter. "...and friends
with whom to share it."

Sam blushed, taking another long pull on his mug. Absently he dipped a
finger in the water, watching the ripples. "That's all the things I hoped
for, when we were out there, you know," he said. "We've seen a lot of things
and know a lot of high and mighty people, but this is what suits Hobbits
best, I think."

"Um-hm," Frodo murmured, resting his arms over the edge of the tub and
laying back. "And you've done such a job of it, Sam! The Shire is beautiful
again. I hope you are stopping to enjoy it while you're keeping busy."

" 'Course I am. The work just makes it sweeter. And what of you, Mr Frodo?
Rosie said that you were keeping busy yourself, acting as Mayor and handing
out funds to the poor Hobbits that need it, and writing things down. Are you
enjoying it?"

"I'm enjoying this," Frodo said. "I keep busy. Now that I'm back in Bag End
I feel comfortable again, certainly. Not to belittle the kindness of the
Cottons, of course," he added, drinking the last of his ale. Sam took the
mug from him and set it beside his own. Frodo sat up, sending the water
swirling in eddies around him. "I should finish up my washing," he said,
pulling up the washcloth. "Sam, could you reach the soap?"

Sam handed over the sweet-smelling bar and watched as Frodo worked a lather
into the cloth. Frodo had fleshed out a lot over the months, but he had
always been thinner and more graceful than the average Hobbit, and Sam could
still see the signs of Frodo's ordeal in his wiry frame. Frodo lifted his
arm, and Sam could see the sliver path of the whip-weal scar trace its way
across his side, from ribs to hip. Sam had a small catch in his throat at
the sight of that ugly thing on Frodo's pale marble skin, marring the
smoothness of it. Without thought he reached out to touch it, as if he could
pluck it off of the flesh. Tears, ever quick to appear in his eyes, misted
his vision.

Frodo caught his hand gently. "Sam," he said, his voice soft. "Don't blame
yourself. I know it's hard-if anyone knows how hard it is, it is I-but for
tonight, at least, let's set those things aside." His eyes stared into
Sam's, begging. "Please?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Alright then, Mr Frodo, if that's what you want.
It's just that I wish I could, well, take that away somehow. Seems out of
place with all the growing around us."

Frodo felt a sudden wave of emotion roll over him. He still held Sam's warm
brown hand in his damp one, and he leaned forward to fill his sight with
Sam's face. Sam was so lovely with the expression he wore; the look he had
of wistfulness and concern that played across his weather-tanned face. His
eyes were a calm moss green flecked with copper, and Frodo fell into their
warm light as he kissed Sam full on his generous mouth.

Sam reached up and caressed the wet mass of Frodo's dark curls, and kissed
him back. Frodo drank him in, the small point of his tongue licking out
between Sam's teeth, crushing his petal soft lips against Sam's mouth. Sam
slipped forward off the stool and felt the solidity of the tiled floor
beneath his knees hold him.

Slowly the long kisses gave way to short, quick ones, Frodo and Sam nuzzling
the sides of each others'necks. Frodo pulled back, his face flushed with
desire and eyes a blazing blue. "I suppose I'm finished here," he said,
reaching for a towel.

Sam let out a small laugh as Frodo stepped out of the tub. "I'd say we're
just beginning, from the looks of you," he said, getting to his feet.

Frodo tossed back his head and laughed, the sound ringing like bells over
the tiles. Playfully he reached out and snatched the towel from around Sam.
"So are you, Samwise Gamgee." Sam let out a cry at the sudden exposure, and
Frodo gave out another merry laugh. Tossing aside the towels, he shot out
the door, Sam racing behind.

Frodo dashed into the best bedroom, leaping onto the bed feet first. The
covers billowed up around him, engulfing him in quilts and summer down.
Yelping and giggling, he flipped over, wrestling with Sam over the top of
the bed. Sam pinned him, grasping him in his arms in a hug. Frodo smiled and
reached upward, locking Sam in a deep kiss, his belly still quivering with
laughter. Soon the gasping and laughing became a low purring deep in his
throat, as they entwined together, sweet-scented skin rubbing against clean
muscle. Frodo ran his hand across Sam's chest, savoring the feel of the
brown downy hair there, and ran his delicate fingers over the hard nipples.
Sam shivered, the ache between his legs spiking sharply. He could feel
Frodo's hardness there, by his hip, and he moved forward, pressing against
it. Frodo groaned, grabbing at Sam's shoulders.

Pushing himself up, Sam slid down, his hands running across Frodo's belly
and over the hipbones to his thighs. With a gentle push he spread them
apart, fondling the silky skin over the trembling hardness between them.
Leaning down he took Frodo in his mouth, gliding his tongue over the pulsing
member, holding him steady with his lips. Frodo gave a small cry, one hand
grabbing at the covers and the other woven in Sam's hair. Sam moved in a
gentle sway, breathing in the scent of him, savoring sounds of Frodo's
pleasure, sucking as sure as a babe at the breast, surrounded by all the
comfort of his rapid heartbeat. With one hand he reached down and held
himself, waves of heat radiating upward. Time moved with the slowness of
mountain ice.

Frodo beat on the covers with a fist, his body arching in ecstacy. His
breath bursting from him in shaky gasps, he bucked, straining against Sam,
and then gave a high-pitched moan as he released himself. In a hoarse voice,
he panted, "Ai, Elbereth! T-that was..." He lost the words, drawing Sam
upward. "Oh, Sam! Sam!" he said, reaching out and embracing him in his arms.

