Title:  No Matter How Far

Author:  Unbegrenzt

Warnings:  Rather Depressing.

Summary:  Pent up feelings explode out into the open.  Confessions are made. 
Smut, smut, smut.  Weep, weep, weep.  (Hey, I'm no good at summaries, ok?)

Pairings:  Frodo/Sam

Rating: NC-17 

Disclaimer:  Hobbits belong to Tolkien.  Wombat belongs to me.

Author's Notes:  Part 4 of the 'Afterthoughts' series.  Follows "What It's Worth".
*******


No Matter How Far

Sam rushed madly from The Green Dragon and ran
straight out onto the dusty Bywater Road. 
Consequently, he was nearly run-over by a
vegetable-laden wagon.  The driver shouted in alarm
and then dismay as his pony dug its hooves into the
loose gravel.  The cart bumped to a halt and the pony
snuffled indignantly mere centimeters from Samwise
Gamgee's startled face.

"Hey, lad!  It's best to keep awake on your feet when
wandering on the Bywater Road!" cried the bristling
driver, snapping the reins as Sam shuffled meekly and
apologetically out of the way.

"Sorry for the trouble!" Sam called out after the
retreating wagon; but he was already turning on his
heels and running again down the road that led to
Hobbiton... more importantly, to Bag End.

The lasses looked out of windows; the lads looked up
from their work in the fields as Sam rushed by.  Those
who knew him shouted greetings, but he did not answer.
 One thing was clear:  Sam Gamgee was in a hurry.

In fact, it was the fastest and hardest that Sam had
ever run in his life.  It wasn't fear or necessity
that was driving him-- rather purpose and desperation.

When he finally reached the freshly-painted round
yellow door to Bag End, he was panting hard.  Sweat
rolled off his temples and spilled from under his
arms, as though it were a hot day in July, rather than
a temperate one in April.

He knocked twice and waited some moments, until
impatience got the best of him and he slipped inside,
closing the door quietly as he stepped into the hall.

It was cooler in here.  The sun lit up isolated
patches of the polished floor, but other than that, it
was dark.  From where he was standing, Sam could see
into the kitchen.  The shutters were thrown back, and
the room was pleasantly illuminated, the
early-afternoon sunlight streaming in brightly.  Sam
noticed that everything seemed spotlessly clean. 
There were no dishes piled near the sink
on the counter; there was no sign of a teapot warming
on the stove; and, upon closer examination, not a
crumb on the table.

Sam concluded that Frodo had most likely not had a
bite to eat since at least the night before. 
Unnerved, he wandered from the kitchen and back into
the shadowy hall.  He tip-toed quietly toward the
study.  He had been ready to announce his presence
before he saw the kitchen, but now he thought that
Frodo might have taken ill, or might even still be
sleeping, and he didn't want to alarm his master.

Eyes riveted on the closed study door, Sam took
another step forward and sucked in sharply as he heard
a muffled crunch and felt pain stab through the
calluses on the bottom of his right foot.  Looking
down, he made out several broken shards, and realized
with a start where they had come from.  

He glanced at the wall to his left, where the
full-height mirror had always been, and was distraught
to find most of the top half completely smashed out. 
Sam leaned down to pick the offending pieces of mirror
from his foot, when he noticed that not all of the
glass was even glass.  

He picked up a curved finger-sized slice and
found that it was porcelain.  It was fine porcelain
too, and Sam thought that it must have once been the
vase that always used to sit as the center-piece for
the dining-room table.

After plucking a last needle-sharp shard from his
foot, Sam stepped over the mess and hurried with
renewed resolution toward the study door.  He didn't
hesitate before opening it.  He didn't feel the need
to knock.  He was worried and anxious and
apprehensive; he didn't want to be turned away without
at least seeing Frodo's face-- making sure that
everything was all right, that the broken mirror (and
vase) had only been an odd sort of accident.

Frodo was hunched over some papers at his desk,
mumbling to himself and making quick darting strokes
with his feather-pen.  He didn't look up at Sam.  He
seemed engulfed in his task, and as Sam neared the
desk, he saw that Frodo was checking off names on a
long list-- the list of those invited to Sam's
wedding.  

Tears flooded Sam's eyes as he watched more and more
names get checked.  He thought of what Merry had said:
 **'It was nothing, Sam.  He's not in love with me,
and I'm certainly not in love with him...'**

'Nothing,' Sam thought bitterly, studying the bent
back that was now merely three steps out of reach. 
'Mr. Merry had you, and it was *nothing*.'  His
thoughts were muddy and slow with despair, and the ale
still ran thick and true in his veins.  He felt it
heating his cheeks and was, in some small untouched
corner of his mind, ashamed that Frodo would see him
this way.  He was a mess, and wasn't thinking clearly;
he knew it in that one tiny corner.  

His breathing hitched, and he wondered if Frodo had
heard when the older hobbit suddenly straightened. 
But no, he stretched and groaned at the ceiling, his
eyes
fluttering closed as joints cracked.  Sam gazed upon
that face now.  It seemed weary and drawn, and Sam
made out lines that had not been there the year
before... before their journey.  It was making him age
quicker than he ought- what they had been through,
even now.  Even after it was all supposed to be
finished.

Frodo returned to his work, glancing between the pile
of friendly RSVPs stacked precariously close to the
edge of the desk, and the long list of names.  It tore
at Sam's heart.  It pained him so much, in fact, that
he couldn't help but close the distance between them. 

He reached for Frodo's shoulder, reconsidering at the
last moment and instead swatting the tower of RSVPs
unceremoniously to the floor.  Frodo wheeled around in
his chair, gasping as he met Sam's stormy gaze.

"Sam, I-" Frodo swallowed.  "I thought you were with
Merry." 

Tears spilled from Sam's eyes, trickling and forging
rivers down his cheeks and dripping from his lowered
chin.  He did not sob, though, and when he spoke, his
voice was calm and steady.

"I was with Mr. Merry, sir," he answered carefully,
swiping distractedly at his eyes with a shirt-sleeve. 
Frodo looked confused and concerned, and the
expression on his face nearly broke Sam's heart.  "It
oughtn't be this way, Mr. Frodo," he said, his voice
rising with every syllable.  "You can't go keeping
things from your Sam like that!"

Frodo swallowed again, but other than that he showed
no reaction.  He stood from his chair, and then
stooped to pick up the RSVPs.  

"I think this is the first time that you've ever been
the one responsible for a mess at Bag End," Frodo
muttered, gathering the scattered papers into his
arms.  

Sam looked on miserably, and finally bent to help his
master.  When the stack was returned to its previous
precarious position, Frodo spoke again.  

"What are you telling me, Sam?" he asked, and it was
barely a whisper; Sam had to strain his ears to hear
it.  

He leaned in close behind his master, breathing in
the scent of him, hoping against hope that Merry was
right, and that Frodo wanted him... hoping that he
could somehow find a way to please his master, maybe
even bring him back to life.

"Mr. Merry told me what... what you did, Mr. Frodo,"
Sam admitted shyly, and Frodo didn't turn to look at
him.  "And he told me why."  Frodo's shoulders
trembled, and Sam realized that he was sobbing softly.
 Still, he did not turn to face Sam.

"And what do you make of all this?" Frodo asked,
nearly choking on his own words.

"I really don't know what to make of it, Mr. Frodo,"
Sam answered truthfully.  "I wonder why you didn't say
nothing.  I wonder why you're letting all of this
happen.  I wonder why you're *making* all of this
happen.  I wonder why you're so intent on organizing
and preparing... why you won't even let Rosie and her
mother have a hand in it, when it pains your heart
so."  Frodo sobbed again, this time loudly, and he
brought his hands up to cover his face.  "I wonder why
you won't look at your Sam now.  I wonder why you've
waited-"

"Sam, stop!" Frodo cried hoarsely.  He turned to face
Sam and looked deep into his eyes, letting his hands
fall back to his sides.  "By Elbereth, Sam.  You're
drunk."