Sam leaned over and lightly bit Frodo's earlobe. "I haven't forgotten it's
my birthday tomorrow," he whispered in his ear, "And I'd say it's almost
late enough to be tomorrow. Like my present to you, do you?"

"Oh, yes!" Frodo dropped one hand down, feeling him, then shifted from under
Sam. "Sam, I want you," he said suddenly. "I want you in me."

The ache was cruel in him now, but Sam hesitated. "Now? But-"

"Yes, now!" Frodo demanded. "I need to feel you there, Sam. I need you to
fill me with your light and heat and just the presence of you. Please, Sam,
please give this to me!"

Sam groaned with thought of it, his desire nearly overwhelming him. "I don't
want to hurt you, Frodo," he hissed.

Frodo rolled over, looking deeply into Sam's eyes. Sam could drown in those
eyes, the depths of them, the passion in them. "You won't," he said simply.
He reached over to the nightstand and poured a small pool of oil from the
bottle there into his hand. With an agonizing silken touch, he rubbed it
over Sam, working his fingers in slow circles.

Sam could hold back no longer. With all the will he had, he turned Frodo
back over, and entered him slowly. Sweat burst over him as he felt the tight
closeness encircle him, and he forced himself to push inward gently, feeling
the the tip of him press up against the hard nob inside Frodo. He pulled
Frodo back against him, one hand gripping the so-smooth hips against him,
the other stroking Frodo's writhing back. "Frodo," he called out, as if to
hold on to the name as a talisman. "Frodo!"

"Ah, Sam!" groaned Frodo. "Sam! Fill me, Sam! Plant yourself deep within
me!"

Sam felt the rush of his lust throbbing in his blood, could barely contain
himself as he thrust forward. He reached his hand beneath Frodo's hip,
cupping him as gently as he had cupped the seedling before. Frodo arched up
against him, moving in the same frantic rhythm. In the heat of it Sam saw
Frodo's skin as white as the bark of the mallorn tree, the pulse of Frodo's
blood coursing through his veins like roots thirsting for water, hungering
for sunlight and warmth, and Sam could sense again the scent of Lorien, the
perfume of pale niphradil springing up with every footstep. He felt clothed
in Elven starlight. He could not hold back and in a torrent burst, his body
and Frodo's so tightly pressed together that there seemed to be no boundry
between their flesh.

Frodo screamed, and Sam was for a moment afraid, afraid he had crossed that
point where pleasure became pain, when Frodo would slip into the tortured
nightmares that haunted him. But it was not a scream of pain or horror
pouring forth from Frodo, but one of triumph, of joy and amazement, and of
gratitude and relief.

Pulling himself back, Sam rocked on his knees, every fibre of him thrumming
with the sparks of his spent passion. Frodo collasped forward, crying into
the pillows, tears flowing over his face, overwhelmed. "Oh, Sam! Oh, Sam!"
he sobbed over and over. "I love you so, Sam!"

Sam stretched out next to Frodo, flicking a stray curl away from his
forehead. "I love you too, Frodo." There were no words to say. Sam felt like
singing, but no tune came to mind. "Here, then, Frodo, rest now." He
gathered Frodo into his arms, and in that way they both fell asleep.


Frodo awoke first, the dawn light shining through the bedroom window and
alighting over the fireplace mantle. Quietly he slipped from the bed, out of
Sam's embrace. Wetting his face and hands in the basin near the door, he
gently washed the sweat away. Taking up the small cloth next to the basin,
he wet and rung it out, washing away the remains of the night's lovemaking.
He slipped a silken tunic over his body, and wrapped a robe of the same
material around him.

Silently he padded down the hallway to the kitchen, gathering up the dishes
and cutlery he wanted for Sam's birthday breakfast. Across the hall in the
dining room he set out the place settings, and was setting out the teacups
when he looked out the window. With a loud cry he dropped a teacup to the
floor, where it shattered. He raced into the hallway, still yelling, rushing
for the front door.

Sam exploded from the bedroom, yanking on his nightshirt in a wild struggle.

 "What is it?" he yelled. "Frodo, what happened?"

Frodo yanked open the front door. "The Tree," Frodo gasped, "The mallorn!
It's on fire!"

Horrified, Sam bolted after Frodo as they raced down the path. The tree
below was a mass of flaming yellow, glowing and undulating in the wind. It
was only as the Hobbits raced forward, they realised there was no smell of
burning, nor any smoke rising from the Party Field. They both drew up
sharply before the sapling.

But it was not so small a sapling now. It had nearly doubled in size,
growing with Elven magic under the Starlight straight and strong. The ivory
white bark shone like mother-of-pearl in the dawn, and atop it, what Frodo
had mistook for flame was a crown of golden bright flowers, gleaming and
glittering more brightly than ever a King's treasured hoard.

"Sam..." Frodo whispered. Reaching out, he placed his small right hand on
the glistening trunk, fingers splayed, the gap where the third finger once
was standing out against the bark. He looked up at the golden canopy.
"...it's beautiful!"

Sam blinked back tears once more. The sight of Frodo clad in elven silk with
such wonder on his face beneath the mallorn tree, the tree he had planted
with his own hand, grown from the seed he had carried all through Mordor,
the gift of  the Lady Galadriel, was a sight that nearly broke his gentle
heart. He didn't think he could hold such beauty within him. In that moment,
Sam felt that surely he had been blessed with Elven grace, for time stood
still once more, and long after he would remember that vision of the Shire's
renewal.  It was the the first day of the Elven New Year, and his birthday,
and nearly a year to the day when he awoke to the sight of Frodo and Gandalf
alive in Ithilien, and not in his wildest hopes could he had wished for
this.