"Not *nearly* drunk enough!" Sam yelled.  "Is it true,
then?  Is it true, what Mr. Merry said?"  Frodo looked
away again, staring away off into nothingness, as he
seemed to do often these days.  "Stay," Sam pleaded
softly.  "Mr. Frodo, stay here with me, in this
moment.  Please, tell me.  Tell me everything."

"All I've ever wanted is for you to be happy, Sam,"
Frodo answered finally, his eyes focusing once again
on Sam's.

"All I've ever wanted is you, Mr. Frodo," Sam said
quickly, before he lost his nerve.  

Then Frodo was suddenly embracing him, hugging him,
holding him tightly, and it felt so good... It felt
better than anything had ever felt before, and Sam
lost himself in it until Frodo straightened abruptly.

"But I can't give you anything Sam, not even myself. 
I'm-" he hesitated.  "I'm *gone*, Sam.  It devoured me
whole, and I'm never going to get myself back.  Oh,
dearest," he sighed, when Sam began to sob.  "Rosie
will be good to you.  Rosie can take care of you, and
be everything for you that you'll ever need.  You'll
realize that someday, Sam."  Sam moaned, clutching
Frodo close again, balling his fists around the smooth
fabric of Frodo's weskit.

"But I want you," he whispered into Frodo's ear. 
"Please, Mr. Frodo... and you want me, and you love
me, even if there's naught of you left, as you say." 
Sam felt fresh tears wet his neck and Frodo trembled
anew.

"Promise me you'll marry her, Sam, and that you'll be
happy with her."

"But--"

"Say it, please!" he cried, and he sounded so torn and
distressed, that Sam could do nothing but obey.

"I'll marry her, Mr. Frodo, if that's what you want,
and I'll... I'll try to be happy."  Frodo sighed, and
squeezed Sam tightly.

"I love you, Sam, and I will give all that's left of
me to you, right here, right now, if that is what you
wish of me."

"I could only ever wish, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered, and
Frodo drew back slightly, and then pressed his
trembling lips to Sam's in a tender kiss.  "Let me
take care of you," Sam mumbled, when the kiss finally
broke.  He led Frodo by the hand from the study, and
into the bedroom, pausing before the door until he got
a reassuring nod from his master.

Once inside, they stood apart from one another for a
time, merely taking each other in- trying to absorb
everything that had happened up to this point, trying
to absorb what was happening at that very moment.

Sam swooned heavily from the combination of heady ale
muddling his mind and the look of pure adoration
written into the depths of Frodo's eyes.  Frodo
nodded.

"That fool Brandybuck certainly got you into a state,
didn't he?" he asked, and the air between them seemed
to sparkle with intensity and possibilities.

"I don't know how... I don't know what to do, Mr.
Frodo!" Sam blurted suddenly.  He blushed crimson, but
held Frodo's loving gaze.  "I mean, how do two lads go
about--"

And the possibilities stretched into infinity as Frodo
closed the distance between them and kissed Sam
soundly, wrapping his arms around the baffled but
eager Gamgee, pulling him into a deep embrace.  It was
almost too much for Sam.  He ran his fingers through
Frodo's hair to reassure himself that he was, indeed,
here in this bedroom with his love; that he was,
indeed, awake.  He had dreamed of it so many times. 
Oh, he had *dreamed*.

Frodo nibbled lightly on Sam's bottom lip, gently
prying it apart from the top one.  Sam heard a
desperate and elated noise as Frodo's tongue explored
the slick insides of his cheeks, and he realized
dizzily after some moments that he had made the sound
himself.

He responded shyly with his own tongue, not wanting
this to end, wanting to have the taste of Frodo in his
mouth forever.  To Sam, he tasted like some forbidden
and exotic delicacy-- not too sweet, not sour, but
full of delightfully foreign spice.  Frodo laughed
suddenly, pulling back and licking his lips.

"You taste like ale," he said.  "Sam, tell me that you
won't regret this."  Sam answered by tilting Frodo's
head back gently and whispering kisses along his
jaw line, towards his ear.  Once there, he nibbled
experimentally on the tip.  It was the most forward
that he had ever been with his master, and it left
Frodo gasping and scrabbling at Sam's back and making
impatient noises deep in his throat.

"I've never regretted nothing that I've done with you,
Mr. Frodo.  Never."  The huskiness and forcible truth
in Sam's voice caused Frodo's knees to weaken, and Sam
felt the older hobbit slump against him.  Through the
blinding curtain of his own arousal, Sam could feel
Frodo's pressing insistently against his inner thigh.
 "Mr. Frodo... Please, tell me what to do..." Sam
said, clinging to Frodo, nuzzling in his neck, yet
supporting him all the same.  "Show me..."  The plea
was muffled and Sam felt Frodo shudder as the need of
it trilled through him.

"There's too much," Frodo gasped.  "There's too much
between us..."  Sam, in a haze, did not realize what
Frodo meant until he worked his fingers between them
to pull at Sam's shirt buttons.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably-- progress with
the buttons was slow, and Frodo didn't seem to be
patient enough for slow progress.  Gasping, Frodo
gripped between Sam's two top buttons (now undone) and
yanked, expelling his breath hard as the eight
remaining buttons popped off onto the floor in a row.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered without shame
as he felt Frodo's trembling fingers caress his flesh.
 They were cold-- the four fingers on the right hand
especially-- but it felt so good all the same.  It
felt better than anything Sam had ever dared to even
dream.  At that moment, he was surprised to find
himself on the brink of losing control.  He grabbed
Frodo's hands and stilled them, moaning.

"Wait," he gritted through clenched teeth.  Frodo
halted and drew his hands back to work on his own
clothing.  They were still shaking, and his own
buttons were just as stubborn.

Sam smiled as he drew in a shuddering breath, taking
Frodo's hands in his once more and lowering them.

"Let me," he whispered, easily unfastening the collar
button.  "We can't have you ripping this fine weskit
to shreds."

Frodo said nothing.  He simply held Sam's gaze as the
buttons were quickly, albeit gently, undone.  The
weskit slipped off Frodo's shoulders smoothly, and an
ever-mindful Sam folded it once, in half, stepping
away from Frodo to drape it over a nearby chair.  As
he did this, Frodo stepped up behind him and kissing
his neck softly, pulled off Sam's shirt and let it
flutter to the floor.

He paused for a moment, giving Sam's shoulder a
tentative squeeze before reaching around him and
snatching the weskit off the chair.  He dropped it to
the floor as well.

"Curse it, Sam," he murmured into Sam's skin.  Sam's
head fell back and he exhaled noisily at the ceiling,
trying not to let the tears welling up in his eyes to
escape.  It was too late, and Frodo heard his sniffle.
 "Oh, Sam," Frodo croaked rawly.

"This don't change naught, does it?" Sam rasped, still
studying the ceiling.  "It's our last time, even if
it's only our first, isn't it?"  Frodo sighed, gently
turning Sam around to face him.

"You're right about one thing, Sam:  This doesn't
change a thing.  After it's over, I'll still love you,
and you'll still love me.  Isn't that how it ought to
be?"  He caressed Sam's cheek reassuringly with his
injured hand, and Sam caught it with his own and
kissed the palm before releasing it to claim Frodo's
mouth once more.

Sam stroked through Frodo's hair again, marveling at
its familiar smooth texture-- the way it slipped so
easily through his fingers.  'Just like Mr. Frodo,
himself.  I've let him slip through my fingers,'
thought Sam and he began to work blindly on Frodo's
shirt buttons, sighing with apprehensive bliss as the
last one finally slipped loose.

Frodo shrugged off the garment unthinkingly and yanked
Sam to him; so close that the bare skin of their
chests touched, and *oh*.  Oh, it was fine.

"Is this what you did with Mr. Merry?" asked Sam
breathlessly against Frodo's lips.  Frodo moaned and
wrapped a leg around Sam's knees, drawing him
impossibly closer.

"We... We didn't speak much, Sam.  I couldn't bring
myself to.  I--" he gulped, pausing to search out
Sam's tongue in a kiss that lasted so long, Sam almost
forgot what Frodo had been saying,  "--was thinking of
you," he finished, hobbling towards the bed and
pulling Sam along with him.

They twisted and turned in their attempts to remain so
close together, even while making for the large bed,
and Sam started as something hit the back of his legs.

He fell backwards, into the fresh-smelling softness
of the duvet.  Frodo tumbled on top of him, yelping as
his hardness was crushed brutally against Sam's, and
stars exploded in front of Sam's eyes as he felt the
same collision.  He bit down on his lip, drawing
blood, and tried to stop his hips from thrusting
spasmodically against the weight on top of him.

"Oh Sam," breathed Frodo.  "Oh, yes... Yes, Sam." 
Frodo rolled off of him, to the side, but still held
Sam ever-so-closely, pressing himself hard against his
love.  

Sam felt those nine chilly fingers racing down his
spine, chasing each other towards his waistband and
then pulling, pulling.  They weren't cold anymore;
they were burning-- burning up and down Sam's length,
and he could do nothing but writhe, and feel, and--

"Love!" Sam cried, and felt himself explode into
Frodo's shaking four-fingered hand as the other drew a
last scathing line of pleasure down his back.

"Yes, Sam," whispered Frodo, after Sam had ceased to
pant.  "That was love.  This *is* love, dear Sam." 
Through blessed exhaustion, Sam still felt Frodo
straining against him.

"What would you have me do?" asked Sam, reaching down
and seeking out Frodo's hardness with his hand;
stroking gently and hesitantly through the
finely-stitched fabric of Frodo's breeches.  Frodo
cried out and clutched Sam, burying his face in Sam's
neck.  He nipped at the tender skin there, and the
gardener felt himself harden again almost immediately.
 Frodo laughed, and Sam knew that he felt it too.

"Would you do whatever I asked you to?" Frodo asked
breathlessly, grinding against Sam's revived desire. 
"Would you really?"

"Yes!" answered Sam.  "Yes, yes; a thousand times,
yes!  You know!  You know I would!"  

"Samwise," Frodo mumbled feebly.  "Oh, Sam.  I can't
believe it's *you*."  Sam wriggled and struggled
blindly with the fastenings of Frodo's breeches.  He
bit back a cry of elation as the third button came
loose and he could yank this final article of clothing
from Frodo's hips.

He choked on sobs of urgency and delight as he finally
felt the bared hardness of his love pressed against
him.  Frodo cried out and thrust, and Sam rolled
with him until he was on his back again.  He wrapped
both legs around Frodo, urging him closer, encouraging
his blind thrusting and locked his ankles tightly.

"Would you, Sam?"  It was a plea, a whisper; barely
audible.  Sam felt the lips move against his neck
again, but this time only a moan escaped as Frodo
thrust against his answering hardness with a sudden
startling vigor.

"Would I...?"  Sam didn't know what Frodo was asking,
or at least that's what he wanted to think anyway. 
His pulse sped faster as Frodo grasped at his rump,
stroking harder against him with each thrust.

"*Sam*.  *Please*."  The lips buzzed against Sam's
neck yet again, translating Frodo's need into a series
of shocks and sensations that tingled up to the tips
of each hair and down to Sam's toes.

"Tell me," he whimpered, wanting more than anything
else in the whole of Middle-earth to give Frodo what
he was asking for, although still unsure of what it
was.

"Inside you, dear Sam.  Inside," Frodo said
breathlessly.  Given their position, and the limited
number of available openings into his body, it didn't
take Sam more than half a minute to figure out
*exactly* what Frodo was asking for.

Sam hissed.  The idea frightened him a fair bit of
course, but at the same time, it just seemed *right*,
and he felt himself swell all the more from the
thought of it.

"Not if you don't want..."  Frodo's voice trailed off
as he panted.

"If that is what you wish of me, that is what I'll
do," answered Sam huskily into Frodo's hair.  "Your
Sam is willing."

He squeezed Frodo tightly against him, planting a
tender kiss on his brow.  He felt Frodo smile against
his neck, and felt the briefest flicker of a tongue as
well.

Sam was surprised and made an indignant noise in his
throat when Frodo rolled of him, slipped off the bed
and padded across the room.

"Where...?" Sam asked.  Frodo smiled again, but said
nothing.  He reached for the second drawer of a large
dresser, pulling it out and searching around in it.

Holding Sam's confused gaze, he pulled out a bottle. 
It was plain and clear, with no markings.  Sam
recognized the contents almost immediately as oil.  He
didn't ask what it was for; he was rather sure he
knew.

Frodo moved back toward the bed and Sam, in awe of his
master's grace, noted that Frodo didn't seem to walk. 
'He glides,' thought Sam.  'No, he *floats*.'

But then Frodo was on him again, kissing his
collarbone, cradled between his thighs, and Sam could
no longer think.

He was dimly aware of Frodo fumbling with something,
then sighing against his neck.  Sam dared not make a
sound as he felt slick fingertips caress his bud; but
sucked in sharply as one slender finger entered him.

His heart thumped and blood rushed in his ears as he
tried to understand this new sensation.  He wasn't
entirely sure whether he felt pain or pleasure, but
decided that all was well when Frodo grunted
insistently and nibbled a bit at his neck.

"You must tell me if you do not enjoy this, Sam," he
said, raising himself slightly to claim Sam's gaping
mouth.  He slid another finger into Sam, and Sam
firmly decided that it was pleasure he was feeling and
moaned into Frodo's mouth.  "I'll take that as a
'yes', then," Frodo chuckled, pulling away from Sam a
little.  

He felt Frodo's eyes studying him carefully
as a third finger was tentatively pushed into him. 
His eyelids fluttered and he bit his lip.  It was
strange, yes.  It was strange, but so *wonderful*!  He
moved on the fingers, at the same time straining
against Frodo's belly.

"Mr. Frodo," he breathed, bearing down harder on the
fingers. "Frodo..."

"All right, Sam," Frodo said quietly.  Sam shivered
and clung to Frodo as the fingers were withdrawn.

"Oh!" he gasped, when Frodo gently lifted his hips. 
It was the only sound that would escape willingly past
his trembling lips.

He felt Frodo's gaze reaching into him-- through his
eyes, and straight into his heart.  He didn't realize
for many long moments that his master was hesitating. 
Sam took hold of Frodo's hips and urged them gently
forward, but Frodo held fast, sweat leaking from his
brow and onto Sam's.

"I want this to be perfect for you, Sam," Frodo
whispered.  He sounded vulnerable and unsure, even as
his eyes blazed icy blue fire.  "I don't want to hurt
you, not in the slightest."

Sam tilted his head upward, momentarily catching
Frodo's bottom lip with his teeth.

"If you stay like this for much longer, I think I'll
lose my mind," Sam mumbled, then nodded.  "To be
sure," he added.

He could see that Frodo's resolve was crumbling as his
eyes widened and glazed over.

"Remember," Frodo whispered as he gave in and pushed
gently forward.  Sam tried to ask him what he meant by
that; but the sweetness of Frodo entering him at last,
the battling waves of intense pleasure and throbbing
pain took his breath away.  All he could do was answer
with his body, holding Frodo's hips tight against him,
drawing him deeper and deeper, closer and closer.

"Sam!" cried Frodo suddenly, looks of fierce passion
and loving concern chasing each other across his
features.  "You're *so*... Oh, Sam, I *must* be
hurting you!"

Sam reached up with one hand to stroke Frodo's heated
cheeks, and then down from the bridge of his nose to
his parted lips.  He still had not found his voice,
and even if he had, it would have been useless.

How could he possibly explain that everything he had
ever dreamed of had been fulfilled... and so much
more... that the pain was part of it all, and
necessary?  What better pain was there to feel than
this?

He kissed Frodo then, trying to convey all of these
feelings and gave an elated yelp, finally finding his
voice, as Frodo began a gentle and steady rhythm.

"Oh, Sam... Sam... My dearest love, my *only* love,"
Frodo crooned softly as Sam met him thrust for thrust.

Sam opened his mouth to respond; but he could only
moan continuously, louder and louder, as he approached
his climax.  He looked into Frodo's eyes, which were
growing wider and wilder with each passing moment,
with each deep thrust.

Giving a shaky cry, Frodo pulled back one last time
and then plunged in and over the edge, clutching Sam
frantically.  Sam spasmed underneath him, his moan
halting abruptly.  He could make no sound.  There was
no sound for *this*.

He released onto Frodo's slick belly and somewhere,
deep inside himself, he felt Frodo's hot liquid spill.

They lay there, chests heaving, holding each other
close for some moments.  Then Frodo smiled at him; a
ghost of a smile it was.

"What good will it do to wish that things could be
otherwise?  And yet..."

Sam did not know how to reply as Frodo kissed him
tenderly, tears running down his face and mingling
with Sam's.  He raised himself, slipping easily out of
the embrace, and got to his feet.  He bent and
retrieved his breeches on his way out of the room.

Sam sighed and continued to weep as he heard the
footsteps fade and then the study door open and close.
 Wiping the back of his hand across his eyes, he got
up and gathered his own clothes, pulling them on
numbly.

And then he was out in the hallway, and at the study
door.  Opening it and peeping in, he could not help
but to cry out despondently.

Frodo was at his desk again, and was busily checking
off names once more.  Sam could not see his face, but
the still-bare shoulders trembled slightly as
he worked.

Quickly crossing the room, Sam swiped at the RSVPs
again, this time stomping on them in his upset when
they hit the floor.  He grabbed Frodo's shoulders,
pulled him out of the chair roughly, and then spun him
around to face him.

"I can't do it," Sam choked.  "I can't!"

Frodo glared at him miserably, tears streaking angry
lines down his cheeks.

"You must," he said forcefully.  "You promised me,
Sam."

Once again at a loss, Sam stared down at the RSVPs and
noticed with a start that they were stained with
blood.  'My blood,' thought Sam, suddenly remembering
his foot, and the broken mirror.

"The glass?" he said simply, questioningly, pointedly
at Frodo.  "How can I be happy if you're not?  How do
you suppose I'll manage *that*?"

"You must," echoed Frodo.  "I can never be happy
again, Sam.  Never truly, never again.  There's a void
where my heart used to be," he said, his hand rising
seemingly of its own accord to stroke his chest where
the ring had lain.  "I can't spread that void to you. 
I can't spoil you with my own poison.  I love you so.
 I love you too much to do such a thing.  Please,
forgive me."

Sam held him close and they both wept, Sam feeling
more confused and frightened than he had for what
seemed like a very long time.  He clutched feebly at
his love.

"Stay," he pleaded again, not entirely knowing why. 
He felt like Frodo was fading away from him, and if he
didn't say something, he might lose him forever.

"Oh, but Sam.  Whatever is left of me is with you,
forever in your heart.  I'll never leave from that
place, no matter how far I wander."

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